Fuzzbane's Ruminations

The Time Machine

2010-05-07T15:23:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-06T15:03:00.000-07:00

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

2006-04-15T10:17:00.000-07:00

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

2006-03-21T14:24:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-18T08:03:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-17T12:47:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T12:02:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T12:01:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T12:00:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:57:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:53:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:52:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:51:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:50:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:49:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:47:00.001-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:47:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:46:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:41:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:39:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:36:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:35:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:33:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T11:32:00.000-08:00

“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

2005-12-30T06:49:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T06:43:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T06:41:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T06:38:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T06:18:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T06:17:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T06:16:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-30T06:11:00.000-08:00

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.

Prisoner Of Time

2005-12-29T20:53:00.000-08:00

The clock stood about six feet tall, and was made of solid cherry wood. It had beautifully carved scrollwork and fine brass hinges on the front panel that were kept polished and oiled. The face of the clock was aged ivory inlay with only the tiniest cracks that had crept in over time with the assault of temperature and humidity. The ornate brass hands of the clock clicked in precise movements that were as crisp and accurate as the day it was made.

Inside the clock was an old woman.

She was packed into the central wooden housing where the chains and counterweights swung and ticked and glinted. She had pressed herself deep into the corner where she wouldn’t interfere with their movements. The sensation in her legs had long since gone, and her skin had aged to the same deep color as the wood. Her long gray hair clung to her body, and only her eyes moved. With each second, the eyes followed the rotation of the gears and the bending of the springs. She had been there for forty years, since the clock was brought by ship from England to sit in the great hall of the house with marble floors. She longed to free herself and dance across the floor. But it was too late. Far too late.

Jealous Birds

2005-12-29T20:51:00.000-08:00

Four minutes. That was how long it took for the birds to line up. Each one strutted into position, chest out, and it was apparent that they were in no sort of order. Black intermingled with red, and tall with short. One bird stood out from the others. He was actually in the shape of a cube, with Japanese lettering down one side. Green smoke came from underneath his feathers. The rest of the otherwise orderly birds cocked their heads with annoyance in his direction and suddenly left their positions in a frenzy, attacking with beaks and talons in a jealous rage until the other bird was reduced to fine particles. Nearby, two old men with rumpled clothing and lots of money in their pockets watched the scene.

"Never seen ‘em do that" one said to the other. He cocked his head with annoyance. He noticed that his companion had green smoke coming from under his shirt. He shook his head with amazement and slowly turned away...

The Colonel

2005-12-29T20:50:00.001-08:00

Scott and the colonel lay prone at the edge of a sheer drop off that plunged a thousand feet into a watery gorge. The cliff walls were crimson and tangerine with the soft glow of the setting Western sun. Scott writhed into a strange position, one arm hanging over the abyss, with a single forefinger in an insignificant direction. His face was contorted in a rictus of horror. He made a high keening sound like a parrot and kicked one foot against the ground rhythmically. The colonel, only a few feet away, took in the boy with a covert glance. Through his extensive training he was able to gather data instantly from all of his senses and make advantageous decisions. The kid is stone cold nuts, he thought. In the interest of self-preservation long drilled into his psyche by the miliary machine, he reached over and with a surreptitious nudge pushed Scott over the edge. It took half a minute for the flailing and howling body to vanish out of sight as a tiny speck. The colonel smiled, and felt good about his decision. But then his brow wrinkled briefly with concern. He squinted down into the chasm. There was a chance, though very slight, that the boy would be back. And he would not be happy. The colonel rolled to his feet in a fluid motion and began to run back to the waiting helicopter. He could be in Tucson by dinnertime...

The Hyenas

2005-12-29T20:50:00.000-08:00

Wallace lived in a cellar. He liked the dark, damp places where you could smell the earth and the mildew. He was comfortable there. He had a flashlight and lots of batteries. When the batteries wore out, he would eat them. Every so often, he had to venture out into the painful sunlight, and make a shuffling run to the grocery store to buy a new supply of batteries. His clothes were ragged, and he smelled of rotten cloth and unwashed flesh. Everyone would avoid him on his occasional visits. He would lurch back to the cellar and breathe with ease again in the familiar surroundings. Wallace turned on his flashlight with a click. He propped the light where it would shine on his notebook, and he began writing. Wallace knew many things, and had meticulously recorded them in hundreds of such notebooks, which were piled neatly behind him on the dirt floor. He knew things about space. He knew things about why you couldn’t see air, and why eating raw turnips was wrong. He also knew about the hyenas. The hyenas were always close by, and they knew where Wallace lived. One day he knew he would have to creep upstairs in the big house and tell Widow Larsen about the hyenas. She would know what to do.

The Builder

2005-12-29T20:49:00.000-08:00

The boat was a work of art. The hand hewn spars of teak framed a creation that was not only seaworthy, but as pleasing to the eye and heart as a fine Renoir. The Builder looked up the curving sides and appraised his loving work, pronouncing it done. The masts were stepped, the keel weighted, and the fine hand polished brass fittings gleamed all around the deck. The Builder was old, but still strong, and his sun burnished skin was almost the color of the varnished wood. His eye was still sure, and his hands steady. The ship was provisioned and ready for a long journey that would no doubt be filled with adventure and danger. It might be the last that the Builder would make. It was to be the fulfillment of all he had learned as a builder and seaman, and in the end it would be his funereal barge. He filled his lungs with the pungent and familiar scent of the ocean. He heard the mermaids calling him back. But then his countenance fell. He was at least a quarter of a mile from the water’s edge. The ship would never feel the caress of the high seas.

"Curses!" bellowed the old man. Then he walked away.

The Fish People

2005-12-29T20:48:00.000-08:00

It had rained for days. Water had accumulated in vast pockets around the town, leaving only narrow aisles of land for people to safely pass through. But people, stubborn as they were, seemed more interested in getting where they were going, and paid little attention to the paths they took. Many drowned as they passed across the street from sidewalk to drugstore. But many adapted quickly to the new environment, and were able to traverse the deep pools without difficulty. They developed the ability to breathe water rather than air, and in time gravitated naturally to the comfortable cool depths. They became Fish People, and rose up against the Land People and eventually conquered them. The town was never the same after the rains came.

Cats In Control

2005-12-29T20:46:00.000-08:00

Eldon French was a large man. He lived with 50 cats in a house that was large and brown and smelled like wood. It was hard for him to remember exactly when he had moved into the house, and harder still for him to recall when the cats had come. They had arrived in pairs, always smartly dressed, and carrying luggage as if they intended to stay for a while. In time, the cats virtually ran the place, and Eldon spent most of his time locked in the bathroom on the telephone, making calls to his sister, who knew everything about cats. She claimed that cats were certainly not capable of wearing clothes or carrying luggage, much less taking charge of a household. Eldon was skeptical. He figured his sister was in on the deal.

Dead Ringer

2005-12-28T16:12:00.000-08:00

Wendell glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. He felt the hairs on his neck prickle as if in premonition. He gripped the arms of his padded recliner and watched the seconds tick by. Then he heard the sound. A sharp but miniature clanging, like a vibrating rod held against a small bell. It continued for a second or so, and then paused. He leapt from the chair and paced around the living room, and then the kitchen. The ringing continued, always in precision bursts, as if controlled by some kind of schedule. It was louder in the kitchen. It almost seemed to be coming from a small black box mounted on the wall. The men had come in a plain white van the week before, and had installed the box there. Wendell had received a bill for the services. But he wasn’t sure what it was for. Several times a day it made this irritating sound, and then mysteriously quit. Whatever it was, he was going to have it de-installed. He certainly had no use for it. Now, if only he could contact the men in the van…

Don't Mess With Ducks

2005-12-27T13:28:00.000-08:00

The wolverines descended. They came by the hundreds, like a writhing, seething, hairy wave of elemental fury. They snarled as they darted over the spongy forest floor, with fangs bared and dark eyes blazing with bloodlust. Their nostrils were wide and drinking in the scent of their prey. The animals converged on a clearing that was devoid of trees and flowing with verdant high country grasses. They came from all sides, surrounding the defoliated area with chilling precision like soldiers--synchronized, snarling and bent on destruction.

The ducks were there.

They were standing in the clearing in a small cluster, backs to the center, facing outward in a circle of defense. Their webbed feet were clad in shiny new combat boots, and on their heads were tiny helmets. Clutched under their wings were miniature assault rifles, trained on their menacing attackers with determination. The assailing wolverines drew up short as if they had slammed into an invisible wall. They scrambled backwards, falling over each other in sudden and abject fear as they struggled to reverse their attack. This was going to be a disaster...

The Prophecy

2005-12-27T09:20:00.000-08:00

The men were almost done digging. The damp earth was rich with the smells of nitrogen, worms and time. They had bits of it under their fingernails, because they were digging with their hands. Fortunately, the soil was fairly soft, and only the occasional stone or root would impair their progress. Finally, they unearthed a solid wooden plank. As if on cue, most of the workers stepped back, and two of the strongest bent to the task of carefully exposing the outline of the wood. It was the top of a large box, buried deep in the loam and beginning to rot. They cleared around its sides, and finally lifted the heavy crate out of its resting place. Everyone gathered around as the top of the box was prized away with a steel bar. A sharp odor belched from its depths. The sunlight illuminated an amorphous mass of pale yellow.

"The cheese!" exclaimed one thin man, raising his arms over his head. "We have found the cheese, and now the prophecy is fulfilled!"

There was a general mumbling of assent. A man who had entirely too much hair rose to his full height and surveyed the assembly with a critical eye.

"Don't be a bunch of idiots. " He said. "It's Carl, and we're going to put him right back where we found him. That other crate must be here somewhere."

Cookie Day

2005-12-27T07:53:00.000-08:00

Marvin Foster loved cookies. His mother could make cookies that defied gravity and were as large as a house and shot brilliant laser beams out of their sides in 13 different colors. They were the best. One Wednesday in May it was Cookie Day. Marvin stole into the kitchen with anticipation, knowing that he was early. He decided to hide inside the oven and wait. Soon, he could hear his mother bustling about, crashing pans and wielding the motorized tools of her cookie trade. He heard the click of the oven being turned on. It began to be warm. He thought about cookies. It was Cookie Day. It was a warm, warm Cookie Day. It was the last Cookie Day Marvin Foster would ever see…

Business Casual

2005-12-27T07:52:00.001-08:00

Billy loved shorts. When summer came, it was his favorite thing to strip down to nothing, rub suntan lotion all over, and put on his blue elastic-waist shorts and nothing else. Then he would pick up his sand bucket in one hand, his shovel in the other, and run outside with a silly grin on his face. It was just this sort of thing that made neighbors talk. Billy was an accountant.

Moving Day

2005-12-27T07:52:00.000-08:00

It was mid-afternoon when the moving men came. Marvin watched from his living room window across the street. He was fascinated. It seemed that these men were all about moving. They were constantly in motion. They would move to the left, move to the right, always in perfect formation and synchronized with every step. They were moving professionals. Marvin wanted to move like that.

“Mother!” He called into the kitchen. “Pack some cookies and spank the parrot! I’m on the move!”

The Rocket

2005-12-27T07:51:00.001-08:00

Bertrand was sitting at the side of the house. Actually, he was sitting on the side of the house, which effectively demonstrated Bertrand’s blatant disregard for gravity. He tried sitting in different positions until he felt comfortable. Then he started to build the rocket. The rocket would ostensibly take him out of the earth’s atmosphere into the black void of space, where he would search for the Silver Monkey People. He had soon constructed a large steel platform above which loomed the cigar-shaped rocket. Launch time arrived (right after lunch time). Bertrand climbed into the rocket’s nose, waving a deft goodbye to nobody in particular. The whole structure shuddered and roiled with billowing flames, and the rocket blasted itself not upwards, but sideways into the house next door. It landed in the laundry room of widow Larsen, after destroying most of her house. Widow Larsen was not home. She was visiting the King of Spain.

“Drat!” said Bertrand.

Not only had he completely miscalculated his destination, but he realized that he had wet his pants. It would be hard to explain to his mother.

The Sisters

2005-12-27T07:51:00.000-08:00

Fran and The Sisters had lived in the small house at the edge of town for a long time. Nobody ever bothered them. Except George Menderson. He really bothered them. In fact, he so enraged them at times that they would collectively stick their heads out of the open window and shriek their earnest wishes for his demise. None of them had ever thought to simply leave the house, walk across the dirt road, and hammer a metal spike through his head. That might have been easier.

The Tree

2005-12-27T07:49:00.000-08:00

In a little town nested in a green valley beside a river, there was a tree. It was by any standards a pretty normal tree, with a huge rough trunk that even the mayor couldn’t reach his arms around. The thick branches reached higher than a small boy could throw his ball, and the green leaves were the size of a little girl’s face. The odd thing was that everyone in the town now lived up in the tree. The houses had all become vacant and cold and dusty since The Incident.

Nobody could remember exactly what The Incident was, because it had been so long. So they stayed in the tree in relative comfort and with a spirit of cooperation. There was a certain hierarchy to the living the conditions in the tree. Older people occupied the lower branches, because they were more likely to fall, and this lessened the incidence of broken hips. The children frolicked and darted around the topmost branches like squirrels, chattering and leaping and cracking nuts with their teeth. The Wise Men lived somewhere in the middle, near the trunk.

It was said that only The Wise Men knew the truth about The Incident, and that they kept the truth to themselves because they were The Keepers Of The Truth. Carlos said it was because they were stupid. It was his opinion that the old people should be shoved off the lower branches, the Wise Men should be punched in their stomachs, and the squirrels should all be shot. He was coming down from the tree, and for good. That was what he did. He came down from the tree, walked into town, and found a hardware store. Then he came back to the tree. He was carrying a chain saw…

The Fish Catcher

2005-12-27T07:47:00.001-08:00

Marvin Foster knew how to fish. He was sprawled lazily across a huge rock, and watched the placid water with a knowing smirk. The sun broiled his feet, which were already brown from summer exposure. A real fish catcher didn’t need shoes. Marvin knew how to hold his fishing rod with just the right pressure, not the clench of a novice. Suddenly his face went ashen. He made gurgling sounds in this throat, and clasped both hands around his bluish neck. The fishing gear clattered off his perch into the water. Marvin gagged and collapsed in a limp heap. For all his knowledge of fishing, he had forgotten how to breathe.

Dogs Are Dogs

2005-12-27T07:47:00.000-08:00

The woman with dirt-colored hair stood in a relaxed posture near the dogs. She was not afraid. The dogs were sitting in even rows, each with one hairy forepaw on the ground, and one pointed towards the sky. They looked at the woman. She coughed.

“Well?” she said.

How strange that I would say that, the woman thought. Dogs are dogs and cannot understand.

Snow Fail

2005-12-27T07:45:00.000-08:00

It was snowing heavily, and Myra was watching from the bedroom window. She was dressed in a pale blue nightgown with lace trim, which seemed appropriate for the occasion. Her legs were wrapped tightly with musty burlap, much like a young tree would be in winter. On her head was a large overturned enamel cooking pot adorned with yellow flowers. She raised a handful of sawdust to the windowpane, and chanted a series of strange words. Her voice echoed hollowly within the metallic chamber. Myra lowered her hands to her sides, and waited for the snow to stop. She knew that eventually, it would. It always did.

Not Balloons

2005-12-27T07:44:00.001-08:00

Balloons of every imaginable color filled the closet. Ernie stood trembling, with one hand clutching the polished brass knob of the open door. He reached out and gingerly touched one that was the color of a ripe banana. It felt strangely not unlike the texture of a banana, and he soon realized that the closet was indeed filled with bananas, and not balloons. He shut the door.

Dance Ball

2005-12-27T07:44:00.000-08:00

Travis loved basketball. He got up early every morning and tirelessly leapt and threw, twisted and dunked, until he became a basketball machine. He was unbeatable. But one day, young Travis discovered that without a ball and hoop, his movements were much like those of a dancer. How he hated dancing! That night, Travis decided to become a truck driver.

A Simple Plan

2005-12-27T07:27:00.000-08:00

The two gaunt campers huddled in their tent as the forest rain poured down without relent. It had been many days since any sunshine—or even a meal—and they were beginning to feel the strain of bleak survival in a cramped canvas room together. Already the stench of unwashed bodies and campfire smoke had advanced from nostalgic to nauseating. The man with short-cropped blond hair poked his head through the door flap into the torrent of rain and squinted. After a moment he pulled himself back into the protection of the fabric shelter, and looked at his companion earnestly.

“The car is only a few yards away” he said.

The other man, at least ten years his senior, rubbed the grey stubble of hair on his chin thoughtfully. His eyebrows shot up, and his bulging eyes met the inquisitive gaze of this friend.

"Yes! We could just climb in and drive away!”

They both nodded in unison. It was such a simple plan, yet neither had stumbled upon it until it was almost too late.

Drinking Practice

2005-12-27T07:22:00.000-08:00

The young man with fat lips and long hair slouched lazily in a straight-backed chair that was covered in worn green vinyl. His feet were clad in bright canvas sneakers that seemed ominously large, but not uncommon for a disproportionate youth caught in a growth spurt. It was a hot day, and he looked with restrained excitement at a glass tumbler filled with effervescent brown liquid on the kitchen table before him. He picked it up slowly, and pressed the smooth underside of the glass to his mouth, watching the cool fluid and ice cubes spill with a rush into his lap.

This is no way to drink, he thought.

Buttons

2005-12-27T07:18:00.000-08:00

Suddenly, the sky was a flurry of motion. Dozens of shrieking Chihuahuas tumbled down onto the lawn from nowhere. Some were obviously stunned by their abrupt appearance, and began to wander shakily in random directions. Others simply laid on the ground and did not move. The child Roland with knock-knees and a striped T-shirt watched with wonder from a short distance away. He was holding a small black box with three brightly colored buttons.

“I wonder what will happen if I press the red one” he said.

Cold War

2005-12-27T06:59:00.000-08:00

Barney repaired refrigerators for a living. He was an amiable, uncomplicated man, and people liked him.

“I’m a refrigerator repairman” he would tell his friends.

They believed him, for they knew that refrigerator repairmen could not lie. Repairmen were an honest sort, after all, and could be trusted. But Barney actually worked for the CIA, and carried a loaded gun in his toolbox. He was always looking for spies. Sometimes spies would hide in refrigerators.

The Candle Factory

2005-12-27T06:55:00.001-08:00

All of the men that worked in the candle factory were named Jim. It wasn’t hard to tell them apart, because each had a distinguishing feature. One had a deformed eye. Another, seven fingers on his left hand. They worked well together. There was a unity that might have been unknown in a group of men with less homogeneous names. There were frequent calls of “Hey, Jim! Doing a great job on those wicks!” and claps on the shoulder accompanied by “Jim! Good to see you today.” Nobody felt left out when a compliment was given. The shift supervisor was Jim With The Withered Elbow.
One night, he looked out across the production floor from a catwalk outside his office door. Suddenly, a malfunction in the master melting vat caught his attention.

“Jim!” he yelled, pointing to the machinery, “look out!”

Every head snapped in his direction, and a hundred pairs of hands stopped their work. It caused a chain reaction of failing conveyer belts, dipping devices and packaging servos. Everything seized in a chaotic wrenching of metal, and hundreds of gallons of molten steaming wax spewed into the air and covered the workers. The wax cooled quickly. Jim scrambled down a service ladder to the shop floor, but it was too late. With horror, he looked at a hundred large candles. They were all named Jim.

Puttin' The Cheese To Bed

2005-12-23T11:28:00.000-08:00

The sun was setting, and Wilton was putting the cheese to bed.

“Martha!” he called from the upstairs bedroom window of the frame ranch house.

Martha was in the barnyard shooing the chickens into their hutch for the night. She heard him call.

“Puttin’ the cheese to bed!” he yelled.

She waved a hand and scurried to finish her task. This was her favorite time of the night. The last of the chickens scuttled with a flurry of feathers up the plank to its roost. Martha dusted off her overalls as she came in the house, leaving her muddy boots by the back door.

“Don’t you start without me, Wilton Payne!” she hollered, cupping a hand to her mouth.

She dashed up the stairs and met him in the small bedroom. It was decorated with wallpaper depicting every kind of airplane imaginable. Wilton patted the bed beside him, motioning her to sit. The cheese was nestled down under the light summer comforter, glowing and still slightly damp from the bath. Story time was the perfect end to a hardworking day on the farm. Martha smoothed the covers and patted the angular shape underneath.

“So… what’ll it be tonight? Dr. Seuss? Or maybe Winnie The Pooh?” Wilton asked. “Oh, wait—cheese don’t talk! I almost forgot!” He guffawed.

It was the same ritual every night. Martha rolled her eyes, but hugged herself close to Wilton affectionately. If only they had been able to have children, she pined. But then, cheese isn’t so bad…

Not Enough Chickens

2005-12-23T11:13:00.000-08:00

Diana and the chickens lived near the railroad tracks. So near, she realized one day, that they were actually ON the railroad tracks. It hadn’t seemed to matter for many years, because this part of the tracks was rusted over with disuse. The sound of a train whistle was only a faint memory for her. She wondered if trains still whistled. Her small shack made of discarded lumber and pie tins was an adequate, if sparse accommodation for her and the birds. It was Thursday when the trouble began. First, the rails under her floor began to vibrate. Then a whistling courier arrived on a small motorcycle with a message that read “A train is coming”. She looked at the note. It had a valid look about it. So with resolve she gathered the chickens, harnessing them with tiny halters, and attached lead ropes to the side of her shack.

“Go, chickens!” she screamed from the window.

The shack began to move down the track. As the mass of flapping wings and scratching claws gave its all, they picked up speed. Diana turned to look behind her. The train was closing fast and emitting a deafening noise that was NOT a whistle. It was going to be bad.

Victor's Mango

2005-12-23T11:12:00.000-08:00

Victor stood in the desert. He felt the pervasive heat siphoning its way up through his bare feet in the sand, spiraling up his legs and suffusing him with arid radiance. He felt it in his fingertips. He felt it in his lymph glands. He loved the scent of scrub cedar and mango trees, yet there were sadly no mango trees in the desert. But still he loved the mangoes. At the moment he found himself captivated by the stark beauty of the desert, yet distracted by his thoughts of mangoes. It was this very distraction that diverted his attention from the approaching doom. It was only a wispy bland cloud on the horizon, but it gathered with frightening speed into a maelstrom of wind and spinning sands. It rushed across the landscape, uprooting gnarled trees and absorbing them into its amalgam of destruction. Victor glared mutely as the storm overtook him, dissolving the flesh from his bones as his facial features warped into an insane grimace and he grasped impotently at nothing. In the end, even his bones returned to the dust. As quickly as it came, the storm was gone, and all that remained was a single mango, marvelously untouched by the gritty dervish. It had been right at his feet the whole time. If only he had known…

Enduring Helga

2005-12-23T11:11:00.000-08:00

Helga was not like the other elephants. She was made of plastic, where her peers were composed of flesh and bone and had leathery hides. The others lumbered about her, trumpeting and showing distain by blowing dust upon her. Helga was poised regally with ears flared, tusks pointed to the sky, and one foot lifted as if in salute. But she never moved. The rains would come, wash her clean, and yet she never moved. With time, the other elephants died off, and Helga remained. The year 2050 came, and a young Swahili boy approached from the brush, examined Helga, ran his hands along her smooth plastic flanks, and marveled. This was truly the last of the pachyderms. He decided that from that point on, all things should be made of plastic.

Anna And The Fish

2005-12-23T11:10:00.000-08:00

Anna left the fish in the microwave and walked across the room to the pantry. She opened the sliding door and examined its contents with her hands clenched. The shelves confirmed what she already suspected—the fish tenderizer was gone. Bob had left early that morning for the lake with his pole and tackle box. He had obviously taken it with him. She would have to use something else. Then, as she started to close the door, there was a click behind her. She whirled. The microwave was open. Open and empty. She heard a wet slapping sound coming from the floor behind the counter. Then the unmistakable cold metallic clack of a pistol being cocked. Only her trained ear could have known that it was a Beretta, caliber 9mm. She dove for the cover of the kitchen table, her gingham apron flapping. It was usually like this on Saturday mornings.

The Postmaster

2005-12-23T11:04:00.000-08:00

Postmaster Janes had worked in the same small room in the same small town for as long as he could remember. It was musty and smelled like paper and varnished wood. It was not an unpleasant smell. It was better, in fact, than the smell of rotting potatoes, he mused. He tried to imagine what the worst possible smell could be—barring all expenses and laws of physics. He decided that aged and distilled armpit scrapings from a leprous coal miner would probably top the list. The Postmaster drew a blank sheet of paper from the bin on his ancient rolltop desk, and taking out his fountain pen, recorded his thoughts in a flowing hand with bright blue ink as he chuckled with amusement. Before he could fold the sheet and mail it off to Washington, a man entered the post office. He was stately and well dressed, and was flanked by dark-suited men wearing earpieces. The grizzled Postmaster squinted up through thick glasses from his creaky chair at the man. The man placed his manicured hands on the polished wooden ledge and looked sternly down at the old Postmaster.

“Please stop sending me letters” he said. Then he left.

Knock Before Entering

2005-12-23T11:01:00.000-08:00

Carlos burst into the boardroom. It wasn’t so much that he flung the doors open and entered the room with determined fervor—he literally burst into the room. Moist, hot fragments of his flesh sprayed in every direction, vital organs flopping like beached fish onto the $100-a-square yard plush carpet. Mr. Habbachuk was caught mid-sentence in his presentation as he leaned over the conference table, propped by steepled fingers. He raised an eyebrow at the intrusion. Mr. Habbachuk had plastic sideburns, but the most unusual fact of his anatomy was concealed from view. His skull had been reconstructed almost entirely of phenolic, the resin-based laminate used in making billiard balls. It was this fact that kept him cool in a situation that had otherwise instantly thrown everyone in the room into hysteria. Mr. Habbachuk had once burst into that very same room, but he had entered headfirst, so it had not been a total loss. He shook that very same head slowly from side to side as he pursed his lips. Poor, unassuming Carlos. It was very bad form. The meeting would have to be adjourned.

The Salesman

2005-12-23T10:58:00.000-08:00

Baines was a salesman. He had a silver tongue and quick wit, and those symmetrical good looks that are reserved for those who would use their charisma as a weapon. He used his like a nuclear tornado. He started in Pennsylvania and worked West, selling everything from badger repellant to paper clips. He preyed upon the simple-minded folk, relying on his convincing parlance to leave the buyer feeling almost in his debt for having provided them with something they had so sorely needed. When he reached California, he had built up such impetus that he could not stop, and plunged into the Pacific Ocean. His fine shoes, impeccable suit and pigskin briefcase went with him into the depths. After he had acclimated to the environment, he continued his quest, but found fish not so easy to fool. After all, fish had all they needed.