Date: February 26, 1999

Constraint:
Write a story of sentences consisting of words arranged alphabetically. Some sentences can go a-z, others can go z-a.

Emily: Abecedarian

*Exhibit A*

A bakelite clock designed en France gasps hourly (idling jalopy), kinetic like memory's (now! now? now) orbit--pending, pending--quietly riotous, so thoroughly ubiquitous, vanquished, world-worn, zonked.

*Brunt*

Aphasia cognitive dissonance erstwhile familiarities go haywire, ideas jailed knocked languageless man no orderly phrasing questions rabid stifled talk utterly vacant wordwise x-ray. yearn. zzzzzzzzz.

Abe barely can decipher Edith's flapflap gimmee gimmee histrionics ("Abe, baby, can't do everything for godsake he is..."), instead just keeps lids more noticeably over-shut, peeking quickly, rarely, settling thighs under various whites (XXL), yawns zzzzzzzz. Zippers. Yardsale. X-mas. Whatshername. Visions under this spell resemble quixotic puzzles or newfangled mnemonics, like keen jingles, inching his godforsaken filmstrip eventually down consciousness' back alley.

Abe bestirs. Clock dreams. Enough funnystuff. Gads hospital. Is jail.

Abe blinks cantelope. (Cantilever?) Doorknob. (Doorknocker?). Enough. Forgotten. Gotta zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Abe's bed curtains don't exactly frame gorgeously his island. Abe's billowing colony disappears, dream-exodus from good hospital is joyous kayaking, lifeboats, many never overpopulated quick rafts, sailing through underwater valleys, westerly windy xylophonic zzzzzzzz.

Abe buzzes. Clock dactyls. Ahoy.

*Coda*.

A blue clock donation, episcopalian fleamarket grabbag.

A base caption deciphered Abe Cee. Age 10. Abe's blue clock displays enamel Firstplace Goes Here in Junior Key Lion's Modern New Olympiad Power Quiz Rascal Spelling Triathlon, Upper Valtuna, Washington.

Paul:

Tania Shwain rises from bed. Four hours later she'll wed. Today is her fifteenth birthday. She'll marry King Abdul. He’s old, rich, ugly. Tania's not enthusiastic. Why no handsome boy? Arranged by her patriarch, Twark Shwain, weddings work.

Convincing him, Papa tried, tried, tried. Brought gifts three times.

First, he took whiskey. A bottle of white. Abdul drank it rapidly.
"Wed Tania?" Papa asked?
"Wife I have already."
"Tania's lovely."
"Go away."

Second, Papa brought brandy. Abdul gulped it, spat. Papa prayed.
"Will you...?"
"Bring more whiskey."

Papa felt discouraged.

The following day. He gives Abdul aalborg. Abdul drinks the unmistakeable vodka, wheezing. Abdul reels.
"So will you?" Papa holds his breath.
"Would Tania Shwain marry King Abdul?" Abdul clutches his middle pitifully. "I...immediately...let's."

The date? Today. The ring? Van Cleef & Arpels.

Mark: Zeljko Raznatovic's Oratory, in Kosovo

My men bloody, beautiful. Your new steel limbs blackiron. They store machineblood; your silver life-fluid, bullets. You're men, born blood-new. Recall the tigers of yesteryear. Become animal; yes, transform to tigers narroweyed, gold-striped. Nothing more magnificent, for doves dirty courage. We warriors unsoil our land.

As death falls from imperialist lances men-of-arms, remain strong. Consume death--embrace fire, my narroweyed tigers! As curs exalt false gods, should we yawn? Do brave Serbians sleep? Or smile? Men, let disgust blossom. Anger calls--feel its sharp talons. Listen to venom's whisper; allow fury its rightful station.

Men. A dream had I last night. A legion of snaggletoothed soldiers surrounded us. And cried "dogs, dogs of war." Yet who's voracious--noble--loyal--brave? Why, the much-maligned dog! To question or linger is cowardice; o men, stay strong.

Battle is natural, remember this. Blood is no offense; passion is dark, but beautiful. Boys fuck girls like wolves. Wolves tear stomachs. Tigers smash skulls. Warriors understand that time's sands pardon every act... Ages pen runes prophesying violence. We must go forward; else faces shamed, retreat; moving forever back.

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