Imperative

Little
belittle.

Lakeside

Those people across the lake in the little square summer cottages I could only see wavering around like puppets through binoculars in the lake's peculiar haze--who were they? What were their passions and problems? That businessman, for instance--he must have been a businessman, with his pale fat body, cigar never out of his mouth, always reading The Wall Street Journal on the sloping lawn every morning and never going near the water--who was he? He nearly fell from his chair a couple of times. Apparently there were no level flat areas that could hold his flimsy lawn folding chair stably on the property.

Were those people in that cottage--it must have been a summer rental--city types? They must have been. They didn't seem to be regulars. A summer on Lake George for a group like that must have been a riot. Yeah, I think I could write about them. They were clearly out of their element. Mountain lakes can be deep. What's that going on over there now? Well well well! She's not bad, eh? What? about seventeen? Jailbait for sure. But why's she staying with those jerks in the little brown cottage? They look like oysters.

It's Uncle Rick. Uncle Rick, I'll call him. Probably some capitalist from New Jersey who manufactures curtain rings.

Charisse's Treasure

When Charisse cautiously opened the chest, she gasped. Diamond brooches, emerald necklaces, ruby rings and pearls caught the attic's distant, dim bare bulb and transformed it, magnified it instantly into a blinding light, dazzling and wavering before her as if lighted from within. An eternity passed, and when she recovered her breath, she reached to touch the incredible treasure with reverence, almost fearing it might suddenly vanish if handled after having been secreted away from the world of mortals for so many centuries.

With a surgeon's hand she removed a long, thin, coiled pearl strand, upon which individual beads rewarded her admiring gaze with the luster of satin. Higher and higher the strand uncoiled in her hands, depending into cascading, catenary curves with serpentine sensuality. It seemed the strand were endless, but at last the final small, perfect bead emerged from its fabulous neighbors. Charisse raised its grouped folds high in its entirety, slowly shifting it from palm to palm, examining its every perfection in worshipful admiration, then drew it nearer, lightly stroking its trembling orbs over her chin and neck before replacing it carefully upon the heap of its fabulous companions.

Her excitement was soon dissipated, however, for in her heart of hearts Charisse's foremost quality was that of accountancy--a quality she had inherited from her father.

"Geezus Christ!" she shrieked. "How much is this shit worth?"

Her hands became a whirl of shovels as she dug, flinging aside priceless jewels, exquisite pendants and bracelets, solid gold and silver coins, chains, crowns, coronets, plates, pitchers, and cups like dross. Soon what must have been the greatest amassing of the accumulated wealth of the kings, princes, and potentates of the entire ancient world lay scattered over the attic floorboards like the discarded carnage of a pack of wolves.

Charisse raced to the bedroom closet and returned with several soiled pillowcases, into which she stuffed the booty and hauled it to the storefront of the sign of the Medici, where she flung the bags upon the dirty glass counter with a clattering thud.

After a lengthy professional examination, Alvino Vinci gave her $38 for the lot. Charisse stood grinning as broadly as the Cheshire Cat as she thumbed and summed, tallied and dallied through each bill, for in her heart of hearts, she was first and foremost an accountant--a quality she had inherited from her father.

Modern Communication

Cellular hellular schmellular mash,
Filling the freeways with digital trash.
You call me I'll call you yakkety yak,
Beepidy Boppidy Boopidy crash!

Siciliano

Siciliano
For your banno--
Not too many
For your penny.