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Today's offering is not a story-at least, I don't think it is-but after the thing I posted yesterday(The Long Road), I realized I liked the Clair and Squirt, and I wanted to know more about them. I seem to keep writing stories of young spunky heroines in over their heads, so maybe that's the idea I'm stumbling towards. Who knows where this will all wind up?

Jimmy Joe couldn’t believe his luck. He had just stopped the truck to take a leak, when he spotted the girl waiting by the corner of the store. She was as pretty as Easter morning, in her cutoff shorts and Hello Kitty tee shirt, couldn’t have been much more than six years old. He was already getting hard-on.
“Hey, there, little girl, are you lost?” He bent down to get a better look at her.
The next sound he heard was the rack of a shotgun, followed by a contralto voice.
“Do you hear the crows call your name?” Clair asked, “I’d be happy to send you on your way.”
“What the f…” Jimmy started to turn, saw a bright flash.
“Oh, gross!” Squirt found herself wearing the overspray of blood and brains. “What did you do that for?”
“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you. It was creepy.” Clair said.
“How would you know?” Squirt asked, “You couldn’t see his face.”
“And now I never will,” Clair laughed, a little too long.
“This is my favorite shirt.” Squirt complained.
“We’ll get you a new one.” Clair rolled the corpse, found his keys, held them up. “Bingo. Get in the truck.”
Click, click. Whirr whirr whirr.
“Do you even know how to drive?” Squirt asked.
“Of course I can drive,” Clair said, “I even have a learner’s permit.”
Click, click, Stomp on the gas, Whir Va-Rom!
“See?” Clair said, “I can totally drive.”
It took some time to figure the gear thingie, but they had some fun bumping into things, and finally made it to the highway.
“We have half a tank of gas.” Clair said.
“How far will that take us?” Squirt asked.
“Don’t know,” Clair said, “I guess we’ll find out.”
The drove northbound on 75. Watching the empty landscapes flash by. There was nothing on the radio but static, of course. After about an hour, Squirt got bored and opened the glove box.
“Hey,” she said, “Look at all these pictures.”
Dozens of polaroids spilled out. Clair took a glance, and swerved off the road. The truck ran through the tall grass, taking some saplings out before Clair got it stopped and into park.
“Oh, my God.” Clair said, looking at the pictures. So many pictures, each of them of a different girl, all about Squirt’s age. Pictures of their faces. They all looked so peaceful, with their eyes closed, like they were sleeping. Sleeping forever.
“Oh my God,” Clair said, “So many.” Her hand went to her mouth, and she bolted out of the truck. She stumbled to the side of the truck and threw up.
“Clair, what’s wrong? Squirt asked, as she climbed out of the truck.
“Every time I think the world can’t get any more horrible,” Clair said, crying, “It just…does!” She sagged to the ground. “I don’t know what to do anymore, I don’t know how to keep you safe, I…”
“You do keep me safe, Clair.” Squirt said, squatting down to comfort her, “You’re a good mommy.”
“I’m not old enough to be a mommy. I’m not smart enough, I don’t know…I don’t know how to protect you from a world full of monsters.”
“It’s okay,” Squirt said, “It’s going to be okay.”.

Blog KenGreen

Once again, I tell you, if you don't have any ideas, steal somebody elses's. Like Shakespeare did. All his plots came from plays written hundreds of years before he was born. So this isn't theft, it's carrying on a fine literary tradition.

Hot Night in Denmark

“Oh, great, my boots are ruined,” I said, “Kathy, what are we doing here?”
“We’re detecting, Veronica,” Kathy said in the deadpan voice she uses while detecting, “That’s what we do.”
“Why can’t we go detect at the mall?” I asked, “I don’t like it here. It’s all squishy.”
We were in a peat bog, deep in the moors, and those boots were stretch suede. They made my legs look amazing, and they were ruined.
Kathy turned to me and said, “You should wear more practical clothing. Who wears a sundress to a murder investigation?”
“Murder?” I asked, “What murder? There’s no murder here!”
“There’s always a murder,” Kathy said, “We just need to find it.” She pulled her stupid magnifying lens out of the stupid pocket of her stupid biker jacket and peered at me through it.
“Besides,” she said, “You look like a piñata.”
“I like wearing colors, you…biker lumberjack.” I said, “Besides, I’m celebrating my Latin heritage.”
“What Latin heritage?” Kathy’s brow furrowed. “I thought you were blasian.”
“I’m blasiantino, thank you very much,” I informed her.
“Is that a new thing?” she asked me.
“Yeah, I’m trying it out.”
“Well, you look fabulous,” she said, stating the obvious and turning away, “But we have detecting to do. The games afoot, or whatever.” She walked away, her Doc Martins making squish squish sounds in the soft wet peat. I followed, because that’s what I do. I’m the sidekick, which makes no sense.
I’m the pretty one, after all. If anything, she should be following me.
So we squished like, freaking forever and she said “Aha!”, and picked a walking stick up off the ground. “A clue, Veronica!”
“Are you sure it’s a clue?” I asked.
“Of course it’s a clue,” she said, “I said ‘Aha’, didn’t I?”
Well you can’t argue with logic like that. “So what does the stick tell you, my flame-haired beauty?”
“It tells me that its owner is careless, and prone to lose things,” she intoned.
My girl bits quivered. It’s really sexy, how smart she is.
“Observe,” she said, presenting the stick to me, “The shaft is oak, and the handle is carved elk horn. What does that tell you?”
“That the owner has no taste, and hates animals?” I speculated.
“Very good, Ronni. Now look at these markings…”
“Those are tooth marks,” I told her, “Made by an enormous, angry black mastiff.”
“Come now, Veronica.” Kathy chided me, “How can you possibly know what color the mastiff was?”
“Because he’s twenty feet behind you, and he looks like he wants to kill us.” I informed her.
“He’s…” Kathy turned.
The mastiff stood there, big as a pony, and growled his growly growl. Hate blazed in eyes like the fires of hell.
“Wow,” Kathy said, “That is one big ass dog,” she deduced. Or detected. I get those two confused.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “Throw the stick, Kathy.”
“But,” Kathy said, “It’s a clue…”
“Throw the damn stick!” I yelled, “As far as you can!”
Kathy threw the stick. The demon-hound chased it.
I grabbed Kathy’s shoulder and yelled, “Run!”
We ran for our lives across the boggy marsh. Swirling mists of mist swirled around us, closing in on us like…something scary. And still we ran. I feared my lungs would burst, when Kathy stopped.
“Ronni,” she said, “Where’s the car?”
Still gasping for breath, I looked around me, seeing nothing but the damned mist.
“Forget the car,” I said, “Where are we?”
She knelt, stuck her finger into the soft, squishy ground, examined it, sniffed it, then shrugged and stuck it in her mouth. Then she stood up, wiped her hand on her jeans.
“Denmark,” she said, “Thirteenth century. And that dog was pregnant. Do you have a breath mint?”
“Kathy, how could you possibly know…”
“The fact that you have to ask that question is why you are the sidekick.”
Damn her and her logic. “But how did we get to Denmark?” I asked.
“Why are you asking me?” Kathy replied, “You were driving. I suggested you use the satnav, but no…”
Yeah, Kath. Make it my fault. I tune her out when she starts talking nonsense. We squished halfway across Denmark. A castle emerged from the mists. Not a nice, pretty castle, like Cinderella’s at Disney World, but a crappy tan-brown pile of bricks with some windows and pointy bits.
“Kronborg,” Kathy announced.
“But how…” I asked.
“Wikipedia,” she answered.
“How…” I asked.
Kathy pointed to herself, “Detective,” she pointed to me, “Sidekick. Honestly, how many times must we have this conversation?”
Argh! Infuriating woman, why am I her thrall? We walked through the front gate, as if we were respectable guests. As castles go, it was kind of a dump. There wasn’t even a gift shop. We wandered around and wound up on the battlements. Two guards, a short, fat one, and a tall, skinny one, were standing around, making sure nobody stole the castle. I approached them.
“Excusez-moi,” I said, “Où se trouvent les toilettes de femmes?” I had been walking all day, I needed to pee.
“Why are you speaking French?” the short, fat guard asked, “We’re Danes, eh?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” the tall, skinny one chimed in, “We’re Danish Danes, in Demark, eh?”
“Then why are you speaking Canadian? Kathy asked.
“That’s none of your business. Do you ladies want something?” Tall-Skinny asked.
“My associate wants a bathroom.” Kathy said, “I would like to know why that man over there…” she pointed past the guards, “…is glowing.”
Short-fat turned and looked. “Oh, him. That’s the ghost. He’s here every night.”
“A ghost?” Kathy asked, pushing past the guards, “Now that’s interesting.” She strode toward the apparition, and the rest of us followed. She just has that effect on people. The ghost stood there, glowing and repeating gestures that had no obvious purpose.
“Is that all he does?” I asked, “He just stands there and twitches?”
“What do you want him to do, a soft-shoe dance?” Short-Fat asked, “Americans.” He said the last part like a curse, which made me suspect that he was actually French.
“Hey! My country won’t even exist for another four hundred years,” I pointed out, “You can’t hate us already.”
He gave a Gallic shrug, “Why wait till the last minute?”
“I still need to pee,” I told him, “It would be a real shame if I were to defile this lovely castle you have here.”
“The garderobe is just past the gargoyle, next to the trebuchet,” he said, pointing the way.
“Merci beaucoup,” I said, strutting past him.
“Bon…pissery,” he said.
Danish bathrooms are positively medieval, and that is all I wish to say on that topic.
When I got back, Kathy was trying to imitate the ghost’s gestures. It looked awkward and absurd, like it always does when white people dance.
“Have you learned anything, Sweetie?” I asked her, as I wiped my hands on Short-Fat’s back. Yeah, I’m passive-aggressive, I admit it.
“Yes,” she said, “This is the ghost of the recently deceased king.”
“So the king is dead then.” I surmised.
“Yes,” Kathy nodded and smiled, “What did I tell you? Murder.”
“Sweetie, we’ve discussed this,” I reminded her, “Try not to act happy when people die. It’s just creepy.”
“But it’s a murder, and we get to solve it!” she was giddy. She’s so cute when she gets giddy.
“Actually, the king died of natural causes,” Tall-Skinny pointed out, “So there is no murder… ”
“That’s what you think,” Kathy said, “But he had to have been murdered, because…because…well, you explain why, Ronni.”
“Gladly.” I cleared my throat, “People who die a peaceful death do not become ghosts. Hauntings are the result of a great injustice, or cases where the death leaves a still-living loved one in grave danger. Therefore, the king was murdered. That’s just science.”
“The moor wench is right, Ed,” Short-Fat said, “You can’t argue with science.”
“That’s right,” I agreed with his agreeing with me, “Because science…Hey! What did you call me?”
“He called you a moor.” Kathy said.
“Yeah, well, that’s right. I’m more than the two of you can handle, that’s for sure,” I informed them, “And don’t you forget it.”
“But,” Tall-skinny objected, “He died in his sleep…”
“Congratulations, you just made the top of the suspect list,” Kathy informed him.
“Me?” Tall-Skinny sputtered, “Why am I a suspect?”
“Because you’re impeding my investigation,” Kathy said, “So if you want to avoid a hanging, you might want to start showing some cooperation.”
Tall-Skinny looked terrified and confused, the way all guilty ill-doers do in the presence of Kathy Keen, Mistress of Mysteries, Doyenne of Detection, Goddess of Gumshoeing, Queen of my heart. “How can I help?” he asked.
“You can start by fetching the next of kin,” Kathy said, “Maybe King JustCroaked will feel more talky in the presence of family.”.

KenGreen Blog Blogs Member Public

More insanity in Denmark

KATHY KEEN AND A HOT NIGHT IN DENMARK-PT.2
By Ken Green
The next day, a couple of maids appeared to help us get kitted out. Apparently, Denmark has a dress code. Mine handed me a few acres of gold and red cloth.
“ere you go, Lovey, that’s nice dress for ya,” she said in her lilting Danish cockney accent.
“What am I supposed to with this, make curtains for the Vatican?” I asked.
“No, Love, you’re supposed to wear…oh for heaven’s sake, let Darla help you.” Soon she was a whirlwind of activity, mostly slipping things over my head. Skirts, underskirts, under-underskirts, chemises and chemooses, and things I’ll never know the name of.
Then came the corset. She laced that thing to within an inch of my life. Seriously, at one point, I thought she was trying to kill me. But the effect was worth it. My girls were up, out, and proud, pointed towards heaven like two homesick angels.
“Hey, Kat!” I yelled across the chamber, “Come look at the twins!”
“Seen them!” she called back, then, “Holy crap!”
“I know!” I exclaimed.
Stomp, she stomped up to me. A maid followed her with a bustle.
“Lady Katherine,” the maid said, “We’re not done yet…”
Kathy waved her off, entranced, “You could rest a tray on them, and eat breakfast without using your hands…” she marveled.
“And I intend to,” I assured her, “What’s that?”
Kathy’s maid was tying the bustle onto her.
“Oh my God, Kathy,” I exclaimed, “You have a butt!”
“Shut up.” Kathy said.
I turned my eyes towards heaven, spread my arms, and offered thanks. “Oh, great, glorious day! On this day, my little girl has become a woman. Thank you Lord, for sending her an ass.”
“I’ve had an ass for years,” Kathy said, “I’m looking right at her.”
“Could you do something for her front end?” I asked her maid, “I’ve been dying to see her blossom.”
Her maid sighed, “I’m doing my best with what the good lord provided. Maybe if you pray some more…” she slipped a crinoline over my girl’s head and wrestled it into place.
“What I don’t understand,” Kathy said, “Is why I can’t just wear pants?”
“Pantaloons on a lady?” the maid scoffed, “This is Castle Elsinore, not a house of witchcraft.”
So we all teamed up on her, and, after much tying, slipping, buttoning, and complaining, got her decently dressed and looking adorable. Then the guards showed up to hustle us to the court, because King Claudius had something to say.
“Right, you lot, pipe down,” His Kingy-ness commanded, the royal widow standing by his side, “I’ve got something to say. We have all been saddened by the recent killing…”
“…sudden and unexpected demise…” the widow corrected.
“…of my dear brother.” Claudius continued, “But the time of mourning is over. It is with great pleasure…”
“…tempered with immense sorrow…” the widow added.
“…that I announce the assembled nobles have cast their votes, and confirmed me as the true and rightful king of Demark!”
We all cheered, with the exception on a sullen young man at the edge of the crowd. I had noticed him earlier, because he was wearing a dishy black outfit that would have looked fab on Kathy. I always like her in leather. But I digress.
“…and, furthermore,” the king droned on, “I am happy to announce that I intend to marry Queen Gertrude, and make her mine!” Something in the way he said it made me think they had sealed that deal long ago, but we all cheered and applauded, since it seemed like the polite thing to do. All of us, that is, except the man in black.
Kathy nudged me. “I’d like to speak with that man in black,” she told me.
“Yeah,” I said, “And I’d like to meet his tailor.”
The king’s speech ground to it’s inevitable halt. The crowd dispersed, and we made our way to Mr. Grumpypants. Swish, swish, swish, our crinolines whispered, as we proceeded toward him like two parade floats. But the royal couple had reached him first.
“Hold back a moment,” Kathy said, “I wish to see this.”
Her eyes sparkled. She was in full-on detection mode.
“Hamlet!” the new king addressed him, a little too jovial, “Why do you remain so dour?”
“My father remains dead, does he not?” Hamlet replied.
“Yes,” King Claudius agreed, “And he shows little sign of improving. But dwelling on that helps no one. Life is for the living. Let us turn this time of sorrow to a time of joy. After all, your mother and I are getting married!”
“Thus putting a stamp on a letter already posted.” Hamlet hissed.
“Ooh, burn.” I whispered.
“I don’t get it,” Kathy whispered.
“I’ll explain it later, Sweetie. Hush,” this was getting good.
“Now see here,” Claudius said, growing angry, “I won’t have you…”
Queen Gertrude intervened. “Darling, leave the boy be. It is right that he should mourn his father. He needs time to adjust, and we have other guests to attend to.” She gently steered her fiancé away from her son.
“This is great!” Kathy whispered, “I think there’s going to be another murder!”
“Sweetie, some people might not see that as happy news,” I reminded her, “We need to think about other people’s feelings when we talk out loud.”
“Feelings,” Hamlet muttered, “What use are those? Would that I were made of stone, that I might feel no more.”
My heart fluttered. He dresses goth, and speaks emo? I could turn for a guy like that.
We swish, swish, swished to the dour prince.
“Hi,” Kathy said, “We would…”
I stomped on her foot, and curtsied, pulling her down with me.
“Your Royal Highness,” I said, leaning forward a bit, “Please permit us to express our profound sympathy on this occasion of your incalculable loss.” Yeah, that’s right, I watch PBS. I made a mental note to put a muzzle on Kathy. Damn girl was likely to get us executed.
Hamlet acknowledged our condolences with a gesture. “Ladies,” he said, “I fear I shall be poor company. My grief weighs upon me like…”
“Well, I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up,” Kathy said. I lifted my foot, but I was too late. She was on a roll. “I’m Kathy Keen, and I’m here to solve your father’s murder!”

‘Murder?” the puzzled prince protested, “But I was told my father died of natural causes.”
“I’m sure you were,” Kathy said, “But I know a ghost that tells a different story, and I’d like you to meet him.”
“Ghost?” he asked, “But, how…”
“The battlements, sundown, you, us, and those sweet, dreamy eyes,” I told him, “But till then, play it cool. It would serve us ill to arouse suspicion.”
Soon the guards ushered us to the great hall. It had been decorated to look all cheery, but the effect was like a party dress on a corpse. Funny at first, but the joke gets tired soon. Still, a party is a party, and there was a buffet. Still, it was no time to goof off. I knew I needed to keep one eye on Kathy, and the other on Hamlet. It would have been no challenge at all, if I had been born a gecko, but biology and physics conspired against me. I’d need every iota of my sleuthing skills to navigate this storm.
I glanced down. “Well, boobs,” I said, addressing the troops, “It’s just the three of us.”
Scanning the room, I spotted Hamlet, playing the wallflower, arms crossed and scowling. His demeanor changed as another man approached him. I moved to intercept.
“Horatio, My friend!” Hamlet called out, “It is good to see you in these troubling times.” They shook hands and punched shoulders as I dragged my skirts toward him.
“Horatio, allow me to introduce Veronica,” Hamlet said, graciously.
Horatio bent and lifted my hand as if it were a feather, then lightly touched his lips to my thirty-dollar manicure. I’m pretty sure I had a wee tiny lady orgasm at that point. They Kathy showed up.
“Hey, Ronni, hold these for me,” she pressed two flute glasses into my hands. Then she sized up Hamlet and Horatio, cracked her knuckles, and asked, “Okay, don’t make me guess. Which one is mine?” She was lit.
“Kathy,” I admonished her, “What do we do when strange men offer us drinks?”
“I always say, ‘Thank you very much, kind sir, may I…” she gasped, “Ronni! Your boobs are huge! I could play them like bongo drums!” she reached towards them to do so, but I fended her off with the mimosas.
“Lady Katherine,” Hamlet said, “This is my good friend Horatio.” Horatio kissed her hand.
“You smell good,” she told him. She turned to me. “Psst. Do I kiss his hand now?” She whispered loud enough to be heard in Norway.
“You do not,” I told her, “Social protocol demands that you take a vow of silence and never speak again.”
She turned to H&H. “You’ll have to forgive her. She’s usually more fun.”
“Lady Katherine has a fascinating theory about my father’s death,” Hamlet told Horatio.
“I do?” Kathy asked, “Oh, yeah. The theory,” she moved closer to Horatio, pressed up against him, resting her head on his chest, “It was murder,” she whispered, “Murder most foul.” Her fingers traced the laces of his doublet, seeking the flesh below.
“Wow,” she said, wonder in her voice, “You’re like an oak wall of yummy goodness. I need a man like you, strong but gentle, to bring out the…” suddenly, her eyes grew wide with panic. She bolted from Horatio, ran to the nearest garderobe, and slammed the door. Hideous sounds of vomiting ensued.
“Perhaps you should attend her,” Hamlet suggested.
“She’ll be fine,” I assured him, “She just needs some time alone.” I sipped my mimosa, studied my fine consorts, and wondered how open-minded they were. After all, it was hours till sundown, and we needed some way to kill the time.

Page 4 Blog KenGreen

Hot night in Denmark kind of ground to a halt yesterday. I'm about to get to the part where Hamlet starts killing everybody, and it's bumming me out. I want to work on something else for a while. So God only knows what I'll post tomorrow. Anyway, this is what I have.

HOT NIGHT IN DENMARK PT.3
By Ken Green
Back in our chamber, Kathy asked me, “Ronni, why did you let me drink so much?”
“You’re right,” I said, pressing a cold cloth to her forehead, “It was thoughtless of me to let you out of my sight for the eighteen seconds it takes you to get drunk.”
“Well, don’t let it happen again,” she moaned, “I feel awful.”
“I know, Sweetie,” I stroked her hair. She looked so sad, so tiny, so vulnerable.
“Hey,” she said, sniffing my wrist, “Why do you smell like Hamlet?” She leaned towards me and inhaled, “And Horatio?”
“While you were passed out, I interrogated them. Vigorously.” I smiled.
“Good work,” she said, leaning back, “Did you have to get rough with them?”
“A little bit, towards the end,” I nodded, I do like a big finish.
“Did you learn anything?” she asked.
Oh, many things, none related to the case. “Not really,” I said, “They might require another session.”
“Well, next time, I’ll be there,” she resolved, “We’ll team up on them.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” I said sweetly, “You’ll show those boys the meaning of justice.”
“You’re a good assistant,” Kathy told me.
“Associate,” I corrected her.
“I love you, Ronni,” she said, then fell asleep, her snores as soft as angel farts.
“I know, Sweetie,” I bent down and kissed her on the temple. I longed to wrap myself around her and join her in the sweet oblivion of sleep on that sea of linen. But I only had an hour till sundown, and I had to do something with my hair. White boys get excited so easily.
#
The sun sulked under the horizon, and we assembled on the battlements. Horatio eyed me with a sly grin on his face. I licked my lips and traced their outline with my finger. Hamlet was back to looking morose, and Kathy was still a little hung over. I feared our rematch might have to wait till the morning. Just as well, really. I was a little sore.
Far below, Claudius was directing his troops. They had wheeled out some cannons, and were using them to launch fireworks to celebrate his coronation.
Hamlet sighed his disgust. “Have you ever seen a more vulgar display?”
Why yes, good sir, I do believe we participated in one a few hours ago.
“Hamlet, my son…” Came a voice from the grave. Hamlet Sr., looking all spectral and ghosty.
Hamlet gasped, “Father?”
“Avenge me, son,” the ghost commanded, “Avenge my foul murder.”
“I shall, Father,” Hamlet vowed, “But, who…”
“Twas Claudius, my own brother,” the ghost intoned, “As I napped in my garden, he did creep upon me, and poured poison in my ear.”
“Does this mean we can go home now?” I whispered to Kathy.
“What?” she asked, “No! Why would you even think that?”
“Well, I said, “We know who did it, and how. We solved the case. We’re done here, aren’t we?”
“Have I taught you nothing?” Kathy asked, “Of course we can’t leave. No justice has been served here.”
“Okay,” I sighed, “What is left to do here?”
“Well…” Kathy considered, “We need… to alert the proper authorities.”
“That would be Hamlet,” I told her, “And he already knows.”
“But…” Kathy butted, “We can’t be done. I didn’t get my big scene where I explain everything, and everybody goggles in amazement at how clever I am.”
“Oh, Sweetie,” I said, pulling her to me, “I’m constantly amazed at how clever you are.” I brushed the hair from her face and gazed into her eyes. “You are my universe.”
“Are those two going to make out now?” the ghost asked.
“God, I hope so,” Horatio said.
“Could we get back on topic?” Hamlet asked, “I’ve just learned a life changing truth, and you two are just stepping all over it.”
“He’s right,” I said, in a husky whisper, “We’re being very inconsiderate.”
“Oh, screw him,” Kathy said, her eyes dreamy, “Shut up and kiss me.”
Or lips met. We melted together in a sweet, hot, salty moment of bliss.
Seeing that, Hamlet became completely unglued. “If you two are going to do that,” he sputtered, “You can just…leave!”
“Okay,” we said eagerly, and headed for the stairs.
“I should go with them,” Horatio volunteered, “To make sure they get there safely.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I sing-songed to him, “We can manage without you.” We needed some girl time.
The stairs deposited us into the courtyard. Elsinore is a labyrinth. Two riders arrived through the gate and dismounted. I was struck by their appearance. One was thin, with long stringy blond hair. The other was portly, with a neatly trimmed black beard.
“Good evening, Ladies,” the blond said, I am Rosencrantz, and my silent friend is Guildenstern.” Guildenstern nodded, and flashed a devilish grin. I took an immediate liking to the two, because they smelled like weed.
From God knows where, Kathy produced a pad of post-it notes, and a sharpie. She quickly made them nametags and pasted them on their tunics.
“Heavens,” I said, “What could bring such …distinguished guests at such an hour?”
“An errand of some urgency, M’Lady,” Rosencrantz confided, “Queen Gertrude has sent for us. Our friend Hamlet has fallen into melancholy, and she hopes we can lift him from it.”
“A noble quest indeed,” I said, “So you wish to see Hamlet now?”
“I think it would be better to confer with the Queen first, if you’ll permit,” Rosencrantz said.
“By all means,” I agreed, “Lead the way, Lady Katherine.”
As soon as Kathy turned, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern switched nametags. I gave them a thumbs up. We all followed Kathy to the great hall.
“Hold back,” Kathy said, “I wish to…”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, as we ducked into an alcove.
“Oh, look, Darling,” Queen Gertrude said, “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have arrived.”
“What’s going on?” Katy whispered, “I can’t see anything.”
I found my compact, opened it and held it so we could watch the mirror. In it, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern knelt, kissed rings, and performed other medieval gestures. They must have done them properly, because the queen bade then rise.
“Your majesties,” Rosencrantz said, “We came as soon as we could.”
“And well that you did,” said the queen, “Hamlet grows more withdrawn by the day. I fear we shall lose him entirely unless we act with dispatch.”
“But what can we do?” Rosencrantz asked.
“You’re his friends, draw him out,” the queen implored, “Discover what troubles him so.”.

Blog KenGreen

Okay, not much of a story today, I'm feeling talky. For some reason, I keep coming back to Clair and Squirt, wandering around post apocalypse south Texas. (Actually 'Post-Apocalypse Texas' sounds kind of redundant, doesn't it? I swear, sometimes I look around me and think the world has already ended, and nobody has noticed.)
Okay, so far this post is about 15% as interesting as I thought it would be, so I'm going to cut it short. What follows is the crap I pounded out yesterday, the ending of a story that needs a beginning. The good news is Clair has a car. The bad news is she had to kill a good man to get it. (He might of been a good man, but she'll never know now, so neither will we.)

THE RIDE
By Ken Green
He got out of the car. I watched him walk to the edge of the woods, then I reached over the seat to dig through Squirt’s backpack. I found the revolver, and pulled it out.
“No, Clair,” Squirt said.
“I’m sorry, kid,” I really was, “I wish there was another way.”
“But he’s nice,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, “He probably is.”
But probably wasn’t good enough, not when the stakes were her.
“It’s not fair…” she started.
“I know it’s not, baby. Just stay in the car. Stay low. Don’t look.” I got out, and closed the door softly so as not to alert him. I held the gun behind me, in the small of my back. I stepped around the car, as quiet as I could. Not that it mattered. I figured he’d know the score as soon as he saw me.
I heard the rustle of leaves and he emerged from the woods.
“That’s far enough,” I said, aiming the gun at his center of mass. “Turn around.”
He raised his hands. “I thought we were past this,” he said.
“I’m sorry about this, I really am,” I told him, “But I can’t take the chance.”
He lowered his arms and crossed them. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he asked.
“Turn around.” I told him.
“No,” he said, “If you’re going to kill me, you can look me in the eye when you do it.”
“Do you think I won’t?” I asked him.
“I meant what I said, I would have treated her like a daughter. You, too. I would have been like a father to you.”
“Thank you.” I pulled the trigger. I know how fathers treat their daughters. Never again. I’ll die first.
The bullet hit him in the throat, because I always pull up. Need to work on that. His legs gave out, and he collapsed.
I took a step forward, just out of his reach. He was choking on his own blood. I aimed at his head, then lowered the gun.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I can’t finish you. Can’t spend a bullet I might need later.” So I stood there and waited for him to die. After too long, the blood stopped spurting. I counted to a hundred and bent down to take his keys. My hands were shaking, but I found them.
Birds were singing as I walked back to the car. “Come sit up front,” I told Squirt as I turned the key.
“Do you even know how to drive?” Squirt asked me.
“Of course I can drive,” I told her, “I even have a learner’s permit.”
#

End.

KenGreen Blog

Here's another weird little thing that might be a story. I've noticed another trend in my work: I keep writing about outsiders and marginalized people. There's probably a deep-seated reason for that. Then again, do I really need to know what it is? Enough yakking. Here's today's offering:

HALFCHANCE
By Ken Green
Halfchance awoke with a start. The boat was moving, and it shouldn’t have been. She rolled to her knees and felt for the mooring rope. On this moonless night, open eyes told her no more than closed eyes would. But this boat was her world, and she knew every inch of it.
Her hands found the rope, and pulled it in. Somebody had cut it, sent her adrift. Kids, probably, overfed townie kids having a laugh. She fumed. Untying the rope would have been prank enough, cutting a good rope was a crime.
“Serves me right for being careless,” she told the empty air, “Nobody wants a fatherless child laying around. And anger won’t make the rope grow longer. Best get to work. Where did I drift to?”
She looked to the sky, but the stars were churlish, and hid behind clouds. So she listened. The night birds were quiet, and chickadees hadn’t started. An hour to dawn, give or take. She could smell pickle weed, so she was still close to land. But how close? She lay back down, rest her head on the planks, and listened with her inner ear.
An arm’s length below her, Old Belial swam, dreaming his cold slow dreams. Widow’s cove, then. Not far at all. She sat back up and shook her head. Best not stay too long in a gators mind, lest she be seduced and forget she’s a girl. Gators are tricky like that.
An hour of poling took her to Stinkweed Bayou. The sky was brightening as the sun teased the horizon.
“About time you showed up, you lazy bastard,” she said with a smile, “Where were you when I needed you?” The sun had no answer, but she wasn’t expecting one. She dropped her basket overboard and took a quick look around her. Nobody else fished in Stinkweed, but a girl can’t be too careful. If anybody saw her trick, they’d hang her for sure.
Nobody around. She knelt on the planks and sang her calling song. Drum fish jumped into the basket, and soon it was full. She leaned over, got a good grip, and lifted the heavy basket. It was always a struggle, getting the basket in. The boat always tried to capsize, and then where would she be? Would Belial come find her, and make her his queen? She shuddered at the thought. No, Belial was lazy and rarely left his cove.
She poled her way to Hadley. The mooring rope hadn’t healed, so she ran her boat aground, then got out and dragged it a bit further. She’d be back before the tide. She never stayed long in Hadley. She knew she wasn’t welcome. She reached for the basket, and remembered. The bandage! Stupid girl, do you want a hanging? They can’t see your mismatch eyes!
She found the strip of linen and tied it to cover her blue eye, the left one. Then she grabbed her basket and headed for the market. She walked past the pier where Darla and the crazy girl were talking. Crazy Girl’s thoughts were brightly colored, but swirly and confusing. Best to steer clear of her.
The other boats were still out so Halfchance walked up to Fat Hanna’s stall and dropped her basket on the scale.
“What happened to your eye?” Fat Hanna asked, scowling.
“Lost it in a poker game.” Halfchance glared at her with the brown one, like she did every morning. Same question, same answer, for what? Three years now? It was their ritual. Hanna handed Halfchance five thin silver coins and the ritual was complete.
Next, to the rope maker. Halfchance cringed, as rope was so dear, but she needed one. Can’t drift forever. So to Cletus she trudged. He was still laying out his wares when she entered his shack. She grabbed a coil, slapped a coin on the counting board, and turned to leave.
“Hey!” he yelled, “Not so fast, that’s not enough, not by half.”
“Why?” she asked, “Did you spin from your virgin daughter’s hair?” As if any daughter of his would stay a virgin long. “Twas prolly your rat bastard kids what cut mine last night.”
Face red, he stepped round the counting board, ready to fight. She caught the smell of his fear and guilt.
“No!” she said, knowing the truth, “Twas you yourself. Is trade truly so slow that you would steal from a child? I should haul you before the duke. He’d find a use for your fine rope.” She slapped her hand on the counting board and took her coin back, then grabbed another coil and stormed out of the shack. Justice is justice after all, sure as eggs is eggs and moons is cheeses.
#

End.

KenGreen Blog - Page 4

Okay, I think I just fell in love with Halfchance, my half-feral telepath with synesthesia.

She found the strip of linen and tied it to cover her blue eye, the left one. Then she grabbed her basket and headed for the market. The wet sand of low tide gooshed between her toes as she walked past the pier where Darla and the crazy girl were talking. Crazy Girl’s thoughts were brightly colored, but swirly and confusing. It was bad enough, hearing the brown and tan thoughts of the townspeople, but Crazy Girl was a kaleidoscope. Best to steer clear of her.

Maybe I'm too in love with her. I just wrote a page about shopping. How nuts is that?

Righteous anger felt good, but it made a poor breakfast. She looped the coils over her shoulder and hefted her basket. Time to shop. Sand gave way to the hard packed dirt of Hadley’s street as she strode to the town square. Thoughts surrounded her, but it was mostly farmers focused on simple tasks, chocking the wheels of their carts, setting up stalls, and such. Gentle thoughts, some still sleepy. Easy to ignore. Just think about something else. Like shopping.
Where to start? Crookleg Mary always had good stuff, and her mind was often quiet, because she was bloody stupid. But she was happy stupid, which made her bearable. So Halfchance stopped at her cart. Taters, carrots, and fat yellow onions. Halfchance filled her basket and held up a silver.
“Fair enough?” she asked.
Mary eyed the coin. “Fair enough, and then some. Do you have smaller?”
“Sorry, That’s what I got.” Halfchance said.
“Well, I have no change, Love,” Mary said, “What to do?”
Halfchance looked around. Across the square, Toothless Joe was taking his first batch out of his oven.
Halfchance’s stomach growled. She haint had lamb in months. Dare she?
“Spot me a pastie?” Halfchance asked.
Mary nodded, took a deep breath, and yelled, “Joe! Two pasties for my friend here! I’ll settle with you later!”
Joe looked their way, and yelled back, “Eh? Aye! Eheheh, Eh!”
Mary turned back to Halfchance, and smiled, “Well, that’s settled then.”
Halfchance handed over the coin. Mary weighed it in her hand, and said, “I’m still cheating you.”
“No,” Halfchance protested, “It’s a good deal, We’re square.”
Mary shook her head. “I won’t be in your debt. Oh! I know what to do!” she reached down to her stash and produced a handful of strawberries. She dropped them into the basket.
Strawberries and pasties! Such bounty. Was it Christmas already? Halfchance protested, “No, Mary it’s too much.”
Mary laughed and covered her ears. “I’ll hear no more nonsense. Your breakfast is getting cold. Go away, girl, I’ve got a business to run.”
Halfchance got a better grip on her heavy basket and headed over to Toothless Joe and his oven.
“Uh. Oo asiees ere oo o.” Joe said. He handed them over.
“Thanks, Joe,” Halfchance said, dropping the pasties in the basket. They were still too hot to hold, but they smelled delicious.
“Oo oo ee uh aye?” Joe asked.
Halfchance looked up at the sky. “Rain? No, not today. It’s going to be a beautiful day.”.

KenGreen Blog Public Member Blogs - Page 4

Today, I'm going to do something different. Since this weeks story is in the bag, (I'm calling "Halfchance" a story. It might not be a very good story, but that's not the point of this challenge.) Today, I'm going to rant.

Okay, so I joined a writing group. I found the group through meetup.com, and I figured why not? Might be fun, might be useful, might learn something. Besides, writing is a lonely art, and my old lady is bloody useless as far as literary advice goes.

So every week, I present something I've written. And every week, Ms. N, the co-founder of the group, circles all my exclamation points and tells me I use too many. And it kind of pisses me off. Because I really love exclamation points.
I love them almost as much as I like the F-bomb, maybe more.

Maybe I'm crazy, but I like writing stories about characters with the emotional range of muppets. I like it when they cry, and yell, and throw things. In my head, my stories sound like operas, except they're in English. And they have dialog. I actually wrote a scene where two women had a fight, wound up hugging and cried so much that a puddle formed at their feet. Which is stupid, but I was laughing when I wrote it.

Which is kind of the point. Much of what I write is pretty stupid, but at least it's fun to read. I think so, anyway.That's what I'm trying to make it, because I think reading should be fun.

Needless to say, Ms. N's stories are not fun. The sad thing is, I think she's actually trying.

Another thing she doesn't like is adverbs. Like I'm going to exclude an entire class of words from my vocabulary. The English language is like a big crazy box of crayons, and I'm going to use all the colors I can grab with my grubby little mitts. I love words so much, I make up new ones. Nobody else in my group even bothers to do that. They're not even trying. Evey week, they trot out their blah blah stories about sad boring people doing sad boring things, while I bring them blue-skinned lesbians flying spaceships full of weed, half-feral telepaths with mismatched eyes, armadillo people, teen detectives, undead assassins, and sexy jokes.

Whatever.

Tomorrow a new week begins, and I'll owe you a new story. And somehow, that idea is a little less terrifying than than it was a week ago. I'm actually starting to believe I can do this. I'm still figuring out what a story is, but I'm fairly confident that I can actually write one.

I wonder what it's going to be about.