AMYNTO FORCE SINKS ETERNAL VIRGIN, 1500 DIE by Jamie Loftus. Charlie frowned, releasing the paper to the wind and grabbed the railing of the now-vacant boat. “Where the fuck did they get that figure from?”
“Sounds familiar,” she said offhandedly, pulling another cough drop from her purse.
“Well, it pisses me off. Suddenly six people is a thousand,” he returned. “Now we’ve actually got to sink the damn thing. Those journalists, they don’t piss you off?”
Amynta smoothed out the long orange sleeves before her. “What’s the point? People like that aren’t telling you a story, they’re eating someone else’s shit and shitting it out themselves like it was the first shit to ever be taken. Forgive me if that’s a little much, but I don’t see a way to reason with someone who considers that a profession.”
“Says the woman who kills in cold blood,” he laughed, leaning on the rail.
She shrugged. “That’s the one thing death has going for it,” Amynta answered. “It’s very difficult to plagiarize, and even more difficult to get just right.” This was true enough, and Charlie thought his time would be better spent in the library, figuring how to actually sink a ship. FP
Musical Criminal by Amit Parmessur. I paraded to the town school, quite impressed that the music teacher I was going to replace was found dead in her soft bed listening to Celine Dion’s I’m Alive on repeat mode.
I was instantly introduced to my mournful students. “Come on! Take your mischief out of the bag,” I said, “come everyone, stand in front of the piano. Concentrate! Punch it and devour its keys as if they were delicious chocolate biscuits.” We had some chocolate party.
During the flute session I stopped one student blowing some crap music. “Take your fingers and carefully close all the holes in the flute until it suffocates and dies,” I snapped solemnly. “Everyone!”
They all enjoyed their novel status of criminals and the newly-painted walls echoed happiness. The afternoon caretaker was quite baffled to see so many flutes in the dustbin. “They are all dead, so, he can’t think of selling ‘em,” one student murmured.
I adored his logic.
I then showed how to hang the drum at home and learn boxing. I even taught my disciples how to take the trumpet, blow into it once and throw it wildly over their roof. We also learned how to mold the triangle into a perfect square to compose a peppy song, à la John Deacon.
I was about to demonstrate how to strangle one’s sadness with guitar strings when the rector came, a caretaker grinning over his shoulder.
I went home, slammed the door and listened to The Doors’ The End. FP
Flamenco by Samantha Memi. I was a flamenco dancer. I stamped my feet, picked an apple from a tree, clicked my tongue, snapped my fingers, clacked my castanets and with all the stamping picking clicking and clacking I fell into a swoon. Antonio, the torero, my dancing partner, caught me as I fell, and I heard the crowd cry olé as he carried me to his dressing room where he undressed me to give me air, and held me close to his body to listen to the beating of my heart. As I came out of my reverie I realised what he was doing and said, ‘Antonio, what are you doing? Not here. Let’s find a cheap hotel together.’
We spent the night in the Hostal Guadalquivir, where he gave me what for with his capo de torero, and made my Sevillana sing with duende. ‘Oh oh, Antonio,’ I chirruped in his arms and I fell once more into a reverie and I found myself stamping picking clicking clacking and as I danced I realised my swoon was just a dream. FP
Tryst by Paul Beckman. M carried her memories of the business trip back home with her. She would, for the next month or so, when her husband and kids weren’t around take out this one-time lover’s shirt and breath in his essence. She danced with it, rolled on the rug with it wrapped around her and once even slept with it when she was alone for the weekend.
J buried her panties deep in one of the pockets of his briefcase. He would reach in from time to time and feel their smoothness and think of her. Sometimes he would smuggle them in his pants pocket to a safe place at work or home and re-live their loving with her smell.
She told her best friend and confidante who called her a true romantic.
He told no one, although he was just as romantic—more so, even, he believed. One lunch time his boss, a woman he’d had a brief affair with, walked into his office without knocking. J, in the throes of M via her bunched up panties under his nose, reacted quickly with a fake sneeze and a quick wipe while his boss was none the wiser.
Afterwards, M’s panties no longer elicited the desired effect so he tossed them. M kept his shirt for years until his essence had long since dwindled and she survived on its memories. FP
Existence by Lilyyy Dawn. “I hate hate hate, bro. I'm so fucking mad. I am so goddamn mad. I wanna cry about every fucking wrong thing in the world. I wanna cry my motherfucking eyes out. I hate hate hate.” I woke up to a voicemail from Adam on my cellular telephone and that's what it said. He hate hate hates.
I called him thinking he was dead somewhere.
“I'm alive,” he said, “I don't know how I haven't alienated all of my friends. I'm glad that I haven't, but I figure that it should've happened by now.”
We ended up meeting downtown.
“Today has barely existed,” he said. He wasn't looking at anything. He certainly wasn't looking at me. He demonstrated the day: dully passing with nothing to look at.
Adam barely existed. FP
***
Dolly by Katie McGuire. It was the 90s, but they hadn’t yet heard of *NSYNC. There were no Backstreet Boys, no battle for top female vocals. They were the generation lost, the ones who would be young enough to be forced to debate the individual merits of Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and Mandy Moore, but too old to really give a shit about any of them.
It also didn’t help that it was 1991 and Sam insisted on love ballads from the past. They were his guilty pleasure, the songs that had country crooners bearing their heart-broken souls and women wailing about lost causes. Men and women traded verses, rehashing what went wrong or declaring their eternal flaming passion for one another. Women were floozies or saints. Men were either innocent victims or cruel-hearted rednecks with a taste for imported beer and foreign women.
Sam loved that shit. And anyone that commented on his selection of Whitney Houston over Pink Floyd got their asses handed to them (and usually ran out to buy Whitney’s latest single). His girlfriend, Mariah, was one who didn’t see the allure. She was the only one who escaped a physical beating for her take on Sam’s musical tastes, but she had suffered plenty of emotional smackdowns whenever she reached for the radio dial in Sam’s dad’s aging Cadillac.
And that’s how Mariah ended up losing her virginity in the backseat of that car, to the tune of Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You.” She hated that song. FP
“Sounds familiar,” she said offhandedly, pulling another cough drop from her purse.
“Well, it pisses me off. Suddenly six people is a thousand,” he returned. “Now we’ve actually got to sink the damn thing. Those journalists, they don’t piss you off?”
Amynta smoothed out the long orange sleeves before her. “What’s the point? People like that aren’t telling you a story, they’re eating someone else’s shit and shitting it out themselves like it was the first shit to ever be taken. Forgive me if that’s a little much, but I don’t see a way to reason with someone who considers that a profession.”
“Says the woman who kills in cold blood,” he laughed, leaning on the rail.
She shrugged. “That’s the one thing death has going for it,” Amynta answered. “It’s very difficult to plagiarize, and even more difficult to get just right.” This was true enough, and Charlie thought his time would be better spent in the library, figuring how to actually sink a ship. FP
Musical Criminal by Amit Parmessur. I paraded to the town school, quite impressed that the music teacher I was going to replace was found dead in her soft bed listening to Celine Dion’s I’m Alive on repeat mode.
I was instantly introduced to my mournful students. “Come on! Take your mischief out of the bag,” I said, “come everyone, stand in front of the piano. Concentrate! Punch it and devour its keys as if they were delicious chocolate biscuits.” We had some chocolate party.
During the flute session I stopped one student blowing some crap music. “Take your fingers and carefully close all the holes in the flute until it suffocates and dies,” I snapped solemnly. “Everyone!”
They all enjoyed their novel status of criminals and the newly-painted walls echoed happiness. The afternoon caretaker was quite baffled to see so many flutes in the dustbin. “They are all dead, so, he can’t think of selling ‘em,” one student murmured.
I adored his logic.
I then showed how to hang the drum at home and learn boxing. I even taught my disciples how to take the trumpet, blow into it once and throw it wildly over their roof. We also learned how to mold the triangle into a perfect square to compose a peppy song, à la John Deacon.
I was about to demonstrate how to strangle one’s sadness with guitar strings when the rector came, a caretaker grinning over his shoulder.
I went home, slammed the door and listened to The Doors’ The End. FP
Flamenco by Samantha Memi. I was a flamenco dancer. I stamped my feet, picked an apple from a tree, clicked my tongue, snapped my fingers, clacked my castanets and with all the stamping picking clicking and clacking I fell into a swoon. Antonio, the torero, my dancing partner, caught me as I fell, and I heard the crowd cry olé as he carried me to his dressing room where he undressed me to give me air, and held me close to his body to listen to the beating of my heart. As I came out of my reverie I realised what he was doing and said, ‘Antonio, what are you doing? Not here. Let’s find a cheap hotel together.’
We spent the night in the Hostal Guadalquivir, where he gave me what for with his capo de torero, and made my Sevillana sing with duende. ‘Oh oh, Antonio,’ I chirruped in his arms and I fell once more into a reverie and I found myself stamping picking clicking clacking and as I danced I realised my swoon was just a dream. FP
Tryst by Paul Beckman. M carried her memories of the business trip back home with her. She would, for the next month or so, when her husband and kids weren’t around take out this one-time lover’s shirt and breath in his essence. She danced with it, rolled on the rug with it wrapped around her and once even slept with it when she was alone for the weekend.
J buried her panties deep in one of the pockets of his briefcase. He would reach in from time to time and feel their smoothness and think of her. Sometimes he would smuggle them in his pants pocket to a safe place at work or home and re-live their loving with her smell.
She told her best friend and confidante who called her a true romantic.
He told no one, although he was just as romantic—more so, even, he believed. One lunch time his boss, a woman he’d had a brief affair with, walked into his office without knocking. J, in the throes of M via her bunched up panties under his nose, reacted quickly with a fake sneeze and a quick wipe while his boss was none the wiser.
Afterwards, M’s panties no longer elicited the desired effect so he tossed them. M kept his shirt for years until his essence had long since dwindled and she survived on its memories. FP
Existence by Lilyyy Dawn. “I hate hate hate, bro. I'm so fucking mad. I am so goddamn mad. I wanna cry about every fucking wrong thing in the world. I wanna cry my motherfucking eyes out. I hate hate hate.” I woke up to a voicemail from Adam on my cellular telephone and that's what it said. He hate hate hates.
I called him thinking he was dead somewhere.
“I'm alive,” he said, “I don't know how I haven't alienated all of my friends. I'm glad that I haven't, but I figure that it should've happened by now.”
We ended up meeting downtown.
“Today has barely existed,” he said. He wasn't looking at anything. He certainly wasn't looking at me. He demonstrated the day: dully passing with nothing to look at.
Adam barely existed. FP
***
Dolly by Katie McGuire. It was the 90s, but they hadn’t yet heard of *NSYNC. There were no Backstreet Boys, no battle for top female vocals. They were the generation lost, the ones who would be young enough to be forced to debate the individual merits of Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and Mandy Moore, but too old to really give a shit about any of them.
It also didn’t help that it was 1991 and Sam insisted on love ballads from the past. They were his guilty pleasure, the songs that had country crooners bearing their heart-broken souls and women wailing about lost causes. Men and women traded verses, rehashing what went wrong or declaring their eternal flaming passion for one another. Women were floozies or saints. Men were either innocent victims or cruel-hearted rednecks with a taste for imported beer and foreign women.
Sam loved that shit. And anyone that commented on his selection of Whitney Houston over Pink Floyd got their asses handed to them (and usually ran out to buy Whitney’s latest single). His girlfriend, Mariah, was one who didn’t see the allure. She was the only one who escaped a physical beating for her take on Sam’s musical tastes, but she had suffered plenty of emotional smackdowns whenever she reached for the radio dial in Sam’s dad’s aging Cadillac.
And that’s how Mariah ended up losing her virginity in the backseat of that car, to the tune of Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You.” She hated that song. FP