This is the home for my sketches, little micro-fictions posted with the most recent on top. Enjoy.

Oh, by the way, should you like to contribute to the creative motion, as it were, you can do so via PayPal: here. It’s my digital begging bowl.

Business

Growing up, they had been the best of friend: inseparable.

Years passed while Leslie turned into a business man and James into a writer; still they remained the best of friends.

When James married, they grew separable; still they remained the best of friends.

Then Leslie married, as well; still they remained the best of friends, saw each other often. Their wives liked each other, too, that helped.

Then Leslie moved to Florida, started a new telecom business while James remained in Los Angeles, working his fiction (for the heart, as he liked to say) and article assignments (for the belly, ditto); still they remained very good friends, talked to each other on the phone fairly often.

More years passed, three of them. Although James very much wanted to get together with Leslie, they never quite managed to—business, said Leslie.

Half-way into the fourth year James received an assignment that involved going to Florida, to Leslie’s city no less. He called Leslie right away to let him know.

“Of course, of course,” said Leslie. “Of course, I’d love to see you.” A brief pause. “Tuesday, lunch?”

“Fantastic,” said James.

“I’ll text you the details,” said Leslie.

“Great,” said James. “See you then.”

James was ridiculously happy to finally see Leslie again. In real life. He was the kind of happy that wakes you up in the middle of the night, smiling-as-you-cozy-back-into-sleep happy.

Tuesday saw James arriving good and early. The maître d' showed him to his table and offered some appetizers. “I’ll wait till my friend arrives,” said James. Still smiling.

Still smiling ten minutes later while waiting for the time to finish its crawling toward the agreed-upon noon.

Noon arrived. No Leslie.

At ten after noon: no Leslie.

At twenty after noon, Leslie called. “Sorry, he said. Can’t make it. Something came up. Business, you know. Maybe next time.” As if James would understand perfectly.

He went back to Los Angeles that evening.

::

Small Claims Court

Said the Small Claims Court judge to the claimant, “So, Mr. Jones, I see you were about to hit the defendant, Alan Fletcher, with your car. At, you said, twenty-five miles an hour?”

“Yes, your Honor, roughly that, yes.”

“And before you hit him, he jumped, you say.”

“Yes, he did, and landed on my windscreen, your Honor.”

“And broke it, you say?”

“Had to replace it, your Honor.”

“And your suing for the replacement cost, and lost time at work while your car was in the shop?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“So, what would have happened if the defendant had not jumped?”

“I would have hit him with the front bumper, and the windscreen would not have broken.”

“But you surely would have crushed his legs, is that not so?”

“So what? your Honor.”

::

 Boston Lady

Said the supercilious nineteenth century Boston lady to her new maid, “So, tell me dear, where are you from?”

 “I’m from Iowa, Ma’am.”

“Oh, Sweetheart,” said the lady, smiling now, “here in the East, we pronounce it AI-DA-HO.”

::