Forest Upgrade

As your new Sec. of the Interior let me reassure you we have the world's greatest forests, much better than Europe. But I think we can get better.
Here are some suggestions:
Paint all mushrooms to eliminate blandness
Train flying squirrels to perform dangerous leaps in tandem
Carve sculptures of dead celebs on trees like Don Rickles
Subsidize bow and arrow hunters
Name every bear
Organize frogs into choral groups
Create an elite tic fighting team
Declare Dragon flies a national treasure
Establish one taco stand somewhere in each forest

TV at 3AM

Shows at 3am.

Tunneling with the Stars
World of Smells
Weaponizing fruit and vegetable peelers
How Do mangos Procreate?
The Mike Pence Hour
Clogg Dancing for the Blind
Exploring Hudson River Sea Life
Mobsters in Love
Fungus is Our Friend
Uber Drivers Go Commando

Worlds Apart

Marge Mango was in love. She lay on the bottom shelf pining for the object of her affection. Artie Yogurt was concerned. Why so glum, he asked.
She paused and said, here I am, young and succulent, wasting away. Becoming overripe. Marge gathered herself. Two weeks ago the human went shopping and I found myself tossed into a bag with...Christopher.
Christopher?
Oh, yes. He was hard and firm, pressing against me. Rough, beautifully curved skin. When we arrived at the human's house we were separated. I thought, no big deal, he's on a different shelf.
But I was wrong. The human placed him atop the refrigerator. I screamed inwardly. We were worlds apart. I had no idea avocados are not refrigerated. They must ripen in open air.
Marge broke down. He is probably in the human's digestive system. Artie looked closer and saw small blotches on her skin. Soon she would be overripe.
If it makes you feel better, he said, I was thrown into a bag with Styrofoam cups. Laugh if you must, but I was smitten. They were put in a cabinet. It may as well be Mars.
Marge and Artie both began sobbing. The saddest words in the food universe...what might have been.

Dirty Scavenger

I had run out of ideas. A blank slate. A writer's worst nightmare. I slid into depression. Who was I if I couldn't write?
I sank to leaning over at Starbucks to see what others were creating.Term papers. An MFA thesis. A Grocery list. Pathetic. Visiting friends, I'd scour their rooms, looking for scraps of paper with ideas. I grew desperate. My health suffered. Personal hygiene disappeared. I looked slovenly.
One day, I found a copy of Poets & Writers and saw an ad for an Idea Landfill in Garfield, NJ. For $5 one could spend hours searching piles of discarded or damaged ideas.
Finally I found a gem. It centered on a writing prompt group that met every Saturday. Ten serious scribes. But one was evil. He'd invite one of the others to his home for a home cooked meal. Then he'd slip something into the wine to knock them out. Then he dismembered the body and cooked and ate them. This way he gradually eliminated the competition.
I had to create an ending.
At least my mind was spinning again.
Later, I found out James Paterson bought out the entire Idea Landfill. The man is insatiable.

The Wild Card

Leo was always the wild card. We'd be hanging at the Dairy Queen parking lot waiting for girls to show up. Leo had a better idea. Kidnap his cousin Joey,  the crossing guard. We protested. It's 8pm. Too late. Leo assured us the guy would still be there, dedicated, crossing seniors well into the night.
Where would we take him and what would we do with him?
Leo had an answer ready. That abandoned warehouse on Sullivan. We tie him to a chair and terrorize him.
Why? we asked.
Because he pepper sprayed me at Mary's birthday party. I was trying to get her attention.
Guess you did.
In the worst way. I want revenge.
But he's your cousin.
So what? He's evil.
We took a vote. 5-0 to wait for girls. Leo was pissed, but we stayed friends.
He's now a juvenile court judge. His cousin is still a crossing guard.
Me? I'm a writer. Take your pick.

No Bars

I am lost in this forest with no reception and a dead battery. Night is coming and I am frantic. I can hear chainsaws from far off. I begin to move in that direction when a man bursts through the underbrush. His has white hair, perfectly combed and carries an axe.
Are you a Christian, he asks.
I hesitate before answering, I'm an agnostic.
He frowns and takes a step toward me.
Do you believe in God, he asks.
I think there is a higher force that exists.
He seems confused. I think we have a problem here, he says.
I'm just lost. Can you give me directions?
He pulls out his cell and says something to whoever is on the other end. Minutes pass and he eyes me suspiciously.
I have an open mind about God, I break the silence.
You may wind up with an open chest cavity, he responds. I realize I'm speaking to VP Pence. Suddenly the bushes part and several men carrying chainsaws emerge. I recognize the leader--Rudy Guliani.
Please, sir, I'm Italian on both sides.
He smiled big and jabbed me in the ribs. Not much meat on him, he says. Pence nods and thinks.
We have a method of dealing with atheists, he says, indicating the saws.
But that's illegal, I cry.
They double over in laughter.
I never once voted for Hilary!
They close in. I pray Bernie Sanders is nearby.

My Reader

My reader is so beautiful. I am in love with her. I think she loves me. She reads all about me in her pajamas and looks like the girl next door.
I hope she reads slow. I want this relationship to last. I am young Zorro, before he became famous. I am just learning how to use a sword. The writer has made me 18. I look so handsome in black. The clothes are tight. I wish she could see my butt.
In Chapter Nine I finally display serious sword play. My yellow kerchief sets off my orange scabbard and leather boots. I am an icon in love with my reader. I hope when she finishes my book she will leave it on the night stand and occasionally open it Her skin is so white, her eyes so brown. I had better attend to business. The author will be furious. This erection does not move the story forward.

Luggage

I'm a bag handler at Newark Airport. I take great pride in accuracy. Our crew wants nothing less than perfection.
So I was upset when a man came complaining that his luggage was missing from the carousel. I looked all over to no avail. I made a phone call to a neighboring area and sure enough, one of our guys called back, shouting they had an emergency with one of the bags. He described the luggage and the complainant verified it was his.
The problem was, the man had come from Singapore and purchased a number of characters for his planned novel at a discount. Somehow, they escaped from the bag and were scrambled all over the terminal, seeking freedom, I guess.
Writers. Spare me. We finally captured all of them except the one playing the lady in distress. I'm sure he will sue us. Frankly, I never heard of the guy. Can't be all that successful. And why didn't he buy his characters from the US?

Dancing in the Dark

All over the city the lights went out. People emerged from homes confused and on edge. Was this an attack? Sobs filled the air. No microwave popcorn. No Netflicks. No juice blenders. No CNN.
At some point humming occurred. Others joined in. Couples began dancing in pitch dark. Even kids whirled awkwardly. Longtime couples who hadn't danced in years swayed gently. This was magic.
Dawn came. People were tired, but happy. Slowly, they returned home. No one went to work. They climbed into bed. Streets were quiet. It all seemed like a dream.
The power eventually returned, along with depressing news reports, argumentative TV panel discussions, and endless foot fungus commercials.
I had danced with Alonzo, who owned a pizza parlor. Who knew he had such hidden grace?

Rooster

Ernie the rooster stood atop the barn crowing away. Helen, the hen, shouted for him to pipe down. We're having a meeting in the barn and you're too loud.
What meeting?
We are protesting a 10% increase in egg production quota.
Not my problem. My job is to crow all day.
You are self centered and repetitive with your noise.
What about my issues? I have rooster problems. Afraid of snakes. Can't lay the bagpipes. Sex hasn't been good.
If we don't meet our quotas we get shipped to Ottowa.
What does that mean?
We'll be hunted and enslaved. Canada has no egg shortage. We're expendable.
Okay, I'll be quiet.
Thanks. Can I get you anything?
Some spritzer would be nice. This dry heat kills my tone and pitch.