Thinking Of Self Promotion On Thursday

My friend Matt Potter, one of my top ten favorite mammals, continues to crank out the wonderfulness down there on the other side of Spaceship Earth. Available for sale now (and perfect for gift giving) are the first two volumes of the series '2014', a deeply creative idea that involves a set of interlinking stories, one per day, for the entire year. I am deeply honored to say that the 15th of the month will feature stories by none other than yours truly. It should surprise no one that the stories will include a baseball theme. Continuing to be available is 'Obit', and 'Gorge', and 'Slut', which contain works of mine, and many other works as good or better that do not.

Future endeavors from this corner of the dugout include a book of short stories to be published by that jewel of the Berkshires, Marian Kent's ALLCAPS, and not one but two novels that should be finalized and ready for my adoring public before the Earth crashes into the Sun.

In the world that does not, shockingly, involve me, among the other events of your life, you should make yourself stop in over here if you value heartbreaking clarity and beauty in your blog reading.

And last but not least, my brother from another mother Lance, whose blog continues to be able to beat up my blog, is cranking out novel after novel at a pace that defies good sense, and at a level of quality and sharpness that makes me seethe with envy.

And someday, I may actually write again for simple publication here. Who knows?

VV 100WC: More NaNo-ish goodness

{Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge, who has a slightly better command of the strike zone than Yasiel Puig, offers up "invincible" this week. I reply with another potential NaNo fragment.}















My brother smiled at me as his son tugged on my hand.

"Unca! Come see! Unca! Come see!," the boy kept saying.

"You still with her?," he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

I pictured Em, the red flush coating her cheeks as tears made tiny pale tracks down her face. We had a screaming match before I left, and I wasn't positive I was welcome back.

"Yes," I said.

He looked down at me, as I leaned to one side, his judgment clear, his pride in his perfect family and beautiful house invincible and pure.

"I see," he said.

TWC 100: Another NaNo Fragment

[Those triple threats over at the Trifecta Writing Challenge pose challenge number 100 this week, using the third definition of the word "phantom". This is yet another potential fragment of a novel I may or may not write during November, which is almost certainly going to be held after October.]











Em looked at me, her body rigid with anger. She was arguing with a phantom, a version of me that I couldn't recognize. She thought she knew what I felt. I wasn't sure if she did. I wasn't sure if I did.

"You're just jealous," she spat. Her hands were moving in sharp, controlled movements, like she was working a heavy bag.

"I told you, that's not it," I said.

"I told you the rules," she said. "I told you the rules when we met. This is the way I am. I'm wired this way. I can't be any other way. I can't be the way you want me to be."

"I love you, Em," I said.

"You don't," she said. Her lip curled, and her brow furrowed with effort as she tried to fasten her bra behind her back. "You like me. You like my body. You like being with me. But you don't love me. This is part of me. This is who I am. If you loved me, you would know that."

"I do know that, Em."

"You don't. You don't, or you wouldn't have even said that. You wouldn't ask me the question, because you'd know what the answer would be." She took her dress off its hanger, arranging the green and tan fabric on her arms.

"Em, I just want...,"

"You want what? A picket fence? Two dogs? A daughter and a son? PTA meetings? A fucking minivan?"

I didn't say anything. I half knew this was coming, but that didn't make it any easier to hear. Em lowered the dress over herself, pulling and tugging until the fabric fell the way she wanted. She slipped her bare feet into tan heels, stamping once on each foot, making the dress shimmer.

"I have to go," Em said, turning to leave the bedroom.

"I love you," I said.

All I got in reply was the door slamming shut.

Once More, With Feeling

"Yesterday it was my birthday-

I've hung one more year on the line- 

I should be depressed-

My life's a mess-

But I'm having a good time." 

-Paul Simon 

TWC: NaNo Fragment

[ My three piece and a biscuit ordering friends at the Trifecta Writing Challenge give us a page (the 99th) from the OED, and offer us 99 words to wrap around one of the words thereupon, in honor of the 99th TWC. The following is something that may or may not be a fragment from the novel I may or may not write during National Novel Writing Month, which is absolutely positively happening in November. ]










"A baby?," I said. I could not disguise the disbelief in my voice.

"What?," Em said. She sounded hurt. I winced.

"I don't need to tell you how many ways that's a bad idea," I said.

"I know," she said. I could see the pout on her face, even in the darkness.

"But you want a baby?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You need me to explain?"

"No."

I turned over. Her skin glowed slightly, the light from a power strip on the floor making everything look red.

"A baby with me?," I said.

"Of course," she said.

I swallowed.

100 Word Song: "First Time"

[Our friend Leeroy, who fortunately suffered no ill effects from the government shutdown, and his more biological master Lance present us with the uber heavy "Thunderkiss '65" from White Zombie as this week's 100 Word Song. This story is called "First Time"]

Her palms were sweaty, and she hastily smoothed them on the backs of her thighs. The music was all around her, unrelenting and punishing, the bass making her ribcage rattle. His room was a mad landscape of clothes, papers, books, and everywhere pictures of huge, hairy men who looked like monsters. His voice was in her ear suddenly, his hands at her waist as he guided her towards his bed.

"Isn't this great? It's White Zombie!," he said to her as she tried to pick her way across the floor, her shoes finding spots of floor delicately, her stomach fluttering.

100 WS: "Taylor Grey"

[ Leeroy, our metal music man, and his carbon based pal and acclaimed author Lance, offer "Poor Places" by Wilco as this week's 100 Word Song. This piece is called "Taylor Grey" ]



















She sat on the edge of the bed as if it might explode. His eyes opened.

"Hey," he said weakly. His face was a roadmap of cuts and bruises.

"Hey yourself," she said. "How are you feeling?"

"Like someone beat me up," he said. He tried to smile and managed a wince.

"You're an idiot," she said. "You should have ignored them."

"I could not."

"I can handle myself."

"I know."

"So why? Why take them on?"

"I had to."

"You didn't!," she said. She went to grab him, then stopped.

"Some things can't be allowed to stand," he whispered.

TWC: "Midnight Rambler"

(My friends over at the Trifecta Writing Challenge, who unfortunately put the rent money on Papa's Mustache in the third to complete a quinella and lost it all, present all of Greater Blogistan with a challenge to compose 33 words inspired by the sublime "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones. My contribution, called "Midnight Rambler", follows. )










She watched him, thinking about sin. He washed his hands.

"If you leave, it seals my fate," she said. She was no saint.

"I can't do this alone," she said.

Then he left.

Self Promotion (Slight Return)

Matt Potter, Australia's greatest contribution to world culture since Dave Nilsson and Graeme Lloyd, has for sale a remarkable series of books that inexplicably feature the work of yours truly, most recently "Obit." I am also honored to be a part of the 2014 project, a series of books that will feature a short story a day throughout next year. You can check that series out here.
More regular writing, for good or ill, will appear again soon. Watch this space.

SPE: "Sorry"

(For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, kgwaite gave me this prompt: "Page 44 of your favorite book." I gave Cheney this prompt: " I don't know where I'm going, but I sure know where I've been.")

[And we're back, to quote comic Jonathan Katz. Dozens of you, and by dozens I mean three, have noticed my absence from this here space for around about a month or so. No particular reason for this- I've been busy, but who isn't. I've been depressed, but again, who isn't. But I'm back. Hold your applause.]

{Stealing an idea from someone, naming my favorite book is like naming my favorite breath- it's going to be the next one. I'm going with "A Farewell to Arms", and in my edition, page 44 begins with the taxi driver telling Frederic Henry, "It's better to wear him. That's what it's for," in Chapter 8. So, with a nod and a wink towards this book and also Papa's "Snows of Kilimanjaro", here it is. This is called "Sorry"}









Don't get ahead of your blocking, Coach Parker used to tell me. I used to run too far, getting tackled before the blocks could set up in front, turning an 8 yard gain into four or two because I couldn't wait. "Richter!," he would scream in practice as we panted under the merciless sun. "Can you wait a second for the hole to form, ferchrissakes?" I was staring up into the night, wondering how it was I still hadn't learned.

We were on a night patrol, looking to reinforce and see that an area we had already cleared remained cleared. It was a simple maneuver, walking through the village, staying together, rhetorically showing the flag. We came out the other side, climbing up the side of a small hill, when I could feel that I had walked too far ahead of my unit. As soon as the feeling hit me, I half turned and then felt the slap, a crunch in the lower abdomen like a pure, full speed tackle, before I heard it. I was surprised more than anything, and almost annoyed, and then the world turned over and everything went dark.

She was sitting on the porch when she told me, one of those hot, sweaty nights when it never cools off, no matter how late it gets. She was sitting on the porch, talking in low, soft tones, the anguish clear on the edges. I was standing, leaning on the rail, my sneakers flat between her bare calves and bare feet. I remember her belly, bare and pale, sticking out where her tank top gapped, heaving as she sobbed. I remember her finally finishing, her story sputtering to a stop in front of us, the story that she was so sure changed everything.

I could see that I had fallen, and I could hear the sound of rounds headed both ways. My unit was following procedure, taking cover and trying to drive them off so we could recover the wounded. I tensed to try and get up, and then winced when a hot knife of pain reminded me not to. I could hear the sounds of our weapons, then the tinnier sound of theirs. I could see a trickle of water, not even enough to call it a stream, running below me, along the valley and back towards my men.

She was nervous, tension written across her face, constant worry that I would change my mind and leave. I finally stopped reassuring her as we stood in our finery in front of everyone, her son toddling between us with the rings on a pillow. The day was warm, and the sweat pooled at the small of my back in the tiny white church with the fans that couldn't keep up. I was looking at her, seeing the lines in her face finally dissolve. I knew without doubt that she was the one, and the greatest part of the whole day was watching her see that I meant it.

Her son Benjamin had very solemnly walked up to me after dinner the night before I left. He handed me two popsicle sticks in the shape of a cross with yarn holding them together. "I made this," he said, and I bowed my head. He solemnly came forward and placed the string around my neck. "You wear it when you go," he said, and I had, carrying it with me as it grew tattered and dirty, sweat stained and battered, but always present. I could still reach it with one hand, and I fingered it there in the dirt, listening to the sounds of
my men fighting to reach me, feeling the yarn worn smooth with time.


We were laying together in the night, bodies made wet and slick
with sweat and need in the heat. It was the night before I had to leave. I
was full with the emptiness, the feeling Hemingway used to write about.

"You will come back to me," she said.

"Yes," I said. "Promise."

"And we'll have a baby together?"

"Yes," I said. "If you haven't changed your mind."

"I won't," she said.


I felt my thoughts starting to blur as I waited for help to come. The pain
was a constant background sensation, like a TV playing in another
room. I felt the yarn at the center, where his tiny little hands had
wrapped it tight, and I thought about how tiny and innocent he was
when I left, and how much progress he made every time I could Skype
with them. I tried to listen for the chopper coming, but I couldn't hear it.
There was still too much noise, too much fire coming from the enemy,
and I could picture Benny's little hands behind my neck, and all I could
think was how sorry I was.

SPE: What I Write About When I'm Not Writing About Dr. Seuss

[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, dailyshorts gave me this prompt: "Dr. Seuss is one of my all-time favorite writers.Write a story or poem with Seussian flair." I gave Bewildered Bug this prompt: "You can have it all, just not at the same time and in all the proportions that you may want."-Valerie Jarrett]

(I am having an enormous amount of trouble with this, which is why I decided to call it "What I Write About When I'm Not Writing About Dr. Seuss." I apologize in advance- it's a fine prompt, I just can't do anything with it.)
















I don't have anything against Dr. Seuss. Like virtually everyone who raised an American child in the second half of the twentieth century, I delighted in Mr. Geisel's rhymes, puns, and rhythms. They made reading to a child, which can be a trial to a weary parent, into something almost delightful. Seuss books hit that sweet spot that was so rare in those days, the Pixar nexus of simultaneously having something semi serious to say, while entertaining children and also casting a wink towards the adult in the room. (While simultaneously having visuals that could pass for a mescaline trip.)

According to Wikipedia, which we all know is faultless, Geisel labored over his work, making every element as perfect as it could possibly be. Poets, in my experience, are like that- it's such an exact medium, poets have to labor over every sound, every word, to make sure it is utterly right. Or maybe it's just that good authors do that. The work, in Seuss' case, shows. The remarkable "The Cat In The Hat," with less than 250 different words, yet still a perfectly formed little tale, funny and sweet, tense and lovely, is a great example.

I did what I usually do with the SPE this week, taking the prompt in and letting my subconscious chew on it for a bit. I continued on with my week, tossing the idea back and forth like a dog with a tennis ball, but my brain could only come up with leaden, heavy analogies or simple, blank emptiness. I napped. I meditated. I thought. And still, nothing. This is a fairly new experience for me- generally, ideas gather around me like flies at a picnic. Usually, I can grasp onto something, a phrase, a notion, a funny look the librarian gives me, and construct something around it that addresses the prompt, if only obliquely.

I'm not a poet, as my few attempts at doing so have proven beyond doubt. I don't have the patience for it, the laser like focus, the ability to go over it and over it until it not only scans, but it sings. For reasons that even I don't understand, I have been watching West Wing clips on YouTube this week. One of the clips on there was from something that appeared to be a DVD extra or a documentary. In the clip, Martin Sheen comments that Aaron Sorkin's dialogue does that with "words like musical notes". It carries the action, but also sings with beauty and clarity. I don't have that kind of focus. As my work shows, I'm lucky if I can keep my character's names straight.

I think, in order to write with Seussian flair, you need to have a certain amount of whimsy. At the moment, I am seriously deficient, a dark fog of pessimism that has been lingering around my soul for a while now. I could just need more sleep, or to eat better, or to pray to Zeus ( or perhaps even Seuss ) for inspiration. Maybe I'm just intimidated at the prospect of failure. Or perhaps it's simply that I'm not a very good writer. Whatever the cause, I respectfully decline the invitation to attempt to honor the great man with an imitation this week. I can't do it, and I won't dishonor the Exchange with work that won't exceed even my low standards.

100 Word Song: "After Midnight"

(Everyone's favorite metallic friend Leeroy, and his less logically inclined compadre Lance, offer us Tom Petty, my second favorite Southerner after Lance himself, and his song "Down South", which I had not previously experienced, for this week's 100 Word Song Challenge.)







It was 20 minutes after politeness, deep into the quiet of a sticky night that made sleep impossible. I somehow knew it was him when I heard the knocking.

"Dude," he said softly.

"Laila threw you out?"

"Yeah," he said. He was carrying a small duffel bag with a tan towel looped through the handles.

"You need to crash?"

"Yeah," he said.

I just walked away from the door, leaving him to shut it.

"If you wake the baby..,"

"You'll kick my ass, I know." He locked my front door. "Thanks, man. I owe you."

"Damn right," I said quietly.

VV 100 WC: "Odyssey"

(Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge got three fewer rebounds than Chris Bosh last night, and this week's word is "Odyssey".)





Alyssa wasn't ready. He was nice, and he was kind, and he had a way of looking at you that made you forget how to talk. They had been talking about it, and he had been asking, just bringing it up over and over until she finally said okay just to make him stop. It felt like a culmination, the end of a journey, the logical conclusion of everything that had happened, but she still wasn't ready. She thought about saying something, but she didn't, just letting him finish. The metal letters on the back of the van said "Odyssey".

SPE: Light As The Breeze

[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, kgwaite gave me this prompt: Take any Leonard Cohen song and write a piece incorporating its lyrics in some way. I gave David this prompt: "The arts put man at the center of the universe, whether he belongs there or not." -Kurt Vonnegut]

{The song I selected was Cohen's "Light As The Breeze", which I am ashamed to say I had not heard of until Billy Joel covered it. This story is also explicit, perhaps more so than anything I have ever attempted. So if you get past the warning, and past this note, and you're still offended, to quote Matt Belknap, "That's on you, man."}

(I hasten to add that, obviously, the tragic events in Oklahoma defy description. Truly an annus horribilus for humankind this year.)

[Bonus points if you can identify the other songs referenced in the piece]











She served coffee all afternoon in black pants and shirt, but came out of the back door after closing fresh and clean looking, tangled hair flowing, a light summer dress rippling in the gentle breeze. The dress lent gravity to her curves, brought out her narrow waist and her long, proud thighs, her wide, defiant hips sloping down to her neat, polished flats, her lines smooth and elegant like a race car. She seemed more herself in a dress, more in tune with the universe. She walked up to me, her duffel bag dangling from one hand, swinging with the motion of her walk. She looked like a model in a magazine. She laughed, a gentle high sound like wine glasses clinking.

She twirled in front of me, as if she were on a runway. "You like? It's my sister's."

"Everything about it is a love song," I said.

As soon as we met, I felt like a man carrying a very full glass of water up the stairs, stepping very carefully, desperately afraid of losing my balance. I knew, from the first moment, that I never wanted another, but she was often skittish, despite my constant efforts. Like a nervous kitten, I had to keep reassuring her that things were safe.

She would remark, "I'm constantly braced for the goodbye, because it's all I've ever known."

We walked home together, talking idly about something and nothing. She was by far the greatest conversation partner I had ever known. She listened avidly, paid attention to what you said and always responded intelligently. Along with being as pretty as a sunrise, she was downright pleasant to spend time with, someone I would want to know even if she didn't let me see her with her clothes off.

After dinner, we prepared for bed.

"Aren't you coming?," she said shyly. I was sitting at the end of the bed, looking at her. It was dark, with city noise in the background and reflected bands of headlights chasing each other across our ceiling.

"I am," I said.

I was aware of her, naked, breathing, inches from me. I felt a kind of overwhelming gratitude for her, for the way she made me feel more human. I felt the knowledge of her, my worshipful love threaded with animal lust, filling my chest, leaving me unable to speak. I put one hand on her calf, feeling the striated muscle, the bristle of hair.

"I haven't shaved in a few days," she said.

I whispered, "I know."

I bent low, feeling like a supplicant, gently brushing my lips on her shin, then leaving small kisses in a row, leading up to the slightly toughened skin of her knee. I knew there was a tiny red scar there, where a childhood bike accident had marked her, and my lips found it. I kissed it tenderly.

"What are you doing," she said softly, her words slurring slightly. I didn't answer, because I was sure she knew.

I felt the softer skin of her thighs under my lips. I could smell her. I could taste her. I could detect her sweat, and the citrusy smell of her moisturizer, and the almost salty smell of her holiness. I coveted everything about her, touching her skin with my lips and my eyelashes as I roamed higher. She slid her thighs apart, shivering once as she felt me getting closer to her. Being so close to her was physical, but it was also a spiritual union. I wanted to consume her like an offering, commune with her physical body, praise and give thinks. I thought about that line from the old song, about the delta, and the alpha, and the omega. Delta means change, and triangles represent a trinity.

Her open legs were a triangle, and I kissed gently up each thigh, feeling the womanly fleshiness bend gently under my touch, getting closer and closer to where I wanted to be. I knew the fat was stored to feed a possible pregnancy, and I wondered silently if that lay in our future. Reproduction seemed a miracle beyond my comprehension, but even though she never spoke about it, I knew somewhere in her psyche, the question had to linger. I used my tongue to explore, finding the sweat and the grit that a full day of life left on her skin.

She wasn't making much sound, but I could register her breathing as it quickened, the shifting of her weight as she moved. I loved pleasing her, much more than I loved receiving pleasure, because it felt like a way I could repay the shattering, relentless joy that I felt when I saw her. I was finally there, at the center of her, finding her triangle, parting the waters, exploring and kissing and opening her body's essence up to me like a flower. I dove as deep as I could, enveloped in the smell of her, the realness and the nearness and the wetness covering my face. She never screamed, but she hissed, the air coming between her gritted teeth in huge gulps.

I knew what I needed, and I could tell she was ready and I drank deeply, inhaling her, hitting the spots I knew from experience, gathering into a rhythm of touch and lick and kiss that we had established. I was a pilgrim at her temple, and I served eagerly, and I was rewarded as she bucked and clawed at the sheets, finally gathering in a full body spasm, her hands finally on my hair, finding my jaw and lifting me away from there, bringing me up towards her, finally pulling me close and giving me a long, slow kiss, our bodies sprawled together, side to side, her face reflecting joy and fulfillment as the twitches faded away.

"That was fine," she said, gasping. "But why? Why now?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "Sometimes I just feel like I have to give thanks."

"Well, you're welcome," she said, her voice thick and slow. After a few minutes, I heard her breath slacken into sleep. I smiled into the darkness, watching the lights play on the ceiling.

SPE: What I Heard

[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, kgwaite gave me this prompt: "Run away home". I gave Sinistral Scribblings this prompt: "I'm so tired".]

{I may be completely off the mark here, but this is poetry. I guess? Maybe? Whatever it is, it's called "What I heard.")









What I didn't hear:
"He's no good for you."
"You're too young."
"You're just doing this to spite us."
"He's not going to stop drinking."
"Having a baby won't fix him."
"Watch him? Again?"
"When are you coming back?"

What I heard:
"Why don't you shut up?"
"Get away from me."
"Make that kid stop crying."
"Leave me? You wouldn't dare."
"I only drink when you're bitchy."
"He would be better off without you."
The sound of sirens on the onramp.