You won’t believe this, but it’s true.

Hi Readers!

This is Ran. I’m cowering under a desk while I type this. The windows rattle each time the wind gusts past and I shudder. A hand pats my head, and I know she’s scared too.

Our scribe is trapped in a tower in New Rochelle, and we’re trying to get her out.

Last week Auntie Sovvan dropped by and booted ‘Future Ran’ out. (You can read that humorous account here if you missed it.)

I have a lot to say about that but not this week because we’re fighting for our lives. I just sent Papa out to reconnoiter. Things are flying about out there and if the windows rattle any harder, they’ll break. It’s up to me and Papa to get everyone out of here safely. I have no idea how we’ll pull that off.

But I pocket my scribe’s smartphone and crawl between desks, trying hard not to be seen by the people pecking away at their keyboards. They’ve got one eye on their screens and one fixed on the windows surrounding the banks of cubicles. I don’t want to frighten anybody or tempt the wind to reach in and grab me, so I stay low.

The eight-foot-tall windows shake, rattle and groan every couple of minutes now. I’m scared they’ll blow in and hurt my scribe or me.

Past the last row of cubicles, a gray security door beckons. One swipe through the card reader sets me free. (I borrowed our scribe’s key card since she’s chained to her desk.)

Footsteps hearten me. Papa bounds up the stairwell.

“How is it out there?”

Papa shakes his head. “It’s bad and getting worse. We can’t stay any longer. We must go now or we’re not getting out of here.”

I nod. I was ready to go the minute we got here. Why did we go with our scribe?

Well, we couldn’t let her go alone to face a Nor’easter. Who would write our stories if she didn’t come back? And she couldn’t take the day off. So like good fantasy characters, we piled into her little blue car and off we went into the blowing snow and gusting wind.

That was six hours ago. Conditions have only deteriorated since then.

“How can we get our scribe out of here? She can’t go until they let her.” I gesture to the stairs leading up to the third floor where the decision-makers sit.

Papa considers the problem for a minute then smiles and motions for me to follow. That sparkle in his green eyes can only mean one thing–he has a plan. I love when that happens.

The third floor doesn’t require a keycard since there’s a reception area, but I have my scribes’ card ready just in case. It hangs on a neat retractable cord I clipped to my trouser pocket. I tug on it as we walk past the nice lady at the reception desk and the alien-hybrid-plant-thing squatting in the corner.

Its rotting perfume smell makes us cough and pull our collars up over our noses. I give its stinky, spiky spherical ‘flowers’ a wide berth. If we were facing a flesh-and-blood foe rather than a storm, I’d seize a stalk of those weird flowers to use as a weapon.

The receptionist doesn’t even glance at us as we pass by. She’s busy answering calls and might be mind-controlled by that evil plant. Her eyes are little glazed over. Our scribe’s worked in the same office since December of 2009. So Papa knows exactly where to go, and I follow him.

We pass through more rows of cubicles. Everyone keeps one eye on the windows and their panoramic view of the storm. Their eyes ask if the glass will hold. We don’t know. We have no assurances to give, so we sneak by on our life-saving errand.

As you found out in our funny Valentine’s Day story, some people can see us even though we’re fictional. They have the gift just like you, but only you are lucky enough to receive our weekly adventures.

Papa crouches behind an ugly gray metal filing cabinet when we reach the end of the cubicles.

“Do you see that big glass office ahead?”

“The one in the corner with the blue chairs and the red flowers?”

Papa nods. “That’s the executive suite. We must convince the nice lady in that office to let these people go home.”

“Then we can save our scribe?”


That’s all I need to hear. I bolt into that office and freeze. The windows shake harder than where my scribe sits. Fear paralyzes me, but I must go on. Everyone’s depending on me.

A nervous brunette occupies this office. She glances at the flashing lights and sirens rushing past. She can’t see me, so I wave Papa to join me. He squeezes my shoulder but stays crouched behind a small conference table just in case the glow of his eyes finds a way to reach through the veil separating fiction from reality. His magic’s unpredictable like that.

The executive in the sapphire pants suit knows we’re there. She glances at the spot where I stand then back to the phone on her desk.

“Send everyone home. It’s not safe out there.” I say, voicing her growing doubts. I stare at her willing her to let my scribe go and give her my best innocent lamb look even though she can’t see it.

After about 10 minutes of my concentrated attention, she rose. Papa and I followed her. We grabbed our scribe’s things and bundled her up while her boss and the nice executive lady talked. Papa was done with waiting. I already had my cloak and gloves on.

“I can’t go until the closure is official,” our scribe, Melinda, said as she stepped away from us.

I hit two buttons and locked her computer so she couldn’t go back to work. The wind howled even louder than before shaking every window in its casement. The noise was so loud, it interrupted the tête-à-tête between our scribe’s bosses.

Melinda held me because I deserved a hug for all my hard work. Her eyes pled with us to understand. She needed this job to keep a roof over our heads and pretty artwork on our book covers.

Papa doesn’t like it, but he understands, so he nods and folds his arms to wait. He might also have glared at the two execs discussing an early office closure to hurry things along.

Finally, their conference broke up and official word came by email. The office would close at 3 pm. Those were the longest, most tense minutes of my life.

When the clock struck three, we grabbed our scribe and rushed out into the wind. The red awning rattled over the entrance as the wind tried to blow us back inside. But Papa threw up a shield and I held tight to him and our scribe. Together we struggled across the street dodging watermelon-sized chunks of styrofoam and cardboard to the parking garage.

Its dim interior was a welcome relief from the wind and the stinging cold. We navigated the rows of cars to our scribe’s little blue one and piled in. I claimed Papa’s lap–in the backseat where children belong–and curled up on it while our scribe started the car. (She’s only one with a driver’s license, so alas, she has to do all the driving. But we make great passengers. 😉 )

The car roared to life and so did a yellow warning light on the dashboard.

I hope you were safe during this bad storm. We’ll continue our harrowing adventure next week. Our odyssey had only just begun, but we didn’t know it when we left our scribe’s office.

Looking for more action and adventure? 

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For a limited time, you can grab our entire series for under $5. 

Please don’t tell our Scribe. She still hasn’t noticed our sale. There was a Nor’easter keeping her busy. 😉 But do tell the world!

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Until next time, dear reader

This is Ran, son of Sarn, “Saver of Scribes” wishing you a great week!


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