writing

Growin’ Up ‘n’ Misunderstandin’

“But Mama, I wanna see him again. He loves me!”

“You are not goin’ out with that kid, and that’s final.”

“You don’t understand! He’s the peach fuzz on my cherry pie! He’s the whipped toppin’ on my sundae!”

“I never! That’s ‘xactly why you’re not seein’ him again! Talkin’ like that to your own mother!”

“But… but… I’ll die without him!”

“Nonsense! There’s other goats in the barn.”

“Don’t you mean ‘fish in the sea’?”

“Fish? I thought we were talking ’bout Billy! You mean Johnny? Sure, you can go out with him.”

Out there

If only my cold fingers could just grasp at the lifeline that is sobriety, hearth and home, family… For want of the gloves of compassion, I sit here under my bridge and while away the time, reciting poetry to rats, and sleeping in the grime made up of luckier men’s footprints.

The sun riseth upon fangs of dogs, as hungry as I. My first thought is not to fight back. But where would I be then? Surely they’d not rip through these layers of disgust that I wrap myself in. No. I shall live to behold the fathomless expanse of stars, and wonder what the universe I once belonged to will grace me with next. Long past are the days when, in my delusion, I believed I had control.

Altar-ation

Now I sit me down to rest
I hope to get this off my chest
If the kids’ screaming doesn’t stop
I swear to God, I’ll blow my top

adulting

try as I might
to be grown up
do all the things
that make me big
and independent
and feel like i’m part
of the grown up world
they make me fat
or give me pain
and when i stay
awake and read
i sleep in way
through my alarm
and drag myself
all through my day
to find myself
awake at 12
a glass of wine
back in my hand
and i have to face
the harshest truth

i’m just not old
enough
to adult

Morning People

“Hello, June!”

“Ugh. What are you calling me for at this hour in the morning? I haven’t even had coffee.”

“It’s that time again. You gotta wake up!”

“Why are you always so damned perky? I hate morning people.”

“Ha! I’m just going to bed.”

“Show off.”

“So, you up?”

“Yeah, I’m up.”

“Excellent. May, out.”

 

Haiku – revenge

writing fiction makes
it possible to kill you
more than just one time

window

A Resignation

Dear Boss,

I’m writing to let you know that it is with regret that I hand in my resignation. I no longer feel comfortable doing my job.

It started with Simmons at the water cooler. He told me that Marsha is sleeping with Johnson, but she wants it kept quiet because her husband might find out.

As Chief Gossip and Director of Jokes, I’m afraid I’m unable to restrain myself. Considering Marsha’s mouthful of jagged, dangerous-looking braces and Johnson’s wooden leg, I’m sure you can understand my predicament.

It’s been a pleasure working with you, particularly during the big printer-blow-up incident of ’13. I heard, due to a miracle of modern medicine, they actually managed to sew Thompson’s testicles back on. Still, the plaque we hung in the printer room is an excellent reminder for everyone why it’s not a good idea to photocopy one’s posterior.

I wish you all the best in the future.

Sincerely,

Bozo

How many times?

“How many times do I have to tell you to put your shoes away?” or, “How many times do have to tell you, don’t leave the door open, the dog’ll get out?”

I heard it every day, growing up. You’d think I’da learnt. But no.

Now, fifty years later, Mom’s gone and so’s the dog. With my shoes.

Prompted by the Daily Post with today’s word, Countless.

Quest for a Good Life

I remember picking up the keys at the lawyer’s office, opening the front door, and walking in for the first time, my dog, Buster, at my side. I finally owned my own house. It was just going to be the two of us.

I had my mom look after the pup for a few days and I got my brother to help me move stuff in. My mom didn’t like the idea of me, a single woman, living alone, but it was what I wanted. I was strong enough to help my brother lift all the furniture, after all. And I had my hound.

I’d been living there for about a week before I started to get really annoyed with Buster. If he wasn’t outside trying to dig a hole under the shed, he was whining at the back door to get out there. Finally I got my brother to come over with a shovel and help me dig out whatever Buster was trying to get at.

And what do you know? Dead bodies.

So I had a choice. Contact the authorities and lose my house until they finished their investigation–it could be a year!–or drag the bodies out and rebury them so the dog couldn’t find them. I decided on the latter. Which would have been fine if they hadn’t come back to life.

Now my life is all zombies, all the time. They come in and raid my fridge in the middle of the night, I keep finding the occasional limb under my bed – Buster! – and every single morning as I’m getting in the car to go to work it’s, “Hey Julia! How ’bout them brains? When are we gonna get them yummy brains for dinner?”

All I wanted was a nice quiet life in my own house. Maybe Mom was right.

Wanted: grammarian

50yo WASP male seeks female aged 20-65 for serious relationship.
The lady I’m looking for must be outgoing, fun-loving, faithful, and committed. Must love beards, and be okay with a man who limps, has one arm, has one good eye, and flies. Must love planes and fish. Must have good grammar.