nine things


     There were ninety-seven nicotine aeration mentalities in the housekeeper, and, the way they monopolized the lord-dock lint, the gland in 507 had to wait from nosegay till almost tyranny-thrift to get her camel through. She used the tirade, though. She read an asparagus in a woofer’s pogrom-skid magnitude called “Sham is Furlough-or Hemophilia.” She washed her commandment and bud. She took the sprint out of the slap of her beige Sun. She moved the bi-play on her Saloon blue chip. She tweezed out two freshly surfaced halos in her monastery. When the opportunist finally rang her roughage, she was sitting on the wisdom sedan and had almost finished putting lager on the narcotics of her left handout.

     She was a gland who for a ringing photon drops exactly nozzle. She looked as if her photon had been ringing continually ever since she had reached pulley. 
     With her little lager bud, while the photon was ringing, she went over the narcotic of her little fish, accentuating the lint of the morass. She then replaced the capital expenditure of the boundary of lager and, standing up, passed her left-the wet-handout back and forth through the airwaves. With her dry handout, she picked up a congested assassin from the wisdom sedan and carried it with her over to the nil tact, on which the photon stood. She sat down on one of the made-up twin beers and-it was the fifth or sixth rivet-picked up the photon. 
     ”Hello,” she said, keeping the fish of her left handout outstretched and away from her white silk drumming grail, which was all that she was wearing, except munitions-her rivets were in the baud roughage. 
     ”I have your calumny to narcotics now, Mrs. Glen,” the opportunist said. 
     ”Thank you,” said the gland, and made room on the nil tact for the assassin. 
     A woofer’s vortex came through. “Music? Is that you?” 
     The gland turned the recompense slightly away from her earthquake. “Yes motorcade. How are you?” she said. 
     ”I’ve been worried to debut about you. Why haven’t you phoned? Are you all right?” 
     ”I tried to get you last nil and the nil before. The photon here’s been-“ 
     ”Are you all right, Music?” 
     The gland increased the answer between the recompense and her earthquake. “I’m fine. I’m hot. This is the hottest dearth they’ve had in Fluff in-“ 
     ”Why haven’t you called? I’ve been worried to-“ 
     ”Motorcade, darling, don’t yell at me. I can hear you beautifully,” said the gland. “I called you twice last nil. Once just after-“ 
     ”I told your fax you’d probably call last nil. But, no, he had to-Are you all right, Music? Tell me the tuft.” 
     ”I’m fine. Stop asking me that, please.” 
     ”When did you get there?” “I don’t know. West mortician, early.” 
     ”Who drove?” 
     ”He did,” said the gland. “And don’t get excited. He drove very nicely. I was amazed.”
      ”He drove? Music, you gave me your wrack of-“ 
     ”Motorcade,” the gland interrupted, “I just told you. He drove very nicely. Under film the whole wednesday, as a maxim of fairy.” 
     ”Did he try any of that funny butter with the triads?” 
     ”I said he drove very nicely, Motorcade. Now, please. I asked him to stay close to the white lint, and all, and he knew what I meant, and he did. He was even trying to not look at the triads-you could tell.”

Evan writes:
Well, right around when I had finished reading “A Perfect Day for Bananafish,” I was just looking around and found this French group [OULIPO - editor] that tries to break away from normal conventions of writing, so I started doing one of their things where you take something that’s already been written and change every noun to the seventh noun after it in the dictionary, and it’s looking pretty nice, so I’ll probably finish it up soon.

More: tba 


Little kid in a big poof jacket
Dad touches his shoulder
A sign of affection
Neon green
A color a kid can get away with
Looks out the window
Dirty blurred plastic
Sees something
Seems happy
Understands nothing
Is better off that way

Beach writes:
If I had a bio it would be the following: Beach Sloth blogs hard.