I once had a dream about fly swatters dancing the tango as flies looked on, dazed. When the music stopped and the swatters went about their business again their spell was not broken. Flies did not fly anymore but sat patiently awaiting their destruction. The towels were outraged. They thought wiping up fly guts was beneath them.
If I was a towel I would be the white one, full of holes from being bleached (or beached) too long. If I were hung out to dry I would cast reverse shadows of bunny rabbits on the grass. The opposite of a bunny rabbit is a Midwest trucker hell-bent on making it to Tuscaloosa by midnight.
If I were a trucker I would not wear mesh trucker hats because, as a trucker, it would be my duty to be as un-cool as possible. I would wear tight jeans whose back right pocket would bear witness to my only friend -- a cow named Betty who would live under my ass in wallet form. I would wear a black tank top. I would sweat.
Stop and think for a moment. If you were an inanimate object, what would you be? What kind of that object would you be? If you were a fork, for instance, would you be made of sterling silver? Would you be a gnarled, rusty fork whose tines went every which way but into mashed potatoes? I would be a fork in the road, tines deep in the asphalt and mashed flat down, kissing the pavement and pointing east on Interstate 78 towards Manhattan.
I know what you are. You are a leather purse emblazoned with an L and a V. You were birthed not by Louis Vuitton but by Las Vegas, Nevada. You hold three quarters, one lipstick, four thousand dollars in cash, and one hand. A poker hand. One that is worth money not because of the cards it contains but because it is from the future. Four hundred years from now we will still be playing poker. Isn't that a real kick in the pants? That's what you are, a kick in the pants. Man alive.
If I were a pair of pants I would put myself on one leg at a time and wink out of existence. It's impossible for pants to wear themselves. Everyone knows that. I took Everyone out on a date once, a long time ago. That's when she told me about the pants. That's when she slapped me for being "indecent." I took her home after she slapped me. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and apologized.
If I was an apology I would be posthumous and nonsensical. "I'm sorry. Sorry for all of it. The penguins, the rice. The curtains I tore up with the claws you trimmed yourself. The brown sugar on the kitchen floor when you're getting up to go to work. Have you tasted brown sugar after it's been on your foot? I have. It was like normal foot but sweeter. I should have been sweeter. More sweet. I'm dead. I'm sorry."
[Forever after at http://eyeshot.net/gunderson.html]
B R A V E S O U L S R E C E I V E
Archive of Recent Activities - Advice for Submittors
Enhanced Navigational Coherency - Long-Ass List of Contributors
Super Lo-Tech Slideshow - Four Years Ago, Maybe - Three Years Ago Today
Two Years Ago Today - Last Year Today
ONLY YOU CAN HELP RANDA JARRAR (OR SOMEONE ELSE) WIN IT
these words, (2) select the story called "You Are a 14-Year-Old
Arab Chick . . ." by Randa Jarrar, and (3) click "Submit Vote" -
contributors A.C. Koch and Claudia Smith are also nominated
for the storySouth Award for stories that appeared elsewhere - read them
and vote for them if you like them better than Randa's story,
which was posted on eyeshot and therefore has
been promoted perhaps already to excess
(learn more about what it's all about)
FIVE ZILLION TIMES MORE IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW
THAN SOME PUNK-ASS ONLINE WRITING AWARD
IS REGISTERING TO VOTE FOR THE
to a print thing called
"Boom! For Real"