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