Friday, January 28, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Woody's World - Three-Minute Fiction Round Six
Charlie perches on a red vinyl stool belly-up to his usual, hot roast beef on white bread, smothered in brown gravy. Outside, the icy drizzle mimics fog. Charlie shivers and rubs his rough hands together. Vernon, his current boss and future father-in-law if he plays his cards right, sits beside him, scowling and poking at his mashed potatoes.
Though every table in the Story City Café is full, only the clink of forks and the occasional satisfied grunt breaks the silence. They’re the regulars – hard Iowa men at their midday meal. No need for discussion. Charlie picks up a newspaper and skims the funnies between bites.
The bell on the door rings out as a mother and child crash into the café, dripping and frenzied. Arms at his sides, the boy wails open-mouthed. His mother kneels in front of him and, brushing the water from his coat, begs him under her breath to be a good boy.
Forks still and the diners watch unabashed as she pulls her screaming son to the counter, plunks him on a high stool and orders a milkshake from the frowning café owner.
“Look, honey,” she pleads near her son’s tear-stained face. “You’re gonna get a milkshake! Doesn’t that make you happy?”
The howling continues.
“Don’t make him happy,” Vernon grumbles loudly to his mashed potatoes. “Make him behave.”
The color leaves her face as the mother looks from Vernon to the ground.
“Hey there, kiddo!” Charlie calls in a loud voice. He grabs the newspaper and makes his way to the boy, all eyes following him with interest.
“Look at this comic. It’s real funny.”
The boy quiets and looks where Charlie is pointing.
“It’s Woody’s World,” Charlie continues. “See, in this one Woody’s driving his truck and trailer but some oaf crashed into the trailer from behind. Otis, Woody’s horse, has gotten outta the trailer and is kicking the ever-living craaa….” he stops himself, “car like to dent it, cause he’s mad. And look! Here comes Woody and says to his horse, ‘I’ll handle this, Otis!’”
Charlie chuckles and looks up from the comic to see the child is wholly unimpressed, his bottom lip quaking, but his mother’s face beams with gratitude. Right on time, the milkshake arrives with a tall twisty straw that corks a new eruption of sobs. Charlie returns to his stool and the clinking and grunting resumes from all corners.
Later, after the milkshake is gone and the bell signaling the mother and son’s departure has quieted, Vernon mumbles, “Lemme see that comic.”
Charlie hands the paper over. Vernon reads for a moment, then, slowly, his face appears to crack and his lips bend. As he starts to snort, Charlie, watching in amazement, copies him inadvertently. Vernon begins to laugh, first in a hoarse chuckle, then in a loud belly-shaking guffaw, and Charlie follows suit. Soon the two are slapping each other and gasping for air, tears streaming from their eyes. Forks stop again as the diners turn to stare at the second outburst of the mealtime.
Their laughter finally quieting, Vernon looks over at Charlie’s plate. “You pert near done?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
Sliding simultaneously from their stools, Vernon and Charlie head to the register.
The price of the lunch special is always the same, but the owner tells them anyway. “That’ll be two bucks each.”
Charlie pulls two bills from his fold, but Vernon steps between him and the counter and lays down four bills. Turning to Charlie, he smiles and says, “I’ll handle this, Otis.”
Though every table in the Story City Café is full, only the clink of forks and the occasional satisfied grunt breaks the silence. They’re the regulars – hard Iowa men at their midday meal. No need for discussion. Charlie picks up a newspaper and skims the funnies between bites.
The bell on the door rings out as a mother and child crash into the café, dripping and frenzied. Arms at his sides, the boy wails open-mouthed. His mother kneels in front of him and, brushing the water from his coat, begs him under her breath to be a good boy.
Forks still and the diners watch unabashed as she pulls her screaming son to the counter, plunks him on a high stool and orders a milkshake from the frowning café owner.
“Look, honey,” she pleads near her son’s tear-stained face. “You’re gonna get a milkshake! Doesn’t that make you happy?”
The howling continues.
“Don’t make him happy,” Vernon grumbles loudly to his mashed potatoes. “Make him behave.”
The color leaves her face as the mother looks from Vernon to the ground.
“Hey there, kiddo!” Charlie calls in a loud voice. He grabs the newspaper and makes his way to the boy, all eyes following him with interest.
“Look at this comic. It’s real funny.”
The boy quiets and looks where Charlie is pointing.
“It’s Woody’s World,” Charlie continues. “See, in this one Woody’s driving his truck and trailer but some oaf crashed into the trailer from behind. Otis, Woody’s horse, has gotten outta the trailer and is kicking the ever-living craaa….” he stops himself, “car like to dent it, cause he’s mad. And look! Here comes Woody and says to his horse, ‘I’ll handle this, Otis!’”
Charlie chuckles and looks up from the comic to see the child is wholly unimpressed, his bottom lip quaking, but his mother’s face beams with gratitude. Right on time, the milkshake arrives with a tall twisty straw that corks a new eruption of sobs. Charlie returns to his stool and the clinking and grunting resumes from all corners.
Later, after the milkshake is gone and the bell signaling the mother and son’s departure has quieted, Vernon mumbles, “Lemme see that comic.”
Charlie hands the paper over. Vernon reads for a moment, then, slowly, his face appears to crack and his lips bend. As he starts to snort, Charlie, watching in amazement, copies him inadvertently. Vernon begins to laugh, first in a hoarse chuckle, then in a loud belly-shaking guffaw, and Charlie follows suit. Soon the two are slapping each other and gasping for air, tears streaming from their eyes. Forks stop again as the diners turn to stare at the second outburst of the mealtime.
Their laughter finally quieting, Vernon looks over at Charlie’s plate. “You pert near done?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
Sliding simultaneously from their stools, Vernon and Charlie head to the register.
The price of the lunch special is always the same, but the owner tells them anyway. “That’ll be two bucks each.”
Charlie pulls two bills from his fold, but Vernon steps between him and the counter and lays down four bills. Turning to Charlie, he smiles and says, “I’ll handle this, Otis.”
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
ABC I'm JK, LOL
I can say the alphabet as a word,but you can't hear it because this is a blog.
"I once had an abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwyxz,
but it ran away and I cried."
Say it with me:
AB(like ab)-C(like k)-DEF(like deaf)-GHI(like gee)-JKL(like jekyll)-MNOP(like men-op)-QRS(like cris)-TUV(like toov)-WYX(like wicks)-Z(like zzzzz)Art by Paul Thurlby
This Forever Coming of Age
I can't remember how
To attend to my feelings alone
Like my infant self
Who smiled at the sight of light on the ceiling
And cried at the twinge of pain if it offended.
Rather, now I hide from offense behind smiles
And cry instead at beauty like an angel fallen from grace.
I have learned too well to dissemble, even to myself.
So well I no longer know how to align sense and response.
Likewise, in this forever coming of age,
Reaction no longer follows action
As it did when I was young.
My small smiles do not bring joy and praise.
My wailing cries do not bring help and comfort.
But I would like, in just one lucid moment, to know -
Is it so because they know I lie
Or do I lie because it is so?
To attend to my feelings alone
Like my infant self
Who smiled at the sight of light on the ceiling
And cried at the twinge of pain if it offended.
Rather, now I hide from offense behind smiles
And cry instead at beauty like an angel fallen from grace.
I have learned too well to dissemble, even to myself.
So well I no longer know how to align sense and response.
Likewise, in this forever coming of age,
Reaction no longer follows action
As it did when I was young.
My small smiles do not bring joy and praise.
My wailing cries do not bring help and comfort.
But I would like, in just one lucid moment, to know -
Is it so because they know I lie
Or do I lie because it is so?
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