Michele Corriel

Michele Corriel is a freeelance writer, poet and originator of the Poetry Dispenser.



Donna opened her mouth, and her exceedingly large capacity for air intake as well as her humongous set of tonsils began to whirr. The room became cavernous. As she reached deep inside herself for a word or a sound, anything that would get the attention of the small man and the tall producer (she just knew he was a producer, he had that special slicked back quality) her mouth opened wider. People were hanging onto the overstuffed, comfy chairs and under-upholstered couches. But it was almost too late. The vacuum effect had begun.

It did however get the attention of StillWater and Irwin. Holding their hands over their faces, careful to avoid the flying chai, they made their way over to Donna, who thankfully had the good sense to close her mouth.

“My God, she’s perfect as the Berkeley Pit!” Irwin said, finding his footing. “How do you do that?”

Just then who should walk into the Seedy Bean but Virginia herself. Not only that, but she was accompanied by none other than Sweet Banana Tail. And they were laughing.

Irwin, bewildered, said, “But I thought, I mean, you said…” his finger wagged back and forth between the two of them. He knew Virginia’s history with reptiles and this wasn’t making any sense.

“Anteaters, even giant pangolins from Uganda, are not and never were reptiles. So don’t even start with me. Besides I’ve found I have a soft spot for mammals that can roll themselves into balls. Me and Sweet Tail have a lot in common.” And they both made noises that no mammal should ever have to listen to.

Irwin, on the other hand, was intrigued. But Virginia, ever the organized human Rolodex, got back to business before the next batch of milk was steamed and no one would be able to hear anything.

“What’s this I hear about changing our script?”

“It’s true. We here in BozeAngeles decided to find us some talent, rewrite that piece of crap you sent us, and get the show on the road, so to speak,” Irwin said, now staring at Donna, who had stolen his heart. He was done with reptiles. His life was now all about a woman who had the lung capacity of a submarine.

“Just hold your damn horses, there,” Virginia said, unwillingly removing her eyes from Sweet Banana Tail. “I checked the Internet’s Suburban Legends site and that failing horse doctor in Dillon is nothing but a big Myth. He never wrote anything except a boring account of breach horse births at the turn of the century. The guy’s as phony as an Indian arrowhead found at the Buffalo Jump. As a matter of fact there isn’t even a High Horse University…”

Just at that moment who should walk into the Seedy Bean but...