Category Archives: Round Robin

Leg Day, Part III

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Hey everybody, much apologies. I drafted this on Thursday as I was coming down with a nasty flu, and in my fever-ridden state, I thought I’d published it already. Lo siento! And now, without further ado (though if you haven’t seen them, first go read parts one and two) here is the conclusion to Leg Day. Oh, and if you don’t know the “Mullins” reference, check this video out.

After dinner, Char wheeled into her room, flopped on her bed, and messaged Eddie:

Hey

Hey, what’s up?

no legs tomorrow

what? why?

dunno. Dad filed a grievance.

SHIT

WHAT????

I did that once too. When we found out Cleo was pregnant.

Oh my god. Oh my god Eddie what am i going to do????

I can’t believe he did that he should have known better argh wtf do you want me to come over

no. You know my dad’s always had his head in the clouds. Just tell me where it is. You know what.

7th Street and Collins. We can come with you.

Not until you’re ready

are you ready?

Char held down the delete button, watched it eat everything. She spent the rest of the evening patiently repairing her wheel. At ten o clock, her dad paused in the doorway.

“Lights out, honey.”

“I know. Five minutes.”

He pressed his palms against the rims of his chair, wheedled back and forth. “Listen. I was thinking. I’ve got tomorrow off, why don’t we make a day of it?”

“A Leg Day, Dad?” She hated herself for saying it, but out it came.

Dad flinched, but soldiered on. “We can go to the zoo, I know you’ve been wanting to see the thylacines. And then maybe one of those monster movie immersives? I hear Riders is pretty good.”

“Dad, you hate those things.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, I just thought it would be good to get out of the house. I understand if you don’t want to hang with your old man.”

Char bit her lip. “No, it sounds cool. Just do me one favor, okay? Let me sleep in.”

“Done and done, kiddo. Goodnight.”

She leaned over and turned out the light. Sat in the dark. Listened to the tap run as Dad brushed his teeth. The creak of the floorboards in his bedroom as he rolled over them. The ebb and flow of his snore. When Mom was alive, she used to spend half her nights on the couch, complaining with bitter love that she’d married a chainsaw. But for Char, Dad’s snore was like crickets, or the wind in the beech trees, his somnolent growl softened into a lullaby by all the walls between them.

Mom. Mom, and Cleo’s baby. She cried then, stuffing her fingers into her mouth so she wouldn’t make a sound. Then, her rim replaced and wheels greased, she rolled out into the street, and downtown, to 7th and Collins.

Toughs hovered on every corner, accompanied by ladies wearing amounts of makeup inversely proportional to amounts of clothing. They watched her roll by like vultures tracking a baby gazelle. LIVE SHOW XXX The neon lights gleamed as she rolled in.

“Give me the Mullins,” she said to the waifish girl behind the counter, whose cobalt-blue eyeliner winged all the way to her hairline.

“You sure, doll? Once you’re off the grid, you’re one of us.”

“I know.” She took the paperwork the waif pushed at her. “What’s this.”

“Affidavit. In case you’re caught.”

Char signed. The bell over the door jangled behind her.

“What,” said the waif, “Did you bring your whole family?”

“Eddie,” Char turned. “Dad? Dad, I’m sorry, it’s too late.“

“Sweetie, it was always too late.” Dad nodded up at the waif. “Give me the Mullins.”

“You guys want tourists, kittens, oakhearts, or bladerunners?”

“Baby, we were born to run,” said Dad.

“Is he always so cheesy?” the waif asked, passing Char two pairs of black, titanium legs, curved like halos, like scythes waiting to reap.

“Yeah,” Char said, feeling tears spark behind her eyes. “Totally.”

Leg Day, Part 2

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We’re writing a Round Robin story this week, each taking a turn to write a complete story in three posts. The crazy thing about this game is we don’t discuss the stories head of time, and we never know what to expect. It’s like playing tennis blindfolded. S. C. Green got things rolling with Monday’s installment. You’re going to want to read that first, or this post won’t make a whole lot of sense. Amy McLane will be wrapping the story up on Friday, so be sure to tune in. Now, here is the continuation of Leg Day.

Leg Day, Part 2

Char’s hands fell away from the wheels of her chair. “Say that again?”

Her father gave up trying to smile and his mouth turned to a straight line across his face. “There’s been a glitch. In the system.” He wheeled his chair forward. Char inched hers back. “Something about the release records.”

“But nothing’s changed.”

“I know.”

“We haven’t moved. Our information should be the same as last—”

“I know.” He leaned forward, tried to touch her arm. “I told them—”

She flinched away. The smell of bacon sat like rust on her tongue. “So, what does this mean?”

“It means your number got skipped. Your legs. Your legs went to another kid.”

Char gasped and her father spoke quickly to help cover her hurt. ”I put in a formal grievance. And I’ve petitioned for two leg days next year.”

“What?!” Char lurched her broken chair toward the door and covered her mouth with her hand. Wait another year? This couldn’t be happening. She was going to run tomorrow. Climb. Dance.

“Your wheel,” her father said. “It’s broken.”

“So what.” Char’s jaw ached, her teeth grinding. What would she say when the others asked? What would they say when they saw her without legs on Leg Day, stuck in her damned chair?

Char banged her fist against the wall, hard. Twice. She wondered who the stupid, jerk-face kid was that would get her legs. Undeserving. Having legs when it wasn’t their day.

“It’s times like these we have to remember to be grateful,” her father said. Char closed her eyes and tried to not listen. “At least you have Leg Day. Think of the Faceless. You could be hooked up to tubes your whole life. Blind. Deaf.”

She ignored how his words tugged at her gut. Looked instead at the foot rails of her chair. Imagined bones wrapped in sinew and muscle, strong enough to take her away. Stronger than mechanics and synthetic skin. She’d run farther, faster. Faster than the decay of time. She’d out run every disappointment of life.

But the foot rails sat empty.

“What about Cleo and Eddie?”

“Oh.” Her father coughed. “There were no glitches with their records. As far as I know.”

There was no stopping her tears then. “It’s not fair.”

“No. It isn’t.” He wheeled himself back toward the kitchen. ”Come eat dinner, honey. I made it special. You’ll feel better. Then we’ll fix that wheel.”

Her eyes watched him move out of sight, but her mind saw only Cleo and Eddie dancing. Their feet touching the grass. The sun on their shining faces. And her, in the house, suffering After Day on Leg Day. The thought alone caved a whole through her chest empty enough to swallow the world. There was no way she’d be able to bear it.

Unless.

To be continued…

Leg Day, Part I

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Welcome to another Round Robin story from the folks at the Parking Lot Confessional. If this is your first time reading, here’s how it goes. Today I’ll post the beginning of a story. My cohorts have no prior knowledge of what’s going to happen beyond these italics. That gives the next person only two days to figure out the next part of the story. Then another two days goes by before the final installment created and posted for your pleasure. I’m kicking this Round Robin Story off with an idea a friend planted just this weekend. Enjoy!

Leg Day

For the third time that day Char got the wheel of her chair stuck in a divot. The third time, and telling from the wrenching crunch, a bent rim. She could look past it though. Look past the ill luck, excessive stares and nervous jitters. She could look past all of it because tomorrow she got her legs.

The closer she got to the day, the more she couldn’t focus on anything else. It was the same every year.

Char looked around the courtyard. Not for help, but to check for witnesses. Not much is more embarrassing. Sure, the kids of the town get stuck and break wheels all the time. The adults, not so much. This will be her eighteenth Leg Day. She shouldn’t be breaking any more wheels.

Rocking side to side, she was able to roll herself out of the divot and continued home. Every few feet her chair lurched to the right. The wheel was definitely bent, but she’d be able to make it home and swap the wheel before her dad would even notice.

Really she knew better than to cross the courtyard, but she was in a hurry to get home. The sooner to sleep, the quicker tomorrow would be here. Char quickly forgot her lurching chair and went on creating her mental list of things she’d do once she got her legs.

When she was younger, and Leg Day came, she ran. She ran until her breath struggled to catch up. She ran until she saw stars. She ran until she puked. She ran up and down the wheel ramps, but mostly she ran through the grass, up the hills, and every place her wheels couldn’t take her.

Char still planned to devote part of her day to running. Running and more. Her dad used to love to climb. Trees, mountains, walls, really anything vertical, so he claimed.

She thought about Cleo and Eddie. They had the same Leg Day and every year they danced. Char didn’t know if it was good, but they smiled, laughed and loved as they spun, hopped and held each other close. So it must have been good. If Char shared her Leg Day. She would chase and be chased, though she never wanted to be caught.

Eventually the running would stop. It was far too easy to tell the homes of Day Afters. They were always too quiet. Quiet unless they had children. It took years for them to get use to the Day After. One year Char thought that if she kept running, run right through the night, she could have her legs for another day. It took her father three hours to get to her amongst the trees where her legs became lifeless and dead to the touch. Char didn’t like to think about that day. There would be plenty of time during her own Day After.

She rolled through the front door, and hurried to the mom’s old room where they kept spare chair parts.

“Charlotte? Is that you?”

She didn’t expect her dad to be home. Her hopes for covering up her bent wheel sank, almost bringing down her mood. Almost.

“What’re you doing home?” She turned to find her dad wheeling in from the kitchen. A waft of bacon followed him.

“Is that–”

“Breakfast for dinner? I know it’s your favorite.”

“Yes!” Char did a little victory wiggle in her chair. “I wasn’t expecting anything until tomorrow.”

The smile on his face faltered. He tried to master it back, but it only looked forced and perhaps painful.

“Char. We need to talk about your Leg Day.”

Come back Wednesday for Part II of Leg Day…

Cold Seeps (Part 2)

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And now, the second installment of this week’s round robin, a sadistic little game the three of us occasionally play, wherein we write a story together, in the round and on the fly. Part One, by Amy K. Nichols, is here, and Part Three, by S.C. Green,  will be up on Friday.

Trevor hunched and ran down the cramped hall toward CONTROL, the stale, canned sweat-and-bologna air burning in his lungs. Contact in 18 minutes. Unless Captain followed ROS’s protocol and destroyed it.

“Captain,” he  yelled, climbing the ladder to CONTROL two rungs at a time.

“What do you want.”

“Please, sir, do not engage protocol.”

“No vitals, heading straight for us. What else is there?”

“At 64.7 knots? That’s not fast enough for a torpedo. More likely a probe, maybe the Japanese.”

The Captain clicked his tongue. “And maybe it’s a new kind of weapon, Mr. Renyard.”

“This is a research vessel, not a war machine. We can’t afford a diplomatic incident right now. And, what if it’s alive? ROS would have a hard time scanning vitals.”

The Captain gave him a look that said I want bourbon. “That’d make it some kind of goddamned sea cheetah.”

“A new life form. Anything is possible.”

ROS’s crisp accent lilted over his last words. “Velocity of unidentified object at 62 knots and dropping. Protocol recommendation disabled.”

“Thank God,” snorted the Captain. “Hate that tart telling me what to do. Well, Mr. Reynard, let’s try it your way. Let’s see if we can’t evade this thing’s trajectory, see what we can see. Go man Clippy. ROS, keep scanning for vitals.”

“Aye, Captain,” said Trevor, ROS echoing him eerily.

He took his seat in Clippy’s pod, worked the levers. Outside the ship, the metal arm scissored its sensitive claw open and shut. With Clippy, Trevor could pluck up a single strand of seaweed, or crush a coral reef. He twirled Clippy’s headlights, scanning the darkness. Excitement thrummed in his gut, a twin to the rhythm of the ships engines as the Captain maneuvered them out of harm’s way.

“ROS, how’s the scan coming?”

“Unconfirmed. Velocity of unidentified object at 59 knots and dropping.”

Trevor tapped his fingers. thuddah thuddah thuddah thuhDAH thuhDAH

Stone ping-ping-pinged at his station.

The Captain clicked his tongue. tok tok.

Like we’re some kind of crazy New Age drum circle, thought Trevor as he tapped. But tapping felt good. It made him warm inside. He didn’t want to stop, why would he want to stop?

“Unconfirmed,” said ROS. “Unconfirmed.”

Each consonant and vowel swelled, rolled, as she repeated, until he could not understand the word she was saying, because the word was a false understanding, a coating, the wrapper on the candy bar, the silken teddy dangling from the shoulders of his high school girlfriend. “Alexandra,” he groaned as his fingers tapped on. “Alexandra.”

She was coming, and she was dying, and she was speaking to them through these rhythms, this no-song singing. Red droplets splashed onto Clippy’s console. My blood, thought Trevor. “Alexandra,” he said.

His head filled with light.

To be continued…

Cold Seeps (Part 1)

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This week we’re doing  a round robin story — a story written in three parts by the three of us. This story is inspired by the news of James Cameron’s adventure into the Mariana Trench. Below is part one. Part two will be posted on Wednesday, and part three on Friday. Hope you enjoy!

Cold Seeps

At the control panel,Trevor stared headlong into the last half-hour of his shift. Day shift, night shift, who knew anymore. 35,000 feet below, it was only midnight all the time. He flipped the port-side sensors to long-range and yawned. Maybe a few hours in the UV tank would wake up his brain.

Stone tapped on the portal door twice, a cold ping ping. “Want anything from the galley?” He jabbed a wooden toothpick between his teeth and probes. “I’m thinking tuna fish, myself.”

Trevor groaned. “How can you eat that? I eat the tuna and I’m on the john for a week.”

“Nothing, then?”

“Not for me, thanks.”

Stone tapped two more times — ping ping — and his footsteps faded down the hallway. Trevor pulled the report binder from the file shelf and flipped it open to the current page. Clicking the ballpoint open-closed four times, he wrote the day’s date in the left-most column. When the ink formed the last number, he stopped, holding the tip still on the page and making the calculations in his mind. Five months, fourteen days. A long time in the deep. And what to show for it? Pale skin and a serious lack of social interaction. Not that either of those mattered so much. Not as though he had much action above surface. He penned the shift’s counts and readings into each column of the report, noting the most exciting moment at 05:14:37 when a black dragon fish passed the starboard panel, catching Trevor’s eye with its green glow.

Stone returned balancing a carafe of coffee and two tuna fish sandwiches on rye. He fell into the seat at control station two, and spread his dinner (lunch?) out among the keyboards, knobs and switches. “Anything to report?”

Trevor looked at him dead pan and slapped the binder closed.

“You read the new contract?” Stone pulled the wrapping from the first sandwich as though peeling a banana.

Banana. A word picture formed in Trevor’s mind so bright he could almost smell the sweet, tropical flesh. “Haven’t got mine yet.”

“Mph?” Stone swallowed. “Got mine yesterday. You gonna sign back up?”

Trevor shrugged. There were advantages to living below. Peace and quiet. Minimal interaction. He’d learned to meditate and speak French. And he’d written nearly three-quarters of his novel to boot. Amazing what one could accomplish when free of distractions — other than the eight hours out of every twenty-four. But no one had done more than six months below. No one knew the long-term effects. This crew would be the first. The guinea pigs. “Murphy?”

“Ah, yeah.” Stone nodded, pushing food aside to make room for speaking. “He’s re-upped. Said the Mrs. agreed, no hesitation.”

The compensation was hard to turn down.

Trevor sniffed and rubbed his eyes. He’d probably just missed his contract among the other papers and rigmarole from Command. “Yeah. I probably will, too.”

“Racquetball at fourteen hundred?”

“Naw, not today, man. I’m gonna hit the tank. Need some V’s.” He pushed his chair back and stood. Stretched. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“I’m just going to beat your ass again.”

“Probably.” Trevor returned the report binder to the shelf and picked up his mug and backpack. “Have a good –”

The port-side sensor light switched from green to flashing amber and in a tidy, British accent, a female’s voice — the only female voice Trevor had heard in a long time — cooed, “Alert. Unidentified object located off stern. Distance, four nautical miles. Velocity, 64.7 knots. Vital signs, unconfirmed. Series protocol four-point-two recommended.”

Trevor mouthed the words in disbelief as the message repeated.

Four. Point. Two.

To be continued… 

Auspicious Pudding, Part III

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This week we’re talking about endings. So it seems appropriate I should finally write my installment — the ending — of our most recent round robin story, Auspicious Pudding. Be sure to read parts one and two first, or this conclusion will make little sense. It might make little sense regardless. 

Auspicious Pudding, Part III

Ty followed Jasper’s steps over the rocks and tree trunks. Placed his feet where Jasper’s had been. They soon fell into a rhythm–one two, one two–and Ty filled in the third beat in his head. Three’s a better number than two.

He’d given up talking. Each time he’d opened his mouth, Jasper would tell him to hush it. He’d wanted to talk about the birds. To ask again about the trees. See if Jasper knew why the branches moved when there was no breeze. Most of all, though, Ty wanted to ask about his belly. About the mass growing up and down and out.

Jasper hopped onto a log, took a deep breath and let out a yell that stopped Ty in his tracks. Sent a shudder through him that about knocked him to his knees. He wiped a hand over the sweat on his face.

“What you go and do that for?”

Jasper said nothing. Just watched the trees before continuing on his way.

Ty didn’t like this anymore. Jasper had said this trip was for fun, but all it’d been was weird. Birds and bellyaches and–

The ground shivered. Jasper dropped his pack and turned in a circle, his arms out at his sides.

“Jasper?” Ty eyed the trees above. Felt the knot in his middle twist. “Why–”

“Shhhh.” Jasper held a finger to his lips. “Listen.”

Ty held his breath and listened beyond the beating of his heart. “I don’t–”

Jasper held up a hand and raised an eyebrow. He stood so close, Ty could smell his musky breath. The ground shivered once more, and with it the coil in Ty’s belly. When Jasper spoke, his voice hissed like water. “The king is in his counting house, counting his…”

Ty wiped away a fleck of Jasper’s spit that had landed below his eye.

“Counting his what, Ty?” Jasper leaned in even closer. “What does the king count?”

Ty turned, catching his foot on a rock, and he fell. He spine cracked against the rocky ground, shattering the silence not with the thud of flesh but the sharp jangle of metal. He tried to reach down, to touch the jagged mound stretching the skin of his belly toward the sky. He gasped. “Can’t move my arms, Jasper.”

And then, “Jasper?”

His friend stood just out of sight. But Ty knew he was there from the laughter. Low like a growl, but building like thunder.

“Gold.” Jasper’s feet stomped the ground–one two, one two–raising a cloud of dust Ty could see from the corner of his eye. One two, one two, Jasper’s feet danced. He added a clap in for the third beat. Three’s better than two.

The branches shook and the sky turned inky black. Hundreds of magpies filled the trees. In quorky voices they repeated the answer to Jasper’s riddle.

He leaned over, blocking Ty’s view of the murder in the trees. “Does it hurt now?” he asked. “In your belly?”

Ty shook his head. He felt nothing beyond his shoulders.

Jasper nodded and rubbed his chin. “What was it you said was the number ten? Gold, a time of joyous bliss and what?” He leaned in, his face twisting to grotesque. “The devil himself?”

Ty screamed. Jasper clapped his hands twice and the forest went silent. “Traveled so far, haven’t you?” he called out to the birds. “Ain’t you feeling peckish?”

Gold gold gold, the hungry birds answered.

With a flourish of his hands, he stood aside and the magpies rained down, pelting the taut skin until it broke forth. Ty felt nothing–a small mercy–as he gaped in horror, watching each bird carry away a shining coin.

Auspicious Pudding, Part II

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This week we’re writing a Round Robin Story. Each of us are shooting from the hip to put a story together for your (and our) enjoyment. If you haven’t already, check out Part I here. Back? Good. And the story continues…

Part II

“The weald,” answered Jasper. He turned to Ty, a little exasperated. “Has the stomach rot gotten to your ears? I just said that.”

Ty’s stomach flipped at the mention of it. The pain didn’t last long as his attention quickly focused on the trees. The trees that shouldn’t be. That couldn’t be there.

They most certainly were there.

A clump of moss gave easily way when Jasper pulled it from the bark of the closest tree. Redwood? Was it even possible for a tree to grow that big?

Ty watched as Jasper sniffed the moss, nodded to himself ,and proceeded to smash the clump in his gnarled hands.

“What are you doing?”

Jasper just hummed to himself. The cuffing of his hands pounding the moss punctuated his song. The tune was only vaguely familiar to Ty. Just when he thought he could place it, Jasper stopped, picked up a sprig of pennyroyal and pressed it between moss-mushed hands. He gave it a good squish and then presented it to Ty.

“Nice. I’m impressed. No, really,” the sarcasm was like a candy coating over each word. “I just feel bad for leaving the Forestry Craft Badge at home. You so earned it.”

Ty went on to say more, but Jasper shoved the sprig in Ty’s mouth. Before he could spit it out, the old man had one hand on the back of Ty’s neck and the other covering his mouth.

“You can thank me later,” offered Jasper.

The grime on Jasper’s hand felt slick and coarse like wet sand paper on the back of his neck. His thoughts whirred from his now grim-streaked neck, to wondering how hands so old and knobby could still be so strong, to the horrible thing in his mouth. To say it tasted like minty dirt would be like calling the moon a rock. It combined the flavor of fresh lawn clippings with the grit of under-stirred hot cocoa. Sure there was an underlying hint of mint, but that silver lining was too thin encompass this gray cloud.

“Now would you stop struggling so I can talk to ya’ proper?”

Ty hadn’t realized he was jerking about, and when he did, he felt wholly justified. He kept it up for just a second longer as to not let Jasper think it was him telling him to that he stopped.

“That should settle your stomach for a bit. Yes, I know. Kinda’ feels like it’s going to do the opposite. It won’t though. Just chew a bit.”

Jasper’s grip loosen, but didn’t let go. He waited to see Ty’s jaw work the mush before going on.

“Good. Good. Now mind you don’t eat it. In small doses it’ll calm the rot. Swallow the whole of it, and we’ll be stopping at every other tree with a soft leaf.”

Ty didn’t want to admit it, but he could feel the knot untie itself in his gut. He didn’t fool himself. It was still there, only loosened.

“I can see it in your eye. It’s working.”

Jasper let go, leaving a mossy hand print in his place. He wiped the remainder on his pants and started rolling his sleeping bag and stowing his gear.

“How… Where did you… I mean,” Ty couldn’t get the words out. He didn’t even know where to begin. The trees? Magpies? The minty grit in his mouth?

“Can your auspex do that, too?” He finally asked.

Ty’s tone said jest, but his eyes begged for something to hold on to.

“Not just any auspex, that’s for sure. Now stop gawpping and roll up your bag. We got things to do and no telling how long to do them in. Move it now. Move.”

Whether by Jasper’s design or not, Ty was grateful for the busy work, moving in the familiar motions of breaking camp, rolling this, packing that. He didn’t know how longer Jasper had been talking before he started listening.

“—to see this. It’s good though. Very good. Maybe lucky even.”

“Jasper?”

“Son, if I told it all now, how am I to enjoy the look on your face when we get there?”

His smile was as much sincere as it was concealing.

Tune in this weekend for the stunning conclusion! (No pressure, Amy.)

Auspicious Pudding, Part I

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Pianos. Penguins. Pandas. Ty rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Oh my God.”

Jasper wormed around in his sleeping bag. “What’s up?” he said muzzily.

“If a flock of crows is a murder,” Ty said quietly, “And a flock of rooks is a parliament, what’s a flock of magpies?”

“A tidings. Or a charm.” Jasper fumbled about in the grass next to his head, located his wire-rim glasses, and hooked them over his ears. “Or sometimes, also a murder.” He looked up. “Holy God.”

“That’s what I said,” muttered Ty. The trees circling their campsite were covered in a flock of black and white birds. Branches swayed and sagged beneath their weight as they quorked and shat and preened. Endless pairs of dark eyes stared down and through him.

“There must be at least a hundred of them.” He looked more closely. Most of the birds were clutching green sprigs in their talons or beaks, maybe for their nests?

“An auspex would count them, and tell us the future.”

Ty glanced at Jasper, who was fastidiously settling his deerstalker on his bald head, his long fingers quivering. Jasper hoarded obscurities like they were two-for-one coupons. Was he taking the piss, as Effie would say?

“Don’t need an ‘auspex’ to tell us that,” said Ty, thinking of the twisted mass growing in his gut. In the movies, an alien would just hatch and burst out of your chest. Over quick. Industrial light and magic.

“I could do it, I think. There are several instructive folk rhymes to that purpose. Presuming the total number of birds divided cleanly into a number between one and ten. The real question is; what are they doing here?”

“Creeping me out?”

“Magpies are not indigenous to the area. They’ve come from somewhere else.”

Jasper unzipped his bag and stood. The magpies launched into the sky, a swirling flock, buzzing the old man like a swarm of bees.

Ty reached up and tugged Jasper to his knees. “Mistook you for a scarecrow,” he half-yelled over the burr of wings, “They’ll be gone in a minute.” He watched the birds circling directly overhead, wincing, then punched himself twice on the arm, trying to shake off the dread infusing his bones. That’s two for flinching.

“I should have counted them,” Jasper said, distraught.

“Call it a hundred. Ten by ten, nice and round. What’s ten?”

“Gold. Or a time of joyous bliss. Or, the Devil himself.”

Ty shook his head. Never one answer when three would do. Something plopped on his shoulder: a leafy sprig. More bits fell in a sudden pelting storm.

“Oh what the hell,” Ty shouted in exasperation. Both men ducked under the barrage. The rain of greenery was gentle, almost like a blessing. Ty found himself thinking distractedly of rice thrown at weddings. And then it was done.

Jasper picked up a bent blade adorned with small circular leaves. “Pennyroyal. Pudding grass if you want to get colloquial. I don’t know what they’d want with it; certainly not to eat.”

“Just saving it to heckle—” Ty exhaled as his stomach cramped tight. He rode out each pulsation of pain, biting the side of his tongue and clenching his fists. Jasper watched him worriedly, the unasked question plain in his pursed lips and half-raised eyebrows.

“Fine,” he managed, straightening. “No problem.” His eyes widened. “I take that back. Big problem.”

The unimpressive stand of birches they’d camped in had transformed into a hardwood forest, ancient trees rising forbiddingly tall, bedecked in verdant lichen and moss. The light overhead had taken on a cool quality, filtered through the layers of canopy.

“It’s a weald. Well, now we know from whence the magpies came.”

“Which is?”

To be continued on Wednesday….

Hidden Freak, Part 3

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And now, the conclusion of this week’s story-in-the-round, Hidden Freak. If you missed the previous installments, authored by S.C. Green and Amy K. Nichols, respectively, part one is here, part two here.

Hidden Freak, Part 3

A man lounged at the Gulfstream’s cramped kitchenette, shuffling a pack of cards between webbed fingers. A rainbow clown wig sat askew on his head, a half smoked Marlboro Red smoldered in a tin ashtray at his elbow.“Hello Robert.”

“How do you know my name?” blurted Bobby.

“It’s my business to know.” He flicked a card at Bobby, who caught it on reflex.“Not bad, Robert. You know, you could play basketball, if you really wanted. But you don’t want to.”

Bobby turned the card over.

DR. GIGGLES, ESQUIRE. MD PHD PHARSEE

– was scrawled over the joker’s face.

“My calling card,” said Dr. Giggles. “Ah, Cecil, I see you back there. Don’t be shy.”

Red-faced, Fix shouldered his way past Bobby. “Don’t nobody call me that.”

“Hmm,” said Dr. Giggles, setting aside his pack in favor of the cigarette butt.

“Where’s my card?”

“You don’t get one, Cecil. You’re not a freak. In fact, I’d venture to say you’re perfectly, completely, hideously normal.”

“Who you callin’ hideous, you frog-palmed weirdo?” Fix started forward, raising his fist. Bobby winced, but Dr. Giggles caught the punch in one of his webbed hands.

“And now, for my vanishing trick.”

Fix disappeared.

Dr. Giggles banged on the wall of the Gulfstream. “Send in the clowns!”

The forest outside echoed with laughter. A chainsaw roared to life, and the laughter redoubled.

Dr. Giggles pushed aside a frowsy curtain to peek out the trailer’s window. “What delight. I love a good laugh, don’t you?”

“What did you do with him?”

“Oh Robert, don’t fret over your miscreant friend.” Dr. Giggles snubbed out his butt. “I only gave him what he really wanted.”

“Fix only likes breaking stuff.”

“Precisely. He wants to break. Now, he is breaking.” He picked up his pack of cards and cut. “So, my seven-foot friend, would you like to see the show? More importantly, would you like to be the show? You can join us if you want. The wages are paltry, but I promise you this: No one will ever laugh at you again.” The cards made a ripping sound as he shuffled them. “We don’t tolerate that sort of foolery here.”

“I just want to be smaller,” stuttered Bobby.

“As small as your courage,” murmured Dr. Giggles, his eyes gleaming, “As small as your wit.”

“No,” cried Bobby. His skin crawled, itched, burned as he fumbled for the door handle. The lever would not give.

“Good luck, Robert Thumbkin,” said Dr. Giggles. “Enjoy your adventures, and remember I promise you this: As your soul grows, so shall you. And, to paraphrase a song about a far better man than I, if you ever wish to receive me, only say the word and I shall be there.”

The door swung open and Bobby bounded out of the Gulfstream, no longer needing to crouch, and ran through the forest. His shoes tripped and plopped right off his feet. His pants fell down, catching around his knees. Bobby kicked them off and kept going, his sweatshirt dipping down to cover his nakedness until it too slid off, the neck hole slipping down his belly. Shivering, Bobby looked for a burrow to hide in.

It was twilight, and the owls were waking.

Hidden Freak, Part 2

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This week we’re writing a Round Robin story. S.C. Green posted part 1 on Monday. Amy McLane will post the conclusion on Friday. For now, though, settle in for part 2 in our tale of circus weirdness…

Hidden Freak, Part 2

Fix reached the edge of the woods first. Bobby ducked beneath an elm branch and stopped beside him.

“Whatcha waiting for?” Bobby reached both hands up to grasp the branch and let his tall frame fall forward.

Fix said nothing. Just spit.

“Scared?” Bobby knew which button to push.

“I ain’t scared.” Fix’s bicep swelled as he squeezed his right hand into a fist. He sniffed and curled his lip like a gash. “Just looking for the right way in.”

Bobby kicked away a pine cone. “Uh-huh.” And he strode off toward the big top.

The fence surrounding the carnival was rickety at best. Easy pickings. The hardest part for Bobby would be to slip his height through unnoticed.

Fix followed him out from the cover of the woods, his steps scuffing the dirt faster to keep up. Neither spoke. Bobby kept his hands tucked in his pockets and felt his pulse knocking at his temple. Thinking and doing are two different things. But Bobby was determined in the doing.

The carnival hadn’t officially opened. Come dark, the place would swarm with the townspeople, curious to see anything outside the daily drudge of their dull lives. But now, midday on an otherwise sleepy Thursday, the grounds were all but quiet.

“Going through the front door, dumbass?”

Bobby hated when Fix took that tone. Same one he’d heard his whole life, teased and knocked around. So he didn’t answer. Just kept walking, listening to the wind rustling back in the woods and the occasional sound from the tents and trailers ahead.  When he got close enough, he rounded the chain link and headed toward the back. Later, the action would be inside the big tent, sure. But Bobby knew the trailers were the place to start. Bobby searched beyond the fence for signs they’d been seen or trouble to get into. Fix followed, marking his path with globs of rancid spit.

“There,” Fix said, and Bobby looked to where he pointed. The break in the chain link that would let them slip through. Disappointment twisted Bobby’s stomach. He wished he’d seen it first. He ducked his head beneath the chain and the other six feet of him followed. Fix had more trouble with his bulk. He masked his pain with indifference as the metal scraped his spine; but Bobby saw. Bobby knew.

Inside, they both stood rooted, looking. Listening. A line of road-worn trailers circled the back of the lot. Cheap, splintered siding and windows pocked with rock holes.

“Which one you think’s got the clowns?” Fix whispered. He cracked his knuckles real slow.

Bobby shook his head, his eyes trained toward the end of the line, on the shiny Gulfstream with the plaid curtains flapping out the windows. Clowns or freaks, he didn’t care. That trailer was the one that called him. Three wooden steps led to its metal door. He’d have to bend nearly in half to get through.

“Come on,” he whispered. He had no doubt Fix would follow.

To be continued…