Library Skins

When you think about the Library at Alexandira, what do you imagine?
Shelves and shelves of scrolls?
Couldn’t be further from the truth.
Sure, back then, the Egyptians had papyrus, but you know the saying “Life is cheap.”
They would write things on their slaves, skin them, and then stack the skins on the shelves in the library.
Kinda gruesome, but properly-preserved skin had a longer shelf life than papyrus.
And it also provided an incentive not to piss off the librarians with a late return or lost book.
You’d have your library card taken away. And your skin, too.

The last of the hunted

She opened the french doors, stepped out to the balcony, and howled.
And waited.
There was no reply.
Too many hunters in the forest.
There had been a treaty.
The woods belonged to the wolfkind.
But too many men went into the woods to hunt.
For sport, not food.
They had enough grain and livestock, why hunt for sport?
And the wolfkind defended their territory.
So many more men came to hunt now.
Hunting the wolfkind.
And now, were none left to hear the call? Was she alone?
She stepped back off the balcony, closed the french doors, and wept.

Thank you for Halloween

Gratias Tibiago was the most grateful man in the world.
He thanked everybody for everything.
Even if they did him harm, he’d find good in what they did, and he’d thank them.
This annoyed the bullies and sociopaths who did him harm, so they tried to harm him worse.
And Gratias would thank them that much more.
One day, a bully killed Gratias.
His ghost thanked the bully.
“I no longer need to thank anybody anymore,” said Gratias. “Thank you for that.”
The ghost thanked the bully over and over again, driving him mad.
Oh, and thank you for listening.

Stormtrooper

Kenny wanted to wear a stormtrooper costume for Halloween.
But his parents wouldn’t buy him the kit.
So, he got a paper route, mowed lawns, and babysat.
It took him a year to earn the money.
The costume kit arrived… in November.
Too late for Halloween.
Kenny waited a whole year, during which he grew seven inches.
A few pieces broke when he tried to wear it.
He couldn’t return it, so he threw it in the trash.
Sitting on the porch moping, he saw a kid wearing the patched-up costume, and he beat that kid with a baseball bat.

Weekly Challenge #754 – PICK TWO: indigo, anchor, shell, squeaky clean, jaw, amphibious

Meow

LIZZIE

“Indigo, wash those windows squeaky clean, you hear?”
“Yes, ‘mam.”
“Indigo, those windows are our money-makers, you hear?”
“Yes, ‘mam.”
“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.”
“Yes, ‘mam.”
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.

RICHARD

Not 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?”

SERENDIPIDY

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.

But first…

I’m gonna dirty you up!

TOM

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

RICK

Indigo Child

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.

NORVAL JOE

“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.”

PLANET Z

Forty-seven years, Mama Franklin ran Mama’s Cafe.
All over the walls, photos of her with everyone who’d been anyone.
Never smiling.
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.

No trick or treat

I live in a condo complex.
The kids don’t trick-or-treat around here.
Every year, the complex throws a Halloween party, but it’s for the adults.
Alcohol and costumes, that kind of thing.
I don’t know my neighbors, it’s just a place to live, so I don’t go.
I put Charlie Brown’s Great Pumpkin special on the television.
Make some pumpkin spice coffee.
Decaf, I can’t have caffeine anymore.
Or all that much sugar, so no candy for me.
They’re being noisy out by the pool area.
I put on my noise-canceling headphones and turn up the television a bit louder.

The Real Gates

When I think of “the gates of hell” I don’t think of rusted iron bars and barbed wire and flames.
I think of an opening in a rustic wooden fence.
Which leads to an overgrown garden park in late summer or early fall.
Warm, but not hot, or humid.
A gentle breeze that rustles the leaves in the trees.
Butterflies and birds, you can hear the birds.
Maybe a few squirrels or rabbits in the underbrush.
An old wrought-iron bench by the path.
You want to sit down, close your eyes.
As the breeze gets warmer… and warmer… and warmer…

Grandmother’s kitchen

My grandmother used to say that a watched pot never boils.
She also said that a watched toaster never toasts.
And that a watched blender never blends.
So, I stopped watching anything in the kitchen.
I set a timer and walked away.
By the time I got back, the whole kitchen was in chaos.
The pot was toasting, the blender was boiling, and the toaster was blending.
The coffee maker opened every can in the pantry while the dishwasher rained coffee down on a set of newly-cleaned dishes.
I’m hiring an exorcist to get rid of my crazy grandmother’s ghost.

Seatbelts on buses

Johnny Sanders rode the bus to school, but his mother was worried about a lack of seat belts.
She complained to the superintendent.
“What happens if they crash?” she asked.
The superintendent said that buses were designed differently than cars, and safer.
“If it means so much to you, drive Johnny to school, live close enough for him to walk, or homeschool.”
So, she homeschooled Johnny. And he got into a great college.
He became a teacher, then a school administrator.
But by then, schools were all online, and there were no more buses.
Or worried mothers, thanks to cloning.

The images of school

I walked around the local school, through the bushes and trees, and peered in the window of the kindergarten classroom.
The posters… the construction paper chains hanging from the ceiling… the desks…
Everything was so fascinating.
The school.. the neighborhood… the fire engine jungle gym…
The perfect white-and-brick houses with friendly roofs and lawns and flowers and fences.
The side door outside which students would line up every morning before going inside, and one day, I would take my place.
But not yet. It was still the summer before my first day of school.
To run free without a care.