In the vein of the Cookenflagen’s on Alan’s website. I would love to continue this story, so email me and I’ll post the continuation.
Episode 1…
Harry stuffed his wand in the back pocket of his jeans and placed the locket with the horcrux in the plastic bin on the metallic table.
A tall wizard behind him growled an obscenity.
“Here goes nothing,” muttered Harry darkly to Hermione. He’d placed seventeen and one-half charms over his own wand to keep the Phoenix core from setting off the detector’s alarms. The half charm had been a bitch to do.
Harry shoved the bin toward the scanner run by a dementor from the Transportation Safety Administration.
“Remember three-one-one,” yelled the faceless bureaucrat. “Be sure you’ve put your potions in a one quart transparent non-enchanted bag.”
“Bite me,” muttered Harry.
“Don’t start,” Hermione warned peevishly. She didn’t know why she had gone along with this crazy idea of his.
Now that Lord Voldemort and Dick Cheney ran things, the more trustworthy goblins had been replaced by rule-oriented dementors. Harry pushed the bin forward into the cold dreary fog emanating from the TSA employee.
In the chill fog that now came up to his knees, Harry reached down, yanked off the red cowboy boots, and tossed them next to the locket. “My feet are freakin’ freezing.”
Hermione held her Griffin d’Air boarding pass at chest height as she marched through the scanner.
A uniformed witch scowled at Harry. “Take off the hat and put it through the hex-ray scanner,” she bellowed officiously.
Harry ripped the black Stetson off his unruly hair and put the chapeau behind the grumpy wizards’ pointed hat. Harry didn’t like his hair and didn’t want to uncover it. It had recently tried to overthrow a country and install itself as president for life.
“Your coat too,” the witch screeched.
“Crap,” snarled Harry as he struggled out of the outer garment and then threw it angrily on the belt crushing the pointed hat of the wizard behind him.
The grumpy witch looked like she had a gas bubble working to escape and waved for Harry to proceed.
“’bout time,” groused Harry.
To be continued…
Nullius in Verba 
I’m thinking maybe you need to get a Winnebago.
Are you trying to tell us that the glamour (spelling for benefit of Lexi) of air travel has become an elusive commodity?
It is a compelling tale you tell, but there was no sex so I’m going to have to give you a total of 12 points.
Hmm, shall have to think about this.
Perhaps something dark and serious about You-Know-Who in a really bad mood, with everything getting worse, or maybe a favourite character (possibly even a dog) dying…
I’ve just heard I came nowhere in the New Writing Ventures competition. Why did I waste £25 entering, when my short stories do not deal with the unusual sex lives of weird people, or the oppression of racial minorities, and are not even in the present tense? What made me think I had a chance?
(Apologies for pouting on your blog, Norm).
I want a full report on the Willamette Writers Shindig.
Learn anything useful?
Meet any cool people?
Get drunk and embarrass yourself?
Is it true that what happens in Willamette stays in Willamette?
Okay, now I’ve got to do some work. Taking the day off the retail job to stay home with my daughter as the other grownups are at work and her school hasn’t begun yet.
Have either of you read anything by Neal Stephenson? I’ve just started “Quicksilver”. Hasn’t grabbed me yet, but it holds promise. Thought seriously about buying the complete “Gormeghast Trilogy” last time at Borders, but got the Stephenson and a Neil Gaiman instead.
Now I really do have to get to work.
Harry Splutter and the Order of the Winnebago? Has promise. Dementors in pursuit drive Hummers.
I will write up about WWC within the next day or two because what happened in Willamette ain’t a gonna stay there. I will say that I had an excellent time there. The pitch session I did were worth my time and money. I also picked up some great tips (a day or two to get them on cyberspace).
Lexi, I appreciate pouting. At the moment, I’m quite frustrated with provincials who think they are urbane bon vivants and who don’t know the difference between croquet and boccie ball…. Sorry about making your pout about me. I attempted to empathize.
My competition rejection is not to be confused with the agent rejection a few days ago. I have risen above both, like a phoenix from the ashes of my former self.
I would not pout about you, Norm. How is that done, anyway?
Ahem,that will teach me. Being the only person in her year to pass ‘S’ level English, you know your stuff.
I meant for my attempt to strike a note of commiseration and not usurpation (I think).
Fairy nuff.
(Thinks, what are we talking about?)
You got to do pitches? Cool.
No dead dogs. That’s a rule.
Croquet is a mean game, played by mean people.
I tried to strike a note of usurpation once, but it came out the wrong end.
I like the phrase “Fairy nuff”. May I use it in the Cookenflagens?
I have not read Stephenson and neither has Mary. a battle over Calculus? Sounds gripping.
I brought the book to bed for some pre-snooze reading, still hopeful it would seize me and pull me in (in a good sort of way). Instead there was a scene where a man is brutally murdered as he tries to keep some bon vivants from bringing a tart (not pastry) into what I supposed was a dormitory at Trinity College. And then a good portion of a conversation is conducted by the banks of a nearby river as a naked man takes a long, steamy pee.
I went to the bookcase and got down “Mark Twain on the Damned Human Race”. In minutes I felt much better.
We visited Powells in Portland last night and saw Dave Zirin (Welcome to the Terrordome). He is very witty and bright. He had Mary doubled over in laughter–about sports.
While at Powells I saw that the staff had recommended Quicksilver. I bought Raymond Chandler’s The Long Goodbye. I love it already.