Author Tim Greaton’s latest short story and previous submission all in one place!


Tim Greaton has been promising me a longer short story to post on my blog for some time.  As some of you may know, he was the winner of last month’s writing contest. Now I finally have one from him to share with you and it is just as great as expected. The story will follow below. After that I will post additional comments showing his other tales which have been seen in previous posts. Hope you enjoy them as much I did. Tim is certainly one talented writer!

For the Deposit

The sky brightened as dawn broke through the dense trees that lined the Maine highway. Kate brushed away her tears and crawled up out of the ditch on Route 112. She took one last look down at the beautiful display of bouquets, photos and crosses that marked the site of her daughter’s last breath on this earth. Knowing people would see her, but unable to stop herself, she staggered backwards and fell to her knees beside her company van. Tears came from such a deep and pain-filled place that she couldn’t find a way to stop them. She couldn’t find a way to control the shudders that strafed across her body.
How could it have happened?
How was it possible that her little girl was gone?
Some indeterminate time later, Kate crawled back behind the wheel and somehow drove herself the last two miles to her bio-lab on Route 112 in Groacherville. Thankful that none of her employees had arrived yet, she went into the bathroom and attempted to make herself look as though she had slept more than an hour the night before. Every day it got harder to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes and the raw skin on her cheeks and nose where she habitually wiped away the tears every few minutes. Her heart was broken and she feared it would never heal again.
She ignored the case of Kool-Aid containers her ex-husband had left on her desk the previous afternoon and sank into her seat just as the phone rang. Glancing at the wall clock, which definitely said it was still only 6:15 in the morning, she reached for the handset and wondered why her phone didn’t have a caller ID display like the one on her assistant Gary’s phone.
“Good morning, this is Kate Heller.”
“Mrs. Heller, Detective Jack Benson of the Maine State Police.”
“I remember you, Detective.”
She paused, refusing to beg for information she felt the police owed her, information they had been withholding from her since the day her daughter’s body was found on the side of the road. Her hand went to her raw cheek.
“I wanted you to know that we have conclusively identified the beverage stains on your daughter’s clothing.”
Kate’s eyes shifted to the more than a dozen cans of Kool-Aid sitting on her desk. She remained silent.
“Our forensics lab has determined it to be vodka mixed with an artificially sweetened fruit drink. Was your daughter prone to drinking vodka with fruit punch?”
Kate gripped the phone and sat bolt upright.
“My daughter was seventeen years old, Detective. She wasn’t prone to drinking vodka mixed with anything. As you also know, the autopsy demonstrated that she had no alcohol in her system.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Heller. I know how difficult this must be for—”
“Detective, please stop.” Kate swallowed and tried to mentally calm the fury that seemed to have formed in equal parts with the grief in her stomach. “I appreciate the update, and I want you to know that you can call my office and leave a list of questions with my assistant Gary anytime you like. I will always make it a priority to get any answers back to you as quickly as possible.”
“Mrs. Heller—”
“Ms. Heller, Detective. It’s Ms. Heller. My ex-husband and I divorced nearly five years ago. A man so invested in details, I would expect that you long ago would have realized that.”
“I’m sorry Ms. Heller.”
Kate rubbed shaking hands across her eyes, fully aware that she was ruining whatever success she might have had with her makeup just a few minutes before.
“Detective, I’m tired, upset and not feeling particularly talkative. Is there any other information that you can share with me, or is there any other question or two that I could answer for you at this time?”
“Yes, Ma’am, there is. Do you know what brand of vodka your ex-husband drinks?”
“He doesn’t drink anymore, not since about a year after we broke up.”
“But if he did…I mean what brand did he used to—“
“Don’s drinking again!” Kate said, suddenly realizing that the detective knew something she didn’t. How else could he have known that Don drank vodka unless he smelled it on his breath? Being an attorney, Don never would have discussed his past drinking, not without a court order.
“My partner thinks so,” Detective Benson said.
“He drank Absolut.”
“No other brand…not something more expensive?”
“Don’s a lot of things, Detective, but he was never one to waste money. What are you getting at?”
“Our lab results suggest the vodka on your daughter’s clothing might have been a brand called Diva.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Probably because you’re a sensible person. Most of the Diva vodkas start at about six thousand dollars a bottle. Did your daughter have any friends that might have had access to liquor that expensive or the money to buy it?”
Kate almost dropped the phone.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Detective.”
“Maybe if we could get a second list of your daughter’s friends—”
“Please call Gary at my office with a list of any more questions you may have,” Kate said. “I’ll make sure that they are taken care of.”
“But, Mrs., I mean Ms.—“
“I’m sorry, Detective, but this is not a good time.”
She hung up the phone and pressed her trembling hands to her head. She was filled with equal parts rage and disgust. It made her flesh crawl just to think about it. Knowing what she had to do, she raced out of her office and spun the tires on the company van as she slewed out into the street.

Terrible thoughts filled her mind, which made it difficult to concentrate on the road. She remembered very little about her five-plus mile drive to her ex-husband’s house, the home where they brought their daughter up together. His Volvo was still parked in the driveway when she swerved off the street and slammed into it.
“Jesus, Kate,” Don said as he came rushing out the door dressed in slacks and a tie but with only one shoe on. She staggered up the walkway and nearly tripped going up the three front steps.
“Carrie loved Lady Godfree-Godfell—“
“Lady Gaga,” Don said, pulling her inside. “You look like hell, Kate, and you hit my car.”
Suddenly, Kate looked up and realized her ex-husband’s pale complexion and dark rings almost made her look healthy. Though they hadn’t made the best couple, they had loved their daughter equally. His eyes were bloodshot but she didn’t smell any alcohol. He led her inside and pushed her gently into one of his hard oak kitchen chairs then sat beside her.
“I want to help, Kate,” he said. “That’s why I spent the afternoon buying every flavor of Kool-Aid that I could find. But since you’re babbling about a pop singer, I’m guessing you haven’t done any lab work on the Kool-Aid yet.”
“You defended my Uncle Bryce that time.”
“Don’t remind me,” Don said. He ran a hand through hair that had grayed considerably since their divorce. “I still can’t believe the jury bought that crap about rumors of other sex offenders enticing kids with tickets.”
“Didn’t my uncle get a settlement for an accident a year or two ago?”
“I heard he did but no one at my firm would have touched that case, not after he mailed me the Miley Cyrus tickets with smiley face note. Why do you ask?”
“I think the money from the settlement helped him to lure Carrie into some car. I think it was him and that pervert friend of his.”
Don’s expression hardened.
Kate said, “I just heard from the state police that they think the vodka on her clothes cost over six thousand dollars a bottle…the kind of thing a celebrity would drink.”
“And you think—”
“Most of the girls these days know all about expensive shoes, jewelry. Carrie could recognize a knock-off Coach or Gauche handbag from across a parking lot.”
“And you think she knew about expensive vodka?”
“What if someone was waiting for her after dance class? What if a limousine or some other fancy car pulled up and convinced her Lady Gaga wanted to meet her? If she saw the expensive vodka label, she might have believed…”
Don got up, turned on the kitchen sink and splashed water on his face.
“And you think Bryce did it the way he attracted those kids into his car with backstage tickets to see Miley Cyrus?”
“My uncle Bryce needed to pay for what he did to our daughter…and those other kids.”
They could hear sirens approaching.
“Sounds like Mrs. Swench didn’t waste any time,” Don said.
“She always was a busybody,” Kate said with a wan smile.
“I still don’t get it,” Don said. “What did you gain by smashing into my Volvo?”
“I wanted to make sure my attorney was present when the police arrested me for murder.”
“Murder—”
“I hit him over the head with the empty bottle of Diva I found on his counter. He must have been saving it for the deposit.”

——————————————–

For anyone who would like to know more about Tim Greaton and his published works, you may visit his site here.  He is best known for his book “The Santa Shop“.

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~ by Suzie on July 26, 2011.

9 Responses to “Author Tim Greaton’s latest short story and previous submission all in one place!”

  1. THE SHAFT
    by Tim Greaton

    I fell at least thirty feet.
    It’s hard to tell exactly how deep this shaft is, but that’s my best guess. I mean, a man couldn’t survive a longer drop. Could he?
    A furry limb brushes against my cheek. I don’t bother to push him away. I call him Harry—no pun intended. It’s like we’re friends now. I think he’s been hurt, too.
    I pull the new piece of webbing from my face. It’s a thick, sticky string. I roll it up between my palms. It reminds me of Mr. Salbury’s class where Eric and I used to roll up balls of masking tape and throw them at each other whenever he wasn’t looking. That was fifteen years ago. I toss the web roll against the stone wall beside the others. How much longer can Harry keep making this stuff?
    I didn’t know they came this big…spiders, I mean. I had to pull Harry out from under me after the fall. He must weigh five, six pounds.
    I hear him move down toward my legs.
    I’m a little hungry, but mostly thirsty. A soda would sure go good. My leg hurts.
    It’s pitch black here, blacker than I’ve ever seen. Many times, when I was a child, I thought I was in the dark. Now I realize I wasn’t. When I hid in closets, light always seeped in through the cracks around the door. And those times me and the other kids held séances in the basement, light always made its way through the makeshift drapes we stapled over the squat windows. But the bottom of this shaft is truly dark. This blackness doesn’t even carry the memory of light.
    I knew my leg was broken in several places by the way my right sneaker was pressing against my left ear when I came to. I must have passed out a dozen times before I was finally able to push the shattered limb back where it belongs. Still crooked, but….

    I struggle to a sitting position. I’m really hungry now and I’d die for a drink. Harry and I are friends, but I think he knows what I’m thinking; he doesn’t come near my upper body any more.
    He’s done a good job with my leg, though. Wrapped it real good. It hardly hurts at all. I’ve been pulling off any webbing higher than my upper thigh. I think the lower part is completely cocooned now.
    When we get out of here, I’m going to put Harry through medical school. He’ll like that.
    Chuckle.
    I don’t expect anyone will find me here. I came alone. Me and Julie had a fight just before, so I didn’t tell her where I was going. Hell, I didn’t even know myself. Just grabbed the flashlight and started walking.
    I used to come into these caves a lot when I was a kid—
    I feel a sharp pain in my right shin.
    “Cut it out, Harry!” I shout. Echoes of my croak fill the cool, stale air. “Be careful, will you? You’ve got the worst bedside manner I’ve ever seen.”
    Chuckle.
    It’s been over forty years since they stopped mining here. I heard there never was much gold anyway, just enough to tease old man Winters into bankruptcy. No one else was stupid enough to pick up where he left off. Been abandoned ever since.
    I don’t feel much now, just the chills that occasionally sweep like a Canadian wind up and down my spine. It’s as though my nerve endings finally gave up, excepting only the sporadic checks to make sure I’m not dead yet. It’s just a matter of time….

    Too tired to sit anymore, I’m lying with my head propped on a rounded stone. A few jagged shards of rock poke at my back, but they don’t bother me now. Funny, how a person can get used to things. Another pain shoots through my leg.
    I kick Harry.
    He was attempting to wrap my left leg at the time. It’s not that I mind. I know he needs the practice for med school, but….

    I only take two of his legs this time.
    He crawls away.
    I think he’s mad.
    Seems fair to me. After all, I did give him one leg and mine are bigger. I suck the juice from the furry limbs then chew through the fur to get at the stringy flesh. Reminds me of the frog legs we used to eat at Range Pond Camp Ground. We never had frogs this big, though.
    With food in my stomach I drift off to sleep, barely noticing as Harry again begins work on my left leg….

    I hold the rock tightly in my right hand. I rub my chin with the other and feel the stubble has turned to almost a beard. I wish I could get at my comb to run through it, but Harry’s got me webbed just above the waist.
    He’ll definitely be a credit to the medical profession: pain in my leg’s completely gone.
    I hear him sliding across the floor. Now that four of his legs are missing, it’s much easier to hear him. He’s real careful not to come too close to my arms.
    Suddenly, I pitch the rock.
    A satisfying thump announces my success. Everything from my waist down is wooden. It takes me the longest time to maneuver my body close enough to grab him.
    A tear runs down my cheek as I rip two more legs from his plump body. I’m worried that I hurt him with the rock.
    After I’ve eaten, I hug his body and fall into a deep sleep….

    My right arm is still free. In my hand I hold a small round stone. I promised Harry I wouldn’t hit him with a big one again.
    I listen carefully for any sound of movement. Harry’s having a tough time getting around, only one leg and all. I don’t know how he’s going to make out when I take the last one. It’s only fair, though.
    I hear him scurry. My rock flies….

    I hug Harry tight, a furry ball against my cheek. He’s shivering. I don’t think he’ll make it much longer. I feel pincers breaking the skin on my neck as I drift into the land of dreams.

    THE END

  2. Once Upon a Stradivarius
    by Tim Greaton

    Tom cradled the violin gently in his lap and traced the ancient tailpiece with one finger while staring out at the pond. A red-haired girl, maybe about twelve, ran past and sent a tiny frog leaping from the shore to the safety of deep water. Tom watched the little creature, barely out of its pollywog phase, and envied that it was just beginning its life.
    Ignoring the pain in his arthritic wrist, he stroked the instrument that he had carried with him since joining the Boston Symphony Orchestra nearly fifty years before.
    “We’ve been through a lot together,” he whispered.
    He had decided to become a classical musician in junior high, a time when neither of his parents believed he would take it seriously. Tom smiled at the memory of that first violin which, no matter how many times it was tuned, always skewed the C low. By high school, his parents had finally realized how serious he was and had purchased a custom violin from the music store on 5th Street.
    Tom leaned down to pick up a poorly aimed Frisbee but decided his back was sore enough already. Besides, his swollen wrist probably couldn’t have thrown it more than a few feet.
    The young frog watched with curious yellow eyes as Tom instinctively protected the violin when a boy in a red tee shirt gave him a weird look before grabbing his Frisbee and running off.
    Julliard had been an amazing experience. Neither Tom nor his parents had expected him to be the top student, not just of his class but of the entire decade. He remembered the trophy and wondered if he could even find it in his dusty attic. It was also at Julliard that his parents had somehow scraped up enough money to purchase a beautiful instrument with a gleaming black body that could sing almost as well as his Stradivarius. If only he had learned martial arts a few years earlier, he might not have had to smash that Strad-copy over the head of a hoodlum while walking home one night.
    Flexing his arthritic hands, he wondered how much good his black belt in Ninjutsu would do him now. In the twilight of his years, it almost didn’t seem to matter.
    He closed his eyes and ran his thumbnail across the violin strings. The notes were as clear and beautiful as they had been that first week at The Symphony. He could still hear the raucous clapping as the audience rose to its feet to watch him perform a Bheethovenic solo…while also playing the harmonica. Even the conductor had stopped to watch—
    “What are you doing, Tom?”
    Tom opened his eyes to see a skinny blond boy with severe acne approaching.
    “I told you to leave it alone!” The blond boy snatched up the violin and stuffed it into the cloth case beside the bench.
    “That’s no way to talk to Boston’s finest violiner,” Tom said.
    “We’re called violinists not violiners, you idiot,” the boy quipped. “And if you touch this again I’m going to tell your mom. “
    “No respect for your elders,” Tom announced getting to his feet. His aches and pains were suddenly fading away.
    “The bell just rang,” the blond boy said.
    Knowing he’d already been late twice this quarter, Tom raced toward homeroom. Along the way, he scooped up a rolling basketball and tossed it…to a past teammate who had been kicked out of the NBA for drinking too much Red Bull.
    “Lebron called last night,” Tom said. “He’s refusing to play unless I sign on with his team.”

  3. Violin Intentions
    by Tim Greaton

    “I’m tellin’ yer, Joe,” Betty said, “my frog was the only reason my daddy stopped touching me. Sure, I was a little bitty thing back then, but I know’d what I seen.”

    The bartender continued washing the few glasses left over from the eleven o’clock rush. Everyone had already gone home for the night. Betty was holding out surprisingly well. A couple of weeks before, she had become a regular who usually had to be walked outside and propped against the building at closing time. He glanced down her low-cut dress, becoming more convinced he could look past her age this once. She was his “type” in most other ways, including that no one would likely miss her if she vanished.

    He liked that kind…a lot.

    Betty slammed her empty glass on the wood counter.

    “Sure could use more o’ that rotgut!”

    At one of the only two occupied tables, a middle-aged man wearing a dark blue sports jacket sat next to a woman wearing a man catcher. The tiny red dress hugged every curve, even the ones brought on by too much beer and pretzels. As the man continued to make small talk, Joe wondered why he felt the need to wine and dine a women he ultimately had to pay anyway.

    Joe poured Betty another drink.

    “So my daddy never violined me again,” Betty finished.

    “You mean violated?” Joe asked, peering down her dress again.

    “Yep, that’s what I meaned,” Betty agreed.

    Joe was silent. What did he care if her father diddled her?

    As usual, she held her drink just below the counter, almost as though she liked the feel of ice against her thigh. Joe could think of something else she might like against her thigh.

    “Little girl’s room!” Betty announced, sliding her empty glass on the counter. “Another one, Joe.”

    She tilted as she walked, almost as though her purse were filled with bricks. He couldn’t help noticing that beneath her stained and baggy jeans was a glorious slender frame. Hunger did make women enticing, he thought. He’d seen it dozens, if not hundreds, of times.

    He missed being overseas. The women surrounding U.S. military bases were amazing. And it helped that most were afraid to talk afterwards.

    Joe placed another clean glass on the shelf under the counter.

    Screw them, he thought. It was their loss when they kicked him out.

    Betty returned walking a little straighter, but her eyes were still glazed.

    Joe glanced at the clock: only ten minutes to one. He’d decided it was time Betty had a roof over her head, at least for part of the night. After everyone else was gone, he escorted her to his car then locked the place up. She snuggled up to him as they drove the half-hour to his storage unit.

    “Nice place you got,” she mumbled as they parked in the dark alley and he rolled the door up.

    He flipped the battery lantern on before throwing her onto the blood-stained mattress. He’d been meaning to replace it.

    “I thought you might be the one,” she said, pulling a large water bottle from her purse and emptying the liquid onto the mattress and floor.

    Bourbon?

    She smiled. “Never was much fer drinkin’”

    He tried to kick her, but she suddenly seemed much younger and rolled lithely away. Something flashed and sliced across his chest and hand. She held up a long knife with a silver frog on the handle.

    “I’m not going to be violined again,” she said.

    “I don’t….”

    “Even homeless women’s got friends.”

    The frog went to work.

  4. Violin and the Frog Motion
    by Tim Greaton

    Scott got the call Friday afternoon. He’d been on his way to inspect a Ferris wheel at Michigan’s most notorious theme park. Everyone knew that if the Britwell family didn’t do a better job maintaining their equipment, the state safety commission would soon be shutting them down. But, until then, their little slice of consumer danger was one more piece of machinery in Scott’s job security.

    Scott tried not to let his irritation show as his cell phone went to voice mail twice before he could pull into a rest area. His job had already been threatened once when the dash camera caught him on the phone while driving. He pulled all the way into a parking space and ignored the woman in a white Volkswagen bug that called him a “Jerk!” as she pulled out of the neighboring space.

    Scott glanced down at his phone and froze.

    “Violin,” he whispered.

    Hands trembling, he punched redial.

    “California State Police, Detective Stedman,” a deep-voiced woman said.

    “I’m returning a call.”

    “Mr. Castinada,” she said.

    “I go by the name Gobeil now,” he told her.

    “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “I knew your father, and for what it’s worth what happened wasn’t right.”

    Scott didn’t respond.

    “I’m sorry to say that we found your sister’s remains late yesterday.”

    “Violin,” Scott whispered. He’d always known this day would come, but somehow knowing didn’t make it any easier. He fought back the tears. Violet Anne Castinada had disappeared when she was sixteen. He had been just six. His baby name for her had become her family nickname.

    “You’re sure?” Scott said.

    “I’m afraid so. We’ve matched her dental records, so the DNA profile is only a technicality.”

    “Could I ask where?”

    He almost added “if I promise not to kill anyone,” but after what had happened with his father the comment probably wouldn’t have been welcome.

    “Your father was right,” the detective said softly. “She was buried under the mayor’s front porch. A contractor discovered her when the stairs started to settle.”

    Scott pounded the steering wheel, caught site of the dash camera and ripped it away. Two torn wires draped across the dashboard as he pitched the invasive machine behind the seat. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

    “Mr. Gobeil?”

    “It’s Castinada,” he said.

    “Will your attorney claim the body?”

    “Never mind,” Scott told her. “I’m flying home today.”

    Jonathan Bristol, his father’s attorney, was a thin man in his sixties with brilliant white hair. His suit probably cost more than everything Scott owned combined. He sat behind a black walnut desk bare except for a few documents.

    “I’ve filed what we call a frog motion,” he said, “to jump your asset case onto the fast track. The mayor’s family won’t have a leg to stand on with this new evidence.”

    “But my dad killed him,” Scott whispered.

    “Yes, but no jury would award damages knowing the mayor kidnaped and killed Violet. You should get back…,” He picked up one of the documents, “almost two million dollars after interest and proceeds from the Pasadena house.”

    “I don’t care.”

    “You don’t what?”

    “I don’t care. Your frog motion won’t bring my sister back or reverse the death of my father in prison. And it sure as hell won’t change your affair with my mother that let you milk her out of the only money safe from the lawsuit. She died broke in a nursing home because of you.”

    Scott pulled the pistol out of his pocket and fired twice.

    “Scott Castinada,” he said, “Violin’s brother…and my father’s son.”

  5. The Blue Porkasis
    by Tim Greaton

    (an 800-word flash fiction story from the Zachary Pill universe)

    from “Maine’s Other Author”(TM) Tim Greaton

    “This ain’t gonna work, Vargus,” the embarrassed imp said as he flew behind his two friends. He was having a difficult time seeing out of his face mask and his wings were chafing at the edges of the fat suit they had squeezed him into. “Who ever heard of a blue porkasis?”

    Though none of them had ever actually seen one of the famed flying pigs, everyone knew his Lordship Ker Sevikrage kept several of the talking creatures as pets…until he ate them. Grogen shuddered that someone might actually try to eat him. He vowed to ear-flame the first creature to come at him with a fork.

    “That’s why it’s going to work,” Varga assured him, her voice surprisingly deep and raspy for an imp not yet past her seventy-fifth birthday. “When we present a rare, blue porkasis, the guards will have to take us inside the castle.”

    “They’ll have Grogen for lunch,” Snork quipped. Though larger than his two friends, Snork had been declawed at a young age. But he made up for it with his sharp tongue.

    The three imps had been flying low to the purple and green tree tops but suddenly found themselves in the open air above a small castle. Grogen immediately sensed the magical nostril tunnels inside the guarded walls. Those tunnels were their way off-world…but only if everything went according to plan.

    Fat blue chance!

    Grogen didn’t see how anyone would believe he was a blue porkasis. But if they did, he had no intention of becoming someone’s dinner! He gagged as Varga dragged him down into the courtyard.

    “Keep fluttering,” she whispered, even as her own clawed red feet settled onto the lush green grass.
    Without claws that were almost necessary for landing, Snork nearly knocked her over.

    They had no more than touched their feet to the grass when a towering gray creature stomped across the moat bridge to challenge them. He was covered in metal armor and a helmet with four protruding spikes. Any one of the imps could have fit inside the enormous creature’s shoe.

    “What come you for?” the stupid creature asked, staring down at them. The deadly rows of teeth that split its thin gray lips suggested intelligence wasn’t required for guarding castles.

    “We brought this,” Varga said loudly. She yanked on Grogen’s leash.

    He gagged but managed to stay aloft at about the height of the creature’s shin.

    “It’s a rare blue porkasis,” she continued.

    “Flying Porks not blue,” the orc spat. Its eyes narrowed as it leaned down.

    Grogen prayed the onions Varga had mixed with his blue dye would work.

    The orc took a deep wiff and might have sucked Grogen upward if Varga hadn’t been holding tightly to his leash.

    “Me smell stew,” the orc said.

    “Onions,” Varga corrected. “Blue porkasi eat lots of onions.”

    The orc didn’t look convinced but turned and started back toward the castle.

    “Come you,” the creature boomed. ”You show Krage Lady. Then maybe orc stew.”

    Grogen panicked and struggled to get away. His wings flapped wildly.

    “Stop it,” Varga hissed. Flames shot out her ears.

    Grogen didn’t care. Obviously the orc had its next meal planned and blue onion imp was on the menu.
    He tried to free himself from the leash but the fat suit was too tight and his hands were stuck inside the hoof-shaped gloves. Obviously, what Varga said was lotion was actually glue. What kind of mess had the she-imp gotten him into?

    Suddenly, he remembered various events from their past, like the way she had once tricked him into eating goblin dung. And then the time she had tied him to a baby dragon’s tail while he slept. Only luck and a well-positioned ear flame had gotten him out of that mess.

    I knew I couldn’t trust her!

    “Come on, Grogen,” she hissed and yanked again.

    He bared his teeth but realized the face mask hid his expression. Defeated, he allowed her to pull him along like a child’s kite.

    “Orc stew,” Snork whispered then grinned and moved up to walk beside Varga.

    Seventy-two years old and this is the best I could do for friends. I deserve to die.

    The castle seemed much larger inside then out. The orc lead them down several wide stone hallways to an immense room filled with colorful wall tapestries. An old Pandemone woman dressed in red silk sat on a throne against one wall. A black cat in her lap hissed at them. She stroked its head.

    “What have we here,” she said.

    “I present you a rare—“

    “Shhh, shhh,” the woman said holding up a hand heavily adorned with rings and bracelets.

    “Jasper, please throw these three imps into the dungeons until their master can retrieve them. It’s the blue porkasis scam again.”

    The End

  6. Hey Tim,

    Just read For the Deposit. It’s impressive how you possess the ability to create a complete, exciting story in so few words. I felt a full range of feelings while reading this short story and must commend you. I really enjoyed it. Thank you!

  7. Hi Tim,

    I really love the latest short story, For The Deposit. I could feel the mother’s emotion. I couldn’t understand her hesitancy in answering the questions until the end. Great job, Tim.

    I also like The Shaft. It sort of had a Edgar Allen Poe feel to it.

    You have a way of presenting things and keeping the readers attention. I’m proud to know you. I’m a better writer in some ways from knowing you because you challenge me to do and be better.

    Lynn

  8. Thanks, IG. I think Mistress has a great group of writers surrounding her, and it’s really wonderful to be welcomed into the fold with all of you.

    Lynn, rest assured I am the one that feels honored to know you. There is no better feeling than knowing you are among friends…and it’s a plus that they are all such talented friends 🙂

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