Oyster Jollies
By Tyler Mobley
At it again an ole used to be somebody’s sailor goes walkin between a pair of century old dampers carryin martini olive eyes, soot curls, and a dirty mouth she’d put to use if it weren’t holdin such a cute little grin. A lump of wood at bars’ end lifts a shout, “ain’t you got some business somewhere Ms.?”
The jingle of her boots fades and silence arm wrestles the room and wins. Her head snaps to a call quicker than a wave of a whip, almost drawing all the air from the room with the unanimous gasp it demands from the crowd. Silence ensued either as an effect of no soul dare speak or because a vacuum prevented sound to be carried throughout the room, nobody knew nobody cared.
Each step squashing peeps before they happen, she arrives face to face with Lumber leaned up against the bar, rising for a moment from his seat as if a flame were lit underneath his teepee.
Madam looks up, catching him with even more of a crack in her lips than before, “now what business would that be Mr. Forest?” leaning in she could smell fear turn to shit.
Log cabin falls into convulsive stutters emanating from his lower chip spreading down his race circuit. Mumbles of, “ma ma ma ma ma” again and again interrupted by sudden jerks stifling each proceeding attempt winding up like a little car about to be launched across a kitchen floor.
“Ahh hell!” she slaps him not too hard across the face breaking the broken record-ness arresting his body landing him back in his seat and before he knows much of anything he spits out, “ma acorns!”
A sigh of relief escapes from his chopstick mouth as though having needed to lose an erection before a passing train could knock it off, that sent vapor spittles into her face in a bourbon breeze.
Throwing back her head in a great “HA!”that forces anything not nailed down into the walls. Tables and chairs slide into leather breeches, glass explodes and falls in subtle applause about the room like an ensemble of fairies hitting pots and pans. Olive eyes narrow on Tinder Box with regained composure she reaches into her vest. Eyes shift around the room curious to the fact that her hand had passed up the shooter astride a rather well rounded hip.
From the vest she pulls a small bronze cylinder and removes the cap in a slow twist. Holding it before Match Stick, in a way he could note the color, which was unusual. Containing an element of glitter magnified by the truest amethyst, emitting a spectrum such that anemones if they knew they’d fight for it’s hue, lilies tell petal-tales of it’s shade, it drives monkeys bananas, and sends unicorns out shopping where they discover in passing a mirror their horns’ held the color all along.
“What they servin you here, seventh sin?” Arms a measure animated. “How bout I freshen you up?”
A gleaming nub grows under her touch, then guides the rocket stick towards Saw Dust’s face.
“Hold still now, you haven’t want me to get this wrong.” Reaching behind Splinter’s head to keep fast his shuttering chin.
We have touchdown. From a deliberate hand eights roll onto his wood chips, a trace resembling a trail of a psychedelic snail after several crossing of his balustrade, inducing a most peculiar spell. Building with each completed pass Plank’s corks pucker ever more.
In a sudden pressure release eyelids flutter his harmonica hums and steam blows out his ears. Withdrawing the wand and placing it back in her vest, she takes a step back to admire her workin play horse. Block’s head a ringing coo coo clock, his body a black and white image against the vortex drawn on his castle.
Placing a boot in his dividers then before going any further she turns to address the room, “now if any of you ladies want a ride you’re gunna have to wait your turn.” Pressing on his stirrup her legs swing over his shelve shoulders and saddle up against his music box.
For an imperceptible amount of time her business carries on in such a comfortable manner you’d think she were alone. Wedging into a joist her charged body expands a field of static potential gathered from forces present and beyond.
Breaking from her rhythm for a look at the faces frozen into the wall, some still pinned by furniture.
“Do y’all really wanna see what this pony can do?”
They weren’t sure, nobody answered. Madam twists his ear shooting a puff of steam down the bar, Jenga teetering on edge. On the well lathered face glimpsed between flickering hips patrons saw eyelids batting at thousands of rpms, a pair of bee stings blowing hard brass, a tongue zapping that could turn a toad envy green, the corrupting color covering his complexion resembled a tumbleweed turn tropical fish.
The lights in his jukebox went out right as her’s finished, both rattling in opposite ways. Leaving, months later, suspicions in those who witnessed the event as to whether his spirit had been sucked out by her receiver like some phone booth in The Matrix. Only this here is the nineteenth century so make of it what you will.
The ride met its end, she dismounts brushing against his chopping block, the force of her impact jostling a dead Stump loose from his seat who falls to kindling on the floor.
Giving herself a once over she smiles down at the Pollock piece between her thighs and runs a finger up her seam front. In passing she drags the dabbed finger across the cheek of a still giant, neither spoke.
Within moments a jackhammer awakens inside the giant inducing in him a tapping twister with rumba manners, the bright cheek streak metastasizing his body through Tasmanian whirl.
The audience fixed on another transformation hadn’t noticed her slip out, and let out a still murmur when a cow hatted and curled head popped her peach back through century old wooden doors, “Y’all be careful with this one, damn near lost my pearls,” with a yodeling chortle, “so long.”
With that patrons peeled off walls, and found themselves dumbfounded around the rutabaga vibrator they knew as Earl.
Letters of Measure 