The Bearded Lady Ornament

"What's with the bearded lady?" my son asked around a mouthful of cereal.

"It's a muff, Nick," I sighed with a roll of my eyes.

Nick grunted and shoveled more sugar puffs into his abyssal mouth. "Don't forget I'm going to Dad's tonight."

Ouch, Nick, why don't you just stab me with the butcher knife. I muttered, "How could I forget?" Fiddling with another ornament, I bit my lip to keep my true feelings below the surface. As a mom and respected leader of my community, it was required that I be untouchable by anything emotional. Even if I was going to be alone on Christmas Eve.

"You're the one who kicked him out, Mom," said Nick, the world's wisest sixteen-year-old.

"Nick, please not now." I didn't care if I was whining at this point. "Make sure you have everything you need." I placed another glass ball on the saggy pine tree drooping in my living room.

Three hours later, I sat in front of that now glittering tree, nursing a cup of hot cocoa and wrapped up in blankets. Bing Crosby crooned about snow in the background, but outside the window, it was still as dry as a bone. I flipped on the TV to catch the last scene of It's a Wonderful Life, the perfect reminder that my family wanted nothing to do with me tonight.

I frowned at the closest ornament, the bearded lady. "Why do I have to be the bigger person? Why can't I just throw a tantrum whenever I feel like it?" Great, now I'm complaining to a freak-of-nature ornament. My life was pathetic. I drew my blankets over my head, clicked my heels together three times, and chanted softly, "There's no place like sanity. There's no place like sanity. There's no place like sanity."

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and admits that her creativity levels are running extremely low.

For more fiction fun, check out www.storypraxis.com.

Things on My Mind

"You seem a little distracted, Jack," I said, sitting down across from the teen.

"I've got some things on my mind, ya know?" he mumbled through the greasy strands of hair that hadn't been washed or cut in months. He jiggled his leg, keeping his face turned towards the left.

I set my tape recorder down between us and turned it on. "Ryan Collins interview with Jack Kelly, Thursday, May fifteenth, two thousand eight. You said you had things on your mind. What kind of things?"

Jack bit at his fingernails as his leg shook furiously. "None of your business."

"Jack, look at me, please." His bloodshot eyes were tormented; they reminded me of the eyes of the wounded soldiers I had talked to before. They and Jack had both been to hell and back, whether in the Middle East or a local high school. "I'm here to help you. You have to trust me, okay? Why don't you tell me more about the morning before you-"

"It's Kara," he interrupted, with an irritated look. "I've been thinking about Kara." I flipped through my mental notes and remembered that Kara was the girl Jack had been close friends with and also one of the students who had died that day.

"She wasn't supposed to be there," he continued. "I told her to stay home, pretend to be sick." He made a quiet, wounded sound in his throat. "She was the first person I saw in the hall. I think she screamed when she saw the gun. I yelled at her to get out of there. I said Jay-Jay and his gang were gonna pay for treating me like crap." His voice was growing louder, and his fidgeting had stopped. His chest heaved with quick breaths as adrenaline started to fill his veins. "They were going to see that I'm stronger than they are and beg for my forgiveness as they lay dying on the floor in front of me."

"What happened then?" I asked softly.

"I shot them!" he screamed, springing out of his chair and raising his fists to the cell ceiling. "I held the gun up to their faces and stole their lives! They were scared and crying, but I just laughed because I had the power! I was in control, and they couldn't do anything about it!"

"What about Kara?"

Jack lowered his hands slowly, breathing heavily. His face twitched as he struggled to keep tears at bay. "She tried to take the gun out of my hands," he started slowly. "I struggled with her, and a shot went off."

Jack sank down to the floor. He drew his knees up to his chest, locking his arms around them and starting to rock. "She fell down, and there was blood...on her-"

Suddenly, he raised his head and screamed. His eyes were wide with terror, and he started to babble at the space above my head. "I'm sorry, Kara, I'm sorry! Not you! It wasn't supposed to be you!"

I quickly knelt beside him and tried to calm him down. The noise alerted some guards, who roughly pushed me out of the cell. "That's enough for today, Mr. Collins."

"But wait!" I protested. The slamming of the heavy, iron door echoed with Jack's last words.

"No, Kara, it wasn't supposed to be you!"

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and thinks bullies are worse people than the victims who go on shooting rampages.

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.

Someday I'll Kill You

The dried blood on his fingers looked like spaghetti sauce. He giggled at the thought.

"Spaghetti and meatballs for dinner tonight," he whispered to himself, flexing his hands in front of him. He giggled even more at that. He was clever and witty; no matter what anyone else said.

He picked up his hacksaw and continued cutting through the elbow on his blood-stained workbench. He had to finish quickly; rigor mortis was setting in, and the body would be too hard to dismember soon.

Looking back over at the corpse, he grinned maliciously and licked his lips. She had screamed for so long before finally succumbing to death; it had excited and terrified him at the same time. The initial rape meant nothing to him and was only to make her realize that he was in control. His favorite part had come after the first knife wounds were made, and she was overcome by the pain. That's when she realized she was going to die.

The grandfather clock bonged above his head, spurring him on to make quick work of the girl. He kept her body naked and her eyes open, occasionally leaning over to smile at them and laugh at their emptiness. He carefully wrapped everything he cut off and packed it into the deep chest freezer. That would feed him for at least a month. He threw the skeletal remains of his victim in a tarp and rolled it up tightly, tying the ends with twine.

"Abel! Aaaabel!"a sharp voice poked through the basement ceiling. He whimpered and scrubbed his hands with puce soap in the washtub. "Where are you, you stupid dolt?"

"I'll be right up, ma'am," he yelled up the steps. He shoved the body bag behind a loose brick in the wall, giving the dead girl a vicious kick before closing her in. He heard his mother's cane tapping across the kitchen floor.

Glaring at the floorboards above his head, he whispered, "Someday, I'll kill you too."

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and admits that this story came from a very dark, angry place in her mind that was visited today.

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.

Fame

"She's lying to you, detective, right through her pale yellow teeth," Georgie hissed. A thin stream of spittle flew out of his mouth, swung around, and smacked into his cheek.

"Easy, guv," purred the drowned rat who sat on the other side of the interrogation table.

Detective Hayes huffed an insufferable sigh. "Yes, thank you, Georgie. Why don't you go to the cafeteria for a nice hot plate of spam, while I speak with Miss...um..."

"Witch. Miss Witch," the girl supplied.

"Yes, thank you, Miss Witch," Hayes nodded.

"I'm not really a witch, you know," she continued. "They just call me one 'cause I weigh the same as a duck."

Sputtering, Georgie pointed at the witch, his finger shaking with fury. "You turned me into a newt!"

"Well, it looks as though you got better," Hayes said loudly, prodding Georgie out the door amid his stammers. "Yes, thank you. Good-bye." Hayes sat back down at the interrogation table.

"I come from a very respectable family," Miss Witch said, "the Brook-Hamsters."

"Ah, yes, your brother works at the Ministry of Silly Walks, am I right?"

She sighed, "Yes, and my eldest brother, Gervais, was the Upper-Class Twit of the Year. We are all so proud of him. He is our claim to fame, you know."

"Very nice," Hayes smiled politely before clearing his throat. He opened a folder that lay on the table and skimmed it over. "Now, what can you tell me about this dead parrot?"

Miss Brook-Hamster gasped. "I had no part in that incident."

"You did. It says so right here."

"I didn't."

"Did."

"Didn't!"

"Did!"

"Look, matey, I didn't come here for an argument," She stood, pushing the chair out with a loud scrape.

Suddenly, the door crashed open, and a policeman in a trench coat entered. "Alright, alright, allow me to introduce myself. I am Inspector Fox from the Light Entertainment Police, Comedy division, Special Flying Squad. Everyone is this room is hereby charged under Section B12 with involvement in a strange prompt, that being a prompt, short story, or piece of written work intended to cause grievous mental confusions to the online public."

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and dedicates this prompt to Monty Python fans everywhere.

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.

What? I Said "Vacuum"

The front door swung open, and a pile of bags staggered in. I pulled out an earbud and said, "I swept the floors, like you asked."

The living load of groceries froze mid-step. My mother's head poked out from behind the plastic lumps. "What?"

"I said, 'I swept the floors'," I repeated, returning my eyes back to my book.

My name came out of her mouth in a long, drawn out wail that made me grit my teeth in annoyance. I hate when she says my name that way. With an irritated sigh, I flick my eyes back up to hers.

"I said 'vacuum'. I wanted you to vacuum the floors," she cried, almost in tears now. "They don't get clean enough when you just swept them. Now, I'll have to do them all over again on top of everything else I have to do."

She hurried into the kitchen with the wobbly tower of food; and I follow her. I should know by now to just avoid her when she's in this mood; but I still close my long-awaited book and shuffle into the kitchen where she's continuing her rant.

"All I asked you to do was one little thing while I was at the store, and you couldn't do it right. What does that tell me? I only have two hours before the company comes, you know. I had hoped you could have helped me out a little."

"Mom, it's not like we're having someone special over. It's just your kids. They've lived here; they know what the house looks like, clean or dirty."

"I don't care. The house can still be clean for them," she said, starting off again.

I stand against the wall of the kitchen, leaning my head back. I'm half mad at her for making a big deal out of nothing and half mad at myself for making a stupid mistake. I can't help it if I didn't get the housewife genes that my sister did. So I still need told to clean something instead of just seeing that it needs cleaned, what's the big deal? I don't get why every room in the house needs to be spotless when it's just my brother and his wife coming for dinner.

"Ok, so what do you want to do now?" I cut in on her.

"Nothing," she sighed. "Just go read your book."

I throw my hands up in frustration and stomp back to my chair. Earbuds back in, book open to the right page, I wash my hands of the whole cleaning situation. I'm still angry though, and the words on the page just won't come into focus. I wind up reading the same sentence three times. It can't be helped. I snap the book shut with a bang. The floors need vacuumed.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and doesn't understand why the whole house needs cleaned when company only sees two or three rooms.

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.

Never Get Out of This Maze

"We'll never get out of this maze!" his wife cried over the noise, her voice weighed down with exhaustion and anxiety.

"No, we will make it, Kimberly," Jim replied. He clapped his arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. "Let me carry it for awhile." Kimberly gratefully handed him their treasured prize.

Suddenly, a battle cry rang out from behind a glass jewelry counter. A group of shoppers with murderous, wild eyes sprang out with claws extended.

"They've found us!" Kimberly screamed.

Jim pushed her forward. "Quickly! Aisle Three! Use your elbows!"

She flung herself into the crowd, bouncing off of people, carts, and shelves like a pinball. She tried to make room for Jim and the box, but the greedy zombies she divided poured back into the pathway like water.

Jim kept one eye on Kimberly and one eye on the rioting mob closing in. With his body, he sheltered the precious box he carried, as he shoved his way to the sanctuary of Aisle Three. Victory was just out of his reach when he felt the first hand land on him arm.

Kimberly turned in time to see her husband disappear under a pile of dirty bodies. The maddened shoppers, in their camp-out clothes, tore at Jim with snarling words and howls of desperation. Kimberly screamed her warrior cry and threw herself at the woman on top, who was poking into the pile with a golf umbrella.

"Save yourself!" came Jim's muffled yell. "Leave me here!"

A piercing whistle distracted everyone, and a knight in a shining, navy blue uniform flashed his badge and brandished his night-stick. He came into the fight like a tornado, pulling people off the pile and throwing them to the side where they glowered and licked their wounds with grumbles and blasphemies. At last, he pulled Jim up off the floor and herded him and Kimberly to Aisle Three.

"Here you go, folks. Hope that's still in one piece." he gestured to the box in Jim's arms. They thanked him over and over again, until he spotted another dog-pile and cut them off.

Jim and Kimberly payed $399 for their 42-inch plasma HD tv and scurried it out to their car. Jim shoved it into the backseat before jumping into the vehicle and locking the doors. They sat quietly under the bright parking lot light for a moment before Kimberly finally spoke up.

"So, what are we going to do with it now?"

Jim shrugged and turned the key in the ignition. "Sell it on eBay, I guess."

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and has seen fights break out on Black Friday over more ridiculous things than a tv (an Elmo doll comes to mind).

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.

Sylvan

The sun rise is announced with the chirping of birds; everyone else is still asleep. One by one the trees slowly begin to wake up. Lifting their leafy heads, they stretch their limbs to the dusty pink sky and settle into place with creaks and moans. The morning breeze winds through them, shaking the morning dew off the leaves.

The sun hasn't reached the top of the trees yet, and it sends sparkling beams of light through the web of branches, illuminating the forest floor. Sleepy flowers open their petals and turn their golden centers to capture the sunshine. Suddenly, the green and brown background is a speckled rainbow of colors.

The noise increases as animals materialize from the holes and shadows of the forest. A vermilion fox, a cocoa brown bear, and a tawny doe with her rusty fawn make their appearances. The squirrels seem to have to woken with a jolt; their tails are bushy and their movements nervous. They scamper around the canopy of branches, zoom up and down tree trunks, and chatter excitedly. Fat, little chipmunks waddle out from under their blankets of leaves. It's a new day, and that means new food.

Not everyone is waking though. As one cycle is beginning, another one ends. Two silver and black raccoons slink back into their den, returning from a night of foraging. The sunlight means bedtime. Swivel-head owls, who have kept watch throughout the night, can now closed their wide eyes and rest easily, knowing that the forest is safe for another day.

The world turns, and the forest lives on in the same pattern of life that it has always done.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and wishes everyone a Happy Thanksgiving!

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.

Some favorite pics of mine.

An archway in Washington D.C.

An assignment given by my brother-in-law, who taught me all I know about photography (Thanks, Jeff!)

My second niece, Anita My first niece, Jocelyn

 

That's it for now! I'll try to post more up later.

 

Table Cheese

"Ugh!" Rae spat a mouthful of liquid into the kitchen sink. She sat back at the table amid the snickers and chuckles of her friends. "Wine is disgusting. How can any of you drink it?!"

"Simple. We open our mouths and swallow it," Daniel retorted, taking a big gulp of his pinot grigio for emphasis.

Rae visibly gagged. "You're making me sick. Pass the brie, please."

"So, you'll eat our cheese but won't drink our wine?" Lyddie asked in mock disgust. Rae put a bite of apple slice and brie in her mouth and snapped it shut at her friend in reply. They both giggled at an inside joke they were reminded of.

"Wine is definitely an acquired taste," Rob said, swirling his glass and frowning down into the ruby liquid. "It took me a long time to learn to appreciate it."

"Life is like wine, sometimes," mused Daniel. "It can be bitter and rotten; but once you swallow, it becomes sweet and full of taste."

Rae clapped her hands in sarcastic applause. "Thank you, Philosopher Dan, but I much rather prefer the idea that life is like fine cheese. It has a tough rind, but inside it is creamy and delicious." She popped another slice of Gouda in her mouth and closed her eyes while she chewed.

"Hmm, I have to agree," nodded Lyddie. "Besides, if life was like wine, we would have to suffer through the aftermath that is a hangover."

"Yes," exclaimed Rae, her eyes coming open with a snap, "and since cheese is technically comfort food, you will have a comfortable aftermath if life were like cheese."

Daniel shook his head. "It's amazing that you two can live and operate in the grown-up world with such adolescent minds."

"We just understand that life doesn't have to be complicated like wine; it's really simple, like cheese," Lyddie explained.

"Amen," Rae said, toasting with a chunk of mozzarella on a round of salami.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and would prefer cheese over wine any day.

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.

Lugubrious

Larry was the homeless guy who lived on Sunset Boulevard. No one really remembers when he first came or where he came from. They would always see him shuffling down the star-studded sidewalks, pushing a shopping cart filled with clothes, broken appliances, and his Westie, Jim. He wore an old, brown suit with more patches than brown and a matching fedora that closer resembled a limp rag.

He usually slept beside a dumpster in the alleyway behind Ma Chung's Chinese Food. Ma Chung had a soft heart for animals, and would leave plates of food out for the alley cat that lived behind her restaurant. Larry was a pretty good meow-er and was always sure to thank her with his best caterwaul.

He was a friendly guy, always saying "hello" to passersby (who usually ignored him) and chucking the cheeks of babies and children (whose horrified parents would quickly swipe the chucked cheek with a moist toilette). The hookers all called him "Pops" because he would pat their arms and call them his dears; and the drug dealers gave him little thank-you bags of pot whenever he would stand as a lookout if they had a big drop-off or pickup.

No one knew his life story or why he was out on the streets, but there was much speculation. Some said that he used to be a millionaire with a wife and two kids, but when he lost his fortune in a bum deal, the missus kicked him out. Others said that he lost his son in Vietnam which sent him into a lugubrious funk. In some of the stories, Larry was the 'Nam vet and he couldn't stand to go back to his old life.

One night, a washed-up writer stumbled out of a bar and saw Larry, in all his shabby glory, standing under a streetlamp. This writer took that picture as inspiration from Providence and promptly wrote a best-seller about a homeless bum who was really an angel in disguise. Of course, no one told Larry that he was the inspiration, so he didn't receive any royalties. Not even when Hollywood came to Beverly Hills to film the movie adaptation right in front of Ma Chung's.

Sometimes die-hard fans of the book or movie would come to Sunset Boulevard, hoping to get a glimpse of the infamous Larry. They would stand across the street and whisper excitedly to one another every time a homeless person would walk down the street. If Larry had known who they were looking for, he probably would have gone over. shook their hands, and not even charge them for it, being the nice guy that he was.

But, as it was, Larry never found out about the writer who made a homeless bum famous. He lived the rest of his life, chucking cheeks and picking useless appliances out of trashcans along the star-studded blocks of Sunset Boulevard, living among the hookers and druggies with his little Westie, Jim.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and watched Pretty Woman last night.

For more fiction fun, check out www.storypraxis.com.

Mopping Up

Crash! The coffee mug hit the wall and splattered hot, brown liquid all over the floral wallpaper. The baby in the highchair screamed and wailed as the coffee dripped onto her head.

"Are you crazy?!" Kayley shrieked, scooping up her daughter. She whirled back around to face her husband, eyes ablaze with maternal fury.

"If you tell me that I need a job one more time, I'll throw something worse than a stupid cup of coffee," Gavin growled. He shoved his chair back and barreled out the back door.

Off to the pub again, Kayley sighed. She shushed the crying baby and wiped the brown streaks off her forehead. Once her daughter was happy with her toys again, Kayley sat at the kitchen table and stared at the stain on the wall. The liquid ran down the wall like tears, turning more of the wallpaper into an ugly shade of dirty brown. Just like this marriage.

Gavin had changed so much. She remembered how he had been during their first years of marriage, so playful and optimistic. He used to bring her a different type of flower every month, even if it was just a weed. Once he had sent her out of the house for a couple of hours, and when she had returned, he had set up a teatime picnic under a bed sheet tent.

Maybe it was her that changed. Kayley snorted to herself in annoyance. Someone had to take control of this family. Especially since Gavin quit his job to pursue his art. "Yeah, how's that working out for ya?" Kayley mumbled. He moped around the house or the pub while she took their daughter to daycare and worked a nine-hour job with the world's creepiest boss. She started to pick up the scattered shards of mug from the linoleum floor.

One sharp piece pierced her finger and drew a spot of blood. It didn't hurt really, but Kayley felt the tears rush to the surface. She slumped down against the wall and held her finger to her mouth. She let all her frustration and pent-up anger pour out and run down her cheeks.

She smelled him first, a mix of Irish Springs and coffee, before his arm slipped around her shoulders. "Shh, shh, shh, darlin'," he crooned. She held her finger out to him, like a child showing a parent where to kiss it all better. "Did you cut yourself, then?" he pressed the finger to his lips and hugged her tighter. "I'm sorry for that, Kayley."

She gulped down her sobs and took a shaky breath. "What happened to us, Gavin? Why are we like this?"

He took a moment before answering. "I don't really know, darlin'. I guess we're kind of like this spilled cup of coffee. We need to pick up the pieces, mop up our messes, and pour a new cup."

"I've started picking up the pieces," Kayley said.

Gavin smiled. "Aye, and I'll get the mop, then."

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and is in love with all things Gaelic (except for the Guinness).

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.

One Little Green Thing

"This is so cute!" my sister gasps, lifting the little, green outfit from the baby blue tissue paper.

I bounce the baby in my arms and nuzzle his downy cheek with my nose. "I know," I say with a smile. "I knew as soon as I saw that outfit, it would be perfect for the little guy."

"Funny, that's what you said when you brought me the last ten outfits," she teases.

I laugh. "Well, someone has to dress this little angel." I lift my nephew and pepper his cheeks with kisses until he starts complaining

My sister hands me a small bottle. "He's probably ready for this now. I'm going to try to rest while he sleeps, okay?"

I make a dismissal gesture with my hand and pop the bottle nipple into the baby's mouth. His little rosebud mouth sucks at it greedily; but he keeps his eyes on my face, watching me with monochromatic orbs. He can't see color yet, and I wonder what he thinks of me and my funny face.

My stomach clenches with love as his eyelids droop, letting the warm milk lull him to sleep. I tuck his blankets around him tighter, knowing that he's already toasty but wanting him to feel safe too. Pulling the now empty bottle out of his mouth with a quiet pop, I set it next to the rocker and softly pat the baby's back.

I marvel at how quickly my heart expanded to allow this little person in. He doesn't know how much joy he's bringing to us; and I silently pray to God to thank Him for my nephew. His little mouth curls in his sleep, and I smile back, wondering what the angels are telling him that would make him laugh.

"You are going to be such a blessing in my life," I whisper as tears puddle in my eyes, "the least I could do was buy you some clothes."

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and welcomed her first nephew this morning. Welcome to the world, Rowan Harold Myers!

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun!

Couldn't If I Tried

When I heard the noise in my garbage can, I immediately thought "Omigosh, I have a rat!" Arming myself with a large frying pan and a heavy, metal baseball bat, I decided to do the right thing and bash the little rodent's head in. I tiptoed to the corner of the garage and peeked around. I was breathing with my mouth open, so the rat wouldn't hear me coming. A brilliant idea, I know.

Suddenly, the trashcan tipped over, spilling its guts all over my driveway. Something was squirming inside a brown paper bag. Screaming like a banshee, I threw the frying pan at it; and it connected with a satisfying crunch. I swung the baseball down again and again, pounding that rat into oblivion as the bag got darker and darker with its blood.

A small mewling noise from behind stopped me mid-swing. That wasn't what I thought it was. It just couldn't.

"You had to have babies, didn't you," I sighed at the gory mess at my feet. I turned to see how many rat babies were watching me mutilate their mother.

What I saw next shook me to the core. A gray, tabby kitten sat in the mouth of the trashcan, head cocked, big eyes staring up at me. A lump the size of an orange lodged in my throat. In dread, I slowly turned on my heel and looked down at the murdered victim. About two inches of gray and black striped tail was poking out of the end of the bag. I made to my second trashcan just in time to eject my breakfast.

Then it hit me what I had really done. I'd just orphaned a baby. The poor mother cat was just trying to find something for her kitten to eat, and I'd used her as a pinata. I sank down to the ground in front of my garage door and laid my head on my knees. I wailed and wailed, praying that God would be merciful to me, a murderess.

I felt a small pressure on my bare toes. The kitten stood with its front paws on my foot, staring at me again with its big black eyes.

"Where's my mommy?" it meowed pitifully. That sound only made me wail and sob some more.

"I'm a horrible, killing machine," I cried to the feline baby. "I killed your mommy, so now you'll either die on the streets, trying to survive on your own, or I'll have to take you to the pound where you'll probably get euthanized anyway."

The kitten crawled up between my legs and laid its paws on my stomach.

"Keep me," its little face said. "Be my mommy now."

"Yes," I whispered. "I could do that. I will take the place of your mommy." I scooped it up in my hands and stroked its soft fur. "Will you forgive me?"

The kitten curled up in my palm and purred, "Yes."

My friends thought I went crazy that day, but Munkustrap (named after my favorite character from CATS) and I were made for each other. He is the perfect feline child, and I am the perfect human mother. He listens to all my complaints and self-pitying; and I buy him the best mouse toys I can afford. Once a year, I hold a memorial for his mother and tell him what a brave and strong cat she was.

I can't imagine my life without him. Couldn't if I tried. He's God's reminder to me to look before I leap, and also to keep my trashcan more accessible to hungry mothers.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and misses her cat Bucky. She hopes his current family has a big yard and plenty of love.

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.

Disgusted

Commander Ava Kahne clenched her fists, pulling her leather bodysuit tight from shoulders to gloved fingertips. She stood behind her pilots and stared out the spaceship's large front panel at the tiny bubble craft they were trailing. Lieutenants Cling and Wolley furiously tapped away at the control panels, barely even looking down to see what they were doing. The spaceships were only two hundred miles from Earth's atmosphere. It was now or never.

"They're just about in firing range, ma'am," Wolley said, as the ship's front arms, like a crab's pincers, came abreast of the bubble craft.

"Bring out the laser cannons, and blast these little headaches out of the Milky Way," Commander Kahne answered. She tilted her head to the left and bellowed, "Smart, I want every gunner on this ship manning a cannon and aiming at their little green heads!"

"Aye, aye, commander!" a voice yelled through the intercom.

The two green aliens in the bubble craft had been tracked for the past seven months throughout the entire galaxy. It was clear now that they were planning to land on Earth; and that just couldn't happen. That's why the STAR (Space Terrorist and Aerial Resistance) unit had been created. Commander Kahne had built her career on keeping Americans ignorant of the extra-terrestrial life-forces that constantly tried to take over their pretty blue and green planet. And these two little suckers were not going to ruin that.

"We're in postion," Smart's voice crackled over the intercom.

"Lieutenants?"

"We've surrounded their craft on both sides, ma'am," Cling answered. "It should be an easy pick-off."

"Alright, Smart, engage!"

The spaceship vibrated as the laser guns began shooting. The commander watched intently as red streams of light flew towards the bubble craft. She gaped in disbelief as the green aliens bounced and zigzagged out of harms way every time, their bulbous heads bobbing around in the bubble cockpit. After a good fifteen minutes of constant firing, the guns were forced to power down.

"Commander, we don't have enough battery life left to keep firing. What do you want us to do?" Smart yelled from the engine room. The two lieutenants stopped their typing chatter and turned to look at Commander Kahne.

She stared in disgust at the green pests who were making her life miserable. The aliens turned with mischievous sneers on their faces. One blew a raspberry against their glass bubble, while the other dropped his pants and waved his little, round buttocks at the spaceship. She could almost hear their nasal giggling in her mind.

"Where are the backup generators?" she finally asked through clenched teeth.

"We've used them too, ma'am. We've never had to fire all forty-two cannons at once, so we weren't prepared-" Smart's voice got quieter and quieter.

"Wait!" Cling cried, swinging back around to his control panel. He furiously pounded his fingertips into the keyboards, muttering "No, no, no." under his breath. "They're engaging their jump-start!"

"How is that possible? You told me they had no super speed equipment on that tiny thing!" Commander Kahne shook her head violently, making her thick, blonde braid fly around her neck.

"They have never employed it until now. It must have gotten installed at the last plasma station they stopped at." Cling stammered, trying to explain what was about to happen.

"Over-ride it!" Kahne commanded, leaning in between the lieutenants' chairs.

"I don't think we can. It's begun the charge stage already."

With a blast that defied the size of the craft, the little bubble ship rocketed forward , out of the reach of the much larger spaceship.

"And they've just now entered Earth's atmosphere, " Lieutenant Wolley said in a defeated tone.

Commander Kahne collapsed into her chair and propped her forehead on a gloved hand. "Get me the President on the phone."

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and is still struggling to conceal her bulbous, green head.

For more fiction fun, check out www.storypraxis.com.

Wedding Photo

I wrap my blanket tightly around my shoulders and shuffle aimlessly from room to room. Passing the mirror in the front hall, I glance at my reflection. Red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes; greasy, stringy hair; and lines across my forehead and around my mouth. Pathetic. Broken. Hopeless. Everything I am feeling inside is perfectly portrayed on the outside.

Disgusted, I turn away and enter the kitchen. The room still has the fresh smell of newly cut wood. The new cabinets he had only just installed gleam in the sunlight. The cheerfulness annoys me. I roughly tug on the Roman shades until the light is cut off, and the room is dark and gloomy again. The stove lights up like a lantern when I turn the teakettle on. I don't know why I did. I don't like tea.

As always, I end up in the living room. I move to sit on the couch, avoiding the love-seat at all costs; but, like gravity, the mantel pulls me over to the fireplace. There, in the center of the shelf, is the photo. How I hate that photo, but still love it too much to put it away. I wipe away the dust with the edge of my blanket.

He smiles at me with that boyish grin. His face tells it all; he's in love. But not with me. I barely recognize the white-clad bride who once smiled up at him with adoring eyes. I remember looking at him like that. I remember his arms tightly around me, as if he was telling the camera, "She's mine and only mine."

"I'm still yours, baby," I whisper, running my finger down the glass that protects his handsome face.

Lifting the heavy picture frame off the mantel, I carry it back to the couch and curl myself around it. I try to absorb his love into my body, hoping it will bring me back to life. Nothing happens. My dry eyes begin to itch, and I squeeze them shut; but nothing comes out. My tears are all used up. I'm dried out.

I look back down at the picture and trace every inch of his face with my mind. I try to remember that special day, the beginning of our life and, ironically, the end of his. In my mind, the smell of flowers is replaced with the smell of burning oil and blood; the feeling of spinning in his arms becomes the impact of two cars; the laughter and sounds of well-wishers are now the screams of braking tires and of my fear. Instead of spending the night in my husband's arms, I spent it crying over his broken body as police and rescue workers ran around me.

The teakettle whistles in the kitchen, jarring me back to today. I let it squeal and enjoy the break of morbid silence. Life is moving on, and my arm is tired from trying to hang on to him as I am swept along with it. I press a kiss onto his smiling face and return the picture to the mantel. Someday I'll make myself let go. I shuffle to the kitchen and turn off the stove. Noises creep in under the window, beckoning to me to come back outside to life. Someday I'll take them up on their offer. Someday.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and didn't want to write this story but did anyway for the experience.


Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.

Class Clown

"Excuse me, are you Jim Maloney?" said a perky voice behind him.

Jim turned to find a short, blonde girl holding a microphone in her small hand. Her brown puppy dog eyes sparked with the excitement of meeting a celebrity; and Jim could tell she was trying to keep a squeal from erupting out from behind her nervous smile. Oh no, not another one.

"Uh, depends on which Jim Maloney you're looking for," he answered, hoping to throw her off.

"North Hamster High School. Class of '01. You made three teachers quit; four teachers cry, and only one of them was female; you put two gym teachers in therapy; and you single-handedly TP'd the entire girls' locker room! Dude, you're a legend!"

Jim winced with each statistic that flew out of the perky girl's companion. The kid was a total geek. Frizzy head of hair bordering on an Afro, acne patches resembling the surface of the moon, and a mouth full of metal that was colored lime green. An attempt at coolness? Here was another worshiper trying to make a mark on his pathetic four years of hell by copying Jim's reputation as a class clown.

His antics during school had only resulted in heartache and sorrow. He was so busy thinking up his next prank that he had no time for schoolwork; thus, his grades fell to a steady F. Flunking high school left him hopeless for any chance at college. Even the North Hamster Community College turned him down. They told him they had already filled all the open slots for Irish applicants, but Jim knew the real truth. They feared for the safety and sanity of their professors.

When it came to girls, all the luck passed him by. He blamed it on the locker room prank and the time he gift-wrapped all the toilets in the girls' bathroom. Although, he had a strong alibi for the latter, so most people thought it was the work of a copycat. Only Jenny Prezzo really knew it was Jim, and he suspected she passed along the info to all the girls in school. No, life had not been easy for Jim Maloney, the class clown of '01.

"It's not really that impressive, guys," Jim tried to reason. "Class clowns are statistically known for becoming losers who have no life and still live with their parents after graduation. It's not just a label; it's a problem."

By now, the acne kid had whipped up the video camera he was carrying, and the girl with the microphone was holding it out to Jim, smiling towards the camera all the while.

"Well, thanks for those words of wisdom, Mr. Maloney. Once again, this is Barbie Waters reporting for the Hamster Wheel," the girl said in her perky voice.

"Seriously!" Jim said, leaning into the camera. "If you or someone you know has a clowning problem, please call 1-800-555-CLOWN."

The teenagers rolled their eyes and started to walk away.

"They will help you get serious!" Jim yelled at them, straining to keep in the camera's view.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and has a strong dislike for class clowns. Spitballs landing in hair, nuff said.


For more fiction fun, check out www.storypraxis.com.

Real Chickens

"Real chickens?"

"Yep. Real live, beady eyed, cock struttin' little roosters!" He slapped the newspaper page and chortled deep in his belly. "Kids these days; they're a real hoot, ain't 'em?"

Ever practical, his wife only tsked and said, "Just think of the mess those teachers will have to clean up. The floors will be atrocious, and the smell? Phew! Don't teenagers ever think of others these days? The nerve."

The rest of her angry mumblings were too low for the husband to hear, not that he minded. He had a lot of respect for the teenagers that pulled this prank off. Why, he himself used to be one of the best pranksters. He chuckled to himself as he remembered the tricks he had pulled out of his sleeve.

"Hey," he interjected into his wife's quiet rant, "remember when me and the boys left bags of burning cow manure on P.J. Howard's doorstep? I'll never forget the look on his face when he stepped outside, right into the whole mess of it."

Tears ran down the husband's cheeks as he wheezed and shook with laughter.

His wife scoffed and snatched his breakfast plate out from under his nose. She plunked it into the sudsy dishwater and attacked it with the tatty, old rag.

"You'd think people would get over such foolishness. If I remember right, you and the boys spent a night in jail for that escapade. You're just lucky your daddy agreed to bail you out. I'da let you rot in there."

"Oh, now, it's just a bit of fun. Nobody got hurt, did they?"

"It's just plain irresponsibility, that's what. Boys that age should be working, not settin' chickens loose in the school building."

"They're just trying to shake things up a little," he mumbled.

"What's that?" his wife asked.

"Nothiing," he answered, turning the page of the newspaper.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and has had chickens set loose in a high school nearby.

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun!

Your End is the Road

"Your end is the road."

"The road to what?" I ask, holding up the end of a brown cotton sheet.

Layla's sigh floated down from the ladder she was perched on. She tucked her paintbrush behind her multiple-hooped ear. "I thought we went over this already. The road doesn't lead to anywhere; it just travels to the horizon. It's symbolic."

She enunciated the last word the way people do when they try to speak to foreigners. Because everyone will understand English if you speak it twice as slow and three times as loud.

"Yeah, yeah," I said with a roll of my eyes. "The desert's supposed to symbolize the journey of life through rough times and harsh conditions, so shouldn't you give the viewers some kind of hope? You know, give them something that will promise better times or whatever. Like a big green oasis at the end."

Layla only laughed. "Do I look like God?" Only if God had long black hair with blue streaks, a tattoo of Elmo on his wrist, and a very imaginative taste in clothing.

"Adding a promise of the future in my painting would imply that I'm psychic or all-knowing. I don't know squat about how the economy works. All I know is that prices are going up, up, up; and my chances for buying a new flat are going down, down, down. That's what I want to portray here, our current situation."

She turned and flashed me her beautiful smile. "I am optimistic though, so I will be adding a patchwork flower further down the 'road'." She made the little quotation marks with her fingers. She knows I hate when she does that.

I have to admit. Layla is right. Who knows whats gonna happen in two years, two months, or even two days? The only thing that we know about the end is, well, nothing. The end is the road, and its always right beyond the horizon.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and, just like all her sisters, loves the name Layla. Hmm, who will get to use it first?

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.

Stack of Books

My house needs cleaned. I know it; the house knows it. But, when you weigh the importance of a clean rug to the intelligence and culture gained from a good book, a few pieces of lint aren't that big of a deal.

So what if I have enough dirty dishes to cover every surface area in the kitchen! Mr. Knightly is suffering from the pain of watching Emma flirt with Frank Churchill. The man's feelings should not be thrown out the door like dirty dishwater. (Pun intended)

My once white linoleum floor is now a soft blend of dove gray and buttercup yellow, but I think it compliments the cover of my Great Expectations novel splendidly. Pip pip. Jolly good.

I don't mind shoveling the unfolded clean laundry aside in order to find a spot on the couch to park my bahookie. The sweet lilac smell of the detergent and the enveloping piles of towels only enhance the magic between the guy and girl in my newest romance novels. Plus, the cloth muffles my squeals of happiness for the fictitious Aphrodite and Adonis as they glide through the labyrinth of true love. Now, the neighbors' dog won't have another heart attack.

Who can dust after reading Bella's heartbreaking efforts to get Edward to commit to a relationship with her? Besides, don't the cobwebs transport you to the musty forests of the Pacific Northwest? Mmmmm, I can just smell the human blood pumping to your heart in excitement.

Oh, wait, there's the doorbell. A package for me? It must be that order of books I just bought off Amazon. The bathroom can wait until next week.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and does clean her house. She promises.

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun!

Torpid

I didn't ask for this. Lady Flame grumbled to herself as she tried desperately to stand upright. This morning had started perfectly normal before the 911 call sent her to an active bank robbery. However, the police forgot to mention that Captain Evil had brought along his Torpid Gun, which shoots a slow motion ray at its target, forcing them into a state of slo-mo. Of course, I walked right into it.

Lady Flame tried to focus her fire power, but her hands were moving an inch a minute. I just have to time my shot.

Captain Evil giggled maliciously as he stuffed wads of money in his burlap sack. Dressed in an outfit only Lady Gaga would have been caught dead in, he was the epitome of an egotistical maniac. With a whirl of his zebra-striped cape, he pirouetted towards the door, ready to simply walk out of his perfectly planned heist.

Lady Flame watched her tongue of fire slowly crawl towards the door into the path of Captain Evil. Would it make it in time?

He waltzed towards the bank's revolving door and stopped. Sniff, sniff. Smoke. Captain Evil turned to direct a snarky comment at the imprisoned heroine...only to get a face-full of flame. As he threw up his arms to block the fire, his finger squeezed the trigger of the Torpid Gun, releasing Lady Flame.

For a minute, she watched the villain writhe on the floor with painful sobs before calling in the police to take him away. Another job done, and another bubble bath reward. Maybe today will be better after all.

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and has never been shot with a slo-mo ray.

Check out www.storyproxis.com for more fiction fun!

Major Award

Jon stared across the schoolyard with a lump in his throat. There sat Amanda, his soon-to-be ex girlfriend, with her posse of plastics. He watched her giggle and place minuscule bits of something green in her mouth. She was totally oblivious to what was going to happen next.

Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, Jon made his way through the tables of teenagers until he reached her. The girly chatter slowly stopped as Amanda's friends turned to watch him with knowing smirks and toothy grins.

"Hi, Jon," Amanda said coyly.

"Um, hi," he answered. "Can I talk to you in private somewhere?"

Amanda laughed.

"Don't be silly. Just say whatever you need to here. I trust all my girlfriends."

Just get it over with! Jon's mind screamed.

"Ok...well...I wanna break up. You're a control freak, and you won't let me play Halo." He finished with a sigh of relief.

Amanda filled up her baby blues with crocodile tears and ran away with a wail of anguish. Her girlfriends raced after her with outstretched arms. One stopped and turned back to Jon. With a solid whack, her palm collided with his cheek.

"Here's your Major Tool Award."

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and is too cool for tools.

Check out www.storypraxis.com for more writing fun.