Story Slam, October 2010

Words: specter, greasy, shake
Even the shake felt greasy in her hand, like she was leaving fingerprints on the glass when she touched it. She felt coated, like a puddle with a rainbow of oil smeared across, like swimming in a river with jeans on. Like a formaldehyde fetus in a thick-lidded jar. Like a specter in a doorway, a smudge that distorted the air. She touched the glass and knew it should feel cold, and that made her think about matter, the concrete around the oily puddle, her bones beneath her skin.
(didn't read this)

Sentence: His eyes aren't scary at all.
"Light as a feather, stiff as a board." He stands at her feet and looks down, while the others sit cross-legged around her, touching her shoulders, the back of her knees, her hair. "Say it," he says, and they all do. The carpet is hard, the TV tuned to static, and she thinks of last summer, when he led her into the Phantom, dark ride stopped by a real hurricane, a real flood, actual darkness. Their feet slipped in the mud left over, her eyes tried to focus, and he turned to her.

Theme: The bureaucracy of hope and lies.
(Just notes for this) The inside of a dark chocolate truffle. A piece of lettuce wedged next to an eye tooth. Light coming in through an upstairs window, stained glass colors on the hardwood floor. The sharp smell of onions on the side of a plate.

Last round: zombie, imagine, fossilized
(nothing for this)