The Escape Artist

Tabby’s cage at the shelter was comfortably furnished. People were nice to her, but she wanted her freedom. One of your more adventurous cats, her motto was: “Risks are for the taking.” She prowled through the catio looking for a way out.

She eyed the perimeter. From an adjacent field, the scent of fresh mice and catnip tempted her. She wiggled her butt and leapt to the top of a rug-covered cat tower. From there, she spied a hole at the top of the enclosure. No one was around. She scaled the six foot wire wall and made her escape.

Raven Prince

Once there was a wicked prince, so wicked he stank. No maiden would have him.

He mounted his horse and set out to find a wife.

On the road, a raven flew above his head. He threw rocks and when they hit the bird, the prince felt pain. He felt the same pain on seeing a crowd of beggars. A parched child moved him to give her water.

It was a cleansing experience. The raven spoke. “Follow me.”

The prince crossed the kingdom, sweating beside laborers, sweeping streets, felling trees. He smelled of productive work and lived a happy life.

A(u)nt Queens

The bread was fresh and I was terrifically hungry, so I helped myself.

My aunt scolded me. “Crumbs, you left crumbs. The ants found them and carried them in a line through the kitchen. They’re back for the sugar.”

I cleaned the floor where the ants had left a trail. She scolded me. “I’m getting fond of them. They have personalities. See that large one.”

”That’s the Queen.”

“Where’s her crown?”

“It’s her size.”

My aunt, a large woman, pondered this. “We have that in common.”

They also love bread.

They are fast friends now, my aunt and the Ant Queen.

The Nose Knows

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“Top o’ the day.” A man in a tam’o shanter, blue and green plaid, black and white lines for definition, greeted the butcher, who stood behind his product, a case of meat, bones and all. The man’s Scottie wore boots, four of them, leather zipped on the side. A dog was welcome as long as he behaved. This one did.

The Scottie was there to sniff for bombs. He walked the length of the shop, then froze.

“Everyone out!”

The butcher grabbed bones for the dog, leapt from behind the counter. Scottie gnawed while the bomb squad did its job.

What Goes With a Fedora?

The linen fedora sat jauntily on the Duchess’s head. “Who needs a tiara. On to the ball.”

Her gown took up most of the limo’s back seat, leaving the Duke with scant room to spread his tails. “I can’t very well wear a top hat with you in that get-up.” He sniffed loudly.

The Duchess handed him a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “Then wear a bowler. Or maybe a feathered bonnet. Wear a tiara if you want.” She hugged up her husband.

The Duke said, “You need a trench coat to go with the hat.”

“Why does everything need to match, darling?”

Trust Your First Guess

“A tenner on Marmalade.”

The guy with the eyeshades burped. It was a disparaging burp. “You’d bet on an orange horse. Take my advice. Save your money.”

“Well what would you advise?” The lady, or maybe she was a floozy, asked. She fluttered her eyelashes and tugged at dangly paste earrings. “Help a girl out.”

“God, my feet are killing me. Take my place so I can sit down and I’ll give you a winning tip.”

The lady was used to dead feet. She had on heels that were half her height. “Deal.”

And it was Marmalade by a nose.

Let Us Eat Chocolate

The Easter Bunny wore a polkadot tie to the Last Supper. The feast was well attended. The patriarchs wore yamakas, clerical collars, or golden chains of office. They made nice on the dais as an example for others. It was the Easter Bunny who’d brought it to their attention. Holy wars, though none is really holy, were on the rise.

Everyone agreed, if it got to Crusades level conflict, they’d need to call on Mother Nature to create another Great Flood. Yes, it was her. She gave a moving speech about climate change. The Easter Bunny passed out chocolate eggs.

We’ve Cornered the Market in Tragedy

Fall colors pull me into the corner boutique. Rich burgundy, rust, and hints of black, abstract shapes intertwine, chase an Asiatic pattern over the five foot silk length. I’m in love. When I wrap the scarf three times around my neck, the sales lady says, “It suits you. You have a long neck. A dancer’s neck.” I’m not a dancer. I have two left feet. But I take it because the colors perfectly suit the melancholy of the fall day. On the sidewalk outside, there’s a newspaper in the box at the corner. The headline reads, “People’s Temple: Mass Suicide.”

All of Paris is a Museum

We came to Paris for the museums. L’Orangerie in the Tuilleries, Musée Marmottan, Musée de Cluny. We walked everywhere; it’s a small city. First stop was Gallerie Lafayette. “It’s like a museum,” she said.

“No,” I said. “It’s a department store. See the price tags.”

When she approached the register with full shopping bags, I asked, “How will you pack these home?”

“I’ll need a suitcase.” So she bought one. At the Cluny, she browsed the gift shop until nearly closing. She purchased a full set of pillow covers on the Lady and Unicorn theme. That was the first day.

It’s All Greek to Me

Rain came down in buckets. Frogs poured out. They hit the ground with a splat. No one knew how frogs had spawned in rainclouds, or if that was what had happened. But, absolutely, frogs were falling from the sky.

Some landed in marshes, maybe on their heads. They sang silly songs. They offended poetic sensibilities with ignorant chatter and stubborn opinions. Dionysus was out for his morning constitutional when he heard the cacophony. “Fetch those frogs for me.”

No one could. The frogs had leapt into the air, back into the clouds, loud, louder; oblivious to the noise they made.

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