Friday, November 6, 2015

A Host of Narratives

The Bourne Predicament
by Robert L. Keeperman
     Jason smashed the spy’s noggin with yesterday’s Italian bread and before you could say “boo” the naked lady came out crying from under the bed.
     He told her to get dressed and meet him tomorrow in China.
     “But, I don’t even know you,” she cried.
     “Me too,” he shrugged.

On Wanker’s Pond
By Henry D. Keeperman
     Would it not be dear to march myself into the woodlands to reside? Thither, I would raise a shelter with borrowed tools. Like as not, I would thrive on elderberries and sassafras. Of course, I must forswear further schooling, but would the wise man not deem that a just sacrifice?

The Old Man and The Tree
By Ernest H. Keeperman
     He sat and saw them jump and slobber, claw and bark. It seemed forever that he had been treed by those devil dogs below, their teeth bared and throats hoarse. This was his tree. His branch. He had to pee a storm. At last, he knew he had them where he wanted them.

Of Human Badinage
By W. Somerset Keeperman
     “Philip, heal thyself,” he thought. The trace of a smile appeared in his head. On his face, however, only a grimace had formed. He limped over to his desk and stared deeply at her portrait.
     “Not a bad shot from a Brownie,” Mildred said, erasing even his phantom smile.

Däs Fiergegängenmitbellsundclängen
By Kurt V. Keeperman
     Hank hated extremes. He liked things calm.
     So, when the fire- and ice-storms began, he thought about becoming enraged. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t quite do it.
     So, he calmly wrote about what he saw until the day that his fingers froze and his pen melted.