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Seventeen salamanders slink seditiously, sneaking to a son's shoddy sailboat. "My ship, my ship," the son shouts as seventeen salamanders stalk across the stream, scheming to sink his ship. Sam at six splashes his sneakers into the stream, side-winding slippery stones to save his sacred sailboat. Salamanders hiss as snakes should as Sam, Saul and Sarah's son, shoos them off the ship's stern. He steers her to shore's safety, softly smoothing her sides of the stream. His shoes stay soaked as he splats along the shadowy way. The shades of summer slink away as Sam speeds homeward through the sycamores.
My tummy tickles from tea I tasted in Kyoto. I take a train tight with Tokyo travelers. It twists through the tight turns of the terrain, testing the tracks with its turbulent tempo. Twenty times I think of my tense, tenacious tummy, trying to tear away from me. Temples tucked away ‘tween towns and trees toss timid glances to me through the translucent glass. I think of my teenage years, tossing between St. Timothy’s stress for tithes and the truth of theocracy I knew as a tot. I traded my trust in the Trinity for trust in my cultural travels.
I’m not a baby crazy woman, set on trapping a man so I can pop out tots. Labor scares me; I’m not ready for kids in my life. However, I’ve always loved children. Not everyone agrees with me on this one. Some people can’t stand kids. They find them obnoxious or bratty. I believe that it just takes one kid to ruin how people feel about kids. All you need is that one brat to make someone assume that all kids are brats. Don’t let that one brat influence your thinking. There are tons of great kids out of there.
I can’t wait to jump into your arms, say hello I missed you, walk away clutching your hand, pile my bags into your trunk, talk incessantly about my time away, form awkward silences from not having seen each other, listen to your newest exploits, giggle at stupid jokes and brilliant memories, feel excitement crawl throughout my brain from being in your presence, ignore the incoming calls on my phone, sing along with a cracked voice to your new favorite song, stop for a roast beef sandwich and curly fries and a coke we share, race down the interstate towards home.
There are two genres of film I dislike: horror and pornography. I think too much so I sometimes have nightmares concerning frightening movies. It’s lame and I should have outgrown such a simple fear but I haven’t. My old boss produced Silence of the Lambs. It’s the last film I will ever see on AFI’s Top 100 list. I have had nightmares about this film without ever seeing it. Cannibalism freaks me out just thinking about it. Hence, I will avoid that movie for as long as possible. On the subject of pornography – it’s just not my cup of jizz.
I lay awake, eyes closed, and imagine myself plunging into a pool. I cannonball into a private indoor pool, confident in its cleanliness. I hold my breath, open my eyes, and see the water around me. My eyes don’t burn like they usually do; I’m not wearing contacts and everything around me is clear. I turn flips, happy to swim a where gravity seems absent. The feeling of encapsulating cool or heat surrounds me and I feel refreshed. It's no primetime soap opera way to kill myself. It’s a demand for athleticism and comfort, a search for a silent place.
Uncle Ulysses unplugged from the earth an unthankful user. Our “ughs” towards his ugly, yet unique, urn do not undercut the hush unheard. An usher undulates along the aisle, urging us to utter under our breaths. Our uncouth “ughs” usurp the usher’s urging. Our undetermined uncle’s ashes yearn to unequivocally erase the uninspiring upturn of his end. A user of all undertakings, he was ungrateful to his understudies, uninhibited in his usury, and underwhelmed by any upping of unity. An uncle unloved and unsung is unsubtly upchucked by us into the underground. Unlit, untouched, unloved, all-together un. Alone in unum.
Vivian veered across the veranda, viciously verifying her vendetta on Victor. “The Viennese vender, a varlet, a vampire, viciously voided my virginity and then vied for Violet instead of vowing to veil me under the vicar,” she vocalized.
Vulcan the Valencian with varicose veins was verklempt with her venting and voiced his vote on her vindication. “Vivian, vaporize your vanity and visit the vender. He is verily vexed. His vacation with Violet to the veldt is a vacuous vote towards vindication. Vipers are not in vogue, my Vivian. Vent to me but venture into the valley and vie for Victor.”
We weep when winter wrecks us and withers our wakened selves. Wrens may wind around the willows outside our wiped down windows but in our weakness we wish to wait inside. We want to work away our wailing and wash away our wretchedness. We wish for wrath, for wielding a weapon of war, for wanton wickedness, for any will we can word our own. We wonder when we will war our worries and wrest ourselves away from wilted ways. Yet, we would walk with widows than with wives or warriors. We will wander with our woes and wallow without wonderment.
A xerophilous had swept across the land of Greece, exhilarating the pirates who faced the open sea after extorting an ancient, yet x-rated, xylograph scribed with xis. The pirates, all sufferers of xanthochroism, expected to receive xus in Long Xuyen for the work of xylography they exported in their xebec. Xanthic xylocarps also lay in the hull. The xenians of Long Xuyen greeted the pirates, examining their xiphoid weapons with excitement. The pirates, expecting xenophobes, extracted their weapons. The xebec’s captain, Xavier, extricated the xenians from the situation and chided his xanthochroids. The xenians exonerated them and celebrated with xylophones.
You cannot be a yes man, a yahoo of yakking that is not yours. Yesterday you yelped as if yes-ing yuppies were yetis, fearful of those yapping yada yada yada from the yardarms of their yachts. Yet today you must quit your yo-yoing between yellers. Your yarn of youth frays by the fates so yield your apathy before you cross the yard into the great yonder. Yank yourself free of the yokel’s yoke, of the yolk of your youth. Abandon your yellow-bellied yawning and yearn to yodel your own ideas, to become your own yogi. And, yay!, you’ll be you.
Zoo Zoetrope Zachary zig-zags across the ersatz zephyr, playing zip zap zop with the other tots. His zaftig mother, Zoey, is full of a zygote, a sister for Zachary. She’s zonked out in a zizz near the zannias. Zazu, a zillionaire with zinc hair, nibbles at ziti with zucchini, wishing it were zabaglione or zakuski. Zita covered in zits and zibeline examines her zodiac, desperate for Zoloft to zap her to her zenith. New Zealanders with Zapata mustaches zip out zany zingers zestfully on zithers and zandes. Zachary zooms over to Zoey, zealous to see zebras, zebus, zorillas, and zorros.
Amelia, always in auburn, avoided the Athenian autumn’s air as she awaited her amor, an affluent anesthesiologist. She ambled beneath an ancient aqueduct, alternating thoughts of annoyance of overdue Alfred and amazement with the antiquity above her. The aged ashen stone awakened images of Ajax, Agamemnon, and Achilles. All of the Achaean army, they adulated gods who ate ambrosia and advised them in their antics across the Adriatic. Amelia, agape with awe, affixed her eyes on ages ago. Adrift, Amelia was hardly aware of Alfred’s arrival. He adored her in his arms and asked, “Are you available for an adventure?”
Blood bubbles down the bridge of a boy’s nose. He brings himself back up, bearing bare fists at the big brute that battles him. The boy bobs around the brickyard, betraying the buffoon’s belief that he had broken a baby. The buffoon blabs, begging the boy to break off the beating. But the boy batters the braggart and busts the bridge of his beak, bashing in the bone. He blubbers, biting away bile. The boy beacons to him with his brass bulbs of eyes. The brute bequeaths the position of boss to the boy instead, bowing out to the better.
A clique of cool cats cruises into the carnival near closing, casting condescension toward the “creepy carnies” as if they were cancer. Cotton candy and carefully roasted corn’s costs are called from the kiosks. Their cologne carries across to the roller coasters and bumper cars. Cougar, the king of the clique, canters over to the strength competition. He contests to collect a cuddly toy, a cap, or a clip-on tie for Cathy, his cutie. He can’t come first so he curses, castigating the machine. The clique tries to calm him and Cathy clearly criticizes him for crying over a contest.
Whether I’m dumb, dense, or simply undeserving, my dad displays a devotion that is difficult to discover elsewhere. In my demanding years, my demons drifted out and drained me and those around me. I was drowning in depression. My dad and my mom devoted themselves to dealing with their devil of a teen. They did not let my despair destroy my future and so today I am a different person. I developed to be someone who does not let desert the day because of despondency. Due to my dad, I decided to deal with the dismal and be delighted instead.
Early in the evening, I eye an eaglet escaping its edifice. Eager to embody his mother’s essence, he edges out of the elm. The eaglet eases itself towards Eddie’s Eatery and elbows through an elderly couple eating eggs with elderberries. He evades the embers of an Eagle Scout’s fire and elects to enter the estuary. He entertains the egrets with his erratic movement. He ebbs in ecstasy, expecting to stay – His mother, an enormous eagle, exits the elm, erupts into the sky, ends his enjoyment. His escapades exile him to his area of the nest until his mother exonerates him.
It’s four forty-five and their fellow travelers are finding forty-winks as Francesca and Francois fling themselves together. They don’t want to fly in late for the fiesta at five so they fall over one another frantically as they French kiss. Feet fumble out of flip-flops and focus on their flight from the floor. Francois frees Francesca of her frilly frock. They fondle each other, frisky with fervor. “They’ll find out,” Francesca furtively murmurs. As they finish their frolicking, their friend requests to the footman, “Room fourteen.” Francois flies away with a flutter of a kiss as Francesca answers the phone.
“Grr,” growls Gregory, a grumpy grandfather. He gnaws his gums as he gazes at the greeter girl’s gazongas.
“Gregory,” groans his gelatinous wife, Georgette. She’s a genuine gourmand, gathering goods from the grocery for a Greek spread at her garden gala. She gropes some grapes with her gargantuan gloves, glimpsing at the grocer’s gorgeous son’s gluteus maximus.
Gregory glares. “You’re gaga for Gerald!”
“Oh, get over yourself,” Georgette gasps. “I’m glancing at the grain.”
“Gyros or gnocchi for the gala, Gregory?”
“Gnocchi isn’t Greek,” he grunts.
“Good point,” she grants him. They gather their goods and glide away.
Hypocrites hail that “heathens” will be hurled to hell’s depths, according to their holy texts. A holy handbook’s history should not be halved so that horrible words can be given heaviness. The height of a humble man is higher than that of a man hobbled by his hubris and hidebound mind. The Hand will not hastily heave the “heathens” away for humanity is helped when humans heed one another. Hearers of the Hadith, Hasidics, Hindus, and others may not head the hallelujahs but if they handle themselves with heart towards humanity, they have a hope of housing within heaven’s halls.
Imagination is my inner inn, an institution for my infinite investigation of my id. I evade the indecisiveness, the ill-advised, the ire, the icky. I imagine myself as an isotope, an illustrator, an Ithorian on the intergalactic interstate. I idle away the interim inventing my interjections to impolite and irritating idiots from yesterday, never investing in my intentions in the moment. On icy days, I isolate myself in the image of an igloo. The icicle intestines and incessant indenting of my incisors are inept in comparison. My imagination informs my individual life and I impersonate my ideas in intermediate inscription.
I hate driving the 405 at night. It’s terribly bumpy and hilly for an interstate. Plus, they can only work on it at night. They throw up fucking traffic cones at the last minute so I’m trying to switch lanes and end up careening into those orange phallic pieces of shit. It didn’t happen tonight but it has happened in the past. I fear some drunken idiot or some idiot will plow into me and send me flying down onto Sepulveda or into the Getty. Not a fun way to die or end up maimed. Not that disfiguration is fun.
July was Jason’s month. He’d jump into his jalopy and joy ride around Jacksonville. He’d jam to jingles with Julie, jig with Jane at jamborees, and josh around with all the juniors at Jacksonville High. Jealousy jumped from Judy to Jasmine. Jason could get into jams and Jenny, Julianne, and June would jump up in their jalopies to break him out of jail. If the jams were extremely juicy, he’d joke with the judge until the judicial verdict would joy him. Jacksonville was his jubilant kingdom and Jason was he jester and anyone to judge hum would be justly jinxed.
The captain, a known klutz, of the keeling skipper crashed. The king and his kids came kicking off the cracked boat, keen to keep on their trip to Kyoto. They craved Kobe beef and Kia cars. Yet, the skipper was cracked. The kook of a captain crept into the kitchen and came out with a keg full of kahlua. The king quickly collected his thoughts and kindly claimed, “We’ll keep to this cay for as long as we can, make it our ken. We have a kit, a collection of kiwis and kale, and a kite to keep ourselves keen.”
Landowners’ families lunch in a lonely lea, lasting the day laughing losses away. Listen to the little ones laughing beneath the laurels, their light locks loose in the light wind. Look at the lads, lusting over the lasses. They lean in and lecture each other over lucrative ways to lock in the lasses. The lasses list their longings for lads, all ludicrous boys who lack the logic to listen. Look at the ladies, mothers of lasses, lads, and little ones. They are the learned in the labors of love. They linger longing to lecture to lads and lasses about love.
Moaning from the molestation of menstruation, she melts into a mournful mutter. Her tummy mauls her. Her man makes a murmur as returns home from the market. He moves towards her and mentions manners of mollifying her menses. She motions him towards her and makes a mold of his body against hers. He’s mindful not to mention her mean utterances from the morning. He masks his misery with their marriage for a minute, a moment, and makes her ease his main concern. Tomorrow, the mistakes will mean nothing and they may make way to memorize each other’s motions once again.
A nanny above nestled a newborn into its nest. She nodded off into the night, never noticing the nightlight’s noiseless nourishment. A nocturnal Navy man nimbly nipped his nicotine beneath the nightlight nursing the alley as a naughty nymphomaniac nuzzled a male nurse nearby. The Navy man narrowed his nub across his nipple. The nub was a nasty negotiation with his necrotizing fasciitis after an injury in Nam. It nudged out a notepad from his now-natty nines. In it he noted nuances of thoughts for a novel on his nonexistence. He needed a notification from nirvana, an indication of newness.
Opening our oral orifices oblong, we ogle at the obstetrics occurring in room one one one. Our older friend, Ophelia, objects the oppression of her pain. The obstetrician ordains that she open up and order her offspring out. She opposes him with ordinary oaths of oh my and oh god and oh no. Her other half obsecrates her to obey, offering his hand to be obliterated by her overwrought one. Ounce by ounce their only child’s orb originates into the obstetrician’s open hands, accompanied by oodles of ooze. We ooh and ahh until the off-duty orderlies out us from observation.
Penelope, pretty and ever so popular, posed in front of her panorama of mirrors. Her priggishness and pomposity popped out as she preened her person, picking at pockmarks and popping pink pimples. She was the princess of the preps, piggish towards the proletariat and polite to her panderers. But Perry was picking her up for the prom promptly and she needed to appear pristine. She poked at her pudgy potbelly and poured plaintive protests to her pal, Paula, a plush penguin on her puffy patchwork bedspread. Her pregnant pouch peeked through her prom dress – a pennant from Perry’s pushy persuasion.
Quails quiver in the queen’s quaint quad where a quorum has gathered to find the man with the correct quiddity for the queen’s quest. Quick to the quip, the questioner quizzes the qualifiers for the quest. He quiets the quibbles of the quails and the quorum and even the queen but doesn’t quell his queries, “Can you quarrel with quicksand, quakes, and quadrupeds? Do you have any qualms with quitting your quilts when you feel queasy? Are you content with a clear quid pro quo?” The quirky qualifiers consented and quickened to the quay to depart on their quixotic quest.
"Rabbit, rabbit," I will rumble if I remember the ridiculous ritual when I reawake. I roundabout repeatedly to the rear, a reoccurrence of every month, and realize that I can reawaken in rebellion. I can render the roughness of winter rotten and readjust my retinas for the rush of spring. I can reevaluate my reckonings and rally richer reveries. Or I can rest awhile and revolt against risk, reassured from reaping agony. Yet, regret will roar in my ear, rumble in my stomach, and raze my mind of reality as I return again and again to rotting days of yore.
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