There I was, face down and sprawled over the toppled drum kit, spewing beer bottle in one hand, his puggle’s ashes in the other, when Dan walked in. That’s Mr. Rottles to you, only the hottest music producer in the last decade, the owner of the house and everything in it.
            I wouldn’t normally be at a party like that, but my best friend Nikki insisted. Her goal in life is to hitch her wagon to a star – pop, rock, movie, it didn’t matter. To this end, she somehow managed to get an invite from Damian, Mr. Rottles the Younger. I imagine she accomplished this with a little flash of bra strap and the empty promise of more.
Damian is what most people would call a nerd. All his father’s money could do for Damian is straighten his teeth and pay for his acne medicine. His interest in fashion was virtually nonexistant, and his social graces were bordering on grotesque. In spite of this, or maybe because of it, Nikki set her sights on him, and we got ourselves invited.
            Damian seemed almost happy to see us when we arrived what we imagined to be fashionably late. The conversation fizzled faster than pop rocks, and we abandoned him to mingle. We forgot one important element. However unpopular our host, at least he had money. Nikki and I had only an unhealthy fascination with the rich and famous. So, we made our way back to Damian, an easy enough task since he was standing alone in the middle of the living room like a mis-matched lightning rod.
            “You want to see where it all happens?” he said eerily, sort of like he was coaxing us into his laboratory. What he really meant was his dad’s basement recording studio, and of course, we wanted to see it.
            On the way downstairs we passed a lot of rolling eyes and cold shoulders. Those few who actually recognized the spawn of Rottles stopped us to give Damian huge, undulating handshakes and echoing slaps on the back. I felt a tiny bit bad for the guy, but mostly was too proccupied imagining all the important multimedia projects these greeters must have something to do with. I was still running the numbers when we reached the studio.
            It was pretty lush. There was a couple low-riding puffy couches along two walls. The coffee table was some abstract jumble I’m sure I’ve seen in the MOMA catalog. There were a few guitars on a rack in a corner and a five- or six-piece drum kit in another. Nikki found the light switches; she dimmed the room light and turned on the disco ball. Damian didn’t say anything but seemed to be a little nervous. He assumed his lightning rod position in the middle of the room, his eyes darting frantically between myself and Nikki. I plopped down on one of the couches, which seemed to relieve him a fraction, but he kept watch on my curious friend. She found the wetbar and pulled cold beers out of the mini-fridge for each of us. Damian took a couple swallows and finally sat on the edge of the arm of the other couch. His eyes did not leave Nikki.
            We tried to engage him in small talk, to put him at ease. In spite of the darkened room, I could still see the beads of sweat on his retin-A’ed forehead. Soon, Nikki found what she was looking for. Amidst the gold and platinum framed records hanging on the walls was a little brass dog sculpture.
            “What’s this?” she asked, stroking its smooth little head. Damian was on his feet before her first ess.
            “It’s just a knick knack. Nothing important.”
            Nikki’s hand froze on the little dog. She caught my eye with hers and imperceptibly we nodded to each other. There was no way he would have that reaction if she were touching just a knick knack. She wrapped her hand around its belly and lifted more easily than she expected.
            “This is pretty light for a brass sculpture. Is it hollow?” Damian looked at her, then me, nervously. “Be honest, is it a chocolate easter puppy?” This threw Damian off long enough that he didn’t notice Nikki twisting the little dog’s head up and away. She peered inside and a grinch grin curled on her face. “Well, well, well. Looks like we found your dad’s stash.”
            “No. It’s not. It’s actually . . .” Before he could explain, Nikki had the plastic ziplock bag in her hand.
            “What the . . . ?”
            “It’s his dog. Pomfrey the Puggle.” Nikki and I immediatley cracked into hysterical laughter. After a moment, Damian was able to recognize the ridiculousness and joined us.
            “You’ve got to see this yourself.” Nikki tossed the bag in my direction. It landed softly on the cushion beside me. Gingerly, I lifted it with just my fingers and tossed it back to her. Damian’s laughter stopped suddenly when he saw the bag fly past. This pleased us enormously, and Nikki tossed it back to me. I got up from the couch, took a few steps away, and returned the volley. We continued our game of keepaway all over the room, our hysteria growing with each increasingly frantic look from Damian. We threw overhanded, underhanded, from the side, around the back, all the while keeping hold of our beers for the intermittant swig. Thus I found myself behind the drum kit reaching for a short throw from my friend.
            Everything felt in slow motion as I made a little leap up and forward. I crashed into the drums, stepping on the kick drum pedal and elbowing the high hat. I couldn’t hear what I’m sure was a righteous racket as I was so focused on the bag of puggle remains. But doggone it, I caught that bag!
            The lights went up. In walked Dan. “Ladies, so glad you could join us.”

or, Chocolate and Ashes

            The city is gone, blanketed now by ash and lava fields. Julia stands at the wide windows of the abandoned tower. She takes in the view – random palm trees that somehow managed to remain standing during the fiery onslaught, broken pieces of homes and the small shops and cafés that tourists had flocked to for decades. Now it had all but disappeared, swallowed up by the earth, like the single runway she was now staring at, eaten up by the igneous flood.

            Julia had called this island home for so long, and now she must say good-bye. This island, where she had poured her life into the soil, coaxing out of it the most luscious cacao trees. This island where, with much effort, she was accepted by the locals. This island, where she met and fell in love with Henry.

            She smiles to herself as she thinks of those early days with Henry. Back then, he was merely an amusing distraction, a ne’er-do-well who provided diversion after endless days on the plantation. Henry was full of spark and swagger, always ready with a tall tale or two but seemingly not good for much else. Julia imagined he was a con man, maybe even a pirate when she felt whimsical.

            Still, he held her attention, and she let him work at the plantation. Henry’s thumbs were no greener than a stone statue, and he was better suited to driving workers to and fro, delivering lunch out in the fields, and passing around flasks of rum. But he could always summon a laugh from Julia, even on the most harrowing of days.

            When the mountain began its first rumblings, Julia believed Henry would be  among the first to go. He surprised her by laughing it off, proclaiming that the pile of rocks was just now getting his sense of humor.

            After the tourists, residents with any significant money took off for safer, neighboring islands. With that first group, much of the frivolity left, too. Julia had a harvest to consider, and most of the islanders were too poor to leave until the situation became more dire.

            More dire it did become. Plumes of ash etched the clear blue sky, thickening and throwing shadows across the island. Julia’s workers began to scatter as the heavy clouds drifted down the mountain. And though she couldn’t fault them for opting for safety, she needed those hands, those bodies, to process and bag the cacao beans. It was her livelihood, her life, and it could be gone in minutes if they couldn’t get it off the island before an eruption.

            Henry remained by her side. He not only provided moral support, he worked harder on the plantation. Before, he had stuck with the more skilless tasks, now he was raking in the drying houses, stirring beans in the fermenting boxes, basically doing whatever needed to be done.

            The population dwindled, and Julia became more dependent on Henry. She could finally see beyond his rakish exterior and began to feel deeply for him.

            As the days passed, the rumblings increased. Julia and Henry sent sacks of the ready crops away on each ferry that took more residents to safety. Eventually there was a powerful explosion and lava began to flow. It would overtake the village in short order, and so the harvest was abandoned in favor of a last-minute rescue effort.

            Henry took on an air of authority as he orchestrated the final departure of the remaining islanders. Julia allowed Henry to take charge of her as well, until the last ferry-load of residents was ready to leave the island. She insisted he let her stay back a little longer, claiming she was going to look for any stragglers.

            And so it was that she climbed into the abandoned control tower, now the highest point aside from the spewing crater. Looking out at the smoldering landscape, she takes account of what she has remaining of her life here. In a small duffel she carries a photo album, a small carefully-wrapped cacao plant, and a diary of her life on the island. And when he returns with the ferry for the very last time, she’ll have Henry. Then Julia will have all that she needs.

Tonight’s the night, he was sure of it. After his dinner of canned meat and sliced cheese, Roy had fallen asleep during the nightly news, only to awaken again during the sports highlights. They were talking about that day’s hockey game, and the key words strung themselves together in Roy’s mind, telling him what he had to do.

He was thinking about these words as he got off the bus across the street from the arena. He was thinking about these words as he crossed the street into the parking lot. Roy had his head down, mumbling to himself, so he didn’t notice the security guard leaning on the gate. It was a dark night, that’s why the words had chosen it.

“Ho there! No one beyond this point until game time tomorrow.” The guard continued to lean, showing no concern for Roy. He popped a round piece of candy into his mouth; it crunched loudly between his teeth.

Roy stopped short, nearly lost his balance. He looked around anxiously until he found the guard. “I left something inside. I came back to get it.”

“You at the game tonight? That was something, huh? Marty’s got some slapshot.” He popped another candy, crunched slowly. He casually kept his gaze on Roy, who looked everywhere except at the guard.

Roy hesitated. “I just . . . I just need to get inside.” He fidgeted with his pack, adjusted the weight on his back.

“No can do.” The guard lifted his body so all his weight was on this feet. “Chocolate-covered coffee bean?” He pointed the open end of the bag toward Roy. “Gotta stay awake, but who wants a cup of coffee on a night like this, am I right?” He shook the bag and the cellophane rattled.

Roy was becoming irritable. He shifted on his feet, almost imperceptibly making his way away from the guard. He didn’t seem to notice, and Roy thought he was about to settle back onto the gate. Roy’s eyes darted around, sizing up the situation, judging distances. He just needed to build up enough momentum to allow himself to jump over the turnstiles. Once inside the arena it would be so dark, they’d never find him before he had a chance to place the bomb and set the timer. Once inside, he knew exactly where he was going.

Roy felt a safe distance and took off toward the entrance. He had only taken a few steps when the guard was on him, pushing him to the ground, rolling him onto his stomach. The guard sat on him, pressing Roy’s groin into the asphalt. He pulled his arms back and wrangled off the back pack. This he tossed to the side. Roy tried to reach his hand out to grab it, but the guard held firm. He cuffed Roy and stayed seated.

“What are we gonna find in your bag, Roy?”

Roy grunted a question then stammered, “I’m not . . . My name’s not Roy.”

“I know who you are, Roy. We all know who you are. You’re here everyday, skulking around. You probably feel invisible, but we see you. Didn’t think you’d come here at night . . . with plans, apparently. But here you are.”

Roy grunted, tried to wriggle out from under the guard, couldn’t, became still.

The guard reached for his radio, pressed the button. “Suspicious character apprehended at north entrance. Need assist. Over.” He looked at Roy, grinding his teeth, struggling to keep his face off the asphalt. They stayed like that for a few moments, Roy intermittently renewing his struggle.

Shortly, a white SUV with blue flashing lights approached. Another guard got out, swaggered over. “Hey Roy! So nice to see you again. So unexpected.”

“That’s his pack over there. You mind checking it out?” At this Roy tried harder to get out from under his captor. He grunted and whimpered. “What’s wrong, boy?”

The other guard had the pack in one hand, the other hand on the zipper. Roy struggled more; the guard lifted his wrists away from his back, and Roy moaned in pain. “It’s . . . I made a bomb! Be careful!”

“You made a bomb? Now, this, I gotta see.” The other guard unzipped the pack, reached in, pulled out a mess of metal bits and wires. “Looks like the guts of a toaster and a kitchen timer.” He tossed the mess onto the ground.

The guards pulled Roy up and walked him over to the SUV, sat him in the back seat. With a slight shake of the head, they drove off toward the office, Roy sobbing quietly.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.

I entered a writing contest. This is my entry. I was given genre: action/adventure, and subject: hot air balloon.

ALL DOWNHILL FROM HERE

In your mind’s eye, you see yourself flung into a corner of a room, a rag doll tossed aside by a resentful child. Your neck is cramping in this position and several toes are asleep. You become aware of a pain like a hot knife in your shoulder and realize you are sitting on your right arm. With your left arm, you push away from the wall enough to free it.

Taking mental stock, you venture to move each extremity one by one. Everything seems to be in working order, even if it is screaming in agony. The movement has shifted you into a more human alignment, and you take a moment to breathe, filling and emptying your lungs thoroughly several times.

You open your eyes slowly to see you are lying in the bottom of what seems like a giant picnic basket. You wonder if you are somebody’s lunch. As the fog lifts from your mind, it becomes clear that you are actually toast.

There are frantic voices in the far distance. At this moment you don’t remember how you came to be in this predicament. However, you know those voices are searching for you, and they are not friendly. As if in a thunderstorm, you time their outbursts to try to calculate how far away they must be.

There is an eerie, green glow caused by the nylon ripstop draped overhead. In this light, you make an assessment of your surroundings before shifting your weight to try standing. The whole room shifts with you, and you hear the rustle of leaves just beyond. Carefully, you aright yourself, your head and shoulders colliding with the ripstop above. Apparently, you managed to turn off the burners prior to your descent, as there is no evidence of fire damage to be seen.

You pause, listening again to the voices, closer now, but by how much? How fast are they moving toward you, and how much time will it take you to get to the ground? They know exactly where I landed.

Gingerly, you lift the envelope away and look over the edge of the basket. There is no clear path down, but it doesn’t look to be very far. You contemplate just taking a leap, and instead take a step back. There are various items strewn about you, and you look for weapons, or anything that could be used as such. You slide a fire axe under your belt and a large knife into a pocket. You deem the propane tanks too cumbersome since you can’t find a back pack anywhere.

Once again, you are looking over the edge, and you begin your exit. You attempt to channel an inner dolphin to calculate the approach of your foes. You believe you have a good idea how much time you have, and you are only slightly discouraged.

You make your way out of the gondola and into the surrounding tree branches with only one or two close calls. At times you can’t hear the voices over the thud of your heartbeat. When you do, you can hear how much closer they are. You pick your way down, pausing here and there to wipe the sweat out of your eyes with your shirt sleeve.

You make it to the lowest branch and suspend yourself by your arms. You close your eyes, whispering something, anything, to give yourself strength. Along with the voices, you can now hear the forest giving way to the interlopers. This knowledge spurs you to action, or inaction as it were, for you let go of your perch and drop to the ground.

The snow is not as deep as it had seemed from the treetop and a just-covered rock causes your ankle to turn. You suck in some air to offset the pain. Reaching for the axe, you scan the foliage. A small branch looks like it could support you, and you hack at it with little progress. A stone rolls by and you are not sure if it was you or your pursuers who knocked it loose. They’re going to kill me, and I’m wasting time trying to make a walking stick. Tucking the axe away, you propel yourself in a downhill direction. Now you’re channeling your inner rabbit, pushing off from logs and small boulders in a determined burst of speed.

Despite your efforts, above the din of your ragged breathing, you can hear them closing in on you. You abandon the zig zag of the hare for a mono-directional cheetah sprint. You are blinded by necessity. The whips of branches on your face, arms, torso, don’t affect you, but one false step fells you.

You begin a series of somersaults; instinctively your arms move to cradle your head. At some point you feel the axe abandon you. There is wetness somewhere, everywhere? In the chaos it’s difficult to differentiate between snow melt, sweat, and—possibly—blood.

You feel yourself slow and reach out an arm to bring yourself to a stop. Your eyes won’t focus, partly from the spinning, partly from various impacts, but you try to stand nonetheless. You’re on your feet, and your heart pounds something fierce. Nausea floods your body, and your head feels as if it has doubled in size.

Your torso bobs left, then right, pitches forward, your feet all the while making vain attempts to stay under you. You catch yourself with your hands a couple times. You feel you’ve finally righted yourself fully, but your left foot steps rearward and finds only air. Your balance not fully regained, you have no choice but to follow.

The cliff is shear, so it is for the most part a free fall. You feel weightless, tossed again by that impetuous child. I suppose I must deserve this. It is probably your head that hits first, the back of your skull shattering instantly. Each limb acts independently, falling and refracting with the ragged river rocks. It seems whole moments pass before there is stillness, but then you are finally at rest. Now there is only the trickle of blood joining the larger cacophony of flowing water.