O--- FEMALE **work on me**

[Weird name, that's what's on her obituary. Picturing this as she fears for her life.]

Jane clutched her leg and bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. Her friend, Jessie, was panicked enough without adding four-letter words to the mix. It had been stupid of them to think that they could skip third period without consequence. They had spent weeks planning this day, but deep down Jane knew that they couldn't get away with it. They'd made extensive plans to ensure Jessie's sister's rusty sedan was available for their escapade and its owner far away on a field trip to the city. They'd brought changes of clothes (even their swimsuits, just in case Mother Nature decided to gift them with a preview of summer by the lake). They'd packed enough food to feed half the football team (because who could say for sure which of three sandwiches they'd be craving at the end of their long day). But they hadn't anticipated any broken bones. Nor had they fully considered the double-edged sword of an escape from civilization -- their phones were merely expensive paperweights this far into the woods. As she watched her friend generate new phrases to express her escalating frustration and anxiety, Jane knew that she would have to take matters into her own hands. She winced as she manually extended her injured limb and braced herself for the pain that would come as she dragged herself back to the car -- once their savior from a boring day of school, now the symbol for their failure -- forever linked to torment.

Mallory

She studied her face in the mirror in lieu of more expensive amusements. Why spend half of her paycheck at the movie theater when she could admire her own enviable bone structure for free? Sure, a night at home wouldn’t get her any closer to the pedestal of celebrity, but at her pedestal sink, she could unabashedly pluck stray hairs from her face! She ran her fingertips over the curve of her jaw and lamented her inability to capture its beauty on canvas. Shrugging off what could not be remedied, she loosened the cap of her mascara and began to hum. She stopped the applicator wand midway to her lash pondering the lyrics beneath the tune – What is the hipbone connected to?

Kirsten

The humming from the microphone echoed and Kirsten's shaky legs threatened to give out on her. How was it possible that she could spell twenty-letter diseases and speed through the lexicon of French cuisine yet flub a simple "i before e except after c"? Sweat had already begun to bead up on her forehead when the grating buzzer sounded to signal her failure.

"I'm sorry; that's incorrect." The facilitator stated simply. "You may return to your seat."

Eyes focused on her feet, Kirsten made her way back to her folding chair. Part of her was shocked by the cold of the grey metal seat, but it was buried so far beneath her disappointment that she her body didn't react to the stimulus. How upset her would parents be to R-E-C-E-I-V-E a loser from the bus stop that afternoon!

She struggled to raise her eyes to the imminent spelling champion as he approached the microphone. As he began to spell the word that was to become her terrible legacy at Shady Elm Middle School, he turned a glimmering eye to her and gave a simple wink. "Receipt. R-E-C-I-E-P-T."

The boy turned away from the microphone and began to walk back to Kirsten before the buzzer had even sounded. Kirsten could barely breathe -- he had thrown the game! She didn't know whether to be elated with her renewed chance to win or angered by his actions. What could have been going through his head to motivate this young boy's self-sabotage?

When Gary returned he selected the chair directly behind her own and managed a few words before Kirsten was invited to stand once again: "You're welcome."

Gold Explosions

gold explodes across 

the treeline and my shirt's stripes;

last barbecue this season?

Summer's End

as Summer's heart slows
leaves cling to dying branches.
Live well to the end.


*


summer's end foretold,
strength pools beneath Mother's breast.
sleep and dream of more

*

your crooked smile is
a sapling's bend in a breeze:
unassuming grace.

Dada Cookie

Sometimes I suspect sentences encased in fortune cookies are assembled in the same random way as Dada poetry with the same oracular effect. Wisdom lies in chaos, it seems.

Isobel

On those days the men insisted on planting themselves in front of the television and consuming immeasurable amounts of food from dishes they had no intention of cleaning, she dreamed of life in a zenana where testosterone only pervaded the premises briefly and for good reason. The men might have agreed with such an idea, had she revealed her thoughts to them.