Constric-tock

Time passes—Slithers, more like.

Snakes right by us,

Under our very noses, through openings and closings,

Over our heads—

usually when they’re over our heels

in like.

 

It’s fun when it’s flying,

Imperforated feathers of disregard and ecstasy,

Like singing Queen in the shower, hot water at full blast,

“Tonight, I’m gonna have myself a real good

time.”

 

Boa constrictors are aptly named, however.

Tick-tock-squeeze-glug.

 

It’s definitely not last night anymore.

No more yellow brick whatever’s laying down the presumptuous path to paradise.

I’ll keep the sparkly red shoes, though. They’re timeless.

Oh, and I guess the little dog, too. 

Hunger

Crust perfectly crisped and browned like beach bodies crunches succulently in his mouth as juicy tomatoes and melted cheese grace his buds and nostrils and fingers and mind, truly one for truly all, the Italians knew what "collectivistic" meant before the English defined it. He shouts across the plastic table amidst the din of the dining croud, "I dont know, I dont know, she said it was... positive;" as if positive were the worst attribute in the world, worse than "doomed", "diseased", or "burdened"; as if pregnancy weren't a miracle of life but a bane hell bent on destroying it.

A Tad Bit Dark

There is a fat girl in my art history class. Who sits there and knits during lecture. And at first I was amused. Oh isn’t that cute. Isn’t that nice. She has a sweet little practical hobby. Actually it’s sort of mesmerizing. Hands move so fast and all that string and knots and whatever. Then it gets old. And distracting. And worst of all, the fat girl is the most arrogant, know-it-all, loud mouth you can imagine. She interrupts a person’s comment, be it professor or student, with her one-word, dazzling summation of whatever the other person was taking too much of her precious knitting time to say. It’s now the 4th week of class and every time the bitch opens her mouth, my neighbor and I roll our eyes at each other, and we want to shove that stupid knitting needle down her throat.

The Lunch Lady

Props to the little enthusiastic old woman who makes panini’s at the Grad School of Business on Tuesdays. Every week I go in there with my list of sandwiches to be picked up for the office. She stands behind the counter all eager, wagging her imaginary tale-like, the plethora of breads, and spreads, and meats, and veggies, and cheeses in front of her all lined up ready to go. I look at her apologetically.

Focaccia. Chicken. Sliced tomatoes.

She waits patiently. Awkward pause. Her heart sinks. I see it in her eyes. That’s it? No spread? We have pesto, mayonnaise… How about cheese? Swiss? I must cut her off. Have to stick to the post-it’s decree. No that’s it. Thanks. This past week it was even more bleak.

Sliced wheat bread. Turkey. Mustard.

Damn those mechanical cubicle workers. Too up-tight to even get a tad bit adventurous with their sandwich. Crushing the life out of this poor panini-lady. She sighs and tosses the sad-looking lunch on the grill. You might as well get one of the pre-made ones next time deary.

Treefish and Carpetfish

[Setting: Main tank at Point Defiance Zoo and Aquarium.]

Treefish and Carpetfish rise slowly to the surface in the exact center of the tank. Other fish circle the perimeter, where the audience looks in through thick glass windows.

Treefish: Knuckles.

Carpetfish: Chuckles.

Treefish: Snowflake.

Carpetfish: Crow’s feet.

The many circling fish suddenly begin to swim in the opposite direction.

Treefish: Sprocket.

Carpetfish: Damn.

Treefish: Really? I thought that one was easy. You go first.

Carpetfish: Needle.

Treefish: I know you made that one up!

One salmon swims up from the bottom of the circling mass.

Salmon: You’re made up.

[Lights.]

Genes

“How did you get up there?”

There stood a little girl, chocolate stains all over mouth. Disgusting. She scampered off. I'm never going to have kids.  

“Mom? Mom!”

Looks like that little girl scampered off a little too far.

“Mom! Get down! You just broke your hip for godsakes.”

Wait, was this woman talking to me?

“Oh, hello. I’m just waiting for Harry.”

Her face slackened.

“You’re not 19, Rita. You’re 84, you live in Darien and you have three kids and two grandkids.”

She was obviously confused, but she looked so sad, so I came down off the roof.

Re: Allof100 project (Guest Author: Robin Roy)

Wow!  Repeat 99 times.   

Oh no, my math is wrong.  Not the math, actually; it's the logic that's off.

So make that, "Repeat 96 times!" 

Oh no, so wrong, SO again.  

A final try, counting carefully, cleverly. 

All of 100!  Done! 

Flawless. But lacking grace. Merely a trick.  

Repeat once.

This started with 543 words

I’m streamlining efficiency.

            Um?

Duplicates are useless and bothersome!

            Right.

Now I’m culling my acquaintances to remove the duplicates.

            What?!

Purely on merit… I know another Maldinteroff.

            Oh.

What are your qualities?

Seriously?!

…

Well… I’m friendly.

Yes! But dull. Maldinteroff is greedy. Tie. Do you know desirable or influential people?

A waitress, who gives me free entrees…

Maldinteroff knows the mayor and Wenona Ryder. One point Maldinteroff. Strength?

What?

Muscle up, show some beef.

            Grrrrr…?

Meager. Maldinteroff is a ferocious specimen! One more point Maldinteroff. I’m afraid the traits have spoken. Farewell.

But Dad—

That removes one son too.

 

Leaves of Trees

            It came to me, no, it came out of me when I was sitting on a thick branch above the ground, feet feeling the bark and the wood beneath as they had been for millenia and the tree grew through me spreading leaves and limbs to the sky and connecting to the single thick trunk and thick moist soil spreading beneath, the ants searching, the finches flirting, and the air stirring all as one, all as us, and the far flung root systems anchoring the continents so that everything to be scraped and held was encompassed within my grateful spirit.

You Know You Want Me

Those lips. They were so…there was no other word for it, they were divine. They were unbelievably three-dimensional, and incredibly luscious. They didn’t have to do much to lure you in. Occasionally, they’d pucker up or sometimes casually blow smoke out the side. It was almost obscene, pornographic even, the way they spread ever so slightly at the corners with the voluptuous gloss tapering to a moist, dark point. Everyone stared. No one was spared. You couldn’t help it. You wanted them. They were huge. They were sex. And oh boy, did they sell. Luscious Lip Plumper, in stores soon.

Advice

There’s good and bad ways to do shit. Kay, son? The good way, fuck, it’s goin’ nice, who gives a shit, it’s the good way. Once it’s over it’s over and everyone goes on they merry ways and no one remembers shit. But the bad way, fuck. Exact same as the good way but then bam some chunk gets fucked up the arse by surprise – this sparkling spontaneous release– and then ‘stead of being good it’s worse than bloody Mary on a cross – pregnant – with a crucifix shoved halfway up her vagina. Both ways got their merits.

Happy Birthday

He was wearing the same tie since the last time I saw him—a year ago when I turned fourteen. I started to suspect it was the only tie he owned.

Mom let him in without even a feigned upward curling of her lips. He glanced at the newly upholstered furniture. She raised her eyebrows, as if to say, did you really expect me to keep your mother’s sofa?

With one foot out the door, he handed me the bouquet. Happy Birthday. I waited until I heard his car pull out of the driveway and dumped the flowers into the trash.

An Interview

Who's next?

Me.

You?

Yes.

The room had only two windows high in opposite walls, and pigeons were standing on the outside ledges, peering in through the grimy panes.

Why are you here?

I want to be the next one.

I think you might be confused.

Because I look normal?

He looked up and one of the pigeons stiffened, tottered, and fell backwards out of sight. He looked back at her.

You should know appearances don't count.

They were silent as outside a train sped past, shaking fine dust out of the rafters that fell on them like a mist.

Second Day

            The seventh week rain came out of the sky. It silenced the screams and buzzings of the jungle and all we could hear was warm water pouring down the tree trunks in rivulets. We found an ancient boulder, circled by the roots of two huge capirona trees, and sat on it for three days as the earth became mud around us. Those three days none of us talked, we just moved from one edge of the mossy boulder to the other, peering into the jungle. When the rain ended, we peeled off all our soaking clothes and left them behind.

First Day

Land ho!

And I thought it was

As the waves tossed us to and fro

But clouds, clouds

There was only ocean there.

The sextant, the salt everywhere

In my tangled hair

And I couldn't sleep again at night

For fright

For the sight of the stars

The ocean we sailed

Was a world apart

A grand universe

Where anything might be found.

Yes it is true

One day I saw a fish

Leap over a wave.

But the waves, the waves, the waves

Strike the bow the same way

Day after day after day

Oh sea, where are we?

I had a weird dream last night

I had a weird dream last night.

Your dreams are always weird.

Well this one was about the right socks leaving the left socks to ally with the stockings…

That would never happen.

…To take over underwear drawers.

 

It could happen.

No. It couldn’t.

Why not?

The right sock would never leave the left sock.

But what if the stockings have so much more to offer?

A sock and a stocking can’t even fold together. The socks are a perfect pair. They’re perfectly comfy.

Maybe they only look perfectly comfy.

What else matters?

 

It could work.

Only in your dreams.

Limbo

Leonard found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place. Literally. An impressive, dark gray rock imposed itself on his sternum, while some steely surface of equal hardness pressed obstinately at his back. Was this hell? He struggled to get out. Wiggled. Twisted. Squirmed. Challenged it to a game of rock, paper, scissors. 

“Welcome to Limbo,” said a guy passing by.  

Huh. Well, he didn’t have to support any of his body, the temperature was pleasant, and he… he couldn’t remember what the next point was. He didn’t really care, actually. Limbo, huh. Not so good, but not so bad either.

Morning

She sang in the shower. Carly Simon, Joni Mitchell, Nora Jones. He jammed in the earplugs. Medium size, EZ-foam, one buck.  Stinging beams slipping stealthily between stacked shutter blinds spring her baby blues open but bind his stubborn eyes shut. Lo – watch the Dream open them. Hung with calculated flair across the walls are the rank trappings of social success and plastic-swiped happiness. Time measured in toaster chinks and Coffeemate drizzles teeters forward, tripped up on crumbs, grounds, cursory glances, curt greetings. Sleep well? Yep. Be back at six. That’s fine.

 

How pleasant.

 

I’m seeing someone else. Me too. 

Satiate

A sausage on a string

Is a fine food just to bring,

Though it will not do a thing

To fix one’s hunger.

 

For it’s a little bit too short,

With too much difficulty fraught;

No, perhaps it’s not the sort

To fix one’s hunger.

 

Rather, some rainbow with a cloud

Dipped in honey, screamed aloud

Will likely be so proud

To fix one’s hunger!

 

Bursting hue and saturate tone

—Shared together/scoffed alone—

Could be licked to the bone,

To fix one’s hunger.

 

But aft the final munch

Bloated brunch, toasted crunch,

There comes twisted hunch

That I want hunger.

All of 100 is Off the ground!

One simple task -- every day, exactly 100 words of prose, poetry, non-fiction, or nonsense.