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Now That's A Pony

Whimsical Tales
of Whimsy

by
Audree Flynn

Copyright © 2016 by Audree Flynn

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without
the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly
journal.

First Printing: 2016

This is dedicated to the ones I love,
my parents,

Brown and Penny Flynn



she spoke like Edward G. Robinson.
In “Little Caesar.”

Not all the time you understand, but the girl said “see”, a lot, see,
enough that now her folks just called her “Ed.”

But they had a nice house and a cat they called “the cat”
and life was good, especially now
with Christmas just ahead.

Ed worked on arts and crafts
with the cat right by her side,

and for Christmas,
she made gifts to put beneath the tree.

“Peace on Earth” coasters.

Salt shakers, with little trees
and little deer.

Mostly it was stuff like
that see.

Ed gave her folks the gifts she made,
her folks oohed and aahed like your folks will do

no matter what you give 'em.

But after Christmas, see,
Ed never saw the gifts again,
and she wondered if they really wanted something
store-bought, wrapped in ribbon.

Cats have their own ideas
on where things ought to

be, and they'll wait 'til
you're asleep

to put 'em there.

In a back room
off the hall, see,

Ed found
the gifts one day,

encased in
kitty spit
and kitty hair.

Ed made arts and crafts
but for the cat without a name,

she made up stories
“littered”

with cat humor.

You guessed it,
Ed just called him “C.”

Handmade gifts can't be exchanged
so cheap device or not,
that's it for why

she talked like Edward G.

By now, everyone, including Ed,
was sick and tired of “Little Caesar”, see;

they gave the cat a name
he never answered to when called.
The handmade gifts still sparkled

through the kitty spit and fur,

and Ed had no inscrutable disorder
after all.

So believe in those you love,
Christmas comes but once a year,

could we suffer twice as many
no one knows.

But with Fluffy by your side
and if those you love are near,
the real gift isn't wrapped up

all in bows.

A Jack
Tale

He was mean as a possum's eye in summer.
As a chip-toothed snake.
They called him Jack, among other things.
Jack Pollock.

So you think, well you mean like Jackson Pollock. The
painter.

Nope.

Just Jack. Just-Jack Pollock, and Just-Jack Pollock never
even heard of Jackson Pollock, and the only thing Jack
Pollock ever painted was maybe a barn, or his mother's
living room.

Except, Jack Pollock wouldn't paint his mother's living
room for her, that's how mean he was, Jack Pollock was
the kind of man you didn't want to be alone in a room
with whether he was painting it or not.

So you think, well what made Jack Pollock mean as a
chip-toothed possum.

An incident from childhood, maybe a brother drowned
in Tiller's Creek.

Maybe the wife ran off with a farm equipment salesman.

Some dark abuse at a father's hand. Maybe a mother's.

Nope.

Jack Pollock never married, probably because no woman
in her right mind would have him, and he was an only
child, probably because his folks didn't want another one
just like him and speaking of his folks, they were decent

people who worked hard and paid their bills on time and
sweetly dispositioned, both of 'em.

In spite of coming from a warm, loving home, Jack Pollock
was a man who enjoyed being mean and it ran red through
his veins and was part of him as surely as an arm or an eye.
Or a heart, if he'd had one, mean as he was.

Yeah. “Was”.

Jack Pollock is dead.

So you think, well what happened. What happened to
snake-chip mean Jack Pollock.

Maybe he was killed in a standoff with the police.

He was drinking, and got mouthy with someone he didn't know
was armed.

A co-worker. Maybe someone he worked with just had
enough of Just-Jack Pollock.

Nope.

In spite of how mean he was, Jack Pollock never had any trouble
with the law, didn't drink, and at work he was alone most of the
time because he worked as the night watchman for a meat
rendering plant.

Why a meat rendering plant needs a night watchman I do
not know, but there you are, so, early one morning Jack Pollock

was driving home from the meat rendering plant, he was tired
and it was dark, his car ran off the road and smashed into a huge
oak tree.

Hard wood, oak. Killed, instantly. And no pain.

So you think, well didn't you just tell me, repeatedly,
how mean Jack Pollock was.

Then you give me dead on impact. No long, protracted suffering.
Just, wham.

And that's it. No ironic twist or karmic justice, nothing, so
maybe there's a point you're trying to make.

Nope.

In spite of the mounting suspicion you've been
hornswoggled, and the capriciousness of fate, and the
fifteen times I've told you what a so-and-so Jack Pollock
was, in spite of all that there's not a point.

Unless it's this.

Explanations exculpate.

Some people are just mean.

It doesn't matter why.

A Sad
Tale

Hello Friends,

Today's do-it-yourself topic is something a fair number of you
seem to be interested in. Lately I've been getting a lot of letters
like this one:

“These days money's tighter than a you-know-what, and before
the end of the month my porn budget, among other things, is
shot—I'd like to make my own porn but I also want my projects
to have a little pizazz—suggestions?”

I've done a few “DIY projects” in my time, if you know what I
mean, so I understand. You want some footage good enough that
if, heaven forbid, you keeled over tomorrow, your kids wouldn't
be too embarrassed for the wrong reasons if they found it.

Now the first thing you want to think about is lighting, lighting's
important. As you know, I was in “the business” for a looong
time and when I say “looong”, believe-you-me, I know what I'm
talking about. Made a few friends. Maybe an enemy here or
there...maybe someone you've heard of...a Miss Suzanne Somers...

She wasn't in “the business” you understand, goodness no, butter
wouldn't melt in her mouth, or anything else...no, this was
waaay back, at Van Nuys Community College...I have done other
things besides porn you know...there was this little theater group at
VNCC...well that's all water under the bridge I suppose. Lighting.
Right. Now, the thing to keep in mind with lighting is change
needs to be gradual, you don't want it to look like you suddenly
turned on a blinding...

Blanche.

Blanche Dubois. A Streetcar Named Desire.

“It was like you suddenly turned a blinding light on something that
had always been half in shadow”.

Blanche says that. Back at Van Nuys, I was up for the part of
Blanche. I would've gotten it too.

But then in walks Suzanne, and I don't know who she slept with
to get that part but she stole it right out from under me.

Lost all my confidence after that. I got a couple of commercials.
Local stuff, a car dealership and...look at me, going on like this.
Let's just get back to lighting. Now lighting is important because
porn is mostly visual and even with good “equipment”, ha-ha,
you need the proper lighting so you can see how the “action”,
woohoo, plays out.

Plays out.

You know what played out is? My youth was suddenly gone up
the water-spout.

No no no, that's Streetcar again, and that was my best line too,
you know what played out is, I nailed that…

Then in walks Miss Suzanne all high and mighty...and where
does that leave me, doing a Ken “Kenny” Kenshaw's Autoworld
gig where all I do is walk on and say, “Hi, Ken! “, is where that
leaves me.

And a bee.

I did one Hun-ee-Bee Honey commercial. I'm a bee, and I say,
“What's all the buzz about?”

Soooo....porn. It's good money and it pays the bills but...
from Blanche in Streetcar to Pookie in Sleazeball Sluts 3...
Three.

A Tale of a
Different Feather

Phil and Don were looking around one day, for various
nuts and grains, beetle and locust larvae. They'd been
at it for a while so they decided to take a break, and
they both sat down on the same branch of the same tree.

Actually, they didn't sit, so much as they landed.

Phil and Don are crows.

Not crow-like, or crow-ing, Phil and Don are crows, they
are big, black birdies with black birdie wings with black

birdie feathers and they have little birdie feet.

Except, they're crows so they have big birdie feet, and
they have the same names as the Everly Brothers because
“Phil” and “Don” are nice birdie names, and because you
can't expect Phil and Don to fly around going “hey you”

just because they're crows.

So Phil and Don landed on the same branch of the same
tree which had never happened before and which is surprising,
given how much flying around and landing Phil and Don do,

and everything was fine for all of five seconds.

Then things took a turn.

***

You're on my branch, Don.

So what, there's plenty of room.

Well that's not the point. Whether there's enough room for
both of us on this branch is not the point.

What was the point again, I'm foggy on that.

Look don't be obtuse here Don, the point is that's your
branch there. This branch here, this is my branch. That's
always been your branch. This has always been my branch.

You're on my branch, Don.

What do you mean, always been your branch.

I mean it's always been that way. It's just common sense.

“Always been that way” is a tautological argument, and
common sense is, it doesn't matter how many birds are on
any branch as long as there's enough room. This is like

that bathroom thing.

What in god's name are you talking about Don.

That thing where some people want to tell other people
what bathroom they can use. Or can't use. That thing. You

just don't like change.

No. No I don't like change. There's a way things ought to be
and that's the way they are and if they stayed that way for a
gabillion years that'd be just fine with me and you're still on

my branch Don...

***

It went on like that until they finally flew away.

But when it's early and I go out to get the paper,
sometimes, Phil and Don are there.

Still at it.

And I read somewhere crows are very emotional creatures,
that they're a lot like us.

Or maybe it was we're a lot like them.