Minerva was irate as she waved my uncle Carl’s latest paperback in my face. I wasn’t worried that it would become a missile, but I was worried about what she had to say. She opened the book and aggressively pointed at a page.

“I don’t care if he bases his stories on us,” she complained, “I just don’t like that he takes the liberties that he does. Seriously, ‘Her ample, rosy bosom swelled as the werewolf lunged towards her. Tania swung her legs around the beast’s neck and crushed its fragile throat with her curvaceous thighs. The creature’s last sense was of the flowery fragrance of her…’”

“Yes, I know. It is a bit much, but it is just fiction. No one knows that Tania Wulfsmasher is based on you.” I tried to hold in a slight grin; I had read the book the day before and almost laughed out loud picturing Minerva wrestling a werewolf to the ground. My uncle had been a newspaper reporter in all of the major markets, but his ludicrous stories about the supernatural weren’t fit to print in the normal newspaper. The rest of the family had considered him a nut, and I agreed with them until I learned otherwise. He later turned his factual accounts into a line of pulp novels that sold fairly well; now he was writing novels that were about Minerva and I. Actually, they were centered on Minerva.

“I know they’re just stories, but I know who Tania is supposed to be, and it doesn’t make me feel happy to read about my anatomy; I feel so objectified. To tell the truth, Tobias is a bit upset as well.”

Minnie was sincerely distraught. She had been mildly offended by past novels, but this one was particularly inflammatory. I guessed that her husband’s unhappiness had less to do with Tania Wulfsmasher’s voluptuous body and more to do with the escalating relationship she had with her partner, Nathan Kingston.

“If it is bothering you that much, I’ll go to my uncle and see what I can do. I don’t think he’ll be moved by any argument I give him though; these books are his livelihood.”

“And I don’t want to take that away from him,” she said, her blue eyes watery as though she were ready to cry, “but if you could get him to hold back a bit more. Not even a lot. This is just so uncomfortable, you know?”

I set off for the retirement village by bicycle that afternoon with a copy of Wulfsmasher and Kingston in hand. The retirement village was sedate and clean, although a light scent of old people hung in the air. Did every grandma in the place wear White Shoulders? Did they even still make White Shoulders, or had the little old ladies resorted to making it in the bath tubs? I made my way to the patio where my uncle spent his afternoons whispering his stories into his tape recorder. He sat at the round table in the shade of a huge umbrella, wearing the beat-up raffia porkpie hat that he loved so much. I could hear his rich voice as he recited, “Never did Katya Wirsbiski consider that the homeless man she passed would follow her; also, it never occurred to her that an unloaded gun might scare away some criminals.”

“But neither did it occur to her that something sinister dwelled inside of that man, waiting, begging, for blood to spill. Right?” I smiled as I waved at my uncle who returned my smile with an extended hand.

“August, my boy, it is nice to see you. Why’d you come?” He jumped straight to the matter at hand, skipping pleasantries almost entirely. This was going to be a tough sell.

“I came because I read the new book.”

“Oh, liked it that much, huh? First time you came by so soon after a release. What didn’t you like?” I couldn’t believe that he so swiftly deduced the reason for my visit, but he had. His reporter’s instincts were just as sharp as ever. I let it all spill out on the table; there was no sense in keeping anything hidden from my uncle. He’d learn it sooner or later, regardless of how hard I tried.

“I’m sorry Auggie, but this is what the people want. It sells well, and I’m sure the extra money helps you and Minnie out.”

“It does, and I’m grateful, but Minnie’s husband isn’t very happy about this. I mean, I know sex sells, but some of this is ridiculous. ’She arched her back as he pushed his thick member into her softness…’ Would you want to read about someone doing this to your wife? Minnie and I are just friends, and this makes it seem like we’re more.”

“Does the book make it seem that way, or do you want it to be that way?” asked uncle Carl, and the question drove into my heart. Did I actually want something more than friendship? I hadn’t ever really thought about it. A scream interrupted my pondering; an old man was bellowing as he tumbled from his apartment window ten stories about. A wailing exploded from the others on the patio as he collided with the ground. I winced and looked away, but my uncle looked up at the window.

“It’s that witch.” he muttered. Collecting his tape recorder, he rushed to the door of the apartment building. The sirens of a police car and an ambulance muddled together in a cacophony moments after the fall. I walked over to get a look at the body, flashing my paranormal investigator’s badge at the coroner. I saw no marks of interest, though when I looked at the pool of blood the body left behind, I was speechless; the blood pooled in the shape of King Bodon’s Star. There was definitely some kind of witchcraft going on. I looked around for my uncle, but he was out of sight. I rushed indoors, thinking he had gone up to the jumper’s room. Sure enough, I found him there looking for clues, weaving absent mindedly around the policemen in the room.

“Uncle Carl!” I cried out, ’What happened?” he didn’t answer me. “Carl! Carl!” I yelled to get his attention. One of the investigators yelled at me to be quiet while another yelled to ’get that old man out of here and shut up that kid.’ When they ushered my uncle into the hall, he glared at me.

“I think I was onto something. There were some kind of herbs on the floor, but you showed up and they kicked me out.”

“How’d you even get in?” I asked.

“You’d be surprised what you can get away with when people think you are an Alzheimer’s patient…

Frank felt his head drooping and his eyelids closing. He struggled to keep his attention focused on his computer. He glanced around at the tall, cloth covered walls of his cube, and wished that he could put something on them; a picture, a poster, maybe a small army of action figures for his desk. However, decorating his workspace was forbidden. He felt his head droop again. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes. Carter, who worked in the next cubical, leaned over the top of the cube’s wall.

“Did you get the e-mail I sent you? The video with the people dancing at the wedding?” Carter’s voice was enthusiastic. Anytime he had a chance, he would slip onto the internet and look for pictures and videos which were not quite pornographic, but definitely of a lurid nature. The video in question was taken at a wedding and was of a girl gyrating in a short dress; he could glimpse her round buttocks as she danced. Of course, he needed to share this with someone, and Frank was that person.

“No. I have too much to do right now.” replied Frank.

“It isn’t that long, and she’s really hot. The way she moves is just mesmerizing.” Carter was becoming lost; he looked as though he were staring at the sun. “It’s a beautiful thing.” Frank groaned and then decided to check his e-mail.

“Why did you send me all this?” he asked as nine e-mails popped into his inbox.

“Slow day for me. Data is processed. Mails mailed. I’m free until noon at least.”

“I’ll have to check this out later.”

“Why not now?” asked Carter, sounding disappointed.

“Unless you want to help with my pile…” said Frank, pointing at a short tower of invoices threateningly. Carter slowly sank back into his cube. Frank looked at the list of ten e-mails from Carter and deleted them without even reading them. Then, something caught his eye; it was a message from someone named Aurora. The name sounded so familiar to him, but he couldn’t place who it was. Disregarding the chance that it was a virus, he opened the e-mail and read the contents.

I doubt you remember us. How long has

it been, Francis? Ten years? Twenty? How

long has it been since you’ve ridden a

dragon? Swung a blade? Your armor is rusted,

and your sword is broken, but still we need

you. The land is blighted by darkness, and

only you could bring the light again. The

Marmots have taken the crystal castle, and

I do not know how long we can hold out in

the hills. The White Lord has gone alone to

war; he needs you! We need you! I need you!

Frank looked at the message in disbelief as the fog rolled back from his memories. He thought about the world in which he used to play. He called it Brightsphere, and he was a king there. Well, first he was a warrior and then briefly a cowboy, but mostly he was a king. The lord of his own land of imagination. This has to be a joke, he told himself convincingly. He tried to think of who he had told about his old childhood games, but no one was coming to mind. He had no brothers, sisters, or even any cousins that visited. His childhood was pleasant, yet lonely. Until he saw the message, he had forgotten about his imaginary world, but now the details had come rushing back in vivid flashes. Quickly, he moved the e-mail into a folder that he marked ‘BS’. He wasn’t upset about this prank, but he definitely wanted to know who played it.

The day passed slowly, and the e-mails he sent to his few friends about the message from Aurora had yielded no confessions of guilt. On the drive home, he thought about Aurora. She was a princess, and she was both young a beautiful. She was literally the woman of his dreams; she was more like a friend than anything else, though as he grew older she did become more interesting. But the adventures they had were incredible! The White Lord had opposed Frank rise to power, and it was Aurora that always rode beside Frank in his wars against the pale lord. The White Lord. The name brought with it a feeling of foreboding; he was an old man even those many years ago, and he lead a ferocious army. Frank remembered the White Lord’s glassy blue eyes and their cold gaze the day that he and the pale king had a duel.

Frank was jolted out of his musings when a car horn blared; he had started to drift into the high velocity lane and nearly caused an accident. He shook the images out of his head and focused on he road ahead. Turning up the radio, he sang to commercialized rock and roll music as he drew closer and closer to home. Annoyingly, his cell phone began to rattle against the plastic cup holder he always left it in when he drove. He picked up the phone and flipped it open. He knew that it would be his girlfriend Claudia. He heard her pleasantly saying hello and asking him to pick up a few things at the market before he got home. Jeremy needed food and a flea collar while she needed tampons, Midol, and Pepto Bismol. Frank heard himself agreeing to drive a half an hour through rush hour traffic to pick up the requested items. When he flipped the phone shut, he tossed it back into the cup holder. He felt pissed off at Claudia for calling him; sure, she asked politely, but he just didn’t feel like going to the Wal-Mart.

He turned the radio up even louder and sang out of tune as loudly as he could. He needed to push away some of the anger he was feeling. The rational side of he knew that this was anger that he shouldn’t direct towards anyone but himself. He didn’t have to go to Wal-Mart, he elected to go. However, he wondered how much choice he actually had. He was thirty-five years old and he was certain that he couldn’t just dump Claudia over some errands he didn’t feel like running…

The following piece of fiction contains bizarre and digusting images. Reader discretion is advised.

Roger locked the door to his efficency apartment. He threw off his coat and almost mangled his tie as he yanked it free of its double windsor prison. He pulled the paper with the telephone number out of his pocket and sat on the edge of his still folded out day bed. He had been excited about making this call an hour ago, while he was still sitting in his car. He even considered using his cell phone, but he worried about what would happen if the conversation got lurid. He waited until this moment, but his zeal had faded and was replaced by anxiety. If it is a prank of somekind, I’ll never live it down. It will haunt me. But what if this is my chance? My only chance? He reached for his phone and began dialing the number. 

His hand trembled as he put the reciever to his ear. It rang once. I wonder who will answer! Will it be a man or a woman? It rang a second time. What if it really is Irene? What will I say? ”I saw your number on the bathroom stall and thought that you’d want a little rumpy-pumpy.” His vision of a night with a sexually frustrated erotic dynamo started to fade on the third ring, when someone picked up on the other end of the line.  Roger’s heart pumped in his chest as he head her breathing. The phone connection was staticy, but he could hear her! That is feminine breathing if I ever heard it!

(Ending Version 2)

“Hello.” said Roger. The line remained staticy, though Roger could hear a sound, somewhat like a voice echoing in a tin can. “Hello? I can’t hear you very well. Can you hear me?” asked Roger, not noticing an inky cloud puffing out of the reciever. When he saw it, he dropped the phone on the floor. The black smoke filtered out of the phone swiftly; in the cloud he could see the face of a young woman. He fell over himself, tumbling to the floor. The amorphous cloud grew; a dozen faces floated in the cloud. Each face was unique, except that every face writhed in pain, sneering with mouths lined with fangs. Roger pushed himself away from the apparition as dozens of arms and legs began to form on the cloud’s perimeter.

“What are you!” he shouted, not knowing what else to say. He reached for a knife from his galley kitchen’s counter. His hand shook as he pointed the blade at the apparition. One of the hands swiftly reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. He shouted in pain as the thing pulled him towards itself. Its voice, echoed and tinny, called to him.

“We need you.”  it said as it wrenched his wrist around. Roger screeched in pain as the creature pulled at him. One of the mouths sunk its fangs into his flesh as several hands groped clumsily at him while others held him fast. Looking up at the apparition, Roger felt faint and powerless. He felt as though he left his body; he watched as the creature tore at his clothes. He watched as the mouths bit at him, sucking his blood. He winced as the scene became too disgusting to watch, but he could not look away. The apparition had many genitals; some male, some female. No! Stop! STOP! He tried to cry out, but the apparition was pulling his mouth open, pushing a tongue down his throat. He gagged, almost vomiting; he felt helpless and broken…

When he awoke, he was still bleeding. He pulled himself to the bathroom and let the hot water of the shower wash over him. He looked at his hands; they were wrinkled and spotted. These aren’t my hands. They can’t be. He rushed from the shower and saw that his face was heavily wrinkled. I look like I aged 80 years! What the hell did that thing do to me? As he looked in the mirror, he could see the apparition behind him, a hand reaching out and clasping him painfully on the shoulder.

“We want more.” said the creature, speaking in Roger’s voice and looking at him with Roger’s youthful face.

“No!” screamed Roger pleadingly, tears welling in his eyes.

“Then another. Bring us another. If not, we will be back.” The apparition slowly disappated back into the telephone, leaving behind only a dial tone. Roger nervously grabbed at the phone and terminated the call. Naked and alone, he felt vulnerable and afraid. His eyes fell on the torn clothes on the floor and the blood, his blood. He looked at the phone number and knew that there was only one way to deliver himself from the creature and what might be endless, nightly torture.

The next day, he went to the super market and went into the bathroom. He had taken a permanent marker with him; he started to write the phone number on the wall of one of the stalls. He felt guilt filling him as he scrawled ”For a Good Time, Call Annie” above the number. The words became blurry as tears filled his eyes. He left the stall, taking his marker with him, hopeful and fearful.  

 The following poem is basically the outline of the next short story I plan on working on. It should be a fabulous time with a ghost, unwilling  lover, and the psychic that he loves. Essentially, the ghost has attached herself to the male lead. The male then enters a series of relationships that end with death and despair. His misery is lifted when he finds a woman that turns out to be able to see ghosts and exocise them. However, the quandary becomes weather or not he’d be happy without his little ghost around.