The FBI raided the lake house. Pablo had been using the site as a front for his “fishing” business. His men would bring the catch in, gut them, and stuff the insides with bags of cocaine before placing them back on ice for distribution. While the stench allowed the shipment to make it through customs, not all of them were properly dead. Some of the locals reported that they flopped about, despite missing their innards. Even when the police investigated and released a portion back into the sea, many of them could still swim. In fact, many swam right back to the lake house where they got their first hit. When the FBI tracked them back to the scene of the crime, they also discovered a secondary fish-fighting operation. The court charged Pablo on two accounts. One for drug trafficking. The other for mixing business with pleasure.
Among the riches that gleamed and spoke,
Charcoal failed to shimmer but smoke.
Hidden within that rough of gems,
It breathed fire and warmed cold dens.
Why so glum? You serve a fine purpose,
But Charcoal no longer wished to feed a furnace.
So it threw itself against grain and sand,
And found itself an artist’s hand.
Charcoal made only one request,
Give me a subject so I can express.
The artist grinned.
The crowd jeered, hurling rusted scraps and old rubble at Lewwie Boi.
“Drive you sorry excuse of a Guzzler!”
“Little station wagon lose control of her motor?”
“My wheelchair’s got more go than you!”
As Lewwie Boi took the punishment from the mob, Hitmen spun circles around him. The former tag-team duo had owned the demolition derby circuit but their partnership now hung on a knife’s edge. Hitman wanted glory and would execute in operatic fashion, dismantling his opponents one part at a time. Lewwie Boi simply did it for the money. Their aims were not mutually exclusive till today’s event when Hitman took Lewwie Boi’s girlfriend hostage.
“Let her go! And I’ll make sure not to cripple you too much”, spewed Lewwie Boi through the loudspeakers.
“Only if you can catch me in that matchbox turtle of yours!”, retorted Hitman with a maniacal tone.
Right when Lewwie Boi ignited his engine in full, a third truck explodes into the arena, fireworks and all.
“It’s Monster-Rig!!!”, the former tag-team shrieked between the frenzied cries of the crowd. “The undertaker has come for us. We gotta take him down now!”
But alas, the tag-team duo was no match against the monster-truck / big-rig hybrid. Goliath retired them to the junk yard.
Oh Summer of mirth!
How you passed me by.
You drained the cup.
Savoring in delight.
I caught up with you,
but only to say bye.
Good night, good bye!
Till next year come nigh.
I saw the man jump. It wasn’t a bunny hop that a self-doubting soul half-committed to, but a magnificent leap of one determined to soar. The dream however would always end on an ambiguous note… Sometimes, the water below the bridge broke him in two. Other times, he shattered water itself, continuing to plummet unscathed. Never once did the man fly but in his repeated attempts, I’d come to realize that he did soar in another way. He soared above fear… Now as I look over the same edge and prepare my leap, another person can watch, learn, and overcome.
Artemis’s geese shot South at break-neck speeds. They pierced through icy winds and aurora skies, like an arrow aimed at the heavens. Would they strike Scorpio, who hunted Orion amongst the stars? Or would they falter in their mission and lose their mark? Alas, even Artemis could not win against the Gods. One by one, her squadron fell in a blaze that lit up the night sky. Their sacrifice however was not in vain for it signaled the start of the great migration. Such was the natural order of things.
Lucia held her breath. If she let the paint dry and the canvas framed, nothing would move again. The garden that burned with vibrant greens and crimson violets would stop its sway. Whizzing dragon-flies and fluttering birds would halt mid-flight. Sun and moon would forestall their billion-year cycle. Life continued so long as her brush continued she thought. However, this was a mistake. She recalled a nugget of wisdom. “An artist should know when the work is complete but not before. Too early and the painting will feel wanting. Too late and the painting will do too much.” As these questions nagged at Lucia, her husband in the distance announced that lunch was ready. Lucia’s vision faded and the memory of her late grandmother and her final words evaporated into thin air. The painting was done.
Olaf was a curious lad. He had a habit of smelling every person he met. Rather than a quick whiff in passing, he would inhale a deep breath through the nostrils to try and discern the other’s true nature. Many of his conclusions were spot on. A panhandler who smelled of clean aftershave turned out to be only a part-timer. The frat boy who made wild passes at the young lady had clear breath and only pretended to be drunk. That young lady who sweated the frat boy’s advances was actually pregnant but didn’t know it. So when Olaf took up bartending, both his curiosity for new scents and his interest in human behavior could be satisfied.
One Friday night during the busiest time of the season, an anxious gentleman in suit and tie walked in through the front doors. A strange scent, never before sniffed, had followed in his wake. At first, Olaf thought of some foreign cigarette brand mixed with in some exotic oils but the emanation had been clearly masked by the odor of heavy perspiration of a nervous and almost terrifying sort. What was this man hiding? As the thought wracked his mind, Olaf caught the final whiff that would solve the puzzle. Without a moment to lose, he grabs the nearby fountain hose and aims it straight at the man’s chest. Time slows to a near standstill as the gentleman shuts his eyes in a death-like repose. He mutters in a thin whisper…
“S…a…k…e…, S……A……K……E……, SAKE-BOMB!!!” right before the torrent of water douses the explosive-laden jacket and knocks him out cold. In the aftermath of the attempted suicidal bombing, the investigators inquired as to what tipped off the assailant. Olaf responded, “I smelled gunpowder. LOTS and LOTS of gunpowder”.
At the edge of the cosmos, a small comet impacts a planet. Deep within its nucleus, Fate preserves a relic from a distant past. Her bosom houses a patch of roses that had miraculously survived the destruction of a previous world. A lover of life had suspended the roes patch in time so that they neither bloomed nor wilted during their long flight through space.
When the denizens of the new world discovered the crash site, they also found the rose patch intact. Some who feared its unknown origins threatened to burn the ground from which it stands. Those who wished to examine its properties wanted to dissect its body pedal by pedal. Others who attributed its coming to divine providence wished to enshrine it within a receptacle for the ages.
For such reasons, the rose patch refused to bloom until one day a courageous young girl dared to approach. Recognizing it for what it was, she cusped her hands around a single bud and inhaled its scent. The warmth of her hands awakened the rosebud from its stasis and its petals opened to reveal a deepest red never before seen. Her cheeks flushed a ruddy complexion as the lover of life smiled.
The first stroke fell on air, cutting an ocean from out of the sky.
The second stroke tore across water, carving a shoreline without beginning and end.
The third stroke sculpted the earth, arranging forms from an infinite variety.
The fourth stroke ignited into fire, imbuing spirits with movement and life.
The final stroke pierced through time, resetting the world for a new brush to try.