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Ah, September 32nd. What a wonderful day. Glad I didn’t miss my ‘one post a month’ goal! Without further ado, a comic:
Oh my, how gruesome!
There was a traveler who, as he walked through the wilderness, came across a castle. This particular castle caused him to halt and stare for several minutes. The more he looked, the less likely it seemed that it should be standing at all. Chunks of wall were missing, straight ahead an entire lower corner was absent, and there were two towers perched atop that seemed placed completely at random. There was a barely a spot to rest one’s eyes without alighting upon a missing brick or stone, surely what were unintentional open-air windows abounding. As the traveler got closer to the castle, he saw an old man sitting upon a boulder some ways in front of what appeared to be the entrance, smoke billowing from bulbous nose and green-clay pipe, and smoky grey beard trailing in front of him. Upon sighting the foreign face, the old man pulled the pipe from his mouth and called out to the cloaked wanderer.
“Hello there! What brings you to these parts?”
Read on →
Author’s note: I have not read the books whose titles are included within this poem (aside from ‘The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo,’ which I enjoyed), and cannot speak for their quality or lack thereof. They may be great reads for all I know. Nevertheless, their titles leave something to be desired and, as far as I’m concerned, do no favors to their tales. For fun: how many titles do you count? A prize to the correct guess!
Beware that girl
The girl on the train
The girl with the dragon tattoo
That girl’s bad news
Just look at those shoes
Who knows what next she’ll do
The girl who disappeared?
She’s the girl who took her
She’s behind all the missing girls,
Took ‘em sink, line, and hooker
Where are all those girls?
(Some say she keeps the girls in the garden)
And my pessimism please pardon,
but if one of these girls were to survive,
She’d for sure be the luckiest girl alive
But who was the girl before?
You ask what to call her?
Why, she’s the girl at war
She’s a girl underwater
She’s the girl with no name
Or is it the girl with seven names?
Or maybe the girl who was Saturday
Who living now can for sure say?
It’s enough to drive a search engine crazy
The pace with which these girlish titles come on
And more arise with each day, each no less the lazy
than the last. So instead be gone girl, gone!
( ©2017 Sean Dorsey )
“Iggy, get out from there! You’re gonna get stuck. I’m surprised you can even crawl on those knees of yours.” The old woman is standing out in the front yard, grass trimmed and flower bushes mulched. She is looking at the rectangular hole that leads to the crawlspace, the white cover panel laid off to the side. Two black soles can be seen edging further into the hole that leads below the house, a tan-sided construct three or four rooms short of being a mansion. The grounds around it seems crowded by its presence, two oak trees on either side and more visible overtop the roof. The neighboring houses might equal its size if you shoved them together. The woman leans over a little, hands on her hips, watching the man as he makes his way deeper. “They aren’t going to last much longer if you keep this up, and you just had that procedure done! The doctors told you to go easy on them. You might save a few hundred dollars in pest control but your medical bills are going to cost us thousands!”
“I’ll be fine!” His voice echoes back to her, the reverberation lending it a hollow quality. “I’ve got my thick jeans on,” he chuckles.
“Let me know when you need me to call nine one one. Just knock on the floor when you’re ready, you stubborn old goat.”
“I’ll be done in an hour!” he yells back, smiling as he inches along, flashlight lighting up the corners between the supporting posts and cobwebs. “Never thought running cross country in high school would come back and bite me in the knees.” He sniffs a bit from the dust, the smell of wood and must pervasive. “No sign of ’em yet. Better not be any termites this year, I swear.” He continues to shuffle forward between the support posts, white-haired head only an inch or so below the main beam that stretches overhead. He is at about the halfway point when the dizziness starts. The bottom of the house becomes the belly of a boat, tilting back and forth.
Crawl on →
This faded goatllamic effigy was found in Ireland, engraved upon a stone sticking up through the moss that covers the cliffs of Moher. Was it a self portrait or was it drawn from reference? And for how many years has it grinned up at the sky, unseen by human eyes until now?
These answers are lost to time, haunting those who dare to query.
So. Might not be as many CΩT posts this month. You know the reason, of course – it’s National Novel Writing Month! I will be attempting with all (or at the very least most) of my power to complete a first draft of Ántimán, so be excited!
Once I thought of it, I had to do it. Apologies to those offended.
( ©2016 Sean Dorsey )