Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Expedition Two:

The old man burst into the pub, his haggard face twisted with truncated dreams like a worm cut in two. His voice had perished, stolen by grim ordeal. He used dyslexic telepathy to tell the others, “Down was I Porter’s Cove was me. A box netted I. A wooden box long. Rusted was the lock shut and barnacles to wood clung the soft waterlogged. Right at it real close looked I and lettering seen I across the top. It said..."
Expedition Two: One thick black cord stretches from the muscled mouth of a naked woman carrying the loss of a dual mastectomy and into the charcoal eyesocket of a promiscuous horticulturist named Helen Epperbaum. The cord is frayed and stings the air with short sizzling bursts of white gnats erupting from the shadows of an area like a risk to your own health. A burro a child a burro a child leaps into a shallow black splash thrumming with gasping electric currents and like eels squirming on a slow current of razor blades, fluid fills his gasping utterances. “Here, let me take this out of your mouth.” He tucked his money into his pocket. “Eskimos are everywhere these days,” Luke tells me. They sit around worn ghost-laden tables, casting polished whale bones as if they were new galaxies, boisterously shouting with each arctic sledge that approaches. Jhinook pounds his mittened fist on the haunted table and scowls with innate and created heat. A man tells a joke about vaginas made of snow and an icicle penis. The other men laugh with glaring toothless smiles, rolling their whiskey eyes, happy here, chewing whale blubber like unruly gum. He sweeps up the ivory dice again and tosses them with his whole chronic personality on the line. 


What I Did On My Summer Vacation

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