Untitled: Cedar Tree

Theodore scratched his wrist and discovered a winning number. Balloons, flashing color, and metallic racket emerged alongside a decorated mule.


An audience grew until their buttons popped off like bullets. Three were wounded, having neglected their mother’s armor knit.

On the scene, the police were arrested.

Meanwhile, a table for two was set for Theodore and himself. The breadbasket had neither bread nor basket, only deflated expectation.

The following day, yesterday returned. Theodore left a hefty tip in his pocket—a tip about checking his pocket. Without pants, however, Theodore checked himself into a hotel.

The room had a door but no entrance, a bum in the corner but no dice.

Then luck arrived with a locksmith on a stallion. The horse threw the man off claiming she was no horse but a maid. With lustrous locks, she certainly maid his day. Then Theodore, in silent resignation, backed off, clumsily, and fell out of style.

Stephanie entered, gave Theodore a quasi-sympathetic pat, and replaced him.


With high shoulders, she entered her office and found The One. After firing him, she called the operator and fired her too, then placed a donation to the central bank. Her smirk spawned bat wings and escaped like a gypsy curse.

A wave of mischief seized the city. Stephanie waved back, summoning a cab.

The man drove her to a restricted area of her mind. The glove box concealed an entire car garage with a fourth floor exhibiting an entire metropolis. There, firefighters torched their stations, gardeners harvested warts, and psychiatrists invoked dancing elves. A zookeeper escaped from his cage and threw a fistful of glass shards. The pieces merged back into a glass hammer and pegged a passing catfish. The chef caught the fish in a frying pan, melting its plastic body into a hand shape that gave the finger.

Stephanie was insulted by the colors of the sky alternating through the primaries. She scuffed her foot, exposing binary code.

The horizon wrinkled limp. The moon plummeted to earth, bounced over a sand bunker, and slipped into a hole-in-one.

Per referee’s request, the sea lion spat the little moon out past the foul line, granting victory to the audience.


The crowd safely paraded over past the cliff in time for their own funeral. The celebration bounced until the last slice of cake was consumed, prompting an instant migration to the bakery.

The shop had a door but no walls, a duck pond but no manners. The baker emerged from the pond with an iron life jacket, stepping forth in five-four time without an elephant.

The pattern unlocked a portal back to Theodore’s jackpot of a dozen can openers—all discarded except for their quantitative value. Theodore attached the quantitative value over an improvised thought item, spawning twelve spoons. He ate his porridge in twelve swoops, each with a different spoon.

A hundred thimble-sized teacups steeped before him in the formation of the word “poison.” Theodore pulled out the dictionary but accidentally knocked every cup neatly back into the pantry.

On the horizon, a soundproof church bell swayed back and forth as an apple tree fell from the sky. The apples were yellow, banana-shaped, and on sale for buy one get one free of spells.

Without a fruit-eating permit, Stephanie lost interest followed by control. Then the elf-invoking psychiatrists entered stage left but hypnotized themselves back to bed, undercover.


Under the bed, the baker and the bum played makeup as they casually consumed a handful of mystery.

Theodore discovered himself beside a Cedar tree with as many mosquito bites as unaccounted for minutes.