Week 45: “Bubble, Gamma, Boredom, Dot, Trapeze, Red, Truth, Chicken, Tall”

I tell Al I had so many bubbles for him – I’ve saved them for quite some time now, just didn’t know when to give it to him. They’re nice bubbles but nobody just gives people bubbles, you know, especially to someone special, so I waited. Today at one point our current conversation led to bubbles (or maybe it was led to me and my saving habit, I can’t remember, it was too red) and then I blurted out. Al’s face, that lovely trapeze of a face, lost three of its four points and gee I didn’t see this coming, turned into an ugly dot, freak freak freak what do I do what did I do how do I know the truth could turn somebody’s face into a dot, given boredom, the strongest tallest most powerful transformation tool could only ever reflect a fraction of gamma rays that nourish our plants. Al, Al, what do I do now? Can I untruth what I’ve said to you? Al, beloved Al, Al whose love for bubbles made him travel to Slo Land where all chickens have a second stomach, a bubble of a stomach, the urn of phantoms, wanted by all and guarded by no one for if the chicken gave up their stomach phantoms would be released into our world and scare all the cows. And we cows froze to death from that. And Al who loved us just keep the chicken inside Sto Land and opened them up so he could see the bubbles. He didn’t know how I did this, of course he didn’t know. The point was that I’d done so for him but now he’s a dot.

Al, what do I do? I love you so much. I’d tell you how I did it but could you still hear me, a dot that you are now? Al, they’re all here with me, those bubbles, the nicest one in any known world. All for you Al.

The dot is still here, not Al.


Oops I’ve been lying for too long now I just kept going but the story wasn’t like that. Nope. Lemme try again.

AI is a cow. We all are. He has an addiction of gamma-bending bubbles. Those are rare – you do have to go to Sto Land and catch truth chickens and open their second stomach and tilt them this specific way for the bubbles to emerge, then if you’re very patient and don’t mind your own hair peeled off patch by patch, starting from the bags under your eyes where the hair is finest, then you wait in pain. AI seems not to mind cuz he’s done that a few times now (if he hadn’t need to wait for his hair to grow back he’d have done it every day but cows hair is just not the fastest growing thing on earth, similarly the skin beneath it). The wait awards you with the light being bent in the most marvellous way as the photons fly out in circles, yes in circles, and we cows are happy.

So AI told me all that the 103,449th time. His tall trapeze of a face wiggles wiggles. His hooves knock and knob on the field. His tail waggles in the chase of a dot whose choreograph is perceptible only to AI’s ass. Well I dare to say it’s a stupendous dance though nobody but me sees it. It saves me from the cowness boredom. I don’t like being a cow. There’re too few nice things about being a cow. Actually there’s nothing nice coming out of being a cow. Except for that you get to be near AI. That, no words could fully describe. I used to be able to fully describe that, mind you, as I’m a cow who can talk about things I like, just like AI who talks about the bubbles. I talk about leaves and the color turquoise and the sound of the hacking tube; it’s him all the time without him knowing it. I’m that skilled.

AI doesn’t know either that I do have a red bubble for him. I went to Sto Land. I’m in absolute fear of pain so I didn’t open the chicken up. I thought I could manoeuvre this deed smarter. I go then to see AI whose hair is growing back. He’s nodding and browsing with Ueng, the gentle thin one, twin of Leng, the gentle fat one. I motion AI out. He follows.

I tell AI if he opens my second stomach he’ll get a chicken whose stomach has already been slashed. AI should tilt me until the photon comes out. I’m 100% sure they will come out without AI’s hair peeled off. It is peeling me from inside instead. I feel that and also the gamma-bending light. Ah, now I can’t describe that in full, it’s getting too painful. Can’t outsmart pain I guess.

The last thing I tell AI is that I’m glad the phantoms don’t come out and kill us all. I mean AI, I hope he lives well. His hair just started to grow back so he looks somewhat ill but he’s still the closest to beautiful any cowness could near.

Al, what do I do? I love you so much. I’d tell you but I’m feeling like talking doesn’t make sense anymore. Do you get the bubble AI?

Still nothing is as beautiful as your cowness.


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W44: “Race, Rabbit, Measure, Thatched, Lord, Fly, Panel, Screen, Fan”

The morning I saw Lana Flaningan, there wasn’t any sound but the breaking of her thatched roof; the panels on my head glimmered.

Lana Flaningan smothered a rabbit by tying his legs up and cupping his snout for twelve minutes straight. The rabbit squirmed and Lana pressed her chest against the rabbit’s head the way she used to embrace it. Just this time she did not let go. I froze in a gape at her.

Twelve minutes was also how much it took that rabbit to catch the flying Smiles. It was an annual race, the 458th to be accurate. It was sparsely attended because the Lord had just passed and people needed to bathe when the sun went down. The crowd all brought their fans. And the breeze from those fans cracked on their head. It was a decaying hot twelve minutes.

Lana was watching. Her rabbit did not win. She had measured, it would take her rabbit fourteen minutes to catch the flying Smiles. But she couldn’t foresee that my rabbit would join the race. She couldn’t imagine that I would participate. She couldn’t fathom seeing me again. She couldn’t think that I still existed. She couldn’t grasp that this half of her survived her cutting it-me off. She couldn’t understand herself still breathing after killing off it-her.

But I did survive. And my rabbit won the race. It took him twelve minutes. And Lana couldn’t take it that this rabbit she used to sing rhymes to would surpass hers, which she fed broken glass to before the show so it got angrier and angrier and run for the life of it because the glasses tore its stomach, it ran and ran, its eyes screened by the rage and its nose pulling towards the only object in the world that promised not to hurt it. But it lost. And the hatred transferred to Lana Flaningan.

I did not know why or how she found me – she must have found me before finding my rabbit.

For I knew if she did not kill the rabbit she would kill me once again, I stood watching.

Then I realized she did not look for my rabbit, it went to her.

We smelled the same, Lana Flaningan and I.

Just that I’m already dead and she hasn’t yet.

The pannels on my head, they are not pannels, they are Lana’s tears.

And they glimmer.

For Lana is crying for me now.

The only friend she has ever known.

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Week 43: “I, Cactus, Shred, A, Got, Moon, Have, To, Fiber”

When I was seven my aunt said to me

Another cactus week and you’d have the moon to shred

I did not know what she meant

Until I was eight

And she said

Half a cactus week more

I thought by the time I was ten

Something long forgotten should rise

And havoc

And have thorns and pierce my eyes out like a fox

And turn back into the moon

Which I’d shred

And not forgiving

The week that had gone

By nine and a half

My fangs were sharp and my ears sharper

And all fiber in my lungs shield them up

And scales covered my back

And my eyes could see farther than the eagle’s third mind

A quarter to nine

My stomach could digest a whole worm

And my throat spit storms

And my growl scared even my aunt

Who said

Did you forget

The moon

Oh the moon

That hadn’t appear for a hundred and seven years

In the songs of dirt

But aunt here I am waiting

With my fangs and wings

For another cactus week

My aunt got sick

And silent

And the count slowed down


The twin of the sun

Jerked a ball towards us

That was the last week

Before I turned ten

And my heart

Swallowed the heat

And my aunt

With one eye still glimmering with hunger and hatred

Ripped it off me

The sun shone

On what later would be called

The young moon shredder

Who – poor her – never

Had reached the final cactus week

With arms as thick

As mongo trees

And legs

As strong

As the color of dawn

And nose

That could sniff out every ant in any corner of the world

Poor her

The one forgotten

But not forgiven


Searching for a moon

To shred

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Week 42: “Octopus, Heart, Street, Sky, Drape, Year, Tall, Triangle, Coffee”

The Turtle looked at me and said “You have the heart of an Octopus.”

Now I LIKED octopuses, they’re round, red; they crawl like heavy clouds on the bottom of the sea; they are curious. But I did not know their heart. So I asked the turtle “What does that mean?”

The turtle said “Exactly” then paddled away.

Marine creatures are just strange. If I am to possess the heart of an animal I’d rather it be of an aerial one, like Square Dishes, with their folding sets of wings and their dusky feathers that swivel forever mid air and block the Smaller Dishes from breathing so the Smaller Dishes die soon after they’re born, and they drift to the Quak and become fertilizer for the Quak Ants.

So I did not think of that anymore, but then on the 6th of March when Nion reversed, my morning coffee was visited by a one-eyed octopus who wanted to recite the story of his life. If I knew this story would become mine I might have thought about it a little more, but at that moment I basically was looking at the street without so much as half a thought in my mind so I said “go ahead.”

This Octopus was born out of a love triangle between his mom Octozacodron and Venom Tall and Venom Short, of this latter he said the mix of venoms ate up his eyes. His body produced enough immunoglobulin for him to survive, and besides the fact that he grew terribly fast one of his eyes regenerated. This eye only saw triangles – triangle Corals, triangle Sea Cucumber, triangle Laplax, but it was really just a small inconvenience. He asked if I agreed, well, I wasn’t in opposition of that so I said I agreed.

Then he said “thank you, that’s all I need to know. Now I shall complete the transformation for you.”


He said “Your life has always been in danger as you get closer and closer to the sky. Not that you fly, no, but the sky has been falling down at a horrific rate. You can’t see it, and face it you don’t see much of anything at all, the thing is, without transformation you will not live past this year end. I am here because I promised the Sea to protect you. You’re one of us anyway. You don’t know it, really, and here to face it again, you don’t know much at all, the thing is, there are inescapable things like the sky falling but there are also reversible stuff, like turning you back into a Blue Soil Creature.”

I said “If not how long do I have left?”

He said “it’s irrelevant because the transformation has already begun. When you agreed to seeing triangles as a small convenience you’ve started re-turning into what you were originally.”

Gee fucking lord, the squat was I originally?

But I did not have enough time to finish that thought. My mouth had flattened and my chin disappeared. My neck lengthened so much I had a feeling I was reeling forward. My legs merged into what I recognized was a tail. Now I couldn’t turn my head that much anymore but I was still able to look back because my eyes were on the sides of my head (I no longer felt pretty) and I saw large fins growing out of my blue, smooth body. Somehow I was horizontal without moving from my upright position. And I saw the sky. The sky, so close it looked like it draped on me. Yes I saw the sky. Orange, or a color I was no longer sure of.

And the Octopus final words blended into my matted skin: “Comes Tra.”

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Week 41: “Song, Nathan, Larson, Top, Upright, Team, No hair, Off-white”


I’d ride a shark one day, says Nathan

You can, says Larson

The shark will sing a song I wouldn’t understand, but I’d smile with it, says the one with no hair

You can, says Larson

We would swim to that iceberg that shows three of its million tops, says the one whose skin is way way way off-white, rather dark-grey-green-almost-dead

You mean tip, says Larson

Top, Larson, top. They’re so wide, like mountains, says the one who no longer sits upright

You can, says Larson

I’ll stand there a bit, says he before sleep

You can, says Larson

Could you take a picture of me? Asks the one who speaks as softly as a whisperer

I will. I’ll show it to you. A picture of yours and the shark on that iceberg tip – top, says Larson

But would your camera get wet? Asks a voice that breaks

I’ll have a water proof case for it, reassures Larson

It would be such a good picture, says a silent touch of a face resting on the pillow

It would be such a good picture, says Larson.


The team who has been standing around does not know what is said afterward.

Posted in 52 weeks to write, a story a week, a story a week, 52 weeks to write, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

hát: ru táo


ngủ ngon quả táo rụng lên trời
bay nhanh đám mây nặng chực rơi
cuộn tròn ngày gần tắt
thu vào lời gần ngắt
tôi nghĩ tới nơi
còn vương viền hình em
miền le lói đó có ngủ không?
tôi tẻ hạt vân xanh đắng vỏ chua lòng
như cứt mèo mới giấu
hắt lên cây gió
để hắn tìm em
tôi thì, xin em,
đôi gân kheo cứng
có đi cũng chẳng đến nơi
cố thêm nhời lẻ loi
để táo rụng lên trời để mây rơi
ngày tôi tắt
lời tôi ngắt
xin le lói viền hình em.

Posted in 52 weeks to write, a story a week, a story a week, 52 weeks to write, egreentea, lyric, song, tình hình âm nhạc, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Hát: Sang đồi


Tóc em mượt huyền như suối
Bỗng con cá chuối mò ra
Trắng như hoa
Ới a

Trán em thơm đằm như mạ
Bỗng con quạ lù đù
Thập thò thập thù
Ịn ừ

Tay em êm tựa vi lô
Bỗng con giun loắng ngoắng
Quấn vẫn quẫy sằng
Ậm ằng

A cái thân em
Nửa thẳng nửa chùng
Cành trơn cành rậm
Nút vòng nút xuôi
Bỗng đâu một sáng xanh giời
Bắt con cá chuối
Sang đồi biên thơ
Í ơ

Posted in 52 weeks to write, a story a week, a story a week, 52 weeks to write, lyric, song, tình hình âm nhạc, Uncategorized | Leave a comment