Thursday, March 10, 2011

25 word stories of dubious goodness

He was mocked by her cherry red Popsicle mouth for only having a nickel. Sitting curbside, sucking hot cinnamon from a toothpick, he hated her.

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His intentions were good, but mental illness fucked his berries. Just ask the stain. It would take an expert to figure out what she didn't.

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When he showed her his plan for The Perfect House, it included no room for her. They stopped taking silly quizes. She relented. She's homeless.

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Maggie thought Reginold was amazing. She hated that his friends remembered him as the guy who puked in his hat and put it back on.

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He awoke once again, in a diaper, with a rash and shameful hangover, and could finally admit he was the adult baby of an alcoholic.

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Horrified my family would allow Grandma to lay her head on a dead maggoty horse, I sped off in my rocket car to the bathroom.

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They made smooth from rough, over time shuffling into each other like a deck of cards. He whispered to her fingertips, “Now we play”.

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Adelaide wished to be sensual, pliant, saturated with providence, but unlike Frida Kahlo, could never embrace or manage her uni-brow, and instead read a lot.

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The bed sagged from a time when two fat people had once awkwardly fucked and slept. He was gone, she was thinner, the dip remained.

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Thank you, thank you, thank you, who am I? Chain smoking, terrified, trying to recall the plot of the shit show she'd just starred in.

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Geared up, they slipped through the sewer grate to find the under city tunnel party. They were in the cave so long bones became boring.

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She had an emotionally nutritious sweetie, sometimes distant, sometimes inside her. His fierce grasp on some wonderful things also slipped on others. Hers did too.

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Standing in a kitchen sunbeam, melting a tiny bit of frozen orange juice concentrate on my tongue, an entire orange grove reconstituted in my mind.

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Horns and hips rolling, a saunter. A meander. Strings and beats. Deft hands working the sound from everything; the stones all worn smooth from dancing.

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Over and over it would rain so they could not dig the body up. They'd have to accept that no one could win the argument.

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The neighbors vacuumed at 3am. I thought, “CRAY-ZEEE!” Turns out, they were trying to suck up a real demon! Can you believe that shit?

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