Mice In A Fish Tank

Few people actually like me, and one of them keeps mice in a fish tank. It’s my vocabulary. Gulls squawk. Sirens whoop. I use large words. It comes naturally to me. But others just think I’m full of myself, a showoff. My wife’s friend’s husband said he should’ve brought a dictionary along to dinner. He laughed as he said it, but everyone at the table knew. I felt I was back in high school. The adults were thugs in suits and dresses, and the girls covered their mouths when they giggled. There are tumors no mix of chemicals can shrink.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose newest poetry books, The Dark and Akimbo, are available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher.

A Parasite By Any Other Name

Simon believed he was losing his vocabulary. Growing up, he'd dabbled in poetry and read the dictionary for fun. Yes, he was pretentious, but at least he knew the meaning of...well he couldn't think of a good example right now. Further proof of his decline.

Fiona insisted he see the doctor. More than just forgetful, Simon's skin had yellowed, his eyes were bloodshot, and he grew more irritable by the day. He finally acqui...capitul...gave in.

The doctor immediately sent Simon into surgery. He was showing all the signs of a language-devouring parasite.

They were quite common ever since the invasion.

The Dictionary Of Forgotten Words

He found it long ago, in his grandfather’s attic. The cover said Dictionary, but it looked more like an old journal: yellowed, desiccated, stained and crumpled. It contained a list of words, one to each page, words he had never seen before.

Every time he discovered an unfamiliar word, he wrote it down on a clean page. The next time he opened it, the definition had magically appeared, in his own handwriting even.

Once the word was scribed into the book, however, it escaped from the language, never to be uttered, written, thought of again. His dictionary that consumed words.