Brina blinked up at the two Morrigans. No, wait, one was a little taller than the other, a little broader in the shoulders.

  As Baxter and Larry groaned upon the tin, the widows drew up their veils to reveal a clean-shaven man wearing an inordinate amount of rouge and powder, and a bright-eyed Mohegan woman with a winning smile.

  Morrigan waved her hand regally. “May I present Chepi and Jacob. We’re equal-opportunity employers at the Widows and Orphans’ Benevolent Fund. Any person from any race, class, or orientation can become a Widow as long as they commit to our cause.”

  Chepi curtsied as Jacob delivered a hefty kick to the moaning Baxter’s behind.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” said Brina. She turned to Morrigan. “For some reason, I’d assumed you’d work alone.”

  “Goodness, no. There are so many people I need to help. I can’t be everywhere at once. And believe me, I’ve tried.” Morrigan pressed her left eye against her rifle scope. “Mr. Baxter, I’ve been led to understand that you like explosions?”

  “Who the hell do you think you— Ow!” Baxter yelped. Jacob had landed a heavily skirted knee into the small of his back.

  “Manners,” said Jacob.

  Baxter snarled, “Yeah, I like a good explosion. Who doesn’t?”

  Morrigan smiled demurely. “Then allow me to demonstrate what happens when an incendiary round is fired into a barrel of cheap gin.” Morrigan’s gloved finger settled onto the trigger.

  Brina placed her hand on Morrigan’s arm. “But no one will be hurt, correct?”

  “Of course not. At least, no one who doesn’t deserve exactly what’s coming to them for their wicked deeds. Balance must be restored.”

  Baxter snapped, “Ice-pick Charlie’s gonna—”

  Morrigan fired, and ten barrels of inexpensive gin detonated into a fireball of impressive proportions. Wood shards blasted into the air. Men ran screaming from the blaze, some diving into the Norwalk River that flowed ever onward into the Long Island Sound.

  Baxter howled and spat out a string of colorful expletives that shocked Brina’s ears.

  Morrigan sat up and expertly disassembled her rifle as the night sky glowed and a distant fire bell began to ring. “Answer me this, Baxter, where is Charlie’s main base of operations?”

  “I’m not telling you— Oof!” A solid kick from Jacob to Baxter’s kidneys punctuated Morrigan’s line of questioning. He grunted. “All right, call off your dog. I’ll tell ya. Charlie’s set up in the old ironworks. He’s using the steam hammers to bang out counterfeit gold ingots. Bricks of lead stamped and dipped in real gold plate. He’s literally making himself a fortune.”

  “Now, was that so hard?” asked Morrigan.

  Baxter shook his head. He watched, wide-eyed, as Chepi pulled the unconscious Larry’s hands behind his back and tied them together with baling wire.

  Morrigan said to Brina, “Chepi used to work on her family’s farm in Easton, until a couple of greedy real-estate developers decided to poison the crops. Her entire family, gone in one awful weekend. Chepi was fasting at the time, for religious reasons. It seems her gods wanted her to live to avenge her people.”

  “You poor dear,” Brina sympathized. “To lose one’s nearest and dearest in such a horrible manner. It’s unthinkable.”

  Morrigan nodded. “Alas, the evil that some men do. Chepi kindly donated the use of her farm to our cause. The developers made excellent fertilizer for our very first apple orchard. Do you like apple pie, Miss Gill?”

  “Why, yes, I … Wait, are you saying that—”

  “I’m not saying anything. But I do have a second question for Mr. Baxter here.” Faster than a scalded puma, Morrigan shot across the tin roof and settled by Baxter’s ear. She tilted his double chin up and stared into his face. Brina could almost fancy that her violet eyes were glowing. “Tell me, you villain, how did you kill Mr. Tibbles?”

  Brina’s heart clenched. Dear, sweet Tibbles. How he used to love to curl on her lap by the fire, purring as she rubbed his velvet ears.

  Baxter blinked up at Morrigan. “Who?”

  “Miss Gill’s kitty? The one you turned into a—”

  “Oh, that. I wasn’t there. That was Ice-pick Charlie—”

  “Then guess. Guess how Charlie ended the ninth of Tibbles’s nine lives.”

  “I dunno. Drowning? Keeps the beggars quiet.”

  Morrigan released his chin with a snap and stepped back. She nodded at the waiting Widows. “You know what to do.”

  Baxter whimpered as Jacob dragged him to the fire escape and kicked him over. The farm girl, Chepi, hoisted limp Larry onto her shoulder and followed.

  “Make sure that Larry is delivered unharmed to Charlie with a suitable note pinned to his chest,” said Morrigan. “Shall we head back home for a nice cuppa, Miss Gill?”

  “Larry won’t be harmed, you say? What about Baxter?”

  “We’re not animals, Miss Gill. Larry will be perfectly fine. I’m sure the Widows will take a few moments to enlighten him of better career choices he could make before they send him back to Charlie. They can be most persuasive.”

  Brina stood and brushed herself down. “And Baxter?”

  “Baxter seemed a little quick to suggest drowning a cat was the best way to keep it quiet, don’t you think?”

  Brina shuddered. “Yes, that was absolutely chilling.”

  “Who knows how many wee beasts have suffered at his hands?”

  A loud splash sounded from below as a large something, or someone, was pushed into the river.

  Brina almost cried out, almost ran to the fire escape to check if Baxter still lived.

  Almost, but not quite.

  Rest in peace my dear, darling Mr. Tibbles.

  Rest in peace.

  At 1:00 a.m. the following evening, Brina and Morrigan shared a cheese sandwich on a park bench. They munched as Ice-pick Charlie’s men scurried to nail boards over grimy windows at the ironworks factory. The thumps of steam hammers echoed from inside as Charlie’s soldiers toiled.

  “They’re preparing for war,” observed Morrigan.

  “With whom?”

  Morrigan’s laugh grated like a dagger on a grindstone. “With you, silly. The note pinned to Larry told Charlie that the Tea Ladies were coming for him.”

  “The Tea Ladies? Who on Earth are—”

  “Every club needs a name, don’t you think? We’re the Tea Ladies, the first Connecticut branch of the Widows and Orphans’ Benevolent Fund.”

  “But I can’t possibly—”

  Morrigan held up her hand. “Calm yourself, my dear. The club name is merely a tool to frighten the villains. Those who were thinking twice about living a life of crime can make their escape. Those who choose to stay have sealed their fate.”

  “You do enjoy a rhyme, don’t you?”

  “It’s true, I do. Now that he’s been forewarned by our somewhat threatening note, Charlie will assume there’s a gang of hardened criminals coming for him, bold enough to blow up his gin shipment and knobble two of his guards. He’ll want to make us pay for our audacity. He’ll make this a fight worth having.”

  “I do feel a little guilty about the damage to the dock.”

  “Why? You didn’t do anything.”

  Brina supposed that was true. “Then what are we, that is, what are the ‘Tea Ladies’ going to do?”

  “We’ll serve up a steaming cup of justice, of course.”

  “Oh dear. I’m not sure.…”

  The clip-clop of hooves on the cobbled street between the park and the ironworks drew her attention. Four Friesian mares pulled a funeral hearse down the gaslit street. A dozen mourners walked behind the hearse, their veiled hats bowed, their hands held in prayer.

  A thirteenth Widow drove the carriage.

  Brina’s hand flew to her mouth. “Are they with us?”

  “It takes an army to beat an army. You’ll positively marvel at the things my Widows have tucked beneath their skirts. Rapid-fire bolt guns, incendiary grenades, a couple of steam-powered centrifugal disintegrators. Ice-pick’s men will never know what hit them.”

  The procession drew close, and the sides of the hearse dropped to reveal a large cannon styled as a gaping dragon.

  Brina’s mouth went dry. “But no one will be harmed?”

  “No one who doesn’t deserve it. No more cats shall die at their devilish hands. Balance—”

  “Must be restored. Yes, you mentioned that. But, should it be restored with a cannon?”

  “I don’t see why not. An eye for an eye, and all that. Did they think of poor Zimmerman’s anguish when her bakery exploded? Did they consider your heartbreak when Mr. Tibbles—”

  “Please, don’t.” Brina clutched at her aching heart. “I’m sure I’ll never get over it.”

  “As well you shouldn’t. You’re at a crossroads, Miss Gill. Will you cower to monsters, or will you rise to fight the good fight? Isn’t it time for the innocent to face the night together? Are we not stronger than our oppressors, armed as we are with love and respect for our fellow Widows?”

  “And with a cannon.”

  Morrigan nodded. “And occasionally, when absolutely necessary, with a cannon.”

  On a silent cue, the Widows broke formation and sprinted toward Charlie’s men. Brina noted that several had produced samurai-style katanas from beneath their petticoats.

  Morrigan said, “I once broke up an unpleasant group of individuals who were selling stolen swords alongside their opium. To children, if you can imagine that.”

  “And you served them justice?”

  “From the great karmic teapot. That is my lot in life. To dispense just desserts to those who deserve them, and to provide a family to the lonely and lost.”

  “Do you think I’m lonely?”

  “Not anymore.”

  And deep within her heart, Brina knew it to be true.

  The ironworks’ blazing furnaces lit the brutish face of Ice-pick Charlie as he struggled against the wire that bound him to a slow-rolling conveyor belt. Ten yards beyond his head, a ten-ton steam hammer pounded grading stamps into lead bars. After a trip to the gilder, the bars would look and weigh almost the same as real gold.

  Charlie wailed, “I didn’t kill your damned cat, Miss Gill. The beast died of old age. It had a bleedin’ heart attack in its sleep after consuming half of a particularly large rat. One of my watchmen saw the whole thing go down. I just had the hat made from its skin to scare ya into payin’ up.”

  Brina watched impassively as the conveyor belt inched along. She sat on the gilded throne that Charlie had planted on a raised stage overseeing the factory floor. A handful of his guards lay dead or dying. Most had fled into the night, pursued by the Widows. They would be given the option to join the Widows, leave town, or have their sins determine their method of execution. Brina sincerely hoped they chose their fates wisely.

  “How can I believe that, Ice-pick?” she asked, as Morrigan stepped on the throat of a fallen bow-tied brute. So, Hobbes the Hobbler had survived the dockside fire. Never again would he smash a defenseless woman’s favorite teapot before her very eyes.

  “It’s true. I swear on my mother’s grave. Well, if she had a grave. You know how it is. A proper burial costs so damned much these days. Much easier to tip her in the river.”

  Morrigan laughed. “Told you that truth serum was a winner. I picked up the formula from a vile chemist who was using it to drag secrets out of high-court judges, so he could blackmail them. He got paid good money by a lot of bad men to get them off on charges they should have hanged for. Don’t worry, though; I handled the situation.”

  “Quite right,” said Brina.

  Beads of sweat formed glistening peaks on Charlie’s face as the hammer pounded ever closer.

  “Miss Gill,” Charlie pleaded, “this isn’t like you. You’re a nice old lady. You’d never say boo to a goose.”

  “Old?” she bristled. “How dare you, sir. And as for the goose, all I can say is ‘boo.’ Boo to you and all your rotten kind. I hope you repent your wicked ways. But if you don’t, may you all be cast screaming into the eternal hellfire you so richly deserve.”

  “Spoken like the new head of the Norwalk Branch,” said Morrigan, striding toward the throne, her eyes brighter than a newly honed sword.

  Brina gazed up at the woman in black. “Me? No, I positively couldn’t.”

  “These Widows are yours to command. You can set this town back on the rails of righteousness. The virtuous will punish the sinners.”

  Morrigan bent low to Brina and placed an ice-cold hand upon her shoulder. Brina shivered.

  “It’s what Mr. Tibbles would have wanted,” murmured Morrigan.

  Charlie screamed, “I didn’t kill your cat. I didn’t, I tell ya. It’s all a big misunderstanding. I’ll get you another. A nice, fat kitty from down by the docks. A tabby, a ginger, a black-and-white … noooooooooooo!”

  The steam hammer smashed down, and Ice-pick Charlie was no more.

  “I can’t believe he didn’t bury his own mother,” sniffed Brina. “That’s just downright disrespectful.”

  “So it is.” Morrigan seemed to grow a little larger, a little more ethereal. Her eyes burned like the heart of an amethyst volcano. “The donation I would like for you to contribute to the Benevolent Fund is this—”

  “My eternal soul?”

  Morrigan smirked. “You imagine me to be a monster?”

  “I don’t think you’re fully human.”

  “What is human, but a tiny piece of the divine? I’m something older than humankind, something younger than those who went before. Rest assured, my dear Brina, your soul is safe—from me, at least.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  Morrigan swung her arm wide. “A shelter for my Widows. A haven for their weary bones to rest and sup the warmth of human kindness. You have always helped the less fortunate, Miss Gill. Open your tearoom’s doors now to my black-hatted friends. Every Tuesday and Thursday evening, to be precise. Other than that, we shall bother you no more. Unless of course …”

  Brina found her hands had drifted in a prayer position. “Unless?”

  “Unless you truly would like to lead our local branch. The Tea Ladies could clean up this town, and the next, and the next. You could help so many of the downtrodden and beleaguered. You could give people like you a sense of purpose, of family. You could be the catalyst for positive change in your community.”

  “What do you get out of this?”

  “Balance. A few eliminations by my human Widows will vastly outweigh the harm caused to countless souls by violent reprobates. Like loose tea heaped on a weighing scale, we return to equilibrium, and our shared world doesn’t shatter.”

  “Shattering would be bad.”

  “But that said—” Morrigan tilted her head.

  “Sometimes you need to stir the pot.”

  Morrigan beamed. “Then stir away, my dear. This town is yours for the taking.”

  Brina rose, standing taller than ever before in her sensible boots. “Then let us begin our work. But first, a nice cup of tea?”

  “For two, my dear. Tea for two.”

  Brina strolled into the night, arm in arm with her new best friend.

  Mr. Tibbles would surely have approved.

  Magic Out of a Hat

  By L. Ron Hubbard

  * * *

  L. Ron Hubbard was one of the most widely acclaimed authors during the days of popular pulp fiction with over 200 short stories, novellas and novels published in numerous genres, including science fiction, fantasy, western, adventure, mystery and detective.

  Novice writers who hoped to learn Hubbard’s storytelling skills often consulted him for advice. And he was always willing to offer suggestions. In fact, he provided lengthy responses to queries on where a writer should live, how much research one should do, and which type of fiction to write.

  He further shared his hard-won experience with creative writing students in speaking engagements at institutions such as Harvard and George Washington University.

  He also generated a series of “how-to” articles that appeared in writing magazines of the 1930s and 1940s, offering guidance to help new writers navigate obstacles they were likely to encounter. Many of these articles are a part of the annual Writers of the Future weeklong workshop for Contest winners and the online workshop, which is open to everyone.

  The following article provides insight on generating a solid story idea while it also reveals a bit of the effusive spirit that Ron brought to the magic of writing.

  For more information go to: www.hatrack.com.

  Magic Out of a Hat

  When Arthur J. Burks told me to put a wastebasket upon my head, I knew that one of us—probably both—was crazy. But Burks has a winning way about him—it’s said he uses loaded dice—and so I followed his orders and thereby hangs a story. And what a story!

  You know, of course, how all this pleasant lunacy started. Burks bragged that he could give six writers a story apiece if only they would name an article in a hotel room. Considering the way New York furnishes its hotels—and remember Burks lived there—that doesn’t sound so remarkable. And so six of us, he tells me, took him up on it and trooped in.

  The six were Fred “Par” Painton, George “Sizzling Air” Bruce, Norvell “Spider” Page, Walter “Curly-Top” Marquiss, Paul “Haunted House” Ernst and myself. An idiotic crew if I do say it, wholly in keeping with such a scheme to mulch editors with alleged stories.

  So Burks told me to put a wastebasket on my head, told me that it reminded me of a kubanka (Ruski lid, if you aren’t a Communist) and ordered me to write the story. I won’t repeat here the story he told me to write. It was clean, that’s about all you can say for it—although that says a great deal coming from an ex-Marine like Art.