Sixty-Second Solutions 5

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Janson,” said Detective Dirkin, his hat pulled low over his eyes, “but you’re under arrest for stealing the Jewels of Jupiter.”

Flo Mason and Billy Archer sat up straight in their seats on either side of Samantha Spade. Popcorn fell from Billy’s mouth as he stared up at the movie screen. Detective Durkin was busy administering justice to Doctor Janson with the help of a strong right hook.

“Did you hear that, Sam?” Billy whispered to Samantha. “How the heck did he figure out it was the doctor?”

Samantha reached inside her pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper. About thirty minutes into the film, “Mystery Ink,” she had scribbled the name “Dr. Janson.” She unfolded the paper and showed it to her friends.

“All the clues were in the doctor’s office,” Samantha said. “The doctor said he was giving injections at the time of the heist, but there were no needles in his medicine bag. That’s what tipped me off.”

As the film ended and the lights came up, the trio made their way toward the exit. It was the Saturday before Memorial Day, and the friends had kicked off the long weekend the night before by seeing another film at the theater, the two-and-a-half-hour “Arachnid Man.”

Samantha explained other clues to the mystery as they squinted in the late afternoon light.

Flo took her matinee ticket, which read “The Great History Mystery, 3 p.m. matinee, $2.50,” and threw it into a waste can. She shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it, Sam,” she said.

Samantha shrugged. “I just pay attention to stuff like that, I guess.”

That was an understatement. In the four months since Samantha and her father had moved to the town of Sallami, she’d built quite a reputation as a detective.

Samantha loved to read mysteries and watch mystery movies, like the 90-minute puzzler she’d just finished. But most of all, she liked to solve real-life mysteries. Her speed at figuring out even the most difficult of problems had led to her nickname: the Sixty-Seconds Solution. As her reputation grew, so did the number of mysteries that came her way.

And another puzzler was about to surface now, outside the Super Cineplex at the Sallami Mall.

Two boys in front of Samantha were laughing and ribbing each other on the way out of the theater. Just then, a security guard grabbed each boy by the arms.

“Are these the ones?” the guard asked, speaking to a blonde girl a few years older than Samantha.

The blonde nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, sir, those are the boys who slashed my bicycle tires.”

“What are you talking about?” said one boy, shaking free of the security guard. He was wearing a black stocking cap and a leather jacket, despite the heat. The other was dressed in a baseball jersey and carried a tub of popcorn.

“You’re the ones,” the girl said. “When I came out of the mall, two were hunched over my bike. When you saw me coming, you ran toward the ticket booth.”

“No way, Jose,” the boy sneered. “Mrs. Carly’s boy, Teddy, has been watching movies the entire afternoon. Isn’t that right, Chet?”

“That’s right,” answered the other boy. “Me an’ Teddy’s been seeing flicks all afternoon. We saw ‘Arachnid Man’ and ‘Mystery Ink.’ See?”

He pulled out his ticket stubs. Teddy did the same.

The security turned toward the blonde.

“Look, Miss…” he began.

“Williams. Lucy Williams,” the blonde answered.

“Yeah. Miss Williams, the two do have ticket stubs, and…”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” said Lucy. “Why, they could’ve bought tickets and not even seen the film. I’m telling you, these guys slashed my tires.”

Chet laughed. “Look, we saw both movies today. Arachnid Man had that cool explosion at the end, where we learn that The Jade Jack O’ Lantern is really Arachnid Man’s cousin.”

“Yeah, that was cool,” said Teddy. “And then, at the very beginning of ‘Mystery Ink,’ that detective dude gets chased off the mountain by those assassin ninja monks. That was my favorite part.”

By this time, Samantha and her two friends had stopped walking and were watching the situation closely. The security guard noticed them.

“Move along, kids,” he said. “Nothing to see here.”

Flo stepped up to him and explained that her friend, Samantha, was an amateur detective with a rock-solid track record. “Do you think she could take a crack at this one?”

The guard said he didn’t mind. Neither did Lucy or the two boys.

“Could I see your tickets?” Samantha asked Teddy and Chet.

They handed them over. Samantha examined the two pairs of tickets: “Mystery Ink” at the same time as she and her friends had seen it, and “Arachnid Man” at 1:35 p.m. Everything looked in order.

“Careful, you might want to dust those for fingerprints,” Teddy said, laughing.

“Have you seen either of these films before?” Samantha said, looking at the boys.

“Nope,” said Chet. “Saw ‘em both today for the first time.”

“You’re lying,” said Samantha. “And you’re probably lying about the bicycle tire, too.”


HOW DID SAMANTHA KNOW? SEE BELOW FOR THE SOLUTION.

* * * * * 

Samantha knew that Arachnid Man, which began at 1:35 p.m., was two-and-a-half hours long. But the boys had described the end of that film and the beginning of “Mystery Ink,” which started at 3 p.m., before the first movie was finished.

Realizing they had been caught in one big lie, Chet and Teddy admitted that they had skipped out early from the 1:35 showing of “Arachnid Man,” a film they’d seen the week before, to cause mischief in the parking lot. When Lucy caught them slashing her tires, they’d run back into the theater and bought tickets for “Mystery Ink,” where they dreamed up what they thought was a perfect alibi.

Sixty-Second Solutions 4

“Okay, class, turn ’em in!”

Mrs. Pierce, a former Army drill sergeant turned teacher, barked the order from her desk. Every student reached into their science folders and produced reports bound in clear plastic folders.

Samantha Spade was no exception. Her typewritten report, “Black Holes and the Scientists Who Love Them,” was carefully cradled between two plastic sheaths. It had a one-and-a-quarter-inch margin on the left, and one-inch margins on the other three sides, double-spaced, with page numbers in the top right margin exactly one-half inch from the edge of the paper. The report was also handwritten, per Mrs. Pierce’s directive. A handwritten paper taught discipline with a pen , she said.

When you were a student in “Precise” Pierce’s class, you learned to follow orders – or else.

Samantha placed her paper in the waiting left hand of the student in front of her, who then placed his paper on top of hers and passed it forward. Mrs. Pierce collected each row in turn, starting at the right of the room and working left with military precision.

When she finished, she thumbed through the collected stack, alternately nodding in approval or frowning in disgust at the quality of the class’s work.

“Shane, nice job on the right margin. Razor sharp!” she beamed, followed by, “Mary, only one “T” in astronomy. Spell check!”

But then she paused for a great while as she thumbed through the remainder of the reports. She scowled. “There are 24 students in this room, but I have only 23 papers.”

“Suzette and Melissa Markel!” she barked. In the last two seats of the third row, the two twins sat up straight, their pigtails nodding.

“Yes, Mrs. Pierce,” they answered in unison. Both were wearing soccer jerseys, blue jeans and bright white tennis shoes. Their own mother had a hard time telling them apart, let alone the rest of the class.

“I have only 24 reports here, and there are 25 students in this class,” she said.

“Yes, Mrs. Pierce,” they said again. The rest of the class gasped. Failure to turn in a report by the due date resulted in the loss of a full letter grade.

“The problem is, one of the reports doesn’t have a name,” the teacher continued. “And from the way I collected the reports, it belongs to one of you two.”

“It’s mine!” said Suzette.

“It’s mine!” echoed Melissa, seated directly behind her.

“Well, quite a conundrum we have here, ladies,” said Mrs. Pierce, pacing back along the aisles.

“Melissa, what was your report about?”

“Jupiter,” they both answered, then frowned at each other.

“No fair,” said Suzette from behind her sister. “She saw the title of my paper when I passed it to her!”

Mrs. Pierce slapped the paper on top of Suzette’s desk. Melissa craned her neck around to see it. Samantha, who sat next to Suzette, could see the report clearly. It read:

Jupiter:

Gas Giant of

The Solar System

The words “gas,” “giant,” “the” and “solar” were terribly smudged.

Mrs. Pierce stared intently at the handwriting. Like everything else the twins were involved in, it was identical.

“That paper’s mine, you big cheater!” said Melissa, throwing her erasable pen with her left hand.

“Is not, it’s mine!” said Suzette, throwing down her pen with her right hand. “You left yours at home, and now you’re just trying to muscle in on my grade!

Samantha’s mind was racing. Here was a bona fide mystery, right in the middle of her sixth grade science class! Since they lived in the same house, each twin would know the topic of the other’s report, and probably know the contents well enough to fake their way through one of “Precise” Pierce’s oral interrogation.

Of course, a quick call home to the Markel house would reveal whose name was on any forgotten report, and so reveal the liar. But that was like cheating, Samantha thought.

Fingerprinting might answer the question, too, since even identical twins have distinct prints. But more than likely, the fingerprints of both girls would appear on the paper. Handwriting analysis would also reveal differences between the two girls’ cursive, but Samantha doubted that even Mrs. Pierce would want to go to that much trouble over a science report.

Samantha stared at her wristwatch. She’d been thinking about this for 45-seconds now. There was barely time to solve the case and still save her reputation for 60-second solutions!

The answer had to be close at hand …

“That’s it!” she said, barely suppressing a shout of “Eureka!”

Mrs. Pierce looked at her. “That’s what, Samantha?

“Can I see the report for a moment?” she asked.

The teacher shrugged and handed it to her. Samantha instantly pulled a pencil from her backpack and began erasing the word “Jupiter.”

“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?” Mrs. Pierce shouted, pulling the paper away from Samantha.

“Solving a mystery,” Samantha said smugly, sitting back with her arms folded across her chest. “I know which twin wrote that paper.”

WHICH TWIN IS TELLING THE TRUTH? SEE BELOW FOR THE ANSWER.

* * * * *

A left-handed person has great difficulty writing with an erasable pen without smudging the lines, as the side of the hand blots the ink while as he or she writes. Since the first few words on each line of the title page were smudged, Samantha correctly guessed that the person writing it was left-handed.

When Samantha saw Melissa throw down her erasable pen with her left hand, and Suzette with her right, she knew the two twins weren’t identical in all things. Melissa, the left-hander, had written the paper.

Confronted by the evidence, Suzette admitted that she had forgotten her paper

Even though she lost a whole letter grade, her exceptional report on “Real Astronomy in the Star Trek Universe” still netted her a solid B+.

Sixty-Second Solutions 3

“It was a leprechaun, I tell you – a leprechaun!”

Thelma Archer shouted at her grandson, Billy. Samantha Spade stood beside the window in Billy’s bedroom, wincing at the high-decibel level.

“Grandma, we believe you saw something,” said Billy. “But a leprechaun?”

“Don’t believe your old Grandma, huh?” Thelma retorted, tapping her temple with one forefinger. “Think she’s going soft in the attic? A few flakes short of a Corn Flakes box, maybe?”

Billy rolled his eyes. “Aw, Gram, it’s nothing like that.”

Thelma was getting geared up for another round of shouting when Samantha interrupted.

“Mrs. Archer, could we go over the facts once again, please?”

Billy had phoned Samantha and told her to get over to his house. His grandmother had been raving that she’d seen a leprechaun climbing the spouting on the house.

Thelma Archer sighed deeply and sat down on Billy’s bed, hands folded primly on her lap.

“It’s like this, dear,” Mrs. Archer said. “I was putting away the clean laundry in Billy’s room before I got ready for work when I saw the leprechaun outside the window, shinnying up the side of the house. He was dressed in green, with reddish-orange hair and a green hat.”

As she spoke, her thick eyeglasses slipped down her nose. She pushed them back up promptly.

“And you were wearing your glasses at the time?” Samantha asked.

“Well, no,” she admitted.

Billy looked momentarily triumphant and was ready to chime in when Samantha elbowed him into silence.

“And did this leprechaun ... do anything?” asked Samantha.

“He hopped up on top of the porch and danced around for a few seconds,” Thelma replied, fiddling with her glasses. “Then, he climbed back down. I called for Billy, but by the time he got here, the leprechaun was gone.”

From Billy’s bedroom window, Samantha could see down the street to Salvador’s Diner, where Thelma worked as a hostess. “What time do you go to work, Mrs. Archer?”

Thelma glanced at her watch and jumped up. “Oh my, I should be there now.”

“We’ll walk with you, if you don’t mind,” Samantha said.

While Mrs. Archer got ready for work, the two friends waited outside, next to a City of Sallami Municipal trashcan (“Keep Sallami Beautiful”). Billy kicked the can in disgust.

“She’s not crazy, Samantha,” he said. “But there’s no way she saw a leprechaun.”

“Calm down,” Samantha replied. “We just need to collect more information. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

A few minutes later the trio was making its way through the parking lot of Salvador’s Diner. Thelma had changed into her uniform, a green top and visor and navy blue slacks.

At the door, Vinnie Furnier, Samantha’s neighbor, who also worked at the restaurant, greeted them. He was also dressed in green and blue, his green visor clashing with his bright orange hair and freckles.

“Greetings, Mrs. Archer,” Vinnie said. “Care for a mint?” He held up a wicker basket filled with individual pieces of chocolate wrapped in green foil. “It’s part of our St. Patty’s Day special.”

“No thank you, Vincent,” said Thelma. “But it’s nice of you to ask.”

Billy leaned over to Samantha and whispered, “Do you smell what I smell?”

“Yeah,” Samantha whispered back. “A rat.”

“I’d offer you a piece of candy, kids, but the boss says to save ‘em for paying customers,” Vincent sneered. He was still angry with Samantha for foiling his attempt steal Billy’s paper route two months earlier.

“What does the boss say about leaving work to climb up people’s spouting, Vinnie?” asked Samantha, sweetly.

Vinnie rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about, Brain Drain? I’ve been here for the last three hours, handing out mints to customers and hawking the $5.99 St. Patty’s Day Stuffed Peppers. It’s a sweet job, too: Mr. Salvador told to eat as many mints as I want. He bought ‘em in bulk.”

Vincent pointed to three boxes of mints stacked against the side of the building. A broom and a dustpan leaned against the boxes. The dustpan was filled with cigarette butts, some restaurant receipts and a crushed Coca-Cola can.

As he spoke, Vinnie unwrapped a mint and popped it into his mouth, stuffing the empty wrapper into his front pocket.

“See, minty fresh breath,” he said, exhaling deeply into Samantha’s face. The reek of chocolate was overpowering.

“We believe you, Vincent,” said Thelma, who turned to scowl at Samantha. “Vincent’s a dear boy, Samantha. He would never lie.”

Behind her back, Vinnie mock-smiled and innocently batted his eyes.

“What’s going on out here?” boomed a baritone voice from the doorway of the restaurant. It was Mr. Salvador, the diner’s owner, wearing a bow tie and a white apron. “I pay you to give out candy, not talk with your school chums, eh?”

Samantha stepped forward and explained her suspicions to Mr. Salvador. He rubbed his chin as he listened. “Vinnie, is this true? Did you leave the restaurant and climb poor Thelma’s roof? I’ve been too busy inside to check on you.”

“No, sir, I’ve been here all the time, sweeping the sidewalk and handing out mints. Oh, and eating a lot of them, too.” He patted his stomach appreciatively.

“Good boy,” said Mr. Salvador. “But where’s your name tag, eh?”

“Oops, forgot to put it on,” Vinnie replied. He thrust both hands into his front pockets and pulled them inside out. The wrapper for the mint he had just eaten fluttered out. Otherwise, they were empty.

“Guess I must have left it at home, Mr. Salvador,” Vinnie said. “Sorry.”

“Sorrier than you know,” Samantha said. “Because now I can prove that you’re our roof-crawling leprechaun.”

HOW DOES SAMANTHA KNOW? SEE BELOW FOR DETAILS.

* * * * *

If Vincent had been eating mints at his job for the last three hours, the mint wrappers would either be in his pockets or in the dustpan. But they weren’t. Samantha concluded that Vinnie had dumped the wrappers in the City of Sallami trashcan outside the Archer’s house.

Faced with the prospect of dumping the municipal trashcan to find the wrappers, Vinnie confessed that he had left his job to pull a prank. He hoped to scare Billy by peeking in his bedroom window. When he saw Mrs. Archer, he was so scared that he lost his balance and almost fell off the roof. He ran back to work, hoping that she hadn’t seen him.

Without her glasses, the near-sighted Mrs. Archer confused Vinnie’s green uniform and orange hair for a leprechaun. The leprechaun’s “dance” was really Vinnie waving his arms to keep his balance.

Vinnie lost his job, but Samantha and Billy got a free meal – the St. Patrick’s Day Stuffed Pepper Special and all the mints they could eat, served by an appreciative Mrs. Salvador and Billy’s grandmother.

Sixty-Second Solutions 2

The paper football skipped across the lunchroom table, landing squarely in Samantha Spade’s applesauce.

She looked up, and there stood Andy D’Brillo, the meanest kid in Sallami Middle School’s sixth-grade class.

“Hey, new kid,” Andy sneered. “Word around the playground is that you’re some kind of detective. Well, solve that!”.

Using her fork, Samantha fished out the folded paper and shook off the applesauce. As she carefully unfolded it, she invited Andy to sit down. The only other people at the table were Billy Archer and Flo Mason, the two friends that Samantha had made during her first few two months at Sallami.

It was hard being the new kid, but Samantha was used to it. Her father traveled around the country installing computer systems and always brought Samantha along. Even if it meant starting at a new school in January, which is what had happened to Samantha last month.

She looked out the cafeteria window at the swirling snow flurries and sighed. Her dad’s last job had been in sunny California.

Andy was right about one thing: Samantha was a detective. She loved mysteries, a habit she’d picked up from her father. Her bookshelf at home was stuffed with mystery stories, and she enjoyed applying principles of reason and deduction to real life. She was so successful that she built a reputation in every town she visited as a capable, amateur sleuth. History was repeating itself in Sallami.

The piece of paper in front of her was a puzzler, indeed.

“What the heck does it mean?” asked Archer, staring down at the handwritten note, written inside a red Valentine’s heart. It said:

dear andy,

neat composition. Every Word is typed. how many errors?

First Letter over.

After studying the message for exactly one minute, Samantha said, “Interesting. Where’d you find this, Andy?”

“It was on my books when I brought my lunch tray back to the table,” he said. “I thought maybe it was from the gym teacher, since my mom typed my report about “Soccer Stars Around the World” before I read it to the gym class yesterday, but I don’t think old Mrs. Grubbtongue would send me a Valentine folded up like a paper football, do you?”

“Probably not,” Samantha said. “But it’s safe to assume that whoever put the Valentine on your books is someone in this lunch room, correct?”

Archer, Flo, and Andy looked at each other and shrugged. Sure, that made sense.

“So we’ve narrowed our list of suspects from 355, the approximate number of students in this school, to about 60. True?”

“Uh, yeah, whatever you say,” Andy replied.

“Now, whoever sent you this Valentine knew about your typed gym paper. So we can narrow our list of suspects further by eliminating everybody except the people in this lunchroom who are also in your gym class.”

Andy looked around the cafeteria. “That still leaves us with about…twenty kids, including you, Flo and Archer,” he said.

“Correct,” said Samantha, “which gives me an idea for gym class tomorrow.”

Andy rolled his eyes. Gym was going to be terrible for the next week: Tomorrow, they started a unit on dancing, where students selected partners and learned dance steps from around the world. It was universally loathed, especially by boys.

Samantha continued: “Our culprit might try to pass you another Valentine tomorrow. He or she knows you’ll be on your guard, especially during lunch. Maybe they’ll try to slip the Valentine onto your books during gym class, so we should keep a sharp lookout.

“Archer, I want you to pick me for your dance partner tomorrow. We’ll keep an eye on the west side of the gym.” Samantha looked straight at Flo. “And Andy, I want you to pick Flo as your partner. You two can watch the east side. If anybody acts suspiciously or tries to pass a second Valentine, one of us will spot it.”

Samantha handed the soggy Valentine back to Andy, picked up her spoon and started to eat.

“That’s it?” Andy stood up. “That’s the best you can do? What kind of detective are you, anyway?”

“Detective work is 90 percent perspiration and 10 percent inspiration,” Samantha said, smirking. “You didn’t expect me to solve the case just by staring at that note for sixty seconds, did you?”

“Well, I…I…” he stammered.

“Look, are you in or not?” Samantha asked.

“Okay, okay, I’ll play along with your silly game and pick Flo as my partner. But if we don’t find who sent the note, I’m gonna write the Cheerios company and have ‘em revoke your detective license!” He stalked off, muttering under his breath, “Sheesh, some detective!”

Archer stood up. “Looks like you blew that one, Sam. I’m going for an ice cream sandwich. Need anything?”

The two girls said no. After Archer headed for the freezer, Samantha turned to Flo.

“Well, at least you’ll get to dance with Andy tomorrow, which was the reason you wrote him that note in the first place,” she said. “Under that tough guy exterior, he seems like a nice boy.”

Flo’s face flushed. “Me? But I didn’t …! Oh, forget it, I can’t lie to you. Yeah, I sent the Valentine. I like Andy, but I’m too shy to ask him to dance. Part of me hoped he would break the code, and part of me didn’t. I can’t believe that you solved that in sixty seconds. It took me hours to write last night!”

She patted Samantha’s hand. “Thanks for not letting on, Sam, and for tricking him into dancing with me. You’re a real friend!”


HOW DID SAMANTHA KNOW THAT THE NOTE WAS WRITTEN BY FLO?

SEE BELOW FOR THE SOLUTION.

* * * * * 

SOLUTION: Samantha noticed that the only capitalized words in the letter were Every, Word, First and Letter. So she read only the first letter of every word (including the salutation) and discovered this message: “Dance with me – Flo.”

The following day, Andy and Flo danced together in gym class, and she told him the truth. Later that week, they danced again at the school’s Valentine’s Day party. He soon stopped being the meanest kid in school.

Sixty-Second Solutions 1

Samantha Spade was the world’s greatest detective.

Unfortunately, she was the only person in the city of Sallami who knew it.

Since she had been old enough to read, Samantha had devoured the mystery books on her father’s bookshelf. She read the adventures of Sherlock Holmes from cover to cover, admiring how the master detective untied knotty clues. She loved writer Edgar Allen Poe, whose stories were full of giant apes and poisoned letters. She especially enjoyed tough guy stories by Dashiell Hammett; his character, Sam Spade, had inspired her father to name her “Samantha.”

After exhausting her father’s bookshelf, she went to the library to find real-life stories of police officers, detectives and other experts. By the age of eleven, she knew more about police procedure and science than any child her age, and was better than most adults at applying observation and deduction. She worked hard to be a good amateur detective, and it showed.

But it hadn’t shown in Sallami – yet.

That’s because we just got here, thought Samantha, as she stepped out of the passenger side of the yellow moving van. Her father, computer programmer Kent Spade, had stopped the van in front of the two-story house that they would rent for the next year while he installed new computer systems for the local school.

Samantha pulled her long brown hair into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. She looked at the house and sighed. This would be her third home in as many years. Her dad’s job kept them hopping from state to state and school to school. She wondered what Sallami Middle School would be like, if the teachers were nice, and if she would make friends.

And she wondered where she would find her first mystery.

She didn’t have long to wait.

“Your dog bit me, you little punk!” a voice screamed.

A yellow Labrador retriever and a boy about Samantha’s age, with a newspaper delivery bag over one shoulder, sprinted around the back of a house across the street. An orange-haired teenager wearing a pair of biking shorts and a dirty T-shirt burst through the front door. He was the one yelling.

The younger boy and the dog scrambled across the street and around the van, almost running into Samantha.

The teenager caught up to him, grabbed the younger boy by the shirt and shook him. The dog growled and jumped on the teen’s back.

“Ouch! See, he did it again!” the teen screamed. “Dumb dog bit me twice!”

Samantha’s dad stepped between the two boys. “What’s going on here?”

In between plenty of yelling and finger-pointing, they told their story. The teen, whose name was Vinnie Furnier, had been watching television when he heard the Labrador retriever rooting through the trashcan in his backyard. He ran out to stop it.

“And that’s when the kid told the dog to bite me!” Vinnie said.

“I did not!” said the younger boy, whose name was Billy Archer. “He didn’t even come outside. Just yelled at my dog, Chief, out the back door!”

“Well, if that’s the case, how do you explain the teeth marks on my behind? I’ll sue you, and what’s more, I’ll get you fired from your stupid paper route!”

“Let’s take a look at the bite marks,” said Mr. Spade. “You might need a doctor.”

“No way!” Vinnie retorted, covering his rump with his hands. “Forget it!”

“Well, son, how do we know if you’re telling the truth without seeing the evidence?” Mr. Archer asked.

Samantha spoke up. “Dad, there’s an easier way to…get to the bottom of this.” She giggled at the pun.

“And who are you?” asked Vinnie, arms folded across his chest.

“I’m Samantha Spade. My dad and I are your new neighbors. And I’m also an amateur detective.”

Vinnie snorted. “Detective, huh? Gimme a break!”

“With your permission, I’d like to investigate.”

“OK with me,” said Billy, shifting his newspaper bag to the other shoulder. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Vinnie glared. “Whatever. Do your worst, Sherlock.”

Samantha looked up at her father. “Is it OK, Dad?”

He smiled. He knew his daughter couldn’t resist a good mystery. “Go ahead, honey. But be careful.”

Samantha, Billy and Vinnie crossed the street. They walked along the sidewalk and then stepped into the backyard. Even though it was the middle of January, the lawn was a muddy mess. Unseasonably warm weather had melted all the snow, and two days of rain had turned soggy lawns into mud pits.

“OK, here’s the proof, Sherlock,” said Vinnie, pointing to the trashcan. The lid had been knocked off, and garbage was strewn all around. The handles of the can showed teeth marks. Samantha showed them to Billy.

“I never said my dog didn’t get into the trash,” said Billy. “I was cleaning it up when Vinnie started yelling out the back door.”

Samantha ignored Billy. She said, “Go ahead, Vinnie. What happened next?”

Vinnie said that he ran into the back lawn to chase the dog away with a broom. When he reached the trashcan, the dog bit him. After the dog bit him, both it and Billy ran around the side of the house, while Vinnie ran back inside.

Samantha looked for footprints, but the ground was so muddy she couldn’t see any. She asked if they could go inside.

In the kitchen, she saw a table with four chairs, refrigerator, stove, white tile flooring and wooden cupboards. A broom stood in the corner. Samantha could hear the sound of the television set, presumably in the living room.

Samantha and Billy wiped their feet on the mat. Vinnie didn’t bother, but marched into the kitchen, his shoes leaving a single set of muddy tracks behind him.

“I came inside and ran right out the front door to cut off the little creep,” Vinnie said, massaging his rear end and wincing. His eyes welled up with tears.

“And for the pain and suffering that mutt of yours caused, I hope you lose your job!” he said, pointing directly at Billy.

Samantha laughed. “There’s about as much chance of Billy losing his job as there is of you winning an Oscar for those crocodile tears.”

“W-what?” Vinnie stammered.

“Not only were you never bitten by Billy’s dog, but you were never even in the backyard.”


HOW DOES SAMANTHA KNOW THAT VINNIE IS LYING? See below for the solution! 


SOLUTION:

When Vinnie invited Samantha into the house, she noticed that his shoes left a single muddy track across the white tile floor. If he had truly been in the muddy backyard earlier, there would have been a second set of footprints, as well.

When Vinnie saw his scheme was foiled, he confessed that he only wanted to get Billy fired from the paper route so he could take it over.

Billy and Samantha became friends. When he told everyone at school that she had solved his dilemma in less than 60 seconds, her reputation in Sallami was off to a fine start.

Vinnie got a job at the local restaurant, mopping floors.

* * * * *

The above story is the first in a series of twelve, originally published around 2001 or 2002 in The Alliance Review. Unlike the series I reprinted earlier this summer (The Story Plague), each installment is self-contained. I don't believe that Steve Wiandt, who illustrated the previous series so wonderfully, created any art for this. 

As I recall, these ran as quarter-page pieces, with the reader instructed to turn to another page deeper in the paper for the solution. 

My inspiration for Sixty-Second Solutions was the Encyclopedia Brown mysteries that I enjoyed so much as a kid. 

I don't remember much else about writing these, except for the realization about halfway through that plotting mysteries was harder than I thought it would be. I tried to play fair, not assuming any special knowledge on the part of the reader, but instead including everything necessary to solve each "crime" in the story itself. 

Did anybody catch my Alice Cooper reference in this installment? 

Get your zombie on!

I'm a sucker for anthologies, and Zombies! Zombies! Zombies! is a very good one. 

Truthfully, I'm not even a super fan of zombies. I mean, I like Night of the Living Dead and The Walking Dead, although I'm a bigger fan of the latter's comic-book incarnation than the TV show adaptation. And World War Z, 28 Days Later, and a few other zombie-centric movies are OK, too. 

But my go-to supernatural creature has always been the vampire. 

Nevertheless, I can't quibble with the breadth and depth of editor Otto Penzler's zombie volume, published in 2011. He's packed many drooling, shuffle-footed examples into every one of this book's 810 pages. 

It helps that Penzler's definition of a zombie is very liberal: If it was once dead and has come back to life, it's a zombie. Fair enough. This book is jam-packed with scary stuff from Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, Richard Laymon, Guy de Maupassant, and dozens more. 

One reason I like anthologies is that readers can dip into them as frequently or infrequently as they desire. A few months ago, I read the Robert E. Howard classic, "Pigeons from Hell" in this volume. Last week, Theodore Sturgeon's "It" caught my attention. 

("It," by the way, predates the muckman-in-comics craze—Swamp Thing, Man-Thing, et al.—by several decades. It's also a heckuva story. Penzler says that Sturgeon "was admired by, and was an influence on, his peers far disproportionate to his success with readers." That may be, but I really enjoy "It.")

I may well put Zombies! Zombies! Zombies! aside for a few weeks or months, but I know another story is waiting whenever I get the urge for things that go shuffle in the night. 

I'm always on the hunt for more good anthology titles. Share any favorites! 

The Story Plague Chapters 1-12

Each chapter features characters and events from famous stories, relocated to the Alliance locale, as two children try to save the city from a “Story Plague” unleashed by a mysterious character from literature.

Here are all twelve chapters in one place. It was fun to revisit this work and get it into digital format. 

I hope you enjoyed it! 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

 

The Story Plague Chapter 12: The Final Showdown

Read Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2

Read Chapter 3

Read Chapter 4

Read Chapter 5

Read Chapter 6

Read Chapter 7

Read Chapter 8

Read Chapter 9

Read Chapter 10

Read Chapter 11

Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

For Those Who Came In Late: Billy and Marisa have cured each of the ten Story Plagues and have told Billy’s parents their dilemma. As the nine o’clock deadline looms near, Billy makes a surprise announcement.

***

“Thanks to Grandma, I know who our mystery villain is,” I announced.

Mom frowned. “Honey, what could your grandmother know about some old magician with a scar running down his face?”

I showed her what was hidden behind my back, the object that I’d found in the attic. I explained my theory.

“It makes sense,” Marisa said, checking off each of the clues in a notebook. “Everything fits!”

Dad ruffled my hair good-naturedly. “Nice work, son!”

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Marisa said. “Look at the time!” It was ten minutes before nine – ten minutes to get to Glamorgan Castle and finish the Story Plague for good. Dad said he’d drive us, since we’d never make the deadline on our bikes.

Outside, Marisa looked everywhere for Pluto, but with no luck. The one-eyed cat was gone!

“Marisa, forget about him!” I pulled her into the car. Huge clouds were gathering above, and lightning flickered in the distance. “Come on!”

She gritted her teeth. “That cat’s the only Plague that didn’t disappear when we cured it - he’s important.”

“Maybe he faded away while we were at the mall,” I offered. It didn’t make her feel any better. She sat in the backseat, clutching the ancient Story Plague book.

Dad turned left out of our drive and took a right onto Glamorgan Avenue. He rolled the four-way stop at Rockhill, not noticing the police cruiser behind him. Red lights flashed, and Dad pulled over in front of the high school.

“Dad, we don’t have time for this!”

He watched in the rear view mirror as the officer strolled toward the car, a citation book in hand. “You kids go ahead, I’ll catch up later.”

We jumped out, our exit covered by a sudden downpour of rain. Marisa carried the Story Plague book, and I carried my attic surprise carefully hidden inside my shirt.

We ran full tilt for the castle driveway. A bolt of lightning lit the surrounding landscape, revealing the most horrifying sight of the day.

The entire castle grounds were crawling with story characters. Hundreds – no, thousands! – of people, animals and outlandish things walked, talked, fought, jumped and crawled around Glamorgan Castle. It was as if every story ever told had come to life simultaneously.

“Marisa, what gives?” I shouted, sidestepping a sled dog team led by an enormous husky. “Our deadline’s five minutes away!”

“Buck!” Marisa called the lead dog by name. “This way, Billy. Excuse us, sir!” She pushed the driver off the sled and grabbed the reins. I jumped behind her.

“Mush!” she cried, and the dogs were off. Snow swirled around the sled as the team fought to grip the slippery surface.

“Our mystery friend decided to release the plagues early!” Marisa said. “We shouldn’t have expected him to play fair!”

Ahead of us, a rabbit lay sleeping while a slow-moving turtle plodded toward him. Marisa swerved to miss them, and nearly collided with a man unwrapping a cloth bandage from his head. Beneath the bandage, he was completely invisible!

Above us, a giant beanstalk stretched away into the black storm clouds. One of the storm clouds looked suspiciously like a pirate ship, and I thought I saw a boy dressed in green fighting with a hook-handed pirate.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To where all this started,” Marisa answered. “The castle steps!

Easier said than done! I thought. The ground between the steps and us was covered with Story Plagues. Here, a dark skinned boy rubbed a lantern with the sleeve of his shirt. There, another rabbit had his paws stuck inside a baby doll made entirely of sticky tar. Nearby, a desperate old woman held a shriveled monkey’s paw into the air and made a wish, although her words were lost in a crack of thunder.

On the lawn next to Union Avenue, two armies clashed. One side was dressed in blue, the other in gray. From behind the ranks of the blue army, one small soldier ran from the battle, staring over his shoulder in fright.

I turned my attention back to the castle. We were zigzagging toward the steps. Just ahead, I saw a glowing yellow ball of fire. At its center stood the same small, bearded man we’d met before. The scar that ran down the center of his face had turned a wicked purple, and he was laughing as he pointed at us.

Nearby, a handsome young man bent on one knee to serenade a young girl on the balcony above. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” he asked.

“Ah, true love,” the old man sneered. He turned to us. “Welcome, welcome! I see you two have decided to return, late though you may be.”

“We are not late!” screamed Marisa. “You’re a cheater!”

“If you’re only now figuring that out,” he wheezed, “then you are too late!” He laughed again. “Oh, you’ve done a fine job solving my ten riddles, but you haven’t solved the primary puzzle, have you?”

I jumped off the sled. His cocky attitude was just too much. “You like stories, old man? Here’s one you’ve probably heard. It starts out: Once Upon A Time ...”

I began to tell him the tale of a miller’s daughter who bragged she could spin straw into gold, and the king who locked her in a room full of straw to see if her claim was true. I told him about the little man who magically appeared to her that night and spun the straw into gold in exchange for her necklace.

“The trick worked so well that the greedy king locked the woman away to spin again, “ I said. “This time she traded her ring to the little man in return for his help.”

Marisa took up the story from there. “The king was so impressed that he made her his queen, but was greedy enough that he locked her away a third time, hoping for more gold.”

The bearded man stopped laughing. His scar turned an even uglier shade of purple.

“This time, the woman had nothing to trade,” I continued. “So she promised the little man her first born child if he would help her one last time. He accepted, but when the baby was born the woman couldn’t bear to give it up.

“So the little man made her deal: ‘Guess my name in three days’ time and you may keep your child!’ he said.”

I paused. “Sound familiar?”

The little man shook with rage, but said nothing.

“Well, the poor princess guessed every name imaginable, even silly ones like Muttonchops and Lacedleg,” Marisa said, “but none of these were correct. Lucky for her, one of the king’s messengers had sighted a strange little man jumping and dancing in the woods nearby, singing his name aloud ...”

The yellow ball of energy behind the little man was growing and growing, dwarfing the castle doorway. I could feel its heat from where I stood.

“Don’t say it!” he hissed

I laughed. “Say what? The name of one of my favorite stories? One I had my grandmother read to me again and again?”

“No, please, I can’t bear it! I can’t!”

“You’re not a grim character, you’re a Grimm character,” I continued, pulling my secret weapon from under my shirt. It was a battered old copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and I held it before me like a shield. “What do you have to say for yourself ... Rumpelstiltskin!

“AAAAAARGH!” Rumpelstiltskin held his hands to his ears. “How I hate that name! And how I ... hate ... you!!”

His scream kept me from finishing the story: how the queen guessed his name, and how Rumpelstiltskin, in a fit of rage, stamped a hole in the ground and tore himself in two!

Rumpelstiltskin snickered, staring at us through red-rimmed eyes. “Of course, you’re too late. Look around! The Story Plagues are spreading! Your little town is toast!”

He was right. The castle lawn was no longer big enough to contain the milling hordes of characters. They were racing away in all directions. A tall, pale man lifted his cape into the air, became a vampire bat, and fluttered away toward the east. A huge wolf was torn between stalking three pigs or a little girl wearing a red hood. Another little girl carrying a shepherd’s crook chased a flock of sheep across Union Avenue.

I tried to climb the steps to reach Rumpelstiltskin. Marisa struggled too, but with no luck. It was as if an invisible wall held us back. He was too powerful!

He raised his left hand above his head and tightened it into a fist. It glowed with energy, and tiny sparks flew from it. He grinned like a madman and shouted, “Now I’ll show you how I deal with meddlesome little dolts!”

But just as his hand was about to open, I heard a hissing from behind Marisa. A black blur shot past her and up the steps, leaping into Rumpelstiltskin’s face. It was Pluto, the one-eyed cat!

Stumbling, Rumpelstiltskin pulled at the feline fury that had attached itself to him. As he did, his fist opened, and the energy bolt that was meant for Marisa and me struck him instead. His face split open like a rusty zipper, and he fell into the glowing ball of yellow energy behind him.

With a bone-rending ZAP!, Rumpelstiltskin disappeared, followed by Pluto, hissing as he followed his enemy into oblivion.

Instantly, every character and every object that had been unleashed at the castle disappeared. One moment, the ground and the air were filled with every imaginable fiction. The next, they were gone, leaving nothing behind. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket chirped.

“Wow! What a way to go!” said Marisa.

“Yeah,” I whispered. I looked down at my copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. “Poor Pluto. He sacrificed himself to save us.”

“Maybe not. Look here.” Marisa had opened her copy of the old Story Plague book. On the last page was a picture of a black cat with a white spot on its chest. The cat rested on a thick rug in front of a fireplace, lapping contentedly from a bowl of milk. “That’s not how Pluto’s story is supposed to end,” she said.

“Guess he made up his own ending.” I was glad. If any cat deserved to live happily ever after, it was Pluto.

We stared at the picture until it began to fade. Moments later, the entire book had vanished. The Story Plague was finally cured!

Marisa and I walked toward the parking lot. Dad was sitting on the hood of the car, waving to us.

“You know, I’ll miss that Rumpelstiltskin,” Marisa said. “He sure knew how to bring a story to life.”

I looked at her, and she laughed. “My goodness, did the oh-so-serious Marisa Kingsford just make a joke? Now I know the world’s going to end!”

She punched me in the shoulder. “Hey, think you could teach me to play baseball tomorrow?”

“No way!”

She looked crestfallen.

“I thought you could teach me something, instead.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

I fished around in my wallet. “Could you show me how to use this?” I handed her my library card.

“Billy,” she said, “there might be hope for you yet.”

The End

Credit Where Credit Is Due! Here, in order of appearance, are the titles and authors (if known) of all Story Plagues appearing in our final chapter: The Call of the Wild, Jack London; "The Tortoise and the Hare," Aesop; The Invisible Man, H.G. Wells; "Jack and the Beanstalk," traditional; Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie; “Aladdin and the Lamp” from The Arabian Nights; “The Tar Baby” from Uncle Remus Stories by Joel Chandler Harris; “The Monkey’s Paw,” W.W. Jacobs; The Red Badge of Courage, Stephen Crane; Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare; “Rumpelstiltskin” from Grimm’s Fairy Tales; Dracula, Bram Stoker; “The Three Pigs,” traditional; “Little Red Riding Hood” from Grimm’s Fairy Tales; and “Little Bo Beep,” from Mother Goose.

Happy Reading!

The Story Plague Chapter 11: Martians R Us

Read Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2

Read Chapter 3

Read Chapter 4

Read Chapter 5

Read Chapter 6

Read Chapter 7

Read Chapter 8

Read Chapter 9

Read Chapter 10

Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

For Those Who Came In Late: Billy, Marisa and Professor Challenger are trapped in the Carnation Mall parking lot between marauding dinosaurs and a Martian war machine, as the Story Plague continues to threaten Alliance.

***

“Out of the proverbial frying pan and into the proverbial fire!” said Professor Challenger, stroking his thick, black beard.

Marisa, Challenger, and I were standing in the parking lot of the mall. Behind us, stepping through the shards of broken glass strewn around the mall entrance, was an enormous Tyrannosaurus rex. A pair of pterodactyls circled above, their leathery wings glinting in the twilight. In front of us, a huge Martian war machine was heading our way. It moved like a daddy longlegs spider, crawling on long metallic legs that projected from a shiny, silver body.

“This is a first,” I said to Marisa. “Two Story Plagues happening at once!”

Just then, a car in the parking lot erupted in flames. The Martian machine had blasted it with a heat ray! The tires melted into the macadam and the windshield shattered from the heat. In seconds, the car was a pile of smoking ashes.

Attracted by the blast, the tyrannosaur rumbled past us, stomping toward the alien. The Martian machine whirled on its axis, drawn to the huge dinosaur roaring beneath it. While both creatures were distracted, we ran back to the mall. The Professor and Marisa reached the doors first. I had almost caught up to them when I started to sneeze. My stupid summer cold had picked a rotten time to show itself!

“Billy, look out!” Marisa cried. I sneezed again, wiping tears from my eyes as a dark shadow passed between the setting sun and me. Something clamped around my waist. I’d been caught in the huge talons of a pterodactyl. The creature lifted me into the air, emitting a horrifying Caw! Caw! as it cleared the roof of the mall.

Great! I thought, first flying monkeys, now a flying leather jacket. What’s next? I soon forgot to be cocky, however, as the creature flapped its wings and turned toward the tyrannosaur and the Martian machine.

The war machine had the dinosaur’s legs wrapped in one of its tendrils, pulling the creature closer. The tyrannosaur used his tail like a whip, smacking it against the legs of the machine, rocking it backward with each slap.

Above all this, the pterodactyl and I circled, spiraling closer and closer. A tendril shot from the Martian machine, wrapping around the pterodactyl. The creature’s talons opened, and I dropped like a stone onto the top of the war machine.

Rolling with the impact, I bounced down the curved exterior of the machine. My left hand caught a corner before I plummeted over the side. And there I dangled, hanging by my fingernails as the silver creature rocked from side to side. I looked down, into the huge mouth of the Tyrannosaurus rex, snapping at my legs.

Carefully, I pulled myself up. Far below, Marisa and Professor Challenger waved. Marisa was yelling something, but I couldn’t hear over the roar of the dinosaur.

The tyrannosaur struck the Martian again, and the jolt almost sent me toppling off my perch. I had to find a way down or a way inside the machine – fast! Another glance convinced me that down wasn’t an option: the Martian machine must have been sixty or seventy feet tall. It was inside or nothing.

I looked for some kind of latch or lever to open the machine. At the very top of the shell was an oddly shaped button, designed for alien hands. I pressed it. A door sprang open, and I ducked inside.

Inside the dimly lit cockpit, I saw three creatures straight out of my worst nightmares. Of course, there is no alien life on Mars, and these were fictional Martians, created by the imagination of H.G. Wells.

But what an imagination he had! The Martians were each the size of a bear, with wet, leathery skin similar to the pterodactyls overhead. They had large dark eyes; their lipless, quivering mouths oozed saliva. They moved slowly, working the controls as if it hurt them to do so. When I dropped in among them, they turned in my direction.

And that’s when I started to sneeze again. And again. And again! The creatures pulled back in horror at the sound, and as I wiped my nose on my forearm they waved their tentacles fearfully.

One of the Martians collapsed onto the floor of the cockpit. Another lurched painfully before he, too, collapsed. The third backed away as far as he could before falling over. All three lay in front of me, unmoving.

Marisa explained later that H.G. Wells’ Martians, while more advanced than humans in other ways, had no protection from simple Earth germs and viruses. My cold had killed them!

At that moment, however, I had no time to celebrate. The cockpit shook again. The entire war machine had almost tipped over from the force of the tyrannosaur’s attack. I stepped over the bodies of the Martians and settled into a seat, staring at the dashboard.

One of the controls was a red joystick with a trigger grip. I pulled back on it, and the laser mounted to the front of the cockpit moved. Aiming the laser at the tyrannosaur below me, I pressed the trigger. The dinosaur disappeared in a burst of red flame, and I could smell something that reminded me of barbecued chicken.

I aimed the cannon straight up, toward the trapped pterodactyl above, and fired a second lethal blast. My third and final shot vaporized the remaining pterodactyl, destroying the last living dinosaur in North America.

It took a few minutes longer, but I learned how to lower the cockpit of the war machine to the ground, where I jumped out. Marisa and Challenger were waiting.

“Good show, young man,” Challenger cried, thumping my back. “I could use this machine in The Lost World, believe me!”

Already, the professor was beginning to blur around the edges. In a few seconds, he was gone, and so were the Martian war machine and the smoking remains of the tyrannosaur and his flying friends. We had cured the last two Story Plagues!

“Billy! Marisa!” My parents were stepping carefully over the glass on the sidewalk, heading toward us.

“What in Heaven’s name is going on here?” my mother asked.

On the way home, Marisa and I told them the whole story. They were skeptical, I could tell. When we got home Marisa showed them the book, and the addition of two more titles to its pages: The Lost World by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. Beside both were the final two clues to the identity of our mystery villain: I Love Name Games and I ripped myself in two.

Suddenly, everything clicked. I excused myself and ran for the attic. There, beneath a pile of old toys in a cedar chest, I found the final piece of the puzzle. I smiled, remembering my grandmother and the stories we used to share.

When I returned downstairs, Marisa and my parents were still sitting at the kitchen table, deep in thought.

“Do you believe it yet?” I asked Mom and Dad.

My father looked at me. After a long pause, he said, “I believe you. But it’s already 8:30, and I have no idea who your mystery villain is.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Because I do.”

To Be Concluded

The Story Plague Chapter 10: Maulers at the Mall

Read Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2

Read Chapter 3

Read Chapter 4

Read Chapter 5

Read Chapter 6

Read Chapter 7

Read Chapter 8

Read Chapter 9

Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

For Those Who Came In Late: Marisa and Billy have cured the latest Story Plague: an infestation of winged monkeys, a wicked witch and other inhabitants of Oz on the roof of Chapman Hall. Before disappearing, the monkeys returned the two cousins to Billy’s house.

***

“Billy, I think you’d better get right in bed,” my mom said, feeling my forehead for the first signs of a fever. “A summer cold can turn into pneumonia just like that!” And she snapped her fingers to show how fast such a dire event could occur.

I glanced at my watch: it was half past six. Only two-and-a-half more hours to solve the last two Story Plagues and figure out the identity of our mystery villain. A well-meaning mother couldn’t sidetrack me now!

I broke out my secret weapon, a whining voice so annoying that it seldom failed to get me whatever I wanted. “But Mom, I don’t have a fever!” I sneezed. “It’s just a dumb old summer cold! And it wouldn’t be fair to Marisa. Who would she hang out with while I was in bed?”

That last comment surprised her. Any sign of concern for my cousin, however slight, was a major breakthrough in our relationship.

“What do you think, Jim?” Mom asked.

Dad, who was reading the newspaper in his favorite reclining chair, looked over the top of the sports section. “I think,” he said slowly, “that a summer cold is no cause for concern, and that an ice cream cone and a trip to the mall might be the best cure. Wait outside, kids, and I’ll back the car out.”

Good old Dad! Marisa and I broke for the door, exchanging high-fives on the way. Outside, we found Pluto hiding beneath a bush. He looked up at us with his one eye and purred as we stroked his black fur.

“Well, at least I escaped bed rest,” I said. “But unless the last two Story Plagues show up on the way to the mall, we’re still sunk.”

Marisa grinned. “Don’t worry, that’s exactly where they’ll show up!” She explained: “These Plagues have a way of popping up directly in our path, in case you haven’t noticed. If we hang around your house much longer, we’ll probably trigger one here!”

I shivered. “No thanks. Come on!” Dad and Mom had backed the car out of the garage and we hopped in the back, leaving Pluto behind.

Minutes later, we were enjoying Dairy Queen cones in the back seat as Dad drove west on State Street toward the mall. A newscaster on the radio rattled off all the strange sightings reported in the city, then cut to an “expert” who dismissed them as mass hallucinations brought on by the heat. Marisa and I smiled. Adults didn’t know everything, after all.

We turned left into the mall and headed for the rear entrance, nearest the food court. My parents offered to take us to the movies. Marisa and I made excuses, not wanting to waste our last two hours of Plague-solving inside a theater.

Not that our excuses mattered. As we headed into the mall, a mob of terrified shoppers raced out.

My father opened the door as a young woman stumbled past. “Miss, what’s the matter?”

She screamed, “M-monsters! Run for your lives!” Then she sprinted into the parking lot, followed by dozens of others.

I looked at Marisa. “This could be it! Come on!”

We bolted inside. My mom screamed for us to stop, but we kept running. I felt bad about disobeying, but I had a hunch that Mom would understand if she knew the future of our city depended on it.

We fought through the panicked crowd. A shadow passed over me, and suddenly I was knocked to the floor.

“Look!” yelled Marisa.

I followed her gaze upward and was shocked to see a full-sized pterodactyl, one of the great winged creatures of the Mesozoic age, swoop into the crowd. Its leathery wings were extended to their full width, and its beak-like mouth and sharp teeth were filled with buttery popcorn. The creature landed on one of the tables in the food court, its sharp talons scraping for a foothold.

Further back, in the main concourse of the mall, I could see another pterodactyl roosting on a bench, its open mouth emitting a terrible Caw! Caw! as shoppers rushed past.

I looked for Marisa and found her talking with a large, bearded man who was dressed for a safari. He had an enormous head, bushy eyebrows, and black hair that was plastered down over his huge forehead. “Marisa, what are you doing?”

She turned. “Billy, this is Professor Challenger, one of the explorers in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Lost World.” I had heard of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – he was the creator of Sherlock Holmes. I never knew that he’d written a book about dinosaurs.

“Pleased to meet you, young man,” said Challenger. “It appears that I’ve misplaced the rest of my party: Edward Malone, Lord Roxton, and that insufferable idiot, Professor Summerlee.” Challenger acted like this was all a Sunday picnic.

“Look, Professor, I hate to interrupt,” I shouted, “but we have a situation here!” I gestured at the pterodactyl circling above us. “We’ve got to get that...that bird away from these people.”

“Well, yes, quite so, young man,” Challenger snorted. “And how do you propose we do that?”

Marisa answered. “I have an idea. Follow me!”

Challenger and I sprinted to keep up with her. She weaved through the crowd, heading for the concession stand at the theater. Once there, she dipped three large sized boxes into the popcorn machine, filling them with the buttery treat.

“That pterodactyl has a taste for popcorn, so let’s use it to our advantage,” she said, handing the professor and me one box each. “Come on, we’ll lead them toward the front doors.”

Glancing back, I saw that panicked shoppers had bottlenecked the rear exit. If we could get the pterodactyls to follow us to the front, it would give folks a better chance to escape.

“Okay, you ugly thing,” I shouted at the bird. “Come and get it!” I threw my box of popcorn, bouncing it off the creature’s head. It whirled toward me, and dived in my direction. “Let’s go!” I yelled, racing for the center court.

Marisa, Challenger and I skidded around the corner, heading east toward Kmart, when the second pterodactyl joined the pursuit. Marisa hurled one of her popcorn boxes in its direction. The creature gulped it down greedily and lunged after us, hungry for more.

We had just passed Radio Shack when I heard a tremendous roar ahead. Challenger swept both of us behind him protectively. “A carnivorous dinosaur!” he exclaimed.

I peeked around his back in time to see a Tyrannosaurus rex stomping toward us. The creature’s tail sent a line of vending machines crashing against one of the walls, spewing gumballs and trinkets in all directions.

“Now what?” I screamed.

“I believe the young lady’s plan is still sound,” said Challenger. “We must proceed to the exit.”

The tyrannosaur reached us at the same time as the two pterodactyls. The winged creatures attacked the T-Rex, who turned his attention from us to deal with this new threat.

“Run!” yelled Challenger, and we ducked beneath the tyrannosaur’s legs and dashed to our left, heading for the doors. Unfortunately, the creatures spotted us and quit fighting to follow the smell of buttery movie popcorn.

We threw open the doors and raced for the parking lot. Behind us, the tyrannosaur smashed through the glass entrance and emerged on the sidewalk, roaring. The two pterodactyls followed him.

Believe it or not, things were about to get worse.

“What in the name of Copernicus is that?” shouted Challenger, dropping his box of popcorn.

Out on West State Street, making its way toward us, was a gigantic metallic machine, shaped like a steel octopus. It towered over the Carnation Mall sign, then crushed it with one Teflon tendril.

“That’s a Martian war machine,” whispered Marisa, “straight out of The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells.”

Behind us, the T-rex roared and advanced. Ahead of us, the Martian machine smashed its way through the parking lot, attracted by the noise of the dinosaurs.

And we were caught in the middle.

To Be Continued

Do we all really have the same 24 hours? Uh-uh

I had a boss who was fond of saying that we all have the same 24 hours whenever somebody—usually a subordinate—complained about being too busy. 

Curiously, he was one of the least busy people. I wondered what he really knew about prioritizing when his biggest concern was his afternoon tee times. Still, I thought his saying was a good one. 

At the time. 

In this era of memes, "we all have the same 24 hours in a day" is often accompanied by another line, like "make them count" or "no excuses." One version even goes into a long-winded (for a meme) explanation about how nobody cheated and got 25 hours or gave you only 23, just to underline the meaning for the dim-witted, I guess. 

Many of the memes are accompanied by stock images of people staring off into the distance, presumably pondering their priorities and chastising themselves for going out with friends when they should have stayed late at the office and put a new cover sheet on the TPS report. 

I'm sure I've tossed the 24-hour saying around in the classroom a few times when students complained about assignments. I was an asshole, what can I say? 

See, I've come to realize that this statement of supposed equality is pretty toxic. Yes, it's true that each person has 24 hours each day. But not everybody's 24 hours are spoken for equally. 

If you're a 16-year-old kid who has to take care of younger siblings while one or both of your parents are working, incarcerated, or incapacitated, your 24 hours are spent much differently—through no fault of your own—than many of your peers. 

If you're a person living with a disability, you may spend extra hours dealing with the activities of daily living that so many others take for granted. If you're a person with a disability in the workplace, it may take many more steps—and time—for you to accomplish what a colleague can do with much less effort.

If you depend on public transportation, you may spend extra hours each day just getting to and from work or school. If you're working your way through college, you may be picking up extra shifts while your classmates are tossing frisbees around the quad. 

It all affects your 24 hours.

If the goal is to be a smartass, then mission accomplished with the "everybody has the same 24 hours" statement. If your objective is to change behavior, then not so much.

Initiating a conversation is a better way to go. Ask the employee, colleague, or student what is keeping them from accomplishing a particular task. Then really listen when they tell you. 

Maybe the answer is as simple as they didn't know it had to be done. Or they didn't realize how important it was to the business, their learning, or their grade. 

Sometimes, the answer may be that they are squandering time, spending too many hours binge-watching the latest Netflix phenomenon or playing video games. In those cases, nudging them to prioritize their time differently could help. 

Explaining the consequences of not doing something in a timely way can also be effective, provided that it's not condescending or dripping with sarcasm. 

And if you hear somebody who's drowning, throw them a life preserver. If they have more on their plate than is possible to accomplish, and if you have it within your power to lighten their load, even temporarily, why not? 

This isn't lowering expectations or piling work onto somebody else. It's being empathetic. 

So, yeah, we all have the same 24 hours. And we can use that time to help one another or to be a jerk who pops off with sayings about how we all have the same amount of time. 

I spent time in Camp Jerk. Now, I've relocated. 

The Story Plague Chapter 9: Oz Fest

Read Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2

Read Chapter 3

Read Chapter 4

Read Chapter 5

Read Chapter 6

Read Chapter 7

Read Chapter 8

Behind-the-Scenes Stuff

For Those Who Came In Late: Billy and Marisa have cured eight of the ten Story Plagues unleashed in Alliance, and have collected eight of the ten clues to help them guess the identity of the mysterious villain behind the whole mess. Crossing College Street, they realize that the red bricks beneath their bikes have turned to yellow.

***

We were so busy staring at the yellow brick road that we didn’t see the flying monkeys.

One moment, Marisa and I were standing in the middle of College Street, and the next we were flying through the air, carried by hairy little chimps with wings. One of the monkeys had Marisa, one had me, and a smaller monkey held poor Pluto, our cat. They banked left at the intersection of College Street and Miller Avenue, then soared skyward toward Chapman Hall.

“Billy!” Marisa screamed. “Do something!” That’s when I remembered that my smarty-pants cousin was afraid of heights. Heck, she hadn’t even graduated to the big rides at Six Flags or Cedar Point, and here she was hurtling through the sky with nothing but an airborne wannabe-gorilla to protect her.

“Stop your squirming,” said the monkey holding Marisa, “or I’ll just have to drop you!”

To my right, I heard an unfamiliar voice shout, “Hold on tight, Toto!” Sure enough, the monkey beside me was carrying a brown-haired little girl in a blue dress and silver shoes. Except for the hair-color, she reminded me of Alice, whom we’d met along with the Mad Hatter and the March Hare earlier that day. But of course, this wasn’t Alice – it was Dorothy Gale, blown all the way from Kansas to Oz, or Alliance, as it turned out.

The monkey next to Dorothy was carrying a little black dog: the famous Toto. Toto was trying desperately to bite the monkey on his back, but couldn’t get his teeth within chewing range. Flying next to Toto was still another monkey, this one carrying a full sized lion. The Cowardly Lion, of course!

We made one last pass over the Mount Union campus, then circled Chapman Hall. The monkeys landed on the roof of the building, which seemed a lot larger than it appeared from the ground. Actually, the whole building was starting to look bigger and more like a castle, another example of the Plague changing the town to suit whatever story we were caught in.

In the middle of the roof stood an old woman dressed all in black, carrying an umbrella in one hand. She ordered the monkeys to put us down. As she squinted our way, I noticed that she had only one eye. She didn’t look exactly like the Wicked Witch of the West, but I guess that’s because I was used to the Hollywood version. “Well, well,” she cackled, “I see that you’ve found some friends, Dorothy!”

Poor Dorothy backed up to the edge of the roof, terrified of the old woman. Toto ran forward barking. Pluto just hissed. If he felt any kinship with the old witch because, like him, she had only one eye, he sure didn’t show it. The Cowardly Lion let loose with a loud roar that sent the monkeys skittering away but didn’t scare the witch in the least.

“I want those shoes of yours!” the witch cackled, moving closer to Dorothy.

Marisa slid to my side. “Where are Dorothy’s ruby slippers?” she asked.

“In the book, her shoes are silver,” I answered, glancing back and forth between the advancing witch and Dorothy’s footwear. Marisa looked at me, shocked. I grinned. “I learned that from watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, not from reading any book.”

“I might’ve known,” she said.

Meanwhile, the witch continued to threaten Dorothy. “Give me those shoes, or I’ll turn my monkeys loose on you!” The monkeys shifted on their feet and flapped their wings threateningly. The witch gloated. “They took care of your friends – ripped the straw out of that silly scarecrow and threw The Tin Woodsman on some sharp rocks. And they’ll take care of you, too, unless you give me those shoes!”

The witch was staring straight down at Dorothy, both hands outstretched like claws over her head. The frightened girl was shaking and crying, only one step away from throwing herself over the edge of Chapman Hall to escape!

“Oh, won’t somebody do something?” the lion groaned, wringing his tail.

That was enough for me. I looked around and saw a bucket of water nearby, presumably used by the monkeys to drink. Breaking free from my simian guard, I grabbed the bucket and slid it across the roof to Dorothy. “Douse her with this!” I ordered.

I don’t know where Dorothy found the courage, but she managed to pick up the bucket and hurl the water at the witch before the startled old woman had a chance to stop her.

Even though I’ve never read The Wizard of Oz, I hoped the water would have the same effect that it did in the movie. I wasn’t disappointed. When the liquid touched the witch’s skin, she sizzled like a steak in a skillet. Her face began to collapse inward, and she moaned horribly.

“See what you’ve done!” she muttered. “I’m melting away into nothing!” She was getting shorter and shorter, the bottom of her black dress billowing out in front of her as she sank. Toto circled her, barking.

Dorothy was horrified. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” she kept repeating, covering her eyes with her hands. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know!”

“It’s okay,” said Marisa, rushing to her side and pulling her away from the edge of the roof. “It had to happen. It’s all part of the story.”

Dorothy looked confused by that, so I slashed my hand horizontally across my throat, giving Marisa the universal gesture for Cut it! Instead of confusing her any further, we introduced ourselves as residents of a remote corner of Oz.

Just then, the largest of the monkeys scampered over. “The Wicked Witch has been destroyed!” he said, and if a monkey could smile, he did. “We are no longer her servants!”

I was surprised to learn that the flying monkeys were actually a very nice group. The tallest monkey – their king, actually – explained that the wicked witch controlled them through the use of a golden cap, which granted each wearer the power to command the monkeys three times. Since Dorothy had killed the witch, she had now earned the right to use the cap, which we found lying in the middle of the puddle that used to be the wicked witch.

“Wonderful,” said Dorothy, wringing the cap dry. “I want you to take the Lion and me to find the Scarecrow and the Tinman. Would you two like to come?”

“No, thank you,” Marisa answered. “But we sure could use a ride to our house!”

Within moments we were airborne again. The monkeys flew us back to our bicycles, which were leaning against the curb on College Street. Then they lifted our bikes and us into the sky, heading westward toward Parkway Avenue and my house. After depositing Marisa, Pluto and me in my front yard, they flew off again, waving as they went.

“Goodbye,” Dorothy yelled down to us. “If you’re ever in Kansas, stop by!”

We waved back. The Lion roared his farewells, and then they were gone. In the blink of an eye they disappeared - another Story Plague cured!

As Marisa and I headed for my front door, we opened the old book for our latest clue. I made a queen of the miller’s daughter was written in the margin next to The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum.

Just then I sneezed twice; my summer cold was getting worse.

“Come on,” I sniffled, “I think it’s time for a break.” Little did I know that the biggest Story Plagues were yet to come.

To Be Continued