'When we read a story, we inhabit it. The covers of the book are like a roof and four walls. What is to happen next will take place within the four walls of the story. And this is possible because the story's voice makes everything its own': John Berger (1916 - 1991) Italian author Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye, in "Expressen," 3 Nov 1990.

Hunny

This story contains allusions to violence.

"Hunny?" Jason yelled up the stairs, "Do you want toast?"
Amanda ran the brush through her hair twice more, before gathering up the long dark strands into a ponytail, then she replied. "Yes, please darling!"

She pulled a grimacing face at herself in the mirror all the 'hunny's and 'darling's' were starting to grate on her nerves just a touch. Picking up her lipstick, she applied just the right amount, puckering her lips to evenly distribute the sticky scarlet color.

She didn't know how much longer she could keep up the pretence of liking him. Jason suspected nothing and until she had him just were she wanted, the continuing game of 'I'm you're lovely new bride' had to continue. She inspected her face in the mirror and satisfied with its appearance began to examine her body.

She smoothed her skirt down her hips and sucked in her tummy. It had always been too big, even before the baby. She could use some of her ill-gotten gains from Jason for a tummy-tuck. That would be a nice touch.

Jason, of course, adored her body. Every tiny blemish, mark, wrinkle or mole was the source of endless delight to him. He worshipped her, constantly touching, and fondling her, displaying his possessiveness was a huge point of irritation to her. What a dork!

Smiling secretively to herself at the knowledge that she wouldn't have to play her 'part' much longer, she left the bedroom, bounced down the stairs on the balls of her feet, and swung off the banister at the bottom of the flight walking jauntily into the kitchen.

Jason looked up from spreading jam on his bagel and smiled at her arrival. "Just in time before your toast goes cold, darling!"

Amanda walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Nothing ever goes cold when you're around, Tiger," she replied. Her mind blanched as the words left her mouth, the pretence was appallingly painful but she had to continue it.

"Oh my, Baby," Jason muttered before attaching his lips to the flesh of her neck. He nibbled her throat and kissed it before finally letting her go. She pulled away from him. Not wanting to engage in any meaningful conversation with him, and she flicked on the small portable TV resting on the end of the table.
"Just want to catch the news," she said as she sat down.
"Well, eat while you watch, Baby," he replied, and pushed a plate towards her with two slices of lightly cooked toast smothered with strawberry jam, "and I poured you some coffee as well."

Her eyes were already fixed on a summary of world events, although her mind was quietly ticking over the next part of her plan. Well, it was the final part of her plan really.

With her eyes never leaving the screen, she nonchalantly took a bite of her toast and asked, "Are you going down to work on the boat today?"

"Yeah, I was going to, unless my little hunny bunny needs me for something else?" Amanda didn't want that. She wanted him down on the boat. She needed him down on the boat.
"No, sweetie, that’s fine. You go and get it fixed then we can go take that trip up river. If I need you, I'll come get you" she dragged her gaze away from the TV and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

"Okay," Jason smiled weakly. He seemed disappointed, but just rose to take his plate to the sink, "In that case I will go get my gear and see you later."

She knew what would come next and to hurry along his always lengthy 'goodbyes' to her she stood and met his open arms. They kissed hungrily, Amanda summoning up all the energy she could by fantasizing about a previous boyfriend who had always made her wild. Sex with Jason was never a problem; she just closed her eyes, lay back and thought about all the things she intended on spending Jason's money on. But kissing was somehow more personal. It took greater effort. And to be frank she was just a touch bored of his slobbery technique. But for now, for her purposes, she could live with it.

After a suitable length of time, she pushed him away and patted his backside as he turned to leave, "See you later, sweetie..."
He walked out from the kitchen with a cheery wave and she returned to the news, keeping one ear on his noises around the house as he collected his tools, overalls, and portable radio to take with him.

Amanda smiled. How she loved that radio, it would be her best friend for the finale. Poor Jason was just slightly deaf in one ear. He joked that is was from too many years of overly loud rock music. Well, thank you, Kiss, Whitesnake and Bon Jovi. Unwittingly they were now going to be allies in Jason's murder.

He had always played the radio so loud he never heard her approach him. He'd be head down in the engine compartment of that damned boat, legs sometimes twitching in time to the music playing on his favorite rock station. All she needed was a large metal wrench, which she had already taken from his vast selection of tools in the shed, he'd never notice he had loads of them, some gasoline from the engine and poor, poor Jason was just going to have to most awful accident.

His fate had been sealed with yesterday's trip to his lawyer. She was now his sole heir. If and when Jason died, everything came to her. It was so sweet and easy she wanted to roar with laughter. Jason was a very rich man, courtesy of a very shrewd aunt and many years of her carefully investing in good stocks and bonds. Five years ago she had become a dead aunt and Jason inherited the lot, nearly twelve million dollars.

Amanda had first met Jason years before. They had dated for just a short while, briefly attending the same college. Then she'd gotten into trouble and had to leave. He hadn't known, and never would, about her 'small problem' that had rapidly grown in nine months to become a large one. To know about the baby would be to sully her perfect character that she had gone to such pains to create for him. By the time the child was born and had been adopted the school year was over and everyone had moved on in their lives, including Jason. She had heard nothing more about him until reading, quite by chance, a newspaper article about his new found wealth. It had taken quite a bit of time and effort to track his number down, but she'd called him. They had met up and once she had discovered that he was nursing a broken heart from a fiancée who had died in a tragic accident, she had turned on the charm. The guy had never stood a chance.

This was her second foray into the world of widowhood. The first hadn't gone quite according to plan. She had gotten away with it quite easily, but hadn't inherited as much as she had hoped. Her short term husband had turned out to have rather extensive gambling debts that had sucked up most of the estate. She'd survived for a few years but the money wasn't there and she couldn't afford the things she had become accustomed to. Jason knew nothing of this. She had met, married and murdered Marty up country, a long way from her present husband's, and soon to be hers very comfortable home.

Jason suddenly poked his head suddenly around the door. Being so deeply into her thoughts, she almost choked on her toast. She hated it when he startled her like that.

"Bye, darling," he said and blew her a kiss. She instantly regained her composure, returned the kiss and waved goodbye. His head disappeared as fast as it had arrived and she was once more alone.

Chewing her last mouthful of toast, which had become hard and dry, she flicked off the TV and put her plate in the dishwasher, adding his too. Swallowing slowly with distaste at the tough foodstuff, she licked the last of the jam off her fingers. Standing staring out the window, she looked over the top of her coffee cup at Jason's receding back as he walked down the path to their private marina at the end of the garden. She watched him look up at the sky and then down at his feet as he sauntered through the manicured hedges and neatly trimmed lawn. Getting inside Jason's head had been all but impossible, but then it hadn't really been necessary. He had been so easy to manipulate it was like taking candy from a baby. How she despised him. His weakness was for a pretty ankle, a tight ass or a pair of breasts in a push up bra. She snorted and shook her head. Men were so pathetic.

Turning away from the window she had at least an hour to kill. She grinned at the choice of phrase...hour to kill. What to do? Well, she could surf the net and find some ways to spend all that lovely money she was soon going to have. Maybe book an exotic holiday for one, or buy some more clothes. Three closets full weren't nearly enough.

She wandered through into the lounge and pushed the button to turn on the computer. As the system booted up she settled herself at the desk and examined her nails. She glanced occasionally at the screen as she waited and her eyes were drawn to a picture next to it. It was a wedding picture taken on that hot, hot day in Reno. Jason's broad smile matching the width of his lapels on that God awful hired wedding suit. Her smile was smaller, tighter and it had been hard to maintain. By the end of the day her facial muscles had ached with the effort, but the ordeal had been a means to an end.

She turned the picture to face the wall. She saw more than enough of the man without having to stare at his damn portrait. The computer was ready for her and she connected to the internet. Using her 'favorites list' she chose one of her favorite stores: Nieman Marcus. Her screen was filled with pictures of beautiful expensive clothes, and shoes. Amanda grinned next to murder shopping was her favorite pastime.



An hour had never taken so long to pass. After ordering three new dresses and that pair of boots that had been 'calling' to her, she had strolled around the house for a few minutes mentally reorganizing the furniture the way she liked. Soon she would be able to do it for real. The décor of the house was Jason's choice and the wallpaper in the lounge just had to go, it was quite out of fashion. Mentally noting to call an interior decorator in the morning, she returned to the kitchen table where she varnished her nails, then she shook her hands to and fro in a limp-wristed way, trying to get the varnish to dry more quickly. Amanda hated painting her own nails but somehow with every thing else today, she didn't have the time to go to the salon.
She checked her Rolex again for the hundredth time and decided it was finally time to go. The anticipation was giving her heartburn, or was that the dry toast?

Jason would be more than settled by now. It always took him more than just a few minutes to inspect the boat all over, checking for damage and dirt. Then he would open his toolbox and lay out his tools, placing them just so for him to reach while his head was in the engine compartment. Next he would fetch a dirty old cushion from the cabin and place it in front of the inspection hatch so he had something comfortable to lie on as he groped around with the engine.
She had gone down there with him the first few times, sitting with him as he worked soaking up the sun, letting him think that she actually cared. Each time he'd gone through the same routine, making her want to laugh at his predictability.
Once he had been lying down for a good fifteen minutes or so she knew she could make her move. He would be happily engrossed.

With growing impatience she grabbed her car keys off the hall dresser and walked out through the oak paneled front door to her car. Opening the trunk and rummaging through the junk inside, she found the wrench and cotton gloves that were to conceal her fingerprints. She had bought the soft gloves specially, paying cash instead using credit or charge card to cover all her tracks. What a nuisance that had been, using paper money, she had almost forgotten what it looked like, but the trouble would be worth it. It was the tiny details that could get her caught. She had to be exceedingly careful.

As she slipped on the gloves, her heart began to pound as it always did in this stage of the game. The last thing she needed was a pack of matches, which she found in the bottom of the paper bag she'd used to hide the items necessary to hasten Jason's demise. It was going to be gloriously simple. Just whack Jason on the head and render him unconscious, then pull off the gasoline line into the engine, stuff one of the cotton gloves into the gas pipe and then set fire to the other before tossing it into the engine compartment. By controlling the flow of gasoline she hoped to be well clear of the boat before it exploded. Gripping the wrench tightly she slammed the trunk closed and tucked the matches and car keys into her pocket.

Using the well-trodden path, she rounded the house. The gravel scrunched under her feet as she started towards the marina. Her demeanor rapidly changed with her vapid mind filling with dark thoughts. She reached the start of the striped lawn and continued across it quickly. The beauty of the flowers crowding through the dense foliage was at odds with her new intenseness. She slapped the wrench into her gloved hand where the soft cotton deadened the sound into a soft 'thwap'. The impeccable lawn and the exquisite and specially designed five thousand dollar water feature were ignored just for once as she reached the end of the garden and passed through the old wooden gate. Moving swiftly out onto the towpath of the river, Amanda was fully focused on Jason's impending doom.

As the boat came into view through the weeping willow trees, she slowed to almost a stop, and looked intently at the stern of the boat. There they were, just what she wanted to see. His jean clad legs poking out of the doorway as he lay flat on his stomach tinkering with the engine. The radio was blaring away but his feet were still; no foot-tapping today. Amanda smiled to herself and crept towards the board, knowing that her footfalls would not be heard.

Climbing onto the boat would be the hardest bit. He would notice the boat tilting as she stepped on so she had to be very careful. Her light soled shoes gripped the wooden deck of the boat, aiding her as she leaned as far across onto the boat as possible before lithely jumping onto the deck, and creating the minimum of disturbance. Then she moved to stand directly over Jason's prone body.

But it wasn't there. All that rested unmoving under her were two showroom dummy legs encased in an old pair of jeans and his old deck shoes. No body. No head.
Her stomach flipped and she was startled by a familiar voice in her ear.
"Hello, hunny bunny."

An original story written by minx October 2003

© minx

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Don't pay the ferryman

"You, her and the horses are one whole dollar to cross," said the ferryman, and he smirked, "If ya don't like it, swim," and then laced his arms across his fat belly to show that in his opinion the deal was done.
In essence he was right, we had to cross the river and his ferry was the only one for 50 miles in either direction.
"Have to take you over one person and one horse at a time." The ferryman added finally before turning away. He crossed the ground between us and the waters edge mighty fast for a man with only one leg. His wooden replacement clumped noisily on the weathered boards when he climbed aboard the rickety boat. He settled himself comfortably at the front leaning against the bow, ready to start hauling on the rope once his passengers were aboard.

My brother Chad looked at me, his nervousness quite apparent. I shrugged at him. We had no choice.
"I'll go first, I'll be fine." I tried to reassure him even though I was quailing inside at being on board the ferry with just the ferryman.
So far in our hike across country we had been robbed twice and I had been assaulted by two men out for some free fun. Chad had fought them off but we were constantly on our guard.

I led my horse down the muddy slope of the bank and onto the ferry soothing him as his badly shod hooves clicked on the wooden surface. Our trip to California was our dream and nothing was going to stop us joining the gold rush, certainly not some mangy looking, flea ridden, and lecherous old sot. The feeling of the handle of my tiny gun, rubbing against my calf in my boots gave me some small comfort.

"You want to be paid now?" I yelled at him. "You'll have to get it from Chad, I ain't got no money."
The boatman shrugged," I'll get it on the return trip," he yelled over the sound of the river crashing over the rocks a little further down stream.
I raised an eyebrow; I would've though he'd want it now.

I watched him as he cast off and began pulling on the rope that stretched across the river, his huge rough hands, wrapping easily around the wet slippery rope. I turned and looked at Chad and smiled, trying to reassure him that I was okay. My horse snickered and shuffled uneasily at the movement of the boat. He couldn't turn or move and I didn't want to think about what he might do if he got spooked. I soothed him and petted his nose, rubbing the velvety skin and cooing to him quietly.

Looking up we were almost a third of the way across. The trip was going much faster than I had thought. The boatman was still hauling on the rope as hard as he could. He cast a furtive glanced back in my direction and my stomach rolled over. I was starting to feel mighty uncomfortable with his eyes all over my body.
I concentrated on my horse's grey flecked coat and swallowed hard steeling myself.

Almost there, almost there.

The boat was nearly half way across when the sound of shouting made my head snap back towards Chad. Three men had appeared from nowhere and were attacking him. "NO!" I yelled. I could see him on the ground trying to cover his head. One of the men had grabbed his horse and cut free the saddle and all the supplies lashed on it. I looked towards the boatman.
"We have to go back!" I yelled at him.
He cast a look back towards me and leered," No going back for you missy."
I suddenly knew why he hadn't been bothered about collecting our dollar for the crossing; he knew he'd have ALL our dollars shortly.
I reached down into my boot and pulled out my gun.
"Stop the ferry, now!"
The boatman looked back at me and stopped his pulling for a second.
"What you gonna do with that peashooter?"
"Make the ferry go back, or I'll shoot you." My determination wasn't matched by the strength of my voice and it cracked on the last word.
"You shoot me and this boat will go crashing down there," he nodded downstream," and you'll end up on the rocks. So you go right ahead and shoot me, then you can die to." He turned away from me and resumed pulling the boat towards the opposite bank.

I was torn. I looked back towards Chad who was now lying immobile on the bank. The men were picking over his supplies and one was searching his pockets. I stifled a sob with the back of my hand. What should I do?
The boatman was right. If I killed him I'd surely float down stream to the rocks, lose my horse probably die.

We were almost at the bank side and the boatman pulled the last few lengths with renewed vigour. I felt the boat catch against the sandy gravel on the bed of the river and nearly lost my footing. The boatman suddenly turned and yelled 'Yahh' at my horse, which swung round suddenly, his rump knocking me over straight into the icy river. The coldness of the water took my breath away. I couldn't swim and flailed in the water, the gun falling from my grip to join the sandy gravel I was churning up in my attempts to stay afloat.

A hand appeared and grabbed the back of my collar yanking me up and out of the water. I spluttered as I was hauled up onto the shoreline. I realised the boatman was the one hanging onto me.

I tried to pull away from him but couldn't he was a big and very agile even with a wooden leg.
"Now, it's been a good day today."He threw me onto the ground and drew a large knife from inside his jacket.
"I got me lots of supplies. Two new horses and best of all I got me a new woman. "

A new woman.

That phrase meant that at some time he'd had an old one and I didn't want to think what her fate had been. A splash from the opposite bank focused my concentration and I watched as Chad's body floated down stream. I had to assume he was dead and bit my lip to control the panicky feeling rising up inside me.

I leaped up as fast as my wet skirts would allow and dived towards the river. But he was too fast. He caught my ankle and jerked hard nearly pulling off my leg at the hip. I collapsed face first into the silt laden mud. I began to sob as the realisation of my situation sank in. Chad, my last living relative was dead. I would never see California and I was the prisoner of the ferryman.

As I lay there miserable at my plight, he stomped to the boat and grabbed a piece of rope. He walked back grabbed my arm and half dragged me to the nearest tree. He tied me to it. My horse hadn't gone far and the boatman got hold of him and tied him up next to me.

"Gonna fetch the rest of the boys. Now don't you go anywhere." He lunged at me, breath reeking of whisky and I twisted away and he kissed me on the side of my face. Growling with displeasure he grabbed my chin, held it tightly and kissed me full on the mouth. I recoiled from the foul taste of his lips and he chuckled as he let go and walked back to the boat. He was going to go across and pick up the three men the other side who had settled themselves comfortably on the grassy bank, sorting through mine and Chad's supplies.

A thought struck me, if only I could stand I could reach my knife in my saddle pack. I waited until he has cast off and got about half way over the river, my impatience gnawing at me. I struggled to my feet and twisted my arm through the loop of rope around my elbows I grabbed my horses bridle and pulled him up closer. I only had to reach the small pack at the front of the bedroll. If only I could just hook the knife out of it.

I looked across the river at the ferry. It had arrived at the opposite bank and the boatman must have looked back and realised what I was trying to do. The men were hauling on the rope for all they were worth trying to get back to me as fast as possible.

I renewed my efforts, the rope tied around my arms cutting into my skin. With my fingertips I hooked the knife out of the pack. It fell to the ground and I dragged it back towards me with a foot. I got hold of it and silently thanked Chad for being a stickler about keeping our knives sharp. I cut through the rope quickly and with one last glance towards the frantically crewed boat I went to get on my horse.

I stopped. With a smile touching my lips I strode over to the big oak tree that the hauling rope for the ferry was tied onto. The men started hollering at me, they knew what I was going to do. I took great delight in watching their faces as took my revenge for Chad and began to hack through the rope. A few slashes and it was free and it was whipped away from me by the strength of the river's current. The four men were now panicking and I knew they would jump into the water to try to save themselves, possibly crawling up the bank to get to me.
I ran back to my horse and jumped up on his back, I dug my heels into his sides and charged up the bank away from the river. Away from the mud, silt and treacherous ferryman.

An original story written by minx February2004
© minx

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Baaaa...

It was a hot day on the farm. The sun had risen early and by 11am it was already 80 degrees.
Sam wiped the sweat off his brow for the third time and turned off the tractor's engine. He pulled on the brake and slid out of the hot airless glass cab and onto the dry ground. Straw baling was boring laborious work and to be honest he'd had enough for the day already. They were well ahead with the harvest and he deserved a break.
He pulled a can of drink for his leather holdall and pulled it open. He tipped almost all the contents down his throat in one go. God, it felt good.

He sat down in the lee ward side of the tractor in the shade out of the hot sun. He could smell engine oil and hot rubber, not pleasant but not revolting either. He flopped onto his back and crumpled the now empty drinks can and dropped it next to him. Just a short snooze would help he hadn't been sleeping much with all that was going on...too damn hot to work anyway.

He didn't know how long he'd slept but the tongue licking his face rapidly got his attention. He brushed the wet, slurping face away and grimaced.

"Thought you were gonna sleep all day man!"
Sam opened his eyes now fully awake.
He blinked. Standing in front of him was a sheep. He looked around for the person who'd spoken to him.
"What you looking for?" said the sheep. Sam nearly jumped three feet in the air.
The sheep was talking to him.
"Uhh..."
"Uhh?? Damn, you wife's right. Conversation really isn't your strong point, is it now?"
Sam swallowed hard. He was dreaming. He HAD to be dreaming.
The sheep bent down and took a bit of the stubbly straw left on the ground after cutting. It looked at Sam again as it continued to munch happily.
Sam wasn't quite sure what to say. He'd never talked to a sheep before.
"I've never talked to a sheep before," seemed like a good conversation starter.
"No shit! That’s cos sheep don't generally talk."
Sam frowned," Oh, okay."
"I'm only talking today cos I have been told to come give you a message."
"A message?"
"Uhuh."
"Which is?" said Sam.
"You have to be grateful for what you got in life. Your envy is going to just eat you all up boy!"
Sam bristled. He was being lectured by a sheep.
"What the hell has my life got to do with you?"
The sheep took another mouthful of straw and chewed thoughtfully. "Nothing really, I'm just the messenger boy...sheep...whatever. I was told to tell you to stop ragging on your wife, being a grouch and just live and let live, baby!"

Sam began to have suspicions that the sheep may have seen 'Shrek' once or twice.
"Is that it?"
"Uhuh."
"What now?" asked Sam.
The sheep shrugged, it was odd seeing a sheep do such a human thing as shrug, but that’s what it did. "Now I go back to being a NON-talking sheep and you go back to being NON-grumpy human."
Sam rubbed his hand over his face, stared up at the sky and decided that the next time someone told a shaggy dog story in the village bar he'd listen harder.

"Bye," said the sheep and sauntered off the way only a sheep can saunter off.

Sam stared at the receding figure of the sheep and scratched the back of his neck and decided to go back to work.

He picked up the drinks can and tossed it back in his bag and climbed back into the cab of his tractor. Starting the engine he swiveled in his seat to see the sheep but it was gone.

Okayyyyyyy...
Sam decided he'd been working too hard. He let the brake off on the tractor and slowly started up the field collecting the straw. Maybe when this job was done he should take the wife somewhere nice, for a little holiday. Perhaps he had been a little grouchy recently he decided as he drove down the field.


Behind the dry stone wall in the next field, just within earshot of the tractor, the scientist working for the 'Pep-u-Up' drinks company ticked a box on his checklist. Another satisfied customer. No immediate serious side effects from the drink's secret ingredients, which definitely made the subject very relaxed and susceptible to the abnormal. As for brain damage well, that would take time to show up.
The man's wife would thank him too. He quietly slipped out of the sheep costume and headed for home.

An original story written by minx February 2004
© minx

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Feel me

This story contains references to serious illness and death.

The blackness was absolute. It enveloped her, curling its midnight fingers around her body, permeating her hair, skin and licking at her face. Its inkiness would've have been terrifying had it not been from the silvery light emanating from the full length mirror in the corner of the room.
The tentative glow gave the child's room a subtle silvery light, not unlike a full moon shining through an open window. But this glow was not from any moon. This glow came from the undead woman who stepped through the full-length mirror and into her daughter's room.
Her face was a mask of pain from the cancers that had taken her life. Her hollow eyes and sallow skin a confirmation of the disease within her. She was wafer thin and her frail legs seemed almost too twig like to take her weight; not that she was really standing on them. Her opaque body floated silently barely inches from the floor, her form illuminating the pale cream coloured carpet, and scattered toys still lying where their owner had left them.

The woman's face was stained with tears, much like her daughters pillow and bereft of happiness in any shape or form. She'd been torn from her families arms, snatched from their love and devotion. Her soul was broken and as such could never ascend.

Reaching her daughters bedside she leaned tenderly forwards to brush her daughter's forehead with her ice cold lips. The girl murmured in her sleep and the mother longed to awaken her and see her smile just once more. But she knew it could never be. Her presence was condemned. She would soon have to leave never to return. The thought she might torment her daughter more with her insubstantial form was also weighing on her mind.

She turned and looked into the mirror, they were coming. She could hear them and feel their dark presence. They too would snatch her away, steal her essence and send her into everlasting purgatory.

She risked one last touch and ran the tip of her forefinger along her daughter's cheek as a single tear dropped onto her daughter's night gown. She had to leave now. Turning regretfully away she drifted across the mirror and stepped through with a deft gracefulness. Never to return. A single high pitched scream as she was sucked into the glowing vortex and the room returned to its solitary darkness.

The daughter shuffled uneasily in her sleep. Her dreams were full of incandescent images and shining spectres. One even looked like her mother. Opening her eyes, instantly waking, she stared around her room. The complete blackness weighing heavily on her chest. She took a moment to focus on her dreams and remembered that her mother had been in one of them. The tightness in her chest squeezed her ribs just a little more. Her mother, her beautiful mother, how she missed her.

An original story written by minx January 2004
© minx

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The Greedy Thief

Braco's current precarious position was entirely his own fault. He cursed his own stupidity, and then cursed again at the blood coursing down his arms from his shredded fingertips. The rock that made up the sides of the abyss was volcanic. It was razor sharp and had decimated the skin on his hands and fingers the moment he had tried to grasp the jagged walls.
He'd had no choice but to fling himself off the edge of the cliff, hoping to God that there would be something to land on further down the side of the mountain, and there had been.

He had fallen, scrabbling at the vertical cliff sides as he plunged downwards, and had finally crashed onto a ledge jutting out more than fifty feet down.
He'd felt the wind squeezed out of his lungs as he hit the rock and his head began to spin with the force of the landing. He lay for several minutes and tried to restore his senses, hearing the baying of the pursuing hounds above him.

Despite the pain he pushed a hand inside his shirt. It was still there. It hadn't fallen out. The Jewel of Horus, the ruby as big as a man's fist, carefully wrapped in oiled cloth and nestling in a pouch next to his skin. It was the reason for his rapid escape from the Caliph's palace, and his frantic marathon run through the forests and the final death defying leap into the abyss.

Never before had he had to put so much effort into one act of theft, but he'd had achieved his aims, and the ruby was his now. The plan had been simple enough. It had been easy enough to distract the guards with Bracos' friend, Morden's nubile wife. The woman was too beautiful for words and the guards had all stared awestruck at her shimmying hips and veiled face, as she'd performed an impromptu belly dance for them. It had been simple for Braco to slip around them into the treasury, pries open the ruby's box and then climb out through the barred window, his slight frame and shortness of stature made for thievery.

He'd been a good distance away from the town before the alarm had been raised. He'd thought there would be no way to follow him? But the hounds baying had moved ever closer to his hiding place and it had been almost too late, when he'd realized they were coming for him!

But how? He'd left no trail? The manner in which they'd discovered the thief's identity made no odds, and he'd had to run like the wind anyway, soon arriving at the edge of the cliff and making his momentous choice; jumping into the unknown, with only fate saving his life.

He'd laid and listened to the noises directly above him, until the sounds had faded away into the night. Then he had begun his ascent up the side of the ravine. But now several hours later he was beginning to think he had sent himself on a fool's errand. Yes, he had the ruby but the cliff face was too steep and his hands slipped in the rivulets of his own blood.

It was his own stupid outspokenness that had led him to think of even try to steal the ruby. The night in the tavern he'd listened to the men joke and swear, whine about their women and talk of the Caliph's greed. It had been his own idiocy to have boasted that the Caliph wouldn't be so damn happy if he'd lost his precious ruby. The men had all paid attention to him then and it had only taken a few more flagons of cheap beer to get everyone to talk about how to steal it, and with Braco's reputation as a thief, it had fallen to him to do the job.

Well, he'd done it. Stolen the beautiful Eye of Horus and it now nestled happily next to his breast, but at present, he would be dead before he could ever show the world how clever he was.

He grunted with the effort of clawing his way up the rock, lifting one limb at a time, getting a good grip with his hands then pushing his body up a little further. Again and again the process was repeated, until at last, he felt the loose earth of the top of the cliff face in his hands. It the pitch black of the night he had lost track of distance and time, and the elation he felt as he reached the edge was immeasurable.

He tried to haul his exhausted and trembling body upwards and was momentarily stunned to feel fingers grasp his collar and waistband of his pants, lifting him easily and dumping him on the soft loamy ground.

"You took your time, Braco," said a voice. "It was a hard climb, why didn't you try and help me, Morden?" he replied breathlessly. The hands were searching his body, and quickly found what they wanted.

Braco tried to fight back, but realized too late that he was betrayed, and being utterly exhausted and could do nothing but just lay on the ground.
"Well, it will be an easier trip back down," said Morden and with a quick shove pushed the limp body of Braco back over the edge of the ravine. This time he missed the ledge.

An original story written by minx November2003
© minx

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How to be a Rock Star

This story contains rude language and references to narcotics.

So you want to be a Rock Star? Many have tried and failed. Some tried and died, and others were just plain trying – both personally and musically.

Even with completely useless musical skills and appalling management many have still scaled the dizzy heights of Rock Stardom!

Read on to find out how you can do it:

1) Come from somewhere cool –
i) It's important that your origins are a cool as possible. The first few interviews you do will have journo's clammering to know where you come from and what your 'roots' are. It has to be a country with street-cred,. Germany is very cool right now, East Germany even cooler. In fact any former communist country gives you maximum street-cred points. Except for China whose population still think Sacha Distel, Twiglets and lukewarm beer are the height of sophistication.
America is completely out.
If you HAVE to admit you are American, and let's face it the accent is hard to disguise – then at least try to be Canadian.
Australian is good, New Zealand better- but don't mention the LOTR thing, it's been done to death.
Lastly if all else fails, listen to the BBC and fake an English accent. Say you ACTUALLY saw The Sex Pistols at the 100 Club in Oxford Street (and let's face it didn't EVERYONE!) and you'll gain your self extra cool points.

ii) Once you have established a country, choose a 'hot' city. Don't tell them you come from some village in the north, your 'cool' quotient goes out the window on revealing that.
Country hicks are not cute. Chewing a twig and fucking sheep may be the tops in your home region- but in the land of superstardom, everyone is a sexual deviant and you'll just end up being ignored.
Sp capital cities are best, but a big provincial one will do. Capital cities have nightclubs, and even if you've never set foot in the hippest place in town - mention it. You HAD to be there back in the '80's/'90's darling! It was the place to be!

2) Your life story –
i) This can be where people fall at the first hurdle. Everyone loves a miserable story, but don't over do it. You want those journos to have a sympathetic tear in their eye, not doing the backstroke across soggy shagpile.
Mention the 27 siblings or the fact you were an only child. Don't forget to add the wallpaper peeling off the walls in the family 'home', 'hovel' or better yet 'cardboard box in middle of the street'. Tell them how you were persecuted for your love of rock and roll.
How you parents refused to buy you New Rocks for you 14th birthday and you threatened them with suicide by hanging yourself off the light fittings (but don't tell them that it resulted in you having to re-plaster the bedroom ceiling when the fitment came down).
Tell them how you managed to scrape together enough 'dough' to follow NIN around the country on their 1993 tour, and how through all the hardship you were strong enough to stick by your belief that one day you would be famous and how you hope to buy your loving parents a huge new house when you go platinum (even if you have absolutely no intentions of doing so because you hate the pair of them.)

For schooling you either want to have been kicked out of high school for defacing school property or you were a girly swot at the top of the class ( the last one works particularly well for the nerd in the band – and they all have one) Stories about how you skipped lessons for a smoke or to shag the leggy blonde in your French class are worth bonus cool points especially if you still mange to pass the exams.

ii) They always, always ask you about your first job. Have your answer prepared. Never look like a dork and say electrician, telephone installer or in fact any manual labouring job. They are NOT cool.
Salesman is good and covers a multitude of sins - you could have been selling Bibles, vacuum cleaners or sex toys, leave the journo guessing (this is a good point to use that well practised 'raising the right eyebrow to insinuate something sexy' moment.)

Other cool jobs are mortician, poet, student (especially studying something eclectic like philosophy or sociology), painter or basket weaver. Aspirations should also be mentioned about how you wanted to be something. Doctors or spacemen are good – lawyers a definite no,no. You'll spend enough time with them later with the management wrangles and divorces.

3) How you got started – Every band comes from nowhere; quite literally. Once you have scraped together the gear, the people, the songs and the 'gear' you can then become a BAND. Okay, one or two of you may have been a couple of loose groups that messed about a bit before you got together, but they will soon be forgotten – (until sadly, one day an obsessive fan will dig all the very embarrassing pictures up and post them online).

i)The Gear- Buy the best you can afford. If you can't buy it, steal it.
Guitars, strings, drum-kit, monitors and amps. Don't skimp, and this may be the moment when you have to send at least on band-member out to work the streets for a couple of months (depending on how ugly they are – try not to make it more than 6 months. It's embarrassing when in a few years time you discover a press briefing that your band-mate has been screwed by every journalist in the room)
Oh, not really being able to play your instruments is no impediment. Some of the world greatest rock bands couldn't play, and they still made it big. Just practice the poses, head back, arse out and a full lip pout a la Jagger and the backing track will cover everything else up.

ii) The People- Getting the right looking band members is essential. Ignore any latent musical ability or personal hygiene and social skills. Look for ego, good teeth, extroverts and dick size. These attributes are far more important. You can all get more music lessons later.
Every band should follow the established 'Boy band' recipe with the following:

One stud
One under-stud-y
One who gets completely ignored
One who might be gay
One nerd
…and one spare.
Deviating from this formula will mean instant disaster.
Having two guitarists is useful. If one becomes a pain in the arse just kick him out and the show can still go on.

iii) The 'Gear'- experienced drug users are best in bands. It saves all the hassle of breaking them in. No 'I'm Christ, I can fly moments' or 'For fuck's sake wipe your nose' moments. The substance of choice should be allowed to vary. Coke and hash for the studio, Amphetamines on tour and Crack for those boring 8 am press briefings. E's are also good for staving off the touring blues. No Acid as it tends to make people delusional and ask for bigger percentages. (Potential managers take note)
Always have vast quantities of alcohol available at all times. Never go dry. It's bad for creativity and coolness. Make sure you show rider is the biggest the venue has ever dealt with and always include something petty as this gets you a 'rep'( reputation ) as a bunch of pricks, which is exceedingly cool. If you want coffee, state is has to be flown in from Columbia the same day of the show or that the Vodka must be the most elite brand available transported at huge cost from Moscow.

4) Your First Album –
So you've played a few gigs have you? Strung a few tunes together? Developed a 'habit' that needs supporting? Okay, so it's time to cut your first album as a band.

i) Your record company will probably decide you need complete peace and quiet and send you to a far off, very cold country where you will all be locked in studio together for 16 hours a day for at least three weeks with a producer you've never heard of. The record company will hope in that time you produce a work of art. Sadly, it will be more a case of scraping the blood off the walls and paying for the sound engineer's new dental work.
After this, on record company expenses, you will declare you need time to get 'your heads together'. Three of you will jet off to health spas. Two of you to the Reeperbahn in Hamburg and the last person will take time out in Tibetan monastery.

Finally 6 months behind schedule you will deliver an album, the finest you could do. The most splendiferous piece of musical work ever to grace a V.J.'s monitor.
A collection of songs so fine your lyricist (the stud, undoubtedly) was loathe to part with them, saying he really was desperate to turn them into a book of aesthetic poetry. Thankfully you managed to get him to part with them, his flesh wounds soon healed, and now with rock solid bass and drums, ripping guitar work and enough cute twinkly keyboard bits to keep everyone's Granny happy it's time to unleash the awesome beast on the world.

It's time for you begin the 'promo' (promotional tour).

NB; On a side note now is a good time to mention women. With Rock Star's come women, hoardes of them. Groupies who do, groupies who don't. Fans, friends and familiars.
This in itself is not a problem. Dating, girlfriends, and one-nighters – all these are actively conducive to enhancing a Rock Star's ego.
The problem arises when one day a band-member announces he is love and wants to get MARRIED. It's that that point the band-member should be quietly taken to one side and introduced to 'Miss Whiplash'. Find a dominatrix (the manager is bound to known one) the likes of which only top athletes, mountain climbers and champion scuba divers can cope with. Make the band-member spend the night with her and then leak the pictures to the press.

Problem solved.

If however the band-member resist's the idea and cites the fact 'he wants to have a wife, family and a life after the band' fire him immediately. You don't need troublemakers.

ii) Promo Tours suck. All of them, for anything you wish to promote.
After having done the 67th five minute interview, fended off the 12th gay journo and answered the same questions repetitively you begin to realise why your manager gave you a book entitled 'How to deal with fuckwits and still look cool' for Christmas.
It does of course give you a chance to tell them about the new songs, in-between ignoring questions about you private life. It's good to liven up interviews by introducing your controversial lyrics.
Each album Rock Stars make should feature at least 5 controversial songs out of 11. One song should have a woman simulating orgasm. Another must have lyrics about being interred alive. A third should border on the semi-indecent and hopefully will make an excellent centre piece to base your live show around. The other two should have vague references to fellatio, cunnilingus and necrophilia.
The other six songs are completely irrelevant and just fill up CD time.

ii) Marketing and the Promotional Photo-shoots. Being photogenic is very important in a Rock Star. Ugly people don't put bums on seats or shift CD's by the crate load.

Get your teeth fixed, eyebrows plucked, paint your nails and employ a style guru. This especially applies to the nerd who will resist all attempts to modernise him, beautify him or drag him out of his bri-nylon slacks and chintz shirts. Be tough, it has to be done.

For the actual shoot a few basic rules must be followed.
Never smile.
Never look like you are enjoying yourself.
Never be nice to the photographer (except if you fancy your chances later.)

Suits and ties are nice but boring. Go for pervy, or a good trick is dress up as women. This is excellent for marketing. Just think of all those teenagers titillated by your stud-muffin singer in lipstick and an 'A' line skirt. Don't shave your legs, or your chests and under absolutely no circumstances wear false titties, however enticing the thought of doing so is.

iii) Touring – You've already played a few gigs at 'The Rat and Ferret' pub or 'Nasty McPasty's Irish Bar' but this is the big league. You have 30 dates across Europe with an American tour to follow. You have roadies to shout at, a tour manager to order around and technician's to sort your gear out for you (and your gear out for you).
Lighting guys, sound guys and a wardrobe mistress.
You have the set-list in your head, the costumes ready and the whole damn show is about to roll off -'To the first date in some smallish venue on the edge of beyond where you can perfect things before the journos come see you play'. It's at this point your stud-muffin singer has a nervous breakdown over his secret marriage to the loudmouthed chick nobody liked, and who is now banging the wardrobe mistress.
You have to rescue the situation fast. Millions of pounds/euros/dollars are riding on this tour. Not to mention your first album and your collective 'rep'.

You hold a 30 minute crisis meeting and after long, heart felt searching dump the singer. You can say the new guy is a 'special guest' and if he turns out good, stick him on the payroll and in the band after the tour. If he suck's you can dump him too.

The tour begins and quickly degenerates into chaos. The support band is way better than you are and Rock Stardom is about to elope out the door with them and not your band!

You quickly solve that problem by dropping them too, citing 'musical differences' as the reason.

The tour proceeds better now apart from overdoses, alcoholic comas, vast bills for the destruction of hotel rooms and lastly the cost of crates of condoms being flown into each venue.

The pinnacle of being a Rock Star is of course, throwing a TV out of a hotel window. You all manage to exceed yourselves and each throw a TV out of your windows simultaneously to the impromptu press gathering below.

The tour ends with a party of all party's and the record company announces it's a huge, fabulous success and put off calling the accountants until the morning, after which they cancel the American tour as they company is now close to liquidation.

5) Enjoying Your Hard Earned Success-
After the tour you'll want to take some time off to rest. Heavens knows all that enjoying yourself is damn hard work. Six months is traditional. During the first couple of months your old singer will come crawling back promising never to marry again. Swearing off all women forever, he may declare himself gay, inadvertently upsetting thousands of girl fans, and take-up with the nerd of the band who he thinks is easier to handle.

While you are resting during the next few months you may decide to work on a few 'side projects':

Books - Poetry, tour books and self-titled ones to be sold in your online fan shop are all good.

Acting – 'If Bowie can do it…' goes the line. Well, yes, Bowie did but are you really sure you can take that amount of abuse personally. It's all very well being told your crap when part of a band but on your own is not so pleasant. Think twice about that cameo role or that non-speaking part as the Mafia hit man. Is it really you?

Going solo: You’re tired of being ignored so it's time to make your own band. Get a few musicians who will do as YOU tell them. None of this collective decision making crap. You're a Rock Star dammit! Everything goes fine until you try to cut a CD and find that no one wants to sign you…because on your own you're crap.

Women: yes, they can be a project all on their own. Marriage, divorce, kids, marriage, divorce...an endless cycle broken only by moments of self-doubt, tentative bi-sexuality and alcoholic hazes.

Rehab: The habit's taking its toll and when the local constabulary drag your sorry carcase out of the gutter for the third time in two weeks you decide to trot off to see Betty Ford.

6) Where do you go from here? – There are only four options really:

Obscurity: you slide off slowly into the sunset having decided that Rock Stardom is not for you.
Make a new album: You discover that it's the music that is actually important and get together with your band mates to kick some butt once more. Sadly, they have decided you're too old and dump you.
Become a 'celebrity': Marry, buy mansion and appear at 'C' list parties for the next 20 years while having Botox injections regularly and trading in the leggy blonde for a new model ever 5 years.
Death: Overdose, suicide or murder. They are all cool and score maximum Rock Star points.
You have made it you really are a bona fide...ROCK STAR.

An original story written by minx May 2005
© minx