Thursday, March 18, 2010
As it turns out the skyline of Atlanta is actually forms a spirit conduit to bring back the whole confederate army on the winter solstice 2012. The whole Confederate Army is reincarnated around all of the battlefields in northern Georgia. However the plan backfires and after coming into contact with the amazing luxury of modern living they become assimilated into society. Some get addicted to Nintendo. Others have to go to therapy... some even get into rock n roll music and psychedelics. Even one becomes a politician.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
A couple of friends down on their luck stumble into a bar on a Wednesday to spend their last few bucks on a last beer. Just as they finish their beer when a few old guys come bursting in through the door proclaiming "Drink are on us tonight!"
It turns out the trio is headed by a Powerball winner who hit a 100million dollar jackpot who likes to travel around playing golf, fishing and going to bars and buying everyone drinks.
It turns out the trio is headed by a Powerball winner who hit a 100million dollar jackpot who likes to travel around playing golf, fishing and going to bars and buying everyone drinks.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Of T-Shirts & Sweaty Palms
this is a short story i'm working on currently. has to do w/young love, a box of pornography, and a corpse in the woods. it'll probably wind up being about 6 pages. i love it already. let me know how you like it. i don't usually write any dialogue, but i'm trying to get myself out of that habit. i think conversation can only strengthen your narrative. lemme know.
Francis moved his arm toward Penelope, awkward as a hot wind blowing over a frozen lake. His collar was unbuttoned and he'd taken his shoes off. They were both sitting Indian-style on the forest floor, the asses of their shorts picking up dirt and dead foliage. The cardboard box was still sitting in front of them, same as it had been when they'd fallen upon it.
"I'm still not sure if any of them will be any good," Penelope said.
"Oh, they look dry and that's basically all that counts," Francis began. "And trust me, odds are you'll enjoy it once you see them."
Penelope stared down at the soles of her shoes, legs still crossed. She read them: "KEDS". The branches 30 feet above their heads were twisting and groaning, singing a shock of cold into the summer air. The sunshine hidden almost entirely by the leaves, immense in their own right. The cardbox box filled with pornography sitting between Frank & Penelope, larger still. The sort of discovery that had caused Francis' chest to feel humid under his Thin Lizzy t-shirt. The sort of discovery that filled Penelope with the dread of Francis trying to put his fingers inside of her again, his cock hard and disgusting, his tongue in her mouth.
"Listen Francis, I really don't think I want to watch any of those with you. I need to go home and take a shower. It's been a long day and I didn't wanna come out to the woods with you to begin with. You think I like walking all the way in here, gettin' eaten up by mosquitos and having you try and hold my hand?" Her voice began raising, both cheeks turning red. Francis could feel his scrotum start to warm up, a rush of joy filling him as he saw her exert herself. It took him a moment to realize she was still speaking. "....and I don't want my hand held and I ain't gonna help you lug back that goddamn box of dirty movies, so don't even think I will," she said.
* * *
"Now all we gotta to do is borrow my Uncle Pete's VCR," Francis said an hour later after returning to his parents' house. He was staring straight into Penny's eyes while attempting to hide the video tapes beneath a tarp in the garage. "And I really do think you'll like these in the long run, honey. What sortsa things would you wanna see?" he asked her, failing to hide a smile. She was thinking about what she really wished was on those nasty video tapes. Long, drawn-out, arthouse shots of her walking away from Francis and from his mother's house, and especially away from Fourteen Plates, Vermont. What an awful little place it really was. Nothing but woods and drunk bums and Francis Delmar constantly trying to put his hands up her shirt. When she thought of her ancestors coming to this rat-hole shit-slick excuse for a town, it made her guts go cold with disgust. How could anyone wind up here and like it enough to stay put?
She decided to agree with Francis. She also thought about how it would feel to sew his lips shut. To pluck one of his eyeballs out and place it on display in front of the one she didn't steal. "I guess I'd like to see doggystyle," Penelope lied, feeling more like Penny by the moment.
Francis moved his arm toward Penelope, awkward as a hot wind blowing over a frozen lake. His collar was unbuttoned and he'd taken his shoes off. They were both sitting Indian-style on the forest floor, the asses of their shorts picking up dirt and dead foliage. The cardboard box was still sitting in front of them, same as it had been when they'd fallen upon it.
"I'm still not sure if any of them will be any good," Penelope said.
"Oh, they look dry and that's basically all that counts," Francis began. "And trust me, odds are you'll enjoy it once you see them."
Penelope stared down at the soles of her shoes, legs still crossed. She read them: "KEDS". The branches 30 feet above their heads were twisting and groaning, singing a shock of cold into the summer air. The sunshine hidden almost entirely by the leaves, immense in their own right. The cardbox box filled with pornography sitting between Frank & Penelope, larger still. The sort of discovery that had caused Francis' chest to feel humid under his Thin Lizzy t-shirt. The sort of discovery that filled Penelope with the dread of Francis trying to put his fingers inside of her again, his cock hard and disgusting, his tongue in her mouth.
"Listen Francis, I really don't think I want to watch any of those with you. I need to go home and take a shower. It's been a long day and I didn't wanna come out to the woods with you to begin with. You think I like walking all the way in here, gettin' eaten up by mosquitos and having you try and hold my hand?" Her voice began raising, both cheeks turning red. Francis could feel his scrotum start to warm up, a rush of joy filling him as he saw her exert herself. It took him a moment to realize she was still speaking. "....and I don't want my hand held and I ain't gonna help you lug back that goddamn box of dirty movies, so don't even think I will," she said.
* * *
"Now all we gotta to do is borrow my Uncle Pete's VCR," Francis said an hour later after returning to his parents' house. He was staring straight into Penny's eyes while attempting to hide the video tapes beneath a tarp in the garage. "And I really do think you'll like these in the long run, honey. What sortsa things would you wanna see?" he asked her, failing to hide a smile. She was thinking about what she really wished was on those nasty video tapes. Long, drawn-out, arthouse shots of her walking away from Francis and from his mother's house, and especially away from Fourteen Plates, Vermont. What an awful little place it really was. Nothing but woods and drunk bums and Francis Delmar constantly trying to put his hands up her shirt. When she thought of her ancestors coming to this rat-hole shit-slick excuse for a town, it made her guts go cold with disgust. How could anyone wind up here and like it enough to stay put?
She decided to agree with Francis. She also thought about how it would feel to sew his lips shut. To pluck one of his eyeballs out and place it on display in front of the one she didn't steal. "I guess I'd like to see doggystyle," Penelope lied, feeling more like Penny by the moment.
Friday, March 12, 2010
I think I'm going to start working on the Dirty Sheets idea. I am just going to read you stuff a few times a week and give you some good, well thought out, feedback and I hope you do the same for me. Since my shit will have a million grammatical errors your more than welcome to personally edit my posts and add, change, or do whatever the fuck you want as long as it isn't a huge major change.
Monday, March 8, 2010
onapersonalnote
my favorite musician, mark linkous (sparklehorse), committed suicide saturday. he shot himself in the heart with a gun, in an alleyway near his friend's house.
his music & his words have been with me since 1996.
this loss is graver than that of elliott smith, who i also discovered at age 13 (1996).
and i am terrified that we will see sparklehorse t-shirts on every white-belt skinny-jeans hipster in america. i think that would have been mark's greatest nightmare.
listen & let me know.
his music & his words have been with me since 1996.
this loss is graver than that of elliott smith, who i also discovered at age 13 (1996).
and i am terrified that we will see sparklehorse t-shirts on every white-belt skinny-jeans hipster in america. i think that would have been mark's greatest nightmare.
listen & let me know.
Wretch & Wrench, Bomb & Blister
this cavity is more than the morose four a.m. phonecall
ridicule or a stunted growth in swaddling clothes (or
upset stomachs hammered into literal pieces).
in these ways i am building myself from whicker:
No instantaneous rewind of bottles emptied beneath
a healing clock-moon, a losing dart game aimed to
postpone your last or any call.
I've asked and you have answered with roadmaps.
to quote the somnambulist,
like ten thousand before:
a cavity is often more than bee stings and emptied cribs,
reloads along the ocean's turmoil.
I'll only beg a trick candle on this cake
so eyes scratch hands, a slight startle in our
wrists.
groaning marble gods
carved on top of tinfoil monuments,
duller than
skeleton keys forced into jail-cell doors,
raw as gums that hum and bleed and hysterical
like filled bellies screwed into the awful
pink mess of drunk-for-christmas,
drunk-for-new-year's, lucky-around-now.
A smiling architect plays empty roulette in
the burned out casino of each instant.
My cavity is more like your absence spread over
an hour's width of purpose & the constant follow of
ants toward dust. The slowed misery of a forceful,
opened evening.
Is something like "Come home soon".
ridicule or a stunted growth in swaddling clothes (or
upset stomachs hammered into literal pieces).
in these ways i am building myself from whicker:
No instantaneous rewind of bottles emptied beneath
a healing clock-moon, a losing dart game aimed to
postpone your last or any call.
I've asked and you have answered with roadmaps.
to quote the somnambulist,
like ten thousand before:
a cavity is often more than bee stings and emptied cribs,
reloads along the ocean's turmoil.
I'll only beg a trick candle on this cake
so eyes scratch hands, a slight startle in our
wrists.
groaning marble gods
carved on top of tinfoil monuments,
duller than
skeleton keys forced into jail-cell doors,
raw as gums that hum and bleed and hysterical
like filled bellies screwed into the awful
pink mess of drunk-for-christmas,
drunk-for-new-year's, lucky-around-now.
A smiling architect plays empty roulette in
the burned out casino of each instant.
My cavity is more like your absence spread over
an hour's width of purpose & the constant follow of
ants toward dust. The slowed misery of a forceful,
opened evening.
Is something like "Come home soon".
Statues Covered In Pigeon-Shit
outside of the purpose of this collective, i submit the following, which is a strange beginning, and it will startle me again & again. if you don't know richard brautigan, read on up. please. at one point, his books were lauded by one critic to such a point where said critic theorized one day some people would write "brautigans", such as some write "novellas" or "vignettes". so, here are the very beginnings of my brautigan. try to enjoy.
STATUES COVERED IN PIGEON-SHIT
a brautigan by
(i'm not lookin' for credit)
Part One: In Solitude We Rise Slowly But Surely
When I first met Richard he was a ghost & I thought it was just plain sad. I had been living in Montana less than two weeks and still he had shown his skull as colorful and accurate and honest as was possible for a man or woman in his or her position. He had been eating leftover Swedish fish a lady-friend of mine had stocked away in my nightstand, and then secretly forgotten about, as she had forgotten about me and about the lovely ghost songs I used to sing near her. A lot of people, when they look at me, and they look at what I write, and they look at the books I have published with their spines useless, sore, and separated by indecipherable scents & oddities, realize I must have burned out buildings inside of my brains. The books I have published weigh roughly the same as four or five chickens. I keep chickens, and do not mind having to chop their heads off if it means filling up my guts. Writing is my job and cutting off animals' heads is a hobby of mine and also the late writer Richard Brautigan haunts my house and convinced me to murder my wife about an hour ago. I suppose if it weren't for this set of bad things happening all at once and piling up like dismal stormclouds humming sorrow into my ears, then the haunting and everything else I think it's about time to speak about, well, none of it would matter worth a dime-store shit.
STATUES COVERED IN PIGEON-SHIT
a brautigan by
(i'm not lookin' for credit)
Part One: In Solitude We Rise Slowly But Surely
When I first met Richard he was a ghost & I thought it was just plain sad. I had been living in Montana less than two weeks and still he had shown his skull as colorful and accurate and honest as was possible for a man or woman in his or her position. He had been eating leftover Swedish fish a lady-friend of mine had stocked away in my nightstand, and then secretly forgotten about, as she had forgotten about me and about the lovely ghost songs I used to sing near her. A lot of people, when they look at me, and they look at what I write, and they look at the books I have published with their spines useless, sore, and separated by indecipherable scents & oddities, realize I must have burned out buildings inside of my brains. The books I have published weigh roughly the same as four or five chickens. I keep chickens, and do not mind having to chop their heads off if it means filling up my guts. Writing is my job and cutting off animals' heads is a hobby of mine and also the late writer Richard Brautigan haunts my house and convinced me to murder my wife about an hour ago. I suppose if it weren't for this set of bad things happening all at once and piling up like dismal stormclouds humming sorrow into my ears, then the haunting and everything else I think it's about time to speak about, well, none of it would matter worth a dime-store shit.
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