West, Stripe, Track

I was six blocks away, grabbing coffee from a convenience store known more for the hours than their quality beverages, when I got the call. Midnight on the beat is murder.

Which is what we had: white male, 30s, in a track suit, dumped in a hedge next to his squalid apartment block. Unsavoury place. Smells like my coffee tastes.

I dumped it. In a different hedge.

Witness saw a car drive off: westbound, blue Honda, no plate.

Sergeant showed up; man’s got more stripes than sense. Who’ll take the blame for his bungled investigation today? Hope it ain’t me.

Dish, Over, Stretch

Cookies

Run down hall

Cookies

Run into cookie room

Cookies

Cook… *pause*… hear something? Mommy and Daddy won’t let me have cookies.

Hello puppy!

See plate where cookies are. Reach… stretch! Can’t reach.

Sitting thing. Drag to cookie plate.

Climb

Grab a cookie… uh oh. Knock over. Cookies on floor

Cookies in puppy dish! Puppy eating cookie! Funny!

Get down from sitting thing. Cookies!

Hello Mommy! Want a cookie? Uh oh - angry face.

Look! Puppy eating cookie too! Laughing face. Happy!

I eat cookies, puppy eats cookies, Mommy watches and says stuff and uses her phone to watch me.

Cookies!

Door, Way, Useless

“No way.”

“Way!”

“No way!”

“Yes way!”

In hindsight, this was one of the more cogent arguments used by my best bud, Rick, to enter his parent’s closet. Maybe we were stoned at the time. Like, mind-meltingly stoned.

It’s the way into another dimension, said Rick. Enter the closet, close the door, cross over.

I didn’t believe him but I was curious. Hey! I was stoned! And it’s useless trying to construct rational arguments with lead head. In I went.

I might still be in there. Here. Somewhere, anyway.

Am I living another life or am I tripping balls?

Marble, Oasis, Perhaps

It was billed as an oasis, a luxury-filled spa where every care would be eased away by attentive staff providing the ultimate in European-style treatments. To say that it failed to live up to that standard is an understatement.

Marble columns and rich appointments give an amazing first impression. However, the darkened treatment rooms can’t hide the smell of mold and decay. The staff are rude and in many cases looked high. Threadbare sheets and towels reeked of bleach and lavender.

My suggestion to the owners is that they perhaps review the business from top to bottom.

Mingle, Dangle, Lurch

Come to the bar, they said

Grab a drink and mingle

It’s your birthday, come cut loose

Besides, you’re lonely and you’re single

Even though that’s what they said

They were working a different angle

‘Cause this was a male stripper bar

And they’d paid for an enormous dangle

I figured t’would be tame

Him dancing before me

But apparently they bought the Risque Package

He did things they can’t show on TV

After several hours and many drinks

From the bar I lurched

Checking my watch t’wasn’t Saturday night

But almost time for church

Next weekend, come soon. Please.

Dominate, Insight, Plural

I don’t view myself as a “kill or be killed” kind of guy, but when it comes to Fear, it’s either it or me. Either I destroy that monster or it will dominate me: my thoughts, my emotions, my body.

I gained this insight on a field of battle in elementary school. I was a skinny geek, trying to figure out the plural of different things (octopi vs octopuses) when these two lowlifes (not lowlives) starting coming at me. I crapped my pants, but then I defeated Fear. Got my ass kicked, but I fought like a mongoose on crack.

Ignorant, Signal, Wave

There’s a difference between being ignorant and being stupid: if you do something out of ignorance, you can learn from experience and not do it again. If you’re stupid, it doesn’t matter what life tries to teach - you’re not going to learn.

Here at The Cliff Diving School, being stupid will kill you.

Until you get a feel for when to jump, your instructor will give a signal letting you know that a suitable wave is incoming and the timing is good.

Do not ignore your instructor. Do not think you know more than they do.

Most importantly, have fun!

Dollar, Kite, Valve

Are you the kind of person who enjoys doing an activity but hates the setup? You thrill at flying kites but hate waiting for a sufficient breeze?

I’m the same! I use the Kite Cannon! And for only 100 dollars (plus shipping and handling), I can send you one too. Just load your kite into the tube and with a flick of a switch, a series of values will fire your kite into the jet stream.

As an added bonus, I’ll throw in high-strength kite string, strong enough to withstand the extreme forces your kite will experience!

Buy today!

Exclude, Rope, Vary

Nothing moved in the darkened guest bedroom. Madame Margot thought, “She’s late.”

She’d roped Lady Pierce into her scheme, although the good Lady didn’t know the real purpose of the evening’s activity. The Angry Spirit (which had dogged Margot ever since a disastrous seance) demanded the sacrifice of a fetish (some feathers tied together with sinew, currently in the Lady’s possession).

Margot stepped quietly into the hallway, making for the Lady’s bedroom. She varied the rhythm of her stride to disguise her presence; Creaky creaky reveals the sneaky.

“Do Not. Exclude. The Lady.” The Angry Spirit’s new demand rattled Margot.

Seize, Straight, Essence

Ever seen those self-help books that claim you can be successful and rich if only you buy it in your local store? You know, seize the day and all that.

I know they’re bunk but I can’t help myself; I pay the ridiculous sum, wade through the text and eventually find that tucked within the 300-odd pages, there’s one good idea.

I’d love to give people like me the essence of each title and give it straight without tons of filler. For one low price, you get dozens of titles in one compact volume.

I’d buy a copy.

Limit, Take, Sneak

When you work an office job for a big company, you shouldn’t ever run out of supplies at home: paper, envelopes, pens, you name it. It’s a perk of employment.

Don’t sneak or slink into the storeroom: that brings attention. Confidence is key, like when buying feminine products for your wife - smile proudly as you pay for those tampons. Same goes for the supplies leaving with you today.

The key is to make many trips for inconsequential amounts of things, but take a bit more than you need for work - the rest goes home. Know the limits, play within it.

Again, Song, Relish

There’s nothing like a New York hotdog. Those all-beef delights served at rolling carts are my weekend lunch providers - I sometimes get two so that I can have one for dinner.

I was feeling frivolous the last time I visited my favourite hotdog cart. I danced down the street, singing along to a tune blaring from my ear buds, my mouth already starting to water. Clark, my hotdog maestro, gave me a quick hug before we got down to business: bun, dog, relish, ketchup, mustard, ‘kraut, onions.

“Clark! Relish me again!”

He laughed and poured more on.

Mmmm. Perfection.

Shoot, Unless, Vice

We all have one: a guilty pleasure, a vice, we reach for when times are tough. Cigarettes, booze, drugs, all that and so much more. Mine is more involved but far less toxic to my body.

Today is Saturday and I need to release some steam. This is my private shooting range on a very remote piece of land.

Two watermelons are lined up, the smaller one in front of the bigger one. I’m going to shoot only the bigger one from a quarter mile away. Unless I take my time, I’ll miss.

Breathing slows, the world disappears, squeeze.

Bullseye.

Stomach, Tilt, Bump

We gaze into each other’s eyes over glasses of port in the Italian restaurant where we’d had our first date. A ring, The Ring, in my coat pocket.

It’s nerves that I’m sweating, right? And my stomach doing gymnastics. She looks concerned but I wave it off; this will not ruin my proposal. But maybe a splash of water is needed.

I start to stand up but the ground tilts underneath me and I guess my head bumps into the table as it rushes up at me.

I come to and an ER doctor tells me it was food poisoning.

Score, Town, Rewind

I live in a small town, a place where high school football scores are reported in the local paper, everyone works nine to five, and the streets are empty by ten. Day in, day out, it’s rewind, repeat. Anything unusual, even a tragedy, is a blessing; anything trumps mundane.

Which explains the reactions to Greg Hargrave’s news that he’d been abducted by aliens. Not that anyone believed him, but they wanted to.

The town literally rolled out a welcome mat, with airstrip. Based on Greg’s story, people dressed in alien garb, spoke alien gibberish, and wondered if they play football.

Heart, Flush, Receive

Brenda, deep into a bottle of red, watched Titanic. She wondered what time it was, cuing the cathedral’s clock to start striking midnight. Between the seventh and eighth sonorous tones, her phone played “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” - the ringtone for her soon-to-be-ex boyfriend.

She ignored it.

A minute later, he came in, flushed and abashed. “Found the spare key.”

“It’s late.”

He told her an incredible tale of horrendous luck, then poured out his heart asking for forgiveness for ruining Valentine’s.

She took pity on him and poured a glass of wine which he received gratefully.

Touch, Country, Reply

“Touch me again, cowboy, and I’ll use my guns in reply.”

Cheesy line from a cheesy movie, I know, but that’s the point. Pistols Of Thunder is a low-budget Hong Kong Western. We’ll have bad English dubbing, odd translations, and unknown “stars”.

The producers believe audiences are looking for ’70’s experiences and this film is supposed to fit right into that niche. I’m the director/writer of this thing; I’ll be shocked if anyone in any country pays money to watch this.

But my paycheque is tied to this right now, so back to work. Places! Set! Action!

Independent, Flourish, Help

Maybe it’s the new coronavirus or something else, but I feel like death warmed over. There is no way I can do my Uber gig but I need money. Despite my aching head, I came up with a solution: ask my friend (actor, singer, waiter) to drive for me and take a percent. Surprisingly, he agreed.

Even more surprising, he had a blast. He said he wanted to not only help me but put a flourish on the job, make the role of independent contractor shiny and new. He taped the whole thing.

And he wants to drive next Saturday.

Lead, Forsake, Trumpet

She was dancing wildly, carefree, celebrating the life of a man who had just passed away. Drums and trumpets and dancers and energy swirled joyfully. New Orleans, you know.

A path of self discovery had brought her here, to a land where she could learn to embrace things, rather than avoid them. “Lead us not into temptation…” - what killjoy had written that? Someone who hadn’t experienced life, that’s who.

She’d heard India and Nepal were a must. All she needed was money and she’d be on her way. But for now, there was only the dance.

And that cute guy.

Electronic, Middle, Purpose

He was known as the Radio Shack Guy. Richard Burbon, a middle aged, sickly looking sales clerk with thinning spindly hair and rampant acne, knew more about electronic devices than anyone in the store. It was a point of pride that he could speak knowledgeably and confidently about every product, especially obscure ones.

But every day after work, as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, he wondered if this was his true purpose, if instead he could become a rodeo clown. Each night he swore he’d look for a training course tomorrow.

But that particular tomorrow never came. 

Street, Stir, Thorough

I make my way to my writing nook thon wan (today’s), lost in thought: story ideas peculate; plot points gently play out.

Ice coffee is at the end of my walk, but a street vendor’s wares tempt me: the rich taste of Thai coffee is too much to pass up. I order, then watch as hot water passes through the grounds-full mesh bag, condensed milk stirred in thoroughly, poured over ice. My imagination already has me salivating.

A sip, a sigh, a thank you.

The walk from this point on is less hot, less dusty, much more tasty.

Needle, Set, Between

“Game, Set, Match!”

My opponent trotted up to shake the umpire’s hand; I stood on the court staring at my racket.

The obsequious ass trotted over, gripped my shoulder, and said, “Better luck next time.”

“How’d you do that? Make the ball fly between the netting of my racket?”

He laughed mockingly. “You should get your eyes checked. You missed the ball.”

“I didn’t miss. I just didn’t hit it.”

He shrugged and winked. “Maybe next time, slugger.”

Later on, I watched the video. Somehow, the ball threaded through like a needle.

I guess I’ll need a paddle next time.

Line, Hot, Shut

“Shut the door.”

No worker, ever, has wanted their boss to utter that sentence; the news that will soon follow is never good.

Mike gulped and shut the door. He stood nervously just inside the room, his hands unconsciously guarding his groin.

“Sit down, Mike.”

No worker ever wants to be in the boss’ office long. An invitation to sit is really bad.

“Want some coffee? It’s hot.”

No worker ever wants… actually - a hot beverage sounds good…

“Mike, Assembly Line 3 needs a guiding hand. I want you to do it.”

A promotion?

“Now, this isn’t a promotion.”

Figures.

Flour, Hop, Spray

“Hop to it! Delivery in thirty minutes!”

So yelled my boss, a mediocre baker who upgraded his business to making ornate cakes. None of us are expert bakers.

The current project is a lemon cake built to look like two swans, their graceful necks intertwined into a heart.

The cake tastes like lemon infused flour - the mixing machine was still spitting flour dust from the batter when we started molding it.

But the taste might distract from the shape which looks more like angry beavers than swans. The ganache is pale green (don’t ask how).

We’re going to get sued.

Blind, Topple, Lie

Josh moved slowly, eyes moving around and over the structure, looking for possibilities, advantages. Jaw clenched, right forefinger nervously stroking the adjoining thumb, a slight trace of steam rising off his head. Rick sat and stared, chewing on a hangnail.

His hand reached out tentatively then retreated, a slight shake of the head rejecting the proposed move.

Josh gently pushed on a piece, the tower threatening to topple. Heartbeat hammering in his ears, his hands working blind as his eyes refused to watch. Then a crash and pieces lying on the ground. Rick mouthed to Josh, “I win.”

Jenga’s intense.

Clarity, Feminine, Ship

The Sub-Committee for Climate Change is the place where scientifically unhinged members pontificate, generally at expert witnesses, on garbage “science”.

At a recent hearing, Rachael Wilkins, Chief Oceanographer for NOAH, was testifying about rising sea levels when she was interrupted by Committee Chair Wilbur Stubbins, who was known for his Southern drawl:

“Now Ms. Wilkins, we all appreciate that you think the water is a-risin’. I think we should sink a ship full of feminine products in each of the harbours needin’ a bit o’help. But for clarity, this is if sea levels are rising. Which they aren’t.”

Guilt, Breath, Mission

“You’re breathing my air!”

This is a standard answer from an experienced submarine crewman to anyone who’s slacking. I feel no guilt for the reprimand I just received. I’m a mission specialist who’s interest in most of the inner workings of this complicated tin can is nil. But no one can know that.

It is all about the air. In a defined space, a given number of people, and machines that have a finite capacity to scrub air of CO2, there is a limited amount.

Navy Intelligence wants to see what happens if those machines are tampered with. Russian Intelligence.

Forge, Focus, Grate

Two workers share the same area: one singularly focused on work and the other a chatterbox. What might a fly on the wall hear?

“Catch the game last night? 

“My cousin has this weird rash shaped like an elephant…

“Did you hear? Michaels got the promotion. I don’t like that guy.

“What’cha working on? Looks complex.

“Why are you grating your teeth? I can hear it from here.”

A pause, then a response. “I’m forging the perfect ceramic engine. One thing wrong and it blows up.”

“That’s awesome! I want to drive the car that baby’s in!"

“Not a chance.”

Cook, Peace, Raffle

It’s said that the only way to get artists to attend a party is to serve food. Cynthia Meadows did one better and aside from hiring the city’s best chef (and his team of talented cooks), she also handed out raffle tickets (attendance required to win). All this effort, she hoped, would be worth it. Her goal: get her two favourite artists to make peace - their months-long feud was affecting their work.

As the party warmed up, she found them in opposite parts of the house. At least they’re here, she thought. Time to play peacemaker. Champagne will help.