Friday, April 29, 2016

Eat Your Porridge - Sex Fart

You want to go out?

“Yea!”

You want to have fun?

“Yah!”

You want to celebrate the
rewards of a week
spent fighting the good
fight?

“Hell ya!”

Too bad. It’s Friday
morning and you can’t.

“Aw, that’s mean.”

Shut up and eat your
porridge.

“But I don’t even like
porridge.”

Eat it. Love it.
Smear it on your face.

“Okay, you’re sort of losing me
on that one.”

You love your porridge you naughty
weekday.

“Um, I think I’m gonna go.”

Not yet you’re not. Finish your
porridge.

“Fine. But later I’m murdering you.”

Wooo! Friday!

“Shh, you’re making my porridge
nervous.”

Sorry. Eat up. Shovel it down.
All of it.
In your face.

“Okaaaaaay…?”

Wooooooooo!!!

“Did you know by putting the
words ‘Sex’ and ‘Fart’ in the title
will increase readership?”

Porridge Friday!!!!
Woooooooo-oooooo-ooooo-oooo!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Calm down, jeeze.”


Thursday, April 28, 2016

She's Lightning


She was a lightning bolt.
A lightning bolt that struck me,
electrified me, shocked me, and
blew me out of my shoes.

The electrification was sustained,
prolonged, constant and scorching.
It coursed through me, singeing my
surroundings, leaving a burned patch.

While others tried to walk between
the rain drops and hide from the storm,
I held out and was greeted with a flash
of sizzling fire from the sky.

It was dizzying, left my ears ringing,
scarred my brain and my soul,
the tattoo of a broken heart
scored on my face.

She was a lightning bolt,
furious, sharp, fast, intense,
but a spark of wonder, joy,
and love.

A lightning bolt can’t be bottled,
fooled, coddled, or tamed.
It strikes where it wants and
only leaves charred cinders when it vanishes.

She was lightning and I was struck,
more than once, a lightning junkie,
always wanting more despite the
electrified pain, the heart stopping.

So I sit, singed, crispy around the
edges, hoping lightning will strike
again and that this time,
this time I won’t get burned.    

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Drugs and Farting Bugs


Vincent Van Gogh’s paintings
were the setting for my latest
dream. A swirling universe
of bold bright colors set against
impossibly weird imaginings.

The dream started with drugs.
Hard drugs, cocaine and the like,
being discussed like a United
Nations counsel meeting on
water usage in Uganda.

It was all very professional
yet everyone involved seemed
high as kites and as amped up
as a tween at a One Direction
show.

The subject then turned to a
new threat ravaging the world,
Stink bugs. These were not your
ordinary stink bugs, no, not at all.
These stink bugs were very furry.

And they communicated with
each other by farting.

These drugged out professional types
were rabidly discussing the terrors
of these fuzzy farting bugs in great
detail.  The bugs are the size of your
fist and lie on their backs, and fart.

There was a large slide show projection
to show these hideous little critters on
their backs, farting to each other through
their puckered ani. Their furry bodies
shivering with each release.

The bugs had large suckers on
their faces, where a mouth should be,
they had thick black beards that transitioned
into a grey fur over their prone
and often rippling abdomen.
They took many deep quivering
breaths to fill their fart sacks.

It was very Naked Lunch in the
David Cronenberg sense, not the
Burroughs sense. But pretty close.
The bugs were a menace and the constant fart
noise was enough to make everyone
start taking drugs.

Apparently the only way to get
through your day was to be extraordinarily
high to avoid the constant sound
of the farting stink bugs and the rotten
odor they constantly produced.

My alarm clock went off,
6:35 am.
I lay there for a moment, waiting
to hear the sound of the fart bugs,
but it was thankfully quiet save for
the roar of traffic on the street.  


http://atomictoasters.com/2012/08/the-starry-night-and-tributes/

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Quantum Reap


                The hospital monitors and machines beeped and whirred in the night. Samuel labored through his breathing, each deep breath longer than the last. He was alone in a hospital room waiting for the end to come. A tear rolled from the corner of his tired bloodshot eye. He didn’t want this to be the way he went.
               
                “But it is the way you’re going,” said the Grim Reaper, sitting in the uncomfortable bedside chair.
               
                Samuel turned his old neck to face the shrouded figure in the chair. Samuel blinked twice to clear the tears from his eyes.

                “Yes, it’s me. I am here for you,” said the Grim Reaper.

                Samuel rolled his head back on his pillow and stared up at the acoustic tile ceiling of the hospital room. The heart monitor started beeping a little faster and louder.

                “Oof, that’s enough of that noise hm,” said the Grim Reaper. It reached a bony finger to the heart monitor and turned it to silent, “The noise associated with me these days it just terrible. Passing used to be so much quieter. Perhaps a more civilized time.”

                The Grim Reaper stood from the chair and leaned his bony skull over Samuel’s face. There were no eyes, no tongue, no lips, just a skull, but the Reaper was terribly articulate.  Samuel looked back into the emptiness of the Grim Reapers faceless face.

                “You may speak now if you like,” said the Grim Reaper as he took the oxygen mask off Samuel’s mouth.

                “I’m not ready for this,” said Samuel, “I didn’t do anything. There’s nothing of me left to be remembered. I didn’t do anything worthwhile. I never made a difference. When I go, that’s it. No one will ever know I was ever here.”

                Samuel turned away from the face of death and cried into the foam of the hospital pillow.

                “There, there Samuel,” said The Reaper, “it’s too late for tears now. It’s simply too late. I wish I could help, but that’s not why I’m here.”

                The Reaper’s boney hand caressed the withered gray hair from Samuel’s forehead.

                 “I’ll never know if I’m to be remembered in my own time. I am sad that I won’t know what happens after I’m gone. Will they remember me? Will I be just a ghostly photograph in some forgotten box in some forgotten garage sale,” asked Samuel.
                “I can’t answer that for you Samuel. That’s not my purpose,” said the Reaper, “but I can ask if you remembered those that I’ve taken before you? If so, then they were never really forgotten.”
                “I remember my mother, my father, and my friends from the war that you took so violently. I remember them,” said Samuel, “but they’re all gone and I’m the only one left. No children, no living relatives, no one even to come to my funeral. I’m not worth remembering.”

                The Grim Reaper took Samuel’s hand and held it to Samuel’s chest. Samuel felt the weak beat of his old heart slowing.

                “Will they be there? On the other side? My family? My Friends,” asked Samuel.
                “I don’t know,” said the Grim Reaper, “I don’t get to go in there.”
                “Is there ever any knowing, any real knowing,” asked Samuel.

                The room got a little colder and Samuel could see his breath.

                “I mean, remember that show, Quantum Leap and the main character could only time travel through his own lifetime. Like if he was born in the 1960’s he could only travel as far back as the 1960’s and only into a future that he had been a part of. He could only see the events of his own timeline through the experiences of other people. I feel like that. I feel like I’ve only seen life through my own lifetime and am being robbed of seeing it any further. At least Sam had Al who would tell him how things worked out after he leapt onto the next life,” said Samuel.
                “I didn’t watch that show,” said the Grim Reaper.
                “Oh, well it was pretty good,” said Samuel, “I’m sure it’s on Netflix or something. You could catch up on it in your free time.”
                “Yes, I’ll do that,” said Death.
                “You’ll like it, I’m sure,” said Samuel.

                The hospital room had faded and Samuel realized he was no longer in his bed. The whirring and beeping the machines had fallen away.

                “You’re ready,” said The Reaper.
                “I guess so,” said Samuel.


                The room was swallowed in darkness and Samuel passed into the memory of someone else’s timeline. 

Monday, April 25, 2016

The Dig


                Hamad stared at the ancient carving in the old temple wall. It depicted a bird diving into a sun dappled stream that was abundant with large fish, but at the bottom of the stream there was a giant beast. The beast had gnarly teeth and deep set white eyes. Hamad bent lower to the ground to get a better look at the beast. He held the torch close to the stone carving.  He blew and brushed some sand away from the edges.  The beast was some sort of Crocodile/nightmare monster hybrid.  It was a figure he hadn’t seen in any other tombs.

                “Hamad!”

                Hamad turned from the carving and looked at Dr. Gomez.  

                “Don’t let the torch get so close the walls. You know better than that,” said Dr. Gomez.
                “I’m sorry Doctor. I was just getting a better look at this carving. It’s quite something,” said Hamad.
                “Well, I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to yell at you,” said Dr. Gomez, “but you know how important this is to me. This is my career Hamad; my whole career”.
               
                Hamad rolled his eyes as her turned away from the “Great” Dr. Anton Gomez of the University of Some British School.  Hamad had been on 30 or more dig sites in his life. He started as a young boy just hauling away small rocks and moved up to being the most distinguished digger and under-respected historical scholar of his day.  Other doctors and explorers had used Hamad’s knowledge and made tons of money off lectures and books, but Hamad saw none of the success.  He still lived in the small town he grew up in the house left to him by his parents.

                “I say Hamad, what do you make of these symbols around the edges of this doorway,” asked Dr. Gomez as he tapped his pipe carelessly on the heel of his expensive boots.
                “It says, ‘No Smoking’, said Hamad.
                “Really? That would be amazing…,” said Dr. Gomez.

                Hamad slapped himself in the forehead as Dr. Gomez looked at the extensive carving around the doorway.

                “I was just kidding with you, Doctor. It doesn’t say ‘no smoking’. It says that only the virtuous and pure of heart may pass through. It is a warning to enemies to stay out or they will be fed to the beast of the river, which swallows men whole,” said Hamad.
                “Oh, ha ha, I see, the pipe. Very good Hamad. Very good,” said Dr. Gomez, “Well, there is no water in here and I do not see any signs of there ever have been so I’m not sure how these ancient people expected a river monster to consume their enemies…”.

                Hamad returned to inspecting the tomb walls, holding the torch up high to cast a brighter light about the carved cavern.  There was nothing in the tomb of any real value. No gold or silver or trinkets one would expect to find. It was likely tomb robbers had already made off with the good hundreds, if not thousands, of years ago. Hamad heard a muffled thump noise.

                “I say Hamad. I seem to be stuck in something,” said Dr. Gomez.

                Hamad turned back toward the doctor. Hamad shone the light in Dr. Gomez’s face. Dr. Gomez looked down and Hamad followed his gaze. The torch light flickered off the bloody wooden spike protruding from Dr. Gomez’s chest.

                “Bloody booby trap I suspect,” said Dr. Gomez and blood spurted from his mouth.

                Hamad backed up and waved the torch all around to make sure there were no other traps this idiot had set off.  The wooden spike in Dr. Gomez’s chest started to rise with Dr. Gomez attached. The wood of what was a large mechanical apparatus groaned with age as Dr. Gomez was lifted off his feet and rose toward the tomb ceiling. Hamad stood still as Dr. Gomez’s body, dripping blood, rose up along the wall on a spiked conveyor belt. Dr. Gomez struggled and kicked his dangling legs but he couldn’t free himself from the giant wooden pike in his chest.  Hamad looked around the tomb and raised his arms up toward Dr. Gomez.

                “Dr. Gomez, what should I do,” asked Hamad.
                “Tell my wife I never really loved her. I loved Jerry,” said Dr. Gomez.

                Hamad scratched his head and looked up at Dr. Gomez as the conveyor pulled him into a high dark chamber and disappeared. The wooden mechanisms kept groaning and operating as another log spike came out of the wall, right where Dr. Gomez had been standing.  Hamad turned and went toward the small chamber they had entered through. He climbed back out of the sloped pit to the other workers crowded around the entrance.  They began asking him what happened to Dr. Gomez but Hamad could not answer. He sat on the sand near the entrance and felt the hot sun on his face.


                “Who the hell is Jerry,” said Hamad to himself. 

Friday, April 22, 2016

Seriously, Let's Go Crazy


His androgyny sometimes
made me uncomfortable,
the frilly shirts, the wild
hair, the beauty mark,
the willingness to create
the 1989 Batman movie soundtrack.

Who didn’t Bat-Dance their
way into 1990?

I remember seeing the
footage of him on American
Bandstand from 1979 or 1980
and being a little concerned as
his look and sound defied the
norms of the time.

Plus he was tiny.
I mean he was a tiny guy.
He was only 5’, 2”.
He was pocket sized.
But the music was without
dimension.

We all partied like it was 1999
and felt the heat of Darling Nikki,
we heard the sound of doves crying,
and wore raspberry berets in little red
corvettes and heard Tom Jones cover
Kiss.

I’ll admit I got the chills this
morning as my local radio station
played Let’s Go Crazy. The D.J. implored
the listening audience to roll their windows
down in their cars and turn the radio up
to collectively celebrate the musical experience.

I turned it up.
I celebrated. 

The things that once made me uncomfortable
were long gone and I have enjoyed the person
without the reservations and misunderstandings
of youthful ignorance.

That’s the power of true music
to transcend and elevate us into something
better. That’s the point of any art really.
The betterment of us all through the unique
perspective of a single individual.
It’s a sacred gift, and I do mourn it’s loss.

Now, seriously,
Let’s Go Crazy!
Let’s Get Nuts!
Woo!


Image from: https://www.thepurplestore.com/cgi-bin/product_detail.cgi?pstore_id=15990

Thursday, April 21, 2016

I Remember Blues


I used to write about the blues
often. I used to hang out in a
blues bar so it was only
natural to describe the
burned out nature of most
Chicago blues musicians.

There was a hollow soulfulness
to their singing.
It sounded like
their soul had been scooped
out at one time, punched in the
face repeatedly, kicked in the stomach,
spat upon and then shoved back
into their bodies.

They wore the blues on
their faces like a worn
out metaphor to describe
the blues on a blues singer’s
face.

I used to spend pre-9/11 nights
listening to the crusty blues
in the old Pink & Blue, so named
for the contrasting neon lights all over,
an owner that never aged slinging
me Guinness after Guinness until
I developed gout.  

The sound was raw, open and
exposed. A nerve ending twitching
on a gritty nighttime street next
to a rat infested alley, while the
sandpaper crooning of Jumpin’
Willie Cobb on the stage
 rattled the pillars of heaven.

The stories were sad then, no sadder
than now, but different, an optimism
tinged with  expected disappointment.
Adulthood hadn’t started in earnest,
I hadn’t met one of the loves of my
life, I didn’t know myself very well.

I was formed in the blue fires
of rough handed blues singers
as they worked their day jobs
and sang the blues at night while
I sat at the end of a curved bar
sucking down stouts wondering
where I’d be when I got to be
their age; before I really knew the blues.

Now I’m their age,
and I understand
the blues better than I ever
did then.  The lighting is just
different than I expected.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Cerebrum Tempus


A frigging loveless poem,
that’s what’s rattling
around in my brain,
a damn loveless poem.

I wanted to write about
the oddness of 4/20 as a
date and its historical
significance in the modern era.

Instead my brain has me
feeling nervous that my
stupid fingers will never
again caress the cheek of a lover.

A lover in the true sense,
one that loves me even though
I might have avoided taking the
garbage out even though I said I’d do it.

My brain is terrified of never
being appreciated by the sweet
smiling eyes of my sweetie-pie as
she shakes her head at my foolishness.

I don’t know if it’s because of the
Spring in the air, or the sunshine,
but my brain is wholly focused on
the terror of loneliness.

The guy in the mirror this morning
had a horrified look in his eyes as
he considered the possibility of
un-ending bachelorhood.

Of course, then he laughed because
who could a believe a thing like that,
I’m a swell enough fella, right?
Right?

So now my brain is like some
crazy brain, wired into the ticking
of my own peculiar biological
clockworks.

My brain keeps checking that clock,
“Are you married yet,” he asks over
and over again.
“No, not yet, Damn Brain,” I’ll say.

“Okay, hurry up before I get
all senile and ornery,”  he’ll say.
“Aren’t you already ornery,” I ask.
“Watch it buddy, I got my finger on the button up here.”

A grumble in my stomach,
“No Don’t! I’ll take care of it, Jeeze,” I say.
“That’s what I thought,” he’ll say.
My body relaxes.

My brain just wants to be loved,
and he’s terrified it’ll never happen
for him.  So the loveless poems will
rattle around in there some more.

Till one shakes loose.
A frigging loveless poem,
that’s what’s rattling
around in my brain,
a damn loveless poem.

I wanted to write about
the oddness of 4/20 as a
date and its historical
significance in the modern era.

Instead my brain has me
feeling nervous that my
stupid fingers will never
again caress the cheek of a lover.

A lover in the true sense,
one that loves me even though
I might have avoided taking the
garbage out even though I said I’d do it.

My brain is terrified of never
being appreciated by the sweet
smiling eyes of my sweetie-pie as
she shakes her head at my foolishness.

I don’t know if it’s because of the
Spring in the air, or the sunshine,
but my brain is wholly focused on
the terror of loneliness.

The guy in the mirror this morning
had a horrified look in his eyes as
he considered the possibility of
un-ending bachelorhood.

Of course, then he laughed because
who could a believe a thing like that,
I’m a swell enough fella, right?
Right?

So now my brain is like some
crazy brain, wired into the ticking
of my own peculiar biological
clockworks.

My brain keeps checking that clock,
“Are you married yet,” he asks over
and over again.
“No, not yet, Damn Brain,” I’ll say.

“Okay, hurry up before I get
all senile and ornery,”  he’ll say.
“Aren’t you already ornery,” I ask.
“Watch it buddy, I got my finger on the button up here.”

A grumble in my stomach,
“No Don’t! I’ll take care of it, Jeeze,” I say.
“That’s what I thought,” he’ll say.
My body relaxes.

My brain just wants to be loved,
and he’s terrified it’ll never happen
for him.  So the loveless poems will
rattle around in there some more.

Till one shakes loose.

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

The Season is Coming


                It’s coming. I thought it was all over but it’s coming back. I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about it again. But now, this summer is filled with them. Wedding Season is coming.

                The horror. The horror. I really did think that it might be a very long time until the next family wedding event, but I was wrong. This summer there are at least three weddings taking place and I’m planning on going to at least two of them. I think. I have to take another look at the calendar. Regardless of the number of weddings this season I am once again thrust into the lonely and often terrible world of trying to find a wedding date who is both fun and will put up with the majority of my nonsense for at least one evening.

                It’s a living hell trying to find a wedding date. “Why not just go alone,” you might ask. Well, I’ve done that too and it’s boring as all get out. It’s a real hell to watch couple after couple dance, walk in together, sit together, be mildly adorable together while I just stand very close to the bar hoping there’s a cute waitress I can sweep up off her feet. However the only date I usually wind up with is Ginger, with whiskey.  

                Going to weddings alone was at one time a rite of passage because the odds there was a young woman also there on her own were pretty good.  There’s a time tested wedding hook-up tradition involving mating rituals, dancing and imbibing on copious amounts of cocktails. Those were the days when going stag to a wedding was considered acceptable; even if the morning after brunch was a little awkward.  It is a tradition that has stood the test of time in nearly every wedding related Hollywood movie about weddings.  I can’t say this ever happened for me but there was always the potential.

                Now though, as youthful dalliances are clouded with time and gray hairs, the chances of meeting another single young lady are slim to fat, whichever one is worse.  (Fat Chance? Slim Chance? Both seem right…). So going to a wedding alone can be a little tough on the old ego.  You certainly feel too old for those young women that are indeed there by themselves and you’re not attractive enough in the regular world to even get a date in the first place.  So your ego and self-worth certainly feel like Napoleon in a room of Andre the Giants.   

                The weddings I have been too recently, the married people and committed couples have certainly outnumbered the single people by a hilariously wide margin. I think the last time there was a garter toss I think there was me, six boys under the age of seven and someone who wandered in from the Persian wedding next door vying for the garter. I literally just let it fall to the ground as the six boys under seven wrestled each other for it. The Persian guy had been escorted back to his own party after complaining about the lamb.

                The ratio of single guys to single girls at a wedding has become dismal. At my age, most of the women I’d even want to ask to be my wedding date are in committed relationships or married or have expressed their overwhelming disgust for me when I’ve previously asked them to be my date.  So the pickings are slim. That’s not meant to be a demeaning statement either. It’s rather literal in my case. It’s just at a certain age, the availability and overall willingness of women to be a wedding date is diminished.

                So it’s hard to face another summer season of Weddings alone. I might as well call it rejection season, but calling every day of my bachelor life a season would be wrong.  It’s already lonely enough so there’s nothing like the added pressure of finding someone who you like and enjoy spending time with, who likes you enough to spend a whole evening with you too. No pressure there at all.


                It isn’t anyone’s fault of course. It’s just how it goes. I do not begrudge anyone the happiness they have found with that special someone and I’m excited to celebrate it with them.  I suppose I’m a little jealous of them and their happiness. Yet I don’t blame them. I only wish I could be the guy who finally had a wedding date and then the same date for all the weddings I have to go to for the rest of my days. 

Monday, April 18, 2016

Any Second Now


In just a few minutes
I’ll have something to
write.

It’ll be great,
short, sweet and
lovable.

A classic of epic
proportions, instantly
beloved by all.

It’ll just take a few
minutes, to get it all
going.

Just a few minutes now,
not much more than
that.

I’m sure.
Any moment now.
It’ll happen.

Something awesome,
will just come right
out.

Any second now,
I can feel it. I just
know.

It’ll be great, just wait
with me
for a minute…

Just a minute…?
Are you sure…?
Okay.

I'll see you later then. 

Friday, April 15, 2016

I Need the Music


The echo in there is terrible.
Sound bouncing all over
the place like a racquetball,
batted between two sweaty grown businessmen
trying to hang onto their last gasps of
youth and manliness.

There’s no music to it.
It’s just a constant popping
thud sound, back and forth and
back and forth. Followed by the
occasional grunt.
The occasion aches.

I miss music in there.
I don’t know where it went.
Now it’s just sweaty old guys
trying to make a deal like it was still
1988 and still using brick sized
cellular phones.

The music in there was fun,
edgy, raw, even crunchy at times,
it kept my toes tapping and my head
bobbing and made anything else going on
seem bearable. The music in there   
made the day pleasant.

“Mer-pop, Mer-thud, mer-pop,
mer-thud,” all day long now in
the space where music used to
play.  The squeaking sneakers
on the hard wood. The references
to how this quarter's business is doing.

I should just take it over again and
play the music I like. The music that gets
me through my days and propels me into
nights that never want to end.  
I have got to clear my head and get
the music back in there. 

Thursday, April 14, 2016

The Ravine


                Sally looked over the edge of the ravine and took a deep breath. The rest of the hiking club had already descended leaving Sally alone at the edge.

                “I’m really not sure about this,” said Sally.

                The Hiking Club guide, Seth, shouted up to Sally some garbled words of encouragement. She could not make them out though. She looked down at his tan muscled body. He flashed a “thumbs up” and she wished she hadn’t had such dirty thoughts about him on the bus ride from the city. He was so hot and active, but he was such a bro.  He was a backwards baseball cap wearing, sleeveless tee-shirt sporting, tribal tattoo, douche. But he was hot.

                “I’m really not sure about this,” shouted Sally.

                Seth nodded and gave her another “thumbs up”. The five others in the group were all high-fiving each other for their accomplishment. Sally hated them. They were all super fit, yoga pants wearing idiots. Sally was mad at herself for deciding she needed to get out more. She hated all those internet memes that encouraged her to grab life by the horns and to Just Do It.  She hated the outdoors. She hated super fit types. She hated climbing things.

                “Yeah, I don’t think I want to do this. I think I’m going to go back to the bus,” yelled Sally.

                The group now all shouted words of encouragement to her. They were cheering her on and yelling positive motivational phrases. She could hear that very clearly from her high vantage point.  It made her want to scream.  Seth was waving his arm in a “come on down” motion and giving her the “Okay” symbol. Sally took a deep breath and adjusted the climbing harness that was digging into her crotch.

                Sally looped the climbing rope around her body like Sexy Seth had instructed and she took another look over the edge of the ravine. The other hikers were still pumped up and cheering her on. Sally secretly hoped she would fall and crush one of them. She imagined herself falling towards the bottom of the ravine, her whole life flashing before her eyes. The time she gave Mr. Rolo that awkward hand job at the Christmas party, or the time everyone laughed at her when she wore a sweater that was just a bit too tight, the time she had chocolate smeared on the side of her favorite jeans by that idiot Ronny Edgars. The time they called her Short-cake Sally. As she imagined her arms flailing at her sides as her body plummeted she started to wish she would really fall. She was flush from the numerous and on-going embarrassments in her life.

                Now she was on the edge of a giant ravine in the middle of the wilderness trying to impress a douche bag tour-guide. She felt sick in her heart. She hadn’t always been so afraid of the world. When she was younger she would do just about anything. She had no fear in her early 20’s. She could really do anything. Then her Dad died and her mother followed soon after. Then she had a career change. Then she had a crappy boyfriend. Then she started eating too much. Then she got worried about dying too young like her parents. Then she got too scared to do anything.

                The cheering had subsided from below as Katie, the high end stripper hot adventuress, in her sports bra, hoodie and see through yoga pants flirted with Seth. The group had sort of stopped watching to see if Sally would make it down and were instead watching Katie use Seth as a stretching post. If Sally was going to fall on anyone it was Katie. She’d aim for her if she could.

                “Okay. Here I go,” yelled Sally. 

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Slightly Offended, Sort of

Too many words?
Story is too long?
There’s just so many
words to choose,
that I really like to use.

It hurts man,
it hurts.

Author                                  — Book Title                                      — Word Count
(in case it wasn’t obvious)
Alan Paton
Cry, the Beloved Country
83,774
Alice Walker
The Color Purple
66,556
Amy Tan
The Kitchen God’s Wife
159,276
Amy Tan
Joy Luck Club
91,419
Ayn Rand
Atlas Shrugged
561,996
Ayn Rand
The Fountainhead
311,596
Betty Smith
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
145,092
Charles Dickens
A Tale of Two Cities
135,420
Daniel Defoe
Moll Flanders
138,087
Emily Bronte
Wuthering Heights
107,945
Erich Remarque
All Quiet on the Western Front
61,922
Ernest Hemingway
The Sun Also Rises
67,707
Frank Norris
McTeague
112,737
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Crime and Punishment
211,591
George Eliot
Middlemarch
316,059
George Orwell
Nineteen Eighty-Four
88,942
Harper Lee
To Kill A Mockingbird
99,121
Harriet Beecher Stowe
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
166,622
Henry David Thoreau
Walden
114,634
Honore de Balzac
Pere Goriot
87,846
J.D. Salinger
The Catcher in the Rye
73,404
James Fenimore Cooper
Last of the Mohicans
145,469
Jane Austen
Persuasion
87,978
John Knowles
A Separate Peace
56,787
John Steinback
The Grapes of Wrath
169,481
John Steinback
East of Eden
225,395
Joseph Heller
Catch-22
174,269
Kurt Vonnegut
Slaughterhouse-Five
49,459
Kurt Vonnegut
Welcome to the Monkey House
99,560
Leo Tolstoy
War and Peace
587,287
Margaret Atwood
Alias Grace
157,665
Mark Twain
The Adventures of Huck Finn
109,571
Mark Twain
Life on the Mississippi
127,776
Maxine Hong Kingston
Woman Warrior
70,957
Milan Kundera
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
85,199
Nathaniel Hawthorne
The Scarlet Letter
63,604
Oscar Wilde
The Picture of Dorian Gray
78,462
Ray Bradbury
Fahrenheit 451
46,118
Ray Bradbury
The Martian Chronicles
64,768
Toni Morrison
Song of Solomon
92,400
Virginia Woolf
Mrs. Dalloway
63,422
William Faulkner
As I Lay Dying
56,695
William Golding
Lord of the Flies
59,900
 I’m sorry my story
yesterday had 1,882 words in
it.


I’ll try to do better.