Birthday Eve

Evelyn wanted to go for a walk. She often wanted to go for walks, so often she would take her coat and boots from the hall closet and put them on and head outside. When she did this she would leave the closet lonely with only her father's coat and boots to keep it company. Evelyn's father was a kitemaker, so Evelyn liked to carry an umbrella wherever she went. He made kites to catch the wind, so Evelyn had umbrellas to keep it out. He made kites so you on the other end could enjoy the sky, and Evelyn had umbrellas so she didn't have to look up. Like many girls her age, she wanted to rebel against everything around her.

When she was outside, she walked to the corner store. Evelyn lived in a small city that was once a hub of heavy industry. In school, they learned about the mills and factories that their grandparents had worked in, and also about the famous artist that was born there, and how he left when his ailing mother died and went to a bigger city where he immortalized her in paintings that later filled galleries and museums all over the world. Evelyn liked this part of the city's history the best because she felt a kinship with this artist. Her mother had died once too. But Evelyn felt no artistic urge to immortalize anyone but herself. Like many girls her age, she was also very selfish.

Tomorrow was Evelyn's birthday. It was also her father's birthday. In the morning, her father would ask her if she felt any older, and she would say no, like she always did. Then she would ask him if he felt older, and he would say he already felt old enough, like he always did. It was a tradition that suited them both.

The streets by the corner store were old and falling apart at funny angles. Evelyn looked up. The electrical and telephone wires that criss-crossed over her head were like ropes that kept it all from collapsing and suddenly she thought what a sight it would be to go along them above all the houses. Unlike many girls her age, she found the starkness of the image quite poetic.

When she got home, she drew a picture of herself walking in the sky. Evelyn wrapped it up in some old Christmas paper that night and gave it to her father in the morning. He gave her a new umbrella.

- by may gun

It's good to be the Queen

JM, weary from a day of codebotting, opted to stand on the escalator ride up from the Metro. As had been the case for nearly a week running, a gaggle of old Republican women huddled in full-length fur coats descended on the parallel escalators. Some of them were wearing cowboy hats and hideous rhinestone brooches, further testaments to the maxim that money can't buy taste. Suddenly, their numbers swelled. The 8 women became 16, then 32, then 64, then 128, and then whatever 128 times two is. The noise was maddening; they argued over who was sexier — Cheney or Rumsfeld.

"Jesus Christ!" thought JM, who had previously been enjoying to some degree this human tableau of greed and cultural depravity. "This SUCKS. They really are invading." Then, after a pause: "I'm outta here." She shouted adieu to the women below: "Konichiwa, bitches!"

And as swiftly and gracefully as an eagle (a patriotic, Democratic eagle, of course), JM took flight from a standing position, ducking the end of the Metro tunnel and flying into the sky.

---

JM flew for some time, laughing at her clever and expedient escape. Emboldened by her astounding talent, she decided to attempt a tightrope walk. Since it was raining and she was wearing an orange slicker and rainboots, she figured she'd be safely grounded enough to try the power lines that criss-crossed the District below. Being naturally dextrous, and with an umbrella to help with balance, JM dipped and hopped as lightly as a sparrow from one line to the next, finishing her commute to Emerson Street in under 5 minutes.

It's good to be the Queen.

- by cc

it is not easy to be a little orphan

i could see the two snapshots of my mum and da way down on the rooftop below, just out of the bottom of my eyes. this was if i pushed my eyeballs all the way down: the furthest down i could look. however i had to keep my head perfectly still or the gale wind would surely have swept me away, umbrella and all.

it is not easy to be a little orphan. it is a fact widely known that orphans carry with them a special piece binding them to their past, such as a lock of hair or other memento of familial adoration. and when we lose that final thing, it is a truth widely understood that we die as children and become birds of the world.

mum and da were just trapped there in a bit of wire on the roof and flapped as breathless fish on the shingles. balance... balance i mouthed into the damp air. i would never be able to retrieve those pictures, that much was clear.

- by rebenga

A lovely day

A lovely day. I was smoking a very fine joint made from some premium Humboldt bud shake. I was on my lunch break, sitting with my back against a steel exhaust duct on the roof of the Old El Paso chili plant in old town Ventura, California. It was still breezy out and the wind was skidding the clouds across the sky, clearing away the last remnants of this morning's rainstorm. I was surrounded by a warm cloud of green chili scented steam and I could see the ocean over the edge of the building, through a tangle of telephone and power lines. Way off on the horizon I could even see the natural arch in Anacapa Island 26 miles off shore. You could only see through it on the clearest of days. Then I saw that stupid lady on the telephone wire. I was moderately torqued by that time and said to myself "Holy shit. She's definitely going to fall flat on her ass on the railroad tracks. And that's gonna hurt."

- by Ranger Ted

Carvaggio paused, his finger on the trigger

Carvaggio paused, his finger on the trigger. Behind him, he could hear the heavy, maddening breathing of the thin man. The thin, spiteful man who wanted his neighbor dead, but lacked the courage and aim to carry out the task himself.

Although he was not given to reflection, Carvaggio could not help but think that it would be hard to kill the woman in the yellow raincoat balancing on the wires. She was shuffling along on delicate feet, and he thought he could hear her singing. It may have been "Raindrops Keep Fallin On My Head" or it may have been "Moon River". At any rate, it was something sentimental and foolish, and the wind was moving her back and forth in an erratic fashion. She did not present an easy target, however you looked at it.

Carvaggio had been born in Estonia, eleven years before the fall, and he had been molded by the twin weights of bad luck and lovelessness, but he was not without a heart. He slid the bolt back and replaced his rifle in its case and handed the fuming, cowardly man back his wad of money and left the empty building walking at just the right speed to avoid notice, into the afternoon sunlight.

- by BWA

This is not as easy as I thought

He walked on the wire, saying "This is not as easy as I thought" to no one in particular. The girl on the salt container is one thing, but when you're 100 feet above the ground, the last thing you need to be worried about is whether or not your spices are snug in their containers. The snow below gave him a sense of safety which he did not deserve. Beneath the 6 inches of flakes was the same cold, hard dirt that had been there the day before.

The power had been out for most of the day, and he wondered if the current would be surging through him otherwise. The trains were still running. He watched the Acela race beneath him like water through a drainagee ditch. The passengers dull-eyed and sleepy through the tinted windows.

Yesterday this had all been a grand idea, something that everyone would laugh about not only later, but while it was going on. But now, there was no one on the street. Everything was closed due to inclement weather. And the snow was grainy and rough on your skin, not the kind of substance you made into balls to throw at each other...unless you were really mean. He was not really mean.

If it had been the powdery kind of snow, the kind good for sledding but not so good for snowballs, then maybe...maybe people would be out in it. But who wants to play around in what was essentially ice cold sand. You felt gritty when you were out in it.

He looked out across the small town that sprawled beneath him. Powerlines snaked at odd angles and telephone poles marched their way up and down each and every street. It was an ugly town, no doubt about it. The snow did not do much to make it prettier, the way snow can sometimes. It was as if nature had thrown up its hands and said, "Well, there's nothing more that can be done here." Flowers did not grow through the cracks in the sidewalk. Butterflies did not float gently across the streets in summer.

Perhaps if more people tried getting a new perspective, they would realize just how ugly their homes really were.

- by g. zombie

no one ever liked her best

no one ever liked her best. no, everyone always loved her younger sister, that utz potato-chip shilling bitch. she wore so much rouge it made her look like a hooker. and the bow! who was she trying to fool? greasy brat.

which was precisely why the morton's salt girl could never stay mad at her. she was her sister, after all. she had loved her herself when they were both young.

so she put on a brave face and let the rain inside and out roll right off the smile that was her umbrella. she even found some happiness with that cute coppertone nudist chick for a while.

but now pudgy little ms. ripple-cut was pregnant. you'd think she was the freakin' virgin mary with that drawn-on smile and blue dress.

of course, everyone forgot to care that the poor morton's salt girl was made infertile from all those years of iodine exposure. sure, she'd never have a goiter, but she'd never have a baby, either.

so it had come to this. she climbed the pole and waited for a lightning bolt. there was no one there to talk her down.

- by s. banauna

She put on her yellow slicker and matching hat and went for a walk on the wire

She put on her yellow slicker and matching hat and went for a walk on the wire. When she set her feet and held her umbrella before her, the wind pulled her along like a train rolling along the tracks. It was like racing down a snow-covered hill on a sled, like sliding down an icy sidewalk, in control of a trick that defeated everyone else. Her trick was this — she had to keep the rain from hitting her face or she might dissolve, as Lot's wife would have if God relented and sent merciful rain to erase her humilation. After all — when it rains, it pours.

- by SuSuBelle

Red Ridinghood escapes

Red Ridinghood is escaping with the help of Mary Poppins.

"are you sure you don't need your umbrella, Mary?" said Red.

"who needs an umbrella in London in mid-winter?" said Mary.

"very funny," said Red.

"i'll just stay indoors and listen to my old Smiths records," said Mary, "now get going."

"thanks," said Red.

"wait!" said Mary.

"what?" said Red.

"you forgot your spoonful of sugar," said Mary.

"you're too good to me," said Red.

- by Sherm of Shermlington

It was his greatest plan ever

It was his greatest plan ever. A masterpiece. For the Penguin finally knew how to defeat Batman and Robin.

Upon discovering the true identity of Batman, Bruce Wayne, & Robin, Dick Grayson, the Penguin hatched an idea to cut the power off to Wayne Mansion. By destroying the power lines, Bat & Rob would be trapped inside Wayne Mansion without any power and without any power the Penguin surmised, both Bruce & Dick would be powerless without their Bat Gear. Neither of them would be able to prevent the eventual havoc the Penguin would unleash over Gotham City.

Tonight was the night the Penguin planned to unlease his plan. Although it was an usually dark and stormy night in Gotham, the Penguin did not have any thoughts of calling off his plan. There was a new moon and the Penguin needed the darkness. Any moonlight may have given off the Penguin's location to anyone in Wayne Mansion; the Penguin could not wait another month for the next new moon. He needed to go tonight.

Carrying his trademark umbrella the Penguin set off for his greatest criminal escapade ever. As the clouds started to roll in, the threat of rain looked imminent. The Penguin didn't care, as for his unbrella would provide him all the protection he needed, and besides, the storms would slow down the bumbling cops as Gotham fell before him while Batman and Robin lay trapped inside Wayne Mansion.

Carefully the Penguin set out, not wanting to arouse any suspecion, the Penguin stealthily shimmed up the power lines. But the clouds rolled in faster and faster, eventually giving way to a heavy downpour. Yet, it didn't matter to the Penguin for in minutes he would have achieved criminal genius. Once at the top, the Penguin would thrust his umbrella into the transformer knocking the power out to Wayne Mansion. However, the Penguin did not realize that the top of the pole was also the highest point in Gotham. As he got to the top, and began to thrust his umbrella a lighting bolt struck the Penguin dead.

- by my name

Out in the Northwest no one buries the power lines

Out in the Northwest no one buries the power lines. They string them between coffee shops and we walk on them, especially when it's raining because that way cars can't splash you. It's not easy learning how to walk on the wires. But once you get really good at it you can do tricks. Like with your umbrella. This is a picture of me performing my signature move - The Twirly.

- by chairman meow

Grandpa Barnaby's gangrenous middle finger

The umbrella was yellow. That's what Walt thought as he looked up towards the rooftops on of his one-dimensional neighborhood and saw Emma balancing like a tight-rope walker from the lattice of phone cables. Emma always had to be different.

Walt remembered when in second grade Emma brought in her grandfather's finger in a yellowy jar for show-and-tell. Most kids had brought postcards or fun textured objects. He had brought in the drink umbrella that his drunk neighbor Ralph had tried to stab him with. He had thought: It's colorful and exotic. And I can show them where the toothpick end broke the skin on my shoulder. But Emma out-did him with Grandpa Barnaby's gangrenous middle finger. She held it up with an almost eerie smile, saying the lord made it fall off because Grandpa used it willy-nilly at the dog and his wife and the kids in the neighborhood.

And there she was, pointing her toes like a ballerina, probably just to top him on her "What I Did This Summer" essay.

Walt watched Emma waiver. He saw her arms shoot out like a finch's spread wings. He saw the waiver undulate through a long width of cable like a drop from the faucet causes an ever-widening ripple in an over-full tub. The yellow umbrella floated down down down. Landing on a fire hydrant on which a dog had just relieved itself. But Emma stayed. When the waiver had passed, she continued, toes pointed, even more in control than before. She was almost at the other end. There's one word for a girl like that, thought Walt. Yellow umbrella or not, that girl is a Bitch.

- by deb