The Complete Adventures of Toffee
Page 1
CHARLES F. MYERS
Born Charles H. Myers on September 27, 1920, in Madera County, California (probably at Chowchilla), he was known as Farrell C. by 1930. He enlisted in the U. S. Army during World War II, and served in the Army Air Corps. When he began writing, he adopted the name Charles Farrell Myers. His early writing career lasted from 1947 to 1954, with twelve stories published in Fantastic Adventures and Imagination. Three of these stories were reprinted in Imaginative Tales in 1954. He then began writing under the penname Henry Farrell. His second novel with that nom de plume was What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, which became a hit motion picture under the direction of Robert Aldrich. A follow-up story, What Ever Happened to Cousin Charlotte? became the motion picture, Hush Hush, Sweet Charlotte. He was married to actress Molly Dodd. Charles H. Myers died on March 29, 2006, in Pacific Palisades, California.
MARC PILLSWORTH
TOFFEE
9781257277827
The Complete Adventures of Toffee
Charles F. Myers
“MEET THE AUTHORS” Fantastic Adventures, February 1949. Copyright 1948 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal.
“INTRODUCING THE AUTHOR”, Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, July 1952. Copyright 1952, by Greenleaf Publishing Co. No record of copyright renewal.
“I’LL DREAM OF YOU”, Fantastic Adventures, January 1947. Copyright 1946 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal.
“YOU CAN’T SCARE ME”, Fantastic Adventures, March 1947. Copyright 1947 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal.
“TOFFEE TAKES A TRIP”, Fantastic Adventures, July 1947. Copyright 1947 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal. Reprinted in Imaginative Tales #2, November 1954. Copyright 1954 by Greenleaf Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal.
“TOFFEE HAUNTS A GHOST”, Fantastic Adventures, November 1947. Copyright 1947 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal. Reprinted in Imaginative Tales #2, November 1954. Copyright 1954 by Greenleaf Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal.
“THE SPIRIT OF TOFFEE”, Fantastic Adventures, November 1948. Copyright 1948 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal.
“TOFFEE TURNS THE TRICK”, Fantastic Adventures, February 1949. Copyright 1948 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal.
“THE SHADES OF TOFFEE”, Fantastic Adventures, June 1950. Copyright 1950 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal. Reprinted as “TOFFEE”, Imaginative Tales #1, September 1954. Copyright 1954 by Greenleaf Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal.
“THE VENGEANCE OF TOFFEE”, Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, February 1951. Copyright 1950 by Greenleaf Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal.
“NO TIME FOR TOFFEE”, Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, July 1952. Copyright 1952 by Greenleaf Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal.
“THE LAUGHTER OF TOFFEE”, Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, October 1954. Copyright 1954 by Greenleaf Publishing Company. No record of copyright renewal.
Artwork by Brady, Virgil Finley, William A. Gray, Robert Gibson Jones, H. W. McCauley, Rob Ruth, Henry Sharp, Joe W. Tillotson
Pulpville Press
www.pulpvillepress.com
Table of Contents
CHARLES F. MYERS
Copyright Page
Title Page
MEET the AUTHORS - CHARLES F. MYERS
Introducing the AUTHOR *
I’LL DREAM OF YOU
YOU CAN’T SCARE ME
TOFFEE TAKES A TRIP
TOFFEE HAUNTS A GHOST
THE SPIRIT OF TOFFEE
TOFFEE TURNS THE TRICK
THE SHADES OF TOFFEE
THE VENGEANCE OF TOFFEE
NO TIME FOR TOFFEE
THE LAUGHTER OF TOFFEE
MEET the AUTHORS
CHARLES F. MYERS
IN THE interests of back handing any talse impressions before they have a chance to get started. Mr. Myers, more commonly known as Charley among his intimates, will tell you that his photograph is plainly and simply an out and out lie Had the picture been full length, which he minutes it should have been just for laughs, you would discover that the well-pressed suit coat tapers off into a very natty pair of baggy duck pants and the latest thing in well worn sneakers A native Californian, all six feet of him. he does not put in with the coat and lie sef. let Esquire trown down its elegant nose as it will He claims to have been under the influence of a short que a short brunette, that is when the picture was taken, and apologizes forthwith
Born twenty-seven years ago in the wheat belt of the fertile San Joaquin Valley, he will tell you that he still combs an occasional hay seed out of his hair in spite of the fact that he has been “at large” throughout the country since the age of sixteen. As to the matter of lineage. he appears, to be a bit vague The Scotch. Irish and English seem to have been caught red-handed. however If any other nationalities were mixed up in the affair (and Charley suspects a great many they were clever enough to cover their tracks before any definite charges could be brought against them.
He doesn’t recall when he was first bitten by the “wnitin‘ bug” but guesses that the insidious liltle creatures must have been gnawing away at him for some time. Considering its final, devastatinc influence over him. He prides himself on being the only writer he knows who did not win an essay contest at an early age. thereby fore-casting for himself a brilliant literary career. Probably, it all started in the army when friends who were doing USO work persuaded him to try hi, hand at writing special material for one of their shows. After that he was in business whether he liked it or not. In this connection, he will confess that Toffee, the wayward heroine of his stories, is strictly a war baby, born in a deserted barracks on a desolates dateless Saturday night the moot them haver been keeping company ever since. which may partly I explain why Mr. Myers is still single and still happy and still writing.
At present he has taken up residence in the lower Sienas where he can wim and hike to his hearts content, this in the happy company of a langlelooted puppy of uncertain parentage, affection. ateyl known as Shmoo Together, these two consider themselves an unbeatable team and on more than one occasion have provided the neighboring woodsmen with enough laughs to last them out the winter This is perfectly all right with Charlex. who considers entertainment and laughter two of life’s and doesn’t mind in the least being on the providing end His motto. in tact. was “Anything For a Laugh” until the day, during a tennis match, he did a back flip over a net and landed bottom first on the concreate. splitting his trousers neatly up the back before a crowd of handing spectators. Since then it has been revised to read: “Almost Any-thing For a Laught.” His hasty, self-conscious retreat to the locker rooms is still vivid in his memory
Asked about writing methods. Charles says that he simply rolls a tresh sheet of paper into his typewriter. lines up a group of asorted characters, and then. mentally, yells. “Go!” Alter that it’s every character. author included, for him-elf. This technique, of course. invariably leads to headaches when revisions have to be done, hot Charles insists that it still adds up to a lot of fun for everyone, including, he devoutly hopes, the reader. At the typewriter, he first sets his sights on entertainment, leaving educational preachments in the class room, where he feels they will be better appreciated.
Aside from writing among Mr. Myers’ interests is a certain, eager-faced preoccupation with cures for poison oak, an indisposition from which he constantly suffers, since, according to his own word
s, he hasn’t the good sense to stay out of the stuff. In the heat of the day, when plagued with a good, healthy rash, he claims to be the exponent of a rhumba that would have even Carmen Miranda in a frenzy of envy. If anyone knows a sure fire cure he would like to hear about it.
Bringing fantasy fiction into the picture, Mr. Myers explains his predilection for the form by recalling the evenings back in his childhood when the youngsters in his neighborhood used to gather round the fireplace at his home for the express purpose of scaring the daylights out of each other ith ghost stories. He suspects that all true fantasy lovers must have similar evenings somewhere in their backgrounds which cause them to turn to this type of reading. Those fireside yarns, he says, were the finest, most blood curdling stories in the world, and he is certain they will never be topped by any writer in any time. He only wishes he could remember a few of them.
Looking on the dark, technical side of things, he frowns deeply on the problem of punctuation, which he considers one of the great mysteries of all time. If he had his way the whole thing would be reduced to a simple series of dots and dashes, which system he has practiced for years in his personal correspondence. Without complaint, he adds with a certain show of complacency.
If he may be permitted, Charley would like to ask just one thing of his readers; if any of them, anywhere, should ever run into a permanent, earth-bound embodiment of Toffee, he would be pleased to receive the young lady’s name, address and telephone number by direct wire. He finds that he has created a Frankenstein in reverse.
Introducing the AUTHOR *
Charles F Myers *
I’M a native Californian. Have been for thirty years and that’s the tip off.
There are certain things about a native Californian that distinguish him unmistakably from the naturalized variety—and perhaps even the residents of the other forty-seven states. He usually hates neckties, shoes, small rooms, books of etiquette, bromides and anything otherwise confining. On the other hand, he likes with a passion an unobstructed view, loud, loose clothing, lots of activity, people who laugh a lot, and anything he can eat in his fingers in a drive-in. In fact, if you entertain him at dinner there is every likelihood that instead of asking you to pass the salt he will flash his lights for service and signal as though mak ing a left turn. He will probably laugh at your jokes, even when he’s heard them before. He is likely to say whatever comes to mind, though it frequently turns out to be precisely he wrong thing. He’ll show up at your party wearing a pla’d shirt and jeans and never have the slightest inkling that he doesn’t look just as natty as everyone else. He will describe you as terrific if he likes you and he will like you if you make yourself at home without standing on ceremony. Chances are, he’ll like you anyway, just for the hell of it.
That’s a native Californian. That’s me, as far as I can tell.
As for writing, it just happened where I was concerned. During the war, in service, I discovered that some of my theatrical friends who were then in variety work, had begun to incorporate my letters into their acts, using them as routines. Before I knew it I was in business, writing special material. It was the start of a habit that has remained unbroken ever since. The thought that by spreading words out on paper I might be able to entertain people all over the world was just too much for my susceptible ego. I’d caught the bug and was—and am —absolutely incurable.
As for Toffee, well, she’s our favorite gal—on paper, at any rate. She may give us trouble now and again, but then she’s a woman, and we get an awful wallop out of her just the same. We only hope you enjoy her half as much as we do.
—Charles F. Myers
I’LL DREAM OF YOU
Toffee was just a girl in Marc Pillsworth’s dreams—until he awoke one day to find the dream a reality
TOFFEE leaned back against the tree and passed a slender hand through her red hair. As her arm relaxed, she let it fall carelessly about Marc’s neck. Lazily, her green eyes traced his profile and found it, if not classic, highly satisfactory.
“Kiss me,” she said.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” murmured Marc, continuing to stare straight ahead.
Toffee followed his gaze to the scene before them. The entire countryside, apparently unaware of its inherent stateliness, was caught in a sort of informal gaity.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Toffee asked.
“Yes,” replied Marc dreamily.
“You seem fascinated by beauty, almost starved for it.”
Marc nodded and leaned his head back further on the tree.
“Then get fascinated, you dope,” Toffee leaped forward to face him.
“Huh?” Marc stared at the girl as though he hadn’t been quite aware of her before.
“I’m beautiful too and twice as much fun.” It was a simple statement of fact. “Kiss me,” she added.
“Haven’t you any restraint?”
“With everything else I have, you ask for restraint!” Toffee drew nearer.
“You’re shameless,” said Marc.
“Naturally.” Toffee closed her eyes and advanced her lips to his. Abruptly, Marc threw his hands to the grass before him and boosted himself to his feet, leaving Toffee’s arm to fall dejectedly to her side.
“Maybe next time,” she murmured, shrugging her shoulders. “Even the glacial age had to come to an end eventually.”
MARC caught hold of a limb just over his head and swung effortlessly to a branch above Toffee, where he settled himself comfortably and continued his studied contemplation of the landscape. Toffee reached a hand toward him and waited.
“Well, don’t just sit there like a stone image,” she called. “Give me a hand. I want up too.”
Slowly, Marc looked down at her and studied the pert, upturned face with solemn gravity. Suddenly, he shook his head and returned to his attitude of sombre speculation. Toffee seemed not at all daunted.
“I’ll show you,” she yelled. “I’ll shake you out of there like a cocoanut.” With that, she took hold of the tree and began to tug at it vehemently until, slowly it began to sway. As though she had pulled a bell chord, a soft, distinct tolling began to make itself heard, and as the tree swayed more violently, the sound became louder. Soon the motion of the tree became so great that Marc found himself clutching the branch to keep his balance.
“For the love of Mike, Toffee!” he yelled through the uproar of the bell. “Stop it! Do you want me to break my neck?”
“But I’m not doing it!” hollered Toffee. It seemed that the tree had become possessed of a will of its own as it rocked back and forth in a constantly increasing arc. Toffee stood back from it in terror. As it made a new, deeper lunge, Marc lost his seat but continued to cling to the branch with his hands. At the end of the arc, the tree seemed to pause in anticipation of a final gigantic thrust. As it did so, the clap of the bell was almost intolerable. Suddenly, Marc felt himself lifted and hurled swiftly into space. He seemed to be flying upward and away from the earth, as though the force of gravity had utterly forsaken him.
As he sailed along, he looked back over his shoulder to behold a scene that was especially disconcerting. All the earth below him seemed to be caught in the swaying motion of the tree. It rocked crazily in a see-saw motion, constantly accompanied by the tolling of the great, ghostly bell. Then, suddenly, the action stopped. The earth shuddered and seemed to crumble, falling into space. Through the ensuing quiet, Marc could only wonder at what had happened; then, faintly, through the sound of rushing air, he began to hear his name being called. He turned his head quickly to see Toffee rushing through space after him.
“Wait Marc, Wait!” she cried.
He reached a hand out, toward her.
MARC’S hand fell heavily to the alarm clock on the bedside table and the noise ceased. The fact that he was awake didn’t mean that he was rested. He rolled over in the bed without opening his eyes, and began carefully to review the dream, for it had left him strangely uneasy. The thing that disturbed him most w
as the girl, Toffee. As he thought of her, she became more and more vivid, more and more insistent as a real personality. It was strange how real she did seem, especially since she had been so unlike any girl that Marc had ever known. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have liked to have known a girl like that, it was just that he had been so occupied with the development of the
Pillsworth Advertising Agency that he rarely had time for girls like, or unlike, Toffee. The dream had brought to him a vague suspicion that perhaps something was missing in his life, something like Toffee for instance. There was Julie Mason of course, Marc’s secretary, but although she was an even match for any model that had ever been in the office, Julie was still a very efficient business woman, and for some reason that cancelled irrevocably any idea of romance. He sat up in bed and stretched his arms up, over his head, yawning luxuriously. Suddenly, he became transfixed, his arms rigid above him and his mouth wide open. He stared in fascination at the foot of the bed. Toffee turned and smiled wickedly. “I almost didn’t make it,” she said. “Thanks for the lift.”
Marc’s lips worked feverishly but produced nothing intelligible. “Well, don’t just sit there making faces, tell me how glad you are to see me—and put your arms down.”
Slowly and mechanically, Marc lowered his arms.
“Now,” Toffee continued. “Let’s not waste time—kiss me.” She raised herself from the edge of the bed and moved toward him.
Instantly, Marc became animated, leaping from the bed like a flushed bird. He rushed to the window and seemed about to jump, when, suddenly, he halted. Slowly, he turned and faced her.