I now have dozens of chess pieces to arrange and otherwise play with. This gives me a greater understanding of the appeal of playing with dolls. They have the potential of spring boarding countless stories.
the dog, a shepherd-chow mix, was plucked from the mundane reality of a cement-floored living room in the late 1990s and was suddenly hurtling through what appeared to the dog to be a featureless patch of sky. the dog’s brain translated the motion into a terrifying endless fall and he yelped and scrabbled at nothing. those who had captured him also had taken the volume of air he had inhaled, and they had surrounded the dog with an enormous volume of air of the same mix and pressure, mindful of the dog’s survival.
as the dog slowly calmed, the kidnappers performed endless scans and other tests on him, and soon they had enough of what they wanted to be able to return the dog to the living room from where they’d snatched him. they observed the household periodically thereafter while a genetically identical version of the dog was created and brought to maturity.
the original dog died two years and two months after his abduction. the observers watched passively as the family buried the dog in their back yard.
a few days later the family was sitting in their living room and heard a scratching sound at the front door.
(Recap: a boxer has a girlfriend whose magic thread, sewn into his gloves, gave him stamina and helped him win his fights. She unstitched it at his request and he won matches without magical help. She grew jealous of his female fans and restitched the gloves to wilt him, both in the ring and on his shorts. He confronted her and she again undid the stitching and committed to doing whatever he asked, provided he won his next bout.)
F.R. was outweighed by 7 pounds at the weigh-in
And was glad
He felt lean and slippery quick
And at the bell he was silent and tentative at first
They traded inconsequential jabs
F. got clipped with a glancing roundhouse to the brow
Then danced back from a left of murderous power
Then he weaved in under his foe’s punches and said You are getting one in the ribs just as he delivered a non-dominant-hand uppercut below his opponent’s guard
And just as the round was ending F. said I hope you like snowstorms
.
In round two F poured it on
He attacked like George Patton and he trash-talked like Larry Bird with a snowstorm of punches in flurries that built to a blizzard
Heedless of defending his face he did get a convincing punch in the nose that brightened the inside of his head and gave him blood to taste in the back of his mouth
But he barked a laugh and said Share and share alike and delivered an amazingly accurate payback punch to his foe’s nose
Then threw body shots that landed faster than jumprope smacking hardwood
And then the enemy was down
.
Wobbly after the eight-count F.’s opponent proved vulnerable to combinations to the swollen-eyed side of his head
And early in the fourth round F. knocked the guy out
.
How shall we celebrate? Cecilia asked him, eyes shining.
We’ll have to wait till tomorrow, F. told her. I have some unfinished business. He gave her a quick kiss and said See you in the morning and left her.
.
Where did you go? Cecilia demanded, regarding her man carrying an assortment of thin packages under his arm.
First your grandmother’s. Then Macy’s, where I bought these, and he slightly hefted the arm-bundle, then your grandmother’s again, where I spent the night.
He lifted his arm over their dining-room table. The packages, which contained bras, scattered on the lace tablecloth. You’re a 34B, right?
What the hell…?
These are Maidenform bras. Some of them have the “M” logo charm on them, some don’t. But what I did, I had your grandmother, who is even more witchy than you are, sew different variations of “Maidenform” on each one of them. If you put one of them on, it will change you, just like what you sewed on my gloves changed me.
Her eyes widened.
He picked one of them up. This one is “Maldenform.” It will, honest to God, change your nipples into replicas of Karl Malden’s nose.
She gasped.
He picked up another. And this one is “Maidenfarm.” Ever wonder what it would be like to have udders instead of breasts?
She shuddered.
Hey, you shuddered. Fun fact: You can’t spell “shuddered” without Udder.
She rolled her eyes and then looked aghast.
But I will only ask you to wear this one. And last week you told me you would do whatever I asked. He handed her the bra.
She looked at her grandmother’s stitching and it said, in elegant cursive, “MaidenfOMFG.”
WHAT WILL HAPPEN?? she wailed.
He grinned. Trust me. Like you said you would.
She looked at him balefully, then stood up and slowly unbuttoned her blouse, then wrestled herself out of her sports bra. She looked down at her perfectly normal, slightly slouchy breasts, then slipped her arms though the straps of her new bra. Before she fastened the clasp in the front she looked him in the eye, trying to get a clue from his expression, which was inscrutable.
Immediately after she fastened the bra, a humming noise came from the cups. She felt her breasts grow warm, then almost hot. The voice of Hank Williams came from the clasp, singing
Hey,
Good Lookin‘
What
Ya got cookin’?
How about cookin’ something up with
Me?
Abruptly the singing stopped. The humming stopped. The heat from the cups subsided.
Her hands flew to the clasp and she pulled the bra open, then looked down with astonishment.
Her breasts were unchanged.
She looked a question at him.
He grinned. Guess they were OMFG all along.
And he explained that he hadn’t wanted revenge
He had just wanted her to go through something like he had gone through
And he did like her breasts just fine but she was no more her breasts than he was his fists
And he loved her, jealousy and all, and wanted to be with her forever, if she could stand it that he enjoyed the admiration of other females at a distance
And she inhaled and held her breath for three seconds and said Okay and I love you too and
She suddenly laughed and said You wear Jockey shorts, right?
Yeah…?
Any problem with me sewing Hung like a Jockey’s Horse on them?
He laughed and said Go ahead. I doubt if you will notice the difference.
She rolled her eyes and said You are SO full of..
He kissed her.
The End
(Recap: The witchy girlfriend of an aspiring boxer has used magic thread to reinforce the “Last” part of his Everlast gloves. After winning bouts by going the distance, the boxer told his girlfriend that he wanted to win without magical help. She bought him new gloves and he started winning by not going the distance, winning by knockout or TKO instead. His growing fame led to a surge of e-mails and snail-mail from his female fans (among others) and his girlfriend got jealous. In spite she sewed a tiny N to the left of the EVERLAST on his gloves, and now the boxer finds himself totally useless, both in the ring and the bedroom.)
[N]Everlast, part 2
Bereft of manhood
Both in his hapless fists and in his boxing trunks
F.R. the boxer wept
And worried
With an important fight coming up in mere days
.
He went to his jealous lover Cecilia
Accused her of sabotaging him
And she pulled the shoebox of letters out from under the bed
And asked him who was sabotaging who
.
You know what? F. said chuckling
I totally love those letters
And I’m sorry you saw them
Because I knew you would go ballistic
She started to answer but held up a hand
I like that women want me
But it’s just lust for the big sweaty boxer
Just craziness
Now undo whatever you have done ASAP
You don’t want a man who can’t be a man, right?
.
She saw his honest earnest face and apologized
She showed him the little Ns and got out her forked unstitching tool
And unN’d the gloves
He pulled his trunks by the waistband to check his junk
Smiled and said Little F is waking up
She beckoned to the bedroom but he shook his head
Sorry Doll
I got to save my juice for the big fight
And if I win I will want some payback
He looked at her lovingly but repeovingly
I mean–you invaded my privacy and then got me clobbered
She blushed and nodded
He asked her Do you trust me?
She said Yes I do
If you trust me, and love me, will you do whatever I ask you to do after the fight?
She nodded and said Yes I will.
(To be concluded)
Once upon a time there was a land that retained an executioner.
It was an elected position. The person was always known to the public, never wore a mask, and had final say over who was to die or be exiled.
Executions were rare and exiles uncommon. The probing questions posed, and the answers given, if any, were always transcribed and put on public display. Below the transcription were analytical comments. All citizens were invited to comment.
They had about ten executions a year on average. The executioner, who was popular as any rock star of later days, offered all those condemned to death a variety of lethal exits, from a never-wake-up sleep potion to head-chopping to defenestration for the more theatrical. An accomplished chef, the executioner lavished expense and attention on the last meal, and a favorite request was “surprise me.” Legend has it that he created the first Chef’s Surprise, and the diner died smiling hours before his execution was scheduled to take place.
One fateful day an attempt was made on the King’s life. The suspect was the executioner’s own mother. The trial took but two days, the old woman offering no defense nor explanation except “I felt it was in our best interest to dethrone the King.”
After a brief interview with his mother, the executioner announced that her death by guillotine would take place at dawn the next day, and he would ask the King himself to pull the lever to release the blade. “I am able to delegate the task, but am ethically constrained not to do it myself.”
Near dawn, the lady was offered last words. She shook her head and went to her knees, positioning her neck so that her throat rested gently on the slot guiding the blade.
The King burst into tears.
“By Royal decree,” said the King, “I spare this woman’s life. I offer my own life instead. My only stipulation is that she keep her silence as to why she tried to kill me.”
Soon the King assumed the position. But the executioner did not pull the lever, instead nodding to his mother, who solemnly stepped up and ended the King’s life.
What happened afterward is another story.
B is for Bravery facing the elements
R is Reflection on good times indelible
R also Raconteur seizing tale filaments
R is the Race to the End-Tale that’s tellable
R we emotional? Tear ducts are wellable.
as olaf lindberg fell feet first/he pushed a stud on the side of the cylinder/and a nine-foot luminescent rod, pale blue/telescoped instantly/from the bottom end of the cylinder
and as the rod touched the water it bloomed/into an inverse trumpet shape/with notches that the man’s shod toes fit into
the man gripped the rod and leaned slightly forward/and as the trumpet shape clove the water/bubbles and then a wake came up beyond the lip of the trumpet/behind the man
he looked into the camera eye of his faithful drone/and raised his voice above the churning water noise to say
“With nano and jet-ski tech and beamed energy–” a slight jolt from the turbid chop/interrupted him. “…something weighing only eight pounds–” and another jolt tipped him a bit–“saved my life.”
then another chop of water/tipped the man more harshly/and a bit of the river/flowed into the trumpet/and it submerged/and the man’s feet and ankles went underwater…
cheerfully and loudly he exclaimed/”It was a hell of a fun ride while it lasted!/I shall have to abandon ship!”
chest-deep in water/and as he and the river/approached the next downstream bridge/the man brandished his now rodless cylinder/and shouted joyfully “Plan B! Monofilament tech! Batman tech!”
he thumbed the stud again/and monofilament wire shot out of the top end of the cylinder/and its adhesive end/stuck to the far-side underside/of the downstream bridge…
and just like batman and vicky vale/the wire pulled him upward/but he was so heavy with water and overcoat and gadgets/that the wire disadhered from the bridge…
and as he fell he pulled out his drone controller and yelled “Plan C! Dronefish!”
(end of part three)
…
…
epilog
to make a long story short, because we all need to get on with our lives, a fleet of little drones dropped out of the sky above him, fell into the water, and formed a sort of magic carpet raft for him. they quickly conked out but he had time to go to plan d, which was a friend of his in a nearby helicopter. but just as he reached the third to top rung of the rope ladder the friend turned rogue and hit a button, quick-releasing the ladder, and so the man switched to plan e, which was really plan a all along, and his real and ground-breaking invention, which was a giant disembodied hand that sparkled as it scooped him out of the water and lifted him slowly and gently into the sky. the man had his drone stop following him after his last recorded words, which were “Don”t you DARE call this the Hand of God! It’s just tech! Seems like magic, though, doesn’t it? And WAIT till you see the mischief it and I are going to make, Kids!” And then he was lifted away from the drone, which stopped recording and uploaded the video it had made to various social media, and the billions of views it got were a harbinger of history-changing things to come.
The End
the tall, tired-looking, overcoated man/walks with a slight limp up the sidewalk/on the east side of the bridge/that goes over the surging river
near its apex he stops and opens the box he has carried/and pulls out the drone it contained/along with its controller/and sets them both on the sidewalk
he puts a pale blue dot the drone will sense/in the middle of his forehead
pulls cut-resistant gloves from a pocket/and draws them on
picks up the controller/and punches and slides and joysticks the controls/and the camera-laden drone/stirs and rises and positions itself/a foot above and three feet away from his face/its bright green RECORD light gleaming
and the man says, “My name is Olaf Lindberg.
“I am a frustrated inventor. [pause]/I am about to perform a demonstration/For which I will require more strength/than I normally have.”
dr. lindberg puts his gloved hand in a pocket and pulls out a large spansule of deep green/pops it into his mouth, and swallows it.
he looks at the drone’s camera lens/and says, “I am not suicidal, but what I am about to do/ carries a moderate risk of injury,/and a slight risk of death.”
with that he jumps four feet upward/and grabs the chain-link fencing/arcing over the sidewalk/above his head.
the drone whirs upward in sync/guided by the pale blue dot.
(end of part one)
This card shows a moment that two human beings are sharing but is ambiguous enough to require some storytelling from the viewer.
Here are three sketches I did today. The top one seems to include someone who looks like a friend of mine, and I have sent him a text asking if it’s just my imagination, but have not heard back. The other two are typical castings-about for concepts to flesh out. Note that the middle image includes someone who is about to cast with a rod and reel. If I’d put a red dot on the figure’s forehead, and a cast on one of the arms, and a cast in one of the eyes, the weather forecast would be Overcast(e), because my cast would then include a member of a caste in India, arm in a cast, cast in an eye, casting a fishing line, fantasy sequence not furnished by Carlos Castaneda. Perhaps the tackle box includes a set of castanets.
Perhaps I’ll shut up before someone casts aspersions on my mental state. Aloha, Friends!!
One with Clay, Image and Text 