NYC Midnight Contest Entry **Final Round**

Genre: Open
Object: Mushroom
Location: Border Crossing

The Search for Sustenance

Synopsis: Jenna July has a new boyfriend who just might be the answer to her ticking biological clock; that is, if he doesn’t drive her crazy first.

-------

Jenna July sat in the passenger seat of her boyfriend’s 1999 Ford Escape, dying a slow death. She breathed the humid Florida air into her lungs while his monotonous voice droned on about the pH balance of her drinking water. Jenna didn’t know the pH balance of her drinking water and she didn’t care. What she did care about was that she was three months shy of her thirty-fifth birthday and two months into a relationship that made her feel terminally ill.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Her subconscious mind picked up the slight inflection of his voice and she tore her eyes away from the passing traffic as they zipped up I-75 headed towards the Georgia border.

“Sorry, I must’ve been thinking about our adventure.”

Marley smiled crookedly. His cheekbones protruded sharply against tight skin. His name and his waist length dreadlocks gave him an exotic flair. But his real name wasn’t Marley. It was Otis. Otis Dontrell Raynard. His dreadlocks were mostly extensions braided into his hair. And he wasn’t from the islands, unless you counted Staten Island, New York.

“Excited to go mushroom picking, huh? You’re finally coming around.”

Jenna’s hand squeezed the plastic container of green goo that he had prepared for her that morning. She’d offered to pour the blended concoction into her own water bottle but the idea was immediately rejected.

‘That bottle’s not BPA-free,” he’d said.

Last month, when he’d stocked her cupboard with quinoa and millet, she reasoned that she was lucky to have a guy so concerned with her health.

“In time, you’ll eat only raw like me,” he’d warned.

Now she asked, “Why exactly are we going into the woods to pick mushrooms? I’m sure the grocery store has a decent selection.”

He turned down the volume of the New Age CD. She wondered why the air conditioner had to die instead of the CD player. Marley played the music to heal her chakras. Jenna didn’t know she had chakras. She certainly didn’t know where her chakras were; and if her chakras weren’t bothering her, why did they need healing?

“Babe” he breathed deeply, “I told you that they contain polysaccharides that have immune boosting properties.”

“And polysaccharides are…”

He peeled his eyes away from the light traffic and rolled them towards her. “Large chains of molecules built from sugar molecules.”

It sounded like a question.

“Oh, right. I forgot,” she replied, embarrassed that a part-time yoga teacher at a senior citizens’ home and occasional server at Tea Time could be so much smarter than she, an accountant.

The steaming rays warmed her skin until sweat bubbled on her face like the juices of a roasted turkey sliding down its backside. She ducked her head out the window as they passed the sign that read, Welcome to Georgia.

“This is it,” Marley said while guiding the truck onto the shoulder of the highway. “The border.”

“Why look for mushrooms here?”

“’Cuz the guys at work said this is where they happened to pull over when they went exploring and it was a goldmine.”

Jenna looked into the brush. She’d never been in the woods before and despite the fact that it was Saturday morning, her stomach clenched.

“I’ll get the stuff out the trunk,” he offered.

Jenna considered the thick smoothie in her hand.

How many women can say they have a boyfriend who cares for their health as much as Marley does mine? I should feel privileged that I have a guy who drags me through Chinatown to fetch Chinese herbs or makes me brownies that don’t require sugar, eggs, flour or even heat, for that matter.

Nevertheless, Jenna slid the container beneath her seat and reminded herself to ditch it later.

Marley returned with two pairs of yellow dishwashing gloves, two plastic grocery bags and a bat. On unsteady legs, Jenna dragged herself from the truck.

“I think I see one over there,” Jenna pointed with a quivering finger.

Like a child on Christmas morning, Marley rushed to the spot and plucked up the brown, spotted mushroom with bare hands.

Jenna became light-headed at the sight of the ominous looking fungus. She’d had food poisoning before from a salad. She still remembered the stench of her uncontrollable retching.

“How can you tell if a mushroom is poisonous?”

He shrugged, “We can cook them before eating.”

“But you’re a raw foodist.”

“Huh,” he replied. “That’s a good point.”

Apparently, he had remembered the polysaccharides but had forgotten the toxins.

Lines appeared between his furrowed brows.

“I don’t think they’re poisonous.” His voice was weak and uncertain. “I’m going to find more.”

Jenna swallowed the guilt that rose in her throat.

“I can’t do this with you, Marley. I’m sorry.”

“You’re telling me that you don’t want to pick mushrooms now that we’ve come this far?”

“What I mean is,” she hesitated for a second before continuing, “I can’t do this.” She used her finger to point to each of them. “Next thing you know you’re going to have me eating grass.”

“What do you think is in that smoothie?”

No more men who care about my health, she vowed.

“Take me home, Marley.”

He shook his head defiantly. “We’re still picking mushrooms.”

She matched his stubbornness by kneeling down and fastening the shoelaces of her sneakers.

“Nice knowing you…” she added spitefully, “Otis.”

He turned away, violently swinging the bat as he ventured into the woods.

Jenna looked up the road. She was at the border crossing. About a mile or so ahead was a Visitors’ Center. There were three short-term goals that started her feet moving.

Water.

Rental car.

Drive-thru.

She decided that should the pesky biological clock begin to sound in her head during the long, hot walk, she would sing aloud until the noise quieted itself.

But to Jenna’s great surprise, the clock was forever silent.

NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Competition 2010

**THIRD ROUND ENTRY**

Genre: Romantic Comedy
Location: Daycare Center
Object: A bottle of sunscreen
Word Limit: 1,000

The Break-up Diary

Synopsis: A young woman vows to break up with her boyfriend and start a new life. But as everyone knows: breaking up is hard to do.

Dear Diary,

I know I said that yesterday was gonna be the day that I was gonna do it. As soon as I had gotten off from work I was gonna drive over to Victor’s house and give him the old heave ho. It’s time to throw him back into the ocean of love. I’ve had just about enough of bottom-feeding shrimp. It’s time I set my hook into a real nice catch that can fill me up with the nourishment I need, not just physically – ‘cause Lord knows I got no complaints in that area – but in other ways, too. A woman knows when she’s picked all the good meat from a bone. At least that’s what I thought. Funny how jail can change a woman. Let me explain how things went down.

* * *

Mr. Peters was late again. His little red haired wonder was curled into a ball on the tile floor, sleeping with his thumb stuck between glossy pink lips.

“Jilly, you sure you’re gonna be all right if I leave?” Mildred asked me. She was mummified in her wool coat, knitted scarf, hat and matching gloves. She looked like she was ready to walk on the moon.

“Go,” I said. “I’m sure he won’t be much longer.”

“I’ll turn the lock on the door and set the alarm. That’s one thing less you’ll need to do when you rush outta here tonight.”

I’d never set the alarm. I figured if someone was desperate enough to break into a daycare center then they should be entitled to pilfer all the dirty toys they wanted.

Just before I picked up the phone to call Mr. Peters again the doorbell rang.

“Well it’s about time,” I mumbled and rushed to the front door of the converted house.

Without doing my usual peephole check, I opened the door to find my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend grinning behind a pair of jet black Ray Ban shades despite the fact that it was after six in the afternoon.

“You ain’t comin’ in here, Victor.”

“All Jilly,” he says in that boyish voice that used to make the little hairs on my neck stand up. Okay, fine. They’re still standing up. But right now that probably has more to do with the chill coming from the December air. “Why do you insist on being mean to me?”

I stepped outside so as not to awaken Bobby and let the door close behind me.

“There’s been something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, Vic.” I swallowed hard. “I think it’s time we moved on. I’ve spent enough of my youth with you and it’s pretty obvious to me that if we keep this up, I’ll end up looking after my own brood someday and you’ll still be running around calling yourself an actor with nothing to show for it.”

“Now listen, Jilly. I don’t just call myself an actor. I am one. And what’s so bad about having a brood? You know how many women in this town would kill to have a house full of kids with me?”

“Yeah, but the problem is, most of the women in this town are already saddled down with a bunch of snot-nosed ragamuffins and I ain’t gonna be one of them.”

“Jilly?” He moved closer to me and I could smell the leather jacket and his woodsy cologne collude to weaken the strength in my knees; the resolve in my back loosened. “Don’t you still love me?”

“This ain’t about love, Vic. This is about my future and getting out of this little town before I get stuck here forever. I’m going back inside.”

But when I put my hand on the doorknob I felt the heat of Victor’s body close to me. I smelled the familiar scent of his hair gel; I sensed his light gray eyes fixed onto my mop of sand colored, curly hair. His finger brushed back the hair against my ear and he whispered, “Even if I have nothing to show for my career, I’ll still have you. And if you ain’t enough to keep a man’s spirit alive then nothing is.”

Before I could respond, I felt an immediate shift in my belly. The floaty butterflies turned into a massive falling brick that landed me back into reality.

“The door’s locked. Bobby’s inside and the door’s locked. Do you have your cellphone with you?” When he shook his head, she continued, “’I’ll use the neighbors phone to call Mildred.”

“Don’t look to me like any of your neighbors have made it home yet.” He grinned, obviously enjoying the predicament. “Maybe we should just break in.”

I turned to Victor, ignoring the intensity of his eyes, the sweetness of the words he’d uttered moments ago. “You have anything to pry open the door?”

He shrugged and reached into his pockets and withdrew their contents. “Wallet. Keys. Sunscreen.”

“A bottle of sunscreen? What, the December sun too strong for your delicate skin?”

“Gotta protect the goods. Now, how ‘bout we break a window before Bobby’s parents drive up and see us making googly eyes on the front porch?”

“I’m not making googly eyes.”

“The hell you aren’t, kid. C’mon,” he gathered snow and made a big, icy snowball. “For once in your life, live dangerously.”

* * *

So that’s how it happened. One snowball later and we were squirming our way through the broken glass. Little did we realize that we’d tripped the alarm system. Since the naïve cop who picked us up couldn’t figure out if we were telling the truth or not, he hauled all three of us (Little Bobby included) down to the police station.

Needless to say, I’m back here at home. As for Victor, well let’s just say some fish are worth holding on to and some are best thrown back in the water.

Victor just might be a keeper after all.

NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Competition 2010

**2ND ROUND ENTRY**

Genre: Open Object: Pinball Machine Location: Junkyard Word limit: 1,000

SECOND LIFE

Synopsis: A grief stricken mother searches for her missing son.

If I had thought that sitting in the backseat of the police car would insulate me from useless words of comfort and empathetic glances, once again I was wrong.

“How much longer?” I asked.

The officer met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Just another five minutes or so.” His barely audible voice was as soft as the breeze that floated through the open windows. The long, silky lashes that flanked his pecan-colored eyes were better suited for a young child than a grown man. He seemed too young for the awfulness of his immediate task.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I forgot your name.”

My ever-helpful husband sitting in the front seat turned to me and said, “It’s Caster, honey. Officer Caster.”

“Your memory is wonderfully selective.”

Sean’s brows flinched as though I had just flicked cold water onto his precious face. His dark skin turned pale; his face hardened. Watching him brought to mind the closing of an elevator door. He turned back around.

“Mrs. Garner?” Caster said my name like one of my shy fifth-grade students who’s afraid to ask me a question. “There are several volunteers already at the junkyard canvassing the area. There’s really no need for you to be there.” As though remembering my husband was sitting next to him he turned his eyes from the rear view mirror to Sean. “Either of you, really.”

I swallowed hard and looked at the dense trees passing outside the window. He could be anywhere by now. My son could be buried beneath six feet of dirt or sitting on a swing with a stranger pushing him high into the air. He could be breathless from a belt tied like a noose around his five-year old neck or he could be breathless from the exhilaration of running through a park with a kind stranger who feeds him strawberry ice cream for breakfast.

“I want to be there just in case they find --”

What? Ollie? His body? His remains? I couldn’t say the words any more than I could admit to myself that my son was dead after being missing for seven days. Without warning, my body tensed and a swell of emotion washed over me. A fresh round of tears pooled inside my eyes, clouding my vision. A singular drop slid down my bare face, then another. Within seconds, I was gasping for air as the full onslaught of tears poured out of me. Sean turned to me and placed his hand on the metal grate that separated us but it was no use. Although Ollie is – was? – his son too, I felt caged in this grief alone.

The police cruiser pulled off the highway and took a series of turns before stopping in the junkyard. Volunteers were just beginning to spread out into the massive yard of rusted cars, bicycles and household objects like washing machines and freezers. So many young people were out helping. It was a terrible way to spend a cool Saturday afternoon but I was selfishly grateful that they sacrificed their time for my little boy.

I cleaned my face with the sleeve of my jacket while Caster opened the door for me.

“Toni, Sean.” Williams, the lead detective on the case, approached. “We just finished briefing our volunteers. I don’t know if the tip we received is credible but hopefully we can find something fairly soon that will help us figure out what happened to Oliver.”

“We would’ve been here sooner if you had just called us,” Sean said. “We didn’t need Caster to come pick us up.”

I said, “If you had been at the day care center sooner we wouldn’t have to be here at all.”

“How many times are you going to remind me that this is my fault? You think you’re the only one hurting here?”

“Yes.”

His face cracked with emotion but still hadn’t crumbled. He shook his head and walked away. I wanted to apologize for hurting him but I couldn’t be sure that my apology would be completely sincere. This was, after all, his fault.

“What can I do to help?” I asked.

Detective Williams gave me simple instructions and told me to take my time as I searched carefully through the used metal. To my surprise the yard wasn’t just a massive landscape of debris but, instead, had been divided into multiple sections, allowing us to walk down dirt paths. How strange it was to walk through and touch the remnants of others’ lives. These heaps of scrap, once cherished possessions, were now tarnished, crumpled goods soon to be recycled for another chance at being made whole again.

A half hour into the search someone yelled for help. I stopped and watched volunteers drift to the area. My feet felt leaden, like cement blocks surrounded them instead of shoes. When I eventually made it to the area, I weaved my way through the crowd of twenty or so volunteers.

“Stand back,” Caster ordered.

From my distance I saw four men struggling to lift a cracked pinball machine. After much effort, they heaved it to the side.

I stood numb as I witnessed the unveiling of my baby boy. His beautiful brown body lay on the dirt. I went to him and removed my jacket to cover his nakedness. The detective made a call on his cell phone while Caster ordered the volunteers away.

I stayed there, touching my boy’s serene, unblemished face. I baptized his broken body with my unrelenting tears. Then I felt my husband’s hand on my shoulder. I looked up to find him awash in grief. Lightly, I kissed his familiar, comforting hand. We stood, clinging to each other in the middle of a vast land of used goods hopeful in the idea that Ollie – in his second life – would be made whole again.

Flash Fiction Competition 2010- **PLACED THIRD**

Genre: Historical Fiction Object: Luggage Place: Pond Word Limit: 1,000

Birmingham Blues

Synopsis: A young girl copes with the loss of losing her sister in the Sixteenth Street bombing in Birmingham, Alabama. She and her mother have relocated up North to start life anew.

* * * *

I’ve got to pee but I hold it in. My family’s been doing a lot of that lately, holding things in. I stand at the edge of the pond in the back of my aunt’s house and wonder if it’s frozen down to the center. If it isn’t that means I could step on it and fall through the broken ice. I could drown myself in that cold water. Maybe then I’d finally be able to breathe.

“There you are.”

I hear my Aunt Viv behind me. I don’t turn around; just keep looking at the cloudy ice that dares me to slide across its slick surface.

“I’ve been looking for you, Sarah. What’re you doing out here in the cold?”I shrug. What can I tell her? That I need the chilly air on my skin to freeze the fear the bomb has put in me? Should I tell her that the cold numbs my body? That I’m hoping it will do the same with all the anger that is blazing through me? My younger sister is dead and all she can think to ask is why am I standing in the cold?

“I’m glad you and your mom have come up here to stay with me. She’s inside getting settled in. Why don’t you bring your suitcase in and come join us?” she asks.

Her breath floats through the air. It’s cold here in this little town near Detroit. Much colder than Birmingham would be right now.

Aunt Viv blows in her hand and rubs them together.

“Christmas is coming soon,” she says. “Thought about what you want?”

“Where’s the snow?” I ask. “It’s December and there’s no snow.”

“It’ll be here soon enough and then you’ll wish it away.”

She smiles and I am reminded of my favorite Motown singers. She is young, my Aunt Viv. I don’t know how young but she always look fashionable. Women don’t look like her in Alabama. She wears thick eyeliner above her lids that swing out and upward like wings of a bird. Her lips are painted a pale pink, just like the white ladies wear, and her thick, short hair is tightly curled.

“I don’t understand why I’m here.” My confession is wrong, I know. I haven’t even said this to Momma.

I look at my aunt and hate myself for the pained look I cause her. I’m tired of crying but I just don’t know how to stop. It isn’t as easy as putting a piece of foil inside of a broken floorboard.

“You’re here because there was just too much going on down in Birmingham, sweetie. I know you miss your church and all but after that bombing — ”

“I don’t mean here in this city. I mean here, like, alive.” I plop down on the frozen ground; the weight inside of me seems too heavy for my bones to carry. “I was in that church, too.”

I let the tears fall freely. They will freeze on my face and I will be temporarily marked by sadness and that makes me cry harder. My skin burns at the remembrance of that day. The sound of the bomb still wakes me at night. The sudden impact of the walls exploding around us -- brick, wood, nails charging at twenty-six kids walking to the assembly room to pray -- has placed a permanent sense of imbalance inside me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust the walls that surround me ever again. And definitely not in a church. Never will I go back into a church.
Aunt Viv sits beside me. I know she’s trying to think of the right thing to say and I feel sorry for her because I know there are no words.

She says, “In about two weeks we will celebrate the birth of baby Jesus and it breaks my heart to know that your sister will not be here with us in her physical being. But she will be here in her spirit and we need to honor her presence. In whatever form she comes.”

“Those men — ”

“Those men have taken enough from you. It’s been four months since the bombing and I know you’re going to hurt for a long time to come. It’s okay to mourn the loss of Sarah. But I promise you sweetie, if you stay in this place too long the cold will cause you more pain than the bomb ever could. You were spared death that Sunday morning. Why?” She shrugged. “I suspect you’ll figure that out over time. But if you choose not to come out of the cold then you never will.”

She stood and dusted off her coat.

“May I take your suitcase in for you?”

I shake my head.

My legs unlock themselves and I feel myself rising from the ground, almost as though I am being lifted by someone else’s strength. My face is tight from the dried tears and my nose runs. I wipe it and focus on the pond again. In my mind I imagine it exploding and sharp slivers of ice fly through the air, then turn to water as it hits my face. I am still here with my fear and my guilt and my hope and my love for a sister lost. I want Aunt Viv to be right about Sarah and her spirit being near.

“I’ll take it inside myself,” I say to her. “Maybe you can show me where the bathroom is in your house.”

“Our house,” she says and puts her arm around my shoulder. “Our home.”

2010 Short Story Challenge

Tom Shore Saves America

Heat # 10 - Political Satire/Hypnosis

Synopsis: A popular news anchor sets out to influence a general election by hypnotizing Americans.

Tom Shore, the handsome anchorman of the top rated national evening newscast, sat at his favorite table in the corner of a posh restaurant overlooking Main Street. He had called an impromptu lunch with Phillip Cole, the head of entertainment and Artie Schwartz, the news director at his network.

After the pre-requisite pleasantries, Tom began the meeting in his famous baritone voice. “The American people would be greatly ill served if my brother wins the general election.”

Artie Schwartz cut through a bloody steak with his sausage-sized fingers. “I agree. He’s handsome, young, independently wealthy and a Rhodes scholar to boot. The last time we had a president like that we impeached him.”

“And we’ll impeach any other president who takes liberties with interns without the expressed consent of the GOP,” Tom assured the men. “Listen, guys. My brother is a tiger in sheep’s clothing. Don’t be fooled. Long ago, he told me his secret for maneuvering himself to the top ranks of the Democratic Party and so far it’s worked, but we must stop him before he gets out of hand.”

Tom let his words sink in as he leaned back and took a sip of his lunch, which consisted primarily of rum and Coke.

Phillip Cole leaned forward and whispered, “C’mon, Tom. What is it? What’s his plan for becoming the leader of the free world? Lying about his opponent, tampering with the ballots in Florida, bribing constituents for votes or does he have something illegal in mind?”

Tom enjoyed the delicious mystery he’d conjured. He casually sipped his meal replacement drink as his ego slurped up the attention. When his thirst was sufficiently quenched, he continued. “Richard’s plan for becoming President of this great country of ours is the same devious plan he used to become an Ivy League graduate; for becoming a top lawyer in that white shoe law firm; for becoming a much admired Senator and overall…do gooder.”

Phillip and Artie flinched at the very mention of the word. They waited breathlessly in anticipation of Tom’s revelation…until Artie’s stout belly began to rumble and Phillip’s mouth became a virtual desert, which prompted them to dig into their food and drink like starving wolves. Tom observed them in disgust as the men gorged themselves; still he needed them to make his plan work. Tom reached into his jacket pocket and produced a tiny slip of paper, which he laid on the center of the table.

“What is that?” Phillip asked.

“It’s a fortune from a fortune cookie. It used to belong to Richard,” Tom said gravely. “And I believe this fortune is also the catalyst that could forever unravel the fabric of this great nation.”

The men leaned forward and read the slip of paper.

“Dear God,” Phillip said. “It’s worse than I thought.”

Artie pushed his round spectacles higher on his bulbous nose. “That can’t be right. That cannot be the secret to his success.”

Tom smiled, happy that the slip of paper had the desired effect. “Gentlemen, that is precisely how he plans to take over the country and we must do everything in our power to stop him.”

Artie read aloud the words on the slip of paper in a slow staccato like he was a child still learning how to read. “Kill…them…with…kindness.”

The men looked at each other and then around the restaurant to ensure their conversation was not overheard.

Phillip was the first to break the silence. “It can never work. There’s no way in hell that any politician is going to make it into the White House by, by –” he stuttered. “I can’t even say the words.”

“By being kind,” Tom said. “I’m afraid so, my friends. How do you think he’s become Senator with so little government experience? I’ve seen how his nice guy persona has won the hearts of little old ladies. I’ve witnessed first hand how young babies coo and giggle when he moves in for a kiss. But the most despicable thing of all…”

“I don’t know if I want to hear the rest of this,” Artie said. He placed a hand on his protruding belly as though he were about to vomit.

“You must know the truth,” Tom replied, his voice darker than before. “I once saw my brother rescue a drowning child -”

“Please don’t tell us anymore,” interrupted Phillip.

But Tom was on a roll now. “Ten years old. Gave him CPR,” he felt a giddiness from the collective gasp at the table. And now for the big reveal, Tom thought. “That child, gentlemen, was a registered Democratic.”

“Oh my God!”

“Tom, no!”

Tom was pleased at the direction of the conversation. He hadn’t become the best in the business for nothing. He was acutely aware of how to get the news, but more importantly, he was a master at delivering the news. It’s all about the delivery.

“I’ve thought a lot about what to do about Richard’s run for the presidency and what I’ve come up with is a revolutionary idea.”

“Which is?” The men asked in unison.

“Hypnotism. It’s the only way to save the American people.” Tom took another sip of his drink and waived the waiter over to place an order for another round. The delay gave the men time to let Tom’s words marinate.

“You mean, put America in a trance?” Artie asked. “Is that legal?”

Tom responded, “We work on television. Everything we do is legal. America must be protected from Richard and his un-American, radical mindset. Can you imagine what this world would become if everyone walking the earth lived by the mantra, ‘Kill them with kindness’?”

“We’d all be dead,” Phillip responded gravely.

“Or worse…out of a job,” said Tom. “Just consider for a moment what that would do to our ratings. None of us deserves to be killed by kindness. It’s inhumane.”

“But how are we supposed to hypnotize them?” Phillip asked. “Americans only watch 150 hours of television per month and our parent company only owns one network, sixty-five percent of the cable stations, eighteen newspapers and thirty-nine radio stations around the country.”

Tom savored another sip of his rum and Coke. His eyes began to glaze over and his cheeks reddened. The spirits he drank lifted his own and deepened his resolve to save Americans from dangerous propaganda. “From now until election day, I want the stations flooded with news stories of violence, thievery, mayhem. I don’t care if the breaking news of the day is about Angelina Jolie adopting the entire continent of Africa. By the time the story hits our airwaves there had better be sightings of her ducking gunfire on her way out of there.”

Phillip replied, “So you basically want us to copy Fox News?”

“No. I want our coverage to be worse than Fox News. And with the number of viewers we have, it’s only a matter of time before a steady diet of violence streaming across the airwaves hypnotizes viewers to our message.” Tom tapped his index finger into the table to further drive home his point. “I want us to make the reporters on Fox look like priests in a Catholic Church reading from the good book itself on the eve of Judgment Day.”

Artie sat, mouth slightly parted and heart racing at the prospect of Tom’s scheme. “I think this sounds like a brilliant idea,” Artie marveled. Out of the blue, Artie wondered who would win in a wrestling match between Pat Robertson and Joel Osteen. I never trusted that Osteen guy. A guy who smiles that much has got to be up to something. Artie did his best to clarify what Tom proposed. “If Americans can be hypnotized into understanding that being nice is a means of murder – which is punishable by the death penalty in many states - then maybe they’ll take a more responsible approach to life and not be nice to people, which will ensure a longer life for everybody.”

Tom smiled and bobbled his woozy head. “Like taking candy from a baby.”

“What about your sister, Cara?” Phillip asked, still skeptical. “How does she feel about Richard’s run for President?”

Tom groaned at the mention of his sister. “Cara doesn’t think about anything besides herself and those stupid movies she produces. I hear the latest one involves little blue men.”

“I hate to say it, Tom, but she’s equally as dangerous to America as your brother.” Phillip said. “Those movies coming out of Hollywood can be very influential.”

“Tell me about it. Did you see the one called Pay It Forward a few years back? Turned into a goddamned national phenomenon. People running around doing good things for strangers and expecting nothing in return,” he shook his head in disgust, “it’s un-American. Now,” Tom continued, his tongue becoming slow and heavy, “I want to talk about which reporter is going to go out and gather up some doom and gloom news stories so that we can begin hypnotizing Americans.”

“John Castelgood?” Artie suggested.

“No, he’s too – ” Tom tried to think of a good word to describe John Castelgood but since his language skills were beginning to escape him, he said the first word that came to mind, “short. I want a few special reports filed by the sexy one.” Tom snapped his fingers. “You know, the one with the boobs.”

In unison the two men answered, “Tami Weber.”

“Yes,” Tom’s eyes twinkled at the mention of the young journalist with the sexy British accent. “She’ll be perfect. It’s settled then.” Tom lifted his glass for a toast. “To America. May she never be killed by kindness.”

* * * *

On election night, Tom Shore sat behind the anchor desk and prepared to go live.

“Two minutes,” the floor director called.

He wiped the beads of sweat that had formed on his carefully plucked brow and re-read the utterly shocking copy before him. Surely the producer had gotten the numbers wrong…

“Ninety seconds.”

There weren’t enough words in his vocabulary to describe what was happening. It was a massive disaster of apocalyptic proportion.

With a shaking palm, Tom reached beneath his desk for the coffee mug that held the warm, relaxing recipe that normally enhanced his charm and gave him the confidence to navigate the program to the top spot every night.

Tonight, however, he needed the elixir just to get through the election night broadcast.

“Thirty seconds.”

“How’s my hair?” he asked testily.

The news director gave his hair two thumbs up.

“How’re my lips? Last night they looked a little chapped.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his favorite doomsday lipstick - Sand Storm #27 - and dotted his lips. It was the perfect color for delivering utterly depressing news.

“Five, four, three…”

Tom began the newscast with a quick reading of the day’s top new stories.

“Let’s turn now to Tami Weber who’s live at a local polling site, the Riverside Elementary School, in Oakland County. Tami, are the reports we’ve been hearing all day accurate as far as you can tell?”

“They are, indeed, Tom,” Tami reported. Her golden hair was cut into a take-me-seriously bob while her low cut, close-fitting top screamed take-me-now. “The national turnout at the polls are unlike anything we’ve ever seen in a national election. As you can see behind me,” the cameras panned the crowded gymnasium, “it is nothing but mayhem here. Constituents are turning out in droves to cast their votes today.”

“Is there any indication as to why voter turnout is so high this year? Was it just the interest in the issues?”

“We’re talking about Americans, Tom. They couldn’t care less about the issues. In a rare move by a major Hollywood studio, the new James Cameron film, Avatar II, was released at midnight. The highly anticipated film has been breaking box office records today and many people have played hooky from work in order to vote and then catch the movie. After the movie, there are Avatar-themed parties being thrown – for free ­- at multiple venues around the country for moviegoers. Voters who say they voted for Senator Shore and have their movie ticket stub are being allowed into the celebration. They’ve got free alcohol, the most divine hor d’eourves I’ve ever tasted and…wait for it…Guitar Hero, baby. Turns out, I’m awesome on guitar.”

This is the last America will ever see of those boobs, Tom seethed.

“And, full disclosure here Tom, your brother, Senator Richard Shore is a Presidential candidate and your sister, Cara Shore is the Executive Producer of Avatar II and both are hosting this event. You must be really proud of how nice they are!”

Tom struggled to maintain his authoritative disposition but his mild inebriation combined with the impending defeat of a humane civilization were getting the better of him.

“Tami, do you know if perhaps some people are lying just to get inside the party? Perhaps they didn’t actually vote for the senator or even see Avatar II for that matter.”

“Sorry, Tom. Poll numbers don’t lie. Unless you happened to be running in the 2000 election. The senator is ahead by a gazillion points, not to mention that no one who has seen Avatar would ever lie about such a thing. It’s just not the Pandora thing to do. Oh, and did I mention that moviegoers only have to pay for the movie once and then they can go back to the theater all day with their ticket stub and see the movie again for free? How nice is that, Tom?”

“It’s very nice and that’s precisely what’s wrong with America!” Tom exploded into the camera. He pounded his fists onto the desk and yelled, “Being nice is anti-capitalism, anti-conservative, and anti-American!”

Breathless, sweaty and with two hairs out of place, Tom Shore took a deep breath and coolly turned back to the camera.

“And we’ll be back, right after these messages.”

The End.