The topic for March thru April 2010 is Mystic visions

Who is the Mystic and who is getting the visions is up to you.


1000 word limit.
Contest ends April 15th 2010
As always, good luck and have fun!

Art and poetry are not the first things that come to mind when you think of fighter pilots. And it's true you won't find many fighter pilots given to producing them. The image of fighter pilots as jocks, steeped in patriotic pride and locked into a military mindset, is a hard one to shake. But the art and poetry are still there, hidden in the soul rather than openly on the sleeve.

It wasn’t a party, whatever the office wide e-mail said. For one thing, parties were voluntary. People counted down the day until the big event, and then cut out of work early beforehand to buy a good bottle of booze or bake a dessert. When they were getting ready, showering and brushing their teeth, they’d try to remember that really funny joke they’d heard a week ago, then practice it twice in front of the mirror. And they’d try to come up with a way to make their job sound exciting, if they couldn’t avoid bringing it up completely. If it were a party Harry would not have been trying to think of an excuse not to go right up until ten minutes before he got into his car.

This was the start of an idea to have a group write a story in a common world. Then we added a few central characters that everyone could use -- Mr. Perkins the school Principal. Chief Cody the Chief of Police etc.

Ground rules is you can't kill or hurt them. They must be available to wander into somebody else's story. A few key locations: ticket booth, buffet table, kitchen, bathroom, dance hall, DJ, and you can't trash or alter these locations.

"You have to slur your words more!" Grendel shouted at me. "Fhuuuud nowwwwwwww! Fhuuuuuuuuuuddd nnnnnnnnnnnoooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!"

I slumped. That was okay, not like in Wizard school, where you had to have "bearing". Ugh. Best decision I ever made leaving that place. Still, I wasn't sure about this place, either.

"Foooooooooooooooood nnnnoowww!!" I screamed. "Hhunnnnnggrraaaaaayyyyyyy!"

"Better," he commented. I couldn't tell if he was pleased. Grendel was so close to graduating, he rarely smiled except when he was supposed to. I was still getting the rules straight in my head. Only smile at violence, oh, and really bad puns.

"Cat got tongue bath?" I said, smiling. Was that too clever? Grendel smiled, so I guess I got it about right.

Putting a laser pistol to Hobson's head hadn't worked. Threatening to blow him out of an airlock hadn't worked. Putting Hobson in an airlock hadn't worked.

Commander Conway was furious. They still had ten minutes to get away from the black hole, if their science officer would get off his ass and think of something'

But Hobson wasn't budging.

"Look, Hobson' We know you can do this'"

"No."

"You'll die too if we get pulled in'"

"I'm prepared to die for my beliefs."

"Damn it! Be reasonable!"

"I am."

"Commander," said Dr. Schmidt, "maybe we should just listen to him?"

Conway threw his hands up. He would have liked nothing better than to strangle Victor Hobson at the moment, but that wouldn't have helped him or his crew or his ship.

"Fine! I'm listening! After he gets this ship'"

Wax shimmered as it reflected the overhead light causing it to gleam back into Balkur's eyes. He smiled at himself and took a step back to check his appearance in the dresser mirror. His dark gray suit perfectly pressed without a wrinkle fitted his muscular body well, the black shoes shined with each step, and his ten inch, dark red horns shone with a brilliance that outshined everything else. The last coat of wax had finished off the affect and Balkur felt ready to leave for his first day on the new job. It was the perfect job for him. He would have an office shared with one other person, it was in the field of his degree and in something he loved to do and close to home so the commute wouldn't be bad. The employer only hinted at there being one major drawback but he wouldn't elaborate.


Walking out of his house Balkur could barely hide the spring in his step as he walked the sidewalk, following a flow of foot traffic from in which he got several glances from blue skinned beauties, toward the office. Balkur had been unemployed for the last four months and had visited the unemployment office, just the office to him because he refused to admit that he was unemployed he rather stated that he was merely searching and contemplating better career options without the distraction of labor, each week looking for an open job. The best, and worst, part of the whole scenario was the woman that worked and the office was the most beautiful demon Balkur had ever laid eyes on. Perfect blue skin, terrific personality and she even flirted back a little with him. Of course what chance would an unemployed demon have with someone so perfect? Today was going to be different. He had found this job without the help of the Unemployment Office but was going to use them to give him transportation to the new job. He wanted to make sure that the woman of his dreams, Mazmurela, could see that he had taken care of himself and could take care of her. The extra coat of wax on his horns had been just for her.

Mrs. Wilson, an unhappy librarian, was frustrated with the unending collection of people her desk.

"Where do I get a 1099-Interest form," a patron asked.

"I'm sorry," she held her voice steady as the anger built up, your banking institution sends those forms," She busied herself moving papers around her desk to deter further questions.

The tax season cut into her usual evening of patrons quietly reading.

A demanding, confused lot of people confronted her.

"Can you help me do my taxes," a questioned asked ten times in the last six hours.

"How do I file my taxes?"

"Do you know what this form means?

She started pointing to the tax form table without saying a word when people approached.

"I need help," a gentleman said. He was unusually tall and tilted his head to one side as if contemplating a great thought.

"Yes," she said and extended her finger towards the table while calculating the minutes left until this night was over.

"I want to cheat on my taxes." His words caught her as funny and she let out a nervous laugh.

The Oval Office was filled with annoyed Democrats. Tom Daschle threw a stack of papers down on the desk and shook his finger at the man sitting there.

"What on earth do you think you�re doing?" he shouted.

President Obama looked genuinely surprised. "I thought you would welcome an audit," he said. "I should think if you owed over $100,000 in back taxes, you would want to know it. You didn�t know you weren�t paying all you needed to pay in taxes, did you?"

"Who let this neophyte in the White House?" Daschle cried. "Who let him near the magic lamp?"

"Everybody gets a turn," Barney Frank said. "We just didn�t think one so inexperienced would wish to be president."

"I wished to be a good president," President Obama said.

"It�s your fault too, Tom. We all thought you�d wish to be president," Hillary Clinton said. "Did you? No. You wished for another Michael Moore movie."

In that magic time between night and morning, between Christmas night and Christmas morning, the toys and ornaments came to life.


The electric angel sat on top of the Christmas tree. She was dressed in blue satins and lavender silks and she held the Christmas star high above her auburn hair. She was the most beautiful ornament on the tree. The straw angels that had hung beneath her on the Christmas tree fluttered around her playing beautiful music that only imaginary creatures could hear.


The fashion doll danced with the teddy bear. Tomorrow she would belong to the little girl and he would belong to the little boy. Their worlds would never cross again. They looked up at the statue of the Infant of Prague that sat on the mantle over the fire place.


"Come dance with us, Infant of Prague," the fashion doll called. "Tonight is the night of Christmas Real. You can be real too."

Belinda liked to watch the Harry Potter movies in order; just so she could see the kids grow up before her eyes. It also made her feel a little less like a dirty old lady for lusting after the lead when he took off his clothes for that play about blinding the horses.

The children she taught were nothing like the students from the popular movies and books. Her students were chosen for their lack of moral fortitude. In short, they were sociopaths. It was her job to give them a conscience or at the very least, rein them in so that they worked for the good of society instead of nefarious purposes. Failing that, well, Belinda preferred not to think of such unpleasant things.

So when one of her students, Jezzie Bell -- yes, that was her real name (sometimes, Belinda wanted to smack the parents) -- boiled up a mind control potion, Belinda had some hard choices to make.

On the one hand, it was rather funny to see Joachim (apparently “J” names were in for wizards that year) “bawk-bawking” around like a chicken, but it was another thing to see the possibilities glint in her other students’ eyes.

Belinda confiscated the recipe and erased Jezzie’s memory of creating it. Mind-wiping was another of those skills that danced the line of decency. Belinda understood her students so well because, a long time ago, she had been one of them.

Did you ever have one of those days when everything was perfect? You know what I mean. The sun wraps it's warmth around you like a blanket. The breeze is just strong enough to flow around you like soft water and smells like it had just rained. A day made for walking around in the park and listening to all the sounds, then lay back on the soft grass and close your eyes and feel the life around you move. Yep, that's just how my day started. It would have continued like that all day except for one little roadblock, the sound of the horn.

Of course, that particular noise never intruded on my days when the weather was too hot, or too rainy. No, some twisted individual, I suspect it was a person with no soul, waited until a day that was just right and made for relaxing to call us to the classroom. I rushed across the complex as you did not keep the instructor waiting. As I ran, I saw others from my class hurrying to class as well. One last breathe of the morning air and then I passed through the doors and entered the main building.

Summer school was a drag. Home Economics was the worst; cooking slop for a grade, but at least it wasn�t boring.

Not after we accidentally put death on the menu.

The worst of the worst was washing dishes. Right up until the time we bought well, you've seen the ads.

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Quantum Cookware has the answer for you - the Quantum II lined pots and pans. Move over Teflon and Goldstone utensils; we use String Theory technology to coat the inside of our kitchen wonders with Membrane Universe material.

No more baked on food. No more scouring pads. No more soaking. Food particles not only don't stick - they're not even there! Where did it go? We don't know...and we don't care! Neither will you!

Scientists say that in some alternate universe your pan is still clean, and you can have that clean pan each and every time you cook.

What would you pay for this miracle of Quantum Physics? Forty-nine ninety-nine? Twenty-nine ninety-nine? But wait...don't answer yet...because with each order of our cookware we will throw in absolutely free our Einstein Spatula, with extra long handle and the world famous Hawking Gravy Boat."