Occasional Sputterings

Meadow, the company that brought you air fresheners, scent manipulators, rent-a-scent, and of course the more recent – Scent-Of-A-Lady Deodorant, have released a new line of anti-depressants. Long-time odor manipulation and scent aficionados, the researchers at Meadow had realized that the market for air-fresheners needed a direction, a new scent for the marketing dog. That is where Meadow anti-depressants come in. Taking cues from their Scent-Of-A-Lady line, the chemical engineers at Meadow-Labs have spent the past decade researching the various effects of olfactory manipulation upon their various volunteers. It was not until last year that they realized several of the volunteers from a few of the test groups, a month after they had left their respective studies, had evidenced unaccounted side effects. Rushing additional disclaimers to the family members, and quickly hiring the volunteers as olfactory contractors, Meadow began a battery of tests to determine the most likely cause.

It was a dark and stormy knight that burst onto the scene at 517 W. Camelot Drive early Thursday morning, wreaking havoc at the Sweater Museum. Mr. James Richards II, also of Camelot Drive, had been practicing sword-fighting in his renaissance-fair costume, that of a black suit-of-arms, when he noticed light in the window of the Sweater Museum. Being a member of the neighborhood watch, and wanting to act quickly, James rush to the scene, where his visor distorted his view and ultimately resulted in $50,000 worth of damage to fully half of the museum. “I ran over as quickly as my suit would allow,” said Mr. James Richards II, as he unsuccessfully attempted to open his visor. “I must have been quite a sight, with my vintage suit, and I’m certain I could have caught the culprit, if I had not tripped. I keep forgetting to oil the helmet.” The Camelot Sweater Museum, world-famous for its collection of never-work cardigans and unique Scottish-esque patterns had just received a shipment o

“Wow,” said Frank, as he picked up his piccolo. “Ever since they changed the currency from paper to music, I’ve really enjoyed my job.” “Well,” replied Phil, “the migration should not have been a shock to anyone – it was common enough a few decades ago to refer to a dollar bill as a note.” He finished sanding the flute and handed the new instrument to Frank. “Ten dollar bills were ten-notes. You get the picture.” Doing a swift bit of calculation in his head, Phil pronounced, “That will be sixteen quarter-notes in 2/2 time, a nouveau mock-Bach symphony, and your trade-in.” “Hmmm,” responded Frank, as handed over the various currencies and played the quarter notes. “I’m glad I practiced last week – these instrument upgrades are getting rather expensive!” “Blame the economy, my friend,” said Phil, as he flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. “It used to be that a well-made flute would fetch a dozen recombinant operettas and would be enough to feed my family for a month. Now I am lucky t

It was a dark and stormy night. Thousands of magpies descended upon the lone hut as darkness robbed the interior of any appearance of hope or visitation. The hut sat alone, a stark reminder of civilization, and the falling leaves outline a tall horse, twenty hands high, standing alone outside the hut. Unkempt, with bloodied hooves, the dark horse trod silently around the hut, sometimes stopping to dig, sometimes sniffing the air, never quite resting as his rounds left soft marks in the hard dirt. Music came from behind the hut – rollicking, mysterious, energetic music, that crafted hints of hope and solace and caused the falling leaves to dance and sway in time with the cacophony. The frame of the horse changed not one iota - and yet the horse appeared drawn to the source of the music. The circles about the hut the horse had made became larger until the horse came upon a mostly-abandoned glade. Row upon row of neatly painted grass swayed in tune with the powerful audition of energy