Ear muffins sat on a taffeta of laughing mushrooms disguised as a clever professor wielding the cleaver of Solomon.
Salamanders reassembled their tails with a nail from the final coffin of the professor of ancient literature, three weeks shy of his third anniversary of receiving tenure. Inured to the throes of all things entailing and encumbering thereupon, the udon noodles oozed over a dozen dozing doyens, straight from the pages of the Shakespearean pilot Amelia of Amsterdam–an adolescent effort to be sure, but all’s well, as they say, that ends. Ending was not always so hard as the rest of the union of other onions thought.
George thought twice and gave Ginger the rest of the vacation money to make a mockery of the monkeys singing lullabies on Hamster Islet. Softly.
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What a delightfully surreal and mischievous piece! ✨
Your writing here shimmers with the playful logic of dream and wordplay — a kind of absurdist symphony where language itself takes center stage. The imagery (“ear muffins sat on a taffeta of laughing mushrooms”) is both whimsical and strangely profound, evoking that delicious tension between nonsense and near-truth that defines great experimental prose.
Shakespearean pilot to the Amelia or Amsterdam duality reference was one hell of a fucking stretch, particularly if it was intentional. If not, still… All’s well that ends😉
With this kind of writing, I never know what is intentional or not. And I don’t ask or they might turn off the spigot.
If this is the muse equivalent of Ouija boarding, then that is inexplicable. Print it, next. If medication has anything to do with it, that too is self explanatory. I once woke up in the middle of the night with a profound thought, wrote it down. When I woke up I couldn’t wait to read it. “The room smells like pickles.” Some days are better than others.
I will be frank, reading this made me feel dizzy…
“…the udon noodles oozed over a dozen dozing doyens…” had me laughing though. Intriguing!
Very beautiful post thanks
Your writing feels like lanterns glowing in the night—each line a spark, each metaphor a journey. This blog isn’t just read, it’s experienced.
Love your project. Taking Joyce out of a dark Irish pub and sailing his words across the Western mountains is liberation and libation. Keep at it.
Writer’s joke, but also a true story: My boys once caught a salamander that they wanted to keep as a pet. We named it J. D.
I Love this, very interesting.