(A friend of mine gave me a list of words to use in a story....in order........and bonus points for using the word 8-track).




On a dark desert highway...
Sally was beginning to feel like she was going insane. She'd had the song "Hotel California" stuck in her head for days. She couldn't remember why it popped into her head, or if there was a reason, but unfortunately it was one of those songs where she knew all the lyrics, so there was no way to get it out. She wondered if she actually PLAYED the song, if that would help. She had just found her 8-track player the other day, and she knew she had a few Eagles 8-tracks. Perhaps that'll help.

Cool wind in my hair....
The situation had become dire at this point. She could think of nothing but that damn song. She was humming it. She was singing it. Hell, she even danced around to it a few times. She got out the 8-track player. However, she was going to have to rewire a few things before she could activate it.

Warm smell of colitas...
Thirty minutes later, (this whole time she had the ending guitar solo going through her head over and over and over), she got the 8-track plugged in, hooked up and ready to go. She switched it on. The light indicating the program number about lit up the room. Which was promising. If that thing still glows, then the 8-track will probably still play.

Rising up through the air...
So, the 8-track player was up and running. Now, the only challenge was to find the 8-track tape itself. She knew she had it. It must be somewhere with her other antique media....records, beta tapes, laserdiscs.

Up ahead in the distance...
And in the back of the closet, farther than she thought was possible without violating the very laws of physics....she found it. The 8-track tape box.

I saw a shimmering light...
She made it out of the closet alive. The closet was full. It was like a jungle in there. She thought for a moment she saw a man shoot an arrow at her. But it just turned out to be the home version of Jumanji in the other corner.

My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim...
 So 8-track tape in hand, and a narrow escape from the closet later. She started up the 8-track player....and played the 1976 recording of “Hotel California.”

I had to stop for the night...
She listened to it forever...well, that’s a bit misleading. But to be fair to her, it did SEEM like forever. But it did work. The song was out of her head. She had beaten it. She had indeed checked out of the Hotel California. She celebrated with a glass of wine, and changed out the tape. She sang along with Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots are Made for Walking” instead and was happy.

What Sally forgot was that in the Hotel California, you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.

This actually happened to a friend of mine.  I may or may not have embellished it...


Well, it seemed like a normal morning. However, you know by reading this that there can be nothing normal about it (otherwise it would be a very boring story and you would have probably stopped reading to do something more interesting like watching paint dry.) However, Drew did not have the luxury of that knowledge. He just woke up, and decided to look for cd's. Nothing that dangerous really. So how could Drew have known what was to befall him? Could he have known?

It is well established that Drew's zodiac sign is Cancer. He reads his horoscope daily. He read it that morning.

Horoscope for Cancer: It will be a day filled with sweetness.

(Looking back, he didn't know how dead on accurate that short sentence was).

Sweetness, he thought. Seemed like a damn good horoscope. He smiled. It was going to be a great day. He was looking for a few cd's. A bunch of them were apparently still in boxes from the move. Said boxes were on the top shelf in the closet.

To be fair, it was a tall closet. 50 feet tall if a foot. He had to stand on 9 chairs just to barely reach the shelf in question. It was a dangerous job, but the cd's needed rescuing. He'd heard them call in the night. (in other words he had a few of the songs on those cd's stuck in his head--but rescuing sounds better…and more heroic). So he began stacking chairs. Once he had grouped them by width and height and stacked them appropriately so that he could balance, he began the task at hand……finding those cd's.

They were in the very back of the closet. Behind a stockpile of food. There were thieves everywhere. Hungry thieves. And Drew knew this. He knew that he needed a stash of food for when the thieves came. They'd never know to look in this closet. Plus, given its height it would take a while for any thieves to get to the food……long enough for the thieves to risk discovery. It was a perfect plan. Except for the….well keep reading.

Sugar was the most important staple for Drew. He had bags and bags of it in the gargantuan closet. Stacks and stacks of the sweet condiment. It was to be his undoing.

As Drew reached far back into the closet for the box of cd's, it happened. The stockpile of sugar started to fall. Bag after bag of sugar started to fall on his head. He tried to cry out in fear, but he just ended up swallowing ½ pound of sugar in the process. He also began to lose his balance. He plunged down 50 feet to the hard ground below.

Since it was a long fall, he had time to ponder the situation. What had happened? How did those bags get opened? He'd not opened them. It was then that he saw the menacing look on the cat's face. The cat grinned and looked up at him as he was falling. It was then that he knew. The Fonz (his cat) had done it as payback. But payback for what he never had time to figure out as that was when he hit the ground.

He stood up and pointed an accusatory finger at the cat. But as he did, his trusty shoes failed him. The sugar was all over the floor creating a slippery surface. He fell quickly, and as he got back up, he fell again. Numerous times. It was a scene only seen in the greatest of slapstick comedy. However, this was not comedy. This was real life. An evil plot apparently well planned out by a feline that he thought he could trust.

As he finally managed to stand, he realized that he was covered in sugar. From head to toe. It was in his hair, his ears. He was sugar coated. Looking like a snowman. A frightening sight. The cat had not planned this part. It was rather unsettling to him. A chase ensued, causing furniture to overturn, glass to break, and the death of many ants who had just discovered what they referred to as "the lost city of sugar."

The chase ended as quickly as it had begun, as both had swallowed too much sugar and were starting to crash.

Based on a true story.



© 2008 Tina Leach

This was actually started as an idea for a short film. The local film co-op asked me to come up something. I figured I'd write the story, then make a script out of it. The movie turned out to be a production disaster and the little footage we have isn't really usable.

Everyone thought it was a good idea to hire them. I mean, who would’ve ever thought of it before, but it was perfect: ninja stagehands.

No one wants to see a bunch of stagehands moving furniture about, taking forever to change sets. Ninjas were the perfect answer. They dress all in black, they move quickly (very quickly). Hell, you never even SEE them. One minute your scene is a forest, the lights go down. Less than 3 seconds later you’re in the master bedroom of a mansion! Less than 3 SECONDS! It’s insanity. 

But there was a problem. See, I hired these guys at the same time (they answered the same ad). I noticed upon their hire that they seemed to exchange a few glares. But it didn’t seem to be a problem. Hell, who cares if they don’t talk to each other—they don’t talk to anyone.

Things went smoothly for a while. During performances, the sets were changed before the actors could change costumes. 

One night after a show everything changed. The show itself was great. As usual, the scenery changed with the blink of an eye. We had gotten to the point that we didn’t even close the curtain. The audience watched as the set just immediately changed. A puff of smoke and voila! new scene. The crowd was amazed. 

It was after the show that all hell broke loose.

That night had been the last night of the performance. The ninja stagehands were busy taking down the set (in some fast motion, almost invisible way). We were all standing around watching fascinated.

But then, in one split second moment that seemed to last forever, we saw the board fall, fall, fall out of the ninja’s hands……and onto the other ninja’s foot. 

There was a moment of silence. Not the normal ninja quiet. More of a foreboding “something is about to go down” type of quiet. 

We stood silent ourselves, unable and frankly afraid to move. Both ninjas had stopped moving and were just glaring at one another. Neither had moved or looked away in this span of time. (It seemed like 4 hours, but my watch said it was just a few minutes). 

We all waited in apprehension. What was about to happen? What could we do? So we did what anyone would do…….wait it out.

Someone in the crowd coughed. This small noise caused both ninjas to immediately take a fighting stance. 

We heard the sound of a gong. 

The door to the theater burst open and a crowd of people (all either ninjas or some sort of martial arts expert) ran in and stood behind (for lack of information) Ninja #1. 

Then a second group of people (again all either ninjas or martial arts experts) joined in behind (don’t know his name either) Ninja #2.

They stood there looking at each other. Fighting stances. Then someone somewhere yelled “MORTAL KOMBAT!” and it was on. Let the bloodbath begin.

It was a strange (and quite random) sight to see, what with all the techno music that appeared out of nowhere. 

The actors still stood watching, frozen. A few were caught in the crossfire of swords and Chinese stars. Actually, truth be told, all of them were eventually killed. (Let that be a lesson to you. Never become a spectator at a ninja fight). 

By this point, the fights became one on one. And to the death. A few times I heard what sounded like a disembodied voice saying things like “finish him!” or “fatality!” but I can’t be sure. 

At some point, only the 2 ninjas remained. They were just about to fight when, in a heroic effort, I found the stereo that was playing the techno ninja fight music. I immediately switched off the cd player. The ninjas stared at me stunned. 

Fortunately, I had a stack of old cd’s with me (most of the cd’s in that case I would not want to admit to owning) including Eric Carmen’s “All by Myself.” I put in the cd and turned the volume up louder. 

The ninjas still had not fought, and now had decided to sit on the stage and weep. I took this opportunity to point out that due to the fact that they had killed all my actors, gotten blood all over my sets, and just caused me lots of stress, that they would be sacked.

It was then that I vowed never to hire ninjas again.

copyright 2006 Tina Leach

They had to question their own theology when they realized Heaven had a dress code. Apparently, the Pearly Gates had been remodeled sometime around 1976. Sometimes they were pearly white. Other times they flashed various colors from the reflection of the disco ball and laser lights. They expected the ground to be smoky like a cloud. They did not, however, expect the flashing disco lights underneath the smoke. There seemed to be a party going on in there, but they had to get by the bouncer, Pete.

Pete was all decked out in his white leisure suit, platform shoes, and permed hair. He sidled up to Susan, eyeing her outfit (which consisted of jeans and a Bon Jovi tee shirt from the Slippery When Wet tour). He tsk tsked her and looked away. Next was Ted, who was no better off in his jeans (well broken in…..very well broken in) and a shirt indicating that the companion to his left was indeed stupid. Susan was intentionally standing to his right.

“Oh, no. This will not do” Peter said. They could hear K.C. and the Sunshine Band’s “Boogie Shoes” playing inside.

Susan and Ted both replied simultaneously with an eloquent “huh?”

Pete mumbled something about them not being on the A list, and then answered with “I’m sorry, I just can’t let you in like that.”

“What do you mean you can’t let us in like that? Like what?” Susan asked. Ted just stood there wishing Susan was on his left.

Pete replied with “Look, all I’m saying is this place has standards and you don’t meet ‘em dressed like that.”

Ted and Susan were stunned, and a little more than confused, as they didn’t even own the clothes they were wearing. They could see folks through the gates, lots of platform shoes and sequins. Obviously, they were more than a little underdressed.

Susan finally asked why they were dressed the way they were.

Pete looked at Susan and said “’Cause that’s the style of your soul, mama.”

Ted and Susan tried not to laugh at the fact that he sounded waaaay too much like a burnout from Woodstock.

Ted blurted out “The style of our souls? What the hell are you talking about?” Susan shot him a look and he realized it was a poor choice of words.

Pete continued “your soul man. It has its own style. Good souls get hip threads, man. Bad souls get square threads.”

Ted and Susan started to wonder what exactly they had done to deserve to look like refugees from a heavy metal concert. Poor Susan was even stuck with big 80’s hair. She asked Pete (who was at this time doing a good impression of John Travolta’s character from Saturday Night Fever) why. He continued dancing.

“Look, I’m sorry mama. I don’t wanna bring you down, but I can’t let you in. You’re not on the list. You don’t meet the dress code. It just ain’t happenin.”

“S-so we go to hell?” Susan stammered.

“Not dressed like that.” Pete started to spin around while Le Chic could be heard inside instructing people to freak out.

Susan and Ted were again confused, and quite flustered by this point. Pete explained further. “You can’t go to hell dressed like that either. They have a dress code too you know.”

“This is just crazy” Ted said. “So we’re not dressed properly for either place.”

Pete shook his head in agreement, then continued to shake it to the beat.

“So where do we go?” Susan asked “Purgatory? Limbo? Are we doomed to wander the earth like Caine from Kung Fu?” She started to shake and Ted comforted her on his left. The shirt was now functioning properly. Pete high-fived him for that then explained “no no none of that.”

Ted asked “So where do we go?”

“The Karaoke Room.”

“The Karaoke Room?”

“The Karaoke Room.” Pete pointed to a room that had been there all along, only no one had seemed to notice it before. “Come on, you’ll love it. And you only have to stay there for well who knows, days, weeks, months, years, centuries we’ll see. By then, you should probably know what “groovy” is, and maybe we’ll let you into the club man.”

So they went into the karaoke room. The door slammed shut immediately upon entry (locked from the outside). A guy onstage was singing Margaritaville. They sat down at a table. The guy next to them was chain smoking and drinking straight whiskey.

He looked at them wild-eyed and asked “Do you know what it’s like to hear Margaritaville 4532 times? Oh wait, now it’s 4533.”

Ted answered “Oh man, how long you been here?”

“Three weeks”

“What?”

“Yeah, that’s the only song anyone seems to know. You’ll see.” He went back to chain smoking, his hands shaking. A woman got up on stage and was about to sing, when a voice came over the PA system “Johnson, Wilma? Your table is now available.” The woman breathed a sigh of relief, threw the mic down and ran out the door.

The nervous guy looked at the couple. “She’d been here 25 years, and every time she sang “I will survive.”

“Where did she go?” Susan asked.

“Oh she got out. She was ready. Didn’t you see her disco pants?” He asked like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Ted asked if there was any way to break out or anything.

“Nah, Pete’s a bouncer, he’ll just bring ya back and keep ya here longer.”

“So what do we do?”

“Sing. Oh, looks like I’m up.” The man went up on stage and sang Hank Jr.’s “Family Tradition.” (Several people groaned. Apparently, it was the 1st runner up in song most played.)

When he finished, the dj pointed at Ted. “You sing next.” Ted walked to the stage.

“What you gonna sing” the dj asked.

“The only song I know—Margaritaville.”


© 2008 Tina Leach

Recently a friend of mine recalled an incident that happened waaaay back in 1948. Seemed there was a shooting incident in Cuba. It was quite the happening place. Drinks, showgirls, and all that. Seems there was a particular dancer there that the people came to see.

Her name was Lola.

Oh and she was a sexy thing. She wore yellow feathers in her hair and a really short dress. The boys did love her. Around that time, the manager decided to hire this guy named Tony as bartender. He could help dispense drinks as well as keep an eye on things. He was in essence hired muscle.

Every night she'd dance and dance. Merengue and Cha-cha were her specialties. Tony immediately fell in love with her and she with him. Everything was perfect. Who could ask for more?

Then they met Rico.

Rico was quite the bad-ass. And he had money…..well at least enough money to wear a diamond pinky ring. He thought that he could have anything he wanted, and as soon as he entered that bar, he wanted Lola. After Lola's show he called her over to his table. Lola knew he was some sort of mover and shaker and thought maybe he could get her career in motion. Unfortunately, he had other things on his mind. Rico went a bit too far. And that's when Tony stepped in.

In no less than two seconds, Tony jumped over the bar and with a perfect landing, stood right in front of Rico. There was a scuffle, blood, and a single gunshot.

And that's when things get hazy.

The bar was full that night, but accounts are all different. So just who shot who exactly?

It took a while, but I finally found reports of eyewitness accounts. And what did I find? Conflicting stories. I ended up with three different scenarios.

Scenario#1: Rico shot Tony
Scenario #2: Tony shot Rico
Scenario#3: It was Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass

In my attempts to research and reconstruct the scene, I had to go to a little place north of Havana. To the Copacabana Bar and Grill to be exact. For a while it was a disco, but after disco died, the restaurant became known throughout Havana as THE PLACE to get good chicken wings.

I walked over to the salad bar (where the stage once was) and tried to figure out where each eyewitness was, and what their story was. Turns out that everyone that was in the area of the plasma screen tv saw Tony go down right after the gunshot. In addition, everyone that was in the area of the t-shirt sales counter heard a gunshot and saw Rico go down.

So, I hired experts from, okay so I spent all my money on wings and beer so I just ended up asking some guys at the bar what they thought. And, in their professional (albeit drunk) opinion, they agree on one thing: both men went down. There was a single gunshot. Therefore, the guns went off simultaneously. And both were shot.

However, this does not account for the third scenario: It was Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. One eyewitness claims that it happened like this:

"Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass kicked in the door, shot the place up, killed Rico and Tony, and stole all the cash out of the bar cash register, all the while playing "Spanish Flea" and never missing a beat."

This account was provided by Jorge Juarez, leader of Jorge Juarez and the Acapulco Woodwinds., long-time rival of Herb Alpert. Mr. Juarez is the only person that has implicated Mr. Alpert and his band. And one must not overlook the bitter feud between the two bandleaders that started just weeks after the release of Alpert's "Whipped Cream and Other Delights," which coincided with the release date of Juarez' "Cool Whip and Additional Treats."

I have since turned my paperwork in to the Cuban government. Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass are wanted for questioning and may be brought up on criminal charges for murder and possible robbery.

Copyright Tina Leach

It was his first night as a talk show host and it couldn’t have gone worse. It wasn’t for lack of preparation. He’d practiced and practiced his opening monologue. Knew it by heart. He’d gone through it with anyone who’d listen: friends, family, pets, the wall, the hot space alien from the Andromeda Galaxy (okay, so that was a dream but it could still qualify as a practice and to be fair, that monologue did save her and her people from almost certain doom). 

He thought he was ready. He thought it would go well. He thought “no problem.” 

Apparently, for his first show the phrase “no problem” had temporarily ceased to exist. There were lots of problems, and they started right about the time the show went on air. It began with a tiny little nail. Right behind the curtain on the stage, there was a nail (just a small nail, barely visible) that was sticking out of the stage floor just long enough to catch the cuff of his pants as he walked up to the curtain starting to tear his pants. At the same time, a bee happened to fly into his jacket. He tore that off immediately (while still walking toward the curtain). Then, as soon as he tore off the jacket (while the pants still hung on the nail, and still tearing away from his legs), he started having an allergic reaction from the starch in his shirt. It was burning hot as fire, so he began tearing at his shirt. Still moving toward the stage (all of this happened in about the span of 30 seconds), his jacket lost to the bee, shirt torn to shreds and lying on the floor, his pants finally tear off, clinging to the tiny little nail. Right about this time, he actually stumbles onto the stage and the elastic band on his underwear picks that precise moment to break. 

Did I mention that the network, in order to shake things up, decided that the first show would be broadcast live?

Wardrobe rushed to the scene, trying to help the poor naked man, though unfortunately they had nothing in his size but an old lime green leisure suit, complete with a white wide-collared shirt. It was then that he realized how closely the lucky charm that he wore around his neck resembled a gold medallion. 

Wearing his “new” clothes, he was ready to continue. He wasn’t really sure what to do at this point. His monologue, long forgotten, would not do. He tried to remember any jokes from the 70’s to try to ease the tension, but he couldn’t think of any. He was a kid in the 70’s, and most of the jokes he told during this time generally followed the question: What’s grosser than gross? And he just couldn’t think of any way to incorporate that with Watergate or disco. So instead he just sucked it up and let people laugh at him, not with him. Because they’d just seen him naked, and now he looked like a refugee from 1977. 

It was then that he realized that this was only the beginning. Now he had to interview guests. 

The zoo lady was the first guest, there to show off a few things from their collection. Cute animals? Bunnies and lemurs? Not quite. Try coral snake (you remember hearing “red touching yellow can kill a fellow”? this is the one). She also brought a few arachnids – a scorpion and a black widow to be precise. She also brought a duckbilled platypus for good measure. 

As she walked onto the stage, the duckbilled platypus took off running, broke the leash, and kept on running until he found the host—and promptly bit him. The zookeeper apologized profusely as she tried and tried to pry the bill from off his ankle. Eventually, either due to the zoo lady’s persistence, strength, or just that the duckbilled platypus was bored and tired by this point, he let go. The host tried once again to continue the show, and wrapped a handkerchief around the bleeding ankle. 

The zoo lady came back onstage with the other, less cuddly animals. The first was a snake which, just for kicks I guess, moved with lightning speed out of the zookeeper’s hands knocking the spider’s and scorpion’s cages open before slithering up the host’s arm and biting him on the hand. While the zookeeper was busy trying to get the snake, the spider and scorpion (not wishing to be outdone) bit (or stung as the case may be) him too, each taking a leg for himself.

To complicate matters more, all the first-aid/anti-venom were just lost minutes ago when a disgruntled employee stormed out of his office, stole the nearest car (which happened to be the zookeeper’s car—where all the first-aid kits were) hit the accelerator, lost control at the top speed of 80 mph, and ran it off the road and into a building where it subsequently caught on fire and exploded (the zookeeper owned a Pinto). 

By this time the talk show host was laying on the ground full of poisons hallucinating that he was some sort of rock star, air guitaring his way through an entire set consisting of heavy metal favorites by Motorhead, Iron Maiden, and even a few by Dokken. 

Around the time hit his encore and yelled “thank you Atlanta!” (which was not a city in the state he was in, or of any nearby states for that matter) the paramedics arrived. They were slower than usual given the fact that the only road into the studio was still full of fire and smoke.....and the strained sounds of the Pinto’s badly singed 8-track player still struggling to finish that song by Jim Croce. 

After a few awkward moments due to the fact that the host mistook the paramedics for rock star groupies (there was a lot of groping and lewd comments that would definitely not meet FCC standards), the fast work of the paramedics saved the host’s life. One of the paramedics would later sue the television station for harassment......the other, after years of questioning himself, finally was able to realize and admit that he was indeed a gay man. However, from this day on he found that he was only attracted to men who were talk show hosts and went on to pursue many others. He is not allowed within 1500 feet of Conan O’Brien. 

Full of anti-venom, anti-inflammatories, painkillers, and.....well, whatever you give to someone who has been bitten by a duckbilled platypus, the host needed to lie down for a bit. Plus the last air guitar solo had been quite tiring. 

The cameras were still rolling.

The prop department brought out a little cot for the host, so he could still continue the show. He had a another guest to interview. An actress who was there to promote her new movie. A movie about a woman who overcomes her own personal demons and finds a way to make it in this harsh world. She learns a lot about life, and a lot about herself along the way. In other words, she was going for the Oscar. 

The actress was called to the stage, and sat in a chair next to the host’s cot. It looked less like an interview and more like a therapy session. But it was the best the host could do in his condition. He started her interview—he wasn’t totally interested in what she was saying. It was all he could do to stay conscious. He was tired, he was bored, he was messed up on painkillers, which could also explain some of the bizarre questions he asked her like “what kind of tree do you think could give an oak tree a fair fight” or “what character from the ‘Facts of Life’ do you most identify with?” He followed by asking her if she knew how to do The Hustle and started singing the song (his version actually had lyrics involving the theft of a bicycle). 

Sometime around the time the host started directing his questions to the ant he saw crawling across the floor, the actress snapped and started demanding he show her movie clip (since he never once acknowleged that she was an actress, much less the fact that she had a movie coming out soon). He somehow managed to introduce the clip, but afterwards proceeded to discuss instead his favorite scene from the movie “Fletch.” 

The actress by this time was completely beside herself, which was funny since at that same moment the host began to see double. He started telling her (them) that they needed to not dress alike or he’d never be able to tell them apart. He apparently invented an entire movie history for the “sister” and began discussing her more racy films, in too descriptive of terms. The crew had to immediately cut to the other side of the stage where the cameraman was improvising a soft shoe routine to music loud enough to drown out the commotion. They kept the camera on him long enough for security to quiet the host and pull the actress off him. She had become furious and was trying to smother him with the cot’s pillow. She was carried off stage still screaming.

The last to appear on the show was a new up and coming band. They had been watching the entire show backstage and were ready for anything to happen……almost. The host introduced them as “those guys with the one song” and then fell down. The crew helped him back to his cot as the band started up “the one song.” The audience was briefly treated to a bit of normalcy as the band played a song. It was almost like a real talk show. That is, until the host managed somehow to stagger over to the other stage where the band was, scream “free bird” and then attempt to stage dive. Unfortunately, the stage was on level with the floor and all he managed to do was to jump in the air and then land on the ground. More of a stage hop really. 

The band finished the last bars of the song. Then the camera closed in on the host, as he said (his face still on the floor) “Night. Go sleep” and then passed out. 

Epilogue:

The cameraman realized that softshoe dancing was his true calling and joined a traveling softshoe dancing troupe and toured the world.

The actress did indeed win the Academy Award for her movie despite or because of the publicity she received from the show. Unfortunately, due to her violent ways being made public, only directors that were heavily armed with weapons and sedatives would hire her.

The pinto was sadly beyond repair, and the driver was never able to get the sound of Jim Croce playing slower and slower out of his head. 

The talk show host was immediately sacked after the infamous episode. However, upon seeing the wonderful air guitar and stage “diving” incident, Don Dokken immediately approached him to join Dokken. Their new album “Night. Go Sleep” is due out this fall.

copyright 2007 Tina Leach

He didn’t know what to think when they told him.

“You’re the one.  The one in the prophecy.  You will save our world,” he heard the alligator say. 

It had all happened so quickly.  One minute he was walking home from school (he was late since his algebra teacher made him stay after class.  (He was a good student, but tended to daydream a lot, usually about strange and wonderful worlds, the type that feature talking alligators.)  And then it happened.  A sudden flash of light, then an alligator appeared, grabbed him, and disappeared only to reappear in a swamp where the sky was pink, the ground blue, and the water purple.  The alligator was still green, but somewhat shiny.

The alligator explained that this was the land of Spxtlazoq.  However, due to the difference in language the correct pronunciation was “Fred.” 

He was introduced to a world of whimsy and mystery, where things were what they shouldn’t be and things that shouldn’t be were.  He saw blue unicorns and beautiful witches.  Centaurs roamed the bright red countryside.  Various creatures lived in peace among rainbows and sparkly skies.

“We live in peace among rainbows and sparkly skies,” the alligator told him.  The boy, whose name was Nick by the way, was mesmerized, and a little confused as to why they would choose him, as he was just a regular boy.

“You’re not a regular boy.  You’re the one in the prophecy.  You will save us from the one that comes to destroy.  He is coming. Our seer has foretold it. 

“Um…when?” he asked.  “Cause I get my lunch money stolen at least 3 times a week.  I don’t think I’d be a formidable opponent.”

“Oh, not for many years.  We will use this time training you, preparing you for the controntation that will come.”

Nick spent a year training, fighting, learning the customs of the land of “Fred,”  He was happy, content.  He felt like he belonged there.  From time to time he wondered what exactly the prophecy said.  Why him?  But then he’d see a dragon fly across the green sky, or the occasional hovering raccoon stealing glittering trash.  And he’d know he was home.

But eventually, the curiosity got to him and he found himself in the alligator’s study, which was upside down, in the swamp, and orange.  The prophecy was on parchment (as all prophecies are).  He started to read it.  It told of a child that would be found in the land of the Airborne Mammal (he lived on Flying Squirrel Lane) and schooled at the Six Square (PS 36 to be exact).  It described him in fanciful but accurate ways.  And he understood…that is until he noticed the bottom of the page.  This part of the prophecy went unnoticed for 700 years given the fact that the seer’s tea mug was sitting on top of it and no one bothered to move it. (The phrase “you can’t get good help these days" started some 8 centuries ago for a reason.)  He lifted the tea mug (we’ll call it tea, but the seer was known for his love of what he called his medicinal tea and would oftentimes turn violent and ransack his study upon imbibing it.  Many prophesies fell victim to these violent fits and there was a 200 year period where the land based their existence on the coming of “The Great Thing That We’re Sure Of, But Can’t Quite Say What It Might Be.”) And it was then that the boy read the most important word of all in the prophecy:  she. 

He immediately dropped the mug.  As the ancient mysterious tea began dissolving the carpeting and subsequently the cement underneath, Nick’s heart began to race.  He began thinking in questions like Who? How? Why? And finally Huh?

He reread the prophecy.  It described a child, his neighborhood, his school, and even called him Nick the Protector.  And that’s when he realized who Nick was:  Nicole.  Nicole the next door neighbor.  Nicole, who went by Nick sometimes.  Nicole the tomboy.  Nicole that was strong and the type that could fight for the land of “Fred,” and the type that could take someone’s lunch money three times a week.  His heart sunk.  He wasn’t the one.  The talking alligator had the wrong Nick.

While the tea had finished with the foundation and was busy burning the swamp underneath, the alligator entered the room from the adjoining billiard room (it was a big swamp).  He could see that there was a problem…in addition to the burning water under the house.  But he saw the scared child and the prophecy, put two and two together, came up with five, and still figured out the problem. 

He reread the prophecy.

“Oh my,” he said.

“Then I’m not the one,” the boy said with disappointment.

“Fraid not.  My mistake.”  Then with a flash of light, the boy was home in his front yard. Nicole ran over and put him in a headlock, then quickly disappeared with a flash of light and possibly the voice of an alligator. 

Nick was left to lead a normal life.

Of course, if anyone had bothered to move the moldy piece of toast and jam that was beside the tea mug, they might have read the next (and final) portion of the prophecy which said (in much more fanciful terms of course) that the coming of the darkness could easily be avoided by just not trying to find the protector in the first place, because really, it was just going to cause a lot of trouble, being that the Bringer of Darkness and the Protector shared the same name. 


copyright 2008 Tina Leach