Prose by Richard Osgood

What I Tell Strangers While Bagging Groceries And Loading Shopping Carts

Poppy seeds don’t grow in red dirt. She thinks anything can grow in red dirt. Ever try watering the shit? Nope. Can’t tell her nothing. Big fucking head is all she’s got. Crawl inside that thing and you’re face to face with a Minotaur.

Troxel is no name for a cat, but she calls it that anyway. Can’t yell it out the window. Here Troxel! Here Troxie-Troxie-Troxie! Sound like a fucking moron. Plus, it’s her own last name. What jackass names their cat Smith, or Jones, or Bradbury?

Can you believe she left me for that scumbag? The zits on his face are like a medieval battlefield. I once caught him in the locker room squeezing puss rockets into the mirror. Maybe he’s got a big dick.

Kiss and tell, that’s all she knows. Me and Benny did it in his room while his parents were downstairs watching re-runs of The Lawrence Welk Show. Tell one person in this backwater town and you tell them all. Big fucking joke, until the Lutherans get hold of it. Then it’s a big fucking whisper.

My feet and my heart are not on the same page, and my head is pissed with the both of them. You can do better than her is the mantra. She’s no good for you, I tell myself. My parents think it’s cute. They’re relieved I finally started dating. I guess they haven’t heard the whispers.

Ass and tits. Or is it the other way around? Either way she’s got more than eight women can share between them and still use a phone booth. Lay her down in the mud and watch the piglets come running. Fuck it. I guess it’s over. Do you want paper or plastic?

One response to “Prose by Richard Osgood

  1. Very unique. The bold words at the beginning of each paragraph make a sentence. I assume that’s intentional(?). Love the big head and minotaur bit, and zits like a medieval battlefield, and ‘maybe he’s got a big dick’–hee. A fun read.

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