Saturday, June 22, 2013

One sentence each

Here is what happens when you write a story one sentence each with your brother... I thought it was a handshake, but she was giving me a piece of paper folded into four. I licked the side of her face, she responded with hostility. A sharp elbow with just enough spice to convey her excitement and trepidation caught my ribs. The sharp edges of the note held an intimate curiosity. There is something seductive, alluring, forbidden about the passing of a note. The open secret that longs to wrap you in lust and curiously make your heart flutter and falter. I didn't open it instantly but rather, in self-indulgent torment, turned half away and make a remark about some triviality. After an instant and an eternity I cracked and read the note: "I wish you had less body hair. Stay off the coke or I'm moving to Canada and taking Jo-Jo". I wasn't disappointed. Jo-Jo was our pet monkey. I could not live without him. She always came out with shit like that, the crazy bitch new where every single one of my buttons was located, and how to push them. Including the one six inches up my ass. They say kinky is using a feather and perverted is using the whole chicken...She was a poultry farmer. It was a bluff. She'd never convince that monkey to go anywhere near Canada. He was racist. His disregard even extended to things with a foreign prefix. French sticks were forbidden, French fries, the food of the devil. French horns he was surprisingly supportive of. That monkey was a paradox, an enigma inside a flea-bitten riddle. But he loved German porn and Ice Skating, what monkey doesn't. He was a fan of the old seven-minute cinema, and Torvel and Dean. Good times, good times. Enough daydreaming, I wanted her. I needed her. My blood sang to her and it took all of my willing to keep it hidden. The pleat of my pants, however, was unforgiving and the massive erection silhouetted my enthusiasm, awkward with a capital D. She calmed me with a gentle hand to my face and a nuzzle without touching, she had a tender way about her which always left me speechless and dumbstruck and warm in a blanket of security. "Why do you put up with me and all my weird shit?" I asked, still a little crimson. "Normality is mediocrity". She was always blunt but never rudely so. Her shortness was so much of her nature, her charm. She continued "I couldn't give two shits for all those mediocre, normal mid week TV watching boring fucks, I like the way your mind works. I love your crazy, you know that." She was a tapestry, a Venus de Milo to my cup of milo, the Shiva to my Brahma-Vishnu, the guy that wore a Lucretian suit and mask and paid to watch. Ah, Tuesdays were much better now than the dark days of game shows and emotive, tear jerking, low budget, shite pseudo reality numbing entertainment. It was better when we were so bored that we were forced to create. Look at all the lovely things that were made up - Romeo and Juliet, the magic flute, God. She was so much better then me, she pushed boundaries and did things I would never do. The first to push the red button, the foot to the floor, caution and piss to the wind, a god amongst mortals who wonders why all around her are all so boring. They broke the mould when they made her, and maybe on purpose. "Welcome to earth, for the safety of others we have broken the mould in which you were made, please enjoy your stay and obey the rules."