

# Twisted Shorties

An Anthology of Gather Group Authors

Pam Brittain, Editor

Twisted Shorties

Copyright 2012 Pam Brittain, all rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Published by Smashwords Inc.

All rights reserved. Except for very brief quotes in reviews, reproduction or utilization of this work in any form, by means now known or hereafter invented is forbidden without the written permission of the specific author and the editor. No person, persons or places in this book are real. All situations, characters and concepts are the sole invention of the authors.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

This anthology is dedicated to

the main and real editors

Len Maxwell

John Beck

Greg Schiller

And

A. F. Stewart, Publisher

for writing the foreword

and

James Terrell, designer of the Twisted Shorties jacket

FOREWORD

A. F. STEWART

When I was asked to write the foreword for this anthology, I knew it wouldn't be hard to accomplish. Saying nice things about the contributors to this book and this project came easily.

_Twisted Shorties_ is the result of a collaboration of talented writers who post and interact on the website Gather.com. It's the brainchild of writer, Gather member, and all-around good person, Pam Brittain, who in cooperation with editors Len Maxwell, John Beck, and Greg Schiller brought her idea to glorious life. This book brings together diverse and wonderful people ready to shower you with an assorted array of enjoyable stories and poems.

I've known these writers for several years now, as my own book adventures started with the Gather.com, one of the first websites I joined when I ventured out into cyberspace as a novice author. Its strong writing community is what attracted me and I discovered a home there, finding friends who offered help and support. I have been charmed by its talented imaginations and watched some of the site's brilliant writers go on to be successful published authors, said goodbye to some who've left the site, while welcoming other gifted writers into the fold. Moreover, a great many of my own books got their start in this wonderful society.

That is the shining grace of Gather, the sheer brilliance of its storytellers, whether they share strange new worlds of fantasy, a true-life tale, or something for the younger readers it's always a fascinating read. Many of those people worked on completing this book, some writing the twisted little tales on the pages, others behind the scenes as editors and designers, molding _Twisted Shorties_ into an eclectic mix of fun.

So settle into your most comfortable chair, flip the pages and dive right in. You'll find a grand melange, ranging from sci-fi stories written by the likes of Patricia Gilliam, author of _The Hannaria Series,_ R C Larlham and yours truly, A. F. Stewart, to romantic _Chemistry_ by Sheila Deeth and even the sweet lilt of poetry by such exceptional poets as Jax and Barbary Chaapel. You'll visit the _Space Creature Zoo_ courtesy of Douglas J. Westberg, have some _Pillow Talk with a Vampire_ (brought to you by Greg Schiller) and find out just how wacky 100 words can be thanks to Tracy Fabre.

I'm certain you will fall in love with their imaginations as much as I did.

CONTENTS (By Authors)

A. F. Stewart

Foreword

Last Meal of the Day

Last Moments

Forest Sentinels

Blood Night of the Moon

Spanish Melody

Alice Grimes

Salt Covenant

The Truth of the Matter

Dedicated to the victims of 911 and their families and friends: Evil Outwitted

I Am a River

Out of the Valley

Barbary Chaapel

Lunar Spell

Bernard M Coldwell

Homestead Town (incomplete)

Ogmore Vale

Thief of Hearts

Ramblings

Wilbur

Douglas J. Westberg

Space Creature Zoo

Comb Hooking (from the journal of Rev. Spooner)

How to Recognize Me if I Try to Contact You from the Afterlife

Medicine

The Test

Greg Shiller

A Cautionary Fairy Tale

Pillow Talk with a Vampire

The Cat Box

The Roost

Visiting

Jan Hersh

August Love

Cosmic Rhythm

Eve Resurrected

Gather is a Feast

Water Ballet on the Saguenay ( A Fiord in Canada)

Jax

The Three Pigs

Fibonacci Beauty

Romeo's Letter

Watch What You Say

X, Y, Z

John Beck

She's All of These ~ a Poem in Metaphor

Cats on the Trails

Call of the Sea ~ a Ghazal in Anapestic Tetrameter

Mountain Driving

Julian Date 2243879*, a Day Which Lives in Infamy

Katryn Dougherty

Sky Poetry

Summer Haiku

Len Maxwell

Going Down?

Dead Science Project

Doctor Feel

Hell In Heaven

Jack and Jill - A Different Version

Lord Gregory

The Archer

Pontis Paradisus

Magical Toby

Milo the Great

Ms Lee P.

The Dogs of Doom and Steampunk Grandma

Where is Excalibur?

Flying South

The Night I Met Rudolph

The Crossing (A Journal Entry)

Pam Brittain

The Truth About Wyatt Earp

Cowboy Tom

The Devil Did a Good Deed

Patrick's Tales

The Cowboy and the Vampire

Patricia Gilliam

The Hannaria Series: "Career Day" — Andrew

September 13th, 2112

Bloomington, Indiana

The Hannaria Series: "First Meeting" — Rhaynan

May 7th, 207 B.C. (Earth Time)

Palace City, Hannaria

Patricia J.

Genre Shorties Prompt Week 108 Me, Myself and Indians...

Patrick Moore

Conversations with My Daughter

Deer Ser

There's Something About Mary

Winter Misery

The Battle of the Magic Pony

R C Larlham

Love and Rain

She Found Herself Tripping over Miracles

Tangled Web... Metaphorically Speaking

Deserts End

The Stairwell

Richard Lynn Livesay

You Found Me

Fifteen Minutes

Sheila Deeth

Chemistry

Dexter

A Paper Life

Excalibur

Sleeping While Reading

Terry McDermott

Bufford the Boxing Hound

Mike's Golden Touch

Alien Donkeys

Pink Bubbles

The End

Toni Vernetti

Alien Kumquat

A, E, _, O, U

And They Call Him Whardolf the Wise

Tracy Fabre

Just Do It (Monday Writing Essential)

Genre Shorties #59 -- Just Don't Say Armadillo!

Genre Shorties Week 14 -- Not Quite the High Chaparral

Genre Shorties Week 57 -- Running On Empty

The Credentials of Captain Obvious

CONTENTS

By Category

Romance

Salt Covenant

Alice Grimes

Love and Rain

R C Larlham

She Found Herself Tripping over Miracles

R C Larlham

Chemistry

Sheila Deeth

The Archer

Lord Gregory

She's All of These ~ A Poem in Metaphor

John Beck

You Found Me

Richard Lynn Livesay

Sci-Fi

Last Meal of the Day

A. F. Stewart

Last Moments

A. F. Stewart

Tangled Web... Metaphorically Speaking

R C Larlham

Going Down?

Len Maxwell

The Hannaria Series: "Career Day" — Andrew

September 13th, 2112

Bloomington, Indiana

Patricia Gilliam

The Hannaria Series: "First Meeting" — Rhaynan

May 7th, 207 B.C. (Earth Time)

Palace City, Hannaria

Patricia Gilliam

Pontis Paradisus

Lord Gregory

The Dogs of Doom and Steampunk Grandma

Ms. Lee P.

Where Is Excalibur?

Ms Lee P.

Genre Shorties Prompt Week 108 Me, Myself and Indians...

Patricia J.

Alien Kumquat

Toni Vernetti

The Truth About Wyatt Earp

Pam Brittain

Children's stories

Dead Science Project

Len Maxwell

Space Creature Zoo

Douglas J. Westberg

The Three Pigs

Jax

Magical Toby

Lord Gregory

Flying South

Ms Lee P.

The Night I Met Rudolph

Ms Lee P.

Bufford the Boxing Hound

Terry McDermott

A, E, _, O, U

Toni Vernetti

Humor

A Cautionary Fairy Tale

Greg Schiller

Pillow Talk with a Vampire

Greg Schiller

The Cat Box

Greg Schiller

The Roost

Greg Schiller

Visiting

Greg Schiller

Doctor Feel

Len Maxwell

Hell in Heaven

Len Maxwell

Comb Hooking (from the journal of Rev. Spooner)

Douglas J. Westberg

How to Recognize Me if I Try to Contact You from the Afterlife

Douglas J. Westberg

The Test

Douglas J. Westberg

Milo the Great

Lord Gregory

Just Do It (Monday Writing Essential)

Tracy Fabre

Genre Shorties #59 -- Just Don't Say Armadillo!

Tracy Fabre

Genre Shorties Week 14 -- Not Quite the High Chaparral

Tracy Fabre

Genre Shorties Week 57 -- Running On Empty

Tracy Fabre

The Credentials of Captain Obvious

Tracy Fabre

The Crossing (A Journal Entry)

Ms Lee P.

Conversations with My Daughter

Patrick Moore

Deer Ser

Patrick Moore

There's Something About Mary

Patrick Moore

Winter Misery

Patrick Moore

The Battle of the Magic Pony

Patrick Moore

Cats on the Trails

John Beck

Cowboy Tom

Pam Brittain

The Devil Did a Good Deed

Pam Brittain

Fantasy

Forest Sentinels

A. F. Stewart

Jack and Jill - A Different Version

Len Maxwell

Mike's Golden Touch

Terry McDermott

And They Call Him Whardolf the Wise

Toni Vernetti

Call of the Sea ~ A Ghazal in Anapestic Tetrameter

John Beck

Mountain Driving

John Beck

Patrick's Tales

Pam Brittain

Fifteen Minutes

Richard Lynn Livesay

Horror

Blood Night of the Moon

A. F. Stewart

The Truth of the Matter

Alice Grimes

Deserts End

R C Larlham

The Stairwell

R C Larlham

Dexter

Sheila Deeth

The Cowboy and the Vampire

Pam Brittain

Poetry

Spanish Melody

A. F. Stewart

Dedicated to the victims of 911 and their families and friends:

Evil Outwitted

Alice Grimes

I Am a River

Alice Grimes

Out of the Valley

Alice Grimes

Lunar Spell

Barbary Chaapel

Sky Poetry

Katryn Dougherty

Summer Haiku

Katryn Dougherty

A Paper Life

Sheila Deeth

Excalibur

Sheila Deeth

Sleeping While Reading

Sheila Deeth

August Love

Jan Hersh

Cosmic Rhythm

Jan Hersh

Eve Resurrected

Jan Hersh

Gather is a Feast

Jan Hersh

Water Ballet on the Saguenay ( A Fiord in Canada)

Jan Hersh

Homestead Town (incomplete)

Bernard M Coldwell

Ogmore Vale

Bernard M Coldwell

Thief of Hearts

Bernard M Coldwell

Ramblings

Bernard M Coldwell

Wilbur

Bernard M Coldwell

Fibonacci Beauty

Jax

Romeo's Letter

Jax

Watch What You Say

Jax

X, Y, Z

Jax

Medicine

Douglas J. Westberg

Alien Donkeys

Terry McDermott

Pink Bubbles

Terry McDermott

The End

Terry McDermott

Julian Date 2243879*, a Day Which Lives in Infamy

John Beck

### Romance

Salt Covenant

_By Alice Grimes_

I fall into his eyes, alive with love,

Glistening with desire, telling of fire,

Not tapped thus in decades of life,

Knowing God had saved our best for last.

~

I trace the lines around those beloved eyes,

As I memorize the gentle lips that part

In sweet surprise to claim mine as his own,

Both certain our hearts have found home.

~

Committing before Abba to love each other

And cherish this gift in the winters of our lives

Our portions of salt, once separate, made one

Speak silently how deep the covenant bond.

~

Copyright 2012 Alice Grimes All rights reserved

<http://nalice.gather.com/>

_Love and Rain_

By R C Larlham

I awoke to black rain in a vacant lot. Goldenrod startled me with brushes of wet seedheads as I sat up. A broken corner of concrete dug into my hip. I said something unkind. Vodka was never my friend, and I wondered what he'd gotten me into this time.

"She's gone," Vampire lisp. "I loved her."

"Yeah," I stood up. "Vodka, she broke my head, stole my money and left me here, just to get away from you. It's over." Too late, I smelled gasoline.

"Uh-huh." The match scritched. The soft "Whump!' belied the fury of the flame around him.

~

Copyright 2011 – All Rights Reserved R C Larlham

http://mohawk742.gather.com/

_She Found Herself Tripping_ _over Miracles_

By R C Larlham

She found herself tripping over miracles... again! The damned things were everywhere. This was the worst thing about being the lover of a god, and living with him. He NEVER put ANYTHING away! "Beneath me," he'd say, "I don't " _put away_." But he and his friends could stay up all night drinking the booze they conjured up, and top each other's miracles until dawn... and leave them all where they fell. Not ONE of them would stoop to picking up or putting away one... single... miracle.

She stumbled over a small cask of cognac. VSOP, she had no doubt. He never did anything by halves, this one. Why couldn't he just do the hand-wave thing and "make" them away?

"Olandas," she called, "come clean up this mess. I've **had** i... **OW!** " She stepped down squarely on some small bit of miracle. " **Now!** " she squawked, grabbing her abused foot and hopping about the room, re-scattering the already scattered miracles.

"What now?" he groused, appearing in the doorway, fingertips to temples. "I have the daemons' own rock-hammer in my head. Can't you be a little quieter?" He looked up and grinned through his hangover. "Very nice," he purred, watching her hop about the room, breasts, young, high and firm, bouncing nicely as her buttocks quivered every time her foot struck the floor.

Yorissi looked up at him, and followed his gaze. "O-o-o-o..." she ground out, dropping her foot and standing upright. She glared at him. Waving her arm in a half-circle she spat, "Look at this mess! You gods! Up all night drinking! Popping miracles out of the air and leaving them all over the floor!" She took a breath. "I don't care if it **IS** '...beneath your station';" I don't care if you **DON'T** 'put away'," she took a breath, "you... will... clean... up... this... mess!" She glared some more.

Olandas leaned languidly against the door, headache dispelled (after all, if a god couldn't dispel his own hangover, what good WAS he?), and watched Yorissi's tantrum. "Or?" he prompted.

"Or," she stood very straight, "you can forget ever seeing **THIS** again!" A languid and graceful swoop of her hand, palm upward, from mid-face to mid-thigh, accompanied her threat.

Olandas affected a pout. "Really?" he asked. "Are you sure there aren't 'other' miracles you'd still like to see?" The pout morphed into a leer.

"Not today!" she snapped. "Not until this mess is cleaned up." She bent down to retrieve a brightly colored miracle. "Look... a perfectly good miracle of sight, and you just leave it lying around!" she said with exasperation, tossing him the miracle. "And look at this!" She held up an intricately constructed metal and wood... something. "I'll bet this is just WONDERFUL! I'll bet somebody is praying to you for one of these right now." She looked at it, head cocked. "Er-r-r-r... what is it, anyway?"

He smiled, reaching out and taking it from her. "Inspiration," he said. "There's this engineer..." His voice trailed softly off. He looked at her again.

"Not NOW!" she snapped. She turned and headed for the door to her bath. "Clean up this room," she tossed over her shoulder, "and we'll see. But I wouldn't make any definite plans," she muttered, closing the door to the bath behind her.

Olandas chuckled. "I heard that, my lovely," he smirked, "but I believe I'll make some anyway." He waved his hand. One by one, miracles blinked out of sight. "OH, yes... I believe I will." He pulled slightly open the door to her bath.

Yorissi looked up as he entered the bath. "Finished?" she asked.

Olandas stepped forward. "Just beginning," he said, bending to brush the top of a perfect breast with his breath, "just beginning." He took a nipple between his lips.

"About that other miracle," she breathed, sliding her hand around his neck and into his hair. "Would you still like to show me?"

Bending slightly, he slipped a forearm behind her knees and lifted her. "Well," he said, pushing the far door open with his shoulder, "I might at that." Perfect teeth touched lightly...

The door closed behind them.

~

Copyright 2009 – All Rights Reserved R C Larlham

http://mohawk742.gather.com/

Chemistry

_By Sheila Deeth_

They met at college – Jacob studying chemistry, Jennifer doing as little studying as she could get away with. Then Jacob, having decided he was serious about Jen's slim figure, elegant poise and raspberry-scented hair, took her fair-haired scatter-brained beauty under his wing. He determined to teach her to study, so she could graduate with good grades.

"Don't sell yourself short," he'd tell her, and she'd answer that she wasn't planning on selling herself at all. Then they'd laugh, and as long as no-one was looking, maybe they'd even kiss.

Jen ended up majoring in chemistry too, which she hated with a soul-destroying passion. Then they married, that emotion between them called loved nurtured on those secret hidden kisses. As for passion, Jen would tell herself that fruit takes time to grow.

Jacob worked in pharmaceuticals, earning a healthy salary, and living as clean as the bright laboratories that engaged his brain.

"He was engaged to me once," Jen thought. Meanwhile the chemistry between them produced three children who engaged all Jen's talents for cooking, cleaning, entertaining, clothing, finance...

Yes, even finance. Numbers were apparently not as well behaved in bank accounts as in test tubes.

As the children grew, Jacob would remind Jen, frequently, she was selling herself short. He, with his mind absorbed by tables of elements and rules of combination, could not conceive that the wife who conceived his children was actually happy in her element at home...

Cooking raspberry pie. "That's chemistry," she said.

Fertilizing the ground so the raspberries would grow.

Fertilizing the soil of her growing children's minds.

When they grew up – Jasmine to be a Cordon Blue cook, Jessica to write for the paper, and Jeremy to be a psychologist – Jen retired to her garden. Fruit and flowers gave her comfort in her natural element. And Jacob just retired.

Then Jacob took up horticulture. They bought a swing set which they placed close by the raspberry patch. And, safe with no children or strangers to see them, maybe they'd even kiss once in a while, the chemistry between them restored by the scent of raspberries like shampoo in Jennifer's hair.

~

Copyright 2008, Sheila Deeth

http://smd.gather.com

_The Archer_

By Lord Gregory

The archer stared downrange at the target with multi-colored rings. He reached over his shoulder and drew an arrow from his quiver.

"I must not fail in my mission."

With steady hands, he drew his bowstring taut. The arrow flew downrange and landed in the three-inch bull's-eye with the previous seven arrows.

"My target must not know of my presence."

~

The archer stood alone in the woods. With two trees on the horizon chosen as his target, he silently pulled two arrows from his quiver. Placing both arrows on the string, he pulled confidently and said to himself, "My mission will change his life forever." With a sure hand, he released the arrows. Their divergent paths took them dead center into the intended pines. He swiftly spun, drew another arrow, and fired it through the thin trunk of a distant sapling, toppling it to the ground.

"I'm ready to hunt."

~

The archer sits silently behind the shrubs. He watches the young couple leave the coffee shop and walk into the park. As they walk hand in hand down the path, the archer quietly moves from tree to tree.

"I can see my target perfectly. He is mine."

The man and woman sit down on the bench under the old maple tree.

The archer moves into position on top of a limestone outcrop. With a steady hand and a cold eye, he pulls his final arrow. He draws it smoothly across his compound bow. He releases. The arrow flies and penetrates the man's back squarely between the shoulder blades.

"Perfect."

The man's eyes widen. He gives his woman a smile as a single tear runs down his cheek. He gently brushes his hand across her cheek and kisses her lips.

The archer smiles wryly and picks up his walkie-talkie.

"Mission accomplished, sir."

"Good. Come on home, son."

"Roger. Cupid, out."

~

Copyright 2011 Greg Maxwell. All rights reserved.

http://lordgregory.gather.com/

_She's All of These ~ A Poem in Metaphor_

By John Beck

She is a morning springtime shower

So light and bright with fragrance sweet

She is pink rosebuds yet to flower

Rainbows, zephyrs, sunny heat

So welcome, ending winter's power

Youthful beauty so complete.

~

She is a fierce, dark summer storm

With lightning, thunder, potent squall

Tall thunderheads' imposing form

Approach and tower over all,

Disburse, then just as soon, reform

And thus to darken as a pall

~

She is a welcome autumn rain

Providing succor to the earth

Far gentler than a hurricane

Her fluffy clouds providing birth

To sunset's hues; the window pane

Refracting raindrops, fosters mirth

~

She is an icy blizzard. She

Can chill your body, mind and soul

Imposing sky, yet beauty be

In crystal flakes enshrouding whole

Expanses, shielding death as we

Retreat to shelter like a mole.

~

Enigma, she, personified

Her calms and storms I take in stride.

~

By John J. Beck, all rights reserved

<http://lapapa.gather.com/>

_You Found Me_

By Richard Lynn Livesay

Why Love? You tapped me on the soul

Gave me the missing part. Why Love?

A fulfillment reaching my highest goal

~

Why Love? You saw that I was lonely

Blessed me with a help-mate. Why Love?

The two of us became as one and only

~

Yes Love. Your gift was evermore

Completed my life and gave me hope

You are a subtle friend that I adore.

(But sometimes you hide behind the door)

~

Copyright 2012 richardlynnlivesay All rights reserved

http://richardlynn.gather.com/

### Sci-Fi

_Last Meal of the Day_

By A. F. Stewart

Sitting at the counter of Sal's Bar and Grill feeling rotten, I scan the holographic menu display on the tabletop. Nothing new to see on their list, but you take what you can get at these cut rate places. Sal's is better than most though, the beer is cheap and the food don't make you puke. I like their sandwiches because the veggies aren't too old and their meat substitute products taste almost like real meat.

"You ready to order?"

The transparent projection of the virtual waiter pops out from the wall. "Not yet. I'm waiting for a friend to join me first."

"Whatever. Don't take too long. You don't order you got to leave." The hologram disappears.

I stare out the sim-glass door to see if I can spot Joe, but all I see through the film of cold drizzle are panhandlers trying to wheedle a buck from sad folks only marginally better off. There's a row of them, wet men and women dressed in threadbare clothes, slumped against dingy run-down buildings. I turn away, because there's nothing I can do. That scene is a typical day in the city.

To distract myself, I hit the implant behind my ear and key on my skull's cyber-jack. I trigger my internal Wi-Fi and pull up the TwitterNet inside my head to check the news. I leave the holo-display off and simply listen to the latest headlines. Some story about a federal raid catches my attention and I don't even hear it when Joe sidles up beside me.

"Hi, Sam."

I jump a bit and that triggers a coughing fit. I shut off my vid feed and catch my breath. "Hi, Joe."

"Sheesh, that's some cough. You catching a cold or something?"

"Don't know. I've been feeling like crap lately."

"Well, I hope I don't get it."

We order a couple of sandwiches and some synth-beer and I put the cost on my credit-voucher. I know Joe can't afford to pay.

"So, Sam, how are things with you?"

"The same. Barely paying the bills and caught in a shit job that sucks."

"At least you got a job."

I feel a twinge of guilt; Joe lost his job a month ago. "You're right. I shouldn't complain. I'm lucky, three other couriers got sacked last week. It's just this latest delivery I made. It's got me all rattled and edgy. I had to take this case over to IntraLab Bio Medical. All the security procedures and the nervous scientists gave me the creeps. I don't know what I was carrying, but I don't think it was good. Sometimes I wonder if I won't end in jail from one of these jobs."

"Least they feed you in jail and you got a roof over your head."

I frown. "Something wrong, Joe?"

He sighs. "I got evicted a few days ago and I'm living in the Central Park camp now. Just one of the homeless."

"Oh shit! I'm sorry. I thought you were keeping your head above water."

"I tried, but the way things are... well, without money coming in, I couldn't pay the rent." He shrugs. "Could be worse, I could be over at Wall Street. I hear there's a lot of crime over there. I tried to get into one of the old theatre shelters on Broadway, but they were full up." He chews a bite of sandwich and then continues. "It's not as terrible as I thought. The tents are warm and dry, and we got shower privileges once a week."

I don't know what to say, so I take a swig of beer and wait for him to finish talking.

"It's funny how easy you get used to stuff. I had more worry in the weeks before the camp. And some things are even better. I get a ration of purified water to drink if I work extra shifts helping around the Park. That means extra purification pills, so I don't have to drink the polluted stuff as much. I always ran out of pills living in my apartment. Plus we get a free daily meal and they got chem-toilets all through the park. And I've been told the sanitation crews are real good about tank disposal."

I smile, a fake, sick grin. No matter what spin Joe puts on it, the thought of not having my job, my home, even the meagre luxuries like basic TwitterNet and medical insurance scares the hell out of me. Hell, there wasn't even the safety of government assistance anymore since those programs shut down last year. With my paltry savings, I'd be out on the street with the other thousands of homeless within a week.

"Things sure are going to hell these days aren't they, Sam. It's a wonder we don't blow ourselves up or something. Maybe we should, the mess we made." He swallows the last bite of sandwich. "Anyway, thanks for the lunch, but I got to run."

"Bye, Joe." I watch him saunter out of the diner and then switch my vid-feed back on, this time with the holo-display. An artificially handsome anchor pops up in my field of vision.

"In breaking news, the Federal Bureau of Security has cordoned off and quarantined a section of West 34th Street in Manhattan, after a morning raid at IntraLab Bio Medical. Sadly it has been confirmed there was a breach in protocol at the facilities, with a possible biological, infectious contamination."

What! My insides did a flip. Intra-Labs? Shit, that's where I delivered that package. I suck in my breath and that starts a coughing fit again. When the spasm is over, I take my hand from my mouth and there's blood over my palm. A chill runs through me as I hear the voice of the newscaster.

"The Federal Bureau of Security is asking that anyone who has been in contact with IntraLab Bio Medical in the past week to please report to their main quarantine office on West 34th Street."

~

Copyright 2012 A. F. Stewart. All rights reserved.

http://scribe77.gather.com

_Last Moments_

By A.F. Stewart

It's the "End of the World".

What a pronouncement. Something out of book, right, or a Sunday sermon? Or maybe a movie plotline, where zombies, cyborgs or vampires roam the streets. That might be nice actually, at least there would be some activity out there, something to see when you looked out the window.

It's funny to think it all happened because a tech became sloppy with containment procedures at a lab here in New York. Then some poor delivery guy got infected and spread it to others. Within a month the city's homeless camps were decimated, it cut through the working class and extended out into New England. Then one infected person got on a plane in Boston and it flew into the rest of the world. The first pandemic killed millions, the second wave another few million.

I remember those first few months, how terrifying everyday felt with panic and fear as your constant companions. 'No cure' they said, and there proved to be little treatment either. The news labelled the outbreak a pandemic, called the disease the Hydra Virus. Each week they claimed some new emerging development or possible revolutionary medicine on the horizon. All I knew, if you got sick from it you died, no reprieve, no last minute miracle. I lost my parents to the disease in less than two weeks.

After a while, people started hoarding supplies and avoiding contact with each other. Businesses shut down because no one would go to work and if you kept in touch with people, it was by TwitterNet only. When the already failing economy collapsed, our government stepped in with martial law and implemented new quarantine procedures.

Facemasks and gloves became mandatory, relocations commonplace, while curfews and restrictions kept people off the streets. That slowed down the spread of the disease, but it didn't stop our reality from shutting down. An eerie ghost existence replaced regular life and everyone stayed in the relative safety of their air-filtered buildings. People only ventured outside for emergencies.

That's what happened to me last week, when my son got sick from an infection. I don't know if it was stupid or brave going to a medical clinic to get some antibiotics, but my son is well again. I take comfort in the fact my husband and kids are secure, in our home.

The rest I find sad. I'd like to see people walking, cars driving by again. I miss them, and I miss the noise of the city. It's so quiet here with everyone inside, everyone that's left anyway. And I miss my husband and children. It would be nice to see them one last time, but they don't allow family in the isolation wards for the dying.

~

Copyright 2012 A. F. Stewart. All rights reserved.

http://scribe77.gather.com

_Tangled Web... Metaphorically Speaking_

By R C Larlham

Gerrold stepped down on the wet neo-cycad log below... and it turned in place, dropping his heel abruptly to the harder ground. He felt the tendon go, again. The big one, just above the heel... the Achilles. "Dammit, this is NO time for this!" Swearing wasn't his long suit, so he didn't follow up. He did, however, sit down. Carefully, he pulled his arm out of the 'viro-suit sleeve. Working it down and into the leg of the suit, he felt along the roughened skin from heel-bone to calf. About two centimeters above the heel he found it. Besides the bulge that told him he was right; the tendon sheath had ruptured again, there was the flare of agony at his touch that turned his ankle to fire.

He bit back a choking sob, and tried swearing again, "Sunnuvva-BITCH!" That felt right. He decided to quit while he was ahead. Tonguing the tabs in his helmet, he selected an analgesic and a HealQuik™. Pulling a tab in the leg of the 'viro-suit, Gerrold tightened the anklet portion from heel to calf, making a temporary, slightly flexible cast.

Gerrold stood up. Another flare of lesser agony elicited a swallowed groan.

"Gerrold?" His partner's deep alto, questioning in uncertainty, told him he hadn't fully swallowed that last groan. "Gerrold? He had to get the mission back on track..

"Stupid rain planet's tryna KILL me, Cadline" he radioed back. "Stumbled a bit, but I'm OK. Finish your transect, and I'll meet you at camp."

"Promise you're OK?"

The near-childish expression made him laugh. "Promise." He reoriented himself, checked his GPS against the satellites temporarily in orbit, and began recording. So far, the largest land-based animal seen by any surveyor was an arachniform about half a meter in diameter. There appeared to be no chordate analogues, at least on land. The arachniform in question had the appearance of an amazingly outsized spider. When describing spiders of Terra, a spider said to be half a meter in diameter, would have been measured from leg-tip to leg-tip. THESE arachniforms were measured across the body; a body so light that it could be supported on ten multi-jointed three-meter legs, each less than a centimeter across at its thickest point...three of which had just appeared before him.

Gerrold stopped walking. "Well," he muttered, "you're a walkin' bag o' sticks... aren't ya?" He craned his neck, peering up along the nearest leg. "Hello." He waved at the comical body, tiny by comparison with the legs attached to it. "Good job we're not food for you," he muttered, looking at the constantly moving sharp mouth-parts. The view made him grateful for the Kevlarized fabric of the suit.

With a speed that belied its awkward look, the super-spider performed a deep curtsey, bringing its face level with Gerrold's. It bounced a little. Gerrold felt himself retreat a step. Of course, being surrounded by the legs, retreat was a relative term. "Hello," he said again, for no particular reason at all.

"Hel-l-l-lllo-o-o-o-oooow-w-w..." sang the creature.

"Uh-oh." Gerrold's worldview was darkening at the edges.

"Gerrold..." Cadline's throaty alto was back.

Gerrold turned to his left. A short 'viro-suit, shaped vaguely along the lines of his own, but substantially wider in relation to its height, strode toward him. Gerrold stepped toward the shorter suit. His leg was fire again, and it betrayed him.

"Gerrold!" Cadline ran toward him as he fell.

"Ger-r-r-r-o-o-o-ol-l-l-ld..." The super-spider sank with him as he fell.

"Oh, Hel-umpf!" Gerrold hit the ground, Cadline dropping to one knee beside him. Groaning again, he levered himself up and looked at the two creatures next to him... the Cantarrian dwarf with the muscles of a gorilla, the mustaches (as Gerrold knew) of a Russian Tsar, and the voice of a Terran sultress... and the giant spider, a near massless brain on ten legs.

"Why-y-y-yyy do-o-o-ooo you-u-u-uuu ha-a-a-avvve tha-a-a-a-attt ski-n-n-n???" sang the super-spider.

Cadline leaned back against a neo-cycad and watched the hydrocarbon rain trace runnels down its side. "You won't understand most of this... yet." He thought about the two weeks they had been here, and the complexity of the thoughts the Spider had already communicated. "But I'm betting it won't take you long. OK, here goes... Without the 'skin' we'll die. We breathe Oxygen. Your atmosphere is nitrogen, like ours, and something we call methane instead of oxygen. We can't breathe methane. We have oxygen inside the 'skin.' And then there's the atmospheric pressure... the 'skin' diverts the pressure around us. If it didn't, we'd be squashed."

He contemplated the unlikelihood of a cold, methane atmosphere planet/moon producing not only life, but evolving sentient, intelligent life. "We need to be here. Your very air is fuel for us. Seems, however, that now we'll have to trade for it. Gonna take a long time to figure out what we have that's of value to you. And, of course, we can't forget that we need to leave you something to breathe. Oh, yes, this is going to be interesting."

Gerrold hauled himself to his feet. "And expensive." He limped off toward the landing zone. "I'm the pig that flew," he muttered. "The human race finds two sentient species in its own back yard, and I'm the guy who finds both of 'em. And they BOTH want to talk me to death."

Cadline and Spider were wisely silent.

~

Copyright 2010 – All Rights Reserved R C Larlham

http://mohawk742.gather.com/

_Going Down?_

By Len Maxwell

"Have you ever thought about how this elevator only goes up?"

I turned to the man next to me and stared. Short, wearing glasses, he was dressed to near perfection for a lawyer. I wasn't quite sure what to say so I said, "No. Because it goes both up and down."

He looked over at me and said, "Have you ever ridden down in this elevator?"

I had only been to the courthouse ten or so times and knew that I always rode this elevator when I was going to the tenth floor. "Not that I remember."

"So, this elevator always goes up."

"No," I said, trying to gather my wits. "Look, the elevators are programmed. One waits at the top and the other waits at the bottom. That way people don't have to wait too long to go either direction."

He smiled and said, "So you've never gone down in this particular elevator."

"No."

"Then you can't say for certain that this elevator ever goes down. I don't want to spring anything weird on you, but, as far as you know, this elevator always goes up, right?"

I shook my head; something was out of sync here and I wasn't quite sure what it was. The small enclosure suddenly felt like a coffin as I leaned against the frame of the door and said, "Look, if this elevator never goes down, then how does it get to the bottom so it's waiting for us?"

The elevator doors opened and he started out, then stopped and turned, "Yes, how does it get back to the bottom?" And with that he turned and walked down the corridor.

I stood there trying to make sense of what I'd heard and the elevator doors closed. _Okay_ , I thought, _here we go, we're going to go down_. Then I was completely put off when I felt the floor press against my feet, indicating we were going... up!

I watched the indicator panel and it never changed; it kept showing we were on the tenth floor, but I could feel the elevator moving. I heard a ding and the doors opened. I looked out cautiously and saw that I was on the tenth floor.

I jammed my finger onto the "1" on the panel and waited for the doors to close. I came close to panic as I felt the elevator go _up_! I kept my finger on the "1" until the doors opened...

The short, lawyer-type man was standing in the corridor pressing the button for the elevator. He looked over at me and I waved him over. "No, thanks," he said, "I'm waiting for the 'down' elevator."

As the doors opened for the other elevator and the man walked in, the doors to my elevator closed and I held my finger on the "1," trying to will it to go _down_. Once again, I felt the pressure on my feet telling me that I was going _up_.

I almost danced a jig when the doors opened and I found myself looking at the short man who was smiling at me. "Ah, I see you decided to take the _down_ elevator, huh?"

I walked out and, turning, saw that I was standing in front of the down elevator. "How? I was in that one over there," I said, pointing to my right.

He chuckled at me and said, "Yes, but you wanted to go down and down you came. Except that you had to be in the _down_ elevator to do that. I don't know how it happens, but when someone wants to come down enough, they get shifted over to the _down_ elevator." As he started out the front door of the courthouse, he called back, "I'll see you around." Then he stopped, turned, and a very impish expression crept across his face as he said, "Or up and down."

~

Copyright 2011 Len Maxwell. All rights reserved.

http://maadmaax.gather.com/

The Hannaria Series: "Career Day" — Andrew

September 13th, 2112

Bloomington, Indiana

By Patricia Gilliam

"Everyone, find your seats," Mrs. Hendrix said, and I glanced up from where I'd fallen asleep at my desk. "James will be handing out the results to your IQ and career aptitude tests from last week. Keep in mind these are only suggestions, but they can help you narrow down what course path you want to begin starting next year..."

I was in the back of the first row, and when James got to me I didn't immediately open my envelope like everyone else. I'd messed up the IQ test on purpose—taking my dad's advice that a high score would draw too much attention. Out of curiosity, I'd answered all the career questions as honestly as I could. It shouldn't have mattered so much, but—

"No way," a red-haired girl next to me named Shannon said then shook her head. "I don't care what that program says—I'm not going to be an accountant! What does yours say? Why haven't you opened it yet?"

"I figured I'd wait and shred it when I get home," I replied, and her eyebrows rose. "Here, you open it. Just tell me the IQ results first."

"Sure," she replied, but an odd expression hit her face as she lifted the sheet out. "Well, the good news is I'm smarter than you."

"That's the good news?" I asked, trying to sound offended without laughing. "By how much?"

She suddenly blushed like she was embarrassed.

"About 30 points," she replied then quickly added. "A score of 105 isn't that bad, though—still a little better than average. Plus it may just be a test anxiety thing. I think you seem a lot smarter than that."

"If you say so," I said then looked away from her and down at my desk. "What about the career suggestions?"

"Based on your responses, it says you'd do well in social fields—business, politics, public relations, sales—"

"Intergalactic con artist..." I mumbled to myself then held out my hand for the paper. "Thanks—I'll look at the rest of it later."

"Is something wrong?" she asked, but by that point Mrs. Hendrix had stood up from her desk again.

"Invitations have been sent out to your parents to speak about their fields over the next few weeks. If you can, please remind them that I'll need to know their availability by this Friday so I can start a schedule. Have a good rest of the day. You're dismissed."

I put my tablet and crumpled the results paper into my backpack then rushed for the door to beat everyone to it.

"Andrew, can I speak to you for a moment?"

"How did you not wake yourself up?" James whispered as he passed me. "We could hear you snoring all the way in the front row."

"I promise I was still listening," I replied to Mrs. Hendrix, turning around and expecting another lecture from her. "I—"

"Your father already sent me back a reply and told me why he and your mother can't come," she replied, but from her sympathetic tone I felt safe to assume he hadn't given her the real reason. "If there's another relative you'd like to invite..."

"None of them live close enough," I said, which was the truth without mentioning they weren't even in the same solar system. "It's all right. I'm used to it."

I started back toward the exit again, feeling somewhat awkward since everyone else had left.

"You know, I've never had a parent contact me back so fast or ask if there was anything else he could do to help," she said, and I hesitated at the doorway and nodded to her. "I know it probably seems like he works a lot, but I can tell he cares about you."

"I know," I replied then forced a smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She smiled back but then gave me a warning look.

"If I notice you're seeing the back of your eyelids again, I'll have to give you detention next time. Remember that."

Our house was within walking distance, and I decided to take my time. The weather was mild for fall, and I actually liked the town. School was tolerable for the most part, and Mrs. Hendrix was a better teacher than others I'd had. Shannon was probably the closest person I had to a friend, though there wasn't much point to getting to know her better. By winter, we would be moving again.

"How was school?" Dad asked as I came through the door then smirked at me. "I take it your teacher bought my exploding toilet story? I tried to be as graphic as possible—looked up a bunch of descriptive English adjectives and everything. Your mom spell-checked it."

"I'm sure she did," I replied then slumped down on the living room couch. "What did you really say?"

His smirk faded. He used to panic me with things like this, but I'd learned to anticipate it.

"The usual—how things are volatile in our location and that your mother and I were in no position to leave Central America anytime soon," he replied. "Are you all right?"

I nodded.

"Yeah, I'm fine—just tired," I replied, but he waited until I took the paper out of my backpack and showed it to him. "Has it ever bothered you that you and mom had no choice over your positions?"

He shrugged his shoulders then sat down next to me.

"What was normal for us won't ever be the same for you, and I think that's good. As long as we're going to be stuck here for awhile, you should at least have more choices than we did."

"Is that why you won't tell me my real name yet?" I asked, but he grabbed the remote and turned on the monitor like he hadn't heard me. "I know you saw parts of my future when I was born. Why don't you want to tell me?"

"Because there should be some surprise in the journey," he replied, but I noticed his eyes had flared blue as I felt myself drifting off again. "You really shouldn't be sleeping this much...doesn't make sense..."

Mom woke me up the next morning, having to drive me so I wouldn't be late.

"Where's Dad?" I asked, and she smiled but didn't answer me. "I don't know if you realize it, but you both can be very bad examples at times. I can't do this silent treatment thing to my teachers or anybody else without them thinking I'm weird."

"He wants to surprise you," she replied then let me out a few yards from the school's entrance. "If it doesn't surprise you, at least act it. He feels horrible that he can't be at events with you like all the other fathers."

I got to class on time, and most of the day went by as normal. Right after lunch however, I found myself feeling tired again but tried to fight it—propping my chin up with my hands and leaning both elbows on my desk. I still ended up closing my eyes for what felt like a few seconds, but when I opened them Mrs. Hendrix had moved to the door to talk to someone in the hallway. Her gaze was on me.

"Great," I groaned then looked over at Shannon. "How long have I been out?"

"Awhile," she replied, and her expression was concerned. "Maybe you should go see the school nurse or something. You—"

"Everyone, this is Dr. Andrew Wallace—a good friend of our Andrew Wallace's parents," Mrs. Hendrix said, and a man I'd only remembered from photos walked through the doorway with Dad following behind him. "Are you Andrew's brother? You look like him."

"Mind if I stay?" Dad asked without answering her question then gestured to Dr. Wallace. "I was his ride from the airport."

Mrs. Hendrix nodded, and Dad walked to the back of the room and sat down in the floor next to my desk.

"It was the best I could do on short notice," he whispered, and before I could reply his glance moved to the front of the room.

"After this, I can answer any specific questions you have about being a general physician," Wallace said then looked at me. "I met Andrew's parents almost twelve years ago—not to embarrass him, but I helped deliver him when he was born. That's why his parents named him after me. Since his father can't be up here the way he'd like to be, I want to pass on a short message from him: We're all born at the base of a path we don't choose. Sometimes that path is good—not without its problems and challenges—but good. Other times, you might find yourself looking ahead to a destination without love or light or integrity or hope—and you have to make the hard choices it takes to create a new trail, not just for your own sake but for the sake of those who mean the most to you. Whatever roads you take in life—whoever and whatever you decided to be—never forget that there's always a choice."

I looked over at Dad, and he smirked.

"Good surprise?" he asked, and I nodded but suddenly felt light-headed and fell forward in my seat. "Andrew? Andrew, wake up! Wallace, get over here. Hurry!"

~

Copyright 2012 by Patricia Gilliam. All Rights Reserved.

http://cougar1002.gather.com/

_The Hannaria Series:_ _"First Meeting" — Rhaynan_

May 7th, 207 B.C. (Earth Time)

Palace City, Hannaria

By Patricia Gilliam

"We shouldn't have brought her here this soon," my mom said, helping me out of my chair's restraints as my dad powered down our ship. "With everything that's changed..."

"All the more reason for her to learn now rather than later," Dad replied, but he smiled at me and tapped the tip of my nose. "You'll behave, won't you?"

I smiled back and nodded. This was my first visit to Hannaria, and from what I understood I was getting the opportunity much younger than any of my brothers and sisters had.

"Stay within the guard's sight, and no exploring alone," I said, repeating the instructions they'd told me multiple times for almost the entire trip. "Are there going to be other kids around?"

"Maybe," Mom replied. "If that's the case, don't go anywhere without the guard being with you. Which one of the twins is it?"

"Ashner, I think," Dad said, sounding unsure as he opened the back hatch door. "I've met both of them, but I still can't tell them apart."

They each held one of my hands as we stepped down the ramp. There was a group of people waiting for us that I didn't recognize.

"What striking eyes," one woman said, but she seemed to be talking more to my parents than me as she crouched down to my level. "I've never seen that particular color. Have you thought about having her genes tested before her defense system becomes active? You might be able to correct—"

"I see nothing that needs to be corrected," Dad interrupted in a calm tone, but I noticed his grip had gotten tighter. "If you'll excuse us, Pasha. We're not taking her inside with us."

They led me past the crowd where a palace guard was waiting for us. Ashner towered over my father by almost a foot, and I could see the veins sticking up on his arm muscles. I knew he was there to protect me, but he was still kind of scary.

"Hello, Rhaynan," he said, laughing when I ran and hid behind my mom. "Shy one, isn't she? If you want to walk with us a little farther, there's plenty of space for her to play in the central courtyard. I'll still keep watch at the entrance, of course."

As we walked, I noticed a lot of the people we passed kept staring at us.

"Makes you wonder if she mated with a colonist while he was away," I heard someone whisper behind us, but Dad picked me up and put me on his shoulders before I could see who said it. "Even if one of them had a colonist ancestor, you have to feel sorry for the poor child now. Nothing's going to hide those eyes once she gets older..."

"What are they talking about?" I asked, starting to feel uncomfortable when no one answered me and kept walking. "What does 'mated' mean?"

"It's something children don't need to be concerned about," Mom replied, but her eyes had flared bright blue as she looked at Dad. "I told you this was a bad idea."

Dad sighed then let me down to the ground. In front of us was a garden filled with flowers and a series of small connected stone walls with different heights.

"We'll be back as soon as we can," he said as he hugged me. "Thanks for watching her for us, Ashner."

Mom kissed the top of my head but kept glancing back at me as they left. When I couldn't see them anymore, I tilted my head back so I could see Ashner's face—almost falling backward in the process.

"Mom and Dad both think royals should be nicer to colonists," I said, and this made him grin. "Are you a slave?"

"No, I get compensated just as much as some royals," he replied, but his attention darted to something behind me. "Though sometimes it doesn't seem like nearly enough. Bardin—get down from there! If you tear up those tiles, it's going to cause a leak."

I turned around to see a blond-haired boy balancing on the top edge of the roof. Without hesitation, he jumped then did a roll on the ground in front of us.

"Hi," he said, but then he tilted his head sideways as he got closer to me. "Your eyes are funny."

"Well, your smile is...really weird," I replied in frustration, but his smirk got bigger. "If you're going to be mean, just stay away from me!"

"Hey, he didn't mean it like that," Ashner started, but I marched away from both of them and sat down in the far corner of the courtyard. "Bardin, go tell her you're sorry. She just got here, and her parents and your parents are friends."

I kept my head down but saw his shoes when he got closer.

"I'm sorry your eyes are funny," he said in a serious tone, but he smirked again as I stood up and faced him. "That doesn't mean I don't want to be your friend. People here talk about my family all the time, too. Just ignore them."

I shook my head, feeling tears coming at the thought of having to face the same awful people on our way back.

"I don't know if I can."

He sat down beside me and put his arm around my shoulder.

"If you'll trust me, I have an idea."

We made it back to the ship without technically breaking any of my parents' instructions—though Ashner had to keep up with us from the ground because he was too heavy for the rooftops to hold him.

"If your family ever comes to Kydena, come find us," I said just before we were about to leave, and he nodded but with a sad expression. "I like your smile."

He smirked again.

"I like your eyes."

~

Copyright 2012 by Patricia Gilliam. All Rights Reserved.

http://cougar1002.gather.com/

_Pontis Paradisus_

By Lord Gregory

"The people of this planet approach their hour of judgment," the formless juror declared.

"The council agrees. Gather their defense," a ubiquitous voice replied.

The President of Caelum had been on his jet recuperating from his hectic campaign schedule. He closed his weary eyes and sighed deeply. Upon opening his eyes, he found himself surrounded by nothingness. He was contained within a vast empty place with no substance and only a white glow that mysteriously emanated from everywhere.

Before the president's panic had a chance to emerge, The Prime Minister of Marold appeared before his eyes. Visually shaken, the two neighboring political super powers looked about the emptiness slowly.

A third figure became visible just as rapidly as the others did. A peasant worker from the Ventrilla fields stood shaking in his tattered and soiled work clothes as he tried to make sense of what was happening.

As the three men stood in a state of shock, a formless object slowly materialized from the nothingness into a more familiar human form. The being's body was covered by a generic black suit, while its head remained uncovered and featureless. A penetrating deep voice came from the mouth area and said, "I am The Juror. Conflict and intolerance among humans has escalated to the final extinctive judgment." The Juror gestured to the humans. "You may now present evidence of your achievements as a species. Insufficient evidence of humanity will result in the immediate annihilation of your kind."

The prime minister quickly spewed out a list of his country's technological advances. The image of each gadget and process he mentioned was instantly projected onto the white nothingness of the room. His rapid recollection of his country's industrial revolution created a collage of images illustrating Maroldian development.

The Caelum president systematically named his country's most advanced technology and breakthrough innovations. Moving images of Caelum's success in their space program filled the room.

The two bureaucrats looked smugly at each other while the Ventrillan worker started to speak. He was equally proud of his people's humble contribution to humanity. Images of irrigated fields, wicker baskets, plows, looms, and other simple objects flashed on the screen. The final image to appear was that of three grass huts separated by channels of water with simple bamboo bridges spanning their width.

The image of the huts remained on the screen while The Juror spoke to the politicians. "Is that all your countries have to offer?"

"Yes. Isn't that enough?" whimpered the Caelum president.

"No, but I am intrigued by this image." The Juror pointed to the Ventrillan bridge. "What is this?" he asked.

"It is a bridge in my village."

"What does it do?"

The worker modestly said, "It allows me to bring food to my neighbor when he is in need. It provides access to my home when my family needs medicine. It gives our community a way of staying connected to each other to ensure that all will be safe."

The Juror nodded. "You are a worthy species. You humans have learned so much, but most have forgotten what it is to be human. Extinction suspended, for now." The Juror turned and disappeared into the nothingness.

~

Copyright 2007 Gregory Maxwell. All rights reserved.

http://lordgregory.gather.com/

T _he Dogs of Doom and Steampunk Grandma_

By Ms. Lee P.

Tomorrow I will be three hundred and thirty-three years old. It doesn't take a fire marshal to know that's a whole lot of candles. How have I lived so long? Your guess is as good as mine but I'm willing to bet the cataclysm that happened two and a half centuries ago had something to do with it. That was the time when large portions of the Earth just sort of collapsed in on itself. Whole continents were set adrift. In all of the commotion something happened that caused us to start living longer. I wish we could figure out why, but unfortunately all the scientist and doctor types left with half a brain have been a little preoccupied with surviving the worst natural disaster known to man. Oh yeah, and the world wide war that broke out afterwards didn't exactly help either.

There is only one land mass now which circles the globe with the oceans and seas being to the north and south. Most of the cities were destroyed during the upheaval but some of the smaller areas were left unharmed. I still live in the same house I lived in before the cataclysm and I still work in my beautiful flower beds and garden every spring.

Now that the great wars between the once great nations have died down, we've abandoned oil and switched to steam to power our new society. There is plenty of water from the oceans and rivers and steam is easily made. There are holes left in the earth's mantle when it cracked that create a continuous source of heat. By tapping into these holes and channeling the heat into water reservoirs, steam is manufactured and piped into homes, businesses, schools, travel machines or wherever it's needed. As the steam evaporates, it gets piped back into the reservoir to be used again and again.

The drawback is that even though we can filter the salt out of the seawater it is never completely pure and the residue corrodes the steam pipes. Something is always breaking down or leaking and needing to be repaired. On one hand you're constantly worried a random pipe will burst, spraying scalding hot steam all over the house and on the other hand, unemployment is unheard of because there is always work to be done.

Law enforcement is usually relegated to keeping order among the few remaining cyber organisms that were created to fight the last Great War among men. I couldn't give two figs about the occasional cyber-soldier wandering the streets, as long as it's unarmed. It's the cyber-dogs I can't stand. The darned things run in packs. I call them "the dogs of doom" because of the way they tear up my yard and leak oil and battery acid all over my beautiful flower beds and garden, killing anything green. They must be stopped!

The traveling tinker-man stopped by in his steam balloon yesterday and sold me a wonderful walking cane that will supposedly repel any haywire cyber-animal who dares approach my lawn. It is steam powered and can shoot fire at the offending cyber-dogs, driving them off of my property and saving my beautiful flowers and garden and myself from their destruction.

I have many stories to tell about the changes that have happened in the past three hundred and thirty-three years, but today I just wanted to tell you about my new walking cane and let everyone know that, like death and taxes, life too goes on no matter what. I'm living proof!

~

Copyright by Ms. Lee P. All rights reserved.

http://leepay.gather.com/

_Where Is Excalibur?_

By Ms Lee P.

I read an article today written about the sword Excalibur. In it, the author theorized about its origin, and how it's been used throughout history. I am just a little old lady so of course no one would think to ask me about the mythical weapon but if they did they might be surprised at how much I know about it. For instance, I know that Excalibur did not begin its life as a sword. In fact, it has been many things throughout its long and sordid history.

When God created the world and prepared the beautiful garden called Eden he made the first man and woman (Adam and Eve) to take care of it. They needed tools to do this so God created such tools for them to use. There were shovels, hammers, shears, knives, plows and other necessary gardening implements. These garden tools were never too heavy and could always do exactly what they were designed to do without Adam or Eve breaking into a sweat as they toiled.

Things eventually went wrong in the Garden called Eden and Adam and Eve got thrown out to fend for themselves, but they took all their tools with them.

It wasn't long before the beasts of the outside world decided Adam and Eve would make an excellent source of food, so the couple had to develop a way to protect themselves. They took some of the plows and shovels and beat them down and fashioned them into long spears for hunting and defense. The long spears never missed their mark and never dulled against the throngs of evil wolves and foes the dark forces of the world threw at them.

Over the years the population of the earth multiplied and mankind began to covet what their neighbors owned. Wars broke out. Spears were beaten down into swords that man could carry as they rode into battle.

A man called Noah once beat some of the remaining garden tools from Eden into nails that he used to build a monumental boat for his family and many of the Earth's creatures. He took the tools of Eden with him on the boat, along with one of the swords that had been fashioned from the spears. When the flood came and covered the Earth, Noah, his family, the animals and the tools were the only survivors. The tools were used to help replant and cultivate new crops after the waters receded. Noah kept the sword hidden, but his wife would sometimes sneak it out and use it to chop broccoli. Eventually Noah grew old and died. The tools and sword were handed down through his family.

The earth was eventually repopulated and some of the tools were lost, never to be seen again but a few were still cherished and kept safe. Including the sword.

Man being man, wars started again. Legend has told many stories about the sword and its use. Once a young man named David used it to cut off the head of the one remaining giant that was terrorizing the land. It's also rumored that there was a man named Don Quixote who used it to fight enormous dragons who possessed the ability to disguise themselves as ordinary objects of equal mass. Many windmills were destroyed as the sword always wins.

The best-known tale of the sword that was beaten from the garden tools of Eden is the story of King Arthur and the mighty Excalibur. The rumors about how the King came to possess the sword are mostly false. The truth of the matter is that a woman, one of Noah's descendants overheard the King praying one night for guidance in the bitter war that was being fought at the time. She believed in his cause. She managed to approach him without getting herself killed and told him that she was the keeper of a weapon forged from the steel of God Himself. If Arthur wanted to use the sword, he would have to meet her at the bend in the lake where her house was. Once there she presented the sword to him with the explicit instructions that it was to be returned to her family after he was through with it. He agreed, and there after the sword saw many battles.

The sword soon became known as Excalibur because rumor had it that it could cut through steel. (I think Excalibur is French or some other foreign language word for "cuts steel") The sword changed hands several times, always with the instructions of where it was to be returned when the fighting was done.

Excalibur was handed down through the years from knight to knight and fought in many battles. Eventually one of the soldiers who held the sword grew weary of battle. His back was tired, his heart heavy with all the death he'd seen on the battlefield. He thought that perhaps returning the sword to its rightful owners would put a stop to all the bloodshed. He made the trip to the house at the bend in the lake and returned the sword to the lady that lived there. She accepted it because she knew its history and vowed that it would never again see battle or shed blood so she had the sword beaten back into simple garden tools again.

The tools from Eden have been many things throughout the history of the world but for many centuries now they have been a garden tool set consisting of a trowel and a hand claw. They are now in my care and I use them. They make digging and cultivating my beautiful flower beds easy and my flowers are always the prettiest ones in the neighborhood. It's true. I own the tools of Eden. One day the tools from Excalibur will be handed down to my descendants for them to vanquish the many foes that lurk in their gardens.

~

Copyright by Ms. Lee P. All rights reserved.

http://leepay.gather.com/

_Genre Shorties Prompt Week 108 Me, Myself and Indians..._

By Patricia J.

Give me up to 100 words about yourself -- in third person.

~

Patti is an Indian, the American kind, just too old to change to Native American. She is not a flaming cannibal but knows people who might be. During the daylight hours, she is a mild mannered retired woman; yet at night she becomes volatile like Hungarian paprika, she's out and about with Armi the Armadillo, her trusted sidekick, looking for evil in every dark corner. Ready to swoop in and fight for the rights of people everywhere, she is the Masked Redskin!

~

Copyright by Patricia J. All rights reserved

pattij49@gather.com

Alien Kumquat

_By Toni Vernetti_

Spaceman was homeless. NASA shut its hatches forever. He pushed his shopping cart and looked for a place to stay the night. Tonight, Dec 25th, he was at a low point and it seemed that nothing in life could make him smile.

Walking through town he came across a space alien who was squatting, living in the bushes. He looked at the alien with sad eyes. The alien offered him a place to stay.

"Com 'quat with me".

At what sounded like the word 'kumquat', the spaceman roared with laughter and was grateful for the smile and friend this night.

~

(Story written in response to a 100 word or less prompt challenge from the Genre Shorties group on Gather.com. Challenge: Two people are meeting somewhere between Dec 24 and New Year's Day. One of the people is: a cowboy, Indian, spaceman, soldier, or policeman. The other person is: a vampire, werewolf, alien, crook, or politician. Choose one person from each group and describe their holiday encounter.)

~

Copyright 2012 Toni Vernetti. All rights reserved.

<http://whitewolf101.gather.com/>

The Truth About Wyatt Earp

By Pam Brittain

We were sitting at the OK Corral Bar and overheard an old codger talking to himself. To this day we wonder if he was really talking to himself. Here's what he said.

"Yep, old Wyatt Earp weren't no good. Heck, the only reason he was sheriff in this town was cause we was all 'fraid of him.

"I come to Tombstone fer the same reason most ever one else did – silver. Bright shiny silver. Left my wife and kids cause I knowed I'd strike it rich. And I did, but old Earp was a watchin' everyone. Heck he'd kill if you looked at him wrong.

"So I took old Bessie – that were my mule – and went a prospectin'. Found it too. Found the mother lode and started carting it off. Figured I should hide it somewhere where silver ain't never been found. That there silver's heavy, but old Bessie never complained about haulin' it down the mountain.

"Now I warn't no stupid cowboy. I only took the poor grade stuff back to town with me. Ya see, that way no one thought much and I could get me a belly full of dinner. I was living real good fer two years. Shucks, by then, Bessie knew her own way to the mine and then back down to our secret spot.

"If old Earp's mine hadn't petered out, he wouldn't a been killing so many folks. He took to jumpin' claims and if you argued with him, he'd shoot ya dead. That there's what happened to me. Earp followed me, let me load up old Bessie and then tried to shoot me. Poor old Bessie got in the way. So he shot her and then he shot me. I know, cause I'm dead.

"Yep, old Earp weren't no good, Heh, heh, he never found out where I hid most of the silver and the stash is still there."

~

Copyright 2012, Pam Brittain. All rights reserved

http://pambrittain.gather.com

### Children's Stories

_Dead Science Project_

By Len Maxwell

"Dad! It's dead," yelled Stuart.

His father dumped the grocery bags on the table and asked, "What's dead?"

"My science project. I forgot to turn off the lights while we were gone."

Stu looked at the trays of dry grass. _Well_ , he thought _, not much I can do with them except throw them out_. He took the four trays out to the garden and dumped them.

The next day was not fun for Stu. He suffered through twenty minutes of science class as several of the students got up and explained their projects.

When his name was called, he turned around, faced the teacher, and said, "No, ma'am, I don't have a project to turn in."

"Stuart, I'm surprised. I hope you realize I have to give you an F if you don't turn in a project."

"Yes, ma'am, I know."

While the next student was presenting her project, Tony, who sat behind Stu, leaned forward and whispered, "Stu, what's up with you? You're always on top of things."

"Ah, I was doing an experiment to show what type of light caused the best growth in grass. We went away for the weekend and I left the lights on. When we got back, all the grass was dead."

"Well, tell her that, maybe she'll give you extra time."

Stu shook his head. "No. I planned this project and I screwed it up. I deserve what I get for it."

"Stu, you're really smart, but you can be so dumb some times. You've got to stand up for yourself."

"It's not worth it. If I tell Miss Simpson I screwed up something this simple, she'll probably think I'm a real dummy."

"Stu, it's not a matter of being a dummy. We're talking about your grade."

"I know, but I hate to tell her I screwed up that badly."

"Well, if you're not going to tell her, I will."

Stu turned around in his chair and said, "No! You can't do that. I don't want her to know. If you're really my friend, you'll keep your mouth shut."

"Boys," the teacher called, "let's show some respect for the person who's talking."

Stu turned around but Tony had to get in the last word. "I think you're crazy, but I won't say anything about it."

It was nearly a week before Stu heard anything else about it. The class was drawing microscope slides and Miss Simpson called him up to her desk. "Stuart, it's not like you not to turn in a project. You're one of my top students and I don't want to see your grade suffer for something beyond your control."

"What do you mean, 'beyond my control?' I just said I didn't have a project to turn in."

"Yes, but I understand you did a project and, for some reason, you decided not to submit it."

Stuart shook his head. "Tony said he wouldn't say anything."

"He did it because he's your friend."

"He's no friend of mine."

Miss Simpson explained, "Look, this is a science class. You started a project that didn't turn out how you planned. But you got a result."

Stu shrugged and said, "Yeah, everything died."

"Right. It's not the result you expected, but that's what scientific experiments are for. You plan an experiment, make a guess about what will happen, and then you try it. Sometimes you guess right and sometimes you don't. In this case, you may have guessed right but something went wrong. Now, draw a conclusion from that."

"That's easy, grass dies if it gets too much light."

"Well? Isn't that why you do experiments? To find out what happens under certain circumstances."

"What? You mean I should write it up just as it happened. I just change my conclusion?"

"No. Your premise won't change. Your procedures won't change. But, you have to change the project book to reflect what happened."

"Right, then I have to write up the conclusion."

"Then you have to do something that's not included in most experiments. Most scientists recognize it, but you'll never see it written anywhere. Can you guess what it is?"

"No. Yes. I'm not sure. Keep going, no matter what?"

"Well, yes, but it is that and more. You made a mistake and were willing to give up. But..."

She stopped as Stu said, "But I can turn disaster into victory."

"Well I would say victory if you had thought of it. But, I had to prompt you, so, if you do it right, the highest grade I'll give you is a C."

"Yeah, but a C is better than an F."

"Only if you learn something."

~

Copyright 2004 Len Maxwell. All rights Reserved

http://maadmaax.gather.com/

_Space Creature Zoo_

By Douglas J. Westberg

Here's what I learned at the Space Creature Zoo:

The Cricket Bat chirps while it screeches at you,

The Fuguepie has claws numbered 'leventy-two,

And the Chickpeacock's tail's made of Mylar balloons.

~

The Cricket Bat chirps while it screeches at you;

Its legs number six and its fangs number two;

It's shaped like a paddle and made of bamboo.

~

The Fuguepie has claws numbered 'leventy-two.

His cage is a bad thing to put your nose through.

I would recommend keeping your fingers out, too.

~

The Chickpeacock's tail's made of Mylar balloons.

He fills them with helium when pitching woo.

If you had a tail like that, what would _you_ do?

~

Here's what I learned at the Space Creature Zoo:

The Hippodromedary just had a shampoo,

The Snapdragonfly is in bed with the flu,

And the Mugwumpire has spikes and hollers "Strike Two!"

~

The Hippodromedary just had a shampoo;

His fur is so fluffy with highlights in blue,

I wish I could steal him and take him to school!

~

The Snapdragonfly is in bed with the flu;

The sound of her sneezing will flabbergast you—

Now if they could just teach her to use a tissue!

~

The Mugwumpire has spikes and hollers "Strike two!"

He dusts off the plate with a porpoise-hair broom.

He's ejected the Keeper— _now_ what do we do?

~

Here's what I learned at the Space Creature Zoo:

The crooning Chaise Lounge Lizard knows all the tunes.

The Wild Card Shark hides an ace in its shoe,

And the Card Counting Cheetah is in the game, too.

~

The crooning Chaise Lounge Lizard knows all the tunes.

The skylarks stop singing and just "ah" and "ooh"

As he belts out "Hey, Bulldog," and "Rocky Raccoon."

~

The Wild Card Shark hides an ace in its shoe;

Its hammerhead poker face gives you no clue

As to what the fierce predator's liable to do.

~

The Card Counting Cheetah is in the game, too.

He deals off the bottom and scoops up the pool,

but the Shark takes exception and chomps him in two!

~

(Thus endeth the song of the Space Creature Zoo.)

~

Copyright 2012 Douglas J. Westberg. All Rights Reserved.

Nelsoneddy.gather.com

_The Three Pigs_

By Jax

The three pigs were holed up in Practical pig's abode again. Practical pig was getting darn sick of his good-for-nothing brothers living in HIS house and eating HIS food. They wanted protection from the Big Bad Wolf, yet they didn't want to contribute to the household. It also looked like they weren't going to rebuild their blown-down houses any time soon either. All they wanted to do was dance around, sing little ditties, and play those stupid musical instruments.

~

I toot on my flute

Even though the wolf's a brute

I don't give a hoot

~

Practical pig was getting another one of his migraines from all the noise. All he wanted was peace, quiet, and his house back. How could he make that happen, he wondered. The light went on and he had it...an idea...a perfectly awful idea. Practical pig got out his white stationary and began to pen a letter to the Wolf.

~

Please remove the pests

Driving me nuts, I confess

All I want is rest

~

That night before bed, the Wolf reread Practical Pig's letter for the umpteenth time. He couldn't believe it! Was this another one of the pig's tricks? He didn't think so, as even he could see that the brothers were getting on Practical's last nerve. The Wolf figured he'd sleep on it and decide in the morning.

~

Bacon, what a treat!

Roasted pork and sausage meat

Pigs are good to eat.

~

Copyright by Jax. All rights reserved

http://jaxom.gather.com/

Magical Toby

_By Lord Gregory_

It was a perfect day in Toby's neighborhood as he walked home from school. He saw the red rose bushes and knew he was home. He waved good-bye to his friends and ran inside with a smile on his face. He said hi to his mom and baby sister and went straight to his room. He didn't bother to grab a cookie because he knew he would be busy.

He opened his school books and did all his fourth-grade homework without taking a break. Nothing was going to stop Toby from starting his magic day as fast as possible.

As soon as he finished his homework the magic started. His special phone rang with a call from the President. "We need your help again, Toby," the President said. "Our new rocket ship is ready and we need you to test it."

Toby replied, "I'm ready, Mr. President. I'm blasting off right now!"

With a big bang and a puff of smoke Toby was flying at super speed through outer space. He flew around Saturn pretending he was surfing on one of the rings. He followed a comet for a while just to see where it was going. He was getting ready to play in an asteroid field when his fuel light started blinking. So it was back to Earth to refuel.

Once he landed he shut off the engine and jumped out of the rocket. It was another perfect landing, but for some reason he didn't recognize his neighborhood anymore. There were no houses or kids anywhere. The only things he could see were giant dinosaurs! There were plant eaters and meat eaters everywhere. His rocket ship had gone so fast that he was sent back in time millions of years.

With a quick engine adjustment he could get back home, but he did not have any tools in the rocket to work with. He took a quick look around to make sure there were no meat eaters and started gathering rocks and sticks and made the tools he needed. In no time at all he fixed the rocket with his stone tools and was blasting off.

A bright blue light started to flash inside the rocket. Toby pushed a button and felt the ship start to change. When the ship was near his neighborhood it lowered four wheels and became a rocket car. He drove the rocket car 700 miles an hour and the outside paint started to peel right off.

Toby looked at his watch and realized it was almost time to eat dinner. He slowed to 212 miles an hour and screeched to a halt next to the red rose bushes. He made it just in time.

Toby's magical day was almost over, but he knew he would do it again soon. Maybe next time he would go on a magic safari or be in a parade. All he had to do was open up his favorite book and read.

~

Copyright 2005 Gregory Maxwell. All rights reserved.

http://lordgregory.gather.com/

_Flying South_

By Ms Lee P.

My friends and I are flying south again this winter. Canada is too cold for us to raise our young ducklings during the winter months and there are several members of our dopping sord (flock) that want to start a family this year. Right now we are high above the central part of the U.S. headed for the thick marsh lands of southern Louisiana. My name is Henrietta. I am a female mallard duck and I was hatched in Louisiana many years ago so I know without a doubt that this is a great place to raise ducklings.

It's almost time for me to take the lead in our flight formation and I'm not looking forward to it. I like flying in the third position on the left side of our V formation. Most of the cold prevailing winds blow out of the northwest and the third position on the left side is blocked from the cold winds by the right side formation. The upward air current created in this spot also makes flying easier on my old wings. This will be my last time to take the lead during one of our southern migration trips. I'm getting pretty old for a duck and this is my last trip, I'm not going back, it's time to retire. The flock actually likes it when I'm in charge of our southern migrations because I've made this trip more often than the other drakes and hens and we don't have to stop as often. I also know the safest places to stop when we do have to stop along the way to feed and rest. In other words I know where the hunters don't usually hunt and for some reason the hunters always know when we travel.

I've lost many friends over the years before I learned that some places just aren't safe. Yesterday I had to explain to my friend Tillie why we couldn't stop at that beautiful creek in Missouri that had a large school of visible minnows swimming in its clear running water. It just wasn't a safe place. It's the place I lost two of my best friends, Don and Ping. They were brothers. Don was the handsomer of the two drakes. Sometimes the emerald green of his handsome feathered hood drifts across my elderly dreams and I'm reminded of how much I loved watching him strut as we built our first nest together. It happened many years ago when we stopped to rest and feed at that same beautiful creek in Missouri.

The creek had a thick brush line overhanging its banks that would make a safe hiding place if danger should approach. The minnows were plentiful enough to feed us all and there was an abundance of zigzagging water bugs to snack on if you could catch them. We were all lazily feeding and preening in the sun warmed creek water one afternoon when we heard the footsteps of the hunters. Don and Ping were in charge of our sord and they rushed us all underneath the overhanging bushes out of sight. We were safe as long as we were quiet but one of our young hens sneezed. This slight muffled quack was all it took to alert the hunters to our whereabouts. Don and Ping knew we were in trouble and the two of them swam downstream from the rest of us as fast as they could making loud quacking noises as they splashed and flapped their wings in the water. Still quacking as loud as they could they flew straight up out of the water into the air at break neck speed completely capturing all of the hunter's attention. Bam! Bam! It was the last time I saw Don or Ping. The rest of us completed that fall migration journey safely and without further incident. Some places just aren't safe and through the years I've learned to avoid the dangerous spots.

This is my last time to fly south for the winter, my migration days are ending but not my memories. Darn! They just called my name. It's my turn to take the lead.

~

Copyright by Ms. Lee P. All rights reserved.

<http://leepay.gather.com/>

_The Night I Met Rudolph_

By Ms Lee P.

It all began early one cold blustery Christmas Eve. I was arranging the logs in my fireplace getting ready to light a nice warm fire for the night. As I bent over to put the small kindling pieces and dry grass in place for that perfect one match fire a Santa hat fell down my chimney onto the top of the neatly stacked firewood.

"Yikes", I yelled as I bumped my head on the bricks of the fireplace in my haste to backup. It nearly scared me into my next life. Where did that Santa hat come from and why did it fall down my chimney?

I grabbed the firewood poker and gently stabbed at the Santa hat as if it might be alive when I heard a loud thud on the roof of my house and lots of soot fell from the chimney covering the firewood and Santa hat. I also heard a weak cry for help coming from somewhere way up in the top of my chimney. I bent over and looked up the chimney as best I could and I could see what looked like the hind quarters and legs of a cow or maybe a horse stuck in my chimney. I bumped my head again as I scooted back out from my crouched viewing position wondering how on earth did a cow or horse get stuck in my chimney?

This all happened before a person could call 911 for help when needed. Anyway, I lived so far out in the country that I would be dead by the time a rescue team came to save me from someone or something throwing livestock and Santa hats down my chimney.

I ran outside to see if I could see what was on top of my roof and, lo and behold, there was a reindeer stuck in my chimney. Not just any reindeer but a reindeer with a bright shining nose that resembled a red Christmas light. As I stood there scratching my head at this strange sight the reindeer spotted me and asked me to please help pull him out of the chimney.

Not only was there a reindeer stuck in my chimney but he was a talking reindeer! I almost fainted.

What to do? Get that thing out of my chimney was the only thing I could think of. I ran back inside and put on my coat, hat, gloves and boots and grabbed the fireplace poker just in case I had to defend myself. I dragged my ladder over to the side of the house and placed it so I could climb up on my roof. It was snowing very hard and the wind was blowing fiercely and climbing the ladder onto the slippery roof while holding onto the fireplace poker was not an easy thing to do but I persevered and managed to make my way to the chimney where the strange reindeer was stuck.

"Don't hit me, don't hit me", he cried as I held the poker like a baseball bat while approaching him.

"Who are you and what are you and what are you doing in my chimney?" I shouted at him over the howling wind.

He said his name was Rudolph and he was Santa's lead reindeer and during their flight to deliver toys to all the boys and girls that night the fierce wind blew Santa's hat off. He said that since he was the lead reindeer and it was easier for him to unhitch himself without having to stop and unhitch the whole team he volunteered to go back and get it when he saw the hat fall into my chimney. He thought my chimney looked a little small but decided to try it anyway and that's when he got stuck.

I put my defensive weapon down, grabbed him by his legs and began to pull so I could get the strange talking reindeer out of my chimney. I pulled and tugged and pulled and tugged and just when I thought he was going to be wedged in there for a very long time, Rudolph burped. It was a very loud burp and in so doing he released a lot of internal gas. He did say "Excuse me". The gastric release allowed his fat reindeer tummy to shrink just enough to loosen the tight wedge he was in and with one more hard pull Rudolph was free of my chimney.

He thanked me for my assistance, picked up Santa's hat, said he would be back later and took a bounding leap and flew off into the snowy night sky. He could fly (of course he could, why not)? I watched until the red glow of his nose could no longer be seen and slowly made my way back down the ladder and back into my warm house.

I did not light the fire in the fireplace that night and went to bed thinking about the strange events of the evening trying to make sense out of what had just happened. When I woke up the next morning I discovered a brand new coat, hat, gloves and boots sitting next to my fireplace with a note that said "Thank You, see you again next year." I never saw Rudolph again but every Christmas morning I know that he and Santa had visited my house because the cookies and milk that I leave next to the fireplace are always gone.

~

Copyright by Ms. Lee P. All rights reserved.

http://leepay.gather.com/

_Bufford the Boxing Hound_

By Terry McDermott

Once in the hills of the Ozarks lived a hound named Bufford. He lived in a ten-story shack with his father, mother, ten brothers, and twenty sisters. All of his family was white with black and brown spots. Bufford also had black and brown spots, in addition to spots that were green, pink, purple, and blue. This made him different and caused his ten brothers and twenty sisters to make fun of him. He would get so mad that he would fight all ten brothers at one time. His father and mother would always send him to the tenth floor, which was the punishment room. Nothing was in there but one wooden chair. And Bufford would sit in this room for hours.

One morning, as he was sitting under a shade tree, his Grandmother came by on her daily route. She drove a bone truck and delivered bones to Bufford's house every day. This morning she had good news for him. "Bufford," she said, "I have something very exciting to tell you."

"What is it?" he asked, jumping up and down.

"A Boxing Manager is at Kitty Corner," she said.

"What does that mean?" He asked.

"Bufford," she said, "you can put up a pretty good fight against your ten brothers and twenty sisters. I think you could become a champion boxer."

"Well, where is Kitty Corner?" He asked.

"You don't worry about that. I will take you there right now," she said.

Kitty Corner was an old store that stood at a crossroads. An old cat known as Mr. Kitty owned it. There were several big dogs waiting for the Boxing Manager's arrival. When Bufford stepped out of his Grandmother's bone truck, all the other dogs started laughing at him. Bufford became so angry that he whipped every one of them.

A bright yellow Winnie dog, with a green suit and derby, stepped out of the store with a peppermint stick in his mouth. "Hey Kid! You can really fight," he said.

"Who are you?" Bufford asked.

"I am Max," he said, "I am the Boxing Manager from New York City. Kid, if you come with me, I will make you a star."

Bufford kissed his grandmother good-bye. He told her to tell his father, mother, ten brothers, and twenty sisters that he would be gone for a while. He got into Max's red sports car and headed off to New York City.

When they arrived at the gym in New York City, Bufford saw that Max also had ten brothers. Like Max, they were boxing managers who wore green suits and derbies. They also chewed on peppermint sticks. But instead of being yellow, they were brown. So, like Bufford, Max was different from his brothers. As they stepped inside the gym, Max's brothers and the other boxers started laughing at them. Once again, Bufford became so angry that he whipped every boxer in the gym.

As the weeks went by, Bufford won all his matches. When his opponents would see him, they would start laughing, and he would beat them up. It wasn't long until Bufford and Max were headed for England to face the World Champion, Bulldog Bowser.

The night of the fight, Bufford and Max entered the arena and all the fans started laughing at them. Even the referee, who was a long-armed monkey laughed. But the crowd became quiet when Bulldog Bowser entered the ring. He was a gigantic bulldog, four times bigger than Bufford. He was solid brown, except for the black ring around his eye. Around his waist he wore the shiny silver championship belt.

When he stepped into the ring, the gigantic bulldog started laughing at Bufford. Bulldog Bowser laughed so hard he did not hear the bell ring to start the fight. As a matter of fact, Bulldog Bowser laughed so hard that he fell out of the ring. The referee started counting, "1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10." The bell rang a second time to end the match.

Bufford had become World Champion without throwing a punch. The shiny silver belt was so heavy that the referee had to help Bufford and Max carry it.

Bufford returned to the Ozarks a hero, and no one ever laughed at him again.

~

The End

~

Copyright by Terry McDermott. All Rights reserved.

<http://dermott.gather.com/>

A, E, _, O, U

_By Toni Vernetti_

A, E, _, O, U

Wthout t we'd all be blue

The skes would fall

And the kds would bawl

We'd eat brck cheese

And speak Chnese

Mountans wouldn't grow

And rvers wouldn't flow

Our skn would be lumpy

And our lves would be bumpy

The musc wouldn't play

And 't would wreck our day

We'd all be n lmbo

And we'd all go psycho!

Why won't you see

What ths letter means to me?

Most words wouldn't exst,

But wll leave t out f you nsst!

~

(Story written in response to a 100 word or less prompt challenge from the Genre Shorties group on Gather.com. Challenge: Tell a story about your day without using the letter "I". Optionally: use one/some of the following: cheese, words, psycho, blue, lumpy.)

~

Copyright 2012 Toni Vernetti. All rights reserved.

<http://whitewolf101.gather.com/>

### Humor

_A Cautionary Fairy Tale_

By Greg Schiller

A long, long time ago, in a place far, far away, there lived a filthy and somewhat annoying little beggar named Scruff. Unlike so many others in his time and place, Scruff was a beggar by choice rather than necessity. The profession simply suited him, as did spending his days sitting on a large gravel pile by the side of the road that ran between here and there.

From the top of his pile, Scruff called out for pennies from the occasional passers-by. If they tossed a penny his way, he returned his thanks, if not, he pelted them with gravel. It wasn't a glamorous occupation but it was a living.

For years, Scruff sat on his gravel pile receiving pennies for nothing and tossing gravel in return, when one day a passerby cried, "OUCH!"

Scruff had just bounced a particularly sharp piece of quartz off the noggin of a particularly prosperous merchant.

"Why did you do that?" the merchant cried, "that hurt like hell."

"It's simple," Scruff explained, "I sit here and people toss pennies to me and if they don't... Well, you get the picture."

Being a merchant, the man was quick to grasp the underlying logic in the situation and being a particularly prosperous merchant he was also quick to grasp the underlying potential for a deal as well.

"Let's strike a bargain," he said, "I plan to use this road for the next year, so I'll pay you one guilder for the privilege of not being beaned with a rock again. Okay?"

"I dunno," said Scruff, being a beggar he had never mastered numbers higher than one or two. "What does that come out to - (here he grasped for some unit of measure) - per rock."

The merchant hastily calculated the cost and reported, "'bout half a penny."

Scruff knew he was not getting the better part of the deal but this was his first bargain and one cannot expect success the first time around - still a whole guilder was a whole guilder.

"Done," he said, pocketing the rock he intended to throw.

The merchant paid up and Scruff proceeded into town where he took his first bath in forty years, then he went to Great Clips for his first haircut ever.

"Aren't you that annoying little beggar who bounces rocks off the heads of travelers going between here to there?" his stylist asked.

"Sure," said Scruff, "but I'm not throwing gravel anymore - it's too valuable." He went on to explain the events of the day.

"You mean all those rocks are worth a half penny a piece?" exclaimed the stylist. "Do you own the quarry?"

"Well," Scruff considered, "I've been living there for decades."

"That means you have squatters rights. Scruff, you're a bizillionaire!"

Even though this story happened a long, long time ago, in a place far, far away, some things never change; anything told to a stylist at Great Clips is all over town within an hour. Soon, tailors, craftsman and shopkeepers were clamoring for Scruff's attention.

They wanted to sell him anything and everything.

He ordered a closet of new clothes, a new house to hold his closet and new furniture to fill his new house. Since he had no cash, he paid for everything in promises for gravel.

This left the tailors, craftsmen and shopkeepers in a pickle. They had nothing but paper promises to deliver gravel at a set price on a certain date but, being enterprising people who lived in a fairy tale, they set up an exchange to trade promises for cash. They called it the Futures Exchange and the enterprise was so successful that, in a wink of an eye, the value of gravel went right through the roof. In fact, it became more valuable than cash itself and in less than a day, no one was willing to take cash for goods, only rocks or promises of rocks were accepted.

Within weeks, thousands of speculators, pit-managers and dreamers, attracted by impossible rumors that "The streets were paved with GRAVEL!" flooded into Scruff's town from all over the world

This story would have had a "happily ever after" ending had not a particularly prosperous bizillionaire named Scruff stopped by a lemonade stand run by a hard-nosed, beefy faced little boy, years later.

"Kid, gimme a lemonade," Scruff said.

"Gimme a penny first," the kid said.

"Here," Scruff said, producing the very pebble he had once pocketed rather than thrown.

"Can't you read the sign?" the kid said, "It says, "A—P-E-N-N-Y--A--G-L-A-S-S."

"I'm giving you a ROCK, you idiot," Scruff said.

"If I wanted a freak'n rock, I'd pick one off the ground," the kid said, "I want a penny."

Unfortunately two speculators, walking within earshot of the lemonade stand, overheard the exchange and rushed off to dump their gravel holdings. The value of gravel plummeted to zilch and the ensuing depression devastated the country. Thousands were thrown out of work, children went to bed hungry for decades and the lives and dreams of thousands were shattered.

Then one day, many years later, in a town far, far away, a particularly prosperous merchant leaned over a fence rail to admire the fragile beauty of a tulip bulb.

For the rest of the story, search on the keywords: Tulip Mania.

~

Copyright 2010 Greg Schiller. All Rights Reserved.

http://GregS.Gather.com

_Pillow Talk with a Vampire_

By Greg Schiller

"We have to talk."

The four words no male wants to hear - especially after eight hundred years of death.

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

The five words no female wants to hear - especially after eight hundred years of marriage.

"No, we have to talk NOW!"

The six words...

~

"There is no time," the count said. Flapping to the window, he swept aside the drapes, revealing the thin glow of dawn.

The Countess raised an eyebrow. A question mark formed across her pale forehead.

"We've barely time for a snack," he complained, "can't we talk on the run? How about Papa Murphy's?"

"I had him last night."

"The Colonel?"

"No," she said, "he's been bled white, besides we need to talk."

The Count collapsed back into his chair. "Alright, what about?"

Typical of an undead woman, the minute he agreed to talk, she clammed up. Instead she stood with arms folded, in silhouette against the window.

"Gosh," he thought, "the old girl has been putting on a few pounds." He added quickly, "still she's a looker," lest she (had) read his thoughts.

Which of course she did.

Instead of beating him senseless, the Countess smiled that smile of hers, melting the Count.

She had him now. Sashaying around the edge of his desk, she cooed, "Do you remember why we came here?"

"Sure," he said, growing amorous. "For the long, long winter nights."

Smooth as smoke, she flowed onto his lap and curled an arm around his neck. Breathing into his ear, she whispered, "Uh-huh, and do you remember those endless evenings snuggled by the fire?"

"You betcha!"

Her fingernail traced a line across his jaw. "And how about those wild spring nights?"

"Ohhhh yeah!"

Her hands knew just what to do.

"But most of all," she asked, "do you remember that glorious midnight under the full moon last May?"

"Yeah, baby!"

"Well?"

He shot a glance at the streak of red rising above the distant hills.

"It'll have to be quick."

And quick she was.

WHACK!

In eight hundred years - nothing had hit him that hard.

"What? What was that for?"

"MORON!"

~

Far below, among the green folds of a lush valley, a rooster crowed.

Throughout the empty streets and muddy alleys of a quaintly thatched medieval village, shutters creaked cautiously open as neighbor tentatively called to neighbor. For the first time in a long time, each hesitant greeting found its mate in a hearty response.

While high on castle hill, a virgin ray of mid-summer sun kissed the tip of the tallest tower – and the tower trembled.

A short time later, a male cry, as ancient and terrible as death, reverberated among the hills.

"YOU'RE WHAT?"

~

Copyright 2010 Greg Schiller. All Rights Reserved.

http://GregS.Gather.com

The Cat Box

_By Greg Schiller_

When my wife and I exchanged vows, not a word was mentioned about cleaning the cat box. Perhaps my response would have been different if there had been. Something along the line of: "With the exception of..."

Needless to say, the cat box is a sore point in our otherwise blissful relationship.

I am a dog person, she likes cats. I like dogs because they do their business outside. She likes cats because where ever they do their business, she doesn't have to clean up after them. I do.

One might think it only fair that she clean up after her cats. And yes, I said cats. Plural. She has three of them. But my wife is squeamish. She rationalizes delegating the task to me by saying, "You like icky things."

Which is true.

Being a guy I have a very high tolerance for repulsive things. Here is a list of things that never bothered me:

Changing diapers for my younger siblings; all seven of them and oh, by the way, that was prior to the era of disposables.

Living downwind from a hog barn. For those of you who have not had the pleasure, here is a clue: the stench of hogs can bend sunlight.

Gutting and cleaning game. You don't know what icky is until you have gutted a bottom dwelling fish pulled reluctantly from a fetid swamp.

Yet nary one of these unpleasantries had prepared me for the foulness of our three cats.

We have tried various foods, from the tasty to the bland, in the vain pursuit of olfactory relief. Yet I swear, we could feed them chalk and they would still gleefully transform it into something wickedly rank.

But it doesn't end there.

After I am done sifting turds and scooping clumps into the trash for immediate disposal – each cat, in rapid succession, leaps into the box and undoes what I have just done. I know they plan it that way but let us not dwell on the cats,

The real problem here is my wife.

Why does she refuse to clean up after her own cats?

I think we all know the answer. Couples do this to each other all the time.

Not a day goes by that I don't tell her I love her - but saying "I love you" is just repeating words. She needs something more.

Something to test my love – every day.

So every day she asks me to clean the litter box and every day I protest. Every day she insists and every day I cave in. It is our ritual.

It's like dancing.

~

Copyright 2011 Greg Schiller. All Rights Reserved.

http://GregS.Gather.com

_The Roost_

By Greg Schiller

While my wife is traveling, I've been on my own at our house in Southern Minnesota.

People around here find that a little suspect. When I walk to town for lunch, the women who run The Roost fuss over me. They are certain that leaving a man to his own devices is folly.

Every day we go through the same ritual. I say "I'll take the daily special" and they will nod knowingly to each other as if men are simple beasts who know only to eat what is dropped in front of them.

Then they start pecking.

"Don't you get lonely out there?" they ask.

I tell them no, Cat is with me and the two of us throw beer parties every night, though I add, cat is a mean drunk.

They laugh, but then they get serious.

"Neighbors say they hear your chain saw."

"Yep," I tell them, "I'm clearing Buckthorn." My woods are overgrown with it.

Cindy brings my lunch from the kitchen, it's a mound of shredded beef wrapped like a burrito but it tastes more like a fajita. She hesitates at my table, forcing me to look up and give her my full attention.

"You shouldn't be running a chain saw alone," she says. She isn't just being friendly; it sounds more like a command.

"I'm careful," I assure her as I dig into the daily special. I fill my mouth to signal my part of the conversation is over.

Then I notice how quiet the room has gotten.

Because I am new in town, my arrival at The Roost affects conversation the same way a heavy load of wood does a campfire. The chatter dies and people suddenly prefer to listen than to talk. They pick at what's on their plates or slowly sip their coffee, filling the time until the next spark of conversation.

An old guy, wearing jeans and a heavy shirt despite the heat of the day, breaks the calm. "My brother tripped and fell on his chain saw," he says, then he looks at me, "and he knew what he was doing."

I'm pretty sure the guy is a distant relative of my wife which gives authority in his assumption that I'm a complete idiot.

This starts a long recitation of tales about otherwise benign agricultural equipment that with neither provocation nor remorse turned violently upon its operators.

It is serious stuff and I listen with respect. There is nothing abstract about what they are saying. They know each of the people in their stories. The fact that I do not know them means that I have not paid the price it cost to learn the terrible lesson they are imparting.

That is why I cannot be trusted around anything mechanical.

Eventually the conversation lightens up.

The women fuss some more. I suspect their taking me under their wing is not done out of generosity. In their world, a man without a woman is utterly helpless and they confirm this by providing me sustenance and protecting me from danger. It is yet another reminder that despite the bluster of men, women make the world go around.

So there I sit in The Roost, useless at home and not to be trusted in the world of work; a man without purpose.

And soon, I realize I am not alone in that thought.

"What is it that you do up in The Cities?" someone asks.

I tell them but it will not register. They will ask again tomorrow or next week because whatever I do, it can't be important.

After all, a guy who can't be trusted with a chain-saw...

~

Copyright 2009 Greg Schiller. All Rights Reserved.

http://GregS.Gather.com

_Visiting_

By Greg Schiller

A big part of rural life is visiting.

Don't get me wrong, I like getting together with family and friends but that is not visiting. Visiting is satisfying an endless round of obligations and usually involves something like being told you have to attend a birthday party for a one year-old who you don't know.

That is where I tried to draw the line a while back.

"You like kids," I told my wife, "you will enjoy yourself, but why do I have to go?"

She ignored me.

I pressed the issue.

"Because," she explained, "Todd, Lyle, Ronnie and Justin will all be there. It won't be right if you are not."

"Not one of those guys wants to be there," I argued.

"But they will be there," she said, "so grab your coat."

So there I was a few hours later, seated at a beat-up kitchen table in a tiny starter home sulking with four other guys who did not want to be there.

To my left sat Todd, a man whose most articulate moment came with a grunt at Christmas dinner four years ago.

Next to him was Lyle, a cheese salesman who could only talk about cheese.

At the far end of the table, filling a chair with his considerable bulk, loomed Ronnie, a fish'n, hunt'n, handgun toting mountain man.

Opposite him (and I do mean opposite him) sat Justin, an unemployed environmental advocate.

While both Ronnie and Justin usually have a great deal to say, they were repeatedly warned not to say it.

So there we were in silence, destined to be so for the entire afternoon while our wives cooed over a baby.

I couldn't take it, so I chirped up. "Hey, I got something we can all talk about. Let's figure out how to get dis-invited from gatherings."

Todd grunted. (Wow! A break-through.)

The idea took hold. We mulled it over for a while before Ronnie offered the first suggestion. "Cigars," he said. "We could light up cigars and stink up the place. They'd never invite us back."

"That's rude," Justin snapped.

Ronnie leaned forward. I swear he was freeing his holster.

"Whoa!" I exclaimed, "That's a great idea but Justin is right. We'd never hear the end of it."

"We could tell dirty jokes," Lyle suggested. We all glared at him. No one wanted to know how this might involve cheese.

"What ever we do, it can't have repercussions," Justin insisted. Knowing his wife, we all understood where he was coming from.

We floated one idea after the other, weighing the merits and potential outcomes of each and had quite an animated conversation going before Ronnie cut us off with a slashing motion. He pointed toward the living room - which had become eerily silent. Our wives had stopped their cooing and were straining to hear what we were talking about. The dual silence now boosted the tension between the two rooms.

A few moments later, Ronnie's wife appeared. She said it was to retrieve a hot-dish but we informed her that the food was long gone. She blushed, apologized and fled back into the living room.

Our plotting resumed - in hushed, sinister tones and that was too much for the women to bear. Alice, Justin's formidable wife, barged into the kitchen and with hands on hips demanded to know what we were up to.

"Not a thing," we told her, feigning innocence, "just guy talk."

In the living room, heads turned, necks craned and only the gurgle of the baby broke a long uncomfortable silence - this went on and on until Lyle's wife made an excuse to drag him out the door. One after the other, we all left under similar circumstances.

There were no repercussions. How could there be? It was just guys talking, but it worked.

A few weeks later, my sister-in-law called with news of another party but when I asked if we were going, my wife got a little skittish.

"I don't think you would like it," she said, "none of the other guys will be there."

~

Copyright 2011 Greg Schiller. All Rights Reserved.

http://GregS.Gather.com

Doctor Feel

_By Len Maxwell_

The studio audience was packed – in two ways. There were at least twenty people who had tickets but couldn't find a seat and ended up standing in the back. That was because there were also twenty people (both men and women) who were on the payroll and had scripts to follow.

For the past week, the promos had promised an appearance by British Royal Navy officer Polly Hatchard, known worldwide as Polar Polly. Years ago, back in 2007, she had been on a British survey tour of Antarctica and had posed in a bikini next to the South Pole when the temperature was minus forty. Tickets had gone fast and everyone was there to see her, obviously hoping she'd be in a bikini.

The first fifteen-minute segment went well and that guest was well received. After they cut to commercial the guest walked off and Doctor Feel made his announcement, "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid Polar Polly had to cancel her appearance today." There were groans from the audience and he continued, "We were lucky to get a last minute replacement and we'll have her out here in just a moment."

On nationwide TV, the viewing audience had been informed regularly over the past hour that she would be appearing, but the studio audience had no idea who was going to be on. Doctor Feel was counting on that as well as the plants he had in the audience.

Coming back from commercial, Dr. Feel stood up and said, "Our next guest is very well known and at the heart of a lot of controversy. Please welcome California Representative Sally Lover."

The studio audience went crazy: boos, catcalls, and some very bad language came from them. The network went crazy trying to bleep out some of the words without losing the feel of the overall hatred being expressed. Naturally, they couldn't catch all of them and the entire nation could hear some rather spicy language.

When he finally had the audience calmed down a bit and could be heard, Dr. Feel started the interview with the question, "Tell us, Mrs. Lover, how did all this start?"

"Well, in 2007 I wrote a bill to protect our children and, when it failed to pass, I spent the next two years working on a new one. Finally, in 2010, the assembly passed the Effective Parenting Act. The senate approved it and the governor signed it without hesitation."

Dr. Feel prompted, "Tell us about the original bill."

Rep. Lover nodded her head and said, "The original provisions were simple in concept. First, anyone wishing to have a baby had to pass a one-page exam before the baby's birth. Second, if they passed the test they were issued a card saying they had passed and if they failed it they had to attend a forty hour parenting class." She was interrupted by more boos from the audience. When she finally continued she said, "Third, doctors were required to report to the Health Department any positive results on pregnancy tests. And, finally, patients were required to present their parenting card when being admitted to a hospital for a birth." She paused and said, "As I said, the concept was really very simple."

From the audience someone yelled, "First thing was the DMV. Whoever heard of giving them more authority."

Dr. Feel nodded and said, "Yes, Mrs. Lover, there has been some question about why the DMV is administering tests for parenting."

For the first time Rep. Lover seemed on certain ground. "Why, they administer thousands of tests each day, who better to do it?"

From the audience: "How about doctors?" "How about the hospital?" "Colleges give tests, why not use them?" "Yeah, and what about hundreds of pregnant women standing in line for hours just to take a test?"

The representative tried to support her point by saying, "It was a matter of control. We wanted to make sure there was no cheating."

She got no further before more boos and catcalls came from the crowd along with such things as, "Oh, yeah, and we all know how honest the DMV employees are." Someone else yelled, "How about that fee for taking the test?"

She snapped, "There was nothing we could do about that. The DMV charges an administrative fee for overseeing the test."

From the audience, "What about the fee for the parenting class?" Another voice, "Yeah, two hundred bucks so we can sit and listen to some dude read out of that book, _How to be a Parent_."

Dr. Feel held up his hand to ease the tension and then said, "Yes, Mrs. Lover, the comparisons between the parenting classes and the drivers' schools has left a bad taste in the mouths of a lot of people." More boos from the audience and Dr. Feel went on, "Finally, Mrs. Lover, when you wrote this law did you have any idea that you would be driving doctors and nurses out of the state in record numbers?"

"Well, of course not. There's nothing in my law that caused that."

"What about that little clause that says medical personnel are prohibited, under penalty of license revocation, from assisting in any childbirth where the mother does not have a parenting card? It seems that, as a result of that clause, many doctors and nurses found that they were prohibited from helping people whom they had sworn to help. The dichotomy of that caused many of the healthcare professionals to just quit their jobs and move to other states."

Representative Lover never answered. It was later determined that the stress of the interview and the hatred shown her caused her to have a massive heart attack – right on the stage and in front of the cameras, which were slow to cut to commercial.

She died, of course, because there were no doctors to be found near enough to help her and Dr. Feel's ratings went sky-high for that program.

~

Copyright 2007 Len Maxwell. All rights Reserved

http://maadmaax.gather.com/

_Hell in Heaven_

By Len Maxwell

I remember that morning well. Wait, let me explain that. There's no day or night in Heaven, but most of us need some tie to our former lives and we use the terms morning, afternoon, and evening when describing something we did. So, I had mentally made that timeframe morning for me.

Anyway, I was sitting on one of my clouds playing a harp -- playing is probably the wrong word; I was more or less just plunking various strings. It's no surprise to me that I can't play the stupid thing. I had no sense of rhythm or tone when I was alive and I haven't changed since I've been here.

Fairly disgusted with how I was progressing, I looked around and noticed two angels in the distance who appeared to be flying directly toward me. I was immediately envious because I didn't have wings yet. You have no idea how difficult it is to get from one cloud to another without wings.

When I first arrived in Heaven, the clerk who checked me in had, with one breath, rattled off, "Here's your halo, harp, and robe -- don't even ask about wings you have to be here a long time before you earn those and looking at your record I doubt you'll ever get them. Put on your raiment and go through that door over there and you'll be directed to your clouds. Welcome to Heaven. NEXT!"

I was surprised at how fast the two angels flew because they were suddenly landing on the cloud next to me. I stood up but, before I could even greet them, the larger of the two said, "We're going to have to cite you for a number of violations."

"Huh? Cite? Violations? What are you talking about?"

"We're members of the Paradise Code Enforcement. We make sure that all angels comply with the Heavenly Municipal Code."

"The what?"

"Don't give us that. You're responsible for knowing the code and abiding by it." He pulled out a pad and started scribbling on it. "First, we have to cite you for being envious. We can't have that in Heaven."

"Envious?"

"Yes, we felt that as soon as you noticed us. Then we're citing you for not maintaining your clouds."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look around you," the big angel said. "Everywhere you look there are smooth, fluffy clouds. Now look at your clouds; they look more like clumps of mashed potatoes." He paused and added, "Without the gravy of course." He looked at his companion and they both chuckled at his humor -- I wasn't even smiling.

He scribbled some more and then said, "We're also citing you for practicing the harp outside the allotted hours."

"What hours?"

"Look," the smaller angel said, "you have to understand that there are codes and you have to follow them."

"But how am I supposed to know what they are?"

They both looked at each other, shook their heads slowly, and the big angel said, "It's not our responsibility to teach you the codes. As a citizen of Heaven, you're expected to know them. Our job is to enforce those codes."

"How can I be guilty of practicing outside allotted hours when there are no clocks and I have no idea what time it is?"

The larger angel said, "Not our problem." Then he repeated what I thought was a practiced script. "It's not our responsibility to teach you the codes. As a citizen of Heaven, you're expected to know them. Our job is to enforce those codes."

The smaller of the two added, "We really should cite him for playing out of key."

The larger nodded and did some more scribbling on his pad and said, "If I had my way, I'd take it away from him. You can tell he'll never be any good at it." He finished scribbling, handed me the pad, and said, "Please sign here. Your signature is not an admission of guilt; it merely says that you'll correct the violations."

I stared at the pad and the pen he had extended to me and something from my past kicked in. A feeling of rebellion or something and I said, "And what if I refuse to sign this and make those corrections?"

Whoa! Both their faces lit up with... with beatific expressions and the larger, with a voice that was so peaceful and non-threatening, said, "We only deal with enforcement, not punishment. Trust me, you don't want to meet the _angel_ charged with punishment. Now, please sign, sir."

I numbly signed the citation, he tore off the top copy and handed it to me, and the two flew off.

I stared at the notice of violation I was holding and idly wondered if Hell had a municipal code.

~

Copyright 2011 Len Maxwell. All rights reserved.

http://maadmaax.gather.com/

Comb Hooking (from the journal of Rev. Spooner)

_By Douglas J. Westberg_

Sassed latter day I brook a take and bent whack to my Dozen Cans in Paint Saul for some comb hooking. I looked through the gavel tried; after considering a hay ground bus and a jeer let, I decided to take the Mean Query. Mom foot on a pieced! We had loose giver paté, piggy footing, brief biscuit, stank flake, and for the vegans, faux turkey, with riser coals and butter, sea poop, morn keel mush, and words and Kay on the side, and washed it all down with flute beer rotes, bite leer, and why risky. Tampa Groany was there from the old hoax foam, and Pant Eggy brought Gamma Grail from the hearsing gnome. We listened to the stereo: Mob Barley and the Wailers, Lyle Lovett and his Barge Land, Cysted Twister, Very Jail, the Eagles' "Fife in the Last Feign," and for the goo de cross, a couple old-time radio programs: Back Jenny and the SickerBuns.

Then of course we all botched the wall game. Ace Chutley of the Chicago Site Walks hit a roam Hun into fight reeled. Bade Wogs hit a bowel fall fop ply on the burst face side which went in and out of the matcher's kit. Then we went out to murk off our wheel. We couldn't find the bouquet crawls or the mumbling tats, so we went sheet scooting. I was a little shun guy, but I did my bevel lest. I thought I saw some flow snakes on the wick brawl next to the totter wower. Then at the tool pay-bull, I sank the bun wall in the pied socket.

I put on my tow bye, hop tat, and shoo news and did some tragic mix for everyone. Dozen Can, the shack bleep of the family, got into an argument about whether Caster Marred is better than cold card hash. Then we played any panty canasta; Dan hot in the goal and tried to bet the handle colder. I took a pillow brad to the purty dots and got a check on the peak from Smother Myth. It was a right I'll knee-member for a tong, tong lime.

~

Copyright 2012 Douglas J. Westberg. All Rights Reserved.

Nelsoneddy.gather.com

_How to Recognize Me if I Try to Contact You from the Afterlife_

By Douglas J. Westberg

If the dining table mysteriously rises two inches off the floor, look underneath. If there's a Great Dane under the table, that's me.

If the lights flicker, that's me. I wasn't paying the electric.

If the living room furniture has been moved in the middle of the night, that's not me. I had a hernia, remember?

If a yellow-breasted titmouse alights on your windowsill and sings, listen to the song. If it's _Christ Lag in Todesbanden_ from Bach's _Orgelbüchlein,_ it's me.

If you have a vivid dream that you are a contestant on _Let's Make A Deal,_ pick door Number Two.

If someone comes to the door and introduces himself as Sir Arthur Streeb-Greebling, that's not me. It's Peter Cook.

Our secret phrase is "pickled logarithms".

If a spirit medium says, "Doug loves you and misses you," she's obviously a fraud. Get your money back and get out of there.

My favorite sports mascot is _not_ the Seattle Mariner Moose. It's the Evergreen State College Gooeyduck.

If you find a dollar bill on the sidewalk, that's me. If you find a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk, that's not me. That's your ex-husband Jerome, the one that knew how to make money.

If there's a housefly buzzing around the kitchen, kill it. It's not me, it never will be me, so don't worry about it.

If you feel a tickling sensation on the nape of your neck, that's me. If you feel a tickling sensation on your inner thigh, that's me. If you feel a tickling sensation between your toes, _ewww_! The Tinactin's in my gym bag.

If Timothy Dalton comes to you in a dream, that's me. If Charles Laughton comes to you in a dream, it's me if he's Captain Bligh, but not if he's Quasimodo.

If you really need to talk to me right away, go see John Edward. He knows where I am at all times.

~

Copyright 2012 Douglas J. Westberg. All Rights Reserved.

Nelsoneddy.gather.com

_The Test_

By Douglas J. Westberg

"Wake up, Bobby!" Tammy hissed as she sat bolt upright in the bed, grabbed Bobby by his shoulders, and shook him frantically. "That's Tim! He can't find you here!"

The rattling downstairs was getting louder. "Go out the window! Hurry!" Tammy whispered.

"Like this??" Bobby was standing by the side of the bed now, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes and get his bearings. He was naked as a pale, skinny, fifteen-year-old jaybird. His face was transfixed with terror and confusion.

Tammy couldn't believe he was just standing there. She grabbed the pile of clothes next to the bed and shoved it into his arms, spun him around to face the window. "Go, go go go! He's coming!" she hissed.

Just then, Tim burst through the bedroom door. He was a swarthy, thirty-five-year-old iron worker, with a thin beard defining his square jaw and biceps that looked like they could snap Bobby in two like a twig.

Tammy grabbed the corner of the bedsheet and pulled it up in front of her naked 33-year-old body. "Tim, I can explain," she pleaded, "It's not what it looks like!"

"Is this one of your students?" Tim asked stiffly.

"He just got done mowing the lawn, and he was all sweaty, and he didn't want to go all the way home to shower before he went to his _Tea and Sympathy_ rehearsal, so I said he could shower here. I was changing _my_ clothes to go to the PTA meeting and Bobby just accidentally came out the bathroom door into _our_ room instead of back to the guest room where _he_ was changing."

"Well! Bobby, was it? Bobby," Tim snarled through his clenched teeth, "I suggest you throw those clothes out that window and _follow them_ , 'cause if you're still here when I count five, I'm getting my friends Smith & Wesson and they're gonna join the party!"

"Yes sir, Mr. Gardner. I'm outa here," Bobby stammered. "And don't worry about paying me for the lawn. Tammy—I mean, Mrs. Gardner—took care of me,... I mean took care of it,... I mean she already gave me something,... Never mind!" He'd been throwing on his boxers as he was talking. He threw the rest of his clothes out the window and hopped out onto the roof.

Tammy and Tim just stood glaring at each other. Tammy was shivering with fear. Her face was flushed and red. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I'm going to give you what bad girls deserve," he sneered. He slid over to the nightstand and opened the drawer. He pulled out a peppermint-striped wooden paddle engraved with the Greek letters Eta Beta Zeta Theta, Tim's old fraternity. "You're getting a good spanking!"

"Ohh, I love it when you're forceful. But before you give me my punishment..." She threw aside the sheet and rubbed her not-as-perky-as-they-used-to-be but still firm breasts against his sweaty t-shirt, "can't we get rid of this icky old...hard hat?"

"Sure, baby," he said, tossing aside his yellow hard hat as she ripped the tank top off his hairy, rock-hard chest. He picked her up like she was a throw pillow and tossed her onto the bed.

"Mrs. Gardner?"

Tammy lifted her chin off her fist and opened her eyes. Bobby Felton was standing there in front of her desk, holding his math test. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, Bobby, thanks," said Tammy, taking the test from him. "I guess I just dozed off for a second. The baby kept me up all night."

"Yes, Mrs. Gardner."

As he returned to his seat, Tammy took a good long look at Bobby's tight little butt. A tiny hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth as she looked at the clock. "OK class," she said, "time's up. Bring your tests up here and have a good weekend."

~

Copyright 2012 Douglas J. Westberg. All Rights Reserved.

Nelsoneddy.gather.com

_Milo the Great_

By Lord Gregory

Milo Stranz was a creative young man who loved to think of new ideas. While his friends were outside playing he was in his garage hard at work. His school teacher would always have to tell him to pay attention in class. Milo's dad even had to buy him his own tools so he would stop taking his.

Milo dreamed of making the world a better place. He worked hard on his inventions and wanted to share them with all people. He imagined how great life would be if everyone knew his 453 uses for hair.

Milo Stranz loved hair. He sometimes called it mini head rope or mental floss. No matter what it was called, Milo Stranz had a use for it.

If you were to make pasta, Milo's amazing pasta strainer made of hair could help you. If the pot was too hot to handle you could use his hair potholders. Not only were they useful, but they were a matching set.

A weekend of mountain climbing just would not be the same without Milo's super hair rope or his camping hair sleeping bag. They may not be as strong as other ropes or as warm as other sleeping bags, but they do not cost as much and you could use shampoo to clean them.

What do you do when your lawn mower runs out of gas? With the Milo Stranz hair engine all you have to do is drop a few hairs into the gas tank and you are able to mow for hours. It may smell pretty bad afterward, but your lawn will look great.

For those days that you cannot ride your bike because of a flat tire, Milo Stranz has something for you. It is a tire patch made of hair. It only lasts for 50 feet but it is more than a tire with no patch. Imagine how fun it would be to leave skid marks the same color as your hair.

Milo Stranz is no longer using hair in his inventions. He still loves science and doing experiments, but it is just not the same. After his last invention, ten-year old Milo was bald. So if you have ever thought about making an invention out of hair just remember Milo Stranz and the old saying "Hair today, gone tomorrow."

~

Copyright 2005 Gregory Maxwell. All rights reserved.

<http://lordgregory.gather.com/>

_Just Do It (Monday Writing Essential)_

By Tracy Fabre

Today's challenge: Exercise your dialogue writing skills by telling a story in nothing but dialogue.

~

"I don't understand why we're doing this."

"What's to understand? Just do it."

"But what's the point? We'll just have to do it again next week."

"So? It's something to do right now, and it won't kill you."

"Yeah, whatever. I just don't--"

"Would you stop complaining?"

"I'm not complaining! I'm just asking a question!"

"But it's the same question, over and over. Why are we doing this, why are we doing this, why are we doing this."

"You never give me an answer!"

"There IS NO ANSWER!"

"Then you're saying you don't know?"

"NO! Okay, there IS an answer: the answer is, we're doing it because we have to do it. We've been told to do it. We're going to do it."

"But next week--"

"Yes, yes, YES. Next week, we'll have to do it again. I KNOW. STOP already."

"Then what is the POINT?"

"The point is, I'm gonna smack you in the face with this sponge if you don't stop asking. The point is, it'll be easier to do it again next week if we do it today, and yes, I am FULLY aware that even if we don't do it today, you will only ask me why we're doing it the next time we DO do it."

"I won't mind doing it next week."

"THE HELL! Every. Stinkin'. Time. You do this every--"

"We've never skipped one, EVER. Can't we just skip this one time?"

"NO!"

"Why NOT?"

"Because the boss is going to come out here in twenty minutes and if this car isn't washed and waxed we're both fired. Now shut up and WASH!"

~

Copyrighted by Tracy Fabre. All rights reserved.

<http://tracyfabre.gather.com/>

Genre Shorties #59 -- Just Don't Say Armadillo!

_By Tracy Fabre_

[Posted for Genre Shorties. Prompt: acrostic, target word **armadillo** , but not using armadillo IN the acrostic.]

~

I had to do two... well, I didn't have to, but after I did one, I felt like doing another!

~

Alert, Benny looks both ways before crossing.

Realizing he might not make it, might not be able to get home – he must be careful.

Maybe his practice runs have paid off? Maybe?

And there he goes! Waddle, waddle faster! Go, Benny, GO!

DAMN! That was close. Almost taken out by a rusty Fiat.

If he'd been one second slower... *splat* But this time: success!

Lo! Over in the other ditch! Is that one of his kin? Hope not. Cuz... ick.

Look! Crap, it's his aunt Velda.

Oh, hell. She always was a slowpoke. Now he has to tell the family.

~ A N D ~

Always remember and never forget, and keep at the front of your mind--

Ralph likes his dirt clumps with mushrooms and cheese, anything wife Lynn can find.

Maybe he'll salt it,

And maybe he won't,

Danged if she knows what he'll do.

It's just like her Ralphie to keep up suspense

Lynn says, "He's a nut! And me too!"

Lately she seasons with "roadkill surprise," and Ralphie, he seems not to mind—

Oh yeah: did I mention? He's fully insane! No need whatsoe'er to be kind.

~

Copyrighted by Tracy Fabre. All rights reserved.

<http://tracyfabre.gather.com/>

_Genre Shorties Week 14 -- Not Quite_ _the High Chaparral_

_by Tracy Fabre_

[For Genre Shorties. 100 words, Western, using **four** of something.]

~

It was 4:04, on the fourth day of the week. I checked my watch for the fourth time, sucked down four glasses of sangria, and strode out onto Fourth Street (Main was being re-dirted).

Four people gathered to watch my fight with Four-Tooth Frank. He sneered (well, duh) as I approached. The four onlookers snickered.

"In four seconds yer a dead man," he snarled, then shot at me four times.

He hit a tumbleweed, the Four Coin saloon, a passing stagecoach, and the deputy's boot.

"Guess not," I said, as the deputy (and four onlookers) chased him down the street.

~

Copyrighted by Tracy Fabre. All rights reserved.

<http://tracyfabre.gather.com/>

_Genre Shorties Week 57 -- Running On Empty_

by Tracy Fabre

[Posted for Genre Shorties. Prompt: A 100-word run-on sentence, using ONE and ONLY ONE of the following words FIVE (or more) times: puffy, broccoli, murder, chicken, gather.]

~

"Oh, I feel so puffy," said Gooella, who did look puffy, as she poofed her hair and touched up her lipstick, which was a sickly shade of gold reminiscent of the puffy tacos served at Los Taquitos Pequeños, where she had once mistakenly dumped an entire bottle of Tabasco in her salsa, which caused her whole face to go all puffy, and she remembered this night clearly as she pondered how puffy she felt right now, which caused her to pause her lipstick tweakage, and this is when her evil sister Stevie pricked her with a pin, and she deflated.

~ and ~

Bob The Broccoli Farmer bragged as often as he could about the quality of his broccoli, and how his broccoli somehow contained more broccoli goodness than any other broccoli out there, and in fact it was pretty good, especially served with a little cheese, a little butter, and some salt, maybe in one of those steamer bags, mmmmmmm, good stuff, but the truth, the awful truth he could never tell a soul, was that he hated broccoli with a deep abiding soul-chilling passion and wanted nothing more than to destroy every last stalk in a raging inferno of broccoli-fueled hate.

~

Copyrighted by Tracy Fabre. All rights reserved.

<http://tracyfabre.gather.com/>

_The Credentials_ _of Captain Obvious_

_by Tracy Fabre_

Dear You:

In my capacity as Captain Obvious, I have decided to write this letter to establish my credentials for the position.

First, I must point out that "dear" is a word that doesn't, in this setting, actually mean "dear" at all, let alone imply any special closeness between us. You may have known this already, but it's my job to elucidate.

Second, I must clarify that I am not in fact "writing" in the conventional sense of putting pen/pencil to paper. This usage of "write" to mean "tap on a keyboard to produce letters, words, and phrases" has evolved over the last several decades, and just as we still say "dial the number" and "dial tone" despite the lack of dials, "write" is still used to convey the concept of a person expressing some type of relatively original thought, albeit via a keyboard to a screen and a digital file, and not on paper or bathroom walls as previously was the norm.

Third, I perhaps should not have used the word "credentials" since that might lead you to believe some sort of education or official accreditation is required to take on the title of Captain Obvious (or even that of a minion of same), when in fact there is not. All that is required to have stated the obvious ("Oh, look, your leg is broken. Good thing you have a cast on.") enough to qualify for the title is to in fact, and of necessity repeatedly, state the obvious. (It should not be the same statement which is repeated; "Your leg is broken. Your leg is broken. Your leg is broken." but rather multiple statements of obviousness: "Your leg is broken. That's why you have a cast on. You shouldn't have broken your leg. Now you have to wear the cast. Because your leg is broken. You shouldn't throw things at me in your condition. That hurt. I wish you hadn't done that. I think I should leave.")

Fourth, it goes without saying that "position" is a rather odd word to assign to something like a job, since "position" usually implies some sort of physical arrangement of a person or device, and one can be Captain Obvious without adopting any particular physical position, although an appearance of dumbth is usually helpful. (Note: please assume "job" not to mean the conventional paying gig, and "gig" not to mean that which is used on unsuspecting frogs*.)

Fifth, it also goes without saying that "it goes without saying" is a completely useless phrase, since if something could go without saying it would not be said, and therefore "it goes without saying" need only end with a period. Though if you analyze a sample phrase more closely, you see its very structure is confusing. It goes without saying that your leg is broken -- What is "it," and what is "going," and if "it" is going, where is it going? Your leg is not going anywhere, because it is broken. (I knew that because of the cast. I'm quick that way.) (By the way, I am fully aware, as are you, that your leg isn't broken at all, nor are you wearing a cast; this example is purely for the purposes of establishing my credentials.)

I regret that I no longer remember the purpose of my letter.

Sincerely (for I am that at least) (though no, I'm not sincerely, I'm sincere; please excuse),

I.

* No frogs were injured in the creation of this post, which in fact isn't a post at all, but rather a... oh, never mind.

~

Copyrighted by Tracy Fabre. All rights reserved.

<http://tracyfabre.gather.com/>

The Crossing (A Journal Entry)

_By Ms Lee P._

Dec 16, 1776, Monday night

Today was wash day and I stripped all the beds of their linen so they could be washed and folded and put away until after I return from my Holiday trip to my sister's house. I'm leaving very early in the morning so that I can be there by night fall. It's cold outside and the river is frozen solid so crossing shouldn't be a problem. Sam the sled man said that he would take me across early tomorrow morning. Due to all the heated water from the wash pots the wash house was very warm this morning even though it is freezing outside. We hung the sheets on lines inside close to the fires so they would dry properly before night fall. Cousin Betsy ironed them when they were dry. She came and helped with the washing. Thank goodness for Cousin Betsy. I was able to go to the market today and I got two oranges and two peppermint sticks as gifts for my nephews. The oranges are a rare treat brought in on the latest rum schooner and I'm delighted that I was able to purchase them. I'm excited about my Holiday trip as I have not seen my sister since last summer. I got all my packing done yesterday. I'm only taking one small trunk since I'll only be there for a week. Tomorrow is going to start very early so I must retire for the night and I will write all about my trip when I get back.

~

December 25, 1776, Wednesday night

I'm home at last and it has been quite a day. I left my sister's house early this morning hoping to get home before night fall. My brother-in-law was going to drive me home in his new ice sled but when we got to the river the ice had started to thaw and it was too weak in places to even think about driving across. I cried because I thought I was not going to be able to get home until the ferryboat could safely cross the river again. We discovered that there was an encampment of military men about a mile down river from where we were when my friend George rode by on his big white horse and offered to take me across with them when they crossed in their boats later in the day. He said his men had poles that they used to break up the weakened ice so they could cross. I accepted his offer without fear because I've known George for a very long time My cousin Betsy does all of the sewing for his household and I've met him and his wife several times when they come visiting in this part of the country. There was a problem loading the horses on the boats so we didn't get to cross until late tonight and when we finally did get started the wind was blowing so hard across the ice and water that I had to wrap myself up in the beautiful pink blanket that my sister gave me for a Holiday gift. I tried to keep it clean but I fear it shall see the wash house next Monday. There was one young man on the boat whose head was wrapped in bandages and he didn't have a coat. I worried myself about his health and gave him my quilt to wrap himself in. My mom made the quilt for me before she passed and my sister was keeping it for me until I could finally get a chance to bring it home. It's difficult to express how heartbroken I am to part with the quilt but I felt so bad for the cold, wounded young man. I hope the quilt keeps him warm for a very long time. It was a cold, shaky crossing and we had to tell George several times to sit down because he was rocking the already unsteady boat. George had one of his men take me the rest of the way home on one of the horses he brought across with us. Home never looked so good or so welcome. I'll write more about my Holiday trip tomorrow but I'm worn out now and ready to go to bed. I'm also wondering what all that popping noise is that I keep hearing coming from outside somewhere. It's too early for New Year's fireworks. Maybe I'll find out tomorrow.

~

Copyright by Ms. Lee P. All rights reserved.

<http://leepay.gather.com/>

_Conversations_ _with My Daughter_

By Patrick Moore

Avocado

What's this, mummy?

An avocado, Reya.

Abocado?

A-VO-cado angel. It's got a V in it.

...

Mummy?

Yes angel?

I've looked but I can't find a V in it anywhere.

Not there angel.

Is the V in the kitchen?

No angel, it is in the name. Say after me... A.

A.

VO.

VO.

CA.

CA.

DO.

DO.

That's right. Avocado

Abocado.

Oh for pity's sake... here, take this instead.

Mummy?

It's a banana.

Naughtiness

Sorry daddy.

Have you done something wrong angel?

No.

That's OK then. You only say sorry when you've been naughty.

Oh. Ok.... Daddy?

Yes Reya?

Have you been naughty?

Not today.

Not today?

Nope.

Have you ever been naughty?

Well... yes.

Did you say sorry?

Sometimes.

Only sometimes?

Umm, yeah.

That's naughty, daddy.

I guess so.

(singing) Daddy's been naughty. Daddy's been naughty. Daddy's...

That's enough Reya.

(still singing) DADDY'S BEEN NAUGHTY. DADDY'S BEEN...

REYA!

Yes daddy.

If you keep that up you'll go straight to the naughty step. Understand?

Sorry daddy.

Questions

Is that a yes daddy?

Sorry angel, what was that?

Is that a yes, daddy?

I'm not answering yes until I know the question.

What question daddy?

What do you want me to say yes to?

(pause) Is "yes" a question daddy?

"Yes" is an answer. You have to ask a question first to get an answer.

Oh, so if I ask a question first, then you'll say yes?

Depends on the question.

Oh. Ok. Umm, daddy?

Uh-huh angel?

Can I have a chocolate?

No.

Negotiating

Reya, time for dinner.

Daddy, I want a popsicle.

No. Sit down and eat.

Daddy, I want a biscuit.

Dinner, Reya.

Daddy, I want my boots.

You don't need your boots.

Daddy, I want my princess costume.

No.

Daddy, I want a juice.

No... oh, ok then, sit down and I'll get you some.

Daddy, I want a strawberry milk.

No.

Daddy, I want a banana.

Maybe after dinner. We'll see.

Daddy, I want a...

What you want is to sit down and eat your dinner. Now.

Daddy... daddy... daddy...

Reya. Sit. Down. And. Eat.

Daddy, I want Dora.

Reya, I'm going to give you a choice.

Yes, daddy?

You can sit down and eat your dinner...

Yes, daddy?

Or you can sit on the naughty step.

...

Daddy?

Yes Reya?

Can I have my dinner now?

Good choice.

~

Copyright 2012, Patrick Moore.

http://pifflem.gather.com/

_Deer Ser_

By Patrick Moore

I was moved to write this after reading two articles in my local newspaper. The first concerned some high schools which were planning to accept txt language in students' exam answers, and the second concerned a group of academics advocating the use of phonetic English.

~

\--

Dr McGregor

Lekturer, Medical Fakilty

Auckland Universety

Deer Ser,

I wud like the oportunity 2 respond 2 your coments on my last papper.

In partikular u mentioned my poor speling and literasey. I would like 2 say that what u called poor speling is in fact TXT-speek and phonics, both of which r now considered aceptible by ur bosses in the Minustry of Edukashun. It wuz gud enuf 2 get me thru hi skul and into uni, so I fail 2 c how it isunt gud enuf 4 ur corse now.

I would also like 2 point out that I put my papper through the Microsoft Spellchekur and it kame out fine, so if Bill Gates, who is richer than the hole world, thinks I write OK, who r u 2 argue?

U complained how TXT was a bakwerd step in humun comunicashun. I put it 2 u that u r living in the past. TXTing is the haiku of the modern age and cellfone prediktuve txt the new dikshunerys. In fact Ill go so far as too say if God didn't want us 2 TXT, he woodn't of given us opposible thums.

U also said I was desekrating the language of Shakespeere. That mite b true, but u r talking abowt a guy who lived, I dunno, thousunds of yeers ago, before computers wer even invented and nobodey cares about him any more. Unless Shakespeere komes back & writes Hamlet - the World Of Warcraft Expansion Pack, nobodey is gonna give a rat's ars about all those thee's and thou's:

Prithee dear sir, wouldst thou take thy battle packs and swing round yonder hill to frag those dudes back into the stone age...

...I don't think so.

U also complaned about how I displayed an unaceptible lack of knowlege of Latin terms. Well when I m a doktor, I won't need Latin 2 tell my patient that his leg is broke, so wat's the point?

Latin is a ded language, and anyway all the Latin people I know speek Spanish.

In conclushun I just wanna say that this is Inglush as she is spoke today. We are the futur, and yous old fogeys in the fakulty beter get used 2 it.

C u l8r, h8r.

Urs Sinceerley

Jon Smith

(pre-med, 2nd yeer)

~

Copyright 2012, Patrick Moore

http://pifflem.gather.com/

_There's Something About Mary_

By Patrick Moore

Submitted to Gather as part of a challenge to sketch a scene with words.

~

A few years ago Mary was a house guest of my sister in law. She had come over from Samoa for a few weeks in summer. I think she ended up staying about six months.

Sometimes time is a fluid concept in Samoa.

Mary may have actually been family. I don't really know. She may have been a family friend, or simply somebody a cousin's friend's brother in law ran into at a nightclub. It didn't really matter. On my wife's side all relationships tended to coalesce into an AuntyCousinNiece sort of thing, anyway.

Family can also be a fluid concept in Samoa.

Recalling Mary is like looking closely at a mosaic: I stare at the individual pieces for a while, then step back to let the pattern make sense as a whole. I remember large earlobes, with equally large earrings. I remember long fingernails with complicated patterns painted on them. I remember loud, floral-print dresses and impossibly high heels. I remember thick makeup and cheap perfume. I remember a loud laugh, and when laughing a set of curiously worn teeth. I had no idea what had worn them down and didn't want to ask.

Mary's three passions were drinking, loving and fighting, usually in that order. The drinking was formidable, the fighting mythical: if the laughter ended and Mary started taking off her earrings and high heels, somebody was in serious trouble.

But it was the loving that scared me the most. You see, Mary had a thing for palagis and would flirt shamelessly, outrageously and ruthlessly with any that she could find. During family events, that was usually me. Whenever this happened I tried to remain within earshot of my wife, hoping that would afford me some measure of protection. I was wrong: Mary couldn't care less about my wife, and my wife did not feel in the least bit intimidated by Mary. She knew that Mary was very definitely not my type.

It wasn't just the cheap perfume, the complicated fingernails and quick temper that turned me off.

It was also the large hands.

And the stubble.

And the fact that Mary's birth name was Phillip.

You see, sometimes gender is also a fluid concept in Samoa.

~

Copyright 2012, Patrick Moore

http://pifflem.gather.com/

_Winter Misery_

By Patrick Moore

Take heed and please take pity

'pon this benighted soul.

For I endure such trials

that would give pause to the Heroes of old.

My poor Medusan visage

would turn mighty Perseus cold,

and my effort in drawing an unwrack'd breath

is a Sisyphean bould...

...er.

~

The sun torments like Icaran wings,

my eyes to shrivelling pits,

and Tantalus weeps at the joys of life

just beyond my fingertips...

...along with the remote control.

Yet when all I ask is a tender touch

or a sympathetic sound,

scorn and derision are all to be had

from the one to which I am bound.

So take heed and please take pity

'pon my miseries untold.

For I am a man, a mortal man,

and I have a cold.

Well, what did you expect? Poetry?

Whatever. I have a cold, dammit!

~

Copyright 2012, Patrick Moore

http://pifflem.gather.com/

_The Battle of_ _the Magic Pony_

_By Patrick Moore_

Parenting a pre-schooler, as any pre-schooler parent will know, is an exercise in scale: the drama of a playground conflict, the inconsolable loss of a favourite toy, the angry falling out between friends or the joyful creation of new ones, the convoluted negotiations involved with eating one's vegetables, all these things would do justice to a Wagnerian opera.

So when the Gather challenge arose to write a spectacle using the basic dramatic structure, I did not have to look far for inspiration. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the following saga.

~

The Exposition

The Protagonist: Enter Mireya, stage right, to applause.

The Antagonist: Enter stage left Mireya's cousin Kendra, to boos and hisses. Of course it could easily also have been either of her other cousins Hanae or Asha. Mireya is one of four cousins, all girls, all aged three. God help us.

The Grudge: Four girl cousins breed issues like bacteria. There are at least a dozen bubbling away at any particular time. Take your pick.

The Scene: A living room, late in the afternoon of a long family weekend. Everybody is run down from a day of doing nothing much at all. At one end gather the women, chattering like starlings over somebody's Facebook page. At the other end the men are watching rugby league. Oscillating in between are the girls, shouting, spinning, chasing, demanding attention and generally making all the adults feel a decade older than they actually are.

~

The Rising Action

Reya's toy of the day has been the Magic Pony. That is until her attention is drawn to the Transformer mask that has been discarded by one of the other girls, so she puts the Magic Pony down. No sooner has it touched the table than Kendra grabs it and runs off. This naturally breaks the rule of Persistence of Possession, which I remember from my own childhood. It goes something like: I may not be using that thing right now, but I claim title until I've completely forgotten about it.

Reya of course, is more succinct: "Kendra, That's MINE!"

Kendra turns her back and starts running the Magic Pony over the folds of the blanket on the floor.

"KENDRA!"

Game on.

~

The Climactic Crisis

"Daddy, Kendra took my pony."

"No she didn't, Reya. You put it down."

"But it's MINE!"

I am not about to argue the finer points of ownership with a three-year-old, so I decide to change tack "That's okay, Reya. You need to share it anyway."

Mireya thinks that point over and appears to agree. Then she stomps across the room. "KENDRA, You have to SHARE!"

Clearly, Mireya's idea of sharing differs from mine.

"Reya. Stop right there. Kendra's using it now. You can play with something else."

Mireya ignores me. She continues to pursue her cousin.

"Reya!"

She stops and looks at me. Her lower lip drops. Tears well up. I look to her mother for support, but the women have hunched even closer over the computer. The small smiles from the men betray the fact that they're glad it is me and mine, rather than them and theirs, caught in this battle of wills.

"Daddy..."

Kendra retreats to a far corner with the pony. The other two cousins have disappeared.

"Don't even think of it, Reya." I fail to completely suppress the rising panic in my voice. And everyone in the room knows what comes next.

~

The Falling Action

She drops to the floor. A crescendo of wailing fills the room. "Daaaddeeee. Kendraaaa. Miiiine!" was about all anybody could make out. This needed shutting down, and pronto.

"Reya, that's it. The naughty step."

"NOOOOO!"

I pick her up and take her to the top of the stairs.

This of course does not work for her. What is the point of enduring suffering and injustice if there's nobody to see it? So, in no time at all she scoots to the bottom stair, and is howling mightily.

I take her back up.

She slides back down.

So, I do it again.

And, so does she.

Enough already. "That's it Reya. You're going into a bedroom until you learn how to behave."

"Daddeeee, NOOOOOO!"

~

The Denouement

Then, just as I'm picking up my little ball of howling, Kendra tugs on my leg. Eyes downcast, without a word spoken, she hands Reya the Magic Pony.

Reya is silenced, save for the little gulps of air that follow a sobbing fit. I'm torn between relief that she has finally shut up or embarrassment that it took another three year old to do it.

"There you go, Reya. Are you happy now?"

She nods.

"Are you going to say thank you to Kendra?"

She shakes her head.

"Reya?"

She buries her face into my stomach. "No!"

I decide not to push my luck. "Thank you, Kendra. That was a very generous thing to do. I'm proud of you." I stare meaningfully at Reya, but meaning is lost on her now she has the pony to play with again.

And peace reigns once more in the household... at least until Kendra picks up the Transformer mask.

Game on.

~

Copyright 2012, Patrick Moore

http://pifflem.gather.com/

_Cats on the Trails_

By John Beck

Cats accompany Rudy and me on our walks around the trails. Cats and I stay mostly on the trails as Rudy explores the woods and brush and sometimes follows deer trails. This time of year they go right through the mud and partly submerged in the deeper puddles. They are quite protective and give me a sense of security as we walk the trails. They're not allowed in the house; they stay on our breezeway to gradually dry off until our next trail walk. I suppose I should nourish them from time to time but I don't bother. They get kicked around quite a bit but they're holding up pretty well. I expect them to be for a long time, but when they're no longer useful I'll just replace them.

~

(The Cats are my steel-toed Caterpillar work boots.)

~

Copyright by John J Beck, all rights reserved

http://lapapa.gather.com/

_Cowboy Tom_

By Pam Brittain

Tom weren't no bad drunk

Only problem was he stunk

~

Fact were, he were kinda dear

Every night, asleep in my Belvadere

~

Drove him home every night

Told 'is brothers he was alright

~

Weren't too bad with the windows down

Closed up shop, took him to town

~

His brothers made him sleep outside.

His smell I found hard to abide.

~

One day, cold outside, I turned on the heat

Held my nose, knowing his stink would repeat.

~

He woke from a drunken sound sleep.

That then's when he uttered a peep.

~

I turned to see him and saw his new bed roll

He said, no choice, cold's taking its toll

~

My brothers threw me in the creek.

Soaped me down, clean enough to squeak

~

They burned my bedroll and all my clothes.

They told me that everything goes.

~

This said, I tell ya, for the next week

His stench was quite weak.

~

The stench came back, it weren't no joke

Heck, ya just gotta help an old cowpoke.

~

Copyright 2012, Pam Brittain. All rights reserved

http://pambrittain.gather.com

_The Devil Did a Good Deed_

By Pam Brittain

The devil considered himself to be the most gracious, beneficial and loving person that ever visited earth. One day, whilst doing his constant good doing, he saw a bank robbery going amiss. One of the robbers was captured. The devil thought he should help this poor robber. So, he huffed and puffed and blew a black charcoal laden cloud down over the robber and the two men holding him. The robber managed to free himself, fled and the devil was proud of his good deed.

The two men detaining the robber went back into the bank, came back out holding bags and left in a vehicle waiting nearby. Just as the robber walked back to the bank, the devil thought – _uh-oh – what have I done_? Poof! The devil found himself on a cloud with a booming voice telling him, "You did a good deed, devil. I'm proud of you."

The devil started trembling, turned around to an angel and demanded, "Give me your wings you jerk – it's freaking cold up here."

~

Copyright 2012, Pam Brittain. All rights reserved

http://pambrittain.gather.com

### Fantasy

_Forest Sentinels_

By A. F. Stewart

For the first time in a half-century, the Black Wolves were hunting unknown prey. Something ancient and arcane had returned to their forest...

~

An early winter snow covered the ground, two nights old, and shimmered in the subtle moonlight. The raw, icy wind ruffled his fur and Stripe lifted his paw from the frozen land, wishing for the warmth of summer. An uneasy instinct drifted through his senses as he sniffed the night air for his quarry. A scent wafted on the breeze; Stripe shivered as the odour filled his nose. The strange smell reeked of an unfamiliar magic. He turned to his pack, scattered behind him in the trees.

Something is wrong. Be alert, we move.

The pack acknowledged his command, the formation tightening, and loped forward, Stripe in the lead. A shadow passed through the moonlight and the tree branches swayed. Stripe caught the scent again.

It is airborne. Watch the skies.

On guard now, the pack tensed, ready for an attack as they followed Stripe's direction through the forest. They chased the creature through the trees and brush, as it swooped and zigzagged, always an elusive shadow.

Stop!

At Stripe's order, the pack halted. Stripe sniffed the wind. A stronger source of the prey's odor came from behind the pack. Stripe growled.

It's a trick. The beast is playing games, trying to direct us away from something. Follow me and stay on course.

Stripe wheeled around, guiding the pack away, backtracking, as the thrashing sound of wings resounded and a shriek ripped into the darkness. The creature knew its ploy failed. The shadow descended and took on form.

It is attacking!

Fangs and claws, backed by sinew and muscle, lunged from the sky. Stripe heard a sharp yelp and saw Blue Eye on the ground, bloody tear marks across his side. The creature rose and circled for another dive.

It's coming back! Attack formation!

As one, the pack confronted the assault, meeting the creature's natural defences with their own piercing teeth, ripping into the leathery skin of wings. Shrieks and howls mingled with spurting blood, crunching bone and wrenched out fur. The creature tumbled from the sky as the pack dragged the beast to earth by shredded wings.

The creature landed in a rolling crash and struggled to right its body, flailing now useless wings. It lashed its reptilian tail, knocking wolves off their paws and snapped its fangs at others.

Brindle, Scar, Howler, strike from the rear. Snap, Red, Sharp Nose and Grey Fur assault from the sides and target the underbelly.

The Black Wolves executed what they did best, moving in for the kill en masse. Biting jaws shredded scaled hide and softer flesh and the forest echoed in violent battle, all growls, shrieks and the smell of acrid blood. Stripe saw an opening and dashed in, rending the beast's throat with a powerful bite. Blood gushed from the wound and the creature floundered, dying. Its body twitched and then lay still. Stripe took a step back to view his kill, and the battleground.

The corpse of a Wyvern was sprawled in red-drenched snow and attended in death with three of the wolf pack, Blue Eye, Howler and Snap. The rest of the pack was bleeding, slashed and bitten. Just beyond this scene of slaughter, Stripe saw what the Wyvern was protecting. Tucked in between two evergreen trees was a nest with three golden eggs. Stripe growled softly.

A nest. It built a nest.

Stripe trembled. Every wolf cub was raised on the stories of the Wyvern and its magical ilk, of the destruction and devastation engendered by those ancient forces. It would not happen again. Not on his watch. He turned to the nearest, least injured wolf.

Return home, warn the border patrol the Wyvern vermin have returned to this world and we have an infestation. The rest of us will take care of this nest.

The scout spun away on his mission and Stripe led the pack in a strike on the eggs.

~

Copyright 2012 A. F. Stewart. All rights reserved.

http://scribe77.gather.com

_Jack and Jill - A Different Version_

By Len Maxwell

There is an explanation for every nursery rhyme. Did you ever wonder how Mother Goose came up with this one?

Jack and Jill went up the hill

To fetch a pail of water.

Jack fell down and broke his crown

And Jill came tumbling after.

~

Mother Goose was in a bind. She was on a deadline to produce a new nursery rhyme for the afternoon paper and couldn't come up with anything. Oh, well, she thought, I've done it before, what can it hurt?

She stepped into her time machine and started scanning through the years ahead looking for some kind of an idea. Far in the future, in 2009, she saw something and stopped the display. Then she reversed it until she could track what had led up to this young couple walking up a hill holding a bucket between them.

~

"Man, what a day," Jack was saying on his cell phone as he drove home. "Frank, you would not believe everything that went wrong today." He paused as he pulled into his driveway. "Gotta go, I'm home. At least nothing else can go wrong. See you tomorrow."

He walked into the house and saw his wife sitting at the table crying. "Jill, what's wrong?"

She jumped up, ran to him, and threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Jack, I don't know how it happened."

"What, darling, how what happened?"

The words poured out, "Oh, Jack, I forgot to pay the water bill and they shut off our water and, even when I paid it today, they said it may take as long as a week to turn it back on. Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry." Then she broke down and cried some more.

Jack held his wife and thought about the comment he had just made on the cell phone. Suddenly he had an idea, "Honey, it's not all that bad. Remember that historic monument at the top of the hill? The last time we were up there we tossed pennies into the wishing well."

"So?"

"Don't you see? It's an actual well. It has water in it. Until they turn our water back on, we can take a bucket up there and get as much water as we want."

On the way up the hill, Jack looked around and saw a fantastic sight. "Look, dear, over there. Is that a goose?"

Jill looked and said, "Why yes, and she appears to be wearing a bonnet and an apron."

Jack pulled on Jill's hand. "Yeah, that's some kind of a joke waiting to happen."

At the top of the hill, they had to wait a few minutes as a family gathered around the wishing well and two children flipped pennies into it. Once they left, Jack and Jill filled their bucket and started down the hill.

About halfway down, Jack tripped on something, let out a yell, dropped the bucket, and started tumbling down the hill.

Jill let out a scream and started down after him. She hadn't taken two steps when she also tripped on something. She rolled all the way down the hill, coming to rest beside Jack's unconscious form.

When she woke up, she saw a policeman bending over her. "Ma'am, are you all right?"

"Jack, where's Jack?"

"Take it easy ma'am, he's right over there. He has a concussion, but the paramedics are taking care of him. Can you tell me what happened?"

Jill shook her head and said, "I'm not sure, there was a goose."

"A goose?"

"Yes, she was wearing a bonnet and an apron. I think she pushed us."

"You take it easy, ma'am, I'll be right back."

In a large clump of bushes, Mother Goose listened as the cop spoke on his radio, "We have one victim with a concussion; he's on his way to the hospital. We also have a female that seems to be delusional. I'm sending her in for 72-hour protective custody and you might want to put her on suicide watch as she says a goose pushed them down the hill."

Mother Goose chuckled as she reeled in and coiled her tripwire. Then she stepped into her time machine -- she had a deadline to meet!

~

Copyright 2007 Len Maxwell. All rights reserved.

http://maadmaax.gather.com/

_Mike's Golden Touch_

By Terry McDermott

"It's just not fair!" Mike yelled as he hit the locker. He rubbed his fist for a few moments, and then picked up a bench, slamming it into a whole row of lockers.

"I'm always getting the shaft!"

"What is wrong, my dear man?" a voice from behind him said.

Mike was surprised to see a strange looking man had entered the locker room. He wore lime green tights with matching boots with tiny wings. On his head was a helmet which also had tiny wings on each side. In his hand were two bronze snakes wrapped around each other, similar to the two snakes seen at hospitals. "Who are you?" Mike asked.

"My name is Mercury Morris, the fastest wrestler in the world."

"Oh brother," Mike said rolling his eyes, "another gimmick wrestler."

All at once Mercury vanished, and Mike felt someone tapping him on the shoulder. He was shocked to find it was Mercury Morris. "Sorry about that," laughed Mercury, "what is your name, friend?"

"Mike Dust."

"Tell me what is troubling you?"

"I can't get a title shot."

"You think you deserve the gold?"

"Yes I do! I have been wrestling in this territory for seven years, and have nothing to show for it."

"You must not have the golden touch."

Mike laughed, "That is one way to put it."

"Do you want it badly?"

"Yes I do."

"Granted," Mercury held out his bronze snakes and vanished.

"What a strange dude," Mike said, "I'll have to admit he is fast."

He realized his locker door was open and a red apple was inside. "How in the world?" Mike asked himself, "Well I'm hungry anyway."

As he picked the apple up, Mike closed his eyes and took a big bite. All at once his mouth was greeted with great pain. Blood ran from his lips, and his two front teeth were chipped. "Oh No!" Mike was amazed when he opened his eyes. The red apple was solid gold.

After all these years Mike Dust had obtained gold, but it was not the kind champions wore around their waist.

The End

~

Copyright by Terry McDermott. All Rights reserved.

http://dermott.gather.com/

_And They Call Him Whardolf the Wise_

By Toni Vernetti

Oh why does he put me in these predicaments?

I was only in the wizard's castle to feed his dark crow!

"Corn Flakes!" he says. "For the bird!" he says. "Watch this potion till I get back!" he says. "Keep it safe!" he says. "I trust you to keep it safe!" he says.

He doesn't return! I drink the stuff! Just a sip but still! My life flashes before my eyes! Was that Kenny Rogers?! Go back, go back!

Too late! I'm a goner!

And they call him Whardolf the "Wise"!

~

(Story written in response to a 100 word or less prompt challenge from the Genre Shorties group on Gather.com. Challenge: A powerful wizard left a potent potion with you for safekeeping. When he did not return at the arranged hour to collect his potion, curiosity got the better of you and you decided you would use the potion, just once. How did you use it and what happened? If possible, mention Corn Flakes or the name of a country singer in your story.)

~

Copyright 2012 Toni Vernetti. All rights reserved.

<http://whitewolf101.gather.com/>

_Call of the Sea ~ A Ghazal in Anapestic Tetrameter_

By John Beck

A seductive sweet siren, the call of the sea

So persistently summons; I sail out to sea

~

Like a goose drawn to migrate, the ocean draws me

And a cool salty sea breeze leads me to the sea

~

Spent a season ashore with beloved family

Yet again I succumb to the call of the sea

~

You may call it affliction of many like me

Who are helpless when heeding the call of the sea

~

Sometimes sailors are swallowed by oceans, still we

Are accepting of risk when we're called by the sea

~

If I fail to return, shed no teardrops for me

Simply etch on a stone: "He was called by the sea".

~

By John J Beck, all rights reserved

http://lapapa.gather.com/

_Mountain Driving_

By John Beck

It's been years since I last drove in the Rockies. I still feel more secure when I'm on the mountain side of the highway than when I'm on the outside edge, although I realize that I'm more likely to hit a fallen rock on the inside. Right now I'm on the outside when a bus, apparently out of control, heads right toward me. He's across parts of two lanes so I can't avoid him by veering to the left and passing him on the wrong side. I pull to the right as close as I dare but to no avail. There's that terrible crunch of metal on metal, the screech of rubber on pavement, and suddenly my car is flying over the edge, next stop one mile straight down. Think fast. No chance of survival if I stay in the vehicle. Neither my door nor window will open. I unbuckle my restraint and scramble over to the passenger side. I'm able to push that door open. I plant my feet on the edge of the seat and push away as hard as I can. There are sharp rocks below.

Having been a parachutist, I instinctively go into a stable posture and turn to fall as far from the edge as possible, surveying the terrain below. I see what appears to be a grove of conifers. I estimate that it's been about 45 seconds since I went over the side, so I've probably already fallen about 1 1/4 miles. I estimate about another mile to go. If I go into full delta I'll be able to track farther toward the trees but I'll also be closing toward the ground faster. I go into full delta toward what I hope are conifers, not just some low shrubs. It looks like I'll make it to the trees as the ground races toward me. I bring my hands and arms up to slow my descent; I'm still heading forward enough to reach the treetops.

As I feel the needles strike, I cover my face and curl into a fetal position. It's all over so fast. Branches breaking, perhaps my bones as well. I sense my forward motion bleeding off and I'm aware of falling down, branch to branch until I finally come to rest several hundred feet above the ground. What's the extent of my injuries? I'm alive and conscious. I'm able to move all four extremities, but my right thigh doesn't feel very good. Did I rupture my spleen? How long will I be up here? Will anybody find me?

I feel secure in my lofty perch and don't feel up to trying to climb down just now. Just to be sure, I wrap my belt around a limb and refasten it, and close my eyes. My heart is pounding. It's over, and yet it's not.

"He's breathing!" I open my eyes to see a young woman in logging gear, suspended by a line next to my limb. "Are you OK?"

"I have no idea. How did you find me?"

"Beats me. Boss got a call that somebody saw what looked like a person free falling towards this area, so we started a search."

I later find out that the bus crashed against the mountain and that all passengers and the driver survived.

"There are reporters here at the hospital who would like to interview you. Would you like to talk to them?"

"No."

~

By John J Beck, all rights reserved

http://lapapa.gather.com/

_Patrick's Tales_

By Pam Brittain

Men from all over would walk for miles just to listen to Patrick's tales. Buy him a pint of ale and he'd tell a good story. But on a special day, his tale was different.

"I heard the wail of the banshee, but I knew it wasn't calling for me. Such an eerie wail – so sad – so shrill. Fairies had been coming into my dreams telling me about a certain leprechaun they all hated. Every night it was the same dream. Until, one night they told me where and how to find me pot of gold. Aye, it was just a dream, I'd say to meself. But then, why not look. So off to the lake I went and true to the fairy dream, there was an old tree with roots partially in the water and a rabbit hole within the roots.

"I had to climb into the dreaded water to peek in and pull out the pot of wonderful gold – bright, shiny gold. I quickly climbed onto the bank, fearing the dangerous waters and with gold in me hands, I sat till I could catch me breath. But suddenly a beautiful woman appeared to my right, just sitting on the bank with her legs below the water surface. I just knew it was a kelpie. Frightened was I. Right then, holding the pot of gold, I felt the leprechaun sneak up behind me. At the same time, the beautiful woman changed, whinnied and leapt at me with horse teeth gleaming. I quickly grabbed the leprechaun and threw him at her.

"The banshee is no longer wailing."

~

Copyright 2012, Pam Brittain. All rights reserved

http://pambrittain.gather.com

_Fifteen Minutes_

By Richard Lynn Livesay

...submitting reviews and

gambits in search of a poet's passionate

nebulosity

I reached out with transcendent flux and

fluttered...anonymously...nameless

~

Then entered the exit at the front of the back side

To find the beginning of the end in the middle

Grabbing space with iron lace and a broken fiddle

I created

Innovation and syncopation gravitating to juxtapositions of thoughtfulness

I see my poems

Alive in lights on the marquee of the Majestic

And as I read, the audience applauded

(but then I read that I was dead)

~

Copyright 2012 richardlynnlivesay All Rights Reserved

http://richardlynn.gather.com/

### Horror

_Blood Night of the Moon_

By A. F. Stewart

As twelve gather under the full moon,

blood pours slowly from a cup of gold.

Casting a ritual in chant and rune,

over a dais, as the oracle foretold.

~

Blood pours slowly from a cup of gold

invoking the darkness to grant a boon.

Over a dais as the oracle foretold,

amid green trees and leaves so strewn.

~

Invoking the darkness to grant a boon,

dragged from the depths of a world so old.

Amid green trees and leaves so strewn,

a spirit to raise, from the earth and mould.

~

Dragged from the depths of a world so old,

above the altar from yew wood hewn.

A spirit to raise, from the earth and mould

will come the shrieking spectre soon.

~

Above the altar from yew wood hewn,

casting a ritual in chant and rune.

Will come the shrieking spectre soon,

as twelve gather, under the full moon.

~

Copyright 2012 A. F. Stewart. All rights reserved.

http://scribe77.gather.com

_The Truth of the Matter_

By Alice Grimes

Mary and Michael were just holding each other and watching the flames dance around the logs in the old stone fireplace in their bedroom. Thoughts and bodies melded, they discussed the plans they had for their newly acquired bed and breakfast tucked away in the Appalachians. Their senses saturated by the pleasure of lovemaking, the joy of finally belonging to each other and great satisfaction from closing on their own rustic mountain inn on this their wedding day, neither picked out the sound of crying within the wailing wind until it became quite loud.

They could hear a little girl sobbing, "No, Papa, no, Papa, not tonight! Please, God, make him stop!" They could also hear wrestling sounds followed by heavy footsteps on the hallway stairs to the attic. The creaking of rusted hinges pierced the air as a heavy door opened and closed while the last begging sob "Nooo...." hung in the air. Afterwards, only an eerie silence remained.

The stunned couple grabbed and donned nearby garments as they rushed out into the hall and to the attic staircase. No signs of anyone could be seen and the dusty, ruggedly-constructed and steep steps showed not a trace of even a single footprint. Had they not been together and clearly heard both the heart-rending cries and the heavy footfalls in the hall and on the staircase, neither would have believed the other.

Giving up any idea of sleeping, each switched on a laptop and started searching all available records, beginning with the previous owners going backward in time. They then searched newspaper archives. Finally, Michael groaned softly, "Oh, my God!" He showed Mary a story of the Rand family who had owned the inn, then a large family dwelling, in the late 1800s.

Gray and Sudie Rand had come to the county and lived self-sufficient lives isolated from the rest of the community, interacting with the other residents only when absolutely necessary. The three stair-step boys and one girl went to school but made no personal friends; the mother, Sudie, did not even shop for groceries but relied on Gray to make the trips into town and bring home what they couldn't cultivate or manufacture within the homestead.

The newspaper article Michael had discovered was written after all six members of the family were found in the home in a catatonic state and committed to the state mental hospital. No explanation was ever found for the catatonia, though many psychiatric professionals tried to break through to their conscious minds hoping to determine what horrendous traumatic shock could so stun a whole family that none would ever speak or communicate again. No such breakthrough ever occurred and all six eventually succumbed to various syphilitic diseases, much to the shock of the medical doctors at the institution. But, the cause remained a mystery and finally the search for answers just died.

Michael and Mary waited until daylight to investigate the attic, which they had only glimpsed briefly months before. They had been distracted because the space had been so stuffed with lovely antique furniture which they immediately began making plans to use in restoring the B & B to its original period décor. The attic was as dusty as the wooden steps but they searched diligently without finding any traces of the participants in the midnight struggle. At the very back, hidden behind a massive armoire, was an ornate door with an old burnished copper key still in the keyhole.

Opening the door, the couple could only gasp. The room was a beautifully decorated little girl's hideaway, complete with dollhouse and all the frills associated with tea parties and teddy bears. On the bed lay a small skeleton clothed in a perfectly preserved satin and lace dress the skirt raised to expose the hipbones. The skeletal fingers still clutched a tattered rag doll whose arm was firmly gripped by the teeth in the skull.

Lying on the dresser was a picture of a sober-looking family of seven, six of them in black; a beautiful little girl with blonde hair in a white satin and lace dress stood in the center with a half-smile but dead eyes. Written at the bottom in little girl writing were these words, "Lela is free!" That is the truth of the matter.

~

Copyright 2012 Alice Grimes All rights reserved

<http://nalice.gather.com/>

Desert's End

_By R C Larlham_

Head down and heaving with every breath, the nearly fleshless paint horse he led still showed the beauty that had been. Taller by a hand or more than the ponies most western cowhands rode, his spine ridged up, more from lack of water than of food, although there'd been no food for nearly a week.

The man himself, blistered, clothes ragged and boots worn through, staggered just a little, like a man who'd had one whiskey too many. He too walked head down, watching for the tiny stone or ridge that would take his legs and send him to the ground.

The big horse whickered, and the man looked up. He doffed his hat, and rubbed his eyes gently with forefinger and thumb of the other hand. "I see it." He patted the cheek of the head now resting on his shoulder. "And I'm thinkin' you smell water." He looked at the few dusty buildings, still at least a mile away that had appeared abruptly as they rounded the vertical end of an eroded hill.

Hitching the holster up (more a habit than any need), he dropped the old wide-brimmed hat back on his head and walked forward. He watched the town as they walked toward it, the ragged man and sun-beaten horse. The desert behind him had taken the others in a three-cornered firing squad, when the promised spring had turned out to be dry, seven days earlier. Their horses hadn't lasted much longer. He'd taken their water, but it had run out four days later. He and the horse had drunk only the dew on the cold side of rock spires for the past three days.

They staggered on, the thought of water turning thirst to agony. At the beginning of the street into the town, an old jack-handle pump stood, with bucket, ladle and trough. Holding back the horse with a warning hand and quiet word, he pumped into the bucket, poured most of it into the short trough, and ladled the rest out for himself.

"Smart," the voice was behind him. He straightened, casually dropping the ladle into the bucket, "drew enough t' cut th' dust, but not enough to founder th' horse." Gravel crunched.

The ragged man turned toward it... slowly. "Who do I pay for th' water?" The horse whickered again.

"Water's free." The man was tall, skinny as a rail, bald and bareheaded. His scalp shone red-brown in the rising sun. "Two cents apiece rental for th' bucket, ladle and trough." He chuckled easily at his own wit. "Nickel for th' three... volume discount." He grinned, wide... showing teeth and gaps. The single action revolver on his left hip rode low in a well-worn holster. The hand next to it twitched.

"OK." The ragged man reached into his left pocket and retrieved a coin; flipped it, flashing in the sun, toward the man's left shoulder.

The bald man's left had struck upward like a snake, snaring the coin. The ragged man's .45 appeared in his hand. The bald man's left eyebrow rose. "Last time I seen you, I was ridin' hard and lookin' back, and you fell off'n y'r horse." He showed the grin again.

"Might've been th' bullet you put in my ribs made thet happ'n." The ragged man smiled back. "Have t' admit... never thought ya c'd hit me at that distance shootin' backwards off a horse."

"Me e'ther." The bald man was still smiling. "Luckiest shot I ev'r made."

"Got any law here?"

"Naw. I kilt him two weeks ago. He recognized me... called my name."

"Without the' mop of flamin' hair and th' beard? Hard to believe."

"Knew my voice 'n walk, he said... saw me comin' outa a bank in San Antonio."

"How many dead in th' bank?"

"Three, but he didn't know none of 'em."

The ragged man nodded. "Me neither, but we're both lawmen."

"Not you. Y'r just a bounty hunter."

"Where's ever-body else?" The ragged man changed the subject.

"Just me an' a saloon girl. Ever-body else rode out three days ago."

"Got any horses left in th' liv'ry?"

"Three or four, but if you think you're takin' me somewhere t' hang, y' need t'do some rethinkin'. I ain't gonna hang f'r nobody."

The ragged man ignored him. "Wagons or buggies?"

"Two... a farm wagon and the doctor's buggy. He didn't need it n'more." The grin flashed again.

"Poster sez, 'Dead or alive.'" The pre-cocked .45 spat flame and a small, bluntly rounded piece of lead into the center of the chest of the bald man.

The ragged man looked down at his brother's body. "The Old Man says, "Hello."

~

Copyright 2010 – All Rights Reserved R C Larlham

http://mohawk742.gather.com/

The Stairwell

_By R C Larlham_

He accosted her in the stairwell of her apartment. As he yanked her arm behind her and pulled her head back, she could see the night through the window at the head of the stairs. The July moon hung above the tree tops. From a cloudless sky, its pitiless white light shone through the window, illuminating her defenselessness.

Hopelessly, she filled her lungs. His free hand slid rapidly upward from roaming her breasts through the fabric of her nightgown. He pressed a finger to that spot at the base of her larynx that always made her gag.

"One sound... one word... I'll kill you while I rape you." His voice was light and pleasant, and all the more threatening for it. "I'll choke you slow. But I'll do what I'm here to do. Hear me?" Suddenly raspy – throaty.

She swallowed... nodded jerkily. His hand moved back down; farther. "I knew it!" Gloating. She felt his hand slide down the side of her hip, unimpeded by hidden elastic. "You sleep naked!" A crow of triumph.

Frantically, she shook her head.

"This?" Fingering the thin fabric of her gown.

She nodded quickly.

"I meant under." He brought his hand up to her arm. "Upstairs." Her other arm pressed tightly against her spine between her shoulder blades.

She shuddered and stepped forward, stepped up... climbed... thirteen steps, facing endlessly into that uncaring moon. At the top, he turned her left, moved her toward her door. Her hand on the knob turned slowly, and the door opened into darkness. Her trip to retrieve the Sunday paper was a pointless habit. She stopped. "Listen." Her first sound.

One room, a personal multilevel aquarium... water rippled over moss-covered stones. Slid quicksilver flash into the hidden trap... tanks emptied... very quickly. A weight-sensitive switch tripped. She felt more than heard, and dropped her head.

The small quarrel left the elf-sized crossbow at rifle-bullet speed. The pleasant-voiced man made no sound.

She flexed her insulted right arm. "George," she sang to her beloved, "would you come here, please?

The huge man-eater rumbled in his chest as he gently butted his head against her thigh.

"Dinner, George," pointing.

~

Copyright 2009 – All Rights Reserved R C Larlham

http://mohawk742.gather.com/

Dexter

_By Sheila Deeth_

The old wooden gates creaked eerily in the wind. Max tugged them closed behind him, not sure why except he knew that was what you should to do with gates.

"Were you born in a barn?" his granddad used to ask if he left a door open. Not that Max would ever have dreamed of not closing a barn door—what's the point of shelter if it's not sealed?

Then he saw the cat again, up ahead, striding along a log or a broken fence.

"Dex!" he called, but the silky head just turned, green eyes staring their strange hypnosis, while the body walked sinuously on.

Another fence. Another gate. Another stand of trees. At last they reached a low stone wall and the cat leapt athletically over. Max followed more slowly, careful not to injure his hands with exams coming up so soon.

"Dex!" What had got into that crazy cat?

The field beyond the wall was filled with stones; standing, lying, broken and whole; gravestones. The stupid cat had led him to a cemetery. "What's with you Dex?"

And green eyes gazed.

Max walked over to the stone where the cat was finally still. He held out his hand. "Come on Dexter," he murmured. "Let's go home. I've got to study."

"Dexter, dexter," cried the echoes.

"Come on cat."

But what Max saw lying on the stone was a girl, not a cat, injured and crying in pain. Max sat down in the damp grass beside her, his brain already switching from student to doctor, too seamlessly to spare a thought for the fact that the cat had vanished. He touched and pressed and measured and checked. He used thread from his jacket, a pine-scented needle, and water from a stone.

"Strong magic," said the girl.

"Not at all," said Max, though his tongue was growing heavy in his throat, his brain switching now from doctor to eager young man. "Not at all."

"Strong magic," said the girl. "I meant me."

Max's tongue felt furry, the sound he uttered more like a yowl than a word. He wrinkled his nose, twitched his tail, and padded his paws, pleased at the way they moved and smoothed themselves together. Sinuous back arched against the girl's long legs and Max thrilled to her touch. He meowed again.

"Come on Maxter," said the girl. And they headed back to college, student and cat, while the old wooden gates creaked eerily in the wind.

~

Copyright Sheila Deeth, October 2008

http://smd.gather.com

_The Cowboy and the Vampire_

By Pam Brittain

Jeremy was asking Billy Jack what the two holes were in his neck. "Dang dawg chased a dogie into that darn cat-claw tree and I had ta' dig 'em out. Then the dogie got loose. Didn't even notice my neck. Too dang busy catching that dang dogie."

"I'm a getting too old for this here roundup, Billy Jack. Need a new occupation. Mary Jane's got someone stalkin' her. She says I's good with a gun and once this here roundup's over, I be taken that job."

"Jeremy, right glad you'll finish roundup. Careful with Ms. Mary Jane. Ya know what they says about her."

"Don't believe none of it."

Shortly after roundup, Jeremy took his hat off and knocked on Mary Jane's door. With an eerie squeak, it opened. "Jeremy, I'm so glad ta see ya. Been sceered all this time. Some man comes around every night. I seen his shadow. Looks like he's a wearing a cape. Kin you stay here with me? I don't feel safe here all alone at night."

"Sure, Ms. Mary. Heard rumors bout some silly vampire."

"I got silver bullets in this here lead box. I want you to take it and if you see it, shoot it."

Well, he didn't feel right about killing a stranger, so that night when he saw the silhouette skulking around, he called out, "Who's that out there?"

"Jeremy, quiet."

"Billy Jack? Is that you?"

"Shh. I check this place ever night to make sure that there story ain't true."

"Billy Jack, if you're a gonna scare a pretty young lady like Ms. Mary, ya ain't no friend a mine." Jeremy quickly unbolted and ran out the eerie squeaky door, lunging at Billy Jack, who left Jeremy battered, bruised and buried in the mud where Mary Jane found him the next morning. That afternoon, Jeremy became drunk at the local saloon, trying not to notice that Billy Jack was there (and also drunk). But, Billy Jack couldn't control his cowboy temper and lunged for Jeremy's throat, causing all the drunken cowboys to fight each other.

Suddenly, the bartender pulled out his rifle and shot a hole through the ceiling and roof. "You two, take your troubles and settle it at the OK Corral."

"Meet ya there at sundown, you no good vermin."

Jeremy was confused. But, remembering the two recent holes in Billy Jack's neck and the change that had come over him, Jeremy was convinced that Billy Jack was the vampire. And, since he was in love with the beautiful Mary Jane, he went to her house, loaded his gun with the silver bullets and waited till sundown.

The entire town was at the OK Corral come sundown. Billy Jack was wearing a trench coat. Someone said, "Keep this a fair gunfight. Turn yer back, walk away and I'll count to ten." Jeremy didn't take 10 paces. He turned and shot Billy Jack in the back of his leg, causing Billy Jack to buckle. But, he didn't die. Jeremy realized he wasn't the vampire and ran back to Mary Jane's house, carrying his shame with him.

"And did you slay the horrible stalker, my love?" She opened her arms to Jeremy who willingly entered them for a passionate hug.

"No maam, he weren't no vampire." He barely felt the pressure and slight tingling in his neck.

~

Copyright 2012, by Pam Brittain. All rights reserved

http://pambrittain.gather.com

### Poetry

Spanish Melody

_By A. F. Stewart_

A sweet song in the night

of past love, adrift.

A mournful, raw lament

for the defeated heart.

~

On the wind it ascends

as the coo of a tender dove,

evoking gentle memories

across the mountains.

~

The harmony swirls regret, ache

through the swaying trees.

Even the iridescent moon weeps

with the forlorn singer.

~

Copyright 2012 A. F. Stewart. All rights reserved.

http://scribe77.gather.com

Dedicated to the victims of 911 and their families and friends

Evil Outwitted

_By Alice Grimes_

Under a sky so blue and so serene,

Tangled masses of concrete, twisted steel beams,

Torn bodies, broken hearts, exploded dreams,

The collective soul of a nation screams.

~

Under a sky so blue and so serene,

Tangled minds perverted ideals with horrific means.

Evil like a basket of cobras loosed, obscene,

Slithered, striking America 'til terror reigned.

~

Under a sky troubled by acrid smoke, towering flames,

Indifference in agony died; compassion and heroism remained.

Rescuing, recovering, reeling under the weight of names,

The soul of a nation seeks God, travailing in pain.

~

Through a sky shrouded and dark, His mercy streams

With comfort, strength, and wisdom to unravel and defeat evil schemes.

What the enemy meant for harm God turns to America's gain;

From her knees in the rubble but under His wing, she rises stronger--united again.

~

Copyright 2012 Alice Grimes All rights reserved

<http://nalice.gather.com/>

I Am a River

_By Alice Grimes_

I am a river, emanating from Alpha's life spring,

Flowing relentlessly toward Omega's ocean.

Beginning involuntarily in a space uniquely mine,

I stream seaward, blind to time meted out to me.

~

Ephemeral limits may constrain, de-center or divide me,

Yet they cannot my coursing currents terminally defy.

I am fluid and full of a force seeking completion;

I will all challenges embrace, on earth leave my trace.

~

Torturous at times the forward course may become,

With mountains I must carve and rapids I must run;

But I shall gain strength with every inch I claim,

And I shall flow over or around rather than be dammed.

~

Caves and caverns may drain or draw me underground

To wander the darkness and chilling depths below;

But, I shall be sustained by the warmth of the Son

Soaked up and stored for the darkest of days.

~

Storms may rage round me, wrinkling my calm waters,

Lightning may strike, strafing my slick surface,

But I shall endure whatever the changing weather

For in the depth of me lies peace and serenity.

~

So, I shall flow on-under, around, over and through

Whatever topography is inherent in the Creator's plan,

Until I reach the strait that ultimately claims all,

When I slip from the finite world into God's hands.

~

Copyright 2012 Alice Grimes All rights reserved

<http://nalice.gather.com/>

_Out of the Valley_

By Alice Grimes

There is a place he with the pain of loss must go

To be free to really live again and to grow.

The valley of the shadows of grief lies

Between the broken-hearted and new sunrises.

~

The slow cortege surely fills with dread

Him who carries his beautiful dreams, now dead.

As he drags the hearse forward, he earnestly prays

For a miracle of resurrection along the way.

~

In his heart, he knows the old life is gone

And the futility of his hanging on.

So he gathers his courage and moves ahead,

Seeing only dimly through tears he sheds.

~

Burying the memories and plans so dear

Cuts so deeply and fills him with such fear.

Will letting go really his bitterness cleanse?

Dare he ever trust or try loving again?

~

Stricken with despair in heart and soul,

He inters the past as the mournful bell tolls.

Blindly he reaches out into the now empty air

To find nurturing friends and God waiting there.

~

A new road he must travel but never alone;

One day at a time he moves toward home.

New beginnings he sees through the veil torn,

And knows only by dying to the past his future is born.

~

Copyright 2012 Alice Grimes All rights reserved

<http://nalice.gather.com/>

Lunar Spell

_By Barbary Chaapel_

An ink-wash of night sky,

Slight windshimmer in the leaf canopy.

~

The owl who talks too much,

Hoots when he shouldn't,

~

Alerts both Wood Rat and the Lovers

In the bramble, and the Cow with bell

~

Tinkling 'round the bog path.

Imagine you have magic

~

And know things

As you travel this dark legend,

~

Where grows the white trillium,

The black bulrushes, and starwort.

~

You recognize yourself,

The shade of you

~

Fresh from rapture,

Clothed in dew.

~

His mouth quivers,

Your teeth gleam.

~

Deep in the heart of summer,

Loup garou.

~

Copyright 2012 Barbary Chaapel. All rights reserved

http://nonameharbor.gather.com

Sky Poetry

_By Katryn Dougherty_

A column of clouds

Hiding the midday sun rays

A beautiful sight

Artwork of shadows and light

Changing with each gust of wind.

~

Black clouds over head

as the storm slowly rolls in

darkest before dawn

~

ominous warning -

crack of thunder

streaks of lightning

The sun setting low

~

paints the lake a red orange

disappearing rays

summer night sky

one lone star brightly shining

shows North to all

~

Copyright by Katryn Dougherty. All rights reserved.

<http://cancerbattle.gather.com/>

_Summer Haiku_

By Katryn Dougherty

90 plus degrees

ice cold water from the hose

different games to play

~

running all around

let's see how low can you go

H20 limbo

~

catch me if you can

what fun - spraying each other

trying to keep cool

the smell of cut grass

wafting in through the window

summer approaches

~

temperatures rising

turned on air conditioners

swim suit clad people

~

hear children playing

water games to help keep cool

no school until fall

~

Copyright by Katryn Dougherty. All rights reserved

<http://cancerbattle.gather.com/>

A Paper Life

_By Sheila Deeth_

He used regular white

Paper for his boat

And folded it

To make it float.

He used regular blue

Paper to make a kite

To fly the sky.

He used regular sand

Paper to scratch

The scars and lines away

That marred his face

When age took him too far

From boats and kites.

He used regular bright

Paper in many vivid hues

And typed

His story all his did-s and done-s and do-es.

They disappeared.

He used regular news

Paper to line the bench

And cover hope and tears.

One day we read he'd died,

Just as he feared.

~

Copyright 2010, Sheila Deeth, included in Drabble-It, Copyright 2010, Sheila Deeth

http://smd.gather.com

Excalibur

_By Sheila Deeth_

Forged of timeless power yielding

Strength only to Arthur, see

Excalibur in stone and water

Wielding flames while Avalon remains

Above the elements, for healing.

~

Copyright 2012, Sheila Deeth, will be (self-)published in Drip-It in late 2012,

http://smd.gather.com

Sleeping While Reading

_By Sheila Deeth_

To sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream

But time is day. Alas it seems

To sleep is out of favor.

To wake, to wake, perchance to read

I turn the page and sleep it seems

Has lulled me with its savor.

To seek, to seek the bookmark

Where was I?

~

Copyright 2011 Sheila Deeth

http://smd.gather.com

August Love

_By Jan Hersh_

in the back garden on a late afternoon in August

they are harvesting apples from their trees

with a wink and a wicked smile she catches his glance

on the path where he passes by with a loaded basket

he turns 'round having lost his weary frown to scan her expression

and wipes the sweat dripping from his face

she doesn't flinch but for the quarter inch rise of her right eyebrow

barely visible in the shade of her straw hat

both stand still - eyes locked in momentary recognition of an unspoken question

slow grins quickly reveal the answer

he follows her into the house and turns on the shower while whistling a familiar song

she harmonizes in her head and removes the folded clothes from the bed

~

Copyright 2012 Jan Hersh. All rights reserved.

http://www.terramere.gather.com

Cosmic Rhythm

_By Jan Hersh_

My dream unfolds a wide screen book

as vast as my eyes can see

There is no need to turn the page

It happens automatically

Text appears on wave washed sand

at edge of a pale blue sea

inscribed with words and images

revealed sequentially

The waves erase them one by one

on the beaches eternally

The sun and moon dance with the tides

four seasons hold the key

to a rhythmic song of life and death

sweet lullaby of serenity

~

Copyright 2012 Jan Hersh. All rights reserved.

http://www.terramere.gather.com

Eve Resurrected

_By Jan Hersh_

Eve

died of

happiness

during a kiss

a textbook case of

indescribable bliss

next morning she smiled and rose

fresh fragrance of elation filled

her nose while raindrops dripped from purple

clouds forming pools of laughter for the crowds

who

gathered

applauding

resurrection

and praised the divine

for worldly perfection

knowing things could likely be

worse she emptied the coins from her

purse and gave them to a charity

devoted to those lacking clarity

~

Copyright 2012 Jan Hersh. All rights reserved.

http://www.terramere.gather.com

Gather is a Feast

_By Jan Hersh_

Feeling peckish for a nosh, a tasty bite, a tidbit?

Gather round you hungry hounds and at the table sit

Feast your eyes, a lavish spread ~ a gorgeous smorgasbord

Grab your napkin; bow your head, this meal you can afford

Delicacies of literacy, photography and art

Steamy streams of consciousness, stories from the heart

Raise your glass, let's have a toast:

To recipes, we love the most

To politics, religion, travel, and haiku,

Featured picks, tags and tricks, members old and new

Fill the teapot, pour the joe

Constant comments, Orange Pekoe

For dessert ~ creme de la crème

You gather points for chiming in

Lick the frosting off the cake

What you give is what you take

And do not hesitate to recommend

The posts you love and would defend

Random musings you are choosing

Fiction flashing, fashion, schmoozing

Use your noggin

Come on log in

Gather is a feast!

~

Copyright 2012 Jan Hersh. All rights reserved.

http://www.terramere.gather.com

Water Ballet on the Saguenay (A Fiord in Canada)

_By Jan Hersh_

Pregnant beluga

Proud and pale

Surfs the frilly froth

Silvery waves

Roll over her tail

Shimmer like silken cloth

Water spinner

Baleen ballet

She spouts and sings

Canary's treble tune

On phosphorescent bay

Under midnight moon

Oblivious to fatal harpoon

~

Copyright 2012 Jan Hersh. All rights reserved.

http://www.terramere.gather.com

Homestead Town (incomplete)

_By Bernard M Coldwell_

I miss the football park

I miss the trains that pass

Oh for the Corbett Arms an' darts

Twin spirits on your knees

Last orders if you please

~

From over and under the worlds gone asunder

Clash - bang - wallop pretty pictures please

~

Oh for the climbs that I had made

Over the hills and far away

Hear the echoes if you will

Burrowing skylines what a thrill

~

Saint Stephens's dreary mire

Over Gregorian models the funeral pyres

Downtown to lay it to rest

For a fruitcake in some nest

~

Got the magic

Beaming smile

Who can run a whole eight-mile

~

Green green grass and follow in it

Watch it chums you wallow in it

Cutching up and huddled in tight

Guess I could camp out here every night

~

Tweet tweet here

Little birdy there

Upon the quarry and the waterfall

A Dymbeth fairy are you gonna ball?

Do I have to push you, you puny li'l punk

~

Copyright All rights reserved by Bernard M Coldwell

http://timidify.gather.com

_Ogmore Vale_

By Bernard M Coldwell

It is summertime and I long to hit the mountains to have a jolly walk.

The viewings all around me inspires me to talk

If heaven be so graceful then what am I grateful to

Whilst enjoying all the scenery

Splendidio marveloso

~

And should the rains anoint me and ruin your fun day

Then think of me while I'm up there for you'll want to be there too

And if someday or in some way the old clogs get you down

Take a seat and wait a while no use viewing it with a frown

Splendidio marveloso

~

Hey, this is wonderful and I do laugh at you there in town

All piled up, backed-up and positions that get your goat up

Stuck in a traffic boy what a clam!

Splendidio marveloso

~

Surrounded then by elements and you never know your luck

For you might just see a bushy tail come a wagging oh so much

You need to see those hopping lambs they are so full of beans

Their life upon the farm as is and that is what it means

Splendidio marveloso!

~

Zoikes! Buzzin overhead a UFO asks me where did the corn farm wented

I point toward the popcorn stuff but they took off unrelented

Splendidio marveloso

~

I doff my cap at farmer Giles he's out on his tractor George

Being followed by a hungry bunch of sheep in woolly vests

Do hope the barber's home

Splendidio marveloso

Splendidio marveloso

Splendidio marveloso!

~

Copyright All rights reserved by Bernard M Coldwell

http://timidify.gather.com

_Thief of_ _Hearts_

By Bernard M Coldwell

I picture you

You picture me

You running wild through the emerald isles

Of ether regions of happier times

~

You swore back then to those who knew

To vow revenge on those so few

~

Those troubled times you looked down your nose

Turned up laughing grieving as a ghost

~

I wondered then as I wonder now

How ailing ills can foretell your tale

To move around and sway your slave

Of hungry times and those war machines

~

Those heavenly bodies

Counted on as deals

Though stealing's just a game for you

A thief of hearts and I pictured you

~

I figured there's something most overlooked

A chance of survival that was understood

~

Both eating off of the cart-wheels ragings and more

I didn't even know what I came in here for

Thinking who's watching who and who's watching the phone

There's a meal in the oven and my stomach's a moan

I picture you

yet you pictured me.

~

Copyright All rights reserved by Bernard M Coldwell

http://timidify.gather.com

Ramblings

_By Bernard M Coldwell_

Seven tenths a failure

Given unto oars

Building up the rafters

It's a Cambridge game for sure

~

One for the sorrows

Two for borrows

Three's a cabin crew

Jolly tool boy must be that time again, must dash!

~

Half-a-crown in a bikini

Dreams are whispers in the clouds

Agitated by oncoming sweaters

Three trees and a goldfish pond

~

Half an acre, cow pad

Feather in a hat

Meow

~

Too drunk to stutter

Eyes crossed all about a girl

Her legs are bent

Shamed by her inhibitions

~

Lesser loser lotta lolly lovely

Dream on li'l girl

Your soap's are gettin' cold

And your head is full on likely.

~

Copyright Bernard M. Coldwell all rights are reserved

http://timidify.gather.com

Wilbur

_By Bernard M Coldwell_

Home just ain't the same without Wilbur

Without Wilbur home ain't just the same

If Wilbur was his name and fishing was his game

Then I dunno a better life than that poor Wilbur

~

No I cannot speak another word about Wilbur

His soul is gone - but not forgotten

He was the greatest friend I ever had

He sure showed me how to make it last

~

No I can't say another thing about old Wilbur

Where the Chinese mandarin a drake

Pulled a muscle just eating steak

He kept it all on his bill for on parole

And he never bat an eyelid the poor old soul

~

No I can't speak another word about Wilbur

He took it like a man when he failed to make his plans

Now all his dreams come true and I know why

~

Talking of the things I know about old Wilbur

Wilbur was the best friend I ever had

His soul may he rest in peace

Someday life will hear his reach

'Cos we all know the likes about old Wilbur

~

Some things you should know about old Wilbur

He was out by the old mandrake just sitting there

All he did was turn around - turn around and just respond

Oh but I guess you all know the stories of the pond

~

Some things you should know about old Wilbur

Wilbur was the best friend I ever had

Some say that he was of pure gold

I'm sure of that but just don't know

Oh boy - but do I still miss old Wilbur

Wilbur was the best friend I ever had

~

May his soul now rest in peace?

Up in the heavens on release

Come back Wilbur - yeah, we forgive the geese

I'm sure they didn't mean it

Now every time I go out I see Wilbur

Wilbur my best friend I surely miss

~

Copyright All rights reserved by Bernard M Coldwell

http://timidify.gather.com

Fibonacci Beauty

_By Jax_

Dust

Earth

Person

Beautiful

Golden proportion

What makes a person beautiful?

Can beauty be just a mathematical formula?

According to Fibonacci, beauty equals 1.618034

The form is fibonacci also (1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, etc.... )

~

Copyright by Jax. All rights reserved

http://jaxom.gather.com/

Romeo's Letter

_By Jax_

His life began the day he met her,

Juliet, you are a beauty rare.

Professing his love in a letter,

Eyes cornflower blue, long golden hair

~

Juliet, you are a beauty rare

Your rose red lips longing to be kissed

Eyes cornflower blue, long golden hair

Your loving embrace is sorely missed.

~

Your rose red lips longing to be kissed

Open your window, let in the sun

Your loving embrace is sorely missed

Coming for you when the day is done.

~

Open your window, let in the sun

With love for you, I will wait below

Coming for you when the day is done.

Come to me, your loving Romeo

~

With love for you, I will wait below

Professing his love in a letter

Come to me, your loving Romeo

His life began the day he met her.

~

The form is ekphrastic using a painting by Johann Vermeer

~

Copyright by Jax. All rights reserved.

http://jaxom.gather.com/

_Watch What You Say_

By Jax

A chemist ordered some H20

She wanted to impress her beau

He really hadn't a clue

He ordered H20 too*

Now the wedding she'll have to forgo.

~

* H20 is water but H202 is hydrogen peroxide.

~

Copyright by Jax. All rights reserved

http://jaxom.gather.com/

X, Y, Z

_By Jax_

Algebra astounds

Numbers make the world go round

It's easy as Pi

R squared, though

I thought pies were round.

Sines of madness, to confound

Off on a tangent

Come get sum.

Chemistry

It's no illusion

Be part of the solution

not precipitate.

Positive?

Lost an electron

Found again on Amazon

At least chemists are

not Bohr-ing.

~

Copyright by Jax. All rights reserved

http://jaxom.gather.com/

Medicine

_By Douglas J. Westberg_

I'm developing a tolerance.

I can tell because every night,

My children wield Uzis,

Shoot their classmates in the head.

~

Delaying the inevitable, I plug my ears

Like a little Dutch boy.

I quit smoking.

I run every day holding cans of soup.

~

One day

The voices will come back.

You're a charlatan.

You're a failure.

What's the use?

~

I will have to break in a new medicine,

Become a baby again,

Learn to wash myself,

Learn to get out of my crib.

~

I tried two drugs before I found this one.

One made me impotent,

The other, a zombie.

The next one could make me

One of the dickless dead.

It's a crap shoot.

~

Some addicts go into rehab

When their habits get too expensive.

After drying out awhile,

They can get high on less junk.

~

If only I could find a hollow tree.

~

Copyright 1999, 2012 Douglas J. Westberg. All Rights Reserved.

Nelsoneddy.gather.com

_Alien Donkeys_

By Terry McDermott

Green Donkeys

Flew in a saucer

Landing in

A meadow

Soon newsmen covered the hills

They posed with a smile

~

(A shadorma)

~

Copyright by Terry McDermott. All Rights reserved.

<http://dermott.gather.com/>

Pink Bubbles

_By Terry McDermott_

Pink bubbles

Flow from the bathtub

All sizes

Yet the same

Soaring like mighty eagles

Then they just go POP!

~

(A shadorma)

~

Copyright by Terry McDermott. All Rights reserved.

<http://dermott.gather.com/>

_The End_

By Terry McDermott

The

End

Never

Really comes

Instead beginnings

Are just around the next corner

(A Fibonacci)

~

Copyright by Terry McDermott. All Rights reserved.

<http://dermott.gather.com/>

_Julian Date 2243879*, a Day Which Lives in Infamy_

By John Beck

Clearly justice on this date had failed

They took away her dress when she was jailed

And threw to her the manly garb of war

Which to protect virginity she wore

A lame excuse to label heretic

This pious soul who to such evil trick

Had no alternative, save nude, to face,

Despite such accusations with no base,

A trial so contrived and flaunting law

The executioner was one who saw

Among the many present, sad to say

It was to be a saint they burned that day.

~

Impatiently demanding fire be set

They watched and heard her pray to God, and yet

They patiently ignored for eighteen years

Injustice 'till at last, long after tears

Conviction was appealed and in the end

She was acquitted. They could not pretend

The inquisition proved her heresy.

And over centuries her star would shine

Beatified in nineteen hundred nine

In nineteen twenty she became a saint.

~

On 30 May in fourteen thirty one

At age eighteen Joan's work on Earth was done.

~

*May 30, 1431, the date of Joan of Arc's execution.

~

By John J Beck, all rights reserved

http://lapapa.gather.com/

