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French Kiss by Michelle Elvy

July 20, 2010 6 comments

(Written a few days ago for 52|250’s Union of Opposites challenge, snatched up by SLEEP.SNORT.FUCK. Can’t help myself; this belongs here at VOICES, too. )

The date began badly. First, she turned up her nose at my suggestion of sushi: “Ew! I want real food!” So we found ourselves at a picnic table eating hamburgers and fries, hers dipped in a large pile of blubbery mayo.

Back in the car, she switched the radio from Waits to Madonna. I thought about kicking her out right then.

But I’m a gentleman, so I suggested wine at my place (she was French, after all), but she said, “No, that’s boring,” and next thing I know we’re down by the lake drinking Jaegermeister. Jaegermeister, for chrissakes! Haven’t drunk that stuff since college. I managed not to puke this time, even when she said, “I’m going to fuck you now, oui?” What could I say? I was powerless in her hands, her mouth, her cunt. She scared the hell out of me, from her rock-hard nipples to her abundant thighs to her curious tongue. I envisioned news flashes next day: Culture Clash: Carniverous Frenchie Fucks Shy Biology Teacher Dead. She was all energy, grinning and grinding, sound and sexual fury. I ached for days, especially where my knee wedged into the dashboard. How she fit all those ways I never did figure.

I kept her number for a long time. “Call me,” she said as she slipped the paper into my jeans pocket. Not a question, more a demand. I wanted to, I really did.

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Twins by Michelle Elvy

July 8, 2010 3 comments

When we turned 50, my twin sister and I inherited money from an uncle. It was a modest amount, enough for me to enroll in a night course at the local college and to buy a new pair of glasses, not the $20 frames at JC Penney but an obscenely expensive designer pair which my made me feel sexy and smart, and which my boyfriend told me to keep on when we made wild rodeo love that night.

Some weeks later, my sister called. “You gotta come visit, see what I purchased with the help of Uncle Robbie’s money!” She sounded excited, so I drove across the state line the following weekend. I rang the bell and adjusted my new glasses, sure she’d notice them right away. She threw open the door with her characteristic enthusiasm and greeted me with a new set of D’s, maybe even Double-D’s. I hugged her, mindful not to squish her new acquisitions, and followed her in, my mind responding in overdrive: Good Lord, Patricia, what have you done? I am reading Foucault, have a copy of Discpline and Punish right here in my bag. Wanna read it? No, of course you don’t. I wonder if my $300 left over would get me a downpayment on a set of those. I couldn’t afford D’s of course (and they are ridiculous), but C’s might be quite sensible…

“You have new glasses!” Patricia interrupted.

“The better to see you with,” I replied.

Rock On – by Michelle Elvy

May 29, 2010 2 comments

Rock on

by Michelle Elvy

Inspired by Christian Bell’s This is Not A George Saunders Story

It’s dark in here.

Well what do you expect?

Yeah, I know, it’s just that, sometimes,

I’d like to get out.

It’s your choice.

Is it?

Look…

I mean, I read. I’ve been around.

You’re from Oklahoma.

So they say…

What d’ya mean?

Not Arizona.

Huh? Never mind, it’s OK: no one remembers

their birth.

Yeah, but most people remember some

things, don’t they?

Of course, but so do you.

Like what?

Well, what did you last read?

Um…

You said you read, so what do you read

regularly? The NYT?

(blank stare)

Do you live under a fucking….?

Never mind. The WSJ?

(shrug)

The LAT?

I once read a book by George Saunders.

That objectivitst writer?

No, he’s not objectivist any more –

he denounced Rand and her neo-cons.

Woah, you do read.

I’m wiki-mad.

Cheater.

Can’t fit too many books under here, can I?

That Saunders: he’s smart, eh?

Well they don’t call it a genius grant for nothin’.

*   *   *

Hey, you know what? We should go out.

Out? Out?!

Well, yeah, don’t you ever think

you might wanna?

Is that a trick question?

Well why not? What are you waiting for?

Turnips? Radishes? No, carrots! Just a

goddamn carrot.

You’re being obtuse. Let’s go meet

some people.

Don’t know the local language.

I can teach you. Say ‘bonjour.’

They speak Spanish here?

Good lord, man! This ain’t Spain!

Well how should I know?

Jeez, you’re a regular Eliza Doolittle.

Hey! I’m a guy, dude.

So? still the same idea. Rain in Spain

and all that.

Well I never been to Spain.

That’s not the point.

But I kinda like the music.

You don’t play any music.

Naw, but I used to have a tape deck.

You mean a CD player.

Naw, man, 8-track.

Good lord, you need to get out.

You at least need company under here.

Two can be as a bad as one….

*   *    *

OK, fine. Play me something.

Anything but your old 8-tracks.

Wait, let’s play Mortal Combat: Annihilation.

You know I hate those games.

Dysfunction, dysfunction, dysfunction is a function.

You are dysfunction.

If dysfunction is a function, then I must be

some kind of ge-ni-us!!

Come on. You’re too alone under here.

You’re here.

*   *    *

You know, you can make this world

whatever you want it to be.

It’s too dark.

So make a little light.

Can’t — but maybe that guy in that cave

will lend me his torch.

I’m leaving.

Suit yourself. I’m gonna name my rock,

by the way — call it ‘genius granite’.

You never even read a Saunders book.

So? I got internet, dude.

Come on, I’ll take you to the library.

Well I guess if I gotta go somewhere,

that ain’t a bad first choice. But let’s stop

and eat, too — I’m starvin’, man. But I don’t

eat fast food. Could do with some tapas, though.

Have you been sneaking out?

No, just fancy the idea of tapas… Spain an’ all.

OK, come on, let’s go.

Alright… but I’m a little nervous…

fuck it’s bright out here! …

Oh, look, a daisy!

That’s not a daisy, you idiot.

It’s a jonquil.

What does it matter?

What does it matter?

Elephant – by Michelle Elvy

May 26, 2010 3 comments

Elephant

by Michelle Elvy

They say we can’t jump, and they’re probably right, but I’ve never tried truth be told.

They say they’re in charge. They say.

They say they believe in conservation, in protection; they want to save the environment. They say.

They make Animal fucking Planet but I never watch it. I’m busy here with too much sun and sky and not enough water for my baby.

They say they love animals, and they got details to prove it. They collect lists. Bulls are colorblind. Butterflies were flutterbies. Polar bears are lefties, snails like to sleep.

Do the details matter? Do the details make them feel better, feel more? Do they recall the massacres, the bodies, the wretched reek of death? Do they know my grief? It’s not in their fact list, but it is real. I am a whale of a being, and I barely exist.

Here’s what matters. I have been here for millennia, my mind stretches across space and time and knows the softest part of skin, the smell of life, the touch of memory, the taste of my mother, the sound of my brother.

Urine is essence. I piss gallons on what they say.

And I never forget.

From The Doctor, With Love – by Michelle Elvy

May 20, 2010 2 comments

From The Doctor, With Love

by Michelle Elvy

I am tired, man, beat.
feel like a whiny kid,
are we there yet,
need to sleep!
Don’t know if I can walk
another mile, though you might talk
me into it. ’Cause though I’m
stomped and scuffed,
and have wrinkles and pocks,
you say they’re not wrinkles,
but creases and folds –
you say I have character,
you say I’m not old.
You caress me,
hold me and stroke
the soft spots between my folds.
I love how you touch me,
your hands warm on my shape,
and I know we are bonded
by more than duct tape.

Remember that dog shit?
And the chewing gum?
It’s a hazardous world, but you, old chum,
scraped and washed me clean of all
those insults, every time.
Then came the thinning –
your hair, my sole.
We’re well suited, you and I –
Together, we’re whole.

And though you toss me
in the corner each night,
I feel a surge of affection
the next morning
as you pick me up gently again,
choose me over the Nikes, Adidas
and even those Florsheims
that your mother once bought,
back when you were jobhunting.
You look right past them,
once shiny and loud
now dusty with disuse.
I wait quietly and think,
I am here for you.

We’re both thinner, older,
greyer, slower,
but you are still you
and I am The Doctor.
And I feel it deep down,
you never say it but I know:
I am not just any old loafer.

* * *

(inspired in part by Nettie’s Purse,
and my favorite pair of shoes)

The Fud Fights Back with Rocket Red Pen/Lipstick

The Fuddy-Duddy Writer sees fit on this occasion to respond to her one fan on several points.

First, to her credit, she did quote her fan(s). What more do(es) (t)he(y) want? As an erstwhile historian, she’s prone to using footnotes, but since she achieved her fame she is now beyond that and thus relies on inspiration as it comes to her and feels the metaphysical world connects us all, plagiarism be damned (she has been called meta, after all).(1) In short, she honors her fan(s) in the way she knows best: with her references, suggestions, innuendos, nuanced links.

Second, the Fuddy-Duddy Writer reserves the right to be inspired by whatever and whoever crosses her path and moves her to write. Be it a certain serious writer, a sometimes well-meaning fan, or even a recently attended Love, Fest.(2) If the fan does not want to share her, then so be it. She is a child of the sixties, after all, and feels it most appropriate to share the love.

Third, the Fuddy-Duddy Writer feels honored The Fan would mention her Chair of the ALATUT – she only recently disassociated herself from the group in order to save a certain someone embarrassment regarding an incident involving ketchup, origami, and a blow-up exclamation point.

Finally, coming back to the plagiarism point — something she takes most seriously (having once slept with Stephen Ambrose and thus having gained a certain insight into all real and pretend meetings with Eisenhower (3); she’s faked a lot of things in her day, indeed she even faked it with Stevie himself but never mind that, she’s a fuddy-duddy about other things besides writing and therefore doesn’t share such secrets): she most certainly did not plagiarize The Fan. Her Red Rocket lipstick has been her signature facelook (you can see it on Facebook) for decades. She has never read the work cited by the Fan, a day uptown/a night on the bowery. A true fan would know that she never reads such low-brow smut.

Sincerely Yours,

Ms. F-D

————–

Footnotes:

1. See her publication in metazen, for example, or other interviews granted by other less known literary magazines such as WWWP (Women Writers With Principles – not to be confused with WWWP, Women Writers With Principals, a wellknown swingers club targeting people with specific needs/wants in Orange County in the late 1980s) and Wherefore Women? An Experiential and Existential Exploration.

2. The abovementioned Love, Fest was not in any way associated with Women Writers With Principals; once again: The Fud is not a member of that organization.

3. For more on this controversy, see Richard Raynor, “Channelling Ike” in The New Yorker, April 26, 2010; and Paul Harris, “Band of Brothers author accused of fabrication for Eisenhower biography” in The Guardian, April 25, 2010.

* * *

The Fud Distances Self from Controversy

Who is this Marzy woman, a figment of The Fan(s) (wet) dreams?

Ms. F-D