We no more than pull into the circular drive at the entrance to the monolith that is our hotel, than we are flanked by a smiling bellman at each of our three doors. I hit the automatic unlock, and the men in red-and-gold jackets – a bit like marching band participants, but that’s okay – offer each of us the crook of their sturdy arms.

        I notice that Jane immediately gives her young boy goo-goo eyes and a blatant, greedy squeeze of his bicep, followed by a rub across his unlined cheek. He melts my heart by freezing an indulgent smile at the perverted old bat.

        No tip could possibly be big enough compensation for his having pulled the short straw as Jane’s attendant.

        The bearded, inky-eyed bellman whose arm I’m holding asks, “Are your bags in the trunk?”

        I smile and nod, and he gestures toward my key fob. “May I?” All I’m missing at this perfect moment in time is elbow-length silk gloves and a diamond tiara.

        A fourth bellman is already waiting in front of our trunk, beside a hefty golden baggage trolley. “Um, may we have one more trolley, please?” I ask him with a big, warm smile. Pointing like a prosecutor at Jane, I say, “Because she’s not actually with us.”

        “Certainly!” the trunk monitor says and disappears through the revolving door.

        Gretchen gapes at me. “How will I be able to go back to life on the Outer Banks after THIS kind of pampering?”

        “You two are such PEEEEEEEONNNNNS!” says Jane. “Every day of my LIIIIIIIIIIIIFE is like this!”

        “And doesn’t that just explain SOOO very MUUUUUUCH!” I hear myself retort before I have a chance to put a filter in place.

        Inky Eyes takes Gretchen and me to a special elevator and, as the doors swoosh together, he swipes a fob past a digital reader. Gretchen gives me a quizzical look, and I return a mischievous smile.

        It takes a bit, but finally the doors swoosh open, and we step directly into our penthouse suite. Twenty-two floors up, all we can see through the non-stop windows is blue skies and frothy white clouds. Not even one bird is up this high.

        “Nooooo!” Gretchen gasps. “What?”

        “I saved when I was young so that I could splurge when I was old,” I say. “That’s now.”

        Inky Eyes wheels our bags toward the bedrooms as Gretchen meanders the expansive hallway toward the living room. An enormous white stone fireplace is the focal point, offset by sleek white couches on three sides. A low slate coffee table, topped with champagne glasses, a bucket full of ice and a magnum of Dom Perignon beckon.

        “Shall I?” asks Inky Eyes as he extracts the bottle and wipes it off with a flourish.

        “Please!” I say.

        After an expert popping of the cork, he hands us each a flute and pours. We toast our arrival and savor the bubbles as they tap dance their way down the hatch.

        “Come choose your room,” I say to Gretchen, and she all but skips down an even more expansive hallway that leads to the two ballroom-sized sleeping quarters. She points right. “I call shotgun!” she says, and we both erupt like eighth graders at a slumber party as Inky Eyes gives us an indulgent smile.

        He rolls our suitcases into their respective rooms then gives me a slight nod to indicate his job here is done. “If there is anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Hargis, please do not hesitate to call me.”

        He hands me his card, and I give it a quick glance.

        “Hector, you are superb at this. Thank you,” I say and palm him a twenty as I shake his hand.

        As the elevator doors close with Hector inside, Gretchen says, “Let’s not go to the cocktail party and awards dinner.” She pours herself another glass of champagne. “You know I hate big groups…and strangers…and unfamiliar places. Let’s just stay here and watch movies – just the two of us – and order room service and schmooze and play cards!”

        “No deal,” I say. “You told me you wanted to stretch yourself by going to this convention. Stop being a little low-class Dixie chick!”

        We smirk at each other.

        I pour more champagne for myself and say, “Besides, I thought of a way to start you off with a small group get-together so that the convention won’t seem so full of strangers.”

        “I’m listening,” says Gretchen. She’s now parked herself on a bar stool in front of a platter of crackers-and-brie that’s perched atop the granite island in the kitchen.

        “Let’s invite a bunch of people we like over for a fashion show before we all head downstairs for the festivities.”

        “Oh, yeah!” says Gretchen. “Fashion! That is SO up my alley!”

        “No, but we can do it in a really fun way, and it’ll be like an ice breaker. We’ll call it a red carpet spoof! Writers love nonsense. I guarantee that they will go for this in the biggest way.”

        Gretchen sighs heavily and downs another helping of brie.

        “It’s a way to become acquainted with each other in a more informal setting than a ballroom,” I say, sounding even to my own ears like a used car salesman.

        Now my roommate looks at me over the top of her glasses. “What’re you – Jaaaaaaane?” she says. “The penthouse suite is your idea of an informal setting?”

        “Be quiet, you low-class Dixie chick!” I tell her.

        “That’s never going to get old, is it?” says Gretchen.

        “Nope,” I say, and we both double over.

        At my request, Hector has brought in five more magnums of champagne, a full bar set-up and four more trays of fruit, cheese and crackers. They stand like an army on a roll-out banquet table, accentuated by crystal champagne flutes, shot glasses and a low tower of Wedgewood dessert plates. All my childhood delusions of grandeur are materializing before my eyes.

        I provided a list of guests to Hector so that he could issue them each an elevator fob to our suite. Then, I sent each guest the following text: 

Roses are red

Violets are blue/

Our pre-convention-dinner red carpet spoof

Won’t be as fun without you!

See you at 5:00.

Xoxoxo

Rachelle and Gretchen.

PS – Wear a name tag.

        At 5:00 on the dot, the onslaught begins. Thankfully, the elevator’s size is in proportion to that of the penthouse, so everyone has managed to squeeze comfortably in together.

        Lyenochka exits first in a rich burgundy dress with a beaded purplish scarf that she has draped stylishly at a vertical/diagonal angle. Shyly, she follows Gretchen’s and my Vanna White pointing-pose toward the white couches and munitions.

        The crowd behind her cheers, “Go, Hel-EN! Go, Hel-EN!” and she gives them an embarrassed-but-amused smile over her shoulder.

        LJButterfly is next off the elevator. She announces, “This is a Michael Kors number that I bought in Manhattan.” She then thrusts herself into her assignment, flawlessly rocking the Model Strut, in her royal blue floor-length sheath with a center back slit and short sleeves that flow perfectly with each plucky step.

        The elevator patrons hoot and cheer.

        “YO! This is taking FOREVER!” shouts the vertical stretch-limo of a guy in the back. “I want snacks!” Humpwhistle. He’s as big a rabble-rouser in person as he is in his posts.

        “Do I have to recite the ‘Patience’ poem to you?” I use a playful warning tone.

        “No, Teacher,” he says, and the crowd laughs.

        Wayne Fowler, in a ball cap, a jacket with a turned-up collar, shades and a tv remote that he’s pretending is a ray gun, steps out next, then offers his arm to Dolly.

        Never since Oscar Madison and Felix Unger has there been an odder couple. Dolly is the quintessence of absolute class and breeding in a fitted, full-length gold-sequinned dress, gold stilettos, a cream-colored fur shrug and dangling gold diamonte earrings. Her hair is in an elegant up-do with a matching diamonte hair slide.

        I feel the need to bow.

        The couple extend their free hands to do The Queen’s Wave as they head toward the bar.

        I sneak a look at Gretchen, who is smiling with full dimples now. ‘Withdrawn’ is no longer a word that can be used to describe her. Rather ‘fully engaged’ is all that applies.

        “MAKE WAY!!! MAKE WAY!!” the next couple shouts. Out gallops Jim Wile, sporting his Masters Golf Tournament green jacket and taupe pants, as Lea Tonin, on his back, crooks an arm around his neck while pretending to horse-whip him with the other.

        She is clad in a clingy, ankle-length, shimmering black silk dress that slits to the knee. Her thick and gorgeous mahogany hair hangs loose and alluring.

        The crowd goes wild for this upped-ante presentation. The wild rumpus has definitely begun.

        “Oh, you are NOT stealing OUR thunder!” shouts Wendy G, in full Pull-Out-All-the-Stops mode.

        She has paired a close-fitting, scoop-necked black top with floaty black pants adorned with diagonally cut layers of sequined chiffon on them that are ruffling in the breeze caused by her exit from the elevator. She knocks hips again and again with Gypsy Blue Rose, as they bend and straighten their knees rhythmically toward the awaiting crowd.

        Gypsy has a Stevie Nicks kind of vibe going with her fingerless gloves, long-sleeved open-front tunic that’s layered over a cobalt blue midi dress and knee-high brown leather boots. She shimmies her cascading ripples of lovely blue-streaked locks, making me anticipate her belting out “Landslide” any moment now.

        Like a 5-7-5 contest with the topic “Puppies,” the competitive juices in our Red Carpet Spoof have now reached a fever pitch.

        Bill Schott, in a tangerine blazer over a pea green shirt, forest green trousers and brown loafers, shoots out of the now-depleted elevator doing The Hustle with Saturday Night Fever-style moves that would challenge even John Travolta. As he dips down – his hands doing a Wheels on the Bus motion – his cider-colored tie peeks out from beneath his flowing gray beard.

        The crowd shouts things like, “Groovy, Man!” and “Right on, Brutha!”

        Judiverse and Barbara Wilkey join forces. Barbara quickly covers her head, hijab-style, with her lacy navy blue shawl, then holds the full skirt of her matching V-necked lacy blue dress out to one side.

Judi, in a knee-length pale blue two-tiered pullover dress with long sleeves and a matching jacket, hunkers down, balls her hands into fists at her temples, then extends her index fingers and charges toward Barbara-as-matador.

        Barbara twirls out of her way, her dress flaring out like a golf umbrella. She takes a victory bow to us, her cheering, adoring fans, and Judi promptly gores her in the ass.

        We all roar, Barbara loudest of all, and I see Gretchen wiping away tears of unbridled hilarity.

        Writers make the BEST party guests!!!

        Pam Lonsdale quickly settles the crowd back down. With a look of mock disdain, she exits the elevator in a zebra striped beach dress, oversized black floppy hat and sandals. She puts a hand on her hip and declares, “You people have ISSUES!’

        Laugher fills the room once again, this time at a decibel that, in smaller quarters, would require ear plugs.

        “Hey!” Humpwhistle shouts from inside the cab. “Pay attention out there! It’s time for The Grand Finale’!”

        The ever-burgeoning audience regains its composure and affixes its collective gaze upon the five remaining models.

        In black tuxedos – Roy Owen’s accessorized with a broad-brimmed hat and flip-flops, Robert Zimmerman’s with a gold sequined cummerbund and mahogany walking stick – the two silver-haired FanStorians exit the elevator and promptly kneel down on all fours.

        “You know we’ll never be able to get vertical again without everyone’s help,” says Robert.

        “And the grace of G-d.” adds Roy.

        “Shut up, you two!” shouts Humpwhistle. “We’re making ART here. There is no sacrifice too great!”

        Out come the three remaining guests. NeoNewman and Humpwhistle are both in black dress shirts. Neo’s is worn with black dress pants and skid-safe SAS shoes, while Humpwhistle – and his waist-length gray ponytail – pairs his with Wrangler boot-cut low-rise jeans, medium brown pointed-toe, stacked-heel cowboy boots and a tweed vest, replete with lapels.

        Between them, arms raised high as she holds the hands of her men-in-black, is the radiant Mrs. KT with her beautiful, deep-dimple smile on display.

        Her gauzy black dress with the full skirt and filmy black overlay fluffs out, parachute-style, as she is lifted up by Neo and Hump onto the backs of the moaning Robert and Roy. “Strike a pose!” she calls out and lifts one leg at a coquette angle while placing both hands flat beneath her chin.

        “UNNNNNCLLLLLLE!!!” shouts Robert, and the tableau dissembles as the crowd – yet again – erupts with uncontrollable laughter and applause.

        After many minutes – including a group effort to hoist Roy and Robert back onto their feet – Jim Wile says, “Hey! Wait a minute! Our hostesses have not done their red carpet appearance yet!”

        Without a moment’s hesitation, my once-reserved, solitary-loving Southern belle, decked out in a perfect-yet-understated black jersey dress, gold hoop earrings and black sandals, her hair up in a clip, enthusiastically links arms with me, her favorite New York redhead, despite my flashy ways and short, sequined emerald green dress with matching stiletto heels. We truly have become quite the dynamic duo!

        Just then, a tiny elevator that I’d never even noticed by the kitchen, whooshes open, and out steps Jane Babies.

        She is wearing my identical dress and shouts, “I can’t believe you left me OUUUUUUUUT of thiiiiiiiiis! I had to take the stupid SERVANT’S elevatorrrrrrrr!!! Me! Jane Babies! In the SERVICE ELEVATORRRRRRRR?”

Author Notes

Two items! First, this was THE most enjoyable piece I have ever written in my entire life. And, for the record, I took not one liberty with any of the outfits described herein. Every single one was described to me by the people in the story. (Some of the men had to be coaxed and guided a little. A couple felt that "Oh, I don't know - just something casual" was a sufficient description of their outfit. The women, by contrast were SOO fabulously descriptive that several even included what fragrance they'd be sporting. One went even further and explained that her scent was 'a roll-on, NOT perfume." So, for anyone who thinks there is no difference between men and women, please PM me for a copy of the conversations I had with this contributing members!! Too hilarious! SECOND!!!!! PLEASE CHECK THE MAIN FS PAGE FOR THE POST ENTITLED "YOU'RE INVITED." It will advise how YOU - YES, EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!!!! - can now contribute a chapter about what you encountered at the FS International Convention!! ANNNNND!!! Gretchen and I will be reading them all and awarding $50 in FS dollars to our favorite three!!! So, please go to the main page, read "You're Invited" and make FS history with us by contributing a chapter to our novel!! We're very excited to read your creations!! xoxoxo

So far, Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis are headed to the FanStory convention in Atlantic City when the car they are traveling in breaks down in the heart of Amish country. When they finally get back on the road, they experience another detour when saddled with an abrasive guest, Jane Babies.

************************************************************************************************

The fun of the fashion show is abruptly halted upon the opening of the small elevator doors. How that buffoon of pornographic poetry found out we were having our little get together is a mystery. I glance at Rachelle, then my eyes dart back to Jane. Somewhere from the room I hear a voice whisper, "She's wearing the same dress." Instinctively, I grab onto Rachelle's arm. Every muscle is taut. It's like holding onto an animal ready to lunge.

"She's not worth it. Don't let her get to you," I whisper to my angry friend. Then I turn to Jane and smile. "I'm sorry Jane, but we could only accommodate a few people up here." I try not to glance at the spacious room that could easily house fifty people.

Rachelle's face is as close to the color of her hair as humanly possible. "My dress," she says, looking down at her own beautiful outfit.

What can I say? I want to march over to Jane and rip the dress off of her, but she might enjoy that. "Too bad they didn't have that dress in your size, Jane."

She waltzes in and rushes towards the men first. Big surprise there.

I glance at my watch. "Time to go." I announce, grab the closest glass of champagne and pound it down. This is going to be a long night. I can feel it in my bones.

***********************************************************************************************

Rachelle says little, but then she doesn't have to. It is written all over her face. I nudge her when Roy Owen addresses the gathering with an opening prayer.

"Thank you dear Lord, that we are able to meet in a country that is free to do so, and I pray that you will pour out your blessings on the folks here that have journeyed far and wide to be here, and not forgetting those that have traveled not so far. I pray that new friendships will develop, and old ones renewed and expanded. Please bless the speakers, the food and this wonderful convention. Amen." He puts his hat back on and nods at the man next to him.

"Welcome," the man says. "Everyone feel free to get up and grab a plate and then after dinner we will start the award ceremony. And, thank you all for coming."

I turn to Rachelle. "Who is that?"

She shrugs. I can tell she's still down in the dumps.

"Okay, she wore the same dress. But she wore it badly. You look fabulous and she looks like an idiot. She did it to get your goat."

"She's a bout to get the horns of the goat," Rachelle mutters. She lifts a plate and starts taking small portions of items from the buffet. "I'm not even hungry."

"I'm starving. I'm a stress eater." I glance at the offerings and realize I don't even know what half of it is. But, in times of stress, I'm a risk taker. As I'm reaching for the, what looks like banana pudding, I hear the voice that sets the rest of the evening into action.

In the Civil War of the Untied States, they say the first shot fired at Fort Sumter was the shot heard round the world. This one statement was the equivalent of that shot.

"Twinsies!!" Jane exclaims, wrapping her arm around Rachelle's shoulder at the buffet.

Shots fired.

Rachelle wrenches away, eyes blazing. I swear I see steam coming from just above her diamond earrings. I start piling food hastily on to the plate. You wouldn't know it to look at her, but Rachelle can move very quickly. Within seconds of Jane opening her mouth, she is face down in the potato salad.

I scurry to the other side of the table and watch as Jane grabs a handful of red sauced pasta and hurls it at Rachelle. Next, I see a handful of baby carrots go flying through the air. Dolly grins and next to her, Gypsy is reaching for the grated cheese. They both aim at Jane.

Chaos ensues. I'm hungry and this isn't my dress so while all attention is on the food fighters, I duck down and crawl under the table. The din is growing. There are screams and hollers. I can hear the clinks and the sound of dishes breaking.

I call my husband. "Chuck, hey, you aren't going to believe this."

"What's going on? Aren't you supposed to be at the convention?" he asks.

"That wackjob, Jane, bought the same dress as Rachelle,"

"Okay," he says. "What does that mean?"

Knowing my husband will only understand if I explain it in BMX terms, I start. "Suppose a guy steals the trick you've been working on and does it in a contest right before you get to ride. He knew you were working on this trick. He did it to piss you off. Understand?"

"What did Rachelle do?"

"She shoved Jane's face into the potato salad."

"Good for her."

"Good for her!?! There is a freaking food fight in full swing right now."

"Where are you?"

"Under the buffet table. I'm getting dinner whether they like it or not. Besides, I borrowed the dress from Nikki and I don't want to have to dry clean it."

The white table cloth lifts and someone ducks under. Its the man who followed Roy's prayer.

"Chuck, I gotta go." I disconnect and look at the surprised man. "Welcome."

"You're missing the show."

"Apparently."

"I'm Tom." He extends his hand.

"Do you want me to kiss your ring or something?" I say testily. I'm hungry and anxious right now, and this guy has found my hiding spot.

"No, just introducing myself."

"See if you can reach up there and grab that bottle of wine."

Tom reaches up and after a few failed attempts finally retrieves the bottle. Luckily, it was open. He hands it to me. I take a swig and offer it to him.

"Have you called the police," he asks, motioning to my phone. Tom jumps as a plate crashes to the floor beside us.

"No. Let them get it out."

"I'm ruined," he says pitifully. "There is no coming back from this."

"Here, have a dumpling, you'll feel better."

He sighs and exhales deeply. "I can't believe this is happening. I thought writers were supposed to be classy. This was supposed to be a nice thing."

"We're just people, Tom. Wait, are you The Tom?"

He nods.

"Oh my gosh, I have a huge favor to ask."

He levels me with a gaze. "What?"

"Can we get more than six six stars per week. Its only fair."

Tom grimaces and starts to crawl out from under the table. "Lady, there may not even be a FanStory on Monday," he grumbles.

As the table cloth flutters back down on his exit, I hear the bull horn. "Everyone stop where you are and drop whatever is in your hands."

I didn't call the cops but someone did. Now it's time to pay the piper.

Author Notes

I hope you all understand how much fun this chapter was to write. I also hope each and everyone of you will add your own version of the convention to this story. Rachelle has offered up a very generous gift to three of you who we choose as our winners. Please read both of our chapters entitled "Powder Keg". Then go to the announcement on the welcome page and enter. Thank you for going along with the crazy detour of ours.

Chapter 38
Jacob1395 version

By Rachelle Allen

I yank my suitcase, stroll into the hotel foyer, and stop in my tracks, surveying the scene in front of me, nerves clutching my chest. Everyone’s here. Absolutely everyone; I didn’t think there would be this many. People are running to each other and hugging, like they’ve known each other all their lives. I’ve only been a member of Fanstory for just over a year, what if no one recognises me? I frown. Is that . . . yes I think that’s Barbara Wilkey being crowded by her fans, all wanting selfies, I’ll have to try and speak to her later. Keeping my head down I edge to a smaller queue for the front desk, heart ramming hard against my chest. I’ve come all this way, I can’t bottle this now, but part of me just wants to go straight to my room and flop on my bed. The dark haired receptionist becomes available and I stride to the front desk, putting on the biggest smile I can.

In my room I pull out the invitation and schedule, pacing as I try to calm my nerves. Right, ten a.m. everyone’s invited to do a reading of whatever they want poetry or prose in the main dining room. It’s in half an hour’s time. I suppose I could go along. This Fanstory convention must’ve taken over the whole hotel, the staff aren’t going to know what’s hit them.

Stuffing the schedule into my pocket I head for my door and pull it open, making sure my name tags on my shirt, and without even looking, I collide straight into a woman passing.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I say, hands trembling.

The woman rights herself, smooths down her purple dress and smiles. ‘No, worries at all,’ she says. ‘Oh I know who you are; it’s Jacob, isn’t it? I’m Carol, you know me as Begin Again.’

‘Oh wow.’ At last, someone who knows me. I’m going to be like one of those people who clings onto to the one person they know for the whole weekend. ‘I didn’t think I’d see you until later. Again, so sorry, let me get you a coffee, are you going to the reading? I was a big fan of Spirited Justice.’

‘Don’t worry about getting me a coffee,’ she says, brushing her hair back and flapping her hand. ‘Although, I could do with a gin, I know it’s not midday yet, but when you’re on holiday, and its five o’clock somewhere in the world and all that. Yes I’m going, and thank you, I had such fun writing it.’

We head over to the lift, just as another woman wearing a dress with gold sequins that sparkle underneath the light, with blonde spiky hair joins us.

‘Carol, Jacob, hi, it’s Debbie, or Debbie, D’Arcy,’ the woman says, stretching out her hand. She frowns at me. ‘I think I spotted you at JFK international, Jacob.’

‘Really?’ I reply, shaking her hand. ‘Sorry, I was so focused on getting through security. Of course, you come from the UK as well, don’t you?'

‘Oh, JFK can be a nightmare for security,’ Carol says, rolling her eyes.

The lift whisks us back to reception and we find a throng of people waiting to pile in at the bottom. I spot Dolly arriving into the hotel foyer, smiling at everyone. This thing might not be so nerve wracking after all.

‘So, where are Gretchen and Rachelle?’ I ask, flicking my eyes around the room. ‘Has anyone seen our hosts yet?’

‘Oh, I suppose they’ve got something up their sleeves they’re planning for us,’ Debbie says with a mischievous grin. ‘I overheard a couple of people mention something earlier.’

‘Oh, tell, tell,’ Carol says, with a grin.

Debbie smiles. ‘I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise now, would I? In any case, it’s only rumour I’ve heard, there might not be anything in it.’

We stride into the dining area, a wide room with gold lights hanging from the walls and cream coloured wallpaper. Debbie hurries off to the front where a woman wearing a lanyard around her neck is standing. There are tables dotted around with white table cloths and jugs of water. People are already sitting down, clutching pieces of paper in their hands. I spy a few familiar faces, there’s Roy Owen towards the front sitting beside Barbara.

I sit at the back beside Carol.

‘So, are you going to read, Jacob?’ she asks.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I say, running my tongue around my dry mouth. I used to love reading my work out loud to my class at school, but I’ve never done a public reading like this.

‘Have you brought anything?’ she says.

I rub the back of my neck. ‘Oh, just a short chapter, but depends how I feel.'

‘Well, just think of it this way, you publish your posts online for hundreds of people, perhaps even thousands around the world to read, reading to a group this size should be easy,’ Carol says.

‘Right, I’ve put both of your names down,’ Debbie says with a massive smile as she re-joins us.

‘Debbie,’ I say, my mouth dropping open.

‘Well, you need to push yourself,’ Debbie says, sitting beside me and crossing her knees. ‘Otherwise you’ll never do it; you’re up after Rachelle and Gretchen.’

‘Now that’ll be a hard act to follow,’ I say, smacking my face in my hands. ‘I’m going to be a nervous wreck standing up there.’

‘You’ll be brilliant,’ Carol says, giving me a nudge. ‘Once you’ve done it once you’ll want to do it again.’

‘More likely I’ll want to book myself on the next flight home,’ I reply, nausea swirling through me. I can’t do this, I need to go to the front and somehow remove my name.

A few more people trickle into the room, all with excited smiles on their faces. I focus my attention on the stage. There’s a door off to the right of the stage. Gretchen and Rachelle are going to come through that door any minute, and then after they’ve read their pieces I’m going to be expected to stand up and speak. I’ve just been flying for eight hours, there’s no way I’m going to be able to string a sentence together. I haven’t even had time to mentally prepare. I need to get up now and remove my name.

‘Ooh I wonder what Gretchen and Rachelle are going to read,’ Debbie says excitement in her voice.

A hush descends on the room and the lights dim. There’s a round of applause as Gretchen and Rachelle stride onto the stage, big beaming smiles on their faces. They’re both wearing stylish dark jackets. Rachelle holds up her microphone.

‘Wow, I can’t believe this moment is finally here,’ Rachelle says. ‘Let me tell you, Gretchen and I have both had a whirlwind of a ride getting this thing organised and we both had such fun getting here, Gretchen hasn’t stopped going on about this for days.’ There’s a few murmurs of laughter around the room. ‘It’s amazing how many of you have turned up and just look at you all, here in person, this is actually bringing tears to my eyes. But, I must confess, we have told a cheeky white lie on the schedule that you were all handed as part of your invitation, so, I’ll leave this to Gretchen to explain.’

I raise an eyebrow at Debbie, remembering what she said earlier about Gretchen and Rachelle having got something up their sleeve. What on earth are they about to say?

‘Well, thank you all for coming, like Rachelle says, it’s such a thrill to see you all here, in person. We thought about doing a zoom call, but you know there’s no way that would be nearly as fun! So, some of you, I see have already signed up to read this morning, but I’m afraid you’re all in for a bit of a nasty shock.’ Nerves flitter through my belly. A nasty shock. There’s a mischievous grin on Gretchen’s face. Oh, no, what is she going to say? Did Debbie know about this? ‘Now you can entirely blame me for this, Rachelle wanted everyone to do a reading, but I insisted and in the end she ended up backing down. So, I thought what better way to help break the ice, than to launch straight in with karaokeeeee.’

The lights flicker off and a disco ball illuminates the room. My jaw drops as the ABBA song, Dancing Queen booms from the speakers and both Rachelle and Gretchen whip off their jackets to reveal ABBA themed clothing underneath. They both lean their backs against each other and belt out the song, which draws even more people into the room clapping and cheering. Damn, I’m up next. They’re not expecting me to sing are they? Carol and Debbie both leap to their feet both whopping and cheering. I’m up next. No, I’m up next.

‘Thank youuuuuu,’ Gretchen says as the song reaches the end. ‘You have no idea what I had to promise to convince Rachelle to sing with me. Now, I believe next up on the list to sing we have, Jacob.’

Everyone spins around and looks at me with big beaming smiles. Carol nudges me.

‘Go on,’ she says.

I tentatively walk towards the stage. If I’d known I’d be doing karaoke, I would’ve mentally prepared myself. Mentally prepared myself to not get up on stage whatsoever. I swallow as I edge closer. The stage is there, right there in front of me. I can't turn back now. 

‘Choose your song on machine over there, Jacob,’ Rachelle says, pointing to the karaoke machine.

I edge over to it. Well, I wanted people to know who I was, didn’t I? Swallowing hard, I select the one song I know how to do well and, with shaky legs, climb the stairs to the stage. Carol and Debbie both give me a thumbs up from the back of the room. The song begins to play and, taking Rachelle's microphone, I launch straight into Mr Brightside allowing all the nerves that preceded to this moment to float away. Well, people will know who I am now.

Chapter 38
Pam's Version

By Rachelle Allen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sandra, Pam, and other Fanstorians are excited about being able to meet each other at the first ever FanStory convention in Atlantic City. Emotions run high since they don't know what to expect.

 

 

Finally the day has arrived when they are going to meet. Since Pam lives in NJ, she doesn't have too far to go. Her plan is to register at the convention site and see if she can recognize people she only knows from pictures and what they write.

Of course, being Atlantic City, it is a mob scene. The day is gorgeous and people are everywhere...on the beach, the boardwalk, and even in the ocean.

"This is incredible. I have never seen so many people. I have no idea how I am going to recognize anyone, but there is only one thing to do, jump right in, but not the ocean, "she said to no one in particular.

Pam walks in the convention center and sees even more people. While she is trying to take it all in, she hears a British accent. OMG, that can only be, or is it?

She has no sooner thought that when she hears a female voice, "Excuse me, I'm looking for..."

"Sandra, is that really you? I cannot believe it."

"Well, Pam, I can't really believe it, either. What a great idea this convention is. And look at all of the people here. "

"I know, isn't it exciting? But how are we going to know everyone?"

At that point someone is at the microphone.

"Hello, fellow writers," a smooth voice quiets the crowd with the exception of a few whispers here and there.

"Good evening, I'm Tom, and I think we are in for a great time. I am so glad to be here and see the turn out for our convention." People proceed to clap, cheer, and whisper... "So that's really Tom. Wow, after all these years."

"I don't want to take up too much of your time, so without further ado, here is your host for the evening. The band plays and the curtain slowly opens to reveal...

Hugh Jackman, "G'day. How is everyone?" Cheers erupt from the crowd. "I guess that answers my question! Now I don't have to work so hard. And speaking of that, I hear you all are writers. Now there's some people I could use. Enjoy the convention, mates!"

More cheers erupt from the crowd, followed by....

"Wow, this is amazing. Who knew Tom would do this."

"Who knew Tom could do this?!"

****

After a while, the attention turns to sounds like cackling behind the curtain... "Fair is foul, and foul is fair. When shall we three meet again?"

The witches appear, "Hello, Dearies. You know Halloween is near, and in costume you must appear." HA HA HA HA.

"What the heck is that all about?" Sandra asks Pam, "Have you brought another costume with you? Did you even know about this? It wasn't on my invite, and look at everyone in the room! They're all dressed up to the nines."

Pam and Sandra turned their attention to the Fanstorians standing around. They all look confused. Then, suddenly, everyone's clothes disappear, to be replaced with large towels to keep their modesty intact. The murmuring and, in some cases, the screams filled the room.

"Now don't you start your worryin,' ladies and gents," the ugliest witch cackled loudly. "Look to your right and to your left, and soon you won't feel so bereft. There's a crate beside you all, with clothes to fit the short and tall; if you are large, or maybe thin, there's clothes to fit, so dive on in!"

Everyone suspiciously checked inside the crates; the selection of Halloween clothes was incredible. And that's when the fighting began!

The men fought over the wizards' outfits, all the same but of various colours. "I'm not wearing PINK!" Lee (Humpwhistle) shouted. "It doesn't go with my caveman physique!" he said doing a Hercules pose. "And it would ruin the look of my long, wavy hair! What sort of vampire wears PINK?" He carried on mumbling, then made a grab for the only black outfit in the crate. And to complete the look, a nice shiny pair of black patent, buckled, heeled shoes. Then wandered away to get changed.

"Well, I'm not wearing it," Ric Mywold muttered. "What would my army of female fans think?" He dove in and pulled out another set of clothes in yellow ... Fluorescent Yellow!" Everyone stared. "What's up? It's my favourite colour!" He also wandered off. Gradually, all the men's costumes were taken except for the pink set!

The women were pleased with all their costumes; Pam chose an outfit with a cinch-waisted corset, a low, off-the-shoulder bodice, and a long black flared skirt; she completed the look with a high pointed black hat.

Sandra chose something similar. "I haven't had a nice small waist for years!" she told Pam as she pulled her corset cincher tight. "I might have to buy one of these!"

Ulla chose a vintage black silk lame evening gown with short, puffy sleeves, and an embroidered belt with a floral, scroll work design. Her black louboutin shoes completed the look, and she looked stunning.

All the women went off to change. Once they came back, it was a delightful spectacle. Pam decided they weren't exactly scary looking.

Rachelle was dressed in a mini-black 50s style dress with her long, slim legs, six-inch stilettos, her natural tiny waist and long, wavy red hair. She was hard to miss! There were gasps from envious women standing nearby.

Then Gretchen sidled up beside her. Another stunner! Never having seen her before, and she didn't put her photo on her profile page, she was a sight to behold! Black was perfect for her with her long black hair and black eyes. A witch in the making, but like Flossie Flitch, Gretchen is the witch of lovely.

Dolly, with her natural blond hair and slim figure, came waltzing into the room with enviable confidence.

Carol (Begin Again) chose to look like a ghost, picking out the only filmy white outfit. I wonder if she resembles Eleanor in her ghost story. With her white hair and long white dress that fell straight from her shoulders, she definitely looked like one!

Sound of rustling is heard. "What is that?" The women said in unison.

Just then, right out of the box, something was beginning to peek through the top of it. They were transfixed. Finally, they could see what it was.

"Oh my gosh, it's an outfit from the sixties," Gretchen said. Of course everyone was wondering who it was for. The costume was actually making its way to the stairs.

Then they saw who it was... "Debbie D'Arcy," they all shouted. The consensus was she looked fabulous in vintage 60s flowered bell bottom pants with a white blouse and puffy sleeves, a fringed brown vest completed the look.

 

Apparently, the box had one more surprise for the woman following Debbie. The room grew quiet when something started coming from the box. All they could see was white silk. That is until davisr (Rhonda) reached the bottom of the stairs.

At that moment, Rhonda was stunning in a full length, white silk gown with pleated layers. Rhonda’s lovely silver hair flowing down her back completed her look, along with a low heeled, dressy black sandal with jeweled ankle and toe straps. Like the magic in her stories, she became Diantha.

 

It was hard to describe everyone, but scary could never be the adjective used here. The party soon got into full swing; it was such a fun evening, getting to know everyone as they let their hair down, thanks to the many glasses of wine they were all drinking.

The food and drinks kept coming. The table never appeared to empty, as one platter emptied, it was immediately filled again. As for the bottles of wine, there had to be a constant supply because no one was left with an empty glass all night! There will be some nasty headaches in the morning.

It would be good if this could happen more often.


 

Author Notes

-The image is from the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City, New Jersey courtesy of Google. -The description of the black lame gown came from 1860-1960.com -Thanks to Rachelle Allen and GW Hargis (Gretchen) for sharing their versions of the party and for posting the invitation to write our version. I enjoyed the challenge. -Thanks to Sandra Mitchell for her help with some fanstorians whose work and characters I wasn't as familiar with.

Chapter 38
Pome Lover's Version

By Rachelle Allen

As two policemen barge into Rachelle and Gretchen's party, Jane's next missile of artichoke dip hits Tom Ens. He is a guest, and also the host of the Fan Story Convention. Furious, he walks over, ready to grab her and ask what in the devil is her problem. However, the policemen get to her first, and take her out into the hall and explain that they have been hired by her father and will arrest Rachelle for assault if she attacks Jane.

Rachelle, also furious at sauce all over her gorgeous green dress, is delighted to see the police take Jane away. But then, they come back in and have the gall to arrest her! The guests are appalled and rally around her, all protesting at once.

"WHO'S SO HOITY TOITY NOW, HUH?" Jane yells, laughing hysterically.

There is knocking at the door. The police stop, waiting to see who it is. Gretchen has extracted herself from under the food table and goes to answer it.

An attractive, important looking man in a green Masters Golf Tournament jacket, introduces himself as Fred Ridley, chairman of the Augusta National Golf Club and states that he understands there is a guest who is impersonating an Augusta Master's Tournament winner, wearing a green Master's jacket which is not permitted.

Jim Wile pales and sneaks under the food table where he finds Judiverse, writing furiously, taking down everything that's being said. He sheds his jacket and asks her what she's doing.

"Writing a play," she says, shushing him so she can hear. "This will be so great."

Jim sneaks out the other side of the table, not knowing that Mr. Ridley is standing there looking around. Judy sees his jacket and pokes her head out and says, "Jim, your jacket will get dirty down here on the floor," and holds it up to him.

Mr. Ridley says, "Sir, have you been wearing that jacket?"

"Well, uh..."

"Are you aware that it is against the rules unless you are a winner of the Masters' Golf Tournament to wear that jacket?"

"Mr. Ridley," Jim says, "we're just having a bit of fun. I meant no harm."

Meanwhile, Rachelle, is spittin' mad and is on the phone with her husband who is on his way up. She is relaying to the police what her husband is saying as he says it. Jane is still smirking.

There's a quick bang on the door and Rachelle's husband storms in. He glares at the police who want to handcuff his wife, and demands to know what's going on.

Humpwhistle speaks up and says, "Officers, we'd like to see your badges if you don't mind."

Jane turns white. She knows her father. These guys are probably hired actors.

They flash their badges. Rachelle and her husband look at each other and burst out laughing. Rachelle says, "Those are fake! We've used them before at parties."

Jane furiously takes the fake police with their fake badges back out in the hall a lays into them.

Meanwhile, Mr. Ridley is fascinated with all the hullabaloo going on around him. Everybody is talking at the same time. He sees lovely Gretchen silently watching it all and asks if she would mind if he helped himself to some food and drink.

"By all means," she says in her soothing Southern drawl. "Help yoahself." She walks around the table with him, apologizing for the mess, and adding that Jim is such a nice fella and she hopes Mr. Ridley won't find it necessary to "do him hahm."

Ridley said he would speak with him and see under what circumstances Jim was in possession of the jacket.

The fake police, caught out, never-the-less stop Jane's harangue, and tell her that her father ordered them to bring her home, after she apologized to the hostesses. As they walk back inside, she starts to protest, and one "policeman" adds, "Your father also said if you come nicely, he has a new Jaguar for you."

Rachelle rolled her eyes in disgust. Jane looks at her and Gretchen and condescendingly says, "I apologize for crashing your stupid old party, but who needs it. I'm off to try out my new Jaguar," and saunters off with the two fake policemen.

Rachelle swallows, composes her face into a radiant smile, and says to everyone, "I had a truly powerful zinger all ready to let fly, but ... I held my tongue. Are you proud of me?"

"You bet!" says Gretchen, as the guests lift their drinks and chorus, "YES!"

"Well, let the party begin again!" Rachelle says, then mumbles under her breath to Gretchen,"I hope her father was lying!"

Suddenly, from under the table, comes a happy shout, "Ta dah!" as Judy finishes the first draft of her play.
~ ~ ~
Epilogue -

Rachelle, who had forgotten, in all the excitement, about the photographer she'd hired for the party, received pictures of the food-spattered and astonished guests. Why not? she thought, and gleefully sent each guest copies as a remembrance.

Author Notes

My apologies to Gretchen for assuming she has a southern drawl. :)

Chapter 38
Lea Tonin Version

By Rachelle Allen

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.

I ripped open the envelope, impatient to see what it was. 

I read to myself, "Fanstory is having a convention...ok cool," I thought, "We won't interrupt the big wig show."  

Then I saw my name and a caption underneath that said,

"We are for the writers of all genres, as the writers are here for us."

Following that was an address, date and time.

A bit of a drive for me, I noticed. Not likely to stop me from going though.

 

The surprise still grips me when these kind of things happen. Like book signing, traveling, or people asking me about the book or want to know about my life.

My first thought is, 

"This is not my life...this not me. This is not how I've lived."

Then I realize. "Yes, yes it is."

A little slice of happiness starts to unroll inside me. It still strikes me with the foreignness of the feeling, as it sits awkwardly in my heart.

Two weeks later, there, I was standing in front of the mirror. I could see a glimpse of the girl I used to be.

"I wonder what my Jewish  Mommy would think about this. I wonder if she'd like this outfit. I wonder if anybody would?" But, if I know Rachelle at all, she is a bulldog in such a beautiful and productive way.

I stared at myself in the mirror.  Black dress, thin shawl, pumps, small clutch, diamond stud earings and a thin silver chain. All of it in the mirror stared back at me.  

"Well, time to go for the hour drive to the convention."

Even though at times I felt unworthy,

I would still shy away from such things. But, that feeling has been dimishing over time. So much so, I actually looked forward to this night.

Driving up the freeway in my little Mazda Miata, I pulled off the freeway onto a country road, I went just as fast but with almost no traffic.

Very soon though I was proven wrong, I looked my review and saw four red cars. Same color. Same model. Same year. One person behind the wheel of each car. I knew exactly who they were.

Anger rose far ahead of any fear that I could feel. "They weren't getting me this night or any other." I thought.

 

I was very lucky once. I was able to attend Skagit Speedway sprint car races.

I was scraping mud off cars at first, but then the mechanics race would come up and I'd be allowed to drive. I learned very well and quickly. Plus, I was not in the mood for these men either.

 

A few neat maneuvers later saw these men in their cars, all lined up like an accordion as they skitter, side smashed into one another like a beautiful ice dance. Done with just a slight turn of my wheel. 

I couldn't help but laugh at the scene in my rear view.  

Fifteen minutes later, at the end of this beautiful country road, the convention hall loomed ahead. A big Tudor style building.  In the parking lot, I could finally see my friends. there they all were gathered together, ready to walk in. I waved happily and excitedly as they looked over in my direction. I parked and walked toward the group.

 

Like an impossible dream there they were. Debbie, Barbara, Jim, Dolly, Roy, Beth, Gypsy Rose,Tom, Jacob and behind them walking in was Gretchen and the incomparable Rachelle. 

I looked over at Jim and said,

"Well? Are you going to give me your arm and walk me in or am I going to have to get you in a headlock?"

 

Jim couldn't help but chuckle. He excused himself for a moment to put his coat in his car. Then we slowly strolled to the entrance.  Jim was a stroller and not in a hurry get anywhere. Which was fine by me as part of me was still a little bit nervous.  When I'm nervous, I tend to be a little bit pesky.

This time was no different, so I turned and looked at Jim and asked him,

"Jim, do you know why old men take viagra?" He groaned in response. He knew he wasn't getting away unscathed.

"That's so you old guys don't roll out of bed. It's a natural kickstand." I smiled at him, as he groaned again in response and tried to pull his arm free.  As we entered the building, I gently did what I said I would, and that was attempt to get him in a head lock. 

I could see Rachelle and Gretchen just ahead. Rachelle, had thunder rolling across her face which is especially espressive with her gorgeous red hair.

"Uh oh," I thought, "Hope it's ok."

I was chatting with some people when I started to hear some wild noises coming from the convention hall. Screaming, expletives, being flung around, a couple of crashes. I was like, "Whoa! What is going on in there?

Sometimes I have more balls than brains. I just walked in without any thought. The next thing I knew, "Splat! A big wad of chocolate cake overflowing with icing landed smackdab in the middle of my face! Well, shit...FML! It figures.

 

So I sat down, using one finger and started to eat the contents on my face while the rest of the room continued to let fly....

 

Chapter 38
Michele Harber's Version

By Rachelle Allen

Background: I was so excited to attend the FanStory International Convention in Atlantic City, but things haven't been going quite as planned.


I hate mass transportation! I recently got off a 3½-hour Amtrak ride from New York City to Atlantic City, plus a short taxi ride to the hotel, to attend the FanStory Annual Convention, and put faces to the works I've been admiring these past few years I've been a member.

Attending the convention was all well and good--when my husband was driving me. I don't drive, but we were going to head down together and reserve the room for a couple of extra nights, so we could have a little mini-vacation (is there such a thing as a big mini-vacation?) once the conference was over. Then he came down with a stomach bug. Sure, he was well enough to stay home alone (I'd never have left otherwise), but we didn't want to make the trip searching frantically for every rest-stop men's room along the way, so we decided, at the last minute, that I should go on my own.

That's how I found myself on a crowded train, in a knee-length black dress, with a too low-cut ruched bodice, which I held together with a lovely swan-shaped Swarovski crystal pin, so I wouldn't be arrested for indecent exposure. To bring the eye up a bit, I wore a short Swarovski crystal necklace with heart-shaped drops, as well as matching heart-shaped crystal earrings. Again, all well and good if I were going with my husband by car. However, in an Amtrak train car, I was forced to roast in a fluffy faux-fur waist-length black jacket, zipped up fully to hide all the glitter. The suspicious New Yorker in me knows that, to the untrained eye, Swarovski crystal can look a lot like diamonds, and I didn't want to appear, to fellow passengers, as though I were draped in expensive jewels. Let's face it. If they could afford to rent a Town Car, they wouldn't be riding an Amtrak train, and I didn't want to tempt fate--or the occasional thief one might encounter.

I suppose I should take a moment to introduce myself. My name is Michele Harber. Many of you know me from the poems and short stories I've posted in my six years on FanStory. Then again, considering the scant number of reviews I get, maybe not.

Anyway, I finally got to the hotel, with a little time to spare before the evening's big event. Whispers I picked up on in the hall suggested that Rachelle Allen and Gretchen Hargis (they get lots of reviews, so you know who they are) were hosting some kind of a fashion show in their room--the penthouse suite, no less! I didn't want to miss it, so I headed over to catch the tail end, without even taking the time to freshen up. I noticed that people were wearing name tags, so I hurriedly wrote my name on a scrap of hotel stationery, and used the Swarovski swan to pin it to my bodice. (As low-cut as the dress was, I knew they'd be looking there anyway.)

When I walked into the room, I was amazed by the incredible array of finery worn by the attendees, from a cobalt blue midi dress to a tangerine blazer, and a two-tiered blue dress with matching jacket to a black tux with a gold-sequined cummerbund. Suddenly, something caught my eye that put the other outfits to shame: a beautiful, sequined, emerald green mini dress that all but lit up the room. I saw that the woman wearing it was slightly older, and her hair was done in ringlets. I started to head over to comment on the dress, before realizing it would be rude to speak to someone else without first acknowledging the hosts, so I headed away from the woman in green, but not without first catching the name on her tag: Jane Babies.

I'd never seen a picture of Gretchen Hargis, but I knew it would be easy to pick Rachelle out of a crowd, as her picture showed a mass of curly hair shaded a bright orange. I'd have to ask her which brand of dye she used. No, I'm not being catty. It's simply that I've only seen that shade of orange during autumn, when the leaves change color. Besides, there didn't appear to be a speck of gray in her hair. I know, from things I've read on FanStory, that she and I are close in age, and my once perfectly dark, chestnut hair is now salt and pepper. Shouldn't hers at least be salt and paprika??

As I made my way past a gaggle of FanStorian geese squawking about how unfair it was to only allow six six-star ratings per week, I suddenly heard a piercing screech.

"Geeeeeeeeeez. I wish they'd put out more snaaaaaaaaacks!"

I was about to turn around to see if any glass had shattered, when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a bright orange flash that could only be either Rachelle's hair, or someone spontaneously combusting from that ear-splitting sound. Luckily, it turned out to be Rachelle, as I could tell from the mass of ginger curls visible above the crowd. I advanced to where I was fairly certain she would be able to hear me, as I wasn't sure I could make it all the way through the adoring minions that had gathered around her, and called out, "Rachelle!"

She looked up and, while her face didn't initially register recognition (I hadn't posted a photo on my FanStory home page), when she caught sight of my name tag, she broke into a huge grin.

"Michele," she called warmly, scanning me up and down. "You look so ... creased." Sensing that further conversation was going to ensue, the crowd parted, revealing, to my utter shock, that Rachelle was wearing exactly the same emerald green dress as Jane Babies. I wondered how she could have been so cruel as to steal Jane's thunder. Anyone who's read anything Rachelle ever wrote knows she's very partial to animal prints, particularly leopard. There's no way emerald green would have been her first choice--unless it had spots or stripes! For whatever reason, she had apparently copied poor Jane's dress choice.

Rachelle had always seemed so nice. I had no idea she could stoop that low, trying to embarrass someone who was likely already uncomfortable, being the new kid on the block in a room full of people who all knew each other, at least peripherally through their writing. I made up my mind, then and there, to befriend Jane Babies, so she wouldn't feel left out. Needless to say, that was a decision I came to regret.

Chapter 38
Jim Wile's Version

By Rachelle Allen

It isn’t the police who announce their presence with a bullhorn, but I’ll get to that shortly.

 

Pandemonium ensues as food is flying everywhere. Lea, who hasn’t yet gotten down from my back after our entrance together a half hour ago, moves up to my shoulders to raise herself above the fray, but now we are top-heavy, and I begin teetering. As I start to topple, I shout to her, “We’re going over, Lea!”

 

I end up face-planted in a bowl of cocktail sauce in the center of a round platter of shrimp. I expect that Lea may have been hurt in the fall, but I can’t find her anywhere. As I stand wiping the sauce from my eyes, I see a pair of feet dangling in front of me. They belong to Lea, who grabbed onto a chandelier and is hanging there. I help her down. She grabs a few shrimp from the platter and begins wiping the sauce from my face and popping them into her mouth. She offers me one too, and it is fabulous.

 

The food fight has escalated, as everyone seems to be getting into the act now. Though most appear to be enjoying it, Rachelle and this strange, whiny lady wearing the same dress seem determined to kill each other. I’m not about to try to break up this cat fight, but I know someone who would have no problem with that.

 

I get out my phone and call Lancellot. “Lance, this is Jim. I know you’re not up here because you’d arranged for a couple of hookers before the invite came, but we could really use your help about now.”

 

“No can do, my friend. I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”

 

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed you were into that sort of thing, but, uh, we need a strong, assertive type up here now to break up this melee. Do you think you could ask them to untie you, big fella, and could you get up here immediately? I know you may find fault with some of us from time to time, but we love you and respect the hell out of you, and I can’t think of anyone else who could do a better job of breaking this up.”

 

“Thank you very much.”

 

“So, you’ll come then?”

 

“Oh, yeah. I’m coming… right about now…! Oooo!”

 

 

 

 

I didn’t hold out much hope for his appearance, but he surprised me when, five minutes later, he stepped out of the elevator. He was wearing only a hotel bathrobe.

 

I make my way over to him and explain the situation.

 

“Okay, let me see if I’ve got this straight,” says Lance. “On the one hand, we’ve got this orange-haired writer who everyone knows and who has done good work in the past. And on the other hand, we’ve got this person who we’ve never read before with a nasal, whiny voice who has nothing to show for herself but only criticizes the orange-haired one. There’s something about this that seems vaguely familiar. I think we should settle this the good old American way; we’ll put it to a vote.”

 

“I like it, Lance. Maybe they should have to campaign first, like, uh, they could each write a poem and read it. Then we could vote on the best one, and the loser would have to leave. That ought to settle things down.”

 

“Hmm, for once, I like your thinking here, Jim.”

 

“Thank you very much.”

 

“Alright, let’s get everyone’s attention and announce the plan. EXCUSE ME EVERYONE!”

 

“It’s too noisy in here, Lance. Nobody heard you. Let me try whistling for attention.” I raise my thumb and forefinger to my mouth and let out a piercingly loud whistle—a new skill I learned recently—but again, nobody seems to hear it.

 

“You’re an inventive guy, Jim. Why don’t you make us a bullhorn out of something?”

 

I scrounge around for some materials. Dolly lends me her earrings, Neonewman lends me a nostalgic pocket comb he can’t seem to part with, and Wayne Fowler lends me that gizmo he came to the party with. I gather a few more items and fashion them into a rather serviceable bullhorn and hand it to Lance.

 

“ALRIGHT FOLKS. LISTEN UP. LET’S SETTLE THIS LIKE THE MATURE PEOPLE WE ARE.”

 

The bullhorn is effective, and the wild rumpus comes to a screeching halt. No longer needing the bullhorn, Lance speaks to the crowd in a normal voice.

 

“We’re all writers here, so let’s settle this like writers. On the two sides, we’ve got our orange-haired hostess, Rachelle, and the nasally whiny one whose name I don’t know.”

 

“It’s JAAAAAAAAANE, for crying out loud. Who the hell are YOUUUUUUUU?”

 

“I rest my case,” continues Lance. “Jim and I think each of you should write a poem, and we’ll all vote on which one is best. The loser has to leave the party.”

 

I find a couple of pads and pens in a desk drawer and hand them out to Rachelle and Jane. Lance tells them they’ve got 10 minutes to come up with a poem.

 

Rachelle begins to scribble furiously. The ideas are flying out of her head and into her fingers. Jane sits and thinks for a while before slowly getting to work on her poem.

 

While they continue working, the rest of us pitch in to help each other remove food out of hair and off clothing. I happen to see Gretchen Hargis crawling out from under a table with not a bit of food on her. Smart woman. I nod to her as she heads over to whisper something in Rachelle’s ear, all the while pulling a lobster claw out of her hair. Rachelle begins furiously writing again.

 

When the 10 minutes are up, Lance calls out, “Stop! Alright ladies, it’s time to read your poems. I’m going to flip a coin. If it’s heads, Jane goes first, and if tails—Rachelle.” The flip comes up heads. “Go, Jane.”

 

Jane stands demurely in front of the crowd. She looks rather pathetic, with smears of potato salad still clinging to her face and in her hair. In a rather pleasant, though timid-sounding voice, she says, “My poem is entitled ‘Clouds.’”

 

    Rows and floes of fettucine,
    And ice cream castles not so teeny,
    And feathered canyons in the air,
    I've looked at clouds that way.

 

“Wait a minute,” I overhear Rachelle whisper furiously to Gretchen, but Gretchen clamps a hand over Rachelle’s mouth.

 

She whispers back, “Let her dig her own grave.”

 

    But now they merely block the sun.
    They hail and sleet on everyone.
    So many things I might have done,
    But clouds were in the way

 

    I've looked at clouds from each side now,
    From down and up, and still somehow,
    It's cloud illusions I remember
    I’m not sure I know clouds in September.

 

I am a big Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins fan, and I recognize immediately that this is a poorly plagiarized version of “Both Sides Now” they made famous together, but several in the crowd seem entranced by this rather heartfelt-sounding rendition from Jane.

 

Lance says, “Alright, Rachelle. Go.”

 

Rachelle stands in front of the crowd, looking daggers at Jane, who remains meekly in place. The always impeccably dressed and coiffed Rachelle is a complete mess. Her red hair hangs limply down the sides of her face, as it appears someone has upended a punch bowl over her head. Her pink dress is no longer pink but multi-colored, stained by a variety of food hurled her way. She snarls out, “My poem is entitled ‘The Narcissist.’”

 

    Jane, you ignorant slut. *
    Your mouth, I wish you would shut.
    Loud and crass,
    A pain in the ass!
    Your head is way up your butt.

 

    Oblivious, that’s what you are.
    You take everything too far.
    You think you’re hot stuff,
    It’s all merely fluff.
    You grate like an untuned guitar.

 

    A “low-class Dixie chick?”
    That’s what you called Gretchen? You’re sick!
    You’re loud, and you’re rude,
    Exceedingly crude.
    You are the ultimate dick!

 

I was enjoying this, but I scan the crowd as Rachelle is really getting into it now, and they are looking at Jane, who is standing there with her head down, appearing forlorn and pitiable. None of us know her, and Rachelle is being exceedingly cruel. This seems over-the-top for Rachelle. Perhaps she had been sorely provoked by this Jane person, but we aren’t aware of it, and it seems as though Jane is gaining sympathy for this diatribe aimed at her.

 

    You think you’re just full of pluck.
    You make me want to upchuck.

 

Uh-oh. I can see where this is going. So can Lance, who gives Gretchen a signal of a slice across the throat. Gretchen whispers furiously in Rachelle’s ear, and she stops to listen.

 

“Alrighty, then,” says Lance in a loud voice. “It’s time to vote. Jim will pass out ballots, and you simply need to write the name of the poet with the, uh, best poem. The loser will leave the party.”

 

I tear off pages from one of the hotel pads and pass them out. The group is now faced with a difficult decision. Neither poem was very good. Jane’s was apparently plagiarized, while Rachelle’s was just nasty, though the rhyme and meter were decent. Tough choice. It’s anyone’s guess how this will pan out.

 

During the voting and afterwards, while the ballots are being collected by me and several volunteers, I can see Gretchen consoling Rachelle. Jane is nowhere to be found.

 

As the ballots come in, Lance and I begin tallying them, but before we complete the job, Rachelle comes up and says to us, “I noticed that Jane had handed a pile of ballots to one of the collectors. I think she’s stuffed the ballot box.”

 

We have no other proof that this is true, so we have to discount this story. When all the votes are tallied, Lance announces, “The winner of the, uh, least terrible poem is Jane by a vote of 26 to 24. Rachelle, you must leave the party.”

 

“Wait a minute,” sputters Rachelle. That’s 50 total votes. I invited only 40 people to this party. She cheated!”

 

“We have a serious accusation here, folks. Shall we hold another vote?” asks Lance.

 

No one cares to go through this again, and they just want to get on with the party, so Lance and I approach Rachelle, and each of us take an arm as we escort her to the elevator. She begins crying. “It’s not fair. She cheated. I should have won. They love me here. You can’t kick me out of my own party.”

 

As we usher her onto the elevator, I say to her, “It’ll be okay, Rachelle. Please don’t cry.”

 

As the doors shut, we can hear her begin to sing,

 

    It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to.
    I’ll cry if I want to.
    I’ll cry if I want to…

 

Author Notes

* "Jane, you ignorant slut." Many of you may remember this line from a Saturday Night Live skit from the 70s in which Jane Curtin and Dan Aykroyd are co-anchors on a news program. They do not get along. Jane always begins the telecast, and Dan follows with his remarks, beginning with this line.

Chapter 38
Mrs. KT's Version

By Rachelle Allen

What a thrill to have made it safely to New Jersey to attend the 2024 FanStory Convention! 

And even more thrilling? To find this invitation slipped under the door of my hotel room at the Ritz-Carlton when I arrived:

 

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Our pre-convention-dinner red carpet spoof
Won't be as fun without you!
See you at 5:00.
Xoxoxo
Rachelle and Gretchen.
PS Wear a name tag.

 

With no time to waste, I promptly phoned my husband to assure him that all was well thus far, and that I hadn’t set off alarms with my two bionic knees as I sashayed through security lines - always an adventure when I travel. 

With only an hour before the pre-convention festivities were to begin, I promptly began to get ready, fluffing out my newly purchased evening gown that I was hoping was suitable attire to impress my fellow FanStorians and New York High Society.

The moment I left my incredibly posh room, who should be walking to the elevator at the same time? Humpwhistle! I recognized him immediately from his height, his hairstyle, and the fact that he carried a box filled with books. 

“Hump?”

“Big Dog?”

“You’re taller in person than I imagined!”

“You’re zippier looking in person that I imagined!”

“You surely know how to charm a lady. No guitar, Mr. Hump?”

“No, guitar, Big Dog, but I brought some of our newly published books – you know, the 12 New Christmas Stories where my name appears first on the cover and title page… as in above yours…to hawk at the pre-dinner and convention.”

“Geesh! Absolutely shameless, don't you think? But I love your moxie!”

“Always prepared, Big Dog. Always prepared. A writer’s gotta do what a writer’s gotta do!”

 

We entered the spacious elevator and were eagerly met by Wendy G, Dolly, Roy, Debbie D'Arcy, Ulla, Sandra Stoner-Mitchell, and Valda. How I loved not only meeting them but listening to their distinct accents. My northern Michigan accent sounded so unrefined! And in true “KT” fashion, I began to laugh nervously; in fact, I laughed so hard I could feel my hair begin to droop, which is always a sign that I am already having too much fun, and I hadn’t even imbibed my "one and done" amaretto sour yet!

At each floor, more and more FanStorians entered the elevator until I was certain the entire membership was present, apart from Tom Ens, whom I was dying to meet… You know, just to extend niceties and perhaps initiate a lively conversation, filled with “vivid imagery” about “blind contests” and his numerous ranking algorithms that have piqued my interest since I joined FanStory in 2007. 

Robert Zimmerman, Roy Owen, Neonewman, Humpwhistle, and I were the last to exit the elevator, and what an exit it was:

 

Humpwhistle instructed Robert and Roy to lower themselves onto the floor on all fours, and then I was instructed to straddle the backsides of both while Neonewman and Humpwhistle held my arms! In said fashion we made our entrance as I held one of my bionic legs at a Houdini-like angle while placing both hands flat beneath one of my chins calling out, “Strike a pose!”

I felt one of my legs begin to cramp up, but I persevered with two thoughts running simultaneously through my mind:
1. Gretchen and Rachelle, you owe me big time.
2. “For you, a thousand times over.”

 

No sooner had we made our entrance, but disaster struck!

 

Roy and Robert, unaccustomed to bearing such a lightweight upon their backs “gave up the ghost,” and summarily dumped me on the floor!

There I was in a heap of beautiful floral embroidery and illusion tulle over my fuzzy, drooping coiffed hair. Even my diamond drop earrings were askew! Heaven forbid! And as I attempted to reclaim my dignity, a poem emerged from my equally fuzzy brain:

 

Well, if that doesn’t beat all!
Here I am, plopped against a wall!
Having been unceremoniously dumped
By Roy, Robert, Neo
And the infamous Hump!
Nobody, and I mean Nobody
Puts the Big Dog against a wall
So… What to do?
What to say?
What to plot
To have my day

And ensure my embarrassment

Goes far, far away?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That’s as far as I got, but I committed the above to memory to save for a “Write a Rant” FanStory Contest prompt.

 

Terry Broxson, Jim Wile and Bill Schott, three gentlemen extraordinaire, took pity upon me, and helped me to my feet. 

After thanking them profusely, but declining Terry's suggestion of a medicinal swig of his favorite bourbon that he just so happened to have with him, I gingerly made my way to a gorgeous white damask sofa where I was immediately surrounded by Dolly, Helen, WendyG, Carol (Begin Again), Judith (Carlos' girl), Gloria, Debbie Pope, Janet Foor, and judiverse offering me ministrations, chocolate, and soothing words of comfort. Gloria graciously offered to procure me a glass of champagne to heal my wounded ego. (She also offered to strum a few healing chords on her ukelele). In fact, each of the ladies present offered me glasses of champagne to calm my nerves and embarrassment. I eagerly accepted even though I rarely, and I mean rarely, ever imbibe champagne = too rich and tingly for my northern Michigan sensibilities, I suppose…

 

And that’s all I remember.

Yup.

 

I was “soused to the eyeballs” by the kindness and caring gestures of FanStory friends.

When I awoke, the room was empty!
Well, that's not entirely true.

There was broken glass, knocked over chairs, scraps of food, and what appeared to be a myriad of green sequins strewn about here and there.

I even spotted one lone silver stiletto!

And what in the world was all over my once coiffed hair?  
Food!
Bits of icky, sticky food scraps!

In short, the room and I looked like a powder keg had exploded!

But no sign of my fellow FanStorians anywhere.

 

I never even witnessed Rachelle's and Gretchen's entrance.
I never had an opportunity to show off my black patent kitten heels to Rachelle.
I never had a chance to compliment Gretchen on her patience with Rachelle.

 

But I did have a chance to muster the beginning of another poem:
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A convention, true,
Filled with "friends" ... more than a few
Now…what should I do?

I felt like a twit
As I gathered my wits
Hair’s on the fritz

A real champagne blitz
This must be what it means
To be “Putting on the Ritz”

 

And that’s where my tale of the infamous FanStory 2024 Pre- Convention festivities ends… or begins. At least for now.  Because we all know the “True Story” contest is due December 15th, and this should make a doozy! At least good enough for Third Place or Honorable Mention... or not!

In the infamous words of writer Emma Nichols, author of Sin at Sea, "Always ... and I mean always leave them wanting more." 
 

Onward!

 

Chapter 38
WendyG's version

By Rachelle Allen

Dear Diary,

I'm heading for the FanStory Convention! I'm in New Jersey!

I had to think long and hard about coming all this way, because of Sunny. I hope I don't get teary thinking of him waiting for me and worrying. He never eats if I am not there!

I'm quite nervous about tomorrow - meeting a number of FanStorians, all with prolific writing output. Some poets probably think and speak in rhyming verse! I hope they don't all talk in limericks or haikus.

I'll be fairly quiet perhaps. Don't they say that it is better to be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and prove one is?

I've just thought of another issue, a big one.

My accent is Australian! I use Aussie idioms and occasional slang. I'll probably call those seafood things "prawns" instead of "shrimp". For us a "shrimp" is a derogatory term for a person of small stature, as in the context of a big boy speaking to his brother. "Come here, shrimp!" You see what I mean?

Furthermore, what if I can't understand anyone else? I'm sure Dolly will be there, and she'll probably have a delightful lilt to her voice; she'll speak like Kate Middleton or even better!

Here I'll need to make smoothly flowing witty conversation without any editing. I can think, plan and edit what I write, taking my time, but ... I don't suppose AI can help with conversation?! Just kidding, and being very sarcastic as well.

But I MUST remember not to comment favourably on anyone's imagery being "viv ..." Oops! I cannot finish that thought. I'll be thrown out, out of the convention, and off the FS site as well. Probably even out of the US!! I wonder what other expressions I must not use, in case they are generated by AI? I did ask for a list, but it was not forthcoming. Yes, I am doing that eye roll thing.

Now, clothes. It's Autumn here. I've brought my coat because their Autumn is probably colder than our winter. I'll wear my floaty long black chiffon pants with that slim-fitting tunic top with the sequinned bodice to the dinner. Hmm. Unfortunately that will expose my neck with its wrinkles. Something creative with that black chiffon scarf? Nah! I don't have that panache! I'll look like I'm being strangled.

I'll wear the earrings my students gave me, forgetting I didn't have pierced ears, so I had them done when I was sixty-five. Perhaps some sort of record. Another problem. My fingers are too clumsy to get my earrings in ... my husband does them for me.

For this special event, I DO want to look glamorous - a bit rare these days, ever since I had to start wearing old-lady shoes with orthotics. I'm a jeans and tee-shirt girl; joggers or boots are my staple footwear. But of course, I can't wear them HERE. Not in New York, at a FanStory convention!

I know it's not all about me, but I sure hope they don't seat me next to Jane Babies! I guess if they do, I won't have to worry about making conversation, witty or otherwise. She'll do enough talking for both of us.

There are others I would prefer not to be near: those two guys who gave me poor reviews. One gave two stars because my subject matter didn't interest him at all. I "respectfully" reminded him that he could have chosen to stop reading at any time. Perhaps I was overly generous with my financial incentive, and he couldn't resist the lure of wealth.

Another gave three stars because he said he prefers reviewing poetry. Perplexing, because my writing was, of course, prose. Money, again! Please keep them away from me, in case I lose my reputation for being respectful.

I have learned the hard way throughout life, that one simply can't please everybody; these days I don't even bother trying. FanStorians will just have to take me as they find me. As my grandchildren would say, quoting their father, "You get what you get, so don't get upset."

Anyway, despite all these last-minute nerves, I am sure it will be a FABULOUS time. I am looking forward to seeing if everyone really does resemble their profile pictures (which might be twenty years old) or whether they look like what I imagine.

What a lot of poems and stories will be birthed after this convention! NOT nine months of literary gestation however, probably only nine days. Time to get back home, catch up on washing and chores, and then write furiously ....

Anyway, fellow FanStorians ... see you tomorrow! I'll be the quiet one sitting in the corner watching you all, probably with painful feet, because I am regrettably unused to wearing elegant high heels now. I might be sneakily wearing comfortable footwear under my fancy flowing evening pants.

Hooroo! That's Aussie slang for "Goodbye".
*****
Dear Diary,
An evening to remember! We've just had a pre-dinner get together, and it was ... quite unbelievable. I'd never imagined anything quite like it!

First though, I had a video call with Sunny. Pa held the phone where Sunny could see me, and then led him to his bowl. I told him to eat while I was watching. He did. Smart dog! After that I could relax a bit.

Dolly popped into my room shortly before the appointed time and helped me with my special earrings and with make-up, camouflaging the bags under my eyes from travelling more than twenty-seven hours!

I felt quite glamorous, ready now to mix with all these celebrity writers.
On arrival (I nearly needed sunglasses because of all the bling) I found a comfortable chair and sipped my champagne, surreptitiously slipping my elegant shoes off, and neatly tucking my aching feet out of sight. I noticed a few others doing the same! Occasionally, knowing smiles passed between us.

I was pleased that I understood everyone with all the different American and British accents, and nobody spoke in Haikus or limericks ....

I admit to wondering why Roy would pair flip-flops with a tuxedo. Probably his wife said he should wear the tux, and perhaps he just wanted to be comfortable, also showing some Aussie humour.

Rachelle looked beautiful, bubbly, and confident. Of course she's used to stage and theatre. She has that gracious and natural way of setting everybody at ease. I do confess, however, to extreme jealousy of that flaming thick red hair!
***
I was having a quiet conversation with Gretchen; we had clicked immediately with our similar personalities. I remember saying that most people were exactly as I had pictured them, even Bill Schott in his startling outfit, despite that crazy profile picture which always made me squirm.

But then something quite amazing happened ....

Miss Megaphone, Jane Babies, sort of flung herself into the elegant room, announcing to all that she'd had to come via the service lift!

This was The Voice, and I am not referring to excellent singers! I was glad I was at the far end of the room. Even there, I started to cringe, and shrink back in horror.

Gretchen said something unrepeatable, jumped up, and rushed to Rachelle, who needed to be tethered to prevent violence. Too late.

Adding insult to injury, Jane Babies had not only worn the SAME dress as Rachelle, but was proclaiming loudly and clearly, "TWINSIES!" with a stupid look on her equally asinine face.

Rachelle completely lost her cool; she was on fire! Nothing could cover the sudden rush of colour to her cheeks. Careful make-up highlighting previously twinkling eyes was powerless to hide the sparks now blazing forth!

Then it began. Days of carefully controlled rage released themselves into a volcanic explosion of emotion! Food went everywhere, mostly onto Jane Babies! We all knew what a pain in the ... she'd been. But she wasn't giving up easily!

Drama, sufficient for a dozen novellas! Enough for poems or flash-fiction requiring revenge (best served either cold or hot), or for any genre needing a twist at the end. Even good for a few limericks, I'm sure. Literary output could be humorous, emotional, or tense and dramatic following this amazing, horrendous, crazy, "Laurel and Hardy"-type spectacle.

Roy looked perplexed. This seemed a strange response to his prayer of thanks for the food. I saw Gretchen slide under a table - she'd given up on trying to calm proceedings. Was she crying or just trying to save herself from the same fate as Rachelle, being splattered with food?

Several were laughing hysterically. Humpwhistle stood back, a bit bemused. I sort of wished he would pick up Jane Babies by the scruff of her green dress and throw her out!

Suddenly, surprising even myself, I jumped to my feet, drew myself up to my full height, and in my best teacher's voice, I said, "STOP!"

Shocked, everyone turned in my direction. It was a moment frozen in time.

I turned to Jane Babies, gave her "the look" (all teachers know exactly what I mean!) and said in my coldest, quietest and scariest, most authoritative tone, "You were NOT invited. LEAVE! IMMEDIATELY!" Her mouth dropped open, yet there was a defiant glint in her eyes.

"GO!" I warned.

Mrs KT came to my support. "The lift has arrived!" She pointed commandingly towards the service lift, its open doors ready to welcome Jane Babies. She slunk inside. The lift descended.

The ice was broken, along with a lot of other things! We all relaxed and there was much merriment, until Helen quietly reminded us that it was time to clean ourselves up for the "proper" Awards Ceremony.

I noticed that Inky Eyes had slipped back in. He turned to Rachelle, and his eyes twinkled knowingly. "Leave the clean-up to me!" he reassured her. Perhaps he had predicted such an outcome ....

Let's just say that Jane Babies did not attend the Awards Ceremony.

Tom was so thankful we all still chose to attend (or perhaps he feared further mayhem!) that he freely offered ten sets of six stars per week. He also said that he would get a different AI detector, and that he would reconsider the ratings system. He received loud cheers.

Rachelle and Gretchen received awards for perseverance and commitment to organising this event, despite the unwelcome addition of Jane Babies, acknowledging their literary efforts and emotional duress along a very difficult journey.

Other awards were given, including many fun ones. We could no longer take ourselves too seriously!

The circus of the pre-dinner event seemed to have united us. The chaos had transformed the experience into a bonding one, for we'd seen each other at our best and our worst. Who cared about glamor? We were one family of FanStorians.

Furthermore, the unthinkable had become ... the inspirational!

We were all energised and ready to transform the whole experience into a book which would entertain many, each in our own unique style. Of course, it would talk about insecurity, priorities, life and relationships, friendships, and conflict resolution. All the usual things. The important things about living.

Fine literature, of course!!

Author Notes

I have thoroughtly enjoyed the creative and unforgettable writing of both Rachelle and Gretchen - so different in personality, but equally gifted and both have the same way out sense of humour, not too dissimilar to my own. Congratulations to both!

Chapter 38
Judiverse's Version

By Rachelle Allen

I just returned from the FanStory convention, and It was the thrill of a lifetime!  We writers are most frequently seen in pajamas or less, slaving over what we think will be an award-winning story or poem.  But the convention showed how stunning we can be when we get all glammed up. 

I want to thank Rachelle and Gretchen for the magnificent party they threw.  You’d think they were hosting a star-studded Hollywood gala.  Everyone was dressed to the nines, except Lea Tonin, who received a unanimous ten from all the men in attendance.  Rachelle would have rated a ten, but she tore her gown while ripping off the identical one Jane was wearing.  The men were no slouch in the dress-up department.  They dressed to suit their personalities.  I appreciated Roy and Robert's efforts to go formal in tuxedoes 

I apologized to Barbara Wilkey for goring her in the ass, but I think she understood the reasoning behind it.  Barbara had used a picture of a longhorn steer in two of her recent posts.  Naturally, the picture made me think of el toro, the bull.  The bull made me think of bullfights, and the way Barbara flashed her skirt around like a matador’s cape gave me an irresistible urge to attack.  If her dress had been red, the unthinkable could have happened. 

Mrs. K.T. had beautiful flowers flown in from her garden to adorn the banquet tables, and Helen contributed some flowers of unknown origin.  I couldn’t identify them, but they caused me to sneeze uncontrollably.  Helen spent all Saturday morning at the library, researching what they were. 

Humpwhistle and Diane (Mrs. K.T.) took advantage of the occasion to set up a booth and hawk their latest book, Twelve New Christmas Stories.  Book sales were brisk, but I noticed they charged two dollars more than I paid for the one I ordered from Amazon. 

Roy Owen conducted a workshop on writing faith poetry, and Dolly gave a presentation on illustrating your own poems.  Barbara Wilkey offered tips on writing the romance novel to FanStorians eager to learn from her experience,.

The highlight of the Awards banquet was Rachelle’s moving performance of O Mio Babbino Caro by Puccini.  I knew she was thinking of her protégé Rebekah as she sang it.

Tom presented the Tommy awards.  Dolly and Roy Owen tied for poetry, Gretchen, Rachelle, and Barbara tied for novel, Pam Lonsdale won the honors for short story, and Helen received the award for script.  Actually, hers was the only script that qualified.  Yours truly humbly accepted an honorable mention.  Tom didn’t mention what for. 

It was wonderful to meet so many FanStory members, and I hope Rachelle and Gretchen will invite us to their gala next year. 

Author Notes

Picture from Bing Images. I want to thank Rachelle and Gretchen for making this trip possible.

Chapter 38
Begin Again's Version

By Rachelle Allen

"Everyone, stop where you are and drop whatever is in your hands." A tall, muscular officer in full uniform stepped through the door with a bullhorn in hand. "Who's responsible for this mess?" His tone was deadly serious as he glanced around the room.

Everyone froze, their wide-eyed gazes doing major somersaults from one person to the next, searching for someone to take the blame. Suddenly, everyone was staring at Rachelle. Having put some distance between herself and Rachelle, Jane screeched, "She is, officer. She started the whole thing."

Rachelle moved in Janes's direction, fire blazing from her eyes. But the officer stepped in front of her, blocking her way. He stopped almost nose to nose with Rachelle. "Is that so? Did you start all this?"

Rachelle's chin jutted forward, refusing to appear weak, even if he was the police. "I guess you might say I did, but—"

The officer slapped his large hand on his butt and grinned as his hips moved to a silent beat. "I'm in charge of the butts, ma'am."

The officer raised the bullhorn again. "Alright, folks, we're shutting this down," he said with a straight face. The other officer rolled up his sleeves, ready to make some arrests.

Just then, a bottle of champagne accidentally popped nearby, spraying bubbles across the room. The officers look at each other, one of them smirking as he shrugged off his police jacket. The other officer nodded, turning up the bullhorn to announce, "Looks like we're going to have to take you down!"

Someone behind him cranked up the music — something disco — and he tossed the bullhorn aside. As he began swaying and loosening his shirt collar, he circled Rachelle, running his hands up and down her sides but not touching her. Everyone gasped.

"That's right, folks!" shouted another officer who'd just entered the room. "We heard this was a crime scene. Some of you aren't having enough fun. It's our duty to make sure justice is served."

They pulled off their police jackets, revealing glittery suspenders and bow ties. People in the room burst into laughter, some clapping along as the strippers took to the floor, shaking their booties at the now-blushing Rachelle, who couldn't stop laughing as she was pulled into the spotlight.

Gretchen crawled out from under the table with the champagne bottle still in her hand. She hiccuped. "Rach, what's going on? Are we going to get arrested?"

One of the officers lifted Gretchen into the air and flipped her through his legs. Gretchen squealed, and the low-life Dixie chick screamed, "Ride 'em, cowboy!"

The original shock gave way to roars of laughter, and the officers-turned-strippers worked the room, stopping to kiss Helen and LJButterfly on the cheek and moving on to dance a quick cha—cha—cha with Barbara. Soon, everyone was taking impromptu selfies with all the dancers.

Music continued to blast, and suddenly, they were dancing across the room, popping champagne bottles and tossing cans of whipped cream into the crowd. Rachelle and Gretchen, both still laughing hysterically, got whipped cream sprayed on their heads like tiaras, and people started cheering.

The officers began a full-on routine, turning the buffet into their stage. They even pulled Ric MyWorld up on their stage and stripped off his shirt. He felt right at home and joined in.

After finishing with another hot disco song, they formed a line and exited the door. The first officer picked up the bullhorn and said, "Remember, ladies and gentlemen, the only crime tonight is if you don't have a good time." The crowd erupted, cheering as they waved goodbye.

Gretchen laughed hysterically and asked Rachelle, "What happened to Jane?"

Rachelle glanced around the room and shrugged. "Darned if I know."

Overhearing the conversation, Roy provided the answer. "I saw an officer showing her his handcuffs, and I think she went with him."

Gretchen's mouth dropped open. "You mean —"

Before Gretchen could finish her sentence, Carol strolled into the room, dressed to impress in her bold red dress. She tossed her blonde hair, giving everyone a mischievous smile as the DJ cranked up Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff."

"Come on, everybody!" she shouted, raising a glass. "It's time to Begin Again."

Her hips swayed to the beat, and within moments, the room burst back to life. Even Rachelle, still wiping whipped cream from her hair, joined in, laughing as Gretchen pulled her onto the dance floor. People clinked champagne glasses and posed for photos with whipped cream mustaches and champagne toasts.

Just then, a stripper returned, holding up a second bullhorn. "Remember, folks —what happens at FanStory stays at FanStory!" he yelled, winking as he waved goodbye.

The night continued with wild dancing, laughter, and enough photos to fill the following year's "Best of FanStory" scrapbook. And somewhere in the chaos, Jane was last seen "getting a private tour" of the police van, handcuffs and all.

Chapter 38
Dolly's Version

By Rachelle Allen

After checking into the Hotel for the Fanstory Convention I was delighted to see an envelope pushed under my hotel room door which read:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Our pre-convention-dinner red carpet spoof
Won't be as fun without you!
See you at 5:00.
Xoxoxo
Rachelle and Gretchen.
PS Wear a name tag.

How could I resist such an invitation. I had never met Rachelle or Gretchen before or indeed any of the Fanstorians in the US. I was very careful to wear my name tag to identify myself.

On my way out of the room dolled up to the nines in my golden gown, I bumped into Wayne Fowler sporting a ball cap, shades and a denim jacket with a turned up collar! I clung to my motto: never judge a book by its cover and Wayne was happy to accompany me to the party. He turns out to be such a sweetheart with a bubbly personality.

On the way we bumped into Valda (Pearl Edward's), from Australia, she looked exhausted after a long flight, but she put on a brave face and wore a wonderful authentic tweed suit and a string of pearls.

The three of us made our way to the lift when we bumped into Patricia (Patcelaw) frantically pushing the buttons impatiently as the lift was slow, and she does not like waiting. She is always on the go. Patricia looked so youthful in a pair of slim fitting cream trousers and a sequin jacket.

"Wow Patricia, you look absolutely gorgeous" I said.

She replied saying: "I ran this up on my sewing machine last night!"

I was envious of such talent.

The four of us entered the lift just as someone's arm shot across the doors causing them to reopen. An elderly rather dapper looking gent entered with a smile. It was Paul McFarland. He looked like a Chief Executive in his bespoke Savile Row suit, pink and blue striped tie and shoes that were so well shined that I could see my reflection in them.

"Hi Paul, please to meet you," I said with a smile.

"Likewise." He replied.

I could see him carefully reading everyone's name tag and keeping his opinions to himself.

The lift stopped on the next floor and who should step in but, Debbie D'Arcy looking absolutely beautiful like she had just stepped out of the beauty salon. She wore a Julienne McDonald pink dress with chiffon inserts and what looked like real diamond earrings, she is such a classy lady. She gazed at the faces in the lift desperately trying to read all the name tags and squeezed in next to Paul who felt very uncomfortable at this close proximity. The lift filled with the aroma of her expensive perfume.

The lift opened and we all piled out and mingled with the crowd. I spotted Beth Shelby in the distance and instantly recognised her from her profile photograph and headed over to her.

She said: "If I knew everyone was going to dress up like this I would have made more of an effort."

I don't know why she thought that because she looked amazing in her green floral skirt and matching jacket.

"Hi Beth, how lovely to meet you at last, did you drive all the way here?" I enquired.

"No, my daughter drove me here and she is about somewhere, I will introduce you to her."

I was excited at this prospect as Beth has posted lots of stories about her family and I felt I knew them all already.

I excused myself as I spotted Tom Horonzy with his gorgeous wife and I was eager to meet them both. Large as life Tom gave me a big bear hug and almost lifted me off my feet as he was so anxious to make my acquaintance and to hear my English accent! All he heard was a scream! Ha ha ha. He looked and smelt amazing as I expect his wife chooses all his clothes and buys his aftershave.

I kept spotting one Fanstorian after another, I felt like I knew them through their amazing writings and my tongue did not stop wagging all night.

But wait a minute, I still have to find Gretchen and Rachelle.

Suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder and there they both stood, smiling with enthusiasm as they were instrumental in organising this amazing party that I will never ever forget!

We hugged, kissed and we did not stop talking as we filled in the gaps about our lives. What a pleasure this night has been to meet all these diverse characters who make Fanstory such a fine community of people. This was definitely a night to remember.

Thank you Rachelle and Gretchen,

Love Dolly x x x x
 

Chapter 38
Wayne Fowler's Version

By Rachelle Allen

Chapter 38

Wayne casually entered the ballroom from an obscure on-ramp, carefully easing his way into the stream of traffic. FanStory International Convention revelers were chaotically mingling. Wayne had his work cut out for him, trying to decide which of the many walking and sauntering about infractions warranted corrective action, sidelining the worst of the offenders with his ray gun.

Clearly Wendy G. with her troublesome Sunny was going to be put to the curb. People could not continue to impede the flow of traffic by their incessant pandering to the cute little dog. Wendy wasn’t necessarily doing anything wrong, and neither was Sunny. But for goodness' sakes, FanStorians had to be the absolute worst when it comes to pets. Wayne toyed with his ray gun, waiting to isolate her.  He couldn’t have Wendy accidentally taking out innocent attendees.

Uh-oh. Jim Wile has got to be waylaid. And soon. He’s going to clobber someone with that golf club. Too late. He smacked a glass right out of RicMyWorld’s hand, splashing wine all over Helen’s (Lyenochka) rich burgundy dress with a beaded purplish scarf that she has draped stylishly at a vertical/diagonal angle. What a mess. Oh look how calmly she takes the assault. What a generously kind human being! Get ready Ric, you’re going to the wall.

Lea, Lea, Lea. Sorry, I know you are fairly new to FanStory, but you have to signal lane changes just like everyone else. To the wall, Ms Tonin. Zip-zap, flippity flap. Enjoy your time out. Wayne was enjoying himself a bit too much.

No! Pam Lonsdale! You think you own the place? You can’t just steam roll your way straight across the ballroom. Just because you see what you want doesn’t mean... Well, heck fire. I guess Wayne simply must follow in your wake until he gets a chance to zap your brain. I wonder if anyone in this group has an extra? Jim Wile can probably make you one right quick.

Would you just look at that! Seventeen FanStorians parading around the room in five-seven-five formation. Ain’t that something. Now Wayne finally understands. Well, let’s just see if they can avoid ending up in a heap when they lose their brain. (zap) Huh. Well that didn’t work. Karenina transformed them into a three-nine… no, now a seven-five, no, wait, a one-one-five-… Hold on, people! They’ve made themselves into an acrostic by their names: WendyG, Annmuma, Yardier, Neonewman, Easyeverett, SallyLaw, TomHoronzy… Oh, Wayne gets it. They’re on to him. Well, he’ll just turn his cap around backwards, don a mustache, and turn himself inside-out. No one will ever guess.

Ah, there they are heading for the head table: Rachelle and Gretchen. Aren’t they something? Who is that that Gretchen has in a headlock, dragging him along? Humpwhistle. Word to the wise folks, Gretchen is not to be toyed with!

Now anyone wearing a tangerine blazer over a pea green shirt, forest green trousers and brown loafers needs sidelined no matter how well they manage their rig. Enjoy the wall, Bill Schott.

Well, there’s Judiverse. I thought she was stuck in an elevator.

“Hello, Roy. You related to Buck? Get him to put you in the movies. Gonna make a big star outta you. Yeah, I know – a dad joke. Guess that’s the Ohmie in me,” Wayne said.

“Hey, folks. You wanted to see me?” Wayne crowed. “Let’s see… Jim Vecchio, Carol Hillebrenner, Beth Shelby, and Ric My World. Yeah, I’d know you anywhere. What, you want to see me about killing Clyde? You want to try me for murder? Oh… for Ben Persons. What, are you all crazy? He was just a … Ow! That hurt! Where’s Rachelle Allen? She’ll take care of all of you. Oh, she and Gretchen Hargis are going to be the judges? Well, heck. I’m a dead man for sure.”

 

Author Notes

Of course you are free to edit as necessary. I was mixed about 1st or 3rd person POV. The photo is courtesy FanArtReview Don’t drink and drive by Cleo85 (I have to hurry and ear $% more bucks in order to promote this.) frowny face here

Chapter 38
Barbara Wilkey's version.

By Rachelle Allen

I stood in the elevator praying the doors wouldn't open when I arrived at the correct floor. Why am I here? I don't like these kind of functions. I'm not comfortable with them. I'm shy. I'll literally sit in the corner, and nobody will even know I'm here. It's the way it always happens. I could be home writing. That's where I'm most comfortable. My dog, Harley, always knows I'm around. I won't know anybody. I released a deep breath. That's sort of a lie. I've communicated almost daily with most of them through FanStory. But is that really knowing somebody? Maybe Wendy G will bring Sunny. I'd be comfortable with him.

The elevator door opened. I stood there refusing to budge. The elevator door closed, and I rode up and down three more times, before I finally convinced myself to step out. Finally, at Rachelle and Gretchen's hotel door, I stood poised to knock with invitation in hand when the door magically opened. "This can't be good." I took a few steps inside and noticed total chaos. A food fight. I knew this wasn't' for me. I'd better get out of here before I see anybody I might know.

I turned to leave but was gorged in the rearend. "What?"

Judiverse smiled. "Hi, Barbara. I thought your longhorn steer needed to make an appearance."

I hugged her. "Hello. I don't normally travel with him, but it seems he snuck in." I scanned the room. "What's going on?"

"It seems an uncouth female, named Jane something, wore the same dress as Rachelle."

"There's got to be more to it than that. We're adults."

"I'm sure there is, but that's all I know." Judiverse waved at somebody from across the room. "Sorry, I need to visit with Lyenochka. I promised to compare poetry notes. I'll catch up with you later."

I slowly walked around the room until I found an appropriate corner to sit in. Watching the shenanigans continue, even after the stripper police left, I laughed. I feel like Miss Nancy from Romper Room. Man, that's a random thought that takes me back a few years. Maybe I need to discuss that with BethShelby and her memoirs. I see her next to the window.

"Romper, bomper, stomper boo. Tell me, tell me, tell me, do. Magic Mirror, tell me today, did all my friends have fun at play?" I said as I looked around. "I wonder how many of my friends I can see? Oh look, there's Lyenochka, LJButterfly, Humpwhistle, exactly as I imagined. I do wish he's come back and write some more. Wayne Fowler. Dolly. I hope she had a good flight. Jim Wile, Paul McFarland, he's off in a corner like me, and Wendy G. I guess Sunny didn't make the trip, but it seems my longhorn did. Go figure."

Scanning the room a little more, I continued with my pretend mirror. "There's Gypsy Blue Rose. I wish she'd share her secrets of writing Haiku. Bill Schott and Judiverse. I never should have posted anything about a longhorn. I wonder if Judiverse is planning and crime for my Bertha and Millie to solve. Pam Lonsdale and Roy Owen. I'd love to sit down and talk with him. Robert Zimmerman and NeoNewman. There's two men I'd love to discuss their novels with. I have an idea on how to solve the situations their main characters are in. I see Mrs. KT, RickMyWorld and Jim Vecchio. Three of my favorite authors."

I took a break from my magic mirror and sipped my iced tea. "There's Sandra Stoner-Mitchell. I'd love to discuss her new story with her. I can't wait to see what those twins are going to get into. There's Pam (respa) and Cindy Decker 3. I always enjoy reading their post. Oh my, there's Lancelot. I wonder how many women he'll bed tonight. Begin Again, will I get to read about Garth in her next novel. Hmm, great question. I hope so. There's Jacob 1395. He's got a great story going. I hope Danielle and Callum get away from that house safely. I know it's a cult."

Maybe I should move. My rearends getting tired or maybe from the longhorn gouge. I stand and take a few steps. "Nope, I'll stay here. It's safe. On there's Nomi338. I'm sure he's one of the sweetest men, I know. I've got to be sure to meet Debi Pick Marquette, I could learn a lot about being a special angel from her. Holy Cow, there's Debbie D'Arcy. I always learn something new from her posts. I see Sally Law, Teri 7, and Patcelaw are deep in conversation. Those ladies always remind me of what a true Christianity looks like. Shelly Kaye, I need to get out of my comfort zone and talk with her. The same with Jessizero, Dawn Munro, and Lea Tonin 1. Those ladies are amazing. I can't believe I recognize so many people."

I watched the door. "Ulla and Iza Deleanu just walked in. I wonder if their flights just arrive. Their posts always keep my interest. Wait! There's Karen Cherry Threadgill. I'd love to see how her creative side works." I glance around the room. "There's three of my favorite authors talking together. Tfawcus, Brett Matthew West, and Douglas Goff. They each have me totally involved with their novel. I hope tfawcus starts another one soon. Brett Matthew West has a perfect character in Cody. Douglas Goff, well, I have a crush on Greg. Who wouldn't?" I glance around the room one more time. "I see Rachelle, but where's Gretchen?" Laughing, I watched her come from under a table. "I agree that would have been the perfect place to wait this out."

I stood. "Okay self. It's time to be brave and meet these authors you've admired from afar. You got this."

Author Notes

I struggled to come up with anything to write. It seems my muse went AWOL. Maybe it's at the party. Thank you for taking time to read this. If I forgot anything my deepest apologies.

Chapter 38
Robert Zimmerman Version

By Rachelle Allen

After being gone for 2 1/2 years, I came back to FS following the publication of a book and other writing projects. After enduring a week of darkness during Helene's visit, I was invited by Rachel and Gretchen to join them at a Fan Story convention in New Jersey. Following the hurricane and 7 days without electricity, TV, or cell service, I thought, "I can handle a day in New Jersey."

I went to Jersey and casually made my entrance at the convention in a stylish black tie, tuxedo, gold sequined cummerbund, and a hand-carved mahogany walking stick. I reminded myself of a ZZ Top song called, "Sharp Dressed Man." My tux was quite a departure from my typical shorts and tee shirt monogrammed with the words, "I Laugh at My Own Jokes."

Someone crashed into me, causing me to do a face plant on the shiny ballroom floor. I hurriedly grabbed my walking stick and stood up. I wondered if I was knocked over accidentally or on purpose.

While wandering around, I spotted many familiar faces and encountered several unfamiliar ones. As I don't consume alcohol, I was savoring a huge, ice-cold glass of black cherry flavored seltzer. I love that stuff. While I was on the brink of finishing my drink, I was jostled from behind, causing me to tumble to the floor for a second time. Following my second recovery, I made the decision to act. I walked into the reception area connected to the ballroom. I took out my Bob Dylan rubber face mask from my tuxedo vest pocket and put it on.

I walked back into the ballroom calmly but caused quite a commotion. A person yelled, "Hey! Robert Zimmerman is back."
Another person spoke up. "No way! That's Bob Dylan! He just thinks he's Robert Zimmerman."

While returning to North Carolina, I fantasized about auctioning off my tuxedo, tie, cummerbund, and mahogany cane on eBay. I think I'll hold on to the mask. Once again, I found myself laughing at my own joke.

Author Notes

For those not aware, Bob Dylan's birth name is Robert Zimmerman. I have received messages over the years asking if I am the "Real" Robert Zimmerman. I am the real one, just not that one. Graphic created using MS Copilot.

Chapter 38
Debbie Pope's Version

By Rachelle Allen

"Look, Gretchen. There's Debbie Pope. I can just spot that white topknot of hers. I wonder why she didn't come to the fashion show. I assumed she wasn't here."

"You know how busy she is with her grandkids. I'm surprised she had time to come."

"She loves her friends at FanStory though. Lets go say hi and see what she is wearing. There's a lot of space around her."

Rachelle heads for Debbie's head, and Gretchen follows. Suddenly though, Rachelle stops, and Gretchen runs into her spiked heels.

"Why did you stop? What's wrong with you, Rachelle? Do you want to see Debbie or not?"

Pointing, Rachelle shakes her head in disbelief. "Look what she is wearing!"

Curious, Gretchen peers over her shoulder and gapes. "I don't believe it. She's wearing a baby carrier on the front and a baby carrier on her back. SHE BROUGHT HER GRANDCHILDREN!"

"That's her idea of fun. And look, she's pushing two more children in a double stroller. That's why there is space around her."

"Well that's not my idea of a good time. Lets find the champagne fountain. I don't think that she saw us. She was pretty preoccupied."

"Yeah. Let's go."

Chapter 38
Jessica Wheeler Version

By Rachelle Allen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the invitation to FanStory's 2024 convention arrived, I knew there was only one way I'd be making my entrance...

Late.

Oh, "Why," you ask? Well, keep on asking, and do let me know if you ever figure it out. Sure, I could blame my kids, who are now eight and ten and, quite frankly, more responsible than most adults I know. I could blame the drive; a whopping three-and-a-half-hour trek from my home in Branford, CT, to Atlantic City, NJ. But the truth is, my tardiness usually has less to do with logistics and more to do with my knack for stumbling into the bizarre– a parade of unlikely events, if you will, that somehow only ever seem to happen to me.

Whether it's getting blocked in my driveway by the neighbor's chickens (yes, that actually happened), or waking up to find that someone has broken in and stolen all my shoes (ok, that hasn't happened... YET!), something is just bound to slow me down. On the day of the convention, that something was a fruit truck spill that caused a two-hour backup on the Jersey Turnpike.

 

~

Streaks of gold and orange reflected in the tall building's windows when I finally pulled into the hotel. I took a deep breath, adjusted my wrinkled dress, and tried to channel my "I totally meant to arrive now" vibe.

I walked inside, quickly grabbed my name tag from the desk, and headed toward the sound of muffled music around the corner. I opened the door to an unexpected scene.

Chaos. Complete chaos.

People were shouting, dishes were breaking, and food was flying. I stood there, blinking rapidly in disbelief. Was this some kind of weird performance art?

In the middle of it all, I spotted Rachelle Allen, looking wild, angry, and positively radiant, even with her fiery red hair streaked with what appeared to be... mashed potatoes? She was squaring off with a woman I didn't recognize, who was wearing a dress that mimicked Rachelle's, only a bit less flattering.

At that moment, Gretchen Hargis popped up from under a table, holding a bottle of wine, and flashed me the brightest, most sincere smile. She instantly calmed my nerves. Well, her and the considerable swig I took from the bottle.

"What... the hell happened?" I stammered, still trying to comprehend what I was seeing.

"Jane Babies happened," Gretchen replied with a shrug, a touch of amusement in her voice.

I dodged a meatball and looked around the room. I caught sight of Mrs. KT, Gloria, and Debi attempting to clean with stacks of napkins, while Pam, Karenina, and Sally made an effort to shield them with serving trays. One by one, I started to identify the faces of numerous writers I had come to admire over the past year and a half.

I decided this had to stop. I have often played the role of a peacemaker, someone who attempts to maintain a pleasant atmosphere or, at the very least, divert attention from chaos with some outrageous, nonsensical declaration...

"This food fight is but a metaphor for our struggle as artists!" I shouted into a breadstick like a microphone.

When that didn't work, I figured I'd try my luck reasoning with little Miss Babies herself.

"Ohhh, hey, Jane," I called, forcing a smile. "Think we could, um, tone it down a bit? Maybe even use our words?"

Oops. Apparently, I had no control over the tone of mine.

Jane's face contorted as if I had just suggested she give up sequins forever, and for a second, I thought she might actually slap me with a sirloin. Instead, she scoffed, her overly frosted lipstick catching the harsh light. "Whaaaaat!? Whoooo are yyyyeeeeww?"

I couldn't help it... I laughed. It was a loud, unapologetic, overtired, obnoxious laugh that only slips out when I'm amused beyond belief. Janey Babes didn't seem to find it as funny.

She sneered, eyes narrowing as she tried to size me up. Then her gaze shifted to my name tag.

"I never even heard of yoooou. You loooost?" Jane Babies whined.

Quite satisfied with her "zinger", she swung around, ladle in hand, just as my pal Jim Wile stepped behind her. The ladle caught him square in the nose, and he stumbled backward, arms flailing dramatically before he crashed to the floor with his lasagna.

Oh. No. She. DIDN'T.

"HEY! That's my BEST FRIEND!!!" I shouted.

The room fell silent, but that didn't stop me from removing my hoops, flipping a table (not metaphorically), and going at her Jersey style. The claws came out, and we fought like a couple of cats until Lancelot and SimianSavant finally managed to break it up.

Then, with a shriek that would've made a toddler roll their eyes, Jane Babies stormed out of the room.

~

A room full of writers eventually stopped laughing to start cleaning up. While apologizing profusely to the hotel staff, I felt a tug on my arm and turned to see Jim still sitting on the floor.

"Uhhh... best friend, huh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That's what I said, Jim," I snapped, offering him a hand.

"Don't fight it."

Chapter 38
Lyenochka's Version

By Rachelle Allen

Although Rachelle announced my entrance, I quickly hid as I dread large parties. Thankfully, I had a magic invisibility cloak that WJDebi’s Piper loaned me from the land of the fae. I really needn’t have worried because few know what I look like so I could be naturally invisible. But this way, I could float from group to group unnoticed. Surprisingly, the groups merged and morphed into new groups. 

 

When the calamitous  food fight ensued, a large group gathered into a circle. I could guess among them were Roy, Verna, Carol Clark, Teri, Sally, Debi Marquette, Karenina, Daylily, WendyG, Nomi, Patcelaw, RJHeritage, Dr. Nad, Esther Brown, Mrs. Major, DeboraDyess, Robert Zimmerman, l.raven, MissMerri and LJButterfly all huddled in prayer for peace and joy to take over the party. Then the prayers switched to interceding for Rhonda’s husband Wayne, until Father Flaps joined in. That’s when  they added their prayers for his wife, Judy who is in poor health. But while praying, Father Flaps kept bursting into a Don Francisco song so that he and Roy and LJButterfly splintered off to discuss the best way to lead worship with today’s music. Sally, RJ, DeboraDyess, and Patricia separated into a group discussing the best technology tools for blind writers.

 

Then my gaze focused on the mess of the buffet table which drew the talented writers who were also artists. Dolly took a leafy celery stick and dipped it into the salsa and began painting Picasso-style. Gypsy used a carrot stick to make broad strokes with wine on the tablecloth to create a portrait of a gypsy. In no time at all, Aussie, Shelley, and Ginda Simpson transformed the food fight remnants into a magical mural. Curiosity pulled Gretchen out from under the table, and she also added her art to the table. That's when Heather Knight came to the table and snapped some photos to create her own computer version.

 

At the other end of the table where the seafood and meats were, Tom Botts and Poetwatch exchanged fishing tales. Bob Cullen added his stories while Jmdg1954 began rearranging the food and even without a stove, began to concoct a new culinary masterpiece.

 

In a corner dining table, absent of food but supplied with various drinks, Bill Schott, Terry Broxson, Humpwhistle, and RicMyWorld were playing cards. Their “poker faces” are inscrutable, and I could not guess who was winning. I’d bet that Ric might win.

 

Just as serious as the poker players were the people at a larger table. Sandra Stoner-Mitchell,  Barbara Wilkey, Beth Shelby, Begin Again, Tfawcus, Wayne Fowler (yes, he checked his raygun at the door), Judiverse, Pam Lonsdale, Ulla, Estory, Karen Cherry Threadgill, Liz O’Neill, Jessizero, Y.M.Roger, F. William Lester, Marilyn Hamilton, Julie Helms, Lancellot, and Jasmine Girl were having a rousing discussion on the best methods to develop a plotline. Every now and then, Ms. Threadgill cried out, “But when do we kill him off?!”

 

LateBloomer, Evilynne, Sugarray, Pome Lover, and Debbie Pope were in one corner of the banquet area so they could share stories about their grandchildren. Debbie needed to be close to the bathroom in case she needed to do a diaper change. But when Sugarray overheard some plant names from the neighboring table, she moved there to share her Master Gardener tips. WendyG took her place as she was drawn to grandkid stories.

 

At the next table Mrs. KT, Pearl Edwards/Valda, June Sargeant, Debbie D’Arcy, CrystieCookie, Pam(respa), and JumboJ shared about the fauna and flora of their hometowns. Sanku in her beautiful sari joined the group and added her knowledge about the plants from her hometown in Kerala, India. 

 

Gloria floated from table to table until she came upon a most intriguing one with a glowing globe which exuded some fragrant smoke like a candle. It was plugged into a laptop. Iza Deleanu kept looking for a warm water ocean in the globe.

Jim Wiles claimed to have researched how to tap into the energy waves of the spiritual dimension after working on his golf novel. I think it’s more likely that he had developed a gas that caused people to hallucinate. 

 

“All you have to do is to call someone in the Great Beyond, and *poof!* they will appear on the screen,” he explained.

 

“Michael Cahill!” cried Gloria. And sure enough, Mike’s kind, smiling face appeared on the screen. 

 

Gypsy suddenly appeared and called out, “Dean Kuch!” And poof! There was Dean in his top hat with the giant spider on top. 

 

I had to try it and called out, “Phyllis Stewart!” All heads turned towards my voice. They were bewildered by the phantom voice. Before I could talk with the image of Phyllis, someone dressed in pink stepped on my invisibility cloak. I was seen by all. She cried out a whiny voice, “I’m Jane Babies. Who the heck are you?” 

 

I was about to reply, “lyenochka”, but spied out of the corner of my eye, the gorgeously re-groomed Rachelle in a long, black gored skirt and a silk leopard-patterned blouse. Just then I saw the mysterious Mr. Ens approach. He was in jeans and a herringbone blazer. He reached out his hand intending to make introductions. 

 

I hurriedly shook his hand and said, “Oh, Mr. Ens, good to meet you. I’m with the band.” I winked. 

 

Surprise, confusion, and delight covered his face in rapid succession. “Oh, yes, the band…” 

 

I motioned to Rachelle to come quickly. She sauntered in, barely touching the floor. 

 

Jane Babies cried out, “She’s not allowed to be here!” 

 

I quickly replied, “She’s not in the party, although she and Gretchen created the party. She’s in the band.” I turned to Rachelle and said, “The keyboard awaits you. It’s just D, G chords, with an occasional E minor.” 

 

On the way to the stage, I dragged RicMyWorld, Humpwhistle and Terry Broxson to come with me. Roy, Robert Z. and Father Flaps came willingly. Soon we found there weren’t enough guitars. Goodnaturedly, Roy picked up the banjo. Drat! Only the mandolin was left.  I offered it to Humpwhistle. 

 

“L, you know my fingers are too fat for mandolin frets!” 

 

I sighed and plucked out the melody on the mandolin and prayed I’d remember the chords. I motioned for Teri and LJButterfly to join in. With their great vocals, I can just lipsync. 

 

I tapped the microphone, causing some in the  audience to spill their drinks.. “Fanstory friends, we have a song for you - a blessing on you and your family. It’s from Numbers 6:24-26.” I began singing, “Lord bless you and keep you. Make his face shine upon you . The Lord turn His face toward you and give you peace.” Without any prompting Teri and LJButterfly harmonized and took it from there. 

 

Rachelle’s fingers flew over the keyboard with gentle arpeggios that blended perfectly with the voices and the strumming of the guitars, banjo, and mandolin. This opened the door for other Fanstorians to join in sharing their musical talents or request additional songs. 

 

This could have gone on all night, but Mr. Ens approached the stage and spoke into the mike. “I have one announcement to make. As you know it’s 11:30 pm New Jersey time so those of you who haven’t posted your limit of two posts for the day, you have another half hour.” 

 

Silence reigned over the hall as everyone took out their cell phones and madly finished their post for the day.

Author Notes

Notes: This follows what happened in what Jim Wile wrote in his version. To hear the song mentioned:

Chapter 39
The End of the Road(trip)

By Rachelle Allen

            No sooner have I pushed the face of my “twinsie” – Jane Babies – into the potato salad then I feel my cell phone vibrate with a text. Caller ID alerts me that it’s Rebekah.

        “I hope you are doing well and that your convention is fun. I miss you. I love Maria. She took me to see Wicked today in NYC. It was AMAZING! I love music, but performing it will never be my career. Rachelle, I miss my family and my simple life. Can you please come get me and take me home?”

        I hurl a handful of glazed carrots at Jane and watch with deep satisfaction as they splay across her forehead on impact. They leave gooey brown tracks down each side of her nose like a pair of Olympic dirt bike riders.

        Where’s my low-class Dixie chick? She would be so totally impressed by this. I know for a fact that she would immediately award me six stars.

Bullhorns resonate throughout the ballroom as police swarm in and tell us to put down whatever we have in our hands.

        I catch sight of Gretchen’s black strappy sandals peeking out from beneath the table. I kneel, lift the tablecloth and gape at my roommate. Like a squirrel in November with acorns, she is cramming Swedish meatballs into her mouth two at a time. Unlike the squirrels, however, my little Steel Magnolia has tossed aside every Southern grace she ever acquired and is swilling wine right from the mouth of the bottle.

        “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I say, not even caring that I sound like a losing coach in the locker room at half-time. “There are POLICE here!”

        Gretchen holds up her index finger to indicate I need to hold that thought a second. She polishes off her last two meatballs, gives me an apologetic smile, then drains the remaining wine.

        Suddenly, stripper music fills the convention hall.

        “Whoa! I’m thinking they weren’t the real police,” says Gretchen.

        “Nonetheless, we’ve got to go,” I tell her. “Rebekah’s done with Rumspringa.”

        We extricate ourselves from beneath the table and nearly careen into Mrs. KT and Dolly. I have an epiphany.

        “Diane, did you drive here?” I ask Mrs. KT.

        “Yes,” she answers.

        “Do you need a better experience than this one?” I ask her, opening my arms to the debauchery-laden scene before us.

        At this point, septuagenarian Begin Again is getting a lap dance from two “policemen,” and Lancellot is doing hula moves in his hotel-issued white bathrobe, splattered now, like a Jackson Pollack painting, with colorful offerings from the buffet table.

        “Yes!” she exclaims without hesitation.

        “Do you care that it would be over two hours away?” I ask.

        “Absolutely NOT!” says Diane. Her Northern Michigan accent has ratcheted to a near-yelp. “The further away from here, the better!”

        “And Dolly?” I say, turning to the sleek British beauty in gold sequins. “Would you like to see a much classier view of America?”

        “Would I EVER!” she says as our four sets of eyes get drawn toward Lancellot who’s now yodeling and swinging his robe tie above his head like a lasso.

        “Then follow us,” I say.

        We sneak out and catch the private elevator that leads to Gretchen’s and my suite.

        Once there, we share the story of Old Reliable and Rebekah, as well as that of Maria and her private music school. Then, for good measure, we throw in several vignettes starring Jane.

        The women listen with rapt fascination.

        “If you ever write about this,” Diane says, “you’ll have to list it as ‘fiction.’ Who would ever believe this could happen in real life!”

        “Agreed!” says Dolly.

        “So how about if you follow us to Long Island so we can attend Rebekah’s recital together, then follow us to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, to drop her off and say our goodbyes?”

        “This is better than anything I could have imagined!” says Dolly.

        “Thank you,” says Diane and gives me a good hug.

        Less than an hour later, we have all cleaned up and are en route to Maria’s. I have texted her to let her know, and in her ever-gracious way, her response is, “Can’t wait!”

        We head out with Gretchen at the wheel of my car, me riding shotgun, and Diane and Dolly following close behind in Diane’s vehicle.

        When we pull into Maria’s driveway, we receive a Deja-vu-But-Better greeting because this time both Maria and Rebekah are running from the front door with their arms reaching out for hugs.

        We introduce Dolly and Diane, and Maria ushers us all inside. There, we share every detail of the outrageous FanStory International Convention, as well as the pre-convention red-carpet fashion show spoof in our suite.

        Maria is laughing so hard that she has to get a towel from the kitchen to sop up her tears. More than once, she says, “Wait – tell us that part again!” And when we do, we all get hysterical with laughter all over again.

        At midnight, we break up the festivities and head to our respective rooms, with the understanding that, at ten the next day, we will get to hear Rebekah perform.

        I’m on my bed, reading a text from Jim Wile that asks where Gretchen and I are, then relays that Diane and Dolly are both MIA. I explain the situation and request that he pass the word.

        Just then, there is a quiet knock on my door.

        It’s Rebekah. We pull up chairs next to each other in the cozy seating area of the room.

        “You’re not disappointed in me, are you?” she asks. “You’ve done so much – and I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful.”

        “Oh, Sweetie,” I say, “the whole point of Rumspringa is to help you sort out what path you do or do not want for your life.” She gives me the sweetest smile. “So, isn’t it wonderful that you have that figured out now?”

        She nods. “Do you think I should have given it more time, though?”

        “Have you talked it through with G-d?” I ask.

        “Yes!” The answer rushes out of her so quickly and emphatically that it actually carries a little squeak at the end. “I’ve done nothing BUT talk about it to Him since I arrived.”

        “Then what further time do you need?” I ask. “You can trust your instincts, and you can certainly trust G-d’s answer.”

        She looks me squarely in the eyes. “I love you,” she says simply. “You are a wonderful gift that Gott brought me.”

        “Ditto,” I tell her. “Ditto in THE biggest way imaginable, Sweetheart.”

        In the morning, the FanStory Four meet in the gorgeous Recital Hall of Maria’s impressive facility and sit in the front row, excited for the impending performance.

        Maria takes the stage and says, as if to a packed house, “Good morning! And welcome to this landmark event. My student, Rebekah, might be new to this school, but she is an old soul of a musician. For this recital, she will be performing O Mio Babbino Caro by Giacomo Puccini. After that, we have a wonderful surprise for you.”

        Rebekah enters, and the four of us draw a collective breath. She is indescribably beautiful in her perfect black recital dress, with her glossy, waist-length auburn hair held back with a sparkly black headband. The cameo necklace could not be a more fitting accessory.

        She looks nervous, and yet there is a steely resolve in those radiant blue eyes. The term that applies is “Recital Ready.”

        She’s not even four notes in, and we in the audience are all dabbing at our eyes with tissues. We savor what we recognize immediately as one of those rare, perfect moments of life.

        Our applause and calls of “Bravo!” are tumultuous as Rebekah takes her bow, and we continue them well after she stands back up and smiles.

        Maria returns to the mic and says, “And now, we’ll have my former voice and piano teacher, Rachelle Allen, come to the stage and join Rebekah for a duet from the musical Wicked. It’s called “For Good.”

        We had worked on it the previous night, after our chat, in Rebekah’s sound-proof bedroom/practice suite. I was touched beyond words when she suggested we also perform it together at her recital. Originally, I’d said, “No,” because I didn’t want to horn in on her debut. But then, I had no choice after she said, “But the lyrics perfectly describe our relationship, Rachelle. Please?”

        I’ve been a performer since third grade when I was cast as The Patridge in the Pear Tree in our school’s rendition of The Twelve Days of Christmas, but never have I loved performing more than at that moment with my beloved Rebekah. All the Jane memories in the world can never take away from that joy.

        After an enormous homemade meal, we all extend our thanks and appreciation to Maria, who gives each of us a bag full of goodies for the ride to Lancaster. I watch her give extra hugs and a loving smooch on the cheek to Rebekah, and then she does likewise with me.

        “You are second to none,” I tell her. “Thank you for your unequaled generosity.”

        “That’s like thanking me for eating ice cream,” she says with a mischievous smirk.

        “Hey! That’s MY line!” I mock-protest.

        “Well, I’m just showing off one more facet of what I learned from you,” she says with her charisma-laden smile.

        The drive to Lancaster is pensive, like the feeling in a hospital room before someone is wheeled away for open-heart surgery.

        When we finally drive up the long, gravel path from the road to the two houses, Hannah’s voice can be heard like a fire whistle.
 

        “SHE’S HERE!!! REBEKAH IS HOME!! REBAKAH IS HOME!”

        Helene is doing a bona fide run from the house, and rushing in from the fields are Simeon and Solomon. Even Ezra is hurrying.

        Rebekah disembarks from our car and, like Cinderella after midnight, is once again wearing her long blue dress, apron and cap.

        Her family encircles her and holds her tight for a very long time. Gretchen, Dolly, Diane and I are actually quite grateful for their extended embrace because it gives us time to regain our own composure, as well.

        When they finally break apart, Rebekah introduces them to Diane and Dolly, who are both quick to marvel to Helene about the beauty of her gardens.

        While the men return to the fields, Helene herds us, her weary travelers, into the house, where she fortifies us with heaping ladles of – G-d help me – pork butt soup that is still warm from lunch. I opt out and wait for the blueberries in cream.

        Afterward, I see Gretchen sensing that the hard part is near. “Hey,” she says to Dolly and Diane, “come with me. I want to show you the hot springs before we head out.”

        “We’ll go with you, too,” says Helene. “Come on, Hannah.”

        They follow her out, leaving Rebekah and me to stand and stare at each other. In the next instant, we watch each other’s eyes fill up with tears. Then we hug and cry into each other’s shoulders because there are no words right now that will suffice.

        A video begins to play in my mind of how this unusual relationship came into being. How G-d’s most beautiful of plans was bestowed upon a simple Amish girl and a frou-frou leopard-loving music teacher who thought corn cobs were hair curlers, all because of a car named Old Reliable that broke down en route to a writer’s convention.

        What a story it will be for us to tell for the remainder of our lives.

Author Notes

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© Copyright 2015 Rachelle Allen All rights reserved. Rachelle Allen has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

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