Cuddle Creativity Corner

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• HappinessHenry

  May 2019

  CUDDLES FROM CHAOS

  My life's in a muddle
  My home is a mess
  About whether I live or die
  People couldn't care less

  However one thing has come to me
  In my hour of need
  And in my old noggin has planted a seed

  What if there could be something in this cuddling lark
  And in my old broken heart it has planted a spark
  Perhaps hugging others is one way off the shelf

  For by cuddling others
  We also cuddle ourself!

  by Henry Shires
  Winner of Australian Poetry Idol 2011
  Creative Writing Tutor
• DarrenWalker (deleted user)

  May 2019

  A kid on each side of me, one on my knee
  I tilt the Kindle so we all can see.

  The sibs snuggle in and I'm at home at last
  Watching cartoons where they talk way too fast.

  by Darren Walker, winner of no poetry contest in any country ever
• TheFunCartel

  May 2019

  @DarrenWalker Lol at your byline. I like it.
• DarrenWalker (deleted user)

  May 2019

  @FunCartel: [laugh] Thanks.
• HappinessHenry

  May 2019

  @DarrenWalker YET!
• hogboblin

  May 2019 edited May 2019

  I became aware of everything physical in an instant. Harsh lighting stung my eyes, a foul taste permeated throughout my mouth, and I heard a faint cough. That sound came again as tears trickled down my cheeks. There was a thrumming in my guts, a dull and resonant vibration that squirmed upward, becoming lighter and shriller and threatening to pass my lips should they open at all. I couldn’t discern, at first, what that noise might be. A roar seemed most likely—something far removed from civilized society, something that sent sinewy, soiled sapiens scrambling for shelter. More coughing, with deliberation. That indistinct primal utterance took shape, was ejected from the spasming womb of time, screaming in disbelief and anguish. It was dropped into the present without preamble as “Where?”

  “You’re at the Roadway Inn, sir,” said the cougher. I opened my eyes, wiped them with the sleeve of my jacket, and then took in what was before me. A young woman stood behind a counter. She had a mousy appearance, wore thick-rimmed glasses, and bit her thin bottom lip while wringing her hands. “Marissa, clerk” read her name tag. The text had been done in a cute, rounded font. A tiny emoticon sticker was placed beside her name. I stifled a groan.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Marissa asked. She had crooked, coffee-stained teeth. I noted a thermos with the girl’s name beside a computer monitor atop the counter.

  “Yes,” I said, the word a gastrolith that erupted from my core.

  Marissa leaned in closer, her features fraught with anticipation. She sighed. “What can I do for you?”

  A long moment passed where I gazed into Marissa’s name tag, as if trying to read the content of her soul. “Huh?”

  “Do you need a room?” Marissa said. She paused to exhale laboriously a second time. “This is a hotel. We rent rooms. For money.”

  Realization dawned upon me. Annoyance at Marissa’s tone came a second after, followed just as fast by remorse and a desire to apologize for my unspoken rudeness.

  “Sure,” I said, patting myself down, searching for the pocket that contained my wallet. After smacking every potential area more than once, I found the billfold in a pocket that I had made contact with at least three times. I paid for a night’s stay in a room that contained a single bed.

  “Do you need me to show you two to your room?” Marissa said, rolling her eyes. I didn’t comprehend a part of what she’d asked, and my addled brain abandoned the endeavor abruptly.

  “No, that’s fine,” I said, “I think I’ll manage.” I was pleased by my eloquence.

  I turned around, felt the revolutions of the Earth, and came face to face with another woman. Her sharp features had adopted a sly expression. There was an artificial quality to those features, which was likely the result of spray-tanning and too much makeup. This strange person was familiar to me, and yet I couldn’t attribute her to a particular memory or design. It was clear to me, however, that she was a recent addition to my concept of reality; that we lacked any real history together.

  “My name is Derek,” I said. An odor, sharp and sweet, snaked into my nostrils, and my gorge became buoyant.

  “I know,” said the woman, her voice ravaged by smoke. I saw rot in her mouth. She offered her name, but I missed the information. I doubled over, parted my lips, and vomited onto her bare legs and pink-nailed toes. “I’ll start your tab now, honey,” the woman chuckled. I heard Marissa gasp behind me, and her footsteps pattering away. Further in the distance, within the building, a door opened, wheels rattled, and a faucet began to run. “How about we go to your room, huh?”
  I nodded, wagging dangling strands of sputum, and handed the woman the keycard to our room. I followed close at her heels, shame creeping over me like probing tendrils. “I just want to cuddle,” I said.

  We spoke into the early hours of the morning. I can’t remember what I revealed to this lady, but I drifted from one extreme emotion to the next and back again. At times I paced, akin to an animal in a cage, and at other times I sat on the hard carpeting, my head in my hands and my body wracked by sobs. I crawled from one spot to another,
  clawed at her legs while mewling, and eventually laid inert on the bed. She rested beside me.

  “Can you please stop talking now?”

  “Of course,” I sputtered. She curled up against my side. I felt the urge to wail.

  She whispered into my ear, her hot breath thick with disease, “Are you comfortable?”

  I drifted, fell asleep, and dreamt. In the dream I saw a group of primitives huddled together, awash in the glow of a flickering fire, their eyes wide and jaws slack—not because of the darkness that encircled them, nor the night’s wild cacophony, but because of a surge of consciousness. They stared at each other, aware for the first time, a horror stealing upon them and sowing dread and distrust. One of the early men rose from where he cuddled another. He towered over the others, who, suddenly, could not tolerate the sight of him. They, too, had been struck by the concept of self.



  In an instant they clashed, men and women alike, using their teeth and limbs to fight and slaughter their kin. Soon, only two remained. They were both bloodied and fatigued past their limits. The largest brute stood on shaking legs. Opposite the alpha, a lesser male’s countenance flashed with inspiration. He gripped a nearby branch and used it to dash out his opponent’s brains. The victor collapsed, breathing heavy and glistening with sweat and blood.

  I awoke, alone, my wallet missing. The cuddle session had cost me five hundred dollars.
  

  ---

  By D. Ross, a fellow who once won three bars of organic soap for writing an amusing review for an organic soap company.
• HappinessHenry

  May 2019

  @hogboblin Nice! Now we are cooking! ...with soap? And the bylines have become a subgenre in themselves!
  Henry Shires
  Who Once Picked His Nose
  Well Actually More Than Once