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X. J. Kennedy on Why Poetry Readings Suck.

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What It's Like to Be a Poet by C. X. Dillhunt

SHORT SHORTS  

500 words or less. The top 10  will be posted here. The best of these will appear in a new Cool Plums magazine. You may submit up to two months in advance. Autobiographic essays only, please. We want the story only you can tell. We do edit but will get your permission before posting edited versions. You may have your piece published anonymously.

E-mail your entries (up to 500 words each) plus your name, city and state to:

  Cool Plums Submission

What Happens When You Stop Fighting Gravity

by anonymous 

     Like an early warning system, the roar of the Austin Healy’s engine announced the stranger’s arrival from three blocks away. A minute later, he was a cartoon blur, zooming into our driveway, screeching to a stop, ratcheting the car’s parking break, hopping out of the jungle green sports car, and slamming the car door behind him before sprinting up the steps.

     “Say hello to Mr. Briccetti,” my mother said to us. “He’s going to be your new father.”

     After the wedding, he packed the four of us into the “zoom-zoom car,” as my brother called it, and we sped for the beach, convertible top down, sand toys stowed in the tiny trunk, the four of us wearing flip-flops of different colors. We kids sat behind the bucket seats, a space appropriate for two grocery sacks, not two children, behind Mom’s fluttering silk scarf emblazoned with a map of the world.

     We rode, the wind whipping my ghost-white hair into my eyes and mouth. Peering over my new father’s shoulder, I watched the speedometer climb to sixty on city streets and eighty, then ninety, on the interstate. Tiny bumps in the road jolted me, making my rear end fly off the ledge and thump back down. I clutched the back of Mom’s seat until my hands stiffened; like a carnival ride, it was frightening and thrilling at the same time.

     I was at school the day the movers came for my father’s piano, and I was deep into the SAT the Saturday he backed a U-Haul truck into the driveway, loaded it with the rest of his belongings, and drove away. That afternoon, I opened the door to his study and peered inside at sunlight striking newly bared carpet, three potted plants left behind on window sills, and a small, blue pencil sharpener lying on its side in a corner.

     On a rare visit to my father’s house when I was in college, he and I climbed on to his motorcycle to ride to a restaurant. He’d given me his helmet, and he drove without one, his hair flapping in a deranged dance in front of me while I concentrated on keeping the huge helmet from bumping into his head every time he shifted. As we sped around town that night, I was afraid we’d tip over, and on every turn I leaned out, pulling against gravity.

     “Lean with me, don’t fight it!” he shouted over the roar of the engine.

     At first I resisted, but then tried it, and felt the ease with which we turned, the way we felt connected to the road, the way the rumble of the engine vibrated my bones. For a moment, he and I were in sync. For once, I was not the scared little girl, afraid of being pulled over by a police officer or tipping over and scraping flesh against pavement. I held on to my father’s waist, braced the helmet against his shoulder, and let the speed take us away.

Man Marries 7 Women While in Jail!

 by Scott Ware, Franklin, TN

       Luther P. Thudlow is doing hard time in New York State’s infamous Sing-Sing prison, but that hasn’t stopped him from getting married ---to 7 women! Despite serving his 5th year of a 10-15 year sentence for fraud, conspiracy to commit fraud, and just thinking about fraud, this self-described "fool for love" wooed and wed 7 women, all from behind bars. So how has Luther juggled all those women simultaneously while being confined to a 5 x 7 cell a few feet away from cellmate Joey "Plumber's Crack" Crandall?

 “It gets a little hairy on visiting day,” he admitted.  Thudlow took an extra long drag off his last non-filtered cigarette and responded pensively: “Running cons is what I do. It’s in my blood.”

    After borrowing $50 for “a dying aunt,” Thudlow described his matrimonial methodology: “I meet women on the internet. Most of them don’t like dating ex-cons, much less still cons. The situation calls for a little embellishment, you might say. So I tell ’em I’m in jail for killing a guy who tried to rape my wife. You know how women are suckers for that kind of mushy, romantic stuff. Anyways, I says, ‘I wrote my wife a long, love letter every day with a rose petal enclosed and a dash of Old Spice on the envelope.’ That usually gets me past the convicted felon hurdle, but not the ’you’re married’ part. I tell ’em that my old lady divorced me for my lawyer. The evil lawyer part explains why I’m still unjustly incarcerated. It’s because he messed up my appeals on purpose to bang my old lady.”

      But why would these women marry someone who won’t be out for another 5 to 10 years?

     “Heck, they don’t know that,” he explained. “The warden tells ’em that I’m getting out soon. He does it because we’ve gotten to be friends. And besides, he gets off on messing with their heads. We have a big wedding right here in the slammer. It’s simple but dignified. You know I get conjugal visits?” he said with a wide grin.

     Thudlow described what most would consider being an unconventional and uncomfortable honeymoon: “The guards put a curtain around my cell for privacy. Some chicks feel a little weird with Plumber’s Crack giggling and breathing hard a few feet away, but I says, ’Hey, all marriages require sacrifice, and besides, I can only think of you.’”

      How does he keep all the wives from knowing about each other?

      Once again, the old con has the right answer: “On visiting days, when they see me talking with another wife, I just explain how she’s really a distraught widow whose old man recently got it with an ice pick and I’m just consoling the bereaved dame. I’m the sensitive shoulder to cry on crap. Chicks eat it up.”  

Christmas on the Curb

by Jason Lemery, Barre, VT

Howard lit last year's Christmas tree.  It glowed bright and brilliant, and he watched, mouth gaping and eyes wide, as it blazed with inspiring light and beauty.

And with Fire. 

The house had been spared, but the far side of the barn where the tree had been abandoned was black and peeling.  He had waited for it to dry and turn brown, and by then it was June and no one was thinking about Christmas trees or bothering to hide a book of matches.  

He knew his parents would not be happy, his sisters would tell all their friends, and he would be the center of much unwanted attention.  But there was no way to hide the evidence, so he didn't try.  He took responsibility instead.  

"I burned up the old Christmas tree," Howard said, with foreboding.

"Oh!" cried his parents.  Although they were briefly alarmed, they were glad he was not hurt and let him go without punishment.  Until dad saw the barn.

And now it was Christmas time again, and this year Howard wanted a tree of his own, for his own room, to decorate with his own ornaments.  But remembering last year and staying true to their word, his parents said no.  He begged, cried - even tried being good - but nothing would change their minds.  He searched in vain for an ax to cut down his own tree, but dad had learned his lesson with the matches and hid the ax.  He even padlocked the utensil drawer, to the annoyance of his daughters. 

Howard was not allowed to decorate the new tree, and he hated how ugly it looked.  He hated the giant blue lights.  He hated the clumps of silver icicles, the lopsided angel, and the bright-red garland, all of which seemed to have been thrown onto the tree by a tornado.  But never did he think to burn it down. 

On a cold, snowy evening in late December, Howard went to bed early.  From deep under the blankets he could hear his mother wrapping last minute gifts and the painful laughter of his sisters playing games at the kitchen table.  The sounds made it hard to sleep, and he was desperate to impress Santa, at least this once, on an important night.  Tonight he would be good.  VERY good.  

He awoke sleepily to his father's arm shaking him.  

"Get up.  Put on your boots and coat and go with your mother." 

Howard started to object, but hot smoke choked his words.  While they all stood outside in the cold, snowy street staring helplessly at the firemen, flames, flashing lights, and thick gray smoke, Howard understood why his parents had refused him a tree: They catch fire far too easily. 

But, he couldn't help thinking, the tree would have been much safer in HIS room.  

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Genie (Big Surprise)

     A husband and wife, out enjoying a round of golf, were about to tee off on the third hole, which was lined with beautiful homes. The wife hit her shot and the ball began to slice - her shot was headed directly at a very large plate glass window. Much to her surprise, the ball smashed through the window and shattered it into a million pieces.

     They felt compelled to see what damage was done and drove off to see what happened. When they peeked inside the house, they found no one there. The husband called out and no one answered. Upon further investigation, they saw a small gentleman sitting on the couch with a turban on his head.

     The wife asked the man, "Do you live here?"

     "No, someone just hit a ball through the window, knocked over the vase you see there, freeing me from that little bottle. I am so grateful!" he answered.

     The wife asked, "Are you a genie?"

"Oh, why yes I am. In fact, I am so grateful I will grant you two wishes, and the third I will keep for myself," the man replied.   

     The husband and wife agreed on two wishes - one was for a scratch handicap for the husband, to which the wife readily agreed. The other was for an income of $1,000,000 per year forever.

     The genie nodded his head and said, "Done!"

  The genie now said, "For my wish, I would like to have my way with your wife. I have not been with a woman for many years, and after all, I made you a scratch golfer and a millionaire."

     The husband and wife agreed.

     After the genie and wife were finished, the genie asked the wife, "How long have you been married?"

     To which she responded, "Three years."

     The genie then asked, "How old is your husband?"

     To which she replied, "31 years old"

     The genie then asked, "And how long has he believed in this genie crap?"

TYPE CASTING

Convert a list you find into a cast of characters for novels, theater, etc.  

Sharpen your funny bone, Billy Wilder is back, this time directing that sly social satire of sex and senility, Death of a Salesman. You'll howl as the intellectual ("liked, but not well liked") dramatist Arthur Miller mumbles to himself late at night alone at the kitchen table, and scream with delight when Marilyn Monroe (disguised as Biff to escape being killed by the mob) shares a bedroom with "Happy" who insists on talking about, you guessed it, Joe DiMaggio.  

And speaking of Bills, that Faulkner can really tap dance, can't he? Check out those moody Yoknapatawpha solos in The Sound and the Fury and the Busby Berkeley dance geometrics of Absalom, Absalom! now for the first time in pulsating Surround-Sound. Move over Jane Austen, American literature is back!    

--Fran Lanier, Cincinnati OH 

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