Honestly, we really get this stuff.
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“Twinkle twinkle little star how I wonder what you are.”
“And well you might young Sam.” “Is it a rocket going up to Mars Grandad?” “Could be son.” “Or a space ship full of aliens? “That’s a possibility.” “Could be Santa out practising before Christmas?” “Now you’re being ridiculous boy. Of course it’s not Santa it’s quite obviously an aeroplane full of tired businessmen knocking back as much free booze as they can before landing and going back to their tedious lives.” “How do you know Grandad?” “Because I used to be one of them. Now go back to sleep” "Are you Mia Faraday?"
Mia gulped. Should she deny it? No. Not with that badge of his staring her in the face. "Yes," she whispered. "You know your family has been looking for you for almost seven years now. They were ready to have you declared legally dead. Why'd you run away?" “My credit card was maxed out, and I just couldn’t stop shopping." “But you haven’t spent any money since. That’s why it took so long to find you. You have no credit cards, driver’s license, checking account.” “I just wanted to start over, and I almost made it.”  Surrounded by unopened bags, the true extent of Mia’s shopping habit lay in front of her. Unworn, unused tops, trousers, dresses, jacket, handbags, shoes and more.
“What am I to do?” she wailed. Her home had no more room and her wallet no more money to spare. But shopping was addictive – the thrill of the new and the immediate an unbeatable high that she needed more and more. If a plea was particularly plaintive, the universe sometimes stepped in. A lightbulb moment. “I know! I’ll become a personal shopper. That way, I spend thousands – it just isn’t my money.” The drabble, his daughter’s wedding on August 15th 2015 amid in the majestic mountains at Donier Wine Estate near Stellenbosch. At the reception he so wanted to dance like he did those many years ago, but alas his wife said no. His granddaughter, now 18, then pulled him onto the floor. The beat was fast, too fast, but he tried, feet flying hither and thither. When he came off his wife told him his older son said, “Dad looks like he is about to get an epileptic fit.” So now it’s back to slow dribbling waltzes and foxtrots.
Amy was inspired by Eric's story...
Riding south out of Tucson, I looked for landmarks. Horizon to horizon, there was only dry flatness, dotted with ancient seafloor scrub. I was figuring I’d find real cacti – ones with those fat prickly branched stems – as I neared Tombstone. My horse was rested, well watered and fed, and the steady clip-clop of his hooves soothed me as we trotted onward. Did I travel far back enough? Before the land was cleared for lawns, trees and shrubs? I hoped so. I couldn’t afford an allergy attack without access to 21st century medicine, and I wasn’t going back without my samples. For this story, Gordon borrowed a character from his own novel Four Old Geezers And A Valkyrie.
I’d watched my friend Fleece lose money all night. Exactly what had induced him to take on One-Eyed Jake in a head-to-head Laredo crap game I couldn’t imagine, but he was determined to see it through. In the nick of time, Fleece threw a double six. “Aha!” One-Eyed Jake eyed Fleece up, then threw a triple seven. “Ha!” Fleece stood up. “There were only two dice a minute ago!” Suddenly Jake was on his feet, too. “You calling me a cheat?” Fleece paused to study the gun pointing at his ample midriff. “No,” he replied, “I’d say you’re very good.” Bobby Warner seemed to like the idea... One-Eyed Jack gave Fleece a nasty smirk. "I reckon you'll know better'n to accuse honest men like me of cheating from now on. And just so you don't forget, I'll teach you a lesson." "Surely you wouldn't shoot an unarmed man," said Fleece, turning bone white. I reached for my .44; I was armed. But old Jack swung around and said, "Pull out that iron and drop it on the floor." Then he turned back to Fleece, aimed, and blew small, half-moon nicks out of his earlobes. I had to agree with Fleece: Old One-Eyed jack was very, very good. Then Len Nourse... Ole One-eyed Jack had forgotten about 3-EYE during his conflict with Fleece. 3-EYE could see around corners because his third eye was flexible. Now 3-EYE didn’t like cheats and One-eye was surely one. Having observed the battle between the two he quietly positioned himself in a favourable position, drew his dagger and flipped it at the gun in One-eye’s hand. The gun clattered to the ground, which gave Fleece the chance to kick it aside and the fist fight was on. 3-EYE disappeared as quietly as he had come. And then Amy Friedman... FAREWELL I scrambled behind the nearest pillar, hoping I’d be completely hidden. “Jack, now come on. You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man,” I said silkily. “You got arms, Fleece,” said One-Eyed Jack. “I see you, I shoot you.” Working quickly, I unhooked my prosthetic left arm and let it drop to the floor. “OK, I’m unarmed,” I said, kicking the arm to the center of the room. “Aaaah!” One-Eyed Jack yelled. “What in tarnation?” “Tar nation indeed, Mister Jack,” I said, whipping from behind the pillar, my .44 drawn and cocked. “You just landed yourself in a whole mess of sticky.” Then Russell Conover... A FRESH START One-Eyed Jake froze after what had just happened. A man had been shot, right before his eyes. Talk about a wakeup call. The winnings at the casino wouldn’t be worth it, if he wouldn’t escape alive. Quickly, Jake high-tailed it out of there, calling a cab. But where to go? He thought a fresh start would be good. So, he was dropped off at the local animal shelter to volunteer. They had him look at some newly arriving cats. Jake froze. One cat had FOUR eyes! Jake slowly backed out of the shelter. Life was weird enough as it was. Then Jo Oldani-Osborne – It wasn’t just a literary legend. There were scores of six-toed kitties wandering Papa Hemmingway’s estate in The Keys. The cats slept or roamed among the broken tiles with kitty food scattered liberally and bowls of water and CREAM! Fleece and One-eyed Jake scampered across the courtyard after catching a ride on a fruit truck from the wharf. “Paradise,” Fleece snickered. “Look at all the kibble.” “Manna,” smiled One-eyed, “and them cats is too fat to care.” “Sure beats Miami,” Jake squinted, wriggling his nose. “It’s not the heat -- it’s the humidity.” The Pack settled in for an infest. Then Bobby Warner again... MOVING ON Next day One-Eyed Jake woke and scratched his belly. "A man can stand just so much kibble and cream, then he's gotta move on." "You're right," said Fleece. "I'm shore glad that picture of your ma dropped outta your pocket back in Miami. And I'm double glad I just nicked your ears instead of blowing my own son full of holes!" "Me, too, Papa. Let's go up to Houston and rent a hotel room. I think I can write a few best-sellers like Hemingway, then we can get us an estate, too." "Sounds like a winner, son. Let's get going!" Then Jo Oldani Osborne... PAPA ONE-EYED JAKE/JACK AND FLEECE IN A HOTEL ROOM “The Great War and I was fighting to save my leg!” Papa dictated to Fleece, “ I got a sweet tabby knocked-up in Italy and –ACK!” They were in Houston but Fleece knew consumption when he heard it. His Ma lost her third life to The Big C. “Just a hair ball –“ Defeated, Papa tucked a pink-stained rag in his Panama. “Those pussies! ’Phlemingway!’ they mocked me.” “ Put it in the book --.” “ but I know ‘For whom the bell tolls.’—“ Fleece hesitated -- then crossed out “The Old Man and The C”. Gordon Lawrie tried to bring it all under control. THE END OF THE AFFAIR Just then the phone rang. Fleece answered it, nodding gravely in response to what he was hearing from the other end. Afterwards, Fleece turned to Papa Jack-Jake. “That was Comely Bank Publishing. It seems my being an animal is in breach of ©copyright – I’ve ratted on the agreement. I’m not allowed to be Fleece™ any more.” Was that a tear in his eye? “What’ll you do?” Jack-Jake asked. “Become a woman. I fancy the name ‘Flounce™’,” she added. “Great – will you marry me?” “Sure.” “And they all lived happily ever after?” “Hey – that’s a GREAT opening line for the book!” For a month I’d see her nearly every morning on the bus: chestnut eyes and hair, dark brown skin, lovely hard breasts peaking from the top of her summer dress or pushing through a tight-fitting cotton top. Her mouth, pursed sensuously, was lip-sticked lightly with a pale shade. Her strong-looking knees, surrounded by prominent tendons, showed themselves, bare at the hem of her mid-length dress—they supported a worn hardback edition of For Whom the Bell Tolls. Why that title? I longed to love her and never wanted to see her again—only the second wish has come true.
I would write a story about reversals. I’m so tired of the gender wars. You know how it is. She says “glass ceiling,” “double standard,” and “$.77 on the dollar.” He says, “biological clock,” “you can’t be tough,” and “breasts!” She says “patriarchy,” and he slinks away or says “damn right!”
I was going to call it “What Goes Around Comes Around.” Men fight to own all they see and keep it because once upon a time, women were on top. Brilliant! But it all fell apart. Women gave and shared, nurtured and complemented. It was interdependence. Patriarchy, she sighed. “Windows 10--So easy, a monkey could use it!”
Or so said the salesman at the shop. Now, Jill was grumbling as she ran into issue after issue. The software wasn’t loading, her passwords weren’t working, and the system was a mess. She called tech support, who said they’d send a technician out right away. An hour later, her doorbell rang. She opened the door and was shocked to find a chimp in a uniform. It entered the house, tinkered with her computer, and had her up and running. “Technology upgrades are not my thing,” Jill sighed. “Gotta educate myself.” You’re buying a house with 10 windows?
No, I’m upgrading to Windows 10. What’s the difference? Windows 10 is software. A house is a house. So you’re not moving into a house with 10 windows? Oh good grief. You are really getting on my last nerve. Well, you are a flaming idiot. How can you not know what hardware and software are? Well, what do you expect? I was only born yesterday. Oh, so now you’re going to use being vat-grown as an excuse? You probably don’t even know where your consciousness came from. Actually, it came from you …  Emma Baird had been having a little bother...
As the Laptop Doctor arrived, the laptop sat lifeless. “How long has she been like this?” he asked, worried. “Twenty minutes,” I replied. “I’ve been giving her CCR*. Will she live?” He opened and closed the laptop rhythmically. Suddenly there was light on the screen! “Aha!” said the Doctor. Inserting a thermometer in the USB socket, he listened to the processor with his stethoscope. “The arterial cable from the mouse is blocked. There’s an infection, too,” the Doctor said, changing the USB cable and prescribing some anti-virus. He looked at me seriously. “And tell her to stay off Windows 10.” *Computer Clicking Resuscitation Maria was an inspiring kind of leader, who motivated people to do their best without making them feel patronised. Instead, they felt valued and inspired.
Of course there were people who were envious of Maria's talents. She was a natural and charismatic presenter – her speeches always sounded spontaneous. “She must really believe in herself!” grumbled one employee, a begrudging emphasis on the third word. “Public school background,” muttered another. Maria, holding her hands behind her back to stop the shaking, overheard and sighed. Some people always made the mistake of comparing their insides to someone's else's outsides. Rattlesnakes are common in the desert. Usually, they like cool mornings, but hole up when things warm up. They are not social animals, so they avoid people and predators. Smart folks avoid rattling snakes like they avoid growling dogs.
My husband George was deathly afraid of rattlesnakes. He saw them in the shadows; he saw them in his dreams; he saw them in his drunken stupors. It was in one of those stupors that George stepped on a rattler in the hay room. By the time paramedics arrived, George was dead - and my boyfriend had picked up his pet rattlesnake. Robi has just returned from a foreign trip. He meets up with his friends in a bar.
One of his buddies asked, "what did bring for us?" "I wanted to," Ravi said, " the shopkeepers could confirm the economical price but no support on the survival." "Was there nothing that last?" a separate friend enquired. "Yes, there is, that has demonstrated the test for ages." "Could you not arrange that?" "They allow you to view and take photographs," "What is it?" a mate most curiously questioned. "It is the Great Wall, stores can't sell it!" Robi exclaimed. It’s got quite an aura about it, hasn’t it?’ I say as I guide the newly-weds through the hall and into the living room. ‘Modern sort of design, open plan.’ I sound like every typical estate agent you can find in the yellow pages. Zany, irritating, like a bluebottle that buzzes around a light fixture. I hover behind the couple as the scope out the interior, judging the absent owner’s choice in furniture.
‘What’s that chair doing there?’ The husband says wryly, smirking at the wife and pointing. ‘That,’ I say ‘is my chair. I brought it from home.’  Watch out, everyone, there’s a woman over there – she’s looking at us all. Don’t like the look of this. Here she comes.
Wait, she’s saying something. EXCUSE ME?? You a-talkin’ to me? You a-talkin’ to me? What? Why me? Why not a green or yellow pepper instead? Red’s just another colour, really. Fancy some nice tomatoes? How about a nice courgette? You see that big purple thug behind me? That’s an aubergine. Don’t mess with him, I warn you. He’s on my side. No, I’ve just heard the dreaded word! Put us all down! PUT US DOWN!! Please... not ratatouille... Folks called her Old Witch, and she was Timmy's friend. He went to see her one day and she took him to a meadow.
"Would you like to fly?" she asked. "Sure!" said Timmy. "Then close your eyes and take off!" He closed his eyes, she touched his forehead, and he seemed to grow light as a feather. In his mind's eye he could see the meadow drop away, and the clouds grow near. "Did I really fly?" he asked when he opened his eyes. "Who's to say?" she answered. "My eyes were shut, too. But I'm sure you did." Sometimes we hear it down here in the valley, usually on a dark, still night. We might be sitting on the front porch, fanning away mosquitoes when we hear it from afar: A-whoo-whoo-whoo! That mournful whistle coming through the pines.
That's when we hush our talk, put out or cigarettes and pipes, bow our heads. It's Old Black #0, chugging down the mountainside, coming to take someone away. Maybe one of us. “Craptastic,” I said to myself, glaring at the monstrosity Mark had plopped on my desk. Damn him. Either he did fantastic work with awful designs or shoddy work with great designs. No middle ground. Sandra should have advised him better. Meanwhile, the horribleness squatted on my desk. Mark sat, eyes doleful as a basset’s, waiting for my thoughts. What did he want to make in the first place? I had no idea what had emerged from that febrile excuse for a brain. I wished I could kick him and his monstrosity out of my office. But he was my boss.
Jim was thrilled, and shocked, to win a car on the TV game show. He jumped around the stage, shaking hands with the host and hugging the models.
But then he remembered he’d just bought a new car the previous week! He definitely didn’t need two. But, what to do--and which car to keep? The sedan from home was practical for his family. The coupe from TV was sporty and fun to drive. The luxurious sedan had top features and leather interior; the slinky coupe had a big engine. However, neither allowed transportation to Pluto. On to Plan B. This could be a foreign country. The female clerk in the convenience store calls me “babe.” I’ve been looking for a job since I hit town; they’ll trace me by my social security number unless I find something off the books—digging ditches, trimming trees, or roofing. I stop at one of the few lights in town. The guy in the pickup in front of me sits shoulder to shoulder with his curly-haired girlfriend—the way we did in high school. I do a double take. That’s not his girl. It’s his dog, and it’s not wearing a seat belt.
Like Gary Cooper in High Noon, he strides towards the green, brow damp but resolve steady. It’s ripple-free yet undulating like sand dunes in the Sahara. The target perches, quivering and defying gravity, on its glistening sward. A posse looks on, weapons drawn. The red pennant the only thing stirring.
Flat stick pulled out and with nerves of steel he takes aim and fires. The magic sphere begins its journey, following a pre-ordained path. Its destination looms out of the haze. Ten yards it travels and drops with a crack, for a score of 64. “Good shooting Tex,” they say. “Look what I found! I’ve never seen anything like this before! What is it?”
“It’s nothing I’ve found on any of my digs, but I remember seeing the description of a similar artifact in an old journal article by Dr. Lehigh. Must have been written 50 years ago.” “Did Dr. Lehigh say what it was or how it was used? Looks like a tool of some sort.” “Yes, it was apparently part of an ancient means of transportation. I think Dr. Lehigh called it a ‘car.’” “Very primitive.” “Indeed, It seems Earth was not an advanced society. Never mastered teleportation.” Whichever way he tallied it, the books just weren’t adding up. The simple matter of income versus expenditure didn’t balance, with the latter bleeding out of the account like a burst artery.
“I can’t do this anymore, I’m afraid,” he sighed to himself as the numbers on the spreadsheet shimmied in front of his eyes, stubbornly refusing to change no matter how often he hit auto sum. Ah well. It had been good while it lasted and he entertained a last self-indulgent fantasy. The phone rings. Mr Darby – this is your agent. That last book? Well, it seems that… |
