Ties Are Made

"No, seriously, what's going on?" my guest asks again.  "How do you two know one another?"

"Stop being annoying!" I yell, louder than I mean to.  The hazy man across from me leans back in his chair. 

"Ma'am, let 'im aks 'is questions."  The billowing smoke shifts slightly toward my unwanted associate, leaning forward almost enough to expose the face behind the cloud. "This liddle gal n' I met one day when I wus called to the scene of a crime.  A toy dog, a liddle pup, had gone berserk an' attacked a boy. He wus only two, ye know.  One 'o the worst tings I had ever seen.  An this gal, the woman ye have beside ye, was standin' right outside o' the police tape, like nuttin was botherin' her inna world."

I blush, surprised that he remembered so well.  "I am your biggest fan, sir."

"I know, gal, I know."  He tossed the toy car casually onto the desk.  "Now, waddaya need from me?"

"Well, sir," my associate began, "I seem to have lost something very important..."

I roll my eyes.  "He lost a flock of robotic pigeons that are of national importance."

"Ah, I heard about 'em, from a friend o' mine."

"But," my associate spluttered, "this is top secret! Most of the people who invented the things don't know they're lost!"

"Mebbe, but the people I know're higher'n that..."  The voice behind the cloud petered off into nothing, waiting for a response.  I cover my face as much as I can, trying to hide my embarrassment for the man who unfortunately hired me.

My employer explained everything to the ball of smoke, and I let my eyes wander the room, bored.  On every wall there seemed to be a book case dedicated to the technological trophies he had won or dismantled. 

When the men were done talking, our host gathered a few odd looking things from around the room, giving them to me in a small bag.  He told me that they were going to be instrumental in returning the secrets and the pigeons to Washington.

For a few minutes he marked on a map that he had grabbed from one drawer or another.  The smoke once again obscured everything, and when he handed it to me it was folded into eighths.  

"Now, don't you open that up 'till ye get outta this office.  And keep the stuff in the bag hidden.  I never wanna see any of it again.  Not, both of you go an' don't come back here. Ever, whether you're successful or not.  Do ye unnerstand?"

"Never?" I as kin disbelief.  "But what if I want to talk to you? If I want to discuss methods of mechanical extermination?"

"Never!" the cloud said harshly.

I rose so abruptly that my chair screeched against the stone in the office.  My associate followed after me, back into the dark city.

They are revealed.

We found ourselves bundled comfortably on what I suspect is the world's oldest couch. Only one light shines on the scene.  An older man sits across from us, silent and judgmental at the same time.  His face is obscured by the smoke of his cigar.  In one cupped hand he holds a piece of metal twisted almost beyond recognition.  I can tell it is the remains of an RC car.  

My guest stares at the hand blatantly, and finally I slap him to get him to stop.

"You could have just asked," he said, rubbing his jaw.

"I don't believe in asking," I shoot back, not taking my eyes off the tiny car.

A half minute more of silence, and then:

"Whaddaya wan' wit me, huh?" A smoky voice comes from the billowing cloud.  "Not jus' anyone cin find dis address."


"I'm not just anyone, sir," I say under an arched eyebrow.


"I remember who y'are, girl," the elderly man says.


"I remember what you can do," I say, raising my chin.


"What is going on here?" my guest asks quizzically.


"Shut up," I hiss through the side of my mouth.

Anachronistic Presidents that kind of look like the Powerpuff Girls.

Franklin, Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln

Hamilton, Adams, John Jay, Madison

Franklin and Washington, presumably after a rave.

The taller you are, the more you can drink. Lincoln passed that threshold a long time ago.

THAT'S SHOWING THE BRITISH!

Lincoln with a historically inaccurate goatee.  But he's also hanging out with the Founding Fathers, so whatevs.

"You wig-wearing BASTARDS!"

Jefferson's so derpy

 Compare to the painting and you will see that mine is better.  So there.




The beginnings of a little Jefferson/Hamilton bromance perhaps? Or something more?

Jefferson works ALL THE DAMN TIME.

The true lives of Leprechauns.

The salty sea air wafted gently around Brian O'Finnigan as he stood in the waning darkness at the precipice of the Cliffs of Moher.  The green grass, so much brighter in Ireland than in other countries, tickled his ankles as he stood silently, listening and waiting.  He had heard on good faith from a friend, who looked it up on the Internet, that if you stood quietly on the cliffs and waited for sunrise something magical would happen.  He had to laugh at himself every time he thought this, embarrassed that he was actually doing it.  But in a corner of his heart he truly did believe.

           

As he stood stock still the sun began to rise, its light setting even the wet expanse before him ablaze.  He stood silently, grinning like a fool, as he watched the magical display.  But then coherent thought returned to his head.  Magical.  He thought this was magical.  Was this all his informant had meant?  He would enjoy the sunrise?  Slowly he turned around, sadness washing over him.

           

And then he heard the noise.

            

A small jingling, like that of bells, on the periphery of sound, so small that if he hadn't been completely silent he would not have heard it.  He swiveled his head, attempting to locate the originator of the noise, and was lead over a small hill to his right.  As he crested the hill the jingle became louder and more pronounced.  He searched the ground frantically for the progenitor, and was looking so intently, that he did not notice the hole until he had fallen down its wide expanse.

            

 The taste of dirt filled his mouth as he fell.  After a few long seconds he landed heavily on the bottom of the tunnel.  His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, helped along by the presence of a multitude of tiny lights.  As he glanced around, he slowly began hearing voices, quieter than the bells but more frequent.  He looked up and, seeing that the ceiling was high enough for him to crawl down the tunnel, began exploring in search for the people who were speaking.  It did not take him long to find them, but it was a surprise when he did.

            

 A small group of leprechauns stood in the corridor, talking quickly to one another and gesticulating wildly.  As Brian approached, they quieted and turned toward him.

             

“Hello,” he said hesitantly, noticing the sparkle of gold coins at their feet.  “My name is Brian O'Finnigan.”

             

“So?” responded the leprechaun.  He looked down.  “Get your hands off the gold.  You'll make it dirty,” the creature said.

            

 “Oh, I'm quite sorry,” said the boy, “but are you real leprechauns?  I mean, I know we're in Ireland, but really?”

             

“Yes, we're real!” screamed the diminutive man.  “What are you doing here?  What have you come for?”

             

“My friend told me-” he was cut off.

            

 “Do you listen to everything your friends say?  If they said, 'Oh, jump off a bridge!' would you?”

            

 “Well, no, but...” He trailed off.  The leprechauns began glaring at him in a sinister way, making Brian question all of the stories he had heard about their dancing, frolicking pastimes.  One inched toward him frighteningly slowly.

            

 “Do you know why we have never been discovered?  Why we are only rumors and folklore?” he asked.  It was a rhetorical question, so before Brian could answer he continued.  “I'll let you in on a little secret.  We have been discovered.  Several times, in fact.”  Hatred flowed out of the little body.  “It's the people who discover us that are never seen again.”

            

 Brian began to panic.  He though of all the times he never said 'good bye' to friends or 'I love you' to his parents, but he had little time to ponder before everything went black.

            

 That night the leprechauns had a wonderful feast in honor of their continued anonymity.  The roast beef was exquisite.

Frederick

Frederick climbed the worn stairs to his room quickly but stopped just before the door.  A lot had happened since he had been away.  He wondered if a broken heart would change his memories of the place.  When he had seen his mother at the airport he had only wanted to climb into her arms and never leave.  When he saw his friends he had almost decided not to go back to London.  He ultimately knew that neither of these were options he had, but his sadness made them viable.  It wasn’t until he was faced with his childhood from only a semester ago that he truly realized how alone he had felt across the miles of water.  He wondered what his room would do – help him or act as yet another battering ram to his psyche.

         

His eyes roamed the coarse wood grain of the door as his hand reached almost regretfully toward the handle.  He shoved it gently inward and took a step into the room.  He stood quietly.

     

He felt nothing.  He looked around at his possessions, his things, and felt not one emotion.  He threw his bag onto his too-small bed and whirled around, trying to keep everything in his sights.  Every corner was filled with a memory of him, his family, his friends, and he forced himself to recall them, stretching into the recesses of his memory and expelling every happy thought, every sad moment, but he was shocked to find that he could no longer relate.  He sat wearily on his bed, clinking the zippers of his suitcase together rhythmically, realizing finally that he could feel nothing.

          

 The stress of the past year, the sheer drudgery of class after class and nights spent alone because he was never invited to a party had emptied him of feeling anything but that sameness.  The only emotion that rescued him from his apathy was anger, at Maci, at school, at the people who never looked at him because he was different, the people who stared for the same reason.