"The clear literary ties between your writing and the writing of Vonnegut weren't just clear, they were spot on. Ugh!" Carl nearly had a nerd-gasim sitting next to Hazel. "There wasn't a moment in that book where I wasn't screaming to myself, 'Yes! This is exactly what I've always wanted to read!' The self aware narrator, the religious tie-ins, how did you write such a book at such a young age?" his eyes gleamed with anticipation as a couple of luck charms clattered and clanked, hanging from his limp wrist. "I seriously would give my left arm for your writing talent! Here, take my arm!"
"Don't waste a perfectly good arm," Hazel waved his offering away. "I can't write for shit. I wrote about a villain named Agronomiton for Christ's sake," she slumped down on the bench still eyeing the Corn Palace across the street. Sure she needed to stop for prayer, but did she need to stop there? Did she really need to be two lanes across from one of the tackiest
Hazel watch Mark out of the corner of her eye. How he managed to get so much butter, powdered sugar, syrup, marshmallows, bread, and milk on the table from two pieces of french toast impressed her in ways she didn't even know were possible. Like an adept magician he just kept pulling more and more mess out of them. Hazel half hoped that if she continued watching for a couple more minutes he might pull out a rabbit. That certainly would be impressive. Nearly as impressive as the body heat Carl put out. He practically burned her left shoulder as he jingled and stuffed a thick greasy burger into his mouth. But really when she got right down to it the most impressive thing was Rolf's silence. He didn't utter a single fun factoid for five whole minutes. Hazel and Ingrid shared a quiet smile, beside themselves with the silence.
Despite all that Hazel couldn't stop glancing out the front door. Surely he would come strutting back in laughing and making fu
"So has anyone figured out what a Rattigan Glumphoboo is yet?" Professor Lapiz shut the book letting her quote linger in the air. With steady steps she crossed the room, popped the top off the blood red dry erase marker, and turned to the class. "Well?" an eye brow popped up. She knew the work well, she new the common reactions better. Oh this is so confusing! Oh transexuals are so confusing! Why is Orlando so old? What's the deal with the poem? Answers at hand Professor Lapiz knew how to answer each one, "Any ideas on the book?"
Stilled like deer in headlights, no that was wrong. Isaiah vigorously scratched the cliche from his mind. It was more along the lines of being frozen like cats caught sleeping in the laundry. They knew better. They knew the stillness would only increase what was to come. But then he wondered if that metaphor even made sense. Cats froze from confusion, the class was more frozen out of fear. Fear of breaking the silence. Fe
Hazel finished Maghrib in a messy unintelligible mass of sobs, snot and giggles. She felt lighter after screaming out all her anger. She smiled to the angel on her right, "As-Salamu 'alaykum wa Rahmatu-Llah." She laughed with the angel on her left, "As-Salamu 'alaykum wa Rahmatu-Llah." Starting at her forehead she wiped anger and negativity off of herself and flicked it into oblivion. Her grassland eyes gleamed up to the starry sky as she happily squeaked, "Alhamdulillah!" For one second she thought the stars gleefully sparkled in reply.
"Are you alright deary?" Ingrid sat on the bench looking concerned. "You look pretty worked up."
Hazel laughed spluttering out some more snot and tears. "Ya' I'm good. Thanks."
Ingrid eyed her for a second trying to see if Hazel told the truth. It's not everyday some one screams a bunch of Arabic in Wall Drug. She pulled an old handkerchief from behind her shall and handed it to Hazel. "I guess we've all been ther
Once the embarrassment passed they all got back on the bus. As the Corn Palace slipped over the horizon, sign, one after the other, declared "Home of the 10 cent cup of coffee!" and "Free ice water!" Come one come all to Wall Drug. Come to the bone dry land where fossils aren't formed, they're born. One stone tree sprouting another. One calcite dinosaur raising another. Tourist came, drawn by the signs. Drawn by the call. Signs as far off as Kenya beckoned to people, "Come pet the jackalopes." Come, visit in joy, leave in disappointment. By mid afternoon the rickety old bus pulled up in front of Gus's Old West Slick Spitter Saloon and Gas. The name didn't roll off the tongue, but the building's visage burned permanently into the memory of anyone that saw it. Half a block off the interstate, surrounded by statues of dated dinosaurs, empty eyed gunslingers, and furless plastic jackalopes, the building confidently stood, a defiant church to the relig