“Thank you for rescuing me.”
“It was the door.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s your own personal door – it’s with you all the time now, sort of surrounds you.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow!”
“Yep.”
“Thank God!  Now I’m free!”

A Waste of Good Brandy

by Joyce Melton

I got up because I want to write this down.

- The Hidden Hazard -

- Of Being A Stuntman -

-By-

PattieBFine

* Chapter Four *

-The Creation Of Annie Begins-

- The Hidden Hazard -

- Of Being A Stuntman -

-By-

 PattieBFine

* Chapter Three *

Meeting Of The Minds-

 Or, Danny gets Snowed!

* Chapter Two *

The Show Must Go On!

       “Well guys, looks like you can start packing it up.” said the production manager, Bob Wellington.

This story is of a different parallel dimension, though it's much like ours. The technical advances are of a more biological nature and the plant life looks the same but has much different and more friendly properties for the humans that live there. In this one, only some of the females even smoke at all. It's not even hazardous for them... in fact it's loaded with beneficial natural hormonal stuff! Only the wise elder women even know of the benefits of it. Such stuff when smoked makes men ill in the mornings for days... naturally, for the first week or so at least... and they leave it well enough alone, though only such women and doctors... know the why of it.

- The Hidden Hazard -

- Of Being A Stuntman -

-By- PattieBFine

*Chapter One*

Where's The Beef?

It's December 1985. Jack Nemo has had no sleep for several nights in a row. It has been one weird interruption after another for this elderly knight of the road. Terribly fatigued he boards a city bus, simply hoping to catch a few z's out of the rain. But little does he realize that this bus---and existence as he knows it---are about to take a sudden detour into a chaotic realm of unrelenting strangeness, presided over by the chthonic entity known as...

In which a mystery of long standing is solved, mewling writers and chirping critics battle for the last laugh, and one storyteller discovers that there are worse fates for satire and its practitioners than closing on Saturday night...

 Roamin' Holiday or 'Hare today, gone tomorrow'

I'm missing my friend Betty Sue. Oh, don't get me wrong she ain't dead or nothin'. But she did get herself into one heap o' trouble this past week. And now she's got extra chores and ain't got time to come and play with me. What kind of trouble you ask? More than you can shake a stick at!

Greased Frightening and Pink Slips

1.

I had the car, so it must be within the last couple years, but I don't know the highway. I was a long way from anywhere, and I have a memory I think must have been a little earlier, of driving through a strange flat land with dead trees and oily puddles of lakes. But this one picks up where I'm eating dinner in a large log house with an elderly couple. I don't recognize them, I think we must have just met, and they're being very hospitable. Earlier the man was showing me something in the garage that he was proud of. A computer-controlled milling machine, maybe? Maybe it was more like a jigsaw. I think he had built it himself. He was using it to make stupid kitschy plywood cut-outs and she would douse them in acrylic latex. Such a waste. The room was decorated with the cut-outs and I had seen more in the yard.

I have been gone a long time, so you may want to read a previous chapter to catch up with what is going on.  I am sorry for the delay, but I hope to be able to keep current. I may modify it later, but, as for now -- here is the new installment.

The Farm Town Chronicles

Home on The Bananaza

The following few weeks find the anti magic law passed by the legislators of the Survivor. Almost immediately many warriors are pressed into service to enforce this new law. As arrests mount and homeowners find their floor cleaners, spelled candles and cool boxes impounded even while containing their meats, milk for the children, and other perishable food items, opposition to the law grows.

Note: This is from my life its non-fictional auto biography, Since my real Diary from the time are actually long gone I had to piece together my memories of the events for those 2 days.

 Sylvia Plath's The Outhouse In Winter.

===A POEM===
 Laika Pupkino ~~~ 2009.
 

It's not so easy to find a primitive, backward culture anymore. Satellite constellations can lay down a gigahertz on every square kilometer of the Earth's surface and where there's a signal there will be receivers. We need not even mention the orbitals. The painters may be naked - they may be using mud pigments and hair brushes. You might mistake them for a tiny group of prehistoric people somehow cut off from the march of progress for thousands of years. That would be a mistake. Machines dug this cave, the hair for the brushes was grown by bacteria in a bottle, and the design taking shape on the wall does not represent an animal to be hunted. Not exactly.

The few prisoners taken from the battle in the garden have had their possessions removed for inspection. These include several curious items which have numbered buttons on them and appear to serve no useful purpose.

by Matthew Skala

My cat watches me from his patch of sunlight. No familiar spirit this year; just an ordinary cat, black and sleek and wise in the manner of cats. Does he feel my pain? I have heard that cats have a similar disease, a slow waning of the body's defenses. But can he comprehend my unique fear?

When I was young and immortal I feared nothing; but in eight centuries I have grown wiser. Even as I advanced my position, removing my enemies one by one, I was learning the price of such advancement. Wizards have long memories, I know this; even dead ones. I fear not death but who waits for me on the other side.

Early the following morning Alexandra is up and preparing to teach once again. This time she has an agenda which must be addressed. Defensive spells. Stasis might prove to be too difficult for many if not all of the children. However the immobilizing "freezing" spell is something they could all handle.

The news that an easy solution to the identification problem for public gateway security would not be rapidly forthcoming was not happily received. Experiments with the automated gateways were also yielding frustration of sort.

Kayla and Alice continue to provide more healings after supper has ended. Andrew, Alexandra and Rachel provide energy to assist permitting many more of the minor healings to be completed quickly with all touched by either Kayla or Alice. Now inquiries are made as to unmentioned injuries which may be examined tomorrow and possibly healed or, at least, reduced in severity.

Theodore the White swung his sword mightily, cleaving the zombie in two. It disintegrated in a dry explosion of dust and bone, choking him. Another of the monsters reached for him from behind, forcing him to reverse a short way and use his elbow barbs to fend if off. He felt the spike pierce rotten flesh, and heard the sickly sound of trapped air escaping from the zombies’ gut.

Luncheon finished, the presentation of the first of those to be healed begins.

"Wait a minute!" I hear him say from beyond the door, wherever that is.

He comes back in, brings a chair, the two other men strip my clothes off me, tie me to the chair and put a bindfoild and gag on me.

"There!", he says, "That ought to do it!"

"This is getting bad,"  I think.

He looks at me.  I look away.  He grabs my chin and forces my face to where I have to look at him.  I close my eyes.  He slaps me.
“Keep your eyes open!”  He says.
I comply.
“What are you!”   He yells.
“What do you mean?” I reply.
“What are you!”  He yells louder.

[This chapter contains some violence. It's pretty heavy, but not too bad, in my opinion. If it is too much, I apologize, but I don't know the standards you're used to here.]

It’s Jacques that goes forward to meet them.  The men, in camouflage fatigues, brush right by him.  He’s saying “I have authorization by the Israeli Antiquities . . . “