Monday, January 16, 2012


The girl I met last night turned out to be a lemon. In her pictures, she didn't look quite so yellow, but when I met her in person she was definitely a lemon, three inches tall and pointed on either end and covered in a finely textured peel. I didn't know quite what to say because I didn't want to be rude, or act like I hadn't known, because when I thought about it her profile had definitely said that she was short and from Florida, and later when I checked I confirmed that she described herself as "zesty," so maybe I'm a dumbass who can't put two and two together. The thing is, I am really not attracted to lemons, but I had already made reservations at this place, and anyway there is no polite way of saying, Hey, This Isn't Exactly How I Thought It Would Be, So I'm Going To Go Home Now, Have A Nice Life Or Something. I try to be a gentleman. So we got our table, we sat down. She had clear skin and a nice shape, as far as lemons go. I liked how she smelled; I don't hate lemons. I'm just not into them.

All throughout dinner, I thought about what it would be like to be in a relationship with a lemon. I had never been out with one before, so I had never spent any time thinking about that kind of thing. I couldn't imagine kissing her, for one. Like, I know that their skin itself isn't sour, but I'd still be afraid of getting a mouthful of juice, and how I'd want to pucker, or spit, and how embarrassed she'd be, because that probably happened to her a lot. And what about socializing? It isn't like she can get in a normal fruit salad with the rest of us: she'd ruin the whole thing. And then I thought, she probably has a family, and friends. What would it be like if, I don't know, she and I got married for some insane reason, and I wound up with this extended lemon family, and they all came over for brunch or something? What does anyone do with a houseful of lemons? What does anyone do with more than one lemon? It made me realize that there are probably a lot of single lemons out there, and the fact that I had only met this one was fairly odd. Think about it: who wants more than one lemon in their life? Maybe some zest, okay, a slice of citrus, a hint of tang. But any more than that gets too sour.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Wisdom teeth

I'm feeling a bit less wise without my wisdom teeth. This is maybe why I haven't said as many things this past week. I am excited, however, to start making wisdom tooth jewelry tomorrow. I am planning on casting my teeth in plastic resin and turning them into awesome pendants. This has nothing to do with fiction, but I'll probably post some pics of my awesome wise tooth jewelry once it's complete. Baller.

Yeah. "Baller."

Thursday, January 5, 2012

The Sky People (part I)

Before the Sky People got here, we only looked at the ground. There was no reason to look anywhere else; all that we needed came from under us. We sowed the land, we mined the earth, we dug for water, and we bedded down at dusk. Saplings thickened and grew coarse with bark and sprouted right out of our perspective. We were skilled at knowing the pace at which the grass grew, at mapping the highways of ants. We had bent backs and arms that waved out in front of us. We learned to love one another by the sound of our voices.

On that day the Sky People arrived, a heavy rain was falling. We weren't worried about where it came from: it only mattered that it washed down the hills in foamy brown rivers, that the mud was rising over the tops of our boots. We groped with our arms through the whited-out rainscape to search for shelter from the storm. We crouched together, keeping our eyes downcast toward the burgeoning flood. If we had looked up, we would have seen them fall. But we only heard them arrive: like the rain that they came with, they crashed through the treetops, they hurtled toward the earth and hit the ground with a groan. And there, among the mud, their filthy figures began to unfurl, and they rose up from the sodden soil and straightened their spines and shrieked a suffering shriek. Within minutes, there were dozens of them, all cast down from goodness-knows-where to rise from the earth like trees.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

New day (For Nicole)

I woke up early this morning and set the house on fire. I stood in the yard facing a riot of flames and a comparatively understated sunrise. The bellowing heat dried the dew from every blade of grass in the yard. I backed away once my face felt singed by the shimmery air, and my feet stayed dry, even at dawn.

You were inside the house, and you didn't make a sound. I briefly considered how it would have been otherwise. I thought about the slurred and yawning expanse of my life spent gazing at you across the kitchen table. I thought of the clotted, wordless winters, the hushed and stifling summers, a succession of silent seasons to usher us back into the earth.

I thought, too, about the cling of your spidersilk hair between my fingers, the clasp of your teeth on my lips, the brine of your skin on mine in the morning, the soundless way you slumbered as I creaked the cupboard open for matches. I thought of how I could have spent eternity that way, tasting your salty skin, winding my fingers in your hair, coaxing a muted syllable from your lips.

But what kind of a life is that?