Coffee Mugged



Spring looks a little colder today.

The sky fairly stretches off the canvas as shades of grey sink into the dim reaches of an endless horizon. Like ink drips hanging from the end of a nib, this virgin skyscape is the virgin page for the the stalwart and creative. I love it.

Such a scene sits before me now. As sound of silver kettles whistle across almost everywhere across the nation and cups of tea are prepared in silent meditation.

That’s “almost”…

A fresh cup of coffee sits just beyond my hand. A strong depth of darkness.

Unsullied by sweeteners or additives, many think it’s an abomination. But, me? It’s the way it ought to be. At least, ought to be for me. The warmth in the mug elicites a haunting aroma swirling and waiting blanched in the pale blue glow of my laptop.

The weird thing is. I never used to like coffee. It was an addiction I never felt the need to acquire. But the scent was ever present. Buried deep within my mind ever since I was little. And as the years granted age and wisdom (which means, a load of bad decisions on my part), my tendencies towards the bean blossomed into a full-fledged Sirens’ Song.

Until college, I was unwilling to give in completely. The willpower required was the kind Samson must have felt when resisting Delilah, especially in the midst of dawn classes and late-night study sessions. To be sure, most of those evenings were spent studying the smiling redhead close beside me, but then again, she was a subject worth understanding better.

But that’s another story for a later time. Today, this ode is to a strong cuppa and the greyess of a day. A day very much like this. And the perfect cup of coffee I found therein.


To be continued…


More Musings…


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This time, I was sitting through the Little Rock vs. Texas State collegiate baseball game…

It’s a good thing I didn’t go into IT like I was thinking… Everytime I’d arrive to service a machine, I’d proudly state, “It is my Call of Duty! Now what needs a rebooty??”

If the town is called Little Rock, Texas… Why not just call it Pebble? @_@

What is sweet and salty?? Pretty much every sports operator in a baseball game in extra innings. D8

This batter just got a single… Isn’t that called dating??

Do you ever wonder about Princess Peach from the Mario franchise?? I mean, how in the world does she keep getting kidnapped? Kind of like the Taken series of movies… Maybe Bowser is the mastermind behind both?? I mean, somehow aside from having people who are infinitely capable of getting said kidnappees back, they continue to be kidnapped! There are more profound tropes in effect here than we have time to look into. But maybe Mario should look into a better security system…

So, if the guy who is throwing the ball from the mound drinks a couple gallons of squeezed oranges… Is he a Pitcher of Orange Juice?? …Maybe he should mix it with some champagne and be a giant Mimosa? Just don’t make him angry… or that’s Mr. Mimosa to you!

What should be seen and not heard?? …a mime with bagpipes. @_@ Come to think of it, doesn’t every plumber have a bag of pipes? And if he’s a baseball playing plumber, are they pitch pipes?? Why aren’t baseball bats called pitch pipes?? A bat isn’t any kind of word for a long, hard thing a guy swings around… Maybe baseball thumper! Make it more action packed.

I’m really surprised the DC Metro department thingy hasn’t created a mascot to help showcase how prompt and on-time their trains are. Like a gnome! An on-time Metro-gnome would be brilliant! 😀

My Life’s Sentence


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“It’s only a bit of metal …like you said.” She whispered. The thin band clattered with a hollow resonance against the polished oak desk. The silence I’d grown all but too accustomed to was broken by a promise that never should have been. Through years of investigating cold cases on colder nights with nothing but the ticking of a brass clock to keep me company, never had I heard a sound quite so… empty.

She stood tall and almost rigid. Her lips remained firm and resolute. Waiting… Wanting for me to say anything to convince or plead or beg. Any small word could have halted the momentum of what had been set in motion. Just a word or even a whisper or… or an explosion of frustration from the other side of the desk. But there was nothing. Only silence. That horrible, deafening silence. …and a clock.

I stared at the ring. Lifeless.

I looked in her eyes. Loveless.

Letters failed to form words in the confounded reaches of my mind. Drawing on the depths of that hollow I so callously referred to as a soul, I caught a glimmer of an illogical logic with enough traction to convince her to stay.

But if such were to be, she’d been damned to a relationship with a ghost. And as much as I had never been there in the past, no promise to leave my trembling lips could make a faint possibility into a reality for her happiness.

Words sat on my lips. And that’s where they lay. Could have lain there til the crack of hell stretched across the sky and swallowed time and matter as we know it. But even then, with nothing to lose, they wouldn’t sound.

Her face drew into the pointed, pinched sadness I’d never wanted to face before. Her silhouette blackened as she stepped into the light through the main door. And with a heavy softness, the latch clicked behind her.

That was the last I saw of her. That slim silhouette etched in my mind through frosted glass. That’s a sight i never could forget. A shattered vow is but a sad statement of man’s life. Or a legacy etched in granite.



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In my current profession, I deal with sports. I, however, am not a sports fan. Thus, while sitting down to a Georgia State vs. Arkansas State collegiate baseball game, these were a few of the thoughts that came to mind…

If all the Superman impersonators go to the same bar in Superman’s disguise… Would that be a Clark Bar?

And Justin Jones just stepped up to the plate! At 6’2″ tall, he’s a formidable opponent playing for Georgia State here in the Sunbelt stadium known for the most homeruns scored throughout the league. To the freshmen here, it’s colloquially known as the Temple of Boom. If only this young man had accepted the scholarship from Indiana State. I would have really enjoyed seeing Indiana Jones and the Temple of Boom.

One of these teams should be called the Mike Wazowskis… They’ll never be seen on TV. @-@ #pixarbuuuurn

Is this the real liiiiiife? Or is this Fantasyyyyy… baseball. Well, I’ve seen Lord of the Rings. And unless Smeagol comes out and takes the baseball diamond, I don’t think this is even close to fantasy. #myprecious

This next batter is dressed all in Black! Look at the blank expression on his face as he grips the bat inspiring terror in the opposing team… It’s! Nanananananananana- Slenderman? <-<

This next batter’s name is… Zuul? I wonder why he changed it from Dana. @-@

You know what Arkansas’ favorite kind of salad is?? …potato. You’ld think it was Arkanslaw, but… no. Those jokes are for peasants and people who aren’t bored! In fact, that’s the state’s primary export! And their gents are mighty muscely from a starchy diet based on baked goods. All the ladies swoon when they see these… Spud muffins.

As it turns out, this is supposed to be a secret game. We shall be referring to these teams by they spy acronyms from here on. Keep tuned for the amazing conclusion of: Rio Goga vs. Snark Sas (or is that Rank Sass?? Only the spies know)

Apparently, they shorten Georgia State to GAST. <_< Nooooo ooonnne, Gets on a base, Takes a ball to the face, Plays incredibly boring innings at this pace! They use gestures in all of their plaaaay making, Toooey! Why caaaan’t GAST get oooooon??? #disneyburn #nobelleprize #doublebuuuuurn

If they made a Lara Croft video about tri-folding hair, would it be called… Tomb Braider??

…just thinking out loud here. It’s hour 236 here in Baseball prison. The walls grow closer. Taller. Each day is a new hashmark. Too many to count. I think I know. I can’t tell. The pond is so close outside the window. Braid the ethernet cables together. Repel down the balcony and swim to glory! …but no escape, no hope. The pitchers don’t stop. The innings never end. I never knew the abyss that existed within. The Inning without End. @-@ D8

If someone is drawn to someone else, doesn’t that make them kinda sketchy? #imponderables

Sherlock was asked a question by his child. He replied, “‘Wat, son??”

If the bases can be loaded, can we give a shot to the next batter?? Could be more interesting… If Voldemort told a really awful joke, would he Voldesnort?? Does he have enough nose to snort with?? I’ve never heard of a snorty snake… #moreimponderables

These pitchers are having to be changed more than a new born! #badumtshhh

So, if Baseball was made in France, would it have a Merci Rule?? @-@

What has two ends and a looooong middle?? NOT BASEBALL!!!! IT NEVER ENDS!! @_@

The clouds look ominous out there. I’m sensing the apocolypse out there. Question: If one has a kiss to die for, does the kisser have Apoco-lips?? I digress… There’s a storm brewing in ever churning clouds beyond the reaches of these simple panes. They really should make these sheets of glass resizable. But then no one wants Growing Panes. <-<

The game today is brought to you by Under Armour! Cause when you need Power Pantaloons stolen from Australia, you’ll want Plunder from Down Under Armour. D8

Why don’t they hang Kitchen water-basins off sailing vessels? They’re designed to sink!

And so it ends. Not with a Bang… Nor with a whisper. But with a “HEEEEEELL YEAH, BABY!!!” ~unquote

The Tower…


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The glass shattered amongst the tulips. The garden outside the window just witnessed one of the many tantrums that had plagued this house since the new tenants moved in. The mistress of the house filled it with her furniture and her temper quickly. Although, the latter was more the fault of her husband whose infidelities came to light about the same time. And that wasn’t really his fault either. Well, it was, but had his own “mistress not included a pair of her underwear in his suitcase” after the last business trip, he found himself presented with two options. Either confess his “lustful” activities… or admit he was the most hip drag-queen south of Manchester. Which was the truth in actuality, but not like he really wanted to be outed in such a manner. Thus, he was “unfaithful”. It was a little lie on his part, but to her… He was the devil incarnate who dashed her trust and faith in all of male-kind. Much like that ashtray with shards now scattered amongst the tulips. Or the one after that. She drew in a deep breath feeling the fire in her soul match the of the whiskey in the bottle at her fingertips. The bottle with the intact seal. There was much she regretted in her life and while marrying …that Bastard… sat right on the verge of becoming regret, she wouldn’t have left Texas for the cloud-laden shores of England had it not been for that…

“Bastard.” She muttered beneath her breath. But that was that. She wasn’t one much to dwell on those who wronged her or to give them much hold over her emotions. If he couldn’t deliver on caring for her in sickness and in health (and be faithful and not stick his churro in places it didn’t belong), he didn’t deserve to live under the same roof as her. Thus, he got his bit of sugar. And she got the lighthouse.

It was pure chance that they had happened to find residence on the top of a cliff. And even more of a chance that this refurbished lighthouse happened to come on the market at the same time that they arrived. But life could smile on on one one day just as quickly as it could twist the storming clouds overhead into a tornado and tear your life apart.

And she’d had enough tornadoes. Pulling the world beneath her feet up in chunks and splinters of sod and timber and loved ones… She gave up a life of overburnt desserts and miles of loneliness for marriage and a trip to Europe. It’s a shame life couldn’t remain intact across the pond, but that’s just where life goes. And it can’t be helped.

She looked out over the miles of sea-grey ocean with white-tipped waves chopping across the surface. Always forming and churning closer to the cliffs below. She couldn’t see where the two met, but it didn’t matter. That distance was what brought her to this house in the first place. The distance and an odd feeling she felt as she stood outside the door. Amidst wind embraced with sea salt and the sense of freedom one finds when truly on their own, she knew there was one watching over her shoulder. She never saw the figure, but looking up the tall black and white check pillar of salvation that was the first lighthouse on the point, she could have sworn she felt someone looking back. And that watchful eye was… comforting.

The door closed behind her with a heavy thud as she crossed the threshold back into the darkness within what was now home. The air was thick with a headiness she’d grown accustomed to passing from room to room. Nautical themed items were at a minimum around the house. Her husband (or ex-bastard) had sought to hang ships and bits of nautical themed items around the house. Probably wanted to fulfill some deep-down desire he couldn’t fully embrace due to his tendencies to get immensely seasick. But if this was her house, and it was going to be her home, she would have none of that. No ships-in-bottles. No bits of ropework or cross-stitched tropes like, “From shore to shore, And even more, The sea is Home-Sweet-Home”.

“Not a chance. …Bastard.” She whispered to herself. The one thing he did place (the one thing), was a spy glass. Made of polished brass and sitting at the highest point of the house, it occupied the lone window in the attic. Dim, but sufficient, she had it furnished to make the most of the space. Comfortable and close-set, there was a table, chair, and a small hurricane lamp for reading by when the sun’s rays became but more than tinted shadows. It was her space now.

The only stairwell in the house was the one to the light’s pinnacle. A winding work of wrought-iron and concrete, each step clanged and echoed up the vast cavernous interior reverberating all the more in the thick sea air. A window opened at the third, sixth, and ninth floors. The ocean’s clashing below was but a whisper, but the waves were still there. At the top, this light was of a unique construction. A heavy oak door swung out on worn brass hinges opening to the sky and elements. outside. It closed just as heavily, too. The storms of years past had worn deep into the grain of the wood. Constantly beaten by salt and sunshine day after day, it was a stalwart guard against the worst tempest the sea had to offer. The sun peeked through the clouds. But this game of light and shadow could not hide the shimmering care of the glass and brass clockworks within the tower. The previous tenant had cared for the tower so long as the sea air filled his lung. But then the sea itself filled them… And that was that.

This was hers now, and its care would not falter under her watchful eye. Years as a waitress had prepared her elbows for hard work. Days of pouring coffee and nights of pouring over textbooks, paid off in the end til the day she had that scroll that declared her a Registered Nurse. But the cleaning didn’t end. Exchange kitchen pans for bed pans and there was little difference. But she was glad to be rid of those, too. Still though, seldom in a story had the tower rescued the princess, but her she was. She went back to cleaning the lens.

As she eased the heavy door, a cat’s mew could be heard nine floors below. That was one installation of the house she hadn’t counted on. A small tuxedo cat named Felix stood patiently at the base of the long circular stairs. The mew was practically amplified by the length and depth of the concrete. And when he wanted to make his presence heard, he knew how. Even without this tower-megaphone, if he wasn’t chewing on her house plants, he would head-butt her shins into submission. Which was usually a filled supper dish. But for whatever reason, she cared for him. And he stayed by her side.

His name was Felix. Most thought it was due to his similarity to an animated cat from the time when television was black and white and soon thereafter, when clocks had swinging eyes and metronome tails. She never bothered correct them. It wasn’t worth the time or bother. But the Felix she knew was beyond anything they could ever know. And he is …or was, she guessed… a good man.

But she was neither tied to sentiment nor memories of any kind. And after her last encounter with …that Bastard, she wasn’t going to be giving men any more of her thoughts. Half her was dead from the latter, while the other side still pined for the former. An ache twinged within her chest. No more. The little black-and-white furball was all she needed now.

The sky burnt in umber hues as the sun slipped beneath the waters at the edge of her world. A small furball nestled in closer beside her. The house was a lot emptier now. She didn’t miss the …Bas– …him. But the sound of the ocean was more hollow as it resounded across wooden floorboards and the old beams. Or maybe that was just the house. She now considered electricity a luxury as this house predated anything that needed ionized power. A generator sat idle in the basement should the need arise, but this was a new life and a new adventure. And a new life. She could do without what she didn’t need. Hurricane lamps and oil-based heaters would do the heavy lifting. Otherwise, water boiled in a kettle tasted just as good in her tea as over an electric stove. Baths took a while longer, but she was always organized before, so life just required a little extra preparation. But like Felix, she took life one day at a time now. She just needed to “Hang In There.” …she started to hate that poster.

Nonetheless… her leg was now asleep due to a little fuzzy lead weight against her and a lamp needed lighting. She eased the mound of claws and whiskers aside who gave a mighty stretch flexing each toe and ending with a sound yawn as she relinquished the warm spot on the cushion.

“Freeloader.” She said as she scratched his upturned belly. “Couldn’t do something to earn your keep?” He purred louder. She looked at the silhouettes of furniture around her. Long wooden legs and time-worn tabletops she found at a secondhand store upon arrival. She didn’t know how the English monetary system worked previously. And after the purchase, she still wasn’t sure she knew how it worked. But there was furniture. And no mice. Looking back at Felix, “I guess you do something here afterall.” He continued purring obnoxiously.

Making her way to the hall table, she stepped softly feeling her way in the darkness. The antique floorboards creaked loudly beneath her step. She held still and listened to the silence of the house. Then stepped again.


She listened to the silence of the house. The faucet dripped into a pan far off. The wind tripped over the looser shutters outside. The ocean carried on a conversation with itself far beyond. But still there was noth…


Her breath stopped.

She stopped.

Frozen and barefoot, she listened to one creak after another crossing the floor overhead. And she knew damn well there was no one else in the house. A cloud filled her mind as thoughts raced through of scenarios and questions and non-answers. Looking down, she realized she never changed from her pajamas either.

“Please don’t let me die in some fiddleferning horror movie,” she muttered under her breath. “Gawd…” She shook her head and pressed on into the hall.

With each step of hers, she heard another upstairs edging closer and closer to the stairwell. Feeling along the wall, she reached the kitchen. Wood flooring became cold tiling as the moon spilt over the counters. Long blue shadows stretched from the butcher’s block.

“This ain’t no fiddleferning horror movie.” She said staring at the stainless-steel handles. She sighed and wrapped her petite fingers around a frying pan’s handle. “Tomorrow, I’m getting a gun.”

The heavy oak door of the floor above clanged into the towering stairwell. Her heart pounded out of her chest as she staggered and crouched in the moonbeam. Flinging open a drawer, her hand found a flashlight. Its beam swung weakly around the room.

“Damn… A gun and batteries.”

Edging cautiously towards the tower door, she put the flashlight in her teeth and grasped the gnarled, wrought-iron handle. The door swung in thankfully silent.

With pan raised high in hand, she stepped into the tower. A step clanged softly onto the stairs. But she hadn’t made it to the stairs yet. Another sounded as a shadow spilt down the long, curved wall. She swung her flashlight up to a menacing figure drenched in black as it came into view. Her hand was numb. Her ears rang in the deafening silence. Her eyes went wide as she whispered…

“It’s you. I thought…”

Old Beginnings


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Lilacs. She smelled like lilacs. A softness lingered as the door closed behind her. The latch slipped into place so easily. Almost as easily as her decision. We were happy, ya know? We would have been together for three years this May. I guess she didn’t want to start a new month in a relationship that “wasn’t working” …i guess. Or a relationship that was “predictable”. Or “ordinary” or “boring” or… I never should have changed.

She was the love of my life. A strawberry-blond, petite-framed firecracker with a southern accent but New York sensibilities. And did she turn heads. Everyone called her Valentine, but she was Rebecca to me. And as far as my stupid ticker knew, she’d always be my Rebecca.

I took off towards Mexico at the first day’s light. A trail of dust and memories swirled in the rear-view mirror. I didn’t look back. You never look back. And those damned things were in a lifetime I’d be all too quick to want to relive. Damnation. All these stories end in tears.

The glass felt cold in my hand. Along each mile, I saw memories of her from when we first met. She was hitching to Nevada and my seat was open and very friendly. The sweat on her skin glistened beneath the desert sun. She settled in. I could have made my moves right then and there. But I held myself. She could’ve been something. A bead of sweat slid down her neck and got lost between her perfect breasts.

…I gripped the bottle tighter. I grimaced as the bourbon that filled the bottle now filled me. Drinking had always been more of a hobby, but in the last 5 days, it became my life’s medicine. And don’t lecture me about drinking and driving. They warned that it kills. But that didn’t mean, crap. I was already dead inside. The engine roared a little louder.

The sun painted the sky the colour of a hooker’s lips. Brilliant flaming red dipped to darkness the farther I drove. It was all a blur no matter what time of day it was. Just a sliver of sunlight peeked over the mountains in the distance. Strawberry-blond shimmered in the rear view mirror. I jerked my head and slammed on the brakes. Dust filled the air as the car fishtailed and skidded along the concrete. But there was no one. I don’t know why I looked. I knew she wasn’t there. But Rebecca would always be there. The desert night air was cool. A shiver ran down my spine. There it was… lilacs.

I drove through the rest of the night. I don’t know what that was and I don’t give a damn. The border’s within spitting distance and the sooner I’m on the job, the better. I’d given up this life a long time ago. Just after I’d met Rebecca. I kept my steel in the trunk in case I’d need it again. That cold metal pressed in your flesh. The instantaneous gratification that came from scorching earth with the fire only to see the reaction on their damned astonished mugs… I was good at my job, and what’s more. I liked it.

I found the little diner I was looking for just in Aldredo. It’s the kind of place you don’t stop at for the looks, but stay for the show.

The door creaked the greeting of a familiar friend. The intensity of the sun barely broke through the stark blackness inside. I pulled my coat close. Not a soul was in the place. A voice from the kitchen split the stillness with, “Have a seat anywhere ya like and I’ll be right there!”

But I didn’t wait. I couldn’t. I’d had business here before I met that she-devil from the hell within my heart. And, by hell, I was gonna finish what I’d started.

The floorboards gave little as I stepped into the light streaming from the kitchen. A tall African woman was standing bent over with her head in the fridge. Her skirt hugged her hips skimming just past her knees.

She stood at her full height. Long black tresses fell softly down her back.

“So,” she said with a sweet voice dripping with derision. “You gonna kill me with somethin’ long and hard?” A smirk turned up the corner of her full lips.

A blade shimmered at my side. I held it up catching the light on the polished steel blade. .

She stepped closer. The heat of the day showed as she peeled back the collar of her dress revealing her dark contours. She held it back as her skin shimmered in the light of the kitchen. She stood there. Not frozen, but defiant. Her eyes never left mine.

“I’ll be your Juliet, if you’ll be my Romeo.” She smirked again.

I glanced into her large, dark eyes. Not a tremor. Not a second thought passed as I lifted the blade right between our faces. But still, with her raw breast exposed, she never flinched.

“Naw, lady. I’m your new chef.” I began chopping onions. Tears.

Internal Networking


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There lay a moment. A sullen, little moment the likes we’ve all experienced. It could be waiting for water to boil. Or standing in the midst of an unusually long queue, our minds wander to a place so far removed within the recesses of our minds, not even the odd flight of fancy can reach us.

I’ve tried. I’ve tried to reach and scream and yell with all the might my inner mind could muster. But like the child who stands in the middle of a sun-drenched meadow and yells just to hear the echo… just to know they’re of consequence, there was no return. No echo of the semblance of thoughts and self I’ve strived so hard to create.

This might sound unusual. Like some Shakespearean monologue of life’s existence and the frailty of such, but our consciousness is no flat, 2-dimensional image relegated to the black and white of a page. Though we may be categorized on a daily basis by marketing, politics, and the likes of those who never seek to know us beyond a perfunctory glance, we are a summation more parts than the most complex network could ever recognize.

From umbilical cords to yarn to complex woven fibers… and even some carbon nanomesh, as well; each method and memory from a lifetime of experiences stretch string after string beyond the limits of our imaginations where the codes of reason no longer exist into the realms where only the mists of imagination lie.

And yet, therein lies the difficulty. It becomes so easy. Almost mundane amidst the distractions of billboards and television ads, between dimly lit screens wrapped in digits and the larger ones we gaze on in rapt wonder at… we escape to this realm of modernity with little thought as to the voice we ascribe to our own inner monologues. Thinking beyond languid vulgarities such as timetables or headline news, do we ever really study the cosmos any more? Or do we find the cosmetic and cosmopolitan far more exciting than the heavens. It seems that the less we look to the heavens and forget to attend to ourselves, we relegate the stars to scientists or the love-struck wanderers and never quite consider our part in this dramatic opera of life.

How do we exist? How did we come to exist? Since when did Philosophy become relegated the shelves no one sees in libraries no one remember? In the storm of electrons firing between our ears, there is so much one can fathom and call into question… but there are so few who seek to leave the safety of the shallows to jump into the deep end of a conversation. Let the world keep their modern trends and daily headlines. There will always be enough pundits, mouth-pieces, and drones to handle the pertinent. Instead, be impertinent. Ask more of the life you are given to delve deeper into each moment you have.

So, don’t set your mind on an auto-corrected course of insta-grammar amidst a world of Doctor Seuss syllables. Be unique. Let the world be just a little more colourful for it. Who knows? The next string you fashion could be a lifeline to what has yet to be imagined.

Dropped dead tired…


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The coroner was a tenacious man. There was just something about the years he’d spent in the field. They’d changed him. In almost imperceptible ways, but the evidence was there. Some say his skills were sharpened, but as he sat their pouring syrup over the cadaver of Mrs. Wilhelmina Bubbleplumber… Others thought he was just plain nuts.

“Boy!” his voice echoed across the autopsy table. “Hand me the scalpel. We might have to go in…”

“But sir, why? She’s clearly dead from carrot inhalation.” He brushed the green stalks emerging from her nose softly. Nearly half of her Majesty’s kingdom had gone the same way. They’d passed out fliers. Spread the message of the dangers of carrot addiction via the town crier. They’d even posted it on Spider webs from town crier to town crier, but it seemed to be of no use. “Sir, there’s nothing more to see here.”

“Then turn up the gas lamps, boy,” Dr. Hatchery exclaimed with a twinge of exasperation in his voice. “Who could see anything in this damnable dim lighting. Ah, what I wouldn’t give for electric lights even though they’re not invented yet.” The Doctor ran his fingers through his thick greasy hair. Salt and pepper fell onto the table.

“Doctor! You’re contaminating Mrs. Bubbleplumber!”

“Gah!” he exclaimed pulling his toupee from his head. “Dear heavens, boy! Why the fuss?”

“Sir, you were dropping condiments on the body again.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that? I told you she was well-seasoned in life. Why not now??”

The Coroner’s Understudy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sir?” he let out in an exasperated sigh, “Can we continue with the autopsy, please?”

“And so we should!” he chumbled as he replaced his hair. “Why are you always distracting me so?”

“She needs attention, sir. And now she’s covered with syrup…” he looked at the Doctor with the blandest look a person could possibly summon. “Sir, she’s died from carrot inhalation. And now she’s covered with syrup… Why? Just why?”

The old man placed a well-worn pair of spectacles on his nose. “Because that wasn’t what killed her, my boy!”

“But sir…” the Coronorer’s Understudy began.

“No sir! See if she had died from carrot inhalation – like the rest who were suffering from fuzzy bunny feet syndrome -, she’d be wearing slippers akin to these!” He held up a foot with a fuzzy bunny slipper.

The Coroner’s Understudy’s gasp was hushed.

“No no, my boy,” the Doctor fairly purred while petting a slipper. “These are really just quite so comfortable. I came away with these from a late-night Town-crier-fomercial. Wonderful purchase. But no! She does not have the slippers. This, my boy, is…” he paused and turned to the camera that was not there. “Murder. Dun-dun-duuuuun.”

“I really worry about you, sir. I really do,” the Coroner’s Understudy said as he grabbed a seat. A weak and weary sigh escaped as he sat. “Sir, what about the syrup?”

“Ah, I’m glad you asked, boy!” A sparkle appeared in his eye as he hopped towards the counter, grabbed the bottle, and with a flip and hop, spun it in the air and sat on the counter catching it in his hand. “You see…” he hopped down with bottle in hand. “She’s from our former property, Canada!”

“Former property, sir?”

“Yes. Didn’t we have English accents before? Well, we do now. Except for you, you’re Scottish. Say, haggis.”

The Coroner’s Assistant stared and replied wearily, “…haggis.”

“Very Scottish of you, wee laddie!” He extolled. Turning back to the body, “But you see, she’s a full-blooded Canadian! And if I’m not incorrect, she’ll respond in 5…4…3…”

At that moment, she sat bolt upright, “Gah! Soowwy. Didn’t mean to stawtle ya, eh?”

Unperturbed, the Doctor whacked her on the head with the bottle. “Don’t interrupt me. 2…1 and!” turning to the body, “Oh damn. Well, that’s that.”

“That’s what, sir.”

“She was dying from Syrup Withdrawal. All Canadians suffer this calamity much like Sailors at sea suffer Scurvy.”

“But Scurvy is real, sir. It’s well-documented in all the papers.”

A shocked look crossed the Doctor’s furrowed brow. “Papers?! Who needs papers? Or journals. Or pen pals?? Or Foreign exchange students?! Where was I going…”

“Scurvy and papers, sir.”

“Right! I am inestimably more trustworthy than any of those. Plus, I spent a semester abroad in Canada, so I should know.”

“Doesn’t that make you a Foreign exchange student, sir?”

“Of course not! I’m not foreign… But yes. No, she’s most definitely Canadian. But the real question is, ‘Who shoved the carrots up her nose?'”

Fatigued, the Coroner’s Understudy whispered, “I did.” Shouting now, “Did you hear me?! I did! I can’t stand being here any more! You’re a totally incompetent lug nut – even though I have no clue what that is – you are most definitely one! I’ve no idea why you’re here. Or why I am! Call the inspector to take me away! I cannot remain working these slabs for a second more!”

“You’re lying, my boy,” he said matter-of-factly.

A heavy, defeated sigh escaped. “Yes, sir.”

“Ha! Knew it. Now, remove my carrots and take the night off.”

“Your carrots, sir?”

“Never mind, Mr. Later. I’m going home with another case well-solved.” As he walked past his Coroner’s Understudy, he paused to straighten his lapel. “You know. We should really get you a name tag. Coroner’s Understudy is such a mouthful. How about we shorten it and then tag your name on it? How’s that sound??”

“C. U. Later, sir??”

“Quite right, my boy! See you later, too!” And with that the Doctor walked out into the stark daylight without, realized he became a coroner because he’s a vampire, and disappeared into a puff of ash. “Ah, the story of my life,” the ash pile said. “Oh well.” And blew away.

Have you noticed?


, , , , , ,

The dust glimmered as it caught the stark streak of light flooding in. The planks were so old. So worn from years of love and neglect. But the dust didn’t care. Why should it? This wasn’t its house. It was only ever passing through as it carried on the breeze. From the heights of society to the humble hovels of the homeless, they were all the same. Always the same.

But the air hung in this house. There was barely a breeze to speak of. It wafts and dances in its own space as jellyfish in vapid space. Swinging from cobwebs and skittering with bunnies… But still, it never could quite move on.

That light, though… That is hope. That is the breeze that frees it from this monotonous morning of shining and shimmering like so many before.

That great main door did open once. With a somber creaking groan as its hinges sighed under this new request long forgotten, a breeze swam and swirled through the long static strands. Rivulets and whispers of new dust rushed to mingle with the old. Oh, how they’d regret it…

But what’s done is done. And let the past keep it’s own company. Amongst the far lost field of forced friendship they’d come to reside in, a single sigh escaped. Even though there were far too many of them to count, the sigh embodied a feeling of loneliness each one knew only too well. To be able to escape through that crack in the wall! Or the one in the floor. Or any of them as plaster and paper peeled to reveal the sky which seemed to abound around this place. But there was no life but this. There was no escape. And at long last… what again was hope? And if it did exist, it most certainly wasn’t for the likes of them.

But then there was a sound. A delicious little sound which was followed by a thought… A wickedly wonderful thought as they looked to the crack to see a shadow cross and darken the sky shaft. Shut into darkness, a low rumble shook and shivered the floor stronger and stronger.

Then stopped.

Silence. Only silence transpired for those long moments. First one minute. Then two. If only the dust had had some means of understanding time and how its existence affected its own. But then, in the life of a dust particle, that doesn’t tend to matter much in the grand scheme of things.

A mechanical grumble and groan was heard from without. The rattling began stronger than ever. As they craned looking towards the skylight sliver in the wall, a brilliant shining object glistened into view.

Closer and gleaming as brilliantly as the sun, the metal sphere on a chain of sorts collided and shattered the wall before them. Sunlight streamed in as splinters of wood fell as if in slow motion from the mere crumbs of a wall that remained. Oh, what a sight it was to behold!

The roof strained as the ball was retrieved and reeled back into position. Fears became cheers as collective cries of jubilation sounded through the empty halls. The breezes have returned! Their brethren had been scooped and swept away in the glorious swinging momentum of the sphere. One more, they hoped. Just one more swing!

The chain creaked and groaned as that massive god-send on a chain was hoisted one last time. With a swing and a sway, the sphere with its might, pulled further back, eclipsing the light. Their hopes and their dreams, rested on the sphere, to bring their release, and free them from here. Oh, if only its aim were true!

With all eyes upon it, as one tear did fall, they watched and they waited, each tracking the ball. Then with a collision, the last pane did shatter, as striking it true, the building did clatter. Supports wheezed and waned, as walls bowed and buckled, the foundation shifted, and all the dust chuckled.

Then down came the roof! Its fall did resound, and in a great cloud, the dust did abound. Up in the sky, they guffawed out a laugh, caught a fresh breeze… then realized their gaff.

For when one is out, and loose in the sky, there is no controlling, wherever you’ll fly. They looked in their eyes, as grasps did grow weak, and drifting apart, to new lands did streak.

Oh, how could this happen? Was perspective lost? But now it not matters, when our fates are tossed… We cannot go home, or find the same place, with all we’ve yet seen, there’ll not be a trace.

But is that the lesson? A teaching of strife, that change in this world, is the nature of life? Well, I cannot say, tis not mine to trust. I’m just the author, of a story bout dust.


Remember, you are not the sum of the choices which have led up to this moment. You are the sum of the next. For in that instance, you become what you envision. You bring to life everything you can and might be. And sometimes, you can’t see what the outcome will be. But just remember, that’s okay. Whether things turn out good or bad, it’s the experience which molds you into you. Not into some “ideal” that popular culyure decides, but into a slice of humanity one has yet to see. So when you’re presented with an opportunity, remember… Do what the future you wants most.