living in a cardboard box
with daily habits of playing in a jungle gym
without any rules,
while searching for preguntas that look abstract
when their corners are cut off,
and i’m missing a thumb
Gary guzzles another ounce of mouthwash. It simmers in his throat before he feels the sting. He’s been abusing mouthwash for five years, ever since The Toothbrush Commercial Massacre.
The director wanted an exotic commercial, so he goes to Brazil to find a mixed samba-capoeira instructor. He brought back Juliana Nayará, a savant in dance and fighting choreography. It was like watching the reincarnation of Terpsichore. Tendrils from her floral skirt electrified the stage. Gary was in love.
While performing warm-up dances to impressionistic jazz, Juliana and troupe fell victim to a rogue stage light. Everyone died. Gary never touched another toothbrush.
Fred Aiken Writing 