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August 29 2019

War of Art

By Sammy Iovino – March 2019

No one remembers the Scourge of the late 20’s. People today have no idea what it was like to have endless beauty one day and only gray, the next. A rainbow of colors on a spectrum unbound by limits. Works by masters and apprentices, both, all telling a story with countless interpretations and emotions. All gone. Centuries of creations all destroyed because of one man. One man who wrote a book. A man who had an idea, who had a following: the Zealous. Together, they successfully tore through every museum and private collection; all government structures and universities; every building and home that contained any piece of art; they were all ransacked.

All art supply stores: Dick Blick, Michaels and every department store was burgled, removing every crayon and ounce of paint, anything that could be used to create. They were unstoppable. Their numbers were far too great for any military force or municipality.

And when they had every known piece of work, they went through again and took drafts and scribbles, sketches and doodles… they took any palettes of dried paint and oils; they even took shavings from colored pencils and crayons.

After they had everything, they put it all in massive vats, larger than buildings, they scraped, melted and boiled everything down. They spent months, locked in factories, devising, plotting, creating. And then the day came: the Reveal. ON live TV, in front of the entire world, they unveiled their end game in the square outside of St. Peter’s Basilica, in Rome: In arguably the epicenter of some of the greatest works produced by the unmatched masters of long ago and in an act of sacrilege to their craft and memories, they displayed a cache of weapons; thousands of handguns and assault rifles; bazookas and grenades; and in the middle: crates and crates of paintballs. Millions upon millions of tiny little orbs, filled with the very materials that were used to create all the artwork they savagely ruined.

Their leader, Tzu Sun, grabbed the first weapon and inserted a clip. He cocked the gun, aimed and fired a shot directly at the spire in the square’s center. A rainbow colored splotch formed on the marble like a Rorschach. His followers roared with excitement. Thousands of men, women and children flailing around like animals, howling and chanting. In the midst of the celebrating, guns, filled with paintballs, were dispersed throughout the crowd. The cheering slowed until silence was left, and once every weapon was handed out, the followers directed their attention to their leader who was now standing upon a stack of ammo crates, holding a book, his book. He spent the next several minutes reading from a passage at the end;

“The Master, together with his Zealous, gathered harmoniously within the square, took up their brushes of metal, and in front of an awe-filled, world audience, created the single greatest work ever known to mankind: The War of ART!”

As he yelled out the title, he pointed his gun into the air and fired an entire clip of paint as the Zealous went insane. He then through the book into the crowd, signaling the start. The sound of guns drowned out the screams of delight as paint shot out in every direction, covering everything in the square. Followers shot whatever they could and grabbed more ammo, again and again. When paint covered every surface, they turned the guns on each other in an epic game of paintball, the largest ever played. It went on for a solid 5 minutes before the last of the paint was used. There were cries of laughter and of pain as people hobbled around and nursed welts from the close-range hits they endured, and as the commotion died down, the Zealous looked among them. The entire plaza was enveloped in color. Media drones overhead captured their creation for the world to see. As the MAster and his Zealous marveled in their creation, the audience sat silent, mourning the cost. Tzu Sun looked into the camera of a drone that hovered in front of him and with pretension and an ignorant sense of self, said, “you’re welcome!”

For Ben:

As he smiled and admired what he had done, an audible thump could be heard. Then another and another. Hundreds of bodies hit the floor. The collective mood turned from joy to fear as the Zealous started dropping, dozens at a time until the square was filled with thousands of people, lying on top of each other. Tzu Sun looked around in horror as every one of his followers fell and lay motionless. The fumes from the old paints became toxic when mixed with the CO2 from the guns, poisoning everyone. Tzu Sun started feeling faint and dropped to his knees. He looked up to the sky and stared into the sun as his eyes started getting heavy. He knew he was going to suffer the same fate and just before he fell, he noticed something flying straight down at him. And with a flash, it was all over. The UN had authorized the dropping of a bomb on the terrorist group. It was the first time in history that an entire terror organization, every cell, was gathered together in one spot. The group had even announced the day for months on social media and television. They advertised where and when they would all be, plus it was in his book. It took 5 minutes to unveil The War of Art, but it took 6 minutes for the missle to travel from the other side of the world.

August 29 2019

Reginald the Blacksmith

samarian excalibur, Writing Prompt

By Sam Iovino – February 24th 2019

“What do I think of our King?!” The blacksmith asked, annoyingly as he brought his hammer down onto iron, sending sparks and bits of metal out like raindrops of fire. “I’ll tell ye what I think of that cottar!” Reginald, now angry at the young grapper who disturbed his work with such an insulting query, threw the piece of metal he was molding into the fire and turned to face the boy, with hammer still in hand. “If it wernt for that thieving attainder, Merlin, Arthur ne’er woulda become King! Was I given a glebe or kaiage?! NO! And furthermore: that fancy gent, Merlin, should count his thegn mine as it was MY gladius that made him Reeve! Oh and don’t ye get my blood going on those dandy jesters of the Round Table! Lancelot is a mud-bathing, son of pig and the jester of the lot.”

The young man stared nervously at the big blacksmith who was glaring with an intensity at nothing in particular. His knuckles were white as the grasp around the hammer grew tighter. After an uncomfortable amount of time, the young man, who was holding a quill for the entirety of the blacksmith’s ranting, opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by another tirade by the angry, Reginald.

“Furthermore: Excalibur’s not even that great of a sword! I made better with lesser metal and a lighter hammer.” Reginald raised the one in his hand and threw it in to a cache of finished weapons that sat just behind the interviewer. The weapons fell to the floor with a thunderous crash, but the young man, who pulled his head down to the table with his hands to avoid the projectile, never broke focus off of the blacksmith who continued talking as if nothing happened.

“If ye had seen Excalibur, ye’d think it a dagger! A REAL vassal (knight) would spit at first sight of that parchment cutter! Still too great for Arthur’s feeble hands! I wager he can’t lift her!”

Reginald began to laugh loudly at his words, roaring at the thought of Arthur struggling to hold his creation as he toppled over from the weight. The blacksmith continued to laugh for a good moment before slowly catching his breath and looking to the young scribe to see his reaction. Reginald’s smile turned to a scowl as he saw a blank expression on the man’s face.

“What? Ye not amused?!”

The scribe answered before thinking and an immediate fear came over him as he said, “but Arthur was strong enough to pull Excalibur from the stone…” The quill fell to the table and the chair toppled over as the young man stood suddenly, ready to run for the shire, hoping his slim frame was quick enough to get away and the behemoth’s size too massive to catch him. The fire from the forge reflected in Reginald’s eyes, adding to the intimidation level, that sent a shiver down the scribe’s spine.

Both men remained in position; one fearless, the other, full of it; one breathing like a dragon, the other wide-eyed, shaking and mentally evaluating his escape options, all ending with him crushed like a grape. But then it happened: an opportunity… a small piece of ash popped up from the burning coals of the forge and floated by direction of the wind, sending it straight up one of Reginald’s nostrils. The blacksmith flinched for a moment before blasting a trumpet-like sneeze from out of his core, impairing him just long enough that the scribe was able to shoot past him and out of the village. He never looked back and didn’t stop until he fell over from exhaustion, several meters away.

The young man lay in the grass, long enough to see the afternoon turn to evening; the dusk turn to night. As he looked at the stars, he reflected on the conversation he had with the blacksmith. He had hoped to be able to write a story that people would read for generations. A story of a man who created one of the most iconic relics of the age. A story that any blacksmith father would be proud to have written by their son, a scribe.

August 29 2019

The Pond

samarian painting, Writing Prompt

By Jennifer Iovino – June 2019

Awe and trembling hit me in waves – the bigness of this reality. I could… I could paint galaxies, and groups of galaxies. I could paint things you can only see with giant telescopes, orbiting out in space – star-forming clouds, the innards of constellations. I could paint a friend for Pluto with a matching BFF heart. I could write BFF on it. I could paint a super-tall cliff to stand on to behold all these new objects. And I could paint, right in front of me, what can only be seen with sophisticated instruments that pick up what eyes can’t see – cosmic background radiation, dark matter, voracious undead stars…

…Not sure what the gravity of that many galaxies would do to this world.

But.. I could send water over that cliff in a steady flow, shallow enough to stand in but not get swept away. It would be calm and noiseless near the edge that high up, and as serene as an infinity pool. I could turn stellar clouds into the rosy-glow of an earth-sunset. I could make it mid-day, and instead of galaxies, I could hang in front of me a vast complex of sunny, wide curved valleys, splotched with cloud shadows and carpeted with millions of giant old pines. My old VHS-taped, calm-voiced mentor would be proud. I could give new life to a dying glacier and cascade it at a sloth’s-pace into a fjord…

I could turn the falls into the upper deck of a small boat, and watch the glacier calve from there instead. I could breach a whole pod of sperm whales to my right, drift a graveyard of icebergs to my left. I could add a green-and-gold-sky thunderstorm opposite a rainbow. I could add a kid throwing french fries and land sea birds on the railing…

I could turn the boat-railing into a porch-railing instead and paint my dream home on a south facing hill, front porch to the east, wrapping around to a patio facing west in the back, and overshadowed by one or two of those ancient pines.

I could paint the man-o-my dreams.

I could paint Falcore.

I could paint gold.

I could paint an infinite wish granting Genie or fish. I mean, there already is a pond right there.

I wonder if I could paint the Return… IF I could, I could paint Love incarnate racing towards us, sky full of hosts, the whole atmosphere itself rolling back behind them, stars in motion behind that…

...There is only one thing I could think of to paint that would not have the capacity to change time and space and equilibriums and destinies. It would be as inconsequential as the flap of butterfly’s wings in Japan on a monsoon in India, which in fact is pretty inconsequential. And yet it wouldn’t be no big thing, to

me.

And who knows maybe the magic only works once anyway, and I wasted it on a pond. There is only one way to find out.

I quickly mix some black with a little white and make some quick, curved feathery strokes, add some white accents, a tiny bit of pink-red, two spheres of shiny straight-black, and one slightly triangular shape. I again invoke the memory of my favorite painter of happy lil trees, and say out loud, “it’s YOUR world.” And before I finish, I hear the cheerful greeting of my floppy new pal…

August 29 2019

New Neighbor

samarian wonka, Writing Prompt

By Clara Stevens – February 2019

I first noticed something was a little off the day he moved in. I mean, the fact that very little people were moving all of his belongings and boxes into the house was suspect enough. I don’t mean very few people I mean very little people. What is this guy doing with all these little people? And then I saw the logo “little people moving company” and decided to let it go. I mean the top hat and the forked-back waist coat was also a bit unnerving but people can be eccentric so I decided not to stare. It wasn’t until one of the little people tripped on an imperfection on the Sidewalk and almost lost his footing so that the comparably large box fell, partially opened releasing a strange cacophony of light and music for a brief moment. The little person just as startled but more frightened than me closed the box up and brought it doubletime into the house. Other than these curiosities, moving day for Mr. Wonka was no more smooth or frustrating than any other moving day.

August 29 2019

Hide

samarian hide and seek, Writing Prompt

By Jennifer Iovino – January 25th 2019

Of course this whole thing would be at night…

He turns a corner and has his pick of dark, narrow alleyways in this odd array of closely built, six-unit apartment buildings. He ducks into one of them.

A strange intermittent light alternately illuminates and abandons the corridor. The unnatural glow seemed to snuff itself out leaving a ghastly, disheveled darkness. It jumped back to undead life a moment later with a tiny silent blue explosion through the closed window. Light from a flickering TV in his glassy, wide eyes might be what gives him up. He closes them. There is a violent fumbling and a crash as a recycling bin spills out. A cat that shrieked from being stepped on darts past him. The clumsy, hairy giant quickly left the half-checked space and lurched into the next one.

He skulked hurriedly, adrenaline pumping, out the back of the alleyway and into the woods behind the buildings. There was a path but the security lights on the back of the buildings only reached the very edge of the thick wood. The long jagged-edge silhouette of trees against the night sky soon was his only guide as he moved as noiselessly as possible down a wide path.

He was sure he lost them by now. And then he stopped dead in his tracks. Seeming to come up out the earth itself was the low rumbling of air passing through vocal chords and out the open mouth of some very large, angry-sounding creature. He barely had time to think that his life might be over at this very moment when something had him by the shoulders and onto the ground in a split second. And well before one could ponder what to do in the presence of a bright white light, the blinding glare of Waldo’s flashlight coupled with “I gotcha laughter” erased the terror of the last few seconds and replaced it with a sort of relieved and joy-filled rage. Of course it was Waldo. Of course Waldo would do this. There he was. Right there. In the darkness of this infernal wood. The fact that they were on the same team didn’t seem to matter to Waldo. He would’ve done it to whoever passed by. He just stood there, waiting for someone, anyone, to find him. What a weirdo. He left Waldo and pressed on.

Just when he felt like his heart rate and breathing were beginning to return to normal, he became aware of more sounds. The sounds began so gradually he couldn’t remember when they started but there was no mistaking them now, more sounds.

He could suddenly hear the lazy, doleful croaking of a bullfrog. There was also a fast but gentle shushing of the lake swollen from the rain earlier that day, as it spilled over a tiny dam. There was also an unfamiliar sound, something he can’t remember ever hearing. He heard what sounded like some kind of cross between the roar they gave to a pterodactyl in an 80s low-budget children’s show, and a bassoon, cello and tenor sax all rolled into one. It was foreign and fearsome but somehow hauntingly melodious. It was otherworldly and a little far off, so he picked up his pace and ran about an eighth-mile to the waters edge…

August 8 2019

Hide n Seek

samarian hide and seek, Writing Prompt

By Sammy Iovino – January 25th, 2019

“Bigfoot? Waldo?! Where am I?!”, thought Simon, as he looked up from the sign up sheet and glanced around the enormous convention center. Hundreds of people, all in cosplay, were riddled throughout the floor, admiring one another, checking out booths with merchandise and taking pictures with their favorite characters. Simon had no idea what he was doing in such a place, nor that Hide N Seek was official sport!

“Can I help you?” came a small, snooty voice. Simon looked back towards the sign-in table and saw a short man in a very convincing dwarf costume. He was staring up at Simon with judging eyes and a stern, confused expression of distaste.

“I’m here for the, well, I uh, I’m not sure if…”

“Spit it out!” the dwarf-man snapped.

“I got this invitation,” Simon handed him the card he received in the mail, the day before. It was an odd card that had no return address, no stamp, and it only had his name written on the front with a phrase underneath that read, ‘If the addressee is currently hidden and unlikely to be found before the morrow, please burn this card, post haste!’ Inside the card read: “Good on you, master of the unseen! You have shown your worthiness of the triennial Hide N Seek Championship of Champions! Bring this card to the arena on 5th and Harding, tomorrow, the 21st of September. Good luck, Simon Handford!”

The dwarf looked back up at Simon, his face even more contorted from confusion, than before. “Simon Handford?! I’ve never heard of a Simon Handford! Where are you from? London? Oz? Narnia?!”

“Narnia?! What’re you talking abou..” Before he could finish, a man with a refined appearance came over to the table.

“Ah, Mr. Handford! I’m so pleased you received my invitation!” HIs voice was smooth, articulate and british. He looked like a butler directly out of a movie. He was well groomed with glasses, a tailored suit with coattails, a perfect bow tie such expertly polished shoes, that Simon could see his reflection in them. “The name’s Alfred Penniworth, Mr. Handford. Welcome to the Hide N Seek Championship. The ultimate game of cat and mouse, the world has ever seen, or er, not seen, is more fitting! I will take it from here, Master Grumpy!”

Simon looked back at the small man behind the table, expecting him to throw a fit at the insult, but instead, he responded with a bow and a, “thank you, Alfred! He was getting on my nerves, anyway!” and with one last glare in SImon’s direction, he disappeared into a crowd of people dressed like Storm Troopers.

“Don’t mind good old Mr. Grumpy,” said Alfred, “he’s just not used to having people like you, here.”

“What do you mean people like me? Where am I? Who are you and why didn’t that guy yell at you for calling him grumpy?!”

Alfred looked at Simon intently as if trying to sum him up. He had very kind eyes and though he was quite thin and dressed as a butler, for some reason, Simon felt certain that he could easily handle himself in a quarrel. “You really have no idea, do you?” and without waiting for a reply, Alfred took Simon by the arm and led him through the crowd. “You live in a world full of stories about fairy tales and parables, heroes and villains, action and adventure, and you’re quite content in existing in the notion that these things are all products of fiction and fantasy. Well, Mr. Handford, I’m here to tell you, fiction is a matter of perspective.” The two continued through the center of the great hall, passing booth after booth of characters Simon recognized from various realms of entertainment. Superheroes, Grimm’s fairy tales, Middle Earth, hundreds of cosplayers in ridiculously accurate costumes, all talking in accents to match their character’s personas.

Alfred guided Simon away from the main hall and led him into an elevator that was already open as if it were waiting for them to enter. As soon as they were in, the doors shut and the elevator rose without any buttons being pressed.

“What if I told you that you already know me, not from a prior encounter, in person, but from books, television and movies?” Alfred looked at Simon with wide eyes and a small smirk, trying to mentally force the answer into his brain.

“You mean to tell me, you’re THAT Alfred? The infamous butler and guardian to Bruce Wayne? The B-…” Alfred put his hand up to stop Simon.

“Ah ah! Yes, Mr Handford! I’m the butler to the infamous, Master Wayne, the BILLionaire!” Alfred winked and put a finger to his lips. “I see to Master Wayne’s estate and cook him meals.”

Simon stared at Alfred, waiting for him to crack and let on that he was messing with him, but the man stuck to his story as he continued.

“As I was saying, the world around you is much bigger than what you think you know. We live among you, the characters in your favorite stories and we’re very real. You haven’t noticed because you believe the storytellers have created us in their minds, as well as the worlds that we reside in, but the truth is, those storytellers are actually historians, biographers. They write from experience and about the people they grew up with or studied.” Simon was so befuddled that he didn’t notice that the elevator had been stopped for awhile, and the doors were wide open.

“I know this is a lot for you to take in, but long ago, a great man from a place you’ve no doubt read about in a book, realized that there were some among him who were blind to circumstances and others around them, even to the point where they couldn’t see people, and places. It’s as if their brains weren’t able to process all that was around them. So, this man decided to write about those things unseen, and he started selling his stories to the very people who couldn’t see what he saw. And he found it to be quite profitable, so much so, that others from different regions did the same for their homes, and so on. The longer time went on, the number of people who couldn’t see our reality, grew and grew until there were far more who couldn’t see, than there were of those who could.”

Simon’s expression went from one of confusion to that of complete disbelief. His mouth was slightly ajar and one of his eyebrows was raised, making clear to Alfred, his skepticism. “You’re either very creative, or completely insane. In any case, I should be going. I clearly don’t belong here.”

“In time, you will see that I speak the truth, but for now, let’s get to the real reason I asked you here: to play an epic game of Hide N Seek. In the process, your eyes will be opened.” Alfred walked out of the elevator without another word.

Simon regarded his options and just when he was leaning towards ditching the old man, he noticed for the first time that the elevator had no buttons; no way to tell it where you want to go. “Perfect,” he said aloud to himself, and with a deep exhale, he stepped out of the elevator and found himself in what felt like a closet. The narrow room was too small to be anything but a place to stand and it seemed far smaller than the opening of elevator which had now closed on it’s own, leaving Simon in what could most accurately be specified as a coffin. The room had no light and no windows. Simon frantically felt for a doorknob or handle, anything that could get him out. He started banging on the walls, “Hey, let me out of here, old man! I didn’t sign up for this!”

In between the pounding on the walls and the yelling, Simon could swear he heard voices. It started as muffled grumbling, and became more pronounced as he pressed his ear on the wall. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but it sounded like a strong, male voice, followed by cheers and laughs?! Was this junior high all over again?! “Stop it! Let me out of here NOW!!” That’s when the strong voice became clear and amplified as if from a megaphone, “Simon Handford!!!”

And with that, all four walls surrounding Simon fell to the floor. Lights flooded his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Simon put his hands in front of his face to try to block the rays and he slowly opened his eyes to a squint. He still couldn’t see much more than light, but he knew the room he was now in was much larger than the tiny box that held him captive! He started to make out more voices; several hundred voices, all speaking and cheering and laughing. And as his eyes adjusted, he could see his estimations were quite low… there were thousands of people, in stadium seating, surrounding a massive arena, where Simon stood in the middle, on a platform, stories above the floor. Before he could stumble from shock and fall to his death, a hand rested on his shoulder, holding him upright.

“Here he is, friends! Simon Handford, the first boy from the others, worthy enough to join our world and compete in this game!” Simon recognized the voice as the strong one he heard from the box. He looked up to see another old man, but this one looked even more familiar than the first: he had a long, white beard with matching white hair, bright, white robes, eyes that looked like they held all the knowledge of every universe and a staff that he was using as a microphone, to somehow amplify his smooth, commanding voice. It was the most convincing and well constructed Gandalf the White that Simon had ever seen. It was an even better representation than the one in the trilogy.

“And that wraps up the introductions of this year’s Hiders. Now, for the Seekers.” The lights went out and the crowd erupted as fireworks and flames shot from everywhere. People were going nuts; waving flags and banners, spinning weird devices that made sound, shooting balls of light from what looked like wands; Simon couldn’t believe the level of quality in the spectacle before him. He looked around for the other Hiders, but couldn’t see anyone other than the guy dressed as the wizard on the platform, but as he scanned the arena, he started to see new platforms rise in the shadows, each with a figure standing on top.

“Here they are: the ones who will be hunting down our contenders as they do their best do camoflauge themselves in our magically designed and never-before-seen-by-anyone stage, the Hidden City. Firstly: the infamous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes!” A spotlight shown on the first platform, illuminating a man in a long trench coat, a deerstalker hat and sporting a lit tobacco pipe.

“Secondly: one of the greatest bounty hunters in the galaxy, Boba Fett!” The next spotlight poured over another perfect cosplay. The man looked exactly like the bounty hunter from Star Wars, sans blaster, but with the very same jetpack that the character used to fly around, chasing Han Solo. Simon was starting to feel the story the old man was feeding him wasn’t as far-fetched as he thought. “No Simon, don’t be stupid!” Simon said outloud to himself, “it’s just an extremely elaborate show. Yeah, that’s it. There’s probably a film crew down there somewhere taking cues from someone like Spielberg or Cameron!”

The wizard continued, “Thirdly: my great friend and ally, Aragorn, the Ranger King of Middle Earth!” The level of cheering and hollering grew exponentially. It was deafening!

Gandalf waited until the excitement lowered before lifting a hand to calm the yelling down to a silence so he could announce the final Seeker.

“And lastly: a man who has found more hiders than any other; one of the greatest detectives in any realm; the dark knight himself.” A spotlight shown over the final platform, which stood empty. The crowd that was screaming, became silent in disappointment as confusion to where final Seeker may be. But a sudden explosion from above shattered the silence and a large figure descending from above: A massive bat-like figure glided from overhead, gracefully flying through the air, and landed slowly on the platform like he did in every movie and comic book that Simon had ever seen with the caped crusader. Simon gasped: “Holy crap… it’sBatman.” The crowd went insane.

August 8 2019

Dinner Guests

samarian wonka, Writing Prompt

By Sammy Iovino – February 13th, 2019

“Why don’t you start from the beginning, Mr. Smith,” The officer asked Roger as his head was being attended to by the EMT. He had a small gash on the top of his head, but not so serious that it required stitches. Roger sat at the rear of the ambulance, his legs resting on the step used to climb into the back and his arms were holding tight to the blanket that was thrown over his shoulders by EMTs when they arrived on the scene. They reached the residence moments before the police and just after the fire department.

Roger’s eyes remained fixed on the burning house before him, though he couldn’t see it; only the night’s events played in front of him like a projector on a screen. His body was shaking, partly from the storm overhead and his lack of shoes, but mostly it came from the shock of what he just went through.

The officer spoke up again, this time a bit louder, “Mr. Smith?” with a blink, Roger snapped out of his daze and looked up in the direction of the voice that brought him back to the present. There were two officers: one holding a pen and notebook and the other holding an umbrella to block the rain for all three of them. The men were staring down at Roger as he turned his head towards them, but both made repeated side glances at the house as though something enticing was vying for their attention. The expressions in their eyes however, reflected fear and concern.

“I’m sorry?” Roger asked in response, doing his best not to look back at what he knew the officers were having a hard time not staring at, themselves.

“Tell us what happened, from the beginning, please.” The officer with the pen asked as he brought his focus solely to Roger.

A mix of PTSD and terror filled Roger’s eyes with such an intensity, it sent a shiver through both of the officers, that was heightened by the sudden cackle of thunder above. The officer holding the umbrella used his free hand to rub his eyes, trying to remove any shock or fear from his expression and regain a semblance of control. Roger looked through the two men as he began with, “he invited us to dinner.”

“Us?” asked the officer as he put pen to paper, “who was with you? Is that who’s on the ground?”

Roger looked at the body laying in the grass. The house continued to burn even though several firemen and the rain were fighting against the growing blaze, but the body was outside of the commotion, silent and still, covered in what looked like solid mud.

“My wife, but that’s not her.” His eyes seemed to sink further in sadness as he continued, “That’s our host.”

“It started when we walked up to his front door. My wife, Molly, knocked on the door first, as she was most curious to meet our mysterious neighbor. When no one answered, we looked for a bell or buzzer, but no button could be found. Then I knocked on the door with a bit more force than Molly, and pressed my ear against the door, hoping to hear footsteps or a voice in response. Still nothing. Our elation started to fade every second we stood without answer on that porch. Honestly, I was pretty upset that we had spent so many months creating theories and intricate back stories about our neighbor and his life as a candy maker; all the places he may have seen or the recipes that he personally came up with; anticipating this night for so long, only to have our hopes ripped from our hearts like children first finding out there’s no Santa or a magical fairy that takes their teeth.

But, just as Molly started storming off, a series of audible clicks and clacks came from behind the door. Molly ran back up to me, faster than I’d ever seen her move and she hit punched me in the arm and asked how I could let her just leave like that. I didn’t even notice though because my eyes were glued to the mulish door that played havoc on my emotions and left me wanting.

When the final lock clicked, there was a short pause before the door finally started to open. As soon as it did, fanfare music came on suddenly. The quality of the sound reminded me of a loudspeaker from the 50’s that I’d seen in movies. It had no base and it crackled. In the entryway, there was, nothing. No one was on the other side and all we could see was an ordinary hallway that led to a door. Light could be seen coming from under the door, but there were no shadows and no other sounds other than the music that just then shut off with a series of loud pops and cracks.

Molly took a step through the doorway and I put my hand on her shoulder, “What’re you doing?! We can’t just go in!”

“Of course we can! We were invited! Plus, they opened the door!” Molly said as she removed my hand and entered, putting an end to the conversation. I reluctantly followed after her down the hallway which seemed to go on for longer than it appeared. In fact, it seemed as though every step we took, the door got further away. Molly started picking up the pace and I did as well. We went from a light trot to a frantic run. But still, we were no closer to the other end of the hall.

I glanced behind me just in time to see the entryway slam shut, leaving us in complete darkness, save for the light under the door, but it wasn’t enough to improve our vision.

“This is crazy!” I panted, “How is this even possible?! When will this stop?!”

And that’s when it did. As soon as I said the word stop, Molly and I crashed into the door and fell backwards. It was very painful to go from a full sprint to a dead stop. Thankfully, we weren’t seriously hurt, yet, and it didn’t take us long to compose ourselves. We stood up and faced the new door. I felt for a doorknob, but couldn’t find one.

“Open the door!” Molly said, annoyed, but I’m fairly certain it was at me and not the situation that just occurred.

“I can’t open the door! There’s no handle!” I snapped back.

“Hello.” We both screamed out loud. I’m not sure which of us was louder or more girlie, but it was close. Also, it went on for longer than it probably should have, but considering we were in the dark, inside an unknown house and had just spent the past few minutes running as though we were on a magical treadmill, I think it was justified.” Roger’s breathing got heavier as he became defensive for no reason and his speech was rapid and tense.

The officers looked at eachother, shrugged and looked back at Roger, waiting intently for what happened next. Clearly, they didn’t care about the girlie scream.

Roger realized he got over-excited, so he took a deep breathe, composed himself and continued:

“The voice came from directly behind us. It had a very unsettling tone and though it was loud enough to interrupt our conversation, it was quite whisper-like. We couldn’t see any features at all, but there was a faint silhouette of a thin man with wide hips and an abnormally large head. It was freaky and definitely didn’t help calm us down! Before either of us could speak, or more likely scream, the man’s arms moved swiftly upwards and removed the top half of his enormous head!” Roger paused to wait for the officers to react, but they stood there motionless and glass-eyed. Roger sighed and moved on, “ok, well, that’s what we thought in the moment, but we quickly realized he just removed a top hat from his head, because once he did, the door behind us opened on its own, revealing a massive room, filled with exotic plants, shrubs, trees, water fixtures, balloons, statues and so many beautiful colors.

For a moment, the two of us completely forgot about the creep in a tophat and tried to take in our new surroundings. It was far too much to take in and that was just as well because we honestly should’ve been more concerned about our host, than his dwelling.

“Welcome to my home!” The man said in the same disturbing voice that we heard in the hallway, but louder. We turned to face him and both of us gasped audibly. He was a sight to see. He was dressed in a shabby, shaggy, velvet, purple suit with matching frock and top hat that he held in on of his outstretched hands. The other hand held what looked like a broken cane that came to a sinister looking point at the end, like it was a large toothpick used for spearing watermelons to put in a massive martini. He had a tiny bowtie that looked like it was made of someone else’s hair, and no shoes, revealing perfectly clean and well groomed feet, of which the skin-tone nowhere nearly matched the tone of his face.

His features were even more chilling than his voice and attire. His hair was large on the sides, scraggly and a mix of faded orange and burnt white. The top of his head was greasy and flattened by the hat. His ashen face was wrinkly and as twisted as the wide smile that revealed remarkably white teeth that all came to very sharp points as if filed on purpose. They definitely didn’t go with the rest of him. His eyes were uncomfortably wide and dark, and sat underneath huge, unkempt brows that matched the hair on his head.

Looking back now, that’s when we should’ve left, if we could have.

“My name is Williford Wonka, but you can call me Willy, or Wonka, or Ford, or Mr. Willy, or Tim-tim! Thank you for coming! We have little to do and much time to do it!” He said, not moving an inch but keeping to the awkward pose of arms out, legs straight and back slightly bent backwards.

Molly and I looked at each other confused and I replied, “Don’t you mean, ‘much to do and little time to do it?’ ”

“Do I? Maybe it’s you. Either way, let’s get started!” Suddenly a faint scream came from another room that caused Wonka’s smile to broaden even more as he placed his top hat back upon his head and brought his arms back to his sides. His back was still bent, slightly. “Sounds like the Saunders are ready!” Wonka reached into his front lapel pocket and pulled out a tiny whistle, put it to his thin, dark lips and played nine eerie notes in quick succession, holding the last one far too long.

After the last note was finished, a large section of grass opened out of the side of a hill, revealing a passageway. Out of the hole came two sets of four tiny people pushing large, human-sized, brown statues on carts. They pushed the carts over to a staircase that led to an ornate door at the top. The positioned a statue on each side of the stairs. The statues themselves were very odd and in weird poses. One was of a woman cowering in fear with her hands in front of her face and her mouth open wide as if screaming. The other was of a man without arms but the same expression that was on the woman. Both of the statues looked as though they had no shoes on. It was hard to tell at first, but the statues looked very familiar. Of course, our host’s next statement told us why.

“Introducing the Saunders! I imagine you know them?! They’ve been your neighbors for quite some time, haven’t they?!”

I don’t know what was worse; the fact that our friends were turned into bronze statues, or that they were carted out by several, tiny, orange faced, green haired versions of our host. Each one looked like they were groomed and made to look like Wonka, except clad in off-white and without the cane and top hat. They too, had no shoes on.

Molly was the first to speak, “What have you done to Matt and Sherry?!?” Why are they bronzed?!?” She shouted.

“Bronzed?” Wonka sounded insulted, “my dear lady, they are not bronzed! They are covered in chocolate! Not just any chocolate, but my special, delectable, mouth-watering, teeth breaking, hard forming chocolate! It goes on smooth and dries instantly! Now they have the tremendous honor of being fixtures in my glorious garden!”

I looked around and realized that there were dozens of other statues of people, all in similar poses, all made of the same chocolate. Realizing that we were about to suffer the same fate as our friends, I thought quickly and asked Wonka, “can we have a tour?! I mean, we want to see all that your amazing garden has to offer!” Molly looked at me as if I was crazy.

Wonka regarded me for a moment, looked down at my shoes and said, “oh my fine fellow. That would be impossible. See, when you enter a home, the polite thing to do is take off your disgusting, germ-ridden shoes, especially before you enter an edible garden!” And with that, Wonka played the same horrible tune out of the whistle and his minions rushed towards us while Wonka screamed with excitement. It was piercing.

Before I could react, I had several tiny hands all over me, throwing me to the ground and ripping off my shoes. Apparently there were many more of his helpers behind us, because I was down before the ones by the statues could even get to me. I couldn’t see, but I had assumed Molly was suffering the same. But that wasn’t true. I was able to move my head enough to see Molly fighting Wonka with what looked like a large candy cane. She was swinging it wildly at him, screaming a battle cry that I’d never heard before. Minions tried approaching her from each side, but couldn’t get close enough because between the strikes at Wonka, she flailed her legs and swung the cane in every direction. Finally, Wonka ran to the same hole his helpers brought the Saunders out of and disappeared, the grass door closing behind him.

“GET OUT MOLLY, NOW!!” I shouted before hands covered my mouth.

Molly didn’t listen. Instead, she ran over to me and kicked, punched and beat as many minions as she could before they all scattered. She reached for my hand and pulled me up. “Let’s get out of here!”

We ran to the door we had come through and again, found no handle to open it. I kicked it violently, but it wouldn’t budge. I looked to the grand staircase that the Saunders were guarding and told Molly to follow me. We gave little thought to the Saunders as we rushed past and up to the door at the top. It seemed locked for a second, but it was just stuck. When it opened we were in what looked like a dank basement. The exact opposite of the previous room. There were shelves with dusty objects and old books. Cans of paint, candy wrappers, and even an old lawnmower from the 60’s.

“Look, a window!” Molly pointed to a dirty window in the opposite side of the room. I picked up a can of paint on my way over and without trying to open it by hand first, threw the can, smashing the window to pieces.

“You go first!” I told Molly as I glanced a figure in the corner of my eye. Wonka came in from behind a bookshelf, followed by a handful of his goons. “GO GO!” I pushed Molly through the window to the outside, as I picked up another can and ran full speed towards Wonka. His minions scattered as I threw the can before tackling Wonka through the doorway he just came through. He was tougher than he looked and far more solid than I thought. We wrestled for awhile in a room that looked a lot like a lab and had a strong smell of chocolate and blood. That’s when I realized we were in the same room that was used to turn his victims into statues. There were large vats, metal tables and several medieval weapons and torture devices.

“I will make you one of my pets!” Wonka screamed as I hit him over the head with a mallet I was able to reach while he had me pinned to the ground. He was out. I couldn’t believe it. I stood up and looked down upon the mess of a man, crumpled on the ground. I was breathing so hard and felt pain all over. I was so relieved that he was down, that I forgot that there were still a bunch of his workers still somewhere within this freak house. I tossed the mallet and heard a loud, mechanical noise, like a switch being thrown. I looked just in time to see one of the vats falling. I thought it was because of the mallet I had just thrown, but some of his minions were pushing it over. I jumped out of the way as it came crashing down, flowing throughout the room and covering their leader, Wonka. The minions yelled and scrambled quickly, each carrying a weapon, but instead of coming after me, they rushed to help Wonka. They were hacking frantically at the chocolate around him, but they were too late. The chocolate hardened far too quick, as advertised by the maker himself.

I admired the dedication at first, but realized that I was still there and that it was probably wise to get out while their attention was clouded. I turned and ran for the room with the window. Before I left, I glanced back in time to see the workers pick up the chocolate Wonka and out of the corner of my eye, I saw fire climbing the walls. My mallet had hit some burners and caused them to topple over. I continued to the other room and leapt through the window. Molly was nowhere to be seen, but I assumed she ran to our house to call the police.

I ran to the front of the house and saw the statue of Wonka laying on the grass, but no sign of tiny people anywhere. I walked over to Wonka and looked down. His expression was that of horrified, just like the others. Funny though, because that’s not the expression he had before being consumed by chocolate. As I was pondering that question, the house exploded, throwing me to the ground.

“And that officers, is where my story ends. I awoke to the EMTs standing over me.”

The officers stared in awe. Neither of them said anything at first. They couldn’t believe what they had just heard. Then the officer with the pad and paper spoke, “um, well Mr. Smith, we, uh, I guess we probably will pass this off to the detectives and they will more than likely have more questions for you, right Dan?” The officer with the umbrella said nothing but nodded, still staring agape at Roger. “So, why don’t you go with the EMTs to the hospital to get checked out. We’ll go check on your wife and escort her to be with you.” And with that, the officer with the pad walked away, into the rain. The officer with the umbrella stayed for a moment staring, until his name was called and he ran to be with his partner.

The EMT who had also heard the entire story, helped Roger up into the ambulance and on to the stretcher, staring widely at him the entire time. “We’ll get you to the hospital now, Mr. Smith. You just, you, you lay here.” And with that, the EMT jumped from the back and closed the door behind him. Roger laid down and looked up at the ceiling. He sighed deeply, closed his eyes, reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small whistle. He put it to his lips and played nine notes in quick succession.