Too Much Gas

    By Christine L Golden

    There was a time in Charles's life that expelling gas was both interesting and humorous.  For example when he was a young man he could release a little old SBD in class and then look around and pretend to be horribly offended like everybody else.  As a teenager he would be off with his friends and could actually carefully ignite his flatus with a match and cause a flame to shoot forth, impressing everyone.  Something only professionals and those living near hospitals  and firehouses should attempt.

    Many, many years had long since passed (no pun intended, ok, yes, there was) since this had been the case, however. Charlie had never married.  His job had consumed his youth and his odiferous past was something that he and his friends could laugh about at infrequent get-together's.

    As he got older, the occurrence of these events and even the horrendous odors that would accompany such bouts of intestinal disturbances grew more frequent, and less controllable.

    He attempted to keep a diary of the foods he consumed and the liquids that he drank in a sincere effort to determine if there was some horribly related connection between what went in and what came out.  Diet sodas were a definite no-no as they did seem to wreak havoc upon his digestive tract, so he carefully avoided carbonated beverages.  Cheese was also a viscous culprit, so he ate it only just before bedtime, when he could enjoy the results alone.

    "Let's go out to lunch today, Charlie."  Jimmy, his best friend since forever, suggested.  "We haven't gone to that great little Mexican place in ages."

    Charlie thought about the last time that he had gone to Los Buenos's and the terrible looks he got from those poor, poor people who sat around them and shook his head sadly.  "You know I just can't take the combination of beans and cheese anymore, Jimmy.  I'm not the eating machine I used to be."

    "We'll do an early lunch, sit in the smoking section.  No one will even notice if you, let loose a little."  Jimmy teased.  Good old Jimmy.  He couldn't smell a skunk if it sat on his head.  He had this terrible sinus condition that pretty much knocked out the whole olfactory thing, so Charles could blast away and it never even fazed his friend.

    "They don't have any smoking sections in restaurants any more, so that won't help."  Charlie shook his head.  "We could do take out, if you want."

    Jimmy persisted.  He had a nephew who worked at a pharmaceuticals company and they had a new experimental drug out that was supposed to blow the competition away.  He managed to talk the nephew out of a few of the pills, even though they had not yet been tested on anything other than white mice and a couple of monkeys.  He handed the pills to Charlie, telling him that all his problems were a thing of the past.

    “Not the nephew that also gave you the samples of hair crème that made large patches of hair fall out?  I wore a hat for six months after that fiasco.”  Charlie accepted the pills anyway.

    “Hey, they now use that stuff to remove unwanted hair.  They made a fortune on that crème.”  Jimmy sounded wounded.

    "Not a good idea, I'm warning you."  Charlie tried to explain.

    "Ok, then let's go to Jo Jo's.  It even has outdoor seating so you can rip one anytime you want and not a soul will be the wiser.  There's a lot of traffic too, so it should help cover some of the sound effects of your little problem."  Jimmy might not be able to smell, but he wasn’t completely deaf.

    Charlie relented, only because he thought ‘what harm could it do?’'    Because of the location of the  eating establishment, which happened to be next to an adult book store, Jimmy could even smoke if he wanted.   Charlie had the pills as a bonus, although he had tried Beano in the past with less than desired results.  But Jimmy’s nephew was smart, even if he did have a little tough luck with the white mice after the crème experiment… two generations of them were born completely hairless.

    The two friends arrived at Jo Jo’s just in time to beat the lunch crowd.  In spite of, or maybe even due to the fact that it was so conveniently located next to the adult book store, construction workers and business suits alike came to eat at Jo Jo's on a regular basis.

    The rather wide sidewalk was littered with tables, placed so closely together that the waitress at any given time bumped into any one of the diners.  Charlie and Jimmy sat at the last table on the edge of the seating area, nearest the alley and the outside access to the restroom.

    "So what you gonna get to eat, Chucky?"  Jimmy looked over the menu with relish.  It had been a while since the two good friends had been out for meal together.  "They got really great chili dogs here.  They smother them in onions, and they're loaded with beans and spices."

    "Oh, I don't know Jimmy."  Charles was remembering the last time the two of them had been out.  The manager had not even let them pay for their meals.  He put the whole order, with extra's, in a to go box and had a pimply faced bus boy help them out of the place.

    "We're outside, for Pete's sake.  Go for the gusto.  You only live once.  Grab the bull by the horns."  Jimmy started to say even more silly slogans, but Charles held up his hand.  "Just do it."  Jimmy added quickly.

    "Ok. Ok.  But I warned you, remember." Still Charlie felt relatively safe.  They were outdoors and there was a gentle breeze blowing.  He took the pills Jimmy gave him while wondering how many he should have taken, and looked over the menu.

   Charlie ordered the chili dog with extra onions and cheese.  He got a side order of Cole slaw and a giant root beer.  He even ordered a scoop of ice cream to go on top of the root beer...ice cream; he hadn't tasted it in ages.  Always a bit on the lactose intolerant side, he usually avoided it.

    "That was great." His meal eaten,Jimmy pushed away his plate and patted his belly.  Due to his failed sense of smell, he could barely taste food, in fact, unless it was especially spicy, he could not taste it at all.  It was only because he loved flirting with waitresses of all ages that he even wanted to go out to eat all the time.  To Jimmy, it all tasted pretty much the same.

    "Yes, yes it was."  Charlie smiled.  He could not remember the last time he had eaten all these forbidden foods, much less all together.  He barely noticed the slight rumble in his lower section.

    "How about dessert, boys?" The waitress came, eyed their empty plates and filled their water glasses, then gave Jimmy a big wink.  "We have homemade pies.  Cherry, apple, sweet potato."

    Despite the little voice in the back of his head that cried out NO, Charlie ordered sweet potato pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

    Jimmy just sipped on lemon water and tried to peek through the tinted windows of the nearby book store.  "Mind if I smoke?"  He asked his friend, and of course Charles shook his head. 

    Then, just as the pie made it out to the table, the really strong rumbling began. Charlie belched rather loudly and grinned sheepishly at the other patrons who glanced over at the thunderous sound.  ‘I feel better now’ he thought, ‘maybe the pills are working.’  Charlie ate the pie, ice cream and all.

    Within minutes of consuming the final bite the rumbling resumed, slowly at first.

    First he felt a small bit of flatus escape, in spite of the firm grip that he believed he held.  It was a quiet one and no one seemed to notice at first.

    "Hey Martha."  A baritone voice called out to the waitress.  "Don't you guys ever empty the trash around here?"

    "Why Phil?  You looking for seconds?"  She shot back and several customers laughed, including Phil.

    Then a bus backfired as it pulled out in front of a cab, the cab driver pressed on the horn long and hard.  Charlie chose this moment to let a bit more flatus escape.

    "Damn, what kind of fuel are they putting in those buses nowadays?  Pig sh--” Someone loudly complained.

    "Watch your mouth, Pete.  Martha's a lady. Less you want I should teach you some manners?"  One of the construction workers seated farthest from Jimmy and Charles yelled out.

     The wind picked up and several customers began to frown and look around uncomfortably.  Even Martha wrinkled up her nose in concern.  Jimmy just kept smoking his old cigar and never said a word.  Charlie, however, rubbed his stomach gently, feeling the urge to let another little bit of gas out and relieve the pressure that was building up.

    "Hey buddy."  Someone called out to Jimmy.  "You mind puttin' that thing out.  It really stinks."

    Jimmy just smiled, took one last puff and dropped the smoking cigar into his water glass.

    "Thanks."  Several customers waved at him.

    Poor Charlie just shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  He dared not get up and try to walk to the bathroom, just in case someone bumped into him and caused him to lose his delicate control.  Besides, he wasn't sure he could walk and squeeze at the same time.  Better to just try and sit this one out.

    A dog strutted out of the alley, dragging something along and passed several of the tables near the them.  Charlie lifted one cheek nearest the wall and let a long flow of silent gas ease out.

    "Good golly.  Somebody get that dog out of here. What's he dragging along, used toilet paper?  Martha, hey Martha."  It was Phil again, a pained look on his face.  "Make mine to go. And hurry."

    Down the street, some construction workers resumed their noisy repair of a section of roadway.  The steady sound of a jackhammer gave Charlie a much needed excuse to release more of the uncomfortable pressure.

    "Man.  Did they hit a sewer pipe down there?"  Several people jumped up and tossed down their money, rushing off in the opposite direction of the construction work and right past poor old Charlie and Jimmy.

    Martha approached the two men and placed their ticket on the table. "Excuse me boys, I'll be right back."  A pained expression covered her face as she pulled her apron up towards her nose.

    "My treat."  Jimmy picked up the ticket, looked at it, added a hefty tip to the total and then waved at Martha who stood by the doorway of Jo Jo's, fanning her face with a menu.

    "Just lay it on the table fellas."  She called out, none the wiser, but still very disturbed over the increasingly foul smell that seemed to penetrate the area.

    Charlie stood up, taking the opportunity to let the metal legs of his chair scrape noisily, trying to cover the sound of the last bit of painful flatulence that remained from the forbidden meal.

  Unfortunately the gentleman sitting next to Charlie took that inopportune moment to light a cigarette.

    Neither Charlie nor Jimmy noticed as the man’s toupee burst into flames. The few remaining customers ran horrified to the assistance of the victim, in spite of the pungent fumes that were present… which they blamed on the cheap toupee.

    "See, I told you eating outdoors was a good idea,” Jimmy grinned as they walked down the crowded sidewalk back to the Senior Citizen Center to play a game of Bingo.

   

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The Right Numbers

C L Golden

    Andy Hackensladt was a born gambler and a born again loser.  He never had an honest job in his life.  Not that Andy didn’t work.  He actually worked very hard at keeping a not so steady, unreliable, reputation…just like his natural father-who he never met- and all his still barely living uncles, as his now deceased mother had always told him.

    Born with a quick wit, but only so-so looks, he relied on his conversational skills to charm and woo not only women but anyone who had ears.  He could talk a good game and many times could convince someone to give him their last dime, just so he would have enough cash to buy a pack of cigarettes.  He loved cheap booze, cheap cigars and even cheaper broads.  He also loved any game of chance.  Cards, horses, dogs and even the lottery, as long as it did not involve physical labor on his part, he was up for it.

    “I’ll take Lucky Seven in the fifth,” Andy placed a wad of wrinkled bills on the counter at the race track   He was a regular there and all the staff there knew him as Dandy Andy or Andy the Hack.  When he lost he was down and out, prone to whine and cry at the bar until the bartender felt sorry for him, or just wanted to get rid of him and gave him a couple of free drinks.  When he won he hung out at the bar buying drinks for everyone until he was again broke.

    “The odds are fifteen to one on Spotted Demon, only four to one on Lucky Seven.”  Sam Pebbles, another regular at the track, informed Andy as he watched him slam his fistful of wrinkled and wadded bills on the counter.

    “Fifteen is five and ten, which added together, makes six.”  Andy turned around and told Sam with a look that implied Sam was an idiot.  “Everyone knows six is a bad number.”

    “Bad for who, Andy?”  Sam grinned, “Any number you pick is gonna lose.  That’s why I never bet on anything you do.”

    “We’ll see who’s smiling when Lucky Seven crosses the finish line.”  Andy dug in his pocket and pulled out two more balled up bills, “put it all on Lucky.”

    “You sure Andy?”  Pete, a clerk at the track waited a moment before picking up the two extra bills.  “Here’s your ticket.  Good luck ,” he managed a crooked grin as he pushed the paper across the scarred counter.

    “Awww, Pete,” Andy slowly reached for the offered ticket. “You know its bad luck to wish someone good luck, I told you that.”  His voice was filled with pain and anxiety.

    “Last week you said...”  Pete started to say, then stopped and shrugged his shoulders.  “Whatever you say man.  What’s your bet Sam?”  Andy had stepped to the side to let Sam place his bet, noticing the bulging wallet in his friends hand.

   “Buy you a drink when I win?”  Andy patted Sam on the shoulder.

    “How about I buy you dinner when I win?”  Sam put his ticket in his shirt pocket and headed towards the bar, preferring to watch the races on the TV there.

    “Eating’s overrated,” Andy laughed and followed Sam into the bar.

    “Two suds over here, Murray.”  Sam called out to the bartender, who was already preparing the drinks when he saw the two men walk in together. 

    Bringing the mugs to the table, Murray indicated someone sitting alone in a booth near the bathroom door.  “See that guy over there?”  The two men nodded after taking a brief glance at the dark figure.  “He’s been here all day.  Ain't moved from that spot since he got here.”

    Andy took a long sip from his beer and looked over at the man, then the TV, then the man again.  “It’s a bar.  People like bars.  People like beer.”  He grinned at Murray and Sam, showing tobacco stained teeth that resembled a fence in need of repair, missing slats and all. Hygiene of any sort was not always high on Andy’s list of priorities.

    “Hey, the race is starting,” Sam pointed to the TV screen in the almost empty bar.

    “Looks like you’ll be owing me an apology.”  Andy slurped his drink and watched Lucky Seven as he ran at the head of the group, leading by more than a length…until the final stretch.

  “And the winner by a nose….Spotted Demon.”   the screen announced.  The bar was silent.

    “Bring us another beer,” Sam waved at Murray and avoided looking at Andy.  “It was close, it sure was close.”  His tone indicated remorse for his companion.  He laid a ten on the table and stood to leave, “I gotta go, Andy.”

    “You just ordered a beer,” Andy protested briefly as he pulled the beers over to his side of the table.  “And you promised to buy me dinner,” he wiped foam from his upper lip with his stained coat sleeve.

  Sam tossed another ten on the table, “Buy yourself a burger at Jake’s.”  Jake’s was a fast food joint near the hotel that Andy called home.  “I gotta get back to work.”  Sam sold shoes at the Payless just a few blocks from the track and spent his lunch supplementing his income by betting against Andy.  He more than tripled his income this past year alone.

     Andy downed the remaining beer then stood and headed to the bathroom.  As he passed the man sitting in the booth, he got a strange feeling, a sort of premonition, that this person was important.  On his return from the john, he sat down in the booth with the stranger.

    “Excuse me sir,” Andy held out his hand, which the man ignored. “I noticed you sitting here alone.  No body should drink alone.”  He gave a strained laugh. “Mind if I sit down?”

    The man was bent over a pile of papers, writing numbers with a frenzied concentration.  He wore a Fedora hat which cast a dark shadow over his face and  faded trench coat.  With his left hand covering the paper to prevent Andy from seeing what he wrote, he continued with his task.

    “I never seen you here before and I come here a lot,” Andy’s head bounced as he spoke, then he looked around the empty bar.  “You new in town?”

    “Isn’t there somewhere else you would prefer to sit?  Perhaps the bartender would be more interested..  I have work to do.”  The man did not even look up or stop his writing.  His tone was stern, and the slight European accent that he had made him sound like a professor speaking to a failing student.

    "What accent is that?  You ain't from around here, are ya?”  Andy could be a bit dense at times.

    Slowly, the man lifted his head and looked at Andy.  He wore thick tinted glasses that in the poorly lit bar obscured his eyes.  “Accent?”  He shook his head and began to write again.

    “Whatcha drinking?  How about I buy you a beer?”  Andy waved his hand and snapped his fingers in order to get Murray’s attention.  The bartender only waved back and made no effort to walk over to the booth.

    “I don’t mean to sound rude, but I am quite busy.  Would you mind finding another seat?  There are many empty seats.”  The man adjusted his glasses and returned to his work.

    “Those must be what they call subscription sunglasses,” Andy leaned back against the worn fabric back of the booth, his head moving like a bobble doll, and gave the man his best smile-- yellow teeth and all.

    “Prescription sunglasses.” 

“That’s what I said,” Andy then leaned forward, trying to see what the mysterious stranger was working so diligently on.  “You know, I used to wear glasses.”  He nodded and looked around the dingy room that was normally empty this time of day.  “Found out that I actually saw better without them.”

    With a heavy sigh, the man gathered up his papers and began to stand.

    “Hey, you ain't leaving yet?”  Andy stood up, knocking the mans pencil onto the ground, then bumping heads with him as they both bent to retrieve it.  “Aw man, I am so sorry.  Let me buy you a drink to make up for that.”

    “Keep the pencil.  I have plenty.”  The man backed up, adjusting his hat which was nearly knocked off.

    Andy held the pencil out and the man shook his head.  “Hey, I am so sorry man.  Really.”  He stuck the pencil in the man’s overcoat pocket.

     The bespeckled man stood staring at Andy, remaining silent as Andy patted the pocket and knocking a few papers out of his hands in the process.  As the papers floated to the floor the light from the hallway hit them, exposing rows and rows of numbers.

     Andy felt the numbers reach out to him, calling to him.  For a brief moment it was as if time slowed down, then it sped back up.  “Are you an accountant?”  Andy picked up the papers, barely glancing at them.  Numbers and math were not his strongpoint.  Neither was picking up on obvious signs of annoying others.

    “In a manner of speaking,” the man folded and tucked the paper into his coat pocket.  “Well, I must be off.”

    “Nice meeting ya,” Andy called out as the man scurried away.  He ambled toward the bar and sat heavily on one of the worn bar stools.  “Hey Murray, how bout some credit?”

    “Lost again, huh Andy?”  Murray already knew he had, since Andy lost more times than he won.

    “My luck’s about to change, Pete, I can feel it.”  Andy accepted the beer with a nod, “And don’t think I won’t remember my friends when it does.”  He downed the beer with a couple of noisy gulps, then headed out.  He needed to find a way to get a few bucks to bet with later on.  With the right line, he could bum enough money to eat and gamble.  Life is good, he thought to himself, and lit a cigar.

    “Outside with that smoking turdstick!”  Murray hollered.  The bar was one of the few places left where a man could still light up indoors, but even Murray had his standards.  Those cheap stogies that Andy smoked could compete with any backed up sewer in the worst part of town.

    “Sure thing, pal.  See ya later.”  Andy puffed up a huge gray cloud of cesspool fumes and blew them in Murray’s direction, leaving the bartender green faced and coughing.  “I got fish to fry.”

    “Hope they smell better than your cigar,” Murray mumbled.

    Andy walked along the cracked sidewalks in the overcrowded city, looking down in search of dropped change and soda bottles for possible refunds.  Thirty cents and two hours later his stomach began to growl, reminding him he had not eaten since early this morning.  Shaking the meager change in his pocket he frowned, and then he thought about the ten spot that Sam had lain on the table at the bar.  He had left it there when he went to the rest room and then he started a conversation with the funny man with the hat…he had forgotten the money…Andy the Hack left paper money laying around for someone else to get.

    “Mister, are you ok?”  An elderly woman had stopped in front of him with a look of genuine concern.  She clutched a ragged purse tightly against her portly body.

     “Huh?”  Andy had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stood in a dazed state.

    “I asked if you were alright,” the woman repeated, still sounding sincerely concerned.

    “It’s just that I haven’t eaten…”  He stopped mid sentence and stared pasther.  The man that was in the bar earlier that day was just leaving the lottery office across the street.

    “You poor, poor man.”  The woman had mistaken his sudden pause for distress and reached into her purse pulling out a protein bar.  “Here, eat this,” then she pulled out a couple of dollar bills and pressed them into his hand,  “and get yourself some coffee or some soup later on.”  She walked off, making a tsk, tsk sound as she shuffled away.

    Crossing the street in a hurry and being narrowly missed by more than one moving vehicle, Andy ran into the lottery office.

     “Hey beautiful.”  He winked at the lone clerk behind the counter.  The woman recognized him and refused to smile.  Andy often tried to cash in bad tickets that he found while rummaging around the streets.  His charms were wasted on this one, and he knew it.  Laying the two dollars on the counter that the kind hearted woman had given him, he adjusted his collar.

    “What do you want Andy?”  Her name tag identified her as Gladys.

    “The old man that just left here,” Andy leaned forward and Gladys winced, the smell of beer and stale cigars clung to him like a used gum to a shoe on hot summer day.

    “What about him?”  She did not touch the money.

    “I want the same thing he got.”  Andy raised a bushy eyebrow and gave her his most charming look.

    “And just what would that be?”  Gladys stood with her arms crossed tightly.

    “Come on Gladys.  Don’t hold a grudge.”

    “The old man spent ten dollars.  You only got two.”

    “So give me two dollars worth.”  He leaned closer and she visibly winced.

    “If it gets you out of here,” she hesitated   “I don’t remember all his numbers.”

    “Just a few will do,” Andy grinned and pushed the two singles closer to her.  He had a feeling about that man, and when he got those feelings he always won…well almost always.

    Gladys keyed in some numbers and looked down at the machine while she waited for them to print out.  Something about Andy made her skin crawl, though once, years ago she had actually found him – appealing-.  Some people learn from their mistakes, and others never do.  She was the type that learned...Andy never did.

    “See ya tomorrow to collect my winnings,” he waved the ticket at her and then tucked it in his pants pocket, “Maybe even buy ya something with the extras.”

     “I’ll hold my breath,” Gladys tried to smile, but the muscles on her face were uncooperative. Like I should have held my breath when you stood too close, she told herself and shook her head.  Poor Andy, he just didn’t get it.

    Andy whistled on his walk back to his room, certain that he had finally hit the big jackpot.  He only wished that he owned a TV or a radio so that he could hear them announce his numbers when they were selected.

     The next day just around lunch time, Andy woke up and staggered into the bathroom.  He gargled with a can of warm beer that he had left sitting on the counter sometime that week.  Throwing cold water on his face, since there was no hot water, he decided to skip shaving again today.  He wore the same clothes that he had on from the day before, not willing to risk losing the ticket. 

    “Today, your luck changes,” he told the tired image that stared back at him from the dirty bathroom mirror.  Then he gulped down the remainder of the stale beer and left.

    The streets were nearly empty as he strolled towards the lottery office.  He pulled a portion of unsmoked cigar out of his coat pocket and lit it with his last match, blowing putrid smoke into the midday air.  He hummed to himself as he walked and smoked, thinking of all the ways he could spend whatever money he had won.  Arriving at the office, he was surprised to find the doors locked.  “Damn.  It’s Sunday.”  He read the sign on the door and moaned.  Now he would have to wait another twelve hours to turn in his ticket…but he could compare the numbers on his ticket to the winning numbers that would be in the paper.  He jingled the change in his pocket and wondered if it was enough for a Sunday paper.

    Andy decided to walk, his only choice for transportation since he did not own a car or have the funds for a cab or bus, and headed over to the race track.  Even on Sundays the track stayed busy and he could always hustle a drink out of Murray.  Picking up his pace he found himself smiling and walking with a bit more pep than normal. Life is good; he thought as he puffed on his cigar stub and walked the familiar path toward his old stomping grounds.

    “Hey Andy,” Sam greeted him at the door, just as he was about to enter.  “Placing a bet today?”

    “Might,” Andy eyed the taller man suspiciously.  “Why?”

    “So I’ll know what not to bet on, that’s why.”  Sam slapped him on the back, “I won three big ones thanks to you and I’m ready to win some more today.”

    Andy dropped the cigar on the sidewalk and ground out the remainder of the smoldering tobacco with his dirty heels.  He squinted up at Sam and shook his head.   “I’m a little short on funds right now.  Don’t think I’ll be betting today.”

    “So how about I spot you five?”  Sam reached in his pocket and pulled out some green.  He  sifted through the thick pile and pulled out a five dollar bill.

    “I shouldn’t.”  Andy grabbed the bill and walked through the door that Sam was holding open for him, “but I can’t refuse a friend.”

    “So who looks good to you today?”  Sam followed him to the windows.

    “Life looks good.”  Andy had a little bit of trouble focusing his eyes today and blamed it on needing a drink.  “Where’s the ...ahhh...I see it.”  He glanced at the list of races posted for the day.  “Five on Number Five.”

    “You sure Andy?”  Pete hesitated only briefly.  “That’s twenty to one odds on that one.”  Then noticing that Andy had drifted off into his own world again, reached out and took the offered bill.  “How about you Sam?”

    Sam pulled out a hundred and pushed it over to Pete and shook his head, “I know I’m gonna regret it, but give me number five.”  He then pulled out a few more smaller bills and bet on several other races. 

    “You never bet the same as him,” Pete looked disappointed for a moment but handed the tickets to Sam.  “You getting soft in the head or something?”

    “Just playing my guts, Pete, same as always.”  Sam took his ticket and headed for the bar.  Murray usually had some stale bagels sitting around on Sunday mornings and he had a taste for one.

    The TV was on the blitz when they entered.  Murray stood  under it tapping it with broken pool stick, just hard enough to make it work.  When he saw the two regulars come in he pulled the dirty dishtowel from around his neck and began to wipe down the bar top.

    “What’ll it be boys?”  Murray smiled at Sam, but avoided looking at Andy for a moment.  “You left this here yesterday.”  He pushed a ten at the haggard man, “since you never tip, I knew it was a mistake.”

     Andy looked at the ten spot briefly before snagging it from Murray, “Yeah, my bad.”

    “I can’t believe it.”  Sam turned to look at Andy, “You left money on a table in a bar?” 

    Andy nodded and laughed.  “You remember that man that was sitting in here yesterday?”  When Sam gave him a funny look, indicating he did not, he sighed lightly.  “Never mind.”

    “The race is about to start.”  Sam ordered a coffee, but Andy stuck with beer.  They both faced the fuzzy screen and watched with intense concentration as the race began.  In all honesty, Andy didn’t care one single drop of pig sweat about watching the race; it was all about the finish line.  Would his choice finish first, or would he lose…again?  The rare chance of winning was all that mattered.  Money won was sweeter than money earned, his uncle’s used to say.

    Not bothering to look up and see the finish, he glanced around the bar.  There, on the other end of the long highly polished wooden counter lay a newspaper.  By the size of it, it had to be the Sunday paper.  A smile began to form on Andy’s stubbly face.

    “Murray, that your paper?”  He pointed to the end of the bar.

    “No, it’s mom's.”  Murray pulled the cloth from around his neck again and began to wipe down the counter top.

    “Can I see it?”  Andy put his hand on top of Murray’s, keeping him from wiping non-existent spills and fingerprints from the bar top.

    “No really, it’s moms,” Murray indicated an older woman that was sweeping up around the bar.  “Hey, Maw, can Andy read your paper?”

    An old woman looked up while still pushing the broom and shrugged her bony shoulders.  Andy stared at her a moment, realizing that in all the years he had been coming here that he never knew the old woman was Murray’s mother.  Or maybe he knew it and forgot it, what difference did it make?

    “Go ahead.”  Murray tipped his head toward the paper, but made no movement to give it to Andy.

    Reluctantly Andy slid off the barstool and walked toward the end of the bar.  As his hand went for the paper, he heard the announcer call out, “ and in an unbelievable comeback, Poison Pellet, number five, has won the race!”

     Sam spit coffee across the bar and Murray frantically wiped the mess.  “Are you okay Sam?”

    “I just paid off my car,” Sam's voice was filled with disbelief as he pushed the coffee cup towards Murray.  “What the hell, give me a beer.”

     “Did they just say number five?”  Andy turned to face the two men at the other end of the bar.  Maybe his luck had finally turned around.  His hand remained suspended over the unopened newspaper, the winning lottery numbers briefly forgotten.

     “Sure did,” Murray placed a beer in front of Sam.  He turned to face Andy, still smiling, and put another beer up on the counter.  “Have one on the house.”

     “No need, old pal.  I can afford it today.”  Andy picked up the paper and headed back to the other end of the bar, jumping back up onto his stool.  He placed the paper down carefully, afraid to open it just yet, not wanting to spoil the moment, “I had a bit of change on that last race.”  He sipped on his beer, his hand resting on the newspaper.

     “Look,” Murray’s mother was pointing to the TV with her right hand and holding her broom against her body with her left.  “Look.”

      On the fuzzy screen, clear enough for all to see, Number Five had collapsed on the track.  Several people were gathered around, almost obscuring the body of the fallen animal.  The announcer was trying to find out what had happened, and was almost babbling into his mike.  “It seems that there has been some sort of …tragedy …on the track.  Dr. Helms, the official track veterinarian is present to examine the animal.  No news yet on what he’s discovered…”

    “Well, I’m going to mop up in the bathroom,” the old woman looked away from the monitor.

    “I’m going to try to collect my winnings before someone changes their minds.”  Sam jumped up and tapped Andy on the shoulder, “You coming or what?”

    “Sure,sure.”  Andy followed meekly behind.  He had won money on this one, and now the dog was down.  Well, he wouldn’t have bet anything else on him, the odds would have changed too much and it wouldn’t be worth his trouble.

    They collected their winnings.  Pete handed each of them their money and was shaking his head.  “Too bad about Poison, isn’t it?”

    “What?  Did they say what happened?”  Andy fondled his money before putting it away.

    “Apparently it was too much for the old dog.  He’s dead.”  Pete shook his bald head.

    “Hey Pete, how come you paid out on the win?  Won’t they do an autopsy on the beast first, just to make sure …well, you know?”  Sam slid his winnings into his wallet.

    “Naw.  Old man Slater owns three of the dogs running today.  There won’t be any inquiry.  The word came up to pay off.”  Pete leaned forward and lowered his voice, “besides, you two are the only ones who bet on five.  The house still came out way ahead.” 

    They eased their way back to the bar.  Andy sat down in front of the newspaper and stared at it for several seconds.

    “Well, you gonna read it, or memorize the front page?”  Murray’s mother was standing outside the bathroom door, mop in hand.  “I plan on reading it when I take my break, unless you stare the words off the page.”

    “I just want to look at one thing,” Andy knew right where to look in the paper to get what he needed.  He opened the paper to check the numbers.  “Murray, you got some paper and pencil I can use?”

    The bartender slid over a pad and pen, not asking any questions.   Sam tossed a twenty down on the bar and gave a sloppy salute.  “Well, I’m going home.  Murray, keep the change.  Andy, see you…tomorrow?”

    “Sure thing.”  Not bothering to look up, he scribbled the winning Lotto numbers down.  “Thanks,” he pushed the pad back to Murray, after pulling off the top sheet and tucking it in his shirt pocket.

    “Want another beer?”  Murray made no movement toward either the money on the bar, or the pad.  He stood wiping a clean beer mug, rubbing it until it glistened.

    “No thanks.”  Andy stood up, handed the newspaper to the old woman, his hands shaking lightly, “I have an appointment.”  He needed to find a quiet place to check the numbers from the paper to the ones on his ticket.  The article said one ticket held the winning numbers.  Perhaps…just perhaps…it might be his.

    “Aren’t you going to finish your beer?”  Murray asked as Andy started to leave.

    Turning around to look at the half empty mug, Andy was tempted to finish it off but the numbers he jotted down were burning a hole in his pocket.  He needed to check them quickly.  The bathroom, he would just run in there and take a peek, then he would come back and finish his beer.

    “Be careful, I mopped in there,” Murray’s mother called out as she started  to sit down and reach for her newspaper.

    Andy stepped carefully along the damp floor and entered one of the battered stalls.  He pulled out his list of numbers and compared them to the ticket.  “Damn,” he said out loud then peeked out through the crack in the stall to make sure that no one else had come into the small bathroom.  He only had three numbers.  Both lines, each set of six numbers had only three matching numbers.  Gladys did it deliberately.   She only gave him three correct numbers on each line on purpose. 

    He stuffed the ticket into his pants pocket then left the bathroom, slipping a bit on the moist surface and sliding out of the room like a kid on skates.  “Whoa…”  He hollered as he grabbed the doorway, just barely preventing himself from falling.

     “I told you it was wet in there,” the old woman didn’t look up from her paper.  Murray just shook his head.

    “Well, I’m outta here.”   Andy thought about tossing the ticket, then decided he would just trade it in for another one or two, depending on how much he won.  Three numbers were better than none…but he should have had all six.  He would find a way to get back at Gladys.

    “See you tomorrow,” Murray called out, still wiping the same mug.

    Andy left and wandered toward the park.  After all, it was Sunday, there wasn’t anything else to do.  Along the way he stopped and bought a bag of peanuts from a vendor near the park, for himself and for the squirrels. 

    Sitting on a bench under a malnourished looking tree, he contemplated his life.  Most men his age were tied down with trivial jobs, wives that got fat and nagged and children who demanded everything yet gave nothing in return.  He overheard all the regulars at the tracks and bars he liked to hang around complain all the time about how hard things were for them.  Andy had no such albatrosses hanging around his neck.  Life was good, and getting better.  It was in the midst of such a thought that he saw him again.  The odd little man from the bar.

    The old man had walked into the park just minutes before and found a lone bench directly across from Andy.  Oblivious of anyone around him, he pulled out some papers and again began to write with intense concentration.  Andy watched him for several minutes before making another bad decision.  Of course to Andy, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

    With unbelievable stealth Andy walked around and came up behind the old man, trying to peak at what he was writing.  Unfortunately his vision was not as acute as he once thought it to be, so he leaned in a bit too close, bumping into the busy man.

    “Oh, excuse me.  I am so sorry.  I thought a bee was on your shoulder.  I was going to knock it off before it stung you.”  It was the first thing that came to mind.  He was quite proud of his quick response.

    The old man looked up and Andy noticed that he still wore the dark tinted glasses under his fedora , again obscuring his eyes completely...  “You.” The man’s lips pulled together tightly.

    “Oh.  Good to see you again, friend,” Andy moved around the bench and sat down.

    “Sir, we are not friends.  I prefer to sit alone, I have much work to do.”  He clenched his papers tightly in his gnarled hands.

    “Hey.  I won’t bother you.  Not my style.”  Andy leaned back on the bench, not looking at the  man.  “I just love the park.  The fresh air, the trees…the fresh air,” he took a deep breath and than began to cough.  He felt around in his pocket for a cigar, then pulled it out and began to search for something to light it with.

    “Please don’t smoke that here,” the man politely requested.

    “Got an extra one, if you want it.”  Andy pulled out a partially smoked cigar and offered it to the old man.

    “Sir.  I don’t smoke.”  He stood up, “I have work to do.”

    “Sure thing.”  Andy stood and moved towards the man.

    “What does it take to get rid of you?”  The old man faced Andy while tucking his papers into his coat pocket.

    “Just tell  me what you’re working on, that’s all.  I won’t tell anyone,” Andy winked at the old man.  “You got a bunch of numbers, I like numbers, they  intrigue me.”

    “If I tell you, then you’ll go away?”

    “Scouts honors,” Andy made a funny motion with his fingers, hoping it would pass for some type of scout signal, since he had never been a boy scout.

    With a deep sigh, the man pulled out the papers he had stuffed into his pockets and showed them to Andy.  “There.  Now will you go away?”  There were rows and rows of numbers scribbled hastily.

    “Wait.  What do they mean?”  Andy reached out to touch the paper, causing the old man to flinch visibly.

    “They mean what they mean.  They’re numbers.”  The man relayed this information as if it was all the explanation that was needed, pulling away from Andy.

    “Ok, wait.  Just one more thing,” Andy stepped closer to the man.  “Are they lottery numbers?  I saw you come out of the lottery office the other day.”

    The mans face seemed to pale slightly in the dimming light of the day.  He backed up a few steps.  “Are you following me around?”

    “No, God, no.  I just saw you there.  Man, I’m no freak.”  Andy pretended to be appalled. “At the Track, in the bar, you were writing numbers down.  I figured you might have some kind of system.  That’s all.”

    “No system.”  The man took a few steps back,.“No system.  Now leave.”

    Andy tried to take another quick look at the paper just before the old man put it back in his pocket.  He thought he recognized some of the numbers.  Five stood out, had he seen that yesterday?  Was that why he picked it at the track earlier?  What other numbers had he seen?  Seven, thirteen, forty-two, oh why didn’t he keep the paper and pencil from the bar?  He kept repeating the numbers he could remember over and over to himself, mumbling as he walked along.   What were the numbers?  Seven, thirteen, forty-two, eighteen-- or was it six?  Or sixteen?  …He could not remember.  He had to get back to the track, to the bar and write it down before he forgot them all.

    Rushing, he pushed past walkers and joggers, almost knocking them over.  He kept mumbling the numbers over and over to himself, afraid that he would forget them before he made it back to Murray and the paper and pen he kept at the bar. Barreling over a kid on a bike caused quite a ruckus, but Andy was oblivious to any of this.  He just kept running on, mumbling to himself.

    Sweating profusely, heart pounding heavily in his chest, he found himself at the crosswalk, just across the street from the track.  The races were over for the day, but Murray served burgers at the bar on Sunday’s, so Andy knew he would still be there.  Checking both ways, even though the signal kept blinking red, Andy pushed past the waiting pedistrians and began to run across the street.  He never heard the brakes as the bus tried to stop, he never saw the Seven-thirteen- come down 42nd Street at six pm.  He never found out, that for once in his life, he had all the right numbers.

                                                                      

A few new stories from our staff.....twisted- sometimes humorous, sometimes mysterious, sometimes just something to make you wonder....all free....all here for a limited time for you to read and hopefully enjoy.........

Too Much Gas                   by Christine L Golden-   when you get older things change, and the little things that you took for granted are no longer so readily available....do you know someone like Charlie?

The Right Numbers          by C L Golden..Andy is a loser with a big problem- he likes to gamble.  Then suddenly his luck changes...but is it really for the better?

Cream Cheese on Tacos   by Holmes Gray- on a space station jobs are scarce...but when aliens open a fast food taco  stand, everyone is scrambling for a job, and a chance to buy the unusual cups they sell.

Potion from the Ocean- CL Golden- a magical potion does more than intended!

Staff Stories....scroll down for latest story.

Cream Cheese on Tacos

by Holmes Gray

    "Employment opportunities are available at Taco Express  across the galaxy...please apply by sending your resume' to our executive branch by email- Monday through Wednesday...."  The commercial shot across the vidscreen in the waiting room of the employment office and everyone hurried to place their applications.  Job opportunities were rare on Lunar Four, too many humans were leaving Earth to find work and housing, and the newly established space station was growing by leaps and bounds.

    Leslie Finkler pushed the tray across the counter, forcing a smile and spewing the mandatory logo of the restaurant, "Eat happy, eat healthy."  Her jaw ached from the constant strain of smiling, and she still had three hours left on her shift.

    "Number two, no lettuce, no cheese....um....err...." the teenager leaned forward, sweaty hands palm down on the steel counter, his face intently studying the menu that hung on the wall.  "Diet coke, super burrito with guacamole...um....err..."

    Leslie looked at the long line of customers behind the obese boy and knew that it was going to be a long three hours.  "Would you be interested in super sizing your order for only 99 cents?"  She already knew the answer, but it was company policy to ask each customer.

    "What do I get extra?"  The boy scratched an open sore on his chin, and Leslie flinched inwardly.  "Do I get like a bigger drink and stuff?"

    "Yes," Leslie held up the 32 ounce cup with the image of a Taco and a spaceship on it, "You get the souvenir cup with the twisty straw, all for 99 cents more.  Plus tax and customs charges, a mere five dollars more."

    "Cool, I'll take it."  The teen pushed an extra five across the  counter and grabbed the offered cup.   He then turned and held the cup up, like he had won a prize...and a group of teens near the back of the restaurant cheered.

    "Next."  Leslie sighed, gritted her teeth.  "Welcome to Taco Express, home of the greatest tacos in the universe."

    Two hours passed, the line diminished and the lunch crowd thinned.  Leslie glanced at the clock and crossed her fingers.  So far only humans had come into the place to order food, and the requests were routine--a few cups were sold, mostly to teenagers who seemed intrigued by the idea that aliens had made them.

     She had only worked at the Taco Express for a few hours and the glamour had quickly worn off.  Sure, the offered pay was great, and the competition for the job had been intense.  Everyone wanted to be the 'human face' that represented the newest franchise on Luna Four, the first space station to offer an alien run eating establishment, even if it was just a taco stand.  All applications had been through the computerized network on the massive space station, and Leslie had only applied because her parents insisted.

     "Your shift is almost over," a mechanical voice made Leslie jump.  "Please make sure that you check the schedule to determine your next ..." a loud gurgling sound interrupted the rest of the message.

   "I wish to place an order."

    Leslie turned to face the customer, her smile securely frozen on her face.  "Welcome to Taco Express..." she could not finish her sentence. 

    The creature that stood before her was hideous.  Almost three meters tall, it looked like a giant bucket of green goo- only without the bucket.  It's shape kept shifting, like the top of it's body was melting downward, then being reabsorbed and pushed back into the center only to be expelled over the slimy outer exterior...an endless and almost hypnotic pattern.

    "Ah, it is your first time meeting one of us," the voice almost gurgled through the gelatinous goo around the mouth.  "No worries.  We also find you humans a bit repulsive."

    Leslie took a deep breath and tried to maintain her composure.  When she had been hired she was informed that the Gweldons were a bit unusual looking, but no details were given.  She knew that the crew working in the back of the restaurant were all Gweldons, but she never saw them due to the strict health regulations that forbid humans to touch their food.  It was the reason she had not eaten anything at work either.

    "Four tacos, hard shell," the creature continued, "extra cream cheese on the tacos.  Two burritos with onions and crumbled blue cheese...and one extra large taco pizza with jalapeno and tartar sauce."

    Leslie nodded, entering the order on the special menu bar intended for Gweldons and a few other odd species.  "Would you like to supersize your order?"

    "May I purchase extra cups?  My offspring are collecting them."  More greenish-yellow bubbles sputtered around the mouth of the customer.

    "How many would you like?"  Leslie could not take her eyes off the Gweldon.  She tried to determine if there was a pattern to the undulating movement of it's less than solid body.  It was like watching a pot of pea soup boiling over.

    "Twenty-four please."

    Leslie reached under the counter and counted out twenty-four cups, twenty-four straws and twenty-four lids, then looked around for the first time.  No other bubbling little versions of the customer were visible.  "Do you need a cup holder for your drinks?"

    A sound similar to a flushing toilet ensued, and Leslie wondered if it was the creature laughing.

    "We do not drink your liquids," more odd sounds followed, then the mouth began to quiver, like a fast moving rubber band being stretched and pulled.  "You may keep the straws and lids."

     Slowly Leslie placed the cups on the counter, not certain how they were going to be carried, since the Gweldon had no visible appendages.  As she placed the last cup on the counter, two rows of twelve cups each, a bell rang to announce that the order was ready.  She turned and pulled the sealed box from the special slot for other orders.

    "How will you be paying?"  Leslie had been instructed to ask this at the time that the order was delivered, only with non-human customers, but she wasn't prepared for the response.

    The Gweldon moved a portion of its body toward the food container, then absorbed the entire thing in an instant.  As soon as the food was gone, more goo from the massive body slithered towards the cups, filling each cup with equal portions of slime, while at the same time expelling a rancid odor, much like spoiled eggs.

    Leslie continued to smile, although by now it was more of a painful spasm forcing her mouth upward.  "I thought you said that your offspring were collecting the cups..." She stared at the pulsing mounds of goo that sat in each cup, breathing through her mouth to avoid smelling the overwhelming stench.

    "My mistake.  Your English language is so difficult." A faint light beamed across the counter and the cups disappeared one by one as the light passed over them.  "What I meant was, they were for collecting my offspring."  A clear crystal was now on the counter where the cups had been.  "I believe that this will cover the cost of the transaction."

    Nodding mutely, Leslie looked around the now empty restaurant, not certain where or even when the Gweldon had left.

    "Please place the payment into the cash register."  The same mechanical voice from before instructed her, snapping her out of her fugue state."Use the proper technique to avoid exposure to any remaining exudates."

    Leslie did as she was instructed, then rubbed her hands against her thighs, mentally scrubbing invisible green slime off of her hands.  "What time does my shift begin tomorrow?"  She looked up at the source of the  voice, a tiny camera imbedded in the center of a giant taco over the menu on the wall behind her.

    "We won't be needing your services anymore.  Your payment will be deposited into your account immediately.  Thank you for visiting Taco Express."

    Leslie shrugged, pulled off her apron and tossed it into the trash.  There was no one to tell goodbye to, no one to count out her cash drawer, no one to complain to about the hectic work schedule.  She had never seen anyone else working during her brief employment, even when she had been hired.  Walking towards the door, she bumped into the same obese boy that had been a customer just a few hours earlier.  "Excuse me,"  She  mouthed sarcastically as she watched him brush by.

    "Hey!"  It was the young man, yelling at her.

    Leslie turned to face him, the smile had disappeared.   "What do you want?"

    "Don't you work here?  I want another cup."  He placed some cash on the counter with a thud.  "And hurry up."

    "I don't work here anymore.  I got fired."  Leslie shrugged.

    Looking around and not seeing anyone else, the pudgy lad bounced over the counter with unusual ease.  Leslie assumed it was due to the lessor gravity on the Station, but said nothing, just kept watching the boy as he grabbed a cup and a straw, then climbed back over the counter, grabbing his money and shoving it back into his pocket.  As he hurried past her, he held the cup up just as he had before.

    "Don't tell anyone about this."  The boy's voice was threatening.

    "Who am I going to tell?"  Leslie looked over at the giant taco and smiled again.  "I don't work here anymore."

    The boy stopped, looked around then leaned close, his face mere centimeters from hers, "That means there is a job opening here, right?"

    Leslie nodded mutely.  She was staring at the scab on his chin, remembering him picking at it earlier.  It reminded her of something else, then she looked at the cup, imagining it filled with moving green goo.

    The lights dimmed over the menu and the taco began to fade away.  Leslie watched in amazement, not certain she could believe her eyes anymore.  Had the Gweldon even really been there?  Had any of this been real?

    "Are you even listening to me?"  The boy poked a chubby finger at Leslie.  "No wonder you got fired.  You sure are rude!" 

    Rolling her eyes, Leslie moved towards the door once more, careful to avoid the boy. "Whatever."

    "If you're leaving, then I'm getting some more cups," he yelled at her, "I can sell them to my friends and pocket all the profit."

    Leslie thought about telling him about he camera over the menu, but she wasn't sure he would believe her, or even care.  After all, he had already taken one cup and nothing bad happened.  She reached for  the door and pulled it open when she heard the sound of the boys shoes skidding on the floor.  She heard him call out in surprise, then all was silent.  She did not turn around, she did not have to.  Reflected in the glass door was the image of the boy sliding across the floor, his arms flailing wildly as he fell.  He must have slipped on something.  But she heard no other sound...nothing to indicate that he had landed on the ground- until she heard the cup land.

    Curiosity overcame her.  Turning slowly, she expected to see the rotund youth laying unconscious on the floor, but all she saw was the cup.  'I know that was real,' she told herself as she walked over to where the cup sat alone on the floor, avoiding a long streak of green goo on the floor. 'He must have slipped on whatever was coming off of the Gweldon," she watched in awe as the goo began to move towards the upright cup on the floor, filling it slowly until no residual slime remained on the floor.

    The giant taco on the menu blinked on, then off again, and a light shimmered across the cup...then it was gone.  The restaurant was empty.

    "Hello?"  Leslie called out, looking at where the menu should have been.  "What just happened?"

    "We are closed...please return tomorrow at our regular scheduled hours...employment opportunities are available at Taco Express  across the galaxy...please apply by sending your resume' to our executive branch by email- Monday through Wednesday...."

   

   

   

   

   

Potion from the ocean

C L Golden

    “Much too high a saline content for it to be useful for my intent.  Best to desalinate it before going on, else you might cause unwanted side effects.”  Hester lifted an unkempt eyebrow and made waving motions with her hands as she shooed her apprentice away. “No, no, no, don’t put it over here.  I am working on a very special potion. Go over there.”  The old woman pointed to a small wooden table at the far end of the room.

    Horace Muttlesputz moved, feet shuffling and head lowered to the opposite side of the room, carefully carrying his container of liquid.  He had  already placed several other items  on the smooth but worn table top.  With thick fingers tightly wrapped around the bottle, he put it next to the bowl of crushed toads toes and boiled bats brains.  Looking back at his mentor and teacher, Hester Hagglestrom, he gave a crooked smile which said  see, I made it here without event and noticed that she was already busy at her work.

   Hester was not aware that Horace considered himself her prize pupil.  She had other gnomes and goblins that were striving for that position.  But Horace, in spite of his  dubious dexterity and lack of physical proficiency had managed to find a place in her heart, which few others ever managed to do. He was slow, clumsy, spoke with an annoying lisp and scratched himself everywhere all the time.  His most endearing quality was that he kept others from bothering her because he always seemed to be around. Today, however, she had much to do and Horace seemed to be underfoot at every turn.

    “Dear Horace.  I have need  two-- no three-- strands of bloated boars hairs.  Could you find me some?”  Hester held up her bony fingers as she counted out the numbers.  With a toothless smile she watched him shuffle off in search of something she did not need.  That ought to keep him busy and out of my way until I finish my potion., she thought and returned to complete her work.

    The aide of the assistant of the minion of the Queen was coming late this afternoon to pick up the potion that Hester was working on and she did not truly need the hairs that Horace was in search of, she only needed the quiet.  Dear Horace would mutter, sing, shuffle and flatulate the entire time that he worked.  It strained her concentration to be constantly distracted by such noises and their accompanying and oft times annoying properties when she was otherwise employed.  She needed her wits about her --especially today.

    Horace, on the other hand, although slow, easily distracted and hygienically challenged, was most definitely the best helper she had ever had.  He could find anything, anywhere and almost anytime.  Her supply of wolf bane, bat wings, eye of newt and toad’s toes rivaled that of any potion maker ever.  He was invaluable at times and she only wished that he could find other things to occupy some of his time.  He always seemed to be under foot.

    Hester had just about completed her work when Horace returned whistling moistly and off key as he entered the work room proudly holding up his prize, a handful of bloated boar’s hairs, roots still attached.   She indicated the desired location, a bin on the far wall of her busy work room.  As Horace shuffled off to put them where she pointed, a heavy knock came from her door.

    Horace turned quickly and instead of placing the boars hairs in the proper bin, he dropped them into the container for hybrid unicorn hairs- the rarest of all her items and of which she only had a few.  In the poor light at the corner of the room, the difference was barely noticable.    “Shall I get that for you, Ma-am?” He hastily offered.

    “No, no.  I’ll get it.  I’m expecting some company.  Why don’t you check the garden out back?  Pimbly might need some help pulling weeds.”  Pimbly was her first and oldest assistant and had a green thumb, thereby procuring his place as her gardener and chief protégé’, a position that Horace envied with all his heart and soul.  But Plimby was his cousin and if it were not for him then he would not even have this job.

    Horace went out back and Hester went to the door.

    “You’re early.”  She chastised the hooded woman who stood at her door holding a velvet pouch filled with gold coins.  “Wait here for just a moment more.”  Hester closed the door and left the woman outside waiting.  She called out through a cracked window near the opposite side of the house, where her tiny garden grew.  “Horace, come lend me a hand.”  Oh how she hated to do that,--but she had no choice.  The client was early and she had promised to have the potion ready, so now she rushed around to complete her task.

    “Yes Miss Hester, how may I assist you?”  Lack of etiquette and proper manners were not on the list of Horace’s failings.

    “I need two drops of purified well water and one half of a unicorn hair added to that pot over there.” Hester pointed to the boiling cauldron by the fire.  She hurried to get the  container in which to put the finished product and skillfully wrote out the specific directions for its use as Horace rushed to her assistance. 

    He reached into the unicorn bin and pulled out one boars hair and cut it in half, not noticing its coarser texture and darker coloring.  He then reached onto his table and picked up the vial of heavy ocean water instead of purified water that he neeeded and placed two drops into the boiling concoction, smiling and drooling. Neither Hester nor Horace noticed that bits of slobber dripped into the mixture.  Stirring carefully and practicing his chanting he nodded to Hester that he was finished.

    “Five more stirs and then it must cool just a bit before being placed in here.”  She waited before she began to spoon out a bowl full of the precious liquid.  She stirred it with a silver spoon to complete the recipe and then poured it into the  container.  In her haste she did not notice that instead of being  deep midnight  blue as the potion was intended, it was instead almost black.  She gave the sealed vial to the waiting attendant and accepted the offered payment.  After Hester returned  she noticed a rancid aroma in the air, which she attributed to Horace, so she ignored it.

   “Would you please  bottle and label  the remainder of the potion.  If need for this will arises in the next few months we will already be  prepared.”  Hester allowed Horace to work unattended for the remainder of the task while she went out to the garden to rest.

    Several weeks passed before anyone found their way to Hester's cottage, which was not unusual.  Feast or Famine was commonly heard not only in her humble home but all throughout the village she served.  But come they did, and much to Hester’s surprise, everyone requested the potion she had sold to the aide.

    “How did you hear of this?”  Hester demanded when the second request came.  The arrangement was supposed to have been  the most discreet, most certainly unknown and highly secretive backdoor arrangement ever.  No one was supposed to know where the potion had come from, yet here others came asking for her personally.    Hester, who prized her privacy only slightly more than her skills, was becoming infamous.  This worried her to no end.

    The third knock on her door in as many days sent her rushing out her back door.  She sat in her garden under a massive oak tree on a bench made entirely of chicken bones wringing her apron with her knotted hands.

     Horace went to the door and peered out, noticing that most certainly someone of extreme stature and privilege was waiting quite patiently to procure Hester’s assistance, for not only were they dressed in robes reflecting their status, the royal carriage was present as well.  He rushed to the garden.   “Miss Hester come quickly.  I believe that someone from the castle is waiting to see you.”  His lisp was more pronounced when he was excited, and he was most definitely excited.

    “What do they want?”  She was concerned that her workload would increase to the point that she no longer enjoyed mixing  potions and casting spells.   Too many customers would mean  there was not time to enjoy the simpler things, like poisoning the occasional villager and blaming it on someone else.

    “I did not ask, I simply saw the royal carriage out front.”  In his excitement, his lisp was so pronounced that only those close to him could understand a word he uttered.

    With a groan Hester stood and limped into the house. Opening  the door, she made sure that her worn shawl was pulled over her head.  “How may I be of service?”  She did not look directly at the woman, but at the deformed animal tied to  a  rope behind her.  The creature seemed to be a cross between a dog, a pig, and a goat, with a short snout, a horned tail and uneven spindly legs.  Patches of hair were missing.

    “I wish to acquire a sample of you most impressive potion.” The woman's tone idicated she was used to getting her way.

    Looking at the animal, Hester shook her head.  “I don’t take animals for payment.  Least not ones I can’t eat or sell.” 

    “Miss Hester.  May I call you Miss Hester?”  The woman smiled as she pulled on the rope, causing the odd beast to make a noise.  “It seems that one of my close and trusted aids came to see you, perhaps a month or so ago.”

    Hester shook her head, “No, don’t recall that.  No one has been by in ages.”  She  squinted at the woman and noticed for the first time how much the woman resembled the Queen.

    “You do make potions and sell charms, don’t you?”  The woman persisted.

    “There’s no law against making a living.”  Hester squeezed her eye so tightly together that it seemed all but impossible that she could see through the tiny slits left on her weathered face.

    “Perhaps if I explained exactly why I am here, then you might be persuaded to help me.”  The woman dropped the rope and a  previously unseen servant came and dragged the creature off.  “It seems that someone, who shall reamin nameless, requested the services of a special craftsman, like yourself.   This person asked for a potion that would make them so desirable that they could persuade even a king to give up his kingdom for just the promise of a kiss.”  She smiled as she spoke, using her hands to accentuate her meaning.

    “Doesn’t ring a bell.”  Hester shook her head. 

    Behind her Horace stood, listening intently.  He had not yet discovered his error in misplacing the boar’s hairs and would have been horrified at such a  mistake. 

    “Why would someone need such a potion, if I may be so bold as to ask?”  Hester could not contain her curiosity.  She already knew the king's reputation of a wandering eye and understood why the Queen would want a little help to ensure his fidelity. 

    “It was meant to enhance a woman’s charms.  But instead of giving the potion to the intended and rightful owner of the however illicitly acquired mixture, they chose to ingest it themselves.”  She glanced in the direction that the pig-dog-goat thing had been taken.  “It seems that it did not have the desired effects.”  She turned back to face Hester and dropped a small bag of coins into her apron pocket.  “If you should happen to come across any more of that unknown potion that does not exist, please inform me.  It could be quite profitable for all concerned.”

    Hester stood, mouth slightly open, by the door until the carriage had taken the Royal woman away.  Finally she closed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily.  “That explains the rash of requests that I got for that batch of brew.”  She looked at Horace, her eyes ablaze.  “What did you do?”

    Horace flinched and stepped back shielding his face from a blow that would never come.  Hester was not the physical type, not when she had other ways of dealing with trouble.  “I only did as I was instructed.”  He lowered his eyes and stared at his worn shoes, ashamed of himself.

    “Show me.  Show me what you did.”  Hester recalled vividly what she had asked him to do, for in spite of appearing old and feeble, her mind was as sharp as the keenest sword in the King’s Army.   She watched as Horace shuffled toward the bins to produce the rare piece of unicorn hair that he had used to make her precious potion potent.  As he reached into the bin, he discovered his blunder.

    “Oh  no.”  Horace pulled the boars hairs out of the bin and showed them to Hester, his face filled with shame and self-loathing.  “What have I done?”  He put the hairs in the proper container and hung his head down.

    “And the water?  What of the water?”  Hester knew that the hair alone was not quite enough to cause the complete transformation of a human woman into such a hideous creature as the one at the end of that thick rope.

    Horace went to reach for the vial of water and tasted it.  “Oh by all that is Holy and Sinful, what have I done?”  He turned to face Hester, tears streaming down his grotesque face and mucus dripping from his knobby nose.

    “You may have just made me a rich woman.”  Hester pulled the pouch out of her apron pocket and examined the contents.  “And it certainly explains all the requests that I have been getting for more potion.”  She handed a few coins to Horace.  “You’ve earned this, not me.”

    “But I have ruined your reputation.  I have soiled your name.  I have taken your trust and ...” Horace continued, still distressed over his most obvious incompetence.

    “Oh shut up.”  Hester interrupted his self deprecating lashings.  “You saved the Queen and most likely earned yourself a permanent placement as her personal Potion Maker.”  She retrieved the container with the  erroneous fabrication and handed it to him.  “You go and tell her that you knew all about that minions plans to take the potion and steal the King from her.  You tell her that this is all that remains of the mixture and it can no longer be made.  All the ingredients were from rare and long lost items that can no longer be found.  You tell her that only you know the secret of the potion and that it will go with you to your grave.”

    Horace held the container in his crooked and stubby hands, stunned that Hester did not cast some evil spell on him to punish him for his horrendous butchering of her precious potion.  “But I still have much to learn.”  He wiped his nose on his already stained shirt sleeve.

    “You have been my brightest pupil. Go now and live a good life.”  Hester pushed him towards the door, stifling the smile that threatened to force itself onto her time beaten face.  After she closed the door, she leaned against it heavily--not believing that she was finally alone in her battered home.  She could spread the word of Horace’s talents and make him more sought after than any potion maker ever before.  Perhaps she could now spend more time in her garden with old Pimbly.  She had a potion that could make strawberries the size of apples--for her own personal consumption of course.  All these thoughts paraded through her mind as she allowed herself to smile, exposing her pink gums.

    Almost a year had passed and indeed word had begun to spread that the Queen had  found a most remarkable potion maker.  No one came to her door anymore and Hester began to spend more  time in her garden.  She was nibbling on a blueberry when she heard an odd sound coming from the woods, and it seemed to be getting closer.   A whistling sound, a lisping whistle....a familiar tune.

     Crushing the delicate blueberries in her bony hands she peered around the corner of the garden and saw the misshapen body of a gnome.  With a sigh,she wiped her hands on her apron and went back inside.

    “Miss Hester.  Miss Hester, are you home?”  Horace called out as he tapped on the door before opening it.  He saw her sitting by the fireplace, holding a cup of steaming liquid.  “I just couldn’t stay away.”

    “Ah, are you back for a visit?”  She turned wearing a toothless smile.  “May I offer you some refreshments?  Your journey must have been a long one.”  She pointed to the table where she had cleared a place.

    “I could not stay away.  I told the Queen that if she needed potions, she would have to come here and get them, like everyone else.  This is where I belong. This is my home.”  Horace dropped a bag onto the floor, containing all that he owned in the world.

    “Would you like some tea?”  Hester poured the steaming liquid into another cup and offered him some sugar, which she knew he would not refuse.  “Have some biscuits, I baked them only this morning.”

    As she watched Horace sip on the bitter brew, she took a sip herself and wondered 'is it painful to transform into such a pitiful creature? 'Her thoughts turned to the pig-dog-goat thing that had looked so pathetic as it stood whimpering at her door. No matter ...what’s done is done.

    Her only regret was that she had lied  when she said she had no more of the potion.