Me: What now, your grace?
DoY: I was consigned to the LAST part of the week in review. Miffed. MIFFED.
Me: how thoughtless of me. Let me fix that immediately. How about a writing contest in your honor?
DoY: the prize is I will allow someone to pet me, instead of you.
Me: Some of the blog readers live far away: Paris, France, New Zealand, on a boat in the ocean. Petting you might be a prize that would cost them time and money.
DoY: Your point?
Me: of course your grace. How silly of me.
 |
| The Duchess of Yowl |
The usual rules apply:
1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.
2. Use these words in the story:
miff
tiff
sulk
huff
fluff
3. You must use the whole word, but that whole word can be part of a larger word. The letters for the
prompt must appear in consecutive order. They cannot be backwards.
Thus: huff/chuff is ok, but sulk/skulk is not
4. Post the entry in the comment column of THIS blog post.
5. One entry per person. If you need a mulligan (a do-over) erase your entry and post again. It helps to work out your entry first, then post.
6. International entries are allowed, but prizes may vary for international addresses.
7. Titles count as part of the word count (you don't need a title)
8. Under no circumstances should you tweet anything about your particular entry to me. Example: "Hope you like my entry about Felix Buttonweezer!" This is grounds for disqualification.
8a. There are no circumstances in which it is ok to ask for feedback from ME on your contest entry. NONE. (You can however discuss your entry with the commenters in the comment trail...just leave me out of it.)
9. It's ok to tweet about the contest generally.
Example: "I just entered the flash fiction contest on Janet's blog and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt"
10. Please do not post anything but contest entries. (Not for example "I love Felix Buttonweezer's entry!")
11. You agree that your contest entry can remain posted on the blog for the life of the blog. In other words, you can't later ask me to delete the entry and any comments about the entry at a later date.
12. The stories must be self-contained. That is: do not include links or footnotes to explain any part of the story. Those extras will not be considered part of the story.
Contest opens: 8:57am Saturday May 14
Contest closes: 9am Sunday May 15
If you're wondering how much time you have before the contest closes: click here
If you'd like to see the entries that have won previous contests, there's
an .xls spread sheet here http://www.colindsmith.com/TreasureChest/
(Thanks to Colin Smith for organizing and maintaining this!)
Questions? Tweet to me @Janet_Reid
Ready? SET?
Rats! Contest closed. Too late.
52 comments:
Stiff neck. Marlena rubbed it for him.
If fealty to one’s husband was a crime, she thought, they might as well lock her up. Lately, every night she shuffled upstairs only to find him rigid on the bed, muscles knotted like wood. Damn man’s age was showing. His body wasn’t what it once was.
Marlena kneaded his shoulders. Poor man. Still, he never sulked. Never complained. Not once.
She fluffed his pillow. Smiled.
No, no complaining. Not since the night he’d said he was leaving her.
Marlena kissed his cold forehead. She shut the door.
“See you tomorrow, my love.”
The deer chuffed as it pranced in the white fluff.
“Take a breath, squeeze the trigger,” Dad urged me.
I froze. The deer spied me and dashed. I exhaled relief. Clearly, bloodlust is miffy. Then Dad coolly felled it.
He sulked the entire drive home. “It's just a dumb animal,” was all he said. The relief of his silence lasted only to the front door.
“I need a stiff drink, and... Look at this house! Where’s your idiot mother?"
That day, for the first time in my life, I saw my Father as a killer. It wouldn't be the last.
The last I spoke to Alan, he was sulking in the corner while they made his bed and fluffed his pillows, mumbling something about his Hufflepuff pajamas being in the wash. Next morning, I found him stiff as a concrete post. Doc said he overdosed. I don’t know why they were so miffed; Al was a right cranky sod. Mind you, that nurse was a dozy cow, always leaving the bottle out.
But still I get no peace. They’re giving me a new roommate. Maybe he’s suicidal. Send an extra belt or two, just in case. Thanks, Mum!
Love,
Paul.
Couldn't J see past the fur and the fluff?
Beneath the soft stuff I wasn't so tough.
Who knew J’d get miffed about silly old things?
The curtains and tables, some scratches, some dings.
“Who did this?” she roared.
It wasn't my fault we’d got in that tiff.
The blame is not mine, and I'll plead the fifth.
“It's okay, Duchess.”
Purrrrrrrrr.
I licked at my paws with great satisfaction.
I’d sulked very long to get that reaction.
If J couldn't be nicer I'd leave in a huff,
But not before leaving a mess in her stuff.
Every writer knows: First you learn the rules, then you break them, then you get paid.
Tiffany didn’t sulk when he rejected her for a lesser woman, nor when he left her sister in the lurch.
She fluffed her hair, purred, and hooked him with a story so slick Houghton Mifflin would have bought it. (HuffPo offered.) He fed her lines. She fed him lies.
Like any good writer, she plotted the twist. Romance had been easy. Suspense was better. Crime would be fun.
It was poetic justice, really.
First she ruled him. Now she’ll break him. Then he'll pay.
She fashioned earmuffs from cushions. She'd kept a stiff upper lip for long enough. She'd damn well sulk; had every right to feel miffed. Hell, eight weeks ago she'd huffed and puffed climbing stairs.
The. Way. She. Liked. It!
So meteors and straightening irons don't mix. Shit it! She hated flying. X-ray vision was gross. She fluffed press interviews. NO, she'd nothing cool to say to young people! Her costume looked like it was made by her maiden aunt.
A scream from eight blocks down rises above the city's din.
She straightens. The cushions are off.
And. She. Is. Flight.
She stood out like a piece of glowing coal on a Tiffany setting. She turned her head, ruffling the fluffy collar on her stretched neck. The big lout in front of her was typical of the great unwashed around her. She fumed, all she could see was the top of the guillotine. Merde’ peasants felt so entitled lately.
She sulked about the horrible seating. She was wet, miffed, and then saw that huffing little sycophant responsible. He approached her.
“So unacceptable,” she hissed.
“I am so, so, sorry, I promise, you will have a much better view next time, Marie.”
"I wish to attend the Invictus Games in Orlando."
"I have to work, your grace. Don't get in a huff."
I didn't sulk.
I hosted my own.
My kingdom came, except Police Horse.
I wasn't miffed. He had to work.
Pigeons flew Opening Formation against fluffy clouds.
Rottweiler settled a tiff between Alley Rat Wrestling and Squirrel Agility Competitions.
Capuchin and Parrot's magic act was sublime.
Burglar?
"Not invited."
Squirrels up his pantsleg.
Rats and Rotty tackled.
Capuchin tied him up.
Parrot called 911.
Police Horse attended after all.
"How was your day, your grace?"
"My Invictus Games were fabulous."
“I'll huff... and I'll puff...”
Miss Tracey paused, book in one hand, stuffed wolf hovering inches from the Leggo cabin. Little Timmy, sitting criss-cross applesauce in Storytime Circle, covered his eyes, body quivering.
“Don't be a scaredy-cat.” Amanda fluffed her hair. “Nothing-”
“Amanda!” Tracey scolded. “Let's all listen to the story together.”
Amanda crossed her arms and sulked.
Timmy opened his fingers a crack. “Miff Tracey?”
“Yes, Timmy?”
“I help the wittle pigs?”
“Sure, Timmy. How would you like to help?”
Timmy smiled, scrambled up, and grabbed the three-foot-tall stuffed mastiff.
“Are you going to TIFF tonight?”
“I am if Freida is.”
“What? I asked if you’re stiff.”
He didn’t, but whatever. “Why?”
“You’re shuffling.”
“Am not.” Am totally so; Consul Kevin is a powerhouse.
He’s miffed now. “Tiffany. Fluffbrain.”
“Pardon?” Innocence.
“How about an aperitif?”
“Frangelico?”
He pours.
I taste. “This is Cointreau.”
“You asked for Cointreau.”
Fluffy shit like this isn’t worth arguing about. So I do. “Did not.”
“You’re so forgetful,” he huffs. “Good thing you have me.”
I slam the glass down and stalk upstairs. If he thinks I’m sulking I can go to TIFF with Kevin.
“Oh, what’s she so miffed about anyway? It’s not like he’s the first of her boys to get in a scuffle,” Tiffany wondered aloud.
“Young’uns, I tell ya. They’re always sulking about looking for trouble,” Doris replied as she shuffled into the porch rocker.
“Well, we can’t blame him, really. That other boy did steal his lady,” Tiffany mused.
Doris wanted to remind Tiffany that no boy is settled on a particular lady at that age but saw an interruption headed their way.
“Move over, Fluffy-Butt,” Food-Giving-Poop-Scooper said, “I want to sit with you.”
"Thumbs, call a cab! We're going to see Ari Huff."
"At the Huffington Post?"
*Sigh*
"Got your thinking cap on, eh."
"But, why?"
"You're my agent. She rejected my article, Parisian Nights of Tiff, Miff & Fluff."
"You write? Wait — I'm not your agent."
DoY sulks, gives Janet the evil eye.
"Then Angie or Lynn must win the contest."
"I haven't read all the stories."
"Doesn't matter. Honoré de Balzac said, Whoever does not visit Paris regularly will never really be elegant. I belong there. I can already see myself at a café sipping champagne. Pack m'bags, I'm outta' here!"
Baron Von Howl was a mastiff. Fine specimen of a dog. Thrice daily, his human shuffled past their apartment, Baron straining the leash, human peering in their window as they passed.
“Rude,” said the Duchess of Yowl.
“What? I just fed you,” said Sharque.
The thief came in the night. The autographed Reachers! The scotch! In the morning, Sharque howled.
“Cat burglar,” Cop said. Miffed, Duchess flounced her tail at him, a fluffy middle finger.
Sharque sulked all day. Duchess sat in the window until Baron passed by, his human looking quite well-read. Baron nodded. She winked.
Cat burglar, indeed.
It's better to be lucky...
I hate that saying, because it's true. I was close to proving it again tonight. I felt miffed, but sulking wouldn't help. I considered my options.
Security'd been a breeze to get through, but if, for whatever reason, the cat who'd landed on my shoulders jumped off, I'd short out the DHU-ff49 keypad I was tampering with. Fluffy brushed against my neck; I fought not to react. If that happened at the wrong moment...
Fluffy began kneading my shoulder with its claws. Time to make a choice. I gritted my teeth and went for it.
There was something fluffy on my burger. Not even my mastiff, who once ate my ex’s shoe, would eat this.
Then again, that shoe was Prada, the gourmet of footwear. This was…
“I know it’s awful.” Samantha leaned against the window, sulking.
That pout was a weapon. I shuffled in the booth. Nibbled a fry. Grimaced. “The regular cook will be back Tuesday?”
She nodded. Smiled.
I gave them a warning. Next week, the front page headline: “Woman dies from Star Diner burger.”
Yeah, my boss was miffed.
I sigh. “You asked why I was let go?”
For example - 'I was miffed that she acted so huffy' - nobody talks like that. Do you?
Of course not.
How would you say it?
I was pissed. She came at me like a bitch over nothing.
Be more specific.
She came at me like a bitch over her new backpack. It had all her weed in it but really? You're not gonna give me a chance to make it right?
And here - 'She sulked stiffly three sorrowful weeks until I lay gifts at her feet' - there's so much...fluff.
She was a bitch until I bought her more weed?
Exactly.
"I WON'T fly economy!" Johnson slammed both feet into the tray table. "Only peasants eat with plastic cutlery."
Nanny tsked beside him. "You're a miff and a tiff, you sulky poppet. Drink your Bovril."
"Only servants drink Bovril!" Johnson clawed at the seatbelt until the buckle sprang open. Skittering up the aisle, he vanished through the curtain into Upper Class. A few moments later, a petulant voice insisted, "Only peons eat Wagyu beef!"
Nanny sighed. "What a huff and a fluff that boy is." She spiked the Bovril with White Lightning and settled down to a quiet flight.
Tiffany was miffed. After standing in line for two hours to present her grandfather’s fine tie collection before the Antiques Road Show cameras, the appraiser informed her that none of the ties were authentic Sulkas.
“At the time these were made, the company primarily used fabrics woven at its own mill in Lyon, France. I believe these were made there, however…”
He could tell by the fluffed red backstitch that they were manufactured in December 1940; nine months after Germany invaded France
“Forced labor,” he said huffily. “There are shows where these items would be of interest, but not here.”
Boss said, “Do it.”
Vinnie did, burying dozens of stiffs over the years.
Then the Boss’s son stepped in, sulky Sal, who talked too much, got huffy when Vinnie didn’t jump.
Sal, risky as a three year old with a loaded gun yelled, “Stoopid? You stoopid?”
Next time Sal said, “Do it,” Vinnie did.
Then Sal said, “Bury him,” Vinnie did.
Vinnie fluffed the dirt around the latest grave.
He worried. His plan might seem iffy.
Still, fresh dirt’s a dead giveaway.
So to speak.
He called NYPD, gave an anonymous tip.
“Sal Salvatori’s backyard.”
Not stupid, a wise guy.
I steal a phonewards glance. Five minutes left. These court-mandated visits are torture.
“Fo, Curtiff, you flufftered abou’ your teft tomorrow?”
I shrug.
“Ge’ ve bef’ fpo’ in ve room, okay? Huffle for i’. Don’ hol’ back.”
A half-smile. Not holding back is his thing.
“How’v your Miff Davif goin’?”
A grimace. “Actually, we split up. Should’ve told you.”
“Oh!” Surprised. “Oh well. Don’t thulk. Plenty more fiff in ve vee.” He tries grinning. I look away.
My phone chimes.
Sulking? Not any more!
“Sorry, Dad! Gotta go!”
Escape is imminent. I hustle for it; don’t hold back.
I give Penelope a fluffy rabbit. For Priscilla, a tiny sulky and a sleek black horse. Dolls decorate the remaining graves. Crib deaths, the coroner ruled--even Ellie, who was too old for that.
I leave roses for Mom. If food poisoning hadn’t stiffened her, she’d have died anyway from a broken heart.
Back home, I huff at Widow Jeffries waving from her garden. I don’t care how good her pies taste--if she comes to our door again, I’ll sic the Rottweiler on her.
Because forty years later, I’ll still do whatever it takes to be Daddy’s only girl.
He looks miffed, my handsome husband-to-be, as he stands by the judge. Henry hates waiting. My heart swells.
I notice lint on his jacket. I turn to my father. “Henry has a fluffer—“
“Shhh.”
Right. Not my turn.
I realize the string quartet hasn’t arrived. I sigh but won’t sulk – it wouldn’t do on my big day.
“The court finds for the plaintiff,” says the judge.
Henry’s smile is dazzling. Father tugs me out the door, handcuffs jingling, those silly things on my ankles making me shuffle.
I catch Henry’s eye and blow a kiss.
Until next time, beloved.
The saucy fellow taunted him impishly with insolent riddles. His manners were atrocious.
"Stuff and nonsense!" his father would have hooted.
Mr. Brown, now old himself, had a natural grace and elegant style that made him almost impervious to loutish behavior. He refused to look miffed or ruffle his feathers in a huff.
"Never sulk; wait patiently," his mother had always said.
Insufferable popinjay, chattering on and on! This tiresome trespasser was beneath his notice, but perhaps not an excoriating barb. He seized the scoundrel's collar, but in the scuffle got only a bit of fluff - very poor tiffin, indeed.
The cat interrupted as she sulkily watched the firefighters water the charred remains of her home. She lifted and cuddled the fluffy thing while still miffed about the cat’s burnt tail.
She had never met the boy before her boyfriend, the boy’s father, had dropped him off in a huff. He had asked her to watch him for a few hours. He’s just a rambunctious boy she was told. Just minutes later he set the tail of Tiffany, the cat, on fire.
No one gets a second chance to light her familiar’s tail. Her spell was just rambunctious too.
Miffed after her tiff with Boudreaux, Jazz sulked, curled up on her bed in a ball of fluff.
Boo huffed until he sneezed.
The two standard poodles had grazed in my herb pots on the deck.
Oregano, basil, and French tarragon...yes!
And a new addition, a luxuriant and leafy, fenced off in the corner.
Somehow they'd consumed an entire cannabis plant.
I had two very wacked out dogs.
“Calvin! Whatchya doin’?”
Gnarled joints fail, and I fall at the feet of a white-haired woman in coveralls.
“My game consul. Kids stole it.” I jerk my head to the punks in scrubs drinking coffee. “I’m outta here.”
“That’s ‘console.’”
“’s what I said.” Stupid girl.
“There’s a bubble over your head, you know.”
So practical. Always was. “Go home,” I huff.
She’s miffed. “Here’s a thought: what if friends helped each other, for once? Here: on my walker. I’m coming with.”
She’s not so bad, I think. I must be ill. Next thing y’know, Hobbes’ll be made of fluff.
"What's Murphy sulking about?"
"His 'hard-hitting news' piece ran in HuffPo today."
"Ah, found out about not getting paid?"
"Nah, comment section."
"He read the comments?"
"The mockery is strong."
"What's the article about?"
"Menacing cat calling the cops. I'm iffy on details."
"Catcalling cops? Seems unwise."
"No, an actual cat. Calling 911."
"Gotta admit, sounds like a fluff piece." Raises voice. "Hey, Murph, quittin' time. C'mon, we'll buy you a stiff drink."
"Maybe a whisker sour."
"You can tell us about this hard-hitting mews story."
"Fuck youz guyz. We'll see who's laughing after the furry bastards take over."
“Who’s the stiff?”
“Hooker, went by Tiffany, she was working as a fluffer on a low budget porn film. The whole gang was huffing paint, looks like she had an aneurism. Brain fucking exploded.”
“Who’d a’ thunk that would happen?”
“That’s the producer sulking in the corner, asshole’s miffed because he paid her 100 clams and she up and dies on him with the stars’ johnson in ‘er mouth. Broad went into a seizure, almost bit off the guys’ tool.”
“Why am I here?”
“Tiffany was fifteen LT. Her fuckin old man was the producer.”
“And Mom?”
“The director.”
“Shit.”
The ship’s captain grabbed me by the scruff of my neck.
I rewarded him with a six-toed hind kick.
I drew blood and smiled.
This was my boat and I was going to stay.
“Aww, come on Missy Snow White,” he said. “Don’t be miffed.”
The hair on my back went stiff.
What a kerfluffle!
We shuffled in a huff down the gangplank to tre' elegant Key West.
Along fragrant Whitehead Street we strolled.
The captain knocked on #907 and Earnest opened the door.
It was love at first sight.
Eventually, I would have to get rid of Pauline.
Prrrrrr!
The mizzen groaned -- plaintiff in a case against the Captain who wouldn’t heave to.
His cargo was expiring. His buyers would be miffed at delay.
Boots slapped the decks behind the sulking Captain. Cries for him to take them off luf for all their sakes went unheard.
“We need to unload some weight," said the Chief Officer, shuffling his sodden feet.
The Captain swore. Again his fortune would be thrown overboard. "Start with the least valuable," he said.
The Chief Officer covered his nose and clambered into the hold. He didn’t look at their faces.
The smallest went first.
A wolf stalked the kingdom with terror and huffing
The king's answer? An arrow, then stuffing.
A miffed witch appeared, her eyes red and puffy.
She warned, "You'll pay for killing my Fluffy."
Afterward, everything started to go wrong.
First the princess's voice vanished mid-song.
Then consul Kurt, ex-woodman and royal adviser
Was exposed as a dastardly dwarf sympathizer.
The king rode to the witch's lair to end the tiff
A storm flashed as he left a package on the cliff
Then thunder ceased; lightning stopped sparking
The only sound: a basket of puppies, barking.
Oh, that last, lingering summer on Grandad's farm. If fall never came it would have been fine with me. At age eight I was happy to shuffle through the tall grass, climb the old sulky disintegrating in the barn, watch dandelion fluff drift on the breeze. I wondered why my parents were silent on the drive here and why they just dropped me off and left, but didn't think about it much. Not until Grandad sat under the Tiffany lamp and cried, explaining how they might not love each other any more, but they still loved me very much.
It was time. Duchess unfurrrled her stiff muscles; sleeping all day was hard work.
An exquisite silverrry moonlight limned the night, supplying the purrfect accessory for her platinum furrr
...acceptable, very acceptable.
On the window ledge she yowled. Three large rats presently drew her sulky close to her window; they owed her big time for their life ...chuffy flufferrrs that they were. She made a graceful grand jeté onto her petite conveyance.
Hunting must be done at night; a savorrry mandate she couldn't shake. People get so miffy over red blood.
At night, human blood looks black.
...acceptable, very acceptable.
“Pour me a stiff drink, would you?”
“Sulking again? That’s a new color on you.”
“Don’t start.”
“Oh, this started long ago.”
“You knew. You married me anyway. Don’t know why you’re getting all miffed now.”
“You fluffed the details. Admit it.”
“Just pour the damn drink.”
“I broke into your files. I know everyone you’ve shuffled off. The name of every client.”
“Jack—”
“I should call the police.”
“Try it. See what happens.”
He makes it two steps.
Wiping blood from her hands for the second time in an hour, she reaches for a crystal decanter of scotch.
Chuff used to be called Brian; he used to sulk and cry. Now he's a Tough Guy. You can tell by the way he talks.
"Nice bumfluff."
"It's a beard, asshole."
Stuff like that.
People used to hurt Chuff. They still do. But now he hurts them back.
"See these fists? I'll use them, if forced."
Chuff and I were friends before. Now he gets all stiff and mumbly when he sees me.
People say it's because he likes me, and that's true—just not the way they think.
'Cause the truth is, Chuff used to be called Brienne.
"I returned the crown to the princess, Mom. Don't be miffed,” Fred the dragon said.
“That came from Tiffany’s! Dragons don’t return treasure – they steal more!” She huffed around and burned a hole in his gaming chair.
“But Mom – I don’t want to steal things, and I like the princess.”
“How will you live if you don’t steal?”
“I’ll get a job!” Fred slammed his bedroom door, fell on his bed, fluffed his pillow, shoved it under his head, and commenced sulking.
Later, his mom brought him cookies and milk.
“I believe in you. You’ll find your way,” she said.
The consul keeps to herself more and more--a fish out of water, shuffling dispatches in a foreign land.
“Take me sailing,” she says, eyes distant.
I am iffy--she uses a wheelchair--but I obey. “Thank you,” she says over the stiff breeze. When I look away, I hear a splash that freezes my heart.
I sail back to where she fell off, luff the mainsail. No trace. Only then do I notice the empty dress and false legs, still on board. I hear laughter and look out to see long hair and green scales slip beneath the surface.
Must Love Dogs
“Duke is a Mastiff?” the vet tech asked.
“Yes.”
“He’s big; it might not be fatal,” she said, leaving the waiting room.
I shuffled slowly back to my seat as Tiffany emerged from the bathroom, red-eyed and sulky. She took the seat next to me.
“I wish you had told me dogs can’t have chocolate,” she accused. “I would have put the bottle back right away.”
“How was I supposed to know you put chocolate sauce on your fluffernutters?”
Miffed, I pulled out my phone, opened the dating app, and added three important words to my profile.
Tiffany fluffed Mrs. Asher's hair and then put the finishing touches on the old woman's makeup.
"You look gorgeous," she lied. There was really only so much you could do with such clammy skin.
"Now, don't sulk," she continued. " It just makes my job harder."
Mrs. Asher said nothing and remained stiff as Tiffany applied another coat of lipstick.
Tiffany examined her exquisite handiwork and huffed. After four years of beauty school, she was still miffed that the only person who would hire her was the local mortician.
Fluffy sat his three-hundred pound frame down in the doorway and sulked. Juice swallowed hard as rivers of perspiration streaked his face. Nobody miffed Fluffy. The last sap who got into a tiff with him was found splattered all over his apartment. Juice bit his lip.
"Sorry, Fluff. Shounta said what I said."
Fluffy pouted without looking up, "You okay, homie."
This was classic Fluffy just before he went apeshit over nothing. Juice shuffled over to the kitchen sink for a drink. He took a sip and wrinkled his brow at the funny taste in his mouth.
His vision blurred.
“I’ve burrs, Miss Kitty. Kindly hulp this strugglin’ crittur?”
(Miss Kitty huffs.)
“Burrs hurt! If y’culd hulp, Miss Kitty?”
(Miss Kitty sulks.)
“Yur quick ‘n’ cunning, Miss Kitty; I’m just this big, dumb pup. But I’m hurtin’. Cryin’.”
(Miss Kitty stiffly licks fluff.)
“Why y’miff’d, Miss Kitty? Did I insult yur wurship wiff m’ugly gruff? Figgurs.”
(Miss Kitty sighs.)
“SHUCKS!!!!!! Miss Kitty, I plum firgut! I brung y’gifts!”
The queen !preens!--
--streeeeeeeeeeetches—
her grey eyes velvet. “Well, then.”
The End.
[“Is this purrin’, Miss Kitty? It’s purrin’, isn’t it? But my burrs still hurt. Hulp? …Miss Kitty?”]
"Steven died?!"
"Yes! He was checking in on me, poor man. Mr. Fluff thought he was an intruder."
Mr. Fluff was Mildred's mastiff. "Don't miff Mr. Fluff" was something she often said, perhaps ironically. Hard to tell with Mildred. She was a mysterious eighty-nine. Our neighbor Steven had just met his demise at a significantly younger age.
She handed me a mimosa.
"Why was he checking on you?"
Mildred huffed. "You know he sulked when I told him to quit? It was after I got that Picasso that he started."
"Ah. Well cheers," I said, and I thought Mildred smiled.
She froze. The lights were too bright. She spied him out of the corner of her eye, side stage, looking on with haughty eyes.
The words didn't come. She was miffed; this was her only shot at a break out. She couldn’t afford a fluff.
He'd broken her heart the day he engaged in that deadly tiff. Her eyes were beginning to water but she'd hold back her tears... her mouth curled into a smile. She wouldn't allow him to see her sulk.
Aghast, he huffed while being escorted from the defendant's table. Her vengeful performance wasn't what they'd rehearsed.
Mom stiffened. “Last time was Navy Pier. I’ve told you before.”
She knew more, probably knew the answer, but she sulked in front of the TV. Golden Girls reruns.
I drove condo parking lots searching for his car. Showed his picture. No sightings.
Happened at Grant Park. By the shuffleboard courts. Unbelievable. I dropped a twenty in the can beside his cardboard sign. He grunted. Miffed there was no clang, I guess. Did he recognize me?
Back home, Mom said, “Find him?” Fluffed her line – she never liked to act interested.
“Nothing,” I lied. “You’re probably right. Gone for good.”
The journey to the ruins had been grueling, but worth it. Discovering a relic like this was more than she’d ever hoped for.
Back at the bunker Tiff wiped away a fluffy layer of dust and hooked it up to the generator. She pressed power, the machine started with a huff of hot air.
Nothing. Sulking would be easy, holding onto hope was hard.
A minute passed.
Miffed, she tried not to doubt.
It would work. It had to. Answers to everything. Why the world was like this, what happened.
“It’s…” She blinked. She didn’t understand. “It’s all… cat pictures.”
Before Donald’s inaugural speech he was miffed because his advisors advised him to not raise his right arm. Thumbs-up was “just a game.”
Five-to-live he sulked. His first wife’s coiffeuse, a transgender albino Jamaican lady named Robes, fluffed his dew.
“Tremendous,” he huffed.
Three years later, five-to-live for the official commencement of his second term campaign,
Robes noosed him and led him atop the MexWall. A sea of platinum blonds gasped. Right thumbs turned down. Sharpshooters took aim.
“Ain’t part of the deal. Wh’tiff…your…name?” Donald choked out.
“Pierre.”
“Tremendous.”
Robes threw him south.
Graduation brings a PhD. Alice returns to dorm and cat.
Cheshire, rescue tabby gone mature fluff ball, curls around Alice’s mobile. He paws her hand.
“3pm. South lawn,” reads text. She shuffles papers into her bag and adds Cheshire.
Once there, Alice notices a library chum, by face not name.
“Hi! Alice.”
“Dodge,” he says stiffly.
Cheshire goes over to the elegant feline, sulking near Dodge. They rub noses. She purrs.
“Friendly sort,” Dodge says.
“She was miffed. He didn’t call.”
“Feline Ethology your degree?”
“Not mine. His.”
Cheshire extends his paw with opposable thumb to Dodge.
My Huff Post editor assigned the piece, “You’re not fat, you’re fluffy.”
“Why me?”
I look like a new model VW Beetle and weigh the same.
Five hundred words in, I sulked over a half gallon of Edy’s Rocky Road.
Thousand words, he was miffed. “I need fifteen,” he said, “now.”
A plate of Toll House and a quart of whole moo later, two grand.
We got in a tiff. “It’s too fat,” he said, “I want lean, trim it.”
I baked.
Gave him brownies sweetened with peanut butter. He’s allergic.
I’m not fat, I’m fluffy and the editor.
They talking 'bout keeping Fynn.
Fynn’s the best. Shoulda been kept ages ago, but foster folks always catch him being bad. Like when they found Sister Eight's dollies all burned up in his room.
Couple houses back, Fynn nearly got kept. But then they found the cat and got real scared and didn't want him.
If Fynn’s not good enough none’s good enough, I say. He just huffs and sulks but. Says You got fluff for brains, Tiff; I’ll age out ‘fore someone keeps me.
But Fynn’s the best. These folks might keep him.
I hope a cat’s enough again.
I pulled the hi-chair closer and sat poised with a baby spoon in one hand, and a fluffy brown bear in the other. “And I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blooooooow your house down!”
I waited for the gurgling laughter, miffed it never came. My tears puddled on the table. I’d have to find a new picture.
I stood up, threw the spoon, sulked over to the sink and stuffed the bear down the garbage disposal.
As I looked out the window and cried, a stiff wind blew the kitchen door open and a young man walked in.
“Dad?"
MIFFin’s claw hooked her tongue. Thumbs was supposed to trim her claws yesterday, but Miffin’s TIFF with the Duchess left a teensy boo-boo on the Duchess’s tail, the most minor of dockings. Nobody needs that much tail, Miffin SULKed. In a HUFF, Miffin groomed her own glorious appendage. It really was bad of them both to abandon her while they visited the silly vet.
The door opened. Thumbs set down the Duchess in her travel box. “He fixed it,” the Duchess yowled. “I will kill you now.”
Miffin licked FLUFF off her untrimmed claw and hissed, "You and what clowder?"
The Doctor says I have three days to live, that was two days ago. Sulking is
the last thing I want to be doing right now. Huffing and puffing, getting
miffed at the cat scratching up the furniture, and jumping out of a plane are
not the things I thought I’d be doing my last day on earth. The tiff between me, and the
little guy inside my head who says Jumping out of a plane is crazy, is occupying my fear’s
attention.
Fluffy clouds pass through me as I fall. What was that the pilot said about a parachute?
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