Monday, November 23, 2015


You. Just look at you. Only one ever to have his cake and eat it too. A Magpie of all creatures great and small and worthless.
That's my cake. I throw my shoe at you. And yet the fragile caged noble canary expires in the coal mine. Real purpose there.
Go ahead. Eat. Hope you hear the canary ghost sing with every bite. Know that you always have to look over your shoulder for bad days ahead. If you did have a shoulder.
I throw my other shoe at you.

painting by Rubens Peale

Sunday, November 15, 2015

the perfect day

She felt a...a presence. A chill in a hot kitchen, and she looked up from the stove, eggs sputtering. She turned and saw the cat licking its front left paw with three quick swiveling head dives. Wiping her hands on the faded apron of apples, oranges and Home Sweet Home, she took one step towards the black and white, his elegant coat ruffled during the dumbwaiters rocky and squeaky plummet. A continuous hollow-sounding draft swept out of the entrance by his tail.
"Close that door! Well"? she asked, suspicious and impatient.
"402 change. The distinguished three-chinned gentleman wants scrambled eggs instead. 206 skipped out during the night. The same bed-sheet-rope-out-the-window number. 234 has no hot water, and I might add(undetectable throat clearing) at this time the gap in the baseboard behind the desk-top writing table has widened. Mouse One easier in-and-out".
"Same one"?
"Same one what"?
He licked his other front paw once, then twice. The kitchen still had a salmon scent. He liked that. Wished he still had some stuck to the roof of his mouth from last evenings supper. The cook gripped the spatula tighter.
"Yeah. He's mine. I'll get him. One day".
He looked up directly into her eyes. For the first time ever he noticed they were green like his own. He denoted a hint of tenderness as she looked away.
She went back to her eggs. Shutting her eyes tight, she inhaled and let it out slow. Looking back over her right shoulder, the cat was waiting on the ledge.
"Well?" She barked it. Like that one dog he met once. He was shaken.
"I need".
She turned, hands on hips.
"Oh yeah?"
"Fly on the lobby windowsill. Whole day affair".
Spatulas can fly if you have a good flexible wrist. Her throwing wrist was just marvelous.
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All original designs and text created by the author of this blog, Phil L., are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike3.0 License. All other materials remain the property of their respective owners and/or creators, unless of course they are part of the public domain.