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Transdimensional Super TeamNotice: The full length version of this tale, which is far more palatable, is available right here.

The magical computer pool glowed.  We stood around it like gods.

"Place your palms upon the unimetriscope," said the man in the top hat.  "Validate your identities to Her Majesty, the Queen of the Multiverse."

It all seemed a bit hoity-toity to me, but there's a lot to be said for peer pressure when some extra-dimensional fancypants tells you your "peers" are a lady with wings, a James Bond looking guy, a giant robot, and a little girl and her psychic-bondmate, a white pony.

The guy in the top hat called hims

The Angry Monkey and The PlumThere once was an angry monkey.

He was angry because someone had stolen his plum.

It was the best plum he had ever tasted.

He tasted it and tasted it and tasted it until suddenly it wasn't there anymore.

Somebody must have stolen it!

The angry monkey wondered who it could have been.

Nobody else had been around him at the time; the thief must be invisible!

Or stealthy like a ninja.

Yes, that sounded right. It must have been a ninja.

The angry monkey vowed to find the ninja.

He looked everywhere for t

The Mysterious Case of Mr. Giraffatitan Well, it certainly was a scene, thought Diplock.

He stood at the top of the muddy embankment, taking in the details; the deep furrows cutting down the ridge towards the tree line, the palm fronds swaying in the late afternoon sun, and the smell of wet earth mingling with the lighter scent of something freshly dead. The silver lining, he thought, one dark eye fixed upon the poor, broken form of Mr. Giraffatitan, was that nothing had been cut open. That always served to attract undesirables. No one needed hungry scavengers at an open crime scene.

“Not sure we’re rightly going to need your help on this one,” the Captain ca

The Glowing Child“Did I see you in the streets, perhaps, in a winter long ago?” asked the man with the rumpled hair, his cane clutched close, his eyes squinched tight in myopic contemplation.

“Perhaps,” the girl echoed, taking him by the hand. “That is not imperative for you to know, though, so I would suggest simply forgetting it.”

Impertinent girl, he thought, but quite possibly not. Quite possibly not a girl, he meant, not that there was any doubt she was impertinent. The creature, indeed, was all too white and fluttery to be much of anything customarily called human, and rather too small in his opinion to be so blithe

Knight of the RoadMuch obliged, I appreciate it. Nothing like an ice-cold one after a day like this, especially durin' days like these, you know?

So where was I? Oh yeah. Once you pass McNary, there's exactly Jack and Shit for the next sixty miles of I-10 to El Paso, except dirt, the Rio Grande on your nine o'clock, and the stars. I wasn't close enough to the city to get any real radio, and the satellite receiver was fucked. I was gonna talk to Red about that, maybe get one of those new rigs like Cassie drove. He always was soft on the ladies in his outfit.

Anyway. I ain't seen sky like that since Desert Storm, you know? One thing about Eye-rack, the night s

Came But For FriendshipSome people believe in love at first sight. I can't say I'm one of those people. Seems that every single person I found myself attracted to ended up being a dud in the love department. Sure there were good times and some laughs, and even a bit of romance. Though none of them ever amounted to anything more than a few weeks of fun then a lot of tears and heartbreak.

That is, until I met the serial killer.

Okay, I'm being a bit extreme, he wasn't a serial killer, I just thought he was a serial killer. Well, that's not quite right, either. I didn't know if he was a serial killer, but he could have been. He certainly looked like one.

All right,

i wish i was specialI.

ever since i can remember, my heart has been stolen by a big, bad wolf-boy. i had fallen prey to his big, brown puppy-dog eyes. i thought myself in a fairy tale or at least under a spell- his spell, as he could make me feel as weightless as a feather and as bright as the bluest of sunny skies. he always had me believing, day-dreaming that by the end of the dusty road, he would either transform in appearance or deed. sadly no dwarfs neither fairy godmothers nor glass or ruby slippers could be found by my side at the grand finale. there is only me left, teetering on the edge of a highway railing, acting oblivious to my own complete breakd

hemingway in chinaBecause the baby was a girl.

Dear Teen MeDear Teen Me,
Specifically Age 13.
Always remember what pants you wear to school because Uniform pants all tend to look the same- and let’s just say- there might be an awkward moment when you might accidentally take someone else’s pants AND YOU WILL NEVER LIVE IT DOWN.
Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way.
I feel like you need a list of things to avoid. A giant all encompassing list of things that will tell you all the awkward moments you end up encountering and tell you how to avoid them. However, it will create a paradox, and really- being realistic- there may never be a time machine that could send this back to you

ShowerMorning serenade.
Unappreciated. Why?
Pretentious bastards.

Time Enough at LastI never wanted accolades or Escalades;
I’d be just as happy in the stacks
watching all my time elapse
as the world around me dilapidates.

Futility (For Bill)"You agree because futility doesn't offer many options."
— Bill (`GeneratingHype) September 26, 2009

No— futility never does.
It is that cruelty, that at ports and harbors
considers warmer and farther-

off loved-ones
that occupy a swollen street corner.
Futility never does

ensure that a man who listens
to what you say towards the heart of
considerably warmer and far more

founded docks and flowered gardens
will learn of your mourner's
futility. Never does

your answer become more than less
of an offer:
considerate, warmer, and farther.

Would you hear your words like us?
Like they will be heard forever—
—

The Ballard of Eiy'ra Haiz

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he don't answer any more.
Not the whiskey drinking Indian, the marine who went to war.
A beaten up jukebox played old country songs in the corner of the bar. Outside, the mid-afternoon sun beat down on the cracked clay floor. The rocks surrounding the small mining town of Cripple Creek almost seemed to glow in the heat, and the horizon was half-hidden by haze. The township went about its business under the watchful eye of the local Dominion garrison.

But those in the Pink Moon sheltered from that world. The barman, Townes, was an old war veteran with only one arm. In place of the other was a crude robotic substi

To His Coy Mistress[es]i. earl and lady grey

gentle kin,
you have often graced me with your soft-spoken company, bergamot blossoms adorning your dark hair, fragrant as your steamy exhalations. you remind me of simple home and something untouchably elegant, pale and supple when i dress your skin with pallid cream and soften your thin, graceful hands. on a bleak winter evening, snow glittering by lamplight, you are a royal pleasure: a warm complement.

ii. darjeeling

bengali goddess,
i will lay you on the finest saris, those embroidered with gold threads and flawless diamonds that shimmer like your black eyes. you are the champagne of my harem, floral yet astri

A Dinosaur for AprilHeart in her throat and belly in knots, April Kinsey knelt in the grass and straightened her finest dress over her knees. The surrounding group of family and strangers remained silent, watching her every breath.

Shirtless beneath his tribe's blue plaid, her future mate knelt, towering over her. He stood taller than even her grandfather, who was the largest man April had ever seen. A young man of seventy-two, his broad shoulders and thick muscles intimidated her. A large gold amulet with his family's crest hung around his neck and glinted in the moonlight.

Roy McGregor, third son of the Drago Tribe leader, intended to mate her of all people.

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a shut in placeMeg's world is a world of uneven earth and blue skies, surface rock cracked and blown about by howling wind. She runs through wasteland, stumbles with purpose towards a wooden desk in the distance. She runs and runs, dirt and stones scuffing Mary Janes, but the writing desk is a finish line she can't reach.

"Why a writing desk?" her friend Alex says when she tells him about the dream. He emphasizes the question with a hand, waving the sandwich he's holding towards her before taking a bite.

She's left out details: how she is smaller, younger, a smooth-faced child with little hands dressed in her Sunday best instead of the twenty-one-year-old

meditation in front of the tvi can think
of absolutely nothing
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Irish CoffeeI haven't had coffee in forever.
It's pretty addictive. The bitter
masked by sugar and cream.
You know what would taste great
with it? Whiskey. Something alcoholic
to warm me in ways the heat can't.

Another cup: bitter
without the sweet.

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Why English Majors Make Great Lovers

by ~Vocable, Dec 17, 2012, 2:24:28 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Humor / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

The Elements of Style . . . in bed.

Why English Majors Make Great Loversby ~Vocable

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Humor / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

©2012-2013 ~Vocable

Atlas shrugged in bed. "Just terrible."

~dawnandrew May 27, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

well played XD

Reply

*scatteredwords Jan 16, 2013

Reply

!travelgirlxx Jan 15, 2013

pahahahaha

Reply

`HaveTales-WillTell Dec 22, 2012 Professional Writer

English majors are writing fortune cookies now?

I see.

Reply

~Vocable Dec 22, 2012 Writer

I thought they've always done so.

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`HaveTales-WillTell Dec 23, 2012 Professional Writer

It seems like a narrow market.

Reply

~Vocable Dec 23, 2012 Writer

Well, with the job prospects these days, I suppose people take what they can get.

Reply

`HaveTales-WillTell Dec 24, 2012 Professional Writer

That might explain all the looters, then.

Reply

~Vocable Dec 24, 2012 Writer

Back in my day, they were called opportunists. How times change.

Reply

`HaveTales-WillTell Dec 24, 2012 Professional Writer

I don't see how they could be called that.

They never even knock.

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