Carp Explains How Characters Are Born

 

“Great.” Writer Lady says. “If he’s in my head and refuses to do anything but make those annoying tapping noises how am I supposed to know what he wants.”

“Read your mind.” House suggests.

Writer Lady closes her eyes, listening closely for some useful pertinent piece of information.

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

“It’s all just a bunch of annoying tapping.” She comments.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” House says. “You need to think ahead when creating characters with limited communication skills. What kind of creator would do something so thoughtless?”

Writer Lady looks at the ceiling. She calls, “You’re not making things any better!”

“I can’t be making things any worse.”

Tap, Tap, Tap, Tap, Tap

“Don’t be too sure about that.” Writer Lady says as she closes her eyes. “Okay tapper you have my attention, what do you want?”

TAP!

“That did not come through in English, could you repeat that please?”

TAP!

“This isn’t going well. We’re going to have to find another way to communicate.”

TAP! TAP!

“I’m calling out to a character I don’t even remember creating and he’s using profanity.” She mutters.

“What are you carrying on about?” Tinkletoes asks as he enters High Command. “Are you doing that girl stuff again?”

Writer Lady turns her attention to the self-proclaimed mercenary, “That was last week. How many uteruses do you think I have?’

“One or two, I guess, whatever you females usually have.”

She took a pause, gathering an extra bit of patience from who knows where she responds, “There’s only one and I did that stuff that week.”

“Good cause you were really cranky. I thought your head was going to start spinning around before it was over.”

“Really.”

Tinkletoes nodded. “I though you might be callin’ forth your winged monkeys.”

Writer Lady’s eyes narrowed.

“Releasing the hell hounds.”

“Are you done yet?!”

“Yeah I guess so. So what are you yellin’ about?” He asks.

“There’s this tapping sound that won’t go away.”

“Something going on with the pipes?” Tinkletoes asks.

“No. I checked everything. House also did a search and it’s one of my characters. He wants me to do something but I don’t know what.”

“Did you try talkin’ to him?” Tinkletoes asks.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do. He doesn’t talk he only taps!”

“Were you specific?”

Writer Lady’s face grows red then subsides. Talking using both hands for emphasis, she responds, “He doesn’t speak English or any language. He can’t talk. He only taps.”

“Why’d you create a character that can’t talk?”

“I didn’t! Not on purpose at least.”

“She didn’t.”

Writer Lady and Tinkletoes turn in the direction the voice is coming from.

“You have an Unborn.” Carp says. “I’m so happy for you.” He gushes.

Tinkletoes looks at Writer Lady. “You said you just had your time.”

“I did.”

The self-proclaimed mercenary looks at Carp. “She can’t have an unborn. Girls don’t have that female business every so often if they’re carryin’.”

Writer Lady rolls her eyes.

“Not an unborn baby.” Carp continues, correcting the self-proclaimed mercenary. “An unborn character.”

Tinkletoes makes a face, he appears to be at a loss for words.

“He’s confused.” Writer Lady says.

“That didn’t take long.” House comments.

“Watch your mouth!” Tinkletoes yells.

“I’d love to but I don’t have one.”

Tinkletoes stomps out of the room.

“That was odd.” Carp comments. The assassin-in-training turns back to Writer Lady. “Your first unborn character.” He says crossing the room. Arms outstretched, he pulls Writer Lady into a hug. “It’s an unforgettable moment for any writer. I’m so proud of you.”

Writer Lady makes a face. “Thanks?”

“I remember my first time. You must have so many questions. What would you like to know?”

“Where do unborn characters come from? Why can’t he talk? When will this end or will the tapping go on forever?”

Retrieving a chair, Carp sits down next to her. Placing a reassuring hand over hers he begins. “Unborn characters come from a writer’s imagination. They are conceived at odd times, usually when the writer is working on another project. It’s an amazing moment when a random thought becomes fertilized by a flash of inspiration. Many times the writer returns to the project they were working on completely unaware that anything has happened. The development of that character has only just begun. I want you to keep in mind that not every bit of inspiration grows into a fully fleshed out character. In order for this creation to develop any shape at all that shimmering bubble of an idea must find a spot where it will be nurtured and have room to grow. It slowly moves along the wall in a writer’s Corridor of Development when the bubble finds a spot with the right combination of nutrients available (hair color, eye color, habits, motivations and conflict) the still forming character will attach itself to the corridor wall feeding on the components it needs to grow. As the character becomes more fully fleshed out he or she goes from being one dimensional to ready for detachment and full development into a three dimensional character.”

“This character can’t talk because he hasn’t developed far enough to have the power of speech.” Writer Lady says.

Carp nods.

“If that’s the case what’s with all the tapping? Why hasn’t it happened before now?”

“Somewhere in that imagination of yours you developed the character enough to move around and grasp objects but not to speak. If he wandered into a room in your imagination with a metal cup in it or something…”

“That would be when he started tapping.”

“You’ve got it sweetie.”

“How do I fix it?”

“Like I said, you must develop the character further.”

“I don’t remember the creating him to begin with much less where he belongs.” Writer Lady holds up her hand, pausing the conversation she looks up towards the ceiling. “House, is this character a He or a She?” She asks.

“Tall, dark and brooding. Seething? No brooding. Congratulations. It’s a boy.”

Writer Lady shakes her head as she turns back to Carp. “I don’t remember creating tall, dark and brooding other than the brooding Lord of the manor for that Gothic tale. Lord Of The Manor popped into my head out of the blue, fully formed.”

A smile crosses Carp’s lips as he shakes his head. “They never pop up fully formed. Your tapper could very well be an earlier draft of your dark, brooding, Gothic Lord.”

A sick feeling pools in Writer Lady’s stomach, she sits up as she breathes out, slowly.

The assassin-in-training/retired romance novelist known as Carp continues, “You’re going to have to give him a voice in order to find out what he wants. The quickest way to do that is to take a deep dive into your brain.”

“TP and I can totally make that happen.” House announces.

“The last time any of you were in my head it was scary and made it nearly impossible to fight any ninja-zombies.” She sighs before continuing, “But if it’ll make the tapping stop…”

Carp smiles a smile that reaches his eyes giving them a mischievous glow. “Road Trip.” He sings.

Things That Go TAP In The Night

Writer Lady feels tired, cranky, and sleep deprived. She’s had enough of House’s crap. Walking across the kitchen she pulls a fine tipped permanent marker out of a cabinet. Returning to the other side, she stops next to the refrigerator. Removing the marker’s cap, she holds the tip of the marker over House’s immaculate white board. “I’m going to say this one time and one time only. Whatever kind of game it is you’re playing with me ends. Right Now. What’s going on. Where is that noise coming from?”

“Or...you’re going to what? Write on my board? Oh no! I’m so scared.”

Writer Lady realizes House is not aware of an important detail. “You can’t tell the difference can you? This is not any run of the mill dry erase marker I’m holding. This is the marker I use on my freezer container labels.”

“As in?”

“It’s permanent." She says. "Black marks. I’ll put nothing but black marks all over your beautiful white board. You can scrub, wipe and buff to your heart's content. The marks will fade but they will always be there. It won’t be perfect any more. Your board will be less than immaculate, forever.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“I’m hot, tired, and sleep deprived.” Writer Lady responds. She runs both hands through her hair reawakening hair spray with the damp perspiration from the back of her neck. She feels something smooth and wet against her face then remembers the marker in her hand.

“Now you’ve done it.”

Writer Lady squats down in front of the stove and studies her reflection in the oven door. A long black mark runs up her cheek bone and her forehead disappearing into her hairline which is standing on end in a way she has not seen since high school. She looks like someone who didn’t get chosen for best costume at the pep rally on the day she finally built her courage up enough to try to get noticed by the cool girls and make them her friends. Or any friends for that matter. “This is awkward.”

“Only for you.” House quips.

“You’re aren’t helping very much.” Writer Lady says as she runs to the bathroom. Pulling her golden blonde hair back from her face, she studies the mark.

“It could be worse I guess.” House says. “It’s not like it spells out Loser or anything. You could almost go on like this night never happened, until someone asks you who’s been writing on your face then you’d have to admit…”

Writer Lady watches as her reflection pales,“I did it to myself.”

“What kind of person writes on their own face?”

“A clumsy one.” Writer Lady responds. “A clumsy, jumpy, sleep deprived person does all kinds of stuff. It'll be a long story.”

“A long story no one wants to hear.” House counters.

Tap...tap...tap.

“Your friend is back.” She continues.

“I know. I will be happy to continue looking for my tapper in the morning, after I’ve gotten some sleep.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“I think that might be a ‘no.’ “ House says.

“I’m not listening.” Writer Lady sings. The rapid fire tapping continues as Writer Lady gets ready for bed. It stops long enough for her drift into a relaxed state on the cusp of sleep after which another round of tapping begins. Eventually the faster tapping morphs into a deeper slower pattern that resembles a funeral march which is TP’s cue to pop into Writer Lady’s bedroom with a trumpet and begin playing “Taps.”

Giving up all hope of sleep Writer Lady sits up in bed and looks at TP, she runs a finger across her throat in the universal “Stop it now or I’m seriously going to hurt you,” signal.

The faerie stops playing. Lowering the instrument he covers his mouth with his free hand to contain a giggle.

Looking at the ceiling she calls, “Okay House, I give up. Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“He says he doesn’t have a name.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

Taking another direction she asks, “Where can I find him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“Tell the truth.” TP says.

“I don’t know his exact location. I heard the tapping and directed my magic to whomever was doing it. He responded. He said he needed to talk to you.”

“Did he say what it was about?” Writer Lady asks.

“Do I look like a secretary?”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Is that him?”

“Do we know any other tappers?” House counters.

“Ask him who he is, where he is and what he wants.”

Several moments pass.

“Doesn’t have a name, you know where to find him, blah, blah, blah...tired of waiting...you are a horrible woman…”

Writer Lady looks confused as TP giggles.

“TP help.” The faerie says. After the trumpet disappears in a puff of glittery smoke, he raises his hands in the direction of the ceiling, a bright blue light travels from his fingertips along the ceiling disappearing as it reaches the opposite wall.

“Thank you TP. That really helps.” House says. “Two, four, six, eight, ten, twenty, thirty...okay this is just getting ridiculous. I see him. He’s sitting back in a corner, there’s a metal cup in his hand…”

Tap...tap...TAP!

“He’s one of the unborn.” House announces.

“Unborn?”

“The tapper is one of the characters you have yet to write.”

“In other words this infernal tapping sound.”

“Is all in your head.”

The Tap...Tap...Tapping On Writer Lady's Door

Writer Lady is just sitting down in the Big Writing Chair when she hears a distant knock and the inevitable call, “Door!” coming from the far side of the house. A long suffering sigh escapes as she rushes to answer. She finds the dance team from the local high school standing on the other side.

“Hi.” One girl smiles.

“Is Bubba home?” A second girl asks.

Writer Lady thinks calming thoughts before she responds. “No girls, I’m sorry but he’s not here at the moment. He’s out of town for a few days.”

“We wanted to invite him to join our dance club.” Another girl says. “We all had such fun at the parade last weekend. We have some great ideas for the next home game.”

“Doesn’t Bubba have to attend high school to be part of the dance group?”

“Technically yes but we can have guest performers that aren't students.”

“We checked with our advisor and the principal. They're both really excited about Bubba joining us for a song.” The first girl adds.

“When is your next practice?” Writer Lady asks.

“Tuesday afternoon.”

“Why don’t you ladies stop by on Tuesday before practice, Bubba should be back and you can invite him to make his guest appearance, how about that?”

The group of girls nod. Another girl steps forward and holds up a loaf of bread surrounded by plastic wrap. “Friendship bread. We all put some of our starter into the dough because we all want to be his friend.”

“A lovely gesture.” Writer Lady says accepting the gift. “I’ll be sure he gets this and tell him about your shared contribution. I look forward to seeing you ladies on Tuesday.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Thanks ma’am.”

The high schoolers leave, Writer Lady closes the door behind her. She stops in the kitchen and places the food gift on the “Bubba” shelf in the pantry next to the other food gifts. She returns to The Big Writing Chair, her hands hover over the keyboard when she hears...tap...tap...tap.

“Would someone get the door?” She calls. “I’m writing!” Writer Lady begins typing with gusto as she mutters. “Ten years in this house without a single visitor you take one dragon to a parade and…”

Tap…tap...tap

“Read the sign!” She calls. “Tell them to read the sign!” The muttering continues. “Visiting hours. We had to set up visiting hours just to get some peace and quiet. Peace and quiet that I’m still not getting!” She lowers her voice, imitating Tinkletoes. “No one will notice a thing.”

Another sigh is expelled from her lungs.

“What kind of moron thinks people aren’t going to notice a seven foot dragon? What kind of a lunatic believes that moron?” Writer Lady looks at Dobby who's sleeping nearby. “I don’t know who to be more worried about Tinkletoes or me.”

“Don’t worry about The Missing Link.” House contributes. “He’ll do something fatal eventually.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“It will be a lot more quiet.” House continues. “I’ll finally be able to give my common areas the feminine touches they deserve.”

“I thought you were done with that. It’s okay with me as long as it’s not too...girlie.” Tinkletoes says entering the room.

“I made a fresh pot of coffee before I came in here.” Writer Lady says without turning to face him.

“Thanks for the intel but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Did you point out the sign?”

“Sign?”

“To whoever is at the door?”

He shakes his head. “The perimeter is secure. No new visitors have entered base camp.”

She turns The Big Writing Chair and faces the self-proclaimed mercenary. “What do you want?”

“Tacos?”

“I made a batch of enchiladas three nights ago remember? Taco Tuesday?”

“You didn’t make tacos.”

“It was Mexican food, isn’t that the point of Taco Tuesday to have a excuse to eat Mexican food?”

“No.” He counters. “Taco Tuesdays are for tacos and only for tacos.”

Writer Lady looks at Dobby, the ginger tabby opens one eye, peers at both humans, closes the eye and rolls over before returning to his nap. Deciding that getting back to her writing is more important than debating anything with the person standing next to her, Writer Lady keeps her response brief. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So, when will there be tacos?”

“On Tuesday.”

“Great.” Tinkletoes turns, heading out of the room.

She hears, “One more thing,” halfway through her pivot. Writer Lady turns back to Tinkletoes, “Could you use decent filling this time?”

“What do you mean when you say, “decent?”

“Real meat. Not that…”

“Fake meat? I don’t use fake meat.”

“Whatever it was last time sure the hell wasn’t meat.”

“It was beans. Beans and veggies.”

“I’m a man. Men need to have meat in their tacos.”

Writer Lady pulls up the internet browser on her computer and searches tacos. “Let me share some intel with you. Tacos can have any number of different kinds of fillings. Not all of them are meat. Some have beans, vegetables, fish, tofu, or eggs in them. They are still tacos.”

The self-proclaimed mercenary looks at a picture of a vegan taco which has been filled with tofu, corn, sweet potato, tomato and avocado. “That’s disturbing.”

She crooks a finger and gestures to him to come closer then whispers, “There are some tacos out there that don’t even have cheese on them.”

Tinkletoes shakes his head. “I will not stay here to look at such...carnage.” He looks at Writer Lady. “I need tacos on Tuesday. Man tacos.”

“There will be tacos.” Writer Lady says, a small dimple appearing with her smile, one that only appears when mischief is afoot.

“There it is. The mean streak.” He says pointing at it before leaving High Command.

Writer Lady responds with her most innocent shrug before returning to her story. One where the characters are suddenly hungry for tacos.

Tap...tap...tap

Tap...tap...TAP

“I can’t work like this!”

Dobby raises his head then sits up, “Mom?”

“I’m sorry kitty. That tap...tap...tapping sound is driving me nuts.”

“What tap...tap...tapping sound?”

“You don’t hear it?”

Dobby raises his head a little higher, moving his ears in various directions he listens more closely.

Tap...tap...tap

“It just happened again. Did you hear it?”

“No Mom.”

“Has anyone else been hearing strange noises?”

“No.”

“There’s no way my hearing is better than yours.” Writer Lady begins searching High Command when she finds nothing, she retrieves the Big Red Flashlight and begins searching the rest of the house. Closets and drawers, nooks and crannies. Writer Lady checks heating vents and windows only to come up empty. She digs out her thermal leak detector and searches everything again. She searches throughout the day and well into the night to no avail. 

She is searching the “Bubba” shelf of food gifts in the pantry when she hears it again.

Tap...tap...tap

“Tap...tap...tap.” House repeats.

“House? Have you been tapping the entire time? Did you think it was funny?” Writer Lady’s face turns red. “It’s not funny!”

“Sorry to break it to you but it wasn’t me.”

“TP?”

“Wrong again.”

“Pirate?” She asks.

“You really suck at this.” House responds.

“Who is it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Tinkletoes Is A Man. He Knows Things.

 

Writer Lady stumbles into the living room to a flurry of activity. Aunt Purdy, Peter, Paige, Dylan, Furnatche, Ray, Carp, Dobby Cat, Smudge and Spots are all standing in various spots around the perimeter of the room. Tinkletoes and TP are near the center next to a lift bucket. Diomedes stands inside the bucket, Writer Lady watches as it rises closer and closer to the ceiling. TP is floating in the air near Diomedes’ shoulder, encouraging the dragon. A dragon that is looking decidedly uncomfortable. The lift’s movements are choppy. Writer Lady can’t help but wonder who is at the other end of the controls especially considering the fact the lift doesn’t appear to be attached to anything.

Ray narrates. “Diomedes you are being lifted up into the sky! You are standing in the sunlight. Close your eyes and imagine the sun warming the scales on your back! Imagine the muscles in your back relaxing. Taking a deep breath you...”

Tinkletoes holds a bullhorn to his lips. “...push those wings out!”

“No straining!” TP giggles.

“Don’t listen to him.” The self-proclaimed mercenary continues. “Keep pushing. Making your body do what it doesn’t want to is war. War is Hell!”

TP flutters close to Diomedes’ ear. “What is good for humans can be bad for dragons.”

Carp says, “TP’s right don’t listen to Tinkletoes.”

Everyone in the room takes a turn nodding in agreement.

Tinkletoes looks at Writer Lady, “I expect it from you.” He looks at Carp. “Et Tu?”

“He’s already in pain. Why do something that could make it worse.”

Tinkletoes holds up the bullhorn. “I am the ranking officer here. I have the skills. I have the bullhorn. Who do you people think is in charge?”

“Clearly not you Dipwad.” House replies.

Writer Lady rolls her eyes as far as she possibly can. “Here we go.” She mutters.

Diomedes looks down and finds Writer Lady. There are so many stories that depict dragons as heartless predators. What she sees in his eyes is tension, trepidation, a little bit of fear, embarrassment...mostly what she sees is sadness. “TP would you see that Diomedes is lowered to the ground please.”

Once the dragon is once again on solid ground and the lift truck illusion has been removed, Writer Lady moves in closer. Crooking a finger she gestures for the seven foot dragon to lower his head. He complies. “I have never been in your place.” She says. “This must be a difficult situation for you, dealing with an unusual problem far from home. I would be a little nervous about this whole thing.” She looks at Tinkletoes, bullhorn raised, the self-proclaimed mercenary ready to charge ahead. “I might even be scared.” The dragon blinks and pales slightly, she continues. “I don’t trust Tinkletoes a lot to handle this type of situation. I do trust TP. I don’t always trust TP, but when it comes to the magic of Faerie and making it work here on Earth, he’s your guy. He is a faerie and faeries are known for making trouble. TP knows when it’s time for mischief and when to focus on doing the right thing. He knows how special you are. How important you are to me. TP won’t screw this up.”

Writer Lady looks at the faerie who is now fluttering inches away from their faces. “If he does screw this up he’ll have me to answer to. Me and The Lady With The Long Golden Hair and Lady Gray from the Graylands along with whomever else I can find.”

“TP help. No mischief for the big guy.”

“I’m holding you to that.” She says.

TP nods solemnly.

Writer Lady walks slowly down the side street towards the center of town. Because she doesn’t want anyone looking in her direction it feels like everyone is looking at her. She’s dressed comfortably in her favorite jeans and sneakers along with a t-shirt appropriate for the occasion that reads “Make Love Not War.” The top’s only other decorative feature being a daisy in the lower right hand corner. Subtle compared to the dress of many of those around her, it’s a good choice considering TP threw it together at the last minute.

Diomedes walks beside her. The dragon is wearing a tasseled vest, a blonde shoulder length wig and granny glasses.

Writer Lady notices people giving Diomedes odd glances here and there. “Dragon costume.” She explains. "My cousin Bubba is helping out. He’s in the parade.”

Most people nod politely. A woman Writer Lady recognizes as a neighbor comments, “I didn’t know your aunt had two boys.”

“She doesn’t. Bubba is my great-uncle’s husband’s youngest nephew.”

A man with a clip board approaches before the woman can comment further. “Is he in the parade?” He asks pointing at Diomedes.

“Yes. He’s riding with Smelts in the lift truck.”

“You two need to get moving. We’re starting in ten minutes. The parade is lining up on Fourth street. Behind the coffee house. Smelts is at the end of the line.”

Writer Lady looks at her neighbor. “We’d better go.”

“Nice meeting you.” The woman says to Diomedes.

Diomedes’ need to show proper etiquette outweighs his oath to remain silent until they return home. “Yes it was lovely to meet you. Good day Madam.”

“In just a few minutes it will all be over.” Tinkletoes says startling Writer Lady. The pair watch as TP, disguised as a butterfly, focuses all of his power on the scales along Diomedes’ back, reversing the chemicals in the sunblock the dragon is wearing, enchanting it to attract the sun’s ultraviolet rays instead of blocking them. The bright yellow light pours into Diomedes’ back and quickly disappears. The other onlookers don’t seem to notice.

“I’ve never seen TP’s power glow with such intensity. What if this works...”

“...too well?” The self-proclaimed mercenary asks finishing her sentence.

“What if his wings emerge in the middle of the parade instead of after it’s over?”

Tinkletoes shakes his head, “TP and I talked about the timeline. I talked to Smelts. He knows what to look for, if he sees anything that looks like wings Smelts is going to pull the truck out of the parade as soon as he can and take Diomedes back to your place. We’ll take him out to the lake to exercise, you know, the wings, after it closes.”

The pair watch cars, trucks, cheerleaders and other brightly dressed parade participants walk by.

“ ‘Sides that dragon’s muscles are so tight there’s no way anything is coming out until he’s spent a good twenty or thirty minutes soaking up sunlight. No, those wings may still have to be pulled on while he’s pushing out. It’s not like he can get a few minutes of intensified energy and just pop them out. I’m a man. Men know things. I know things. I’m right.”

Writer Lady looks back up at the parade and watches as it passes in front of her. She can see the bucket of Smelts’ truck is raised above the street. Diomedes bends down to avoid the occasional utility line. The dragon seems to be making the best of things, waving to the crowd and moving to the music. During a particularly energetic rendition of Ain’t No Mountain High Enough the dragon stops moving. His multicolored hues disappear. They are replaced with a bright orange-yellow color outlining a red one at his center. Diomedes squares his shoulders as a concentrated look crosses his face, there is a loud whooshing sound…the wings emerge.

The crowds gasps audibly then begins cheering.

Realizing what’s happened Diomedes begins moving again, dancing and waving. His extensive wings flap up and down in time with the music.

Six girls from the high school dance team run back to Smelts’ truck. Flanking the bucket on both sides from the street below the girls begin dancing. Soon the dance team and the dragon are dancing in time with the music and each other.

Excitement can be felt throughout the parade, word spreads and onlookers begin chanting, “Go Bub-ba! Go Bub-ba! Go Bub-ba!”

Diomedes’ wings move with more and more energy. As the song continues, the dragon’s wings lift him up. Up out of the lift bucket and into the sky. He flies over the crowd and and up the parade route. The dragon flies over the marching band and The Shriners in their tiny cars buzzing the group as he passes. As Diomedes rises higher into the sky he begins turning in the air flying in loops.

“Shi..” is the only word she hears cross Tinkletoes’ lips.

Writer Lady turns and looks at the self-proclaimed mercenary. “It looks like I owe you an apology. Diomedes has totally blended in. I don’t think anyone will ever remember my never heard of before today cousin Bubba, that he was in the parade dressed up as a dragon or his taking off into full flight. You were right Tinkletoes. You are a man and you know things.”

Cartoons, Ancient Pixies, and A Really Bad Dream

“You actually believe that no one who sees Diomedes will think to do a double take?”

Tinkletoes does not acknowledge Writer Lady’s question much less answer it.

“Look at who I’m talking to.” She mutters. “This is going to be an absolute train wreck.”

“Did you hear about the train wreck?” Ray asks as he walks into the kitchen. “Astronomical.” He says. “No one was killed. No one hurt. Hollywood could not have planned a better accident.”

“There was something about one on the Internet.” Tinkletoes comments.

“There was something wrong with the tracks, when the engineer was trying to stop he hit the brakes too hard.”

“The cars jack-knifed?” The self-proclaimed mercenary asks.

“No. This was way better. One car ran right up the back end of the other, pushing it’s back end up into the air. Like this.” Ray holds his right hand up horizontally, he raises his left hand below the right one vertically in an attempt to illustrate a visual image of the crash.

“Kind of like an old cartoon.” Tinkletoes observes.

“It’s cool when they figure out how to do cartoon stuff in real life.” Ray says as he opens the pantry and begins looking for food. “Oh yeah,” Ray turns to Writer Lady. “Diomedes wanted me to tell you that,” he holds up his hand and closes his eyes, “we have exited your bed chamber and you can now resume your rest period confident that you will not be disturbed before the yellow glowing orb has once again shown in the morning sky.”

Writer Lady smiles briefly at Ray’s effort to repeat Diomedes’ words exactly. “Thank you Ray.”

“No problem. Are you going back to bed?” He asks.

“Sleeping is what most people do at this hour.”

“I was wondering,” Ray continues.”is it true that the spirits of ancient pixies use a door in your closet to travel back and forth from their ancestral grounds?”

Writer Lady’s face contorts into an odd mix of confusion, surprise, and concern. She pauses before answering.

“That was two floor plans ago.” House responds with an exasperated sigh. “Does anyone know how to listen anymore? The ghosts of the Ancient Ones prefer the attic now.”

“Get too crowded on the main floor?” Tinkletoes asks.

“No. They prefer the darkness of the attic. It’s better for their rituals.”

“Rituals?” Writer Lady asks as her face pales. “What kind of rituals?”

The self-proclaimed mercenary shakes his head. “You know House, she always makes things sound more intense than they really are. Go back to bed.”

“What about Diomedes?” She asks.

“TP and I have everything under control.” Tinkletoes says.

“No you don’t.”

“We do.”

“You don’t.” Writer Lady volleys back.

“We do.” Tinkletoes returns to the stove and Writer Lady. The self-proclaimed mercenary picks up the mug of tea and hands it to her. “You’re going to need lots of rest, because you’ll be busy tomorrow afternoon telling me how wrong you were to suggest we could not handle this.” He takes position behind her, gently guiding her out of the kitchen, through the living room, down the hall and back to her bedroom.

“How is he going to get enough sun?”

“Smelts’ brother has a really big truck with a bucket on it. He’s in the parade tomorrow. He’s agreed to give Diomedes a ride.”

“I thought you weren’t close to Smelts.”

“No one is. No one likes him all that much.”

“Why would his brother help us?” She asks.

“He doesn’t like Smelts that much either.”

As they approach Writer Lady’s bedroom she asks, “What happens if this other Smelts doesn’t show up?”

“Doing these local parades is good for business. He’ll show.”

“What if he doesn’t? What if he has a flat tire or runs out of gas?”

“He’ll call another Smelts, the one with the towing company.”

“What if the bucket truck can’t be fixed?”

“We’ll find another truck for him to stand on.”

“What if the sun doesn’t come out?” She asks.

“We’ll take him someplace where the sun is shining.”

“What if TP’s goop won’t stick to Diomedes’ scales keeping the magic within it from attracting more heat to Diomedes’ back?”

“We’re men. We can handle it.”

“A lot can go wrong.” Writer Lady points out as she’s guided into her room.

“We’ve got it. Relax.” Tinkletoes says as he exits the room closing the bedroom door behind him.

“There’s no way this is going to work.” She says before sipping her tea.

“I heard that.”

Writer Lady tries to sleep. When she isn’t picturing all of the things that might go wrong at the Summer Lovin’ Festival she contemplates why the ghosts of ancient pixies would want to spend any portion of their afterlives in her home and what type of dark rituals they might be performing in her attic. She wonders how dark a pixie ritual can get. “They’re pixies. Pixies are like the cheerleaders of Faerie. Cheerleaders are fairly harmless, they might wear you down with all that spirit and all those ‘Read-y? O-kays!’ She relaxes and closes her eyes, a dream comes into focus. Writer Lady finds herself frozen unable to move or scream. She watches helplessly as half-dead pixie cheerleaders fly through the house spilling blood at every opportunity. So many bodies...the blood all looks the same. It glitters with magic. The blood changes color. From red, to gold, to yellow, green, dark green, teal, sky blue, purple, pink, gray, to brown and to black the cycle repeating over and over. All of the colors and shimmering magic in the blood can only belong to one living being.

“Diomedes!”

Diomedes' Dilemma

 

“Oh.”

Writer Lady shifts under her blankets.

“Ooh.”

She moves on to her back just as she begins dreaming a rag tag group of cat burglars have shuffled up the hall and entered her bedroom.

A voice says, “I’m sorry Sir. This just isn’t working. Oh.”

Writer Lady realizes she knows the voice calling out in pain. “Diomedes?” She calls as she opens her eyes. Reaching out she turns on the bedroom light. Her eyes adjust to the sudden burst of light, then focus to reveal the identities of the figures standing at the foot of her bed. Dobby, Ray, TP floating in the air above Dobby’s head and Diomedes. “Diomedes are you in pain?”

The seven foot dragon shakes his large head. “I am.”

“What’s wrong? Has House been refusing to raise her ceiling for you when you enter a room again?”

“No, not at all. House has always been thoughtful and accommodating.” He responds.

“Is it your stomach again?” She asks recalling the Stomach Bug Incident of 2015.

“No.” He responds. “It’s my...it’s my.” The dragon turns a soft blushing pink color. “It’s my wings. They appear to be stuck.”

Writer Lady sits up, propping her bed pillows in front of her headboard, she leans her back against them. “You have wings?” She asks.

“Yes Mi’lady. I use them only for flight.”

Writer Lady tries to imagine a set of wings that would keep Diomedes in flight.

“Considering my size and weight as you can imagine my wings are quite large.” He explains. “Mi’lady, you look perplexed. Do you not believe me?”

Writer Lady gets out of bed and approaches her very early morning visitors. She looks at Diomedes. “Of course I believe you. It’s just, I’ve never seen anything that indicates you have wings.” She walks behind the group, studying Diomedes closely. “There’s nothing laying against your back. Even if the wings are not extended shouldn’t we be able to see them?”

“No Ma’am. I am not descended from one of your Earth dragons, I was born in Faerie. Being from Faerie I have the ability to store them underneath my scales.”

“He keeps them inside. Deep inside.” TP adds.

“May I?” She asks.

“Yes.” The dragon responds.

Reaching out, Writer Lady lifts the edge of one of Diomedes’ scales and sees nothing but skin. “There’s nothing here.”

“Be most assured Mi’lady, they are definitely there.”

“How can we help you?” She asks. “Do you need more space? House…”

Creaking can be heard as House begins rearranging the dimensions of the room.

“It’s not that simple Mom.” Dobby says.

“You can stop moving House.”

The ginger tabby looks at Writer Lady, “Diomedes has kept his wings tucked in for so long, they’re stuck.”

“How stuck?”

“We’ve been trying for hours. They just won’t come out.” Ray says.

“What if we give him a back rub?” She asks.

“That was what we did during the first two hours.” Dobby says.

“Hot bath or shower?”

“We couldn’t get it under his scales.”

“What if we applied heat to the area?”

“We were talking about that. Diomedes says humans don’t have anything that can put out that kind of heat Mom. But TP has an idea.”

“I’m sure he does.”Writer Lady says. “What’s the catch?”

TP flutters around Diomedes pretending to be tuned out of the conversation. He attempts to appear innocent. The faerie looks up and stares at her like she’s speaking Bocce.

“There’s no catch.” The ginger tabby counters.

“It’s TP. When TP’s involved there’s always a catch.”

“Lil’ Dude says Diomedes needs sunlight to loosen his muscles, once they’re loose he can jump start them again.”

Writer Lady rubs her face. “It’s two am there isn’t much sun right now.”

“We need to take him outside tomorrow Mom, at midday.”

“High Noon!” TP giggles.

Writer Lady looks from Ray to TP to Dobby then to Diomedes. She reaches up and pats Diomedes as reassuringly as possible on a front leg or is it the arm? Putting on her robe she leaves the room. Entering the kitchen, she fills the kettle with water and prepares a cup for tea. “What a mess.” She mutters.

“It’s not all that bad.” A voice says from behind. Writer Lady turns to find Tinkletoes at the table perusing a newspaper. A coffee mug sits on the table next to him at the ready.

“What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep, decided to come over.”

“The mug?”

“Thought I’d bring it with me. Wanted to beat the morning rush.”

Writer Lady gestures to the empty kitchen. “The line is so long. How will you ever manage?”

“You?” The self-claimed mercenary asks.

“My bedroom is... crowded.”

Tinkletoes nods. “That thing with Diomedes? Dobby said they were going to ask you for help.”

Writer Lady turns her attention away from her cup. She looks at Tinkletoes.

“He’s been having a problem for a while now. Poor guy.”

The kettle sings. She turns off the flame and pours the boiling water into her cup. Returning the kettle back to its resting place on the burner she asks, “If this has been going on for a while why didn’t someone say something?”

Tinkletoes shrugs. “It seemed like a simple problem. Diomedes kinda looks up to you, he didn’t want to bother his creator if he didn’t have to.” He turns a newspaper page. “TP says he has a plan.”

“TP and his plans.” Writer Lady says as she fiddles with the string on her tea bag. Up. Down. Up. Down.

“You’re not supposed to do that.” Tinkletoes says. The self-proclaimed mercenary steps over to Writer Lady and her cup. Taking charge of the string he picks up the spoon she left resting on the counter, he lowers the tea bag into the cup and sets the bowl of the spoon on the bag weighing it down. “That’s how to brew a cup of tea. TP thinks if we get Diomedes out into the sun when it’s at its brightest his muscles will loosen up. When the outer edges of the wings become accessible we can pull them out. TP will give the wings a boost of magic, Diomedes can take flight and everything’ll be okay again.”

Writer Lady looks at Tinkletoes. She is not convinced.

“He says if we put sunblock on Diomedes’ back he can enchant the lotion to pull in the energy from the sun’s rays instead of blocking it out. As far as plans go it sounds pretty solid.” Tinkletoes says turning back to his seat and the newspaper.

“You think we can take a seven foot dragon that changes colors like some big ol’ mood ring, traipse him out where everyone in the neighborhood can see him, get his wings extended, and allow him to take flight without any of the other humans freaking out?”

“Wont’ be a problem.” The self-proclaimed mercenary says pointing to the paper in front of him. “This weekend is the Summer Lovin’ Festival. The streets are going to be full of people dressed up like hippies. They’ll be so busy dancing in the street to “Gimme Some Lovin’” by the Spencer Davis Group that no one will notice a thing.”

Exploring The Farm With A Hound Dog As Your Guide

 

TP points his stick at the screen door. It opens wide. Accepting the universal sign for “Let’s Play,” the hound dog runs over the threshold, crosses the small porch, and jumps over the steps skipping them completely. Landing on the grass she takes off at full throttle. Veering to the right she runs across the gravel drive stopping under a tree in front of the house.

“Whoa...whoa…” the faerie calls hanging on to the ends of the hound’s ears. TP’s body is stretched out full length like a water skier who’s lost his skis. TP lets go when the hound comes to a sudden and abrupt halt. His furry guide lays down oblivious to her responsibilities.

TP studies her for a moment. He flutters down, picks up an ear and tugs. “Come on doggy, time to go.”

The dog ignores him. She closes her eyes, turns her face to the sun and opens her mouth, her tongue rolls out to rest across the edge of her open mouth.

TP flies around to her eye and knocks on her forehead. The eye opens. He points to himself. “TP great explorer. You, my lady, are my trusted guide.”

The bloodhound mix looks at the faerie. Her tongue reaches up, she wipes down the faerie with doggy slobbers in acknowledgment.

Retrieving a kerchief from his pocket the faerie wipes down his face. “Farms are messy.” He looks back into the eye. “Exploring is fun. Don’t you want to play?” He asks.

Something rustles in the bush behind them. The faerie hears a rush of paws on the ground and flies up across the grass, then along a porch, stopping at the opposite edge of it well out of the feline’s reach. He looks down at a white cat with black and brown spots. “No touchy touchy. Bad kitty.”

The cat studies the faerie. She sits down in front of him to patiently await her next opportunity. A second cat wanders into the yard. It stops to wash its back leg a few feet from the dog who rolls on to her stomach then takes off after it, chasing both cats away from TP and the house.

“Belle!”

TP hears someone calling.

“Belle.” A few seconds later the call is repeated. “Belle!”

The yard grows quiet.

The dog returns just as TP is settling himself on the header of the porch next to an abandoned nest to have a think. Faeries tend to act quickly, relying on instinct, thinking is unusual for them. Faeries must take great care when doing so.

The hound looks up at the faerie, she barks joyfully.

TP floats down and looks at his less than reliable guide. “Ready to go now?” He asks.

“Woof!”

TP looks at the dog’s smile, her lolling tongue and wagging tail. He hears an engine rumble, it grows louder then grows more quiet, three sets of hooves gallop nearby, a strange clackety clacking noise can be heard coming from further away. Somewhere in between is the sound of shots being fired. TP wonders if Tinkletoes followed Writer Lady out to the country and has gotten himself lost. The faerie closes his eyes and uses his energy to search for traces of Faerie hidden deep within the self-proclaimed mercenary’s bloodline but feels nothing.

The sound of the rumbling engine travels further away. The faerie hears a voice call out, “Wait. Wait. Stop!” Both TP and the dog look in the direction of the sound then look at each other.

“Belle? Belle!”

The yard falls silent.

“Where is that dog when I need her? Belle come chase these cats out of the orchard!”
“Belle.” TP says looking at the hound dog. “Is that what they call you?”

“Woof.”

“It seems you are being paged good lady, called to the exact place TP wants to be.” The faerie takes a seat on the dog’s collar. Taking hold of the tips of her ears, TP calls, “To the orchard. Tallyho!”

“Woof!”

Belle takes off, turning right to circle back in the opposite direction. The dog runs straight into an empty field.

TP hangs on with both hands as his legs stretch out behind him. Belle’s shoulders rise and fall as the dog runs over the uneven ground bouncing the faerie up and down against her back.

“My…my...la-dy...slow...down.”

Belle keeps running. Eyes wide, tongue lolling. She smells something and slows down stopping to sniff the ground.

TP hangs on to one ear with both hands. He breathes a sigh of relief as he hangs over the ground watching the dog sniff.

Belle continues her trek moving at a slower pace, TP’s body bouncing against her, the dog increases speed when she catches a scent then stops to investigate the scent.

“TP said, ‘Orchard.’ This doesn’t look like an or-chard.” The faerie sings.

Belle runs into a stand of trees, startling a wild turkey. The bird takes off flying in a low crooked path as she barks after it.

“You did all that work to scare an ugly bird?” TP asks.

“Woof!”

“TP will send Belle an ogre to chase. Ogres are uglier but way more interesting.”

“Woof! Woof!”

Seeing an orchard was more of a challenge than the faerie anticipated. Using the ear as a safety rope, the faerie climbs the dog’s body and settles himself back on to her collar. Belle liked finding things, perhaps an orchard is too big. The faerie decided to simplify it. “Can you find Writer Lady?”

The dog did not answer, she just ran in the direction of the house with a winded faerie bouncing against her collar. Seeing Writer Lady’s car in the drive, TP let go, flying alongside the farm dog. Belle ran directly to Writer Lady without stopping who greets her, giving the dog a hug and a treat.

“Here she is. Good girl.”

Thunder rolls in the distance as the sky grows dark above.

“You’d better get going. This storm is going to hit any minute.” Writer Lady's mother says.

Writer Lady nods.

TP flies into her bag as she unlocks the car.

TP is still dry when he and Writer Lady cross House’s threshold. Blowing rain has coated Writer Lady’s hair and clothes with water. She tiptoes through the kitchen only to be stopped in the living room.

Tinkletoes looks at Writer Lady as he pauses his game controller, “What’s going on? Is it rainin’ or something?”

“Why are you playing games in here? There’s a huge set up in Dobby’s room.”

“You weren’t here. We thought it would be fun to go old school.”

Writer Lady continues to her bedroom, tripping on a cord, she rights herself before she can fall. “How thoughtful of you.”

“Yep.”

Writer Lady enters the hallway off of the living room grumbling.

TP pops into the living room as she exits it.

Tinkletoes turns to TP, “So what’s out there? What did you see?”

“A house, trees, a yard. Animals. A dog named Belle.”

“Was there any funny stuff going on?”

TP looks at Tinkletoes and shakes his head.

“Were there any, you know, men?"

The faerie shakes his head.

Tinkletoes lowers his voice, "Monitor Man?"

 Writer Lady’s voice calls from the other side of House. “Monitor Man is not here! Let that shit go!”

“How does she did she do that?”

“You have a really big mouth!”

“She just rolled her eyes didn’t she?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” House teases.

TP mutters, "Humans."

Dylan looks at TP, "Grown-ups are exhausting. Wanna play?"

TP'S SECRET MISSION

 

“You can’t go to your mom’s today.” Tinkletoes says. He watches as Writer Lady assembles a box of freshly baked triple chocolate cupcakes decorated with dark chocolate frosting and miniature bunny sprinkles.

“Yes I can.” Writer Lady responds. “It’s spring. There's a lot of work on the farm this time of year. She needs help. Why wouldn’t I go?” She asks.

“Because it’s spring here too. It’s busy and I…” the self-proclaimed mercenary says as he gestures to Carp, Ray, Diomedes etc… “...we have a lot going on. There won’t be anything for us to eat.”

“Aunt Purdy has taken charge of the kitchen today. You’ll be well fed.”

He shifts his stance before making another attempt at getting custody of the cupcakes. “You’re always going out there on the weekends, holidays too. It’s not very nice the way you keep leaving your cats here.”

Writer Lady gestures to the crowded living room, “There's work that needs to be done at the farm. Even if that wasn’t the case if you take into consideration the fact that many of my friends are not of this dimension, I can’t exactly invite my mother here. If she were to see Furnatche, Diomedes or Daemon...Mom would, well, it wouldn’t be a good thing.” She shakes her head. “Besides, Dobby and I have an agreement. We have cuddle time when I get home and he doesn’t have to go to Grandma’s. Dobby and the kittens don’t like road trips.”

“What about? Maybe someone else would like to go with you.”

Writer Lady looks around the house. Everyone is rifling through snacks or playing video games. The sound of cabinets opening and closing can be heard as Aunt Purdy works in the kitchen. Writer Lady hears Paige remind Ray, yet again, that when he’s eaten all the cheese puffs there are no more until someone goes to the store and he should pace himself. “Like who?”

“Like, well, I don’t know...me.” Tinkletoes responds.

Writer Lady shakes her head. “After The Ninja-Zombie War we set up rules regarding your presence in my life. What’s the first rule?’

“Something dumb like I’m never to be seen in public with you.”

“It sounds dumb to you. There’s a reason I made that rule. I made that rule because you make messes. You not only break things, you destroy them. This is a small town, if we’re together when you make a big mess or destroy something people assume that I participated as well or worse...that we’re a couple." Writer Lady thinks for a minute, "Why would you want to go with me, I thought you had plans, maneuvers or war games or whatever it is that you do.”

“Our outdoor survival weekend had to be canceled. Too much rain. Everything’s turned to mud. There’s nothing solid to pitch a tent to. If I go out to the farm with you I could do some scouting in new territory. Show Carp a thing or two.”

“No.”

Tinkletoes opens his mouth.

“No.” Writer Lady repeats before she leaves the room.

“I don’t understand what the big deal is.”

“You don’t understand why she won’t be seen with you?” Carp asks.

Tinkletoes looks at Carp. “No. What’s her problem?”

“Well, you’re loud, obnoxious, selfish, uncouth. When you aren’t acting that way you break stuff.”

“Do not.”

“Correction. You blow things up. When you aren’t blowing things up you make a mess.”

“Name one time.” Tinkletoes says, challenging the assassin-in-training.

“The time her sheds were shot apart.”

“That wasn’t me. It was the old man.”

“Who invited him over to do MAN things?” Carp asked.

“That might have been a little bit me.”

“Who used her unmentionables for homemade experiments?”

“That was a while ago and I replaced them.”

“Going to the store and crying in the feminine napkins aisle because you find it confusing until you’re escorted from the store doesn’t count.”

“I’m a guy! It's confusing!”

“The Ninja-Zombie War.” Carp says looking at Tinkletoes with a raised brow.

“We won that.”

“You let thousands of Ninja-Zombies into the main hall of the convention center when there were only two people to defend it. Writer Lady and Monitor Man were nearly killed.”

“We won that. They didn’t die because I showed up with reinforcements...and explosives.”

“They had a solid plan before you got there.”

Tinkletoes’ eyes grow dark. His jaw tightens. “Monitor Man started it. If that pretty boy hadn’t of pissed off the ninja-zombies and gotten himself kidnapped none of it would have happened.”

Carp rolls his eyes. “You're a big obnoxious gorilla who throws food at people and wonders why they don’t stop at his enclosure to say hello.”

“Poop.” Writer Lady says as she walks through the room. “He’s like a gorilla who throws his poop.” She picks up her bag, then her tote, followed by the box of cupcakes. “I’m going. Have a nice day. See you tonight.”

Ray stops her on her way through the kitchen, “Dude...can you pick up some cheese puffs on the way home?” He asks.

“The store is closed today. We can pick some more up tomorrow.”

Ray nods.

“She keeps too many secrets.” Tinkletoes says as he watches Writer Lady and Ray’s exchange.

Carp rolls his eyes, “She does not keep secrets. She just knows better than to include you.”

The self-proclaimed mercenary watches as Writer Lady gets closer and closer to the door. Tinkletoes looks at TP then jerks his head in Writer Lady’s direction. The faerie nods. A giggle escapes as he disappears. Within seconds there is a faerie sized lump in Writer Lady’s tote bag. TP’s head slowly rises over the bag’s edge. He waves good-bye to Tinkletoes and Carp as Writer Lady walks out the door.

Writer Lady and Dobby Cat’s Grandma’s voices fade as they go outside to do things in something called an orchard. Her tote is left hanging on a hook just inside the door. TP can still smell the cupcakes that have been left sitting on a shelf above him.

“New place, sights and smells. Cupcakes right where TP can get them. Silly human.” TP is deciding whether discovering what an orchard is like or if eating a cupcake is a better option when he hears the sound of something moving from deeper inside the house. The sound grows louder. He flies up and peers over the edge of the bag. He discovers a large wet nose on the other side of it. TP looks down a reddish-brown snout attached to the large nose and find’s the animal’s eyes.

“Canis lupus familiaris, dog...bloodhound mix, female.” The faerie whispers. “Hello canine. I’m TP. I’ll be happy to be your friend if you show me everything. Understand?”

The reddish-brown dog with large floppy ears responds with an enthusiastic “Woof!”

TP floats above the dog, spinning in the air above her, he changes into a pair of close fitting khaki pants, a matching safari shirt and a safari vest. A Stetson safari hat and heavy boots complete the ensemble. TP floats down to sit behind the dog’s head. A faerie size walking stick appears in TP’s left hand, pointing it towards the door leading outside he calls, “Let us go forth into the orchard. Forward my good lady!”

If You Don't Like The Weather Wait A Minute

 

Writer Lady puts on her coat. Staring at the rack next to the door she contemplates a scarf. Deciding against it she opens the door and realizes the bright March sunshine brought a new friend with it: warmth. A warmth she hasn’t felt since last October. A smile crosses her lips, she closes the door and runs back to her bedroom. She removes her heavy pants, shirt and winter underwear replacing them with a pair of jeans and one of her favorite t-shirts. Writer Lady exits the house, running outside only to find the temperature has drastically dropped. The spring like warmth has been replaced with its deceptive winter counterpart. A breeze has arrived. A biting cold that prompts Writer Lady to mutter several choice words as she clumsily runs back indoors to try to dress for current weather conditions yet again.

Carp knocks on the door to the bedroom as he is walking in. “Five minute warning. If you don’t leave in five minutes you will officially be running late.”

A growl comes from beyond the closet door. “I know. I can’t seem to pick out the right clothes. If I dress for winter I’m too hot. When I dress for early spring I’m freezing.”

“Dress in layers. Lay-ers.” Carp says as he absentmindedly inspects his nails. He watches as Writer Lady’s arm flings various pieces of clothing across the room: a sweater, sweatshirt, a thermal hoodie, a light weight hoodie, a tank top, heavy jeans, a pair of leggings and her long underwear. One by one they come to rest on her bed.

“I can dress in layers.” Writer Lady says. “The problem is figuring out how to walk once I get them all on. What happens if Mother Nature decides to make the jump to hyperspace and throw us into summer?”

“It’s probably not going to come to that.”

Writer Lady emerges from the closet wearing her favorite bath robe. She picks up the television remote and turns up the volume on the weather forecast.

“Mother Nature is everybody’s mama. Someone has jumped on her last nerve this time babies!” Tony Johnson, Window Weather Woman announces. “It's anything goes this week boys and girls. But don't worry, Miss Tony's going to tell you what you need to do. Y'all need to be ready for anything so plan ahead. Don’t be surprised if the weather reaches out and whoops yo butt for a minute or two. It could happen.”

Writer Lady turns her attention back to Carp as she turns off the television. “What am I going to do?”

“Stick to layers and you’ll never go wrong. Considering the forecast, you might want to start with your most versatile two piece and build from there.”

Writer Lady disappears back into her closet and steps out wearing a high waisted two piece in neon everything. A blast of pink, yellow, green and blue. “Next.” She says.

“Go get a mailer for that bathing suit because the eighties called and they want their clothes back.”

A blush appears across Writer Lady’s cheeks.“Some people would call it vintage.”

“How much more do you have?” He asks.

“Not much.”

“There is a sweater and matching leg warmers set hiding in this room somewhere isn’t there?”

“Maybe.”

Carp whispers. “Is it...neon?”

“No.”

“You were going to wear it weren’t you?”

“The leg warmers might come in handy.” Writer Lady responds sheepishly.

Carp leaves the room and when the assassin-in-training returns he’s wearing sun glasses.

“What are those for?”

“Between your pale skin and the neon I’m getting a headache.”

Writer Lady rolls her eyes.

“Corey Hart wore sunglasses at night for a reason. T. M. N. Too much neon.”

“What am I supposed to do? It’s not my fault Mother Nature's showing all of her personalities at once.”

Carp lowers his glasses and peers at Writer Lady over the top of them.

“Judge all you want but you’re not the one who has to go out in that mess. If I want to dust off the blue heart sweater and matching leg warmers, I’ll do it.”

Carp shakes his head. “If you want to commit fashion suicide that’s up to you.”

Having just won an argument, any argument, Writer Lady smiles broadly.

“I do have one question for you.” He says. “What are you going to do if those leg warmers get wet?” The assassin-in-training pulls back the curtain and reveals that it has begun raining outside. A heavy blowing rain. A squirrel hanging on to a branch flies by the window just as Writer Lady reaches it. The animal is soaked and does not look happy.

Carp points to the leg warmer in her hand. “What happens after it gets wet?”

“No problem.” Tinkletoes says from the entry. “Her cammos will fit right over them.” The self-proclaimed mercenary looks at Writer Lady.

“I found the cupcakes you left for me but I need coffee.”

“Make some.”

“I can’t make coffee when there’s no coffee pot.”

“It’s on the counter.”

“The coffee maker is there but there’s no pot to catch the coffee.”

A tired sigh is expelled from her lungs. “I washed it. The coffee pot is in the dish drainer.”

“And?”

“You don’t see it?”

“I do not.”

“It is amazing to me how our government let someone who can’t find a dish drainer sitting on a kitchen counter operate heavy equipment.”

The self-proclaimed mercenary shakes his head. "I was never part of an armored vehicle crew, I was a fire support specialist.”

“A what?”

“I determined the exact location of potential targets and proposed plans on how to neutralize them.”

Writer Lady looked at Carp. “Seriously?”

Carp nods. “He was also a sharpshooter.”

“Why am I not surprised?” She asks rolling her eyes. Writer Lady puts on a robe as she heads for the kitchen. She stops at a small section of counter to the right of the sink and points. “Dish drainer.” She says as she lifts the towel laying over the item in it. “Coffee pot.”

 Tinkletoes retrieves the pot from the drainer.

 Writer Lady looks at the clock on the stove. “I’m late.” 

 A bell rings in the distance.

“Text message!” TP’s voice rings throughout the kitchen.

“What’s it say?” Tinkletoes asks.

“There’s an ice storm, stay home! Love Mom.”

Writer Lady pulls back the kitchen curtain. Ice pellets are falling outside leaving a layer of ice on everything. A car slowly creeps by on the street in front of her fish tailing every few inches. “I’m not running late.” She says as she watches the storm outside amazed at how so many changes have taken place so quickly.

Tinkletoes hands the empty coffee pot to Writer Lady. “Beings you’re not going anywhere, we could use some coffee.”

Once Upon A Christmas Wish: ...That's When The Wish Arrives

 

I was mentally and emotionally exhausted when Lisa knocked on the door jamb to the master bedroom. Her brow was knitted and she was slightly pale.

“Do you know what’s wrong?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Phoebe's upset because she’s not getting her Christmas wish.”

“I finished writing the book, she has to get her wish now.”

“The odd twist to this is...Phoebe’s Christmas wish was for you and McKinley to fall in love. With each other.”

“When he left she knew there was no way she was going to get her wish.” I said, guessing the rest. “If only she'd confided in me a couple of weeks ago. I could have explained to her that Christmas wishes involving other people don't usually come true.”

“What good would that have done?”

“She could have asked for something else. Most little girls ask for ponies.”

“Phoebe's not most little girls.” Lisa pointed out.

“A snowmobile. She could have wished for a snowmobile.” I looked through the window at the darkness outside. “I feel terrible.”

“She’ll get over the disappointment with a little time.”

“I didn’t.”

“You were coming from a different place and had a different purpose when you made your wish.” Lisa entered the room, reaching out, she gave me a hug. “You did everything you could to help. Every choice was made with love. I know that. Someday Phoebe will see that too.”

“I hope so.”

Lisa placed an envelope on the nightstand on her way out the door.

“What’s that?”

“It came in the mail. I forgot about it with all the excitement.”

“Did you tell anyone about this trip?”

Lisa shook her head. “I'm assuming it’s from one of your new friends here in town.”

“Or maybe one particular friend?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

I stared at the envelope for several minutes before picking it up and opening it. The front of the card depicted a beautiful winter scene with snow, trees native to the area, and a bright dot of warm white showing in the distance much like the light I had seen earlier in the evening. There was no pre-printed sentiment inside the card only a handwritten note.

When all hope is lost...that’s when the wish arrives.

I ran my fingers over the script that reminded me so much of my mother’s. A light illuminated under my hand revealing more words.

Love Mom and Dad

******************

“Your Aunt Jess and I...we love you so much. We’re sorry about the wish.” Lisa said, beginning our agreed upon speech to Phoebe as we sat at the dining table the next morning.

“I know.”

I thought about showing her the card. I remembered all of the times in my life that I seemed to be functioning on false hope, I hated the thought of Phoebe working through the same feelings of embarrassment and remorse later on in her own life.

“It’s gonna be okay.” Phoebe said, taking turns looking at us. “You’ll get over it soon.” The eight-year-old said before changing the subject. “You two had better finish eating your breakfast or you’ll make us late for gift opening.” She instructed as she stood up and left the table.

Lisa and I looked at each other.

“What just happened?” I asked.

“Eight going on thirty-eight.”

Perhaps Phoebe was more resilient than I anticipated, perhaps children bounce back more easily than the rest of us. We decided not to question it and cleaned our plates. Homemade Pain Au Chocolat is something that should ever go to waste.

We made ourselves comfortable in the great room with a second cup of coffee while Phoebe played Santa.

“Who should get the first present?” She asked. Phoebe was reaching under the tree, for a large present in the back when the front door opened. We heard the sound of heavy boots as they walked through the house. When they stopped, McKinley stood on the far side of the room. He looked around, his eyes stopping at me.

“Jess.”

“McKinley.”

“A word?”

I cannot tell you what happened in McKinley’s life during the hours between the time he left the night before and Christmas morning. I won't tell you what he said to me as we stood in the kitchen that morning, I promised him I'd keep it to myself.

I'll say this instead, if this were a fairy tale my next words might be ‘and they lived happily ever after.’ If this were a Bronte novel, I might say, ‘Reader, I married him.’ Our journey to love did not fit either one. The journey we're on now is not always easy or smooth but it is thoroughly and uniquely ours. McKinley found a way to see things from my point of view and I from his. Eventually we found our way, away from the past and into the present with a firm foundation at its center. One that includes a precocious eight-year-old girl and her mother. An eight-year-old girl going on thirty-eight.

"Not Necessarily The End”

I finished reading. It my first public reading of this novel. There have not been many hardcover sales today. The book that became “Once Upon A Christmas Wish” skyrocketed to alarming heights while in presale. The publisher was having a tough time keeping up. Today the store was full of people seeking autographs and selfies. More than a few were not regular fans, they were new to my work. I suspected many were curious to discover what the fuss was all about.

The audience was fully engaged. A few people teared up a bit and one woman was still winding down. She had been openly sobbing. I felt bad the story had upset her so much and I found myself wondering if this book should have been published at all. When one is standing in a bookstore crowded with people who came in because of said book, it's a bit late to question whether publishing had been the best move.

“Questions?” I asked as I pointed to an energetic hand at the front of the room.

“Is McKinley still a part of your life?”

Of course, the most difficult question had to come first. I took a deep breath before giving my pre-planned McKinley approved answer. The positive yet non-specific one crafted to protect McKinley’s privacy.

“Damn right he is.”

I looked in the direction of the all too familiar voice. To the dark hair, hazel eyes and well trimmed beard. McKinley was standing behind the audience near the display window of the store next to a sign that read:

Book Signing

Jess Windstrom

Once Upon A Christmas Wish and A Mountain Man’s Christmas Miracle

Today Only!

When all hope was lost Phoebe’s Christmas wish did come true. It's something we  are both truly grateful for.

 “He’s still here.” I answered with a grin. McKinley and I smiled at each other for a moment before I moved on to the next question.  

                                           Phoebe’s Christmas Movie List

1. The Muppet’s Christmas Carol

2. The Nightmare Before Christmas

3. Elf

4. Prancer

5. A Christmas Carol (1938)

6. White Christmas

7. Christmas Vacation

8. A Christmas Story

9. It’s A Wonderful Life

10. Miracle On 34^th Street (1934)

11. The Santa Clause

12. Home Alone

                                                                          Honorable Mention : Die Hard