Ode to a Leggymajigger

This is a silly poem written to a house centipede, affectionately known as a "leggymajigger", because, well, they sure are leggy!

Ode to a Leggymajigger

Oh, high there little buddy!

You sure are quite leggy.

How many legs do you have, anyway?

I sure am mighty impressed.

I really like the way you move,

With your many, many, many legs oscillating.

It's super cool.

I wish I could do that!

Was it you I saw on my wall

a couple weeks ago?

Or was that your friend?

I know it wasn't you drowned in the sink.

Oh, dear leggy friend!

I hope there are bunches of you

to be companions for all the spiders

if you guys'll team up and eat the moths.

Let's Not Tell Anyone

This was a random writing prompt response written sometime in high school.

Let's Not Tell Anyone

Let's not tell anyone...

It was a mistake. We didn't mean to do it, right? So why does anyone have to know?

I mean, if someone asks us, like they come up and ask us directly about it, we'll tell. Of course we will. Lying is wrong. We're not going to be liars. We just won't say anything about it.

She has so many she probably won't even notice one is missing, will she? I don't think so. She's old, too. She probably doesn't even remember that good. So she probably won't notice, so it won't matter that it happened. It will be just like it didn't even happen at all if she doesn't notice, 'cause she's the only one who would.

If anyone asks, we'll say. We'll explain that we weren't aiming for the critter at all, but for the tree. It was there but we didn't even see it because it blended in and all. You know, because of its coloring. And we buried it because that was the right thing to do, wasn't it? Give it a proper send off. We'll tell them how we even said nice things about it like people do when stuff dies. It was all nice and respectful. We weren't trying to hide it, just do what's right.

Some people might think we did it on purpose, though, which is why we shouldn't tell anyone. Unless they ask, of course. You don't want to get spanked, do you? I don't.

The old lady probably won't even notice the cat is missing, so let's not tell anyone...

As an Other

This is a poem I wrote for an intro to creative writing course I took in Spring 2009 for the group project we had, which consisted of compiling a group publication with pieces of our writing. Our publication was entitled Abomination.

As an Other

I am an aberrant abomonation of this society’s ideals

I am not even close to thinking about marrying

Or popping out a hoard of children

That I couldn’t possibly afford

thank you very much!

I like the way the buzz of a tattoo gun feels

And I plan to meet with it even more

To adorn myself with messages of peace and love

And the things I love

Does that bother you?

I don’t go to church every Sunday

(Or any Sunday for that matter)

But live a more moral life

Than half the people who claim righteous superiority

So what does that say?

I happen to think there is a better way

Other than making others live by what I believe

To go through life

But sometimes the frustration bubbles over

We all need to vent!

I do my best to appreciate and accept the differences

And deeply appreciate those who do the same

But it doesn’t always feel that way

Then I’m reminded

Of the aberrant freak that I am

Just a Dog

This was a silly little piece I wrote in response to a book I have called The Writer's Book of Matches: 1,001 Prompts to Ignite Your Fiction. I will probably be writing more response to prompts from that book. The prompt for this was “What the hell do you know about anything? I mean, seriously, you’re just a dog.”

Just a Dog

The man didn’t like dogs. They were filthy creatures, really. Getting in the garbage and pooping all over the place. Shedding and stinking up everything they came into contact with. Who in their right mind would willingly allow that in their home?

And then there was the barking. A squirrel walks by the window and they’d go off like someone insulted their mother. Like their owner should really care that there is a small woodland creature outside. If it was inside the house then sure, bark away, he thought, but most dogs weren’t like that. If you wanted them not to bark like that you would have to train them, or pay someone to do it. What a waste of money.

That wasn’t even taking into consideration the cost of food or vet bills.

No, the man didn’t like dogs and the feeling seemed to be mutual. He was always getting barked at for absolutely nothing. He only had to be near a dog to get it to bark at him. Even dogs that “never barked at anyone” (according to their lying owners… dog owners were almost as bad as the dogs themselves!) would yap and howl at him.

So, when the man was walking down the sidewalk on his way home from he store and heard a loud, shrill yip he wasn’t surprised. He cringed, yes, but there was nothing unusual about it. At least, not that he noticed until the dog continued on insistently, the sound getting closer, the barking.

But that was the thing, it wasn’t barking. It was telling him something.

Absurd. Preposterous! It was outrageous to an incalculable degree, thinking that a dog could be telling him something. He shook his head, thinking that he must not have slept well enough the night before. That seemed the only suitable explanation. Dogs made noise for all sorts of reasons but they didn’t actually speak. But this particular beast didn’t seem to be relenting, so he stopped in his tracks to turn around and face it.

The man didn’t see anything at first, but when a renewed round of yipping filled the air he looked down. It was one of those absurdly small dogs—the type that socialites and celebrities seemed fond of carrying in purses. There was no way it could be a stray considering how it was groomed, but it looked to have escaped from its owner.

“Go away,” the man snarled, kicking out. Not to hit the thing, but just to drive it back. Instead it stood up on its hind legs with his front paws flailing, growling slightly before barking more than ever.

Raising an eyebrow, the man looked around to make sure that no one was watching. He didn’t want to be seen associating with a canine at all, let alone responding to one. Crouching down to glare in the miniscule dog’s dark, round eyes, the man let out a growl of his own. “What the hell do you know about anything? I mean, seriously, you’re just a dog.”

Straightening up and turning on his heel, the man quickened his pace. The dog put its front paws on the pavement again and began to trot after him, tiny little paws flashing as it hurried to keep up, barking all the while. The man broke into a run and the dog followed suit, until the man reached his home with the dog still hot on his trail, barking and barking, the man shouting insults and obscenities in response to the rude animal.

The man didn’t like dogs. His neighbor knew that much, but still, she thought it was a bit much to get into a shouting match with the Lesage’s Maltese. He must have gone around the bend, because he seemed to be responding to something the dog was saying when all she was doing was barking because she smelled the food in his bag.

Keeping Up Appearances

Keeping Up Appearances

Every weekday morning he put on a neatly pressed shirt which his wife had ironed for him. He tied his tie as neatly as could be and then combed his hair. He drank a glass of orange juice alongside a bowl of cereal, usually Shredded Wheat (though occasionally Corn Flakes when his wife was feeling adventurous at the grocery store, or Cheerios if she had a coupon). Then he would put on his jacket while his wife cleared away the dishes. He always gave her a quick peck before heading out the door and to work.

Every day at work he sat at his desk typing, usually for the first two hours. After that, most days there would be a meeting, where he would sit in a conference room for another two hours. His lunch hour came next, and he would go to the sandwich shop next to his office building and order the special of the day, which rotated depending on what day of the week it was. The variety was nice.

Every Wednesday night he put the garbage cans out on the curb. Every Thursday he brought the garbage cans back in. Every Sunday he went to church with his family. He paid all of his bills on time and always gave to the church. He nodded along fervently when his neighbors spoke of how the youth of today were morally bankrupt and that the gays and non-believers were threatening to corrupt their perfect children. He backed them up as they condemned anyone leading an alternate lifestyle.

Every Friday night his wife went to her scrapbooking group. The kids would go off to the neighbors or a friend’s house. It was just when the crushing monotony threatened to overwhelm and crush his will to continue with the charade that he would break free. He took a breath, inhaling deeply and holding the air inside his lungs to breathe a sigh that he could, for the next three hours, appreciate the gift of life that breathing in the air sustained for him. He let his always-tensed muscles relax and rolled his neck before heading towards the closet, uncovering a box hidden in the recesses behind countless shoe boxes and shopping bags. Unlike the products that had been held within those vessels, the contents of the box he extracted were treasured and revered.

The sheen of smooth silk caught the light when the lid came off the box. It was brilliant, almost lurid red and so refreshing to touch. A strappy little number, he removed the dress from the box and ran the fabric across his always clean-shaven cheek. He shivered and his heart rate picked up. Off came his tie and the oppression of the starched white cotton shirt. The silk, holding in it a coolness, slid over his skin with an elegant drape. It moved and swayed as he moved.

He would make sure that everyone had really left the house and that the blinds were indeed closed and then just go about the house. In the kitchen he would prepare himself a snack, glimpsing himself in the hallway mirror and smiling. There was confidence in his stride, rather than the subservient meekness that usually was reflected in his gait. In the rest of his life, he was a man serving others. At work he served his bosses and the higher-ups in the company, in order to provide for his family and give them all that they could need. He was a man that lived to serve God and his church at all times, except these Friday nights where he finally did something for himself. This was something which he couldn’t do any other time, because if he did the rest of his life wouldn’t be possible. So only for a few hours a week did he get to feel like himself in his natural state, and then he returned to hide behind the rigid façade that society was comfortable keeping him behind.

It was the lowest point of his week when he had to take off the dresses and his them once again in the darkness of that box in the back of the closet before his wife got him. Every week that moment infected him with a mood of despair. He would carefully fold the dress before replacing the box, and not content to get back into his usual oppressive dress he would put on his pajamas instead, which were at least soft and comfortable against his skin. Then he would head out into the living room and turn on the television, sitting there like he had been watching it all night so when his wife got home she could think to herself what a steady man she had married that she could always predict he’d be in front of the TV when she got home on Friday night. He would stand up, give her a kiss, and think to himself how he wished that the woman he loved would be able to accept him for who he was. But he was filled with doubts that she had it in her, and so he would push the thoughts out of his mind and go about his routine again.

Lust Conquers All

Lust Conquers All

She lay in the bed and pulled the covers over her exposed body. Even after the way he’d ravaged her she felt nervous about him looking at her. He’d felt nearly every inch of her, seen her body more properly than she ever had, but somehow lying next to him exposed seemed more indecent than any of that. When he laid a hand on her shoulder all her muscles tensed. He ran his hands over her back, massaging and caressing her. His lips found their way to her ear where he told her how beautiful and sexy she was in a lustful growl.

She couldn’t let this go on. It was wildly inappropriate. Not only that but she knew he didn’t love her, and she had someone who did. Yet every time he spoke to her asking her to stay behind she found herself waiting. His authority over her made her scared to say no, but that wasn’t what made her wait for him every time.

He was intoxicating and his attention, while extremely misplaced on her, made her feel like a goddess. She certainly had it in her to stand up to him and tell him off—to tell him to leave her alone and that she was taken, but invariably she heeded to his requests. His words and touches filled her with ecstasy like no one else’s could. The fact that he, who could choose any woman he desired, directed his attention at her made her feel such a goddess.

It did, at least, until after she’d been ravaged. After her body and been so thoroughly kissed and stroked and the elation wore off and thoughts of sense began to populate her mind. She knew he didn’t love her and she had someone who did, someone she’d horribly betrayed. Guilt consumed her as she lay unclothed in bed with him. How could she be so unfaithful? She felt so used, and she did every time. She felt like the lowliest of mortals. Yet she could never bring herself to deny his requests to stay behind.

What Friends Aren't For

What Friends Aren't For

Music played so loudly that the vibrations disturbed the surface of the water in the glass Bruce had put on the counter. He scowled heavily at the group of intoxicated guys that stumbled by to join some girls sitting around in the living room. He scoured the crowd for Matt’s messy brown hair. “I’m going to kill that jerk,” he grumbled, chugging his water and weaving his way through drunken strangers in search of the two familiar faces that he’d arrived with.

In what must have been a den, Bruce found his two friends. Matt was leaning coolly against the wall and chatting up some girl, but Tim Rinaldi was sprawled across a couch, passed out. There was a tipped over cup on the floor next to him that had spilled some rank cocktail into the carpet. Bruce couldn’t find it in himself to feel sorry for the homeowner in the present situation, though. If he was going to throw a party for a bunch of underage high school kids, he deserved any property damage that might occur as a consequence. He approached Matt and made a coughing sound, staring down the girl. He was a very tall guy, and despite being rather slim and lanky, he looked quite intimidating. It took a moment for the girl to even notice him, and when she did she looked back at him in confusion. He intensified his glare and she seemed to get the picture, picking up her cup and hurrying out of the room in a huff.

Watching the girl storm out of the room, Matt glared up at Bruce. The sandy-haired boy was a head taller than him but Matt wasn’t sensible enough to realize his younger friend could easily kick his ass. “I was in the middle of something there, jackass!”

“What the hell were you thinking?” Bruce demanded. “We’re going to be in deep shit!”

Matt shook his head and reached up to pat Bruce on the shoulder, getting over his annoyance in a blink. “You need a drink, man.” He picked up a nearly full cup that was presumably his and offered it up. Bruce took it and poured in into a plant sitting on an end table.

“Just going over to a friend’s to relax for a while and take our mind off of midterms?” Bruce spoke the words in a scoffing tone. Matt had lied to him about what they were going there for.

“You’re the only one who’s not relaxing, buddy. And now that plant is having a better time than you.”

“Rinaldi is supposed to be our ride back. Does he look up to it to you?” Both boys looked over at Tim, who was drooling on the upholstery. “If this party gets busted we’re all in deep shit, and there’s no way we’re going to get back in time for curfew.” The three of them were students at the nearby boarding school, and as seniors they had the privilege of staying out until midnight on Saturdays. There were two major reasons kids were sent to the school, and Matt definitely hadn’t been shipped away from home to maximize his educational potential.

Matt had a wide smile on his face and shook his head. “It’ll be fine. You need to calm down. I can take Timmy’s keys and drive us back, no problem.”

Bruce looked skeptical. “How much have you been drinking?”

“Hardly at all,” Matt waved off the concern. “Barely even a sip!” When Bruce continued to look disbelieving, the shorter boy shrugged and continued. “I mean, if you want to drive back, then okay, but if you get us pulled over, then we’re in trouble.”

This was an option Bruce hadn’t even considered. He still didn’t have a driver’s license, and he wasn’t about to go do something that stupid, especially if he got caught arriving at the school. They knew he wasn’t allowed to drive and that would mean they would be even more screwed. “No, I’m not driving. You swear you’re fine?” He closed in on Matt, who had to step back towards the wall.

Putting up his hands protectively, Matt nodded. “Barely a sip, I swear. Tim was going to town but I’m fine. It’ll be fine, we have plenty of time to get back. Tim might get his ass busted if he can’t get himself up the stairs, but…” He laughed after trailing off, clapping Bruce on the shoulder again. “That’s not our problem, is it?”

Backing off and turning to his friend on the couch, Bruce thought that his well-being was their problem. Friends were supposed to be there to protect each other and keep each other out of trouble. Ditching Tim and letting him get caught and punished for drinking would be a nasty thing to do. He would rather try to help him back to his dorm and risk getting in trouble being caught with him than treat a friend so poorly. Matt’s attitude towards his friends bothered Bruce a great deal, and tricking him into going to a party didn’t exactly garner him any favor. He was tired of putting up with such things, but considering he was relying on Matt to get back to the school, he didn’t think just then was the best time to bring it up. If he upset him then he was liable to get stranded at the miserable party having to find his own way home.

Kneeling beside the couch, careful to avoid the puddle of booze, Bruce looked down at Tim, unsure of what to do. He shook Tim gently by the arm in an attempt to rouse him. His friend showed no signs of coming to. Leaning down close, he spoke loudly in his ear. “Tim! You’ve gotta wake up! We have to go. Wake up, buddy.” He waited anxiously but Tim still didn’t respond. He really must have had too much to drink to pass out so hard.

Matt watched Bruce try to wake the boy on the couch but didn’t do anything to help. Rather, he dug into his passed out friend’s pocket to get his car keys. He jingled them and nodded towards the door. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

While Matt headed for the door, Bruce sighed and tried to lift Tim off the couch. It was a good thing that Tim was rather slight so he was able to get him into a sitting position easily. Stirring, Tim mumbled incoherently and opened his bleary eyes. “Hey, it’s time to go, Rinaldi,” Bruce told him, standing up and supporting Tim under his arms. His friend struggled to his feet, slouching and weighing down Bruce a bit. He helped him out of the house behind Matt.

When they reached Tim’s car, he seemed to have gained enough lucidity to know basically what was going on. He headed for the driver’s door, reaching for the handle and missing. He groped along the door until he found it, but the door was locked so he had no luck opening it. Even if he’d had the keys there was no way he would have been coordinated enough to put them in the keyhole. Bruce steered Tim to the back side door and waited for Matt to unlock it. “You’ve gotta ride back here, buddy. Matt’s driving. You got that?”

Tim looked into Bruce’s face, unable to get his gaze straight. After a delay he nodded. “Yeah, Matt! Great. Matt… that’s great.” Tim proceeded to lean on the car to support himself, sliding along the side and to the pavement. Once down there, he was overcome with nausea. Bruce made sure to stay a few steps back.

Matt sat down sideways in the driver’s seat and pushed open the back driver’s side door, leaning forward and watching the vomiting figure. “Good thing this is his car. No way in hell in my car like that. He’d get to find his own way back.”

That comment didn’t sit well with Bruce, and his annoyance with Matt began to bubble over. “Yeah, because it’s not like it was your idea to come here, or that you egged him on to drink. And probably encouraged him to drink even more after he’d had too much to drink anyway. Leaving him behind will be a really nice move.”

Returning the frown that Bruce wore, Matt shook his head. “Chill out, man. I was joking. Now get him in the car and let’s go already.” He swung his legs inside the vehicle and pulled the door shut hard.

Bruce bit his tongue and helped Tim climb into the back of the car. He was sprawled across all three seats and wasn’t going to stay sitting up, so Bruce buckled the seatbelts as best he could to keep his friend in place. Then he walked around to the passenger side and climbed into the front seat without a word to Matt, merely buckling his seatbelt and staring forward after closing his door.

Starting up the engine, Matt pulled away from the house with the booming music and headed in the direction of the school. Neither Matt nor Bruce spoke, and Tim seemed to be passed out again. He came to just enough to start vomiting into the foot space behind the passenger seat. “Ugh.” Matt wrinkled his nose and looked into the back seat with distaste. Bruce was distracted by his irritation with Matt for a moment but then looked out the windshield, his breath catching in his throat. Rather than heading along the road, the car was now pointed right towards a ditch. He closed his eyes and held his breath, fists clenching. When Matt realized they were going off the road, he turned the steering wheel sharply but it was too late and the car went careening into the deep ditch along the side of the road.

The airbags deployed upon impact, the front of the car crumpling and the windshield cracking. Bruce didn’t hear a sound from anyone for what seemed like several minutes. Opening his eyes, Bruce became aware of the fact that his leg was pinned and that he couldn’t move it. It was too dark to see, but the warmth pooling beneath his calf made him think that part of the vehicle had gone through it. He leaned back and took a deep breath, his head throbbing. He put his hand to his forehead and saw a dark sheen as he pulled it away. His head must have hit the windshield.

Bruce turned to look at Matt, who didn’t seem to be stuck himself. The impact had been lesser on the driver’s side. Bruce noticed his friend’s mouth was moving and blinked hard, shaking his head as his body quivered. He realized Matt was letting out a panicked stream of curses. Through his shock he hadn’t even heard him, but after Matt got through with swearing he looked over at Bruce through the dim light. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice shaking. “Oh my god… Shit! I’m sorry.”

“Don’t!” Bruce growled. He was sure Matt hadn’t been honest with him about how much he’d had to drink. It was just another irresponsible thing he’d done in a long string of them, but this time he’d gone too far. He wished that he’d realized sooner that Matt’s friendship wasn’t worth the trouble, but he was more forgiving than he should have been. But this couldn’t be forgiven. “What about Rinaldi?” There were no sounds of movement coming from behind him, and Bruce felt dizzy as he waited for Matt to report back.

“Tim!” Matt shouted, turning around and leaning into the back. “Tim! Are you okay?” It was too dark to see properly, but he couldn’t see Tim moving. He couldn’t be sure if he was badly hurt, maybe even killed, or simply passed out. He managed to get his hand in front of Tim’s face and held it there, shrieking with relief when he felt air on it. “He’s breathing! He’s breathing!”

A wave of chills swept over Bruce. Thank God. He gazed unsteadily through the broken windshield when he heard one of the car doors open. Matt was climbing out, looking up the bank of the ditch. “Can you see the road?” Bruce asked as his breathing started becoming labored.

Matt didn’t answer. He stood gazing up the side of the ditch for at least thirty seconds before his eyes flitted towards the car again. He pulled open the back door and leaned in to unbuckle Tim’s seatbelt. Bruce couldn’t understand what he was doing. “Can you see the road?” he asked again. “You’ve gotta go get help. I’m stuck.”

When Matt still didn’t say anything to him, but began to pull Tim out of the car, Bruce’s heart began to pound in his chest. His leg began to bleed even more, but he could have forgotten his leg was there as he watched Matt drag Tim’s limp figure across the grass and put him in the driver’s seat. He knew that his friend was capable of all manner of sins, but he had never expected anything like this out of him.

With hot tears flowing from his eyes and mingling with the blood on his face, Bruce looked at Matt pleadingly. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t go to jail,” Matt mumbled, seemingly more to himself than Bruce. He wouldn’t make eye contact with Bruce as he leaned in the car to buckle Tim into the driver’s seat.

Bruce reached over and grabbed onto Matt’s forearm. “I’m bleeding. Please!”

Yanking his arm out of Bruce’s weakened grip, Matt cringed at the bloody hand print that was left behind on his skin. The next moment, both the doors of the car had been slammed shut and the sound echoed in Bruce’s mind. His energy was draining, and he wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes open much longer.