Please barely read these. You won’t be rewarded.
Arthur walked back to the coop. He’d forgotten to give the chickens water, which was his duty, but which was easily overlooked due to the fact that the water pails lived in a far-off compartment of the barn-head, and that the water given had to come from the kitchen and not the outside tap, since the outside tap may or may not be poison to the chickens. They found that out after four chickens died one fall out of the blue. He was sweating like a guilty man, although he felt nothing in relation to the chickens’ overall collective health status, and frankly would’ve left them drink-less for the night if it wasn’t for the fact that Ann-Marie did a coop-check every evening. If that coop doesn’t look right, if the straw is scarce or the fresh eggs waiting til eight, her hollering will wake up the neighbor’s dog, who’s grown old but is still a rowdy mutt, and AM will curse you until the morning. Or at least til she takes her sleeping pills and her glass of wine and retires to her upstairs room. After that she doesn’t exist until the next day.
Six silky suns set silently, secretly, simultaneously. It was so beautiful that anyone who could have seen it would have secreted fluid out through every orifice at once, and then in a moment of pure desperation, suck it all back into a newly original and consummated self. Their eyes would begin to bulge slightly, and their tongues would hang slack. Some would die. The silk of the suns created such a sheen, such a shockingly simmering glaze smeared, part liquid, was the heat of the closest half of each sun. The suns were far away, farther than could be counted, but the distance was negligible because of the immensity of the suns’ auras, which extended outside them so that each sun appeared almost twice as large. It seemed as though they were setting intentionally, with such faith in their respective orbits. A determination held by no human, or anyone who imagines that, after all, he could have done otherwise. Suns brought themselves down, a self-inflicted power over the self, the eagerness of the patient.
At dusk six men were gathered in the reddish unmarked building just outside of Zurich their blindfolds arranged to cover not only their eyes but also their noses and mouths and most chins although some of the chins were so long and bony or fat and cakey that they just couldnt help jutting or bursting out a little bit which might allow a more careful viewer to identify Rostov whose flesh extended about twenty percent farther from his bones and muscles and tendons than the vast majority of the general public the men heard a ticker count down from five in French and then removed their masks all at once in a terrible rush and began studying their peers or brothers as they’d been told to refer to each other by their respective governmental authorities no words were yet spoken each man was exceptionally well controlled and cautious of his five new siblings the identities of whom were entirely unknown and yet must eventually be trusted exceptionally perhaps involving the extension of more trust than was custom for any of them toward even their closest family members these men you see were picked carefully so as to practically guarantee the success of the mission that now awaited them
He wouldn’t look at me. The therapist wove her hand, dismissive. There on the ground was a rug. I can’t do this. Writing narrative isn’t what I’m used to. It’s frightening, actually. I rather dislike it sometimes. And my voice sounds shriveled. Each sentence is a fragment, a window. But none enough to be a door. And I don’t want to lie. If I lied, then what? My lies are the entire page. I can’t bear to tell the truth. Not after what it’s done. Ah! Silly thoughts. Silly moments in general. The rabbit scurried through the tube. He went grasping after it. Some desperate scene were they. The rabbit a flash of white. He a desperate mad dash. He was ugly, true. A face like a pumpkin. And the hat wasn’t in style. Regardless, he was very popular. The rabbit didn’t like his hands. So many short sentences. One must follow the first. One must lead into the next. Only I live in isolated squares. The chopping block gives no warning. Soon you will be somewhere else. No planning, no expectation available. It seems cruel to give a story. Stories will pass into ash. Poetry is already ash. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I’ll give a story once I’m immortal. I tell only lies in fiction. I tell only truth with my eyes. Wait for privacy to give way. Soon it will tell you too.
She ate the porridge. She loathed the porridge. The porridge was both sticky and dry. It would coat her hard palate with residue.
When he was a child he would say
“Wait up!” and, following, “Wait for me!”
When he was an old man all of his friends died first.
When he thought about the past, he would say
“Slow down!” and “Don’t go!”
It was obedient and waited for him to catch up.
When he was a child he would say
“Wait up!” and, following, “Wait for me!”
When he was an old man all of his friends died first.