I glanced up from my red notebook, and the other pedestrians stared at me. The honking horns and the yelling filled my ears.

My pen ran out of black ink. I pulled out another from my pocket, tossed my old one in the trash, and entered the grocery store.

I waited for my sister Jan and her boyfriend Terrence.

I continued to write my story about ghosts raising a child. Cookie-cutter horror story, really, but I had a small publisher in mind, and they paid.

Jan stopped at the drink aisle and placed bottles of my favorite root beer in the cart. "You deserve this for publishing your first story."

A zombie-like employee stumbled past me. Her eyes followed me and whispered. She mumbled to herself.

Everywhere I went, the worker followed me, and I noticed.

My sister, Jan, glared at the woman.

I tried to move faster, but she kept following and plodded after me.

The thin employee left, and I went back to my little story.

She came back with her manager.

"Stop that!" He yelled at me. His round face reddened, and his eyes widened. "What are you writing?" He tried to steal my notebook.

I yank it back, hand trembling, and show him my pages. "It's just a short story. What is wrong with writing?"

"Lauran! We're paying for our junk and leaving." Jan motioned me to come with her.

The manager and the woman who followed me earlier yelled at each other. "You pulled me out for nothing! It's not a pricing list."

"No, it's a code!" She swung at him.

I ducked to avoid her fist as it smacked him in the jaw.

The large manager fell into a display of canned vegetables and a case of baked goods.

Several cupcakes flew up, and one hit me in the face, as I watched three grocery store employees pummel each other.

I wiped the frosting off my face with a piece of clean notebook paper.

My sister and her boyfriend race to the only open cashier.

"We need to buy everything before the cops come. I hate driving across town," Terrence said.

"What is wrong with everyone?" Jan asked the cashier. "They harassed my sister for writing a story."

The woman's blue curls bounced as she talked. "It's about spies." She grabbed our items and scanned them one by one.

A can of corn whizzed by our heads and crashed into the window.

"Spies in Groove Creak sound a little weird, and I write creepy paranormal stories," I blurted.

The woman weaved to avoid a pie. "Corporate spies; not like the CIA or FBI. Management is at war with that ABC gas station grocery store down the street. They're price-checking each other."

Cops rushed in, almost knocking me over as they broke up the fight.