Session June 30, 2018

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And then the impossible happens.

By CT

The Annual Holiday meeting of Cats, Inc. promised to be a delectable feast... roast turkey with gravy, pan-fried trout, a selection of fine cheeses, live mice, and ice cream for dessert. 

The members devoured the turkey, slurped the gravy, decimated the trout, and demolished the cheese. Mr. Fatcat had volunteered to bring the mice, as he lived on a farm with a prolific mouse population. He had called President Fangclaw the previous night to report he had 20 mice caged so that each member could enjoy two mice.

Mr. Fatcat left the table to collect the cage. The members drooled in anticipation. 

And then the impossible happened. Mr. Fatcat returned with an empty cage! The mice had escaped!

What an uproar! A pandemonium of hissing, growling and meowing was brought to an end by President Fangclaw, who said, “We still have ice cream.”

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The whole region was constantly guarded by warriors.

By TNT

He was the baker’s boy and delivered the bread to the warriors every day. They rewarded him well sometimes with chocolate. The whole region of Alsace Lorraine was one of the first taken by the Germans and the German troops were mainly from German farms. They liked the region because it reminded them of home. The only problem was that it rained almost every day and the boy had to keep his bread fresh and dry or the warriors would not buy the bread. He couldn’t carry it in the basket – he had to put it in a wooden barrel and let his big German Shepherd dog pull the barrel which rolled well and bumped over rocks but never spilled any bread. The Germans laughed, but were impressed by his ingenuity.  

As a result he made more deliveries and sold more bread, buns and bakery goods. He became famous and well-liked by everyone. It was not a surprise when his father opened a second bakery. They were doing so well that there was a contingent of French underground Resistance that used the boy to take messages. 

The Germans were drunk when they called the boy over to buy bread. The boy dropped the barrel and the bread rolled out. When the Germans split open a loaf of bread they found a message from the French Resistance, so they shot the boy in the head and laughed. They threw the rest of his bread to the swine.

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Aside from making it more affordable, producers had to insure that the produce appealed to women as readily as men.

By MD

“It ain’t just a matter of moola,” L.B. said to his fellow producers, “we gotta appeal to the dames.”

“Ya got that right,” Sam Goldwyn replied. “But who in the name of all that’s holy knows what women want?”

That’s where I came in. As a woman, and a produce expert, the three Hollywood moguls right away knew I was the “dame” for the job.

At our first meeting, I looked Sam Warner right in the eye, while Goldwyn and L.B. Mayer stood aside. 

“Aside from making it more affordable, producers have to insure that the produce appeals to women as readily as men.” The three producers nodded. “For that reason, I need you to bring your baskets of mixed fruit to my home so I can see how it will look in my living room.” The three producers agreed.

On the appointed day, the truck pulled up to my porch, laden with baskets of succulent fruit. I directed the placement at various spots in the kitchen and living room and, in the presence of the three producers, studied it with a practiced eye. 

“Nope,” I pronounced. “It’s all wrong. It won’t do at all.” L.B., Goldwyn and Warner’s shoulders slumped. “It’s atrocious,” I said. “To make it right, you guys need to completely redecorate my first floor. New furniture, new appliance, new lighting, new carport, new paint.” The three looked doubtful but I was firm.  “You want this produce to appeal to women as well as men, correct?” I asked. Resignedly, they nodded. Three weeks later, the job was complete, the fruit was in place, and shooting began. And because I got a new first floor out of the deal, I only charged them $40,000 for my services. I know for sure the produce as it now appears, will appeal to the female demographic. Whether the movie is a hit or not, I can’t pretend to know.

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The only possible output of a system lacking any discipline is self-destruction.

By B.G.

She knew now that it was not going to come true after such a long time overshadowing her life. Her conventional, dutiful brothers and sisters had done what was expected and were off with careers and families and separate lives. She as the only free spirit was still at home and just put up with it, wondering, going on with her life and interests in her unorthodox ways so unlike her siblings, and waiting.  She had been waiting to see if what her father had always commented would happen to her. His life and thoughts ruled by science were always so orderly and of course disciplined and his thoughts to which she had been accustomed were ever so logical. He repeatedly quoted “The only possible output of a system lacking any discipline is self-destruction.” Everyone took heed and the family was all quite disciplined, except for her as the only free spirit. It just did not work. She figured she would eventually reach the stage of self destruction. It never did happen. Years passed. She ignored the nasty scientific thoughts of her father and finally felt satisfied that an undisciplined free spirit would live on. It just didn’t apply to her. She went out and jumped for joy.

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As its nature became clearer, the great majority grew apprehensive.

By RMAF

As its nature became clearer, the great majority grew apprehensive. So they packed up their mere necessities, left their homes and journeyed northward to the Mexico/U.S. international border. After all, they’ve heard these “truths” many times – “It’s the land of the free,” “there’s a breachable border system, a kind welfare system, and the streets are paved with gold.”

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I want my home to be a place of comfort and joy.

By CC

I want kids. I want to live near the ocean. I want a Subaru Forrester. I want to be a soccer mom. I want my home to be a place of comfort and joy.

That’s what I asked of Joel when we married. You would think I might have got at least one of those desires fulfilled. But that wasn’t his plan.  

I never knew what his plan was, truth be told. We ended up childless, in a sterile box of a cabin on the side of a cliff on what looked to be the moon. He said it reminded him of his childhood home, and suggested that the wild chinchillas that roamed the rockery surrounding the cabin could be a stand-in for the kids he didn’t want us to have.

It wasn’t difficult to knock him off the cliff one sunny afternoon. He didn’t make a sound all the way down, and only then did I wonder if, perhaps, he was autistic. Later, I did a great deal of research and decided that he probably was. 

When I sold the cabin it didn’t occur to me that some one might wonder where he was. That someone might stumble across his body. Of course it didn’t occur to me that he might have survived the fall, got up and walked away, either. I thought he was autistic, not a space alien. But then I did some more research and discovered that he could have been from outer space after all. There were so many clues. I had to find out.

It took about 6 months to get the money together for an expedition back to the mountain, but I persevered and went on the hunt for his body. I couldn’t find a thing. Bingo.

From that time forward I found myself glancing often at the night sky, wondering if he was watching me or planning revenge.  I married again and we lived near the ocean with our two kids and Subaru, but every now and then I thought about my time with that strange being in our mountain cabin. And one day, after the kids had gone off to college, there came a knock on the door. It was a police officer asking if I’d ever been married to Joel. I denied everything then went to pack my bags for a nice long vacation, which I deserved by now.

Session June 2, 2018

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Feeling safe means you can say things to your father that you wish you could have said as a five year old.

By TNT

My father was a spy in Central America during the war – I wish I knew the whole story. He traveled by mule through the jungles – but how did he find the doubloons – pieces of eight of silver with the cross on them?

He never spoke of it but he spoke fluent Spanish and even a bit of Portuguese – because I heard him talk to a lady in this idiom. It was quite interesting to realize he had been born in total poverty (in a smoke shack – someone said) and his mother was a half-breed Cherokee who died of T.B. when he was young. He lived under the stairs of a hotel and got a scholarship for football to the University of Kentucky. He was ambitious and during the war he wasn’t accepted.

He met my mother – a teacher going to the Canal Zone employed by the Balboa High School to teach – they met on board a ship and my father was quite handsome with wavy, dark hair. He was old-fashioned and I learned to fear his temper and to distrust his words since he was changeable, irritable, especially when he drank. Once he raised his fist to me as he demanded I eat whatever was on my plate – probably eggs. I looked him in the eye and said: “No” empathetically. I was five at that stage of my life when I felt like saying “No.” He asked again and I repeated myself. “No!” I said. “I’m not a Caribbean slave after all, even if I’m a tiny little girl.”

The worst thing was after repeating my word I turned on my heel and walked away. Before I left I said “You can kill me if you want to, but I won’t change my mind.” I said this to him at 5 years old. To him it was a declaration of independent thought and war. He expected his word to be law and himself worshipped like a God. He was successful in business and a self-made man. How dare I not bow down to his tyranny. I was never safe again in my life.

Before my father died he phoned me and said “If you can prove you are worthy I’ll let you inherit my silver goblets.”

He had melted the pieces of eight and made them into goblets – which was foolish as they were more valuable as coins. 

And what did I say to this? Because it was a telephone call I felt safe and so completely honest I said:  “I do not have to prove myself worthy to you or anyone except my maker. So I hope you have a luggage rack on your hearse. Or else stuff them up your arse.” I hung up.

It was the most outrageous thing I ever said to him. Feeling safe means you can say things to your father that you wish you could have said when you were five. After all – I’m not a Caribbean black slave.

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I have to depend on your being here; don’t you know that’s what I need?

By RMAF

Stephen Steppingout was a strange man indeed. Some people said he has a dual personality. Some people said he has a split personality. His wife says he has an infidelity personality. People around him said he talks to himself and sometimes praises himself and sometimes he admonishes himself. Like today, his fellow workers heard voices coming from over Stephen’s adjoining cubicle. “I have to depend on your being here, don’t you know by now that’s what I need from you?”

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The meaning we make of our lives changes how and what we remember.

By BG

Yes, poor Floyd passed away at 36 and it was such a shame to see his bones displayed as per his last will and testament instructions. His memorial service, though puzzling to most of us who knew him, did uphold the message he wanted to convey, though contrary to our previous interactions with him throughout his time on this earth. As we filed out the door at the end of the hour we spent gathered also per instructions in his last will and testament, each of us was handed a postcard of Floyd’s last uncharacteristic pose and the words “The meaning we make of our lives changes how and what we remember” written on the back. We all looked at each other and thought does he really think posing his skeletal remains would mean we thought better of him?

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Aitken arrived in Philadelphia in May 1771 from Scotland, where he was already established as a binder and bookseller.

By MD

When Aitken adopted me, I know he would have preferred to bring home a Scottish terrier. A pug like me was surely low on his list, probably even lower than an Irish Wolfhound or a French poodle. But, as you can see by the photo I’ve chosen to accompany this story, I’ve evolved a confrontational (albeit bug-eyed) stare which is hard to resist. So Aitken and I bonded and he brought me home to his Glasglow book store where I served as his mascot and boon companion. Until, that is, the year 1771 – the year of the book-boring beetle. Actually, Aitken accused me of bringing in the cursed vermin, but my patented bug-eyed expression quickly disavowed him of that notion. Whatever, or whomever, the culprit, Aitken’s bookshelves were speedily decimated and he had to close up shop. 

We were at loose ends for a while until Aitken received a letter from a long lost relative who had emigrated to Philadelphia – in the British Colonies of course – some years before. Before you could say “hoot-mon” we were on the boat headed for the New World. Of course, Aitken arrived in Philadelphia in May 1771 from Scotland, where (as previously related) he was already established as a binder and bookseller. What happened to him after that, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you. You see, I fell in love on the boat with the ship’s cat. She, of course, found my sultry bug eyes and turned down ears irresistible. So my life now is an existence of domestic bliss – in spite of the naysayers – where Kitty and I travel back and forth from Scotland to the colonies. Truly, it’s one long honeymoon. As far as Aitken goes, I wish him well, but I’ve never really forgiven him for accusing me of being the carrier of the book-boring beetle and the cause of his destruction. And that, lads and lassies, is the end of my story.

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Letting bygones be bygones, he continues on his way

By RC

Igor didn’t mean to become a giant, it just sort of happened. He could have blamed it on his mother, who had fed him a lot of beans his whole life—he suspected that they had been of that variety Jack had used to grow his beanstalk—but how could he fault her for always keeping him fed, and also for her nearly constant labor to sew clothes for him.

Anyway, it was probably inevitable that regular humans would eventually find his presence a little irritating. No one really likes to look up to taller people; it’s intimidating, and most do so with at least a little envy, as well. And when the taller person just keeps growing taller—well, it can bring out the worst. Just ask Gulliver. He lost his job in the steel mill, even though he doubled for the cranes when they were down. 

“Igor, there’s just no place here for a man of your—ahem—size anymore,” the bosses told him politely. As time went on, Igor found it harder and harder to take life in the city. This was especially true when he grew tall enough to look into windows of three-story buildings. He didn’t mean to be a “peeping Tom,” of course, but they always perceived that this was what he was doing. 

He wasn’t the only one who found it difficult for him to live there. He got complaints from the Police Department, the Mayor, and all the fire companies about the damage being done to the streets and the buildings as he thumped his way along. He was doing his best to avoid smashing any cars or buses—to say nothing of the people scurrying away from him. He would smile and try to appear friendly, but it didn’t seem to help.

So, he moved into the country, and camped among the tall pines. But soon his head was above those, and strange things happened—like eagles making nests on his shoulders. This was downright irksome! Then, when a committee from the city came out to suggest that he shouldn’t ever stand up, because commuter jets were having a difficulty avoiding him on their approach to the airport, he decided to go farther away. Life was very difficult in the high mountains. For one thing, it was very cold and Igor’s clothes were in tatters. His poor mother had passed away, and there was no one to make him clothes any more. He’d catch a deer once in a while for a meal, but he was never one for raw meat, and how could he dare start a campfire? 

Eventually Igor did stop growing, but by then he was looking at the stars fondly, wondering if there was anywhere else he could go. His head was lost in the clouds. So now, we hear the final chapter in the sad life of Igor. He walks into the city one more time, kind of as a farewell, and kind of boiling about how they have treated him all his life. He thinks of many ways in which he could have helped other humans, because of his great size and strength, if they had given him the chance. He reaches down one hand toward the Empire State Building, thinking of ripping off the top section, to show how he felt about it. But no, how could he hurt anyone? Letting bygones be bygones, he continues on his way—his way being across the continent, and then into the Pacific Ocean. If he isn’t wanted, he will just find one of those very deep crevices that oceanographers talk about. He wades, and wades, and wades, and finally he is up to his waist. 

“This is ridiculous!” Igor says. So he just sits down, bringing his head, above the eyebrows, level with the water. And this is how the latest island of Hawaii, which they name “Igoraland,” is formed. His bald head needed to be planted, to be sure. After tons and tons of soil and many boat loads of palm trees are brought in, Igor finally has made his contribution to society, as well as a landmark. And there are no buildings on this island. It is a garden paradise, far better than all the other islands. 

Thank you, Igor.

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Unskilled men predominated.

By CC

In the double champagne bottle backflip competition, unskilled men predominated. The unskilled were rounded up by selective testing from the rural areas surrounding town. Those who worked on farms or with livestock were culled relentlessly for the amusement of the crowd, who loved seeing their energetic backflips into 3 feet of water near the shore. A small skiff nearby towed the bodies away, and, following an energetic afternoon of back flipping, shoals of small, drunken fish wallowed in the surf late into the evening.

Raoul and Melinda enjoyed the back flipping. Sometimes the wind caught the champagne droplets before they fell into the sea and left a delicious tang of booze floating through the air. Or so Raoul thought as he licked his lips and searched his pockets for the flask he brought with him everywhere. Melinda fiddled with her phone, preferring to watch nail art clips on Facebook than the stupid rubes breaking their necks in the surf. 

Later that night, as the scent of jasmine floated through their open windows and palm leaves rustled in the night wind, Melinda looked up from her phone and said, “Raoul, I’m bored.” Raoul looked over at her with a slight frisson of fear. He would have to come up with yet more entertainments if he wanted to keep her! He winced thinking how she just sat there staring at her phone no matter where he took her. She was obsessed with that phone. He sat wondering about this for a few minutes. 

Then suddenly it came to him:  She was cheating on him! He leaped up and ran to the kitchen, where he selected a large carving knife from the block before returning to the living room. 

While carnage ran its course in their little apartment, outside along the shore small fish belched and woke in a groggy stupor. One of them turned to the other and said, “We’ve been poisoned. The bastards.” 

“We need to counterattack. But let’s get healthy first,” replied the other.

As they wobbled back out to sea, the others followed to let the ocean soothe their headaches while they plotted their revenge. But it is a good thing they never followed through on their plans, as they would surely have been killed and eaten. 

After the last back flipping contest, food production on the island took a blow from which it never recovered. The population soon declined to 20, and within a generation they were all gone.