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.

Realizing my purpose

Tomorrow:

Tomorrow I will make that phone call that I am dreading to make. I have made it several times and have had no answer. I will try again.

Tomorrow I start looking for other work. What I need next is some economy to work with and I have none.

Tomorrow I am going to write. I am going to take my research, my play, and my laptop, and leave the house, and write somewhere. Probably PCJ or The Library.

Tomorrow will eventually be today, and when it is I will not say "Tomorrow I will" again.

There is no point in waiting on yourself. You just have to Be Bold, and take the next step. Life is looking for victims, and I won't be one.

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.

Thanksgiving

Despite having a massive headache, I am determined to write something today, so here it is.

Thanksgiving is a time for a lot of things; food, friends, and family being among them. To be frank I refuse to write a long diatrab about how Thanksgiving is a time to "give thanks" and how it is really about the generosity of one's heart and so on. I know this, and I know everyone else knows this, so I am not going to go there. I could also talk about my family, and trust me there is a LOT to talk about, both good and bad, but I am not going there either. To be honest, I am rather perturbed and disgruntled about everything and its brother in existence at the moment. But. At the same time I am happy to be alive and to be able to complain about it. So instead of being transparently thankful, or ungratefully complaining, I am just going to leave you with an impromptu poem.

The day begins with waking
And continues with baking
It moves on and on
Like the ringing of a gong

When the times comes to eat
None of us take a seat
The food is not done
The cook has unspun

But We all keep on waiting
Not bothering with debating
The cook though does not quit
All along making quite a fit

I watch and I take
and I take and take and take
But eventually, to my dismay
I say something, I really shouldn't say
Something, I think I will remember
At least till the end of November

But as the food is served not long after
I find that this Thanksgiving to be
Just another chapter
For my friends, my family, and me

 Hope everyone had an awesome Thanksgiving! And Try and give your relatives some slack.

Happy Holidays.

Review and discussion of Joe Bunting's "14 Prompts" and a look at The Write Practice

Photo property of thewritepractice.com

Before I started this blog I had never really noticed how many blogs there were out there. If someone had asked me, "Hey, do you read blogs?" I would have said, "No, that is reserved for a special kind of internet vampire and I like the light of day," or something along those lines. I am hoping that my current interest in blogging is not the result of a obsessive, but brief, spark that is doomed to fade. In my efforts to not let that fate transpire I have started looking at other blogs for ideas, and general interesting content. I recently came across The Write Practice blog, which is where the above image came from (I am also attempting to not violate any copy-rights). This blog, founded by a Mr. Joe Bunting, and supported by several others, offers a lot of advice to creative writers, as well as a space for them to practice. I think that is where the "practice" in the blogs name sake comes from. I good guess I'd imagine.

Anyway! To the point. The Write Practice is currently offering a digital copy of the above book titled 14 Prompts, written by Mr. Bunting, for free; all you need to do is subscribe to the blog. I have done just that and just finished reading it through. It is a quick read and offers some authentically helpful pieces of advice along with its 14 prompts.

14 Prompts is a helpful and understanding kind of writing guide with pieces of beautiful and well written prose thrown in. The author encourages readers to participate in a constructive writing environment and offers both this book, and it's parent blog as venues for just that. Bunting makes the logical effort to promote his blog by suggesting that readers of 14 Prompts should respond to its prompts and discussion questions on the blog itself. However, Bunting takes the extra step to, and the thoughtful one, and offers the idea that his book could be used in a small group off the net, and after reading it becomes apparent that was a thought he had in mind during its creation.

The text covers lots of topics and supplies various prompts and discussion questions. Bunting suggests that despite his book of prompts being a very short list, it is an effective list, and means to cultivate more than just seemingly random ideas for the reader.

As I read through the text I took note of several ideas that I personally found useful. The text also touched on the biggest problem I face personally as writer : preoccupation with perfection. The first line of the 14th prompt of Bunting's book is "Perfection is no place for a writer." I feel both comforted and unnerved by this message; one side of my brain thinking, "Oh thank god," and the other awkwardly asking "really?" and neither gaining any ground.  I think that this is a challenge that many writers face, and I know that it can't be easily resolved, if at all, but Bunting's advice reminds me that my preoccupation should really be with writing, and not with perfection. The rest of Bunting's last prompt continues discussing this issue and offers some interesting insight on how to manage it. Definitely worth a look if this is a specific problem you suffer from.

If you have any interest in creative writing I would highly recommend taking a look at, and of course following, Bunting's blog and picking up a copy of his book. What I have covered only scratches the surface and there is plenty of other great advice to be had, as well as a supportive group of like minded individuals to support you.


Pleasant reading.



 

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?