Tagged: food

“I Ain’t No Mau-Mau”

  • by jenI ain’t no Mau-mau
  • said the flabbergasted writer
  • breast of alligator
  • inflection the echo of the heady times
  • actor-robots never panic

“I ain’t no Mau-mau,” said the flabbergasted writer as she declined the breast of alligator proffered by the mute servant. Even to her own ear her voice had a tremulous inflection, the echo of heady times sweeping the tropical capital where she was currently on assignment.

The prime minister was making an elaborate toast which the translator translated as “actor-robots never panic.”

The writer blinked in confusion.

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One Is The Loneliest Number

r-avatarHow do solo writers do it?

Our evenings lately have been spent sprawled on the big leather sofa with the laptop and a small mountain of meaningfully marked-up copies of our manuscript. One of us (usually Jen) wades through all of the critiques while the other (usually Kent) mans the laptop, adding comments and making edits to our master copy. Jen interprets all the line-edits and deciphers everyone’s handwritten comments, directing Kent to the proper parts of the manuscript so that together we can discuss the proposed changes.

It’s slow going, and we generally only manage one or two chapters per night. Each of those chapters is gone over with a fine tooth comb (hey baby, that is one fine tooth-comb you’ve got there!) four or five times as we consider the feedback from all of our beta-readers. Working with a partner makes something like this bearable, oftentimes even enjoyable. It’s hard for us to imagine this part of the process as a solo author. Who do you talk to about whether a suggestion or complaint is valid? Who do you high-five when a passage works exactly as you planned? Whose shoulder do you cry on when a passage doesn’t work at all? And most important: who do you send for snacks and refills of fortifying beverages?

The writer’s life can be a very solitary one, but with a writing partner it doesn’t have to be.

Everything Was Up For Grabs

  • k-avatarin such a cloister
  • from card tricks to chicks
  • like the truck says
  • she understood. She always did
  • no longer limited to swimming through gray jello

Everything was up for grabs in such a cloister, from card tricks to chicks. You just had to know what to say to the Sister in charge. You had to kneel, and tell her these four little words, “Like the truck says.”

She understood. She always did.

Then you followed her down a long, oppressively hot corridor. You smelled roses, and you heard crying behind closed doors. You followed the Sister in charge, and your eyelids itched and your ears started ringing, because you were so close. Just a few more steps and you’d be no longer limited to swimming through gray jello. Color and texture would be returned to your existence. For a while.

Unless that was the wrong kind of hilltop building, and the Sister in charge wouldn’t understand. Maybe there’s only the one cloister where it works that way.

But you go inside to see what’s up for grabs.

 

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“You Really Should Make An Effort”

  • by jenbe sensitive to electrical fields
  • umbilical cord. It included
  • brought them succulent branches
  • once was plowed
  • I predict a lot of insomnia

“You really should make an effort to be sensitive to electrical fields,” my mother once said. “Their feelings are easily hurt.” So I made every effort when a couple of them moved in next door. I did some research into their customs and then prepared a gift basket tied up with a ribbon the exact color of an umbilical cord. It included many homemade goodies. The next day I brought them succulent branches of coca leaves from the field near our street that once was plowed, but has now been taken over by a drug cartel. I predict a lot of insomnia if they eat the leaves.

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Aarto Hammersmith Was a Tall Norwegian Man

  • by jena pair of filthy feet
  • an enormous cantilevered balcony
  • a bin of oval fish
  • On a sailboat?
  • Free-Range Antelope Chops
  • a tall Norwegian

Aarto Hammersmith was a tall Norwegian man with blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a penchant for sailing inherited from his viking forefathers. Standing on the prow of a ship made Aarto feel like he had discovered an enormous cantilevered balcony over the fjords of his homeland.

When the ship docked in Tokyo harbor it took on several passengers and a bin of oval fish of a type Aarto had never seen before. Intrigued, he tracked down the owner of the bin to ask what the odd oval fish were called. He found her sitting on the deck, dangling a pair of filthy feet through the railing. They were, in fact, her own feet, which was good news to Aarto because she was gorgeous: a beautiful Japanese marine biologist named Hiromi Sakai. They spent the afternoon together talking fish and falling in love. That night at dinner Hiromi, explaining that she never ate the fish she adored, ordered Free-Range Antelope Chops.

Antelope chops? thought Aarto. On a sailboat?

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“Sit Down”

  • k-avatara place of our own
  • make you an ass whooper
  • would so love a bookcase
  • do some jump rope
  • gorgeous cookies

“Sit down, and I’ll make you an ass whooper.”

“Thanks! Those are the most gorgeous cookies.”

“But they’re fattening.”

“Oh, I’ll do some jump rope later.”

“Things like this are so much easier here than back at the apartment.”

“It’s wonderful to have a place of our own.”

“It’ll be even better when we get some furniture. I would so love a bookcase.”

“The sofa will do for now.”

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The Overseer Came to My Section Today

  • k-avatarcivilians were too nervous to stick around
  • instantly I was chilled to the bone
  • work a little congealed bacon grease into our hands
  • I noted how strange and stiff he sat as he rode
  • having nothing better to do with her time

The Overseer came to my section today, on his Knucklehead. I noted how strange and stiff he sat as he rode past me, and how his eyes roamed every inch of me. Instantly, I was chilled to the bone. Roxie nudged me under the table and, having nothing better to do with her time, suggested we work a little congealed bacon grease into our hands. I returned her smile, but inside, my troops were frantically digging trenches. My inner civilians were too nervous to stick around.

 

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The Perfume Wafting Up

  • by jenfinished the baklava
  • I sneezed repeatedly
  • made my hair prickle
  • filthy looking meal in a rusty can
  • perfume wafting up

The perfume wafting up from the bottom bunk smelled almost as pungent as the filthy looking meal in a rusty can they served me for dinner last night. I sneezed repeatedly, which drew the guard’s attention. The malevolent look in his muddy eyes made my hair prickle on my arms and neck. If I had known it would end like this, in this wretched culinary prison, I would have finished the baklava for His Majesty on time!

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Turning Her Lips

  • by jenstill damp from the bath
  • turning her lips
  • I know he is alive
  • you do have a lovely arse
  • made use of vibrational lore
  • revel in the soft skin of the breasts

Turning her lips from a smile to a grimace, Reggie made use of vibrational lore handed down to her from her grandmother to confuse the mind of her supervisor so that she could slip out of work early Friday afternoon.

At home later, her hair still damp from the bath, Reggie turned on Maury in time to see a woman declare, “I know he is alive!”

I guess she’s talking about her baby-daddy, Reggie thought.

In the kitchen she opened the refrigerator to find an early dinner. The only thing that looked appetizing was the leftover fried chicken. She took a moment to mentally revel in the soft skin of the breasts before nuking them.

After eating, Reggie shimmied into her slinky black dress and checked her appearance in the mirror before heading out to the local pub.

“You do have a lovely arse!” she told herself happily.

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Because they believed us

  • k-avatarpop that sucker out
  • eat pizza! fun fun!
  • designs on their pots
  • hardest departure
  • insane stoicism

Because they believed us to have designs on their pots, the primitive artisans drove us away with sharp sticks and their own spittle. Smithers refused to go, even when they poked him, although he relented in his insane stoicism when the chief began to tickle him.

Awaiting Smithers, the rest of us were stranded by the receding tide. Such is the tale of our hardest departure. One of the savages, fascinated by our fair hair and dungarees, fled his ancestral home to experience Western culture. After six months, all he would say was, “eat pizza! fun fun!”

Presenting my research to the dean, I found myself at a loss to reply when he stated, “Ya gots ta pop that sucker out.”

 

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