is considered the longest word in the English language; it's easier
to spell than people think. It refers to the philosophy of not
supporting the dissolution of the Anglican church, or something like
that. I' see most of how that fits together, although etymology (not
entomology) isn't my strong suit. The definition isn't important.
The important thing is that it is a very long word. There are longer
words, but these are usually chemical names so a lot of people feel
they don't count. I don't know how to spell the longest chemical
name- I'm not sure anyone does.
The same one hundred
words can take up a varying amount of space, depending on how they
On the other hand,
poetry doesn't necessarily need short lines, or even lines at all.
That's what prose poetry is. Even when Angelo tries to write
stories, they often turn into prose poetry. This is because he isn't
very good at depicting action. A description, however defined,
isn't the same as plot.
“Would dialogue help?” ponders Angelo.
No. And you shouldn't
be talking to a narrative, Angelo. It doesn't make sense.
Alex sleeps curled up
against the unwashed pillow shoved against the wall. His sleeping
form clings to the blankets, fearing their nighttime escape.
Sidney doesn't sleep
under blankets. He lies back, feeling the pressure of the bed- the
earth beneath him. He doesn't snore, not except when he isn't really
asleep and trying to trick you.
Matthew goes to sleep
like the dead, arms loose by his sides beneath folded sheets. He
read somewhere that people who sleep on their backs are more
confidant. He tries not to mind that, however he goes to sleep, he
wakes on his side.
I think, once
artificial lighting was developed, people paid less attention to
sunsets. The sun once painted the rolling earth below in
watercolor, the green trees bathed in her flowing orange. The snow shone
like fire, and we watched. Today in our houses, our neighbourhoods,
we sit by the tortured whiteness, the light of our captive suns.
The sun sets outside our windows like she always has, but people don't notice her.
The subtle golden shine of twilight is overwhelmed. You go inside,
away from the sun, in the afternoon and don't notice when she leaves
I pull my ball cap
further down my forehead as Hay-zeus comes in. No, I don't
care how it's really spelled. He shrugs off his coat with a
nonchalant motion, hanging it on a chair and glancing at my jacket on
the floor, but I'm not gonna take the hint. I'm the one letting him
stay, not the other way around. He's sitting on the couch, doesn't
even have his feet on the table or nothing. Looks at me
sometimes like he wants to make me like him- the guy who folds his
clothes and brushes for two minutes.
bites her lip, fumbling with the small plastic device Mister Blake
gave her before abandoning her to the city. A slip of paper with a series of numbers has been taped to
its back, and she repeats them into the telephone, which beeps
softly. She holds it up to her ear.
device continues beeping unnaturally, blaring into her. Jessica runs
her free hand along her scalp. She's father away from home than when
she tested the telephone, it might take a while for the call to move
the young woman can step forward, giving chase to the Sun, a
calloused hand slips onto her shoulder.
“Seems to me he'd rather be left alone,”
the man slurs, spinning her to face him. She... isn't sure how to
The Sun's 'accomplice' is a scrawny man in his
late twenties, wearing a dirty rust colored jacket and dark sunglasses. He is
scarcely taller than the woman herself, and far from athletic enough
to be a threat. If not for the escape of the Sun himself, she would