So it isn’t a comic, but I write odds-and-ends quite a bit and have no place to share so I thought you may enjoy. If so I can share again in the future. Also, tomorrow I’ll be sharing a flash game starring Kirby!
Now for the poem called SHE:
She gives good marriage
“Would you look at the monogamy on that one”, we’d yelp as she walked down the street, or into the restaurant, or on some sort of public transportation which would signify her plain normalcy.
A simple purse, not yet ballooned with age for storage space of hundreds of tiny specialized gadgets. It was small, black, and tight in a way that spoke utility. The smell – should we be lucky enough to reach the vicinity – would have been that cheap plastic leather assault on the senses, a smell that is at once offensive and cost effective.
Should she have decided to upgrade to a real animal it wouldn’t have the same charm.
Eyes followed her effective disaffection.
The high heels of her shoes made a echoed clack which was impossible to reject. It was as if the first beating of a tiny heart, or the moon’s pull across the oceans were somehow connected and to deny the intuitive rhythm would be like denying birds song.
When reading in public the main rule is to remain confident. Focus in on the book and commit. For everyone in the car or booth or sidewalk is watching for the smallest weakness, proof that you aren’t actually so invested in your hobby but instead walk around like ex-wives and their little screaming dogs as show-things. And she must have instinctively known this as her eyes scanned the pages dipping into the text with a lust reserved for men and paperback.
Marriage is the legally binding contract for compromise.
When you were five and stuck in a smelly room with shapes and numbers on the carpet floor you were being weaned for this very moment. Or in the winding lunchroom lines where half of your given time is spent being polite and waiting and not doing what you want to be. Sharing is the golden rule of childhood, but yet we all find ourselves fighting against it naturally. And it isn’t a fight like a fight between a lion a spry herd, where even on some sub-conscious level we can recognize: “This makes sense.”
This fight involves a trillion cells screaming in tandem for oxygen. Each of them uncontrollably clawing at the edges of fragile cages. If it were possible for them to revolt, pouring out by the tablespoon of the fleshy sacks that hold them, and find a new life in a better place they would. Should choice be crowned upon them you can imagine that they’d exercise it.
Alas, no what ifs here. No sentient livers or elegant safari tea parties of reservation.
But if we truly believed in our contract we would yearn for it. We’d push that book aside to empty our filled hearts with beautiful accuracy.
Commitment wouldn’t be a plague but a drug. Women would be less excited about the ring. Men would be less excited about the sex. And men and women wouldn’t cower from the responsibility, but drench themselves in the pureness of being two.
Thanks for reading me mind,