The Littlest Cupid

Okay, you can't blame a guy for trying.

It wasn't like I went around trying to make all that happen.

I was just doing my job. Pure and simple.

It started simply enough. Boy meets girl. Same tired old story you've heard since the earth was in diapers. Couple of nice kids. I almost didn't have to do a thing, 'cause they would have figured it out for themselves eventually -- I just nudged a few things here, quietly shoved a few things there, got them in position, shot the proverbial arrow, and voila. Happy couple, off to the church, then to live happily ever after.

Well, seems the families weren't too impressed with my efforts. Now I take great pride in my work. If I figure two people should be together, it's because I'm a paid professional. I can't change the oil in my truck without getting it all over the driveway, but love? I can see that in a second. Still, the families objected. "You're too young!" "She's not good enough for you!" "His family is all crazy!" You get the idea. So I had some mop-up work to do.

Now, those are tough -- you really have to keep your eye on the ball to make those work, but I'm not one to turn down a challenge. I surveyed the landscape a little and found that his uncle would look real good with her cousin -- yeah, little age difference, but I can work with that: I'm an artist. Then her brother proved real compatible with his mother's cousin's daughter.

Now I'll admit: sometimes I get a little crazy. Must be the artist in me. I couldn't leave well enough alone: I had to keep pushing the creative envelope. I had those two families so intermixed that in the end they could hold the same family reunion. Some of my best work, bar none.

Well, until the various honeymoons were over and folks started looking at the situation a little harder. Now, his little brother is her grandfather, and her cousin Jeremy is his new step-mother. It kinda got a little ugly, I guess. Three murders (well, okay, two: the other one was just manslaughter), a suicide, and a couple of life-in-prison-without-paroles, and, well, I guess I did go a little overboard a bit.

I know, I know, call me wild, call me crazy. I've always been one for experimentation -- it makes things more interesting by a long shot. And I did manage to get the entire mess its own guest spot on Springer, so they shouldn't be complaining too much.

Still, the company put me on indefinite leave for a while. They've promised they'll let me back once all the furor dies down.

The Littlest CEO

Can I have everyone's attention, please?

Hello?

HELLO?? Whack!

Good. Thank you.

As some of you know, the company is going through a bit of restructuring. The Board of Directors has been dissolved, and the Chief Executive Officer and Chief Financial Officer have been taken up on money laundering charges. The President was finally apprehended only moments before he could escape to Mexico, and I'm pleased to announce that 4.5 billion of the company's 8.1 billion in assets have been recovered.

However, I must add this:

I am very, very disappointed.

And you know what happens when I'm disappointed, dont you?

Exactly.

In the past few weeks, it became obvious that someone in this company needed to step up to the plate and exhibit a little leadership. And yes, when I did so, there was a great deal of grumbling about how I was a mere secretary and who did I think I was anyway.

But I have managed to pull this company out of the fire and turn it around in a scant two weeks. Our stock price has tripled. Our quarterly returns promise to skyrocket. And it's certainly not in thanks for a group of men who hired twelve-year-old hookers from Guadalejuara.

This company needed one mother of a CEO.

And as you all know now, I am the mother of all mothers.

I didnt raise three kids just to see another bunch of overaged children run my place of employment into the ground. So I did what any good mother who believes in Tough Love would do.

I locked you out.

Remember? It was cold that day, wasnt it? But it taught you a lesson you were long overdue in learning.

Disobey, and you'll be punished.

Strongly.

You coming home late? You better have a good excuse. And God help you if you dont call.

If I find your fingers in the cookie jar, prepare to have them slapped so hard you'll be sucking your food through a straw for three months.

I dont want to hear a single word of backtalk, from any of you. Try it, and I'll introduce you to my very special bar of soap.

I expect to see all of you at the Directors meeting tomorrow, when I introduce my new staff. You'll recognize most of them, I'm sure -- many are your former secretaries. There's also Lenny from the mail room, and three members of the cleaning staff. They know this company far better than you, because they see it from the bottom up.

And as for all of you... well, I think the question we should be asking now is: Who do you think you are, anyway?

Thank you.

The Littlest Disco Dancer

He was a child of the 80s, and he loved to dance. In his youth, every Saturday night was at the local disco, and he could chew up the floor with the best of them. Travolta had nothing on him, not when it came to commanding attention under the mirror ball lights.

Then, suddenly, it wasnt the 80s anymore. He still went out on weekends to dance, but things had changed: the girls were younger, the music faster, the drinks weaker. But he went anyway, because he loved to dance. And during those moments on the dance floor, he was eighteen again, ready to take on the world. Not an office worker trapped in a nine-to-five cubicle, but -- even if in his own mind -- a star.

And then he wasnt a star at all, but a middle-aged man who, like the music he adored, had gone beyond "retro" and "classic" to "who put that crap on!?!" So he stopped going to the discos and remained more and more within the safe, if unsatisfying, confines of his cubicle...

... where he could dance.

Every Friday night, after everyone else had left for the day and the cleaning ladies had finished their rounds, he turned up the stereo behind his desk and danced, to all of his friends, the Thompson Twins, George Michael, the Eurythmics. He danced till he couldnt dance anymore, then he would carefully turn out the lights and go home to his little apartment.

Then, one Friday night, he made a perfect Bus Stop turn and was shocked to see, in the building across the street, someone else dancing. A woman, near his age, as far as he could tell. But she too was dancing away in her cubicle, with her own music. She was doing a modified Hustle; he eased into the same steps. And she was watching him: she smiled and waved, and he waved back. They danced together for two hours, and he went home happier than he'd ever been.

The next Friday, the woman was there again, but now there were three more offices, on three different floors, with three more people dancing. All more or less his age, all putting their bodies through wild contortions -- the Electric Slide, the Boogie Down -- that not even age could deny in memory. The next week, he could see, in the reflections of the glass skyscraper, reflections of his own building, with now half a dozen more people, all dancing away, alone and yet together through the music.

And before too much longer, it seemed the entire block was one huge dance party: scores, if not hundreds, of middle-aged office workers, all getting down in the night. It didnt matter if they were playing the same song or a hundred different ones -- they just danced.

Then, just as quickly, they disappeared, one after another. And finally, one Friday night, he looked across the way: the woman's office was dark. He sat there waiting for two hours. She never showed.

The following Friday, at 5:00 promptly, he put his dance CDs in the trash and went home.

The Littlest Pill

The Woman with the Shaved Head stared at the television. "Do people really think that some little pill will do all that?"

"Do what?" the Listener asked.

"Make them happy. Give them great sex lives. Allow them to sleep all night and wake up congestion-free."

The Listener shrugged. "Perhaps."

The pink one wakes me up.

The yellow one keeps me awake.

The blue one focuses me so I can drive to work.

The red one keeps my cholesterol down.

The green one keeps my heart rate up.

The orange one adjusts my stomach acidity.

The taupe one allows me to swallow.

The cyan one gives me a day's equivalent of fourteen vitamins and minerals.

The umber one allows the fourteen vitamins and minerals to interact at poeak efficiency.

The lavender one supercharges my exercise routine.

The mint one cools down my exercise routine.

The cardinal one maintains my mental equilibrium.

The pale grey one sharpens my focus.

The tan one allows me to unfocus and see the big picture.

The black one adjusts my oxygen/nitrogen ratio.

The white one allows me to self-adjust my oxygen/nitrogen ratio.

The emerald one calms me down at the end of the day.

The rose one puts me to sleep.

The slate one makes sure I stay that way.

The lime one gives me fantastic dreams all night long.

The powder blue keeps the nightmares away.

And the silver one... well, please, everything looks better when set off by silver.

"But does she ever eat?" the Woman with the Shaved Head asked.

"Eat?" the Listener answered. "Why bother?"

"Why indeed."

The Littlest Trapeze Artist

I've been flying since I was six.

My uncle and aunt were the company stars when I started to learn this, and they taught me well: I was doing triple flips before I was ten, and there's not many in the business that can claim that.

And every night since I was six, maybe seven, I've been up here. At first, I was decoration: "Ooo! Look at the cute little kid!" Then my aunt pretty well shoved me into the spotlight with my first jump and catch. The audience went nuts. I was a star. And I loved it.

I've never been to school, y'know? I can read, a little, and write enough to cash my paycheques. But I dont know much else. Never needed to, really. It's not like you have to worry about political science when you're on the trapeze. All you need to know is how to get from here to there without breaking your neck. So that's what I do -- and I do it damn well.

Yeah, afterwards, when we're all just sitting around, I'll hear folks talking about this or that, and I wont have a clue what they're talking about. No big deal, actually. The world just keeps turning without my help, so I guess no one will notice if I dont understand why we're sending troops here or flying aid there.

But up here, when I'm in the tower, everyone notices. Everyone. So this is where I give them what they want: thrills, excitement, the defiance of death. All I have to do is reach out and grab that other bar, and I can hear them gasping in unison because they thought I might not make it, that I might miss and fall.

Sure, normally there's a net. Not tonight. Tonight I plan on giving them the thrill of their lives, something they'll tell their grandchildren about: a quadruple spin, without a net. It's kind of the Grail in our business, something everyone aspires to. My uncle tried. He didnt make it. Afterwards, my aunt left the business, and I carried on on my own, working it up till I got the sense of how the spin was supposed to work. And tonight...

Well, tonight, sure, I'll be like everyone else in the business. I'll try the quad without a net.

And I'll fail.

And people here watching, the folks who have their eyes on me, will talk about that for years.

That's entertainment.

The Littlest Opera Singer

Yes, I am Il Divino.

My voice is recognized internationally. It is insured by a company in London: should I ever fail to complete a performance for reasons outside my control, I am to be paid twenty-three million pounds Sterling. I am told this is a great deal of money. And of course. It would have to be. I am, after all, Il Divino.

How does a simple Tuscan peasant boy become Il Divino, you ask? Sit. I shall tell you.

From my earliest days, I loved to sing. I would sing in the forest, in the meadows, to the birds, to the cattle, to the gently babbling stream. They were the perfect audience: quiet, attentive, appreciative.

One day, a man in a long black autocar stopped. "Young man," he called out, "I am entranced by the loveliness of your voice. You are without a doubt Il Divino." And so of course I was. "You will come with me to La Scala, where I will make you a star." He was wrong, of course: Il Divino is not a star. Il Divino is the star.

I sang only once during my audition. "More," they asked, but I would not. If you want more, I said, you must sign Il Divino. And of course they did.

I made my La Scala debut as Tamino. I was astounding. "Il Divino!" the women would cry out beneath my hotel room at night. 'Come to the window!" But of course I would not. Then they would shoot themselves in unrequited anguish. In the morning, I would find the steps littered with the bodies of women who had shot themselves for Il Divino.

The Paris Opera called. "Il Divino, you must sing for us!" And of course I did. I was Pinkerton. I was brilliant. No one could weep on command as touchingly as Il Divino. I was Calaf. I was flawless. The audience cried with joy for Il Divino as he swept Turandot into his arms for an impassioned kiss.

Others came and threw themselves at Il Divino’s feet: the London, the Metropolitan, the Arena de Verona. At every turn, I was incredible.

Then one day a man appeared at my dressing room door. "You are Il Divino?" Of course I was, I said. "I would ask you to sing for my company, but I don't know that you can."

"My schedule is quite full," I replied.

"I know that," he said. "It's more a question of whether or not you can sing. Can you?"

I was taken aback. I am, after all, Il Divino. Of course I can sing. Who does this little man think he is? So I sang. Tamino’s opening aria, when he is given the locket of Pamina. Unaccompanied. Beautifully. My maid wept when I was finished.

But the little man, he shook his head. "No, it's not quite right. The melodic lines are uneven, and you missed the high D by a quarter step. I'm sorry. You won't do." And then he left.

I spent the entire night and the entire day following singing the aria. Suddenly it was not as beautiful. To my horror, I discovered I had missed the high D by a quarter step. Even more shocking, the melodic lines were uneven. I was devastated. But now I am determined. Now, no matter what role I play, at some point in the performance, I always sing Tamino’s opening aria. It is expressly written in my contracts. My agent thinks me mad, the directors and conductors loathe me, but I am Il Divino. My name alone brings in attentive audiences. But they no longer matter. After all, the little man may be in the audience, and I want him to know that Il Divino can indeed sing.....

The Littlest Fashion Designer

I work for Lockheed, as an engineer. For years, I designed the inner workings of planes of all sorts, mostly bombers, lots of defence related stuff. Good money, lots of work. Good days.

Then for a while the bottom dropped out of the defence industry. Outsourcing ran rampant. That sort of thing. Oh sure, the company put on the happy face and told everyone things were just fine, but we all knew we were in trouble -- the Lock had outsourced the construction of a whole fleet of 787s to some little company in India. The union raised a huge stink, but the corporate brass stood their ground. They couldnt take the overhead any more, and we were part of it. I guess it didnt become obvious until the day we got the note...

Our division was being taken off defence related stuff. The Lock needed to diversify, it said, and we were gonna be the guinea pigs in a whole new era of... well, we werent too sure, but something. Along with the memo tho was a list of internet links we were told to study: at first I thought this was just some corporate prank (the guys upstairs love to pull that kind of stuff) -- I mean, I deal with aeronautical specifications, right? So why was I looking at sites for Versace and Montana?

Because the company said so, that's why. So overnight we went from air flow resistance factors to understanding the drape of a good piece of French linen. Turns out it was the boss's wife's idea -- she saw those fifty thousand dollar dresses on Fashion TV and told her hubby there was the stuff that was gonna save the Lock's butt. He wanted some tail that night, I guess, because he agreed

Sure, some of the guys were a little resistant. We got kidded pretty mercilessly in the division meetings. But then we saw it as a challenge. After all, it's just engineering, right? Build something so it doesnt fall down -- or, in this case, off. Our first releases -- okay, not so good. We were still learning, after all, and I guess it takes a while to understand that rivets dont work on cloth and skin the same way they do on metal. But we persevered...

... and now, five years later, we're the toast of Milan. I have my own collection premiering this month in Paris, and I'm really excited. The theme is "The Art of the Mobile Land-Based Interceptor : a Theoretical and Stylistic Analysis". Wasnt my first choice for a title, but you know how Corporate can be -- always have to keep up the image.

Yeah, the Lock's doing fine with the defence contracts, but they've let us remain. Good for PR, they say. A chance to show the "human side of the technologically advance defence industry". Me, I just like to take that six yards of triple-dyed black Chinese silk and make it into something that will make America proud!! Take THAT, Bei-jing!!

Gotta go. The guys at Northrup are showing their spring collection in about thirty minutes, and I want a good seat. They got into this late, and it shows: silly fools dont even know the difference between gabadine and codouroy. What a bunch of amateurs -- this should be a riot.

The Littlest Celebration

Since the holiday onslaught has started, let's remember a few things about why we celebrate holidays like this in the first place.

The Littlest Wizard

They made me a wizard about a year ago, I guess. I say "they" because for all I know, it could have been anyone: three guys in dark suits and sunglasses. At first I thought they were the FBI. Then when they said they wanted to make me a wizard, I figured it was one of those software scams (I'm an accountant; I see a lot of that). When I told them I didn't like computers, they laughed and said, no, they really wanted to make me a wizard -- and before I knew it, they'd put this stupid crown on my head, given me a stick wand thing and an owner's manual, and left.

The crown, by the way, doesn't come off. Try explaining that to your boss. Good thing I know my stuff; otherwise, they would have canned me on the spot for dress code violations.

So I look through the owner's manual. Seems I'm restricted in my powers from 1401 Beltline to 1722 7th Street SW, no further. Now, I can live with that. I like knowing my boundaries. But then I thought, hey, I'm a wizard, right? Let's see a pile of money on the table now.

Nothing happened. So I called the 800 Helpline number in the manual. "Look, when we made you a wizard, it wasn't so you could run around ruining the economy, okay?"

"Great," says I. "So what can I do?"

"Hey, important stuff, okay? Heal the sick, mend broken hearts, that kind of thing. Nothing big, no cures for cancer or raising the dead. Oh, and you can't tell them when you do it, understand?"

"What?"

"Yep, basic wizard rule. By the way, you want a familiar?"

"A what?"

"A familiar. An animal sidekick."

"I have a cat."

"Cats are good. We have an extra warthog here if you want it."

"No thanks," I said and hung up the phone.

So, without their knowing, I cured Mrs. Andretti's arthritis and gave Mr. McElheny a little more bounce in the bed, if you know what I mean. Helped the McMaster twins get over a cold, and did something about my neighbour's tennis elbow. Got Twinkles down from a tree when no one was looking. Pretty simple stuff all around.

Then Gerald, that nice kid down the street, got dumped by his girlfriend. It hit him pretty hard, and I thought, hey, maybe I can fix that too. So I waved the stick wand thing, and all of a sudden he's like he hasn't got a care in the world.

And it felt wrong somehow.

So I changed him back and instead asked him if he was still interested in cutting my lawn, figuring every kid needs some pocket money, right? So he comes over, cuts the grass, then when we sit outside and talk. About sports, politics, family, stuff like that. Then he starts on his girlfriend. So we talk about love. Nothing big, y'know, just little stuff, like you're gonna get your heart broken a few times anyway, so best to get used to it early on. When he leaves, he's thirty bucks richer and actually smiling for the first time in a week.

And I thought, hey, I didn't the stick wand thing to do that.

That felt pretty good.

Now, if I can just get rid of the stupid crown....

The Littlest Wolf

The Woman with the Shaved Head set the book to one side with a happy sigh. "I love fairy tales."

The Listener looked up in mild surprise. "Oh?"

"Of course. They're so blindingly, naively hopeful."

"Perhaps for some," the Listener replied.

So I'm at my local bar one night, and in walks this truly fine specimen. Great build. Thick shock of red hair, and I am so into red heads. And as for down below, well, hell, I mean, no kidding, this guy was so seriously hung that I was surprised those jeans stayed intact. And I thought to myself, Damn, I want me some of that!

But I was cool. No sense in throwing yourself at them, right? Let them come to me, that's my motto. So I let him know in little ways I was interested, but he seemed determined to ignore me. So I finally walk up to him and say hi. He says hi as well. Nice smile. Great teeth. A jawline that would cut butter. I am so hot for this man it's not funny.

So we chat for a while. Small talk. Bikes. Football. Guy stuff. Then he tells me maybe we should get together some time, but he can't tonight; he's on his way to see an old friend, and he's gotta motor if he's gonna get to the other side of town in time.

My mind is racing like a Harley in sixth gear. "So where's your friend live?" I ask. He tells me. Not far. Then an idea hits me. "You know, you can't go that way. They got Fifth Street all torn up. Sewer construction. You're gonna have to take the 820 Loop."

"Damn!" he says. "That's like thirty miles outa my way. Well, if that's what I gotta do... Thanks, bud."

"No problem. Glad to help." Then I take off outa there like a bat outa a Meatloaf album. I jump on my hog, head over to the friend's place. The friend's an older guy -- still hot, though, and I'm starting to think maybe two for the price of one. "Listen, sorry to drop by like this, but I got a message from your buddy. Mind if I come in?" Within seconds, I have him in the bed, and we're going at it so heavy that, I swear to God, he passes out cold.

So I close the bedroom door and wait. And maybe five minutes later I hear the other guy's bike roaring up. Real quick, I turn down the lights; I like the element of surprise, y'know. Red walks in, says "Hey, stud," and grabs me in a liplock like you cannot believe. Even though he thinks it's the other guy, I'm seriously liking this, let me tell you.

So we go at it, right there, in the dark. And every now and then, he says something like, "Damn, Gramps, you been working out?" And I'm, like, disguising my voice: "Hey, all the better for you, huh?"

"Yeah, but check those arms!"

"Yeah, well, hey, all the better, huh?"

"And that stuff from the Internet site musta worked. Sheesh, I had no idea it was this big now."

And I figure the only way to shut him up to put that mouth to other uses. So I do. And he ain't complaining.

So we finish up -- and lemme tell ya, it was every bit as good as I hoped. He gets up, turns on the light. He looks at me. "Hey, you're not my grandfather!"

I'm, like, "Huh?"

But he's really pissed now. "Okay, slime, where's my gramps?" Then he looks at me real hard. "Don't move a muscle, you hear me? You move one inch, and I'm gonna hunt you down and beat the living crap outa you." Then he heads outa the room, calling for his... gramps. And I'm thinking, What the bloody hell have you gotten yourself into now? Whatever it is, it definitely ain't my scene, y'know?

The second he's gone, I'm outa there like a bullet, on my hog, and heading down the road as fast as I can, taking every side road I can think of. And I'm a mile away before I look down and realize I've left one of my custom-made boots behind, and it aint gonna take him very long to see whose foot fits inside that...

"Oh my!" the Woman with the Shaved Head laughed. "How terribly awkward."

The Listener merely nodded.

"But it does leave one question," she added with a pensive grin.

"What's that?"

"What kind of goodies were in his basket?"

The Littlest Affair

He took another drag on the cigarette and leaned against the bar rail. It was midnight, maybe later -- far too late, in any event, to be wearing sunglasses, but he hoped they made him look at least slightly cool.

It was his first road trip.

He'd been married - and happily so -- for fifteen years. His wife was a great woman. He fell in love with her because she made the best corn muffins he'd ever eaten, and that alone was reason enough. Yes, she was also pretty and considerate and supportive, and that just made the package even sweeter.

When he got the his hotel and opened his suitcase, he found a couple of muffins, boxed in a small plastic container. He set them on the bureau, changed clothes, and hit the bar.

He'd been waiting for this trip for weeks, months. It was the first time the company was sending him out alone, and he was thrilled by the excitement of it all. Other guys came back with tales of wild women and drunken orgies, and even though he loved his wife very much, he kept wondering What was it like?

Now he could find out.

The music was loud, so much so that he was havng trouble hearing anything else. And everyone seemed so young, some barely older than his eldest daughter. Was this what she did on weekends? he wondered. He hoped not.

Then he saw her.

Pretty. About 25. Legs that went to her neck and long, luxurious hair he wanted to drown in. Barbara used to have long hair like that, until he came home one afternoon and discovered she'd cut it all off. This girl would never cut hers off, he knew it, not the way she kept tossing it around. She was talking to three other girls, friends. A girls' night out, to have a few laughs and maybe a hook-up they could talk about over lunch the next day.

And he suddenly realized that was all he wanted. Just a hook up. A chance to say he still had it when it came to the ladies. Something he could brag about with the guys back at the office. He really, really wanted this.

He loved his wife, no question. And he knew how wrong this was. She'd never been unfaithful to him, not once in fifteen years, and he felt a slight pang of guilt as he realized that he too had never once acted on the impulse, even though the opportunity had afforded itself several times: the secretary in accounting who smiled at him a lot, the assistant manager at his biggest client's flagship store, the personal trainer who always seemed to be at the gym the same time he was. But he never did anything about them, because he loved hs wife so much.

Maybe this wasnt such a good idea, he decided. I'll finish my drink and go back to the room and call Barbara and tell her I love her and then go to bed -- like I should. He took one last gulp of the bourbon and set the empty glass on the counter, then looked up one last time at the girl with the long legs and the long hair.

She was smiling at him.

The Littlest Mechanic

Now my brother 'n' me've been living in this town since we were born. It's just your average nothin' lil small town out in the middle of nowhere. I'm a mechanic, and my brother runs a metal fabrication shop -- so we see a lot of each other, both professionally and personally. And that's a good thing, keeps the family squabbles down, y'know?

So I'm in the garage one afternoon when this guy shows up. Walking. Dressed kinda funny -- I mean, like everything was okay 'n' all, but there was something about the jeans and the shirt that didn't look quite right. I couldnt really put my finger on it, but something. Anyway, point is, he's walking. It's twenty three miles to the nearest highway, ten at least to the nearest town down the road. That's a hike I wouldnt want to take, but he looked like it was the most normal thing in the world. Says he needs some parts. Sure, says I, no problem. If I dont have 'em, I can order pretty easy.

So he takes out a piece of paper -- at least, it looked like paper, sorta -- and sketches something out. And while he's doing it, it's pretty clear it's not like any part I'm familiar with. So I casually ask him what it's for, thinking if he tells me that, I can figure out where the hell to get this thing from. He just looks at me and sorta grins. "It's kinda hard to say," he says. "It's for my car. But I've done a lot of custom work on it." Then he explains what the thing does, and it takes me about three minutes to decide I'm seriously out of my element here. Time to call my brother.

So he comes over and takes a look, and after a little head scratching, decides maybe he can build whatever the damn thing is. And the guy's just ecstatic about that, says he'll bring in the working drawings for them tomorrow, with all the specs my brother needs to get the job done.

Now, I dont know anyone who walks around with walking drawings of car parts in their hip pocket, but whatever, right?

So Bro gets the drawings, and they're the damndest things you've ever seen. The measurements are like 3.1719" and 16.248913", tolerances that are just crazy, in my humble opinion. But my brother loves a good challenge, so he snatches those drawings up and heads straight to the shop to get started. Tells the guy it'll take a couple of days, and then he'll be ready to roll. I tell him he's welcome to stay at my place in the interim, and he shakes his head, telling me that's okay, but he prefers to stay near his car.

"We could tow it in, y'know. No sense in you walking back and forth like that."

But he just says no, thanks. It would be somewhat awkward, he tells us. He's traveling with his wife, and she doesn't like to be around strangers all that much. He'll drop by when the parts are ready. Then he pays a deposit and leaves.

Well, true to my brother's word, two days later he comes in with this bunch of... things, I guess. No idea what these are supposed to do, and I can tell Bro has no idea either. Still, when the guy sees 'em, he's all happy, pays the bill in cash, thanks us both for our hospitality, and heads out, promising that, once he's got them installed, him and his wife'll drop by before they head back home. That's kinda nice, y'know?

So later that day, Bro and I are out walking around, and we see this... glow in the sky... liike someone set a bonfire out by the lake. So we go check it out -- and here's the guy. And his wife. And his... well, I guess you'd call it a car. Maybe. Not like any car I know, 'specially since it was about thirty feet in the air and just hanging there.

But he's all happy to see us, brings the missus over and introduces her, and we talk for a bit, almost pointedly ignoring all the obvious questions floating around just like that damn car. Then he finally says, "Well, we gotta scoot. Thanks, again, guys." And we were like, "Drop by again sometime, hear?" He looks up, nods real quick, and the car just sorta floats down. He and the wife get in and shut it up with some sort of weird series of things, then the car floats back up and just blam! disappears off into the sky.

Damndest thing I've ever seen, I swear.

Nice people, tho. Really nice.

The Littlest Dreamer

The highway ends right here. This very spot.

Been like this for years, they tell me. Every now and then, the town council will pass a decision to extend it out to the freeway, but no one can ever find enough money for the last mile and a quarter. So nothing gets done. And the highway ends. Right here.

I sorta like it that way. I come out here, where it's all peaceful and quiet. I lean against the blinking light and look up at the stars. It's nice.

Every now and then, some car will come along. The driver'll see the blockade, and I can hear the occasional "^%&%$$%!!!!!!" Then they turn around in a big storm of gravel and dust and high tail it back to town, thinking there might be some other road to the interstate. There never is, but cant blame them for trying, huh?

But I'll come out here and just look up and enjoy. Sometimes I think maybe I should get my backpack and just hike the last mile and a quarter to the interstate -- and then I'll stop and ask myself, Well, self, why bother? It's a good place to end a road. It's an honest one. No detours that take you fifteen miles out of your way, just a blinking yellow light that says, "End of the road. Deal with it." Some folks cant. Others, like me, can.

That's life.

Look, up there: a star.

The Littlest Latte

Billy, another, please? Gwendolyn! You look fabulous! Maurice! Call me!

:: sigh ::

This is my life.

Eight months ago, everything was so very different. I dont think you would have recognized me. I was one of those women who watched a lot of Oprah, made sure her husband went to work sexually satisfied, kept a spotless home, went to church every Sunday, and shopped at WalMart. My thighs were the size of Jumbo Jets, and I had varicose veins Triple A could have used as a map of Cleveland.

Francine! How was Italy?

Then... I dont know. Forty hit. My cat died, victim of a neighbour's boy who liked to barrel up and down the road on his ATV. My eldest daughter decided she was quitting school to become a beautician. And my husband drunkenly admitted to having an affair with his secretary for the past two years.

Well, things like that... I guess you'd call them a collective wake up call, right? I took a long look at my life and wondered what happened to the little girl who wanted to be a ballet dancer and the first female astronaut.

Then a friend told me about Sidewalk Cafes.

Linda! Love the hair! Is that a new colour? What's it called?

The first time, I thought, well, this is silly: sitting around all day drinking overpriced coffee I could very well make at home -- and then it hit me: I didnt have to make this coffee at home. It was like, the skies opened and God Himself smiled down on me and said, That's right, lady: you dont have to make coffee at home. I stayed for four hours. I spent almost thirty dollars that was supposed to pay for my husband's dry cleaning -- but you know what? I didnt care. If he wanted clean suits to impress his floozy secretary, he could pick them up. Here, I had people waiting on me hand and foot. And I loved it.

So I became a regular, and when you become a regular, people remember you. Imagine that! I spent ten years going to the same clerk at WalMart and every time I paid by cheque, she asked to see ID -- after ten years! But here, within a week, Billy, that adorably cute little gay man behind the counter, knew I liked the double-whipped caffe latte with extra-lo-fat whipped cream and grazed walnuts. I didnt even have to tell him who I was! He'd just look up and smile and say, "Hi, Sally. The usual?"

Imagine. Me: having a usual.

Taki! Loved the show! The new line looks stunning!

Within weeks, I noticed other changes: my thighs shrank to normal size. I woke up one morning and found a whole new wardrobe in my closet. My hair was a gorgeous new colour. I didnt give a damn about my husband or his secretary or the neighbour boy or my screaming kids or the house or... well, anything. All I cared about was... sitting here. Drinking my latte. Looking fabulous. WalMart could implode, taking that idiot clerk with it, and I wouldnt care. As long as Billy keeps them coming, my life is complete.

Giorgio! When is the new book coming out? Hillary! How's the campaign? Sasha! Killer party last night!

:: sigh ::

The Littlest Minstrel

He stood, anxiously, waiting in the wings. In front of the curtain, his advisor was clearly having trouble. Not good. And yet, at the same time, very very good.

"... I, uhm, I was somewhat thrown when Richards came to me with this proposal for his thesis. Certainly, as a cultural thread, it bears proper historical research so that we can see it both as a cultural and social phenomenom that has had impact to the current day. Still, when Richards said what he wanted to do for his defence..."

Here it comes.

"... I was, I believe, justifiably concerned. After all, I dont think anyone here wants to be reminded of this especially shameful part of our theatrical history. Still, here, we do encourage independent thinking, and... well, I suppose... there is a line of thought in this... one worth... investigating..."

His advisor seemed unable to continue. Although he couldnt see the professor, he knew the man had abandoned the stage, leaving him to... well, whatever was going to happen.

He could hear the music start: a ragtime piano, accompanied by a banjo and a tambourine. The curtains parted, and suddenly he was hit by a spotlight -- and he could hear the entire audience gasp. Steeling himself, he started to sing:

"Now, this is a story all about how
My life got flipped-turned upside down
And I liked to take a minute
Just sit right there
I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air

In west Philadelphia born and raised
On the playground was where I spent most of my days
Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool
And all shootin some b-ball outside of the school
When a couple of guys
Who were up to no good
Startin making trouble in my neighborhood
I got in one little fight and my mom got scared
She said 'You're movin' with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air'..."

As he continued on, now easing into a soft shoe, he could tell the audience had no clue how to respond. Some sat there with stupid grins on their faces, others looked appropriately shocked. The one or two who had moved to walk off suddenly stopped, now openly curious even as they made their disgust manifest.

But the music had carried him onwards. He only had a moment to throw his top hat and wig into the wings before he was catapulted into the next song, a light banjo strum:

"Well we're movin on up,
To the east side.
To a deluxe apartment in the sky.
Movin on up,
To the east side.
We finally got a piece of the pie.

Fish don't fry in the kitchen;
Beans don't burn on the grill.
Took a whole lotta tryin',
Just to get up that hill.
Now we're up in the big leagues,
Gettin' our turn at bat.
As long as we live, it's you and me baby,
There ain't nothin wrong with that."

He could see the enormous question marks floating over everyone's heads: where was this going? Even the most offended now stood in the aisles, utterly perplexed.

But he had no time to gauge their reaction -- now he was in for the proverbial penny and pound. He flashed his brightest smile as he started to wipe off the burnt cork makeup, revealing his own skin tone, even as he rolled into his ragtime finale:

"You walk on the moon float like a balloon
You see it's never too late and it's never too soon
Take it from me what it's like to be. In living color.

And how would you feel knowin' prejudice was obsolete
And all mankind danced to the exact beat
And at night it was safe to walk down the street.

Everybody here is equally kind in living color.
What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine in living color."

He hit the final note on one knee, arms spread wide, a grin on his face, still streaked with makeup, a grin that was both cherubic and slyly winking. As he stood, it was silent in the theatre, followed by a thin trace of sporadic applause.

His professor joined him onstage, his eyes an odd mix of enlightenment and curiosity. He looked over the collected professors. "Mr. Richards will now entertain questions."

The Littlest Job Seeker

His finger hung over the Enter key, almost waiting for his mind to give it permission and yet at the same time not wanting to wait...

He'd been looking for a new job for years now. At his office, he looked at the people who had stayed and gone crazy and people who had gone and stayed sane. He'd stayed -- what did that say?

Then one morning a "career counselor" called him out of the blue, the first time in years that something like that had happened. The more she talked, the more excited he became. The perfect job, half again as much money, a true step up the professional ladder. Sensing his interest, she gave him a url and told him to check out the company. If he was still interested, she could be reached at...

He couldnt type the website address in fast enough. But even before the page had finished loading, he knew this was gonna be a problem.

His new employer was a spammer.

He hated spam. Check that: he loathed spam. He had no need for sexual enhancement, nor for replica Swiss watches, nor for milllions in beneficient funds from a dead government/bank official in Nigeria. He did not want a lovely new wife from the Ukraine. He was not interested in off-shore online gambling sites. They loaded his mailbox on a daily, if not hourly, basis, and he often lay in bed at night plotting ways of getting his revenge on spammers, should he ever get the opportunity.

And now, the Perfect Job meant working for one. He would get more money than he ever dreamed, a three week vacation his first year, complete medical and dental, a full retirement package, all of it wrapped up in one glorious package... in exchange for teaching little spammers how to be great big ones. He would be ordering address lists that toted in the millions. He would be writing code that would be purposely devised to get his employer's product in as many e-mailboxes as possible before the spam detectors could avert it.

On one hand, he could finally take that trip to Scotland.

On the other, it meant working for... he couldnt even bring himself to say it.

He called a friend. "What should I do?"

The friend laughed. "Ah, the moral quandry of our times. Well, what do you want to do?"

He couldnt answer, nor could his friend answer for him. And so, for another hour, he sat staring at the online application, his fingers poised...

The Littlest Sword of Damocles

You remember the story, right? Poor peasant who's friends with the king, constantly bitching that the king has it so good while the peasant has it so rotten. So one day, the king calls him on it. Says, "Look, you think my life is so wonderful, I'll give it to you for a day." "Hey, works for me," says the peasant, who races up the hill as fast as his little peasant feet can take him. King tells everyone, "This is my bud Damocles. He's gonna be king tomorrow. Treat him good, capisce?"

So the next morning, ol' Damocles wakes up, and here's all these retainers and servants and slaves and God only knows what else, and they're all fawning over him and agreeing with him and laughing at all his jokes, and he's thinkin' he could get used to this real quick. Then they take him downstairs for breakfast and seat him at this lavish table, and he's looking around, thinking Man, I have so got it made!, when he looks up...

... and there's this broadsword, hanging, like, right over his head, suspended by a single strand of horsehair. He starts to get up, but the king, who's been sitting next to him, pulls him back down and says, "C'mon, man, enjoy yourself!"

"But that sword..."

"That ol' thing? Bah! I have to deal with that every day of my life. Never know when someone's gonna come along and take you out, 'know? But don't worry: you only have it over you for a day."

"Yeah, well, if it's all the same to you, I'll let you deal with it." And with that the peasant gets outa Dodge fast as he can; never again did he bitch about his friend's success.

Cool story, huh? I mean, reassuring when you see those things on Entertainment Tonight or those talking heads on Larry King Live and yer thinking You know, those people aren't any better than me; I could be like them if I wanted to. Well, yeah, you could. You could be rich and famous and successful and have lots of friends and go to all the right parties and get on the covers of all the right magazines...

... and then I'd be there waiting for you.

Oh, you know, nothing serious. I'm no stalker or anything. But I'm still there, all the time, reminding you that success is ephemeral and your friends just want your money and Larry King doesn't give a damn, really, about your new book about the Bush era. A hundred years from now, all new people, as they say, and I'm right there telling you right now that a hundred years from now, no one's gonna care one whit about the fact that you got a corner office and a Beemer and a mistress shacked up in a swanky hotel in Paris.

So you go ahead and get yerself all successful-like. Don't worry: I'll be there, right beside you. And when you least suspect it, I'll take my sword and whack right through that horsehair. And won't you be surprised when it happens, huh? Then we'll have a little laugh about it and go for a beer -- that sound good to you?

The Littlest Restaurant Greeter

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

Please, chatter amoungst yourselves as you scan the menu board and then walk right past me. I'm nothing important here, just a prop for your dining experience. A minor one, sure, because if I threw down this fibreglass fork and walked off, you probably wouldnt even notice, would you?

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

No, I have no sad story. I'm not a single mom or a struggling college student or an outsourced software engineer. I'm just a hostess, invisible and unashamed of it. I've always been invisible, you see. Even in school... they would choose up kids for teams, and I was invariably last. Sometimes, they'd just head out and play, leaving me there because, well, after all, I'm invisible and no one noticed I hadnt been picked. But that was okay with me, I like being invisible.

So every day at four, I arrive, put on this ridiculous outfit and stand here for seven hours, telling people...

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

... for which I get paid seven dollars and fifty cents an hour. That's about two hundred a week after taxes, so you can imagine what my life is like away from here. I couldnt afford to eat here, that's for sure. These people drop the equivalent of my monthly salary in a single hour. Then they leave, walking right past me as they get into their cars and return home to their kids and their pets and their answering machines full of messages inviting them to dinner next Saturday night. And chances are they'll come back here, where they'll find me telling them yet again...

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

I could be bitter about it, sure, but I'm not. Bitter is too easy. Sure, I fantasize about dropping arsenic into the evening's soup special... but what would that accomplish? Even if I didnt get caught, the place would be shut down, and I'd be out of a job. And that's not a good idea right now. Alicia once asked me if I was interested in moving up, maybe to a watress or an inside greeter. I told her no. I like being outside. It makes me feel like I'm not quite so trapped.

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

The Littlest Italian Director

"I started my career in movies with a small-budget motion picture called... uhm... what was it again? Ah, of course, Aperti. We shot in twelve days, edited in three, submitted it to Cannes, took the Palme d'Or, and embarked on a magical journey of cinematic discovery. The film was a wonderfully touching story of a young girl's awakening to maidenhood, filmed with all the artistry and delicacy of an exotic flower. The critics raved. The public adored me. I was on my way.

"My next feature, Partenze, was an evocative, crystalline study of a 15-year-old girl who, through her love of Mozart and Brahms, grows to become a sultry, exotic concertplayer. Her life is sad, but she braves it all to give her greatest performance on her eighteenth birthday. It was touching, wonderful. The critics raved. The public adored me.

"Carta riciclata examined the life of a sixteen year old who lives a barren, emotionless existence. Her parents ignore her. She is sad. She turns to the arms of a seventeen year old ballerina. Together, they find magic in ways that are exotic yet tender. Sultry yet innocent. At the end the ballerina dies, crushed by a gigantic Chinese urn. It is sad. But my heroine, having learned that life is for the living, goes on and takes her friend's place in an impromptu performance of The Dying Swan. This film has been called 'brilliant' by the critics. The public raved.

"After that, they begin to rush by in a wondrous, exotic blur -- Limite de credito, Aggiornato, Lavaro a orario ridotto: all sensitive, delicate studies of the hopes and aspirations of the young as they emerge from bewildering childhood to the sometimes harsh, sometimes confusing world of womanhood. They are my chidren. I love them all.

"My latest will premier in Hollywood in time for the Oscars. Indebitato. My star is a fourteen year old I rescued from the horrors of Bosnia and brought to my home where, like a delicate exotic flower, she has blossomed into the essence of womanhood. And my cameras have followed her on this unique yet universal journey. It is my first time at a documentary, and I am very pleased.

"I see it as an expansion of my horizons, pushing me into new areas of discovery. I look forward to my next project: a sensitive, serious drama about a sixteen year old streetboy, as he grows into a difficult yet wondrous manhood. Creatively, it is a major risk for me. I hope the critics will be kind."

The Littlest Castle

He'd bought the land forty years ago, when land was cheap and the village was still four miles down the road. Three acres, enough, he decided, upon which to build his castle. He wanted a big house, with rooms for no other purpose except to exist.

But that required money, and he'd spent all he had, for the moment, on the land itself. So he contented with a small wooden cabin and reassured himself that one day, he'd have that huge house of his dreams.

In the interim, he faithfully mowed the acreage to keep it trim. But it only took a few months of that before he decided he'd had enough, that he could get away with less mowing time by planting a few flowers, maybe some trees. Those didnt need a lot of maintenance, and they'd take up some space. And if nothing else, they'd look pretty. Good for everyone all around, he decided with a grin.

Years passed, and the village became a city whose limits now met his own. When he was incorporated inside it, he was told his cabin didnt meet building standards. So he nodded his head and rebuilt it into a wooden frame house the same size. Nothing lavish: a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, a bath. He didnt want to waste the money or the energy when he knew that someday he'd be building the house for which this acreage was intended.

More years passed, and his once isolated lot was now encircled by developments of huge houses, structures so large they barely remained within their lots. There were more people now, so he built a fence to keep them off his land, then added more flowers. His wood frame house was now starting to crack and shift, so he rebuilt it one more time, this time of bricks, with a little ornamental window over the door.

Evenings, he would sit outside, enjoying the night air as it rustled through the trees on his lawn. The few flowers had now become gardens that commanded fully half of the space, and the smell, at that moment, the very tag end of the day, was sweet. Calming. Delicious.

He looked across the way, at his nieghbours, in their big houses in the big developments. As the sun settled, they turned on their lights and locked their doors, a wall of light around the man's little castle on his three acres of land.

The Littlest Radio

"He said he found it in the barn," the Listener said quietly.

The Woman with the Shaved Head stared, incredulous. "And in all that time, he'd never heard anything else?"

The Listener shrugged.

He had indeed found it in the barn, back behind the trunk with his grandfather's army uniform and under a box of old postcards from small cities across the Midwest. It needed a few tubes and some resoldered wires, but when he took care of those small matters. then plugged it in and turned it on, the tiny light behind the frequency panel glowed with an anticipation to match his own.

They had a radio in the house, of course, permanently tuned to WXXY in Oklahoma City. The knob had broken off one night, and his grandfather, a proud supporter of Hank Williams and Tammy Wynette, sensibly decided that if it wasnt country-western music, there was no point in listening. Perhaps they played something else at school, but since he left when he was fourteen, he had no real idea.

But now...

The station indicator slipped easily behind the glass, bringing in its wake buzzes and hisses and the occasional, fleeting sampling of... well, he wasnt sure what. It all sounded so.... new and different. Odd instruments playing in odd rhythms, to lyrics that made as much sense as the time granted them would allow. He was about to turn it off for the night...

... when suddenly he heard her. A voice like... an angel. Sure, he'd never heard angels singing, at least never outside the Friendly Avenue Baptist Church -- but if angels sang, they had to sound like this. He stood, entranced, for twenty minutes until the singing stopped and a voice came on to remind him he was listening to the Texaco broadcasts of the Metropolitan Opera. He wondered if Darrell at the Texaco station had anything to do with this and decided probably not. This wasnt Darrell's thing, not by a long shot.

After the commercials and some sort of game where a panel of guests had to answer what were to him unfathomable questions about composers and music hed never heard of, the "opera" continued, more glorious than ever. By now, he knew there was a story of some kind, that the woman he'd heard singing was in love with someone who was about to be killed. That didnt sound good.

But the music sure did...

"So the country boy discovered opera?" the Woman with the Shaved Head laughed. "How delightful!"

"Well, no, actually," the Listener responded, a bit ruefully. "See, thanks to that broadcast, he found himself caught between two worlds: the one that did the chores and took care of rhe cattle and listened to Tammy and Hank -- and the other one, that learned the difference between Mozart and Cerrubini before he was sixteen. But he had no one to share that experience with. As a result, he was never completely comfortable in either."

"Maybe he should have taken up the tango," the Woman replied enigmatically.

"Perhaps so."

The Littlest Fist Fighters

I dont know how long it's been going on now. A long time, maybe.

No, I dont know what started it. Neither does he, I think. Something, years ago, now so far back in memory that it no longer matters. Maybe I brushed against him the wrong way in a bar one night. Maybe he did that to me. But whatever it was, that night started a chain that's never stopped. Now, whenever we see each other, we have to fight. It's like we cant stop. I can be in my office, and he'll come in the door, and within seconds we'll be rolling on the floor, pounding the crap out of each other. Or I'll go to a restaurant, and he'll be there, and you know that tables will be overturned and chairs smashed.

I dont know why. It's just unavoidable. For a long time, I tried going to other places, consciously trying to avoid him. It didnt work: he apparently thought the same thing. One summer I took a cruise ship to South America. The only thing I remember of that trip was that he and I fought the entire nine days.

It doesnt matter where I go or where he goes. Somehow, we always manage to wind up in the same place. We've fought almost everywhere around the globe: beaches in Hawaii, hiking trails in the Pyrenees, in an elevator in midtown Manhattan, behind a diner off the interstate somewhere in South Dakota. No matter where I am, so is he.

We no longer question our fate. We know that we will spend our entire lives battling it out. We wont stop because we cant. One of us may win a particular fight, but that doesnt mean it's over. Chances are, the other one will win the next time.

So we no longer keep score. We just fight. And we are not the only ones so cursed. One night, we met two others, like us, driven to battle. I fought one of them. He fought the other. We both knew: it wasnt the same.

In a curious way, I cant imagine life otherwise. Part of me would feel empty without knowing that, around the corner, he would be there, fists up, ready to strike. Chances are, he feels the same way. It's like, we need this to survive. We are blood brothers... of the most literal kind.

And without that, we die.

The Littlest Aerobics Instructor

All right, ladies, let's burn that fat off!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one! (Looking good, Evelyn!)

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one! (Knees higher, Louise!)

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two! (Focus, Francine!)

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two! (Almost there!)

And one!

And two!

And one!

And two!

Good job!

The Littlest Zombie Hunter

I started as a zombie hunter when I was... gosh, I dunno, sixteen, seventeen maybe. In those days, it was an easy career move, lots of growth potential. Zombies were everywhere, y'know? You couldn't fling a brick in any direction without hitting at least someone related to a zombie. But they were such a frigging nuisance: they never knew when to shut the hell up, and all that feeding on brains... well, not exactly something you want to see every day, right?

So I figured, what the heck, I'll become a professional zombie hunter. Found a training camp advertised in the back of one of those hunting magazines, sent them my application, and away I went. Of course, they knew the first day in that I'd lied about my age, but it wasn't any big deal to them: they were more interested in the tuition money than actually teaching effective ways of killing zombies. So I quit after two weeks, took what little real info they'd provided, and hung out my shingle.

Sure, in the early days, I made a few mistakes. Hey, who doesn't when they're just starting out? But eventually I learned who was a real zombie and who was just faking it. Got some nice, high-profile contracts and settled in for what I figured was a long-term career.

Then the Environmental Protection Agency came into the picture, and things were never the same again.

It seems that so much "culling" (as they put it) of zombies had taken place that now they were an endangered species. Gone were the days when you could just wipe them out -- nossir, now they were protected... by the Government, no less. The only way I could actually practice my trade was under the strictest of circumstances... like, only when they were devouring certain types of brains. Or when they were attacking visible minorities. Or when they were after women. Or... well, you get the idea, right? Heck, if one of them was attacking yours truly, I couldn't do a thing because it was perfectly legal for the zombie to be attacking someone like me! Go figure that one.

Bureaucrats.....

So now I'm kinda stuck. I mean, this is all I know. I can show you one hundred and seventy-three ways to dispatch a zombie, but I'm handcuffed by a bunch of do-gooder politicians who think that saving the Zombie is the next environmental "cause". Heck, maybe it is: the last time I tried to take one out, I got crap from some group in New Jersey called ZAP2 (which apparently means Zombies Are People Too), claiming zombies have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness too. They said I was "zombiophobic", whatever the heck that is.

Damn.

The Littlest Rocket Scientist

I retired from NASA about a decade ago, I guess. I mean, it was all getting way too political, and folks just sorta forgot about the whole purpose of getting someone in outer space. We'd have a launch, and some senator looking for an "issue" for re-election would bitch and moan about all the dollars being wasted when it could be put to perfectly good uses right here on ol' Planet Earth. Funny how they always seemed to involve some project in his home state, but that's politics, I guess.

Sometimes I miss the old days -- like, when someone new joined the company, he had to spend ten minutes in the anti-grav simulator, then usually another twenty cleaning up the mess he'd made. They never figured out why we always called them in for this right after lunch. Suckers.

Or, if you really wanted to see veins popping out, all you had to do was look at your screen and quietly whisper "Oops". No matter how noisy it might be in that room, everyone heard "oops".

But it just got to be too much after a while. Folks complaining about the costs, about the lack of any real return on investment -- or, as they liked to put it, "Where's the ROI? Where's the ROI?" Idiots. We gave the world Tang -- what more did they want?

So, like I said, I left -- grabbed the pension offer, sold the house and the van and the truck, bought a boat, sailed to the Caribbean, and never looked back. But you know how it is: once you get the space bug, there's no cure. So for the last five years, I've been building this little beauty right here. We're sending her up tomorrow, so tonight's the night for a little party down. And believe me: she'll make it. She's nothin' but wall to wall premium-class rocket booster that usually sends things fifty times her size into orbit. When this baby goes up, she's goin' seriously up.

So tonight, we send her off with a little beer and a little tequila mixed in. Inside, there's a Jimmy Buffett CD and some local flora, just in case anyone out there comes across her.

Yeah, it's kinda nice to think that some day, some alien out there's gonna be singing Margaritaville. Here's to that!

The Littlest Juggler

He had been juggling since... well, he couldnt remember a time when he wasnt juggling something. Usually the traditional balls, but occasionally, when he was younger, a rattler or two, perhaps a toy drum and its attendant sticks, then moving on to his sister's dolls, all of them flying in the air in a dance with its own rhythm, one not easily shared.

As he grew up, he added more and more: a panolply  that jumped and lept by his deft hands. His favourite was the flaming orbs, four magical balls that had to be lit before he could toss them into the air, their very flames lighting up the afternoon sky. The crowds adored this trick, and it guaranteed him a full stomach and a place to sleep, and that was enough. His own needs were simple: all he wanted was to throw things in the air, as many as possible, and keep them aloft without letting any touch the ground.

He grew older and found that he couldnt manage quite as many as before. During one especially fearsome afternoon, he dropped one of the flaming orbs, nearly missing one member of the audience. So he reduced the number from four to three, not as good but still enough to bring appreciative ooohs from the audience.

Years passed, and he found he could only juggle the magic orbs: the other props, tantalizing, were now unfamiliar in his hands. He tried one afternoon to juggle his sister's old dolls and dropped all three. The timing was off, unreachable as a long-lost memory. So he stayed with the orbs and found solace in their comfortable heat.

But another fell to earth, then another, leaving him with only a single orb that he tossed aimlessly up and down. The crowds had long since departed; now he only juggled (such as it might have been) for himself. But he looked back on the days when he could handle anything; he could juggle the world if need be. And he thought to himself, One last chance. I'll give myself one last chance.

So, carefully and methodically, one bright afternoon, he took out all four orbs, coated them, prepared his hands, set them alight, and threw the first one in the air. Finding the rhythm, he added another. Then another. Then cautiously, carefully, the fourth, until all four were burning the air, setting it ablaze. And for a moment, one brief moment, he was eighteen again, ready to take on the world, ready to juggle anything and everything.

Then, just as suddenly, the rhythm was gone, and he jumped to elude the burning orbs as they crashed to the earth, their flames dying as they met the sweet, damp grass. He looked at them, then walked away as they threw up wisps of smoke that danced in the early evening air.

The Littlest Restauranteur

My grandfather started this place shortly after the War. Our family'd lost just about everything when we shoved into the camps in California, but my grandfather refused to accept that kind of Fate. So, after peace was declared, he packed the family up and moved us to New York and opened "Mister Fine Japanese Takeout!"

My grandfather's command of English was never the best.

The neighbourhood back then was pretty much like it was when I was a kid: two- and three-story brick buildings that lined 9th Avenue, otherwise known as Restaurant Row. You could find anything here, from Bulgarian to Tahitian. We werent the most successful place around, but we werent the least by any stretch. Granddad kept it simple and reliable and built a steady clientele that more than paid the bills every month. I grew up around these people, all our neighbours. I didnt even have to ask for an address when I was delivering; Mom would say it was for Mrs. Berkowitz, and I knew exactly where she lived. This was my extended family: I knew who tipped the best and who I could take my sweet time delivering to.

About the time I took over the place, the neighbourhood had begun to change, pretty much overnight. Buildings were torn down and replaced with 28-story condominium towers. Mrs. Berkowitz moved out to Long Island with her sister. We were pretty well forced to move the restaurant into a place that was two-thirds the square footage and commanded three times the rent. We were still carving out a profit, but with the change in the customers, I decided maybe it was time for a little image renovation.

I hired this marketing agency that branded everything as "Wok It Out!" ("Physical fitness! Very market chic!" they told us.) and spent thousands on everything from new menus to staff t-shirts. They said I needed to make my menu different, so I added exotic dishes, like wild boar and peacock, and jacked up the prices on everything to compensate.

The regulars I knew as a kid were replaced with a new set of regulars: toned twenty-somethings who got really POd if you didnt tell them about MSG not even being in there in the first place so they could tell you they didnt want it anyway. And even though I added all these exotic new dishes, they would just nod, like it was nice to know I had them available, but could they just have some lemon chicken and a small salad?

Do you have any idea how expensive peacock meat is? And worse, it doesnt keep. But god help me if I dont have it available, because the first time I decide it's too much money, that'll be the day some lady from West 45th will come in and want her entire dinner party of 18 chowing down on peacock.

Chopsticks? You cant win. If you provide wooden ones, they get upset. If you provide plastic, they get upset. If you simply send them a couple of sporks, they go ballistic.

And dont get me started on the number of times our delivery team has been stiffed by someone who claims the food didnt arrive "hot enough". It's Japanese! Not everything is supposed to be "hot"!

Our lease is up in six months. McDonalds has expressed interest in taking the site.

The Littlest Screenwriter

I started in this business in 1931. Double-reeler potboilers, mostly: quickie mysteries, lotsa westerns, even the occasional short musical. Fun stuff, y'know? Easy to produce, cheap, and fast! We could run these things out in four or five days tops. No idea was too ridiculous, 'cause everyone knew that in another two weeks, it'd all be history anyway, right? Posters on the wall here, some of my best stuff, bar none.

Then around '37, I figured it was time to do something really stylish. A film noir, as they call them now. I wanted the story simple, but filled with action, and at the same time moving, in its way, y'know? So I hit on this story about an orphan. Orphans are always good, 'cept she falls in with this bunch of miscreants. Real bad apples, y'know? They go on this murderous rampage. Lots of bodies everywhere. At the end, just before she's supposed to go to the Chair, she has this big weepy scene that had Oscar written all over it, about how all she wanted in life was a real home. Brilliant stuff, gotta tell ya.

So the studio takes a look and gives it the green light. Casting was a breeze, except for the kid. Still, we found a great little trooper and signed her on.

Then the problems start: they've decided to do a little rewrite, they tell me. Nothing big, but since they own it, they make it clear they can do anything they want with it. Part of the game, I figure.

Next thing I hear, it's a musical. A musical! And since Technicolour is the Big Thing, they've decided to go from simple black and white to full colour with this. And I start getting worried, let me tell you.

I didn't hear much after that: some casting changes, a few mishaps on the set, I don't know what all else. Then they have the premiere, and I figure I should go: despite all the changes, I was still listed as screenwriter. I don't recognize the director or most of the cast, and thirty seconds into it, I had to leave the theatre. I didn't write any farm scene, let alone some auntie-em and uncle-whatever-his-name-was comic-rellief duo. I figured if they changed it this drastically, there was no hope in Hell for the rest of it.

I've never seen it. Y'know? It's like this black mark on my resume, one of those embarrassments I'm ashamed to even mention I was connected to.

The Littlest Antique Dealer

This store has been in my family for three generations. I was raised to know what is and is not quality, and I believe a simple look around the shop will prove that. Go ahead, look: you'll find nothing but the finest here, quality heirlooms that have, in some cases, been passed down for five centuries, items of unquestioned perfection, things that have stood the test of time and now stand before you as enduring monuments to ages long gone. More exquisite times, when more refined tastes reigned. You'll find nothing here that does not underscore the luxury of the past.

Of course, the nature of my shop is such that people bring things to sell. Estate sales, in the main. But my reputation is such that no one comes with anything less than the best, since they know that I can get the best price for them as a result.

So it came as a small surprise one afternoon when an elderly gentleman came into my shop. Not my usual customer, you may rest assured -- he was dressed in a suit and overcoat and porkpie hat that had long seen better times. Still, the shop had been quiet all day, so, rather than send him away, I asked him if I could help him.

Yes, he replied, taking out a worn metal box. Would there be any possible interest in this item?

I examined the box itself: a plain, simple metal box, with evidence of decades of wear. A lesser dealer than myself would have swindled the man right then and there, but I could not. I shook my head and gave it back to him.

No, he said, you dont understand. It's inside.

I opened the box, and there, on a bed of plush burgundy velvet, was a wooden ring. A simple, plain, wooden ring.

It had been in his family for centuries, he said, passed from one generation to another upon the oldest male's wedding day. His family, in days long passed of wealth and position, used this as a test of the true love of its recipient, and not once, in all this time, had it ever failed them. His wife, he continued, wore it for sixty years before she passed on. Now, having no children, he had no one to pass it on to.

I picked it up, gently. It was old, that much was certain. Without markings of any kind, it was difficult to assign a definite age, but the craftsmanship was quite probably from the Middle Ages. That was a guess, nothing more, which made it impossible to verify. The inside was well worn from the hundreds of years and scores of fingers it must have adorned. Perhaps oak, perhaps walnut -- it was difficult to tell.

But it had no real value to me, so I put it back in the box and returned it to him, suggesting another shop down the road that might consider it.

Disappointed, he nodded and left.

I had no real choice, you understand. For all the value he might have given it, it was simply a wooden ring in a metal box. Nothing more.

The Littlest Climber

This is my ladder.

Every day, every hour, I continue to climb it, because... well, that's what we do. We are trained from birth for this. At ten, I was shown my ladder and prepared for the day when I would start to climb it. At fourteen, I started to climb. And I havent stopped since. We never do, you know. We continue to climb and climb and climb, because... well, that's what we do.

Success? No, success has nothing to do with this. That's not why we climb. Social standing has nonething to do with it either. At least, that's not why I climb, anyway. I climb because... well, at the risk of repeating myself yet again, its what I do. I climb, up and up and up, always following a distant light that never comes any closer and never recedes any further. It remains a constant distance from me, safe, secure, predictable.

Sometimes, I see others climbing their ladders. Some are faster than I; others are slower. I can only barely see them in the dark that surrounds my ladder, you understand, but I know they're out there, somewhere. Sometimes, I stop and peer into the infinite darkness that encircles me, and, if I'm lucky, if I look hard, I can see them, climbing up and up towards their own lights. Sometimes I can even see the lights themselves, moving just as regularly up the ladders of my friends and neighbours. For a while, I had someone climbing with me... but he's gone now. His ladder careened off in another direction. I considered jumping over to climb his... but it seemed like such a violation of who I am that I just couldnt do it. So I stayed on my ladder, and he on his, and we swore that somehow, someday we'd get back in touch... but I know we never will. His ladder is out there somewhere, while mine is... here.

It's not as lonely as you might think. Like I said, sometimes I can see the other ladders around me. Sometimes I talk to the people on them. Sometimes they talk back. Once, I stopped climbing, and the light above me went out for a few moments --- and in that brief period of time, I could see hundreds, thousands, millions of ladders, all around me. And I knew I wasnt alone.

But most times, I cant see anything except the next few rungs above me. The ones beneath me slip away into darkness, but the ones above glisten with a newfound light that propels me upward ever more.

What's at the top of the ladder, you ask? No one knows. No one's ever climbed back down to tell us. Oh, a few folk have claimed to have done so, but no one believes them. You dont climb down. It's simply not done. You can only climb up.