Paralysis, death, home, what people live with, the violence that is in us, flight from all concerns, a piece of whistling in the long-toothed dark
When I was younger, I had tried to bite off someone's finger, and I had done great damage. My teeth are not what anyone would call small, though they are not overly large either. I bit as hard as I could. I did great damage to that finger. It nearly came off. It nearly came off my sister. I bit her finger when I was young. She was even younger. That I did this surprised my mother. My mother had once been beautiful, but now she was not. I once had to share a room in an attic with one of my mother's cousins. He assured me that my mother had once been beautiful and that he, too--a close relation of hers even--had wanted to be with her. He assured me this as I waited for him to fall asleep. He told me of his own beautiful wife and children. As he told me this, I waited for him to go to sleep because I wanted to do something awful to him. Or to his car. Or to his children, who were far away. In some other state. When he spoke with me, it had been a long time since I had bitten my sister's finger. I had nearly taken her finger off with what was in my mouth. What was in my mouth at the time? Teeth. But not all of them. I had some of them missing. My teeth are most likely not as strong now as they were. For years, I have clenched and ground my teeth. I did not know that I was doing damage to myself. I never woke with bits of my teeth in my mouth, so I must have always swallowed them before I woke up. I would have dreams about dogs. They were all biting my arms. What they did did not hurt me, but, now, I have a feeling that it got me to clench my teeth in my sleep. These dogs--many of them--biting my arms. It was later that I took to poisoning whatever dogs I noticed penned on my walk home. I would buy a sausage and put dark chocolate in it. I would put Tylenol in it. I would put small silver watch batteries in and feed these to whatever dogs I saw on my walk home. The dogs always ate the whole sausage, and I never stayed around long enough to be spotted. I considered putting fish hooks in a sausage. Nearly bit off my sister's finger. Wanted to do something horrible to my mother's cousin in his sleep. Killed dogs. Imagined myself being speared.
This cousin saw my aunts rub my grandmother's green ashes on themselves. We had been sitting in the kitchen, joking about what we would do with her. We had said that we'd get over one hundred small film canisters. We'd have the grandchildren all decorate the canisters with puffy paints and glitter. Next, we'd put a spoonful of her dark green ashes in all the canisters. We'd have all the funeral guests take them. We'd encourage them to travel and, wherever they went, leave a little bit of her. We liked the idea of this, but we also joked about it. We were trying to show that we could joke about all this. But then my aunts came into the kitchen rubbing my grandmother's green ashes on the faces and necks. They came up behind me and rubbed them on me. My mother rolled off her chair and onto the floor. I had never seen her on the floor. I had always wondered if she had had anything to do with counterfeiting. I knew she didn't go in for the big bills, but I wondered if she counterfeited quarters and dimes. I saw a machine in her bedroom that could have done such a thing. She was killed by method. I was far away when she was killed. She was killed by one of her cousins--one who had once thought her beautiful but who had since gone on to travel too much and rent cars too good for his borrowing. He knew too much about ferns and what his children were doing. He knew a little too much about his children's minds. He knew how they performed in too many ways. He mostly kept track of how they performed abstract things. He knew nothing about music or history. He knew nothing of even what most newspaper readers would know. He had the gall to ask the neighbor if he could smoke on his property. We never saw him. We didn't see him later. He took on a big project--the paving of some ground that was very hilly. He should not have taken on such a thing, but he wanted to impress us. My mother on the floor. My aunts covered with the ashes of my grandmother. My uncle spent two days cleaning a trailer he'd sell for fifty dollars. I spent most of one day hiding ice cream. I bought gallons of the cheapest stuff I could find. I found a scoop in the wash. I walked around the house with a gallon of ice cream and would leave scoops in the luggage of my family. I opened my grandmother's files and left in scoops. I went into her closet and left what I wanted. I left flavors. I realized I had tasted rotten milk many times in my life but that I had never tasted rotten ice cream. I had never tasted it gone bad. I looked for any bit of sky. I looked for anything to clean. I made a woodpile once, undid it, and made it again.
Her name was Mordo, and at least she knew that caffeine is a diuretic. She wanted to be a wet nurse. First, she put an ad up in the supermarket--by where everyone selects a cart. Then, because she got no answer, she put an ad in the newspaper for a wet nurse. She wanted to be one. Though she had never ridden a motorcycle in the snow, Mordo knew that to make a good meal, every now and then, you should add some sort of nut. She rode her motorcycle in the snow, and she did not care if a member of the police would pull her over. Mordo had never flattered herself in front of anyone, but she could have. She flattered herself in her room so that she would know what it's like to be private. She knew how to get to the roof of her house. She knew how to get under the basement. She knew there was a room under her basement. Mordo drank coffee. Mordo had a scepter she held in her room. None of her dresses were clean at times, but that was fine at those times because she would wear her father's slacks. All she had to do was take a pair of his slacks and put them on. She would wear them with suspenders she had won at the fair. Mordo didn't cook with butter. She had to make a path that led from the back of the property to the fount. It was a fount that had been installed before any one of the not too serious holidays. He uncle was a sponger. Her mother was the only one who knew which tree branch to pull. Mordo did not want to go into the river because, earlier that day, she had seen a horse in it. She had walked on the side of the road for an hour before a motorcycle passed by. She began to try to find out if other house had rooms below their basements. And which houses had a room above the attic? She wanted to be a seabird. She wanted to be on the shore. She wanted to see sand between pieces of wood. On the last trip she had taken, she had had to be the navigator and the one who kept track of the money. Her grandmother had done all the driving and all the speaking in other languages. Mordo's sister's only job was to sit in the back and hold the playing cards. She was the unhappiest of all them. She had egg on her lip. She did not see the animals Mordo sighted. She did not get to sleep in the room that had the desk with the secret compartments.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
They called her foulmouthed. They were not of this world but of Mars. Her mouth was foul because she had eaten a lot of mint. The mint smelled foul in her mouth. She was a mother--but not one who spent much time with her children. One of her children swam competitively. He also held his breath competitively, and, each time he outlasted an opponent, he lowered his test scores. Her other child stripped in the open. Her mouth once had things in it. They happened to surprise her--what since they came from Mars. They were not of this world, so they had patience few--especially this mother or her son or her daughter--had ever seen. She had a square piece of wood in her mouth. A block that kept foul out. They were a little gross themselves. They licked things up. They happened to lick certain things up. Her son won some sort of competition in a salt water pool, and, afterwards, he did yell a lot. Her daughter stripped in public. What was it that made them a family? It was their arms and legs--especially when they held or clenched them. She was foulmouthed--not at all ready to show her children what an animal would come naturally to.
It was when he was sick that they started to hamper him however they could. He was happier than many animals he had fed. He fed cats and lizards, and he was happier than most of them. He had a turtle, and he knew it would be a legacy pet--a pet that would live long after he died. He'd have to find a future person for it, his legacy pet. He knew of fish in the Marianas Trench that lived for over 100 years. Parrots lived long lives. Some scorpions lived for over fifteen years. He was so sick that, even if he were to buy a mouse, it would be a legacy pet. If he were to buy a feeder mouse, even that would be a legacy pet. And he knew that feeder mice lived far shorter lives than other mice. He once had a mouse that had long fur--what's more, its fur was the color of champagne. When he had been healthier, he would regularly mow his lawn. His mower had been electric, and he had had no choice but to plug it in in his kitchen. In the same socket the accepted the plug from his toaster. In his house, he had painted ivy over his main door. He did not have all the ivy, though, because it was his mother who had done it. She had started the project and had finished three quarters of it--but then she died. So he can look at one last leaf and one last green curly cue and know that was the last thing that squirmed in her mind.
The chafe between her son's legs was great. He ran around for most of a day and got a chafe. He son spent much of the day in the ocean. He caught waves with a luncheon tray. But he chafed between his legs. She was not a person who planted anything. She never planted anything. When her son slept, she put dirt in his hair. He had ears that stank. He chafed. The ocean was not ready to have people in it. It was cloudy and had sewage in it. Lots of bubbles, and it stank. The surgeonfish has orange razors on its tail. The Portuguese Man O' Was will sting. Her children all drew horses on her walls. So she took kitchen matches to their drawings and blackened her walls a little. She was told that if she made a large fire on her dining room table the flames would reach up and draw designs on her ceiling. The designs would be full of portent. But she didn't do it. Her one son filled a bag full of water and stepped into it. Her daughter drew on herself--on her face. Very little revealed itself to this family. Whenever they went to the ocean, they had to rent a van.
It was when he was sick that they started to hamper him however they could. He was happier than many animals he had fed. He fed cats and lizards, and he was happier than most of them. He had a turtle, and he knew it would be a legacy pet--a pet that would live long after he died. He'd have to find a future person for it, his legacy pet. He knew of fish in the Marianas Trench that lived for over 100 years. Parrots lived long lives. Some scorpions lived for over fifteen years. He was so sick that, even if he were to buy a mouse, it would be a legacy pet. If he were to buy a feeder mouse, even that would be a legacy pet. And he knew that feeder mice lived far shorter lives than other mice. He once had a mouse that had long fur--what's more, its fur was the color of champagne. When he had been healthier, he would regularly mow his lawn. His mower had been electric, and he had had no choice but to plug it in in his kitchen. In the same socket the accepted the plug from his toaster. In his house, he had painted ivy over his main door. He did not have all the ivy, though, because it was his mother who had done it. She had started the project and had finished three quarters of it--but then she died. So he can look at one last leaf and one last green curly cue and know that was the last thing that squirmed in her mind.
The chafe between her son's legs was great. He ran around for most of a day and got a chafe. He son spent much of the day in the ocean. He caught waves with a luncheon tray. But he chafed between his legs. She was not a person who planted anything. She never planted anything. When her son slept, she put dirt in his hair. He had ears that stank. He chafed. The ocean was not ready to have people in it. It was cloudy and had sewage in it. Lots of bubbles, and it stank. The surgeonfish has orange razors on its tail. The Portuguese Man O' Was will sting. Her children all drew horses on her walls. So she took kitchen matches to their drawings and blackened her walls a little. She was told that if she made a large fire on her dining room table the flames would reach up and draw designs on her ceiling. The designs would be full of portent. But she didn't do it. Her one son filled a bag full of water and stepped into it. Her daughter drew on herself--on her face. Very little revealed itself to this family. Whenever they went to the ocean, they had to rent a van.
5 MWE 06.05.08
Very little. He was not excitable or edgy. He did not have bandy legs or ones with knobs on their sides. He was not an example. He was not impassioned or infected with anything. He sank too far into a couch. Someone spoke to him, someone with a face slicked with acne. He was not ready to participate in commerce. Half of the town had been built up--the rest was in the process of being built. Take a right and three lefts and you will miss the church. We got there early--when the trumpeter was still practicing. There were five women in dresses and five men under some pews. This was not when anything happened rapidly. In the sun was her lunch. Her lunch had been made for her and left in the sun. She was not animated, though she could grasp whatever it was she wanted. I shared a room with my mother's cousin. As I tried to go to sleep, he assured me that my mother had been beautiful. Earlier that night, I had driven down a hill to see a dark horse with a white head. I found later that I had walked on the wrong side of the road. And yet I am the one who still has fiery flux.
My family, this farrago. There are the three ruined maple trees, but we do not get rid of them though they are sick. I was told that a man had a piece of metal pipe. He sharpened one end of it. He captured someone--put this person down with chloroform. He stripped this person of his clothes and laid this man on a floor. Then, what he would do is take the sharpened end of his pipe and sink it into the unconscious man's naked chest. He sunk the sharpened end of it, and it went down into this man. It was an instrument with its edges sinking into some dough. He sunk the end in--it had a plug of skin in it--and then he raised the pipe to his lips. He pushed air through it and shot the skin plug across the room and against a wall. This was all there was to do when the maple trees got sick. Allow the neighbors to hunt turkeys. Allow tourists to ride snowmobiles. Allow someone else to rent the south end of the property to experiment with growing grapes. Found animals I didn't expect in the tree. Found things tied to sticks.
A constant fascinator. The three storms in the area will overlap. In the library, there were three busts, but I cannot remember who of. There was a desk reserved for someone. They had the book sale on the roof--a gimmick. The one road met two--merging became tricky. What it was was not legal. I would like to go for a walk before I think about what I have done. No, my character is unready. My character is unlovely. I do not remember whether or not any of my classmates passed anything. Some of them could have been buried. Others were probably familiar with eel eating and lying to whoever was the newest one to ask a question. They found him in the reservoir. They found a wire about his wrist. They found wire in his mouth. His ears were so close to his head--they looked as if someone pressed them there, but no one did. She has not the energy to argue today. I can usually expect an amount of yellow to come out of her mouth. Then green. But not today. Her father embarrassed her by drawing. He was never around except when he drew things. He was what they called an "operator." With it, with her compassion, she went through some weeds. The point was to go through the weeds first and then the ferns. No one could have guessed that the camera was on. My head was not full of much but frenetics.
My family, this farrago. There are the three ruined maple trees, but we do not get rid of them though they are sick. I was told that a man had a piece of metal pipe. He sharpened one end of it. He captured someone--put this person down with chloroform. He stripped this person of his clothes and laid this man on a floor. Then, what he would do is take the sharpened end of his pipe and sink it into the unconscious man's naked chest. He sunk the sharpened end of it, and it went down into this man. It was an instrument with its edges sinking into some dough. He sunk the end in--it had a plug of skin in it--and then he raised the pipe to his lips. He pushed air through it and shot the skin plug across the room and against a wall. This was all there was to do when the maple trees got sick. Allow the neighbors to hunt turkeys. Allow tourists to ride snowmobiles. Allow someone else to rent the south end of the property to experiment with growing grapes. Found animals I didn't expect in the tree. Found things tied to sticks.
A constant fascinator. The three storms in the area will overlap. In the library, there were three busts, but I cannot remember who of. There was a desk reserved for someone. They had the book sale on the roof--a gimmick. The one road met two--merging became tricky. What it was was not legal. I would like to go for a walk before I think about what I have done. No, my character is unready. My character is unlovely. I do not remember whether or not any of my classmates passed anything. Some of them could have been buried. Others were probably familiar with eel eating and lying to whoever was the newest one to ask a question. They found him in the reservoir. They found a wire about his wrist. They found wire in his mouth. His ears were so close to his head--they looked as if someone pressed them there, but no one did. She has not the energy to argue today. I can usually expect an amount of yellow to come out of her mouth. Then green. But not today. Her father embarrassed her by drawing. He was never around except when he drew things. He was what they called an "operator." With it, with her compassion, she went through some weeds. The point was to go through the weeds first and then the ferns. No one could have guessed that the camera was on. My head was not full of much but frenetics.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
5MWE 06.01.08 Freshly Foal
To be the first to eat ash after an eruption is a great honor because it is something where the grit--for once--goes where it should. I was conceived in the air--my parents sky dove tandem and had patches cut out at the crotch. I did not take the first time they jumped, they think. It took a few tries. My friends and I streak naked across the rifle range. We wear masks when we do it because we're all for fun and daring but not for litigation. We are fast when we streak. We've been wounded, sure, but we've not died. Not a one of us has died. We've all made it, and that's not silly. The people at the rifle range are nervous when they shoot. There were some fourth graders at the rifle range once. One of them, those Fourths, had brought a dad, a guardian, with them. What they wanted was to film each other shooting guns so that they could use the footage in a music video that they wanted to make. So they went and did the shooting and filming. They had a dad with them. They got the footage they wanted, but one of their shots hit one of us. This one of us had been, of course, streaking. With a mask on. This shot, though, was more than a wound. I was conceived in the air--when gravity was different to that in a bed.
I am a funambulist. I have fun when I walk because I walk only on rope. I only walk on rope. Only I walk on rope. I walk on rope only, and, when I do, I have fun. I have a house, but I rarely walk on its floors or through its halls. Instead, I have stretched rope all over the place. My grandmother came to my house. She is in her eighties, but she still drives. She drove an hour north from her home to see me. Her home is full of what she has collected. Ten years ago, I could make it though her hallways only by walking through aisles of her collections. Only make it through. Only I. Now, ten years later, she no longer has aisles. She has tunnels. She had built the aisles so high they leaned on each other. She is stooped, so she doesn't have to lean. Me, though, I have to get on my knees just about. She had me over because she wanted me to have some suits of my grandfather's. He's not dead. He's in another house for people who cannot speak and who sit on chairs that can move--by wheels and levers--easily. He sits next to a fishtank sometimes. Other times he's next to a cage full of little birds or a tv. The tv plays mostly things about animals, though sometimes they put in a tape that has a fireworks display on it. I was to pick one of my grandfather's suits. I am a funambulist, and my grandmother comes over to my house.
She had driven her car for an hour with animals in it. She came for me because she wanted me to drive her three hours west to a wedding. We went and got to the church three hours early. Instead of exploring the town we were in, we sat in the church parking lot for three hours. Got sunburns. She said she had not had a sunburn in twenty years. I told her I saw someone get one yesterday. The wedding had a lot of musical instruments in it, and each one, each instrument, was played incorrectly at one point. All the maids of honor had painted nails and all the best men had on coats. I knew no one at the place and let them look at me. After, we went to a reception and ate from three tables that had three different themes of food. A hotel room afterward--one with an elevator and a breakfast. One with an alarm some trickster had preset. She took me to a graveyard, and we easily found her parents, grandparents, and brothers. We stepped over others to get to them. I was holding her hand, I tried to lead her around people, but she stepped on them and over them. She didn't care because she was looking for names. We stepped on little pink flowers. Finally, we saw all we wanted and drove again through a gate. A gape. Agape. She was not ready for swimming since only yesterday she had seen three people.
I am a funambulist. I have fun when I walk because I walk only on rope. I only walk on rope. Only I walk on rope. I walk on rope only, and, when I do, I have fun. I have a house, but I rarely walk on its floors or through its halls. Instead, I have stretched rope all over the place. My grandmother came to my house. She is in her eighties, but she still drives. She drove an hour north from her home to see me. Her home is full of what she has collected. Ten years ago, I could make it though her hallways only by walking through aisles of her collections. Only make it through. Only I. Now, ten years later, she no longer has aisles. She has tunnels. She had built the aisles so high they leaned on each other. She is stooped, so she doesn't have to lean. Me, though, I have to get on my knees just about. She had me over because she wanted me to have some suits of my grandfather's. He's not dead. He's in another house for people who cannot speak and who sit on chairs that can move--by wheels and levers--easily. He sits next to a fishtank sometimes. Other times he's next to a cage full of little birds or a tv. The tv plays mostly things about animals, though sometimes they put in a tape that has a fireworks display on it. I was to pick one of my grandfather's suits. I am a funambulist, and my grandmother comes over to my house.
She had driven her car for an hour with animals in it. She came for me because she wanted me to drive her three hours west to a wedding. We went and got to the church three hours early. Instead of exploring the town we were in, we sat in the church parking lot for three hours. Got sunburns. She said she had not had a sunburn in twenty years. I told her I saw someone get one yesterday. The wedding had a lot of musical instruments in it, and each one, each instrument, was played incorrectly at one point. All the maids of honor had painted nails and all the best men had on coats. I knew no one at the place and let them look at me. After, we went to a reception and ate from three tables that had three different themes of food. A hotel room afterward--one with an elevator and a breakfast. One with an alarm some trickster had preset. She took me to a graveyard, and we easily found her parents, grandparents, and brothers. We stepped over others to get to them. I was holding her hand, I tried to lead her around people, but she stepped on them and over them. She didn't care because she was looking for names. We stepped on little pink flowers. Finally, we saw all we wanted and drove again through a gate. A gape. Agape. She was not ready for swimming since only yesterday she had seen three people.
Friday, May 30, 2008
5 MWE
What was it but a disaster? Never insulted--but never encouraged. What was it but a mess in a ravine? She was in a ravine--and muddy. She could not have guessed how clouds would drift in the sky. Clouds are not against the sky. The sun is not against the sky. The leaves on the trees are not against the sky. When the ravine became a mess, it no longer interested the people who had first noticed it. These people were not essential to any kind of math. They were not necessary as far as the leveling of mounds go. They simply ate what ended up on the plates they had made themselves. They knew not to put things that had hidden airpockets into their kilns. It was an airpocket. An airpock. An airparrot. An airpatrol. He saw the word antsy and thought nasty. He kept thinking it, though he knew he wouldn't win the next hand of cards. The cards had been slicked with petroleum jelly. They played their game underwater. He did not enjoy the taste of lychee.
What she said was not tasteful--nor was it nutritious. It was not healthful. It was just a cruelty she could get across with her breath. She asked him to find a mucous membrane on her and he did. He had no trouble finding a mucous membrane. When he found one on her, he asked her if he could put an etching into it. That was, after all, his art. He wanted to perform his art. He did not mind if anyone watched his performance. That he did not mind was not unusual because so rarely did he perform his art for anyone--and so often he did it in a darkened room. His dark and darkened art. Children sold mangoes on the side of the road. They sold mangoes and lychee. One child had a large burn on the side of his leg. The other child had a plastic bag full of clear liquid. This liquid was water presumably. "It is seawater," the child informed people. These people were certainly not normal. They had mercy on their faces. They had blotches on their arms that looked alarming.
She was in haste because it was most comfortable. With a little bit of sand in her stockings, she couldn't think. What was it? How had she been heckled on the beach? She had been on the beach--and it was then that she had been heckled by a man. The man had come out of the ocean with his hands full of glass. This was not seaglass--stuff rounded off and tumbled. It was freshly broken. He had it in his hands--and then he heckled. She had not been ready. Her mother had once called all her ranges narrow. All her interests were narrow. She, at least, had never been called hideous. Never such. On the rail, it was. This was the time that the glass broke. How did it break before it ended in the sea? What it was was something mistaken for a breed of cat--a breed that had been made and documented on the television. So much yowling--we had to turn the volume around. We had qualms. We were reluctant. Someone had painted out windows white on the outside, so we had to take our razors and scrape. Someone had painted our windows white on the inside--and oh how our house stank.
What she said was not tasteful--nor was it nutritious. It was not healthful. It was just a cruelty she could get across with her breath. She asked him to find a mucous membrane on her and he did. He had no trouble finding a mucous membrane. When he found one on her, he asked her if he could put an etching into it. That was, after all, his art. He wanted to perform his art. He did not mind if anyone watched his performance. That he did not mind was not unusual because so rarely did he perform his art for anyone--and so often he did it in a darkened room. His dark and darkened art. Children sold mangoes on the side of the road. They sold mangoes and lychee. One child had a large burn on the side of his leg. The other child had a plastic bag full of clear liquid. This liquid was water presumably. "It is seawater," the child informed people. These people were certainly not normal. They had mercy on their faces. They had blotches on their arms that looked alarming.
She was in haste because it was most comfortable. With a little bit of sand in her stockings, she couldn't think. What was it? How had she been heckled on the beach? She had been on the beach--and it was then that she had been heckled by a man. The man had come out of the ocean with his hands full of glass. This was not seaglass--stuff rounded off and tumbled. It was freshly broken. He had it in his hands--and then he heckled. She had not been ready. Her mother had once called all her ranges narrow. All her interests were narrow. She, at least, had never been called hideous. Never such. On the rail, it was. This was the time that the glass broke. How did it break before it ended in the sea? What it was was something mistaken for a breed of cat--a breed that had been made and documented on the television. So much yowling--we had to turn the volume around. We had qualms. We were reluctant. Someone had painted out windows white on the outside, so we had to take our razors and scrape. Someone had painted our windows white on the inside--and oh how our house stank.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
5 MWE
He was not a journalist, and he was not rude. When he tamped sugar against a chairleg, he used a piece of wood. Once, after a thunderstorm, very early in the morning, he looked into a spoon and saw the shape of a dog. It was a breed of dog. The dog was a certain--but unidentifiable--breed of the creature. He sometimes was puffy. He learned to swim at a late age. He, an adult, learned how in a large pool with children. Most everyone in the pool was a child except for him. There he was--learning to swim. His sister had learned to swim when he was a boy. His parents had bought a special one-piece suit for her. The suit, all about it, had pockets that could hold chunks of styrofoam. Each styrofoam chunk was about the size of a hotdog bun and could slide into one of those pockets. There must have been twelve of those pockets. The idea was to remove one stryo chunk as the child got a little better at swimming. His parents, though, removed only the six stryo chunks that were on his sister's stomach. So, when she went in the pool, she was forced on her face.
Such that there was burning. There was stinging. Five rows of people in orange plastic seats--and all of them sprayed with a Police aerosol. He had an urge to eat something. He was responsible for the failure of the crop. He could have washed the rocks, but he didn't. He left them as he had found them--covered with filth. Very rarely was he rowdy. He never got his levels right. He wanted to learn how to speak harshly. He looked for lessons but never found them. She wore shirts that had pills in the armpits and under the breasts. She had jewelry from her grandmother, but she never wore it. An old man has rubberbands looped around the handcontrols in his car. The old man makes odd handsignals at a younger man. The younger man cannot interpret the handsignals. What was there ever to say? There was no curiosity present. It was not yet in existence. Instead, all he felt was the spit on his teeth. He was ready to cut open a belly to see if it had license plate in it. Turtle shells. Anything moving and metal and shined. Who was it shined by? He wanted to be shined by his friend.
He made a concrete structure that went up 100 feet. The concrete structure was just open. It was a building with no top and no floors in it. It was just an empty rectangle that went up 100 feet and was on its side. He had this structure, and he filled it with dirt. He had eight sons, and he told them that the first one to dig from the top of the structure and make it out a door on the bottom would be the only one to get an inheritance. So those eight sons. They tried to dig, but their tunnels would so often intersect. Some of the sons dug in earnest--but others were really only in it to ruin what was going on. Some of the sons died in their tunnels. Did any one of them get to the bottom and through that door? One hundred feet of dirt to dig down into--and all your brothers digging down, too. The one to get through it all will be the one to get my fortune. But the joke was that all eight of them killed each other trying to get down. The old man was left with no sons to leave anything to, and he was too old to have any more sons. He saw what he had made. It was very simple. A concrete structure that went up 100 feet and was filled with dirt. His structure was simpler than things made by other people thousands of years ago. All his sons dead--or maybe they weren't all sons. Or maybe anyone could have gotten involved.
Such that there was burning. There was stinging. Five rows of people in orange plastic seats--and all of them sprayed with a Police aerosol. He had an urge to eat something. He was responsible for the failure of the crop. He could have washed the rocks, but he didn't. He left them as he had found them--covered with filth. Very rarely was he rowdy. He never got his levels right. He wanted to learn how to speak harshly. He looked for lessons but never found them. She wore shirts that had pills in the armpits and under the breasts. She had jewelry from her grandmother, but she never wore it. An old man has rubberbands looped around the handcontrols in his car. The old man makes odd handsignals at a younger man. The younger man cannot interpret the handsignals. What was there ever to say? There was no curiosity present. It was not yet in existence. Instead, all he felt was the spit on his teeth. He was ready to cut open a belly to see if it had license plate in it. Turtle shells. Anything moving and metal and shined. Who was it shined by? He wanted to be shined by his friend.
He made a concrete structure that went up 100 feet. The concrete structure was just open. It was a building with no top and no floors in it. It was just an empty rectangle that went up 100 feet and was on its side. He had this structure, and he filled it with dirt. He had eight sons, and he told them that the first one to dig from the top of the structure and make it out a door on the bottom would be the only one to get an inheritance. So those eight sons. They tried to dig, but their tunnels would so often intersect. Some of the sons dug in earnest--but others were really only in it to ruin what was going on. Some of the sons died in their tunnels. Did any one of them get to the bottom and through that door? One hundred feet of dirt to dig down into--and all your brothers digging down, too. The one to get through it all will be the one to get my fortune. But the joke was that all eight of them killed each other trying to get down. The old man was left with no sons to leave anything to, and he was too old to have any more sons. He saw what he had made. It was very simple. A concrete structure that went up 100 feet and was filled with dirt. His structure was simpler than things made by other people thousands of years ago. All his sons dead--or maybe they weren't all sons. Or maybe anyone could have gotten involved.
5 MWE
He crouches behind a frond. The ground around the frond is icy. He has seen something that is icy. He saw an icy vehicle, but he crouches behind the frond. The vehicle he sees is a Nash Airflyte--a car that you--that he--can sleep in. Make all the seats go back, and you can sleep in it. He crouches behind a frond. He would like to acquire a book, but he does not know where he should go. He heard about a place that makes eggs a certain way. People are trained to make eggs, but what do they get? They do not get to eat their mistakes. Their mistakes are fed to big dogs that are black and brown and have orange eyes. What has been said of his disciple? It has been said that he smells like vegetable matter beneath his robes. It has been said that his knowledge of mathematics is stellar. It has been said that when he dances his hips, not his feet, are leaden. What can one do but crouch behind a frond? He lights a lantern and prepares for a night of icy crouching. He wishes he had the manikin he stole.
The clothes that he had made fell apart so easily. The clothes that he made were deadly because they did not protect against the cold weather. Against cold weather. Against the cold weather. Whatever he said was false. She thought he had tripped on the concrete, but he had not tripped. He didn't tripped--just looked like he did. He didn't really trip. This was how it happened: it didn't happen. This is what he said: he said little to nothing. What he hated to eat: nothing. He ate just about everything that was placed in front of him--even experimental eggs. Now, for three hours, he had to sit athwart a simpleton. He felt the warmth of the simpleton as he sat athwart him. The person seized. The person had a pertness. None of this was timely. It was all untimely. What it was was perverted--but not to the point that it couldn't have been on the stage. It was just enough to me warped. It. Something. What. This. It was warped. Something was sad. What it was was sad. This is abstract to the point that it cannot be performed. What do you call that smile of yours?
The protagonist is a prescription in this case. In the earlier draft, there was no protagonist. No protag was there, so what was decided was that a protag must be prescribed. This protag--it was decided--must be on the younger side and must have a severe physical ailment--something readers would understand and latch on to. This protag must be on the verge of finding fortune. That, or the protag should lose a vast fortune first and then spend the rest of the time getting himself ready for a vaster one. He should get some people together and get them to pray in a place that is not a church. He should get them all in an abandoned building and get them to pray. The grass out front the building is very tall--some joke and say that it is wheat. There is a drained swimming pool in the backyard. The pool collects rainwater and mosquitoes grow inside. This abandoned house is not something the neighbors like. They do not see it as romantic or haunted. Hainted. They see it as the start of a blight. But a bunch of people are in it, and they pray. They smell like vegetable matter because that's what they had to get through.
The clothes that he had made fell apart so easily. The clothes that he made were deadly because they did not protect against the cold weather. Against cold weather. Against the cold weather. Whatever he said was false. She thought he had tripped on the concrete, but he had not tripped. He didn't tripped--just looked like he did. He didn't really trip. This was how it happened: it didn't happen. This is what he said: he said little to nothing. What he hated to eat: nothing. He ate just about everything that was placed in front of him--even experimental eggs. Now, for three hours, he had to sit athwart a simpleton. He felt the warmth of the simpleton as he sat athwart him. The person seized. The person had a pertness. None of this was timely. It was all untimely. What it was was perverted--but not to the point that it couldn't have been on the stage. It was just enough to me warped. It. Something. What. This. It was warped. Something was sad. What it was was sad. This is abstract to the point that it cannot be performed. What do you call that smile of yours?
The protagonist is a prescription in this case. In the earlier draft, there was no protagonist. No protag was there, so what was decided was that a protag must be prescribed. This protag--it was decided--must be on the younger side and must have a severe physical ailment--something readers would understand and latch on to. This protag must be on the verge of finding fortune. That, or the protag should lose a vast fortune first and then spend the rest of the time getting himself ready for a vaster one. He should get some people together and get them to pray in a place that is not a church. He should get them all in an abandoned building and get them to pray. The grass out front the building is very tall--some joke and say that it is wheat. There is a drained swimming pool in the backyard. The pool collects rainwater and mosquitoes grow inside. This abandoned house is not something the neighbors like. They do not see it as romantic or haunted. Hainted. They see it as the start of a blight. But a bunch of people are in it, and they pray. They smell like vegetable matter because that's what they had to get through.
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