Ganymeder

 Synopsis:

The brilliant scientist, Portage McPeeve, does not want to take over the world.

He’s discovered a way to travel the stars, using them as gateways into other realities. With his Gateway Manipulator, he hopes to rule allthe worlds of the multi-verse with an iron fist. However, when his beloved kitten becomes lost through the machine, he does not hesitate to cast plans for multi-world domination aside; instead, he follows her through the cosmos – encountering zombies, higher education for Supers, Greek gods, and killer ninjas along the way.

Will Portage find Mrs. Bumblefrost before it’s too late?

Episode #18

From his vantage point in the closet, Hephaestus – hero of the city, protector of the innocent – peered at the distraught man in the lab coat. The man wouldn’t stop screaming. This posed a problem for Hephaestus, not only because he had sworn to come to the aid of those in need – or in this case extreme distress – but because sound carried quite well through the slits in the closet’s wooden door. He had thought it an advantage when the woman had pushed him inside; actually he had hoped she had something else in mind, but – boyhood fantasies aside – he had thought it an excellent survelleince spot. He could see through the slits and listen without fear of discovery. However, Doctor Portage McPeeve’s voice now burrowed into his brain like splinters. He wanted to scream himself.

Ms. Snap Decision, on the other hand, was as cool and composed as a minion could be under the circumstances. She slapped her employer across the face, leaving the red imprint of her hand on his cheek. “Snap out of it!” she said.

He stopped screaming and looked at her blankly. “Snap! What the hell happened?”

Villains, thought Hephaestus, Always with the potty mouths. He mused on the fact that Snap also had a more extensive vocabulary than he was used to, but it certainly wasn’t her fault. Being exploited by her employer was bound to have bad linquistic consequences. Soon she would ally herself with Hephaestus, help him save the world (or worlds in this case, he still wasn’t quite sure about the whole concept), and her language would clean up considerably. He envisioned her in a cape and tights again.

“Portage!”

The scientist looked at her blankly.

“Portage, what happened? Doctor McPeeve!”

His eyes seemed to focus on his assistant, their wild light momentarily dimmed, then he turned to the softly glowing sphere. “You were looking that way,” he said. “Did you see her go through it?”

“No,” said Snap. “I was looking at you.” Color rose to her cheeks. “But I doubt she could have jumped through the Gateway without me seeing her, even though your back was turned.”

“I was grabbing a cookie for Mrs. Bumblefrost!”

“Baked goods not withstanding,” continued Snap, “I think she disappeared.”

“But she still had time left! There was more than enough time before-”

“But how do you know?” asked his minion. “I mean, maybe time passes differently in her universe or-”

Portage paused to regard his companion with beneficent condescension. “No, Ms. Decision, time passes… wait.” He stopped, running his hand through his scraggly hair. “What if she had a pre-disposition for traveling to other universes?”

This time it was Snap’s turn to be puzzled. “Huh?”

“We’ve noticed that Mrs. Bumblefrost is attracted to… well, let’s say strange-”

“You mean, supernatural-”

“There’s no such thing as something outside nature!” He took in her pursed lips and said, “Fine, she keeps falling through dimensional holes into situations that feature persons with what appears to be supernatural abilities or something that appears to be supernatural happening to them; right?”

Snap nodded, arms crossed.

“What if that is what happened with the woman? What if she’s somehow pre-disposed to hyper-dimensional travel? At least on some level?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” said Snap. “I mean, Mrs. Bumblefrost kept falling through holes in the universe-”

“Holes in alternate universes, universes that she didn’t belong in, so – because her genetic pattern didn’t match, she fell through… well, thin spots in the space-time of the multi-verse.”

“But you didn’t when you chased her,” Snap pointed out.

“But I would have if I had stayed long enough,” said the good doctor. “But that woman, out of her own universe, did not take as long to slip through. Mrs. Bumblefrost, who seems to have a knack for finding the ‘supernatural‘-” Portage drew scare quotes in the air around the word with his fingers. “There must be some sort of clue as to what drew Mrs. Bumblefrost to her.”

“Where would we-”

They both stopped and looked at the sphere.

“Her apartment was filled with paintings and sketches. There must be some clues there.”

“I’ll man the Gateway for you, Doctor.”

**All episodes listed here.

**Look for the next exciting installment of Pinholes next Tuesday, same cat-time, same cat-channel… uh, blog. I mean, blog.

Synopsis:

The brilliant scientist, Portage McPeeve, does not want to take over the world.

He’s discovered a way to travel the stars, using them as gateways into other realities. With his Gateway Manipulator, he hopes to rule all the worlds of the multi-verse with an iron fist. However, when his beloved kitten becomes lost through the machine, he does not hesitate to cast plans for multi-world domination aside; instead, he follows her through the cosmos – encountering zombies, higher education for Supers, Greek gods, and killer ninjas along the way.

Will Portage find Mrs. Bumblefrost before it’s too late?

Episode #15

Now, thought the hero to himself, Time to seize the day!

“Excuse me, Miss,” said Hephaestus. He approached her from behind, reaching out to tap her gently on the shoulder. Even brilliant scientists could be easily startled. “I couldn’t help noticing-”

Snap Decision turned around and kicked the hero in the face with one of her sensible black shoes, crying, “Keeeeeyah!” Her self-defense teacher would have been proud.

“What the hell- ah, HECK, are you doing, woman?” cried Hephaestus. “Now, listen, Miss. I don’t want to hurt you-”

The other sensible shoe kicked him in his manly bits. That time, it took even more willpower to restrain himself from unmannerly remarks. He managed, through gritted teeth, “I just want to talk-”

“I don’t talk to strangers,” said Snap, straightening her lab coat and glaring through her thick lensed glasses. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers? I don’t talk to strange men.”

“But I’m not a stra-”

Snap stopped and made a point of staring at his outfit. “Really? ‘Cause the red cape kind of clashes with your overalls…”

Hephaestus, from his fetal position on the floor, looked up at his attacker. He’d barely restrained himself from cupping his groin in his hands; he was in the presence of a lady, even if she was the reason for the blinding pain he now felt. Instead, he massaged the jaw she had kicked so expertly. His cheeks flushed.

“Well, I am color blind,” he squeaked.

“Are you fashion blind as well?” She put her weight on her back leg, cupped her chin in her hand, and surveyed the hero as he struggled to get up from the floor. His orange apron sported many hard and sharp implements, but he didn’t look menacing. In fact, he looked more like a kid that couldn’t decide what he wanted to pretend to play as – a super hero with a red cape, or a construction worker. She watched him grab his sun-yellow hard hat from the floor and put it on.

“You look like a cross between Superman and one of the Village People.”

Sniffing, he wiped blood from his mouth and straightened his tool belt. At least she complimented me, he thought, bending to pick up one of his fallen wrenches. I’ve always loved that YMCA song.

“OK,” said Snap, smiling despite herself as she watched him straighten up. It was hard to take him seriously in that outfit, though working with super villains had exposed her to plenty of ridiculous situations. That’s how they get you to lower your defenses, she thought. By looking stupid. Well, except for Portage. Her temper steamed at the thought of her employer’s latest escapade.

“I guess you don’t look too dangerous,” she said, picking up a beaker of acid from the steel table; it never hurt to be cautious. “But why the hell are you here?”

“I just…” Hephaestus eyed the beaker in Snap’s hand. “I… Could you put that down, please? You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m making YOU nervous?” Snap laughed. “Here I am, with a highly volatile and important experiment, and a stranger just walks-

“-I jumped actually.”

“-not helping, buddy! JUMPS into our supposedly secure lab. How nervous do you think I am? Want to take a guess?” She backed away – or rather sideways – further from both the hero and the glowing sphere.

“But see, that’s why I’m here. I’ve been watching you-”

“You’re a peeping Tom?” Snap’s eyes widened, then narrowed to slits. “I take it back. You don’t look harmless. You’re a pathetic creep. You’d better-”

“I know about the device.” He glanced at the machine, then the sphere.

Snap stopped mid-chastisement. Her mouth worked, open and shut, like a fish, until she finally managed, “Are you BLACKMAILING us?” She sniffed. “So instead of a Peeping Tom, you’re a blackmailer. How, exactly, is that an improvement?”

“No, no, no, this is going all wrong. How could I… Listen, I have a proposition for you.”

Snap stood, hands on hips, lips pursed. “I’m listening.”

**All episodes listed here.

**Look for the next exciting installment of Pinholes next Tuesday, same cat-time, same cat-channel… uh, blog. I mean, blog.

Synopsis:

The brilliant scientist, Portage McPeeve, does not want to take over the world.

He’s discovered a way to travel the stars, using them as gateways into other realities. With his Gateway Manipulator, he hopes to rule all the worlds of the multi-verse with an iron fist. However, when his beloved kitten becomes lost through the machine, he does not hesitate to cast plans for multi-world domination aside; instead, he follows her through the cosmos – encountering zombies, higher education for Supers, Greek gods, and killer ninjas along the way.

Will Portage find Mrs. Bumblefrost before it’s too late?

Episode #10

Once he returned to his surveillance spot on the laboratory’s roof, Hephaestus adjusted his cape over his overalls and settled into his newly assembled camping chair. Experience is the best teacher, he thought. With his workspace properly organized, he lay back with the chair’s canopy shading his eyes and peered at the two scientists through the building’s upper window. Whatever dastardly deeds they were planning needed to be foiled.

They were arguing again. During his drive back, the hero had tried to follow their conversation via audio equipment, but traffic distracted him. Apparently Mrs. Bumblefrost was – of all things! – a cat, and she had been spotted again. All this commotion over a cat? He shook his head and continued to monitor the situation below.

“I should have gone after her,” said Doctor Portage McPeeve.

Hephaestus mused on the villain’s unimpressive name. Why couldn’t his nemesis have a more imposing moniker? Doctor… He thought Well, Doctor Something-Pretty-Darned-Impressive-that’s-for-sure. Hephaestus had chosen to name himself after an Olympian god, the mighty craftsman who forged bolts of fearsome lightning, a name calculated to strike fear and terror into the hearts of evil doers everywhere. He sighed at the villain’s lack of reciprocity. Was it too much to ask that his nemesis have an equally imposing title? Whatever happened to professional courtesy?

Well, Hephaestus mused, I suppose that’s villainy, for you. Lack of manners. After all, bullies never say please when they shove you in the water fountain.

The hero’s features darkened at the memory. No, they certainly did not. Grade school had been a torment to him, first as a gawky lad in elementary school and later – as hormones cruelly set in – as a pimpled, gangly teen who couldn’t get a date to save his life. In college, he had taken refuge in his studies, though he hadn’t progressed as far in advanced physics as the notorious Portage McPeeve or his attractive  friend, Snap Decision. Instead, the would-be hero had struggled with theoretical concepts but did very well in other physics and engineering classes. What fascinated him most was the practical application of scientific principles – not only in advanced machinery but in simple tools like levers. In fact, he preferred the simple elegance of tools uncluttered by electronics. He enjoyed using his muscles, and he was a wizard with a wrench.

#

“Are you crazy?” cried Snap, snatching the chocolate chip cookie from Portage’s shaking fingers. “Gone after her?” She shot a crazed look at the glowing sphere that had revealed Mrs. Bumblefrost’s latest location in the multi-verse. “You saw that thing; right?”

“Of course, I did!” said Portage, grabbing another cookie from the steaming cookie sheet. Snap always baked when she was nervous, and he was going to take full advantage. Besides, they calmed his nerves. He brought shaking fingers to his lips and took an enormous bite of the chunky confection. “That’s why I should have gone! What if that, that, that-”

“Vampire?” answered Snap.

Portage stopped masticating. Little crumbs fell from his mouth as he answered. “NOT a vampire. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What then?” continued his assistant, refusing to let him avoid confronting reality. “The guy had fangs, bit the woman, killed her, then left.”

“Psychopath,” said Doctor Portage McPeeve. “There’s no need for a supernatural element. It’s just as likely that he’s familiar with vampire lore – as is evidenced by the rest of what we’ve seen of that world, it’s fairly common. Even if it isn’t, he could be acting out some weird fantasy. People in this world do it; doesn’t mean there are such things as supernatural creatures sucking blood to prolong their lives. In fact, the term ‘supernatural’ makes no sense. There is nothing outside the natural, physical laws of the universe!” The floor around him was littered with crumbs.

“Yes, but this is a different universe; isn’t it?” countered the woman.

The scientist, Portage McPeeve, said nothing. They were all different universes. He was remembering the previous encounter that they’d witnessed, a set of ghostly limbs that had possessed their former owner. That, too, had been another alternate universe. And before that there had been the mummy, which he had chalked up to special effects, but Mrs. Bumblefrost had fallen through to that scene as well.

Could the kitten have a sixth sense for allegedly ‘supernatural’ phenomena? What was the common element? Could she be attracted to ectoplasm, the substance hypothesized to be created by spirits to effect the world of the living?

For all Portage knew, she could simply be attracted to the bandages. The mummy had been wrapped and then unwrapped. The amputee was recovering and had bandaged stumps. Was it the cloth, some chemical element common to the supposedly ‘supernatural’ beings they’d observed, or something else entirely?

**All episodes listed here.

**Look for the next exciting installment of Pinholes next Tuesday, same cat-time, same cat-channel… uh, blog. I mean, blog.

Synopsis:

The brilliant scientist, Portage McPeeve, does not want to take over the world.

He’s discovered a way to travel the stars, using them as gateways into other realities. With his Gateway Manipulator, he hopes to rule all the worlds of the multi-verse with an iron fist. However, when his beloved kitten becomes lost through the machine, he does not hesitate to cast plans for multi-world domination aside; instead, he follows her through the cosmos – encountering zombies, higher education for Supers, Greek gods, and killer ninjas along the way.

Will Portage find Mrs. Bumblefrost before it’s too late?

Episode #9

The scientist, Doctor Portage McPeeve, made the final adjustments on the machine, and the glowing sphere crackled once more to life. “Ready?” he asked his minion.

Snap Decision dutifully nodded her head, her glasses reflecting electric fire.

Soon the sphere stabilized to a round orb that shone softly against the laboratory’s fluorescent lighting. The link between worlds had been established. Peering through the portal, they gazed into another world.

#

Frank sorted through the contents of his cart and made his selection with care.

“Now this one,” he said, holding up an over-ripe tomato, his hand protected by a clear, plastic glove. “This here fruit has just the right amount of juice to make a nice splatter pattern when it hits.” He squeezed slightly; the spotted skin broke and juice dripped onto his cart. “It’s just the right size to fit nice and snug in the palm of your hand, excellent for throwing… just the right weight.”

“But how does it smell?” asked his customer.

The salesman, a slightly pudgy man about forty-ish in appearance, leaned over to sniff the leaking red globe. He made a face, then made another when he smiled. “Putrid,” he said.

“I’ll take it.”

Frank’s swarthy mug grinned wider as the middle-aged man dropped a few gold coins into the vendor’s palm. Ever since vampires had made a comeback in literature, followed by the big screen, business had been booming.

“You know,” said the man, examining the rotten fruit appreciatively, “I remember when vampires used to be scary.”

Frank nodded.

“They were sort of creepy and ancient looking, with big fangs, pale skin, and…” The man pondered. “They were actual monsters.”

“They don’t make ‘em like they used to,” agreed Frank.

“And not a single one sparkled!”

Frank nodded.

“I really think the sparkling is what puts it over the top for me,” said the man. “That, and they can walk about in daylight-”

“Actually,” said Frank, “in ‘Dracula,’ the first big vampire book, the vampires could walk around during the day.” The vendor didn’t make a habit of correcting his customers – it was bad for business, but some things he just couldn’t let go.

The man looked doubtful. A stray breeze blew the hair on top of his head, turning his comb-over into a flapping monstrosity. “I don’t know,” he said. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” said Frank. “Yeah, I’ve read it a few times. Scary book and all that. Did you know that Dracula is a heroic figure in Romania? But after Stoker got through with him…” He shrugged, grabbed some bananas, and handed them to the man. “Here, have some on me.” It may have been poor business to correct his customer, no matter how easy going, but he wanted to make up for it. Besides, rotten bananas never sold well.

The man took the gift and turned away.

“Hey, don’t rush off,” Frank called. “I have some old apricots that’ll knock your socks off!

The younger man paused and turned, seemed to consider, shook his head, and headed off in the direction of the Global Starlight Theater. The movie theater had been used for live shows in the Twenties, but now the once elegant wooden stage sported only a medium height rectangular screen on a small metal stand. On most weekdays and nights, they showed black and white films. Classics were terrible for Frank’s business, so then he would wheel his rotten produce cart to the nearby park.

The local Parks and Recreation department allowed local musicians and bands to play every weeknight, but the best business was conducted during the Poetry Slams. Those were the nights that paid for his ongoing education at the community college.

But, of course, that was before Phyllis.

Frank pushed his cart around the corner, into the space set aside for venders.

“Hey, there, Frank!” called the elderly woman from Frank’s favorite spot, the one directly across from the stage. Phyllis leaned across her cart, holding a bunch of bananas in gnarled, wrinkled hands. “Need any help?”

The elderly man checked his scowl and replaced it with a grin. Hopefully she bought it, since she was irritating enough when she tried to be personable.

She returned the smile, thin lips pulled back from her teeth in an inviting and thoroughly unattractive manner. “How ya’ doin’, ya’ ol’ coot!”

Frank laughed, a habit he’d been forced to develop whenever she made obnoxious, insulting familiarities; one he found himself resenting more and more each time they crossed paths. Wasn’t it enough to steal his customers and compete for the same spots that he counted upon to make his living? She expected him to be happy about it too! As if they were friends instead of rivals.

Still, Frank put on his game face; he was a consumate professional. He could stand it if she could. In a business such as theirs – especially in a business such as theirs – you kept the cordialities going until the fruit went flying, and then – with luck – it didn’t fly at you. Frank had made more than a pretty penny over the years following this philosophy, and he wasn’t about to sacrifice his business ethic on the alter of a personal grudge.

He parked his cart adjacent to the one Phyllis now manned – or womaned?… He could never quite figure out when he was crossing the line of political correctness, especially when it came to the weaker sex -or was it? His head ached just thinking about it, and it ached more from being forced into the second best spot at the Poetry Slam. Damn that Phyllis!

Today’s performance promised to be a humdinger though. The local talent was awful, the Poet performers some of the most recently converted undead. Sunlight sparkled on their pale skin and reflected in their sunken eyes; their hair mirrored the colors of the rainbow. Business was already booming in anticipation of the big performance, mercifully silencing Phyllis. A gangly woman with hair the color of an avacado mounted the stage; her slinky black dress clinging to her lank form. The customers finished making their purchases and seated themselves on the ground before her. Several clutched their brown sacks of putrescent produce, sadistic glee evident on their faces.

“Quite a crowd today; huh, Frank?” asked Phyllis, turning to face her competitor.

“Hello, hello… Is this thing on?” spoke the pale woman onstage. She tapped the microphone and was rewarded with the loud crackle of static.

Frank observed many of the audience members tossing rotten fruit from one hand to another. He thought the complimentary plastic gloves he gave with each purchase would give him an edge, but Phyllis seemed unphased. “Yup,” he responded, “Quite the crowd.”

“I always wonder why the performers don’t skeedaddle when they see an audience like this,” mused Phyllis. “I mean, they’ve got to know what’s coming; am I right?”

“I suppose,” answered Frank. He continued gazing at the audience, reluctant to face that infernal woman once more.

“You know,” said Phyllis, and something in her tone made Frank turn and stare. “You know the city is revising their vendor licensing system.”

Frank watched her carefully. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Yup, ol’ timer,” she said, smiling wide. “Now they only allow one vendor per event.”

“I’ll have to be sure to renew my license in time to grab a good spot.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it so much,” said Phyllis. “I’ve already gotten licenses for upcoming events for the next six months.”

“Six months, I see,” said Frank. “And which events did you reserve space for?”

“Poetry Slams,” she said; the smugness in her tone was unmistakable. “And several upcoming movie releases that are sure to be good for business. You’ve got to think ahead, you know.”

“I do,” said Frank. Steam did not shoot from his ears, though his blood temperature quickly shot past the boiling point. “I’m thinking ahead right now.”

“OK, folks, thanks for coming,” stated the woman onstage. “I’d like to start with one of my favorite poems, a sonnet I composed myself called, ‘Blood sausage.’ She began reading from a small electronic device in a low, grating monotone. “I think that I shall never see-” she began.

The audience hummed with anticipation. They couldn’t wait to take out their frustrations on a fresh victim. As the noise increased, Frank motioned for Phyllis to walk behind the nearby pavillion, obstructing their view of the stage and muffling their conversation from the audience.

“Well, what do you want, Frank?” asked Phyllis, hands on hips, all pretense of conviviality gone. “I’m not selling you any of my licenses, if that’s what you want. I got ‘em first, fair and square.”

“That’s not what I want,” said Frank, his grin widening his face much farther than was natural. Phyllis backed against the wall. With superhuman speed he pinned her against the plaster, covering her mouth with long, thin fingers. His features grew colder, craggier; his teeth lengthened so his sharp incisors overlapped his lips.

She struggled against him as he sunk jagged teeth into her neck. Soon her body went limp, and Frank pulled back to wipe her life’s blood from his lips.

No one witnessed their transaction of words and blood except for a small black cat. The creature paused in its travels to gaze at them with bright, emerald eyes. Then it picked at some produce beneath the carts. The poet’s audience was in full swing now, booing and hissing at the top of their lungs, hurling fruit and the occassional rock with reckless abandon.

Frank smiled. The rocks might hurt, but he didn’t mind the undead poets feeling some pain. They were a disgrace to monsters everywhere.

**All episodes listed here.

**Look for the next exciting installment of Pinholes next Tuesday, same cat-time, same cat-channel… uh, blog. I mean, blog.

The muses run Cloud 9, the divine repository of inspirations, under the benevolent dictatorship of Hermes – messenger of the gods. The Olympians, devoted nepotists, almost exclusively hire their many and varied family members. The divine and semi-divine collaborate, stock, check-out, and deliver the inspirations of Cloud 9 to the world.

Hades found Helena arguing with her half-brother, Alien Love Child, and her supervisor, Hermes. She waved her fountain pen in front of them, like a conductor of words. “Armageddon!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you see the risks?”

The iridescent alien’s skin paled to a pale green; he covered his eyes with several tentacles.

Hermes smirked. He popped some Jordan almonds into his mouth before responding. “But you said yourself that dangerous ideas can change the world in wonderful ways. We just need to be aware of the risks.”

“ARE you?” countered Helena.

“Of course,” said Hermes. “Nothing gets past me.”

Helena’s gaze raked the room. Her half-alien brother, AL, withdrew behind a large winged-back chair. Morpheus gaped at both Hermes and Helena. From behind bookshelves in the room’s far corner, a dark-haired figure grinned.

That is, until he spotted Hades in the doorway.

“Where is that misanthropic son of mine?”

All figures turned to watch the dark, imposing god that stood in the doorway. He turned flaming eyes to the far corner of the room, extended one thin finger, and bent it toward him. “Nicholas,” he said, his tone low and dangerously smooth. “Daddy has some issues to discuss with you.”

The pale boy made his way forward, a convict on his last walk to the gallows, a trail of tissues in his wake. “Yes, Father?”

“Don’t give me that,” said Hades, looming over the boy. “I know what you’ve been up to.”

“So do I,” chimed in Hermes, wearing a 14-carat smile.

“Well, I don’t!” said Helena.

“Watch it, sweetheart,” said Hermes, with a warning glance toward Hades. “The lord of the dead isn’t as indulgent of subordinates as I am.”

Now Helena’s mouth hung open, matching that of Morpheus; the god of sleep stood frozen between Hermes and Hades as though struck by lightning.

“Direct supervisor; remember?” said Hermes, with a wink.

“Nicholas,” said the dark lord, “I think you have some explaining to do.”

“Armageddon?” squeaked Morpheus, finally finding his tongue. “What in Hades-”

“Yes?” answered the dark lord. “Oh, I should have known you’d come running here to…” He made a dismissive gesture toward the room’s other occupants.

“I’m so sorry, Hermes,” said Morpheus, clutching his friend’s arm. “I had no idea.”

“But HE did,” said Helena, watching the messenger god. “You knew all along; didn’t you, Hermes?” She pulled a candy square from the recesses of her pink, ruffled sweater and popped it in her mouth.

Hermes’ self-satisfaction was evident.

Hades grinned also, but the pale, thin figure in his shadow glowered at the messenger god. “How did you know?” he asked.

Helena, Alien Love Child, and the others leaned in.

Hermes reclined behind his mahogany desk, hands behind his head. “Easy, my dear comrades. INK.”

They exchanged puzzled expressions.

“Squid ink, people… from Alien Love Child!” He shot the alien figure an apologetic look. “Sorry, buddy, but when you compose inspirations using your own ink… it’s kind of a giveaway.”

Again, puzzled expressions.

“Squid ink has a bit of an odor, doesn’t wash off well.”

Now Alien Love Child’s skin bloomed crimson.

“But I had Morpheus deliver the inspiration to you,” said Nicholas, glaring at the god through red-rimmed eyes.

“Well, the parchment he showed me… nice dress by the way, buddy.”

He nudged the god, and Morpheus blushed.

“The ink was splotched in places,” said Hermes. “I know you have issues, Nic, but if you’re planning something dastardly, make sure you don’t leak all over the evidence.”

Now it was Nicholas’ turn to blush. He shot Helena a sheepish look.

All eyes turned to the bestial beauty. “What?” she asked.

“Tears,” said Nicholas. “I… I…” He shrugged and handed her a crumpled notebook.

She read:

“The beast never lived that was as beautiful as Helena,

When I first saw her face, that’s when I fell in love-ena.”

She looked up. “I had no idea…”

“But if you loved her, why would you try to destroy everyone? I mean…,” Morpheus looked around. “She’s part of everyone; right?”

AL put a protective tentacle around Helena’s shoulder, which made unattractive, squelching noises as suckers hit pink taffeta.

“I don’t know WHY,” confessed Hermes. “But it’s obvious. He’s always moping along, giving her dopey looks behind her back…”

“He has allergies,” said Hades, meeting everyone’s startled expressions. “What! You think he cries constantly for no reason?” He looked at his son. “OK, yes, that too, but he’s allergic to fur.”

“Our love was doomed,” pleaded Nicholas, sniffling into a tissue. “If I couldn’t have you…”

“You decided to DESTROY me? Along with everyone else?”

Nicholas shrunk behind his father, who said, “My son has a taste for melodrama. His mother is muse of tragedy, after all.”

“And speaking of tragic,” said Hermes. “Fell in love-ena? Ye gods, what were you thinking?”

Nicholas lunged for the messenger god, but his father caught his jacket. “Whoa there, son!” Nicholas panted with anger and exertion. “Don’t worry, boy. You have a taste for tragedy? When I tell your mother, you’ll be starring in your very own.”

Hades turned and – pulling the struggling boy behind him – disappeared through the doorway. Little puffs of steam fell from the hankies left in their wake.

“You won’t punish my brother; will you?” Helena asked Hermes.

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” said Hermes. “It’s not his fault; he just gave it to Nic to file.”

“I TOLD YOU filing was important,” said Helena, smacking the alien, then giving him an affectionate nuzzle. Slime trailed from her furry cheeks to his own gelatinous ones.

Morpheus began, “Buddy, I…” Upon seeing Hermes, he broke out in a matching grin. “Duuuuuude! You got me!”

“True,” said Hermes, draping an arm over his friend’s shoulder. “And you know what else I got for you? The perfect woman. I told you… nothing gets past me.” He winked.

THE END

I hope you enjoyed my Friday Flash. This is the final installment of my ‘Cloud 9′ series. My intent was for each flash to stand on its own, yet fit into the larger whole. To this end, I added short introductions (that appeared before each). I realize this final story might not stand on its own, but I hope it still ‘worked’ within the larger story. Feedback is both welcomed and appreciated.

**image courtesy of UW Digital Collections via The Commons at Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.

The muses run Cloud 9, the divine repository of inspirations, under the benevolent dictatorship of Hermes – messenger of the gods. The Olympians, devoted nepotists, almost exclusively hire their many and varied family members. The divine and semi-divine collaborate, stock, check-out, and deliver the inspirations of Cloud 9 to the world.

Morpheus lounged against a pillar, a surprisingly sincere grin across his face.

Hades looked up from the screen’s flowing text. “Well?

“Well, what?” asked the god of dreams, running his hand through golden locks.

Hades typed a few more lines, then hit ‘enter.’ He leaned back, surveying the golden youth. “I’m confused,” he said. “You haven’t complained about a thing since you got here. You’re not… what’s the word?”

Morpheus raised an eyebrow. “Angsty?”

“Nooooo,” said Hades. The lord of death steepled his fingers as he leaned across the desk. “Disgruntled?”

“You’ve been talking to Mother.”

“Not at all,” returned Hades. “But I am observant of all the citizens of my realm. You’ve obviously been discontent – yes, that’s the word – for awhile. What gives?”

“Oh, I’m still plenty disgruntled, discontent, whatever, but…” He eyed the dark lord. “Can you keep a secret?”

Hades’ grin was full of murder, mayhem, and a bit of cheez whiz that had gotten stuck on his teeth.

Morpheus leaned over the desk. “I’m playing a joke on someone.”

Hades smile faded; he rolled his eyes. “Oh, dear. Another one of Hermes’ pranks, I see.” He sighed. “You’d think, after all these years, you’d find another companion. I do believe he’s a bad influence on you, boy.”

The sound of wind-chimes filled the chamber as the golden youth laughed. “That’s just it, Uncle.”

“I’m not your uncle. My familial relationships are… complicated.”

“OK, fine. My point is, you’re like an uncle to me, so I’ll let you in on my secret.”

Hades eyed Morpheus warily but kept his silence.

“The prank is ON Hermes!”

The dark lord’s eyes flickered with amusement, twin flames that lit his otherwise darkened features. “Really? Do tell.”

“Well, I got the idea when I ran into Nicholas-”

“Mmmm Hmmm?”

“-and he was telling me about filing all these inspirations.”

“Yes, yes, the boy is good at his job.”

“Well… I came to Hermes in a dream – not as myself, of course. I took on the form of this nymph he fancies, but-”

“Nymph?” Now it was Hades’ turn to raise an eyebrow.

“Yes, and don’t think THAT wasn’t awkward. But anyway… I led him to this inspiration-”

“Yes?”

“Well, yeah. He’s been looking for a way to streamline deliveries, so now he thinks he’s found this brilliant idea, and-”

“Dear, boy,” said Hades. “I know we have eternity, but even that might pass before you get to the punchline.”

“OK, listen. Hermes is always the one with the bright ideas; right?”

Taking Hades’ silence for agreement, the god continued, “I just wanted to fool him for a change, instead of being the-”

“-sidekick?”

“-ACCOMPLICE!” said Morpheus, louder than he’d intended.

“Are you going to tell me this brilliant plan or should I…?” Hades poised long, slender fingers over his keyboard.

“You know how Hermes can be a bit…” Morpheus made complicated hand and arm gestures, which Hades took to indicate an inflated ego.

“Yes.”

“Well, in the dream – I was subtle -”

Hades kept quiet.

“I led Hermes to this great idea that would save him, me, everyone really- tons of work. He’ll never suspect I-”

“-did your job by delivering inspirations?”

“I was SUBTLE,” said Morpheus. “OK?” Hades waited. “When Hermes implements it, he’s bound to brag. Then I’ll reveal it was really-”

“You.”

“Yeah. He’ll have to eat crow… and the way HE brags? It’ll be quite the feast. I can’t tell you what that would mean to me.”

Hades stared.

“We’re buds. He’ll get over it! But the look on his face when I tell him it was ME?” Morpheus smiled. “Let’s just say, it’ll sustain me for quite awhile.”

Hades considered. “And you came up with this idea all on your own?”

“Well, I’ll admit, Nicholas jogged a few braincells-”

“-that were loose to begin with,” muttered Hades.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. It just seems you could have played a less elaborate – yet equally satisfying – prank, simply by revealing yourself as the nymph in his dream.”

“The nymph…” Morpheus winced. “Damn! Why didn’t I think of that?”

Hades – despite his reputation – was not a cruel god; he bit his tongue. He asked, “What inspiration did you plant?”

“Oh, he’s going to upgrade humanity! By downloading inspirations directly into their minds, we won’t need to deliver them anymore.”

“And where, perchance, did you get this brilliant plan?”

“Well, I told you I bumped into Nicholas. Nice kid. I feel sorry for him.”

“That goes without saying. He’s my son.”

The god studied his sandals. “Anyway,” continued Morpheus, breaking the silence, “Hermes picks on the kid a bit, and Nic might get a kick out of Hermes eating crow.”

“Indeed.” Hades’ eyes smoldered. “And Nicholas gave you this idea?” The fire in Hades’ eyes burned brighter. “My misanthropic son, he of the bad hair and the never ending box of tissues?”

“Yeah, poor kid, said Morpheus. “Anyway, maybe if Hermes gets taken down a notch, he might be nicer to him.”

“Yes, the kid, I imagine, would quite like the plan you’ve so conveniently devised.”

There was more than a little pride in Morpheus’ grin.

“Indeed,” said the Hades, stroking his chin like a cartoon villain. “Tell me. Would this ‘upgrade’ apply to gods as well?”

“Of course! Gotta keep with the times. Right, Chief?”

“They do seem to call for some changes,” agreed the dark lord. “I think my son has more coming to him than he realizes.” He glowered at a startled Morpheus, who beat a hasty retreat.

In the now empty room, Hades spoke to the darkness. “I think Nicholas needs some Father-Son time.”

*

I hope you enjoyed my Friday Flash. This is part 5 of my ‘Cloud 9′ series. My intent is for each installment to stand on its own, yet fit into the larger whole. To this end, I added a short introduction (that appears before each installment). Does the story stand on its own? Do the characters, setting, and plot work? Feedback is both welcomed and appreciated.

**image courtesy of UW Digital Collections via The Commons at Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.

The muses run Cloud 9, the divine repository of inspirations, under the benevolent dictatorship of Hermes – messenger of the gods. The Olympians, devoted nepotists, almost exclusively hire their many and varied family members. The divine and semi-divine collaborate, stock, check-out, and deliver the inspirations of Cloud 9 to the world.

Nicholas rounded a corner, propping the freshly-minted inspirations against a shelf to draw, deep ragged breaths. If Hermes only knew what he had done… but no, that wasn’t possible. The god was just being his usual, jocular self at the expense of his employee. What need he care for the misfortune of a subordinate?

He wanted to bean the bastard in the head with one of those damned Jordan almonds he loved so much.

Nicholas allowed himself one of his more infrequent occurrences – a smile. It spread across his face like a crimson snake slithering across marble. The sight was less than pleasant, which made it all the better that there were no observers nearby. It might have tipped them off to his plan.

Misfilings were quickly caught and refiled by the pernicious Helena. The pale youth blew back the stringy raven hair that had fallen over his eyes. What a vision! He pictured her in his mind’s eye: her deep brown eyes, her full rich lips, her shaggy fur. Oh, if only she weren’t so out of reach!

He reached for another hanky, dabbing the ends carefully against the raw flesh beneath his streaming eyes.

Still, Mother should be proud. Poor Morpheus had been duped all too easily into tricking Hades – eager for the opportunity to prank the prankster. Little did Morpheus realize the ultimate price of taking advice from Nicholas. The youth considered.

Perhaps he would write an epic poem about it. That should please Mother.

And why not? His employers and all who had scorned him would pay for their derision. Their self-confidence would be their downfall. Messing with the minds of man? Manipulating the other gods to their own tragic ends… Why wouldn’t the muse of tragedy love that?

And Helena… he sighed. Helena would be gone – along with all the others. She had never intentionally caused him pain, but her sheer beauty – coupled with her unavailability – made her mere existence a torment to him. Alas… If only his allergies weren’t so severe! But the merest hint of hair made his body betray him in the most excruciating way. If Helena returned his love, it would probably kill him.

He pulled a crumpled notebook from his pocket and scribbled a few lines: Tormented both in body and soul, the lover’s allergies took their toll… It never hurt to be prepared. The next great poem might only be a few lines away.

*

I hope you enjoyed my Friday Flash. This is part 4 of my ‘Cloud 9′ series. My intent is for each installment to stand on its own, yet fit into the larger whole. To this end, I added a short introduction (that will appear before each installment). Does the story stand on its own? Do the characters, setting, and plot work? Feedback is both welcomed and appreciated.

**image courtesy of UW Digital Collections via The Commons at Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.

“What are you selling again?”

The man with the paunch sagging through his frayed sweater scratched his comb-over and contemplated the stranger on his doorstep. He watched the man remove his fedora, run fingers through his short-cropped blond hair, then replace his hat. “Lightning rods,” he said. He fidgeted with the worn leather satchel.

“That’s what I thought you said,” said Horace, his gaze pinning the younger man like a bug under glass. “You do know this is the twenty-first century; right?”

“Oh, yes,” said the salesman, brightening. “I’m glad you brought that up, sir. You see, some of the world’s great minds believed in the usefulness of lightning rods. Why, Benjamin Franklin invented one! Tesla improved on Franklin’s design and-”

“Cut the crap, kid,” said Horace, turning his gaze upon a falcon that flew through the deep blue sky. “Why do I need one? I’m not exactly living in a skyscraper now; am I?” He gestured to the decaying floorboards of the porch he now stood upon.

“Listen, sir,” said the salesman. “I’m not just selling rods. I’m selling a lightning protection system. You see, the idea is to place these so-”

“Again, kid,” said Horace, eyeing the clear azure beyond the salesman’s head, “I don’t really need them… uh, it.”

The salesman’s face fell, and the older man’s expression softened. “It just seems like you don’t know your market here. I mean, I’m in the middle of nowhere. I’m not living a life of luxury… What made you think you’d make a sale here?”

The young man sighed. “Listen,” he said, blue eyes pleading. “Could you maybe just buy a couple? My old man, he… uh.” His shoulders sagged. “I really need to make this sale.”

Horace sighed, looked up into the heavens, then said, “Family problems, eh?” He rubbed his left eye. Its pupil never dilated, though the sun had retreated behind some clouds. “I know what that’s like,” he said, and blinked. “Tell you what… I have some money put aside. Hell, I’m old. What am I saving for; right?”

The salesman’s face lit up. “You won’t regret it!” he said, pulling a long metal bar from his satchel. “I’ll even install it myself. Cash or check?”

“Oh, heck,” mouthed Horace, fishing around in a clay jar inside the door. “Cash. A check just feels like an unpaid debt til it’s cashed anyway.” He handed the younger man a wad of bills.

“Thank you,” said the salesman. “This’ll make the old man so happy. My first sale!” He smiled, then sobered. “Don’t worry. I’ll install it for you right away.”

“Ah, I have faith in you,” said the older man. “You just take care of that, and I’m going inside to watch my soaps.” He turned his back on the grinning salesman and let the door creak shut behind him.

“Faith,” said the younger man. “If only more people had faith.” His dusty traveling cloak melted into a sparkling white toga, his battered leather boots into golden sneakers that sprouted tiny golden wings. The fedora became a gilded helmet with matching wings. He looked at the roof, sighed, and rose into the air. “Father, don’t you think this is a bit petty?”

Heat lightning flashed, followed by a faint rumbling. The god went about the business of installing the rods without grounding them. “I know you’re competative, but-”

Another flash, another rumble. “Fine, target practice,” grumbled the god. “Have it your way.” He sighed again. “I’m all for pranks, but this? Swindling an old man into making his house target practice? It’s just… such a waste of my talents.”

Rumble.

“Fine, I’ll be home for ambrosia later.” The golden youth picked up the leather satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and leapt from the roof.

From the second story of the farmhouse, Horus sipped his tea and watched the winged figure diminish, swallowed by distance. “I don’t hold it against you, poor lad,” he mused. “No one picks their family.” He touched his eye again, then picked up the pamphlet from the table.

Zeus could play his prank while he was at the museum. The Egyptology exhibit promised to be even more popular than the Greek one, and he had tickets for opening night. He could repair his home when he got back.

Even for the god of a long dead religion, godhood had its perks.

THE END.

*I hope you enjoyed my #FridayFlash. On Sunday, I will post a new episode of the My Writing Niche podcast. In the meantime, have a lovely weekend.

**image courtesy of Bigfoto.com