8.

Carleton enjoyed slowly ruling his paper; he held the ruler up to the sun and wrapped it around the orb that suggested the outer limits of the heat that gave way to the sun’s light. The light, he thought, was much like the heat, but in his mind, heat only had one color – that unearthly red orange glow – whereas light seemed to have many colors, as many as he could imagine, probably more, so he ruled his pages in black ink, because someone once told him, “Carlton, remember that black is the combination of every color;” although, he’d never believed that black light was the combination of all light.

Having organized his lines – his pages were ruled – Carleton began to organize his letters. Individually, they seemed to have no meaning or reason for being at all, until he reached his third letter and found that the word, “The,” had manifested some indication, some reason for paying attention to what had been coming next: “bull strode toward the fecund cow.” This was before artificial insemination, Carleton thought.

“He’d been studying the soggy architecture of her swollen labia, like a man choosing a fruit, and, despite the flies and the mud and the ranch hands surrounding them, he caught that sweet, fetid stink. The bull’s eyes glazed over,” but Carleton had noticed that the lines that his words took went slantwise, compared to the precision of his ruling, and when he tried to write, “the bull’s erect red cock inside suddenly,” his lines went spiralwise and the word that his letters invariably formed, letter after letter was, “cockeyed.”

He stopped. Studying the circling letters, the spiralwise vision of the bull, or the bull’s spiralwise vision of the cow. Carleton wadded up the paper, all the papers which he had so meticulously ruled, threw them away, and began again, with a fresh stack of blank white papers, upon which he drew expanding concentric circles. He placed the letter “A” inside the center circle, then, moving outward concentrically, wrote, “cow, hot, wet, fecund. I came before artificial insemination.”

Ex. 2 Reem Cutter

Barnaby stood at the ream-cutter staring at the nearly 5000 business cards that needed to be cut. There were scraps of paper on his right shoulder and his nametag was one the wrong side of his shirt. He sighed as he lifted the lid, unscrewed the clamp and pushed the 8.5 by 11 piece of PC80 under the blade. The ream cutter was supposed to be able to cut through a ream of paper, however this particular machine could only manage about 20 sheets at a time. He placed the cards at 4.25 or half the sheet of paper and began to screw down the clamp.
“Excuse me, sir.” Came from behind the counter.
“Yes sir, how may I help you?” the words folded out of his mouth in an accordion style and lay on the table flat. The smile that pressed his cheeks made the edges of his mouth rise too much, so the small amount of fat he had purged under his chin. The business cards lie pinned to the table waiting to be chopped.
“Yea I was wondering if you could make 50 copies of these”, he held up a small booklet, “ and laminate them in 5 millimeter lamination. Then I need them coil bound all by tomorrow at 3pm.”Barnaby breathed out and grabbed a work order and a job jacket.
“So we want this copied on 8.5x11 20# paper?”
“Yes sir.”
“With each of them cut to this size and laminated in 5 mil. Laminate?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then were going to coil bind them. What color coil do you want? We have red, blue, clear and black.”
“Red, like a target.”
He pulled the work order forward, “And you need it all by tomorrow at 3pm?” the looked at him as if being pulled away on a spaceship.
“Yep.”
“ Alright I’ll I need from you is your name and phone number.” The man absent-mindedly wrote some letters and numbers on the page. He shoved it forward.
“Is that all?” he said as he turned away from the counter and lifted his hat off his head.
“Yea that’s it, sir.” He left the order on the table and headed back to cut the cards. The cards were due in an hour should be ok. He held both buttons down and heard the machine make a slight screeching sound as it sliced through the paper. He removed the cards that had been cut and pressed the buttons down again, but harder this time. His shirt was untucked and his shoes were the wrong color brown, but his hair was done to one side nicely.
He lifted out the cards and turned them so that the long side was facing the same way on each half of the paper. He shoved the pages in the machine, quickly rolled the machine to 3.50, spin the clamp tightly shut and slammed down the lid. His teeth gritted, like the clamp of the machine on the cards.
“Barnaby, doesn’t this go somewhere?” it was his boss man and he left the cards on a dangle in the cutter.
“Yea.” He picked up the order walked over to the book and placed it on the logbook.
“So, you’re not going to log that? Just leave it for someone else to do?” he was already half to the ream cutter. He walked back toward the log book, slammed down the red pin and wrote the customers name, phone number, work order and job description.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as the boss man walked by.
“Oh and we need 20 signs printed…” his boss trailed off into nothing.
He stared at the cards sitting on the ream cutter. They were bright blue and he thought that the color was strange for a business card. It was a loud color.
He stepped to the machine and roled the machine to 8.50. He lowered the clamp and cut the card at 2.50. then he moved the cards forward to 6.50.
“Sir, I’d like to place an order for a stamp.”
He left the ream cutter and walked to the counter. “Of course what can I do for you?”
“I’d like to make a stamp that says ‘WTF’. What’s the size and prices?”
He walked down to the right end of the counter were the computer was.

#8 metatoast

            A ticking toaster oven timer tells her nothing of the way he’s staring at that screen again. Lit up green again. Ticket ticky ticket ticky. It only signifies burning. Black, charring ends. The dial is stuck and so it really times nothing. Only ticks, only sticks in its one times nothing place. In its one times nothing space she rhymes and the toaster times. Times out ticks to savory licks that she’s waiting for ticks.

            He reads aloud now. Poems of tape and foil and marbles and work. I like these poems she says and goes about the business of eating around the blackened raisins until there’s nothing left but the blackened raisins and then she eats those, too. They’re warm and brown and blackish. Still sweet.

            The poem wasn’t done. Now it’s about pina coladas. yEE haw!!! Bacon. VCR manual. Frozen metal. That’s the end of that poem. Now. The reason for toast is butter. And crunch. No matter what, butter and crunch can save her from the burnt air. There was a poem about burnt toast once. And a presentation in a classroom and a workshop. The people said they knew about burnt. About toast and the making of. The teacher drew a picture of toast on the paper and didn’t like the onomatopoeia. There were too many knives sounds and no one wants that or even gets it. Get rid of it. Get rid of knives. The kitchen is a dangerous place.

            In the end there are crumbs in the catch burning over and over again so no matter if you stand and wait and watch the damn thing browning it will still smell black. Why is black a smell to be afraid of? She couldn’t remember, but she knew she didn’t want it anyway. There was a time for remembering but it isn’t now. Now was a time for smelling and being. On fire. But toast is no moth and no matter how you go about it, it will never die. Now he’s making clicking noises at the screen. They come out in bursts of thought like drum fills. It’s something he’s remembering with hovered fingers over keys and her own keys click in response. Why, they chat at each other across the room! Who are you typing to he says. You honey she says. You’re typing to me? Mhm. This is love she thinks and wishes she could make the toast right. But that was the last slice and it was the heel, too. Which is sometimes better. After a while the butter on her lips begins to sour. After a while the matter in the clicks begins to hour.

            Hour after hour until hunger returns and a radio somewhere distant reports the national higher average and car engines whine off without them and neighbors pull in and doors bang and soap dispenses. In the end there has to be closure that brings a smell to meaning. So when the cars go by and the doors bang and you’re writing to me I can make sense of this so I don’t have to scrape it off the roof of one of my dreams later and sprinkle it on breakfast toast. She likes raisin toast the best because it feels like home. Maybe it’s the cinnamon that warms her. In the middle of the night she sometimes can’t remember where she is and she’s holding up a pure white cat like proof of who she is like an emblem of pedigree or artistry or filigree or shadow. The white cat is real, much more real than the white of this screen, this scene, this is what I mean. Put this back in until it is done, without the timer; don’t watch it. Burn. 

Meta Sexercise - #8 (Christie)

There is a knock on the door.

“Pizza Delivery.” The deep, muffled voice rouses the young woman, sitting on the edge of a large, tightly made bed. She is a bottle blonde with slender calves and a tasteful D cup. She might have just stepped from the bath, though her hair is wrapped carefully on top of her head in a loose knot and her mascara is perfect. The robe that she wears is sheer and purple, revealing a black bra and panties.

The door is unlocked and she has no trouble swinging it open to reveal a tall man wearing khaki shorts, a baseball cap and a windbreaker, all three articles emblazoned with a fat slice of pepperoni pizza. He is, inexplicably, barefoot. “You ordered an extra large, extra sausage?”

The blonde titters and lets her manicured hand rest on the top of the box the deliveryman is holding. “Thank God you’re here—I’m starving,” she says, bending her knees and bobbing in emphasis. There is a no exchange of money. There are no paper plates or packets of red pepper flakes. The blonde lifts the lid of the pizza box and pulls out a slice, dripping with melted cheese and fat chunks of onion.

But aren’t we thinking of her breath now? How sexy is cheese dribbling down even the most perfect of chins? Perhaps for college students. Food fetishists?

The deliveryman hands the woman a huge bouquet of red roses.

Too obvious.

The deliveryman hands the woman crystal vase filled with yellow roses. “You must not be short on secret admirers,” he says as she turns to place the vase on the table next to the bed. He steps into the room and closes the door, causing the woman to turn sharply, her dark veil of hair sent spinning around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, did you need something else?” she asks, one hand perched professionally on her towel-swathed hip.

“I thought you might like some company—special occasion?” He points to the flowers.

“They are from my boyfriend,” she says, pulling one of the long stems out of the bunch and brushing the yellow petals along her top lip. “It’s our anniversary.”

“Lucky man,” he says, stepping toward the bed to take the flower from the dark-haired woman. “You must be busy getting ready for him.”

This is taking too long.

The deliveryman glances around the room, noticing the redhead’s flight attendant uniform hanging over the closet door and a dainty piece of rolling luggage next to the bed. As he moves to hand her the vase of white roses, he pretends to slip and pours water down the front of his pants. “Oh god, what an idiot,” he says.

The water has made a suggestive stain from his navel to the bottom hem of his khaki shorts. “Better takes those wet things off,” the woman says, artfully pulling a pencil out of her loose chignon and whipping her head from side to side. She kneels in front of him, pulling the shorts down his broad thighs, revealing his cock: pink and perky.

Is the cock really what we want to see here? Let’s face it, this guy is unremarkable in looks, the cock, average to above average in size, as silken as a well worn glove. Even the erection is underwhelming. We’ve seen this before.

The redhead slowly unbuttons the blonde’s jean skirt as she feigns distress. “My boss is gonna kill me,” she says, not seeming to notice that she is now standing in only her pink dotted panties. “Oh who cares, I hate this job. Do you know how many perverts send flowers to themselves just so they can stare at my ass?” The question goes unanswered. The blonde has now noticed that the redhead’s apple green dressing robe has slipped to the floor. She is now busy unbuttoning the blonde’s blouse, pushing it off her shoulders. “Oh,” the blonde says, her pink mouth delicate and glossed.

Two gorgeous women: the experienced sexpot seduces the frilly ingénue, who forgets to take of her striped socks before she is spread eagle on that bed, the red head between her legs. I’m bored.

“Are you ready?” A slight, brown-haired woman stares into the camera for a moment before turning toward another woman, also brunette, sitting on the edge of a futon. They smile at each other, laugh softly, a little nervously, and slide closer together, their thighs bare against the paisley print of the futon cover. There is no music played over this clip, and we can hear a fan somewhere in the room, oscillating. They spend a few minutes smoothing the skin on the tops of their hands, collar bones, brushing their messy, fashionable haircuts out of each other's eyes. They are similar in looks—delicate but sensibly beautiful, both wearing bikini cut underwear in solid colors and white undershirts. They are unfettered by socks or plot lines.

When they kiss, someone off camera begins to deliver quiet direction to the women, which they slowly, artfully incorporate into the scene. The voice is low and sexless, but not disinterested.

“The sun is shining,” it says. “And you have no place to be.”

Door-to-door Husband (Exercise #8)

The man at the door speaks Russian. He can cook and sing and play the guitar and (he claims) keeps things neat, would clean up after her if she'd like. He is not classically handsome, but he holds his face tilted to the left a bit, his eyebrow seeming to sag a bit with its weight. She likes his eyes anyway, the dark brown of them and how she can hardly make out where the pupils begin and end.

“This is what I'm saying,” he says. “We'll start out slow, like you're supposed to do. I'll ask you to a movie first maybe. We'll go out to dinner first – wherever you want. You'll find that I'm witty and actually pretty interesting and eventually, it will lead to more.”

“How do I know you won't leave me?”

“Oh, at the end of the night, I'll tell you I had a good time, and you'll say you did too, and I'll kiss you on the cheek, or maybe even on the lips if you seem up for it. Then you'll agonize for days when I don't call you again right away.”

“But how do I know you will call again?”

“I'll call again. I'll just be waiting a bit so I don't seem to anxious, you know, like people do.”

“And then what?”

“And then we'll go out again, and again, and again, and we'll start calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend and holding hands in public. We'll start planning our life together. You'll say you want two kids–“

“Three.”

“You'll say you want three kids; I'll say just one. We'll fight it out playfully and eventually you'll win, because how could I resist those dimples?”

“But how do I know you won't leave me?”

“I'll ask you to marry me. It'll be very romantic. Somewhere where we can be alone. Maybe I'll pack a picnic and we'll go to the park and watch the sunset and then, right before the streetlights click on, I'll ask you. And you'll say–“

“No.”

“What? No, you say yes.”

“Listen....” She shifts her weight from one side to the other. “What's your name?”

“Hal.”

“Hal. Listen, Hal. What did you knock on my door for? What are you asking me right now?”

“I'm just asking that you'll go out with me, that you'll marry me. I'm just asking that you'll spend your whole life with me. That you'll let me be your servant and treat you like a queen for as long as we live. That you'll–“

“Hal,” she holds out her hand to stop him and he grabs it to kiss it. “Hal!” She pulls it away, takes a deep breath, tries again: “Hal, people don't really do that.”

“Of course people do. People get married all the time!”

“Yes, Hal, people get married. But real people don't just pick a random door and propose to the first girl who opens it.”

“But you're beautiful!” It comes out as a bit of screeching.

“I might need to see my psychiatrist.”

And then she shuts the door.

Exercise #8

Picking up his cup of coffee, drips of overflow fall to the table. He sits staring into his black Moleskine. Moving the cup over a page, he imprints the silhouette of his mug onto the page. There was nothing else there, so there might as well be a coffee stain. The café is walled with mirrors. He picks up his cigarette and rubs ash into the page for good measure. Now, if not for an absence of words, he could be writing. To the people watching him from across the room, he is clearly writing. His hair looks disheveled, his pants are worn and he’s scribbling something into that notebook.

Perhaps that’s me watching in the corner.

He listens to the flap of espresso grounds funneled into portafilters, the soft ting that always accompanies a good tamping. Water steams, eschewing out first the bitter, then the crème. A wand screeches milk of various fat contents into volume and fluff, but the best sound comes from the fattest of milks. A deep, thoughtful gurgling full of substance and flavor. He can smell the flavor. Milk just before it’s burnt.

He puts his headphones in, takes them out several times over. When he takes them out it is with purpose. Like maybe he heard someone call his name through a song in his ear-buds. He looks around, scrunches his face as if an idea were being worked through the wrinkles. He sniffs the air and smiles to himself. Is that lavender he smells? Perhaps it’s just jasmine.

He stomps his foot along to the tamping of espresso trying to get rid of an itch without taking off his shoe. But for a doodle of a cube with a stick figure in the center, the page is empty. Not even he knows what this means. He just needed some ink on the page to go along with the ink mark on his fingers. He looks at the clock above the door. He looks again. How long before he is allowed to leave? How long before he considers his work done? His leg twitches to the rhythm of seconds bouncing off rain.

He steps outside, looks back at the café. The smell of maples bars released from the pounding of rain on dirt. A sweetness he’s unsure of.

#8 Meta-Fiction (Liz)

Here’s a story: it’s about a little girl in the woods. She’s got a stick. She’s got a machete. Right now in this story she is nine, she is stuck in the story, or she is made in it, and now there are many options –

There is a lot of green – it smells like wood-mold, like this girl’s childhood, and it is a pleasant smell to her – background. Wet ground – mud between her toes. The girl brushes aside huckleberry bushes and ferns – green, green, sturdy stick in her hand, machete flapping on her leg – the stream makes little sounds ahead, water on rocks, brown sand – break in the green. The girl is heading for the bridge above the stream; she turns before the stream, grabs an upturned root with her free hand – the bridge is a downed tree and it’s enormous, 15 feet above the stream and the root structure now upturned and functioning as ladder to this small, feral girl, the root structure, it is two stories high, as if it were a building, and to the girl these structures are buildings. There is a porch – one of the roots is horizontal and wide, and it is this girl’s porch. On other days she sits there and eats huckleberries.

Today she climbs over the roots and onto the log itself, the bridge, she calls it the highway –

This little girl she has darting eyes, like an animal. Scanning from the high ground. Looking for – anything, dark things, kindred things. All around, bird song. Calls.

She leaves the stick against the ladder-mess of roots.

The little girl runs along the log although it is high and the surface is uneven but her feet have felt this bark thousands of times and her bare feet so long out of shoes grip like hands. Her mother, what does her mother think? I know, I know. I want children someday but I think of this girl’s mother and this girl and I am frightened. I don’t know what to do with this creature, with the fact of this creature, except hold her away, and change her –

Halfway along the highway the log beneath her feet touches up against a log still growing, upright, maple tree, living branches almost at her face, and now this girl stops short because there is an owl. And an owl for this girl is a reverent thing. She – halts, sudden, grips her toes harder, clenching bark. Her toes slide a little on wet moss, and her arms go out, like wings, to balance, her eyes go wide, eyes on the owl, eyes locked on the owl –

The girl looks at the owl’s eyes even though the owl has a mouse, even though it might make more sense to look at the mouse – but then the mouse moves. Squirming, in the beak - going to die.

The girl, she sees this and her eyes move but she doesn’t move. She watches the owl, her heart hammers and she sees the wild thing, a thrill and a discomfort, and black thing she doesn’t want to see inside because she sees the owl and in this black unnamed way without words she sees the ways that she does not belong here, in this forest, but worse and further down she sees the ways that she does.

And she is still, and she is quiet, and her machete lays still as the little girl observes.

This is what she should have done.