.

The tarantula had been delicious. When he awoke, roadrunner dusted off his dream. “Enough. I'm done with being a cartoon.”

He decided to flummox loyal fans. Backing off the set, he left his trail of 'X' prints. No one would know whether he was coming or going.

“First off, we lose the beep! beep! I'll let the film crew go. But not vanishing. Far from it. My vitriol will increase. Far from the torpor of tarantula deniers, I will vanquish. It's a common sense thing.”

He purchased a web domain. Learning HTML on the level of a parrot, his loquacious model, next he talked his former camera man into designing a logo. Not a cartoon bird, but rather a real, live squawking roadrunner.

“So amusing,” he clucked.

As occasionally in the afternoon of a bird, a twig snapped. Taking immediate action, he turned back towards the familiar cartoon. But the 'X' prints worked all too well.

Nothing for it but to invite over some friends. Traffic on the website increased, and it wasn't long before it got named.

Roadrunner's dream, plain and simple, became Twigger.

///0\\\



From pay check to rain check, life is waiting for the traffic light to change. Epigrams are put on hold. No simple substitutions will work, but a rolling replacement, wheeled out on a pizza cart, might do the trick. The effects of encryption remain just out of reach.

I must confess some impatience with this. Wheels ought not to squeak. Energy is wasted. But there are the old ways, before aluminum light poles and cantilevered beams. Back in the day were masterpieces made of wood. One might whittle a match stick, or clip a fingernail. When things went well, it was somewhat like patting one's head while rubbing one's belly. These are honorable and ancient skills. And simultaneously something of an obfuscation bound to distract.

Encryption, the game, advances by degrees. The steps of a traffic pawn's en passant

might barely be missed by a passing truck. And in fact the blatant kidnap, as reported in the Epigram Gazette:

Here Lies Ritz

last name missing

a carver's dispute

On the morning of its lateness, as The Gazette went to press, the mourning was mollified by a shower of pay checks. These might have offered an explanation, but the obituary was encrypted.

///0\\\

A Sunday wine press is the tombstone of desire. Grapes become raisins on the vine. Taken together they are vital. But that is no excuse. Clouds seeding rain, or the other way round, there comes a flash not to be confused with lightning.

As the grapes of wrath are found in a prickly cactus, how these two go together is a mystery. When the fruited plain gives way, sand drifts. A better holiday is playing Dixie land. Tap your foot and woo! There's a gusher. It's black gold for the taking

There . . . ! See, see? Makes more sense than distilling corn bred white lightning. Far unbeknownst, the refineries must follow. Afternoon snacks, great balls of fire. Sere granularity makes real history, wheedled on a harmonica. And even simpler on a trombone.

Sunday or no, the cactus has bloomed. People craning their necks, spawning visions and mandalas, white lightning unredistilled is put to shame. Crushing pregnant grapes in their final summer bloom, the unthinking sky says no more. People have begun to notice.

///0\\\

The cockroach climbed a stepladder of success, becoming a phenomenon. From the basement came rustling admiration. Wavering feelers gathered small bits of grod scattered round. The good life. It was sufficient. A pod cast captured the happy scene.

Just skimming over the top step came a flattened pane of light. It seemed too bright, almost from another world. Somehow the camera was blinded, or its operator. The lens would not adjust.

From another summit, with laurel trees ranged around, a snort was heard. Dancing leaves relayed the sun. But due to technical difficulties and, truth be told, lack of any real interest, no pod cast.

Such is the toffee state of world breakfast. The long trip back down the ladder, past the glare, is what matters.