I once read...

I once read, from a small comic a friend gave to me I believe, that a writer will write regardless of the circumstances. It doesn't matter if you are a coal miner who must give up his precious few hours of desperately needed sleep, you will write if you are a writer. I found that disconcerting. I do not feel that way. I can go for days without writing, and most of my stories are content to sit in my head for quite some time before they come out.

Well, this is me saying I HAVE HAD ENOUGH!!!

I started this blog to showcase my writing, and I find that I am still not doing enough writing for my liking. I have weird hangups about damn near everything in my life, and writing is one of them, but damn it all I am done! I am going to write. At this moment I am mentally angling myself towards my play, and am getting an uneasy feeling about it. I recently decided to finish it, so in this vein I went back and reread what I have already written. I think its good. Too good. To the point where I can not believe that I wrote it. I feel that way about everything I write that isn't total trash. If it isn't trash somebody else must have wrote it because my thoughts can't be that coherent or that interesting.

I probably sound like I am some self serving pretentious mad man that just rambles on and on, or I might sound perfectly normal and be incredibly self deprecating and overly critical. I HAVE NO IDEA!

I just need to move. Step by step. Word by word. I know this. I know nothing is first perfect, and that if we are lucky it will be last excellent, but never first perfect.

I do apologize for my musings here, but hey, it is my blog I will write what I want on it.

If anyone is curious as to why there is a picture of Starry Night on this post it is because I like it. Van Gogh is one of my favorite artists, and probably the only one that I would name if asked that kind of question. My brain can wander freely like it is listening to a piece of classical music when I am looking a Van Gogh.

Grrr argh. Ramble. Sputter. Chaos. Destruction.

Yeah, all that business.

Coherent writing will begin again tomorrow. One way or another.

Good Night.

Flash Fiction: The Zoo

This was an exercise in 2nd person narrative writing. Comments welcome.

The Zoo

Yes. Yes. Yes. You can feed the monkeys. What. The sign? No. No. No. You cant feed the monkeys. Because the sign says you cant. What? You want to leave? But we just got here. Quit pouting. You know your mother will be angry with me if you say you didn't have fun at the Zoo. She will think that I didn't actually take you to the Zoo and left you at her mothers house, yes grandmas house. Your mother will think that I went and did something that I actually wanted to do, instead of taking you to the Zoo.

No. No. No I didn't say that I didn't want to come to the Zoo with you. I brought you hear didn't I? Yes. Yes. Yes I love you, don't think that because I do not want to be hear means I do not want to be here. What? That makes perfect sense. How would you know you are five. Alright tell you what we will get some Ice cream and you can watch the polar bears swim.

What do Polar bears eat? They eat seals normally but they are probably being fed steak right now, lucky  bastards. No I didn't say bastards. What I didn't say – Whoa look at that bear dive!

I know that you didn't want to see the Polar bears you wanted to see the monkeys, but you did see them. What? up close? You can't get too close they might bite your nose off. Yes. Yes. Yes. You would not have a nose if you got to close to them. You see that sign? It says the nose biting monkeys. Wait. What? You can  read? You are like five how can you read that sign? Hooked on phonics? What is that some kind of brain drug or something? You didn't just say “How would I know I am five?,” do not get smart with me I will – hey hunny!

I thought you were meeting us at the restaurant. What? But I wanted to. But I. But I. But I. Yes I know what no means but. No buts huh. Well this has turned into a fucking fantastic day. What? I do not care if he hears me. The kid is going to figure it out sooner or – OUCH!

You didn’t have to slap me.

Flash Fiction: Seeing

Image property of Alessandro Pautasso. Check out his work at his website.

Seeing

I was running so fast that I didn’t notice the neighbor’s dog was laying at the top of the last set of stairs going out of my apartment building. He didn’t move when I stepped down causing me to go ass over teacups. I went end over end until I got to the bottom and cracked my head off the concrete floor.

It has been three weeks since I woke up blind in the hospital after my fall. Well, the doctors call it blind, and it’s true that I can’t see how I used to, but my life has actually become more interesting sense the fall. It is so strange, but now when I hear words I do not just hear them. When I hear a word I taste it, smell it, feel it, and see it, but it is not the normal kind of seeing. I see the word in shades, splashes, and flecks of color. I hear the word bicycle and brilliant slashes of green and yellow flood my mind, along with the taste of grass and fresh air. Someone mentions an apple and I can taste it as if I had just bit into one. The word warm makes me feel, well, warm! The doctors call it Synesthesia, but I call it seeing, although, it doesn’t always make sense. 

My brother was walking me up to my apartment one day when I heard the neighbor kid say ice cream and I tasted sausage and garlic.  My father came over to the my apartment to check up on me and when he said that I should move back home with him and my mother, the word “move” felt like icicles running down my legs. The day that my girlfriend said the word “blind” and the phrase “doesn’t matter,” I tasted at first chalk and vinegar, and then sweet plums, and my vision went from a mass of dark blues and grays to violent violets and reds.

Sometimes the feelings change, but after three weeks the only way I can describe how all my senses react to the word “dog” is absolute and profound happiness, with a hint of sunshine on skin, and the taste of raspberry sorbet.

Flash Fiction: From The Golden Key

Illustration property of Claudia Bettinardi. Follow this link to her blog for some great illustrations

The following piece is again something I wrote some time ago. I actually had to go digging through some files to find this one. It is a kind of rewriting / response to one of the Grimm fairy tales known as The Golden Key. I encourage you to read the original version after reading mine; if only so that you can be angry with me. Cheers! Comments always welcome.

From The Golden Key

By John Little

For hundreds of years I have waited. Sense a time long ago that I can not quite remember, I have been laying in this field. I have watched the all the stars shift, ever so slightly, around the dark horizon. I have seen every color of the sun at least twice. I have spoken to every creature from mole to mouse and badger to bear. Every animal enjoys my company, but has no idea of my use. They lack the appropriate digits to make use of me. The crows like my shine and the rats like my texture. A raven once thought to take me to his nest, but I begged him to leave me be. He agreed but he would visit me every day until his death. That was several decades ago. I have sunk deeper into my doom. These things I see anymore only as memories, not as realities. Cold, it is so very cold. It must be winter. Snow. Dark. Now Light. I see light. Little hands, such cold little hands. What is this?  A boy?  A beggar boy at that. He seems cold and hungry. I would surmise that what lies in my chest would make him a happier lad. If he saw to take good care of me I would grant him such a pleasure. I shall guide him to home. Yes. Yes the keyhole is right, there, got it! Now all you need do is turn and find what is inside, my little shivering savior.

Flash Fiction : Ragtime

I have been determined to post something every day. I am still counting today as yesterday, since this day just started for me. This story is a little more poetic in its style than my other one's have been, but a change of pace is always nice. I wrote this quite a while ago, and it is based on a story I heard about a man named Ragtime. Comments welcome.

 Ragtime

You don’t expect to go when you are small. What can you do when you’re small?

I was the brain. My two brothers were the brawn. They went, and I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t think I would go.

 I thought I would get special treatment, being smart. I thought I was gonna be the “go to” guy. I was wrong.

I was like everyone else.

I could run. I could jump. I could crawl. So they took me.

They taught us how to shoot. How to get shot. How to die. How to not die. All important stuff.

Back then they only had two real requirements. Are you healthy? Yes. Can you lift more than fifty pounds above your head. Yes.

Go.

I couldn’t lift that much above my head. I barely got it to my chest. They said that was good enough and pushed me through.

Shots. Shots. Shots. Not liquor. Needles.

When we got there I ran. Like everybody else. I ran. I ran, I jumped, I crawled. I also ducked. I ducked a lot.

Everybody liked music then. Not that people don’t like it now, but we really liked music. We would match it to our heart’s to slow the world down. When we weren’t listening we felt it anyway. A guy would leave and walk like slow jazz, he would come running back to ragtime.

I remember the first one. They all laughed when I could fit. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t running. At first I thought it was freedom.

Tunnels aren’t freedom.

Firing a gun in there was like putting a cherry bomb in your ear. It hurt. Almost as much as it did the other guy. Almost.

I learned to swim in earth. They called me fish. I called them bastards.

Tunnels weren’t freedom, but they gave me leave.

I went down, with ten guys waiting for me to return. I came back and they were none. Blind. Deaf. Dumb. And cold. They were none.

I pulled out a radio and called support. I heard ragtime in the background.

After a while. It’s all ragtime.

Flash fiction : When I was Young

A friend of mine pointed out to me that I have a massive backlog of already written work, and that I should start posting some of it. Hope you enjoy and feel free to leave comments.

When I was young…

I am telling you Jenny, he doesn’t know how to do anything, not a damned thing. He forgets where he put his hearing aid even though he always puts it in the same place. I know where he puts it because it is always in the same place. Right by the…the…the…could you let that cat out dear? Yes, we always let the cat out at night. Ever sense Monty died back in 92 there hasn’t been no fool animal around to chase the cat. We must have told Monty a hundred times if we told him once not to chase the cat, but did he remember? No. He never remembered. Reminds, me, he forgets to feed the animals too. If it weren’t for me they would never get fed, poor old Monty would keel over after three days. You know, I bet Monty would probably eat Smokey right up, granted he would get a chunk of him even if he weren’t hungry. Where is Smokey anyway? That kitten gets himself into more trouble than a fox in a hen house. Running here and running there, pouncing. He always likes to pounce, pounce, pounce, on everything in sight. It has been hell keeping Monty away from him. I almost regret the day that he brought him home. That tiny little fuzz-ball wasn’t more than a few days old, so small we had to feed it with an eyedropper. Where is that old Tomcat now? You let him out didn’t you? I think he has been out long enough. Let him back in.

Funny. He is usually sitting right there. Oh well, he probably found a mouse. Filthy pests. I remember when he said he would put out traps and clear out the mice toot sweet. He isn’t even middle aged yet and he is forgetting things all the time, maybe it isn’t forgetfulness, just false promises. You listen to me now! Never make a false promise! Never forget a promise! You make enough of those or forget enough times and your word becomes a sieve! A sieve! Won’t hold no water. You hear! You hear!

You…Jenny, have you seen your father’s hearing aid? He said that he lost his hearing aide, I haven’t seen it either. I always tell him that I don’t know where he puts his things, he should leave them somewhere he can remember. Damned fool, I remember when I first met him, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, came right up to me and said, “Hello Miss, my name is…is…is…is…”… Jenny? Have you seen your father?