Cereal Colletion

Joan loved cereal, so much so that she collected it.

For those that have tried, it’s not something easily collectable, cereal. You can buy all the boxes you want, but you have to watched over your boxes very carefully. They must be checked at least once a month, and the longer they’re owned, the more often they need to be checked.

Despite all the preservatives, cereal does go bad. It turns from crisp, sugary sweetness into a slick, goopy mass, like yogurt without the pro-biotics.

Joan, however, was not so careful a person. She did not attend to the requirements of her cereal collection, and as she bought a new vintage each year, setting next to the old ones, her collection, while safely inside its sealed bags in the cardboard storage, slowly turned to mush.

So, while she could claim mint-condition packaging at the annual cereal collector’s conference in Chicago, everyone there knew that, without proper vacuum-sealing, the cereal itself would not be in pristine condition.

Joan was summarily ejected from the cereal collector’s co-operative. All was not lost, however; she soon found her place in the Moonshiner’s Association.


Canadian Standoff

Bradley didn’t know that geese hiss until he met one face to face.

The goose was tall, reaching up to Bradley’s hip when it was fully erect, with a black head and a white stripe for a neck. The feathers on its body were a dozen shades of grey, and its big feet gave the goose an awkward waddle.

It stood in front of Bradley on the path, stared at him a moment, then hissed again.

Bradley stared back, frozen in place. Did the hiss mean to stay away? To not move? Would the goose attack, or would it just keep up the stand off, hissing?

The goose relaxed its posture, taking a step to the side, torn between its want of food and the potential threat. It kept its legs ready to leap into the air as it glanced down, then back up.

Bradley stepped forward, and the goose immediately straightened again. Bradley took another step, and the goose hissed.

Bradley needed to pass it to leave the park, and in the absence of any other idea, he hissed back.

The goose hissed, and Bradley hissed again. They circled each other for a minute, hissing back and forth. Finally Bradley realized he was on the side of the path he needed to be. He stopped hissing and took a step backward, then another. The goose relaxed, and Bradley turned and hurried away.

The goose returned to its hunt for food, proud of itself for scaring off the human all on its own.

Cat Food

“Where’s the bag?” Frederic asked.

“How should I know?” Kirk said.

“Because you bought it! You stored it somewhere, and we need to feed the cat.”

“Well, I put it in the usual spot, probably.”

“Probably? How is that a helpful answer? I checked the usual spot, and it’s not there. Can you at least help me look?”

“I’m busy, Freddy. I have other things to do than feed your cat.”

“Excuse me?” Frederic put a hand on his hip and pursed his lips. “My cat? You’re the one who said it would be cute. You’re the one who said you needed a companion. You’re the one who demanded we go to the shelter ‘right this instant’ and get a ‘fur-baby’. It’s your damn cat, I just do all the work of looking after it while you fiddle around on your computer!”

Kirk slammed shut it his laptop. “Well if you hate the damn cat so much, why don’t you toss it off the balcony!”

“Maybe I will!” Frederic shouted. He stormed off and slammed the bedroom door.

Standing in front of its bowl, the cat meowed. Kirk sighed, looking at it for a moment, then started hunting through the cupboards in search of its food.


Sleep Knocking

Sleep was knocking on Annie’s door. She did not rise.

The door was so very far away. Annie was tired, tired of living, tired of moving all day, tired from the hard work that was life. Sleep knocked again.

Annie looked at the door, large and solid and wooden as it was. The knock that came through was clear, oaky. Still, it would be too much to go reply.

Another knock. Annie knew Sleep would let itself in, sooner or later. But she appreciated the polite knock.


New Day

At the end of the day, there was little left to do.

Janet’s feet were sore. Her hands were sore. Her whole being was sore. She had gone and gone and gone, and no one really noticed it, but the whole thing was done, and she could say okay, I’m finished. It’s done. Next thing.

The next thing would wait for tomorrow, though. Tonight, feet up. Mind relax. Everything is okay. It can wait for later.


Bad Door

The door didn’t work like good doors do.

A door should open and close. It should have a latch to prevent it from opening and closing, when one wanted that. It should act as a barrier between two places, a means of keeping animals, items, and weather contained or external.

But this door did not do those things. It had no latch, so blew in the wind. It was mostly mesh, so even when it was closed, the elements gained entrance, preventing a micro-climate from forming. It had no means of doing anything, really, but swaying as the breeze came and went.

And so the building lay abandoned, for want of a fixed door; it was easier, the owner thought, to simply move house.


New Stuff

With his new hat and jacket, his new shoes, and his new jeans and shirt, Lamont was out in the world, living it up, making things happen.

Back home, his old hat, jacket, shoes, and clothes sat in various cupboards and closets, waiting. Wondering if they would just moulder away, be thrown out, or maybe see more use. They couldn’t know, one way or the other. They just existed, waiting.

While Lamont partied, the old stuff wondered if it would be useful again.


Peanut Butter

On Peanut Butter Day, Sybil was ready.

Her cupboard was now full of peanut butters. All types, all brands. Any butter, really, that included peanuts. Crunchy, Smooth, sugar-laced or “natural”. Speculoos peanut butter, and the new chocolate-peanut butter from the well-known maker of hazelnut chocolate spreads. Peanut butter layered with jam, with honey, and with any number of other additives.

She had her vehicles ready, as well: breads of all kinds, including pumpernickel, baguette, and tortillas; crackers; oats; fruits, including bananas (whole) and apples (pre-sliced and tossed with lemon juice); even some flax and coconut oil, ready to mix and eat as is.

Peanut Butter Day was Sybil’s favourite day of the year, and she now had only to brace herself for the peanut butter coma that would ensue.


End of the Month

It was the end of February, and Olga was relieved.

February was her least favourite month. It was short, it was dark, and it was cold, even near the equator – or so she found it. Living in Canada, it was worse.

But it was almost done. March would arrive the next day, and Olga sat staring at her calendar, counting the hours, minutes, seconds until she could escape the dull and drastic hell that was the month of February.

As the clock on the wall tickets away, she looked down at her watch; she had spent the past ten minutes staring at the clock, and it hadn’t moved any faster. She turned the dial on the watch, the moved it back to the actual time. She sighed.

Giving up, she looked back at the clock on the wall, and just stared.



Chet had no brain, and that okay with him.

Doctors everywhere wondered how he could walk, talk, and exist in general, lacking anything in his skull. They chalked it up to a secondary neurological structure somehow extant within his body. How it had formed, they didn’t know; how it continued was even more of a mystery.

Still, he carried along, and the doctors let him, happy just to watch, and bring in for regular tests. Chet, meanwhile, did his best to coexist, and the online world offered him the ideal place to blend in.