It’s day two hundred and eleven and I’m still waiting for the opportunity to come out in the open. I will ask the first human I encounter to take me to their leader. Conditions are cramped; I long to hear the sound of my own voice. I see a light…
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He motivates me like cake,
mused Miss Mouse,
as she nibbled and pondered
upon her latest beau.
She found him under the
kitchen table, sniffing around
between the dust bunnies
of old.
For it has been ages since
the big footed creatures
dropped crumbs here and so
there’s little left.
But the memory of cake
like a dream half flown
remains in the back-forty
of Miss Mouse’s brain.
I think I’ll come out tonight,
and try some Mr. Mouse cake,
and maybe, just maybe,
we’ll make crumbs of our own.
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The sacrificial lamb wisely runs with the sheep.
The coward fearlessly trolls the internet.
What’s the difference?
Karma.
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My love lives on skull island,
where roses grow from bony sockets
and children draw faces in caves
where their ancestors lay.
No trees grow on skull island;
only grey rocks, flat and colourless as the sky above
with its eternal cloud cover, threatens
but never gifts rain.
My dear lives on skull island,
damned to rule over sinless children
growing roses as penance
for my death.
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Hold up. What was that you said?
An idol of fashion, you shone in the spotlight
Taking over, taking us down
To the stages and ballrooms and screens
With all your wild creations and deep space riddled thoughts
We watched you play, reveling in your genius.
For all you made it seem effortless
And we in our joy and our misery, listened
Influenced by your dreams of stars and the men who visited them
Now, my dear, it is you in heaven.
What was that you said?
Yes. You blew our minds.
“…and the stars look very different today.”
Rest in peace, Mr. Bowie.
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“It is clear the accused is insane and needs to be institutionalized.”
“But…” She stands. “I’m not insane! I was…”
“Sit down,” says the judge. “You are clearly insane.
“Take her away!”
“But I was framed!”
“Yes,” the prosecution says. “That’s what they all say.”
“Commit her to the asylum!”
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I’m so wicked! I have brought dishonour on my family by letting him put his hands on me and lift my skirt. I was even wanton enough to let him put his thing in me! But I’m secretly pleased with myself, losing my virginity at ninety-one glorious years of age.
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He was strong, so I tried to act robust.
He was kind, so I attempted to be a damsel in distress.
He was funny, so I laughed until I cried.
He was exactly who he was, so I became myself.
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“And in other news, the big fluffy clouds will puke out some snow.”
Harvey the anchor smiles at the camera while whispering out of the corner of his mouth, “Jerry, what the hell am I reading?”
To which Jerry replies, “Just keep reading!”
“The snow will consist of styrofoam clumps, coated in coffee grinds…”
“Jerry! I can’t read this shit!”
“Keep reading!!”
“… and by five o’clock your afternoon commute will resemble …”
“Jerry! What is that word?”
“Shmoopimple.”
“Shmoopimple?”
“Yes! Read it!”
“…your afternoon commute will resemble shmoopimple, wall to wall traffic. And that’s the news.”
And that was the day Harvey quit his job at the community college television network.
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2016 was an extremely good year. The mansion in which I lived included a butler, a maid, three cooks and a gardener. Fortunately they lasted two months each. And every one of them was more delicious than the last.
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Linda G. Hill 