John Wayne Gacy: Somehow I missed that Nicole wrote a novel instead of an account of growing up with her dad or something, which might have a minor interest.In which case what has her name to do with anything? I guess I'm still waiting to see what happens before writing about my life, in any case. So far...I don't really think there's more than what you've all seen.

Nicole Richie wrote a novel? I can believe she wrote around her navel with henna, maybe.

Another drabble, I'm minorly inspired today.

Street Smarts

It was a new word everyday. The Company Commander posted it on the whiteboard and we wrote it in the back of our spiral notebooks. If they stopped you on the street, asked to see your notebook and it wasn’t written there, they pulled a “streetmark” (new word, just for bootcamp) out of the back of your notebook. Once you lost all five of your streetmarks, it meant a trip to MT—Motivational Training: running in circles, carrying rifles over your head. Very quickly, you realized translating the words wasn’t what it was all about, it was all about behavior.

Oh, very nice, Sail.

Thanks, Anne!

Drabble:

My classmate Rajan spoke English better than I did, but it wasn't his first language, and idioms often puzzled him. Once, he was nominated to be the one to persuade our teacher to postpone a test from Friday to Monday.

"He'll never agree."

"Sure he will. He likes you. Butter him up."

"What?"

"Butter him up."

Rajan's face was interesting to watch as he struggled to fit words to context.

"That's what you call being friendly and persuasive, asking nicely? 'Butter him up'?"

"Yes."

"Makhan lagao. Do I have that right? Is that what you mean? Really?"

"Yes."

"That's disgusting."

(laughing like a drain)

More high school nostalgia. This one was tough to trim down.

Drabble: lost in translation 2

The new math teacher had been the headmaster of his old school back in New Zealand, and his prized memento was a four foot long swagger stick. He liked to wave it in students' faces, and slam it on their desks.

On the fourth day of class it broke cleanly in two.

Someone had used a razor blade to invisibly weaken the middle of the stick, just deep enough that it broke at the first hard smack.

He was crying when he complained to the principal. "None of the boys at my school would have done such a thing."

Only One Sure Thing

what I think I said: You've never stopped loving her. I can't take it anymore. I'm too strong for you and not strong enough for me. I'm going. I love you, but I'm going. Goodbye.

what I think you heard: I don't love you enough to handle your demons. You still want her, fine. I don't love you enough. Goodbye.

what I meant: oh god, god, no, please don't let me do this, I didn't mean it, please please please, why don't you love me the way you love her, why are you letting me go, why don't you understand....?

"The November 3rd Club," an online literary journal of political writing, is now accepting submissions for its Winter '06 issue.

The deadline is January 15, 2006.

Please visit our Web site, [link] for more details.

I've been working on a story for y'all for the last little while, Victor. Hope to finish the last scene today, in fact. Synchronicity, hmm? ETA: Yay...I did it. Anyone want to beta my little foray into magical realism? More real than magic, I swear. Can't ask Victor...that's a little Halliburton, isn't it?