Little Willie sat on the curb with his feet in the gutter, his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands.

Along came a rookie cop, only two days on the beat, swinging his Billy club. "Hey, young man, what are you doing cluttering up the street. Get on home before I run you in on a vagrancy charge!"

"Can't go home," Willie said with a heavy sigh. "My dad spanked my butt and told me to get lost 'cause I talked back to him."

"Come on, young fellow. Let's go call your dad and see what gives. He sounds like a big bully to me. I'll set him straight."

"I don't think so," Willie said. "Dad's got a lotta pull in this town."

The young cop smacked the Billy club into the palm of his hand.

"A big shot bully, huh? What's your dad's name?"

"Amos Roy Jameson. He's the police chief, so most just call him "Chief."

"Chief Jameson?" the cop said in a sickly subdued tone of voice. "Well, er, I got work to do. You just sit right there and do whatever it is you were doing."

The cop turned on his heel and walked quickly away, leaving Little Willie Jones, the jailhouse janitor's son, grinning after him.

Miss Helen Limbar had a cute little goat named Penny Girl. She doted on that goat like you wouldn't believe, and would have done anything for it. She never married or had children, and some folks said the goat made up for the lack of natural children.

Old Sam Drigglesworth lived next door in a run-down shack. He had a huge pile of tin cans he had been saving for years and years, and he was justly proud of his collection like any 65-year-old red-bloodied male would be.

One day Penny Girl got loose and wandered next door and proceeded to eat a hole in Sam Drigglesworth's tin-can pile. When Sam discovered what was going on, he got his old .45 automatic and tromped outdoors to protect what was his.

But Helen Limbar got wind of what of happening, and quickly took her semi-automatic assault rifle out of the closet and stuck the barrel out the side window of the house and potted old Sam where he stood taking aim at her precious Penny Girl.

Sam Drigglesworth got a brief but weepy funeral and burial in the local cemetery and Helen Limbar got 35 years in prison for 2nd degree murder. No one ever did figure out what happened to Penny Girl the goat, which was never seen again.

Once upon a time there was a beanstalk that grew beside the Smith house. The beanstalk was rather scrawny and no one imagined it would ever reach any great heights.

One day along came a young giant, who everyone called The Giant, and started tugging on the beanstalk to pull it up by the roots. Instead, the beanstalk started to grow upward, spiraling skyward as its truck grew thicker. Naturally, this scared The Giant so badly that he ran away shouting: "I think I'll stick to devouring Englishmen!" and was never seen nor heard from again.

Meanwhile, Jack Smith was awed to find that the scrawny beanstalk that had once stood beside his house was now grown o an unbelievable height--so high, in fact, that it was growing up into a cloud.

Acting on sudden impulse (as was he wont), Jack quickly scrambled up the beanstalk--all the way to the top--which had indeed grown up through a cloud. He discovered a grand house with two stories, ten bedrooms, six full baths, a Great Room filled with TVs, computers and electronic games galore--and a roomful of beautiful girls all of whom doted on his every word.

Jack decided he liked this new abode just fine and lived there happily ever after.

The new man at Finney's Market (everyone calls him "Joe") has recently immigrated to the U. S. and Mike Finney was good enough to hire him.

When my wife ordered the Thanksgiving Turkey Joe took the call. He also made the delivery the next day.

Joe proudly opened the box and grinned. "Me make. All by my meself I make!" he proclaimed.

An unusual aroma rose in the air as he presented the main course of our meal. "Here is you Tanks-givem Turtle!"

Both I and my wife started to protest and say, "No, no! We wanted a turkey, not a turtle!"

But the proud look on Joe's face held our words at bay, and we thanked him and tipped him handsomely for his efforts.

Actually, our Thanksgiving Turtle was quite tasty. We have invited Joe over for Christmas Dinner, and if he wants to bring along a Christmas Turtle that's okay with us.

A woman and two children in a donut shop. One of the children, a girl about 3 or 4, holds a handful of coins and stands at the table where her mother sits. 

 “Glazed twist,” her mother tells her.

The child attempts to repeat the order, but apparently is still struggling with the basics of learning language. She says something that sounds like “gade quix?” Her mother doesn’t bother correcting her, so she starts toward the counter. She stops, turns, and asks her mother, “Did I say that right?” She seems to really want to know.

“Yes, dear.”

The girl beams, her baby teeth almost glowing in her smile. She is full of energy, still at the age where mere walking is insufficient. Moving from one place to another means running, hopping, skipping and generally experimenting with vigorous styles of locomotion. She skips to the counter.

The waitress appears and asks, “Yes, dear?”

“Gade … quix!” says the girl.

“Excuse me?” 

The girl repeats her order, and the woman, her face a question mark, looks over at the mother.

“Glazed twist,” the mother says.

The girl looks from the woman to her mother and back again. You can almost read her thoughts on her face: Didn’t I just say that? The waitress hands her the pastry in a paper bag, and the youngster empties her handful of coins into the woman’s palm. As the girl starts back toward the table, her mother says, “No, honey, get your change. You gave her too much.”

The youngster retrieves her change and returns to the table. 

The concept of “change” will be another lesson for another time. Today, it is enough to know that, now, she can do a grown-up thing. She can order a gade quix.

which link is this. which link is this? WHICH LINK IS THIS!

The inquiry was futile. Nothing was in place to indicate the link’s source and its destination was an empty space. Nora gave up. She saved the test pattern as a draft document. Too many other more pressing and important matters needed attention and successful resolution.


Notwithstanding, she fully realized this mystery would be haunting her until the puzzle could be handled.

“What started this distraction,” she pondered. Her attention veered back to the project already at hand when she stumbled onto that mystery link.

“Focus. Focus you ninny!”

The command was successful for the next two hours, until completion of the project. Shifting gears into the next priority brought recollection of the mystery. “It will simply have to wait until all four projects are done. I must focus. $250 per project is not worth eight hours of finding the answer to a mystery that has scant promise of an answer.”

The distraction started at 9:43 AM. By 10:58 PM, the projects completed, the PayPal invoices sent, Nora finally found the answer to the question.

The man was tall, almost gaunt, but strangely handsome in his own way. He was dressed in a brown suit, and had a long, sad-looking though somehow youthful face.

She stopped a few feet from him, and they stood on the platform waiting for the 10:37 p.m. commuter.

"What's your sign?" he said suddenly. He was so old-fashioned! She couldn't believe anyone still used that line.

"I'm a Capricorn," she said, wondering what he was really up to.

"How about that?" he said. "So am I. Would you like to go someplace and have a drink?"

"I think not," she said as the train approached. "Being the same astrological sign, I fear we'd be too much alike to ever enjoy an intimate sensual relationship." She tried to make it sound like a light-hearted joke.

The man took a rather fat billfold from his pocket, held it open for her to see the numerous 100-dollar bills therein.

"I really do hate to drink alone," he said, smiling faintly, suggestively, but earnestly. "And I can be a very generous person."

"On second thought," she said, "I've developed quite a thirst, and I think I can trust you--so I'd be delighted to have a drink with you."

The mounted the subway stairs and emerged on the street, pausing for a few moments to look up at the Zodiac namesake, the constellation Capricorn, as it hung before them in the night sky.

“So what do think?”

“Think about what?”

“You know, how did we get here and why?”

“That’s laid out in detail in the Book of Genesis.”

“You buy all of that literally, word for word?”

“Yeah, why not; it works for me.”

“Hmm. A lot of people believe in the good book as long as it serves their purposes, but when a part of the text becomes morally inconvenient for them, they claim it’s just allegory, or that certain parts of the Old Testament are meant for Jews but not Christians. And where it’s self-contradictory they call it a mystery or say we can’t understand everything stated in the inspired word of God.”

“Well, if you’re so smart, how did we get here and why?”

“I don’t know for sure. I grant you it seems unlikely that the world and the rest of the universe is just an accident or an illusion. I figure a higher power must have put this all together. But I’m pretty certain God isn’t following the action all over the world or the entire universe and watching over what everybody does with their life.”

“Well, I believe God is all knowing and all powerful, so it’s not much of a stretch to believe He’s following what kinds of choices every person makes.”

“That’s where we part ways, I suppose. I believe God put the universe together but has better things to do than worry about all our decisions and revisions. 

Posted in the 500-words-and-under category.

I was running late that morning; you know how it is. Bad cold that made me feel lousy; I had too left feet and two left hands. I stumbled and fumbled about, and almost didn't get to the stop before the bus came.

The door wheezed open and I started to climb aboard when suddenly a tall, heavyset woman jumped out of her seat and rushed toward the front of the bus, blocking my way.

"You can't ride this bus. Get off. There'll be another bus along in a little while." Arms akimbo, she glared determinedly down at me.

"Get back in your seat, lady, and let the guy on," the bus driver told her.

"I won't!" she said, bunching up her powerful-looking shoulders. "I have a feeling about that man, and I'm not letting him on this bus."

"What the hell," the driver growled. "Look, we're blocking traffic; I'm gonna be late. Now get back in your seat, lady." He caught hold of the collar of her jacket and pulled her back a step. I took another two steps up and quickly ducked under her outstretched arms, reaching around her to deposit my fare. Then I raced down the aisle an dropped into the first empty seat I came to.

The door was still open; the bus sat idling its diesel engine.

"Lady, you gotta get off this bus. We can't have people acting like this. You oughta go see a doctor, or something."

"But why?" moaned the woman in a hurt tone of voice. "What did I do that was so bad. You should put him off the bus, not I!"

The driver pointed toward the open door. "Go on now," he said. "We don't want no more trouble. You can't use public transportation acting like this."

The woman slowly stepped down off the bus. She had somehow been drained of her anger; her shoulders sagged, and she looked much older. She took three steps forward onto the sidewalk and just stood there with her back to the bus.

"Damnedest thing," the driver said, letting the bus move forward, back out into the stream of traffic. He looked at me in his mirror. "Did you know that lady, sir?" he asked.

"Never saw her before in my life," I replied.

No one said anything else. We all turned and glanced back at the woman. She had turned back to face the street, as though waiting for another bus.

I wondered what she might do next. I'm sure the other passengers did, too. All except the driver. He reached up, pushed his cap to the back of his head, and whistled an almost inaudible tune, as though he had not a care in the world. As though the incident had never happened at all.

Posted in the "under 200 words" category.

Maria walked all the way to the little farm and knocked on the door.

"I had to come and thank you again. If not for you, my son would be dead now."

John Trench stood in the doorway and looked down at the tired-looking woman. He had tackled the boy and pushed him aside as a car's front tire blew, sending the vehicle out of control.

"You don't have to keep thanking me, Mrs. Gomez. I just did what most folks would have done."

"Oh, no. Not many would have risked their own life to save another."

Suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

"I haven't told anyone else yet, but the doctor said last week that little Pedro has but six months to live. You gave him back his life today, and oh how I wish you could do so again. Oh, if only you could. Do you think--?" She let the question go unfinished.

"No, Ma'am, I'm sorry." It was the only thing he could think of to say as she turned and began to long walk back to town, and her son.