Princess Charlotte And The Lake Dwellers

Princess Charlotte and the Lake Dwellers Written by Harry Jonathan Chong

Hello, Jell-O

Once upon a time in a land far away, was a race of proud people. They were conquerors who traveled from place to place. Their prosperity unsurpassed; they went about plundering and pillaging villages, without a thought, living off the fruits and labor of others. The Malgelions, as they were known, had access to the most powerful weapons. They had the best of the best of the best; the best swords, the best shields, the best boots from the butts of beasts who could not bear the burden of the overbearing barbarians. Nothing but the finest for the Malgelions, they took what they wanted and stole what they needed. But of course, one cannot go about living a life of hedonism without upsetting the locals. “Oh,” said Triskut the Mighty to his army, “we have done well. It is time to reward ourselves. Men, take what you will. Food, wine, women, it is yours. And for the women in the army, you may substitute the men for women. Let us go and ransack. The weak defenders of this village have vanquished under our mighty fists. It is ours for the taking!” As the men of Triskut’s army disperse, a haggardly lady appears. “Stop,” she commands with her big bumpy nose wiggling side to side, “you are not entitled to that which is not your own. You are not entitled to that which has not been created under the labor of your own hands. Leave this place and never come back or I will curse your people.” Triskut laughs. “Foolish woman! Do you think your silly words will hurt us! We are the Malgelions! Nobody and nothing can stop us, not even God himself! What makes you think that you have a chance!? Do you know Kung-fu?! Can you beat us up?! Because it looks like you cannot!” Salsburah, the haggardly lady, suddenly drops down into the splits. Her legs spread out and Triskut cries out. “Oh! Sweet Lord! You must be a hundred years old! How did you do that?!” With a smirk on her face, Salsburah stands to her feet. “I am a sorcerer,” she says. “And I also do Pilates and Jazzercise three times a week. It’s a new thing. Not many people know about it.” The men are dumbfounded, not sure if they should run or stay and stand strong. “I am impressed,” remarks Triskut, “but that says nothing of your skills as a sorcerer, now does it? Plus, I got more skills than that. Watch this, you hag.” Triskut gets onto his head and starts spinning around like a top. When he stops and stands, the men are in an uproar. “Aw yeeeah,” a soldier is heard remarking. But Salsburah the Sorcerer is not impressed. She places her hands on the ground and starts flaring her legs around. She finishes her move and crosses her arms in a bad ass pose. The men stamp their feet on the ground in excitement. “You got owned!” says one of them. “What do you mean I got ‘owned’?!” replies Triskut angrily. “I am not a slave!” As Salsburah smiles, knowing that she won, she is suddenly manhandled by a pair of burly females. “What are you doing?!” she cries. Her arms are held and her mouth covered. Triskut points. “Take her away!” he says. “I will not be embarrassed by this old hag! Throw her into the town dungeon! Take away all her newtons and bristlewort! Do not let her cast a spell!”

Escape the Dungeon Salsburah sits quietly in her dungeon. She’s huddled in the corner, hugging her knees in despair. “Stop hugging your knees in there!” yells the guard by the door. “It’s making me depressed! I lose my appetite when depressed!” Salsburah stands ands look out the window, gripping her hands around the bars. She stares at Triskut and his men, fishing on the lake. They laugh in a drunken stupor, tossing fish into their boats like candy. “Look at those gluttons,” says Salsburah with ire. “If only I had my magic ingredients and spell book, I’d turn them all into the things they caught. But alas, I am stuck in this cold, dark dungeon. It smells in here, too. Guard! Will you stop farting?! Lay off the beans!” The guard sticks up his middle finger. “I will do whatever I want,” he says. “You can’t stop me. I can eat all the beans I want! In fact, I think I will go on an all bean diet! I will have lima beans for breakfast, jumping beans for lunch, kidney beans for dinner, and jelly beans for dessert! What say you to that, old hag sorcerer?!” A blonde girl in a hooded red robe appears outside the dungeon. “Hello,” she says, “to the guard. I have come to see my nana.” The guard looks at the cake she is holding in her hands. “Is that a cake?” he asks. “Yes,” replies the blonde girl. “It is. It’s layered with lemon custard and chocolate shavings. It’s for my nana. She has a bit of a sweet tooth. Not that her tooth is actually sweet, it means she likes to eat sweet things. Just for your information, some people don’t know.” The guard nods. “Yes. I am aware.” “Give the cake to my nana,” says the blonde. The guard licks his lips and takes the cake. The girl leaves. Her robe sways to and fro before she disappears. “Is that cake for me?” asks Salsburah from in her cell. “Shut up!” yells the guard. “No cake for you! This cake is mine!” Salsburah sticks her head through the bars on the door and looks at the guard. “What?” he says. “You want to watch me eat this scrumptious cake?! Well, well, be my guest. But don’t you judge me! I have a glandular problem.” The guard plunges his face into the cake and eats like a pig. His belly pops out, full of bakery goodness. “My God,” remarks Salsburah, “you ate the whole thing! What is wrong with you?! Don’t you even know how many calories are in a single slice?! It’s like 500 calories!” The guard burps. “Excuse me,” he says, “but when did you turn into Dr. Ho?” Salsburah rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she replies, “do whatever you want. But don’t come crying to me when you are three hundred pounds!” The button on the guard’s shirt pops off. He stands up and yawns...then drops to the ground. Thud! “Yes!” cries Salsburah. “Now I can escape from this godforsaken dungeon! That granddaughter of mine is genius! She put sleeping powder into the cake!” The guard’s mouth opens. A metal file falls out. “Oh my God!” says Salsburah. “No! She is not a genius! The guard just choked to death on the file! Ah, that poor stupid idiot. Well, at least he died on a full stomach.” Salsburah starts to think aloud in her head. “How do I get out?” she says. “The guard is knocked out. It should be no problem, right? I can make all the racket I want. Okay, think Salsburah. What would Jesus do?” A rat suddenly appears in the corner of the dungeon cell. It stands on two of its feet like a human. “Hey,

lady,” it says while brushing its fur. “You want out of this place?” Salsburah spins around. “A talking rat! I thought only mice could speak!” “Mickey Mouse isn’t real,” says the rat. “Stop living in fantasy land.” Salsburah nods. “Yes. You’re right. So what are you doing here? Are you going to help free me? Who sent you?” The rat scratches his chin with his hind leg. “Nobody sent me,” he replies. “I’m here on my own merits. Since you’re stuck in here, I’ve decided to use this as an opportunity. I want you to turn my back into a human.” Salsburah winces. “Ugh! I don’t have to kiss you on the lips, do I?!” The rat folds his army defensively. “Well,” he says, “if that’s the way you feel, maybe I should just leave.” “No,” says Salsburah. “I’ll do it if I must. But only if I must.” The rat lowers down. “You don’t need to kiss me,” he says. “Your granddaughter does. You know that hot young thing in the little red riding hood getup?” Salsburah lowers down, staring the rat directly in the eyes. “You want my granddaughter to kiss you?! Ha! Not likely! She’s picky! She doesn’t date rats!” The rat shows his two front teeth in anger. “You want out of here?!” he screeches. “Baby, I’m your only way out! The other guards are going to find their buddy, and it’s off with your head! Your magic ain’t gonna save you this time! You’re magicless! They took away all your fancy gadgets! And even if you could remember a spell, this place is a magic free zone! You’re screwed!” “I am not screwed,” says Salsburah. She lowers down and sticks out her hand like a platform. “Get on. We’re going to get out of here.” The rat gets onto Salsburah’s hand. She lifts him to the bars of the door. He slips through and lands on the guard’s stool. He hops down and grabs the ring of keys with his teeth. “Damn,” it he says while looking up, “I never thought this all the way through. How am I going to get these up there?” Salsburah tears a piece of her clothing and lowers it down like a rope. The rat grabs on and is hoisted up. Salsburah takes the keys with a “thank you.” She unlocks the door and escapes her cell. The rat follows her as she tiptoes through the hallway. “So,” says the rat, “you’re a pretty powerful sorcerer, huh? Can you do card tricks? I find that people who can do real magic, can’t do fake magic. It’s kind of ironic if you ask me.” “Shhh,” says Salsburah with a finger on her nose. “They’ll hear you.” Guards can be heard walking back and forth. Their heavy footsteps echo through the dungeon halls. “Damn,” remarks the Rat, “this place is fortified like a multivitamin. I don’t think we’ll be able to escape. Well, I will. But that means I’ll stay a rat.” Salsburah pinches her chin, trying to recall a spell that might be useful. “I have an idea,” she says. “I know a spell. It’s called the master’s illusion. It will temporarily transform you into a tiger. Are you up for it?” “Heck,” says the Rat, “I’ll be a dog if you want. Anything’s better than this.” Salsburah puts her arms aloft. She twirls around and speaks in an unknown language. The Rat’s body starts to grow. His skin stretches out and he turns into a sword. “What is this?!” the Rat screams. “I’m not a tiger! I’m a sword! I can’t even move! All I can do is shine! How is shining going to help us?!” Salsburah apologizes. “I’m sorry. I have trouble doing spells without my book. I have a bad memory.”

The Rat tries to move, but his metallic body just trembles. “This sucks,” he says. “I’d rather be a flower. At least chicks would pick me and sniff at my petals.” Salsburah picks up the Rat in his sword form. She twirls him around. “Stop doing that!” screams the Rat. “I’m getting dizzy! Yeesh! Have some consideration!” Salsburah jogs ahead. Two guards are lying on the ground, playing dice. “Snake eyes!” says one of them. “You lose!” The Rat shakes. “Look at those lazy pigs! What are they doing?! Hello! Do your job! Ugh! Union workers! Unbelievable!” Salsburah rushes forward. She lops off the first guard’s head; then stabs the other through the back. They both die instantaneously. The Rat screams. “What the! Yuck! Yuck! I got blood all over me! I’m going to get an STD or something!” Salsburah squeezes the Rat by clenching her hands tighter around the sword handle. “Quiet,” she says, “stop being a hypochondriac.” Salsburah goes through a door and sneaks through several hallways. It seems like she’s lost. “Do you know where you’re going?” asks the Rat. Salsburah admits that she doesn’t. “They blind folded me when I was captured. I’m lost like a man on a road trip who can’t ask for directions...seriously, how can you not ask for directions? Who does that? I mean, if you don’t know where to take your horse and carriage, why not query a local?” “If I was a rat,” says the Rat, “I could probably sniff my way out of here. Too bad somebody sucks at spells.” Salsburah rotates around, looking at the grey dungeon walls. She has an epiphany. Her head tilts back. “There isn’t an escape left, right, back and forward!” she exclaims. “We have to go up! We’re underground!” The Rat breathes a sigh of relief, in as much as a rat who’s been transformed into a sword can. “Man, I thought I was going insane,” he says. “I felt like I was in a maze. Hmm, why is that so familiar?” Salsburah drags the Rat along the ground as she searches with her eyes looking up. His pointed sword head scrapes against the stone tiles. “Ouch!” he complains, “I’m not a real sword! Have some courtesy, sorcerer!” Salsburah stops when she finds a hatch. “How are we going to get up there?” she asks. She searches around and finds a wooden ladder. She takes it and props it under the hatch. She climbs up and twists open the hatch. A breeze blows into the dungeon, letting in fresh air. “That smells so good,” says the Rat. “Hey! I can smell!” The Rat has turned back into a rat. He scurries onto the dusty ground and runs in a circle with excitement. Salsburah lifts herself out. But the escape is far from over. She and the Rat are still contained. They are within a barrack; surrounded by tall wood fences, created to keep out intruders. “Damn,” says the Rat, “out of the fire and into the frying pan.” A horse is heard neighing in the nearby distance. Salsburah and the Rat turn and follow the sound. “This horse should make our escape easier,” says Salsburah. “If we can get through the gates, we might make it to freedom.” The Rat gets onto the back of the horse. Salsburah tries to get on, but she is too small and frail. “I can’t get on,” she says. “It’s too hard.” The Rat is annoyed. “You can chop of a head or two, but you can’t get on a stupid horse?!” “I’m not stupid!” says the horse. The Rat jumps in surprise. “Man! What’s wrong with you?! I didn’t know you could talk! You should’ve said something when I climbed onto your butt!” The horse lowers down for Salsburah. She gets on. “I want to escape, too,” he laments. “Can you get me out of here as well?”

Salsburah thinks aloud. “I don’t know if I can change you back into a human,” she says. “Every curse and spell is different. ‘The Rat spell’ I know. Horses, not so much.” The horse neighs. “I’m not a human,” he says. “I’m just a horse who can talk. Anyway, who wants to be a human? I can’t imagine walking around on two legs all day long. How tiresome.” “Don’t knock it ‘till you tried it,” says the Rat. Salsburah grabs on to the horse’s reins. “Anybody have a plan?” The horse starts moving. “What are you doing?!” exclaims the Rat. “We haven’t come up with a plan yet! Escaping is like a business, y’know! You gotta plan it out!” The horse ignores the rat. He takes him and Salsburah to a shed. “In there. You should find weapons. It will help us escape.” The Rat balks. “No way,” he says. “One decapitation and a back stab is enough for one day!” “What are you talking about?” asks the horse. The Rat recants. “Nothing,” he says. “Never mind. I’m just running my mouth.” Salsburah goes into the shed. There is a wall lined with dozens of old timey weapons: swords, daggers, bow and arrows, maces, whips etc. They are in pristine condition, clean and perfectly polished; unused. With her arms up, Salsburah grabs the whip. She gets back onto the horse. The Rat squeaks. “What the?! Why did you take a whip?! That’s for beating slaves and jesters who tell bad jokes! That ain’t gonna get us out of here!” Salsburah holds on to her whip and the reins. The horse takes her and the rat to the front where there is a tall gate. There is a guard in a watchtower. He is looking out, away from the trio, standing beside a lever. “See that lever,” says the Horse. “It opens the gate. You have to pull on that to leave.” With all her strength, Salsburah stands on the horse and balances herself. She cracks the whip around the lever. The guard turns around to the noise, but he’s too late, it’s already pulled. The gate starts to rise, the gears are in motion and the lever cannot be reversed. “Aw nuts,” says the guard as Salsburah, the Rat, and the Horse run out. “I’m definitely not going to get a pay raise now.” The Horse suddenly rears back, nearly tossing off Salsburah and the Rat. “Crap!” he says as his wide-field vision sees Triskut’s approaching army in the distance, returning from a ransacking. “We’re dooooomed! I’m horsemeat! I’ll be put into Mr. Campbell’s pot of soup for flavoring!” “Relax,” says the Rat, “I know these idiots. They’re superstitious.” Salsburah squints. “What does that have to do with anything?” The Rat jumps off the horse. “It’s bad luck,” he says, “to see a black rat after a battle or a raid. If you do see one, you have to walk backwards and retrace your steps. Weird, I know. But I think it might work.” Salsburah nods. “Alright,” she says, “you try it. We’ll stay back here.” The Rat scampers away. He stops in front of Triskut and his men. “Egads!” cries one of Triskut’s men. “Is that a black rat?!” Triskut rubs his beard. “It appears it is,” he says. The men put up their shields. “What shall we do?!” asks the husky looking soldier in front. “Must we walk backwards and return to from where we came?!” Triskut withdraws his sword and points it at the Rat. “I grow wary of all these superstitions and rules. I say we make up our own. Let’s kill the rat and make him into a burrito!”

The Rat starts to run, zigzagging like he’s hopped-up on caffeine. He scurries toward Salsburah and the Horse as arrows follow close behind. He grabs onto the horse’s tail and yells in a squeaky voice for them to flea. “Where do we go?!” asks the horse in motion. Salsburah sniffs the air and points west. “Go west!” she says. “I can smell the pines of the forest! We’ll lose them in the foliage!” The Rat climbs up the Horse’s tail and grabs on to the back of Salsburah’s robe. He tucks his chin down, trying to keep from falling, fighting against the wind. Salsburah, the Horse, and the Rat reach the forest. They linger in front. There is an opening before them, which leads to a long winding trail. “Well,” says the Rat. “What are you waiting for?! Let’s go in! The Malgelion’s are right on our tails! Well, not you, sorcerer. You don’t have one.” A trumpet sounds as Triskut leads his army. The soldiers are getting closer. Salsburah racks her brain, trying to decide what to do. “What’s your decision?” asks the Horse. “Alright,” replies Salsburah, “we will go into the haunted forest.” The Rat’s fur bristles. He puts his paws over his eyes. He is well aware of the tales about the haunted forest; the men and women who go in, only to never return…or return without a head. The Horse takes Salsburah and the Rat into the forest. They disappear into the darkness. Triskut and his men arrive, but decide to end their pursuit. “Turn back,” says Triskut. “I’m afraid of the dark. I mean! It’s more trouble than its worth! Let’s go!” They reverse course and leave. “I’m scared,” says the Rat. “I’m too pretty to die.” Salsburah holds on to the Horse’s neck, slightly quivering. “Quiet,” she says, “you’re frightening the horse.” The Horse swings his head from side to side, getting a better view of what lies down the trail. “I’m not frightened,” he says. “I’ve been in numerous wars and battles. I’ve seen soldiers impaled on spikes. I’ve seen men walking around with their half heads missing. I’ve seen entire families burned alive. A ghost could not scare me. It is only man which I fear.” “I think you’d be afraid of a ghost if you saw one,” says the Rat. “You’re just acting brave. Stop acting brave, you phony!” The horse sticks his nose into the air. “I will not be accused with inflammatory remarks,” he says. “If you want to call me a liar, then you should walk on your own. I am brave and courageous. I fought with the best. I am a hero amongst horses. I…” A ghost suddenly appears. “Boo!” it shouts as it floats in the air with its pale blue translucent body. The Horse neighs and rears back, dropping the Rat and Salsburah to the ground. “My back!” cries Salsburah. “My back, too!” says the Rat. The Horse slowly backs away as the Ghost creeps toward him. “Get away from me,” he says. “I’ll tear you to pieces like a bale of hay!” “Don’t be afraid of me,” says the Ghost. “I’m friendly, like that other ghost. What’s his name? Jasper the Friendly Ghost. You know him. He’s that little dead boy who died from typhoid. Or was that a typhoon?” Salsburah and the Rat get up. Salsburah takes the Horse by the reins, keeping him from galloping away. “What’s your name?” asks Salsburah. “And why are you haunting us like the paparazzi?” The Ghost bows. “My name is Christian,” he says. “It’s a bit of a misnomer. I’m not actually Christian. I’m a Mayantologist. You might have heard of it. All the celebrities are in it: Ron Trabolta, Thomas Cruz, Izak Heys. A lot of really cool people.”

“That’s a cult,” says the Rat. “You know that? It’s a pyramid scheme. They’re trying to get your money. How many gold coins did your membership cost, huh?” Christian looks upset. The color of his ghostly body changes from pale blue to red. “You don’t know anything about my religion!” he shouts. “You’re ignorant! That’s what you are! And you know what?! You’re probably going to be the first one killed in the rapture!” The Rat folds his arms. “That’s a load of bullocks,” he says. “You really think the world is going to end in 2012? Anyway, that’s like half a thousand years away. I’ll be dead by then. It won’t even matter.” “Stop arguing,” says Salsburah. “Ghost. Christian. Can you get us through here safely? I must visit my granddaughter. Her name is Louetta.” Christian smiles. “You’re her grandmother? Wow. I would’ve never thought. She is a total babe.” Salsburah screams. “What is wrong with you men?! There’s more to a woman than just her ‘assets.’ Did you know that she’s a dilettante? A lover of literature and fine arts? Yeah. That’s right. These things called females actually have a personality. But what would you know about that?! Men!” “I’m a horse,” says the Horse. “I eat hay, I ride around, and I mount anybody within ten feet. I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I think we should get out of here. The sun is going down. The vampires will appear.” Christian floats up and looks at the sun as it recedes from the sky. The Rat scratches his head. “Vampires?” he says. “Those don’t exist. They’re fictional. Ghosts and talking animals, I can believe. But that’s a little too much for me.” Salsburah climbs onto the Horse. “Get on Rat and stop being a jackass.” The Rat scowls. “Childish name calling! Now that I do not believe!” He reluctantly gets back onto the Horse. Christian guides Salsburah and the others. They stick close together as they travel along the trail. The Horse keeps his head down, becoming unnerved as the day turns into night. “Are there really vampires in this forest?” he asks. Christian spins the air. “Yeah,” he says, “this is a haunted forest after all. There are all sorts of creatures and monsters here. It’s sort of a last refuge for them. I don’t know if they’re harmless though, but the humans are always hunting them down. One day they may not be around.” “I don’t care about that,” says the Rat. “I wanna know if I’ll be around. I could give less than two damns about a vampire. Blood drinkers! Yuck! I’d rather have a wheel of cheese! And it’s not because I’m a rat neither, I used to like it well before I was transformed. Have you ever had melted mozzarella on tomato sauce and bread? Deeelicious! Mwah! You have to try it.” Christian sticks his arm through his gut. “I would,” he says, “but unfortunately, I have no stomach.” The Rat licks his lips thinking about food. “You’re missing out. Hey, maybe the sorcerer knows a spell.” “I’m also called a sorceress,” says Salsburah. “And no, I don’t know how to change ghosts back into the flesh. It’s beyond me.” Christian frowns. “What I would give to be alive again,” he says. “Life is so, er, death is so boring. I’m not sure why I haven’t gone to the other side. I think I was supposed to do something but forgot. I can’t remember though. My memory keeps fading. As more time goes on, my past gets hazier. I barely remember my name. I had to write on trees so I wouldn’t forget.” “That’s sad,” says the Rat. “You must lose your house keys a lot. Ha-ha-ha! But I guess it doesn’t matter, you can just go through the walls!” The Horse bucks

and flips the Rat upside down. “Mind your manners,” he says. “Your insolence is not an endearing quality.” The Rat gets back onto all fours. “Ah,” he says, “what do you know about anything? When I was a human I got all the ladies. They like jerks, y’know. Not sure why. I guess nice guys are pussy…cats. And who wants a cat when they could have a lion? Am I right?” The group suddenly stops. There is a fork in the trail, two ways to go, leading in completely opposite directions. There is a signpost up ahead, but the words are washed off. Nobody has been here in a very long time. Christian rises above the trees and looks, but the dark does not give any clues as to where to go. The crescent lune casts little light. “Well?” asks Salsburah. “Left or right?” Christian floats back down. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t remember. Anybody have a coin?” The Rat rises on his hind legs and yells. “You want us to flip a coin to tell us where to go?! Do you know how asinine that sounds?!” “Okay,” says the Horse, “how about rock, paper, scissors?” Salsburah and Christian face each other. They ball their hands into fists. “If I win,” says Christian, “we go left. If you win we go right. Okay?” The two put pump their arms. Christian makes a rock. He smashes Salsburah’s scissors with a grin. “Ack,” says Salsburah, “why do I always have to choose scissors?” The group starts to move forward, veering to the left. “The ground feels funny,” says the Horse as he steps along the ground, making crunching noises. “It sounds like I’m stepping on leaves, but it isn’t the season of fall. All the leaves are still on the trees.” Salsburah wets her lips with her pointed tongue. “I will cast a lighting spell,” she says. “If my memory serves me right, I should be able to shed some light on the situation. No pun intended.” Salsburah puts her right arm aloft and spreads out her fingers. She mumbles a few words. A glowing orb appears in her palm. “I did it!” she cries as she lowers it down. “I’ve still got the touch!” The ground is lit a yellowy green. The Rat looks down. “Oh,” he says without alarm, “there are spiders crawling all over the ground. Whaddaya know. That’s what’s making that funny sound.” The Horse looks. His eyes open wide. He neighs and starts bolting like mad. “Slow down!” says Christian. “You’re going to toss the Rat and the old lady!” The Horse runs without relent. His fear has overtaken him and he’s in a mad dash to escape. “I’m getting sick,” says the Rat. Then he throws up to the side. Salsburah squeezes the reins, trying to get the Horse to stop. But in a state of panic, he is only able to stutter the words: “I hate spiders! I hate spiders! I hate spiders!” After twenty minutes, what seemed an eternity, the Horse tires himself out. He gasps for air and lets his legs collapse. Salsburah and the Rat get off as he falls to his side. “Are they gone?” asks the Horse. “Are those vile creatures gone?” Christian spins himself around. “Yes,” he says, “we are now in an arachnid free zone.” The Rat preens himself, brushing back the dark fur on his head. “I don’t know what you got all jumpy about, Horse, but you should learn to keep your cool. One of these days it’s going to bite you in the ass.” Salsburah pulls the side of her eyes to sharpen her vision. She looks around and sees something across the swamp; dozens of red glowing eyes. “Guys,” says Salsburah as she stumbles back, “I think it’s time to leave. Get up, Horse. Get up!” The Horse yawns. “What’s the rush?” Christian and the Rat see the eyes, too. As

they stare, figures begin emerging from the shadows. The Horse stands. His eyes fixate on the half-human creatures; their pointy ears, their fangs, their flickering tongues. Salsburah scoops up the Rat and gets onto the Horse. She taps her legs on his side, beckoning him to go. But as the Horse leaps forward to run, he trips over a branch and snaps his ankle. “Ow!” he says with a whine. “I can’t run! Augh! I’m horsemeat! Save yourselves!” “The swamp is blocking the vampires,” says Christian. “They shouldn’t be able to reach us.” The vampires put their feet onto the swamp water. They stagger forward, floating across the surface with their arms out in front of them. “I could be wrong,” Christian corrects himself. Salsburah takes a wide stands and crosses her index fingers into an X. “I will banish them back to hell!” she says. “They won’t know what hit them!” Everyone watches with anticipation. Salsburah concentrates. Her fingers start to spark. A small piece of lit tinder falls to the ground. “It that it?!” says the Rat. “That’s your big attack?! A flaming lump of coal?!” The Horse hobbles to the tinder. He kicks it with his hind legs and launches it into the swamp. “Take that you bloody vamps!” The swamp suddenly bursts into flames. The vampires find themselves engulfed in fire. They scream as their bodies turn to ash. The Rat sniffs the air. “Mm,” he says, “it smells like roast pork!” Salsburah has a smug look of satisfaction on her face. “See,” she says to everyone, “you thought it wouldn’t work out. But I knew what I was doing all along. The swamp had gas in it.” Christian knows Salsburah made a fluke, but he lets her have her moment. “Let’s continue on,” he says. “We should be safe now.” The group slowly carries on. The Rat sits atop Salsburah’s shoulder while she carefully pulls along the Horse. Several hours go by. As they warily shuffled their feet, their eyes turn and spot a lonesome cottage. Against the forest’s dark green, it looks warm and inviting. There is a candle lit in the window. “Oh boy,” says the Rat, “let’s get something to eat!” Salsburah is cautious. She stands close the Horse. Christian knocks on the door. A man with a long beard and glasses answers. “Hello,” he says, “how may I help you?” Memories start returning to Christian. He remembers why he lingered after death. He wanted to say goodbye to his father, the very man standing in front of him. “Dad!” cries Christian. “It’s me! Remember, your son?! I died when we were cutting wood! A tree fell onto me! Do you remember?!” Christian’s Dad, Christopher, rubs his eyes in disbelief. “Christian?” is that you he says. “Why! I haven’t seen you in so long! Where have you been?” Christopher seems oblivious; his old mind sour, unable to comprehend the situation. “I’m a ghost!” yells Christian. “Do you not understand? I’m the ectoplasm of my former-self! Dad! Look at me! I have to tell you something.” Christopher invites everyone inside. “First,” he says, “let’s have some tea. Bring in that fine looking horse as well. He should fit.” The group goes into the cottage. They sit around a warm fire and a round table made of wood. Christian floats to the mantel and looks at the pictures of him as a child, his father, and his mother. “Did mom ever return?” asks Christian. Christopher pours everyone hot tea and hands them fresh butter biscuits. “No,” he says, “your mother left with another man. She didn’t want to live in a place with boogiemen. Personally, I say

it’s a fine living; living off the land and meeting such interesting folks. The vampires by the swamp are particularly friendly. Although they prefer not to be called that.” The group retches up their biscuits with guilt. “Is something the matter?” asks Christopher. “I’m sorry. I think I added too much sugar in my recipe.” The Horse nods his head and gives a broad phony smile. “No,” he says. “We’re fine. We’re just overwhelmed by your hospitality.” Christopher stands and tries to put his arm around Christian, but it falls through his body. “My boy,” he says, “don’t look at those pictures with watery eyes. Your mother and I weren’t meant to be. That’s all. We’re philosophically different.” “Where is she?” asks Christian. “I want to say goodbye.” Christopher thinks. “Last I heard,” he recalls, “she was having relations with an army man. A fellow named Triskut. Apparently he’s a suave character. She met him in the formative years when he was a mail carrier. Ah, who would think a man like that could grow into a famous King. I’d say she lucked out.” The group suddenly becomes filled with ire. The Rat gnaws on his biscuit with voracity. “Who could fall in love with a man like that?!” he asks angrily. “He had a wizard turn me into a rat for stealing a loaf of bread! I was starving to death!” The Horse stamps his hoof on the floor. “And he used to flog me everyday, for no reason at all! But you know what really boils my blood? He named my best friend as consul! That dummy wasn’t even qualified for the position!” “I gather you all hate this Triskut,” says Christopher. “I can see why, but are you sure it’s not because of jealousy? He is a king you know, and sometimes hate can be confused with envy.” Salsburah gnashes her teeth together. “It is not jealous,” she says. “Triskut is an evil, greedy man. He is killing innocent people and destroying the land. He must be stopped. But who is powerful enough to squelch his tirades and thirst for power? His wizard and sorcerers are the most powerful in the new world. Not even I can defend against them.” “Forget about it,” says Christopher. “Don’t risk your lives for vengeance. Violence only begets violence.” Salsburah narrows her eyes. “That,” she says,” is why I will not be violent.” The Rat is confused. “How can you defeat Triskut and the Malgelions,” he asks, “if you don’t use force?” The flame in the fireplace suddenly dies out. The group sits in the dark. The Horse gives a low, nervous neigh. “I will do what they did to me,” says Salsburah. “And I will not only punish Triskut and the Malgelions, but I will punish their children, and the children born from those children. Every one of them will suffer, even the children’s children’s children’s children’s children.” “Jeez, how many generations is that?” asks the Rat. “Don’t you think you’re going a little too far? And remember, this is the Rat speaking. I gave people the plague. Not on purpose, but it’s still a dick move.” Christian sighs with a drooped head. As he broods, the sun starts to rise. Its orange-yellow rays seep through the windows, bouncing off the polished floors, scattering the light. The group stands up from the table, not wanting to overstay their welcome. “Thank you for the tea and biscuits,” says Salsburah on everyone’s behalf. “We had a lovely time.” Christopher nods. “Thank you.” Christian feels the warmth of the sun through his ghostly body. He rises through the cottage and looks over the forest. He can see all the way to the end of the trail. “Christian,” says Christopher with his head

tilted up, “isn’t there something you wanted to tell me?” Christian floats back down into the cottage, returning with a face of anger. “It will have to wait,” he says. “Father, it will have to wait.” Livid Village The group steps out from the forest. “Here it is,” says Christian. Salsburah’s jaw drops. She sweeps her head back and forth. Her once quaint village is in complete shambles. People are in front of their broken homes, on their knees on the cracked cobblestone roads, mourning over dead bodies. “Oh,” they cry to their lost loved ones, “oh, oh, oh, how I miss you!” “What happened here?” asks Christian to the young lady leaned on her bloodied husband. She doesn’t respond. “What’s the matter with her?” says the Rat. “Don’t she got any manners?” The Horse replies with a neigh. There is a bandage around his ankle. “Not everyone can see ghosts, or for that matter, hear the voice of animals. You have to be special. Heck! If we could talk, do you think they’d ride or eat us?” Salsburah lowers her head to the young lady and looks in her eyes. “What has happened?” she asks. The young lady cries uncontrollably, tears pours down her face like a river. “Triskut and his men became angry when one of his prisoners escaped,” she says. “He went crazy and FUBARed the lot of us!” Salsburah tugs on the collar of her robe. “That’s a shame,” she says with mixed feelings of anger, confusion, and guilt. “I’m sorry about your loss. If you need anything, let me know.” The young lady stops crying. “Well,” she says, “I could go for a hot meal. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.” Salsburah clears her throat and recants. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I was just being metaphoric. I didn’t really mean ‘anything.’ I was only trying to convey my empathy, which I do have, but not in the form of a hot meal. Again, I’m sorry. You’ll have to visit a JackDonald’s or something. There’s one down the road, you know. They serve breakfast ‘till twelve. I think it’s past twelve, actually. Maybe you can get some fries. Best in the new world I hear.” The young lady rubs her eyes and cries even more than before. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” says the Rat. The group reluctantly leaves; they continue traveling through the village, trying to avoid the pestilence and loud constant sound of wailing. “My ears hurt,” says the Horse. “It’s like I got fly stuck inside my head.” Salsburah pats the Horse. “Never mind, we are soon to arrive at my house.” Christian puts his arms behind his head and floats on his back like he’s relaxing in a pool. “I don’t know why people are so down on death,” he says. “I mean, being a ghost isn’t that great. But there are some benefits. Oh, the things I’ve seen.” “What things have you seen?” says the Rat. “I once saw the king shtooping the cook,” says Christian. “And the cook is a man. I think he’s one of those people, what do they call ‘em, bicentennial.” The Rat makes a retching sound. “That’s disgusting,” he says. “I bet they didn’t even use condominiums.” Salsburah sticks out her tongue in disgust. But before she can say anything, Christian exclaims. “We’re here!” He points to the house painted rose-red. “That’s your house, isn’t?”

he asks. “I’m certain it is. It’s exactly as you described; a rose-red roof with a leafgreen fence and toad statues on a mossy lawn with molehills.” Salsburah unlatches the gate to her home. She swings it open and takes everyone to the front. She searches around, looking under flowerpots and rocks. “What’s the matter?” says the Rat. “You lost your keys or your marbles?” Christian goes through the house. On the other side, he stares at the door lock and concentrates with fingers on his temple. “Move!” he says. “Move!” The door opens. Salsburah and the others enter. “I didn’t know you could do that,” says the Horse. “You’re a talking horse,” says the Rat. “I don’t see why you’re surprised.” “Louetta!” yells Salsburah. “Are you in here? Nana is home! She wants to thank you for that cake! Come out from hiding now! It is safe!” The Rat runs into the kitchen. “I’ll be back!” he says. “I’m just going to grab something to eat.” The Horse sits down and yawns. He closes his eyes to rest. Christian waits in the living room while Salsburah peruses her home. She goes into the bedroom where Louetta should be staying. She sees her granddaughter’s red robe sitting on the bed. Salsburah hobbles forward and picks it up. Hanging it on her crooked finger, she sniffs it like a flower. “Somebody else is here.” A footstep is heard from above. Salsburah takes the bed and pushes it to the side. She climbs on top and tillers her head back, looking at the square door to the attic. Her hand goes up and pushes it open. Salsburah jumps on the bed and launches herself into the attic. In the corner of the room is Louetta tied halfnaked to a chair. Behind her is one of Triskut’s soldiers with a salacious look on his face. There’s sweat all over his fat, hairy body. “Nana!” cries Louetta. “What did you do to my granddaughter?!” yells Salsburah. The hairy soldier giggles. His body jiggles. “I’m just having some fun,” he says. “Wanna watch? It’s rated ‘R’ though.” “I’ve seen enough!” says Salsburah in a twisted stance. “Prepare yourself to be damaged!” The hairy soldier places a sword on Louetta’s neck. “Go ahead,” he says, “try your magic, witch. Let’s see which is faster.” Salsburah drops her arms her side and waggles her fingers like she’s going to get into a gunfight, like she’s going to grab her gun. The soldier stares. His eyes narrow and glare with anticipation. The air becomes thick and stale. Salsburah’s arm twitches with electricity. Then she suddenly throws a lightning bolt. But it misses and goes over the head of the hairy soldier. He runs the blade of his sword across Louetta’s neck. Blood gushes and squirts all over the attic, flooding the floor, washing into the bedroom below. “You fat bastard!” cries Salsburah. “How could you?! Her birthday was tomorrow! She was turning sixteen!” The hairy soldier laughs. “Haw-haw! Sour sixteen more like it!” Salsburah flies into a rage. She bolts forward and spins her body with a thundering fist. The hairy soldier gets clapped in the head. His eyeballs fall out and roll onto the oak wood flooring. “My eyes!” he cries. “I can’t see!” He drops to his knees and searches frantically. Salsburah grabs a rusty pot behind her and uses it to bash the soldier over the head, knocking him out cold. She runs to Louetta and falls to her knees. “Oh, Louetta!” she cries, “I should have never left you alone! I wish there were a spell to bring you back, but even magic isn’t that strong! Death is a fate we all must meet.”

Roundtable Meeting Molukah the dwarf bangs his fist on the table. “We must crush them!” he yells with a waver of his orange beard. “It is the only way! We must pick up our weapons and split their skulls in two!” Salsburah rebuts. “We are few, they are many. It is foolish to fight fire with fire. We must outsmart them. We must outthink them. If we are to achieve victory we must….” Alexander the thief interrupts, pointing to the Horse and the Rat. “What are those two doing in here?” “What?” says Salsburah. Alexander points again. “Why is a horse and a rat in here? I’m really confused. Am I missing something here? Are they part of the plan?” The other men around the table wait for an answer. “Yes,” says Salsburah, “they’re part of my pitch, if you will.” Alexander listens. “Okay,” he says, “and what is that?” Molukah strokes his beard with curiosity. “As we know,” says Salsburah, trying to think of something, “Triskut is a well protected individual. He is very well protected. And because he is well protected, we must find a way to attack him when he is vulnerable. So you see; that ties in with my proposal of attack. The Horse, yes, the horse, is a model. Uh, have you heard of the Trojans?” “And that is your plan?” asks Molukah. “To make a large hollow horse filled with our men and give it to Triskut as a gift so we can penetrate the walls of his palace? And what of the rat? Where does he come into this?” The Rat looks up at Salsburah. “The Rat,” she says, “is back up model. In case Triskut does not like horses. I very much doubt that, but it could happen.” Everyone around the round tables starts to quarrel. They have no other ideas, but aren’t warm to the idea of a Trojan horse. “Pssst,” says Christian behind Salsburah, “what about Triskut’s sons? They are far more cruel than he, and they will only take his place. Something must be done about all of the Malgelions. Remember what you said about their children’s children?” Salsburah brashly waves her hand. “Bah,” she says, “that’s just a fantasy. I said it when I was in a mad mood. It would be an impossible task. Unless…. No. My spell book is incomplete. The other half is missing.” The arguing suddenly stops. “What speak you of this incomplete spell book?” asks Alexander. “Nothing,” says Salsburah. Molukah bangs his fist twice on the table. “Yes!” he exclaims. “That is how we must defeat Triskut, with magic. It’s the only way. If we could cast a curse or a spell, we would be free of his tyranny and misconceptions about communism.” Alexander adds. “Yes,” he says, “and we must strike as soon as possible. Triskut is soon to leave. Soon to expand his empire, soon go to another village to pillage…ha, that rhymes.” Salsburah’s taps her big bumpy nose in thought. “If I could get the other half of my spell book, I could cast a spell and we could be rid of them forever. But I do not know where it is. It could be anywhere. It could even be in Mexico.” “What were you doing in Mexico?” whispers Christian. “I was mixed in with a bad crowd,” says Salsburah. “Before I became a fulltime sorcerer, I had a job as a mule. Literally, I was transformed myself as a mule and went across the border.” The Rat climbs onto the Horse’s head and nestles into his hair. “Don’t get too cozy,” says the Horse. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” replies the Rat. “I’m not staying overnight.”

“Alright,” says Alexander, “we have to find out where the other half of your spell book is. Do any of you men know what the hell she’s talking about?” The men at the round table sip their mugs of ale, clearly knowing nothing. They just came to the meeting to wile away the time and play a rousing game of poker, which will be done after everyone is done strategizing. “I know somebody,” says Molukah. “She’s a renowned psychic. She should know where the spell book is. She knows many things. You know, I called her up once…from my rooftop, and I asked what time it was. Without even looking at her sundial, she told me, and quite accurately. Now you may not think that’s psychic, but how many of you know the time right now?” The men say synchronously say “ah” with agreement. The Rat slaps his forehead with his paw. “Jesus! Are these people really going to defeat the Malgelions?! They couldn’t fight a class of 5th graders!” Salsburah looks at Christian. He shrugs with uncertainty. “So what is your decision?” asks Molukah with a bang of his fist on the table. “Stop banging your fist on the table,” screams Alexander. “It’s annoying.” Molukah apologizes. “I’m just passionate,” he says with a whimper. “Banging my fist is mostly a sign of affection.” One of the men at the table screams. “Blah! What’s with all this bureaucracy?! Put the stupid plans in a hat and choose! Let’s play poker already!” Funny Incense Salsburah leaves the Horse and the Rat outside. “Sorry,” she says, “I can’t bring you in. I was told ‘no animals allowed.’ Yes. That is a strange thing to say, but something must have happened to her before; something beyond imagination.” The Horse lowers his head and chews on some grass. The Rat, as usual, complains. “I’m not an animal!” he says. “If she were psychic she’d know that!” Christian and Salsburah pass through a string of chintzy glass beads and go into a darkened hut. “Hello,” says a woman on the floor, “have a seat. I knew you were coming.” Salsburah puts her hand on her back for support and lowers down onto a pillow, sitting in front of a short table with a pot of burning incense in the middle.” “What is your question?” asks Eekaf the psychic. “No! Do not tell Eekaf! I will guess. This is my special department. Yes, yes, yes! I see! I see it! You are here because you have a challenge to overcome. You are here to ask for advice on how to overcome that challenge. Yes. Eekaf knows all. Is this right?” Salsburah feels woozy from the overwhelming scent of the dark green incense. It smells like a hippy. “Yes,” she says with a broad grin, “that’s true! How did you know? I’m astonished! That’s amazing! Molukah was right! I am completely blown out of the water! You’re good! You are really good!” Smoke envelopes Eekaf, surrounding her face, creating an odd sense of mystery. “So,” she says, “what shall I do for you? Would you like me to read your palm? It’s one of my many services. Three silver coins. Expensive? Yes. But I am 99% accurate.” Salsburah grabs the side of the pillow to keep from flipping back. “What about the other 1%?” she asks. “If you do a million readings, that’s 10,000 wrong ones.” Eekaf waves the incense with her hand, making the smoke blow

over to Salsburah. Salsburah relaxes. “Ah, it’s okay,” she says, “I can live with that. Okay, okay. Read my hand, please.” Salsburah shows her palm. Eekaf holds it and carefully examines the deep lines with her finger tips. “My,” says Eekaf with trepidation, “you are going on a journey; a serious journey with serious consequences. What you do will work, but you will have regrets. Either way, there is no way out. It is your destination.” Salsburah giggles. “Ahhh, you’re so silly!” Christian looks suspiciously at the incense on the table. He reminds Salsburah of why she came to the psychic in the first place. “Salsburah,” he says, “snap out of it. Ask her about your spell book. That’s why we’re here.” “I know that’s why you’re here,” says Eekaf. “Oh!” says Christian. “You can see me, too! How convenient. I guess you can answer our question then. Where is the other half of Salsburah’s spell book?” Eekaf puts out her hand. “Ah! That is not how it works,” she says. “I have to attune myself to the universe. I must relax my mind and tap into the force of the stars.” Christian raises an eyebrow. “Gravity?” he says. “No!” replies Eekaf. “It is much more powerful than gravity!” Salsburah’s head is spinning. Christian does all the talking now. “What is this force?” he asks. “Are you talking about the G-O-D? I’m dead and I haven’t yet met the fellow. So make what you will of that.” “Ah,” says Eekaf as she rests her hands on her knees with pinch-fingers, “there is so much you do not know. You are unaware of the world around you, only able to see what’s in front…except for your reflection in the mirror.” Put off by the psychic’s remarks, Christian pouts and turns purple. “You know nothing!” he shouts. “You’re a fraud! Salsburah, don’t pay this woman her three silver coins! The gypsy is a charlatan! And how surprising!” “Silence!” says Eekaf with force. “I will tell you where your book is if you just shut up.” Christian and Salsburah fix their eyes on the psychic, awaiting an answer. “Your book,” says Eekaf, “is in Triskut’s palace. He keeps the spells under this pillow. That is where you will find it, under the head of the snake…so to speak.” Salsburah shakes out of her stupor and snaps her fingers. “Of course! I remember now! The little boy thief in the market, when he grabbed my spell book, he had a marking on his forearm. It was the royal seal; a shark in a circle holding a sword. Yeah, it doesn’t make sense, but I remember it. It’s a very distinctive logo. I’m sure it’s been trademarked.” “Wait,” says Christian, “we’re not going to risk our lives…they’re not going to risk their lives on the whim of a so-called psychic. We will not do anything until you have truly proved your abilities.” Eekaf folds her arms and scoffs. “Ha! Fine! Do not believe me! It is your loss, you stupid ghost!” Salsburah reaches into her robe and takes out three gold coins. “Prove to us your abilities,” she says, “and you will be paid in gold instead of silver.” Eekaf’s mouth salivates. “Okay, okay. First of all, I can see the ghost. So that’s something in itself. But you probably won’t accept that as quote unquote evidence. So let me show you something. It will blow your conservative minds away.” Eekaf takes out a wooden block with a grid of painted square. Each side is a different color: red, blue, yellow, green, white, and orange. “This is a Nubix cube,” she explains. “As you might know, it is the world’s most difficult puzzle; complex in every way. Far too confusing for the ordinary man or woman, it is only solvable

by psychics. Watch me solve it. Are you watching?” Christian nods with Salsburah. Eekaf twists the Nubix cube several times to mix it up. She puts on a blindfold and starts spinning it with extreme rapidity, rotating the sections so fast it looks like a blur. Two hours go by. “I’m done!” declares Eekaf. She takes off her blindfold. Salsburah rubs her eyes with a yawn and takes the cube. She examines it carefully, making sure to check that the wooden block had not been repainted to give the false appearance of completion. No. No signs of mischief. The Nubix cube has been successfully solved. “Oh shnap!” exclaims Christian. “That’s amazing!” Salsburah grabs her head and cracks her stiff neck. She gets up and puts the three gold coins onto the table. Trojan Rat Salsburah unfurls a scroll, blueprints for a giant wood rat drawn in fine India ink. She watches with Christian and the Horse as the villagers grab pieces of timber, gluing and hammering them together. “I don’t understand why we have to use the Rat,” say the Horse. “A horse is much more attractive.” Christian thinks the same thing but certainly knows why. “It’s because a horse is too obvious,” he explains. “They’d know it’s a ruse. A rat is easier to digest. Triskut would accept it. Mm, how do I explain it to a horse? It’s like when you’re courting a woman. You don’t buy her a horse and carriage on the first date. It makes her feel awkward and full of obligations. It’s overwhelming, that’s it.” The Horse neighs and stamps his hoof. “I still think it’s a travesty.” Salsburah waves her arm left, signaling to workers. “More wood on the left!” she says. “The Rat is fatter on the rear!” The Rat sneers, circling in a tub of cream. “I’m not fat!” he says. “I just got extra fur! Is that such a sin, being extra furry?!” Alexander carries a large piece of lumber with Molukah. “You alright there?” asks Alexander. “I’m fine!” says Molukah. “Why all the concern?! Because I’m small?! You think I can’t do this job?! Haw! Why, why, why, I used to fight rhinoceros for a living!” Alexander looks over his shoulder, making sure not to trip as he goes back. “You fought rhinos? I find that hard to believe.” Molukah drops his side of the lumber. He charges toward Alexander and rams him with his head. Alexander falls and wheezes. “What the hell was that for?!” he shouts while trying to catch his breath. “I told you,” says Molukah, “I spend time with the rhinoceroses! I learned their horn charge! Don’t believe me? Would you like another demonstration?” Alexander stands and rubs his now bruised tummy. “That’s a novel skill,” he says, “but it’s not that useful. I prefer things that require intellect and cunning. A pickpocket is a good example. A well skilled one can steal a man’s underwear. And if he’s a pervert, a woman’s underwear.” “Impossible!” exclaims Molukah. “Utterly impossible!” With a grin, Alexander holds up a pair of wide grey underwear. “Oh, is it?” Molukah pulls the front of his stretch pants to look “downstairs.” He jumps up and reacts with a scream. “Augh! That’s disgusting!” he says. “Why in the world would you steal a person’s underwear, anyway?!” Alexander throws Molukah back his underwear. “An art is not for practicality,” he explains. “It’s simply there to be. It’s a grand

show for the self, an expression of emotion. When you stare at a painting you do not ask what it does. You stand and stare, trying to understand, trying to see what made the painter do what he or she did.” “Stop standing around and do something!” shouts Salsburah. “This rat ain’t going to build itself!” Alexander and Molukah pick up their piece of lumber. They take it to the tail end and give it to the men with saws. “This rat is coming along well,” says Alexander. “Don’t you think?” Bent back, Molukah looks up at the massive wood rat, over 20 feet high. It’s not complete, but the image is forming. “I think it’s coming along well,” he says. “It’s fit for a king.” Palace of Burden The light of the late afternoon casts a warm glow on Triskut’s palace. While it is not the best looking place in the world, perhaps compared to the Disney Land castles, it does seem to have its charm. Past the fortification, past walls and gates is remarkable luxury: gilded doors, artwork, and bejeweled windows. These items of miscellany remind the villagers on the outside of their former king and queen, avid collectors of fine things from all over the globe, from Africa to Asian…but they’re dead now, so who cares about them. Triskut has control over their abode, and when he exhausts all that the land has to offer, he and his Malgelions will move on for the next juicy kill. That wouldn’t seem so bad if you were optimistic. Maybe you’d think that the people could rebuild and start all over. But nope, Triskut is an a-hole. Self-proclaimed man of might, he must leave behind a few of his minions to oppress and rule of the little he leaves. But he is a conqueror and that’s what he does. No apologies from him. He likes the ladies, he eats pigs for breakfast, and he doesn’t throw his waste into the trashcans even when they’re available. “Look out!” cries a guard on the watchtower. “What is that?!” He blows his horn. The people in the palace awake from their afternoon nap. The gates are swung open and the Malgelions surround a giant wood rat. “What is it?” asks one. “It appears to be a giant wood rat,” replies another. “That’s what it says in the line above.” Triskut arrives on his horse. “My God,” he says, “that is the ugliest thing I have ever seen! Is this a gift? Couldn’t they have made a horse or a cool animal like an eagle?” A servant takes an envelope off from the rat’s nose. He opens it up and reads the greeting card aloud. “Dear Mr. Triskut. Hi. How are you today? This is a special gift made just for you. We hope you like it. It is a small token of our appreciation. Sincerely the not-angry-villagers. Collect all five.” “Should we take it in?” asks Triskut. He thinks and scratches his chin. “I don’t know,” he says. “We were awful mean to the villagers. Why would they give us a gift? It seems awful suspicious. Remember all the killing and burning? Well, I didn’t do that. I’m just a servant. But I did kick a guy in ribs while he was writhing in pain from a sword wound. I think his name was Teddy.” Triskut looks at his men, trying to come to a decision. He goes over the rat and knocks on the wood. “It sounds hollow,” he says. “You might be right loyal servant of mine. Perhaps this is all a trick. Perhaps they have stored something inside of vile iniquity. Yes. You’re right. Let’s burn it to the ground. Bring the torches!”

“No!” says a voice from inside the rat. “Don’t burn it!” Torches are passed forward to the Malgelions at the front. “Ah ha!” says Triskut with a torch in hand. “I knew it! They’re trying to sneak their men in here for a coup d’etat! Ah, clever, but not clever enough. Burn that rat! Burn it like pies from a bad baker!” Triskut and the Malgelions press the torches against the wood of the rat. It catches on fire and engulfs in flames. The men inside scream with agony. “Wahhhhhhhhhh!” The head of the rat falls down and smashes to the ground. The rest of the body crumbles, disintegrating into ash. The bodies from the inside are revealed. Though they are mere skeletons with strips of charred flesh, the expressions on their face can be seen; their jaws open gasping for air; their hands over their eyes, trying to shield the flame. Triskut steps forward for a closer look. He bends over and picks up a bracelet from one of the corpses. It’s marked with the shark, the royal seal of Triskut’s people. Triskut spins around and grabs the servant by his shirt. “What’s wrong?!” asks the servant with bewilderment. “Why did you tell me to burn the rat?!” shouts Triskut. “I didn’t!” replies the servant with chattering teeth. “It, it, it was you who told us to burn it!” “Hold this foolish servant!” command Triskut. The men take hold of the servant before he can run. They shove him to the ground as he struggles and pleads for his life. “No!” he cries. “I didn’t mean it!” Triskut steps on the servant’s head and pushes his head into the dirt, squashing his nose, causing blood to spill out. “You will be punished for your irrationality,” says Triskut, “Accept your fate and you may die wit dignity.” He sets the servant’s head on fire. The grease from his hair accelerates the burn. In a minute, all which remains is a skull. In the Belly of the Beast Carrying digging tools, Salsburah, Alexander, and Molukah keep close together as they walk through the tunnel. Christian follows behind. “This is a nifty tunnel,” he says. “But if I were alive, I’d worry about a collapse.” Salsburah puts her finger on her nose. “Shhh,” she says. “Shhh?” repeats Molukah. “Who are you talking to?” Salsburah doesn’t want anybody to know she gets help from a ghost. “Uh, nobody,” she says. “I’m talking to nobody.” Christian pouts. “That’s not what the nobody thinks.” Salsburah whispers. “Ah, don’t be such a baby. You don’t want to scare the bejeezus out of these two, do you?” Christian concedes with folded arms. “Fine, fine. But if we go to the casino, don’t ask me to look at cards for you.” The group stops at a dead end. “Here we are,” says Molukah. “We should be able to get into the palace from here.” With his ear on the wall, Alexander carefully listens. “I don’t hear anything,” he says. “They’re probably still outside fuming from the rat, but there still could be somebody in there. Sleeping on the job I bet. You know those Malgelions, lazy as sloths. Nay, correction, lazier than sloths.” “Yeah,” says Salsburah, “except sloths can’t cut your throat.” Christian floats through the wall. His head pops onto the other side. He swings his eyes to the left and to the right. There’s nobody in the cellar. “All clear!” says Christian. “I don’t see anybody!” Salsburah lifts her pickaxe above her head and swings it down.

Taking that as a cue, Alexander starts digging away, too. “What are you doing?!” cries Molukah. “We don’t know who’s in there yet!” Molukah gives in and joins. The wall in front is chipped away, and soon it breaks down. The group heads into the cellar. Full of food and beverages, it makes the men salivate with desire. Since Triskut’s occupation of the village, they have not had a full meal to eat. Molukah grabs a glass jar and unscrews the lid. He takes out a hunk of thick, smoked, bison jerky. “Oh, that’s good,” he says as he bites into it. “Just like mom used to make.” Alexander stealthily slips several bottles of alcohol into his jacket. “Stop stealing food,” says Alexander, obviously the hypocrite. “We have more important things to focus on besides filling our bellies.” Molukah punches Alexander in the arm. “Don’t tell me what to do, thief. I’m well aware of your kind; being overly righteous to cover up your own misdeeds. You can’t fool me. Molukah is smarter than that.” “Who cares how smart you think you are,” says Alexander as he rubs his sore arm. “You’re four feet tall. I’d rather be handsome and dumb, than ugly and intelligent. But since I’m smart, I seem to have it all. No worries for me, though it must suck to be you. You can’t even go on the rollercoasters for adults…or get the ladies.” Christian stares at Molukah, his face sunk with sadness. “Ah,” says Salsburah trying to quell the tension, “that’s not what a woman always looks for in a man. A woman is not always so interested in six-packs. She wants somebody who is kind, generous, and hardworking. That is a character which all dwarves have. They are a hearty people…and very sexy!” Molukah blushes. The group goes through the cellar door and exits into the hallway. Christian peeks around the corners. “The coast is clear,” he says. Salsburah leads the men forward. But suddenly approaching footsteps are heard. Everyone scrambles around looking for a place to hide. Christian floats to the ceiling, Salsburah hides behind a statue, and Molukah jumps into an empty pot…but Alexander has nowhere to go. He stands dumbfounded as he is discovered by a soldier. Not knowing what to do, he starts dancing, doing the robot, perhaps, hoping to hypnotize the large man into a catatonic state. Then after a minute the dance ends. Tada! The soldier claps like a little child. “Marvelous,” he says, “that was absolutely marvelous.” Alexander humbly bows. He slips his hand into his jacket and takes out a bottle stolen from the cellar. He smashes it over the soldier’s head, knocking him out. “I knew you had it in you!” says Molukah as he and the others come out from hiding. “I’m impressed.” As Alexander smiles proudly, the soldier begins to moan. “Auuugh! I’m in horrible pain! Please, somebody call for a doctor!” The group leaves. They hurry through the palace. “Where’s Triskut’s room?” asks Christian. “There,” says Salsburah with an extended finger. There is a grizzly bear curled in front of a large double door, napping with its arm being used as a pillow. “Sweet Zeus of Olympia!” cries Molukah. “A bear! He uses a bear as a guard! The madness of it all!” “We’ll need stealth and wit,” says Alexander. Then he tiptoes to the grizzly. He looks it in the face and glares. “You’re a dumb beast. You think you’re so great with your furry paws and your stubby little tail? Well, I’m a world famous thief. I stole the Shah Diamond and replaced it with a fake. Beat that, you good for

nothing family-eating bear! All you can do is kill people having picnics and fish for wild salmon!” With a sneer, Alexander stands up straight. He proceeds to go into Triskut’s room, but trips on a wire by the door. It pulls a golden bell on the ceiling. “I have a bad feeling about this,” says Christian. The grizzly bear suddenly opens its eyes and roars. It chomps down on the meaty part of Alexander’s leg. “The killing machine is attacking me!” he cries. Molukah and Salsburah rush to Alexander and take him by the arms. They pull as hard as they can, but the bear is…a bear. “Sweet Lord of Langstaff!” Alexander continues wailing. “His fangs have sunk into the bone! Augh! I can feel my marrow dripping out!” Christian starts to hear voices. He floats away and looks to see where they are coming from. It’s Triskut and his men, headed toward his room. “I feel good today,” says Triskut. “We killed a couple hundred people, including our own, but we did manage to strike fear into the villagers. Not one of them has the cannonballs to oppose us. Their army is under funded; reminds me of Canada.” Christian races back to Salsburah, Molukah, and Alexander. “Guys!” he cries. “We have to get out of here! Triskut is on his way!” Salsburah and Molukah let go of Alexander. “You’re on your own!” says Molukah as he turns to run. “Every dwarf for himself!” Alexander shakes his fist. “Damn you!” As the group is about to escape, Triskut appears, and they are surrounded on both sides by soldiers. “What is this?!” screams Triskut. “Why is there a bear in the hallway?! I specifically said ‘no bears in the hallways’ last week!” One of the soldiers uses his mace and clubs the grizzly over the head. It dies and lets go of Alexander’s leg. “Who are you people?” asks Triskut with a glare. With chest puffed out, Molukah bravely steps forward. “I am Molukah Gandaharsangananopragasm, and the non-dwarves behind me are Salsburah the sorcerer, or sorceress if you will, and Alexander the thief. We are rebels from the village, come to stop you and all your evil deeds. False king, prepare to feel my rhinoceros charge!” Molukah charges. Triskut puts his hand out in front and holds the feisty dwarf by the head like a bully from high school. “You coward!” cries Molukah as his arms swing with missing punches. “Fight me like a dwarf! Argh! I’ll bite your ears off and pull out your teeth!” Triskut yawns. “Is that the best you got?” he says. “You couldn’t punch your way out of…uh, something that could easily be punched out of.” Christian hides behind Salsburah. “What do you think he’ll do to us?” Salsburah glances back. “Don’t worry,” she says. “When heroes are in trouble, something will arrive last minute to save them. Wait for it.” Coliseum of Doom Salsburah, Molukah, and Alexander find themselves tied up in the middle of a huge arena surrounded by a jeering crowd. They look up and see Triskut sitting with their friends: Christian who is trapped in an enchanted glass bottle, the Rat in a cage, and the Horse, well, he’s just standing there. “Damn you, horse!” yells the Rat. “Do something and get us out of here! You’re just standing there all willy-nilly!” The Horse flicks his tail at the cage. “Quiet, you scoundrel. I’ll kick

you in the face.” The Rat gets on his hind legs. “I’d like to see you try!” he says. “You fat, treacherous, tubby, stinky, horse, you! I ought to box your ears!” Triskut rises from his throne. As he is about to address the people, the Horse suddenly snaps back his leg, kicking over the Rat cage. It falls to the ground and splits open like a broken egg. The Rat races out. “So long, suckers!” He hops off the balcony. “My people,” announces Triskut with a bellowing voice, “as your new king, I will bring about great change in this unspoiled land: free universal healthcare for all, school and literacy programs for every child, clean running water, affordable food, and most of all, massively entertaining events like this.” Everyone cheers. “Yes,” continues Triskut. “I have changed my heart and I have changed my ways. After receiving the results from the survey, where 7 out of 10 people said I was a complete ass, I decided to become a better person. After today, I will be nothing but merciful and compassionate…. So enjoy the show!” The crowd claps; then they turn their attention toward the center of the coliseum as a trumpet blows. Wrought iron gates lift by the walls, letting in a pride of lions. “What are we going to do?” asks Molukah. “Sorcerer, cast a spell. Free us from these ropes.” Salsburah tries not to lose her nerve. Sweat drips down her forehead. “I’ll try,” she says. She murmurs a few words. Hair starts sprouting all over Molukah. “What is this?!” cries Molukah. “You made me into a wookiee!” Salsburah gets defensive. “What do you expect from me?! I do magic, not miracles!” The lions get closer; their long tongues hungrily hanging out from their mouths. “Don’t worry,” says Alexander as he squirms. “The Malgelions, in their rush to get us here, did not check every part of my body.” He reaches into the back of his pants and pulls out a tiny knife. He uses it and starts sawing at the ropes keeping everyone bound. “Don’t drop the knife,” warns Molukah. Alexander Laughs. “Ha! You think I’m some sort of inept fool? I’m crazy skilled. Watch this.” He twirls the knife around and tosses it from hand to hand. Gritting her teeth, Salsburah barks. “Stop being an idiot!” Alexander obliges and gets back to cutting. As he is a quarter way through, a bird appears above head. It spreads its wings and drops a load. The pasty white crap falls on Alexander’s head, making him drop the knife. It falls to the ground with a plink. Without even a look, Molukah groans. “You dropped it, didn’t you?” “Don’t panic,” says Alexander. “If I know lions, which I do not, they won’t attack if you don’t move. Their brains are too small.” The lions circle around the group, bearing their fangs. “We’re doomed,” cries Salsburah, “dooomed!” A squeaky voice suddenly calls out. “No, you’re not.” Salsburah looks down and sees the Rat by her foot. He climbs up her leg and gets to the ropes, chewing them with voracity. The lions roar. “Hey!” cries the lion with the scruffy mane. “What do you think you’re doing, rat?! Stop trying to free our meals! They were crisping under the sun!” “Go away,” says the Rat. “I’ll chew your eyes out!” The ropes start getting loose. The Lion becomes offended. “Why! Why! I never! You insolent rodent! What a rude thing to say, threatening to damage my eyes! I could kill you with a single swipe of my paw!” The group breaks free when their ropes snap. They huddle together, keeping against each other’s backs. The Rat exclaims. “Yay for the Rat!” Alexander picks up his knife and brandishes it in front of him. “Get

back!” he yells. “I’ll cut you in two!” The crowd is going wild. They stand from their seats and put their arms aloft, pumping them up and down. “Eat him out!” yells one of the spectators. “Spank him like daddy!” The Lion lunges at Salsburah. But Molukah jumps in front and grabs the giant feline by his jaws. He pulls his mouth wide open, stretching it to its limits. The other lions look with consternation. “You can’t hold it for long!” says the Lion. “My jaws will eventually shut and bite off your stubby fingers!” Molukah and the Lion turn as they struggle for power. “Tell your pride to back away,” says Molukah. “Tell them to back away and I won’t rip your head in two!” The Lion can feel his muscles tearing, being slowly pulled apart. “You win,” says the Lion with a whisper. “Lions! Back away! No food for today!” They groan and complain. “Aw, can we at least have a little snack? How about the rat?” The Rat hisses. “You touch me,” he says, “and I’ll bite between your hind legs. And trust me, brother, it won’t be pretty.” Triskut looks over the crowd as they become bored, leaning their heads against their arms. Molukah lets go of the Lion. The prides goes away with reluctance, disappearing through the walls. Their gates go back down. The boos begin. “You call that a show?!” cries a young child in the crowd. “I came here for blood!” The group covers their faces as they’re pelted with rotten fruits and pieces of debris. A stick hits Alexander on the face. He jumps with protest. “Come down here and try that!” he yells. “I’ll break your frigging noses!” On the balcony, Triskut is brooding, thinking what he can do to quell the outrage and disappointment. An imaginative life bulb goes off in his head. He stands and commands to his Malgelions, “Release the Cthulhu!” The ground starts to rumble. Baboom! Baboom! Christian’s glass bottle falls from the table and breaks. Everyone looks up and screams. A green 60 foot octopus man stomps its way into the coliseum, crushing and killing several people. It makes its way to the center and stares down at Salsburah and the others. The Cthulhu makes a fist with its hand and raises it in the air. The group runs before it comes crashing down. Shmash! Alexander pulls back his arm, and throws his knife. It shoots up into the Cthulhu’s gills, causing him to shriek in pain, and spin wildly with agony. In the fiasco, Triskut’s balcony gets hit. The stone crumbles and he plummets to the ground. He lifts his heard, barely conscious. He reaches under his garment and takes out the other half of Salsburah’s spell book, looking for a spell to banish the monster he’s released. There is indeed a spell on the very last page, but it’s incomplete. “Aw, crap,” says Triskut. “I’m screwed.” As the Cthulhu rages, the Horse leaps from the half-cracked balcony. He grabs the spell book from Triskut’s weak hand and runs to Salsburah and the others. “Get on,” he says to them. Alexander boosts Salsburah and Molukah onto the Horse’s back; then gets on himself. The Rat joins, too. Christian appears. “Are you sure you can carry everyone?” The Horse neighs and lowers his head, readying to run. “What do you think I am?” he says. “A pony? I’m 20 hands high.” The group takes off into the interior of the coliseum. They speed through, angling left in the circle. They get to the exit and dash outside. The Horse zips between the screaming people as the Cthulhu follows closely behind.

“Is that the other half of my spell book?” says Salsburah to the Horse. The Horse tosses it back with the whip of his head. She catches it in her hands. Her thumbs flip through the pages with excitement and relief. “Anything to send that demon back to hell?” asks Molukah. The Cthulhu roars. The sound waves nearly knock the group off the Horse. Salsburah reaches into her robe and takes out the first half of her spell book. She joins it with the second part. The pages glow, fusing back together. “Where do I go?” asks the Horse as his feet pound tirelessly against the ground. “To the lake,” replies Salsburah. The Rat appears bemused. “That thing looks like it spends a lot of time in the water,” he says. “You think taking it to the water will do any good?” Clouds over head start to darken. A sound of thunder claps. It begins to rain. The heavy pour makes it hard for the Horse to keep his traction. “Hang on,” he says as he slides forward. Then he leaps over a log, splashing the mud. With a look of disgust, Alex wipes away his eyes. He flicks a worm off his face. “I know a shortcut to the lake,” says Christian. He leads the way and takes the group into a shallow bog. The mucky water reaches halfway up the Horse’s body, soaking everyone’s legs. It’s difficult terrain to move through. Movement is nearly slowed to a crawl. The Cthulhu is close behind, dragging its knuckles, pulling forward its heavy body. “Why are we in the bog!?” asks Molukah with his hand covering his head. “This is the worst idea ever!” As the Horse pulls forward, the area past the trees becomes visible. It’s difficult to see, but there’s a clear, and past it is the lake. “We’re nearly there,” says Salsburah. The Horse hops out from the bog. He rushes to the shore of the lake and leaps onto the rocks, trying to distance away from the approaching Cthulhu. “Watch it!” says the Rat. “They don’t use the phrase ‘look like a drowned rat’ for nothing!” A raft suddenly appears, floating in from the torrents. It’s a crude looking thing, made from bundles of rough logs and twine, but it looks strong enough to continue staying afloat. The group gets on. Molukah and Alexander hop off the horse and kneel to the sides. Using their arms as oars, they paddle farther down the lake. “Hurry!” says the Rat. “It’s gaining!” The Cthulhu steps into the water. All but its head sinks in, making it look like a giant approaching octopus. Triskut and the Malgelions arrive by the shore. With archers and trebuchets, they prepare to launch an attack. “Destroy that vile green fiend!” bellows Triskut. “Archers! On my command!” The Malgelions kneel and point their bows up at a 45 degree angles. When they hear the word “fire,” they release their arrows; showering the lake like a swarm of horseflies. But the attack is ineffective against the tough leathery skin of the Cthulhu. “Do something!” says the Horse in a whiney voice. The Cthulhu swims closer. Its tentacles wriggle on its face. Salsburah opens her spell book to a section in the middle entitled: “Spells to Banish Your Enemies and Exes.” Triskut shouts and throws his arm forward. “Trebuchets! Fire!” The long wooden arms of the trebuchets swing forward and catapult a cluster of flaming boulders into the air. “Look out!” screams Molukah. A boulder crashes into the raft, sending everyone afloat. They kick their feet, trying to keep their heads above water. The Cthulhu lifts the tentacles on its face, revealing its mouth with its horribly jagged teeth. It begins sucking in water. The group feels the pull, being drawn toward the

monster. Salsburah dives down, swimming toward the sinking spell book. As she grabs it, she sees the Rat belly up in the water, drowned to death. But there is no time for sad feelings, Salsburah rises up and begins to read the banishing spell. Her lips tremble as she murmurs. “I call upon the powers of the universe! Take away the enemies which surround me! Abducto hostimium! Deus expellus inimicus!” The rain suddenly stops pouring. The waters become calm and the sun starts to shine as the clouds part away. The Cthulhu disappears. Triskut puts his hand back, signaling for the Malgelions to cease their attacks. “Do you feel that?” asks a soldier while rubbing his hands. “I do,” replies another. “It’s like a cold heat. My body is freezing inside, but the outside, my skin…it’s hot like Jamaica.” The water in front of the lake starts to motion and rise. A giant hand forms and rises to the air. It grabs Triskut and the Malgelions, pulling them underneath the lake. “What do you think of the story?” says a voice. Bedtime Stories “That’s so sad,” says Brendan. “All those people died?” Brendan’s father, Lucas, laughs. “No, no, no. They didn’t die. Triskut and the Malgelions were banished to the lake.” Brendan pulls up his blanket. “So they died?” Lucas gives a loud sigh. “No. They were banished. Didn’t you hear me? They live there.” “In the lake?” asks Brendan. “Yes,” replies Lucas. “How can they live in the lake?” says Brendan. “Wouldn’t they drown?” Lucas looks his son stern in the eyes. “It’s magic.” Brendan puts his arms behind his pillow, taking a relaxing position. “So this is a fake story, huh? Fiction.” Scratching his bald head with frustration, Lucas replies. “I don’t really know,” he says. “Apparently, it’s just a legend.” “And you actually teach this to your student’s in class?” asks Brendan, rubbing his eyes with a yawn. “Sometimes I do,” says Lucas, “if it’s appropriate.” He leans his face into his palm, seeing the boredom on his son’s face. “You know it used to be a lot easier to entertain you when you were younger.” Brendan closes his eyes. “Dad, I’m seventeen. Yes. Not quite a man and not quite a boy, but I am legally going to be an adult soon. I mean, seriously, I’m too old for this. It’s weird and creepy. Look those words up in the dictionary. You’ll see a picture of you telling me bedtime stories.” “When I was a boy,” says Lucas, “I was never told bedtime stories. And it always bothered me, like I missed out on something really special. So, you can see why I’m being all weird and creepy. Plus, these aren’t exactly bedtime stories. Crazy as they seem, they are based on some semblance of reality. It’s like the Bible. We all know Christ didn’t fly around the earth and spin it backwards, thus reversing time, but we take it as symbolism.” “That was the Superman movie,” says Brendan. “You got it mixed up.” Lucas leans back with his mouth open. “I did not,” he says. “The Bible and Superman are very similar! Think about it. Superman and Jesus Christ, where did they come from? That’s right, the skies, one from the cosmos and one from heaven. And the word heaven, what does that mean? Outer space, the cosmos, it’s the same thing.” Lucas continues, even as Brendan starts to get sleepy. “Now that in itself may not

seem that convincing, but if we analyze it further, we see that they both had similar upbringings. They both had fathers they never knew, they were adopted by humans, and of course, they had superpowers. Okay. Their superpowers weren’t the same, but I think…Brendan?” Zzzz. Brendan has fallen asleep. His arm lies over his eyes, blocking the light from his bedside lamp. Lucas kisses Brendan on the forehead and stands up. He puts his hands together and claps, turning of the lights but waking up Brendan. “Oops,” says Lucas, “I…yeah, that was probably a bad idea. Well! Good night, son!” Brendan rolls over, putting his face into his pillow. His dad leaves the room and slams the door behind. MacBurger World A large man and his family saunter to the counter at MacBurger World. “Hi! How can I help you?” asks Brendan on the other side in an overly polite voice. “What do you have on special?” says the Large Man. “My family is hungry and we’re on a budget. Got any of those 99 cent hamburgers?” Brendan thinks for a second. “No,” he says apologetically. “I’m sorry. That’s only on Thursdays. Friday is fishwich day. Would you like fishwiches? They’re 99 cents as well. But if you’re eating them as a healthier alternative, I really don’t know how healthy they are. I think the patties are deep fried in lard.” “That sounds good,” says the Large Man. “I’ll take two dozen. No cokes, though. We’re trying to watch our weight.” Brendan nods. He presses the buttons on the cash register’s touch screen. An order goes into the kitchen. “Can I get you anything else?” asks Brendan. “No,” replies the Large Man. Then he shuffles to the left with his children and stands to let the next customer in line. “Hi,” says the customer, “can I get a….” “Brendan,” yells a voice, “get your ass in here! We need you at the drivethru!” Brendan replies. “I’m busy with a customer,” he says. “Can’t you get Liz to do it?” The manager grouses. “Liz is on the toilet! Anyway, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you! So get over here and earn your $7. 50 an hour!” The customer gets a pained expression on her face, knowing the undeniable call of an over pushy boss. “Just go,” she says. “I’ll be fine. I’ll pick up something at that new place around the corner, what’s it called, Stutter M-m-muffins.” “Hurry up! Get to the second window!” shouts the manager. “We’re drowning in orders!” Brendan apologizes and leaves. He goes to the second window and readies to give out food. A green convertible pulls up. There are twins sitting in the front seats with fishing equipment: matching rods, line, and tackle boxes. “You coming to the lake?” ask the Bauder Twins together in synch, blending so perfectly together it almost sounds like a single voice. “I’m at work,” says Brendan. “I can’t just leave.” “Don’t be such a pussycat,” say the Bauder Twins. “You’re only seventeen once; twice at once if you’re a twin. Do you really want to squander away your youth? You can always flip burgers next week.” Brendan rolls his eyes. “I’m saving up for a car.” The Bauder Twins giggle. “That’s so cute. Trying to impress the girls, huh? Well, FYI, green is in, baby. You can’t impress the modern lady with a carbonator.”

“I’m not leaving,” says Brendan. “I have too much to do.” The Bauder Twins plead. “Aw, come on. It’s not a real job. It’s a summer job. It’s like a paper route. You can screw up and break a couple windows. Nobody cares as long as you aren’t eighteen.” The Manager yells to Brendan. “Brendan! You monkey’s ass! What’re you doing?! Stop chitchatting with the customers! This isn’t a four star restaurant! We serve ground up entrails on a lightly toasted bun! There’s no need to be friendly! You won’t get any tips!” Brendan tosses a bag of food into one of the Bauder Twins’ laps. After a quick glance back, he climbs out the window and gets into the convertible. “Let’s go,” he says. “I can’t take another minute of this.” The Bauder Twins grin from ear to ear. The one behind the wheel steps on the gas. “We knew you had it in you,” they say. “But at the same time we are a little disappointed. You gave into peer pressure and left your job to go have fun. Really, that doesn’t say much about your character.” Brendan sighs and leans against the inside of the car. The breeze blows back his hair, showing his face of frustration. By the Lake Dwellers Brendan and the Bauder Twins arrive at the lake. With fishing equipment slung over their backs, they slowly walk down the dock, taking in the idyllic weather conditions. Not a cloud in the sky or a horsefly to shoo, it is the perfect summer day. “How many fish do you think we’ll catch today?” ask the Bauder Twins. They answer their own question. “At least a hundred. I can’t imagine it being any less. Can you?” “No,” replies Brendan, humoring the twins, “I can’t. You know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if you caught two hundred fish.” The Bauder Twins exclaim. “Two hundred fish!?” they say. “Why! Why! Now, you’re just being facetious! Do you mock us twins?! Two hundred indeed! How completely outrageous! What bollocks! The most incredulous thing we’ve heard!” Brendan calmly puts up his hand in a position of admittance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to poke fun. I was just trying to be one of the gang; add my two cents. That’s all.” “Haw!” say the Bauder Twins. “Never in a million years! Nobody could muscle their way into the Bauder gang! It’s two for today and two for tomorrow!” Brendan concedes with a shrug. He and the twins reach the end of the dock. His eyes search for a boat. “What gives? I thought you two said you had a boat.” The Bauder twins lower down and lift a rope hung around one of the wood posts. They pull at it and bring out canoe from under the planks. It looks like a piece of crap, but it’s big enough for all three and floats. So they all get in. Simultaneously the twins grab the oars and start rowing. “Where’d you get this canoe from?” asks Brendan as he braces himself with hands on the sides. “We made it ourselves,” say the Bauder Twins, “from scraps of wood. Took us a long weekend. Pretty ingenious, huh?” The canoe bobs from side to side as the waves push at the keel. Brendan stares at the horizon, trying to not get sick in his stomach. “What’s wrong?” ask the Bauder Twins with a grin. “You look pale.” Brendan admits he gets sea sick easily. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I get sea sick easily.” The Bauder Twins look at each other and giggle. “Heh,” they say, “that’s funny…we’re not at sea!” They go into an uproar and laugh aloud at their corny

joke. Brendan leans over the side of the boat and throws up. His pink vomit swirls around and sinks. He apologizes in a murmur. “It’s okay,” say the Bauder Twins, “we shouldn’t have teased you.” They row away from Brendan’s lunch and go farther out to the lake where they stop to fish. In a ritualistic manner, the Bauder Twins prepare the fishing rods. They attach a new reel to each and draw out the lines, pushing carefully through the loops. They tie on silver hooks, then open their tackle box, deciding what bait to use. The selection is extremely varied, from rubbers worms to peanut butter smeared on crackers. “What do you want on your rod?” ask the Bauder Twins to Brendan. “I don’t know,” says Brendan. “I don’t really fish. What do you recommend?” The Bauder Twins tap their chins in thought. “You’re a newbie,” they say unabashedly. “You should go with something old fashioned and reliable. I think worms would do the trick.” A fishing rod with gummy worms on it is handed to Brendan. He turns to the side with the Bauder Twins and they cast their lines. The twins stay silent, enjoying the cool breeze and warmth of the summer sun. Several minutes go by without a single word said. Brendan is getting bored. He yawns and stretches. “Shhhh,” say the Bauder Twins in whisper, “you’ll scare away the fish!” But Brendan doesn’t care. “This is boring,” he says. “We’re just sitting around doing nothing. Can’t we pass the time with a little chatter?” “Okay, what do you want to talk about?” ask the Bauder Twins. “Movies,” says Brendan. “Let’s talk about movies. You know what’s a good movie? The Little Mermaid.” The Bauder Twins scratch their heads. “The Little Mermaid?” they say with bewilderment. “Isn’t that for little girls?” Brendan shakes his head. “No. That’s what most people think, nut it’s really more sophisticated than that. There are a lot of subtle messages that really requires reading between the lines.” He continues as the twins listen with intrigue. “The Little Mermaid is about sex. Specifically, losing one’s virginity. Sounds disgusting, I know, but hear me out. So the story begins with this hot, little princess with clamshells for a bra. Who by the way is based on Alyssa Milano. And she’s like totally dissatisfied with life under the sea. ‘Cause like what’s under the sea? Nothing. They don’t even have Nintendo. Wii in the sea? No way. It’s not waterproof. So yeah. One day, against the wishes of her overbearing father, Ariel goes to the surface of the water. And she sees this suave, young looking man named Eric celebrating his birthday on this swanky little boat. Now, he’s not the greatest looking guy in the world, he’s no Robert Downey Junior, but she does find him pretty attractive. So anyway, as he’s partying down like it’s 1899, there’s a huge storm that destroys his ship like the Titanic. Everyone falls into the water and Ariel rescues him from drowning. They see each other for like two seconds on the beach and suddenly they’re in love. So they part ways and Princess Ariel becomes totally lovesick. Her hormones are raging all over the place…literally. She’s dropping eggs like they’re going out of style, but of course, that doesn’t solve her problem. So what does she do with her teenage lust and wisdom? She makes a pact with a big fat witch. And why?” “We don’t know,” admit the Bauder Twins, “why?” Brendan snaps his fingers. “To get a pair of legs!” he exclaims. The twins are dumfounded. “And what,” they say, “does that have to do with sex? We’re not making the connection.” Brendan

knocks on one of the twins’ heads like it’s wood. “Hello! Is anybody home? What do you find between a pair of legs?” The Bauder Twins realize and laugh. “Alright,” they say, “we get it. Ariel wanted a hoo-hoo for Prince Eric.” “And do you know what Beauty and the Beast is about?” asks Brendan. “No,” say the Bauder Twins, “tell us.” Brendan smirks. “It’s about money. Belle was a gold digger. And the only reason she stayed in that castle with the Beast was because…it was a castle! She knew the man was loaded. She stuck it out for the cash, man. And don’t tell me it was for her father. No way. Belle wanted a sweet retirement. You know, I guess it’s a reflection of society. You ever seen a nice looking lady with an ugly man? All the time. Look at Donald Trump. You think he scored with Melania because of his personality? Baby, it’s for the money.” “So what’s The Lion King about?” ask the Bauder Twins. “Nothing,” replies Brendan, “it’s just a rip-off of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. I think it’s pretty clever. Like what kid reads Shakespeare? Pretty much nobody. So they nicked the story and tried to pass it off as their own. It worked. I think the movie won an Oscar or two. Man, I’d be pissed if I was Shakespeare. But since he’s dead, and his works are in the public domain, so who cares. Steal all the ideas you want. Everything’s just repeats. Like Star Wars. What’s that? It’s Forty-seven Ronin in space.” The Bauder Twins smirk. “You think about movies a lot, don’t you?” Brendan swats a fly away from his face. “Well,” he says, “it’s that or do my homework…. Ugh! Summer school! What a pain! ‘Go’ my dad tells me. ‘It’ll make you smarter.’ School in the summer? What an oxymoron. Who’s the evil bastard who made that up?” All of a sudden the fishing rods clash together. All three lines are being pulled in a single direction. “What the hell is going on?!” shouts Brendan. The canoe starts moving. It rocks up and down like a seesaw. “Stop this crazy thing!” cry the Bauder Twins. “We’re getting seasick!” Then everything goes calm. The three look at each other. What just happened? Quietly, Brendan puts down his rod. He leans his body out and looks into the water, searching for the mighty fish. But instead he sees a beautiful girl. She waves with a long thin smile. Her long, curly, blonde hair seems to float as it is pushed by the gentle currents. “Somebody’s drowning!” yells Brendan with panic. With a leap, he cannonballs into the lake, splashing the twins. His legs turn up and he dives straight down. The Bauder Twins bite their fingernails. “Oh no,” they say, “if he drowns, we’ll be held responsible! I can see the headlines now! ‘Bauder Bastards Butcher Boy at Bay.’ How horrible! Our reputation as the fun loving twins will be ruined! One of us has to go in there and get him!” And in the midst of peril and danger, the twin mentality breaks. The Bauder Twins become separate. “Uh-uh!” says Rory Bauder with a shake of his head. “I’m not going in there! You go in there! You’re the one with the Michael Phelps poster on your wall!” Corey balks. “Just because I admire a guy, doesn’t mean I’m anything like him! What kind of logic is that?! Crazy logic, that’s what!” Brendan’s head pops up from the water. He spits out water from his mouth and gasps heavily for air. The Bauder Twins pull him into the canoe. “I saw a girl!” raves Brendan like a madman. “I swear to God! There was somebody down there! She waved to me!” Rory slaps Brendan across the face “Snap out of it, man!” he says. “You’re scaring me!” But Brendan goes on. “You gotta believe me!

I’m not making this up! Don’t you believe me!?” As Rory pulls back for another slap, Corey grabs his hand and holds it. “Wait,” he says, “I’ve heard about this. Remember the story grandpa told us, Rory? He said the lake was haunted by, what was the word he used, lake dwellers. They were imprisoned by an evil witch to live in the water forever and ever. And when you’re fishing, and you’re not looking, they jump up from behind and pull you in to suck your brains out. I’ll say, that explains what happened earlier.” “No,” says Brendan. “The girl was beautiful…beyond anything I can describe. She couldn’t have been a water zombie. I refuse to believe that. Water zombies do not exist.” Rory folds his arms. “Humph! Says you!” Corey thinks. “No. There has to be a logical explanation,” he says. “There isn’t a girl living in the lake. No. You’re hallucinating. You got summer fever. Remember that fly you swatted away from your face? It must’ve bitten you and now you’re sick. Yeah. It makes sense. Doesn’t it?” “How do you remember such trivial details?” asks Rory. “What do you mean?” says Corey. “It was only a couple paragraphs back.” Brendan looks into the lake. But only his reflection is staring back. Barely a moment has passed and he is already in a state of longing. “Stop that staring,” say the Bauder Twins. “If there is a girl in there, you gotta play it cool, man. You don’t wanna seem too needy. That’s a major turnoff.” Brendan tries to go back into the water, but the twins hold him by the arms. “Stop!” they say. “There’s nobody in there!” Brendan tries to break free. He puts his legs against the inside of the canoe and pushes vehemently. “Let me go!” he cries with desperation. “I have to see her!” The canoe flips over. A sudden wave of water pushes the trio to shore. The twins look on with horror as their fishing equipment and boat sink away into the dark depths of the lake. Early Mornings for Summer School With a yawn, Brendan rolls out of bed. He stands up and stretches his body, twisting left to right. He steps over piles of clothes on the floor and saunters into the hallway. He goes into the bathroom and starts brushing his teeth. As he looks into the mirror with half-awake eyes, he sees the image of the girl from the lake; her soft smile and her warm brown eyes. Brendan jumps back in surprise and slips on the floor mat. He falls down and bumps his head against the toilet. He groans while rubbing the back of his skull. “You okay in there!?” shouts Brendan’s father, Lucas, from behind a wall. “It sounded like you saw something in the mirror, jumped back in surprise, slipped and hit your head.” “No!” says Brendan. “I’m fine!” He stands and goes back to his routine. He finishes brushing his teeth. He brushes back his hair with a comb and leaves. Brendan’s feet make a rhythm as they go downstairs. Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. He bolts into the kitchen and looks in the fridge. “Let’s see what we got here: OJ, cola, bottled water, Sunny D… Ah, purple stuff! I’ll have some of this.” Brendan grabs the bottle of grape drink and chugs it down. He grabs his backpack and runs out the house.

Hopping onto a speed bike, Brendan hurriedly pedals down the street. The wind blows at his hair ands puts it over his eyes. He uses an index finger and pushes away the bangs. “Damn,” says Brendan as he glances at his wristwatch, “I’m going to be late…again!” Then a strand of fabric from his pants falls down and gets caught in his bicycle chain. Brendan flips over and gashes his chin on the concrete curb. He gets up with a stumble. “This is not my day.” “What’s not your day?” says a voice. A gang of young hoodlums appear into Brendan’s hazed vision. “Today,” he replies. “Today is not my day. Which means it’s a bad day.” The stocky looking fellow in front folds his arms. “Don’t patronize us,” says Ricky the bully. “We know what that means. We were just being jerks.” Brendan quickly puts the chain back onto his bike and tries to leave, but finds himself surrounded in a circle. “Please,” he says, “I’m late for summer school. I don’t really have time for this. Okay, bullies? Or what is it? What name do you guys go by these days? Hoodlums? Thugs? Ruffians? I’m not particularly up to date on this.” “You can’t leave,” says Ricky. “If we let you go now, people will get the idea that this is a free country and roam around the streets like cattle. It’ll be utter chaos! Do you want that to happen?!” Brendan nods. “I think I’ll take that risk,” he says. As he steps forward, Ricky grabs him by the shirt and lifts him into the air. “Don’t make this hard than it has to be,” he says. “We’re reasonable people. Just let us pull your underwear over your head and we’ll let you go.” “I know,” suggests Brendan, “why don’t I give you my lunch money? Huh? How about it? That’s way better than getting a few chuckles. Shake down enough kids and you got a business running. You’ll be financially free in no time!” Ricky grabs Brendan by the legs and holds him upside down. He jostles him like a salt shaker. A Velcro wallet falls to the ground. One of the hoodlums picks it up. “Now, wait a minute,” says Brendan with blood rushing to his head. “I didn’t say you could turn me upside down and shake me like a banker. Can’t we come to a more amicable solution? Let’s negotiate.” “You’re not in a negotiating position,” says Ricky with a grin. He turns to his lackey. “Would you please hand me that wallet?” The hoodlum hands it over. Ricky holds Brendan with a single arm. With abnormal dexterity, he filters through the wallet with one hand. He finds a white, folded, piece of paper. “Hey,” says Brendan with a hint of anger in his voice, “don’t touch that. It’s private stuff.” Ricky ignores him and unfolds the paper. A smile suddenly comes over his face. He shows it to the others. They instantly burst into laughter. They lean against each other uncontrollably, holding their sides, trying not to pass out from amusement. Filled with furry, Brendan kicks Ricky in the face. Ricky loses his grip with a bloody nose and Brendan is released to the ground. He jumps up and grabs his wallet and the white piece of paper. Before the hoodlums know what’s happening or how to react, Brendan jumps on his bike and viciously barrels through them. His heart pumps like mad as he pedals. “He’s getting away!” yells Ricky. Then he and his gang of hoodlums hastily file into a minivan. Ricky puts his car keys into the ignition starter and turns it, but the vehicle just gives a heee-heee-heee sound; straining to get started. “Get out and push!” yells Ricky. Two hoodlums

get out and push the minivan from behind. Ricky steers inside. He squints, barely able to see Brendan. “Hurry this thing up!” says Ricky as he leans his body out the window. And the hoodlums outside, though seemingly winded, push even harder. But the minivan is still going slow. Then the road starts to slope and it begins picking up in speed, even too fast for the hoodlums to continue pushing. It races down hill, going lightning fast at, er, 15 miles per hour. The minivan reaches Brendan and his bicycle. The two are neck and neck: it’s gas guzzler versus an environmentalist’s wet dream. “Pull over!” yells Ricky. “I just wanna talk! Brendan flips him the bird. “Screw you!” he says. “I’m not an idiot!” Ricky gets out of the driver’s seat of the minivan and goes to the back where he opens the door. He leans out with a baseball bat and starts wildly swinging. He grazes Brendan on the shoulder. Brendan shakes his fist. “Don’t you goons have anything better to do?!” Ricky bluntly replies. “No!” Brendan pushes up the eyebrows on his face as if he already knew the answer to his own question. “Okay! I’m glad we got cleared that up!” He turns the handlebar on his bike and takes a sharp turn onto another street where he disappears. Meanwhile, Ricky retreats to his spot in the minivan behind the wheel. He steers the “Caravan” into Riseborough Circuit. It drags along at a slow, slow pace, losing momentum from the down hill ride. “Please!” cries Brendan, pleading under an oak tree. A little boy with wavy brown hair, barely three feet tall, looks down from his tree house. “I don’t know,” says Francis. “You haven’t paid your club membership fees.” Brendan glances at his bike, hidden behind a bush. “Alright,” he says, “I’ll pay you whatever you want. Just let me up!” Francis drops a knotted rope and swings open a little door. “Hurry up,” he says. “I might change my mind!” Brendan climbs up the rope and makes his way into the tree house. He scuttles to the back and hides. “Who are you hiding from?” asks Francis. “Bullies?” Brendan replies. “Yeah, what’s it matter to you?” With a starry look in his eyes, Francis sympathizes with Brendan. “Everyone has bullies,” he says. “You think I don’t understand what you’re going through? Why do you think I built this tree house? To protect myself!” Brendan appears impressed. “You built this tree house all on your own?” Francis twiddles his thumbs. “Well, no,” he says, “my mom and dad did. But I did do the interior decorating.” Ricky’s voice is heard outside. “Hey! Twerp! We know you’re in there! Come on out! Face your destiny like a man!” Francis goes to the window and looks below. “Go away!” he says with a tempered tone. “Nobody is in here!” But Ricky and his hoodlums stay put. “I’m not moving,” says Ricky, “‘till you give up that douche bag in your tree house!” Francis glances back at Brendan. “What’s a douche bag?” Brendan clears his throat. “It’s a, uh, feminine hygiene product. You’ll learn about it later.” Francis yells down at Ricky. “There aren’t any…there aren’t any feminist hi jean products in here!” Ricky glowers and starts climbing the tree house rope. “Uh-oh,” says Francis. He dashes to a dusty old trunk and opens the lid. “Is he gone?” asks Brendan. “Not yet,” says Francis. His hands lower down and grab a blue plastic pail. He takes it to the window and looks down at Ricky who is nearly

halfway up. “I’m warning you,” says Francis. “You try getting in here and I’ll have to get rough!” As Ricky continues up, he tilts his head back and looks. A water balloon suddenly drops on his face. Splash! He loses grip and falls on to the hoodlums below. Francis chuckles, “Heh-heh-heh.” Ricky stands and screams with clenched fists. “Alright!” he says. “You wanna play hardball!? Then let’s play hardball!” He goes into backyard shed and kicks open the door. His eyes search inside. There is a gleaming chainsaw in the corner. Ricky picks it up and takes it to the tree house. He pulls on the cord and gets it going. Rrrrr! Rrrrrr! Carbon dioxide spews out the back, giving the air a gassy smell. With a sinister grin, Ricky slowly moves the blade of the chainsaw closer to the tree. “Say ‘hello’ to my little friend!” Francis looks back at Brendan with a worried face. “Hold on!” he says. “It’s going to get a little rough!” The hoodlums step back as Ricky lifts the chainsaw aloft, readying to “slice and dice.” But a voice suddenly calls from behind. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing with that!? Put that down!” Ricky turns around. The hoodlums divide to the side as an older boy in a karate uniform, a gi, walks forward. Frank rolls up his sleeves and growls. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing? Because if you’re gonna try and do what I think you’re doing, you are not going to get to do it. I won’t let you. I won’t let you do what I think you’re going to do. So you can’t do what you’re going to do. Don’t even try and do it.” Ricky looks extremely confused. “Stand back,” he says, “or somebody is going to lose their head!” Frank hops into a karate stance. His bare feet plant into the ground. “I’m warning you,” he says. “I’m a black belt. And not just any black belt, man! A super-duper black belt! Why, my belt is so black, it looks like a cigarette smoker’s lungs!” “I’m not afraid you,” says Ricky. “I’m the one in your backyard with a gas powered chainsaw. I’m the one with a gang of feisty hoodlums. You really think you can take me? I’d like to see that. Come on. Make my day, shit-head.” Frank closes his eyes, focusing his qi and gathering the energy of the universe. He feels an electricity rising up his body. Then his legs suddenly do a flying jump kick. Kiyah! Ricky gets struck in his gut and flies into the chain link fence behind. Frank catches the chainsaw and turns to the hoodlums. “Get out of my backyard,” he says with narrowed eyes. “Otherwise I might actually get angry.” The hoodlums take to their heels and run away. Frank grabs Ricky by the shirt. He lifts him to his feet. “I don’t know why you’re here, but if you ever decide to return, this chainsaw I’m holding is going to go up your ass. Got it?” Ricky becomes hysterical. His face twitches with a mix of emotions. Nobody has ever stood up to him before…and if they did, they got their asses thoroughly kicked. “Alright!” says Ricky. “I’m going!” He breaks free of Ricky’s grip and runs away with a girlish scream. Francis steps away from the window in the tree house and gives a thumbs-up to Brendan. “They’re gone.” Brendan stands; though barely, for his head would certainly hit the ceiling. “So what do I owe you for your services, Francis?” Francis waddles over to Brendan and sticks a hand into one of his pockets. “I like surprises,” he says. Then he pulls out the piece of white paper from earlier before.

“Can I have this?” With a smile, Brendan nods. Francis looks at the paper. It’s a pencil sketch of a mermaid; the one from the lake. Obsession In a hot room, on a stool, sitting in his underwear, Brendan is painting on a canvas. He dabs his brush in orange paint from a palette and begins making fine strokes. Several minutes later; and a picture starts to form. It looks like a goldfish, but only its back half. Then the other colors come into play, peach and yellow, forming what appears to be a blonde haired girl…a mermaid. Knock! Knock! “Brendan,” says Lucas outside the door, “what’re you doing in there? Are you okay?” He lets himself in. Brendan jumps from his stool. “Dad, can’t you see I’m doing something?!” Lucas slowly turns, looking at the bright colors of the room. It is filled with an unsettling amount of mermaid paraphernalia, from top to bottom, and side to side, every corner has something. “Brendan,” says Lucas, treading with care, “are the kids at school really into mermaid stuff right now? Is this some sort of new fad that I don’t know about? Because I don’t really keep up with these things, you know, I’m pretty busy with work and all, so….” “It’s not a fad with the kids,” says Brendan. “It’s not something everyone’s doing. I’m just a little passionate about mermaids. It’s nothing to worry about. It’s totally healthy.” Ambling around the room, Lucas finds and picks up a pair of mermaid underwear. It dangles off his fingers. “Not healthy?” he says. “You’re wearing undies with fish people on it!” Brendan folds his arms and drops his with that “parents just don’t understand” look. Lucas recants. “Okay,” he says, “maybe I’m getting a little over worked up here. Maybe I’m wrong. And if I’m being too judgmental, I apologize. I understand the myth and allure of mermaids. I just think that you’re being a bit materialistic about it.” “Don’t change the subject,” says Brendan. “This isn’t about materialism. You think I’ m a freak, don’t you? Well, so what if I am? So what if your son is sexually obsessed with mermaids?!” The room goes silent. Father and son look at each other, unsure how to continue. Lucas clears his throat. “Brendan, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with mermaids. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with collecting mermaid stuff, even if you’re a man. And I definitely don’t think you’re a freak. But it does worry a father when his boy spends all his time alone in a room, painting merfolk, and sequestering himself like he’s a juror in the OJ Simpson trial. The isolation is unhealthy. That is what worries me. You should be out having fun and not watching….” Lucas picks up a DVD lying on Brendan’s TV. “Is this pornography?” The artwork on the disc is of two mermaids getting it on, doing 69. “I didn’t watch it,” says Brendan. “I got it for 99 cents at the video store. It was a fire sale. Apparently they’re closing down due to competition from digital downloads. But personally, I like DVDs and VHS tapes. It’s something to hold in your hands, lend to a friend, and you get spiffy artwork; which is why I bought that thing in the first place. As you can see, dad, the characters are really well drawn.” “Alright,” says Lucas, “I’ll buy that. But I still think you should leave your room and get some fresh air. It is the summer, after all, and a young man like

yourself should not be spending it indoors.” A feeling of dread overwhelms Brendan. His body suddenly stiffens as he anticipates what ideas his father will come up with. “Oh no,” thinks Brendan aloud in his head. “I hope this isn’t an intervention.” He feels an arm around his shoulder. “Son,” says Lucas, “I have some time off, and since we haven’t been spending any quality time with each other, I think we should go on a road trip. I know it sounds lame, but I think it’ll be really cool. Just you and me. Driving up and down the country. Seeing all sorts of neat stuff. It’ll be so fun! I mean, what better way to spend your summer than with your dad?” On the Road A green van travels down a dusty road, an empty place, free of both animals and people, there is an unsettling quiet. The air ripples in the heat with the sun shining brightly above, uninhibited by the clouds, a scorching day is created. “Holy shit,” says Brendan inside the van, “it’s as hot as hell. Why in Christ’s name don’t you have air conditioning?” Lucas concentrates as he drives, visualizing the destination in his head. “Son, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t swear so much. And for your information, this van does have air conditioning…it just doesn’t work.” Brendan groans. He sticks his head out the window trying to catch some relief, but it only feels like his head is put in an oven. He slips back into the van and fidgets. “Want to listen to some music?” asks Lucas. His hand reaches for the radio and tunes in to a station: oldies and classics. Surprisingly, Brendan enjoys the music. Though seemingly seething with regret about the road trip, he is calmed by the voices of “The Mamas & the Papas.” California Dreamin’ indeed. “Do you know where we’re going?” asks Lucas. Brendan puts up his feet. He presses his legs together, imagining if he had a fish tail. “No idea,” he says, “but I’m hoping it’s somewhere cool. Literally. I literally mean that. I hope the temperature is cool.” Lucas smirks. “Yeah, it should be cool. I don’t know how cool, but, uh, definitely not like the inside of a sauna…. Don’t worry, son! Dad has it all planned out!” “That’s what I’m afraid of,” says Brendan aloud in his head. He turns his body to the side to lean closer to the window, but before he can relax, the van suddenly starts to slow down. It turns and goes on to a semi-constructed street where there is a large white building in the shape of a starfish. “We’re here,” says Lucas as he takes the van into the parking lot. He circles around and finds a spot shaded by a tree. Then he and Brendan step outside. “What is this place?” asks Brendan as he walks along with Lucas. “Why’s it shaped like a ninja star?” “It’s not a ninja star,” says Lucas, “it’s a starfish.” Stepping over a curb, Brendan nods. He wipes the sweat away from his forehead and sighs under his breath. Sure, he loves his father, but sometimes hanging out with him can be exasperating. A man his age should be playing poker and enjoying stogies, not gallivanting around with his son, doing frivolous activities that a pot smoking hippy would enjoy. No. It’s not right. Brendan and Lucas go into the starfish shaped building. After stepping out from an airlock, they arrive in the lobby. It is an ornately decorated place with a strong under the sea theme; plastic fish hung on the rafters, sharks, boats,

seaweed, and dummies of overboard passengers. The smell of the place is musky like an overcrowded pier, but it’s much more quiet. Lucas takes Brendan to the front counter. He looks around, seeing nobody present, only a cup of hot steaming coffee. It seems unusual. You’d think somebody would be here to enjoy it. “Let’s get out of here,” says Brendan. A lady suddenly jumps up and appears. She is an unusual looking individual, with too broad shoulders stretching out a dark blue vest sitting on top of her pinstriped shirt. “Hello there!!” she says spiritedly. “Sorry about that! I was just catching a few Z’s! How can I help you?” “I’ll have a large fries and a coke,” says Brendan facetiously. Lucas taps him in the rib with his elbow. Then he turns his eyes toward the Clerk. “Hi,” he says. The Clerk repeats. “Hi!” He continues. “Uh, yes, hi…. Can we get two full access tickets?” As Lucas gets out his wallet, the Clerk apologizes. “Oh! I’m so sorry! No! We ran out! Can I get you anything else!?” She picks up her cup of coffee and downs it like a thirsty marathoner. Brendan whispers to Lucas. “I wouldn’t trust her, dad. The chick looks like she’s on a caffeine high.” Clearing his throat, Lucas inquires for more details. “Not to be one of those annoying customers, but why can’t we get full access? We drove a pretty long way to come here.” The Clerk bangs her head on the counter. Bang! Bang! Bang! “Oh,” she cries, “I should have never opened up this place! I can’t even run it right! What’s wrong with me! What I ask!? What!?” Brendan and Lucas cautiously take a step back, fearing for their lives. The Clerk continues her rant. Her fingers curl with regret. “I knew I should have gone to college! Instead I had to open up this dumb business! What irony! A place where things go belly up…is going belly up! Augh! I wish I’d never watched ‘Finding Nemo’! Things would be different today! But that’s an ‘if’! If only!” Lucas pats the Clerk on the shoulder. “Hey. There, there. We don’t need full access tickets. Any will do. We just want to see the fishies. That’s all. Can we get two tickets…any tickets?” The Clerk whips up her head. With a broad faux smile, she rapidly punches numbers onto a keypad. Two tickets for the aquarium print out. She hands them to Brendan and Lucas. ““Enjoy your time at the Starfish Aquarium! No refunds or exchanges!” Lucas puts his hands in his pockets and waddles away with Brendan. They leave the lobby and go through an oversized archway. Nearly three stories high, it looks large enough to fit a sperm whale. And it leads into a hallway, but no ordinary hallway, a hallway encompassed by fish and other animals of the deep mysterious ocean. The ceiling and walls are made of glass, which look directly into the creatures’ aquatic environment. Beautifully lit; the sunlight above filters through the aqua blue water, casting a colored shadow onto Brendan and Lucas. “Dad,” says Brendan, “do you believe in mermaids?” Lucas takes a moment to answer. His eyes wander around. “Son,” he says in a gentle voice, “when I was your age, when I was young, I used to believe in a lot of things. But as I grew up… I learned the truth. Life is horrible and people make stuff up to escape reality. Remember that time when your pet bird died and I told you it went to heaven? That was complete bullshit. But you knew that…right?” A choking feeling overwhelms Brendan, but he swallows his feelings, bottling them deep down in his gut. He tries not to get emotional, staring at the back of a

sea turtle, imagining something else. “I know,” he says, trying to avoid reading between the lines, “but my question was about mermaids, not your general worldview. I asked you if you believed in mermaids, dad. So, don’t sidestep the question. Do you?” “I don’t,” says Lucas. “I don’t believe the mermaids exist. Yeah, I’ve heard the legends and the stories…a lot of them from intelligible people. I’ve even seen real documents with sailor testimony. But ultimately, there isn’t enough evidence. Everything is apocryphal. You’d think by now they’d have a skeleton or something other. They don’t.” “So you don’t believe in what those sailors told you?” asks Brendan. “Not at all,” says Lucas. “They were under an extremely high amount of stress when they were at sea. They could’ve seen a manatee and though it was a mermaid. And that’s probably what happened.” Brendan folds his arms, replying with a subdued retort. “Maybe mermaids only appear when people are in need and under stress? Have you ever thought about that?” “That’s an interesting hypothesis,” says Lucas. “A lot of those sailors saw the mermaids when they were caught in heady storms. But I’m still not so sure.” Brendan voice goes up, almost as if he were pleading with his dad. “Look, I can understand you not believing those sailors. They’re total strangers and you don’t know them…but what about me? Don’t you believe me? Don’t you believe what I saw? And don’t deny my credibility. I’m an A student. I’m straight edge. No drugs, no cigarettes, no booze. I’m practically a teetotaler; so I when I saw that mermaid I wasn’t high and I wasn’t intoxicated.” Lucas rubs his chin. “Or were you?” Brendan rolls his eyes. The aquatic hallway ends. The two enter into the main area of the aquarium. It’s airy and empty. Except for some strewn what-appears-to-be construction equipment, there isn’t much to see. “What is this?” asks Lucas. “There’s nothing here.” Then he remembers what the clerk at the front said, about there not being full access passes. This must be the reason why. “Hey, Mack!” calls Brendan to a worker poised on an aluminum ladder. “What’s the deal!?” The worker turns around. His furry eyebrows push up in surprise; turns out this heavyset fellow with the thick beard is actually named Mack. “How’d you know my name?” he asks in a gruff voice. “I ain’t never seen you before.” “Wild guess,” says Brendan. Mack comes down from the ladder. He pushes up the yellow hardhat on his head. “You must be pretty peeved,” he says. “And I don’t owe you an explanation because I’m not the owner. But since I got nothing better to do, I will tell you. The aquarium’s been going through some financial difficulties and the only reason I’m here is because of contractual obligation. They already paid me, but as I said, I ain’t got nothing to do. They don’t even not got no cement to fill the floors. You call this a business? It’s a disaster! It’s like rain on your wedding day. It’s like a free ride when you’ve already paid. It’s the good advice that you just didn’t….” “Stop right there,” says Brendan. “Are you repeating the lyrics to Alanis Morissette’s song ‘Ironic’?” Mack looks down and shyly points his toe to the floor, motioning it like a ratchet. “Aw, I like her,” he says. “Is that so wrong?” Lucas folds his arms and exhales with disappointment. “Well, son, I guess that’s it. There’s nothing to see here. Let’s go home.” As Lucas starts to walk away with

Brenda, Mack calls out. “Wait,” he yells, “you don’t need to leave! There’s a completed exhibition in the back. I think you’ll like it. At least check it out before you go and ask for a refund…. Eileen would really appreciate it. You know, the crazy lady you probably met at the front.” Lucas looks at Brendan with his fingers tucked into his front pockets. “What do you think?” Brendan shrugs. “We’re already here. If there’s something we may as well see it. I mean, it would be sort of pointless to just leave, having only seen that tunnel.” Mack gives a grin and points to the direction to follow. “Jus’ go straight ‘till you reach the end. Then take a turn. You can’t miss it.” Brendan and Lucas follow the instructions. They go straight and take a turn. “Holy shit!” yells Brendan. He and Lucas run forward. Their faces press against the enormous tank of water. The reinforced glass is nearly five feet thick. The blue whale inside rises to the surface, exposing its back to the tepid air. “Wow,” says Lucas in awe. He bends back and looks up. The blue whale roars. It bellows like a trumpet, vibrating the entire aquarium. A heavy mist drops down. Brendan uses his sleeve to wipe his dampened face. “Man,” he says, still filled with enthusiasm, “that thing’s gotta be longer than a bus.” “Excuse me down there,” says a voice. “Do you know how to get out of here? I seem to be lost.” Brendan looks at the Blue Whale. He rubs his eyes. “Nah,” he thinks, “couldn’t be.” The Blue Whale repeats herself. “Excuse me down there. Do you know how to get out of here? I seem to be lost. I’d like to go home. This pond is quite small. I’ve been getting cramps in my tail.” Lucas can’t hear the voice of the Blue Whale, he continues standing like everything’s normal. Holding his head, Brendan thinks he’s going schizophrenic. But he decides to respond. “You’re not in a pond,” he says with a whisper. “You’re in an aquarium.” “What’s an aquarium?” asks the Blue Whale. Brendan glances at Lucas, checking to see if he’s paying attention, but he isn’t; probably because the one if hearing aids for his ears is missing. “An aquarium is made by people,” explains Brendan. “It’s used to, uh, ‘house’ aquatic creatures. You’re on display for humans to see…for their amusement.” “And how,” says the Blue Whale, “do I amuse you?” Still in disbelief that he is talking to a whale, Brendan hesitates to answer. “Well,” he stammers, “uh, you’re big. I guess, uh, your size turns people on.” The Blue Whale curls down her lips. “So I’m just a big joke to you humans, is that it?” Brendan steps back, afraid the Blue Whale is going to jump out in anger and crush him. “No,” he replies nervously, “that’s not it at all.” The Blue Whale submerges and moves closer to the glass of the tank, staring with her basketball sized eye at Brendan and Lucas. “Get me out of here,” she says, “and I promise not to eat you.” Brendan laughs. “First of all,” he says, “you’re trapped in a glass tank. Second of all, even if you could escape, even if this whole place was flooded and you could swim, you don’t eat humans. You eat krill; tiny little creatures that look like shrimp. I fail to see the threat.” The Blue Whale becomes infuriated. She bangs her head on the glass in front of her. Lucas falls from the rumble. Brendan takes him by the arm and pulls him up. “Let’s get out of here!” he says. “This whale’s got a case of ocean madness!” The Blue Whale is in a rage, ramming wildly with her head and body, but before Brendan and Lucas can escape, the tank’s glass

cracks and breaks. The entire room is flooded with water; millions upon millions of gallons of salty water. Lucas grabs Brendan and pushes him down as the Blue Whale swings her massive tail. It misses and knocks down a marbled support pillar. “See my wrath!” she screams. “I can act like a shark, too! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!” A sudden wave of water pushes Brendan and Lucas out of the room. They’re carried into the hallway, past Mack, past the aquatic tunnel, past Eileen, and washed out of the Starfish Aquarium. Soaked to the bone, they stand and look back. The Blue Whale’s snout rams through the concrete wall. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” she says. “Should we do something?” asks Brendan. “Yeah,” says Lucas, “let’s get the hell out of here. The two run away and jump into their van. As they speed away, they can see Eileen vanishing in the rearview mirror, screaming hysterically. Her business is ruined. Brendan looks worried. He buckles his seatbelt. He feels responsible, as if he was the one who caused the accident. “Don’t worry, son,” says Lucas. “She’ll be fine. I’m sure she has insurance for all intents and porpoises.” (Ah-ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!) “Dad,” says Brendan somberly, “does our family have a history of mental illness?” He tries not to hint about the whale talking at the aquarium. “What a funny question,” replies Lucas. “No. Of course not. Our family’s never had any history of mental illness. And although I may not believe it, not on your mother’s side either.” With a sigh, Brendan pulls the lever by the side of his seat and reclines as if he’s in a psychiatrist’s office. “Sometimes I feel like I’m going out of my mind. It’s like there’s a crushing weight on my shoulder, but there’s nothing I can do to relieve it. I try to run away from it, trying to push off the feeling, but it sticks. Is this normal? Is this just teenage angst? Or am I going bonkers? Maybe it’s because I’m turning eighteen. Maybe it’s because I know that the world’s going to officially stamp me as an adult. Why do I feel so old? I know I’m not old.” “Wait!” says Lucas with a snap of his fingers. “I remember something. Your great, great, great uncle was a renowned animal whisperer. When he was younger his parents thought he had a mental problem, because he used to speak to animals, and well, they never spoke back. So they had him institutionalized when he was about seven or eight. But one day one of the nurses saw him playing in the yard with the cats, and he could make them do all sorts of tricks; rolling on the floor, playing dead, shaking hands, jumping through hoops, filling out tax return forms.” Brendan leers at his dad with skepticism. Lucas continues. “Well,” he says, “okay, maybe not filling out tax returns, but it was pretty amazing stuff. Anyway, to make a long story short, he became a serial killer and killed dozens of prostitutes.” “What!?” exclaims Brendan, nearly choking. “You asked about mental illness in our family,” says Lucas. “There you go. If that isn’t mental illness, I don’t know what is.” Brendan feels like he’s melting into his seat. “Oh my god!” he thinks. “I’m related to the poor man’s version of Jack the Ripper!” Lucas’ eyes roll down, looking tentatively at the dashboard. The fuel gauge is almost on “E.” Then a second later, the van sputters and stops. Brendan and Lucas are stranded on a dusty road with nobody in sight. “Are we out of gas?” asks Brendan. Lucas shrugs. “I believe so.” In the middle of nowhere, without tow truck service available in the

region, the two reluctantly go outside and stand under the hot sun. They wait for a car to appear. And in the ending minutes of an hour, one does arrive. The two put their arms out with thumbs up like a pair of poor, dirty hitchhikers. The pickup truck whips forward. Almost going by, it makes a sudden stop and reverses. A man in oil stained overalls bends out the window. There is a Great Dane in the seat next to him. He greets Brendan and Lucas. “Hi, y’all! Which direction you headed in?” He points with two fingers. “Am goin’ this-a-way. Hop on back! I’ll get you city slickers home.” With trepidation, but knowing that they have no other choice, Brendan and Lucas get into the bed of the truck. They sit around heaps of manure and circling flies. “I’m going to pass out,” says Brendan as the truck begins moving. “Plug your nose,” suggests Lucas, “and breathe through your nose.” Brendan chooses to not, deciding he’d rather get stink in his nose than a fly in his mouth. “How yah doing back there?” asks Gus, the man driving the pickup truck. He moves the shifter beside him and gets into fourth gear. “Thank you,” replies Lucas as bits of manure lift from the wind and stick to his clothes. “We’re okay!” Gus turns to his Great Dane. “You know, Maxine,” he says while keeping an eye on the road, “I feel good about myself. Sure. I hear you out. Papa did a lot of bad things earlier on in the day, but I am trying to balance it out. And that’s the way caramel works. You do something bad; then you do something good to smooth it over. Yim and Yam.” The Great Dane whimpers at her owner’s stupidity. Her paws go over her eyes in embarrassment as if she were being watched by a live studio audience. “This truck smells funny,” says Lucas as he sniffs the air. “No shit,” says Brendan with a smirk. “It’s full of cow and horse crap.” Lucas looks at the pile of manure sitting in the middle of the truck bed, studying the rectangular shape; almost bearing resemblance to a coffin. “That’s not what I’m talking about,” he says with a sniff. “It smells like sulfur and burnt hair. The scent is subtle, but it’s there.” Brendan crosses his legs, and despite the stench, begins to relax. “Oh, dad. You worry too much. Haven’t you ever hitchhiked and taken a ride in the back of a redneck’s crap filled truck?” Then out of nowhere a crow comes down from the sky and lands in the truck. Using its stilt-like legs it totters forward to the top of the manure. It pecks into it with its yellow peak and flaps its jet-black wings with fervor as it pulls out a long, juicy, pink worm. It slurps it up like a long strand of noodle. Brendan lowers his hand and picks up a rock lying beside him. Lucas turns his head and looks. “Don’t do it!” he exclaims in whisper. But the warning is too late. The rock hurls toward the crow. The black bird jumps and flutters away. Then suddenly the pile of manure starts to move. It shifts and it crumbles apart. Thousands of worms appear, teeming from the dead body of a skinny man. Green steam rises from the corpse and the stink is released. Brendan and Lucas gag at the same time. They vomit onto the black rubber mat of the pickup truck, adding to the already overwhelming smell. Gus looks in his side rear view mirror and sees “his guests” making an escape. He watches as they land onto a hill of sand and go tumbling down. “I told you we shouldn’t have gone on this road trip!” yells Brendan as he rolls. “I honestly thought you would like it!” says Lucas. “You know, when I was

your age, my father never took me anywhere! He always used to say, ‘Son, why travel when we have TV? Behold the wonderments of science! You can go anywhere in the world by pressing a button! One day people will stop traveling for leisure! Uh-huh! It’s going to happen! People will hook themselves up to a machine and travel using virtual reality! It’ll be amazing! It should exist by the time you grow up! But even if it doesn’t, you’ll still have the flying car to look forward to! That will exist for sure!’” Brendan and Lucas stop rolling, having reached a plateau, they stand up and shake off the sand from their bodies. Brendan runs his hand through his hair. “Man,” he says as a clump of manure falls out, “I could’ve been at home vegging out with a box of popcorn and a raunchy movie. Now I smell like a Michigan garbage dump.” Lucas puts his hand out flat above his eyebrows. Shielding from the sun, he looks out. It is a vast wasteland full of nothingness…and a casino ran by Native Americans. The Two Bears Casino, renowned its hospitality and its one armed bandits. “We have to get to the casino,” says Lucas. “It’s our only hope for survival…or we can go the Catholic route and wait for Jesus Christ to arrive.” Brendan starts walking. “I’d rather not.” Lucas follows behind. “Try not to walk too fast, son,” he says. “You’ll waste your energy. Remember, slow and steady wins the race. It’s like that story by Aesop: ‘The Tortoise and the Hare.’ The Tortoise won because the Hare took steroids to become fast. So he succumbed to death by liver damage. Mind you, that was a long time ago. Their veterinarian medicine wasn’t as advanced as today.” Brendan holds his back, paining from the long, hot walk. “Dad,” he says, “I love you, but sometimes you talk about things I don’t really understand. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s a generation gap or maybe it’s ADD. Maybe there’s something I just can’t see. Maybe it’s because I’m a teenager who’s only interested in the proverbial ‘bird and bee.’ Still, I’ll try to listen, even if I go mad, I wouldn’t want to upset my dad. Because you’ve had a rough life, and a picky wife, and a knife that just wouldn’t cut, I’d like to extend my sympathies, even if we’re in a rut. So don’t feel like a bum. Take my hand and take me as a chum. In these barren lands, amongst these sands, we must stick together, goopity, goopity, goo.” “Goopity, goopity, goo?” repeats Lucas. “What does that…?” Brendan suddenly faints and falls; face into the ground. He has passed out from exhaustion and dehydration. His body wasn’t able to handle the harsh conditions of the weather. “Oh my God!” screams Lucas with his hands pressed against his temples. “Brendan!” He drops down to his knees and tries to shake his son awake, but it doesn’t work. So he picks up Brendan and puts him onto his shoulders. “Even if my legs break,” says Lucas as he walks with heavy steps, “I’ll get you home.” Several miles and several hours later and Lucas with Brendan on his shoulders finally arrive at the Two Bears Casino. It is a grandiose estate with two glassy towers; one representing one bear and one representing the other. It’s a sight that makes eyes sore. Dressed in a blend of Caucasian and Native American culture, a highly bastardized decorum, the buildings send strongly mixed messages. “At last,” declares Lucas, “we’re here.” He looks up and tries to decide

which tower to enter: the one with the polar bear sign or the one with the grizzly sign. “I like the grizzly,” thinks Lucas aloud, “it’s very traditional. But the polar bear seems modern and cool. It seems like it’s saying, ‘Chill and relax.’ That’s the message I’m getting. What do you think, Brendan?” Drool drops from Brendan’s mouth. He groans an incomprehensible string of words. “Guuuraguuur….” Lucas takes him to the casino building with the polar bear theme. As he steps inside, through the automatic sliding doors, he immediately feels the cool air drop onto his body. His sweating starts to subside. He lays Brendan onto the floor. He goes to get help, but feels a hand on his chest. It pushes him back. “I’m sthorry,” says a casino worker wearing an arctic white vest with a heavy lisp, “but you can’t justh leave your friend on the floor.” “Jesus H. Christ!” yells Lucas. “Can’t you see my son’s in trouble?! He needs help! He’s unconscious! Call an ambulance for the love of God!” The casino worker gives a “whatever face” and puts his hands on his chest like a queen. “Well,” he says, “exsthcuuuse me! Sthomebody woke up on the wrong sthide of the bed this morning!” Lucas takes the Casino Worker by his vest and pulls him in. “Listen to me, you twit! If you don’t get me some help, I am going to squeeze your neck so hard that your eyeballs fall out of your head! Got it?!” The casino worker narrows his eyes…then releases a bitch slap on Lucas’ face. Lucas lets go, taken aback by the abrasive gesture. “Sthir,” says the casino worker, “I understhtand your conctherns. But I will not be treated like sthome sthreet hussy! I am a lady!” The crazy radar in Lucas’ brain starts to go off. “What is this man going on about? Is he mentally ill?” The casino worker rips away his vest. As ivory buttons fall to the floor, he sticks out his chest. He has a set of full, C-cup breasts…but it looks quite horrendous. Lopsided and uneven, the surgeon who did the operation must’ve been legally blind. A crowd gathers around. “What are those?!” asks Lucas with bewilderment. “Thesthe are my breasthts!” the casino workers exclaims as he sticks out his chest. “I am going through a seriesths of sthurgeries to transthform mysthelf into what I wasth truly meant to be…a woman! A lady! A female! A girl! A persthon with feelingsths and emotionsths!” Lucas feels dizzy. Maybe it’s from all the bells, whistles, and lights; or maybe it’s from the cone shaped breasts waving in front of him. They seem to have a hypnotic power. “I respect your life decisions,” says Lucas. “But I think showing me your boobs is a bit inappropriate and not very relevant to the situation.” “Oh my God!” screams a woman in the crowd. She shoves forward through the people and lowers herself by Brendan. “What happened to my baby!?” Brendan begins to stirs. He opens his eyes. “Mom?” he says. “What’re you doing here? Where am I?” Bonnie snaps her head back at Lucas and shoots him daggers with her eyes. “Lucas! What is our son doing on the floor?!” she asks with contempt frothing from her throat. “I came to this casino to have a good time and spend the money I got from our divorce, and what do I find!? A man with breasts and my son half-dead on the floor! Can’t you do anything right?!” More people gather around to see what’s going on. The crowd thickens. Lucas can feel their eyes, watching and wondering. His man hood is at stake by his exwife. Dare raise his voice in front of Brendan and make an awkward situation even more awkward? No. He decides it’s enough to be a sarcastic son of a bitch.

“No,” says Lucas, “I can’t do anything right. I can’t even pick a wife properly. I always seem to go for the overbearing, knaggy, ill-mannered, ungenerous, greedy, women. I guess I’m sort of a masochist. Don’t you think?” Bonnie reaches into her purse and takes out a half-full bottle of vitamin water. She unscrews the cap and gives it to Brendan to drink. He chugs it down in a second; then he is helped to his feet. He seems to be fine. His clothes are wrinkled, still smelling a bit like shit, but everything else appears to be in okay condition. “Lucas,” says Bonnie, “you are an immature man. That is why we got divorced. You think it’s my fault because I was a nag? I only nagged you because I gave a damn. But you never gave a damn, not even half a damn. I asked you to pick up your socks. You didn’t do it. I asked you to clean your dishes after you ate. You didn’t do it. I asked you to put the toilet seat down. You didn’t do it. You pretty much never did anything I asked of you. You were always drowned in your books and your imaginary world. It’s like I didn’t even exist! You are an asshole!” Lucas eyes start to well up. Brendan tries to defuse the situation. He jumps in with an erroneous comment. “I’m gay!” he says. The crowd gasps. A slot machine bell goes off in the distance. “I won!” yells an elderly lady. “I won!” Bonnie grabs Brendan around his wrist. “I’m taking my son home,” she says to Lucas. “It seems that spending time with his father has left him weird and confused!” Lucas appears dazed, not knowing the real intentions of his son and what his statement was supposed to be, he stands frozen and watches Bonnie take away Brendan. Brendan glances back, but is physically drawn away. The crowd around Lucas disappears. Standing alone, he thinks of the moments of his life and where he went wrong. The noises of the casino seem to quiet down as he goes into deep thought. His mind flashes back to when Bonnie was pregnant and she was his wife. Lucas didn’t take her to the hospital or show up their either. He was busy doing a gig at the local pub. He played for a crowd of three with a band called the “Bared Naked Biff,” and he only earned $10.00 in change…mostly pennies…which he used to buy reefer.” “Maybe I should just leave Brendan alone,” says Lucas as he snaps out of his stupor. He mumbles to himself. “I’ve never done him any good. I’m not a father. I’m an oaf, I’m a buffoon, I’m a putz; anything but a father. I may be old, I may have a car, a house, and a good job, but I’m a boy with a tie. Bonnie may be a bit of cunny sometimes, but she’ll take better care of my son than me. I should leave him alone. I’m a screw up.” “Oh sthtop!” says the casino worker, still present for some odd reason. “You’re being sthuch a drama queen!” Lucas grimaces. He pushes the casino worker out of the way and charges to the bar. He sits on the stool upholstered in red pleather. The bartender appears with a cloth in hand, probably from wiping the counters. “How can I help you?” he asks. “Hard liquor,” barks Lucas with his elbows pointed forward, “and make it snappy.” The Bartender bends and reaches below into the cooler. He takes out a bottle of “Snappy Vodka.” He pours it into a shot glass. Lucas immediately grabs it and swallows down the astringent tasting liquid. “Lost some money at the tables?” asks the Bartender pretending to be sympathetic, but really only wanting a larger tip. “No,” replies Lucas with a sharp tone, “I wouldn’t be in a pouty mood over money. What? How shallow do you think I am? C’mon, gimme another shot.” The

Bartender dispenses more vodka. “So what’s the problem?” Lucas suddenly bursts into tears. He cries like a baby; loud and high pitched. “I’m retarded!” he wails. “I’m mentally challenged and I can’t get my life together.” “Yeah,” mutters the bartender, “and you’re also politically incorrect.” Lucas gets up from his stool. Still sulking and wallowing in self-pity, he ambles away and leaves the casino. The Bartender shakes his head. “Ah, booze and gambling… brings out the worst in people, don’t it?” Then he suddenly realizes he wasn’t paid for the drinks. His fist shakes as he shouts. “Hey! Get back here, you asshole!” Moms Know Best Lying on a long, velvety couch, Brendan stares up at the ceiling, listening to his mother’s thinly voice with consternation. “Now,” says Bonnie in a cushy armchair, “when did you start having these hallucinations?” Brendan gives a blunt reply. “They’re not hallucinations.” Bonnie jots down something onto her lined notepad. “Mom,” says Brendan, “I’m not one of your patients. You don’t have to take notes. And I think the tape recorder is a bit much.” Bonnie reaches over her chair and presses the stop button on a tape recorder laying on the floor. “Okay,” she says, “if these things you’ve talked about aren’t hallucinations, then what do you believe they are and why is it happening?” Brendan sits up and gives a sidelong glance. “I’m the antichrist.” Bonnie tries to hide her scowl. “How dare he mock my profession!” she think aloud in her head. Then the room goes quiet for a moment as mother realizes that she and her son are at odd ends. Brendan it seems has inherited the boyish personality of his father; sharp and witty, but not the most responsible in the world. “Relax,” thinks Bonnie. “Just finish this session.” She continues. “Okay,” she says to Brendan. “Tell me about this fish lady you saw. Can you describe it in detail?” Brendan corrects her. “Mermaid, she is a mermaid. Not a fish lady.” Bonnie pushes up the glasses on her nose. “Right,” she says. “Could you please describe this mermaid to me? How did she look? And how did you feel when you saw her?” Leaning back, Brendan closes his eyes and imagines. “She was beautiful,” he says, “overwhelmingly beautiful. Even though the water was dark when I saw her, she had such a bright glow. Her hair was like the sun and her tail was like fire. It was the most intense thing I have ever seen. I felt like I died and went to heaven. I can barely, barely, barely describe her beauty. Telling you how she looks is like describing a sunset to a blind person. You wouldn’t understand… but I don’t expect you to understand. She was totally hot. She kind of looked like that girl from those ‘Harry Potter’ movies.” “Which one?” asks Bonnie. “Is it, what’s her name, Hermione?” Brendan laughs at his mother’s ignorant pronunciation. Ha-ha-ha! “No, mom,” he says. “Her name is pronounced ‘her-my-knee,’ not ‘her-me-one.’ You should know. Haven’t you seen the movies by now? They made like $10,000,000,000.” Bonnie admits she hasn’t seen them. “I’m sorry. I don’t watch children’s movies. I’m not like you father. Personally, I enjoy entertainment that is closer grounded to reality. Have you ever seen ‘How the Grinch Stole Christmas’?” Brendan’s eyes open wide. “That’s a children’s movie,” he says. “A good one, but I thought you said you didn’t like children’s movies.” Bonnie uses her pen to

tap her nose in a condescending manner. “Read between the lines,” she says. “It’s not a children’s movie. Most people think it is, because a cartoon. But if you scratch the surface, you can see what it really is about.” “And what is it ‘really’ about?” asks Brendan. “Well,” says Bonnie, “it’s about anti-Semitism. It’s about how the Christians view Jewish people. You see, the Grinch is supposed to be a Jew. He is the stereotypical Jew. Now, I don’t agree with these stereotypes, but if you examine the character you can see what Seuss was going for. There are four main points here. First of all, the Grinch, like the Jews, is part of a minority. There’s only one of him. Second, he’s green. And what does green represent? That’s right, money. Because as we all know those Jews are always after money. Third, he lives high on a mountain, which is really a double entendre; it means he’s condescending and he is in the upper echelon of society, since Jews are always doctors, lawyers, or accountants. And fourth, finally, there’s the obvious. He hates Christmas and he hates the Whos, who represent the Christians, and he wants to ruin their celebration with a dose of menorahs. So to top it all off, when he steals their presents, they don’t even give a damn; because the Whos, the Christians, are above all of that materialistic S-H-I-T. Nope! They won’t let one greedy Jew ruin their holiday! Of course, that’s complete crap…. So do you see what I’m saying? It’s really a cartoon for adults. But it’s incognito.” Brendan’s mouth is agape, completely floored; he doesn’t even know how to respond. That is the most screwed up thing he has ever heard. A childhood classic has been ruined with cynical intellectualism…although, it does seem quite convincing. “What do you think?” asks Bonnie. “Am I way off here?” Brendan stands up and walks to the corner of the room. He puts his palms flat against the wall, bracing his body. “Mom,” he says, “I wanna go home now.” Pushing against the arms of her chair, Bonnie pushes herself up and stands. “Brendan,” she says, “I apologize for my lack of professionalism. But I still think further examination of yourself is required. So, we’ll call it a day for now and we’ll talk later. Okay?” With a lowered head, Brendan slowly spins around. He averts his mother’s gaze and steps toward the door. He grabs the brass doorknob and releases himself, at least temporarily, from Bonnie’s psychiatric grip. Bonnie sighs. She takes off her glasses and takes a seat on the couch. She turns her body and lies down. Her eyes shut with a sigh. What’s a mom to do? Mommy’s Boyfriend With a groggy face, Brendan walks downstairs. He rubs his eyes and sees his mother linking arms with a man who isn’t Lucas. She’s smiling from ear to ear. “Brendan,” she says, “I’d like to introduce somebody to you. This is my boyfriend, Ronald MacDonald. Yes. That is his real name, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t. He might be your new father one day.” Ronald MacDonald extends his arm for a handshake. “’Ello there!” he says in a thick English accent. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!” “I’m not too familiar with English colloquialisms,” replies Brendan, “but I think you should go bugger yourself. Did I say that correctly?” Bonnie looks at Ronald as he anxiously strokes the ends of his handlebar moustache, thinking of

what to say. He is offended, but does not want to say something nasty which he cannot take back. He would like to make a good impression, one of diplomacy and maturity. “Oh, that’s quite funny,” he says to Brendan with an obvious fake laughter. “You remind me of, um, Ed Byrne. Have you ever heard of Ed Byrne? He’s quite popular in the United Kingdom. He is, um, what do the kids say here in America? He is the ship. And I guarantee you, watch his DVD, and you will be bursting at the proverbial sides. It is so funny. There’s this one joke where he talks about Alanis Morissette and how she has ten thousand spoons, but she wants a knife. Hilarious stuff. Very hilarious.” “Sure,” replies Brendan in a droning voice. “Get out of those jammies,” says Bonnie. “We’re going to lunch. You look like a mess. Go upstairs and change, please.” Brendan grudgingly goes upstairs. He stamps his feet as he walks through the hallway and he goes into his room. It is a well decorated place, but filled with mementos of his childish past; things his mother kept to remind herself of her son, but also to keep her house from feeling sterile, cold, and empty. Brendan searches the closet. There are a lot of things to wear, but he doesn’t really care. He nonchalantly strips off his pajamas and jumps into a red tee and a pair of black pants. He goes back downstairs. “Is that what you’re going to wear?” asks Bonnie rhetorically. “Yeah,” says Brendan. “What’s wrong with it? Do I have a stain or something?” Ronald opens the front door impatiently. “I’ll be waiting in the car,” he says as he takes a step outside. “Let me know when your son gets into something appropriate.” He closes the door behind him and leaves. “Come here,” says Bonnie with a hooked index finger to her son. Brendan does as he’s told. “At least comb your hair so it doesn’t look like you just rolled out of bed.” Bonnie uses her tongue to wet her fingers and combs back Brendan’s hair, making him look like a nerd. “Aw, mom,” he says, “do I really have to go to this lunch? I’m not even hungry.” With nose in the air, Bonnie replies. “My dear son,” she says, “eating lunch is not to satiate your hunger. Breakfast is enough for that. A lunch is to talk and to socialize. The food is secondary. It’s only there to make things comfortable.” “And what about dinner?” asks Brendan. “What’s your take on that?” Bonnie is reluctant to reply. “I’ll tell you when you’re eighteen,” she says. Then she takes Brendan by the wrist and drags him out the house. The two get into Ronald’s car. Ronald looks in the rearview mirror at Brendan. “You didn’t change?” he asks. “Why not?” With crossed legs, Brendan puts gives a “V” for victory sign, the British equivalent to America’s middle finger. “My lord,” squeals Ronald, “did you see that, Bonnie? Your son flipped me off he did!” “I did not!” says Brendan. “I was giving a peace sign!” But Bonnie knows better. She knows her son is aware of English colloquialisms and slang. After all, he was an avid watcher of Benny Hill and Monty Python. “Will you behave yourself!” yells Bonnie with her head turned back. “I am trying to make the best of this situation. I didn’t want a divorce, Brendan, but that’s what happened. Your father and I didn’t get a long and we separated. Don’t take it out on my boyfriend. He’s trying to be as nice as possible and you’re giving everyone a hard time. Please! For the sake of my sanity, just be good. I know you’re a good boy. So don’t act like this. It’s not you…. Well, technically it is you, no matter how you act…. It’s

not like you can change bodies…. Aw, you know what I mean! Please, Brendan. For the love of your mother, could you behave?” Ronald MacDonald reverses off the driveway and starts heading toward the restaurant. Brendan buckles his seatbelt and stares at the piece of carpet lying on the floor. He feels bad. He feels like an idiot. He knows how contemptuous and tedious the whole divorce situation has been, and he shouldn’t be adding to the troubles. There’s more than enough shit in the pot to stir…so to speak. Tapping on the steering wheel, Ronald spies into the rearview mirror, seeing Brendan’s sad face, he feels a tinge of remorse. Maybe he was too harsh, too callous. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know how you feel about me. If I were you, I’d feel the same way. I’d hate me, too. I just want you to know, I’m not trying to be your father or anything like that. I’d be elated even if only you wanted to be friends… but I don’t expect that to happen either. I mean, I’m four years older than you. I know that there’s a generation gap between you and I. So let’s not have any expectations of each other. Let’s just be who we are and maybe, one day, we might get along.” Brendan lifts his head. Bonnie claps. “Ooh,” she says, “I feel a moment here. Are we male bonding?” Brendan folds his arms and turns his head to the window without a response. He stares out the window, looking at the park. He watches the moms and dads playing with their children…intact, happy families…the definition of wholesome goodness. Free Lunch “Have you ever been to this restaurant before?” asks Bonnie. “No,” reply Brendan and Ronald simultaneously. “Jinx!” declares Ronald. Brendan glares. “That’s so juve….” Ronald punches him in the arm. “What the hell!” says Brendan with a raised voice. “What do you mean ‘what the hell’?!” replies Ronald. “You talked! It’s the bloody game of jinx! We spoke at the exact same time and I said ‘jinx’ right afterward! Therefore unless you get un-jinxed, and somebody says your name, you cannot talk without getting a punch, which reminds me….” Ronald punches Brendan in the arm again, but this time he remains quiet. He sits silently and scowls his face. A waiter arrives to take orders. “Hellooooo,” he says in a snooty accent. “I am your garcon today. Have we decided what to eat?” He takes out a pencil from behind his ear, readying to write. The hanging lamp above the half-circle table swings from a draft as everyone looks their menus. Brendan puts his elbows on the red and white checkered table cloth. Bonnie pushes them off. “Manners,” she says under her breath. The waiter is getting tired with his nose pointed to the air. “Shall I come back at a later time?” he says without masking the irritation in his voice. “No,” says Ronald with his hand out, gesturing for the waiter not to leave. “I will have the lobster, swimming in butter, please.” The waiter looks at Bonnie. “I’ll have the same,” she says. The waiter looks at Brendan. “And you?” Brendan opens his mouth to speak, but notices Ronald making his hand into a fist. So he shuts up and decides not to speak. “What is the matter with you?” asks the waiter impatiently. “Did you not hear me ask for your

order? Are you deaf? Do you have a problem with excessive earwax? Shall I retrieve a Q-tip?” Searching his pockets, Brendan pulls out a golf pencil and a sheet of crumpled paper. He writes onto it and hands it to the waiter. The waiter takes it and reads it aloud. “Say my name…. Why would I say my name? I know perfectly well what my own name is and who I am. Jean Cartier De La Phoentas the Third. In west France, born and raised, on the playground where I spent most of my days, shooting b-ball outside the school, chilling out, maxing, relaxing all cool… when a couple of guys were up to no good, started making trouble in my neighborhood. I got in one little fight and my mother got scared, said: ‘Vous vous déplacez avec votre tante et oncle dans de Bel Air.’ But of course, that was only a vacation.” Thump. Brendan’s head drops and hits the table. “Stop that,” says Bonnie. “You’re embarrassing me, Brendan.” “Finally!” grumbles Brendan. “Ah,” says the waiter, “you can speak. Now, what would you like to eat? Lobster like your brother and mother? Or perhaps something light…escargot?” Tapping his chin, Brendan thinks. The word “escargot” sounds extremely familiar, and he does remember it being called a delicacy. Maybe he should try it. “Yes,” he says, “I’ll have the escargot, and a bottle of your finest Damascus wine.” The waiter nods. “He is not having any wine,” says Bonnie with irritation. “My son is seventeen. Bring him a glass of cherry cola.” Haw! Haw! Haw! The waiter laughs. “Seventeen,” he says, “your son is practically a man. You don’t allow him to drink alcohol, but next year he is allowed to fight in war if he wants? That is ridiculous. It is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard! When will you Americans stop being ridiculous?!” “Just get out of here and get us our food!” yells Bonnie. The waiter salutes. “Yes, Madame!” He spins on his heels and leaves. Ronald MacDonald rubs his hands together. “Oh boy,” he says with salivation, “I can’t wait for the lobster to arrive. Y’know, they let you choose which one you want to have boiled alive. So you know where your food is coming from.” Brendan yawns and looks at his watch. “Your food has arrived,” says the waiter with a plate balancing on his palm, “hot and fresh escargot.” Brendan sits up straight as a white plate with snails is placed in front of him. “What’s this?” he says with a pointed finger. “Are these…snails?!” The waiter smirks at the naïve teenager in front of him. “Yes. Is that not what you ordered… escargot?” Trying not to faint, Brendan stands. “Excuse me,” he says with a hand over his mouth, “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Start without out me if you want.” He shuffles away from the table and starts walking to the bathroom. As he heads to his destination, he spots a lobster tank on wheels. He stops to tap on the glass. “Hello!” “Knock that off,” says the lobster in front, “and get us out of here!” Brendan jumps in surprise. He sweeps his head from side to side, looking for a person throwing a lobster voice. There’s nobody. “Oh no,” he thinks. “I’m having another schizophrenic episode.” The lobster taps the glass from the inside of the tank with his big claw. “Are you listening to me!?” he says. “Take these rubber bands off our claws and release us! You’re upsetting the children! Think of the children!”

“What children?” asks Brendan. “I don’t see any children.” The lobsters bicker as they try to scuttle; try to stretch their limbs. But they are piled high in layers. Except for the ones on top, there is absolutely no room to move. “Can’t you see we’re dying in here!” pleads the lobster. “Please! Be a pal and free us, huh?” Brendan isn’t sure what to do. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t think I should.” “Aw, haven’t you read of the story of the Good Samaritan?” says the lobster. “Personally, I haven’t, because I grew up in a poor seabed and never got a good education…but I know that it strikes a strong moral chord with you humans! So think of that story, whatever it’s about, and find that compassion within your heart. Wouldn’t you like to be a hero? Be a man! Do the right thing!” “I might spoil my mom’s dinner,” says Brendan. “Dinner?” asks the lobster. “What does any of this have to do with dinner?” Brendan scratches the back of his head, nervous, not wanting to spook the lobsters. “Well,” he says, “you’re here because this is a restaurant. It’s where humans eat. You see, people want to have you for lunch. After you’re dropped into hot boiling water, they’ll put you on a white oval plate, and serve you to their customers. After which, they will use nutcrackers to break your shells, so that they can suck the flesh from your bodies and put it into their stomachs…. Yup, I think that about sums it up.” The lobsters twist and thrash in panic. “Ah! Ah! Get us out of here!” they shriek in unison. “For the love of all that’s good, get us out of here!” With a finger on his nose, Brendan tries to hush the lobsters. “Shhh!” he says. “I’ll get you out of here. Just calm down…relax! I’m on it. Just give me a second to think.” As the lobsters wait, he gets an idea. He grips the handles on the lobster tank and starts wheeling it away. He lowers body, trying not to draw too much attention. Some of the customers see, but they’re busy with their dinners. “Oh lord!” says a lobster upon seeing his friend on a plate. He makes the sign of the cross. “Rest in peace, my friend.” Brendan goes through the back door, into the alley. He takes off the lid of the lobster tank and tosses it aside. He takes out the lobsters and removes the rubber bands binding their claws. “Thank you,” they each say as they touch the ground. They scuttle away and escape into the beach shore. “Oh man,” says Brendan, “I hope I don’t get caught.” Then a man appears right behind. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing! Those aren’t yours!” It’s a worker from the restaurant…a chef. And he has butcher knife in hand. With nowhere to go, Brendan picks up a piece of the wood from the ground to defend himself. He holds it aloft like a sword and yells. “Get back!” he says. “I know how to use this!” The chef tears of his white buttoned shirt, revealing his muscle laden chest. His body is totally ripped. “Bring it on!” he yells. “I live for pain! Pain is my friend!” Sweat drips from Brendan’s forehead. He has to think of a way to outsmart this guy. There’s no way he could go head to head. The man looks like he drinks steroids for breakfast. “Wait!” says Brendan. “Before you decide to smote me down and cut my jugular, give me a chance! I have a proposal…a riddle! If you answer it, I’ll give up without a struggle and let you do whatever you want! But if you don’t get it correct in the first try, I and the lobsters get to go free. What do you say?”

The chef lowers his knife. His oiled chest shimmers under the sun. “What’s the riddle?” he asks with curiosity. Brendan tries to think of riddle, recalling his elementary school days, searching for a stumper. “I don’t know any riddles,” he whispers. “Help me out here.” The remaining lobsters in the tank huddle together. “Okay,” they say, “we’ve got one…. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” Brendan glowers. “Damn it! That’s a tongue twister, not a riddle!” The lobsters shrug. “It’s a riddle to us,” they say. “We still don’t know the answer.” The chef edges forward, menacingly pitching his knife from hand to hand. Brendan snaps his fingers. “I know!” he says. “Alright! This is a first-person riddle! I am cold and I am hot, I am bigger than a mountain, but can squeeze through the eye of a needle. I am swifter than a deer but can be as slow as a turtle. What am I?” “Is the answer the ‘wind’?” replies the chef. Brendan calmly nods. “Yes,” he says, “yes it is.” He lowers the piece of wood in his arms; looking as if he’s going to concede…then in a surprise attack he throws it at the chef! The chef steps to the side. The piece of wood misses and flies over his shoulder. “Aw, shit,” says Brendan while taking a step back. The chef pulls back his knife and stomps forward with a scowl. “I’m going to chop you up,” he says. “Then I’m going to serve you to my customers as Kobe beef!” In desperation, Brendan reaches into the lobster tank and takes out a lobster, holding it out in front of him, wielding it like a weapon. “Don’t move!” he yells. “Or I’ll have to get rough! The piece of wood was a warning! This time I mean business!” Leaning back, the Chef laughs. “Haw! I’d like to see that!” Brendan pulls the rubber bands off the lobster’s claws and tosses it at the Chef. “This is for my brothers!” yells the lobster with rage. The Chef shrieks and stumbles back as his nose is snipped. Blood gushes out, spraying like a garden hose. Brendan takes the lobster tank and wheels it to shore. He frees the lobsters into the water. “Go forth, my friends!” he shouts with arms aloft in joy. “Go forth and roam the sea as it was meant to be!” Pills, Pills, Pills Hugging his legs, Brendan rocks back and forth on his bed. With a tinfoil hat on his head, he rambles like an asylum patient in a windowless room. “They’re coming to get me,” he says. “They’re coming to get me…. They’re coming to get me…. They’re coming to get me!” Lucas bursts in through the door. “Who’s coming to get you?! Who’s coming to get you!?” Brendan squeals. Yiiiiiiiiiiiii! He grabs a footstool from the ground and bangs his forehead on it. Yiiiiiiiiiiiii! He’s gone completely mad. Lucas grabs him into a bear hug. “Stop!” he says while Brendan ferociously kicks his legs. “Stop! You’ve gone crazier than Juana La Loca! Remember the story of Juana La Loca?! Joanna of Castile?! You don’t wanna be her, do you?!” A calm comes over Brendan. “No,” he says. “She wasn’t crazy. She slept with the corpse of her husband because she was stricken with grief. She had an undying love…no pun intended.”

“Please,” says Lucas, releasing his grip, “go outside and get some fresh air. Confining yourself indoors is not good for your mental health. And I think there’s mould growing in the walls. I don’t know if that has anything to do with it, but it’s certainly better to be safe than sorry.” Brendan nods. “You’re right, dad. Being in here is making me go loopy. I should go and say ‘hello’ to the chipmunks. You know them. They’re in our backyard: Alvin, Simon, and of course, Theodore.” He edges to the door as Lucas watches. Then he suddenly drops to his hands and knees and crawls under the bed. “I don’t wanna go!” he yells in a nattering voice. “You can’t make me! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No!” Bending over, Lucas grabs Brendan by the legs and pulls him out. Brendan has a bottle of red pills in his hand with the lid off, readied to be swallowed. But Lucas grabs them away. “Is this what you’ve been taking?!” he screeches. “Is this what your mother gave you?! Paxiloft?! That evil psychiatrist witch! How dare she medicate you without my permission!” Brendan gets to his feet and swipes at Lucas, trying to snatch the pills, but they are held high out of his reach. “Gimme the pills!” says Brendan as he jumps. “I need them!” The Paxiloft balances precariously on Lucas’ fingertips. Then they fall to the floor and spill like marbles. Brendan swoops down and gets on his belly. He curls out his tongue and tries to scoop them up as if candy. But before he can, Lucas lifts him to his feet. Brendan is drugged, er, dragged out his room and out of the house. “Don’t leave me out here!” he shrieks barefoot on the walkway. “I’ll die! And you’ll be responsible! You’ll be the new John Bennett!” “I’m willing to take that risk!” says Lucas. And he slams the door shut. “I can’t believe it!” grouses Brendan. “He closed the door on me! That treacherous lowlander! Well, I’ll show him!” Brendan rings on the doorbell and hops behind a bush to hide. “I know it’s you!” yells Lucas’ voice from inside the house. “Now go out and play ‘till you got those chemicals out of your system!” Brendan glares and scampers away like a rabid raccoon. On the street, still with tinfoil on his head, he stumbles along with darting eyes. The lights, the smells, and sounds of the outside world is over-stimulating; too much for the senses of a teenage boy on Paxiloft. Everything seems to beam and glitter, calling for attention. “Hmm, what should I do with my time?” thinks Brendan aloud. “There are so many activities to do…but many of them are dangerous. I must be careful. It’s as Eddie Murphy’s Law says: ‘What can go wrong, will go wrong.’” “Hello!” says a voice. Brendan spins around. He spins and spins. Seeing nobody in front of him, he pounds his head in madness. “Ah! The voices are back! They’ve come back to haunt me! Go away voices! I banish you from my mind! The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you!” Brendan feels a tug on his shirt. His eyes slowly move down. There is a Girl Scout in a neatly pressed, light brown uniform standing with a case of cookies tucked under her arm. “Hello!” she says enthusiastically. “My name is Maddy Sparx and I am a proud member of the Girl Scouts Association of America. And today I am selling, as you may have guessed, cookies. They are very delicious, and yes, the rumors are true. They are in fact baked with 100% Indonesian palm oil, which is inadvertently destroying the habitat of Orangutans. So that means these are only available for a limited time. If I were you, I would stock up.”

Brendan smiles at the Girl Scout and pats her on the head. “I’ll take the entire case.” The Girl Scout hops with a clap. She’s made a sale. She places down the case of cookies and takes out a calculator. “Okay! That total price comes to: $63.50. Cash only, please. My portable debit card machine isn’t working.” Froth drips from Brendan’s mouth. “My,” he says, “I don’t have that much money on me. Could I give you an IOU?” With a stamp of her foot, the Girl Scout refuses. “This isn’t a bank!” she yells with righteous indignation. “I’m not giving you a loan for baked goods!” With a look of mischief in his eyes, Brendan suddenly lunges forward and grabs the entire case of cookies. He runs down the street with the maniacal laughter of a sociopath. “Help!” cries the Girl Scout. “I’ve been robbed like Gary Coleman!” Brendan cackles with wily eyes. “Yeee-agh-ha-ha-ha-ha! Catch me if you can!” He darts over the sidewalk and sprints down a lawn. But as his legs move in a strident motion, his foot catches on ceramic gnome. He trips and smashes his head into a tree; the shock which causes a massive hornet’s nest to fall to the ground and crack open like a chicken egg for an omelet. Surrounded by a swarm of angry insects, Brendan, still clutching to his stolen Girl Scout cookies, jumps to his feet and runs as fast as he can go. “Attack the rabble-rouser!” screams the queen hornet. “And do not hesitate! We are not bees! We do not die when we sting!” Brendan takes a sharp turn at the end of the street and runs over to a tree with a beehive. “Help!” he shouts. “I’m being chased by hornets…your mortal enemies!” A drone crawls out from the hole of the hive. “What is it you want?” he asks while fluttering his wings in pretentious manner. “If it’s about our honey, we do not sell directly to the public. However, our sweetened excretions are available at all major retail chains.” “I don’t want your honey!” says Brendan. “I’m being chased by hornets! I need help!” The drone yawns. “And what concern of that is ours? What a fool you are for even being near them. Have you not heard the adage of ‘do not stir the hornet’s nest’? Let this be a lesson to you, young man.” Brendan digs into the case of Girl Scout cookies and dumps them out. He takes one and holds it up. “Here,” he says, “try this.” The drone looks skeptical, does as requested. After all, he is a drone. “Mm,” he says while nibbling at the cookie. “These are magnificent! It’s like there’s a party in my mouth and everyone’s being stung!” Brendan looks over his shoulder. The hornets are quickly approaching. “So is it a deal?” he asks. “Hornets approaching!” yells the drone into the hive. Bees come pouring out. “Where are they?!” asks the queen bee. The drone points with his stinger. The queen bee gasps. Her eyes lock with the queen hornet, her dreaded enemy. “What shall we do?” says the drone. “Attack!” cries the queen. She leads her bees directly into the path of the hornets. They clash into each other like angry motorists. The loud buzzing makes Brendan lower down and cover his ears. He watches cautiously from a distance. The stingers of the two queens meet. They clang against each other as if swords. “I’m going to kill you!” yells the queen hornet. “Then I am going to steal all of your delicious honey…and I won’t even eat it, because I’m a vegan! Aw-ha-ha-ha!” Furious at the remark, the queen bee does a looping maneuver and mounts the queen hornet’s head. “This is for bee #1,113!” she says as her stinger sinks down. “Auuugh!” cries the queen hornet as her exoskeleton is pierced and her peanut-sized brain explodes from the attack. The

two twirl to the ground and crash with a “tlich!” Though difficult to see, Brendan clearly winces. The hornets freeze in mid-air. They hover and blankly stare. Without their queen they are lost. “What do we do?” they ask. “Back to the nest for procreation!” cries one. “We will create another queen to lead!” The bees cheer as the hornets disappear from their sight. Brendan exhales with relief. He lifts himself from the ground and shakes his head. The drugs in his body are starting to wear off. But as he begins to compose himself, he hears the loud sound of marching. “There he is!” shrieks the Girl Scout in front of an unruly mob. “There’s the a-hole who stole my cookies!” A garbage truck stops by Brendan. “Yes!” he yells ecstatically. “Just in the nick of time! Now I will jump onto the back of this garbage truck and make my escape!” Brendan hops onto a little platform at the back of the garbage truck and hangs on. He waves with a cocky grin. “So long, suckers!” The Girl Scout and her mob are falling behind. The garbage truck turns and stops in a plaza. It positions itself in front of a dumpster on wheels. Two metal arms swing out from its body and slowly lower down…very slowly. “Aw, crap,” says Brendan. He steps to the ground. The mob rushes forward and encircles him. “You’re dead meat!” screams the Girl Scout. “Today is when I earn my murder badge!” Brendan gets on his knees. He puts his hands together and prays for help. “Oh! George Carlin! I ask for your help and mercy! Aid me in my time of need!” The Girl Scout takes out a pocket knife. The polished blade shimmers in the light. She twirls it in her hand with the deftness of a hardened street criminal. “I’m going to slit your throat!” she says with clenched teeth. “Then after you die, I’m gonna sell your organs on eBay!” Brendan steps back as the mob closes in. He shuts his eyes and shields himself with his arms. As all seems lost, the driver in the garbage truck suddenly yells. “Look out below!” The dumpster being held above spills its contents as the mechanical arms on the truck falter and bend. A slurry of rotting garbage falls onto the Girl Scout and the angry mob. As they scream “yuck,” Brendan uses the opportunity to escape. He bolts forward through the people and heads to the road. As he lands on the sidewalk, he bumps into a kid with a skateboard. “Hey,” says Brendan, “cool board. Can I borrow it? I’m in a bit of a bind.” The kid glances back and sees the Girl Scout and the others in their furious rage. “Alright,” he says, “but don’t break it!” Brendan takes the skateboard with a “thanks” and rolls out to the road. He grabs onto the spoiler of a sports car. “Boy,” he thinks aloud, “I feel just like Michael J. Fox…. Well, except without the Parkinson’s disease.” A bad joke and several minutes later, now feeling safe, Brendan lets go of the car. The momentum throws him to the top of a steep hill. He tumbles down and falls into a shallow ditch. Ooof! He gets to his feet with a groan and looks around. Brendan finds himself in the forest. The tall trees with their colored leaves filter the sunlight as if they were stained glass windows. It’s a wonderful but dizzying place, full of life and mystery. However, it is not where Brendan wants to be. If only he could go back up the hill, but alas, it is too much of a climb. He decides to forget the idea and walks ahead. He travels along a gritty path.

Brendan’s eyes shift back and forth. It feels like somebody, or something, is watching him. “Stop being paranoid,” he says. “It’s all in your mind. The forest is empty. Nothing to find, nothing here, nobody there, even if humans you don’t know where…zip, zap, zoop. Damn, that Dr. Seuss is catchy!” A bit more walking and Brendan comes to a “fork in the road.” The path splits in two. He thinks where to go: left or right? A woodpecker laughs in a tree…but the most annoying laugh you could ever imagine, a sound even worse than a lady with long nails scraping her fingers across a chalkboard. “Ooh-ah-ha! Ooh-ah-ha! Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” The red, white, blue, and yellow bird flies over to Brendan and lands on his shoulder. He slants his head. “Eh, you look lost. Need some help? Ooh-ah-ha! Ooh-ah-ha! Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” “No, thank you,” says Brendan as he checks his ears to see if they’re bleeding. “I’ll be fine. There are only two ways to go. It’s a 50/50 chance.” The woodpecker pecks on Brendan’s head. “Don’t be silly! There are dangerous creatures in this forest! Why risk your life? I’ll help you out! C’mon! It’ll be fun! We can chitchat and be friends! Ooh-ah-ha! Ooh-ah-ha! Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” Brendan reluctantly accepts the offer. “Okay,” he says, “but can you not laugh like a maniac? It’s really annoying.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says the woodpecker. “Ooh-ah-ha! Ooh-ah-ha! Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” Brendan gnashes his teeth as he tries to keep calm. He asks the woodpecker where to go. The woodpecker points to the left with his beak. Brendan goes in that direction and the two travel together through the forest. “So,” says the woodpecker, trying to make small talk, “you come here often? Ooh-ah-ha! Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” “If I came here often,” says Brendan, “would I be lost and need help?” The woodpecker bobs his head. “Ah, good point,” he says with a nod. “Ooh-ah-ha! Ooh-ah-ha! Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” Brendan averts his eyes, trying not to stare at the retarded woodpecker…but the woodpecker continues laughing uncontrollably. “Ooh-ah-ha! Ooh-ah-ha! Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh! Ooh-ah-ha! Ooh-ah-ha! Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh! Ooh-ah-ha! Ooh-ah-ha! Huh-huh-huh-huhhuh! Ooh-ah-ha! Ooh-ah-ha! Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh! Ooh-ah-ha! Ooh-ah-ha! Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” Losing his temper, going mad from the laughter, Brendan wraps his hands around the woodpecker’s neck and throttles him as hard as he can. “Stop laughing!” he says. “There’s nothing funny about this situation! I never told any jokes! Nothing funny happened! So stop laughing!” The woodpecker opens wide his beak, his pointy tongue sticks out as he desperately gasps for air. Brendan lets go, realizing what he’s done. “What have I done?!” he cries. But it is too late for remorse. The woodpecker curls his toes and speaks with his last breath. “I thought you were my friend…. Ooh-ah-ha! Ooh-ah-ha! Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” In death he transforms into a corpse made of twigs and bark, returning to nature as a true creature of the forest. “I’m sorry,” says Brendan with tears. “I’m so sorry.” Then he puts away the dead woodpecker into his back pocket and wanders around, looking for a way to leave. After traveling for some time, Brendan comes upon a waterfall. It is a part of the lake, but an isolated area not known to most. It’s calm and serene; the

perfect picture of tranquility. There is an oriental centaur quietly taking a drink; half-man, half-horse, half-Asian. He looks up at Brendan who is staring with an open mouth. “Can I help you?” he says. Brendan stammers. “Uh, uh, uh, are you a centaur?” The centaur replies with a frown. “Yes and it would be nice if you didn’t gawk.” “I’m not gawking,” says Brendan. “I’ve, uh, seen many centaurs. This is completely normal to me.” The centaur rears back with a roar of laughter. “Ahha! How amusing! I might have believe you if I were not the last centaur on earth! Foolish human! How foolish of you! You could not be more foolish! Your foolishness is unsurpassed! You are the king of fools!” Brendan folds his arms. “I’m glad to see you’re amused.” “Oh,” says the centaur, “I was only joking. Don’t take it personally. Now, what is it you’re here for? I can see a bulge in your pants.” Brendan reaches into his back pocket. As he takes out the woodpecker, the centaur gasps. “Willy the Woodpecker! Is that my beloved friend, Willy the Woodpecker?! What are you doing with his body?!” A look of guilt washes over Brendan’s face. He wants to tell the truth…but instead decides to lie. Why put himself in needless danger? What’s done has already been done. The centaur presses on with his flamboyant inquiries. “Well?!” he asks. “What explanation do you have for this?! Why is my Willy in your hands?!” “It’s not what you think,” says Brendan. “I didn’t strangle him to death. I just found him on the ground…and picked him up so I could give him a proper burial. That’s all. No malice here. I’m a good guy. I care about the environment. I eat my vegetables. I go to church and listen to the priest tell me I’m going to hell.” The centaur trots over to Brendan and circles around, staring at him with narrow eyes. “Is that the story you are going to stick with?” he asks. “Is it?” Brendan swallows the lump in his throat. “It’s not a, uh, story. It really happened. It’s, uh, more of a news-piece if you consider it.” The centaur pins down Brendan’s feet with his hooves and growls. “You liar! You are a liar! You lying sack of flour! You killed Willy and you know it!” Brendan shakes is head. “No, I didn’t!” The centaur becomes even more infuriated than before. “Stop! Stop lying! How can you look me in the eyes like that and lie as if nothing is wrong?! I know you are lying! So stop trying to fool me! Fool me once, shame on you! Fool me, can’t get fooled again!” Trembling with fear, Brendan closes his eyes, expecting the worst. As the centaur pulls back his fist to throw a punch, a loud bang is suddenly heard. “Got him!” says a voice. A pair of brawny females wearing camouflage clothing appear from the foliage; hunters, they walk to the centaur with rifles tucked underneath their arms. “Oh no!” says Cindy. “We shot a man!” Mindy squints. “That’s not a man,” she says. “It’s a…what is it?” Brendan replies with a remorseful voice. “It’s a centaur; half-man, half-horse.” Cindy lowers down and examines the centaur. She finds a gunshot wound in his chest, in the area where his heart should be. “What’s the diagnosis?” asks Mindy. “Did we commit a heinous crime? Will we be sentenced to death for murdering this humble hybrid?” With a smile, Cindy shakes her head. “Not today,” she says. “We only shot the horse-half. And as far as I know, there’s no law against killing horses…or is there?”

“I guess you two are free to go,” says Brendan. The hunters give each other a high-five. “Yes!” Then they skip away and leave, disappearing back into the forest, presumably to kill more animals. Brendan goes to a tree and pulls away a bundle of thin branches. He returns to the centaur and uses them to cover his corpse. Then he lays down the woodpecker and says a few words. “God. Jesus. Allah. Buddha. Moses. Prophet Muhammad. Whoever’s up there, please, take care of my friends and forgive me for my sins…amen.” Brendan follows along the shore and stands before the waterfall. He looks up, wondering if he could scale it to get to the vantage point above. While it seems small enough, the cascade appears slippery. One wrong move and he could hit his head and die…but Brendan’s a teenager and decides to climb anyway. He pulls up his pant legs and wades into the water. He leans forward on all fours and climbs the waterfall like four-legged creature. He curls his finger, trying to get a bigger grip on the rock. Soon, after several minutes, Brendan is halfway to the top. Peering over his shoulder, he looks down. It’s not a “ginormous” fall, but if he did fall now, it would at least be a major “owie.” So with his arm stretched out, Brendan reaches for a rock. He clamps his hand around it and takes grip. But as he pulls himself up, the rock suddenly breaks loose. Brendan slips and slides down the cascade, plunging into the water with splash. He quickly surfaces and gasps for breath. “Thank god,” he says, “that could’ve been a lot worse than it was.” And then in a moment of speaking too soon, a boulder dislodges from the top of the waterfall and starts rolling down. It thunders as its jagged edges plow through the stream: “Baboom! Baboom!” Brendan is frozen. Panic stricken, he cannot move. As the boulder is about to strike, a hand rises from the water and pulls him underneath. He saved from harm’s way…but by whom? He opens his eyes. Bubbles come from his mouth as he turns breathless upon the site of a beautiful mermaid; the very one he had seen before, the one with the dreamy glow, the golden hair and the orange tail. She had returned. There was no mistake about it. Desperately, Brendan tries to talk. But the movements of his mouth are done in futility; his words ununderstandable. Then in a flash she disappears, swimming away to the unseen depths of the lake. Brendan rises to the surface. His hair droops over his eyes as he wonders what he had just seen. Is it real…or is it another hallucination? What sort of hallucination happens twice in such similar fashion? “No,” he says, refusing. “It couldn’t be.” Then he dives down in haste. Searching for the mermaid, his eyes turn red…but alas, she is nowhere to be found. Giving up, Brendan swims back to land. He takes off his shirt and wrings out the water. His hands are rigid, doing it slowly with frustration and confusion. “Why?” he asks himself. “Why am I so obsessed with her? I don’t even know if she’s real. Can I love something that might be a figment of my imagination? And even if I do, is it any worse than the way other people act? Is it any worse than a celebrity crush? As far as I’m concerned, the chances of getting romantic with a mermaid or Elisha Cuthbert are equally impossible…when she’s sober. God, she can drink like a lumberjack.” Life is Better When it’s Wetter

Charlotte bends over and picks up a wallet lying on the ground. She opens it with her thumbs and searches inside. There isn’t much of interest: a crumpled fiver, a couple movie ticket stubs, and a bunch of bus tokens. However, there is a picture of Brendan; his hair is slicked back and he has a sly grin plastered on his face. Telling by the fluorescent lighting, it looks like it was taken in a photo booth; if not a photo booth, a place where, uh, you take photos…yeah. That’ll do. “What are you looking at there?” says a voice. Charlotte looks over her shoulder. It’s October the pink octopus, the renowned inventor, alchemist and overall eccentric of the lake. “Who’s that?” she asks. “I don’t know,” replies Charlotte. “I met him before, but I never asked for his name…though, he’s awful pretty, don’t you think?” October gags. “Ugh! No way! He is so ugly! Look at him! He looks like a sea monkey!” “Well,” says Charlotte, “I think he’s cute.” October folds her tentacles dismissively. “You think everything’s cute… But did you know that human boys only have one tentacle…one tentacle, Charlotte! And they’re not very big either!” But Charlotte doesn’t care. “It’s not the size or number of tentacles you have that counts,” she says. “It’s how you use it…and that’s not an innuendo.” October looks at her watch, one of the many accessories around tentacles. “Oh my, look at the time! Charlotte, you’re going to be late for school!” Charlotte gives a long groan. “Aw, I don’t wanna go to school? It’s such a waste of time. All we learn about is things about the lake. It’s so boring. As if this is the only place in the world.” October smacks Charlotte on the bottom, the backside of her tail. “C’mon. If you want to become an inventor like me, you have to learn the basic principles of science.” Charlotte demurs. “I don’t want to be an inventor,” she says. “Plus, I could never compete with you.” October disagrees. “Nonsense!” she says. “You’re the smartest mermaid I know!” She pushes Charlotte, encouraging her to go. “But,” says Charlotte, “who’s going to keep you company?” The skin on October changes color, from pink to red. “Far be it from me to keep a bright young mermaid to achieve her full potential!” Yielding to her friend’s nerdish morality, Charlotte puts away her picture of Brendan into her seaweed brassiere, and swims begrudgingly to school. She glances over her shoulder, hoping October would changer her mind. But the pink octopus is adamant on young ladies receiving their education. After all, if you don’t have your intelligence, what do you have? Beauty is important, yes, but that fades in time. A brain can always grow, learning more and more everyday. Keep on Swimming To pass time on her way to school, Charlotte recites a poem. She clears her throat. “I wish, I wish. I wish I were not a fish. I wish for more. I wish the limbs I had were four. I wish I could get past the shore. I wish I could meet the boy who I do adore. I wish my heart was not sore. Those feelings I do deplore. Oh, I wish I were a human. That is truly what I want to be. ‘Cause if I were a human, everyone would be in love with me.” Eee-eee-eee! Charlotte turns her head. There is a dolphin clapping his flippers and laughs. Eee-eee-eee! “Wonderful,” he says, “that was a wonderful

poem! It rhymed and everything!” Charlotte looks surprised, but she gives a broad smile, flashing her pearly white teeth. Her long soft lips stretch across her face. “Thank you,” she says. “I appreciate your kind words…um, are you a dolphin?” The dolphin grins. Eee-eee-eee! He swims upright and motions his grey body back and forth, trying to nod. “Of course I’m a dolphin. Does that surprise you?” “Quite frankly,” says Charlotte, “it does. This is a lake. We live in a lake. There aren’t supposed to be any dolphins here.” The dolphin points with his flipper. “Oh, aren’t you the girl who knows everything! You’re a mermaid and you’re telling me that I shouldn’t be here? How ironic!” The golden hair on Charlotte’s head waves silently in the water as she tries to remember what the term ‘ironic’ means. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Could you define the term ‘ironic’ for me? It seems the educational system of the lake has failed me.” The dolphin obliges. “When something is ironic, it means…how should I explain? It’s like 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife. It’s like rain on your wedding day. It’s like…” Charlotte interrupts. “Excuse me, but isn’t that a simile?” The dolphin is confused. Huh? Charlotte continues. “You said ‘it’s like 10,000 spoons.’ Since you used the word ‘like,’ wouldn’t that make it a simile?” The dolphin glares. “Oh, shut up. Who do you think you are? Ed Byrne? It doesn’t have to be exact, you grammar Nazi. It’s about symbolism, okay? It’s rhetoric.” “Fine,” says Charlotte. “I’ll give you that one…but what about the second? Rain on your wedding day? We’re deep under water. It doesn’t matter if it rains.” Folding his flippers, the dolphin sighs. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll give you another example of something that’s ironic. Okay. This is a true story. So there was this doctor named Bob…actually, I don’t remember his real name, but for the sake of brevity let’s call him Bob. Anyway, so Bob was a mysophobe, and he was always afraid of getting sick from germs. Basically, he was a clean freak. So everything in his home and his office had to be clean; sterile from top to bottom, no exceptions. And as you can imagine, Bob spent a ton of time cleaning. The guy was smart, I’ll give you that, but he was extremely obsessive-compulsive. Cleanliness ruled his life. He bathed three times a day, and washed his hands, literally, every ten minutes. The skin on his body was peeling like an overripe banana…but he didn’t care. To him, germs were the enemy and he was Mr. Clean. It was his mission to get rid of them…what an asshole! Okay. So here comes the irony. One day while he was at work, he was looking in a woman’s throat…and she sneezed on him. He freaked out and left the office without even saying goodbye. Then he took a bath… several…then he took some cough syrup and he went to bed. But when the morning came, he was dead. What happened? He was young. He exercised. He ate right. Why did he die? It was because he became sick from when his patient sneezed on him.” “How is that ironic?” asks Charlotte. “Wait,” says the dolphin, “I’m not finished the story yet… So, the doctor dies because he gets sick from a patient who sneezes on him. Okay. We know that much. But what sort of illness did the woman have, what sort of illness did she have that was so strong that it could kill a healthy grown man over night? AIDS? Bird flu? Hanta virus? Something crazy and exotic?! No, as it turned out, it was just a regular cold. You see, Bob was such a huge germ-a-phobe that all his cleanliness actually ended up killing him. His

constant cleaning compromised his immune system. Since he had no previous exposure to common germs and bugs, his immunity was compromised. And pathetically, he died from something that shouldn’t have killed him. Now, that’s irony for you.” The dolphin waits for a response; waits for praise of his human-like wit. But Charlotte is confounded and only thinks he’s a twit. Dumbfounded and confused, she has nothing to say. She flaps her tail and swims away. In minutes she’s at school, but unfortunately, not everything is cool. The young mermaid is late. A punishment from the principal is probably her fate. “Well,” says Charlotte, “the past is the past. What can I do? Go in and hope you’re not treated like poo.” So she goes through the marble columns and goes through the door, she goes through the hallway and sees an empty floor. “Where is everybody?” she asks. “Maybe they are hiding and all wearing masks? No, that’s silly, they’re off to study: Jack, Jill, and Billy, them and everybody. I guess I should get to class, hopefully I’ll pass, and perhaps the teachers won’t be too crass. Because in the end, I’m just a girl. Somebody who enjoys life and likes to swim with a bit of a twirl.” “You there!” says a voice. “Stop rhyming! What are you doing out of class?” Charlotte feels a hand on her shoulder. She turns around. There is a large bald merman with hands placed firmly on his hips. It’s the principal of the high school, Mr. Valsh. “Sorry,” says Charlotte. “I came a little late and I’m a little lost. It’s my first day of high school. As you can tell, I’m a shy young girl who doesn’t know her way around.” Mr. Valsh flicks away the piece of hair hanging in front of his face. “Fine, fine,” he says in a gruff voice. “Come with me. I’ll take you to class. What’s your name?” With fluttering eyes, Charlotte timidly replies. “Charlotte,” she says, “my name is Charlotte Laverock.” Bubbles rise from Mr. Valsh’s nose as he looks with shock. “The Laverock?!” he says. “Why, why, why, this is incredible!” Charlotte scratches her head. What is he going on about? “I don’t understand,” she says. “What is so incredible? Did I do something?” Patting Charlotte on the head, Mr. Valsh tries to dismiss his words. “No, no.” he says. “I must be mistaken. You must be a different Laverock. Yes. That’s it. Laverock with a single ‘k’ or ‘c’ at the end. I apologize, dear. My mistake, my mistake. Now, now, come along. I shall take you to your homeroom class.” Charlotte follows behind Mr. Valsh as he leads the way. Then no more than half a minute later and they arrive at their destination. “Thank you,” says Charlotte as she floats outside her classroom. “It was very kind of you to accompany me.” Mr. Valsh brushes back the strings of hair on his head and smiles. He swims away. As Charlotte turns the door knob to her class, Mr. Valsh can be heard screaming in the distance. “Hey! You there! Get that damned seashell hat off your head! This isn’t a damned aquaball stadium! Stupid kid!” She goes inside and is greeted by a catfish. “Mm,” says Ms. Catfish, “you’re late. Late, late, late, late, late! I don’t tolerate lateness! But since this is your first day of high school, yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. I will cut you some slack. So sit down in the back. Sit, sit, sit. No need to tell me your name. I shall use the process of elimination to determine who you are. Well,

there is another person missing who is a boy. Therefore, your name should be Derek. Correct me if I’m wrong.” “My name isn’t Derek,” says Charlotte. “Derek is a boy’s name. I’m Charlotte.” Ms. Catfish gasps the same way as Mr. Valsh did. “Never mind, never mind, never mind! Go and sit in the back before I have to bring out the paddle!” The eyes of the classroom follow Charlotte as she gently swims to the back and takes a seat. Ms. Catfish continues her lecture. “Hey there,” says the boy beside Charlotte. His arm extends out for a handshake. “How are you doing? My name’s Shane. Wanna go out on a date? You’re pretty? Can I touch your hair? Wow. You’re pretty.” Charlotte restrains herself, trying not to be rude. She flashes a smile. “How kind of you.” Shane’s tongue rolls out of his mouth. No girl has ever been so friendly. And like teenagers would, he is now shamelessly in love. “So,” he says, “are you from around here?” Jotting notes onto a pad, Charlotte replies without a look. “We’re in the lake. Where else would I be from? The Pacific Ocean?” Shane apologizes, embarrassed from his question. “Ah,” he says, “you’re right. How silly of me. Of course, where else would you be from? I’m so stupid. God, I’m an idiot.” “You’re not an idiot,” says Charlotte. “I was just joking around. There are many areas to the lake. It’s a big place. I could be from the east coast or the west coast. No. It’s legitimate question, Shamus.” Tapping his fingers on his table, Shane wonders whether or not he should correct his name. “Sh-Sh-Sh-Shane,” he stammers. “My name isn’t Shamus. It’s Shane.” Charlotte nods her in acknowledgement. “Right, I knew that. Shane. Rhymes with Citizen Kane.” Ms. Catfish suddenly stops lecturing and tugs at her whiskers in annoyance. “Do my whiskers deceive me?!” she asks sardonically. “Am I hearing a chit-chit-chat in the back?!” Shane slides into his seat and curls his tail down. But Ms. Catfish is angry with Charlotte. She slams her slimy body down onto her desk and bulges out her big black eyes. “You!” she says. “You, you, you! You come in her half an hour late, and now you have the audacity to talk while I’m trying to teach?! …But I shouldn’t be too surprised. After all, your pedigree lacks the sophistication of a catfish. You come from a line of degenerates!” Charlotte leans back and glares. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if I were a human, I would cook you in a frying pan and have you for breakfast.” Bubbles rise to the ceiling as the students open their mouths in shock. Ms. Catfish glares with a deep silence…then suddenly she jumps up and wraps her wide mouth around Charlotte’s head! “How do you like it?!” she yells emphatically. “What’s it like being breakfast?!” The class laughs as Charlotte spins around in panic, trying to free herself from her teacher’s toothy grip. Shane grabs Ms. Catfish by the tail and yanks her off. Charlotte wheezes. The stench of Ms. Catfish’s breath is overwhelming. Green vapor can be seen dissipating in the water. How Was It? Dragging her tail on the floor, Charlotte enters her home. She slams the door behind. Her two older sisters are waiting on the steps, furtively giggling. They are

both very attractive mermaids, but not in the girly way like their younger sibling. They look like women, somebody you would see on the cover of Playfish Magazine; two gorgeous brunettes. “Ooh, she’s back,” whispers Clarissa to Melissa. Then she points her eyes to Charlotte. “How was your day, little sister? Did you enjoy your time at school?” “I got detention,” replies Charlotte. “Detention already?” says Melissa with a grin. “Ooh, you’re a naughty girl. Did you get spanked, too?” Charlotte ignores the giggles of her sisters. “No,” she says in a dreary voice. “I did not get spanked.” Clarissa darts through the hole in the broken banister and floats down, edging closer to Charlotte. “Ooh, but did you get initiated yet?” Charlotte doesn’t understand. “Initiation?” she asks. “What’s that?” Melissa swims down and puts her arms on her little sister’s shoulders with a somber look. “It is the worst thing you will ever experience in your teenage life. It’s worse than a paper cut…far, far worse! If I were you, I’d drop out. I don’t think a delicate mermaid like yourself could handle the agony. It’s rough, I’ll tell you that. But it is an unavoidable rite of passage; the bane of pubescent merpeople everywhere.” “S-s-s-s-so what’s gonna happen?” asks Charlotte with an anxious stutter. “Ooh,” says Clarissa. “You wouldn’t want to know the details of initiation. What the older kids do to the freshman is quite beyond imagination. But we are your sisters, and we know that you are a mature mermaid, and we believe you can handle it. Can you handle it?” Charlotte nods. Clarissa continues. “Ooh, where should I begin? There are so many cruel acts the children do. Mind you, none of this happened to me because I was popular, but it will happen definitely to you. And since you escaped the first day of initiation, so cowardly, your punishment will be doubled if you are caught. So listen up and maybe it can help you.” “How will it help me?” asks Charlotte. “With or without you telling me, won’t everything be the same.” With a laugh, Clarissa shakes her head. She puts her arm around Melissa. “Ooh, you naïve little mermaid. The information I’m giving you will allow you to mentally prepare yourself. Knowing your punishment ahead of time will make it a lot easier. It’s like a job interview. You need to know what to expect when going in. Do you want to know?” Charlotte nods. Clarissa circles around like a shark. The room seems to darken as her tail swishes back and forth. “When you go back to school tomorrow, the kids will initiate you in several ways; testing your mental fortitude and physical limits; treating you like a human treats fish. You will be a piece of meat. And the first thing they will do is to twist your fleshy nipples! Not literally, because that’s sexual harassment, but it will feel like it… Shall I carry on?” “Yes,” says Charlotte with a grave look on her face. “Tell me.” Melissa rubs her hands together. “Ooh, tell her about the shore shank redemption. You gotta tell her about the shore shank redemption.” Clarissa stands behind Charlotte and rests her chin on her shoulder. “Ooh, yes,” she says, “the shore shank redemption. That’s where they drag you out to shore and pin your hair down with triton seashells. Then they cover your tail in sweet seaweed and watch the seagulls peck away all your scales. And…” “Wait a minute,” interrupts Charlotte. “All of those things you described are from the sea. We’re not in the sea. We’re lake dwellers.” Melissa sneers. “Ooh, don’t be so ignorant. They’re just names. You don’t interpret them literally. It’s

like the word ‘therapist.’ It has nothing to do with a rapist at all…” Clarissa stabs her finger in Charlotte’s hair and twists it around. “Little sister,” she says, “if you want to cut school tomorrow I completely understand…because the kids are going to have a lot of fun with you and there’s nothing I can do.” As Charlotte is about to have nervous breakdown, the front door swings open. It slams into the wall and shakes the house. The three sisters huddle together. Clarissa and Melissa give an exaggerated wave with a toothy smile. “Hello, mom!” they say. “How was your trip to the deep end? Was it fun? …Did you get us anything?” Sierra flips open her satchel and reaches in with her veiny but delicate hand. “Yes, I did,” she says. “Were you good girls today?” “Ooh, yes, mother,” say Clarissa and Melissa. “We were oh so good.” Then they stick out their hands. Sierra drops a single pearl into each of their palms. “And me?” says Charlotte with a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” apologizes Sierra. “I don’t have anything for you.” And without anymore words, without anymore explanation, she swims up the stairs and vanishes into the hallway. “And me?” repeats Charlotte with her eyes fixed high. “Where’s my pearl?” Bedroom, Sanctuary Sitting by the moonlight, using a stone pen, Charlotte writes into her diary. “Dear Diary,” it begins. “What shall I say to you? What new things can I tell? Today was like any other day…absolutely miserable and pointless. I don’t mean to complain, but what’s a girl to do? It’s not like I can just get up and leave! I’m literally trapped. This place is a fishbowl…and the water is dirty. God, I feel like I’m drowning. How is that possible? Do you ever get that feeling, Diary? That the world is a hamster wheel and you’re a Golden Syrian? I do…” As Charlotte thinks what next to write, a seashell suddenly lands on her desk. She stands up and bends partway out her window. Her hair hangs down. Shane is below; his hands cupped around his mouth. “Charlotte,” he whispers loudly, “are you busy?” With hands on the windowsill, Charlotte bends her neck. “No,” she answers back sarcastically, “I was only writing deep, personal, intimate thoughts into my diary. What do you want?” “Will you marry?” asks Shane. “No, really,” says Charlotte, “what do you want?” Shane wags his tail like an excited puppy. “Uh, next week, there’s gonna be a little concert at that, uh, swanky club downtown…you might’ve heard of it: ‘Oh Be One.’ Now, it’s not a huge thing, but…would you like to go with me as a date? I hear they have great cheese fries.” Charlotte takes a moment to think, averting her gaze, keeping her eyes on her wriggling fingers. Should she say yes? What if he’s a jerk? What if he’s mean? What if he has a hygiene problem? What if? What if? What if you gave him a chance to prove himself? “Sorry,” says Charlotte, “I’m kind of occupied. But don’t be crushed. It really has nothing to do with you. No, no. I think you’re a fine, young man. It’s just that I’m romantically interested in somebody else right now.” Shane’s heart starts to beat faster. He’s jealous. Envy is bubbling in his stomach. “Who are you romantically interested in?” he asks, trying desperately to sound aloof. “You don’t know him,” says Charlotte. “Would it make a difference if you knew?” Shane frowns. “Fine, don’t tell me. I don’t care.” Charlotte folds her

arms. “Okay,” she says, “I’ll tell you. No need to go all reverse-psychology on me. His name is, um… I don’t know his name.” Shane is livid. “You don’t know his name?! You don’t know his name?! How can you be ‘romantically interested’ in someone when you don’t even know their name?!” “If you saw him,” says Charlotte, “you’d understand.” She leafs through the pages of her diary and stops in the middle. She removes her picture of Brendan and holds it out to Shane, angling it down. Shane is stunned. He’s never seen anybody quite so handsome. “Wow,” he says quietly. Then his stomach turns, realizing what he’s up against. “Bah! He’s not that great! Jeez, you don’t even know the guy! I bet he’s a fish-hole!” Charlotte picks up the seashell on her desk and throws it at Shane. Shane shifts, letting it sail over his shoulder. “What do you know!?” she yells in a wisped voice. “You haven’t even met him!” “That’s exactly my point!” says Shane. Charlotte puts her picture of Brendan back into her diary. She sits down, tired from the long night. Shane floats up to her window. “I’m sorry,” he says with hands pressed together like a beggar. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to be so rude. If you like him…I understand. I shouldn’t be jealous. After all, he is…he is a good looking merman.” Charlotte puts away her diary into her drawer and locks it with a key. “He isn’t a merman.” Shane stares with confusion. “What? What do you mean? He used to be a mermaid?” “No,” says Charlotte. “He’s a human.” And suddenly the lake feels like a frozen pond. Shane gasps loud enough to wake Sleeping Beauty. “You’re not serious are you?!” Harrumph goes Charlotte. “Yes, I am,” she says. “Serious as Sam.” Grabbing his head, Shane shrieks like a madman. “No! No! No! No! No! Humans are dangerous, Charlotte!! They’re vile! They’re evil! They’re iniquitous! They’re despicable! …They’re the enemy! You can’t be in love with the enemy! Do you know what they do to our lake?! The water is rancid from all of their garbage and it smells like the goddamn Hudson River!” “Stop exaggerating,” says Charlotte. “Prince Vonne has it cleaned every month. He takes our tax money and removes it from the water. I don’t know why you’re bugging out. It’s totally cool.” Shane bends back and smacks his forehead with both hands. “It is not cool!” Charlotte is tired of arguing. She closes her window and wiggles her fingers, waving goodbye. She pulls the curtain close. “Wait!” says Shane. “Can you at least take another minute to reconsider going with me to club ‘Oh Be One?’ Please? Before I go?” A faint whisper replies “we’ll see.” Shane leaves, taking the answer as a “yes.” Then Charlotte descends into her bed and wraps herself in a striped blanket with the colors of the rainbow. She peers into her body length mirror and watches Shane disappear in the reflection. She closes her eyes and imagines Brendan…the love of her life…the boy from above. Then everything suddenly becomes hazy. Charlotte finds herself in the middle of a thick fog. Her vision is blurred around the edges, but becomes clearer as she moves forward. Her body feels heavy like iron weights. The world is in slow motion. And it’s silent. No sound, but for the ones imagined in her head. “Is anyone there!?” cries Charlotte. Then a knight in shining armor appears from out of the thickness. His white horse kicks its hooves as it settles down. “What is the matter, my fair lady?” says the White Knight. Charlotte blushes. “Do

you know where I am?” The White Knight withdraws his sword and raises it aloft. The fog and clouds disappear, revealing a dark city painted in black; like a picture of Europe from the imagination of Edward Gorey, it cries with depression, a victim waiting to be saved from its oppressor. “My fair lady,” says the White Knight to Charlotte as he puts away his sword, “you are in the Queendom of Queen Killalot…but do not be fooled by the title, she kills much more than her name implies.” As Charlotte stares up, she notices her reflection in the White Knight’s polished armor. Her eyes slowly trail down. Then they stop, frozen, fixated upon what they see…legs and feet. And the wind leaves Charlotte’s chest as she wheezes in astonishment. The White Knight grabs her hand and pulls her onto his horse. “Come,” he says as he grips the reins, “we will go to the local pub and get your some food to eat. You look skinnier than Amy Winehouse… Sorry, I meant Amy, the lady who owns the wine house. Honestly, the diet she’s on is very unhealthy.” Charlotte wraps her arms around the White Knight. He gives his steed a “hyaw” and they take off down the cobblestone road. The horse trots with care. Though the path is well built, sturdy and strong, it is built with eccentricity; the ground waves up and down like an army of dunes. It is difficult to maneuver…but manageable. “So,” says Charlotte with a slight intonation of trepidation, “you’re a white knight, huh? What’s that like? Is the pay any good?” Steam billows from the eye slot on the White Knight’s helmet. “I travel from place to place,” he says, “and help those in need. I live on their generosity. Sometimes I receive no coinage at all. But this life suits me. I answer to no one… not even the queen.” Charlotte leans her head forward. “Oh, that’s so romantic.” The White Knight clears his throat. “Mm, yes. Indeed. Perhaps it is.” He taps his horse on the side with his leg. The horse stops and closes its eyes. It transforms into stone. The White Knight hops and off and helps down Charlotte. Charlotte’s mouth is open in surprise. “What happened to him?” she asks. “He is a stone horse,” replies the White Knight, “a special breed to prevent thievery. They are extremely rare creatures, since they can only give birth every five years.” Charlotte smiles. “And how did you get yours?” The White Knight shrugs. “I stole it.” Then two stroll forward. They go up to a large wooden door. It is painted with a smelly lacquer and has peculiar knocker affixed. The knocker is a naked man with an enormous set of testicles. “We need to use the knocker to get in,” says the White Knight, “but my hands are stiff and sore from sword fighting. Fair lady, would you kindly do it for me?” Charlotte looks up at the metallic “balls” hanging above her head. “Do I have to?” she asks. The White Knight gives a serious nod. So while closing her eyes, Charlotte extends her arm. She puts out her fingers, and with tremendous reluctance, grabs hold of the knocker. The knocker squeals. “Oooooh!” he says. “Not too hard! That’s a delicate spot!” Charlotte hops back in surprise. “He’s just joking around,” says the White Knight. “Go ahead. Grab the ‘balls’ by the horn. They’re made out of steel.” The knocker thrusts out his hips. “Come on now! Don’t be shy!” He puts his hands on the back of his head and swirls the lower half of his body. Charlotte grabs his testicles and squeamishly pounds them against the door. Knock! Knock! Knock! A

man’s eyes appear through a slot. “What do you want?” he says in a grousing voice. “No Jehovah’s Witnesses! We’re up to our necks in Watchtowers!” “We’re not here to convert anybody,” says the White Knight. “We are here for brews, fags, and chips…and if you have…billiards.” The eyes disappear. Then sound of locks unlocking are heard. The door swings wide open. A man without a body, only a head, greets them with a smile. “Welcome!” says Baxter. “Welcome to Baxter’s Authentic Irish Pub! Family owned and operated since 1415!” The White Knight takes Charlotte by the hand and the two go to the back where they have a seat at a table in the shape of a four leafed clover. “What would you like to eat today?” ask the White Knight to Charlotte. “It’s on me.” Charlotte doesn’t answer immediately. She lowers her head and looks around, checking the place out if she were a billionaire detective who dresses up as a bat. It’s a crummy place, but more strange than anything. There are all sorts of scary anthropomorphic creatures: werewolves, centaurs, harpies, teenage mutant ninja turtles, you name it, it’s there. “I’m not hungry,” says Charlotte. The White Knight gives her a friendly stare. “Come now, don’t be shy. You look absolutely famished. What would you like? Coddle? Blood pudding? Haggis? Bangers and mash? Whatever you want, just name it. They have everything here.” Tapping her finger on her chin, Charlotte thinks. “Anything, huh?” The White Knight nods. “Alright,” she says, “I’d like a cold glass of coke and a hot slice of pizza.” The White Knight throws up his arm and taps the air with both fingers and gives a piercing whistle. “Garcon!” The floor suddenly starts to rumble. Everything is shaking, but nobody seems to cares. Then from the corner of Charlotte’s eye, a large lady appears. The waitress, she is wide as she is tall, a good estimate would say that she is well over 1,000 pounds large. “How may I help you?” asks Enormous Irma in a slow manner with tension in her voice. Her eyes dart back and forth between Charlotte and the White Knight, glaring. The White Knight leans back on his chair, taking his time to order. “Uh, I think I’ll have a steak,” he says, “very rare, and a whatchamacallit…a pizza and a coke.” Enormous Irma writes the items down onto a notepad. Then she waddles away. “Wow,” says Charlotte, “the waitress looked quite angry. Did I do anything to upset her?” The White Knight slaps the table and laughs. “Ha-ha! Oh, don’t worry about her. She’s just jealous. We used to go out.” Enormous Irma returns. There is a rope around her hand attached to a cow. “You wanted a very rare steak?” she says. “Well, here it is!” The patrons in the pub look with toothy grins. They slowly sip their beers, waiting with anticipation, waiting for the situation to explode. The White Knight feels the eyes staring… penetrating through his armor. Though nobody can see it, his cheeks blush and turn bright red. “Irma,” he says, “this is highly inappropriately. Please get me a real steak and put the cow back into the pasture.” “No!” screams Enormous Irma. “I will not be told what to do! You poor man’s Clark Gable!” Then she lifts a fold on her stomach and takes out a sledgehammer. Wielding it with surprising dexterity, she lifts it above her head like it were Arthur’s Excalibur. But as she swings down, the White Knight jumps to his feet and withdraws his sword, and in a swift motion uses it to hew the wooden handle. And the head of the sledgehammer drops to the floor with a resounding thud. The pub-goers clap and whistle at the row. The werewolf in the back howls as if the

moon were full. His furry foot thumps rhythmically like an excited dog. “Kick his ass!” he hollers. “Show him who’s boss, Irma!” As Enormous Irma and the White Knight face each other with narrowed eyes, the owner of the pub, Baxter, rolls into sight and appears between. He looks up; trying to quell the situation as best as person who is only a head can. “Now, now,” he says, “can’t we all get along?” Enormous Irma glowers. She pulls back her chunky leg and punts Baxter through a window…crash! Shards of glass spill onto the hardwood tiles. “You bastard!” cries the White Knight. “This is why I broke up with you! You are an aggressive woman! You’re mean and all you do is think about food and sex, food and sex, food and sex! You selfish camel!” Enormous Irma lunges at the White Knight. She grabs him by the torso and spins him like a wheel. Charlotte puts her hands over her face and covers her eyes, but still curious, peeks through the cracks of her fingers. Then slam, wham, crash! The White Knight is laid out on the floor, groaning with dents and kinks in his armor. “You know,” he says, “I forgot how strong you were…” Charlotte stands from the table and tries to go to the aid of the White Knight, but Enormous Irma steps in the way. With a stamp of her wide foot, she puffs out her chest. “And where you do think you’re going, little miss pretty?” “Don’t try and help me!” yells the White Knight. “It’s too late! Save yourself, Charlotte! Run for the hills! Run like Ben Johnson!” Panicked, Charlotte turns to run. But Enormous Irma seizes her by the arm and starts pulling her in. The White Knight looks on in shock as he helplessly watches the fervent struggle. Charlotte screams and kicks her legs together in unison like they’re a fish tail. Then Enormous Irma stretches her mouth and swallows Charlotte with a single gulp…burp! “Damn you!” shouts the White Knight as he pounds his fist on the floor. “You maniac! You ate her! Damn you! Goddamn you to hell!” “Aw,” says Enormous Irma, “don’t be sad. You can always get a new one. You know, these skinny bitches are a dime a dozen.” And with clenched hands, the White Knight rises to his feet. He takes up his sword and twirls it with aggression. He points it forward. “I’m going to tear you open like a waterbed!” Enormous Irma prepares for an attack. She lowers herself into the stance of a sumo wrestler; legs spread wide with hands placed on knees. The werewolf whispers to a harpy huddled in the crowd. “Twenty bucks says he gets squashed like a pop can.” The harpy nods and flaps her wings in agreement. Then, as the tension mounts to its peak, the White Knight charges. Enormous Irma snatches him into a bear hug. She squeezes him like a puppy owned by an unloved girl. “Doesn’t this bring back good memories, honey? Remember when we used to do it in royal gardens?!” The White Knight tries to pry himself away, but it is of no use. His jilted lover has him overpowered, and she is crushing his suit like a can of pop. “Ah-ha-ha,” laughs the werewolf to the harpy, “you just lost the bet.” But the harpy shakes denies it, shaking her head. The werewolf flashes his teeth with a growl…then he feels money being dropped into his hand. The White Knight feels Enormous Irma’s thick fingers pressing into his abdomen. And the air in his body is slowly being squeezed out. He thrashes around in a desperate attempt to escape, but his head feels light and his vision starts to fade. He can see the black border getting thicker and thicker, closing in

like the Allies on the Axis. But as all seems about lost, the door to the pub bursts open. Baxter rolls in with a band of men; officers of the queen, they are a stocky bunch, dressed in frilly uniforms, and armed with pikes. “Give yourself up!” bellows Officer Bob. “There is no escape! You are completely surrounded!” Enormous Irma releases the White Knight. She turns and stares. “Ha! You actually think you puny wimps can stop me?! Nothing can stop me! I eat pieces of shit for breakfast!” The White Knight clears his throat. “Ahem, I think you mean: ‘I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast.’” Enormous Irma swats him away. “Shut up!” He lands on a table full of glasses. Officer bob forms a phalanx with his men. They point their spear-like weapons and run forward. The pikes penetrate into Enormous Irma’s thick skin…but she feels no pain. Superficial wounds; the tips are barely halfway in. “Nice try,” says Enormous Irma with a chuckle, “but…but…” Then she suddenly passes out. She falls forward and her body crashes into the floor…baboom! The entire pub shakes. Baxter laments as he looks at the sunken ground. “Oh, my God! My pub is ruined! Look at this place! It’s a mess! Ah! I knew I should’ve lured her out with a mince pie!” Officer bob walks over to Enormous Irma, and with a triumphant smirk, he places his foot onto her neck. “Ah,” he says whilst looking down, “if only you knew that the pikes we had were dipped in sedatives, perhaps we would not be standing here now. But a victory is a victory! Men, carry this behemoth out here! And grab a keg of beer for the queen’s tax!” The officers wrap ropes around Enormous Irma’s arms, and all together, they struggle to pull. It’s difficult, but she is eventually taken out of the pub. The White Knight removes his armor, everything but the helmet; he uses his fist to pound out the dings and dents. “Hey,” says the werewolf, “wasn’t your girlfriend in that thing?” The White Knight jumps. “Oh crap!” He gathers up his armor and runs out the pub; fast as he can. This is a Long Dream “Careful now!” bellows Officer Bob. His men break into sweat as they pull Enormous Irma up a hill. She is shackled to the bed of a wagon, tediously being inched forward. She struggles and tries to break free, but is still too weak from the heavy sedatives in her system. “When I get out of here,” she says, “I’m going to kill you all and stick you on a grill for dinner!” Officer Bob glances back. “That’s a surprise,” he says with sarcasm. Enormous Irma whips her from side to side in a rage. “Agh! You pigs! You dirty fat pigs!” The men ignore the comments and get to the top. They kick the wagon down and let it roll down on its own. It crashes against a rock, stopping in front of a large cave. “Good riddance,” says Officer Bob as he gestures dusting off his hands. “Now we shall be free of her tyranny. Let us hope that her death is slow and painful.” Then he and the others leave, disappearing from sight. Smoke starts billowing from the cave in front of Enormous Irma. The odor is stale like an expired cigar. “Oh, God,” she says with her head tilted back, “what have I gotten myself into?” The ground begins to shake. Trees drop their leaves in the commotion. An ear piercing roar rips through the air. Enormous Irma’s ears

bleed from the sound. As blood pours down the sides of her face, a dragon comes out from the cave. A formidable creature, he is tall as a house, scaly like a lizard, and has razor sharp teeth, each the size of a desk. But there is something off. The dragon’s eyes are white, and he swings his head from side to side, sniffing with his nostrils, and feeling around with his claws. He is blind. A creature of the cave, exposed to little light, he is only adapted to the darkness. Still, Enormous Irma is afraid, and her hyperventilating is attracting attention. So she closes her mouth and tries to stop, but the wind moving through her nose whistles like a Fox 40. Then a voice suddenly cries out, “Stop! You vile fiend!” And the White Knight, on his horse, emerges from the shrubbery. “You came back to save me!” exclaims Enormous Irma with relief. “I knew you still loved me!” The dragon swings his tail at the “noise.” But he misses and his spiked tail gets stuck in a wall of rock. Using the opportune moment, the White Knight withdraws his sword and gallops forward. He leaps off his trusty steed and lands by Enormous Irma. With four swift motions, he hacks off her shackles. She gets up and tries to run, but her foot snaps under the force of her weight, leaving her to now be a damsel in distress. The dragon frees his tail, and using his nose, follows the scent of Enormous Irma; the sweat dripping from her skin. He lowers his head and opens his jaws inches above. A green drool drips from his mouth. “Hey!” shouts the White Knight while banging his sword against his armor. Bang. Bang. “You want a snack to eat? Here I am! Why not try something leaner, huh? Put something healthy in your body for once!” The dragon is drawn toward him…and releases a breath of fire. The horse transforms to stone. The White Knight jumps behind and takes cover. “Help me!” cries Enormous Irma. “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” The dragon twists his neck back to her voice and whips out his long tongue. He wraps it around her body and uses it to swallow her up like a chicken nugget. A lump can be seen moving down his throat. “Nooooooooo!” cries the White Knight. “You bastard!” Then he charges up the dragon’s tail; and getting to his head, he plunges down his sword. The dragon shrieks in pain. “Yow!” He pulls it out. An aberrant black liquid starts spraying all over the place. The White Knight, getting soaked, loses his footing and crashes to the ground. “I don’t feel so good,” says the Dragon dizzily. Then his body collapses and falls onto the White Knight… crunch! Enormous Irma musters her strength and hops over to the dragon. She grabs onto his scales for grip, and using all her energy, lifts him up. And miraculously, underneath, the White Knight is still alive. With a groan, he crawls away. Enormous Irma drops the dragon and goes by his side. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Feeling like he’s going to die, the White Knight decides to make peace. “It’s alright. We all make mistakes. I forgive you…Irma.” There is a silence of agreement…but then it becomes broken by a shrill voice…Charlotte’s voice. “Help!” she cries, still in Enormous Irma’s belly. “I’m alive in here!” Her words sound soft, blocked by layers of fatty tissue. “Can anybody hear me?!” Enormous Irma opens her mouth and reaches into her throat. She flicks the dark pink ball hanging in the back, her uvula, and starts

convulsing. Charlotte is thrown up. She lands beside the White Knight. She coughs and with her fingernails, scrapes the translucent slime off her voice. “It’s a pleasure to see you again,” says the White Knight. “How are you, my fair lady?” Coughing, Charlotte answers, “I’ve had better days. You?” The White Knight smiles under his helmet. Breathing heavy, he reaches his hand out and touches Charlotte’s freckled cheek. He uses finger to stroke gently against her skin. Enormous Irma looks…but she isn’t jealous. For in her moment of terror with the dragon, she realized that life is short, and that she couldn’t continue hanging her heart around another man’s neck who didn’t want to have it. “So,” she says, “is this the end of the road? Shall I thank you and part?” The White Knight stands with Charlotte. “Yes,” he says. “But I want you to know that I will always care for you. Even in our arguments, I couldn’t forget the good times we had. So goodbye, Irma. Goodbye and good day. Maybe we will meet again… who is to say?” Enormous Irma cries. She waves goodbye and watches as Charlotte and the White Knight walk away to the hill. Dream On Charlotte wakes up. With hazy vision she looks at the seashell clock by her bedside. It’s three in morning. She closes her eyes and goes back to sleep…to finish her dream. Knock! Knock! “Who’s there?” says a voice. “It’s me,” replies the White Knight. The voice grumbles, “Me who?!” Charlotte looks through the keyhole and sees a dark figure. “Your brother!” yells the White Knight. “Who the hell do you think it is? I’ve come for a visit! Don’t you recognize my voice?!” The door in front violently swings open; smashing against the wall inside. A tall man in a charcoalblack suit of armor throws up his arms. “Little brother!” he yells with a hug. “How have you been, ah? Still involved with that chivalry thing?” The White Knight nods his head with a bob, embarrassed. “Yeah. I am.” The Black Knight turns to Charlotte. “And who is this lovely young lady, ah? Your girlfriend?” Charlotte shakes her head. “No, we’re just friends… Um, actually, I’m new to this city, and your brother is trying to help me find my way home. I live by the big “L” shaped lake. Maybe you know about it.” The Black Knight tilts his chin up in thought, then exclaims. “Ah, yes! I’ve been there before! That’s where Queen Killalot goes to fish in the summer time!” “I keep hearing about this Queen Killalot,” says Charlotte. “Is she really as cruel as they say?” The Black Knight roars with laughter. He gives his brother an incredulous stare. “Is she serious? Wow! You really must be a foreigner, ah! Queen Killalot is the most evil, despicable, evil, vile, evil, woman in the world! She drowns puppies in rivers! And not even for any practical reasons…just for fun!” Charlotte looks at the White Knight with disbelief; not believing that anybody could be so cruel. “Is that true?” she asks. “Does she really do that?” The White Knight gives a miserable nod. “Yes…unfortunately.” The Black Knight touches his chin. “You know, she’s probably the reason why you’re here. It’s a known fact that the queen goes around capturing pretty girls and killing them out of jealousy. How you escaped, I’m not sure. But you certainly won’t be leaving this city, ah. Even if you try, you will be stopped at Cornwall.” Charlotte

looks worried. “Cornwall?” The Black Knight points out. “To the north, ah, you can see, there is a wall made out of corn and bricks. It is a Maginot which wraps around the city to keep out invaders…and its citizens inside. So it’s no use to know the way home. As long as the queen is alive, it will remain there, and you will remain in this shit hole. Excuse the language.” “Then,” says the White Knight, “we will have to do something about it, won’t we?” The Black Knight scoffs. “We will have to do something about it? Who is this ‘we’? You mean ‘you,’ brother. I’m not going up against the queen, ah. Even if you could get within ten feet, which is nearly impossible, I doubt that even you could take her on. She can roundhouse better than Chuck Norris.” Charlotte starts to cry. “I wanna go home! I want to see my mom and my sisters! Can’t you do something?!” Feeling like an asshole, the Black Knight folds his arms with a sigh. “Fine! I’ll help you and your girlfriend, brother. But don’t be asking me for any Christmas presents this season, ah! I’m using your gift money for a hot tub.” The White Knight puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You will not regret this.” But the look underneath the Black Knight’s helmet is full of doubt. “Excuse me, ah,” he says. “I must go to retrieve my weapon.” He saunters away and returns with a mace and chain. He twirls around the spiked ball. “Time to go kick some ass, ah! Shall we take my carriage or yours?” The White Knight lifts the lower half of his helmet. He curls his fingers into a “Q” and puts them into his mouth and whistles. The sky suddenly darkens. Charlotte and the Black Knight look up. There is a manticore screeching above, blocking the light of the sun. It descends to the ground and lands with a whomp. A cloud of dust arises around the monster, giving it a more ferocious look than it already has. It is indescribably jarring; a forsaken creation of God, it is a combination of evolutionary chaos. With the body of a lion, the head of a man, the wings of a bat, and the tail of a scorpion, the manticore has earned its reputation as the “Good God,” yells the Black Knight with a gawk, “that thing is ugly! Where did you find it, ah?! My nightmares?!” The White Knight puts his finger against the nose part of his helmet. “Shhhhh! You’ll hurt his feelings! Have some consideration. He’s going to get us to the queen’s castle.” “Wait a minute,” thinks Charlotte aloud. “If that whatever-it-is can fly, then why do we need to kill the queen? Can’t you just drop me off by the lake? Your brother knows the directions, right?” The White Knight whispers into the Black Knight’s ear. “No,” replies the Black Knight, “because that would be boring, ah. I mean…you’re clearly having a dream, why would you settle for an anti-climatic ending? That’s just a waste of sleeping hours.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Charlotte. “But I’m going to go with it anyway.” And with that, the Manticore lowers down and lets the trio onto its back. The White Knight points out his arm and commands, “To the queen’s castle!” The Manticore flaps its wings and takes off into the sky. It rises to the clouds and maneuvers with grace through the strong winds. Charlotte squeezes the monster’s fur, holding tight, trying not to look below…but her eyes roll down to the city; a breathtaking but frightening sight. The details of the cobblestone

roads, the tar black roofs, and the brown fields can be seen. Though racing by, people can be spotted as well. They look like ants. “So,” says the Black Knight, “ah, what did you say was your name again?” Charlotte scooches forward and latches her arms around the White Knight. “Uh, Charlotte,” she says. “My name is Charlotte.” The Black Knight thinks aloud. “UhCharlotte? That’s an unusual name.” The White Knight glances back at his brother. “Her name isn’t ‘Uh-Charlotte,’ stupid. ‘Uh’ is an expression of hesitation.” The Manticore banks right and swoops past a gaggle of geese. The startled birds break formation. Their “V” turns into a “C” of confusion. “Well,” says the Black Knight sarcastically, “sorreeeee! You’ll have to forgive me, ah, brother! I never attended the Schoolhouse of Rock!” As the White Knight is about to reply, an arrow suddenly hits him in the shoulder…thunk! He snaps off the shaft and throws it down. “Oh, my god! Are you okay?!” cries Charlotte. “Keep down!” he says as more arrows fly toward him. “And hang on!” The Manticore goes into a dive and spins, deflecting the attacks with its leathery wings. It lands in the garden in front of the queen’s castle. The archers kneel down and continue firing. The enraged manticore charges; it scoops them up into its mouth and swallows them like popcorn. The Black Knight hops to the ground, and with his mace and chain twirling, relentlessly bashes oncoming soldiers. “Get to the queen!” he cries to his brother and Charlotte. “Me and the beast can handle this, ah!” Swordsmen with round shields run out from the trees. The manticore swings its tail over its head and shoots a thick green acid. “Formation!” shouts the soldier in front. The men link their shields together like a jigsaw puzzle and deflect the spray of acid. The White Knight takes Charlotte down. Then he and she run through the garden. Their feet trample through a bed of prized flowers. A lady in veil looks down through a window. Her fists clench with anger. “Stick close by,” says the White Knight to Charlotte. He withdraws his sword and guts a couple hapless soldiers. “This is a dangerous place!” As swords clang and crash, the two are pushed back into a hedge maze. And with hands held they rush in to escape…but quickly become lost. The bushes are thick and thorny. Impossible to see over, they are well over twenty feet tall. “How do we get out of here?” asks Charlotte. The White Knight smirks. “I think we should take a shortcut.” He takes his sword and swings it into the hedge…but a vine springs out and wraps around the blade. “Help!” cries the White Knight as he pulls. Charlotte wraps her arms around his waist and heaves. The two are tilted back at 45 degree angle, trying to salvage their weapon, their last means of defense. But it’s no use. The bush takes it up and swallows it into the dirt…burp! “Aw, nuts!” yells the White Knight. “Now what do I use to cut people to ribbons?!” Charlotte tries to console him. She pats him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s just a piece of long metal. You can always get a new one.” Stamping his feet, the White Knight whines like a child. “I don’t want a new one!” “They’re in there!” yells a voice in the distance. Charlotte grabs the White Knight and pulls him along as he pouts. “Come on,” she says. “We have to get out of here!” The two frantically look for an exit; but keep running into walls. They pant from exhaustion…and frustration. The White Knight pounds his fists on the

ground. “This maze was designed be satin himself!” Charlotte lifts him from his knees. “You mean Satan,” she says. “Who the hell is Satan?” asks the White Knight. Charlotte tilts her head to the side, pointing her ear. “Wait,” she says, “do you hear that?” Bzzzzzt! Bzzzzzt! “I do,” replies the White Knight. “It sounds like…” A chainsaw suddenly rips through the hedge wall. A tall figure with a pumpkin head snarls. He lifts his weapon above his head; then swings it down. The White Knight thrusts his up forearm and blocks the blade from hitting Charlotte. Bright yellow sparks fly and jump into the bush. They ignite the dry leaves. The hedge bursts into flames and turns into a mass of cinder. A swarm of crows suddenly descend from the sky and envelope the man with the pumpkin head. For without the protection of his maze; the scent and sight of his tasty seeds are exposed. He is pecked to death in a frenzy and eaten away like sugar on an anthill. Charlotte and the White Knight run forward. They look on with anticipation as they move through the clearing and head for the rear of the queen’s castle. Their heads tilt back, gazing at a tower. There is a girl singing by the window, combing her tremendously long hair. “Never gonna give you up. Never gonna let you down. Never gonna run around and…” “Fair maiden!” calls the White Knight. He glances over his shoulder and sees a horde of approaching men. “Cast down your hair and let us climb into your tower!” Radisha stops her song and glimpses down. “This ain’t a rope, you twat! Find a grappling hook!” Dropping to his knees, the White Knight begs. “Please!” he cries. “We are in grave danger! Don’t let us die! I don’t want to die! I didn’t even get to read that book: ‘1,000 Places to See Before You Die’!” Radisha is unsympathetic, but upon seeing Charlotte, a girl who greatly reminds her of herself, decides to help. “Okay,” she says while unfurling her braided ponytail, “c’mon up.” She lowers down her hair. The White Knight takes grip on the knots. “Get on,” he says to Charlotte. “I don’t want you to fall.” Charlotte wraps her limbs around his body, and latching onto his back, the two begin their climb. They slowly ascend, keeping calm, even as arrows shoot past. They are almost to the top; almost to the window. Then there is a knock at Radisha’s chamber door. She goes to answer it. A male suitor with flowers drops to his knees. “Oh, Radisha,” he cries, “I cannot live without you! Please, marry me and be my wife!” Radisha leans forward, trying to keep her head from pulling back. “This isn’t a good time,” she says. “Could you go away and come back tomorrow?” The suitor weeps. “But why? Why don’t you love me? Have I not given you my everything? My heart and my soul? Please, don’t tease me. I cannot wait any longer. Give me an answer, my darling, my lady, my love. I must know!” Radisha rolls her eyes. “See, this is why I don’t like you. You’re too clingy and you come off as a desperate creep-o. Honestly. Have some dignity. You wanna get laid? Act like a man…and don’t bring me flowers anymore. For Pete’s sake, man, this place smells like Exbury Gardens. You wanna impress me? Buy me some jewelry.” The suitor looks crushed. “But, but, but,” he stammers. “I am but a peasant. I nary have the money to fill my empty belly. Please. Is there anything else which your heart desires?”

“No,” says Radisha. “Be gone.” She pushes the suitor. “Out, out, out!” But he stubbornly resists. “I will not go!” he says with an angered voice. “I will not be treated as a mat for which to wipe your feet! I will not leave ‘till we have made sweet passionate love!” The suitor throws off his clothes and spreads back his arms, presenting his denuded body. Radisha bites on her lip and tries to avert her gaze, but the years spent in the tower, the sexual repression, and desire are far too much. She leaps forward like a minx and mounts the suitor. The two entwine bodies, kissing as if there is no tomorrow. Charlotte and the White Knight enter through the window. They are shocked by what they see…but try to remain calm. “Jesus Christ!” yells the White Knight. “What the hell are you doing?!” Radisha pauses and glances behind. “I am trying to give mouth to mouth. Now screw off and leave me alone.” She returns to her “activities.” Charlotte pedals back and looks out the tower. There is a large group of well built men readying to climb up Radisha’s hair. “Ah!” cries Radisha as her head violently swings back. “Help!” The White Knight dives down with Charlotte, and the two reach out their arms to grab Radisha, but she is pulled away and flips out the window. The desperate suitor follows. He jumps out the tower, and with hugged knees, drops like a cannonball. His naked body collides with the men below. “Come on,” says the White Knight. “Let’s go.” He takes Charlotte by the hand. The two leave the chamber and go into the hallway. As they hurriedly sneak through, walking along the white parquet, the walls and floor begin to moan. Contorted faces of depression protrude, wailing and crying for help; hoping to be free. For you see, the queen did not simply slay her enemies and detractors. She would use their bones to build her castle and trap the souls within. “Really?” asks Charlotte. Yes. Unfortunately. “These voices are driving me mad,” cries the White Knight. He puts his hands on his head. “Augh! Will you people shut up?! Christ! It’s bloody annoying! Wah! Wah! Wah! Just stop for the love of God!” The hallway suddenly quiets. “Sorry,” says a glum voice. “We were only trying to express our feelings. You know, everyone has feelings…even the mortally condemned.” “We’re sorry,” says Charlotte. “Could you please help us find the queen?” Hundreds of arms appear pointing to the east wing. “There,” they say. “Follow and you will find…the queen in her abode.” Charlotte curtsies “thank you.” As she begins to hurry ahead, the White Knight grabs her by the loose of her fabric and pulls her in the opposite direction. “What are you doing?” she asks. “This isn’t the right way.” “The dead speak in opposites,” says the White Knight. “You can never trust what they say. If they tell you to go up, you go down. If they tell you to go left, you go right. If they tell you to jump, you duck. If they tell you to walk, you run. If they tell you to quit smoking…well, you better do it. Even the stupidest people know that cigarettes cause cancer.” “Okay,” says Charlotte. “I believe you.” She follows the White Knight’s lead and the two run to the end of the hallway. There is a tiny door at the bottom of the wall, far too small for a human; a size more suitable for a hamster. Bending down, Charlotte looks with great skepticism. “This couldn’t be the way.” The White Knight pinches the small brass knob and opens the door. He gets onto his

stomach. And with light coming through, he sees inside, a grand spiraling staircase; large enough for a person, even of considerable size. “What’s inside?” asks Charlotte. She glances behind, hearing voices. “Can we get through?” The White Knight stands. “If I had my sword,” he grouses, “I could…I could hack my way in. But, unfortunately, that isn’t the case.” Charlotte calls to the souls trapped within the halls. “Oh, spirits of the castle! What should we…what should we not do to get through this small, small door?” They howl and moan. “Do as you may…but do not stretch, do not pull. It is brittle as glass.” “Okay,” says Charlotte turning to the White Knight, “let’s do it.” The two wrap their hands around the frame of the door, and in opposite directions, they pull at the same time. It stretches like warm taffy and the hole becomes bigger and bigger. The light inside intensifies, billowing from above; soon it becomes large enough to enter. “On the count of three,” instructs the White Knight. Charlotte counts aloud, “Three, two…” And on one they both jump through the door. It immediately closes behind, returning to its original size. The White Knight looks up; awestruck. The grand staircase seems to spiral into eternity, traveling up a building without ceilings. He holds Charlotte back as she tries to step forward. “Wait,” he says. “I don’t trust this place.” He places his toe on the stairs. Then thousands of spikes suddenly pop up from the steps. The perfect points gleam in the light, as if to say: “Come on and try! I dare you!” “What do we do?” asks Charlotte. The White Knight scoops her into his arms and carries her up. The hard soles of his boots protect his feet, but the extra weight is causing his armor to weaken; the spikes pushing into the metal, nearly poking through. It makes it painful to walk. “Are you okay?” asks Charlotte as listens to the White Knight grunt. “Not worry,” he says in an assured voice. “We are almost there. The staircase is but an illusion, my fair lady.” The two reach the top. On level ground, they find themselves in a corridor. A short distance ahead leads to a door in the shape of a rose; thorns and all. “I’ve never seen the queen before,” admits the White Knight. “If you think we should turn back, now is the time to say.” Charlotte thinks. A draft sweeps over her legs. Goose bumps rise on her skin. “No,” she says, filled with sudden resolution and courage. “We’ve come too far. We’ve gone too long. We must persevere…by God, we must persevere!” “Alright, no need to be so poetic,” says the White Knight. “Let’s just go in.” He and Charlotte go through the rose shaped door. There they see Queen Killalot. She is asleep on a bed; her face masked in a lightly colored veil. Her snore is jarringly loud. It sounds like a cross between a pig snort and a motorcycle engine: Tgnkaaaw! Tgnkaaaw! “Alright,” says the White Knight as he tiptoes to the bed, “here I go.” He stands over the queen and curls his hands, readying to wrap them around her neck. He slowly moves in. Charlotte nervously bites on her fingernails. Then Queen Killalot suddenly awakes. With fiery eyes, she thrusts out her foot and kicks the White Knight across the room like a football. He crashes into a Ming vase, shattering it into a hundred pieces. Charlotte helps him to his feet. But he stumbles about, his fists in front of him, like a drunk looking for a fight. “C’mon! Show me what-cha got!”

Queen Killalot spreads out her arms and floats to the floor. “Did you think it would be so easy to defeat me?” she asks in a raspy voice. “I am the face that sunk a thousand ships!” She tears off her veil. “Oh no!” says Charlotte with a gasp. The queen is her mother Sierra. The White Knight regains his footing. He lifts the visor on his helmet. Another gasp; the man beneath the armor was Brendan. Charlotte feels lightheaded, confused and conflicted. Who is she to root for now? The boy she loves or the mother whose affection she seeks? But there is not time for questions. Brendan and Sierra charge toward each other. Screaming like Maori warriors, they clash into each other’s bodies; the energy so great, that a shock wave rocks the room. The surrounding pillars crack and crumble. The ceiling caves in. Stones shower down. Charlotte covers her head and shrieks as the floor beneath her feet collapses. She falls into an endless hole. Surrounded only by darkness, all she can do is feel the wind against her body, and the tears on her cheeks, knowing that her loved ones have been lost. “No…no…no…” Wake Up, Little Charlotte With invisible tears streaming down her cheeks, Charlotte awakes from her nightmare. She rubs her eyes and squints away from the sun shining on her face. The morning has arrived. “Darling,” calls Sierra outside the bedroom door, “it’s time to get up! Come down and eat your breakfast!” Charlotte kicks off her blanket and looks below her waist. Nope. There aren’t any legs…only a tail. Alas, what transpired earlier was only a dream…a figment of her imagination. She gets out of bed and swims to her closet. She rifles between the hangers and choose a top. Wearing a sky blue brassiere, she looks in the mirror. It matches well with the hazelnut color of her irises. Charlotte puts it back and gets something plain and drab. Bringing attention to herself is not what she wants to do. She leaves her bedroom and goes the bathroom. She brushes her teeth with Coral White toothpaste; then goes down to join her sisters at the breakfast table. “Where’s breakfast?” asks Charlotte, scanning the kitchen. “I told you earlier to come down and eat your breakfast,” says Sierra in her motherly voice. “But since you came late, I gave the food to your sisters.” “You know what they say,” says Clarissa smiling with Melissa, “the early bird gets the worm.” Charlotte quietly folds her hands, trying her best to ignore her giggling sisters. “Here,” says Sierra, placing a bowl of seaweed in front of Charlotte, “eat this. I know it doesn’t taste good, but it’s good for you.” Melissa puts her finger in her mouth, pretending to throw up. Ring! Ring! “Oh,” says Sierra, “that’s for me.” She floats over to the counter and picks up a conch attached to a curled cord. She puts it to her ear. “Hello? Uhhuh. Yes. Yes. I have it with me. Yes. It’s all done. Okay. I’ll be out in a minute. I was just doing some last minute errands. Yeah. I’ll meet you outside.” She places it back down. “Girls, behave yourselves while I’m gone…especially you, Charlotte. I don’t want to hear about anymore of your shenanigans when I come back. I have my hands full as it is.”

Charlotte reluctantly nods. Her mother grabs her purse and leaves. Sierra can be heard outside, hailing for a cab. “Gonna eat your food?” asks Melissa with her head resting against her arms. “Do I have to?” says Charlotte. “Of course,” replies Melissa. “You wouldn’t want mom finding out about your wasteful behavior, would you?” Charlotte takes her spoon and shovels some seaweed into her mouth. She plugs her nose and chews. “You know,” says Clarissa, “if you don’t want to gain weight from all that food, you could go to the toilet and throw it up.” “No way,” says Charlotte with a shake of her head. “That’s disgusting. I’d never do that. I’m fine the way I am…right?” Clarissa has a devilish look in her eyes. “Well, that’s not what all the boys have been saying…” Charlotte suddenly thinks of Brendan. Maybe he thinks she’s fat! “Well, I’ve never done that before, but if you could show me how to do it…” Melissa nudges Clarissa with her elbow. Ow. “I was just joking,” she says. “You’re right. Throwing up your food is disgusting. Don’t do it. You don’t wanna end up looking like Keira Knightley. It’s not good. Anyway, you have other things to worry about…like school. Remember? The wonderful place where you learn not only about history and mathematics, but about justice and mercy…from your own person experience.” “I don’t have to go to school,” says Charlotte. “I can always go to the library and teach myself. I’ll learn the same things.” Melissa and Clarissa shake their heads in unison. “No, no,” they say. “You have to go to school. Learning things means shit unless you have a piece of paper to prove it. Merpeople need certification. You’re not going to get a job by telling people how smart you are, then hoping they’ll take your word for it.” “Why not?” asks Charlotte with genuine sincerity. “Because,” says Melissa, “that’s just the way it is. Pride it or perish.” Clarissa takes out a comb and mirror and brushes back her hair. “Shouldn’t you be waiting outside for the bus?” Charlotte pleads with her sisters. “Please, I don’t wanna go to school. Can’t you let me follow you around for the day? I promise. I won’t get in the way.” Melissa scoffs and sticks her nose in the air. “Humph! You honestly think we have time for that, time to watch and take care of our little sister? You know, our jobs are difficult as hell! We can’t just invite people over to our workplace like a movie theatre! Jesus, Charlotte. Give us some credit.” “You’re models,” says Charlotte. “You stand around and let people take your pictures. How hard could it be? I could do that upside down.” Clarissa and Melissa stand from their seats. “You think it’s easy?!” they yell vehemently. “You think it’s easy eating a cracker for dinner everyday? Then throwing it up in the toilet! My God! You know what we go through to maintain our figures?! You think it’s easy swimming 5 miles every morning?! You think it’s easy going out and having mermen bother you every single minute of the hour, whistling at your tail?! Charlotte, you don’t know anything. It’s a hard occupation. Show some appreciation. All the money we make goes into this stupid shack and paying off student loans. We’re poor as shit. The debt is eating away at us, man. That Prawna purse I bought last week wasn’t even real.” Charlotte apologizes. “Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry for hurting your feelings.” Honk! Honk! “There’s your bus,” says Melissa with a grin. “Hurry up,” adds Melissa, “you don’t want to be late.” Charlotte takes her knapsack from the floor

and swims to the door. She twists the knob and opens it a crack, looking out at the yellow bus with fins. She goes outside. The kids don’t notice her; their faces buried in books, quietly nervous for what the day ahead may bring. Charlotte goes to the front of the bus. The doors fold inward. “Morning,” says the bus driver. “Swim on in. There’s a seat in the back.” Shane waves in the distance. “Room for one more!” he yells with glee. He pats the seat beside. Cough! Cough! “I’m not feeling so well,” says Charlotte in an overtly hoarse voice. “I think I’ve come down with something.” The bus driver lifts her hat and looks in the rearview mirror. She sees the children wringing their hands and keeping to themselves. She knows why they’re acting that way. She knows they’re anxious; afraid of the bullies who await them. “Alright, then, I guess you better stay home…but don’t forget to call the school and tell ‘em. They’re real strict about that stuff.” “Yes,” says Charlotte with a cough, “I’ll be sure to let them know.” The bus driver nods. She pulls the lever inside the bus to close the doors and drives off with the children. Their faces look sour as they motion together through the water, heading toward the dreaded place known as high school. Charlotte does a back-flip, happy, even though she is aware that any delay is merely temporary. Her mother Sierra is bound to find out…but what is to stop her from enjoying the rest of the day? As Charlotte thinks what to do with herself, she hears the approaching voices of her chattering sisters. She gets behind a rock and watches them climb into a limousine. Then a sudden thought flashes into her brain. “Gee, I wonder what it’s like to be a model.” She grabs a rope of seaweed from the ground. She makes it into a lasso and throws it around the boomerang at the back of the limousine just as it starts to move. Charlotte hangs on and stays quiet; listening to her sisters talk without the knowledge of her presence. “Thanks for the ride,” say Melissa and Clarissa to Jackie the girl behind the wheel. “No problem,” she replies. “It’s on the way.” Clarissa reaches into her purse and takes out a tube of gloss. She smears it over her lips. She hands it to Melissa who does the same. “So,” says Jackie, “how’s everything been going? How’s your sister? I haven’t seen her in some time.” “She’s always getting grounded,” says Melissa. “I don’t know what’s with that girl. She can’t stay out of trouble.” Clarissa agrees. “I know, I know. It’s like she’s from another lake or something. I just hate her. Here we are working our tails off, Jackie, and she’s acting like an idiot. I love her. I really do. But she gets on my nerves sometimes. Sometimes I just wanna grab her throat and strangle her.” “That’s kind of harsh,” says Jackie. “Don’t you think?” Melissa shakes her head. “Well, you’re not the one who has to live with her. God…God, God, God. She’s like a starfish. No brains whatsoever. Just completely ignorant. She has no idea about the real world at all. It’s like her head is constantly out of the water.” Jackie takes a hand off the wheel of the limousine and reaches her hand up to adjust the rearview mirror. As she does, she catches the reflection of Charlotte in the glass. She can see her face, she can see her following behind, she can see her reddened eyes from crying. And before Clarissa can say more to insult her little sister, Jackie turns on the radio and drowns out her voice. “What are you doing?!” says Clarissa, trying to

speak over the noise. “Nothing!” Jackie loudly replies. “I’m listening to the radio! It’s too quiet in here! I can’t stand the quiet!” Melissa puts her hands over her ears. “Turn it off!” she shouts. But the heavy metal music easily drowns out her words. And for the whole ride the two sisters have to listen to Judas Priest. The limousine stops. Melissa and Clarissa wave goodbye to Jackie and thank her for the ride. Charlotte takes cover behind another conveniently placed rock. She sees her sisters go into a building. It’s a worn-down looking place, but not without it’s charm; an eclectic mix of modern American and Ancient Greek architecture, it is definitely something to see. As Charlotte’s curiosity is piqued, as she is about to go through the door of the building in front, a pair of giant cookies suddenly come out; mermaids in costumes, they have identical messages embroidered onto their stomachs” “Come to the Cookie Jar!” they say. “Treat Yourself Today!” Charlotte edges forward. She squints and sees their faces. Her hand goes over her mouth in shock. It’s Melissa and Clarissa! They’re working as cookies for the “Cookie Jar” bakery. They’re not really models. They’re employees at a rundown plaza. “Come one, come all,” drone Melissa and Clarissa at the same time. “Taste our sweet treats. Made with organic ingredients. No chemicals. No preservatives. No additives. 100% natural deliciousness.” The manager store appears behind. “Hey,” he says, “why you talking like that? That ain’t gonna drum up any business! Talk like you mean it, otherwise you’re fired! Jesus! What am I paying you for?!” Melissa grimaces. Clarissa gives her a nudge. “Ooh, don’t screw this up,” she whispers with grit teeth. “It’s this or living in open water.” The manager folds his arms, waiting for a response. The shine from his bald head reflects a spot of light onto Charlotte’s face. She lowers her head to shield her eyes. “Well!” presses the manager, leaning uncomfortable close to the sisters. Melissa throws up her arms and with a faux smile, repeats her lines with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Come one! Come all! Taste our sweet treats! Made with organic ingredients! No chemicals! No preservatives! No additives! 100% natural deliciousness!” “Wow,” thinks Charlotte, “no wonder they’re always so mean and grumpy. I would be too if I had to dress up and have chocolate chips for nipples.” The manager saunters back into his store. A group of sassy girls see Clarissa and Melissa. They go over to them to gawk. “Oh my god!” shrieks Vicky, the girl in front of the others. “What a horrible job you two have! Man! I feel sorry for you! I’d never be caught dead doing something like that!” “Ooh, buy a frigging cookie or go to hell,” mutters Melissa. “What’s that?” asks Vicky. “Maybe we should go and tell your manager. Yes. I’m sure he’d like to hear that. It would be good for his blood pressure.” Clarissa looks down, trying not to stare at the giggling girls, trying not to acknowledge that she is being mocked by teenagers from high school. Vicky and her girls start pushing Clarissa and Melissa. Back and forth they go, prodded by the very people they once were. And there’s not much they can do. They’re adults now. Well into their twenties, hopelessly living at home with their mother, they have no choice but to keep their noses to the grindstone. They can’t let Vicky get to them. They can’t get fired up and give her any satisfaction whatsoever. The bitchy head cheerleader

can have her bit of fun. “One day,” the sisters think, “one day, we’ll be somebodys. We’ll be at the top of the pyramid again… Ooh, Vicky, you damned slut.” Charlotte springs out from behind her rock. “Hey!” she yells with fist shaking high. “You leave my sisters alone! You merbullies!” Vicky turns with an evil smirk. “Are you talkin’ to me?” Clarissa and Melissa mouth to Charlotte, mouth for her to leave. “Go away,” their lips say. “Go away!” But Charlotte ignores them. She swims forward and gruffly places her hands on her hips. “Yeah! I’m talkin’ to you! What’re you gonna do about it?!” The girls behind Vicky cluster together like a pack of wolves. They fold their arms and glower with tilted heads. As they growl in their throats, Vicky suddenly shouts, “Get that dugong!” Charlotte spins around and starts wagging her tail like mad to escape. “Run, Charlotte,” cry Melissa and Clarissa, “run!” She jets through the plaza and glances behind. Vicky and her girls are only inches away. “Come here!” screams Vicky as she tries to swipe at Charlotte’s tail. Charlotte points her head forward and tucks her hands by her sides like a torpedo. And looking ahead, she shoots forward into a sunken ship; the famed SS Scott Fitzgerald, a place well known to be haunted. Vicky and her girls stop at the hole. They jitter with trepidation. “Should we go in?” asks one by the front. “Of course,” nods Vicky, pretending to be brave. “Why wouldn’t we? She’s in there, isn’t she? I mean…unless you guys are scared…we don’t have to. Me? I’m not scared. No, no, no. I’m just asking what you think, because I’m trying to be considerate and diplomatic. It’s in my nature.” “What’re you talking about?” says a girl in the back of the group. “You’re not considerate and diplomatic, Vicky. The whole reason we’re here is because you’re a bully. You’re a prick. We’re all pricks. So come on, let’s be honest and admit it. We’re all scared shitless. Okay. Let’s take a quick survey. Who here is scared shitless?” Everyone raises there hands. “Alright then,” says Vicky, “let’s get the hell out of here.” They all leave together. Meanwhile, Charlotte is swimming around in the dark, feeling her way through the bowels of the ship. Her body shivers from the cold water. “Oh,” she thinks aloud, “I wish those girls would just find me already and get this thing over with.” She cups her hand around her mouth and yells, “I’m over here!” There is no response but for the creaking of the rusted metal interior. She bravely continues on. Though her search for an exit only takes her in deeper and deeper. Then a light suddenly appears; red in color and motioning around in a circle, it startles Charlotte and causes her to scream “ghost!” She turns to swim away, but hits her head on a hanging beam…bang! “You okay?” asks a shy, little voice. “That looked like it really hurt.” A red glowing fish appears. He swims over to Charlotte’s head and gently rubs it with his fin. “There, there,” he says, “the swelling will go down.” Charlotte looks at the fish with astonishment. “You’re not a ghost…” The fish laughs. “You thought I was a ghost?” Charlotte nods. His body glows with amusement. “Well, I’m not,” he says with a smile. “As you can plainly see, I am just a fish.” His body starts to strobe like a disco light. “But fishes don’t glow,” says Charlotte. “I don’t understand how you can glow.” The fish explains. “I’m a campfire fish. I don’t fully understand it, but apparently, I’m what the humans call ‘genetically modified.’ A special type of fish

that can emit light through bioluminescence. I think that’s what they call it… Anyway, I’m sorry I startled you. I can see why you thought I was a ghost. Why everyone thinks I’m a ghost. You know, there aren’t really many others like myself. Kind of lonely here if you ask me.” “Why don’t you leave this ship then?” asks Charlotte. The scales on the campfire fish bristle. “Oh, I could never do that,” he says. “I’m far too afraid. Everything scares me.” Charlotte pinches her chin in thought. “Do you like staying here?” she asks. “No!” exclaims the campfire fish. “I hate it here. I don’t wanna stay here my whole life. But what’s a guy to do? It’s a fish eat fish world.” “That’s a risk you have to take,” says Charlotte. Then she starts to think about herself, how she’s been avoiding school; afraid of being bullied and picked on. “You have to face your fears. That’s the only way to be happy.” The campfire fish becomes startled by a sudden sound. He darts down and hides in the crevice of the rotted floorboard. “No! I can’t do it! Stop pressuring me! It’s too much pressure!” Charlotte tries to plead with him. “Please, don’t do this to yourself. You’re only making your life miserable. Leave this pile of ship and go out and enjoy the world outside. There are so many things to see. If you just tried…” The campfire fish interrupts with a nattering noise. “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah! I’m not listening! Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!” “Fine,” says Charlotte, “do whatever you want. I’m leaving. Could you please point me in the right direction?” Peeking out from his hole the campfire fish points straight. “Go forward as far as you can. Then when you hit a wall, take a right. Go up and you’ll be out…home free.” With a quiet “thank you,” Charlotte swims ahead. She bumps into a wall in the darkness and takes a right. As she starts to float up, she hears a voice. “Wait,” cries the campfire fish from behind, “I’m coming!” He scampers with his tail kicking behind and follows Charlotte outside. She turns to him and smiles, proud of his newfound courage. “What made you change your mind?” The campfire fish gives a nervous grin. Both excited and afraid, his red body glows extra bright. “Well,” he begins, “I thought about what you said. And I’ll be perfectly honest…I wasn’t really that moved. And I was so close to staying in this ship hole…but then I remembered your face. The way you smiled at me. It gave me such a warm feeling…I didn’t wanna lose the feeling. You complete me.” Smitten with the campfire fish’s charm, Charlotte gently pants him on the head. “That’ll do, fish,” she says. “That’ll do.” Then out of nowhere another fish appears and swallows him up. The trout burps. “Man,” he says while licking his crusty lips, “that was great. Got anymore?” Charlotte grabs hold of the trout and starts pounding him on his head. “You slimy SOB! That was my friend!” “Ow!” cries the trout. “I didn’t know!” Charlotte stops her tirade against the carnivorous fish. She floats down to the lake floor and lies on her back. She grabs her hair and pulls it in remorse. “Why, why, why did I tell him to leave?! Oh! Me and my big, fat, stupid, ugly, stupid mouth! Now he’s dead…deader than Chinese Democracy! Aw, I’m such an idiot!” Looking guilty, the trout starts to thrash his head up and down. As his neck starts to quiver, he opens his mouth, and with a loud “blargh” he throws up his “lunch.” And the campfire fish returns to the water in a thick layer of mucus and

gastric juices. Charlotte floats up, ecstatic to see the return of her friend. She tries to hug him, but he slips away. “No, thank you,” he says as he swims toward the shipwreck. “I’m not in needs of hugs right now. I’d rather go home. Goodbye and good riddance.” Then he disappears into the darkness; likely to never return. “Wait!” cries Charlotte. “I’m sorry! Come back!” The trout shakes his head in pity and leaves to hunt for his next meal. Left alone, Charlotte wanders through the lake. Her head feeling heavy, constantly down, it drags through the water like a heavy stone. She takes the time to reflect on her life. Sure, she’s not very old she knows, but certainly she should be mature than she is. “Why am I such a screw up?” she asks herself aloud. “What is it with me and screwing things up? God, I can’t do anything right. I gotta be the most awkward teenager on earth.” “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” says a voice. Charlotte turns around, and there before her is the famed Prince Vonne, smiling from ear to ear. He is a handsome fellow who looks to be in his late thirties or early forties. It’s hard to tell because his skin is so smooth for his age, but in his dark hair is a distinguishing streak of grey. “Hello,” he says as he suavely moves forward, “I’m Prince Vonne. It’s nice to meet you. What’s your name?” He extends his arm for a friendly handshake. Charlotte reciprocates. “I’m Charlotte,” she says. “Are you really Prince Vonne?” Prince Vonne nods. “Of course.” He shows a gold ring on his finger. It is molded with the royal seal: a shark holding a sword. Impressed and at the same time skeptical, Charlotte reaches out with her hand and touches it. “Is it real gold?” she asks. “Of course,” replies Prince Vonne, beaming with pride. “Anything less would be an insult to the kingdom.” “But what are you doing here?” says Charlotte. “Shouldn’t you be out doing ‘princely’ things?” Prince Vonne puffs out his chest like bodybuilder. “I am,” he says. “I’m looking for a wife.” Charlotte gasps. “No! Really? Is it that time? Have you found anyone you’re interested in?” With a hung head, Prince Vonne replies. “Ah, it’s been an unfortunate day…” “Though there is this one lady I do fancy,” he continues. “However, I have my doubts as to whether my infatuation could manifest itself into a genuine relationship. After all, she is a lot younger than myself, and issues of maturity could very well pose some serious problems.” Charlotte smiles. “You know what they say: ‘Age ain’t nothin’ but a number.’” “Is that what you really think?” asks Prince Vonne. “Sure,” nods Charlotte. “I mean, if you’re in love with somebody, why let a pair of numbers stop you? Nothing should come between you and the merperson you love. At least, that’s why I think.” Putting his hands together, Prince Vonne leans his chin between his index fingers and thumbs. “I agree,” he says. “You’re absolutely right.” His eyes drift to the side. He looks nervous. “So, Charlotte, would you like to accompany me to the Royal Ball? It’s the day after the day after tomorrow. Friday evening, no less.” Placing her hands on her cheeks, astounded at the offer, Charlotte thinks; not sure what to say, she replies with a moment of silence. She knows it is an honor to be invited to such an illustrious event; however, she also knows that there is much more to it than meets the eye. The Royal Ball, an annual event, is

essentially a social get-together for the upper-class. It is an opulent party for rich men to meet with and court attractive mermaids. Still…any girl would die to attend. But in Charlotte’s mind, she would prefer to not be inundated with the pleas and false charm of desperate males. Because there is only one man for her, and though she does not know his name, Brendan is it. “I’m sorry,” says Charlotte. “I can’t attend.” Prince Vonne looks crestfallen. He puts his hand over his heart. Charlotte tries to console him. “Hey, hey, hey… don’t fret. There are better girls out there than myself. I’m just one of many.” Prince Vonne laughs. “Ah-ha-ha! Did you think I was trying to…no, no! I don’t want to marry you! Oh! How wrong would that be?! No! I was asking for my son! Yes. He’s a young merperson like yourself, a tad bit shy, but I do think that the two of you would get a long really well. And he’s not that bad looking, just to let you know.” Charlotte glances back, as if to hear a second opinion. But nobody is there. “I don’t know,” she says. “Even if I wanted to go, I don’t even have a dress. I am completely dress-less. Not a single frock in the whole closet.” Folding his arms, Prince Vonne laughs once again. “Ah-ha-ha! If a dress is your only concern, then you are in luck. As a prince, a man of royalty, I am wealthy beyond imagination… not my imagination, your imagination. I already know how much money I have. But anyway, it means I own a lot of things, and one of those things is a chain of clothing stores. Have you ever heard of Prawna?” “No,” says Charlotte with skepticism. “You don’t really own those, do you? That’s like the most exclusive brand in the lake. A tube of lipstick there costs a whole gold coin… God, you must be making a ton of money.” With a smug countenance, Prince Vonne folds his arms and smiles wide; even wider than before. “Yes,” he says, “I do. And that is why I want to give you a free dress for the Royal Ball. Anything you want.” “Anything?” asks Charlotte in disbelief. Prince Vonne stares at her with reassurance. His perfect hair waves in the water. There is a calmness to his face… but something in his eyes seem deceptive…though a superficial glance could never tell you. “Tomorrow,” he says. “I will send for someone to pick you up at your home. Then we will go shopping for your dress. Where is it you live… Charlotte?” “I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” reminds Charlotte to Prince Vonne. “And I have to say, I think it’s rude of you to assume. Maybe I’m involved with somebody else. Maybe I don’t wish to swim around with your son…even if he is, one day, going to inherit a boatload of money.” Prince Vonne responds with a blank stare. It’s difficult to know whether is angry, disappointed, annoyed, or doesn’t care at all. Perhaps it is all four mixed into one. “It’s too bad,” he says. “There we be cake, and juice, baked clams, and iced cream. You will certainly be missing out on a sumptuous feast. These foods are quite expensive. They must be prepared and eaten above the water.” “And what of Lord Voldermort!” yells a voice in the distance. Charlotte looks with Prince Vonne. There is a nerdy looking boy with brown hair and glasses floating above their heads. “I’m sorry,” says Charlotte. “Did you say ‘Lord Voldermot’? I think you’re in the wrong book. I’m not 100% sure, but I have a real gut feeling about this.”

“Go home!” shouts Prince Vonne. “We don’t need your help, you patronizing English bastard! We’re fine on our own! Go and upstage something else! Like, I don’t know, every single children’s book in history!” The nerd quietly disappears. Charlotte goes back to the earlier conversation. Returning to it like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Where were we? Oh yeah. The food. Um, yeah, that sounds great…but I don’t think it’s reason enough to attend. Um, wait, what kind of iced cream did you you’d be serving?” The prince’s smile returns. He knows his temptations are working. “Oh,” he says in a grandly tone, “all kinds. Every flavor of the rainbow: from French Vanilla to Cherry Garcia. We’ll have it all.” Charlotte looks excited. “And Mint Chocolate, too?” Prince Vonne shakes his head. “Yuck! No way! Why would I serve our guests something that tastes like toothpaste and melted Hershey’s bars? Honestly!” Charlotte turns away. She folds her hands and huffs. “I’m sorry,” says Prince Vonne. “I apologize. I will have your iced cream flavor for you at the ball. But in order for you to taste it, you must come…but you don’t have to make the decision now. Just think about it when you go home. And if by the next day you don’t want to attend, just let my assistant know…the one I’ll be sending to your house. By the way, where is your house? You haven’t told me that yet.” “It’s by the north shore,” says Charlotte. “415 Mollusca Drive. The pitiful house with wormholes in the clapboard. You can’t miss it.” Prince Vonne unties a conch from his belt. He lifts it to his mouth and blows into the hole at the end of the shell. The boring sound rumbles through the water. Then a gold trimmed carriage suddenly appears. Being pulled by a herd of goliath seahorses, it takes a turn and stops in front of the prince. He opens the door and goes inside. He commands for the carriage to go. “Goodbye,” waves Prince Vonne to Charlotte through the window, “I hope to see you on Friday!” Without a word, Charlotte silently swims away. With her golden hair flowing through the water, she kicks her tail and disappears into the murk of the lake. What’s It Gonna Be? Sitting at the far end of the dinner table, Charlotte can feel the eyes of her sister, staring down at her with annoyance. “Well!” yells Clarissa. “Are you going to go to the Royal Ball or not?! ‘Cause if you’re not, I’d really like to take your place, Miss Lucky…” Melissa edges forward in her seat. The light from the late afternoon casts a red-orange glow onto her smooth white back. “C’mon,” she says, “what’s to think about? Good food, good music, a free dress, and the company of rich, rich, rich, rich men. I don’t see why you’re so hesitant. Y’know, if you hook up with the prince’s son and get married, you won’t have to lift a single finger your entire life!” “I don’t have any problems with working,” says Charlotte. She takes a nibble of food from her plate. “I just…I’m not available right now, okay. And I’m not particularly interested in dating mermen.” Clarissa and Melissa pound their fists down. “Ooh! Don’t tell us you’re still in love with that stupid human! God! You don’t even know his name! I bet he’s a fisherman!”

“He is not a fisherman,” Charlotte says emphatically. “And furthermore…wait a minute…how do you know about my human? I never mentioned him to anyone. Were you two reading through my diary?!” Clarissa shovels a heap of food in her mouth and chews loudly as if she never heard the question. Melissa tries to change the subject. “So,” she says, “what is the deal with, uh, AIDS? It doesn’t aid you at all!” The politically incorrect joke falls on deaf ears. Charlotte presses her sisters for an answer. “I asked you a question!” she says with a raised voice. “Have you been reading my diary?! And don’t lie to me! Tell me the truth!” Melissa nudges Clarissa with her elbow. The two decide to own up to their egregious faux pas. “Yes,” confesses Clarissa as she spits out her dinner, “we did read your diary. We went to your room to your room to steal some money and saw it sitting on your desk. So we got curious. We didn’t really mean to intrude on your privacy, Charlotte. We just wanted to know what you thought of us. That’s all. Nothing sinister.” Charlotte is in disbelief. “Of all the rotten things, I can’t believe you did this.” She starts to get choked up. “I would tell you that you hurt my feelings…but I can’t…because my body is numb. Honestly. I don’t even know what to say. What’s next, guys? Drilling a hole in my skull and scooping out my brains?” Melissa tries to defend her actions. “Ooh! Now, c’mon! Don’t exaggerate. It’s not that big of a deal… Okay, it is kind of a big deal. But it’s not like we made a Xerox and handed it out to everyone. Really! We could’ve done that, but no, we decided not to! We took the high road and respected your copyrights! That’s a very rare courtesy these days!” Knowing she can’t win an argument with her sisters, Charlotte concedes to their twisted logic. There’s no use wasting her energy she figures. Plus, telling by what they know, they probably only saw her decoy diary. That’s right. Littlest sister is cleverer than they think. She would never leave her diary, her deepest, most intimate thoughts, lying around for anybody to see. After living for 14 years with her siblings, she knows the game, and the number one rule is: let them think they’re winning. That way they’ll leave you alone. “Okay,” says Charlotte, “I forgive you. I know you two don’t deserve it, but since I love the both of you, in a strictly platonic manner, I will.” Clarissa glances at Melissa. The expression on her face appears guilty, but the look in her eyes really says “ha-ha, we won again.” Under the table they give each other a fishy high-five with their tails. They go back to what they were talking about before. With a heavy sigh, Charlotte finishes the last morsels of her dinner. She gets up and goes into the kitchen to drop her dishes into the sink. As she washes her plate, Clarissa and Melissa stand behind and wrap their arms around her body like snakes; making sure she won’t leave. “Little sister,” they say in their most chirpy voices, “we are truly sorry about we did. If we could make it up to you, we would. But as you know, working at the Cookie Jar, supporting this family, has made us well exhausted.” “And,” says Clarissa, “in spite of our shenanigans, in spite of the sometimes ill-mannered hubris, we still do love you. We want you to know that. We care about you…as you care about us. You do care about us, don’t you?” Charlotte

stares at Clarissa in the reflection of the polished steel sink. “Yes,” she replies, still with her mental guard up, “I do. You shouldn’t have to ask.” Melissa flutters her eyes. “Then why won’t you go to the Royal Ball? Is it so difficult for you to let loose and have a night of fun? It’s not like you’re doing anything this Friday…or any other Friday for that matter.” Charlotte turns around. “I know why you want me to go, and it’s not to ‘let loose and have a night of fun.’ You want me to date the prince’s son for his money. So please, don’t pretend like you’re concerned about my welfare. I don’t care if that guy is Brad Pitt himself, I’m not going to go out with him. I’m already in love with somebody else, and if you two understood what love was, you two would leave me alone.” Clarissa distances herself from Charlotte and Marissa. She turns and puts her hands against the wall, bracing her body. Her smirk sinks into a frown. She remembers when she was the same age as her little sister. She remembers the first boy she fell in love with. She remembers how she saw him; how every time they met, her heart would nearly skip a beat. But as much as they loved each other, it couldn’t be. Like Romeo and Juliet, they were star-crossed lovers… separated by the pointed and wagging fingers of society. The boy was a reversomerman. He had the upper-body of a fish and the lower appendages of a human; not that pleasant to the eyes, but love is love. Is it not? “Don’t do,” says Clarissa with complete sincerity. “If you’re in love with a human…be in love with that human. Don’t change your mind. Don’t listen to what anybody tells you…at least in matters of the heart. Love is like a ride to the moon. It’ll take you to a beautiful place, but if you don’t catch the first ride, you’ll never catch it again. Charlotte, don’t let your love go because of what other merpeople think. It’s your life. Live it and love it the way you want.” Charlotte is taken aback; shocked by the frankness of her sister. It’s something she’d never expect from her in a million years…complete and utter honesty. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll give it a chance. I won’t make any promises, but I’ll give it a chance. I’ll go to the Royal Ball and meet the prince’s son. That’s the least I can do.” Then with an air of quiet dignity, she exits the kitchen and swims up to her room. “Wow,” whispers Melissa, “You got her to change her mind. I didn’t think she’d fall for reverse-psychology stuff. Good job, sis. You sounded like you really meant that.” Clarissa eyes well-up with tears; still remembering the love she lost. “I did mean it,” she says. “I did mean it…” One Hundred Dresses and a Petticoat Shane sticks his head through the bedroom window. Carrying under his arm is a spray of colorful flowers; real flowers from dry land, handpicked from a secluded area by the shore. “Good morning!” he sings, “Good morning!” Charlotte rolls over and snores. Her blanket is lying on the floor. It must’ve been a restless night. “Hello!” yells Shane with a smile. “How do yah do? Lovely day, isn’t it?” He playfully talks to himself. “Yes! I must agree! The weather is lovely! How’s the wife and kids?” Charlotte opens her eyes. She nearly falls out of her bed in surprise. “Shane,” she says, “what’re you doing here? What time is it?” Shane looks at the sundial

around his wrist. “Oh,” he says, “it’s just about 5:00 AM. I know. I shouldn’t be bothering you like this, but I’m just so excited about our date. It’s coming up quick! Oh, man! I can’t believe it! I, Shane ‘the big nerd,’ actually have a date! Me and another girl! Who could’ve imagined!? Not me! Certainly not me!” Charlotte sits up with a yawn. “Date?” she asks. “What date? Are those flowers for me?” Shane floats into the room and hands Charlotte his bouquet of bright yellow dandelions. They bow from the currents of the water. “I hope you like it,” he says. “I almost got bit by a dog trying to collect them.” Bending her head forward, Charlotte takes a deep whiff. The grassy odor reminds her of Brendan. “They’re great,” she says. “I really appreciate the gesture.” She looks at Shane; still plastered with his goofy grin. “But I’m sorry. We’re not going on a date.” Shane takes a moment to take in what he’s heard. “What do you mean?” he says with a crushed voice. “You said that we would! You said!” “No,” corrects Charlotte, “I said ‘we’ll see.’ And I saw and decided not to.” Shane cries. “Well, I didn’t see!” He circles around in embarrassment, nearly speechless; he’s a stammering wreck. “B-b-b-b-but I was so… I… I… How could you do this to me?! How can yah break a guy’s heart like this? Huh? Am I really that unattractive?” Charlotte tries to explain. “I have something to do,” she says. “I can’t spend my time diddling around on a pity date.” Shane clutches his chest dramatically; his mind races, trying to salvage his dignity. “Well,” he says, “I don’t need your pity. In fact…I have a date of my own. Yeah. Uh-huh, it’s true. I know you don’t believe it, but I do. It’s up and ready to go. All I have to do is arrive and show. ” “Who’s the lucky girl?” asks Charlotte. “Um, I don’t know,” replies Shane. “It’s, uh, sort of a blind date. I never met her yet…but I imagine she’s very attractive. Oh, yes. I can see her now. An extraordinary lady…magnificent. A mermaid with je ne sais quoi. ” Charlotte is relieved that Shane has a date with somebody other than her, but at the same time she feels a little envious. “Oh,” she says sarcastically, “a blind date. How quaint. I hope she doesn’t hit you in the scales with her cane.” Shane gives a hearty laugh. “Ha-ha, very funny,” he says with a grin, still trying to cover up his disappointment. “But you know, even if she was blind, I don’t think I would really mind. Actually, I now kind of hope she is blind. That’ll make things so much easier.” “I dunno,” says Charlotte, “in my experience, even blind women can be picky…and fat. Not that there’s anything wrong with being ‘large and in charge.’ I’m just saying. Might not be your cup of tea.” But Shane doesn’t care. A cup of tea is better to quench a thirst than no cup of tea at all. “I’m not a very popular guy,” he says. “I’ve always been ‘that idiot’ who don’t know his head from his tailside. So if a girl comes along, I’m not going to be picky. As long as she’s nice and looks something like a mermaid, that’s good enough for me. I’m not like you. I’m not superficial.” “I am not superficial!” yells Charlotte. “I’m particular. There’s a difference between that and being a cover judge.” Shane appears bemused. “A ‘cover judge,’” he repeats, “what’s that?” Charlotte sighs. “A cover judge,” she says, “is somebody who judges the merit of something based on its external appearance. It’s like the

saying: ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover.’ So if you do, that makes you a cover judge. Simple concept, no?” “You’re a stickler for details, aren’t you?” asks Shane. He looks back. The sun through the window gets brighter as the day starts to fully form. Charlotte swims to her closet. “Excuse me,” she says while sliding open the door. “I need to get dressed for school. If you wouldn’t mind…” Shane closes his eyes. “Okay,” he says, “go ahead!” Charlotte clears her throat. Shane continues standing, oblivious and awkward as usual. “Might wanna get that sore throat checked out,” he suggests. “You might be coming down with something.” Frustrated, Charlotte swims over to him and places her hands against his chest. “Get out!” she yells with a shove. “Can’t you see I need my privacy?” She pushes him to the windowsill where he hits his bottom. “Ow,” whines Shane, “that’s a delicate area.” Then he yelps as he is flipped outside. “Okay!” he says. “I got the hint!” Power is Associative Swimming slowly through the hallway, Charlotte glances behind to see if she is being followed. Nobody is there. She goes forward and looks around the corner. The situation is the same. Although the place is empty, the corridors feel narrow; the walls like watchful eyes; staring, looking, checking. Will the bullies arrive? Will Vicky appear to strike her revenge? Where are the teachers? Class is about to begin. It would be nice to see a figure of authority…for once. The bell rings. Charlotte rushes forward to the door ahead. As she reaches for the “L” shaped handle, Ms. Catfish appears to greet her with a toothy grin. “Good morning,” she says. “How are you, my dear? So nice to see you again!” Charlotte seems dazed by the overly saccharin greeting. The soldiers of skepticism who live her mind start to put up the red flags. What is this woman-fish up to? Why is she being so nice all of a sudden? Charlotte stares at Ms. Catfish as her whiskers slowly wave in the water, like chopsticks if made of rubber. “I’m doing fine,” she replies in a crawling voice. “Thank you…and how are you?” Ms. Catfish glances into the class. She can see the students restlessly waiting to be taught. They’re fidgeting with their papers and pens. “I’m good,” she says with her fins pointed to inside the room. “Would you please come in…if it’s not too much trouble?” “It must be my lucky day,” thinks Charlotte. She swims through the doorframe and goes to her desk where she takes a seat by Shane. He says “hello.” Ms. Catfish closes the door and waddles to the chalkboard. She takes out a textbook and reads to the students…word for word. It’s like listening to an audio book, except the speaker is a tautly fish with a voice that would shame a Charlie Brown teacher. “Pssst,” whispers Shane to Charlotte, “I’m meeting my date this week. Got any womanly tips on how I can sweep her off her tail?” Charlotte writes into her binder; taking down notes. “Yeah,” she says, “don’t be yourself.” Shane scratches his head with his pencil. “Uh, are you sure? I thought the saying was ‘be yourself’ not ‘don’t be yourself.’ I think it is. I really think it is.”

“Tsk, tsk,” says Charlotte. “You’re getting your romance advice from clichés. Trust me on this one. Being yourself doesn’t work. Why do you think actors are so popular? It’s because people think that they’re something they’re not. They fall in love with the onscreen character. It’s deceiving, but it works. So basically you gotta create a persona. Imagine the ideal man…then try to be him.” Closing his eyes, Shane leans back and imagines. “So who is it?” asks Charlotte. “Who’s your ideal man?” Then he opens his eyes. “That boy in your picture,” he replies. Up at the front, Ms. Catfish is nearly done teaching her lesson. Charlotte gives Shane an incredulous stare. Her tightened hands accidentally snap her pencil in two. “No,” she says, “no. Shane. You can’t. You can’t be him. He’s a human. And pretending to be somebody else won’t give you me affection.” Shane folds his arms. “What about what you said? Create a persona? Have you forgotten already? It’s only been half a minute. Did you forget already?” Charlotte quickly thinks. “Uh, no,” she says, “I didn’t…but I think you’ve really misunderstood me. You see, uh, creating a persona only works if you haven’t already met the person. Duh. Of course. Since people obviously have memories, you can’t erase them by putting on some cheap charade. And that’s why first impressions are always important. So, if you have the opportunity to make a girl think you’re Mr. Right, go ahead, but don’t think you’ll get a second chance…” Before Shane can answer, the school bell rings. Class ends and Ms. Catfish resigns to her desk. The students get up from their seats and drag themselves into the hallway for their lunch break. Shane leaves with Charlotte. Still wanting to talk, he swims beside her through the hallways. They stop by the lockers. “What is it you see in that human?” asks Shane. “What is it that makes you love him?” Charlotte puts away her books and grabs her sack of food. She blushes as she thinks about Brendan. “You can’t explain love,” she says. “It’s one of those spontaneous things. According to my sisters, it’s like a female orgasm. It will always remain a mystery.” Shane’s macho exterior wears down. All the enthusiasm about his blind date was baloney. He fills with desperation. He bends down to the floor and begs. “Please, Charlotte,” he cries with clasped hands, “you have to go out on a date with me! Give me a chance! Just once chance! You’ll see! I’m a nice guy! I can satisfy your womanly needs!” “Ugh,” says Charlotte in disgust. “Have some dignity, man. I like you as a friend, okay, that’s it. But that doesn’t mean you have to reduce yourself to begging like a dog. Come on, Shane. Let’s be realistic. You have a teenage crush. You’ll get over it. Don’t ruin your reputation by being a footstool. I do not want you to be my footstool. Get up from the floor…please.” Shane stands. His head hangs low in embarrassment. Charlotte continues her lecture. “If you want to impress me, if you want me to like you, don’t try so hard. Don’t deify me. Don’t treat me like an object. Don’t worship me. Be normal. Treat me like a mermaid. Maybe, just maybe, I might accidentally, maybe, in a couple years, come around your way. Who knows? Crazier things have happened, right?” Charlotte pats Shane on the head. He simpers with delight. The two link arms and swim together. As they make their way down the stairs, they encounter the lubricious Vicky and her gang of girls. “Hey,” says Vicky, “who’s the dork?” Shane

barks in anger; unusual for a usually timid guy. “Shut up!” he says. “She’s not a dork!” Other students arrive in the stairwell, but seeing Vicky turn and leave. Vicky delights in her abilities to intimidate. Then she corrects Shane for his egregious error in judgment. “We weren’t talking about, Charlotte,” she says in a mincing voice. “We were talking about you…dork.” Charlotte seems surprised. Never would she expect to be the one not referred to as the dork. It doesn’t make her feel better, but it seems to provide some relief. Maybe she isn’t a big a klutz as she thought she was. Vicky pushes away Shane and puts her arm around Charlotte. “We heard about your invitation to the Royal Ball,” she says. “We know that’s a swanky gettogether, and we just wanted to know if you need any sort of help. You know, my mom sews a pretty damned good dress. If you want I could always ask.” Shane wrings his hands. Charlotte shakes her head. “It’s okay. Prince Vonne is taking me out to buy a dress this afternoon. But thanks for the offer.” All the girls gasp in unison. Gasp! She’s getting a dress, too?! “Omigod,” they think, “this Charlotte Laverock must be one elite SOB.” Shane stays behind as Vicky whisks Charlotte down into the bad girl’s hangout, the place just beneath the stairs; it is festooned with graffiti and full of students who look too old for high school. They furtively gamble using dice and cards; chatting amongst each other about naught things like sex, drugs, booze, and Pokemon. Kids love the Pokemon. “Welcome to the underground,” says Vicky with her arm sweeping out. “What’s your pleasure?” A diminutive boy with a collar around his neck wobbles over to Charlotte with a tray of goods. On it are several items which have been banned by the school in the “interest” of the children: junk food. “They all look so yummy,” says Charlotte. She reaches out and takes a cupcake. Though no ordinary cupcake, it is a specially designed food of the lake slathered with a water repellant agent to maintain the interior texture and taste. “How is it?” asks Vicky as she stares at Charlotte. Charlotte flicks the crumbs away from her lips. “It was good,” she replies. Vicky claps her hands. “Be gone,” she says to the diminutive boy, and he disappears into the shadows. Shane is still on the stairs, looking down while leaning against the banister. He wonders what’s going on. His ears tune in, eavesdropping on the conversation. “I’m flattered that you want to introduce me to your friends,” says Charlotte, “but let’s be frank…you want something from me, don’t you? What is it?” Clutching her sides, Vicky bellows with laughter. Then her face turns somber with no transition of one emotion to the next. “Look,” she says, “I don’t like you very much. You’re prettier than me, and probably smarter, too. So I’ll cut to the chase. You work for me and you will never have to worry about anything for the rest of your days in school. You work for me and you will be a made mermaid. You don’t work me…nobody’s ever refused me. The proposition is simple. Come under my employment; enjoy the benefits. Don’t come under my employment; suffer the consequences. Is there anything you don’t understand?” Looking at the students around her, Charlotte takes a moment of silence to think. She stares at them, examining their moods. Are they happy? It doesn’t seem that way. They appear to be under the thumb of Vicky; mere drones for the

proverbial queen. But can she refuse? Perhaps it’s better to comply and accept the present event. “What exactly do you want me to do?” asks Charlotte. Vicky takes Charlotte to a corner where the two fall into the darkness, out of view from everyone else. The light above their heads is broken; burnt out. The tube of light is charred at opposite ends. “Why are we here?” whispers Charlotte. “Listen,” says Vicky, “I want to go to the Royal Ball. Bring me with you and you won’t regret it.” “I don’t know,” replies Charlotte. “I didn’t know you could bring an extra person.” She feels Vicky’s arm around the back of her neck bringing her in closer in a subtly hostile manner. “Look,” explains Vicky, “you can. The Royal Ball allows each guest to bring an extra person. So if we could come to some sort of agreement about my attendance I would be oh so grateful.” Charlotte knows she’s only being used, but through her memorization of clichés she arrives at the conclusion that it is better to join than be beaten. “Okay,” she says, “I’ll take you with me…on one condition.” Vicky looks annoyed; however, she decides that a small compromise is a small price to pay for entry into high society. “Fine,” she says, pursing her lips, “what’re your demands?” With enlarged eyes, Charlotte quietly speaks. “Find Shane a girlfriend. He’s lonely.” The tube of light above Vicky’s head flickers, revealing her glower. She cracks her knuckles and clenches her teeth. “What do I look like,” she thinks in her head, “a matchmaker? This is bullshit.” Charlotte patiently waits for an answer. “Fine,” says Vicky, “I’ll do it. I’ll get that dweeb a squeeze…but I hope he doesn’t expect anything too good. I’m not Heidi Fleiss.” Good Afternoon, Madam As Charlotte pens into the pages of her diary, she hears the voice of her mother, Sierra, calling out. “Charlotte,” she yells from downstairs, “there’s a man here to see you!” Charlotte tilts her body and swings under her desk. She puts her diary into a secret compartment; a slat of horizontally running wood, just large enough for a book or anything small and thin. She bounds from her chair and hastily leaves her bedroom. She floats down to the main floor. Sierra gives her a nudge. “This man has been waiting for nearly ten minutes,” she says in a restrained, nagging tone. “Now go over there and find out what he wants.” Charlotte goes to the door. She greets him with a “hello.” The man straightens his back and clears his throat. “Good afternoon, Madam,” he says. “I’ve been sent her by the prince to pick you up and assist you in shopping for a dress. Would you please come with me?” Charlotte glances back at Sierra who glares. “Why does my mom look so angry at you?” she asks the prince’s assistant. The prince’s assistant confesses. “I refused to go out on a date with her,” he replies. “Though I admit she is a lovely woman for her age…but I am strictly forbidden to stray from my royal duty. You must understand. It is not my choice. I am a servant to the prince and no one else… God, he’s a total cock-block.” “Sorry?” says Charlotte. “What was that?” The prince’s assistant nervously mutters. “Oh, uh, nothing… I was, uh, just noting how nice the weather is outside.

Really. Quite a nice day considering the month.” Sierra is still behind. She impatiently taps her tail against the floor; waiting to be told of what is going on. “Mom,” says Charlotte with her head angled back, “the man in front of me is the prince’s assistant. He is supposed to take me out to get a dress. Remember? I was invited to the Royal Ball? I’m sure Clarissa or Melissa has already mentioned it.” Sierra becomes mixed with emotions; feeling surprised, jealous, happy and annoyed all at the same time. Though her physical reaction couldn’t tell you that, her arms simple fold and she turns away, embarrassed…for she was told nothing by her daughters, though she acknowledges in her mind that her constant absence did not give her much of an excuse to be angry. “Mom?” says Charlotte looking worried. “I won’t go if it bothers you. I can stay here and keep you company. I’d like to. I haven’t sat down and chatted with you in a very long time.” “Go,” says Sierra, “don’t waste your youth with your old mother. Go out and have fun. Just be sure to pick a suitable dress.” Charlotte looks down at her tail, averting her eyes from the prince’s assistant, thinking what to do…and within a second of thought, she makes up her mind to take up Prince Vonne’s once in a lifetime offer. There are too many benefits to ignore. She signals with her eyes ot the prince’s assistant that she is ready to go. The prince’s assistant gently takes her by the hand and leads her outside to the carriage. They two get in together. The carriage takes off and whips through the water. Charlotte folds her hands in her lap. The prince’s assistant maintains his distance, keeping his back straight, only staring forward at the driver’s back through the window, and saying nothing at all. But Charlotte is fidgety. Though not yet to attend the Royal Ball, she realizes how soon it is. After she chooses her dress, she has less than three days to ready herself for the event. It’s a real worry, especially considering that fact that she doesn’t know how to dance. Oh, how she has never danced in her life, because according to her brain, that’s something only popular girls do. Very well, Charlotte could be popular and well loved if she did try, but the shy mermaid lacks sufficient self-esteem. Without a father figure and a good girlfriend to tell her she’s okay, there’s nobody around to truly make her feel appreciated. It’s a lonely lake, sometimes feeling more like a pond. “We’ll nearly there,” says the carriage driver, “just a few more minutes.” The prince’s assistant leans to the side with a heavy sigh. He crosses his arm against his chest and stares wistfully into the blankness of the water. “What’s wrong?” asks Charlotte. She repeats herself when she doesn’t get a response. “What’s wrong?” The prince’s assistant groans the ugliest groan you have ever heard. “Mbwoooooaaah!” He clutches his head and huffs like a mad patient in a clinic. Charlotte can’t help but wonder what is going on in his head. “Maybe we should stop and see a doctor,” she suggests. “There should be one on the way.” The prince’s assistant refuses. “No, no,” he says. “I’m fine. It’s just that you remind me of someone I used to know. That’s all. I’ve been thinking. Nothing to panic about.” Charlotte coaxes him to speak. She pokes him in the shoulder. “Come on,” she says. “Don’t be like that. There’s obviously something on your mind. Tell me. I promise, even if it’s embarrassing, I won’t laugh. Not a peep, no matter what it is. Well?”

Thinking carefully, the prince’s assistant clears his throat and decides to “spill his beans.” He sits straight and places his hands on his knees. “It was a long time ago,” he begins in a slow voice. “I was young lad, no more than sixteen years old. I lived in the south-east end of the lake. My family and I struggled as farmers. I was an only child. I couldn’t afford to go to school…even though it was free. So I spent a lot of days in the muck. From sunrise ‘till sunset I would work. My hands were always blistered and rough. I wanted so badly to live like a normal individual, but it was never an option…and on top of that I was extremely lonely. Out in the isolation of the waters I never saw anyone but my mother and father; though they cared for me, their company was far from friendly. They were disciplinarians who would often hit me and yell at me whenever it felt appropriate to them. So as expected, I became bitter and hardened. Then one day while walking through the field with my sickle, I saw my father lying between the plants. His heart gave way and he died. My mother grieved for weeks. I couldn’t speak to her without seeing tears coming from her face. She blamed me for what happened; said I was lazy and stupid, if only I’d done my chores, her husband would still be alive. I didn’t disagree…but the remarks made me feel smaller than I already was. I spent all my time trying to manage the farm, but it wasn’t enough. Eventually we lost our humble dwelling. Without food and without shelter, we wandered around doing nothing; looking for sympathy and begging where the opportunity arose. And as one might expect, the stress caused her to pass away. But it wasn’t her death that disturbed; it was the fact that in all her years, in spite of all my contributions, she never said a single good word about me. Whenever I would speak to her, especially after father had passed, she would only compare me to other people. She would tell me to be this and that…and she never really accepted who I was. She always blamed me for her misfortunes and said she was embarrassed of me. If anybody asked what I was doing, on the rare occasion, she’d make up stories. It was never enough that I toiled in the fields. It never made her proud. I tried my best…but nothing worked. It was never good enough, but I came to accept the way things were. I buried my mother in the old field where we used to live. I thought the notion was damning; the idea that she laid to rest upon the place which betrayed her. In my own way it was revenge for the way she and father had scarred me emotionally. But if you would think things couldn’t get any worse, they did. While I was swimming the lake, looking for a new place to settle, robbed and beaten. I had one silver coin in my pocket and they took it without remorse. That closed a lot of doors for me. It was money I was going to use to buy a packet of seeds. So jobless, without any education, and only knowing how to farm, I went from door to door trying to become employed as a servant. Nobody wanted to hire me. I went through ninety-eight houses…but on the ninety-ninth, I was finally given an opportunity. The owners of the place, Mr. and Mrs. Fagan, invited me in. We sat down to tea and biscuits. They offered me, in exchange for my services, food and housing. I didn’t want to live with them, but as one who had begged in the cold waters, I couldn’t choose not to. I accepted and went to work the next morning. They treated me horribly; worse than a slave. The childless couple was worse than my

parents; as unimaginable as that may have seemed. And I actually wished for things to go back to the way they once were. It was un-granted. I slowly grew into depression, even more so than I had before. I was hopeless. I wanted to commit suicide, but I kept telling myself that the situation would get better. The days seemed endless. I had become a zombie. I was living but not alive. It pained me to get up in the morning. I cried everyday. There was nothing in my existence that I looked forward to. Even my dreams were of great disappointment. They were always nightmares. I never had a sweet moment in sleep, and for a time I thought I was living in hell…it came to me, I thought, for what I had done or for what I had not done. But I could never recall what sins had I committed to deserve such a punishment and be treated like a footstool. Nevertheless I carried on. Then one day while Mr. and Mrs. Fagan left for vacation, I went to the surface of the lake. And under the scorching sun and circling gulls I crawled to the shore. I laid upon the hot sand; waiting to be dried up like a sailor at sea without water to drink. As I awaited my fate, my death, my ears heard a shriek. I sat up and look to see a mermaid caught in a net by fishers. She was entangled and thrashing about. Tall men stood over her and poked her with their rods. I knew what I had to do. I rolled over; trying to ignore what was going on…but then I came to the decision that it would be wrong of me to ignore her cries for help. With what remained of my strength I slid back into the water and swam to her voice. I went under the boat, and with a heave, I capsized it. I didn’t expect it to work, but it did. The men fell in with their orange vests. As they splashed around I went to the net and freed the panicked mermaid. She thanked me with a kiss and left. It was my first, and to this day, my only kiss. I became smitten. When I returned to Mr. and Mrs. Fagan I became extremely distracted. I wasn’t all there…but it was a good feeling. I couldn’t stop thinking about the mermaid I had rescued. I had to find her…but I had no time and I was a coward to quit my job. For a half year more I worked with Mr. and Mrs. Fagan. Then while going to retrieve the mail for them the last straw was placed upon my back. They kicked me over with their tails and I became mentally collapsed. I flew into a blind rage. With fists swinging I assaulted them like they were the robbers of my childhood. I knew I had done wrong. I knew it. So I swam away as fast as I could. I went to the road and followed along the current. It took me out of sight, but not far enough. I continued traveling ‘till night where in my journey I stopped to gather with the homeless. They were a friendly bunch; understanding of what I did, but my stomach still turned. I didn’t know what to do with myself. In one moment I went from humble servant to violent criminal. And so I had to continually swim and swim. It seemed endless, going from place to place, not knowing if I would be caught. But one day, just another day as it seemed, I was looking through a shop. As I browsed an aisle, deciding what thing to steal, I saw the mermaid that I had seen so long ago. Her eyes struck me so hard that I nearly fell of my tail. She recognized me and came to me. She asked what I had been doing since that time. I lied. I told her I was a carpenter. I don’t know why, it just came to my mind. And so after talking for several minutes about nothing important, she asked me to go on a date. Suffice it to say I was

completely delighted, but at the same time as you might expect, dreading to see her. I couldn’t believe I’d lied to the one I loved. But I accepted what I did and left the shop with fresh clams tucked furtively under my arms. I swam far out to my pile of dirt which was my bed and laid upon it, thinking what to do while eating and what to say for later on. Then time passed, several hours, and I had to meet at the café. Though I knew it was nothing all too serious, I was hoping it would blossom into a relationship. I borrowed some money from a dear friend, who like me had no home, and I went to the café; groomed and looking the best I ever had. I went inside and took a seat at the nearest table. I waited for the mermaid to show. She was late, but I didn’t care. ‘As long as she came,’ I thought to myself. Then as I was about to leave, she came through the doors. By her side were several armed men. ‘There,’ she pointed, ‘that’s him.’ I was taken by the arms and held back. ‘What’s all this?’ I asked but received no reply. The mermaid who I loved had betrayed me. I found out later that she was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Fagan; a runaway it turns out, but a child who still cared for their wellbeing. How strange it is that a good deed, no matter how great, is always overshadowed by a bad one. Nevertheless I took it in stride and believed I did deserve to be caught. But when I went to court and was prosecuted, I was surprised at the punishment I received. They gave me two options: be sentenced to death or forever be an unpaid servant for the royal family. The magistrates had me over a barrel. I chose to live. And you can conclude for yourself why I am here… I’m an idiot.” The carriage driver laughs. “Haw! Haw! Haw! That’s so true!” The prince’s assistant sinks into his seat. “There, there,” says Charlotte putting her arm around his shoulder. “Don’t be so glum. I’m sure things will turn around for you. It has to. You know what they say: ‘When God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.’” The prince’s assistant removes his sobbing face from his hands. “And what,” he asks, “if you’re a person in a high-rise building? What then?” “Well,” replies Charlotte, “that doesn’t apply to us. We’re in the water. You’re just being picky.” The prince’s assistant gives a slow nod. “Yes. I suppose you’re right. I am being picky…but I still have my doubts. Even my most optimistic self is wary of hope. How can I put the pieces of my life back together? How can I see with new eyes? How can I begin anew when the scorn from my scathing love is still with me? Surely there are no solutions for a heart broken by flames.” Charlotte tries to quell the depressive mood. “Aw,” she says with an overly spirited voice, “there are plenty of fish in the, uh, lake. You’ll find somebody. Keep looking. Your soul mate is out there somewhere…far across the distance and spaces between us.” The prince’s assistant gazes wistfully outside. He leans his head against the door beside. “Maybe you’re right… Maybe you’re right…” “We have arrived,” yells the carriage driver. He whips the goliath seahorses, beckoning them to stop. They pull in front of a large building; a mega store with an all glass front, it shines like a diamond in the sun, screaming its extravagance and showing off like a spoilt socialite what it has to offer; a place designed for the rich, it is the epitome of luxury, gilded from floor to ceiling and being too large for any practical use, there is a strong sense of snobbery.

The prince’s assistant gets out of the carriage and swims to the other side to open the door for Charlotte. He carefully takes her by the hand and leads her into the shop for dresses. The thick hairs on his arm stand; nervous and excited, never having touched a girl or woman in a very long time. His imaginations runs as he thinks what it would be like to wed the “female beside.” Maybe they could fall in love? Serendipity could happen. Why not? Maybe they, too, could be a couple. And as the two walk between the aisle of dresses and various garments, Charlotte pauses in front of bright pink dress. The wild, new color catches her eye. She stares at the fabric and feels it like one would do while holding a newborn kitty or puppy. The prince’s assistant edges closer to her and stands as close as he can without making her feeling uncomfortable. He looks gazes into her innocent eyes, wondering if a mermaid like that could ever love him as he would her. “Not a chance,” he thinks. “What do you think of this dress?” asks Charlotte. “It’s awful pretty, don’t you think?” The prince’s assistant stands frozen for a moment not knowing what to say. Then he suddenly shouts, “C’mere, you!” He grabs Charlotte with his husky arms and embraces her for a deep, French kiss. Charlotte pushes him off and slaps him across the face. The prince’s assistant is dumbfounded, he rubs his reddened cheek, he was sure he’d found his love. “Why did you hit me?” he whimpers. “I thought we had something special.” The employees in the shop look as Charlotte becomes chagrined like a teenage vampire. “Something special?!” she yells. “Something special?! We hardly know each other, you boob! You told me a sappy story and I gave you a batch of half-assed sympathy! I never gave you permission to violate my face!” The prince’s assistant clutches his chest as if his heart were melting away. “But, but, but,” he says, trying to come up with a plausible excuse, “you gave me all the signals. I swear you were coming on to me.” Charlotte sighs. “Just because a girl is friendly, doesn’t automatically mean she ‘wants you’ okay? They call us the fairer sex for a reason. It’s because we’re polite. Unlike you men, we can be nice to somebody without wanting to go out on a date or have sexual intercourse with them. Our delight behavior can, and often is, perfectly platonic. Do you understand? Is this getting through to you? Should I crack open a dictionary? Do you know what the word ‘platonic’ means?” The prince’s assistant sadly grumbles. “I know.” He apologizes as he feels Charlotte’s increasingly intensifying glare. “I’m sorry. Please, don’t tell Prince Vonne.” Charlotte folds her arms. “And what if I do?” she asks. “I will be beheaded,” replies the prince’s assistant in his humblest voice. The store workers gather ‘round, waiting with anticipation for a response. Will the impudent servant of royalty be turned in? Will he be put onto the chopping block and be murdered like Anne Boleyn? Will Dave Chappelle ever return to his television show? So many questions and more! “I forgive you,” says Charlotte. “And I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have slapped you.” The prince’s assistant, ever so grateful, ever so relieved, bends midway at the tail and lowers to the floor like a man on bended knee. “Thank you,” he cries. “I will never forget this.” He takes a sack off his waist and hands it to Charlotte. “What’s this?” she asks. She squeezes it, feeling what’s inside. “Take the money,”

replies the prince’s assistant. “Take it along with the dress you choose. I know that you are poor. The pittance will help you get through rough times.” Looking into the sack, Charlotte suddenly gasps. There are dozens of gold coins: 99.9% pure. “I can’t take this!” she says. “It’s too much!” But the prince’s assistant refuses. “No,” he says sternly. “It’s not. For what I have done, for what you have done for me, it’s not too much. Please, Charlotte, take it. Don’t insult me. They are my life savings. I want to do something good with it. Let me one day die knowing that I had done something positive in the world. Please?” The store becomes quiet. Charlotte gives a single nod. The prince’s assistant returns a faint smile. He swims back to the front of the store and leaves with his head high; knowing that he made a difference; knowing that he made an impact. The pitiful servant has served, but served by his own choice. Charlotte slowly turns away. She floats back into the aisles and disappears between the dresses. They surround her like leaves on a cool, autumn day; full of color but foretelling of change; cold weather ahead. Octopussy October, the pink octopus, hangs upside down on the ceiling looking at Charlotte with an affable envy. “You looking amazing,” she comments. “You look like a princess. Show it to me again.” Charlotte spins her body like a pinwheel caught in a gust. Her Royal Ball dress flares out, showing off its luxurious white creamy color. The frills on the edges are absolutely to die for. They slice gracefully through the water. “There’s something about this dress,” says Charlotte, “that I like. It’s not the color or the fabric. I can’t put my finger on it. What do you think it is, October?” October drops to the floor. She stands on the tips of her tentacles, pretending it to be a dress, and joins in the dance. “I know what it is,” she says. “It makes you look human; the way the skirt touches the floor. It’s like you don’t have a tail.” Charlotte pauses and smiles. Her cheeks turn bright as she thinks about Brendan. Then she starts turning again with eyes closed, imagining the two joined together; their hands joined, dancing to the hum of an orchestra…how grand! “What time do you go to the ball?” asks October as she collapses her arms to relax on her bottom. Charlotte simpers. “I don’t know. They never told me…but they said they’d pick me up along with Vicky.” October replies with disbelief. “That’s weird.” Pinching her chin, Charlotte thinks for a moment and gives her most logical answer. “Well, they also neglected to reveal the location of the event. I imagine it’s for security reasons. I hear a lot of girls really want to go.” October is suspicious, though her paranoia is nothing new. “That’s not what they usually do,” she says. “They didn’t do that last year or the year before.” Charlotte silently shrugs. While October has a disquiet feeling, she knows that she cannot dissuade her friend from going to the ball, now that the idea of luxury and being showered with attention is firmly placed in her mind. She decides to change the topic. “So,” she says, “I’ve almost completed that invention of mine. You know the one I’ve been talking about for ages. Might interest you. Would you like to see it? My laboratory isn’t too far from here.”

There is a disinterested expression on Charlotte’s face. Her head is preoccupied, swimming with thoughts about the Royal Ball…mainly on how to dance; something she has seen but never experienced or done. “Do you know how to dance?” she asks, turned to October. October blankly stares, lost in her memories; thinking back to her younger days when she was the Cha-cha-cha champion of the south lake. “I can show you a thing or two,” she replies. “But you’ll have to keep up. I’m pretty fast.” Charlotte gleefully puts out her hands. October takes them and points down the tentacles on her body, standing like a human. “Okay,” she says in a pleasant yet commanding voice, “since you don’t have the same appendages as me, I’m going to do a little adaptation. So keep with the rhythm and watch for the changes.” Then she purses her mouth and starts to hum a surprisingly well done tune. It’s a slow melody, a little boring, but something you’d expect to hear at a Royal Ball. “Oh,” says Charlotte as she waves her tail to and fro, hands linked with October, “this is kind of fun.” The two sway in the water, moving to the sounds of the octopus. They almost look like a real couple…despite the vastly different physical appearances. “You’re doing great,” says October with pride. “You catch on really fast.” Charlotte dips back with a smirk. “Oh, how you flatter me, kind sir!” She closes her eyes and lets the darkness take her away. It sweeps her into the depths of her imagination; a world of prosperity, skyscrapers, bright lights, high fashion and humans; a commingled place where “woes be gone.” Every man is strong, every mermaid is good looking, and all the roe are above average. Tonight we Dine on Halibut! Vicky and Charlotte are ushered in through a narrow door. As they go forward it shuts behind. The two slowly swim together in a cavernous tunnel. The light is dim, only coming in through several small holes in the wall. They look like beams touching the floor. “Some place, huh?” remarks Vicky sarcastically. Charlotte squints, trying to see to the far end, but it’s too dark. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” she says, looking up at the stalactites; icicle-shaped rocks hung from the ceiling. “I feel a monster should jump out at any moment now.” …No, no monsters. Vicky takes out a comb and brushes back her short, dark hair. “If this is some kind of elaborate prank,” she says in her usually cold voice, “I’m going to kill you, Charlotte.” Charlotte swallows. “Never. Never. No. No. I wouldn’t do that to you. I know as much about this as you.” Adjusting the straps on her bright yellow dress, Vicky gives a sneer, twitching her nose. She isn’t pleased with the way things are going. Noticing her angry displeasure, Charlotte, without thinking, accidentally blurts out, “Vicky, why the hell are you such a bully?” And the question is jarring. Vicky’s eyes go wide in surprise. So with her hands up, Charlotte prepares for a thrashing…but there is no retaliation. Instead follows a conversation of civility, and to a degree, revelation. “You know,” says Vicky with slumped shoulders, “nobody’s ever asked me that before…except for myself. And I’ll be perfectly honest with you. I don’t entirely know why I do it. Something about having power

and followers just makes me feel good. That’s certainly the motivation, but I wouldn’t say it’s the cause.” Charlotte is taken aback by the candidness from her domineering acquaintance, but she continues to press for answers, if only out of curiosity. “What do you believe is the cause?” Vicky is reluctant, but decides to tell. Having never vented before, doing so, she figures, might be cathartic. Her summation is jarringly simple. “I grew up in a broken family,” she says with an almost cacophony behind her voice. “It was really bad. So bad in fact that I had to be taken away from my parents by social services and forced to live with my aunt and uncle. Yeah, they were nice enough, but it was hard laboring under the hot sun in that dusty farm. I was always bored. I always thought of my family, too. And in spite of the differences I had with them in the past, I genuinely missed them. Then one day I got a letter in the mail from a friend who I previously thought was dead. I told my aunt and uncle, and was strictly forbidden to go. But my yearning for adventure and escape was too strong. I went against their words and traveled to the deep south of the lake to meet with Ben. Then there he explained to me my past and why my father became a raging alcoholic. So afterward I went back to the farm to share my newfound knowledge. I ran into the house, but to my horror, my aunt and uncle were killed and charred to a cinder. Later I found out that a troop of soldiers murdered them because of things they knew; the exact same information I received from Ben. And as you can see, I developed a tough exterior because life has always been difficult for me. Luckily I… “Wait a minute,” says Charlotte, interrupting, “that sounds a lot like the movie I saw at the floating cinema; Star Wars.” Vicky retorts. “Jeez! I open up my heart to you and you compare my life to some fictional movie! If you must know, stories, at least the good ones, are all the same…real life or not. It’s the classic three act structure: introduction, conflict, and resolution. And with that, really, there’s only so much you can do. So compare anything in that way and you will find similarities. Take for example two movies, the one you mentioned, Star Wars, and Harry Potter. Two totally different flicks, right? But if you scrutinize and generalize, you’ll pretty much think they’re the same.” “How are they similar…if you scrutinized and generalized it?” asks Charlotte. Vicky takes in a deep breath, readying herself for a whimsical rant. “Well,” she replies, “first let’s look at Star Wars. Okay. It’s a movie about good versus evil. It’s about an orphan named Luke living with his aunt and uncle, who is saved from aliens by the wise, old, bearded Ben Kenobi…who, as it turns, is actually a Jedi. So then Ben explains to Luke about his past and how his father used to be a Jedi. Then he is taught how to use a light saber to become a Jedi himself. And so Luke sets out for adventure, meets two people, Han Solo and Princess Leia, and then becomes the top X-wing pilot, and in the Death Star battle, makes the critical hit to secure victory for the rebels. He staves off Darth Vader, who as we all know, killed his aunt and uncle; and in the end, he and his friends, the trio, receives medals of honor.” Charlotte opens her mouth to ask a question, but Vicky continues on. “So,” she continues in a hasty voice, “then you got Harry Potter. Right. Okay. It’s also a movie about good versus evil. But it’s about an orphan named Harry living with

his aunt and uncle, who is saved from Muggles by the wise, old, bearded Hagrid… who, lo and behold, is actually a wizard. So then Hagrid explains to Harry about his past, blah-blah-blah, and how his father used to be a wizard. Then he’s taught how to use a wand etcetera to become a wizard himself. And so Harry sets out for adventure, meets two people, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, and then becomes the top Quidditch Seeker, and in the big Quidditch match, makes the critical catch to secure victory for the Gryffindor house. He staves off Lord Voldemort, who as we all know, killed his aunt and uncle; and in the end, he and his friends win the House Cup…” “That’s very interesting,” says Charlotte. “And I know you’re trying to explain your theory with an analogy, but I still think the two sound pretty different.” Vicky confidently adds more to her rant. “Well, you have to admit the similarities are quite significant. You know, both movies are scored by the same composer, John Williams. Is that a coincidence? I don’t know. But what I do know is; sidekicks Han and Leia, like Ron and Hermione, do hook up. And what I do know is; each story has its own strange sexual tension. Star Wars dealt with incest, with Leia and Luke getting their smooch on, and then you have the Potter books, which had Dumbledore who was gay and had a massive crush on Harry. Now, that is something, don’t you think?” “Are you suggesting JK Rowling is a hack?” asks Charlotte with a tinge of indignation. “Really, it sounds like you’re doing that, and I think it’s unjustified. She’s a brilliant writer. If Shakespeare had a day to rise from the grave, he’d visit Scotland to give her a pat on the back.” Vicky scoffs. “Those aren’t my opinions, okay. Don’t get so pissy. I was just giving an example. And anyway, I don’t think ‘Jake Rowling’ is that great. I mean where did she get her ideas from? She saw Star Wars, read The School of Wizardry, smashed the two things together, and bang, you got Harry Potter and his Phallic Wand…” As Charlotte glares, searching her mind for a witty response, the tunnel ends. She and Vicky are standing in front of what appears to be a door. But it is odd in appearance; without hinges, a knob, or a space on the bottom, there is only a faint rectangular outline and a sign which reads “entrance.” Vicky, nervous, stands behind Charlotte. Charlotte reluctantly knocks. The door rumbles open. A dolphin appears to answer. Floating upright like a human, he looks in surprise. “Hey!” he says. “I know you! Remember me? I work for the prince now! Who’s your friend? Oh! Is that Vicky? The one you told us about? The one with the nasty temper and split lip?” A nervous giggle escapes from Charlotte’s mouth. Eh-heh-heh-heh. “No,” she says with Vicky staring angrily. “No, no. You’re thinking about another Vicky.” The dolphin shrugs, not really caring to find the truth. “Okay, whatever,” he says, “come in and follow me. I’ll take you to the dance. Be careful not to knock anything over. The prince had the place decorated with a lot of stupid, expensive crap. Heh. He doesn’t even know. It’s all made in China.” Vicky and Charlotte follow the dolphin. The door closes behind. He leads them through a corridor filled with decorations, art, and different types of knickknacks. While most of them are different, they all share one common them…Prince Vonne. All things from the floor to ceiling are tributes to his royal

lineage. And there are also paintings of great detail on the wall; showing the prince from baby to man, lined perfectly straight from left to right. “So how are things at school?” asks the dolphin trying to make small talk. “You gals are in school, right?” Charlotte and Vicky nod in silence. He continues to talk. “That’s great. There’s nothing better than scholastic achievement. School is so important. It really expands your mind. When I was your age I used to enjoy history. Most dolphins my age didn’t, but I was different I suppose. I had asthma, so I stayed in a lot. I often went to the library and read up on different stuff that wasn’t on the curriculum. I once read about a man who killed people who wore glasses. He didn’t like smart people showing him up, so he killed anybody that he thought was an intellectual. I bet he did it because his penis was pretty tiny. I mean it’s the only logical explanation. Don’t you think?” Vicky taps Charlotte with her elbow and whispers. “I’m getting a creepy vibe from this dolphin. What about you?” Charlotte dismisses her paranoia. “Oh, you’re being silly. There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s perfectly normal. Well, he might be a pederast, telling from his queer toothy grin…but I don’t think that’s enough evidence to make a judgment call.” The dolphin spreads out his fins and stops squarely in front of a door; though not like the one from before, it is much more benign and normal in appearance. There is nothing particularly suspicious; and very well, because Vicky is excited, rubbing her hands together with anticipation, impatiently waiting to be thrust into the throngs of the upper-upper-class, a world of luxury, laze, and inappropriate lust; a teenager’s dream, a fantasy, a romp into the wild territory of the filthy rich. “Go inside,” instructs the dolphin. He holds back Charlotte. “The ball is about to begin…quickly now.” Vicky, without as much as a glance back, goes through the door and disappears. It closes behind. “Shall I go in now?” asks Charlotte. The dolphin takes her by the hand and pulls her along. “That girl wasn’t invited,” he explains. “We know that she blackmailed you to get here. What a naughty mermaid. Well, she’s gone. Best we not think about it.” Charlotte looks worried. “Where is she?” The dolphin smiles and gives an unwholesome laugh. “Eee-eeeeee! Don’t worry. She’s fine. She’ll return. She’ll be joining us for dinner later.” Charlotte appears relieved. She follows the dolphin without further questions. The two end up at a wall with a red arrow pointing up. They follow its direction and go through a hole. They find themselves on another floor. “Hello,” says a penguin in a tuxedo. “What are your names?” Charlotte’s mouth is agape, staring at what she sees before her. It is more than she had imagined. The scene is absolutely stunning; a picture right out of a fairy tale, an enormous hall with a grand mahogany staircase, gilded marble floors, diamond-studded chandeliers, emerald windows, and water fountain. Now you’ll not think a water fountain to be extravagant, but when you’re under the water it is. “Charlotte! Is that you?!” cries a voice. Charlotte turns her head. The dancing couples in the middle of the floor part. Shane appears with surprised look. “Charlotte! Is that really you?! What’re you doing here?!” The penguin takes out a clipboard and fills in a checkbox. The dolphin salutes. “Master Shane,” he says, “your blind date has arrived! I hope you are pleased!” Shane stares at Charlotte

with disbelief. He turns to the dolphin. “Is this really my date? How did father know I liked her? I never told him anything.” “Luck,” replies the penguin in a nasally voice. He adjusts his bowtie and tilts up his yellow beak in a snooty manner. “Well,” says Shane, “I am really pleased… beyond belief. It really couldn’t have turned out any better. Heh. You know I imagined I’d be dancing with a dugong or something…not that I mind mermaids with a little extra ‘junk’ in the trunk, but I prefer girls a little more health conscious.” Charlotte rolls her eyes like a pinwheel. “C’mon,” says Shane, taking her by the hand, “I’ll show you my moves!” The two go to the area in front of the staircase. They lock hands and twirl around. “Why didn’t you tell me you were Prince Vonne’s son?” asks Charlotte. “Believe it or not,” replies Shane, “it makes meeting mermaids really difficult. When you’re the son of a famous person, which for some reason also makes you famous as well, you don’t meet many genuine people. You know, when I was younger I used to brag and show off my royal ring…but that only made me false friends. Now I prefer to be anonymous; viewed as a normal individual and not somebody who is going to one day inherit millions of gold coins, jewelry, antique furniture, a plethora of real estate, and upside down airplane stamps. I don’t even know what airplanes are…” “You’re a spoilt brat,” says Charlotte with anger. “My family and are I literally scraping the bottom of the barrel and you have the audacity to brag about your wealth?” Shane feels Charlotte squeezing his hands, almost to the point of crushing. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he says. “But anyway, why should I be ashamed? If I had less would that make you feel better?” Charlotte drops her head, knowing that she’s wrong, that the issue isn’t money, but a feeling of inadequacy and struggle. “No,” she replies, “I guess it wouldn’t.” Shane swims closer to Charlotte; his chest nearly touching against hers. He whispers into her ear. “I love you.” Charlotte pushes away. “No,” she says. “Don’t. Don’t love me. I don’t love you.” One of the members in the brass band overhears. Not wanting to spoil the evening with an awkward, possibly ruinous, conflict, he signals for the others to increase their volume. The gills on their necks suck in oxygen bubbles and they blow as hard as they can. Their saxophones, tubas, trumpets, and golden trombones reverberate as the music goes twice louder than it was before. But the damage has been done, and Shane is bent down in front of Charlotte. “What do you mean?” he asks with a reddened face. “What?!” yells Charlotte. “I can’t hear you!” The band looks nervous. Their reputation rests on this one event. They change melodies to something upbeat and faster. The mermaids and mermen let go of each other, then begin to twist their hips to the rhythm. Shane is accidentally bumped aside. As he goes to swim back to Charlotte, Prince Vonne appears at the top of the grand staircase. He gives the band a wave, gesturing for them to stop playing. They do as told. Prince Vonne whisks down. His arm wraps around Charlotte’s shoulder. He turns to the staring crowd. “My friends,” he says in a loudly yet pleasant voice, “thank you for coming to the Royal Ball. I am pleased to announce that I have found my significant other. The search for my wife is over.” The ladies in front faint from disappointment. “She is in this very room.” Shane stands; his eyes

fixated on Charlotte as she looks around. The mermen turn their heads left and right, seeing who could be the one. All the women are pretty and attractive. Who could it possibly be? A mermaid with red hair and green tail comes forward. A stunningly beautiful woman, her skin as smooth as silk, her body parts perfect at every angle; she looks like a statue of Michelangelo come to life. There is no single word to describe her radiance. She dazzles each onlooker, man and woman alike. “Daymn!” shouts a merman. “That is one foine ass sista!” He is elbowed in the side by his date. The redheaded mermaid stands still in front of the prince. She reaches behind her back and takes out a piece of coated paper. She clears her throat and turns around. “To the owner of the 2009 ‘Underwater Edition’ Toyota Prius, your lights have been left on. Please attend to your vehicle. Thank you.” She swishes away, disappearing through an arch to the side. “As I was saying,” says Prince Vonne. The crowd listens with bated breath. “My wife…” He seizes Charlotte and dips her back, planting a firm kiss on her lips. Shane’s jaw drops in shock. “What the f-f-f-f-fudge?!” “This is my wife!” declares Prince Vonne with Charlotte in grasp. Everyone claps. “What?” whispers Charlotte, extremely confused. Prince Vonne replies, “We’ll talk.” Then he sweeps up his “wife” into his arms and takes her up the grand staircase as the mermen cheer and the mermaids weep for loss. Shane tries to go after Charlotte, but he is held by back his own guards. “What is this madness?!” he cries. “Your father,” they gruffly reply, “is gone to make you brothers and sisters.” A Woman Is Best Served Fresh “What is the meaning of this?!” yells Charlotte as she is overpowered by the prince. “We are getting married,” he replies as he roughly drags her along. “The wedding will be on your 16th birthday…since by lake law, due to your tenderly age, I cannot marry you now. Till then, you will be a prisoner.” Prince Vonne takes Charlotte to a hole in the ground, grabs her by the hair and tosses her down. She is sucked in by a force; then finds herself landed in the back of a paddy-wagon. Locked up, she yells for help, but nobody can hear her. “Haaalp! Where are you taking me?!” The driver ignores the cries. His strict instructions tell him to forget what he hears, though, under normal circumstances and with lesser pay, he might’ve taken a more gregarious persona. He pushes a lever to his side, and with a wooden wheel, navigates the wagon through waters. Charlotte cries in her hands. “Why is this happening to me?” Meanwhile, back at the Royal Ball, Prince Vonne is enjoying a feast above the water with everyone else except his son. He is sitting at the far end of a rectangular floating table with his father. In the white bowl in front of his is mint chocolate ice cream. “What a fine day this is,” he comments while putting a spoon in his mouth. “Don’t you think?” King Mynus, frail and old, replies with a wince. “Yes,” he replies, “but where is my grandson? And where is this new wife of yours?”

“Oh, father,” says Prince Vonne, “you worry too much!” King Mynus strokes his long, grey beard. He lifts his teacup and sups the hot liquid. Its sweet flavor takes away the sour look on his face. “Good tea,” he murmurs to himself as he picks up a biscuit to dip. “Good, not great.” Prince Vonne taps his fingers on the table with impatience. “Where is the damned entertainment?” “Hello! Hello!” suddenly booms a shrill voice. “How is everybody!?” The mermaids half-heartily clap while the mermen only pay attention to their plates, guiltlessly enjoying the decadent food. King Mynus covers his ears as the comedian tries to get the crowd worked up with his routine. “So,” says Jerry David with a nervous smile, “what is the deal with clocks? Why is it that they only inform us of the time when we’re already late? How completely useless!” There is a cough over the dead silence. Jerry tugs at his collar. “Tough crowd.” And he carries on. “So, what is the deal with Barack Obama? Gordon Brown visits him all the way at the White House, from across the bloody ocean, gives him a custom made penholder from the ancient timbers of an anti-slave ship, and all he gets in return is a crappy box set of DVDs. Honestly. What the fuck was he thinking? And they didn’t even work in his player! Change my arsehole. How about a change of gifts?” “Bollocks! That’s what your jokes are,” cries a heckler, “bollocks!” King Mynus laughs. Jerry’s face turns bright red from embarrassment. He tries to think of a witty comeback. “Well,” he says, “you are a cunt! You daft prick! I oughta come over there and twist your nipples! You silly son of a bitch! You think this job is easy?!” The heckler attempts to give a response, but is interrupted with more insults. “Well, it’s not! But you know what’s easy?! Your mother! The damned whore’s been screwed more than a taxpayer! And don’t get me started on your sister! Jayzus Christ! She puts Madonna to shame!” Prince Vonne leans against King Mynus. “I told you he would be funny, father. Just you wait ‘till the finale. It’s a killer.” King Mynus pushes him away. “Sorry about that,” says Jerry as he squeezes his mic. “I have a bit of temper problem…but don’t worry, I’m working on it. I’m going to anger management. It’s basically a bunch of classes where you learn not to be an asshole. You can still be an asshole in your head and think nasty things, but you can’t scream at your wife for overcooking the eggs…” As the jokes continue, and as the crowd roars into laughter, Prince Vonne nervously taps his fingers on the table; looking back as if something or someone is going to arrive. King Mynus notices his sons’ increasingly jittery disposition. “Son,” he says, “are you expecting anyone? You seem particularly tense today. And I can’t help but think you’re up to something. Are you up to something? Is there going to be some sort of surprise? You know I don’t like surprises. My weak heart would not be able to take it. Being above the water is stress enough. The elements are not an old man’s friends.” “I assure you,” says Prince Vonne, “there is nothing to be suspicious about. It is a fine day to let your worries go, father. This year’s ball has gone off without a single hitch; even much better than the last. So I don’t see why anything egregious should suddenly happen. If you’d like, father, you may leave. There is certainly nobody stop you. You are the king, from now and until your last breath.” King Mynus doesn’t respond. He appears wary. His eyes shift left and right,

checking his surroundings. The trees on the shore sway silently in the breeze. There is nobody around it seems; but for the fish, only the mermen and mermaids are present on the water. “What is the matter, father?” asks Prince Vonne. “Why are you giving me the silent treatment? Have I done something to upset you?” In a deep contemplative mood, King Mynus scratches the middle of his beard with his long, boney finger. He responds in a bleary voice. “You were an accident.” Prince Vonne sits up; his tail nearly bumping at the underside of the table. “What?” he says. “What was that you said?” King Mynus can hardly be heard amongst the chattering others, but to Prince Vonne his voice seems extra loud. “Son,” he says, “you were an accident. I did not mean to have you. I did not want an heir. It was I and your mother’s intention to disband the Kingdom and bring about a new era of democracy and freedom. But when she passed short after your birth, I wanted to give you more. I wanted you to have a future to look forward to…and I have done that. Though, it has not made me particularly proud. You are and have always been a rotten child. You’re conniving bastard who only looks out for himself.” “Why do you tell me this now?” asks Prince Vonne with sadness and anger. “And why are you always ashamed of me? All my life you’ve only called me names and never said anything good…but when I was younger I used to love you. I always wanted you to be proud of me, but nothing I did was ever good enough. How can you expect me to turn out as a decent merman, when you yourself are not one?” “Dare you talk back to me!” yells King Mynus at the top of his lungs. He springs up and slaps Prince Vonne across the face with force. Though the attack is only enough to leave a red mark upon one’s cheek, it stings like a thousand hot needles. All the mermen and mermaids look, waiting for the prince’s reaction… but he remains in his usual calm manner. He brushes his fingers down his face. “One day,” he says, “we will both be dead. And I will reign in hell and you will be a scarred footstool under my leg; for you are just as guilty as I. You are the one who created the monster.” As the attendees of the Royal Ball dinner murmur amongst themselves, a loud rumbling noise can be heard in the distance. And it becomes louder and louder, to the point of distraction. Everyone turns to look. “Humans!” cries Larry David. But before anyone can react, a speedboat violently motors over the dinner tables, splattering food everywhere. The guards try to stop it but are knocked away by its tough steel hull. It rapidly heads in King Mynus’ direction. Prince Vonne surreptitiously dives down and holds his frail father’s tail, keeping him from escaping. King Mynus struggles to move, but can only watch like the others watching his imminent demise. The boat stops in front. There are two fishermen on deck dressed in bright orange overalls. The one in front jumps behind a harpoon gun. He quickly aims it, pulls the trigger, and shoots. Time seems to slow down as the rusted “spear” travels through the air. It makes a final spin and lands in King Mynus’ chest. Blood sprays up like a fountain and colors the lake red like a ripe cherry. King Mynus cries in pain. His bitter scream rings through the water. His crooked fingers point to the sky as the fishermen in their speedboat disappear. “Oh,” he

mourns with his last breath, “what have I done?! What have I done to deserve this?! I was a meek and humble merman! I served my people! And this is what you give me in return?! An undeserved and pain filled death by the hands of humans?! What mockery is this?! Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you and all that you promised!” Encircled by his subjects, King Mynus clutches his chest; he closes his eyes and passes away. Funeral for a King Thousands surround King Mynus’ body in silence. They look upon their king with reverence, remembering all that he had done. He appears nearly as he did on the day he died, withered and pale. Prince Vonne prepares himself for the eulogy. Standing behind a wood podium, he clears his throat, “ahem.” Not yet king, not yet crowned, he remains with his false graciousness. He begins by scanning his eyes through the crowd; then slowly speaks up. “King Mynus: a father, a friend, an ally. More to me than merely the merman who brought me into this world. He meant a great deal, so much to me; he was my world, my life, my everything. But now he rests in peace. Soon he will join by my mother’s, back into the ground from whence he came. Flesh, bone, and scales he will disintegrate and slowly join into the lake, though the memories of him will live on forever. It is with regret and sorrow that I must say farewell. Goodbye, father. I know you are in a better place.” The mermaids and mermen weep. They lean their bodies against each other, taking solace in one another’s company. Prince Vonne swims down and moves through the aisles with his head hung low. A little girl looks in his eye where there is an evil glint of satisfaction. Without any siblings, without any brothers or sisters, he is soon to be king. It is only a matter of days before the citizens of the lake stop their mourning and he can proceed to be crowned, and rule with an iron fist. “It’s him!” shouts the little girl with her finger pointed to Prince Vonne. “He did it! He’s the one! He killed the king!” Prince Vonne snaps out of his stupor. His chin raises and the skin on his face breaks out in goose bumps; swarming all over like black flies. “Sit down!” screams the little girl’s mother. She pulls her down. “Keep acting rude and we won’t be going to McRonald’s for lunch!” The little girl hushes up…then starts wailing like mad. “Wah!” she cries. “Wah! Wah! Wah! You don’t love me! You hate me! Why do you hate me?!” All eyes turn to the mother and daughter. They appear extremely annoyed. But Prince Vonne grins and instantly removes the tension. “Children,” he says, “aren’t they precious. Even if they worst of times they can bring a smile to your face. God bless them all, every one of them.” Shane appears at the end of the long carpet. He shuffles over to his dad: Prince Vonne soon to be king. “Have you seen my friend Charlotte?” he asks in whisper. “I can’t find her anywhere. I’ve been looking all over the place. I don’t know why she’s not here.” Prince Vonne clenches his teeth. He pinches Shane like a dog and takes him by the arm and seats him in the back. “Now is not the time,” he says, “to go gallivanting around and looking for your high school crush. Your grandfather has died. Show some respect, will you?” Shane is overcome with shame. It is awful

selfish of him isn’t it? What a slapdash thing to think of during a funeral. “I’m sorry,” he replies submissively. “I won’t bring it up again.” Prince Vonne kisses him on the head. “Attaboy. You’ve learnt your manners well.” The humdrum voice of the speaker up front starts to dull Shane’s senses. It makes him slump back in his chair, though not out of disrespect; he is sad and depressed as much as everyone else, but his mind is somewhere else, thinking about what had happened at the Royal Ball, the event which led to this horrific situation, the ending of a innocent life, which plays over and over again like a horror movie in his brain. Something is off, but he does not know what. Perhaps it is best left alone, because some questions should ideally not be answered. For the truth may be so shocking that even one as young as a child may pass away from the shattered illusion. And as the saying goes: “Ignorance is bliss.” Where’s Charlotte? “Do you know where Charlotte is?” asks Sierra. “I haven’t seen her in a couple of days and I’m beginning to get worried.” Clarissa hums as she braids Melissa’s hair. “No,” she replies. “I don’t know where she is. Why? Should we be out looking for her or something? Has she been kidnapped? Ooh! Will we see her on the back of milk carton?” Melissa covers her mouth as she giggles. “I’m serious,” says Sierra. “The lake is a dangerous place. Remember that story in the newspaper last year? The boy who was swimming alone at night in front of his house? He saw a hook with a worm on it. He grabbed it and was taken away, and nobody ever saw him again.” “Aw, mom,” says Melissa, “that’s just an urban legend. That never happened. They only printed it because they had nothing to put on the front page. The editor in chief is a total twit…and he’s kind of fat. Too many potato pancakes I think.” Sierra puts down her pen and lifts her face from the mountain of paperwork surrounding her. “I want you to find your little sister,” she says in a firm voice. “And if you don’t I will ground the both of you for the rest of your lives. I don’t care how old you are either.” Clarissa stops humming. Melissa’s stands from her chair with only one pigtail complete. “Okay,” she says, “we’ll do it. But if she ran away don’t expect us to find her any time soon. That mermaid can be one crafty SOB.” Clarissa agrees. “Yes, she certainly is one crafty SOB. Really, the biggest SOB I’ve ever met. There couldn’t be a bigger SOB than her.” Sierra sighs. “Please! I don’t give a damn how great of an SOB she is! Just get her home!” Clarissa and Melissa salute together, “Yes, ma’am!” They swim to the front door and leave. “Now what?” they think aloud. They look around. “Where do we begin?” asks Melissa. “How about the garbage dump? I hear she likes to hang out with white trash. Heh-heh-heh.” Clarissa puts her hand against her forehead like a visor and searches with her eyes. She sees a brown package tied in twine lying on the ground. And with a surprised look on her face she picks it up and shows it to Melissa. “What do you think it is?” she asks. “We usually never get any deliveries beside letters.” Melissa claps in excitement. “Open it up! Open it up!” Slowly, Clarissa pulls at the twine and unstrings the box. The flaps pop up. The sisters look inside.

There is a laminated letter done in calligraphy. “Dear Family,” it begins, “As you may have noticed I have been gone for several days. I apologize for the inconvenience and for not informing you of my plans. However, I have firmly decided to run away from home. I will not be returning as it no longer suits my personality. I am not a homebody who can happily stay cooped up in a box. Please understand. I do not wish to hurt your and mother’s feelings. I am merely going through an area in my life where reevaluation of my inner-self is necessary. Do not come searching for me. I am far and away. Please respect my wishes. I want to be left alone and explore myself and the world in as many ways possible. Wink. Wink. Yours Truly, Charlotte Laverock. OXO.” Clarissa puts her hands on her hips. “Oh my god! What a prissy, little clam! So she’s too good for us all of a sudden?! I oughta nail her to a cross!” Melissa holds the letter. “Calm down. I’m sure it’s just a phase. It’s a teenager thing. Remember when that freighter crashed and all those people died and we got those Tamagotchis? Yeah, well, that didn’t last very long. So really I think we’re worrying a little too much here. I mean, she’s young and stupid. Once she finds out what a tough world it is out there, the ‘real world’ as many parents call it, she is going to be crying and coming home, begging for our forgiveness.” “What if that doesn’t happen?” asks Clarissa. “What if she’s thriving and enjoying her new life? What if she becomes a lesbian and decides to have a threesome with Ellen Page and Portia de Rossi?” Melissa clears her throat. “I think you mean ‘Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi.’” Clarissa scratches her head. “Who? That towheaded boy with the talk show? Why would she wanna have a threesome with him?” “Never mind,” says Melissa. “Let’s just show mom the letter.” Clarissa follows Marissa back inside the house. They go to the table where Sierra is still doing her work. “What do you want?” she asks with her pen tightly gripped in hand. “I thought I told you to find Charlotte. Did you find her? You know you were gone less than a minute. You could’ve at least gone out to the coffee shop and pretended you actually did something…I taught you better than that.” Letting out a deep breath, Melissa hands the letter to her mom. Clarissa bites on her nails as Sierra mutters, scanning it quickly with her eyes. “She ran away?!” Melissa and Clarissa close their eyes, readying themselves to be punished. They know how badly they have treated their little sister. The guilt is with them. They know that they are responsible and this familial tragedy could’ve been curbed. If only they had been more mature and refrained from all the name calling and teasing. If only! If only! But it is too late now! “Aw, never mind,” says Sierra in a surprisingly calm voice. “It doesn’t matter if she ran away. As long as she stays safe that’s all I care about.” Clarissa and Melissa are absolutely shocked. “What do you mean?!” they cry synchronously. “What happened to ‘the lake is a dangerous place,’ huh?! What happened to ‘find your little sister’ or I’ll ground you for life, huh?! Huh?!” With her face resting between both hands, propped up like the globe on Atlas, Sierra lets out a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I have to confess. I once ran away from home, too.” Clarissa and Melissa sit by the table. “And what happened?” they ask in astonishment, having never seen the rebellious side of their straight-laced

business mother. “Everything turned out okay, right?” Sierra shrugs. “Actually,” she replies, “I ran away from home because I was pregnant with the two of you. I never went back. Hell. I never even looked back.” “What’re you saying?” asks Melissa. “We should mind our own business? We shouldn’t look for our little sister because happenstance made sure you came out alright? Mom, I don’t what you’re on right now, but stop taking it. Seriously, drugs are bad for you. They fry your brain and make you into a vegetable. What type of vegetable you are? I don’t know, but I’m guessing it’s leafy and green. Bok-choy, perhaps?” Clarissa slaps her forehead and groans with embarrassment. “I have no idea what’re you talking about,” replies Sierra, “but I don’t want you to waste your time searching for your little sister. If she wants to come back…fine. If she doesn’t…fine. As long as it’s her choice I’m okay with it. Charlotte’s growing up fast and she’s becoming a young women. She needs to decide for herself what she wants in life. It’s not up to me or you to tell her what she has to do. Just let her be. It’s like that saying: ‘You can take a whore to the water but you can’t have sex with her unless she wants to.’ …What? Don’t look at me like that. I’m pretty certain that’s how it goes.” Dungeons & No Dragons Trapped in a cold, stony dungeon, Charlotte sits in the corner crying; her face planted in her palms. “I want to go home,” she loudly laments. “Why are you keeping me in here? I don’t want to get married! I’m just a kid! I’ve never even had a boyfriend!” A grouchy voice yells through the door bars. “Shut your hole and stop crying, you wench! Your tears are making the water salty!” Prince Vonne appears outside. He eyes the guard and dismisses him with a wave of his hand. He goes into the dungeon and swims over to Charlotte. He moves her hands away from her face and lifts her up. “Please,” he says, “you know I don’t like it when you’re sad. Come on, cheer up. After I’m crowned king, we’ll get married and you’ll be the queen. Now, isn’t that something to look forward to? You’ll have everything you could ever imagine. You’ll never have to worry about money. You can wear expensive jewelry and eat all the bonbons you want. What more could anyone want?” Suddenly Charlotte becomes enraged. She starts banging on the prince’s chest. “Let me go!” she cries with anger, furiously hammering her fists. “I’m not your queen! I don’t love you! My heart belongs to someone else!” Prince Vonne seizes Charlotte by her wrists and grins. “Relationships,” he says, “aren’t about love. They’re about two things: sex and money. Those are the great forces which drive people together. Men and women put aside their differences and cooperate with one another to get what they want. Although, nobody likes to admit this; they like to think they’re better than their god-given instincts and that they actually have a freewill. But it’s not true. We’re all slaves to our bodies in one way or another. You might not agree with me, Charlotte, but I remember when I was a child. I had absolutely no desire for the fairer gender. I just saw another body, not much unlike my own. I didn’t want to anything romantic at all with them. ‘Mermaids,’ I thought, ‘yuck.’ Then suddenly I got older, like everyone else, and

suddenly I had all these desires to do naughty things. But were they my own thoughts? Not at all. They were conferred to me by my hormones. Sexual desire came from no conscious decision of mine. It was merely thrust upon me like the Earth on Atlas’ shoulders. It’s not what I chose to want. So call ‘love’ what you want, it doesn’t exist. It’s just a fancy name we gave to the mistress called ‘lust.’” “You’re wrong!” screams Charlotte. “You don’t know anything! It’s real! Love is real! How can it not be when I am so inspired by it?! See the poem I wrote on the wall?! See it! Try and tell me it isn’t right!” Prince Vonne turns his head and looks to the right over his shoulder. Indeed, there is a poem on the wall, and it looks as if it has been scratched in with a pointed rock. It cordially reads in cursive writing: “Love is life. Life is love. Live to Love.” “So?” asks Charlotte. “Is it not true? Do we not live for love? Do we not live for the kind and gentle words of a mother or father? Do we not live for the sweet breath at the nape of our neck from a wife or husband? Do we not live for something more than fame or the pursuit of money? Do we not live beyond the requirements of sustenance? Do we not live for our hearts? Do we not live for something grander and greater, where the only reward we need is knowing that we are wanted?” “No, not really,” says Prince Vonne. Then he reaches behind his back and takes out a white envelope. “Oh, here,” he says handing it to Charlotte, blithely unconcerned. “I think it’s from your family.” She takes the envelope from his hand and opens it up. Prince Vonne leaves and closes the dungeon door behind him. “Dear Charlotte,” the letter reads. “How are you? I hope you are well. It has been such a long time and we miss you very much…and we have recently come to an understanding of the decision you have made. At first we were somewhat confused as to why you would want to run away, but when we found out about the impending wedding, we realize now that you only want to be with the one you love. If it is your choice to spend your time with your husband-to-be, and not wanting to speak with us except through letters, then that is okay with all of us here. In spite of all our squibbles and squabbles, we do genuinely understand and are not judging you in any way. Also, goddamn it! I’m trying to write a letter here! Stop making a racket! Aw, see what you made me write! Sorry about that; just got a little distracted. Anyway, hope everything is well. We look forward to your next letter. Don’t hesitate to write. And if you ever get home sick we’ll always be here. Hugs and kisses galore. Love, Mom, Clarissa, and Melissa.” With mouth agape, Charlotte drops the letter by her side. “I never wrote any letters,” she thinks aloud. Then realizing what has transpired, she runs to the door and wraps her hands around the bars. And squeezing them with frustration, she wildly screams at the top of her. “Let me out here, you bastard!” She tries to pull, rocking her body back and forth in a desperate attempt to be freed. “I’ll never marry you, Prince Vonne! I’d rather be made into a Filet-O-Fish!” Kill Some Time, Read a Book Months have passed and Prince Vonne is no longer a prince. Now a king, King Vonne, he continues to keep Charlotte imprisoned ‘till the day of their wedding…

although her dwellings have improved considerably. No longer in the dungeon, she lives in a guarded palace; an immensely large building, fortified from corner to corner, where there is practically no escape. A veritable underwater Alcatraz, it is maddening place. And so confined within walls, with little to do, the young mermaid escapes to the library where she consumes herself in books. From her bedroom, she floats down to the floor and browses between the aisles. There is anything anyone could imagine, from Marcel Proust to Robert Louis Stevenson; the library is a haven of information and literature; with an old “oakie” smell it invokes memories of greatness long gone, a time when a quill and paper was all a writer needed to be inspired to create a world of majesty and wonder, something to capture the imagination of men, women, and children alike. “I wonder what I should read today?” asks Charlotte aloud as her fingers run across the spines of the books like a baseball card against a bike wheel. Then she stops at the end of the shelf and peers into the distant dark corner. There is a section of the library, shrouded in shadow, covered in mud, algae, and seaweed; it appears as if nobody has been there in many, many years. But it calls for company; like a ghost, whispering, begging; asking for attention. Charlotte cannot resist. The urges of her curiosity impel her into the direction of her eyes. She floats into the corner. She pushes past the tattered curtains and settles by the desk with its scattered pile of books. She takes a novel sitting in front of her and leisurely flips through the pages. The story is romantic; filled with adventure and passion; a classic tale of hardship and hard won triumph. It perfectly encapsulates the spirit of humanity, and all the difficult endeavors people go through just to be with the one they love. Ah, but Charlotte has already read ‘The Prince Bride.” So she puts it down and takes something else. She gets a book with a red velvet cover and opens it to the middle. Inside is a poem titled: “The Wealthy Man.” “The old man stood there. Grumpy, mean and bald without a single hair. He looked me in the eye. Revealing his past without a single lie. Telling me about his youth. About his adventures, bold, daring, and uncouth. His years spent on sea. His years spent un-free. Chasing after money, and success, no hours for sleep or rest. A billion dollars was all he had and a face which looked sad. For in his chest was a shrinking heart. A beat so weak it could barely start. A body dying at every part. So a sad song I sung. Then I broke the mirror in front, dropped and hung. In my last breath I wished I had known love. But now I leave, hopefully to the above.”

Charlotte wipes her eyes. As she turns to continue looking around, her elbow accidentally knocks over a stack of books. She bends over to pick them up. Gathering them in her arms a thick text titled “History of the Lake: Part 1” catches her attention. She takes it and lays it down on the desk. She starts on page one; perusing each line, learning about Triskut the Mighty, his army of Malgelions, and how the old witch Salsburah banished them from the village and into the water, casting them down, and transforming them into mermen and mermaids with a powerful, magic book of spells. Then Charlotte, after several hours, is nearly finished reading the “History of the Lake” and finds herself on its very last page. But instead of more words, there is a detailed drawing of a family tree spanning several generations. She touches the glossy paper and carefully looks, running her index finger down to the bottom. And painted in a gold oval frame is a picture of herself with her full name scripted below: “Charlotte Abigail Laverock.” “This can’t be,” thinks Charlotte in panic. Her eyes dart to the top of the page: “Salsburah Laverock.” She is a distant relative of the witch; one of only four left in the lake, including her mother, and two sisters! Breathing heavy and slow, Charlotte tries to get her head together. She rubs her temples with shut eyes. “Okay, okay,” she says, “no need to get worked up. There must be some sort of mistake. Maybe the editor was drunk.” She double checks the book, flipping back and forth, scrutinizing the information even more than before. But disappointingly everything is in order. The text is accurate and every word carefully written. And as far as one can tell, there are no holes in this “history of the lake.” Charlotte puts her hand on her chest and tilts back her head. She looks up with a heavy sigh as a soft red light falls on her face. She stares at the stained glass window in the dome above, wondering what to do with herself. Now that she knows the truth about her past, what will be of her future? Will she go on to great things or will she merely be a palace wife to Prince, ahem, King Vonne? “Never!” yells Charlotte with an impassioned fury. She rises with a fist. “I will never marry that merman! I will never see him with anything less than hatred and contempt! I will never be his wife! I will never be his queen! Mark my words! One day I and the citizens of this lake will be free! And I will escape these wretched waters and find the one I love! And it will be an unfiltered moment of glory and ecstasy! Mark my words! I will be free!” The Smell of Death Back on dry land…a bright yellow taxicab weaves past a van. It pulls up to the entrance of a hospital and stops a foot short of the sidewalk. Brendan gets out and stares up at the grey concrete face. He adjusts the collar on his shirt and steps onto the black mat in front. The doors slide open with a whoosh. He goes in, keeping his head low, tries not to stare at the others. But as he walks, their long faces catch in the corner of his eye, and their mourned expressions cause to him quiver like jelly; thinking relentless thoughts of morbidity. How many people have died in this place? How many more will die tomorrow?

Brendan turns into the gift shop. He shuffles over to the rack of cards. The selection is slim, consisting only of: congratulations on the baby, happy birthday, and get well soon. There is nothing else. “Can I help you?” asks the clerk behind the counter. He leans on the laminate surface with his elbows and looks under the lenses of his thick glasses. “No,” replies Brendan. “I’m fine. Thank you.” The clerk goes back to reading his newspaper. He wets his index finger and turns the pages by the corner tops. Brendan returns to his browsing. A “get well soon” card catches his attention. He picks it up but sees it’s bent in the corner…and it’s the only one. He lifts it above the rack and faces it to the clerk. “Excuse me,” he says, “do you have any more of these cards? This one’s damaged.” The clerk yawns. “Sorry. Everything we have is there. What you see is what you get.” “Okay,” nods Brendan. He goes to the checkout with his greeting card. The clerk scans its UPC over the laser. The cash register rings up the cost: $9.99. “Ten dollars for a card?” asks Brendan with an incredulous stare. “It’s ink and cardboard.” The clerk rolls his eyes. “Look, if you don’t want it put it back. Nobody’s holding a needle to your neck.” Brendan looks at his watch. “Okay, fine. I’ll buy your card…but I still think it’s a rip-off.” He grabs a plain blue pen. “And I’ll take this as well.” “That’s my pen,” says the clerk. “You’ll have to buy something else.” He points to a box of pens. Brendan scans them with his eyes and quickly grabs the least fancy one. Then the price comes up on the register: $4.99. The corner of the clerk’s mouth pulls up into a grin. “Will you be using cash?” With a sigh, Brendan reluctantly reaches into his pocket and takes out a crumpled $20.00 bill. All his money, he throws it down. The creases in the paper scrunch Andrew Jackson’s face, making him look angry. The clerk opens the cash drawer to make change. He takes the coins and dumps them into the palm of Brendan’s hand. “Thank you. Come again.” Brendan raises any eyebrow. “Don’t you think that’s sort of an inappropriate thing to say?” The clerk looks bewildered. “What do you mean?” he asks with his bottom lip furled. “I said, ‘Thank you. Come again.’” Brendan folds his arms. “This is a hospital not a convenience store. You come here because a) you’re sick or b) someone you know is sick. So asking somebody to come again is like asking them to have another crappy day. Don’t you get it? Nobody wants to return to a hospital. It’s a depressing place and it smells like pee.” The clerk shrugs dismissively. “Sure, buddy. Whatever floats your boat.” With a grunt Brendan takes his things and leaves the shop. Feeling miffed he marches for the elevators. As he goes forward a gurney being pushed by a pair of clumsy hospital workers runs over his foot. He yelps in pain. “Yow!” They give him a glance to see if he is hurt, and then finding out that he is not, ignore him and carry on without a word. They rush down the hall. As they disappear from sight a “ding” sound is heard and one of the elevators to the side opens up. Brendan goes in and presses the button for the fifth floor. The polished steel doors slide close. Inside, to the right, is a young man in a wheelchair without any legs. His lips are closed, but he is making a noise by humming a tune. “So,” says Brendan with a sidelong glance, “what happened to you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

The young man returns the look. “Fought for my country,” he says. “And what about you?” The fluorescent lights in the elevator give a brief flicker. Brendan clears his throat. “Excuse me?” The young man taps him on the knee. “Your legs. Why the hell are you taking the elevator when you can walk? You lazy or got bad joints or what?” “Arthritis,” replies Brendan facetiously. “Nah. I’m just kidding. I’m lazy. And I know what you’re thinking, ‘I’m squandering my bipedal talent.’ But let me tell you something, mister, walking is the way of the past. Nobody these days likes to walk. It’s way too laborious and way too environmentally conscious. That’s why we invented the car, to circumvent the inconvenience of self-propulsion and bodily exhaustion. Shouldn’t I be able to choose whether or not I want to use my god given mode of transportation? You know, I’m not hurting anyone.” “Alright,” agrees the young man, “but what about the environmental damage? Aren’t you hurting ‘mother earth’ by needlessly resorting to machinery when you could be using your feet? And don’t give me any of bullshit about your ‘Toyota Prius’ if you have one. It still pollutes the planet a great deal and you know damn well right a bicycle is a better option…you Smoggie.” Brendan stares in disbelief. “Did you just call me a ‘Smoggie’?” The elevator comes to a stop. The doors slide open on floor five. Brendan hops out in haste. But as he rushes forward he suddenly feels compelled to stop. He twists around and looks back. The young man in the wheel chair has mysteriously vanished. “My eyes must be playing tricks on me,” mumbles Brendan. Then without further thought he walks ahead. He saunters through the hallway, lost in thought, trying to come up with a message to write on his “get well soon” greeting card. He stops outside room 513 and thinks aloud. “I love you… Nah, too cliché… You’re the best… Nah, too sterile… You look like a million bucks… Nah, that’s not really a lot of money these days… You had me at ‘hello…’ Nah, copyright infringement… Um, you rock, man… Yeah, that’ll do!” Brendan writes on the card with his red pen and goes into the room. He goes to the far end and slowly pulls away the blue curtain. “Dad?” he asks softly. “Are you awake?” Lucas looks up with tired eyes. There is an oxygen tube running through his nostrils. “Son,” he says in a raspy voice, “is that you? I’ve been waiting for you all day. How’s everything going? Did you get accepted into any schools? Something close by, I hope.” “Wait,” says Brendan, “I got you something.” He gives Lucas the greeting card in his hand. Lucas looks at the front. “Oh, a mermaid,” he says halfheartedly. “How nice.” He opens it up and reads it aloud. “You rock, man.” He looks a bit puzzled, but smiles regardless…though somewhat weakly. He covers his mouth and coughs. Brendan looks at him with worry. “Dad,” he says, “when are you allowed to leave this hospital?” Lucas avoids the question. “Hold on a minute, one thing at a time. What university will you be going to?” Brendan scratches behind his neck, hesitant to say. But an answer comes out in a stutter. “Uh, uh, uh, Cambridge.” Lucas seems pleased. “Cambridge, Massachusetts? So that means you’ll be going to Harvard? Oh, wow! My son going to Harvard! One of the most prestigious and snobby schools in the world! I can’t believe it…or wait! Is it MIT?! Oh my god, that would be even better! This is too much! MIT! Wow! Somebody pinch me!”

“I’m not going to Harvard or MIT,” corrects Brendan. “I’m going to the University of Cambridge in England. You know that little country in Europe? Mom’s boyfriend has a place there and he said I could stay for free. You’ve met him before, right? Ronald MacDonald.” Lucas narrows his eyes. “Oh, I remember. The big lips. The big shoes. The striped suit. Who could forget a face like that?” “Uh, I’m not talking about the restaurant clown,” says Brendan. “I know,” replies Lucas. “I know.” And as the room seems to shrink, a nurse appears by the door. She enters to check on the first patient, who is asleep, and then goes over to Lucas. “How are we feeling today,” she asks. Lucas groans. “I have no appetite. My hair is falling out and I feel like throwing up every minute of the day. Yourself?” The nurse simpers. She looks at Brendan. “And is this your son?” Lucas tries to nod, but his head only quivers. “Yes,” he says, “that is my son; the boy who came to visit his sickly father, but only to tell him that he is abandoning him and leaving for another country. And not just any country, mind you. England. A country with the worst national anthem known to mankind. ‘God Save the Queen.’ It’s a song about narcissistic cow who can’t seem to get enough for herself. Honestly. Have you heard the lyrics?” Lucas clears his throat and sings: “God save the queen, her fascist regime. It made you a moron, a potential H bomb. God save the queen, she ain’t no human being. There is no future in England’s dreaming. Don’t be told what you want, don’t be told what you need. There’s no future, no future, no future for you. God save the queen, we mean it, man. We love our queen, God saves. God save the queen, ‘cause tourists are money. And our figurehead is not what she seems. Oh God, save history, God save your mad parade. Oh Lord, God have mercy, all crimes are paid. When there’s no future how can there be sin. Were the flowers in the dustbin. Were the poison in your human machine. Were the future your future. God save the queen, we mean it, man. There is no future in…” “Dad!” interrupts Brendan. “That’s not their national anthem. That’s a ‘Sex Pistols’ song.” The nurse uses her hand to muffle her laughter. Lucas frowns with

folded arms. “Whatever,” he says. “I don’t care.” Brendan kneels down and rests his arms on the bedside. His elbows sink into the foam. “Why are you so angry with me?” he asks. “I’m not going away forever, dad. I swear. I’ll return during the holidays. And I’ll write, and I’ll call, and I’ll e-mail you all time. You won’t miss me at all. When I’m gone you’ll be like, ‘Pffft! Brendan? Brendan who? Brendan Fraser?!’ And so forth.” The nurse bites her fingernails, feeling the tension in the air. Lucas rolls and turns away. He pulls his blanket over his head. “Excuse me. I’d like to be left alone now. I’m feeling a bit tired.” Brendan stands. “Fine, but I’m still leaving the country. You can’t guilt me into staying. I’ve got a scholarship and I’m going to use it. …Please, dad. Turn around. Can we at least have a proper goodbye? I’ll be gone soon.” Lucas loudly pretends to snore. Zzzzz! Zzzzzz! “I have to go,” declares the nurse. She walks away and leaves. Brendan continues to stand, waiting for his father to say something. “Dad,” he begs with desperation, “don’t ignore me. I know you don’t want me to go, but I have to do this for me. I want to see the world. I want to experience the world I’ve never been out of the country. And…and…and this place makes me sad. I don’t really have any good memories here. I mean, they were okay, but when you and mom got divorced…it hurt. To see all those happy families; to see those mothers and fathers holding hands and playing with their kids in the park; it gets me depressed. Maybe that’s why I saw that mermaid. Maybe my mind made it up and made me fall in love because it wanted to cheer me up. Dad, this town is like a ghost. I get scared when I see it. And don’t want to stay here forever. Can’t you understand that? Tell me goodbye. Tell me that you love me and you wish me good luck.” Lucas grunts. “Yeah, good luck.” Brendan wipes a tear from his cheek. He walks away from the room in silence as if waiting to hear his father’s voice. But there is nothing but the breeze blowing through crack of the window behind; whistling; howling like a wild wolf to the moon. Wedding Bells & Wedding Jitters Under the lake on a bright, warm day Charlotte is being prepared for the wedding ahead which is only moments away. She sits in front of a long mirror as a mermaid with spiked hair tends to her face, slathering on unnecessary makeup to cover the sweet freckles on her cheeks. “Why are you covering up my freckles?” asks Charlotte as she fidgets, touching the red flowers on her dress. “Is there something wrong with them?” Lucy McGuinne rubs the top of her throat, nervous, not wanting to insult the soon to be queen. She replies gently, but says what’s on her mind. “King Vonne is not too fond of your, ahem, unique facial characteristics. They’re cute for a child but not for a woman. Not my opinion, really, just the general opinion.” “I’m not a woman,” says Charlotte. “Can’t you see that? I’m not ready to get married…especially to the king.” Lucy smirks. “Aw, you’re just getting a cold tail. You’re nervous that’s all. It happens to everyone. A wedding ceremony is a big thing and I can’t imagine any mermaid who’d be perfectly calm… Actually, I can imagine, but I just think it would be weird. Don’t you?”

Charlotte sighs and leans her head into her hand. Lucy quickly dabs the smeared spot with peach colored foundation. “I really don’t understand why you’re so glum,” she says. “King Vonne is such a sweet, charming merman. Anyone would kill to be in your position. Oh, what I would do to be married to him? I’d swim across the Atlantic a hundred times. I’d shove toothpicks under my nails. I’d even French kiss with Michael Jackson. Anything, I would do almost anything.” “If could you stop this wedding,” asks Charlotte, “would you? Without any consequences.” Lucy plays with one of the spikes on her head, thinking. “Maybe in my fantasy, but in real life I would never do something so vile…especially when it’s nearly impossible.” There is a knock at the door. Knock! Knock! “Come in!” yells Lucy. “We’re almost done in here!” A tentacle reaches into the room. October appears with a package in hand. “Hello,” she says with a wide smile. “Glad to see me?” With a playful clap, Charlotte gets up from her seat. “You made it!” she screams with delight. “I thought you’d never come! I sent you an invitation and you never RSVPed! What gives?” October apologizes. “I’m sorry. I never received anything in the mail. But that doesn’t matter. I’m here now and nobody is going to take me away.” She mutters under her breath. “I hope.” Lucy clears her throat. “Excuse me. I don’t mean to interrupt, but the wedding will be starting soon…a few minutes.” Charlotte looks back. “Could you give us some time alone? It won’t be long. We just have some private matters to discuss. You know. Girl stuff.” Lucy picks up her makeup kit. “I’ll return in five,” she says, swimming toward the door. “Don’t run off.” And then she leaves. October listens quietly for a moment to check if there might be any eavesdroppers around. As it seems there are none, she takes the package in her tentacles and hands it to Charlotte. “What is it?” asks Charlotte, feeling and shaking the square box. “Oh, I hope it’s an iPod. I’ve always wanted one of those… If it’s a Zune I’ll just kill myself.” Then she excitedly rips away the decorative wrapping. Inside is a pair of shiny objects lying side by side: a golden whistle and a silver compass. “Wow,” she says, picking them up and inspecting them with care, “what an unusual gift. Not exactly what I expected for wedding presents, but I appreciate the thought. Thank you.” “Have you forgotten already?” whispers October. “Remember the lengthy discussion we had last month? Those items are for the ‘you know what.’” Charlotte squints, trying to recall. But the last week, preparing for the wedding, has been so incredibly hectic that everything just seems to be a blur. “Jog my memory?” she asks. “I’m having a bit of trouble with my brain.” With her tentacles folded together October explains. “Blow the whistle for big blue. The compass will point you to your destination.” Snapping her fingers; Charlotte smiles. “Yes!” she squeals with delight. “I remember now!” And October is relieved. “Great,” she replies with a clap. “Let’s hope this works.” Then she swims to the door, and with her longest tentacle, grabs hold of the knob. “I’ll see you then.” She leaves into the hallway. “Good luck with everything,” a whisper is heard. Then the makeup artist, Lucy McGuinne, returns. With a hand on her hips she grins at Charlotte. “Time to tie the knot.”

One Wedding and no Funeral Uncomfortably, Shane sits between Clarissa and Melissa and Sierra. He squirms in his seat, eyes nearly to tears, as he watches Charlotte holding hands with his father in front of the priest. “You’re a prick!” he yells to King Vonne…in his head. “Seriously, man, you and me, we’re done professionally.” He folds his arms. Then the orchestra stops playing their music. And everyone in the cathedral quiets down to listen. The priest fixes his collar and clears his throat before beginning. “Ahem… We are gathered here today in the sight of Poseidon, and in the face of family and friends, to join together Charlotte Laverock and King Vonne in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate instituted by Poseidon since the first merman and mermaid swam on the earth. Therefore it is not to be entered unadvisedly or lightly, but rather…” “Will you cut to the chase?” says whispers King Vonne, rudely interrupting. “I’m not gonna spend all day in a stuffy box just to get hitched.” The priest quickly mumbles the rest of the lines and gets to the end. “Do you, King Vonne,” he says in paced voice, “take Charlotte Laverock to be your lawfully wedded wife? In health and in sickness? For better or for worse?” With an evil grin King Vonne replies. “I do.” The priest turns to Charlotte and repeats himself vice-versa. Charlotte nervously tugs a strap on her dress. She stares blankly through her white veil. With bated breath all the mermen and mermaids wait for a response. King Vonne glares, extremely annoyed. “What are you waiting for?” he says in a low, grumbling voice. “Say the words! There are only two of them! How hard could it be?!” Charlottes puts a hand on her chest, rubbing her front as if she’s got a cold. Impatient and vexed, King Vonne leans and speaks into her ear. “Remember what happens if you don’t go through with this?” He uses his finger like a knife and runs it across his neck. Nobody notices. Charlotte opens her mouth…but instead of speaking she quickly reaches in her brassier and pulls out the golden whistle from October. She blows on it like mad…but there isn’t a sound. And nothing is happening. Shouldn’t something be happening? Shane, with everyone else, stares with a puzzled look. “What was that all about?” he asks himself. Clarissa and Melissa turn to each other like, “Is she insane?” But her mother, Sierra, just sits in the pew and weeps with confusion. The young girl has lost her mind! King Vonne glowers at Charlotte. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” he says with clenched teeth, “but you better stop it right now. I am not going to play your childish games.” And he grumbles inaudibly. “I will kill you if I have to.” Charlotte stammers. She stares nervously at the priest. “I…I…I…I…I…” But before she can finish, the cathedral suddenly begins to shake. Shane stands up, grabs his head and yells, “Eaaarthquake!” Everyone screams in panic as fixtures and debris fall onto their heads. Some of them bolt for the doors, but the rumbling stops and calm returns… Then a blue whale suddenly bursts through the wall: “Oh yeah!” It’s the Blue Whale from the Starfish Aquarium! And riding on top of her is October! She

shouts to Charlotte. “Quick! Get on!” Charlotte darts up and grabs onto a fin. October takes the whistle and compass for safekeeping. King Vonne is frozen in shock; his mouth agape, not sure how to react. But then he quickly snaps out of his stupor; and with a raised arm and pointed finger he yells to his men, “Get them!” The guards rise with their spears. The Blue Whale crashes outside and swims like a torpedo. She kicks her tail, sending back a wave of bubbles. “We’re going too fast!” yells Charlotte. “I can feel my brains going into my tail!” October lowers down. Her suctions cups keep her safely anchored. “Hang in there, baby!” she replies enthusiastically. “It’s aaall part of the plan!” Charlotte looks behind. King Vonne is pursuing with his army; troops of nearly two hundred; foaming, angry mermen with weapons they probably shouldn’t have. The Blue Whale roars. “You two alright back there?!” She spins her massive body, moving the water to deflect oncoming spears. “We’re okay,” replies October. “You okay there, Charlotte?!” Charlotte’s face turns spinach green. “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m having the time of my life! Riding a whale and being chased by an angry mob, it’s every girl’s dream! …Somebody pinch me!” King Vonne shakes his fist as he sits straddled on a dolphin. “I’m going to kill you!” he yells. “You’re dead! You’re all dead!” The dolphin laughs. “Eee-eee-eee! You can’t kill what’s already dead!” King Vonne smacks him in his head. “Shut up or I’ll make you into tuna!” As the Blue Whale banks left a spear suddenly falls from above and pierces into one of October’s tentacles, firmly pinning her down. And the blood pouring out creates a viscous cloud of dark red. Charlotte shrieks in horror, barely able to see. “October, are you okay?!” October leans back and pulls free from the spear. “Yeah,” she says, trying not to show her pain, “don’t worry! These things can grow back!” Then she looks away to the side and mutters, “I hope…” And the frenzied chase continues in the lake where creatures hurriedly move out of the way to avoid being crushed by the Blue Whale and to avoid the sharp projectiles of King Vonne’s army. It’s a mad dash to escape, but it appears that October and Charlotte, with the help of their large friend, are going to dodge the ”pinches” of tyranny. Ahead of them is the shore; less than a few yards away, the details of the land emerge; the trees and shrubbery visible to the naked eye. And so the Blue Whale begins to surface. She tilts back and with a bat of her wide tail, shoots up like a rocket, bursting out from the water. She flips over a boat of awestruck people and lands with a splash. They hastily take pictures with their cameras, clicking away, capturing the strange sight of an octopus and mermaid riding a 100 ton baleen. Then as they think things can’t get any stranger King Vonne appears with his dolphin and army; mermen following behind in a rally of boisterous fury. They scream at the top of their lungs, shouting for their escapees to stop, spouting childish names and profanity. “Stop!” they cry. “Come back, you poopie heads! You damn dirty apes! You sons of guns! You fat lumps! You Republicans!” This goes on for several minutes… October looks down at Charlotte. “Come up here,” she says. “You body is causing drag. It’s slowing us down.” Charlotte glances behind and ducks. An arrow whizzes past her ear. She curls her fingers and grips the crusty bumps on

the side of the Blue Whale’s body. She struggles to climb, but with October’s sticky tentacles hoisting her in, manages to get atop. The Blue Whale turns heading toward a cove. “How we doing back there?” she asks. “Everyone alright?” Lying flat, Charlotte replies with a shriek. “We’re fine,” says October whilst deftly catching arrows with her tentacles. “No problems here. Just trying to avoid death. That’s all.” “Augh!” cries King Vonne. “Have they gone mad?! They’re heading toward land!” The dolphin beneath claps with his fins and laughs. “Eee-eee-eee! We’ve got them now! That fat whale will be beached!” He lowers his head and kicks forward, all the while staring into the reflection of the waves filled with faces of the lake’s army; senseless mermen brimming with anger and rage, but completely unsure why. They speed ahead without out a thought, pursuing “their” enemies, beginning to narrow the distance, getting closer and closer. “They’re gaining on us!” squeals Charlotte with her head turned back. “What do we do?!” October spins around. With a tentacle shielding her eyes from the glint of the sun, she smiles and points out. “They’re here!” she yells in a declarative voice. “The cavalry has arrived!” A hulking ship painted with the words “Greenpeace” arrives from the horizon. Its massive hull cuts through the water like a hot knife in butter. It settles beside King Vonne and his mermen; following as if a large predator waiting for the moment to swallow. A man in a white suit appears on deck. He edges to the front, and with flared back shoulders, bellows through an orange megaphone. “Ahoy-hoy!” he says in a stiffly voice. “I am Captain Napoleon Newkirk of Greenpeace! I have come here to ask you peacefully to stop these whale hunting shenanigans! If you do not, my crew and I may be forced to use force…or annoy you belligerently! Please refrain from your activities! Mother earth is our friend! Not our emeny!” King Vonne responds with a raise of his middle finger. “Screw off, Captain Planet! I’ll do whatever the hell I want! …And for your information it’s pronounced ‘enemy’ not ‘emeny’! Idiot!” Napoleon glares. How dare that fishy goon make fun of his speech impediment. He takes out a walkie-talkie in the shape of a lifesaver and radios the others on ship. “Non-compliant,” he grumbles. “We have a non-compliant. Release the aminals!” Dozens of bamboo cages suddenly rise from the ship’s floor. Inside are wild chimps clattering around, holding the bars, swinging back and forth; dying to be free. Their high pitched screams become a cacophony, causing everyone to cover their ears. And as these human-like animals stare and growl ferociously, their locks are pulled away and they are released forth. They swagger out like hairy linebackers ready to charge, scratching their black bodies with long arms and grunting with impious intent. Napoleon commands, “Attack them! Show them the wrath of mother nature!” King Vonne laughs dismissively. “Ha! What are you going to do with those?! Have them throw feces at us?! Monkeys indeed!” The chimps stare silently. Then they reach behind their back…and pull out their guns! They take aim and shoot below: Blam! Blam! Blam! Their accuracy is terrible, but enough bullets shower down to do damage. Many of the mermen get hit. Their hole-ridden bodies sink into the water, disappearing into the depths, down to the bottom where it is

presumed their corpses will slowly decay and be eaten away by bottom feeders and slimy worms. “Monkeys with guns?!” yells King Vonne, both furious and confused. “This is madness!” Napoleon pushes up the cap on his head, revealing his eyes. “Madness?!” he says. “This is Greenpeace!” Charlotte, October, and the Blue Whale are nearing the cove. They look back; still being trailed. The mermen submerge and take cover from the gun-slinging chimps. The bullets hit the water and slow, penetrating less than several feet, they turn ineffective. As Napoleon stands at the bow of the ship, surrounded by chimps, he spreads out his arms and shouts. “I’m king of the world!” he says with pride, believing he’s won the bottle. “Haw! Haw! Haw! Go ahead and retreat, you cowards! Spread forth and proclaim with stories of how you were defeated by the almighty Greenpeace! Tell the people how…” Baboom! A crashing noise interrupts the captain’s pretentious speech. He looks to the right and sees another ship of equal size. There is a “big boned” woman standing on deck with her hands placed firmly on her wide, wide hips. She clears her throat and speaks from the corner of her mouth. “Stop in the name of the law!” commands Anita Schauer. “Your treatment of these majestic chimpanzees is in strict violation of the Animal Welfare Act!” Napoleon responds with a scoff. “And who the hell are you?” Anita Schauer glares like a villain from a comic book. “I’m your worst nightmare,” she says in a deepened voice. “And I work for PETA. So bugger off, Mr. Vick, or you will be punished. I swear I will take off my leather belt and beat you like a Chinese toddler.” Napoleon folds his arms and bellows with laughter. “Haw! I’d like to see you try!” Anita puts her feet together and Hitler salutes. “Attack!” she yells. “Attack!” A group of men and women suddenly appear on the deck of the SS PETA. They get into a phalanx formation and take out pies from behind their backs. They set their eyes on Napoleon and launch their pastries into the air. Napoleon tries to shield himself but is hit from top to bottom; though he does take it quite well. “Pies?” he says, covered in bright yellow cream. “That’s how you planned on stopping me? Haw! Haw! Haw! I don’t see how… Wait a minute.” He licks the sticky, sweet substance clinging to his lips. His face turns red. “Oh no! Banana cream pie!” And the chimps suddenly swarm, surrounding Napoleon in a circle and hungrily licking their chapped lips. Then they throw up their arms and spring forward. They sink their fangs into his body as if enjoying a sweet dessert, ravenously consuming like a patron at an all you can eat buffet. It is a gruesome sight. After the ordeal all that is left of the humble Greenpeace captain is a skeleton; a set of white tooth marked bones. Anita roars with maniacal laughter. “Yeee-agh-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Her hands curl into claws. “PETA!” she cheers triumphantly. “PETA! PETA! PETA!” Then, when the chimps are finished wiping the blood from their mouths, she beckons them over in a chirpy voice. “Come on!” she says. “Come to, mama! It’s okay! We won’t hurt you!” But they’re not interested. The troglodytes have acquired an unfortunate appetite for the flesh of humans. They go ape shit and eat everyone on board like Winston Churchill after World War 2.

The horror. But now clear from humanly danger, King Vonne and his Merman continue with their chase. Charlotte and October cling to the Blue Whale as she barrels forward. She crashes into the sandy shore of the cove with a “whump!” It’s a dead end with nowhere to go. In the small piece of land is an enormous wall of dust colored rock, wrapping around like a crescent moon. Seeing over it is nearly impossible. “Okay,” says October while carefully looking over her shoulder, “time to go!” Then Charlotte rolls off the Blue Whale and plops to the ground. She crawls forward using only her hands, dragging her orange tail behind; leaving a ribbonlike trail which promptly collects with water. King Vonne surfs with his dolphin on a wave and jets ahead of his mermen. He gets to the cove and withdraws his sword. “You can’t escape!” he yells while wriggling in the hot sand. “You will be my wife, Charlotte! You will be mine!” Charlotte sweats as she crawls. The sun beats down on her face. She looks back, watching the mermen cluster around the rear end of the Blue Whale; wielding their weapons with sinister intent. October reaches underneath her body and takes out a small, red, drawstring pouch. She tries tossing it to Charlotte, but it lands far in front. And King Vonne races to get to it, rapidly slithering on his belly like a snake, hastily moving forward. Then soon he and Charlotte are neck and neck, both only inches away from the pouch. He reaches out and grabs it, but Charlotte spins and swats it away with her tail. It goes into the air and deftly she catches it in her hand. King Vonne swings his sword in rage. October, using all her strength, springs up from the whale and lands on his head. Her sticky tentacles cling to his face and block his vision. “Get off me!” he screams. “Run, Charlotte, run,” says October. Charlotte, with her pouch, rolls to the wall of rock where vine is hung attached to a tree above. She looks back and sees the mermen stabbing the Blue Whale’s body. She hesitates to go, but knows she can do nothing. October screams. “Go! Go! Don’t stop! You’re almost there!” Looking up, Charlotte hangs the pouch between her teeth, and grabs the rope in front of her. Using her skinny arms, she struggles but manages to begin climbing. As she goes higher she keeps looking below. October and the Blue Whale are finished. The raging Mermen are hacking and slashing them to death. Blood squirts up and hits Charlotte in her face. She shutters at the sight and nearly drops but keeps going. She sees King Vonne following. He screams with froth pouring out his mouth. “I’ve had enough of this, young wench! Come down now or I shall be forced to lop off thy tail!” “You’re not going to get me,” says Charlotte, “because I am going to be free! And I am going to live on land and be with the love of my life! But I shall return! I will return stronger than you could ever imagine! And I am going to liberate our people and release the lake dwellers from the tyranny of your fins!” King Vonne starts to fatigue in climb. Being a former prince, used to the good life and now a middle-aged merman, his arms fail in stamina; long and ropey, even thick, but mostly weak and mostly flab. “Please,” he says with desperation, slowly slipping, “I love you. I’m sorry for being so possessive. I just…I love you… I want to be loved… Please, love me… Love me like I love you…”

“You murdering prick!” yells Charlotte. “What the hell is wrong with you?! You just killed a bunch of people and now you want me to love you and have pity for you?! Are you completely mad?! Honestly!” Infuriated, King Vonne gains a sudden burst of energy. His veins bulge as blood rapidly courses through his body. He takes a firm grip on the vine and scuttles up like a spider. He grabs Charlotte by the tip of her tail. “This is the end,” he says. “If I can’t have you…no one can! Not even the ground itself! I will destroy your body and burn it on the pyre of the highest mountain! You will be forgotten like…what’s his name? You know who I’m talking about. Ah, forget it… You’re dead! Dead I tell you!” Then rummaging on the ledge of rock in front of her, Charlotte finds a rock. She picks it up and flings it down. It hits King Vonne dead center in his forehead. He falls down into a pile of sand. The mermen crawl from the water and go to his aid. “Are you alright?” they ask. His finger points above. “Get her!” he says. But it’s too late. Charlotte is out of sight, having finished climbing the perilous wall. On level ground she bites the climbing vine with her teeth and breaks it in two. Exhausted and wary, she rolls out of the hot sun scorching upon her skin and rests for a moment under the shade of a leafy tree. “I made it,” she thinks. “Now let’s see what’s in this pouch.” Charlotte opens the pouch. She dumps the contents into her a palm. Therein is the golden whistle and silver compass from October, her tattered picture of Brendan, and a glass vial of neon purple liquid with a paper note attached. The note reads: Pour where necessary. Good for 100,000 steps. Charlotte removes the cork from the vial and dumps the purple liquid onto her tail. She rubs in her scales and spreads it around evenly as possible. And she waits in quiet with fingers tightly crossed. But half a minute passes; nothing seems to be happening. Then suddenly there is a blinding flash. Charlotte shrieks as she watches the lower half of her body violently scintillate and throw off sparks. She tries to put it out with her hands, but becomes engulfed in a thick colored smoke. Then it disappears, carried away by the wind. In place of Charlotte’s tail is a pair of human legs. She lifts the frill of her dress and stares in disbelief. “It can’t be,” she says. “I don’t believe it.” She stands and grabs her foot, looking at the sole; its ridges, its whorls. Then she picks up her things and places them back into the red pouch. And with her only possessions in arm she totters away from the tree behind and walks into the forest ahead. While her steps are enough to carry her through the brush, her swaying motion gives her the appearance of a lost toddler. But Charlotte, in spite of her incessant stumbling, soon manages to acquire a proper, almost human-like gait. There is a smug grin on her face. Proud of her achievement, she watches her dainty feet move as she continues on. After a lengthy romp Charlotte ends up in a campsite. However, it appears no one is around. So the naturally inquisitive “once-a-mermaid” goes and explores to her heart’s content. She rifles through the campers’ belongings and finds a red and blue duffle bag where inside are girl’s clothing. She slips out of her wedding gown and dresses in the provided jeans and t-shirt. She checks out her butt and gives it a hard slap.

Then feeling satisfied with the firm but soft feel, Charlotte yawns and crawls into one of the tents. She lies in the green sleeping bag and closes her eyes. It’s been a long, tiring day, and there is nothing more she needs than rest. But the naïve girl gets little sleep, ignorant of the fact that she inside in another’s “bed,” she is jolted awake by a female’s shriek. “What are you doing in here?!” yells a dowdy looking woman in a blue, plaid shirt, and a bucket hat. The dowdy woman scrambles outside and takes her husband by the arm. “Get the shotgun!” she says. “There’s a robber in the tent!” The burly husband gives an incredulous stare. He picks up a stick instead and goes to see what the matter is. He crawls through the flap. Charlotte hugs her knees, still with her red pouch clung tightly in her hands. “Please,” she cries, “don’t hurt me! I come in peace! I mean you no harm, human being!” “Is it dead?!” asks the dowdy woman. The burly husband grins, “Ah, no. It’s just a confused, little girl, Maranda. Nothing to be alarmed about. I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding. Isn’t it?” Shivering, Charlotte nods. “Yes, sir. I didn’t know this was your home. I was only trying to get some rest. I’m very tired and lost.” The burly husband takes her by the hand and draws her out as she clutches her pouch. He looks down at her bare feet and speaks as gently as possible. “Dear, where are your shoes?” The dowdy woman folds her arms, thinking, “Are those my clothes?!” But she remains quiet; embarrassed that she thought a petite, shy girl could ever be the heinous criminal that flashed in her mind. Her eyes had deceived her. Wiggling her toes, Charlotte looks at the burly husband with glassy eyes. “What are shoes?” The burly husband’s eyebrows push up, thinking he has an extraordinarily naïve person in front, or an escaped patient from the mental asylum. But he represses his urge to judge and instead takes a pair of shoes from one of his wife’s bags. “Here,” he says, presenting them to Charlotte, “try these on. They look about your size.” Charlotte delicately slips her feet into the boots like Cinderella. “Thank you,” she says. “I’ve seen these before, but I never knew what they were called.” As the burly husband stands with a smile he feels the shadow of his angered wife…but still continues to talk. “So where are you from?” he asks while rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re not from around here are you? You must be a foreigner. I bet you’re from Canada, eh? Eh?” “I’m not from Canada,” says Charlotte. “Though it is a mighty fine place; I’m actually from around here. I live in the lake. You might’ve been?” The burly husband seems impressed. He taps his wife behind with his elbow and whispers, “How about that, huh? She lives on the lake. This kid must be pretty rich! Let’s take her into town, back to her home. Maybe we’ll be rewarded.” The dowdy woman steps in front of Charlotte and takes her by the chin, examining her face on each side like an antiques dealer, as if she could tell the difference between a rich girl and a middleclass serf. The “camp couple” huddles. “Well?” whispers the burly husband. “What should we do?” The dowdy woman twitches her nose, trying to decide. Who knows? The little blondie could be a psychopathic murderer. “Okay,” she says with a glare, “let’s take her back…but the Missy better pay up. I swear. That SUV of ours uses more gas than Al Gore’s mansion.”

Then before Charlotte can respond she finds herself taken away from the campsite and loaded into the back of a Land Rover. The four wheel drive vehicle moves easily through the forest, barreling down a twisted trail, trampling plants and squashing forest critters its way…but making one hell of a time. The burly husband peers in the rearview mirror. “So,” he says with one hand gripped on the leather covered steering wheel in front, “what’s your address? We’re going to be taking you home.” “I don’t want to go home,” declares Charlotte. “I ran away from there. I’m not going back.” The dowdy woman puts down her cell-phone and stops her text messaging. She tilts back ever so slightly. “Dear, I’m telling you this for your own good…but running away from your problems is the best thing you can do; trying to solve those pesky problems and facing them head on is such a waste of time and energy. All that jive ‘bout responsibility and being brave and facing your fears is a complete pile of horseshit. You don’t live forever. You can’t be stressing yourself out with things you don’t want to do.” “That’s not it,” replies Charlotte. “I’m not trying to escape my problems. On the contrary. I’m trying to solve them. That’s why I left home.” She takes out the silver compass from her pouch and glances at the needle pointing eastward. “Well,” says the burly husband, “where shall we take you? Anywhere within a ten mile radius. After that you’re on your own, sweetie pie.” The Land Rover takes a sharp turn and goes straight. Charlotte doesn’t know where she wants to go. “Take me to your closest village,” she says. “I’ll visit the cartographer.” The dowdy woman looks confused. Her wiry fingers furiously tap the buttons on her phone. She is playing a video game. “I don’t even know what that is. We’ll drop you off at the library, honey. It should be safe there for a girl like you. Only nerds hang out there.” Not wanting to impose, Charlotte agrees. “Sure,” she says, “the local library will be fine. Thank you.” The burly husband nods with approval, and as the three travel through the forest, they come upon a fallen tree blocking their way. “Dang it,” says the dowdy woman. “Bill, you gonna do something about this?” Charlotte quietly stares out her window. She watches bush rustling in the nearby distance. “Fine,” says the burly husband as he begrudgingly steps outside, “once again I will come to your rescue!” Then he goes to the front of his SUV and pulls off the chain from the reel. He drags it down and starts wrapping it around the trunk of the tree. “You know,” he says, looking back at his sinewy significant other, “I put a lot of work into this marriage. If you would just show me some appreciation every now and…” But before he can finish his words a grizzly bear jumps out from the trees. With a roar it charges and jumps on top of the burly husband. It digs its claws into his hairy back and tears off his head with a swipe and swallows it in a single gulp. The dowdy woman screams hysterically. She bounces over the front seat on the driver side and grabs the door’s handle to swing it close. The bear climbs on the hood of the Land Rover and weighs down on the windshield, pressing its black nose and bearing its fangs like a rabid dog. It growls; dripping red saliva from its thick, furry lip. “What do we do?!” asks the dowdy woman in a frantic voice. “What do we do?! What do we do?!” She looks back. Charlotte is gone, having quietly slipped out the SUV, racing between the trees; and against the blowing wind to escape.

The cold air chills her hot body, but still she drips with sweat, wheezing like an asthmatic child. The poor thing is clearly used to swimming in the gentle waters of the lake; and not running through the parched, chaotic wilderness of land. And so after several heart-pumping minutes she stops. She rests her hands upon her bended knees and glances behind. The grizzly bear is thankfully gone. Charlotte tiredly lifts her head. She looks in front and opens her mouth with pleased surprise. Her exhausting run has inadvertently led her to the edge of the forest and into town. She steps off the grass and goes onto the sidewalk. She takes out her compass from her front pocket and looks at the pointing arrow. Her eyes rapidly scan the area, still wary, still watching out for potential danger. The road is clear making it easy to see. The surrounding area is quiet though there are many, many homes; slim houses with square windows, earth colored shingles and exterior walls thickly coated in lavender yellow or chartreuse green paint. In the distance a figure of a man appears. The sunlight is on his back. He walks slowly down the sidewalk, carrying a suitcase in his left hand. The details of his face begin to emerge. Charlotte takes the photo from her pouch and compares the two. It is her long lost, love, Brendan; The mysterious, human boy who has eluded her for all this time. She squeals with delight and runs to meet him. But while crossing the road an ice cream truck suddenly appears from the blue. The driver tries to stop. He slams on the breaks with his grungy, brown loafer. However, it is too late. Charlotte is already in the air, spinning unconsciously like a dead ballerina. Then her limp body slams into the pavement. Crack. It sounds as if every bone in her body has been broken. It is a sickening noise. As the ice cream truck driver gets out of his vehicle, Brendan is hailing a taxicab. When it stops he puts his things in the trunk and goes inside. Eeengland! Months have passed. Now in the last week of September, Brendan sits at his desk in a room provided his mother’s boyfriend Ronald MacDonald. He gazes out the window, looking below at the English street with a phone receiver pressed against his ear. His back is slumped; his shoulders sagged. “Dad,” he says, “how’re you feeling?” Lucas coughs. His voice clearly strained. “I’m fine. How about you? How’re you enjoying your stay in Cambridge? Is the weather rainy?” Brendan’s eyes close while he envisages what it’s been like. There is a large, gray cloud floating in his mind, pouring blood onto the houses below. “No,” he replies. “Surprisingly. Not a drip or drop. This country must be going through a drought of some sort. It’s quite tepid.” Lucas clears his phlegmy throat. “Well,” he says, “it’s never a bad idea to carry around an umbrella. You never know. Cats and dogs appear during the most inopportune times… So how are you studies going? Getting all A’s I hope.” “I am,” replies Brendan while leaning back on his chair. “I’m a proper, proper nerd…just kidding. I’m mostly getting B’s. In English class, too. Can you believe it? The prof docked me marks for not spelling color as C-O-L-O-U-R. I tell you, these Brits are completely anal when it comes to their language.” Lucas laughs. “Yeah, but they still manage to get the ladies, don’t they? Heh. American girls lose

their minds when it comes to Englishmen. I don’t know. I guess the accent is appealing. They all think they’re going to score with Hugh Grant or something.” Brendan sits up and straightens his back. He grins with crossed legs. “Well, they’re in for a big surprise. There are a lot more Ricky Gervais’ than Hugh Grants.” Lucas doesn’t respond. Then a long, slow creaking noise is heard. The door to the room opens and Ronald MacDonald steps inside. “Hello,” he says in his thick English accent, carrying a tray of hot tea and Fruit Crème biscuits. “How are we today? On the phone I see…with whom? It isn’t long distance I hope.” “I’m on the phone with my dad,” replies Brendan. “You know…the man who raised and fathered me. Him.” Ronald MacDonald ambles over to the pinewood desk and places down his tray of tea and biscuits. He lowers his body and stares with concern. “I know what you’re going through,” he says through his bristly moustache. “And I know you absolutely hate me, but I am telling you this for your own good…get out of this tenement and go get some fresh air. You’re pale as a ghost and you’re extremely depressing. Looking at you is like watching an Uwe Boll movie. It is just too much to bear. Honestly.” With a heavy sigh, Brendan stands and hangs up the phone. He takes knapsack from the floor and throws it around his back. “You’re right,” he says. “I have to stop fooling myself. Stop pretending. My dad passed away and he’s gone forever. There’s nothing I can do.” Ronald seems smugly satisfied. “The boy’s delusions seem to be disappearing,” he thinks aloud in his head. “Maybe this can work. Maybe we can actually have a normal family. I would be a much better father than that Lucas. Bloody yank.” As Brendan walks toward the door, he pauses and picks up a long, white cane resting against the wall. Then he carefully places a pair of black rimmed shades onto his face. He leaves the flat and goes outside. With his cane waving side to side, feeling around as to not bump into any objects, he leisurely listens to the birds chirping around. It puts a smile on his face imagining the creatures so full of life, flying around, eating bread crumbs, and bathing in puddles of water. But then reality begins to set in. As the once arid weather turns chilly and wet, and the people, pigeons and brown birds disappear from the street, Brendan’s mood changes in an instant. He regresses into his mind, remembering his past decisions and mistakes. “Why, oh why,” he screams in his head, “did I do what I did?! Why was I such a fool?! Is it me or have I been cursed by the gods?! Why am I here?! To suffer?! Without a father! Without love! Without vision! Oh, how I regret with every bone in my body looking upon that accursed solar eclipse! Damn each and every one of them to hell! And damn me, and damn my damned curiosity! Damn the world! Damn it all!” Brendan touches his cane to the ground and turns a corner. He tries fervently to silence his thoughts; to rid his mind of the demons which haunt him. So with a sagged face he continues his walk, sadly wandering amongst the culture of the old country, but without the ability to see, without the ability to live as a young man should; without heart, without soul, here is the living dead which nobody knows. And if only they would stop to look, stop to take time out of their busy days, they would find a person who is blind, not from lack of sight, but a deep hole within his soul… Oh, how completely depressing!

Coma, Coma, Coma, Chameleon “Oh,” says a voice, “you’re awake.” Charlotte rubs her eyes, looking away from the buzzing, fluorescent light. There is a nurse standing by her bed, staring inquisitively. “Hi,” she whispers, “how are you? I’m nurse Nadia.” Charlotte groans and rubs her head. “Where am I?” Nurse Nadia goes to the window and pulls open the curtains to let in the sunshine. “You’re at the hospital, silly. You were hit by an ice cream truck and taken here. You’ve been in a coma for quite some time now. I was starting to get worried; thought you’d never wake up.” “I have to leave,” says Charlotte as she turns her body and plants her bare feet upon the cold, tiled floor. “Wait, not just yet,” exclaims Nurse Nadia. “Not until you’ve signed all the papers. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t go anywhere.” Then the room is vacant; no noise but for the intermittent sickly cough. Cough. Cough. Several minutes pass. Impatient, Charlotte searches around. Upon finding her clothes, she strips off her pale green gown and changes. She reaches into her pocket and feels around. Her things are all there. Nurse Nadia returns with a stack of papers thick as a phone book. She plops it down on the counter beside the small, steel sink. “Here it is,” she says, “your hospital bill. Just fill out your information several dozen times and you’ll be done before the day is over.” Charlotte flips through the extensively, wordy document. It drones on and on for what seems like forever. Lawsuits this and limited liability that. The tedium of this thing could drill a hole through a grown man’s skull. And not even a soft area like the temple, no, the bloody forehead. “Having a bit of trouble?” asks Nadia. “Sorry,” says Charlotte, pointing to a figure at the bottom of a page with many, many zeroes, “what’s this number here?” Nadia clears her throat. “That’s, uh, your hospital bill.” Charlotte seems rather calm. She scratches her head, not entirely sure the “human money system” works. She pinches her chin, thinking for a moment. “A million dollars? Is that a lot?” Nadia bluntly replies, “Well, not if you’re Bill Gates.” Charlotte reaches down into her pocket and rummages in her pouch. She takes out a gold coin and presents it in the palm of her hand. “Is this enough?” she asks. “I don’t have very much to be honest with you.” Nadia shakes her head. “Sorry, honey. You’ve been in here for over a month. Your play money’s no good here.” Charlotte gulps. “A month?!” she cries aloud in her head. “I’ve been in here for over a month?!” She turns panic-stricken; nervously biting her fingernails, and sweating at the chest. A month gone by is a malady too long! What shall the young heroine do?! King Vonne must have already gotten to the spell book! And he has it and he is using it as toilet paper! Oh, the nasty bastard! “Excuse me,” says Nadia, waving her hand in front of Charlotte’s frozen face. “Are you okay?” Charlotte shakes her head. “Yes. I’m fine. I’m just a bit worried. I have to leave, but I don’t have anything to repay you for my stay. I’m poor.” Adjusting her white nurse hat, Nadia thinks about what to do. Her eyes go wide as visions of her past as a poor, black woman resurface into her mind. She sheds a tear remembering how her father could not afford antibiotics, and needlessly died because of a simple infection. The memory painfully twists her stomach in a knot.

Nurse Nadia lowers her head, stepping closer to Charlotte. “It’s okay,” she says. “You can go. I won’t tell anyone.” “Really?” asks Charlotte with delight. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.” She wraps her arms around Nadia. “I’ll never forget this.” Nadia blushes. “Aw, shucks. Weren’t nothin’. Now go on and get out of here before Dr. Kevorkenstein arrives. You can climb out the window to leave. We’re only on the first floor.” And Charlotte does just that. She goes to the window and climbs out. She looks back from the sidewalk and waves goodbye. Then she gets into the back of a taxicab, knowing what it’s for, having already seen them before. “Where to, Mack?” asks the cabbie. “An’ don’t tell me it’s to the mall. I ain’t goin’ over there no more. Crowded with screamin’ teenage girls. They gone mad for a boy named Edward Shmullin. You know…that summabitch in all those damned movies.” “It’s okay,” replies Charlotte. She takes out her silver compass, watching the needle turn. “I only need to get to the British Museum. Take me there, please.” The cabbie laughs. “Ah-ha-ha. You kiddin’, right? Lady, the British Museum’s in England. Damn thing’s in another country. You expect me to fly this shit box thousands of miles into the eastern hemisphere? I ain’t Marty McFly. This ain’t the frigging Delorean. It’s a Ford. Be happy if it could go across town without breakin’ in two.” Charlotte pauses, thinking where to go. She looks at her compass pointing to the right. “Alright,” she says, “just take me east. Far as you’re willing to go.” The cabbie nods and pulls down his cap to block the sunlight. He steps on the gas. His car sputters, spewing black smoke from the muffler; but it is steadily moving along the road, surprisingly, without trouble. Half an hour goes by, but Charlotte hasn’t gotten all too far from the hospital; for she is surrounded by mad motorists, honking their horns, and screaming from the ceaseless traffic jam. The cabbie angrily bangs his fist on the steering wheel as if it were a person. “Goddamn it. Times like this I wish I had a shotgun.” He sticks his head out the window. “Will you mother lovers shut yer damned traps?! Enough with the frigging honking already! Yuh givin’ me Ménière's disease!” “I can’t take it,” says Charlotte covering her ears. “I’m getting out of here.” She opens the door on her side and steps onto the road. She weaves through the standstill of cars and rushes past the sidewalk; disappearing in the shadow of the trees. The cabbie finishes cursing. He pulls his head back into his taxi and looks into his rearview mirror; seeing that his customer has left without pay. “Aw, hell no! I ain’t gonna be gypped by no girl!” He begrudgingly goes outside and scans the area with his hand above his eyes; shielding from the glare bouncing off of the other cars. “Where is she?! That cheap tramp! I’ll swear if I catch her I’ll wring her neck!” The cabbie waves his hand “bah” and dismisses the entire situation. “It isn’t worth my time,” he figures, so he crawls back into his taxi and continues yelling at strangers. Meanwhile Charlotte is caught, entangled, in a crowd of shrieking girls. She is confused and lost; having no idea what is going on. She looks down. The ground looks funny. Grey and speckled with yellow stripes. It resembles the texture of sand on the beach…but very hard. The mall parking lot.

Then suddenly the people in front part; separating like water in the Red Sea. They stare silently in awe. A suave, young man appears. With complete control of his fans, Edward Shmullin struts forward, heading in Charlotte’s direction. He puts his sunglasses on his head and winks, the girls beside faint. “Baby,” he softly says to Charlotte, “where’ve you been all my life?” Charlotte is dumbfounded. Who is this boy in front of her? He sort of looks like Brendan, “the boy from the picture.” She says the only thing on her mind. “Take me…” But before she can complete her sentence, Edward sweeps her up into his arms. With a smile he puts his lips together and whistles. “Release the Boeing!” he declares. “I’m taking this babe on a romantic trip to Europe!” And less than a second later the ground starts to rumbles; then from out the blue a large plane suddenly appears. A strange looking craft, it is bright green and covered with solar panels. At the nose a pilot waves through the window. Bodyguards arrive on scene to take Charlotte and Edward away from the fans. They are ushered to the side where a staircase slowly drops down. When it touches the asphalt, ready to be climbed, they go inside. Charlotte appears amazed. “Wow,” she says, “I’ve never been inside an airship before.” Edward giggles. “He-he-he. Silly girl. C’mon, I’ll show you around. There’s a hot tub in here.” As Charlotte is taken by the hand and led around she can feel the plane taking off. She tries to see out a window but is held by the bigheaded movie star who wants to, obviously, hump out her brains. The poor lad is tired of his obligations to the Gisney Company and wishes to toss off his ring of purity and pop his proverbial cherry. He takes his “date” and whisks her into the lounge. The two sit down on a leather sofa. Edward looks into Charlotte’s, trying to seduce her with his gaze…but it isn’t work. She does not know, even a little, who he is. All his fame and money, at least in this instance, is completely useless. “Sooo,” he says, struggling, not used to the idea of not being known, “what do you think of my plane? Pretty big isn’t it?” He continues to ramble though Charlotte remains quiet. “I got it as a present for my birthday. Yeah. I know. I know. I’m such a spoilt playboy. But you know what? That’s life. Some people just like to live it up. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty because there are children starving in Africa. I didn’t do it to them. Still… I do donate to charity. Isn’t that awful nice of me? I think so.” Charlotte yawns. “I’m tired,” she says. “When will we be at the British Museum? It’s in Europe. That’s where you’re taking me, right?” Edward eagerly nods. “Oh, yes, yes. We will. Anything you want, babe.” He stretches out his arms and puts them against the sofa. “And I mean anything…” As Charlotte edges away a nasally voice suddenly calls through the speaker above her head. “Boss,” says the pilot, “where we taking this thing?” Edward takes out his cell-phone and presses the buttons to text a message: “dood. am tryin 2 get laid. take us 2 da fukkin british museum. dats where dis foine ass bitch wantz 2 go.” The pilot sighs. “Yes, sir, as you wish.” Edward turns his attention back to Charlotte. He takes her by the hands and pulls her up. He leads her to another area of the plane. “You look tired, babe. Why don’t you get comfortable and relax?”

“Thank you so much,” replies Charlotte. She crawls into the bed. She leans back and puts her head onto a feather filled pillow. “This is really comfy.” Edward gives a gentle bow. “Excuse me,” he says. “I’ll be back in a moment. I just gotta check on couple things.” Then he leaves through a door, though not the one originally used enter. And no less than a minute later he returns…in a silk robe. The fabric is drawn taut across his ridged chest. “Good evening,” says Edward with his hand leaned against the wall. “Enjoying your flight?” Charlotte begins to relax and closes her eyes. “Oh, yes. Thank you so much, kind sir.” Then she opens them up …to the sight of Edward’s naked body. She screams and kicks him off with a thrust of her leg. “Augh! What the fug are you doing?! You big, fat rapist!” And with hands up like a criminal, Edward backs into a corner. “I’m sorry!” he says. “I was just trying to have sex with you! That’s all! I only want to lose my virginity!” Charlotte puts up her fists and half circles. “That’s exactly what pervert would say! You! You! You! Keep your distance! I’m well trained in Aquarian boxing! Step any closer and I’ll punch your head off, you hungry, crotch fiend!” Edward slowly moves toward the door. “Look,” he says, “I’m sorry. Can’t a guy make a mistake? Please. Forgive me. I’m making it up to you right now as we speak. We’re going to the British Museum! Isn’t that what you wanted?!” Charlotte puts down her arms; though she stops glaring, her eyebrows remain sloped. “Well, okay…fine, but no funny business.” “Of course,” says Edward submissively. “Again, I’m sorry. Please, don’t tell anyone.” He feels behind his back and grips the doorknob. “I’ll leave you alone now. Sooo get some rest. I’ll wake up when we’re there…okay?” Charlotte calms down. She sits at the far edge of the bed; her arms crossed; eyes wary. Edward quietly leaves the room. Flight Fright Many hours have passed… All seems quiet and mundane… Then Charlotte is suddenly awoken by the sound of screaming. She rises to her feet as Edward comes bursting through the door. “Hate to interrupt you,” he says with a panicked voice, “but we’re having a bit of aviation trouble!” He leans his body forward as the floor begins to tilt. “You have to get out of here. This damned aeroplane is solar powered and we’ve just entered England. No sunshine here, babe. Just cloud and rain… Goddamn, can’t believe it. I’m going down with a beautiful girl and I’m not even happy!” “I’m scared!” says Charlotte. Then Edward tosses her a parachute. “What’s this?!” she asks, completely confused. “It’s a parachute,” explains Edward, trying to keep calm. “Strap it on your back and pull the cord when you jump out.” He takes Charlotte by the arm and drags her out the bedroom. The two stand in front of the airplane’s escape hatch; a large, white door plastered with bold, red words which read: emergency only. Edward puts his hand around the thick, steel handle; readying to pull. “Wait,” exclaims Charlotte, “I don’t even know how to use this thing.” Edward whips out his iPhone 10G and browses Wikipedia. He finds an article on parachuting and base jumping. “Okay,” he says. “I don’t know what they’re going on about here…

but did you know that the term ‘alphabet’ is a combination of the words ‘alpha’ and ‘beta’? Wild, huh?” Charlotte grabs Edward by the shirt. “How’s that going to help me?!” He shrugs. “How should I know? I’m not a genius!” The lights in the cabin start to flicker; then they turn off completely, trying to save energy for the dying engines. It becomes dark inside; but some illumination does come in from the windows, though the sun is mostly blocked by the big, gray clouds. “Okay, Shirley,” says Edward. “Get going! And tell my family…I hate them!” He pulls open the emergency hatch and kicks out Charlotte. She screams bloody murder as she descends through the sky. She closes her eyes and covers her face. “Yo!” says a voice. “Wazz happening, Mack? Why all the noise?” Splitting her fingers, Charlotte looks through her hands. There is a dodo bird bobbing its head and staring. The strange creature is round and plump, not looking much like it can fly at all; it has lavender, purple feathers and a large, yellow beak. “Are you a dodo?” asks Charlotte. “I thought you guys were extinct!” The dodo shakes his head. “Nope, nope. I am certainly not extinct.” He glances down. The ground is coming up awful fast. “Yep… So, Mack. What’s with all the hullabaloo? I heard you yellin’ an’ I came over to check it out.” Charlotte holds her body, shivering from the wind. “I’m falling!” The dodo doesn’t understand. “Well, that’s no reason to holler like a loony. Jus’ move your wings up and down. Not that hard really. Here, watch me…” Then he proceeds to flap his wings. “Are you mad?!” exclaims Charlotte. “Do I look like a bird?!” The dodo scoffs. “Well! If you’re not even going to try… harrrrrumph! I am leaving! Good luck on the landing, toots!” And so Charlotte is abandoned; sailing lonesome through the air with wind blowing in her chilled face, she tries to recall what Edward told her back on the plane…which can be seen in the distance…crashing…and exploding into a fiery ball. Oh, you wouldn’t think that a solar power aircraft could explode, but the odds of anything made in China exploding are quite high. A while back they had a pandemic of exploding babies. They would exit the wombs of their fair skinned mothers and splay the doctors with fleshy shrapnel. It was quite horrible. Do you know how long it takes to get baby guts off a white wall? Anyway, uh, so Charlotte remembers what she was told. “Pull the cord,” she loudly recalls in her head. “Pull the damned cord!” And she does. Surprisingly, it works without a problem. Better than “Project Excelsior.” The army green parachute opens perfectly to slow her descent…then thump! She lands on the ground; and in no better of a spot, right in front of her destination…the British Museum. A grand sight, a building of classic Greek design, looking upon it is like stepping back in time. The auburn color of the triangular roof, huge pillars and walls evoke a sense of majesty from a time long gone, but still fondly remembered. As the British flag on top of the building waves in the wind Charlotte gets off her rear and rushes ahead. She paces up the steps and reaches the door. But it’s closed. A white sign with black lettering mockingly hangs behind the glass: “Sorry. We are closed.” The afternoon sun shines from behind, casting an orange glow against the columns, creating long shadows against the ground which appear as bars in a

prison. And they laugh. They laugh at the foolish, freckle-faced mermaid. Mwahha-ha-ha-ha-ha! “You will never succeed,” they say. “It is your fate to be a fish! A dweller in the lake! Trapped forever! Give up and go home! Slut!” Wait. No. Nix that last part… Then with a sigh, and a feeling of defeat, Charlotte turns around, faces away, and goes to sit on the steps. Seated, face sunk into her palms, she loudly laments. “I’m cursed,” she cries. “I’ll never find my love. I’ll never free my people. It’s hopeless, completely hopeless. Why was I even ever born?” “What an awful thing to say,” says a voice. Brendan appears beside Charlotte and gently touches her with his cane. Dressed in a blue, security guard’s uniform, he politely removes his cap. “Hi, my name is Brendan,” he says with a wave. “What about you?” Charlotte jumps up with a smile, recognizing his face from her photo. “My name, my name,” she stammers nervously, “is, uh, uh, uh…Charlotte! I’m Charlotte! My name is Charlotte! Yes, yes! Nice to meet you! How are you? I’m Charlotte!” “Just got off from work,” replies Brendan. “Kind of tired…but I have a feeling you’re doing a lot worse. So, I’m not going to complain.” Charlotte gazes. “Don’t you recognize me?” she says. “I’m…” Then her voice sheepishly trails off. She realizes that the “boy from her picture” is blind as a bat in the day. But before she can collect her thoughts for an appropriate explanation, a huge flock of pigeons suddenly gather in front of the museum. They’ve come to look for food. Cooing incessantly they bob their heads up and down, pecking at the ground, picking up crumbs of food left behind by grubby, American tourists. “Maybe we should go talk elsewhere,” suggests Brendan as he swats his cane trying to keep the “rat-birds” away from his loafers. “I’m not from around here, but I know there’s a neat, little café on the corner of Mort and Tristesse. We can walk there together if you don’t mind.” “Not at all,” says Charlotte. “I like walking. It’s good for the gills.” Not sure what to say, Brendan simply smiles. And then the two walk off the steps of the museum and go onto the sidewalk where they happily continue their conversation. But they keep their voices low as the leaves on the surrounding trees rustle in the breeze; sounding like, almost, the whispering of a group of people; listening, watching, and prying with intent. Though what is there to fear? There is no one following them from behind. Maybe it’s just one of those days. Or maybe it’s the full moon which is beginning to brighten as the sun falls below the horizon. Brendan and Charlotte pick up the pace. Their bodies touch as they come closer together. “So,” says Brendan while feeling the pavement with his cane, “I noticed your accent. Are you from Michigan?” Charlotte struggles to respond. Memories of home, both good and bad, start to overwhelm her mind. And though she has lived in the water for almost all of her life, her head is now completely swimming. But she tries to snap out of it. She looks up at Brendan’s warm, colorful eyes. Her heart starts to beat fast. Lub-dub-lub-dub-lub-dub. It pounds against the walls of her chest, seeming to get louder and louder. Lub-dub-lubdub-lub-dub. Then it happens: the spontaneity of unrequited love. Charlotte wraps her arms around Brendan and kisses him on the lips. His knees wobble and bend

forward, lowering his slender body. His face turns red. Never has he felt such passion before. It’s like the two have known each other all of their lives. Once lost but now reunited. It’s a wonderful, indescribable feeling; like winning the National Lottery and finding out your boyfriend isn’t pregnant… I know that last part doesn’t make any sense, but that’s what I said it was “indescribable.” Pay attention. Brendan pulls away, coming up for air. “Whoa,” he says whilst wheezing. “Where’d you learn to kiss like that?” Charlotte blushes. “I’m sorry,” she replies, a little embarrassed. “I’ve never done it before. It’s my first time. I didn’t mean to be so… inelegant.” Brendan shakes his head. “No, no, no. I liked it! It was perfect! You kissed perfectly! It’s just that I was a little taken aback. I mean it was so sudden. We barely know each other…” Bedroom Shenanigans The blanket and pillows are thrown to the floor as Brendan and Charlotte jump into bed. They tear off each other’s clothes and grope like curious monkeys. But then the two suddenly stop. “Wait a minute,” says Brendan, “maybe we shouldn’t be doing this. It just doesn’t seem right. I dunno. I can’t shake the feeling; God’s watching us with un-proud eyes.” Charlotte lays an arm across her chest. “I know,” she replies. “I love you…but this feels so wrong.” She points to the window. “I think it’s because of that man outside staring at us and grinning.” The peeping tom gives a friendly wave. “What?!” exclaims Brendan. He gets to his feet and marches to the window. He yanks down the blinds. Then he returns to bed to gently lie on top of Charlotte while kissing her neck. She closes her eyes and clenches the sheets with her slender fingers. She lets out a breath as Brendan thrusts his hips. It hurts…but at the same time feels good. With each passing moment it gets better and better. But then three minutes later, and the “volcano” erupts. The room becomes silent. Where to go from here? Brendan flips off Charlotte and stretches out to his nightstand. He pulls open the drawer and takes out a cigarette and a book of matches. He lights the fag, putting it between his wet lips; letting it hang down like the tail on a wet dog. He inhales deeply and blows out a ring of smoke. Charlotte wipes the sweat from her cheek. The area under her body is damp from perspiration. She holds Brendan, resting her face against his shoulder. “Where do we go from here?” she asks. “Marriage?” Brendan smirks. “Maybe,” he says. “But first let’s get to know each other a bit better. Now tell me the truth about yourself. None of that mermaids and lake dwellers stuff from before. I want to know the real you. Who are you, really? Be honest. I like you. You don’t have to lie. I don’t care if you’re a crack addicted prostitute… Okay, I’d be a little concerned…but I’d still accept you for who you are.” “I told you everything,” says Charlotte. “It’s the truth. Why don’t you believe me? Why? Do I have the face of a liar?” Brendan stares at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he replies. He takes one last drag from his cigarette. “I’m pretty confused.” He flicks the butt into a dustbin. “Your story doesn’t make any sense… but you tell it so truthfully…so innocently… Ah, darn you for being so cute. It’s completely befuddled my brain. Well, what do you…?”

Zzzzz…! Charlotte has fallen asleep. Sunk into the foam pillow beneath her head, she mumbles an incomprehensible string of words. “Lundi est tres froid. Le poisson n’aime pas du froid l’eau. Tres, tres, tres terrible ici. Bonjour, monsieur. Comment allez vous? Oui, oui. Je suis la vraimment princesse du lac.” Brendan giggles with bemusement. He closes his eyes and rolls onto his side for a well deserved snooze. 3:33 in the A.M. Meow! Meow! A cat outside the flat loudly meows. Meow! Meow! What does it want? The noise wakes up Charlotte. She rubs the haze away from her eyes and looks at the clock on the wall. 3:33 AM. She looks at Brendan who remains fast asleep in bed, curled in a ball; his thumb in mouth suckling like a baby. She takes his set of keys from the nightstand beside, and with a stealthy stride, does a beeline into the hallway. The front door of the stony apartment building swings open. Charlotte exits onto the sidewalk. Still tiptoeing, she makes her way into the adjacent alleyway where the striped, orange cat from two minutes earlier is merrily sashaying back and forth. It stops to sit on its rear. It tilts its head while staring up. Charlotte reaches into her pocket and takes out some kitty treats in the shape of fish; though probably only pressed into that particular shape, not actually made out of real fish, the hungry tabby consumes them with glee. “Good girl,” says Charlotte while rubbing the animal’s head, “good girl…” Then she ambles past a pair of rubbish bins and hoists herself onto a dingy bicycle obscured by the darkness. She puts her feet onto the pedals and leaves the alley. Her ability to ride isn’t particularly graceful, wobbling like a child, but it is good enough to cruise down the road without a bother. She uses her silver compass to guide her. Twenty four minutes later and she’s returned to the British Museum. It stares down at her like an angry face, with its windows glaring as eyes and pillars as giant teeth…but Charlotte is in no mood to be intimidated. She hops off her rusted 12-speed and dashes to the entrance. She fumbles with the metal loop of keys from Brendan unsure which is the right one to enter. After two dozen frustrating tries she begins to gnash her teeth with annoyance. “Where is it?!” she screams. “Where is it?!” Then she notices a key with a white sticker on it which reads “entrance.” Charlotte enters the museum without trouble. She walks slowly through the darkness, guided only by moonlight. The cold, hard floor makes her footsteps echo eerily; sounding like the hollow voices of dead mermen raised from their watery graves. But they mean no harm. Come to help, they call to her, guiding her through this historic chamber. “Go forward,” they say. “Soon you will find what it is you seek.” Maybe it’s just the young girl’s imagination, but Charlotte is compelled. Her face twitches as her senses flatly push her ahead. And in a moment’s time she finds herself in the Great Court, a central area of the British Museum, it is a stunning, large, open area, meant specifically to wow tourists and local visitors. The architecture is tasteful and finely tuned. The spaces well balanced. There is

bright white, cylindrical domain with stairs wrapped firmly around. Perfect from edge to edge, it seems to beck for attention. “Come one, come all!” Charlotte goes in with great expectations…though to her surprise it is discovered only to be a library…a mere reading room. One would think with such a grand exterior it would be more than just a place to house books; but as our heroine’s eyes adjust to the darkness, with the North Star’s light shone down, the area is revealed. The lavender purple and gilded trimmings on the towering dome shimmer under the night’s heavenly illumination. It is a beautiful place, where knowledge, history, and stories, seem to smile. If ever there were a more wonderful place, one would think they had died and went to heaven. This is the definition of “nerd’s wet dream.” “Wow,” says Charlotte with an open mouth. “I’ve never seen so many books in my entire life. She walks between the shelves, keeping an open eye. Then after several hours of perusing, tired and exhausted with the sun beginning to break, she stumbles over a jutting piece of floor and falls flat. Quite odd considering how pristine this place is. She lifts her head and sees a book called “The Blue Key” by Spriggs Mintworth. Curiosity impels her to reach out and grab it. But when she does it only tilts back and returns to its place. A loud click echoes through the library. The noise travels around the dome and collides. A mysterious vitrine suddenly rises up to present itself. WTF?! Charlotte goes over to it and peers through the glass. Her hand wipes away the fog made by her breath. She gasps, nearly choking on her spit. There it is, the fabled spell book, just sitting on a velveteen pillow like a duck in a pond; waiting to be taken. “Hoo, okay,” says Charlotte, letting out a deep breath, “okay, this is it. Don’t screw it up. This is what you’ve been waiting for. You’ll get the book, you’ll free your people, you’ll marry Brendan, and you will all live happily every after. Okay. C’mon. Get your head together. A quick smash and then we’re out of here…” And Charlotte head-butts the vitrine! While an alarm bell sounds she reaches in and snatches the spell book. She stuffs it down her shirt and runs away as fast as possible. She bursts through the front door of the museum and hurdles over the steps outside. She jumps onto her bicycle and peddles like mad. Though Charlotte’s body is tenderly sore, the adrenalin rush takes her back to Brendan’s place within a few minutes. She excitedly races over to him in bed and pulls off his blanket, but there is no one there. Just a pile of pillows and a note… wedged between the teeth of a bloody horse’s head. The message is in her native language neatly written in cursive. “Dear Stupid Face,” it reads when translated to English, “if you are looking for your boyfriend he is staying with us… You trollop!!! I hate you!!! I hate you!!! How could you cheat on me?!?! I thought we had something special!!! Please follow the trail of breadcrumbs to find him…or you may choose to ‘Google’ it, whichever is more convenient. Thank you for taking the time to read this. Oh and don’t forget to bring the book or this bitch be dead. Take care. Peace and love.” Yooouragh! The weather is chilly. The skies grey. There is a drizzle about in the murky waters of the River Thames. And before the London Eye, an enormous tooth white ferry

wheel, there is an ancient wood ship traveling against the current. It suddenly turns and lands on shore with a crash. A load of dirt piles in front. Then, high above up on deck, a shadow emerges. Brendan is pushed forward with the poke of a saber. King Vonne and his men force him to the bowsprit; the large “spike” out front. He wobbles unsteady. His feet nearly slip. “Brendan!” cries a voice. Charlotte bellows with her hands cupped around her mouth. “Brendan!” She glances behind feeling a breath against her neck. There is a troupe of men surrounding in a semicircle, blocking her from leaving or turning away. “The book,” one of them grumbles. “Where is the book?” Charlotte looks around, doing a quick 360. How did King Vonne and his minions get here? How did they get legs, too? They must have done it the same way she did; likely so. Damn him to hell, the pugnacious monarchist. “If you’re wondering about our newfound appendages,” explains King Vonne, “it isn’t what you think. We did not resort to magic trickery and tomfoolery like you. No. We merely hacked the limbs off homeless people and took them for our own purposes. Much like a French restaurant does to frogs. It is completely ethical and I don’t know why anyone would be shocked. We did them a favor. They were a pimple on society’s ass and we set them free into the ocean. Sure, half of them drowned, but we did what we thought was right… Actually, come to think of it, I don’t think any of them were actually homeless. Many of them kept pleading that they were really ‘hipsters.’ I don’t know what that is, but those young men were horrendously disheveled and downtrodden. A pathetic bunch if you ask me. It’s a good thing we showed them an alternative lifestyle though half of them perished.” “That’s terrible,” says Brendan. “Now the ocean is all polluted with their cadavers. Don’t you care about the environment? Think of the children! No more Bluefin tuna!” King Vonne threateningly swings his sword in the air. “Quiet!” he yells. “I’ve had enough of this inane banter! Tell your wench to hand over the spell book!” Brendan rolls his eyes. “You loony, there is no book. You’ve all gone mad from being in Europe too long. Your brains’ve got some bad wiring. I worked in the British Museum for months. I knew that place inside out. There’s no magical book, okay?” “I have the book,” says Charlotte in a weak voice. She reluctantly holds it up. The golden lettering reflects under the sun. “Just let my boyfriend go and it’s yours. Promise me you won’t hurt him. You can have it on that condition. I know I shouldn’t have any trust right now, but even though you were pond scum, King Vonne, you’ve always been a merman of your word.” “That’s a lie,” replies King Vonne, “and you know it. But I am quite touched. Now throw up the book and I’ll let your icky, human boyfriend go.” Charlotte lowers her head with great hesitance. She loves Brendan more than anything in the world. He is her first love after all, but what about her people? All the trouble she went through? Will it be in vain for absolutely nothing? Sure, there are plenty of fish in the sea…but, truth be told, there is only one white whale. But sacrifices for the one you care about must be made, right? The mermaids and mermen back home are used to living where they are. Would they not be wretched on land? They would be miserable. It’s not what the citizens of Torenia

are used to. But, there’s always that “but,” they’d be dead in a few years. All the dumping of waste by the humans is making them sick. King Vonne’s men appear anxious; on edge, lusting for the excitement of blood and gore. Both groups, above and below, step forward with their tridents gripped tightly in hand. “Well, sir,” one says. “We’ve got these bipedal pricks over a barrel. Let’s gut them and get out of here.” King Vonne shakes his head. His face is contorted, both vexed and sad at the very same time. “Think that and I’ll split your tongue,” he replies in a subdued ire. “Harm the girl you shall perish.” The merman’s borrowed-legs quiver. He knows well the wrath of his ruler. Once when Vonne was a young prince, when he was only eleven, had his school chum executed for cheating off of his test. That mother humper don’t screw around! Brendan can hear Charlotte’s heavy breathing. He follows with his ears and takes a small step forward. “Don’t do it,” he says with wind blowing at his back. “I’m not worth it. I know. I may not full believe your story, but if you’ve come so long and fought so hard you shouldn’t give up now. I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to give up your dream for me.” Charlotte touches her heart and softly replies. “You are my dream.” The river water flowing against the hull of the ancient ship begins to splash up and bubble. The jealousy of King Vonne rises along with it. The drizzle from the sky transforms into a downpour. The deck turns slippery, making it extremely difficult to stand. The men shield their eyes from the whipping rains. It stings the skin on the nape of their necks. The clouds above have grown dark and ominous; so black that each part can barely be distinguished from one another. Strikes of lightning hit the ground followed by the roar of thunder. The wind is howling like a wolf under the moon. Brendan can barely stay up. He nearly falls forward, but wraps his arms around the rough rope going diagonally. It seems as if today Mother England has decided to cry. “Enough!” screams King Vonne with his hand out. “Give me the book!” Charlotte pulls back her arm and throws it up. “What are you going to do with it?” she asks. “Nothing bad I hope.” King Vonne thumbs through the pages with a grin. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m just going to destroy it.” He takes out a silver Zippo lighter and flips off the top. He spins the black wheel. The flint is struck and the kerosene soaked wick lights up. The flame holds steady even in the inclement weather. The spell book catches fire. Charlotte winces, watching her future go up in smoke. King Vonne has an enormous smile as he laughs and laughs. “Agh-ha-haha-ha-ha-ha!” Brendan looks down. He appears disappointed while staring below, but at the same time also feels relieved. Now he will be released. The ordeal is over. Hopefully things will return to normal. But that’s asking for too much, really… “Now, let my boyfriend go!” says Charlotte. The men behind her take a step back. King Vonne gestures to Brendan, beckoning him to return on deck. He does as told and gets his feet onto flat ground. He breathes a sigh of relief whilst wiping away the water from his face. “Your boyfriend is quite handsome,” remarks King Vonne. “Tall and muscular. Very good looking. If I were a homosexual I would date him myself… Hmm, so I take it you two are madly in love? Are you two madly in love, Charlotte? Is this mad love?”

Brendan and Charlotte lock eyes. The two stare lovingly at each other through the torrent of rain. “Yes,” says Charlotte with a giddy smile. “He’s the one. We’re going to be together forever.” King Vonne gives a simper and looks back at his men. “Bring a rope,” he tells them. “I must hold up my end of the bargain.” The mermen fetch a thick knotted rope. They fasten it to the mast and throw it over the bow of the ship. It leads to the ground where Charlotte is standing; awaiting with anxiety. “Go on,” instructs King Vonne. Brendan flicks back a wet piece of hair blocking his view. He steps forward carefully making sure not to slip. His damp hands take grip of the rope. He keeps his eyes straight while slowly descending. Charlotte watches with her hands clasped together; teeth chattering from the cold. Then as all looks well, King Vonne suddenly leaps frontward with a great burst of energy. And in the blink of an eye his saber, his polished sword, swings down full force unto the rope holding Brendan. Brendan screams helplessly as he falls more than three stories high. “Yooouragh!” He flawlessly smacks into the concrete. His eyes are closed; head rested upon jagged pebbles floating in a small pool of blood. The men around shudder though they have seen much worse. Charlotte immediately kneels. “Brendan,” she cries while holding him tenderly, “tell me you’re alive. Don’t leave now. We’ve so much to do.” Except for a tiny gurgle, which is most likely only a corpse’s twitch, there is no discernible response. Brendan is stiff, lying with feet together and arms stretched. His skin is chilled; tough like leather. Lips ice blue, but no breath coming out from between. King Vonne stands at the edge of the ship, his hands on his hips, looking down with satisfaction. “You have nobody to blame but yourself,” he says to Charlotte. “If only you had stayed in the water. If only you hadn’t swam away and remained with me in Torenia…none of this would have happened. But no, you had to be selfish. You wanted it all. You wanted the glory. You young foolish girl, did you think it would all be so perfect? You never even thought of the consequences your actions would bring. This isn’t a fairy tale. It is not going to end well…because nobody, including myself, can truly live happily ever after. When you pursue love, when you only share your affection with one single person, you are breaking the hundred hearts of all those who see you as more than just a friend or stranger. The ones who care, the ones who stand outside your border of passion become hurt, angry, and sad. They become filled with envy and jealousy. They become enraged that you do not reciprocate their feelings. But can you blame them? Can you blame anyone for the emotions that come forth from their minds? It’s ‘love and hate’ for a reason, my dear. They love you. Then they hate you for not loving them in return. Well, nonetheless, I am truly sorry for what I have done. I know that you can never forgive me. My blind rage has doomed any future we might have had together. And so, now, it ends here. This is what I deserve. Forget I ever existed. Charlotte, I love you…” As the English weather eases, as the rain stops whipping and the skies begin to clear, King Vonne’s men each lower their heads to avert their gaze. They stand holding their tridents in front, squeezing the handles with both hands. Their knuckles turn pale white. A rainbow appears in the sky. Then King Vonne bends

at the waist and deftly plunges his sword straight into his heart. He keels over with an ungodly face of pain, dying as soon as he hits the floor…thump! With tears still rolling down her cheeks Charlotte puts together her hands to murmur a short prayer. It begins, “Dear Xenu…” When she finishes, at the last word, the men of King Vonne appear to have vanished. Now this legged mermaid stands in front of an ancient ship, landed on soil of a once great empire. And then as she is lost in thought, our heroine becomes encircled by tourists in cargo shorts and sandals. Curious, they speak quietly amongst themselves; wondering what has transpired. They step aside as Charlotte lifts Brendan’s body into her arms. She stands on the edge and lowers him into the water. She lets him be carried away by the river current. The young man floats down, going beyond the buildings of Parliament, and vanishing out of sight. Charlotte walks around, circling as if confused. But it seems as if she is counting; the way her lips can be seen moving. And after a thousand she bends onto her knees. Her legs kick out, and accompanied by a glowing light, returns to its original form; a long, scaly tail. The tourists are astonished. So much so they forget to even take pictures. They ask themselves in silence, “What is this half fish, half woman creature?” But before they realize what is happening before their very eyes, Charlotte is gone. The mermaid has left to a more familiar environment. Where she goes who knows…maybe somewhere better. The End “That’s it?” whines a girly voice. “That’s the big ending? That’s the payoff? How depressing! Sheesh, I can’t believe I stayed awake for that entire thing! Worst story ever! Who wrote it? Erle Gardner?!” The old man gently strokes his granddaughter’s golden hair. “It’s a true story,” he tells her with a soft grin. He puts up a hand with three fingers. “Scout’s honor!” Julia folds her arms and sinks into her feather pillow. “Harrumph! I may be a child, but I’m not stupid. Gramps, you ain’t gonna fool me. I can smell a tall tale like a bear can sniff out a pic-a-nic basket. Yes, indeed. I’m way smarter than the average nine year old. Why, why, I can count without my fingers and skip rope like an urbanite in New York City.” “I don’t know what to say to that,” replies the grandfather. “But I can’t much disagree. You are quite clever. You figured out how to get the childproof cap off my medicine. Heh-heh.” Julia yawns. “I’m quite sleeping now,” she says. “Maybe you can finish your story tomorrow. Think up a better ending. Something happy like ‘they all lived happily ever after’ except not so cliché.” A little tea light sitting in the corner of the room flickers; its wick waving side to side like a fire in a windy forest. The grandfather gives it a glance then turns back to Julia, pulling up her blanket to tuck her in. “Maybe,” he says with a soft, tender smile. “Maybe. I’ll have to think real hard.” He stands up from the bedside and carefully gets to his feet which are adorned in silly, white, bunny slippers…a gift from his granddaughter, of course. The old man hobbles to the light switch. After flicking it into the off position and saying goodnight in French, “Bonne Nuit,” he takes his

weary body into the hallway where he makes his way into another room. He takes care not to make any noise. Then he quietly rolls into bed beside an elderly woman with long, faded, but beautiful blonde hair. He lovingly kisses her on the cheek. “Good night to you, too,” says Brendan to Charlotte. “Good night to you, too.” Fin.