The Time Machine

It took the gnomes over a year to build it. They worked long days and on through the nights, since as everyone knew, gnomes always looked tired, so what was the point of sleeping? They chattered and hammered and laughed all day, and ate like badgers. Every day food was delivered in massive quantities that defied the diminutive size of the diners. Still, the gnomes could not be matched in sheer cunning with mechanical devices. They made the time machine from nothing but spare parts from an auto scrap yard and lots of screws. When it was completed, they put away their tools, took their pay, and left in an old yellow school bus.

The thing looked like a phone booth. MacElroy surveyed the finished product skeptically. He opened the glass and metal door, and stepped inside. There was a phone mounted on the wall. It was ringing. He looked around the compartment and could see nothing that indicated it was anything but a phone booth. He picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” said MacElroy. Silence. He was about to hang up, and then heard the warbling of a dozen tiny giggling voices over the line. He slammed the phone down on its hook in anger. Mostly he was mad at himself. Swindled once again by gnomes. Hungry gnomes that never slept. The last thing he needed was another phone booth.

The Lemon Tree

Claudette picked up her slippers and wandered lazily along the marble banister overlooking the courtyard, trailing her fingers across its cold smooth surface. The wind teased her long blonde hair, swirling it about her head and covering her eyes. She didn't seem to care. She smiled. She sniffed delicately at the scent of Spring in the air. She gazed towards the sunset, but saw only hair. She took her hand from the railing, brushing away the strands of hair. Off balance now, she tipped with an almost dainty grace over the edge, falling headfirst down towards the stony yard. She didn’t scream.

“That would only spoil the moment,” she thought.

Her ankle caught in a fork of the lemon tree with a lurch, halting her almost deadly fall. She hung there, her taffeta dress now over her head, inches from the pavement.

Despite the pain in her leg, her first thought was, “I still have my slippers”.

She giggled. Then she frowned. Melvin was getting the brakes fixed. He could be gone for hours. She wondered if he would remember to get milk on the way home. He always forgot the milk.

Urban Camoflauge

Besides being fluent in German and playing the bagpipes, Sam had the unique ability to analyze plaid Scottish tartans. With a quick gaze, he could assess a shirt or woolen skirt and declare family provenance based on intricate patterns of blocks and stripes. MacDonald, Stewart, Campbell and Drummond were as familiar to his eyes as the cut of a fine diamond to a master jeweler. One day, everyone in the office played a trick on Sam. They all wore shirts of strictly solid colors and floral prints. Everything swam through his vision like a pallette of melted sherbet. Poor Sam begin to tremble, smoke came out of his orifices, and he eventually exploded.

The Birthday Present 2

Phil looked at the package on the table before him. It was wrapped in brown paper and twine with a precision that was almost frightening. He scrutinized it with his hands drawn behind his back, leaning forward and squinting at the meticulous craftsmanship. It was as it he didn’t dare approach fully, or he would be affected by some unknown power. The kind of power that could only emanate from a thing of insidious intelligence. There was something to this package that was more than just a blocky shape ensconced in a cloak of rough parchment. It almost seemed to pulse to an inner rhythm. It seemed …aware. Phil wiped a hand across his perspiring forehead, and glanced around him warily. He wasn’t sure how to proceed. Then a sound came from the doorway. His wife Katie was entering the kitchen, and drew up short when she saw his consternation. She raised an eyebrow. Then she placed her clenched fists on her hips, and released a long exasperated breath.

“Phil—open the package. It’s from your mother.”

He nodded slowly, for he knew that she was right—she was always right. He had to breach the corona of mystery and reveal what was inside the box. The thing that would change his life. He knew that there was no other way. But still he resisted. He dropped to his knees before the table in supplication and horror. His arms extended towards the table, and his body shuddered with fear. His face was contorted in a rictus of sheer terror. Katie placed a hand over her eyes, shook her head, and turned to leave the room. It was the same every year.

The Chessmaster

Franz sat before the chessboard, rigid with concentration and sporting a bad haircut. His jaw was clenched with determination, and he clenched his hands in his lap. He examined his pieces. Each one was positioned with strategic care, some poised for attack, and some elegantly placed for protection. It was a Machiavellian masterpiece. Inwardly, he was suffused with satisfaction at his most recent move, but his body language gave nothing away. He was confident that he would win. Beads of sweat glistened faintly at his forehead. He waited. Then he came to a startling realization.

There was nobody sitting at the other side of the board. None of the opposing pieces had ever been moved.

Then suddenly it all made sense--his uncountered attacks, provident openings that allowed him brilliant turns of play, and a decided lack of structure on the part of his opponent. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He would plan better the next time.

The Pirate

Willy “Crackerjack Black Bones” McArthur was a pirate. He lived on a farm in the clear alpine air of northern Idaho and worked the fields, producing hay and corn and raising monkeys. The work was hard, but it kept him in shape and numbed his mind so that he forgot the pain. The pain of past memories. He had plundered more ships on the high seas than he could remember. He had pillaged and raped and defiled himself and anyone in his path, and now he was tired. He had a titanium peg strapped to the stump of one leg that remained after an angry crocodile had snapped it off at the knee. He carried a cutlass and used it to thrash at unruly simians and hack down rampant weeds.

“Argh!” he would say when things got particularly frustrating. Today was one of those days. He bellowed at his herd of monkeys and flashed the sword over his head in the summer sun. They dispersed, chattering with fear.

“Cursed monkeys always after me treasure!” he howled, and paced in a circle, slicing the air and hopping on his peg leg as he raved.

Soon he fell asleep, lying peacefully in the field, his blade dropped nearby. The monkeys reappeared slowly and advanced tentatively upon him in small teams until he was surrounded. They snatched up his weapon, and cackling with glee they carried it away. Next, they would find the keys to the barn…

Secrets

Alfred and his dog lived close to the secret cheese factory. Actually, they lived underneath the factory, which was just as much a secret as what went on inside the building. Only Alfred, the dog and the mailman knew all the secrets. There were many, many secrets. Every day the mailman brought letters to Alfred, and sometimes to the dog. The mailman didn't ask what was in the letters, because he suspected it was a secret. The dog had an IQ of 236, which was the best secret of all. He never spoke a word, but carefully absorbed information for years, faithfully living out his secret dog life with Alfred underneath the secret cheese factory. Once in while, Alfred would look at the dog and think that dog is smarter than he looks--but I will keep it a secret. One day, they were all sitting together around the table, having tea and dog biscuits. The mailman looked at the dog. The dog looked at Alfred. Alfred looked at the clock. The silence dragged on until sweat began to run down Alfred's forehead.

He jumped from his chair, and clutching at his head, screamed "I CAN'T STAND THE SECRETS ANYMORE!" following which he promptly tore off the latex rubber mask, revealing the face of a cat.

The Surface

It was a frigid winter morning. The hoary frost glittered with morning sunlight off the pine needles. The lake was an icy sheet of glass, perfect and undisturbed--except for the form of a man. He was huddled in a kneeling position on the ice, bundled in many layers of old clothes and a worn canvas barn coat. His breath formed wispy clouds over his head that slowly dissipated like smoke. He was busily chipping at the ice with a hammer. Furiously, he bashed away at the surface, making slow progress on the many-inches-thick layer. After a time, winded though he was, he switched tools and began anew with a large pick-ax.

"Must… get… to the surface…" he panted.

Somehow, the man had awakened that morning in a confused state, thinking down was up and up was down. He had run outside to the lake, which appeared to him as a translucent dome overhead, sealing him off from his world like a bubble city in a science fiction novel. Soon, he would break through the dome and breathe air again. He was in for a surprise.

Fish Therapy

Brian and the fish were playing hide-and-seek. Brian was a physical therapist, and was experimenting with modalities designed specifically for trout. Obviously, none had been able to survive for more than a few minutes out of the water, but Brian was optimistic about this particular fish. The game was designed to loosen up his muscles and improve his land-senses. The fish chose rather predictable hiding places, such as underneath rocks or in deep, cool parts of the room. Brian crawled around indulgently and made a good show of trying hard to find the fish. Once, after a particularly long search, he came upon the fish, lying on a rug and not moving.

"I wonder where that fish could be!" said Brian loudly. For a long time, the fish still didn't move.

The Birthday Present

Delph had been in the box for an hour. It smelled like dusty cardboard--which, as he thought about it--it was. He was cramped into a space roughly the size of a microwave oven. Delph was roughly the size of a non-microwave oven, so the fit was uncomfortable to say the least. But if he tucked his knees behind his head, folded his arms in three places, and only breathed out, it seemed to work. He endured a certain amount of jostling and bumping as the box was transferred with rough hands from vehicle to dock, palette to vehicle again. Delph was mailing himself to Tennessee, where his grandmother lived. It took about four to seven working days, after which grandma opened the box and exclaimed, "Oh!" because Delph was dead and decomposing. It was not the best birthday present grandma had gotten that year.

What Not To Wear On A Date

Trent adjusted the complex array of catches and knobs. Each polished brass piece fit expertly into its corresponding recessed slot or hole in the glossy hardwood frame. As he turned a knob here, a strut would shift smoothly there, and align a panel of glass just so. It was thing of beauty, yet intricate and functional. It enclosed Trent's head like an old sea-diver's mask, with a crystal pane on each side and one on the top. Wires of stainless steel suspended it perfectly around his skull, piercing his skin, embedded in bone. Trent pushed a button on the side, and the front panel glided open to expose his face. He smiled.

"I think the Chicken Kiev sounds good," he remarked to his elegantly-dressed dinner companion. She responded with an annoyed expression, and put her wine glass down.

"Please take that ridiculous thing off your head," she said through clenched teeth.

Trent raised an eyebrow and replied disdainfully, "I shall not. It was given to me by the king of Kishkanku as a gift. It gives me special powers, and also protects my head from rain."

The woman picked up her fork and purse, and with a toss of her hair, left the room. Trent closed the glass panel with a click and resumed reading his menu.

"So…" his voice echoed inside the enclosed space. "I shall eat alone again."

Cold Hearted Brian

Brian opened the last of his mail and unfolded the sheet of paper on the table before him. It was a letter from his mother, and he smiled to himself as feelings of warm anticipation suffused him. He began to read, and suddenly, a distinct chill ran through his body. It started in his heart and radiated outward. Strangely, it had nothing to do with the content of the letter, as he was reading only an innocuous and oft-repeated description of his mother's latest maladies and bowel habits. He looked down and realized that the forgotten ice cream bar in his shirt pocket was leaking its frigidity into his chest. He screamed.

Dancing Suits

The men in the suits liked to dance. Mr. Habbachuk was particularly good; not in any conventional kind of dancing way, but he was undoubtedly creative. When he wore the charcoal gray pinstripe, he liked to do a variation of the polka, only by himself. He would pull up his pant-legs to avoid getting the cuffs dirty, and cavort around the room with a jolly expression. The blue seersucker inspired him to frolic and skip, more than dance. The other men were just as eager, if not as talented.

One fateful day, everyone showed up in blue worsted wool. Looking back, it was an obvious harbinger of disaster. During a rousing square dance, they all collided in the center of the room, creating a catalytic reaction that destroyed everyone in an atomic blast. There would be no more dancing.

Swamp Factory

The swamp was a frightening place. Black, viscous water that bubbled with foul gases and was known to swallow up cows whole. Gnarled cypress trees bowed their iron backs like a protective shield over the evil waters. At night, the gray damp fog would settle over the swamp like mold. A little girl lived in the swamp. She wore a pretty pink dress, and liked to sit on rotted logs and sing old show tunes. Eventually she built a small factory and began to produce the little rubber wedges that keep doors open.

In time, the girl expanded her business into thirteen different countries and made a pile of money. She started cutting her hair short and ate mostly rice and grilled cheese. She had the swamp drained and converted into a health club, and spent her time giving advice to lonely housewives. After a while, the girl became old and died. The factory sank back into the ground. The swamp returned with stagnant reprisal, and everything became again the way it was in the beginning. The whole thing took seven days.

Addicted To Nasal Spray

The boy named Wilbur liked to make things of sponges. Green ones were his favorite. Sometimes he would sew them together to form one great sponge a yard long, and wrap it around his body and roll down a hill.

Wheeee!

Wilbur ate sponges for breakfast, and bathed in a tub full of sponges and no water every Friday night. He dreamed of marrying a lovely yellow sponge when he was older. Then one day, he was attacked by an evil, dark renegade sponge from hell, and turned to nasal spray for comfort.

Urgent Invaders

Three girls skipped gaily down a winding country road, holding hands. It was springtime, and the cherry trees were in bloom. Honey bees swarmed around the pink blossoms. The bluegrass waved gently along the side of the road. All three had colorful print dresses and matching ribbons in long hair that waved in the wind. They were laughing. It seemed wrong that an intergalactic war vessel should swoop from the otherwise calm sky at that moment, charring a mile-wide swath where the girls had been. Smoke trailed up into the air around the girth of the landed ship, and doors swished open to disgorge a troop of green-skinned, black-clad soldiers. They carried ugly weapons that were bent on destruction. But first, they had to find a place to pee...

The Programmers

Jerry and Vera ran through the house. It was Jerry’s turn to have the computer strapped on his back. He had to run in a kind of low crouch, because of the weight of the machine. Vera had the advantage, and always caught up quickly. She giggled as she hauled him to a stop in the hallway that joined to the kitchen. Exhausted, Jerry slouched against the wall. She did a bit of quick programming, tapping away at the keyboard which was taped firmly to his head. The results churned out across the screen, which was slung to one side and glowing in the semi-darkness of the house. She chortled.

"To the laundry room!" she howled.

Jerry, a wicked grin on his face, lunged away with his load, Vera close behind. Then he collided with the fish.

The Musician

Arnie was choking. His face emanated a palette of colors, his lips puffed blue with bits of foamy spittle bubbling from the corners. His hands clutched in a rigor of panic at his throat. His brown eyes bulged from their sockets as if they were trying to escape. The audience watched with silent horror, not knowing if they should help--Arnie was, after all, a stranger. But he was also a musician. And by some terrible chance that night, his technique changed drastically. He had begun to inhale forcefully on his saxophone rather than blowing, which was the tradition. It was with such intensity that the instrument was virtually sucked into his face like a strand of spaghetti. It now grossly deformed his throat and upper body, and the brassy flare of the bell was slightly visible between his parted trembling teeth. He would probably die.

The Welcome Mat

Fourteen pieces of damp cardboard comprised the home of William Marlboro. It had become a sodden mess so often with the weather, that it formed a kind of papyrus cave rather than appearing to be made of discrete pieces. An old piece of carpet served as a doormat, where he had scrawled "WELCOME" with a burned stick. There was rusted pipe of chimney thrusting out of the roof, and warm gray smoke curled into the winter night. William’s classic sedan dwarfed the abode, but looked smart with its glossy white paint and polished chrome. The cooling engine block clicked and sizzled contentedly, as William had just returned from dinner in town. He carefully pulled the cardboard door shut behind him, and prepared for bed. I must do something about that welcome mat, he thought as he brushed his teeth.

The Muffin

Across the void of space, the object hurled. It left a trail of pure energy in its wake as it traveled at many times the speed of light from a place of no consequence to a destination without shape. It spun on twelve different axes, burning with a rainbow of colors and sputtering flames and slag into the cold nothingness in its wake. It was happy. It was a muffin. Lovingly crafted of sifted flour, nuts and raisins, it was an object of the purest culinary delight. Then it passed into a benign and hapless solar system, and in the blink of a eye it caromed off a planet and exploded with the force of a thousand supernovas. The muffin was sad.

Angry Lizards

When the lizards came, Charlie Misbach was dressed in flannel. Not the cheap, printed stuff that mass-produced pajamas were made of, but heavy, quality material that draped nicely. Red tartan plaid pants, a deep green frock, and matching cap and shoes. It felt good on the skin, and warm against the cool desert night. Charlie sat on a rock and watched the saurian horde assemble around him. It was like a sea of undulating leathery skin with a thousand eyes winking unnervingly at him. When the time was right, Charlie stood up and raised his arms. The moonlight flickered on his fingernails. A collective lizard gasp of awe rose around him.

"Be still, my children," came his resonant voice. He focused his one good eye on a large pink salamander with curly hair, and offered his palms in supplication. "I come to speak to you of matters that involve... cheese."

There was a unified shriek and hiss of tongues as the mass of wriggling bodies slithered forward and enveloped his feet. Charlie quickly fell prey to the angry mob and his flesh was devoured. Only the flannel remained. It had been the wrong thing to say.

Drinking Practice 3

The day was as hot as it was long. Sweltering waves of shimmering heat radiated from the pavement where Byron was lying on his back. He had been that way for at least an hour, and he was contemplating the effect of scalding asphalt against the back of his head. It seemed expedient that he should get up off the ground, but he was overcome at the moment by the profound weight of 2oo pounds of melted cheese that had fallen from the sky and pinned him into this position. It smelled like Swiss cheese, which didn’t really matter, but was an interesting observation. Byron was desperately thirsty, and since he was miles from town, there was nothing to drink. Except cheese. He reached up and funneled the viscous dairy slurge into his mouth. He began to choke immediately, and realized that he would probably die. This was not going to work out.

Land People

The Boat People lived in the middle of Lake Walburton on a large boat, which was appropriate, since they were called The Boat People. Nobody knew where they came from. Once a week, several of them would swim to shore and trade shiny beads for food.

“Where the heck do they get all these beads?”, the Land People asked each other. They lived on the land.

“And what do we want with beads anyway?” But they just kept on trading. Beads for food. Food for beads. The Land People weren’t very smart.

Wagoo

“Oink!” said Nevil in a loud voice.

It was one of his favorite words. But then, it wasn’t really a word--just a noise that somebody made up a spelling for. Nevil didn’t care much for spelling anyway, since he had lost the spelling Bee in the first grade. But he had a decided talent for noises. He liked to walk up to complete strangers on the street and say things like “Wagoooooo!” in their faces. Sometimes people would laugh, and invite him home to dinner. This was how Nevil met Marvin Foster. They shared an apartment on the quiet side of town, and spent a lot of time fishing. The fish didn’t seem to care if Nevil made funny noises. Fish were nice.

Pheasants

Since she was a child, Vera had always been afraid of pheasants. The way they burst unexpectedly from the brush when you walked close enough to flush them out. Sometimes in the Fall, she would stay inside for months just to avoid chancing upon one as she strolled through the fields. She had nightmares about hundreds of plump, speckled brown bodies with twice as many wings beating through the air in a frenzy around her like so many gargantuan angry hornets. Then, the pheasants moved into the farmhouse next door. Vera was terrified, and stayed in her house for weeks in fear of meeting them. It drove her almost to the point of insanity. Her food was almost gone, and the phones were out. Then one day, her best friend Dora came by to visit.

“What do you think of those nice peasants who bought the Anderson’s farm?” she asked. Vera looked at her through narrowed eyes with an expression of disbelief. Peasants. Not birds.

“Surely you’ve met them?” prompted Dora again. Vera looked down at her hands and felt silly. It had been a grave misunderstanding.

Brain Freeze

In a delicious torrent of glucose, ice cream spewed from the wrecked tanker truck onto the hot pavement. Cars were stopping and people approached the fringes of the semi-frozen slush and let it wash over their shoes. Some giggled and took ties and even glasses off with enthusiastic abandon. A man who looked smart pushed his way through the gathering crowd, and grabbed the arms of a woman who was ready to scoop handfuls of the frigid delicacy into her mouth.

“Fools!” he pronounced. “Can’t you see what will happen to you?”

The woman backed away with horror, realizing what she had almost done. She rubbed her temples nervously, anticipating the intense pain that would have been hers. The mob retreated, and parted to admit another who approached. It was a giant, glistening brain with legs and a mouth, which was turned up at the corners in a slight smile. The brain waded into the frozen swirl of vanilla and pistachio and began his work. The smart man folded his arms across his chest and turned to the crowd.

“Yes” he said, nodding and smiling. “This will work.”

The Shade Of A Camel

A man dressed in plastic loafers approached the desk. His manner was smooth and certain, and his smile conveyed charm and sophistication. He had one hand tucked nonchalantly into a jacket pocket, and the other swung at the end of his arm in time with his gait. A camel was following him at a respectable distance. The man turned as he reached the desk, and abruptly fell without warning into the air. He landed underneath the camel, breaking most of his bones, except for his jawbone. He had never seen the underside of a camel before. His mouth opened slowly, and not without pain.

“Gaaaaaaaaaar” was what he seemed to say. The camel was confused, and laid down to take a nap.

The Spy

The cats had a plan. They met secretly at night in an abandoned cheese warehouse on the wharf, each arriving by a different route wearing a clever disguise. Once they were assembled around a low table where the soft light could not be seen, the meeting began. A mean-looking tomcat began to describe the intricate details of the carefully orchestrated operation that would begin at midnight. He spoke in softly modulated cat yowls that inspired confidence in all the followers—except Darwin.

Darwin was really a man in a cat costume. He was a spy. He had infiltrated the organization through months of careful covert study and undercover assimilation into the group. The only potential problem was that a six foot cat might engender suspicion and be discovered. He was ill at ease on this particular night. Some of the others were giving him strange looks. His paw moved slowly to the concealed pouch in his furry underbelly. He knew his cover was blown, and with trained reflexes put his escape plan into motion. He would don the hidden mouse suit, and scamper away across the warehouse floor into a small hole. Then fear clutched at Darwin’s heart. The plan might fail…

Drinking Practice 2

Wilbur scowled at the hideous face in the mirror. It was his, of course, since that’s the way mirrors work. He had just gotten up, so his hair was in disarray, and a day’s growth of stiff black beard jutted out of his chin. He smacked his lips a few times, and made a cohesive gagging noise. Wilbur filled a glass half full of water, and tipping his head back, dumped the contents into his mouth. His eyes, which were half-closed in repose, now opened wide in alarm. Something was different. He watched as the perforated ceiling tiles seemed to move past in slow motion. This was because he was falling very slowly. His arms made circular motions in an attempt to regain his balance, and the glass in his hand floated to the floor. His view of the ceiling turned into wall, and he knew it was too late. His head smacked painfully against the side of the toilet, and his body followed with a resounding thump on the bathroom floor. Wilbur lay in silence for some time, looking up at the medicine cabinet, because that was all he could see without moving. He grimaced.

“I won’t be doing that again” he said.

The King Of Spain

Verl was a master of leather. His artisan’s touch could transform the roughest cowhide or the softest deerskin into things of unparalleled beauty. Useful things. Verl didn’t waste his time on laced checkbook covers or blandly tooled coffee table coasters. Hunched over this workbench in the yellow wash of a lamp, his gnarled hands would mold and craft and stitch the pieces of brown hide until something meaningful emerged. It was in this manner that he created the Adjustable Hyena Harness for old Widow Larsen. She had lived next door to Verl for longer than he could remember, and she had always wanted a hand crafted harness for the hyena that lived in her back woods. She called him Alfonso, because he reminded her of the king of Spain. He stood about three and a half feet at the shoulder, and had a mottled coat of mangy fur that needed washing.

On his birthday, Widow Larsen coaxed him out of the woods with a piece of bacon and showed him the harness. Its strong straps and polished brass buckles gleamed in the sunshine. She stood at the edge of the lawn in her gaily printed frock, and old sweater puller around her bony shoulders against the morning chill. Her gray hair was unkempt and fluttered around her wrinkled face a bit. Alfonso grinned, not really out of any sense of joy, but because hyenas always looked that way. He could see that the thing in her hands was lovingly and masterfully created, but not with his independence and comfort in mind. He would square that with Verl.

Don't Eat Nails

Lawrence Billings was different. He wore old second-hand clothes, parted his hair in the middle, and didn’t bathe quite often enough. He was tall and thin, and walked stiffly as if movement were painful. In fact, movement was quite painful to Lawrence, because he had swallowed a whole box of nails a year ago, thinking that it would somehow change him. He hadn’t counted on the fact that the human body simply was not configured for the digestion of sharp metal objects. He regretted the mistake, but knew that trying to vomit the whole mess up would probably hurt more than leaving it where it was. He tried to move as little as possible. It was Thursday, and Lawrence Billings was thinking hard. He was thinking about having his legs converted into swimming fins. Now that would be different...

Too Many Ribs

A year of isolation had not changed them much. At least not from any outward appearance. Hair was slightly longer, beards grew where once had been clean shaven faces. Their clothing was ragged and looked unwashed–but it had always looked like that. Paul, the leader, was by nature rather thin and gaunt, but hard and muscular in a cowboy sort of way. The other two were thin as well, but didn’t have the same austere intensity. Both men were sprawled on the floor with their backs to the wall. They were musicians. Paul looked down at his hands and rotated them slowly.

“Anybody got any ideas?” he asked. But what he was really thinking was man, I’ve got thick wrists. He put his palms down again, one on each knee.

“Not me” mumbled the who whose name was not Paul. He was looking at his feet. Weird ankles, he was thinking. He was not happy about the ankles. He didn’t remember them looking that way last week. The third man looked at the ceiling and let out a sigh. He was thinking about his ribs. I’ve got too many dang ribs, he thought.

“Sure. Got plenty of ideas” he said. Inside, the men were confused, and doubted seriously that ideas would do much for them now.