McCormick Templeman

from Cat Chess

Green sometimes, near apoplexy. Useless. Next to the fish market there is a cube you don't understand. Point it upward, arch in cube refined to gingham.

She's on the bed. Wait for ricking. Rocking is for removal. A traingle of old women. One's skin dark, she flows upward. Addresses the cube with angular asphyxiation. Scant metal finish encrusted arthropod it moves. Tender wings begetting plasma that slowly fills the room. Second woman, therefor younger, tells me brings me horse porcine Minister of Keys. All globular, he enters, thick pink skin pulled int shapely, now paucity. Needles, two feet long, pierce the flesh, attaching pig to horse. Thirty in all allow for Minister's amble. For fifteen minutes the women will be sade. Third woman, head a mask, fine black hair falling to scrape. She shifts around, her fingers elongated. Digits ooze tremulous incantation. Fourth woman holds the box. She is in the middle, imbued with summation. An undulatory blight in miasmic epoxy prefigures the holding of aforementioned box. Box, she holds the box.

"That's all she does," says the Horsepig Minister, now , having revealed his motivations, categorized hereafter as suitor.

"That's all she does," two of the four women respond.

Now the box empty box, open when closed. Anger surrounds apocryphal angling. Once having contained cheesecloth, it is nw squeaky of sobriety. Applethorned antlers are not in, but near the box. That which is not antlers flows through, torpid and round.

To pick up the Antlers, you choose A)

To rattle the box, you choose B)

A)and find yourself in a lion's town, all grittle dirt expostulation. A static grey thron dissolving in lytic translation. Create empty. Create hollow. Is that a boil I see now, rising slowly, oozing gently down your wrist. We'll make pear pudding with the redefined flood. Your skin singly-celled stripe, noxious in goo. Something starts to growl. A boil sees fit to spewter. Below you a lime green vent, fish trailing down your arm. A fingertip, dry with respiration plummets below the vent.

B)and you are led to a neon pathway. An avuncular feel to it, light beer and football, chess and cherry pie whatever something like that might mean to someone like you, who, I might add, had been walking around all day bloomers around his ankles, moosehead to cover crotch.

So you bleat, a long low sound, and you follow where it leads, Dry respiration tickling flagellar corneal additions affixed sometime during your sleep. You look through lime grate and suspect it is orange like the door flowing sideways at the end of the gall. You suspect receptional inoculations as you see the insects dribbling out. spilling under the crack at the bottom of the door.

You try the knob. A jarring clickback. A key of sorts. You set back, wander leftward.