>>> Item number 35258 from WRITERS LOG9408C --- (128 records) ---- <<< Date: Mon, 15 Aug 1994 18:35:02 JST Reply-To: WRITERS Sender: WRITERS From: Mike Barker Subject: SUB: Polishing Off a motley of left-over last lines... couple down near the end that I haven't come up with anything interesting yet, if someone else wants to polish them off... tink Polishing Off Copyright 1994 Mike Barker The mime was truly impressive. Under the hot sun, his white face and gloves seemed to glow against the black garb. The crowd watched, impassive, as he swept us a long, deep bow. Then he turned and walked along, dusting the air, slowly making us see it. A curved line, a straight line, and a keyboard. He lifted the top of the grand piano, pulling up the stick to hold it and fumbling it, then getting it propped correctly. He reached in and pinged a string. No sound was heard, but he smiled. He flipped his invisible tails up and sat on the non-existent bench. Interwoven fingers stretched and flexed. Then he played. A jazz piece, fingers popping and jumping, sliding across the keys. A classic, head bowed and concentrated, bass thumping, high keys building, a crescendo of joy. Piece after piece, all in silence, all in musical harmony and visible delight. He stood at last and bowed. The crowd went crazy. One man stepped from the crowd, ignoring the clapping and cheers. He stepped close, and looked the mime in the face. He glanced at the air where moments ago each of us had seen the grand piano. He looked at the crowd. "Hey," he said finally, "if you really like to play the piano so much, you should take some lessons." ----------------------- The policeman was awesome. Blue uniform. Shiny black belt. Holster, cartridges, handcuffs. Microphone clipped in place. Shiny sunglasses reflected the light as he stooped and peered in at the four students. "License and registration, please?" The driver gulped. He dug out his wallet and found his driver's license. Then he leaned over and opened the glove compartment, pulled out the registration, and handed both papers out to the towering figure. "Do you know why I stopped you?" Another gulp. "No. Uh, no sir." "Well, in the last mile, you've driven on the wrong side of the road, off the road, on the sidewalk, through two bushes, and you just signaled that you were turning into an exit ramp from the freeway." "Oh." "Now, one, you might be having car trouble. Two, there might be something wrong with your steering. Three, you might be sick or having some problem with your eyes. Four, maybe your girlfriend was talking to you and you just didn't know what was happening. Do you think it might be one of those?" "Well..." The policeman shook his head. "You don't think you might be drunk or doing some drugs?" The student in the back seat opened his eyes, smiled, and said, "No, but I think we have one through four." Then he leaned out and vomited on the policeman's shiny shoes. It wasn't going to be a good day. --------------------------- The doctor was in tears. He kept picking up one bone, then a lump of meat or maybe a bolt, and starting to fit them together, then throwing them to the ground. He looked at the pieces scattered over the ground, the blood pooling in hollows in the grass torn by the mob, the ashes scattered from the torches, and sobbed. He jumped when Igor moved in the darkness. He grimaced and nearly hit the poor man on his twisted back when Igor surveyed the wreckage and asked, "Doctor Frankenstein, there's no chance for resuscitation?" --------------------------- The letter from the publisher was a surprise. He had expected a response, but not this. They had challenged the world to find any error in their most recent book. The front of the book proclaimed "We will pay one million dollars for each correctly identified error." He had spent six long months checking the book, word by word, almost letter by letter. Finally, he sent them a letter describing the single fault he found. It was a questionable comma on page 149, and he freely admitted that it might go either way. But this response! The envelope contained three items. A printed letter with the doggerel verse: "Roses are red, Violets are blue, You found one, We made two." A copy of the dummy of the cover, with "million dollars" struck out and "dollar" written in its place. And one dollar bill. --------------------------- The devil was busy. Collection day was always hard, racing around and picking up souls. Today was unusually busy, being the end of the infernal loan period and an eternal fiscal quarter at the same time. The boss insisted that they pick up all the souls that owed them today, so that Hell's books would look good in the balance. He checked his pocket calendar, then went into the bank. The vice-president groaned when he saw the devil. No one else noticed as they reacted to the toppling body in the three-piece suit. Only the dead and a few very good souls usually noticed spirits of any kind. When he left the bank with the wailing soul of the vice-president on his shoulder, then, he was surprised by the little old woman standing in the street staring at them. She smiled, clutching her pitiful banking books in her hand. "It must be great repossessing something from a bank," she said. --------------------------- "Thanks to your advice, I had the courage to say no." --------------------------- "Imagine my delight--Old Yeller, Big Red, and Black Like Me had been checked out." ---------------------------