Mo’ Stories

“I’m sorry, son,” she said with tears in her eyes as she pulled back both hands, tightening the noose o’ the veggie rope narrower.

The wetness spread from the veggie rope to her fingers.

The horn sounds spread to her ears.

But when she dropped the veggie ropes, the wetness wouldn’t let go, the horn sounds wouldn’t leave her ears.

No matter how far she wandered, the wetness & the noises remained. No matter how many times she washed her hands or shook her ears, the wetness & the noises remained.

& all Nguyệt could do was wander through that sunset rainshower & babble to herself, “I’m sorry, son.”

“& you promise you won’t do anything bad gainst the other birds, ¿yeah?” said the grouse as he held a slightly crumpled sheet.

“I promise they’ll be allowed to do whatever they need, unbothered by us,” said the robed figure. She shook the sack in her hand up & down.

The grouse paused for a moment, eyes hanging on the ground. Then he held the paper out & took the bag.

They parted, each examining their winning: the grouse’s, a bag o’ rare platinum feathers; the hooded figure, the deed to a popular plot for grouses in Wasabi Woods.

“I’m late, I’m late,” muttered Sir Dimefeather as he ran up the stairs o’ his home hole, & then flapped his wings for Wasabi Woods.

There he saw the clearing already swarming with gray grouse. Most were already in the process o’ hard networking with the employers, handing in their résumeés, making light jokes that weren’t actually funny, & squeezing their faces till huge bulges appeared on their necks.

“A-as you can see here, I mixed the complementary cool colors gray & blue to show how dependable & professional I am,” 1 nervous young bird said as he pointed to his tail plummage.

But Dimefeather stood back @ a distance, as if a forcefield kept him from getting any closer by setting off his nerves.

He was fortunate: he was hidden from the carnage that ensued in that clearing due to some mislaid sign promising, “Grouse Season.”

The owner swung his finger under the noses o’ the Super Pintora Hermanas & barked, “¿How’d this get there?”

The “this” he referred to was the white paint puddle in the shape o’ an M lying on his brown upholstery like stagnant water in a radiation zone, its strong smell drilling into all o’ their nostrils.

The lead sister, Maria, spread her arms. “I don’t know how that got there, Señor Cupa. We only painted outside, & there are no holes in the roof–we checked.”

“¡Liar! ¡You’re fired!”

Maria & Luisa walked outside with slumped shoulders, paint buckets clanking the tools in their o’erall pockets.

However, when they looked up, they saw an unfamiliar white van in front o’ the house, only to see it zoom ‘way a second later.

Sweat trickled down into every crevice o’ his fingers, which only offset his aim e’en mo’, amplified by the splashes o’ rancid paste exploding all o’er him every second or so.

He breathed heavily & tried to tighten his eyes on the keys below him, only to cringe whenever the train would screech–as it oft did. His heart fell to the back o’ his body from the propulsion surrounding him.

But the pattern continued: he tried to press the sequence o’ keys in the right order @ the right time, only to slip @ 1 point, causing an ear-throbbing off sound.

& all the while he kept thinking with increasing anger, ¿What kind o’ idiot makes the brakes o’ a train “Karma Police”?

If she’d been caught, it would’ve been ruinous for her nation.

But so would failing her goal…

She she took a deep breath & strode up to the cyan van & picked the lock with the movements & expressions o’ one just unlocking her car with regular keys.

‘Pon opening the door, she reached for the glove box & opened it. There she cut a hole deep in the bottom velvet, opening a new door in it, & dropped a tiny black plastic device inside before closing all 3 doors & walking ‘way.

Nobody realized anything for 1 reason: she made sure to lock the car ‘gain.

What a victory for Whisky Woods…

¿Why am I doing this?

After all, ¿Who am I to try this when there must be millions who can do this–& probably most much better?

& yet she had to do it. She could ne’er feel content ‘less she ‘least tried, failure be damned.

So she gripped the spot tightly as she watched the tosser with pinched eyes; & the second she tossed the noddle, she swung her spoon, knocking it far out o’ the yard. She watched it fly on with but lips, & then gasped in relief ‘pon seeing it land in Duke Antonio’s mouth.

As she watched him, she imagined the royal purple cloaked on him & a sparkling diamond crown on his head.

The memory still churned in his mind as he sat hunched there @ his stand under the blinding white light o’ the sun.

“Lord, if I don’t get that tome, I’m dead,” he said in a hushed tone, albeit 1 still strained with anger.

“& I told you: no less than 80,000₧,” replied the mousy trader. “¿Trade or no trade?”

“¿Pink?”

His head jerked up to see a pale man in a white shirt & shades standing before him.

“¿What?” asked the warlock.

“I said, ‘¿You have any pink lemonade?’ I only like pink lemonade.”

Lord Citrus sighed & said in a tight voice, “No. No pink lemonade.”

No matter where Nguyệt went, she kept hearing those damn strings, as if they knew, as if they were following her to the sunset.

Her fingers flexed into the rain-humid air as ghosts o’ their past movements. She could feel the phantom touch o’ the blood as red as the sky as it sprinkled on her fingertips–long washed, but still scarred.

Then her fingers reached up to perform the last act: she grabbed the instrument round her neck & yanked the string as hard as she could till the sound reached its crescendo, & the air went out o’ the band, collapsed onto the pavement, as blue as the sky.

They tried to shut down his mathematical operations through a gunshot aimed straight @ his noggin, but failed.

Father Time kept ticking ticked.

& he counted up so quickly that his would-be assassins collapsed in ol’ age before they knew what hit them.

¡Such memory!

But e’en such memory couldn’t see the assassin hid ‘hind him, aiming her gun not @ the hairy back o’ his head, but up @ the ribbon-shiny pavement-black top-hat resting ‘pon it.

She pulled the trigger, causing the hat to explode in mechanical shards all o’er the ground.

The rest o’ Father Time fell with them.