First, consult the Bible. It’s full of advice on making it with the ladies.
Here, the 10th Commandment is most germane. It states: “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbors ox,” which probably applies to wives, too. [But remember, we’re talking about the Tenth (i.e., the least important) Commandment. So, to be safe, check your HOA covenants regarding livestock.]
If your neighborhood doesn’t permit livestock, then it doesn’t permit your neighbor’s ox, which, Biblically speaking, means it doesn’t permit his wife, either.
So, you’re obviously entitled to go to your neighbor’s house and remove said ox, at which point she’s yours!
The boy is eight when his mother dies. Her death floods him with a grief he’s far too young to comprehend. He vows never to cry, lest he look weak.
Left to fester, his grief becomes shame—a shame that infects everything.
He feels unworthy, undeserving of love.
Later, his brain’s learned response to trauma of any kind will be shame.
In high school, he will do poorly in Algebra – Shame.
In college, he will self medicate – Shame.
One day he’ll lose his job – Shame.
Divorce – Shame.
He will point a finger always at himself, never at God.
John stopped going to church after his mother died. He’d only gone to please her anyway. He remembers sitting on her lap as a child, and saying
“Just in case, when I die
look everywhere for me. If you die
look everywhere for me while I look
forever everywhere for you.”
Now he sees a storm on every horizon. Inside, he’s a rumbling kettledrum, a choir of wind chimes. He no longer seeks — but rather craves that certainty the faithful have that there is something that lives beyond this body, like amputees scratching at limbs that are not there.
Dude, you’re my number-one homie. I’ma shoot you straight because no one else has the balls to. (Plus, I’m drumpk from all that Jim Beam you just guzzled.)
Todd, bro, you need to give up this whole (does finger-quotes)
“I’m so cool, I’m so ironic,” schtick.
Why should anyone read your words? What’s so special about your words? Bro, you like stoner movies and reality television – what makes you think you’re a writer?
—Wait, is that a tear I see? Don’t cry, bro. You know I love you man!
/end Todd’s hopes and dreams.
Beneath this poolside lounger, I spot a brittle comma caught in a flagstone crevice. I pick it up, hold it up to the sunlight, and count its veins, remembering that my mother called these whirlybirds.
As a child, I’d gather them in handfuls, and toss them into a gust to watch them flutter away like moths. Then, I’d give chase, hoping to catch the one that traveled furthest and put it in brown paper bag with the others – Call it my contribution to natural selection.
By H.S. Quarmby
She shuffled around the supermarket on broken heels, turning her thin ankles. Her thatch of bleached hair obscured most of her face and the childish smudges of makeup. Her clothes were almost rags, once bought for a night club, the tights were laddered, the short dresses ripped and stained. Her whole posture was painful to watch. Bent over, carrying a can of beans, a packet of pasta. The other shoppers turned and stared as she passed; the shop assistant followed her at a distance, watching her shaking hands.
By Mona Calvert
Confusion reigns. She is the queen of muddle. She rules all she surveys in the twelve by fourteen foot room that is her empire. To her, there is no distinction between the telephone and the remote, between January and July. Day is night and night no longer exists. Sleep at any point brings a scrap of peace, but then the crazy quilt of time starts again. Hour? Day? Date? Little registers. Except love. She still knows love.
In the 1960’s—in an effort to test the Infinite Monkey Theorem (i.e., a monkey typing at random for an infinite amount of time will eventually type a given text, e.g., the complete works of Shakespeare.)—your government secretly launched me (and 999 of my cousins) into outer space along with 1,000 typewriters.
Our charge: Just keep typing.
Our objective: Shakespeare.
Well, by now you’ve probably figured out that this ain’t Shakespeare.
I’m sorry. But seriously guys, what did you expect from 1,000 monkeys?
Enos the Chimp & His Surviving Friends
PS – Your typewriters are, um … broken. (Oh, and send bananas.)
I see you. I get it. The long hair stranded in two braids. Lonely for each other, they parted ways after the split. I see you waiting. By the counter, ordering coffee, you twirl the edge of your skirt around your little finger. Bubblegum lipstick and dark eye liner. You’re in your fifties, but you still feel fifteen.
“Can I have more sugar?” You look at the glass jar next to the cream. It’s almost as empty as your coat pockets when you say you have no change. It’s the change that you’re always waiting for.
I am writing to express my interest in your highest paying position, whatever that may be.
I’m no stranger to hard work. In fact, my father tells me I can see it coming from a mile away. (He is always praising me like that.)
Please review my enclosed resume and employment history. Succinct, no?
Let’s recall a quote by Oscar Wilde: “Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes.” Suffice it to say that I’ve had a mistake-free career.
I’ll speak with you further when I pop in for lunch tomorrow. Say, Noonish?