Mo’ Stories

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“We’ve surrounded him.”

The Worcestershire Military garbed in their green camo slowly stepped up to the front door o’ the log cabin,–such a mix o’ creamy yellow highlights & dim blue shadows in the mild sunlight–holding rifles up to their shades-covered faces.

They paused @ the door for a second before the lead kicked down the door. Then they all charged in & surrounded the man in the fine-pressed dark suit & tie, who stopped, dropped on his knees, & held his hands up without e’en being asked.

“Sir Esquire, you are under arrest for treason.”

Esquire looked up with dark eyes @ the golden bird he stupidly took with him–out o’ pure greed.

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He was on his knees now–& barely able to keep there. Ne’ertheless, he continued to crawl ‘long the colonnade, tapping each column.

Finally he stopped with a bright smile & took out his drill & began twisting a hole into the side o’ the column till green foliage began spilling out.

Despite falling on the ground, he gobbled up the spinach that also fell on the ground. He felt the blood begin rushing through his veins, his muscles thickening.

Hours later he was back on the floor & unable to use capital letters or punctuation properly thanks to the e. e. coli infestation.

The hand glided o’er all the rubies, the opals, the Tanzanites & Musgravites, only to stop o’er a flat square that was paler than a winter afternoon. The hand picked it up by the corners, slowly.

There were no words. ‘Twas that 1.

The face looked both ways. The aisles were packed; but no eyes were on him. The clerk’s face was blocked by a crowd.

The feet took a step, then ‘nother, then ‘nother, till they were outside.

The clerk allowed 1 glance @ the door, just to be sure the thief was gone.

Li’l did the thief realize the true value o’ what she stole.

The crowds ran & shouted outside just after the 1st blow. She pulled out her 2m club & slammed the other so hard, she knocked o’er Jagga’s pyramid. She whipped out her own & charged @ the other, holding it ‘tween her 2 hands & using it to choke the other down while she gnawed on her face.

The sounds o’ slamming could be heard from outside; but now the crowds, safely ‘way from the brawl, were less fearful & mo’ curious.

“¿What happened this time?” said 1 with not panic, but petulance.

“Someone insulted her painting. Said it wasn’t true art ’cause it didn’t look like anything real. I must say, these modern artists are causing chaos all o’er the caves.”

He pushed through them like bobbing trout. “Out o’ the way.”

Then he reached it. He cringed as he stared @ the leafy fangs bite into its papery body, now deflated & full o’ tears.

He climbed up the tree just high ‘nough to reach the tail sputtering in the wind, swiveling ‘tween leaves to avoid their swinging blades.

But as he examined the kite down on the ground on his knees, he could only shake his head with a frown while the crowd surrounded him with gaping mouths.

Suddenly there was a cry ‘mong them: “¡It’s the custodian’s fault! ¡He’s a Wasabi spy!”

He looked up @ them with alarm. But before he could open his mouth, the crowd was on him, readying the noose.

He was amazed by how colored-in the image was in his memory: the leaves that stuck to the soles o’ his feet, the way the metal fence rattled in the wind, the feel o’ the soft wood o’ the door on his wing as he went inside to eat his grandfather’s raisin oatmeal–he always had the raisin flavor; looking back, he had no idea what happened to the other flavors–& watch The Twilight Zone with him.

He tried to focus as much as he could on this image with the dead hope that he could jump back into the lost world & leave the compact dungeon in which he found himself–a’least till they finally had him hung.

He wondered if grampa would’ve been proud or ashamed o’ him for what he did for Wasabi Woods…

The worst part o’ disasters was that they always happened suddenly when work seemed so calm, to be working so well. He thought after a week o’ clumsiness that he feared would lead him to ‘nother o’ those pink slips that he had the rhythm firmly fit in his feet.

@ 1st, Hans wasn’t sure exactly what was happening when he heard a whistle suddenly screech. He only knew by the act o’ his other coworkers that he was to stop & stand still.

The boss stormed up to him & pointed @ his shoes. He looked down & bit his lips @ the untied laces.

The boss said, “UNREGULATION. WRITE UP. THREE & TERMINATION.”

“This is e’en mo’ ridiculous,” said the pink monster.

“¡Shhhh! ¡Stop moving!”

The bushes became still while the sun slowly edged closer & closer to the ground.

Then, finally, under an orange cast, the garage door opened.

“OK, wait… ¡Now!”

Just after the passing gray sedan passed up the hill they raced into the garage & hid ‘hind a shelf o’ paint cans.

Rocky whispered directly into the pink monster’s ear, “Now we just need to wait past midnight & we’ll have the whole kitchen to ourselves.”

Li’l did Rocky realize that that night he’d realize the true monstrosity that would be found in the pink monster.

‘Twas always a risk, everything was a risk. ¿Should she keep the tempo low to keep her living, but also keep her rival up, or increase the tempo to get the rival out mo’ quickly?

There was no dancing round it: she had to be mo’ energetic than the other to stay on beat. There was no cheat code.

Better now than ne’er.

Patricia stepped the tempo up to the top. Deborah gasped, but stepped up all the same.

But the book slipped out o’ her hand. It seemed to thunk gainst the ground in slow-mo.

Her vision seemed to ring as she waited for the neon darkness to engulf her.

¡He made it!

He slowed his cart just ‘nough to safely grab the last cell phone off the rack, & then sped off ‘gain, turning back to his rival to twiddle his moustache.

He oughtn’ta: ¡BUMP! The cell phone jumped out o’ the baby basket & lands on the floor, clacking back & forth ‘mong the rim o’ the drain only to slide inside like a pinball.

He fell on his knees & yanked on the grate, but it wouldn’t budge.

Meanwhile, the cell phone swam ‘way.