Miracles of the Lesser Known Saints

For the Sky prompt at Writingthe200:

The patron saint of diddlers looked down upon Dan with a heavy heart, for here was a soul in need of so many charitable acts that Saint Dufus stood to never putz off again. Dan found excuses aplenty to laze around, schlepping off responsibility while burning through unemployment claims.

So Saint Dufus, while scrambling to send small miracles Dan’s way in efforts to deter his path to debauchery,  aligned with Shizzle, patron saint of realtors, Skizzle, patron saint of has been porn stars, and Paddle, patron saint of school districts desperate for teachers, to devise a long term strategy.

Now Dan rises early every morning for a glimpse of his new neighbor. He pretends to read the paper on the front porch as the nimble physical education teacher waters her front yard plantings in a silky mini kimono and kitten heeled slippers, teetering and bending as she handles the hose. When the show is over, they each disappear into their separate shacks to ready themselves for work, thus guaranteeing that Dan doesn’t lose yet another job due to excessive tardiness.

And Saint Dufus is back to daydreaming about holiday party escapades among new friends until the Boss drops another case.

Two Worlds


Not sure if it fits the Buried prompt at Writingthe200, but here goes:

Behind the picket fenced clapboard houses, whitewashed and scrubbed shiny clean, lie the bowels that drive the community, the types of enterprises not depicted in advertisements. Check cashers share space with laundromats and unlicensed healers. In a darkened corner lay eight beds, occupied with night workers, resting between shifts of performing necessary tasks our society doesn’t want to acknowledge.

The key he sent in the mail fits into an unmarked door, leads into a long narrow space outfitted with cabinets and a mattress dressed in the traitors flag of a lost war. The one fixed window overlooks a weed covered empty parking lot and defunct factory. Below the window is a sliding mechanism one would expect for exchanging goods in a carry out eatery. No evidence of cooking exists, only stacks of mismatched empty luggage blocking a heavy back door.

A sense of foreboding weighs down, that someone like me, from the main street a short walk away should have never ventured so far from home, should have never questioned how he could have afforded to gift me such a fine abode.

Fingering the threadbare flag, I imagine it wrapped around his body, standing tall on a mountain far away.

The Stink of Progress

In response to the Labor prompt at Writingthe200.


Seymour rued the day microwave ovens were invented. He remembers clearly when he first introduced the novelty appliance into the breakroom of Seymour & Sons Enterprises. All it was initially good for was burning popcorn while everyone kept their distance, ducking behind cubicle walls and filing cabinets while rubbing hands in nervous anticipation of the buzzer and delivery of chemically flavored treats.

For almost a year the thing sat mostly unused before adventurous souls experimented with heating water and cups of soup, gradually stepping up their game to warming bagels and reheating cold coffee. Those were the days, thought Seymour.

Then the gizmo’s popularity exploded. The offices came under constant bombardment of ungainly stinks that required constant febreezing. Seymour posted signs throughout the breakroom prohibiting the cooking of popcorn or seafood. Bad smells persisted. His minions, incapable of producing simple reports without putting in overtime, proved crafty in devising recipes that left the entire floor reeking like a third world food court.

In desperation, Seymour finally pulled the plug on the wretched machine and hauled it out to the dumpster. Unfortunately, he pulled a muscle in doing so. The microwaveable heating pads in the first aid station offered no comfort.

Bad Fit

In response to the Pinup prompt at Writingthe200.


The waiting room at Thrifty Cosmetic Surgery had the dimensions of a galley kitchen; it looked good until two people needed to share the space. Three of us shifted uncomfortably in our bolted down chairs, doing our best avoid eye contact and knocking each other’s knees while waiting for our bandaged relations to be wheeled out from post-op.

An oversized soft drink machine occupied one of the narrow walls, vying for attention with a display of blinking lights more likely brought on by faulty bulbs or ballasts than by intention of design.  Two dollar bills were required to get the dispenser to perform its function of squirting liquid along the side of a paper cup too large to serve its intended purpose.

The walls were lined with autographed centerfolds.  Prospective patients apparently took these endorsements as proof of good work. It left me feeling unsettled that my mother chose to trust such an establishment, plopping down two years of savings for a set lifted boobs, convinced that such an enhancement would attract a new husband and allow her to say sayonara to the job at Pete’s Produce where every new shipment of melons and grapefruits reminded her of younger days.