melts Saturday’s snow
melts Saturday’s snow
The police sergeant closed the door to the interrogation room and waved the other man to a seat.
“Now, Mr. Legier, as I said on the phone, I believe we have found your missing wallet which was stolen from you five weeks ago,” Sergeant Kaplan said. If you could just describe it for me, please.”
“Certainly. It’s a simple brown bi-fold wallet. Rather well used; it’s not new. It had my name in it.”
“Anything … unusual about it that might help further identify it, Mr. Legier?”
“Well, not really,” he said, and paused. “I mean, it had my driver’s license and grocery store club card and library card and such things.”
“So there’s nothing, shall we say, peculiar … at all … about this wallet? Mr. Legier?” Sergeant Kaplan lowered his head and looked over his glasses at Mr. Legier. His eyebrows were up in his hairline and there was great meaning in his stare, which Mr. Legier understood.
“Well, it …” He stopped. “It makes money,” he admitted quietly.
we leave before dawn –
but where is our neighbor
going at this hour?
While we’re stopped and looking at this site as a whole, it’s a good time to chat about “A Cute Stress,” which I had promised to update occasionally.
Timing is everything, and mine is sometimes lousy. About a week after I posted the first story – a cute, light piece that included a well-trained chimpanzee as a main character – reality intervened: a woman’s pet chimpanzee attacked and horribly injured a friend of hers. The woman knew the chimpanzee and the attack was unprovoked.
Suddenly, stories with cute, well-trained chimpanzees were yesterday’s hash, and reasonably so.
I haven’t decided what to do with the series I was planning. The chimp was going to be integral to the storyline, but now that that’s out I’m not sure where to go with it. If anywhere at all.
Stay tuned, but don’t hold your breath.
And there it is: one full year of catsignal.
One full year of haiku and short stories. One of each per week with no absences.
I have to say I’m pretty proud of this achievement. I’m well aware that not every one of my posts is Pulitzer- or Nobel-worthy material. But the former newspaper editor in me knows that something is almost always better than nothing and that you have to meet the deadline and fill the space – and get the job done. My job is to entertain, and I like to think I’ve been meeting that goal, too.
So … continue catsignal.
And continue to enjoy.
“And next up for Open Mic Night at Barney’s Cantina is … whoa! I have no idea how to pronounce this person’s name. Just give a big hand to whoever this is and maybe she’ll tell you.”
A light shower of applause greeted the young woman as she took the small stage in the bar and grill. A couple of men whistled at her and she looked in their direction and smiled.
She was about 5 foot 5 with long, wavy blonde hair and a perfect hourglass figure. The top three buttons on her blouse were unbuttoned and she seemed to enjoy leaning forward just a bit. Her skirt was short enough to attract equal attention.
“Good evening, Barney’s!” she called, and was rewarded with cheers and more whistles. “My name is Mwffu Tywnx, but you can call me Muffy if it’s easier. Not like we’re going to get to know each other real well anyway … as my people are going to conquer the Earth tomorrow and enslave every last one of you.”
landing field –
flights of geese
slowly circle down
The apartment door opened and closed. Emily set her purse down and hung her coat on the hook. When she walked into the living room she stopped cold at the sight of an unfamiliar woman sitting in the rocking chair.
The woman looked down at the cat in her lap. “See? I told you she’d be home soon.” She looked up at Emily. “I haven’t been here long, Ms. Ware; just long enough for Ribbons to get comfortable.”
“Who are you?” Emily asked.
“Please don’t be frightened, Ms. Ware. I’m here to help you.” And she smiled a friendly little smile. “My name is Paula.”
watching the radar –
where my parents live
Dr. Sir Jonas Clark Sheppy stood on the balcony of Rusbridge Hall as the sun set and reveled in being master of all he surveyed.
Well, to the river, anyway, he amended. His neighbor’s property began on the other side of the bank. Still, Rusbridge Manor was a pleasant piece of land, complete with tenant farmers working the acres surrounding the demensne. Sheppy had purchased the manor from the Rusbridge family, which had fallen on hard times due to the riotous style of living its last heir had finally fallen victim to.
There was also, he recalled sourly, some question as to how much the master of the manor he really was. Not quite out of sight was the corner of a barn, almost as ancient as the hall itself. Sheppy didn’t think much of the barn and had voiced his thoughts on it to his estate manager, Pocock.