The Tail of the Flaming Lion and Other Such Tales

By Amy C. Swoboda

About the Book
Mark of the Phoenix: Ashes to Rebirth is really about continuing to press on even when things get as bad as they can be. Mara has dealt with just about every problem possible growing up, from an unsafe home environment as a kid to being assaulted as a young adult and even becoming a single teenage mother. But she continues to press on and never lets anything stop her.
Mark of the Phoenix also contains some views on issues in the real world that are oftentimes ignored or overlooked or have just been blown out of proportion, and so at least some people may read this and maybe agree and act on it in their own lives.

About the Author
Amy C. Swoboda listens to a lot of music and relaxes with video games sometimes, but her mind is always going. As somebody with an encyclopedia’s worth of health problems, it's important to her to keep going and always stay busy. She loves working with her hands and the thought of creating something is always a thrill she needs in life, so most of her job experience is in manufacturing and assembly work. But writing has always been her passion because to her, it's the ultimate form of expressing yourself in ways that can reset the boundaries of life in general.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Mar 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887297293

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother, Lillian; to my wife of forty-six years, Leslie; and to my three grandkids, Olivia, Madison and Emma, to whom I read these stories.

The Love Letter

Get out of the way, Billie, demanded one of the testy prison guards, as she jangled the jail keys and flung open the gate. Here’s your new roomie. You’ll be sharing this cell with Elliot for a while, ’til we get him settled.

Spoiling his pretty-boy face, Billie flared his nostrils, scrunched his tight lips, shook his coiffed blond ringlets, and unleashed his pent up arrogance by shouting, What? Who is this piece of shit?

A small, impish prisoner edged into the cramped cell: a cold, dank, and decaying encasement, drenched in artificial light and infused with a whiff of rotting pine, mingling with the nasty stench of moribund prior occupants. The queer little man wandered to a narrow corner wedged between a bed and sink. He sat on the floor and squeezed his folded knees against his chest. The glare of the piercing ceiling lights illuminated his sullen complexion, peppered with teardrop tattoos. His squinty, evasive eyes, snide snout, and sharp jaw wrinkles exuded the caricature of a spoor hungry rodent with a remorseless demeanor, in Billie’s opinion. The tally marks scarring Elliot’s forearm caused Billie concern.

Officer, voiced Billie with steaming vitriol. This guy looks like some mangy weasel. Put him in a cage, but not in my cell.

The officer, moving to exit, turned and said to Billie sarcastically, Try to be civil.

Billie pivoted to Elliot and laid down the law. Look, buddy, you stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine. That’s my bed, and that one’s yours. You can tell which sink is mine by looking at my wall mirror.

Billie elevated his entire arm with theatrical flair to trace the borders of his own reflection in the mirror. As he framed his image with an extended finger, he drew attention to a bevy of beautifully scripted correspondence letters, each suspended from a long plastic cord fastened to the outer edges of the mirror, the design fashioned to resemble a holy tabernacle. Billie took a moment to pose his handsome, faux debonair face and sleek, sexy physique at the center of the testimonial display.

See, Elliot, said Billie, while admiring his trademark veneer reflected in the obedient mirror. Each of these is a love letter from one of my forever sweethearts. After all these years they are all still infatuated with me, despite the fact that I jilted each one of those whores out of a fortune; fools they were and still are. Billie snorted triumphantly. He continued, Only one bitch caught me and prosecuted. I was sentenced to ten years, but I’ll be out in two, thanks to my loophole-clever legal team. Once out, I’ll claim my just desserts, and maybe juice up some new lucrative passions again.

What about you, Elliot? What are you in for?

Elliot’s fangs growled in response. None of your fucking business!

Billie chuckled. All right, caveman. Go ahead and mount YOUR love letters on YOUR mirror. Elliot scowled and looked away.

What’s the matter? queried Billie with a snickering click of his tongue. What, no love letters, no fan club? Ahhh, so sad. Billie gloated patronizingly, but then launched into, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll gift you one of my love letters, if you tell me what landed you in the slammer. Billie reached down under his mirror to a collection of as yet unopened envelopes.

Here. Elliot, have a good time on me. Pick one of mine and pretend it’s for you. Elliot eyeballed the scatter of envelopes. He used the arm incised with scarred tally marks to pick the one standout envelop in bright pink, caressed with a lipstick kiss.

Okay, Elliot. You like the pink one? Here, you can have it. It’s from a…ah…Elizabeth Tippen. Billie’s forehead furrowed quizzically. I don’t recognize the name. Maybe a new recruit. Billie shrugged, then flapped the letter under Elliot’s nose, saying, Here, she’s yours. Now confess your crime.

Elliot took the letter without uttering a word, so Billie insisted impatiently, Okay, now, what’s YOUR crime, buddy?

Fuck you, and get out of my face, scoffed Elliot, who tore open the envelop and read its contents silently under Billie’s curious gaze, chin up, neck strained, and eyes bugged out. With the letter read and clenched in his grinning teeth, Elliot slinked off to another corner of the cell, and started masturbating vigorously, yipping like a dog in celebration. Billie’s pristine veneer crumpled.

What’s in that letter? Let me see it! Billie swiped to grab it, but Elliot lurched away, shielding the letter from Billie’s reach.

I’ll tell you tomorrow, asshole.

•••••

Billie couldn’t sleep that night. Tossing and turning, his curiosity about the letter’s contents ate at his gut. After all, the letter was meant for me alone. Finally, he could no longer resist his jealous impulses. He snuck over to Elliot’s corner. Picked up the letter. Pealed back the envelop leaf, and eased the letter out slowly so as to not awaken Elliot.

Okay. What’s this Tippen thing all about? whispered Billie, lips curled at the edges, eyes in titillation mode.

The letter read: THIS IS THE NIGHT YOU DIE, MOTHERFUCKER, signed Elizabeth Tippen.

Shocked, Billie’s head jolted back by the force of the letter, and the yank of the plastic display cord that Elliot wrapped around Billie’s neck from behind.

Hey, pretty boy, whispered Elliot. I’ll bet you didn’t know I’m a lifer for multiple murders, did you? Elliot tightened his grip, clawing and gnawing on Billie’s ear. I’ve been in this joint for a long time, and I’ve got a hard-on for another kill. Billie fell to his knees, nostrils flared, eyes bugged out.

The keys clinked loudly as the two prior prison guards flung open the cell door.

Do you want to see if he’s still alive, Officer Tippen? asked the first prison guard.

Nah, he’s dead, Tippen said, as a matter of fact. She picked up the letter and buried it in her pocket. Out of the corner of her eye, Tippen caught Elliot grinning like a sated beast, thanking her profusely for his opportunity, confessing, I picked the pink one, just like you said, but when I read the message inside, I really got off on it, man. What’s one more kill to a serial killer serving a life sentence? Elliot giggled. Can I get another tally mark?

Okay, Elliot, you picked out the pink one, just as we had planned, and you had your fun for one night, said Tippen, as Elliot stiffened to the jab of handcuffs. Now, it’s back to your cell like a good boy.

The first officer said to Tippen, Do you think your niece will be pleased with this? I heard that she was one of Billie’s victims. Tippen winked and nodded, saying, Unbeknownst to Billie, we recorded his confession last night, so now my niece and her attorneys can sue Billie’s estate for all the money he stole from his victims.

Sometimes Justice works in mysterious ways.

The End

Fourteen

Just fourteen milligrams are all the psychiatrist wants you to take. Just fourteen milligrams, pleaded Justin’s mother, juggling the car steering wheel and her desire to make eye contact. Justin turned his scowl through the passenger window. He gazed toward the distant dark horizon lined with silhouetted trees that cleaved to reveal a dazzling moon. My soul is a moon-spirit, thought Justin. He frowned at the specter of misty clouds and encircling ravens that threatened to encroach upon his defiant moon. Justin’s brave moon-spirit inspired his resolve to refuse psych meds that he judged would smother his soul in order to mitigate his public shame.

But not for Father Timothy: He, with his beady, vacuous eyes, beaked