this full moon“This full moon, the pasta, the wine! It’s so romantic!” cried Felicia.
Phil led her next down North Van Houton Street to a bakery. In the alley out back they found a mountain of old donuts, and dug in.
“I know it’s not a second honeymoon in Paris,” said Phil, “but in terms of debt management, it’s a winner.”
This week’s stichomancy prompts were pulled from the menu of a local watering hole. Our critique group used the bar as an emergency backup meeting location once when our regular haunt was unexpectedly closed. Lucky for us, the menu was full of interesting phrases, ripe for the picking.
Rocky sat down on the I-beam to eat his tuna croissant 80 stories above the noisy street. Irv sat beside him and unpacked his usual: macaroni and a splash of cream. Rocky often wondered about Irv.
“You been down in the sixties lately?”
Irv meant the levels where the building’s interiors were coming together. Up here it was still all exposed steel, but a few hundred feet down they were painting the walls and moving in furniture. Rocky grunted and shook his head.
“One place in there, gonna be a pet store. Lotsa cages.”
In fact, it was a laboratory.
“And above that, they got mini-golf with real sand traps, only insteada sand it’s some other kinda stuff so it tastes like sugar.”
Rocky often wondered about Irv.
“When you go down there, make sure not to touch any of the glass or pitcher winders.”
Rocky grunted again. Maybe Irv would soon be done talking.
“Well, can’t sit around all day. Foreman tells me, ‘Jamaican me crazy!’ and swings his dreads around. Freaks me out.”
This week’s stichomancy prompts were pulled from the menu of a local watering hole. Our critique group used the bar as an emergency backup meeting location once when our regular haunt was unexpectedly closed. Lucky for us, the menu was full of interesting phrases, ripe for the picking.
All the artists, intellectuals, and merchants in attendance could agree on only one thing: the hostess was serving the only truly authentic brand of Worcestershire sauce available on the island. The soiree quickly devolved into their petty arguments about every other subject, including which cabana boy was the most effeminate, and whether the Great Rudolfo, the island’s only truly authentic magician, was wearing Magic Hat #9 or #13, both of which were made of purple velvet.
In the midst of the cacophonous conversations, Reggie approached the buffet table and asked the docile manservant what the enchanting green dessert was. When he told her, she exclaimed, “Key lime pie? Never had it!”
“So good you’ll weep,” the manservant assured her.
Reggie took a slice for herself, and one for her studly lover Lazarus.
woe to all unlabeled invaders!Dear Mum,
Stationed now in the produce department. I’ll skip the boring details. Central Command wants stickers on all the fresh fruit, and woe to all unlabeled invaders! So I have posed a little puzzle for the stockboys. But it only brought a momentary feeling of satisfaction, until the customers started throwing tomatoes. My manager expects morale to improve now that we’re using the new aprons. The thrill has remained dormant. Hoping for reassignment to frozen foods. Need to make contact with the turncoat liaison, and I’ve heard he’s a cool cat. Insurrection is predicted in the toothpaste aisle. That is a weird notion.
moonless“Just climb over!“
Trudy gave up fumbling with the latch and heaved herself over the gate. She felt her pocket snag, felt her bomber jacket become a trap, stranding her with one knee hooked over the top of the iron barricade and one foot waving uselessly a few inches from the ground where Emily crouched. The dogs were getting closer.
Collecting mushrooms in their familiar woods on a moonless October night, they had discovered, inexplicably, an ancient wrought-iron fence had separated them.
Trudy slipped one arm free of her coat and dropped beside Emily. She reached through the bars to extricate her pocket and heard a low growl.
Which side of the fence were the dogs on?
giant sticky bunLara edged awkwardly through the narrow passage, moving crabwise with both an armload of philosophy and a giant sticky bun to pay attention to. She nibbled at the pastry as she moved to the appropriate location in the stacks to deposit the pretentious tomes that burdened her right arm.
Not dropping anything as she placed the heap of books on a nearby carrel took considerable dexterity. Then she had to work one-handed because her glazed left hand had more important things to worry about than — she glanced at the cover of the next volume — Ludwig Nietzche’s Illness.
She hoped to have time for a smoke break before that so-called reporter showed up. The cute one. Lara took a larger bite of the sweet, gooey treat, reminding herself that the rumors of this chick’s heterosexuality were as of yet unsubstantiated.
Character – chunky cheerleaderHeather skirted the edge of the exercise yard, eyeing the pyramid formation with jealousy. The scissors were concealed in her left pompom and she had to remember not to be too spirited, or one of the guards would notice.
Where was Sarah? Normally she’d be near the trampoline, surrounded by her posse of bitches. But the trampoline was vacant today.
Heather had to hurry. In another 10 minutes it would be time for headcount.
Ah! There was Sarah, by the over-sized megaphones.
Heather hurried over. On the black market, these scissors would buy at least a case of Ding Dongs.
Character – inept hackerAgent Smedley raised the collar of his trench coat, shot a shifty glance up the hill to see if he was being watched, and ducked into the restaurant. He queued for his ultra-fatty burger and deep-fried potatoes.
The vibrant yellow insignia that had led him here stood in garish contrast to the centuries-old stones of the fortification that housed the establishment. Mere steps from the site of royal decapitations, amid the grand murk of the Tower and its veil of history, lurked a hive of incipient obesity and totem of the very rebellious colonists who repudiated this empire.
Smedley surveyed his fellow diners, alert for anyone else who seemed to be looking for someone. His contact had said, “Meet me at the world’s most inappropriate McDonald’s,” and this had to be the place.
It was Smedley’s turn. He looked at the person awaiting his order, and saw that his piercing gaze was being shrewdly returned. He smiled.
“Deep-fry me a nail gun,” he muttered.
“This job is just part of my midlife crisis,” responded the young man in the polyester hat. He slid a tray across the counter, and Smedley noted an excessively printed order slip. He nodded and took the empty tray to an equally empty table.
He read the slip. He shook his head. Although there was lots of jargon about firewalls and encryption, all the strip of paper really told him was that he’d been outbid for the clock he really liked on eBay.
Character – bounty hunterEnrique stared at the small blue puddle as it slowly seeped into the marshy ground. The crumpled paper cone joined the sticky remains of the candy apple in his rucksack and he took a moment to survey his surroundings.
The billabong was a festering miasma of life that stretched for another 20 feet before the river dried up again. Enrique swatted a mosquito on his calf and wished he hadn’t eaten his hot sausage sandwich so long ago. Bugs in general avoided him as he sweated out the sausage stink.
He hoped he would find his quarry soon, and preferably not in the jaws of a crocodile.
Enrique stepped out of the shade as a sudden downpour commenced. It did nothing to abate the sweltering heat and it ruined his innate sense of direction.
Damn. He’d never find his way back to the ranger station now. He was lost, at least until the rain stopped.
A paper plate with the sodden remains of a funnel cake floated toward him on the newly reconstituted river. Enrique froze. He might be able to snare his prey and collect his bounty after all. The funnel cake was still warm.
Character – tour guide at San SimeonBanquets at San Simeon aren’t generally part of the tour, but inevitably two or three groups come through the hall while it’s being set up. The visitors gawk at the linen-draped tables and mounds of meat, fruit, and pastries.
Today there’s an ice sculpture, which in and of itself isn’t terribly notable. However the sight of it stops Muriel so abruptly that three gawking tourists bump into her. The sculpture freezes Muriel as it melts, dripping on a pyramid of oranges.
It’s her own nude form, reclining on a bench. She knows it’s her the same way she knows the bench is not a settee but the backseat of a ’74 Impala. The artist’s style is unmistakable.
Ernst has been here. Might be here still. Muriel abandons her group, not caring if they become lost and must remain at San Simeon forever. She dashes to the veranda overlooking the helipad. The wind sock morosely turns, north, to northeast, and back, as if wordlessly saying, “too late.”