Tagged: food

Mike Was Four Thousand Feet Above the Foothills

  • by jenan organ resembling a heart
  • a recipe for madness
  • four thousand feet above the foothills
  • just a ball of nerves
  • on the verge of starvation

Mike was four thousand feet above the foothills and on the verge of starvation when he finally broke down and ate the yeti carcass, starting with an organ resembling a heart that in fact was just a ball of nerves and rudimentary, miniaturized teeth, at which point his meal became a recipe for madness.

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Oh God, Do You Think This Town Has a Taco Truck?

  • I helped him to do it!k-avatar
  • for a grander fate!
  • we knew we’d have a reasonable turnout
  • you suck!
  • Oh god, do you think this town has a taco truck?

“Oh god, do you think this town has a taco truck?”

I had to answer carefully, and so chose not to say anything at all. I had only just met Darlene so I didn’t know yet whether she was testing me. Was she relying on the secret meaning of “taco truck” or was she just hungry? I took the exit ramp, so our options would be open.

“You suck!” Darlene spat. My knuckles turned white on the wheel, but then she laughed. Only then did I notice she was playing a game on her phone, and it was the game which had elicited her condemnation.

“Maybe, if there is a taco truck,” I said cagily, “we should pick up a few extras to take along.” We were almost to the meeting site. We knew we’d have a reasonable turnout and the catering was bound to be inadequate.

She shrugged. A clever counter-agent hoping I’d tip my hand? Or just the apathetic teenager she appeared to be? Maddening. When had my career degenerated into these pointless road trips? My training had certainly prepped me for a grander fate!

Darlene put away her phone and sighed. “If there is a taco truck,” she said, “you keep the driver occupied so I can sneak up on him with the chloroform. Then we’ll have to ditch this car and roll up to the meeting in the truck.” She stared at the trees and utility poles along the highway for a silent moment. “And if there’s not, well, I guess we’ll find a drive-through and get some lunch. Play things by ear later on.”

I looked at my smiling reflection in the rear-view mirror, watching all my worries recede with the trees and poles. I never should have doubted Darlene’s integrity, should have known Edgar wouldn’t let me down. He set up a perfect system for recruiting these operatives, which I knew only too well because I helped him do it!

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For Too Many Decades

  • by jen— now at last —
  • two jabs of a delicate needle
  • rollicking witch laughter
  • small nostrils wrinkled fastidiously
  • since life crawled from the sea
  • old Doctor Sour-apple
  • godawful Scotch porridge
  • dressed as others dressed

For too many decades I harbored this thirst for vengeance, this desperate drive to make old Doctor Sour-apple pay for his culinary crimes. The godawful Scotch porridge he served every day for breakfast is my only memory of a childhood spent studying and training at his wretched Institute. To go unnoticed on my mission of revenge I dressed as others dressed in the twisting halls of the Institute, the way apprentices have dressed since life crawled from the sea. I kept my small nostrils wrinkled fastidiously as if I could still smell the terrible stench coming from the kitchen, even though years ago, with two jabs of a delicate needle, I severed the nerves in my nose, rendering myself anosmic. In this way, apprentice-berobed and nostrils aquiver, I made my way unchallenged to Doctor Sour-apple’s chambers and peered through the keyhole. From inside I could hear the phonograph he always played, the gargling sounds of rollicking witch laughter that passed for music in his estimation. As the cacophony reached its crescendo, I flung the doors wide and somersaulted into the room, placing three bullets in Sour-apple’s chest.

“I’ve been — waiting for you — so long,” Doctor Sour-apple gasped with his dying breaths, “— now at last — I am — released.” He shuddered and went still, a smile on his gray lips.

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This Trip to Europe

  • by jenthree bogus sailors
  • the “terrible danger of touching symbols”
  • likes to touch the rancid crust
  • the spectacle of the guillotine
  • in the crevices of history

This trip to Europe is not going well. Yolanda refuses to heed her parents’ lectures about the “terrible dangers of touching symbols” in foreign countries, and gleefully loses herself in the crevices of history museums and open air markets. Hours later they find her, marveling at the spectacle of the guillotine, or digging through the garbage bin beside the bakery stall. In both cases Yolanda declares that she likes to touch the rancid crust. The very next day they catch her in the company of three bogus sailors, heading into a pub called the Salty Dog. Yolanda’s parents vow never to take her on vacation again.

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RuneSkelley.com

We spent a little time this week giving runeskelley.com an overdue facelift. There’s not a whole lot of content, but now it’s visually aligned with the blog here at the Skelleyverse, and it’s ready for updates as soon as we conquer the world of publishing. And that will happen any day now.

The rest of our time has been taken up by holiday baking, and shopping, and cooking, and visiting, and eating. We’re bloated and happy, and ready to market the Science Novel.

Fear us.

That New Restaurant – Holiday Prompt

  • by jenthat old silk hat they found
  • the moon on the breast
  • I’d take the seasick crocodile
  • strike the harp
  • since reindeer are scarce

That new restaurant turned out to be a real disappointment! First the waiter informed us that, due to a late delivery, they had to strike the harp seal from the menu. Then my husband asked for a description of the chef’s speciality, but it turned out that the “moon” on the breast of emu was just a lump of mashed potatoes. I had a hard time deciding what I wanted, but since reindeer are scarce it was agreed that I’d take the seasick crocodile. As we waited for the food, our twins squabbled over that old silk hat they found in the cloakroom. They enjoyed that more than their free-range antelope chops!

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Speaking On Behalf Of All Women

  • by jenspeaking on behalf of all women
  • call out for a cessation of hostilities
  • bubble of hot poison in your loins
  • drinking a glass of cold grog
  • unless she herself was at the fairgrounds

Speaking on behalf of all women, we call out for a cessation of hostilities between the sexes. Men, when you feel the bubble of hot poison in your loins that some might call misogyny, we suggest you grab a brew from the fridge. Drinking a glass of cold grog will surely be more satisfying than berating your wife or girlfriend. Unless she herself was at the fairgrounds when the shit went down, in which case, do whatever man. That fairground shit was intense.

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I’m No Slouch

by jen

  • fertile ground for unintentional comedy
  • bustling up from his chair
  • I’m no slouch
  • leave it alone
  • find myself craving the famous borscht

I’m no slouch, but my Russian is not as good as it could be. I try to tell the ambassador that whenever I am in Moscow I find myself craving the famous borscht. Who knows what I actually say. The ambassador cries, “Leave it alone, leave it alone!” while bustling up from his chair, his face as red as the beets the soup is made from. Cultural misunderstandings are fertile ground for unintentional comedy, but they make diplomacy a bitch.

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“Thanks For the Tea, Poco”

  • k-avatarthe yellow spheres
  • Screech! I felt it.
  • lick at his sore feet
  • Thanks for the tea, Poco
  • back door moments

“Thanks for the tea, Poco.”

I drained my mug, got up from the table, and was out the back door moments before Poco’s uncle Pico pulled up out front. Pico slammed on the brakes — Screech! I felt it. I shimmied over the fence and beat feet.

In the alley, an old wino let a mongrel lick at his sore feet. I left them to it.

Poco’s aunt Paca would be just finishing up her lesson at the tennis court. I pictured her in a short white dress, as the yellow spheres ricocheted all around her. Then she felt like stretching…

Back door moments, indeed.

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Doesn’t Do To Enter A Stressful Occupation

  • k-avatarpressed up close, I’d imagine
  • plagued by depression and anxiety
  • vices are often hid
  • in front of the wall safe
  • that’d be the day!

Doesn’t do to enter a stressful occupation if you’re already plagued by depression and anxiety. But my shrink said what I needed, what would break my downward spiral, was excitement. He was just using me to perpetrate espionage on his chief rival down the street, but he explained it like this: safecracking would be therapeutic for me, and our doctor-patient confidentiality would protect me in the event that my shrink somehow ran afoul of the law.

“You’ll love it, once you try it. The trick will be getting you to stop!”

That’d be the day!

So now I’m curled into a ball in front of the wall safe in the rival shrink’s pitch-black office. I’m pressed up close, I’d imagine, trying to slip into the wall itself in my desperation to hide. I just know I’ve tripped some kind of alarm and the cops are racing to the scene. My shrink wasn’t using me after all. He was just trying to get rid of me. Throwing me to the wolves.

I pull myself together, and pull myself up the wall until I’m standing, staring at the dull metallic surface of the safe I’m now determined to defeat. My hearing is heightened by a lifetime of paranoia, making the action of the lock as plain as speech. Gifts are often hid within burdens, as vices are often hid within virtues. The safe clicks softly open, and I behold the scent of chocolate chip cookies.

The note on the plate is addressed to me.

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