Fantastic Fables of Foster Flat Volume Two: Fantastic Fables Series, #2

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Introduction

Ithought I’d shared all the strange happenings of my birthplace, Foster Flat, in the first book. Then, one night, when I was feeling particularly lonely sitting in my cubby-hole of an apartment here in Atlanta, I pulled out several of the journals I’ve kept through the years. What I found shocked me. I spent all that night and much of the next day circling passages and inserting post-its at the start of each strange tale. Thus began the book that you now hold in your hands. Over the next few weeks, I sorted through the journals in search of the stories that I felt most represented the unique nature of my hometown.

It’s likely, if you’ve read the first anthology, you’ll recognize a few of the Foster Flat citizens, though most will be new to you. For sure you should remember my dear Aunt Ellenore. You know, the one who found her muse sitting on her front porch. But muses are a bit like a set of keys. You find them, then lose them, then find them again. At least in Ellenore’s case, she became wiser for the experience.

Then there’s Albert Goldman, who owns Goldcraft, Inc., one of the coolest stores in town, with the oddest assortment of nicknacks displayed in the front window. Especially when you consider it’s mostly a jewelry and watch repair business. A couple of my classmates swore to me it was also the location of a most bizarre, yet true, story. Now, there were quite a few kids I went to school with that I would never trust to tell the truth, but Randall and Pee Wee were not among them. They were straight shooters.

Just like Reginald and Daisy Davis—two upstanding citizens of Foster Flat who took their love for travel and exotic masks and turned them into a business known simply as the Mask Museum. I visited the museum quite often, but never at night, even though Daisy invited me to come by any time. It was just too spooky for any late night excursions. Daisy maintained the museum for years after her husband passed on to the everlasting, though she claimed to be just as close to him as though he were still alive.

There’s also a story about one of my favorite eating establishments—Lin Shu’s Chinese Pagoda Restaurant. They serve some of the best Asian food anywhere. I’ve yet to find a place here in Atlanta that compares. While I didn’t know Wilbur that well since he worked at the Pagoda only one summer, he swore that every bit of his story was true, and I have no reason to doubt him. After all, his uncle, Mr. Alfred Peterman, is one of the deacons at the Baptist church my family attends. I feel certain Wilbur knows it’s a sin to lie, especially to a future journalist.

While Lin Shu’s is a wonderful place to go for lunch or dinner, you simply can’t beat the Apothecary for a good ol’ southern breakfast. I don’t know how Fatima does it, maintaining the restaurant in the front of the store while running her natural healing practice in the back rooms, but she does, despite a few challenges she had with the North Carolina Medical Board of Examiners a while back.

Of course, not all parts of Foster Flat are as upstanding as our Main Street downtown area. You might recall a story about the strange happenings around the Seventh Avenue district. Well, not far from there, another story unfolded one cold Christmas season. When I heard the tale, I was honored to be a part of such a fine community with such wonderful people as Emily Lawson. My word, but that woman is a saint, even if she is a Methodist. She’s still good Christian folk.

Now, at first I wasn’t going to include the two last stories, but then I remembered that my job as a journalist is to report the facts as best I know them. True, little Jimmy Brown may not be the most reliable source I ever interviewed, though since working at The Global Inquiry, I’ve spoken with several less reliable witnesses (and their stories made it into the paper). As for the last story...well, I’m the primary source for that one so I know it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

Mimi Rawlins

Roving Reporter for The Global Inquiry

Born and raised in Foster Flat, North Carolina

ELLENORE LOSES HER MUSE

Ellenore Michner held the phone away from her ear to lessen the audio assault from her agent, Rachel Mohaney, blasting through the line. The words were still clear as a bell.  I can’t put the publisher off much longer. They’ve been more than patient, but they have a schedule they need to maintain.

Ellenore waited for the inevitable pause for Rachel to catch her breath before replying, No worry. It’s almost finished, really it is. I’m just having a little difficulty coming up with the ending.

Hell, you know the ending, Rachel replied, only a few decibels softer. You’re a romance author—one of the best in the world. All romances have a happily-ever-after ending. Write it and send me the manuscript. We’re weeks off schedule. Your fans are clamoring for their next Ellenore fix.

Okay, will do, Ellenore replied meekly. In the five years Rachel had been her agent, Ellenore had never heard her so angry or frustrated. She was about to say something else when she heard the click on the other end.

She hung up the phone and stared at the blank computer screen, her gaze slowly drifting over to the manuscript box next to it—as empty as her head had been for weeks. Where in the hell are you, Calli? I don’t even care. You’re my muse, and I need you to get your sweet ass back here. Now!

AS ELLENORE STROLLED the few blocks from her house to the wine store, she thought about the last few years. It had been a good run—more than just a run. It had lasted close to five years, ever since she’d found her muse lying on her doorstep. Since then, her writing career had soared from a nobody to a somebody and eventually to one of the top romance writers in the world. Early in the process, she’d acquired Rachel, a top literary agent who had helped her polish that first book around, then orchestrated a bidding war that Avon had eventually won.

Those had been good years, amazing years, years when she and her muse had churned out book after book, averaging at least four per year like clockwork. The muse had been a mysterious addition to her life. Even though Ellenore had come to think of it as male after finding it in bed with a lioness, it also had many feminine traits, so Ellenore eventually named it Calli after the Greek muse, Calliope. Ellenore had been ecstatic with her success.  So had Rachel, as they both became quite well off financially while doing something that they both loved. And Calli had appeared quite content as well...until. It had started with Calli complaining about needing some time off, but Ellenore kept countering with, Let’s just get this book wrapped up first. By the time that had happened, Rachel would be back on the phone asking her for the next one and then the next and the next.

Then one morning, Ellenore had gone to her home office to resume her workday, only to find the daybed where Calli slept empty. A thorough search of the house and grounds confirmed Ellenore’s worst fears. Calli had disappeared. That had been weeks ago. Since then, Ellenore had tried to start the next novel working from the few notes she had, but nothing was good enough. She began having nightmares of a blank computer screen chasing her down the street, followed closely behind by an empty manuscript box. It wasn’t long afterward that she started making frequent trips to the wine store.

THE DRINKING HAD STARTED with just a glass or two at the end of a successful day of writing, but lately, the wine consumption had increased as the word production dried up. Wine Time, as she affectionately called it, had moved from starting at five-thirty to five, then four. Now, anytime she felt the icy fingers of fear threatening to catapult her into an anxiety attack, she’d excuse herself to the kitchen and her stash of Merlot or Cabernet. The wine had moved from a simple pleasure to a necessary painkiller and antidepressant.

As she walked the now familiar path from the wine store to her home, she pulled out one of the bottles from the paper bag. She had started buying at least one bottle with a screw top instead of a cork, so she didn’t have to wait until she returned home to quiet her nerves. She glanced around to see if any of her neighbors might be watching, then chuckled. Really, what did she care what her neighbors thought? They already viewed her as the weirdo at the end of the street. You know, the one who’s made a fortune pretending she knows everything about love and romance. She raised the bottle high above her head as she twisted it open. Here’s to what I think of your opinions!  She lowered the bottle to her lips and took several large gulps, then wiped her mouth with her sleeve.

That’s telling them!

A shocked Ellenore turned in the direction of the voice. Shit! I thought I was alone. There, standing a few yards behind her, was her old friend, Allison. She’d not seen Allison in years, not since Ellenore’s muse had appeared and Ellenore had accused Allison of channeling her not-so-dearly departed mother, who always found something derogatory to say about Ellenore.

What are you doing here? Ellenore asked.

It looks like you could use a friend right about now, Allison replied. Can I have a sip of that? she asked, pointing to the bottle.

You may not! Ellenore said as she turned to resume her walk home.

She trudged on in silence, guzzling the wine as she went.

So, you’re going to give your old friend the silent treatment, Allison said, as Ellenore neared her home. Is that the smartest move you can make?

Ellenore continued walking, increasing the pace.

I’d say you need a friend right about now, and as far as I can tell, I’m it. Well, me and that bottle.

Leave the bottle out of it.

Sure thing. Drink away. Fine by me.

Ellenore took another long pull on the now almost empty bottle. As she did so, Allison faded slowly away.

THE WEEKS SLID INTO a month, and then a second one. Ellenore still had no manuscript to send to Rachel, who was becoming increasingly belligerent with her former all-star author. During this time, Allison continued to make periodic appearances, most often after Ellenore was well into her second bottle of wine. Ellenore finally decided to forgive her old friend and since then, had started to appreciate the company.

On one such night as the two of them sat around the kitchen table, Ellenore broke one of her few remaining cardinal rules and opened a third bottle of wine for the day.  She told Allison her plan. I think I just need to come clean with Rachel. Go to her and let her know that my imagination has dried up. Maybe she can give me some ideas what I can do about it.

Really? That’s the best you can come up with? Allison replied, a look of disgust on her face. That’s a terrible idea. She’ll drop you like a hot potato, and then where will you be? No, I have a better idea. Do you want to hear it?

Ellenore started to pour another glass of wine from the new bottle, then, realizing the glass wouldn’t hold still, took a swig straight from the bottle. I guess.

How many books have you written and had published? Before Ellenore could answer, Allison rushed on. Dozens, right? All romances and all have done well. You’ve got everything that you need right there on your computer.

Ellenore, who was having trouble focusing on her friend’s words, asked, I do?

Sure you do. Listen, all you need to do is take one of those old stories and use it as a template for this next one. Change the names of the characters, maybe a few details about them. Change the setting a bit if you want. But it’s all there. You don’t need any imagination that way.

Ellenore thought about Allison’s idea. Could it be that simple? Just take an old story and change the names and setting. Slowly, she started to shake her head. No, that wouldn’t be right. That would be like plag...plager...plagiarizing my own work, she said, then hiccuped.

Who cares? Your readers won’t. Neither will Rachel. Just give them what they want—another piece of drivel that’ll make them happy.

I don’t know...it’s just not right. Ellenore mumbled as she lowered her head to the table. Not right...not right... she repeated over and over as she drifted off to sleep.

She awoke the next morning with a stiff neck from her head resting on the kitchen table at an odd angle. She rubbed her eyes in an effort to clear them as she stumbled up to make a pot of coffee.