Yes, this is my third 'S' story in a row. Apparently Zaedah's stuck in a title rut. And this deserves a great big S for Silly. Apologies in advance...


Stick Figure Savior

Life is a sadistic version of hangman.

My workday consists of someone else hiding the answer while I have only blanks, empty dashes scarring the slate of a safe world and insisting that I fill them in based on a gut with sincerity issues. To insert letter into space, I must guess. And therein lives the devil in the details because conjecture is folly for people with time, something only old ladies and bad men seem to possess.

It seems that games lose their fun when a badge weighs you down.

There's more than just the missing, unknown letters to consider. Somehow with a world full of potential players, it falls to me to decide how many words are represented, their form and nature. Do they present a philosophy, a threat, an anagram to Eden or the access code to hell? I am forced to acknowledge the unfortunate gray area suffocating the game borders where erroneous attempts are publicly logged. And above my head a sinister buzzer ticks away the seconds, waiting to erupt when my chances are expired. I can't lose and shake hands with the opponent anymore than I can win and gloat. For the audience, this is entertainment easily forgotten and no one keeps score.

The trouble is, there are always faceless lives hanging by the noose. Meanwhile I fumble for the right letter as the choking grows exponentially every time I'm wrong. There aren't games covered in the academy, where they still think criminals fight with a micron of honor. Today's villain stands with chalk in hand, merrily striping white-line landmines on a rigged blackboard.

I want to stuff that stick of calcium sulfate down someone's throat.

With all the focus of a toddler, I quickly tire of the effort but there's no one else to play for our side. Too many spectators soak up the sideline sun, ignoring the burn and waiting for me to not only win but bring the lemonade. Victory leads to utter collapse and I daily look forward to the hollow numbness of a game suspended. Sometimes, I fear, I don't sufficiently care who wins.

As long as it ends.

This has fostered an overwhelming sympathy for the little stick figure that must look down on his little chalkline platform and wonder how he got there. He cannot move to save himself, yet the noose tightens around his stick neck while his stick brain registers someone clutching the chalk from whence he came. Worse yet, he might see the eraser. A vital piece of his anatomy is swiped away with each incorrect guess. And though he can be redrawn, he never quite looks the same.

In the end, the board will be wiped clean so the game may start anew, with fresh dashes equaling new dangers. Only recently I bowed to the evidence that this new group of bystanders wants in on the game. They steer me toward another victory, extending a winning streak even the unsavory element must be noticing. I'm pulling usable letters out of my pocket while my unscrupulous partner steals the evil chalk. For one microscopic moment, I forget about my badge and accept the challenge on behalf of stick figures everywhere.

And for one sparkling iota, I find fun in the game.