As the Wolf ran through the woods, he kept looking over his shoulder to be sure he wasn’t being followed. He was almost completely out of breath, hopelessly out of shape, and worried that even those podgy, grubby pigs would be able to catch up with him. It was hard work, huffing and puffing and blowing all those houses down. Especially the brick one. The straw house was the easiest, having been built by the most dim-witted pig of all who obviously knew nothing about architectural infrastructure. That third pig, though, he was smart. Damn bricks. Took him five tries, and the best he could do was make it sway a little. He really needed to start working out again. If anyone in the forest discovered that he was so out of shape, he would be done for. He couldn’t risk ruining his villainous reputation, or his father would kill him. The Wolf family had had the run of the forest for generations, and if he was the one to expose them for the inept useless dogs that they really were, his father would completely disown him.

He kept running farther away from the pigs, but he was quickly developing a splitting pain in his side. He doubled over, tripping himself in the process and falling flat on his long, pointy face. He self-consciously looked around to ensure no one was able to witness his sorry ass. He was such a failure. As he sat there contemplating his languorousness, he heard an extremely irritating, high-pitched sound coming toward him. Was that…singing? He didn’t have time to sit and decipher it, so he quickly (well, as quickly as he could) darted behind a tree to hide. His olfactory sense perked up as the smell of human flesh wafted through the air and into his nostrils. Mmm, young flesh. Female flesh. His mouth began to water and his golden eyes glazed over as he realized how hungry he was.

The high-pitched sound drifted closer, and the Wolf peeked out from behind the tree. Standing directly in front of him was a little girl of about twelve, dressed in a pretty white laced dress with ruffles on the bottom and a bright red hooded cape. Seriously? Who still wears capes these days besides Superman? Plus, that cape was so bright and so red, this kid was asking for it. Begging, even. The Wolf began to wonder if this may be a trap. Was she poison like that apple the witch had given to that Snowdrift girl? She sure was the same color.

The girl began skipping again in the direction of the witch’s house deep in the woods. Was she crazy? Didn’t she know what had happened to those other two kids that showed up at the witch’s house a few weeks ago? What were their names again? Harry and Gretchen? Something like that. Obviously, this girl either didn’t know about the witch or didn’t care, because she just kept skipping along, that ridiculous red hood flopping up and down behind her, swinging her wicker basket and singing You are My Sunshine. Was this kid for real? She was so cheesy and cliché, like something out of a fairy tale, which made the Wolf want to eat her even more.

The Wolf continued following the young girl all the way to the witch’s house, where she stopped to ring the doorbell. He watched from a nearby bush as she stood there waiting, smiling like an idiot and bobbing her head up and down to the tune of her song. When five minutes had passed by and still no one had answered, the girl knocked on the window, putting her hand up as a shield and peering through, and yelled, “Grandma? Grandma, are you in there?”

GRANDMA!?!?!? The witch was a GRANDMA? Oh, this was too good. This was WAY too good. He couldn’t wait to tell his father about this!

“Grandma! It’s me! I’m here with your lunch!” the girl yelled again, but still no one came to the door. The Wolf continued sniggering as the girl turned around on a heel and started in the direction of Rapunzel’s tower. He heard her mumble to herself, “I guess I’ll visit sister first” as she skipped past him, starting to swing that basket again and humming O, Happy Day this time. Okay, this girl just had to go.

The Wolf watched as she skipped away, and as soon as she was out of sight, he headed toward the witch’s house. He let himself in with his key and immediately began searching for a disguise. This may be his stepmother, but she had hidden this little secret from him and his father for far too long. As he started dressing himself in her nightgown, he thought, “Sorry, evil stepmother, but there are no secrets in this family. Time for me to make my father proud.”

He glanced at himself in the full length mirror, pulling on a bonnet and glasses, flashing a smile, and striking a pose. He practiced his impersonation of his stepmother, which he had mastered over the years and which had made him and his father laugh uncontrollably too many times to count. He still sounded exactly like her. The Wolf chuckled to himself as he crawled into his stepmother’s bed and waited for the red hooded girl to return with lunch.

Allen looked at his watch for what must have been the twentieth time in the past ten minutes. He hated office meetings. They were completely pointless and a tremendous waste of time, usually just meetings to plan more meetings. He would much rather be home in bed with his fling of the month, Izzy. She was sixteen years old, so young, so supple, with ample peaches-and-cream breasts that fit neatly into his hand and long, sinuous hair the color of the sun at noon. Her taut, firm little tummy, plump, corpulent ass, and innocent, cherubic face made her the perfect package, his blue ribbon, his prize hog. He had been with many girls like her before, but he had never gotten such a rush and so aroused as he did with her. He conscientiously glanced around the room to ensure no one was paying attention to him and repositioned his hand to cover his Johnson. Damn, he was hard just thinking about her. When the hell was this stupid fucking meeting going to end?? He looked at his watch again.

Right then, the drone at the front of the room gasped mid-sentence about some new policy they were implementing as five Baton Rouge policemen burst through door to the conference room.

“Allen Forman!” one of them yelled, the largest one of course, with the bald head, massive hulking muscles, and scowl on his face. The policeman drew his Baton Rouge Police Department issued handgun and pointed it toward the group sitting at the conference table. Everyone immediately threw both hands in the air as if admitting defeat. Except Allen.

“Fuck!” Allen thought. “Mother fucker! What the fuck?!” as every eye in the room turned to focus on him. The police officer trained his gun on Allen, yelling, “Allen Forman, stand up! You are under arrest!”

Allen’s boss (the drone at the front of the room) shot him a quizzical look as he ignored the officer and just sat there. “Mother fucker!” he said aloud. “How could this have happened?”

He and Izzy had a pact. That fucking little bitch. When he worked his way out of this, he was going to find her, and he was going to calmly strangle her to death. Then, he was going to give her one last goodbye fuck before dumping her on his sister’s doorstep. That would teach her to tattle to her mommy.

Allen was too busy reeling to notice the mammoth policeman manhandling him to put him into cuffs or to hear him saying, “Allen Forman, you are under arrest for unlawful carnal knowledge of a minor. You have the right to remain silent…”

Author’s Note: Believe it or not, this is a true story! One of my family members was actually in this meeting when the cops burst in to arrest one of her coworkers for “unlawful carnal knowledge of a minor” for having an affair with his 16-year-old neice. I’m sure his sister was mortified. I can’t even imagine.

Another Author’s Note: The story of how I came up with the title for this one is interesting, so I thought I’d share. I couldn’t think of a good title, and my husband and I were in the car. I said “I’m really having a hard time with this one…” and my husband shouted, “That’s it! Hard time!” It has many facets of meaning (sexual, jail time, he’s having a hard time paying attention in the meeting, etc.), so I said, “That’s perfect!”

“Ready, set, GO! “  The Church Director shouted as the children scurried everywhere picking up multicolored Easter eggs. The church lawn was scattered with a rainbow of plastic eggs, and the soft yellow, blue, pink, orange, and green pastel colors glimmered in the warm sunlight. Laughter and screams of small children filled the air as their grubby little hands fought over the eggs, which were filled with such things as candy and small prizes like green Army men.

“It’s MINE!” a small voice yelled over the crowd.

“No, it’s MINE!” a bigger voice roared, as a large hand grabbed at the smaller hand’s egg, stole it, and ran off. The sound of crying then filled the air.

“No fighting!” The Church Director yelled, drowned out by the hysterical screams and merriment of the crowd of children.

The six-year-old boy who just had his egg stolen clutched his sky blue basket close to his chest and ran, crying hysterically, but trying to hide it, into the nearby forest. The smell of pine needles, bark, mud, and grass filled his nose as he stepped onto the plush, mushy forest ground. When he looked up, all he could see forever into the never-ending sky was bright green leaves and dark branches looming overhead like arms of demons. It was shady, almost completely dark, as the sun had very little space to peek at him.

As he continued deeper into the woods, his knuckles became whiter and whiter around his basket. He turned to look back, but he could no longer see or hear the church festivities. He plopped down onto the plush ground, tears streaming down his rosy red, plump apple cheeks. His crystal clear blue eyes looked straight ahead, terrified and wishing he would have never left his mommy.

He went to place his basket on the ground next to him so that he could look around to get his bearings, but it was stuck on something. He pulled harder, but it didn’t seem to be working. Finally, he stood up and used all of his 50 pounds to pull as hard as he could, and the basket came loose as he fell backwards onto the ground.

Dangling in front of his face hanging from the bottom of the basket was a dismembered human finger. He looked toward the place where his basket had gotten stuck and was horrified to see the head priest’s body laying motionless on the ground. The young boy let out a blood curdling scream, dropped his basket, and sprinted back in the direction he thought he had come from, forgetting all about the Easter egg madness.

Wonderland is all a flurry with preparations for National Poetry Month this month! We are putting up lovely decorations in blue and white to match the poster, and the Mad Hatter has even made a matching hat! We are very excited about celebrating poetry, and we would love for you to join us! My Cheshire smile is VERY large, from ear to ear!

National Poetry Month was started back in 1996 by the Academy of American Poets to increase visibility for poetry, encourage increased publication and sales of poetry books, and increase philanthropic donations for poets and poetry. Here are a few things you can do to join us to celebrate! Read the rest of this entry »

The world of books is the most remarkable creation of man. Nothing else that he builds ever lasts. Monuments fall; nations perish; civilizations grow old and die out; and, after an era of darkness, new races build others. But in the world of books are volumes that have seen this happen again and again, and yet live on, still young, still as fresh as the day they were written, still telling men’s hearts of the hearts of men centuries dead.      ~ Clarence S. Day

First it was the Kindle, now the iPad. Amazon and Apple. The Queens of Hearts of this Wonderland. Why do they insist on cutting off bookstores’ heads?

I like bookstores. I really don’t want to see them die. Yes, the iPad may be cool, probably one of the coolest devices to ever hit the market; but is it worth the $600 if you’re contributing to the fall of the brick and mortar? Wouldn’t you rather patronize a local bookstore to help keep them afloat? I learned last weekend that bookstores need to make $100 PER HOUR to be able to stay open. That means, if you took the $600 you are about to spend on an iPad and went instead and bought all the books you are going to buy anyway from your local bookstore (and I’m not talking Barnes & Nobles or Borders, although I would still prefer spending money there versus buying an iPad), you would personally be keeping that bookstore open that day. When put into perspective, doesn’t that make a difference? Shouldn’t it?

“Well, why are you insistent upon killing my pocketbook?” you may ask. “Hardcover books are much more expensive than e-books. Why should I pay twice as much just to have a physical book?” My answer to that would be this: isn’t there a feeling that you get when you smell a newly cracked open book? Doesn’t it incite excitement to be able to take in the smell of the ink and the paper, to turn the pages, and to close the book with a bookmark inside and gage how many more pages you have left to read? Do you read with a highlighter and pencil in hand to take notes and mark words or quotes that you like? Can you do any of that with an e-book? How much do you like writers? Do you think that writers are getting any more money or being supported any more with e-books versus hardcover books or even paperbacks? Additionally, e-book devices can be dropped and broken and need to be replaced more frequently, which can get expensive – MUCH more expensive than buying a $30 hardcover book, which you can drop as much as you like without damaging it. And new versions of devices are coming out all the time, which means you will need to upgrade. Are the thousands of dollars that you will spend buying an e-book device, replacing them, and upgrading them worth the extra $10 or $20 onetime cost of just buying a printed book?

I understand that some people out there may be more concerned about being “green.” “Why should you kill the environment?” they say. “E-books are saving the environment. They don’t leave a carbon footprint. They don’t kill trees. How can bookstores be more important than trees? Without trees, we wouldn’t be able to live.” Actually, the idea that e-books are greener than printed books is a myth. Most of the parts of e-book readers aren’t recyclable, they take power to use, there are more materials and batteries used to make them (versus printed books), and they need to be replaced frequently. To me, that offsets any environmental responsibility you should feel toward them.

Plus, I wouldn’t be able to live without bookstores, and neither would the owners of bookstores or book publishers (which are really mainly book distributors, and with e-books, or even just online bookstores like Amazon or Google, there isn’t really a need for them). Bookstores provide a vital service to society. They aren’t JUST bookstores, they are community centers for avid readers and writers to get together and discuss common interests. There is a certain magic in being around hundreds of thousands (or even just hundreds) of books. Bookstores allow the dissemination of amazing writing and the endorsement of amazing writers. As a writer myself, I depend on bookstores, as I’m sure other writers do as well. Without bookstores, where would we meet our readers? Online? Is that as personal as your readers being able to see you in flesh and blood, shake your hand, tell you how much they love you, and get you to sign their books? What would happen to book signings without bookstores?

As the Cheshire Scribe, I am taking a stand here and saying – DOWN WITH E-BOOKS! DOWN WITH THE iPAD! Don’t let our bookstores become a thing of the past like a run-down, dilapidated, gloomy house from an Edgar Allen Poe story. SAVE THE BOOKSTORES!! Are you taking the path of the Cheshire Scribe into the Wonderland of your imagination, or are you following Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum into a robotic, hypnotic e-world? It’s time for you to make choice.

Other Posts on the Subject:

http://www.idealog.com/blog/why-are-you-for-killing-bookstores

http://ireaderreview.com/2010/02/28/do-ebooks-spell-the-end-of-bookstores-and-libraries/

http://blog.nathanbransford.com/2010/02/can-bookstores-and-e-books-co-exist.html

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/christin-evans/shallow-reporting-or-hidd_b_401383.html

So, I decided to take a shot at some children’s stories based on my pets! For those of you who may not know,  I have five pets at home, 3 cats and 2 dogs. My husband and I are always making up stories about what they might be doing while we’re away, and it sparked an idea for a children’s book series. Here is my shot at two stories, one about the day we brought my dog, Tigger, home, and one about the day my cat, Fifi, got out and ran away. We did get her back

Let me know what you think!

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If you have not yet read parts 1 and 2, please do so before moving on to Part 3. Here they are:

Guilty by Association, Part I:   http://www.cheshirescribe.com/2010/01/guilty-by-association-part-i/

Guilty by Association, Part II: http://www.cheshirescribe.com/2010/01/guilty-by-association-part-2/#more-42

Remember, this is a true story!

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PART II

The popular downtown New Orleans restaurant Anything Goes was so popular because of its atmosphere. Each table had a theme, and the waiter or waitress dressed according to the theme of the table. There was a cheese table where the waiter was dressed as a mouse, a mafia table where the waiter was a gangster, and even a cave dweller’s hut that covered a private table. The food was below par, especially for New Orleans; they served delicacies such as burgers and fries and spaghetti. The girls sat at the firehouse table, their favorite due to the sexy fireman that waited on it, and ordered burgers and fries.

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This is a story written in three parts. The other two parts will be the next two Friday Flash stories. This is also a creative non-fiction piece, meaning it is a true story with my own dramatic flair Every part of this story is true.

16-year-old Zoé Haydel sat on her living room floor, her eyes transfixed to the six o’clock news flashing across the black and white television screen in front of her. Her father sat a few feet away in his mahogany wood rocking chair, dozing off as he always did while watching the news. Her mother was hard at work in the kitchen preparing dinner – tossing salad, baking dinner rolls and a roast, and boiling corn. The succulent smells of tender roast beef and sweet dinner rolls wafted from the kitchen, but Zoé was too mortified to even notice. She could not believe her eyes. Could it be? No, it couldn’t be them, could it? The newscaster’s voice droned on to the next story, but Zoé was still mesmerized by the last one. As she realized the implications of the news story she had just heard, her face drained of all color and warmth. She looked down, and she realized her hands were shaking. She was sweating profusely, and she couldn’t breathe. She was just waiting for the FBI to come knocking at her door to take her away, along with four of her friends. This could not be happening. Read the rest of this entry »

One of the reasons I decided to start this blog is to chronicle my adventures through Wonderland, specifically in writing my first novel and becoming healthy and just a happier person in general. I used to be a very happy child, and through the years, I just found myself getting less and less happy. Does this happen to everyone? I started feeling like I had lost a lot of myself and that my dreams were slowly slipping away into the dark abyss of “real life.” I know that everyone says “real life” gets in the way sometimes, but if you let it STAY in the way, it will just become a giant brick wall that you feel you can’t scale, and you’ll be stuck behind it for the rest of your life. So, instead of standing there and staring at the brick wall, I’ve decided to begin climbing it.

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