I und’standed why Meronym’d not said the hole true ’bout Prescience Isle an’ her tribe too. People b’lief the world is built so an’ tellin ’em it ain’t so caves the roofs on their heads’n’maybe yours. Old.
A true suicide is a paced, disciplined certainty. People pontificate, “Suicide is selfishness.
To those upon the menu, the sauce is no concern.
A young woman emerges from the next-door party and leans over the neighboring balcony.
She grasps for the ends of this elastic moment, but they disappear into the past and the future.
Are there nor trrruuue Scortsmen in tha hooossse?
All the supernatural yarns need a realist explanation and a supernatural one.
Spent the fortnight gone in the music room, reworking my year’s fragments into a “sextet for overlapping soloists”: piano, clarinet, ’cello, flute, oboe, and violin, each in its own language of key, scale, and color.
I walked along the pebbly beach. Plastic buoys. A sea coconut, shaped like a woman’s loins. Junk, washed up with the driftwood. Cans, bottles, rubber gloves, detergent containers. I heard grunts and squeals from under a peeling boat, never to float again. In the distance a shadow lit a fire.
Beautiful day for a grim journey.
Heresy is fissiparous, however.
People are obscenities.
Those there English gerrrrunts are trampling o’er ma God-gi’en rrraights! Theeve used me an’ ma pals morst direly an’ we’re inneed of a wee assistance.
A Highlander spoke softly: “Aye, laddie. We’ll nort let ye doone.
Preacher, of all the world’s races, our love- or rather our rapacity-for treasure, gold, spices, and dominion, oh, most of all, sweet dominion, is the keenest, the hungriest, the most unscrupulous! This rapacity, yes, powers our Progress; for ends infernal of divine I know not. Nor do you know, sir. Nor do I overly care. I feel only gratitude that my maker cast me on the winning side.
I’m not good at getting offended.
Other boys mean questions have to get settled. Who’s coolest? Who’s hardest? Who’s brainiest? Normal boys care about this stuff.
Bad things happen to realists.
Adam, my bro, an’ Pa’n’me was trekkin’ back from Honokaa Market on miry roads with a busted cart axle in draggly clothesies. Evenin’ catched us up early, so we tented on the southly bank o’ Sloosha’s Crossin’, ’cos Waipio River was furyin’ with days o’ hard rain an’ swollen by a spring tide.
Buttony eyes, stitched lips, frizzy hair, a face full of old regrets.