Week 3 – Little Worlds

Apple Branch by Guy Yasko

Little Worlds by Lou Freshwater She looks out of place in this desk. It is the same kind of desk you find in any crappy middle school in any crummy town. But she is glamour in this desk. She takes her compact out while the Professor drones on about the importance of a thesis statement and after that she takes out a tube and puts it on her lips. It is a clear gloss that really just makes her natural deep pink color shiny. She turns her lips in toward each other like a Venus Flytrap and she rubs them together. The obese kid with the long ponytail who always wears the Metallica T-shirts watches her. His mouth opens and hangs, he leaves his eyes open but he doesn’t seem to be there anymore. She takes out a bottle of lotion and squeezes some out on the palm of her hand and rubs her lips together again and starts to rub the lotion into her palms and into the backs of her hands and she seems to be taking such pleasure in all of it and he is with her, he is with her, he is there in her own little world. First Ornamental Calamity by Stephen Hastings-King 1. The plastic sphere snow does not stop falling through glycerine onto the model New England village, center of a permanent storm into which no people venture. 2. In a glycerine temporality places set for lunch lift from shaking tables to describe peculiar drifting orbits just above which are visible in their intricacies from a viewpoints framed by doorways through which guests never walk. 3. In a glycerine temporality a body splayed beneath a bed can hover a short distance above the floor. 4. When the inhabitants of the model village from under beds or pinned in doorways shout to see if others are OK each sends sound waves that ripple across the interminable unfoldings of the apparent dissonance of an earthquake in winter. 5. Outside the snow does not fall. The ground rushes up to meet it. A Creation Myth by Bernard Heise On this the first Monday of the celestial year, He dons his argyle sweater, knickers, and cap and struts along a well worn path towards the edge of heaven. “Boy, get your ass in gear,” He yells. Jesus struggles to keep up, burdened with a bag of drivers on his right shoulder and carrying the bucket of balls in his left hand, which pains him still. They make the journey in a silence thickened with mutual resentment, and the Father is already impatient the moment they arrive. “Come on, boy, tee ’em up!” Without a word, the Son inserts the tees into the dirt. He then selects the golf balls one at time, spits on each the thickest loogie he can muster, and lines them up. This mucous is the precious stuff of life. Originally the theory was that the slime’s precise bacterial composition would change with variations in the divine diet and thus produce an infinite biological diversity. But although Father and Son have feasted on many different types of sacrifices, the bacterial slime has remained remarkably consistent and the results have been uniformly disappointing. Sure, the Father still enjoys swinging His clubs and driving the fucked up little worlds into outer space – a slice to the left, another to the right, then one straight down the middle that makes Him smile and forget about His aching bones. But for years now, Jesus has wanted to break the damn clubs. He mutters. He’s grown weary of the repeated crucifixions.

Back to Wk #2 – Fancy Me

Forward to Wk #4 – Cartography

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