Bicycle (clipped to polyvore.com)
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Salt Slugs
Salt descended from the heavens. Skin wrinkled, velvet brown waistcoat shrinking. Tentacles waving, frantic, eyes bulging, panicked. Salted like a peanut, he shriveled up. Proud moist toes curled up tightly, skin burned, scales peeled. Doom assaulted his senses, fate laughed like a demon. Little kids ran away, delighted, laughing, salt-shakers gripped tightly in dirty hands. Slug didn’t understand. He had only climbed the trampoline to see if he could bounce. It was a crime of misunderstanding. If he had only known that trampolines were sacred objects to humans… Slime paths were not appreciated.
God had sneezed. He looked at the contents of his Kleenex, chuckled quietly, and made Adam name it. It oozed sticky gunk, and the only name Adam could think of was slug. It slimed on sidewalks, leaving glamorous trails. Slug had been a veritable villain of the streets. He terrorized little children in parks. But all that was behind him now, his life fading, losing color. He hated violent deaths. He knew that he had been murdered. All his family would take revenge; war between slug and human. He chortled, snorting amusement. He choked, gagged, croaked. Slug spirit soared.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Entertaining Names
~Dapper Red Firefly
~Testy Talking Freckle
~Hissing Balancing Planet
~Smart Nappy Monsoon
~Gregarious Silver Stingray
~Mysterious Innovative Hedgehog
~Towering Silent Volcano
~Ancient Bewildered Grasshopper
~Spooky Phobic Ferret
~Tiny Zany Squirrel
~Juicy Orange Goldfish
~Frantic Red Firefly
~Nebulous Red Kangaroo
More coming soon...
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Animal Crackers
Monkeys swinging, landing in tomato soup,
Making mischief, jumping higher all the time.
Fishes swimming, playing games like loop-the-loop,
Being eaten, sandwich garnishing is such a crime!
Tiger prowling, leaping thru those flaming hoops,
Cracking whips, but not afraid of master’s shout.
Scary kitty (it’s a lion) sneaking one who snoops,
Noses black but also wet, pretty big, a lout!
Camels lumber, chewing slowly on their cud,
Evolution dies a slow and painful death.
Is a hump-backed guy like him, a flashy stud,
Really from a soup done wrong? Go smell his breath!
Matters little, crunching, chewing, swallowed whole,
Tasting great, so yummy, put them in my bowl!
Failed iambic poem...
So this assignment sure is hard and stiff,
And writing stuff like this brings dragon tears.
I’m close to chucking pages down a cliff,
But now I’m done I think I’ll shout some cheers!
My brain is fried and all in turmoiled grief,
Like blood-red sausage frying hot in flames,
Or maybe just like a slab of juicy beef…
(Professor Nate sure does like to play mean games).
A sorry, ragtag bunch we sure do make,
With slouching backs and puffy blood-shot eyes,
Our fingers stiff, and now our heads do ache.
We’re up all night, chock-full of feeble tries.
Now I’m the last to go as normal (true!)
I’ll tell this tale of woe, farewell… Adieu!
A lost journal entry.
Five years ago, my family lived two blocks from the ocean. During the spring and summer months we visited the beach often. The thundering waves, curling over and foaming up the shore, inevitably drew us to them. My brother and I spent hours collecting tiny crabs in buckets, watching them crawl over and under each other, marveling at how they could be so little and yet qualify as real crabs, when in reality they looked like miniature spiders. Then, as the sun slid higher in the sky and the day grew warmer, we would stand in the shallows with our heads in the water, wearing our goggles and breathing shakily through our snorkels that we hadn’t quite mastered the use of yet, spitting out the salty water that entered when we least expected it. We watched the fish swim against the currents, struggling as the waves threatened to suck them back out to the wide ocean, and were careful not to get in the way of stray jellyfish. Later, when the sun baked the water and its occupants, we climbed on the huge rocks that formed our pier. We examined the limpets that stuck to the rocks, waiting for the tide to rise yet again and contest their right to remain there, poked and wondered at the starfish, and laughed at and threw back the unfortunate jellyfish left behind by the tide when it had run out. When the sun started to slide away, we had contests to see who could bounce rocks the farthest and highest. We took little rocks and threw them as hard as we could against the other, larger rocks that sprouted from the ground all around us. We watched, holding our breath, as they flew in the air, bouncing from first one rock and then another, sometimes smashing and breaking at the slightest touch and sometimes bouncing over 20 times, each one more triumphant than the last, looking for all the world like crazy popcorn, gone wild at last. Then, when the sun was almost entirely gone, we watched the glorious sunset from the still-warm rocks. The sun streaked the sky with careless fingers, turning it deep reds, oranges, pinks and purples, and left the sky in a final fanfare of deep blues, turning it over to the bright, cold moon. As we poured out our buckets of crabs, shells and seaweed, we regretfully left the beach, and begged our parents to let us come the next day.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
A Golden Swirly
They lived in a crystal kingdom. Blue-green pebbles adorned the floor, and they lived happily with only each other for company. Blowing bubbles, making faces in the mirrors, they drifted. Food floated down from the heavens every day like manna, burnt-orange flakes that complimented their clothing. Often dinner happened three or four times a day. They feasted well and frequently. Waistcoats grew tight, golden buttons strained. Certain that it was merely their skin shrinking, they continued to eat. They admired each others round little tummies, chortling at the other’s waistline. They were enormously happy, even though moving grew difficult.
They started to spend more of their time observing, rather than the old days when they chased each other about the house. Time slowed. Days grew long. The furniture grew dusty around them. Then, in an instant, it happened. Indigestion, stomach cramps, and all the memories of food came swarming down around them. They had eaten far too gloriously much. Observing this complacently, they blew their last bubbles. One hurried goodbye and they were gone. Tiny mouths gaped. There they floated, tawny bellies in the air. At last, someone with a touch of decency poured out their home into a porcelain bowl… and flushed. With a double explosion of yellow gold, they took their last trip together. Around they went, like a ride at the fair. Nothing left to their memory, their last thought of a golden swirly.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
To a Skylark
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
I’m not a bird. I’m not an airplane. I might be
I might have been able, after a very long time, to forgive him for comparing me to a glow-worm or a rain-awakened flower, but then he had to go and liken me to a rose that makes bees faint. After that the scoundrel had the audacity to ask if I would teach him how to sing! I just laughed. If this fruit-loop thinks he could sing if I taught him, hit me with a brick. Dear blossom-heart, such “harmonious madness” is already flowing from your lips, and no one is listening!
Spider Legs
Descriptive writing is a wonderful type of writing. I love to describe what I see, what I have done and memories that I have. Describing sunsets, crabs, goatees, clocks and nervousness allows a certain freedom that is not seen in other types of writing. Sentences come alive, sprout spidery legs made entirely of words, walk off the page and take a stroll around the room, enabling the reader to live and experience what the writer has seen and done.
Cheeseburgers
The golden call of frying oil, the mystic smells floating threatening to wreak havoc on the diet. The call trickles down dark alleys, as well as the uptown streets, calling to one and all unbiased. Cheese oozes, bubbling. Grease crackles and snaps. Lettuce and onions are there merely for the crunch factor. A thick patty of beef sits in glorious chiasm, accompanied by mustard slathered liberally on top. Ketchup leaks from some unknown source beneath. Sesame seeds are on the bun, but rarely stay put. This is an experiment gone right.
Americans pay tribute to Lionel Sternberger, teeth chomping away blissfully; the burger is sits piled on a plate. The jaw stretches, struggling to get around the colossal mass. Sometimes, when hilarity is feeling particularly happy, the patty contains juice, catching a victim by surprise. The top bun slides off the back, revealing pickles and tomatoes, pure goodness previously unseen. Insides struggle to get outside, skirmishing with the patron, releasing condiment at inopportune moments. They don’t mind really. The mess is wiped up, and more burger is devoured. A burger is washed down with another burger. And later, long after, the burger is still tasted at intervals, an unwelcome reminder of happier times.
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