Nasty Conjugation

So so so despite my best intentions the second half of the dialogue game will have to be posted a little bit later. I know, I know, I’m sure you were just dying to see what kind of ingenious scene I would devise, but the time is not now. However, in order to avoid going two weeks without posting anything, here is something else! It was a game as well. The rules went like this:

For ten minutes we wrote about an object. After that we were given five minutes to write about the same object but from a different perspective. We then did the same thing one more time with only three minutes to write. I’m pretty happy with what came out of it, so without further ado I present the Tuff Mustache Trilogy, in all its high definition full surround audio visual splendor.

(1)His moustache bristles from his face like a Roman phalanx charging with spears held low. His wife has taken to kissing him on the cheek now. She loves him passionately but understands her relationship with the moustache.Twice so far she has needed skin grafts.

The fierce facial hair guards its territory jealously, sparing few from its barbs. His mother is an exception. His terrier is, as well (perhaps a case of animal magnetism). His wife, as mentioned, is not.

He refrains from naming it. He tried, once, but its ensuing blue mood revealed an important fact - it already has a name, one it chose for itself, one that it will not renounce freely. He listens carefully sometimes, stroking his upper lip, coaxing, but it has yet to reveal its secret to him.

When it rages he threatens it with a safety razor. Standing firm in front of the mirror, he waves the Gillette wildly in the air, shouting curses and threats. Sometimes it relents; sometimes he. But at the end of the day he takes his tiny boar’s hair brush and combs it clean, whispers to it sweet words, and together they sleep.

(2)She doesn’t understand. At night, as they slumber, she sits up in bed and watches the patterns of headlights race across the far wall.”His moustache just doesn’t like me,” she would think to herself. “It wants to have him all for itself.”

The first time it attacked her she assumed it had just been a misunderstanding. She’d moved too quickly, startled it, and it had reacted violently. The second time she knew: it was no mistake.

She had to make up a story at work. She’d slipped and fell, she’d say.

“Slipped and fell?” her coworkers would ask, incredulous.

Onto a cheese grater.

She had stopped approaching his lips, relegating herself to pecks on the cheek or forehead. She loved him too much to let it get between them, but she was getting desperate.

Laying back in bed, she thought about the straight razor in her nightstand.

(3)I’m the moustache, goddammit! Dammit!This is my space! This face, man, all mine! I wait at the precipice! I guard the portal! Honor, justice, duty, tradition! I stand ready!

The enemy! The enemy flees! Her cheap perfume fouls the air with fear! This is my face!

I am going to kill you.

Fin.

This entry was posted on Thursday, May 24th, 2007 at 9:35 am and is filed under Entropy. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.