by Debora Geary
“Mommy, where’s JoJo?” My little boy was standing in front of me, dressed in his dad’s cowboy hat, his sister’s dress, and my purple shoes. I was still sad for Alma, but I was happy she wasn’t around my children. I was happy my little boy could dress however he liked and my daughter could pick her nose. I retrieved JoJo from behind the chair. His face lit up and he cradled JoJo in his chubby, loving little arms.
I looked at my husband. “To Alma,” I finally said, holding up my water glass.
My husband held up his empty hand. “Goodbye, Alma.”
With a very serious face, our son turned to us and said, “To Alma and Pink Jo Bunnies in Hell.”
We laughed, and after a minute, I wiped some tears from my eyes.
Julie Christensen is the author of Murder Beyond Words, Searching for Meredith Love, and The Truth About Dating. She blogs at julielivingthedream.blogspot.com.
Wingman
By Nathan Lowell
Stacy Arellone sipped her drink, studying the mirror behind the bar.
“He’s still there, Jillian,” she said.
Jillian used one index finger to draw loops in the condensation rings. “So? You gonna go with him?” Jillian McAllister didn’t look over her shoulder.
“Pink snowbunnies will ski in hell first.”
“You’ve said that before.”
Stacy gave her friend a cold glare.
Jillian gave her a sideways grin in return. “He’s just sweet on you.”
“He’s a troll!”
Jillian lifted her glass and let a small ice cube slide onto her tongue while she considered the troll in question in the mirror. “I don’t know. I think he’s kinda cute.”
“He’s been chasin’ me across three systems. Every time I get off the ship, he’s there.”
“Can’t blame him for that, Stace. He doesn’t pick the ports. That’s home office’s doing.” She gave a small shrug.
“You’d think he’d take a hint, wouldn’t ya?”
“He’s leaving,” Jillian said.
Stacy looked up at the glass and saw the slender spacer heading for the door. He walked a bit crookedly, carrying the extra alcohol none too gracefully. As he stepped out of the bar, a scruffy-looking man in a stationer coverall levered himself off the bulkhead beside the door and followed.
Jillian stiffened. “Did you see—?”
Stacy’s glass snapped onto the bar and she headed for the door.
“Stacy!”
“See you at the ship, Jill.”
“But—”
Stacy turned the corner and headed down the passage, her eyes scanning the crowd. She caught a glimpse of the scruffy man. For a moment, she thought she’d been wrong, then a gap in the crowd revealed the half-drunk spacer stumbling along ahead.
“Hill, you idiot,” she muttered.
She picked up her pace, but the crowd clotted and blocked her path. When the way cleared, neither Hill nor Mr. Scruffy were in sight.
A small movement caught her eye, a door swinging shut. The sign read Stairs.
She pushed her way through a trio of chattering spacers and hit the door hard. It banged open.
Mr. Scruffy had his arm back, winding up for another punch to an already-bruised Spacer Brandon Hill. A squat, oily-looking guy in a stained coverall held Hill by the arms. They both started at the noise.
“Well, well, well,” Mr. Scruffy said. “Lookee what we got here, Orville.”
The squat man grinned. Stacy decided that it was not a good look for him.
“This isn’t your fight, girly,” Mr. Scruffy said. “Why don’t you go powder your nose or sumpthin.”
“You have my friend there,” Stacy said. “Why don’t you let him go?”
“Who? Him?” Mr. Scruffy smirked. “He didn’t seem like much of a friend back there in the bar. You and your lil gal-pal didn’t give him so much as the time of day.” He glanced behind her. “Where is she, anyway?” His beady eyes narrowed.
“Calling orbital security,” Stacy said, hoping it was true.
“Jimmy—” Orville looked a bit uneasy.
“Relax, Orville. She’s bluffing.” He looked at Hill and back at Stacy. “Still, she’s a better catch than this.” He gave Orville a sideways toss of his head. Orville released Hill, shoving him toward the stairwell.
Hill stumbled, grabbing for the railing. He missed, but fell to the deck without rolling down the stairs. Stacy darted forward. Mr. Scruffy grabbed her, his bony fingers digging into her upper arm and snapping her around to face him.
“What’s your hurry, girly?”
Hill clambered back to his hands and knees, crawling away from the edge, his eyes wide and his face already swelling and bruising from the blow to his cheek. “Stacy?”
“Skip it, Hill! Get out of here.”
Orville reached for her other arm, but before he could close, silvery steel flashed twice. “She cut me!” Orville squealed, slapping a meaty palm over the gash in his left shoulder. “Be careful, Jimmy. That kitty’s got claws!” Orville’s high-pitched voice rang in the hollow stairwell.
Stacy’s blade flashed again, but Jimmy was ready for her, blocking her wrist with his free hand while giving her a good shake with the other. “Uh uh, girly. Not nice.” His mouth twisted into a cruel sneer. For just a moment a look of puzzlement flashed across his face, before Stacy’s other arm, the one clamped in his grip at the bicep, flexed and her other knife buried itself in his unprotected side.
He screamed and released her, clamping his hands over the wound as he backed away.
“What’s going on in here?” a voice boomed.
Orville turned and clattered down the stairs, Mr. Scruffy right behind.
Stacy turned to see a pair of orbital security guards standing with the door propped open, a scared-looking Jillian McAllister peeking between them.
“Those two thugs were trying to roll my friend here,” Stacy said, giving a nod to where Hill still crouched on the landing.
“So you decided to carve them up?” The guard on the left frowned pointedly at the knives she still held.
“Self-defense. They wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
The sound of a brief scuffle echoed up the stairwell. The guard on the right cocked her head as if listening to something and gave her partner a nod.
He nodded back, then frowned at Stacy. “Get your friend and get out of here.”
“What about them?” Stacy jerked her head in the direction that the two thugs had gone. “What if we want to press charges?”
“You gonna stay for the hearing?”
Behind the guards, Jillian shook her head at Stacy, her eyes wide in alarm.
Stacy sighed. “Can’t.” Her blades left a dark smear on the leg of her pants as she wiped them before slipping them away.
She turned to Hill. “Come on. Let’s get you home.” She helped him to his feet, guiding him out between the two security guards.
The tall one stopped her. “Any more trouble, and you’ll be guests of the Confederated Planets for a while. Clear?”
“We didn’t start—” Stacy began, but the guard’s expression stopped her. “Clear.”
“Come on, Stacy.” Jillian took her arm and the three of them headed toward the lift.
Stacy glanced at Hill. “Bonehead play, Hill. Good way to get rolled.”
“I don’t need you to nursemaid me, Arellone,” he snarled. His swollen face spoiled the effect, but he pulled away from her, staggering a few steps toward the lift.
Jillian and Stacy watched him go.
“Come on. We better get back to the ship,” Stacy said.
“And keep an eye on him to make sure he gets home okay?” Jillian said, an amused lilt in her voice.
Stacy glared at her. “What are you finding so funny?”
Jillian gave an exaggerated shrug. “Oh, nothing.”
“Don’t start with me, McAllister.”
Jillian arched an eyebrow at the struggling spacer ahead of th
em. “You took off after him fast enough.”
“He was in trouble,” Stacy snapped.
“M’hmm.”
“He coulda gotten killed.”
“But he’s a—what was it? A troll who’s been chasing you all over the quadrant? What do you care?”
“I couldn’t let him get rolled. He’s a spacer like us.”
“M’hmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jillian grinned. “I’ve known you a long time, Stace.”
“And?”
“And I think I better wax my skis.”
Nathan Lowell is the creator of the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper and Tales from the Lammas Wood. Find out more about the author and his works at The Trader’s Diary http://solarclipper.com.
It Finally Happens…
By Heather Marie Adkins
Satan was busy weeding his potato patch when the first flake hit his nose.
Sitting back on his heels, he brushed off his hands and regarded the black hole pretending to be sky above him. Soft, delicate, white snowflakes began to fall furiously, coating his crimson body in minutes. He watched his lawn and white picket fence disappear under a blanket of snow.
His skin began to steam. Not from anger, however. Hellish demons had higher body temperatures and the weather was beginning to get quite cold. He scratched at his face absently, leaving a streak of black dirt across his cheek.
The surprise wasn’t all that great, really, he thought. People above had been speaking of Hell freezing over for years. It was only a matter of time before the Big Man made it happen. Out of spite. With his stupid sense of humor.
Next door, Hitler stepped through his obnoxiously loud screen door and squinted into the flurries. His requisite mug was in hand. It was black and bright red letters stated I’m a Dictator, Ask Me How! Satan had given it to him for Christmas.
“I’ll be damned,” Hitler said, sipping his coffee.
“What else is new?” Satan responded.
“This is going to kill my daisies,” the evil dictator whined, one fuzzy puppy slipper stamping on the cracked boards of his porch.
With a shrug, Satan gestured at his vegetable patch. Already, the peppers were wilting. They wouldn’t be sharing jalapeño poppers together this year.
When the pink snowbunnies began to appear, slowly gliding down the street on perfect pink skis with cute pink caps, Satan headed for the office.
The paperwork was going to be hell.
Heather Marie Adkins is the author of highly rated paranormal mystery “The Temple” as well as the recently released fantasy “Abigail.” Find her online at http://heather.bishoffs.com.
Careful What You Wish For
By Barbra Annino
I didn’t have to count the ducks to know that there were one million of them.
Eugene kept his head bent over so it wouldn’t punch through the ceiling of my antique shop, his hands clasped in front of his rippled chest like bent branches on an oak tree. He was frowning at the ocean of porcelain, plastic and rubber ducky knick-knacks. He put a finger to his lip just as it began to quiver.
I tried to reassure him, not so much for his sake as for the sake of the extremely delicate early American settee he was standing near. “They are lovely, Eugene, really.” I came around the display case and patted his elbow. That was as far up as I could reach.
“Oh, George,” he wailed, “I failed again. What will I do?”
Eugene’s pointy gold shoes scraped the floor as I led him away from the eighteenth-century furniture. His short vest waved with each shuffle. He let out a deep breath and I knew what was coming.
“Easy there, big guy, don’t get upset,” I said, a touch too late.
Eugene tossed his head back and let out a wail like a lion’s roar and then the floodgates opened. It was like watching Shaquille O’Neal cry. Most unsettling.
“Of course you wished for a million bucks. Who wants a million ducks?” He sniffled and wiped his nose juice on his bare arm. “I’ll never be a good genie. And there’s only one more chance!” He was bawling then. For some reason, he smelled like cinnamon when he cried.
“What do you mean? What will happen?” I asked, easing him onto an old Persian rug. I handed him a handkerchief.
Eugene looked at me and said, “I don’t know.” He glanced at the vessel that had introduced us, shook his head and blew his nose. “But I think it’s bad.”
I had met Eugene a couple months ago on a trip to India. I was purchasing some tapestries, bargaining with the vendor, and he threw in a vase as an incentive. I thought I was hallucinating when the vase started smoking and Eugene emerged, offering me a wish. Being a bachelor in the middle of the desert (and not truly believing he was a genie), I wished to be surrounded by gorgeous snowbunnies. What I got were evil little creatures on skis, teeth like razors, fur like cotton candy, and practiced in the art of jujitsu. Pink snowbunnies from hell. That’s what they were.
I’ve been saddled with Eugene ever since. Apparently a genie doesn’t move on until the job is complete. And that three-wish myth? That’s not for the wisher to overindulge, but rather so the genie has a chance to get one right. Why there isn’t a training program, I don’t know.
Upstairs in the apartment that night, Eugene was cooking shrimp curry as I confirmed his audiologist appointment. He had been tested for metal toxicity, dyslexia, and a sinus infection so far. We had to figure out why his brain wasn’t processing what his ears were hearing—and soon. There would be a lunar eclipse next month—the day of my last wish.
“You know, George,” Eugene said to me, his mighty arm tensing as he whipped the sauce. He was always cooking, always hungry. “It might not be so bad.” He stooped down to taste his work and slurped.
I hung up the phone and said, “Thursday at one p.m. with Dr. Franklin, Eugene.” I crossed to the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area. “What might not be so bad?”
“You and I as roomies.” He grinned wide, his dark, bald head contrasting with his bright white teeth like a yin-yang symbol.
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Why not?” He stomped his foot and it went through the floor. “Oops,” he said.
“You see, right there. That’s why not.” I ran around to peer down the hole. There were a few smashed ducks, but everything else seemed fine. I grabbed another twelve-inch board from the closet. “This apartment was made for human beings. Not genies the size of garbage trucks.”
I grabbed my toolbox from the closet and sifted through the nails. Eugene was standing maddeningly still, pouting.
I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Stop that.”
“Take it back.”
“Fine, I take it back. Please finish dinner before the sauce burns.”
A door opened downstairs and a voice said, “Hello, anybody here?”
“Didn’t you lock the door?” I asked Eugene.
He shrugged.
I sighed. “Be right down,” I called through the gaping hole.
The man standing in the shop was dressed in a suit I could never afford.
“This your shop?”
I nodded.
“Kitschy.”
“Looking for anything in particular?”
“I’m shooting a coming-of-age, fish-out-of-water film.” He removed his sunglasses, looked around. “I need props for an apartment scene where the—” He stopped, looked at Eugene’s vase. “What a gorgeous hookah.” He picked it up, spun it around in his hands. “It’s missing the pipe, but that can be replaced.”
He must have seen the confusion on my face because he said, “You know what this is, right?”
I shrugged.
He put his fingers to his lips like he was smoking marijuana. “It’s a water pipe, my friend. A bong.” He looked at me. “So how much?”
It hit me then, like an electric shock. “You know, I just remembered, I have an urgent appointment.” I ushered the man out t
he door saying, “Come back tomorrow and I’ll have put several items aside for you.”
“But I haven’t told you what the scene is.”
“Coming of age, fish out of water, got it. Goodnight.” I gave him a little shove, locked the door and rushed upstairs.
Eugene was digging into the curry with a fork in one hand and flatbread in the other. “I think I’ll turn in right after dinner. Did you leave a light on for me?” Eugene hated the dark.
“You’re not going to sleep in your vessel tonight. I’ll make up the guest room.”
He looked up from his plate. “But why?”
“Because,” I grabbed some sheets from the closet, “you aren’t sick, you aren’t bad at your job.” I tossed the sheets on the bed in the guest room and returned to the kitchen. “You, my giant friend, are stoned.”
***
Twenty-eight days later, on the night of the eclipse, I stood in front of a focused Eugene, ready to make my final wish.
“Do you think I’ll get it right this time, George?”
“Absolutely, Eugene.” Although I was taking no chances this time. We were on a quiet beach, the vessel between us.
He flashed a sheepish grin, a tiny tear in his eye. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too, big guy.”
He lunged at me, hugged me so tight my glasses popped off.
“Okay, buddy, that’s enough.” I took a deep breath, looked him in the eye. “I wish you success in all your wishes, Eugene.”
The giant genie contemplated this, then smiled, his gold tooth catching the sunlight. He bowed deeply and said, “As you wish.”
In a split second and a flash of purple smoke, he was gone.
Barbra Annino is the author of the Stacy Justice books, OPAL FIRE and BLOODSTONE—mysteries for your funny bone. Visit www.barbraannino.com for more information.
