One Corn.

The Real:

Traffic.


The Imagined:

Nothing but an esophagus of steel down the Saw Mill Parkway.

I hang out of my driver's side window, catching the attention of Mr. Bopping-His-Head next car over.

"Hey!  You know what the traffic's for?"

He leans my way.  "Bunch of unicorns escaped from a wizard's house in Valhalla.  They're all over the Parkway and people are jumpin' out of their cars to round 'em up."

"Isn't that kind of dangerous?"

"Their horns are pure gold, dude."

"Really?"  My hand slips from the wheel.

"Really."  He nods.

"My 401k did really bad this year."

"Mine too."

"But it's probably ASPCA-bsolutely against the law."

"Probably."

It only takes a moment to decide.

I abandon my car like a man with a small prostate heading to the nearest Porta-Potty.

The 'corns are everywhere.  Majestic, white beasts with hooves the size of Portobellos and tails that sparkle like Edward Cullen.  Their snouts are more angular than a horse's; their eyes silver.  And their poop, made of rubies.

I pause to watch the bedlam of commuters trying to tame the beasts, hack their horns off with car keys and Swiss Army knives.

And that's when I realize: I don't want to be them.

Besides, I have plenty of plastic bags in the car.  Rubies were just as valuable as gold, right?  And no one wants to be called a gold digger.

I Claim, Therefore I Am.

The Real:

The bureaucracy of the New York State insurance industry.


The Imagined:

"Thank you for calling Transcendental Esoteric Paranormal Risk Associates Conglomerate, Inc.  For customer satisfaction, some or all of this conversation may be recorded for quality assurance purposes.  If you know the name of the person and/or coven you are trying to reach, please dial their extension, followed by the Pentagram sign."

Pause.

"If you're calling to report a claim, press 1.  If you're calling about payment of your insurance policy, press 2.  If you've been transported to an alternate dimension and would like to activate the Anytime-Any-Dimension clause on your current policy, press 3.  If your appendages have been transfigured into octopus tentacles, please bark into the receiver.  If a dragon is holding you hostage, press 5.  If you'd like to speak to an operator, press 6 or say operator."

"Operator."

"I'm sorry.  I didn't catch that.  If you're calling to report a claim, press 1 - "

"OPERATOR!"

"Okay.  Operator.  Hold please."

Muzak: the works of Paramore as interpreted by an electric keyboard.

"Thank you for holding.  All operators are busy at this time.  Your estimated wait time will be approximately 25 Chronons."

Advertisement: "In these harsh economic times, you need to know that your hard-earned money is put to work protecting you and your loved ones and various magickal kreatures.  Transcendental Esoteric Paranormal Risk Associates Conglomerate, Inc. offers policies to suit all of your Paranormal Risk needs, including Witches' Broom Liability, Second-Chance Neck-Biting Clauses for Vampires, Silver Bullet Life Insurance policies for Werewolves, Fire Insurance for pet Dragons, 24-hour Roadside Assistance and Accident Insurance for Faeries, Flood Insurance for Swamp Monsters, and more!"

"Thank you for calling Transcendental Esoteric Paranormal Risk Associates Conglomerate, Inc., how may I help you?"

"Yes, I was calling to see if this werewolf cure I purchased was covered."

"Was it bought at an approved pharmacy?"

"A faerie."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but if the vendor is not a part of our Trusted Terrors network we cannot reimburse for the cure at this time."

"I better buy him a life insurance policy then.  Because I'm gonna kill him."

Under the Stairs.

The Real:

Reading on the front steps.




The Imagined:

Mid-day Wednesday in suburban New Jersey belongs to the housewives; the children; the lawn sprinklers.  Good time to get some reading done.

I'm on the outside stairs when I hear a grumble.  A loogie the size of J-Lo's ass shoots onto the front lawn.

"Ew."

"Sorry," a voice says.  It's coming from underneath me - and it's not the Welcome mat.

I look under the stairs.  The space we use for garbage and recyclables has been commandeered by an ogre.  Think Marlon Brando in The Godfather with a pus issue.

The ogre's got a Team Edward bed sheet caping his shoulders, and a pillow pressed between his warty shoulder and the basement wall.

"You all right?" I ask him.

His long-nailed hand wipes snot from his upper lip.  (What I think is his upper lip.)  "I've got the worst cold," he tells me.  "It's been a week.  I've had to call out sick at Hot Topic."

"Yeah, I'm out sick too."

"Cold?"

"Werewolf bite.  But I've been cured for the most part."

"Good on you."  He hocks another loogie.  This one lands on the neighbor's dog.

"Sorry, Duke!" I yell.

The dog scampers away with his tail  between his legs.

"What are you reading?" the ogre asks me.

"The Maze Runner."

"Is it any good?"

"Beyond excellent.  You want to hear some?"

"Sure."

He leans his head on the pillow and shuts his eyes.  I've got him asleep in five minutes, and promise to leave the rest of Ant Faerie's olive oil out for him.

Just goes to show that sick days aren't fun for anyone.  Even ogres.

The Remedy.

The Real:

Second visit to the ER for an ear infection.
Two pharmacies later.
At last, a cure.



The Imagined:

No one talks about the unpleasantness of waking up in the morning with rabbit stuck in your teeth, blood in your hair, and a $20,000 internet purchase of a diamond-studded collar on eBay.

Oh, the life of a werewolf.

It didn't take long to realize that it wasn't for me. I needed an out. Fast.

I went back to the hospital. The doctor leans in close:

"Don't tell anyone I told you, but there is a cure."

"Really? Percocet didn't help, if that's what you're going to tell me."

He shakes his head. "No, no. This is more backwoods. Trust me. Ancient ritual of some Bayou witch doctors. They don't teach you that kind of stuff at Harvard."

"You went to Harvard?" I ask.

"I have an online degree, but that's neither here nor there. Do you want the cure?"

"Lay it on me, doc."

"What you need to do is cut out the heart of the werewolf that bit you. Use a silver knife. And then eat it."

"Eat the knife?"

"No. Eat the heart. I hear it tastes lovely on a bed of wild rice with red wine sauce."

I set out for the local pharmacy. One look at my extra-hairy arms and ears, and they know what I'm after.

"Werewolf cure?" the pharmacist says. "We're all out of silver knives. I've had two requests already today. Try the Rite-Aid."

Rite-Aid hooks me up with a silver knife and an added bonus: sale on Nair for my hairier-than-normal legs.

I head to the woods and track my wolf-man. It's a big surprise to see an ex-boyfriend camped out under a pine tree.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him.

"Oh. Hi. Listen, about what happened between us..."

"Is that blood on your lip?" I notice.

He quickly wipes it away. And that's when I realize -

"You're the wolf that bit me."

"Well, I didn't do it on purpose!"

"Heart. Now."

He was never a good wrestler. I eat the heart without the benefit of a 500-degree oven and a shallow baking pan.

It tastes like a bad dose of cotton candy I'd eaten once on Coney Island.

And it doesn't work. I can still opt for the four-legged run at the snap of a finger.

"What now?" I yell to the heavens.

And the heavens answer back. "Everyone knows eating the heart doesn't do a thing."

I flip around to see a faerie in an algae-green tutu.

"Ant Faerie? What are you doing here?"

He steps forward. "Woodhenge isn't as lucrative as I thought. I'm into werewolf cures now. Hear you're looking for one." He tosses me a bottle of olive oil. "Pour the whole thing into your ear, you'll be good as new."

"Really?"

"And two-hundred dollars for me."

I shake my head. "Nuh-uh. Not again."

He puts his hands up. "Fine. Try it out first and I'll stop by in the morning."

"But why olive oil?"

He winks. "Liquid gold, baby. Anything with that many uses has to be a cure for something."

And he's right.  Looks like Miss Solodow can get back to work.

Bite Me.

The Real:

Visit to the ER for an ear infection.



The Imagined:

Check in at the ER.

"What's your emergency?" the attending nurse asks.

"I think a werewolf bit me."

She looks up, her lips parting, and then sighs. "Not another one. I'll need your driver's license and insurance card."

"President Obama says he'll cover it," I tell her.

"Nice try. Sit over there, please." She motions to the clown-fish orange waiting room chairs. The nearby vending machines hum and I crave a Kit-Kat.

Too bad the werewolf broke a piece off of me instead of the candy bar.

I sit. I wait. My shirt becomes a giant gauze pad. They strap an ID bracelet to my wrist and pop me on a cot that's my own personal whoopie cushion.

The doc enters. I think he was in my high school class.

"What seems to be the problem?" He's looking right at the part of my neck that's no longer a part of my neck.

I still have to tell him. "Werewolf bite."

"In the woods alone?"

"I like the quiet."

He jots notes on his clipboard. "Size of the wolf?"

"Not as big as Jacob in Twilight. Lon Chaney-sized?"

He nods. "And how are you feeling? Canine at all?"

"I can't feel my legs. Is that bad?"

He checks my pupils with a flashlight pen. "Yep, you're definitely turning slightly yellow. Have you had any cravings of raw meat since you've been here?"

"Kit-Kat."

"You wanted to eat a cat?"

"You can literally stick a fist through the gash in my neck. Are you guys gonna, like, sew me up or something?"

He shakes his head. "I wouldn't recommend doing tests this early in the game. Why don't you just keep an eye on it and come on back if your condition worsens." He slips a business card from his clipboard and hands it over. "That's a Lupine Hotline. If you have rapid hair-growth or start stealing your dog's rawhides, give them a call."

"That's it?"

"Do you want antibiotics? I have antibiotics."

"No, that's all right. I always wanted to be part of a fantasy franchise, anyway."

The Ghost and Ms. Solodow.

The Real:

Late-night attic noises.



The Imagined:

Most people think rabid raccoon or old plumbing when it comes to noises in the attic. I head up there thinking ghost.

And I'm right.

"Can I help you?" I ask the ghost.

He's elbows-deep in a box of second hand English lit. "Oh. I'm sorry. Was I making noise?"

"Do you have a permit to haunt up here?"

He stands straight, letting a copy of Jane Eyre clunk to the floor. "Oh, well, no, to be honest. I'm sorry. It's just that I have nowhere else to go. I tried a job as deckhand on Charon's boat - you know, the guy who carries newly-dead souls across the River Styx? But I get seasick - ."

"You mean, river-sick," I correct.

"And my modeling career was a total bust."

"Your hair lip?" I ask.

"Most people can't see me."

"Oh."

"So I just haven't made much money lately. Permits can get expensive. I'm so sorry. I was drawn here by all these books." He motions to my collection of "fancy books", as I call them. The books that would make me the kind of erudite that I'd dreamed of being since I was little girl.

Twilight and Harry Potter had kept me from it.

"Have you read all these?" he asks.

"Uh, no, I just take them downstairs when guests are here."

"Do you mind if I stay for a while?"

I shrug. "Guess not. Just put 'em back. And make sure you keep Jane Austen away from the Bronte clan. They tend to fight."

I head back downstairs. Big Sis is making a sandwich.

"Oh, Elena," she says. "There's an inspector upstairs in the attic. He's just checking some of the pipes."

"You mean the ghost?"

"The who?"

"I thought there was a ghost up there. He didn't have a permit but I let him stay."

"Your imagination getting the better of you again?"

"I should really get that checked."

"Probably."

Woodhenge.

The Real:

Archaeologists discover a wooden version of Stonehenge.
Sandwiches in a can.


The Imagined:

Clerical boredom. Cubicles. Coffee in K-Cups. Cancerous computer screens. The one internet pop-up that breaks the firewall:

"Visit Stonehenge in the snap of a finger! Just dial extension ANT in the next five minutes and receive a free lunch package in addition to your trip!"

My phone's at my elbow. A-N-T translates numerically to 2-6-8.

Why the hell not?

ANT answers after a ring. "Travel Faerie - Your Ticket to Wonderland and a free lunch, how may I help you, Miss Solodow?"

"Wow, you know my name."

"And your Social Security."

"What?"

"It's okay. A lot of people are diagnosed with social anxiety. Medication is the natural security to a hormonal problem. And lots of Coors Light, of course."

"Right."

"I have the perfect trip for you, Miss Solodow," the faerie says.

"Oh yeah?"

"And it's a mere two-hundred dollars."

"I think they refer to that as a massive two-hundred dollars."

"Fine," he snaps. "One-fifty then. But you'll have to meet me in the supply room right now or you'll miss your flight."

"Right now?"

He hangs up the phone.

"Another hit of caffeine. You want?" I ask my coworker as I pass his desk.

"I'm good," he answers.

The supply room contains a wealth of letterhead, pencils, correction tape, and rubber bands. Also one faerie.

His algae-green tutu doesn't hide the beer gut. The matching glitter on his face isn't enough to detract from his five o'clock shadow. His head is level with my kneecap.

"You're the Travel Faerie?" I ask.

"See any other verdant mystical creatures around, sweetheart?"

"I think my boss might be a demon - but he only looks green when he eats sushi at the mall."

"Well, I'm the real deal," the faerie grunts. "My name is Ant Faerie."

"Ant Faerie? Aren't you supposed to be a Godmother?"

"You got the money?" he ignores me.

"Check all right?"

"With valid ID."

I sign and date my one-hundred and fifty dollar promise and he secures it inside his tutu.

"Take my hand." He offers his calloused palm.

One touch of my fingers to his and we're elsewhere, the else being not-in-the-storage-closet anymore, the where being a forest glade, smack dab in the center of which is what appears to be firewood stood on end in a circle, capped with more firewood for a roof, and another three pieces of firewood in the center, one of which has fallen over.

"What's this?" I say.

"This is Woodhenge," the faerie says proudly.

"Woodhenge?" I cross my arms and frown. Suddenly I hear cars behind us. Through the trees I can see the belt of Route 287. "I thought Stonehenge was in England."

"It is, but this is Woodhenge, the original Stongehenge!"

"Built in New York?"

"Isn't it lovely?"

I look closer. "Is that chewing gum holding the firewood together?"

"Very old, ancient chewing gum! They called it mouth rubber back in the old days."

"You know what? I'll just take my free lunch and my hundred-fifty back."

"No returns," he shakes his head.

"Then take me to the real Stonehenge."

"Do you know how much faerie dust it takes to get to England nowadays? Humans weren't the only ones affected by the recession, you know. I've got to make money somehow."

I sighed. "Fine. Just give me the free lunch then."

From the bodice of his tutu he removes a can and tosses it over.

It's not a soda. It's a chicken sandwich.

"What's this?" I ask.

"Newest craze. They call it the Candwich."

I toss it back to him. "Ground chicken parts aren't my thing, but thanks." I head toward 287.

"Where are you going?"

"I got work to do, Antie."

"But wait!" He runs after me.

I turn. "What?"

"I have a prophecy for you!"

"A prophecy."

"You are The One, Miss Solodow."

"What one?"

"The One. I can tell you the whole prophecy, but I'll need another one-fifty."

I pondered. "Is it a paying gig?"

"More like you'll get special powers and be the only person who can save a world full of mystical creatures who hate you but then accept you once you overcome a villain who likes to rub his hands together a lot."

"Eh. I'll stick with insurance," I shrug, and head back to the office.


Woodhenge: http://www.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/europe/07/22/britain.stonehenge.discovery/index.html

Candwich: http://markonefoods.com/

Storm's a comin'.

The Real:

2 cars pulled over.
Rain.
Cheerleading declared a non-sport.


The Imagined:

I meet Dagger Red at exit 14A on Route 287. He's a chain-smoking gorilla with thorns tattooed on his arms; blood inked to his wrists. He's got a car straight from the junk heap, the trunk held closed with neon orange bungee cable.

He removes it and the vampire inside Jack-in-the-Boxes it out of there. He sees my vehicle first, me second.

"Very good upgrade," he says. I know he's talking about me, and not my car: state-of-the art Caveman technology. Lift the hood, I swear you'll see a boulder and a bunch of peddling hominids to keep it turning.

"Pop it," the vampire orders, and I pace to the back of my car, insert the key and lift the trunk lid.

He climbs in, settles into a fetal position and I close up shop.

"Long way to drive with a vampire," Red says. "I won't drive 'em over four hours."

I say nothing. I don't talk to other Buggies as a rule. All they see is money. All they say is manipulation.

Red watches me position behind the wheel. He's got a fresh cigarette behind his ear, another one wasting away between his lips.

I join in the parkway parade, heading North. Vampire's going to Nova Scotia. I'll drop him on the Niagara border and let a Maple-Lover take him the rest of the way. Vamps can be in the sun - just not for long. Car trunks keep 'em safe on their daytime journeys, leave them free to work the nighttime like a hooker paid in blood.

They don't eat Buggies. I was assured of that before I took the job.

"I can smell a storm," a voice says.

My head spins one-eighty. The vamp has pushed the back seat down, leaving a clear view from the trunk.

"What'd you do?" I snap.

"Latch must be broken," he says. "It only took a push."

I curse. "Pull it up."

"This trunk's very small. I prefer electrician's vans with tinted back windows."

"Pull it up. Now."

"Storm's coming. I might be able to crawl out of here once there's cloud cover."

"You want me to pull over?" I tilt the rearview down to watch him.

"It's the latch," he says. "The seat won't stay up."

"Then cross your fangs and don't talk to me."

"Ah. Here's the rain."

And he's right. The drops hit my windshield. I wake the wipers. You're supposed to lower your speed in rain. I urge the gas pedal on, eager for the border.

"Where are you from?" he asks.

I don't answer, pushing seventy-five, then eighty.

"The other Buggie's radio said cheerleading doesn't qualify as a sport. All that jumping and rolling - you'd think it would be."

Eighty-five.

"I can jump twenty feet in the air, you know," he says. "But I wouldn't fit in one of those little skirts. It's a shame."

My rearview's tilted too far to notice the cop behind me. I see his tri-colored lights in the sideview mirror.

I pull over with a curse. "Pull the seat up!" I hiss to the back.

"Hm," is all he says.

The cop taps on my window. I roll it down. His face is pudgy and pink.

"You realize how fast you were going, miss?" he asks.

"Uh..."

Then the cop's eyes find the back seat. The back seat where the vampire has pulled himself half-out of the trunk, sprawled over the back seat like a dead body. I realize I'm doomed. He's a jokester, enjoying himself. I know he'd give me a fang-filled smile if he wasn't playing possum.

I curse again.

"Stay in the car, ma'am," the cop orders, and he calls for back-up. The back door squeaks open. His two fingers find the vampire's pulse. Or lack of it.

Most humans don't know about vampires. Certainly not cops. In the real world, I've got a dead man in my back seat.

"Out of the car please, ma'am."

The cop's cautious with me. Was I taking this guy to the hospital?

No.

Was he dead when I found him?

No.

Who is he?

I don't know.

He handcuffs me as a "precaution". In this storm, the vampire can play dead for quite some time, then scamper off and find another transport easy once they've hauled me away for suspected murder.

Boy, did I love vampires with an immortally sick sense of humor.


Anti-Cheerleading: http://www.ksdk.com/news/national/story.aspx?storyid=208668

I would go to Hell for this book.

Everyone knows the doorway to Hell is under your bed. When your mom tells you to look there for whatever you're missing, it's never there, is it? That's 'cause the Devil took it.

I was tired of querying. Tired of bad crits and form rejections. I wanted to be published. It was time to go to Hell.

What do you wear to a pitch meeting with the Devil? Create your own personal torment: a pair of Crocs, spandex, and a Miley Cyrus t-shirt.

He's on his throne, of course, all intimidating. There's no seat for me. No refreshments offered. I have to speak up over all the eternally tortured surrounding us (though thankfully hidden from view behind a silk screen).

"Yes?" The Devil's got a voice like Dick Cheney. A nose like him too.

"Um. I'm here to get my book published. I heard you could do that sort of thing for a price."

I offer the manuscript to him.

"Don't give me what I didn't request," the Devil snaps. "What's your hook?"

"Oh, well, in this magic land called Zenibar, there's this old tribe of people who can sort of change into invisible and - ."

"Never mind. Give me the pages."

The Devil's got arms like a Super-Vac. He doesn't have to leave his throne to snatch my life's work away. The pages singe between his fingers. He skims page after page. Smoke rises from my words. (Yes, they're that good - or it's just his high body temperature burning the ink.)

"Hm. Not bad," the Devil finally says.

"So you'll publish it?"

"What kind of platform do you have?"

"Like a soapbox?"

He snaps his fingers. "A blog. Facebook. Are you tweet-savvy? Come on, now! Who do you think gave Al Gore the idea for the internet?"

"Oh, well...my mom really likes it."

"It won't do." He tosses my book to the floor where flames promptly eat them.

"That was my only copy!"

"Well, it's in Heaven now."

"Oh."

"But don't head up there without reading the entry requirements. God hates Spam."

Dead Days.

The Real:

Up Early.
Slipped on wet stairs.
Co-worker disciplined.
Water filtration systems.
Endangered monkeys.
Almost-car-crash.
Swedish meatballs.
Fire Alarms.


The Imagined:

Up Early. Gunshots outside of my window. Must be the zombies again. They love suburban Jersey.

My neighbor ended one on our patio last night. The steps are slick with bile. Of course I trip. Of course I'm wearing a new skirt. I cut my leg. There's blood. Not good.

Make it to the car. Tourniquet the leg with my shirt sleeve and hope there's enough gas in the tank. Stopping isn't an option this morning. Radio promises a day of the dead. I wonder what set the frenzy off this time.

Go to the office. Raid the First-Aid and limp to my desk. Plenty of new claims. Plenty of new business. Zombies destroy property; take lives. People need insurance, of course. I sell it to them.

Days like this, zombies free-ranging down the local streets; we stay inside. Stores close. My Assistant tries to get a fresh bagel, anyway. One of the cleverer of the walking-dead follows him back to the office.

I'm glad we've got good coverage. I smash its head in with the new carbon-filtered water cooler. Guess we're drinking from the tap this week.

Local news reports: man's zombie monkeys escaped last night. They led the undead into suburban territory. The owner kept 'em as guard dogs of a sort. Leash a couple to his front porch and thieves didn't dare.

Guess he'll need to get some real dogs now. If there are any left uneaten.

Heading home. Garden State Parkway's a mess of the dismembered dead, torn apart by the noses of passing Priuses and Escalades. Several almost-crashes later, I'm home and hungry.

There's zombie flesh in the streets. I prefer hamburger meat. Cook up some meatballs. Set off a few fire alarms in the apartment. I can hear the zombies coming, alerted by the sound. I ditch the meatballs and lift the frying pan.

Here we go again.