Untitled
Hot.
Last.
Hot.
Oh, so hot...
Can I make it?
I hate the sand.
Hot.
No more water, not even tears.
Bobby bowed, and greedily absorbed every last clap the small audience could cough up. He was pretty popular at these poetry readings, and he couldn't get enough. Small wonder, then, that some were beginning to grumble that he should be allowed no more than 50 poems a night. And the fact that all of his poems were set to the same beat & music as Mike Meyer's didn't increase their tolerance. He was tired of the harassment. No one understood the artist, he thought, as he stomped to his locker and shook off the shoulderpads, kicking the cleats he liked to wear for performances into the bottom. Susie laid a hand on his shoulder and wrapped another around his waist and let her last one settle on his thorax. It was almost too cute, Bobby and Susie in love. Almost, but not quite. It was probably the extra three arms that saved them from certain imprisonment for violating the Cuteness Act of 1997. They were distracted momentarily by a writer's cramp in her vestigial arm, which, resting on his thorax, cut off his air supply and brought them both simultaneously to their knees. On the hall duty that day was Cassie, their jealous, conniving arch enemy who could never pen a verse like Bobby. She knew the ins and outs of cuteness laws, feeling excluded herself. "You guys are so ... cute!" she screeched, pointing an accusing finger at them.
But it was too late. SusieBobby had merged again and the cuteness of two life forms in love had become the cuteness of a Newborn. As it was every time they reformed - they were rebirthed. All body parts chosen at the last hasty parting were reabsorbed for material. And a new poem, seeded by Cassie's last word, began to brew.
