Did I mention that monday was the one year blogiversary of Word Garden? Well, it was. As I gaze blindly into the dazzling light of My Future, I want to thank each and every one of my readers. I love you all.
PS--The pictured train wrecks are similar but not identical. Can you find the differences?
"I can't help still having a soft spot for Pan," says Egg, in an interview.
"Pan was the one who brought me out of my shell,
And when we touched, well! Things heated up in a hurry."
Egg looks wistful for a moment, then continues.
"But just when I was feeling solid in our relationship,
Just when I felt so sunny,
Pan dumped me."
A little drop of yolk slips down her face.
"It wasn't pretty after that.
First there was Plate, who was cold.
Then there was Fork, who was even worse, and left me in pieces.
I thought," says Egg, bravely,
"That I might be consumed entirely. But I wasn't."
"That was when I met Mayo and Mustard.
After the terrible loneliness of my post-Pan days, I finally felt that I was a part of something larger than myself."
Egg smiles shyly.
"I suppose you could say those were my salad days."
"But I never really forgot my first love, Pan.
Oh I know, he's heated it up with Bacon and Hash Browns and who-knows-who since we split up,
But I'll always love him anyway.
Pan was such a hottie."
The audience, mostly women, go "Awww," and several of them fumble in their bags for a tissue.
Oprah leans closer to Egg and asks gently,
"What about Chicken? The media has portrayed you as everything from bitter rivals, to being as close as mother and daughter. They even link Chicken and Pan romantically. Egg, what do you have to say about all of that?"
The audience gasps.
Oprah's face is alive with empathy.
The camera zooms in.
"Oh, Chicken just got her feathers ruffled because, with Pan, she knows that I came first."
At the Elizabeth Hitchens Maximum Security Facility For Women in Coldwater, Michigan,
Inmate #52759 receives a visitor
At four in the morning.
This visitor is not designated on any roster of friends and family, nor is her visit sanctioned by any overseeing authority.
She is a succubus.
She enters sleepers' dreams.
She has sex with them.
She steals their souls.
She has come to see Chloe.
The cell block is as silent as a spider's web.
The succubus drifts between the bars and in.
It is rare to hear the voice of a startled mythical demon.
"Jesus Christ on a motor bike!" says the succubus. "You scared me!"
Chloe is sitting wide awake on the top bunk,
Her eyes as steady and bright as a child's.
"Hola, chica," she says.
"Wow, you should wear a bell around your neck, girl, you about gave me a heart attack. You could at least say you're sorry."
"You sound like the Judge," Chloe replies coolly. "The actions of this wicked girl...yadda yadda. Who has never shown the slightest remorse for her evil act."
The succubus searches in her shoulder bag for something and mutters, "Yeah, I get that all the time, too. Damn, forgot my smokes. Listen, Bo Peep, why are you in here, anyway?"
"Duh. The doors are all locked."
The succubus finally finds her cigarettes and sits on the edge of the bunk to smoke. "Look, sugar pea. Since I quit selling real estate, I'm a little short. I need a roommate. What d'you think? Share an apartment together, get a cat or something?"
"Would there be smoke alarms?" asks Chloe.
"Pfffft, no way, I set those things off just by walking in the door. They set my teeth on edge, I won't have one in my place. I'm all about serenity and shit. So, how about it?"
Chloe shrugs. "Sure."
The guard in his little plexiglass booth had fallen asleep. He began to have the most remarkable dream. He thought he was touching Jody Reigelberger's nipple, but it was really the button that releases the cell block doors. Then his heart stopped. "It's almost too easy," thinks the succubus.
Before they go apartment hunting, the girls stop at the Danny's across from the golf course for some breakfast. The manager is new in town, with a nice place he's rented all for himself, right near work. He just got this job, and at first he thinks it must be his lucky day when the two hot babes walk in and give him the smoky eye.
"You from around here?" asks the dark one. The younger one is silent, but he almost drops their menus when she looks straight at him and licks her lips.
I would like to thank Vicariousrising for giving me the Superior Scribbler Award. Since I am back to work and nothing especially dramatic is happening in my life, I found myself unable to write anything worth posting here yesterday. So I thought it would be droll to post a writing award on a day when I have nothing poetic to say.
There are rules and stuff but you know how I get.
Er...does anyone else think it looks like the Scribbler has boobs for eyes? "Look into my eyes! Wait! Stop staring at my boobs! Oh never mind! Dammit! Why was I born like this?!?" Well maybe not. You know how my mind works.
The judge who overturned the decision thought her appeal had merit--
He'd liked the way she'd crawled straight across his desk like that,
Sending tedious paperwork and awards to the floor.
He'd rarely met an applicant so eloquent.
On a sunny Sunday in May,
With girlish grace
And fairy face,
Took to living on the golf course.
It was green,
If not strictly included under the language of her parole.
Some men enjoy playing golf--
Some of them to a degree never intended by God.
On a day when Saturn and Mars lined up like a gimme putt,
Retiree Bob Newburg parked his cart at the second hole, par four
And got out.
He was wearing
A white mesh bill cap,
A knit shirt with a little logo on the pocket,
And yellow polyester golf slacks.
Such a man could never survive for long in the wild.
Because Bob Newburg's attention was fixed
On remedying a persistent slice,
He was oblivious
To the young woman he had disturbed.
Chloe was just dragging a fresh kill up into the safety
Of a nearby sycamore.
Upon being interrupted,
Her perfect face became the perfect expression
Of indignant fury.
"For chrissakes, Bob!" exclaimed a shaky-voiced Don Parkley
Upon discovering what remained of his golf partner.
Looked down from a high branch,
Her eyes as clear and calm as summer moons.
On a sunny Sunday in May,
With girlish grace
And fairy face,
Now resides inside the Elizabeth Hitchins Maximum Security Facility For Women
In Coldwater, Michigan.
She works in the inmate stitchery
Making little samplers for the Department of Corrections gift shop,
And has never once felt sorry
( I recently visited K's fine blog Interstitial Life and left a rather over-the-top comment off the top of my head. I later decided it deserved to be expanded. The result is "Chloe." Thank you, K, for posing the question of the difference between being "tame" and being "domesticated.")