THE 2 AM stillness shatters. A zipper rips. Stepping out of the tent, she fumbles with an old Coleman lantern. It hisses to life in a bright bubble of eerie light. A huge dark snake is illuminated casually sliding up the path to the campground bathhouse. She sprints to the pickup, drops the tailgate and assumes a lotus position in the bed. She meditates on how soon daylight will come and if she can hold it that long.

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THEY’RE TEARING down Santa Town. Benny goes back to just being the old cranky guy who never seems to do much. He has to keep the beard, hair and belly in good shape for next year. But after six weeks of holding the same jolly, benevolent facade through thousands of same posed pictures with kids and pets, Benny has had it. Sure the money’s good. He’ll be back next year. But until next fall, you just better watch out!

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NADENKA IS Willa’s husband’s crazy, Russian ex-wife. She is spotted entering the building by Mandy, who alerts Willa. A series of calls, e-mails, text messages and hallway shouts alerts everybody of Nadenka’s movements. People leave their offices, trying to catch a semi-inconspicuous glimpse of the insane woman. They say Nadenka is always gibbering about cars following her and police spies. I mean, she’s really nuts!

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DER HIPPIESCHNITZEL hit hard times. Our friendly, old A-frame is now a charred pile of debris. We stand in the snow steaming miasma from our mouths, remembering glory days forty years ago. We’d trudge the mile from the campus to our tiny, over crowded crash pad, welcomed by its’ drafty warmth and the divine comfort of our own funk. Even now, we seem caught up in a surreal spell. Ursula digs around the periphery, as if looking for something. She comes up with a rusty, blackened pair of hemostats, holds them aloft and says: “I wondered what happened to these!”

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AS A TRIBUTE to American composer John Cage, my 100 word story today is twenty-five words of explanation followed by seventy-five words of silence. Enjoy:





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WEAPONIZED ART Research (WAR) is a black budget, US military program aimed at disrupting terrorist operations through “aggressive visual assault.” According to pirated, top secret documents posted on hacker web sites, the government has determined “certain examples of surrealistic collage art can actually cause serious psychological or even physical injury.” Documents indicate posting this type of artwork on jihadist web sites might be an effective form of psych-ops warfare. While denying the existence of the program, government officials say it may be in the interest of national security to confiscate some materials to prevent them falling into the wrong hands.

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BE COOL. Hellboy would not be running the register at Best Buy. It sure does look like him though -- the sawed off horn stubs, the oversized masonry hand, a tail and the dude is definitely red and eight feet tall! But if it was Hellboy, everybody would be freakin’ out, right? No, maybe it is just a pimply kid in a blue golf shirt and khakis? Can’t be sure. “Hey dude! Did anybody ever tell you you look just like Hellboy?” Did I say that out loud? Now the security guys are comin’ over. Don’t freak, man. Be cool.

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MAXWELL KEPT the chrome lug wrench, an old single head style, in his room. They say he liked to pose in front of a mirror with it shouting: “I’m goin’ upside your head with a tire tool! Bam! Bam!” The coroner thinks maybe Max was swinging that tire tool around and accidentally delivered the death blow with the curved end. Or maybe, he smacked himself on purpose just to see how it felt. You never know with these kids.

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“FOR NO PARTICULAR REASON,” thinks Bob as the family takes off in the car. He vaults to the top of the chain link, crawls over and runs down the street after them. Sure, they are blocks away. Who knows why he does things? Certainly not Bob. Anyway, he is in the zone. He hits his stride with the wind whipping across his face, the clicktey rhythm of his toenails on the pavement and perfectly balanced coordination of his tail. The family keeps getting farther away. Bob stops. Throws up a little. Pants. Then he realizes: “Where the hell am I?”

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“IF DIRT CLODS were dollars, everybody in this agrarian ghetto would be flush.” It was the last thing he’d said to Zora as he drove away twenty four years ago. Even he didn’t know what it meant. Everything he’d grown up with seemed so worthless at the time. He’d missed the funeral and was surprised to find her grave overflowing with coarse, red clay projectiles. He picked up a hefty chunk, intending to toss it as far as he could. But, it would not fly. Instead, he grasped the hardened soil tightly until it crumbled to dust in his hand.

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BETTINA LEFT behind a bag of marijuana. It was year before Rafe discovered it secreted in an old Pyrex bowl back in the kitchen cabinets. He’d long since given up trying to grok why the hell she left . . . in such a hurry . . . taking everything of value that would fit in the U-Haul. But Bettina left little mysteries in the things she left behind: her old family photographs, disturbing sketches from sessions with her shrink, and now crusty old shards of weed. Why was she hiding it in the first place? The weird part continues.

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A RICKETY VOICE calls out: “What are you doing here? Nobody ever comes up here!” Too startled to exhale, Hagen beams a flashlight to the dark corners of the attic. He sees no one. “Go away!” the voice orders. At a loss, Hagen says: “I’m just checking the insulation.” The angry reply: “Insulation is fine for those below, but this place is cold for the rest!” Hagen hurries to the steps and never visits his attic again.

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FLATULENT DOGS haunt Bear’s dreams, the first one in a lurid dream with Asian twins named Valentina and Valeria. Bear gets a whiff of something really funky. A decrepit pit bull appears on the bed, looks Bear in the eye and says: “I’m just an old stink dog, but I know what’s right.” That’s two years ago. Odorous dogs appear in every dream since. “Fartin’ dogs are on my trail,” says Bear. “I don’t know what it means.”

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CANDY RIOTS ensued when every household in the upscale Bitterbrook Neighborhood turned out their porch lights Halloween night and refused to answer their doorbells. The Bitterbrook Neighborhood Association issued a statement saying the move was “. . . a protest against the annual influx of children of bad character, who roam the district in disguise and demand candy they do not earn.”

Police report trees “TPed,” trashcans overturned, windows soaped with rude slogans and porch pumpkins smashed across the area. Witnesses relate that children were standing in the street, led by the Peanuts comic strip character Snoopy, chanting: “What do we want? We want that candy! When do we want it? We want that candy now Mother Fuckers!”

The Bitterbrook Association statement holds that: “Candy is not an entitlement!” The statement blames “those same children of bad character” for the damage, calling it “Class Warfare of the worst kind.”

Law enforcement officials are asking anyone with information on the whereabouts of an individual dressed as Snoopy to call the metro police crime watch hotline.

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EARL KING lives alone in an old Airstream hunkered on a wooded acreage south of town. Pranking his property, with toilet paper streaming freely across tree limbs, is a Halloween night tradition for the local kids. His annual regimen of sipping Dickel Sour Mash straight up and randomly firing birdshot into the darkness seems to encourage them. Dorthea King’s annual ritual is bailing dad out of County Jail. Good times.

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THE SPIRIT ANIMAL gig is not what it used to be. Believe me! These days you’re likely conjured by some fakakta accountant from Tulsa head tripping a caribou dream quest scenario. Maybe you help them grok the barren tundra their investment portfolio has become. How about: “Some days the Polar Bear eats your ass?” Deep stuff like that. Information any Inuit nose picker knows from the get go really messes with their id.

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TONY VISUALIZES that the jagged stone in his hand carries all his troubles. Closing his eyes, he throws it arching aloft as hard as he can. With a deep breath, Tony centers on an image of his worries rocketing into outer space and exploding in the void. At that climatic instant, he hears a metallic thud, like something heavy impacting a car hood. A short burst from a police siren follows. Tony does not open his eyes.

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BEATIFIC RAPTURE radiates from Little Rudy’s face. In passing, the old guy feels that smile illuminating his own face. He is suddenly aware of the crush of unfamiliar people, vast spaces, echoing noise, bright colors and overpowering odors of the place. Flashing back, he is Little Rudy beneath a forest of grown ups, clinging to his mother to steady against the overwhelming exhilaration of riding the moving staircase.

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MILO DOESN’T KNOW what’s more annoying: The racing staccato voice of the non-stop-talking-woman at the restaurant, or his obsession with framing an ultimate put down he will never share with her. He remembers a vocal exercise where you speak the alphabet as many times as you can in one breath. The scary part is, she talks just like that. Hasty operatic breaths between. He starts counting her respirations. Irritating!

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A SCRUFFY, immense black bird squats on a utility line surveying Margery’s anally manicured backyard. Otto chuckles as the grackle swoops towards Margery’s annoying frou-frou poodle dog Pinky. But Pinky meets the assault, leaping and sinking her teeth into the bird’s soft throat, growling and shaking berserk until the grackle lays writhing helpless on the turf. Otto gives a thumbs up and looks on Pinky with new eyes.

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MY FATHER is like Houdini. He took his magic tricks to the grave. My favorite was: “boing, boing, boing, boing, tap, tap,” the sound of a driving nail. He probably hammered millions in his lifetime. Bent nails and hammer marks left on the wood were rare. Each nail rang like a bell when struck. I’ve never heard that exact sound made by anybody else, nor reproduced it myself. God, I miss the sound of his driving nails.

EXIT. STAGE LEFT. The thought urgently popped into Geneva’s head. But the emaciated orange robed man wasn’t having it. Cursed with aggressive politeness from her Southern upbringing, she was trapped. He recognized her as a fly he’d killed in a former life. The whole incident had been a terrible accident. Would she forgive him? Geneva gave him a hard slap across his left ear. “How do you like it asshole?” she laughed.

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Dashboard Buddha in an SUV

Master with a mantra and a transcendental flirt
Armani sandals and a Tommy Bahama shirt
Single malt whiskey in a cup of green tea
And a dashboard Buddha in an SUV

Yeah, dashboard Buddha in an SUV
Bobble head buddy always smilin’ at me
Sure beats buskin’ by the old Bo Tree
Got a dashboard Buddha in an SUV

Bodhisattva with a day job cruisin’ to the mall
Dalai Lama ridin’ shotgun dreamin’ of Nepal
Meditation glide in perfect luxury
Dig a dashboard Buddha in an SUV

Om, dashboard Buddha in an SUV
Velcroed Fatty teachin’ me to just be
Pedal to the path livin’ so simply
With a dashboard Buddha in an SUV

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TWYLA READS the business card: “Bart der Schnauzbart, Professional Moustache Whisperer.” Self conscious about the faint Frieda Khalo infestation obscuring her philtal columns, she glares at Bart. Oblivious to the source of her hostility, he offers with a nervous laugh: “I’m a barber. I train mustaches. See?” He twirls the edges of his own immaculate facial fur in illustration. Bart is in luck. Twyla likes goofy guys.

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“IT’S A SIMPLISTIC and dangerously naïve idea,” says Ruben. He considers himself a big fan of John Lennon, but has “no interest in giving peace a chance!” The last thing Wanda hears walking out the door is: “I ‘Imagine’ a world where artists stick to entertainment and keep their stupid ideas to themselves!” The last Ruben sees of Wanda, she’s moving away down the sidewalk wagging both middle fingers in his direction.

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BEELZEBUG FEARLESSLY moseys across the lavatory floor feeling pious certainty of divine authority. He’s the revered foundation of a vast, clandestine, creepy-crawly kingdom. A dark specter spirals down from above, summarily transforming him into a splotch of inanimate gore. Furtive hands sheath Beelzebug’s remains in a shroud of white tissue. Beyond porcelain shores, the residue is tossed to a swirling burial at sea

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IT’S A BLUSTERY DAY. Connie Don wears a forest green a-line skirt and snug hot pink tank top accentuating muscular arms. His long gray perm undulates in synchronous hula with the stylish textile swaying below his torso. He stumbles against a shopping cart and rails unintelligibly at cars driving through the busy intersection. Though his androgynous flaunt is hard to ignore, he is the invisible transient transvestite.

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“IMPROPER LANE usage” is handwritten on the warning citation. The officer offers a lengthy explanation, which doesn’t clarify the exact nature of the violation. Merton smiles and says “yes sir” as he signs and accepts the ticket. He’d played this scene often enough 40 years ago. Felonious unconventional hairstyle was grounds to be stopped just to see if you’d say or do anything stupid back then. It seems so long ago.

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“WHAT ARE YOU lookin’ at?” says the big man. He fixes an unflinching “wanna fight?” glare on Tomaso. Tomaso wants to say: “A six-foot-four dude in a full body pink bunny suit.” But, he knows it is a rhetorical inquiry. As he looks down, the sight of overstuffed rabbit feet breaks his sangfroid. Tomaso is laughing as a padded roundhouse punch contacts his left ear. “Great! Ass kicked by the Easter Bunny!” he chuckles.

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ACE HAS NEVER been knocked out cold before. He wakes drifting dreamlike. A guy dabbing tissue in his face says: “If you think you’re hurt, stay put.” The tissue comes away soaked red. But it’s Ace’s dream, just a nightmare or he’d feel pain. Right? Why not get out and check his smashed up ’66 Mustang? The EMT doesn’t give way. Ace’s clothes are pretty well blood splattered. “Damn! I really liked this shirt.” he says.

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STROKER FREAKS people out. It’s necessary to infiltrate a wall of menace to see he started out as a nice rural Oklahoma church kid. Being hyper aware of surroundings, suspicious that the mundane may conceal furtive assassins or maiming booby traps is second nature to him. He checks a room as if waving a hand near a burner to see if the stove is hot. After a run in with a trip wire long ago, he won’t get burned again.

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“SHIT! HERE COMES GRUFFY!” says Ilene. The patrons at the counter know the drill. Nobody looks around. Each man steels himself against the coming storm, heralded by a palpable barometric rise in the room. They fight the impulse to flee. Crossing paths with Billy Coates at the door is the surest way to become victim of the day. He awkwardly enters, pivoting an aluminum cane. In a coughing fit he scowls: “Hey fellers!”

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MILES’ EXTRAORDINARY abilities provided no exemption to the rule that everything dies. He’d lived a remarkably long life, being literally ten feet tall and bulletproof. Many people loved him as a super hero. Others cursed him as a super villain. Miles knew he was given a lot more to work with than most people, but in the end lacked super wisdom and super self control. He was merely a person who did the best he could.

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ANAROSA WAS STARTLED. She’d grown used to being invisible. For years it was always the same. She approached diners and cheerfully asked: “Are you finished? May I clear your plates?” They grunted or answered “thanks” without looking up. Some smirked in her general direction, as if her whereabouts were indiscernible. But tonight, the young man looked her directly in the face and smiled. For a moment she was in the room.

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LUCILLE HAS a little hairless Chuwowee dog named Minnie Mutt. She carries it around in a tooled leather handbag hanging from a bicycle chain around her neck. Minnie barks relentlessly, micturates, chews the chain and struggles to get out of the purse. Lucille pets her gently and coos: “Minnie Mutt. Good girl.” The people on the metro bus complain so much, the driver has to place Lucille and Minnie on the no-fly list.

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“BAGPIPE ALERT!” It pops into Warren’s head as he pulls into the parking lot. He sees people in the bar waving banners and river dancing. “Jeez! I forgot Saint Patrick’s Day!” He steers toward the exit. That’s when a guy wearing a kilt and carrying bagpipes steps into his path. A moving vehicle and bagpipes? Seems like a no brainer, but he fights down the urge and swerves around. It was close, but he gets away clean.

THEODORE FINDS himself exhausted and lost, bogged down in a muddy plowed field. It’s a familiar sensation. He’d hoped that by running blindly for as long as could be sustained, he would escape the unhappy awareness of being himself. But, it’s just one more failed attempt. No drug, meditation practice, nor mortification of flesh is ever enough to lose that detested entity for good. Wherever Theodore goes, there he is.

ABSOLUTE MATHMATIC certainty of the existence of God was confirmed in 2010. Input errors to the Roadrunner computer at Los Alamos National Laboratory revealed an anomaly. Scientists analyzing the data recognized the implications of the proof. No announcement was issued because only about 100 people worldwide would be able to understand the complexity of the computations. The rest of us would have to take it on faith.

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NEVER WAKE sleepwalkers is the rule. The story is he’d come in her room and said “Hello Grandma.” She’d followed him through the house as he emptied ash trays, looked in cabinets, and chatted with imaginary people. He remembers nothing except looking out a window. In the moonlight a demon crawled out of a fiery hole and beckoned. Perhaps a dream? He doesn’t know what part of the night is real. He’s just a little boy.

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A FAMILIAR VAPOROUS odor, mellowed by night sea air, wafts from the man at the rail. Jimmy recognizes the drummer from the cruise ship’s lounge act and decides to be sociable. Struck by the vastness of the ocean, Jimmy muses: “I’ve never seen so much water!” There is a long pause. The drummer passes the doobie and fixes his eye on Jimmy. In a sudden wheezing exhale he replies: “Yeah man, and that’s just the surface!”

It’s a major re-write, but this idea is ripped off from an anecdote Harry Belafonte relates in the book: “Robert Altman: The Oral Biography.” After hearing a version of this joke, it became a private thing between Altman and Belafonte. When someone or something got boorish, one of them would whisper: “And that’s just the surface."

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A SKID ROW CLICHÉ beyond notice pushes a purloined shopping cart across the concrete flats. In mid-step transformation occurs. Muscular physique implies beneath multi-layered thrift store apparel. He strikes a wide martial arts stance, cranes his neck to one shoulder and extends an invisible Excalibur skyward. In Frank Frazetta tableau, he mouths urgent dialog. Then he seems to dissolve, fading back to anonymous bum.

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“PECKERWOOD” IS the universal term of derision drivers associate with Don. Some yell out as they drive by: “Peckerwood!” Others glare through windshields and mumble, but he can read their lips: “Peckerwood!” Don is not sure what it means. The sight of him standing at a bus stop just seems to infuriate people. He daydreams about driving around in a car, smiling at people on the street, maybe even offering them a ride.

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“UNWANTED DEAD OR ALIVE!” declared the crudely drawn poster scrawled with black magic marker on his filthy white t-shirt. He thought it was perfect guerilla art. Perhaps somebody would take a picture, make him famous on the internet, or at least give him a meal and couple nights shelter. But nobody caught the irony of it, not even the cops he rudely harangued on the street. It was true. He couldn’t even get arrested.

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I KNEW JESUS. Yeah, his friends called him Chuy. I met him in the ’70s at Oklahoma City Community College. We had a band called Los Salvadores del Ritmo. He fronted on button accordion and vocals. Nobody else had a chance with the ladies once they caught his act. Man! We kind of lost touch after re-hab. His ex-wife Frieda and the kids saw to that. I guess it’s for the best, but we had some good times back in the day.

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THAT’S NO CAT! I brake before realizing the creature darting out from the darkness is an opossum. Earl the Urban Possum doesn’t belong here. He’s probably digging up the neighborhood, scattering garbage, spreading disease, and scaring old ladies. The thing to do is gun it while he’s frozen in my headlights. But, he is no longer just a random wild animal. I’ve named him Earl. Earl comes to his senses. And, he’s gone.

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Nicola after the fall:

Gravity is never nice
to bipeds on the glide
throws you down like tumble dice
for one wild iced up ride
“Look at me ma, I can skate!”
is pride before the plop
gravity will fling your pate
to bottom from the top
Helpless in an awkward spin
plunging until you stop
to reflect on where you’ve been
on your most recent flop
Fractured landing with no net
is no idea of fun
take a load of Percocet
until your healings done
One day we’ll look back and hoot
at this most tragic swoon
for now we’ll just play it cute
and trust you’ll get well soon

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“A CHICKEN COUP!” That’s what the newspapers called it. Walt and Irene experienced it first hand when the sheer volume of roosters crowing and hens cheerfully conversing woke them at first light. Their backyard was packed with poultry that appeared out of nowhere! They still don’t know who the birds belong to, nor how they got there. “Some days chickens I guess,” was Walt’s take. “With a vengeance babe!” Irene added.

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LITTLE BIT’S BOA is devoid of feathers and way too animated for me. I’m thinking: This is the kind of party where the invitation “come as you are” includes wearing an undulating, six foot, predatory constrictor around the neck? And, how did she get a nickname like “Little Bit?” As she introduces herself, I realize I’m halfway through my third Tanqueray and tonic. I’ve had enough. Don’t want to pass out at this party!

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THE PARTY is long over. Gloria awakes alone in the park, sitting leaning against a tree. Piles of empty beer bottles and junk food debris are all she has to orient herself. A vivid sunrise and frosty air don’t help a pulsating hangover, but she smiles, feeling wonderfully alive. Staggering to her feet, she begins the long walk to town. She wonders what happened to her friends, and imagines what should happen to them.

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