“Indigo, wash those windows squeaky clean, you hear?”
“Indigo, those windows are our money-makers, you hear?”
“Indigo, look at those mountains. Aren’t they magnificent?”
“Yes, ‘mam, they are.”
“Indigo, have you ever been up there?”
“No, ‘mam, I haven’t. You?”
“Don’t ask questions. Work, work, work.”
He stood by the windows and looked up. If he did leave right now, would he still have a job when he returned? Indigo this, Indigo that.
“Where are you going, Indigo?!”
He waved and left.
The mountains would never be stifled by window frames for him again.
“Didn’t we have ‘anchor’ last week?” The aspiring author interjected, as the lecturer chalked up the weekly writing challenge on the board.
He carefully placed the chalk down and turned to face his protagonist, arms folded, jaw set in a frown.
“Yes, you did… And you’ll be having it again next week, and the week after, and for as long as I see fit!”
The novice shrugged; “I thought this was a creative writing group? Can’t you come up with something other than anchor?”
“Of course I can, but I’m not the one who needs to be creative, am I?”
Gonnna make you squeaky clean, inside and out.
Gonna drug you up, cut out your tongue, pop your eyeballs out and slice off them ears. You gonna see no, speak no hear no evil when I’m done with you.
Gonna sandpaper off that dirty flesh, right down to the bone, then polish them bones till they shine. You gonna gleam like glazed porcelain when I’m done.
Gonna fill you full of bleach and flush you through; wash away all that gunk and nastiness you been hiding away. Gonna make you an empty shell.
I’m gonna dirty you up!
Merry Christmas Mr Putin
Operation Indigo Jaw was so wildly successful you’ve never heard of it. Not so much of a scrap of paper in the Gang of Eights monthly enclave. Everyone in chain knew it was to go operational, but for once all those media hungry dupes collective saw it was truly in their best interest to keep it under wrap. “I want no fingerprints on this,” said Biden. So it came to past as the Star of Bethlehem rose in the east, a lone wise man with a serious right hook, landed a merry Christmas shot to V. Putin’s head, Epic Bruise
Jilly was born with blue eyes … cornflower blue. By age four they had darkened, quite dark, not black, rather purple … indigo. Mama called her her “indigo child” … Not for her eyes though … Jilly saw things.
Daddy went fishing … Jilly new what he’d catch.
Sissy went on a date … Jilly new Sissy was getting a baby in her tummy (a girl).
And the day that neighbor boy got killed by a car … Jilly cried 10 minutes before it happened.
Now grown, talents honed sharp … Jilly was a lottery office legend … and banned from nearly every roulette wheel in Vegas.
“The sailor with the indigo anchor tattoo laughed, “Ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh,” and threw up what looked like partially digested spinach.
The man with the wiener dog leaned forward and whispered to Billbert, “I saw you at headquarters right after it blew up. Your mom works there, doesn’t she?”
Billbert didn’t remember seeing the man and didn’t entirely trust him. He only shrugged.
The man scratched his dog’s head and laughed. “That’s okay. You don’t know me. I’m Dergle Vander Hoont, Wiener Dog Man. I brought Snail Man to the ER. His shell got cracked when HQ blew up.”
Forty-seven years, Mama Franklin ran Mama’s Cafe.
All over the walls, photos of her with everyone who’d been anyone.
From open to close, people filled every booth, every table, and a line around the block.
Every time Mama made the place bigger, the line got bigger too.
When the riots came, people wrapped a line around Mama’s:
“DON’T MESS WITH MAMA!” they chanted.
Mama told them all to go away, go home.
After forty-seven years, she was tired, and she wanted the place to burn.
The insurance money would get her far away, and she’d never cook again.