Tag Archives: story

Photo finish Friday: “Eye candy”

She was pumped to see the candy.

She was pumped to see the candy.

She was pumped to see the candy. And she was pumped to see the pumps. She had been looking all over town for this type of candy: handmade, locally produced, just the thing to impress him with. After all, he had always given her handmade gifts. Then she saw the shoes, the pumps made from chocolate and candy. She’d always heard that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, and she had a secret fetish of wanting a man to at least once in her life nibble and suck her toes. This was just the item. It combined both things, and he wouldn’t even have to know about her fetish until the moment he nibbled his way up to her ruby red painted toes.

Oh, could this be real? Could this actually be happening?

She wanted to click her heels like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz and say, “This place is better than home. This place is better than home.”

Then the witch behind the counter yelled over at her: “I ain’t here for my health. You gonna buy or you gonna slobber?”

She thought about it for a moment and wondered what she would do if he wouldn’t nibble away her chocolate shoe? What if he didn’t even like chocolate? What would she do then?

“Well?” the witch was not pleased to be kept waiting.

“I’ll take them all,” she said, “And could you gift wrap them?”

The look on the witch’s face was beyond sour. “You know, you can’t really wear these. And you can’t bring ’em back.”

“For what I have in mind, that won’t be an issue.”

The witch shrugged and packed up all five shoes.

She young woman walked home in the cold and blowing snow. Her man would be arriving soon, so she hurried. When she got home, she left a note where here man would find it, then went straight to bed and waited … and waited … and waited….

When morning came, she awoke with a jolt. It took a moment or two before she realized what had happened. All the chocolate shoes were gone, except one, which was partially eaten, the toe area missing. She found a wrapped present in the bed beside her and a note which read:

“My dear Virginia, how you have grown. I almost didn’t recognize you. I hope you like the present. I made it especially for you. Thank you for the chocolate snacks. I tried each one on your pretty little feet and nibbled my way up to your toes. Maybe next year, we can try these. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. –S.”

Virginia ripped open the present. She stared at the gift for a few minutes before she realized what it was. She turned as red as S’s suit to think he thought of her this way.

It was almost amazing what could happen when you still believed in the jolly ol’ elf.

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Photo finish Friday: “Up in smoke”

[Author’s note: This is where you write a story, poem, even essay based on a photo. I have placed the photo a little further down in the story, but you are free to write what you want based on the photo. The photo is mine, so if you use in a blog or other publication, please give me credit: David E. Booker. Thanks.]


It was almost the end of his shift when homicide detective C. Sparks got the call to go to possible homicide on East S. Ave. He had plans for his evening, a nice dinner with the victim of another murder case he had worked and solved only three weeks ago. The widow was so grateful that after four months he had not given up on the case and actually figured out who the murdered was and built a solid case with which the D.A. could easily prosecute … and win.

He turned from N. Center St. onto East S. and saw a blue SUV in the middle of the road, a prowl car on the other side of it. Both were in the middle of the street. Both were holding up traffic.

Detective Sparks pulled up behind the SUV. No, he’d block traffic from the N. Center side. He opened his car door and stepped out. The summer heat, even the evening version, was more than any reasonable person should stand, particularly – especially because it was being reflected back up by the baked street asphalt.

The beat cop was talking to a very animated man. Sparks glanced around. There was no body. There were no crime scene technicians. What the hell was going on? Was there a body or was somebody just trying to get him?

The beat officer saw him about the same time he saw her. She broke away from the animated man and met Sparks about halfway from his car to the blue SUV.

“What’s this about?” He looked at the name plate above left breast pocket, then added, “V. Slims.”

“It’s Virginia. Most people call me Virgy.”

“Okay. Virgy, what’s up?”

“This man claims he turned the corner on the E. Scott and out of nowhere this man appears, stops in the middle of the road to light a cigarette and before he could anything, he ran into the guy. He was sure of it. But then he stopped the car and got out and the guy was gone.”

“Yeah, it was as if he disappeared in a cloud of smoke,” the man said.

He had walked up and Sparks hadn’t noticed. Sparks knew then he had been working too many hours.

“And you are?” Sparks asked.

“Leonard M. Bold,” Officer Gordon said. “I checked his ID when rolled I up.”

“Most people call me Leo,” Bold said, extending his hand.

Sparks stared at it for a moment before taking it.

“What were you doing on this street,” Sparks asked.

“I’m in real estate and was driving through this historic neighborhood seeing if there were any houses for sale. See who has them listed. I have a client who might be interested in a historic house.”

Sparks nodded. He then walked up and around the SUV. No sign of dents or broken headlights, or any indication that it had even collided with a house fly let alone a body. The SUV gleamed so brightly, it even hurt his eyes to look at it.

Up In smoke

Up In smoke

He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and that’s when he saw it. Lying on the ground by a front tire, a pack of cigarettes, partially opened.

He squinted a little harder to make out the brand of cigarettes: L, M, Bold. He looked up at the man, then back down at the cigarettes, then up at the man again.

“This is a joke, right? You think you’re funny, calling me out here, Leonard M. Bold.”

“But it’s true, what I said.” Leonard walked over to where Sparks was.

“Yeah, right.” Sparks looked over at Slims. “How much you in on this, Virginia Slims? If that’s your real name. What the hell is going on here.”

Sparks was angry, but even he was surprised when sparks started flying out of his mouth. The first ones hit Officer Virginia Slims and she caught on fire and was burning up. This couldn’t be happening. He turned to look a Leonard, who was already running away.

Sparks yelled after him and flames shot out of his mouth and hit Gold squarely in the back. Gold caught on fire like a book of matches or a pack of cigarettes.

The air smelled like burned tobacco, and Sparks realized how much he actually missed smoking. Even after six years, the craving still seized him every now and then. Right now it was suddenly so strong he might just kill for a cigarette.

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Eleanor and Rose, and “The Case of the Fleaing Colors,” part 6

Part 6: Anticipation

Part 6: Anticipation

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“Fixing” Christmas

“None of the girls wants to get boy cooties,” my daughter said.

She was explaining why the girls were making the boys hold their sleeves instead of their hands when the boys in the 4th grade class and the girls in the same class performed a brief dance number as part of the class’s participation in the school Christmas show.

Their hands only touch briefly and for three, maybe four times, the teacher explained. Still, it had not stopped a fourth grade boy from writing a note to the teacher saying he didn’t want to participate because he could get girl cooties.

Christmas time is often about fixing things as well as getting or giving new things. And while some of the things being fixed aren’t trains or tricycles, doll houses or even decorations, they are still important to nine year olds.

Fortunately, I came upon a solution: gloves. They were already supposed wear scarfs as part of their costumes. What was more natural than gloves to go with the scarfs? I purchased six pairs of inexpensive bright pink gloves and proposed their use to the teacher. Each girl would wear a pair to practice and maybe even at the performance, insulating them from the dreaded “boy cooties.”

My daughter was immediately taken with the idea, and once the teacher approved, the problem was solved. Or, at least, I hope so. The performance is still a week away and who knows what viral debasement those young boys may yet let loose upon the world of girls. There mere existence is proof of an aberrant decline of fourth grade, if not all of humanity.

Unfortunately, the other challenge I’ve been asked to fix may not turn out as well.

I have taken a vow of silence -- batteries not included.

I have taken a vow of silence — batteries not included.

I came home from work last night to find a stuffed dog in a striped winter scarf sitting on the sofa in the foyer. He held a note that read: “I need help please fix me!”

From what I can gather, his push button voice module was no longer working. How long had it been non function my daughter did not know. She possesses quite a collection of stuffed animals, ranging from finger puppet stuffed animals to a pink unicorn large enough to use as a pillow.

The dog could have recently gone mute. Or he could have taken a vow of silence many months back in protest to being ignored. The “you won’t speak to me, so I won’t speak to you either approach to communication.”

I have opened up the dog, inspected his battery cage, which appears to have a missing on/off switch, and I have followed the wires from the battery cage to what I believe is the voice module. It is inside a white sack sown snuggly around the module.

I have checked the batteries, tried jumping the connection to bypass the switch, and have even mostly freed the module from it sack in order to try to examine it.

It is a cramped space inside the bear and my fingers are not the type with tapered types. About as wide as they are long (from the base of the hand to the tip of the middle finger), they are more suited from tracing around to make hand turkeys than they are for operating in a confined, stuffed dog, chest cavity space.

I could slice the dog open, but I am not sure that would fix anything or make me any the wiser about the operation of the voice module.

I will take another look at the dog, but not tonight. He is still a viable stuffed dog, even if mute.

He may have to remain that way.

I guess I could always buy him a pair of gloves.

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The blathering idiot and politics, part 2, mascot

Lydia walked up the blathering idiot and said, “We have a problem.”

The blathering idiot had been sitting quietly in a folding chair outside the small conference room in the storefront headquarters of the Pro-Accordion Party. Lydia had told him that his being selected the new PAP candidate was just a formality.

The simple formality had been going on for over two hours now, behind closed doors, with voices raised and what sounded like fists pounded every now and then.

The door was finally back open and Lydia was now standing and then sitting beside him, telling him there was a problem. This did not sound good for him going back this evening and impressing Zoey with his new-found status as candidate for high office, the highest office in the land, in fact.

“It’s like this,” Lydia said. “I didn’t anticipate that there would be a faction of the Pro-Accordion Party that believes we need to hold another nominating convention and nominate our new candidate that way.”

While he could understand the faction’s desires in this area, he also felt disappointed. I guess that showed on his face, because Lydia placed a hand on his arm as if cheer him up.

“The fight … I mean … discussion is not over yet.”

He nodded. He wasn’t sure if there was something he was meant to agree with.

“There is one thing you could do that would help and also bolster your chances of being the next candidate.”

“Name it.”

“We need a mascot,” she said.

“A what?”

“The other parties have mascots. One of them has a donkey. The other an elephant. We need an animal mascot. Other third parties that have tried to break into the election world have failed because they don’t have a mascot, an animal that people can readily identify with.”

“And if I find one—”

“Then I’m sure you will be the new candidate for the Pro-Accordion Party.”

The blathering idiot immediately headed out to find a mascot. But first he had to go to play golf. He had promised Xenia, Zoey’s daughter, a round, and since golf seemed to be a game the winners of the election were expected to play, he took it as a sign that he was destined for this highest office because he had, two weeks ago, scheduled this event. Or, rather, Xenia had scheduled it with him.


Sir Goony Golf

One of the holes at Sir Goony’s Go Karts and Minigolf. The snake is not the mascot.

Sir Goony’s Go Karts & Minigolf: Now Open Daily was bracketed by Prodigal Son Primary Care on one side and Exodus Chiropractic on the other. It was a slopping landscape of grass, concrete, fake grass, and fiberglass: rocket ship, Humpty Dumpty lokk-a-like, giant ape, and a very big, yellow, polka-dotted snake that arced above ground in a couple of different spots.

“So,” Xenia asked, “can this animal be dead or does it have to be alive?”

The question, coming suddenly, caused the blathering idiot to hit his ball too hard and it bounced around inside the small blue shelter, but did not go into the cup.

After thinking about a minute more, he said, “I don’t think they’ll be parading a live version animal around the campaign trail.”

He walked inside the structure and scrawled on the wall were the words: “Rich Folk Ain’t Bad if U Cook Them Right.”

Rich folk ain't bad

Rich folk just can’t catch a break, except maybe in the kitchen. These missionaries of wealth and just like the missionaries of old who might have been eaten by the cannibals. But like the cannibals, the poor gotta eat somethin’.

“Well done,” he said to no one in particular.

Xenia stared at him for a moment, then moved up to take her shot.

At the next hole, the blathering idiot dropped his pencil. It rolled into the grass and as he bent over his shirt hiked up and his pants slumped down. He quickly straightened up and did his best to make sure Xenia didn’t see his red heart underwear.

She looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you ready for the tough campaign question?”

The question startled him again and he messed up his shot. The shot bolted into the fiberglass cave and ricocheted off the bumpy walls and one stalagmite. He had yet to break par on any of his holes. He hoped the tough question wouldn’t be about his golf game.

He turned and looked at this ten year old who was sometimes his ally in getting along with her mother and sometimes his general tormentor.

“And what question is that?”

“Do you wear boxers or briefs?”


“Yes. Mom said that question was asked of guy who ran for this office.”


She nodded.

Zoey, Xenia’s mother, was not above a little bit of humor, but somehow this felt like a real, true question.

“And what did he say?” the blathering idiot asked.

Xenia shrugged her shoulders. “Mom didn’t say. I wasn’t supposed to be listening to the conversation anyways.”

The blathering idiot sighed.

“So, what would you say?”

The blathering idiot messed up his second attempt to get the ball in the hole in the cave. The hole was up a slight mound, like a big ant hill. Since it was a small cave and open at both ends, there was enough light. He never remembered seeing a hole like this on TV when they played golf.

He walked back out of the cave, past Xenia, but did not answer her question. What was next to his body was nobody’s business, up to and including even if he was going without any. Something he rarely did. This campaigning might be harder than he thought.

“You’re turn,” Xenia said.

It was then, as the blathering idiot came out of his deep thinking, and was pivoting to head back into the cave that he spied the mascot for the Pro-Accordion Party. It was standing right there beside, big eyes, sort of a cryptic smile on its face, and it even, already, had a red, white, and blue striped hat on its head.

(To be continued, more or less.)

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The blathering idiot and politics, part 1, I guess

Full moon

Maybe it was the full moon the night before … or maybe it was his girlfriend Zoey.

Maybe it was the full moon the night before, it being a blue moon, or maybe it was his girlfriend Zoey telling him he would never amount to anything, but the blathering idiot was out walking when came across a bumper sticker that read: “Pro-Accordion & I Vote!”

He saw one, then another, and another. It was the parking lot in front of a small storefront, but each of the cars had that bump sticker on it.

The blathering idiot looked up and in the store front window was a banner that said the same thing, and below it was a hand lettered signed that said: “Come join the party.”

It was the middle of the day, but the blathering idiot could use something to lift his spirits, and maybe a party would be it.

He opened the swinging front door. The bell above the door tinkled.

Everybody inside was hunched over his or her computer. There was one accordion in the room. It was up on top of a bookshelf.

A young woman with a clipboard trotted up to him. “Are you here to join the Accordion Party?”

She stepped even closer, the bottom of the clipboard pointed toward him. He surmised that either meant he was supposed to sign the paper on the clipboard or she was using it to shove him back toward the door.

“This is the Accordion Party?”

Pro-Accordion sticker

The blathering idiot saw them on several cars int he parking lot, and banner in the window proclaiming “Pro-Accordion and I Vote!”

“Pro-Accordion,” she said.

She pointed to the bottom of the sheet. “You need to sign here and print your name, address, and way to contact you there.”


“We have to keep track of our volunteers.”

“For the party?”

She nodded. The name tag on her turquoise blouse said: “Hi, my name is Lydia.”

“The accordion party?”

“The Pro-Accordion Party,” she said.

“There are no snacks?”

She shook her head.

“No music?”

“If we win.”


“The campaign.”

“Which one?” he asked.

“The big one.”

“Okay. Who’s your candidate?”

She sighed. “Our original candidate dropped out. Said he couldn’t fit it in around his busy schedule of playing weddings and polka dances, graduation parties and such.”

The blathering idiot had never heard of accordion music at a graduation party, but it had been a few years since he graduated and maybe things had changed.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“For a candidate?” she asked.

The blathering idiot nodded.

“We’re looking for one right now. Would you like to be it?”

He thought about that for a moment. Zoey had challenged him to do something.

“But I don’t know how to play the accordion,” he said.

“Doesn’t matter. You can learn as you go.”

“But I’ve never run for elected office before.”

She shrugged. “You can learn that, too, as you go.”

“Who will teach me?”

The young woman paused. She had large, wide set eyes and dark hair. “Probably, I will.”

If doing this made Zoey a little jealous, there might not be anything wrong with that, either.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m in.”

(To be continued, more or less.)

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Workshop weekend: Saturday story: The blathering idiot and Spotted Dick

The blathering idiot darts up to a stocking clerk in a grocery store.

“You’re Spotted Dick, where is it?”

The male stocking clerk looks at him. “Come again?”

“Your Spotted Dick,” the blathering idiot said. “I need your Spotted Dick.”

“But I don’t have one.”

“One? One what?”

“Spotted dick, sir.”

“But you’ve advertised that you do.”

The clerk’s face turns red.

“I have not!”

“Yes, you have.”

“No I haven’t!”

“Yes, you have advertised that you have Spotted Dick.”

The clerk blushes. “That’s not what I advertised, sir.”

The blathering idiot stops, looks at the young man, a couple of small clusters of acne on his check and chin, and slowly realizes he may have been misunderstood.

He spots another clerk. This time a woman. He walks up to her. “Have you Spotted Dick?”

“Have you tried aisle nine?” she says and then quickly walks away.

Spotted Dick

Canned Spotted Dick; find it at your local grocery store. Just be careful whom you ask.

“Thank you.” The blathering idiot walks over to aisle nine. It is an aisle of coffee and tea and some drinks in pouches, but there is no Spotted Dick. He stomps up and down the aisle twice and is about the curse this store, the earth, even the universe itself when a woman walks by, Spotted Dick in her cart, near the top, the name in plain view.

His face lights up. He points at the can. “Madam, do you know what you have?!”

She looks him up and down. “It’s not what you think.”

“I know what it is.”

“It’s not disgusting or lewd.”

“Where … did … you … find it? I must have it.”

“It’s the last can and you can’t have it.”

“It’s the last can and I can’t have it?”

“That’s right.”

“No it’s not. It’s the last can and I can have it.” He reaches forward, snatches it out of her cart, and runs to the front of the store. He hears the woman wailing and sobbing, screaming to anybody and everybody that somebody has her Spotted Dick.

The blathering idiot is almost out of the store when he is stopped by an off duty police officer working as a security guard. The blathering idiot has his Spotted Dick firmly clutched in his hands. He told the checkout clerk he didn’t need a bag. Zoey was waiting. It was all she wanted to patch things up between them. It was British, she said, and she wanted to help celebrate the Olympics. She showed him the ad and off he dashed to the store, barely getting his clothes on.

“Sir, I need to see some ID,” the security guard says.

“What?” the blathering idiot asks. “I paid for it fair and square.”

The guard nods. “I’m sure you did, but I still need to see some ID. I’m afraid I am going to have to cite you.”

“For what?”

The guard looks down at what the blathering idiot has clutched in his hand. Then he looks down below that. “Sir, your fly is open and several people have spotted … have seen your spotted….”

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