Sorry for the delay in posting results.
I've been busy packing my portmanteau for the trip Chez Yowl.
A raft of splendid entries this week! Thanks to all of you who took the time to write and enter!
Herewith the results
words I had to consult my lovely new dictionary about:
Steve Forti: bhangra
Great opening line
Every runner knows one word in Swedish: fartlek. (I even have a track t-shirt that says, “I fartlek when I run.”)
It’s one thing to be streetwise; it’s another to believe the moon is green cheese.
At one point she’d been someone better.
Steve Forti makes mincemeat of my efforts to foil him!
Harry’s limbs were convulsing, reenacting some stupid dance.why do I even try?
“Turn that crap off.”
“Whaddya prefer? EDM, bhangra, cello solos?”
Suzanne rolled her eyes and kept chopping. “It’s all the same noise.”
Harry huffed. “You need some variety in your life, Suz. I mean…” He waved at the counter. “Scallions, leeks, chives – they all taste like onions!”
She set down the knife and spooned her special sauce, offering it up. She knew all about Harry’s variety. His escapist affairs. Harry slurped.
“Mmm…mmmrrrmmhhh!” Harry’s limbs were convulsing again, then he fell. Motionless.
She resumed chopping. The Suz era in this house had begun.
“Great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts. Yum. Your favorite.”
Duchess sniffed. That was soooo 20th century. Effective immediately, she'd require caviar.
But staff were dimwitted. Take petting. Humans were always busy doing inconsequential “stuff”. Time available for petting was slim.
Today she'd change that.
As thumbed-one left the kitchen, Duchess' sleek feline form dashed underfoot.
The fall was less than graceful.
Thumbed-one returned, arm in a sling, and plopped on the couch. Duchess revved up her best purr and worked her way into the sling. Permanently. Now thumbed-one had no excuse.
One morning during a previous visit to Her Grace, I stumbled into the kitchen to
"What do you think, Suze? Rain, or no rain?"Love those sweet little twists at the end! One word turns the story on its ear!
"From the pergola. Personally, I’m leaning towards no, but, well, what do you think?" Carrie gestured to the slim archway.
Suzie bit her lower lip, tried to grab hold of the perfect day that hadn’t been. Eyes closed, she envisioned the grotto awash in a pale green glow—Titania’s garden—as she floated (gracefully) down an aisle of lilacs. No sleek tuxedos, no staff. Just her, Carrie, and a jewel-bedecked officiant.
It would be a perfect day.
Except it wouldn’t be.
Suzie studied her brother’s fiancée.
The recipe is an old family prescription:Did I miss "grace"?
6 green onions
2 lbs leek, chopped
Slimy horned toad
Uncle Joe’s taffy
1 garlic clove
Dash of salt
I left the pot simmering, the full aroma seeping into every crevice, while I took some samples outside. Anointed the grounds with ritual sincerity, the high priest of noxious concoctions.
The family arrived as I was emptying the pot in the garden.
“Yes, Mr. Briggs,” I said. “That’ll be $50.”
He wrote the check while I swept up the roaches.
“Same time next quarter,” I smiled.
The "high priest of noxious concoctions" is a description that we must find further use for!
And living in NYC as I do, I'd like to ask if this roach killing concoction is available in gallon containers.
In hindsight, he shouldn’t have kissed her. But in his defense, there should’ve only been one sleeping woman in a tower. “You’re not Aurora.”I am a sucker for turning a familiar story on its ear.
“Obviously.” Her slim form slid off the bed with a graceless thump. The green eyes were luminous against the sleek black hair, matching the smoldering orb on her staff. The one pointed at him. “I should kill you,” she said. Then smiled. “But not yet.”
He blinked as she swept past. “The kiss – ”
“Worked.” Another smile, sparks dancing in her eyes. “But unless you want to explain why you woke Maleficent, you’d best forget that.”
Walk 5k for suicide prevention. It’s a small ask.
Death held me close for years, a promise of escape that let me live another day. By grace of pharmacology, I refused the dust and ashes of the reaper’s kiss. Others aren’t so lucky.
We walk in their memory, to share hope.
At 3k, my joints rebel; the disabled body’s regular game of Russian roulette. Finishing was always a slim chance.
But I hold suzerain over bone and gristle. Clinging to my husband, a living staff, I stumble under sleek flags, as sunrise feeds green grass and brings light into dark.
This really isn't a story but the writing is so good I could not bear to leave it off the list. Phrases like "refused the dust and ashes of the reaper's kiss" and "my husband, a living staff" make me stop and just breathe for an appreciative moment.
Eddie hunkered down on a moldy green tombstone. “Hey, Sleek, what’s a ghoul’s favorite dessert?”
My nickname’s Slick, but Eddie always got it wrong. Mama said he was a ‘there but for the grace of God’ person.
“Give up?” he asked.
I shrugged. I didn’t share his latest affinity for the dead.
“Key Slime Pie!”
One thing about Eddie, he never shut up. I didn’t mind anymore. It was lonely here since Mama stopped coming.
“Gravediggers at six o’clock,” I said, pointing.
He kicked at the ground. Still guilty.
The other thing about Eddie, he was a lousy lookout.
Very deft use of the prompt words!
MemorandumThose is hilarious, and true.
To: Chez Yowl Staff and Residents
From: Your Grace, The Duchess of Yowl
Date: May 12, 2019
Subject: Sidewalk Debris
The owner of the slim green garden house that is placed on the sidewalk in my sun spot should alight from the rolling office chair and remove the sidewalk debris at once. I may be sleek, intelligent and beautiful, but unlike the west coast feline suzerain, Marino, I lack the opposable thumbs necessary to crank the maddening hose reel. Thank you.
The only problem is the typo.
I'm going to let this sit overnight, then come back in the morning and read the final list again.
Did I overlook anyone?
Who is your choice?
Also, how the HELL are we going to THWART Mr. Forti????
When trying to pick the prize winner, I get persnickety about things like typos, missed words, not a story.
With those in mind I looked again.
While Steve Forti has thwarted my every effort to stymie him, he has once again prevailed. The only question is how to reward this. Maybe sending him a 3000 page book so he's busy reading every weekend for the next year?
I have some Bill Vollmann books here to choose from:
In the end though, I went with deft and funny.
Just Jan, you are this week's prize winner!
Drop me a line with your mailing address and tell me the kinds of books you like to read, and I'll get your prize in the mail.
Thanks to all of you who took the time to write and post entries.
You provided a very welcome bright spot over this rainy weekend!