By PDMACpayday loans

Yogi’s Cat

She was a terrible waitress and we didn’t care. In her charming shy English she and my wife were discussing the history of immunization and plague, while her cousins covered for her. She was a doctoral student specializing in possible future pandemics. Since relatives were putting her up for the semester while she worked at the local university,
it only seemed right she should help out in their small Thai restaurant.
To include me in the conversation, she nodded briefly and said “I like your shirt very much. It is like the song”. She smiled, I smiled, my wife smiled , and I had no idea what song she meant.
My shirt was a lightweight plaid cowboy shirt complete with pearly buttons onto which my wife had sewn 70’s embroidered cats. Two little cats angled over the pockets playing different musical instruments. I tried to think of “shirt song” and did come up with Donavan and Elvis Costello tunes before our waitress gently prompted “you know,” and in her small lovely voice sang “Everybody wants to be a cat……”. The theme song from the “Aristocats”. The Disney animated film for praising cat lifestyles that came out shortly after “Lady and the Tramp” was such a hit. My wife knew it and started to sing, so did the cousins who joined in and in a true Broadway moment a surprising number of the other diners sang along. Only a few people new the song beyond the chorus
and even fewer knew the second verse, but people smiled and hummed along.
One of the cousins brought our food, our waitress gave another little nod and left.
My wife divided brow rice between us, and seemed to think all this was completely normal. I thought what a strange shift in our time-space continuum there had been. Singing a song from a cartoon movie I hadn’t thought of in forty years. Yet who could appreciate all this? Maybe if Yogi Berra had a cat. Deja vu all over again. Meow.
Doug Mathewson

Filed Under Flash Fiction
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Lend a Hand

Depending on the season Gus-Boy worked construction or fixing cars.
Place he bent wrenches fixed up donated cars and gave ‘em away. Just old cars to get you to work or for folks with kids who lived out in the hills,
Painted his name on the trunk of everyone so if he or a friend saw it broke down, they’d know to stop and lend a hand.
Doug Mathewson

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Qui etes-vous

Emily said, “I am nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too? ….
I am not Charlie’
nor The Prophet’s son.
Just a friend of Emily’s,
and that is quite enough.
by Doug Mathewson

Filed Under Micro Fiction, Poetry & Essay
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Wilhelm’s Job

Since Wilhelm was the oldest, his job was wiping snot from Grandfather’s great
walrus like mustache. Wilhelm often waited until long drooping strands were dangling off
Grandfathers chin. Grandfather did not care for Wilhelm. Wilhelm did not care for Grandfather.

Gretchen, the youngest, just knew in her heart she’d knife the old man before she’d take over Wilhelm’s job. She stabbing Grandfather would make their mother very sad Gretchen knew, so she daydreamed about burning their little house down while everyone was asleep.

Wilhelm’s middle sister, Little Martha, told all this to the blind man who sold postcards in front of the Cathedral. They were close friends. Little Martha picked out all the postcards that he sold. She told him they were religious paintings by Renaissance Masters depicting Saints, Holy Miracles, and Bible stories.

They were actually photos naked muscle men. The pictures were well done, Mediterranean sunshine gave a warm tone to the oiled bodies of these young men.
Most often they posed to display their striking physiques. Sometimes they were kissing or just holding hands.

by-Doug Mathewson

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Modern Medicine

The new vet diagnosed our old cat’s as being hyper-thyroid,
and prescribed a medicated cream to be applied twice daily.
The cream comes in felt tipped applicators. Two twist of the
base puts the proper dosage on the tip, and you gently rub it
inside the cat’s ears. This beats trying to get a pill down her by far.
The applicators are expensive! I’m thinking we could supplement
the medication with a high-liter. Alternate the two for a placebo
affect. Besides, Kitten will be so cute with florescent yellow ears
and coal black fur. Just the perfect picture for our Christmas cards.

by Doug Mathewson

Filed Under Micro Fiction
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Schools and Government Offices will be closed.

Hangings have always been good for business.
The She-Scouts made little nooses to sell.
The He-Scouts will roast sausages stuck on sticks.
Tomorrow they’ll string up the guy who slipped all
those nasty annoying little spinning pinwheels into Apple
computers. The turnout should be huge.

.
Doug Mathewson
 

Filed Under 55 Words / 50 Words
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November 3rd

I bought a ice cream sandwich and a lottery ticket at the gas station on my way to vote so it wouldn’t be wasted trip.
 
doug mathewson

Filed Under Micro Fiction
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Montreal

Yellow hybrid Prius taxi cab.
Windows open airport to hotel Grand Prix.
Tall Nigerian driver shouting French.
Shooting his hands left and right pointing out
bars, restaurants, clubs, and galleries.
Places where an uncle or a cousin works.
He promises me special treatment, special prices.
“The common, the ordinary, these are not for you.”
he adds, as we run every red-light.

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Perfect Pups & Chat Anormal

“Being a veterinarian in Montreal must have been fascinating. Are you bilingual?
How did you handle the language thing?

“I had only recently graduated, and while the pay wasn’t what I hoped for I did enjoy living in the city very much. Language never was a problem. I spoke French to cats and English to dogs”.

“But that’s silly to assume all cats speak French and all dogs speak English. That’s
like saying all dogs are male and all cats female”.

“Research as proven conclusively that both sexes are represented in cats and dogs.
Communication is different. Most cats do of course speak French, and the few who don’t fake it, not willing to admit they don’t. Dogs are pretty easy going. Your happy, they’re happy. If the owner was French speaking, I’d wink at the dog and switch over.
if I didn’t like the owner I’d make them translate.”

“Translate to the dog.”

“Yes, translate, and I’d use tons of long and complicated medical terms.”

“Well that’s ridiculous. What about little Spanish gatos, or great German hounds. What did you say to them?”

“ We didn’t, just referred then to another practice. Usually the pet acupuncture lady in Chinatown.”

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Musee’ d’Art Contemporain

The new museum of art building is so dramatic.
A four story wave of glass cresting the highest hill.
One hundred years of the best in contemporary art.
Every inch unique, no detail remains mundane.
Even the swirling form of asymmetrical urinals.
(Lefties best use a stall).

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