#29 State of California vs Big Bad Wolf

State of California vs Big Bad Wolf
by Janet Aird

Excerpt from State of California vs Big Bad Wolf; closing statement of defense attorney for Mr. Wolf

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you’ve heard the evidence from the witnesses, and you’ve heard the closing statement by the prosecution that my client, Mr. Big Bad Wolf, did willfully and recklessly murder Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother. Without a doubt, my client is not guilty of this heinous crime.

On the day in question, my client witnessed little Miss Hood walking in the Deep Dark Forest all alone. As a longtime resident of these woods, he is aware that many dangerous creatures live there. Wolves never allow their cubs to go out into the woods by themselves. My client assumed that the little girl had wandered away from her home and was lost.

Desiring to take her back home, Mr. Wolf stopped her. Imagine his shock when little Miss Hood told him that her mother had sent her there. And when the little girl added that she was on an errand to take a basket of goodies to her sick grandmother, who lives in a cabin in the Arroyo on the other side of the woods, my client couldn’t believe his ears, as large as they are.

What kind of woman sends her little daughter on such a dangerous errand? And leaves her sick old mother to live all by herself on the far side of the woods? Did Mrs. Hood at least send medicine and soup to the old lady? No! She sent a basket of double double chocolate muffins. No wonder the old lady is sick, if that’s all she’s been eating.

My client watched Miss Hood go on her way, playing and picking flowers as she went. If he had wanted to eat the little girl, he could have done so easily then. Instead, he went to the grandmother’s cabin to check up on her. Knowing the woods as well as he does, he arrived long before little Miss Hood did. He knocked at the door, but to his horror, when the grandmother answered it, she took one look at my client and keeled over dead.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client is a civilized wolf. He would never harm a hair on a little old lady’s head. But he is a wolf. And when a potential meal drops dead in front of him, his instinct will not let it go to waste. So he ate her. But he did not murder her.

Now, (ahem) we come to the delicate part. My client was hoping this wouldn’t become public knowledge, since he considers it a private matter. But a large portion of the prosecution’s case depends on the fact that when little Miss Hood arrived at the cabin, my client was in her grandmother’s bed, wearing her nightie. (Ahem) Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the fact is, my client happens to enjoy wearing women’s clothing occasionally. This may not be common wolf behavior, but it is not illegal, and it is certainly not an indication of his guilt.

Almost immediately, my client was overcome with exhaustion, and fell asleep on the old lady’s bed.

He was in a deep sleep when little Miss Hood woke him up and began asking him rude questions, like why his eyes and his ears were so big, and why he was wearing her grandmother’s nightie. It’s not surprising that he became irritated and started chasing her around the cabin. That was when the woodsman arrived and jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion. He called 911 and my client has been in jail awaiting trial ever since.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Wolf has been thoroughly traumatized by these events. The charge against him is clearly without foundation. It’s outrageous that he has been accused of such a vicious crime, when he was motivated only by concern for the little girl and her grandmother.

If anyone is responsible for this tragedy, we need look no further than Mrs. Hood, Little Red Riding Hood’s mother. First, she sent her young daughter into the woods all alone. Second, she didn’t even care enough to look after her own sick mother.
But ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if the truth be told, we are all responsible.

Wolves have lived in the Deep Dark Forest since time immemorial. Our woodsmen have clear-cut their trees. We have encased their streams in concrete and built housing tracts on their land. We expect them to obey our laws, in spite of the fact they have lived in accordance with nature’s for centuries.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I urge you to search your hearts. My client, Mr. Wolf, is a victim, not a criminal. It is your duty to find him not guilty and let him return to the woods where he belongs.

I rest my case.
© Copyright 2009 Janet Aird. All rights reserved.

---

Janet Aird writes technical and business articles about the environment for landscapers, arborists, farmers and professional water managers, but her true love is writing about relationships between people. Her articles, essays and short stories have been published in magazines and newspapers in the United States, Canada and England. Her story “Downsized” appeared on this blog in May 2009.

Saluting the queen of writing links

I stumbled across author Gabrielle Luthy's website while searching for something else (which is how the best stuff is discovered) and immediately bookmarked her "For Writers" page.

She's organized hundreds of online writing resources into 30+ categories. Each category has several dozen or several hundred links to helpful articles and checklists.

Thanks, Gabrielle!

#28 Get Gone

Get Gone
by Cindie Geddes

You know how some girls, they like to say how their man used to be nice and all? How there was this time before the yelling and before he laid hands on her, and how that was the time she learned to love him? You know how she’ll smile all sad when she says that and you just know she’s got some Disneyfied picture all hazy and soft in her head? And you can tell she’s waiting for that guy to come on back to her. Like he’s going to wake up one day and realize what a sumbitch he’s been and he’s going to buy her roses and do the laundry and read their bastard kids a book and carry her on up to their bed like he was missing her the way she’s been missing him. You can see it on her face clear as a bruise.

Well, I’m not like that. Never been. Because Nate, he wasn’t ever like that either. He was mad-dog mean from the day we met. He smacked me before he ever kissed me. And I was okay with that. I could work with that. He was beautiful. Looked to be carved from deep white granite, cold and hard, made me shiver the first time I touched his arm. I was all dark and small and he was all light and big, and we were both already cracked. We fit together like two pieces of a broken cup. And I would’ve kept on gluing us back together forever if he hadn’t touched that four-year-old down the way.

That sweet kid, no bigger than a cherub on a fountain, after Nate, she was busted. Sure as if he’d taken a hammer to her, she was busted on the inside. There was no putting her back.

And after that, part of me broke off and went missing. And no matter how much glue I used, everything we had, sick and sad as it was, all that just spilled on out through where that missing chunk once was.

When I picked up his gun from the garage bench where he liked to clean it after a hunt, that rifle was solid and heavy and righteous in a way that just blew away the rest of that cup. By the time I walked through our tiny house and woke him from our little bed, sometime after I shoved that gun in his mouth like it was a dick he hadn’t been planning on, but before I pulled that trigger, sometime in there, I found my calling.

I pulled that trigger as if the harder I pulled it the harder that bullet would hit him. I pulled that trigger and it was good.

I was a hammer. And I was just looking for something else to smash.

Somehow the softest little girls, they end up with the hardest boys. And that meanness, it settles over them, hardening over them like a cement shell. Some of those girls just get crushed under the weight of that shell. Others die right inside it, never looking a bit different. But some of those soft little girls, they take that shell and they harden all the way through. Those are the ones that stand up. And when one of those girls stands up, those boys best back down if they know what’s good for them. ‘Course, if they had that kind of sense, I’d be out a job. And I do like my job.

Still, a soft little girl, even one that’s found her own meanness, she doesn’t want anyone dead. Not if she can help it. She’d rather just up and leave. She’d rather the restraining order worked. She’d rather that walking away didn’t mean exposing her back. But there’s not many that care about her rathers.

I did a few favors in the beginning. Did a little time, too. I was what you might call an on-the-job learner. Focus was an issue in those early days. When I got going I got sloppy. There was some man who needed to get gone, I would get him there. Didn’t matter so much how. Hell, didn’t matter so much why. Some girl pointed me in the right direction and I was all about the crushing.

But I learned some skills behind bars. A sort of vocational training, because there were a whole lot of girls there thanks to some man. Some man who turned them out or hooked them up or turned them in to save his own ass. By the time I got out and settled in Pasadena, not a rose to be found in my neighborhood, I was a long way from home, with a long list of names. My get-gone list. I spent my 30s on that list. One at a time, I made the world a little lighter.

I got better with each one, too. And I made connections. You take out the husband of some woman lawyer, and she owes you big time. But you bring down a molester for a cop whose little girl is turning ten? Damn, it’s like a get-out-of-jail free card. I even got a judge at the Ninth Curcuit Court of Appeals whose daddy finally took a tumble—the kind that leaves broken bones and a sweet inheritance. She’s the one who turned me onto a sliding scale. Everyone pays what they can. When you love your work the way I do, it’s not a bit about money. But it’s nice having my schedule freed up. And the move up to a loft, that didn’t hurt either. Me and the Playhouse District, with its bustle and noise, we get along just fine.

Yeah, now, I’m doing alright. Dali Cade, Hit Chick for Hire. Shit, I should have cards printed.
© Copyright 2009 Cindie Geddes. All rights reserved.

---

Cindie Geddes runs Flying Hand Writing Services in Reno, Nevada. She writes for love and money, but like her narrator, she likes it best when both are involved.

Writing funny

I've been writing funny copy for years and even have a library of funny radio spots to my credit. However, it wasn't until I won a stand-up comedy class that I really thought about the mechanics of humor. I learned to write jokes and that new skill improved the writing I do for clients.

You may never find yourself alone on a stage telling jokes to slightly inebriated stangers (something I find oddly relaxing), but do invest some time to learn how funny works.

A great place to start is "The Secret of Writing Funny" by Annie Binns. Try her six techniques and you will be funnier—at least on paper.

If you know of other resources that have helped you write funny, please share them in the comments.

#27 Death Dealer (Or Bob Strikes Back)

Editor's note: This story is the haunting sequel to "Sweet Revenge." Watch your cholesterol, people. That's all we're saying.

Death Dealer (Or Bob Strikes Back)
by Margaret Finnegan

“Murderer.” The word stole into Heidi’s head on summer nights when she lay down to sleep. It was annoying, but Heidi didn’t dwell. She had no regrets.

Over time, the word managed to get out of her head and into the copper pipes, which hissed it—murrderrerr—in a ghostly tune when she laundered her whites.

Then, on Halloween, the word burst into her hearing-aid static. That was when Heidi got mad. She shouted to her empty kitchen, “That’s enough, Bob; there’s no need to get melodramatic,” whereupon, Bob materialized before her.

He did not look good. He had lost a lot of weight in the afterworld, and he had the gloomy, pissed-off face to show for it. Plus, he had no eyeballs and his tongue was black. “You were my wife. You were supposed to love me, but you killed me,” he moaned, pointing a long gray finger at her heart.

“You killed yourself. No one made you eat all that saturated fat, all that beef, all that sugar and butter, all those empty carbs. You did that all on your own.”

“Nooooo, you gave me those things on purpose.”

“Ha! Tell it to Oprah. ‘My wife stuffed me with desserts.’ ‘Violet’s made me eat their cupcakes.’ ‘Congress won’t pay for my lap-band.’ How about some personal responsibility, mister?”

This seemed to stump Bob. He had to massage a big chunk of revealed brain with his fingers. “I hate you,” he said at last.

“Fine. Spend eternity hating me, but stop messing with my hearing aid.”

“Murderer!” he shouted. The kitchen lights flashed as Bob, his skin an angry, iridescent purple, stretched out—nine feet, ten feet. Red light shone from his empty eye sockets. Worms and maggots slithered from his ears and nose. Raising his fists to the sky, he thundered, “Yooooouuuuu killed me.”

Then his jawbone tumbled to the floor. He tried to speak, but his black tongue just flopped around like a sea cucumber.

“Well, thank heavens for that,” said Heidi.

Without even a soda pop fizzle, down went Bob—eight feet, six feet, five-foot nine and a half. With as much dignity as he could muster, he bent down and retrieved his jaw. Cradling it gently and shuffling backwards, bathed in the yellow light of shame, he began to fade away until there was nothing left, not even a maggot on the ground, not even a hum in the pipes.

Heidi stared at the spot Bob had stood. She blinked. She sighed. Then, when it was time, she got out her good ceramic bowl and her eight super-sized bags of candy, and waited for trick-or-treaters.
© Copyright 2009 Margaret Finnegan. All rights reserved.

---

Margaret Finnegan is a frequent contributor to Rose City Sisters. Her work has appeared in Salon, the LA Times, FamilyFun and other publications. She blogs about wise women and even wiser goddesses at Finnegan Begin Again. She reminds you that excessive Halloween candy can lead to an early death but giving individual-sized snack bags of carrots to trick-or-treaters can lead to an even earlier one. Remember: to be forewarned to be forearmed.

Dressing up your monitor for Halloween

A recent post on Lifehacker showed a great selection of Halloween wallpaper to make your monitor just a bit more festive. I like the slightly grunge look of this design by an artist known as Girl-In-Glass.

Fighting plagarism with Copyscape

Copyscape is a clever online plagiarism protection service that lets you hunt down copies of your work on the web.

If you've sold only the print rights to your work, find out if it's been posted online. Heck, you can find out if someone is passing off your work as their own. (The scoundrels.)

They even offer banners for your site to let others know you monitor your content.

#26 Special Delivery

Special Delivery
by Khyati Soparkar

Gia struggled to maintain a neutral expression as she packed the lasagna for Carlo’s lunch. It was difficult when she really wanted to burst into laughter, sing as loudly as her voice would go, and dance in the driving Pasadena rain. But years of experience had taught her that overt emotions would only irritate Carlo, and lead to an argument. He was quicker with his tongue, and Gia would be left in the kitchen, dozens of potential retorts uselessly whirling through her mind.

“What are your plans today?” he asked, holding out his glass for more of the fresh-squeezed orange juice he insisted on every morning. That wouldn’t leave any for her, but it wasn’t Carlo’s way to be concerned with mundane matters.

Why was he asking, she bit her lip. Did he know something?

“I'm volunteering at the Norton Simon”, she replied, keeping her voice steady. “I told you yesterday.”

“I was wondering if you could pull together a dinner for my colleagues tonight,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “It would be good networking for the partnership.”

No, no, screamed a voice in her head. Today is the only chance. You can’t let him trap you.

“I already signed up, Carlo,” she responded. “They're counting on me to show up.”

He threw an irritated glance at her as he pushed back his chair. “Fine,” he ground out. “I’ll take them out. Don’t expect a present when I get promoted,” he added.

She rushed to get ready the minute he left, and was knocking on the door of the room at the Pasadena Hilton even before Carlo got to work. It opened so quickly, she knew Nick had been waiting on the other side. He pulled her into his arms, and an hour passed before they exchanged a coherent sentence.

It had been six months since a chance meeting with the attractive Army sergeant from Fort Irwin had turned personal. Gia’s only regret in that time had been her marriage to Carlo. She would have divorced him in an instant, but the thought of her parents’ shock—and the fact that Nick's military obligations made meeting difficult—held her back. Perhaps in another life, she sighed. Right now, Nick was giving her the love and sex that she had been craving from Carlo in their three years of marriage, and she intended to hold on to it as long as she could.

She gradually became conscious of Nick’s gentle voice. “…transferred. Not sure when I will be back…”

“What?” she started. “When?”

“I leave in the morning,” he murmured. “I am so sorry, sweetheart. Army’s orders.”

Back at home, Gia nervously fingered the antique diamond pendant Nick had insisted on gifting her. Carlo had a sharp memory and no respect for his wife’s privacy. Even if she never wore the necklace, there was no guarantee that Carlo wouldn’t go through her jewelry some day just because he felt like it. And if he did, it would be difficult to explain the presence of an expensive necklace.

Carlo had never allowed her any income or assets of her own, and gave her a monthly allowance that just covered household necessities. But she wouldn’t give this up, she decided. Carlo already had her life; she was entitled to this one symbol of what could have been.

# # #

Leaving her friend Pam’s apartment, Gia was elated. Pam ran a small marketing promotions firm, and would ensure that Gia won the diamond necklace in a contest from a magazine Carlo knew she subscribed to. Pam’s professional ties would even ensure that the "prize" came in an package stamped with the magazine’s logo. To top it off, she would send the package to Carlo’s work address, a masterful finishing stroke that Gia herself had suggested. Get the pendant while giving Carlo no reason for doubt, she thought excitedly. She couldn’t have planned it better.

A few days later, Carlo handed her a packet with the magazine insignia. They were having a party, and as always, Carlo had arrived well after the first guest. Pam was standing by her side, and Gia sent her friend a small secret smile of gratitude. Pam acknowledged it with a smile of her own. As she started to rip open the package, the doorbell rang again.

Carlo firmly believed that work around the house was Gia’s responsibility, and didn’t even take a cup to the sink when he was home. But tonight, even as Gia stiffened from years of habit and prepared to tear herself from the package to answer the door, Carlo gestured at her to stay seated. Still intent on her package, Gia didn’t look at the new arrival until she was enveloped in her sister Maria’s hug and signature Chanel No. 5 scent.

As Gia slowly disengaged herself, the diamond pendant glinting at Maria’s throat caught her eye. Gia’s expression turned to shock as her package revealed a plain silver chain.

“Beautiful necklace, Maria,” said Carlo, breaking into Gia’s dizzy thoughts. “Is it new?” he asked, a suggestive smile on his face.
© Copyright 2009 Khyati Soparkar. All rights reserved.


---

Khyati Soparkar started writing as a teenager, and has published in the US and abroad. She has a MBA in Marketing with experience in financial services. She loves writing on marketing and business school, and is developing a portfolio in creative writing. Currently, she is writing a novel, working on a PMP Certificate, and growing her business in MBA admissions consulting. She invites readers to email her to say hello or to get help with admission essays!

Telling a story with Storyist

A little over a year ago, I treated myself to Storyist software, a Mac-only application for writing novels and screenplays.

Sure, you can write a masterpiece with any old word processor, but Storyist makes the process so much easier. And at $59, it's only a bit of a splurge (compared to, oh, say, Photoshop).

This is what I like about Storyist:

• It does the formatting for you. Yay!

• It lets you stash notes, links, and even images in your project file without cluttering up the manuscript or script. This came in very helpful when I was writing a story that started in 1937 and worked its way through the decades.

• It has template pages for character sketches, plot points and settings.

Storyist has a bunch of features I even tried yet, which keeps things interesting. I plan to fork over the upgrade price to get version 2 before the start of National Novel Writing Month.

#25 I’ve never been to Pasadena

I’ve never been to Pasadena
by William Wren

“Are there moose in Pasadena?”

“Are there what? Where?”

“Moose. In Pasadena. I just ask ‘cause I’ve never been to Pasadena.”

Evelyn looked at Mr. Houle as if he had lost his mind. Mr. Houle had what people called “quirks.” White hair, a little bent and a smallish man, he was frailty’s poster child.

He was actually sixty-five and energetic. Just when you thought he would fall over with the wind, he’d begin his long and determined run through the park, down past the river, out to where the office buildings refused to go and the old barns refused to leave.

And he’d run back the way he came, without respite, never drained by the ordeal. If anything, he was invigorated. Until he started to think, when he would slump, walk slowly and appear very, very old.

In the early spring he had been asking about Dutch windmills, Don Quixote and the availability of old fashioned metal barber basins. When questioned, he replied, “Life should imitate art. I’m exploring possibilities.”

“Why would you want to know if they have moose in Pasadena?” Evelyn asked. She was not famous for a lively imagination.

“The re-creation,” Mr. Houle said.

“Re-creation?”

“Yes,” he replied. Despite appearances, he was astute and saw Evelyn would need more information. “My basement. I thought I should put something down there. I decided on Pasadena.”

Baffled, Evelyn asked, “Why?”

“I’ve never been to Pasadena.” The logic was self-evident.

# # #

Evelyn returned to her life at the bank, where she was moving upward managing the personal accounts of the many people who, unlike her, were incapable of organizing and orchestrating and ordering their finances.

There was good money in other people’s failings.

Evelyn led a life guided by order and planning and “plain good sense” (her father’s phrase). She had a house that would be paid for on a specific date. She had a fuel-efficient car completely paid for. And she had a cat though she did not see the point of cats. In fact, she had named her cat Pointless. (The cat had been a friend’s idea.)

Evelyn had neighbours on one side she greatly appreciated because they were rarely home and when they were, they were function-focused: car washing, lawn cutting, leaf raking.

Evelyn’s other neighbour was Mr. Houle. He was always home, never functional, and had a dog, Troy, who wagged his tail for everyone but Evelyn. With her, he barked crossly and shat on her lawn. The only place he ever shat was on her lawn.

She wanted to report the dog and would have long ago but everyone on the street loved Troy and found his antics cute. Many of them were her clients at the bank.

With his shitting dog, impractical pursuits and deadpan seriousness while discussing the most absurd of ideas, Mr. Houle reminded Evelyn almost daily of her mother, whom her father had left when she was twelve in an act informed by plain good sense.

Most galling to Evelyn was the information she had received from an old university friend who worked in a similar position as she, but at another bank. Mr. Houle was loaded and had started from nothing.

How the hell could that be?

# # #

One day in late January, Mr. Houle called out to Evelyn as she was heading for work.

“Ever been to Pasadena?”

Rushing, she simply answered, “No.”

“It sure is somethin’!”

To Evelyn’s dismay, he walked over to her.

“I tell you, I’ve never been much for football. And I never understood what Americans saw in that college football. But I’ll say this, that Rose Bowl is a thing to see. A thing to see.”

“I’m sure it is,” Evelyn said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m running behind. Bye!” She quickly got in her car, started it up and left.

# # #

The Woodstocks were looking at the possibility of a loan, maybe a second mortgage, to finance their son Josh’s education. Evelyn was impressed. He’d be going to Caltech.

She was concerned with the application, though.

“You’ll be able to cover tuition and things like books, but I don’t see how you can cover living accommodations, meals and so on.”

“Josh will be staying at home,” Mrs. Woodstock said. “He’ll have his bedroom and we’ve decided to give him the back room too. And he’ll be eating at home of course.” She smiled.

Evelyn blinked, then asked, “Are these online studies?”

Mr. Woodbridge answered, “Oh no. He’s got the campus map and all. He’ll be doing some running around, mind, but if he’s quick he’ll manage it.”

Bluntly, Evelyn asked, “How will he be living at home and attending classes at Caltech? That’s in Pasadena. California.”

“It is. But Mr. Houle says it’s fine for Josh to come by in the mornings and go downstairs. The Bester’s girl, Leah, she’s been going for over a week. To Pasadena, that is. Says the climate’s more agreeable. And Mr. Houle don’t mind.”

# # #

After work, Evelyn went straight to Mr. Houle’s front door.

“I’ve had people at the bank today saying their son is going to school at Caltech in Pasadena but living at home. When I ask how that’s possible, they say, ‘Oh, Mr. Houle doesn’t mind. He says use the basement anytime.’”

“They can.”

“But you don’t have Pasadena in your basement.”

“But I do.”

“Oh, you have Pasadena in your basement?”

“Yes. Wasn’t sure it would fit, but it does. And it’s a helluva thing. I’d move there except I prefer living on the main floor of the house.”

“You do not have Pasadena in your basement.”

“Yes I do.

“No you don’t.”

“Do.”

It was an irresolvable moment so Mr. Houle said, “Why not come downstairs and see?”

Fuming, Evelyn said, “Yes. Let’s just do that.”

They went down to the basement.

It was Pasadena. It was sunny. Everyone was so, so tanned.

There were no moose.

© Copyright 2009 William Wren. All rights reserved.

---

William Wren is a writer-editor in New Brunswick, Canada. He likes constraints. With the above example, he spent more time reducing the word count than actually writing the story. More to the point, he finds his creativity stimulated by constraints such as, “a Pasadena connection.” Having never been to Pasadena and knowing little beyond a parade and football game, the writing became very compelling. What to write? Why, a Pasadena of the mind, of course.