Everybody knew the dame.

Lily Lalaine ran the classiest joint in town. Everybody who was anybody made sure they were seen at Salon de Lily. And if you were lucky enough to have her stop at your table – well, fortunes have been made on less.

Too bad they couldn’t see me now. I’d be a rich man.

The only thing between Lily and me was my battered old desk and her two thugs. She must’ve come straight from her club, ‘cause she was dressed to kill. A slinky red number hugged every curve, and she had plenty of them. She’d thrown her fur-trimmed stole over the back of a chair and her bare shoulders almost made me forget the cold December sleet hitting the window behind me. Ivory-white skin disappeared into the plunging neckline of her dress and the enticing shadows underneath. She shifted slightly and I got a glimpse of legs that should have been on a pin-up calendar.

“I understand you’re the best.” Her husky voice pulled me away from my observations. That body might light a fire, but those eyes were ice cold.

“Depends what you’re looking for. I make a mean scotch on the rocks.”

Full red lips parted in a smile that could freeze Lake Michigan in July.

“I’m sure you do. I hear you’ve had a lot of practice.”

Touché. The broad had a bite.

“I have a problem.” She paused and gestured impatiently to the goon on her left. A cigarette appeared out of nowhere. His associate produced a box of matches.

She lit the cigarette and took a deep drag, tossing the matchbox onto my desk. I picked it up and idly walked it across my fingers before handing it back. The sexy woman on the top of the box was a dead ringer for Lily – except for the impish look. I had a feeling nobody could call Lily “impish” and get away with it.

“I have a problem,” she repeated, a puff of smoke punctuating her words. “And I’m told you excel at handling problems. Discretely.”

I looked at Goon A and Goon B. She laughed softly.

“My boys are excellent bodyguards, but this needs a special touch. Interested?”

“Possibly.”

She looked around the office, taking in my worn furniture and stack of unpaid bills. It didn’t take a genius to see I needed this job.

“A person has something of mine and I need you to get it back. The person in question is out of town at the moment, so it's a simple matter of retrieving the document. Here are the details.“ She dropped an unmarked envelope on my desk. “I’ll be at my club.” Before I could respond she swept out of the office with her minions in tow.

An hour later I was outside Big Eddy’s place. The sleet had turned into a cold rain and icy drops trickled off my hat and danced their way down my spine. Lily had said Big Eddy was out of town. She would know; rumor had it that he was a lot more than her business partner. The house was dark with no signs of life. But my gut was bothering me, and it wasn’t just from the scotch I’d had for dinner.

I circled around to the back of the house and pulled out my tools. But I didn’t need them – the knob turned freely under my hand. I pulled Lucky Lucy out of my shoulder holster and slipped through the door.

Lily’s "details" had included a map of the first floor and I quickly moved towards Big Eddy’s study. The document was in his wall safe behind a fake Monet and the combination was in my coat pocket. The dame had been thorough. Almost too thorough.

The smell of blood and gunpowder hit me as I entered the study. Then something else connected with the back of my head.

When I opened my eyes, the study was lit by the dim glow of the desk light. Big Eddy was in his chair behind the desk, but judging by the hole in his chest, he wasn’t going to have any objections to my presence. I slowly sat up, checking for damage to anything else besides my head.

The soft rasp of a match strike broke the silence. I turned quickly. Too quickly. The flames leaped away from the match and danced around the sexy dame on the matchbox, laughing at me. Still dancing, they followed the match up to the cigarette Lily was holding. Their orange glow reflected off the .38 revolver in her lap.

“Partnership with Big Eddy not working out?” I asked.

“I’m afraid that he no longer fit with the image of Salon de Lily. He didn’t agree, so we parted ways.”

“I don’t think this the parting he had in mind.”

She shrugged. “He felt entitled to some of the assets. So I gave him some.”

“Looks like my job is done. I’ll have my bill delivered to your club.” I started to stand, but the revolver stopped me cold.

“I’m sorry, but your job is not quite finished. It seems that Big Eddy was surprised in his study tonight by a burglar intent on robbing his safe. Big Eddy took a shot at the thief, but it went wide.” She pointed the gun slightly to my left and fired. A hole appeared in the wall.

“Unfortunately, his opponent was also armed, and a better shot. He fired back and wounded Big Eddy. But Big Eddy was tough. With the last of his strength he managed to kill the thief.” The revolver swung around to me.

I dove to the side, grabbing Lucky Lucy. Lily’s shot missed; mine didn’t. Blood blossomed on her pale shoulder as the .38 fell from her hand.

I kicked the gun away and picked up the matchbox. The lady on the box smiled up at me.

A dame like this could kill you.

Once I had made up my mind to kill him, it didn’t take long for me to track him down. To my amazement, a couple of phone calls, a short drive, and a few hours of staking out a faded old motel were all it took to come face to face with my past.

When I called her up, Aunt Julia was surprised that I even remembered “uncle” Dan, and it took a bit of skill and subtlety to work his name into the conversation without arousing her suspicions. Why would I be interested in knowing where her old good-for-nothing boyfriend was living now? If I told her the truth, she might even believe me enough to try to stop me.

I know I’m doing the right thing. He deserves it, for everything he did to me: for every strike and every bruise; for every one of the hundreds of nights I have woken with fear and panic from the vivid dreams reliving childhood memories that I can't erase.

I have tried. When I realized that the nightmares wouldn't fade with the simple passage of time, I sought to banish them through counselling and therapy, but talking through my problems just etched them all the more indelibly into my being. I tried forgiveness, to be at peace with the world, but how could I forgive when he was still out there, unrepentant, and for all I know abusing others? I still hold on to my religion, but nothing in the Gospels resonates as clearly to me as the words of Ecclesiastes:

God will call the past to account

…A time to kill…

We all grow up. The privileged, the poor, the abused and the loved; we all have our stories to tell. But my story is not quite finished, for I will not be defined by what he did to me. I will not be the adult version of that frightened little girl, tattooed with bruises and cowering under him as he lifts his hand to strike again.

From across the street I watch silently as the sun plays across the front of the motel, its grimly dated façade an ugly mosaic of weather-beaten concrete and metallic panels dappled with a patina of rusted paintwork. It comforts me that he has been living here in this dilapidated surrogate home for the last few months, his life reduced to a deservedly lonely and rootless existence. But I know that it is not enough to think of him suffering. He has to die: for then and only then will my story be complete, and my nights filled with peace instead of terror.

My heart jolts suddenly as I see a familiar figure crossing the motel’s parking lot towards the main block. Could it be? That greasy uncut hair, those unkind eyes and the unrepentant swagger, they are all too familiar. It’s him. I reach into my glove box and feel the reassuring weight of my gun as I take it out and tuck it into my belt, all the while keeping my eyes on him as he gets to the foot of the stairs and climbs towards his room. I stay in my car until he gets to his door and goes inside. A deep breath and a silent prayer follow, then I open the door and head across the motel car park.

At the foot of the stairs is a fire notice, a schematic of the hotel. I look up at his room, and back to the notice. Room 8/7. With a grim smile, I remember Ecclesiastes chapter 8, verse 7:

Since no man knows the future, who can tell him what is to come?

I can. Somehow I feel that just for today I have that ability, that I am wielding the power to change the future. I climb the stairs slowly and deliberately towards the second level.

Room 8/7. I knock on the door and wait. My heart is pounding, my mouth is dry, and yet the world suddenly becomes calm, hyper-real and vivid, like a movie in slow motion. I feel a soft and reassuring breeze gently caressing the left side of my face. What would normally be a background hum of traffic behind me down on the street I perceive now as the engine of each and every vehicle travelling at its own pace. Even the door in front of me, despite its paint being old and flaking, looks more intensely blue in the late afternoon sunshine than a spring morning sky. There are sounds within, shuffling footsteps heading towards me, then the latch turns and the door opens just six inches or so.

A face appears at the open door. “Yeah?” he asks. It’s him. I have the advantage – he is squinting out into the bright light at the silhouette of an adult woman he does not expect to know. I am looking straight into the eyes of my abuser, at the face that has haunted my dreams for fifteen years. He’s older, a little heavier maybe, but it’s him.

“Room service” I say, almost amazed that the words make it past the tensile steel of my throat muscles. The door opens a little wider, his face contorts into puzzlement. “I didn’t ask for room service.”

“Oh you asked for it, Uncle Dan,” I smile, with genuine happiness, and raise the gun to his face. Time slows to a fraction of its normal pace and amidst the fear in his eyes I see a flicker of recognition. It's an intimate moment.

Our little secret.

I hold his gaze as I squeeze the trigger and wait for the hammer to strike.

I have never been able to forgive myself for the deaths of my children. Before he went back to his RAF squadron, my husband James made me promise to send them to the countryside, to be safe from the bombings. And I know that, logically, it was be safer for them to be with my sister near Bletchley. My brain says I did the right thing, but my heart will never be whole again.

Henry swung the toy Spitfire around his head, making machine gun noises and shooting imaginary enemy aircraft out of the sky.

"You know Mum didn’t like it when you play at war," Elizabeth said.

"Is that why she sent us away?" asked Henry. He knew the answer; he just wanted to get a rise out of his sister. He succeeded.

"Of course not, you sod. She sent us away to be safe from the bombings."

"Well," said Henry. "It didn't exactly work out for the best, now, did it?"

Henry and Elizabeth, and dozens of other children, had died when bombs struck the evacuation train in the rail yards near Kensal Green, outside of London, on this very day, sixty-eight years ago. They had returned to the site every year since then, where a memorial had been erected in a small park.

"No," Elizabeth agreed. "It didn't. But she couldn't know that. And I know she's never forgiven herself." Her eyes filled with tears.

"I know," Henry softened. "Do you think she'll be joining us soon?"

"You've been asking that for sixty-eight years. I'm sure it will be soon, but we can't know when. We have to keep coming back here, so she can find us."

Our flat was leveled that same night; I had to move to temporary quarters. James was killed two months later. I still don't know how I managed to live through that; I worked two shifts throughout the war to keep my sanity.

"How do you know she'll come back here?" asked Henry, fiddling with the propeller on his airplane.

"I can't explain it. I just know; that's all. And we haven't been able to find her, so she must be alive, somewhere. When she dies, she'll come for us."

"And what about Father?"

"He'll be with her."

They made a monument for the children, near the place where they died. In all these years, I could never bring myself to visit it. Each anniversary of their death, I've always promised myself that I'd go, and when I couldn't, I promised to do it the next time. Sixty-eight anniversaries. But I'm an old woman now, and my years are running out. War may break out soon. Now is the time.

"What else do you 'just know'?" asked Henry.

"I know the people of the living world are in grave danger. I don't know why. I can sense it in the people passing by, but I can't explain it. There's tension, fear, and dread in all of them."

"Will there be another war, then?"

"I can't say. Could be. There is so much hatred among the living. And so few people trying to make peace."

"Why?"

"I don't really know. I think it's human nature. People would rather fight for all of something than settle for some of something."

"What is it they want to fight for now?"

"I can't tell. The most I can make out from the people passing by is that they are very afraid."

"I'm not afraid," said Henry, tossing his airplane skyward again. "I'm just tired of waiting for Mum." He pointed to an elderly woman, standing with her head bowed in front of a monument, an angel fluttering at her shoulder. "Edward's mum visits here every year."

"Yes. But they won't be able to talk to each other until she dies."

Why doesn't our mum come and visit, like Edward's mum does?"

"Some of the living find this place peaceful. Others find their peace in other ways."

"At least Edward knows where his mum is."

"Henry! Look!" Elizabeth pointed.

At the edge of the park, a frail, elderly woman stepped out of a black hackney and made her way toward the monument.

"Is that Mum?" asked Henry. "It is! It is!"

They flew over to the footpath and flitted around her, shouting joyously. Other angels made way for them; a reunion was a relatively rare, and always blessed, event.

It is peaceful here; I'm glad.

Elizabeth and Henry chattered ceaselessly as their mum walked slowly to the monument.

"She looks great!"

"She's still wearing her wedding ring!"

"Her eyes haven't changed a bit!"

"I thought this day would never come!"

"She can't hear us, of course, but I'd love to hear her voice!"

When she reached the monument, the woman stopped and bowed her head, praying silently. Henry and Elizabeth hovered at her side, hoping she would speak out loud, but she didn't, not then. There would be time enough to hear her in the future. She placed her hand for a moment on the smooth marble of the memorial, and then turned to leave.

I love you, my children.

Henry and Elizabeth followed, intending to follow their mother back to her home, never to leave her side again. Their excited chatter was interrupted, though, by a great rushing of wings, as another angel landed in front of them.

Elizabeth recognized him first.

"Father!" she shrieked, and enveloped him in arms and wings.

"Elizabeth! Henry! I knew you'd be here!"

Before they could speak, there was a blinding flash of light and a deafening explosion. Everything around them started to burn. Their mother died and joined them, but their gladness was mixed with sorrow. Two million angels had been born in an instant, but countless more were, in that same instant, removed from the future of history's time line.

The reunited family watched as the first waves of bombers and transport aircraft came into view overhead, flying towards the already-devastated heart of London.

His duty over, Hector peeled the sock puppet off his hand and stuffed it into his back pocket. He watched the kids scatter in all directions, heading toward other parts of the town fair, squealing and laughing in delight.

Once his former audience had been assimilated by the other attractions, he turned his attention to breaking down the cardboard facade, painted to look like a castle. He basically folded it in half and tossed it aside; Hector found it was easier to just make a new one each year.

That arduous task completed, he now was ready to watch his own Melissa play. He always held his yearly puppet show on the periphery of the fair just for this reason, the faint sounds of joy providing a nice backdrop for his memories.

He sat down with his back against a massive oak tree, closed his eyes and there she was; running around in her sun dress, ribbons in her hair, now forever eight years old.

And, of course, the hammer. Always the hammer. A faint smile formed on his placid face. Hector always wondered how his daughter turned out to be both a 'girly-girl', all prim and proper, and a tom-boy at the same time.

And there, across the way, appeared the car. His smile faltered.

He purchased the car ten years ago and sold it two years ago, for $50.00, just to get rid of it. It was a Chevrolet Caprice, dark blue, in great shape but with minor body damage. The front, passenger side bumper and fender were crumpled in a bit, and the bumper had some rust-red discolorization.

As usual, nobody else could see the car. Driverless, it slowly rolled along the park, as if looking for someone...

"Uh, excuse me? Hello...?"

Hector opened his eyes. A very attractive, dark-haired woman was standing between him and the sun.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to bother you, but is this where the puppet show is going to be?"

"Was; you just missed it. Sorry. Was your child in the audience?"

"No, no; it just that I've always enjoyed puppet shows. I'm not even married."

After that last comment the woman closed her eyes somewhat theatrically, as if to say stupid, stupid, stupid!

"What I meant to say was that I was hoping to catch the show. By the way, I'm Elizabeth Haskins."

Hector levered himself up. "Hector Sampson. Pleasure to meet you. You work at the county library, don't you?"

"Why, yes. I believe I've seen you checking out books on theater and acting. You're quite the reader."

"I'm a teacher. I teach. Acting. I mean, theater...at the junior high school."

Feeling like he was about to backslide into his early teens again, with the requisite awkwardness, Hector suggested they go for a walk around the fair. He carried the cheap cardboard set to the nearest dumpster and tossed it inside, then they strolled along one of several pathways, subconsciously heading away from the phantom car.

After a comfortable silence, Elizabeth spoke first.

"I didn't wake you back there, did I?"

"No, I just closed my eyes so I could see my daughter better."

Elizabeth thought about this for a moment, then realization hit.

"Oh, I'm sorry. What was her name?"

"Melissa. She was eight years old. She...was killed by a drunk driver. Three years ago."

"I'm so sorry. Your wife, too?"

"She was the driver."

Elizabeth looked stricken. "I...I don't...I don't know what to say..."

"It's OK, you didn't know. I think you would've liked Melissa, though. Early on she had a thing for dresses and dolls and all the usual girl stuff. But she saw me working in the garage one day and wanted to help out. Before long she was wearing a kids tool belt with her pink Winnie the Pooh clothes."

Elizabeth's eyes sparkled as she laughed at the mental imagery. She had a nice, mellifluous laugh, Hector thought.

"The hammer was her favorite. I let her drive nails into the top edge of one of the drawers in the kitchen once and when she was done you couldn't close the thing! Then she smashed me in the head..."

"What!?"

Hector always enjoyed catching people off guard with that one.

"I wasn't paying attention one day as I lay in the grass. She had a hammer and said she wanted to bonk me on the head. I thought it was the one from her plastic play set and said 'sure!'. I think she was 5 at the time."

"Ow! That hurts my head just thinking about it!"

They walked along at a comfortable pace, amidst the fanfare of the rides and games, but also apart from it all. Hector felt more alive than he had in years.

Elizabeth's stomach made a very rude sound, and they both couldn't help but chuckle. She turned to Hector and suggested they get something to eat.

"OK, but let's head back to town. This year the fair officials decided to offer nothing but 'health food'. I don't think it's going to last, though; when your best choices are 'fauxgurt' and 'notdogs', you've got problems."

"Well, I know a great pizza parlor not too far away. We can grab a bite and have you back home in time for your nap!"

"Very funny, Miss Comedian."

They walked on, not hand in hand, but together none the less. And Hector gave the phantom car not another thought...

“Go ahead, Henry, you open it!”

“Oh c’mon, Arty, don’t tell me you’re scared!”

“I’m not scared at all. But it was your idea, so you open it!”

“Pff.” With a snort, the boy took the old, rusty key. He bent over the chest, his brow furrowed, and started fumbling with the padlock.

The boy called Arty shifted his pretend eye patch.
“What if it doesn’t fit the lock?”

“C’mon, Arty, don't give me the willies! The key was in the little box we dug out of the cemetery by Trinity church! You already chickened out then.”

“I didn’t chicken out!”

“You did!”

“Did NOT!”

“Pff.” Henry brushed away some unruly strands of hair and his fingers left dark streaks of mud on his forehead. He impatiently kicked the wooden saber away. Wooden weapons were for kids. This was for real. A real treasure chest.

“I bet there is a REAL treasure inside, Arty! Look how old this key is! And think of where we found it. This is not about playing pirates anymore. We’re real ark… arch… arr-kee-olo-jists now! Digging out treasures! Striking it rich!”

Arty licked his lips nervously while Henry focused on the chest again, tongue between his lips, with all the dedication and enthusiasm only little dreamers can muster.

“But,” Arty whispered with a dry mouth, “remember what they say about this forest? And about this lake? That there are dryads in the lake. Auntie Maggie told me a story about a giant who…”

“Hush. I almost got it!”

The boys sat completely still, except for the shallow breathing and Henry’s fumbling. They forgot everything around them and saw nothing - except the chest.

And then, with a dry snap, the lock gave. Henry looked up, his eyes wide with anticipation.
“We made it,” he whispered.
“We really made it.”

“AT LAAAST!”

The voice was dark, rough, and boomed directly above them. The boys looked up and gaped, their hearts standing still in their chests. Arty and Henry froze, not able to think, let alone move.
Above them loomed the scariest thing they had ever seen. It was a giant… no, it was a monster, an ogre, a huge beast. And it… spoke!

“You got the key. I need it!”

Henry tried to reply, but found only the dry taste of fear in his mouth. His tongue seemed to be glued to his teeth. Arty shrunk into a whimpering ball of terror.

The giant slowly bent forward, placing his massive hands next to each of them. Arty managed to utter a strange, twisted sound, like a terrified little animal cornered by a pack of hounds.

“In the chest,” the massive monster bellowed, “open the chest now!” He furrowed his massive face with anger about the delay and leaned even closer, his breath hot and fetid.

Henry finally found some strength in his quivering limbs. He removed the lock and pushed the lid of the chest open. In it was a key.

The key was massive and seemed to be made of pure gold, and it was a long as his arm. A ray of sunlight caught it, and made it shine. Arty reached for it, his terror forgotten for a single moment.

Henry was paralyzed again, but this time, it was not out of fear, but out of wonder. His breath caught and his eyes filled with tears.

This key was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. Its lustrous sparkle reflected in a single tear running down his cheek. This was a true treasure, an artifact of olden times, its beauty yielding stories, forgotten stories…

With a move too swift for his massive body, the giant snatched the key from Arty’s hand.

“Good. Clever boys. Never could reach the chest, hidden in too confined a place. Never could open the lock, sealed off by small hands. You found it. You opened it. Clever boys.”

He cracked his large mouth into a hideous grin, rose and disappeared into the forest.

Arty and Henry just stared.

“Heeeeeeeeeeenry! Aaaaaaaaaaaarthur!”

“Dayum. My mum!” Henry jumped to his feet. His knees still felt like jelly, and for a moment, he feared his legs would fail him.

“HENRY WALTON JONES! Where are you? Time for dinner!”

They boys broke into a run.

“Tell you what, Henry,” Arty panted, “that was the last time I’m playing pirates or treasure hunters or arkee… archee… well, looters with you. You always get me into trouble!”

Henry looked back at his friend and grinned.

“Tell you what, Arty? One day, I’ll find a real treasure!”

He stopped his trot to look back at the forest, dark and silent, keeping its secrets. Henry giggled and his laughter rung with exhilaration.

“One day, I’ll be an adventurer! I’ll wrest those old treasures from the earth, no matter what. You’ll just wait and see, Arty. I’ll do it!”

***

This story took place in Princeton, NJ in 1906. The boy Henry Walton Jones Jr. stayed true to the promise he made himself that day. He indeed became an archaeologist and was better known under his nickname: Indiana Jones.

I took this job in good faith, but frankly the task has proven to be too daunting. The theme was given out, and it was simply the word ‘Strike.’ Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? I mean there are only about 19 Brazilian different meanings of the word; just pick one.

My team tried to prove worthy of the task, it really did. Our photographer asked for suggestions. The team suggested such things as: “How about the Rebel attack on the Death Star?”

I pointed out that (1) Star Wars was a no-no, and (2) even if it wasn’t, we didn’t exactly have a working replica of the Death Star to take a picture of. This was a photographer, not the chopper.

Then someone had the idea about an air strike. I protested that would necessitate our photographer being in a war zone, and while there are currently plenty of those around, I didn’t think the photographer was terribly interested in visiting them. I have since revised my opinion, and have taken up a collection from our team to send our photographer to any war zone of his choosing. We have collected a grand total of fifteen dollars and twenty-three cents and are now accepting donations from all other Wortheans for this much needed cause, but I digress.

We suggested a Union Strike but none existed around our photographer. The photographer apparently also does not have lightning where he lives, nor bowling alleys, nor baseball fields.

When we finally got some photos - and I mean after the ones we were sent where the lens cover was still on the camera - they contained great close-ups of our photographer’s thumb. We asked our photographer, politely mind you, to try again. I even donated a book of matches so he could try ‘striking’ a match. He couldn’t figure out how to do that and take a picture at the same time without burning his fingers.

Eventually our illustrator was sent a picture of our photographer holding an ‘On Strike’ sign and the left over matches. Well, I guess that works.

Then our illustrator took over, well sort of anyway. Apparently demons took over her operating system. Did I mention it was Windows? Did I need to? The system was miraculously restored a couple of days later. Enough for a couple of round trips to the post office for example.

Frankly this is what I think happened: The matchbook I sent the photographer had one of those advertisements where you draw ‘Pete the Pirate’ to win a scholarship. Presumably it was still there when he sent it to the illustrator. When I finally got the matchbook back, with the photo and the illustration, the cover was missing. I have a feeling the delay was for remedial course work. The kind where you send out your drawing, along with $10, and someone tells you how great it is and tells you to send the next one, but I can’t prove it. Either way, it didn’t do any good. The illustration was our illustrator holding up a sign that said “I will not draw for these nut cases.” Our team was apparently having a rare moment of agreement.

Now it is my turn. Frankly I am thinking of taking up a lucrative career of writing dialogs for street mimes instead. Regrettably, when I tried to back out of this thing Anni just laughed at me. I tried writing one that used every item on the hit list, and got back “Nice try, here is a free do-over. We have many more where this came from.” I even got desperate, and tried to make a deal with the devil. He just laughed at me, and told me since I already was in Hell, no deal, but I digress yet again.

I see our chopper cowering in the corner with a look of fear on his face, and a sign reading “Please make the deadlines!” I feel for my teammate, I really do. In particular I would like him to feel the same pain I am feeling at the moment. Preferably, as soon as it is reasonably possible. I have to meet that deadline you know.

Now keep in mind what this contest is about: I am supposed to write a story incorporating elements from the entries of the other two people, who never did anything.

My head hurts.

In theory I could write about the strike, but then I wouldn’t be striking. I can’t make up a little sign saying “On strike” for the same reason. I would have written something for the contest. So I think what I am going to do is enter one of my best lines I wrote specifically for the street mimes:

“................................................................................”

Oh yes, I am also going to pass the devil’s business card to the chopper. Perhaps he can cut a better deal than I could. So here is the whole package: One photo of the photographer on strike, one illustration of the illustrator refusing to illustrate, one replacement matchbook with intact cover, and my addition, “................................................................................”

Here you go, bon voyage, best of luck!

I hate to hear somebody whimper. Perhaps I should get out of hearing distance. Ear plugs would work too. Let’s see what I have on the I-pod I can crank up.

“It’s, like, the greatest! Totally the best thing I’ve ever done. Totally awesome. Just go out and buy one, trust me, okay?” Sam pressed play and watched it again: himself, almost unrecognizable, suave and sexy, yelling into the camera with two impossibly blonde and tanned party girls wrapped in each of his arms, the room filled with the hippest young things imaginable, the noise, the twitching nostrils. Hung over, he watched his fifteen minutes of fame compressed in a minute’s worth of YouTube obscurity and shame . . .

-----------------------------------

Living at his grandfather’s house in Greenville was meant to be an escape. Meant to heal the wounds opened after dropping out of his apprenticeship. Meant to keep Sam out of trouble. Sure, picking up stray golf balls for a living wasn’t his idea of a perfect career, but it wasn’t forever. And Sam had a lot of fond memories of Greenville and summers spent with his Grandad; back then, of course, the place was kind of daggy and old-fashioned, full of old people yet relaxed. Then the developers moved in, followed by the Country Club and the Marina and the SUVs and the designer dogs shoved in designer handbags . . . In the space of a few short years Greenville had sold its soul to the rich and Sam couldn’t help but hate everyone new in town with a mixture of scorn and intense envy.

Trapped in one of those moods after a long day wallowing in the water hazard, Sam stopped by the general store for more beer on the way home; for reasons he couldn’t explain, he bought a scratch card on impulse. Leaning against the outside wall of the shop with the harsh summer sun in his eyes, he scratched the little silver panels while the cartoon prospector in the background leered at him, urging him to “Strike it Rich!™”. The first panel revealed a sack of money, then a second . . . the next two showed a coin and a frowning face. The fifth showed an apple and Sam already dismissed the card as a waste of money, but he scratched a sixth regardless.

Another bag of money.

Three bags of money. He checked the back of the ticket, swore under his breath, then checked again. Three bags of money meant a win. A big win. $2 million worth of win. He always thought those jackpots were a con to lure you in but he couldn’t find a catch in the fine print and those three cartoon money bags were pretty convincing. He raced home, kicking his heals in joy, before realising he’d left his beer against the shop wall and running back to get it.

Once alone in his grandfather’s tiny cottage, the reality hit him. $2 million was a lot of money to deal with, more than he could really comprehend. He couldn’t tell his mother – their relationship was strained enough already and he knew she’d take away his fun. She’d always controlled him through money when he was broke and he couldn’t trust her now he was rich either. Nor could he tell his friends since he’d grown apart from those back home and hadn’t made many since the move to Greenville. No, the money was his and he was going to spend it his own way . . .

--------------------------

Sam sat on the beachfront, watching the world pass as the waiter poured his beer into an elegant glass frosted with ice, barely concealing his resentment. Sam had spent more on one lunch than his weekly salary at the Country Club. He checked his reflection again and couldn’t believe how good he looked. His personal trainer was a genius and he cursed himself for not realising the value of a decent haircut and skin care regime before. Life on a $2 million budget was looking good.

Looking even better was the sylph young brunette heading towards his table. With calculating coyness and a disarming British accent, she asked if she could sit down. “You’re just about the youngest person I’ve seen all day who’s not serving drinks,” she smiled and Sam nodded back, trying to keep his cool. It’s not every day that an A-grade actress like Sylvie Waddington sits at your table; she was in town for the filming of another teen romp and found the pace in Greenville a drag.

They made small talk and stole sly glances through the barriers of their sunglasses; as the sun started to weigh heavy on the horizon, Sylvie got up to leave. “For someone in a place like this, you’re very down to earth. I like that,” she smiled. “Some of us are throwing a party later tonight, you should come.” She kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his hand and Sam nodded slowly as he watched her slender hips disappear down the promenade . . .

-----------------------------

Sam didn’t know how he got home. He didn’t know how he got a black eye and split lip either. Wincing, he stumbled through to the kitchen to get a glass of water, but thought twice when he saw the mess in the sink. He didn’t remember drinking that much, but then he didn’t remember much at all.

Slowly, pockets of memory emerged through the haze. He remembered Sylvie Waddington, and that impossibly plunging red dress. He remembered the free booze and blow. He remembered calling some actor with pecs like steel and the face of a fifteen-year-old a douchebag. He remembered ranting, but not what about. He remembered the cameras and the party girls who let him touch them, and Sylvie who didn’t afford him the same.

Then he remembered Sylvie screaming, crying, calling him crass, calling him a fraud. Then he remembered her minders grabbing his arms from behind . . . He kicked the kitchen door as he went out, struggling to deal with the realisation that his new world was one that didn’t quite fit: striking it rich wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“Wake up Maddie, we are making relish today.” Maddie groaned and glared at her stepmother. She dragged herself out of bed and began a long day of choppng, grinding, and stirring, then pouring the mixtures into the hot jars. How much relish do we need? thought Maddie, pushing her long, damp hair out of her face.

Before the relish had been pickles; before that had been jams. Since her father had vanished, Maddie thought , I've become a slave to the mad queen of preserves.

“I think we are done for the day,” her stepmother said, “I would like....” but Maddie had grabbed the cloak that was almost the last thing she had of her mother and run from the house before her stepmother could ask yet more work of her.

The sun was out, but the air was cool enough to make her glad of the cloak. She wandered down to the market. She had no money, but she liked the busy atmosphere. There were the young men standing around as well. She had got to know them. Jonas was a muscular blond who was the obvious leader. He smiled and flattered her. He even bought her a treat when her stomach growled. Over the last few weeks whenever she could escape she had run to the market and to walk with Jonas and the others. She wished she had her own money to spend, but she had none.

If her mother was alive, Maddie thought resentfully, if her father hadn't married a stranger, then left her; if life was fair... But life wasn't fair, she told herself; life was sharing home and anger with her stepmother, but no understanding

Maddie decided to go to the Midnight Clock with her aching heart. She would wish for Jonas to carry her away from her miserable life. She lit the match with the first strike. The warm glow of her lamp showed the clock peeking through the vines on the wall. It was one minute to midnight on the full moon – magic time. The minute hand moved and she touched the face of the clock to make her wish. But all the carefully prepared words deserted her, leaving an inchoate longing in their place. The hand moved again. It was done. She climbed down the ladder and walked home.

The next day she went to the market and laughed and talked with Jonas. Something was different, she thought, he was paying much more attention to her. She flirted with him, laughing and teasing. They would fall in love, get married and live in a house with no jars to fill. At noon they walked over to the food side of the market to buy a snack. Maddie's stepmother was there in a tiny booth with jars lining the walls.

“No,” whispered Maddie, “You're selling them? All that work just so you could make money?”

“Maddie, wait,” called her stepmother, but the young woman had already fled. She ran through the streets until she was completely lost.

Evening came and the streets were empty. Tired and hungry Maddie tried to find her way home. She saw Jonas. He will save me, she thought. He smiled at her and her heart thumped. It wasn't until he pulled her into an alley that she recognized it as fear. The other boys were there too, licking their lips.

“Just a poor market brat,” sneered Jonas, “There is only one thing you are good for. If you behave I may even pay you for it.” Maddie twisted and pulled, but the heavy cloth of her cloak had become a trap. He pushed her against the wall and fumbled at her dress. In rage and panic Maddie stomped on the top of his foot. Jonas yelled and let go of her to strike her. Maddie stepped close and kneed him. His yell became a gurgle as he fell to the ground.

She glared at the others until they hung their heads and melted into the shadows. Maddie walked out of the alley and recognized where she was now. She went to visit her mother. The almost full moon lit the graveyard, but Maddie borrowed a small lantern to read the letter that was the only other thing her mother had given her. She read it through as she had so many times. Her mother's promise that all would be well, that her mother would always look after her, that she would always love Maddie.

“You lied to me,” Maddie cried as the clock struck twelve, “There is no love, no hope.”

“She didn't lie, Maddie,” the girl turned to look at her stepmother, “But promises are like wishes, they change shape as we hold them.” She sighed and sank to the ground beside Maddie. “I thought I would find you here.”

“What do you know about it?”

“I married your father so I would have someone to take care of me. Instead I am left alone to be a mother to a girl who hates me.”

“I'm scared,” admitted Maddie.

“So am I.”

“What do we do now?”

“I don't know. We will have to find out together,” her stepmother handed her some coins. “Your share of the sales today.”

“People liked our relish?”

Her stepmother smiled, “It was the best seller.”

Maddie handed the coins back to her stepmother, “Maybe you could hold on to these for me.” She picked up her mother's letter. “I'll help you at the booth tomorrow.”

“Let's go home.” They stood, and Maddie touched her mother's tombstone. “She isn't you,” Maddie said to her mother, “But I think she will be a good friend.”

********

Maddie sat in the booth in the market.

“Did you make this yourself?” asked an old man holding a jar of relish.

“We did,” answered Maddie, “My stepmother taught me. Now I am teaching my daughter. It is a family business.”