carnival diet, reconsidered, fff #8

i'd planned to continue in the erotic vein of fff#7 with flash fiction friday #8 but somehow it didn't happen; maybe sex next week. but i did write (not sure if i like it yet) with inclusions:
gun, tonne, fun, plum, drum.

“3tonnes of fun…”
the words echoed in her head, bouncing off the inside of her mind, reverberating her skull between her ears louder than she thought possible for a repetition internally created by her own imagination. she looked into the mirror in disgust – or, at least, tried to, but only managed disgust at not feeling any. she knew she should be repelled by what looked back at her, but wasn’t. she tried to make herself feel the way she knew she should, but fell far short of appalled.
despairing of her ability to ever do what social mores required, she reconsidered what she wanted versus what everybody seemed to think appropriate. she thought of the gorgeous design she coveted, thought of the colours, the feathers, pictured herself in it, bumsee beating the drumbeat and bassline of sweet sweet soca across the savannah stage, and tried to hate that image, to no avail. she tried to picture herself in the alternate, the kit everybody else liked for her, military green – did it have anything fun? not colourful feathers or other pretty mas detailing – not a sequin in sight – did it even have a headpiece or a standard? she tried to remember the name of the section, it didn’t even sound exciting, something punny like “gun for the road”, something that didn’t make her feel to wine+jam or wave her flag or her rag or jump through the streets with wild abandon – and wasn’t carnival for that? playing yourself as you secretly desire, as you see yourself, knowing and not caring that nobody else sees you that way…shouldn’t she play whatever she wanted and who doh like it could lie down by it? if her shining flesh pressed into that sexy little costume made her feel the feelings then wasn’t that everything?
she turned so she could see her backside. she was sure females bigger than herself would be out there in bikinis+beads, why should she hide in shame she didn’t truly feel? because others (could they really be friends?) say she too big, say somebody her size have no business in a tribe costume, others don’t see the vision of her in fuschia+plum-coloured spandex and fringe and feathers and faux-jewels the way she did, as her right for the 2days of leggo, beautiful because it made her happy – could a festival purporting to celebrate national unity mean anything while discriminating against fatties? she secretly liked that word, liked her size, liked the way her ample, oiled skin looked when she stood at the mirror after she bathed, liked seeing her legs dimple coming out the bottom of her skirts, liked her big, round backside enough that she wore shorts for her own enjoyment – talk ‘bout bottom in the road!
she cultivated this size, didn’t just “let herself go”; she grew herself into her idea of beauty. but here it was, her first carnival playing mas, and people she considered close telling her she shouldn’t wear the costume she wanted.
she turned back to look at her front, debating whether she cared what anybody else thought of her very generous body. she tried again to summon those feelings of disgust that she knew others harboured, and still couldn’t. she tried to make herself feel bad but the more she stared, the more she liked what she saw. she fulfilled her idea of what a woman should be.
in that moment she knew her decision was made.
as her granny would say, “every mouldy bread have its stinkin’ cheese” – she loved herself as she was, would love herself even more in her tribe costume, and somebody else would love her too – fire bu’n the rest!

walk good.

fff #8, late

so sorry about the lateness of today's trigger, but i had a (paying) gig conflicting with our noon deadline. feel free to reclaim the 2+ hours on your writing deadline.
this week i have no idea what i feel like, and usually i try to fight against my "feel like" for triggering purposes (keep it challenging for me, too) so i had trouble triggering since i suspect i'm better when i have something to rebel against.
so, inclusion clause this week; please pepper your piece with (also suspect this one real hard, but that's what you get for missing my erotic fff #7):
gun tonne fun plum drum

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for fff triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

homophobic homosexual (and related ignorance)

before we reach the person referenced in the title lemme admit something that probably shows me up as the nerd i am, but must be said: jon stewart is still one of the most doable white dudes on that short list, looking all distinguished and consistently smart+funny just like i like (and love when he's suited to complement+compliment the greying hair- sexy too bad!). and while on the topic, aasif mandvi's also too sexy, even if i'm even nerdier for finding him even more so for playing the mystic masseur...
that said, last week i had a bizarre (for me) experience (full disclosure: i may seem naïve because i have little to no patience for people i find stupid or otherwise unenjoyable company and have done an excellent job of eliminating such people from my life, thus rarely, if ever spend time with ignorance/bigotry; incidents like i'm about to relate don't come up in my existence so i receive stories of shit like this almost like myth, or the purview of people with the kind of power that corrupts, and am still shocked+appalled when i hear of worse, especially when it devolves into violence; this incident made me realise how wonderfully i shelter myself from jackassery).
so i'm apartment hunting. last week i saw a listing for something sounding perfect for my needs and within my price range. i call and the landlord say i could see it one time, mom had errands to run too so we ride together.
as he opened the door to show the apartment he asked about my job, checking that i could pay rent; i tell him i freelance in the arts. he seemed pleased, telling me as i look around the apartment that he used to (ballroom)dance and the front of the compound houses a dance studio- i start getting glad because is a bes' place, with bes' amenities and price, and now i hearing rehearsal space on the premises...then mr.cooper say we should adjourn to his apartment to discuss details because he wrapping up with a brand new tenant come to collect keys, who i should meet because his wife in the arts too, maybe we know each other...i get gladder because he seem interested and i definitely am.
we go by him, the tenant's "wife" is somebody i know well, worked with before, dude rings her so i can say hi, gladness all around. dude leaves, ma+mr.cooper figure out why they find each other familiar (bwee), we all chat a bit, then i ask what i need to do to retain the apartment.
after all this 20minutes smalltalk, he is to now tell me he has "reservations" about renting me the place. what i do for a living makes him hesitate because he doh want no "known gays" on the property. i was actually speechless for a hot minute when he drop that. ma jump in (so proud of her) asking him how he could say that, even if he disagree with the lifestyle people is people and to be treated fair+equal, they is folks too, etc.
mr.cooper say he's a "godfearing churchgoing" man and know it sound bad but he doh care, is how he feel, we doh understand what he's go through..so i ask...
he is to tell me about how the man who own the shop on the corner nasty and they have animosity and the man always trying to muddy his waters, ruining his reputation with rumours that he gay and persecuting him accordingly, so he doh want "known gays" on the property because they'll be associated with him and provide fodder for the cornershopman cannon...
i still flabbergasted- i point out that that's hardly the way to choose a tenant: apart from the sexual orientation of my friends+colleagues being irrelevant to me and moreso to him (should be, anyway) he concerned not with whether they actually gay, whether i know/think so, or even whether he think so, but whether the man in the shop on the corner think so, and how the ass is anybody to know who the man in the shop on the corner might think might be gay?! i say maybe he need to go by the cornershop and ask the man for a written list of everybody in the country the man think might be gay so he could show prospective tenants and ask if any of their associates on the list! this shit so absurd i still doh quite believe it, except i meet a fella yesterday who tell me when he went with his (male) pardner to see the same place, mr.cooper was very vocally concerned about whether they were trying to rent together!
on top of that, the other reason mr.cooper gave for not wanting my "known gay associates" around is that he doh want no "unwanted advances"- picture that statement coming from a very homely, short, portly, 60somethingish dude in ugly brown plastic oldman glasses, madras-plaid shortsleeve shirt and multiply-pleated khaki pants- i had to work hard to not buss out laughing and tell him none of my known gay associates would give him a passing glance, far less look twice to tender unwanted advances, plus my gay friends so hot he should say thanks if any of them even notice him! instead i politely suggest that anybody coming to me would be coming straight to me, passing his door straight, and if he happened to be outside they would simply greet politely and come to my door since they coming to me, not my landlord. none of that satisfied him and i was denied the bes' apartment on the premise of having known gay associates. in 2009. what the fuck?! plus, how come he wouldn't rent to me but gave keys to dude whose "wife" works in the arts? (i know they not married, but not muddying their living situation by telling their godfearing churchgoing landlord so) but what about her known gay associates? we know all the same people and her regular limin pardners more flamboyant than mine, so what the man in the shop on the corner go say?! yuh see how people ridiculous+scandalous! i feel the cornershop man must be telepath to mr.cooper about me+howshename zammyin a couple months ago...
i leave mr.cooper with he stupidness, and manage to forget for a minute where we are and start thinking i should report the incident as discrimination, until i reopen the express classifieds and see a listing running unaltered maybe a week now (full text): penal $900.00 preferably indian.
so i figure mr.cooper know better than me just how much discriminatory behaviour a landlord could get away with, especially in sweet trini where immigration laws amended as recently as 1995 still describe people as being "physically defective, idiots, imbeciles, feeble-minded, dumb..." and consistently lump together "prostitutes, homosexuals, and persons living on the earnings of prostitutes or homosexuals" as prohibited for "prostitution, homosexuality and other immoral purposes..."
the more things change, the more they stay...sigh.
walk good.

fff #7- explicit

this flash fiction friday i stuck with the idea of a 'loose' trigger:
the only word the voice on the phone said was...

i was entirely unready. i came not knowing what to expect, and it was just as well, since any expectation i had would’ve been false – nothing in my life had prepared me for this.
i thought i was coming to discuss the expansion and potential future diversification of our line of ladies’ delicates – in explanation of how unprepared i was, let me say that my involvement in the sale of ladies’ delicates was a shocking stretch in the first place; my parents and fiancé had no idea what i did, and i intended that they never would. i’d stumbled into the job alongside my only other risky adventure to date, an affair that i felt i owed myself before marrying the only man i’d ever had sex with, and i planned to limit both to as little time as it took to get myself set up.
i met my affair (and boss) through a friend of a friend of a friend who knew i was good at my work, looking for an opportunity, and, i suppose, discreet. i’m sure it didn’t hurt that i looked good in and maintained a wardrobe of the products in question, then unaware of how differently intimate i’d become with my intimate apparel. i was thrilled at a job prospect and asked no questions about the line of business, content to find out at the meeting i hoped would get me started in the life and lifestyle i wanted for myself – i was in love (at least, i persuaded myself i was) and trusted richard (his devotion and simplicity were the appeal) but wanted power and control over my own life. i refused to live like my mother, forever dependant on my father and forced to tolerate+facilitate his every whim, from entertaining his boys however and whenever he saw fit, to his mistresses and outside children.
adrian was immediately impressed with my qualifications, and further impressed with my special skills – just because i’d only been with one man didn’t mean i’d neglected my repertoire; i wanted to make sure i’d continue enjoying richard. and adrian was doing his part to teach me more about both business and pleasure.
he demanded my presence at this meeting with little briefing, except to request that i wear something from our line (as always) and my poker face. the only oddity was that the client wanted to call at their discretion to tell us where to go and he gave them my number, so i was not to leave my phone unattended or unanswered for a moment until we got word – seemed strange, but if he was willing to go along with the arrangement…
the only word the voice on the phone said was, “national”. then there was a definite click; the caller had said all they deemed necessary. adrian said he knew what that meant. when he told me what time the car would collect me i was surprised, but figured if they wanted to meet after-hours, that was their business. i was being paid more than well enough, and since richard already knew i couldn’t talk about my boss’ business, once a car was being sent for me as usual and he was assured of my safety, he didn’t fuss too much. i reassured him these wouldn’t become regular working hours for me, and for now, he was content in his trust in me.
we sat at one end of what appeared to be a runway and without any orders taken, cocktails were presented by a gorgeous young woman wearing only one of our matching bra+thong sets and a tiny white apron, our best-selling thigh-high garter stockings, and heels i wrongly presumed her own.
the only other person in the room stepped onto the runway a moment later and quietly explained that everything we saw on any of his people that wasn’t already part of our line was a product being pitched tonight. i glanced sideways at the girl’s black peep-toes and smiled. this could be fun, and even if we didn’t want anything we were shown i’d certainly leave with new ideas…
the show started innocuously enough with variations on what we already produced, new fabrics, including leather bondage-type items, more risqué cuts, accessories, etc. i loved seeing items for men; i’d been thinking about suggesting the same addition to adrian. then we were beckoned by our waitress up the runway and backstage, which was outfitted like a store with everything we’d seen modelled on display. there was a black door to the back and as we followed her through she explained that the last part of the pitch was an addition to the physical store. as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting i nearly stopped breathing.
the centrepiece was a male model in a leather jockstrap, bound by his wrists to the ceiling, blindfolded+gagged, being whipped by a woman in nothing but knee-high black patent high-heeled boots and a jewelled mask. as my eyes adjusted further i realised that the room was populated by models in delicates even more dangerous than we’d seen on the runway, pleasuring each other and themselves with an array of toys and accessories. our waitress reiterated what our host had said about everything we saw being part of the pitch and i turned to adrian, unsure how “we” felt about the scene.
before i could say anything, he snatched my arms behind me and i heard the softly menacing click of cold steel. he clapped a hand over my mouth and gestured, and our waitress expertly gagged me with a ball like the whipping boy’s. she produced a small knife and sliced easily through my dress, leaving me in my favourite underwear and heels. now i was terrified – handcuffed, gagged, uncertain of where exactly we were, scared of adrian’s intentions – i realised how stupidly vulnerable i was, unsure whether i should even run for the door to be discovered in my current condition.
i stood trembling in my heels, looking wildly around the room for any sign of assistance. our waitress dropped to her knees and adrian took a step back for a better view, as she began decorating my inner thighs with little curlicues of her hot, wet tongue. i was torn between the sensation she was generating and fear, still not knowing how far this would go but knowing i was powerless to stop it.
as her tongue reached the crotch of my panties, the light in the room began to change. it slowly brightened and i realised that while i was distracted, the other players in the room had somehow disappeared, leaving only adrian and our waitress, who now inclined her head slightly to him and backed out of the room.
i looked at him in confusion, and now, building anger at this game. he stepped to me, slid my traitorously damp panties to the ground and lifted my feet one at a time out of them, and while still on his knees wrapped his arms around my thighs. he flicked his tongue quickly, brilliantly, over my clitoris and paused to look up at my face. desire and rage battled inside me.
“when i finish treating you to my personal services, you can tell me what you think of the idea for our store’s ‘back door’…”

walk good.

flash fiction friday #7

i'm keeping the trigger-requirement loose again, to be used anywhere within the piece, cause i like and want to use this one but want to keep us free from being stuck with 1 of 2 narrative structures. this week's trigger (remember, use anywhere within your fff):
the only word the voice on the phone said was...

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for fff triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

deadly flash fiction

gave flash fiction friday #6 a looser trigger, in that it was the eighth deadly... could be used anywhere within the piece; curious to see how many of us still used it as a starter...

always look for the ulterior motive, he reminded himself, always, no matter who you dealing with or why. regardless of how well you think you know somebody and their wants and needs, always be on the lookout for something under the obvious, especially when things don’t quite add up to four. he tried to never underestimate the lengths people will go to for even a miniscule fulfillment.
so taking the scenic route on a leisurely sunday drive home from the beach was an excuse to pass by the icecream shop, which was all the excuse necessary to go in. it was the eighth deadly sin, this brand of subtle manipulation, especially since he knew somehow it would become his fault before the evening was done. he would be somehow responsible for breaking her get-ready-for-carnival-diet – fast, really, was the better word for her approach this rounds, in his humble opinion – once the pastelles and black cake finish, she say she was only eating once a day, proper breakfast, then some health-drink at lunchtime, and as much water as she wanted until 6pm. in his humble opinion she was better off not having so much pastelle and ponche a crema in the first place, but that wasn’t his place to say and he knew it. he knew better than to suggest she didn’t know best, and was already regretting the disagreement they’d have in a short if he couldn’t refrain from objecting when he was blamed for the icecream weakness.
he enjoyed his rum+raisin nonetheless, using that to settle himself into yes-honey mentality in preparation for the inevitable flagellation about this dessert, especially as it was preceded by a bake+shark that should have been a veg+shark to fit her costume requirements.
he watched her ravage her cookies+cream+cone and knew the fuss would all be worth it come carnival tuesday when her perfect round ass was bouncing and pushing back on him in the road in fuschia bikini+beads+feathers, but right now, in january, it was just a pain in the ass.

walk good.

self-edit?

so glad i took the attitude that i'd only see how useful a blackberry is if i expand the way i use the phone and really take advantage of its capabilities. so i fell properly in love with it the other night when i finally used it to edit text i wukkin on while killing time outside the house (big step for me, who, after all these years, still getting used to a machine over paper+graphite/ink, and that only because of editing ease) then emailed it to myself (also from the phone) so i had the changes via multiple access-options until i was back @ my machine with the original document to edit. sweet.
on the negative end of editing, this week i saw tv ads for a concert @ our local "centre of exellence" and received mail from our local ministry of planning, housing and the environment communications unit, bearing an inkstamp saying it was "despatched" october 9, 2009...
meanwhile our local ministry of health has thoughtfully created a webpage on becoming an organ donor that starts its "basics" with:
Q. What exactly does being an organ donor means?
and follows with:
Q. If doctors know that I have agreed to be an organ donor; will they still do everything to save my life? YES! Your doctor’s first priority and everything possible will always be done to save your life.
then poor writing continues:
Q. If I am in a coma and declared brain stem dead how do I know I won’t eventually recover? Being in a coma and being declared brain stem dead is not the same thing. You can be in a coma for a variety of reasons but you must be considered brain stem dead. In such cases, you cannot be considered for organ donation. Brain stem dead is final and irreversible.
and all on the same page as:
There is NO CHARGE to either organ donor recipient under the Ministry of Health National Organ Transplant Programme...Recipients for deceases donor are chosen through a matching systems...Fill the card out and carry it with you all the times!...it may be very difficult for your loved ones to consider organ donation unless you have made your wishes know before...there are approximately 500 nationals who need kidney transplant and...highest oh humanitarian ideals...
clearly my phone should be ringing off the hook with pleas for editing assistance, but when i consider how many people the ministry website probably passed through for approval before making it online in its current (horrific) state, coupled with the state of our local media (doh lemme even start!) it seems silly to hope they even recognise how bad it is...
sigh.
walk good.

fff #6

trying something different- instead of a starter/closer i want to free us up to use the trigger anywhere (not sure if this will make it easier or harder, so feel free to provide feedback). so this flash fiction friday's trigger can be used at any point in your piece:
it was the eighth deadly...

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

review/trigger

so while updating sidebar linkage i discovered notices on our(continuum's) coco dance festival performance of strange tale of an island shade the other day. this review @ pleasure mentions all my favourites of the festival plus uses a photo of our piece, which i'm all pleased about because it was the 1st time we ever did it with a set (i guess 'cause the piece now officially complete and qh is a grander space than we've performed it in before) and i love the photo of me used in the set; truthfully, i find all its images fun (big up sonja dumas + simone phillips). check us out...
...and send me flash fiction friday triggers, nah...
walk good.

broken fff?

this one was hard- the trigger somehow wasn't taking me near what i felt like writing, but i figure that's part of the point of flash fiction friday, right? so, inclusion trigger: flake, rake, break, stake, snake:

he scratched his head and a shower of off-white flakes cascaded onto his bare brown shoulders. she snickered at the irony that in another context, especially in this tropical place in this wining season, a tiny snowstorm might sound beautiful, but this version was simply gross.
she drifted while he continued scratching desperately to articulate something she didn’t have time to study. his words provided no solutions but he didn’t know it yet, self-centred as he was, had always been, she realised now. how the hell she could overlook that for so long? amazing, what the human mind can become acclimatised to…she abruptly brought herself back to dreams of sequins, feathers and beads – no point belabouring something already done when she had plenty to look forward to.
he was still trying fruitlessly to explain things she knew bore no relevance and she mentally shrugged him off – all that mattered now was how to finish paying for her costume. she apparently had the house to herself and paid up for the next 3months, her life back for as long as she chose to stay single, and snake in d balisier to play come monday+tuesday.
but even the costume picked out and waiting to wear since last year couldn’t stop her mind from coming back to wonder if that same self-centredness was responsible for what seemed to be the longest, most unnecessarily extra break-up speech ever delivered to somebody who couldn’t care less; carnival friday, she was unexpectedly free to wine on anything passing, free to get on how she feel with whoever she feel nice enough, free to fete as long as she want with nobody dragging behind her ready to go home when party now starting, and he busy bouncing his gums about his life’s work at stake and why he need to go? she didn’t give a fuck why, unless his justification had the rest of her costume money in it.
she tried to maintain her composure, tried to keep her tail quiet and let him work his words out until he felt good enough about himself to finally leave so she could call the girls. she watched him still scratching and wondered how much scalp he had left to spare, wondered if he had enough to get him through the momentary guilt and out the door. she started thinking up jouvay costumes based on dandruff-related puns, and as she despaired of his ever getting over himself enough to ride out, he raked his hands through the curls that would never leave crap under her nails again, and stood. still apologising, he moved to the door and she tried not to look visibly relieved. he tried to keep apologising in the doorway but she was done even if he still needed to talk himself into it. she held the door open and gestured outside.
“babes, the road eh only make to walk on carnival day…”

walk good.

whatchu talkin' 'bout, willis?

everybody needs to read nicholas laughlin's post, no license, no registration (link to draft bill included).
excerpt: "With a few simple manipulations, this bill could essentially give Caricom governments the power to determine who can and cannot practise journalism. And it leaves citizen journalists — who the Caribbean mainstream media still don't quite understand or respect — in limbo. Would I be legally required to apply for registration and a license to continue writing on this blog? I don't "cover" "news" per se, but I have reported and commented on current events in the past, and insist on the right to do so in the future. Does that make me a journalist under the terms of the bill?"

walk good.

fff+apologies

this time the late trigger not my fault, for real- i was ready @ the machine well before noon, but the internet and the machine itself were not interested in cooperating with our desire to fff- things had to be shut down, rebooted, troubleshot...my apologies on behalf of technology, and feel free to take back the extra hour on the deadline...
this week we have an inclusion trigger:
flake
rake
break
stake
snake

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

coco dance festival; continuum dance project

almost forgot to say it here: we (sonja dumas' continuum dance project, proud "we" for me) performing strange tale of an island shade @ the coco dance festival tomorrow+friday 8pm. strange tale... is the work we showed still-in-progress @ cottontree and ttw (little stuff + big stuff) earlier this year, it's now done and one of my favourites i been in, up there with noble douglas' why bach, why not? (totally different reasons). i love the movement and the text we explore, love the music used, and think it addresses shit we should all be thinking about...

COCO dance festival 2009
Contemporary Choreographers' Collective
Featuring the choreography of Rachel Lee, Elvis Radgman, Makeda Thomas, Dave Williams, Abeo Jackson, Nicole Wesley, Sonja Dumas, Anika Marcelle and Northwest Laventille
Thursday, October 15th at 8:00 pm
Friday, October 16th at 8:00 pm
Queen's Hall, St. Ann's
All tickets $100
Available from participating groups and Queen's Hall

walk good.

tiny hilarity

had to repost from txts frm lst nght (sidebar):

(910): i should start naming my morning wood
(201): great idea but wrong number

walk good.

under-the-gun-fff

funny how i write+post this flash fiction (friday) the same way i wrote+posted the trigger (italicised below).
tried something with this one, so please leave a response to my little experiment, explained @ the end of the story...thanks.

freakishly large hands reached out toward the tiny vial, almost visibly trembling. even now i couldn’t believe they were mine. i clutched it as gently as i could, cradling it against my soft bits, what was left of them, anyway. i couldn’t afford to let it slip through those clumsy fingers, fingers i barely controlled.
i lurched sideways, hearing a noise – mere hours ago i had no idea how much we take the ease and smoothness of basic movement for granted – i didn’t want to be seen. i fell back into the shadows, thanking all that was still holy for my senses not being dulled in this strangely altered state.
i waited for the sound to come into view, breathing more heavily than ever before, hating how audible it was, feeling like an animal, panting, hating the sweat i felt trickling down the centre of my chest, hating what i’d become, stiff and hard, sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb, no longer able to blend in when desired then make my prescence felt with a simple smile. could i still light up a room without a word?
the sound became flesh, entering the dark room to the immediate and barely hidden salute of my new flesh – at least, that’s how it felt, like there was no way anybody could possibly miss this physical reaction. unseen in the corner, it felt like a beacon announcing my weakness with my panting as alarm, announcing my inability to control what was supposedly mine – this body was not mine to manage, it had a mind of its own, if ‘mind’ was the best description of this involuntary rise.
she came in clearly looking for something, quickly becoming more agitated, her movements becoming faster and more aggressive until moments later she was tearing the room apart, somehow not noticing another being huddled in the corner. she worked methodically as i watched, my foreign flesh somehow responding even more to her frustrated condition. she dragged open everything in her path, ripping into every possible hiding place, starting at the entrance and coming toward my corner. my breathing got heavier, again, involuntarily, and now i had to fight my hands’ itch to reach out and touch, grab, grope, feel. i couldn’t even think about what to say when she inevitably got close enough to realise i was there.
moments later it was too late. she jumped, ever so slightly, but instantly, instinctively, covered her reaction with an unexpectedly gruff, “what the fuck?!”, dropping back into what tv and film had taught me was a fighting stance. i looked at her in amazement- she was going to take on the massive hunk of meat i was currently trapped inside? again, the forbidden flesh rose to the bait – how could any body be so dense, so insensitive to the situation? this woman was clearly intending to at least try beating my ass. how could that be a turn on? ‘mind of its own’ seemed more oxymoronic by the second.
finally my own mind, the one unchanged part of me, stepped in. i told her i wasn’t there to get in her way, already had what i came for, had been about to leave when i heard her coming and hid not knowing who she’d be. she relaxed, somewhat, although her body language and constantly shifting weight said she was still ready for the fight but had sized me up and decided that talking was safer – which was fine by me since i had no idea how to use the bulk i was temporarily (i hoped) blessed with.
i asked what she’d come for and she hesitated, and it suddenly made me question what seemed obvious – was she what she appeared to be, or was she like me, in an altered state? finally the flesh relinquished its hold on my mind. i discreetly (as discreetly as my unfamiliar mass would allow, anyway) checked my pocket for the vial, and, assured that my salvation was intact, told her that she didn’t need to tell me her business, i could just leave.
i made for the door, giving her a wide berth as i passed, noticing her alertness, noticing how she turned to keep her eyes on me the entire time i was moving, noticing the tension in her body, her readiness. i didn’t want to care whether this was her natural state or not. i had my own problems to resolve.
i wasn’t sure if she’d let me leave without a fight or at least a question (how could she not question?) but confidence is everything and i turned it on high and hoped the flesh wouldn’t betray me – weakness still lingered in my nether regions, but i no longer wanted to test drive this equipment.
i cleared the room and it took everything in me to not dance my relief at release down the hallway. i escaped as fast as i could, no longer caring how the bulky body might seem, no longer even caring how it worked, why i’d ever wanted to try it on long forgotten...

when i started writing i didn’t know what the hands were reaching toward. a few paragraphs in i thought the piece was called altered states by the end i thought it was called penis envy but didn’t title it at all because i was experimenting with giving as little info as possible to encourage reader-imagination, understanding+enjoyment, so please tell me if it worked.
thanks.
walk good.

late-ass fff #4

sorry dudes, wasn't able to get to a machine earlier than this- i'd add an extra half-hour to the deadline but don't think it'll make a difference with this group, i seem to always be last done anyway- however, if you want/need the half-hour, feel free; whatever it takes to get it writ.
before we begin, wanted to let people know that both chrissy+crazyfool are on my sidebar for future reference, and if anybody has a preference about where they receive comments on their fff, lemme know in the comments here (i think i'm the only one with direct online contact to everybody participating).
please mind the rules of engagement (below); and now, without further ado, the trigger for fff #4 (starter):
freakishly large hands reached out toward...

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

think i like this fff

i find that being the one who selects or creates the trigger makes me want to not write until the last minute so that whatever impetus pinpointed the trigger fades and i have a (hopefully) fresh response to it and can write something with no preconceptions. so far this monday morning writing not too bad; i think i like this one...
flash fiction friday #3 trigger and rules of engagement here:

They never could get that right…
she wondered why, what about the human voice makes it so hard to recreate. after lifetimes of trying the only way to sound lifelike was still to record words and phrases as well as syllables for contextualised playback; no amount of technology had made it seem right otherwise. they’d been trying with telephones and computers from the beginning but the closest they ever got was recording a vocabulary of syllables for software to string together in response to contextualised input, which still sounded choppy at best, alien at worst, especially without full words and phrases for aural padding.
why would language-developers add to the potential confusion due to physical proximity and related function of the words by endowing ‘aural’ and ‘oral’ respectively?
and always, why, with all the other technological advances in artificial humanity, visually, texturally, functionally, why is voice the thing that betrays the lack of true life?
she sighed. try to get comfortable with it, accept that there’s no replacement for the real thing…
the real thing- oddly oxymoronic when the real “thing” in question is a living, breathing person being compared to an artificial one…
she sighed again, then looked around the kitchen and realised she had no idea why she had come there – how could she suddenly not know?
how human.
she nearly laughed out loud. nearly – having a conversation with herself and commenting on it at the same time, while simultaneously realising how amazing her ability to do that simultaneously was – so much happening, all inside her – was it always like this?
she left the kitchen and went back to the bedroom, tossing her mental space for reasons for the sojourn other than escape to the hum of appliances that know themselves for what they are, don’t pretend to be more elevated, don’t have a concept of ‘aspiring to be’. she repressed a sigh as her eyes flicked over the object of her avoidance, taking in the smooth brown complexion, charmingly decisive facial expression fronting a head wired for high intelligence and humour, strong but delicate hands and physique, all “beautifully sculpted to match built-in preferences of partner”…
perfect match?
she finally released the thought she’d been harbouring into the air as sound, sucking her teeth long and loud, not caring if it prompted uncomfortable questions.
steups!
intellectual gymnastics weren’t fair trade for the warmth of life.

walk good.
ps: may have been too influenced-by to not big-up my favourite reading of the past week, 2 short stories found courtesy lise (her fffs on the mainpage in the comments of trigger posts):
http://windupstories.com/pumpsix/the-fluted-girl/
and
scanners live in vain
and jj, not just for being my introduction to fff and my obliging pusherman but also for writing some of the best words i've ever had the pleasure to read. if you read this babes, i still wish you'd continue your fff sir thomas rand kbty...but i'll settle for anything you write...

trouble

just got home (true timestamp) from a saturday night partying in the dress i wore the 1st time i took my soon-to-be-ex-husband home, 8years ago; not only does it still(again?) fit beautifully in my humble opinion, it garnered many compliments (girls+boys both) and multiple phone number requests- guess i feel somewhat better...walk good.

fff #3

love that we actually doing this, people! thanks for joining and please remember to read the slightly tweaked rules of engagement below and to check for and comment on others' flash fiction fridays. if new and interested in the previous 2 attempts, here's fff#1 (starter trigger) and #2 (inclusion clause).
this week's trigger's a starter, and i hope the contributor will forgive me for making a slight adjustment to open up its possibilities to a wider demographic (so wonderfully, temptingly scandalous in its original form):

they never could get that right...

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

i'm wayne brady, bitch!

i know the rick james sketches are major contenders for many but my all-time hands-down favourite from chappelle's show has to be the wayne brady. when he says "is wayne brady gunna hafta choke a bitch?" it still feels like the 1st brilliant fall-down-laughing time, and as somebody who admits liking whose line is it anyway? and brady in it, the chappelle piece is the perfect counterpart. chappelle's the perfect straight man, brady dead on, not under- or overplaying, unsurprisingly hilarious dexterity with a surprising character (kinnah like seeing bob saget[sp?] standup for the 1st time after seeing full house) since timing+delivery are what whose line... pushes. very bes'. go watch if you didn't know. that shit is fuckin funny.
walk good.
ps: i suspect i like it enough i may have blogged it before, felt familiar...if so, sorry for the redundancy.

trigger me this

time to email me trigger suggestions for upcoming fff (and future fffs), and yes, i have a non-fff-post in the works, so non-fiction sooncome. meanwhile...
rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

2nd fff as host

this flash fiction friday's trigger was an inclusion clause and i wasn't sure i would make with the packing+moving+grims-stress, but this week we have multiple entries (big up everybody who wrote something this week and our trigger-contributor; doh forget to send trigger suggestions for friday coming) so i couldn't lapse. we even have at least one fff written directly into the comments on the trigger post (abovelinked) so make sure you check it out. and participants without blogs, remember if you want constructive feedback you have to post somewhere public for others participants to read...
this is me, including the words crumb, bum, thumb, rum, dumb:

“i hear at the end of the scrimmage, one man thumb was knuckle-deep in some nex’ man bottom, horse…”
“wha’…”
“tellin’ yuh, dread, i doh business with dem ting at all.”
that thought settled their excitable chatter into appalled silence as they continued walking to the end of the island, holding ground at the very tip of the longest finger of sandy grass and scrub, toes almost in the sea. she giggled to herself, trying to remember how they came to that topic, her random thought associations making her realise she was very probably drunk – but that was the point of rum punch, right? she giggled again at the persistent image of a grassy finger of land tickling an unsuspecting rugby player’s bum.
he raised eyebrows in her direction, but didn’t ask, guessing it would make little sense – he’d been drinking considerably longer and didn’t think he had the energy to make sense of a semi-drunk’s amusement.
they stood still, civilisation at their backs, the whole starry world spread ahead of them, silence shifting from appalled to awed, broken only by the occasional giggle. eventually he dug in his pocket and pulled out a not-quite-cube-shaped bit of foil somewhat worse off for having been squished in there during the night’s journey. she smiled and took the sticky foil package.
“for you. i wanted to get high and stay high whole weekend and not think about...stuff...so i made brownies with some of the bag i bought to smoke. you could save that one for when you go home if you want, we have more back in the tent. for right now…”
he reached into his pocket again and retrieved a bent and battered white stick, tiny brown crumbs clinging to it. he cursed happily, licking crumbs from his fingertips.
“yeah…maybe demonstrating tackling techniques with food and smoke in my pocket was a little dumb. next time you holding since you have a handbag…”
she nodded agreement, stashed her foil and produced a lighter from said handbag, and took the proffered spliff. she put it between her lips, set her drink down and lit up as she sat on the edge of the island, kicking off her slippers and stretching her feet toward the dark water. she patted the ground next to her as she looked back at him, then held out the burning spliff.
“come, sit, doh think about stuff. you doh need she anyway. you have me, you have rum, you have grass, you have as much of eternity as you stick around for in this amazing place…”
he took a long drag and held it, staring out into the milky way, trying not to wonder where in the galaxy or which new galaxy the being he’d thought was his woman had disappeared to.

walk good.

wash-foot fff (#2)

want to try inclusions this week just to scare those joining us for the 1st time, so instead of a starter/closer trigger, which most people have worked from before, this week's fff's must include (all) the words:
crumb
bum
thumb
rum
dumb

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you feel it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to the trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

trigger fingers

allyuh, we need triggers for this week's fff so email me by 11am tomorrow!
write fresh. walk good.

information nation

1. for good, not evil: apparently, e.coli can be used to recover uranium from tainted waters and can even be used to clean up nuclear waste.
2. every mouldy bread have its stinkin cheese: teen decomposes plastic bag in 3months by mixing landfill dirt with yeast+tapwater and adding ground plastic. requires fermenter, growth medium and plastic, the bacteria (isolated as bacterial genus Pseudomonas and genus Sphingomonas) provide most of the energy by producing heat as they eat, only waste is water and carbon dioxide.
3. why you should read this piece on feminism: "...Now that women have the choice, they pick varied careers. Women choose to be doctors and lawyers and teachers and rock scientists. If women choose varied careers, it makes sense they would choose varied lifestyles. A myriad of personalities and ideals dictate that women would choose different paths. And one of those paths is traditional gender roles. I enjoy a whole host of traditional gender roles...I also love nontraditional gender roles...I know what I like and I'm choosing that. Having the opportunity to make those choices is what feminism should be about, not which choices I make."
4. that said, on reclaiming the word 'slut': "...A compact little word, forceful even in the way it sounds, starting out with a hissing sibilant and pushing off of the tongue through the L and U, and then that nastily crisp T. "Slut." Say it a few times out loud. Roll it around in your mouth. "Sssslut." "Sss…lllut." Say it again. Notice that it's difficult — almost impossible, in fact — to pronounce it neutrally. It's got a sneer built into it, that word. It's not as twangy and unthreatening as "tramp". It's not as easy to yell as "whore". "Whore" is built for screaming rage and dishes flying through the air, with a nice gusty H at the front and a big old roaring R bringing up the rear. Not "slut", though. "Slut" is muttered. "Slut" is whispered. "Whore" comes in like a punch, but "slut" tingles, like a slap. "Slut" hides behind the teeth. "Slut" is for when your back is turned. "Slut" is for when you don't act like a lady...Don't look too good; don't think you look too good. Digging your own self is slutty..."Slut" is for when you forget to hate and fear boys..."
now take that dirty mind to church! google is infinite, omnipresent, potentially immortal and remembers all...
walk good.

catharsis- an fff

so here's my 1st fff in too long. rules and examples linked here- get ready for next week if you didn't make this one.
i admit that this was written in a rush (enjoyed the hell outta it, though) and as such i didn't do the research i'd normally do about the physical reaction to what happens in this piece. but it's an idea i plan to explore, so maybe we'll see this event again, with fuller description of what it does to the human body.
big-up the provider of this week's trigger (starter sentence in italics, below) and big-up the provider of the idea i plan to research further; you know who you are.

it was the smell of cinnamon…
she sighed at her involuntary downturn in mood, wondering if he used it intentionally, knowing she’d never escape something so commonly loved. wishing for simpler times, before there were problems that couldn’t be drank+smoked+fucked away, she pulled her scarf a little tighter and crossed her arms in front of her. a step later, she shivered in the depths of her coat at the irony of her posture, considering recent straitjacket and hanging nightmares, trapped as she’d been, geographically and emotionally.
cinnamon lingered in her nostrils and hair, coffeeshop after coffeeshop wafting delicious come-hithers onto the pavement, beckoning with lies of comfort. but she wasn’t swayed. too many promised warmth that they couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) deliver – if nothing else, she had learned that here, from him.
it had been a costly waste of time+effort otherwise, so she had to hold fast to the lessons of experience as the reason for the diversion. she had to hold the memory of lies coming from the least expected source, the never-doubted mouth forming words that would never be supported by action, then forming new words to contradict the old words, never admitting the truth. admitting the truth would be admitting failure, and he couldn’t have that – at the expense of her sanity and possibly her life, he wouldn’t have that.
straitjackets and hangings indeed. nobody needed to interpret those dreams for her.
but she was working on fulfilling a daydream now, walking those cold hard streets. she shook cinnamon from her consciousness and resumed her mental dry run of the next 36hours.
she was already fully packed. her 1 friend was waiting with her baggage and a car for the airport, now she just needed herself and trains on time, both ways.
as she looked up to gather her bearings, she found herself right on track. the station was straight ahead and she could see the big clock telling her she was right on schedule.
she easily made her way through the hordes of christmas fools and boarded, immediately pulling out her book as she sat. she wasn’t interested in meeting people or making friends – these people weren’t worth it and she was leaving this soulless junkyard for good anyway.
she arrived quietly, using her key for the last time, snickering at the knowledge that he never thought to take it back because he never thought she’d use it, abhorring the cold as she did. even what passed for summers there weren’t warm enough, which made sense to her when she saw how coldhearted the people were.
like he’d used her trust in him against her, she’d use his trust in his knowledge of her against him. She silently made her way to the kitchen, and wasting no time looking around got the pot out onto the stove and found the olive oil, extra virgin, of course. she’d carefully considered the pots she knew existed in the house – anything new was too risky – and chose in advance a small enough one to lift and carry one-handed with ease while hot. it wouldn’t do to find herself unable to move quickly, and she shouldn’t need that much oil.
she had to stop herself humming and singing her pleasure at working in such a well-equipped kitchen to such a perfect end, but didn’t stop her smile growing into a grin as the oil began to bubble. she turned off the fire, thinking to herself that this was the righteous consequence of denial, of running away, of hiding and refusing to face one’s demons – they came after you while you snored deep in the night.
she turned on music, knowing he wouldn’t budge, grabbed the tiniest funnel on offer and a potholder, left the lid in the sink, and walked the hot oil to the bedroom. even if she hadn’t remembered the way all she had to do was follow the sound. she giggled at the idea that if not for her imminent intervention, his attempt at hiding would have been overheard by neighbours who fell asleep later than he did, in a matter of days.
she looked down at him in the bed and had her only moment’s pause. not a month ago he was everything.
she shook cinnamon from her consciousness, carefully held the funnel at his exposed ear and poured the boiling oil through it.
she somehow saw but never heard his agony. her mind had shut itself to the pain in his and she simply finished her task, making adjustments for his movement impersonally like she was back in the lab.
then she washed, dried and put away the implements leaving the kitchen exactly as she’d found it, turned off the music and exited the house, locking the door behind her and pocketing her key as she trudged back to the train station, glad that still-falling snow would cover her tracks.
she was early for her train so she called her friend and said she should be on time, ordered a cinnamon-flavoured latte, pulled out her book and waited comfortably. she knew on this trip she’d sleep dreaming dreams of freedom.

walk good.

my 1st fff, again

right people, this is my 1st time running a flash fiction friday so please bear with me if there are glitches still to work out. i actually got some triggers, thank you, please keep them coming so i can keep this coming.
those now joining us, this here post-link is full of (short) examples of how this works, starting with one of my favourite fff's linked in the 1st sentence. the (now slightly edited, so do reread) rules are also @ bottom of this post. and big up jj (sidebar) for getting us here.

this week's trigger is a starter:
it was the smell of cinnamon...

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you feel it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to the trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

so, of course, now we need fff triggers

we have a few takers for flash fiction fridays.
i say lewwe wash we foot and jump in- anybody have a starter/closer/title/inclusion clause? your wuk is to please email suggestions (linked next to comments, plus here's the post with links to rules+examples again), invite others, repost, etc. by 11.55am trinbago timezone (notice i did not say "trini time"- is by 11.55am, not anytime) friday september 18, 2009. my wuk is to run an fff for us this weekend. and we all write+read, right? right...talk soon, walk good.
ps: excellently epic thunderstorm ruined by jackhammer next door- boo!
pps: silly me- we should have an official posting of the rules, so...

you will send in your suggestions for triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to noon friday, trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you feel it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to the trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story.
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.

vagina catalogue

new favourite unattributed quote, via mom:
"The best engine in the world is the vagina.
It can be started with one finger.
It is self-lubricating.
It takes any size piston.
And it changes its own oil every four weeks.
It is only a pity that the management system is so fucking temperamental."
walk good.