(intern finds nothing sarong with breaching the toga of the editor-in-cheek) Oh! My Literadical Literati! That asymmmmetrical everyman from a galaxy far, far away, has returned for re-entry into our contest: A Dozen Roses from a Single Thorn: A Valentine’s Day Contest. Sefert got word that the deadline has been extended until February 28th. …
(intern finds nothing sarong with breaching the toga of the editor-in-cheek)
Oh! My Literadical Literati!
That asymmmmetrical everyman from a galaxy far, far away, has returned for re-entry into our contest: A Dozen Roses from a Single Thorn: A Valentine’s Day Contest.
Sefert got word that the deadline has been extended until February 28th. In case you missed the memo, here are the rules and the navigational charts to the heart of your beloved:
In the meantime
Seyfert Gives Yente Seydie a Second Chance
by Julie Mark Cohen
I hope Yente Seydie doesn’t make another mistake, Seyfert thought, adjusting his toga’s romancing rufous ribbons as he stepped onto the porch. I can’t imagine how she misunderstood me the first time.
He bent over to readjust a sandal strap on his longest of three legs just as the door rolled up. Clenching onto his hard-shelled, transparent satchel, he placed his unencumbered hand on his silken hat to hold it in place while he looked upward.
“You must be Seyfert. I’m Seytallulah. Pleased to meet you,” the widowed SeyTTT-ian female said, extending her nubby-digited hand, pointing to his wide-brimmed top hat with the other. “That cranial protuberance cover. What class!”
“Thank you,” he said, tipping his hat to her while he offered a most masculine SeyTTT-ian curtsy, wondering why she was wearing an apron over a plain tan toga.
Seyfert stood and puffed out his chest which exacerbated his out-of-plumb build. In return, she offered a hearts-melting smile.
He tapped on his carrying case. It opened, then vanished, leaving behind a bundle of nineteen different roses, differently colored, long-stemmed with roots. “As you may know, my father Seymour is-”
“The intergalactically renowned botanist.” She extended her nubby-digited hands, palm sides up. “Are all these for me?”
“Yes, but please be careful,” Seyfert transferred the wrapped roses into her hands. “Each stem is thorn-laden. You can plant them. I can show you how.”
“Thank you, but I should place them in dihydrogen oxide for now.”
Seyfert felt a tug on the hem of his toga.
“Hey, mister. Are you my Mommy’s date?”
“Yes,” said Seyfert. “You must be one of her triplets. What’s your name?”
Seytallulah shook her head, but Seyfert couldn’t determine if this was in response to her son or to him.
“I’m Seynt. I’m the oldest and the tallest.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” said Seyfert, kneeling to speak with Seynt at eye level.
Seynt snared Seyfert’s hat, placed it on his small head, and laughed. “I’m hiding. I’m hiding!” He took off in a wobbly SeyTTT-ian gallop, smashing into and bouncing off walls. “This is fun!”
Seytallulah yelled toward the back door. “Don’t damage Seyfert’s hat. And, don’t let your brothers do anything to it.”
Seyfert followed her into the kitchen and watched her carefully place the flowers on the table. “Let’s plant them now.”
“I don’t have time. I have to get ready for my date.”
“But, I’m your date.”
“No, I’m sorry, but you aren’t,” she said. “Something got mixed up.”
“Not again.” Seyfert paced.
“I clearly requested a tyke tender.”
“But, I thought, it was only a rumor that Seydie was losing her hearing? I wonder if she heard ‘a mate maker’?”
“But, you’re a handsome, dashing fellow.”
“Just not your date.”
“Can you take care of my boys while I’m out for a few hours?”
“I’m already here, so why not?”
He entered the backyard and excitedly spoke to her boys, Seynt, Seyvalen, and Seytine. “Let’s make today Seynt-valen-tine’s Day!”
# # #
Copyright 2104 by Julie Mark Cohen
(hmmmnnnn…anybody notice the reference to the roses being thorn-laden? I guess it’s been too long since I have been laden)