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.”

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.    

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/

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. 

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 and 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. 

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

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.