Mo’ Stories

Ram just sat there like a stump as the Coraciidae birds twirled all round his field. He had no choice; @ his age, movement was a premium.

Ram remembered that years ago he would’ve carnaged through these beady-eyed birds, would’ve spread feathers everywhere so they’d know hell & hades. He’d been such a shin-kicker that he e’en gotten in trouble with the law for sucking up Coach’s toenails. Here was the only one bold ‘nough to mow the fur on that big hairy monster.

But now all he could do was sit there like a lump, @ mercy to all the idiotic pranks that weren’t e’en audacious by the punk-ass kids. Trite shit like filling his mailbox with Styrofoam.

& all he could do was sigh…

Those birds were truly annoying, though…

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I did.”

The 1st opened the silver-papered present & found a soft gray winter boot inside.

“It smells like leaves.”

“I knew you’d like it.”

Like it, the 1st did. He wore them it the time & e’en slept with it next to his face on the pillow when the night arrived.

But 1 night as he was lying in bed, too excited to sleep, he happened to stare @ the boot & noticed a big dot on it, a glassy dot.

He suddenly sat up, chest heaving heavily.

This ‘splains all.

“All right, ¿now what year was this nation founded in?” Zelda leaned forward with hungry eyes ‘hind her glasses.

Celes raised a slow hand halfway.

“Let’s give the other students a chance,” Zelda snapped. She swiveled her head left & right. “¿Anyone?”

After a minute or so, Zelda sighed & said, “Celes.”

“Um… ¿Last week?”

In a brightening voice, Zelda said, ¡Correct!” She closed the phone book on her lap & replaced it with a mechanic’s manual. “Now, let’s move on to math.”

Celes sweat, & no due to any discomfort with math, but with the itchiness o’ the ropes tied round her.

Outside that dingy place the sun was blaring, reflecting white light off the shell o’ the ‘lone motor home, accompanied by nothing else but vast yellow dirt & a few stray dry weeds.

They were so happy when they received their shiny new rake from their uncle, Lord Citrus, that they immediately bought a glass case to keep it in for eternity, ne’er to be uncovered, & thus ne’er to be infected with the air dinginess that floats round all o’ us.

Lord Citrus was giggling with glee as he packed it for them–the 1st time in a while he felt cheer. But he’d sadly ne’er get to see their surprise, for he’d become a casualty in the vicious Wasabi-Worchestershire War.

That surprise was that the rake was ‘live, & was now screaming internally–unable to scream or e’en move in reality–as its lungs begged for air.

The butler stood o’er the grandmother, wrinkles contorting in the shadows.

“Tell us where it’s kept & the caterpillars won’t feel the need to… sew.”

But the grandmother shook her head.

The butler clicked a button, causing the caterpillars’ incubator to heat up for a second, prodding the caterpillars ‘wake. They bit onto the end o’ the whool string inside & began yanking, causing the wool round the grandmother to tighten, causing her to grunt.

Meanwhile, kilometers ‘way, Orval was racing down a highway, shades burning in the thick sunlight & teeth gritting as tightly as his pale fingers on the steering wheel.

“¿What’s the password?”

“I don’t know,” said the secretary.

“Sorry, let me ask that question ‘gain in a way that’s easier to understand.”

The spy pulled out a gun & aimed it @ the secretary’s head, causing the secretary to twitch a li’l in his seat.

“I told you, I don’t know…”

The spy put his finger on the trigger. “Well, I’m not too interested in people who don’t know, so…”

“Wait…” The secretary looked round the room, sweat visible on his face.

“¿You starting to remember?”

“Look under my shirt.”

“I’m not interested in jokes, Sir.”

“That’s where you’ll find it–I swear.”

Sure ‘nough, ‘pon pulling up the hem o’ the secretary’s shirt, the spy saw tattooed on his abdomen the word “password.”

The spy screwed his eyes in anger, but then turned & typed it into the computer. Next he saw the password prompt disappear, replaced with the full freedom o’ the desktop.

The spy smacked his forehead. “¿Why didn’t I try that already?”

“¿& what makes you think that makes you inferior?” the therapist said as she sat opposite him, her face a carefully-controlled expression o’ concern.

“It’s just self-evident. Everyone knows it. It’s just an objective fact that plastic is weaker than steel…”

“¿Who says you need to be strong? Sometimes people prefer softer things precisely ’cause they’re less dangerous–for practice for kids, for instance.”

“Practice toys for some snot-nosed brats. Phh. Yeah, that’s real grand.”

“¿Why not? People need to learn somehow; & practicing with deadly steel wouldn’t be healthy.”

Perry got up from his chair. “Being a swordsman isn’t ’bout being healthy; it’s ’bout being strong, & not ‘mount o’ beating round the berries will change that.”

& with that he walked out o’ the room.

“¿Just 1 bean?”

“1 whole bean.”

Danilo stood on the top crow’s nest, staring directly into the wind @ the island slowly drifting further into the putrid purple darkness.

“If you say so…” he said just before flipping the bean into the wind.

After a few sounds similar to the sharp intake o’ breath, the wind paused, only to resume a few seconds afterward, only in the other direction. The whistle o’ wind & patter o’ rain was accompanied by a hundred clapping hands & cheering voices.

“¿See?” Leigha said ‘tween laughs. “¿What’d I tell you?”

But as Danilo stared @ the island heading back toward them, his expression was uncertain.

She’s in there somewhere.

Vasiliki’s eyes were red-run. She was sitting on the floor, her ears smothered by big puffy headphones that seemed to be devouring her whole head. She was staring @ the opposite wall, & yet nothing @ all.

No matter how many times she heard David Wise croon, “Spanish Jitters”… Nothing.

Mo’ forcefully, with her veins standing out, she thought, She’s in there somewhere.

Yes, the bamboo vines promised–& they ne’er lied. The whereis o’ her step-sister was hid somewhere in the wavelike waistline o’ that churning record, somewhere in the soft noise drowning the actual song, somewhere ‘tween the instruments. Somewhere.

“I can’t find it.”

“Keep looking.”

The Pintada Hermanas continued to wander the sandy-sharp roof, barren o’ all but growing moss. The stark white sunlight flooded o’er them & bounced off their sunglasses.

“If we don’t find it, we’ll ne’er be able to ground pound to the basement o’ Ooo-ahh’s Mansion,” Maria said as she stood with her legs planted & her hands dug into her o’erall pockets, her head turning slowly left & right.

Luisa slowed, her eyes aimed @ her feet twisting. She bent down. “¿Is this it?”

Maria turned to her & then walked o’er to her. Hunched, but still standing, Maria stared down @ what Luisa was watching.

Then she smiled & patted Luisa’s shoulder.

Blinking up @ them was the glowing shard o’ the sun.