Cue for the Visions: “See the Cheetah”

In the upstairs loft at the Olde Gristle folks mingle in the after hours amidst chatter, coffee, and wafting smoke with an ancient record player in the corner spinning dusty 45’s.
  Manford pontificates on musical arcana whilst Glen Aludo feigns interest in everything. Pipo Spanno attempts conversation with an indifferent Ginia Lupo.
  Other characters were present. “Punk” Mike looking cheesed off. Plumber/Philosopher Dan and Miss Gutkind sitting nearby sipping, smoking, and wearing black. Brown Bag performance artists, mopey young wannabe’s, and aging coat-tailers all practice their poses with poise.

Future iterations stand as proxy simulacra.

Das Sauerteigbrot von Herrn Jakob

Herr Jakob's ongoing experiments in baking science at the Men's Lodge.

Sign of Spring

Vinca minor

Another loud redhead

Melanerpes carolinus

Bansan-kai at Big City Su-Ran

From the Stratum XXXIII memory the party simply appeared there in Midtown amongst the chrome and electric blue fixtures.
  There was Fuchsia Bolt, Malinconico, “Buzz” Mattelli, Fake Grodin, Kayako Y., the Ice Queen, and several less-than-memorable characters seated at the long table for the awaited utage at Su-Ran’s.
  Fuchsia shared a “shooter” concoction that featured colourful strata of sake, ponzu, and masago. The varying viscosities of contents ensured a clumsy quaff to those who partook. Other sampled fayre included tiger beef (reminiscent of larb), beet & daikon oroshi, and various nigiri.
  “Buzz” had quite the memorable quips of the evening:

• “‘Take on me. Take me on.’ Eighties music definitely belongs in sushi joints.”
• Regarding ikura: “Tiny explosions.”
• “Remember that bass part for a future Fauxtet sketch.”

  Most everyone laughed; the Ice Queen unsurprisingly glared, and Fake Grodin wore a silent but mirthful grin, his brain already pickled since midday.
  Kanpai, y’all!

Mystery Hill: Disquiet for the Inquisitives

Cracked asphalt meets crumbling topsoil at the cloudy dead end of Ramble Place. Scraggly shrubs and pokeweed flank a ramping rise of the ground — a foreboding entrance to the dark woods beyond.
  Past that, thickening brush over a thin-trodden path, trees leaning in to block the grey sky. A gradual ascent, passing an abandoned, burned-out fort strewn with charred smut. As the hill plateaus, a golf green is visible through the trees to the north.
  To the west lay Horseshoe Canyon, but one would have to cross territory belonging to “The Farmer” to get there. Either way, you'd get yelled at by grown-ups.
  No one knew what he “farmed,” and the only livestock anyone remembers was the odd guinea fowl and cherry-eyed Basset that would wander loose as far as Sheffield.
  Still, traversing the hill was an adventure in itself.