Anvil in a Lace Bootie

“My turtle has been looking forward to meeting you.”

The Creek in the Gully

The creek was sick and tired of tumbling down the same old gully day after day after year after decade. Oh, it supposed it was pleasant enough to swell and rush during storms. It didn’t really mind so very awfully much when the bushes bloomed yellow in summer and grew fat red berries in the fall and were frosted white in winter. The trees, though, were boring, ever green, ever standing there mute.

“Hey!” the creek called to creatures splashing through it or drinking from it. “Hey, what’s over the hill?”

The bobcat and the puma paid it no heed. The deer ignored it. Chipmunks laughed at it. Squirrels were too frantic to notice it. Was the creek discouraged? Not at all. It tumbled and babbled without letup, especially where it fell a bit over some rocks.

“Hey,” it burbled. “Hey, you!”

A bluejay drank and flew off.

“You! You with the antlers!”

A stag drank, waded, trotted up and over the hill.

And so it went, season on season, year on year, until one summer day. On that day, the creek trickled along thinly humming to itself when a long slinky weasel scrambled to its bank.

“Hey! You! Skinny! What’s over the hill?” bubbled the creek.

The weasel stopped with a writhe of a slither jump and stretched its triangle head with its black bead eyes to stare at the creek.

“Who said that?” whispered the weasel.

“Me. What’s on the other side of the hill?” fussed the impatient creek.

The weasel sat and thought. A crafty smile appeared on its lips, and it rattled off a long story about the wonder of floating castles and flying snakes, of flower rainbows splashing in crystal blue lakes, of all the marvels and more to be seen on the other side of the hill. The weasel concluded by announcing it had an appointment to swim in the purple amethyst river with magic clouds and it mustn’t be late. It jumped jaunty up the hill, looked back down at the creek, waved, and went over.

“That does it. I’m leaving!” said the determined creek.

And it did. It cut its way through and under the hill quickly in 400 years. And when it oozed and broke through on the other side, the first thing it said was, “Liar.”

Moral: Never trust a thirsty weasel or any other sort of weasel.

The Boll Weevil’s Lament

or

The Rotten Stranger

I sighed and thought and sighed and thought and sighed and thought some more

A dream of you came creeping, sliding back across the floor

I looked into my mind again and knew that you were dead

I stuck the gray gun to my ear and blasted off my head

Tra la

And blasted off my head

ex………………………………….pand…………………………………ex

The auctioneer with the unlikely name of Hoot Lystockler stepped to the podium, covered the microphone with one hand, and leaned down to consult briefly with his assistant. He muttered, nodded, and pointed at the curtain. Turning his attention to the gathered gentry, he cleared his throat, pasted on a smile, and spoke.

“Lot one,” he announced with creamy ease as his assistant drew the curtain aside. “This unassuming mound of clutter is nothing less than a literary trove of treasure. Tossed from the window piece after crumpled piece by the hand of the deceased himself over the final few years of his confinement, they were carefully collected by the gardener and stored secretly in the cellar. This treasure’s existence was unknown until the final and most rigorous interrogations. Rejected shards of genius lie before you, ladies and gentlemen. There are words, sentences, paragraphs, entire chapters even, all hand rejected by the deceased himself. Who will open the bidding on these last vestiges of genius, a scholar’s treasure?”

“I’ll bid a dollar for that sock on the side there,” said a toothless harridan. “By gimcrack, it’d make a nice glove.”

Flurry and flutter, the crone was swept from the room by a storm of angry troopers. Thirty seconds of time passed, and all was peaceful. Outside, the afternoon was bright and warm.

“My mother. What am I to do with her?” grinned Hoot Lystockler, shrugging and winking. “Shall we return to the task at hand? Shards of genius. What am I bid? Who will start with a million dollars?”

“Sixteen billion dollars!” shouted a many toothed octogenarian.

“Even better,” said Hoot, and things began to get serious.

#

ART IS A CONSCIOUS ATTEMPT TO COMMUNICATE BEYOND WORDS

WHICH ITEM DOES NOT BELONG AND WHY?

1.

a. Spain

b. Portugal

c. Brazil

d. pterodactyl

e. Argentina

2.

a. hansom cab

b. surrey with fringe on top

c. phaeton

d. Conestoga wagon

e. a tasteful array of condiments

“Well, he certainly deserves an ‘A’ for effort.”

war

if you want it

The Biggest Tree

The biggest tree stood twice as tall as any other in the forest.

“I can see to Pittsburgh,” boasted the biggest tree.

“Who cares?” piped up a young Douglas fir growing carelessly by the stream. “You’re fat.”

“Why, you miserable little toothpick, I’ll …”

With great effort, the biggest tree wrenched itself to fall crashing toward the insolent fir. The fir, who had been planning for and longing to meet this moment for fifty-three years, spun quickly away, deftly pulling up its roots and dancing in triumph around and about and on the fallen giant.

“Missed me! Missed me! Didn’t see that comin’, did ya, big boy? And guess what. Guess what. Go ahead. Guess!” taunted the fir.

The biggest tree stuffed branches into its ears, closed its eyes and shut tight its mouth in a grim line.

“Nothin’ to say, huh?” continued the sassy fir. “Well, listen to this. I’m GOIN’ to Pittsburgh! Ha! Walkin’ there! How do ya like that?”

And the Douglas fir did go to Pittsburgh, where it was celebrated and decorated and placed in the biggest church. All agreed it was the finest Christmas tree ever in the gloried and storied history of Pittsburgh, California.

Moral: A patient tree is a happy tree.