Twisted tales.
tape. His fingers groped, then stilled. He pulled his hand out, his face paling beneath his spectacles. Not the tape, but a single, solitary button nestled in the palm of his hand. A button, identical to the ones he had painstakingly sewn onto Mrs. Abernathy's gown. And as the mayor's wife launched into a tirade about hemlines and expectations, Silas Finch finally understood: The hole wasn't a flaw in the fabric, but a convenient little escape hatch for his own anxieties, a subtle act of self-sabotage born from a life lived too perfectly, too rigidly. The hole, it seemed, wasn't a problem at all, but a tiny, rebellious act of freedom.
The Stargazer of P.S. 23
Maurice, a man whose tie perpetually battled a losing war against gravity, arrived at Public School 23 with the lofty title of “Science Instructor.” But Maurice's science was of a purely celestial, and rather internal, variety. While earnest young minds buzzed with questions about the pollination of peonies or the digestive tract of the earthworm, Maurice's gaze was fixed, utterly and completely, on the acoustic-tile heavens above.
His classroom, a theatre of the absurd, played out daily. Little Timmy would pipe up, “Mr. Henderson, what's photosynthesis?” And Maurice, eyes still lost in the labyrinthine patterns of the ceiling, would murmur, “Ah, photosynthesis… a delicate dance of photons, a silent symphony of chlorophyll… yes, quite.” The answer, a verbal Jackson Pollock, meant everything and nothing, leaving Timmy both impressed and utterly bewildered. The children quickly learnt that the key to surviving Maurice's class was to ask questions to which the answers did not matter.
Years marched on, doing their best to imitate a particularly brisk drill sergeant. The bright-eyed students of P.S. 23 scattered to the winds, armed with Maurice's vague pronouncements and a healthy dose of skepticism. Time, that relentless sculptor, chiseled away at Maurice, leaving him a frail, stooped figure, a shadow of his former, ceiling-gazing self.
One day, Maurice found himself in a predicament. Old age, that notorious trickster, had played a cruel joke, leaving him with an ailment as baffling as one of his own lectures. He needed help, and quickly. Desperate, he recalled the faces of those bygone students, faces he barely registered during his years of ceiling-gazing enlightenment. He remembered little Susie, who was always asking about the migration patterns of butterflies, and now he got a letter from his family saying she was one of the best doctors in the country. There was also young Pete, who wondered if the stars were actually streetlights. Apparently, he was now a famous astrophysicist.
Fortune, it seemed, had an ironic sense of humour. The very students who had suffered through his abstract lessons were now the pillars of the medical and scientific community. The doctor, the scientist, and even the pharmacist, all alumni of P.S. 23, gathered around Maurice's bedside. They spoke in terms he mostly had no clue about it, but they seemed to know what to do. And while their prescriptions and diagnoses were far more grounded than his old pronouncements on the “silent symphony of chlorophyll,” one thing became clear: even a life spent staring at the ceiling could, in its own peculiar way, cultivate a harvest of unexpected kindness and help. After all, even stars need a little help sometimes.
Bruce's Diet
Bruce Butterlad, a man whose waistline was rapidly outpacing his paycheck, held a peculiar position: head chef at the “Little Lambs” kindergarten. Now, Bruce wasn't exactly known for his culinary artistry. His repertoire consisted mostly of glorified mush and suspiciously-coloured gelatin. But what he lacked in skill, he made up for in… appetite.
You see, Bruce had a secret ingredient in his kindergarten concoctions, and it wasn't listed on any recipe card. It was called “Bruce's Portion,” a generous mound of food siphoned from each child's plate before they even caught a whiff of it. “Waste not, want not,” he'd mutter, conveniently forgetting that the “want” belonged to the hungry little lambs.
His cheeks, akin to inflated balloons, betrayed his lunchtime activities. Meanwhile, the Little Lambs, once rosy-cheeked cherubs, began to resemble pale imitations of their former selves. Their once-bright eyes dimmed, their laughter faded, replaced by the distant grumbling of empty stomachs.
Miss Abigail, the kindergarten teacher, noticed the tragic transformation. “Bruce,” she'd inquire, her voice laced with concern, “are you sure these children are getting enough to eat? Tommy's starting to resemble a dandelion seed in a strong breeze.”
Bruce, ever the picture of innocence, would pat his protruding belly and declare, “They're eating like little piggies, Miss Abigail! Must be a growth spurt.” He'd then waddle back to the kitchen, humming a jaunty tune, ready to “grow” his own portion.
Karma, however, is a dish best served with a side of excruciating pain. One fateful afternoon, Bruce Butterlad found himself clutching his stomach, writhing on the linoleum floor of the kindergarten kitchen. His face, usually a rosy hue, had turned a ghastly shade of green.
The diagnosis? Pancreatitis, brought on by an excess of, well, everything. As Bruce lay in the sterile hospital bed, hooked to an IV drip, he had ample time to reflect on his dietary sins. The Little Lambs, meanwhile, were enjoying a veritable feast of donated pizzas, their laughter echoing through the halls of the kindergarten.
The moral of the story? Don't bite the hand that feeds you, especially if that hand belongs to a hungry kindergartner. And remember, a “balanced” diet involves more than just stuffing your own face. Sometimes, a little self-control is the best medicine of all.
Marcus and the Timekeeper
Marcus, a man whose life seemed perpetually stuck on “pause,” was known around Oakhaven for two things: his prodigious appetite for Mrs. Higgins' apple pie and the small, velvet-lined box he carried with him everywhere. This wasn’t just any box; it was THE box, the one he claimed held a timepiece of such historical significance it could make the Smithsonian jealous. A watch, he’d explain with a dramatic cough, awarded to him personally by General Thunderbolt himself “for services rendered beyond the call, bordering on the miraculous, wouldn’t you say?”
The stories surrounding this watch were as plentiful as the dandelions in Mrs. Abernathy’s neglected lawn. One day it was for single-handedly rerouting a misplaced battalion during a training exercise, another for deciphering an enemy code using only a paperclip and a rubber band. Each tale, spun with increasing embellishment, always ended with General Thunderbolt, eyes twinkling, bestowing upon Marcus the coveted watch.
Of course, nobody had ever seen the watch. The box, yes, held aloft like a religious artifact during Marcus's performances, but the contents remained stubbornly veiled. “Ah, the light, you see,” he’d explain, waving a hand dismissively. “Too precious to expose to just any atmosphere. Tarnishes the… the… intrinsic value.”
Old Man Hemlock, who’d seen more bluster than a Kansas tornado, always chuckled. “Marcus,” he’d say, “you’re spinning yarns thicker than a ship’s rope. Likely the only general you ever met was the one on the Wheaties box.”
But Marcus would merely smile, a secretive, knowing smile that hinted at untold bravery and the weight of unspeakable secrets. He'd continue to cradle his velvet box, a tangible representation of an intangible glory.
The truth, as it often does, possessed a sting of the ironic. The box, unearthed from the dusty attic of his Aunt Petunia, had originally housed a set of her dentures. As for the watch? Well, that was as real as the unicorn grazing in Farmer McGregor’s cornfield. The real mystery wasn’t the watch itself, but the reason Marcus carried on with this charade. Was it a harmless yearning for recognition, a desperate attempt to inject some colour into a life otherwise painted in shades of beige? Or perhaps he’d simply become so enamoured with his own narrative that the line between reality and fantasy had blurred into oblivion.
The Curious Case of Len and the Vanished Lady
Lenny, they called him, but only behind his back and with a wink. To his face, it was Leonard,