The Wizard Takes a Holiday by Red Tash Copyright 2011, Red Tash Books ePub edition Now including short fiction by Claudia Lefeve and Ash Krafton. See respective authors for copyright information. Work summary: The Wizard Takes a Holiday is a flash fiction humorous rural fantasy of about 1500 words, by Red Tash. http://RedTash.com Application of the Scientific Method to Family Management is a short story in the humorous speculative fiction vein. Approximately 4500 words, by Ash Krafton. http://AshKrafton.com Southern Hospitality is a flash fiction historical horror short of about 1000 words, by Claudia Lefeve. http://www.ClaudiaLefeve.com Lucian's First Trick is the story of a young man's last night in the childhood realm of his mundane life. Sometimes when you say “Trick or Treat,” you get what you ask for. Approximately 3500 words. By Red Tash, this story originally was published in Sirens Call Issue #5, October 2012. http://RedTash.com ePub Edition, License Notes Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at the site where you purchased this book, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support. All Rights Reserved No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Red Tash Books. The Wizard Takes a Holiday I stroked my beard, fluffing it proudly, and propped my feet on the boombox in front of me. The drive-in was crowded, and all around me, men, women, and children were dressed in what were supposed to be frightening costumes. Serial killers. Ghouls. Lots and lots of fake blood. I’d seen the real thing. They couldn’t scare me. I peeled open my cardbox box of chocolate covered raisins, and balanced a skiff of deep fried pickles on my thigh, waiting for them to cool. What delicacies! What a vacation! I took a long sip of the off-brand Red Crème soda I’d found at the primitive, but well-stocked snack bar. What a pleasant summer night. Next to me, a family had backed their minivan into a tight space, and children of all ages spilled out the trunk in a tumultuous explosion of bright summer clothing and tan skin. Multi-color quilts went down on the grass immediately. The mother tossed out bags of snacks which the kids tore into with relish. Bright orange cheesy puffs. Popcorn. I raised my can in salute. The littlest of the bunch, no more than a toddler, approached me with her hand outstretched. She held the other behind her back. I smiled, wishing I could wipe her nose for her, or magic her entire face clean, but knowing neither was my place. She proffered a bright orange cheese snack, and I obliged, lest I hurt her feelings. She opened her other fist, revealing a tiny brown toad, half-squished. I swallowed hard on my snack and made a mental note to place an anti-salmonella charm on myself as soon as no one was looking. For all I had heard about Americans and their wastefulness, I had to admire my present company’s devotion to the antiquated custom of viewing film outdoors. Despite a sold out crowd, the natives waited patiently for the restrooms, doubtlessly slowed more than normal by the necessity of peeling off a variety of costumes. Instead of hiding inside the air conditioned caverns of the local WayTooManyPlex, these country denizens were gathered on a late summer’s night out of doors, among the mosquitoes and the inevitable stickiness of the evening dew to watch a horror film festival. Here, they could move about freely. Here, they could make the solitary viewing experience a social one. Here, a tiny snot-nosed tot was free to offer an old wizard a cheese snack, at his own risk. Oh, is there anything like getting away from it all to make you appreciate the joy of living? I couldn’t wait to see what the night would bring. We were mid-way through the opening feature when I heard a series of bangs at the top of the hill, behind me. The proprietor of the drive-in cut into the broadcast. “A reminder, folks. We know you are excited, and we all love to celebrate Night O’ Fright here at the Georgeville Drive-In, but fireworks are never allowed, and offenders will be asked to leave.” There was a pause, some static, then “Please enjoy the movies here with us, under the stars.” A groan went up from the back row. Not the disappointed groan of revelers denied their fun, however. No, in my reckoning it was something much worse than a few American hicks moaning and banging around for their kicks. The hair stood on the back of my neck, a signal I had learned long ago never to ignore. I reached beneath my lightweight wizarding cap to scratch my scalp. Next door, the children were rapt in attention, completely desensitized to the classic horror flick gracing the aluminum screen. I searched the tangled mass for the baby of the bunch, and her squishy toad. Another bang, and this time, a roar. A young actress’ muted scream resounded through the drive-in’s antiquated speaker system, and echoed from the radios tuned to its frequency, all around me. “Confound it, anyway,” I whispered under my breath. If there were no local wizards in the vicinity present to take care of this, I supposed I had better. Besides, I felt oddly compelled to defend the little cheese snack girl, should the need arise. “So much for vacation.” I set the fried pickles down and set out in search of trouble, once again. I found the troll on the edge of the drive-in. Someone had most definitely magicked the beast, as well as the drive-in staff, not to mention the majority of patrons crowding the back aisles. Truckloads of teenagers were happily swinging glow sticks and swilling cheap beer, paying no attention to the hulking twelve-foot blue-skinned giant in overalls who threatened their safety. I sighed, appraising him best I could in the growing darkness. A young thing, he was. He bounced a tractor tire into the back of an oversized pick-up truck, where it rebounded back to him. Every few bounces he turned his head and roared. I looked around. No one appeared to take any notice of me and my wanderings. I suppose even an old wizard can still catch a break, from time-to-time. “Sorcerious Revelio!” I called softly, stealing my wand from beneath my summer robes. A faint glow lit the back of the pick-up truck. Surely the troll charmer would be found inside. Imagine my surprise upon reaching the back of the truck, ready to scold my fellow wizard for inappropriate use of sorcery in a public place—American customs be damned—only to find the little cheese snack girl, smiling up at me, her face even messier than before. The troll bellowed, and I cast a protective enchantment around us. His tire froze in mid-air, and he banged his fists against the magical field. The little tot erupted instantly into tears. She pointed furtively at the creature, crying “Pay! Pay wid me!” She wiped her grubby nose with the back of her hand as she cried, her last playmate still gripped tightly inside, from the look and smell of it. “Alas, Poor Toady,” I said. I reached down and stroked her hair. “Toady?” she said, opening her hand and offering me what was surely meant as a fine gift. I wondered how often the wee one had made accidental sacrifices of such wild and plentiful offerings. I imagined she’d discovered like most magical children do, that the average family commode makes for a proficient cauldron of sorts. Oh, the grisly potions a mere babe could conjure! I cursed the troll with a tiny bit of amnesia—only enough to send it home to its own mother. He had been innocent, I thought, and perhaps like this young lady, the junior of a brood with whom the elders would not deign to play. I walked my young friend back to her parents’ van, and whispered “You’ve got quite the charmer, there” to the frantic mother, who had by then realized her baby was missing. “Oh, if you only knew!” the mother cried. “This one’s more trouble than the rest put together!” I could only smile, as I settled back in for the Night O’ Fright Double Feature, once again comfortable in my reclining lawn chair. Another young actress screamed through the tinny car speakers, and everywhere nearby there was joy—and nothing to fear. ** An excerpt from Troll Or Derby: Chapter One Burning Down the House Deb Meth fires are blue, the hottest kind of flame. I’d heard it before, probably from Derek, but now I was seeing it firsthand. Lucky me. A sickly smell hung on the air. The remains of chemicals, plastic, and pharmaceutical ingredients brutalized my lungs, but I couldn’t back away. I wouldn’t—no matter what. The trailer crackled with flame, and Gennifer was inside. Tall, eerie tongues of fire licked the outer walls--ten feet high, at least. I had no idea flames could reach that size. Plasticine, sticky smoke—brown and thick—engulfed me as I neared the trailer. I didn't know where to look for my sister, but I was sure she was inside. A moan, then a scream—I could hear her through the thin aluminum walls. The trailer was melting into sludge and toxic smoke, and it cracked and popped on a warping metal frame. I didn’t know if I should try and run through the fire at the kitchen end of the mess, where a gaping hole belched sickening fire. Maybe I could try to get Gennifer to open or break a window and climb out from the other side. I wondered if she’d have it in her to bleed a little, to save her own life. The window was way too high for me to reach. "Open the window, Gennifer! Climb out!" She was never right when she was doing the drugs Dave gave her—could she even understand what I was saying? Could she hear me? I thought maybe I could pitch something hard enough into the glass to break her out. I ran to the woods, looking for a log or branch I could ram through the window. Everything was too rotten to be of any use—sticks and limbs crumbled in my shaking hands. Gennifer's screams were getting louder, higher pitched. Was she on fire? Why wouldn't she help herself? If only I had a crowbar. Then I saw them—tools. The trailer was up on blocks, with no underpinning. Of course Dave would be too cheap to finish out his rustic rural meth lab. I crawled beneath, the leaky septic line christening me as I stooped, groping for the abandoned tools. I hoped the mobile home wouldn't collapse on top of me before I could crawl back out, but it wasn't sounding so good. Dave and his gang of junkie slaves had been working beneath the trailer, and sure enough, they’d been too distracted, dumb, or high to put away a set of screwdrivers, some ratchets, and a really, really heavy wrench. It’s no crowbar, but it’ll have to do. Liquid shit dripped on me, but I didn't have time to care. My sister was screaming her head off in a burning trailer and I was reasonably certain she was out of her mind on drugs. I flung the wrench at the window, but it didn't break. I tried again, and again, but only managed to crack the damned glass, and Gennifer still hadn't appeared at the window to save herself. There was only one thing to do. I grabbed the wrench and ran to the kitchen end of the trailer. I took a deep breath of fresh air, then I hurled myself through the cloud of fumes. The fire and smoke obscured everything, and I shut my eyes against the sting of chemicals. For a moment, I thought I saw the shapes of blue and orange dancers in the flames. I braced myself for the heat, but I didn't feel it. Pops and hisses all around me sounded like whispers or cackles. The fire was eating through the trailer, and I felt the floor giving out with every step. I wouldn’t let it take Gennifer—I wouldn’t let it consume me, either. The hallway was short, and the door Gennifer was locked behind very thin. Her screams were so loud, there was no point trying to yell to her that I was coming in, especially if it meant inhaling more smoke. I swung at the handle, holding the wrench like a baseball bat. The brass knob fell to the floor, a chunk of splintered wood still clinging to it. I kicked the bedroom door in, and Gennifer stopped screaming long enough to pass out. Lovely. Now I’ll have to carry her. She wore a black bra and jeans, and her skin was burning with fever. I put my hands under her armpits and lugged her over my shoulder. She had at least 75 pounds on me, so I should have crumpled under her, I suppose. Instead, I stumbled into the door frame as I carried her across the spongy floor of the burning trailer. The heat touched my hair—I could hear it sizzle, could smell it burning, even—but I felt nothing but determination as I carried my sister out of that meth lab. With Gennifer still on my back, I jumped. She fell hard on top of me, and I was just pushing her off, struggling for breath, when the trailer collapsed onto the ground. The sound of sirens in the distance was no surprise—the smoke was so black and thick that farmers in the vicinity surely could tell this was no typical trash fire. I pulled my sister as far away from the flames as I could and watched for the EMTs to roll up. Gennifer groaned, and her eyes flickered open for a sec. She met my gaze and frowned. She closed her eyes again and drew a deep breath. “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch,” I said. “Dave didn’t do it,” she said. Her words were slurred. She reached up to rub her eyes, lazily, as if waking up from a nap. “Yeah, right, Gennifer. He's such a saint, locking you in a burning trailer and all.” I didn’t see the point of arguing with her, though. I let it drop. Something sticky and hot dripped too close to my eyes, and I reached to wipe it off. Please don't let it be crap from the sewer line. I pulled my hand away, and it was covered in blood. Even better. I won't think of that now—nope, not at all. The fire truck roared up the gravel driveway. Guys in black rubber suits jumped off the truck--someone put a face mask on Gennifer and asked me if there was anyone still inside. I shook my head no, and then I fell through trees, air, sky, into the black. I felt my head hitting the hard ground near where my backpack lay, could hear the EMTs shouting, and then—nothing. Chapter 1.5 I'd Love to Change the World Harlow I want you to understand something. I didn't rise up out of the ground fully grown, I wasn't the bastard child of an angry god, and I didn't become this way because I was cursed. My skin's not green and I won't turn to stone in the sunlight. When I was young, I had a mother, and she was a troll. I had a mother and a father who were both trolls, in fact--and we were a family. Yes, I had a family. Just like you. Scared yet? Almost everything I know about humans, I've learned from their trash. Redbook and Woman's Day show up at my doorstep more than any other source, I reckon. It may not be a perfect picture of what your life is like, but I'm betting I've got a more accurate view of your lifestyle than you have of mine, at least for the time being. For starters, there's a shopping mall full of differences between troll family life, and how human families live. Trolls, for instance, do not typically invest a lot of emotion into their own young--often don't even raise them. They especially don't socialize with their relatives for special occasions. You won't see us breaking out the patio umbrellas and the ice chests full of soda for a family barbecue. A special occasion in troll culture is when the villagers rise up and try to corral one of us in a cave, or something like that. At least, that's how it used to be. That's what my mom told me. I remember that. I remember a lot more now than I did, when this adventure started—but I'll get to that. Best I can tell, my nuclear family was more like a human family than a troll one. The extended family, as you English would call it, was a mess. A big, illegal, drug-running, slaving mess. But I'll get to that. This is my part of the story and I want to begin in the beginning. I'm not a storyteller. It's not my profession. Bear with me while I sort this out, okay? Sure, you're going to think what you want about trolls. I mean, you've seen movies, you've read Rowling and Tolkein. I'm telling you that the real-live working-class trolls of the Midwest are nothing like you've been told. We're capable of great violence, sure, and I'll concede that our proclivity is largely toward evil, but let's face it—a lot of that comes down to breeding and culture. In our world, might most definitely makes right. That's the fundamental law of troll culture, although most trolls would forego the flowery wording and just express it with a grunt and blow to the head. Trolls as a species, though, are capable of great love. I know, because I've experienced it. You don't live with something like that and ever forget. If you do, you're a fool, anyway. My parents weren't totally solitary like so many other trolls are. They even had a very close friendship with a fairy family called the Wheelers. If we'd celebrated holidays, the Wheelers were the ones we'd have invited over for a Fourth of July cookout. We didn't do that a lot, that I can recall. We did raid sinkholes filled with garbage on a few occasions, though. Good times. The Wheelers were not just fairies, they were Protectors. Fleet of foot and quick of mind, their instincts were so well-tuned as to be mistaken for psychic powers, by most. According to my mother, in the old days humans and fairies alike worshiped or feared the breed of fairy the Wheelers were. Their massive black wings shimmering in air above a crowd of would-be foes were beautiful and awesome—I remember that, too. Sometimes. The memories come and go, unless I'm looking at Deb. Then I can't forget. Anyway, these two particular Wheelers, Marnie and Mannox, were so powerful and strong, everyone lived in fear of them. Everyone but my folks, and me, I guess. The Wheelers were my fairy godparents. I don't remember much about them, but I remember that. Trying to remember is a full-time job. I've visited the library in Bloomington, and even picked through the local bookstore in Bedrock, curious about what the old days used to be like. Maybe there'd be a book there, or something. I read in a muddy copy of Psychology Today once that some therapists use fairy tales to trigger vital memories in their patients—and I used to get these blank spots, this fogginess. Anyway, my point is, among the children's stories and the romantic teen fiction, and even in a lot of the comic books, there's some truth. Mostly fiction, but if you look hard enough, you can see through the tall tales, and find the common thread within. I've always been good at that sort of thing. Figuring stuff out. The one thing I wish I'd figured out sooner was what to do about my uncle Jag. Why? Well, for starters, my uncle killed my parents, and my fairy godparents. It was immediately after the bonding ceremony between their baby daughter and me. The Wheelers had pledged to protect my parents, and by extension, me. My parents were to protect Deb, and I was, by extension . . . Well, I jump ahead of myself. I told you I'm not good with stories. I should start with an introduction, shouldn't I? My name is Harlow Saarkenner. I am an American Troll living in rural Indiana, and this is the story of how I met a kick-ass rollergirl, rejoined a rock band, and lived happily ever after. In a landfill. Did I mention that? But there's more. Stay tuned. I'm just going to tell it like it happened, best I can. Deb will fill in the rest. Application of the Scientific Method to Family Management: Informal Observations and Conclusions By L. Vira Calotes-Golem PhD As provided by Ash Krafton I don't know why such a big deal is made over women who successfully manage both a family and a career. Lots of us do it without a second thought. Maybe it's all about quality. After all, a great job doesn't feel like work. It's more like a paying hobby. Go to work and have fun doing the things you love, right? I guess I do have an advantage in that I'm lucky enough to work from home. Then again, getting a zoning permit to build a mad scientist's laboratory is such a bear. I mean, they don't even have the right forms for it, let alone the right people to sign them. What's the big deal, anyway? I don't understand why people are so judgmental. I pay taxes, don't I? I don't add to pollution or squander natural resources. And when was the last time the neighborhood dogs disappeared overnight? (Not that it could ever be traced back to me, but anyways.) I tried doing things their way but eventually, I learned it was easier just to convert the garage (and the basement and the attic) into my workspaces. I can animate corpses and get the laundry done and still get the kids off the bus every day. It's important to our family for me to be home for them, just as important as it is for me to be able to pursue my individuality and to single-handedly twist the laws of physics to satisfy my nefarious whims. Managing career and family--for some of us, it's wickedly easy. # I guess it's unfair of me to take all the credit for my success. Being a working mom isn't a solitary sport--it takes a great team. My husband is everything I dreamed a perfect man could be--patient, affectionate, supportive, strong… Okay, strong is a bit of an understatement. However, most other golems I've had the dubious pleasure of encountering have a tendency to smash first and ask questions later. Joe's strength is more of a quiet reserve. He's not Mr. Social and some days he could be as stubborn as a rock but there is no denying his fortitude and radiant warmth…especially on spring days when he deanimates outside in the yard. "Mom." The screen door banged shut and the tell-tale thump of a book bag hitting the kitchen table told me the kids were home from school. I glanced at my watch. Early again. I guess the bus driver changed the route. That was sweet of her, I thought. I know the kids like to get home as soon as possible. "Down here," I called. "In the laundry room." My son yelled down the steps. "Dad's covered in snakes again." His sister, Enyo, came down and sulked into the laundry room where I folded jeans and aprons. "And Loki won't let me near them." "They're poisonous, you dolt!" Loki's voice took on a trill of exasperation. "Those brown ones are copperheads!" Enyo shrugged, that eleven-year-old universal sign of disregard. "Daddy doesn't care." "Your father is a brick sometimes," I said. "You're not. Poison will kill you." "Slowly?" Enyo tented her fingers and smiled, hope glittering in her dark eyes. "Not funny." I dropped a canvas apron onto a stack of folded clothes and reached into the dryer for another. "Stay away from the snakes. Homework?" She grumbled and turned on her heel, heading back to the steps. "Okay," I said. "I'll take that as a yes." A peculiar sizzling sound from the next room took my attention. I dropped the laundry back into the basket and hurried into my lab. The dark room was illuminated only by the glare of computer monitors, a lightning chamber, and a beaker that glowed with a pearly lavender substance. "Crap." I huffed out my breath. "The ecto fizzled out. Again." Enyo stole up beside me, homework forgotten. "I'm sorry, Mom. How close did you get this time." I pouted. "I saw a face in it this morning." She slid her arm around my waist and gave me a hug. "Don't worry. It'll work next time." "I hope so. I'm running out of essence and I can't get another séance for at least a month." I squeezed her shoulders. "Let me just flush this batch. I'll start another one later." I lifted the beaker off the spin plate and watched the ooze swirl to a sluggish stop. "Rats. That looks like a hand. See?" She peered into the container and tapped the side with her fingernail. "Cool. Can I reconstruct a ghost of my own?" "Course not," I said. "You need a license to do that." She crossed her arms. "But I'm almost twelve. You treat me like a baby." "No, I don't treat you like a baby." I carried the beaker to the sink and poured the ectoplasm into the drain, rinsing the glass with water and an ammonia chaser. It kept the sewer pipes from going paranormal. Who said I wasn't environmentally friendly? "I just don't need another call from Children and Youth." She stomped out of the room, her only reply being more grumbles. Oh, well. She'll live. Once upstairs again, I found Loki standing near the window snapping pictures with his cell phone. "Oh, man. Dad's not going to believe this." "What's that, sweetie?" "There's a big hawk or something on him and I think it just pooped." "Well, don't just sit there, taking pictures." I set the laundry basket down and hurried outside to the front yard, clapping my hands. "Shoo! Go on!" The bird cocked its head at me before leaping and flapping away, snake in talons. Sure enough, it had left a present on the stone pile that was sometimes my husband. Clucking my tongue, I shook my head. "Joe, wake up." I tugged off the dish towel that was perpetually on my shoulder and wiped the mess away. The stone, toasty warm from the May afternoon sunlight, remained motionless. I resisted the urge to climb on top. Those snakes had all the luck. Being cold-blooded had many advantages but, cripes, when my hands got cold, they stayed cold. It looked like he shut down again. That's the trouble with golems. You had to keep at them. I took off my necklace, a key on a chain. Stooping, I circled the stone, peering at the cracks. Once I figured out which end was up, I circled around to the other side. The key portal was half hidden by grass. Good. Yard work could keep him busy today. I pushed in the key and twisted it until it clicked. "Joziakreth. Show me truth." The ground began to tremble and I backed away, still unsure of which way he'd unfold. The first moments of reanimation were rather dicey. Having his key made things a little easier, helping him gain focus a lot quicker than a cold start, but still. I didn't want to take chances. I'd been golem-slapped before. It leaves a mark. Stone scraped against stone as the boulder reshaped itself, heaving inward and upward until a man -shaped pillar stood in front of me. It groaned, an earthy sound, then coughed and cleared his throat. "Ahem. Wife." "Ahem, yourself. Here." I held out the towel. "Really? Nude in the front yard?" He took it but frowned at the smear of bird doo that soiled it. "So hold it the other way." I parked one hand on my hip and shook a finger at him. "Get in before Mrs. Harper complains again. Her grandson is visiting this afternoon. You know he likes to play in the yard." Joe hunched his shoulders a bit before he turned to lumber inside. He grumbled something unintelligible as he dragged his feet across the porch and fumbled with the handle of the door. Great. No mistaking where Enyo got it from. I brushed my hands on the thighs of my pants and took a glance across the street. Empty yard. No angry complaining from neighbors. Good sign, right there. Another disaster averted. Just call me Super Mom. # I always believed a balance existed somewhere. It had to exist. Otherwise, the earth would tip off its axis and we'd all go floating off into space to explode as galaxies cart-wheeled by, unheeding our stupid, unbalanced plight. Balance kept planets in orbit and gravity pulling in the right direction and, ultimately, houses in order. Not at my house. Here, chaos reigned, and I don't mean the fun kind. I mean the chaos that was borne of children lacking discernable attention spans and well-meaning husbands who were sometimes inanimate objects. The chaos of shedding German Shepherds in a house with wall-to-wall carpeting. The chaos of a sink full of dishes, a mound so high you'd swear it was developing consciousness (as if that could happen. Pshaw. Disney's Beauty and the Beast was full of glaring inaccuracies.) My children--I love them, really I do--are untrained animals. They are poster children for December 21, 2012. Apocalypse now. In the parlor, in fact. I guess they are no worse than any other children on the planet. They are not, after all, golems or mad scientists. They are just kids. Messy, noisy, stinky little beasts who sometimes wear clothes and speak intelligibly. Sometimes. I've tried all sorts of approaches. I tried living by example. I tried chore charts and allowances and incentives. I tried begging and screaming. I tried threatening torture but my husband insists you can't threaten anyone with a good time. Everything failed. It was time for a new philosophy. I turned to the Internet and the universe of mommy blogs for help. When in doubt, seek out people as desperate as yourself and compare notes, right? At the very worst, we all go down together. Recently I came across a blog that talked about this neat-sounding parenting program that promised a calmer home life. Even though it warned it would take serious time and effort--two things my hectic days do not allow me to squander--I decided that, in the long run, things would be much easier for everyone. Basically, you give a child a routine, you make it clear what you expect them to do, you praise the daylights out of them with each fragment of cooperation, and you do something called "reflecting their feelings." (We should probably tread lightly with Enyo on that last part. There is a very good reason why we named her after the Goddess of Destruction. Destroyer of cities, that's my sweet girl.) The philosophy was scientifically sound and quite logical. Being scientific and logical myself, I figured it might be the magic bullet I was looking for (since finding the last magic bullet that rid me of our pesky werewolf problem. But I digress.) Up until now, the routine was: kids home from school, nag about homework, nag about messes, nag about the jersey devil getting loose again (always the other guy's fault), getting dinner on, nagging about everyone eating all their vegetables. I'd love a little help from the husband but he's not much of an eater himself so it would be hypocritical of him to co-nag with me. Evening was free time, which meant everyone did what they wanted while I moved from room to room, nagging individuals about whatever was at hand before moving onto the getting-ready-for-bed nag sequence, all the while finishing dishes and checking the internet for orders and Ebay auctions going off. I have a business to run, after all. After dinner, I started a new batch of ecto. Hopefully, I could get a positive result with this run. The color changed as soon as I hooked up the current--very promising--so I took it as a good harbinger. Satisfied with myself, I went upstairs and called a family meeting and made everyone assemble in the parlor. "I want to discuss chores." I looked around at my family. They were still conscious. Good. We proceed. "Housework." "You do a great job, Mom." My son smiled his darling toothy smile at me. Enyo jabbed an elbow into his side with a hiss. "Suck up." "I appreciate your compliments." I frowned at Enyo. "But there is a definite lack of balance in our duties here." Joe was as still as a statue. I guess he was worried if he moved, I'd realize he was animate and ask him to help out. "There is going to be a change around here going forward." I laid out the routine going forward, step by step, and asked if there were any questions. "That what we do already," Enyo said. "But without my nagging. See the difference? You'll do your homework without me nagging. You'll put your clothes away without me nagging. Less nagging means more quiet." Joe finally spoke up. "Wife is right. More quiet is good." "Daddy…" Enyo crawled up unto his lap and tried to tickle him. "You love to hear our cheerful voices." Joe seized her right ankle and dangled her upside down. "Children good but could be better." "What!" Loki pulled a slingshot out of his back pocket and readied a missile. He kept a pocketful of paper "footballs" for such a purpose. Joe had shown him how to make them after we decided ball bearings were not good toys. At least we had a semblance of a grip on our parenting skills. Enyo shrieked when a missile hit her in the leg. Joe swung her side to side, a human shield against the inevitable barrage. Under normal circumstances I'd laugh. Right now, however, I felt defeated. I watched my family battle it out for a while before throwing in the towel. A buzzer sounded downstairs. Oh, goody. The dryer. Towels were done. # Enyo followed me down to the laundry room. "Mommy, why are you being so…" She chewed her lip, looking as if she couldn't find the right word. "Weird?" "Because." I sat down, pressing my hands together between my knees. "I get so tired sometimes. I feel like I am the only one who is working around here." "Daddy works." "That's different. Daddy gets up, goes out on a mercenary quest, and comes home. I'm always home and I'm always working. I take care of you guys, I clean and cook, I run a custom zombie business…" I shrugged. "I'm always doing something. And most of the time, if I don't nag, you would all lie around the house like bumps on a log." "You make bumps on a log sound bad." "When they aren't toxic fungus, they are bad. When was the last time you did chores without me telling you to?" She wrinkled her nose. "I have chores?" "See?" I pushed up to my feet with a sigh. "I take care of my things." "No, I take care of your things. You just play with them and leave them lay when you're done." "Not always. Sometimes they crawl back to their dens." "And your dolls?" "My dolls are just toys, Mom. They can't crawl." She frowned a minute before tapping her lower lip with her finger. "Yet." "Well, until they do, they have to be picked up and put away. I have to work the lab, honey. Daddy's quests don't always bring home a treasure, you know. Gold is trading too high these days and there are only so many people willing to buy gil on Ebay." "Why don't you grow a garden to raise food? That would save money." "Number one, gardening is hard work. Do I look like a farmer? Heck, no. Second, think about it. Would you seriously want to eat anything I raise out of the dirt?" She grinned. "Heck, no, Mom. That's horrifying." "Right." I handed her a stack of folded towels and gave her a playful push toward the door. "So we're clear. We all have to work if we want food on the table that won't crawl off our plates and strangle us where we sit." Then again, there might be a market for something like that. I’d have to Google it later on. # The next day, I decided to proceed full-steam with Operation Family Will Cooperate Even If It Kills Most Of Them. I created a spreadsheet and hung it on the refrigerator. I uncovered the kids' cluttered desks to create an attractive workspace for homework. And I vowed--a blood oath, actually, which I hadn't done in a dog's age--I WOULD NOT NAG. I would make, instead, helpful suggestions. Kids came home, dumped their book bags on the floor, and bee-lined to the PlayStation for a round of Black Ops. I cleared my throat and called them to the kitchen for a snack. Now, that, they heard. Loki skidded to a stop next to me, his sister close behind. "What kind of snack?" "I lied. Here's the routine chart. Get back in here, Enyo." She spun on her heel and slinked back, wearing a look of utter disgust. "Now," I said. "This is what we're going to do. Every school day. No question. No deviance. And in return, I promise no nagging." "Yeah, right," Enyo said. "You're genetically programmed to nag." "Stop distracting me. Homework first, then chores, then free time." I crossed my arms. "I can't do everything around here and I don't want to waste what little extra time I have with chasing after you." I scooped each of them up in a hug. "We'll be happier, I promise." "We'd be happier if we could use one of your zombies to do our work for us." "That's illegal. Besides which, that's impractical. People won't buy a used zombie. Now, go. You have three minutes until the homework slot. If you have to go to the bathroom, go now." "Really? You time-slotted our bathroom breaks?" Okay, maybe I was going a bit overboard but, hey. It gave us room to fail a little bit and still win. The mad sciences were all about fail-safes and back-up protocols. Sometimes, it was hard to separate the woman and the career. I spent the next three days making helpful suggestions. Several. Then, I bit my tongue, backed off, and kept to myself. It was maddening. On day one the dishes got half-washed before Enyo lost interest and sneaked off to find her laptop. Loki was marginally better but the kid is deliberate and careful (read: slow poke.) He was absolutely horrible at completing tasks on time and, as a result, ran over into free time. That resulted in extreme frustration and a disturbing muffled boom emanating from his bedroom when he stomped off to get ready for bed. But I did not nag. I smiled, a forced twist of lips, and gently reminded my dear children that it was time to move on to the next step in the daily routine. On day three, the dishes were washed completely and I spent ten minutes praising and hugging and making the child squirm under the strange show of celebration. I cheered Loki on through the last of his math homework as he finished almost on schedule. The next week, the kids started their chores without a word. I actually got an extra half-hour to myself down in the lab before I had to come up and break up a loud argument over who got to play with the PS3 first. By the time the teeth-pajamas-bed sequence rolled around, I was exhausted from all the miserable holding-back. Routines sucked. However, if we were going to be a happy family, we had to stick with it. Even if it meant--ugh--more gentle smiles and helpful suggestions. I was a mad scientist, dammit. My passions fueled my imagination, my drive to create things that should not exist and my desire to one day rule large parts of the planet. Sometimes the passions spilled over in the form of nagging and yelling. It was difficult to hold it all back. "Wife." My husband watched TV late that night after the kids went to bed. "What is wrong with your face?" I glanced over at Joe. "What kind of question is that?" "Your face is lopsided. Mouth is crooked. What…" He rumbled as he searched for the right word. "What expression is that?" Sometimes I forgot golems didn't use facial expressions to display their feelings. Joe loved me so much he'd learned what my faces meant. This one was a new one for him, I suppose. It was a new one for me, too. "I'm anxious," I admitted. "I feel like I have to sit on my hands." "No sit on hands. Sit on bottom." "It's a figure of speech, hon." "Will that strange expression go away if you sit on hands?" Puzzlement changed his voice and I couldn't help but smile. "No. The expression will go away when I figure out how to get the kids to cooperate without me wanting to scream them in the right direction." "It is natural order of things. Sometimes not good to interfere with nature." I nodded. He was right. Sometimes, it wasn't good to interfere with nature. However, it was something I did on a daily basis to get the things I wanted. This was just one more thing. # The whole routine thing lumbered on with halting unsure steps. Sometimes, homework got done. Sometimes, I had to redirect (see how mature my vocabulary is becoming?) a child to their desk or to the vacuum cleaner. Most of the time, I hovered, my need to nag building and building and threatening to blow. I ran to the lab a few times to burn off the extra energy, drawing schematics for a new device that would ultimately be named something that ended in -inator or spending time out in the garage tinkering with a new zombie. I made a vow I would not nag. The least I could do is get something productive done with all this ventable passion. This might work, I thought. Then Thursday happened. Thursday started bad. Enyo was not happy about being made to gain consciousness and even unhappier about being made to forsake her supine position. Too bad. We all have our trials. I once faced a mob of villagers holding pitchforks and torches. She could drag her behind out of bed and go to school. Apparently, things didn't get any better at school. She came home with a black cloud over her head that actually rained on the carpet before I found and dispelled it. Damn things were worse than dogs. She took things out on her brother, of course, and our carefully constructed routine went right out the window. I separated them and they yelled from room to room at each other. I sent them to their rooms. Thinking they were busy with homework, I stuck my head in and found her on her laptop, playing Webkinz. Cute animals and constructive games? Hell to the no. Not in this house. I blew it. The scream came out in a long, unbroken shriek of frustration and I yelled. I yelled about the state of her room, the unmade bed, the sloppy drawers, the homework lying forgotten in the other room. I slapped the wall and made things rattle and scurry away inside. Loki crept down the hall to see what the ruckus was about and I started on him. I yelled and I stomped and they stared at me in shock and awe. And they smiled. Wait. Not cowering in fear and restitution? Smiling? "Wow." Enyo was the first to speak. "That was awesome." I looked at her as if she had two heads. "Really? The yelling is awesome? Is this what you want? Me nagging and screaming and acting like a complete monster?" "You're not a monster," she said. "You're our mom. And we love you." Loki ran to me and strangled my waist in a hug. "Thank God you're back." "What?" I was confused. "I don't--" "Please, Mommy," he said, looking up at me with wide eyes. "Don't do that again." I was on the verge of tears. "I told you. I hate yelling." "Not that, the other stuff. The weird smiles and nicety stuff." "Wait a second." I sat down of the bed and looked hard at them. "You mean, you guys didn't like when I wasn't yelling?" Enyo whooshed out a breath. "Oh, Mom, it was so creepy. I thought you were possessed again." "Are you really our mom again?" Loki reached up and put his hand on my cheek. "Cause I missed her." What could I say to that? I opened my arms and drew them to me in a tight hug. I guess sometimes, nature will prevail, even if we don't want it to. The scientist in me was hugely disappointed but, right now, the mom was relieved and terribly happy again. # Later, the kids did their homework--without my having to remind them, thank you--and were staving off a chore or two before supper. Cosmic balance, I guess. I poked my head into the parlor. "Anyone seen your father?" Loki didn't even look up from his video game. "Outside doing the yard." Thank goodness for my husband. At least someone was doing what they were supposed to be doing. "Honey?" I called as I stepped out onto the porch. "Don't forget, the belladonna needs to be cut back before the deer get at it again. It really messes with their eyesight." However, the lawn mower stood abandoned on the side walk. I couldn't hear the weed whacker, either. Intrigued, I went to look for him. I found him in the side yard, deanimated again. I noticed he had his ass-end pointing its unmistakable stony crack at the neighbor's house. Sigh. Men are impossible. Instead of summoning him, I just draped my wet dish towel over his rear and went back inside. He's lucky I didn't leave a target. I'm sure that hawk was still around somewhere. # Late that night, I crawled into bed and snuggled up to my still-warm husband, laying my head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me to him in a warm, cocoon-like embrace. Ahhh. No indigestion tonight. I loved spring evenings. Dishes were done, laundry was clean, another flesh golem was on its way to a new owner. Kids were asleep, house was in order, and my PayPal account was as stretched full as my gastro-intestinal tract. Boy, I was beat. I uttered a contented sigh and felt the heat seep into my body, causing lazy tingles of happy to float like motes through my skin. "Good day today, wife?" "Hmm-mmm." I snuggled closer. "I guess." "You worked hard. Good work." "Yeah." I pressed a kiss to his bare chest, feeling it rumble when he breathed. The vibrations were soothing. I guessed it was the reason why the kids always fell asleep in their car seats when they were little. "Work was hard and good." "Good wife. Good mom. Good work." I smiled and drifted off to sleep. All three words--wife, mom, work--were the same to me. And all three were, indeed, good. Dr. Calotes-Golem completed her doctoral studies at the University of Romania and Fellowed at Frankenstein's Institute for Undead Advancement in Budapest. She has earned the Mary Shelly Distinction for Inspirational Women Scientists and has finaled in the International Zombie Awards for the past four years. She's a member of AZS, TZS, and the United Golem Association Women's Auxiliary. She resides in Northeast Pennsylvania with her family, their German Shepherd Dog, and whatever she can animate in the garage. *** Ash Krafton is the author of paranormal romance Bleeding Hearts. Discover more by Ash Krafton at http://AshKrafton.com Southern Hospitality from Undead Dixie Debs, a collection of Southern Gothic Horror by Claudia Lefeve July 8, 1863 The Nashville Dispatch: “… has given notice to a large number of women of the town that they must prepare to leave Nashville.” Lucy was hungry. It had been awhile since she’d eaten a proper meal. The war had left her without much to get by on and it was taking its toll on what felt like both her mind and body. Lucy could hardly even remember that she was at one time considered beautiful. She sat on the worn sofa and closely observed the Yankee soldier that occupied the chair opposite her. He looks so young, Lucy thought. It seemed like such a waste of life, men having to die in war. Lucy’s own husband had died. Shortly after, Lucy’s sisters came to live with her in the house they grew up in. In the years they lived together during the war, they did what they had to do in order to survive. But Lucy wasn’t bitter. She and her sisters were proud to serve the Confederacy, doing whatever they could for the cause – even if it meant dealing with the occasional Yankee. It was the price they paid in order to keep themselves fed. With precious little, the sisters relied on obtaining food and goods by way of visitors, house guests, and whatever else came their way. July 17, 1863 The Cincinnati Daily Gazette: “The Idahoe came up, bringing a cargo of 150 of the frail sisterhood of Nashville, who had been sent north under military orders… the poor girls are still kept on board.” Lucy stiffened. She could feel the soldier staring at her for a better look at her face. With kerosene in short supply, the parlor was lit with just one lamp. Lucy hoped the dim glare was enough to obscure her disheveled appearance. It was rather fortunate for her that he and his men had chosen to appear at her door after dark, so it was difficult for him to see how ghastly she really looked. For this, among other reasons, she chose to sit across from him. July 26, 1863 The Nashville Dispatch: “We are informed that a dozen of our Cyprians were sent to Louisville a few days ago… back to Nashville.” The soldier shifted in his seat. “Now, I must ask and I do not mean to offend such… uh… beautiful lady such as yourself, but are you and your sisters healthy?” Lucy was taken aback by his boldness, but not surprised by his question. “Yes. In fact, we go to the clinic every week,” she said. The war saw many soldiers, on both sides, ravaged with disease that spread among the states. Generals began to regulate and control the rampant contamination. In Nashville, the Confederacy mandated regular screenings of its residents to control the outbreak of diseases in order to shield her Rebel troops. August 5, 1863 The Nashville Dispatch: “…the arrival of the Idahoe with her cargo of 150 women just returned from Louisville… The Idahoe has now become famous.” “I’ve heard a lot about you and your sisters,” the soldier said. For a brief moment, Lucy wondered if he and his men were here to seize their family home. She smiled warmly towards the man. “Only good things I hope,” she said. “Yes, of course. That’s why we stopped for a visit. We couldn't pass up the opportunity and miss such…” The soldier paused and looked around the once beautiful parlor, “…grand southern hospitality," he finished. “How kind of you to say,” Lucy said. “May I request permission for me and my men to take a look around and meet with your sisters?” “Certainly,” Lucy said. The soldier retreated outside and signaled to the others that it was safe to enter the house. His private visit was either to make sure the sisters didn’t pose a threat or to ensure the house was not occupied by local men, Lucy thought. Grabbing the lamp from the mantle and making sure she stayed several steps ahead of the men, Lucy led the soldiers up the winding staircase to the hallway where the bedrooms were located. “Please, make yourself welcome and approach any room you wish,” Lucy said. The eldest of the group, as far as Lucy was able to tell, was the first to knock on one of the doors and went into the room taken by Lucy’s sister Joanna. Almost immediately, they heard a gasp and what sounded like a moan. The soldier turned to her and smiled. Then one by one, the soldiers continued to enter beyond the closed doors. The only room that remained was Lucy’s. The soldier stared at her and beckoned her into the bedroom. “After you,” Lucy said. He entered the room and she closed the door behind her. With their bodies only a few inches away, the soldier could see Lucy more clearly as the lamp she carried illuminated her face. “You know I –” “Shh,” Lucy said. She licked his neck. From down the hallway, Lucy could hear the screams coming from the other rooms. * * * The prevalence of venereal disease ran rampant in Nashville and other parts of Tennessee. By special order, the disease-ridden prostitutes of Nashville were forced aboard the Idahoe for passage to Louisville. The ship’s precious cargo was rejected at both Louisville and Cincinnati ports, prompting their return to Nashville. No one could have foreseen that during the thirteen days the sisters and their brethren lay anchored on the Ohio River, fouled with disease and with no food on deck; the women would develop a unique lust for flesh. July 15, 1863 The Louisville Daily Journal: “The Idahoe arrived yesterday evening… A few of the girls escaped.” *** Claudia Lefeve is the author of unDead Dixie Debs, The Fury, and the best-selling Travelers series of YA books, including Parallel , Paradox, and the upcoming Paradigm. Get to know Claudia at http://ClaudiaLefeve.com Lucian's First Trick by Red Tash “I don't know about this one, Dad.  The light's not on.”  He stood on the sidewalk looking up at the porch of the house next door.  Unlike every other house on the street, it was dark, same as every night.  Not once from his bedroom window had the boy seen the glow of a TV, or a light in the bedroom.  “Let's just go home.” “Lucian, it's your last year trick-or-treating,” his father said.  “You said you were going to hit every house on the block.”  A glowing iPhone illuminated the man's face. Lucian shrugged.  He took a step toward the house, then froze, as he heard the sound of voices shrieking from across the street. “Hey, Lucy-N!  You got some 'splainin' to dooooooo!”  It was Elmo Jenkins, threepeat douchebag champion of the world, doing his best Ricky Ricardo.   Lucian looked to his dad.  His dad looked to his phone, now held sideways, thumbs typing away, frowning vaguely. “'Sup, Peanut Boy?  You get me any Reese's Cups yet?”  Elmo raised his fingers to his mouth in a crude gesture, wagging his tongue at Lucian and rendering his costume a sudden obscenity.   How many years had Elmo threatened Lucian because of his peanut allergy?  Lucian did the math.  He was eleven now, so...four years?   Lucian held up four fingers in Elmo's direction.  As the bully's face registered delighted surprise, Lucian lowered each of three fingers, except for the middle one.  He danced it around in the air, merrily for a moment, before putting it away as his dad looked up from the phone. On the porch of the house next door, the light flickered on. “Go on,” Lucian's dad said.  “Light's on now.”  In a whisper he added “Maybe we'll finally see what the old recluse looks like.” Elmo grabbed his crotch and made lewd gestures from across the street, his cronies snickering.   Lucian stole up the steps to the front door before he lost his nerve. The door creaked open as Lucian approached. “Hello?” he said.  No answer.  “Trick or treat?”  This time he whispered, and looked over his shoulder to see if he'd just given Elmo more ammunition for making fun of him.  Who says “trick or treat” anymore? “Come in, child,” the old lady said, her bony hand grasping Lucian by the wrist and pulling him inside, before he could whip his head around and register her appearance.  A confluence of teeth and darkness, the smell of smoke like a million cigarettes and Grandma's church at Christmastime.  He pulled away from her grasp, but she was quick and powerful and he felt himself fly forward with a jerk, like that time his dad had taken him to the Harry Potter theme park, and they'd ridden the 3D ride. Lucian caught his breath, stumbling away from the woman and landing hard on his bottom, his trick or treat bag spilling onto the grimy hardwood floor.  As much as he wanted the candy, he didn't dare scoop it up from the mess of ooze and sticky goo. “What the hell?” he said.  “What was that?”  He stood and tried to take a look around the dark room.  It was candlelit, but just barely.  They were deep into the house now—somehow the old crone had pulled him inside.  She was cloaked in a black flaxen robe, the kind he'd seen in a number of boring Halloween specials every year. She laughed.  “Oh, you're better than I thought, little boy.  You've come for a treat, I think, and--” “That's cool and everything, nice costume, but I gotta get back to my dad,” Lucian said.  He tried to squeeze past her, and it shouldn't have been difficult, as slight as she appeared to be under the robe.  She reached for his wrist, but Lucian pulled away.  His hand flailed, striking a thick glass jar, and he cried out in pain as he bungled past the woman. The witch threw back her head and laughed.  “Oh, oh ho, oh no,” she said, leaning over, one bony hand clutching a crowded wooden table as she rasped hard for breath.  “Don't go, Lucian, don't go. This is too much fun.” Lucian was set to run, for real and for truly this time, but just as he felt his body respond to the sprinting impulse, his mind registered the contents of the thick glass jar upon which he'd banged his hand.  Hair.  Swollen lips. A lazy eye. “Dad!” he screamed.  “Dad, Daddy, Dad!!!”  At first he couldn't move anything but his teeth and tongue, a web of paralysis hand-sewn and tailor made for him, trapping him to the spot in the dark hallway of this stranger's home as he shrieked.   The laughter continued, the woman laboring through wheezing breaths to beg “Lucian, no--Lucian stay, please...” But Lucian wouldn't stay.  He tore out of the house and ran hard into his father's chest, who wasn't where he'd left him, but had found his way to the front porch to retrieve his only child.  “Where you been?  What's going on?  Did the old lady give you any candy?” Lucian pulled his father down the steps to the sidewalk in fits and starts.  His father wasn't much bigger than he was, but his old man strength made moving him like dragging an anchor across the ocean floor.   “Dad, I pissed myself, okay?” he finally blurted, Elmo or no Elmo. “I gotta change!” The wall of laughter across the street told him there'd be Elmo to pay, indeed. “Ah, damn it, Lucian,” his dad said.  “Good thing we're almost home...” Lucian was already on the porch of the house next door, taking the key from the shoestring he wore around his neck, and putting it into the lock, eyeing the porch of the house next door.   The old lady waved, laughing.  “See you soon, Lucian!” she called.   And then Lucian slipped inside, panting, the door shut against his father's pounding.  “I didn't see what I thought I saw.  That didn't happen.  It couldn't have.”  In his mind's eye, he saw the witch waving again, transmuting into some amalgam from a Disney flick, or a Bette Midler movie.  Was she really that hunched over and warty? “Lucian.  Let!  Me!  IN!” and now that his dad was kicking, Lucian's reverie was broken. That night in bed, after his father had kissed him goodnight and left him to his comic books, Lucian stared at the ceiling, his copy of the latest Deadpool lying discarded on his lap among the candy wrappers.  He'd tried to read along—it was a new issue and he'd spent most of his allowance on it earlier in the day—but he just couldn't seem to focus.  He tried plying his woes with various treats purloined from the Halloween goodie bag stowed atop the fridge for rationing.   Where do skulls come from?  The voice in his head refused to be still.  Those were heads in jars.  Were they real?  Pretend?  Every shop in town had been decorated for Halloween for weeks.  I'm hardly a baby, I'm eleven years old.  I know a fake skull when I see one.  A chill went through Lucian's body, bringing goose bumps to his flesh.  They were real. He rubbed the bumps down and buried his face beneath the covers. Lucian flew through the air unsteadily beside Deadpool above a sea of oozing, wriggling things in the darkness.  Deadpool doesn't fly, he told himself from within the dream, he teleports.  And what is that scratching? He smelled her breath before he opened his eyes and found his glasses on the nightstand.  He knew it was her, her bony hand clasped tightly around his wrist.  He pissed his pants.  Again.  Dad'll be mad.  Dad! “Da--” he opened his mouth to call for help, but the witch shoved a balled up pair of superhero underwear into his mouth.  Lucian thought he would choke.   How did she get in here?  This has to be a dream. Deadpool, save me! “Trick or treat,” she whispered, her eyes inhumanly white in the glow of Lucian's halogen desk lamp.  She squinted until all Lucian could see were the yellow irises, then she whispered into his face with breath that gagged him, “Let us steal away into the dark of night, into the graveyard, the bone yard, the de-cay get-away, your way right away, my pet, my sweet, my sweet trick or treat,” she crooned. Lucian felt himself begin to calm, although his mind did not stop racing.  “Mmm, mmm,” he hummed from behind his gag.  She put a spell on me.  I can feel it. She chuckled, stooped on the edge of his bed like some hellish grandmother.  Her robe smelled of death.  Lucian hadn't realized he'd even known the smell of death, but here it was, that undercurrent of decay he'd only sensed one other place: in the funeral home, when his mother was lain to rest.  It had been disguised with flowers and candles and food smells, but it was still heavy, ever-present.  Now it was here, sitting on his bed giggling, beckoning for him to come away with all its mysterious grotesque gifts just waiting. She removed the underwear from his mouth, one bony finger held to her paper-thin lips.  “Shhhh...” she said. Thump. Thump. Thump.  Dad was coming up the stairs.  This was his chance, if he wanted saving. The witch backed away silently, stepping into the shadows of Lucian's deep walk-in closet, not even closing the door.  How many times has she hidden there?   Lucian's bedroom door swung open, and his father poked his head inside.  “You still up?  Turn out the lamp and go to sleep, kiddo.  Deadpool can wait until morning.” Lucian switched off his lamp and turned over on his side.  “Okay, Daddy.  I love you,” he said. “Love you, too, kid,” his father said.  In a moment Lucian could hear his father's bed creaking beneath the man's weight as he crawled in it to crash.  In another moment came the snores. The witch crept back out from the closet, perfectly gleeful.  “Well done, my boy,” she whispered.  “Your father sleeps lightly, so let us repair to our facilities in silent haste.” “I gotta change my pants,” he said.  “Could you at least turn around?”   She put a hand atop her mouth, seemingly stifling a laugh. “Why do you talk like that?” Lucian said, shimmying out of his wet clothes and pulling on dry ones—the Spiderman set out of his hamper would do.  He remembered how his mother used to make a note of what he wore before they parted ways at the amusement park, in case she had to describe him to the authorities.  He wondered if Dad would remember the Deadpool pajamas, or figure out he had changed.  He slipped a black Spider-Man tee shirt over his head.  He knew he should be screaming for help, but he could feel the witch's spell mollifying him and he was so very curious. “Are you ready, my child?” the witch asked.   “Almost,” he said.  “Normally my dad carries this, but...” he eyed the witch, his set of EpiPens in hand.  She seemed confused.  “I'll just hold onto these,” he said, tucking them into the waistband of his pajama bottoms.  “Medicine,” he explained. He couldn't later say how they left the house, or how they traveled to the graveyard in the dark of night, but the witch snapped her fingers and then he felt like he was flying, not unlike the dream she had woken him from.  He knew the graveyard, of course, and as their feet set down on the crumbly dry dirt of a newish grave, he looked around to spot his mother's headstone. “We're here for heads, aren't we?” he asked, his voice full of undisguised dread. She pulled two small shovels from beneath her cloak, handing him one.  “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat,” she sang.  Although her face was shriveled and dry in the darkness, Lucian saw the girl in her, just for a moment. “As long as we don't dig up my mom,” he said.  “Or my grandma or grandpa.” The witch laughed.  “Dig in, dig in!” The shovels moved a surprising amount of dirt—Lucian figured that must have been magic.  The coffins were surprisingly easy to open, as well, like overcooked clams waiting to be split, revealing the meats inside.  The witched cooed in delight at the various states of decay.  “Some embalmers are better than others, precious,” she said, stroking the hair-sprayed head of a sad-faced corpse, before popping it off at the neck with her enchanted shovel. Lucian couldn't help but notice the creepy crawlies that made their way inside the open caskets as he and his neighbor made trekked through the rows of the bone yard.  The old lady hummed. “The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout!” Lucian chanted, as the old woman erupted into peals of laughter.  It was wrong.  It was all wrong and Lucian knew it, deeply, but he didn't care.  He laughed with her.  “What is 'pinochle'?” he asked. The witch did not answer at first.  Instead, she counted the heads they had lined up in a row, then drew one bony finger to her mouth, as her other hand fished inside her robe.  She produced a mesh bag, the kind Lucian's father took to the farmer's market for carrying potatoes.  “Hold this,” she said, and Lucian obeyed.  As she deposited the heads, she eyed him momentarily and said “It's a card game.  Pinochle.  My parents used to play it.”  For a moment, her eyes didn't seem to be yellow anymore—but it was hard to see in the dark, and Lucian nodded.  Again, she seemed oddly girlish, and Lucian smiled despite himself. Back at his grisly neighbor's house, Lucian received a full tour of the canning cellar and all the witch's supplies--the rows upon rows of pickled heads in thick glass jars were interspersed with cucumbers, carrots, and other things similar to what his mom had left behind in her own canning closet.   So much of what Mom canned three years ago was still good. He and dad would crack open a jar once a month or so and enjoy the pickled cauliflower, or the dill spears—not crisp like the kind from the grocery store, but not bad, either. “It's not fair,” he whispered, thinking of his mother's untimely death.  How could someone so good and lovely die needlessly, while a wretch like this old woman lived on? The witch nodded.  “Aye, you're right.  Not fair to them!” and she pointed her finger at the face of one of the heads, tapping against the jar and jolting it, its flesh half-off and a liberal amount of skull showing through, ivory in the cellar light. “That wasn't what I meant,” Lucian said.  He spun slowly, taking in the room, the canning supplies, the heads.  Most of the faces grimaced or frowned.  So many sad faces.  Some of them were blurry through their chemical baths like Mom's fuzzy peach preserves.  He remembered how some of mom's earlier batches hadn't “taken.”  Mom had said canning was tricky.  Lucian wanted to help her, but he was young, and there were hot liquids involved, a stove-top with a glowing red light—so pretty, but ouch!  It had burned. The witch eyed him now.  “What's not fair?” she said.  She breathed through her mouth, her lips twisting back over her teeth involuntarily, her eyes squinting.  That's a facial tick.  He had read about that in a copy of Deadpool.  She huffed, too.  So peculiar. Lucian wished he'd met her before.  Before what?  Before she'd gone mad? “Before tonight,” he answered, then realized he was answering the voice in his mind, not the weird woman next door.  He thought he would tell her about his mother.  “My mother used to can...” he began, but then a sob rose up from inside him, like an unbidden ghost rising up from the grave.  This wasn't what he wanted at all.  Not to feel, not here, not now. The witch nodded and picked up a jar, cradling it like a baby.  “My parents taught me,” she said “before they went away.”  She held the it next to her face.  The skull inside was quite old, bits of flesh loosened from it and swirling around the bottom of the jar.  “See the resemblance?”  Then she kissed the glass, taking on that girlish look again for one brief moment, before crooning “Who's a good Mommy?  Who is? You is!” and cackling as she replaced the it on the shelf. “I can teach you, Lucian.”  She picked up another, this one's bloated head with hair the same color his mother once had.  But it couldn't be, could it?  “Teach my sweet treat, come take a seat, have you something good to eat!”  And then to the head, “Who's a good Mommy?  Lucian's Mommy!  She is, she is!” she crooned, and that was all Lucian could bear. Without looking to see if it were his grandfather or a neighbor or a mailman from years past, Lucian picked up the nearest jar and hurled it at the witch—then another, and another.  They bounced off her body before landing in the soft cellar floor with a thud, the witch scrambling to catch them as though they were precious.  Lucian knew they were precious—also profane. “Boy, stop,” she hissed, “or I'll pickle yours next!” And Lucian with all his might slammed a canning jar into the glass the old witch held, shattering it, thick blue shards falling as a perilous hail through the salty rain upon her legs and feet and the floor. Then she dropped all the jars, and they were crashing and breaking, too.  Lucian was a force to be reckoned with, and he knew it now, knew this was why she had chosen him—and from the goosebumps on his flesh to his newly dropped balls he knew that she could sense it, too--but too late for her.  Too late.  He flung jar after jar with the same fury--pickles and peaches and the people from the neighborhood.  The people that you meet, when you're walking down the street, the people that you meet...each...day! Then she toppled over him, her fingers around his throat, pushing and choking him with a passion.   “Stop,” she said. “Breaking,” she panted. “My!” she grunted.  “Heads!” she growled. And though Lucian could scarcely breathe, he knew again that he was, indeed, a big boy now, and the EpiPen in his back pocket was an excellent assurance--the weight of her vigor on top of him had crushed it open, and the pin now stabbed him in the flesh of his back.  What had only been Lucian's panic and anger had now turned to adrenalized fury.   Lucian realized he had never really tried his strength before.  No time like the present. Reaching his hand into the pile of mess, ignoring the mushy parts that met his fingers, he found a shard of glass.  While the witch busied herself with his neck, he plunged the glass into her neck and chest, stabbing over and over, though he could feel the shard cutting his own fingers to the bone. “Trick,” he panted. “Or treat,” he huffed. “You BITCH!” he groaned. He sat up, the witch crumpling into the debris, and he brained her with a particularly large jar of pickles, delighted to see it crack against her head.   Lucian's hands trembled from the heady cocktail of epinephrine and fear, shredded and bloody from the glass. He eyed the witch, a foot on her throat.  She did not appear to be breathing, but in her arms was the jar of a head with hair the same color as his mother's.  Somehow it had survived the fight.  He liberated it, and still the witch did not move. “Yeah, trick or treat, then,” Lucian whispered, pushing his glasses up his nose with his wrist.  He would find his father and show him his prize, which he hoped would not be stowed atop the fridge with the rest. ## Like Lucian? He'll be joining the Wizard in the third installment of the Wizard Tales: The Wizard Takes the Cake. Available now! The Wizard Tales: The Wizard Takes a Holiday The Wizard Takes a Fitness Class Lucian's First Trick (included with The Wizard Takes a Holiday) A Laurents County Landfill Christmas (included with Let It Snow!) The Wizard Takes the Cake Find all of the above in The Wizard Tales Vol I-III What shall The Wizard take next? Manhattan? A nap? A note from his director? What do you posit? Visit my website http://RedTash.com or look me up on Facebook or Twitter. You can shoot me an email at RedTashBooks@gmail.com, or leave me a review at the site where you downloaded this ebook. Much appreciated!