Shooting Star: Chapter 2

The alarm buzzes rudely, as “6:00” now appears in ruby-red digits against the void-black background of the digital alarm clock resting on Halley’s apartment nightstand. Halley props herself up and rotates her head toward the clock, her eyes half-open, and falls limply back onto the pillow. These early mornings will kill me yet, she thinks.

But she forces herself out of bed. The enormous tee-shirt she wears falls to mid-thigh; it is noticeably wrinkled, matching her askew morning hair. She walks over to the closet and pulls out a crisply folded, white, button-up dress shirt and a thigh-length, charcoal-gray knit skirt. From the small dresser, she produces a pair of dark pantyhose and a pair of low-heel dress shoes from the floor. She lays all these on her bed. She then goes into the top drawer for the rest of her ensemble.

The oversized sleep shirt flutters to the bed, and little more rustling can be heard from the dresser —though for the room is empty except for the young brunette woman. The shirt is buttoned up. Stockings cover her legs. The skirt is slid up her legs and zipped up. One hand grabs a brush and quickly straightens out the wiry kinks of her straight hair. Then, both hands gather the long, mahogany-brown hair into a single handful, and in two swift, nearly mechanical motions, one of the hands twirls the hair into a tight coil and the other stabs the bun with a long plastic needle, black. One hand bats the bun to assure professional tightness. A mundane ritual takes place in the bathroom: a mascara brush applies color and thickness to her small eyelashes, another brush adds a soft shade of eye shadow. A touch of blush takes the autumn paleness out of her cheeks, and an unpretentious shade of coral red covers her lips. Halley inhales and exhales deliberately, smiling deliberately as well. “Okay, Superstar,” she tells herself, softly but not whispering, “let’s show the world what we’re made of.”

Halley walks down the short hallway of her apartment, an aura of great confidence surrounding her. She closes the door behind her on her way to work, which shakes the dry erase calendar pinned there, filled with audition dates.

* * *

A middle-aged couple sits down in Nana’s Breakfast Diner. Nana’s is the typical breakfast diner: the structure like an oversized mobile home with curved walls the color of aluminum and neon signs unceasingly stating its message: open. The husband of the pair, a clean-shaven man with dark grey hair, which is just beginning to recede, smiles at his wife, her dirty blond hair that is fading to the color of chalk in places. Halley walks up, an apron around her waist, two menus under her arm, an order booklet in her hand, and a pencil stashed behind her ear. With forced hospitality, she asks them, “Folks, what’ll y’all have today?” There’s that hint of a Southern accent in her voice that comes from living in New York all her life. And having acted in countless plays.

After receiving the menus, the wife excuses herself to the restroom. Halley walks to the counter and returns carrying two coffee mugs in one hand and two coffee pots in the other. She is a veteran diner waitress, even after working here for only a year and a half. “Regular or Decaf?” she prompts.

“Well, Miss… Hailey, is it?” the man says, lowering his eyebrow.

“Halley,” she replies, making the short ‘a’ sound audible. Oh Lord, she knows where this is going. “Sugar?” she asks, completely aware of and completely hating the irony of her question.

Obviously flirting, the man replies, “Deary, you are a fine woman, why don’t we…”

“No sugar, then? If you’ll excuse me, I have another table…” Halley firmly interrupts, with every hint of distaste hidden from her voice, but not an ounce of give. Her sternum shakes as she musters up the last bit of resolve from her depleting reserve. Her teeth unclench at the next booth, and the actress reemerges.

* * *

Halley, still in her outfit from work, minus the apron, stands on a harshly lit stage, and is handed a stack of papers, stapled together. A tall, wide man in the middle of the house of this low-quality auditorium suddenly bellows, “Okay, take it from page 14, Scene 11. Donovan, you’ll be Richard. Denise, you’ll be Anita. And Hailey, you’ll be Cassie.”

The three actors begin going through the scene. The director within fifteen second has made three deliberate scratches on his notepad. An assistant, a rather frail girl of no more than twenty years, listens intently to her boss’s obligatory whispered display of his superb discriminatory ability of actors. “Mr. Donovan is mumbling like a lunatic. Ms. Denise appears to believe that a proper English schoolgirl is supposed to act drunk. Then again, possibly it’s not her fault.” He gives a short, throaty chuckle at his own joke. “And Miss Hailey, bless her heart, still has the forced voice. She’s looks to be twenty-four and probably has been acting for twenty of it. A drama major, for sure. We get two dozen of them through each day. Her body language is perfect, I must admit, but her voice still isn’t natural.” He shakes his head with phony sympathy. With raised eyebrows, he looks to his assistant expectantly, who quickly takes on a face of great awe, and replies, “Good points, sir. Brilliant.” She mentally kicks herself for taking Journalism instead of Accounting at the community college.

Chapter 3

Archangel Investigations

Previews
Opening Credits
Episode 101: Pilot
Episode 102: Gift
Episode 103: Faithful
Episode 104: Reparation
Episode 105: Treasured
Episode 106: Siren
Episode 107: Helen
Episode 108: Samaritan: Cast Read-Through
Season 1 Planning Session coming soon...
Season 2 Planning Session coming soon...

Director's Commentary: So, after I wrote and directed The Champions of Kal-El, I was all set to produce its sequel: The Champions of Kal-El 2: The Call. Unfortunately, CoKE Classic didn't get the ratings the CW was hoping, so my funding was revoked before even half of the movie was shot. It's a fickle business, TV production.

Well, the CW's lawyers were as shrewd as mine (lawyer, singular). They got out of the two-picture contract, I kept the film. It was essentially worthless, right? I can't exactly do anything with it, can I?

Long story short, I'm not one to be deterred, so I called in a favor from an old friend. You might know him. Goes by the name of Joss Whedon. In all honesty, we're not really old friends. He was my employer, and I was a writer he was glad to get rid of. But I got the call with him, pitching my idea for a new show called Archangel Investigations. Good thing I call, since even trying to produce the series would get me sued within an inch of my life. But Joss is an understanding guy who knows what it's like to want to call in a hit on a TV executive. So, he thought he'd lend a hand. He was perfectly content to write comics in his basement, and made a few calls, and before I knew it, I was making my very own pilot. With David Boreanaz of all people as a guest star.

And just in time, too. The CW need a quarter-season replacement and my series looked pretty inviting. Especially the part where five minutes out of each show had already been paid for. And the fact Joss Whedon's name was attached. The guy who had been rightfully fired from two of TV's biggest hits had his own series.

I lasted seven episodes. That's right, the entire series on two discs! For those of you who feel cheated out of the last five episodes, I have to apologize. They were never made. I did plan out the rest of the season and spoke with the cast about it, and luckily enough, had it taped. So you can find out what happened to our heroes in the end. You can also hear about some of the directions we planned on going for Season 2. Three cheers for bonus features!

The Champions of Kal-El

Chapter 1: The Charge
Chapter 2: Homeworld
Chapter 3: Introductions
Chapter 4: Society
Chapter 5: Legend
Chapter 6: Banquet
Chapter 7: Fulfill
Chapter 8: Spectacle

Director's Commentary: This is a made-for-TV film I wrote and directed in 2006, after the success of my Smallville novel, Future. It was meant to be another novel tentatively titled Arena, but that fell through, so I was asked to turn it into a screenplay, and the rest is history. It was produced as a 8-part mini-series. It was written with only the majority of Season 5's scripts on hand, so it becomes non-canonical before "Vessel."

Future: A Post-Lexmas

Chapter 1: Dense
Chapter 2: Blush
Chapter 3: Symbol
Chapter 4: Destiny

Author's Note: So, you're such a Smallville fan that you just had to pick up the newest officially-licensed Smallville novel, right? Well, thanks! I could use the extra cash. But, really, I'm just another fan like you who wrote a short four-chapter book based on the alternate universe created in the episode "Lexmas." So, enjoy.

Shooting Star: Chapter 1

The spotlights in the basketball stadium shine brightly down upon the vast rows of chairs, occupied by hundreds of college graduates. An electrical problem has occurred, and the only lights that the staff could get to work were the bright spotlights. The resulting effect is a dimly lit room and a harshly lit stage. The pastel green curtain reflects a blinding glare onto the crowd.

Most of the eyes in the audience are only partially opened because of this. Some try to divert their eyes; their shrunken pupils watch the happenings on stage using on peripheral vision, their hands acting as makeshift visors. A few resourceful people wear their sunglasses. nd in vast room of squinters, one noticeable female within the graduating crowd appears much less fazed. The five-foot-three, brown-haired drama major sits comfortably on the fifth row, a dozen chairs in on the left side. Her legs are casually crossed; a satisfied smile sits on her face. She hardly squints, well-accustomed to harsh stage lights. During the announcements, she drums her hands on her thighs with an impatient tempo and give an occasionally sigh.

“Halley Electra DeMallora, Bachelor of Arts in Drama, with Honors,” the emcee announces, pronouncing her name with ease. As one of Halley’s professors and director of the majority of the plays she has performed in, he flawlessly pronounces her first name with the short ‘a.’ He doesn’t pause before saying the almost exotic middle name, as if it might be a SpellCheck-corrected typo. Finally, he places the stress on the ‘Mal’ of the hybrid French-Welch surname of ‘DeMallora.’

Halley rises fluidly, walking with intentional grace down the center aisle. With the phrase “with Honors” still fresh in her ears, her lips curl just a little bit more. It was worth that painful Advanced Geometry class she took to get the honors. Granted, she did have to give a lot of credit to her geometry tutor; especially for their five-hour study session that Halley endured, netting her a dainty 72% on the final, effectively passing her overall, though by less than a percent. Her tutor did receive a 98%, but she definitely got the better half of the deal; she was not the one who wrecked the grade curve and was not the victim of ruthless football players that had just lost their starting positions.

For a moment, she almost gives the impression of a bride walking down the aisle as she ascends the stairs and reverently accepts her diploma with a thankful bow of the head to the familiar presenter and a picture perfect smile to the audience. Yes, she seems to think, I think things are going to be splendid.

Chapter 2

Bearing Caroline

Dedicated to the kind and loving
Amber Carole,
my inspiration for this story,
a true friend, and nothing less

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5

Shooting Star

Dedicated to the beautiful and talented
Halley Electra,
my inspiration for this story
a friend, with the wings of an angel

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6

Bearing Caroline, Chapter 5

Amber heart drops as she nears the house of her daughter’s friend. Two police cars, lights still flashing, are parked diagonally across the street. Jenna, downtrodden, talks to a police officer, head hanging.

The two park and walk up to a police officer, who leads them to Caroline, who is in the custody of another police officer, beside the house.

“Mom, I…”

Amber simply holds her hand forward. She turns to the police officer, “Sir?”

“It seems we had a little problem with underage drinking here. Woman across the street phoned in after witnessing it from across the street.”

Caroline huffs. “I didn’t…”

Again, Amber holds her hand up, “Caroline, I’m not accusing you of anything, yet. I’ll hear your story in a minute. Officer?”

“We think she brought the drinks, ma’am.” Caroline is already shaking her head when Amber and Matt turn.

Matt jumps in, “What kind of alcohol?” He is shown a Bud Lite beer can. “It’s common brand. I do have some at home. But what’s to stop Jenna’s mom from having any?”

“Sir, no alcohol was found in the premises except for the cans in the room.”

Amber jumps in, “Well, maybe they brought it all into the room. You haven’t shown me any proof to make be believe that the beer is from my house. If it is…”

“We’ll find that out, ma’am,” the officer states, “for now, we want to charge your daughter with possession. She was in the room with the alcohol.”

“Can I talk now?” asks the much-annoyed Caroline. “I was not in the room with the alcohol. I was in the hall trying to call my house so someone could get me out of here. Also, someone who could tell me what to do. The only reason I was in the room is because the police told me to when I let them in.” She finishes deliberately, enforcing her last point.

“We think she might have consumed some alcohol.”

“Think?” Amber prompts, “Well, then, get a breathalyzer out of your car and test my daughter. If my daughter’s guilty, take her, charge her, whatever, but do something besides making assumptions.”

Matt holds his wife and mumbles an apology. The police officer, however, pull a pen-like device from his pocket and instructs Caroline to breath on it. He does this twice more, “It’s not registering.”

Amber rolls her eyes, “Check fingerprints on the cans. Find out if she even has touched a can.”

“That’s not our job, ma’am,” the officer tells her, “that’s…”

“…my job…” a voice interrupts. A man, about thirty, holding a hard plastic case, extends his hand, “John Gillum, Forensics. Miss,” he says to Caroline, after shooting a dirty look to the police officer, who steps back, “roll up your sleeve for me.”

Caroline obeys, and the man holds a thick, metal device to her arm. “It’s only a little prick.” There is a small click and Caroline lets out a small yelp. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, “did it hurt?”

“Not that bad at all. What does that do?”

“Well, in about three minutes, it’ll tell me exactly how much alcohol and other naughty chemicals are in your body. If any,” he finishes, with a quick glance towards the officer. “Let me see your hands,” he prompts, pulling out a small jar. He pulls the cap off and pulls out a brush with transparent yellow liquid, which he lightly smears on her hand. “Press your hands down on this, please,” he instructs, holding a wide, flat, spongy tray, about a foot across. When Caroline pulls back, black fingerprints appear on the white sponge, which is very thin. He hands this to another person in a “Forensics” vest, “Here, check these prints against all the prints on the cans you find. Thanks.”

“Well, miss, this is how it works. In about an hour, we’ll look at the evidence and you’ll be able to leave. Hopefully in your parents’ car, but, if we find something…”

“The police car,” Caroline predicts. The man smiles and nods. The officer, who is scowling in the background, clears his throat.

“Unless,” the scientist adds, “you,” he directs toward the officer, “would like to think up other charges.”

The officer’s frown deepens, “No. You will be free to go, if they don’t find anything. And not by his authority, by mine.”

“I know,” the scientist says and walks off, smirking.

: : :

Caroline hops into the car, quiet, but thanks the scientist through the open window.

“It’s my pleasure,” the man tells her.

Matt drives on the way home. Only the engine can be heard. Amber finally exhales loud enough to be heard.

“I’m sorry,” Caroline spits out. “I tried—”

“Caroline, you understand that alcohol is bad. I don’t have to lecture you on that. But remember consequences?”

“Yeah, Mom, I remember.”

Amber continues, in a stern voice, “For what you did, we are going to the ice cream parlor, and, young lady,” she barks, turning around, frowning, “you will order whatever you want.”

Completely perturbed, Caroline replies, “What?! But I… Huh?”

Amber smiles, “Caroline, you found yourself in a bad situation. You didn’t indulge. You left the room. You tried to call me, but the line was busy; I was on the phone. Sorry. You cooperated with the police officers. You kept your head better than I did. And you proved yourself right. Caroline, babe, there’s nothing I can punish you for.”

“Thanks, Mom. Would you proofread something for me?”

“Now?”

“Yeah, it’s my essay for the literary magazine. I wanted to see if you think it sounded okay.”

Caroline pulls the paper from her backpack and hands it to her mom in the passenger seat.

Amber smiles and reads the title aloud, “‘Why I’m Lucky To Have a Mom I Can’t Stand’ by Caroline Jacobs.” She slowly scans the page, reading each word carefully.

Caroline, sitting in the back, pulls down her vanity mirror, noticing that the cherry-red roots of her hair growing out under the black locks.

Bearing Caroline, Chapter 4

Matt stares at the screen, rubbing his chin, his head moving back and forth. He taps at the corner of the screen and a new program comes up. He goes back and forth typing on his keyboard and moving objects across the screen with his finger.

He finally leans back in his chair, rubbing his face. “Impossible!” he mutters. He picks up a small stack of papers, scanning the lines of text, before throwing it down. He rolls his chair to a bookshelf on the other side of his desk and pulls a thick paperback book from the shelf. The title Masterpieces in Java is colorful written across the cover on top of a college of famous paintings, photographs of the pyramids, and scores of music. Scattered among these are boxes of computer code, highlighted with glowing edges. He opens the cover and marked in blue ink, in cursive, is a message, “Matt, Should you ever need this. Your best bud, Christopher.” He flips a few pages to the table of contents and a queasy look appears on his face as he reads through it. He drops it on top of the assignment packet. He spins in his chair, and then goes to his computer, before taking a glance at the clock in his window.

It displays “5:27 PM,” in large digits.

: : :

Matt walks home, barely able to move. Amber greets him at the door with a kiss.

“So, how are things at work?”

He doesn’t answer.

“That project,” Amber prompts.

“Yeah. What Somersby wants is impossible to do with the software we have. I’d have to go back and learn programming.”

“Babe, professional programs takes years to master. I mean, look at Chris VanDrey. He got to where he is by studying programming for almost thirty years. Maybe you should talk to him.”

“Yeah. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. Don’t you ever see him when you go to pick up Shannon?”

“Not really. I’m mean, Shannon says she and Catherine are friends, but they never hang out together.”

Matt pauses, “So, what’s going on?”

“I wrote the check to church. We officially are spending more money than you earn.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re not in debt, are we?”

“Of course not. But when we earn this much,” she says, holding her fingers about three inches apart, “and spend this much,” holding the fingers of her other hand slightly farther apart, “then we lose this much,” holding up her thumb and index finger an eighth of an inch apart. “That’s not much compared to this, which is our nest egg,” holding her hand flat at shoulder level, “but that little bit soon will add up.” She lowers her hand slowly.

“We’re falling back on something. For now, it’s not in our hands. Any miracles, yet?”

“Luke took the newspaper today and cut out all the coupons and put them in an envelope for me, arranged by product type.”

“That could count.”

“It’s not going to save us. It’s not enough. Luke’s already a miracle.”

* * *

Matt looks at his watch. ‘Almost noon,’ he thinks. He flicks the microphone/speaker and hears the familiar beep. He leans back in his chair, and pronounces, “Directory… Personal…” His computer beeps again, pulling up a long array of names and numbers on screen. “VanDrey…”

Matt props himself back up, seeing the screen displaying a small window showing a list of names with the surname “VanDrey.” He taps over “VanDrey, Christopher T.” and a new window pops up.

“Call at work,” he states to his computer, and his modem dials the number as the TelePhony program pops up.

“Hello, this is Christopher VanDrey.” a voice reverberates through Matt’s speakers. “Matt?”

Surprised, Matt responds, “Yeah. Hey, Chris. How’d you know it was me?”

“My telephone program has CallerID.”

“Oh. Wha’cha doin’ for lunch?”

“I’m going to Isabella’s Mexican restaurant. Wanna come with me? My treat.”

“I call and it’s your treat? Of course, man.”

“See ya at noon.”

“See ya,” he finishes, taps his speaker, “End call,” he states blandly, breaking the connection.

He looks at the clock on the wall, seeing “11:42 PM” clearly projected on his window. He looks at his watch, almost not believing the window clock, but smirks. He grabs the project description and throws it in his satchel.

* * *

Christopher cheerfully greets his friend at the table for two in the smoky atmosphere of Isabella’s Mexican Café. Matt seats himself.

“What’s with the smoke? They banned smoking in restaurants years ago.” Matt comments.

“It’s not cigarette smoke. It’s fajita smoke. Lunch special for today is beef fajitas.”

“Oh,” he replies, sniffing, “You’re right. It’s just been so long since I’ve smelled cigarette smoke. Until Caroline came home.”

“Oh, no. The joys of parenting. Well, you know, they’ve banned it in so many places in after that smoke ban bill in ’07, plus the fact they’re so expensive now, and all this anti‑smoking advertising. It’s no wonder two of three big tobacco companies went under…”

“Not to mention North Carolina.” Matt jokes, with a chuckle from Christopher. “So, speaking of the joys of parenting, how’re your three?”

“Catherine’s enjoying school and do exceptionally. I don’t know where she gets it. It’s no use bragging to you, ‘cause you have Shannon. Remember when we thought they’d be best friends through school like we were? They’re such casual friends.”

“I’m not going to tell her to be best friends with Catherine VanDrey just because her father is buddies with her father. Shannon has a good group of friends. I’m sure Catherine does. And Will?”

Christopher sighs, “He’s kind of quiet. I don’t where he gets it.” Christopher smiles, “He told me Caroline dyed her hair black.” Christopher eyes him.

“She’s not pierced, pregnant, or imprisoned. We thought this was harmless enough.”

“And Alexander is Alexander. Will’s bright and Catherine’s smart. Alexander does well enough. He still is in love with music. He spends an hour a day practicing. We bought him a packet of blank sheet music, and he filled it up in like six weeks. I’ve never seen such light in his little blue eyes. No one believes he’s ten after hearing him play.” Christopher pauses, “I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?”

“Yeah. You’re lucky to have such great kids.”

Christopher nods, “We’re blessed. I mean, you’ve got a nice set yourself.”

“Thanks,”

Matt and Chris order and then Chris pull something out of his satchel bag. “Matt,” he begins, “would you do me a favor and look through this?”

“Sure,” he says, taking the thick stack of papers, “what is it?”

“My newest assignment from the government. They want me to make a 4-D physics program that tracks and computes trajectories from a chemically calculated forced. They won’t tell me it’s for the military, but come on… The thing is I’m in over my head. This is going to require a lot of research. Either that or I’ll have to hire a physicist and a chemist and who knows who else?”

Matt isn’t listening. His eyebrows are lowered, “Chris, this is crazy. They’ve had these types of programs for years. Decades even. It would just require integrating the blast force into the physical computer. That’s fairly easy. I’m surprised it hasn’t been done before.” Matt pauses, “You know, probably there just hasn’t been a good enough one built yet. You just need to contact the right people. I could get you names.”

“Thanks, Matt, you’re a lifesaver.” Christopher says, wiping his brow. “I was going to be short on time or money, neither which I had any to spare.”

“No problem, man.” Matt smiles, then exhales, “Now, uh, would you do me the same favor?”

“Sure,” Christopher replies, surprised. Matt hands him the packet of papers. Christopher scans through it, indifferently, “Looks pretty basic, completely doable. What’s your programmer’s name?”

“We don’t have one.” Matt states, blankly.

“That’s insane. Your webpage software can’t handle this. I should know. I mean, I could do this just fine, but I’m not skilled in, you know, integrating it into webpage code. I know plenty of guys who could do this for you. I mean, I’m sure your webpage designer team is great, but they can’t handle this.”

“None of the four of us have had significant programming training.”

“Four? That’s seems pretty small for a division your size.”

“We used to have over a dozen, but we’ve gone through two lay-offs in the last eighteen months.”

“Boy.”

“So, Chris, what do you think?” Matt prompts.

“I think I’m going to, or get one of my cohorts to, talk to your board of directors. I tell you, they’ll listen to a former OmniTech employee.”

“That they will.”

Christopher sighs dishearteningly, “Matt, we got a problem. If I send one of my Net experts in there who could do the entire website in three weeks, he’ll get hired, and they’ll dump all but maybe one webpage designer. You might be in big trouble…”

“I alr—” Matt breaks suddenly, “Chris, do you have one of those disk machines that breaks protection seals?”

“Yeah, don’t go tell the police on me.” Christopher shrugs his shoulders, “I mean, they’re legal to have with my job description, but I’m not sure how they’d feel about me having one lying at home. Why?”

“A year ago, I used my Continuing Ed vacation time to go to a three-day seminar on computer-animated movies, which you know is…”

“…a hobby of yours. You wanted to direct them. I remember those days. Pre-Amber and kids.”

“Yeah. I got all these sample disks. Could you use them?”

“Absolutely. Break their seals, copy the code, we’re in business. I’d be done weeks in advance. I’d still have to pay someone the one-fifty an hour who knows how the programs works so I could splice them. But what about you?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Matt, do you know how the programs work?”

“Take in input in these boxes and calculate them. I don’t know all the technical details.”

“Matt,” Christopher presses, pointing to himself, “I’m the one who’s all about the technical details. If you know how the input is thrown in the equations, it could be you making the one-fifty.”

Matt drops his fork into the beans on his plate. “You’re kidding me. You don’t need a physicist and a chemist?”

Christopher smiles, “Trick of the trade, Matt. When I say I hired a physicist, it means I hired a high school physics teacher or college professor. Looks good on the account sheet. Plus, real physicists charge way more.”

“What’d you call me? Web page designer wouldn’t seem worth the one-fifty…” Christopher brushes off Matt’s comment.

“I’d put something like 3-D Animation specialist or something like that.”

“So, what are you telling me?”

“That you can come and work for me. You’ll get paid well, plus bonuses…”

“Bonuses?”

“If we do it better than they want or early, they pay more. I do all the time.”

“Chris, I think that this just might work. I know it’s bad to talk finances, but Amber and I were getting into big trouble.”

“Well, God has blessed my family. We have enough money, but ‘Mom’ is away in New York a lot for all the stuff she’s doing on Broadway. It’s hard on the kids.”

“And you?”

“Of course. I love her, but she’s really busy when she’s working.”

A short silence follows.

“Well, I guess I’m the one to pick up the check.” Christopher says, reaching for it.

“Nah, Christopher, I just offered a really great job from a friend of mine. Don’t worry about it.”

* * *

Matt, walks in, smiling, and is immediately greeted at the door by his wife. “Matt, I have good news.”

“Me too.”

“You first,” she insists.

“No, mine’s really good.”

“Well, I think we may have gotten our miracle. Shannon told me today that her math teacher wants Shannon to take care of his kids in the afternoons. He said his wife was going back to work. They say they’ll pay her ten dollars an hour. She told me she wouldn’t need allowance or lunch money anymore. That saves us a lot of money. We just might make it.” She grabs Matt hands and smiles.

“Honey, that’s great, that’s a miracle, but I have another. That project I was working on? Chris says we need a programmer. He’ll call one of his old coworkers, and he’ll be able to do everything.”

Amber’s smile disappears, “Wait. If this programmer does everything, won’t the entire team be laid off?”

“Maybe.” In response to Amber oncoming panic attack, Matt shushes her, “But, there’s this project Chris is doing. 4-D physics and stuff… To make a long story short, he can save a lot of time and money by using that software that I got at the 3-D animation class.”

“The one you went to on company ‘Continuing Education’ time that I got so mad at you for?”

“Yeah, that one, but here’s the best part,” he says holding on to his wife’s shoulders, “he needs me to work for his as a design specialist. And he’s paying a hefty salary.”

At this point, Amber resorts to jumping up and down in joy, hugging and kissing Matt. “Matt, you were so right. We just had to let go and let someone else deal with our worries.” She hugs him again and Matt strokes her hair.

“So, where’re the kids?”

“Shannon and Luke are upstairs, doing homework. We assume. And Caroline’s at Jenna’s house, doing homework.”

“We assume.”

“Yeah.”

The phone ring, abruptly breaking the calm silence. Amber picks up the receiver, “Jacobs residence.” He eyebrows drop in concern, “Yes, this is she… What? Where? Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Amber replies to Matt’s glance, “It was the police. They want us to go to Jenna’s house.”

“Oh, no.”

“Well, we don’t know yet. But, theoretically, what would be the family equivalent to capital punishment?”

Chapter 5

Bearing Caroline, Chapter 3

“And we thank you, O Lord, for your gifts and pray that we will always be pleasing in Your sight. Amen.” Matt erects his head and begins to eat. “This is delicious.”

“Is this a potato, or did you just bake a rock?” Luke says, his face scrunched.

“Luke!” Matt scolds his son.

“I’m kidding! I’m sorry. I was watching some of the old reruns of TV show from you guys’s era, and some of the jokes were about moms being bad cooks.”

Caroline pipes in, “Well, a lot of them were about…” She is cut off by a death stare from her mom. “So, anyway… can I dye my hair black?”

Amber almost choked, but pretends not to, “Why would you want to do that? Your hair is such a lovely color.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it. It’s just that… I don’t like it as much as black. I think black would better soot my personality. It’s mellow, reserved, individual.”

“Evil,” chimes in Luke.

He is greeted by one of his mother’s death stares.

“Mom, you always told me Dad’s best personality trait was his sense of humor.”

Caroline, eyes toward her food, lightly comments, “Not what I heard.”

Amber turns her head at this, “And about the black hair…” She exhales, “Matt, I’m tired. You tell her.”

“Sure, Honey.”

Amber cocks her head to the right, at her husband, “Matt!”

“What?”

“You’re supposed to take my side.”

“Honey, just ‘cause we’re married doesn’t mean I’m always going to take your side. Plus, I thought you were going to say okay. It’s not like she getting a nose ring.”

“Can I?” Caroline prompts.

She is answered by a sharp, unison “No!” from both parents.

“Shut up while you’ll ahead,” chirps Shannon.

Amber looks at her younger daughter, “Alright, you can dye your hair black, on two conditions. I’ll pay for the first one, but if want to keep it, you’re paying for it from now on.”

Caroline nods, “I can deal with that. What’s the second?”

“You will have a baby with red hair,” states Amber, then quickly adds, “…after you married, and in several years.”

Matt jumps in, “And just for clarification, several means ten.”

“Eight,” Caroline proposed.

Matt looks over to his wife, who answers, “Take it, Matt. When she’s twenty-one, she’ll be mature enough to know if she really wants kids that early. Hopefully.” Amber continues to stare intently at her middle child.

Caroline, overly aware of this scrutinizing, says, “What?”

* * *

Amber knocks before entering Caroline’s room. Caroline is at her computer, headphones over her now blackened hair, bouncing with the music. Amber looks to her desk and sees Caroline’s algebra homework. It appears done, but she dreads to look closer in case of a page full of random numbers, letter, symbols, and doodles. She looks back at her daughter, trying to despise the color of her hair, but finding herself admiring it. I wasn’t the jet black color she had expected. It was instead a warm, perfectly dark brown. It was tied in a short ponytail high on her head. Amber muses about her outgoing daughter. The new hair color was not as terrible as she had feared. In fact, it was outright decent, but Amber smirked at the idea of her wanting this at age thirteen. She’d never…

Amber lightly taps her daughter’s shoulder; she jumps slightly, pulling off her headphones and looking back. “Mom,” she complains, “I told you to knock.”

“I did. Homework done?”

Caroline pauses quickly, and forces out a “Yes.”

Unconvinced, Amber stares down her daughter, picks up her algebra homework, “It may have been a couple decades since I took algebra, but I still find it a bit strange that you can get an answer of… 2s for a problem that started out with only x’s.”

Caroline snatches the paper back from her mom. “Okay, I get it.” She begins to read her math textbook and scribbles down more numbers. Amber, not quite satisfied, but tired already, walks out of Caroline’s room, but trips on her backpack.

Amber looks down, stating in a perfectly motherly tone, “Caroline, you need to clean up your… oh, my G—” Amber stops, picking up the cigarette packet from the floor. “What are these?”

Caroline spins around in her chair. ‘Always a mom,’ she thinks. Seeing the packet, she grits her teeth and looks away. “Cambry, I could kill you,” she mutters. “Mom, they’re cigarettes,” she says with a fake smile in response.

“So now you’re smoking?”

Flatly and plainly, Caroline replies, “No.”

Amber is surprised by the lack of waver her daughter’s voice. ‘Teenagers learn to be good liars,’ she reassures herself. “Then why do you have…”

“‘…them in your backpack?’” Caroline finishes her mother’s sentence, “They’re Cambry’s. Apparently she thinks I’m her scapegoat.”

“You’re grounded.”

“But…”

“No but’s.”

“Can you talk to me like a mature adult?”

“Sure,” Amber says, raising her voice, “you want know what to know what these things do to you?”

“Danae’s teeth and eyes are yellow. And her teeth are on the verge of brown, now. She smells worse than a campfire. She’s broke. Plus, they taste awful!”

“And how would you know?” Amber replies, her voice still raised and high.

“I tried one yesterday. I’m telling you, it was my last. I didn’t even finish the godforsaken thing.”

“I don’t believe you, Caroline. Don’t you know…”

“MOM!!!” Caroline screams, for the first time, “You’re not listening. I am never going to smoke a cigarette again. It’ll give me lung cancer or God knows what. Cigarettes bad, I got it.” She is now disheveled with anger.

Amber pauses, her eyebrows lowered in thought; she almost smiles. “Carrie, you’re a lot smarter and a lot more mature than anyone, even I, give you credit for. There’s a list of about a billion things that I want to teach you before you go off by yourself in life. This is two of them. You know cigarettes are bad for you. I didn’t even have to teach that to you. You got it. Scratch it off my list. But what you don’t get yet is that bad choices warrant consequences. You’re not grounded because you smoked a cigarette. You’re grounded because you made a bad decision. You should never been punished again for cigarettes. This is it.”

Caroline nods, “’Kay. Thanks, Mom. How long?”

“Two weeks, I suppose.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m excited about it.”

“Do your homework.”

“Leave my room,” she replies in the same tone. “Oh, please. That was supposed to have been checked off years ago.”

Amber smiles and exits the room. “God,” she prays, “why can’t they all be that easy?” Without waiting for an answer, she goes downstairs.

* * *

Amber pulls off her yellow rubber gloves and sits down at the table, with Matt, who is looking through the mail. “Stamps are going up three cents.”

“Well, it’s all the postal system can do to keep up with e-mail, which is unlimited under an internet service provider agreement.” This is almost monotone and quick, almost subconscious.

“Well, if you ask Miss Manners…”

“…she’d want to write letters with a fountain pen, squeezed from the blackberries from your own backyard.” Amber looks to her own small backyard, which is nothing but grass and a few young trees amidst a mess of Luke’s recreational sports equipment.

Matt picks up another letter, “Electricity is going up 5%.”

Amber’s face drops, “Now, that we can’t afford to happen. Mail may be going out of style, but electricity is all the rage. Matt, how can we be having minor financial troubles when you have a high-tech job?”

“Simple. There is one high-tech job wage-earner in this family, as opposed to two in 30% of American families. Two, webpage design is getting to be the bottom of high-tech jobs. Even hardcore programming is slipping into second tier.”

“What’s first tier?”

“The stuff they haven’t finished inventing, yet. Mecha theoretica is all the rage.”

“Matt, what are we going to do? We’ll secure for now, but our profit margin…”

Matt, not so much interrupting, but thinking aloud, “Old habits die hard.”

“We’re about to spend more than we bring in.” Amber sighs, “Well, what should we do? I’ve already been as frugal as I can.”

“Pray…”

The mention of faith silences the room, when even the buzz of the electric analog clock, which was advertised as being so quiet, could be heard.

“Matt, I already pray, every night.”

“It’s not working,” Matt states.

Voice rising, she snaps back at her husband’s unusual lack of faith, “Matt, I do not pray to a God who lends a deaf ear.”

“Maybe He’s not the one lending the deaf ear.” The conversation changes course.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’ve taken control of our lives. I suggest we give Him the ten percent he asks for and let him take care of things.”

“Matt, that’s cr—We can’t afford ten percent. We can barely afford what we’re giving now.” She pauses, grabbing the neck of her shirt, then continues, “You know, Caroline told me the same thing. I don’t listen enough.” After a long pause, “Leap of faith, it is. I don’t like it, but if I can’t trust God, who can I?”

“Miracles don’t happen unless you let them. Ready to jump?”

Amber grabs and squeezes her husband’s hand, nodding.

Chapter 4

A little about myself

So, a little about myself.

I had the noble distinction of being the youngest—and shortest-tenured—writer for Chris Carter’s The X-Files. Not exactly a great start.

Anyway, despite the lack of a good reference, I was able to rub elbows with another TV great: Joss Whedon (trust me, with my record, this is the last name I’ll really be able to drop). I had what you might call an internship with the writing team during the production of Firefly. My only output was a ten-minute webcast. Trust me, it’s more thrilling than you would think.

After floundering for a year or so, I finally got another break. Apparently someone at Warner Aspect liked a manuscript I’d submitted and before I knew it I was a Smallville novelist. Future is on bookshelves today. I think.

So my next production was deemed too “cinematic.” So, what else could I do but send it to a different department? You may not have realized this, but Time Warner also produces films.

So, it seems made-for-TV is the best I could do. I figured, if I can publish a novel with no formal writing training outside high school English, I bet I could direct a movie, right? I took Film 101 in college! Well, I wasn’t wrong. I produced a movie, The Champions of Kal-El, even got the green light for the sequel. Granted, the funding was revoked halfway through the filming, but something interesting did happen.

I landed on a TV crew again. My own. Seems there weren’t words for how bad CW’s new hit Friday night drama was, so I was offered the time slot of death. How could I refuse? And by golly, if Archangel Investigations didn’t last seven episodes! More than twice as long as my predecessor. My money’s on my successor not lasting till the end of the summer.

I love TV.

You’d think that was the end of the story. I think Madeleine Sullivan of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution says it best.

Many ask about the smiley face (^_^) at the end of most of my stories and shows, adding strange, useless, and sarcastic commentary. That's Sonriso. You can even see him in his corporeal form invading my title banner. Sonriso is my imaginary production assistant. Call him a dissociative personality. Call him an imaginary friend. He's just there. I can't get rid of him. So, we'll just have to deal with him together.

Bearing Caroline: Chapter 2

Matt, inside the security of his office, leans back in his chair, one hand behind his head, the other holding a thick, white sheet of paper. He looks at it with mild distaste.

“Wow, that kind of format would require a programmer. We’re web page designers, not magicians.” He throws the paper on his desk and runs his fingers through his hair, fisting his hands. With a push of his leg, he spins his chair toward the computer, waving his hand in front of the screen so it comes to life. He presses touch-buttons on the screen, opening his mail. He scrolls the list with his finger, the title of each e-mail expanding to show the full name.

His face drops, “Mandatory lay-offs…” he mumbles. He quickly double-taps the screen, pulling up the full document. His heads quickly oscillates as his eyes scan the notice. He gives a sigh of what seems to be relief, but rubs his chin anxiously. He taps a microphone beside his monitor. It beeps twice.

Sitting back, he commands, “Forward to Amber.”

A “Send Message” box pops up on his screen with “MamaCherry11@atw.per” in the “Send To:” box, with a half-transparent image of Amber’s smiling face behind it. After a moment, Matt sighs again and states, “Cancel.” The dialog box disappears, re-revealing the notice.

“Close all,” he states. Everything abruptly disappears from the screen. Looking at the digital clock projection on his inside window and seeing it is shortly after noon, he gets up.

“Sleep,” he passively states.

His computer beeps, and a box appears on the screen, “Streamline?” it reads.

“Why not?” he answers, annoyed.

He is answered with an obnoxious buzz. “Yes,” he grumbles. Immediately the computer begins to making muffled whirling and grinding noises. He throws on his coat and leaves.

: : :

Amber, sitting in her dark turquoise minivan, drums the steering board impatiently. She looks in the rearview mirror at her son playing with his handheld video game. “Luke, baby, are you sure your sister didn’t go home with somebody?”

With nothing more than normal preteen irritability, he responds after pausing his game, “Mom, Carrie doesn’t talk to me much. I mean, I didn’t overhear her saying she was gonna go home with anybody or see her going home with anybody.”

Amber sways her head to the right, “Never mind. Here she comes.”

Caroline jumps into the car, “Sorry, Mrs. O’Blackwell kept me afterwards.”

“Did you not turn in your homework again?”

“No, Mom, Mrs. O’Blackwell teaches English. I always turn in my English and it’s always wonderful. That’s why she wanted to talk to me. She asked me if I could write something to submit to the literary magazine.”

“Oh,” Amber abruptly. “Sorry…”

Amber mumbles are interrupted by her mobile phone ringing. She looks into the LCD screen on her dashboard that attached to her phone, which states, simply, “Shannon mobile.”

She picks up the phone. “Hey, Shannon, what’s going on? I’m sorry I’m late. Caroline was slow getting out.”

Caroline, in the backseat, sarcastically mouths her mother’s words.

“Okay, Jimmy’s mom’s gonna take you home? Well tell her ‘Hi’ and ‘Thanks’ for me. Alright, see ya, babe.”

“Lord, what would I do without Allison’s occasional favors?”

Pronouncing it, Caroline replies, “Run around like a hen with her head cut off?”

“…like a chicken… And I’ll work on my anachronisms, thank you very much.”

: : :

Amber quietly stirs a pot on the stove in the kitchen, humming. “Mom,” Luke says as he enters the kitchen, “can I watch TV?”

Amber smiles, “Homework done?”

“Yes,” Luke says immediately, holding up a floppy disk.

“Okay, but just for a little bit.” Luke is already gone into the living room.

Matt walks in and kisses his wife, “Hey, Honey, how was your day?”

“Normal. Exactly like every other day only not.”

Matt laughs, “Luke?”

“School, homework, which Shannon’ll tell me whether it’s really done or not, then TV.”

“What’s he watching?”

Amber, getting back her cooking, says, “I donna know. He just went.”

“There’s a function on the TV that’ll tell us.”

Matt grabs the remote atop the small, kitchen television set and turns it on. He presses buttons and a diagram appears on the screen. He scrolls to the living room television and a show pops on screen, and seconds later, the station and program in the lower left-hand corner.

Matt replies, “House Overloaded, family sitcom.”

“You’re such a snoop,” Amber teases.

“Hey, I didn’t program this technology. It’s just standard when you get monitors now.”

“You gotta love technology. We haven’t solved world hunger get, but we can use the computer, watch TV, and listen to radio on a single TV set. Remember when we were all excited when Shannon was born that you could record music on a computer disk. What they call it?”

“Burning…”

“Computers are replacing everything… cable television, postal services, any communication for that matter…”

“Jobs…”

Amber turns around, “Well, yeah. Matt…” Her faces freezes, her eyebrows slightly lowered in concern.

“Mandatory lay-offs…” In reaction to his wife’s sudden shock, he continues, “Not me, but half my team gone.”

“Why are they cutting your team when you are already overworked?”

“Low profit margins…”

“What?! In the fifteen years I’ve been out of work, the economy has only gotten better. I know all about profit margins, and your company’s margins are high enough.”

“I know, I know…”

Amber turns around again, and flatly, “Matt, are we going to be okay?”

Matt comes up and hugs his wife from behind, “Babe, I’m plenty qualified for a lot of different things. Don’t worry about it. If things go from bad to worse, I will get us out soon enough. When I agreed to marry you and have the kids with you, I need what it was going to—”

Amber cuts him off with a short kiss, “Okay. Tell the kids dinner’s almost ready.” She puts on a forced smile.

Chapter 3