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dance dolly

"Don't stand under that," the father said to the boy, who was letting the condensation from an overhead air conditioner drip onto his head.

"But I like standing under it,"

"That's a bad habit," said the father sharply.

Cousin

He had been told what to expect. "She's very exacting," his sister had said. "She hand-picks who gets to stay at her castle - even though they're supposed to allow anyone who's doing the organic farming program - and once you're there, there are rules."

"What kind of rules?" he'd said.

"Oh, you know," she'd said vaguely. "She hates the word 'blanket.' Things like that. You'll see."

When the contessa walked into the room, swathed in a cashmere cape and trailed by a great dane, the atmosphere changed. Everyone sat up straighter. Everyone save a 19-year-old Canadian who had been placed at the castle when his host home flooded, and didn't seem to understand that he was being accorded an honor.

The contessa managed the conversation. At her request, someone recited an oration in Greek. Someone else recounted a French fable. She would ring a small silver bell between courses and an unobtrusive pair of servants would clear silently. Everyone was too on edge to eat much - everyone, that is, but the Canadian 19-year-old.

There was a lull in the conversation. The contessa raised her hand, clearly prepared to conduct the evening's next movement. And then, to everyone's horror, the Canadian 19-year-old opened his mouth.

"So this one time, my cousin -" he began.

"BO-RING!" warbled the contessa. "No one wants to hear about your cousin!"

"But, my cousin-"

"No!" she trilled, holding up a detaining hand.

"Bu-"

"No!"

"Bu-"

"No!"

He left the next day. The rest of the guests performed a Moliere farce.

Two children stood by the Egyptian pond at the museum, gazing idly first at the mosaic of bright and tarnished coins in the pool, then at the panorama of winter park, and back. An old man approached, small, bent, with a roguish gleam in his eye.

"NO SKINNY DIPPING!" he screamed gleefully. "Not you," he said to the girl, "but you!" He pointed a gnarled, accusatory finger at her five-year-old brother. The two children stared up at him in abashed wonder.

Riddle

“Here’s one for you,” the driver said as soon as the taxi door had closed. “If you’re standing in a house, and every window faces south, what color bear are you looking at?”

She thought. If you’re standing in a house, and every window faces south, what color bear are you looking at? It seemed clear to her that the riddle dealt with a geographically anomalous zone. Probably a pole. Which meant…

“A polar bear?” she suggested.

“What color bear?” he repeated, clearly disappointed.

“Oh. White.” she said. He sighed, deflated.

“Yes.” He said, and they drove in silence for a few minutes.

Street

As the young woman made her way down the fetid, sweltering mass of variegated bodies that was Canal Street in August, gaze down, she suddenly found her progress blocked. Blocked a group of pedestrians who were, in turn, encircling some sort of altercation. As the young woman approached, the scene became clear. She was standing before a kiosk, one of many on the street, selling knock-off Rolexes and Coach bags, New York souvenirs and the occasional dancing doll. An ancient Chinese woman, dressed in cropped cotton trousers, a button-front short-sleeved blouse and slippers, and seemingly the proprietor, was standing pugnaciously before a young Israeli woman dressed in skin-tight white jeans:

“You say fuck you to me? You say fuck you to me? Say it again your pants come off! SAY IT AGAIN YOUR PANTS COME OFF!”

The crowd fell quiet.

“I said nothing," said the combatant dismissively. "I did not say fuck you. I said nothing."

"SAY IT AGAIN YOUR PANTS COME OFF!" shrieked the woman. She lunged at her adversary; at the last minute a younger man ran forward and held her back.

The tourist walked off, the crowd dispersed, the woman, still shouting, continued with her threats.

Stairs

The girl and the boy sat on the concrete steps. She was dressed all in black, her lank hair streaked with crimson,her eyes circled with heavy kohl, her wrist criss-crossed with black rubber bracelets. Her backpack bore an "Emily the Strange" badge. Her companion, plump, in an oversized trench coat, turned towards her with a coy tilt of his head. "Mee-ow," he purred, extending and then curling his fingers in what was clearly intended to be a cat-like manner. His companion did not respond.
"Mee-OW," he purred more loudly.

"Let's go get a soda," she said impatiently, getting to her feet.

"Purrrr-fect," said the boy. She ignored him.

"I have a wonderful idea," said the girl. "I have a wonderful idea, for a great story."

"Oh, really?" said the man impassively. He was painting.

"Yes," said the girl. "It's very wonderful."

"Does it involve," he said, "a pink ceramic pig singing 'The Circle Game?'"

There was a silence.

"Maybe," she said sullenly.

painted pony

The man walked up the path with purpose and ascended the three steps to the front door. The door was bright red. Beside it was the doorbell. The doorbell was set in the center of a ceramic pig approximately ten inches tall; the pig was clearly handmade,as though in a pottery class, with a bright pink fired glaze. It had a blank gaze, bright white and black eyes, a round snout and a tuft of (also pink) hair in the center of its forehead, of the sort squeezed from a garlic press. The doorbell, a white plastic button, was set in the pig's stomach.

The man pressed the button.

"Yesterday a child came out to wonder
Caught a dragonfly inside a jar
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder
And tearful at the falling of a star
Then the child moved ten times round the seasons
Skated over ten clear frozen streams
Words like, when youre older, must appease him
And promises of someday make his dreams
And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
Were captive on the carousel of time
We cant return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game"

Joni Mitchell's voice came out of the pig's impassive mouth.

"Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now
Cartwheels turn to car wheels thru the town
And they tell him,
Take your time, it wont be long now
Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down
And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
Were captive on the carousel of time
We cant return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game"

The man looked around uncomfortably.

"So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty
Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true
Therell be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty
Before the last revolving year is through
And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
Were captive on the carousel of time
We cant return, we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game."

As the last note faded away, someone who had obviously been standing behind the door opened it and stood aside to allow the man to enter.