The stories

I have to say, this was actually quite a fun experience. I haven't really written like this since college. It kind of stretched my creative abilities a bit.  I tried to write a different style of story for every picture; partly to keep my brain interested, and partly to spare your sanity. As a slight disclaimer, some readers sent more than one picture, for those who did, I just picked my favorite one. I didn't want to keep everyone waiting 'til Christmas. Anyway, I'm entertained by how things turned out, and I hope you are too.

Presenting, Storytime with Mr. B:


  December, 1992 - the back of an abandoned flour mill just outside of Westhope North Dakota. There had been no reason to suspect that the facsimile had gotten into the wrong hands. A blue sequin top on a six foot four blonde isn't exactly hard to miss. The three of them sat around an old kitchen table playing bridge. Slivers of sunshine filtered through the dusty window casting a soft, anxious glow over the motley assemblage.

   It had taken nearly three days to find it, the operation had run seamlessly and now it was all over but the waiting. In a matter of a few short hours she'd walk through the door, hand it over, and they'd all leave - one by one.
  Suddenly, a loud creaking on the stairs. They hadn't been expecting anyone. They looked apprehensively toward the door that led to the stairs that led to the bottom floor. It swung open slowly and there stood whiskers. He didn't look happy. No one moved, no one spoke.
  Whiskers sauntered slowly into the room. He looked around, pausing only momentarily on the group seated around the table. He walked over to the window. He had to choose his words carefully. He scaled the wall and stood in the window sill. He was short, but that had never been a problem. He'd built a reputation based on ruthless persona, and a staunch loathing of personal intimacy.
  He whipped around quickly only to be confronted by the business end of a pistol. He flinchlessly opened his arms and simply said, "Go ahead." Little did the man holding the pistol know that Whiskers had the reflexes of a cat and could catch a bullet at point blank range - should the need arise.
  After what seemed an eternity, the man lowered the pistol and sullenly returned to the table.
  "We've been compromised. The mission has been aborted," said Whiskers. Not waiting for a reaction he continued, "Apparently our female cohort harbors a fondness for teacup poodles. She sold out. It's over, just...go home."
  Whiskers leapt down from the window, and crossed to the open door. He turned to face the group, then left without another word.
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  She had never been popular with the boys. It could have been her mother - sleevess and scornful. It could have been the fact that she could put a beer cup in places where most girls could only fit a shotglass - though usually that was in her favor - but it was mostly because she was a staunch conservative republican in a see of wildly liberal democrats.

  Earlier that day she had prepared herself for the worst. The republican congressional delegate would be in the parade, and she feared what might happen to him. She'd worn her tube-top/slingshot and hidden several buckshot in the folds of her fleshy middle. She'd be there to protect her prince if the time came for such action.

  She felt alone at the parade. Sleeveless, like her mother, and under said matron's scornful eye. She hadn't let her talents go to waste. Not on a hot day like this. She was showing her conservative spirit and would be ready at a moment - or two's - notice to spring into action with the help of a remote-controlled chair lift. Unfortunately for her, the parade went off without a hitch. Liberal as they were, the local townsfolk were politically respectful.

  She still felt alone as the parade ended. Sleeveless, like her mother, who'd left hours beforehand to go home and prepare a dinner of leftover fried chicken and cornbread. And scorned - the delegate hadn't even waved at her - though she'd been his only local constituent. After all, she'd never been popular with the boys.

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  Ray stepped out into the rain. Today would be the day. Talk around the water-cooler seemed to indicate that Sheila might be interested. It was now or never. If he didn't act he'd regret it for the rest of his life.

  April was usually a lucky month for Ray - except for that time he'd lost his wallet, his favorite recipe for quiche, and his mother all in the same week back in April of 1987, but he felt good about his decision today.

  He only knew three things about Sheila: She was born in Schenectady, she spoke 3 languages fluently, and she took a morning coffee break at exactly 10:17 every day. He hoped to learn much more in the coming days, but he had to do this first, just to make sure.

  The bus-ride to the office wasn't as awkward as he'd been expecting, but then people in this part of town were used to eccentricity. He stepped of at his stop - the 7th from his house - and walked the remaining two blocks, trying - ineffectively - to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

  He stopped in front of the double doors. 12 floors above him the coffee machine was dripping, the copy machine was whirring, and Sheila was probably sitting at her desk, head cocked coquettishly to the side.

  He stepped off the elevator, turned the corner, and came to a dead stop. There she was, headed straight for him - and wearing a chicken costume. He didn't quite know what to make of it all.

  "Sheila?" he queried

  She merely turned her head and looked a bit sheepish - which is difficult in a chicken costume.

  "I had no idea..." he continued.

She removed the head of the costume. Her long auburn locks fell about her shoulders, framing her pale, victorian features perfectly.

  "I had to make sure." she said, "And now I am."

  She stepped toward him, and he toward her. From out of nowhere music began playing and they knew it was meant to be. He grabbed her wing and they left - she in her chicken costume and he in his hot pink biker shorts and 10-gallon hat - to start a new life together.

  Unfortunately in the middle of the crosswalk they were hit by a stray souvlaki vendor and killed instantly. April was only usually a lucky month for Ray.

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   37-year-old Jaques LeBlanc died Thursday when his nostrils and mouth were glued shut in a community enhancement project gone awry.

   According to authorities Jaques had been working on a mural at the Pyrenees train station in downtown Paris when he inadvertently wiped quick-drying grout on his face and was unable to remove it before suffocating.

Bystanders on the opposite train platform watched, but were unable to offer assistance.

   "Je ne pourrais pas le croire," said Marie Ruelle, a resident of Paris and frequent patron of the public transit system. "Qui est assez stupide pour coller leur nez et leur bouche fermés en même temps ? À mon avis il le mérite."

   Pierre Legrand, chief of the Paris police department, said Jaque was dead when the police arrived several hours later.

   He said the police were notified when the smell became too much for subway travelers.

   The community enhancement project involved refurbishing several tile murals in subway stations around the city and is scheduled to be completed later this year.  

   According to the Urban Renovative Institute for Neighborhood Enhancement Jacque's death - though tragic - shouldn't postpone the completion deadline.  

   For more information on community enhancement projects in your area you can contact the institute at 10920983827.

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  When I told her what I planned to do, she just kind of stared at me.  Not a laugh, not a word of discouragement - nothing.  Just a blank look, and then she walked away.  At this point I figured I had to do it, if for no other reason than to vindicate myself against such an emotionless reaction.

  It wasn't as hard.  The old man lived out in the middle of nowhere and it's not like he had the thing locked up.  It was just sort of out there.

  I walked right through the gate.  He didn't even have a guard dog or anything.  I probably could have taken it with him and his family standing right there in the yard, but just to make sure it went off without a hitch, I went when they were all at that absurd little candy factory of theirs.

  I picked her up at her house on the seashore.  When she came out the door she had a look of complete disbelief on her face.  That was more along the lines of what I was looking for in a reaction.  She climbed in, leaned close, and with a coy little smile on her face gave me a tender kiss.  

  She put her head on my shoulder and we drove away into the sunset.  Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was ours.