Bang bang...I got mine.

1. 

   
   
   Much talk has been made lately about Americans "losing our gun rights." As a liberal gun owner, I've heard everything from, "We'd all be better off without guns," to "I'm armed and you should be too." Both sides have valid points and I won't touch on any of them. In this blog entry, I'm focusing on the "losing our gun rights" argument.
   
   Ratified, the second amendment reads like this -
   
   A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.
   
   - In today's vernacular, that means We The People have the right to drop what we're doing, pick up our M16, and follow President Obama's orders in Afghanistan. Alas, no civilian is going to do that and the President's not going to ask us to...because these days we have an organized military.
   
   Note: a well regulated militia (being necessary to the security of a free state) means that a representative of the state regulates your militia, ostensibly well. Otherwise, it's not a well regulated militia; it's a rag tag team of middle-aged (mostly white) men in camo, carrying semi automatics and noshing on beef jerky, getting together for warrior weekends and discussions on how to take back their liberty by any means necessary.
   
   How do I know this?
   
   Because fighting for your freedom by grabbing a handful of friends and blasting through the state Capital, is not securing the Peoples' free state. It's tromping all over their collective rights.
   
   Our Founders spend a lot of time around sitting around the table, possibly smoking weed, CERTAINLY figuring out how The People could best be served by a government Of, By, and For us. The Founders came up with a bucket-load of great ideas, a basketful of limited ones, and a few stragglers that need regular tweaking in order to work well in any given century/decade. What the Founders did NOT do, was conclude that if We The People decided the fledgling government was getting too big for its britches, We could legally and justifiably storm their homes on US soil and massacre their tyrannical asses. What We could do was redress our grievances in the ways stated in the US Constitution (which is a different topic for another day, but to give you a general outline, it has to do with demanding transparency, grassroots politics, and movement revolution - movement revolution is the non-violent cousin of armed revolution). The Founders may have spouted off about a lot of things that sound wickedly awesome and bloodshed-worthy (Thomas Jefferson's quote about the Tree of Liberty comes to mind), but find me anyplace in constitutional law where it says We The People have a legal right to blow away our representative and his/her minions if they vote/behave tyrannically. We have a legal right to do a lot of stuff when it comes to crushing the snot out of government over-reach, but slaughtering our president, senators, and House representatives is not on the list. Anywhere.
   
   So...while it sounds badass to think the Founders gave us the legal green light for armed revolution against our own president, they really didn't, otherwise it would be clearly indicated in the Constitution (kind of like the establishment of a religion, which is also not in there).
   
   Which brings us to, "Then what in the HELL does the right to bear arms mean for us today?"
   
   Answer...we have a right to carry a weapon for self-protection (because the Supreme Court said so). So there. I can keep a gun and you can't stop me. In fact, I can keep dozens and you can't stop me. HUNDREDS...and so on. Bingo. That's where we're at now, kids. Unfortunately, thanks to the deplorable behavior of a few sick bastards, many innocent people have died in the past couple of decades due to mass shooting violence. And sadly, MASS SHOOTINGS OF INNOCENT PEOPLE ON US SOIL MAKES GUNS ON US SOIL LOOK BAD, EVEN THOUGH "GUNS DON'T KILL PEOPLE, PEOPLE KILL PEOPLE." It might be unfair that your adorable little .32 gets lumped in with some mentally ill dude's big, bad Uzi, but hey...guns are guns, right? Well, wrong. And we all know it. So, there are limits on our right be bear arms.
   
   Newflash - there are limits on EVERY right We hold dear.
   
   Alas, there are limits on our government too. For instance, no senator or House member or president or lawmaker can sign legislation reading, "No guns for you! - Make it so, Number One!" They could TRY, but it won't pass the vetting process, let alone suffer through the legal one.
   
   So, our second amendment is safe, right?
   
   Wrong.
   
   There is a plausible way that We The People could lose our right to bear arms in the US. Are you ready for it? Here it is. If enough Americans start an "anti gun" grassroots movement and it gains plenty of momentum (remember "movement revolution"? - here's a theoretical example of it in motion), and that momentum sucks in powerful backing from significant numbers in Congress, lawmakers, and (most importantly) The People...an all-inclusive anti-gun bill COULD be voted into law. "No guns, for anybody, ever. So sayeth the American People."

   
   But...but...but, how could that HAPPEN?
   
   Here's how. That famous lobbying organization, the NRA, which exists not to protect our second amendment right (surprise!), but to sell as many guns as possible...is biting you (yes you, fellow gun owner) in the ass. Every time the NRA lets a bloviating idiot like Wayne La Pierre speak up on behalf of gun ownership...more formerly gun-neutral Americans get turned off to guns. And every time that nutbag Ted Noodlehead (who crapped his pants and sat in them like that for weeks before his draft interview date to ensure he'd be turned away as "not mentally fit" - surprise! it worked) speaks on behalf of gun responsibility, more fence-sitting Americans come to the wrongful conclusion that all gun owners are poopie-pantsing lunatics (in the same way staunch gun advocates come to the wrongful conclusion that all non-gun owners are pansy-assed, nanny-statin' liberals).
   
   It's not fair, but it's life. So here's what you need to ask yourself - Is it more important for you to have your bunker full of guns and your distrust of the government...because that gives you freedom...or is it more important for you to step outside your private-Idaho zone and meet your fellow Americans in the middle for a sane discussion on responsible, respectable, reasonable firearms ownership? It really is that simple. Like it or not, the gun-idolizing, government-fearing, NRA-supporting fringe IS more of a danger to your gun rights than Obama is. Truth.
   
   So, think long and hard - like this liberal gun-toting hippie has. Step back, look at the Big Picture. The NRA has nothing to lose here. The more worried you get, the more guns it sells. The more guns it sells, the happier it makes it manufacturers. It will sell and sell and sell - thanks to your fear (the fear IT planted), and it will sell some more. By the time The People gather up the resources to beat the NRA (biggest lobbying group in Washington) and make "all" guns illegal...the NRA will have racked up so much filthy fucking lucre for the manufacturers it represents, that each one will simply go out and gobble up a dozen or two smaller corporations to make its own - exactly like how Phillip-Morris and the other cigarette manufacturers did when the smoking lobbyists lost to The People.
   
   If you're afraid of your guns being taken away, might I submit that your effort would be better spent worrying about other rights being taken away instead. Relax and trust the US Constitution, your guns aren't going anywhere. But some of the other rights you hold dear...they are. While you're focusing on your guns, the Powers That Be are stripping you of bargaining rights, privacy rights, and work rights.
   
   Your freedom is not at the tip of your gun barrel. It's at the tip of your fingers. Please stop worrying about your guns. Set them aside, pick up your keyboard, and start writing your legislators on behalf of government transparency and responsibility. It's your job as a citizen and it's a great way to keep lobbying efforts from clouding the view of Your White House.
   
   Thank you. 

The Ricki Shay Effect

From Nature Calls (an anthology by Bonnie Bernard).

The Ricki Shay Effect

8359 words

For my WaAr friends - you’re in my heart and mind every day. Thank you!

#9. “Fresh Meat” by Ricki Shay

Seeing her name with the number 9 next to it made Ricki squeal, cry, and giggle all at once while bouncing in her seat. A dozen of her co-workers gopher peeked over their cubicles but otherwise paid her no mind. She was the office misfit, after all. They were used to ignoring her.

“Is everything okay?” Sherry, the middle aged blonde in the cubicle next door poked her head over the divider and smiled politely.

“It’s better than okay,” Ricki held up her iPad tablet for Sherry to see. “I’ve dreamed of this day.”

Sherry’s polite smile never changed as she nodded. “That’s good, dear. I’m happy for you.” Largely unaware and mostly uninterested in why Ricki was so excited, Sherry ducked back down to her side of the divider. Because Ricki was the square peg in a round hole at work, none of her co-workers had much interest in her life. But her online friends did. So Ricki spent the next fifteen minutes plunking away at her favorite book reviewing site, sharing the news with people who gave a damn. “Thank you all!” she wrote on Sandy’s Superhero Book Reviewers, sharing the link that showed Fresh Meat at number nine on the much-coveted Arctic Book list. Most of the five hundred participants on Superheroes had taken time to read and review Fresh Meat, gaining Ricki much-needed exposure. She loved them for it. They loved her back. The replies starting pouring in almost instantly:

“That’s so wonderful, Ricki!”

“Congratulations!”

“Wooooooooooooot!”

And so on. By the time Ricki pulled herself away from the webpage long enough to get some work done, sixty “atta-girl”, “hooray”, and thumbs-up messages had popped up under her announcement. Ricki smiled and choked back a tear of gratefulness.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “I have to call Kaitlyn.”

“What was that, hon?” Sherry piped in cheerfully from the other side of the divider. “I missed what you said.”

“Nothing,” Ricki replied, picking up the phone and punching her sister’s number.

“Hey, what’s up?” Kaitlyn answered on the third ring.

“How does margaritas at Las Carnitas Hermanas tonight sound?” Ricki asked excitedly.

“Sure,” Kaitlyn replied, confusion in her tone. “Is there a particular reason?”

“Just a little one.” Ricki teased, smiling so wide it practically hurt her face.

“Little, huh?”

“I broke the top ten.”

Kaitlyn gasped. “No kidding?”

“No kidding.”

“What number?”

“It’s just nine, but still…”

“But still, it’s in the top ten. This is great - congratulations, sis!”

“I couldn’t have done it without your formatting expertise.” Ricki smiled some more, barely paying attention to the rest of the call. After it ended she turned back to her job, but barely paid attention to that either. Far too excited to concentrate on anything else, Ricki hid in her cubicle for the rest of the work day, interacting with her Superhero Reviewers friends and pretending the real world didn’t exist. She was on cloud nine - figuratively and literally - and she intended to enjoy it.

Ricki and Kaitlyn met after work at Las Carnitas Hermanas; two tall, brunette sisters and life-long best friends. Men noticed the pair, as usual. Kaitlyn couldn’t have cared less because her preference was for blonde females. As for Ricki, she liked men but had so little success with them living up to her idea of perfection that she’d finally settled on a parrot named Brute and a vibrator she affectionately called Sparky. She knew she’d have to eventually lower her standards if she ever wanted to get attracted to a real man…but for now, Ricki Shay’s fictional characters amused her well enough.

The hostess trotted them to a table near the bar.

“Will this be okay?” she asked.

“Yes, it’s fine.” Ricki said, thanking the girl while taking in the spicy aroma of salsa and fajitas. God, she was hungry. But as the hostess trotted off, Kaitlyn pointed over Ricki’s shoulder and just like that, food was forgotten.

“If you believe in good omens,” Kaitlyn said, “there’s one right now.”

Ricki turned her head and looked where her sister had pointed. Her jaw dropped open as tears of happiness stung her eyes for the second time in one day.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” she squealed, barely keeping her exuberance under control. With shaky, excited hands, she wiped away the tears and did her best not to stare at the fiercely beautiful red haired young woman in leather boots and a skimpy black tank top.

“Celine,” Ricki mused as the beautiful girl passed them on her way to the bar. “Clear down to the devil tattoo on her shoulder. I wonder if it has the same significance.”

Kaitlyn chuckled. “Let’s hope not, since Celine’s tattoo signifies an order of humans who disowned their ties to humanity in exchange for world domination. Try throwing salt on her. If she’s been transfused with demon blood, the salt will repel her.”

The red haired girl noticed the sisters gawking and threw them a cold, hard stare.

“That actually sent shivers down my spine,” Kaitlyn whispered to Ricki.

“Me too!” Ricki squealed.

They laughed and waited impatiently for the redhead to sashay by again, but their meal arrived before that happened. Almost too giddy to drink the margarita and certainly too thrilled to eat her chipotle chicken salad, Ricki anxiously scanned the bar’s doorway, still hoping the red haired girl would come back out.

“Do you think it would be too weird for me to tell her she’s a dead ringer for my demon-loving dark heroine?” Ricki asked Kaitlyn.

“I have no idea. Why don’t you ask her?” Kaitlyn nudged her head toward the doorway as the Celine look-alike meandered from the bar and past their table with a tumbler full of what could easily be a whiskey sour. “Look at that,” Kaitlyn gawked in disbelief. “She even has the same ‘fuck-you-to-hell’ saunter, and maybe even the same favorite drink.”

Ricki sniffed the air. “And is that patchouli?”

“Celine’s favorite scent.”

“Because patchouli hides the leftover scent of her humanity.”

“Oh my god this is so weirdly coincidental,” Kaitlyn exclaimed, excitedly chomping on a tortilla chip.

The Arctic’s Must Have Hot Hundred List.

#10. The “Fresh Meat” series by chart-rocketing independent new author Ricki Shay, follows double agent Celine Darksider and her band of demon spies on their journey to take control of the world by consuming the flesh of every human on it. Demon strength feeds on the fear of human weakness and Celine intends to capitalize on it. A red haired, fire-breathing, ex-human with a chip on her shoulder for the years she spent in prison for a crime she didn’t commit, Celine gladly forfeits her ties to humanity for a place at the demon table of world domination. Her friend and lover, the delicious demon Seamus O’Reilly, was born and raised in the land of Scots. He has a soft-spot for humans because his daughter Phoenix is half-human - her mother Molly was slain leaving Seamus to raise the child. Seamus may be the only single father on earth whose little girl loves pink tutus and ripping the heads off rattlesnakes with her teeth, but demons are tough…he can handle the job. There’s one job he may not be so ready to take on though; T-Bone Bloodstone. The tall, dark, and dangerous demon who hankers for human flesh and would die for Celine, T-Bone feeds her need for world domination in a murderous way her other lover won’t. Seamus may be from the bowels of hell, but his heart belongs to Phoenix. As for Celine, the pretty woman caught in a love triangle between two devious demons, well…just remember, beauty is only sin deep. Keep your eyes open for more from rising star Ricki Shay, whose exhilarating books are available in print and for most ereading devices. The series includes (to date) “Fresh Meat”, “Reheated”, and “Leftovers”. Good news - word of “Prime Rib” has hit the industry. We hope so! We’re hungry for more!

Ricki checked her sales numbers every day, every hour, sometimes every minute. Up and up they went while her productivity in the work cubicle plummeted. Within a week, Fresh Meat was at number 7, Reheated at 33 and Leftovers broke into the Hot Hundred at an almost impossible 62. It felt like magical forces were blowing wind into her sails. Ricki pinched herself, slapped her own face, and did all those other things she’d been told people do to make sure they weren’t dreaming. Her Superhero Reviewer friends uncorked cyber-bottles and sung praises to her success. The rumor of a movie deal spread like wildfire in a windstorm.

“Look at you go!”

“Get Johnny Depp to play T-Bone!”

“Don’t forget about us when you’re living it up in the big time!”

“I’m T-Bone and don’t want some overpaid Hollywood elitist playing me…I’ll do it myself, and I’ll write a better story line than Ricki did too.”

Everybody on the Superhero’s board figured “T-Bone ” was a sock puppet for one of the regulars whose jealousy had gotten the better of them. Sandy promised to do all she could to find the offender and boot him or her off the review team.

“Thanks,” Ricki messaged back to Sandy, “but haters will hate. I’m not worried about it.”

A few days later, Ricki took a mid-morning coffee break from her increasingly tedious cubicle job. Standing in line at The Coffee Klatch to order her large mochaccino, she felt somebody staring at her. Glancing around, Ricki’s gaze landed on a cute teenage girl with nerd glasses and a retainer, standing behind her in line and smiling wide. The girl held up her reading tablet for Ricki to see.

“Reheated,” the girl said excitedly. “You’re the author, aren’t you?” Scrolling to the back cover, she pointed to the picture of Ricki looking smart in her periwinkle blouse that perfectly complimented her blue eyes. In that picture, she looked just like the all American girl-next-door…a look she had always despised, at least until recently. Now that readers were sending her emails thanking her for being “just like” them, Ricki didn’t mind the average-girl attraction so much.

“It really is you, isn’t it?” The girl smiled even wider, showing off that retainer.

“It is,” Ricki nodded, taking a step forward as the coffee line shortened by one customer.

“Can I have your autograph?” she asked excitedly, then before waiting for a response, continued. “Oh my God, Seamus is soooooo handsome.” The girl’s eyes rolled and she visibly swooned. Ricki bit her lip instead of correcting the girl’s pronunciation of the character’s name. “I feel bad for him because he’s stuck between saving the world for his human daughter and controlling it for his goddess.” The girl shrugged. “What’s a demon to do? I talked with my mom about this and she thinks he should choose his daughter over Celine. I can hardly wait to see if he does. My best friend, Lena, just met a guy who looks just like T-Bone - and his name’s even T-Bone too. Isn’t that crazy? What are the odds? Anyway, Lena said she laughed at him and called him a demon.”

“I wonder what he thinks of that,” Ricki chuckled lightly, hoping the poor guy didn’t hate her for his unfortunate resemblance to the story’s main diabolical foe.

“Lena says he threatened to kill her and eat her flesh just like one of the demons in your books.”

“Oh,” Ricki exclaimed. “That doesn’t sound good.” In fact, it sounded creepy as hell.

“Don’t worry,” the girl giggled and twirled her hair. “Lena says he’s just a nutter.”

“Well that’s good.” It was Ricki’s turn to order, so she stepped up to the counter.

“What can I get for you today?” the ponytailed barista asked.

“A large mochaccino,” Ricki replied, “and whatever this young lady wants.” She pointed to the surprised but happy nerd girl. Somehow, buying the girl a drink felt like the right thing to do, considering she had confirmed what Ricki had hoped for all along: to create characters that felt so real they lived in the minds of her readers.

Fresh Meat landed in the coveted number one spot on a dozen book lists, the most important being The Arctic’s Top Ten. Big-wig publishers from all over the world contacted Ricki for exclusivity offers. Before she had a chance to wrap her head around what that meant, she got home from work on Tuesday, poured a glass of wine and said hi to Brute, and then the phone rang with a Hollywood producer wanting to “talk about a deal”. Just like that - the movie rumor flying around Sandy’s Superheroes was no longer a rumor.

Overwhelmed, Ricki set aside her wine glass, set Brute back on his perch, grabbed a light jacket, and picked up her phone.

“I’ll be back soon Brute,” she told the bird.

“Ack soon, Rute,” he repeated. “Rute, Rute, Rute.”

“You love the sound of your own name way too much, Brute.”

“Love Rute,” he replied.

Ricki kissed his beak and then headed out for a quick hike in the woods behind her apartment building. She needed to clear her head. This was just too much all at once. Sure it felt good, but it also felt way too good. Almost a half mile into the trees - a stupid place to be alone at dusk without pepper spray - Ricki stopped short when snapping twigs alerted her from behind.

“Who’s there?” she whirled around and nervously asked.

No response.

Shit, Ricki thought. Here I am about to finally make the big time, and some psycho killer is going to get me because I was too stupid to walk in the park instead of the woods. That just figures.

Dusk loomed and the twig snapping got louder as the yet-unseen figure approached from between the thick trees. She could smell him now…at least, she deduced it was a male, since no woman she’d ever known of wore Axe men’s cologne. Trying to focus, Ricki decided her smartest move was to have a finger on the 911 button while running like hell. She reached in her pocket and pulled out the phone then took two wide strides to the right before bolting down the hill toward home. Before she got far, a dark figure jumped in front of her path. Opening her mouth to scream, Ricki gaped and gasped instead.

“What in the hell?” she cried. Before her stood a tall, brown haired man with piercing gray eyes, a trim waist, cheek dimples, and good looks that went on for days. He was bare-chested, with only a sleeveless black leather vest covering his strong, broad shoulders. The thin scar across his left cheek looked exactly how she’d written it.

“It’s not quite hell yet, sweetheart,” he replied in the thick Scottish accent she’d mulled over and fantasized about…for hours.

“Seamus?” Ricki said, incredulous.

“That’s my name,” he said smugly. “And thanks for pronouncing it right. Do you realize how many of your readers pronounce it ‘See-mus’ instead of ‘Shay-mus’?”

“Uh…” Recalling the nerd girl at The Coffee Klatch, Ricki frowned. She also shook her head in disbelief that one of her own fictional creations was standing here, chastising her. Surely this couldn’t be happening.

The Seamus look-alike exhaled in exasperation. “Didn’t you ever hear the writer’s rule about choosing names readers can easily pronounce?”

“Seamus is not hard to pronounce.” Ricki crossed her arms defensively. Whoever this guy was, how dare he tell her how to write her own books.

“Either is Shaymus, but could you have spelled my name phonetically? Oh, noooooo,” the handsome man mocked. “That would have been too easy. Best to spell it in a way that causes confusion and hilarity. Do you have any idea how many boyfriends of your teenage girl readers call me ‘Semen’?”

Ricki blanched. “Uh, I never thought about -”

“Of course you didn’t,” he snapped, lifting his jaw in challenge just like she had written him to do it. “You don’t have to live in infamy with it.”

“Well excuse me,” Ricki replied, still in shock that one of her characters - no, her favorite character - was standing here looking good enough to eat. “I was just trying to give an uncommon character an uncommon name.”

“Next time try Sciymgeour,” Seamus said in his sexy Scottish way, god how she loved that about him. Almost as much as she loved the Axe scent she gave him.

“Sciy…what?” Ricki crumpled her nose.

“There,” Seamus spat victoriously. “Now you know how your readers feel.”

“Geez, sorry,” she grumbled, feeling hurt that her favorite character hated the name she had thoughtfully given him because she thought it was so sexy. Speaking of sexy, Ricki wondered how Seamus’s warm lips would feel tickling against hers. Damn, why had she set him on that love-connection crash course with Celine?

“Enough with the chitchat,” he said sharply. “We have bigger problems.”

“Problems?” Ricki wondered where in the hell he’d picked up a word like chitchat. She knew it hadn’t come from anything she’d written.

“You ended book three on a nasty cliffhanger,” Seamus said.

“Duh,” Ricki chuckled nervously. “I know what I wrote.” Why did he have this nerve-wracking effect on her? Shouldn’t he be nervous around her? For all intents and purposes, she was like God to him; his creator.

“Celine’s pissed.”

“About?”

“About,” Seamus enunciated the word, “being left hanging off the edge of a cliff. A bit cliché, don’t you think?”

Now that was just uncalled for. Ricki sighed unhappily. “And your point is?”

“My point is - Celine didn’t take well to that.”

“She doesn’t have to. I’ve got it all figured out. When I write book four, you’ll see.”

Ignoring her last comment, Seamus smirked. “She’s real. And she’s here, now. Struggled off that cliff and out from the pages just like I did, just like T-Bone did. Someday soon I expect Phoenix to show up, if she hasn’t already and I just don’t know about it yet.”

Ricki shook her head frantically. “Slow down a minute. How are you guys becoming real? I don’t understand.”

Seamus rolled his eyes and snorted in derision. “You wrote us, and you can’t figure it out?”

Maybe it was his hotness or perhaps it was his bitchiness - a trait she’d found alluring when she wrote about it but now that it was directed at her she wasn’t so sure - either way, Ricki felt annoyed by Seamus’s scorn.

“Figure out what?” she snapped. “That you guys have magical powers to hop out of books? I didn’t write that.”

Now it was his turn to snap. “The more we eat away at the readers’ consciousness, the more real we become. Believe in magic and it becomes real. Build it and they will come. Blah, blah, blah and all that other self-help horse shit. You wrote us to grow stronger as we consume humanity. So we are; one voracious reader at a time. And we’re demons, Raquel. Demons with a chip on our shoulder against humans. But isn’t it ironic that the only non-natural born demon is the strongest on your reality here?” Chuckling, Seamus shook his head. “Say what you will about Celine, but that girl’s tough. I respect that.”

Ricki swallowed a lump of jealousy. “Okay, fine. Let’s just say you’re right and my characters are alive because of some freaky-assed weird human collective-consciousness thing. What do you want me to do about it?”

“Take down the books and for the gods’ sakes, do not sign the movie deal.”

“Uh…no.” Ricki stood tall. “I am not wrecking my career over this.”

“Your books are coming to life, Raquel. Your most dangerous characters,” he indicated toward himself, “are here. All of us.” His eyebrows lowered menacingly when he said that last part.

Ricki’s shoulders slumped and she remembered the girl in The Coffee Klatch: a chai latte with extra whipped cream, a blueberry scone, and a friend that knew a guy named T-Bone…who fancied himself a demon and threated the friend’s life. Oh no. Her fans could be in danger.

“Shit,” she groaned.

“Shit indeed, lass. Your fictional characters are having a ricochet effect on the real world.” Tilting his head adorably, Seamus snickered at his own play-on-words. Had she written him to be such a cocky shit?

“I can’t pull my hard work off the market and I really want that movie deal,” Ricki said in a tone that sounded whiny even to her. “Isn’t there anything else we can do?”

“Do you really think that once Celine and T-Bone’s egos get a taste of how it feels to be on the big screen and in every kid’s meal that they’re going to be content to play nice with their fans? You brought these characters to life and now you have to put them six feet under, Raquel.”

“You want me to actually kill you - and your little girl?” Ricki asked, disbelief crossing her features.

His mouth set in a thin line. “What I want and what needs to be done are at odds.”

The sound of a high school group carrying beer and flashlights approached through the woods, capturing their attention.

“I have to go,” Seamus said quickly. “Pull your books before Celine and T-Bone infect the minds of more innocent victims.”

“Victims?” Ricki raised an exasperated eyebrow. “Is that’s what you call my fans?”

He shrugged unapologetically. “They are. Sorry, but it’s a fact.”

“Facts, huh?” Ricki frowned. “Well then, Mr. Seeeeamuuuus, here are a few facts for you. Fact one - my name is Ricki. I hate Raquel and I want you to stop using it. Fact two - there must be a way to fix this without taking my books off the market - you said it yourself. The characters are alive and here…taking the books off the market won’t do a damned thing to kill them off here.” Narrowing her eyes, Ricki finished with, “And fact three - you are a total dick when you’re not in my books.”

Seamus grunted. “I’m always a dick. You just have such a crush on me that you’ve ignored the obvious. Now go home, Raquel. It’s almost dark and you didn’t have sense enough to bring a flashlight.”

With that, Ricki’s golden-boy hero threw her a final disapproving look before zooming off at demon speed, leaving Ricki all alone in the cold dark forest. Stumbling over rocks and fallen limbs all the way home, she fumed. Seamus was right. It was stupid for her to go into the woods without a flashlight, but he could kiss her ass if he thought she’d ever admit it to him.

Ricki, safe and sound back at home, slammed the front door and called Kaitlyn.

“How’s it going?” Kaitlyn answered.

“It’s going crazy,” Ricki said ruefully.

“Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not. I just had a hostile little ‘chitchat’ with Seamus O’Reilly.”

“Excuse me?” Kaitlyn chuckled. “A chitchat with one of your book characters? Have you been hitting the sauce, sis?”

“I didn’t even get a single sip of wine tonight,” Ricki replied. Then she recounted the last hour of her life while Kaitlyn listened without saying a word.

“I don’t know what to say,” Kaitlyn finally admitted when Ricki finished speaking. “You’re right. It sounds crazy.”

“I’ve been spending way too many hours watching my sales and working on Prime Rib’s outline,” Ricki decided. “Maybe the pressure is getting to me and that’s why I see characters who aren’t really there. Am I really going crazy, Kait, or could it just be some kind of writer-affliction disease?”

“Uh…”

“Do you think Stephen King ever scoops imaginary Cujo crap from his lawn? Does Snape ever stop by JK Rowling’s house for a spot of tea?”

“I don’t know about that,” Kaitlyn said gently, “but I do think you’ve been dealing with a lot of changes lately and you probably need to get away, like a mini-vacation. Maybe take a drive up the coast and leave your computer at home.”

The next morning, all three of Ricki’s books were in the top ten. Fresh Meat 1, Leftovers, 2, Reheated 3. The book world buzzed with thoughts on the subject. “Staggering overnight success!”, “Demon diva!”, “Like a rocket to the moon!” Ricki’s dream was coming true and no sexy imaginary Seamus was going to ruin that. With Brute on her shoulder, Ricki took a deep, relaxing breath - catching an occasional whiff of something vaguely familiar. She sat outside on her patio, sipping her morning coffee and enjoying the sunrise speckling through the trees. She talked with her lawyer who assured her the movie contract was on the level. What a thrill it would be to see her characters on the big screen, especially if Johnny Depp got a part. Picking up the pen to sign the legal papers, Ricki had time to scroll out Ricki on the signature line before the pen was abruptly pulled out of her grasp from behind.

“Damn it, Seamus!” she exclaimed.

“Damn it, Seamus!” Brute repeated.

“How’d you know it was me?” Seamus sauntered casually around the table to face her.

“I can smell you.” Ricki plugged her nose.

“Smell me?”

“It was pretty strong last night but it’s even worst today. You’re overdoing it. I meant for you to have a tantalizing sexy scent, not gag everybody with your Axe.”

“Gag me with your Axe!” Brute chirped.

Seamus stepped away from the table, leaning against the privacy panel separating Ricki’s patio deck from her neighbor’s. Glowering, he said, “You wrote, and I quote, ‘Seamus smelled like a perfect blend of manly sweat and Axe’. Perhaps in the future you might be more specific.”

Ricki shrugged and sipped her coffee. “At least you erred on the side of Axe.”

“Side of Axe!” Brute chimed in.

“Your bird talks a lot.” Seamus glared at Brute.

“What are you doing here?” Ricki asked.

“Stopping you from creating hell on earth,” he answered, pointing to the legal papers she’d started to sign. “Are you daft, Raquel? Stop this nonsense. Pull the books. Now.”

“Why are trying to kill my happiness, Seamus?”

“And what about mine, Raquel?” The way he hissed out her name left no room for misinterpretation. Pulling the books meant killing him too. They both knew it.

I’m sorry,” she shook her head, still trying to make it make sense without having to ruin everything. “But I really need to know if you’re real or just a figment of my imagination, sent to stick a pin in the voodoo doll of my success.”

“Does I feel real?” He reached out and pinched her arm, hard.

“Ow,” she protested. “If you’re so damned real, then where were you when I was struggling to bring you to life on the page? How come you weren’t here during the grueling editing process? Where were you when -?”

Snapping his fingers, Seamus interrupted. “That reminds me. On page 157 in Reheated, there’s a typo.”

“No there’s not,” Ricki said defensively. “I have a proofreader.”

Clearing his throat, Seamus quoted verbatim.

“Seamus, starving because he hadn’t eaten in weeks, finally came upon a lake. Stuffing his hand in the water and pulling up a struggling fish, he gobbled it down in one swallow. ‘Who would’ve thought raw crap could taste so good!’  Seamus exclaimed .”

He smirked at Ricki. “I believe I’m meant to be eating carp.”

Ricki grinned graciously. “And I believe I’ll leave that typo alone so everybody can see you with your mouth full of crap.” She scooped up her paperwork and stormed to the house with Brute still on her shoulder. She slammed the sliding glass door shut behind her and quickly pulled a salt carton from her kitchen cupboard, sprinkling its contents across the slider’s base. If Seamus was a real demon instead of a figment of her imagination, salt would keep him out and he’d quit pestering her. She hurried around the house, pouring salt across every window sill and the front doorway. She put the salt away and started pouring another cup of coffee when a voice whispered over her shoulder.

“You forgot about the mail slot, lass.”

“Damn you!” Ricki cried in surprise, spilling hot coffee on her hand.

“Damn you!” said Brute.

“Perhaps you think you have an axe to grind with me,” Seamus sniffed the air, alluding to his scent overkill, “but you gave birth to us and you’re responsible for us. Selling us off to Hollywood now is like knowingly spreading a sexually transmitted disease.”

Ricki chuckled despite her irritation. “You just compared yourself with herpes.”

“Whatever it takes. Please, kill us all.”

“You’re asking me to destroy my series.”

“I’m asking you to save the world.”

Exasperated, Ricki rubbed her temples. “How do we even know taking the books down will work?”

“If we’re dead in the minds of readers, we’re dead.”

“It took months for Fresh Meat to even get noticed, let alone popular. The reverse is just as likely to be true. So what will you demons do in the meantime? Scamper around here unattended?”

Seamus shrugged his strong, wide shoulders. God how she loved those shoulders. “I’ll keep track of the bad guys as best as I can and minimize their damage,” he answered.

Ricki shot him a cold look of daggers. “Screw this shit,” she said, then pulled on her heels, picked up her purse, and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving for work. Despite the stimulating direction of this conversation, I still need to make a living and if you have your way, I’ll never get to quit my day job.” Ricki glowered at Seamus. “I need some time away from you to think, so please don’t follow me. Stay here if you want but don’t eat my bird and don’t steal anything.”

“I’m not a bird-murderer or a common thief, you know.”

“I know what you are. I made you and all your kind. None of you can be trusted.” Ricki forced open the front door.

“Prejudice much?” Seamus scoffed.

“Only against demons and assholes.”

“Assholes!” Brute echoed.

Ricki slammed the door behind her and was gone.

Though she’d left the legal documents at home, Ricki could print off another set at work, and damn it if she didn’t come dangerously close to doing just that. Something kept her from it though. Maybe it was the way Seamus had looked at her, all big eyed and begging, or maybe it was that she kind of believed him. Was it even possible? The whole idea seemed nuts. But the longer she thought about it, the clearer it became. I don’t want to ruin the world just to tell my story.

Sherry peeked over the cubicle, interrupting Ricki’s concentration. Ricki hated the way Sherry did that. Wasn’t the whole point of office cubicles to allow for privacy and space?

 “Did you hear that news story about the mess on the commuter train this morning?” Sherry asked.

 “Nope.” Shut up and go away, bobble-head, Ricki thought.

“A bomb blew up in a train tunnel. Everybody on the train died, but what’s weird is that most of them didn’t die from the blast. By the time rescuers got in there, the passengers had been eaten to death, clear to the bone. Like a whole pack of gigantic starving sewer rats found them. Nasty, huh?” She chuckled. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear about it.”

“Oh my god.” Ricki’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped in horror.

“Pretty wild, huh?” Sherry nodded, her eyes wide too. “Witnesses say a suspicious woman with red hair and a devil tattoo was seen lurking around the train station earlier this morning with a bag that looked like it could have had a bomb. Who knows how they can tell a bomb bag from a regular bag, but the cops are pulling up video surveillance now.”

“They won’t find her,” Ricki said before realizing she was saying it.

Sherry pushed her cherry red lips into a duck-face - a thing women her age should never do - and scolded Ricki. “That’s not a very positive attitude. I’m sure they’ll find her on the video and track her down.”

Ricki shrugged. Whatever. I know damned well my demons don’t show up on surveillance cameras.

“Well,” Sherry huffed, apparently satisfied that she’d made her point and wasted enough of Ricki’s time. “We’d better get back to work. Chop chop.” Then she popped her head back down, stuck her ear buds in, and started humming along badly to a Katy Perry song.

At lunch, Ricki sat in the sterile white office kitchen picking at her Chinese delivery. She wondered if the train disaster could be a coincidence. Sure she had written a scene just like that in Reheated, right down to the rat-like feeding frenzy (which had nothing to do with rats and everything to do with a particularly hostile redhead), but so what. Coincidences were called coincidences because of their coincidental nature.

“Hey there, writer girl.” Mike from accounting wandered in, tossing a bag of popcorn in the microwave then clicking on the TV to wait out his snack’s cooking time. “What’s for lunch?” he asked, since a commercial was on.  “Another best seller?” He laughed at his funny. Sure enough, now that Ricki was getting national attention and Hollywood offers, her co-workers were finally noticing her.

“This just in,” the reporter said. “There’s been another home invasion in a rash of break-ins happening all over the state. We’re hearing the same story everywhere, from tiny apartment units to sprawling estates in the country. People are attacked in their homes and being…” Ricki tuned out. She didn’t need to hear more of what she already knew. That people were being decapitated and then eaten in their own living rooms.

“T-Bone’s M.O.,” Ricki muttered.

“Huh?” Mike asked, gesturing toward the TV and then continuing without waiting for her response. “Can you believe all this crap going on today? What’s going to be next? Nuclear war?”

“Actually, they’re aiming for Armageddon,” Ricki mumbled.

Mike looked at her weird for a moment before busting into a grin and chuckle. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, pulling his aromatic popcorn from the microwave. “You have that British sense of humor going on. Drier than the desert. No wonder nobody here understands you much. You’re one of those eccentric types.” He shook his head, chuckled some more, and left.

Ricki sat at the sterile white table for another twenty minutes, pulling apart her egg rolls and watching in horror as the home invasion death count rose and the incidents expanded to neighboring states. The news called it, “the desperate acts of copycats”, but Ricki knew better. It was all T-Bone. That’s how fast he moved. All demons did. She’d made them that way; almost invincible. Almost. The seventeenth train exploded, this time clear out in San Francisco, and that’s when Ricki’s phone rang.

“Yeah?” Ricki answered somberly.

“You know what I’m about to say, right?” Kaitlyn sounded somber too.

“I do,” Ricki replied. “And no, you’re not crazy. But I have to go. I’ll call you back soon. I love you, Kaity.” Ricki choked back tears and hung up. Now was not the time to explain. Now was the time to get moving. She had no choice. Ricki threw away her uneaten lunch and hurried to her boss’s office, knocked on the door jamb.

“Hello, Ricki,” Caroline, all professional and proper in her pin stripe suit welcomed. “Come on in.”

“Actually, I’m just here to tell you I’m going home early.” Ricki rubbed her temples for effect. “I’ve been fighting a migraine all day and am finally ready to admit I’m losing.”

“I see.” Caroline smiled understandingly, probably misreading the obvious distress in Ricki’s features. “I know how those can be. Take care, and take off tomorrow too if you need it.”

“Thanks,” Ricki smiled back, thinking she might take Caroline up on that two-day offer. Considering it took two years to write three books, two days at this point might be pushing it.

Ricki left the office but she didn’t even have her seat on the commuter train when she got online and went to Sandy’s Superhero Book Reviewers.

She wrote - “We have a problem. Who has Skype?” - then waited for replies. They quickly rolled in.

“What’s the problem? And…I have Skype.”

“Me too.”

“What’s going on?”

“I have Skype.”

“I have it too. What’s the problem?”

“Ricki - did you hear about all the people getting eaten alive? Creepy! It’s just like in your books.”

It went like that for the next two hours. Ricki frantically gathered up her friends, ignoring phone calls and text messages from Kaitlyn until everything was set. She didn’t tell anybody what it was about - who would believe her? - but she promised them her eternal gratefulness in exchange for meeting her on Skype at 4:00 pm her time. Then she finally texted Kaitlyn back and asked her to leave work as soon as she could, and stop by Ricki’s apartment.

“I’m leaving now,” Kaitlyn texted back.

Ricki sat back in her chair, closed her eyes, and sighed. Oh please, universe. Give me a hand here. She’d thought about it on the drive home from work, but Ricki wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing until she’d walked through the doorway and there was Seamus, sprawled out on the couch watching TV with the cutest little girl Ricki had ever seen snuggled up against him. Brute was perched on the girl’s shoulder.

“She’s home!” the little girl exclaimed, sitting up and clapping.

“Home! Home! Home!” Brute repeated.

Ricki set her purse on the coffee table and smiled at the little girl before turning her gaze to Seamus. “This is Phoenix, I presume?” she asked.

“Yep!” the five year old jumped up from her seat and ran to Ricki, hugging her tight like they were long-time friends. “Hi, Ricki Shay! It’s so wonderful to meet you.” Brute remained on the girl’s shoulder all this whole time, flapping his large wings to keep balance as the girl jumped and bounded.

“Hi Ricky Shay!” Brute echoed the girl.

“Hello, Phoenix.” Ricki chuckled. “You must be a very special little girl for Brute to stay on your shoulder like that. Usually he only likes me.”

“He likes me too,” Phoenix enthused. “We’ve been talking for hours!”

“Hours, huh?” Ricki looked past Phoenix to her father, still stretched out on the couch.

“She showed up right after you left,” he shrugged. “All your main players are here now.”

“Thank you for making me,” Phoenix took Ricki’s hand and squeezed. “My dad says you’re going to help us with the bad demons. Is it true? Are you?”

“She is going to help us, honey.” Seamus’s voice sounded sad when he spoke.

“Good!” Phoenix happily declared.  “Because I hate them.”

“I hate them!” Brute copied the girl’s words.

Phoenix was exactly how Ricki had envisioned her, right down to her dirty blonde hair, pouty mouth, exuberant energy level, and her uncanny way of always burning bright. The thought of killing her off was unbearable. She knew she couldn’t explain it to the pigheaded Seamus, but Ricki’s books weren’t about her success anymore. They were about living, breathing beings. Granted, they were demonic beings, but just because somebody is born bad doesn’t mean they have to stay that way, right?

“Hey sweetie,” Seamus told Phoenix. “Why don’t you take Brute to the kitchen for a snack while Ricki and I chitchat? Maybe you can have another one of those delicious peanut butter cookies we made.”

“Okay.” Without further convincing, the happy kid skipped out to the kitchen, Brute still inexplicitly attached to her shoulder. “Come on Brute, let’s have cookies.”

“Cookies! Cookies!”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” Ricki seethed under her breath once Phoenix and Brute were out of earshot. 

“I didn’t do a damned thing, Raquel. I didn’t bring Celine or T-Bone here. I didn’t bring myself here, and I certainly didn’t drag my five year old daughter here. I have no control over any of this shit.” His eyes narrowed. “But you do.”

“You’re right,” she nodded once. “I do.”

At 4:00 pm, Ricki opened a world-wide Skype connection with four hundred of her best online friends. Her sister joined in too, at least when she wasn’t busy sneaking suspicious looks at Seamus, then Phoenix, and back at Seamus again.

“Do you seriously think they’re real and this is a good idea?” Kaitlyn whispered in Ricki’s ear.

Ricki whispered back. “Yes to the first and no to the second. But what choice do I have?” Turning to her online friends, Ricki made her announcement. “Thank you all for agreeing to help me out. Now that we’re all here and I have your attention, this is what I need you to do.” Ricki paused long enough to draw in a deep breath. “I want you guys to help me write Prime Rib, tonight. The whole thing.”

The response was immediate -

“Ooooo! How exciting!”

“The whole thing in one night? Is that even possible?”

“YAY!”

“How fun!”

“That sounds like an interesting request.”

“How long does it have to be?”

“Why do you need our help?”

“I’m so thrilled!”

Seamus threw Ricki a what-in-hell-do-you-think-you’re-doing? glare, which she ignored. She knew he wanted her to take the books down, but her idea was better.

“Thanks for your enthusiasm, everybody,” Ricki said gratefully. “Now, first things first. In Prime Rib, we need to kill off Celine and T-Bone.”

“Nooooo! I love Celine too much to let her die!”

“Good riddance!”

“What about Seamus?”

“And what about Phoenix?”

“Let’s concentrate on Celine and T-Bone.” Swallowing hard because she really hated this part, Ricki added, “The book doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to be finished by daybreak.”

The Superhero Reviewers agreed, though some balked at the hurried nature of the request. That made sense, they had no idea what the real problem was, but Ricki could not risk telling them. She showed them an outline and then had everybody break up into groups, with each group writing a chapter while Ricki bounced between them, seaming the chapters together. They worked fast and Ricki was delighted and relieved by their imagination and talent. While she had struggled with a plausible way to get T-Bone to the scene of Celine’s cliffhanger-moment, the Superhero Reviewers had it tied up and written in under a half hour. Even Kaitlyn helped out with that.

“I never knew you could write,” Ricki said, smiling.

“I didn’t either,” Kaitlyn replied with a shrug. “Want to put me in one of those groups and see what I can help hammer out?”

Ricki grinned wide. “Why not?” And she did.

Sandy’s Superhero Book Reviewers worked feverishly all night long. When a few dropped out from exhaustion, a fresh handful showed up to take their place. Happily, one had graphic art experience and whipped up a brilliant cover for “Prime Rib”. Everything clicked into place perfectly. Ricki drew chapters together, proofread, and watched painfully as the group killed off her characters just as she’d requested. Celine wasn’t too much of a problem; being deep-down human she was simply shot in the shriveled heart and left to bleed out. T-Bone had to be burned to death with acid though, because it was the only effective way to ensure a demon wouldn’t come back as a hell-zombie. The Superheroes went beyond the call-of-duty, peppering the landscape with acid bath traps for demons everywhere so that by the end of the story only two were left: Seamus and Phoenix. The team kept them alive, though sometimes just barely, and the book ended with father and daughter hived up in an abandoned, though homey, cabin in the woods.

With a sigh of grateful relief, Ricki typed out the last paragraph:

Seamus and Phoenix stayed in their little cabin until Phoenix was old enough to leave. Being half-human, she had the gnawing desire to live amongst them. Seamus, on the other hand, was content to remain alone in the wooded protected forest, living out his years in peace and tranquility; the first - and last - demon with a heart of gold.

The End

“Great work, team,” Ricki told them. “Thanks so much for your help.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It was fun!”

“When are you going to tell us what all this is about?”

“Do we get part of your royalties?”

Ricki knew the answer to that last question and took that moment to share her next surprise.

“Every penny this book makes will go to the charity of your choice. You guys discuss it, pick a charity, let my sister know what it is, and we’ll make sure the profits go there. Thanks again for your time. I love you guys.”

Once the goodbyes were done and the connection shut down, Ricki turned to Kaitlyn.

“I have one more favor to ask,” she said hopefully.

“Sure.” Kaitlyn yawned because just like Ricki and Seamus, she was exhausted from staying up all night. Only little Phoenix - sprawled out on the floor - had gotten the luxury of nodding off. Brute never left Phoenix’s shoulder.

“I need you to get the book formatted and live,” Ricki explained. “Today.”

Kaitlyn’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You know I will. I’ve done three books for you now and by this point, formatting’s a snap. But what I don’t understand - I mean, besides them being here,” she pointed toward Seamus sitting in silence on the couch, and Phoenix zonked out on the floor, “What’s your hurry? The trilogy is doing fine. Actually, it’s doing great. You don’t need to rush in with a new book.”

“True,” she said quietly. “But I do need the murders to stop.”

Kaitlyn shook her head, mouth gaping in disbelief. “No, Ricki, you can’t possibly think there’s a connection between your books and those murders. No. It’s just a coincidence, sweetie.”

Ricki pointed to Seamus, pensive and silent on the couch where he’d remained all night, waiting to see what would become of himself and his daughter. “Is he a coincidence?” Ricki asked Kaitlyn. “How about Phoenix? Is she one too?”

“I…” Kaitlyn glanced anxiously at the two. “I can’t explain it,” she admitted.

Ricki smiled warmly at Kaitlyn. “Well, I can. So please trust me. I have a few chapters to proof and then I’ll email you the file. It will be ready for you to format by sunrise. And thanks, Kaity. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

“Sure,” Kaitlyn nodded. “I’ll be waiting for your file.”

“Thanks for staying with me through this, big sibling.”

“You’re welcome, crazy little sister.” Kaitlyn hugged her sister and left. Ricki plunked Brute on her shoulder and wiped away a few tears.

Looking into Seamus’s exhausted eyes, Ricki smiled weakly. “Are you ready to discuss you and your daughter’s future at that cabin?”

“I am,” he slowly grinned back.

“Come on over and help me out then. I need your feedback.”

Ricki and Seamus worked together, tweaking the last few sentences of Prime Rib before sending the manuscript off to Kaitlyn.

Seamus and Phoenix stayed in their little cabin until Phoenix was old enough to leave. Being half-human, she had the gnawing desire to live amongst them. Seamus, on the other hand, was content to remain alone in the wooded protected forest, living out his years in peace and tranquility. The first - and last - demon with a heart of gold. But a week after they moved into their new space, a knock landed on the door. Phoenix ran to open it. Both gasped in happy amazement when they saw their long-lost friend standing on the porch.

“Ricki!” the little girl wrapped her arms around the woman.

“Ricki!” the parrot on the woman’s shoulder echoed.

The woman glanced around the quaint cabin and cozy woods, smiling. “This is a nice place,” she admitted. “I like it here.”

“Good thing,” Seamus replied, “because we plan to be here for a very long time.” He winked, scooping her up in a warm, strong hug. His scent, a perfect blend of manly sweat and Axe cologne, melted Ricki’s will to be anywhere else. Ever.

The End

# 9 “The Ricki Shay Effect” - by Kaitlyn Shay

On the heels of the bestselling smash, “Prime Rib” by her sister, Ricki Shay…tragically killed in a train bomb explosion…comes Kaitlyn Shay, doing honor to her sister’s name in this new breakout series about the reformed demon Seamus O’Reilly, his half-demon daughter Phoenix, and their new sidekick Ricki. Together, this rag-tag team lives as a family and fights the ghostly spirits of their once living demon foes.

 "The Ricki Shay Effect" is Copyright 2012 Kymberly J Lewis. No part of this story may be reprinted without the author's permission.