Words Up
The tag came from Lee via Raven's Wordzzle, intriguing word-driven memes. This required use of the following: prenomial, inexplicable, tangerine, masks, chocolate cake, panorama, librarian, Stonehenge, meek, florid. We play:
NAMELESS, FORE AND AFT
Pity poor Chuck Cadman: prenomial-less, proto-robotic, lost in a world without the inexplicable tangerine masks his mother used to make down in the lonely wiles of Point Navarre, Florida. He wondered where and how long the tangerines: all he’d ever seen in his front yard were the lime trees: key limes, and a childhood filled with mountainous (and mutinous) key lime pies: orgy of sweetness in the tartest sense of the word, tongue-lethal, mesmerizing the pride and prejudice of all of Terrapin County. It ain’t parishes, cher, no matter how much she be wantin’ them. Full and plenty, and all life’s jeremiad of key lime in the mix.
Chocolate cake was an afterthought: he thought about that after the verdict came down and Minnie and all her apocalyptic horde of family nomads came crying foul and mistrial and isn’t she lovely, all walkin’ pure and meshuginah in her diamond shoes. The panaroma down at the white sand beach was arresting, if you’ll pardon any attempt to forget poor Chuck’s feral doom. It came back to me long after the bargains were laid down, all soft and tidy. The white sheets out on your mama’s clothesline could not have been more squeaky clean and missing the whole bloody point.
So Chuck Cadman thought. It mizzled him beyond compare. Junkets in his own Florida bloom could not have been more dim and gloomy.
Fanta librarian caught the cure: Aquarian empath, she out-couched Mr. Cayce himself. Traci Hettamyer sent the obligatory 5, asked for the cut-rate, but she still wanted the bookworm out cold, steering breath of the python in the air, no simple yes ma’am’s, that’ll do: them’s dark woods she was after, and she’d be damned if even Miss Flannery was going to get in the way.
“Stonehenge,” said the Fanta she. Explanation would cost another 5: Traci was not about to pay it: it was conscience paid the first bill, there wasn’t enough to go around, those were her meek and florid days, 49 days and counting.
Pity poor Chuck Cadman: prenomial-less, proto-robotic, lost in a world without the inexplicable tangerine masks his mother used to make down in the lonely wiles of Point Navarre, Florida. He wondered where and how long the tangerines: all he’d ever seen in his front yard were the lime trees: key limes, and a childhood filled with mountainous (and mutinous) key lime pies: orgy of sweetness in the tartest sense of the word, tongue-lethal, mesmerizing the pride and prejudice of all of Terrapin County. It ain’t parishes, cher, no matter how much she be wantin’ them. Full and plenty, and all life’s jeremiad of key lime in the mix.
Chocolate cake was an afterthought: he thought about that after the verdict came down and Minnie and all her apocalyptic horde of family nomads came crying foul and mistrial and isn’t she lovely, all walkin’ pure and meshuginah in her diamond shoes. The panaroma down at the white sand beach was arresting, if you’ll pardon any attempt to forget poor Chuck’s feral doom. It came back to me long after the bargains were laid down, all soft and tidy. The white sheets out on your mama’s clothesline could not have been more squeaky clean and missing the whole bloody point.
So Chuck Cadman thought. It mizzled him beyond compare. Junkets in his own Florida bloom could not have been more dim and gloomy.
Fanta librarian caught the cure: Aquarian empath, she out-couched Mr. Cayce himself. Traci Hettamyer sent the obligatory 5, asked for the cut-rate, but she still wanted the bookworm out cold, steering breath of the python in the air, no simple yes ma’am’s, that’ll do: them’s dark woods she was after, and she’d be damned if even Miss Flannery was going to get in the way.
“Stonehenge,” said the Fanta she. Explanation would cost another 5: Traci was not about to pay it: it was conscience paid the first bill, there wasn’t enough to go around, those were her meek and florid days, 49 days and counting.
posted by murat11 at 12:28 AM
5 Comments:
You know, this is such a dazzling display of clever command, command of the world of words and the clandestine and otherwise lives they live, that there’s no way I could knock points off your entry for breaking one of the Wordzzle rules. What must the inside of your imagination look like??? I’d like to get sucked up into that expanding universe for a day, come back to earth a few days or years younger and brighter! ;-)
Surreal is right! I kept going back to the food which mostly sounds delicious and wondered if it tied things together. Alas, it only brought me to a search for Tangerine Pie. Which I found, in all its decadent glory, here.
Enjoy! & Peace!
Miss A: Now how you gonna be clandestine and not break some rules, chica? Of course, I'm just lazy enuff not even to bother with lookin' the rules up. Ten words, write: command enuff for me.
I appreciate the appreciation: the secret learned long ago (but not that long ago: say, ten years) was: forget (or as the Talking Heads put it, STOP) making sense of the collisions that come rolling any time I ask the doors of misperception to open. I like your use of the word clandestine: writing is subversive, and by that I do not mean simply subversion of the prevailing order, but subversion of sense, expectation, known, and all that's shakin'. Boogie wonderland beats shake and bake any day (I think that's Rimbaud, no?). I do like to surf in and out of the nooks and crannies, and I liked Lee's opening salvo in the Wordzzle games, that tired earthen woodsy creek-mess of a world she birthed, Flannery's world, mystery lurking.
Lee: Thanks for the intro to Wordzzle: It looks like a keeper for the weekly writing discipline, along with the Scribblers: Raven's free associative style is more up my alley than the Scribblers' more left-brained brainagisms, but I'll stay with both: left-brained prompts are people too, no?
If it's fruit, you know it's gotta be pie...
Peace/out.
Miss Alister: Am I to assume that the broken rule is the one about one paragraph? I guess you thought those spaces were meant to be paragraph breaks, when in fact they were spaces where I wrote in disappearing ink. I know that it do tend to look deceptive and downright paragraph-breaky.
Paschal, you've out-empathed the words. Mr. Cayce would be proud of these extrasensory perceptions, these connections begging to be sensed.
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