I’m sure you’ve all been sitting on pins and needles, biting your fingernails down to the bone, anxiously awaiting the next installment of Alexander Mitus Scott Beauford III’s story. What … you say you haven’t been? I don’t quite understand. You see, we left poor Alexander Mitus Scott Beauford III in rather an uncomfortable position last time, nearly a month ago! I’ve been concerned for his welfare, and I’m a pitiless author who tosses her characters into all sorts of desperate situations. If you have any heart in you at all, you must have been worried about him! Allow me to refresh your memory:
Something crashed in the woods to his left, and Alexander instinctively reached for his pistols. But even as his hand settled on the muddied grip, he knew it was useless. Damp gunpowder was about as helpful as Miss Destiny’s instructions. And a simple dueling pistol didn’t use nearly a large enough caliber bullet to make a dent in an ogre, let alone kill one. Pity he couldn’t have brought his cannon along on this little misadventure. So he simply lay there, flat on his back in the mud, as the thing crashed nearer and nearer, hoping whatever-it-was would go away, and hoping he wouldn’t scream, and hoping he wouldn’t die before he discovered the history behind his family’s curse.
Remember? Peril. Danger. Foul smelling ogres! Which brings up our next installment! There was slightly more division in the votes this time with the winning option taking the lead with nearly double the number of votes. Need to refresh your memory? Read the previous installments: One, Two, Three, and Four. * * * * * * * A high pitched scream brought Alexander reeling to his feet, pistols drawn. “Hullo? Miss Destiny, is that you?” He turned in a circle, scanning the dripping woods for any sign of the exasperating woman. He found it hard to believe that such a high pitched scream could have come from her throat. She just didn’t seem the type. A second cry rang out, and this time Alexander dove into action. He darted off through the swamp in the direction of the cry, wet pistols held at the ready, wet cloak flapping about his legs, wet sword rattling in its sheath. He could only hope he wouldn’t be too late. “I’m coming!” * * * * Alexander’s eyes flickered open to a world of dim lights, white sheets, and a constant, throbbing pain in his jaw. He slowly lifted his head from the pillow. The slightest movement felt like he was wading against a strong tide. “Tsk, tsk. Really, Alexander.” A familiar voice spoke beside him. Miss Destiny. Of course. He should have known he couldn’t escape the family curse so easily. “What … happened?” Somehow he couldn’t talk quite right. The words were muffled and slurred together, but she must have understood him, because she responded without hesitation. “You dashed at that ogre like a complete ninnyhammer, tripped over your own scabbard, and smashed headfirst into a tree, that’s what.” She appeared in his line of vision, all prim and stern faced, gray eyes flashing disapproval. “A broken jaw, Alexander? Honestly, I’m disappointed. Heroes don’t break their jaws! They suffer inconsequential wounds like dislocated shoulders, or flesh wounds to the arms or thighs, or the ever popular gash along the hairline! Wounds they can shrug off with a heroic grimace as they dash back into the battle. Nothing that will send them to the sidelines for a month and certainly never a broken jaw!” * * * * * * * All right, all right. Before you rise up in arms clamoring for my head, I’ll admit the truth. You’ve probably already guessed it, but this is a fake. That’s right. It’s not really the next installment of When Destiny Comes Calling. I simply couldn’t resist a little fun. Do please forgive me … and get rid of the tar and feathers. There’s simply no call for that! The fifth installment is coming! Tune in Friday, August 8th to enjoy the true fifth installment of poor Alexander Mitus Scott Beauford III’s brush with Destiny. Watch your vote shape the course of Alexander’s fate!