Well, my fiscal quarter is over. And we did it. We closed the deals, we met our goal, our prayers were answered. Yay us!
And then, at 9:00 PM last night, my anxiety- and adrenaline-driven body hit a wall. I crashed hard. And slept till 7:00 AM this morning. There were no dreams about work or gum or anything.
You wanna know what I'm planning to do today?
Absolutely nothing.
Jefferson Dunleavy ogled his own ass. Which was strange, considering he was straight as a ruler.
“You’re right. It’s not bad.” Frank remarked. “But, you could use a few hours on the StairMaster.”
Just what Jefferson needed. A critical goldfish.
“Are you nuts? There’s a demon running around in a Jefferson suit, and you’re focused on my ass?!?”
“Well, you were focused on your ass. I thought I’d offer some constructive criticism. A few lunges would make you a babe magnet.”
“A few lunges would make this body a babe magnet.” Both fishes’ eyes bugged out.
“Yup. She’s a demon alright.” And just as Frank was getting the hang of active conversation, the body-snatcher walked right back out the door.
The Bathsheba in Jefferson clothing flopped into its convertible BMW and sped away. Heading north toward the mall. She thought she might take her new body out for a night on the town. Get a feel for how it handles the curves.
It had been seven centuries since she’d been allowed to indulge in the carnal pleasures offered by human existence. And her assignment could wait twenty-four hours while she caught up on modern debauchery.
She suspected she could teach twenty-first century heathens a thing or two.
Bathsheba was grinning like a kid in a candy store when she saw red and blue flashing lights in the rear-view window of her convertible BMW. “Figures.”
A petite, blonde officer whose uniform was too small for her ample bosom approached the passenger side. Authoritatively.
“I’ve always loved a woman in uniform,” Bathsheba purred.
“License and proof of insurance, please.” Officer Robertson glared at the dark-haired young man with disdain. Of course he loved a woman in uniform. He’d say anything to get out of this ticket. She hated his type.
Bathsheba stared. And smiled a wicked, naughty-thoughts smile. Officer Robertson continued her glare, unabashed.
Bathsheba/Jefferson looked away first.
Victory! thought Officer Candice Robertson. I’ve got him, now.
. . . to be continued.
(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
Sorry, sorry. I don't have a new episode of Donald's adventure, and I probably won't have one until sometime AFTER March 29th. Maybe or maybe not. I don't know.
Anyway, it's the end of my second fiscal quarter, and the job is high-stress at the moment. In fact, I'm so crazy busy that I'll be home for Easter weekend for approximately 36 hours before I have to catch a flight back out to work some more. No joke.
And then, I looked at my calendar for the month of April. I've scheduled a few days off, but every other day for THE ENTIRE MONTH is filled with meetings, conference calls, and more travel. The guy who helps me schedule appointments has started booking in May already. In May!
*shakes head and sighs*
Jefferson Dunleavy caressed the fender of his new car. Black, sparkling, convertible. Just like he’d always wanted. He whistled as he strode into the building, contemplating the new life stretching before him. He absently climbed two flights of stairs to his apartment. He was imagining a shopping trip to the Galleria. New clothes, new shoes, new sunglasses. Designer underwear.
He chuckled and smiled to himself, unlocking the door to his apartment. He dropped his backpack in the foyer and walked Frank into what passed for his living room.
Frank saw the intruder long before Jefferson saw her. Well, hell, thought the goldfish, at least he’s already set me down.
A rumbling engine-like purr stole the air from Dunleavy’s lungs. “Frank, there’s someone behind me, isn’t there?” He was surprisingly calm for someone so completely frightened. “And this is exactly like some b-rate horror flick. If I turn around I’m dead. If I don’t turn around, I’m dead. Shit.”
He didn’t even get to see his destroyer before she struck.
He did, however, get to see her. . . er, himself?. . . afterward. Only, it all looked wrong, distorted somehow.
“Everything looks wrong from the inside of the bowl. You get used to it after a while.”
Jefferson whipped around. Well, he didn’t actually whip. He drifted around, sort of floaty. And began to roll over.
That’s when he saw Frank. Big as life. In the water beside him. With him!
“Wha. . . ” Jefferson mumbled in shock. It came out in bubbles.
“I cannot believe I am stuck in this body. In this apartment.” Bathsheba’s purring voice slowly assumed Jefferson’s baritone. “Well, at least I’ve got a budget.”
Bathsheba slowly perused the contents of the apartment. “What a disaster. Everything will have to be replaced.” She craned her neck around. “Well, at least the derrière will work.”
. . . to be continued.
(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
There are days that kick you in the shins, steal your lunch money, and push you into the mud. And that's the exact moment you meet your BFF. She grabs your hand, splits her sandwich, shares her cupcakes.
Now if only I can talk her into buying something. . .
“I won’t do it! He can’t make me!” Jessica paced across her lovely hardwood floors. Anxiety bounced off the rafters, making Jack bristle.
“Of course he can make you. He’s Satan, for crying out loud. The Deceiver, the Accuser, the Prince of the Power of the Air, Beelzebub. I could go on,” the little dog barked. “But I won’t. I'll just tell you straight out. I’m not having my soul harvested by you cutie. Not now. Not ever.”
Jessica stalked back into her kitchen, trading her protein shake for a gin and tonic. She took a huge gulp. And added more gin.
“I’m not into the whole soul harvesting thing, Jack. That’s the reason I moved to Dallas, remember?” She set down her drink on the coffee table and flopped into the overstuffed, extra-wide chair that dominated her living room. Her three-inch stiletto heels dropped to the floor with a thud, barely missing her pet’s tail.
“Listen, Jess. They’re going to come for you, you know. He’ll send someone.”
“Like he sent you?” she retorted.
Jessica remembered the day she found a little terrier curled on her welcome mat, shivering in the cold. And like a sucker, she picked him up, brought him in, and fed him. He never left.
He was like a cat that way.
Jack’s growling snapped her attention away from the memory. “I didn’t want to do it! You know that!.”
“Right. Exactly like I don’t want to become the anti-Christ. And exactly like you didn’t become my father’s spy.”
“Um. Yeah, well, about that . . . “ Jack’s voice drifted off.
Jessica’s head whipped around with supernatural speed. Her eyes like laser-beams following the sound of the animal's nails as it raced behind a low wall into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry! You don’t have to scorch my tail for it!” whined the creature.
That’s when Jessica noticed the smoking results of her laser stare. A pair of pencil-thin burns scored her pine floors, from the TV to the dining room.
“That’s just great. Just freakin’ great. My second new power today.” She grabbed her glass and knocked back the balance of her drink. “I’m going to need more gin.”
. . . to be continued.
(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
A California appeals court ruling clamping down on homeschooling by parents without teaching credentials sent shock waves across the state this week, leaving an estimated 166,000 children as possible truants and their parents at risk of prosecution.
I hate Daylight Savings Time. It's just incredibly stupid to be changing the clocks twice a year. Not only is it an irritating imposition of government control over time, we now know that it actually costs US taxpayers millions of dollars to do so.
Stupid freaking government and its stupid freaking useless laws.
Jessica Michaellson unlocked and entered her townhouse. She had no idea that four other people were discussing her future at that very moment. She was just happy she still had a job. And that she could smell lies. That made her happiest of all.
She dropped her keys on the sideboard next to the front door and walked through her entry-way into the kitchen. Pulling a protein shake from the fridge, she pondered the future.
“I think I’ll paint my office blue, and buy a few plants for the window.”
Jessica walked across the loft to a two-story window that overlooked downtown Dallas. The lights sparkled and shone in the Texas twilight.
“Maybe I’ll start investing,” she sighed. She contemplated Wall Street and the fortune she could accumulate with careful savings.
“Or maybe, you’ll harvest souls like your father,” snarled a hateful voice at her heals.
A red and white Jack Russell terrier growled at Jessica’s ankles, its fur bristling in agitation.
“Jack! What is the matter with you?!?!” Jessica squealed.
“You’re the matter with me, anti-Christ! Begone!” barked the little dog.
And that really pissed Jessica off. “Don’t you dare talk to me you mangy animal. If it wasn’t for me, you’d have been put down as the nuisance you are!”
Jack was not perturbed. “You don’t scare me, woman! I know who you are, and I’ll poop on your floor if I have to.”
“You’re lying you little twerp.” The anti-Christ was perturbed by her canine’s outburst. He had never been so volatile before. Never threatened her recovered pine-wood floors. “I can smell the licorice in the air. You lie! Ha!”
She couldn’t believe she’d just “Ha’d!” at a dog. She must be losing her mind. And what had he meant by calling her the anti-Christ?
Jack cocked his head to the side and snarled, “Jessica, you’d better sit down for this one.”
. . . to be continued.
(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
When digital slang takes over the lexicon:
"w00t," an expression of joy coined by online gamers, was crowned word of the year by the publisher of a leading U.S. dictionary.Source: Reuters
Massachusetts-based Merriam-Webster Inc. said "w00t" -- typically spelled with two zeros -- reflects a new direction in the American language led by a generation raised on video games and cell phone text-messaging.
“What?!?!” Donald screeched, vaulting to his feet, spilling his drink all over the mustard-yellow shag carpeting.
“You promoted the anti-Christ to Marketing Director.” Doug/Mr. Buttons was sitting with his tail wrapped around his front paws, staring directly at Donald’s face. He had a surprisingly human expression of pity on his little cat face.
Donald resumed his seat, using his tie to mop up the drink spilled across his hand and forearm. “The anti-Christ.” He whispered it. Exactly like one would whisper about a fatal illness. His eyes were wide, glazed. Shock.
Shock was not attractive on Donald Hefeweizen. Not much of anything was attractive on him, actually. Well, except for gravy stains on his shirt. Somehow, gravy stains made sense.
At that precise moment, in a black Mercedes on the other side of town, Jefferson Dunleavey screached, “what do you mean she’s the anti-Christ?!?”
Frank was having the ride of his life, having nearly been thrown from his bowl for the second time that day. If he’d know how much fun this could be, he’d have gotten Jefferson fired a lot sooner. The poor goldfish had a seriously inflated ego.
“Exactly what I said. She’s the anti-Christ, and you’ve been chosen to help save the world.”
“Me?! Save the world?!? From a leggy brunette stock broker?!? Are you crazy?!?” Jefferson’s eyes bugged out of his head as he stared at the distinguished man sitting next to him.
Lewis Phister was tall and lean with dark hair that was greying at the temples. In a tailored pin-striped suit and polished black leather shoes, he was the epitome of distinguished. It was a clever disguise.
“I am not crazy, Mr. Dunleavy. The world needs you. Will you do it? We’re prepared to offer you adequate compensation,” Phister finished his pitch as they pulled to the curb in front of Dunleavy’s complex. “You’ll find everything you need in your apartment, as well as suitable transportation in your parking lot.”
That’s when Jefferson saw it. A black BMW convertible in his usually empty space. A wide smile crept across his face. “I’ll do it.”
. . . to be continued.
(c) copyright 2008 Jennifer J. Knighton
