silliness Archives · Blue Fern Press

Stellar Import

Her kid wants a purple one, but it doesn’t come in purple. Em makes one, but homemade won’t do. The cape has to come from Krypton or Macy’s.

It’s all about the clawfoot tub. Ted loved her place. So he married her. They had kids. She died at 90. He won’t let them sell at any price.

Fritz had a shaggy dog. One day the dog ate his homework. When he told his teacher, she laughed at him. That’s the day Fritz learned to lie.

Maeve was 84, rode a ’59 Schwinn, and ran a printing press. She left it to her bike mechanic, Sam. In his comics, she became an enchantress.

He heard 12 children play xylophones to an orchestrated marimba beat. She heard 4 kids in a break between sets, jamming amazing bright jazz.

Mac has never seen the ocean. Alia has never seen a cow. They meet on Route 66. She’s having coffee late. He’s up early. Hello dawns slowly.

A red-headed librarian is killed. Her husband has an alibi. Her lover has no motive. Her son is not deranged. A just-culled author done it.

For a year he had balls and no name. Then he was fixed and called Rex. His bichon hair grew back. Now he’s called Bébé. This is a rescue.

The man said her trilby looked silly on a woman. Guys usually stared at her wheelchair, not her hat. She smiled. He grinned. It was a start.

Vivian had an old oak cut down. The doves protested. She put up a feeder. It brought rats. She put out poison. That’s what killed the cat.

Jamie leans on a power pole. Rusted staples twice her age prickle her aching back. She’s jolted by lingering love for hundreds of lost cats.

Helen lived in a houseboat on a creek off a bay. A century-old drawbridge rose whenever Jack sailed in to see her. It made her boat shimmy.

They were married by an insurance salesman. She wore red hot pants. There are no pictures, except those their eyes have shared for 42 years.

He told her, “Kangaroos can’t jump backward. You’ll never forget me or that fact.” She’ll remember his acne and earnestness on that hot bus.

Roxy is not an Arabian, Clydesdale, Lipizzaner, or Mustang. She’s a rent-a-ride horse. Ben, 11, is blind. They fall in love at first sniff.

He juggles in the rain, says ‘bing’ as a verb, and wears suspenders. He takes Cate to karaoke. She discovers this Portlander sings falsetto.

Algebra: The cake is 8 layers high. The girl is 6 years old. The counter is 3 feet tall. In minutes, how long until the cake hits the floor?

It was an ordinary dawn. Sunlight glancing off Tom’s butter knife flashed prisms on his toaster. He didn’t see until his son called it cool.

An old mop is standing on its head in Ed’s garden, its stick like driftwood, its strings bedded in moss. A bluebird perches on it. Ed grins.

Em owns a vintage Mustang. She bought it in ’67. Em’s good at keeping things. Al isn’t. He left Em in ’82. He regrets it. He loved that car.

Her hair, red as Georgia clay, hung longer than her blue polka dot shorts. Ed stared and gave it thought, but damned if he didn’t turn away.