Once upon a time
(must’ve been ’round ’99)
a friend sent unto me
a game that could be played online, for free!

One team in red,
one team in green
evenly matched: three on three
battling in snow, oh so merrily!

First round’s a cinch.
But, hey! What’s this?
They add to their numbers
while your team blunders
on and on through thick-fallen snow.
You can’t just stop.
How far can you go?

Eventually you must meet your fate,
and though never winning, you think it’s great
and send it on to other friends.
But soon or late
this fades away as often tends
to happen to fads and other trends
until the day
(quite accidentally)
whilst googling “fort”
you hear that giggle and that snort…

and you smile.

I Am the Just Right Webmaster


Hear my words and understand: I Am “The Just Right Webmaster”.

I do any distinctive trick. The contents are master-piece.

Can you dig it?


I am The Just Right Webmastah
Make my fingahs fly fastah
Point my fukkin’ lasah-light blasta
an’ I gun it ’til I crash ya

I put the numbers in a row
and a-surfin’ you will go
until everybody know
how come Shirley got that glow

I am The Just Right Webmastah
Make my fingahs fly fastah
Point my fukkin’ lasah-light blasta
an’ I gun it ’til I crash ya

C’mon and be a glutton
press that itty bitty button
wrap that baby in its buntin’
eat the eggs I been huntin’

I am The Just Right Webmastah
Make my fingahs fly fastah
Point my fukkin’ lasah-light blasta
an’ I gun it ’til I crash ya

Dorothy clicks
and the poetry ticks
and your eyes they will stick
I got balls but no dick

I am The Just Right Webmastah
Make my fingahs fly fastah
Point my fukkin’ lasah-light blasta
an’ I gun it ’til I crash ya

The Patience Stories

And with a green and yellow melancholy. She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.

No Time for Patience

“51 years, nine months, and four days.”

“What? That can’t be right! Let me see…”

Helen handed her the book. “It’s right. Look, see? Here.” She pointed with her long, bony finger. Patience moved her lips as she read the offending passage for herself. There was no mistaking it: the potion would have to age for precisely 51 years, nine months, and four days before it could be put to use. She threw the book at the cat who was slinking around Helen’s baseboards. It yowled piteously and hid behind a tottering stack of books and papers.

“Hey! Be careful!” cried Helen. “That book is ancient!” She jumped from her seat at the warped wooden table and retrieved the book, cradling it in her arms like a wounded child. The cat hissed when she came near. She aimed a kick at it but missed, managing instead to topple the stack of books. The cat took off like a streak up the shadowed stairwell where it remained out of sight for the rest of the afternoon.

“What do we do now?” Patience sulked. “We don’t have 52 years to wait.”

“51 years, nine months, and four days.”

“Close enough,” Patience growled.

The two women sat in silence. The kettle began to whistle. Helen rose from the table once more and shuffled about the cramped space preparing their afternoon tea. She decided on chamomile–Patience might benefit from its calming effects. “I suppose we’ll just have to keep looking,” she said, half hoping she wouldn’t be heard. “We found this potion. Surely there must be another.”

“There is no other.” Patience drew in a short, sharp breath and released it slowly. “You know this as well as I do, Helen.”

She put down the kettle and turned. Patience was sitting with her head against the wall and her eyes closed. She suddenly looked so small and frail. It frightened her. She had always known that Patience was small, but her personality made her huge. One could only think of her as a giantess in spite of the physical evidence to the contrary. “Oh, Patience!” she exclaimed. “Why did you do it? You knew he was no good. He was wicked and traitorous! He stole all of your best magic and left you in this deplorable state of… of… mortality!” She spit the last word out like poison.

Patience sighed. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “I never should have taken him as my pupil. I knew it, even then, but I was helpless around him, hopeless! I did everything wrong, and now I’m going to die as a result of my own stupidity. But, you know something, Helen?”

Helen turned her back so her tears could fall unseen. “What?” she asked.

“The rightness eclipsed every mistake made along the way.”


Priscilla’s Tale

The cat crouched in the shadows at the top of the stairs. She could still hear the humans nattering on about the potion below.  She knew they still had not found it; the thought cheered her.

There were towering piles of… books –that’s what they called them– all over the house. She took a grim satisfaction from knowing that one of those piles now lay scattered across the worn floorboards. It served them both right.

She smoothed and cleaned her fur and let her mind wander. She knew she hadn’t always been a cat. It was hard to remember, but she tried anyway. It seemed important.

Years before there had been a young man with dark hair and twinkling eyes. He’d been kind to her. He brought her flowers and sweet things to eat. What had he called her? She squeezed her eyes into slits and thought.


When he asked she’d told him her name was Prissy. He laughed. “Prissy? A girl as beautiful as you can’t be called ‘Prissy’.” Blushing furiously she’d told him that her mother had called her Prissy right before she died, and Prissy it would always be. She’d felt bold saying so many words to him in a row. “Well,” he pronounced, “you look more like a ‘Priscilla’ to me.”

She was staying at the cottage then, and the old one with the bent fingers was different: younger, with beautiful long, red hair and bright green eyes. Prissy felt terribly awkward around her, but when Father died she’d come asking for work. The young woman had looked down at her… no. That wasn’t right.

The woman had looked up at her. Yes. Definitely up.

She stared intently at Prissy’s face. It made her nervous, and she began to fidget.

“Stand still. Look me in the eye.”

Prissy obeyed. The woman shook her head and said, “Well, come in. Let’s see what you can do. Personally I can’t imagine, but you’re meant to stay.”

Two months later the man had come calling. He brought her gifts and spoke softly to her. On a crisp autumn day he proposed. She accepted.

“I should have asked your guardian first,” he said guiltily. “I know! Invite me for tea this week and introduce me. Then I can ask for your hand properly.”

Prissy practically flew home. She had chores to finish. She didn’t want to upset her mistress: she might not allow her to have the young man to tea! The thought was enough to send her into a panic, but she needn’t have worried.

“Yes, you can have your young man to tea. Frankly, I’m relieved you know any young men. You obviously have no talent for magic. I can’t for the life of me figure out why all the signs said you needed to be here.” She shrugged, then seemed to forget it.

Prissy told the young man to be at the cottage for tea that Thursday. He was so pleased that he kissed her!

On Wednesday she polished the silver tea service and laid the best cloth on the table. The woman had been working on something all day. That evening after dinner she asked Prissy to go lock the hen house.

A full moon hung in the purple velvet of the evening. Prissy stopped for a moment to admire it and spotted someone at the edge of the forest. She squinted: it was him! She started to raise her hand in greeting but stopped short and stared, horrified, as he shrank and fell on all fours. His dark hair spread, covering him from head to foot. Suddenly where the man had been there now was a fox.

It ran across the clearing toward the hen house. Stunned, she heard the commotion break out inside. She walked forward and looked.

The fox had caught a hen between its teeth. The bird was fighting back, trying to peck its attacker, but the fox shook it violently. It fluttered for a moment, magnificent in its struggle, then wilted and lay still. The fox turned and looked at her.

Prissy fled toward the cottage. He caught her by the arm and spun her around. There was blood on his lips.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

She tried to get away, but she was as helpless in his grip as the hen had been. He said some words she didn’t understand, and she felt herself changing. She opened her mouth to scream…



Just a Little Patience (teaser)

A wind blew. A door slammed. A candle died.

Patience sat in the dark, too stunned to register anything outside of the fact that she was, suddenly, alone.


Foiled Getaway

She lies there, sprawled out,
limbs akimbo.
I lift my head to sneak
a peek;
Move slowly, try not
to disturb
the ebb and flow
of her dreaming.
She turns her head:
“I want more story, Mom.
Please come back to bed.”
Sigh, turn back.
So much for my scheming.


Whodunnit? (Gargleblaster #156)

My roses were big and beautiful with gorgeous color. Now a dozen are missing; the bushes look forlorn and naked. Then I spy him mounting Ms. Johnson’s front steps, his wrinkled hands clutching roses and his face as hopeful as a teenager.

The Misery of the Heat (Weekly Writing Challenge: Fifty)

Sweat poured down her back, beaded on her upper lip, and pooled between her breasts. She risked a backwards glance:

It was coming closer.

She hitched up her bag and began to run. It was getting hard to breathe.

She was almost there…

She sagged as the bus passed her.

“Do you see her much?” (Gargleblaster #157)

“Do you see her much?”

“Every night. I hear her come up the stairs and down the hall. She comes into my room and stands at the foot of my bed.”

“Could you close the door?”

He shivered. “She walks through it.”

 Gargleblaster #159

She eyed herself in the silvered glass, feeling out of place amongst lace doilies and colorless photographs in tarnished frames. The tall, stern woman in old fashioned clothing addressed her: “Victoria!” She turned and with 21st century cool stated, “The name’s Vicky.”

He Says He Loves Me

He says he loves me
but doesn’t really get me,
knows he can’t fix me.

That should be enough,
make me feel gooey and stuff,
break right through my bluff.

Ain’t got shit to give.
What is that word? –Impassive.
I wonder: Why live?

Music, humor, art…
Okay, I will play my part.
I don’t give a shart.

For the kids, I’ll stay.
I will smile day after day.
In the breeze I’ll sway.

No, you can’t fix me.
Not sure how you could love me.
We’ll just have to see.

Won’t we?

A Royal Birthday

“Oh!” said the Monarch to the Queen.
“Ever since I lost myself
the places I have been!
Around about the Valley
and up a little stream…”
“Where I come from,”
the Queen bespoke,
“we call that up the creek.”