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.

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!

continue reading "The House of Five Pets Series"

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!

continue reading "Guilty by Association, Part 3"

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.

continue reading "Guilty by Association, Part 2"

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.
continue reading "Guilty by Association, Part I"

Swish, swish, swish. Everything goes quiet. I quickly tuck my head under the crimson and orange vintage cotton comforter and lay my head down on the pillow that smells of dusty mothballs. Swish, swish, swish. I know that any minute, I’ll see a wrinkled hand with raised, blue-green veins mapping the fragile road to the heart grab the edge of the door and push it open. I remain as quiet and still as I’ve ever been, my eyes shut tight and the comforter over my head. Every now and then, I’ll sneak a peek by opening one eye halfway, but then I quickly shut it tight again. My heart is beating so fast that I think it’s going to burst through my chest and end up orbiting in outer space. I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared before.

Swish, swish, swish. I hear a creaking noise – that horror movie sound of rusting hinges and doors that stick. The swish, swish, swish comes to an abrupt halt, and I hear soft breathing on the other side of the door. I’m trying my hardest not to scream, and when a small “eek” of air pushes through my lips, I swiftly cup my mouth with my small, fat hand. Then, just as suddenly as it stopped – swish, swish, swish. Swish, swish, swish. I peek with one eye again, too scared to move, but excited at the same time. I can picture her holding her rosary with both hands, silently moving her knotted fingers from one hand-made Hail Mary to the next. If I listen closely, I can hear her whispering the familiar prayers of the rosary – the Glorious Mysteries.

continue reading "The Great Escape"