A Quickie...

                They were coming.

                Sam awoke with this thought.  Throughout the day he puttered around the house trying desperately to ignore his rising fear but by late afternoon the images in his mind began to overwhelm him.  The idea of his impending doom possessed him.  Thoughts of how other men faced their own death consumed him.

                He knew of men who had bravely faced their fate and accepted it.  He knew others who had even welcomed it when it came.  But he also knew that no man is truly immune to that final horror one feels as the life drains from you.

                It was these dark ruminations that haunted him as he stood at the kitchen sink absent mindedly wiping a dish with a cloth.  As he moved to place the plate in the drying rack it clinked against another.  His train of thought was broken.   His attention was drawn to the rapidly gathering dusk outside.  A sudden panic seized him.  The sun was gone and they would be coming.

                He gazed panic-stricken at the garden path.  There was something moving at the gate.  It fumbled clumsily with the lock and pushed its way through.  It began to shamble up the walk to the house.  Two other dark figures joined it.  They were small but Sam could see their awful visages.

                Sam ran to the front of the house.   He could hear them on the porch; their tiny voices in whispers.  There was a knock.  Then another.  The doorbell rang.

                Something in his mind drove Sam’s hand to the chain and slid it open.  He strove with himself not to open the door but his hands were seemingly commanded by some other will.  He opened the door a crack.  They were horrible to look upon.

                At once their faces split into grins and they shouted to him in unison, “Trick or Treat!”  Quickly Sam glanced at the bowl by the door.  It was as he feared.  It was empty.

I'm Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

Just for information's sake...

E.L. James knew she wanted to hit it big by writing a popular book.  Many ideas and concepts came to her before she settled on her eventual best-seller Fifty Shades of Gray.  The following are just some of the possibilities she considered…

1. Fifty Shades of Greyhounds:  A discussion of colour variances found in racing dogs.
2. Fifty Sheets of Grey:  The story of a frustrated house wife who cannot seem to get her bedding clean enough on laundry day.
3. Fifty Slates of Gray:  A geological treatise on metamorphic mudstone.
4. Fifty States of Gray:  An alternate history fiction positing what life would be like if the Confederacy had won the Civil War.
5. Fifty Shays and a Dray:  An examination of how many horse drawn carts are in a typical Amish community.
6. Fifty Grades of Che:  A biographical work focusing on the school-life of Che Guevara.

And…

7. Do Fifty Shots and Pray:  How to cope with yet another E.L. James book.

I'm Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

A Mystery...

“I must ask that none of you leave.  The murderer is in this room.”

                Chief Inspector Mansel Braminger keenly watched for reactions on the faces of those gathered around him.  Some were lightly dozing while others simply continued to preen, caring more deeply in their own appearance than his announcement.  But mostly he was met by the same vacant stares to which he had grown accustomed.

                “I see,” he said, “so this is how it will be.”

Only the faintest hint of disappointment crept into his voice.  In truth he preferred it this way.  The pleasure of the hunt would be spoiled if the prey were caught so easily.  He spun on his heel and pointed an accusing finger.

“Let’s start with you, Tom,” he began.  “When I found you starving and ragged in that London alley you begged me for a morsel of food.  I had pity on you and your one eye.  I brought you back here where I fed you and cleaned you, never imagining that I might be bringing a killer into my home.  J’Accuse!”

One-Eyed Tom blinked his remaining good eye.  Speechlessly he got up from his repose and walked out of the room.

A wave of embarrassment swept over Chief Inspector Braminger.  He suddenly felt he had been too hard on his old friend.

“Ah, hmm, well…,” he stammered, “I suppose it wasn’t him.”

The inspector watched the doorway for a moment then quickly recovered himself.  He turned back to the room to select another suspect.  He scanned the room till his eyes came across Princess Khala.  He narrowed his eyes.

“Then it must have been you, my dear.  What have you to say for yourself?” he asked pointedly.

Princess Khala said nothing.  Aloof by her Persian heritage, she continued to gaze out of the parlour window, disinterested in him and his accusations.

This lack of co-operation in the room began to grate upon Braminger.

“I demand to know who did this!  When I left this morning Gilda was alive and healthy.  She was having a swim.  Now there is no sign of her and one of you is to blame.”

Chief Inspector Braminger strode across the room and picked up a fish bowl.

“Look!  She’s gone,” he cried.

Silence filled the room.  Princess Khala was licking her tail.

“Blasted cats,” swore Braminger under his breath.

 I'm Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

Dearth of a Salesman..

So, here's a little poem I wrote while contemplating my elbow...

Away out west where the earth meets the sky

There once roamed a man named Willie Devry

He was a wandrin’ man, wore a suit and a tie

Had a case of brushes for someone to buy

Staggered into town one hot fine day

Tryin’ to make a buck and earn his pay

Knocked on my door and I heard him say,

“Buy my brushes or I’ll be on my way.”

The price he quoted was a dollar and a cent

But I hadn’t any money, it had all been spent

I told him so and away he went

World’s never seen a more honest gent

Away out west where the earth meets the sky

There still roams a man named Willie Devry

He’s a wandrin’ man, wears a suit and a tie

Has a case of brushes for someone to buy

Never could get the hang of elbows...

I'm Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.