Wow! You guys sure are creative. And insane. Your suggestions are all so good, it’s hard to pick.

Then again, I feel badly if anybody gets left out (Hi, Mishey! You’re not too late!), so I’m extending this two-word thing until I get up tomorrow morning. I’ll pick the title and write the SPASM then.

Until tomorrow.

xo, Amy

Reprised from the day after Halloween of last year. You’ll see why… xo, Amy

Gene awoke to a furious pounding at the door. He fumbled for his glasses. The doorbell rang insistently. He pulled on some sweatpants and went to answer it.

“Are you insane?”

Gene blinked at the man on his doorstep. “I… Do I know you?”

“Scott Morrison. I live next door. You’d notice that if you ever bothered to trim your hedges.” Another incentive not to trim the hedges, Gene reasoned.

“Oh, yeah. Hi.” Big yawn—man, it was cold outside. “What can I do you for?”

“You can clean my car, for one thing. What the hell were you thinking, giving kids eggs and shaving cream for Halloween?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I didn’t have any candy, so–”

“So you incite vandalism? Have you seen my car?”

“Mustang, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, I can’t see it under all the egg yolks and shaving cream! Now, wake your lazy ass up and get over to my house and wash my goddamned car!”

“Hold the phone. I didn’t egg your car.”

“You provided the eggs!”

“Maybe I thought they’d make egg sandwiches. Hell, I gave the one kid a waffle iron.”

“If you don’t have candy, you don’t answer the door.”

Gene was horrified. “And disappoint the kids?!”

“The kids will live! My paint job isn’t doing so well!”

“I provided those kids with the means to create a Halloween night they’d never forget! They’ll thank me for it!”

Morrison collected himself. “Look. I’m not trying to start a fight here. All I’m saying is, intentional or not, the stuff you gave the kids last night was used to vandalize my car. I am a victim here. So I’m counting on you to be a responsible adult and take care of the damage. That’s all. Fair?”

Gene thought it over. “Yeah, it’s fair. I’ll be over after I shower.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. I’m sorry.”

“Okay. I’m taking the other car and doing some food shopping. You can use my hose or whatever you need while I’m gone.” Morrison waved and walked back to his house.

A pretty decent fellow, after all. Gene closed the door and took a nice, long shower. Next door, he was surprised to find how thickly congealed the eggs had become. This wasn’t going to wash off without difficulty. Maybe if he wiped most of it off, the rest would come more easily.

He went back to the house. No paper towels. And he sure as hell didn’t want to cover his bath towels in egg. Oh, but here’s a thought… He grabbed a package from the closet shelf.

It didn’t wipe very well, but it did absorb some of the damage. Gene swaddled the car for maximum absorption and went back to his house for a cup of coffee.

The egged and creamed car was now covered in toilet paper.

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

Snake’s head came up from the coffee table. “Fuckin’ commies,” he declared. “Motherfuckin’ commies.”

Freaky John belched. “You got some white shit around your nostrils.”

Snake wiped his nose and reached for his beer. “It’s the goddamn, motherfuckin’ commies, is what it is.”

“Unbelievable,” Freak mumbled, leaning down to put the rolled-up bill in his nose.

Snake’s fist came down on the tabletop, causing the neat rows of white dust to scatter. “They don’t want you to know, but shit, man, the truth is staring you right in the face.”

Freak sneezed and immediately regretted it. “Aw, fuck, man, gimme a piece of paper or something to clean this up with!”

“Face it, man. Superbowl is a national holiday,” Snake continued, grabbing a book from the end table and throwing it on the table. White powder flew up in a little cloud from the impact. “It’s the commies that don’t want you to know it.”

“Un-fuckin’-believable. You’re getting it all over the place.” Freak used the book’s edge to scrape the whiteness back into neat lines and leaned forward to examine his handiwork.

“Think about it. Banks are closed. No postal service.”

Freak extricated a hair from one of the lines. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

“That’s just what they want you to think, man.”

Freak glared up at Snake. “Who’s they?”

“The commies, dickhead!”

“What commies?”

“The ones who don’t want you to know it’s a fuckin’ holiday!”

“It’s not!”

Snake stroked his goatee wisely. “No banks. No mail. Lots of businesses close early. Families get together and eat in front of the TV. Now, what the fuck would you call it?”

Freaky John shook his head. “If it was a holiday, it’d be on a Monday. Like Labor Day.”

“Arbor Day.”

“What?”

Snake tossed his hair back. “Arbor Day. That’s its real name, genius. It’s what Labor Day used to be, before somebody made a typo.”

Freak considered this. “No shit?”

Snake leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “I shit you not.”

“Man, that’s fucked up.”

“Yep.” Snake’s boot hit the coffee table. White powder flew up into the air. “Dude. You got a dustbuster?”

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

Mrs. Adams stopped at the top of the hill to catch her breath. The grocery bags were heavy in her arms. Only a few houses to go, now.

She caught her breath at the sight of the familiar truck in front of her apartment. A tall, sturdy man leaned against the truck, hands in the pockets of his bulky coat. He smiled at the sight of the frail widow. “Hello, Mrs. Adams. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Her shoulders sagged. She couldn’t turn away now. “Hello,” she replied glumly.

“Apples. My favorite.” The man took a piece of fruit from the top of one of her sacks and crunched thoughtfully. “You know, Mrs. Adams, I don’t like doing this.”

“You shouldn’t. It’s a terrible thing.” She set the bags down on the low retaining wall and faced him. “I don’t have it. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“Oh, but you do, Mrs. Adams, you do. I saw you use the bank machine at the grocery store.”

She looked older than her fifty years. “You’ve been spying on me?”

He shrugged. “I buy groceries, too, Mrs. Adams.”

“But it’s my rent money!”

He stood so close she could smell him. “Landlords don’t worry about rent when their building’s burning down. Think about it, Mrs. Adams.”

“I can’t afford it. It’s the end of the week and I don’t have any extra money. I get my check on Wednesday. I’ll pay you then.”

The man looked up at the front window. A birdcage hung between the curtains. A parakeet hopped around inside the cage. “Do you clip his wings, Mrs. Adams?”

“He’s got nothing to do with this,” she said, angrily.

“If his wings are clipped, Mrs. Adams, he can’t fly away.”

She gasped.

“Do you know what it smells like, Mrs. Adams? Burning feathers?”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “Please stop,” she whispered.

He smiled grimly. “Takes weeks to get rid of that smell. Even if you open all the windows, that smell permeates everything in the house, Mrs. Adams, the smell of acrid feathers and something else, something pleasant and meaty…but parakeets aren’t very meaty birds, Mrs. Adams, are they?”

“All right, all right.” Her nose ran as she reached into the lining of her pocketbook and pulled out two twenties and a ten. “I won’t be able to pay all my rent, but I don’t suppose that matters to a person like you, does it?”

“Remember, Mrs. Adams, landlords don’t worry about rent when their building’s burning down. I’ll see you next month, Mrs. Adams. You and little Tweety.”

She pressed her lips together tightly as he trotted down the steps to his truck. What an evil, evil man.

He waved from the driver’s seat when he pulled away. “Thank you for supporting your local fire-fighters!”

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

He peered around the office door.  “I wanna fill out an application.”

The receptionist eyed his multitude of piercings and took a deep breath.  “Just a moment.”  She pressed an intercom button: “Ms. Travers?  A job applicant is here.  Could you please speak with him?”

The manager appeared, tall and slender in her pinstripe suit.  “May I help you?”

The shoulders of his leather jacket heaved as he shrugged a greeting.  “I wanna fill out an application.”

Ms. Travers smiled.  “For what?”

“I dunno.  A job.”  He rested his elbow on the high reception desk, yawning.  “You know.”

“I see. What type of position are you looking for?”

“Whatever.  What do you got?”

The receptionist pretended she wasn’t paying attention, straightening the papers on her desk, aligning the stapler with the three-hole-punch.  Ms. Travers couldn’t blame her, really.  “Do you have a resume?”

The guy looked confused.  “A res…  I don’t think so.  Do you have a men’s room?”

The receptionist began to point to the restroom, but Ms. Travers stopped her.  “Tell you what.  I’ll give you an application to fill out, and from that we’ll be able to see if we have anything available for you.”

“No shit?”

Ms. Travers’ smile didn’t falter in the least.  “Here’s the application.  Fill it out and leave it here with Mandy.  I’ll review it and call you if we have anything that suits your experience and  skills.”

He grinned, revealing a missing incisor.  “Fuckin’ ay.  Thanks, man.”

Ms. Travers nodded and left the reception area, leaving the applicant alone with Mandy.  His pen scratched diligently.  “How do you spell ‘probation?’”

Mandy stared at him for a moment.  He looked up and raised an eyebrow.  “P, R, O, W —”

Mandy smacked her hand on the desk.  “I cannot believe this.”

“It’s not like an easy word,” he stammered.

“This is unbelievable.”

“You know I’m not a good speller.”

She spun around in her swivel chair.  “I’m gonna be working with my boyfriend!”

“I’ll just write ‘parole.’”

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

Again with the writing while I’m tired. Hopefully the results are good… xo, Amy

Maurice answered the door, only to find two zombies standing there.

“Oh, what a relief,” he replied, “I thought you might be Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

“Braaaains,” replied the male zombie. “May we come in?”

“Where are my manners? Certainly, please do come in.” Maurice stepped aside and closed the door behind them. “Can I get you anything? Cup of tea, perhaps?”

“Braaaains,” answered the male. “Tea would be lovely, thanks.”

“Braaaains!” added the female zombie.

Maurice smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t keep any brains in the house. Would you like something else?”

“A glass of water, then. I’m on Atkins,” she explained.

“One tea, one water. Have a seat, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Maurice’s wife Edith was sitting at the kitchen table, doing a crossword. “Who is it, dear?”

“Nobody. Couple of zombies. Kettle clean, darling? One of them wants tea.”

Edith set down her pencil. “Tea? But we have a can of brains in the pantry.”

“I don’t want to waste perfectly good brains on people we don’t know.”

His wife shrugged. “Suit yourself. What’s an eleven-letter word meaning werewolf?”

Maurice set the water on to boil. “Hmm. Oh—lycanthrope!”

“Brilliant. Thanks, love.”

He returned to the sitting room with a cup of tea and a glass of ice water. Another zombie was walking down the street past the front window. “A friend of yours?”

The female scoffed. “Braaaains. As if!”

The male zombie shook his head. “That’s Simon. Bloody poseur.”

“One in every crowd, I suppose,” Maurice sympathized.

“But that’s not why we came here today,” said the male.

The female nodded. “Braaaains. Now, of course, being from the neighborhood, we realize you just recently lost your aunt Marie.”

“Quite often, the loss of a loved one turns a soul to pondering the afterlife. Consideration of an afterlife can bring hope to the surviving family. Braaaains.”

The female offered a slim black volume from her bag. “We’ve brought you a complimentary copy of the Book of Zombie. We believe it may bring you great comfort. Braaaains.”

Maurice smiled politely. “Of course my wife and I are pleased to accept your gift, but I must inform you that we have already reached an understanding of the afterlife.”

The male appeared curious. “So you’re familiar with zombieism?”

“Slightly, yes, but actually, we are vampires. For quite a long time, really.”

The female was the first to speak. “Praise Braaaains. There are many paths to enlightenment. I’m glad you’ve found the one that’s right for you.”

“Braaaains. Of course, if you change your mind, our phone number is written on the book’sflyleaf. Do take a look—perhaps you’ll find something of interest.”

When the zombies left, Maurice returned to the kitchen. “Gone, Edith.”

His wife finished her crossword and looked up. “What did they say? Let me guess—braaaains!”

Aunt Marie cackled from her coffin in the corner.

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

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

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: http://www.cafepress.com/spasmsproject.  If I get my act together, I’ll be updating the products to reflect www.spasmsproject.com 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

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.

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

 This is a jam, written about two years ago, by 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…

…

Howard,

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.

…

DEAR HENRY STOP - HAVE OBTAINED TWO TICKETS FOR THE STEAMER HMS VICTORIA DEPARTING BLAKESHEAD TOMORROW MORNING STOP – MEET ON DOCK BEFORE BOARDING STOP – BRING YOUR RIFLE STOP – I SHALL BRING THE OBJECT WE TOOK FROM THE JUNGLE STOP

…

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,

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.

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

Thanks to Sue for the first sentence.

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?”

“Right.”

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.”

“Oh.”

“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.

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.

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.