While At AL'S Counter

“Otto, look at that.”

Stan and Otto were at AL'S DINER, side by side at the uneven linoleum counter. Stan pointed with his spoon.

“Is that a fly in my soup?”

Both studied the chipped bowl and the small thing squirming in it.

“Seems more like an ant, Stan.”

“With wings?”

“Sure...Lots of ants have them. Is that the chicken soup?”

“No, clam chowder”

All soups looked alike at AL'S.

“Clam, huh?”

They stopped eating. Otto decided against dipping his fingers in the bowl to see.

“I'm pretty sure it's an ant, Stan...The flies don't seem to enjoy Al's chowder.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

The Botanist

HUBRIS CONTEST:

Settled at the picnic table, I was teaching my three-year old granddaughter, Natalie, the process of planting seeds. Surrounded by supplies: seeds, cardboard egg cartons, a bag of soil, a big spoon and a spray bottle filled with water, Natalie carefully filled each section of the egg carton with soil. All the while I explained to her how seeds grow into plants if they have sun, water and food. I believed that she thoroughly understood. She was seriously working.

Grandpa joined us and asked, “What are you doing?”

“We are growing eggs!” Natalie boasted.

I’d better wait till she’s four.

From Guest Contributor Patricia Gable

Reminiscence

Kahea thought pensively about her college days as she made her way to the coffee table, stirring her tea absentmindedly, her spoon making soft clinking sounds against the glass cup.

"What will you do with a degree in English?” voices murmured. “A degree in computers, now that's a solid deal".

"You will get nowhere."

"Writing isn't a career."

Kahea recollected their condemning tones, sneers and concerned looks as she reached for that day's newspaper.

"Hmm...I look good", she said, gazing approvingly at her photo next to the article that read: Kahea Sanders becomes the youngest writer to bag a Pulitzer.

From Guest Contributor Drishika Nadella

Drishika is a 15 year old from India. She seeks comfort in words, tunes, and nature. Her blog Desolation And Delectation will be happy to see you.

We Are Not Responsible For Lost Or Damaged Baggage

Let him hold and spoon your every nook and cranny of pre-decaying skin. Cut yourself slightly to scrutinize the way you bleed. Is it different?

During his flight later on, he will serve the peanuts and diet cokes to suits and pantsuits that view themselves as better, and this time they will be right. He knows, you know, and the ten untainted cells between you both know, too.

Tell your all-knowing daughter that you, Daddy, are too good at making friends.

Give tickets out with fervor.

Let yourself believe for a mere moment that you can run away for good.

From Guest Contributor Jacqueline McGarry

Holes

Geoffrey spent almost every waking moment in the backyard measuring holes. He'd dig the holes first, usually with a spoon, which took a great deal of time of course. Then he measured them. He calculated their volume, after taking down their circumference and depth. He analyzed each one carefully for soil erosion and texture. He compared one hole to the next, intent on finding even the most minute differences.

This behavior of Geoffrey's worried his parents. Maybe the boy was autistic. Maybe he was preparing for an alien invasion. Whatever it was, this wasn't the behavior of a normal 2-year-old.

The Spoon

Victoria had believed their house was haunted, until they moved and the weird stuff in the kitchen didn't stop. Maybe it was her mom who was haunted.

When the so-called experts, most of whom were crackpots, realized there was a real phenomenon, most ran out faster than Victoria's father had.

In the end, it was her mother's new boyfriend who made the connection. David was an oceanographer, and he recognized the sounds coming from the spoon as whale song.

Victoria wanted to keep the spoon, but her mother sold it. After that, Victoria went to go live with her father.