Welcome to the fourth edition of Guess the Author. I am your humble host, Jason "Zaratan" Jones, and I come to you 11 tales from a wide variety of authors to dazzle your senses.

Yvj won last time, oh so long ago, so this intriguing topic, soap opera, is all his doing. On the other hand, it looks like a LOT of people had a lot of fun with this one.

The rules are simple. Read through all the stories, and then try to guess which of our amazing authors wrote that particular story. Write out your responses to me, Zaratan, by either PM or by email at zaratan4 at hotmail dot com, and the one closest, getting the most correct, wins and gets to select our next contest topic.

And now, for our list of authors, in alphabetical order;




Gray Cardinal

Joe Stoppinghem




Scoutcraft Piratess



Remember, match as many stories as you can with these authors, happy reading, and good luck to you all!

…x x x x…

Let's Twist Again

The last thing Drakken knew, Mr. Sitdown's enormous yellow rump was crushing the air from his lungs. Now suddenly he was…standing at a flower-garlanded trellis on the shore of a sparking blue lake, facing a… minister?

Trying to get his bearings, Drakken looked to his right – and stared at…himself. Blue face, unibrow, scar, ponytail - but wearing a dark blue tuxedo with a black shirt. No cummerbund, he noticed.

The tuxedo-wearing Drakken looked back, and suddenly slapped himself in the forehead and burst out laughing.

"D'oy! We're in that episode when Felicia and Brock switched brains!"

Drakken glanced down at himself. And gazed upon a shapely bosom decked out in what was clearly a wedding dress. Albeit in a fairly unorthodox color scheme of black and green.

"So…I'm Brock?"

Tuxedo Drakken smirked. "Uh, no, Doc. I think I'm gonna go with Felicia for you."

The minister, without showing the slightest evidence of concern, turned to Drakken.

"Do you, Brock-in-Felicia's-body, take Felicia-in-your-body, for your lawful wedded wife, to live in the holy estate of matrimony?"

The minister droned on as Drakken – or at least he thought of himself as Drakken - stretched one leg from under the dress to check out a well-turned, pale green ankle.

"I wouldn't start looking any higher under that wedding train, Drakken," his doppelganger on the platform whispered menacingly, then swiftly spread his arms in Shego's classic plasma-igniting move.

Nothing happened.

"…as long as you both shall live?"

"Wha…?" was all Drakken could eke out of his suddenly constricted vocal cords.

The minister, taking that as a yes, turned to Tuxedo Drakken. "And do you, Felicia-in-Brock's-body, take Brock-in-your-body, for your lawful wedded husband, to live in the holy estate of matrimony?"

Shego/Felicia, in Drakken/Brock's body, was entirely distracted as she waved her arms back and forth, unsuccessfully trying to light up. Abruptly she stopped and glared at the bride…groom?

Drakken, realization slowly dawning, smiled evilly and swept his arms out. Immediately the green-and-black of the wedding dress was illuminated by the eerie glow emerging from his (her?) hands.

Behind them rows upon rows of well-wishers, spurned former lovers, conspirators, and bastard stepchildren/heirs to enormous fortunes let out a collective gasp, with some leaping out of their pristine white folding chairs and scrambling away in terror.

Reverend Stevens dove behind the trellis, shaking in fear as he wondered whether this was his penance for that night of sin with Deacon Halloway.

Sheila-Rae put her hands to her mouth with excitement at what was clearly the imminent demise of her greatest (but alas, not sole!) rival for Felicia's love.

Aunt Rose passed out, her prized heirloom brooch unclasping and falling into the waiting grasp of her nephew Reginald, who quickly pocketed it.

Admiral Lewis merely brushed off his epaulets nonchalantly while exchanging a knowing look behind Arthur Montcrief's back with the latter's wife Eleanor – for soon all 500,000 shares of ConglomoCorp and the entire Von Steinkampf estate would be theirs. Finally.

And Arthur Jr. glanced up briefly at the commotion, then resumed doing whippets under the boathouse with former teen sexpot and now cooking-show-entrepreneur (and Felicia's half-sister) Leilabella Edwards.

Drakken just gazed in wonder at his glowing hands, turning them back and forth, until he was interrupted by a very angry growl.

"Shut. It. Off," said Shego/Drakken in the tux.

Shaken from his reverie, Drakken/Shego in the dress jerked his hands up in surprise, igniting the trellis and very nearly singeing his eyebrows off.

"Yes, yes, perhaps that would be best. Um, Shego, how do I do that?"

The tuxedo-clad Drakken sighed. "Just relax and drop your arms to your sides. They'll go out by themselves."

Sure enough, they did.

Reverend Stevens nervously popped his head out from behind the charred trellis.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," he quavered, before ducking back down.

"Don't even think about it, Drakken!" Shego warned.

Another vortex began forming over their heads as the horrified crowd looked on.

Tuxedo Drakken sighed. "Ah, the nerdlinger must have decided to bring us back after all. Better than being stuck here, anyway. As you," she added with a sneer.

Drakken hitched up his dress and took a step towards the pan-dimensional maelstrom.

"Well, Shego, just remind me to tell Killigan when we get back: at least we know that they didn't call off the wedding!"