The war on April: Chapter 1;Part 2
November 19, 2009
(See PART 1 for beginning)
Tom preferred to watch from on high. He could see the whole of her and imagine theirs was problem of distance, not scale. There was so little time to give he tried to come when her dreams were darkest. He knew he couldn’t give her the peace she deserved; her ache was deep and sweet enough the Haunts and Broken Sídhe would come despite their losses. At most he could bring her a few moments rest and ensure the Night-Things had a horror of their own. He closed his eyes and let the gentle thud of her pulse fill the room; let it buoy him like favored water. Here, adrift, he felt less an island.
Lessons of a sort
November 19, 2009
I often whiff on the obvious lesson of a given situation. There is something in my wiring that seeks motion before efficacy; chasing tangential dandelion puffs of reason past sound conclusion. I become fixated on random and pointlessly specific questions: If I had a mustache and punched that guy in the face would he be angrier than if I was clean shaven? There are vast postulate briar patches of white matter in my brain filled with suspect answers to these questions (yes he would) that I will never be able to make use of, and vast portions of human experience that I have to fake because I never quite got the memo. As an adult this has rarely proven a problem.
The war on April: Chapter 1;Part 1
October 18, 2009
Tom watched the gremlin rope ten fat strands around each hand. The thick ill-proportioned brute coughed from deep in its throat, working up the bile to gum the ropes into an impossible snarl. Tom let his fury build and steady, counting down his pulse until the tremble left his limbs. Tom moved with the cough; the nauseating houaaaaaakkk covering the low shush of boots on blanket. The Gremlins diseased toad neck bulged with phlegm; Tom reached over the gremlins shoulder, pinned his flabby lips shut with one hand, while the other drew a long blade across the Gremlins throat. Before a drop fell Tom had sheathed his blade and pressed a thick rag over the creatures wound: there could be no sign that either had been there. He pulled the awful thing to the floor and made his way back to the garden.
***
Merchant Ivory
October 4, 2009
I’ve been gone a while. My apologies. I went and got myself a job in the field I was speaking of earlier. I’m a personal trainer at a big fancy gym. World class and full of city folk trying obtain that greater self, or reduce that lesser being to an inaudible hum. It’s strange; I am a cross between a salesman, a counselor, and a bloodless plastic surgeon. Strangers pay thousands of dollars to amend the choices they’ve made and the form they’ve been given. They trust that I can make them better.
Implausibly Profane
August 31, 2009
I recently received a submission response [1] from an established Sci-Fi/ Fantasy publisher. It was a reach, but I was hoping more for constructive feedback than I was expecting publication.
A paraphrased excerpt from said response:
The term: Hasidic shit farming Wop was used quite early in the story; this took me out of it. In total you used the word fuck, or some derivative, 51 times in 32 pages: when you factor this with the numerous other profane words and terms, some of which appear to have been created whole cloth for the story, it stretches the boundaries of realistic speech.
I enjoyed much of the story but the profanity was so excessive and the tone so base it continually jarred me from the narrative. You need to consider your readers (and potential publishers) sensibilities when shaping the verbiage of your characters dialogue. Read the rest of this entry »
The Best Man’s Wedding
August 27, 2009
I was recently the Bestman at my friends Jay and Vanessa’s wedding. In lieu of an in depth and respectful accounting of the happiest day in a couple’s life… I give you a photo essay about myself. This wrong of me and I’ll likely die eating cold soup in an abandoned playhouse as a result. Let us begin.
Bristles: Complete
August 21, 2009
Danny was tired. This was not a condition of the moment, rather an institutional policy; a prolonged, preemptive, surrender. He began inauspiciously: his mother claiming him an accident; his father, a deliberate act of spite. He was a bruise, a bad riff, an off hand remark that lingered. He had been inflicted more than born, and found the whole thing exhausting. Until today that was the whole of his story.Today he lost his job.
The War at Home
August 19, 2009
There is a certain cat to person ratio where they cease being an adjunct to human life and begin puttying their own tiles into the domestic mosaic. And not just dictating the agenda, but shaping the culture. My lady friend is currently on sabbatical in the wilds of Delaware, leaving our home and catfolk in my capable (?) hands. For those keeping score at home that is three and one half cats-to-one disheveled and malnourished A.J. The tide turned quickly.
Bristles; The Conclusion
August 11, 2009
(Continued from Chapter 3: Part 1 and Part 2 and Part 3)
A minute into the beating Danny switched to elbows to spare his battered hands; the bottled rage fueled blows hard enough to bust the floorboards under Pete’s head. Or what was left of it. Brawny paws pulled him off his abundantly conquered foe. Danny thrashed against the Panda’s iron hug.
“Jesus, Danny…the rest of your life is not on the other side of his head. You pound him all day…it’s still just one fight” said the Hedgehog.
Danny surveyed the carnage: the two douchey friends were still piled limply against the wall; Pete…well, Pete had seen better days and was unlikely to see worse. The Hedgehog had retrieved his rubber boot and was hopping about the splashy gore.
“We’re going to need to rent a wet-vac.”
The drugs and I
August 9, 2009
As the doctors tell it I have Attention Deficit Disorder. ADD. This is not a new diagnosis. I was tagged as soon as the fad hit in the late 80’s, medicated for a time, and then spent the next twenty years railing against it. I felt blaming my poor decisions on some loosely defined structural flaw was a cop out; a cowardly dodge. I still largely feel this way, but I’ve read enough literature to realize there may be some correctable flaw in my wiring.
I discussed this with my childhood doctor and he suggested a regime of exercise, quality sleep, and daily amphetamine use. The entire consultation lasted ten minutes. It amounted to “Hit this crank and call me in three months”. Curious, but not unexpected.
Bum-bum hair. (A dispiriting true story)
August 4, 2009
On my way home from the gym I stopped at a street light beside a father and his daughter. The father ignored me. The little girl[1], however, locked eyes with me, stared for a few seconds, then raised an accusing finger.
“You have bum-bum hair” she said.
Admittedly I had just finished at the gym so I wasn’t finely coiffed, but not to the point it should elicit cruel personal attacks from preschoolers.
“Pardon me” I asked, thinking maybe I’d misheard her.
Bristles; Chapter 3: Part 3
August 4, 2009
(Continued from Chapter 3: Part 1 and Part 2, Concluded in Part 4)
The doorbell rang again, this time the rapid multiple buzzes of an obnoxious child or asshole boyfriend. Danny’s headache pulsed in time to the beat. The ringer added a thumping baseline by applying his steel toed boots to the doorjamb.
“Open the door you fucking freak! You put a knife in my girlfriend’s dog; I’ll put my fist upside your fucking head!”
Danny glared at the Hedgehog.
“Thanks a lot”.
The Hedgehog smirked, to the extent he could.
“He ain’t looking for me, kid. Keep your chin tucked and try not to lose that ear…I don’t warranty my work”.
So, How is your writing?
July 28, 2009
Someone asked me this weekend
“So how is your writing?”
And I answered fine, like it was some common acquaintance . I actually may have said “fine, I suppose…”, as if we hadn’t spoken in some time and I didn’t want to presume. I didn’t think much of the exchange but over the course of the day the conversation repeated it self in different partners; old friends inquiring about my artistic pursuit. Invariably I layered some distance into my response, some subtle shifting of agency: the work was always It and my role somewhere between passive observer and disinterested pimp.
Bristles; Chapter 3: Part 2
July 17, 2009
(Continued from Chapter 3: Part 1, Continued in Part 3)
Danny laid out the five remaining Tylenol, placing each blue gelcap in line with an accusing tap. One by one he chased them down with a swig of water, stopping between each to glare balefully at the Hedgehog. The half melted Ziploc bag full of ice was applied to his newly reattached ear. The Panda was curled inconsolably under the kitchen table, wracked with guilt over his role in the guerilla surgery. The Hedgehog, who was pacing across the tabletop, showed considerably less remorse.
“Stop being a pussy…if you’d gone to the hospital you’d still be sitting in the waiting room next to some fossil with a busted colostomy bag. I probably saved you ten hours of checking out shit stained pictures of ugly grandkids.”
“You probably gave me fucking rabies or…. leprosy” said Danny.
“Armadillos carry leprosy, not Hedgehogs. And I’m not the one who jerked off after fishing candy out off my neighbor’s garbage…without washing my hands. If anyone was in danger of contracting a disease it was me; you pestilent motherfucker!”
“It was in the recycling, not the garbage; and it was still in the wrapper!” said Danny.
