the subterranean echo

So for my fiction workshop, my professor asked us to write the WORST possible story we could. She wanted us to break every rule (badly), do everything wrong, and succeed at utter badness in short fiction. Here is what i came up with:

Once upon a time, I was ten years of age. I really like ‘N Sync and beautiful days at the beach. At the beach it is usually hot and today was no different. i was profusely sweating. A seal is barking loudly. I pulled out my glass mirror. Mirrors always reflect who you are. And not just on the outside. I looked into my own eyes, and it was like i was looking into my soul. I asked myself, “Who am I?”I was too young to know at the time. Suddenly, there was an explosion on the horizon, and a hot chick came to my rescue, my love for her is like a red, red rose, and it was then that I finally discovered who I was. The End.

Word

gets its name

from

its resemblance to the

strange

people.

Nobody knows where it originated.

At dawn,

in ancient times,

we can trace

the little markings.

“Bored in Class” Haikus:

1.)  What is the hardest

      word to put in a haiku?

      It’s chrysanthemum.

2.)  He too pissed himself,

      let loose shimmering rivers

      so golden and true.

3.)  Lovers in the street

      turn our everyday dust in

      to a golden haze.

4.)  Saw my reflection

      in second empty bottle,

      I need a refill.

How to Make Love to a Female Zombie

1. Entice her with meat—preferably pork—for pork is the closest tasting meat to human flesh. And she will be hungry—ravenously hungry—so bring enough. Make sure she is satisfied—This is essential! And don’t upset her, for your intestines are at stake if you do. Next, offer her wine, preferably blood red, it will calm her nerves—zombies get nervous too—but don’t get her drunk, that is a bad idea. And don’t get her stones, that is an even worse idea.
2. Once your both a bit buzzed, put on your favorite record and ask her to dance. For we all know that dancing is a vertical expression of a horizontal desire, so offer your hand and show her what you’re made of. Start slow, and sweep her hair behind her ear. But be cautious of her feet, for if you step on them, they make break off, and she won’t be able to curl her toes when you make her climax.
3. Lay her down softly, don’t be afraid to tell her that her blood stains and bodily fluids don’t bother you. She’ll appreciate that, as her entrails unwrap you under the bedsheets. Enter her slowly, and offer her the chance to be on top, for zombies are an oppressed species, and they like to be in control too, some of the time. Next, cherish her moans, use them as the melody to make love to. And don’t be alarmed if she moans like she is dying, because she is already dead! And this is normal.
4. Once you are both satisfies, hold her tight, as if the apocalypse were creeping close. Look deeply into her clouded grey eyes. Tell her how stunning her decaying skin looks. Tell her that the brains oozing from her bedhead are sexy and that her limp-walk swagger is sassy. Tell her she is your undead queen. Tell her she is beautiful. For this might bring her back to life.

new moleskin today

Bullet Holes

            for Emily Dickinson and a few others

Our lives have stood—as loaded guns—

beneath pale, paint-chipped corners,

wherein the most hallowed hues

of the most cryptic crevices,

rest the bullet holes—still warm

of what we are struggling to remember. 

Like remember that one time

we hopped that fence

near that church

and the San Andreas shook

our souls out from beneath us.

But you broke my fall

and you caught me,

because back then,

you had arms for soul catching,

and hugging, which in your language

may be synonyms.

We were black and bruised,

running through the

Mission in January—

We laughed

We lit a match

and we watched as

we lit the decaying

Christmas trees on fire.

But even in the burning bush

the wildlife living inside

would rather fade into ash

with their home

than expose themselves.

And this is just but one of what I speak

in the most hallowed hues,

of the most cryptic crevices

one bullet hole—still warm

of what we are struggling to remember.

Like remember that one time

we all stayed up all night around

a table that grows for company.

We took shot after shot

we read poem after poem

we took the dog

                    on a walk

                                 in the morning

                                          on our way out for coffee;

and when the sun finally rose

we all thought that

these must be the golden years.

But if you drift too close to the golden sun

then you will burn

like a decayed Christmas tree

or gunpowder.

Because once you shoot, your hand is stained,

and all that remains,

are the bullet holes—still warm

of what we are struggling to remember.

Like remember the first time

I read at the corner.

It was about you

and your golden glow.

“I must be a moth,” I said,

and that hasn’t changed

just so you know

and although things now

may seem black and bruised

my arms are still made for soul catching.

In a natural disaster,

it is every man for himself.

And I ask myself

if this tectonic shift has passed.

But we can’t yet seem to recognize our neighbors

without the houses that surrounded them.

We continue to speak, but only through

telephones composed of thread and paper cups.

But maybe that’s all we have.

And as I sit in the most hallowed hues

of the most cryptic crevices,

I pick up my makeshift telephone

and attempt to spackle these bullet holes.