“Ew--those bugs look creepy.” Ted frowned as he looked through his magnifying glass.

“You mean, they look like you.” Patty, his bratty six-year-old sister, smirked.

Ted looked her in the eye. “Well, maybe you’d like a few of these bugs ... in your mouth!” He quickly scooped up a handful of bugs and held them over his sister.

But to his astonishment, the bugs went racing back down his arm, towards his face. “Never use us for this purpose!” he could hear them say.

Revenge isn’t always sweet. “I’m done for,” Ted thought glumly. 

"Jester--chop, chop! The king requests his nightly entertainment.” The armored guard looked me in the eyes.

“But, I haven’t rehearsed! I’ll surely look like a fool!”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Balderdash. Just do what you do best.”

I sighed, trying to think of every comical routine I’d ever done that’s had a good reaction. I thought of jokes to tell, physical gags to perform, songs to sing . . . but then the headache started.

I rapidly shook my head. “Just get out there and do your thing. Whatever happens, happens.”

Show time. 

Why you rolling them dice?
Lookin for snake eyes.
Snake eyes?
Yeah, when the dice come up with a one on each one.
Does it gotta be facing up?
Yeah. Don’t work if it’s on a side.
How many you got so far?
Ain’t got it yet.
You gonna keep rollin till it comes up?
Yeah.
Snake’s lookin at you when them dice come up. Bad luck.
Shut up, dickface.
Yer the dickface, Wastin yer time, rollin dice.
S’my dice, my time. Go play wit yerself.
Rather play wit some dice. Wanna roll double or nuthin?
Git out.
I’m gittin. 

Effie and Ina are playing in Milnathort Bowling Club's pairs championship against Morag and some foreigner called Jane, "frae the Birders." It's Ina's turn.

"Aw, Ina," calls Effie, "yer affy narra'." Ina hasn't allowed enough for the bowl's weighted bias, and it sails uselessly away wide of its mark.

Effie tries to be encouraging. "Dinnae dae that fir yer next wid, ye daft besom. Summit decent noo wi' yon final yin."

Ina's final bowl's a disaster. Flustered, she sends it off wrongly altogether. As it wobbles its way up towards the head, Effie wails, "Ach, Ina, it's awa' kerfluey." 

The space was fenced in corrugated iron. Charlie could just see over the top. 

Heavy canvas sacks twitched quietly in the centre of the enclosure. Charlie breathed in shallowly each time a sack moved. 

The man dressed in thick clothes and gloves, even in summer. Despite the breeze, perspiration coated his face. 

He pulled out taipans, red-bellies and copperheads. A king brown slipped the restraint’s noose. The man caught Charlie’s eye, plucked it up quickly and secured it in a sack.

Later, he passed around a diamond python. It was heavy to hold, and undulated drily in Charlie’s eager hands.

This story arose (I think) in response to a little spat on the LinkedIn thread...

“Hi Dad get out of them because blogs in LinkedIn are seemingly turning to fields of battle and umbrage instead of exchanges of ideas and comments.” 

“Not yet, because all the words you’ve mentioned are part of the learning curve in life and more important for me that in writing. Also I’m making friends.” 

“Also enemies it seems.” 

“Turning a smiling cheek handles that – well, it has to date.”

“But Dad, you haven’t completed your next series; all you seem to be doing are comments in blogs and write FF pieces – stop now.”

“Ja – you’re right, this is my last.”

The order was ready except for the missing steak. George Frank, the supervisor, went nuts. He jumped to his left, flung open the silver fridge door, yanked out a dinner steak and threw it on the grill. Then, with a dogged, crazed look on his face—something like a hiker’s expression when killing a rattlesnake with a walking stick—attacked the steak with the heel of his hand with repeated rabbit punches until it spread to twice its normal length across the grill. Then he slammed a lid on top of it. The thinned-out meat would cook double time.

The dog-who-never-barks was barking, a regular cadence. Bark. Bark. Bark. A tempo he uses only when rattlesnakes are around.

Outside, I found the dog-who-never-barks four feet away from a five-foot coiled rattlesnake.

My three cats were in the side yard, on red alert as always whenever the dog-who-never-barks barks.

I called the dog into the house and went back for the cats. Because the snake was out back, I wanted the cats to go to the front yard. I approached them. They turned and made for the front door, running ahead of me.

I thought to myself: I’m herding cats. 

He felt the sweat starting to run down his back as he jogged along the familiar sidewalk in his neighborhood. His eyes were starting to sting from the perspiration as well. Suddenly a black blur whirled around the corner in front of him and he didn't have time to react before the tweener-piloted bike knocked him off his feet.

"Sorry, Dad!", his son Brian called as he rode off.

"Kids" he thought to himself as he slowly made his way back up.

Vivian, exhausted after her shift at the hospital, slipped off shoes at the door, mindful of super-germs, her preschooler’s health. Her husband and child were sharing a joke in the livingroom. Was there a greeting? She couldn’t remember, after a quick shower, as she tackled the disarray, toys scattered, CDs piled on the table. She prepared supper while Tony watched the news and Cindy talked over the phone. 

After, Vivian fell asleep, the child beside her, over Tony’s complaints and berating. She awoke to the strange smile and empty eyes of their child, staring eyes with -- nothing. Fear gripped her.

June watched the two troopers look around the empty diner. One talked, one didn’t.

“A dozen doughnuts, two large coffees, cream and sugar to go.”

“There’s only one size.”

“You here alone?”

“You writin’ a book, Officer?”

“Little lady, a fugitive’s loose.”

June deliberately bagged the coffee and doughnuts. 

The trooper pointed at the coffees in the booth. “You always drink two cups at once?” 

“One’s my old man’s. He’s in the john.” 

Both troopers faced the register. June slowly made change as she saw the truck back out, her customers in it. They must’ve climbed out the john windows.

Louise’s studio was one of eight in a stained sixties block which reeked of piss and frying chops. Across the road were a small shopping centre and a rundown bikies’ pub.

She preferred to walk to the Club. The drinks were cheaper, and there was a tote. There was also more likelihood of a suitable adventure. 

Larry was surprised when she unlocked the front door. She’d hung the portrait next to the peeling bathroom door. She was naked and supple in a deep red armchair, her hair caramel-coloured, her eyes tawny. It had been Daniel’s parting gift, twenty-eight years ago.

“FORWARD…!” 

January 1, 1970. I am about to begin the last year of the decade with a six-mile trek, trumpet in hand, down Pasadena’s Colorado Boulevard, along with about a hundred other high-school musicians. 

Soon, we would embark on a two-week concert tour of Northern England; we’d do some shows, tour the Lake District, take in London and return home. 

Then I’d begin my senior year. Halfway through the year, I’d realize I wasn’t ready to go out into the world ... I need more time! I’m just starting to enjoy this world of friendships, rivalries, music, theater – WAIT! 

“…MARCH!”

Selena slid sultrily down the limestone of the villa.

"Interested in a cocktail?" Selena beckoned bending with precision.

Watts rubbed the back of his neck and tugged at the persistent irritation. Selena, eyes as tacks, pounced into action removing the tag. Horrified, Selena discovered Warbucks shopped discount. Selena plummeted to an ice range as she tidied quickly into business.

"The exit. I find myself ..." Selena marched Watts to the door and slammed it shut.

Selena almost ignored the persistent ringing of her phone, but decided, she best answer ...

"Selena," she answered her phone, once again sheer panic, "Watts - the owner?" 

Joe’s eyes opened in the dark—his engine throbbed outside. He reached across the bed to wake Cynthia—she was gone. He pulled the curtain back as his truck rolled out of the driveway, a stranger behind the wheel, Cynthia next to him. Headlights flooded the room—her closet door stood open and empty. He ran to the living room—furniture, rug, and paintings had vanished as had the hanging pots and pans in the kitchen. Joe heard his brakes squeal at the stop sign; the guy ground Joe's gears as they accelerated into the next block. He hated that. 

I

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you Jane.”

“Gosh Louise, why ever not?”

“Well, you know what Annie’s like. She’s petrified of snakes.”

“Oh come on, it’s only a bit of fun. A rubber snake won’t kills her.”

Arguing with Jane was pointless. Louise knew she would have to intervene otherwise there would be trouble for sure. That night came up with a plan and went to bed feeling very satisfied with herself. 

II

Louise woke to the sound of bird song and jumped out of bed. She quietly removed the rubber snake from Jane’s school bag. In class Jane discreetly swapped her bag with Annie’s then waited. Now she watched as Annie leaned down to open it. A frown creased her forehead but she didn’t scream or faint. This was hugely disappointing. It seemed that Annie she wasn’t scared of snakes after all.

In the quietness of the classroom a sudden high pitched scream pierced the air before Jane slumped onto the floor. No-one saw the snake slither away. No-one saw Annie leave. 

Since the first day they met there on the mountain top, connected by dragonmatch.com, theirs had been a steamy, smoky romance. He adored her iridescent golden scales. She was turned on by his fiery passion. 

And as is often the case, romance has consequences. 

Deep and safe in the cave they now shared rested a golden egg. 

If that dragonette saw him when it emerged, it would imprint – and then he would be feeding, toilet training, and teaching flame control. He shuddered. 

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just checking my mail,” he replied, as he called up dragonmatch.com. 

Sherrie’s mother stabbed the collar point with the iron.
Grey cigarette smoke wreathed her head.
“Mommy, what’s a ward heeler?” Sherrie said.
“Look it up.”
“In Wikipedia?”
“Find a better source.”
“Like what?”
“Like a dictionary.”
“My teacher says we have to use Wikipedia.”
“Your teacher’s an ass.”
Sherrie was silent for a moment.
“Mommy, you have to put a quarter in the bad word jar.”
“Later.”
“Yeah right,” Sherrie said to herself.
The long drooping ash fell onto the shirt.
The iron flew toward Sherrie, stopping when the electric cord snapped taut.
“Your fault, you little shit! Your fault!” 

That was just like Auntie Lynne, always volunteering me and my two sisters for one of her church projects. This year, it was cleaning and decorating the pews for the upcoming pastor's anniversary. We are to put yellow and green bows on all of the front row pews. Yuck! When is someone going to tell that woman that placing bows on church pews is so 90's. Plain is the now thing. Just clean pews. Nothing added. Nothing taken away.

Anyway, I really don't mind doing a little cleaning at the church. After all we get to keep all the coins wedged between those ugly blue pew cushions. Last year Annette, my youngest sister, found a $20.00 bill on the floor, next to where the First Lady sits. Of course, we spilt it 3 ways. That, along, was worth our missing our usual Saturday morning cartoons. Maybe this year, we will find another such blessing or maybe a slightly bigger one. My guess is that it was left there for us on purpose. But who would have done such a thing? 

Simon hurried downstairs. His bedroom looked over a big shabby house and the patient watchers had just seen their target go outside.

Simon hadn’t bothered about the children who came and went before Eddie. But Eddie had been special. 

“Hey missus!” 

The woman eyed the tousled head peering like Humpty over the fence. 

“Where’s Eddie?”

She winked at him. “Gone. Far away and out of sight.” 

“Really?” said the policeman behind her, as shovel-bearing colleagues arrived. 

Later Simon was modest about his bravery. Said he might be a policeman one day. 

He knew they’d never look in his garden

“You’re like a Valkyrie,” Charlie said. He didn’t mean that she flew over battlefields, selecting the dead for Valhalla. He meant to say she was brave.

Grace frowned at him. Sometimes Charlie was just weird. All she’d done was give the people who’d been making kissy noises a fierce spray: “We’re FRIENDS! Just. Grow. UP!” 

She decided to put the moment aside. 

Charlie stared after her as she skipped off. She was humming that song she liked, her skirt swished and her ponytail bobbed. 

A question untangled itself slowly, but his seven-year-old mind didn’t recognise any way to ask it.

“CLARRREENNNCEE!”

Clarence leapt a mile in the air. Dragon HQ personnel officers were prone to shrieks. He searched his conscience; what had he done?

The only thing he could think of . . . Ah, oops.

Dragon HQ, more specifically Clarence, had decided to employ St George as their spin doctor. St George, former dragon killer, was the perfect choice to tell the world about the actual fabulousness of dragons.

It turned out, however, that St George was an unrepentant dragon slayer. He was now listening in to private dragon conversations and spreading even wilder tales of their wickedness. Yikes! 

Pic thanks to wikipedia.  

She wrote furiously, trapped three floors up; her publisher, editor and proof-reader each insisted that her room would stay locked until she'd completed her long-awaited novel.  Completed pages were to be thrown from the window into the garden below.

Propelling page eighty-six she yelled, "You can't do this to me. I have rights!"

The publisher/editor/proof-reader called back, "Think of Rossini."

"Rossini?"

"Composer. Barber Of Seville. William Tell. Only way to make him write."

Finally, page three hundred and four fell, followed by a loud thud.

The publisher/editor/proof-reader smiled. "Perfect. A tragic suicide. Now we can market the book as well."

After work, I head for the Jacuzzi at the country-club. Imagine a warm bubbly bath, gushing hot water streams massage and pinpoint exactly where it hurts. Worth every cent! I lay back with my feet up as the water spout massages my back. 15 minutes of luxuriating in the warm suds, utter relaxation, blissfully daydreaming, I allow the soft water to caress my cares away.

Then I remember, choir rehearsal tonight. Arriving with wet hair, smudged makeup, Nina whispers, ”You’ve been to the Jacuzzi, right?” as I tiptoe in. Our conductor frowns. My tardiness disrupts rehearsals. I resolve to improve. 

“There's a 12-year-old boy in there,” he says in awe.

This attracts my attention. I have been reading (and my attention has been interrupted at a very exciting point of my book), but I pause and look up.

“That one,” he points. I spot him, dressed in yellow and black leathers and looking decidedly smaller than the others.

“Wow,” I say, but my attention lasts only as long as a brief thought, “What on Earth do his mum and dad think, watching this?”

The book demands my attention. The British Superbike Championships ticket was, I think, £12 wasted on me.

*True story! Pic thanks to Knockhill.