Mo’ Stories

The goldfish stops as it tiptoes ‘cross the sea floor to turn to the audience with a fin finger pressed to its mouth & say, “Shhh, I’m hunting capitawists. Huhuhuhuh.”

Then he grabbed the hook dangling nearby & pulled so hard that its owner was pulled in.

But it turned out that its owner was not a capitalist, but an anvil that said, “DUHHHH” on it.

Though the goldfish had ample time to scream up @ the looming anvil & release lots o’ bubbles, he didn’t have time to actually move out o’ the way.

& that was how capitalism smashed the goldfish o’ Pechera.

“¿Shouldn’t–?”

“¡Don’t ask!”

“¿Wh–?”

“¡No questions @ all!”

“¿Wh–?”

“¡What’d I just say? ¡O shit!”

Electricity began to spark all round the ferromagnetic field built into the steel towers surrounding them like giants.

“¿Now wha–? Oops.”

“It’s too late for that. Ask all the questions you want.”

The field began shaking.

“¿Now what?”

They could see crumbs fall from the walls o’ stone & metal mixed together.

“Now we die,” one said, with neither panic nor anger, just resignation.

They ran ‘way from the chunks o’ rock & metal falling from the walls, but there was nowhere they could hide. ‘Ventually 1 landed on them, smashing them to bloody sacks.

“Ne’er doubt science,” I muttered to myself as I stared straight @ my reflection in the dusty glass.

Every so oft my mind would get distracted by the thoughts o’ my long-dead mentor & wondering ’bout whether she’d have approved o’ my new work or not.

I found something that was not only mo’ powerful that sandy ol’ potatoes, but e’en mo’ powerful than the all-potent pears.

‘Twas years ago that I discovered that the most powerful produce was not any single fruit or vegetable, but a mix. Since then I hand-stakingly tested every pair & found that the most powerful match was lettuce & carrots.

¿How powerful?

This’d do mo’ than create light to replace a sun that’s already been replaced years ago–¿remember when we considered such trifles to be “big issues”?

No, this would have the power to end the war ‘tween Wasabi Woods & Worcestershire Woods unquestionably.

& that’s what frightens me so much.

1st there came the hopelessness that she’d e’er ‘scape this bramble pit without getting just 1 o’ those life-deathening scrapes o’ the thorn.

Then came the frustration, the bitterness, the rage…

The hopelessness became a freedom.

If they take me down, I’ll take as many o’ them down with me.

She didn’t care anymo’ that she had nothing but her bare hands & sandaled feet. She chopped down vines with her hands. She kicked them bent back in.

& before she knew it, she’d reached clear cloudy air. & ‘pon examining herself, she was surprised to see not a scratch.

I told you, we already know how the night & day were birthed.

We made them.

‘Twas simple: we simply threw an emu egg up into the sky, where it stayed till ’twas incubated by its own heat, after which it exploded into cool milky powder that painted the way to our solar system. & in that coolness the rest o’ the sky blackened like frost-bitten fingers.

& thus the order o’ the cosmos had been arranged.

&, damn it, we can do it ‘gain.

¿Are you ready?

Tanner ran back & forth all round the sidewalks, panting now in the smoky chill. He couldn’t understand why; he only knew that if he didn’t, he felt like he would implode.

There must be something out here that can sweeten the stew. Something.

He pulled out the list, but ’twas too blurry. The words could be anything; they could be nothing @ all.

Then he heard a tweet & looked up to see a gray bird flutter ‘way. He climbed the nearby tree to grab a handful o’ spotted pink eggs. He looked both ways. No birds.

I hope this works.

He padded back down the street.

¿Well?

Donna sat there on that log with the guitar in her hands, but her hands frozen. Her face was similarly frozen, her eyes gazing wide into the field yellow in the sunlight.

She couldn’t ‘splain it, but she was familiar with it. She despised it with a frenzy, which only made it worse.

¿Well?

What she did know was that her musical chemicals were out o’ whack, causing her to be unable to devise the luscious compositions she was able to just days ago. In fact, she was so artistically stinted that she couldn’t e’en understand how she e’er came to create those compositions she did make in better days, staring @ them in her soggier times as a futile way to stir her creativity.

So she could only sit there shivering violently in the shade, desperate to do something, but unable.

O well.

Both the public o’ consumers & the massive businesses thriving on the space market begged technology to give them the chance to feast ‘pon this new ingredient, mo’ tantalizing than any other since Europe 1st discovered chocolate in the New World.

But after this mission, they’d finally be able to.

That ingredient was the solar sauce that spread from the sun’s fringes–a sauce said to be spicier than the Carolina Reaper, a sauce so spicy that it reflected sunlight like DayGlo.

That sauce was dubbed the Heliosauce by definiologists, & thus quickly entered the International Official Dictionary o’ English, as well as the US Copyright Office as the name o’ the company that vied for control o’ its addictive taste.

But when she came home from a difficult day’s work, she found the plate o’ yams–her favorite yams–was now surrounded by brambles.

& she screamed.

“¡Squawwwk! ¿What’s wrong?”

& then she stilled herself. Fool. You’ll give it all ‘way…

Son o’ Toucan was looking out the window, his eyes screwed.

“If you say so…” he said just before popping back inside. She could hear his muffled voice call out, “I made you yams–your favorite. I hope they’ll make you feel less stressed.”

She stared @ the yams still locked under the fangs o’ its bramble cage.

She sniffed, as if staring @ her favorite stuffy shredded. “Yes. Thank you.”