All Points Bulletin!

It was a poem, and it went something like:

The years were climbing over him like wee, red ants.


Google is worthless sometimes.

Yes, it's my birthday.

Don't worry.

I swear I can only see one ant from here, and it looks quite friendly.


Opting Out

It was sad, but I took it as laid back as I could. I didn't have much choice if I wanted to leave there with my sanity. They asked me, and I had to admit, it wasn't like I didn't see it coming. It was what I'd call a drawn out demise. Loss of a partner more than a year ago, no "action", no real contact at all. No sense of purpose. In the end, the pain was just too overpowering.

But what a day. Over an hour in that unpleasant office, trying to block out the sounds of people "getting to the root" of it. All I really felt at the end was numb. And to top it off, when I got home and wanted comfort, what did I get instead?

"I don't want to hear about it. "

Was that helpful? He may be squeamish, and there WAS a lot of blood, and I admit I've got thicker skin having been there before, but come on. He can carry a bit of the load. After all, I was the one with the tooth.


The Slugs are Marching One by One

Every evening 'round about dusk we spend a delightful half an hour collecting "Killer" slugs from on and about the potato plants. Unwilling to sink to their level, we carry them down the hill and release them to rejoin the multitudes slithering upwards, wave upon slimy wave, to feast on the forbidden fruit of our labours.


Why, why, why?

Looking within for the initial motivational desire behind any given action leads inevitably to an expression of infinity.


Scribbler's Block

There are millions of things I've never written anything about. Why not just pick one of them? Shrimp, for instance. Or band-aids.

Sam shrimp hurried along, trying to recall which of the Urchin twins was colour blind. Was it Urma, or Ulma? Left or right? Silly creatures, both of them, but this was beyond silliness. Insisting he'd been boiled! He was as green as the rest of the school, he was sure of it, even if he only could see the end of his tail. He pinched two of his legs harder against the band-aid he'd found and swished through the waves towards Cooper's Wharf. He'd show her pink!

There. Both.


Hail to the New Year, cough, cough.

Nimble fingers flee.
The plague's last, rasping shadow
settles on my voice.


I. B. Alive

Oversized bites of life in an (in some respects) undersized mouth.