The bearded man bent embarrassingly close to read the nametag pinned to the bosom of her dress. It went against her nature to tell her name to the world—how public, like a frog—but she had learned on the first day of the Connecticut Valley Writers Conference, when she didn’t wear it, that the nametag answered at least one unwanted question. When people asked “Who are you?” and she said “Nobody,” they took up a lot of time explaining that she really was somebody and shouldn’t be so lacking in confidence. A writer needs confidence above all, they said.

(^ヮ^) Hey YouTube! Guess what today is? It’s murumple day!

Pearl Gleeson squinted
into the sunset and mashed the gas pedal
to the floor. The glare should have been blinding, but with her cataracts, it
was only a mild discomfort. In fact, this was
the best she’d seen in years—almost as if the setting sun had enhanced
her eyesight.

“I’ve got Superman
vision,” she cackled as her engine roared. “And no one steals Superman’s cream whipper, bitch.”

A punk with a safety through his nose shoved his way to the front of the crowd, snatched Gilbert’s mandolin from his fingers and snapped it over his knee. The rest of us stopped short in the middle of the song we were playing and gaped, the open strings of my Rickenbacker still ringing out.

Had you a larger fleshy part
This pond would be my shopping cart.
I’d quit my job and live in ease
While I collected recipes.
I’d file them, and my list would span
From Bobby Flay to Jacques Pepin:
Exotic, simple, locavore
Thai, French, fresh, fusion, thermidor.