Friday, November 11, 2011

He hungered...


The camp was quiet by dusk, the only remaining noise to be heard from a handful of children playing near the washbasins, tempting their parents' patience with their refusal to come in for the night. After twilight turned to night, the sound of children playing was replaced with waking wildlife, preparing to survive another night of chase and hunt. That was when he appeared, a figure forming out of low-lying mist and into a man. He was also on the hunt, just as much as the owls and wolves filling the night with their song. His song was silent.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Playtime was serious...


To Tommy's surprise, the zombies and the dinosaurs in his play box tended to steer clear of one another. He actually introduced the dinosaurs to clean up the zombie problem, which spawned from a plastic hippo implementing a necromancy scheme to bring back the melted crayon he claimed as his friend. But, the dinosaurs, for the most part, had little interest in the zombies, unless they were scavengers. And Tommy didn't keep many on hand any more since the incident with the meatloaf. The zombies found the dinosaurs to be too much work. Then t-rex ate the plastic hippo.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

He also liked Cosmo...


Fish were not generally known to be readers. There were dozens of jokes about short attention spans that were repeated every time fish and literacy were mentioned in the same sentence. But Hermes didn't care what they said. Even if it was that fish were too stupid to read and to enjoy it. He did. He had a library, buried in his coral reef apartment, each scrap stored away neatly for further later perusing. The soda bottle rapper was his favorite story. He wanted to win by looking under the cap, whatever that meant. And to know what sodium was.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

It was a mouthy can...


Somewhere in week three of cleaning out his grandfather's house, carl found the end of the canned goods. It had taken half a dumpster to empty the cupboards stacked with rusty, dented cans. But he'd gotten the last of them. Buried in a dark recess in the garage, he found them: seven boxes of Rice-a-roni from the early 1980s, six cans with no label and no discernible origin, and a can of pickled sausage, circa 1911. A mouthy can that had, at some point, attained sentience and was not pleased at being thrown out. This house was weird.

Monday, November 7, 2011

It was always cold there...


Every memory I possess of my father's mother is dark, illuminated only by a small low-wattage swivel lamp and the grey glow of an old TV on its last life, a fuzzy haze of stories on cable and the candlelight effect of that single incandescent bulb. It smells like old burlap furniture steeped and soaked in decades of cigarette smoke, pure and unfiltered, rolled by my grandmother's tiny leather and tin rolling machine. It tastes like aspartame and room temperature butter on toast, and over-steeped deep brown tea gone cold in the chilly cinderblock house. I miss those days.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

It was a housing issue...


It was easier to keep a fairy content in a jar than a genie in a bottle. At least, that was the conclusion Gretta had come to. Fairies, if given comfortable quarters and a steady supply of fairy-appropriate pastries would actually be quite content for months. Genies, on the other hand, hated bottles. Gretta had found this out the hard way after two separate genies had attacked her. Apparently old shoes were ok, or dented oil lamps. Even small enclosures made from lego and doll furniture would work. But trying to house a genie in a bottle was... scarring.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

He was a grumbly old codger...


The moon is an arrant thief, or so Timon tells me, this one time, in a bar unfit for nice folk, down by the river. He complains about her thieving ways,. and explains she snatches her pale fire from the sun. He has given up being a lord of Athens, and his side job of being a character in a Shakespeare play (a job I would kill for, in this economy) and largely spends his time ruminating on the moon, and how she'd wronged so many. In his old age, he'd taken the cause against the moon as his own.

Friday, November 4, 2011

He did other things too...


Gell made change for annoying boys who arrived at the arcade on bikes with playing cards jammed in the spokes. Mostly he hung around for the sounds. The electronic video games were nice, their beeping little tunes were often in jaunty major keys. and the fans that cooled them made a white noise that he quite fancied. But it was the sound of the skeeball games that he liked the most--the sliding up the ramp of the wooden balls was sooting in an odd way, it reminded him of the old country. There were always worse places to work.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

It also made excellent pies...


The cherry tree that picked itself was a myth, of course. Adults liked it because, well, who wouldn't like the thought of chores doing themselves, especially ones with such a decidedly tasty conclusion. They tended to only share it amongst themselves because of the inherent danger of the young ones becoming too enamored with a tale of reward that did not come through fortitude, the tilling of the earth, and hard work. Such a thing would lead wee ones to a life of degeneracy and sloth But at night, after the children were tucked away, the elders liked to fantasize.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

There had to be better ways to pass time...


At one point, it became evident that we were probably not going to survive. And if we did manage to make it out of the forrest alive, there was no assurance that we would have all of our limbs. Which, when you thought about it, was rather typical of our adventures. Carrik had died twice already, Ando had a wooden leg named Smith. and I had been sporting an iron jaw since that affair with the Swamp King and his pet lizard. Which had not been a lizard at all, but a fifty-ton dragon. We really needed safer hobbies.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

They were devilish beasts...


The thing that the humans didn't know about the squirrels, cute and fluffy and entertaining though they might be, were always trying to take over the world. The dogs and cats had caught onto this twitchy nut-eating megalomania decades ago, and did their best to thwart the scurrying little hell demons at every turn. Many saw it as a solemn quest, especially among the dog tribes. It was their honor to serve their people by removing this scourge from the neighborhood. Most of the cats took a differing approach. If the squirrels were getting attention, then they were not.