60-word maladies
Here are a couple fun ramblings (5 of them); strange things can happen when you force yourself to adhere to a certain limit—like 60 words, for instance. (Though I’m not putting out any guarantees: they might be, say, one or two words above or below sixty.)
Untitled
“Did you miss me?” asked Buzz, distant and automaton-like as he packed a suitcase. “Did you pine for me? Did you?” He sniffled gruffly as he selected carefully from a vast array of underwear and socks. “What’s your feeling, should I take more light-colored or dark-colored socks? Well?” But Helen didn’t answer-couldn’t-because she was in a vegetative state.
Jumper
You wouldn’t know it, but she had a super-hero’s body, muscular and lean, based on some unrealistic physiological ideal. She had bright, active eyes, a friendly face, a warm handshake. A brightly colored costume in her closet at home, her little secret. Who knew what she was thinking. In many ways she was kind of amazing. But she couldn’t fly.
Boom
Was a big building, blocky and vain. We were going to blow it up. Explode the thing; teach it a thing or two about permanence. We were going to have C-4 decorating the basement like some apocalyptic cultist Christmas party. Get our names in the paper, maybe. Some kind of recognition, at least. Then we had the earthquake. Fucking spoilsport.
Moving Targets
I tried to stop him, but what could I do; he was never quite right in the head, and if it wasn’t one thing it’d be another. “Tell me,” he said, “you got a gun?” I felt safe myself but was nonetheless suspicious, what’d he want a gun for anyway? “Bears,” he said. “Ain’t got bears,” I said. “People, then.”
Fashion Scents
Teddy looked ridiculous, who’d ever seen a dog dressed in leather (not me), but then he was Claire’s and she said that he liked it, or at least that it looked good on him-something like that, though I still thought it was preposterous, an affront to civil society, and what the hell right did a dog have wearing cow-hide?
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