Bert & Ernie: A Bitter Cup of Java.

Bert’s jaw slacked open in utter disbelief. The plume of smoke that rose lazily over the distant skyline was growing into a black cloud, staining the clear blue sky. Ambulance and police sirens wailed in the distance like terrified children. “I told’em I’d do it, Bert. Told’em a thousand times. Yes sir, I did.”, Ernie said in a soft voice that Bert barely heard.

Of course he’d heard him talk about it. Many times in fact. “They did it again!”, Ernie would shout enraged, stomping around in their home. “They wrote Erny. ERNY! My name is spelled E-R-N-I-E! ERNIE! Gosh darn it! Next time they get it wrong I’ll blow’em to smitherens, I will, Bert. See if I don’t!” Bert had just shrugged it off as one of his oddball -albeit darker- schemes.

But the crazy bastard had done it. The flames licked at the green and white paint, slowly devouring the woman’s crown and smile.

“This is justice.”, Ernie stated.

Bert could feel his throat dry and raspy. He licked his lips with a deliberate slowness, thinking his next words very carefully. The wailing had grown louder at each passing minute. “Perhaps…perhaps we should go to Dunkin Donuts next time. Eh, Ern?”

Ernie turned to face him. The twinkle in his eyes transformed Bert’s legs into jelly. Ernie stared at him for a few nerve-wracking seconds before cracking a smile. “Yeah, that’d be swell. I do love donuts! Keehehehehehehe!”


A Writer’s inspiration

This writer writhes within their cocoon
of anxiety and uncertainty
how tight their bonds
biting hungrily into their flesh
they want to be seen
fed by the applause of an invisible audience
feel that its skin is not a waste
but how can they keep the twin beasts
of Doubt and Shame at bay?
Rejection is ever looming
threatening to shut their soul
until it withers within itself
death by silence
the writer is alone
every day the mountain mocks
their efforts, their struggle, their hopes, their dreams
they try to climb to the top
one painful word at a time
often it makes them bleed
shivering from fear
the summit is so distant
but every day anew
the climb resumes
there is nothing else to be done
no other thing they would rather face
than the pain of writing
over the death of being silent
and so they write another page
hoping against hope
that tomorrow they will write another
and so on
so forth.

A doggy biscuit

There once was a man and a woman, but then there was another man, and maybe another woman, then there was a dog, because there often must be a dog, otherwise were would we be then? Burning and pillaging like savages? No, no. We’re not savages. I tell you, not savages. And a dog is proof of a civilized nation. A good nation. The type of nation whose people drink tea and eat biscuits. The fancy ones in a tin can, not those cheap ones that taste like sawdust that you buy in some tacky green plastic bag in the supermarket. Please, I spend good money on quality. I am a person of taste after all. A dog is like a fancy biscuit. Only the good breeds, mind you. Yes, like a fancy biscuit. You can depend on its quality. Its flavor. The biscuit’s, not the dog’s. Regardless, a dog is a must. A must, a bust, a trust. That rhymes, chimes, limes. Ooooh, limes..haven’t had those for a while now. Wait, where was I? Ah, yes, it was 1945, and the War on Europe was over. A man and a woman, and maybe another man and a woman, held the fate of the world in their hands…as did the dog. That dog was….gee, I wonder what those biscuits taste like? I could go for some biscuits. Oh yes, some tasty biscuits with a cup of tea. Yeah. That’d hit the spot. Where’s that damned dog gone to now? Ach, always something with that dog. First its fleas, then peeing all over the carpet in the living room, now its gone AWOL. I tell you, I should have gotten a cat. Oh bother…someone ate the last biscuit. Well, that does it then. I can’t continue this tale biscuitless. I quit. Good day to you.

A Mouse is brave

Mordecai’s whiskers twitched. It wasn’t the falling snow that sent a shiver down his spine, though its soft, cold touch certainly did not help. The grey owl was massive. A behemoth of beak, talons and feathers. It met him upon the snowy field; there was no place for him to hide.

The owl hooted, a low rumble from the depths of its bowels. A challenge; it knew the old ways. Small as his foe was -mere prey, some would mock-, the owl granted him this. Whether for its own amusement, or out of genuine respect for standing against it.

Mordecai’s cape flapped back and fro, snapping behind his back. His sword had not been baptized. “Naked steel”, Roderick once called it. Part jest, part truth. He was unproven.

Now, he faced death. His paw’s grip tightened around the handle of the sword to ground himself. The trembling subsided for a bit. Smoke billowed out of his mouth with each breath, would these be his last? It didn’t matter. A challenge had been issued; he raised the handle and pressed it gently over his furry forehead. “To the death, then.”