NEW SHORT STORY

"an evening shower with the muskrat
puts a worried mind at ease
much more tender than the house cat
who fills my tub with fleas"

I was humming a silly tune this morning as I set out to find some breakfast. As you can imagine, I was startled to come across L. Ron Hubbard hovering above a street light near my car. I didn't immediately recognize the vision as Mr. Hubbard, which is not surprising considering how little I knew of his great work. But, strangely, I was not afraid. There was something pleasant and familiar about his face. With his decidedly masculine features and glimmering blue eyes, Mr. Hubbard reminded me of my grandfather, who was also a great sailor. In any event, he soon descended to the sidewalk, leaned over against my car, and quite naturally ran a hand through his light red hair.

"Would you like to see some of the artifacts from my life?" he asked.

"Sure," I replied, and walked over to his outstretched hand.

[JONNY-5 WROTE]

It's Tough to be Mr. Puffy's Polyp.


Mr. Puffy returned to the scene. But this time, he immediately commanded our attention. His thunderous snort followed by three sharp, but abreviated, chirps informed us that he was ready to tell us the answer. He began in a near whisper...

"How could I say no? After all, I certainly am no specimen of outlandish magnitudes. Really, could this ever happen again?" Clearly the children's eager lauding had elevated Puffy's trounced self-worth. "She's so pretty." His eyes drifted upoward. There, attached to a sequence of iron hoops, hung a curled photograph of a woman's face. Her lips flittered as her jaw ground mechanically to the pulse Puffy tapped with his walking stick. (Of course this was the same magic stick Jbird had jettisoned earlier). The woman's torso soon appeared as the chorus of beats grew louder. At last her full figure managed the iron loops. It was obvious she and Puffy had rehearsed this lesson before.

But something unusual was happening. She spun a circle weaving her legs in and out of several rings. Dramatically, she drew a gleaming instrument from her nearby satchel. Her brow carved a rich and solemn crescent across her forehead. A scant grim came over her face while she witnessed poor Puffy's obese faculties attempting to evaluate the unexpected options. At last, he shouted at us "If I don't hurry, she'll know... "

"QUIET. Oh god, I nearly shouted at her." Puffy oscillated between barking orders at us and mumbling to himself. "She has such a bad temperament. This is becoming too dangerous. If she knows what I have... but how could she? I've never disrobed in anyone's (let alone hers) plain sight before." Puffy's obvious concern had swept over the room. We prepared ourselves for any unexpected intrusion, and according to his instructions, smeared marshmallow paste on the back of our hands.

Puffy reached for the jar, but it was too late. She had his full attention. He stood erect, gazing at her fiendish body. Puffy could not shake those placid eyes. Those dire green constellations. He later explained that her eyes could see through his cunning. They spoke to him. They would verify for her the utter bowel stricken angst he dreaded most.

"It's time." She said with a lilac trimmed voice. The sounds rumbled through his chamber, bouncing off the jagged frames holding previous years' conquests. "No!" His voice was desperate. We all screamed back. But Puffy was motionless. Again she chided him. This time her voice was apparent. All subtlety and discretion cast itself to the dark matter. She wanted it. She needed it. But what if it goes wrong? We wondered. She'll blame us forever. Another gaping breath and Puffy charged her with all of his might.

"Ole!" The crowd cheered. J-bird squealed with delight. Thurston jumped up, nearly dropping his precious mommy-cup. Chelsea howled and thumped her bronzen cleavage. And I? Well I watched with fearful eyes. I knew Puffy intended to teach us a valuable nutrition lesson, but at what cost? She was going to win. "Fuck." I screamed in agony. It's exactly wrong. No, it's exactly what she wanted. The crimson stream burst from Puffy's abdomen. "You Devil!!!" Puffy screamed and then wilted to the floor, writhing forwards and backwards alternating between bliss and pain. Her arm reached past the curdling at the incision, past Puffy's exposed intestinal tract, deep down into his swollen colon. Her stained arm retracted with a baseball of purple veined tissue. "Ahhhhh." Puffy mouthed a theatrical "Thank you Susan!" And fell into a deep slumber.

Charles Winslow Puffington regained his lost esteem. The room ogled over him as a mother would would her newborn baby. Unwittingly the answer had dawned on all of us simultaneously. It was something we had thought all along. Puffy had spent years eating processed foods. It was only recently that he had expounded upon the virtues of proper dieting. Susan soon vanished. But there in the fruit bowl on the counter. Next to the bananas, sat Puffy's colon polyp. A reminder.

[PETER WROTE] By now, Jbird had lost interest in his "magic" stick, which was, in actuality, a piece of hardened wood filler that had been peeled away from the side door, and which Jbird had just dropped into the dog's excrement. He shook his head as it occurred to him that he had forgotten to ask Puffy the Claw about the health benefits of raw Orangutan. These types of jabs were not above Chelsea's head. Indeed, like many of the great apes, what Chelsea feared most was public humiliation, and even the most innocent and seemingly innocuous of slants could send her into a violent rampage. Both Mr. Puffington and Chelsea were sensitive creatures. The difference, however, was that Chelsea had only a crude appreciation for sarcasm, which made her suspicious of people like Jbird, who were always speaking with double meaning. That's why she looked so flustered when Thurston asked her -- and with a straight face, no doubt -- how fortified wine effected the evolution of the female orangutan's digestive system.

[MIXMASTA P WROTE] Upon hearing J-Bird proclaim that one's name evolves over time, Thurston began to ponder how his lack of pigment had impacted the evolution of his own name. He clumsily poured his 7th or 8th glass of port into what he affectionately called "The Mommy Cup"--a round bottomed cup with a nipple shaped drinking surface. Something about holding the Mommy Cup soothed his albino skin.