New Stories as Often as Humanly Possible
©Jamie B. Wolcott

Shockingly Stupid Disaster on Clipper Island


Wandering the shores of the north, and gathering broken bits
of what happened, Zero tried to make sense of the past 5 days.
At first, there was talk that every wooden-legged drunkard was involved.
"It couldn't be anything else" people said under their breath.
After close scrutiny of the evidence,
and piecing the mess back together, he found that no person with
a wooden leg could do something so shockingly stupid.

Having a wooden leg himself, and having a good friend in the Scottish
version of hootch, as well as being a life-long member of the Wooden-Leg
Aristocracy, he knew this mess could never have been the doing of his own people.
Zero packed his pockets with bits, and hobbled off into town.
Clunk, step, clunk, step.

The town was quiet and odd. In the mid day cloudy light, he made his way
down Clipper Court to the Tavern of the Cultured to find friends. Upon the
big wooden door hung the sign that had been there for ages "No Shirt, No Wooden
Leg, No Service". Just to keep out the riff raff.
The door creaked open... how could it not? The room was dark and dank, of course,
and filled with years of chatter and drink. This was a very old Tavern.
He made his way through the tables full of fellow peg-legs, with a
Hiya to every one he knew.
Clunk, step, clunk, step. "Hey Drago!" Zero said with a grin to the keeper
of the bar, "How 'bout a glass of the old stopgap?" "Sure thing, Zero my boy."

Zero went down and sat at his normal stool at the bar, on the far end.
His new tri-corner hat was giving him an itch on his forehead. "Damn new wool".
"On your toes!!" Drago yelled, which meant a drink was coming down the bar
at top speed. Zero caught it like a baseball player, never spilled a drop. "Cheers!"
he shouted. "Cheers!" came from all angles around the tavern, from everyone who
was in there, then BANG, as the glasses slammed the thick oak after the liquid
was consummed.

Zero emptied out his pockets of gathered bits and placed them on the bar for
sorting and inspection. A miriad of thoughts raced through his mind as
he touched each piece of paper, metal and canvas. "No one I know would
treat canvas or metal in such a barbaric way..." he mumbled. "If only I
had been here when it all happened, I might understand." He rubbed his forehead.
Zero had just come back from his favorite woodworking shop 2 islands over,
getting his leg sanded and varnished. No peg-leg in town saw the ordeal, and they've
been keeping quiet ever since, so they wouldn't attract attention
to themselves, lest they be put in a leg iron.

The old ladies of the town have had it out for the Wooden-Leg Aristocracy
for nearly a hundred years, and took this as their chance to have
"That assortment of derelicts" put into a dungeon.

...more to come



The Fortune Cookie Writer


Leon hit the top of the alarm as it went off. It sounded like an air raid
siren every morning, and he vowed, for the eighth time,
to get a new one that was more pleasant.

Shuffling out of bed and to the kitchen for tea, this middle aged man
felt he had little to be happy about. The same dreary apartment, with
only an airshaft for light and circulation, the same dreary office year
after year, loud and stupid neighbors, the slight but very specific smell
coming up from the alley. Yikes, he said.
As the water boiled, he was well equipped with his filthy mug and sad,
sad Lipton tea bag. This middle aged man looked forward to nothing.

He occupied a desk with a typewriter. He could leave for the day when
he'd created 100 fortunes to go in fortune cookies. It doesn't seem like much,
but strained as he was for any kind of excitment in his life, it wasn't
easy. He felt not just unlucky, but unfortunate. How could they
expect him to create fortunes for lively couples having Chinese
food dinner at the Lucky Duckling? But he would...indeed... create his
hundred fortunes and then leave for the day.

In his boxers and terry cloth slippers, he looked at the curtains
slowly wafting in the air shaft "breeze". He could see, ever so slightly,
that it must be raining. Shit, he said.

He finished his tea, and shuffled off to the closet to get his
clothes for the day. The greasy mirror revealed his slouching, pasty
self. He needed a haircut but didn't see the point in it. He would
just splash some water on his face and head, and randomly drag
a comb through it.

At 8:42 he was out the door to work, umbrella
twirling around his fingers. In a split second he had it open and
above him. He liked to pretend it was a pistol, and he was a
secret agent pulling his gun on his enemy, with a sneer.
It only took a half-second for him to open it and
make a roof for himself, and months to perfect the move.

It was indeed drizzling. The streets were full of other people
with their portable roofs. Everyone squinting as they walked
by short people with large umbrellas, hoping they'd pass with
both eyes intact.

Leon's office was in a filthy building, which didn't help
his outlook on life at all. It sat back from the street a bit,
and was one of those 1960's Mod buildings that was not holding up
to time or the elements very well at all. Large chunks of the
facade had already vanished, no on knew where to. The black trim
had bled down the sides of the lighter colored squares, making it
look like a fire had occured backwards down the building. And it
stunk, Like every thing else, Leon said.

The elevator was cramped, of course. Six people could fit in there
if they'd been watching what they ate lately. A hand scrawled sign
on the door said, as in every rainstorm, "Shake umbrella outdoor
please, thanks you. Mr. G"

On the 9th floor, awaited his typewriter and his miserable life. Others
were already typing away at their various jobs, Leon was the only
Fortune Cookie Writer there. The flourescent lights buzzed above,
that eerie pale blue light, some of the bulbs covered by that orange
plastic covering that was meant to make the light look "natural".
He removed his overcoat and hung it, along with the umbrella,
on his hook.

The creaky hard swivel chair would have his ass aching in exactly
23 minutes. He started thinking. Then he began typing.

"True love is near at hand"
"Money spent with good intent gives miracles in return"
"An incredible event will lead you down the right path"
"Incliment weather brings romance"...

The Lucky Ducking was busy that night. The rainy weather
brought in tons of customers looking for Dim Sum and
fried rice. Two friends that had worked together for
almost a year, decided to splurge and get Chinese food
for dinner after work. I've been coming here for years, Rhonda
said. This is the first time I'd heard of it, actually, replied
Steve. Two please. The waiter led them to a window seat.

The booths were old 70's vinyl, black. The Lucky Duckling took
great pride in their red Chinese lamps with the tassles, and
red plush carpet. Bamboo knick knacks covered the walls.


Lunch was terrific, I'll have to come back here for sure, Steve
said. Oh great! Fortune cookies...they each picked up one.

"You will be blessed with surprises today" Steve read.
"Incliment weather brings romance" Oooooo! Rhonda said as
she raised her eyebrows at Steve. That sounds interesting, she said.







...more to come