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IT’S A DOG’S WORLD

IMAG1131_1Funny name these humans gave me. “King” It sounds rather nondescript; what is a king? From my point of view, I must be a big deal. I feel important for some reason. They slather me with praise, always telling me I am highly qualified for this title. “Good King” I heard the hairy one say to me.

The tall, leggy one with the tail in the back of its head… she looks lost in this place. Apparently, my kingdom does not suit her, and the point is moot to her. She seems to be miles away as she stand right there. And that other animal they have… they put in down to play with me. But I am as afraid of it as it is of me. And it smells funny… a cross between baby oil and poop. If it needs to go out, they should let it out.

And what is it about my tail that fascinates it? Always pulling me backwards. Let me voice my opinion just once, and they bring out that rolled paper thing and tell me I’m a “Bad King”. I think I’m getting the hang of this “Good King/Bad King” thing.

But there’s a lot of activity today. It looks festive. A day fit for a… a… well, King! A day fit for … ME! It smells good in here, and I’m getting hungry. Let me get up here and get a closer view! Such a nice spread, I’m glad I stuck around and not followed that poodle to God-knows where. At least I get to keep what falls off the edge.

“HEY, GET THOSE BRUSSELS SPROUTS OUT OF HERE!”

The King is fed. Long live the king!

IT IS WHAT IS IT

Tree_frog_amongst_Bluebells_by_AngiNelson

Tree frog amongst Bluebells by Angi Nelson

He was merely a frog.

Green. Wide eyed and slick. Throaty crackles within. Warts and all, he was merely a frog.

Oh, he had dreams. Every young frog does. Bigger adventures and capers were that to which he aspired. But everyday he sat in his tree, ingesting insects and watching the world pass him by.

His uncles had the best gig a few years back. All they did was sit in their lily pad and pitch malt beverages. The humans seemed to love their chant about Bud…, Bud Somebody or other. Now, he’d settle for being a lowly gecko. At least he’d have employment..

The swamp was his home and he never needed to roam. But he had a wanderer’s spirit. Dreams never died, they just sat on a branch and croaked. Until…

Mort Grinley, a Hollywood talent scout came venturing where Bruno Magli never intended to go. Mort came across the reptilian wonder.

“Nice swamp you have here” Mort began.

“Yup” countered the frog.

“I’m looking for the next big thing… and I believe it’s you!” Mort continued.

“Yup” countered the frog.

“How would you like to come to Hollywood and make films?” Mort offered.

The frog thought contemplatively, swiping an elongated tongue at a sedentary fly.

“Yup” countered the frog.

“I just want you to know… it won’t be easy!” Mort said finally.

“HAVE YOU EVER BEEN GREEN?” the frog shouted. “Now that…
that is not easy!”

Mort smiled.

He loved green. In large denominations. The frog was rubbing off on him. He knew there was no beating a frog. Mort didn’t give a lick what the pig said!

IF MAN WERE MEANT TO FLY…

Running now, flapping arms and spindly legs churning, burning energy and kicking up the granular path.

Running now, flapping arms and spindly legs churning, burning energy and kicking up the granular path.

Joshua sat on the ridge that overlooked the shoreline. The morning moved on trepidation’s feet; slow and lumbering as if afraid to awaken the slumbering surf. He watched the sun rise above the trees behind him, knowing full well that soon he would be bathed by her engulfing warmth. Joshua waited.

His legs were splayed out before him, propped up upon his elbows soaking up the sounds of the water lapping the sand. Joshua heard a murmur as well. A cooing, a trill of a sound, repeating in as much as the waves receded and returned. The gulls were welcoming the day as well.

Joshua was amazed by their multitude. As the morning painted the landscape in it’s light, it became more apparent. The sand was blanketed in shades of white and gray and black, moving in unison, a oscillation of avian beauty. One bird raises it wings and stretched. Others mimicked his motion. Here at the lake – it may as well had been an ocean, the day began.

Joshua drew a sip from his drink box, watching. Studying, noting the flex and sense of community these birds displayed. Another gull flaps its wings, affording him space; drawing others to its movements.The flapping continued as it lifted off of the surface, drifting to the right swooping over the masses. More followed. All aroused they took flight moving a bit closer on the beach to land and migrate again. Joshua came to his feet. He wanted a closer look.

Joshua was twelve, and his curiosity was his most endearing quality. There was so much he wanted to accomplish before he was poisoned by young adulthood. His innocence enhanced him; he was fearless and driven.

Slowly, he approached the swarm of birds. Some were spurned to take evasive actions, others just moved to allow the boy to pass by. When he reached the center of the congregation, he stopped completely surrounded by his feathered friends. The sound of the waves crashing was muted by the cooing that raised in volume; a crescendo that filled Joshua’s head. He closed his eyes and felt the surreal sensation that made his feel more like one of these weathered birds instead of a wide-eyed young boy.

Again the flapping commenced. Bird nudging neighbor, awakening to the activity. More birds lifted off the ground. Joshua followed suit, extending his arms and moving them up and down in sync with his “brothers”. The birds moved more rapidly, and Joshua aped their arc. Running now, flapping arms and spindly legs churning, burning energy and kicking up the granular path. Suddenly, Joshua lunged forward, leaving his feet and furiously undulating his appendages. He had achieved flight. Briefly. And just as suddenly, the boy came crashing down to earth.

The gulls laughed and cackled. A wave of birds dipped down toward the boy and then headed out over the water. Joshua pulled himself off of the sand, brushing the grains from his lap, spitting up as much as well. He had a mouthful of sand and a belly full of laughter, again mimicking the gulls. And he smiled. Joshua knew little boys couldn’t fly. But his imagination rose up to take him wherever his heart desired to go; even joining the birds over the water. He was okay with that. Joshua rationalized that maybe he’d learn to surf instead!

MEANWHILE, BACK IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST…

Randall the Meek, stood as petrified as the trees that surrounded him. His knees knocked. His teeth chattered. He thought he’d soil himself.

Randall had been drummed out of the king’s service for his timidity. But, then Princess Portense’s kidnapping changed all that. All knights were pressed into action and yes, even Randall was required to join in the search. His steed Chester plodded along through the low brush as Randall called out.

“PRINCESS? PRINCESS PORTENSE!?” he shouted quietly. “Chester, I don’t think we’ll find her!”

The horse stopped in its track and tossed his mane back toward Randall, giving him a nasty sneer.

“Do you ALWAYS have to be so wishy-washy?” Chester asked. “When will you ever grow a pair?”

Randall looked at Chester in disbelief.

“Ch-Chester? You can talk?” Randall queried.

“Of course I can talk, we’re in the Enchanted Forest, you moron!” came Chester’s retort.

“B-B-But you’ve never spoken before!” the mild knight reasoned.

“No kidding” said Chester. “Until now , you’ve been tolerable!”

Chester moved forward as his rider continued his din.

“PRINCESS…”

CHANGING THE CHANNEL


Penelope sat in her study. Once her husbands den, she had claimed it from underfoot when he had the audacity to die on her before their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Surrounded by her beloved books and her feathered quill waiting to be usurped from the well, she was of a mind to write.

She was the author of several books, putting her on par with Browning, and the Bronte sisters, and Alcott. And her style was rather random. She could perfectly mimic Samuel Clemens (which she preferred to Mark Twain), and she loved to emulate Whitman. But she grew impatient. Penelope dreaded to be kept waiting.

Her pampered Persian cat began to stir. Chantel rarely fussed. It was finally time. Penelope closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. When she opened her eyes, they remained rolled back into her head with only the whites visible.

With implement in hand, Penelope started to scratch the nib across the parchment rapidly. Pages flipped and fell; she blotted as quickly as she wrote. Page became chapter; chapter turned to volume, and thus she created.

With the last word written, Penelope slumped face down on her writing desk, smudging India Ink on her right temple. Her eyes returned to normalcy. Her session was over.

Penelope raised into a more formal sitting position, brushing a tendril of brown hair behind her ear. And she spoke to no one in particular.

“Thank you, Mr. Wordsworth! That was a remarkable exchange!” she smiled very much pleased with herself.

“And William? Let us be prompt next time I summon. I hate to be kept waiting” she resounded a final parting shot.

SUNDAYS IN THE PARK WITH GEORGE (AND GEORGETTE)

He sees; She sees

He Sees:

“Hell-o Mamma!” George thinks to himself. A young mother walking with her young daughter.

“Hmmm, I wonder how old?” he muses. “Thirty-two, thirty-three?” never a passing thought to the young girl whose hand she clutches.

Pretty. Dark eyes and an innocent smile, and a body… Again, the daughter becomes invisible. He ogles and ruminates and waits for the right MILF to come along. A perfect stranger takes the seat next to him.

“She IS perfect!” George inwardly notes.

Dark eyes and a curious smile. Pretty. Just like…

“Ahhh! That’s it. Over by the swings.” His attention diverts.

Always the man who notices the skirts and flirts (in his mind) but can never find someone to call his own. And as it always happens, he’ll be going home alone.

She Sees:

“The only empty seat under a tree” Georgette notices. “I hope he doesn’t mind.” she finds herself considerate of the dark haired stranger.

“May I?” she queries.

“Umhph, oh…yeah, sure” George replies distracted.

She scans the park. A serene place, here near the lake. Geese swimming. Bobbing and weaving in the ripples, making more. The elderly gentlemen playing checkers near the walk bridge, breaking the silence with an occasional argument…er, disagreement over a move. And there…

“How sweet” she thinks, “what a beautiful pair! She has her mother’s eyes and smile!”

She thinks about her life, and envisions herself as the mother. Loving, protective, playful… everything her daughter needs at that moment. A perfect place to do it.

“Hmmm, a stay at home mom, perhaps, or a well spent vacation day – the way I would spend it!”

And a wisp of sadness befalls Georgette. She was that mother briefly, in the anticipation of her full term blessing. A blessing turned to a curse. Complications never imagined. Never crossing her mind.

She sees George preoccupied by the couple engaged in their bonding ritual. The old man pounds a fist onto the board sending checker skittering off of the table. She sees her life in flux; indeed of a redux but not on the list of recipients. But, Georgette remains hopeful.
Living vicariously through that special union, accepting their tender smiles as signs that her time would come.

Georgette watches the mother and daughter continue on their way. No tears this time. She is more accepting. It was a good day.

He sees if there are anymore “flowers to pluck”.

She sees that her dreams are alive; a someday mother-to-be holding hope.

LACK OF COMMUNI-CAT-ION

“C’mon, c’mon, I got ya! I’ll catch ya!”

“C’mon, c’mon, I got ya! I’ll catch ya!”

“Ok, on three, I’m jumping!”

“Your count, or my count?”

“My count. Ready?”

“Are you going to launch on three, or go…three and then jump.”

“Three and jump.”

“Alright. Are you ready now?”

“Wait, wait, I don’t know if I can do this, I…

“Geronimo!”

“YOU DIDN’T SAY THREE! YOU DIDN’T SAY THREE!”

 

Posted at FLASHY FICTION on June 2, 2012