A Story Riddled with Mystery.

            Once upon a time, way up in the Stickler Mountains, the picturesque kingdom of Quiz had a problem.  The kingdom’s whole supply of enigmas were shut tight behind the great wooden doors of Mr. E’s warehouse and no one, not even Mr. E himself, could remember where the keys were stored.

            Now, the people of Quiz loved their brainteasers and the thought of having nothing to puzzle over at night before bed disturbed them greatly.  So, after much deliberation with his advisers, and reaching no solution, the king called an emergency meeting in the town hall to hear ideas from the populace.

            “We must get those doors open,” said the king.  “Winter is nearly upon us.  Without our supply of enigmas to see us through the long nights we shall surely be bored to death.”

            “Have you nothing to remind you where the keys are, Mr. E?” asked a small boy in the front row of the meeting hall. 

            Mr. E sadly shook his head and was about to answer the child when something dawned on him.  Quickly reaching inside his coat he pulled out a small scrap of paper.

            “I remember jotting down this riddle as a way to jog my memory,” he said “but I don’t know what it means now.”

            “Well, read it to us” said the boy, whose name was Puzzlewit and was widely considered the cleverest person in the kingdom.

            Rising from his chair Mr. E. adjusted his spectacles on his fat nose.  Then he cleared his throat loudly and began…

A perch for a raven,

In a poem by Poe.

You may think that was me,

But the answer is no.

            With a sheepish smile Mr. E. returned to his seat.  A hush fell over the hall as everyone began to ponder the meaning of the riddle.  After a few moments Puzzlewit spoke.

            “If you all will follow me, I think I can lead you now to where we might find the keys.”  And he did.

Where did Puzzlewit lead everyone?

I'm Karl Fogsen, thanks for reading. 

Something short...

            A late September sun cast lengthy shadows through the study window.  Lord Blevin Rumford rubbed his weary eyes.  The light was no longer sufficient for reading, especially for a man of his advanced age.  As he leant forward and pushed the switch on a brass lamp that stood on his desk there was a sudden burst of blue-white light and a small pop.  The bulb had blown.

Lord Blevin sighed.  He thought for a moment of ringing for Simmons, but if a man couldn’t obtain and change his own light bulbs then, damn it, what good was a man?  He pushed himself away from his desk and arose slowly and stretched his bones playing counter point to the fire that cracked and snapped in the hearth.  Alas, further disappointment greeted him as he opened the study closet.  The spare light bulb box was empty.  He’d have to go to the hall.

He made his away across the room to the door leading to the hall and grasped the knob, but the knob refused to turn.  It was locked.  Some blasted fool had locked him in his study!  He pounded the door with his fist and shouted for the butler Simmons.  He paused for a moment and listened.  Finally he heard soft footsteps and a muffled voice through the door.

“Is something wrong, Your Grace?” asked the voice.

“Yes there bloody well is Simmons.  Did you lock my study?”

“No, Your Grace”

“Well, find the key and let me out before I go out the window.  Then question the staff.  I want to know who locked this door.”

“Very good, milord.”  The footsteps receded.

Sir Blevin paced the rug that lay by the door until the butler returned with the key.

“Thank you, Simmons,” he said as he stepped into the hall.  “Any word on who locked me in?”

“I’m afraid not, milord,” the butler replied.

            There was a silent second.

“Perhaps we should call for Agatha Christie, milord.  I understand she excels at locked room mysteries,” said Simmons with the faintest of smiles. 

“Very funny Simmons,” answered Lord Blevin with the faintest of praise


I'm Karl Fogsen, thanks for reading.

An unthought rant.

                I hereby demand that the English language clean up its act.  I do further state that from this point on I shall use an alternate spelling to that end.

                Uuhy, you uuonder?  Uuhat uuould this neuu system be?  Uuell, if you uuill observe these tuuo sentences you uuill uuork out the ansuuer to this mystery.  I am referring to the uuorst letter in the uuritten  uuord: The Double-u.

Uuhy do uue continue to use this uuaste of alphabetic space uuhen it can easily be replaced with tuuo “u”s as its ouun name suggests.

But uuait, there’s more.  Look at in your keyboard.  Go ahead, I’ll uuait.  See, it doesn’t even look like a double-u.  It’s a double-v, folks!

Nouu, I understand this uuill take some uuork on our part to get used to, but trust me uuhen that day comes, it uuill be uuonderful.

One more thing.  If this neuu method is not uuelcomed by the English speaking peoples of the uuorld, could uue at least spell the uuord “vacwm” thusly?

Thank you.

 I'm Karl Fogsen, thanks for reading.              

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.