"The Life and Lies of -- -- (AKA livingspontaneous)"

As told by: Blare Tcheshe
reporter for the national radio show, "Stranger than - What?"

"The man wrote fiction," spoke a colleague shakily in admiration of a writer whom he only referred to as LS. In the midst of an interview and a heated discussion over exactly what flavor of jam was in the tarts his wife once made, we uncovered many truths about LS and his spectacular life (In the fictional sense).

As a reporter, and a great fan of LS's works of art, I was, and still am determined to not only bring his complete works to you through the great magic of fanfiction.net, but also reveal his stunning biography to you through this brief description of his life.

"The man wrote fiction," he repeated dramatically with his face buried deeply in his hands, "and he... he..." before I could get a word in to comfort him, the man started to sob uncontrollably. I didn't quite know what to say, so I just asked the blunt question - hardly ever do reporters beat around the bush.

"And he what, Tucker?" I asked the blubbering Tucker Himshy, pen and paper at the ready.

"Well, he - he put his whole life into it," He said, quite literally, between sobs and sniffles.

"What do you mean, 'put his whole life into it'?" I asked somewhat harshly, and perhaps a little too loud - the man started weeping again.

Seeing where all this crying was headed (nowhere), I simply left him in the sitting room and spoke impatiently to his wife, who was chopping green peppers in the kitchen. I was in a great hurry, due to the fact that I had another appointment with a friend - of sorts - of LS's.

"How about you Mrs. Himshy," I wondered aloud, trying to keep my voice from hurrying and slurring in my excited frenzy of discovering the truth, "I don't suppose you knew LS personally, did you?"

"Of course I did, Mr. Tcheshe. He was my husband's best friend, his mentor," She replied as calmly as I had begun the conversation, "but my name is not Mrs. Himshy."

I was stunned.

"So that man there, that is not the man named Tucker Himshy?"

"Oh no, of course it is, Mr. Tcheshe. Blare, we are honest people. We must not tell lies." explained the woman I had, until a mere few words before, believed to be Mrs. Himshy.

"And you two are married, correct?"

"As I have already explained - honest people." and this time a little more controlling was brought out of her tone

"So why, if he is Tucker Himshy, and you are married to him, do you not carry his surname?"

"Well, for starters, that's not actually his surname."

I was absolutely bewildered, and I must have worn my feelings all over my tired, groggy face, because the woman standing in front of me quickly explained herself.

"Oh, don't be too confused dear," she started, "I should explain myself."

"And you should be quick, ma'am. I am sorry, but I have another meeting."

"Hem, hem," she said as if in a cough that was not her own. She looked at me sternly, and I could not resist the fact that she needed more time than granted. "I know. I shall postpone the meeting. Surely we can spare a few minutes," I said, smiling weekly.

"Oh wonderful!" she exclaimed in a very squeaky voice, and I, suddenly realizing I had more time to waste at the Himshy residence, sat down, and observed her flamboyant pink robes.

Her pink ensemble had a delightfully eerie presence about them, and I could have sworn one of the many sewed kittens had moved as he stared intensely at it. Directly about the kitten, in very elegant, shiny golden letters, a pin was inscribed to gleam D.J.N. Finally, after examining her for a long while, I finally interrogated with the most charm I could muster in my voice.

"Who are you?" trying to sound sincerely interested, and trying to conceal my notepad at risk that it would make her uncomfortable.

"Oh, my dear boy. Dolores Jane Nodtch, at your ser--" she could not finish her last word, which I assumed to be service, for someone behind her brought up a very large pot, and attempted to hit her squarely across her left temple (which was a difficult feat, seeing as he was behind her). But, and I still, to this day, don't know how she did it, seemed to throw her husband, her favorite pot, and a flash of green light in to the sitting room without doing so much as turning around.

When she turned back to the now standing me, she looked, if possible, even more calm than she had when explaining her name, and she was slipping something that resembled a stick back into her pink, cat-strewn robes.

"Where were we?" she asked patiently and slowly, as if she didn't just kill her husband.

I stood in utter disbelief. Why, I asked myself, had Mr. Himshy tried to strike his wife, and how in the bloody hell did she kill him?

"What in gods name did you just do, woman?" I asked, voice cracking with my mouth half-open.

But what she did, she never told me, and the only few things that followed were the muttering of what seemed like an incantation under her breath, the raising of the wand she had stored in her robes, and a flash of red light. I awoke several days later, with a broken arm and several bruises. I heard the woman lying in the hospital bed next to me mumbling something that sounded like "Muggle", someone named "St. Mungo" and saw that she was looking straight at me. I do not remember any of the other events that I am sure to have followed, and I never reached my next appointment. I hurriedly reported to the police that a madwoman named Dolores Jane Nodtch had killed a man, and maybe two, judging by what her husband said about his mentor "putting his whole life into it". As for knowing any more about the man name LS, I have no more than what I told you. I haven't heard any more about Ms. Nodtch, but I sure hope she's suffering the consequences somewhere.

THE END