Friday Fanfic

"The Final Meeting"

(A story inspired by an alternative version of Season 5. This may or may not be the last story posted on this site, depending on what changes get made on this site without my knowledge.)

It began with a knock on the bedroom window pane.

It started so softly that Xander had been certain that it was part of a dream. Then it grew louder to the point that he could no longer ignore it.

So he went to the bedroom window and pulled the curtain aside, only to see --

"Buffy!"

It was his old friend Buffy Summers and she looked so lost and all alone. She wore a big black coat and a red scarf that she had never worn before.

"Let me in, Xander," she said. "Please let me in."

"Let you in?" asked Xander. "Let you in? I can't let you in. What would Anya say?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Oh, really, Xander? Do you really think I care what Anya thinks at a time like this? Besides, she's not here right now. So go ahead and open the window and let me in."

"Anya's not here right now?" asked Xander.

Then he looked around and realized that Buffy was right. Anya was not in the bedroom sleeping besides him like she normally would be. In fact, she seemed to be nowhere around as far as he could tell. But how did Buffy know that?

"Come on, Xander," said Buffy. "I thought we were friends. In fact, the two of us were friends long before Anya came along. So why don't you just let me in for old times' sake?"

"I got a better idea," said Xander. "Why don't you come to my front door and I'll let you in that way. It would look less suspicious."

"Okay," said Buffy, rolling her eyes again. "If you say so."

A few minutes later, Xander was opening the front door of his apartment and greeting Buffy face to face. But then Buffy seemed reluctant to come in.

"You need to invite me in," said Buffy, looking more than a bit embarrassed. "It's not going to work if you don't invite me in."

"Why do I need to invite you in?" asked Xander. "You and Riley have been here dozens of times."

"Oh, please don't mention Riley right now," said Buffy. "Just let me in."

"Okay, Buffy," said Xander, sensing something serious going on. "Come on in."

"Thank you, Xander," said Buffy.

And with that, she ran into the apartment and embraced Xander as if he were a long-lost relative, an embrace that was only marred by the fact that it felt just a tad colder than one of Anya's hugs.

"Whoa, Buffster!" cried Xander. "It's only me. You've never hugged me like this before. What's wrong?"

"Everything," said Buffy. "Everything's wrong."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Xander.

"I broke up with Riley today," said Buffy, still hugging Xander. "We had a fight. He accused me of all sorts of stuff. He even tried to hit me. Tried, anyway."

"He tried to hit you?" asked Xander.

"Yes," said Buffy. "But don't worry. He'll never do that again."

"Who's worried?" asked Xander. "If I ever see him again, he should be the one who should be worried. All this time I thought he was a stand-up guy and then he goes and tries to hit my best friend. I don't care how long he's been in the military. There's no way he's getting away with that."

"It's okay, Xander," said Buffy. "It's been handled. I handled it. Riley will never hurt anyone else again. I swear."

"But still..." Xander started to say.

But Buffy just smiled and put a finger to his lips. "It's okay, Xander. I know what you're trying to say. And I've been thinking the same thing. Ever since I last saw Dracula."

"Wait a minute," said Xander. "You saw Dracula again?"

"Of course," said Buffy. "That's what the fight was about. Riley found out I was seeing Dracula again and he got angry about it. Apparently he didn't trust me to handle myself around him. Well, I showed him."

"Er, okay," said Xander. "By 'showed him,' do you mean --"

"Does it matter, Xander?" asked Buffy. "Does it really matter? Look, I know you consider the two of us to be friends but we both know that you in particular always wanted us to be more than friends. And now that's Riley's out of the picture, now's your chance."

"My chance?" asked Xander, wanting to be smarter right then but not quite managing it.

Then he thought of something. "Hey, what about Anya?"

"What about her?" asked Buffy.

"Well, I'm with her now," said Xander. "And after what I went through with Cordelia and Willow, why, I can't turn my back on her too!"

"Oh, it's so sweet that you can talk like you really believe that," said Buffy. "But we both know whom you really love and anything Anya has done during the last year is not likely to have changed that."

"You're wrong, Buffy," said Xander. "I love Anya. I really do. Maybe not as much as you loved Angel but --"

"Please don't bring up Angel right now, Xander," said Buffy. "If I wanted to see Angel, I'd be on my way to LA right now. But I'm not. I'm here. To see you."

"To see me?" asked Xander. "Why?"

"Really, Xander?" asked Buffy, rolling her eyes again. "Do I really have to keep repeating myself? Perhaps I should put it this way: Xander? Did I ever thank you... for saving my life?"

"Oh," said Xander. "This again. Er, oh, no, Buffy. You didn't."

Buffy smiled again. "Don't you wish I would?"

"Well, that boat sailed a long time ago, Buffy," Xander replied. "So if you don't mind..."

"Oh, stop making such a fuss, Xander," said Buffy. "Tonight's the night I finally pay you back for saving me from the Master. You should appreciate it."

"I should appreciate -- " Xander started to say.

Then a thought occured to him. "Hey, wait a minute! Why tonight in particular? What happened tonight that suddenly made paying me back so important? Surely your breakup with Riley was not that bad, was it?"

"Oh, Xander," said Buffy in an increasingly gruff voice. "Willow was right. Sometimes you really don't know when to shut up."

And then as Xander watched in horror, Buffy's face suddenly transformed into the face of a killer vampire.

Only to immediately dissolve into dust upon being pierced from behind by a crossbow bolt.

And of course, when the dust that used to be Buffy Summers cleared, Xander could see his girlfriend Anya standing in the doorway with a crossbow in her hand.

"Sorry I couldn't get here sooner, Xander," said Anya. "I always suspected something would happen some day. I just didn't expect it to be tonight. But fortunately, I had all the right ingredients for an invisibility spell and of course, I do know something about crossbows though I must admit I'm a bit out of practice... Hey, why are you looking at me like that? I just saved your life. I realize that you might be feeling a little odd right now but if it weren't for me, Buffy would have ripped your throat out just now. And I believe the correct response to me preventing that is 'Thank you!'"

Cuento de Mi Id

“Dialogue at a Ball”

Camilla: You, sir, should put on your mask.

Stranger: Indeed?

Cassilda: Indeed it's time. We all have put on masks but you.

Stranger: I have no mask.

Camilla: (Terrified, aside to Cassilda.) No mask? No mask!

Cuento de Mi Id

“Ripples”

I was eighteen when I first found out that my Uncle Alfonso had killed my father. I had heard hints before, but I had never picked up on them.

He and my other uncles always used to say certain things when they were drinking at my grandmother’s house, but they never -- as far as I knew -- said these same things in public. I always wanted to ask them what they meant, but they never volunteered any explanations and my mother -- Alfonso’s baby sister -- never encouraged me to hang around or eavesdrop on them when they were drunk.

“Stay away from your Uncle Alfonso,” my mother used to say. “He’s a bad influence.”

My mother knew about bad influences. In fact, she had a bit of a checkered past herself. But at least she was working and trying to pay her way through night school. Uncle Alfonso seemed to do nothing but drink beer, smoke Pall-Malls, tell dirty jokes and wake up people around two o’clock in the morning. He was not a nice person.

But then neither was my father. My Uncle Alfonso always used to describe him as the type of guy who would sell his own mother for cigarette money and his own wife for pocket change. My Uncle Juan just called him “that gringo s.o.b.” My other uncles, Luis and Felipe, never mentioned him at all in my grandmother’s presence but admitted that he was not a very nice person. My mother always changed the subject whenever his name came up, and my grandmother simply chose not to respond. By the way, this is my maternal grandmother I’m referring to. For obvious reasons, I never got to know my other grandparents and my maternal grandfather died before I was born.

So did my father for that matter. My Uncle Juan always used to joke that he had died nine months before I was born, but my mother never liked jokes like that.

“I was a good girl,” she always said. “I would have never given myself to him if we weren’t going to get married.”

Felipe would always chuckle if he heard this, but then nobody really paid much attention to Felipe. Luis was different. Luis was always silent. He kept my respect that way. Little things like that mean a lot to a growing boy.

Anyway my father had not exactly been well-liked. Nevertheless, he was my father. Whether or not my mother and he ever got married was beside the point as far as I was concerned. He was my father -- and no one else‘s.

So one night when I came downstairs and heard my uncles talking about how they had taken him down to the river one night, I stayed hidden and listened. Apparently my father had been beginning to act a little highhanded with my mother, trying to get her involved with drugs and stuff. There had also been a rumor that he was two-timing her with a little Puerto Rican girl down the street. That was one thing my uncles would not stand for. Premarital sex was one thing, but when you screw around with a Hernandez girl, you’d better be faithful to her and headed for the altar or else you’ll get your head handed to you.

So Alfonso, Juan, Luis and Felipe confronted my father one night and took him out to this boat a friend had tied up on the river. No one knew they were going there, and once they got there, they started pushing my father around and threatening him with bodily harm if he didn’t straighten up and fly right. Since they were not yet aware of my existence, they wanted him to leave my mother and stop messing around with her. My father refused.

It was probably not the smartest thing in the world to say “no” to a bunch of six-foot-four Mexicans who have you all alone on a boat in the middle of the Detroit River in the middle of the night, but at least it showed that my father had guts.

Perhaps that was why Alfonso killed him.

He even laughed about it. The way my father started praying when Alfonso picked him up and how he had screamed when he got thrown over the side. My father never knew how to swim and I suspect that my uncle knew that. There had been nothing but ripples to be seen after he went under, my uncle said. Nothing but ripples.

My blood ran cold then. My own uncle was a murderer. What's more -- my other uncles knew it.

But a true Hernandez never goes to the police. Even when the Puerto Ricans down the street killed our dog, the Hernandez family insisted on handling it our way. I knew my uncle would never be turned in and since there were no other witnesses, he would never be brought to justice. I couldn't even squeal to the police. After all, it was my word against theirs, and Alfonso would kill me if I ever tried to turn him in. Besides, as I said, my father was hardly the sort of person who was usually thought to be worth a vendetta.

But he was my father.

XXX

So I plotted my revenge.

How to do it? I asked myself.

I weaved elaborate fantasies involving knives, pipe bombs and various black market weapons. Then I abandoned them.

Surely it wasn't worth it, I told myself. Surely the blood of my uncle was worth more than the blood of my father. My father was a no-good bum who just happened to get my mother knocked up. Why bother with vengeance for his sake? Why, indeed?

Then at night, he would come to me. His hair dripping wet, his face was fish-belly pale, and his flesh scarred with the bites of a thousand various water creatures. I can't really say why I knew that this apparition was my father but I remember that him looking just like the old photos of him that my mom still kept in her photo albums. So it had to be him, right? Plus, he had blue eyes just like the picture in my mother's photos. And just like me. So it could not have been the ghost of some stranger who just happened to look like my father, could it?

I wish I could say that he told me something quite definite. "Avenge me!" or "Leave him to Heaven!" But he didn't. Like some figure in an old movie, he always seemed to be silently mouthing "You know what to do." But I was never quite sure.

So I went back to plotting.

There was a gun Uncle Alfonso kept in a shoe box on the top shelf of his bedroom closet. It was not loaded, of course, but the ammo was right beside it in the same box. He had several more just like it scattered throughout the apartment; a man ain't nothing in the Hernandez family if he doesn't own at least one gun. In addition to that, he had switchblades, bush knives, nunchucks, you name it. Alfonso was prepared for anything.

So it seemed a simple matter for me to steal a gun from his bedroom closet, load it, shoot him from behind and call it a suicide. Clever, huh?

I didn't think so. There had to be another way.

My father's visits grew more frequent. In the morning I would often wake up with my sheets damp. It wasn't always sweat.

I would yell out to him, "I owe you nothing."

And he would just stand there as if I had said nothing, just staring at me with accusing eyes.

Forget about it, I used to tell myself. He can't make me kill my uncle.

Then one evening, Uncle Alfonso went out. He always went out every so often and sometimes he would bring back cash when he returned. He never said when he was coming back when he did so and nobody ever asked him. You don't ask questions like that in the Hernandez family.

I went to my room early that night. There was a gun on the bed. A rusty pistol which looked like it had been left outside for a long time.

I told myself that it was a coincidence. It was one of my Uncle Alfonso's guns and it had been placed in my room by mistake. Either that or else it belonged to my Uncle Felipe. Or my Uncle Luis. Or...

Then I checked it. For an old gun, it was in remarkably good condition. I noticed a box of bullets next to it, and just for fun, I loaded it. Then I saw my father standing in the corner.

Again I asked myself if the figure I saw before me was really my own father or just someone pretending to be him. Yet deep down I knew I was just kidding myself. I already knew the answer to that question. I just wasn't sure what to do next.

So I concealed the gun in the waistband of my jeans and wore a jacket over it. Fortunately, no one else was at home. Mother and Grandmother were at church. My other uncles were out somewhere -- I didn't know where. Maybe at the pool hall. I locked the door behind me and went off in search of my Uncle Alfonso.

I told myself I wasn't going to kill him but already I knew better.

I looked behind the front stoop. No one there. I searched the back yard. Still empty. A large hedge and a chain-link fence hid the alley from view. I opened the back gate and saw nothing but scattered trash bags. No one there either.

I shut the gate behind me and started walking. I heard footsteps behind me. Someone was running up the alley. I ducked behind a trash can and saw my Uncle Alfonso running up to the gate. He had a gun in one hand and an armful of cash in the other. His left leg was bleeding.

It would be simple, I thought. Just walk up to him, pull out my gun and blow his brains out.

Yet I hesitated.

He seemed to be having trouble with the gate. The padlock which had been so easy for me to unlock was giving him trouble.

I stepped out from behind the trash cans, aware now that I presented a perfect target but also aware that even my Uncle Alfonso would not shoot his own nephew without cause. But what if he suspected? I thought. What if he shot first and asked questions later? What if he -- To drown out my questions, I pulled out my gun and aimed it at Alfonso's back. Just as he turned to look in my direction...

He laughed.

"What's the matter, Martin?" he said. "Thought I was a burglar?"

I said nothing. I had the drop on him but my hands were beginning to shake.

"Gee, what's the matter? Haven't you ever seen me with a gun before?" said Alfonso.

From far away, a voice seemed to come out of my mouth. "You killed my father."

"So?" He seemed very nonchalant about it.

"You have to pay for it."

Alfonso laughed again. "Well, if you feel that way about it, call the police."

"I have no proof. But I know. I heard you admit it yourself."

Now I had to kill him, I thought. If not, he would kill me the first chance he got. But still my finger would not pull the trigger.

"So that's what this is all about?" he said. "You suddenly took it upon yourself to play the role of divine justice. Well, forget it, Martin. Your old man wasn't worth it. He never even married your mother -- and he wouldn't have -- even if he had lived."

"He was still my father."

"So what? I once had a father too, remember? And not a bigger son-of-a-bitch has yet to walk this earth. But you don't see me weeping any tears over him, do you?"

"If the Puerto Ricans had killed him, you would have done something."

"Maybe I would have. But not if it involved hurting a member of the the family. You should never hurt a member of your own family."

My fingers tightened on the gun handle. One hand on the padlock, the other on his revolver, Uncle Alfonso could have blown me away any time he wanted to. Yet he didn't.

Why?

Because he thinks you're weak, a voice inside me said. He doesn't really believe you have the guts to kill him.

"I have to kill you now," I told him. "You know that."

Alfonso nodded. "Yes, I know." Then he grinned. "But you're making a mistake. I didn't kill your father. Luis did."

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not. Luis was right there. Sure I beat him up a little. But it was Luis who knocked him out and threw him over the railing, not me."

"You're lying. Luis would never do that. You admitted before to having killed him yourself. I heard you."

"I admitted to throwing him over the railing. But Luis helped, too. After he stabbed him, of course."

"You're changing your story now. You just said Luis knocked him out. You didn't say anything about stabbing."

"Well, what can I say? It was a very confusing night."

Alfonso was calm. Too calm. As if he knew something.

He went on. "You really think your Uncle Luis is such an angel? Ask your mom about that time he picked a fight with some Puerto Rican kid and how two of that guy's sisters threatened to cut your mother's throat in the girls' locker room because of it. Your Uncle Luis isn't a nice person, Martin. He wouldn't be a Hernandez if he was."

"No matter what he did, that still doesn't change the way you killed my father."

"No," he said with a sigh. "I guess it doesn't. But you can't be sure of that, can you? And you really wouldn't feel right killing me if you knew the whole truth, would you?"

I should have said something to that but instead I fired my gun.

Alfonso fell to one knew and dropped his money. He gestured idly with his gun. "Still can't be sure, can you?"

I fired again.

And again.

And again. Every other bullet kicking up dust or ricocheting off telephone poles but few actually hitting Uncle Alfonso. And yet he never fired back.

Because he's out of bullets, I thought. I fired my last shot then and I saw his head go down. Then I ran like hell out of that alley before someone got curious enough to investigate. You hear a lot of gunshots in my neighborhood. And you soon learn not to ask too many questions about them or cooperate with the police too freely when they come to investigate. Nevertheless, I did not want to risk some other poor slob catching me in the act of shooting my own uncle. Even when I heard yet another shot go off in the alley I had just left.

I threw my gun into a nearby storm drain and ran into the house. With luck, no one but me would ever know what had happened. With luck, that was. I didn't believe in luck. Instead I buried myself beneath the covers of my bed and waited for morning. It was a long wait.

XXX

It was the next day when my mother broke the story to me. About how the police had come and broke the news of Alfonso's death to her and grandmother. About how he had held up another Arab grocer and got shot in return. About how he had killed himself rather than risk leading his killers to his front doorstep.

I never told her about what I had done. I didn't need to. The family was sad enough as it was. Grandmother and Mother dressed in black for weeks and relatives I had never seen before walked in and out of the house for days. Somebody convinced the local parish priest that Alfonso had been a victim of homicide, not suicide, so they held a regular Catholic funeral for him.

I was there and remained as stone-faced as the other male relatives. Only the women cried.

After the funeral was over and the other relatives had left, my mother drew me aside and started talking about the old days. About how Alfonso had protected her when she was young and about how he had always been a good person even if he had done bad things.

"He didn't mean to rob that grocery store," she told me. "He did that for us."

"Sure he did," I said. I knew full well that most house expenses came out of my mother's and my grandmother's pockets and not out of Alfonso's. But I didn't press the point.

"You'd be surprised when your uncle would do for the family, Martin," my mother said. "Remember what I told you about your father?"

"No," I said, trying to look disinterested.

"Your father never really wanted to marry me. Not really. What happened was just -- er -- an accident. But Alfonso was concerned about the family's good name. For your grandmother's sake, if for no one else's."

"I see."

"A friend of Alfonso's had a boat that he kept down by the river and..."

My mother's words started blurring into one another. Any minute I expected her to tell me the real story of how my father died. And then what? Suppose it hadn't been Alfonso. Suppose it had been Luis. Had I killed an innocent man?

No, I thought. Alfonso had committed other crimes, crimes he never really paid for.

Then again I could say the same thing about Luis. And if Alfonso had not really killed my father and Luis had, how could I live with myself if I let Luis live?

Let it die, I told myself. One death in the family was enough. Wasn't it?

"I'm sorry, mom. I didn't catch that last part."

"Well, Martin, your father was starting to make a fuss and he had just cussed me out and --"

"Wait a minute! You were there?"

"Of course I was. Haven't you been listening?"

"Sorry, mom. I guess my mind's just slipping."

"Well, in view of the last few days, I don't blame you. I hope you don't tell anyone this, but Alfonso got so angry when your father cussed me out that he started hitting him. Then all of your uncles started hitting him. And in the middle of all that hitting, your father fell overboard."

"He fell overboard?"

My mother gave me a funny look.

"Well, yes. Your father pulled a knife and Alfonso wrestled him for it and then Luis joined in and pretty soon your father just fell overboard. Of course he couldn't swim and no one there wanted to go rescue him after he had pulled that knife so we just let him drown."

"We?"

"Well, of course. We all did. It's not something I'm especially proud of but that's what happened."

Alfonso had not mentioned the knife. Not even when he was dying. That meant my father's murder was actually an act of self-defense. My conscience eased up a bit. But not for long. For if I had killed someone who had killed my own father in self-defense, then what did make me? A murderer? An avenger of a would-be murderer?

Yet there was something missing in my mother's story. Something that just didn't make sense. Something that bothered me but I just couldn't put my finger on it.

"Did my father really fall off that boat or was he pushed?" I asked.

My mother avoided my eyes for a moment. "As a matter of fact, he was thrown in."

Magic question time. "Who did it? Alfonso or Luis?"

My mother paused a little longer this time. "As a matter of fact, Martin, we all did it. Even me. He was just struggling so much that we all had to help Alfonso throw him overboard. It was the only way."

She paused for a moment and looked at the ground.

Then she looked me in the face. "What's the matter, Martin?" she asked. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Cuento de Mi Id

“Le Démon de Midi”

Tanith looked into the mirror and despaired. Her short oh-so-fashionable haircut, her diamond earrings, her new dress -- none of them had done the work she had hoped that they'd do.

She looked into the mirror hoping to see a well-preserved woman of 39; instead she saw an old hag of nearly 40. And in the absence of clothes and makeup, what she saw was even worse.

Her breasts were no longer "dirty pillows," merely sloppy ones. They were no longer capable of being fluffed into shape. Her buttocks sagged, her belly bulged obscenely, an varicose vein crept like a spider up the side of her leg. All this and more she saw until finally she could no longer stand it and she hurriedly dressed to cover herself.

Once more immured in cloth, she turned to face the mirror and saw that the image had changed. Instead of the redheaded harridan she had looked upon earlier, she now saw a young girl of perhaps sixteen or eighteen, clad in the type of bikini she had once worn when she had not yet started to fear exposing her waist to the light of day. The girl had a boyish figure barely marked by her walnut-sized breasts.

This was one girl, thought Tanith, who would never have to fear the eagle eye of the voyeur. One girl who, despite her physical shortcomings, still maintained the aura of beauty that most men craved.

Tanith approached her and wondered what such a figure was doing in her mirror. She glanced behind her but no one was there. She glanced off to the sides, but she was alone on either side.

Then where did the girl come from?

The girl gestured and tapped on the glass.

Tanith closed her eyes and prayed for the figure to go away.

She opened them and the red-haired girl was still there. Waving at her. Gesturing at her. Taunting her.

Until Tanith finally turned around and left the bathroom, ignoring the wildly gesturing figure in the mirror behind her.

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

Later that night, she met Andre. Andre, who was so young and handsome. Andre, who was so young and naive. Andre, who was not so innocent and yet still earnestly desired to be tutored in the venereal arts by an older woman.

"My God," she said at dinner, "you've obviously read too many French novels."

The boy blinked and she realized that he probably did not read. None of his generation read. Only her generation read.

Never mind. There were other ties between him and her, and any boy diplomatic enough to describe her nude body as "Rubenesque" had to have some intellectual savvy about him.

But enough about his mind. What, pray tell, about his body?

She looked forward to seeing it again, naked, upon her bed.

She could not get finished with her meal fast enough, she was so anxious.

She felt just like a schoolgirl -- only she could not remember having been so horny back when she actually had been a schoolgirl.

"Home, James," she said with a smile as they got into her car.

Andre drove and Tanith watched him drive. The redheaded girl in the rear view mirror watched him too.

No!

She glanced at the mirror but the girl was gone. Not for good, she feared, but -- to where?

She glanced around and the boy drove on.

"Lose something?" he asked.

"No," she said.

Nothing save my innocence, she thought. And I lost that a long time ago.

She waited for the young girl to show up again but she did not.

Then they arrived at her apartment.

She let him in, glancing at all the mirrors as they entered in order to make sure it was safe.

Middle-aged women should never have mirrors, she decided. Too tempting. Too revealing. And all too dangerous.

She offered to fix Andre a cocktail while he got undressed, and he smiled and let her do so.

At least he will never need to fear a mirror, she thought. Not for a long time. And even then -- no, men at my age don't fear mirrors any more than he does. They don't have to. They always look so old and distinguished -- they're constantly being compared to fine wine.

As for us women, it's different. Time is our enemy, not our lover. Gather up your maidenheads while you may, for once the big three-oh crops up, they'll be gone forever. And old age is just as harsh on virgins as it is on whores.

She turned away from the dark glass looking out upon the street and looked back toward her bedroom door. A stream of light was escaping beneath the door. Andre was already in there -- and ready. Yes, that was the fun part about young men -- they were always ready.

She picked up a full cocktail glass. And then she picked up a glass for herself.

She smiled and glanced at the front door, checking that the lock was turned, the chain put on. She looked around and saw that the phone was unplugged, the windows locked, the shades drawn, and the outdoor light off.

Good, she thought. No interruptions.

She walked down the hall and knocked on the bedroom door. No answer. But then there did not need to be. She pushed the door open with her back and entered.

Just in time to see that Andre, in turn, was entering somebody else.

It was the red-headed girl from the mirror.

The two of them were in bed together and they never looked up. Not even when Tanith dropped the glasses.

The glasses fell unharmed upon the floor and divulged their liquid contents onto the carpet.

Tanith ran forward, hand over mouth, a scream at the edge of her lips.

"Andre," she said. "How could you? I thought--"

"Just what did you think?" said the girl in a familiar voice.

She was no longer wearing a bikini. In fact, there was no disguising the fact that she and Andre were quite nude. Which allowed Tanith to see everything.

Everything.

"Get out of my place!" she shouted.

The girl just smiled. And gestured.

Toward the bedroom mirror suspended above Tanith's night table.

It was empty now. Void of all reflection.

But that's impossible, thought Tanith. It's just glass. Only glass.

She touched it and like Alice in the old storybook, she was surprised to see her hand go through the glass. All the way through.

Amazing, she thought.

Just simply amazing.

She never saw the girl start to gesture again behind her until it was too late...

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


"I came by for my tutoring session and I just found her like that. The door was open, the windows unlocked, and the blood ... God, the blood--"

"Calm down, Mr. Miller. Scenes like this can happen to anyone. Are you certain she wasn't experiencing any type of depression or emotional crisis?"

"No, not at all. Oh, she did say something about her fortieth birthday coming up. But still that's no reason to do something like this. God, the way she looked ..."

"How about witnesses?"

"No, no one at all. But I think someone might have been in the apartment before I got here. I noticed one of the pictures were gone from her mantelpiece. I used to see it almost every time I came over. A young girl in a bathing suit. Might have been her niece or even herself at a younger age -- they both had the same type of hair. The minute I saw that picture gone, I knew something was wrong. I knew it."

"Now calm down, Mr. Miller. We'll get it all straightened out -- though to tell the truth, I hope we can get our hands on whoever stole that picture. Anyone crazy enough to steal from the scene of a suicide like this -- Christ, they'd be crazy enough to do anything. Although I doubt they had anything to do with your teacher's death. There is just no way any living human being could get her to plunge her hands into the mirror like that. The angle's just too wrong."

"So I guess it had to be suicide. What else could it be?"

Cuento de Mi Id

“Monica”

Monica discarded her clothes on the lake shore because she was certain that she would never use them again. She could have discarded them on the beach at Padre but that would have attracted attention -- and attention was the one thing she did not want at this point. So she discarded them on the other side of this lonely old lake -- and was pleased to note that there was no one around to notice.

Of course, that had been her whole problem all along -- there was never anyone around to notice anything she did. For a long while, she used to fantasize about blowing her head off with a shotgun, just to get their attention. But she was past that point now. And anyway, the last thing she welcomed at this point was attention -- because if nothing else, it might lead to interference. And Monica did not feel like being interfered with.

She took one last glance at the woods around the lake as if suspecting unseen voyeurs and then she laughed at herself. There was no one out here. And even if there was, so what? She had already made up her mind about what she was going to do. So there.

She noticed with faint humor that her wristwatch was still on. It had been a present from her mother -- one of the few presents from her that Monica wore on a regular basis. She took it off and placed it within a discarded shoe.

Then she took one last look at the woods, crossed herself and stepped into the lake.

Funny how old habits die hard, she thought. She hadn't been to Mass in ages and yet she still felt compelled to offer a quick prayer to the Virgin Mary as she stepped into the water. After all, this was the last time she would ever go into the water. If ever she could use a prayer, it would be now. And yet the thought of prayer made her feel like a hypocrite. After all, the Virgin Mary couldn't very well forgive her for what she was about to do. Not even God could do that. Indeed, as a Catholic, Monica knew quite well that what she was preparing to do was one of the worst deeds any true Catholic could ever commit. Yet that did not stop her.

For she wanted to die. And if dying meant burning in Hell for all eternity, so be it. It couldn't be any worse than the present hell she had ever lived here on Earth. Nor could it be any worse than the hell that awaited her ever since her blood test had turned up HIV-positive. Just one time was all it had taken. And it wasn't even all that good a time either. At least, not for her. And now she was paying for it. But not in the way that the Good Lord had intended.

She was approaching the center of the lake now. Her feet could no longer touch the bottom. She started to dog-paddle, then she laughed at herself. Was she deliberately trying to stay afloat? Why not? Maybe if she made it across the lake, she'd find a reason for living. Not likely though. All through high school she had had a lousy social life due to her excess weight and nerdish reputation. Then the one time a boy finally noticed her, this happened!

No more, she thought. From now on, Monica De Sola was her own person.

She dog paddled for a while, and then she started to thread water. Her limbs were getting tired, but still she continued.

She was never going to make it across the lake at this rate, she thought. She realized that now. But then she had never expected to. Perhaps it might have been quicker just to grab Papa's old service revolver and blow her brains out. But this way had seemed more poetic. And scandalous.

She hoped that it would provoke a big scandal. That would serve them right for ignoring her. Of course, if she had been more daring, she could have done the same thing at the city reservoir. But she had not wanted to be noticed. Not yet. Not until it was all over.

And she had a feeling that it was all going to be over real soon...

Three hours after Monica De Sola sank into the center of the lake, a woman emerged upon the west shore wearing only her birthday suit. She glanced at the clothes Monica had left discarded there and then she hesitantly tried them on. The pants were far too baggy and the bra too tight but other than that, they were a perfect fit.

She glanced down at herself for a moment and then she smiled as if she was pleased with what she had seen. Then she remembered the wristwatch which she had dumped out on the ground when she had tried on Monica's shoes. She picked it up, looked at it, and then threw it into the lake.

She then walked into the woods. She was certain that there was a car somewhere close by, and where there was a car, there had to be a road and maybe -- just maybe -- civilization.

She hoped there was. For some reason, she felt as hungry as hell.

Cuento de Mi Id

“The Liar”

I’m smiling at the back of some geezer’s head, trying to pretend he didn’t just ignore me in favor of some young slut with tits full of silicon and ribs like a xylophone.

I smile some more as a man makes his way to my stage to tip me. I can tell from here that’s he’s not even pretending to look at my face. But it’s been a long day and my feet ache. Besides, they don’t come in here to look at my face.

The song is almost over and pretty soon I’ll be moving on to the last stage in the room. With luck, that should be my last time on stage for the day.

The man is saying something about how he liked the way I dance and I pretend to believe that he’s really interested in my dancing technique. With luck, I can get a few more dollars out of him before my shift is over. It would be nice to get more, but people his age don’t give up their fivers that easily. Not when they can spend them on drinks. So I may have to line up a few more table dances when I get off the last stage so I can make my quota for the day.

One of my regulars walks in while I’m climbing off stage. With luck, I can talk him into a table dance or two, and if I tell him a real hard luck story, I might even get more than that.

Not that I have to make up too much. My ribs still hurt from where my ex once kicked me and I still have nightmares about the time I almost bled to death on the bathroom floor.

But I won’t tell those stories tonight. Not yet anyway.

And he probably wouldn’t believe me even if I did tell them.

Because they say we strippers lie, you know.

We’ll tell you anything you want to hear if it will make you part with a few large bills.

And, hey, it’s not like you guys don’t make up shit either. Whether it’s the guy with the bandaged ring finger who pretends he’s single or the geezer with the blue pills who thinks he can still get it up if the right girl comes along or the “Christian” who talks about “saving” me from my evil life while he is staring at my tits, it doesn’t matter. There’s always some guy who thinks he can pull something over on me. And sometimes he does. Then again, sometimes he doesn’t.

I should have learned better by now. But I haven’t.

Cuento de Mi Id

“A Day in the Glamorous Life of an Entertainer”

5:30 a.m. You wake up and start getting the kids ready for school. You ignore your ten-year-old daughter when she mumbles something under her breath about you being a whore. You take a quick shower and put on your “mom” clothes: black jeans and a sweatshirt.

6:30 a.m. Your ride arrives. You hustle your kids out the door. You make sure they’re polite to the driver. You ignore the driver’s request for a kiss but you thank him profusely for waking up so early.

7:00 a.m. You drop your kids off at school. You kiss them both and you pray that they did their homework.

Then you look for signs of your ex-husband being in the area and you sigh with relief when you don’t see him or his car. You ask the driver to take you to a doughnut shop. You ignore the calories. It’s only one doughnut and you’re going to be at work for hours.

7:30 a.m. You go home and wave goodbye to your ride. You dodge his request for a quick kiss. You go upstairs to your apartment and you crash for a few hours.

9:00 a.m. You start getting ready for work. You take a long, hot bath. You shave your legs and other body parts. You are sure to use plenty of bath lotion to give yourself that nice scent the customers like so much on the rare occasions that they notice it.

9:30 a.m. You towel off and you get dressed. You take your backpack which contains the clothes you might wear at work. You are sure to include your high heels.

10:00 a.m. Your ride arrives. He requests another kiss. You dodge it. He drives you to the club and he drops you off at the entrance. You go in and you check in with the house mom. Then you go to the dressing room where you ignore the graffiti on your locker and you start changing into your work outfit. Today it’s a blue dress that you bought last weekend. You never wear it outside the club. Only here. And you never wear it when you pick your kids up at school. Never.

10:30 a.m. The club opens. The lights come on. A few customers straggle in but most hang back until lunch time and the free buffet. You’re not particularly flattered by this, but you don’t come here for flattery. You come because you need the money and this is one of the few jobs you can get with your high school diploma that will pay you enough for you to be able to feed and clothe your kids and pay the rent on your $500 per month apartment. And even with that, you often have to use food stamps.

11:00 a.m. The lunchtime crowd starts showing up. Mainly senior citizens and a few blue-collar workers. Occasionally a well-off businessman. But the truly well-off usually don’t arrive until late afternoon. You start getting a few tips but it’s the young girls with hips the size of your forearms that get most of the tips. You mainly get the mean ones who aren’t anxious to waste their SS checks on a woman like you and the poor Mexicans who do their best to cross your “border” with their Roman fingers.

2:00 p.m. The end of the free lunchtime buffet. The crowd dissipates. The club is slow. If you’re lucky, you have made a tidy sum. But you aren’t always lucky. If you’re lucky, you’ve found time to grab a quick lunch from the buffet. But you dare not eat too much lest you lose your job for being too fat. So you play video games in between sets and hope that today your ex doesn’t discover what club you’re working in.

3:30 p.m. The first of the after-work crowd starts strolling in. You dance for a customer and talk some construction worker into letting you have a sip of his beer. You don’t really like to drink on the job but there are times when alcohol seems to be the only way to make it through the day. Even though your kids are out of school, you have no way of picking them up so you pray that they have gone to day care like you asked them to.

5:00 p.m. More after-work customers show up. A rich businessman pays you $500. You don’t get that every day. More often you end up owing the club money. Indeed, this is the first day all week that you have broken even. You hope you get another shot at him but he already has his eye on another girl. A younger, thinner girl. Some of the girls who work here are so thin you can see their ribs and you can’t help but suspect they’re on drugs. But the manager could care less what substances you take as long as you show up on time and the customers don’t complain. Of course, if you’re lucky enough to attract a large crowd of regulars, you don’t even have to show up on time. But you don’t have a large crowd of regulars. And none of the ones you do have have come in today.

5:30 p.m. You’re asked to perform in a special section that is separated from the main club by a wall and an one-way window. Hardly no one goes back here until they are with a dancer so you don’t make any money. You do see one of your co-workers making money in a way that the local vice squad would not approve of. But you say nothing and pretend you didn’t see a thing.

7:00 p.m. You are finally off work. You hurriedly change clothes so that you can leave the club when your ride arrives. Of course, you have to settle up with the management before you can leave. You didn’t make much today so you hardly have anything left when you do leave. Your ride arrives and takes you to the day care center where the lady in charge asks you for money you don’t have. You pick up your kids and once more you ignore your daughter when she calls you a whore. Ironically, you’re one of the few women at your club who isn’t a whore, but she doesn’t care. She picked up the expression from your ex, and you have yet to persuade her not to use it.

7:30 p.m. Your ride takes you to the dollar store where you buy school supplies with what little you have and then to McDonalds where you buy your kids a Happy Meal. You know McDonalds is not the best place to eat, but it’s the best you can afford, and it’s not like you’re in a mood to cook. Your ride takes you to your apartment, where he kisses you on the cheek and asks if he can come up.

You tell him no, but someday you’ll say yes. Your kids get out of the car and you can tell what your daughter is thinking by the way she looks at you. By then, you’re too tired to care anymore. You follow your kids up the stairs to your apartment and tell yourself for the umpteenth time that you’re going to quit your job next week.

Cuento de Mi Id

“The Appointment”

Amanda called Victor Friday night and asked if he could take her to the hospital Monday morning. Victor asked her which hospital and then Amanda explained that it was a certain hospital in North Dallas, a hospital whose name Victor recognized because it usually had a lot of protesters out in front.

Amanda called Victor again Sunday night to remind him and to let him know that she would be staying in a hotel. Her boyfriend was supposed to meet her there but he had gotten busy with his meetings and he couldn’t make it. So now Victor had to take her for sure.

Next morning, he arrived at her hotel five minutes early but she wasn’t downstairs yet. He drove around a bit until he finally saw her outside.

He pulled up in front of her and opened the passenger side door. She got in, gave him a brief hug and then started checking the messages on her cell phone.

He got her there about ten minutes late but it didn’t matter because the hospital had told her that she had about thirty minutes leeway. It was so cold a morning that only two protesters had bothered to show up. Neither of them were located anywhere near the front door of the hospital which, ironically enough, faced away from the street. Amanda initially bristled at the thought of confronting the protesters but a moment later she was feeling sorry for them. She told Victor that she really couldn’t afford another child and Victor stayed silent. He agreed once more to stay in the waiting room while she was undergoing the procedure and to drive her back to the hotel when she was finished and he even agreed to sign a piece of paperwork to that effect.

When they went in, the waiting room was playing a DVD of “Footloose” on a flat screen TV. Under the circumstances, it seemed surreal but then Victor found it difficult to think of any movie that could have been showing right then that would not seem surreal.

When they called Amanda’s name, she left behind her purse and jacket but then she came back to retrieve her cell phone. She talked to it more than she talked to Victor and she said nothing about her current child who undoubtedly was spending this week with her ex.

Victor sat in the waiting room and pretended to enjoy the movie. He was surprised at the end to realize that the sharp-faced girl who played Lori Singer’s friend was actually played by Sarah Jessica Parker, an actress he should have recognized but didn‘t. The things you find out, he thought.

The waiting room -- which was nearly empty when they came in -- started to fill up with people, most of them women. Amanda eventually came out clutching a handful of prescription slips and asked him to take her to the nearest pharmacy. He did so, taking care to ignore the protesters as he drove past them on his way to the street.

On the way to the pharmacy, Amanda explained that she had not really wanted to have the procedure that she had just had but she really couldn’t afford to raise another child and her boyfriend especially did not want her to have a child at this time. Perhaps a few years in the future when they were more established they might have one but not now.

Victor said nothing. Victor always said nothing. He listened to her prattle on about how much her new boyfriend loved her and how much money he spent on her and how he wanted to have been here in Victor’s place but he just couldn’t make it back to Dallas in time.

This is just between us, she kept saying to Victor. No one else can know except for you, me and my boyfriend. Especially my ex. You can’t ever tell my ex. Or my former room mate. Not ever.

Victor promised he would keep her secret and then dropped her off at her hotel. As she got out of his car, three words came to mind but he swallowed them hurriedly and only said them when she was already inside the hotel entrance and out of earshot.

Then he drove away hurriedly. And promised himself the stiffest drink he could afford.

Cuento de Mi Id

“The Girls of Winter”

It was half past twelve when the next girl came on stage, which proves that not all scary things happen at midnight. She was a skinny young thing, most likely jailbait, and it hardly seemed worth it for her to take her top off. She staggered about the stage for a while, waving her arms up and down as if they were drumsticks. I could clearly see her ribs beneath her skin and I almost felt sorry for her.

She was promptly booed off the stage -- no doubt as an act of mercy, I thought. She then grabbed her top and scurried off to the back room.

The next dancer was of more conventional proportions but she wore too much blue eye shadow. I quickly lost interest and returned to my drink. The club closed at two and I wasn't looking forward to navigating my way home with a hundred other drunks. However, it was fifteen below outside and I was in no hurry to brave the winter traffic. I came from Chicago myself so snow and ice don't scare me, but trying to dodge fifteen other drivers while trying to avoid a fishtail tends to take all the fun out of winter driving.

In fact, I almost totaled my car making it this far. Some wiseguy in a pickup truck was too stupid to drive at normal speed and made me put on the brakes when he cut in front of me on the highway. When you're driving on ice, that's the last thing you want to do. I managed to get out of it okay -- I always do -- but I must admit that I was really shook up there for a while.

Yeah, a long while.

The next dancer came on stage as I finished my beer. She was a black girl and she reminded me of a girl at the last club I was at. Very friendly that one had been. In fact, she even offered me drinks. Then she started putting her hand on my thigh and I realized that drinks were not the only thing she sold.

Outside, that old north wind must have been howling like a banshee. Perhaps if I put enough antifreeze in my system, I could make it as far as the parking lot, I thought as I ordered yet another beer. The waitress took her time bringing it as if she were being paid to bring it extra slow and I mentally subtracted a large portion of her tip while I was waiting.

In the meantime, I kept looking up at the stage and trying to not act bored but it was hard. After all, there was nothing in the club I couldn't see in a Playboy. And you're not allowed to touch the girls here, either. You're just allowed to get close enough to drop a bill in the old G-string and that's it. How dull.

The next girl on stage appeared to have needle marks on her arms. At least, I thought they were needle marks. Didn't make sense to me. I would have figured that most girls in her profession would be into skinpopping. If this was Canada, I could find out for sure, but they don't allow such places down here in the Bible Belt. Not at normal prices, anyway.

My beer finally arrived but for some reason, it tasted funny. I called the waitress over to order something in its place.

“Want any change?” the waitress asked me.

“What for?”

She gestured at the dancers.

“No, of course not.”

The waitress shrugged and went to fetch me my drink. It didn't taste much better than the last one. I began to think that I had been in the club too long.

I looked around again and saw that the club owners were out in force. Dressed in suits, they looked like members of the local country club but as they clapped along with the music, trying to drum up enthusiasm, they somehow reminded me of guest extras on Miami Vice and I was almost tempted to look for shoulder holsters.

My next drink tasted like it had a dead animal in it and I decided that was it. Time to go.

I threw a twenty down on the table and made my way to the door.

I looked back long enough to see that the girl on stage was now showing off her wrist scars and then I headed out to the parking lot.

The club was supposed to have valet parking but it seemed to be mostly reserved for the suits and the owners of late-model cars. I was neither, of course, and anyway, no one was on duty. So I made my way across the wind-swept parking lot by myself.

That's when I noticed that the parking lot was almost empty apart for a few scattered vehicles -- which was really unusual considered how crowded it had been inside the club. Where the hell did everybody park anyway? Surely they did not all arrive in those few cars like they were circus clowns or something? Or did the creeps who owned the club sell out to a chop shop?

I was thinking about going back inside when I suddenly saw a familiar vehicle. My old red Chevy was parked at the far left corner of the lot. As I walked closer toward it, I could see that it was not in great shape. In fact, it had a couple of dents in it that had not been there this morning. A couple of big dents in it. In fact, the whole left side of the car was caved in.

And that mess on the ice. It looked like blood. At least, some of it did. And the rest of it looked like...

Suddenly I was back on the highway. I was going 35 and my engine was starting to stall. The guy ahead of me was going 15, then dropped down to 0. I slammed on my brakes to avoid hitting him, but a pickup got in front of me and in trying to avoid him, I found myself fishtailing on the highway. My brakes locked, the oil light came on, and I found myself heading toward the rear end of the same pickup that cut in front of me.

Then I blinked.

And found myself back in a mostly empty parking lot. The same lot I had been in before. I hurried back inside and didn't think twice when the girl at the door demanded another five bucks to enter the club. Instead I gladly paid it.

I went to the men's room to check myself out in the mirror but saw nothing wrong. But then I had seen nothing wrong before.

Then I went back out on the floor and picked myself an empty table to sit at. One that was near the stage. I ignored the other customers which was just as well since even in the half light of the club, they didn't look so good. But I wasn't paying to look at them so I didn't. Instead I stared ahead at the girls on stage until a waitress came up to me to take my order. This time I noticed a scar on her chest that was not quite covered by her uniform, but I said nothing about it. Instead I just ordered a beer.

No, I ordered three beers.

Then I turned to watch the dancer on stage try to pretend that she was not totally out of it. I didn't care if she was or if she wasn't. I was here to forget and that was what I intended to do.

In fact, it's almost one thirty and I'm still here. The drinks are starting to take effect now and I no longer notice the bad taste of the beers. I don't notice much of anything, in fact, except for the girls on stage. And I stopped trying to tell them apart a long time ago.

My wallet doesn't seem to be empty, and I could probably stay here all night if the club owners would let me. But I doubt they will. In fact, it seems like the club is going to end up closing soon.

That worries me. For as much as I try to pretend otherwise, I can't help wondering what will happen to me If I try to stay here past closing time. Or if there will even be a me here past closing time.

And yet I really do not want to go outside again. I really don't.

Cuento de Mi Id

“The Curse”

"Damn Mexican!" he said as the dark-skinned lady ahead of him pulled out yet another roll of coupons.

"Damn Mexican!" he said as yet another dark-skinned lady almost ran into him with her shopping cart.

"Damn Mexican!" he said as a dark-skinned guy in a pickup truck almost ran him over in the parking lot.

"Damn Mexican!" he thought as he glared at the face that looked back at him from the depths of his rear-view mirror.

Cuento de Mi Id

“I Don't Want to Start Any Blasphemous Rumors, But I Think That the Muse Has Got a Sick Sense of Humor”

Alondra was dreaming again when she had the vision. It was a white palace adorned with purple pennants and there were servants throughout the place, dressed in green and gold. On a balcony overlooking the countryside, there stood a princess clad in a purple dress looking up at a full moon. She was gazing at a silver lake and chanting words that seemed quite familiar to Alondra...

It was then that she woke up. She reached for the notebook by the bed to write down the details of the dream while it was still fresh in her mind. But before she could write down the first words, a baby started crying.

It was her sister's baby but her sister was not home. So Alondra had to get up and see what was wrong with the baby. Did it need a new diaper? Or a fresh bottle?

Alondra could not tell. But she changed its diaper just in case and then she gave it a bottle when it kept fussing.

By the time the baby went back to sleep, it was almost time for Alondra to get ready for work. Alondra really wanted to write down her story first but she just knew that she had to take her shower now or else she would not get a chance to take one this morning.

Besides, the story was still intact in her brain. She just had to get it down on paper.

After her shower, there was no time to write because then she had to get dressed. Then she had to brush her hair. And do her makeup. Then she had to eat breakfast, only no one else was up yet so she had to cook her own breakfast first. Finally she had time but no, she didn't because she had to leave for her job at the local coffee shop or else she would be late. And her boss hated it when she came in late.

Oh, well, Alondra thought. I'll write at the coffee shop.

When she got to the coffee shop, there was no time to write because she had to wait on customers. It seemed unusually busy this morning -- not just during the morning breakfast rush and the lunch rush but in-between as well.

Ironically, one of her customers was herself a writer. She was a middle-aged redhead who continually stared at her laptop as if it held the answer to all the mysteries of the universe. Alondra thought about asking her for advice about writing, but every time she had the chance, the expression on the woman's face always discouraged her.

At long last, Alondra's work was through and she had the chance to go home. Now she finally had time to write.

But as Alondra opened her notebook and started to write down her dream, she had trouble remembering little details. Had it been a large palace or a small one? Purple pennants or green? Silver lake or blue?

Was this story really worth writing down? Alondra wondered. It had seemed so vivid this morning but now...

As Alondra read over the few words she had written, it was all she could do to keep from weeping.

xxx

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, the redhead who had been in the coffee shop was in her apartment trying to think of a story to write in order to justify her art grant.

But for some reason, the words would not come.

Indeed, no words had come all day.

And all week.

And yet people all around her seemed to find plenty of stuff to write about.

Life is so unfair, she thought. Why does everything always happen to me?

Fanfic Friday

"It's a Wonderful Life: An Alternative Ending"

That night, after a long day of breaking rocks and cursing Uncle Billy, George Bailey lay on his prison bunk and dreamt of libraries.

And librarians.

And hydrangea bushes.

But mostly of libraries, thanks to that damned Hays code.

Fanfic Friday

"It's a Good Strife"

"But if you do that, Mr. President, all the crops will die!"

"You gentlemen want to go into the cornfield?"

"On second thought, that was a good thing you did, Mr. President. That was a very good thing."

Fanfic Friday

“The Aftermath”

Ever since that all so memorable day at Camp Chippewa, little Amanda Buckman's hair has turned white. She still screams when she sees a lit match and she has grown very thin.

As of this writing, her parents are considering taking her to see the renowned therapist Dr. Sue Snell, since Dr. Snell has a reputation for being an expert on bad dreams.

Cuento de Mi Id

“The Sacrifice”

Oh great! The Huntsville Express.

Shut up. The most they can get you for at this point in time is hitchhiking. Just play it cool and everything will be all right.

All right? Half-ounce of sinsemilla in my knapsack and you say everything will be all right?

Of course, it will. Just don’t act suspicious.

But if the cops search my bag?

They won’t if you give them no reason to--and by the way, don’t call them cops--call them policemen.

Well, all right.

It hadn’t been a good day for Martin. The Texas sun had decided to celebrate the Fourth of July early, and that had meant blast furnace temperatures coupled with a nonexistent breeze along a highway where the nearest shade trees were on the other side of the acre-long cotton fields. Not that there was a lot of green stuff to impede his way -- all the plants Martin had seen so far were brown and wilted--but there was no way he could hope to flag down a ride from the shade and he had no intention of walking all day in this heat. Now his first ride of the day had proved to be a cop car and Martin was already envisioning himself behind bars when the driver pulled up besides him and lowered the passenger window.

“Hey there!” said a good-ol’-boy-type in the shotgun seat. “What brings you out this way on such a fine sunny day?”

“Oh, nothing, Officer,” said Martin. “I’m just waiting for a friend.”

“Your friend live around here?”

“Well, no. Not really.”

The white policeman grinned and opened the passenger door. “Why don’t you come on in and tell us all about it?”

“Uh, no, thank you,” Martin replied. “My ride will probably be coming by any second.”

“Suit yourself,” said the policeman. “I wouldn’t linger here too long if I were you. You might get picked up for hitchhiking.”

Martin thought a minute. “On second thought, maybe I can use a break from the sun right now.” He climbed into the back seat almost eagerly, and tried not to jump when he heard the door slam behind him.

Take it easy. You’re just among cops; you haven’t been charged. They still have to read you your rights so don’t worry until that happens.

“You headed down Brewster way?” the first policeman asked as he reentered the vehicle.

“No,” Martin replied. “Dallas.”

“Close enough,” said the policeman, and he signaled to his partner, a short dark Latin man.

The car took off silently and Martin thought it rather nice to be out of the sun for a change. Not only that, but the car had air conditioning too.

Then he remembered where he was and looked up at the cop riding shotgun.

The policeman smiled. “Don’t worry, son. I was young once too. I bet you thought me and Frank here were going to arrest you, didn’t you?”

“Well, the thought did cross my mind.”

“Forget it. Anyone hitchhiking nowadays has enough to worry about with all the weirdos on the road without getting hassled by the cops. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, I’m not exactly in a position to disagree with you.”

The policeman laughed. “That’s great. “ He extended his hand. “My name’s Bob Smith. This here’s my partner, Frank Gonzalez. What’s your name?”

“Martin Lucas.”

“No relation to Henry Lee, are you? No? I didn’t think so. You probably wouldn’t admit it even if you were.”

“No, I guess not.”

“So what brought you to our part of the country in the first place, Martin?”

“Well, my girlfriend and I were driving up from Austin and we had a spat. She took off with the car and left me behind at a rest stop. I’ve been on the road ever since.”

“That’s quite a shame. Don’t you have any kin here abouts that you could have called for a ride or something?”

“No, not really. Most of my folks live in Dallas and the rest live out of state.”

“That’s a real shame. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of your girlfriend coming back for you?”

“Well, if she hasn’t come back by now, I really doubt she’s going to be.”

“That’s a shame. Well, I guess you can always catch a bus from Brewster. Me and Frank are headed that way and we’d be glad to drop you off at the bus station.”

“Much obliged.”

“Oh, think nothing of it. If we can’t help each other out, who’s going to do it for us?” Bob turned and contemplated the view ahead. “Rotten weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Martin said, “not if you like sun.”

“The folks around here don’t. There’s been too much of it lately--and not enough rain. This here’s farm country. A few more weeks of weather like this and half the folks around here will be ruined.”

“That’s a shame,” said Martin, trying to sound sincere.

“Yes it is. Most of these folks have their whole lives invested in these farms--but you don’t want to hear about that--do you?”

Martin shrugged.

Bob continued “Anyway, at least they’re a lot better off than the Anderson kid.”

“The Anderson kid?”

“Yeah. Virginia Anderson. Prettiest little thing you ever did see. Would have turned sixteen last May.”

“Last May? What happened to her?”

“Went out on a date with the local quarterback. Her first one, oddly enough. Both of them missed curfew so their parents started calling around. Turned out the boy had been killed. Strangled to death.”

“Jesus. What happened to the girl?”

“Well, she was killed, too, but the killer took his time with her. Used her in every orifice, if you know what I mean, and left a few new ones to remember him by. Her parents had to request a closed casket.”

“Jesus,” Martin said again. “What could have made somebody do something like that?”

“There’s no telling, son. There’s a lot of strange people in this world. Like that guy ‘Zodiac’ out there in L.A. He killed all those people back in the ‘60’s to supposedly prevent an earthquake. The cops out there never did catch him Might even have been a her for all they know.”

“Well, how about this guy? The one who killed Virginia and her boyfriend. Did you catch up with him yet?”

“No, not really,” said Bob. He turned to look at Martin. “What makes you so sure it’s a him?”

“I dunno,” said Martin. “I just got that impression from your story. After all, you did hint that the girl was raped.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Girls can rape too; they’re just more creative about it.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose you’re the expert on this kind of thing. Who do you think did it?”

“Well, presently the most popular theory around the stationhouse is that some sort of wandering vagrant did it.”

Martin’s chest tightened. “What makes you say that?” he forced himself to say.

“Well, it obviously wasn’t anyone in town. That girl was so popular that only someone passing through would dare to commit a deed like that and not risk getting caught.”

“Oh, I see,” said Martin. “So you figure some sort of hobo did it?”

“Or a hitchhiker,” said Bob.

“Oh.” Martin started to think fast. It was bad enough to be flirting with a possible drug charge but if the cops suspected him of murder, they’d put him away for sure.

Take it easy. No one’s accusing you of anything yet. We’re living in the post-Miranda era, remember? He can’t force you to admit to something you didn’t do and anyway you were at Padre last May. Take it easy.

Martin tried to tell himself that his conscience was correct. He had nothing to worry about. He had a lot of things to feel guilty about but not murder. Not murder.

He began to relax.

Then Bob asked him, “Do you come up this way often?” and his chest tightened again.

“What makes you say that?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone.

“I don’t know,” said Bob. “It’s just the way you spoke of your girlfriend made me think you must be a frequent visitor to these parts.”

“Not me. I can’t afford it.”

“You came down this time, didn’t you?”

“Uh, that was just an one-time-only thing. Actually I’ve never been out this way before.”

Bob’s eyes hardened. “Seems to me you and your girl must have a weird relationship if this is the first time you ever visited her.”

“Well...” Nice going! “Actually she just transferred to UT this fall. Before that, she lived in Dallas.”

“Oh, I see.” The expression on Bob’s face told him he was not entirely convinced but he remained silent.

Martin turned to look at the scenery. They were coming into a different area now. There were more trees now and they came up to within a few feet of the highway. Bob suddenly pointed to something up ahead.

“There’s the spot where we found the Anderson girl,” he said. He turned toward Martin. “Would you like to see it?”

Now what? Martin wasn’t in a position to refuse.

“Okay,” he said without enthusiasm.

Frank pulled over and Bob and Martin got out. Bob let Martin go into the woods ahead of him.

Oh, great! Now Frank’s going to have the perfect opportunity to search my knapsack.

Shut up and act casual! You’ve got more important things to worry about, remember?

“It’s just a few feet ahead,” Bob said. “You can’t miss it.”

Up ahead Martin saw a clearing which looked like the spot Bob might have been talking about. He started to turn to ask Bob if that was it when he stumbled over something hidden in the leaves. A dead log, he thought--and he cursed. He started to get up, gazed at the object he had tripped over…

“What’s the matter, son?” asked Bob, coming up behind him. “Haven’t you ever seen a gen-u-wine murder site befo--Jesus!”

The object Martin had tripped over was a body--a woman’s body. The woman was blonde, apparently in her late teens or early twenties, and the stab wounds on her chest and belly were still oozing fresh blood. From her shorts and halter top, it appeared that she had been dressed for hitchhiking. If so, she apparently did not get too far.

“We better call the police,” said Martin.

Bob behind him nodded.

“Her wounds look recent. There’s probably a good chance we can catch whoever did this while he’s still in the area.”

“What makes you think we didn’t catch him already?” asked Bob.

Martin turned. “This is no time to joke. A girl has been kil--” His voice froze. Officer Bob had drawn his gun and was aiming it straight at him.

“What is this?” he said.

“Looks to me like we caught us a killer.” Bob grinned.

“You’re crazy. I’ve been with you guys all this time.”

Bob chuckled. “Oh, come now. The wounds aren’t that recent. How do I know you didn’t do this before we picked you up?”

“Are you kidding? You picked me up miles away from here.”

Bob shrugged. “You could have walked.”

“Through miles of open country? Why would I establish a stupid alibi like that? Anyone could have seen me. Even you guys--” Martin broke off. A horrifying thought just came to him.

Bob kept grinning, his gun still on Martin. “Come to think of it, you were nervous about something when we picked you up.”

Martin panicked. “That’s because I was carrying drugs in my bag. Would I admit something like that to you if I was really a murderer?”

“You might,” said Bob, and then Martin knew it was hopeless.

“All right,” he said, raising his hands. “I give up.”

Bob smiled. With his gun still on Martin, he took something from beneath his jacket and dropped it on the ground. “Pick it up!”

Martin’s blood turned cold. “You gotta be kidding!"

“Pick it up,” said Bob, and he fingered the trigger. “Don’t make me do this.”

Martin looked down at the object Officer Bob had thrown at his feet -- a butcher knife sealed in a plastic bag, its blade covered with blood. He looked at Officer Bob again and then ran.

If I make it to the woods, he thought, I can beat him. I don’t care if these woods go all the way to Texarkana, I can still outrun him. He can’t stop me. I haven’t touched the knife. There’s no way he can get away with this. No way in Hell--

Just a few feet behind him, Officer Bob cocked his gun and fired….

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

Frank was still waiting in the driver‘s seat when Bob returned from the woods. “How did it go?” he asked.

Bob smiled. “Better than I thought it would. Not only did he confess to the murders, but he admitted to being a dope fiend, too.”

He got in and Frank started the engine. “Any problems?” Frank asked.

“No, not really.” Bob turned to look at Frank. “You don’t sound too happy.”

Frank shrugged as he pulled onto the highway. “I just can’t help thinking about what’s going to happen if there’s an investigation.”

“Fuck the investigation. We had one last time and they never found out anything. Why should they find out anything this time?”

“Well, suppose they did?” asked Frank.

“Why should they? We’ll probably be public heroes . Who’s going to want to mess with a rep like that?”

Frank frowned. “I just can’t help thinking nothing good’s going to come of all this.”

Bob chuckled and looked up at the sky. “Well,” he said, pointing upwards, “something good’s already happening.”

As the patrol car disappeared down the highway, a parade of clouds began to appear in the sunny sky. Soon they began to darken. As the first raindrops fell, a clap of thunder could be heard echoing across the landscape like celestial applause. There was no lightning to accompany it.

Fanfic Friday

"King Kong: An Alternative Ending"

"It wasn't the airplanes that killed him. It was the corrupt workings of our profit-driven economic system."

"You mean--"

"That's right. It was booty that killed the beast."

Cuento de Mi Id

“Final Vengeance”

(This was my first attempt at writing a short story for publication. I would like to think that I have improved a bit since I first wrote this but I guess that's up to you all, the readers, to judge. Anyway, I hope you all like it.)

The moment Joe Mesey reentered the old neighborhood, he knew that his coming back was a mistake. Not for any foolish, sentimental reasons -- it’s hard to be nostalgic about growing up in a slum -- but because his return was all too easy. He had expected an all-out attack the minute he entered his old stomping grounds; instead, he was simply ignored.

As a member of mankind’s true oldest profession, a self-styled professional assassin who euphemistically referred to his calling as the “retirement business” and who commanded top dollar for a kill, this was a bit of an insult. He had expected a neighborhood crawling with cops -- or worse; instead, he found an area of deserted streets and neglected tenements -- a place seemingly as devoid of life as the dark side of the moon.

It was an eerie feeling. Had Joe been a lesser man, he might have turned the car around and searched for more populous surroundings. But he was on a mission here -- a personal mission. He had returned to this neighborhood to kill a man. A man whom he had killed a long time ago...

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

The room was filled with more candles than a religious shrine and their acrid scent and flickering light made Joe uneasy. He kept peering into the shadows of the old man’s living room as if expecting to see something lurking there. Nothing was there, of course, but the way the old man kept bowing his head and peering into his little grey book made Joe uneasy. And he hated being made uneasy. Especially by a little old man who was destined within a matter of minutes to meet the Maker about which he endless prattled.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the realization that the old man had said something. He looked up at the white-haired figure and smiled inwardly at the idea of this little man in the black suit and skullcap doing him bodily harm. As powerful as he may have once been, now he could not harm a flea.

“Pardon me, he said. “I didn’t hear that last question.”

“I was asking whether you had considered the consequences of your actions, Mr. Mesey,” the old man said in a voice that was stern yet moderate.

“Of course, I have. I simply waste you and then my boss gives me a lot of money. What’s to consider?”

“Hasn’t the thought of punishment ever entered your mind?”

“Not really. The cops won’t be able to prove a thing, and nothing you can do can change that.”

“I wasn’t talking about earthly justice.”

“Oh, really?”

“Doesn’t it ever bother you, Mr. Mesey -- the number of men you’ve killed?”

“Of course not. Why should it?”

“Fear of the dead is a centuries-old tradition,” said the old man. “Some say it dates back to Neanderthal man.”

“Well, that may be the case with some people, but I’m more like a surgeon. I live with death every day. It doesn’t scare me a bit.”

“If I were you, I would be scared. Murder is the supreme taboo; you have committed it not once, not twice, but times beyond counting.”

“You’re one to talk,” said Joe. “Before you retired, you were in the rackets, too. You know how it is.”

“Yes, I know how it is,” said the old man, gazing at his folded hands. “But I never killed anyone directly. And when the ghosts of those I did kill indirectly began to prey upon my conscience, I knew it was time to leave.”

The old man looked Joe in the eye. “But it’s still not too late for you. The powers that be love a repentant sinner as long as he’s sincere.”

Joe smiled. “That’s nice talk for a dying man but I intend to live a long time.”

“Maybe not as long as you think.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have taken the liberty of making certain arrangements in case my little talk with you should fail.”

“Oh, I see. Like a sealed letter to the D.A. left in the hands of your attorney?”

“Nothing so crude, I assure you,” said the old man. “Besides, I’m sure a man in your profession has sufficient connections to get such a letter swiftly discredited. No, my arrangements are of a more final and irrevocable nature.”

Joe laughed. “If that’s meant to scare me, it didn’t work.”

“It wasn’t meant to scare you -- now.”

“Listen, old man,” said Joe, pulling out his gun. “I’ve had about enough of this Jewish superstition nonsense you’ve been giving me.”

“Jewish? Who said it was Jewish?” The old man’s voice took on a sepulchral tone. “The faith I follow is older than Judaism.”

That’s when Joe’s gun went off. The first bullet hit the old man in the chest; the two followup shots hit him in the belly and the groin. Joe never knew whether his shots were the result of anger or blind panic, but the results were the same. One dead Jew (or so-called Jew, if his last words were correct) who had time to do little more than glare and mumble an inaudible curse before succumbing to the permanent paralysis of death. Hardly the formidable adversary he had anticipated.

“I hoe you prepared well for the afterlife, old man,” Joe said as he stood up. “Because you’re going to have all eternity to enjoy it.”

He left the house quietly, but not before giving some thought to the arrangements the old man had mentioned. However, search as he did, he could find no trace of any hidden cameras or tape recorders in the old man’s residence...

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

The old apartment house where he used to live was boarded up now -- a victim of urban renewal. Gazing at the crumbling exterior brought back many memories for Joe. Memories of living with his old man -- an embittered widower with five children to raise. A man who had sought refuge in a whiskey bottle and who used his youngest child -- Joe -- as a punching bag until the day Joe fought back and caved in his father’s skull with a tire iron. Yes, the place did bring back a lot of old memories -- none of them good.

He smiled grimly and attacked the boards on the front door with a tire iron. As the ancient nails reluctantly began to yield, he once more looked around the neighborhood, expecting any minute to see a cop -- or something -- appear around the corner to question him about his activity. But none appeared. Joe seemed to be the only person around in what should have been a crowded slum neighborhood. It was as if he was in the land of the dead.

Joe shuddered. He was normally not an imaginative person -- in his line of business, you couldn’t afford to be -- yet something about that last phrase -- and the way it popped into his mind, unsummoned -- made him uneasy. Especially when he looked back upon certain recent events...

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

The first clue Joe had that the old man‘s arrangements were not just talk occurred in Chicago. He had heard the old line about being able to meet almost anyone in the world by standing on State Street, but he never expected to see Vinny McCloskey there. And for a very good reason -- Vinny had died six months ago.

When he first confronted Vinny with this information, Vinny seemed as shocked as Joe. His eyes went blank; he appeared to be remembering something.

Then he remembered.

“You!” he screamed. “You’re the one who killed me.”

Within an instant, Vinny’s hands were around Joe’s neck, choking him with the strength of the violently insane and the insanely violent. Vinny was a big man; his hands were the size of steam irons. Killing Joe should have been as easy a task for him as cleaning fish. But it did not work out that way. Joe had been around too long not to be prepared for the unexpected; he freed himself with a blow to the groin -- then pulled his newly-purchased revolver and fired a bullet meant for a prominent state witness into Vinny’s chest.

At this point, Vinny smiled -- the vacant smile customarily associated with the hopelessly insane -- and then he collapsed. For a moment, Joe was aghast. After all, even the most blasé hitman does not meet dead people on the street every day. Then he took Vinny’s pulse. The bullet wound Vinny had just received was not necessarily a mortal one, yet he was already dead.

Needless to say, the witness job was blown. No one had witnessed the confrontation between Joe and Vinny, but that didn’t mean the cops would not be interested if they ever caught wind of it.

And what of the body? Although Joe managed to safely dispose of it without being seen, that still did not account for its presence. Surely he had not just killed the real Vinny; after all, the real Vinny was supposed to be feeding the worms in a South Side cemetery. That meant the man he had killed was an imposter, no doubt made up to look like Vinny with the help of a clever plastic surgeon. But an imposter with Vinny’s height and build? Possible, Joe thought, but not probable. Which meant...

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

The last board came off with an angry screech. Now the door was open and he could seek shelter from the open street. Yet Joe was not satisfied.

If he was right, the man he came to kill would be lurking inside, safe from the summer heat. It unnerved him to realize how matter-of-fact he was handling the whole situation. Had his own boss told him a similar story, he would not have believed him -- even if his life depended upon it. Yet here he was, standing outside his old apartment house, treating his long-dead father as a potential adversary…

He pushed the door open with his foot, holding the tire iron ready in case of attack. None came. Inside the entrance hall was nothing but dust and silence.

As Joe stepped inside, he again held the tire iron ready to ward off a sudden attack. But -- again -- none came.

Perhaps I only dreamed the first incident, he thought. Perhaps I was wrong and the old man’s curse was only a figment of my imagination.

Then Joe thought again and shook his head. For he remembered Frank Lupesco...

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

It had happened at a men’s room in the Miami Airport. Joe was combing his hair before boarding a flight to San Juan when he felt himself being seized from behind. Without warning, he was whirled around and thrown against the opposite wall. Before he could recover, a knife was at his throat, and on the nape of his neck, he could feel the hot breath of the man standing directly behind him.

That’s when Joe moved. Stomping down hard where he guessed his assailant’s left foot to be, he reached up at the same time and grabbed the knife-bearing hand. Its skin felt cold and clammy -- like a dead frog -- but he did not let that prevent him from bending the hand back against the waist until the knife dropped. And the bones broke.

Joe’s assailant was curiously silent for a man who should have screaming in agony.

Instead, the only thing Joe heard was “It’s not that easy, kid.”

The voice was familiar, but not the face. When Joe turned around, he found himself staring into a bleached parody of a human face, the type of scarred and tattered face you’d expect to see on a man who had spent the last seven months on the bottom of the Hudson River, not on a living person.

Then the man smiled -- if you could call what he did smiling -- and Joe recognized the familiar lop-sided grin of his former mentor, Frank Lupesco. It had been Lupesco who had gotten Joe his first job in the “retirement business.” Frank had taught Joe everything he knew. Taught him so well that when Frank retired and decided to turn state’s evidence, Joe was the one chosen to bring him down. And he did. Seven months ago.

And here Frank was, standing before him, smiling as if his broken wrist was a mere scratch.

“This one’s for you, kid.”

With frightening suddenness, Frank lunged forward and grabbed Joe by the throat with his other hand. Pressing his other forearm against Joe’s throat as well, he pinned Joe against the wall and started to squeeze. Joe’s face began to turn blue; he was running out of time. In desperation, he punched his opponent in the stomach. His fist went all the way through.

As Frank let go, Joe was too relieved to do anything but stand and watch Frank’s body collapse in upon itself like a punctured balloon. Too late he thought of questioning him; by then, his body was merely a pile of decaying flesh awaiting disposal.

That’s when Joe realized that the plot against him was more than simply an elaborate scheme of vengeance. Even the best plastic surgeon could not have instilled such qualities into a Frank Lupesco lookalike. The man who did had to be a person who had experience dealing with the supernatural. A man who not only had such experience but who also possessed a grudge against him. Somebody like -- like -- the old man!

By then, the old man’s name had faded away from Joe’s memory, but he still remembered that scene in the room full of candles, and he also remembered the old man’s ominous last words.

At first, it seemed ridiculous -- an old-fashioned curse at work in the twentieth century. And yet it was the only explanation which made sense. If only there was some way to break the curse...

Then it came to him. The curse was operating in a pattern: confront Joe with all his previous victims, in the order of their deaths, and have the attacks increase in intensity. Considering the number of people Joe had killed in his lifetime, such a pattern could easily wear him down before it ended. And sooner or later one of the victims was bound to get lucky and kill him.

But suppose he short-circuited the curse. Instead of waiting for the victims to go after him, he would go after the victims. And the most obvious one to pursue would be the first one -- his father. The only one he had killed for free...

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

The sun was going down now, and there was still no sign of his old man. He smiled at the irony -- the old man had intended to avenge his own death by using Joe’s own old man to kill him. Perhaps he had been counting on the power of nostalgia to prevent Joe from delivering the fatal blow. Well, it won’t work, Joe thought. There was no love lost between him and his father. He killed him before and he could kill him again.

Then it occurred to him -- what if this was exactly what the old man had wanted? For Joe to come up here to New York and face the ultimate challenge? Joe had not been attacked since that day in Miami. The trip up here had been way too easy -- almost as if he was being set up.

He scoffed at this thought. There was nothing to fear. He had a loaded revolver in the highest caliber and absolutely no reason not to use it. Everything he had experienced so far told him that the old man’s walking cadavers were still vulnerable to gunshots. There was nothing to fear.

And then he heard it. A quiet, scraping sound like dead leaves rustling across the sidewalk. No footsteps -- just a quiet, rustling sound. Then the doorknob turned. Joe slowly drew out his revolver and aimed it at the front door. This is going to be easier than I had anticipated, he thought. Then the door opened...

Joe’s first thought was that it was all a trick. That the old man had anticipated his actions and sent a stranger to take him by surprise. After all, Joe might not remember every single man he killed, but he certainly would have remembering icing a woman. Then he looked beyond the woman’s black dress and veil -- recognized a face which he had seen only once before, in a wedding portrait kept by his father because it was the last picture taken of her before she died in childbirth. And suddenly he knew why the old man was so certain that Joe would not be able to kill her.

He had time to say only one word before the first of many blows fell: “Mother.”

Cuento de Mi Id

“Love Among the Runes”

(This was one of my many early attempts to write a proper horror story. It is surprising how dated many of the pop culture references are, which is something I consider weird since I did not originally intend this story to be a period piece. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it.)

“But I love you,” Kenneth said, tugging at her coat.

“But I don’t love you,” said Katherine. “That’s just the point.” She pulled her coat out of Kenneth’s grasp and continued on her way.

“Why?” asked Kenneth. “Why don’t you love me?”

“I don’t know ‘why’ I don’t love you,” said Katherine. “I just don’t. It’s not something you can make happen just like that.” She snapped her fingers for effect.

Kenneth just shook his head. “I don’t get it. I love you. Why don’t you love me?”

Because true love is not like exchanging gifts at the office Christmas party, she wanted to say. But she didn’t say it. Somehow she couldn’t bear to hurt him by being that harsh with him, even though he deserved it. Perhaps she really did love him, after all.

Don’t be ridiculous, she thought. Just because I don’t want to hurt his feelings doesn’t mean I love him, and even if it did, I certainly don’t love him in the sense that he means. In any event, love isn’t something you receive upon demand. How did that song go? “Lose your love when you say the word ‘mine’”? Or was that “you can’t hurry love”? It didn’t matter. The fact still remained that you can’t force someone to love you. Yet Kenneth was determined to violate that basic law of nature.

He clutched at her coat one more time. “Won’t you please reconsider?”

Katherine forcibly pulled the coat fabric out of his hands. “I have reconsidered,” she said. “And the answer’s still no.”

Kenneth started to step toward her again, then reconsidered and stepped back. Good, thought Katherine. He’s learning.

Kenneth’s mouth opened as if he was starting to say something but he apparently thought better of that, too, and closed it. “I hope you never fall in love with someone who doesn’t love you back, Katherine,” he finally said.

“I’m sure I won’t,” she replied.

Kenneth couldn’t resist trying one last time. “I really do love you, you know.”

“Oh, please,” Katherine muttered under her breath. She turned on her heel and stalked off toward the parking lot. If Kenneth wanted to play the role of the tragic lover, that was his business. But Katherine had no interest in sticking around to play the cold-hearted love interest. She had her own life to lead.

Halfway to her way, a cold November breeze induced her to put her hands in her pockets. As she did so, she discovered a small piece of paper in her left coat pocket. Kenneth’s handiwork, obviously. He must have slipped it into her pocket while she was taking to him. No wonder he had been tugging at her coat so much.

She pulled out the piece of paper and unfolded it. She might as well have left it in her pocket for all the good it did her; the note itself was obviously written in a foreign tongue, in letters so strange Katherine could not even recognize what language it was written in. Nice going, Kenneth, she thought. You go to all this trouble to slip your favorite lady a love letter, and you don’t even bother to write it in English. Very impressive.

She crumbled up the note and tossed it away. Within seconds, the wind had caught it, and the note was blown halfway across the parking lot. Perfect ending to a perfect day, she thought. Then she reached into her purse for her car keys…

By the time she got home, there was a blinking red light on her answering machine. No way I’m answering that, she thought. You don’t have to be the Amazing Kreskin to guess who that was.

She hurriedly undressed and took a quick shower. While she was in the shower, she heard the phone ring yet again, but she ignored it. The phone rang yet a third time after she got out of the shower.

She let the machine get it again.

“Katherine,” said the voice on the machine. ”You must call me back as soon as possible. My number’s 972-435-9075. It’s a matter of great importance. Please call me back.”

Katherine sighed. Everything was a matter of great importance to Kenneth. Didn’t he have a life of his own? He probably did, she realized upon reflection. The problem was that at least half of it revolved around dreams of her. As if she was supposed to be flattered that Kenneth picked her to be his dream girl. Face it, Kenneth. You’re no Brad Pitt. And anyway, I don’t want a man who loves only me. I’m not sure what I want, but it’s definitely not you.

She thought about the party she would be attending tomorrow night. The odds were that the men she met there would be no improvement over Kenneth, but there was always a chance. And besides, where is it written that you had to “settle” for second-best? Katherine was always having to “settle” for things. Well, no more. This time she would take control of her life.

The phone rang again. This time she picked it up.

It was Kenneth. “Thank God you’re home. They’ve been watching us, you see, and they must have slipped something in your coat pocket--”

“What’s with this ‘they’, Kenneth?” she interrupted. “Is this another scheme of yours to get me to go out with you? Because if it is--”

“No, it isn’t,” Kenneth replied. “I swear. It’s just that they’ve been following me for the last two days, and just tonight, I noticed that they’re starting to follow you, and--”

“Who’s ‘they,’ Kenneth? Some schoolboy chum of yours?”

“No, they’re this -- Well, you won’t believe me when I tell you this, but I used to belong to this group, see, and they were really into mythology, see--”

“Is this going to take long?” Katherine asked.

“No, it’s not. You see, they’re after you now because they’ve seen us together, and they must think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend. Anyway, I saw one of them hanging around the coatroom today and --”

“And then you conveniently remembered that in time to give you an excuse to come over to my house,” said Katherine. “Thanks, Kenneth, but no thanks. I’m not going out with you no matter what silly story you conjure up. And stop flattering yourself. Your friends must be the least observant people on Earth if they think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend because at no time did I ever give you or any third party any reason to think that we were. Now leave me alone before I call the police.”

“But what about the not--?” Katherine hung up on him.

Great, she thought. Now Kenneth was inventing conspiracy theories to get close to her. If this kept up, she might have to seriously consider changing jobs. Surely her current paycheck wasn’t worth this hassle.

The doorbell rang. Katherine checked the peephole. No one on the front porch. Probably high school kids pulling another prank. If she ever got her hands on that Kenneth…

The phone rang again. It was Kenneth, of course, mumbling something about a note in her pocket. If he was so sure someone else had slipped a note into her pocket, why didn’t he tell her about it earlier? He must have seen her throw it away. That’s why he was so upset. Well, he should start getting used to rejection, thought Katherine. She certainly had.

She turned the TV on and sorted her mail by the light of a Cheers rerun. Just bills and junk mail again. She sighed.

At least the sound of canned laughter drowned out Kenneth’s voice. Maybe she’ll get lucky, and he’ll run out of quarters.

The doorbell rang again. Those darn kids again. Or maybe it was Kenneth. Maybe she should get her mace... No, she could handle him.

She peered out the peephole again. The porch was empty. It was kids, she thought. Or was it? Maybe she should start taking Kenneth’s bizarre story seriously. No, that’s exactly what he was expecting her to do. Perhaps he had set this whole thing up as part of some sadistic prank. You never could tell. Sure, Kenneth looked like a nice guy on the surface, but underneath? Who could tell? Remember Jodie Foster? Forget it. If Kenneth thought sadistic pranks were going to drive her into his arms, he had a long wait coming. If he kept it up, she‘d just call the cops on him. She wasn‘t born yesterday, you know.

The phone rang again. She turned the sound up on the TV. There. That showed him.

Then the doorbell rang again. Katherine got her mace. Next time it rings, she thought, I‘ll be ready.

She glanced out the front window. She thought she saw a white-faced figure dressed in black, but it turned out to be a piece of paper stuck on a bush. Then the wind blew, and the paper vanished.

The phone rang. This time she picked it up.

“If you don‘t stop harassing me--” she started.

“Katherine,” Kenneth interrupted, “you must get out of that house. They know where you live.”

“I‘m warning you, Kenneth--”

“No, I‘m warning you. There‘s still a chance if you still have that note. Just give it to me and I can--”

“I threw it away.”

“What?”” Kenneth sounded stunned.

“I threw it away. And I must say that I‘m getting sick and tired of all these pranks you keep pulling, Kenneth. I know you feel rejected, but I thought that you would be a better man than that.”

“But I‘m not -- Oh, I see. They‘re doing it.”

“Who‘s ‘they,’ Kenneth?”

”The guys I told you about. The ones who are into black mag--”

Katherine hung up on him.

The doorbell rang again. This time Katherine strode right up to the door and pulled it open in time to catch a miniature figure kneeling on the doormat.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

The kid looked up. “That man down the street told me to do this.” The kid pointed down the block.

Katherine walked out onto the porch and caught a glimpse of a solitary figure standing beneath a distant streetlamp. Kenneth, no doubt.

“Go away,” she said to the kid.

She locked the door behind her and ran to the phone. That was it for Kenneth, she thought. Now she was going to sic the police on him.

The doorbell rang.

She ignored it.

Someone tapped on her window. She ignored that, too.

An operator answered and put her on hold. Just like a Tonight Show joke, she thought.

The tapping grew louder.

She turned and saw Kenneth at the front window.

The operator came back on the line.

“Come quick,” she said. “There’s a man outside and he’s trying to break into the house.”

She hurriedly gave the operator her name and address and then hung up. Kenneth was gone from the front window. But he could still be outside, she thought.

The doorbell rang again.

“Go away!” she shouted.

Something thin and white emerged from beneath the front door. It was a note. “Get out of the house,” it said.

She crumbled it up and threw it away.

Then the phone rang. She ignored it. She thought about the back door. She rushed back to check on it.

When she got back to the living room, the doorbell was ringing again. She peered through the peephole. There was a cop on the front porch, peering into the bushes.

“Thank God,” she muttered.

She hurriedly unlocked the door. “You wouldn’t believe what has been going on here tonig--” she started to say.

Then the cop turned toward her. The first thing she saw was a face that looked like a crumbled sheet of paper.