100 Words

[cherries_on_snow]

Won't you be my . . .

Neighbour

Once there were two neighbours, in a neighbourly country where the word neighbour has a smile in it. Despite this, Hal believed Sal, a newcomer to these parts, had stolen his skis. He had no real reason to believe this as his skis were still in his garage, but somehow he got it into his head and stewed. Hal cursed, paced, drew macabre caricatures on petitions and gathered the villagers with guns and torches to Sal's house where they hinted, politely (well politely, holding guns) that Sal relinquish the skis. When Sal brought out the skis, Hal said... hey... those aren't my skis.

 

[Tzara]

.....

.....

 

[Sara Crewe]

She says walk with me and tells me she has bad news so I brace myself. Before summer’s end, she will lose her breasts, ovaries and uterus. What she doesn’t say is that she fears she will lose what makes her a woman. I don’t know how to answer and feel like words will fail her.

I can’t remember what I said but I know we ended up giggling about her future fake boobs. She decided not to go any bigger but they were going to be located further north than the current residents nor would they ever kill her.

 

[Tzara]

.....

.....

 

[cherries_on_snow]

au naturale

He had always shaved her, her husband, before she kicked him out. Each time she'd have to remind him to leave enough hair to keep her from feeling juvenile. When he fucked her he kept his eyes closed, thinking of 13-year olds (she would find out later). She divorced and wept for two years, growing hair everywhere like rapunzel, but lonelier. Then one day she took the digital camera he'd left behind, its instruction manual, and a razor and made a collage of her beauty so she could believe in it, feeling, for a while, visible: worthy of love.

 

[Tzara]

.....

.....

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Remember summer evenings as a child? Gathering on the neighbourhood's best lawn, or any open, grassy space, gathering all the children of the block? How the simple games that children play required we set down grudges, jealousies, and other petty things so teams would have enough? Tensions ease as play becomes the thing to displace urge to punish all those frail. The urge to whip all those who try but fail.

Pragmatic politic tames baboon remnant of our cruder selves, rewards with laughter, rolling, stained with green. What better thing than opening to joy, passing it 'round?

 

[succubi-tamer]

They always blame me, she said to me, that day by the river. For everything.

They say, he drinks too much because of you. Your children run wild, bad mother! It's your fault, you, common woman of low birth.

They don't know how he trembled when he touched me in the long June of our first illicit union. They don't know how he bit and sucked and pawed at my flesh, ravenous with desire. They don't know how I hungrily took him into my mouth, tumescent and groaning with painful pleasure.

They will tell me it's my fault he drowned.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

Beautiful, Tamer.

 

[cherries_on_snow]

mother dressing after their 'discussion'

In her reflection in the bathroom mirror, I watched her slide down her blouse.
I watched not with arousal: I was far too young for that.
I watched not with curiosity: I had seen her breasts before.
I watched with concern the way a cotton farmer looks for Boll Weevils: watching for the sign of the end of prosperous times.

And there they were: black bruises of his stealthy violence blot her breasts.
He liked best to pinch/twist when she opened her mouth.
She winced as she pulled the loose shirt back.

 

[Tzara]

.....

.....

 

[succubi-tamer]

Beautiful, Calli.

Nope, not Calli -- though the real Calli ought to stand up!

 

[succubi-tamer]

I flog her with relentless abandon, my teeth grit with lusty determination. I left gingered marks on my muse, my princess, my wench, and she gazes at me with big opalescent eyes, teeming with devotion. I used a paddle, then a flogger, then my own bare hand. Slap! She is sopping wet -- her cunt, her acquiescent partner.

I bind her wrists, calling her a slut, telling her I love her.

It's with love that I thrash her, doc! Not like how Pap hit us, years ago, all drunk and feverish with misguided worry, my brother and I cowering, whimpering children.

 

[flyguy69]

It's funny what you notice in a different country. There are the obvious things—the money, the language if it's different, or the accent if it's not. The sports. The food. Other things are somehow even more telling. Do people shake hands or kiss? Both? Neither? How does one hold a fork? Should you set it down or hold onto it?

They hold onto forks in Amsterdam. Women wear boots, but don't wear those plastic, squarish nails. Everyone rides bikes—really old and shabby bikes, which explains why there are no new cycle shops.

Exotic delis import Oreos and Jif.

My memories of Amsterdam include a steady cacophony of bicycle bells and searching far and wide for peanut butter.

 

[Tzara]

.....

 

[cherries_on_snow]

cherries choice

The cats are plaintive, tails high, figure 8ing around boxes. They know something is up. They could not know how many hours I've spent trying to find a place for all three of us. It's hard enough to find a place in New York. Anyone who's seen Seinfeld knows that much. One will be sent to the ex, or more accurately, to the ex's new wife. Like Sophie, but made for TV, I choose between 'children,' picking the smaller to take. But I will miss my big, smart boy: fire warner, trap tricker. Even insignificant losses can be keenly felt.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Tatha, guardian angel at large

.....

 

[Tzara]

.....

.....

 

[denis hale]

She Caught Me At The Barnes And Noble

trying to shove Kim Addonizio down my pants.

The book, that is:

"What Is This Thing Called Love", which I shoved-- the little bar code slickly disappearing beneath my belt buckle.

That's when I felt her fist grip my wrist.

In her office, she gave me a stern look.

"Take down those pants; give me the book!"

"But Miss I-"

"And any other surprises you might have for me-- down there."

Then I glimpsed her belt buckle.

She tapped it in her palm, softly clucking her tongue.

"Now I'm going to show you a bit about honesty in poetry."

I bit my lip, as her red lines began to streak the clean manuscript.

 

[clutching_calliope]

I wish I could tell a small tale like Tzara. Wish wish.

.....

 

[clutching_calliope]

For no one in particular and every man I've known.

.....

 

[Sara Crewe]

I walked out of the doctor’s office into the rain where the four millionth stranger asked me what I did to myself. It’s an odd way of putting it. Like I decided I had enough of my perfectly functioning ankle and should commit tendon suicide with tears that hurt more than labour and a separated shoulder combined.

If he had only asked me, “What happened to you?” I would never have accidentally whacked him in the shin with my crutch as I limped away, dreaming of running like water to a woman stranded in the desert, listening to the rain.

 

[MsBug]

dreaming of running like water to a woman stranded in the desert, listening to the rain.

Oooh, I like this very much.

 

[Tzara]

.....

.....

 

[Sara Crewe]

I was a pretty good student and polite to my teachers with a few exceptions. (Who knew what a mess skittles would make if you put them on the radiator. Okay, I knew but I didn’t think I would get caught melting rainbows.)

I believed if I wasn’t talking I was doing my part and didn’t bother to move facial muscles to confirm the presence of potential brain waves. Never imagining until I was a teacher how difficult it is to talk about Shakespeare to teenager zombies who look like they are going to start chanting, “Brains,” any second.





Thanks MsBug. I am glad someone else understood the grumpy ramblings of a suddenly gimpy and cranky chick.