Snark was frightfully late for his very first reading of his memoirs in haiku--Will of the Wisp. He hurriedly rushed to the bookstore, tripped over a terrapin and plummeted down the subway stairs, shooting through the turnstile with his MetroCard held high so as not to get arrested by the transit police.
He stood, and with all the dignity he could muster, which upon reflection, appeared extraordinarily futile. Making a grandiose bow, he swiped the subway pass through the slot and spun the turnstile to clear his entry. He rushed to catch the A train.
The only empty seat had a wad of gum the size of a bunion or three sitting plunk in the middle of it. Sheesh, it was large enough to be charged a fare, reflected Snark. So he grabbed a strap and hung over a beamish boy who beamed up at him. Snark scowled back.
Because he was going to miss his book signing, Snark flipped through his mental Rolodex for someone to blame. It took him no time to find his archrival, F. Bandersnatch. But he knew with certainty Bandersnatch was in the middle of the muddle with his galleycat because that's where he left him as he hurtled down the street to the subway.
Then he remembered, his best friend, Bat Segundo had run up to him in a froth, screaming--your mother wears Army boots. This bald faced statement led Snark to snort. Segundo should know better. He'd seen his mother walking her poodle among all the promenading poodles in her stilettos.
So it was Bat's fault he'd be late, he'd stopped mid-hurtle to correct Bat's misconception of his mother's footwear. It was inconceivable to him that Bat should confuse army boots with stilettos, but that's what he'd done. And it was Bat's fault he'd tripped, because he wasn't looking where he was going, he was looking at Bat, sensing the roar of the greasepaint, smell of the crowd in Bat's smarmy smirk. Bat had set him up! Was he angry? No, but he'd get even.
At last the train screeched into the station and the doors slid open. Snark rushed out and smashed into the incoming turnstile, bounced off the bar, and spun around to the exit. He rushed up the stairs, didn't wait for the walk signal, but dodged the taxis and ran into the bookstore.
The clerk peered over an armful of books he was carrying to the bargain bin.
"Drop everything and give me ten...books!"
Memoir in haiku...there's a genre that needs further exploration!
Scoring to come