THE OFFICIAL "Post Your Non-Winning FLash Fiction Entry Here" Thread

[adrijami]

On a blank sheet of paper, the following words appeared:

A dark, star-filled night. From the west, a crimson orb hung over a sleeping city.

“Woof, woof, woof!” howled a dog, suddenly awakened from his nightly stupor.

“What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see that I’m struggling? I still have so much to do. Don’t bother me!”

Slowly, a boy wandered in the direction of his desk. Biting the end of his pen, he lost himself in the night.

“And now what?” he thought.

…Suddenly, somewhere in the distance a star flickered with a glistening green light…

“Woof, woof,” the dog raised his shaggy head and growled nervously.

The boy twitched.

“I said, don’t bother me! My teacher assigned us a science fiction short story for tomorrow. Trying to make up something about aliens isn’t easy,

and you’re barking and growling.Could you help me a little? Be quiet!”

The boy proped up his head on his arm, yawned, and continued writing.

… and slowly began to grow. In a few minutes, it expanded to the size of the street lamp…

The dog stared at the boy with his eyes full of fear and yapping pleadingly. The boy did not notice.

… it lowered its flight and began to crawl alongside the hedge.

The dog jumped abruptly and, quivering, drew nearer to the boy. He began to yap quietly.

“This is too much! Go to the bathroom!Now!!!”

Decisively, the boy springed to his step and marched towards the door. With his tail between his legs, the dog meekly followed.

After a moment, the boy, once again, towered over his notebook. He wrote:

… from inside a shapeless mass emerged. Cautiously, it pressed itself onto the windowpane…

From the bathroom, the dog yelped piercingly. The boy chucked his shoe at the door. Silence reigned.

… and pierced through into the stillness of the house…

The boy further lowered his head towards his notebook.

“I’ll finish tomorrow,” he whispered, yawned and then closed his eyes.

… the ship took off. The green star shriveled. The crimson orb vanished. And the city slept…

 

[achteel]

I was away from home most of the week and just now finished reading the winning entries. Congrats to all of the winners and potential winners.

Here's the first of two entries that I submitted....

Always the Optimist

"Ouch." she cried.
Turning too late to see why, I asked "What?"
“Sliced my finger on something pointy.” she whined.
One hazard of our profession is cuts, another is aching knees. We call
ourselves archeologists, others choose words like pirates, grave robbers,
world rapists.
Dusty’s nickname is justified. She spends her shift in clouds of dust and
soot, digging, searching for bounty to trade for credits. She needs more
credits than others. Her illegal feline has a huge appetite and black market
kibble isn’t cheap.
“Slowly” I cautioned, “use the vacbrush.”
Reaching behind, she picked it from her belt, refocused and began the
painstaking process of removing the object from a millennium of debris.
We work well together, she’s instinctive, I’m methodical. At each shift’s
end, we leave, separate shuttles to separate crew orbitals to rest, refresh
and return.
Ten days ago, we’d picked this site at random, just another concrete ruin on
this forsaken excuse for a planet. Primary survey revealed charred artwork,
broken ceramics and hope. Each day brought more evidence. This had been a
temple, a place of worship. An altar or display area of sorts had once
occupied the west wall. We concentrated our efforts there.
“What is it?” I whispered, drawing closer.
“Don’t know, but it’s big,” she grinned “now shut your pie hole and let me
work.”
Okay, enough said, I dragged a genlamp closer and adjusted it. She looked up
long enough to thank me with her eyes.
Finds were slim most days, enough to survive. But survival sucks, we want
affluence, the kind that comes with the discovery of the Prize and this
might be it. The Prize, as we call it, is that pristine condition, one of a
kind, never before seen, ancient artifact that Mistress is willing to pay a
queen’s ransom to own. Credits mean nothing to Mistress. She controls all
credits.
As we worked, intricate details began to emerge and our excitement grew.
Hours flew with Dusty meticulously brushing away the years.
“I think I almost have it.” she announced, reaching into the hole.
“Ack! Don’t break it” I squeaked.
“Duh” she snapped, without looking up.
Wrapping her fingers around the middle, she tugged and with a puff of dust,
it was freed. Examining it, she giggled, “It’s beautiful, unbroken, but no
markings.”
She carefully wrapped it, placed it aside, then returned to the hole.
Another piece we’d mistaken to be rock, lay in the bottom. Its underside
revealed the history.
It read. “Sideshow Collectibles, Sauron, 1138/9500.”
A single tear rolled down her cheek.
“Sure isn’t one of a kind.” was all she said.
The shuttles arrived. Against the fading light of sundown, we saw
silhouettes of hundreds of crew pairs headed off world.
As we parted, trying to lift her spirits, I shouted “At least it’s worth
enough to feed us for a few months” then “Keep happy, Dusty.”
With a half hearted smile and a wave, she replied “Maybe tomorrow, Chris”

 

[gdb]

MORGAN'S FAVORITE JOKE


Morgan was a collector of many, many things but it was her collection of jokes that she loved like a mother loves her children. What she hated was censorship. Even perceived censorship riled her like a dog with a bone that no plying, reasoning or Aesop’s water trick could relieve her of. The particular bone that jutted from Morgan’s jaws this time was the line: Any submissions containing extreme profanity, violence, sex, or gore will not be chosen as winners. It was in the small print of an on-line writing contest. Without delay Morgan began to type…



“I’m sorry you’ve come all this way,” Tom told the conservatively dressed man with the innocent looking face. “But there’s been a misunderstanding.” He couldn’t help but notice that the man had two trunks and a foot locker. On them the words THE UNFORGETTABLE FILLMORES were emblazed.

Mr. Fillmore extended his card. “You’re the creative director at Sideshow Collectibles, right?”

“Yes, but,” Tom explained, “we don’t actually make collectibles of sideshow acts.”

“Oh, we’re much more than that, Mr. Gilliland.” Fillmore smiled proudly. “We have quite a following from Ventura to Venice.”

“I’m sure that’s true but it’s really not something we handle.”

“I think you may change your mind after you see our act.” With that, Mr. Fillmore pulled a rip cord that had looked like only a dangling string the moment before. POOF! POOF! With a burst of smoke his suit flew off him.

Immediately, the two trunks sprung open. The man’s wife unfolded from the first, their beautiful daughter from the second. The twins and the family dog came from the foot locker. The twins held a boom box playing “The Star Spangled Banner” and a caged gerbil.



Morgan was inspired. She spun her yarn from the most memorable story threads she knew and even added some she didn‘t know she knew. She kept a careful eye on the word count. Several times she went back and tightened what she had so she could squeeze in the more colorful and depraving plot points. She wrote words she would never say in public. Or in private for that matter. She turned phrases she didn’t know could be turned. She strung together an extended metaphor that would make Larry Flint blush. She had no idea where the time went. It was evening when, heart racing, fingers bruised, she was near spent. She wiped the sweat from her eyes and concluded…



Tom was speechless. The only sound was the receptionist’s crying. “Boy, that was one hell of a show,” Tom managed at last. And then, because he didn’t know what else to say, he added, “What do you call it?”

The father spit out his ball-gag and announced, “The aristocrats!”



If you like this one, feel free to vote for my story THE PACKAGE here....
https://www.sideshowtoy.com/php/flashfictionChoice.php

Thanks!

 

[Rook]

Why not? I already posted these at another forum, under another net handle. But I can go for sharing over here.

I sent in eight. This one is called "Pictures for Penny."

Penny came home from work one day to find her entire collection of Sideshow Collectibles gone from her house. There was no note. No ransom demand. The police found no sign of forced entry, no fingerprints, and no witnesses.

Penny overheard one of the officers joking that perhaps the collectibles had just gone for a walk. “Should make her wait two days, fill out a missing persons report,” he said. The other officers laughed. Penny didn’t think it was funny.

After the police had left, Penny stared at the empty curios in silence. After a while, she got up, undressed, wrapped herself in her favorite robe, and made some popcorn in the microwave. She tried to call Michael, an old boyfriend, who was good to have around in a crisis – so long as he wasn’t the cause of it. But she got only his answering machine, which stated in a bored monotone that Michael was out of town for the next few weeks, traveling, and that he would call her back, if only she would leave her name and number. She complied, then hung up the phone and waited, munching popcorn until her eyes refused to stay open.

It was two days later that she received the first photograph.

It came in a plain white envelope, addressed to Penny, with the words “Do Not Bend” written in blue crayon on the outside. Penny opened the envelope without hesitation, removing the photograph she found therein, only to drop it on the table with a little gasp when she saw the subject.

Trembling, she picked it up. The photograph was of a young woman, clearly nude, lying in bed, on her side. She appeared to be sleeping. On the pillow next to her was Penny’s Frankenstein Premium Format figure.

The photos appeared daily. In each one, the same woman lay naked in the same bed. A different Sideshow Collectible nestled on a pillow beside her head in each photograph.

The pattern continued for nearly two weeks. Then, one morning, as Penny was preparing to go to work, the doorbell rang. An incessant pounding followed. Wrapped in her second-favorite robe and armed with a toothbrush, Penny opened the door slightly and peeked through.

A hand shoved a Vampire Spike figure into her face so suddenly that Penny nearly sprayed toothpaste all over it. “This yours?” said a woman’s voice. Penny looked past the figure at the person holding it. Her heart pounded as she recognized the woman from the photos. “You…you…you…”

The woman nodded her agreement. “Yes. Me.” She gestured behind her at a Western Flyer wagon full of collectibles. “Compliments of Michael.”

Penny had dropped her toothbrush. “Michael?”

“Yes,” the girl affirmed. “Michael. Our mutual ex, as of this morning.”

Penny shook her head. “Where…?”

“Still at home, icing his groin, most likely,” the woman said. She spun on her heels and strode up the sidewalk, leaving Penny in the open doorway. “The wagon’s his,” she yelled. “Keep it.”

 

[Rook]

#2: "Glass" This was the second one I wrote, but there's a sequence to the rest. So this one comes first.

For the third time that night, Matt stared deep into the rocks glass in his hand and wished it contained something stronger than apple juice – like vodka, or maybe scotch. Weren’t lovelorn struggling writers supposed to drink scotch? Matt couldn’t remember. He supposed, though, that it didn’t really matter, so long as whatever they drank was stronger than apple juice.

He held the glass up to his eye, and the glow of the computer monitor shone through the amber liquid within. He couldn’t read the words written there, big and bold-lettered on the screen. He didn’t need to. He had the note memorized:

“It’s Them or Me.”

Matt couldn’t even pretend to be confused by the vagueness. He knew very well what Julia meant by “Them.” “They” had been the topic of conversation on several occasions.

But only, he thought with a smirk, if you used the term “conversation” very, very loosely.

He looked over the top of his glass and across the room at the sections of Dutch-angled shelves leaning against the far wall. Rows and rows of statues lined those shelves – a collection of encapsulated moments from some of his favorite films. A two-feet tall Frankenstein monster stared out at him, flanked by a slightly shorter Dracula on one side and a Wolfman on the other. Darth Vader stood locked in his climactic duel with Obi-Wan Kenobi. The Predator readied a slashing attack, twin blades extended, mandibles wide in a fierce war cry.

And scattered throughout were more than a dozen characters from the award-winning Lord of the Rings films. The whole of the Fellowship, from Frodo to Gandalf to Boromir, stood in a row. Éowyn braced her meager shield to meet the Morgul Lord’s mighty mace. The hideous orc Gothmog stared contemptuously from the back of a ferocious Warg.

One of the more underrated pieces caught his attention: A lone Haradrim Soldier, his head bowed, body slumped as he gazed forlornly at the cruel sword shoved violently through his chest.

A staccato snort of laughter escaped Matt when he saw that sword, and he glanced into his drink. “Know just how ya feel, buddy,” he chuckled, draining the glass. He looked again at Julia’s ultimatum. With a tap of the trackpad, he removed that window.

Its disappearance revealed two more open windows. The first, an e-mail, promised Julia an end to the statues. He loved her, it said. Don’t leave. Come home.

The other window held an order form for the Sideshow Collectibles exclusive Premium Format Princess Leia. All of the fields were filled. It was ready to send.

Ice rattled as Matt held the cool glass to his cheek. He took a long, slow breath. Reaching out, he tapped the trackpad.

Matt sat back and stared long and hard at his collection. He set the glass down and shook his head sadly.

“No regrets,” he whispered.

Matt loved Julia very much. Princess Leia had better be damned glorious.

 

[Rook]

#3, "Neglect." I wrote this one first.

Number Fourteen emerged from the darkness of his box into the home of his Collector on a night filled with sparkling lights and laughter. A woman was there as well, and the two spent many minutes gawking at Number Fourteen, feeling the texture of his polystone skin with gentle fingers as they “Oooo”-ed and “Ahhh”-ed over the details of his fine paint.

For his part, Number Fourteen maintained his fiercest gaze, mouth open in a soundless roar as his clenched fist gripped his mighty war hammer.

The Collector and the woman were clearly impressed by Number Fourteen’s demeanor, and carefully moved him to a place of high honor, where he might be better viewed. The couple gazed upon Number Fourteen for some time that night. Then, kissing the Collector on the cheek, the woman left the room for the evening. The Collector remained for long hours afterward, until His eyelids began to droop. Then he, too, retired.

Time passed, and the ritual changed very little. Every morning his Collector would admire Number Fourteen for a time, then again in the evening, and for some briefer periods in between. Often the woman was with him, though not always.

After two weeks, Number Fourteen received his first dusting, and, when they had finished, the woman presented Number Fourteen with a brass nameplate, which read:

Cave Troll #014/750
From Sideshow Collectibles

Number Fourteen, his teeth bared, appeared quite pleased with this. And every two weeks the couple would carefully remove the dust from his skin, and from his hammer and base, until he shined anew.

As the years progressed, things began to change in Number Fourteen’s home. More collectibles arrived, and were placed around Number Fourteen, who proudly remained the display’s centerpiece. The Collector, his attention now divided, spent less time admiring him.

One day his Collector and the woman yelled at each other in front of Number Fourteen for a long time, only stopping when the woman fled the room. Number Fourteen never saw her after that.

His Collector grew distant after the woman left. When he did visit Number Fourteen, he rarely smiled.

Cleanings became more infrequent as well, and, during one, Number Fourteen’s right arm cracked slightly as he was moved. Eventually, cleanings stopped altogether. Dust and oil became lodged in the finer crevices of Number Fourteen’s skin, which grew discolored.

Gradually, his Collector began to remove pieces from the display, one by one, packing them in boxes and carrying them away. Soon, Number Fourteen was alone on the shelf.

Then one day, his Collector entered the room and stared at Number Fourteen for a long time – longer than he had for many years. He drew near Number Fourteen and, with gentle fingers, felt again the subtle details of the polystone flesh. Careful hands felt the crack on his arm, and Number Fourteen’s mouth became a silent howl of pain. The collector gasped, and their eyes met.

Whispering an apology and a promise, Number Fourteen’s Collector began to clean him.

 

[William Shatners Toupee]

Four Score and Seven Years Ago (In a galaxy far, far away...)

Little Joshua Gump closed his eyes with a giant smile on his face, his hand feeling the loved, dog-eared catalogue beneath his pillow. Tomorrow was his birthday, and he just couldn’t wait to see what he was getting. He had been so good! He hadn’t beaten-up his sister or glued antlers on the dog or ANYTHING! He knew he had to be getting something cool.

Fishing out a flashlight from beneath the bed, Joshua brought the book out yet again and flipped through the glossy pages of his daddy’s Sideshow Collectables toy catalogue. His daddy had all of the dolls inside: Hellboy. Buffy. James Bond. His collection was awesome! Of course, Joshua wasn’t allowed to touch ANY of daddy’s things. He wasn’t even allowed to look in daddy’s office at them if daddy wasn’t there. Daddy’s toys were all SO much cooler than his!

But tomorrow all of that would change. Everything he had asked for on his birthday was circled in this catalogue. Pumpkinhead Maquette. Han Solo Premium format figure. Joshua giggled with glee at the terror he would cause with a Jason doll. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough!

As soon as he woke he ran down the stairs to find his mommy and daddy sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast with a box in gift-wrap sitting next to them. He held the box in his hand. It was 1/6th! He recognized it from the types of packages his daddy always got, instantly. Was it an Odd-Job? Paper sailed through the air as tiny hands destroyed the wrapping paper revealing the box beneath. Slowly long words began to appear: “Sideshow Collectables "Brotherhood of Arms Legendary icons": Abraham Lincoln”.

He looked at his parents in rage. “Abraham Lincoln? Did I CIRCLE Abraham Lincoln?”

“We wanted to get you something educational. You’re too young for the types of dolls daddy collects.” Mommy said.

Slowly, a smile crossed Joshua’s face. “Oh. Well, he’s a “Sideshow” so he’s great! Thanks!” Joshua said, running off.

Larry Gump hadn’t seen his son, Joshua, for awhile, and was just heading to check up on him when he heard a loud crash from his office. Larry opened the door in horror to see his dolls lying sprawled out “dead” on the floor, Joshua in the middle of then with his Abraham Lincoln doll wielding Jason’s bloody Ax, who had just killed Buffy. Braided Wookie pelts hung off Lincoln’s shoulder as trophies from past hunts, and the lightsaber hilts of all of the fallen Jedi he had killed dangled from his new belt.

Only Bond remained. Lincoln’s razor edged stove-pipe hat flew across the room slicing 007’s throat, then boomeranged back into Lincoln’s steely grip. ‘License to kill revoked, Mr. Bond!”

Behind Lincoln, Larry’s ¼ Darth Vader watched all approvingly. “You have done well, Lincoln. You have earned a place as my right hand.”

“Only for today,” Lincoln thought. “For Apprentice always kills Master. THAT is the way of the Sith!”

 

[Rook]

#4: "Bodyguards"

The blind girl was talking to the statues again.

Carlos watched her from across the gallery, enjoying the time to himself. He liked his job, for the most part. A guy could do far worse under the employ of Mr. Ortega. The tougher details meant more money, of course. But Carlos, despite his large size and ferocious appearance, had little stomach for the grisly duties involved.

And besides, taking part in the child’s games was a hoot.

Carlos watched Adina Ortega as she softly ran her fingers over a series of small pixie statues, her head bent as though listening to them. It was in this way that she formed images to go with the stories Carlos read to her, or the films she could hear but not see. The statues were all around them – frozen encapsulations of heroes and villains and monsters– all gifts to Adina from her father.

Carlos studied one that was in front of him, a tall, bronze representation of a wizard, his staff in one hand, an elegant sword in the other. His fingers traced the brail lettering at its base.

“We have to move him to the hall,” the girl said.

Carlos turned to find that Adina had come up behind him silently. He kneeled before her. “And why must we take him to the hall?”

Adina looked toward him. “The Devil’s coming.” Her milk-white eyes stared over his shoulder. “He has to fight The Devil.”

Carlos laughed as he stood. “The Devil, is it, senórita?” He sized up the two-feet tall statue. “Must it be this Gandalf?”

Adina tugged at his jacket. “The pixies said so. He’s the only one!” Her voice was frantic. “Please, Carlos!”

Carlos shook his head, then hefted the 100-pound statue from its display. “Okay, chica loca. Show me where.”

Adina led Carlos to the gallery’s door and opened it. “Out there. Hurry!”

He lowered the statue with a grunt. Adina grabbed him. “Back inside, Carlos.”

Adina slammed the door. Carlos chuckled. “What is this new game, Dina?”

Something shook the building so violently that Carlos fell to the floor. Stunned, he looked up. Brilliant white light framed the doorway. A voice shouted a challenge on the other side. An ungodly howling answered, like stone on stone. Adina screamed.

The noise continued as Carlos crawled to Adina and pulled her away from the door. The knob seared his hand as he grasped and turned it, and the noises suddenly ceased.

The hallway was a ruin, its walls charred. Steam rose from the statue of Gandalf where he’d left it on the floor. A statue of a winged demon, a fiery bullwhip in its hand, now stood before it. Carlos bent to pick it up.

Adina wiped tears from her blind eyes. “What do you see?”

“It’s another Sideshow Collectibles statue,” he murmured. “A Balrog.”

“Read me the number, Carlos.”

He turned the statue over to read the printing on its base. “Number 666.”

 

[Rook]

I was still screaming curses at a thick-necked hag who’d stiffed me on a $20 fare when the man with the box climbed into my cab. “Twenty-one twenty-five South Jefferson,” he mumbled, eyes scanning the sidewalks. “Your tip gets bigger the quicker you get me there.”

He set the box on the seat as I put the cab in gear and floored it, tearing away from the curb with a quick chirp of rubber.

His arm jerked out to keep the box from flying. “Easy, dammit!” he barked.

“Sorry.” I glanced at the box and saw some familiar lettering. “That a Sideshow Collectibles box?”

We locked gazes in the rearview mirror. There was suspicion in his eyes, and a little fear.

“I’m a collector,” I said. He seemed to relax a little, so I asked what was in the box.

I thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he said, “Balrog.”

I nearly wrecked the cab. “You’re joking.”

His eyes in my mirror confirmed that he wasn’t.

“Awesome,” I chuckled. “Can I see it?”

The eyes said no. I shrugged. For several long blocks, I glanced at him occasionally in the mirror. He kept looking out the rear window.

“Pull over here,” he said suddenly.

“Dude, we’re only halfway there…”

“Right now,” he snapped. I thought I heard panic in his voice.

“Jeez,” I breathed through clenched teeth, cutting across three lanes to halt against the sidewalk.

A wad of bills fluttered over my shoulder. “Keep it,” the man said. He dove through the door and sprinted down the alley.

I stared after him until he disappeared. “Weird bastard,” I muttered.

I crept back out into the midday traffic and made my way to a hotel two blocks ahead. The only other hack at the cabstand pulled away as I arrived. I threw her in park and waited all of thirty seconds before she showed up.

Slender arms balanced on the passenger door, propping up this gorgeous face. The biggest red shades I’d ever seen hovered over a wide, shining smile. Her jet-black hair was right out of a Bettie Page poster. “You know The Courtyard?” she asked.

I grinned. “Intimately.”

“Me too,” she said, popping her gum. “At least tonight. Take me there?”

She tossed a single bag into the rear seat, then bounced up front with me.

“People usually sit behind me,” I said.

She giggled. “I can’t, silly,” she said. “Your box is in the way.”

“My…?”

I looked back. “Ah, yeah,” I said, straight-faced. “My Balrog.”

She gasped. “There’s a Balrog in your cab?”

“Gift from my mom.”

She squealed. “I’m a collector! Can I see it?”

I chuckled. “Sure.”

She crawled into the back seat while I drove. I listened to her excited giggles as she tore open the box. Then the giggles stopped.

“Your mom mad at you?” she asked.

I frowned. “Kinda question is that?”

She looked at me over the seat, chomping her gum. “This box,” she said, “is empty.”

 

[Rook]

#6: "Secure"

Samantha Blair’s heels clicked rhythmically as she strode into the office of Manuel Ortega late in the morning. Ortega rose from his seat. “Welcome, Miss Blair.” He waved to a chair across from his desk. “Please.”

Samantha seated herself, and Ortega offered her a drink. She accepted. “What can Secure International do for you, Mr. Ortega?”

“I have an item I wish moved from this office to a private vault,” he replied.

“And you believe someone seeks to remove this item from your possession?” she asked.

Ortega sipped his scotch. “They have so far made three attempts.”

“Your in-house security is exemplary.” Samantha said.

“Yours is better,” he said. “The item will be vulnerable from the moment it leaves this place. My security specialists believe another attempt will be made during transport.”

She nodded. “The package?”

Ortega gestured. An aide stepped forward and handed her a sealed dossier, which she opened. Ortega set his glass down and brought his hands together in a steeple, observing her as she perused the papers.

“A Balrog.” Samantha cocked an eyebrow. “Sideshow Collectibles?”

His head tilted slightly. “You’re familiar with the line?”

“A little,” she said. “A former boyfriend is a collector. I gave him a Cave Troll for Christmas one year. Very low number.” She lowered her glass and crossed her legs. “He wasn’t very appreciative.”

“Of you or the Cave Troll?”

She eyed him levelly. “Pick one.”

Samantha closed the dossier. “The collectible’s value is less than a third of my price for this job,” she said. “Why hire me?”

He gestured again at the dossier. “Observe the edition number.”

As she read, Samantha couldn’t resist a low whistle. “It was rumored that this particular Balrog was locked in a vault at Sideshow.”

“Indeed,” Ortega said. “Sideshow believes this as well. Through some means I cannot understand, it is now in my possession. And now that it is, I have no intention of surrendering it.”

“Why not?” she asked.

Ortega frowned. “This statue is…dangerous, Miss Blair,” he said. “The details are in the dossier, in a report taken from two individuals I trust completely.”

“Dangerous?”

“Please,” he said. “Read on.”

When she finished reading the report, Samantha shuddered.

“Bring the package,” she told him. “And send in Nikolai.”

When her assistant Nikolai entered, Ortega’s aide handed him a brown box.

“Bag the contents,” Samantha ordered. “Carefully. Take it to Hans in the back alley.”

Nikolai nodded. “And the box?”

Samantha smiled. “ Use the ‘Go Fish’ scenario, I think. Make a big show of being sneaky.”

Nikolai nodded and left.

Samantha turned to Ortega. “The box just became a ringer,” she explained. “Nikolai will allow it to be stolen. The Balrog itself is on its way to an employee outside, who is convincingly disguised as a wino. He’ll deliver your package promptly.” She stood, offering her hand. “Assuming, of course, the check doesn’t bounce.”

Ortega took it. “My dear,” he said. “Men like myself deal only in cash.”

 

[Rook]

#7: "Safe at Home"

With a rush of wind and a squeal of brakes the train came to a halt, and the doors of the rear car slid open. I hurried through them, stinking and filthy in my disguise as a vagrant, cradling a large stained duffel bag in my arms. There were only three passengers on board, and the closest was snoring softly.

I sat near the door, directly across from the sleeper, and gingerly placed the battered bag beside me, letting my left hand rest on it protectively. Then, pulling a silver Colibri from my pocket, I lit a smoke.

“That’ll get you killed.”

I jumped, turning to look in the direction of the voice. A man was seated directly behind me, smiling. I forced myself to relax, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Lung cancer is the least of my worries,” I said, faking a drunken slur.

The man looked down and laughed. “No, no.” He looked back up. “Not the cigarettes. Using that expensive lighter, blowing your cover. That will get you killed.”

I plunged my hand into my coat, but my gun wasn’t there.

The man walked around me and sat in a seat across the row. Next to him, the sleeper’s eyes were now wide-open, staring at me as she expertly took my gun apart.

I froze. These two were experts, obviously. And they weren’t alone. Another man moved down the aisle toward us. His eyes never left mine.

The guy offered me his hand. “I’m Chris.”

I stared at Chris’s hand for several seconds before he shrugged and withdrew it. “Tough guy,” he said. “That’s cool.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I told him. “My people already know you’re here. You can’t get away with this.”

Chris smiled. “Oh, we’re in fine shape, really.” He pointed to the sleeper. “Dusty’s been scrambling your tracer since you got on the train. Your people think you’re singing a Bob Dylan tune.”

Dusty waved and showed me a black iPod. “‘Highway 61 Revisited,’” she said.

The other guy grabbed the duffel bag, then opened and inspected its contents. After several seconds, he looked at Chris and smiled. “Number 666,” he said.

Chris nodded, then brought a mobile phone to his ear. “Shipping? We have a package to deliver, and are go for extraction.”

He turned to Dusty. “Go with Marc. Meet Chicky at the helicopter.” He rose from his seat. “I’ll be right behind you.”

The train rolled to a halt, and Dusty and Marc left the car. Chris’s eyes met mine. “You’re lucky we found you,” he said. “Another few minutes, that Balrog would’ve woken up.”

He moved to the door, then turned once more toward me. “Stay on for two more stations,” he said. “Don’t try to follow us.”

“Who the hell are you people?” I demanded as he stepped out.

Chris’s eyes met mine, and he grinned. “We’re the Sideshow Collectibles Web Team.”

The doors closed between us, and the train rolled away.

 

[Battletroll]

Here is mine (remember the new Angel figure hadn't been announced when I wrote this):

A Sculptor’s Tale

Robbie is a young sculptor, fresh out of the academy, but his work is impressive enough to have granted him a job at Sideshow Collectibles. His first assignment is an important one, for he is assigned to do the premier figure of the new Angel line: Lorne! Thousands of collectors will be jumping on this piece. Feeling the weight of the assignment, he decides it is wise to consult one of the leading sculptors of the Buffy line. Besides the usual teasing comments like “Don’t make him look like Mr. Potato Head, we don’t have the Toy Story license”, the best advice Oluf can give is to “try to grab the essence of the character, live into it”. Well, that’s easy to say if you get to sculpt Buffy herself, but how to envisualize a creature like Lorne?
As the deadline for the first prototype draws near, nothing useful yet has come out of his hands. This character is just too mysterious. And how to keep it in resembling the actor? The fans can be very picky about that.

So comes the night before the big deadline and Robbie still isn’t satisfied with his work; “It just doesn't live up to the high standards everyone is used to from Sideshow. I’m going to make a fool out of myself!”. Exhausted as he is, he falls asleep in front of his sculpt. Yet suddenly, he finds himself to be wide awake again. But where is he? This is not his home! Looking around, he sees he’s surrounded by strange-looking people sitting at tables. But it also looks kind of familiar to him. Slowly he realizes this is the exact same bar as Lorne’s. He must be dreaming! He pinches himself, but can’t wake up. After trying several times, he decides to give into his dream. The stage is empty and he loves to sing, so why not? He starts singing, and from behind the stage a green figure appears. Lorne! “I read in your mind you have great worries about this assignment”, he says, “Why don’t we do some songs together? Singing always clears the mind”. Lorne starts singing, and stunned as he is, Robbie joins him. Time passes by, and before he knows it he finds himself back in his apartment. He still has a few hours left. Suddenly full of inspiration, he starts sculpting.

The meeting goes more than well. The people at Sideshow are stunned about his sculpt. On his way back, he bumps in to Oluf down the hallway. “How did you manage to pull this off?”, Oluf asks him. “Well, I had this strangely realistic dream”. “Don’t we all sometimes?”, Oluf replies. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Doing human sculpts is easy, but it takes more to be a Sideshow sculptor. You really have to live into the experience, and grab the character as you go along. Having learned that, I think you will accomplish great things for this company!”.

 

[Rook]

#8: "Notes"

Julia’s manicured nails tapped an irritated rhythm on the polished marble countertop. “You want your fragrance to contain notes of … what, exactly?”

On the other side of the counter, the client popped her gum and smiled. “Polystone,” she said. “Y’know. Stuff they make statues from?”

Julia snorted as quietly as she could and somehow managed to not roll her eyes. “Statues?”

The girl wouldn’t stop smiling. “Yeah, you know … statues. Of elves and monsters and super-heroes and stuff.” She leaned forward and propped her elbows on the counter, staring at Julia. “Didn’t you ever date a geek?”

Julia’s eyes were now beyond her control. This was hitting too close to home. Yes, you vacuous tramp, I have dated a geek, she wanted to say. The bastard dumped me for Princess-freaking-Leia!

“I do know what polystone is,” she said instead. “But we design custom fragrances here, Miss.”

The girl brightened ridiculously, giggling. “I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. I want a polystone scent, but I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Julia could think of nothing more obvious than that, but chose not to agree with the girl. “Honey, listen,” she said. “We do everything here from the ground up. We can produce a nice vanilla bean base for you, blended with a top note of fig, or maybe almond.” Julia threw the girl her subtlest look of condescension. “But don’t you think some orange blossom at the fragrance’s heart would be better than … than polystone? All to impress some boy?”

The girl cackled. “ Oh, Gawd, no,” she said, waving her hands in front of her face. “No, no, no. It’s not for me.” Her eyes drifted momentarily to the right, considering. “Well, yeah. It is. But not like that.” She reached into her purse, rummaged in it, and slapped a small picture onto the counter.

“Him,” she said, tapping the photograph. “It’s for him. My boyfriend.” Her smile became shy. “He drives a cab.”

Julia stared for several seconds at the photo, shocked into silence. Slowly her eyes raised and looked into the girl’s. “You … you want your boyfriend to smell like … like a statue?”

The girl glanced down at the photo, then looked up at Julia from beneath her eyebrows, a wicked grin on her face. “Yeah,” she breathed. “It’s hot.”

Julia masked her revulsion and nodded slowly. Deliberately, she placed her palms flat on the counter and returned the girl’s smile. “I think we can help you.”

The girl actually squealed. “Really?”

“Yes,” said Julia. “But I’ll need you to bring me something first.”

“Oh, anything.”

Julia leaned slightly across the counter. “I’ll need one of your boyfriend’s statues.”

The girl’s smile melted abruptly. “What? I…”

“The Sideshow Collectibles Premium Format Princess Leia would be perfect, if he has it.” Julia purred. “Ground into a fine powder. Oh, we won’t need all of it.” Her grin turned positively evil. “Maybe just the head.”

 

[Ironman1188]

I sent in eight.

EIGHT!!!! Wow, I guess I shouldn't feel so bad my one didn't make the grade.

 

[gdb]

JEDI ARE FROM CORUSCANT

"It's a lightsaber," he admitted. But he was happy to see her. The hall was a universe of aliens. "Is that a new shade of green?" the Jedi asked.

Half the Avengers marched past before the Orion Girl could answer, "like it?"

"No," the Jedi lied. "The old green was better."

TO THE OWNER OF A 1967 BATMOBILE, LICENCE PLATE ND14BTPL, YOUR LIGHTS ARE ON.

"How's the collecting going?" she asked coolly.

"It's been great since Sideshow started making the twelve-inch figures. It's a whole new echelon to the hobby. The detailing, the nuance of color, the scale, Nikki, they got the scale right."

"What, no more bobble heads on G.I. Joe bodies?" They shared a laugh. It was like old times.

"The figure line was dead before Sideshow Collectibles," the Jedi agreed. "Sideshow is life from death."

Green fingers touched the Jedi's robe. "You know, Gareth..." Nikki stopped herself. "I'm sorry. I thought I could talk collectibles with you but..."

"When I was at the Sideshow booth," Gareth blurted, "I overheard something. Saturday's going to feature a big unveiling, something incredible."

"Everything at their booth is incredible, Gareth."

"Something Star Trek."

She blinked. "Saturday?"

"Early. I could--"

"I heard you came with a Twi'lek girl," she interrupted.

"She's just a friend."

"Not what I heard," she contradicted.

"You can't believe everything a Ferengi says."

"Wasn't a Ferengi."

"Borg," he guessed.

"Doesn't matter," she tabled.

"Klingon. No? Not Andorian. Think of the mess, blue and green everywhere," he joked.

"He's a starship captain, alright? I wasn't going to tell you but if you're going to be a creep."

"You don't mean...?"

"I do."

"You can't," he pleaded. "He has no respect for the hobby. He thinks cereal boxes are collectible for crying out loud."

"You and I come from different Universes," she offered. "We had a crossover but it's done. And like all crossover events, it ends without change of continuity in either Universe. Like a dream."

"Like a dream that became a reality and spread throughout the stars?" He asked, channeling Kirk.

"Search your feelings," Nikki countered. "You know it to be true."

She walked to the escalator then turned. "There really is no Twi'lek girl?"

"Really. You wanted to say something earlier," Gareth prompted. "What was it?"

She almost spoke before--

ATTENTION ATTENDEES. THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE FOR THE COSTUME CONTEST.

She turned away.

"Nikki. The new green? I love it."

She locked eyes with him as the escalator carried her down. She intoned, "I know."

The Jedi could feel the old attachment for the Orion Girl. Attachment, Gareth knew, leads to jealousy. The shadow of greed that is.

But he also knew there are always possibilities. And if Sideshow is indeed life from death, Gareth thought to himself, I must return to that place again. Saturday maybe. Early.



If you like this one, feel free to vote for my story THE PACKAGE here....
https://www.sideshowtoy.com/php/flashfictionChoice.php

Thanks!

 

[Radagaster]

Here's my first of three:

The Pot Thickens!​

It’s almost 2 in the morning. My eyes are tired and I’m wearing the same Hawaiian shirt from yesterday. Sitting in this moldy leather chair doesn’t give my sweaty back a chance to cool off. But at least it’s comfortable. An overhead parlor lamp provides light. Yet, everything is dim and gray from all the cigar smoke. They say it’s bad for my health, but I know it could be worse. Yeah, … things could get worse really fast around here.

I see a nudge. The German just raised my ante. A sudden knotted feeling enters my stomach. I suppress a cough because of my dry throat. I lift my mug to my lips, and noticed that there isn’t a drop left. There’s no telling if I just gave myself away. I hope the German didn’t notice.

I look at my hand. I can’t even shake my head in dismay because perhaps that is what this German would want to see. I pretend that I’m going through the numbers in my head, but deep inside I’m sweating bullets.

Should I call his bluff? I thought I’ve prepared myself better for a situation like this. And yet this German makes it look all too new. I nonchalantly look at the time. And then I make my move.

I raise him two and I crack a smile. In this type of game, time can be an ally and a friend. Just as I thought I had the upper hand I see another nudge. Suddenly, this German looks like strong competition …

There’s a delicate balance between making the right move and the wrong one. I begin to wonder if this German has anything else up his sleeve. I cannot say I’ve met anyone like him before. If I raise him too high, it could be my loss. I try to maintain a cool head by thinking about my odds. I close my eyes … and raise him another twenty.

He’s definitely looking at his hand this time. I bet he’s sweating hard now! At this point my mind starts drifting. Had I met this person under a different circumstance, I probably would’ve asked him which part of Germany he’s from. Or what his favorite beer is.

My thoughts were broken by a nudge from my good friend. I cough out loud. This time, I’m panicking! I look at my hand and know full well he’s called my bluff!

I quickly raise my bet, and put in 20.

No dice! This time I’m looking at the clock. Time has just declared war on me!

40… and another 50. Let’s see, 20 plus 40 make 60. Then add to that 50, and that gives me 110. It’s not enough! I look at the time again, and realize it’s too late.

I lost … to some German punk named SeitschauKollector! I can’t believe I was THIS close. Another Sideshow Collectible auction goes down the drain. I hate Ebay.

 

[thamesvalidude]

The Eyes!

In retrospect, it was a stupid thing to do, but then if we could see the consequences of our actions before they happened, we’d never get out of bed, would we?
I mean, it was quite evident that she wasn’t exactly a happy bunny that morning. In fact, thinking back, it was pretty obvious that she was feeling meaner than a cuckolded rattlesnake, with haemorrhoids.
I suppose the first giveaway that I should have spotted was the raven black hair.
Her hair had always been such a nice, gentle shade of red, but you know what young people are like nowadays, always dyeing their hair, first this colour, then that. I mean I didn’t think anything of it. Then I suppose her bulging inky veins and the psychotic stare didn’t exactly augur well for our usual nice, convivial conversation, but then hey, I’m sociable.
I mean young Willow Rosenberg had always been such a sweet little girl, all bashful, gawky mannerisms and so polite, but here she was, glowering at everybody, while marching down the sidewalk, looking like one of those Punk Gothics, or whatever they call themselves. You know, the ones who like to look like the walking dead. That Spike, the rude Englishman, he’s like that, him and his cuckoo girlfriend. The way they behave, anyone would think they were vampires or something.
Anyway, back to Miss Rosenberg. So, all I said to her was:
“Ooo, did somebody got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?”
Maybe she had PMT, or something, but she hissed and before you could say “Buffy Summers,” everything went black.
The next thing I remembered was waking up in the dark and not being able to move. Worse than that, I’ve never felt so stiff. All I could move was my eyes and that was a waste of time because it was so dark.
I began to worry, maybe I’d been shot.
Maybe I was dead.
It seemed like an eternity before someone opened the door, or what looked like the door. and let me tell you, I wish he hadn’t.
I mean the person wasn’t a person like you and me are people. This guy was some kind of giant, maybe forty feet tall. He peered at me through some sort of window and before I could protest he had pulled me out of the top of the weird room, or whatever it was I was in and he was manhandling me all over the place.
The strangest thing was; I couldn’t feel a thing.
He didn’t say a word. He just grinned and stuck me on a shelf in his room, next to lots of other people I sort of half recognise from Sunnydale, but they all seem to be totally frozen.
At least I can move my eyes.
I have to be careful though, I don’t want the giant to notice my eyes.
Not until I can work out what’s happened.

 

[gdb]

okay, folks, until my story THE PACKAGE loses the Collecter Choice award this is the last for the "Non-Winners" thread. Ironicly this was the first I wrote. Hope you enjoy...


AN UNOPENED RELEATIONSHIP


It was the only thing I regretted about that night. No, not the way I stormed out, promising never to return, yelling those horrible things about her mother the lard ass (yard ass more like it), and it wasn't how her voice rang after in the bitter air, but the object I left behind. The object I couldn't believe I forgot about. The object that has made a liar of me.

I groveled. Oh, how I groveled. "I was wrong, Honey-baby. You were right -- not just the little things but the big things, too. Everything... Yes, of course... She had nine children after all... Please just, please... Anything, yes, even that."

And now here I sit, back in her apartment (a fourth floor walkup thick with the stench of forgotten sandwiches), back by her side. And there lay the object that called me back - my twelve-inch Human Spike figure from Sideshow Collectibles - untarnished, untainted, unmolested, UNOPENED on the bottom shelf.

She hugs me once more (conceal it, Daniel, conceal the revulsion at her touch) and gives me my chance. She slips into the bathroom. I take what is mine and slip out her door.

Now one may say, and I will agree, that it was wrong of me to gloat. I should not, for instance, have yelled as I took the stairs, "I am NOT sorry." It was foolhardy with a capital fool to shout, "That remorse was FAKED. I was right. You were wrong." But most of all -- you will find no argument here -- I should not have waited until the outside stoop to check that my untarnished, untainted, unmolested collectible was still unopened.

For the image still haunts me of Honey-baby dangling out her window, that most beautiful of objects clutched in her hands. "I opened him a week after it arrived but did you notice? You never take the time to open them and enjoy them -- really enjoy them. Spike is not the box he came in. You know what? You don't deserve Human Spike if all you do is keep him locked in his box. Human Spike wants to go out once in awhile. Human Spike wants attention." I looked at the empty, dead thing in my hands as she shook my figure violently.

I begged her not to let him drop.

She laughed. "I'm keeping him. I'm keeping him. I'm keeping him." But whether she repeated, "I'm keeping him," like a slow-motion voice-over to buy the time to think of what to say or for effect, I couldn't tell.

"I'm keeping him but not to punish you. Because I deserve him more."

I never saw either of them again. Deep down, I knew she was right. I had the rarest of beauties in my possession and I lost it -- not for lack of affection but lack of use.



If you like this one, feel free to vote for my story THE PACKAGE here....
https://www.sideshowtoy.com/php/flashfictionChoice.php

Thanks!

 

[LOTRSWfan]

Ju-mumba, the Homeless Sideshow Collector

Our tale is about Ju-mumba, the Homeless Sideshow Collector. Poor Ju-mumba never had it good in life. He was never popular in school, the girls didn't like him and he could never keep a steady job. By the young age of 25, Ju-mumba was living in an abandoned van down by the river. Ju-mumba was so fed up with life that he decided never to leave his van again.

Going on three weeks of not leaving the van, Ju-mumba became very weak from lack of food or water. He was on the brink of death when a miracle happened.

Knock, knock, knock came a rapping on his van door.

"Who's there?" questioned Ju-mumba with what little strength he had left. The door slide open, revealing a messy, heavy-set man.

“I’m Shakira, your fairy Godmother,” replied the large man. Ju-mumba stared at Shakira, clearly not believe that the person in front of him was the sexy singer.

“Your what?” asked Ju-mumba, still not sure what to say.

“It’s the name, isn’t it?” Shakira answered, clearly looking frustrated, “That chick stole my name when I made her famous.” Ju-mumba sat up as Shakira talked.

“What do you want?” asked Ju-mumba.

“I am here to grant you one wish. Anything you want. This will change your life.” Ju-mumba sat for a moment, thinking about how he could change his life.

“I wish for a complete Sideshow Collectibles collection.”

“What?” asked a shocked Shakira, “You could have anything in the world, the power to change your life, and you chose collectibles?”

“Yes, now grant my wish and I will show you how it will change my life. Oh yeah, give me two Daddy Balrogs.”

“Very well!” said Shakira as he clapped his hands.

The deed was done. Shakira disappeared and the ground around the van was littered with a complete Sideshow collection. With a smile on his face, Ju-mumba picked up one of the two Balrogs and marched to a collectable shop down the road. Five minutes later, Ju-mumba was Four thousand dollars richer.

That was all it took. Ju-mumba was able to buy a suit, get a job and an apartment. Within weeks he had moved into his place (with a very large room for his life changing collection), was making a ridiculous amount of money selling polystone and plastic to toy factories, and had met a beautiful girl named, you guessed it, Shakira. Luckily for Ju-mumba, she did not look like his fairy Godmother, but looked more like the sexy singer.

Sideshow Collectibles saved Ju-mumba the Homeless Sideshow Collector’s life.



NAME THAT COLLECTABLE!!

A flashy game show host enters from behind the curtain, waving to the applauding audience. “Hello everyone and welcome to another edition of NAME THAT COLLECTABLE!! I am your host Peter Banner. On today's show we will be introducing the newest and up to this point, the most controversial Sideshow Collectable product to date. Can anyone guess what this highly limited and collectable piece might be? You there, in the front row,” the host says as he points to a young boy wearing a Sideshow T-Shirt.

“Hi Peter, I am SOOOOOOO excited to be here. I traveled all the way fr-“ is all the boy manages to get out before the host interrupts him.

“Alrighty, this kid talks too much,” says the host as he points to another audience member, “How about you, can you tell us what the item is?” So nervous that he will be cut off, the audience member replies without thinking.

“Would it be the new Sideshow exclusive Gray Hulk VS Spider-Man exclusive diorama?”

“Yes it would! As a prize for guessing right, we are going to give you one of these fifty statues!” The host shouts as the lights in the auditorium start to flash wildly.

“Oh my God! Really?” the stunned fan asks.

“No, not really,” replies the host with an evil smile on his face, “Now, If you will all turn your attention to front of the stage, you will be able to catch a glimpse of this very statue.” The entire audience moves to the front of their seats, eager to admire the beauty of the new product. The curtains open quickly, revealing the diorama. Before a single person can “oooh” or “aaah,”the curtain closes faster then it opened. “Wasn't that amazing!!” screams the host as the lights start to flash again.

“Ummm, it was only shown for a second. We didn't see it,” comes a voice from the crowd.

“Really, I'm sorry, I guess you will have to look at photos of it, just like everyone else in the world who missed out. As you see, this very limited edition statue sold out in a blink of an eye, so it is only fair that you get to look at it for so long.” Realizing that the audience is about to turn against him, the host thinks fast, “ And that is the end of our show today everyone. Thank you so much for flying out to see this amazing diorama. Have a safe trip home.” Before the host is even done with his last sentence, he runs behind the curtain for cover. The audience starts to file out, still stunned from the “show.”

“Wow, that was kinda disappointing” a man says to his wife as they stand to leave.

“I know, I was hoping to at least get to see the diorama close up,” she replies.

“That’s ok, the Green Hulk version still rocks. And we can always just paint it gray anyway.”

 

[DarkArtist81]

Here is mine, Dusty tracked it down for me! It's not the best now that I read it, but I still think it did the job. I pulled the story from my life and changed the name of the character.... So I guess it's not entirely "fiction"... But mostly is...



The Reason

What drives a collector to collect? Is it lack of connection with
humanity? Maybe ownership of favorite properties? Some sort of sad
hobby that drives men to become crazed hermits?! Who
knows?.....Maybe it's a blending of all of these things.

To be a collector is to be part of a group that many people deem to
be insane and money-wasting losers. But this is only the view from
outside, for if you were one of us you would understand what it is
that makes us tick.... Here's a tale that may open your eyes, may
sadden you... It's the story of a man and his budding affection for
Sideshow Collectibles...

Marcus walks the 2 bedroom space of his rented apartment, dusting his
Star Wars figures and cleaning his Lord of the Rings Swords. His
fridge is empty, as is his stomach, yet his shelves are fully stocked
with 12" figures of classic heroes and villains. The men from his
childhood, who led him through life while his mother and father
worked hard to support the family.

He had always been a little lonely, and more than a little sad, but
such was the way of life. His mother had started the trend, giving
him his favorite figures when he was young, letting him watch Return
of the Jedi when he would get hurt... She let him know that such
things were okay to have, possessions that could take away the harsh
reality of life for just a moment. This knowledge comforted young
Marcus when she died, even if he was to be alone with his obsession
from that moment on.

Now the statues and figures have become more important than almost
anything else, the joy of receiving said items the highlight of any
day. Is it sad that he does so? That he peppers his home with these
pop culture icons that make people smile?

He doesn't feel that it's bad, he sees these things as conversation
starters, pieces to a puzzle in his life. They show commitment and
devotion in a world where such things are no longer common. How can
that be crazy? And so he continues, collecting for life....

As Marcus sits waiting for FedEx to deliver his latest Friday the
13th Jason figure, he feels his stomach rumble. He ponders the
important things in life... Bills that need paying, food that needs
buying, and in that moment he doesn't regret his decisions. He
accepts that one has to sacrifice some things in life if they are to
be happy. Collectibles keep him sane, make him feel like he is part
of the stories he loves so much. His mother understood, he
understands...... do you?