Matthew Dwayne or Mattidawane as his close friends called him was a nerd of the highest order. This kind that got A's in everything without even trying. Now that he was in college he took lots of courses just to see what was interesting to him. Chemistry and Physics were of course part of his studies but so was Sociology, Macro Biology and cooking…he also enjoyed language especially English.
He was handsome after a fashion, or perhaps before it, and although you wouldn't call him especially masculine, he certainly wasn't effeminate and liked some sports although he didn't excel at them.
He wasn't terribly socially challenged but he was shy. He didn't have much interest in women and oddly, they didn't have much interest in him. Actually, it wan't so much that he wasn't interested in women or sex he was just much more interested in academics. He lived in the dorms where his room opened onto a common large lounge with twenty other students in a high rise dorm where having your own room and no roommate was a considerable luxury tempered by a pair of common baths. This dorm was co-ed, and once in a while the lounge had a party. He had learned not to try and hide in his room on such occasions, his fellows and fellowettes were merciless.
Several floors were in attendance so there were over 100 people packed into the lounge.
He somehow managed to be right next to a tall beautiful black woman, an exchange student with dark perfect skin and white, white teeth and sparkling eyes. He was fascinated and peppered her with questions which she answered politely but she spoke Swahili and he didn't understand that though her pronunciation was perfect her vocabulary was still limited so her answers in English were short. Had they been speaking Swahili her answers would have been much longer.
One of her friends was also a friend of Mattidawane, had known him since high school and was actually becoming slightly jealous because in all the time she had known him he never had spoken this many words to her. She did a fine job of pretending not to care and indeed: nobody noticed. She did noticeably have a few too many beers; after a while she slipped into Mattidawane's room, lay down in his bed and fell asleep.
Mattidawane came in quite late and quite ready for bed as he had had a few too many while talking to the exchange student. His interest made time pass quickly and people just kept handing him red plastic cups of keg beer every time his cup got empty. It was for a change good beer on account of the cheerleaders who had gone to the local beer distributor to get it.
Mattidawane was quite surprised to find a co-ed in an oversized teeshirt bra and underwear asleep in his bed. He stood there in his underwear for a moment pondering, then got a pair of gym shorts put them on and plopped down in bed beside her.
She didn't wake up but grabbed him gently and pulled him close when she felt a body next to her, it was more of a cuddle than an advance. Mattidawane could tell she really was still asleep so he tried to go to sleep too, except her leg on him and breath on is neck made this difficult and it wasn't long before he became aware that quite against his will he had “a hard on.” He actually found this amusing. He lay there and thought about physiology, which led his mind to chemistry and before he knew it he was working on a chemistry problem in his head and the blood subsided and he began to drift off to sleep.
About that time she shifted position and now she was breathing in his ear. And then suddenly he knew she wasn't asleep because she was chewing on his earlobe. And then he had what college kids commonly call a DCH which is short for diamond cutting hard on, really, he probably could have cut a diamond with it.
He let her chew on his ear. He found he liked it very much and he noted he was completely unable to concentrate on chemistry or much else. But he was ill prepared, (read did not have a condom), and was about to tell her they should probably put this off until later, though he was quite interested and this whole other spiel he parsed together quickly in his head. He turned to tell her so, but his mouth found hers and things went from bad to worse or from good to really, really good depending on your point of view. It was a lot of heavy breathing and writhing and tenderness for a good hour...but he managed to keep his wits about him just barely and they ended up sleeping together without “doing the deed.”
They talked and kissed and bit and cuddled and fell asleep. In the morning it wasn't awkward, and in that moment she knew or she should have.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Fred-Erick
Frederick was sitting there minding his own business when the witches of Old Haven showed up. There were seven of them.
“Hello,” Frederick said. He looked up from his park bench and noticed them standing, as it were, right in front of him. They didn’t say anything but their eyes narrowed a little.
Frederick was a turtle dove, but not the slow stupid kind that got high on car exhaust, but the quick sophisticated kind that got high on learning hence his incredible age of 437.
“Well then...” He said trying to prompt them into some form of speech. They stood motionless, standing there in black dresses and goofy looking boots. The leader of this little coven had on a dark navy blue blouse that she had chosen quite by accident in candle light, other than that hat to shoe they were in black, nicely tailored well kept witch clothes, not rags.
Frederick (pronounced like two names in one: Fred and then Erick right after) noted this, while walking back and forth a little, head bobbing the way only birds do.
“You must be Free-Derrick,” one of them said suddenly.
“Fred-Erick,” Frederick said carefully.
“Yess, yess,” said another. “You are a very old bird.”
“I am.”
They all began cackling and clapping a little.
Frederick became a little worried at this point. He had heard of the strange and odd ingredients witches took great pains to find. He hoped his eyes or toes or left kidney wasn’t on the list. He was just about to say, “well, must be going,” and fly off at high speed, when one of them started speaking. She sounded like a machine gun going off in short bursts.
“We’re bird watchers. We do it as a hobby. We heard about you. Now we’ve found you. Come here often?” She talked in short bursts just like that; words all run together. (Too much cocaine at an early age).
“Well, yes I do.” Frederick said. “Especially on Tuesdays.” He added with a sigh of relief.
They’ve been meeting there on Tuesdays since 1943.
“Hello,” Frederick said. He looked up from his park bench and noticed them standing, as it were, right in front of him. They didn’t say anything but their eyes narrowed a little.
Frederick was a turtle dove, but not the slow stupid kind that got high on car exhaust, but the quick sophisticated kind that got high on learning hence his incredible age of 437.
“Well then...” He said trying to prompt them into some form of speech. They stood motionless, standing there in black dresses and goofy looking boots. The leader of this little coven had on a dark navy blue blouse that she had chosen quite by accident in candle light, other than that hat to shoe they were in black, nicely tailored well kept witch clothes, not rags.
Frederick (pronounced like two names in one: Fred and then Erick right after) noted this, while walking back and forth a little, head bobbing the way only birds do.
“You must be Free-Derrick,” one of them said suddenly.
“Fred-Erick,” Frederick said carefully.
“Yess, yess,” said another. “You are a very old bird.”
“I am.”
They all began cackling and clapping a little.
Frederick became a little worried at this point. He had heard of the strange and odd ingredients witches took great pains to find. He hoped his eyes or toes or left kidney wasn’t on the list. He was just about to say, “well, must be going,” and fly off at high speed, when one of them started speaking. She sounded like a machine gun going off in short bursts.
“We’re bird watchers. We do it as a hobby. We heard about you. Now we’ve found you. Come here often?” She talked in short bursts just like that; words all run together. (Too much cocaine at an early age).
“Well, yes I do.” Frederick said. “Especially on Tuesdays.” He added with a sigh of relief.
They’ve been meeting there on Tuesdays since 1943.
Eggbert
Eggbert was a blue and purple Egret. Don’t ask ‘cause I don’t know either, something to do with radiation of the nuclear sort.
He was cool looking.
None of the other egrets looked even remotely close to Eggbert. His feathers would shimmer in bright sunlight. He was fat and happy because the fish rarely saw him coming because his underside was blue and blended with the sky above him. It almost wasn’t fair, those fish were discussing water purity and school maneuvers one second and were lunch for Eggbert the next second. But with yin comes yang as day follows night, for Eggbert it was easy fishing but no chicks. Female egrets that is. They all wanted regular white egrets. Try as he might, Eggbert could not convince any females to go out with him, much less build a nest with him.
“Look here’s a tasty fish,” he said to Eleanor Egret, a particularly pretty bird. “You can have it, and plenty more if you’ll be my mate.”
“Get lost Eggbert, but thanks for the fish.”
“Eggbert stood on one foot slowly shaking his head. “I can’t believe she took the fish...”
Women.
One day Colleen an albino crow was down by the pond. She was hot looking, even though she had light colored eyes. She didn’t look like a crow at all. We all know how cruel crows can be. She was in much the same boat as Eggbert, except she didn’t care.
Eggbert thought she was sexy as all get out.
“Eggbert? What the hell kind of name is Eggbert?” Colleen was by nature a crow.
“Mine.” Said Eggbert. The way he said it made Colleen laugh. The sound of her laugh made Eggbert turn his head and look at her. “Do you like fish?”
“Among other things,”
“Want me to catch you one?”
Colleen thought for a second. “Sure.”
Eggbert was back in two shakes of a mutated egret feather.
“Tasty fish,” Colleen said after carefully eating it in a most lady-like manner.
The rest is, well you know...history. No kids though, nuclear radiation is nasty stuff.
Sad part is that Colleen was an albino who was often sick. Eggbert loved her well, made a fine nest in a little thicket of cat tail reeds, and kept her well fed with fish, crickets and other insects. Eggbert found insects repulsive.
“I don’t eat anything with legs,” was his comment. She laughed that laugh Eggbert loved for all reply.
She didn’t live to be old.
Eggbert was a widow after 11 years.
He knew 11 was better than none, smiled when he thought back on her, but it was from a nest far, far away from the little thicket of cat tail reeds.
He was cool looking.
None of the other egrets looked even remotely close to Eggbert. His feathers would shimmer in bright sunlight. He was fat and happy because the fish rarely saw him coming because his underside was blue and blended with the sky above him. It almost wasn’t fair, those fish were discussing water purity and school maneuvers one second and were lunch for Eggbert the next second. But with yin comes yang as day follows night, for Eggbert it was easy fishing but no chicks. Female egrets that is. They all wanted regular white egrets. Try as he might, Eggbert could not convince any females to go out with him, much less build a nest with him.
“Look here’s a tasty fish,” he said to Eleanor Egret, a particularly pretty bird. “You can have it, and plenty more if you’ll be my mate.”
“Get lost Eggbert, but thanks for the fish.”
“Eggbert stood on one foot slowly shaking his head. “I can’t believe she took the fish...”
Women.
One day Colleen an albino crow was down by the pond. She was hot looking, even though she had light colored eyes. She didn’t look like a crow at all. We all know how cruel crows can be. She was in much the same boat as Eggbert, except she didn’t care.
Eggbert thought she was sexy as all get out.
“Eggbert? What the hell kind of name is Eggbert?” Colleen was by nature a crow.
“Mine.” Said Eggbert. The way he said it made Colleen laugh. The sound of her laugh made Eggbert turn his head and look at her. “Do you like fish?”
“Among other things,”
“Want me to catch you one?”
Colleen thought for a second. “Sure.”
Eggbert was back in two shakes of a mutated egret feather.
“Tasty fish,” Colleen said after carefully eating it in a most lady-like manner.
The rest is, well you know...history. No kids though, nuclear radiation is nasty stuff.
Sad part is that Colleen was an albino who was often sick. Eggbert loved her well, made a fine nest in a little thicket of cat tail reeds, and kept her well fed with fish, crickets and other insects. Eggbert found insects repulsive.
“I don’t eat anything with legs,” was his comment. She laughed that laugh Eggbert loved for all reply.
She didn’t live to be old.
Eggbert was a widow after 11 years.
He knew 11 was better than none, smiled when he thought back on her, but it was from a nest far, far away from the little thicket of cat tail reeds.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Foo Ling
Foo Ling was an inventor. He spent his days goofing around in a laboratory of his own creation over there in China. He invented the first personal communications device. He called it the personal smoke signal generator. It didn’t go over so well.
He got the idea from those red skin guys over in America, only back then they called it Bison Land. This was way before Amerigo Vespucci’s grandparents had even met.
He tried like heck to convince them to buy one but they already had signal fires that they had gotten in the habit of using over several generations.
“But this is entirely portable, you can set it up any where,” Foo Ling said. “And you don’t have to gather fire wood.”
“No thanks.” Fred the Indian said, his real name was Running Water a distant great grand-sire of Indoor Plumbing.
“Oh, c’mon.”
“No, Foo Ling.”
“Darn it.”
He came up with this improved black powder for his smoke signal device: still no go.
“Why don’t you just sell the powder?” Mad Max said after an exceptional smoke signal shot into the air.
“Who would want...hey, wait a minute...” Foo Ling said.
Foo Ling made all kinds of money after that. Max knew what he had done because back then he still had lucid moments and moments of clarity, sometimes at the same time, but that’s why it’s Mad Max, not Sane Max.
He got the idea from those red skin guys over in America, only back then they called it Bison Land. This was way before Amerigo Vespucci’s grandparents had even met.
He tried like heck to convince them to buy one but they already had signal fires that they had gotten in the habit of using over several generations.
“But this is entirely portable, you can set it up any where,” Foo Ling said. “And you don’t have to gather fire wood.”
“No thanks.” Fred the Indian said, his real name was Running Water a distant great grand-sire of Indoor Plumbing.
“Oh, c’mon.”
“No, Foo Ling.”
“Darn it.”
He came up with this improved black powder for his smoke signal device: still no go.
“Why don’t you just sell the powder?” Mad Max said after an exceptional smoke signal shot into the air.
“Who would want...hey, wait a minute...” Foo Ling said.
Foo Ling made all kinds of money after that. Max knew what he had done because back then he still had lucid moments and moments of clarity, sometimes at the same time, but that’s why it’s Mad Max, not Sane Max.
Noah
Noah was a huge gray pigeon. Really huge. He was hanging out with Joe Diamond the myna-bird and Sonny-Jack a tiny sparrow at the coffee store--or should I say a coffee store way up there in Spokane, Washington, just a short drive from where they speak Canadian.
Noah had some of those change color green feathers too, but mostly he was just gray.
They were sipping double caramel mochas as they nursed heinous Pabst Blue Ribbon hangovers. Well, not Sonny-Jack. His poison was tequila and big fat Havana cigars, or sea-gars (accent on the sea), as Sonny-Jack liked to call them.
No matter how you slice it, it still came up hang over. Noah and the others had gotten a wild feather up their butts and had flown up to Spokane on a lark.
“Not a whole lot going on here...” Noah said.
“Not at nine in the morning,” Sonny-Jack said. “`Sides: it’s Sunday.”
“There’s this burger place right off the freeway, you can eat there for practically nothing...and it’s great!” Joe Diamond said.
“Eat?” Chorus.
“Well, not right now. I can hardly keep my coffee down my own self,” Joe said. “But later...”
“Is it open on Sundays?” Noah asked. “I thought I saw them rolling up the sidewalks last night.”
“No, you were rolling on the sidewalks last night, Noah.” Sonny-Jack said hopping around for no apparent reason the way sparrows are wont to do.
“Let’s go to Seattle.” Sonny-Jack said.
“Why?” Noah said.
“Because, I, like the rest of ya, ain’t never been there.”
“They say you can see the ocean from most of the hotels,” Sonny-Jack said.
“Puget sound.” Joe Diamond said.
“We got enough to stay up that high?”
“I got my sax: we got money.”
They all nodded the way hung over birds do.
Just then 3 hot looking meadowlarks flew in. All babe birds.
“Hi,” one said.
“Hi,” Noah said.
They got to Seattle a month and a half later, leaving three very sad meadowlarks behind.
Noah had some of those change color green feathers too, but mostly he was just gray.
They were sipping double caramel mochas as they nursed heinous Pabst Blue Ribbon hangovers. Well, not Sonny-Jack. His poison was tequila and big fat Havana cigars, or sea-gars (accent on the sea), as Sonny-Jack liked to call them.
No matter how you slice it, it still came up hang over. Noah and the others had gotten a wild feather up their butts and had flown up to Spokane on a lark.
“Not a whole lot going on here...” Noah said.
“Not at nine in the morning,” Sonny-Jack said. “`Sides: it’s Sunday.”
“There’s this burger place right off the freeway, you can eat there for practically nothing...and it’s great!” Joe Diamond said.
“Eat?” Chorus.
“Well, not right now. I can hardly keep my coffee down my own self,” Joe said. “But later...”
“Is it open on Sundays?” Noah asked. “I thought I saw them rolling up the sidewalks last night.”
“No, you were rolling on the sidewalks last night, Noah.” Sonny-Jack said hopping around for no apparent reason the way sparrows are wont to do.
“Let’s go to Seattle.” Sonny-Jack said.
“Why?” Noah said.
“Because, I, like the rest of ya, ain’t never been there.”
“They say you can see the ocean from most of the hotels,” Sonny-Jack said.
“Puget sound.” Joe Diamond said.
“We got enough to stay up that high?”
“I got my sax: we got money.”
They all nodded the way hung over birds do.
Just then 3 hot looking meadowlarks flew in. All babe birds.
“Hi,” one said.
“Hi,” Noah said.
They got to Seattle a month and a half later, leaving three very sad meadowlarks behind.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Ginko
Ginko, that’s Jean-co to you and me, or Jean as Ginko’s friends liked to call him, was a wild jackrabbit. He lived on the scrub plains of southwest Wyoming along with about 70,000 other jack rabbits (most of whom were directly related to Ginko) and quite a few well-fed coyotes.
Ginko was three feet tall if he was an inch. Not counting ears.
He loved to sit by highway 189 and scare tourists. They’d see him and just about have accidents.
“Daddy, look!”
Ginko would be off faster than light. He was an expert hider and hid not far from where the tourists would spot him in a hole carefully dug for just that purpose.
“Oh, you did not!”
“Did so!”
“Did not.”
Ginko would just laugh and laugh and laugh.
Ginko was three feet tall if he was an inch. Not counting ears.
He loved to sit by highway 189 and scare tourists. They’d see him and just about have accidents.
“Daddy, look!”
Ginko would be off faster than light. He was an expert hider and hid not far from where the tourists would spot him in a hole carefully dug for just that purpose.
“Oh, you did not!”
“Did so!”
“Did not.”
Ginko would just laugh and laugh and laugh.
Plato And Aristotle
Mad Max was down at the beach at the edge of the world looking for someone to play his favorite game: “Plato And Aristotle” with him.
Reality was enjoying the pleasure garden and politely demurred. Loopey Looise, after the rules were explained to her six times, agreed and the Lion Heart willingly agreed to judge because he knew L. Looise might prove to be interesting or weird if nothing else.
They drew straws and Max lost. Loopey Looise came back after about three hours consulted with the Lion Heart on the rules one last time and went back out on the rock again. Five hours later she came back with, “don’t fry stuff naked.”
The Lion Heart laughed and said, “no point.”
Max gave Loopey Looise a questioning look.
“You know, the grease spatters…”
Max nodded as sagely as possible. He went out on the rock and after only six hours he came back and said excitedly, “never trust an enlightened master who can’t dance.”
The Lion Heart nodded and Loopey Looise began dancing. “I like that one especially…”
Max looked like he would burst. “And?”
“No point.”
“Awww, that was close!” Max said exhaling.
“Not really.”
They played for seventeen weeks without stopping. While Max was out there, L. Looise practiced dancing. While L. Looise was out there, Mad Max would dig a hole and look for the space the dirt had been in. He was fascinated by his ability to make space. So much so that he would drag anybody who happened to be at The River Water House out to the beach to see his ‘space collection.’
Just about everyone but Reality saw a beach with a ridiculous number of holes dug in it although some saw piles of sand.
“I can create space whenever I want,” he said to the Lion Heart.
“You are amazing Max.” The Lion Heart said kindly.
Loopey Looise came back after about a day and a half and said, “abandon what should be abandoned.”
“That’s very good.” Max said.
“But no there’s no point.”
“I quit then.”
“We’ve only just started.” Max protested.
Loopey Looise walked away without another word.
Reality was enjoying the pleasure garden and politely demurred. Loopey Looise, after the rules were explained to her six times, agreed and the Lion Heart willingly agreed to judge because he knew L. Looise might prove to be interesting or weird if nothing else.
They drew straws and Max lost. Loopey Looise came back after about three hours consulted with the Lion Heart on the rules one last time and went back out on the rock again. Five hours later she came back with, “don’t fry stuff naked.”
The Lion Heart laughed and said, “no point.”
Max gave Loopey Looise a questioning look.
“You know, the grease spatters…”
Max nodded as sagely as possible. He went out on the rock and after only six hours he came back and said excitedly, “never trust an enlightened master who can’t dance.”
The Lion Heart nodded and Loopey Looise began dancing. “I like that one especially…”
Max looked like he would burst. “And?”
“No point.”
“Awww, that was close!” Max said exhaling.
“Not really.”
They played for seventeen weeks without stopping. While Max was out there, L. Looise practiced dancing. While L. Looise was out there, Mad Max would dig a hole and look for the space the dirt had been in. He was fascinated by his ability to make space. So much so that he would drag anybody who happened to be at The River Water House out to the beach to see his ‘space collection.’
Just about everyone but Reality saw a beach with a ridiculous number of holes dug in it although some saw piles of sand.
“I can create space whenever I want,” he said to the Lion Heart.
“You are amazing Max.” The Lion Heart said kindly.
Loopey Looise came back after about a day and a half and said, “abandon what should be abandoned.”
“That’s very good.” Max said.
“But no there’s no point.”
“I quit then.”
“We’ve only just started.” Max protested.
Loopey Looise walked away without another word.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Tastes Like Fear
Terri lived in the hot, steamy jungles of India where there are real Indians, not Native North Americans, very near Nepal. Terri had grown up tough, on a count of his name, and although there were plenty of Tigers bigger than he was, there were few he had met that were tougher than he was due to all that teasing in grade school.
Terri lived all alone as tigers are wont to do.
Terri’s favorite flavor was fear. He would chase down small animals and then pounce on them and eat them: “Mmm, mmm, tastes like fear.” Nine out of ten cats agree, which is why they play with their food before eating it.
Terri had a less than pleasant disposition.
He also had strange dreams about naked apes with sticks that made loud and sudden noises. He was haunted by these dreams and was sure that he was meant to eat these naked apes and that they would taste very much like fear.
He decided to consult The Old Tiger In The Tree. The Old Tiger In The Tree lived cradled in the arms of a two-hundred-year-old Banyan about forty feet up. To get there, you had to thread your way silently through the thick maze the tangled roots of the ancient tree had made. The maze ended under the main trunk. There you cleared your throat three times and asked your question.
You also had to be a tiger. Well, not really, but it helped because if you were noisy there were huge constricting snakes and extremely sharp beaked birds assigned to eat you. Not to mention The Old Tiger In The Tree who might make you lunch if you weren’t tough enough or smart enough. Terri being both had no trouble.
He cleared his throat three times. “I want to know if it would be wise to try and eat the naked apes with the sticks that make loud and sudden noises.”
There was a long silence. “That’s it?” The voice came from about forty feet up.
“Yes,” said Terri in a voice that betrayed his less than sunny disposition.
“NO.”
Terri waited a long time more. “I didn’t come all this way for a one word answer,” he thought.
“Oh, all right,” said The Old Tiger In The Tree. “They’re called ‘guns’ not ‘sticks that make loud and sudden noises’ and they aren’t just naked apes they’re called ‘poachers.’ The two together though not specifically designed for it per se are very effective tiger killers. Good day.”
Terri left feeling more unpleasant than usual. He went to lie down in his favorite pond and ‘soak on it’ for a while. An unlucky alligator happened by; after a bit of thrashing Terri decided it just tasted angry. He ate it anyway.
He made up his mind to go get a poacher. After a lot of sneaking around and being silent he watched two of them with those gun things walk past from one of his favorite thickets. They smelled vaguely like fear. He stalked them carefully. They set up a blind just a few feet from one of Terri’s own walking trails; up wind.
For a long time all three kept watch, but then one of the poachers decided to take a nap.
This story has a happy ending...if you aren’t a poacher or related to one.
Terri snuck up so close that they should have smelled his breath but then again Terri was also up wind. He bounded into the blind and bit the one who was awake. He yelled but his spine broke under the weight of a six hundred-pound tiger (with a less than sunny disposition). He slashed at the one that was sleeping knocking him out of the blind and onto his feet running. Terri chased after him and caught him--gunless--a few hundred feet away. He dragged him back to the blind where the other one lay screaming, his body too broken to reach his gun.
This story has an especially happy ending for Terri: they really tasted like fear.
Terri lived all alone as tigers are wont to do.
Terri’s favorite flavor was fear. He would chase down small animals and then pounce on them and eat them: “Mmm, mmm, tastes like fear.” Nine out of ten cats agree, which is why they play with their food before eating it.
Terri had a less than pleasant disposition.
He also had strange dreams about naked apes with sticks that made loud and sudden noises. He was haunted by these dreams and was sure that he was meant to eat these naked apes and that they would taste very much like fear.
He decided to consult The Old Tiger In The Tree. The Old Tiger In The Tree lived cradled in the arms of a two-hundred-year-old Banyan about forty feet up. To get there, you had to thread your way silently through the thick maze the tangled roots of the ancient tree had made. The maze ended under the main trunk. There you cleared your throat three times and asked your question.
You also had to be a tiger. Well, not really, but it helped because if you were noisy there were huge constricting snakes and extremely sharp beaked birds assigned to eat you. Not to mention The Old Tiger In The Tree who might make you lunch if you weren’t tough enough or smart enough. Terri being both had no trouble.
He cleared his throat three times. “I want to know if it would be wise to try and eat the naked apes with the sticks that make loud and sudden noises.”
There was a long silence. “That’s it?” The voice came from about forty feet up.
“Yes,” said Terri in a voice that betrayed his less than sunny disposition.
“NO.”
Terri waited a long time more. “I didn’t come all this way for a one word answer,” he thought.
“Oh, all right,” said The Old Tiger In The Tree. “They’re called ‘guns’ not ‘sticks that make loud and sudden noises’ and they aren’t just naked apes they’re called ‘poachers.’ The two together though not specifically designed for it per se are very effective tiger killers. Good day.”
Terri left feeling more unpleasant than usual. He went to lie down in his favorite pond and ‘soak on it’ for a while. An unlucky alligator happened by; after a bit of thrashing Terri decided it just tasted angry. He ate it anyway.
He made up his mind to go get a poacher. After a lot of sneaking around and being silent he watched two of them with those gun things walk past from one of his favorite thickets. They smelled vaguely like fear. He stalked them carefully. They set up a blind just a few feet from one of Terri’s own walking trails; up wind.
For a long time all three kept watch, but then one of the poachers decided to take a nap.
This story has a happy ending...if you aren’t a poacher or related to one.
Terri snuck up so close that they should have smelled his breath but then again Terri was also up wind. He bounded into the blind and bit the one who was awake. He yelled but his spine broke under the weight of a six hundred-pound tiger (with a less than sunny disposition). He slashed at the one that was sleeping knocking him out of the blind and onto his feet running. Terri chased after him and caught him--gunless--a few hundred feet away. He dragged him back to the blind where the other one lay screaming, his body too broken to reach his gun.
This story has an especially happy ending for Terri: they really tasted like fear.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Horace D Horse
Horace was a horse. His parents had had quite a sense of humor: Horace horse. He grew up tough because of it. He wasn’t a regular-domesticated-ride-um-around-kind of Horace horse. He was a wild mustang-you-better-not-even-try-to-put-a-saddle-on-my-back Horace horse.
He ran around the deserts and plains near the biggest damn gully on the planet, in northern Arizona. His parents had told him of days past when his forefathers had to work as slaves, pulling plows or carrying naked ape-like creatures on their backs. But now they were free as long as they could run very fast and paid attention. Horace was a fine white stallion, the kind Indian legends are made of. He could out run anyone or anybody and once kicked an enormous cougar in the teeth when that ol’ cougar got a little too close to his companions.
“Being free is really cool,” Horace said to himself.
He danced on his hind legs when no one was looking and made love to all the mares in his herd.
There is a place up there on the northern side of that big ass gully where Horace and other wild horses seldom go because if they get caught they get turned into glue by naked apes out for a buck. Horace would risk it once in a while because if you can run really fast you can watch the sun set seven times by out running the shadow of a low mountain. Horace loved to do it because despite his fierce reputation a sunset was something Horace enjoyed watching more than anything else.
As far as I know he’s still out there...horsing around.
He ran around the deserts and plains near the biggest damn gully on the planet, in northern Arizona. His parents had told him of days past when his forefathers had to work as slaves, pulling plows or carrying naked ape-like creatures on their backs. But now they were free as long as they could run very fast and paid attention. Horace was a fine white stallion, the kind Indian legends are made of. He could out run anyone or anybody and once kicked an enormous cougar in the teeth when that ol’ cougar got a little too close to his companions.
“Being free is really cool,” Horace said to himself.
He danced on his hind legs when no one was looking and made love to all the mares in his herd.
There is a place up there on the northern side of that big ass gully where Horace and other wild horses seldom go because if they get caught they get turned into glue by naked apes out for a buck. Horace would risk it once in a while because if you can run really fast you can watch the sun set seven times by out running the shadow of a low mountain. Horace loved to do it because despite his fierce reputation a sunset was something Horace enjoyed watching more than anything else.
As far as I know he’s still out there...horsing around.
Sam & Irene
Irene the Ibex was hanging around the Himalayas back when Vandalia was still the capitol of Illinois. She skipped from rock to rock occasionally slipping on the ice there. The drops below were sometimes several thousand feet but Irene was non-plussed. She never slipped far.
Irene used to enjoy dancing in the supper clubs them crafty old Ibexes set up for the purpose of getting the younger ones together for mating. There was a time when everybody including Ibexes was thinking they were getting entirely too rare.
Irene met a goofy Ibex named Sam. He wasn’t so good looking but he danced all right, and could carry on a half-ways decent conversation.
They went for a long walk and Irene was surprised when Sam pulled out a bottle of rice wine he got off a couple traveling Mongolian monks.
“Where the heck did you get that?”
“I traded it for some belly hair.”
“What?”
“You heard me: those naked apes are as weird as they come.”
They laughed and drank the whole thing. It wasn’t long before they were laying down together side by side. Irene smiled at Sam. Sam smiled back.
“Shall we become lovers?”
Sam turned red under his fur, but managed to stammer, “if you want to...”
It was obvious she wanted to, but like I said Sam was goofy. This added to his charm in Irene’s eyes.
Irene sang him a little song to put him at ease.
About half way through it Sam realized he was in love and lucky. Irene was quite the looker.
“What do you see when you see me?” He asked suddenly about three months after that.
Irene looked up from her meal of grass and sweet flowers. “I see my Ibex.”
Sam nodded, turning a nice shade of crimson.
There aren’t too many Ibexes to this day, but fortunately there are still plenty like Irene who go for more than just good looks.
Lucky for them male naked apes, too.
Irene used to enjoy dancing in the supper clubs them crafty old Ibexes set up for the purpose of getting the younger ones together for mating. There was a time when everybody including Ibexes was thinking they were getting entirely too rare.
Irene met a goofy Ibex named Sam. He wasn’t so good looking but he danced all right, and could carry on a half-ways decent conversation.
They went for a long walk and Irene was surprised when Sam pulled out a bottle of rice wine he got off a couple traveling Mongolian monks.
“Where the heck did you get that?”
“I traded it for some belly hair.”
“What?”
“You heard me: those naked apes are as weird as they come.”
They laughed and drank the whole thing. It wasn’t long before they were laying down together side by side. Irene smiled at Sam. Sam smiled back.
“Shall we become lovers?”
Sam turned red under his fur, but managed to stammer, “if you want to...”
It was obvious she wanted to, but like I said Sam was goofy. This added to his charm in Irene’s eyes.
Irene sang him a little song to put him at ease.
About half way through it Sam realized he was in love and lucky. Irene was quite the looker.
“What do you see when you see me?” He asked suddenly about three months after that.
Irene looked up from her meal of grass and sweet flowers. “I see my Ibex.”
Sam nodded, turning a nice shade of crimson.
There aren’t too many Ibexes to this day, but fortunately there are still plenty like Irene who go for more than just good looks.
Lucky for them male naked apes, too.
River Water house
Mad Max was making quite a racket on the beach at the edge of the world. Curious, The Lion Heart came over to see just exactly what Max was up to.
“I’m building you a house out of river water.”
“River water?”
“Oh, don’t worry this is sparkling clean river water, not the muddy kind.”
“What am I going to do with a house made out of river water?”
“Live in it.”
“Oh.”
It turned out to be a most beautiful, most magical house. Max had built it with lots of open spaces because as you well know, The Lion Heart liked to entertain guests and often had unexpected guests drop in. It had a beautiful watergate, and whitewater fence. The clear stained ice was the crowning touch.
The Lion Heart had a house warming party, everybody who was anybody came, where were you?
Before long they obliged The Lion Heart to make a speech, something he rarely did. The wholly abridged version follows: “I’d like to thank Mad Max for building this house for my birthday...” Applause. “And, blah blah blah for doing such a fine job blah blah blah. I shall call this place River Water House and all who come here will find peace and happiness-”
“And great parties...” Max interrupted. Music began playing and there was a roaring ovation.
The Lion Heart knew when to quit.
Life is after all, a party. On the beach at the edge of the world, that is.
“I’m building you a house out of river water.”
“River water?”
“Oh, don’t worry this is sparkling clean river water, not the muddy kind.”
“What am I going to do with a house made out of river water?”
“Live in it.”
“Oh.”
It turned out to be a most beautiful, most magical house. Max had built it with lots of open spaces because as you well know, The Lion Heart liked to entertain guests and often had unexpected guests drop in. It had a beautiful watergate, and whitewater fence. The clear stained ice was the crowning touch.
The Lion Heart had a house warming party, everybody who was anybody came, where were you?
Before long they obliged The Lion Heart to make a speech, something he rarely did. The wholly abridged version follows: “I’d like to thank Mad Max for building this house for my birthday...” Applause. “And, blah blah blah for doing such a fine job blah blah blah. I shall call this place River Water House and all who come here will find peace and happiness-”
“And great parties...” Max interrupted. Music began playing and there was a roaring ovation.
The Lion Heart knew when to quit.
Life is after all, a party. On the beach at the edge of the world, that is.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Kay Jay
Kay Jay was a common desert lizard. He was the kind of lizard that could skitter around at 40 miles per hour when he felt like it. It was quite a sight to see, sand flying, tail wagging, fast moving reptilia squamata.
He liked to style and profile on top of rocks or any other protruding promitory. He’d be acting as cool as a lizard can be, that is ‘till some reptile eating bird showed up, then he’d be doing the evasive action wild thing.
He used to like to wear those cool looking aviator Ray Bans, and at night he’d throw on a leather jacket. It got pretty darn cold in the New Mexico desert in the wintertime. Kay Jay liked to eat scorpions on those cold nights. Being immune to their sting didn’t mean it didn’t burn like fire when that stinger hit home. He’d get a meal and warm up a few degrees, all at the same time. It was kinda like eating jalepaños.
One evening he was outside enjoying the setting desert sun, when a big striped coral snake named Millard came slithering up. Kay Jay just stood there acting cool. The snake moved in as slowly and unobtrusively as he knew how. Kay Jay watched him with just a little contempt. Millard and Kay Jay went back a long way. Millard made his move lunging with fangs barred. Kay Jay was faster still; he put it into high gear and was 30 feet away before that ol’ snake could blink.
“Right, like you thought you’d actually catch me,” Kay Jay said.
“Almost.”
“Not even close, you legless lizard wanna-be.”
“One day, I’m swallowing you head first.”
“Yeah, yeah--go catch a snail.” Kay Jay climbed up on top of another rock. He posed hoping a good-looking female would happen by and notice. None did.
He sat there until just past nine. The moon rose--he did look pretty cool silhouetted against it. He headed off for the nearest Honkey Tonk western bar, and listened to the band play.
It was a rugged life out there in the desert, but Kay Jay couldn’t think of a place he’d rather be.
He liked to style and profile on top of rocks or any other protruding promitory. He’d be acting as cool as a lizard can be, that is ‘till some reptile eating bird showed up, then he’d be doing the evasive action wild thing.
He used to like to wear those cool looking aviator Ray Bans, and at night he’d throw on a leather jacket. It got pretty darn cold in the New Mexico desert in the wintertime. Kay Jay liked to eat scorpions on those cold nights. Being immune to their sting didn’t mean it didn’t burn like fire when that stinger hit home. He’d get a meal and warm up a few degrees, all at the same time. It was kinda like eating jalepaños.
One evening he was outside enjoying the setting desert sun, when a big striped coral snake named Millard came slithering up. Kay Jay just stood there acting cool. The snake moved in as slowly and unobtrusively as he knew how. Kay Jay watched him with just a little contempt. Millard and Kay Jay went back a long way. Millard made his move lunging with fangs barred. Kay Jay was faster still; he put it into high gear and was 30 feet away before that ol’ snake could blink.
“Right, like you thought you’d actually catch me,” Kay Jay said.
“Almost.”
“Not even close, you legless lizard wanna-be.”
“One day, I’m swallowing you head first.”
“Yeah, yeah--go catch a snail.” Kay Jay climbed up on top of another rock. He posed hoping a good-looking female would happen by and notice. None did.
He sat there until just past nine. The moon rose--he did look pretty cool silhouetted against it. He headed off for the nearest Honkey Tonk western bar, and listened to the band play.
It was a rugged life out there in the desert, but Kay Jay couldn’t think of a place he’d rather be.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Seeing Edgar
Seeing Edgar was a blind, oversized Duck Billed Platypus. He was old like stars. He had seen the dinosaurs come and he had seen them go; permanently. Seeing Edgar used to find employment as an oracle in Asian cities before the Greeks had put up their first temple.
Seeing Edgar was the kind of Duck Billed Platypus that didn’t need to be asleep to be dreaming, and had such a vivid imagination that some thought him insane. He was born during what some people call Dream Time. In his imagination he wasn’t blind and this spilled over into his everyday existence. He walked around without a cane or seeing-eye-dog and almost never ran into anything.
It was because of these things that he became the leader of his people way back then, when Duck Billed Platypuses ruled the earth and migrated in huge herds from Australia to Siberia twice a year.
“This is silly,” Seeing Edgar said. “All this migrating. Let’s just pick a spot and stay there.”
They put it up to a vote and the Southern Hemisphere won on a count of the stars you can see there.
Seeing Edgar was hoping for Indonesia or at least Asia Minor but the herd had spoken. He knew this would bode ill for Duck Billed Platypus supremacy, not to mention their numbers in general but due to their political structure he could not overrule them.
So he abdicated.
That was a long time ago, and somehow Seeing Edgar has survived. It’s probably due to his vivid imagination and clean living and getting all 96 vitamins and minerals on a daily basis.
He knocked around doing the oracle wild thing and the wise-dude-in-the-temple-basement wild thing then wrote a couple of books. These written back when he still used a last name--Ching. Some people still consult them, the books written by Seeing Edgar Ching or ‘The E. Ching’ for short. Over the years and translations the spelling has changed but it’s the same guy.
“I”, “E”...whatever.
Seeing Edgar prefers Seeing Edgar and hasn’t been called by his last name for centuries. He was going to write an updated version called ‘Divination By Coin’ when the royalties finally ran out.
He still hasn’t gotten around to it.
Mostly he gives uncannily accurate advice and predictions for the fun of it, drinks exotic teas, writes vague, obtuse poetry and travels.
Next time you run into a large blind Duck Billed Platypus you’ll know who he is and you’ll have a question ready.
Seeing Edgar was the kind of Duck Billed Platypus that didn’t need to be asleep to be dreaming, and had such a vivid imagination that some thought him insane. He was born during what some people call Dream Time. In his imagination he wasn’t blind and this spilled over into his everyday existence. He walked around without a cane or seeing-eye-dog and almost never ran into anything.
It was because of these things that he became the leader of his people way back then, when Duck Billed Platypuses ruled the earth and migrated in huge herds from Australia to Siberia twice a year.
“This is silly,” Seeing Edgar said. “All this migrating. Let’s just pick a spot and stay there.”
They put it up to a vote and the Southern Hemisphere won on a count of the stars you can see there.
Seeing Edgar was hoping for Indonesia or at least Asia Minor but the herd had spoken. He knew this would bode ill for Duck Billed Platypus supremacy, not to mention their numbers in general but due to their political structure he could not overrule them.
So he abdicated.
That was a long time ago, and somehow Seeing Edgar has survived. It’s probably due to his vivid imagination and clean living and getting all 96 vitamins and minerals on a daily basis.
He knocked around doing the oracle wild thing and the wise-dude-in-the-temple-basement wild thing then wrote a couple of books. These written back when he still used a last name--Ching. Some people still consult them, the books written by Seeing Edgar Ching or ‘The E. Ching’ for short. Over the years and translations the spelling has changed but it’s the same guy.
“I”, “E”...whatever.
Seeing Edgar prefers Seeing Edgar and hasn’t been called by his last name for centuries. He was going to write an updated version called ‘Divination By Coin’ when the royalties finally ran out.
He still hasn’t gotten around to it.
Mostly he gives uncannily accurate advice and predictions for the fun of it, drinks exotic teas, writes vague, obtuse poetry and travels.
Next time you run into a large blind Duck Billed Platypus you’ll know who he is and you’ll have a question ready.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Wart Remover
If you’d have been there, you’d be deaf now. It was that big of an explosion. Mad Max came out of the lab coughing up smoke and looking like the stereotype blackened cartoon character.
“Whoo-eee!” he laughed. “Wrong ingredient. Wonder if I could sell this to the U.S. Military?”
Plaster was still falling from the ceiling. A couple of devils appeared to see if Max had gotten himself dead, and therefore would be able to collect on the traditional wizard bargain.
They had no idea just how mad Mad Max really was. He’d probably promised his soul to 10,000 devils in his time, and he wasn’t done yet.
“Help you boys?” Max asked fanning the smoke away with large sweeping gestures.
“Just checking, Max.”
“Well, go check somewhere else.”
They were off post haste because they knew that both of them together were no match for Mad Max.
Max summoned some condo-cleaners to help him fix up his lab. These guys had seen everything, even before they met Max. Two days later Max was back in business. Even with magic it still took two days; it was one honker explosion.
This time things went according to plan: fast-acting-topical-wart-remover, and it tasted good, too. You could use it as a non-carcinogenic sugar substitute. You could also use it as window cleaner, and it would fuel most internal combustion engines and (as an added bonus) it was fully biodegradable.
“This time, I’m gonna be rich! Rich, I tell ya.” He said to nobody there.
He danced a little jig. He had forgotten he was already wealthy beyond measure of mortal men. Max had invented fire, and collected royalties for the first 400,000 years.
“Whoo-eee!” he laughed. “Wrong ingredient. Wonder if I could sell this to the U.S. Military?”
Plaster was still falling from the ceiling. A couple of devils appeared to see if Max had gotten himself dead, and therefore would be able to collect on the traditional wizard bargain.
They had no idea just how mad Mad Max really was. He’d probably promised his soul to 10,000 devils in his time, and he wasn’t done yet.
“Help you boys?” Max asked fanning the smoke away with large sweeping gestures.
“Just checking, Max.”
“Well, go check somewhere else.”
They were off post haste because they knew that both of them together were no match for Mad Max.
Max summoned some condo-cleaners to help him fix up his lab. These guys had seen everything, even before they met Max. Two days later Max was back in business. Even with magic it still took two days; it was one honker explosion.
This time things went according to plan: fast-acting-topical-wart-remover, and it tasted good, too. You could use it as a non-carcinogenic sugar substitute. You could also use it as window cleaner, and it would fuel most internal combustion engines and (as an added bonus) it was fully biodegradable.
“This time, I’m gonna be rich! Rich, I tell ya.” He said to nobody there.
He danced a little jig. He had forgotten he was already wealthy beyond measure of mortal men. Max had invented fire, and collected royalties for the first 400,000 years.
Maurice
Maurice was an huge eight-foot octopus. The red kind. He wasn’t quite as slimy as you might think, although even he’d admit he was slimier than you or me.
Maurice lived a happy and carefree life in the Mediterranean Sea not far off the coast of Toulon in France. He dined on shellfish and expensive French wine.
There were rare occasions when he went up to the tide pools and lay in shallow waters sunbathing. Sometimes small children would sneak up and watch him, trying to be brave in front of their peers, most of the time Maurice saw them there but as long as they didn’t have spears or fishing hooks he didn’t care.
Maurice was an educated octopus.
On one of these rare occasions up there in the tide pools, Maurice fell asleep. He had just had a very large meal of crabs and lobsters and china-hat-mollusks, along with a big bottle of Merlot and so was feeling quite sleepy to begin with, that and the warm afternoon sun and the gentle tide rolling in and out put Maurice out like a light, or a sleepy octopus.
Maurice awoke only half submerged in water with a vague headache. His skin was getting a little dry too. But none of that mattered because right there next to him, not inches away, was a naked ape. The female kind. Maurice thought he was dreaming for a short second. She was the most exquisite creature Maurice had ever seen. He found her more beautiful than any octopus he’d ever laid eyes on and he’d laid eyes on quite a few.
That was because she wasn’t really a regular naked ape but one of them whacked out Greek gods from ancient times who had the hots for animals and in this case sea creatures. Without getting too sordid let’s just say they made love. Maurice liked it better than octopus love making because he didn’t have as many arms to deal with. The whack-o liked it because there were so many arms to deal with.
Once or twice a month Maurice would head up to that same tide pool and wait for her. She didn’t always show, but the times she did made up for all the rest.
One time she brought a bottle wine with her that she purchased in America. They drank it and made passionate love and then Maurice died because, wouldn’t you know it; he was allergic to sulfates. She cried and cried because she wasn’t one of those gods that could bring the dead back to life. She mourned bitterly but this didn’t stop her from eating Maurice after boiling him in onions and meat tenderizer.
Maurice lived a happy and carefree life in the Mediterranean Sea not far off the coast of Toulon in France. He dined on shellfish and expensive French wine.
There were rare occasions when he went up to the tide pools and lay in shallow waters sunbathing. Sometimes small children would sneak up and watch him, trying to be brave in front of their peers, most of the time Maurice saw them there but as long as they didn’t have spears or fishing hooks he didn’t care.
Maurice was an educated octopus.
On one of these rare occasions up there in the tide pools, Maurice fell asleep. He had just had a very large meal of crabs and lobsters and china-hat-mollusks, along with a big bottle of Merlot and so was feeling quite sleepy to begin with, that and the warm afternoon sun and the gentle tide rolling in and out put Maurice out like a light, or a sleepy octopus.
Maurice awoke only half submerged in water with a vague headache. His skin was getting a little dry too. But none of that mattered because right there next to him, not inches away, was a naked ape. The female kind. Maurice thought he was dreaming for a short second. She was the most exquisite creature Maurice had ever seen. He found her more beautiful than any octopus he’d ever laid eyes on and he’d laid eyes on quite a few.
That was because she wasn’t really a regular naked ape but one of them whacked out Greek gods from ancient times who had the hots for animals and in this case sea creatures. Without getting too sordid let’s just say they made love. Maurice liked it better than octopus love making because he didn’t have as many arms to deal with. The whack-o liked it because there were so many arms to deal with.
Once or twice a month Maurice would head up to that same tide pool and wait for her. She didn’t always show, but the times she did made up for all the rest.
One time she brought a bottle wine with her that she purchased in America. They drank it and made passionate love and then Maurice died because, wouldn’t you know it; he was allergic to sulfates. She cried and cried because she wasn’t one of those gods that could bring the dead back to life. She mourned bitterly but this didn’t stop her from eating Maurice after boiling him in onions and meat tenderizer.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
I think. I get it.
George was a graduate of Roscoe’s Halfway Cafe. He had had the nice life with the wife, the kids, the cars, and had thrown it all away by trying to fill the void he felt with drugs.
All kinds of drugs. He had gone from casual cocaine use to crack to heroine, and many other pills and concoctions besides.
He soon had no wife, no kids, no house, no car, no self-respect and no money...not exactly in that order.
Unfortunately you probably know the story. One day George was in an alleyway in downtown Chicago feeling sorry for himself when he came face to face with a huge gray rat, by the name of Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey.
“Wow, I must still be tripping.”
“Yes, and no. I’m here where are you?”
A philosophical conversation ensued.
A month later George was spilling coffee at Roscoe’s Halfway Cafe. George cleaned himself up, and one day while deep in meditation finally did forgive himself, ridding himself of the guilt losing his kids had brought him.
It was at that same instant he met Mad Max.
Max was feeling particularly saucy so he decided to play his part to the...well uh, max.
“You have been searching for the meaning of life.”
“I have.”
“I will give you a gift. It’s a book. In it is contained the answer.” Max handed him the book.
George took it with trembling hands. There was no title and as George examined it further he found the pages blank.
“But, this book is blank; it’s empty.”
“Yes,” Mad Max said nodding emphatically.
“But, you said it had the answer to the meaning of life.”
“Yes,”
“But it’s blank.”
Pause.
“Write on the pages.” Max smiled with a knowing nod.
A long pause.
“I think I get it.”
“Yes.”
George ‘woke up’ smiling. The book lay on the bed next to him.
Unlike George, all you have to do is go buy one.
All kinds of drugs. He had gone from casual cocaine use to crack to heroine, and many other pills and concoctions besides.
He soon had no wife, no kids, no house, no car, no self-respect and no money...not exactly in that order.
Unfortunately you probably know the story. One day George was in an alleyway in downtown Chicago feeling sorry for himself when he came face to face with a huge gray rat, by the name of Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey.
“Wow, I must still be tripping.”
“Yes, and no. I’m here where are you?”
A philosophical conversation ensued.
A month later George was spilling coffee at Roscoe’s Halfway Cafe. George cleaned himself up, and one day while deep in meditation finally did forgive himself, ridding himself of the guilt losing his kids had brought him.
It was at that same instant he met Mad Max.
Max was feeling particularly saucy so he decided to play his part to the...well uh, max.
“You have been searching for the meaning of life.”
“I have.”
“I will give you a gift. It’s a book. In it is contained the answer.” Max handed him the book.
George took it with trembling hands. There was no title and as George examined it further he found the pages blank.
“But, this book is blank; it’s empty.”
“Yes,” Mad Max said nodding emphatically.
“But, you said it had the answer to the meaning of life.”
“Yes,”
“But it’s blank.”
Pause.
“Write on the pages.” Max smiled with a knowing nod.
A long pause.
“I think I get it.”
“Yes.”
George ‘woke up’ smiling. The book lay on the bed next to him.
Unlike George, all you have to do is go buy one.
Harry
Harry was exceedingly soft spoken. He lived in a eucalyptus tree totally unaware that Dream Time was over.
Harry was a fuzzy koala bear.
He often flew Quantas to places with names I can’t spell and you couldn’t pronounce. He wore black hornrimmed wayfarers and was extremely mild mannered behind those shades.
One day he met the cutest Kangaroo you’ve ever seen in a place called Vanuatu. They became lovers and moved to Flores Island, a little east of Java. Here they cavorted in the Flores Sea, and ran along white sand beaches so beautiful tears would well up in your eyes if you ever saw them.
After several years of this, Harry began to miss his eucalyptus tree.
Cindy the Kangaroo couldn’t understand this. “Don’t you love me anymore?” She said one sunny afternoon as she lounged beneath a coconut tree that made shade right up to the water's edge.
“I love you like sun,” Harry said softly and slowly.
“Then why, my lover would you want to go back to Brisbane and sit in a eucalyptus tree all day long. I can’t even climb trees.” Cindy said.
“You could live right beneath the tree, and lay your head on the roots there that make a comfortable cradle before they go under ground,” Harry said. “We would be happy.”
Cindy never did get it, and Harry left a note that said simply: you know where to find me.
Cindy cried a thousand bitter tears. Harry lived out his days without regret, in his eucalyptus tree, behind his black hornrimmed Wayfarers, speaking softly to the birds that happened by.
He never went to find her and strangely she never came to find him. Harry never saw Cindy again. He did; however, live happily ever after.
Harry was a fuzzy koala bear.
He often flew Quantas to places with names I can’t spell and you couldn’t pronounce. He wore black hornrimmed wayfarers and was extremely mild mannered behind those shades.
One day he met the cutest Kangaroo you’ve ever seen in a place called Vanuatu. They became lovers and moved to Flores Island, a little east of Java. Here they cavorted in the Flores Sea, and ran along white sand beaches so beautiful tears would well up in your eyes if you ever saw them.
After several years of this, Harry began to miss his eucalyptus tree.
Cindy the Kangaroo couldn’t understand this. “Don’t you love me anymore?” She said one sunny afternoon as she lounged beneath a coconut tree that made shade right up to the water's edge.
“I love you like sun,” Harry said softly and slowly.
“Then why, my lover would you want to go back to Brisbane and sit in a eucalyptus tree all day long. I can’t even climb trees.” Cindy said.
“You could live right beneath the tree, and lay your head on the roots there that make a comfortable cradle before they go under ground,” Harry said. “We would be happy.”
Cindy never did get it, and Harry left a note that said simply: you know where to find me.
Cindy cried a thousand bitter tears. Harry lived out his days without regret, in his eucalyptus tree, behind his black hornrimmed Wayfarers, speaking softly to the birds that happened by.
He never went to find her and strangely she never came to find him. Harry never saw Cindy again. He did; however, live happily ever after.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
A Certain Witch
Sir Frederick Black, the raven, stood motionless on one foot while watching a certain witch undress bathe and dress herself again in white and gold finery. He didn’t so much as blink. “If only I could be a man for one day,” he thought.
“Then I would suck out your soul too,” the witch smiled.
If Sir Frederick Black could have blushed he would have because you can imagine the other thoughts he was having before we began this little story.
“I’m quite certain I don’t have a soul, at least not one like a man.”
“A point, but never you mind my little black friend I like you just the way you are and it makes me smile that your imagination is so vivid. Hot oil and honey? Really! Where ever did you get such a notion.”
As you can well imagine Sir Frederick Black was wishing he could evaporate or sink into the ground or something like that. “I...uh..er..how is it that in nine years of knowing you, you managed to keep the fact that you can read minds a secret?”
“Freddy Black,” she began. It gave him chills up his back when she called him that. “I only just learned this spell and you are the first I’ve tried it out on. Don’t be angry with me.” She dipped her head slightly and looked up at him. “How is it in nine years of knowing you, you never said you loved me.”
“It’s not exactly something a bird says to a woman now is it?”
“And why not?”
“Would you like me to go into a physiological discussion or philosophical one? One dealing with anatomy, the other with wanting what one cannot have.”
She laughed and clapped her hands. “Are all males alike? They cannot love a woman without sex? Even you Freddy Black?”
“Certainly I’ll not speak for all males but this one never had sex with his mother or sister or my many daughters. Don’t be ridiculous; it’s you. It’s you. It’s you.”
“I’m sure I could turn into a bird but I doubt I could turn you into a man.”
The fact that she even said this had Sir Frederick Black standing on two feet then one then the other. “Perhaps one day I’ll find such a shape changing spell. Until then wear this gold chain it will bring you luck, and may keep you safe ‘till I do.” She put it around his neck and kissed him.
The day he died he was still wearing that gold chain.
“Then I would suck out your soul too,” the witch smiled.
If Sir Frederick Black could have blushed he would have because you can imagine the other thoughts he was having before we began this little story.
“I’m quite certain I don’t have a soul, at least not one like a man.”
“A point, but never you mind my little black friend I like you just the way you are and it makes me smile that your imagination is so vivid. Hot oil and honey? Really! Where ever did you get such a notion.”
As you can well imagine Sir Frederick Black was wishing he could evaporate or sink into the ground or something like that. “I...uh..er..how is it that in nine years of knowing you, you managed to keep the fact that you can read minds a secret?”
“Freddy Black,” she began. It gave him chills up his back when she called him that. “I only just learned this spell and you are the first I’ve tried it out on. Don’t be angry with me.” She dipped her head slightly and looked up at him. “How is it in nine years of knowing you, you never said you loved me.”
“It’s not exactly something a bird says to a woman now is it?”
“And why not?”
“Would you like me to go into a physiological discussion or philosophical one? One dealing with anatomy, the other with wanting what one cannot have.”
She laughed and clapped her hands. “Are all males alike? They cannot love a woman without sex? Even you Freddy Black?”
“Certainly I’ll not speak for all males but this one never had sex with his mother or sister or my many daughters. Don’t be ridiculous; it’s you. It’s you. It’s you.”
“I’m sure I could turn into a bird but I doubt I could turn you into a man.”
The fact that she even said this had Sir Frederick Black standing on two feet then one then the other. “Perhaps one day I’ll find such a shape changing spell. Until then wear this gold chain it will bring you luck, and may keep you safe ‘till I do.” She put it around his neck and kissed him.
The day he died he was still wearing that gold chain.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Jed
“Jed get down offa there before you hurt yourself,” Amanda hog called. “It’s too damn hot for this Tom foolery.” Jed was a pig. At the moment he was balancing precariously on a rain barrel he had just knocked over. Several chickens had gathered around to watch the show, and Jed was hamming it up the way only pigs can.
“Go, Jedariah, go!” Some of the farm animals took up the chant.
Jed was on three legs now, then on two. Of course he fell off into the mud where he immediately began break dancing.
The squawking and commotion even got ol’ Nelly cows attention. She swaggered over to watch, chewing her cud excitedly, like a teen-ager with a wad of bubble gum.
Jed was back up on the barrel. This time he was juggling old tin cans and telling even older, rustier jokes. “How do you get holy water?”
“Dunno Jed, how?”
“Boil the hell out it!”
Squawking and mooing. Jed was back in the mud again.
Suddenly there comes farmer Mac. The barnyard scatters. Jed is right in the middle of trying to climb back up on the barrel when Farmer Mac sees him. Jed freezes. Amanda and Nelly can’t help but laugh out loud.
“Stupid pig, why’d ya go an knock over the rain barrel for?”
“Cuz he wassa wantin’ for to provide us with entertainment,” Danny Crow called down from on top of the barn.
Unlike you and I, Farmer Mac understood nary a word of it.
Jed looked up sheepishly. “It was a good show ‘till you showed up.”
“Give it up Jed, there’s more water in the trough an I’ll be shootin’ ya all down with the hose for it gits dark.”
“Whoopee! What’d I tell ya, what’d I tell ya. Huh, Amanda? Baths for everybody.”
“Go, Jedariah, go!” Some of the farm animals took up the chant.
Jed was on three legs now, then on two. Of course he fell off into the mud where he immediately began break dancing.
The squawking and commotion even got ol’ Nelly cows attention. She swaggered over to watch, chewing her cud excitedly, like a teen-ager with a wad of bubble gum.
Jed was back up on the barrel. This time he was juggling old tin cans and telling even older, rustier jokes. “How do you get holy water?”
“Dunno Jed, how?”
“Boil the hell out it!”
Squawking and mooing. Jed was back in the mud again.
Suddenly there comes farmer Mac. The barnyard scatters. Jed is right in the middle of trying to climb back up on the barrel when Farmer Mac sees him. Jed freezes. Amanda and Nelly can’t help but laugh out loud.
“Stupid pig, why’d ya go an knock over the rain barrel for?”
“Cuz he wassa wantin’ for to provide us with entertainment,” Danny Crow called down from on top of the barn.
Unlike you and I, Farmer Mac understood nary a word of it.
Jed looked up sheepishly. “It was a good show ‘till you showed up.”
“Give it up Jed, there’s more water in the trough an I’ll be shootin’ ya all down with the hose for it gits dark.”
“Whoopee! What’d I tell ya, what’d I tell ya. Huh, Amanda? Baths for everybody.”
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Araby
Araby was very beautiful. Her father had read exactly one short story by James Joyce and named his daughter after it. She was just as dark and brooding.
Araby could however, dance: Ballet, Jazz or just hopping and twisting erotically to that modern urban stuff they played on the radio in the 90’s.
Males flat out annoyed her. Females more so.
One night she was driving home at a late hour. A drunk driver crossed the center line and Araby woke up on the beach at the edge of the world. The Lion Heart looked down on her smiling that Lion Heart smile.
“Dance with me.” It was not a request.
They danced and danced and danced. Araby cried out at last, “If I dance any more I will die! You are so beautiful...”
The Lion Heart laughed and said, “You cannot die, only pass on.”
She didn’t understand this.
“Let’s go swimming now,” the Lion Heart said. They swam all the way out to the edge of the ocean where you can look down at the stars, he smiled sadly and cast her off before she could protest before she’d had the chance to taste his Lion Heart lips.
She fell for what seemed like forever.
Then she woke up even more suddenly than before, with tubes and things stuck in her body. She sat bolt upright. She thought, mistakenly that she had been dreaming, but never again could you call her dark and brooding.
Her smile could have warmed even the Lion Heart.
Araby could however, dance: Ballet, Jazz or just hopping and twisting erotically to that modern urban stuff they played on the radio in the 90’s.
Males flat out annoyed her. Females more so.
One night she was driving home at a late hour. A drunk driver crossed the center line and Araby woke up on the beach at the edge of the world. The Lion Heart looked down on her smiling that Lion Heart smile.
“Dance with me.” It was not a request.
They danced and danced and danced. Araby cried out at last, “If I dance any more I will die! You are so beautiful...”
The Lion Heart laughed and said, “You cannot die, only pass on.”
She didn’t understand this.
“Let’s go swimming now,” the Lion Heart said. They swam all the way out to the edge of the ocean where you can look down at the stars, he smiled sadly and cast her off before she could protest before she’d had the chance to taste his Lion Heart lips.
She fell for what seemed like forever.
Then she woke up even more suddenly than before, with tubes and things stuck in her body. She sat bolt upright. She thought, mistakenly that she had been dreaming, but never again could you call her dark and brooding.
Her smile could have warmed even the Lion Heart.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Binky
Binky was a Rottweiler, despite his name he lived to be 21 years old: that’s 147 in dog years. Go figure.
This is a story about Binky in his younger days. As Binky got older he did indeed get wiser, but as I said this isn’t what you’re about to read about. Binky was sitting on the lawn he owned and guarded. His master on occasion forgot to put him in the house at night. Binky was his own dog for those few hours. He would take the opportunity to sniff around and see what was to be seen. All the other dogs gave Binky a wide berth.
Binky was that kind of dog.
Now he sat licking his chops, anticipating the guy in the blue suit who carried the big bag.
Binky was a patient dog.
He sat and listened until he heard the footsteps he’d been waiting for. He sprang up and hid behind the hedge, chuckling to himself.
The man reached into his bag and pulled out some envelopes. At that exact moment Binky began barking as ferociously as he knew how--and Binky knew how.
Envelopes everywhere.
Binky ran around the back porch and laughed himself silly. He knew his master wouldn’t forget to put him indoors for a long, long time.
This is a story about Binky in his younger days. As Binky got older he did indeed get wiser, but as I said this isn’t what you’re about to read about. Binky was sitting on the lawn he owned and guarded. His master on occasion forgot to put him in the house at night. Binky was his own dog for those few hours. He would take the opportunity to sniff around and see what was to be seen. All the other dogs gave Binky a wide berth.
Binky was that kind of dog.
Now he sat licking his chops, anticipating the guy in the blue suit who carried the big bag.
Binky was a patient dog.
He sat and listened until he heard the footsteps he’d been waiting for. He sprang up and hid behind the hedge, chuckling to himself.
The man reached into his bag and pulled out some envelopes. At that exact moment Binky began barking as ferociously as he knew how--and Binky knew how.
Envelopes everywhere.
Binky ran around the back porch and laughed himself silly. He knew his master wouldn’t forget to put him indoors for a long, long time.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Aswanda
Aswanda was a reggae ant. She had left the nest at a young age and taken up residence in a reggae bar on the Caribbean Island of Jamaica. She lived her life scurgle-ing spilt beer and pecking at pretzel dust, while listening to hot reggae music.
Aswanda thought it was a good life.
It has been written that once an ant leaves it’s nest it becomes disoriented and dies. Fortunately, Aswanda had never read this. Actually Aswanda had never bothered to learn how to read.
She lived under a discarded newspaper at the bottom of a cardboard liqueur box under the bar. Aswanda was able to make it up to the bar and back again without being eaten by lizards who also inhabited the reggae bar on a count of her incredible speed and dexterity. She had been called “Flies Like Lightning” back in the old days when she still lived in the comfort of the nest. She had comfort but couldn’t deal with the regimented life ants are accustomed to; hence her residence in a reggae bar. There were no spiders to bother her because this particular reggae bar was owned and frequented by superstitious naked apes who despised spiders and thought that they brought bad luck.
Once a young little spider was hanging out under the bar and about scared Aswanda out of her wits.
“Take a rest missant,” the young spider said. “Yer gettin’ yerself all excited over nuttin’, ya know. Dis here spider don’ eat no ants.”
“Well thassa nice thing to hear early in da mornin’,” Aswanda said from a safe distance off. “If I were a spider I wouldn’ be a hangin’ around here ya know. These here big’uns kill yer kind jus’ fer the hellavit. Be mindin’ yer own, an they’ll come’n chase ya down. Kill ya dead. No remorse neither. So ya better git.”
“And what about you?” The young spider said. “Bet they sees yer little self and yer a goner too.”
“Yeah mon, but I’m small an speedy, an thems that have seen me don’ take no notice.”
Just then the naked ape that set up the bar opened the door and came in. Aswanda went one way and the young spider another and thankfully for Aswanda she never saw the spider again.
Aswanda would climb all the way up onto the liquor shelf after she’d skurgled enough beer to be feeling good and from there she could watch the band and look in the mirror while she was dancing. Aswanda would dance around the bar or wherever she was when a good song came on. In this manner she stayed fit and trim, living to be 109 in ant years. You’d never have guessed it by looking at her.
She died while the band was playing at 1am. She was dancing around when a clumsy naked ape put his beer mug down on her head. She never saw it coming and was killed instantly. You and I should be so lucky.
Aswanda thought it was a good life.
It has been written that once an ant leaves it’s nest it becomes disoriented and dies. Fortunately, Aswanda had never read this. Actually Aswanda had never bothered to learn how to read.
She lived under a discarded newspaper at the bottom of a cardboard liqueur box under the bar. Aswanda was able to make it up to the bar and back again without being eaten by lizards who also inhabited the reggae bar on a count of her incredible speed and dexterity. She had been called “Flies Like Lightning” back in the old days when she still lived in the comfort of the nest. She had comfort but couldn’t deal with the regimented life ants are accustomed to; hence her residence in a reggae bar. There were no spiders to bother her because this particular reggae bar was owned and frequented by superstitious naked apes who despised spiders and thought that they brought bad luck.
Once a young little spider was hanging out under the bar and about scared Aswanda out of her wits.
“Take a rest missant,” the young spider said. “Yer gettin’ yerself all excited over nuttin’, ya know. Dis here spider don’ eat no ants.”
“Well thassa nice thing to hear early in da mornin’,” Aswanda said from a safe distance off. “If I were a spider I wouldn’ be a hangin’ around here ya know. These here big’uns kill yer kind jus’ fer the hellavit. Be mindin’ yer own, an they’ll come’n chase ya down. Kill ya dead. No remorse neither. So ya better git.”
“And what about you?” The young spider said. “Bet they sees yer little self and yer a goner too.”
“Yeah mon, but I’m small an speedy, an thems that have seen me don’ take no notice.”
Just then the naked ape that set up the bar opened the door and came in. Aswanda went one way and the young spider another and thankfully for Aswanda she never saw the spider again.
Aswanda would climb all the way up onto the liquor shelf after she’d skurgled enough beer to be feeling good and from there she could watch the band and look in the mirror while she was dancing. Aswanda would dance around the bar or wherever she was when a good song came on. In this manner she stayed fit and trim, living to be 109 in ant years. You’d never have guessed it by looking at her.
She died while the band was playing at 1am. She was dancing around when a clumsy naked ape put his beer mug down on her head. She never saw it coming and was killed instantly. You and I should be so lucky.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
A Mango.
“Man, I’m tired of eating grass,” Bo-ala-bo said out of the blue.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Su-daka-su replied. “We’re pigmy antelope deer. All we eat is grass.”
“How about a mango, or broccoli or even just leafy vegetables?” Bo-ala-bo said dipping his head for emphasis. Su-daka-su took a mouth full of grass and chewed it carefully. Bo-ala-bo waited patiently.
“Well, maybe leafy vegetables,” Su-daka-su said. “But what’s the difference? You’ve been hanging out with them wacky chimpanzees again, haven’t you? How many times have I told you: ‘chimps is chimps and we ain’t.’
“Too damn many times.” Bo-ala-bo said with a sigh that was quite over weight. It was that day that Bo-ala-bo said “Screw it, mangoes it is. Mangoes for everyone. I’m having a mango.” He got to the tree that gave mangoes and found one lying there. He enjoyed eating it very, very much. It was almost sexual. The sugar rush almost killed him and he was sick for three days after, all the while enduring the ridicule of the rest of the pigmy antelope deer. He took it better than you might think. He knew that they’d never had a mango. The chimps were with him.
Bo-ala-bo ate grass ever after, but he had a knowing of why and savored every last blade.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Su-daka-su replied. “We’re pigmy antelope deer. All we eat is grass.”
“How about a mango, or broccoli or even just leafy vegetables?” Bo-ala-bo said dipping his head for emphasis. Su-daka-su took a mouth full of grass and chewed it carefully. Bo-ala-bo waited patiently.
“Well, maybe leafy vegetables,” Su-daka-su said. “But what’s the difference? You’ve been hanging out with them wacky chimpanzees again, haven’t you? How many times have I told you: ‘chimps is chimps and we ain’t.’
“Too damn many times.” Bo-ala-bo said with a sigh that was quite over weight. It was that day that Bo-ala-bo said “Screw it, mangoes it is. Mangoes for everyone. I’m having a mango.” He got to the tree that gave mangoes and found one lying there. He enjoyed eating it very, very much. It was almost sexual. The sugar rush almost killed him and he was sick for three days after, all the while enduring the ridicule of the rest of the pigmy antelope deer. He took it better than you might think. He knew that they’d never had a mango. The chimps were with him.
Bo-ala-bo ate grass ever after, but he had a knowing of why and savored every last blade.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Daniel Matherton
Daniel Matherton the fourth was riding along on his Harley, when he came across a run down looking trailer outside of Durango in that square state called Colorado. He wasn’t an eccentric rich guy as his name some times implied to people. His family just didn’t have much imagination. His father had been a coal miner and so had his father’s father. Daniel Matherton Jr. was a share cropper and his father had been a house servant to some colonial gentleman or another back when Virginia was a whole lot bigger than it is now.
First born sons all got the name Daniel Matherton. He was toying with the idea of naming his son Eddie, if he had one.
He pulled right up into the front lawn and shut down. Looking around he noticed the lawn needed mowing and the front steps were falling apart. One of the ‘T’ posts for the clothes' line had fallen over and there was of course a car up on blocks in the weed-strewn gravel driveway. The back drop of the mountains and mesa’s was nice though.
“Who the hell are you?” A woman called through the screen door wishing very much that she hadn’t pawned the shotgun. He was a big man, dressed the part too: leather, chaps etc.
Daniel just sat there on his bike fishing through his pockets. $63.57. “Got a lawn mower?”
“Fer what?” Who the hell was this guy, anyway?
“Mowing the lawn.” Must be a wet summer: the grass is thick and green.
“It’s broke.”
“Didn’t ask if was broke; asked if ya had one. Since ya do, where is it?”
“Out back.” She said without thinking, thrusting a dirty thumb over her shoulder.
Daniel IV mowed and mowed, then he weeded. Then he mowed some more. She watched him through the screen door. When he finally shut the mower off she asked him if he’d like a glass of iced tea. He was covered with sweat.
“Yep, I would.”
“Ya can take a shower, but there ain’t no hot water, onna counta the heater’s broke.” The shower was out side like they used to do way back when.
“What’re you gonna do for hot water come winter?”
“Same as last year: git it fixed for it gets too cold.”
He took a long icy shower as the sun was setting. It was summer so the night air stayed warm. The next morning Daniel went into the hardware store and got some info on where he could get scrap lumber. He came riding up with bunch of it strapped to his bike.
There was sheriff’s car in the driveway.
“You got any I. D?”
Daniel Matherton was a lot of things but wanted wasn’t one of them. “This is the thanks I get?” He said eyeing the woman through the screen door. She looked away. She was pretty but cold water adverse so you had to be looking to notice.
Daniel fixed the steps and after tinkering around fixed the water heater too. Just needed draining, cleaning, and he had to mess with the pilot light. She made fried chicken for dinner and asked him if he wanted some. He told her to take a hot shower. She washed his clothes and hung them out to dry after Daniel IV fixed the clothesline.
The next morning he got on his bike and rode away. She never saw him again.
First born sons all got the name Daniel Matherton. He was toying with the idea of naming his son Eddie, if he had one.
He pulled right up into the front lawn and shut down. Looking around he noticed the lawn needed mowing and the front steps were falling apart. One of the ‘T’ posts for the clothes' line had fallen over and there was of course a car up on blocks in the weed-strewn gravel driveway. The back drop of the mountains and mesa’s was nice though.
“Who the hell are you?” A woman called through the screen door wishing very much that she hadn’t pawned the shotgun. He was a big man, dressed the part too: leather, chaps etc.
Daniel just sat there on his bike fishing through his pockets. $63.57. “Got a lawn mower?”
“Fer what?” Who the hell was this guy, anyway?
“Mowing the lawn.” Must be a wet summer: the grass is thick and green.
“It’s broke.”
“Didn’t ask if was broke; asked if ya had one. Since ya do, where is it?”
“Out back.” She said without thinking, thrusting a dirty thumb over her shoulder.
Daniel IV mowed and mowed, then he weeded. Then he mowed some more. She watched him through the screen door. When he finally shut the mower off she asked him if he’d like a glass of iced tea. He was covered with sweat.
“Yep, I would.”
“Ya can take a shower, but there ain’t no hot water, onna counta the heater’s broke.” The shower was out side like they used to do way back when.
“What’re you gonna do for hot water come winter?”
“Same as last year: git it fixed for it gets too cold.”
He took a long icy shower as the sun was setting. It was summer so the night air stayed warm. The next morning Daniel went into the hardware store and got some info on where he could get scrap lumber. He came riding up with bunch of it strapped to his bike.
There was sheriff’s car in the driveway.
“You got any I. D?”
Daniel Matherton was a lot of things but wanted wasn’t one of them. “This is the thanks I get?” He said eyeing the woman through the screen door. She looked away. She was pretty but cold water adverse so you had to be looking to notice.
Daniel fixed the steps and after tinkering around fixed the water heater too. Just needed draining, cleaning, and he had to mess with the pilot light. She made fried chicken for dinner and asked him if he wanted some. He told her to take a hot shower. She washed his clothes and hung them out to dry after Daniel IV fixed the clothesline.
The next morning he got on his bike and rode away. She never saw him again.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Don-Riki And Rosalia
Don-Riki, as you might have guessed, was Spanish. In his later years he made his residence just south of the American border on the Gulf Coast. It was an enormous hacienda with an even bigger ranch to match. He lived there as a bachelor although there were always several women around who would have it another way.
Rosalia had one of the prettiest tails that had ever been put on a mongoose, if not the prettiest. Even Don-Riki had to pause and sigh when she walked by, and he had known her for years.
The first time he had seen her was singing in a nightclub in that place called Miami. He was there cutting a deal on some eggs from a very rare breed of duck. He was trading Cobra eggs for them. He had killed the Cobras himself and though the guy with the duck eggs thought the Cobra eggs of great value, Don-Riki figured there were plenty more Cobra eggs where those came from. But I digress.
Rosalia sang pretty well although Don-Riki had heard better, but that tail caught your eye first thing.
Next morning he was up early singing a little tune she had been singing the night before.
“You only wanted me for my tail,” she said pouting.
“You are mistaken,” He said. He was carefully packing the duck eggs. “Are you coming with me or not?”
She smiled and knew in that instant she would never tame him because she would never be his first love. “I can’t come now...”
He gave her the address, the phone and the times he would most likely be there.
“Come visit.”
It had been many years since she had first showed up on his doorstep with that radiant tail of hers. For months it would seem as though they were a couple, then he would be off for months, sometimes years at a time.
Now Don-Riki had that air about him again. He would be departing. Only this time something was different, or it was familiar but it hadn’t been like this for a long time. Something was up: this was going to be a really grand adventure.
“I have never said these words to you before, Don-Riki,” Rosalia smiled sadly over the rim of her coffee cup. “I love you.”
Don-Riki was in the middle of eating scrambled Rattlesnake eggs. He stopped chewing with his mouth full and looked her in the eye, chewed a couple more times paused and then swallowed hard.
“If I return I will marry you.”
Rosalia had one of the prettiest tails that had ever been put on a mongoose, if not the prettiest. Even Don-Riki had to pause and sigh when she walked by, and he had known her for years.
The first time he had seen her was singing in a nightclub in that place called Miami. He was there cutting a deal on some eggs from a very rare breed of duck. He was trading Cobra eggs for them. He had killed the Cobras himself and though the guy with the duck eggs thought the Cobra eggs of great value, Don-Riki figured there were plenty more Cobra eggs where those came from. But I digress.
Rosalia sang pretty well although Don-Riki had heard better, but that tail caught your eye first thing.
Next morning he was up early singing a little tune she had been singing the night before.
“You only wanted me for my tail,” she said pouting.
“You are mistaken,” He said. He was carefully packing the duck eggs. “Are you coming with me or not?”
She smiled and knew in that instant she would never tame him because she would never be his first love. “I can’t come now...”
He gave her the address, the phone and the times he would most likely be there.
“Come visit.”
It had been many years since she had first showed up on his doorstep with that radiant tail of hers. For months it would seem as though they were a couple, then he would be off for months, sometimes years at a time.
Now Don-Riki had that air about him again. He would be departing. Only this time something was different, or it was familiar but it hadn’t been like this for a long time. Something was up: this was going to be a really grand adventure.
“I have never said these words to you before, Don-Riki,” Rosalia smiled sadly over the rim of her coffee cup. “I love you.”
Don-Riki was in the middle of eating scrambled Rattlesnake eggs. He stopped chewing with his mouth full and looked her in the eye, chewed a couple more times paused and then swallowed hard.
“If I return I will marry you.”
Migrating Mudsucking Mollusk
Milton was a mudsucking mollusk.
And you thought you had it bad.
Milton, having been born into it, as it were, didn’t know anything better so he was happy. In fact since he was a mudsucker he actually reveled in filtering out the nutrients he needed to survive as he trummeled along. For some reason Milton and quite a few of his fellows felt a calling to migrate northward. This coupled with the fact that the mud where Milton was living wasn’t as nutrient rich as they were accustomed to, due to a drought and their own over grazing, made for a migration -- en masse.
This, by the way, made Milton a migrating mudsucking mollusk.
Off they went, headed for the “East River” just east of Manhattan.
Sorry about all the m’s.
On his way there Milton encountered a sandy area. No mud. Sand as you know is not full of muck. Unless you’re in Florida or Hawaii, or perhaps southern California or east Texas—OK, this particular patch of sand was not full of muck. Muck containing the nutrients found in mud, and therefore Milton was traveling through a veritable desert. Fortunately it was only a hundred yards wide, but unfortunately Milton was only two and a half inches long and only an inch wide so it seemed awfully long too poor Milton.
Milton was slow even for a mudsucking mollusk. This was good because Milton came across a starfish, but that particular starfish had gorged himself on Milton’s fellows. Milton climbed right over him without protest, and took up residence in a sewer pipe near the corner of Stuyvessant and E. 21st Street about 5 blocks from Madison square. He had with his wife Meme (who he met in the East River, but that’s a whole ’nother story) 547,312 descendants many of whom watched the fights up the street from grandpa Milty’s place.
And you thought you had it bad.
Milton, having been born into it, as it were, didn’t know anything better so he was happy. In fact since he was a mudsucker he actually reveled in filtering out the nutrients he needed to survive as he trummeled along. For some reason Milton and quite a few of his fellows felt a calling to migrate northward. This coupled with the fact that the mud where Milton was living wasn’t as nutrient rich as they were accustomed to, due to a drought and their own over grazing, made for a migration -- en masse.
This, by the way, made Milton a migrating mudsucking mollusk.
Off they went, headed for the “East River” just east of Manhattan.
Sorry about all the m’s.
On his way there Milton encountered a sandy area. No mud. Sand as you know is not full of muck. Unless you’re in Florida or Hawaii, or perhaps southern California or east Texas—OK, this particular patch of sand was not full of muck. Muck containing the nutrients found in mud, and therefore Milton was traveling through a veritable desert. Fortunately it was only a hundred yards wide, but unfortunately Milton was only two and a half inches long and only an inch wide so it seemed awfully long too poor Milton.
Milton was slow even for a mudsucking mollusk. This was good because Milton came across a starfish, but that particular starfish had gorged himself on Milton’s fellows. Milton climbed right over him without protest, and took up residence in a sewer pipe near the corner of Stuyvessant and E. 21st Street about 5 blocks from Madison square. He had with his wife Meme (who he met in the East River, but that’s a whole ’nother story) 547,312 descendants many of whom watched the fights up the street from grandpa Milty’s place.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)