Quick Story

November 30, 2009

And so she made the fractures of her heart into dents: Still present, still remembered, but not deep and paining enough to sag her steps. Her feet would rise and fall slowly with the rhythm of her breathing–But yet they rose…!


November 29, 2009

So I did some storytellin’ the other day. Hit up 7:00 minutes in or so, though the rest of the show’s fun too. I really enjoy this weird magical realism/jazz mode I write in sometimes… If you ever wonder how I thought it up, read Coming Through Slaughter. Incredible book that I could rant about for days, it’s basically a half-truth poetic pseudo-biography of a historically mysterious jazz musician who played before jazz was called jazz. But yeah! Here:

Click here, Mr. saxophone player.

(Falls a little short, but eh! Fun to write.)

The Grumplelump

There lives a creature in Karimakoo,
Where the Grinkles eat grapleleaves and honeydew
And the Crickleups frolick all night and all day,
But this poor creature, the Grumplelump, does not get to play,
Instead, he sleeps sadly, all forlorn and upcurled,
For on his back sits the rest of the world.

“Righteous Days”

November 28, 2009

(OR: Fun with attempts at cliche-less dialogue and making up colloquialisms!)

“So I’m on the shop shift the other day, right? Nobody comes in all day, surprise, it’s a wonder that Lee still lets the place stay open. But yeah, so I sit around and let the place sit still with me, read some of the magazines, that sorta stuff–”
“Get the damn story out, Johnny!”
“I’m getting, I’m getting! Right, so, sittin’ there, and about an hour before the place dies the daily death, and good spirit up high, this kid walks in!”
“Kid! It’s crazy! I mean, I get some old creeps every now and then, chah, but a kid! In the shop! I barely knew how to sit! I mean, my mind ain’t quiet around kids in the first place, couldn’t really understand ’em after I stopped bein’ one, chah, but here! The shop ain’t really decent enough to be a playground, catch?”
“Catch, yeah, but what, you chase him out the chimney or somethin’?”
“Nah, nah, I let him wander the place a little first. Didn’t really know how to dig for a split tick, but then I guessed I could just let him go off and see the shop around, chah? So he goes off around the place.”
“And then he…?”
“And then he comes up to the marbletop counter holding an old violin he cropped off one of the shelves and goes, ‘Pretty crap shop y’got here, oldskin.'”
“Crap shop!”
“Crap shop!”
“Kid had some spikes on his back, he did!”
“Crap shop! Spikes! I mean, I ain’t proud of the place, chah, it ain’t even my spot to be proud of, but just callin’ it like that! Kid had spikes to the ears! Little bastard! So I give him a stare for a tick and soon enough ask him why he thought it was a crap shop. He goes, ‘Got nothin’ here that ain’t got a dust coat.’ I tell him that’s the sort of deal that gets hunted for around here. And he runs off his mouth, ‘Ain’t a deal if it’s a deal fer nothin’s worth.'”
“Y’hit him, right?”
“I tried, chah, but the kid dodged, dropped the damn violin to the ground (it didn’t get any more bent up, ‘least that) and ran down for outside’s safety. I fired down after him yelling death and curses like a black siren, already thinkin’ how I could grab his hair and brand his cheek red with my palm, but he hopped one of the broken windows and made off down the horizon like a jackrabbit on ice.”
“So I stayed grounded for a tick or two, real thoughtful in my little world, and soon then went back in to the counter. And would you know it?”
“What’d I know?”
“Kid left a shoe. Ran clean out of it.”
“A shoe! Ha, put it on a shelf and stick a number on it.”
“Think I will, chah. Kid gave me some merchandise for my worries, hah!”
“Hah! Man, Johnny, for a guy with a dead-boring gig…”
“I catch that, man. I catch.”
“Hah… ‘crap shop’. …Hah!”
“‘Crap shop.'”

Starting back up soon!

November 26, 2009

Probably this weekend. Oh snap. Here’s a random poem to tide you over when someone told me to write about anything:

“Anything”, you say! Oh, what poet’s plight is this?
To such an end, there’s none! Like asking a lover
To choose their partner from all the world that they know not!
The mere work makes me grasp around–
A flower! A soul! Some dream, or crooked streetlight,
Some tower that stands to be made symbolic,
Some reason with words to sulk or frolic,
Aie! Give me the curve of the Earth to write upon,
And my words shall not be visible in worldly scope,
Though at least, perhaps, to a kinder, smaller wanderer,
A passerby, who will see such a grandly sighted poem,
etched on a rock by the road, and wonder.