Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Obsessed with elimae

As part of my continuing obsession with how ridiculous the writing is on the "electronic literary magazine" elimae, I've written a couple of parodies of things that appeared in elimae in 2009 that were written by former elimae editor Kim Chinquee. I need to stop this before I go insane.



To the Moon: A Parody

They were sipping Capri Suns. She took a hit of Ecstasy and wondered why. Why won’t the straw just go in? She grabbed her bags. He made her carry them all the way to the lobby, then the room, telling the bellhop to piss off, she was a big girl.

She put on her makeup using a Sharpee he had taped up and written “Revlon” on. All the mirrors in the room were broken and her wig was on backwards. He was jumping on the bed and shouting Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

Stop, she said. He threw a Gideon Bible at her. Hit her square on the head. She took off her clothes and lay on the bed. He wouldn’t stop jumping. He stepped on her face. Then he whispered something about throwing her from the fifth story balcony and making it look like an accident.





In the Drawer: Another Parody

The hotel clerk told her it looked serious, and gave her the card key. He didn’t tell her where her room was because he could tell she doesn’t listen. She didn’t say anything. Did she have to? Torn clothes, bloody lip, two black eyes. Her baby was asleep in a Snuggie.

The room felt like taxation without representation, a ten-key punch into dreamland. She placed her baby in a drawer on top of a Bible, drew a bath, deep, and cannonballed into the tub. She shut her eyes and felt footsteps on the bathroom floor. When she opened her eyes there was her baby. He was holding the Bible, pointing at her and screaming, “Sinner.”




Bean Bag
Chair



“His math skills,” the teacher said, “are like delicious chicken bones.”

The mother said she didn’t know what that meant, but that she grew up in the forest counting bows and arrows and squirrel nuts.

“I’d like to know more about your son,” the teacher said. She sat there cutting herself. The teacher had a pentagram tattooed on his forehead.

“We’re gypsies,” she said. “We’ve been all over. We’ll probably move again this weekend, out of the country.”

The woman recalled when her son was eighteen, learning his multiplication tables while running villagers around in a rickshaw. A man asked him where he came from. “Mars,” her son said. “Mars!” he repeated, and kicked the man in the testicles.

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