The Subtle Quiche

Silken Slapdash Scrap

2010-08-20T18:49:00.000-07:00

Honey, darling, you must really see this. 19th Century, the turn, mind. A real antique. Fabulous.

Incongruous Innovation

2010-08-17T17:49:00.000-07:00

The trees started talking again.

They did that every now and then, just to pass the time, I suppose. The trick is—and the average person wouldn’t suspect—that trees are jerks. It might have been an identity issue; who wants to talk to a tree? I doubt that anyone had explained to them why they could speak, in tones that ranged from the hush of leaves dancing across a bronze statue, or the churn of the foamy water gushing out of the distillery a few miles down.

I wanted to know though. Hell, I might even tell them one day.

Incongruous Innovation. That was the name of my exploration company. With me was my classic Webster’s Dictionary, (circa 2025, before everyone added the prefix –mega to everything), and a revolver at my side. I also had this natty old messenger bag (I believe that it was made out of real leather. I refuse to accept otherwise). It had gotten caught on a few things over the years, though, more often, things got caught in it.

Like the revolver.

The trees whispered at me as I stumbled through the underbrush. I really had no need to run; Soggy Pete was hardly a champion mover. I took a deep breath and listened for footsteps. Or, better yet, the loud smack of an inebriated body hitting the ground.

I slowed to a jog and looked down at the weapon, inspecting the fruits of my quick fingers.

“Mega-vovler. This side up.”

Ugh.

Poetry Scrap #2

2010-08-05T20:28:00.000-07:00

I pretend to relax
On the cold stone bench
Hardly touched by the morning's light

I flash commuters friendly smiles
Providing them gentle reminders
Of the out of sorts

And the out of place

Flash Fiction Scrap #5

2010-07-26T18:42:00.000-07:00

He knew, immediately, that he had made a terrible mistake.

"I think," she crossed her arms over her chest "We have had quite enough tea today."

She stood up with a start, her chair clattering to the ground. If she were not so furious, so consumed with outrage, she would have let a triumphant smirk cross her face.

Poetry Scrap #1

2010-02-11T17:42:00.000-08:00

It's always something
We're never really alone
(Would you really want to be?)

Like a cat in the attic
I will shake this house
With the timbre of my soul

If I could find it
I would tell it
How I miss him so

Flash Fiction Scrap #4

2009-08-06T13:23:00.000-07:00

It wasn't so much that he loved the weather. It was more that it was consistent; the chattering of the afternoon storms on his shelter was one of his few comforts. Turnips, some spring onions, and scraggly rosemary bush were the staples of his diet, as well as the occasional crawling and hopping things. He hadn't had a poor reaction yet, though the blue hopping ones made his mouth itch. He knew one thing for certain—he'd never use a budget agency again.

Flash Fiction Scrap #3

2009-08-06T11:49:00.000-07:00

The letters she received were the oddest things, she thought. Little envelopes closed with great precision—they certainly were a pain to open. The card the envelopes contained was usually a dull sort of beige and blank, aside from the word "Welcome" in a wholly obnoxious script.

Scrap #2

2009-08-05T10:40:00.001-07:00

Alice's parents would have had a fit, of course. She dried the last of the dishes, briefly suppressing the urge to drop one for dramatic effect. This is was less so because she felt that there was something necessarily wrong with dropping a plate, but more so that the cleaning bit would have been incredibly inconvenient, and her cat had a habit of eating things he shouldn't.

For his part, Jasper, her tabby, stared at her with a curious combination of love and total disinterest.

"Wouldn't it be an interesting ride, Jasper?"

Jasper, for his part, refused to meow on cue and walked off to investigate something more interesting.

Alice smirked. If that cat thought he was ever going to get another can of tuna behaving like that, he was sorely mistaken.

Scrap #1

2009-08-03T13:33:00.000-07:00

She briefly imagined marrying the mailman. No—he would do something so irredeemably stupid at his bachelor's party (that she no doubt would get wind of), that she'd have to call the whole thing off.

She imagined scissors in hand, hovering over her wedding dress, thundering notes of practicality and rage abounding in her mind. A decision is made. She would move on, she would find another. She would wear the dress again with pride, spite.