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Posts Tagged ‘collaboration’

Exquisite Corpse – Blue & Yellow

September 13, 2010 3 comments

“Le cadavre exquis boira le vin nouveau.”


The exquisite corpse will drink the new wine.


Here are two pieces me and my friend Kerrie wrote, drunk at the bar, intently folding the little scraps of blue and yellow paper over and over as we wrote our sentences, leaving only a word or two to continue.  I loved the outcome so much that I snatched them up quick and hid them in my moleskin so I could check if they were just as beautiful sober.

The only thing I’ve added is a little punctuation and highlighted the only words we could see to continue the piece with.

Blue

I lost my thrill, it slipped through the cracks of boredom and repetition, and repetition, and repetition, and repetition and and and I’m not even afraid of keeping the sheets wrapped tightly around my neck. I could feel the fingers squeezing my larynx and the blood to my brain ceased to help. All that worked was her heart and her cunt beneath the fluorescent lights of the fast food restaurant. Would you like fries with that? Would you like my eyes with that? Would you like it hard, rough, soft, delightful? It’s all the same to me.

Yellow

The constant drone of voices was like gravel rash in my brain. Nothing made sense, just fucking noise that sounded like nails down a chalkboard. I gritted my teeth and prayed to whatever, whoever god was. ‘Show me a fucking sign, make the lights flicker or the tap drip, drip drip. The sound kept me awake at night, it hounded me like a fucking doggy in the window. Woof, woof. The one with the waggily tail. How much is what I thought it would be? Blood? Crushed metal? Scared children? Even at such a young age most humans are designed to be cunts. The mother loves the baby and the baby decides the outcome in the end.

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you and me GUEST POSTCARD – #35 1/2 by Eric Westerlind

August 31, 2010 3 comments

I mentioned in my #35 postcard introduction that you might be seeing Eric Westerlind’s words sooner rather than later and I’m happy as hell to introduce some of them to you now. Eric made me grin my biggest grin when he asked for a postcard so he could return the favour and write a shorty for me. His address tucked under a little secret pocket on the card compartment made me explode.

So enough from me – meet Eric…

.

..

Me. A Coloradan living in a three story bedroom, working in a treehouse.

Surprised I was, mainly at the thick stock of the postcard, then the trim handwriting of one

yt sumner of Australialand Ln. Mama, brother, peekin over my shoulders like ‘ooo what be

that, boy’ and i told em I’ve gotta write a story for this girl in another country since she’s doin

one for me and they understood that well enough.

Finding that life doesn’t so much change its manners as it does it’s mannerisms, this story.

That gumless shark idea I wanted to make into a movie ended up on the back of a crayon-eaten-

crayon-made postcard. Only wish I’d had the patience to snail mail it back.

Onward, forward, all that! Huzzah.

Thanks yt, for the project. The space, the creativity. You’re crushin and inspiring.

– fre(e) (w)illy

.

.

hungry

“Take your sweet time, hon.” That soft paper voice, brittle like starched linens.
Did you iron that apron before work? is what I’d ask Ken, apparently (short for what? Kenelope?).
Her skin looks thick, a buffer against this small cafés darker side + guys like me.
Dear Ken, I’m thinking to her backside, I’d take you if I had teeth left. Then again, the coffee’s good enough, appetite suppressed — three sips. She walks to another table, two dark and hairy’s (though who can say if its dirt or grease or anything). They’re probably ordering eggs benedict like all the other drivers do.
A window shatters, one of the big plane ones, CAFÉ DE dot dot dot just dust and a perfect spray of glass shard shrapnel and Ken saw it coming but that just means she gets a bit further before the front of the semi coming through the window catches her and crushes her legs.
The other two are just near splatters, neither less ragged than the other.
Strange thing — a truck in a truck stop café. Seen stranger though.
It’s been six hundred years. Things happen. A Turkish mob pulled my incisors, just post second world war, in Turkey.
MARTIN, who’s opening the truck door now, hypothesized at the time, tied down as we were, that they might grow back. A year later, x number of livestock meals, then more years and mud and hunger, he gave up hope too.
It’s harder, pulling/peeling at the skin, than just puncture-withdraw, but we’ve found that the more exposed surface area
the less work on our part.
Martin starts on the trucker under the table and I stand up, one more sip of coffee, hobble over.
Ken, her uniform soiled with hurts, blood etc, — there’s her tongue, either fleeing down her throat to her heart or playing with her molar, and then I latch on to the second driver, apologizing the whole time in my head that it had to be this way, not prettier, more finesse, nostalgic for a way that undoubtedly, after all these years, I can’t even really remember quite right.

a collaboration betweeen you and me

March 4, 2010 24 comments

I have an idea and I’d love for you to be involved in this one with me.

All you need is a pen, a postcard and a stamp.

I’m doing a call out  for a writing experiment I’d like your help with. I’m addicted to  postsecret, found magazine and short short fiction and this afternoon I had a little idea bloom.

The bigger it bloomed, the bigger my grin so I thought what the hell, why not do it?

What I need is a postcard from you with a single word or phrase written on it.

I’ll write a flash fiction piece inspired by each phrase and image and post it with a picture of the original card.

This could be the beginning of something beautiful and inspiring and funny as hell.

My goal is to keep going until I get 100 postcards so do say you’ll play and spread the good word by passing this on to anyone you think would be interested?

Send your (handmade, store-bought, found, stolen, invented, commissioned, etc.)  postcards to

you and me

PO Box 92, Fitzroy

Vic, Australia, 3065