My favorite local bagelry went under and got bought out by Blue Sky a few months back. Sad times for the local place, which was really good, but Blue Sky is pretty good too.
This sign they have up, however – at least how I choose to read it – may be a trifle psychotic.
Blue Sky Bagel.
Now………Bagel.
It’s the dramatic pause that the space indicates, only to be followed up by redundancy and questionable grammar. Good stuff.
Yeah.
Bene scribete.
Good afternoon, those who may or may not be reading this in the afternoon.
Time for another “story” blast-written in ten minutes without forethought, I suppose.
And I call myself a writographer. Or, wait, no I don’t.
“Sir?” came Featherby’s voice from another room.
Dincton Flatt ignored him, absently clicking through tabs on his browser. The immaculately dressed Mr. Cheverly had posted a photograph of his newest suit on Facebook. It was perfect. Flatt glowered.
“Sir?” Featherby called again.
Flatt sighed. “What is it, Featherby?” He looked over his shoulder, and saw his robot coyote trot into the room.
“I think you ought to see this, sir,” the coyote answered.
“Not now, Featherby, I’m quite in the middle of something.”
“Sir, even if I believed that, I would still feel pressed to tell you that there is a goat on your lawn.”
“A goat, Featherby?”
“Yes, sir, a goat.”
“Heavens, that shouldn’t be.” Flatt pulled up an MSPaint process he always had open, filled in all black so he could look at his reflection on the computer monitor. He was handsome as you please and blond as anything, just as he intended. He smiled dashingly at himself and minimized the window, then stood and crossed his arms. “Very well, then, show this goat to me.”
Featherby led him out to his front yard, where a goat indeed stood munching on the grass.
“You. Goat,” Flatt warned. “You mustn’t be here. Not in the slightest. This is simply not the place for goats.”
The goat looked up, staring blankly, then goatnoised.
“Hmm. Quite rude. What should we do, Featherby?”
“Perhaps we should call the goat store, sir. Maybe it escaped and only needs to be returned.”
“No, Featherby, I do not think such a place exists.” Flatt twisted up his mouth in consideration. “Although, that might not be a bad thing to have around here. Perhaps we should start one.” Flatt approached the goat carefully. “Well, there, fellow – how would you like to be the first in a line of magnificent goats – Flatt’s Goats? We could sell your ilk all over Danesbury, perhaps as a complimentary add-on to our properties.”
The goat goatnoised.
Flatt frowned.
“Sir,” Featherby cautioned, “I do not mean to rain on your parade, but it might be said that this idea is not a good one. The real-estate business is enough to manage on its own without adding livestock to your inventory.”
Flatt shook his head. “You may be right, Featherby, but people do like goats, do they not? And Cheverly does not have goats.” Flatt eyed the robot. “Does he?”
Featherby tilted his head. “I don’t believe so, sir.”
“There. You see?” Flatt turned to grab the goat, but the goat backed away, causing Flatt to overreach and fall on his face. “Mmph.”
“Sir, this is the second time you’ve fallen down this week. People may start saying things.”
Flatt rolled over onto his back and stared up into the afternoon sky. “I didn’t plan on any goats, now, did I?.” He looked around, but now could not see the creature. “Where did it go?”
“I am not certain, Sir. Perhaps it was never here at all.”
Flatt sighed extensively. “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”
“For good times, sir.”
Bene scribete.
For lack of anything finished or worthwhile of my own to put forth, I suppose I’ll just share three things I encountered making their rounds on the Internet this week that I thought were pretty swell.
I love creature design work, and always marvel at the creativity behind putting new life forms together. Artist Damon Hellandbrand turned the western astrological signs into monsters, and, well, they’re pretty darn cool.
You know that scene in The Fifth Element where the blue tentacle-headed alien diva does that crazy techno riff on “Il Dolce Suono”, but her voice changes into a painfully obvious MIDI flute part-way through?
Well, here’s a girl on what looks to be the Armenian version of The Voice singing it for real. Holy crap.
Let’s end with some cute. Ermines are ridiculously adorable, and here’s one who had nothing better to do than to remind everyone of that.
Bene scribete.
I have been neglectful of general writing as of late.
Thus, as penance, I shall sit down and write whatever un-premeditated nonsense comes into my head, without stopping, for ten minutes straight, and then share my shame with the world.
Apologies in advance.
Dincton Flatt strolled ponderously through the aisles of the market, eyes darting left and right in agitation.
“What is it, sir?” asked Featherby, his robot coyote.
“I need to find the pickles, of course,” Flatt responded. He looked down at Featherby. “Get out of the basket, would you? Ridiculous.”
Featherby lowered his gaze in disappointment, but obliged him with a hop to the floor. “I think the pickles would be in the back, sir, wouldn’t you? Because of the vinegar and all.”
“I haven’t the slightest, Featherby. But, yes, let us check there.”
The two made their way to the back of the store, and Flatt approached a woman behind the deli counter. “Pardon, me, madame” When she looked up, he flashed the smile of a thousand winners, the shine of his teeth alone solving the energy crisis in three small countries.
“Oh,” the woman stammered, then put on a pair of gloves. “What can I get for you, sir?”
“Some pickles, I should think. And some strawberry good-goods.”
“Some what, sir?”
“He means bon-bons,” Featherby offered.
“I don’t speak French when I can avoid it,” Flatt muttered.
The marketess smiled uncertainly, but got his items together for him.
Flatt looked around the market and took a deep breath. “You know, Featherby, I like it here. It has food, and I like food.”
“Yes, sir, I imagine you do.” Featherby, being a robot, could not eat food, though he probably wanted to.
Flatt stroked his chin and turned around, but immediately slipped upon a puddle of grease and fell to the ground.
Featherby yipped in surprise, then nosed his face.
“I’m all right,” Flatt grumbled. A hand reached out for him from the corner of his vision, and he drew his up to it in acceptance. As the other hand pulled him up, his eyes set upon its owner – the immaculately dressed Mr. Cheverly.
Flatt frowned extensively, but allowed himself to be helped up, nonetheless. “Mr. Cheverly,” he mumbled. “You are looking rather dapper today.”
“Mm, yes, quite,” Cheverly concurred. “Do be more careful, Flatt – there are enough dangers in this world that you needn’t add a market floor to their lot.”
“It was intentional, I assure you,” Flatt lied, brushing himself off. “I needed to test out gravity. You know how it is.”
The corner of Cheverly’s mouth turned down in a subtle but earth-darkening frown. “Ah, yes, Flatt. I’m quite certain of that.” He strolled away in his perfect white suit.
Flatt grimaced, taking the pickles from the marketess and dropping them into his basket. “I wonder what that dastardly fellow has in store for Danesbury.”
“Who can say?” asked Featherby. “Perhaps he means only to torment those who fall down at markets, when they clearly shouldn’t.”
Flatt shook his head. “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”
“For good times, sir.”
Bene scribete.
Uh-oh.
Sear the raven found out about Youtube, and endeavors to teach us about stuff.
Forewarning: if you watch it, you might make him feel important.
Happy new year, everyone!
Bene scribete.
Writin' Fish 