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Here is part two of the results from the George Saunders writing challenge. They come from a couple of wonderful writers in their own right, Alex Keegan and Cheryl Klein. Both admitted the exercise was way harder than it looked but their results were stunning. Enjoy! And do try the challenge if you haven’t already done so.



I go to work. Jennifer says I’m boring.
I don’t go to work. Jennifer says I’m lazy.
I say I want to make love to Jennifer. Jennifer says, “I want to work.”
I let Jennifer work. She says I don’t love her.

Jennifer says I need space. I give Jennifer her space, now Jennifer says I work, work, work, work. I ignore her. I don’t love her.

Jennifer, I say. I love you. I love you. I will work at this. I will give you space – not give you space. I will do what you want. I need this to work. Please, Jennifer, please.

Jennifer says, “Why don’t we make love? Is there something wrong? Is there someone else? Is there someone at work? Do you love her? Do you make love to her at work?”

But I say to Jennifer, no, no, no. I love you, Jennifer. You, you. I want to make love to you, Jennifer. I want to go to work, Jennifer, come home and make love to you. I want to stay home, not go to work and make love to you, make love to you all afternoon.

Jennifer says, that’s all I think of.

– Alexx Keegan (Alex’s web site)


The Muse Eyes

She never wanted to be a muse, but here she stands in a fig leaf of navy blue cloth and a pool of window light. The painter is a woman, a friend of a friend, named May, who swears liberally in a porny purr. Make me light, the muse thinks. Give me eyes. Worries her fig leaf area is not porny enough. 

Former muses watch from the wall. Some of them are dead.  

May brushes blue. The muse is in the Navy here, on watch, standing and not dead. She is a former leaf and worrier. 

May gives. The dead are paint. The dead are painters and eyes. The walls purr but not think. Death is Not Making. Porn is a wall is not enough. Some may leave. The muse may. May may. May brushes her watch and watches her brushes.  

Muses give, thinks the muse. Cloth is enough. The dead are friends. She swears to them, she thought brushes purred for painters! Here, the pool swears, Never them! 

The muse wanted to be a painter, but canvas is a wall, death is a wall. Light is not her muse to brush on canvas. It pools liberally, it names her.

– Cheryl Klein (Cheryl’s web site)