I read my own writing and laugh.
Sometimes I don’t understand it (syntax),
Sometimes I think it’s funny,
Sometimes I can’t believe Continue reading Is it cool to love your life?
Marcus Darwell played with the sugar pot. He had this game where he lifted the top of the pot and dropped it back down so it fit snugly into its mold. When he acheived a perfect landing, he’d drop the top from a higher point. He was doing pretty well; all things considered. The pot was old. It had lines along the grooves like wrinkles. Me and the sugar pot. He wondered how the lines got on the sugar pot. Water? Too many wash cycles? Pets, different owners, careless children. Continue reading The Deal
Open relationship where couple is permitted to have sex with other people who have disabilities.
This is something I wrote back on February 3rd 2005.
“Well, Blood Vermington. Seems you’ve botched up another, haven’t you? The Slovaks are crawling down my neck. The Hungarians, breathing down my back. And the Poles would like to know why two of their best operatives were found glued to the Trinity Bell in Town Square, naked. Now I will not swallow the tarny for you this time. The King and Queen want answers and they want them yesterday. This is on your head, Blood! Continue reading Blood Vermington
The guy at my deli watched me walk in and walk out of his store. He’s changed things. There is a salad bar. The doors are now modern floor to ceiling glass. The sign is no longer scribbled on black, but bright white. He watched me walk out of his store and smiled saying “Okay, boss,” and I detoured down the road to the pizza place not twenty yards down. I ordered a pepperoni pizza and a cannoli (no chocolate chips). I looked behind me and saw a girl in a booth. She had black marks all the way up her leg and her hands and elbows were stained in black. It seemed she had been run over by a car. Her boyfriend dumped a plate of mushroom pizza in front of her—which did nothing but sit there—as he dug into his all dressed, deep dish. She leaned her head against the brick wall. Continue reading I’m thirty four
I don’t know that I feel like enjoying myself any longer. I am perpetually questioning if what I did was worth doing. It’s an internal critic that started in my head, only there when I write. (Something out of my comfort zone.) Now it’s there when buy a pretzel from a guy on the streets. I hope to one day this, and that, and one day, one day…
I could lose, you know. I don’t think I ever thought about that till now.
THE KING was a mess. He was alive and his wife was dead and he couldn’t help but feel not the least bit bad about it.
“I must be a terrible person,” thought the King, as he sat amongst the garden sipping tea. The King had just sunk his teeth into a new book, Get Them Before They Get You, written by the notorious writer and murderer, Samir Black. Samir wrote the book during his time spent in prison. It took him one year to finish, and he wished it took him longer because he was serving out a life sentence.
“I wish I knew about more subjects,” Samir would complain.
The King wanted desperately to know about Samir’s ideology of attacking first. It was the only thing that gave him comfort in these uneasy times. The books three main principles fell out easy:
1. Hit first and with no mercy.
2. Love no one.
3. If you fall in love, go to rule number one.
Flipping through Continue reading Unused Material: fairy tale
“I have two opposing bits of writing advice. The first is from Alexander Pope’s “An Essay on Criticism”: “True ease in Writing comes from Art not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance.” The second bit of advice is expressed a little less loftily by some lines I read many years ago as an undergraduate, and cannot now find an author to credit: “The goose who laid the golden egg died looking up its crotch, to find out how its sphincter worked. Would you write well, don’t watch.” Craft is simply a matter of hard work, what John Gardner rightly calls ridiculously hard work. Inspiration is a matter of keeping your ass planted in your writing chair. It will not happen if, when the muse descends on your desk, you are down at the bar telling people you’re a writer.”
– Vic Sizemore
She asked if she knew me from somewhere else; I said no, and that I don’t forget faces. She leaned in close, putting her lips on my neck, her nose on my neck, and took a deep breath. She liked the way I smell, and repeated what she said about me having good energy. I said it was because someone loves me. She hesitated—when I asked if she lived around here. She said yes—and asked if I had a girlfriend. I said yes—and that I live right up the street. She said she had to work later, and what was once attractive and appealing, became languid and stiff. She hung around my space in the park, looking like one of those people that go to funerals not knowing the deceased. Then got up, moved to her blanket, took off her top, and began tanning again—only this time she didn’t look pretty to me at all.
Tim looked up at me from his glass of bordeaux, “How old is your son?” Three, I said. He mentioned his was ten, and that it goes by so fast. I agreed. I told him my son doesn’t like to brush his teeth. He said, “I practically have to hold him down so he’ll finish his homework.” I said I was the same way and Tim confessed the same. I asked how often he gets to see his child and he said it was a strange question, and how often do I get to see mine. I said, “Two days,” and that the child was not actually mine. Tim said, “Two days are better than no days.” I agreed, and admitted I have a hard time waking him up in the morning, and that sometimes I just scream. “Don’t scream at a fucking three year old,” he said. I began talking about preschool, but he finished his drink, got up and walked away.
In the cup that Claire Morgan was drinking out of was hot black coffee. On the outside of the cup it read WORLDS BEST MOM and Clarie could not stop thinking about whether the waiter chose the cup specifically for her. She was a regular. She knew her waiters name (Michael or Richard). Holding her egg and cheese croissant, the bacon twisted it’s way onto the outer portion of the sandwich, and taking her first bite—it fell. ‘He’s seen me in here with a couple guys,’ she thought—wiping her chin. ‘Is he making a joke of my promiscuity. Continue reading Claire Morgan And Her Damn Coffee Cup