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Three Word Wednesday



“First Date Jitters”

“I’ve said all along, and here’s where my thinking dovetails nicely with the reality of the current situation…”

“Which is?”

“The thinking or the current situation?”


“Well, the economic meltdown, crash, stumble, flame-out, you name it, that current situation.”

“Oh… I was wondering why this place was so empty.”

“Don’t you follow the news?”

“Not really. It’s all the same anyway. Opium for the rabble.”

“I think you mean ‘masses’.”


“Look, all I meant was that the current situation is based on systemic risk built into an economic model that rewards big thinking and bold initiatives. All this recession does is to validate the mandate that people are actually herd animals and prefer to follow someone with a strong personality.”

“Uh huh.”

“Let me show you. Let’s say this piece of steak is the president and these fries are the voters. Notice that the meat is rich and tender, lean yet flavorful. But the fries are all rigid, burnt and in disarray. They’ve been frozen, chopped and boiled in scalding oil.”


“Exactly! So what does the ‘steak’ do to placate the ‘fries’?”

“I have no idea.”

“He pours gravy all over them and they go away happy.”

“Are you going to eat those?”

By Rose D. Kaye, February 11th, 2009

A chance meeting

Where is the boundary between a tradition and an obsession? For Mr. Chandler the Sunday morning ramble through the Metropolitan Museum of Art – never the vulgar shorthand ‘The Met’ – was his time of pleasure; a way to lift himself above the plebeian duties of his workweek. As a fancied connoisseur of the arts – again, Arts was simple pretense – each successive Sunday was spent in rote study of different galleries. He always avoided the crush of the special presentations by purchasing private show tickets instead and attended these events alone on Friday evenings.

Being a confirmed bachelor had many advantages, not the least of which was companionship rather than shackles. Not that shackles were all bad he’d been know to pontificate, but not for one such as I. Mr. Chandler simply choose to spend his time, and money, on those activities that offered a tangible reward. For those that could not understand how the viewing of art could be rewarding, he had nothing but scorn. Art, was what separated Homo sapiens from the reptilian brain stem that was only interested in food and mating. Of course he did those things as well, [very well] and if pressed, Mr. Chandler would admit, in a torturous and belabored manner, that all art – in fact – ‘stemmed’ from that primitive and frightening portion of the ancient mind.

“Art? Is that you? Fancy meeting you here. I didn’t take you for a man of good taste and sophistication. Is this your first visit to the Met?”

By Rose D. Kaye, February 6th, 2009

The twilight

This is a fictional story for the Sunday Scribblings prompt ‘Regrets’.

Being of sound mind and body I hereby bequeath all my worldly assets to the following:

The Sansbore Foundation

That’s it. They get it all. The only regrets I have, are that I lacked the courage to tell all of you to your faces how much I loathed spending my ‘Golden Years’ being abused by my loving family. They say you can’t take it with you, but I can make sure you get nothing. And don’t try to sue to overturn the will, it won’t work and you’ll regret going up against my lawyers. So for the last time….

Bugger Off!

By Rose D. Kaye, January 30th, 2009

In the course of being earnest…

Three Word Wednesday



… it is usually best to prevaricate whenever possible. Truth is worshiped to the point of default. Much better to be a cynic.

“Quitting time”

For Ermondo ‘Ruthless’ Sanchez quitting time always brought a scowl to his squat and pug-nosed face. The ambient noise in the building gradually faded as the machines were turned off and the carrion packed their personal belongings. Not one of them dared meet his jagged glower when they furtively scurried past the security guard and out into the cool night air. Every single one of them was worthless offal and the fact that ‘Ruthless’ actually had to pay them and provide benefits caused a physical reaction not unlike being prodded by sharp power tools. He slammed his office door, punched the speed dial button number four and agitatedly paced while the speakerphone rang.

“Ms Fromagia’s office. How may I assist you?”

‘Ruthless’ hated the sound of the CEO’s private secretary; her voice was a caress from #40 sandpaper. It left you bleeding and clutching your ears.

“This is Sanchez. I need to speak to her.”

“One moment please.”

If I have to run this place one more day I’ll…

“Ermondo! It’s so nice to hear from you. How’s the weather out there?”

“I have no idea Stacey and I don’t care. You promised me if I took over this factory and made a profit you’d promote me to V.P. within six months. It’s been nine months and I want what’s mine. Get me out of here!”

“Calm down Ermondo. I know what I promised and soon you’ll get what you deserve. The board is very impressed by the numbers you’re generating and the substantial increase to the bottom line. In fact, they decided, just today, that a six-figure bonus is headed your way as we speak.”

“You think you can buy me off with money Stacey? Remember why I’m out in this dump in the first place? One more month and that’s final… or else I’ll be looking for a better offer.” Ermondo slapped the disconnect button, threw himself into his leather chair and brooded. “I mean it Stacey. Don’t mess with me.”

It was too bad Stacey mused as her driver deftly maneuvered through jagged early evening traffic. It really was a profitable factory, but sometimes it was better to cut your losses. Not that ‘Ruthless’ would be missed by anyone. Stacey glanced down and caressed the suckling infant. Not even by you little one. Not even by you.

By Rose D. Kaye, January 28th, 2009

Another late night

Three Word Wednesday



Never a humble man, Sven the blacksmith frequently boasted that his forge was the hottest in the three provinces and his hammer the biggest and most well used. Standing a few inches below seven feet and with nearly three hundred pounds of muscle, when he swung the heavy hammer down onto the anvil, sparks flew in a shower of power. [Those were his lines of oft-repeated poetry during bouts of drinking and wenching in his favorite tavern.]

A man of huge talent and even huger appetites Sven rose before the sun to stoke the furnace and worked until well after sundown, his creased face then lit only by the glare of the dying embers. All throughout the day, the town’s streets rang with the steady cadence of metal on metal, punctuated occasionally with pungent and blasphemous oaths. For Sven lived his life as he worked, loud, long and filled with the satisfaction of creation. No timid soul was he, the only resolve he chose, was to take as much pleasure from hammering as he could.

[Certainly the many swelled bellies spoke to his success.]

By Rose D. Kaye, January 21st, 2009