Twins

Minutes

If you’ll just give me a minute, I’ll be done.

A minute passed and still nothing was finished. A year later some movement happened and everyone thought highly of that. They peeked over his shoulder and saw a blank slate. How disappointing, they thought.

Just give me a minute and I’ll be done.

Another minute passed and another year with it. He had concentration on his face, intensity in his eyes, and nails between his teeth. They admired how busy he looked and took a peek. The slate was still blank. This is just depressing, they agreed.

A minute – just a minute – is all I need and I'll be done.

A minute passed and a year and another year and by this time they lost track of the exact time and lost interest in him. He looked so busy, so intense, so focused, yet his slate was blank. They moved on without a word.

I’m done.

He finished sometime in the night, alone. Everybody was gone. He looked over his slate and liked what he saw. He set it aside and grabbed another slate. His brow furled, his jaw tightened, his teeth clenched down on nails as he began again.

Just give me a minute.

Jolly Porter

Mine

He kept his dreams to himself no matter how often they asked. Speaking about dreams did nothing to elucidate, rather it pushed them away, made them incoherent, destroyed the sensations. He knew that Candy Cat and the Batman People held no place in the tangible world of the waking. He preferred to remember them as they were, with bumblebee eyes and grand, shiny back-smiles. They would spend hours telling him all about their dreams, which he sometimes found dull but mostly licentious. Their dreams belonged to them as his did to him.

When finally forced to relent, he often used the pithiest descriptions available. "Good dreams last night," he would say. They pressed for more. "Oh, I went to the park," he offered, "and there was a puppy and then I woke up." After using the puppy dream a time or two, they began to worry that he was in suspended adolescence, he desperately needed companionship, his loneliness was overwhelming, he was a pedophile looking for romance. He loathed amateur analysts who wanted only fodder for gross interpretations of what he found simply to be great adventures of inanity. Eventually, he told them that he had stopped dreaming years ago. This disturbed them more. He went back to the puppy briefly, then used the old trope of falling from a great height. The analysis subsided.

He found his dreams began to linger when he woke. They stayed in his mind and back pocket through the day. Upon his next sleep, they left him. Occasionally he wished he had held on to them for one more day, remembered them as they were, and found why they lingered. Instead he reminded himself that he put no stock in dreams and kept his dreams from himself.

Jet Propulsion

She sent me spinning, gave me dreams of centipedes and long, dizzy trips round red rocks, and threw me over clover cliffs. Symphonic oboes bleated cacophony from her little baby 'goodbyes.' Velvet bits of skies draped my eyes, rubbed blue, violet, and traffic cone orange across my horizon, mummified me, and twirled me topside over. Mysterious salty-sweet sensations slid along my lips. I craved water and she dangled it before me. Every time I reached she spun me round -- and reach and round and reach and round and reach. One last flip and flat on my backside I landed in a sit. She was gone. My head still spun though my body sat still. All around me flitted down velvet bits of a newly flipped sky.

Doodle Game #1

Our souls feel awful sticky

Like bubble gummy icky

Clinging to the bottoms of our shoes

Found a quarter but it's a nickel

You're acting something fickle

For someone playing Candyland to lose.

Abbey Inn

A pink petal fell from her fingers and drifted to the untended grass below. She eyed its descent thinking momentarily of reaching, but opting to not. She preferred peach to pink. Peter often challenged her discernment between the two, especially in petals. Those times she preferred Paul to Peter.

Red Tomato Rage

His face showed flush amplified by the streak of ketchup across his cheek. She chuckled as she took a bite of the wicked weapon. He had been slapped with plenty of gloves, many belts, and the occasional haddock, but never with a french fry. She chewed defiantly in the face of his glare. The smell of the ketchup rose to his nose. He slowly wiped it away without breaking his stare. She broke first and turned to chat up some other sap. He glanced to his hand smeared red. Some tomato gave its life for this, he thought.

He looked back to her. Red permeated the air between them. Not anger, he thought, not rage; he knew those well. This dug down some deep new place. He could always slap her back with one of her own french fries, a slab of his steak, or a good handful of mustard. Insufficient options every one: he needed more.

He could drench her in sauces of all colors: reds, browns, yellows, the green stuff with the funny name. She would be sopped head to toe in savories and sweets. Her clothes stained all colors of the rainbow. Her hair dyed ten tones of gourmet accoutrements. Her eyes, her ears, her nose, her mouth all filled full with ketchup, salsa, mustard, hot sauce, syrup. He could empty the table of its complimentary condiments in the name of vengeance and leave her a sopping, sobbing mess.

He could do all that, but he wouldn't. In angry days vengeance was swift. This time, however, all he could do was look. She slapped his face with a french fry and paralyzed him. She could glow tomato red and grow potatoes from her head and he would only sit and stare. She made me useless, he thought, pointless and useless.

She looked back at him and recognized his immobility. Neither said a word. She arched her brow. He swore he saw her float for a second, just a second. She looked back to her plate of french fries and half-eaten chicken club. He took up his bill and walked to the register. He paid, left, and never ate french fries again.

Gluey Lips

For all her effort and will, he would not open his mouth.

Speak to me, she pleaded. Just a word is all I need.

Neither teeth nor lips parted for her. He would not budge.

Is it peanut butter? she asked. Or glue? That has done this to you.

He gave no reply. His mouth stayed firmly shut.

I'll pry you open with my crowbar, she warned him. I will go sooooo far to get you to talk to me.

He said nothing. He sat and stared.

She ran circles around him shouting, TALK TALK TALK! Till she tired and slowed to a walk.

He was mute.

Do you have nothing to say? Just give me a nod, she told him. Please, God.

He looked at her and pushed out a tight little smile. He opened his mouth the tiniest bit and pushed out, Sorry. His mouth closed again.

She stared at him for a moment and then sat next to him. They stared off together. Neither one said a word.

Play Me Songs

He plinked out notes on an upright piano.

Play me songs, she said. Songs I can sing to. Songs I know.

He played a brief melody that she thought she knew. Just as she caught it and began to hum along, he went right back to plinking.

I knew that one, she said. Play it again.

He played a new tune that she knew she knew. She caught it quick and hummed right in. Then he changed it. He changed keys. He made it minor. He smothered it with dissonance. She lost the tune and he went right back to plinking.

That was my favorite, she said. I want to sing to something. Play me something good.

He played a tune she never heard before. She sat and listened, imagining she knew it.

I don’t know this, she said.

He kept on. He repeated phrases. He came to the hook. She hummed the bits that stuck with her.

Who is this? she asked.

He made it to the bridge and paused. He plinked for a second.

That’s not a real song, she said. Is it?

He plinked a bit more and then into the bridge. She swayed. She hummed. He hit his crescendo. He resolved. He stopped. She stared.

Play me a real song, she said.

He looked at her. He looked at the piano. He plinked a note, then another and another, plinking note after note. She sighed.

Red Candy

Rolling softly between her fingers a pair of Twizzlers waited to meet their destinies. She made them wait for nothing more than to glare at him standing just a ways away. Finally a nibble came and they felt no pain, no more than he standing just a ways a way. She never cared much for Twizzlers -- the feeling was mutual -- but she needed whatever she could find to roll soflty between those fingers and nibble just to make him wait, make him squirm, make him keep away just a ways away. She swallowed down that bit of Twizzle -- still feeling no pain -- and reached to bite again, when, he started towards her, moving in a bit of his own, closing in a bit too close. She stopped mid-gape, glanced to her Twizzled friends, whom she had never much cared for and the feeling was mutual, rolled them softly between her fingers, and looked back at him closing in a bit too close. She let her fingers fall lax and the partial pair of Twizzlers fell softly to the floor, feeling no pain, approaching their destinies. He closed in a bit more. She never once glanced at the floor. She never cared much for Twizzlers, and so they went and their destinies they met.

Richard the Ninth Dreams Big

As a child, Richard the Ninth dug three holes to spend in his time in for the three whole days that he was grounded. The first hole was Richard the Ninth's least favorite until he spent time in the second hole, which then became his least favorite, though after spending time in the third hole, Richard the Ninth dubbed that his least favorite. He could not say what made every hole his least favorite, but knew right awway that he loathed worms more than any other legless creature found in nature, even more than the snake, the skank, and, yes, the crisp. On the fourth day, Richard the Ninth filled the holes and vowed never to speak to another worm again.


As an adult, Richard the Ninth built a home at the bottom of a valley from the belief that landslides and earthquakes affected only those who lived atop mountains. What Richard the Ninth failed to realize was that the valley was a public park and, also, located just beneath a flood plain. Fortunately, out of habit, Richard the Ninth waterproofed everything he touched. Unfortunately, out of fear, he had never learned to swim. Richard the Ninth spent many nights atop the roof of his valley home until one night he made a crucial decision and abandoned his abode. Learning as much as he could from this life lesson, Richard the Ninth built his next home on the edge of a desert cliff many miles from civilization.

Notes From the Journal of a Pensive Park Visitor

They fed on self-satisfaction, applauded themselves till their hands revolted, dreamed of being low because they had brought themselves to such lofty elevations. We looked on in despair thinking that nothing could get so high as these on high telling us how on high they were. Then we stopped looking at them and saw the mountains, quiet and resolute in their peaks, formed over millennia, their apparent stillness belying their constant motion beneath. We found we preferred the mountains, if nothing else for the fact that they let us climb them, leaving gravity to be our only judges.

You’re awfully quiet for an auctioneer, she told him. When I got nothing to sell, he assured her, I got nothing to say. Say something fast, she implored, real fast like you mean to sell something. I ran out of words, he muttered, ran out so I couldn’t – he stopped. He really had run out of words and she wasn’t worth the sell.

Flowers aren’t all for giving. Some flowers are for taking. Some flowers are for eating. Some are even for grinding up and stuffing into pillows to make people think they’re sleeping in places other than they are. Spend an afternoon talking to a flower and before long you’re liable to think you are a flower. You won’t just be for giving, but for taking, for eating, for grinding up and living inside someone’s pillow, making them think they’re sleeping in a place other than they are. So much for talking up the flowers.

Two Lanes

The drive down took forever, she thought. To him it was a good chance for time in the car, time moving, out of stillness. The music didn't hurt either, but neither was listening much to it. Several times he forgot to pick a new song and only the sound of the tires, the engine, the sparse traffic gave their drive a soundtrack. She wanted another song. He just wanted to keep moving. Something to kill the silence, she thought. So much noise in the bustle along, he noticed, never a moment of silence when we move so quickly.

They passed a sign promising plastic surgery without the scars. He laughed. She missed the sign, but heard him clear enough. No help that. She would have preferred some Coldplay or that other band that sounded a lot like Coldplay. She'd even settle for Styx at this point, anything to fill the dead air. He wondered what he'd look like with a scar on his chin.

He turned to stare out his window and began to hum. Still no help. She wanted to turn to her window, too, hum an indistinguishable tune, but she was stuck behind the wheel, their lives in her hands. With so much responsibility, so much angst, the least he could do was pick a song, a real song, a song that she knew and actually liked. She gripped the wheel to blanched knuckles hoping for a cow to smash into. He wished to himself that the drive would never end. Seventy miles to go and not a cow in sight.

Richard the Ninth Loves Some More

Richard the Ninth trusted no one, especially himself. This led to serious conflagrations when he spent time alone and had things to say. His mouth stayed closed and his thoughts bottled up as he was always certain that the moment he spoke, the fool that was he would call him a liar and said fool, thinking himself shrewd, would think himself a liar. So the night would proceed until Richard the Ninth would fall asleep with great dissension between he and himself.

Richard the Ninth bought a pound of flour because he sought something beautiful in his life. This was another unwitting adventure for Richard the Ninth in the world of homonyms. Upon asking for flowers, he was directed by a willingly unhelpful store clerk to the baking supplies. The bag of flour was thrust upon him, which he purchased with some confusion, and then took home to place in a vase next to a print of Starry Knight, a fur air freshener, and a stuffed guerilla. He was mostly unimpressed with the flour, but thoroughly enjoyed his supper of stake and muscles.

Believing companionship to be the next vital step in his maturity Richard the Ninth stole a goldfish from a lady of smaller age and stature than he. He did not care much for the bowl in which she housed his new mate and promptly placed the goldfish in his pocket. Several days later, remembering how lonely he was, Richard the Ninth stole another goldfish from another tiny young person and, again, placed it in his pocket. Within a month, Richard the Ninth was lonelier than ever before and smelled distinctly of rotting fish.

Little Piggies

She started by counting her toes hoping that toes, more than fingers, would ground her - unless she chose to walk on her hands, which was not entirely out of the question for these were peculiar times calling for peculiar modes of transporting oneself, especially to and from work, which had been more stressful than usual this last week – so much so that she had found herself counting her toes for grounding.

She reached ten and thought that normal enough in one’s toes, but she had to be sure, so she counted again, though not before consulting an encyclopedia – several encyclopedias, in fact, for, much to her chagrin, she did not find toes in the “t” volume or piggies under “p,” but finally found the proper number of toes under “a” for anatomy.

Again she counted ten and, though she had hoped this would ground her – in many ways besides the standing on of said toes: give her bearings in life, reaffirm her ability to compute and comprehend complex numbers, prove once and for all that birth defects sometimes happen thirty years after the fact – but it did not, in fact, ground her at all for still she was flighty and dodgy and terrible at math and rife, though still rife with birth defects newly formed some thirty years after the fact (or twenty-eight to those who knew no better).

Then it was that she began to dig and, having no yard, this meant digging straight into the floor, which brought forth choices – she had found choices more and more daunting and tonight was the night to approach the ever boding level of facile when it came to choices, especially those that would ground her – choices of where to begin this digging adventure: bathroom or living room, hardwood or linoleum, shovel or spoon, choices.

Of the three major choices, she opted for the latter, the former, and, lacking a shovel and money to buy said shovel and the propensity to visit such places that carried said shovels, the latter, and within minutes was digging down into faux wood in the desperate hope that somewhere beneath her feet, this floor, the foundation, the sewer lines, and the direct route to China, she would find the true secret to grounding herself.

If nothing else, she would get a good workout from this, tone her triceps, build up hunger, thus alleviating the guilt of eating, which had plagued her for some time now, whether exercising or not, though she found that one thinks very little of eating while digging – a bit of a surprise considering the presence of the spoon, her favorite utensil for eating.

She dug and dig and digged and digged and could not decide which fit properly into good grammar, but hoped that once she had grounded herself (or perhaps grund herself) she would epitomize proper speech, good sleeping habits, excellent nutrition, and delightful conversation at parties – this last hope formed despite her previous twenty-two party conversations ending with dropped food, stained blouses, profuse apologies, and quotations from great pop hits of the 1970s.

There on the newly damaged floor, spoon in hand, ten toes across two feet, she fell asleep and dreamed of digging in all forms: machines, dogs, grave-makers, groove-shakers, giant spoons, and even the occasional shovel, though even in dreaming these confused her for they appeared quite out of context – in the question “where exactly do shovels come from?” both of her consciouses, waking and sub, allied.

She awoke feeling thirsty, hungry, too, confused a bit, though less than any of these, grounded. The digging had done nothing but reduce her security deposit. She had not reached China, she still had ten toes, and life felt flighty, especially life lived in her body. She washed the spoon, put it back into the drawer, and sat in her bed. She began counting her toes again, thinking maybe one had run off in the night and digged its way to China.

Division

The Union failed today when today the Union divided into two Unions – sub-Unions, they are now called, though half-Union and Union Junior were both bandied about for some time.

Sub-Union A fought a great deal for its title, deeming its former brethren, now foe, Sub-Union B. Sub-Union B would not stand as a secondary, hence lesser, Sub-Union and brought forth the proposition that they both be called Sub-Union A.

Sub-Union A opposed the proposition on the grounds that letters, composed primarily of spiteful, bitter words, between the two Sub-Unions would become confusing and unclear were they both addressed and signed by the same Sub-Union, that of Sub-Union A.

Sub-Union A, formerly Sub-Union B, then proposed that they be called Sub-Union A₁ and the other bastards call themselves Sub-Union A₂. This aroused more harsh words, debate, and the occasional tossed sausage to the eye.

Several hours later, the floor littered with sausages, it was discovered that a row over policy had caused a split in Sub-Union A₁, thus forming Sub-Union A_1A and Sub-Union A_1B.

Shortly thereafter, internal dissension arose in Sub-Union A_1B over the designation of the letter ‘B’ and whether it was lesser than ‘A’ or not. Further division of the Sub-Union was threatened until it was discovered that Sub-Union A_1B was comprised of one man, Mr. Artemis Dunday.

By day’s end, compromise had not been reached, angry words spouted continuously as the participants made their way to their cars, and several sausages were still reported missing.

Tomorrow’s agenda for the Sub-Unions includes possible further division of all Sub-Unions, a lengthy slide show, and a lunch of pulled pork. The day will conclude with a discussion of what it is exactly that the Union represents, currently designated TBA.

Mad Man of the Special Cookie, Part I

Rather than pressing on about the cookies, she surrendered to the cake. Frosting rarely appeased her, but in this climate poor of sugar, she knew that any sweet was good sweet, even when the sweet lacked the sophistication she had previously encountered in those cookies. ‘What genius baked them?’ she wondered aloud, pink-shrouded, yellow morsels expelling from her mouth. A mad man, she continued in her head, opting for a closed mouth in sight of sweet-loss prevention. Surely not a mad woman, for no woman could understand what a woman needs anywhere near as shrewdly as the mad man of the special cookie. Only a man could hook a lady on a sweet treat and reel her back, hook her and reel her back, and on and on in a fishing metaphor that may have been apt, but only distracted from the need for sweets.

She finished the cake – a lackluster piece, if only by proxy – and yes, THE cake, not HER cake, she made special notice to call it for the duration of their time together – and still craved the cookie. What divine powers in a so minor a treat, she noted in her head, her mouth now gaping wide from want, from need, from utter lack of regard. Her eyes held on the plate of cookies settled comfortably beneath its domed, glass shelter. At the sixth minute of staring, the HR temp walked by and, without hesitation, lifted the glass. With great stealth, he snatched a cookie, replaced the glass, and was gone. The cookies screamed silently at the loss of brethren.

“Oh!” she expelled. What impudence he had. How jealous she was. Did he not appreciate the ethics of the clear glass lid? A trailblazer. Once the lid was lifted, then – and only then – could they take up cookies into hands. If only she subscribed to such blasé lifestyles as that damnable HR temp: moving from job-to-job with no regard for pension; taking cookies from whatever plate, no matter the indication of its covering. He passed and took another.

“Bastard!” she squeaked. We must regard the sanctity of the glass dome, she thought. Otherwise, there will be no cookies left when the dome is lifted. Already the plate looked lonelier, less and less inviting. She knew this to be an illusion, however. So many others around the office saw a plate diminishing in population as a plate diminishing in quality. She knew the opposite to be true. They would scramble for a plate teeming with cow pies for the mere fact that it was teeming. She still saw the plate for cow pies. Perhaps the HR temp was helping her in this regard. The more cookies he took, the less valuable the plate would be to others who had not tasted of said cookies, and the more cookies would be left for her. Perhaps, in a coup of resounding joy, she would be able to take one home. How splendid this Tuesday had become! How wonderfully life could change in the span of several minutes staring at a plate of spectacular cookies beneath a domed, glass lid!

Vapor Cries of the Steam-Powered Man

The steam-powered man with those grand hands that spanned chasms
Found himself alone no chasms to span with those grand hands
He thought to cry did the steam-powered man but the only tears to come
Turned instead to steam and vapor all heat from inside him and made him
Only want to cry more though so futile he thought it eventually
For indeed though no tears would come still the steam-powered man
Had thoughts that overwhelmed him overwrought him overjoyed him
Steam-powered thoughts he thought them when the thoughts came
With little else to show them than the steam that came and powered his name.

Earbuds and Doodlebugs

What she needed at this very moment could be found in the back of the closet just between her sixteenth pair of heels – these flatter than at least five of the others – and a plastic bin marked “Misc. Winter.” Between the two aforementioned once slipped a piece of paper marked by scribbles, doodles, a short to-do list for a short Saturday (which, if she were to recall, was made even shorter by a blot of late-morning rain), and, just at the bottom left of the paper, depending on which way she held it, was written the name and address of one Mister Maculmaney. She had never met Mister Maculmaney nor spoken with Mister Maculmaney by phone or other such correspondence, nor had she a notion of how Mister Maculmaney looked. She could not nor would not spot him by face had she the chance. For all she knew, she had passed Mister Maculmaney every morning for the last dozen mornings and paid him no heed whatsoever, pushing him into the impressionistic miasma of her morning commute – for this was her ritual and her right to focus on her music, on her book, on her cup of coffee, to let others have their mornings as they wanted while she focused on everything and nothing all at once; it was best that way for everyone.

Still, were she to be quizzed on the identity of Mister Maculmaney, she would probably be ignorant, certainly dumbfounded, possibly apathetic, and the address would confuse her most of all. What did she need with the address of a stranger? (And indeed, a stranger with a strange name: was it MACulmaney? MaCULmaney? MaculMAney? Beyond the stresses, what were the vowel sounds? Long or short? Was the name genuine? If not for apathy, she could ponder these for years.) It read as a home address, but could very well have been Mister Maculmaney’s business address; it could have been both for all she knew. Here she would have it, his address, and no notion why, had she found the paper which had slipped down into an unnoticed crevice in the closet.

She may have even found herself pleased to discover one of her own belongings that she never knew existed, particularly a direct to link to an unknown man. How serendipitous to know just where to find someone whom one does not know. If she so desired, she could go directly to Mister Maculmaney and question him: why would I know you; from where have we met; how do you say your name? Mister Maculmaney could prove to be most helpful, describing in detail the day, the moment, the swish of breeze that passed as she shook his hand, making him believe that she had a chill with in her that passed between their hands – an incorrect assumption, he would later learn, when she found him at his home many months later having uncovered his address in the remotest part of her closet and was composed mainly of warmth.

There was a need for her to seek him out, to know this man; a piece of information, a passage of music, a mutual friend seeing a future between the two of them. How that could be, though, she could not imagine, for she could not see herself allying romantically to a man who answered to ‘Mister’ anything; first names were mandatory, even in strangers. Mister made her think of elderly men, pretentious pomps, and past schoolteachers. Thus, Mister Maculmaney must be a man of considerable age, pomposity, or pretense – perhaps all three – and that is why the paper had slipped away, escaping preemptively to prevent her the inevitable displeasure of meeting Monsieur Maculmaney and his high throne of inaccessibility.

Still, she knew not the need for knowing him, nor did she remember him, nor did she know that her connection with him was lying in her closet – forgotten, forlorn, decaying – obscured by dust and winter clothes just useful enough to be called clothes, yet still packaged as miscellaneous. Eventually she would have to move and would find the piece of paper, taking a course of action (would it be garbage or recyclable?) and barely noticing Mister Maculmaney and his indeterminate address. She would not need him then in the midst of her move, it was only now that she may need him; this moment, this day, this peculiar phase of an altogether – in her view – uneventful life. What she needed right now was a mystery.