Lupus In Fabula

Lupus In Fabula

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LUPUS IN FABULA

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PHIL’S LODGING HOUSE

PHIL’S LODGING HOUSE

I.

“PHIL’S LODGING HOUSE, LIGHTS ON 24/7! DIAL 9-223 FOR ROOM SERVICE,” a handwritten typewriting paper on the wall informed. “WE HAVE STEAK AND COFFEE. PLEASE DO CHECK OUR MENU UNDER THE TABLE! AFFORDABLE PRICES. NO ALCOHOL FOR MINORS.”

He reached out for the phone, positioned a finger on the button labeled “9,” then hesitated. No steaks for tonight, coffee or anything else the dipshit menu offers.

He sat on the single bed and glanced at the clock, a freebie from a fastfood joint with the logo as background for hands.

Too late for sleep now.

He looked at his erect, salmon-colored dick, its head gleaming like a motherfucking crystal ball set against the glare of an ornate bedside lamp. He started on the shaft and stroked his otherwise rare boner. He tried to recall her, when she was naked with him and her nipples were hard and she was wearing one of those little panties with tulip prints, one that would remind you of virginity and youth and innocence found and lost.

He tried to remember how wet she was underneath that prepubescent-looking underwear despite her rejecting pleas, how she slowly took the precious undergarment off and moved on top of him sans tears.

He looked at his penis again, but now it has become limp and flaccid, as if his balls were lilac. His palms and armpits were now wet with perspiration, as moist as that cunt he has brought into flights of fancy upon his bald skull.

Then he curled up, stared at his proud, shiny, sharp police badge, set it aside, went into full fetal position, and allowed his tear ducts to just fuck it and go.

Please, she will come back. She will. She knows where you are.

He cried the whole night away, cried until he imagined his tears were blood, cried for himself and what he had lost.

II.

The front desk clerk, Jimmy, chewed his already-cracked lip. He looked nervous, so nervous that he felt like defecating and pissing and laughing simultaneously.

“I’m sorry Ma’am, but there’s no Arnie Sunday in here,” he tried again, hoping that this predatory-looking witch of a woman in front of him would not eat his face or gouge out his eyes or cut off his lisping tongue, as her nose was millimeters away from his.

“I know he’s here and I know you’re hiding him,” the witch screamed. “Regular customer, hah! I know it. I know and you fucking know. So get him out. I want to see my fucking husband. I want to fucking see that bastard!”

Jimmy cringed at that last word, the syllables stretched and sounded like “baaaaahhhhs-teeeerd!,”  too high-pitched for effect. He looked around for Phil, the lodging house’s owner, scanning the place for the trademark bowler hat and a pipe forever imbibed in a mustache-covered mouth, but there’s no help but God.

“WHERE THE FUCKING HELL IS HE?” The banshee wailed.

“Easy here, he’s just a kid.”

Jimmy met the eyes of his savior, the mighty Phil. He gave him a weak smile.

“What do we have here?” Phil asked. Then, realizing he seemed impolite, he cleared his throat. “Good morning, madame. May I help you?”

The woman took a step backward, finally allowing Jimmy to breathe, and gave him a look Jimmy can only describe as that of an agitated alpha male gorilla, if you’ve ever seen one bare its teeth and its huge powerful mouth.

“Look, Mister, my daughter has been missing for a week, and I know Arnie’s been nailing some filthy tramp in this shithole, so you see, do you understand what kind of situation this is? Do you have any idea? Do you even own a fucking heart, Mister? A soul, perhaps?” The woman screeched throughout the tirade, but calmer otherwise.

Then she took a long breath, fixed the topmost button of her blouse, slipped a calling card, walked away and while slamming the door shut, she muttered something Jimmy didn’t understand, but Jimmy knew that she was on the verge of tears and wished he had more patience.

III.

She stretched her legs and leaned them against the wall, circles of cigarette smoke floating like bubbles from her mouth. She looked at him, asleep and tired and drained, while she’s all alive and alert, if a little bit dazed in the afterglow.

She ran her finger through his arm, felt his veins.  He stirred. She puffed. He’s still. She’s fucked. Big time. Big fucking time, because screw it, Mom doesn’t know and care what Daddy’s doing but yes, Daddy loves beautiful Lily, so he said every time he whispers in her ear and caresses her thighs and her pussy and her budding breasts and her stomach and her hair.  Daddy knows the law, Daddy knows her skin and bones and beauty. It hurt, yes, and it’s confusing, and it felt good, and it doesn’t feel right but oh Lily knows no one can love her like her Daddy can. But no, Daddy can’t know about Michael. She’d die for Michael, but she’d kill for Daddy.

Fuckity fuck, fuckity fuck, suck my pussy kiss my cunt. I ain’t coming home Ma, I’m hitting home run with my Pa. Fuckity fuck, fuckity fuck, my boyfriend’s got a sick lollipop. But boys oh boys will hurt me so, boys oh boys will say I’m a ho. So fuckity fuckity fuck, Daddy’s gonna make their nuts pop. 

Lily squeezed Michael’s arm for the nth time, then seeing no response, she let go. No, she can’t run away with him, not when she doesn’t believe his crap he called love. No, and if she did, and whether he breaks her heart or not Daddy will find him and hurt him either way. No, no man is good enough for her. They’re all the same. They all want to love you and hurt you. Just like Daddy. No, Daddy’s different, he loves Lily. No.

No, she wants to reject love. She wants to be loved. She wants him. She wants him not. She loves him, hates him. Loves Michael and Daddy, hates them both. Men.  What does the world know?

The ceiling and walls, both white and pure though old, stared at her as she stared back.

She has to run. Not with Michael. Not with anyone. Alone.

She picked up her favorite tulip printed panties, wore them, wore all that could cover her soul and youth and being.  She kissed Michael briefly, headed for the door, determined, turned on the ignition in her car, thought of a place to spend the night, somewhere comfortable, somewhere men could see for what she really is, somewhere –

she turned left and headed for Phil’s.

Fuckity fuckity fuck, fear is but a powerful enemy. Fuckity fuckity fuck, Father, forgive me for I have sinned.

(c) 2012

Vivien Marie A. Lopez

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THE BUZZ OF THE BEAN

THE BUZZ OF THE BEAN
5.14.2012 

The barista came without a word but with a smile, and gingerly placed the steaming cup of coffee creation in the man’s table. 

The man, perhaps in his late forties, blindly reaches for the java elixir and transferred it to his right. He lit a Fortune, took a long drag, and gazed at nothing. He then stirred his drink, sipped, then brought the cancer stick back to his lips and let out a cloud of secondhand harmful gases as everyone else in the coffee shop did.

Everyone else, who consisted of a pair of girl friends, a father and his daughter, a posse of hipsters, a collection of suit-types, and a trio of white-haired folks – they were all confined in their personal bubbles bordered by their chosen spots, indifferent.

Different tables, different worlds, light years away, same galaxy. It’s a hodgepodge of personalities laid back to make room for caffeinated conversations.

The ones overheard (or unintentionally eavesdropped) told tales of work, school, friends, celebrities, random gossip, endeavors, trips, love, sex, music, dreams, and a whole lot of what happened yesterday or last week.

The forty-ish man, on the other hand, remained mute in his thoughts, a loner in the midst of a hive of subdued hyperactivity. As the bees went on with their honeys, he took one last puff from his dying Fortune, extinguished it, gulped the abyss of his coffee, stood and left.

I watched him walk out of Coffee Station, wondering about his silent soliloquy and observation, wondering if he did gaze at nothing or at everything, if he left because he was alone, if he needed to be somewhere else, if there is nothing here to look at except for the bean-fueled non-spectacle, if he saw that this is where you catch people in their vulnerable best, usually in the comfort of the impenetrable vacuum of time when the cup touches one’s lips and the flavor kisses one’s tongue, because the coffee experience is personal, because coffee discourses are meant to be cool and calm, because coffee is not meant to be rushed, because coffee breaks are a leisure, because there are people who cannot live without coffee, because —

I stopped the tracks of my pen, and looked at the ice cubes melting in my mocha in which a sea of transparency has formed between coffee and ice, like oil on water, glanced at my cauterized Marlboro Menthol, and knew that my conquest was lost. I put a fresh stick unto my mouth, wiggled my stirrer, took a noisy sip while I gazed at nothing.

 

Written @ Coffee Station, Robinson’s Place Bacolod

Vivien Marie Lopez

(c) 2012

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MISSING: Mr. Peanut

Mr. Peanut
May 11, 2011
Vivien Marie Lopez

Once upon a time, there was a little scaly creature named Mr. Peanut. He’s the one who named himself, not because he loves peanuts, but because he thinks that the gonads he eats taste like them. It doesn’t matter if it’s a bird or a flower, he just devours them, because food knows no gender.

One would wonder why his diet, of all things, extends to such yuckery. To be truthful, even I, a friend of Mr. Peanut, does not know. All I know is that he was born out of the traumatic screams of the nightmares of children whose genitals were violated, children who were threatened to be castrated, children who were envious of penises, children who were lied to about the birds and the bees.

Should you see him somewhere, give me a call.  An e-mail, perhaps. I used to cage him but he preferred to be free, and I let him be. But it has been so many years and I want to check if he’s still alive. If he still eats.

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(c) 2011

Three Toasts from The Year 2003

1. Little Emma 

Vivien Marie Lopez

I first met her when I saw her sitting and crying at my favorite spot in our school garden. When I asked why, she told me she was hungry but she didn’t have any money left. Her luck. I was supposed to hang out with my group at the Pizza Galley, but I begged off to see my boyfriend- only to find out that he had basketball practice. So I bought her ice cream, and while we sat together, she told me stuff about herself and instantly we became friends.

She came from the middle school at the other block. She’s only nine years old, quite petite for her age, and she was fun. I never really liked kids, actually, but she’s different. She talked and thought like a grown-up: mature.

Her name was Emma.

The following days we talked together every afternoon, if I’m not with my friends. They thought I was crazy. It was hard picturing out the campus hottie together with a little girl. I told them to say whatever they want. Emma might want my opinion for fashion and dating tips; she might grow up into a lovely chick.

“You don’t understand, Summer,” my boyfriend, Jagger, objected. We were near the basketball court, arguing again.

“No- it’s you who doesn’t understand,” I shot back. “Why would you always act like that? I’m sick of you being jealous.”

“Summer, I don’t want anyone to take advantage of you,” he snapped. He grasped my shoulders with both hands.

I threw my hands up and whisked his hands away. “Take advantage? Are you out of your mind?” My voice cracked a little.

“Maybe I am,” he said bitterly. “And if you don’t want to listen, fine. Go out with Jake. Go with him and let him screw you.” He glared at me and then turned his back. He left without even looking back.

I slapped my forehead and ran my fingers down my hair in surrender. God. I loved Jagger so much, but he’s just nuts in keeping me for himself. He thought he owned me. We have already discussed this a million times before, but now look at us.

I headed for the garden, my sanctuary. I don’t want to go anywhere too noisy. And I needed someone to talk to.

A hand tugged my tank top. “Hey!” I cried, startled. I spun around.

“You look ready to cry,” Emma commented. She crossed her arms.

“You scared me,” I confessed. I noticed she was wearing the shirt I’ve given her for her birthday. She looked really cute.

We settled down the bench. I buried my face into my hands, and for a while we were silent. Finally, I looked up and she said, in a low murmur, “You can share it with me, Summer.”

I straightened up and tucked my hair behind my ears. I let out a long sigh.

“But if you won’t,” she added quickly, “I saw it all, anyway. That guy’s a jerk.”

I chuckled softly at her comment. “Right.” I shifted my position. “I want to cry, Emma. Honestly.”

“Told ‘ya,” she said. “It’ll pass. I’ve seen those situations in those corny movies.” She looked at me, made a face, and smiled.

“I hope so.” I forced a smile back. “But I won’t cry now, thanks to you.”

“I love you, Summer,” she said.

“I love you too, Emma,” I replied. “You’re a real friend.”

“Well, now that you have told me what happened and if you’ll just always tell me how you feel, you don’t have to be sad anymore,” she said.

I did not see Jagger the next day. Who cares?

Well, I did. I just hated to admit it. I missed him, and I wanted so much to see him. Just a glimpse of his damn, mesmerizing face.

My prayer was granted just before I stepped out the classroom at the end of last period.

“Summer Sheldon,” Mr. Farren, our Math teacher, called. “I got something for you. He held out two sheets of paper.

I took them, and saw that it was homework for tomorrow. “But I already got a copy,” I protested.

“No, that’s for Jagger,” he said. “I know you knew him. If you could just give it-”

“Sure,” I agreed immediately. I was about to shout, “Yes!” but it would be embarrassing. “Sure.”

“I’ll give you extra credit,” he offered.

I climbed down my Porsche and drove through Parkside Drive. The long way to Jagger’s. Why? I guess I just wanted to think about what to say when I get there. I don’t want a lousy conversation later. He might still be angry.

Wait- I haven’t told Emma I’ll be away. Gosh. She might be waiting for me the whole afternoon. Where was she, anyway? I haven’t seen her. If I had, I would not have forgotten to tell.

I parked my car a few houses away from Jagger’s. I didn’t want him to know I drove all the way through.

I nervously walked towards his house. My hands were cold. Brr. What if he’ll reject me? No… definitely no. He’s crazy over me. He’s just overreacting.

His parents’ Sedan was nowhere to be found. They probably had a business trip.

I pressed the doorbell and waited. My hands clutched the papers carefully, tightly, that it ached. I pressed again. After several minutes that no one answered, I went in myself.

He wasn’t in the den. Nor in the kitchen or in the pool. I headed upstairs.

The sound of cold water was crisp, absolutely clear. Great. So he was in the shower.

I knocked twice at the bathroom door and got in. The shower curtain was closed. “Hey, Jagger,” I called out. “I brought something. It’s for you. And I have an appointment to keep, so you’d better get out of that shower fast.”

Silence.

“Come on, Jagger.” I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I looked good, perfectly stunning.

“Jagger…” I called out playfully. He still did not answer.

Playing games, huh? “I know you’re there, Jagger. And if you won’t speak, I’ll open the curtain myself,” I threatened. Still silent. I laughed.

Oh, well. He’s in it now. Typical of Jagger, and we do play a lot. “You won’t say anything?” I said out aloud. “Here I come!”

I pulled the shower curtain apart – and screamed.

A chill shriek escaped my throat.

Jagger was lying on his back. Blood was all over him, the water slowly washing it away. His throat was open. I saw flaps of butchered skin in his chest, his abdomen. He was all cut up. And there was a stump of blood clot and a grayish mass above his head, as if a sharp, heavy object had smashed it.

I gagged. “Oh. Oh God… no.” I wanted to embrace him and get him out of here. But I stepped back, scared. The papers crumpled. Hot tears fell down my cheeks.

Jagger – dead. Oh God. This couldn’t be true. But it was.

I felt dizzy. I felt like throwing up, so I clamped a hand on my mouth.

And that’s when I saw the red paint. Or was it blood? Right there on the wall beside the shower. I saw my name, and it caught my attention. I read the words, slowly, trying to absorb everything: So did you get my point, bastard? I warned you before. I told you not to hurt her. But you did. Summer’s mine. I love her so much. I’ve been having fantasies about her. Sometimes, erotic dreams. I’ve been longing to kiss her the way you did when you made out last time. I’ve been wanting to make her mine. I know I can’t. But you hurt her. Call me a maniac. But I love Summer. She’s hot. She’s mine.

I blinked. I felt so sick. Who had written it? Who?

A loud crash followed. I spun around, shocked.

And I saw my boyfriend’s executor. Little Emma, blood all over her clothes – the ones we shopped together last Christmas – a knife in her hand, her eyes staring menacingly at me.

___________________________________________________________________________

I am twenty-nine now, but I can’t ever forget that day. The police never believed me; instead, I was the one who went to jail and spent the rest of my adolescent years there, when I should have been falling in love again, skinnydipping with friends, partying, enjoying youth. Instead, I was plagued with nightmares, and the worst of all, I was plagued with her.

I’m out of the jailhouse now, but she never disappeared in my life. She always calls me her “special friend” and that she’s waiting for me.

She would visit me in my dreams, in my jail cell, outside my apartment, just waiting for me to come with her.

And she never grew up. Still nine years old, still with her big brown eyes. But no, I don’t ever think I find her cute, not anymore.

Oh my god, there she is again, outside my window as I am typing this story.

Maybe I should come with her now, just to end. Or I can put a bullet inside my brain.

After all, I’ve told you about me, and most especially about her. You have been warned.

If you see a nine-year-old girl with jet black hair and brown eyes and…..

(c) 2003

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2. Short Taxi Ride

Vivien Marie Lopez

Written in class, circa highschool

“You really look great in your outfit, Clara,” Mindy Watson commented. She was the richest kid in our school and the president of a VIP’s-only group, Club H. I was one of the members, one of the Big Persons On Campus.

I was dressed in designer flared jeans and a very very cute camouflage tank top.

Marc Holmstein approached me, holding a pizza. “Your party’s so cool,” he said in his cute macho voice. “And you got an enormous house.” He waved a towel in front of me. “Mind swimming with the jock?” Marc actually plays football in our school and his team had won a lot.

“No, thanks.” I adjusted my top. I gave him a flirtatious smile. “The pool’s… crowded.” I looked at our family’s Olympic-size, leaf-shaped pool. Three guys were tossing some Baby Ruth bars around. The Baby Ruths sank down the pool as soon as they hit the water. Then the guys all dived in, trying to get the Baby Ruths back.

“So… I’d better go get some Cokes,” Marc said as he headed for the buffet table. “And, oh, by the way, I want a really hot date next time,” he called over his shoulder. “Invite me, okay?”

I just grinned. Suddenly someone kissed my cheek.

“Hey!” I cried out, startled.

“Nice going, Clara,” my boyfriend Gary McCullough whispered.

I gave him a playful shove. “You pig!” I teased.

He put his arms around my waist and drew me close to him. I placed my hands behind his neck. We kissed. A long, sweet, lingering kiss. “I love you Clara,” he said sheepishly when we finished.

He slowly stroked my hair. I was so lucky to have Gary. Most of the girls have major crushes on him, dying to go out with him. But of course, he’s already taken… by me.

I rested my cheek on his broad chest. I could really feel his warmth, his love… that he really cares for me…

“Claridad!” A voice boomed. “Nanu ka nga timbang ka, gadamgo ka naman! Ga tinamaran ka? Abi panghugas na to plato kay damo ka pa di lalabhan! Si Jessa late na sa school wala mo pa naplantsa iya uniform!” (What kind of a housemaid are you? you’re daydreaming again. are you being lazy? go wash the dishes now, you still got a lot of laundry to do. Jessa’s late in school and you haven’t ironed out her clothes yet!)

Ay teh… guba na man damgo ko. “Oo ma’am, ra na.” (omfg, my daydreaming’s been disturbed again. “yes ma’am, i’m here.”

Kag nagdali-dali man ko ya hukas sang akon hairdo-hairdo kag uba sang bag-o nga t-shirt ni Jessa nga ginhimo ko costume-costume. (And I hurriedly took off my hairdo and Jessa’s new shirt that I used as costume.)

(c) 2003

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3. The Kinder Wicked

Vivien Marie Lopez

I whispered my goodbyes finally
Don’t bother to drive, I’ll get my keys.
(Will you get yours and follow me?)
I know my taillights will give you clues
To where I’ll go when I don’t need you
(That’s what I said, will you stay true?)
And maybe I’m driving with my death
You know the shit and all my secrets
(Will they know what I’ve done or you’ll keep them?)

I won’t stand these games anymore

Will it cost you scars if I’ll be gone?
Will you be honest ’bout having fun?
(I hate it when your friends ask if I gave you some)
I thought I’m safe ’cause I played then too
You got what it takes to make me lose.
(Will you tell them that I’m crazy for you?)
I just don’t know if I can make it
Close to safety intact and in one piece.
(You got my dad’s cell number on your fridge).

And you told me “So far, you’re my best girlfriend.”
Did I get what is stealth or what is honest?
There are a million things I could rather do than “I can be your worst ex.”
Don’t tell me you’ll gamble love, I know I’m the bet.

I saw your phone in your hand and my heart’s in flames.
(I know you’ll wash your hands and point someone else to blame)
I started the engine and you just smoked out at the back of your car
(Why won’t I just drive fast into the far?)
You know i’m trying too hard.
You know YOU’RE trying too hard.

(c) 2003

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Fang Shui

 And I saw him there. He was trying to get away from me after he saw that I didn’t want him to touch me. He was partially hidden in the blue shadows, camouflaged by his dark clothes… but he can never fully hide himself. And I would never forgive him for entering my territory. For discovering my secrets. For capturing me in the act by a camera. I hate people who are like that. People who are too curious about what happens around them. I heard it’s for a documentary, a film showing of how I live. Fuck you. I felt intruded. he has no respect for me. And I must kill him.

     A must. Not really. I wanted to, that’s basically it. For discovering what he knows now, he would be my next victim. He chose a time that he wouldn’t like it at all. The time when I was hungry for flesh and thirsty for blood. Ah. Just the thought of it makes me crave for more.

     I lurked behind him like a murderer. Like a murderer, you say? I am a murderer but it’s by nature, because nature has a way to make things amoral and justified. But I am unlike the others. I eat my victims. I love the taste of viscera and blood and human flesh and blood and bones and blood.

     I saw him turn sideways, panicking.

    This would make this all easy. 

    I was inches before him. Then, in a flash, I grabbed him by the neck. He opened his mouth in a silent scream. His face was distorted, terrified. I wondered how does that feel, for I am with a cold heart, for what I only feel are instinctual cravings and my hostile tendencies. 

    I shook him and shook him. His body convulsed, then went limp. Trick or treat.

   I bit off a huge chuck of skin. He struggled, convulsing again, and the sour tang of red juice floated in my mouth. Then I started to devour him inside out. His guts spilled out. I ripped his veins and crushed his precious organs so I could get the juicy parts. I feasted on his body, chewed carefully.

    Then just as quick as it all started, he was no more but a dismembered body. Headless, his insides scraped off. I left it alone for the small fries to eat, and swam away.

     Small fry. Big fry. Big fish. 

     Satisfied, I went back to my own colony, propelled my fins home, to belong with the other killers, the other sharks.

(c) 2002

Vivien Marie A. Lopez

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SUCKER SPRING DANGER (1998)

Author’s Note: This short story was written when I was ten years old. To the Grammar Police, kindly pardon the errors. 

“Ronald,” Elizabeth Clark called her fourteen-year-old son to buy good in the grocery. It was the season of fall so Elizabeth had to rake all the fallen leaves in their yard. Ronald agreed.

While riding on his bike, Ronald saw a narrow road which he had not seen before. He thought he can find a shortcut there. He followed the road. Minutes passed, but Ronald realized he was just biking in the same place all over again. “Blasting balls! I thought this is a short cut!” He exclaimed. “I’d better go back.”

By the time he turned his bike to go back, he was shocked to find there’s no way out, he was surrounded by high walls. So he just went on the other road. “Let’s see,” Ronald muttered. Suddenly, Ronald bumped on a rock and ended up with a crash. He shook his head as his bike was broken.

“I can’t believe this!” Ronald said. He stopped moving, and he began to panic when he heard a strange noise behind the bush. Somebody’s calling him. “Who- who’s that?” He asked, with his legs shaking as he tried to stand.

Without even a second, a strange, snake-like animal with a magic spring look tied him up the tree, bringing him high. “Whoa!” The monster shaked shook him and swallowed Ronald whole. Ronald landed in the creature’s stomach safely without fracture but lost consciousness.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth was worried. “What’s taking him so long?” She thought. Elizabeth then takes took up her coat and went outside to search for her son.

An hour or so passed and Ronald regained consciousness. “It’s dark and spooky in here,” he said.

“Yuck,” he muttered as he stared at the bulging blood vessels and organs of the creature. He then tried to climb through the esophagus. It’s hard, because it’s slippery. But finally he succeeded. He slowly opened the mouth of the creature. “I’m lucky he’s asleep,” Ronald said to himself then ran away.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth found nobody had seen Ronald, so she managed to go home and just waited. “I hope he is alright,” Elizabeth said.

Ronald saw his broken bike. Beside it was a note. It was a map in how (sic) to get out. And he used it. Finally, he saw the way out and was back in the city headed for the telephone booth. Calling his Mom, he explained what had happened in a fast way.

“I’m going to visit Dr. Dickens, he’s a zoologist and a scientist, Mom. Don’t worry I’ll be alright,” he mumbled.

“Okay,” Elizabeth answered. And they both hung up.

Ronald proceeded to Dr. Dickens. He then explained what had happened. “I’m going to study that creature and keep it in a secured laboratory to stay away from danger,” Dr. Dickens decided. “I’ll take care where we can find it,” Ronald offered. “We’ll meet on Thursday and work on my plan,” Dr. Dickens said. Ronald went back home and Elizabeth hugged and kissed her son.

Ronald told her that he and Dr. Dickens made an agreement to capture Sucker Spring.

“What’s a Sucker Spring?” Elizabeth asked.

“The creature I told you about,” he said.

“Oh no, no my dear. It’s too risky.”

But Ronald tried and tried to convince his mother, and later on it worked.

By Thursday, Ronald is ready. Dr. Dickens and his companions and Ronald headed to the Sucker Spring’s dwelling.

“It’s asleep,” Ronald said. “It’s our chance.”

“Now, Drake, load the creature into the cage carefully. We must not wake it. Just follow my instructions,” Dr. Dickens said to one of his companions. It was a very big cage, for Sucker Spring was 30 feet long. It was a hard time capturing the snoring monster. Hours later and after much difficulty, they all exclaimed “Gotcha!” and succeeded in capturing the creature.

Ronald bid goodbye to Dr. Dickens and went home while the zoologist and his companions placed the Sucker Spring in a secured lab where he studied it. Everyone wondered why Sucker Spring is always sleeping.

(c) 1998 Vivien Marie Lopez

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http://www.officeplayground.com/Assets/ProductPreview/pi1000-1499/1088_rainbowspring_1d.jpg
The inspiration behind Sucker Spring. Yes, a slinky toy.
And this is the original, typewritten, 1998-old “manuscript.”