The three giant monsters he meets don’t take kindly to his demands that they help him get home.
Can Farley do it on his own? Or will he learn what all little frogs need to know: you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar?
They begin with a spark of an idea and blossom from there. Usually meant to be read start to finish in one sitting, think "The Twilight Zone" meets the Sunday comics.
Stanley claims any box is possible with the Valentine's Day present he invented for Trudy. If that's so, will he be able to live with what she makes of it?
Lots of Minnesotans joke about the mosquito being the state bird. Not Trudy Bishop—she spends too much of the allowance Stanley gives her on Calamine lotion to find it funny. You’d think things would’ve changed last month when he finally gave her access to their shared bank account. It didn't. She grew up poor, and when she saw how large their savings was, it scared her. Her allowance is all she needs, thank you very much.
Slim and in her mid-forties with brown, shoulder-length wavy hair, her hazel eyes have a built-in twinkle—a gaze into them will set your soul free. She turned quite a few heads as a youngster and much to her dismay, she still does. The religious modesty her mother drilled into her has her squashing it as much as possible, especially when it comes to clothing. Today’s heat and humidity dictates light as the attire du jour. So she sports a pair of pink, knee-length, Bermuda shorts, a white short- sleeved cotton button-downed blouse, and sandals.
Coming home from the Junior College, she’s on an old bus with it’s A/C on the fritz and windows stuck shut. Her clothes cling to her like they’re holding onto dear life. She’s in her last semester and has a 4.0 average. It hasn't budged from there since day one. Just like Stanley’s position: ‘I’ve got enough brains for the both of us. You don't need school—you should be home taking care of me all the time.’ Her mother also blocked her path to higher learning. Trudy's lack of education has always been her thorn—she’s set on plucking it out.
The bus groans over potholes the ‘Land Of Ten Thousand Lakes’ endows its roads with every Winter. The only other season, Highway Construction, is running late—it must’ve taken the wrong exit. She knows most of the road-mines by heart, but new ones pop up daily. They jolt the passengers around like hot potatoes. But Trudy rides them like a veteran New Yorker on a subway. She’s never been there, or on one. That's another bucket-list entry. For now, all she knows is Minneapolis and her home, Nashville, Tennessee.
Lenny may not have chosen the best time to tell his friend he's going vegan. Either way, Rick makes a good argument for why it's a bad idea.
Under a beautiful, cloudless sky, two lifelong friends gazed across a glorious vista of grasslands and valleys. A majestic, snow-covered mountain range climbed the sky in the distance.
They swatted at a few flies that tried to spoil the day.“I’m going to give up meat, Rick. My version of Dry January.”
“You’re telling me this now?”
“I’ve been thinking it over for a long time. I wasn’t sure. Now I’m sure.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous, Lenny.”
“Not really. There are plenty of other things that will sustain me.”
“None of them well enough. And I doubt you could even do it.”
“I’m not saying it’s right for everyone. Definitely not you. Know why?”
Rick gave his friend a sideways glance.
“Ever hear of Richard the Lionheart?”
“Richard I of England. Yes Lenny, I have.”
“Describes you to a T, Rick: a warrior. I bet he ate lots of meat.”
“Because he needed energy to defeat his enemies.”
“You think there were herbivores back then?”
“You’re not going vegan, Len.”
“Can’t talk me out of it. I’ve gotta try it, see where it gets me.”
“I can tell you right now where it’s gonna get you.”
“I knew it. You’ve tried it, haven’t you?”
“No. Do I look an idiot?”
“So, why am I listening to you?”
“All right, then. Tell me. Where’s it gonna get you?”
“Nirvana. Maybe some clarity. A clearer head. Any of those things would be nice.”
“How about this for nice: your kids are going to starve and your wife's going to leave you?”
It's an honor for a work of art to be among a museum's permanent collection. But sometimes permanent can be a bit too long.
“I can’t get that painting out of my head. I’ve got to go back again.”
“Honey. You’ve been to the museum three times for the one review you’ve already submitted and it’s already gone to press. We’re supposed to go to the beach today.” Gabby put on her pouting face.
“We are, babe. I promise I won’t be long. I just have to check it from one more angle. Further away. I should’ve done it last time.”
“You said they elevated it to the Permanent Collection. That means you can go back any other time.”
“I know. But this piece, it’s, it’s just gnawing at me.”
“You’ve said it yourself: subject’s eyes in great paintings look like they’re looking right at you. Correct me if I’m wrong, but your own words: it’s one of the greats. End of story, Charlie. Put your bathing suit on.”
“Gab, the museum’s three blocks away. I’ll be back before the sandwiches are in the cooler.”
He gave her a peck on the cheek, grabbed his keys and messenger bag and was out the door before she could say “what sandwiches?”
Maybe it was the gorgeous day outside, or because the exhibit had a long run and ended today: the new, ultra-modern museum was near empty.
“Welcome back, Mr. Barry. One last look?”
Charlie smiled a nod at the elderly docent. “Thanks, Marie. Yes. I won’t be long.”
“Take your time. Besides, we know how much they like to be stared at.”
Charlie chuckled and made his way to the New Exhibit wing housing the Elizabethan Collection. He stopped just short of the entrance to the high- ceilinged, massive room holding the painting. Relieved there was no one around to see his odd behavior, he peeked his head around the threshold and spotted the art piece. Named Admiration, it portrayed an upperclass couple holding hands, facing forward, looking directly at their painter. Dressed in the colorful, elaborate, flamboyant garments of the era, they looked magnificent. Ornately framed paintings adorned the wall behind them. It appeared they might also be in a museum viewing artwork.
His view from the entrance gave Charlie the vantage one would have if they turned back and looked one last time as they exited the room. He couldn’t remember ever having done that, but he felt compelled this time. Whatever he saw wouldn’t find its way into his article; it was too late for that. Still, this was his bread and butter, and his professional curiosity had its claws in him. He had to absorb this painting one more time from this one last angle.
His eyes bulged. He was at least seventy-five feet away from the art, and yet both pairs of eyes in the painting were most definitely staring directly at him. It almost seemed as if their heads had swiveled in his direction. He glanced around at the other pieces in the room that included people. Most of them were individual portraits, but none of them, from this extreme viewpoint, wielded the same power. But what truly made it remarkable—even though it was the most common form of art of that era—Admiration was a miniature.
At the top of the game, tennis is all mental. While you play it, it plays you. When best friends play each other, all bets are off.
I was already down a set. No way I was losing another. Set point just made me more focused. Alex was good, maybe better than me, but I’d rather have eaten the fuzz off a tennis ball before giving him two sets in a row. We’d played each other through high school and college, and that happened only once.
“Too bad you won't leave the court a winner!” he cackled.
Leave the court a winner. We always trash-talked each other as we hit, but Alex never used those exact words before. It's the sendoff my old man used to use before I played each match at all of my junior tournaments.
Alex fired his serve to my forehand. I slammed my return down the line and rushed the net for the easy put-away. But he flew to it and blasted a two-fisted backhand right at me. It hit me dead-center in the forehead. My butt hit the court hard. My vision blurred. I sat there for a few seconds. Where the hell was I? I blinked a few times to shoo away the little birdies flying around in front of me. It took a few moments; they finally got the hint. I rolled onto my knees and took a deep breath. Back on my feet, I grabbed my racket.
“Doing okay over there?”
I looked across the net at him.
“It’s just a game, right?” A sliver of a grin crossed his face.
Right. He knew, for me, tennis was never that. Good old pop taught me the sport in second grade. Rule one: the racket is a weapon meant to draw blood. Of course, that was before he deserted me and Mom when I was fifteen. He said he didn’t mean to, but he fell in love with a younger woman. That fucker.
“Tell you what. I’ll go easier on you, this set.” His smirk grew.
“I don't recommend it!” I knew Alex’s game inside and out—his tells and weaknesses. All it took was a keen eye to exploit them. I accepted it was going to be a five-setter. Bring it on.
One thing Alex had was a strong history with that odd phenomenon that can accompany a winning streak. It can change your perspective on what got you there and, most lethal, what comes next. You could become overconfident, drop a few points, and before you knew it, the momentum shifts back to your opponent. I didn’t rely on it, but all of my senses were on alert, ready to pounce as soon as I saw an opening.
It's near midnight on New Year's Eve. OCD Henry can't find this year's list of resolutions! He has to find it—make sure they're all checked all off. Will he?
Henry isn’t your average guy. Unless your idea of an average guy includes making spreadsheets for everything he plans to do every day, from brushing his teeth in the morning to brushing them again at night, and everything else in between. With time-allotments.
He’s a retired accountant. However, his organizational skills still show up for work full-time. During his in-office career, he created his fair share of columns and rows. However, bathroom breaks and dog walks were never line items then—they are now. Things have changed since the days he clocked in at the tech company. He’d hoped to work at least a few more years before hanging up his abacus, but the universe had another idea in mind—the pandemic. It’s taken a grip on the world like a squeeze doll and bulged its eyes out. Henry's work went virtual—for a while. Then business shrunk and cutbacks grew. They were decent to him: they called it a severance package—they didn’t like the term ‘forced retirement.’ But it is a tech company, so they threw in an Apple Watch.
Now he lives a solitary life with his best bud, August. Auggie, for short—he’s a Golden Retriever so named for the month Henry adopted him from the pet shelter. Auggie’s deaf; he has been since the day they met. This works out well—Henry does all the talking needed for a balanced conversation. Not that Auggie has nothing of value ever to offer. It’s just, if he doesn’t ‘see’ the question, it wouldn’t be fair to fault him if he doesn’t speak up.
The holiday season has been jingling along for three months now. Henry’s grown a little numb to all the jolly days. Today feels like the day before and the day before that. Auggie’s eaten and had his walk. Henry sits at his computer and Auggie lies at his feet.
“Maybe I won’t doomscroll today,” he says out loud to himself. He does that a lot these days. “Good idea, Aug?” However, when he addresses his four-legged associate, technically it’s not ‘to himself.’
“Any ideas what to do instead?” Henry looks at his buddy, who looks back at him with those puppy-dog eyes he so expertly wields. Yes, in fact, he does: Auggie yawns, slurps out a noisy swallow, rolls over and faces the other direction.
“Huh?” Henry’s jaw drops, his eyes shoot to the top of his screen. “No way—how’d I lose track? You’re a genius, Auggie. When I get tired, and yawn, and finally roll over to go to sleep—tomorrow won’t be just tomorrow—it’ll be next year!”
Like a jockey on a racehorse, Henry leans over his keyboard—his heels fly back onto the base of his desk chair. The bell’s gonged, and he’s out of the gate. Flat on his side, Auggie lets out a puff of air. He’s content: Henry got the hint.
When you put one foot in front of the other, you know you'll always get somewhere. Where that is, however, isn't always a certainty.
(If this was a true story, all the names would be changed to protect the innocent. But it’s fiction and there are no innocents.)
. . . The velcro tabs they let me use to hang my sign seem to be holding. I step off the ladder and take a gander. It wouldn’t look professional if it was crooked or had any misspells.
. . .FOUR-AND-A-HALF MONTHS EARLIER
“I can’t take it anymore, Phil. I’m gonna rob a bank.”
Crickets. If I was an inch taller, I’d be able to stick my nose over my cubicle wall. Instead, I stay in my chair, pedal it out a few feet and peer around the side into Phil’s. His eyeballs roll towards me and leave his computer screen to stare at me. Other than that, nothing else on him appears to be human.
“You are there. I thought maybe you’d waddled over to the coffeemaker for some more sludge.”
“Nope.”
“You don’t want to talk me out of it?”
“Nope.”
“I’m serious this time. I might run out of gas, though. Have you seen how much a gallon costs now? I’ll probably need a ride.”
“That would make me an accomplice, Stu. And since I’ve got a wife, two kids, and three goldfish to support—I think I’ll pass.”
“You think I’m kidding.”
“Why would I think that? Could it be because you’ve said the same thing every time you get your paycheck, for the last eight years?”
“And you think it’s fair? I started paying on my student loan, but Julie had the miscarriage, and she—”
“Dumped you when you needed her most and now with alimony, she’s in cahoots with Uncle Sam and they’re both bleeding you dry.”
I push my glasses back into place at the top of my nose.
“You’re what a broken record would look like if it had a face, Stu.”
“Fifty-three percent, Phil. Between the two of them. That’s not a garnish. A sprig of parsley is a garnish. And he’s no uncle of mine.”
“Look: get a cheaper apartment, take the bus, buy second-hand clothes, and bring a bag lunch every day.”
“I do all that. Except the bus. And the bag-lunch. And our clients expect us to dress appropriately—they’d lose respect for us if we didn’t.”
“You’re an accountant. Figure it out.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“And yet it hasn’t sunk in. Stop being annoying. I’ve gotta finish my report before I leave tonight.”
The best of intentions sometimes go awry. Like lending a hand to a fellow freshman college roommie. How well do we really know these people?
“Come on, Marty. Can’t make us late. These guys don’t do late.” Jake blew out a puff of air as he watched his fellow hiker plop one foot down after the next. Marty was at least thirty feet behind him on the narrow, uphill dirt path. “I can’t keep stopping and waiting for you.”
“So walk slower.” Marty was doing his best. He wasn’t the fittest guy on the planet, nor the slimmest. “My watch says it’s ninety-seven degrees. Plus, we’re carrying these heavy backpacks. What did you say you put in them?”
“Supplies. All of us are supposed to contribute as much as we can.”
“This whole thing is stupid. Why in the hell is this in the middle of nowhere? Haven’t they heard of global warming?”
“It’s about the experience. I told you, it’s a retreat. The idea is to commune with nature. It’s beautiful out here.”
“And we’re on a mountain trail smothered on both sides by these damned thorny bushes. You know we’re closer to the sun up here.”
“It’s 94.506 million miles away. Trust me: a few thousand feet closer doesn’t make a whole helluva lot of difference.”
“It does to me. I feel it. You don’t feel it?”
“Drink some more water already and stop complaining.”
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“That... ahead of you. It looks like a trailhead opening. I thought we were already on the trail.”
They stepped up to two tall wooden posts that anchored the start of a rope suspension bridge at least a hundred feet across. It swayed in the wind. Beneath it was a deep chasm.
“Oh, hell no.”
“Marty, it’s just a bridge.”
Marty leaned backward and shook his head. “No way, man.”
“We’re almost there. We can’t turn back now.”
“Not a chance. I don’t fly. I don’t parachute. I don’t even drive over high bridges. Nope.”
“You’re afraid of heights? You’re from Denver, for crying out loud. It’s the ‘Mile High City’!”
“And I stuck close to the ground, thank you very much.”
Jake shook his head and stepped onto the bridge. As he leaned over the side for a look down—all the color drained from Marty’s face.
“We’re not even that high up. Look, there’s a river at the bottom. If you fell, you’d just make a little splash.”
“You know, we should switch majors. You take Psych and I’ll do Physics. And I saw the bottom. It’s plenty far. Speaking of school, remind me why I’m not back in the dorm studying for mid-terms.”
“Because yesterday you told me you were totally ready, Mr. 4.5 GPA.”
“Well... I should be in air-conditioning instead of this dumb sauna.”
“Don’t be a wuss, Marty. You promised you’d come with me.”
It's said: All that glitters is not gold. It's also said: Be careful what you wish for. Perhaps our two friends here should have heeded these proverbs.
It was a rundown, bare apartment. Two men sat in its only chairs under a cracked, duct-taped dining room pendant light that hung askew. It gave off an eerie, striped, stained-glass window kind of glow. The dinner table was gone. They sold that for food. Now all of that was gone, too.
“These idiots are loaded and just the right level stupid. It’s perfect, Jacob. I cased it seven times.”
“Only seven?”
“I’ve only got eight disguises. Saved the last one for the job.”
“Smart.”
Aaron smirked. “I’d say we’d be taking candy from a baby, but these tots are giving it away.” His sneer flattened out, it morphed into a curled upper lip. He looked at his feet and muttered: “Like Pop did. Remember? He turned into a zombie every Sunday, forked out everything he’d earned that week.”
Jacob leaned in and nodded. He was all ears, if you didn’t count his six- foot-seven frame. “I remember we were hungry a lot.” His nodding head cast a bobbing shadow over Aaron’s much smaller, thinner physique.
“They didn’t care, did they? It was just: is that all you got? Give us more.”
The big guy nodded again. He drew in a deep breath. “We’re gonna make them pay, aren’t we, Aaron?”
“You’re damned right. Here’s how.”
. . . Dressed in suits and ties, Aaron and Jacob stepped from the bright daylight into the church’s outer vestibule. For a moment, the darkness blinded them. It was an old building: dark wood-paneling, deep red shag carpet, walls filled with paintings of religious events throughout history encased in thick, wooden, ornate, dusty frames. The air was dank. Jacob sneezed.
An old priest popped his head out of a side doorway. His body trailed out after it with a smile so broad it threatened to crack his face.
“Here, young man.” He stretched his hand out to Jacob, a handkerchief dangled from arthritic fingers. “Can’t have you catch a cold in God’s house.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m Father Gregorian. Like the chant.”
Jacob blew his nose and offered it back to the priest.
The priest smiled. “Keep it, my son, I have plenty. Though I haven’t used one in years.” He stood alongside the two strangers. The top of his head came to about the middle of Jacob’s chest. It didn’t seem possible, but his smile grew even wider as he rolled his head back to look into Jacob’s eyes. “Oh my. God must have had fun giving you all of your inches.”
Jacob peered down onto the little old man’s bald head and pretended he was delighted to hear another worn-out comment about his size. He eked out a lopsided smile.
“And you gentlemen are?”
Aaron extended his hand to the priest. “I’m Joseph Baker. This is my brother, William. We’ve come to pray.”
Father Gregorian glowed as he shook their hands. “Welcome to God’s Way, my children. That’s what we’re here for. Always.”
It's said: All that glitters is not gold. It's also said: Be careful what you wish for. Perhaps our two friends here should have heeded these proverbs.
“Hey, idiot. Did you really call her that?”
I spun around to see who spoke. Who was I kidding? I'm in Manhattan and I just exited the Porter House Bar and Grill on the fourth floor of the Shops at Columbus Circle. Dozens of people elbowed around me in both directions. No one appeared to notice I existed. People in New York City didn’t waste time acknowledging strangers. Beads of sweat covered my forehead; my armpits were damp. I headed toward the down escalator for the street.
The summer night air hit me like a month-old wet rag as I left the cool air-conditioned skyscraper. Garbage pickup must be late—I breathed in through my mouth only. One lamppost down the street flickered. There were never enough of them. The ones that worked, that is. I scanned the block for pedestrians. That’s my MO these days. I’ve lived in the city all my life, but only recently do I jump when a feather floats past me. At this hour, the only people around were those up ahead at Columbus Circle. Cabbies, though, were everywhere, especially near upscale malls. I hailed one.
I was so close to a clean getaway as I reached for the inside handle to pull the cab door closed.
“How are you gonna walk that one back?”
“Who’s there?!” No one, of course. Again. There were plenty of shadows and corners for him to be hiding behind.
The cabbie gave me a blank stare. I felt like an idiot. Again. I slammed the door shut. “740 Park Avenue.”
It was a quick ride, but it gave me some private space to think. My eyes bored a hole into the gray vinyl padding of the taxi’s front seat. Whoever was stalking me was right. I was completely out of line upstairs—more like out of control. I screamed at her, and for the benefit of the entire restaurant, threw in the ‘c’ word. Ambassador, my ass. That post was supposed to have been mine. Everyone knew that. I had more knowledge of the Middle East than she had in every book in her library. If she even had one. But our beloved President had to eat her weight in fried chicken one time too many. Her heart said no more and her Vice-President said 'I'll take it from here.'
This current war has everyone on edge. But how many condescending flicks of this ill-equiped Ambassador’s eyebrows was I supposed to tolerate? In hindsight, the third martini was my first mistake. Still, who was she to lecture me: summa cum laude and Valedictorian at Stanford, a Rhodes Scholar, and a PhD from Oxford? I read six newspapers a day. A lot of good all that did for me this evening. My floodgates opened. It was her smile afterward that really killed me. I wanted to wring her neck. I lost it. Along with it, most likely my career.
The cab pulled up to the curb outside my building. I thanked the cabbie and ran my credit card for fifty on a twenty-five dollar ride. As he pulled away, my unwelcome follower’s voice rang out from somewhere on the sidewalk.
“Can’t wait to read about you in tomorrow’s paper!”
How the hell did he get here before me? I threw my chest out. “Show yourself, already, coward! Face me, man-to-man!” As usual, no one within eyesight looked any more dangerous than most New Yorkers do as they bustle about. Honestly, if I was to face him, man-to-man, at only five-feet-six, I’d be terrified.
Just when you think you know who's on first and who's on second, the real players show their faces. It's not always the butler who did it.
I sat on my hunches and watched her from a distance. She was eating like there was no tomorrow. Of course, I knew the lay of the land. If she didn’t eat like she was, quite possibly, there might be no tomorrow. For her. In that way, we were the same. If there were others around, at a minimum, they would have challenged her. I know some types who would have been much more brutal.
Finally, with her cheeks full, she sat back, chewed, swallowed and took a breath. I waited. She looked over at me and smiled.
“Are you going to going to finish that?”
“No. I’m done. You can have the rest. If you’d like.”
“I’d like that.”
“Help yourself. You look like you could use a meal. I’m sorry I didn’t notice that sooner. I would’ve left you more.”
“This is good. It should hold me for a while.” To anyone watching, I must have appeared as she did to me a moment earlier. But it was delicious—I didn’t care what I looked like.
“You’re new around here, aren’t you?”
In between bites and chews, I nodded.
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
I swallowed a big bite and licked a few crumbs off my lips. “We don’t have this type from where I’m from.”
“Where’s that?”
“I can’t even tell you. All I remember is waking up here this morning. Wherever it was, I remember there was always a lot of food. I never felt welcome there, though.”
“From the competition?”
“No. All of us kept getting harassed and run off. Usually, each day, there’d be one or two fewer of us than the day before. Now I know what was happening—this time it happened to me.”
“That’s terrible. Were you hurt?”
“Just this.” I pointed to the lump on the back of my head.
“Oh, my. There’s dried blood.”
“I’m not surprised. It came out of nowhere. Like I said, when I woke up, I was here.”
“I’m sorry you had such an experience. But I’m glad we got to meet. My name’s Harriet.”
She smiled at me and I know it’s cliche, but I think I saw hearts swirl in the air around her head.
“Hello, Harriet. The pleasure’s all mine. I’m Harry.”
We spent the rest of the night finding food together. It’s funny how things turn out. I used to think of only myself in that department. Now, it’s a team effort.
And I like the new neighborhood. The weather is better and the view is nicer. But most important: Harriet is here. It has its challenges, though. This morning is a good example. It started when I heard the pound of footsteps and...
“Hey! Get off!” a huge, two-legged creature yelled at me.
Harriet was jumping up and down. “Harry! Look out!”
Fish Shmish, a work-in-progress, is a reverse-adaptation of one of DJ's original screenplays.
Logos are everywhere. Conveyers of information, emotion, instruction, marketing, narratives—the list is endless. From signage to companies and their products, the goal of a logo is to take us somewhere in a single, visual moment.
They get posted — from a stand on a desk, a sandwich board outside a business or a billboard along the highway. When you see one, you take notice.
Just looking at one makes you want it! Good! The package design worked!
D.J. has checked a lot of things off his ever-expanding list of want-to-dos in life. “Growing up”, however, isn‘t one of them. It never made the list. He says it's because he laughs too much and adores the fun little characters that inhabit his head.
That doesn't mean he can't be serious. Chief among those ticked checkboxes are: U.S. Naval Officer; holder of a U.S. Patent; actor on stage, in film and television; voiceover artist, stand-up comedian; graphic designer; illustrator; and painter.
D.J. lives in Los Angeles with his wife, who often pretends she's sad when he runs off to play tennis a few times a week and golf on most Sundays.
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