The moment that the spring turns to summer is easy to miss. It isn’t like the switch between summer and fall; that is, less of an instantaneous change and more of a gentle slope into a haze of leaf smoke, ghost stories, and apples. The change from spring to summer is mostly an internal one. A defrosting of the mind and the lifting of the green bud fog into a different sort of haze. One of heat shimmer pavement and emotional languidity It only takes a moment to step from one kind of seasonal drunkenness to another, but you never notice until the change is complete.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Rejected Paragraph From A Short Story
I throw out my entire first paragraph about 90% of the time...that doesn't mean that I think it's a bad paragraph, but the first thing on the page is seldom strong enough to carry the tale.
Monday, August 29, 2011
2 New Poems in InstagatorZine
Two of my poems will be appearing in Issue 12, coming out this September.
This is a great litmag out of my home state of NJ. It's available in some shops (check their website for specifics) as well as via ebook and mail order.
Instagator Zine- Issue 12
This is a great litmag out of my home state of NJ. It's available in some shops (check their website for specifics) as well as via ebook and mail order.
Instagator Zine- Issue 12
Friday, August 12, 2011
Monologue To The Flies In My Kitchen
Now, I want to preface this by saying that I am a reasonable woman. I believe in live and let live, but there comes a turning point for all that. A point when you say “You know what guys, enough is enough.” You’ve been here, evolutionarily speaking, for a long time. That’s great. But generational history doesn’t necessarily mean rights. I think that since you only live three days, and I’ve been on god’s green earth way longer than that I inherently get more rights. That may not be politically correct, but it's what I think.
Now I’m not saying I have it rough or anything. In fact today wasn’t particularly bad. I went to work, got mad shit done, I hit the gym, hopped on the subway. I even stopped by that little green-grocer I like. Got some really good produce. I was excited to get to my apartment, make myself a little something, maybe watch some TV, and go to bed.
And then I walk through the door.
What the hell-ass is going on here?
It looks like Beelzebub himself is having a kegger in my kitchen with all the demonic spawn. Who the hell do you think you are? Buzzing around like you own the place! Unacceptable.
The fact of the matter is, evolution aside, you’re disgusting to me. You are a harbinger of disease and torment. You feed on shit and refuse, which confuses me, since I bleach the this place once a week before my mother comes. So really guys, what are you eating? And additionally, and no offense meant here, you’re ugly. Though that isn’t the crux of my Goddamn ire. Roaches I hate too, but they can survive a nuclear war so I gotta give credit where credit is due. You can’t survive anything.
Which brings me to where I am now. Standing in the kitchen with my groceries.
You guys have made a grave mistake.
You are going down. Every last one of you. I am going to the bodega. I am going to buy supplies and then I am going to hunt you. To be frank, you are getting in the way of me making a delicious meal in the comfort of my own home. And that in my opinion should be voted a cardinal sin by the Vatican. I look forward to that meal all day. The crafting of something delicious to eat should not be sullied by the concern of some vicious little poop eating vermin flying into my food. That makes me ticked off. Like, really ticked off.
Now I like the environment. Maybe I’m even a closet hippie. I recycle, I try to buy green cleaning products, I may even be a vegetarian. But don’t you dare think for even a millisecond that I wouldn’t use the most vicious poisons imaginable.
Because I will.
You see, you all made a fundamental mistake. I can’t cook with you all buzzing about in the air. An Italian woman’s kitchen is her personal temple, and you are trying to degrade it. This kitchen isn’t just a place to cook food, it’s a bastion of safety, warmth, and nutrition. You have sullied that. You must be dealt with.
Oh, and I am not just going to put up fly-paper. That sweet sticky stuff that attracts you and then grabs you, makes you struggle, maybe ripping a leg or two off in the process. I’m gonna make sugar traps. Sweet wine glasses half filled with honey’d water, covered in plastic that you crawl into but can’t get out of. So that you drown in that which you desired. Dante Alighieri would have loved that shit. Then I am going to spray all of you with the aforementioned poisons, just to be sure. So that you get delirious and drunk and eventually fall to the ground, twitching and convulsing. A death worthy of what you are.
Here’s the kicker. I am going to catch one of you before all this happens. Put him in a jelly jar and make him watch the flyocalypse that is about to occur. Then I am going to release him onto the street, just so one is left alive to tell the tale. After the contorted horror on that second-to-last fly’s face, he will spread the story to all your disgusting brethren. My name will be whispered in garbage cans city-wide. Maggots will have nightmares of me as they munch through rotting flesh. My face, seen through compound eyes, will be synonymous with insectoid horror.
Fear me.
Now I’m not saying I have it rough or anything. In fact today wasn’t particularly bad. I went to work, got mad shit done, I hit the gym, hopped on the subway. I even stopped by that little green-grocer I like. Got some really good produce. I was excited to get to my apartment, make myself a little something, maybe watch some TV, and go to bed.
And then I walk through the door.
What the hell-ass is going on here?
It looks like Beelzebub himself is having a kegger in my kitchen with all the demonic spawn. Who the hell do you think you are? Buzzing around like you own the place! Unacceptable.
The fact of the matter is, evolution aside, you’re disgusting to me. You are a harbinger of disease and torment. You feed on shit and refuse, which confuses me, since I bleach the this place once a week before my mother comes. So really guys, what are you eating? And additionally, and no offense meant here, you’re ugly. Though that isn’t the crux of my Goddamn ire. Roaches I hate too, but they can survive a nuclear war so I gotta give credit where credit is due. You can’t survive anything.
Which brings me to where I am now. Standing in the kitchen with my groceries.
You guys have made a grave mistake.
You are going down. Every last one of you. I am going to the bodega. I am going to buy supplies and then I am going to hunt you. To be frank, you are getting in the way of me making a delicious meal in the comfort of my own home. And that in my opinion should be voted a cardinal sin by the Vatican. I look forward to that meal all day. The crafting of something delicious to eat should not be sullied by the concern of some vicious little poop eating vermin flying into my food. That makes me ticked off. Like, really ticked off.
Now I like the environment. Maybe I’m even a closet hippie. I recycle, I try to buy green cleaning products, I may even be a vegetarian. But don’t you dare think for even a millisecond that I wouldn’t use the most vicious poisons imaginable.
Because I will.
You see, you all made a fundamental mistake. I can’t cook with you all buzzing about in the air. An Italian woman’s kitchen is her personal temple, and you are trying to degrade it. This kitchen isn’t just a place to cook food, it’s a bastion of safety, warmth, and nutrition. You have sullied that. You must be dealt with.
Oh, and I am not just going to put up fly-paper. That sweet sticky stuff that attracts you and then grabs you, makes you struggle, maybe ripping a leg or two off in the process. I’m gonna make sugar traps. Sweet wine glasses half filled with honey’d water, covered in plastic that you crawl into but can’t get out of. So that you drown in that which you desired. Dante Alighieri would have loved that shit. Then I am going to spray all of you with the aforementioned poisons, just to be sure. So that you get delirious and drunk and eventually fall to the ground, twitching and convulsing. A death worthy of what you are.
Here’s the kicker. I am going to catch one of you before all this happens. Put him in a jelly jar and make him watch the flyocalypse that is about to occur. Then I am going to release him onto the street, just so one is left alive to tell the tale. After the contorted horror on that second-to-last fly’s face, he will spread the story to all your disgusting brethren. My name will be whispered in garbage cans city-wide. Maggots will have nightmares of me as they munch through rotting flesh. My face, seen through compound eyes, will be synonymous with insectoid horror.
Fear me.
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