Yarran, Wizard.

Yarran thought being a powerful wizard living in the heart of the big city would be a lot more amusing than the reality of the situation.  His days revolved around subway rides, finding the nearest outlet to plug his phone charger into and finding at least one restaurant line that did not have a hundred people queued up to order.  There was no pointy hat, cloak wearing battle against the sinister forces of evil that plagued his town.

None of the fun stuff the movies had promised.

There was one big perk that ensured his life was slightly better than that of an average mortal.  With a wave of his wand he could control and direct any number of pigeons.  His visits to parks were wildly amusing.

Alie’s Big Discovery

Alie sat at a long table covered in a blue table cloth.  Beside her were scientists and professors all excited about her discovery.  In front of her, a bank of microphones from local and national news stations waited to catch her every word.  Lights were bright, the press pool was quiet.  It was Alie’s time to talk.

“Good afternoon,” the paleontologist started, “I’m Alie and I found a dinosaur.”

“Alie, what do you plan on calling the creature?” A reporter blurted out.

“I’m naming it after my car,” Alie replied.  “The creature, aged 130 millions years, will be called a Fordsaurus.”

 

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Harry’s Hot House

“Can we turn up the AC? It is wildly hot in here,” a house guest asked.  The house owner, Harry, had never seen, let alone met, the asker of the question before, but the request was placed.

Harry went into super-host mode.  He scrambled around, trying to make the environmental conditions just right.

He placed potted plants; ferns, vines and flowers he did not the origin of around the guest.  A humidifier was set up and turned on.  The sounds of birds chirping and frogs croaking soon played from a very obscure Spotify play list.

Finally, when all was ready, Harry turned to the guest and placed sunglasses over his own eyes and the guests’.

“Sorry,” Harry said, “we only have a swamp cooler.”

“I’ll show myself out,” the guest said.

 

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If you have a moment, why not check out my Facebook site? It’s exactly like every other Facebook page, but with a different URL.
https://www.facebook.com/writershawncowling/  Give it a like, share with your buds. Or your cats. That would be cool too.  Thanks.

 

Cara’s Hobby

“Cara, what do you like to do for fun?” The leader of this team building activity asked.

“Oh, I don’t do too much,” Cara replied. She tried desperately to dodge the question that was so common in this type of event.

“Now, now, we’re all friends here. No judgement between colleagues,” the leader prompted.  Sarcastic laughs sounded in reply.

Cara sighed.  Better to answer than to drag out the moment, she thought.

“I spend my free time creating wooden signs and putting them throughout town. Parks, baseball fields, public spaces; you know,” she answered.

“Neat! What do the signs say?” The leader asked.

“Quicksand!” Cara replied.

“Oh. Neat.  Bryan, what do you do for fun?” The leader moved on.

Brad Delays the Inevitable

Chanting filled the chamber.  Candle light flickered against wet stone walls.  Cultists joined hands around an alter, their red robes and cowls hiding themselves even from one another.  The stars had aligned, the ritual had to happen this very evening.

“Hala ho e traci doa. Diu dia dui ta,” the cult’s leader called out.  Other members replied in unison according to their training.  All members, that is, except Brad.

“Achoo!” Brad sneezed.  “Sorry, sorry gang. Can we run it again.

“Halo ho e traci doa. Diu -” the leader called out once more.

“Achoo!” Brad interrupted loudly. “A thousand apologies, siblings of the darkness.  There must be something in this cellar.”

“It’s our temple, Brad.” Charlene corrected.

“Achoo!” Brad sneezed once more. “Good golly.”

“Brad, buddy, big guy,” the leader said from the center of the group, “why don’t you take a minute go pop a Clariton or a Benydryl, one of us can drive you home if you opt for that one, we take care of each other here, but you go take care of yourself and we’ll just come back here and try to raise this world eater when you’re ready, okay?”

“Good idea, Marcus.  You know, this has actually been happening since I left the office this afternoon.  I’ll be back in a minute.” Brad left the altar room and ran upstairs.

 

 

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How Was Your Weekend, Friend?

The scariest phrase Billy “Ranch” Trujillo had ever heard was uttered by a five year old.  The child sat on a plastic swing and moved back and forth, ever so slowly.  The playground was covered with sand and wood chips and a perpetual feeling of “this could be better.”  Billy’s son was the only other child present and to his knowledge, Billy was the only adult presence.

“How was your weekend, Friend?” the child asked.  A phrase beyond the little human’s years spoken in a tone that would have been quite overused had The Addams Family been a modern CW teen drama and not a delightfully campy 60s comedy.

The child held an unblinking gaze on Billy awaiting a response. Continue reading

People on the Highway

I had an early morning today and once again got to join the pre-6am driver club.  Membership benefits suck.  I do get to see the absolute weirdest stuff though.  Not exactly deep sea off the Australian coast weird, but weird none the less.

Today’s tale: Broccoli

A Dodge sedan of some sort is moving rather quickly down the highway behind me.  I’m going 63, following a work truck with a bed full of orange buckets and dirty shovels.  I’d pass him, but I’m on my way to work and “terrible car crash on way to work” is not what I want any of the police reports with my name on them to read.  Though I’d prefer to not appear on police reports entirely.  That’s all beside the point.  The truck ahead of me is not my concern at this particular hour as the Dodge is racing up behind us.

The Dodge, gray-ish and dented from a mix of hail and bad decisions, is piloted by one Jared Wilkerson.  Jared is on his way to work too, but gives his epitaph less thought than I give my own.  For the reals, “Died as he lived. Rushing to do stuff that made no difference anyway” will not be on my tiny gold plated urn which will rest on the grand room’s fireplace mantle in my youngest son’s mansion when he’s in his 50s.

Jared is rocking a local radio station that gives frequent updates on marijuana prices and the DJs are “so glad Linkin Park sounds like Hybrid Theory again.” It is a poor choice in radio stations, but Jared displays his poor choices well enough.  A neck tattoo of a hotdog in a bun eating a sweating chihuahua is not wise.  It did lead his grandmother to learn Photoshop though. So there’s that.

Jared has been making poor decisions since infancy.  His parents wanted to expose him to a wide variety of foods and that included broccoli.  As a toddler he would ‘sneak’ broccoli to the family dog instead of eating it himself.  This would result in the dog passing violent gas at night.  The dog preferred to sleep in Jared’s room.  Jared was 23 before he figured out the connection.

As quickly as the Dodge arrived it left.  The work truck and I caught but a fleeting glimpse of something truly unique in the world and I’m totally okay with not seeing it again.  Jared will arrive at work 15 minutes early thanks to his speediness, but isn’t allowed to clock-in until 5 minutes before the start of his shift.  Poor decisions.

 

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