A Chartreuse Jellybean

A chartreuse jellybean, the size of a small egg, sat nestled firmly within a Jack Daniels shot glass. A veiny hand, dotted with liver spots resembling ground sausage on a meat-lovers pizza, quietly slipped its bony fingers around the small glass and lifted it into the early morning air. Quickly following were a pair of feminine blue eyes whose flicker of life had been snuffed out long ago, but were known to occasionally flare to a startling intensity whenever a garage sale bargain was close at hand. Not ten seconds passed and the old woman was already reaching into her oversized pink handbag. As soon as the old lady exchanged the jellybean and shot glass for fifty cents (she bargained down from a dollar), a gold-green light swept the length of the jellybean from bottom to top and exploded into infinity, completely imperceptible to any human eye.

A few galaxies to the north, a four-fingered hand jerked involuntarily, causing a glass of mint tea to splatter across the chrome floor. It was the creature’s first uncalculated movement in a thousand years.

“Shit,” it said in an alien tongue, roughly translated of course.

____________________________

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by T.R. WolfeComments (0)

Lighted

Lighted

I’m 21. Clueless. Only green. Not even alcohol really.

I’m browsing the internet one frigid, purple-tinged winter evening and come across a website promoting a legal psychedelic. I’m intrigued. Legal? Why?

I don’t order the material from the site. I order the plant. I’m gonna grow it. It shows up at my doorstep a month later, haggard, sickly. I follow the instructions to revive it. It revives.

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by T.R. WolfeComments (4)

Childhood

Childhood

I know of a place.

A place where the wind

breathes The Beach Boy’s

Kokomo.

Where jet-black storm

clouds threaten

the horizon.

But never rain.

Where the aroma of

wet alfalfa clings to

nostrils.

Where a dozen

Collie puppies bark

pure

happiness.

Where kids leap from

car bumper to hoop rim

and get yelled at.

Again.

Where dad stumbles home

at sunrise and

it’s Wednesday morning.

Again.

by T.R. WolfeComments (2)

Dear John

Dear John

You are the one on the far left.
You are the one sitting lower than the others.
You look completely alone.
And not for that reason do I always choose you.

You are always the cleanest one.
Because the man-code says you can’t be used,
only if you’re the only open one.
But today, you have two strands of pubic hair
on your bottom lip.
Someone has chosen you today too and
I have a tinge of jealousy.

Why do I feel this way?
Because I thought we had something.
Something special.
A relationship set in stone-
I mean porcelain.

Every morning I looked forward
to giving you my stream of golden dawn.
Now that is gone.
Now I will stand as far away from you
as urinally possible.

by T.R. WolfeComments (0)