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The Last Leg

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I stored Jay in joint size pieces in my large freezer at the back of the lean-to – the one we had built with the kitchen extension.

I’ve been busy over the last few months: chopping, grinding and tending to my extended vegetable garden.

This last leg – Jay’s last leg, is for this special meal I’ve got planned for Fiona tonight. It’s her favourite dish, see – lasagna. I found it in a book of recipes she gave me a couple of Christmases ago.

Now let me see, ‘Two and a half pounds of ground beef’.

I ain’t got no scales, but I’ve been cooking long enough to know what two pounds of meat look like. Being in the freezer’s made it easier to peel the skin off.

I’ve tenderised and grounded the meat – the old fashioned way. The chopped onions burn my eyes. I quickly drop them in the oily pan with the crushed garlic and ‘add the minced meat, to brown’.


Rubber Ducky

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Davis sat down heavily letting all the weight of his body and soul crash down on the worn out faux-velvet covered sofa.  His wife, Delia plopped down in the matching club chair.  Exhaustion swept through their bodies, sweat beaded their brows and worry hunched their backs.  Upstairs the racket continued.  Delia wondered how long it would be before the cops would arrive this time.

“I hope soon hon. I hope they’ll be here soon.”  He reached out a hand to her and despite the fatigue she reached out to him and moved to sit next to him on the couch.  The moment she did a piece of plaster fell and landed in the chair.

“Thank you baby.” She patted him on the knee.


The Exit Interview

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“How do you feel?” asked Ethan.

“I dunno Ethan, how am I supposed to feel right now?” Jonathan snapped. The interview was just getting started and he was already feeling like a lab rat, but then again he supposed that’s exactly what he was.

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know what else to say,” Dr. Walters sighed. “I think we both know that there’s nothing here that covers this situation,” he said as he looked down at the stack of Psychology books that were piled carelessly at his feet.



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My eyelids lift at the sound of sloshing ocean. My jaw pulses. A large lump on my right cheek feels like a throbbing mountain to even my slightest touch. Feels like I've been punched in the stomach, repeatedly. I raise my Hawaiian-style shirt to the sight of crimson bruises and lower it to discover droplets of blood staining the floral pattern. It's from my nose.

The passenger's luggage now looks like junk after the collision -- lots of clothes, several briefcases, papers, food and cans, even a few musical instruments, distributed to the trees, sand, and lapping tides.

Some of the fuselage rests in the forest tops, straggled along the canopy, hanging like ornaments in the tall verdure.


The Square Headed Man

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The square headed man lived in a house of four sides, with a wife who could break on demand, a very young daughter who loved sneaking into others' households and stealing plastic utensils. Sometimes she constructed little men made from parts of spoons and forks. They lived under her bed.

The husband demanded that his meals be cut into squares or cubes. A cube was really a square pulled towards others. Like falling in love with several people at once. That's how he explained it to the Tupperware salesmen at lunch break. The wife's maiden name was Emily Frost and she always wore non-latex gloves when washing the dishes. The daughter, Amelia, had eyes like dark precious stones. She hated silverware and lunchboxes. She harbored a secret passion for falling from great heights.

Dairy Tales

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“Mr. Peterson, you’ll never guess what I just saw!” From the bug-eyed look on Billy Dean Dickinson’s face, I know he’s about to spin one of his wild yarns. The boy’s eleven, the sixth kid in the Dickinson herd of eight, and has an imagination as bountiful as that guy who wrote Star Wars. Knowing this kid, he’ll say he saw Elvis or Michael Jackson … or maybe that Tupac fella. I sit back in my rocker and watch Billy Dean come flying across my yard like he’s got a pack of bees in his britches.


Escape to Here

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The Eastern Gate was deserted, save for the huddled family that awaited transfer to the Deep. He could see from their dirty and malnourished faces that they were no surface dwellers, their skin was too ashen and pale, pallid even in the sweet air of the cities' edge. No, these people were from the Deep, the shanty slum that rose from the core, eight levels down. Those that lived there often gave it a different name however; many simply called it Hell.


Marrus and Alanna: You're Something Else

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Alone, without Alanna, Marrus walked toward the gates of Horen. He had hidden his sword and bow and his body was tingling with vulnerability. The only weapon he carried now was a tiny sheathed knife in his sock. To calm his nerves, he tried studying the people around him. There were traders with carts and oxen and sometimes a few sullen bodyguards. There were some lone travelers. There were also two families, one quiet and one out of control. The parents were detaining a little red-headed girl who kept trying to run away.


A Dance of Pewter

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The last gift my mother ever gave me was a life-sized figurine of a dragonfly cast in pewter.  I gave it a place of honor amidst the twenty-seven other pewter figurines that jostled for position on the glass shelves of my bedroom.  Their eyes were many shades of red, some rubies but mostly rhinestones, and they looked at me while I slept, and I never minded at all.


Black Veil

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Haven Thornton-Mills stood in the obscure shadows outside the upscale Rosewood Resort, her refined features set in a stony mask as she watched her husband of twenty-seven years emerge through the extravagant brass doors with his latest whore draped across his arm. His boyish grin and swaggered stride left no doubt in Haven's mind what had just taken place behind closed doors. Brett embraced the woman who appeared half his age while the valet attendant brought his car around, a car which damn near cost Haven a fortune.


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