From My Commonplace Book - 7 - microfiction

Ah, February. I should, like Target, devote myself this month to Eros. Although at Target perhaps every day is Valentine's Day: the bull's eye, the pit bull, the red, red, red.

Here are two works that appeared in a love and marriage issue of
Quick Fiction a few years ago. It's a print magazine, but you can access some work at www.quickfiction.org.


Wedding Vows

by Eliot Khalil Wilson

. . . and I'd like to add that I will mind like a dog. I will wear whatever you like. I will go wingtip. No more white socks. A necktie stitched to my throat, turtlenecks in August. New York gray or black, only colors dogs can see. I will know of squash, vermouth, and wedges. I will do all the grilling because I love you so. I will drive the wagon, man the bar, weed-whack compulsively. I will make money, the bed, never a to-do.

I will build like an Egyptian, a two-mile pier complex, a five-story deck. I will listen like a bat, attend to the birth of sounds in the back of your throat. I will remember like an Indian elephant, recall requests made of me in a previous life. Your date of birth will be carved in the palm of my hand. I will make good. I will do right. I will sleep on the pegboard on the wall in the garage.

I'll have a tongue like a sperm whale, eyes like a harp seal, biceps like a fiddler crab I will have gold coins, gold rings, stiff gold hair like shredded wheat. I will be golden at receptions, gold in your pocket, Paganini in your pants. Money will climb over the house like ivy. Excellent credit will be my white whale. I will always. I will every day. I will nail the seat down. I will let you pretend I am your father.

I will be a priapic automatic teller machine, never down, never a usage fee, a stock prophet, a paramutual seer, tractable, worshipful no matter what. I will always want to. I won't notice what you don't point out. I will entertain your friends, say how your love saved me. I will convince them. I will talk, really talk, to them. Deep meanings will be toothpicked and passed around.

I will need zero maintenance. I will be a utility or a railroad. There will be no breakdowns or disconnections. I will allow you lovers. Moroccan teenagers and Turkish men. I will adopt them. I will not cry. I will respond to grief by earning more. My sweat will smell like drug money, like white bread baking. I will be as clean as a Mormon, wholesome like Iowa. I will lead. I will be a star, a rock, like Rock Hudson.


Picked Her Fresh

by Wayne Sullins

When I was eighteen, leaving Amarillo on a bus, I saw this girl in a blue summer dress standing in the doorway of a house you'd think should've fallen down already, and knew right away I'd marry trash.

Boy, did I find trash -- good and white and rank as sin. Her name is Lily, like the flower.

Comments

Thanks again, Merry. Just lovely. It's nice to be reminded that we are more than sick people ... We are people first and foremost. And literary, too. Keep the prose and poetry coming!
 

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