posted @ 7:03 pm in [ SPASMS ]

Oh, sure, it started out as a fairy-tale romance, but things got hairy in short order once the vows were said.

Maybe it was her morning breath. He’d thought maybe it would go away when they first got together, but one whirlwind courtship and a Caribbean honeymoon later, those rose-red lips still emitted the smell of Satan’s ass until she’d had her first cup of coffee.

Or maybe it was the sex. His little kink was cute in the beginning, but now his thing about her pretending to be sleeping or dead when they had sex—well, it got old quick. Then again, he’d never fully accepted that all those guys she was keeping house with when he met her were just “friends.” Somehow, that was always in the back of his mind.

Maybe it was her stepmother, a nasty old witch of a control freak whose cooking sickened both of them.

The point was, it usually doesn’t take just one thing to break up a marriage. More often, it’s an accumulation of little irritations, little disrespects. Little mistrusts, chipping away at the relationship until what seemed perfect and beautiful just a couple years ago is revealed to be a façade, an empty shell.

Snow White and Prince Charming’s divorce took place quietly, in the kingdom court. He kept the cottage, she kept the castle. Maybe that was for the best.

Neither wanted custody of the dwarves.


Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

posted @ 2:46 pm in [ Snake & Freaky John ]

Snake smacked his fist onto the coffee table, spilling his beer and startling Freaky John awake.  “Exploding Coffins of Doom!”

Freaky John rubbed the nap from his eyes and wiped a hand over his mouth, dislodging the cigarette stuck to his lower lip.  “No doubt,” he remarked, cradling his hand where the cigarette burnt it.

“No, dude, that’s taken.  Listen, you dress up as a medieval knight, and I’ll be a caveman, except I’ll be like the fuckin’ Matrix caveman, fuckin’ kung fu and shit, right?”

Freak squinted suspiciously.  “Matrix caveman?”

“Exactly.  And we’ll borrow your grandmother’s electric organ—”

“Matrix caveman?” Freaky John repeated.  “Dude, what the fuck?”

“Flames!  At the end, we set everything on fire!”

“Wait a fuckin’ minute.  What do you want with my grandmother’s organ?”

“Dude!  Who do we know that has a coffin?”

“Snake, man, will you calm the fuck down?”

“I am totally the fuck calm!”  Snake punched himself in the forehead a couple times.  “Get a pen, stupid!  More ideas!”

“No.  Ideas for what?”

Snake shook with energy.  “The band!”

Freak yawned.  “What band?”

“The band we were just having a motherfuckin’ conversation about, dickhead!  Our band!”

They were silent for a moment.  The refrigerator kicked on.  It seemed very loud.

“We don’t have a band,” Freak pointed out, accurately.

Snake grinned apologetically.  “In my dream, we did.”

“Oh,” Freak nodded.  “That’s nice.”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

posted @ 5:40 am in [ SPASMS ]

Thanks toRachelle Cornell Nasher.  Another Two-Word story.

Devon was not going to take this lying down.  Too many times, he’d let Donna walk all over him, but no more.  If she thought he was going to overlook her taking his credit card from his wallet and maxing it out again, she was utterly mistaken. 

There were two ways this could play, he reasoned.  One, Donna could be persuaded of the error of her ways and pony up the money.  Happily ever after, end of story.  Two, Donna could pack her bags and leave.  He wouldn’t pursue her legally, since he’d offered her the use of the card in the first place.  The respectful use.  If she left, then goodbye, finito.  He’d never accept her back.  Not if she couldn’t admit such a fundamental breach of trust.

Quantifying the situation pleased Devon.  It was like chess, thinking several moves ahead.  Donna wasn’t that bright.  She didn’t stand a chance.  Either way, Devon would win.

The living room door opened, and Donna came in, toting a Fortunoff’s bag and a box from Tiffany’s.  Devon stood up.  “It has come to my attention that you have once again charged my American Express to the limit.”

Donna dropped to her knees and felt for his zipper.

“But… that’s okaaayyyy,” Devon moaned.


Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

posted @ 7:18 am in [ SPASMS -Vivian and her Mother ]

To eat is to survive to be hungry.—Alan Watts

Vivian lay across the window seat, tracing patterns on the glass and gazing out into the garden, where her mother’s rosebushes stood frosted with snow.

The entire house was filled with roses—Mother kept three bushes in the little conservatory so they could enjoy the blooms all year. Vivian liked the roses, although sometimes she wished her mother liked another kind of flower, too. Roses got boring after a while.

Mother entered the room and sat with Vivian on the cushions. “Have a good Christmas, then, darling?”

Vivian rolled over and smiled. “Yes, thank you. Did you like the necklace I made you?”

“I’m wearing it now. See?” Mother opened the collar of her blouse and fingered the tiny beads. “It’s lovely, Vivian. Like you.”

Vivian reached out with her finger and gravely touched the tip of Mother’s nose. “Happy Christmas, Mother.”

“Happy Christmas.”

Vivian rolled back to the window, but Mother lingered on the cushions. “You’re awfully quiet. Is something on your mind?”

Vivian touched the glass the same way she’d touched her mother’s nose. “Thinking.”

“About what?”


“Oh? Was there something you wanted for Christmas that you didn’t get?”

Vivian hesitated. “Yes and no. I was thinking yesterday about eating.”


“I get hungry because I need food to live. Just so I can live to be hungry again.”

“That’s terrible, Vivian! There’s more to life than eating,” Mother chided.

“Maybe I’m not saying it right. I just meant it’s the same. I want something, then I get it and when I’ve got it, soon I’ll want something new. No matter what you get, there’s always something else to want.”

“You’re so precocious, Vivian. Catastrophically precocious, sometimes.”

Vivian shrugged. “There’s something I want, but I don’t know what I’d do if I got it. Because what’s next? I think if I got it, I would always be happy. But what if I wasn’t? And what would I want next?”

Mother took Vivian’s hand. “We all want, my love. It’s part of being human. So what do you want?”

Vivian glanced down at the wheelchair near her feet. “I want to walk.”

Suddenly Mother was hugging her tightly, rocking Vivian back and forth and weeping into her hair.

“Or a model submarine to play with in the bathtub,” Vivian murmured. “That would be fun.”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

posted @ 4:17 am in [ SPASMS ]

“Hello, is this the party to whom I am speaking?   I have Mr. Cosgrove, of the law firm Cosgrove, Gossage and Vardebedian on the line for you.  Please hold.”

 “Cosgrove here.  About this case of yours.  Can’t do it, I’m afraid.  Terribly sorry, but the workload…  I’ve passed your case along to young Gossage—well, not so young, forty if he’s a day—excellent counselor, your case is as good as won with Gossage at your side.  In fact, I have him on the line now.  Just a moment, we’ll make the transfer…”

 “Good morning, Cosgrove, Gossage and Vardebedian, is this the party to whom I am speaking?  Oh, excuse me, sir, you must have been transferred to the receptionist’s desk by accident.  You’re wanting young Mr. Gossage.  Please hold.”

 (Cough cough)  “Gossage speaking.  Ah, yes, I’ve just been looking over the details of your case, and I’m afraid I’m overbooked.  However, I have managed to get Vardebedian Three—excuse me,  I meant to say, Mr. Vardebedian the third, a founding partner’s grandson—to take the case.  He’s sharp as a tack.  Hold on, I’ll put you through to him now.”

 “Cosgrove, Gossage and Vardebedian, is this the party to whom I am speaking?  Oh, dear, I do apologize.  I’ll transfer you now…”

 “Beady here.  No, that’s me.  T. Horatio Vardebedian the Third, Beady for short.  You don’t want to know what the T stands for, trust me.  Now, let me look at your file…  Cripes!    What the…  Er…  You know, we have a member of the firm who specializes in cases like this.  He’s still a little green, not yet a partner, but I think…  I think he’s the man for the job.  Name’s Porridge.  Let me look up his extension…”

(Telephone rings four times, is picked up.)   “Huh-hello?  Hello?  I…  Um.  (Cough)  I don’t think this phone’s working.”

 “Cosgrove, Gossage and Vardebedian, is this the party to whom I am speaking?  You again?  No, Mr. Porridge’s telephone is in working order.  Just a moment, I’ll connect you.”

 (High squeaky voice)  “Mr. Porridge’s line.  No, Mr. Porridge isn’t here.  Uhhh… he’s sick.  No, wait, he’s on vacation. A, uh, business vacation.  Where did he go?  Uh…  Disneyland?  Hello, hello?  I can’t hear yoooooou…” CLICK!

 “Cosgrove, Gossage and Vardebedian, is this the party to whom I am speaking?  No, I assure you there is absolutely nothing wrong with Mr. Porridge’s telephone.  I’ll put you back with him now.  I think I can get him for you.”

 “Hey, Sandy, thank God you called!  They just gave me this case, and you wouldn’t believe what this nut job…  Oh.  I beg your pardon.  Oh, Christ.  (Sigh.)  About this case of yours…”


Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

posted @ 6:20 am in [ reader participation -SPASMS -two word ]

I’ll be writing today’s SPASM tonight, and I’d like your help! Please leave a comment of just two words (no more than two, please!) at the end of this post. When I get home, I’ll pick a comment, use that as my title, and write a story to go with it. The old “Two Word Stories” rules apply (here, in case you’re not familiar with the concept). 

Don’t worry about your words not being good enough, or whether they go together or whatever. Just try to avoid profanity and obscenity. I provide plenty of that as it is.

This’ll be fun!

xo, Amy

posted @ 6:36 am in [ book -buy stuff -SPASMS -update ]

Hey, folks! Things have been happening at Castle SPASMS. Obviously, I’m writing them again, but there’s more:

1) I’m planning to self-publish a collection of about 200 stories. The stories are already written, of course, but there’s an actual designer designing the book, and I’m not sure how long it’s going to take. Even if it takes months, it will be worth it, because this lady is GOOD. I’ll keep ya posted.

2) I have a CafePress shop. I don’t think I ever mentioned that on LJ, because the shop is small and kind of sucky, but you can check out what’s there if you like:  If I get my act together, I’ll be updating the products to reflect instead of the URL for my LJ.  Anyway, if you’d like to buy a SPASMS mug or t-shirt, go for it. I’m thinking of buying a mug for my desk at work.

3) You might’ve noticed that some of the new SPASMS are a tad longer than before. I’ve always tried to stick with 500 words or less, but writing novels will tend to make you verbose. They’ll shrink to 500 as we go, probably. Think of it this way: More SPASMS for your money! Oh, wait. You don’t pay for these, I give them to you out of the kindness of my own heart! Well, just be grateful, then. 

Thanks to all who’ve been with me for the long haul (since 2004!) and thanks to my new readers. You guys rock. Go forth in triumph.

xo, Amy

posted @ 7:24 am in [ flower -garden -SPASMS ]


It snowed, but only in the front yard.

The back was a lush paradise of verdant grass and foliage. Cool, tropical-scented breezes tickled the leaves. Exotic orchids bloomed around the patio. A puddle near the back of the yard that had never dried from the previous year deepened, clearing and becoming home to koi and miniature frogs. A single lotus blossomed among the lily pads.

It had been a typical suburban garden until the new housekeeper came. Olga was Hungarian or Ukrainian or something. She barely spoke English, just like anybody else from the agency. Olga wasn’t a spectacular housecleaner. There were dust bunnies under the couches and trails of dirt below the cupboards. But the very day she started, a vase of flowers that Mrs. Belleci was going to throw away came back to life. Mrs. Belleci didn’t immediately connect the two events. She was more concerned with Olga’s substandard vacuuming.

Mrs. Belleci’s children were the first to notice the changes in the back. Her son brought an orchid in from the yard and gave it to her. Where did you get this, Mrs. Belleci demanded. From the yard, he said. Mrs. Belleci didn’t believe him, so he insisted she look. It hadn’t come together yet, and there were no signs of actual work—no shovel, no plant containers—but somehow, the yard was being transformed into a botanical garden.

Mrs. Belleci went to confront Olga. Clearly, this was why the housekeeper did such a poor job. Well, gardening was all well and fine, but Olga was being paid to work, not play with flowers. Olga said she didn’t go in the yard. She stayed in the house all day. To prove it, Olga showed Mrs. Belleci the soles of her shoes. They were clean.

Olga continued to work for the Bellecis, and the garden continued to grow. Autumn had arrived, but the trees hadn’t changed their colors. Leaves littered the street in front of the house, but it was still summer in the back. Olga went on a week’s vacation in November. The garden languished. Within minutes of the housekeeper’s return, the grass was green again. The neighbors’ yards were bare and frigid. It was January, after all. Mrs. Belleci’s yard was sunny and warm.

One day, Mrs. Belleci asked Olga to come sit with her on the patio. Mrs. Belleci gave Olga a glass of iced tea. When Olga entered the yard, the flowers opened.

You have a great gift, said Mrs. Belleci. You should not be working as a lowly maid.

I have nothing to do with this, said Olga.

I am going to remove the walls around my yard, so that our neighbors can see your work and appreciate your beauty.

I have nothing to do with this, said Olga. Do not tear down your walls because of me.

I must, said Mrs. Belleci. It is a crime not to share this.

The next day, a team of men came to take down the fences. By the end of the day, the snow had melted from the surrounding neighbors’ yards. By morning, the neighbors’ trees were budding.

Olga was suddenly very tired.

Mrs. Belleci made Olga lay on the couch. She rubbed Olga’s feet. The Belleci children brought Olga tea and chicken soup for strength.

By nightfall, Olga could barely find the strength to speak. I must leave, she whispered.

No, Olga. Please don’t leave. You make our home so beautiful.

I must.

The next morning, Olga’s room was bare. Mrs. Belleci and her children searched the house. Olga had gone.

The flowers by the patio were already dead.

Mrs. Belleci cried.


Copyright 2008 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.


posted @ 8:09 pm in [ perdiferous -SPASMS ]

Thanks to all who commented and e-mailed me reagrding this post. I was really tired when I posted it, and I neglected to mention that it was a standalone piece. We did two separate stories with the same title, which is why I captioned it “Take 2.” Here is the first. We didn’t post the second one because we weren’t sure whether to develop it further.

Anyway, glad people liked it! Sorry there isn’t a conclusion. Maybe there will be, someday.

xo, Amy

posted @ 8:27 pm in [ jam -SPASMS -tim_x ]

 This is a jam, written about two years ago, by [info]tim_xand myself. Enjoy!

From the journals of Dr. Henry Wilkes Tonnage III


My dear friend Howard,


I am delighted to hear that my latest missive finds you well, too many of our friends have dropped out of contact, the reasons for which run the gamut from mortality to geography. All that are left now, old friend, are you, Wesley Barr & I. Wesley, that old adventurer, is planning a trip back to the dark continent; a journey which you can be certain I warned him against making. Especially considering what happened when last we were there. Do you recall that night, Howard? That dark night of screams in the jungle? Of the things we saw, and of our damnable guest?



Henry, old friend,


It has been many years since that fateful venture, yet I recall it every day. I thank you for warning Wesley against repeating the journey; you may rest assured that I have just penned a missive cautioning him against the same.  I am not ashamed to tell you, Henry, that I have relived that horrifying night many times in my dreams. I remember the screams, old friend, but the memory that haunts me most is the recollection of hiding in the tangled foliage in ebon night, daring not to move, lest our guest perceive my labored breathing…




I got a deuced chill when I read your words pertaining to that night.  I sometimes think, perhaps wish, that I had imagined it all, but holding your letter in my hands dashed me back into reality.  I paid a visit to Wesley’s estate, in one last attempt to persuade him from folly, but I’m afraid he has already boarded the Tramp Steamer “Obeisance” to Africa.  All is lost, I fear, for Lord Barr will go once more into that jungle seeking to claim what he believes is his by right…but it is that which will claim him, for it belongs only to our guest of that dark night of long ago.






My dearest Mary,


When you read this letter, darling, I shall be on board the H.M.S. Victoria, headed east. You may contact me via the ship’s wire if needs must. Henry and I are returning to the jungle to save your brother, Wesley. My love to you and the children. There is a possibility I may not return…


My dear Howard,

It pains me to hear that, once again, my brother places your life in jeopardy.  I am not even certain that you will receive this letter before you leave.  Know that my heart goes with you and, should you fail to return dies with you in that forsaken jungle.

To: Quartermaster Jervis, Fort Britannia- Africa
From Dr. Howard Phillips

Mr. Jervis,

I am forwarding this request to alert you of my arrival, and request that you ready the necessities for my compatriot and me.  When I was last in your care I left a particular locked trunk in your storeroom.  Please have it cleaned and ready for me.  That is all.



Copyright 2008 Amy Frushour Kelly and Tim Mucci. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.


posted @ 7:25 am in [ infection -rob -SPASMS ]

Rob has an infection and is on massive anti-biotics. The upshot? He’ll be okay, but I got no sleep whatsoever last night, and now I gotta get ready for work.

Hopefully tonight, after work, drum lessons and whatnot, I’ll write a SPASM.  Fingers crossed that I don’t fall asleep first!

xo, Amy

posted @ 6:12 am in [ SPASMS ]

Thanks to Sue for the first sentence.


“The son of a gun is a bullet,” he says, cradling the revolver.

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.

He squints up at me, looking for a response.

“Okay,” I say. Lamely.

“In films, how many times have you seen the villain talk to his victim before killing him? Explaining what they’re about, giving some long spiel about the Bible or some such thing?”

“Like in Pulp Fiction?”


I swallow. It isn’t hard to see where he’s going with this. “A lot, I guess.”

He nods. “That never made sense to me. A hit man is hired to perform a task without calling attention to himself or his client. Why prolong the event? Why waste time on chat?”

What am I supposed to say? “Right.”

“I know now, of course. It’s a power trip. He’s not talking to the victim, he’s talking to himself. It’s a way to keep yourself from going crazy. That’s my theory, anyway. For the moment.”

I look down at my shoes.

“Then again, there’s the times when a hit man is a sadist, too. Some of us like to torture our victims. The rationale, I believe, is that the target’s not going to live, anyway. He’s dead the minute we lay eyes on him. He’s a toy now.”

I can’t look at him. And yet, I can’t not look. He’s still watching me, cradling the revolver. “You said the son of a gun is a bullet,” I remember. “What did you mean?”

“The gun is supposed to be phallic. The barrel. But think about it the other way. It’s a birth canal.”


“Or put it another way. A gun is an intention.”

An intention. I shift; my body is itching with anxiety.

He checks the chambers to be sure the gun is loaded. “Don’t look,” he advises.

I blink. How can I not look?

“Please,” he whispers.

In the moment it takes to blink again, blood is spattered all over me. He’s on the floor. The right side of his head is missing. My ears are ringing. The gun is still in his hand.

Great. Now how am I supposed to get out of these ropes?


Copyright 2008 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.


posted @ 6:57 am in [ killer -middle ages -SPASMS ]


He had murdered two women already. It was difficult now to weigh his compulsion to kill against the widening police investigation. The urge to kill was mitigated by his instinct to stay alive and free.

Fortunately, the murderer was an intelligent man, a reader. He enjoyed books on history and science. He was also good with his hands. This all came into play when he hit upon his most brilliant idea: to build a time machine.

Feudal England—or, rather, Angleland— was the perfect place for him. No police force, no forensic science, fingerprinting, technology. Additionally, late Middle English was close enough to what people spoke in modern-day England that he believed he could get by. The possibility of killing an ancestor was remote, as his family hailed from Russia. The schematics for the time machine were downloaded from the internet. He gauged that he might be able to travel to the Middle Ages, but probably not back. That meant no toilets. No baths. No modern medicine, were he to be injured or fall ill. Very well, he would take precautions, get any applicable immunizations. True serial killers had to be perfect planners. His own case required a special kind of care.

It took years to build the time machine. During that time, the murderer schooled himself in the technology, trying desperately to engineer a method of return. He was growing older, and the thought of being stuck in feudal England at an advanced age with no medical care did not appeal much to him. Still, he held up his dream of finally being able to satiate his urges. That would have to suffice until the machine could be built and he could travel back and forth safely.

Finally, he discovered that while it was impossible to return from the past, it was possible to return from the future. This was because the future hadn’t happened yet, he reasoned, and this discovery agreed with current scientific theory. He was disappointed, but realized that he was, after all, in possession of a working time machine. He decided to write a paper and hold a press conference. Soon, he was a very rich, if somewhat old, man.

Years later, in his seventies, he decided there was nothing holding him back now. He was old, and he would die soon. Why not go back and satisfy his compulsion? He wrote a note, vaguely explaining that he was going back in time to fulfill a lifelong dream, and entered the time machine.

Instantaneously, he appeared in the middle of a street, crowded with serfs who immediately recognized him as a witch and stoned him to death.


Copyright 2008 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.



posted @ 4:16 pm in [ SPASMS ]

Of the two sisters, Karen was the nice one. Marilyn was the one most likely to do something stupid. Which was exactly what she did, one too many times. When Marilyn was caught driving drunk, she already had a suspended license for exactly that reason.

Easy enough to solve, she thought. “Sorry, officer, I forgot my license. My name’s Karen Cauldwell, and I live at—” she was slurring, but sober enough to give her sister’s address.

The officer checked, and sure enough, a Karen Cauldwell matching the drunk’s description lived at that address. The face that came up on the computer screen was similar enough to that of the drunk, and the physical description—five foot six, brown hair, green eyes—fit. Marilyn was booked and fingerprinted under Karen’s name, and Karen’s license was suspended.

The first thing Marilyn did when she was released on bail the next day was go online to the Department of Motor vehicles site and change Karen’s address to her own. That way, the suspension notice would be mailed to Marilyn’s own home, Marilyn would pay the fine, switch Karen’s address back, and nobody would be the wiser. Karen wouldn’t get mad, and Marilyn wouldn’t get in trouble.

Except that the very day after her address was changed without her permission, Karen went to the DMV to renew her license, and found it was suspended. Angry, Karen paid the fine—she had to have a license, after all—and determined to confront her sister.

But a couple of bad checks Marilyn had written caught up with her, and she left town, pronto. Karen arrived at Marilyn’s apartment, only to find her sister gone.

Well. Time to play a little identity theft herself, Karen mused. Her husband had ruined her credit before their divorce. Marilyn had just been given a credit card by some credit company who wasn’t paying attention. Karen went through the unopened mail, found the card, and decided the American Express card with the $5,000 limit was payback for the fine.

But Karen was basically a decent person. She could never let a bill go without paying it. In no time at all, Marilyn’s credit rating had skyrocketed.

A year later and several states away, Marilyn developed a drug habit. Inevitably, she hit upon the idea of calling up for a credit card. She was astonished to be awarded a $14,000 card with no questions asked.

Karen was disappointed, but not surprised, to find the credit rating she’d worked so hard to establish dropping before her very eyes. It wasn’t difficult to track her sister down in Nevada. Karen didn’t bother contacting Marilyn to let her know she was in town; she simply waited in the dark alley behind the diner where Marilyn worked, with the engine running. When Marilyn came out from her shift, Karen floored it.

Afterwards, Karen took the new credit card and ID card from Marilyn’s wallet. She put her own driver’s license in its place and drove away.

A crackhead came upon Marilyn’s body a short time later. The woman wasn’t too strung out to take Karen’s driver’s license and the cash.

That license sure would come in handy.


Copyright 2008 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.



posted @ 8:14 am in [ hypnotism -SPASMS ]


The Great Mesmero entered the room and spoke to the young woman sitting at the computer. “You have not vacuumed, I perceive.”

She turned in her chair. “No. I was over at the next-door neighbor’s all morning. Lucky for you, she’s not going to press charges.”

The Great Mesmero smiled and made a small gesture, as though he were wiping something away. “But of course. That is to be expected, my dear.”

“Not forever. Post-hypnotic suggestion doesn’t last too long. I had to promise her you’d fix the broken tread on her front steps before she agreed not to make a fuss.”

The Great Mesmero turned to look at Gail. “I didn’t break her steps. I never even entered her yard.”

“I know, I know, all you did was work in the garden naked and convince her that you were really wearing clothes. I get it. Kinky, but you didn’t hurt anybody. The thing is, she remembered after a while. She was in the house, doing some dishes, and suddenly realized you were out there in your birthday suit, and that’s when she started screaming. But she’s okay now, and like I said, she’s not pressing charges.”

The Great Mesmero stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should pay her a call.”

“Perhaps you should wear pants when you go outside! Geez!”

The Great Mesmero patted her shoulder. “I shall endeavor to remember. The mere fact that I did such a thing really does, in your parlance, suck. But I shall make a clean sweep. You do not need to—”

“I don’t vacuum, Frank. Administrative assistants don’t clean. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish answering your fan mail. Oh, and we might have a gig in Finland. Hopefully we’ll hammer out the details this afternoon.” She glanced down at her desktop and saw the envelope. “And another thing. The blank pieces of paper won’t work on me. I want a real paycheck by the end of the day, or I walk.”

The Great Mesmero nodded, embarrassed. It was rather unfortunate that his new assistant wasn’t susceptible to suggestion.


Copyright 2008 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.


« Previous Posts
Next Page »