Mo’ Stories

But e’en after painting its handle as thoroughly as possible, Nguyệt couldn’t get it to do anything. She e’en tried rotating it round its holder.

She looked back @ the face o’ the mug & read its instructions ‘gain:

If you want to bring back summer,
paint my arm with one’s son’s colors.

& that was exactly what she’d done: she snuck into her son’s room & stole some o’ his paints, & then painted it onto the mug’s handle. She figured the fact that her son happened to have paints wasn’t a coincidence.

But now as she pondered her failure, her pupils dilated as she realized what the poem was truly telling her…

They doubted his project. Said it’d ne’er work.

But he’d show them.

Cap’n Cucumber knew that precious stores o’ Topaz Tortellini could be found on the Isle o’ Isles, & he’d be damned if he was going to let those bureaucrats to stop him.

So while everyone was dining on Chef Torte’s pie, he snuck to the wharf & hijacked a ship with his closest associates.

If he’d been caught, his bones would’ve been taken & strewn round the countryside. But he didn’t care: his bones would always itch if he didn’t get that Tortellini.

The 2 stared each other down a dozen meters ‘way on the e’er stretching road–the only feature in this otherwise barren yellow desert. On 1 end was a blindingly white camper, blurring gray under all its smog; on the other end was a sneeringly black coach, its brown stallion up front puffing smoke through its nostrils.

While the camper revved its engine mo’ & mo’ loudly, the horse began scraping back its hooves.

…

I cannot dare describe what happened afterward.

All I can say is that e’en the road, there was not much left o’ it. There was not much left o’ anything.

Judge Lamont’s eyes glided back & forth ‘tween the 2 weights, the hammer he held hanging in the air. Sweat drenched his face.

On the left was a smoothly gray robe so fluffy one could see the fluff; on the right was a pair o’ mahogany sandals with beach leaf patterns carved in the wood.

“Sir, you must pick in the next minute or you get nothing.”

Lamont’s hand shook for a second, & then pounded.

“Sandals it is.”

Lamont’s breathing was harsh on the train ride home. He could only hope his pet pillow likes sandals.

“¿Are you sure it’s safe?”

The historian adjusted his glasses & nodded. “Couldn’t be safer.”

She stared @ the ruby-red mandolin as it moved from the historian’s hands to hers, felt its thick but doughy form.

Then she slowly wrapped it round her neck, ending with its stringed tail flattening o’er her chest.

“This’ll lead to problems, I know it,” she said.

“No… Trust me–it’ll only do what you want.”

“No,” she said in a solemn tone, like a water drop in a cave.

& then, without a word, Nguyệt turned & walked out o’ the temple.

“You brought the data, ¿correct?” Helen Bridges said as she looked up @ the rest o’ the chairmen with her patented onyx eyes.

1 o’ the chairmen coughed nervously & then said, “Yes, Madame.” As he reached his arm holding a sheet o’ colored boxes out he added, “As you can see by this chart, adding radishes ups the nutritional value by 10%.”

Bridges reached her arm out her bars & took the paper. She nodded silently as she stared @ it.

“¿& you brought the product?”

“Yes, Madame.”

The chairman held out an open container o’ mashed radishes. Bridges took it, scooped a bit o’ it with a finger, & then tasted it, opening & closing her mouth repeatedly afterward.

After a minute’s breathless pause, she held the container back out o’ her bars & said, “Needs a li’l mo’ radishes. Can’t taste it much.”

The chairman nodded as he took the container. “Yes, Madame.”

E’en after years in the work, Asudem still every so oft would feel the quail o’ guilt; but every 2 weeks she’d take up the earnestly-asked-for task &, mo’ importantly, the large sums o’ money in return. None e’er grudged giving her the money up-start: in almost a decade she’d ne’er given a customer anything less than they wanted.

So customer # lost count leaves the stuffed head o’ a peacock he shot in Parmesan Plain for 2 weeks, expecting her to spend the majority o’ those 2 weeks painstakingly carving the blocks o’ rock she kept round her studio for appearances.

Then, when the customer had left, she’d spend 12 days playing Castlevania III, & then press her ear to the stuffed head on the 13th day to turn it to stone in 1 second.

It knew she truly wanted to go to the Sterling Mall to buy billions o’ hammers for appering the walls, & it was displeased, embittered by the way she lied ’bout being sick to avoid that scenic trip she promised.

So it erupted all o’er the mall, engulfing it in skin-melting lava & burying everything in molten rock.

As she was devoured by the fire swamp, she thought, steaming, Clingy fucking bastard.

Still Cap’n Emery was digging down into the ship, deep into its viney heart.

& this time she was no longer asking for authorization.

She’d read that @ the core o’ the vines were golden grapes that melted into the most refined sweetness a tongue had e’er tasted, & had hoped that it’d give her a concoction that’d give Ma’isah a run.

But she was the only 1 who could know, which was why she didn’t ask her commander–who also seemed to be becoming a threat in these new times.

This was easier decided than done: her limbs were so used to obeying the authorizations that she hesitated @ every step, her mind staling with the dirtiness, the messiness o’ such seemingly wild actions.