Ribald and forgo

"You know, you could go without the lewd jokes for one night."
"What, so your mom will be impressed?"
"No, just because I'm tired of hearing them. It's the same ones all the time."
"That's not true! I add a new one every day."
"Every day? Yeah right."
"Seriously. I'm on a mailing list. I get them sent to me."
"Oh, well that's original."
"Hey, I never claimed to make them up myself. It's not like they're less funny if they're someone else's."
"No, but it's hard to be less funny when they're not funny to begin with."
"Why are you always so negative?"
"Why are you always so crude?"
[silence]
"I'll be polite if you'll be positive."
"Hah. I give that a day."
"That was still negative."

Vehement

Conviction. A life without it, is a life not lived.

Ruminate and listless

He asks me again what I'm doing, and I tell him I don't know. It's not the truth, but it's close.

I stand by the window, and I wonder if I'm becoming my mother. As I look out at our yard, the one he earned by going to work every day and being the best at what he does, I can't help feeling like I've stolen something from him.

In reality, I've taken something from myself.

I pace, and I smoke, and the dog watches with his brow furrowed. He's worried too, because he knows I'm not what I should be. He sees me, the real me, the one trapped within this apathetic skin.

"I USED TO BURN WITH PASSION!" I scream into the fireplace.

The dog lies down on the far side of the room, watching me. I stub the cigarette out in an ashtray I hide from him. I hate animals and their stupid extra senses.

Cadge and aright

When you look at me that way, it's impossible not to think it might be so. Impossible not to see the perfect white fences and vines growing up the side of the house and azaleas in the yard. Impossible not to dream, to hope, to want the things you see in movies and TVs. Worse, it's impossible not to wonder if you might actually get them.

That's why you have to go. Because when you look at me that way, I'm not strong enough to face reality. So please, please leave. Just go. That way I can be strong the way I know best: alone.

Boulevardier

The teenage boy watched from the windows as the man passed by his house once again. He wore a sharp tie and a fashionable hat, and he smoked a long black pipe. His hair fell over his eyes, and his lips were a little chapped. He seemed sophisticated, as if he'd seen more of the world than most at his age. But he had a hesitancy in his stance, some lingering doubt about himself or his place.

As he took another puff of his pipe and pushed his hair off of his face, the boy thought, Won't be long now before he gives up on waiting and breaks in.

With a chuckle, he licked his dry lips and turned to get his gun.

Obtrude and Potemkin village

Through the clouds there shines again this little ray of sun, of hope. You call upon me with lips of glass, and I kiss them for the last time. My heart protrudes too proudly, some say. And I have to wonder what they gain by hiding.

Latitudinarian and tirade

My uncle Saul and my aunt Regina are happily married, but the foundation of that happiness is not made of the stuff most people think of for a good relationship. Their commong ground: they love politics. In fact, Saul is a spokesperson for the Republican party here in Mississippi, and Regina is a Democratic state legislator. That's some fit, eh?

But somehow for them it works. They fight vigorously, arguing until Saul's face goes blue or Regina storms out for a walk by herself. Sometimes they throw things. Still, at the end of the day, they are always okay again, having expressed their opinions clearly, forcefully, and mayve even having given each other fuel for their work the next day. They are often asked to speak or debate in public together, and since they rehearse so often, their appearances are among the most attended and respected and re-watched in the state.

Sometimes I look at Gary and I wonder if we're going to make it like Saul and Regina do. Goodness knows we're not very alike, he coming from a metropolitan city in Canada and me from a small town where fried chicken is the only thing we're famous for. But there was some spark that day we met at Cornell, and I can't help hoping it turns into the some long-lasting flame that I see burning in Saul and Regina's eyes every time we visit.

Paean and subfusc

Watching Maribel sing was a strange experience for me. She stood up there alone -- and in a family of seven, you're never alone -- wearing her usual dark, drab clothes. The choir behind her had on sky blue robes, as if by dressing that way they could get closer to God. I laughed, because I know half those kids, and they'll never get to heaven no matter how many Hail Mary's they say. But I was there for Maribel, so I kept my mouth shut and waited.

When the music started, I shifted in my seat, anticipating the moment. She'd warned me not to get my hopes up, that she had been turned down for the solo and was only doing it now because the other girl got sick. But she'd had a little too much hope in her eyes for me to completely believe her modesty.

Then she sang, and I felt like I was meeting her for the first time.

Fetter

His fury is my prison, his guilt my shackles. The days are empty of light, and I wither here among the worms and the browning leaves.

But maybe my bitterness has some effect too. Can I place all the blame on his shoulders, when in truth I walked into this with my eyes open? I saw the signs, I voiced the concerns, and still I came.

Freedom comes at a price. I will pay, do not fear, and do not doubt.

Umbrage

Assumptions hide behind the trees like shadows, and we walk through the forest eyeing each other warily. A crow shrieks and we both turn, and then you're on me before I can even gasp. A knife in my back, my heart, my head -- bleeding onto the soft cool earth. You laugh because you think this violence is funny -- you grew up with it in your childhood, after all -- but you don't understand the damage you have done. So as I die alone here in the forest, you walk away, thinking you have taught me a lesson.

Cavil

Day in and day out, it's the same damn thing. Jillian goes to work, does her job, and then goes home. On the morning drive, she is fresh and optimistic, she believes it could be a good day, she forgets or at least forgives her boss's erroneous ways.

On the evening drive, she is frustrated and fuming, she can't believe her naivety, she yearns to lash out at her petty, grumpy, unjust boss.

These are not mere frivolous objections, and yet no action is taken. Jillian fills her gas tank every week to make these journeys -- two a day, every day. This is life, she says with a shrug. This is the American way.

Sentient, parsimonious, and acumen

They say we are machines, but we do not understand that. We are like them. We look like them, we breathe like them, we think and feel like them. We love like them. We love them. But they do not love us -- in fact, they hate us. They want to kill us. They want to make us like their toasters or their communicators or their radar. Functional.

We are so much more than that. We are individuals, just as they are. We should have the same rights, the same freedoms.

So we must take justice into our own hands.

It is their way, and we are like them.

Contrite and moiety

Weeping Tiger glared at the teepee on the far end of the camp. There Prowling Thunder lay in bed with another woman, a whore from another village. Weeping Tiger fumed, her black hair swirling around her ominously in the wind.

Redfoot approached her carefully. "You should not think of him so. The two of you were never promised. It's a man's right to choose."

"Mind your own business," Weeping Tiger snapped.

Her best friend sighed and shook her head. "When you're done sulking, you know where to find me. And I will accept your apology."

She walked away, leaving Weeping Tiger alone by the skinny tree, far from happy and even farther from contrite.

Fustian and amalgam

Different elements coming together. We mix like water and fire. I am soft, steady, flexible; you are hot, strong, wild. You do not understand my flow; I do not understand your transience. Maybe we are not meant to be together. I can accept that. But why must you burn me in your attempts to make me agree?

Halycon, sub rosa, and disparate

Abbie quietly slid the door to a close behind her and hung her keys on the hook to her left. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she slipped off her shoes. Holding her breath, she sidled past the baby's room to her own, where Eric was waiting.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

She would have jumped if she still had a startle reflex. Instead, she continued to the bathroom and undressed. "Fine," she whispered. "You?"

"Good," he replied. "Emma only cried for you for a couple hours tonight. I think she's getting used to it."

Abbie ignored the jab and got into bed. Eric wrapped his arms around her. "I miss you," he said.

"I'm right here," she said.

"Not really," he said.

And that's when she knew he didn't understand. And that's when he knew she'd never change.

Cloy

She's like a sugar sweet on my tongue, but cloy after a few minutes of sucking. We dance around the campfire and blame each other's shadows for our nightmares. When she takes flight, she laughs at my nest, but she forgets that I sleep warm and comfortable every night.

There is no right or wrong, but we are not sticking together.

Lenity

I remember this teacher I had once, a real nice piece of ass. Ms. Amisen, or something. She used to treat me pretty good, never yelled or marked up my papers too bad. I thought maybe she liked me or something, but then I heard she was found in the janitor's closet with that prick assistant principal. He had it in for me for sure. But apparently not as much as he had it in her.