Forty-Fifth Paradox Writing

I see the two-sided gleam in her eyes,

as she shovels my every word into her mouth,

and spits it back out with little of her own.

Every so often her husband,

(I’m not sure which trinket belongs to who,

they’ve been hanging off each other all evening)

tugs her closer to clear up something she said,

as if he’s polishing her thoughts.

I’ve seen little of her mental coffers,

but I’ve seen even less of his.

Years ago we could walk across the planks together.

Now rotten wood threatens to send me falling below.

Perhaps I lost you first,

several steps back,

and it’s your voice I hear

calling me from below.

I’d reach out,

reach down,

reach up, even,

if I knew how.

It’s nothing personal.

He had an apologetic tone to his voice as he leaned toward the driver’s side window.

(I didn’t afford him the dignity of the view in my eyes.

I hid them behind my sunglasses:

my only weapons stashed in that car.)

“I believe you officer when

you say tailgating is the number one cause

of accidents in this area,

but trains and driving too

slowly are the number one causes of being

late to class.”

The green in the grass laughed.

Note: Words in quotes are  said either by the members of Flatfoot 56, Project 86, or the fans at a recent concert in Portland, OR. Words in italics are my thoughts. Fifty percent of them should be read with sarcasm.  

One of these days I’m gonna raise a kid just like this guy did, and take her to Project 86 concerts. She’s guaranteed to have amazing taste in music and serious angst by age six. No worries though, I’ll frolic with her to Flatfoot 56 to balance everything out.

“If you don’t leave here with bruises, bloodied bodies, and a piece of your skull on the concert floor, something’s wrong.”  

Circle pit!?

“Put your arm around the person next to you, and girls, if a guy tries to cop a feel, deck him in the face.”

Not only does he play bagpipes, but he gets bonus points for wearing a kilt.

“Ninth reason why we love our fans: some of them love songs off our first album even though we never play them.”

Oo…fog machines.

“We love you!” “Run!”

Somebody should name their band To Be Announced, or TBA for short. Really.

“We regularly post on Facebook and other evil social-networking sites.”  

Is that flowers he has tattooed on his arm? Does that say: ‘I’m sensitive’? Must be, I think he’s married.

“Hopah!”

“I think we should’ve turned right three palm trees ago.” The sand rustled along the hooves, and two of the riders tightened the cloths covering their mouths.

“Three, huh.”

“Yeah, three. That one by that mountain.”

“You call that a mountain? That was more like a foothill!”

“Um…I think my cammel needs to pee.”

The others glanced at him, their turbans billowing in the dessert wind. Still, they didn’t stop just yet.

One sighed, the narrow band of gold circling his turban glinting in the moonlight. “I suppose he didn’t need to when we were at that oasis not to long ago.”

“Not at all.” The second answered, scrutinizing his robes of fine scarlet while his skin tried to match their hue.

“Hm, well, we could always try the next one.” The third added optimistically, trying to juggle his star chart and his looking glass.

“I’m sure there won’t be one for another few days. You should’ve checked your camel while you had the chance.”

“I did! I swear, no signs at all of any… potential leakage.”

“You sure we couldn’t just take a break? I’m feeling a little tired myself.”

“We can’t. That camel will be doing its business until the moon wanes at this rate. We’re already late.”

“Oh come on. That child has waited for over a year now, it’s not like he’s still waiting in some manger for our gifts.”

“I don’t know..this myrrh might spoil, or that frankincense. It’s not like gold, you know.”

Yeah, you look all pretty in bright red shoes,

But who do you fool?

What are you selling, really?

Your music, or your body?

Your body, or your soul?

Your soul, or yourself?

You brag about how you changed from pastor’s kid to a pop icon,

Like you changed from jeans to a mini skirt,

But you don’t fool me,

With your juicy lyrics and swaying hips

With your black hair and your cherry lips.

I think you fool your eyes, your ears, your hands, your feet

And you think you’re having fun,

But we both know you sold that too.

Dear Customer Service,

About two weeks ago I sent to you my computer. I want it back. If you don’t send my computer back to me soon, I’ll come for it myself. Thank you for providing your mailing address which happens to match the address to your corporate headquarters and your warehouse. Consider this letter your warning: I’m on my way, and I’m a very dissatisfied customer.

Soon to be your uninvited guest:

The Owner of the Red Dell Laptop

You’ve made it to the Forty-Fifth Paradox, and now you sit reading at the halfway point between truth and fiction. Enjoy your time here, I know I will. Lean back as far as you dare on your chair, prop up your feet, and relax as sensory images and various feelings wash over your person. I, your host, am a creative writing major which found a place to polish my writing, and to let my imagination pour out in all directions for your reading pleasure.

Here at the Forty-Fifth Paradox, we have a different system, but a simple one.. A few posts will be chapters, or portions of chapters of a novel idea I’ve been tossing around. It involves a cold case, a confessed killer (or an unconfessed liar?), a prison ministry participant, faith, skepticism, and of course, teenagers. ;P . Other posts will be drabbles (200 words or less), one shots (300+ words) and poetry. You, the reader and guest, play a key role in the upkeep of the Forty-Fifth Paradox.

• Your favorite post thus far: a comment saying why

But wait! Sit by the fire a bit longer, and I’ll let you know of another way your input makes a difference. Leave a comment with a keyword you want the next post (drabble, one shot, or poem) the first five will be bolded in the next post. By the flip of a coin, I’ll choose between poetry and prose, and then between one shot and  drabble. (In some circumstances, drabble will be more likely, due to time constraints.)

Alas, your hostess must end yet another day, and head to the back for some well deserved rest. Feel free to linger by the fire, but please put out the flames if they threaten to burn down this lovely paradox. The fire’s bite is always worse than its bark.