Tuesdays with Story

Fifth Tuesday writing challenge: The interview
March 29, 2011

Interview your character and distill that interview down to a dynamite piece of no more than 500 words. Select one of your fictional characters – major or minor – and take her or him on an adventure, and the two of you talk.

Zak Attack
Millie Mader, first-and-third

“Millie, I hate to disturb you.” It was my secretary at Bantam Books.
“Then don’t. I’m at the deadline with this new novel.”
“Well, I know fantasy isn’t your genre, but this ‘Zak’ from Life on Hold is demanding to speak with you. I just looked up, and he materialized. He says he’s fresh out of rehab.”
“Jeez, Zak’s been vaporized for nearly ten years. Send him in.” What on earth is going on here?
Zak didn’t look like I remembered him. His brown eyes were no longer sparkling. They were like windows that you couldn’t see through. His hair was still ‘seventies’ long, and he scowled with tight lips and furrowed brow. I couldn’t wrap my head around what was happening. Actually, it frightened me.
“What do you want, Zak?” My voice shook, and I struggled for control.
“I’ll never forgive you for making Erin dump me. It came out of the blue.”
“No, remember she tried to be honest with you, but you couldn’t accept it.” I wondered if I was losing my mind. Here I was talking to a creation of my imagination.
“She was mine. I couldn’t help punching out that Rick guy. You made me do it. I was crazy with jealousy. Then you got me into drugs, and I ended up in rehab. You made me flunk out of Marquette, too.”
“You got yourself into all that trouble. You just couldn’t stand something not going your way. You were weak. Erin was too strong for you.”
“Well, I’m out of rehab now, and I want you to rewrite me back into Erin’s life. I’m clean and I can deal. Pull Erin out of those faded pages. I have a ‘mood ring’ here that I want to give her. I got it hoping to win her back. This was after I got out of rehab. See.” He tossed the ring on my desk.
“Zak, I guess I’m sorry for you. Here, sit down.” I motioned to a leather swivel chair opposite my desk. “Erin has met the love of her life, and there wouldn’t be room for you. You’ve been gone for ten years, It’s nineteen-eighty-one.”
“You’ll be sorry.” His voice grew menacing, and he reached for something in his pocket. To my horror he drew out a gun. “You’d better turn back the pages of time real quick.”
I was terrified, but how could this be real?
Just then the door flew open. “Hands up,” Officer Ron Mahoney ordered. He, too, was an apparition from Life On Hold. “You’ve been on the run for eight years, Zak. Your mental condition worsened, and you’re not clean.”
With that, Mahoney cuffed Zak and reached into Zak’s other pocket. He pulled out a bag of pot.
“Sorry, son,” the policeman said. “You and I are going back to nineteen-seventy together.” Then they vanished.
My office was empty, my mind spinning. Had I nodded off? I knew I hadn’t. What the – here on my desk lay the ‘mood ring.’ It’s stone gleamed purple.

The interview
Cathy Riddle, first-and-third
Melissa James.

Call me Misty.

Misty. Twenty-four years old. Former lifeguard. Student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, studying –?

Probably neuroscience. Or Botany. I like acting, too.

You are also dipping your toes into a murder mystery, helping authorities track down whoever killed a local craft beer brew master. Tell us, how did you get involved? And I might add that critics of your involvement in Beer Crimes say there’s no place in this genre for an ex-lifeguard with few to no crime smarts. Can you address that?

What?

Yes, they say you’re more Zonker Harris than V.I. Warshawski.

Um. I guess I’m totally lost here…(Teary eyed.) Do you think we can restart this interview – without the Zonkers and all the other mean comments?

Sorry. Say, I understand you’re the great-great-great-granddaughter of Joshua James, legendary lifesaver of the Atlantic Coast. True?

Three greats….yeah, that sounds about right. He’s in my family tree. He was a pretty courageous man. Which makes me qualified to be a character in Beer Crimes.

Your heritage then?

My hair? It IS pretty nice, but no, I mean I come from a long line of lifesavers, who are basically people who protect mankind. It’s in my blood. I want to find the killer.

How?

Well, I think I need to go undercover. And drink beer. At festivals. Mix and mingle kind of thing.

Okay. Let’s discuss your other, ahem, strengths. Where did you come by your knowledge of police procedure?

My wha–? You mean, how do I know about the police? Listen, I don’t mean to insult you, but anyone who watches TV knows. A murder happens, they dash over, looking all tense and all. Later they go back to the quote-unquote station to talk about the crime.

Quote-unquote? It IS a station. Not a “station”….(Sigh.) Are you familiar with the structure of a law enforcement organization?

You mean, desks and all? Sure. Some places like cubicles. Some have desks in square formations, like you see in the movies? Or, wait, is that a rectangle?

Let’s move on. Do you think, Misty, now that you’ve been named 2011’s Hottest Novice Sleuth, you can share your theories on what motivates people to commit violent crimes?

Besides getting really, really mad, people murder each other if they spent their childhoods locked in attics and stuff.

And stuff?!

Like, getting beaten and all. I think the murderer in Beer Crimes didn’t have an easy childhood, so he decided to take his anger out on this happy, successful brew master.

Because?

Because it’s easy to get mad at someone who’s at ease in the world. Jarrett Werner wasn’t exactly splitting atoms for a living – he just made beer. And some weird, angry attic guy got upset.

So, you’re looking for angry people in Madison?

Yes. Now, my friend Nine says I should move to Fort Lauderdale while she solves the crime instead. Can you believe it? She thinks I’m extraneous.

Incomprehensible.

Extraneous! Whatever that means.

Thanks, Misty.

Buh-bye!

Dani
Brandy Larson
Sandy Stone here. Today, I’m interviewing Danielle, who is called Dani, and is the main character in two short stories, “The Starry Night” and “Daddy Cruel”.
SS: Hi, Dani, you are back in the States now from Treasure Beach, Jamaica.
D: Yes, not enough going on there to make a living this time of year.
SS: Some people think you are a chic lit character.
D: No, I’m an adventurer. If I were a man, no similar label could define me.
SS: Where do your stories take place?
D: A small fishing community spread over several bays with enough tourism to keep life interesting.
SS: How did you adjust to living there?
D: Pretty well, since I had visited there several times and made friends. I lived at Miss D’s guest house. She is a matriarch and a simple country woman.
SS: How did the locals relate to you?
D: They are accustomed to foreigners falling in love with Treasure Beach and living there if they can. I worked as a freelance masseuse at Jack’s Village, a boutique destination. Som people started moving up on the veranda with medical needs. I consider myself a healer – I’m a holistic practitioner – but I’m not an MD and told them so. I’d bought some everyday medicines and a pretty good first aid kit, so I handed that out and did bodywork on Large muscle groups of some of the fishermen. I lived an “everyday” rate, as well as tourist/middle class rate, but no one in this group paid cash. One man brought me a couple bug papayas.
SS: I’m surprised to hear that.
D: Few people there can afford a doctor. There is quite a contrast between the haves and have-nots. And bush medicine is accepted there. It’s more affordable, herbal and shamanistic, and is based on African and East Indian traditions, so the alternative care I could provide was appreciated. I’d love to learn more about bush medicine.
SS: What was your life like there?
D: I lived more like a local than a resident tourist. I freelanced at Jake’s and got other bodywork by meeting clients at the coffee shop. I volunteered to teach English at the local schools and made the scene at the beach bars. It was the year of El Nino, so I did some great body surfing. That came to an end when a huge wave smacked me. I also enjoyed some bug bonfores at night – nice social events.
SS: Any insights into the culture?
D: Once a local popped out of the bush and said, “Hi, Fatty.” I mentioned this to my American friends – women of a certain age – at the coffee shop. They said the Jamaican sense of beauty includes a full figure. I’d lost weight, adjusting to the tropical climate. Soon Miss D started leaving out little meals for me. Later I learned the neighbors also were concerned I was losing my beautiful fat. Another time a local guy showed interest in me, and someone said, “Watch out. His girlfriend will cut you.” I had met this woman and she seemed so weet. Later I found out she was the jealous type and was quite capable of scaring me off with a knife.
SS: We’re out of time. Thanks. I’d love to hear more about you adventures in the Caribbean.
D: Well, read my stories, and, as the Jamaicans say, “Walk good.”

Interview with a monster
Clayton Gill, first-and-third
I planted my flashlight in the mud and stepped back. Its yellow beam illuminated the cave’s low ceiling. Spooky. But not too spooky for Miker, the hero of my juvenile adventure novel, Fishing Derby.
Beyond the flashlight, bubbles rose in a murky pool. A huge black fish floated to the surface. Scary. But up close, I noticed the fiberglass head and Kevlar skin. The midget submarine looked like a catfish on steroids.
Miker’s buddy Rick had designed it to resemble the Ickness Monster, the genetically modified creature wreaking terror up and down the river.
Rick’s creation propelled itself ashore and rolled over, revealing Miker lodged in its belly cavity. The boy spat out the scuba mouthpiece and sat up. He ripped off his face mask, his eyes wide, scared.
“Who are you?”
“The author.”
“Who?”
“Author of Fishing Derby. Member of Tuesdays with Story writers’ group.”
“Help me out of this thing.”
“Sorry, Miker. Anyway, you’re doing fine. You just piloted Rick’s sub on a harrowing underwater voyage to inspect this secret river cave.”
“How do you know me? Or Rick?”
“Sorry. This is my interview.”
“Interview?”
“You’re my main character. Fishing Derby is about you, although my writer friends have their doubts.”
Miker coughed, wiping slime across his face.
“Before you swim off to rescue Grace from the Tong Snakehead gang and return here, answer me one question.”
But Miker pointed to an opening in the cave wall.
“Where’s that go?”
“Rick already told you.”
“So, he cleared the cave mouth before getting arrested. You must have come down that way.”
I looked at my watch.
“Here’s the question, Miker. I’m telling your story through limited omniscient narration. However, as far as ‘omniscient’ goes, you’re being very ‘limited.’ You never let the reader know what you’re thinking. Why not?”
“Let who know?”
“The reader.”
“What reader?
“You’re being uncooperative, Miker.”
“Sorry. What happens next?”
“For you, I’m afraid it’s one ugly surprise after another. You’re going to hate what I throw at you. And you won’t know I’m doing it. You won’t remember me.”
“Awesome.”
“Not really. Every fiction author has such power.”
“You already know everything that’s going to happen?”
“Pretty much.”
Quick as a cat, Miker snatched the flashlight and shined it into my face, blinding me.
“How about that? You knew I was going to do that?”
Dizzying red dots swam behind my eyelids.
“Well, you surprised me there. Now be careful with that flashlight.”
I heard Miker fitting himself into the manmade fish. I squinted, but he switched on powerful fisheye headlights, blinding me again.
“Be careful yourself, Mr. Know-It-All Author. Be cool. Just let me do my thing. Okay?”
The river burbled. I opened my eyes. The sub’s headlights sank away, leaving me alone in total darkness.
Where the hell was my flashlight?
Okay Miker, I thought, okay. But you and Grace have to crawl out of this cave. So, snakes for Grace. And spiders for you. Big spiders and worse.

Meet you on the mountain
John Schneller, first-and-third

Smoke filtered under the bedroom door. That always gets my attention when I reach for the snooze button.
The fire alarm squealed, and flames danced in the living room as I coughed through my smoke-filled house. As I dug through the sink cabinet and grabbed the fire extinguisher, glass shattered on the counter.
A squirrel leaped down from the cupboards to my shoulder and darted across the room. “Hey Kotel, he- he- he’s got pots full of nut- nut- nuts and stuff in this cave!”
I followed the squirrel into the living room, to a ring of rocks with a small fire burning the carpet in front of the fireplace and a slender boy sitting cross-legged on my couch. I lowered the extinguisher as I stared at the ragged boy and the stuttering squirrel. “Kotel? Jjosh?”
Jjosh leaped up to Kotel’s shoulder. “We- we come to save you.”
“By starting a fire in my house?” My eyes burned in the acrid smoke. “I’m writing your story. How would you save me?”
Kotel pushed to his feet and pressed to within inches of my face. “You whipped me and almost hung me in Avitar, starved me on the plains, and sent me to live with wild animals in the mountains. Thought you were trying to kill me.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry? Are you nuts?”
“I told you, he’s got loads of nuts,” Jjosh said. He jumped from Kotel’s shoulder and dashed back into the kitchen.
“Look,” Kotel said, “I realize you saved my life by chasing me to Mount Zi – ”
“I wanted you to meet the Emperor.”
“You could have done that without sending me against a pack of more wolves than I could count and making me fight a mean son-of-a-giant . . . and now I got some idea of what I’m in for next. Can’t believe you’re gonna kill my best friends.”
I looked past Kotel and saw the computer screen lit up with chapter 25 of Final Stronghold.
“Like you figured, all those things been good for me since I got to know the Emperor. And I know you serve him too, but I’m here to warn you –”
A hawk flew in through the front door, open to the night air. He winged around Kotel. “Hurry it up! Hazatan’s close by.”
I raised my arm and the hawk landed. “Silent Eyes?”
The hawk’s gaze bore into my eyes. “Keep prayed up. That snake’s looking for revenge since you tried to kill him.” Silent Eyes took wing back through the doorway.
Kotel grabbed my shoulder and leaned in close to whisper, “I’m just saying, you don’t want to die here, here away from the Mountain. Remember what the Emperor really cares about.”
I nodded. “His children.”
“And his squirrels!” Jjosh scampered out the door, following Silent Eyes.
“I’ll meet you on the Mountain.” Kotel smiled from the doorway. “You won’t believe how gr –”
He disappeared within a swirling mist.

At the center
Kim Simmons, first-and-third, second-and-fourth

He was there, so many years ago, when the world was waking in the Paris dawn, holding my hand as I watched the sun rise for the first time. He was there in the dark when I first discovered pleasure, and when I spent that long night in the hospital, hardly daring to breathe through the blinding pain. He was there.
“And now?”
“Get an apartment, try to survive.”
We’re there on the playground, in my mind, eighteen hundred miles away from this freezing basement bedroom. The cold stings my cheeks, so it’s easy to remember.
He sits on the rotting bench, long legs stretching out, and looks up through the trees that are heavy with green light. He smiles, flashing two rows of pearly teeth. His grin is infectious, and I sit beside him, holding the scene – not as I last saw it, a few hours before the new year, with snow drifts so high I couldn’t climb over them – as I knew it in my youth. Everything seems larger, everything except him.
“Jamie…” My Jamie.
I don’t need to tell him, he already knows. We’ve been here before, to the place where he was born, sometimes I don’t even get out of the car. But I always come back, back to the beginning, back to the center. My thinking place, the shape my soul takes. I look back beyond the thin veil of trees, to the house that is no longer mine.
“It will always be yours,” he says; my strength. “No one can take that away from you.” My confidence.
I look at him, really look. I’ve lived more years with him than without him, now, this man that I made so many years ago. Was he like a daemon, a silent creature that was born with me, bursting forth from that prenatal abyss, letting me curl my hand around his finger? Was he always my protector, my passion, my voice of reason? I hear him so rarely now, perhaps because I’ve grown to speak the same words, the same wisdoms.
My life…it’s falling apart, but at the same time, it’s coming together. Is this what it always feels like? He takes my hand – I imagine his smooth, yet rough, palm, his long fingers – and leads me through the discordant music of my doubts. I pass them, their surfaces shimmering with foam.
The playground disappears, and I’m there, watching the white, white moon hang above the plane’s right wing. Another step, a turtle’s ancient, crusted face stares back at me, inches from the side of my kayak. Once more, and the feelings overwhelm me as a crowd of Portuguese women cluster close, blessing me, speaking earnestly in English. The Ghost of the Future returns, her steps hesitant, but soft, bearing in her arms the sheaves of encouragement and strength.
Taking a deep breath, knowing it was he who brought me this, I turn. I turn and meet his eyes in the mirror.

Patience is a Virtue: A Conversation with Akihito Shikibu
Jen Wilcher, first-and-third, second-and-fourth

“What took you so long?” Akihito Shikibu mumbles to me over McDonald’s fries.
“Has anyone ever told you patience is a virtue?”
“No.” His raven hair glistens in the afternoon sunlight. “So, why haven’t you written my part of the story yet?”
“Things have to happen before I can write you into the story, but Hibiki-chan does have your journal.”
His face lights up like a lamp. “Hibiki-chan knows I’m her father?”
“No. Not yet, but Kakashi-san knows you’re still alive.”
Akihito-san cocks an eyebrow.
“Rin-san let it slip, while recovering from Hibiki-chan’s ‘attack’.”
I feel a rush of air as Akihito-san abruptly rises from his seat.
“Are you telling me you had my own daughter attack the kitsune I left behind?”
I kick him in shin. “Calm down, are you trying to make a scene?”
“Ow. That hurt.” An intense glare meets mine. “You know, abusing your characters is not a respectable thing to do.”
“Sometimes, you ask for it.”
“That is funny because I don’t recall ever asking for your abuse.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m the author I can do whatever I want to you. Besides, Hibiki-chan was going after Fusa-san.”
“Oh.”
I could see understanding of what happened in his eyes as he said the word.
“How much did she see?”
“Just the end result, Misaki-san lying on the floor, dead.”
Confused, Akihito asks, “Then why did Hibiki-chan go after Fusa-san if she only saw the end?”
“Because she saw Fusa-san leaving the room, and she put the pieces together,” I reply.
“And Rin-san would not get out of Hibiki-chan’s way knowing Fusa-san would harm her.” Akihito-san sighs.
I get up from the table, noticing the time. “Well, I have a bus to catch and an interview to prepare for.”
Akihito-san follows me out the door to the bus stop, and we say our goodbyes with the appropriate bows. I watch him disappear into the sunlight; like a mirage fading as I come back to the real world. This was a useful conversation.

A ticket out
Leah Wilbur, first-and-third, second-and-fourth

Leah Wilbur walked in the ditch. It was a moonless night, there were no streetlights, and she forgot her flashlight. “Freakin’ moron,” she grumbled under her breath.
Still, she didn’t turn back.
“Where you going?” a voice asked from behind her.
“Go away,” she snarled.
“Can’t. You know that.”
Leah rolled her eyes. “You can’t come with me if I don’t even know where I’m headed.”
“I have to. I’m attached to your shadow, remember?”
She stopped. “What’re you even doing here?”
A short-statured male figure crossed his arms. “Making sure you don’t do something stupid. You’re out in the middle of the country, at night, without a flashlight. You think some drunk idiot’s gonna see you in time to stop?”
Leah glared at him. “I needed space.”
“Yeah, I get that, but tempting the Fates like this is pushing it.”
The young teen kicked at some pebbles. “I hate living out here.”
“You’ll get used to it,” he told her, waving a mosquito away from his ear. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, though.”
“What, then?”
“I want you to write my life story.”
Leah looked up at her shadow-mate. “Huh?”
“You know the whole Celtic history/mythology stuff you’ve been researching?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s a reason I suggested getting into it.”
“Why’s that?”
“I want you to rewrite my legend.”
She crossed her arms, unconsciously mirroring his stance. “Hasn’t Morgan Llewellyn done that already?”
The figure shook his head, disgusted. “That bitch turned my life into a freakin’ romance novel.”
“I’m not a writer, Cú Chulainn. I’m a crap-for-brains, worthless retard who can’t–”
He cut her off. “You wanna have a shot at making a future for yourself, or not?”
Leah let out an aggravated huff. “You know I do.”
“Then…screw them. Screw your mom, screw your classmates, screw anybody who keeps telling you that crap. I can give you what you really want.”
“Yeah, right.”
Cú Chulainn glowered at her. “D’you really want to wind up like your parents?”
“No.”
“So, look at it this way. This would be a win-win for both of us, right? I get the talent to write my story and actually be alive for once. You’ll actually be able to fight back, loosen up, and kick some ass. Besides, we’d only be switching places.”
She stared her shadow-brother in the eyes. He was right. “What the hell.”
Cú Chulainn let out a loud, joyous yell and flung his arms around his shadow-sister.
A searing light flashed between them.
“Ha ha! The Hound of Ulster is back!”
The short-statured female figure laughed. “You’re such a dork.”
“Think anyone’s gonna notice a difference?” Cú Chulainn asked, turning around to head home.
“Maybe a little,” she said. “But, we’re only fourteen. People change.”
He looked down at his new female body. “That’s gotta be fixed, though.”
“Fine by me.”
“You sure? You might want it back later.”
Leah shrugged. “Na, I like this side of things. Keep it.”
“Really? Thanks!”

The interview
Andrea Kirchman, second-and-fourth

The first thing I saw, when Katie Tinder took the bag off my head, was her smile.
“You wanted to interview me?” she asked.
She dropped the bag on the floor and took a seat across the table. I looked down and saw an elaborate duct tape spider web cris-crossing my chest and biceps. I glared at her. She laughed and leaned her chair back against the wall. Propping her dirty cowboy boots on the edge of the table, she swept her right hand towards me. “Please, begin.”
My mind was racing. I was furious with how she had tricked me, but I also knew that any interview was going to be on her terms.
“Do you hit everyone on the head who wants to talk to you or is that just an honor reserved especially for me?” I asked.
Her blue eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms. “Well, you’re the first one that’s lived. Why don’t we wait and see?”
I studied her, sitting there. Short-cropped russet curls made a reddish halo shine around her head. The devil’s angel. “Why are you after Elias Tichnor? What did he do to you?”
Her eyes widened, and she lowered her feet and stood up. She walked over to me, and spat in my face.
“Never! Never say his name to me or I will slit your throat and let the rats chew out your eyeballs!” She turned and slammed her fists against the table before stalking away and standing with her back to me, staring out the window.
I rubbed my wet cheek against my shoulder and decided to push in a different direction. “Where is Michael Gaetan?”
Her shoulders drooped as she leaned her forehead against the windowpane.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I can’t find him.”
She turned and looked at me. Standing there in her brown leather jacket and blue jeans, she appeared much younger than her purported thirty-five years. Her fingers reached up to fondle the slender gold chain around her neck.
“It’s my turn to ask you a question,” she said, “I need to know what you know about the old Walking Iron Munitions plant.”
I wasn’t expecting that. She had connected Tichnor to the munitions factory.
I admitted that I didn’t know much and told her the little I did know. How it was a sprawling industrial munitions factory until the 1970s and how now its 400 acres of empty buildings sat decaying while the government decided who was going to be responsible for its cleanup.
“Why?” I asked. “Do you think they’re holding Michael there?”
She didn’t answer, but pulled a knife from her boot and laid it on the table. Leaning in, she whispered into my ear, “Interview’s over.”

Character auditioning for a story
Judith McNeil, first-and-third

Early morning foray for tea and scone. Okay, tea and scone secured, I am now looking for a table to provide me with a fifteen-minute window of relaxation. Starbucks is heavily populated, but I move towards a table by the window.
Seated at the table kitty-corner from me, I see a gentleman, sitting alone reading a magazine, more like skimming. Unless he has an exceptional ability to read a page a second, the magazine may just be a prop to keep him from staring at people uninterrupted. I sip my tea, nibble at my scone.
He looks at me and says, “Hello”.
I respond in kind.
A few moments pass, and he remarks on the spring-like weather. He thumbs through a few more pages, and I start to take in his appearance: white hair in a crew cut (do people still call them “crew cuts”?), small gold hoop earring in left ear…. and he’s about to say something else. He talks about the present-day lack of community, how people in the 1950’s were closer, how neighbors greeted each other, family and friends lived within proximity of each other.
I agree by saying something about jobs moving people away and emphasizing this by holding out my hands and splaying my fingers.
He nods.
Is he lonely? Is that what he’s feeling? Is that the content of the article he was skimming? I notice his boots are quite shiny, a mirror of his leather jacket.
A youngish woman greets him on her way to get coffee, like she’s seen him on several occasions. Does he hang out there on Saturday mornings? Is he waiting for someone?
He is rubbing his hands and looking at them, and I look, as well, seeing a large dark blue star tattoo above the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. What does that mean? No wedding ring, but a pinky ring with some inscription. As I get up to leave he says, “Take care of yourself.”
Little does he know, or maybe he does know, in an intuitive sense, that he’s about to be cast in a story, play, or screenplay. Hmm. An angel? A retired cop? A retired military man? Not a hippie, too neat. A doctor? A motorcycle-riding member of the Masons? A spy?
We’ll see. Maybe he’ll tell me in my dreams.

The match of the century: Knightmare vs The Author
Aaron Boehm, first-and-third, second-and-fourth

INT. WRESTLING ARENA – NIGHT
The arena is full, holding about 3000 people. The RING ANNOUNCER stands in the middle of the ring, with the REFEREE in the corner. Above the entryway hangs a banner that says “METAFICTIONAL MAYHEM”

RING ANNOUNCER
And now it’s time for your main event!
Entering first, hailing from Parts
Unknown: Knightmare.

“Ain’t No Grave” by Johnny Cash plays over the loud speakers as JACK ‘KNIGHTMARE’ BLOOMFIELD slowly walks towards the ring. He wears a white robe, black leather pants, and a white sleeveless shirt. He gets into the ring and takes off his robe, handing it to the referee.

RING ANNOUNCER
And his opponent, hailing from
Green Bay, Wisconsin: “The Author,”
Aaron Boehm.

“If You Want Blood” by AC/DC plays as AARON BOEHM makes his way to the ring. He wears jeans and an X-Men t-shirt. As he tentatively enters the ring, Jack grabs a microphone.

JACK
After all you’ve put me through, I
think it’s time for some payback.
Clearly anything goes with the way
you’ve handled my personal life, so
what do you say we make this an
‘Anything Goes Match’?

Aaron gets a quizzical look on his face, and grabs the microphone from Jack.

AARON
You’re on!

The bell rings and they lock up. Jack immediately gives him a stiff elbow to the face. The whole crowd cheers at the shot. Aaron grabs and twists Jack’s arm.

AARON
What’s up with the deviation from
the script?
Jack grabs Aaron’s arm and twists it behind his back. Aaron winces in pain.

JACK
Yeah, let’s talk about the script.

Jack wrenches harder on Aaron’s arm and he screams.

JACK
Why did you have to make my father
such a bastard?

Aaron wraps his free arm around the back of Jack’s neck and throws him over shoulder. As he goes over, Jack drops Aaron’s arm. Aaron puts Jack in a headlock.

AARON
You haven’t seen the big picture
yet, Jack. Sometimes suffering
can make you stronger.

Jack reaches back and puts his thumbs into Aaron’s eyes. He drops the headlock to push Jack’s hands away. They both get to their feet.

JACK
You didn’t have to see how I
grew up. You gloss over that, but
I didn’t get to!

Jack grabs Aaron and slams him to the mat. Jack jumps on top of Aaron and throws several hard punches into his face. Aaron grabs both of Jack’s hands and headbutts him.

AARON
Just like in wrestling, all
pain is worth it for that one
moment of triumph when you find
what you’re made of.

Aaron grabs Jack’s arm and pulls him into the mat face first. Aaron wraps his legs around Jack’s arm and pulls.

AARON
You’re in a finding faith story!

Jack taps out from the pain. The bell rings as the referee holds Aaron’s hand in the air. Jack gets to his feet, holding his arm. He stares at Aaron, then extends his hand. Aaron hugs him as the crowd cheers.
Bears in Space: Interview with Roz
Greg Spry, first-and-third

“Good evening. Welcome to Interstellar Bear News for Decembear 15th, 7128.” Anchor Bear sat in a floating chair, paws clasped over its arm, facings the hovercam. “Tonight I’ve got a special guest in the studio, Roz Bear, one of the heroes who saved Diva Bear from the clutches of the evil Boss Bear.”
Roz folded his furry arms across his chest and groaned under his breath. The hovercam twisted, focusing its lens on him. A holoprojection behind it showed clips from Diva Bear’s galactic tour. Hippos, squirrels, monkeys, and chickens, decked out in leather, danced in unison to a techno beat. With microphone in paw, and in a leotard that showed way too much fur, Diva Bear bounced around on stage, grinding on her backup vocalists. A gaggle of young sows screeched, cried, and reached out towards her. Security bears had to hold them back.
Guilt made Roz shiver. He regretted his decision to do this interview almost as much as rescuing that shameless, annoying corporate singer.
“The viewers at home want to know,” Anchor Bear asked, facing him, “how did you get Diva off Boss Bear’s ship safely?”
“It was simple, really,” Roz said. “We packet-sniffed the password for Boss Bear’s Facebear account, and it turned out that the security systems aboard his mother’s ship used the same one. So –”
“Did you say ‘mother’s ship’? Don’t you mean mother ship?”
“No, it’s his mother’s ship.”
Anchor Bear dipped his brow.
“Anyway,” Roz said, “Boss Bear’s soldiers have pretty poor aim. Their particle beams nipped at my heels, but they don’t understand the concept of shooting in front of me. And they only attack one at a time. So, I was able to fight my way to where Diva was being held.”
“Were you scared that you might not make it back alive?”
Roz shook his head. “No. My fearlessness stems from one simple fact.” He shrugged. “There’s no way the author’s gonna kill me off. I mean, I’m the main protagonist. I always find a way to conveniently escape death and beat the bad guy against all odds.”
“We should all be so lucky.” Anchor Bear sifted through the stack of paper-thin computer pads in his paws. “But it must’ve been difficult to face Boss Bear himself. Rumor has it that he’s actually your father.”
“Not true,” Roz said. “That would definitely make things more personal – give me extra motivation, increased emotional investment – but it’s been done before.”
“And after you escaped from Boss Bear’s mother’s ship, he pursued you through several planetary systems?”
“Right. We tried to give him the slip near Alredi8 and finally lost him around Monestat7. He nearly caught us when our hiberdrive malfunctioned. I’ve got a fast ship, but crossing large interstellar distances at sub-light speeds can take a while if your drive fails to put the entire universe to sleep while you do it.”
“Naturally.” Anchor Bear faced the camera “We’ll be right back after a word from our sponsor.”

Interrogation
Kime Heller-Neal, first-and-third

“Confess. Now.”
A bright light was before me. Past the yellow sphere everything blurred and shifted. A form stood beyond. My forearms were hot, the blood within them burned. No, it must be the goddess Unir. I’d waited for this trial many years. She’d examine my life and show the pathways I could choose.
“Those deaths were your fault.” My voice sputtered. Breath pulled hard in my throat, like swallowing thick steam. I was so heavy I could barely move my head.
“You are the one to blame for your path. Think back. The actions were your choice.”
No. I was forced by something. It wasn’t my fault.
“Dero, tell us what happened at the festival.”
The light blurred beyond recognition. The world was colors that floated like shards on a rippled pond.
Festival? That was so long ago, when I was young. Memories flooded my mind. Mezra and I dressed up in silky new clothes and headed to the bar. We danced with Suiard and Clau amid a hundred airborne Elinai. Suiard and I snuck past lovers in the private rooms. Alone, just us.
Then blood.
It was slick between my fingers, but it weighed down the dark hole inside me. “I stabbed him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask her about the Royals!” Unir would question me with her beloved Utir, they didn’t like to be apart. Stories always pegged him as stern but fair. Together they could bully and mother anyone into enlightenment.
“You had accomplices, friends. Who? Where are they?”
Mezra’s face was the clearest memory of that night. It had taken me two lifetimes to understand her disbelief, her fear, her uncertainty of me. “Mezra left. She sent me her spell-book later. I thought we could be friends again, if I improved my skills, but she changed. We are not the same.”
“No. Focus. Who helped you in New Town?”
“Aeris.” His arms held me tight after I crashed into the trees at school.
“What did he do?”
“Made me stop spying. I couldn’t give it all up, though.”
“What happened in the palace?” Utir paced.
“My father and I heard the plot to slaughter New Town. We ran, but it took days to escape.” My father’s hands grabbed a man around the neck and squeezed the life out of him. “The town was gone. Aeris could’ve died there.” Crushed, incinerated, or stabbed. He would no longer hold my hand and figure out the world with me. He was gone now.
“But the Queen! What did you do to her? Where are the princesses?” Utir was close.
“What?”
My body shook. My shoulders squeezed toward each other.
“We need more. Give her another dose.”
“Unir?” This wasn’t like the stories.
“Isn’t that dangerous? How does it affect her kind?”
“Who cares? It’s her fault. She’ll confess to that soon enough.”
“What about her friends?”
“The King won’t stop until the Oracle has paid for her crimes against the throne. Hers and her father’s.”

Mose Dickerson’s got some deservin’
Jerry Peterson, first-and-third

He drove up beside me while I was out walking my pooch and handed me a fistful of mail.
“Ya got yer bank overdraft notice there,” he said through the open window of his old Chevy coupe, the black paint sun bleached, “a sales circular from Farm & Fleet you oughtta read – some real good deals there – an’ a note from yer granddaughter in California.”
I stared at the driver. “Mose?” I asked.
“You were expectin’ maybe somebody else?”
“Yeah, my regular mailman.”
“Mail person, ya mean. She’s out sick. I asked for her route because we gotta talk.”
“Why?”
Mose Dickerson horsed himself out of his car. With an effort, he parked his butt against the front fender and folded his arms across his chest. “You left me outta yer next James Early book. Why’d you do that?”
I studied the second envelope. “How’d you know this was from Maggie? She didn’t put her name on this.”
“I read the letter.”
“Oh, come on, Mose.”
“How else you expect me to keep up on what’s going on with yer family? The girl says she’s havin’ a good time working for that Craig Ferguson fella, she’s got herself a new apartment, an’ she’s coming home next month for a visit.”
“I guess I don’t have to open the envelope then.”
“See, I saved you time. Now to ya leavin’ me outta yer next book.”
I sized up the hurt look in the old man’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said. “In that book Early’s off chasing cattle rustlers.”
“I know, an’ I should be there helping him. I got me a badge.”
“Of course, you do. I gave it to you in the first book, when I made you the constable of Leonardville. But, Mose, with your bum leg, you can’t ride a horse.”
“I could drive one of them semis for the rustlers.”
“I didn’t know you could drive a big rig.”
“Well, how-de-do. If you’da writ up all my backstory, you woulda. I drove ’em in the war.”
“You did?”
“What kinda writer are you anyways? You don’t know very much about me, do ya?”
“Well, none of this ever came up.”
“Now it has. I want you to write me in that book. I wanna help Jimmy, and you know he’s gonna need help. The bad guys have got the drop on him.”
“How do you know that? I just wrote that scene this morning.”
“See? I told you it’s not too late. You kin write me in there, an’ I can save my friend. I come in on them boys with my shotgun, an’ it’s all over for ’em.”
“I’ll consider it.”
Anger flashed in Mose Dickerson’s eyes. “Consider it? What do I gotta do to you, boy, whup you?”