Gertha's Uranus is Upside Down

Slaver

2011-06-10T23:16:00.000+01:00

- They hurt you again?

- Yes. But it's nothing compared to how they treat the people in the hulls.

- People?

- What? do you think they're not people?

- No, no, I...never thought of it, to be honest. Yes, I suppose they're people.

- You suppose? You've been around these bastards who call them animals for too long, young man. They're the real animals, those bastards. Why are you not with them anyway?

- My mother made me take a pledge never to drink when I was a child. I had to swear on the Bible, in front of our priest. She didn't want me to become like my father. He used to beat her up, like they do to you.

- And you never drank? Ever?

- Never touched it. I always stick to my word, lady.

- Stop calling me like that. What are you doing on this slaver anyway?

- I'm going to look for my own true love.

- Where does she live?

- I don't know. I just know that she's there, somewhere. I've been saving my love for her.

- Are you telling me that not only you've never touched liquor, but you've never touched a woman?

- Oh no, I've touched plenty of women. But my love, I'm saving for her.

- You're an odd one. You don't make much sense to me.

- And you, what are you doing on this boat?

- Apart from the obvious? Well, something happened where I come from. Something bad. I don't want to talk about it. It's behind me now. The only thing I can say is that an ocean is not enough to drown some memories.

- I don't like it when they hurt you.

- Well I don't like it either. As long as they don't hang me off the boat to attract the sharks. It's a long journey though, they might still do it.

- I won't let it happen, I'll protect you, lady.

- How many times do I have to tell you? I am not a lady. I'm the next best thing.

- You look like one to me.

Hélène L.

* * *

Physiognomy

2011-05-31T21:17:00.000+01:00

- I don't understand why Mr Stobbart thought you'd be a good addition to the Phrenology Society of Edinburgh. I am not convinced by what I see, James.

- Please don't call me James, Mr Combe.

- That's Professor Combe to you, James. I am always pleased to share my knowledge with worthy pupils, their background is not relevant to me. I have even taught the basics of our science to my hairdresser who can now use his hands better than a caliper, but I can see strong signs of aggressivity in your physiognomy, which doesn't surprise me, your people being renowned for their belligerence. While combativeness can be an asset in some professions, it is not a trait that I'm looking for in my students. The wideness of your eyes suggests trustworthiness, but it might be due to their blueness, and the physiodelectatiousness in your lower eyelids worries me; I do not like the scenery around your eyes. Those close brows of yours are characteristic of stubbornness. Your facial ratio implies a sanguine temperament that makes me highly uncomfortable. Also, you're standing far too close to my china head.

- Sir...Professor, I agree with you. I do not think I require your teachings. I think I am a natural in your discipline. I can tell from the curve of your mouth that you're a disdainful, pretentious bigot and from your heavy set wrinkles that you've never had a kind thought in your life. I shall tell Mr Stobbart that he should recommend you his hairdresser instead.

Hélène L.

* * *

Foofaraw

2011-05-31T18:30:00.002+01:00

Seamus Milligan had been warned about the place but nothing could have prepared him for the painful decay of a ghost town in the making. Only 30 years ago, there would have been 25,000 thousand souls living here, drinking in many crowded gambling halls. Now there couldn't be more than 400 of them left, dwelling in decrepit buildings whose facades had been eaten away by the sand. The man delivering the water barrels had given him a ride, explaining on the way how the salts from the silver mine had polluted the water resources. Many had died from metal poisoning before the officials realised what was going on.

The house was standing on the edge of town. "The wickedest night spot in town", boasted a derelict sign. He knocked at the door.

He was blinded by the foofaraw of the prostitute's attire and attitude.

- Hi. I'm looking for a man.

The grotesque woman burst into a castrating laughter.

- We don't have no man whore here, Paddy. It's a respectable establishment.

- I work for Pinkerton. I'm looking for a man called Alex Ruxton, have you heard of him?

- Pinkerton? Ruxton? Dunno. My customers don't give no names, just money. Is it about them outlaws stealing Mexican beef? You won't get nothing out of me, they feed my girls.

The woman's excessive jewellery made her sound like a rattlesnake when she moved her hand in front of his face. Milligan was getting worried of only getting double negatives out of her.

- Look, I'm investigating the murder of a girl. My client has reasons to believe that Alex Ruxton might have something in his possession that would bring some light on the matter.

- A girl? Was it a painted lady?

Milligan considered telling her the truth. But pretending that the victim was a soiled dove like her might make the shady matron more inclined to help him.

- Yes. She was found dead in a forest back in England.

- In England? and the man you work for thinks you're going to find the killer in Arizona?

He wasn't listening to her anymore. All his attention was focused on one of the many necklaces around her neck. He grabbed the woman by the throat and held her against the door.

- Where did you get that locket you frigging spunk bag?

Fear mixed with recognition flashed in her black rimmed eyes.

- Someone gave it to me.

- Who? WHO? Who gave it to you?

The woman's face had turned red.

- You, Paddy, you did.

Hélène L.

* * *

Connubial

2011-05-19T20:39:00.001+01:00

Pacing back and forth in his cell, Biff wondered when his conjugal visits with Lee-Anne had turned into connubial ones. In the beginning they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They tore at each others clothes and rocked that trailer off its foundations. Now Lee-Anne nagged at him about dropping his socks on the floor and lectured him about his oral hygiene. Maybe she needed The Fear put back into her. A little reminder of what attracted her to him in the first place - the formidable thrill of fucking with a murderer.

Kelli B.

***

Every day she goes to see them perform. She knows what is going to happen, it comforts her. The beautiful dress, the connubial bliss at the end sealed in a passionate kiss: it's like watching her dreams on stage. They're not making her pay anymore, she wouldn't be able to afford it anyway. They like having her around, she's always so enthusiastic. They won't be here for ever, but if she could manage to become useful to them, they might take her along.

Today is a special day. One of the older ladies told her she could come and watch them rehearse. She didn't sleep much the previous night, she was too busy picturing all the wonders hidden in their carriages. She's feeling dizzy with excitement and tiredness.

The older lady asks her if she can stitch. Yes, her mum taught her, she replies, she even knows how to count to fifty. It's very muddy behind the wooden stage, and flies are buzzing around the horses. Some familiar outfits are hanging from a clothesline between two carriages. It unsettles her to see them empty and lifeless. The woman tells her to sit on a stool by a table scattered with food leftovers and make up. She watches the woman searching for something at the back of one of the carriages, and when she turns around, she sees that she's holding the magnificent white dress. She drops it on her lap with a sewing kit. There's a hole that needs to be stitched, the woman says as she walks away.

She looks down on the dress. It's not as white as she thought it was. It used to be white, at some point. She doesn't know which hole to stitch, there are more than she can count. She feels like crying. Like the day she realised her mother told her lies like everybody else.

All of it was a lie. And there was nothing she could do to undo the truth.

Hélène L.

Fungible

2011-05-19T20:36:00.003+01:00

In her work as a translator, Ginger had seen all manner of poorly chosen product names. Still, she couldn’t quite fathom what the marketing department at “Fungible Condoms” had in mind…

Kelli B.

***

Everything is fungible. Even memories. Some of mine are actually yours.

Hélène L.

Iota

2011-05-19T20:35:00.003+01:00

If I had one iota of discipline, I wouldn’t be up to my hairy little navel in unwritten stories!

Kelli B.

***

The man with the Kappa hat was sitting in the chair with an obnoxious alpha male posture. Most of the beta testers looked like that, the programmer got used to it.

- Ok, your character has mental stigmata from the war he witnessed in the Omicron base back in 3056. Your employers don't know that when they're sending you to infiltrate the enemy HQ located in the delta of the Nile. All the sets are designed to look like a steampunk Egyptian civilisation. I know, it's not very original. Your first mission is to capture an android looking like Prince Charles dressed as Tutankhamen, neutralise him with a gamma ray - that's shift control F5 - drag him to the anthropomorphic spaceship and place him in the rocket launcher - that would be in the spaceship penis. You're following me?

The tester was looking at his Omega watch. Everything he was wearing was ostentatiously branded.

- Sure. Put Prince Charles in a cock.

- Yes, pretty much. But that's just the first mission, it's the training. I won't tell you anything about the rest. It should take you about 10 hours of gameplay. If you're hungry, help yourself with some pie.

- It looks like quiche to me.

- Whatever. Do you want a coffee before you start?

- Nah, I'm all right. It looks like you're having a bit too much of that stuff yourself, you're a bit agitated. It's not good for you, you know. "Chi va piano va sano", my grandmother used to say.

- Fine. You're ready then?

The man didn't budge a iota.

- So you're paying me to ejaculate royalty into space?

Hélène L.

Splenetic

2011-05-19T15:44:00.001+01:00

A splenetic health message from your spleen:

STOP FEEDING ME SHITE! Every other thing that comes through that big gob of yours contains additives, preservatives, artificial colouring or all three. You think I can filter all that crap? Give me another hundred million years then, maybe. Is it so much to ask for a little brown rice? A few green vegetables? A dash of vinegar once and a while that isn’t slathered on some battered hunk of lard? CAN’T YOU SEE? I’M CRYING OUT FOR VITAMIN B! I’ve tried to warn you! Those swollen dents in the side of your tongue – you think those are normal? The insomnia? The obsessive worry? NO! I’M TRYING TO GET YOUR ATTENTION! And what do you do to thank me? Eat sugar by the bucketful and wash it down with some high-fructose corn syrup. I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS ANYMORE! So, I’m only going to say this once: If I don’t see some R-E-S-P-E-C-T coming my way pretty damn quick I’m gonna R-U-P-T-U-R-E all over the place!

Kelli B.

***

A sky of lead was stretching heavily over the country. People had stopped hoping for a storm that would never come. The static tension in the air was not making the inhabitants prone to anger; instead, it had numbed them to the point of being splenetic. It had been going on for so long they had to adapt and find joy in frustration. Melancholic people from all over the world were flocking to the island to find a sense of belonging.

I didn't even make it to the promised land. I choked on a mint as my plane dropped in altitude. I never felt so satisfyingly disappointed.

Hélène L.

Nonplus

2011-05-17T12:59:00.003+01:00

" Je t'aime " :

a nonplus.

Hélène L.

* * *

Bieber stepped through the doors of the new Future-Mart and seated himself in the chair of the next available trolley. He dropped his token into the slot and waited for the screen to boot.

*Welcome to Future-Mart. Please input your first item.*

‘Bread’

*Please be more specific.*

‘White Bread’

*Please be more specific.*

Beiber sighed and remembered the days when customers were allowed to walk through the stores themselves. He knew from experience it was impossible to roam through Future-Mart on foot. The floors were fitted with sensors and alarmed – “For Your Own Safety”, apparently.

**I’m sorry. You did not input your item correctly. If you would like to see a list of brands please press here.**

Beiber’s trolley was shunted to the centre of the thoroughfare so the other trolleys could move to and fro unimpeded. He scanned the list of brands and chose ‘Future-Mart Fortified White Bread, Thick Sliced’

*Thank You. Please remain seated while I take you to – Future-Mart Fortified White Bread, Thick Sliced.*

The automated trolley whirred into action and trundled along the main thoroughfare before turning right at aisle 267. Three quarters of the way down it slowed to a halt.

*You are now at – Future-Mart Fortified White Bread, Thick Sliced.*

A mechanical arm attached to the shelf extended a tin of ‘Future-Mart Baked Beans’ towards his basket.

*Please confirm your selection. Add to trolley / Remove item*

‘Remove Item’

*Please input your next item.*

‘Future-Mart Fortified White Bread, Thick Sliced’

*Thank you. You are now at – Future-Mart Fortified White Bread, Thick Sliced.*

The mechanical arm extended the tin of Baked Beans back towards the trolley.

Beiber was nonplussed.

Kelli B.

Misnomer

2011-05-17T12:54:00.001+01:00

The nuns at the orphanage had christened him Désiré. What a misnomer for an abandoned child. They had told him they picked this name because even if his genitors had rejected him, God had desired him to be alive. What a load of bollocks. It had not taken him long to realise there was no such thing as a God. At the age of 5, as he was playing Chinese checkers on his own on Christmas day, spinning the board with his hands covered with mince pie to play the next turn, it dawned on him: there was no God. He just knew. Nothing in particular had triggered the thought. It was his own call to Faith. He remembered walking to the green blackboard at the back of the playroom and writing: there is no god. And today, as his crying wife wouldn't let go of the body of their stillborn child, he believed it more than ever: there is no god.

Hélène L.

* * *

I would like to argue – no, wait. That would be impolite – I would like to put forward that it is a complete misnomer to say Canadians are irenic negotiators. We can do bad stuff too! We have an Army and we’re not afraid – what? They’ve all been replaced by Peace Keepers? Are you sure? – I still think it’s a misnomer. All in favour of continuing the debate over a large box of Timbits say ‘Eh?’

Kelli B.

Autodidact

2011-05-17T12:48:00.004+01:00

She was obsessed with learning. A day where she didn't teach herself something was a day wasted. Last week, she learnt everything there is to know about Alaska; and today she worked really hard at improving her German by painfully translating a poem by Rilke. There was only one thing that the autodidact liked as much as learning: it was teaching. Unfortunately, she could only teach things she didn't know herself: the more she learnt, the less she could teach.

That sucked.

Hélène L.

* * *

I’m an autodidact. I am self-taught in the art of self teaching. I alone was able to break down my defences and teach myself new ways of teaching myself. For instance, once I had learned that I could teach myself to be self-taught it was as though the world unfolded itself to me. I could now teach myself to teach myself anything my heart desired. When I found out that to be self-taught was to be an autodidact I knew that there were others who had mastered this skill but few had capitalised on it’s true potential. So I decided to become a guru of self teaching, imparting my self taught knowledge of self teaching to the masses on the self-help seminar circuit. I now rake in a small fortune. God bless America!

Kelli B.

Zeitgeist

2011-05-17T12:48:00.000+01:00

The five men were scattered on the plane. From where he stood, behind the flight attendant pushing the trolley, he could see all of them. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Five men, wearing the exact same outfit as him, right to his yellow framed glasses. How could it be possible? He had his suit designed by a friend in Bologna, he remembered its conception around a glass of cheap chianti: lime green corduroy, a ladybird for luck on the left lapel, the word "Gestalt" crudely stitched in red on the breast pocket. He couldn't make out what was written on the jacket of the man closest to him, but there was definitely a word there, in red. The man met his gaze. For a moment, he thought he was staring at a mirror. He had to talk to that man. To all of them.

They met by the lavatory. In the windows, the cotton-wool sea had an orange hue in the setting sun. One of the men was German, two of them were French, and the fourth one was Irish, like him. It almost sounded like a joke. They were all as disconcerted as he was. They had all come up with the design themselves, independently. "Peut-être est-ce dans l'air du temps?" said one of the French men to the other. "Zeitgeist", translated the German man.

Hélène L.

* * *

Callithump

2011-05-17T12:43:00.002+01:00

Their thoughts had followed her all the way back to her room. They were getting closer each time. A monstrous callithump of freaks parading down the high street of her mind, casting her own weakening thoughts to the side, bullying them into oppressed silence.

She closed her eyes and focused on him. A shy smile began to stretch across her pale and worried face. As long as they didn't know about him, her sanity was safe. She just had to invoke a mental image of him to clear a side street in the crowded maze of her mind. She was always expecting to find him when she was getting to her hideaway. It was the craving to be cradled in his arms again that was keeping her alive. But all she was ever greeted by was white noise and static snow.

Hélène L.

* * *

cling, clang, clack,

tappa, rap, snap -

rattle, bang, clunk,

ting, tang, tunk -

rattle, boom, plonk,

plink, ting, tonk -

zing, zhang, zump,

Enjoy the Callithump!

Kelli B.

Irenic

2011-05-17T12:37:00.001+01:00

She tried to talk to one of them. And she failed, again. They don't know how to listen. Instead of silent understanding she faced unnecessary advice. She wanted to scream at that face, a long, continuous sound so powerful the skin on the face would ripple. She's not one to thrive on self-proclaimed irenic words. They're an insult to her. They make her feel small and angry. As the patronising suggestions were gradually belittling and replacing her heartbroken disclosure, she felt like she was outgrowing her own body, her strength stretching beyond the boundaries of her flesh, her fury escaping the cage of her mind. Where she was expecting comfort she only found shrouded antagonism. The longer the face was wearing that phony benevolent smile, the faster the shadows in the corner of her eyes were moving. She made the decision on the spot. She had to leave, go as far away as possible from the bars of the others' thoughts.

Hélène L.

* * *

Canadians pride themselves on their grasp of, and use of, irony. They think this sets them apart from their American neighbours and defines them as a nation. I would like to argue – no, wait. That would be impolite – I would like to put forward the notion that it is not a well developed sense of irony that makes Canadians distinct but their tendency towards irenic negotiations. (Now that’s ironic, eh?)

Kelli B.

Animalcule

2011-05-17T12:31:00.000+01:00

He placed the pebble of amber under the microscope.

- Is it the thing shaped like a trumpet? she asked.

He briefly looked her in the eye before staring back at the fossil.

- How on earth could such a thing exist? It doesn't make any sense. It would negate life. If it were activated, it would be the end of the world. It's beyond my understanding: if this animalcule really could do what you claim it can do, we wouldn't even be here to ponder about it. It would have eradicated life on earth. Or at least life as we know it. We would have evolved in a different way.

He grabbed it and watched it roll in his hand.

- You should destroy it, she said.

The small ball settled in his palm. He closed his fist on it. He took her hand and placed the future of the human race in it, pushed her fingers over it as if to nestle it, then covered her fist with his hands.

She didn't say no to the question he never asked.

Hélène L.

* * *

Materfamilias

2011-05-17T12:25:00.000+01:00

His clock was still ringing in his ears by the time he reached the turnstile. He caught his jacket pocket in it, and it ripped, sending all his loose change jingling off the floor. He awkwardly bent over, intending to pick the copper coins up, but changed his mind: it would congest the flow of morning travellers if he did so, and he wasn't the type of man who disrupts the way of the world.

He quickly took his place back in the stream, a little flushed by the embarrassment, and made it just in time for the sliding doors to close on his satchel. He freed it as he imagined all the passengers' eyes looking at him disapprovingly. The turnstile incident must have put him out of sync with his own rhythm, making him skip a beat in the repetitive and monotonous score of his life.

When he got to his workplace, the revolving doors looked threatening to him; he even thought of waiting until he would be the only person wanting to get in, but it would have meant being late for work, and he didn't like being late for work. He followed the accountant from the third floor as she stepped in and got unfortunately stuck in the same partition as her. She laughed; he didn't.

He slowed down as she dashed to the paternoster lift: he didn't want to be stuck with her in one of its compartments. He hated that thing. He kept fearing he was going to be caught in its drive chain some day.

But more than the paternoster, he feared the cleaning woman. And there she was, in the staircase, her matronal figure hammering a mop in a bucket. The rest of the staff seemed to see her as a benevolent materfamilias; to him, she was the combined embodiment of all the women who had persecuted him during his life. It was the way she looked at him. She despised him. He was despised by a cleaning woman.

He stared at the marble floor. He felt even more trapped than usual. He thought of killing the cleaning woman. He pictured himself hammering the mop in her face again and again and again. He pictured himself being jailed for it. He wiped these thoughts away and pictured himself leaving the building, jumping on a train to anywhere but here, building himself a new life where nobody would know him so he could become the person he thought he was meant to have become by now.

Instead, he entered the paternoster, as usual, because he just wasn't that type of man.

Hélène L.

* * *

10 words: Last Wish and

2011-05-17T12:15:00.000+01:00

bread, dead, release, pursuit, serial, solicitor, haircut, pursuit, expression, haircut, developing, metric

LAST WISH

To whom it may concern,

I, the undersigned, Reginald Bread, appointed solicitor to the Vital Baboon's trust fund, would like to ask for the permission to release Mr Baboon's ashes over his beloved duck pond on the behalf of the family of my dead employer. After a lifetime spent in the pursuit of developing a type of haircut that improved hair growth with substantial metric records, I believe it is a reasonable last wish coming from a man without whom baldness wouldn't have been eradicated. Mr Baboon's family see it as an expression of respect towards our nation's capillary saviour. You may find the serial number of Mr Baboon's urn attached to this request.

Very Truly Yours,

Reginald Bread

Hélène L.

* * *

10 words: Tulip of Destiny and Mirror, Mirror

2011-05-17T12:04:00.002+01:00

birth, frighten, sugar, blinis, cold, riverfront, cage, swinging, yew, Hermes.

TULIP of DESTINY

The shape of a hand pushes against the film of a shower curtain, grabs hold of it and pulls it aside with a theatrical flourish. Tonight’s dress rehearsal had already created quite a buzz in creative circles for its swinging new style. Hermes (the owner of the shower curtain hand) came late to ballet. He was twenty one before he took his first lesson. Being chosen from the dozens of others who auditioned for the show was a testament to his determination and tireless training, as well as his natural ability. He must have had it since birth. He has no idea where it came from as his parents lacked the rhythm to clap their hands in unison, let alone the inclination to dance.

Hermes was the type of child who was always fidgeting and getting in trouble for it. He found it impossible to sit still and was labelled as a trouble maker for his constant twitching and wiggling. His behaviour frightened the teachers. Naturally, they assumed he was high on sugar. They locked him in a cage and implored him to choose a respectable career, like flipping blinis at the local diner or weaving baskets out of yew. The trouble was, although these jobs were extremely well paid, they left him feeling cold. Hermes knew this wasn’t the type of work he was destined for.

After school he took a job as a Postman. He enjoyed the physical aspects of his job: walking a route, running up and down stairs in blocks of flats, carrying the heavy sacks and packages. But Hermes knew being a Postie was not his calling. It was a temporary stop gap between that and his real career. One morning while walking his favourite route along the riverfront, he saw a ballerina poised on a rock just a little ways out from the shore. She stood balanced on the tip of one toe with her back leg extended high behind her and her arms reaching up to the sky. He thought she looked like a tulip with it's petals bent towards the sun.

Kelli B.

* * *

MIRROR, MIRROR

The water is swinging as he stares at his own reflection, shifting from flat to concave as if it had a pulse. It's just his heart pumping his blood so fast in excitement affecting his eye sight; but he doesn't know that. He's so beautiful. He stands by the riverfront, naked, overpowering himself. He's captured by the gaze of this familiar stranger in the water. Nobody has looked at him like that before. It frightens him a bit; he feels challenged, it turns him on. And, to him, it turns the stranger on too. He's never wanted to touch a body more than that stranger's body. It seems that every moves he thinks, the other man does, as if he could read his mind. He tries to think of a move without doing it: the man stays still and keeps staring him in the eye.

He stands back and looks around him. Stones, yew, trees. He licks his lips and tastes the tangible sugar of honey.

He's drawn back to the man. He is as aroused as he is. He runs his hand to his groin, hoping the stranger would do the same, and, as expected, he does. He touches himself the way he would want to touch the man. The feeling of communion is overwhelming. Complicity and rapture draw a smile so pure on their faces. They trip as they peak, and fall towards each other, becoming one for ever in a cold christening. The sun sets in mourning, then rises in remembrance, gilding the delicate petals of a flower born out of ecstatic dew.

The woman closes her notebook and cages it in her Hermes bag. She looks at the plate of untouched blinis, and feels thankful for the inspiration they provided.

Hélène L.

Premonish

2011-05-17T11:50:00.000+01:00

“Listen now and listen clear for I only gonna to premonish if you is prepared. If you is hearing as well as listening. For hear me now, this is for true, these are the End Days. Times like these a vision can be glimpse and vanish. Forgotten. And then ain’t no use to nobody. Secret ‘pon secret get filed away in a teeny tiny space, like a capsule waiting for a drop of water to expand into scandal and gossip. Times like these memories clutch together to keep warm as age forget them. Right now a memory crawling along the wall of this here room. It twitching round the edges like some nocturnal creature waiting for dark so it be protect from prying eyes. It like a cat hiding, wedge between the sofa and the wall. Or it like some rat lookin’ for a gap to squeeze through. It just goin’ along like anything that don’t want nobody to be seein’ it before it ready –”

Interrupted. Train of thought derailed and thoughts jumble into blankness. Clean as the unwritten page and as unsullied as an idea before it is spoken. The room vibrates with the weight of expectation and anxiety. Everything has been stirred up into a cloud of anticipation and nothing is clear. The walls change colour as thoughts bounce off the surface at high velocity: green, red, blue and orange; each one leaving behind a faint impression, like a map drawn in the sand. The floor starts to tremble and falls away into a pile of dust and ashes.

Kelli B.

* * *

She premonishes them. She knows it's pointless, they never believe her. They can't believe her. And all that comes out of her mouth is premonition. All she does is foretelling. She can't talk about the past or the present: she's stuck in the future. Everything bores her, she never gets surprised: she already knows the outcome of every single thing that's going to happen. It's so frustrating. She knows how and when people are going to die when she meets them, and there's nothing she can do to stop it. Her words have no effect. She finds no pleasure in life anymore: there's no anticipation, no yearning, no craving. Her existence is just a never ending parade of spoilers. The only thing she doesn't know is when the hell that she calls her life is going to end. Maybe it's because the bastards who granted her wish of precognition made her immortal. That's the kind of crap these in-breds would find amusing.

Hélène L.

Epigamic

2011-05-17T11:41:00.001+01:00

HIPPY: Dude that jacket is, like, totally epigamic.

PUNK: You calling me a fuckin’ pouf? Coz I’ll pound your fuckin’ face in!

HIPPY: Chill, dude. I’m saying it’s, like, an outward manifestation of your virility.

PUNK: Too fuckin’ right it is. You like someone fuckin’ puked out a rainbow.

HIPPY: Ace, man. Rainbows rock.

Kelli B.

* * *

She screamed her own name as he fucked her. He found it oddly epigamic. Suddenly monogamy didn't sound so bad.

Hélène L.

Bushwhack

2011-05-17T11:39:00.000+01:00

Marcel preferred to think of himself as ornamental gardener. He had more than a BTEC under his belt and wasn’t shy about modeling his own work. When asked how he managed to sculpt with such precision he would reply with obvious pride, “I have a very flexible spine.”

But Marcel was bored with his work at the beauty salon. His clients were housewives, young professionals and students who believed a regular trim kept their husbands faithful or their boyfriends interested or, if they were single, that it would give them enough confidence to get laid. Most of them weren’t adventurous. He was tired of Brazilians, Californians and the ubiquitous Bikini. His skill was going to waste, his art deserved a wider audience. Marcel had a vision. One day he would gather together enough performance artists to stage a gallery opening. Each actor would stand on a plinth, like classical Greek statues, so his work could be viewed at the correct eye-level. It would be a glorious moment. Then, maybe then, his father would stop calling him a Bushwhacker.

Kelli B.

* * *

A bushwhacker muttering about a girl in a grey dress marched past the convoy of comedians. They were heading to the next spring fair, where they were hoping to please the crowds and their starving bellies. But there wouldn't a fair expecting them in that village. Instead of an audience, there would be a mournful angry mob who would feed them to the crows.

Hélène L.

Purlieu

2011-05-17T11:34:00.001+01:00

I wandered tired and alone to the purlieu of my mind. There I found a gnarled mass of fears which barred the way. Like Theseus, I had with me some string and the confidence that I would make it unscathed to the other side. I should have known better, for my string was merely a filament of pride and easily broken.

Kelli B.

* * *

I found her in the purlieu. He had laid her down in a bed of wild flowers, straightened her dress and crossed her hands on her chest. I say he, could be a she, even a they; I don't know. I don't think anyone will ever know. Whoever did it had put a lot of care into it. Almost some reverence. Her little face had turned gray, a pearly kind of gray, so similar to the silk of her pretty dress that she looked like these statues I had seen in the candlelit basements of their churches.

I couldn't resist the morbid impulse to touch her cheek. It was cold, and slightly sticky. I didn't press hard; I was too scared to leave a mark. I wondered where her colours had gone. Did they dissolve into nothingness? Did the person who laid her there take them away? As I looked at the flowers around her, I thought they seemed to look a bit brighter than the ones further away. Maybe the red that once lit her cheeks, the gold that had once shone from her hair, had diffused into the ground.

I thought about going to the village and telling them about the girl. But I couldn't move. I just stood there. Suddenly, I couldn't think anymore, only feel. All the emotions available to mankind had started pouring into me, mixing into an incontrollable force. What came out of my eyes didn't qualify as tears as the flow was so strong. I felt out of touch with my own body as it started laughing, shaking, breathing faster, unable to cope with the contradictory overspill.

I sat down in a half fall, rested on a trembling arm. I could see my blood pulsing in the veins of my hands. I noticed I had drooled all over my shirt. As my thoughts were gathering themselves, it came to my mind that no one alive had ever made me feel like that. It was the sudden understanding of my own death that I had just faced.

I stood up and brushed the grass off my trousers, a vacant reflex. I couldn't go back to the village. I could only go forward.

Hélène L.

Dandle

2011-05-17T11:25:00.002+01:00

"Dandling the secretaries used to be the best part of this job. Willingness to ride the Knee of Success was a useful performance indicator. It aided stratigic growth and directly incentivised positive momentum. Those with a competitive edge were quick to spot the low-hanging fruit and exploit their potential to spearhead future applications."

"Sexual harassment my ass!"

Kelli B.

* * *

As above him I dandle [iron
wringing] I exhale

blurry petals from a dandelion.

Hélène L.

Incommodious

2011-05-17T11:15:00.000+01:00

Of all the shoe fetishes,

the three-inch golden lotus

is the most incommodious.

Image: Beverly Jackson

http://www.silcom.com/~bevjack/thebook.html

Kelli B.

* * *

- Where's the main water tap?

- Well, it's very difficult to reach it, I'll show you, it's incommodious.
- It's in a drawer?

Hélène L.

10 words: Spiral of Shame and A brightening Sun

2011-04-21T22:51:00.003+01:00

spiral, hello, yellow, speaker, apple, thumb, brighten, hold, pin, turn.

SPIRAL of SHAME

Georgina pawed through her handbag wondering why she could never recognize the items in there by touch alone. I’d never be able to cope if I went blind, she thought. Something hard, taught and round found its way between her thumb and forefinger. Apple. She shoved it aside and continued to rummage. Where is my wallet? GoddamnwhycanIneverfindmywallet? She caught hold of something long, slender and cool to the touch. Keys.

“Sorry” she muttered to the saleswoman who was being forced to keep up a stiff smile of politeness. This was met by more glib smiling. I’ll bet she thinks I’m a right twat. Oh, god! I’ve become one of those women who can never –

“Sorry, I know it’s in here somewhere…” Georgina gave her bag a 180 degree turn and wrestled it up onto the counter to get a better look inside. Crumpled napkins, plastic cutlery, empty gum wrappers, loose change, the apple – again. With a sigh, Georgina upended her bag and shook it’s contents onto the counter.

Ker-THUNK

A yellow dildo. GASP!

The expression of the sales woman visibly brightened, her smile now genuine.

There was a pause the size of a pin before Georgina snatched the dildo and crammed it back into her handbag along with handfuls of other debris. She could feel her knees weakening, her body spiraling downwards unto the grubby carpet tiles. She could hear a voice, faint and muffled, like someone had thrown a duvet over a speaker. It said, Hello? Georgina? I think your wallet is in your pocket.

Kelli B.

* * *

A BRIGHTENING SUN

I am sitting by my window, staring at the busy street corner but looking at my own thoughts. Then I catch sight of my hands, resting on my lap. My big, manly, robust hands. The chipped black varnish and the flaky tips of my nails. The inflamed flesh around them, the cracked cuticles, the never healing cuts.The numerous lines, like rippling spirals spreading from my knuckles; an aging sign.

I can't remember how it feels like to hold somebody's hand. I intertwine my fingers, as I used to do when I had someone's hand to hold, I look at them, those lonely powerful hands, and I feel sad for them. I start stroking my left thumb with my right, as if to say, there, there, it's all right.

A red light. Then green. As a car pulls away, its speakers leave a trail of "Yellow" by Coldplay. I try to wash it out of my head, but it gets replaced by another one of their songs: "a warning sign".

Uniformed youths gather by the crossing, carrying polystyrene boxes of death. One of them kicks the apple that fell from under his elbow; I twitch as the innocent fruit rolls under the wheels of a car.

I stretch my left arm up until I feel pins and needles. I hold by bloodless, numb left hand in my right one. It feels like the cold hand of a dead person. My hugging hands look like they're silently sealing my solitude.

An open roof double decker turns from the main road. Tourists wave hello. I wave goodbye.

Hélène L.

On the Edge of the Big One

2011-03-24T23:05:00.003Z

Kelli's word for H5l5n5: Simon, singer, open, lot, wicked, jungle, carve, slimmer, junk, awkwardly.

The singer carves the notes in the air, and for a moment, as the words curl around him like smoke, forgets he's never made it. The waitress, who thinks her life would have been different had she been slimmer, opens a bottle of champagne she will never be able to afford. The guy everybody knows as Simon, even though his name is Pete, or Pat, nobody really knows or cares, is looking for his past at the bottom of his beer. All that lot flocked to the jungle hoping to rid their despair; but all they found was junk, as they failed to dare. They're not wicked, just tainted: along the way, someone forgot to care, as they awkwardly fell, in a hell they unknowingly shared.

Kind of inspired by Billy Joel's "Piano Man". Wasn't listening to it, just came to my mind as I wrote the first line.

The Big Sleep

2011-03-24T22:03:00.007Z

Kelli's words for H5l5n5: spinach, lump, ring, wrath, simple, juggernaut, pumpkin, gibberish, found, flan.

She pours a glass of wine to wash the man right out of her head. It shines like the gold of her ring, as a sweet, thick, syrupy nectar would; only it's bitter and dry, like her thoughts. Now, every time he smiles at her, it's as if he had spinach on his teeth. That fucking smile. The spinach had always been there, she just refused to see it. There are so many things she refused to see. She's wondering how many things in her life are tainted with invisible spinach. It's not that she found something out that changed everything. She can't point out the exact moment when her eyes opened. Did it happen gradually? Is it the same process that people who find God go through? So many questions running through her head, and she can't be bothered waiting for her brain to suggest some answers. She doesn't give a fuck about the answers. They would only be shape-shifting gibberish anyway. She remembers catching herself having hateful thoughts about him over the years. Like that time they went to an Italian restaurant and he ordered panna cotta. That suits him, she had thought. Flan. A flaccid, gormless lump of flan, that's what he is. And since then, every time he'd been above her, his sweat dripping on her bored face, she'd thought of the plate of shaky panna cotta.

She enjoyed the wrath for a while. The wrath she was directing at herself for being with him. At least it was an emotion. A simple, raw emotion. But being a juggernaut to herself didn't lead her anywhere. Like a dog running to bite its own tail, she ran out of energy and dropped into inertia.

If only she could have been like a pumpkin plant, able to fertilize herself. Poor child, she thought as she swallowed the pills.

Infinity plus 1

2011-02-22T17:48:00.000Z

H5L5N5's words for Kelli: marble, hairy, snake, softly, nature, Napoleon, nebulous, carnage, lullaby, hard

From the depths of the nebulous carnage a guttural note, hard as marble, shot to the surface with a CRACK!

From Napoleon's position on a faraway hillside, the sound filtered through his dreams as a lullaby sung softly by a hairy snake.

Freud, not yet born, absorbed this knowledge deep within the nebulous carnage of the universal subconscious.

And so on to infinity.

Simon says

2009-08-12T10:54:00.005+01:00

Simon says: Wash your hands.

Simon says: Re-use plastic bags.

Simon says: The peach is an abstraction of lewd animal urgency and desire which must be avoided with all the willpower at man's disposal lest he lose his way in this life.

Credit where credit is due: The photo for this post is not my own. Thank you bentoyumm I hope you don't mind my use of your image!

Your words: tinker, thinker, stinker, sphincter, most, boast, ghost, host, lilac, azure

Self-help

2009-08-10T17:55:00.003+01:00

My assignment given by Kelli:
Your character has just won £8 million. Everyone and their dog now wants to be their friend. How do they cope with their new wealth?

- Isn't it the guy who wan £8 million you just served?
- Aye. He comes in all the time. He's always buying the same book in several copies that he asks me to giftwrap for his "friends" who are after his Johnny.
- What book is it?
- "How to cope with rejection."

Kelli's assignment: 5 children from Norway go to Eurodisney.

The Penguin

2009-08-08T19:07:00.006+01:00

The 10 words from Kelli :
lift, Frankfurt, open, clamber, penguin, dim, jigger, brazen, poach, whistle.

"Who the fuck are you?" he says, staring at the mirror. The frustrated anger and the despair lift his brow in a chaos of conflicting lines; his brain feels like it's been poached.
He hears a disembodied voice telling him to go back to his seat. As he opens the door, a turbulence sends him flying (as well as the content of one of the passengers' coffee cup) across the aisle. The sudden pain in his thigh as he crashes on an armrest takes his mind off his introspection for a moment.

He unscrews the miniature bottle of alcohol he stole off the trolley on his way to the toilets (yes, he could have asked for it, it's free after all, but the staff on the flights to Frankfurt always terrify him) and swallows its jigger as he dives back in his inner thoughts, losing his eyes in the cottonwool sea.
He hums himself a tune to the brazen roaring of the reactors; something his dad used to whistle when he was a child eating cloudberries back in Maine.

What is he doing with his life? when and where did he lose track of what he really needed? Five years ago, the first time he was sent to Frankfurt, he had thought: that's it, I'm quitting, that's not what I want to do with myself, I deserve better. And there he was, on his way to Frankfurt again, hating himself for having become that numb shadow of a human being.

As the plane clambers above the winds, he sinks deeper into bitterness.

He looks inside his wallet. Look at that, he thinks; there's nobody close enough to my heart that I would carry their photo with me. Just credit card receipts and an old coupon for a meal for two for the price of one from a restaurant he has nobody to take to. And an out-of-date condom.

But it has a penguin on it, he thinks with a dim smile.

10 words for Kelli: abstraction, willpower, peach, life, Simon, bag, desire, animal, urgency, lewd.

Blue Eye Surprise

2009-08-02T19:16:00.002+01:00

That can't be right... It must be the horrible light from that energy saving bulb. But if the light from the bulb is orange and my eyes are green, that wouldn't make a blue reflection, would it?
With toothpaste dribbling down my chin I lean in for a closer look turning my head from side to side to see if the colour changes from green to blue like an object in a hologram changes from one thing to another. No change.
Did I get coloured coloured contacts by mistake? No don't be stupid you would have noticed that. Wouldn't I? No, I'm sure I would notice something like that. Maybe you need some more natural light. Try the living room - and wipe that toothpaste off your chin.
I grab my compact and examine one eye then the other in the cool light of the north facing window. Still the same. My eyes are now blue.
this is bizzare. Should I panic? Is there reason to panic? Should I see the doctor? the optometrist? Am I going colour blind? Maybe I'm imagining things. Look in the mirror again.
Nope, still blue.
Ok. This is officially weird...maybe they'll change back tomorrow. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds? More ridiculous that them changing from green to blue in the first place? Ok, ok, ok! Enough! I now have blue eyes. They might even suit me. Come to think of it I could do with a change. You should dye your hair blond! Blonds have more fun, right? Especially blue-eyed ones! NO, don't dye it. What if it doesn't suit your skin tone? Then you'd be walking around looking like a idiot for months. I could get a wig! Just to try it out. The shop downstairs should be open by now... I knew living above a wig shop would come in handy some day.

10 words:
lift, Frankfurt, open, clamber, penguin, dim, jigger, brazen, poach, whistle

Scalding!

2009-02-08T20:37:00.003Z

Riccardo polishes steaming baskets of cutlery straight from the dishwasher. His hands move in a staccato rythum while his eyes remain fixated on the man at table three. He has ordered today's special - Beef in allegro marinade, flown in specially from Paris Tennessee with a side of seasonal vegetables and mashed potato. His suit looks plain and well worn, his tie a mish-mash of ostentatious reds and oranges swirled around and spat out onto cheap polyester. Riccardo picks up his tenth butterknife and rubs it gently, suggestively. He would love to dote on table three but the man has company; a sharp nosed woman dressed from head to toe in plum. Her hair colour, eyeshadow and lipstick, skirt and blazer, blouse and tights, shoes, handbag and nailpolish; everything in more or less identical shades. Riccardo thinks she looks looks a jar of prunes, obviously over compensating for her marginal personality. The pair pause their conversation while their plates are placed in front of them. Riccardo notes that the woman has conservatively ordered the pasta primavera. His attention shifts back to the man who is removing his tie and draping it over the back of his chair. Riccardo's imagination flits to a fantasy involving the man at table three, his tie, a bedpost and a damn good spanking. Riccardo takes a deep breath and governs his strength to keep the tingling in his groin from becoming a full-on errection and grabs another scalding knife from the cutlery basket.

Dunking Duckling

2008-11-04T18:34:00.005Z

Startled by the start of the motor,
The dunking duckling, all shivery,
Stared at the bowing bogus doctor,
Whose only degree was a livery.

She had mocked his overture
And mimicked his disappoitment;
So he broke, before his departure,
Her denture, to find some contentment.

It took all his hate to fling 'er,
And her body made a splash;
The mortician did not linger:
His guilt had gone awash.

But do not, my friend,
Fall into helter-skelter;
For the duck, in the end
Rejoined his shelter.

Your words: company, allegro, pasta, compensate, govern, tenth, dote, spanking, fixated, marginal.

White rabbits, white rabbits

2008-11-04T18:30:00.006Z

The meeting room is buzzing with conversations as the clock strikes midnight. The Chamberlain clears his throat in an attempt to attract the attention of the assembly.

- My dear brethren, I demand some quiet, please. We are here to discuss a serious matter. I've been told that some of us have emitted some concern about the validity of the human tradition of invoking us on the first day of every month. Our elders are offended to know that a faction of our younger members, calling themselves "Leporidae Potentia", want to deny human beings the right to be blessed by our luck. We decided it was time to discuss the problem, and what better time than tonight, on all hallow even, to bring the matter forward?

- Dad, I mean, with all due respect, Mr Chamberlain, I'd like to be the first to voice my opinion, said Alba. The practice you mentioned hasn't been revised since 1420. We are now in 2008, and things have changed. Humans don't respect us as much as they used to. This rule is obsolete: they don't even believe in us anymore! So why should we bring them good luck just for the sake of it? The tradition has lost its meaning!

- They can't even agree on the invocation anymore! said Candidum, with all the revolt of his youth. "Rabbit, rabbit", "white rabbits" or just "rabbits", even "hares"; and what about that "tibbar" nonsense of saying it backwards! They can't remember why they're saying it, and, which is worse, we can't remember either!

- I hear you, said the wise Chamberlain. I agree with you, Alba: humans don't really believe in us anymore. But they do respect us more. Only 40 years ago and your legs would have been turned into keyrings. And you're mistaken about the lack of revision: the Balliol amendment has been created to prevent the type of abuse as performed by Harold Nicolson. As for you, Candidum, you do have a point. Nobody knows why...

- We should go on strike! interrupted Blanche.

- ...but we should work together on finding the origins of our deal with the humans, finished the Chamberlain. As long as we don't remember what we're getting in exchange of the luck we give them, we shall keep our promise. For all we know, not fulfilling our side of the engagement might cause our doom.

- What makes you think we're getting something in exchange? said Candidum.

- I know what we're getting, shouted Shiro from the back. We're getting drowned in boiling wine and experimented on!

A clamour spread across the hall.

- Silence! bellowed the Chamberlain. We shall vote. May the ones who want to maintain the tradition raise their ears. I will take into account Hvit's unfortunate encounter with a lawn mower that left him short of one ear.

A rustling sound echoed in the galleries.

- The majority has spoken: we shall continue with the tradition. Meeting is over.

* * *

Back in 1420, on the early morning of November the first, the White Wizards and the White Witches of Somerset travelled and gathered by a rabbit hole just outside a place they called Oxenaforda. John, a young sheperd, was hiding behind a tree.

- But white habits bring good luck! said one of the wizards.

John ran back to his home and woke his sister up:
- White rabbits, white rabbits! he said.

- White rabbits, white rabbits? she repeated.

- I saw the White Wizards grouped around a rabbit hole saying that white rabbits bring good luck!

- Really? said Alys. So we shall call on the rabbits for good luck too! Let's go and wake Mum and Dad up, and let's make it the first words they say, so they have a lucky day.

Meanwhile, in the rabbit hole, the rabbit they called Stein woke up with a start.

- Mister Chamberlain, Mister Chamberlain! he shouted, running in the galleries.

- What now, Stein?

- I've been invoked! I'm the chosen one!

- Calm down, Stein...I've felt it too.

- Have you? Wasn't it amazing? What shall I do? Shall I give them some luck?

- Whatever Stein, if it makes you happy. They might invoke us again if you do, and I have to admit I found it quite pleasant.

- Great! I shall tell all the others! said Stein, as he ran to spread the word in his most debonaire way.

Your turn:
A bookseller becomes allergic to printing ink.

What a show!

2008-10-15T20:51:00.002+01:00

Bambi Havadong stepped centerstage beneath a cascade of pink and orange sequins; her gargantuan proportions tamed by a corset lined with Teflon for ease of removal. As she shimmied in the limelight in a gesture of welcome to her adoring fans one member of the audience was heard to exclaim, "She looks like a marshmallow being severed with dental floss." A gust of laughter wobbled like a poorly spun wooden top. Then silence. A cough. The opening chords of 'I Will Survive' cut through the faint static of the sound system. Bambi's coral-painted lips curved around each syllable in a celebration of a sisterhood to which longed to belong (an unfortunate symptom of her condition) and her transformation was complete. In her own mind she was as agile as a kangourou, as wholesome as a daisy, as stimulating as a dildo - and her ass could write the alphabet in cursive.

Your words:
motor, duckling, overture, mimic, livery, shelter, fling, linger, mortician, bogus

33 in 33

2008-10-11T16:02:00.003+01:00

It's official - the world will end in 33 days and my 33 years will disapear faster than a man after uttering the words 'I'm not ready for commitment'. Yeah, well I'm not ready either! Damn this global warming. Thought it might be nice up here in Scotland for a change but what did we get - more rain! I was all up for it untill the place started to flood. It won't be long before the UK makes like Atlantis and Venice and sinks to the bottom of the ocean. I should have booked my ticket out of here before everyone decided there was no point showing up for work anymore. All the looting and partying - people rutting like dogs on every street corner. Not really my scene. I always though the end of the world would be a little more romantic, y'know? People gathering together to sing songs round the fire and lend a neighbourly hand in a way we haven't seen since the war... fat chance of that. Fat chance I have of finding Mr. Right now! I will have to face the fact that I will die a virgin. Well, not technically, there was that one guy back in High School; and the guy at that party downtown on Halloween, but he doesn't really count because I never saw him without his Osama Bin Laden mask; oh, and the moron I wasted six years of my life with. But that was seven years ago so, technically, I've been a virgin longer than I've been having sex. And now what am I going to do? I refuse to stoop to the level of a slut simply because the world is going to end.

Your turn:

What happens next in this scene? A clock strikes midnight down a rabbit hole in Oxford.

Sasparilla Guerilla

2008-09-23T00:52:00.004+01:00

When I was a child, I used to sit on the edge of my bed and bounce,
looking at the buildings across the street shaking as I pretended a
giant was walking down the road. It made me feel as small as one of
these blue sasparilla eaters that I used to collect in their rubber
form.
Dopamine was overflowing my brain, when dwelling in between the
brackets of imagination that feature less and less in the chapters of
my adult life.
It's probably the lack of ad hoc conditions.

But soon, the spiky hedgehog of reality would burst my colourful
bubble of freedom.

Snip! go the scissors of time.

(I cheated: I used rubber instead of rub.)

Your words: complete, cascade, stimulating, tame, across, kangourou,
daisy, alphabet, symptome, celebration.

Kelli's task

2008-09-17T22:27:00.006+01:00

I forgot your new assignment:

It's officially the end of the world in 33 days. Describe the state of mind of a single thirty something woman who's concerned she might not manage to have sex before it happens.

2008-09-09T15:31:00.001+01:00

Describe your first encounter with a celebrity. Tell the story twice - once from your point of view and once from theirs.

Perfect day in a perfect world

2008-09-09T14:02:00.006+01:00

Josephine rummaged through her closet in search of the perfect outfit. She passed by the size 8 with impossibly firm 34C breasts, washboard waist, boyish hips and a hint of fake tan. She was tired of wearing these highly stylised garments - she wanted something more natural. She took down a hanger for a closer look at the outfit she last wore to her sister's wedding. It was a petite size 10 with a modest B cup and curvaceous hips. It's olive complexion had made her feel like she had stepped off the cover of Italian Vogue with a simpering pout. She had looked as delicious as a baked pear drizzled with acacia honey. She felt the suppleness of the hand-moisturised skin and held it up to the mirror. She sighed and put it back in the closet. It didn't feel quite right. She agonised over the remaining garments. The broad shouldered one she wore to work was too tall and commanding. The one she wore to the gym too toned and masculine. She would have to go shopping.

Down the crowded high street she trudged, vainly looking at the mannequins in the shop windows but she couldn't see anything she liked. Either the breasts were too pointy or the hips too high atop bean pole legs. Nothing said 'natural'. Even the so-called bohemian garments were too contrived. Desperate to find what she craved she turned down a side street with small boutique shops filled with vintage garments whose proportions had long since ceased to be trendy. She went into a shop with sumptuous velvet furnishings and gilt-edged mirrors and explained her predicament to the aloof shop assistant. He said nothing but nodded and walked briskly to the back of the shop and returned holding a size 16 with an hourglass figure. Josephine was reluctant to try it on - it was so much larger than the rest of her garments - but the assistant placed it in her hands and ushered her towards the changing room. 'Trust me dahhhhling,' he said before swishing the velvet curtain closed.

Josephine marveled at the garment, turning to inspect every angle, running her hands appreciatively over its curves. There was a slight ripple of cellulite on the thighs and buttocks, the waist felt relaxed and roomy. The breasts sagged slightly under their own weight, their surface patterned with a light spiderweb of scars. The skin tone was pale with a rosy tint. 'This,' she thought, 'will be perfect.'

2008-09-09T14:01:00.001+01:00

Ah, yes. More words: colourful, bracket, snip, hedgehog, bubble, sasparilla, jump, rub, adhoc, dopamine

Cassoulet

2008-09-06T21:00:00.007+01:00

She sat at her bedroom window folding and unfolding a grease-stained scrap of paper. The smell of cassoulet wafted from the kitchen below, the tiny blocks of bacon vying for prominance over the shapely duck leg. She imagined the harricot beans in their estacy as they simmered in the decadent broth of juices, goose fat and tomato puree, soaking in the flavours. This dish was something of a mythical character, spoken of in hushed tones of reverence, 'the one true icon'. Immitations would not be tolerated and imposters banished with a cacaphony befitting a witch trial. Differences of opinion caused fractures in the micro-society that was her immediate family. Last year, her father had unwisely declared that while it was the best her mother had ever made it still lacked a certain 'je ne sais qoi'. For a week it had seemed likely her mother would demand he concent to a divorce. The clatter of dishes brought her out of her reverie. She smiled as she unfolded the scrap of paper again to read the word she had hastily scribbled in pencil. A whispered prayer - her grandmother's secret ingredient.

Lollipop

2008-08-31T23:33:00.002+01:00

She looks at the lollipop.

It has the colour of juniper berries and the scent of a cleaning product.
The guy who sold it to her looked like a complete trickster; but nothing you wouldn't expect from someone who sells morphine on a stick. She had to listen patiently when he told her that he used to be in a SWAT team back when he lived in California, "where it never rains".

She'd always been fascinated by people like him, the ones who always have numerous unbelievable anecdotes to tell. Being handicaped by the muchness of her gullibility, she never believes anyone who has more than one extraordinary story in their luggage.

She removes the crispy wrapping in a hurry, quick, before she changes her mind. For some reason, she's wondering if she's not ovulating, gets concerned that it may affect the embryo that might get conceived tonight if she has sex.

Then she smiles at her own madness, reminding herself that tonight she's not going out, just watching a DVD of Bear in the Big Blue House whilst tripping on a morphine lollipop.

Your words: conscent, fracture, character, amplify, ecstasy, prayer, block, society, cassoulet, window.

Arena

2008-08-31T23:21:00.002+01:00

Hundreds of people all willing to connect because of some harmonious vibrations. Me, alone against them, held in place against them, with no will to interact with them. I can feel the vibrations reaching me and dying inside of me as if were some sort of earth wire in a plug.
I observe the happening from where I am, where time stands still as in the eye of the storm: I'm right in the center of it but it feels as foreign as if I were standing outside.
People as a stream flowing along the vibrations, moving past me anchored as a rock in the middle of their feverish communion.

Submerged by loneliness, I drag my empty shell through the drain.

Back in the privacy of my void, I feel one again.

Your turn: Show me a perfect day in a perfect world.

Repugnant

2008-08-28T23:17:00.004+01:00

A man and a woman sit on a park bench near a bycicle path in Dorking.

- He cuts a repugnat figure in his riding jacket, wouldn't you say, Ned?
- A more disfigured hero I have never set eyes upon.
- Yes, shame about the trajectory...
- Not at all, Eliza. I would say it was a stroke of serendipity!
- Well, if it weren't for the colonic I don't think we'd be having this conversation.
- True. [pause] Look, he's stopping
- He looks a bit forlorn, should we ask for an autograph?
- What about the manure?
- It'll wash off. C'mon, don't you want to bask in the glory of saying we actually spoke to him? The guy's practically a national treasure.
- If he's nominated for a CBE it will be to his own amazement. Trust me.
- Shame. Fancy getting a coke instead?
- Yeah.

Your turn:
swat, juniper berries, trickster, numerous, muchness, ovulating, overwrought, hurry, morphine, remove

Tropical Delight

2008-08-28T22:24:00.005+01:00

Hell hath no greater tempest than a woman served pineapple instead of chocolate cake.

Next:Describe the largest crowd you have ever been a part of.

Starry, starry night

2008-08-28T16:02:00.003+01:00

- Prick up your ears. Give your eyes away to the glittery twilight and focus on the sounds.

He said that as if it were a most pleasant experience but all I could think of was the family of hypothetical bears I knew were waiting for us to fall asleep so they could sharpen their claws on our bodies.
What was I thinking when I said yes?

When you lead a vestal life such as mine and get tired of people giving you that over-the-counter look that you get when you're buying a bottle of wine and a meal for one on Valentine's day, you might find some attraction in an offer to go for a pick-nick made by the DIY shop assistant in your local supermarket.

- Lovely. Can we go back into town now? I have a jub jub to feed.
- Oh, no, let's stay here for a little longer: there's nothing more beautiful than a flight of doves in the sunrise.

SUNRISE? You expect me to stay here all night in lumber land? So first you turn the ride into the Camel Trophy by getting us lost in the swamps, and now you want me to spend the night here? No way.You can stay here and wait for the bears to eat you: I have to go home and hoover all the crisps crumbs you left all over MY car.

Only I didn't say that. The bear got him first.

repugnant, trajectory, colonic, disfigure, amazement, glory, serendipity, blaze, forlorn, manure.

Breakfast

2008-08-28T15:45:00.002+01:00

I remember what I had for breakfast the day my hamster died.
I had deep fried hamster and chips.

Your turn: you're wearing wet clothes and holding a pineapple at the end of your up stretched left arm.
Why?

Hélène

Naked Disc

2008-08-28T15:42:00.001+01:00

There is a loud thud at the front door. A brown envelope scrapes its way through the bristle-like fringe of the mail slot and falls to the floor. Brisk footsteps retreat down the stairwell echoing in the bleak emptyness of concrete and chipping paint. Before I have walked the length of the livingroom, I hear the door to the street groan on its hinges and bang closed again.
There is no writing on the envelope, only a symbol. It looks like a geometric fish. I don't know what it means. I haven't ordered anything. I press my fingers against the paper. It's rigid - circular - a CD. I hold the envelope up to the light in the misplaced hope that this will answer the many questions that cross through my mind. I decide to wait and see if the mysterious deliverer will return to collect it but my fingers have already tugged at the edge of the seal. It opens without resistance. I slide the CD into my hand. Aside from being neon green in colour the CD has no inscription, no symbols. I cross back through the livingroom and switch on my computer. I hear the door to the street creak open and slam shut again - Footsteps acending the stairs - I slide the disk into the drive - Footsteps cross the first floor landing - The computer asks if I would like to run the disk - Footeteps tapping up the second flight - Click 'Yes' - The heel, toe slap of footsteps on the second floor landing followed by the jangle of keys being inserted into a door one floor down - The program whirrs in the disk drive and the geometric fish appears on the screen, below it the instruction 'Click to enter'.
...Click...

A fanfare begins to play. Then a buttery-smooth barratone voice announces, 'Welcome to Neon Fish Farm, the greener way to buy fish! Get 10% off your first purchase with this exclusive promotional code!'

Fucking advertising gimmicks.

You next. Finish the thought: I remember what I had for breakfast the day my hamster died.

Written by Kelli

Useless bag of crap

2008-08-28T15:23:00.003+01:00

He's one. You can tell be the way he swaggers down the platform eating that jelly doughnut, it's viscous innards oozing onto the tips of his pudgy fingers. I wonder if a woman has ever let those fingers near her cunt. I doubt it. Not without money up front. See the way he studies the tube map in a disinterested fashion? That's the habit of someone who knows where their going but can't stand to stare into the middle distance, afraid of catching someone's eye. I'll bet in his head he's imagining some impropiety he's planning to commit later. Look at him - suckling his jam covered fingers, slightly trembling, like he were sucking the toenail of some cheap whore. I'll bet he's some quack. Calls himself an IT specialist when really he's the guy who does the nightshift in some fancy office tower cleaning keyboards, peeling off stickers and other crap those city boys leave cluttering their computer stations. I'll bet if he doesn't leave them sparkling he gets hauled into the office and belittled by the Boss man just like his father used to, before he died of lung cancer. The father who made sure he knew from an early age what a useless bag of crap he is at everything. I'll bet he lies in bed at night dreaming of the day he'll get revenge by droping his sorry ass in front of a Waterloo & City train making all those self-important office twats late for their morning meetings.

Next 10:
Jub jub, hoover, twilight, doves, glitter, lumber, claws, over-the-counter, vestial, prick

Written by Kelli

The Fivah

2008-08-19T00:05:00.002+01:00

On August, 6th

Pitch black. It feels like a coffin. Where the fuck have I ended up this time? I think I'm not alone: I can feel some others around me, some of them like me, some bigger and some much smaller ones, I can hear them, the smaller ones are always louder. Everything shakes: here comes the light! What's happening now? A woman grabs me, hands me to another woman, a small ginger one, suffering from allopecia, stuttering an embarrassed "thank you". Oh my God, I'm in a hairdresser's! How did that happen? I must have fallen asleep in the last wallet. What is a woman suffering from allopecia doing at a hairdresser's? Maybe she bought a wig? Ah, no, I can smell it: she had her nails done. Well I suppose she has beautiful hands, it might be where she has to find pride in her feminity. It's a bit like a blind man in a one hour photo shop, an almost bald woman at the hairdresser's; but, hey, I've seen that before too.
Her purse stinks of plastic and I bet she has the left overs of an egg sandwich in her handbag: either that or...I don't really want to think about it actually.

Of course. Of course she had to go to the pub. I'm glad she's using her bigger notes first: I really don't feel like the spending the evening going from hand to hand. I might be able to spend the night in the possession of a taxi driver.
Ah, she's talking to a guy: I can see him each she opens her purse to check if she has enough for another one. Can't say he's a catch...but who knows, he might have handsome feet. He wants to give her his phone number. What, he can write in on me?!? Hey, in some countries that would be considered defacing me, it's illegal!
I'm not pleased. I have some ugly fat middle aged drunkard's phone number written on my back. Well at least I wasn't gropped by half the bar.
Electric light: we're in a shop; she's buying fags. There you go, back in a till drawer...oh, someone is taking me out again: it must be a Friday night. Ah, some sort of commotion: it's definitely a Friday night. And it's about me!
It's a young man shaking me in the face of the shop assistant: "I'm flabbergasted! How did you do that? This note has my dad's mobile number on it!"

Your turn: someone finds a CD without any inscription on it. Where does he/she find it? What's on it? What's their reaction to it? Same thing, 20 mn

Hélène

Another Writing Challenge

2008-08-19T00:04:00.001+01:00

On August, 5th,

You have 20 minutes, GO!

Trace the journey of a £5 note through the lives of 2 different owners. What was exchanged during the transactions? How much, or little, did the transaction mean to each of the people involved?

Kelli

Pioneers

2008-08-18T23:53:00.002+01:00

August, 4th

Picture this: in a parellel universe, America never evolved from the pioneer time. Times are rough: the population feeds from corn and gets drunk on rutabaga beer (try saying it out loud). One day, in a small town called Pepsicock, the oligarch allows a circus from Beijing to entertain the population. Cho "Tarty Cream" Chang is the main attraction: all the eyes are on her when, her jovial shapes skillfully exposed by a glittery see through leotard, she glides on a greasy pole like a fat chicken coming off a skewer. The men in the croud simmer, get inflammed and cheer her loudly, throwing their hats in the air.
And then they ate her.

Next 10 words:
Verbose, belittle, impropriety, viscous, disinterested, quack, sticker, drop, twat, toenail

Hélène

Aligator

2008-08-18T23:51:00.002+01:00

August, 4th

Never spank an aligator - u get me? All u end up wi' is one irritated motherfucker - an' I mean FUMING - an' unless you want to toss him your left nut as colateral, u gonna end up wi' a full-on frontal lobotamy, u get me? That ain't no reward for ludicrous dumbass behaviour. Get it bruv? Safe. Peace out.

Next ten words:
cream, jovial, leotard, Bejing, Pepsi, to glide, oligarch, simmer, rutabaga, to inflame

Kelli

Zimmer Frame

2008-08-18T23:49:00.002+01:00

There she was, that slut of a Polish baker, pretending to ignore him, wearing that obscenely tight white blouse over that loose bra of hers, only pretending to hold her full funbags in which he was dreaming of biting. "What can I do you for?", she says, and he hears himself asking for a pretzel, when all he really wants is to flip her over his zimmer frame, insert the pretzel in that amorphous mouth of hers, slither it until she almost chokes. He jostles the zimmer frame closer to the counter, holding it desperately with his hands covered with liver spots, as if firebranded by an epileptic cowboy. He curses: Jingle Bells! My body has abandoned me! Now he just has to make the assumption she didn't notice the wet patch.

Aligator, irrigation, reward, ludicrous, festival, irritate, colateral, fuming, lobotomy, spank

Hélène

Rocket Man

2008-08-18T23:45:00.002+01:00

Ahhh, there's nothing quite like an adulterous, cum sucking, scab to make you realise where you stand in the hierarchy of life. It's enough to make you want to eat vomit. The next time I catch that soda slurping, camembert sniffing, mollusc of a man, Gaspard anywhere near my Girtha I'm going to burn off his pubic hairs with a blowtorch and send him rocketing to the moon like a spaceship!

Next ten:
abandon, zimmer frame, jostle, firebrand, pretzel, slither, amorphus, Jingle bells, liver, assumption

Kelli

Gertha's Uranus

2008-08-18T23:44:00.003+01:00

For Gaspard, there was nothing like fucking that big Gertha working at the Sauerkraut factory, wheelbarrow style. Her marvellous overweight body, her overflowing rolls of flesh flapping around the tight leather girdle strapping her pachydermic waist was already enough to make him feel like projecting his spunk up to Jupiter even before inserting his splinter shaped cock up her burning snatch. He would make her fly right up to Uranus tonight, part her enormous lunar cheeks as a coroner dissecting a ribcage, waiting for her to express her ecstasy humming the Macarena.

hierarchy, scab, camembert, symphonie, adulterous, suck, vomiting, soda, hairs, spaceship

Hélène

Wyoming

2008-08-18T23:24:00.003+01:00

Wyoming. Where people have the power to vanish at will, it seems, I've seen them dissapear like so many flies zapped to dust by flourecent bulbs. A girl and her caramel coloured go walking through the fields at night trying to shake off the ambiguity of the day. She staves off dehydration by fellating ice pops and staring up at the sky, mesmerised by the sounds of swaying grass and the creaking chirp of crickets - and then they're gone.

Next ten words:
girble, humming, splinter, to ride, overweight, orange, to disect, wheelbarrow, Jupiter, to burn.

Kelli

There has to be a Beginning

2008-08-18T23:16:00.002+01:00

On August, 2nd

To Kelli:

I offer you an activity I used to do when I was a teenager (and that you probably did before)

Here's a list of 10 random words coming from my unstable brain (verbs can be conjugated):

caramel, power, legacy, ambiguity, Wyoming, to vanish, to mesmerize, fluorescent, to dehydrate, fellatio.

Now you have to write me a story of at least 10 lines incorporating all those words and send me 10 words back, then I'll write you a story and send 10 words, and so on.

Hélène