two lips

Arch under gable
And over brick
What you seek
You shall find
Between two lips

Three bodies in three days, and nothing to go on but a riddle. This little game of syntax Artie was playing with the powers that be was becoming even more gratifying than he had originally envisioned.

With law enforcement flummoxed, and the media ravenously clawing at the public drawing the rich red blood of indignation- he had a moment to sit back on his haunches and languish in his hard earned moment of triumph.

Success had been fleeting, and completely unsatisfying when he had pursued it through more traditional channels.

He had squandered his youth engorging his brain with the scientific rhetoric, theories, and hypothesis that should have culminated in the creation of a great name for himself in the field of asexual human reproduction- but in the end, he had been reduced to perfecting the production of an elite strain of genetically modified donor sperm, all of which having had its humble beginnings in his own testes.

The flaw it seems had been in the heterochromatin region. Before he was able to isolate and correct it, he had sired exactly four of these inept genetic re-combinations- which meant he continued to have his work cut out for him.

Three down. One to go.

The artistry was not in the eliminations themselves, they were just a series of unfortunate events that were necessary to protect the perfect line of prodigy he had successfully produced once the tweek had been made to the heterochromatin.

The true brilliance had come to him over a cafe au lait, at a popular coffee house in the trending Gatsby District downtown, where he had the good fortune to choose a seat directly across from a mural of what appeared to him to be a translucent woman. Though fully clothed, the artist had seen fit to etch some of her skeletal structure into her persona, and it struck him- the spinal column that corresponded with the braids in her hair resembled the double helix of the DNA chain that was currently his nemesis.

A simple transposition of his own genetic fopaux onto woman’s braids in the the mural, and the proverbial die was cast.

The riddle, stroke of genius that it was, had presented itself as more or less an afterthought, but what a delightful element of cat and mouse it had interjected into what otherwise would have been a rather mundane task.

As Artie settled into his newly favored point of vantage across the street from the mural that bore his distinguishing mark of genius, he sipped a cafe au lait and waited for the fourth and final testimony to any miscalculation on his part, to arrive.

Photo Prompt courtesy of: Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt: Imagination



I woke up feeling beige today.
Not the clean crisp beige
of a freshly ironed blouse
but rather a slouching hoodie-ish shade
a graying beige-
greige if you will.

Not exactly blah,
but very much without feeling.

The self imposed garrotte
with which I constrain myself
is beginning to chafe.

Serial discontent
is courting malfeasance.
I can smell their sex.

Yet I continue to tell myself,
as long as I acknowledge their presence
I can deny them entry.

I am no longer as deft a liar as I once was.

The Prompt: crisp beige, was provided by Misky on The Twiglets.

hole in my heart

you came to me this morning in a dream
you were on my couch
this couch
in jeans and no shirt

you were laying down
when i approached you
you made those little sounds
you always made

when you wanted me to comfort you
like an innocent child…

you rolled on your side facing me
and tucked your hands in between your legs,
prayer style at the top of the knees..

i ran my hand over your hair,
and spoke words of comfort
i couldn’t really hear…

then i bent down and kissed you
tasting the sweetness of your lips
as i parted mine
and allowed my tongue to touch you
just for a second

you were content then.
i left you to sleep…

for that instant
there was no hole in my heart….

Posted in celebration of the life of David Alan Gardon  2/10/66 – 1/17/04

Until we meet again….

The Fortune Cookie


Bouncing into a parallel universe is not a viable excuse for tardiness.

Yet as Melanie made a mad dash toward the closing elevator door, no more feasible excuses were making themselves available to her.

She certainly could not offer the real reason behind her turning up half an hour late, as few would believe her if she told them that she, Miss Texas 2005, had spent last night in a swanky Chinese Restaurant wine-ing, dining, and seducing Damien, the overweight, hygienically challenged, male chauvinist asshole from the Marketing Department.

Fewer still would believe that she had spent the last hour and a half struggling to drag Damien’s drug addled body into his bathtub where he was currently doing the electric slide with a blow dryer.

Oh well,  it didn’t much matter what they believed- as now that the only other applicant for the VP of Marketing position was out of the way, she could finally realize her true destiny.

As the elevator whirred up the 27 floors toward the Marketing Department, Melanie slipped the tiny strip of paper from the fortune cookie she picked up last night while at dinner with Damien: it read ‘You have an ambitious nature and will make a name for yourself.’

This is a Six Sentence Story written for Girlie on the Edge’s Blog Six Sentence Story Challenge. The cue word this week is Destiny.

Broken Glass

Photo courtesy of Dale Rogerson

The girl with kaleidoscope eyes bought a double-wide. She works at the Food Lion- and wishes she’d married her ‘baby daddy’- for the child support check.

She dreams about friday night at the Red Dog Saloon. Not any friday night- ‘the friday night’ that ‘he’ would cross the threshold, buy her a beer, lay her down- and move in.

She ponders the grounds in the bottom of her cup, lights a cigarette, and kicks a piece of a long broken glass into the cold air return.

“All that glitters is not gold,” she reminds herself….

Sometimes it’s just broken glass.

Word Count: 100

Photo Prompt courtesy of Friday Fictioneers