We have a few changes to ‘The Monthly Challenge’. One – we’re not going to rank the stories. Two – all entries sent will be judged – feedback sent privately to each entrant. Three – all stories entered will be featured.

Do please invite your friends to read and comment on the stories. That way you’ll get public feedback too.

The January challenge: “There is a bloody brave little animal in Africa called the Honey Badger. It may be the meanest animal in the world. It kills for malice and for sport, and it does not go for the jugular – it goes straight for the groin. It has a lot in common with the modern American woman.”

This was to be taken as a preamble or premise without necessarily using the words in the story.

 

profileOur judge for the January challenge was our very own member and mentor Seumas Gallacher.

SEUMAS GALLACHER escaped from the world of finance five years ago, after a career spanning three continents and five decades.

As the self-professed ‘oldest computer Jurassic on the planet’ his headlong immersion into the dizzy world of eBook publishing opened his eyes, mind, and pleasure to the joys of self-publishing. As a former businessman, he rapidly understood the concept of a writer’s need to ‘build the platform’, and from a standing start began to develop a social networking outreach, which now tops 18,000 direct contacts.

His ‘Jack Calder’ crime-thrillers series, THE VIOLIN MAN’S LEGACY, VENGEANCE WEARS BLACK and SAVAGE PAYBACK blew his mind with more than 80,000 e-link downloads to date.

He started a humorous, informative, self-publishers blog three years ago, never having heard of a ‘blog’ prior to that, was voted ‘Blogger of the Year 2013’ and now has a loyal blog following on his networks. He says the novels contain his ‘Author’s Voice’, while the blog carries his ‘Author’s Brand’. And he’s LUVVIN IT.

To get Seumas’ books follow these links:

Vengeance Wears Black

Amazon links: UK http://amzn.to/1ACk5eq, US http://amzn.to/1DPx2WN, Can http://amzn.to/1vYv0nb, Aus http://bit.ly/1zV9aNR

Links for Savage Payback

Amazon: UK amzn.to/1CHhw01, US amzn.to/15zUsD9, Canada amzn.to/1yXWRli, Australia bit.ly/1yGJ5ok

Smashwords : https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/514352

And here are our stories. Thank you Michelle and Glen!

THE HONEY BADGER

MICHELLE SCHULTZ

I did not know what to expect when I met my first American Woman. If you are reading this, then please know that the capital letters are intentional. Up till now I had only heard stories from my German uncles who did business and occasionally ran into them. Old traditionalists, they are. They were master craftsmen within their guild, working in Garmisch-Partenkirchen and, having already acquired enough wealth through honest labor to set themselves up well, took occasional commissions from the immorally wealthy Americans. Mostly it was men trying to get something built before they left the Vaterland to return to their real homes. Sometimes though, it was women. They came along trying to haggle and doing it poorly. German women did not act as they. We knew enough to expect that a job was worth what it was worth and if you wanted it cheaper you did not insult the craftsman – you went elsewhere. These American Women, my uncles told me, would attempt to play the coquette, batting their heavily mascara’d eyes, maybe attempting to play (unsubtly) upon their poorly developed feminine wiles. Perhaps, Onkel Hermann said, they might have succeeded if they weren’t young officers’ wives who knew about as much about keeping a man happy as a Frankreicher knew about keeping vows of fidelity. Once the young women knew they weren’t getting anywhere, the women would give up in a huff and either pay the recommended price, or would stomp out of the store.

All this, I learned secondhand. My Onkels were reliable men and they would only play the occasional joke; I did not think they were lying to me about these stories.

All this I was sure of and then it was time to move to America for school. Oh certainly I could have taken the tests and secured myself a position within Germany but my family did not believe I would do well enough to succeed in a trade and they were not confident in my ability to survive a Universitaet. I wanted to stay where I was comfortable but Vati would not hear of it. Even at my age, his word was Law. I was moving to California to attend UCLA and that was Final.

I flew out of Munchen and stopped first in Atlanta, Georgia. I know how to pronounce it, thank you very much. The customs man was more polite than I was expecting but he smiled less.   He had eyes that suggested I was already guilty. The look he gave me upon seeing my passport suggested that maybe if I hadn’t done something already I was going to very soon. I did not like it, or him, but I did not have to. I had always heard that Americans are a suspicious group. They are afraid of so much – not least of which that they will not always be at the top of the world; that the world will not always need them. Pride in my country was fine, but we have been good and we have been bad. Sometimes a country doesn’t have to be for anything. It just has to be.

My first American Woman was on my transcontinental flight. The attendants were just bodies in uniforms – not real people. No, the woman who sat next to me was young. She insisted that we talk. I was not in the best of moods for conversation. She swore that we would soon be fast friends and asked all manner of questions. Wasn’t I young? Where was I going? What would I do there? School? Oh my! Is someone going to meet you there? What school? Did I know Joseph Tolliver there? (of course I didn’t. I hadn’t even been there yet!) What about Eric Jarmand? (still no, I’m afraid). What about the professors? Had I already picked my classes? Did I want to hang out when we got to California? Wait…what? Now it was my turn for questions. Where in California was she going? (My school, she was a sophomore at UCLA). Why was she bothering with me? Naturally curious. And she liked meeting new people. I was interesting. A hundred different throw-away reasons. Confused, I agreed and she squealed happily. Such a strange noise.

We touched down at LAX and she hailed a cab while I grabbed our luggage. Such a trusting woman. She even told me which luggage was hers and naturally assumed I would bring it along. I grabbed my trunk, and her otherwise unremarkable beige hard case save for a glinting fake jewel on a ribbon suspended from the handle. Dragging them along behind me, I trudged towards the exit doors.

She was waiting with what looked like a pair of black-haired friends, pale of skin. They had clearly brought her a coat – Black with a furry white hood. She smiled when she saw me. She didn’t make a move to retrieve her bag, though.

“These are my friends Leah and Skyler. They brought their car. You wanna ride with us?”

She must have seen my hesitation because she added “It’s gotta be cheaper than a cab.”

That sold me. Vati’s first payment of my stipend was conditional upon actually arriving at the school.

I didn’t actually have much money beyond the cab fare and hoped to be able to confirm another rumor about the terrible quality of American Biers. That was what college students did, right?

We all bundled into a small hatchback, with Skyler and I in the back, Leah in the driver’s seat, and my nameless friend in the front passenger seat. We were on the road for maybe 20 minutes when they pulled off the freeway and into a small side street. There was an old neon sign out front that spelled out COFF E. I felt Skyler stroking my arms, which was strange. I started to ask why we were stopping when Skyler’s stroking of my arm turn into a sharp pinch. My head jerked to my left arm, where Leah had bitten me. BITTEN ME. WHAT THE HELL!?   I felt almost immediately sleepy. I tried to shake myself awake, at which point Leah reached back and held my legs down, her face changing under the skin, her eyes shrinking to small beads, her face elongating, never taking that creepy smile off her face. Her clothing sloughed off her as she slithered around my legs in a figure 8, holding them fast, constricting but not crushing.

My nameless friend was watching all of this, suddenly not so distinct from her hood, her snout…wait snout? It was sticking out from under the hood that was no longer a hood. There was no smile here, only a sharp pain between my legs.

Was that… blood?

Oh well. I guess it didn’t matter.

HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A HONEY BADGER SCORNED

Glen R Stansfield

Dr Laura Ellison’s husband was a very lucky man.

Laura was not only a very talented surgeon but gorgeous with it too. Her long black hair, dark brown eyes, high cheek bones, olive skin and model-like figure turned heads wherever she went. Martin had no idea what she saw in him. She was an eminent surgeon; he was your average blue collar construction site worker. The pay he brought home each month wouldn’t cover the mortgage on the dog kennel of their Portland Heights home.

They met by accident – literally. She ran into the back of his car at a stop sign. He had never seen anyone so beautiful, and with the testosterone fuelled optimism of youth he asked her out. To his surprise she agreed, and the rest, as they say, is history.

In the early days of their relationship he started to call her the honey badger. Once, she asked him why.

He replied, ‘Because as soon as we get behind closed doors you go straight for my groin, just like a honey badger.’

The name stuck and twenty years later so had the passion. Their sex life never waned. The honey badger lived on.

Eventually Laura rose to the dizzy heights of having her own private practice as a plastic surgeon, and he rose to the dizzy heights of the top of the nearest building under construction. Her practice was no ordinary one, she specialised in the rich and famous; those who refused to accept ageing is an inevitable process and should be embraced with grace.

They were the most unlikely pair you would ever meet. Martin never had any aspirations other than his current job. He loved the outdoors, and he loved the camaraderie on the building site. He was never fully comfortable in Laura’s social circles but he kept it well hidden. Martin loved his wife dearly, and he knew she reciprocated.

Life was as sweet as it could be for both of them, apart from a lack of children. Heaven knows they tried, but despite the best fertility treatments available, children were not forthcoming. They discussed the possibility of adoption but agreed it wasn’t quite the same as having your own. Finally they accepted it wasn’t in their destiny to have children and got on with their lives. Like many childless couples they transferred their parenting instincts to the animal kingdom. Two gorgeous blue eyed Huskies performed the duties of surrogate children with all the enthusiastic energy that only a well-loved canine can show.

Then came the financial crisis of 2007-2008 and the dream started to come apart. Martin suddenly became unemployed. At first he enjoyed the time off, getting meals ready for Laura when she came home, pottering around the garage, tinkering with his ’64 corvette and of course, the endless walks with the never tiring dogs. The walks proved to be his downfall.

One glorious day he was trotting along with the Huskies in Marquam Nature Park when an attractive young lady stopped and asked if she could pet the dogs. She reminded him of his wife all those years ago, when they first met. They chatted for a few minutes about the animals, and the weather then went their separate ways and he thought nothing more of it.

Two weeks later whilst walking the dogs near the Marina, he saw her again. After several minutes of chat he invited her for a coffee at one of the several establishments bordering the waterfront.

He had been so surprised when soon after sitting down she said she must leave. He was even more surprised to find an hour had already passed without him realising it. Before she went she wrote her cell number on his hand.

‘Give me a call if you want another coffee,’ she said over her shoulder as she left, and in a swirl of black hair she was gone.

Martin liked her company. He was sure there could be no harm in meeting for a coffee now and then. He had always admired beautiful women, from afar. He never wanted to do any more than just look. Why would he when he already had the most amazing woman in the world? So a coffee now and again would not be a problem.

Several months passed and their meetings became an almost weekly event, always at the same coffee house. He realised on the weeks they didn’t meet, there was a sadness inside him. He wanted to see her again, talk about world events and her life as a student. He even found himself reading some of the plays being performed at the local theatre where she worked in the evenings, so he would know what she was talking about when she mentioned them. He had no other motives than to have some pleasant company to distract him from his boredom. Sure, he liked her company but it was no more than that.

One day she asked him what he did for a living that allowed him time to come to the Marina any time she was free. He didn’t know why he felt the need but he lied to her. He told her he sold his construction business, and he didn’t need to work.

She never questioned it, and she never questioned why he didn’t invite her to his house.

He was content to leave things as they stood, sometimes seeing her and sometimes not. That is until the time his wife went away for a week to a conference in Nevada.

It wasn’t planned but it happened anyway, and the way it happened was something of a cliché. They met in the evening for the first time. She had no work at the theatre that evening, so Martin asked her out to dinner. A couple of bottles of wine later they found themselves in a hotel room; the passion consuming them both.

The next morning both the hangover and the guilt kicked in. He knew he had made a big mistake. What had he been thinking? He risked his marriage and for no good reason. The only thing he could do was stop it right now. He told her they couldn’t do this or even meet for coffee again. It had been wrong. She was much younger than him and he shouldn’t have let himself get carried away. He was too scared to tell her he was married. In any case she must already know, he reasoned. Although he never revealed it, he was sure it must be obvious.

Imagine his surprise when she readily agreed. No hysterics, no anger, just a casual acknowledgment of the mistake and they should not see each other again. Perhaps she had been using him.

After that night he didn’t call her again. He found a new place to walk the dogs and never went near the Marina. He never set foot inside Marquam Park again either. He washed the whole episode from his mind and concentrated on finding another job.

Eventually the construction industry started its slow recovery and once again Martin was on top of the world. Well, on top of a new office building anyway. Everything returned to normal and Martin was content with his life once more.

He couldn’t understand why he couldn’t move. His arms and legs seemed to be restrained, and he was sore in places he didn’t know he existed. What’s more he couldn’t see and his brain refused to function; everything was dreamlike, the voice speaking to him ethereal and distant.

‘Hello Mr Ellison. Are you are back with us yet?’

The voice sounded familiar, but in his semi-comatose state it was too much of an effort to place it. He tried to speak but nothing came out apart from random grunts.

‘You’ve been in a bad accident Mr Ellison. You’ve had us all worried. We didn’t think you would make it.’

He drifted away again. Later he was aware of the voice explaining he had some damage to his eyes. Nothing to worry about, but for the time being they would stay covered to allow them to heal.

How long he had been there he couldn’t tell. He didn’t remember anything about an accident. Was it a car accident, or a fall at work? He could only remember coming home as usual one evening, and then after that – only darkness.

He had strange dreams. In them he took a lot of medication, tablets for this and injections for that. In his more lucid moments he thought maybe these were not dreams at all. Maybe the painkillers, or whatever was making him so tired and woolly headed made him imagine everything; he struggled to focus on anything. Reality and dreams all intermingled.

And then there was the voice, saying ‘I know,’ over and over again. Could it be real? He didn’t know because he couldn’t see.

What did it know, and why was it telling him? Sometimes he thought he could hear his wife. Those must have been the times she visited. He longed for her to be there when he was more awake.

This time when he woke he was blinded by the light. The bandages had gone. He could only see shapes as his eyes were not used to the light after being covered for so long. He could move his arms and legs. How long had he been able to do that he wondered. He was aware of lying on the bed in his dressing gown. Still woozy, he decided to try to get to his feet. He rolled on his side then shuffled to the edge of the bed. Slowly he sat himself up and tried to look around the room. It felt strange. There seemed to be no windows, almost as if it was a basement room. Perhaps there were some windows in the next room. He could just make out a doorway in the far wall. His eyes slowly became accustomed to the light, but the drugs still affected his vision. Everything moved around as though someone was smudging the images in his mind, stirring them around; making mental mosaics.

He concentrated hard in an effort to get to his feet and was rewarded with a very unsteady upright position. One foot stayed still and the other made little steps around it until he was almost balanced. He felt drunk. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was drunk and this was only a dream.

Unsteadily he made his way over to the door, his dressing gown falling open as he did so. He didn’t look down but he knew from the sensation he was naked underneath. As he reached the opening he was startled to see a semi naked woman approaching from the other side. He pulled his dressing gown closed, she did the same. They screamed simultaneously. What he assumed to be an open doorway was a full length mirror on the back of the door. He was looking at himself.

Taped to the glass he could make out the hotel room receipt, the girl’s phone number and a slightly blurred photograph of her leaving the University.

Dr Laura Ellison’s husband was a very lucky woman – she was still alive.

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