Okay, so every month Writer’s Digest does a writing competition and sometimes it requires writing a short story (750 words or less) based of a prompt that they provide.  The prompt for last month’s competition was, “Mommy, I don’t like this.”  That’s it.  Below is what spewed forth from my brain.  I hope you enjoy it.  If you don’t… well.. you’re not alone because it didn’t make the top five for the competition.  I’ll assume it took sixth place….

                                                                             The Hoxeyville Bank Heist

In and out.  The job was supposed to be in and out.  What the heck happened?

My feet paced the marble floor trying to keep up with my mind.  It all happened too fast; everything was a blur.  It’s been hours now and all I can figure is the teller hit a silent alarm.  My heart’s still racing.  I’m suddenly aware of how ungodly hot my ski mask feels.

“Mommy, I don’t like this,” comes a small voice from the group of five, kneeling on the floor.

I lose it.

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”  Before I know it I’m rushing toward the group, thrusting my gun in their faces.

“Marcus Scott! Don’t you point that gun at my son!” yelled the boy’s mother.

I stopped cold; surprised by my own outburst.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Daniels. I overreacted.” I begged sheepishly.  The words further dampening the wool covering my sweating face.

“You’re darn right you did.  And let me tell you…”

Her words were cut off by a sharp knock on the front door glass. It was about time they sent the negotiator.  I’d seen enough movies to  know not to go near the windows or the front door, so I surveyed the hostages.

“You. Kid. Since you can’t keep your mouth shut, why don’t you go answer the door.”  I gave a sweeping motion with my gun toward the door, being careful not to aim it at him.  The boy looked at his mother who nodded reassuringly.  He walked cautiously to the door and pushed it open.  In a flash, all I could see was his back as he sprinted through the parking lot toward the parked police cars.

“Dang it!”  My look of disapproval toward Mrs. Daniels was met with a shrug and a smug smile.

Before the front door could fully close, it landed in the paw of a large man in an even larger police uniform.  Chief Hardy was the size of a bear and I chuckled to myself as I pictured a bear in cop’s clothing.  

“Focus!” I muttered to myself.  “Stay back!” I yelled to the Chief.  “You’re not the negotiator.  Why didn’t they send a negotiator?”  I sputtered a little as the wool from the mask got stuck to my lips.

Chief Hardy gave a half smile under his bushy black mustache.

“Who’s ‘they’, Marcus?” He didn’t wait for a response.  “What are you doing here?”  He motioned to the four remaining hostages, his powerful fist still clutching a half eaten bearclaw; the irony of which was lost on me at the time.

“What does it look like I’m doing?  I’m robbing the bank!”

The Chief took a nonchalant bite of his donut before responding.

“What exactly are you going to take, Marcus?  There’s no money here.”

“Of course there’s money here, its a bank.” I spat.

“You think anyone in this town has enough money to keep in a fancy bank? Everybody ‘round here is just as broke as you are, son.  Even if they did, you think they’d just hand over their hard earned cash to somebody they don’t know?”

“Well how’s the bank stay in business, if nobody’s using it?”

“Loans, obviously.  Ain’t nobody got any money, so they have to take out loans to buy stuff.  The bank makes money off the interest.”

“What interest?”

“The interest from the loans.”

“I’m not interested in loans, I came for cash.” I barked in frustration.

The Chief sighed and motioned to the hostages.

“You’re all here for loans, right?”

Everyone nodded, including the teller and the bank manager.

“See,” he nodded to the vault as he continued.  “Look for yourself.  Vault is wide open.”

I sidestepped quickly to the vault, keeping my eye on the bear.  I was beyond panic now and was glad the mask was hiding my agony.  The Chief isn’t right though.  There has to be money here.

I turned into the vault and the wet wool muffled the whimper that escaped my lips.  The piles of cash I expected were none existent.  The room was empty.

I turned to face humility just in time to see the bank door swinging shut and the backs of my four hostages as they ran to safety.  The Chief, his bearclaw gone, checked his wristwatch impatiently.  I put my plastic gun on the counter next to the silent alarm and removed my sweaty mask.

“Have you gotten new handcuffs yet?  Those old one’s pinched real bad.”

My fellow Americans, a little over a month ago I announced my bid for President of the United States of America.  When I initially made my decision, I assumed that seizing the role of Leader of the Free World would be a slam-dunk-cake-walk, which is why I’ve done absolutely no campaigning since.  As it turns out, this blog does not have the extensive reach that I initially thought, a fault I blame entirely on the lethargic nature of my readership who can’t seem to find the energy to click the “share” button on their Facebook feed, but somehow has time to take online quizzes to find out what Disney princess they’re most in tune with (I got Ariel because of my affinity for wearing undergarments made of sea shells).  Anyway, since my announcement, a number of other affable clowns have joined the Presidential race, not the least of which being Donald Trump who announced his bid this week, and it occurred to me that I may need to set myself apart from the Clinton’s and Bush’s of the world.  To do this I will begin to outline some of my key objectives to accomplish during my time in office.  I will not apologize to anyone whom the following may offend, but here are two planks of my Presidential platform which I believe to be hot topics of the day:

1.  The “Ten Second Rule” to become the “Ten Second Law” – Some of you germaphobes are cringing right now as most of you are probably aware of the scientific theory that if you drop a piece of food on the floor, you actually have ten seconds to retrieve it before it becomes too contaminated to consume (the “ten second rule” becomes the “five second rule” when eating in public restrooms; for sanitation reasons, obviously).  By making this “rule” a law, people will be required to pick up any dropped food and consume it.  This will cut down on food waste and littering all in one.  And no, the rich will not be allow to hire others to eat their rogue food droppings for them.  It may sound socialist, but everyone is on the same level here.

2.  Men’s Facial Hair Handbook – Under my regime… er.. I mean, administration, certain criteria will need to be met before men (or women, if they so choose) are allowed to grow large amounts of facial hair.  I remember the good old days when large beards were reserved for Special Forces soldiers, lumberjacks and desert island castaways, but today any idiot with the patience to do so is able to sport a beard.  My regulations and criteria will mainly be an attempt on my part to diminish the livelihood of “hipsters” who are currently overrunning our cities and towns with their ironic t-shirts and nifty hats.  The average person will not have any difficulty meeting the criteria set forth.   If you’re a male and you’re reading this, take a look at your legs.  If you’re not currently wearing skinny jeans, you’re probably fine.

Finally, before I leave you for today, I’d like to warn you about the dangers of voting for Rick Perry.  I’m pretty sure he’s the guy who made all those “Madea” movies and that this is just an elaborate plan to gain access to the White House to film “Rick Perry’s: Madea Goes To Washington” which is not surprisingly the prequel to “Madea Goes To Jail”.

I’m Brett Allen and I approve this message.

Its that time again.  Like chinese water torture, the American Presidential campaign system has slowly started drip, drip, dripping on the collective forehead of America’s sanity (what little is left).  True to form, the bombardment has started a healthy year and half before the actual elections, ensuring that all of us are too disgusted and annoyed to pay attention to what is really going on when its actually time to vote.  And nevermind the fact that on election day we’re, without fail, left to choose between two candidates who make such extreme (and yet somehow incredibly vague) promises, that they can’t help but polarize the two political parties against each other with the end result of four more years of a political paralysis.

Now recently, there have been rumors flying surrounding the infrequency of my blog posts over the past months and I’d like to put those rumors to bed.  First, the rumor that my blog had been “bought out” by a national media syndicate is sadly not true because nobody reads this garbage except you.  Second, the rumor that the stresses of having a new puppy and a toddler spurred my quick descent into madness, leaving me muttering and rocking nervously in random corners of my house in between games of fetch, is only a half truth.  The reality behind my self-inflicted hiatus from Hogwash is that, in the spirit of the season, I have formed an exploratory committee for presidential election and after numerous days of badgering my friends, family, coworkers and neighbors, I am proud to announce my bid for candidacy for President of the United States in 2016.

I know what you’re going to say already, which is that I’m too young to be President and that I must legally be 35 years old to be nominated. I’ve already solved this problem and burned all copies of my birth certificate last night.  You’re probably also thinking that I don’t have enough political experience, but I ask you, what is “political experience” if not professional lying?  Which is essentially what I’ve been doing on this blog for the last year; and at least I’m honest about my lying.  There’s nothing worse than someone who lies about being a liar.  Finally, some of you may even be thinking that I’m not smart enough to be President.   Well the heck with all you people, I don’t need your vote anyway.

Understanding that to get the nomination for either major political party, I would have to become a slave to lobbyist and special interest groups, I have decided to form my own independent political party called appropriately, The Hogwash Party (also known as The Party Party because we’re a political party that likes to have a good time).  The central platform of the Hogwash Party will be to focus internally on making America great again.  One of my cornerstone programs will be modeled after Franklin Roosevelt’s Works Program Act (W.P.A.) which helped put Americans back to work during The Great Depression.  My program, known as Working Helps Improve Patriotism Program (W.H.I.P.P.), will replace the current entitlement based welfare system and force people that can, to earn their money.  Our tagline will be “Sweat For Swag” to appeal to the youngster out there.  And lets face it, there’s a lot of folks out there who could use a W.H.I.P.P.ing.

Finally, you may be worried that with another candidate in the mix it will just be one more set of annoying advertisements you have to put up with until November 2016.  Don’t worry, there won’t be any TV ads because I don’t have any money.  My lack of campaign funds will not hinder my efforts though and I’ll capitalize on the use of social media to spread my message.  I figure if I tack an ad onto the end of every YouTube video featuring a cat playing the piano I should be able to reach most Americans.  If I can get my hands on a video of Justin Bieber getting hit the crotch with a wiffleball bat, you’d all probably make me Emperor.

Spread the Hogwash word and vote for Brett in 2016!

*I’m Brett Allen and I approve this long rambling message.

Everyone knows that Valentine’s Day is named after St. Valentine, a 3rd century man who is the patron saint of lovers. What most people don’t know, however, is that St. Valentine’s real name was Carl Kawalski and he was also the patron saint of head trauma patients. But Carl had not always been a saint.  Carl’s neighbor had been a fellow by the name of Saint Frank, who happened to be the patron saint of jealous pricks (a surprising number of regular folks became self proclaimed “saints” in the 3rd Century, due to general boredom in what historians widely refer to as the “dullest century on record”). Carl’s jealously of St. Frank spurred his pursuit of sainthood for himself, whereupon he began referring to himself as Saint Valentine (the name had been taken from a childhood dog, who coincidentally had also been a patron saint).

Carl began to experiment with different “patronisms”, as he called them, to find his specialty. Carl tried being the patron saint of many things; eating contests, carnival games, karaoke, carpet laying, breaking and entering, aggravated assault, alcoholism, arrow catching, arrow removal/flesh wounds, and lint collecting just to name a few. Nothing seemed to fit. On February 14, 496 A.D., in an attempt to become the patron saint of bowling ball juggling, Carl was left with irreversible brain damage. He spent the remainder of his life doling out drool covered hugs and cutting tiny red hearts out of construction paper. Thus we have the beginning of our Valentine’s Day traditions; and the reason why bowling ball juggling on February 14th is illegal.

Carl’s deeds were eventually lost to history until 1912, when careful research and some slight story embellishments by an American man named Joyce Clyde Hall, lead to his canonization by the Catholic Church.  The successful canonization propelled Joyce Hall’s then fledgling “Hall Brothers” greeting card business onto the national scene.  You know them better today as Hallmark.  This is why Valentine’s Day is often referred to as a “Hallmark Holiday”.

In the words of the great Paul Harvey, “now you know the rest of the story.”

The rusty door to my mailbox was hanging open.  I peered in, as I always do before sticking my hand into small, dark spaces.  Inside was a ragged envelope which sat partially crumpled atop the regular mail.  I could see before picking it up that the return address was in an unfamiliar language and my address had been penned by a hand unskilled in English.  I knew immediately who it must be from.  

My neighbor Frank had mocked me when I told him about the e-mail I’d received a month ago.  “You’re so gullible”, he always told me, “someday it’s going to bite you.”  As alway, I ignored his warning and sent a $2,000 via Western Union to aid Prince Faramade of Nigeria in regaining his throne.  Frank waved me off, when I tried to tell him it was a smart investment.  He had muttered something about eating spam and then went back to tinkering with the old toys he was trying to fix in his garage.

Sliding my finger under the envelope flap, I tore it open.  Inside was a handwritten letter, signed by the Prince himself.  The first half was a gushing thank you for my monetary support, the second, as I had suspected, was a set of instructions to lead me to my reward.  I couldn’t wait to shove this in Frank’s face.  

Following the instructions, I walked down the block to the city park.  There, right where the letter said it would be, under the willow tree next to the pond, was a freshly dug patch of earth. As I sunk to my knees, all I could think about was the smug smile being wiped off Frank’s face.  

My hands began to pull away the dirt; a task that proved to take longer than expected.  Whatever was buried here, was buried deep.  As I dug deeper, one side of my hole began to give way, revealing a small cavern that evidently stretched under the tree’s root system.  It was too dark to see inside, but I knew this had to be it, so I plunged my hand into the unknown.

I groped blindly along the damp dirt floor, reaching farther and farther into the small cavern. It wasn’t until my arm had fully disappeared, that I felt the smooth surface of a metal box.  My heart jumped into my throat.  Within seconds, I was sitting over a small chest under the shade of the willow.  The box itself was made of old tin and had, at one time, been festively decorated, though time had taken its toll.  A small brass placard with the letter “F” adorned the top. My heart was racing now and a small brass latch was all that stood between me and what was sure to be a life altering prize from Prince Faramade.  

The box was heavy and its contents shifted within.  It wasn’t big enough to be a large amount of cash. Precious stones, I thought.  Fingers trembling, I lifted the brass latch.  As the latch left the catch, the box sprung open violently.   The head of a clown exploded toward my face and caught me between the eyes.  I wasn’t proud of my scream, but it escaped my lips nonetheless.  I stumbled back before catching myself, my eyes following the bobbing head of that silly jack-in-the-box.  Across its forehead, someone had scrawled a message in marker.  “A fool and his money…” was all it read.

I was dumbfounded.  Why would he do this?  Why go through all this trouble?  Why send me on this wild goose chase?  

Leaving the box and the hole, I raced back down the street to my house.  My fears were confirmed when I rounded the corner into my driveway.  I could see my front door was hanging open.  Without thinking, I barrelled into the house and to my relief found no one inside.  What I did find, was the now empty spot where my big screen TV had once been.  

Slouching onto the steps of my front porch, I put my head in my hands.  How could I have been so dumb?  Looking up, I could see Frank in his yard, hosing the dirt off of a shovel.  He was going to have a field day with this, I thought.  He’s never going to believe I was robbed by the Prince of Nigeria.

***This short story previously NOT published in an issue of Writer’s Digest as a short story competition winner. 

This, my friends, is not a penguin as some might think.  It is actually a rare Artic Vampire-Bat and even more rare is that they appear to have captured it on film mid yawn.  When this specific type of bat yawns it produces a frequency of sound-wave that will stop a human heart and scramble signals to the brain.  Tragically, the camera man who took this picture most likely did not survive his encounter.  The Arctic Vampire-Bat feeds primarily on Arctic Vampire-Mice, Arctic Vampire-Grasshoppers, and an assortment of Arctic Vampire-fruit.  They will not eat anything not of the Arctic Vampire family… except the occasional Mr. Goodbar which seems to be their guilty pleasure.  If you are ever cornered by a roving gang of Arctic Vampire-Bats (yes, they travel in gangs… and they rove instead of fly) put a mirror in front of them.  Unlike most Vampire species, the Arctic Vampire-Bat can indeed see its own reflection and is quite vain.

(Circa 2006)

David slumped onto his couch and tried not to think about going back to work.  Staring at the suitcase sitting next to him, he imagined himself walking out the door, driving to the airport, and catching the next flight back to Cabo.  His daydream was interrupted when he noticed the tag on the suitcase was not the one he remembered affixing.  He leaned in and sure enough, he had grabbed the wrong suitcase.  The tag on this case read:

 

Name:  Lucifer C. Devil

Address:  Hell

Phone #:  (666) 666-0666

“Well, if I have this nut job’s suitcase, then he probably has mine,” thought David as he grabbed the phone.  He hesitated a moment and then dialed. The line on the other end rang only once.

“Hello?” a gruff voice spoke.

“Um… hello…is this… um… Lucifer,” stumbled David.

“Yes.  What is this regarding? Is this about changing my cable provider again?  I told you people ‘yes’ the last time, but the technician hung up on me when I tried to give him directions.”

“Um. No sir,’ replied David, “You see, I just got back from the airport, and I think I picked up your suitcase by mistake.”

“Oh, thank God!” came the voice, “Er… I mean, thank… well you know what I mean.  Don’t open it.  There’s a golden fiddle in there that’s worth more than your life. Where are you?”

David hesitated.  He did not want to give his address to a crazy person.

“I’d prefer if we met somewhere neutral,” David replied.

“I don’t have time for this,” the voice said, frustrated now. “Real quick, imagine yourself tasering your boss at the company Christmas party.”

Before he could help himself, David pictured himself doing just that.

“Nevermind,” came the voice again, “I have your location.  I’ll be there in a sec.”

The line went dead.  As he hung up the phone, paranoid thoughts began running through David’s head.  What if this lunatic was somehow able to trace his call?  David thought back to every cop drama he had ever watched on TV and wondered if it were possible.  Possible, but not probable he concluded.

POOF!  A red plume of smoke filled the room in front of David.  In the center stood an unassuming figure.

“JESUS!” shouted David as he recoiled back into the couch.

“AH!!!” screamed the figure clutching his ears and doubling over.  “What is wrong with you? Don’t say that name around me!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” begged David.

The smoke cleared, revealing The Devil.  He stood no more than 5 feet tall and wore a handlebar mustache under thick rimmed glasses that contained no lenses.  His shoulders were slouched and his tight fitting “Frankie Says Relax” t-shirt did nothing to cover his noticeable gut.  He seemed more the “coffee shop hipster” than the “prince of the underworld” type.

“Sorry it took me a few minutes.  My GPS took me to a guy who was actually tasering his boss at his company Christmas party,” explained The Devil.  “I’m going to have to get more descriptive with my imagery.  It’s a sick world out there.”

“You’re The Devil?” inquired David, still in disbelief.

“Really?  I thought we had established that. Can we move this along?  I want to get back and see how that tasering thing played out.”

“Yeah, sorry,” replied David.  “Your suitcase is right here.”  He slid the case across the floor to The Devil’s hooves.  “Do you have my suitcase?”

The Devil laughed, “No.  But don’t think I’m not grateful.  I’ll grant you one wish.  Ask me anything.  But hurry up.”

David thought for a second.  He’d heard stories about dealing with the Devil and decided to be cautious.

“Okay, what does the ‘C’ stand for in your name?” he finally asked.

The Devil’s face soured.

“That’s your question? I’m not answering that.  Try again.”

“Fine.  Can I take a selfie with you to post on Facebook? Nobody’s going to believe I met you.”

“No. I’m not doing that either,” sighed The Devil. “I don’t trust you not to tag me in the picture, and if that gets out I’ll be the laughing stock of the Abyss.  Think bigger.”

“Fine,” said David, bolder now.  “I just got back from vacation and I don’t want to work tomorrow.  I want to be somewhere warm.”

The Devil sneered.

“Done!” he boomed.

“Wait!”

David’s last word hung in the air as wisps of red smoke curled around the empty room.