Gavelgavel!!!: A Collection of Short Stories by the Camarillo Writer's Club

By Camarillo Writer’s Club

The Camarillo Writers Club is an eccentric collection of
crazy people randomly pieced together from the public library system. We cover
all ranges and genres, and have worked hard to cobble-together this compilation
book(which was NOT assembled by elves or fairies, despite what they may like
you to believe). Inside you will find thirty-three short stories and fifteen poems
written by seventeen different authors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 13, 2008
• ISBN: 9781467868938

Camarillo Writer’s Club

The Camarillo Writer’s Club was founded in August of 2007 and meets diligently every week to exchange manuscripts, talk about books, and discuss the best places to stash dead bodies. The Camarillo Public Library graciously provides us with a meeting room, and so the madness continues.

Book preview

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2008 Camarillo Writer’s Club. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse: 10/1/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4389-1665-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4389-1666-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-6893-8 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Acknowledgments

Forward

Time is Overrated

Wish Granted

Gun

Dark Angel

Richelieu

Remember To Remember

A Broken Promise

The Lily Tree

Fall-Cide

Dandelions

Ending Game

On Another Porch

She Treads Softly

Katherine the Average

Goodbye Monday

Mars and the Gatorman

As the Wizard Lay Dying…

Where Are You Now?

Head Above Water

Passed

Red

Enslaved by Time

Imagination

Ode to Novel

English Rose

Immortality

Can You Live in the Dark?

Realize

From Me to You

Hell

S.A.T.s

If God Looked Away

Cutting the Tie

Five Days

Thomas

Through The Dust

Observations by the Queen

Reality’s Secrets

Rivals

Touch the Stars

The Last Orachim

The World of Everything

Ari

The Impassable Forest;

T.P. Higgins

The Birth of Hope

To the Reaper Whom This May Concern…

Nighthawks

Imagination is a Thing with Wings

Glossary of Terms

Author’s Notes:

A Blank Page:

We dedicate this book to the Camarillo Public Library, and to public libraries everywhere. Without whom, crazy people like us would be left to roam the streets! ... And to the Friends of the Library, who graciously provided the funding to make this book a reality.

Image1.jpg

Back row from Left to Right: Elizabeth Pode, Rick Austinson, Clarisse McLeod,

Mackenzie Johnson, Siddharth Mehrotra, Cliff Williams, Nora Asi, Janel Raab,

Chris Culver, Sophia Paden.

Front row from Left to Right: Frankie Breem Alicia Rodriguez, Raven

Molesworth, Jenna Stahle, Samantha Gonzales, Emily Pode, Madison Palmer

Ominous Empty Page….

Acknowledgments

There are by far too many important people to list here, but a few important ones deserve special mention:

Chris Culver, the club’s illustrious benefactor and sponsor, who also engaged in the remarkably daunting task of editing the raw manuscripts. Kudos to you, you made it through the gauntlet!

Siddharth Mehrotra, club member, contributor to this book, and also editor. Siddharth, your tireless and stoic dedication to spelling and grammar serve as a beacon to us all!

Chuck Pode, father of Emily and Elizabeth, who provided invaluable aid in hammering out all the legal wrinkles of such a large project as this.

Mr. and Mrs. Stahle, who handled photography for the back cover.. We greatly appreciate your professional and stunning work.

And of course me, your host, Rick Austinson. Who, despite fending off hordes of raging zombies, pieced together and formatted this compilation. Maintaining to the master copy was difficult, but I persevered!

Now enjoy the compilation book, or I’ll pluck out your eyes!

Forward

The quest for a proper title for our book was a long and arduous one, taking many fortnights and much discussion. A title that was exciting, intriguing, humorous, and insightful needed to be chosen.

But that question was difficult. How to find a title that so perfectly summed up this massive brick in your lap? What to do, oh what to do…

First, let me tell you a brief story. Back in the olden times of yor, around World War II-ish, a bright young recruit was drafted. This recruit, however, had the very unfortunate title of Zachary Zzmermen. That’s right, three Z’s right in a row!

Well, Brave Zachary went off to war, and arrived on the Western Front along with many other soldiers. Their first order before going off to rescue occupied Europe: line up alphabetically to receive your guns!

If you’ve ever had to do this, you know it goes: Zachary found himself dead-last in line and not to happy about it. Especially when he finally got to the supply truck, and they ran out of riffles! So thinking fast, the supply sergeant handed Zachary a broomstick and said Just point this at the enemy and shout ‘Bangedy-bang!’.

Zach took his ‘gun’ and headed off for the next station: bayonets.

It happened again of course, supplies were running short and the allies were in trouble. So the next sergeant ties a sharpened pencil to the end of Zachary’s broom and tells him If the enemy gets close, just thrust this at them and yell ‘Stabedity-stab!’.

Well then poor Zachary got shipped off to the front.

In those days of brutal trench-warfare, he soon found himself in full-on combat. A few Huns came charging across the field, so Zachary points his broomstick at them and shouts Bangedy-bang! Bangedy-bang! at the top of his lungs.

And to his surprise, the fall down!

The melee continues, and he finds himself close to one, he shouts Stabedity-stab! Stabedity-stab! and the guy drops dead!

The battle’s going well, until Zach sees a pair of enemy soldiers walking slowly through the field, apparently unarmed.

He points his brook stick at them and shouts Bangedy-bang! Bangedy-bang! with all his heart.

Nothing.

They get closer, so he tries again Stabedity-stab! Stabedity-stab!

Nothing.

He leaps away from them at the last second, and as the two soldiers march past, he hears them say…

Tankedy-tank, tankedy-tank.

Now, with this tale in mind, I went to the first meeting of the Writer’s Club, and realized that we did not have in our possession… a gavel. Thinking fast, I simply shouted Gavel! Gavel! when I wanted silence. ‘Gaveledy-gavel’ didn’t sound so good and all, doesn’t roll off the tongue right.

It became tradition as the meetings progressed: Gavel! Gavel! Calls for silence.

Now, when we went searching for a title that could most perfectly personify the Camarillo Writer’s Club, GavelGavel! quickly reached the top of our list.

Better than the runner-up anyway, which was ‘Insert Title [Here]’.

Time is Overrated

Rick Austinson

Time is an illusion created by the observation of events.

Lights danced around Robert with a kind of rhythm that was as much chaos as ballet. He had begun to dread these moments of semi-consciousness, these periods of thought into which he periodically immerged. At these times he felt very much like a whale-shark, which visits the surface, only to retreat again to the dark, black depths of the ocean deep.

Even though he was only aware of himself during these times, Robert hated them, because it was a kind of hazy, distant awareness, like he was there but at the same time… not. He had no concept of time, no perceptions beyond that distant awareness of self, yet he was aware, and he hated every moment of it.

It was happening again. It happened almost every time, or at least he thought it did, during these brief moments of awareness.

The dream came back.

He had had the dream thousands of times, and yet he knew not how many times it had really happened. Maybe he only felt like he’d had the dream thousands of times, when really it was new each time. He couldn’t count, his memories seemed fractured, disjointed, from one blink of thought to the next.

I’m sorry, Mr. Edignton, the doctor was saying. Edignton wasn’t Robert’s real last name, but it was as far as the insurance company was concerned.

I don’t know how to tell you this, the white lab-coated doctor continued. But you have Lou Gehrig ’s disease.

Isn’t that the thing Stephen Hawking has? Robert blinked.

That’s right, the doctor nodded. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. That’s why you’ve been having the pain in your arm.

I’m guessing there’s no cure, Robert sighed.

Well not yet, the doctor admitted. The disease is still in its early stages, and even now we can’t really do anything for you, but in twenty or thirty years… who knows?

I’m gonna end up in a freaking wheelchair talking through a dang computer, Robert moaned.

Yes, well, if the disease goes into remission, the doctor told him. More like in twenty four or forty eight months, the disease will run its course…

Crud, Robert whispered darkly. In all honesty, it wasn’t so much that he feared death, or even a lengthy and slow battle with illness, it was that Robert knew when he did die, it was going to be like he’d never existed.

Any investigator who felt like taking the time would probably spend decades unraveling Robert’s complex trail of aliases and discarded identities, to finally make his way back to Robert Smith, the name on the yellowed birth certificate in a dusty old drawer somewhere, that had been handed to him at his birth. That Robert had died a very long time ago.

More likely, he would go into the ground as Robert Edignton. His insurance company would pay for a decent funeral, his lawyer might be there as a final courtesy, the owner of the cemetery probably, and maybe some religious person would be called in to say a few hollow words to the lawyer, the owner, and a whole lot of empty chairs.

That was all that would eventually remain of Robert; a simple marker in an inexpensive cemetery nowhere special.

Perhaps Robert could come up with some original or humorous epitaph that someone might stop and chuckle at, and just maybe they’d take the time to read his name. Maybe centuries later some child on a field trip or visiting a relative might stop to make a rubbing…

Just maybe.

There is one alternative, the doctor continued. Since the disease is still in it’s early stages, you are healthy enough for an…experimental procedure. Something that might make the difference. But there is a significant catch.

What kinda catch, doc? Robert asked with a half smile. Do I have to give up booze, or smokes, or women, or something like that? Do I have to find religion, feed the homeless, go to Australia, what?

Are you familiar, Mr. Edignton, with the concept of Cryonics? the doctor asked.

You wanna freeze me? Robert blinked.

Not exactly ‘freeze’, the doctor admitted. There is a new technology under development, a kind of warm cryonic, actually more similar to suspended animation or bio-stasis. The process is very complicated, and takes nearly six months to place someone in. It is not a particularly effective short-term solution however; your condition is not short-term.

So what, you stick me in this stasis doodle, and then what? Robert questioned. I wait?

Yes or rather we wait, the doctor shrugged. In thirty or forty year’s time, we bring you back out, cure you of your illness, and send you on your way.

How much is this gonna cost? Robert grinned.

When the process becomes commercially available, I imagine a good deal, the doctor explained. "But for the time being they are seeking willing volunteers for long-term tests. There would be no cost to you, and your treatment afterwards will be paid for by the company.

"In the meantime, your current assets can be placed in a kind of trust fund, which will accrue value while you sleep. By the time you wake up you could be cured, healthy, and a very rich man.

But of course there are downsides; by the time you wake up, your family and everyone you know will likely be dead and buried. The world will be very different, and there is no telling how you will react. I can’t promise that you’ll be happy, but I would like you to consider the option.

So, slow painful death, or possible quick and painless death, or possible total recovery with the freezy-thingy, Robert scratched his head.

Well it’s not exactly a ‘freezer’, The doctor put in.

I don’t care; freeze me! Robert shouted.

Sometimes the dream went further, sometimes it didn’t last so long. The scientists at the facility promised him it would be a deep, dreamless sleep; that his heart would beat but once every few decades.

But they did say it wouldn’t be like that the entire time. Going into stasis was a six-month process for which he would be in a drug-induced comma. For at least that much time, he might dream, they said.

Maybe that’s all it was, maybe he still wasn’t in complete stasis.

Maybe…

Nothing was certain anymore. He may have only had the dream once; he may have had it countless times. He may have only had this one moment of semi-consciousness, he may have had many. His mind felt incomplete, like Voltron missing one of the lions.

And yet… something seemed odd, new.

Robert tried to recall if he’d ever felt this feeling before, but reaching into his mind was like reaching into nothingness.

He just couldn’t tell.

His spatial orientation was all off. It felt like someone had picked up the entire world, turned it, and put it back down, without moving him. Up was down, left was right, he couldn’t tell at all.

Spinning, he was spinning.

No, no he was lying still.

Lying still? On his back, on a slab, no this was definitely new, this was—

Robert’s eyes shot open.

He was in a tube. The walls around him seemed to be made of some kind of metal he couldn’t identify, it was cold, with a rough texture, and it was blue.

No, it only looked blue, from the lights. The lights seemed to be coming from under Robert’s slab, which wasn’t really a slab at all but a smooth metal grate.

Was he in a coroner’s refrigerator maybe?

He had never actually seen the cold-sleep facilities the doctors told him about. He had been brought to the facility, deposited his personal belongings in a box, then stripped and lain down in a hospital bed.

That was his last memory of life.

For a moment, he considered that this was another dream, but quickly dismissed the thought. He had never felt so awake, so alive, so himself, since…

Since Christine.

But that was another life now. She was dead, or at least fat. Whatever had happened, the cold-sleep process had worked! He had been frozen—well not ‘frozen’ according to all the medical technicians—but that was beside the point, he was alive again!

He was also naked and stuck in a metal tube.

Panic.

Robert drew a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. Panicking wasn’t going to help. In the back of his mind he noticed that it didn’t seem right for him to be waking up alone sealed in a tube somewhere, but he ignored that in favor of pleasanter notions.

There was the light, fortunately, and so Robert began feeling around for some kind of catch or release. As luck would have it, his head seemed to be near the opening to the tube, because there was scarcely enough room to move his arms up to feel for a handle, let alone turn around.

The pressboard coffin would have been roomier.

The door, or hatch, or whatever, opened. It was tough, he could barely get leverage from where he lay and he couldn’t even swivel his head enough to see the actual handle, but after several minutes of furious grunting the round cover swung away, and a blast of moldy air filled Robert’s nostrils.

Bracing his hands on the outside of the chamber, Robert pushed himself up, thankful that the grate he was lying on was so smooth. When his head finally broke out into the air, he was again in darkness.

The only light source seemed to be the lights in his tube, so he lay there for several moments trying to let his eyes adjust. He could make out a ceiling, a wall, and an apparently endless line of round hatches.

They were arranged honeycomb-style for maximum density, and Robert was at least twelve feet off the ground.

What little he could see of the floor when he flipped over onto his stomach seemed… wrong. Scattered patches of linoleum amidst mud, moss, plant roots, and pools of stagnant water.

Still, he couldn’t just lay around here forever.

Robert flipped back onto his back and began pushing himself outward, clinging to the handles on the other cryo-tubes as he went. Slowly, inch by precarious inch, Robert pushed himself out until he was clinging spider-style to the wall of tubes.

He made his way down this, carefully, until his feet finally touched the soft, spongy floor.

Where a sliver of glass from a broke light bulb drove itself into his foot.

Robert’s scream rang out through the darkness, and movement responded.

A moment later, a cloud of screeching bats flapped across the room, swarming around Robert.

Robert screamed again, stumbling backwards, until he tripped on a root and landed on a staircase.

The bats flew away, but as they did so, they were kind enough to show Robert the path to freedom.

For up at the top of the stairs, as the bats flew, Robert could make out an imperceptible point of light. He climbed towards this, and rounding a corner, found himself standing in a deserted hallway.

The wallpaper was old and peeling, and the floor here was caked in bat feces. The light Robert had followed proved itself to be one bare light bulb, flickering now and again, just around the corner from the doorway where he stood.

Under this, another closed door still. The wood was rotten, and looked ready to break, but amidst the stains and flecks of paint, the faded letters of the word’s ‘nursing station’ were visible.

Biting his lip and trying to walk on his toes, Robert waded through the guano towards this and put a hand against it. The door fell away easily, and by the light of the bulb in the hallway, he was able to find a flashlight and shine it around the room.

The shelves were mostly bare, but the floor was littered with countless things under a layer of dust. Amongst these he found a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some bandages. They were wrapped in plastic and still seemed fairly safe, so he cleaned the wound on his foot and wrapped the cloth around it. It wasn’t so bad, and he had more pressing concerns.

Like the fact that he was naked in a bat cave, and he was supposed to be naked in a hospital.

After rummaging around the small room for a while and finding nothing but hospital gowns and paper slippers, Robert made his way into the back, where he discovered a row of lockers.

With the aid of part of the building, he smash the locks off several but was disappointed to find only the decayed remains of purses and a few sets of moldy women’s clothing.

But the very last locker held a vinyl gym bag, which had protected its contents more or less from the elements. It contained a few sets of men’s clothing which fit close enough for jazz, and most importantly, a pair of Nike running shoes.

Robert emerged finally wearing the shoes, jeans, and a cracked leather jacket. He hadn’t been able to find socks or a shirt that fit, so he picked up a few pairs of cotton scrub suits before heading out into the hall.

First he went back to the room where he’d awoken, to re-examine it with the aid of the flashlight. The roof had caved in at one end, and this was where the dirt and tree roots were coming in through.

He was underground, apparently.

But there was no way out from there.

The capsules lining the walls had no exterior indicator lights, so against his better judgment, Robert set upon the task of prying one open.

What he found inside frightening him greatly, but he didn’t scream this time, only carefully examined the mummified corpse of a woman. He didn’t know how long she’d been dead, but it had to have been long enough for her flesh to completely desiccate.

Where was he?

Instead of opening more tombs, Robert fled the cryo-vault and began searching for a way up. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and he felt above all he had to see the sky.

Down at the end of the hallway Robert found an emergency stairwell, and began to climb with gusto. He felt alive, energetic; a surge of hope and drive he had never before experienced.

No matter what was wrong, he had finally found the one thing he’d been searching for all his life: a truly fresh start.

The stairs seemed to go up forever, but Robert didn’t tire. Up, and up, and up, and further still up, climbing higher and higher and higher, until finally a door with the word ‘Roof’ inscribed across it in faded print loomed up, and without even slowing Robert pushed through this and ran out onto the rooftop.

The bright sun blinded him for a moment, but when his eyes finally adjusted, he looked out upon the unfamiliar skyline of a ruined city.

Skyscrapers, like the great claws of some long buried beast, reached out through the tangle of rubble and mass of trees on the ground, to stab at the sky accusingly, as if to say somehow that he alone, Robert, was responsible for this madness.

The color green had never looked so stark, so angry.

Panting, Robert approached the railing and looked out across the ruined wasteland below.

Trees, the most destructive force on earth, now ruled this metropolis. The forests had reclaimed the city, and would not be beaten back.

As Robert looked down upon the world below, he understood one thing above all else; he understood that this world was not his own.

In this place, he did not belong.

Well, Robert gulped. This sure wasn’t in the brochure…

The End

Wish Granted

Clarisse Lianne McLeod

Friday, August 29th, was a momentous day for Zackary Cooper in that for the first time since about fourth grade, he was actually on time for something. Granted, it was just to be outside of the school gate as close to three o’clock as possible—but hey, everyone has to start somewhere.

After he’d skidded to a stop next to the flagpole, he got down to business. Okay, Zack, he coached himself. First, go through the list: sunglasses in place, yep; hair in place, yep; baseball cap pointed backward—wait—okay, yep; folded arms, yep; lean nonchalantly against the flagpole, yep; well, not much to be done about the hole in the knee, so skip that; okay, is that it? Yeah. All right, now for a first line: ‘hi, what’s up?’ No, not quite right… ‘hey, how’s it going?’ Yeah, that sounds better. All right, that pretty much covers it. Now: showtime. He checked his wristwatch, the manliest one he owned, and saw that it was 3:08 p.m. What do you know, still on time.

As at first the horde, then the trickle, then the occasional straggler ambled past, he kept telling himself maybe the next person…the next person…the next person…if he just waited a few more minutes…until he heard the door of the shoe store across the street slam shut.

He whirled around, focusing his gaze past the busy street on the lone figure inside. Oh, no, he thought. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Please don’t touch that OPEN sign.

Unfortunately, the figure did, flipping it around. Now it said CLOSED.

No way, he breathed, panic rising in a wave of heat up his neck. That store closed at five o’clock! It wasn’t five o’clock, it couldn’t be! He’d just checked his watch, hadn’t he?

At that point, he checked again. It still said 3:08 p.m.

Aw, man, groaned Zack, and took off down the sidewalk toward the bus stop around the corner. He might be able to make it home an hour less late if—and only if—he caught the city bus. Problem was, it left the stop at five o’clock.

Skidding around the corner, he gave a howl of despair as the bus whooshed by him. That was it. He was doomed. He was going to walk into his great-great uncle’s memorial service two hours late in his sneakers and baseball cap with his parents right there as witnesses. No, wait—he could maybe change into his nice clothes when he got home, but then he’d have to walk in them to the service and be two and a half hours late...

Trying to decide which was the lesser of two evils, he almost didn’t notice the screeching of airbrakes until a voice called his name—thereby signaling the turning point in his day.

Zackary! The voice floated over his shoulder.

He froze, the worries of but a moment ago evaporating instantly. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.

Zack! Over here!

Still disbelieving, he turned around. The bus had stopped about fifty feet away at the next corner, its doors open. And leaning out of them, golden hair shining in the sunlight, waving to him, was…her.

C’mon, Zack! Hurry up! Quick!

Finally, his brain successfully communicated with his feet, and he raced toward the bus. Tania backed up the stairs to let him on. Thanks, he managed to gasp.

No problem, she replied as she slid into the seat behind the driver. Sorry about that, Vlad.

Not at all, miss, said the bus driver with a grin as he started the bus rumbling down the street. Vhat are friends for?

Thanks a lot. I owe you. Er, Zackary—that is your name, isn’t it? Tania turned to Zack, elegantly arching an eyebrow.

Uh, yeah.

Oh, good. I thought that was it. I’m Tania, by the way. She held out her hand.

Heart pounding, Zack shook it.

Uh, Tania Winters? he asked, although he knew the answer well.

Yeah, how did you know?

We have physics and, uh, English together. Zack still wasn’t capable of putting together too many words at the moment.

Hey, cool. I thought I recognized you. She leaned comfortably back against the seat. Silence followed.

Zack started feeling more and more uncomfortable as he fiddled with his baseball cap. There she was, wearing a pair of embroidered jeans and a light green blouse, with her blond hair pulled neatly back into a single braid that hung over her shoulder. And here he sat with a huge hole in the knee of his jeans. He wondered if she was feeling as awkward as he was. It didn’t look like it.

Okay, Zack, he told himself. Act casual. Ask her questions. Girls like to talk, don’t they? Just play it cool.

Did you want to put your backpack on the floor? Her voice interrupted his thoughts.

Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Thanks. Heaving his backpack out of the aisle, he let it slide to the floor below the seat. It made a loud thud.

Good grief, what have you got in there? Tania leaned forward to inspect the backpack, and then looked back at him with her big green eyes. He felt like a deer caught in a pair of headlights.

Oh, uh…just stuff. For school.

You must be taking some pretty hard classes.

Kinda. Then, before he could think about it, the words just came out. Most of it’s just my writing, though.

She cocked her head. Oh, man, he thought. Writing. Majorly uncool. Should’ve kept my mouth shut. Really?

Geeky, he agonized.

But she settled herself in her seat again and asked, What kind of writing?

Um, he tried to think of a way to salvage this, I want to be an author when I grow up.

Good that you’re getting practice.

Yeah.

What do you write about?

Just…I like to imagine stuff, he shrugged. He looked closely at those eyes. Well, what do you know, maybe she didn’t think it was geeky. So he continued, I, uh, I like science fiction. Tolkien, Star Trek, stuff like that.

Are you serious? I thought I was the only one!

Hey, you like Star Trek, too?

Yeah, it’s awesome! In fact, I just saw this really cool documentary about how they filmed the series.

It didn’t happen to be on at six last evening, did it?

Did you see it too? She sat forward.

Oh, yes! Subject matter! Zack thought joyfully. Yeah! In fact, I taped it. I thought it was especially cool because they got the screenwriters to talk about how they came up with everything. Inspiring, that’s what it was.

He expected the conversation to hop to another part of the documentary, but Tania surprised him. So, you’re gonna be writing for science fiction movies, if all goes well?

Well, I’m actually more of a book person myself, Zack answered. Although it would be cool to write for a movie. Books, though…it’s your stuff, and yours alone. You don’t have to change it too much or write to a prompt that some director or producer wants. There are no rules, except maybe grammar. Within it is complete freedom.

Huh, said Tania thoughtfully. I’ve never really heard that outlook before.

Yeah, agreed Zack. It’s why I like what I do, though.

Tania grinned and looked again at his backpack with curiosity. What’s your writing about? Science fiction? Or is it fantasy?

Well, it’s kind of a combo, Zack replied, hoisting the copy of his book out of the backpack and onto his lap. Cool. She was a listener. If he was successful, this girl was definitely a keeper. I messed with the fundamental laws of physics, and I put in magic crystals.

Odd, but interesting, Tania commented.

Thank you. I do my best, Zack replied. Tania laughed. He continued, Actually—

Then inertia suddenly shoved his forehead none too gently into the seat in front of him as the bus lumbered to a stop. Ow, he finished.

Sorry, Vlad the bus driver said over his shoulder. These brakes not so great.

S’all right, Zack mumbled as he rubbed his forehead. What stop is this?

Benson Avenue.

Oh, that’s my stop, he looked up. Seriously? groaned Tania as passengers began to file by. Darn. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.

See ya, grinned Zack as he stood up. Hey, uh, by the way…do you take the bus every day?

No, just today. My dad usually drives me home. Do you?

No, actually, Zack said innocently. Just today.

What a weird coincidence. Oh, and, by the way… Tania looked up at him. Would it be okay if, maybe, I…could read your stories sometime?

Absolutely, Zack answered. You do not know how absolutely, he thought. Here it is, in fact. He pulled the book he was writing in its entirety from his backpack and gave it to her. I write in pieces, though. Right now it’s not in any kind of chronological order, it’s section by section.

Oh, that’ll just make it more interesting. Tania gave him another stunning smile. I’ll give it back next week. Would that be okay?

Sure! Zack waved a hand. I better get going, though.

Right, Tania laughed. See you later, then.

Bye! And he made his exit.

When his feet hit the sidewalk and the doors closed behind him, he watched the bus head off, carrying both his story and its inspiration. And its inspiration was actually interested. Incredible.

So he turned down Benson Avenue toward his great-great-uncle’s memorial service with a spring in his step, whistling as he went. He was an hour late and his parents would be furious, but that was okay.

The End

Gun

Janel Raab

Hearing a crash and a bang, I froze cold in my tracks. I waited with only eerie silence in my ears. Nothing else was heard. Yet, I could still sense something watching me, so I waited. Finally a brown cat crept out of a trashcan. It turned and laid eyes upon me, and scurried away. I breathed again. Once more I picked up the trail of the king’s guards. I moved cat-like through the back alleyways of the twisted city. I was catching up to them. I was faster than them. Though they had a hard time navigating through the fog, but I could see perfectly. Within thirty seconds I would be able to touch them, and so it was. The two men I was chasing were both burly, yet not very bright. They thought they could get away with anything. My goal was to save the frightened boy they were planning to sell as a slave.

Oh, how foolish, I forgot to introduce myself. They call me Gun, the protector of the poor. I’m one of those people you would find on a wanted poster; loved by the people, despised by the government. I help anyone I can, except the corrupted king and his officials, which I’m trying to eliminate. This causes me to always be on the run. It also causes me to have no home or family, though I do have a few friends. But no matter what, I’ll always help people. Though I never went to school, and can’t read or write; I can fight! You better say your prayers, if you’re my target, and I find you in some dark alley.

I didn’t rush at them. I had to plan my rescue carefully. It had to be quick and simple. With my eerie golden yellow eyes I spotted a metal pole that was lying next to an empty trashcan and picked it up. I felt its weight in my hand. It was rusty and bent, but it would work. I then took a different direction; I was going to cut them off. Stealth and speed were my specialties. I hid behind a cardboard box and waited. Though I am only five feet tall, the box wasn’t tall enough to give me full cover. My black hair could barely be seen over the top of the box. I didn’t wait long when I heard the men’s heavy footsteps approaching. They passed my box. If they turned around, they would have plainly seen me. So I whistled one sharp, calling note. Together the two men quickly turned and saw me, sitting against the box with the rusty metal pole in my hands. I was the same boy that they had a grapple with at the farmhouse earlier, and manage to escape from or so they thought.

It only took me seconds, to dash behind them and whacked them with the pipe. They went out like lights. With lightening speed I grabbed the unconscious boy that they were carrying. I laughed silently; my job was amusing. I dashed away taking the boy, stopping only when I was a safe distance away. I splashed water, from my canteen, over the boy’s face. His eye lids fluttered. Once awake, he started asking questions. But I sat quiet. After he fell silent, I began to explain that I saved him from the king’s official guards.

The small boy looked at me with sorrowful eyes. He was tired and hungry. He was probably only six and no bigger than a water barrel. He had sandy blond hair and deep blue eyes. He told me his name was Dan and that he had no family since the king’s guards had killed his parents for not paying their taxes. Just great, I now realized I had an orphan to care for!

I felt obligated to help this child since I had arrived at the farm too late to save his parents. I took him to the home of my friend, John, who gave him a meal. Seeing that Dan was content, John turned to me. He tried to clean me up, but I refused. I only had a long, shallow cut on my neck given to me by one of the guards when we had wrestled earlier. After our meal, I took Dan to the park and made him a bed of leaves at the base of my favorite tree, and I would rest above him in the tree’s limbs. However, I couldn’t stand the small boy’s crying so I ended up moving him up to my limb. It was weird at first, almost awkward, but I wasn’t complaining. Through the years, I have slept in all kind of places.

Once I slept in a hotel called Jail. However, the service wasn’t very pleasing to me. They actually locked you inside your room and there were bars on the window. Also, the food was lower than fifth class. So, the next morning the guards awoke to find me gone. With an unconscious guard in my bed, a set of keys missing, and every room of an unjustly accused peasant empty as my tip. It was one of my funnier stories.

Dan and I spent three days together! I could have never imagined what it was like to have a companion. I found it all to my liking: someone to talk to; someone to share a laugh with; and someone who was just there when you need them. We spent much fun fishing in the Danube River, watching the wooden barges moving their trade up and down the river. He and I had great laughs together.

However, our time together was too short. It was a shock to all what happened next. It started when Dan and I decided to wander the streets of the market plaza. Noon found me with nothing to feed Dan and he was hungry. So, I targeted a bread stand. I told Dan exactly what to do. While I distracted the bread seller, he would steal the bread.

It would have been easy, except for one slight problem. As Dan reached for the bread, two guards approached. These were the same guards I had knocked out