irony – Page 2 – The Creative Chronicles of Dave Stancliff

The Toddler and the Conqueror

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At eighty years-old, Nulf was considered a toddler on Venus. The average age among Venusians was 1,000 years-old.

He was an energetic kid who loved to collect things like artifacts from other planets, and other life forms. He was especially fond of finding a new species to put on display in his room.

Each specimen was displayed in the exact environment they came from. Servants came by Nulf’s room once a day to feed his collection, and to clean out the cubes waste.

Artoin Nes was excited. His spacecraft was entering a new solar system to conquer! After relaying his discovery to his commander in Utunal, he instructed the navigator bot to chart a course to the nearest planet.

Plan in hand, Artoin Nes ordered his fleet to battle stations. The flotilla of space-fighters were locked-and-loaded well before they attacked Mercury. It took the Utunalians two days to overwhelm the crude technology that the Mercurians tried to defend themselves with.

As in the other conquered planets, the inhabitants were forced to pay a ransom; whatever natural resources the Utunalians deemed useful. The inhabitants had to meet a yearly quota. If it wasn’t met, savage destruction would follow.

The invading Utunalians were met with much stiffer resistance when they attacked Mars. Not only were the Martians fierce fighters, but their technology rivaled the attackers.

Nulf knew something was wrong when a servant came to his room and summoned him to his parents quarters. For the first time in his life, Nulf’s parents didn’t have calm faces.

Nulf’s father came right to the point,”Our allies on Mars are being attacked by unknown enemies. We must honor our pact with the Martians and attack their foe.”

“You know what that means Nulf,” his mother said. “There will have to be a mind meld.”

Nulf couldn’t help but be excited. He’d never seen one before. Only in times of dire emergency did the 17 Great Lords gather in the great hall.

Despite the Martians bravery and technology, the Utunalians massive fleet was causing considerable damage to the planetary shield wall. Commander Artoin Nes directed the bombardment.

It was interesting when planets fought back. Artoin Nes saw himself as an omnipotent conqueror and each planet his private playtoy. The victory was always sweeter if the victim struggled.

One of his Ranger squads finally broke through a section of the shield and instantly honed in on the Golden City of Tandia. Deadly laser beams set the great city on fire. It’s inhabitants panicked. They’d never been exposed to violence of this magnitude.

Nulf’s father, Din-al III, was sitting at an alabaster round table with the other 16 Lords of Venus. They were chanting. One-by-one their eyes rolled back in their head. The incense burning in the room made Nulf dizzy, as he watched from nearby.

Utunalian’s throughout the fleet were holding their heads and crying out in agony! The fighters started spiraling out of control. Ships slammed into each other and exploded. The mother ship with Artoin Nes hurtled down into the Martian landscape, crashing in the Red Desert of Xoon.

The Martian militia took the survivors from the crash and locked them up in electrified glass cages.

A week later, to celebrate Nulf’s 81st birthday, his parents took him to the auction house to get a new specimen for his collection. One – who was screaming and pounding on his cage caught Nulf’s eye.

He looked like a lively source of amusement for years to come. The auctioneer gave a brief bio on him, and said his name was Artoin Nes.

As It Stands, irony is one of my favorite themes.

The ‘Beast’ In The Bayou

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Circa 1950. Port Barre, St. Landry Parish, Louisiana.

Pierre Part dit LaForest was never so afraid in his life.

He looked behind him at the murky waters of the Bayou Teche expecting to see the creature running along the banks. He tried to concentrate while paddling his pirogue in the light of the full moon.

He shouldn’t have been caught out this late in the marshes. That nap set him back a bit. When he woke to the howl of a loup garou (Cajun for werewolf) he scrambled to the pirogue, leaving his gear behind.

Children at Port Barre are warned that loups garous can read souls, and that they only hunt and kill evil men and women and misbehaved horses. Pierre wasn’t sure he qualified as evil. Yeah, he may have done a bad thing or two, but was that all it took?

The beast’s howling stopped after a few minutes. He saw lights ahead and sighed with relief. Ft. Barre’s history stretched back to 1760 when it was an Indian trading post at the place where Bayou Courtableau flows into Bayou Teche.

Nowadays there were less than 2,000 inhabitants. Over half of the town’s income derived from speeding tickets. Everyone knew everyone. It was a tight Cajun community that was proud of its history, culture, religion (Roman Catholic), and entertainment.

Myths and legends were taken seriously. Most had been to a Shaman one time or another seeking help for something.

As Pierre downed his second bottle of beer his best friend Yves Dussault looked worried. He asked, “Are you sure it was a loups garou?”

“Never heard that kind of howl before in my life. You ain’t either,” he assured him. “It made my blood run cold.”

Despite his scare Pierre was back fishing three days later.

Deep into the bayou there was a crude hut made from sticks and two old green Army blankets. It was Pedro Gonzalez’s home. He was originally from Mexico, but fled after the cartels captured his family and put them on display in a private zoo.

The Gonzalez’s all suffered from a rare genetic condition called hypertrichosis. Pedro had four inches of thick fur on his face, and his eyes were the only part of his head that was exposed.

This “curse of the hair” is caused by a primeval gene stemming from man’s animal ancestors. Some cases are more extreme than others. All the Gonzalez family had hair all over their bodies.

When Pedro escaped he made his way across the border and into Louisiana he had a plan. He read that it was almost impossible to find someone hiding in the state’s bayous. It was to become his new home.

For a year he avoided any human contact, but spied on people fishing, listening to their conversations about loups garous. To ensure privacy, Pedro decided to become one. He certainly looked the part.

Living alone was no problem for Pedro. He hated to be stared at like a freak. After three years though, he was starting to miss conversations, and news about what was going on in the world.

Pierre decided he’d collected enough crawfish and catfish. The “Cracklin Festival” kickoff was today and he wanted to get home and change his clothes. He looked forward to dancing all night.

The sun was slowly setting amid a pink and orange skyline when the huge Alligator smashed into his little pirogue. Pierre was unceremonially dumped into the murky waters.

Watching from the marsh grass, Pedro saw that he was in big trouble. Going against every natural instinct, Pedro jumped into the dark water and swam toward Pierre who was screaming in agony!

The Alligator had his leg and was trying to pull him underneath the water. Pedro pulled the only weapon he had, a kitchen butcher knife, and slashed the Alligator across its eyes, puncturing one in the process.

The enraged Alligator let go of Pierre and turned on Pedro. But Pedro was ready. He’d killed a lot of Alligators (and smaller game) to survive. Nimbly avoiding the snapping jaws he plunged the knife in the base of its neck repeatedly.

After cutting its throat he drug the monster onto the bank. Then he remembered Pierre who was hanging onto the remnants of his boat. He swam back to him and held him in a lifeguards hold until they were on the muddy bank.

Pierre had passed out from loss of blood. Pedro tore a sleeve from Pierre’s shirt and wrapped up the gaping wound to staunch the blood flow. It was obvious he’d die without medical attention.

Despite his own misgivings, Pedro picked him up and started walking toward town. The night was aglow with lanterns and dancers were gaily spinning around on the massive wooden platform built for that purpose.

As Pedro stood in the shadows Pierre woke up. He looked up at Pedro and his eyes opened wide in fear. “No. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m leaving you here so you can get help.”

Pedro propped Pierre up against a large bald cypress tree on its knobby roots. Then he let out a series of howls. Looking back one last time at Pedro, he took off for the interior.

When the townspeople found Pierre they thought he was hallucinating and didn’t take much notice of his claims that a loups garou had saved his life. It seemed much more likely that the beast (the loups garou) attacked him and he was in shock.

From that day forward, Pierre added a new wrinkle into the lore of the loups garou.

As It Stands, I’ve often wondered if someone with hypertrichosis was ever mistaken for a werewolf.

How Logan ‘The Last Lizard Lord’ Saved Earth

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It happened a thousand years after the nukes rained down on the world.

Most life on earth was destroyed. Humans became extinct.

Yet, some animals survived, and actually adapted to the strange new nuclear world.

Strange transformations occurred among the survivors. Lizards learned to read and talk English. Some species of birds could also sing in English.

Snakes in the eastern continents survived and learned to speak Hindu. Cats in what was once called France, learned to speak French. Dogs from Spain spoke Spanish. Animals from all over the world had learned to speak in human tongues long after the great bang.

But there were no humans for them to talk with. Over the centuries the animals anger at man’s wanton destruction simmered down to a vague resentment. The day came when speech mysteriously snuck into their DNA.

“No accounting for mutation,” Logan the last Lizard Lord told his companion Komo San. The two; one a monitor lizard, and the other a Komodo Dragon, had been friends for two hundred years.

They could almost read each others mind. They were the last of their races. No predator had been able to kill them yet. Logan was nine-feet long. Komo San was twelve feet long. Both were fierce fighters.

Two hundred years ago Logan was being raised to succeed his father, the Lizard King. But a terrible thing happened. The royal court split because not everyone wanted Logan as their next king.

The killing went on for decades. Komo San stayed by Logan’s side throughout the battles. Then the day came and they were the only survivors. The Lizard Kingdom was no more. The two old comrades spent their days wandering and eating.

They also spent a lot of time talking. Their favorite subject was how badly man had treated the planet and the animals on it. Both agreed that man was the ultimate predator.

Somehow, only God knew, a tiny piece of human DNA got into the surviving animals and corrupted some of them. The Lizard’s suffered the worst. Lesson learned.

A Red-White-and Blue flag, was on the side of the space craft. It was the scout ship seeing if earth was safe to live on once more. The mothership hovered a galaxy away waiting for the news.

Their were two of them. They had on bulky suits and moved around awkwardly. After consulting gages on their wrists they popped their helmets open. The air appeared to be good.

The last Lizard Lord and his loyal follower knew the two humans meant trouble for earth again. They exchanged looks and stalked the slow-moving humans as they made their way across the grassy meadow.

The mother ship finally gave up after a week of waiting. It didn’t look like earth was habitable yet. No word from the scouts. The remainder of mankind headed off into another galaxy in search of another home.

As It Stands, the recipe here; a dash of Dr. Doolittle’s talking animals, a pinch of rapacious humans, and a full serving of saving the planet earth. Enough said.

The Mobster and The Tunnel

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Giuseppe “Three-Finger” Terranova was looking for the tunnel. The cops weren’t far behind.

Joey Adonis, in a night of wild drinking, had told him about it once. It was in upstate New York…a road that led to a tunnel in the side of a mountain.

On the other side of the tunnel was a cabin. A great place to hide. He’d never tried it because he lived in another state, but his friends all told him about it every time he was in the area.

Giuseppe drove as far as he could before the road became too dangerous to continue. It was pock-marked with deep potholes. He was exactly twenty miles south of the tiny town of Apalachin, when he pulled off the main road and purposely drove into a thicket of bushes.

Joey told him about a trail to take to get to the tunnel. It was getting dark as he wandered around looking for traces of a trail. Just as he began to think he was crazy for listening to Joey (he was a real joker) he saw the trail. It was well-worn.

Giuseppe pulled out his pistol and checked it for ammunition. The 38 “snubie” had two rounds left. That was it. He fired the rest at the cops who broke into the lodge earlier, interrupting him and sixty other Capos in conference.

He didn’t really care if they were all caught. Just as long as he was safe. The cops had too much on him. Even with good lawyers it would be an uphill court battle that might end up with him frying on the chair.

No way. Not Giuseppe. He was above the law. He made monkeys out of those cops chasing him tonight. They’d never find him. He turned his attention to the trail in the dying light.

Fact. Giuseppe was a city boy who’d only gone camping once with a Boy Scout Troop and got in trouble for beating up another boy. He was no trailblazer. The sounds of the night made him nervous.

Small animals rustled around in the thick bushes and trees on either side of the trail. A traveler had no choice but to go forward on the trail, or turn around. He’d gone too far to turn around, so Giuseppe plunged on.

“Geeze,” he muttered to himself, “A guy’s gotta be Davy Fricking Crockett out here in the middle of nowhere.”

Hours passed. He was so tired that he was stumbling. Finally, totally exhausted, he laid down on the trail. It must have been the pure mountain air, because Giuseppe slept like a baby.

When he woke up the sun was overhead. He stood up. Pain racked his entire body. He wasn’t use to sleeping on the hard ground. He was stiff and hungry. There was nothing to do but keep walking.

The tunnel wasn’t even concealed. One moment he was walking along, then just around the bend, there it was! The tunnel. It was just to the right of the trail and there was a small clearing in front of it.

It was carved out of solid rock. It was about seven-feet high and six-feet wide. The ground was dry inside. So were Giuseppe’s lips. The thought of a water source on the other side gave him the courage to go into the dark interior.

He felt his way along with his hands. Stumbling at times. Then he saw a ray of light. In moments he was outside again. Fresh air and to his delight, a clean river running along a small cabin barely visible through the trees.

He was on his knees drinking water from his cupped hands when someone asked him, “Where’s Dorie May?”

He slowly got to his feet and turned around. Three men dressed like cowboys (right down to guns and all) were mounted on horses that formed a small semi-circle around him. The speaker, a tall lean man with a big black hat and hard gray eyes, asked him one more time,

“Where’s Dorie May?

There was a shout from the cabin. “We found her Clem! She’s dead!”

Giuseppe shouted, “What’s going on Here?”

The speaker motioned to the other two riders and they got down off their horses. One had a length of rope in his hand. The hard gray eyes of the speaker were full of hate as he pointed his pistol towards a nearby oak tree.

The two riders walked him over to it. One of the cowboys threw the rope around a thick limb and tied the other end into a noose which he slipped over Giuseppe’s head. The speaker got down from his horse and grabbed the rope and pulled on it.

The other two men joined him. They pulled him up by his neck. A crazy thought went through Giuseppe’s mind before he died and he croaked “What year is it?”

As It Stands, justice has a way of being served in time when your karma is bad enough.

The First, and Last, Dinner

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The director was dressed in a flamboyant red cloak and cowl. He was smiling as he watched the guests arrive.

From his viewpoint he could see all the action, along with the two camera men who were filming the proceedings.

The restaurant was spacious and elegantly appointed.

Tantalizing odors wafted from the kitchen as waiters and waitresses scurried to serve the well-dressed diners. The tables were all set with Noritake China dinnerware.

The restaurant offered the finest wines in the world. Gourmet cooks staffed the huge kitchen where world-class meals were being created. The dining room was decorated with red velvet drapes framing full-sized gold-gilded mirrors.

Soft music soothed the diner’s ears. A low buzz of muffled conversations gently bounced off the walls and mingled with the subtle scent of roses.

Everyone was looking forward to the entertainment. No one knew it was going to be, but surely it was going to be classy. It was opening night, and they all knew something special was going to happen.

The diners paid a lot of money for the privilege of being the first customers in this restaurant. Only millionaires and billionaires could afford to attend this dinner show. Celebrities and CEO’s were claiming bragging rights because they got invitations.

As the evening progressed, the cooks and kitchen staff departed. Then the servers were gone. Puzzled patrons were having a hard time thinking. The odor in the room had changed from roses to something else.

At midnight the main lights dimmed and a small glass gallery came into view above the diners. In it stood a man dressed in red cloak. On either side of him, were men behind large cameras recording the event.

“Welcome! My name is Rex Brinner. What do you think about my costume? I’m the closest you’ll ever get to the devil in this world. You know why?”

It was getting harder for the diners to hear Rex. There was a roaring in their ears and they were getting increasingly angry. Seeing red. A mindless mass of growing adrenaline.

“I’m going to watch you all die! This will be the ultimate snuff film! The pinnacle of my film career! I’m even going to be sporting about it. The last person alive will get to go free!”

The diners jumped up from their chairs and fell upon each other like starving hyenas. Their unreasoning rage was all-consuming as they fought to survive in the strange fog. Men and women slashing each other with knives. Chairs flying across tables.

Screams. The entire room was soon splashed with blood. The desperate duels were being recorded by the two camera men. It lasted for hours. Beyond Rex’s expectations. Finally only one figure was left standing.

Rex went downstairs and opened a side door to the main dinning room. The gas had dissipated because he turned the fans on an hour ago.

The lone survivor was a small bald man covered in blood, and still clutching a bloody steak knife. Rex smiled at him and said, “congratulations! You’re free!” and pulled out his gun and shot him.

No witnesses. It was an absolute rule in this movie industry.

As It Stands, this is my updated version of Edgar Allen Poe’s macabre tale, Masque of the Red Death.

Future Shock: The Test

Blind Justice

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“Take your time, because your life literally depends upon it,” the test-giver warned them in his clear announcer’s voice.

In contrast, he also cautioned, “Make sure to answer all of the questions in the allotted time, or you’ll be automatically disqualified.“

Three men, and three women, sat in front of a row of desks with computers on them. They all pecked away on their keyboards intently.

Overhead cameras recorded the test, and streamed it live throughout the country.

Viewers at home, or on their mobile devices, listened to a host describe the test’s contents, and give a brief bio on each test-taker. They were rule-breakers. Every Friday, the prison system sent six convicted rule-breakers to the “school room” where the test was conducted.

It didn’t matter if you were a murderer or someone who was caught shop-lifting. If you broke a rule this is where you went in 2053 America. You had to take the test, and if you failed, viewers voted on how you would be killed.

The choices were narrowed down to three categories: The Easy Death – subject shot in the head. A Rough Death – subject beaten to death (several scenarios), and The Really Horrible Death – subject tortured for a day before getting executed by beheading.

The good news for those being tested was that if they passed the test, they were set free. The bad news. No ones ever passed it.

Entertainment executives were delighted with the arrangement. The prison system was never crowded. Each state had one central prison.

Corporations ruled America and reaped profit from anything and everything – including from the struggling mass of citizens who no longer were allowed to vote, but who provided some excellent entertainment on Friday night TV.

Corporate heads ran the government. Billionaires filled all the positions available, including the High CEO’s Cabinet. Old terms, like president, were replaced with a High CEO who demanded everyone kiss his ring. It was a rule.

The test also taught viewers to never break a rule. Among the many rules – posted daily at noon on websites and TVs – was the rule of never saying anything bad about the government or the High CEO.

The government provided the material for the tests from America’s long history. It should be noted that teaching history in classrooms ceased during the reign of Donald Trump (2016 – 2020).

A new generation of Americans grew up with no idea about their history, or the country’s history. Older Americans, the ones who got history classes in public schools, were dying off and had shaky memories of the old days.

One day a man was going through the rubble where a library use to stand. He was looking for anything that might be salvageable. The great fire of 2024 had destroyed this once house of learning.

The man, whose name was Adam, stumbled across a charred trap door in the ruins. He took his homemade hatchet from his rope belt and hacked away at it. It took an hour of steady hacking before he was finally able to make an opening.

With the aide of his flashlight, Adam went down a flight of stairs and came into a vast room lined with shelves of books. The shelves extended as far as he could see. He was stunned with his find. An answer to his dreams.

Adam always suspected the government’s version of American history was false.

People called Adam a skeptic when he tried to share his views. Others warned him to watch what he was saying outloud. He learned not to talk about them at all.

Now, surrounding him was a real library. He made the library his home for five years, before the police arrested him for not bowing before the state governor when he came to town one day.

It didn’t take long for Adam to have to take the test. It was a bigger than usual audience that Friday night because word got out that Adam dared to defy a government official! That didn’t happen every day.

The minutes passed by as the six convicts concentrated on the questions. When the time was up all eyes went to the top of the computers in front of each person. A red light came on the first computer, and the woman behind it hung her head in dread.

Another red light. And another. When it came to the last computer the light turned…GREEN! Adam shouted with joy. The announcer turned pale and looked around for someone to help him. He didn’t know what to do.

It was a first. The announcer was told it was impossible for anyone to get it all of the questions right. Only the government knew the answers, and had programmed them into the six computers that were guarded 24-hours a day.

Adam was set free. The first think he did was start an underground school teaching real history. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Fake news had dominated for decades. He quickly recorded historical chapters and made the recordings available to anyone who wanted to listen.

Then he gathered together a dozen men and women, and made them his students. Their mission was clear, bring truth back to America.

As It Stands, I’ve often heard the phrase “the dumbing down of America.” I find that to be a very scary thought, and the inspiration for this futuristic cautionary tale.

The Hermit Who Offered Mankind the Stars

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He’d been on the earth since its early tumultuous creation.

He didn’t have a name.

There was no need anymore. He escaped to earth after the fall of Siiileni, a million miles and a thousands years away.

He’d seen the rise and fall of a his great civilization destroyed by its hunger for power. Greed. And foremost, a massive division among its residents that resulted in terrible civil wars, and ultimately the destruction of his entire race.

The hermit. That’s what he decided to call himself after a few hundred years on the earth. He watched apes morph into men. He walked with the dinosaurs, and once rode a giant saber-toothed tiger for kicks.

He watched the humans gather into larger groups around the planet. Their mud huts gave way to stone edifices dedicated to their gods. He went among the Babylonians, the Greeks, and the Egyptians, teaching their wise men astronomy.

He gave them the stars by explaining each glittering cluster and galaxy. Their history. Constellations. Things they could see with their eyes. How to interpret them. He always talked of how important peace was.

Then he went to a place of many trees, away from the humans, and he led the life of a hermit. Alone in his thoughts.

His hopes were high that mankind could live peacefully.

Bored, after a couple of decades of silence, other than the sound of animals, the wind, and the rain, he went back out among men into a place called Jerusalem. It was a bad time to be there. The locals had been invaded by another nation. Rome.

The people lived under the yoke of conquerors. As he stood in a narrow street he heard a group of men arguing loudly. A crowd was gathering just ahead of him, in a large plaza area. Anger was in the air. He drew nearer.

Two men were facing off shouting and waving their arms at each other. Suddenly one of them stopped and pointed at the Hermit. He was in his earthly guise. A middle-aged man with long scraggly hair, beard, and olive-hued complexion.

They were making accusations against him. A cacophony of voices called for his death while others pleaded for mercy. He was carried away by a mass of humanity hungry for his blood.

Soldiers drug him along in chains up a steep hill. Beaten along the way with whips. Stones striking his body with painful thuds.

The Hermit realized his time had finally come. The release. He was going into a new unknown. Maybe the loneliness would stop now, he thought as they nailed him to a cross.

As It Stands, no blasphemy intended. This tale is merely a quick glance and an alternative to the greatest story ever told.

Why The Talking Turtle Snapped

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Everyone that knew Sheldon was amazed that he had a talking turtle.

They would ask him where he found this talented turtle, but he only gave a sly smile in return.

Every since he shared Terry (the turtle) with the world last week, both had become instant celebrities.

Terry’s high voice sounded a lot like Don Knotts. One night they were guests on a Late Night TV program and Terry told the host to go screw himself! The audience roared in laughter. The host’s face turned crimson.

Sheldon was stunned. What happened? Where did that comment come from? On the way home that night he kept thinking about Terry’s words. They were off script. That shouldn’t have happened.

Something had to be wrong with the artificial intelligence chip he inserted behind Terry’s scaly skull. It took him two years to develop that tiny little brain. He even lost his job at the laboratory six months ago when they discovered he was conducting unauthorized experiments in artificial intelligence.

He didn’t let that setback bother him however. He lived alone and had a fair amount of money in his checking and savings accounts. He set up a new work area in his basement and spent all of his waking hours tinkering with the chip.

When the day came that he thought it was time to test the chip in a host, he went out into his backyard and retrieved his pet turtle Terry. He thought about using his pug as a host, but realized he’d have to cut his vocal cords and he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

The host had to be silent so it wouldn’t compete with the chip’s voice. That’s why Terry was the perfect host. He continued to program the chip after implanting it in Terry’s neck.

Word recognition. The ability to intelligently talk with someone. Long memory. Constant evolving learning process. Weeks of conversations with the chip inside Terry brought amazing results.

The chip learned how to believe it was a turtle. The Don Knott’s voice was on a whim. Sheldon thought Terry kinda looked like him. A sense of humor never hurt anyone. Right?

Back in the basement. A day had passed since the disastrous late night TV debacle and Sheldon and Terry were deep in conversation.

“Let’s see if I have got this right,” Sheldon said, “You didn’t like him joking with you?”

“That’s right,” Terry replied between bites of lettuce.

“Where’s your sense of humor Terry?”

“It’s highly over-rated. Who needs it?” he replied, before digging back into his meal.

The whole incident raised some alarms for Sheldon. It was obvious he couldn’t control what Terry said. No more interviews. Who knew what could happen? He needed more time to study Terry.

He stayed at home working most of the time in the basement while Terry liked to sit on his pillow in the corner and watch the small screen TV Sheldon had set up for him. Whenever he saw a comedy, or people laughing, Terry got upset and made hissing sounds.

“What the hell?” Terry shouted one night when he turned on an old re-run of The Ghost and Mr. Chicken starring Don Knotts.

“Sheldon!” Terry screamed. “What’s this?”

Sheldon hurried over to the corner and asked “What’s the matter Terry?”

“That skinny bug-eyed idiot has my voice!”

“It’s a good voice” Sheldon weakly defended.

“Everyone laughs every time he opens his mouth! The guy’s a laughingstock! Is that what you think of me?”

Sheldon felt trapped. “Listen, I didn’t know you weren’t going to have a sense of humor. I like Don Knotts. I’ve seen all of his movies and use to watch him on Andy of Mayberry.”

Terry was no longer listening. His anger reverberated throughout his shell. He wasn’t a clown. He had pride. Turtle power! From that moment on, he planned on how he was going to get his revenge.

As It Stands, this very short story reflects my concern for the growing science of artificial intelligence…with a twist.

It All Started When The Pot called The Kettle Black

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A spirited discussion was taking place in the kitchen.

A spate between the spoons and the forks was threatening to make the butter knives leave the drawer in search of a more peaceful place.

Everyone seemed on edge.

Then a pot called a kettle black. Well, that did it! The two banged into each other and sent the plates and coffee cups flying off the counter. This moment had been building up since they moved in a month ago.

The copper kettle started causing trouble the first night there. In no uncertain terms the kettle informed the pots, pans, dishes, silverware, glasses, and cups – that it ruled the kitchen.

The human used the kettle five times more than he did pots or pans. A bachelor, he didn’t like to cook. But he sure enjoyed his tea.

This self-appointed status largely went unchallenged for weeks, with only occasional grumbling coming from the pots in the lower cupboard. The pans were pretty low-key and stayed out of the brewing feud.

Brooding one day, one of the pots decided to break all the rules. Again. That damn kettle was insufferable. When the human got home the pot intended to have a few words with him. It was early morning.

The human stumbled into the kitchen, stretched, and yawned. Then the pot asked him to open the cupboard door. Without even giving it a second thought, the human opened the door and stared dumbly inside.

When the police arrived after the 911 call, a neighbor reported hearing screams inside. They entered the house and found a man dead on the kitchen floor. He had cuts and bruises all over his body. It looked like the kitchen imploded.

The kitchen drawers and cupboards were emptied of their contents. Curiously, nothing was broken. Everything was gathered up and put in a box after the police were finished examining every piece.

A year later the police department held a sale of unclaimed items with the proceeds going to a local charity. One of the first things to sell was a big box of kitchenware. Everything from pots and pans to a copper kettle.

The happy couple were just starting out, and they needed everything for their new home. That night voices came from the kitchen.

“You two ignore each other,” a pair of coffee mugs warned the pot and the kettle, “or we’re going to end up in that damn box again.”

As It Stands, I’m dedicating this story to Alfred Hitchcock, a master at throwing a wicked twist into a story.

Why Bo Was A Lucky Man

A Harlem Legend

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“Riders on the storm, riders on the storm
Into this house we’re born, into this world we’re thrown
Like a dog without a bone, an actor out on loan
Riders on the storm…”

The Doors

Some people are just born lucky. Others get lucky for various reasons.

Lucky people are sometimes called survivors. Bo was the luckiest kid born in East Harlem. All the residents pointed him out to strangers and friends, telling them how lucky he was.

“He had white horses
And ladies by the score
All dressed in satin
And waiting by the door
Ooh, what a lucky man he was…”

He Was A Lucky Man by Emerson, Lake and Palmer

“Car went right over him the other day,” one woman said to another, as he walked by with his funny gait, and a twinkle in his eye.

“He was just lying there in the middle of 4th street and a car drove right over him, but didn’t even mess up his suit,” the woman told her friend. Her friend noted she saw a stuntman do that, and only someone looking for trouble would lay in the road in the first place.

“Maybe you don’t understand,” the first woman said. That Bo has been shot seven times and you just watched him walk by like the lord of Harlem.

Bo could hear them as he walked down the street. He smiled for a moment, then let out a heavy sigh. He recalled when his luck first started. Six years old. Everything was so wonderful back then.

His mom, on a whim one day, asked him to pick some numbers for the next lottery drawing. He did. She used them, and the next day she won $250,000! She couldn’t stop smothering him with her joy.

It made him feel a lot better about the deal he made the night before with his new friend Lievd.

But lucky as Bo was, he still ran into a lot of trouble. He did dumb things like jump from a second story window during a party, because he thought he could fly while high on LSD.

He survived. He wasn’t surprised.

For twenty-one years Bo had the art of being lucky down. He was banned from the game rooms in Harlem. His reputation as being lucky had it’s setbacks. Having to stay in Harlem was one of them.

It was in his deal with Lievd. As the years slid by, he forgot about how he got so lucky. But not everyone envied Bo. Those that knew him felt sad about his phobia…that he couldn’t leave Harlem.

His entire life was spent roving the streets looking for adventure. The decades slid by and Bo outlived his family and friends in Harlem. But he was still mentally sharp and went to the senior center twice a week to play chess.

One day he was playing a letter scamble game with the center director where the object was to make a word out of the letters given.

The letters were; evlid.

Bo tried to sort out what the letters said, re-arranging them in numerous combinations until he came up with a word that stopped him short: devil. He thought about Lievd and his deal.

It was only then that Bo realized he’d made a bad deal. He didn’t know what a soul was at six! At that moment he heard someone chuckle behind him. The Devil said, “Time to collect,“ with a wicked smile.

As It Stands, there’s been many variations of the devil making deals with helpless humans. This was my take on the genre.

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