I’ll never forget the first time I boldly used “faux pas” in a conversation. I was at a dinner party, seated across from a couple of well-dressed, well-read people. I wanted to make an impression. The opportunity presented itself when someone shared a story about accidentally sending an embarrassing email to the wrong person.

“Well, that was quite the fox pass!” I declared, my voice confident.

The table fell silent for a beat. Then, the polite lady next to me leaned over, smiling. “You mean a faux pas?”

I blinked. Faux what?

Turns out, it wasn’t fox pass at all, but a French term for a social blunder. Great. My attempt to sound sophisticated had backfired, and instead, I had just committed the very thing I was trying to describe!

That wasn’t the only time my misadventures with language got me into trouble. A few years earlier, I had used “indigent” in an essay, thinking it meant “indignant.” The result was a paper where I described characters as “very indigent” when they were actually just mad, not broke. My teacher kindly pointed out that indigent meant impoverished, which explained the red circles around half my paragraphs.

But my favorite blunder was “epitome.” I had heard people say the word and thought it was pronounced exactly as it looked: epi-tome. So, when discussing my favorite movie in front of a large group, I confidently declared it “the epi-tome of modern cinema.”

Cue the chuckles.

One guy leaned over and whispered, “It’s pronounced ih-pit-uh-mee.”

I nodded, cheeks burning, trying to absorb my latest vocabulary lesson.

From that point on, I learned my lesson: never assume you know how to use or pronounce a word just because you’ve seen it written down. Now, before I throw any “fancy” terms into casual conversation, I double-check their meaning and pronunciation.

But I guess that’s just the epitome of learning from one’s mistakes, isn’t it?

Or should I say the epi-tome?

John, a typical American guy in his mid-30s, was overly confident in his DIY skills. Whenever something broke in the house, he’d always announce, “I can fix that!” His wife, Susan, would usually roll her eyes and wait for the inevitable: within a few hours, the house would turn into a disaster zone, and John, flailing around with tools, would insist that he was “almost done.”

Today’s project? The washing machine. Seemed like a simple enough task—unless you were John.

“I’m just going to fix it up real quick,” he told Susan cheerfully, grabbing his toolbox.

“You’ll call a professional if things go wrong, right?” she asked hopefully, knowing full well that conversations like this usually ended in chaos.

“A professional? For me? Susan, you forget who the engineer in this house is!” he declared proudly, though his engineering experience mostly came down to assembling IKEA furniture... without reading the instructions.

The moment John opened up the washing machine panel, he felt like an explorer venturing into unknown territory. Before him lay a labyrinth of tubes, wires, and parts that looked like alien technology. Truthfully, half of it, he didn’t even know existed.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he muttered, pulling out an oversized wrench. John was convinced that any repair job always started with a wrench. Always.

The first sign of impending disaster came when John unscrewed the wrong bolt. Instead of removing a small panel, he accidentally disconnected a pipe, and a small stream of water began to trickle out of the machine.

“Oops, just a tiny leak! I’ve got it under control!” John called out, already ankle-deep in water.

From the kitchen, Susan peeked over at the unfolding situation and muttered under her breath,

“And why do I always believe he’ll manage this time?”

Five minutes later, the sound from the laundry room could best be described as “a shipwreck.” John was frantically twisting the water valve, trying to shut off the flow, but instead of reducing the pressure, he turned the valve off completely, causing a geyser of water to shoot out like something out of a disaster movie.

“John!” Susan shouted, hopping onto a stool to avoid getting her feet wet in the rapidly forming indoor lake.

“I’m almost done, sweetheart!” John shouted back, now waist-deep in water, one hand desperately pressing on the pipe, the other holding a bolt between his teeth.

“You always say that!” Susan yelled, but at this point, she didn’t even bother arguing. It was pointless.

Suddenly, John noticed something seriously alarming: the washing machine began to shake. As if the ghost of all past laundry cycles had come back to haunt it. The machine growled, and in the next second, a flood of soap bubbles erupted from it, filling the room. Now, not only was John soaking wet, but he was also covered in foam.

“Are you making soap bubbles now too?” Susan laughed as John’s arm emerged from the foam, still trying to close the machine’s lid.

But the machine had decided it wasn’t done yet. It continued spewing out foam, water, and—wait—a few socks from last week’s missing laundry.

“Maybe we should call a professional?” Susan suggested again, watching John hopelessly wrestle with the chaos.

“A professional?!” John, now moving like a sprinter, ran to the power switch and finally turned the machine off. But it was too late. The laundry room now resembled a swimming pool full of bubbles. “I fixed it! Just one small problem… Where’s our cat?”

At that moment, the cat’s head emerged from under a mountain of foam, looking like a spiky hedgehog made of soap. He glared at John with a look that said he understood everything about John’s “handyman skills” and slowly padded out of the room, leaving wet paw prints behind him.

John stood there, dripping wet, soap bubbles slowly sliding off his face, while Susan, now laughing uncontrollably, wiped away tears from her eyes. The cat, meanwhile, slinked off into the living room to recover from his unexpected bubble bath, leaving John to face the consequences of his latest DIY disaster.

John, however, wasn’t one to give up so easily.

“Okay, that didn’t go as planned,” he muttered, brushing the remaining bubbles from his head. “But I’m not done yet. I just need a different tool. The right tool.”

Susan raised an eyebrow. “John, the only tool you need right now is a phone to call the plumber.”

“No way,” John insisted, rummaging through his tool box. “This is just a minor setback. I’ve got this.”

With newfound determination, John pulled out a rubber mallet, as if this would somehow resolve all his problems. He gave the washing machine a tentative tap. Nothing happened. Encouraged, he gave it another, slightly harder whack.

“John, what are you doing?” Susan asked, her laughter fading into genuine concern.

“Just… recalibrating!” he replied confidently, even though the washing machine clearly didn’t need “recalibrating.” It needed a miracle.

Susan shook her head, now preparing for the next wave of chaos. “Recalibrating, right. So, when’s the last time you ‘recalibrated’ something successfully?”

“Remember that time I fixed the dishwasher?” John said, puffing out his chest.

“Oh, you mean the time we had to replace half the kitchen floor after it flooded?”

John blinked, momentarily thrown off, but quickly recovered. “Well, yes, but that was just bad luck! This time, I’ve got everything under control.”

Just as he said that, the washing machine made a low groaning noise—a sound that no household appliance should ever make. Before either of them could react, there was a loud bang, and the door of the machine flew open, sending a wave of water and soap crashing across the floor.

John was now completely drenched from head to toe, standing in a sea of bubbles, his rubber mallet still in hand.

Susan couldn’t hold back her laughter anymore. “Control, huh?”

John looked down at the foam-covered floor, then up at Susan, who was trying to stay upright on her stool. “I might’ve… underestimated the situation.”

“Might’ve?” Susan cackled. “John, this is like Tsunami 2.0 in here! I’m surprised we’re not floating!”

John sighed, finally accepting defeat. “Okay, maybe it’s time to call a professional.”

Susan hopped off the stool, shaking her head with a smile. “I’ll go grab the phone. Let’s just hope the plumber doesn’t bring a lifeboat.”

As Susan left the room, John looked back at the washing machine. He wasn’t sure whether it was the glint of soap bubbles or his imagination, but he could swear the machine was mocking him.

"Alright, alright," he grumbled. "You win this round, but I’ll be back."

Meanwhile, the cat, now dry but still looking like it had just escaped a war zone, peeked around the corner, as if to check whether the coast was clear. Satisfied that John was no longer wielding his tools like a madman, it cautiously approached Susan, likely plotting its own revenge for the impromptu bath.

Just as Susan dialed the plumber, she heard John muttering to himself in the laundry room.

“What was that?” she called.

“Nothing!” John yelled back, though he was already eyeing the dishwasher. Surely there was something he could fix there. He was, after all, a man of ambition.

Susan turned back to the phone. “Hello, yes? I need a plumber. Urgently.”

By the time the plumber arrived, John had managed to half-dry the laundry room—well, sort of. The floor was still damp, and the washing machine looked like it had been through a hurricane, but at least the flood had been stopped. Susan greeted the plumber at the door, trying to suppress her amusement.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “It’s… well, you’ll see.”

As the plumber entered the laundry room, his eyes widened. He surveyed the scene: soap bubbles clung to the walls, puddles of water gleamed on the floor, and in the middle of it all stood John, holding a bucket, as if that had been his grand solution all along.

The plumber, trying to keep a straight face, cleared his throat. “So… what seems to be the problem?”

John, desperate to salvage some dignity, quickly chimed in. “It’s just a small issue with the washing machine. I think the water valve’s acting up.”

The plumber nodded, though it was clear he didn’t buy John’s story. He crouched down, expertly inspecting the washing machine, which by now looked like it had survived an earthquake. After a few minutes, he stood up and looked at John.

“Well, I can fix it, but…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Next time, maybe give us a call before things get this far.”

Susan, unable to hold back anymore, burst out laughing. Even John, standing there in his soaked socks, couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I’ll let the professionals handle it next time.”

But of course, everyone knew that wasn’t true.

That evening, after the plumber had fixed the washing machine and left, Susan and John sat together in the living room, sipping tea. The house was finally quiet, and the chaos of the day seemed like a distant memory. The cat had forgiven John, or at least tolerated him again, and was curled up on the couch, blissfully unaware of future catastrophes.

“You know,” Susan said with a grin, “you should really write a book about all your ‘fix-it’ adventures.”

John rolled his eyes. “Very funny. But you know, I’m not that bad. I almost fixed it.”

“Almost doesn’t count, John,” she teased, nudging him playfully.

He sighed, taking a sip of his tea. “Okay, okay. Maybe I’ll stick to smaller projects. Like changing light bulbs.”

“Let’s just hope you don’t turn that into an emergency too,” Susan laughed.

But despite the teasing, there was something comforting in the familiarity of it all. John might have been the clumsiest handyman on the planet, but he always tried his best, and Susan loved him for it—disasters and all.

Just as they settled into the cozy evening, John’s phone buzzed with a notification. He glanced at it, his eyes lighting up.

“Hey, look at this!” he said excitedly, showing Susan the screen. “There’s a sale on power tools this weekend!”

Susan froze, her smile slowly fading.

“John, no.”

But John was already scrolling through the options. “What? Come on, think of all the things I could fix around here! The possibilities are endless!”

Susan sighed, leaning back on the couch. She knew how this story would go, and she had a feeling the next chapter in “Operation: Fix-it” was right around the corner.

She just hoped it wouldn’t involve the dishwasher.

The End (Or is it?) :-D

Victoria Lunar

Creativity, loved

bled, and bloody

left me,

autumnal winds

stretching out

my draft deafening door,

swinging low

with lament:

...you used us

like a drug,

and now

we're fully wasted...

useless body! and breath what

could have been made, cohesive

for consumptive ritual,

you slaughtered

and butchered--!

with Life seeping out

its shell casing, housing

this bullet, aimed falsely

in vigilance, of a second helping

...eating is nonsensical

...and sleep is a wake

for grieving demons,

their gnashing of teeth

foretold

in Revelations!

for those who long buried

with primitive spade and hatchet

the half-spent core, reactive

that which sprouted fevered

exponential saplings, of temptation

blotched green and gold and red...

fading to russet,

brittle and deadening...

an ache I'd hope to feel again

shedding this blanket of snow

Did you know that if you spray at a fly in the front by his head that he will fall and die because they do not know how to fly backwards?

Wearing tight jeans help you keep your legs and buttocks tight.

Winter is near, we can soon say goodbye to these sweltering nights and summer days.

Temperatures rising...

Better turn on the fan...

One starts to feel lonely

When work hours expand,

And you feel you should tend

To the garden of self,

With a pick and a hoe

You dive into that soil...

See what's been buried,

And left waiting to sprout...

...Neglect!...

You never felt that way before...

Until you did, now, here's to new,

And fertile

Unused sensations

Building up like a

Blue collar round

The neckline...

How much for that poor doggy in

The window?...

Her tail beats out

A rhythm on the pane...

I want to take her home

To fill what's empty...

I've got a creaky door on

Rusted frame...

I got an empty room that needs

A heartbeat...

I work so much and just have

So much time

To fill her doggy bowl,

And pet her fuzz butt...

Once or twice a day

I'll tend to mine...

Returning to the garden that's

Uprooted...

This place where I've been chasing

Off the flies...

The rabbits come, and nibble up

My produce...

I see the darkened clouds fill

Up the skies,

And then a man comes in,

He says he'll buy it...

He'll pay for all my blood, my

Sweat, and tears...

I tell him that I'll think about

His offer...

Behind house glass my dog

Looks out in fear...

8/12/24

Bunny Villaire

Edit #2

Bernard exhaled a sigh of relief as he gazed out his kitchenette window, smelling the Hazelnut coffee from his French Press wafting into the devilishly flared nostrils of new morning. He was so grateful for a day off from his shit factory job at Kwimbee's making various idiotic shapes of dough. The most nefarious of the shapes was an perky elfish creature that had an overtly phallic nose that protruded upward like an obscenely erect penis. Oddly, it was Kwimbee's best seller, so Bernard had to look at the insipid smile on the elfin face day after day. His working conditions were so overheated and cramped with the feel of imminent death, that it felt like a well earned luxury being able to finally stumble around his house in an ancient ratty robe, cock out, and balls soft and sagging; absently watching his cat Yolanda lick her neglected crotch while purring in the sun that was tumbling in through the grimy kitchen windows. The plan was to rest, and exercise his wearily taxed body and really make shits bit of headway toward his ongoing attempts at Astral Projection. Bernard had picked up an intriguing New Age book from a pretentious head shop named Feu Follet that was entitled 'Astral Lovers' just for the occasion. Bernard had unflinchingly devoured the read; obsessed with the idea of meeting a eclectic woman from an alternate reality that was more spirit energy than fatally flawed human flesh. Bernard was slightly suspicious that the 'Astral Lovers' part was just accentuated to sell New Age books, so there was a reluctance to dive head first wholeheartedly. Whether or not the smoke and mirrors spiritual girlfriend entity part was true, Bernard was still very intrigued with the idea of leaving his body and inheriting the idealized gift of absolute freedom as he could dare imagine it. Almost every night he dreamt of flying above the houses of his crime ridden, yet magically impulsive and vibrant neighborhood.

Bernard was just about ready to find a comfortable supine position on his Yoga mat when he remembered he had to go to the bank. In a irritated huff, he pulled on his dirty grey work-out pants with the small tear on the left leg nearest to the knee, where his cock sometimes slipped out; cursing to no one in particular that he had to leave the comfort of his own home. Snuffing a freshly lit incense life out into it's wooden tray in a huff, Bernard was about to grab his coat off the rack when his landlord Mr. Petrov walked in to the living room with Bernard's apartment key dangling in his tightly clutched hand. He looked sweatier and more desperate that usual. His eyes were shifty and he seemed to be breathing heavy as he eyed Bernard up and down with his usual manner of disdain.

"What do you need?, " Asked Bernard, with hardly a veiled display of annoyance and disgust. This had been Mr. Petrov's third time in one month that he had let himself in to Bernard's apartment without allowance or warning, and the trend was getting real stale real quick, especially because it meant that Bernard had to make contact with his slum-lord fuck face of a landlord, when before Mr. Petrov was little more then a name on a sheet of paper that Bernard could easily separate himself from

"I need to get into the space inside your walk-in closet. I'll only be a couple minutes in there; ten minutes tops. No arguments please."

"Ok, but no funny business like last time when I found some creepy crawlies slathered all over my shoes. Do your meat slapping in your own closet like everyone else!"

Mr. Petrov rolled his eyes and shuffled away. The space that Mr. Petrov was referring to was the one and only area in the house that was sealed hermetically with a lock. Bernard always speculated over it's contents, thinking a few times of cutting the lock and perhaps restoring it with a similar looking piece of secure metal, but hadn't quite gotten to that stage Bernard did notice the bulge in Mr. Petrov's leisure suit, as he himself exited through the open window in the living room with access to the fire escape, closed it, and stood out on the damp metallic balcony that overlooked the backlot of the multi-dwelling unit (MDU). After a quick cigarette and a look-see at the beautiful sparkling city in the afternoon that lay sedated in spots under the heavy shadows and buildings; he descended down the fire escape like a careful mouse not wanting to be spied on. There was some construction going on in the downstairs of the building where all the mailboxes were situated. Bernard could more than likely navigate this noisy annoyance, but he just didn't want to communicate with anyone today; least of all his landlord. When Bernard's feet met the pavement he was back to his incognito hermetic persona again, ignoring the gaze of the others, and looking for alleyways that kept him sealed away from the daily throng as he hustled his ass down to the bank.

At the bank lobby of the 1st Westside Metropolitan Bernard was instantly greeted by the cloyingly oppressive Teller and Security Guard that played the role of Ventriloquist and Dummy with their almost menacing twin pair of crocodile smiles. Like wind-up toys they came alive as soon as he stepped in the room. The blonde security guard was seated in a chair not far from the glass enclosed checkout station, and looked as if she might have been ten years younger than the Teller, but all her mannerisms suggested she was sprung from the same womb.

Security Guard: "Hi there! Thanks for coming to see us today! My goodness, it looks like such a peach of a day out there! Hey we had a bet, and we were hoping a nice fella like you could share the deets...is it mild out there or is it a bit windy? I'm going with windy 'cuz I see the trees shaking the leaves a bit out there, so I'm leaning towards the gust."

Teller: "Now Stacy, you are always jumping the gosh-darn-don'tchya know gun! Why can't it be both? Why not mild and windy with a dash of the drearies'? (Motioning toward the guard and winking) She's a real cut-up this one! No, seriously, sir, what's the weather out there like? You can be honest, don't try and spare our feelings."

"It's a bit chilly, " Bernard moved toward the teller, emptied his wallet of his ID and credit card to make all indication that he had no time for idle chit-chat and stared blankly at the Teller.

Teller: "Any plans for this weekend?"

Her eyes were flirtatious but filed down, like a pencil that had spent too long in the cave of the sharpener, plunged in darkness amongst the blades and the gears, and rarely seeing the light of day but for to speculate from an outsiders point of view.

Security Guard: "We're heading down to HollowMan's Grove next to Bush Creek on Stapleton Drive tonight for Girl's Night! They got all night Karaoke starting at 9! Shooters all night, you know that's right! Do you like Karaoke? My go to is always Madonna's 'Like a Virgin', but sometimes I do Patti Smith's 'Because the Night' if I'm feeling lonely. Betch'ya didn't peg me for a Patti Smith fan, but I'm pretty open-minded. I listen to just to about anything except Country, Rap, and Metal."

Bernard didn't turn his head to the security guard but he could feel her smile burning into his neck hairs. The Teller was still quite lovely in her mid fifties aside for some black splotches on her neck that only accented her almost reptilian persona. Her eyes glided over him like a frog slyly sizing up a juicy water beetle.

"Oh that's great...I hope you have a fun night..."

When Bernard finally made it back to the door of his apartment he was exhausted and his cheeks ached from trying to imitate the twin simian smiles of the two glad-handing ladies back at the bank. He felt his eyeballs pried open in an unnatural way that seemed inherited from the dramatic duo. He twisted the doorknob to make sure it was latched but the door came open in his hands. Proceeding with caution, Bernhard now shuffled into the darkened room with caution. From the left and right two men pounced on him at once from opposite sides of the hollow blackness and flung him against the far left wall. One looked like a short, bald meatball with red blotchy unhealthy spots all over his ruined skin. He was raw and muscular and looked like he could do a fair amount of damage. The other was stork like in stature with a drooping rat shaped nose and a baseball hat that said the Miami Marlins. Both looked deadly serious and ready to extract some tainted information quick and painful like with their long fingers reaching out that resembled syringes in the half-light.

"Where's the goddamn money you stupid sonofabitch?"

Rat Man breathed heavy into Bernard's face, and Bernard could discern he just had a salami sandwich with day old spoiled milk and a couple of Whiskey Sours thrown in for good measure.

"I don't know you two!...How did you get in here?...What the Hell is going on?..."

For the first time Bernard noticed the crumpled heap of his landlord in the middle of the apartment living room. There were random red stains that covered the hill of his body. His head looked like it had been done in proper with a couple of calculated rough kicks. The gore on the carpet was fresh, and it had only just begun to stiffen in the more blackened areas of the floor where the blood had seeped in the most.

Meatball jammed his knee deep into Bernard's groin, and Rat Stork chopped him on the back of the head as he pitched forward in surprised pain. The darkness detonated through the tough shell of Bernard's skull like the messy ink from a squid. As Bernard collapsed downwards towards the floor, losing consciousness before his face hit the fast approaching catcher's mitt of the rug

*

Where in the devil was he? The night breeze was there at his neck, and Bernard heard night birds closing in, and bats as he dipped and swayed with the slightest of breezes that carried him so effortlessly. It took him a minute to decipher, but Bernard was flying over the sidewalk of his neighborhood! He was on a mission to find the small church on Locust street, and he was almost right above it. He had passed over two brown tiled roof tops, and then a house that was entirely covered in reflective metallic siding(though he saw no glimpse of his reflection), and then there he was! He could tell it was the church because of it's box shaped roof tops, except for one section that was spired over the front door. Bernard could see a multitude of stray cats milling around the front and the side of the church, snacking on the free cat food that was left out for them in a big ceramic blue bowl by the church's disguised side entrance that was almost entirely camouflaged by trees. Bernard could witness the snoozing birds in the branches of the tree snug in their feathers and huddled close together in their cleverly devised nests of feathers, straw and string as he slipped like a vapor, bypassing the structural limitations of the wood and slate of the church's crown. Passing through the ceiling of the church and finally landing on the floor, Bernard could see a group of people through the big glass windows, possibly of the local A.A. group that had just exited the church only moments ago. The group was individual smoking their treasured cigarettes and giving each other hugs as they slowly vanished one after another into the belly of the unknown night. Bernard wondered why he had instinctually flown over to the Locust street church at midnight. It wasn't until he thoughtlessly fumbled under the bottom of the big table, perching like a gargoyle in the middle of the room, and selected with precision a taped key beneath it which he now cradled in his left hand; that he realized that he had been Astral traveling this whole damn time! What a rush! In a total dumbstruck awe he fumbled around in the dark church and paused to touch paintings and a pencil that was resting on a podium at the far right corner of the large room populated mostly with empty wooden chairs. Now Bernard suddenly was feeling a tug that could only be his physical body calling his restless spirit body back home with an insistent sense of urgency. Bernard knew it was time to go, but wanted to make the moment last as long as humanly possible! My goodness, what a bizarre deck of cards he had been dealt today! With the key still pressed tightly in his firm grip, Bernard dashed back towards his apartment in the MDU like a skipped stone that was dancing across the surface of a fleshy lake of humanity after an expert toss by a clever and carefree child who had slipped out into the mysterious first glimmerings of a twilight's whisper.

The End?

7/1/24

Bunny Villaire

(Edit #8)

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