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.

I really should start thinking of titles...

                As I sat in my overstuffed chair in the library of Morley Hall the deep winter night outside the window stood in stark contrast to the warm and golden glow cast by the fire in the hearth.  I had always come here when I was troubled.  It was my vain hope that the books would steep, brewing a “tea of knowledge”, as it were, from the musty air.  All I needed then would be to absorb it by spending a few pensive minutes there.

                My particular troubles as of late were of a financial nature.  The old family money had finally run out.  I was left with a staff I could not pay and a mansion I could not upkeep.  As I was going over several solutions that had come to me earlier in the day and finding them all unworkable, drowsiness overtook me.  I had just drifted off to sleep when I was awakened by a soft cough at my side.  I shook off the muzziness that afflicted me and looked up to find my butler offering me my usual nip of the juice as a nightcap.  As he bent to me and proffered the glass containing the stuff I noticed a small envelope on the salver.

                “What’s this, Blanford,” I asked taking the envelope.

                “My resignation sir,” he replied.

                “But… but… my man!  You’ve been with my family for years,” I managed, forgetting that I’d have to let the man go before the year was out.

                “Indeed sir, since I was a boy.  My grandfather served your grandfather as my father served yours.  There seems always to have been a Blanford at Morley Hall.” 

A wistful look came to his eye as he spoke and he began to move about the room.  Stopping by the mantelpiece he turned his gaze upward to the painting of my father that hung there.  Sitting nobly astride his horse and clad in full hunting garb the old man cut quite a romantic figure.

“I was there when your father sat for this painting.  I remember the weather was inclement that day and the horse was in a fractious mood.  The beast would not stay still and your father was becoming very cross.  Just at the height of his aggravation there came a great clap of thunder startling the horse and causing him to buck your father off into a puddle.”

Blanford lowered his eyes to the mantelpiece.  “And here.  I remember the day the lady dowager, your grandmother sir, obtained this fine torsion clock.  She claimed it had come from the household of Tsar Nicholas II and your mother hadn’t the heart to tell her it had only come from Harrod’s.  Many have been the times I have handled this clock.  Dusting it, winding it and resetting its hands when they were a tad off.  Just as if it were mine.  Indeed sir, as if the whole of Morley Hall were mine.  Which is why I wish to purchase it.”

                For the second time that evening the man had me speechless.  Luckily my quick wits came to my rescue.  “What?” I reposted cleverly.

                A slight hint of embarrassment crept into the man’s voice.  “I’ve won the sweepstakes, sir.  Quite a significant sum.”

                This time no brilliant quip came to me.  I sat in stunned silence gawping at the man like a haddock.

                “I am led to understand that the manor is in some difficulty, sir, and I find myself now in a position to aid us both,” said Blanford, filling the silence.

                “Well, yes,” I replied and as I spoke a light dawned.  The man was offering me a way out of the financial hole in which I found myself.  Overjoyed I looked at the man and said, “I would be honored to sell the old place to you, Blanford.”

I arose and shook the man’s hand vigorously.  A great weight had been lifted from my mind but as it was lifted another quickly replaced it.

                “But, Blanford, what shall I do?  I have no other home and no position to support myself.”

                At this his lips spread into a sly smile.  “Well, sir,” he said as he dropped into my chair, “I will need someone to butle for me.  Pour me a brandy, would you?”

                It was my turn to smile.

“Yes, Blan… yes, sir.”

-I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

Did I mention My Brain Ain't Right?

                Aliens!  Right here in my garden!  I mean what’s a man to do if he can’t get any peace and quiet in the privacy of his own backyard?  Oh sure, they help with the weeding and they always turn the compost pile, but the eerie lights and other-worldly noises coming from my shed are causing the neighbors to give me dirty looks.

                I asked their leader, a tiny fellow named Gorblab[1], what possible interest my garden could hold for interstellar travelers such as themselves.  He just smiled, gave me a sly look and kept on pruning my petunias.

                This air of mystery which they keep about themselves is annoying enough, but what really burns my goat is that they won’t give me a lift to the market.  Here they are, with a spaceship that can travel the inter-galactic void but when I mention I’m running low on Cream-o-wheat[2] all I get are vague excuses like “quantum velocities are not to be used in planetary gravitational wells.” Whatever that means.[3]

                I guess I should count my blessings.  Fairies would have been worse.  The nuisance of their constant buzzing and humming would interrupt my naps and their incessant giggling would rankle me like fingernails on a chalkboard.[4]  Can you imagine bending down to sniff a lovely flower and finding some pixie’s bare bottom staring up at you from the center of the bloom?[5]

                So, I tolerate the spacemen in my solarium.  I have been and will remain a good host.  But I fear for the world’s farina supply.

---

[1] At least that’s what I think he said.  It’s kind of hard to understand these little fellows sometimes.  I don’t know where they learned to speak English.

[2] They eat this for every meal.  Breakfast, lunch, dinner and late night snack.

[3] Hell, if it means I have to pay for the gas I’ll do it.

[4] Let’s not even speak of their deep seated disregard for decorum with their blatant nudity.

[5] Contrary to popular belief pixie bottoms are not sweet smelling.

I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

Once Upon a Time in China...

Hu Dat Na King, the great Chinese emperor looked out from the imperial palace.  An early spring had brought the cherry blossoms into full bloom and the courtyard of the palace was swathed in a pink blanket of petals.  He inhaled the warm and sweetly scented air that wafted to his balcony and smiled.  Today would be a good day.

The emperor’s reverie was interrupted as a servant entered the room, prostrated himself and began addressing the floor.

 “Humble apologies, majesty,” said the servant, his voice rising from the floor, “but General Wing Wing Ha Lo has arrived from the northern provinces and wishes to speak with you.”

“It is too fine a day, Ku Ki Do.  Matters of state can wait till tomorrow,” answered the emperor still smiling.

“Forgive this servant master, but the general insists it is urgent,” said the floor.

Hu Dat Na King sighed.  He knew Wing Wing Ha Lo was not a man who enjoyed waiting, not even for an emperor.  But since there was no finer tactician in the empire he was allowed his impudence.  “Impudent, but not impotent” the emperor was known to say to his advisers whenever they complained of the general’s behavior.

“Very well, Ku Ki Do.  Show him in,” said the emperor resignedly.

The servant groveled backwards out of the room as Hu Dat Na King took a seat near the open balcony door.  His eyes were still on the gardens below when a storm of armor and audacity swept into his presence.

“I must object at being kept waiting!” boomed Wing Wing Ha Lo, adding a quick “Your majesty” after a raised eyebrow from the emperor.  “I have grave news from the north.”

The emperor studied the man before him.  The general was squat and muscular with a wild mane of hair that thrust out at all angles from beneath his helmet.  One of his eyes seemed to have interests of its own as it perused the rest of the room while the other was fixed steadily on the emperor.  Overall he looked more like a mad man who had found a suit of armor by the side of the road than the imperial army’s most brilliant commander.

“Please, my dear general, sit.  I was just about to call for tea,” said the emperor gently.  It was best not to excite the man further.

“Tea!  How can you think of tea at a time like this?  The Mongol leader I Chi Ba Tum is marching on our northern borders and you want to talk about tea?!”

Clearly there would be no calming the man today.

“What is it you need then, Wing Wing Ha Lo?”

“Men, your majesty.  Recall General Wha Chu Doo Eng from the west and assign his men to me.  I will take it from there.”

“General Wha Chu Doo Eng is overseeing an important public works project.  His men are damming the Bo Tai river to create See Ling Fan lake.  He cannot be troubled.”

The general’s already ruddy complexion went several shades redder.  “The defense of the empire is more important than a new swimming pool,” he cried, his voice raising an octave per shade of crimson.

“Very well my dear general, I will see what can be done.  For now, leave me to contemplate your request.  Let us not lose our head over matters,” replied emperor Hu Dat Na King.

Wing Wing Ha Lo stopped mid-protest.  He pondered that last sentence.  Hu Dat Na King was a genteel man and benevolent ruler and it may have been just a turn of phrase.  Then again, Wing Wing Ha Lo’s battlefield experience had taught him that all men have a point beyond which they will not be pushed.  Perhaps a strategic retreat was called for.  Yes.  A tactically wise decision.

The general bowed deep before the ruler and strode from the room.  The emperor was impressed.  Try as he might he could barely hear the general grumbling as he went. 

The general was right of course, and Hu Dat Na King knew it.  Something would need to be done.  But not today.  The sun was still shining golden on the palace courtyard and Ku Ki Do had just entered with tea.  Yes, today would be a fine day.

“There is another guest waiting to see you, my emperor,” said the servant as he poured the tea.  “An Italian explorer.  Ma Ko Po Lo I think the name was," he sniggered.

The emporer tutted.  “Now, now Ku Ki Do.  It is impolite to make fun of someone’s name.”

“Many apologies your majesty.”

 I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

Unfinished story...

Hello all,

Sorry I've been away for a while but the doctors now say I'm safe to be on the streets again.  While I was gone I prepared the following.  It's not complete and a little weird but it is high art.  Don't let anyone tell you differently.  Here goes...

           

I stepped off the glideway onto the pavement in front of Burble and Gleep’s Art Showroom near Juno Station’s transport center.  Smitty had convinced the owners to display his latest work and I had promised to come by and have a look.

Now, Smitty was an artistic dreamer who put more aspiration than perspiration into his work and while he had a small clique of devoted fans they were mostly fringers; people who balanced on the edge of sanity and cleanliness.  This suited Smitty just fine, for any praise was good praise, but his true dream was to “give birth to the next new wave in art” and “hold the worlds in awe.”  He had in fact come close once with a style he called Nova Nouveau which on the evening of its premier was well received.  That night Smitty was the toast of the local art world, rubbing elbows and other bits of anatomy with the crème de la crème.  By morning however, after they had slept it off, the noses and proboscises of the critics were back in the air sniffing derision.  When I saw him the next day and suggested he was an “overnight sensation” he didn’t laugh. 

As I entered the double doors of the gallery I was immediately confronted by the mass of pink feathers and refracted light that was Turgula Gleep, a broad, stocky, toad-like woman who had the fashion sense of a dazed flamingo that had been rolled in a bin of rhinestones. 

“Dahling!” she shrilled.  I swear her voice could cut polyglass.  “We haven’t seen you in ages.  What brings you to us today?”

“Just here to see Smitty’s stuff.  Is Glipso around?” I asked hopefully.

Turgula pursed here wide lips and gave a disappointed look.  “Oh, the old fuddy is here somewhere.  Check the back.”

With a private sigh of relief I left her and picked my way toward the back of the cluttered gallery.  Glipso and Turgula’s tastes were said by most people to be eclectic, but “eclectic” is just a polite way of saying “haphazard.”  You could find anything from ancient iconography to ultramodern plasmatic dioramas in Burble and Gleep’s.  There was even some offworld stuff.  Like the Turgorian scent painting I wandered too close to.  After my nose forgave me and my vision cleared, I rose from the floor and managed to stagger the remaining few meters to the gallery’s storeroom where I found the gallery’s other owner, Glipso Burble.

Glipso had once been an artist himself in his younger days.  But at the height of his popularity he created a series of paintings depicting various barricades and roadblocks which he called “Obstruct Expressionism.”  During the subsequent riot a mob of people broke into his studio and plucked the bristles from all his brushes.  Glipso was forced at palette point to promise never to paint again.  Can’t say as I blame them.

As I entered the storeroom Glipso was overseeing the maneuvering of a large display piece by two very large workers…

And that's where I stopped.  The room was spinning and I had to go lie down.  Ooooh it's happening again...

I'm Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.