Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

So This Is What You Do On Your Day Off?

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by Meg Tuite       Killing the Neighbors  >


Inner dialogue: “She bites her cuticles, stares out the window with a glazed paralysis that is as blank as the page in front of her. Why?” 

Exposition: There’s a desk and a girl behind it–bookshelves, dictionaries and a thesaurus. A window behind reveals a landscape as still and stark as her words. Nothing breathes on either side of the glass.

Active verb: Work!

Inner dialogue: “Open thesaurus.”

List: humped, milksop, bruise, surly, squeak, volcano, space, distort, placid, amputate, squirt, tedious, jackhammer, corpulent, blow a fuse, penetrate, ooze, blunder, hopped-up

Exposition: She writes down miscellaneous words, strangers to each other. They aren’t even distant cousins.

Active verb: Gnaw.

Flashback: Yesterday she wrote something with vengeance. She leaves everything until the last minute. This is the last minute.

Active verb: Smacks, slaps

Exposition: She killed a fly and some gnat-like thing.

Inner dialogue: “Work these words.”

Exposition: She checks her watch. It’s 3PM. Something has to flow.

Inner dialogue: “Begin at the beginning. After I crack this beer.”

Active verb: Chug. Write.

Jensen found herself on top of this corpulent milksop named Patterson, humping him with her half-arm under his fruit-of-the-loom underwear like a jackhammer penetrating cement. Damn these office parties blundering every holiday into a nightmare. It was Halloween, complete with a dried-ice-volcano-smoking punch hopped up with grain alcohol and Squirt. It had distorted Jensen enough to blow a fuse on consciousness and distort her cubicle space with this beast squeaking out tedious curses while prematurely oozing all over the stub of Jensen’s amputated arm.

Patterson was sprawled over her desk. He looked up at Jensen with a placid smile.

“Damn, Jensen,” he said while she gritted her teeth with surly determination and covered her bruised arm with liquid sanitary gel. His globular face looked up at her. “That was beautiful. How was it for you?” Jensen pulled open her drawer and grabbed the penknife.

Inner dialogue: “Not a soporific love story. Thank God for that. Another beer. Another story.”

Henry amputated his teacher’s words before they were able to penetrate and ooze some tedious theory that she tried to squirt out between drinks.

“My sister is hopped up on meth,” Henry said.

The space between his teacher and her volcano of knowledge was working to bruise this milksop of a half-wit student into blowing a fuse and jackhammering her in the back of her Honda. Henry didn’t seem interested in her monologue. She was surly and corpulent and couldn’t afford any blunders. She ordered two shots of Cuervo. The space between him and a failing grade was narrowing by the minute.

Henry slammed down his shot. Everything was distorted. He knew she was waiting for a placid declaration. He smiled and squeaked, “I know you’re married, but I’ve got to have you. I’ll be right back,” Henry humped her thigh, kissed her on her sweaty, rouged cheek.

The teacher waited a half an hour before heading out alone. She would flunk another one.

Active verb: Chug, gnaw, throw pen.


published 23 October 2011