Silken Slapdash Scrap

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

Incongruous Innovation

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

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