Wedge, Wolf, Paint

The clerk approaches. I speak:

“I am on the hunt for paints and supplies. After substantive research, I know that I want the full set of Daniel Smith watercolours, a complete set of sable hair brushes (including a set of wedges), and two each of your Arches Cold Press papers in each size. Please gather it all and I shall be at the counter with my credit card at the ready.”

The clerk’s eyebrows shot up as I listed my requirements. No matter. Wolf, my son, enjoys finger painting; when he is ready, the finest tools will be available.

Lucky, Plan, Deaf

The crime boss, so old he was called “Yoda”, body slumped in the chair but eyes sharp and penetrating, wheezed in a breath from the oxygen tank, then pointed out a lieutenant, “You were lucky? Lucky? You relied on luck and not a plan?”

A patronizing grin on the young thug’s face answered. “Yeah - plans get in the way of action.”

Yoda grinned back. “I guess you’re deaf, since I told you to have a plan. Ah well… plans are for the old, I guess. My plan is to have you killed if you failed to follow my orders. Goodbye…”

August, Zipper, Team

There is nothing that can project confidence and power like wearing well-tailored clothes. A fine fabric, cut well, to perfectly fit someone’s body, is like a modern day suit of armour; business warriors suit up, prepared to take no prisoners.

There is nothing that can ruin all of that like a zipper. They snag, break, stick… nothing can turn an august appearance into an accidental comedy like a pants zipper that won’t close completely, exposing undergarments to the world.

Teams of researchers are working to end the blight of zipper malfunctions but, to date, the zipper has defeated them.

Power, Far, Cozy

“It’s a cozy arrangement. We’re small potatoes but the alliances we’ve built with several major players helps ensure our survival. It’s a far cry from being where I want the organization to be, but day by day our power continues to grow.”

These were the last words Desmond Alvarez, head of the Tomatillo family, uttered in public. It seems that certain other members of that family weren’t happy with the alliance details; too many rules to their liking. Desmond was found, three days after his sudden disappearance, castrated and beheaded. The symbolism of the loss of power was unambiguous. 

Inflict, Recreation, Eye

In this era of smart phones and computer screens, recess ends up being a time when teachers inflict outdoor recreation upon their students.

Larry, a 4th grader and budding entrepreneur, would hide three devices in the woods at the edge of the playground. Each day, he’d collect five dollars for twenty minutes of play time. He also hired two 1st graders to keep an eye on the teachers.

This enterprise was a gateway business towards greater criminality. By the time he was sixteen, a significant portion of the underworld activities in Aberdeen were done under the auspices of Lucky Larry.

Caper, Easy, Graphic

Charlie the Tuna’s fin trembled as he downed yet another Captain Morgan. Other patrons steered clear of the mumbling fish, leaving the bartender the only one around he could talk to.

“You ever see what they do to salmon?”

“Easy there Charlie. How about ya slow down?”

“It’s barbaric! And they use those stupid little things… capers!”

“How about’s I call ya a cab?”

“And they’ve got pictures on the walls of how to dismember ‘em! Graphic graphics! Sal… sal… he was… *sniff*…”

“Ya sure Charlie? Sal was just in yesterday…”

“Yeah? Yeah!?!? Well, he won’t be here today… Sal…”

Yell, Fly, Mundane

Life is difficult, living in dark, crowded conditions. This sentiment was oft repeated by the millions of cockroaches living behind the walls of that restaurant you’ll never walk in to because it looks like it might be infested. Well, it is. Not that they mean you any harm; they’re simply bored and need to scuttle every now and then. Anyway…

One day, one cockroach (who knows which, they all look the same), decided to play a prank. He put a dead fly (nothing special - totally mundane) onto a stick to scare his mother. Well! She didn’t just yell, she screamed.

Cheap, Plush, Secret

It took Nadia most of her life to understand her subtle but compelling feelings. In high school, she figured out she wasn’t heterosexual. Or homosexual. She knew she wasn’t asexual. It wasn’t until graduate school, when she worked on a team using a Cray supercomputer, that she finally understood her orientation - technosexual. She was attracted to high-performance computers.

She needed to keep it a secret - there was no way the rest of her team would understand. But she did allow herself little pleasures: perfume (she could only afford cheap stuff); silky work clothes; and soft, plush computer-shaped pillows.

Oops, Forgot, Words

Kurt Forelock’s fall from grace had been swift. Once a high-flying staffer at a major accounting firm (think Accountants to the Award Shows), Kurt had made the mistake of handing the wrong envelope to a presenter.

He was able to arrest his descent in the universe of Guy Entrusted With Stuff when he landed the gig making sure the National Spelling Bee’s words were delivered safely to the event.

Kurt, however, brooding on his fall from grace, was very drunk in a local bar when a panicked text came in.

“Oops. I forgot”, was all he could slur.

Fever, Strange, Graft

Sam was a bio-hacker extraordinaire. He’d found ways to greatly enhance endurance. She’d perfected her brain’s ability to analyze and calculate. It was the fevered desire to be able to change gender at will that drove Sam to study, research, and attempt a strange series of surgeries to achieve the goal.

An unregulated medical centre with an unscrupulous set of doctors and nurses agreed to execute Sam’s plan: graft clownfish genes to Sam’s own using nanotechnology.

As hinted above, it worked. However, there were some unintentional effects. For instance, Sam felt the need to move into a huge anemone.

Earn, Urn, Lance

The Golden Lance and the Silver Urn were the two awards at the Worcester Renaissance Faire Paul desperately wanted to win. The problem was that he was neither a good cook nor knew how to ride a horse, let alone joust.

He decided that if he couldn’t earn them honestly, he’d have to resort to trickery. Which is why he faked a cancer diagnosis, then contacted the Make A Wish Foundation.

His plan quickly fell apart, not least of all when he was contacted by the Foundation. It’s for children under 18. Paul’s been married longer than that (he’s 46).

Stout, Optimist, Scurry

“And now we come to end of tour, where you can sample MacGuiness Stout, finest brew in Uzbekistan.”

The hotel concierge had convinced Jeremy (in town on business) to take a chance on what the brochure had described as “world’s finest tour of earth best stout”. Being an optimist, he figured at worst he’d be able to talk about the experience at parties.

Throughout the tour, there’d been a lingering smell that was familiar, but he couldn’t place. As the tour entered the tasting room, rats sauntered (not scurried) out of view. Ah yeah - he could place the smell now.

Address, Fellow, Greet

On UFO #433, from planet Zignog, a high-level meeting was being held while in orbit around a newly discovered planet…

“Quirsnip! Your suggestion to enslave the population is not welcome. We must address their leader, greet them as fellow citizens of the galaxy.”

Quirsnip’s tentacles waved wildly. “Snortablort! You are a peacenik! I should be captain!”

Snortablort’s eyestalks all pointed towards his naysayer. “You speak treason! I will address the populace! You will keep you orifices shut! Now… I shall practice.”

Quirsnip glowered impotently. Snortablort cleared his air holes, held himself erect, and said “Take me to your leader.”

Cord, List, Salute

The frigate, USS Steadfast, was about to be launched from the shipyard in Newport News, Virginia. The crowd included top brass. The band began to play and everyone stood, while the honour guard saluted.

The First Lady was handed a bottle of champagne hanging from a long cord. Taking a big swing, she smashed it onto the hull, christening the ship. It then began to slide down the ramp into the water.

The crowd began to look concerned as the ship didn’t sit true in the water, instead listing to port. And tipped further. And then turned over and sank.

Modern, Never, Creed

“Never have I ever… gone to the Museum of Modern Art. If you have, take a drink. Jill, your turn.”

The Never Have I Ever game is a classic icebreaker game (and way to get guests tipsy). Samantha loved teaching it to new players, watching how the statements became more outrageous as the game went on. 

“Never have I ever… been to a Creed concert.”

After multiple rounds, and multiple drinks, things got more interesting…

“Never have I ever… been tied up during sex.”

“Never have I ever… broken into an abandoned house.”

Samantha’s memory, even when drunk, was incredible…

Slap, Freedom, Whet

“Well slap my ass and call me Sally! I never figured you’d see the outside of Santa Fe prison, yet here you are, Bart! How’d ya do it? How is it you’re not pushing up daisies?”

Bart looked around the saloon, and apparently satisfied, looked at Jim Candy. “How’d I win my freedom? Heh… in a card game. The warden needed someone who could help him win a high-stakes poker game. Now, you’ve whet my appetite for a bath and bed.”

“But… why didn’t the warden just kill ya after?”

“‘Cause he won but everyone knew it weren’t fair.”

Ash, Align, Bath

Jupiter and Venus aligned, the Moon new, the Solstice arrived. The dancers, carrying lanterns, weaved intricate patterns under the cloudless sky. They chanted and sang in a language long dead, an eerily hypnotic rhythm that moved limbs when exhaustion would prevent it.

Focusing on the tower of wood in the centre, the focal point, the dancers’ voices were joined with an unnatural sensation of sound, syrupy, clinging. Falling to the ground, lights pulsing inwards, the bonfire sprang into life and from it emerged Maven, goddess of the night.

“Oi, what a journey! I need a bath! And a scented loofa!”

Lair, Stare, Stair

“Thanks Bob. As you mentioned, the Camden Fire Department are holding a haunted house this evening from seven to ten, and again tomorrow. They’re raising money for a new fire house, so your $10 entry will get you, not just scares, but goes to a good cause.

“I’ve got Fire Chief Jackson here. What can you tell us?”

“This year’s house is far scarier than last year. Head up those stairs, go through the front door, and enter the lair of Dracula.”

“Thanks Chief. Get the camera on the vampires staring out the window. Scary!”

“Um… those aren’t our guys…” 

Crank, Epic, Froth

Mathilda Fusselbuth was the Head Matron at the Institute of Coffee. She would go from room to room, observing quietly as people practiced the fine art of coffee preparation. Fine china and silver utensils were the norm, the soft clink as sugar and cream were stirred in. But as she entered the Blue Room one day, she was horrified.

Three young people were high-fiving, laughing over the “epic froth” they’d just cranked out. Mathilda’s hand went to her chest and grasped the string of pearls; she might as well have seen trolls stirring coffee.

She exited the room quickly.

Speaker, Loss, Block

“Mr. Speaker, Thomas Jefferson, in the Declaration of Independence, wrote ‘when in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another… they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.'

“I represent a people, the Underserved, whose race, religion, gender, orientation, and other characteristics cause them to be ground underfoot by their government.

“But their government no more. They have seceded. Do not block this action, do not arrest this activity. This declaration is our gain and your loss.

“We shall coexist, but not relent.”

Tail, Tale, Teal

“Rodney! For the last time, stop interrupting Mrs. McGillicuty! Oh… It’s ok, Mrs. McGillicutty? Ok fine, Rodney. What is it that you need to say right now to the members of the South Fresno UFO Abduction Club?

“You’ll never believe what just happened…”

“No doubt”, muttered Mrs. McGillicuty.

“…but I was taken to a planet by a 7-ft tall teal moth-man. With a spiked tail.”

“Probably drank something spiked…”, muttered Mrs. McGillicuty.

“Rodney!”, yelled the president of SFUFOAC. “I just saw you last night!”

“They use time travel, Frank! It’s quite the tale, I tell you…”

Eyes rolled.

Nut, Bolt, Hammer

Detective Witherspoon stood outside the hideout of Mick St. Mickey, known as “The Mouse”. Officers were stationed at the known exits of this bolthole - it was likely when he became aware of the police, he’d bolt.

Getting the location of his HQ had been a tough nut to crack. However, an undercover cop had gotten Mick’s known associate, “Terry the Trap”, to spill the beans by getting him hammered at the local watering hole.

Witherspoon signalled his readiness; entry to be initiated in 5… 4… 3…

A loud crash from within; the cops had been spotted. The Mouse was running.

Time, Cistern, Destroy

Detective Witherspoon was a veteran of the force, twenty years of solving mysteries and bringing criminals to justice. All that experience seemed as nothing as he stripped off the anti contamination suit - a predator was on the loose.

The remains of several victims (forensics would have to count the number) lay in the cistern. Time and weather had destroyed evidence. His only hope was that, within that grim scene, was a clue, a mistake, something.

He now needed to project calm to a worried public. Taking a deep drink of convenience store coffee, he turned to face the reporter scrum.

Liberal, Ace, Star

“Janice, I know you were the ace political reporter at the Worcester Rooster, but this is the Montgomery Star and we can’t have  a liberal bias in our paper.”

“But Mr. Dorkins, it’s not liberal bias to report that a woman’s ability to choose to carry a pregnancy or not is being taken away by…”

“Janice! The government isn’t taking away anything from women! They are seeking to protect the unborn!”

“By usurping the freedom of the woman! It’s her body and…”

“Nonsense! For nine months, the woman’s body isn’t hers to decide…”

“Thus taking away her freedom to choose!”

Flounder, Choice, Mumble

Some people are bi-polar, flip-flopping between hyper and depressive episodes. I have something of the same, but it’s my ability to relate to people. I flip-flop between extreme extravertedness and introvertedness.

I’d asked this nice girl out, my flamboyant self sweeping her off her feet. Literally. It’d been at the dairy cooler while she read yogurt labels.

Tonight, however, I’ve flipped. I’m doing my best to act the part but I’m flailing. I can tell she knows something’s wrong. The waiter tells us about the flounder special. I mumble my choice of entree. She leans in, intrigued.

Dessert, Front, Gull

Gerard, the Parisian Sea Gull, had watched the movie Ratatouille forty-three times. Gerard would watch Remy the rat cook his rodent heart out, but kept wondering where the desserts were. Gerard wanted to be Remy’s pastry chef.

The question for Gerard was how to apply for the job. Should he be up front? Say that his idea of a good dessert should have crab in it? Or at least a fish? Or perhaps he should be more coy (or koi…mmm… koi…) and show that seafood can be a centre point to a good dessert.

Reader - wish Gerard well.

Salve, Weather, Dream

Rain is supposed to cool the temperature, make the weather more bearable. But it doesn’t. It stays hot and becomes more humid. Stepping out from air conditioned spaces instantly causes profuse sweating, soaking clothes.

There is no salve, no cure. Frequent showers help. Copious amounts of cold salted water helps. But nothing stops the damp heat from sucking my mind, leaving me feeling dull and drained.

I had a dream the other day, one that if I still ate carbohydrates, I might act on. Coconut ice cream carts promise cold and sweet, served on white bread covered in condensed milk.

News, White, Rice

Buster wasn’t the brightest bulb in the pack. Nor was he the sharpest tool in the shed. When God was handing out brains, he thought He’d said “rains” and so asked for an umbrella.

Buster was stupid.

Last year, his sister (who’s the office manager for the headquarters of a Fortune 500 company) got married and Buster was invited (he’d overheard the happy news). She was resplendent in white silk and her husband dapper in his tails. Buster wore his best Hawaiian shirt.

As the happily wedded couple exited the church, Buster tossed brown rice. He thought it was healthier.

Decent, Body, Aviary

“Where is the Homing Pigeon now, BirdMaster?”

“In the aviary, m’Lord Defence Minister.”

“And the message it was carrying?”

“It awaits your pleasure in your office, m’Lord.”

“What did it say of the disposition of the main body of the enemies’ troops?”

“I don’t know, m’Lord. I can’t read.”

“And who knows this message has been received?”

“Besides myself and you, no one, m’Lord.”

“Excellent. Come to my office, BirdMaster. I have a decent red that needs decanting.”

A slow acting poison in the wine and message in the fire; no one need know that the Minister had turned traitor.

Mobile, Saint, Dole

Jasmine St.Claire was on a mission: to find every stray wombat in Florida, tag it, and release it back into the wild. It didn’t bother her that wombats are native to Australia - she was on the dole at a prestigious university and they had sanctioned this work; she was going to search every inch of coastline because that was good science! And would lead to a boss tan.

Heading west towards Mobile, AL, her RV overheated. A tow truck (the saint of the highway system) pulled up as a small marsupial peeked through some bushes. She didn’t see it.