Tagged: spouse

“You Look Sad”

  • by jenpush food at me
  • sad sunny sky
  • I’d grown horns
  • got dizzy, bent over, and waited
  • watered my plant with 7-Up
  • making your “babies”

“You look sad, Sunny Sky,” Stormy Cloud remarked.

“Maybe I wouldn’t if you didn’t alway push food at me like I’d grown horns,” Sunny snapped.

“Ever since you watered my plant with 7-Up…” Stormy trailed off.

“Oh! You mean the night you gave me the drugs and I got dizzy, bent over, and waited for you to fuck me?”

“Don’t say that in front of the babies!” Stormy cried.

“That’s another thing I’m sick of! You making your ‘babies’ the center of everything! They’re not babies, Stormy! They’re ferrets!”

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Extradimensional Infiltration Won’t Affect Your Cerebral Output

  • k-avatarunless you are using vibrations for bones
  • your cerebral output
  • an irascible, tyrannical old coot!
  • I flipped my cape over him
  • — orbs as you call them —
  • gently adjusted the glasses
  • he gave a muffled buzz
  • as thick as a parrot’s
  • “I’ll never leave you, baby.”

Extradimensional infiltration won’t affect your cerebral output or the function of your eyes — orbs as you call them — unless you are using vibrations for bones or possess feathers as thick as a parrot’s. But that is assuming that all the usual guild-approved apparatus is present. I gently adjusted the glasses which protected my sight-orbs and fluffed my downy feathers. Jones had landed in trouble, not surprising since he is, in fact, a parrot, besides being an irascible, tyrannical old coot! He sat frozen on his perch while I and the other owls prepared for the mission to retrieve his marbles from the cosmic interstices. Occasionally he gave a muffled buzz, especially after I flipped my cape over him. His simple but adoring young — inappropriately young — wife, a very pretty flamingo, said, “I’ll never leave you, baby.” Jones buzzed again, and leaned forward precariously. There was no time to lose.

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David Attended the Auction at Christie’s

  • by jenfrom faraway Ethiopia or India
  • nearly a hundred
  • squeezed between so many
  • dazzlingly clear and exquisitely polished
  • I saw this scarecrow
  • Well, David, there you have it

David attended the auction at Christie’s hoping to find an unusual anniversary present for his wife, Cherí. He was despairing of finding something suitable until he overheard a man in the crowd say, “I saw this scarecrow over by the medieval stuff.”

Cherí had grown up in Paris, but had always harbored dreams of a more pastoral existence. A scarecrow could be just the thing. David scurried to the far corner of the auction house and there, squeezed between so many suits of armor, he saw the most stunning of all scarecrows. Its eyes were blue, dazzlingly clear and exquisitely polished, like jewels from faraway Ethiopia or India.

“Well, David, there you have it,” he murmured. “The perfect gift for Cherí.”

He knew he could afford to spend nearly a hundred thousand dollars on it, and hoped the bidding wouldn’t run wild.

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This Full Moon

  • by jenthis full moon
  • the pasta
  • north van
  • terms of debt
  • mountain of old

“This full moon, the pasta, the wine! It’s so romantic!” cried Felicia.

Phil led her next down North Van Houton Street to a bakery. In the alley out back they found a mountain of old donuts, and dug in.

“I know it’s not a second honeymoon in Paris,” said Phil, “but in terms of debt management, it’s a winner.”

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After My Ankle Surgery

  • by jennever pick up a stray kitten
  • don’t strain yourself
  • We should get married more often
  • a cuddlesome wench on each side
  • He pointed at my foot
  • I wiggled like a puppy

After my ankle surgery, my mother just wouldn’t shut up with the “helpful” advice. “Don’t strain yourself,” she insisted. “You don’t want to open the stitches back up.”

“Sure, Ma,” I repeated into the phone, but she wasn’t happy until I promised to never pick up a stray kitten again. I couldn’t really blame her for worrying. The last kitten had hidden beneath the sofa and swiped her talons right through my achilles tendon, thus necessitating the surgery.

My new husband came into the room, followed by the doctor with a cuddlesome wench on each side. Nurses, I assumed.

The doctor sat on the edge of my bed. He pointed at my foot. “Feeling better now?” he asked, and then tickled the sole. I wiggled like a puppy shaking itself dry.

“Good,” said the doctor, and he left, taking the cuddlesome wenches with him.

“I’m sorry we have to spend our honeymoon in the hospital,” I said to my husband.

“We should get married more often,” he laughed.

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My Husband’s Name is Paris

  • k-avatara strange man opened that door
  • the worst a beautiful woman could do
  • strip poker with a man-eating tiger
  • my husband’s name is Paris
  • reporting a raccoon
  • “Cold potato soup!”

My husband’s name is Paris, which isn’t the worst a beautiful woman could do. I once dated a fellow named Albuquerque, and even that’s not as bad as strip poker with a man-eating tiger.

But this has nothing to do with Paris, or Albuquerque.

My apartment has a door I never use. Once a strange man opened that door and leaned into my apartment, reporting a raccoon was raiding the dumpster. So now I never use that door.

And yesterday, a little child trapped in my sock drawer kept yelling the same thing all day. “Cold potato soup!”

I think I should move.

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Changa Wasn’t Really His Wife

  • his rodent-like face
  • the shrieking of something
  • to whom he was married
  • another man’s flesh
  • slid from his belt
  • in his rubbery grip

Changa wasn’t really his wife, she was just the person to whom he was married at age five in the tradition of his people. All he recalled of the ceremony was itchy clothes and the shrieking of something about eternal honor and sacrifice. The stunned newlyweds had been compelled to kiss, and then avoided each other for the next twelve years.

Now Changa was hot. The kind of hot that makes you sweat. As she strolled through the market, the broom felt heavy in his rubbery grip. Urgency slid from his belt, and he had to be alone for a minute.

He hated the idea of her tasting another man’s flesh, kissing his rodent-like face. Anger darkened his world.

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As The Mumu Princess

  • by jenMay your rod soften!
  • perhaps a seal
  • now she was all sweet decorum
  • the Mumu princess came down
  • where the clumped kelp grew
  • upon one elbow

As the mumu princess came down the church aisle, Lola the wedding planner admired her fanciful wedding gown, especially where the clumped kelp grew upon one elbow in the shape of an aquatic mammal — perhaps a seal, perhaps a sea lion.

It was a miracle they’d gotten the stubborn girl out of her mumus. Lola and her staff had earned their money there. With the help of the bride’s own father they’d convinced her something dressier than a flowing, shapeless robe was called for.

The mumu princess was furious with her father for interfering. She’d even yelled, “May your rod soften!” which seemed to Lola a wholly inappropriate insult to hurl at one’s father.

The mumu princess’s anger cooled eventually, she acquiesced, and now she was all sweet decorum.

Lola wished her new husband luck.

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Who Undergoes A Miraculous Transformation

  • by jen“My God!” Emilio Salvatore protested
  • wiped his hands on a towel
  • undergoes a miraculous transformation
  • first sensible thing you’ve said today
  • some submarine convulsion
  • electrical engineers, artists, orthopedic surgeons

“Who undergoes a miraculous transformation every week, anyway? Not electrical engineers, artists, orthopedic surgeons…”

“My God!” Emilio Salvatore protested loudly. “My God does!”

Emily’s face underwent some submarine convulsion as she stared at Emilio.

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said today,” spat Emilio as he wiped his hands on a towel.

“I didn’t say anything!” Emily said.

“Exactly.”

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Stop the Presses!

Time for another potential downside of having a writing partner: interruptions.

If you don’t have a fortress of solitude to write in, then you’re probably familiar with being interrupted. You’re thinking that it affects us all, with or without a collaborator. True, but with a writing partner there’s an added wrinkle.

 Soloist author's spouse: "Did you see that thing in the news?"
 Soloist author: "Sorry, Honey. I'm working right now."
 Soloist's spouse: "Oh, sorry. I'll tell you about it later."
Collaborative author's partner: "Did you see that thing in the news?"
 Fellow author: "Which thing?"
 Partner: "The missing dog. It got me thinking about that scene in chapter six..."

Notice a difference? It’s easier to give your spouse the old brush-off than it is to stay on task with a chatty partner. Sure, conversational overtures about irrelevant topics can distract you, but the special problem with your partner’s interruptions is precisely that they’re on-topic.

It’s no good to say, “Sure, sure chapter six. Whatever. Tell me when it’s finished.”

It’s also no good to heave a sigh and roll your eyes before saying, “Missing dog for chapter six? Do tell.”

Obviously, there’s no guarantee that your partner will always have something important or relevant to say. Sometimes people just talk a bit too much. But that’s an easy problem to fix: “I’m sorry, but this is work time. We can discuss [current popular tv show] later.” If that doesn’t do the trick, then you might just have a bad partner.

The deeper challenge is with partnership per se. You have to talk to each other, and once in a while that need conflicts with other noble aims. Which is to say, even if you have the ideal partner and you’ve found the optimal fiction project to collaborate on, you’ll run into this problem from time to time. (Voice of experience! Hey, partner!)

The final thing to say on this subject: embrace the interruptions, as long as they’re pertinent. If you try to curb your partner’s tendency to break your concentration, you’ll curb his or her enthusiasm for working with you. To be successful at writing in collaboration, you must adapt to a bit more interruption. It’s worth it.