The following is a short story for an experimental project of mine, currently called “Another Week in Absurditon.” It’s pretty off-the-wall, and am curious if the reader finds it to be good off-the-wall or Humpty-Dumpty bad off-the-wall. Appreciate any feedback!

Elvis Thud was a rock salesman who had two homes and was proud neither one was a sewer.

That’s because Elvis lived in a sewer for a very long time before he became a rock salesman. It was a nice sewer though, as far as sewers go. One of those spacey ones where you can kind of walk along the side without stepping in the water. It wasn’t a raw sewage sewer like fugitives escape through, but more like a damp, homey abode that ninja turtles could live in.

But Elvis didn’t live there anymore since he became a rock salesman.

Now, of course, selling rocks wasn’t easy. No one taught him how to do it. None of the large rock companies had recruited him. It was quite questionable that there was even a market for such things. Rocks are rare if you live in an indoor swimming facility. Otherwise you can dig those puppies up about anywhere.

That’s what Elvis did anyway. He collected rocks for about five years before deciding to sell them. His sewer was massive so storage was no issue whatsoever.

Now, you may be thinking that Elvis’ rocks were special because he spent so much time collecting them and found them valuable enough that he thought he could sell them. Nope. These rocks were like the ones you find by a construction site. They were jagged and bumpy and muddy until Elvis washed them off in the sewer. Then they were gray and black, and a few were pearly white. Elvis liked those the best, and had a real hunch they were worth something.

It’s OK to be skeptical at this point of Elvis’ prospects. As a casual observer, one could judge that Elvis was about as cunning as the rocks that he dreamed would make him a fortune. As a very critical observer who knew Elvis well, you’d probably discern the same thing, and be concerned for the man’s welfare.

But you would be quite mistaken. This is the improbable story of how Elvis sold his first rocks, and turned rock sales into a multi-thousand dollar industry.

—

It was a beautifully bright day when Elvis pushed open the sewer plate with his hulking bag of rocks. Truth be told, it was actually quite dreary and raining lightly, but Elvis had been in the dank dark of a sewer for 48 hours, so everything outside was sunshine to him.

For the next 10 minutes, Elvis lugged his bag down the street until he settled on a park bench beside a woman with a mustache. Nope, check that. It was a man with a silky ponytail who was just filing his long nails. Honest mistake, Elvis thought. So he offered him a rock.

“Thank you, but, I don’t really want one,” the long-nailed, ponytailed man responded, perhaps mildly sensitive to Elvis’ feelings.

This didn’t bother Elvis. Convincing anyone to buy a rock would probably be painfully difficult. But Elvis knew that sales weren’t about the masses. Sales were about finding that tiny target market that would become your biggest fans. So Elvis got up from the bench and continued down the road. The rain had picked up.

After a laborious walk up a steep hill, Elvis came to a hot dog vendor. The vendor was brawny and poorly shaven. He wore a greasy Red Sox cap and a jumpsuit that would’ve looked dope in the 80s but now only seemed fit for mobsters. He had stooped beneath the stand’s umbrella to avoid the rain and vigorously chewed a toothpick while watching Elvis schlep his rock bag up to the stand.

“Would you like to buy a rock?” Elvis asked.

The vendor looked confused, then took out his toothpick. “What ya mean, like a diamond for my girlfriend or sumpin’?”

“No. Like a rock. For your girlfriend or something.” Elvis felt the sale.

“You tellin’ me you gotta bag o’ friggin’ rocks and you actually think I’m gonna buy one?” The man was obviously annoyed. I mean, you or your great grandma would’ve noticed it. Even a cat. But not Elvis. He was hyper-focused on moneymaking.

“Yes, I think you will buy one. I know you will buy one…You just bought one.” Assume the sale, Elvis thought.

“No, no,” the man bristled, wagging his finger. “I’m the salesman. I sell hot dogs. I need customers, not rocks. There’s no solicitations here at my stand. Most guys come up here sellin’ sumpin’ I treat ’em like this toothpick.” (He tried to snap his toothpick but his fingers were too fat and he fumbled it onto the grill. Elvis thought about other sales guys roasting on the man’s grill with the hot dogs.)

Disturbed, Elvis moved on. But the visit wasn’t in vain. The hot dog man had mentioned needs. So Elvis thought real hard about who needed a rock.

In a nearby cafe sat an uncomfortable couple in an intimate booth. Not that they were making others uncomfortable, you could just easily tell that they were. The woman was grimacing as if she was sitting on a band saw, and upon closer review had wedged herself into her seat like a doorstop. The man across from her was hardly across from her, more like breathing on her face because the table was so small. The man also seemed panged, but maybe it was from looking so closely at the woman. The waitress, Cassie, arrived.

“Hi, would you like something to drink?” Cassie asked.

“Excuse me. Would I like something to drink? What kind of question is that?” the bulging woman bellowed.

“Oh, it’s just a question we ask everyone who dines here. Lots of our customers like to drink things with their food. Some only like to drink things. It’s rare when no one wants a drink. We end up staring at each other.”

Cassie the waitress and the large, uncomfortable woman stared at each other.

“That’s exactly my point. What a waste to ask me if I want something to drink. Of course I want something to drink. I’m biologically inclined to drink.”

“Well we aim to please your biology. What do you want to drink?”

“Punch.”

“Punch?”

“Yes. Tell me about your punch.”

“I’d love to, that is, if we had it. I could offer you an orange juice.”

“Sure you could. And I could offer you something completely different than punch. No one serves punch anymore in these joints, can you believe it Dutchy?”

The pale, frail raisin of a man looked up as though he’d awoke from a nightmare. The woman had asked him something and he was mostly deaf and not listening anyway. Wrath would ensue.

“I’m so sorry, my pumpkin. What was that?” he winced to prepare for any ensuing shrapnel.

“I was wondering about the PUNCH here.”

Dutchy was lost. Have you ever entered a conversation not knowing what was happening, and were optimistic you’d be clued in soon so you could start to contribute, but then realized you were even more clueless once you tuned in? That was Dutchy right now. But the woman was right. Somehow. She had to be.

“Yeah—two punches, pronto, missy.”

Cassie left, presumably to find punch or another job.

The cafe door flung open, bringing with it the heavy pitter-patter of the afternoon shower. Elvis sloshed into the cafe like a net of fish coming aboard, holding tightly to his bag of rocks. He was beaming like a lightsaber.

—

The hostess told Elvis he could seat himself. So he walked over to Dutchy and the large, uncomfortable woman’s table and pulled up a chair. This was normal to Elvis.

“You two lovebirds look like you could use a rock today, and boy do I got some of those.” Elvis heaved his rock bag onto the table, silencing the restaurant and shattering a Heinz bottle.

The woman peered at the rocks. She breathed deeply and sharpened her fangs. Elvis’ experience had helped him to recognize a menacing expression and knew he had to preempt anything antagonistic.

“I’ll give you a hundred dollars!” he blurted out. “If you buy two hundred dollars worth of rocks I will give you a hundred dollars.”

Cassie was returning with two glasses of maybe Hi-C. There was no room for glasses on the table now and ketchup was oozing off it onto Dutchy’s pants. He didn’t notice.

Duchy’s lady started to bubble like a pool of magma. She breathed deeply in and out as though she were blowing up a kiddie pool. Or picture a dragon filling its chest with fire before belching death in her unhappy radius. Her left nostril twitched, too, as if she were trying to start a mower with her face. Duchy wished Elvis was selling helmets.

“Sir?” Cassie surveyed Elvis. “Could you move your bag? We can find another table for you.”

But Elvis liked this table. These people seemed like they would have some use in their lives for a rock. But that was so hard to pin down without him asking them.

“OK, I can go as soon as I hear this from the horse’s mouth, as they say. Ma’am, what do you need a rock for? I have many sizes and colors, and a few of them are still dirty so that you—”

“I don’t want your rocks, man! I want punch. I want you to get up and leave so this lady can give me my punch. Is that punch? It looks like fruit juice. I don’t want fruit juice! Take it back to the kitchen. And take this man away from our table!” she belted, slamming her fist down while a new vein appeared and pulsed on her forehead.

“T-t-take him away,” Duchy squealed, fulfilling his duty as the obsequious sidekick.

The next few minutes were especially uncomfortable for everyone in the restaurant. Cassie was fuming and headed toward the kitchen asking for “Big Joe.” Elvis had chalked up the large, uncomfortable woman’s eruption to a bad day. He tried to console her and say things like how hard he knows things can be, living in a sewer and all. Dutchy was pulling at the rock bag, yet inertia was one of the many things that didn’t favor him. When Big Joe arrived he grabbed Elvis and his rock bag with incredibly the same arm and pulled them both out of the restaurant and onto the street, leaving them in a sizable puddle.

For the first time, some doubt seized Elvis. What kind of world was this where you can’t just walk up to strangers and sell them rocks? Not the world Elvis thought he lived in, that’s for sure.

Elvis sat there on the pavement with heavy rain droplets pelting his head, staring at his rock bag. It was a good bag of rocks. So good he almost didn’t want to sell them anymore. He could make a fortress in the sewer with these babies. Ahh, but he didn’t want a sewer fortress. He wanted real money you could use to buy stuff, like a Nintendo or food.

—

“Help! Anyone!” A commotion arose on the other side of the street. A small man scurried from the alley. “My chocolates! They’ll be ruined!”

Elvis shot up, grabbed his rocks, and moved as quickly as he could—which was not fast—across the street.

As Elvis arrived, the man—presumably the store owner—was explaining his chocolates with great haste to a bystander.

“…water is running down the alley. My boxes of chocolates are sitting there under a canopy—thousands of dollars worth—waiting for pickup—they’ll be ruined—ruined if we can’t stop the water. If only there was a way to stop the water!”

“I can stop the water,” Elvis declared. “What you need, sir, are rocks. And I’m going to give them to you. I mean sell them to you. I’m going to sell them to you.”

“If it works, sure!” the man beamed. “Are those your rocks in that bag?”

“Yes. Would you like to see them?” Elvis offered. Elvis was taught to wait patiently for the customer to make a decision.

“Yes, of course! Just bring them with you to the alley. C’mon.”

“This is one of my favorites,” Elvis said, pulling out a dull, clay-stained rock about the size of his fist.

“And this is another favorite.” It was another dull rock. It was a rock.

“OK, I love it—that will do! Bring the bag.” The storekeeper’s voice hit a high note and he tapped Dallas on the elbow.

“37,” Elvis exclaimed.

“37? Ok, 37, whatever, c’mon.”

“37 dollars is the cost of the rock.” Elvis was poised to make the sale. But he figured the objections would come.

“Ahh, really? This is crazy.” The storekeeper turned away. Someone else, please help me find a way to move my boxes.”

“Those boxes are 200 pounds. You need a forklift. Or perhaps exactly 126 rocks.” Elvis hoisted his rock bag over his shoulder and tottered down the alley. It had been a long day, but the air was ripe for heroism, and perhaps a boulder bonanza.

The store owner followed him, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. Elvis passed the boxes and observed a flow of water steadily cascading from a paved gutter above.

The rock bag slid off Elvis’ shoulder with a crash. He reached in and grabbed a large rock he thought looked perfect, though it looked much like all the other rocks. He lifted it high and slammed it upon the waterway. The water split to create two flows around the rock. The puddle was widening and approaching the boxes.

Elvis dusted his hands. “That one’s on the house. I can stop this flood right here, right now. Just say the word and give me…” Elvis ruminated, counting his fingers and looking to the sky. Then he’d count his fingers some more, and back to the sky, and this continued for a minute or two. The water flowed. The puddle widened.

“OK! How much do want?” The store owner bellowed, his feet now soaking in water.

“Want? Oh sorry, I was tryin’ to remember the lyrics to that new Bamba song. OK, $500 for the rocks. The whole bag. I’ll throw in the bag, too. And my belt, you can have my belt if that’ll sweeten the deal. Uncle always said ‘nothin’ like belts to sweeten a deal.’ You got an uncle?”

“I’ll give you $300 if you can stop the water. C’mon man!” The store owner began grabbing rocks and heaving them upon the stream. Elvis joined in, stacking one rock after another, creating a decent dam that started to slow the water. Within a few minutes, all the rocks sat in a formidable pile, the water ceased, and the puddle stopped just before the boxes.

Elvis put his hands on his hips and surveyed the pile with pride. He nodded at the store owner, who thanked him and paid him his money. Elvis pulled his pants up and put his belt back on (the store owner didn’t want it), and left the alley to head up the street.

“That’s him,” the large, uncomfortable woman from the restaurant pointed. Dutchy confirmed and a pudgy officer made his way across the street.

“Mister, these people said you were disturbing the peace. Is that so?” the officer inquired.

“No.” The store owner had come up behind Elvis. “This man made peace today. He saved my chocolates with his rocks. If anything, he’s a hero.”

Elvis blushed and looked at the officer. “I was just doing my job. Which is selling rocks, by the way, in case you’re interested.”

The officer looked at Elvis. “You got a wholesaler?”

Elvis shook his head. “I wish. I have several holes I can’t get rid of. You know a guy?”

The officer looked confused and chuckled. “I know a guy who can get you rocks at a great price. Name’s Gene Reppertson. You can give him a call.” The officer handed him the number.

Elvis said thanks and made his way back up the street toward the sewer. He was relieved to hear about an easier, more expedient way to amass rocks. A few days later, Elvis met Gene and got his hands on all kinds of regular-looking, fairly affordable wholesale rocks. He found that people actually have more use for rocks than you’d think, and within weeks it was obvious he needed a bank account. Gene would continue to help Elvis, and Elvis found his way out of the sewer and into a place where toilet water ran out of his home and not into it.

Some said Absurditon never saw a rock salesman like Elvis Thud. And when Elvis heard that, he took it as a compliment.

In a large field there sat still a small child. Looking up, he noticed something in the distance, something he thought remarkable. He had to get up.

The child stretched out his arms and planted them in the earth. Now on his knees, he pressed hard upon his toes and began to wobble upward, swaying like the blades of grass all around him. He hoisted one hand from the ground, staggered, and just before toppling, found his balance.

Relief must’ve tickled his brain and reverberated throughout the remainder of his body, for he exhaled a pronounced, giggling sigh. Now with newfound mettle, he was adamant to hasten his journey and encounter this thing that stirred him.

The first step was giant, and to him felt like lifting an anvil from a bog. As soon as his foot left the ground it returned with a slam. It took his breath away, as if the shock of forward movement was too precious to endure. So he gulped and gimped once more.

This subsequent lunge equaled the thrill of the first, yet carried into a frightful halt, as though two legs weren’t meant to be found so perfectly together. Panic seized the boy’s countenance, and he tumbled forward, a descending timber on a vast plain.

As his open hand struck the ground his breath left him and his eyes closed. Yet full impact evaded him, and he managed to jolt up again and press on.

The steps, from there, were easier. Not all better, of course. For he fell as much as he always had, and the scrapes cut deeper. But to move felt light. Despite the same feeble limbs, they flew like feathers. To move meant something.

To the boy, it may have taken a minute or a year. Nonetheless, he had arrived, panting, aching, and laughing. For he had come upon his vision. While neither a mirage, nor what he expected, it was no less beautiful, and perhaps moreso.

The spent lad plopped down, poked his ruddy knee, and glanced back over his shoulder. Somehow, he had done it, traversed the entire field like a knight upon his horse.

He puffed out his chest, raised his chin, smiled to the sky, and sensed the familiar, steady grip loosen and release his small hand.

Once more, the small child sat still in a large field, and once more, it was time to get up.

*This story is not a metaphor. You will be doing yourself a favor to just read it as a dumb story.

There once lived a king who ruled a fair land.

It could be said that while he was not the greatest of kings, he quite aptly represented his people.

For he wasn’t particularly strong, and bore the physique of a sedentary ape who’d indulged in a life’s work of honey and cheese. Nor was he quite clever, and more often appeared to be devoid of any common sense. He was perpetually selfish, regularly petty, and rarely kind, thoughtful, or just. But also, like his people, he responded swiftly to unfavorable circumstances, and generally did so with resounding proclamations.

Indeed, when a bulbous, barrel of a man could not be pulled free from a stockade, the king proclaimed:

“Release him with the grease of a goose. I will show the people my mercy while not sparing this miscreant deserved humiliation.” The people thought and nodded.

And when there was a grain famine in the land, the king decreed:

“When there is no food, we must not feast on one another. But bring me the belly of a swine and we will feast together.” Then nothing happened, except a few journeyed off to find swine.

And when a plague struck his people one cold winter, he dictated a message from his warm bed to be distributed throughout the land.

“Courage, courage. I have called on Providence to awaken your fledgling bones that you may skip into glory like a virgin calf. Take heart and eschew the wicked vermin from your abode!” The people listened and coughed and a few fell over.

And so it went, for many years. Problems arose, the king spoke, and the people remained generally satisfactory.

But one day, the kingdom encountered a threat far greater than it had ever seen.

For from the West, a menacing and fearsome clan had traversed through the mountainous terrain and into the kingdom’s outer villages.

Townspeople were tossed aside. Their homes were ransacked and burned. Most of them fled to escape the devilish brood of barbarians.

News traveled quickly to the king, who was presently bathing while imbibing a flagon of fine wine.

“Your Majesty! The kingdom is under attack. Barbarians have come and attacked us from the West.”

The king shot up, spilling his drink upon his beard as bundles of bubbles flew into the air and burst around him.

He lifted his finger and cleared his throat.

“Hear this! A tree has no power without its roots, while a thorn shall not sting with no flower.”

Tell my people. ‘Dig. Dig deep. Dig deeper, as though your very trenches may birth a soul. Find the snake and eat it. When the ogre vomits, harm it with a fiery lance upon a dirty mule!'”

The king’s men slowly nodded and hurried from the room. They ascended their horses and disbursed throughout the kingdom, bringing the king’s message to all the towns.

“Hear ye, hear ye!” cried one of the king’s men in Millerton. “The kingdom is under attack. But be not alarmed, for the king has sent his people a message. He implores you to ‘Dig deep. Nay, dig deeper. As though your very, uh, trenches may birth a soul.'”

At first the people gasped, then they looked at each other in bewilderment.

“And furthermore,” the king’s man bellowed, “‘Find the snake and beat it. I mean, eat it. And…when the ogre vomits, you must harm it with fiery pants upon…uh…30 mules!”

Some people panicked and ran to their homes. Others scrambled to begin gathering supplies. Most stared at one another, rubbing their chins and counting their fingers.

“Go, all of you! Do as your king instructs.”

Likewise, the rest of the king’s men delivered messages in other villages, determined to galvanize the people and accurately dictate the king’s stirring oration. Likewise, the people panicked, scrambled and stared.

Meanwhile, the clan was moving quickly through the western region, primed to pillage whatever town lie ahead.

Townspeople, knowing they were no match for the barbarians, abandoned their villages and retreated toward the country’s epicenter and home of the royals.

Within two days, a massive crowd had assembled within the city square and its outskirts.

The mob was a motley assortment of peasants, plebeians, and soldiers in the king’s service. Strange sights and noises accompanied the group. Some were holding objects that seemed to have no place at such a gathering, while others rode upon odd beasts typically not purposed war.

Suddenly, a clamor rose among the people. Rumblings turned to shouts. Someone was coming.

From the north of the square ran a long, bright green hill that steadily ascended to the castle. Down the one road coming from the castle rode a phalanx of horses and men, carrying the colors and flags of the old and honored Sir Wesley. Behind them rode a stout man in heavy velvet robes with a shimmering golden crown upon his head. There was no doubt. It was the king.

As the riders and their king descended upon the square, all marveled and subsequently genuflected as he passed by. Within moments the liege and his subjects were in the center square, and came to an impressively synchronized halt. The dust cloud slowly lifted to shine the sun upon the men and their king.

The clamor had rapidly dissipated, and a quiet stillness set in. As all stood and stared, with the king peering out upon his people, a dull, thumping murmur seemed to whisper through the air. Slowly, very slowly, it rose to more of a clapping, and the ground seemed to tremor. All bodies and heads turned to the West, and one could fairly descry a thin, dark line of motion upon the horizon. There was no denying it. The barbarians were approaching.

The king raised his head and surveyed the people surrounding him. He observed a diverse mob of civilians, a group that was as odd as it was interesting. Were his people prepared for battle?

This wasn’t unprecedented. In the past, the king had moments where he had attempted to galvanize his people. And sometimes his orations were taken quite literally, and other times quite seriously, and other times they weren’t quite taken at all.

The king stroked his beard and pondered. Had the people received his message? Had it mattered?

“What say you my people?” the king shouted. “Are you prepared to encounter this filthy Western brood?”

“We are ready, your Majesty!” exclaimed a burly commoner, brandishing a very large shovel. “We have been digging deep, deep holes for hours.”

“As have we, your Majesty!” proclaimed a thinner man, caked in dirt. “We dug until my fair lady bore our seventh offspring this morning in the trench. A new soul for the kingdom!”

“Hurrah, hurrah!” the people shouted. The energy seemed to build, and now more people were grinning and speaking than before.

“Yes, your majesty! We are ready!” another proclaimed. “Though it took time, we have found the snake. ‘Twas the most ill of vipers in this land. On the way here, we beat it!” And he lifted the dead snake into the air.

“‘Scuse me goo sir,” remarked another man, who was hard to understand, because he appeared to be chewing on a snake. “Why d’ya beat it? We were to bind it and eat it.”

“What say you, my fair fellows of Galen?” asked another. “Why did you disturb the snake at all? Our instruction was to mind the snake and treat it. So we considered our village snake and blessed it with a plump rat.”

At this many mutterings erupted from the crowd. Some laughed, some cried, some continued to chew on their dead snakes.

Despite the many rumblings, the king remained calm and undeterred. But the barbarians were near. The pounding horse hooves produced a thunder coming down toward the square. The king drew his sword. “Behold, the ogre!”

The people gasped. Battle was upon them. “What shall we do?” many cried. But there was no time to think. Barbarians were now entering the square. All they could do was act on the king’s words.

The king’s soldiers withdrew their red lances and charged. While doing so, men all around the square hastily removed their trousers and set them ablaze. Ascending their dirty mules, they lurched forward.

For they had seen the ogre, and would harm it with fiery pants.

A cacophonous clash of metal now rang throughout the town’s center. Screams and roars echoed all around. The surrounding air thickened with smoke and the stench of burning hemp and wool.

Then above the cacophony ascended a different, melodious sound. Many curious citizens and barbarians alike raised their heads to observe a queer yet harmonious procession. For a group of men eloquently pranced into the fray, playing sweet tunes for all to hear.

For they had seen the ogre, and would charm it with lyre and dance.

From here, nothing very good happened. Grubby villagers, fatigued from hours of digging, couldn’t lift a shovel, much less a hand to attack the enemy. Men everywhere frothed and keeled over with half-eaten snakes in hand. Incinerated trousers were trampled upon while their owners shivered and shook their cold, bony legs. Lyres and dancers alike were indiscriminately and promptly obliterated.

The foreign clan was rapidly overtaking the town. The spirited battle cries had now mostly been replaced by moans and mule brays. There was no mistaking that circumstances looked dire for the kingdom.

But, there was the king. His presence among the multitude was undeniable, and those left standing found it remarkable he was not dead. Unflinching and unrelenting, the king moved around on his weary steed, swinging his sword and bellowing spirited utterances at every barbarian he encountered.

“Behold my brandished blade! May you taste its silver and plunge into a pool of your own crimson!”

“See the door of death! Knock, enter, and be greeted with a guillotine of profound terror!”

“Meet your end, worm! ‘Tis time to writhe in your lonely abyss ad finitum!”

The opponent, though filled with bloodthirsty wrath, would generally pause at whatever remark the king spewed. For these clansmen from the West knew nothing of monarchy and had never witnessed such valor or unabashed boasting from a general of men.

And the pause was enough, a momentary lapse of concentration that allowed the king to meet his mark upon each and every unenviable swing. The enemy fell one by one.

The king’s people noticed this sudden and unexpected success. So inspired by this newfound, naive confidence, they too purposed forward, with pomp and unmitigated braggadocio. Some upon horses, some upon mules, they lunged at their adversary with swords and tongues.

“Rabid ghoul!” one man spewed. “Inspect your soul, make peace, and bid your beating heart adieu!” And he thrust his sword into a bewildered barbarian.

“Inhale the toxic cypress, ripe and ready to plunge you into the world of nether!” said another, as he walloped his foe.

Still another provoked his challenger. “See my sickle, fiend! See it and greet it. Usher it into your abode, fluff its pillow and serve it a lukewarm tea. Then, insist it stay the evening and be ensured that-” and was unfortunately cut short by an emphatic body blow. Indeed, elongated addresses proved inadvisable.

But for the most part, men eloquently recited their threats and subsequently pummeled the enemy, to the shock of the citizen and foreigner alike. Each fallen barbarian inspired confidence in the king’s people, while the confidence of the foreign clan waned. Rebel yells were quieted with pithy declarations. Thundering horse whinnies were replaced by mild mule brays. Even the pluck of the lyre returned.

In minutes, it was over. The distressed, decimated clan hurriedly retreated from the town. The kingdom roared in victory, clanging shovels and throwing snakes into the air. Amidst it all, someone shouted “Long live the king!” Others repeated it, and then looked around. Where was the king?

As the town quieted, what was noticeable was the many remaining clansman retreating up the hill to the West. As they did so, a lone figure chased them upon a horse. Yes, valiant to the end, it was the king purging the enemy from his land. He held his sword high and rode semi-swiftly behind his foe. Though it was hard to tell from the vantage point of the square, he seemed to be barking still, only more vigorously than what was his custom.

Then suddenly, the king and his horse disappeared into the earth. For what he had not foreseen was a vast, gaping trench, freshly dug by undoubtedly a great number of his people. A collective gasp arose from the townspeople, who wasted no time rushing out of the town and up the hill to the scene of the catastrophe.

When they arrived, they looked into the trench, fearing the worst. The hole was deep and dark, so much so that they saw no king, or horse, or bottom.

“Your Majesty, your majesty! Tell us, are you alive?” shouted one of the king’s men.

At first there was no sound, but then a light rustling started. Then there was a deep moan, which could’ve been the horse. And then more silence, enough to deflate the men’s hopes.

“Aye!” came a cry from below. Men crowded around the trench at the sudden, welcome response of their king.

“Aye!” he bellowed again. “Though my bones be a mangled wasteland, though my blood hast breached the dam of my flesh, though all feeling hast retreated my corpus like those filthy savages from this fair land, I say to you, ‘Aye,’ I retain the vitality of a juvenile vulpine! So bring forth the vestiges of yore. Find the elaborate garb and drape it upon the most pristine of willow trees. Gather in gaiety, take your finest fool, and wade together in the sweetest of stews!”

Then some cheered, some scratched their heads, and others shared strong opinions regarding the finest region for willow trees.

But they all lived happily ever after.

School was out for the summer; Battle was out of his mind. Most kids get pumped for the absence of homework, the nearing of summer camps, and the prospect of sleeping in. But Battle was not most kids. He found most homework to be easy and wouldn’t have minded continuing with it if he had too.

He didn’t love summer camps; they were a tad too structured. Two years ago during arts and crafts activity at a camp called Tremendous Town, Battle finished his work early, got bored, and fed his pastels to some not-so-picky pigeons to the chagrin of camp counselors. Let’s just say the day remains in camp lore as the day the birds “painted the Town.”

And to Battle, sleeping in meant missing out. After all, who can sleep when all the birds are ready to have someone chuck them their worms? That’s how Battle thought, anyway.

Battle grabbed his gear and made his way to the backyard before anyone in his family stirred, and just as the Sun itself was waking up. Today Battle planned to hike northwest as far as he could go, then turn around at lunch to come home. But as it so often happens in Battle’s big backyard, his plans would go awry.

He did manage to make it over the stepping stones of Culvert’s Creek, past the Great Oaks of Center Wood and down into the The Ole Valley. It was at the base of the valley Battle noticed a tiny brook he had never before encountered. As clever and rational as Battle could be, curiosity made him abandon all inhibitions. When Battle discovered something new, his reaction was akin to a pirate happening upon a buried treasure he didn’t know existed. So Battle would joyfully cackle and start digging for more. Today this tiny treasure of a brook would lead him to a trove of natural wonder.

Within a mere few hundred paces, Battle encroached the great, unknown site. Through some thick limbs and brush ahead, he could descry a light forcing its way through any opening and spilling throughout the forest around him. After a few hacks with his hands to eschew the branches, a glorious site lay before him. The beacons of light that had beckoned Battle to the scene were coming from the sun’s reflection off a magnificent, glistening pool. The pool was so beautiful that you’d hesitate to try and swim in it and disturb its picturesque nature. Battle looked down and saw where the pool gently spilled over to feed the brook he’d discovered. The pool settled itself at the base of several hills that made their way up from The Ole Valley. Within these hills were carved some dark, cavernous pits that were dripping with water. Perhaps this is where the pool’s source of water originated. It was definitely the source of the interesting figure Battle would soon meet, perched just above the pool and nestled into the darkness of the rocks, as if only a shadow spoke.

“Hello down there,” said a friendly yet somewhat nervous voice.

“Hello,” said Battle. “I’m Battle. Will you come down so I can meet you?”

“I’d rather not, boy. I don’t feel like being near the water today.”

“Not ready? What are you waiting for? It’s so beautiful. I think I’ll have a swim right now.”

“Oh no, don’t, don’t! You mustn’t. It’s obvious you know nothing about the Pool of Morphoo. It’s been here ever since I was born. It’s been said that great treasure lies within, but also legends of people and creatures going in and submerging themselves but never coming back up. Any wise one who passes by steers clear. It is a treacherous oasis. A Siren song. I doubt I should ever enter it. Neither should you.”

Battle stood puzzled for a minute, inspecting the pool and wondering if it was indeed dangerous. He wasn’t surprised to hear about legends. The Woods were full of them. It was hard to know what legends were false and true, unless you experienced them for yourself. Battle’s bravery and curiosity often caused him to go against his better judgment. In fact, the talk of a legend that was able to be tested was quite tempting to him. He stepped forward and stopped at the pool’s edge.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing?” said the voice from the cavern.

Battle looked up. “I think I’ll have a go at that treasure.”

For some reason, Battle’s proclamation was enough to get the voice in the dark to come out into the light. It came down from the rock wall and positioned itself at the edge of the pool as well. The creature was almost Battle’s size. His body was slender and sleek. Oddly, the newcomer’s features did not seem to make him fit for land, Battle thought. And what was quickly apparent was it was very interested in the pool.

Battle observed as the slender thing performed a number of odd tasks, which together appeared to be a kind of routine. It started with the creature dipping what we may call feet (though they didn’t seem to be feet) into the water. Next, it splashed some water to its face, licking some of the liquid and shaking his head. “Still just not quite right,” it mumbled. Then, it took a long, thin stick, which was quite dark and moist, as if it had spent a lot of time in the water. The creature dipped the stick down a ways, then withdrew it, then shook its head once more. “This is not good. Too quick. Much worse than I thought.”

“What are you doing?” Battle asked.

“I’m just…Oh, I don’t know. This pool…it used to be even more beautiful—when it was higher. That was many, many years ago. Over time, it has been draining, draining down the little brook I suppose you came upon to help you find the pool. And it seems in recent times the draining has quickened—” the creature paused and frowned, as though the magnitude of his words had suddenly struck him upon their delivery—”and, anyway, I know I can’t go in, even if I’d like to.”

“But you could just go in right now, who cares?” Battle exclaimed, becoming more incredulous at the creature’s reservations.

The creature shook his head. “Ahh, but you don’t understand. I’ve observed this pool my whole life. Some days I find it to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed, and I have little doubt it contains a marvelous treasure within. Other days I fear the pool so much I can’t even look at it. But really, it’s so mysterious because I know something will happen to me if I enter it.” He said these last words with a hint of wonder and fear, it seemed to Battle.

Meanwhile, one couldn’t help but notice that the pool was shrinking. The rustling of the brook descending from the pool had now become more audible, and a considerable amount of clay on the banks revealed itself. The creature once more took the stick and plumbed the water, and once more withdrew it muttering to itself something about things being even worse.

Battle wanted to help. For a split second he considered pushing the beast into the water. But what if the pool did swallow things up? Battle didn’t want to kill anyone. Then he had another idea; this one felt worth sharing.

“Why don’t you wait until the pool drains completely? If there is treasure, you can just go in and grab it. If there is no treasure, at least you didn’t risk going in the pool to search for something that was never there.” Battle thought this made sense, but the creature did not.

“I’ve consulted every sage who has passed by here. They are sure that if the pool runs dry, any treasure that might be there will be lost. At least, that has been their understanding of other pools in other places from other tales. So there is my dilemma. Enter this dreaded oasis for a speculative treasure and risk never surfacing again, or allow the pool to dry up, likely leaving no treasure (if it ever was there in the first place) and forever regretting my choice.”

Battle listened to the beast while staring down at his own feet upon the bank. The water just beneath him continued to disappear, finding its way into the brook, which was now rushing down the hill. Battle looked up at the creature, who was obviously troubled by the circumstance, yet remained obstinate. Battle was growing impatient. He couldn’t believe the two of them would stare at and talk about this gorgeous pool all afternoon yet neither one jump in, especially with the prospect of treasure. What in the world could they be missing out on?!

Once again the creature bellied up to the bank, this time barely able to reach down far enough to touch the water. It sat up, sighing deeply, with its head remaining drooped. Battle thought the creature was preparing to cry, but he didn’t really know what such an act would look like from such a strange beast.

Battle wondered what it would be like to have the pool drain completely while the creature stood there, likely sobbing and babbling something about things being as bad they were expected to be. As the boy thought this, he grew angry and felt as though he couldn’t tolerate his own quiescence. He looked up at the creature, now appearing almost catatonic, staring at the soil and lost in its thoughts. Once more, Battle looked down at the bank beneath him. He kicked off his shoes. And he stepped into the water…

Sting. The burning sensation was immediate. Battle howled as the hot pain ran through his toes, sole, and ankle. The creature shot up to see Battle rolling back onto the bank, grasping his foot. Battle grimaced and inspected his ruddy foot with the weird skin-burn feeling setting in. And as if his choice was not injurious enough, it seemed to cause the pool to withdraw at its most rapid rate yet and signal its imminent demise.

Battle composed himself, holding his foot and looking up at the creature. The creature stood stoically, a look of shock on its face. Yet the look was not one of disturbance…but of revelation. And his expression changed more with each passing moment, as if rich recollections and thoughts were flooding his mind unceasingly. He caught Battle’s eyes, and spoke with tranquility.

“Many years ago, when I was very young, a boy about the same age as you came bounding through the forest and discovered my pool. I stayed in my cave and observed him from my perch. The boy appeared spellbound by the pool, allured by its beauty. It was a hot summer day, like this one, and the boy removed his shoes and shirt to go for a swim. He climbed up on that boulder right there and bent over to dive. Suddenly—out of nowhere—a hawk darted by, squawking loudly and causing the boy to fall awkwardly off the rock. The boy landed right by the bank and his foot submerged, just like yours. He yelped in pain from what appeared to be a bad burn from the water. He cried for a little while and rubbed his leg, until he finally calmed down, put his clothes back on and left the pool never to be seen again.”

“Yeah? So what does it mean?” inquired Battle.

“I’m not sure. But I know most who’ve come to the pool don’t attempt to go in. The two boys who have, they’ve been burned, yet graciously spared. Yet the Pool of Morphoo, though I’ve feared it, has always been kind to me.”

And with that, the creature slid down the bank into the water, and disappeared.

There were no screams or signs of the creature resurfacing, just simply the odd sounds of water running back up the brook and refilling the shallow pool. Battle sat still for almost an hour, observing the brook diminish and the pool replenish. Finally, the transfer ceased and once more the water filled the pool to its brim, even splashing some of its contents over the bank. The pool sparkled and glistened magnificently in the sun. Battle put on his shoes, stood up and went home.

Michelle was so nice. She was the only person in the office who ever brought in goodies.

Some people, like Joe, always thought about bringing in goodies, but never did for the fear that any food item would undoubtedly be objectionable to someone. These days even something as simple as a brownie was daunting. Go for the delicious chocolatey sugar-bomb brownie but tick off the people who resented the temptation of sweets. Or make the brownies nutty and risk someone’s throat closing up. Or leave the gluten in and give someone insufferable gas the remainder of the day.

Other people, like Tammy, never considered bringing goodies in because Michelle was always doing it. Those people were always thinking, “Nah, no need to bring something in this week. I’m sure Michelle will come through.”

And come through she did. It was a sleepy Monday morning when Ted strolled in and caught sight of the large bag of pistachios in the break room. He walked over to look at the bag and noticed it hadn’t been opened. Ted started to sweat a little. He really wanted to tear open the bag but he knew the second he did someone would walk in and catch him opening the bag of pistachios and think, “Of course fat Teddy is divin’ into those nuts early. He simply can’t contain himself.” So Ted thought all that and risked it anyway, and opened the bag just as Craig walked in and smirked, which made Ted sweat a little more from self-consciousness. But it wasn’t enough to stop him from grabbing a handful and nervously adding “Gotta love pistachios.”

The pistachios were a hit. By early afternoon the half-eaten bag had found its way to the conference room, just in time for the weekly team meeting. Many had gathered around the nuts, except Ted who was wiping himself off in the corner.

Edward took the bag and emptied a small number of nuts onto a napkin.

Craig snickered. “You eat like a rabbit.”

Edward glared back. “Well Craig, how would you have handled the pistachios bag?”

“I wouldn’t have sprinkled eight nuts out onto a napkin.”

“Oh no? Would you have stuffed your dirty hand in the bag so no one else would want any? Would you dump a pile into your mouth like a damn animal?”

“I’m just saying it would be normal to pour out a double digit number of pistachios, like this—” Craig poured out what he thought to be a normal number of pistachios.

“Normal, huh?” Edward rolled his eyes. “Well I had no idea people make judgments on pistachio intake. Next time I’ll make sure no one is looking or I just won’t have any at all.”

“See, I’d expect you to have none at all because you are as skinny as a beanpole,” Craig remarked, a bit awkwardly while chewing.

“Craig, you don’t even know what the hell a beanpole is. And I think you are envious of my skinniness.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?” Craig asked, inadvertently spitting pistachio particles like shrapnel.

“I’m not saying you’re fat. But compared to me, perhaps you are fat. Perhaps you should sprinkle your pistachios instead of horsin’ ’em down like you’ve never tried food.”

Meanwhile, Phil walked in and grabbed the pistachio bag. “Hey fellas.”

“What’s up Phil?” everyone said.

“Craig, you should give some of your pistachios to Edward.”

“Are ru sayin’ I vat?” Craig asked with a muffled mouthful.

“You are fat. But no, I’m saying Edward is obviously emaciated and it is cruel to deprive malnourished men of sustenance.”

Edward shook his head. “Thanks Phil, I’m so touched you too are concerned about my nut consumption. Would anyone else like to comment so I can shove my shells up your nostrils?”

“Oh don’t waste the shells,” said Phil. “Craig eats those too.”

The attention shifted to their boss, Glenn, who was pacing quickly into the room. “All right everybody, let’s get started.”

“First off, thanks Michelle for bringing in the pistachio bag. It’s been a pleasant surprise for an otherwise mundane Monday. And secondly…uh Craig? Everything all right?”

Everyone turned to Craig, who was holding his throat and sputtering pistachio shells.

“Oh no! He’s choking!” someone shouted.

Immediately Ted sprang from his chair and positioned himself behind Craig, grabbing him like he was hugging a refrigerator. Ted clasped his hands and gave a forceful thrust to Craig’s chest. A few more shells spewed from Craig’s face but he continued to choke.

Ted kept thrusting, Craig kept choking. Ted was now sweating so much that with his proximity to Craig it looked like Craig was sweating. Ted continued to aggressively thrust Craig’s chest. The more he did, the more he sweat. Everyone stood in panicked shock, bracing for Craig’s shells to dislodge while equally witnessing the greatest display of sweat profusion ever. Craig was turning blue and Ted appeared to be melting like a popsicle in a microwave.

Several people dialed 911 while others offered to help Ted. But Ted appeared to be in such an odd, unrelenting zone that it seemed impossible to even talk to him. In fact, now that Craig had been choking for about 20 seconds, Ted looked in worse shape. As the waterfall of sweat cascaded down his face, it appeared to be taking Ted’s hair with it. Craig was still choking. Ted was losing bodily fluids and balding.

The next thirty seconds was insane. Craig’s eyes had closed and he slumped over in Ted’s bear hug like a rag doll. Ted was still thrusting and panting, nearly bald. His clothes were soaked and sagging, and appeared to no longer fit him. His eyes were no longer open either, while his agape mouth served as a reservoir for his dripping, ghost-white face. It was hard to tell if he was aware of his toil or permanently engaged in some out-of-body exercise he no longer controlled. Beneath the pair of men a not-so-small pool of sweat had formed on the oak floor. And in a moment so singular that it is difficult to articulate, Ted’s feet slipped and shot forward from under him, suspending both himself and his patient in mid-air, long enough for the entire office to gasp in fright. In a second Ted crashed backward upon the floor, still clutching Craig for dear life. At the moment of impact with the floor, two things happened simultaneously that were unlikely to ever be witnessed again in human history: Craig’s now rag doll of a body jolted, and from him heaved an impossible amount of pistachio nuts and shells. And Ted. It’s hard to say. It looked like between Craig and the floor a water cooler exploded, creating a splash of Sea World proportions.

Phil and Edward quickly bent down to assist the two men. Craig was coughing and sucking in air, and the color was returning to his face. Phil pulled Craig off of Ted and sat him down. Edward took a look at Ted and nearly fainted. If the human body was 60% water, Edward suspected Ted was closer to 100%, or at least used to be. Edward rapped at Ted’s now moribund face until his eyes finally opened. He sat up and muttered something about home and a shower, then staggered out of the room.

Everyone’s attention quickly turned to the middle of the room and the sound of a bag rustling. Michelle blushed and held out her pistachios, giggling nervously. “Still a few left. Anyone?”

Michelle was so nice.

Brent called Alex into his office.

“Sit down Alex, I have some bad news. The company missed again on its annual sales goals. We’re going to have to make some layoffs. We are terminating your position effective immediately.”

“Good,” said Alex surprisingly. “Layoffs are a necessary part of every company. Are we eliminating the product placement division?”

“Yes,” said Brent, nonplussed by Alex’s casual demeanor. “Everyone in your division will be terminated.”

“Excellent,” exclaimed Alex excitedly. “Those guys struggled mightily. They’ve been bringing down our company for years.”

“Yes, and you do realize you are part of that division right?,” said Brent.

“Absolutely, and I couldn’t agree more with your decision. It will be sad to see them go, but we should be fine without them,” said Alex.

“You mean ‘we’ as in me and the other people who are not fired,” grumbled Brent.

“Precisely. But about that, Brent. I’m sorry…but…without the product placement division, you will have no one to manage. I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go,” said Alex, frowning.

“Alex, stop screwing around. I am your boss. You can’t fire me,” Brent exclaimed with a huff.

“And I don’t want to fire you, but corporate is forcing my hand. Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be,” said Alex.

Brent slammed his fist down on the table. “Ok, get out of my office, pack your things and leave the premises by 2 p.m.”

“Ahh, 2 p.m., no can do,” said Alex. “I have an important meeting with Brent.”

Brent erupted, “I’M BRENT!”

“Fantastic!” Alex beamed. “Great to meet you Brent, I guess I’m a little early for the interview. But once I heard about the job opening Alex vacated—well—I just had to come as soon as I could.”

Then, Brent killed Alex.