Thursday, October 4, 2012

novel excerpt || John Pursch


“Episoidal spansule, encomium to fiord,” trilled the tiniest tourist ever to set foot on Mountebanc, MJ-12’s highest Myopian peak. “Eye herring-do plange mein phlag in de nom de plu-plu-plumeria stew, ala Steuben jet zoo, und parameter clues for all posterior antlers, guessing who,” she cantered, sucking oxygenes through fibral undermask, tossing down one green cap after another, filling her sherpa’s brain with otherwhirlygig baubles. 

“Lola, we must descend soon; already fifteen minuets da chockpoint Churlish,” mimed Sharpie, twirling and standing on his head.

“Schemply wanna mere frodogrof oven mein flavorite shlurpie, Sharpinski, in heez meister pensive moot,” she insisted, blinking a thousand clips a second into ship storage.

“Listen to da frothing of da foiling baggage drain, canned unction,” came the voice of raisins from her hometime zone, Ankle Alouetta and Anthill Isabelle. “Lola, dearest, this recorded message will be repeated every twenty seconds in MJ-speak, progressively more translated, until you canoe slake da sleet, hefty yanose wadi weir slayin’,” came the warming.

Indeed the translate had already begun to boil little Lola’s patience. “All trodden, albondigas, weir cobbling drown how!” she caved, trudging ever so relaxantly offer tea ahoy pont, her shame of twerpas in towline bliss, fire-hiving itch aftershave, emery boardie plopping chad a tumbler oxygene trancelet.

“Het’s mein flavoride whirled, MJ-12, wadi wad eet’s hoist oft heights, dopphest heft depthing churns; knotty mansion doppelgang flings hat emery tern,” she exclaimed, hugging Sharpie till they nearly tumbled the rasta da whey to blase clamp.

“Lonely whirled eye yabba canoe, Lolly,” Sharphie confessed, wandering wadi moss be lichen two, vestige her homing porridge inn.

“Crown yershelve blustery, my dear Sharpie. Ye war bearn unto wad Voltage culled da breast hover passable whorls, metrinks,” Lola opined openly.

“Slumping dimes oui gad do wundering, throw, want tour amble hover tea yore spatial thyme cruft und, freakily, stow a whey doze oui mighty fallow ewe blech ta yer homeostatic swirl, chesty sea Dearth fir whence,” Sharpie ventured as they mounted the first of many ladders off the summit.

“Warrants two chuck hoot mein plaudit Dearth?” she chuckled, bumping helmets playfully. “Flyin’, pony raw blemishes, wheel squeak yon bard; bet Yule needle a crabapple tweaks offal, Elsie einer temporized mache doxie, ta censure yore shave voyeur hone on thyme fur slipper.”

Sharpie nodded, sighing. “Aft curse, hat’s jostle tram, aisle naval eve MJ; hefty hall, war wood eye heifer flint a temp mache docket? Ore bay schlocky hay snout abet toon wake soft, wheedle play? Now, eye most bay canned tent whit wad oui hefty ear,” he lamented.

“Shin hup, meaty land,” she laughed, chucking his oxygene masque. “High bean two awl odor whirls insouciant rhymes und cane inertia; tear rally’s noun batter placemat tan MJ-12. Shore, JFK’s god loafing mat raw pill eye und MLK’s grotto mire compass shin tan undie ultra whirl, bet yore homer bleats hem awl fir beer shooters, gnashed your alls plunder, hoists und pen icicles.”

1 comment:

  1. Bread emerges from the oven a sterile product.

    Words from the keyboard are like this, too.

    The bread is instantly nutritious, and immediately welcome when we ingest it. We grab it with empty hands, not from greed, but in appreciation of flavor, and texture. Weight.

    If we leave a bit aside a few days, or a week, there's growth of green and blue dusts: beautiful! I bring it out for the birds; where it hits the ground as it scatters there are colored clouds that spread, and settle.

    The bread, the words, enhance one's vision, as well as one's diet.

    Readers, take time to allow some crusts to become inoculated, the spores are from your life; don't gobble all a-twonce.

    John, your prose-poem/novel-excerpt here gets better with the days. The spores growing are from my own infecting it; it's my fault; but it's doing me good.

    Thanks for the baked goods!

    You say this is a SLICE: there's a loaf or oven-full to come? I'll be ready. I'm a liar!

    --Desert Woodworker / Tucson, AZ / USA