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Sunday, August 15, 2010

101-Word Stupor -- Can I Stay the Night?

Keywords: Sweatshirt, Cowboy, Vitriol

The old farmer smells turpentine and sex: like bologna and mayo sandwiches warmed in the sun. He tilts his straw hat, pulls a pickle from his pocket and munches. "A-yup," he says with vitriol. "They been diddlin' in my shed." The stained mattress tells the story. A soiled sweatshirt sits near the tractor, likely used to mop up. Old Joe loads the shotgun. It's always the same. He's filled three ditches with traveling salesmen, lawyers, cowboys. He's filled the barn with cars that "broke down" or "ran out of gas." Thinking of his three beautiful daughters, Farmer Joe whistles. It's time. 

Preview for tomorrow: Brie, Cadence, Metallic 



3 comments:

  1. “Yes, I remember the sweatshirt.”

    The tone clearly pronounced the intense vitriol she had for him. After all these years, nothing changed.

    “And do you recall when I left it at your house?”

    “Not specifically. I remember what decade it was though. Seriously, that was like 20 years ago!”

    “Did the sweatshirt have an expiration date? Is there some unwritten rule that indicates when you’re supposed to stop caring about someone and give away any mementos of your time together?”

    “Look, it’s nice to hear from you cowboy, but I don’t have your sweatshirt!”

    Of course, she still had the sweatshirt.

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  2. This is fantastic: "The old farmer smells turpentine and sex: like bologna and mayo sandwiches warmed in the sun."

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  3. HE NEVER FELT A THING

    She sat in the lobby of the veterinarian’s office, her grey Stanford sweatshirt stained with blood and tufts of fur, trying to ignore the stench of reptile aquariums and bird cages, and trying not to cry. The receptionist, whose vitriol could clearly not be contained, reminded her, yet again, that there were tissues in the restroom. She rose to her feet, shuffling slowly towards the exit, thinking only of her poor Beaux, his big brown eyes, his silky coat, his cowboy charm. The assistant came out from the back with a ziploc baggie. The collar inside read: My family lost me.

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