Author’s Note: This week’s Form and Genre Challenge was to write a story of 140 characters. It’s known as Twitfic and yes, it’s hard to write. I hope you got a chuckle out of this one.

Once upon a migration dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious voting of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my champion doorway.
“‘Tis some vocal,” I muttered, “tapping at my champion doorway-
Only this, and novelette more.”

Then this ecologist birthright beguiling my sad farce into smiling,
By the graze and steward decorum of the counterpart it wore.
“Though thy crick be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and angel Razor warder from the Nightly shot-
Tell me what thy lordly nappy is on the Nightlight’s Plutonian shot!”
Quoth the Razor, “Nevermore.”

Catherine was young and pretty, like you little one, only her skin was fair, no freckles.  She was a maiden of only eighteen years.  The envy of every eligible man in two counties but her heart belonged only to William.  She and William had been childhood friends.  I guess things like that happen; good friends become great lovers they say.  When William got work at a mill several towns away.  Catherine became so forlorn that she refused to eat for day upon hearing the news.  William, seeing the town’s men begin to take notice of Catherine, spent the rest of his travel money and bought the most expensive wedding band he could afford.  So it was that Catherine married William in their home village the day before William was to report to the mill.  Their wedding night would have to wait.  That notion did not sit well with either of them so, as the sun lowered itself under a cool earthen blanket, Catherine and William loaded up their old wagon, hitched their horses and set out to the mill town so they could consummate their love in their own home.

Catherine giggled when she felt her husband’s hands cup the soft, round flesh of her rump as she pulled herself into the wagon seat.  She scooted as William lofted himself up onto the seat and allowed himself to collapse playfully onto the newly sewn cushion, releasing a small cloud of tiny white feathers.  He leaned in to kiss her then laid his head on her bosom.  Catherine stroked his hair and watched a small downy feather float on the breeze.

“A man can get used to these sorts of creature comforts,” said William.

“Do you refer to the new carriage cushions or my breast?”

William sat up and pulled a face of mock shock.  “My dear Mrs. Jones, I blush at your salty talk.”

“You blush now?  Oh, my dear Mr. Jones, it appears you are in for one embarrassing evening.”

Without saying a word but with a big smile on his face, William picked up the reigns and snapped the team into motion causing Catherine to giggle once more as she was lurched backward on the bench.  The happy couple sat side by side keeping each other warm as they made a quick pace to the next town.  It would be a long night, almost twenty miles, but the thought of their love finally coalescing in a night of wanton lust was too much for the young couple, so they pressed on through the early evening and into the night.  It was a full moon that night which allowed William to make a good pace.  By his calculations they would arrive at their new home by midnight.  He looked over at Catherine, her skin aglow in the pale moonlight, and kissed her cheek.  She turned and kissed him proper on the mouth.  William closed his eyes in ecstasy while the carriage continued up a steep hill.  They both snapped out of their rapture as the carriage pitched forward.  The well trained team had continued on the trail and was now cresting the hill.  William reluctantly broke away from his bride and took control of the team.

“Whoa, boys, easy now.  We don’t want to be racing down any steep hills in the middle of the night.”

Well, my lovelies, no sooner had he said that when out of nowhere, a great big black bear exploded out of the trees and into the path of Catherine and William.  Trained or not, the team of horses bolted.   Catherine screamed as the carriage, heavy with all their possessions, picked up momentum.  William stood up and leaned all his weight back into the reigns, but it was no use.  No amount of coaxing from him was going to stop the spooked horses.   The carriage hit a large bump and lurched high into the air.  William was thrown clear as the carriage twisted upside down.   He hit the ground and rolled, springing to his feet.  The moon light, which once radiated beauty off his young bride, now shone just enough for  William to see her dragged away under the wrecked carriage.  Her perfect bosom, where mere hours ago he had placed his head, raked over the sharp rocks of the well worn trail.  Her head bounced in obscene angles before rolling to a stop in the ditch as the team pulled the rest of her away.

A farmer and his family found William the next morning still cradling the head of his beloved Catherine.  The carriage and the horses were never found.  Folks think they ran straight into the lake at the bottom of the hill and drowned.  They never found Catherine’s body either.  Poor William was forced to bury her head.

And that my friends is the story of Catherine and her hill.  On clear nights, when the moon is full, she’s out there still—Searching.  She’s unsettled you see, what with no proper burial, only her head under ground.  She needs a head so she can rest and any head will do.  If you travel on Catherine’s hill you may see her one night.  A young woman, dressed all in white.  I’d keep on going if I was you.  Pay her no mind or you may end up like poor Eliza Stone.  See, Eliza was traveling home one night, and came up on Catherine’s hill.  What she saw…  Well, that’s a story for another night my friends.  Another night when the pale moon light casts its honey-colored glow upon us.  A night maybe not so close to Halloween.

Author’s Note: This story is based on the real legend of Catherine’s Hill in the Black Woods of Downeast Maine.  I still won’t drive that hill alone at night.  Happy Halloween.

Take everything you think you know about anthologies and toss it out the window.  The amazing brains behind Chinese Whisperings and it’s publishing concern, eMergent Publishing have pushed the boundaries and created something completely new.

Last year they created the “Red Book”.  I was so intrigued by the concept and impressed with the resulting book.  It’s so much more than a collection of stories by various authors.  And the “Yin and Yang books-along with their sister book-push the creative limits even further.  So much so that I really suggest you pick up a copy.  I guarantee you will be recommending these books to your friends.

They are currently available only as Ebooks but will be release in print format by the end of this year (2010).

While they  are available on Amazon, I would like to humbly suggest purchasing directly from the publisher.  It’s just as easy and secure, plus it helps support small press and those of us who have worked so hard to write the stories.

Click here to get your copies today and thank you for your support.

###

“Ain’t so bad?  That one dude calls himself ‘The Situation’.  Friggin douche.”  He slid the glass forward and motioned to the bar tender for a refill.

“So what? You used to call your self, ‘Carl, The Lion, Montique, and your last name is Smith.  They’re just kids like we used to be.  Remember all the shit we got into?”

Carl looked at Willie with eyes full of hate.  “I called my self ‘The Lion” because I had the most luxurious mane of chest hair in the world.  Now douche bags like The Situation, run around with shaved chests.  Shaved!  Can you fricken believe it.  What kind of man shaves his chest hair?”

“That’s just what’s in now, man.”

The bar tender refilled Carl’s glass and set down a beer chaser.  Carl drank the shot and nursed the beer.  “You just don’t get it man.  You just don’t get it.”

“What’s to get?”

“Never mind, Willie.”

“No, what don’t I get?  Because from where I sit, it’s you who doesn’t get it.  Sitting there feeling sorry for yourself because some piss-ant kid shaves the hair off his chest?  You’re insane.”

Carl shot to his feet and tore open his shirt.  His chest was a mass of pimply razor burn.

“Look at me!” he shouted.  “I’m pathetic.  I have to shave everyday because…”

Willie looked at his friend.  His eyes flicked to the rest of the bar.   No one seemed to notice the large man holding open his shirt.

“…Because of this.”  Carl closed his eyes tight.  His entire body shook, his face turned red with strain.  Then after a long moment of pushing at an unknown force, Carl farted, loudly.  The room grew silent as everyone turned to see who had passed gas loud enough to carry over the conversations of the entire bar.  Carl didn’t stop.  He kept straining as hard as he could passing long, loud bursts of gas.

“Jezz, Carl, sit down,” said Willie through gritted teeth.  He covered his face with his hand and turned away from the crowd.  “Alright, already, Carl.  Knock it off.”

But Carl didn’t knock it off.  He kept straining.  The gastronomical symphony finally ended, yet Carl continued to strain until…  Willie noticed that the hair on Carl’s chest was beginning to grow.  The more Carl pushed, the longer and more luxurious his chest hair became.  Carl, who now sported a deep thick lion’s mane of chest hair, finally took a breath and collapsed back into his seat.  The sound level in the bar slowly returned to normal as patrons returned to their drinks and conversations.

Carl picked up his beer.  “I was a god on the Jersey beaches back in the day.”

Willie nodded.  “Yeah, those were good days.”  He said lifting his beer to his friend.

“Yeah,” said Carl.  “Good days, Willie.  Teeny Willie.  That’s what they called you.  Teeny Willie.”

Willie sat motionless.

“Don’t suppose you’d tell me how you got your nick name?”

“Ahh, it’s just a nickname, Carl.  Truth is my name’s not even “Willie Thomas”; it’s John.”

“Sho thath why a thivalized thociety can never evolve.”

Louise looked at his dumb face and hoped she was doing an adequate job masking her distain.  Though she couldn’t be sure, she felt certain there must be a special circle of hell for friends who set up pity dates for their supposed desperate friends.  God forbid anyone would ever want to stay single.  Still, life on a battle cruiser left you few options in the love department.

“Oh, well that…”  Louise stopped and decided not to crush his spirit.  The night was still young and there was plenty of time to send him off demoralized. “Is a good point you make there Mark.”

Mark smiled wide and proud displaying a plaque infested forest of spinach causing her to suppress a laugh.

“Did you always want to be an anthropologist?”  She asked as she pushed her spinach away.

“Oh, yes.  Ever since I was a boy I dreamed of one day flying through the stars and discovering new life.”

It was too much and Louise laughed.  Mark blushed and looked down at his plate.

“Sorry, it’s just, well; don’t you think that was a little melodramatic?”

Mark took his napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth then folded it neatly next to his plate.  He placed both hands on the table and leaned in.  He looked left then right and did his best to talk only loud enough for her to hear.

“You know what, Louise.  Have you ever stopped to think why no one wants to date you?  It’s a small ship, ya know.  You don’t think I’ve heard the rumors about you; how you’re such a bitch.  I didn’t even want to come tonight, but I promised a friend I’d at least make an effort.”  He slid his chair back from the table and stood up.  “I used to feel sorry for you, because you always seemed alone, but now I feel sorry for you because you’re just a mean, selfish jerk who thinks she’s better than the rest of us.  Well I have news for you.  You’re no better than any of us Louise.  No better at all.”

She sat in stunned silence as she watched Mark leave the dining hall.  She came around just as he was about to walk out of ear shot.  She called out to him before he left.

“Mark wait, please.”

Mark turned and waited as Louise walked toward him.

“First of all Mark, go frack yourself.  I may not be better than anyone else, but you’re no Bruce Willis yourself there, mate.  And if I’m so average then ask yourself this – who are you going to call when an Antarian battle fleet has jumped into our sector, fired an EMP and knocked out our nav. Computer?  I know who you’re gonna call.  Me.  And do you know why?  Because I’m the only one on the ship who knows Pi to 150 places past the decimal and I’m only the only one who can run a navigation formula in my frackin head.  I’m the only one who can jump us out of danger without getting us lost in infinite space forever.  Do you have any idea how hard that is?  No, of course not.  No one does.  No one can, because no one else in the entire known race of Man can do what I do.  So pardon the frack out of me if I don’t find your small talk interesting.  I–”

Louise was unable to continue as she was hurled through the dining hall.  The emergency lighting flicked on and bathed the dining hall in a faint orange glow.  She watched through the flickering energy of the emergency force field as the back half of the ship floated away.  She knew the fields didn’t come up on the derelict fuselage because she could see bodies being sucked out into the vacuum of space.  She wondered which one was Mark.

Louise closed her eyes and tried to stand.  She couldn’t move her legs.  The force of the blast must have broken them.  She heard the captain’s voice crack over the intercom.  Something about all systems failed.  No engines.  All hands prepare to surrender.  Louise tuned out the captain’s voice and accessed her self diagnostic screen.  Servos in both legs were off-line.  Antarians hate cyborgs.  She would most likely be killed on site.   She closed her eyes and waited for the boarding party to find and execute her.  There was nothing – only 3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841…

Author’s note: It’s good to be back doing #fridayflash.  This week’s story is based on a prompt from the great writeanything [fiction]Friday challenge.  I hope you liked this sad interstellar tale.  Have a great week.

###

Devon watched as the fat man struggled to climb the steep stairs.  It seemed he had chosen the meeting location well and would certainly have the obese man at a disadvantage.   He idly scratched his stubbly head as he waited for the man to make his ascent and wondered what it was that compelled him to have shaved himself bald.

“Couldn’t you… have picked… somewhere… with air conditioning… and… no stairs?” said the enormous man as he heaved the locked, metal case onto the table between them.

Fat man tried to wipe the sweat from his brow.  Devon could see the man’s sleeve was already soaked through.

“Sorry, but I needed to know how far you were willing to go to bring me that sword.”

“’Pose you wanna… see it.”  The overweight antiquities dealer reached his pudgy fingers into his breast pocket and retrieved the key to the case.

Devon licked his lips in anticipation as the hasps sprang up and the case was flipped open.  The fat man looked up from the case and slowly turned it toward Devon.

“A most… amazing sword, this,” said the fat man taking a casual step back.  “You… do know the story of how it was found?”

Devon shook his head.  He had been hired to procure the sword for a rich collector.  His job was merely to authenticate the sword, pay for it if necessary and abscond with it if possible.  He took a jeweler’s loupe from his pocket and examined the sword in the case.  It didn’t take long for Devon to see the blade was forged from Toledo steel.  The cup over the hilt was intricately detailed, yet he could see faint traces of feathering on the edges indicating the design was hand hammered and not machine stamped.  Finally, the grip; delicate brass cord wrapped around wood.  His trained eye could tell the cord could almost be considered bronze, an indication of how the Spanish used to make their brass.  The pommel was rather plain for such a well made and obviously expensive sword; a simple filigree with an ornate letter “J”.  There was little doubt this sword was authentic and in this condition, exceedingly rare.

“Your… consensus?”

“It’s too well preserved, yet there is overwhelming proof that this sword is from the 1600’s”

“So you haven’t heard the stories then?”

“No, I prefer to work unattached to the objects I’m to validate.  Professional detachment from the items keeps me honest.  A trait, I’m sure you can understand.”

“Quite.”  The fat man, no longer winded from his climb, continued to sweat profusely in the midday sun.  “But aren’t you the least bit curious, from an academic stand point of course, how a relic so old, could look so new?”

“You have me there sir.”

The fat man smiled and nodded knowingly.

“I first happened upon the rumor of this sword ten years ago whist procuring a rather… unique early American pistol.  The owner of said pistol had asked me if I knew of a sword recently discovered in the bowels of an old sailing vessel found on the coast of Spain.  Of course, as you can imagine, I was most interested in learning more about a sword that would interest this, particular, client.  Turns out that the ship in question was almost completely disintegrated, rotten through and through, save the captain’s quarters which were, and I assure you I do not embellish, miraculously undamaged.  Not a smidgen of decay in the whole cabin.  And there in the center of the room at his desk sat, who I can only assume was the captain of this un-named vessel.  Now, if that weren’t enough, this is where the story gets interesting.  While the cabin and the ship had been discovered several weeks prior to my arrival, not a single person had been able to set foot in the room.  Everyone who tried was immediately overcome with some unknown illness; brought almost to the point of death.   Yet something told me I would not be affected by such afflictions were I to try and enter the room.  I was proved correct, of course; else you and I would not be here now.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Devon.

“Oh, I know it’s a fantastical story, but I promise every word is true.  I stepped into the room, a portal in time, perfectly preserved.  The captain had the sword clutched in his hand which was resting across his mighty desk.  And as I gently pried the mummified fingers loose everything but this sword turned to dust.   Crumbled around me like a house of cards.  I made off with the sword in the ensuing chaos.  It wasn’t my intent when I began my archeological investigation of the room, but once the sword was in my hand I knew I had to flee.”

“So if this sword is what you say it is, a magically preserved relic of some unknown Spanish captain, why are you selling it to my employer?  Wouldn’t you want to keep such a thing for yourself?”

“Oh, I want to keep it, no doubt, no doubt about that, m’boy.  But I can’t, you see.  The same force that drove me to take it now drives me to part with it.”

“And you think my employer-”

“No.  I think the sword belongs to you.  Don’t ask me how I know because I’m sure I have no answer.”

Devon wondered how the rotund man had managed to turn the tables so easily.  He placed a trembling hand upon the sword and freed it from the case.  The perfect balance felt natural in his untrained hand.  He took a couple practice swings then sniffed several times confused by a sudden change of odor.

“Do you smell that?”  He asked the fat man.  “Do you smell the sea?”

###

It was late on a Monday.  I don’t like working late, but some cases, well you have no choice.  I had just put the finishing touches on a murder case.  Young couple gunned down for the money in their wallet and purse.  Dead for a little less than two hundred bucks.  Case like that makes you want to look for answers.  The kind of answers you can only find on the bottom of a bottle of cheap whiskey.  I was into my third belt when there was a knock on my door.  This time of night only people fool enough to knock on my door were druggies or any of the other desperate dregs of society.  I opened my desk draw and placed my hand on my snub-nosed .38.

“Come in,” I shouted and tightened my grip on my trusty piece.

It was a man.  Too bad, ‘cause these stories usually involve a dame with long stems and devil-red lips with nails to match.  He was thin, skin and bones thin with long wisps of hair that seemed to float around his head of their on accord.  He nibbled on a Saltine cracker as he walked toward my desk.  The crumbs fell down the front of his stained shirt.  He did nothing to dust them off and it looked like he had at least 30 crackers worth already dusting his front.  He was a mess but he didn’t appear to be dangerous so I took my hand of my gun but left the draw open just incase.

“It’s late Mr….”

“Bumwattle. Bodyodor Fartsbreath Bumwattle, at your service.”

“I don’t have time for games, sir.”

“No, no games I assure you.  That’s my name… I’m almost certain.”

“Alright Bumwattle what can I help you with tonight?”

“I have the strangest notion that I’m going to die tonight and I need someone to look after my parrot.”

“I may be able to help you with the first part but I ain’t no zoo.  Why me?”

“Well frankly Mr.—“

A large parrot flew in from the hall and landed on my desk startling he hell out of me and knocking over some papers in the process.  He had a magnificent blue head and a large menacing beak.  I instinctively reached to pet it.  It was soft, baby-skin soft and it took a poo on my desk.  Normally I’d be upset about that but something in the bird’s large black eyes made me not care.

“Alright, Mr. Bumwattle I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh thank you,” he said handing me a ratty stack of papers from his back pocket.  “Here’s some paperwork including a copy of my will.  I changed it already to put your name on as caretaker of my magnificent bird.”

“Says here your name is Jonathan MacDougall.”

“Well yes, it’s spelled “Jonathan MacDougall” but it’s pronounced “Bodyodor Fartsbreath Bumwattle.”

I stared at him waiting for him to crack a smile.  He never flinched.  Instead he went out into the hall and returned a short bit later with a box of items.  His dumb bird stared at me the whole time.

“You’ll be needing these when I’m gone,” he said and placed the large box in front of my desk then put his hand on his heart and fell over.  I raced around to resuscitate him, but nothing I did worked.  After the coroner left and promised to call me with his findings and the cops stopped their questions it was late.  The parrot hadn’t moved during the whole fiasco.  It just kept staring at me.  No matter where I was in the room its beady black eyes bored holes into me.  I tried to move it off the desk but nothing doing.  I cleared a small spot on the desk for my head and slept.

A knock on the door brought me out of dreamland and back to the world of the living.  I looked up at the bird knew it was hungry.  I ignored the knocking and pawed through Bumwattle’s box.  There were several boxes of crackers.  I opened one gave a few to the bird and nibbled on one myself.  The knocking on my door grew louder, more insistent.

“Come in,” I called as I flopped myself down in my leather chair behind my desk.

It was a dame.  A real knock out.  She had long curly hair, black as night, hazel eyes that had a look of desperation and tenderness and a pair of stems that went all the way to the floor.  She pulled the long cigarette from her ruby red lips and smiled.

“Detective Ace Blackwood?” she asked.

I glanced from her to the bird.  It squawked and pooed on my desk.

“It’s spelled “Detective Ace Blackwood”, I said.  “But it’s pronounced “Pittstains Melodrama Skidmarkundies.  Wanna cracker?”

Laundry basket guide in response to:  ”The Carver’s Daughter”
…Really cool! I assist your view!…

Chris: Yes, and you also assist my daily chores.

SAMSUNG Widescreen LCD HDTV in response to:  ”Life’s A Game”
Ohio, what a good evil plan to get followers. And I like it

Chris: Mississippi, glad you like it. What plan?

Kipu Mo in response to:  ”Brain Helmet 2000″
Great tips, these are useful and this site rocks especially for beginners like myself…

Chris: Hey, no problem. Anytime you need more tips on how to defend yourself from zombies using protective helmets coated in imitation brain matter. Let me know. I’m full of ideas.

nisim international in response to:  ”Hello Jones”
Wow! Thank you! I always wanted to write in my site something like that. Can I take part of your post to my hair removal service blog?

Chris: Sure, you can take the part where the bullies punch Boris in the stomach. I can see how that would help you remove unwanted hair.

motorcycle accessories in response to:  ”Last Aria”
Sorry…I wanted to make a comment a while ago. I believe that it is reasonable. Keep up the fantastic work. I’ll be back soon

Chris: That’s OK Motorcycle Accessories. I think wanting to make a comment awhile ago is very reasonable. Please don’t worry. I’ll keep up the fantastic work and wait for your return.

Adrienne Coldiron in response to:  ”Ranger Six”
hehe ok so this is just how stupid I am, halfway through reading through your post I accidentally dropped my mouse and shut down the internet explorer in error and I could not locate your website again until 6 days later to finish reading through from the point i stopped at because I forgot how I linked here to begin with lol anyway it was worth the delay..many thanks

Chris: hehe ok so this is just how stupid I am, halfway through reading this spam comment I accidentally dropped my mouse and shut down the power to half the known world in error and I could not locate the power grid again until 6 days later to restore power and finish reading you spam from the point I stopped because I forgot how stupid you are and was also out of mouthwash so had to go to the pharmacy to get some more lol anyway it was worth forgetting punctuation..many welcomes.

Lazy susan guide in response to:  ”-Splat- (it’s not what you think)”
I believed that was extremeley interesting. Thank you to the unusual details. I’ll retain pursuing this….

Chris: I used to think things were extremeley interesting too. Then I remembered there is no such word as extremeley. I’ll let the unusual details know you said thank you. They’ll be pleased you mentioned them. I have a feeling you’ll be retaining pursuing this for a while. Sort of like how you retain water. I believed I was interested in lazy-susans, but the doctors helped me.

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I hope you got a kick out of some of these. Let me know and I’ll post some more. What are some of the spam comments you’ve received on your blogs?