Writing to some arbitrary rule is a practice technique. Not including the title, every word counts, except hyphenated words (such as sixty-six) count once.

The first poem is a Shakespearean sonnet in honor of a summer festival. Thus, it had be fourteen lines of iambic pentameter, rhymed ababcdcdefefgg, as well as exactly sixty-six words.

Of all the remaining stories, two have been published.

Guess which ones!

December storm shakes piers along the coast;
Poetic immortality releases
From residence ephemeral, a ghost;
Anon the tempest culminates, then ceases.
Astonished, but avoiding confrontation,
Pedestrians pass by, averting glances;
Regrettably, his eerie emanation
Eliminates communication chances.
With countenance eternally in sorrow,
Restricted by historical renown,
Through everlasting triplets of tomorrow,
He wanders surreptitiously through town,
Imagining an incarnation scheme,
Aspiring to sleep - perchance to dream.

Mmph was all she could utter, mouth filled with frigid pain slowly working its way along her teeth past the bridge of her nose to the eye sockets, as her three year old child, to whom she had just said, "There's no more ice cream left, we finished it all yesterday," wandered into the kitchen and gaped with silent wonder at such a blushing, tearful mother.

Such horror watching poultry in a pen,
Arrayed like cattle, ultimately branded.
Let freedom ring for every cock and hen!
It's evident strong action is demanded.
We'll set those corporation farmers straight,
With protests, pleas, petitions, truth, or lies,
And angry demonstrations and debate,
Until each captive sees the open skies.
Don't coop them up in tiny little boxes!
Let's liberate the chickens, said the foxes.

"Sis?"

"What? I'm in the other room."

"Your baby is biting my nose."

"What? You sound funny."

"I said, your baby is biting my nose."

"Oh. He's teething."

"Well, it hurts."

"Of course teething hurts!"

"I mean, my nose hurts."

"What? Your nose hurts? Are you coming down with a cold? And you're letting my baby play with your nose? Honestly, you men are so irresponsible."

She sprawled across my couch, languidly watching the fireplace. I hinted that it was time for her to go. No response. She just looked at me with those big, brown eyes.

Again I called the number. This time, it was answered.

"You have a dog named Ginger? She sneaked in through my patio door and I can't get her out. Can you come and get her?"

"Green! I win!"

"No, sweetie. That's blue."

"Green!"

The deal is, I mind my sister's pre-schooler while she's out, and she feeds me when she gets back.

"Sweetie, this is green, and that's blue."

"Green! I win!"

For the third time, I yielded. My sister returned.

"Sis, I thought you told me junior knows his colors?"

"Sure he does," she said. "But he cheats at Candyland®."

"Good day," the Russian tourist said to me. "Where is the KKK clubhouse?"

"Uhhh...," I replied, "What do you expect there?"

"Religious ceremony with burning cross, then keg party. I'm not religious," he confided. "But maybe I get free beer?"

"Oh. Well then, go three blocks, then turn left."

Away he went. I don't know what he found where I indicated. By then, I was gone.

"I know you don't like baloney but it was on sale so I got the family pack. You should eat more, you're so skinny. The last time I bought this, I had to eat it all myself because it's a shame to waste food. How come you stay so thin? Me, I can't stop putting on weight. I don't know why. Must be metabolism or something."

"Junior won't eat anything unless it's gourmet. What have you done?"

"Oh. Yesterday, I made a gourmet meal: macaroni and cheese shaped like a dinosaur, with parsley scales."

"Well, he's carrying on today. Cookie? Milk? Apple? No, gourmet!"

She would soon tell me how, when she was ten, her little brother (me) demanded gourmet food. It probably never happened, but I knew I'd hear it anyway.