An Open Letter to Punxsutawney Phil

by Steve Barber

Dear Punxsutawney Phil,

As I write this letter you are no doubt hibernating in your warm burrow, dreaming whatever it is that groundhogs dream. But in a few days some top-hatted fool is going to drag your furry behind out into the morning air and call on you to undertake a very important task.

Before that happens, Phil, we of the Northern Hemisphere want you to understand something. We are tired of snow. We are tired of below zero temperatures. We are tired of winter. Only you have the power to make it go away.

Some have suggested you don't dictate when winter ends, but only predict it. Yet I have seen the smirk on your face year after year as you stare ever so innocently at your shadow. I know better.

So let me put it to you this way, Phil. You will not see your shadow this year. Do you want to know why you won't see your shadow? Because I have recipes, Phil. And I'm not afraid to use them.

Sincerely,

Steve Barber

Eyes

by Steve Barber

Her eyes were striking. A deep emerald green with flecks of gold, their sparkle inflamed me. I had to have them.

I was obsessed, I admit, but not without good cause as you can see. Yet she didn't understand. She called me insane; tried to run (as if I could ever hurt her), but the chloroform did its job. All I wanted were her eyes.

I held the right eyelid open, pushed in the spoon, twisted it and scraped. Then I did the left. They joined the others in a jar on my mantle. But sadly, like the others, they soon lost their luster.

#

Yesterday I saw a woman with the most uncommon blue eyes. It will be different this time.

A posthumous contribution from my father

A Youth There Was
by Arthur M. Barber
1925

His heart was proud,
His head was high,
He looked his fellowman in the eye.
He had no care,
He had no fear,
For anything on this mundane sphere.

He chanced upon
A maid one day...
He married her, and by the way
He now knows every
Care and fear,
That exist on this whole mundane sphere.

A Twofer!

Yeppers. Got my first twofer today.

No, not that, you sick-minded, perverted gutter-dweller. I'm talking about stories. Stories.

Well, one article and one story, to be specific. Fangs for Nothing is out today at Flashes in The Dark, and Dog Limericks is up at Raphael's Village.

Fangs is a story about a good ol' boy trying to cope with an onslaught of vampires in his small, southern town. Dog Limericks is about, well, dog limericks. I mean, dogs should be able to have limericks if they want them, no?

Anyhow, if you stop by and read 'em and feel the desire to destroy my ego via comment here, go for it. I'm all about humiliation.

Ciao.

What do you mean, I should start a blog?

There's no earthly reason for me to be doing this. No one in his right mind would have any reason to be interested in a word I have to say. Hell, I'm not even interested in what I have to say. Besides, this stuff is all too technical for me. I mean, settings, layout, dashboard--what does it all mean? And in fact, why should I care?

I should be spending my time writing, or earning a living, or spending quality meat-space time with friends and family. Even better, I should be spending time at the gin mill. But, no. People had to push me into this blog thing. Who were these "people" I hear you ask? Other people who blog, that's who.

What does the word "blog" even mean? Yeah, I know it's supposed to be short for "web log." But what the hell is a web log anyhow? I know what a log is. I know what a web is. I simply don't see any connection between the two.

Wait. Hey! I can post an image here.

Let me try.

Oh, look. The little Chihuahua picture went all the way to the beginning of this rant. Why can't I get it to go in the middle?

Will you look at that. I just asked a question, as if anybody will ever read it. And even if someone did, he wouldn't ever bother to answer it, now would he?

Well, I guess I'll go off and punch a few more buttons and hit a few more tabs and see what this thing is all about. If I ever figure it out, I might even post something else.