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.

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.

Evidence that I've gone mad...

            This is just little story.  Once upon a time there lived a happy princess.  She lived among the apes and crocodiles in a humid jungle.  One day a small platoon of marines came to her door and asked for a cup of sugar.  Well, she had none so she had to run to the market.

            The market was crowded because it was senior animal day and all the elderly creatures of the jungle were in with their social security checks.  The happy princess became less and less happy as she stood in the long lines at the check-out counter.  She looked around her to find anything to lighten her mood when she spied a tabloid that bore a huge headline.

            “Happy Princesses Less Likely to Marry” the headline cried.  The happy princess snatched the paper from its stand and quickly read the article.  “That does it,” she thought.  “From now on I will be a bitter princess.”

            Then the bitter princess left the grocery and headed home.  There she found the marines waiting for her.

            “Where is our sugar?” they asked.

            “Get it yourself.  I’m bitter” she replied.

            Needless to say this did not go down well with the marines so they mowed her down with their machine guns.

            The next day a tabloid could be found on newsstands declaring, “Bitter Princesses More Likely to Die by Firing Squad.”

            The moral of this tale:  If you could play poker with a monkey why wouldn’t you?

I am Karl Fogen and I have forgotten my medicine.  Thanks for reading.

Unthought of the day...

The next time you have a complaint, rearrange your letters and become compliant.

I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for considering.

Edgar Rice Fogsen...

Phobos and Deimos, the demon moons, rose high above the shifting red sands of Mars.  As the sun sank toward its rest, Jack Wagoner watched from behind a low rise as a row of wains moved slowly across the dunes pulled by great beasts of Elysium.

His eyes were fixed on the second carriage.  Gilt and ornately carved it seemed out of place among the drab merchant wagons that accompanied it.  About it marched four large and well armed beings; bodyguards to the royal passenger inside.

The sun dropped below the horizon and the diamond-light of the stars was kindled.  Jack Wagoner began to move in the semi-darkness toward the end of the hill that hid him.  He was now just feet from the desert road, crouched and ready to spring.  He allowed the foremost guard to pass.  As the rear guard drew level with him Jack sprung from his hiding place.  The guard crumpled to the ground as a heavy fist struck the back of his neck.  The remaining three guards lunged at their attacker but were no match for Jack’s earthman strength.  Soon all four lay unconscious at his feet.

Jack moved quickly to the door of the carriage and gripped its gilt handle.  Pulling it open he climbed inside and found himself face to face with Princess Nayploo Sultra, the most beautiful woman on Mars.

The above was written merely as a writing excercise.  It is in no way meant to entertain anyone.  (What do you mean "No worries"?  Whyiotta...)

I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.  (I guess)

Just something to show I'm still here...

Ill advised novel titles

The Girl Who Grew a Soul Patch

Like Water for Chocolate Elephants

Beer and Loafing in Las Vegas

Clan of the Cave Marmot

Left Behind (and Loving It)

Harry Potter and the Decreasing Sales

The Hunt for Red Buttons

The Lord of the Rinds

Great Expectorations

I hope to have something better to post soon.  I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading anyway.

Old poem...

I was going through some old papers the other day and came across this poem I wrote, oh it must be 25 years ago.

I don't know anyone named James Bond but I wish I did because he could use this as his epitaph...

Here lies James Bond,
Not who you think.
Never slept with a blond,
Never took a drink.

Clearly, I was not as sophisticated a writer then as I am now.
 
I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.  And quit that sniggering.

Quick poem...

Hello.  Karl here.

I have just written this poem for a friend's birthday and thought you'd like to have a look...

One of my wife’s fondest wishes

Is for me to do the dirty dishes

And one of mine for my Mrs.

Her face to be more like Lillian Gish’s

(love ya hon!)

I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

Some fruity language...

Hi, Karl here.

Today I have a small poem that I have prepared for you.  Ready?  Here it comes:

The reputation to be delicious

Is easily said of fruits,

And refutation that they’re nutritious

Is quite simple to dispute

This predilection is not fictitious,

Across the spectrum it fits.

My prediction is not ambitious

Though, that peach stones are the pits.

There now.  That was painless, eh?  Oh don't give me that look.  Alright, I'll make it up to you with a little joke:

Did you hear about the caveman who was making flint tools when he was attacked by a bear?  The bear caught him knapping.

Honestly, some people are never satisfied.

I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading

Writer's block...

My muse and I stood by the Well of Creativity.  I peered into the well searching for inspiration but saw nothing but darkness there.  Solemnly I grasped the well’s crank and lowered the bucket of my thoughts.  The rope played out to its end and there was a faint clunk from within the well.  I began to reel in the slackened cord.  Shortly, the bucket had returned to us but was filled with nothing but dust. 

  I looked to my muse.  She shrugged at me and grinned a sheepish grin.  She turned to go.  A mad impulse over took me.  I grabbed her, throttled her, and threw her into the well.  As she disappeared into the blackness I heard her cry;

“You’re welcoooooooooome!”

And there was a splash from the well.

I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

Nothing much to say about this one...

Adventurers Club

            In the gloom the old man had stopped talking.  His head nodded forward and I knew he had drifted off to sleep again.  I looked around me.  We were seated on an island of warm firelight in an old unlit library.  A dark sea of mahogany and leather surrounded us.  Hanging above us in the still air was a pall of smoke from the old man’s cigar, its scent not quite overpowering the smell of years of dust on the aged books lining the shelves in the darkened corners of the room.

            My eyes were drawn back to the old man.  His lined face told a long story.  A lifetime of heart-breaks and sorrows creased his brow.  Times of anger were etched there.  Yet the wrinkles round his eyes bespoke of smiles unnumbered.  Laughter had made its mark too.  He was a handsome man even now.  His frame was withered and frail, but he had been tall and strong in his youth.  I repositioned myself in my chair and the sudden creak of its leather roused him.

            He cleared his throat and asked, “What was I saying, now?”

            “You were telling me of the temple in Burma.  And the girl,” I answered.

            “Ah yes, the girl,” he said quietly and his voice trailed off as his memory recalled scenes from far away and long ago.  He chuckled and sipped from a brandy snifter that sat at hand.

            “You don’t want to hear that story,” he said, “Let me tell you of a real adventure.”

             He was wrong.  I did want to hear of the girl.  And the temple.  And Burma.  I grumbled under my breath but not too loudly and settled back into my chair.  He took another drink of his brandy and began…

“I remember the time when I rescued Princess Nayploo Sultra, the most beautiful woman in history from a ruthless tribe of bandits.  I was a young man then, just twenty-three, dashing and adventurous.  I had become separated from my battalion in North Africa doing battle with Rommel and I was wandering the desert dunes.  In my search for water I came across an oasis filled with tents.  A veritable bandit city stretched before me.  Well, I couldn’t just go back out into that desert without water so I waited till nightfall in the shade of a date palm…”

I closed my eyes and dreamt as the old man continued his tale.  His words conjured images in my head.  I was swept off to the Sahara where I could feel the desert wind on my face and see the moon dancing in the waters of the oasis.  I imagined myself sneaking to the chieftain’s tent and doing battle with his guards.  And finally, when the old man’s story ended, and he once more dropped off to sleep it was I who rode off on a stolen horse, Princess Nayploo clinging to my back and a horde of howling bandits chasing us across the dunes.

The End

I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.