Writing started

And now, as my "free time" is about to be drastically curtailed, I have been inspired to start writing.

It's a story I've been kicking around for a few months. I started writing it today when I became impatient while waiting for someone. I haven't put out much yet - fewer than 750 words, though that is trimmed down a bit from what I initially wrote. That's just the opening written out. I know where I'm going with the climax and the conclusion. What I'm missing in the middle is a good description of a place the likes of which I haven't been to in close to twenty years. I can fake it to an extent, but I think at some point I'm going to make some really dumb statement that will throw the reader familiar with places like this right out of the story. So, only one thing to do: field research.

But I think that field research will have to wait until I am drawing a paycheck again.

Tumbling into Thanksgiving

I start a new job next Monday. This week I'm trying to cram in a lot of things, since I'm looking at ten weeks of inflexible training - no opportunity for time off. So I've been running my mom to appointments, and running one of our cats to appointments, and on Wednesday I'll be taking the car in for its annual inspection. The inspection is due in January, but I would only be able to get it done on weekends in January, and our preferred mechanic is only available Monday through Friday. Fortunately, a January inspection can be done in November, so Wednesday it is. (Besides, if there is some special work that needs to be done, I have time to get it done before the inspection expires.)

I have a story that I repost every Thanksgiving, and this year will be no different. I have another story that I wrote years ago that is ostensibly a Christmas story, but is actually set just before Thanksgiving. It's a satire about the "keep Christ in Christmas" movement, but many of the satirical elements are dangerously close to coming true - if they haven't already. I've never posted that story to this blog, and don't know if that will happen anytime soon.

I haven't written anything of significance in a while, in part for the same reasons I couldn't possibly take on the work-at-home position offered to me as our old workplace was shutting down. I don't foresee these reasons going away anytime soon, and may possibly get worse after I'm once again gainfully employed. But I will try. I'm reading some inspirational material right now - "Storyteller" by Kate Wilhelm - and will get to see one of my favorite local poets in just a few days, so we'll see if the dark spirit of creativity will once again settle over me like a shroud.

Beans, grass, and NEPA Gothic

I made my fifteen bean soup today. I've made it once before, then bought a second bag, which is just a whole bunch of different types of beans and a smoked ham flavoring packet. Last night I spotted it in the clearance section of the local supermarket, so I bought four more. Frankly, it looks more appetizing as the raw beans than the finished soup, which is mostly a gray-brown mush. But it tastes pretty good, and is good for you.

After having a lunch of fifteen bean soup, I mowed the lawn at my mom's house. This is a fairly big task, and I was able to do it all in one push with no breaks except to empty the grass catcher, scrape the grass out that was clogging the deck, and add more gas. This was because for the first time this season the temperature was cool and the grass was dry. Few things make lawn mowing more of a tedious, exhausting chore than high temperatures and wet grass.

While I was mowing the lawn I developed a story idea into a full-fledged NEPA Gothic horror story. I have long found Northeastern Pennsylvania sadly lacking in legends and traditions. The native tribes whose names we have adopted for local places were mostly just passing through, using the area for hunting and fishing but not living here year-round like they did in upstate New York or in Delaware (as did the Nentego tribe, arguably the coolest and most badass of all, from whom my hometown of Nanticoke takes its name), and many of the myths and legends of the immigrants who came to this area were lost several generations ago.  So I am trying to spin my own legendarium from elemental forces, native animals, embodiments of the terrain. Even if these spirits were able to come to some accommodation with the natives who lived (or at least walked, swam, hunted, danced, and sang) here for thousands of years, and with the newcomers who have made their own homes here for hundreds, how did they react to the rise of industry, of coal mining, steel production, the laying of railroad tracks? And what do they think of fracking and all the changes it has brought to the area?

The problem is, the central villain of the story (who eventually gets his comeuppance) is an excessively foul-mouthed, abusive S.O.B. He's based, not surprisingly, on someone I know in real life. (Well, not exactly "real" or "life", but close enough, and too close.) I'm trying to reign in his nasty mouth without destroying his speech patterns, and also trying to dial back his cosmic justice to something not quite so graphically horrible. If I can get through this, it may be the key to writing several other stories in a similar vein.

Magical Realism

There's an open mic at Adezzo in Scranton tentatively scheduled for Wednesday, October 31 - Halloween. I haven't been to an open mic at Adezzo in several months, since my previous shift ended. (I had Wednesdays and Thursdays off, so a Wednesday open mic worked out great for me.) I'm hoping to get a new job quickly, but I don't think I'll be starting before November, so I'm hoping I'll be able to get to this open mic.

But what to read? I have several candidate pieces in mind, mostly from 2013 - I wrote a lot when I was in a writing group, a lot more than I have since the writing group folded. Most of them fall into the genre of "Magical Realism" - realistic settings with supernatural elements. One is straightforward science fiction.

Performance Review - My "devil story." Based on a guy in the writing group who made a point of trying to sleep with every woman under 25 who showed interest in the group - and had some success in his efforts. (Or he managed to drive away many of the women he was unsuccessful with, which was his secondary goal.) I posited a character who is irresistible to women because he sold his soul to the devil. But what does the devil get out of the deal?

The Writer's Imp - Every writer has a voice that tells them they're not good enough, their writing sucks, that they should just give up. What if that voice proposed an alternative, guiding the writer to success? What would be the price of that success?

One Friday Evening in a Parking Lot - Based on a true story. It involves a psychic cat. Some aspects of the story were slightly fictionalized.

A Simple Trade - Aliens have come to Earth. They want to eat people, but they don't want to go through the bother of catching their own people to eat. They present a bargain beneficial to all involved - except the people who get eaten, of course.

I enjoyed writing short stories in the Magical Realism genre. The rules of the story have to be internally consistent (unless the absence of consistent rules is the point of the story), but otherwise the goal is to mesh your imagination with the constraints of the real world. I have a few more stories in this genre in the works. I really need to start writing more.

New story seed

Frackers. Strippers. The supernatural. Justice.

May actually need to do some research for this.

Call for submissions to Word Fountain!

You - yes, you - have a poem or a story in you. Share it with the world, and become a published author! Word Fountain is the literary magazine of the Osterhout Free Library of Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. They accept submissions from all over the world. Submissions for the next issue will be accepted from September 24 through October 29. From the Word Fountain website, wordfountain.net:

We have an engaged local and regional audience, and thanks to our internet presence, a growing national and global readership as well. We are committed to featuring writers from Northeast Pennsylvania along with poets and storytellers from all over the state, the country, and around the globe. We particularly enjoy showcasing talented new and emerging writers right alongside those with experience and previous publication.

Submission guidelines for Word Fountain

So, put pen to paper,* or fingers to keyboard, hack and slash, revise, revise, revise, and when you've had enough and are ready to throw the whole thing into the fire, submit to Word Fountain!


*Only electronic submissions are accepted. So, when you're done, type it up and send it in per the submission guidelines.

Weekend

Today I experienced something that I haven't seen in a long time: a day off from work followed by another day off from work.

I actually had to be at my workplace physically today to meet with a representative from Unemployment to address preliminary questions. Because of the timing of the termination of our employment, income from this quarter - my best quarter in all the time I have been working there - won't be factored into my unemployment compensation. Still, I've been able to pay a lot of bills, and squirrel away some money for the future.

One question that was touched upon was: why have I chosen not to pursue the work-from-home option being offered by the campaign I'm currently working on? I gave the 500-meter answer: that my current living situation makes it impossible. Had they pressed the question - and the rep indicated that they might at some point in the future - I might have elaborated that I am living with a soon-to-be-85-year-old mother who, while very capable of taking care of herself while I am at work, can be somewhat less independent when she knows I am nearby. We are often told about the importance of "work-life balance," but all that goes out the window when your workplace and your home occupy the same space.

My particular situation aside, how presumptuous is it to expect that every employee is going to be able to take on the responsibilities of having a work-from-home job: creating the dedicated workspace that can be isolated from the rest of the home, building a strict do-not-disturb wall between you and anyone else at home, taking on the roles of facility maintenance and I.T., and absorbing all the overhead expenses - electricity, heat, rent - normally borne by the employer.

Besides, since long before we were advised a few weeks ago of this upcoming change to our employment situation, I've been toying with a vaguely science-fiction-y story involving a work-from-home travel agent. So, see, I've got a prior conflict...

There's a story about that...

I just went through a list of synopses of stories I plan on writing, stories that have been kicking around for a while. Halfway through I thought,"Damn, I'd really like to read these stories." Then I remembered I have to write them first.

I have - well, I haven't had in a while, but let me go on - recurring dreams of flying. It's a common enough theme, and I believe is supposed to indicate some sexual frustration or something like that. In my dreams, though, I'm not really flying, more sort of slowly and gently floating. Like, I can kick off, from a standing position, and float to the ceiling, and then navigate to the other side of the room. Sometimes in dreams I use this as a way to cross the street. It takes more time than the usual way of crossing, but it is a bit more fun and surprising.

I had a notion to incorporate this into a short story: an everyday schlub leads a frustratingly uninteresting life, full of demands and expectation and low on fulfillment. But into the humdrum routine of his life he introduces a newfound ability to fly - well, float - that he mainly does only when no one is looking. (Except when he does it to battle bad guys and save the day, but they're usually too unconscious when he's done with them to say anything.) The old demands and expectations are still there, and are increasingly not being met, but he is feeling a new sense of fulfillment from his fantasies of flying.

Then I realized I was just reimagining O. Henry's The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, mixed with the character played by Christopher Walken in the "Weapon of Choice" video. Realizing how unoriginal my idea was was totally a "Simpsons Did It" moment.

A while back science fiction author David Brin announced an idea for effectively weaponizing this. TASAT - "There's a Story about That" - is an organization devoted to calling on the collective brainpower of readers everywhere to approach novel problems and situations by recalling analogous stories and sharing relevant approaches and resolutions. Basically, whatever weirdness the universe and society throw at us, odds are someone has already written a story that addresses similar problems and solutions. Ironically, or at least recursively, when he posted about this effort I had just finished re-reading "The Alien Way" by Gordon R. Dickson, in which a naturalist with a specialization in the behavior of bears is able to recall and painstakingly track down a relevant scholarly article that helps him to understand the social psychology of an alien race and avert an invasion. There are millions of stories out there, filled with tens of millions of ideas, and hundreds of millions of people who have read these stories. How many problems will we face in the future that have already been described and dealt with in stories, some so old and obscure that only a few people have read them? We may be glad to learn that the problem we are facing is nothing new under the sun, that someone already imagined it, and a solution to it - and someone else remembers that problem and how it was dealt with. When the time comes, will the voices of those people be heard?

Preparing for the June 16, 2018 Writers' Showcase

I'm trying to decide what to include in my readings for the Writers' Showcase on June 16, 2018. Last time I picked out several poems and two short stories, then read them aloud while timing myself and realized that I would easily exceed any reasonable time limit. I dropped one of the short stories and one or two of the poems, and brought my set in roughly in the allocated time.

I want to present the poem and short story that have been published in the Spring/Summer 2018 edition of Word Fountain, and maybe one or both of the poems from previous issues. I was thinking of including another short story, but that might drag things out too much. There's an older poem I want to include, as a sort of counterpoint to a poem that one of the readers at the last Writers' Showcase presented. I may also read something that's probably pretty inadvisable.

I really want to avoid repeating myself, despite a strong urge to perform "dancer" again. Fortunately I kept a record of everything I presented during my February 2016 set.

Come on out to Scranton's Olde Brick Theater on Saturday, June 16 if you can!

                                                                                

   

Story seeds

I mentioned in a previous post that I have some story ideas bouncing around that I have never really worked on. I decided to sketch them out in a post on my secret writing blog, just one- or two-sentence summaries that will help me remember the stories in case I forget. At this moment I have seven of these story summaries jotted down - I keep remembering stories that have been on the back burner for months, or even years. Now that I am thinking about these stories again, ideas for fleshing them out are coming to me. Best of all: ideas and details that don't quite fit one story can possibly be made to fit another! Some of these stories may even get combined, or may be made to fit into a single, unified story world, with consistent details of society, politics, and the state of the economy.

Remember, you have two chances to hear me read some of my stories and poems in the next few weeks! On Thursday, May 31 I'll be reading at the release party for the Spring/Summer 2016 edition of the literary magazine Word Fountain at the Osterhout Library, 71 South Franklin Street in Wilkes-Barre, PA starting at 6:00 PM.

Then on Saturday, June 16 I will be one of the featured readers at the Writers' Showcase Summer Edition, held from 7:00 PM - 9:00 PM at the Olde Brick Theatre at 126 West Market Street (rear entrance, over the bridge) in Scranton, PA. Admission is $4.00, and refreshments will be provided.

I hope to see you at either or both of these events!

Stories and writing

The story I wrote that will be published in the Spring/Summer 2018 edition of Word Fountain, the literary magazine of the Osterhout Library, came to me almost-but-not-quite fully formed three years ago, back when I was meeting with the remnants of my old writing group at Zummo's Cafe on the east side of Scranton in the months following the closing of The Vintage, our old home base. (The group did not survive the closing very long.) I knew what the story was about; I knew who the main character was, and what he did, and what happened to him in the end. I just didn't know how to tell it. I kept writing sketches that would show, not tell, but were taking the story in directions that ultimately didn't get the story told. In the end I did an exercise that I've found useful when editing images: I asked myself, what is this story about? Anything that didn't help to get the point across had to go. I slashed and burned, cut out long passages scenes I had lovingly written, and started over, again and again. In the end I had something I was happy with, and submitted it. On May 31, 2018 you can hear me read it at the Word Fountain Release Party at 6:00 PM at the Osterhout Library in Wilkes-Barre.

I have two - three - four stories that are in the works. Three of them are "reality turned up to 11" stories: one about the music industry, another about the travel business, a third about the increasingly broad chasm in sexual attitudes between men of a certain mindset and women of a certain other mindset. A fourth is a fantasy, an attempt to weave mythology into the mythology-deficient landscape of Northeastern Pennsylvania, inspired by and influenced by Robert Holdstock's Mythago Wood and Neil Gaiman's American Gods. I've been having a hard time trying to find the right point of view for this story. I think I've found it, but it's a point of view I have absolutely no right to take, one that will require an imaginative projection into - well, into being someone completely different from myself.

I stopped at the Mill Memorial Library's book sale last week and hit the jackpot: I got a paperback copy of Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere for  just a few pennies. (I paid three dollars for that, a hardback copy of Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan's Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, a third book whose identity escapes me, and a National Geographic magazine all about Mars. I could also have picked up a great many advanced texts on quantum physics, which led me to wonder who the hell had owned those books originally and how they came to be part of the library sale.) Reading the first two chapters terrified me: was my fantasy story plagiarizing a Neil Gaiman story I had never read? But soon the story diverged from what I had in mind. I haven't finished it yet. We'll see where it goes.

Readings from the February 27, 2016 Writers' Showcase (plus bonus material!)

These are the pieces I presented at the Winter edition of the Writers' Showcase on February 27, 2016. Most of them have been slightly revised and edited from previous versions. I have also included some bonus material that I had to cut for reasons of time. Enjoy!

Poem: Love Anyway 

It was pieces like this that gave me a reputation as a love poet. When I originally presented it, it was sandwiched between two poems presented by other poets of the "waaah, somebody broke my heart, life sucks, all is despair" variety. The host of the reading actually pointed out the contrast.

This poem was written for me, and addressed to me. I quote it to myself often. I need to be reminded of the things I said here.

You stand there like a clown in a spotlight without a broom
because you love her
more than you can say,
more than you have ever loved anyone else,
more than anyone has ever loved anyone else,
and she does not love you

She loves him
and he has no poetry in his soul

Love her anyway
even if she will never love you

Because the opposite of love is not hate
the opposite of love is not indifference
the opposite of love is resentment
bitterness and anger at being denied that which you know you deserve
that which is given freely to one so undeserving

Love becomes you in a way resentment does not
love is not the answer
love isn't even the question
love simply is

Love her anyway
because you love her
and whether she loves you or not
or continues to love him
him, the one with no poetry in his soul.
you will have loved greatly and grandly and without hope of reward
and the universe will have become a better place for it

So take off the greasepaint
and the shabby hat
forget the broom
step out of the spotlight
put aside the resentment
and love her anyway.


Poem: blossom

That poem and a few others like it gave me a reputation as a love poet. I tried to break out of this stereotype and escape the pigeonhole by focusing on some other themes. Nature, for example.

The following is a true story.

I saw a black blossom floating in a bird bath once
it had red and pink petals spreading out in the water
and a long pink stem behind
and, on closer inspection, little feet attached to little legs
and I realized it wasn't a blossom at all
but the back half of a rodent
a mouse, or rat, or (as I would later determine)
a vole, a cute chubby little creature with a fondness for the cocoa hulls
I was using to mulch my blueberries.

It had been going about its vole-ish business one day
when some keen-eyed bird spotted it
a hawk, most likely
and snatched it up to have it for lunch
But the rodent struggled mightily, fighting for its life,
forcing the bird to expend energy just to hold onto this bit of food
and in the end it decided that half a vole was better than none
and it bit the vole in two, flying off with the still-struggling front
and leaving the back to fall into a birdbath
where its guts spread out like red and pink petals in the water
and its tail stretched out like a stem
and it floated there, waiting for me to find it


Story: Sunset and Shadow

This story was first written down longhand in a small blue notebook in July 2013. It was based on what would have been actual events, a planned date from back in 2010. I never actually met the person this story was written about in person until late 2011. She disappeared in late 2012, and I spent quite a bit of time trying to find her again. I finally did, toward the end of 2013, by which time I had written and rewritten this story several times. 

We get together early on a Saturday afternoon in late January in a bookstore.  Seeing Lori in person after all our conversations online is something of a shock, finally realizing just how far apart we are in age. She is small and pixie-ish, with bleached white hair and eyes so dark they might be black. Her skin is pale and her face is alive and shining.  She is dressed in a sort of Salvation Army chic, in a green prairie skirt and frilly cream blouse that hide her tiny figure, wrapped in a black wool jacket with shoulder pads that would look preposterous on anyone else. A black beret, a scarf that might be a keffiyeh, and chunky black boots.  I know she is a brilliant writer just from what she had put in her ad, and the stories I've found on her blog confirm this. She looks like a giddy little girl, but her writing has a darkness and maturity that say there is much more to her.

I wonder how I look to her. I think I look close enough to the photos I posted on my site, as she does to hers. But I really don't know what she sees with those big, dark eyes.

We drink hot chai and talk about writing, and our favorite authors, and our biggest influences. I ask her about school but she doesn't want to talk about it much. She pries a few stories from me about my days in college, a quarter of a century ago.

We have been talking for well over an hour and haven't made any plans for the rest of the day. When she excuses herself to use the bathroom I order a strawberry parfait, something that looks like one of the things she has posted on her blog. Lori returns to our table and one of the staff brings it over in a tall glass with two long spoons.  After dessert we wander the bookstore for a while, pointing out books and authors to each other. I find an annotated edition of one of her favorite books and offer to buy it for her, but she takes it from me and insists she will pay for it herself. Fine, I say, taking the other copy from the shelf, laughing. Now we will both have one.

We exit the bookstore holding our identical purchases and step into the icy late-afternoon air.  I suggest we could drive around and continue our conversation. A glance at the clouds smeared across the western sky gives me an idea. The sun will be setting in an hour or so, and I know a spot where it will put on a beautiful display. For a moment I think she might not want to go, or might want to take her own car, wherever her car is. But she agrees and we both get into mine.

The sun is dipping behind the clouds as we drive. We are heading west, so the sun is mostly in front of us. Even through my sunglasses I can see the sun-dogs forming, mock suns positioned on either side of the real one, produced by the sort of ice crystals present in certain clouds. I point them out to Lori, and she pulls out her phone - wrapped in a Hello Kitty case - and takes a picture. Her thumbs fly as she types something on to the screen in a way I can't even begin to emulate. And then she does something else - posts the picture online, to her blog or Facebook or somewhere. I feel the generation gap yawning between us.

I have to maneuver a bit to get where I want us to be, but finally we get there. It is a steel truss bridge, more than seventy years old but still safe and sturdy enough to bear the traffic that crosses it. I had made it collapse once, in one of my stories, plunging dozens of cars and their drivers into the river below. We writers wield such power.

"Here?" she asks, as we park in a dirt lot at one end of the bridge. Her tone says she isn't afraid, just curious.

"Not here," I reply. "On the bridge. About halfway across we'll have a great view of the sunset."

She gets out of the car, pushing her beret down with one hand and clutching her book with the other. The bag crackles like it is threatening to shatter. I am glad we are both dressed for the weather. It gets cold on the bridge in winter. Cold, and windy.

As we step onto the walkway Lori looks up, then around. "You've taken pictures here," she says. "The ice on the river, and the shadows on the ice."

"Yep," I say. I posted those photos half a year before I met her online. She has done her homework, reading my old blogs.

We walk out two hundred and fifty feet, or so - I've always been bad at estimating distances. Cars pass by once in a while, clattering and banging over the deck plates of the bridge, but the drivers don't even notice us.

The sun hasn't started its show yet.

"Here is good," I say. Across the deck and through the girders and cables we can see downriver . The Susquehanna flows from east to west along this stretch, so we have a relatively clear view of the sunset. The sun is sinking behind an old, disused railroad bridge and over the trees and rolling hills that edge one bank. The scene is reflected in the river below, where water flows between great broken sheets of ice.

But none of that is what I want to show her.

"There," I say, looking but not pointing. "Above the sun. Do you see that patch of light pointing straight up, almost like a candle flame? Unless I'm reading the clouds wrong, that's going to stretch out into a sun pillar."

She looks at the bright white blur on the western horizon. The sun moves lower and lower behind the clouds. As the minutes pass the column of light above the sun stretches up, and up, looking like a biblical pillar of fire. It gradually deepens to orange and then red as the sun sinks lower on the horizon.

Lori slides the handle of the bag from the bookstore over her wrist, raises her Hello Kitty camera and snaps a few more pictures. "I've never seen that before," she says.

"Most people haven't," I reply, and immediately realize I have relegated her to the realm of "most people." "Sun pillars aren't that common, so they don't happen with every sunset. And we're all so busy, how often do you get to watch a sunset?" I say, trying to recover.

"'How many more times will you watch the full moon rise?'" she says, quoting The Sheltering Sky. "'Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.'" Or maybe she is quoting Brandon Lee's quote of The Sheltering Sky. He was dead shortly after that interview.

"There's something else," I say. "Turn around. Look east."

A beautiful soft pink glow stretches across the eastern sky, just above the horizon. Above it, the sky is only a little darker than it had been a few minutes ago. Below it, the sky is a dark blue-gray above the cold Susquehanna.

"What is that?" Lori asks, raising her phone to take another picture.

"It's called the Belt of Venus," I tell her. "The pink glow is the light of every sunset that's happening just beyond the horizon. The sunlight reddens as it passes through the thickest part of the atmosphere. We're seeing that red sunlight reflected back at us."

"And the dark part?"

"That's the shadow of the Earth. The Earth is casting a shadow through its own atmosphere. It'll rise, higher and higher, and become night."

She taps some more information into her phone. I find that habit almost annoying. I want her to be here now, but she is busy sharing each moment with the world.

I've been standing beside her, on her left as we watched the sunset, on her right when we turned to watch the light show in the east. But as we watch and talk, I move behind her.

Lori is short, nearly a  foot shorter than me. I place my hands on her shoulders, on those ridiculous shoulder pads, Then I gradually slide them across so I am hugging her from behind, each hand on her opposite shoulder.

We stand like that in silence for a few minutes. A car drives past.  I barely notice it.  The wind blows a bit from behind us, but I shield Lori from the chill. We watch the colors in the eastern sky rise and begin to darken and fade.

"So what would you like to do next?" I ask.

She turns to face me, breaking my hold. She puts her phone back in her coat pocket, but the book in its crinkly beige bag still hangs from her wrist. She looks up at me, her nearly-black eyes looking into mine.

Lori reaches up and clutches the lapels of my black longcoat. She tugs me down gently, stands on the toes of her boots, and kisses me on the cheek.

"You're very sweet," she says. Continuing to stare at me, she adds "Thank you for the sunset, and the shadow. But I have to go now."

I am dumbstruck. Crestfallen. And a million other words that only apply in such a situation. Finally I speak. "I'll drive you back to the bookstore, if that's what you want."

She smiles and shakes her head. "I have a ride."

The car that drove past us is stopped at the end of the bridge, next to mine.

"Goodbye," she says. She releases her grip on my coat and slides her hands slowly down my chest, stopping briefly to take my hands in hers. Then she lets go, turns, and walks briskly to the waiting vehicle.

Lori gets to the end of the bridge, opens the door to the waiting car, and gets in. I can't tell if she looks back at me. Maybe she waves.

The car drives off and I am left alone on the bridge, as the last traces of sunset fade from the sky.


We never did watch the sun set from the Nanticoke-West Nanticoke bridge, which is where the climax of this story is set, but we drove across it many times. She's moved on with her life now. A part of me is still on that bridge, watching the tail lights fade.

Last year I stood on this bridge in late January, which is when this story is set, and I thought to myself: Goddamn, it's cold up here. Those two would have frozen to death pretty quickly.

Poem: dancer

When one muse leaves, sometimes you spend years looking for another. Sometimes you latch onto the nearest candidate who fits the bill to serve as your new muse. And sometimes surprising things happen as a result. 


Don't look at her.

OK, look, but don't touch
those are the rules
just give her a dollar and let her go

She dances
in a schoolgirl's outfit
plaid skirt, white blouse, necktie
high heels
and a garter

and when she dances
does she remember twirling in front of a mirror
a hairbrush for a microphone
lip-syncing to the radio?

Now she dances on a smoky stage
smiling down on perverts and skeeves and hungry-eyed men
men who wonder what she tastes like
men who wonder how much she costs

She's not for sale.  You can't buy her.
That smile isn't for you.
This isn't her. This is just something she does for money.
It doesn't define her. Don't think
you can sum her up in a single word.

She's not for sale
but twenty-five dollars buys you a private dance
five minutes alone with her
Look, but don't touch,
she can touch you, but you can't touch her
those are the rules
And don't think it means anything. It doesn't.
That smile isn't for you.

When she counts her tips in-between sets
does she remember sitting on the floor in her communion dress
counting the dollars from all her cards
dreaming about the things she would buy with that money?

Don't judge her. You have no right.
You don't know her. You know nothing about her.
This isn't her. This is just something she does for money.

Back on the stage
she struts to the beat
for the perverts and skeeves and hungry-eyed men
she twirls around the pole
wearing nothing but high heels
and a garter
and a smile

That smile isn't for you. She's not for sale.
Look, but don't touch.
You have no right to judge.
This isn't her.
This doesn't define her.
You don't know her.
You know nothing about her.

That smile isn't for me.
I don't know her.
I know nothing about her.

*BONUS MATERIAL!*

Here's the brief biography I submitted to host Brian Fanelli:

Harold Jenkins double-majored in Physics and Philosophy at the University of Scranton, where his poetic efforts were thwarted by a professor who struck through every line of his submission for the literary quarterly and then admitted she had no idea what a "Mayfly" was, anyway. He spent twenty years in industry before taking up writing again. In late 2011 he accidentally encountered the Northeastern Pennsylvania Writers' Collective  at the Vintage Theater - twice - and decided to join them. With their encouragement and feedback he refined his skills as a short story writer and began writing poetry again, presenting his work at open mics throughout Northeastern Pennsylvania. Many of his poems and short stories can be found on his blog, Another Monkey (anothermonkey.blogspot.com.)


Poem: the Mayflies

This is the poem alluded to in my bio. It was written in 1987 or so, for the Esprit, the University of Scranton's literary quarterly. It was inspired by times I would spend waiting on the top floor of St. Thomas Hall for an early-afternoon class to start. The class started at an odd time, so when I stood there I could look down on the Commons below and across to the now-demolished-and-replaced Student Center. As the hour approached, I could see students scurrying from the dining halls and across the Commons to get to their classes. Every day I noticed the same pattern: A trickle of early students who had distant classes or wanted to get to class early, gradually increasing to the main crush of students all trying to get from here to there at the same time. The crush tailed off, and then - every time - a few stragglers would rush out of the Student Center, frantically trying to get to class on time. Not always the same students, but usually the same number of students running as the time before.

It made me think about how human behavior could be statistically described. Sure, we like to imagine we have free will, and as individuals we don't necessarily perform the same actions in predictable ways. But when viewed as a whole, a group of people operating under certain conditions will tend to repeat the same patterns to within a certain level of predictability, even if the individuals doing the specific actions change from run to run.


to the floodlight of statistical probability We are drawn
to singe Our wings and worry not
and We live but for a day
doing much and learning little
and those that come after Us
will remember Us
as We recall the hollow husks that were Us yesterday


The adviser for the quarterly called me into her office to review my submission. She had crossed out and "corrected" all of my e.e. cummings-esque nonstandard capitalization. (Apparently she had not noticed that the only capitalized words outside of the title - which started with an uncapitalized "the" - were self-referential pronouns.) She also changed the words in every line, crossing out the last one completely and replacing it with "We remember the dead." After going over these changes she looked at me and said "And what the heck is a Mayfly, anyway?" Realizing what I was up against, I withdrew my submission.


Poem: What I want

Another love poem. Fairly popular. I never knew what to say in the first line, though.

You ask me what I want to do
So I tell you:
I want to make love to you until the last stars burn out
I want to dance with you in the snow under flickering auroras
I want to sing Leonard Cohen with you while we stand on a bridge
and watch the sun set
I want to eat you up, body and soul,
make every part of you a part of me.
And I want to go bowling
and play miniature golf,
Love, honor, obey
protect and serve
live happily ever after
from this day forward
'til death do us part
and then for a few eternities more

And maybe you're just asking me where I'd like to go for lunch
but you asked me what I want to do
So I'm telling you.


Story: One Friday Evening in a Parking Lot

A true story. This actually happened, mostly, on the night of April 19, 2013. Some bits have been slightly punched-up. I'll let you figure out what those are.

As I pulled into the supermarket parking lot a bedraggled orange cat dashed through my headlight beams. It looked wet - it had been pouring just an hour before, and the asphalt glistened in the darkness.. I parked my car and headed for the entrance. Ice cream, I thought. Belgian Waffle mix.

Hey, could you get me something while you're in there? a voice said.

I stopped, looked around. There was no one else in the lot. Nothing but some cars and the wet cat now sheltering in a cart corral.

I'm hungry, came the voice again. Couldja get me a can of something?

The cat was staring at me.

I hadn't had much to drink that night. Two beers, part of a third. Not enough to get me drunk. I turned to continue into the store.

Something nice, the voice said, fainter now. Not that store brand crap.

I was a little unnerved as I grabbed a cart. I didn't need a full-sized cart, but I didn't feel like carrying around containers of ice cream in my hands. I got two cartons of Rocky Road, still on sale, the one and a half quart size. I began to search for the aisle with pancake syrup. Find the syrup, and the waffle mix might be nearby.

I stopped at the pet food aisle.

That cat did look hungry. Maybe it would still be outside.

I found a can of the stuff my cats like. Just one can. If the cat was still out there, I'd give it to him. If not, my cats would eat it.

A few minutes later I headed to the checkout. Two containers of Rocky Road ice cream. One box of Belgian Waffle mix. One can of cat food. Nearly ten o'clock on a Friday night. I wondered what the high school girl behind the register thought.

As I walked to my car I looked over at the cart corral. The orange cat was still there, staring at me.

Didja get it? a voice asked.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the can of cat food. I began to open it as I walked past my car towards the cat.

Just leave it and go, the voice said. The cat backed away as I approached.

I pulled the lid off the can, set can and lid on the pavement, and took a few steps back.

The cat scrambled over to the can and took a few tentative nibbles, then began to gobble away.

Oh, damn, this is good, I heard, muffled.

The cat stopped and looked up at me.

Well, whaddya want? Go away. I'm eating.

I kept watching. The cat arched its back slightly.

Seriously. Go away. I'll hurt you if you stay.

I took another step back. The cat continued to stare at me, then began eating again, more warily.

We were done here. I headed back to my car. I wanted to go home, maybe have some ice cream.

Hey, came a voice as I got back into my car. Thanks. Thank you for the food.

I tossed my bag on the passenger seat, started the car and pulled out of the lot. As I drove away I looked at the cart corral one last time. I could see the cat still there, eating.

I went home and had some ice cream.


Story: Performance Review

Besides a soul, what does the devil get out of making a deal with someone? I decided to explore that question in this story. It was actually based on two very toxic people I knew, both of whom were in a writing group with me. One was someone who, despite being a) married and b) a total asshole, made it a point to try to sleep with every young, attractive woman who joined our group  - and usually left shortly after being subjected to his attentions. The sad part is, he was occasionally successful. The other was another total asshole, this one a vile narcissist - imagine Donald Trump minus the hair and the money. His behavior during a post-reading double-date of sorts with him and his then-girlfriend, during which he pried incessantly into the personal details of the friend I had just brought back into our group after a long absence, and was tediously annoying to the waitress at the Waffle House, inspired some of the dialogue and characteristics of the handler in this story. (After repeated warnings, my friend eventually lashed out at him, rendering him speechless, which is quite an accomplishment.)

This story was requested by a friend at the last Writers' Showcase, but it alone would use up my allotted time, so I had to shelve it.


I dress by the dim gray light of dawn coming through the closed drapes of the hotel room. Sara is still asleep. I don't bother to kiss her goodbye. I have no intention of seeing her again. I pull out my wallet and toss a few twenties onto the nightstand near her head. She doesn't need the money, but neither do I. Maybe I just want to make her feel like a whore.

I pull on my jacket and notice a vibration from my phone. I take it out and read the message:

COME MEET YOUR GRAMPA AT THE SILVER QUEEN. 7:30 - A

My grandfather has been dead for over twenty years. Algolagnus has a sick sense of humor.


I recognize him as soon as I enter the crowded diner. I barely knew him as a boy, but have vivid memories of his laugh, and his voice, and the crushing grip of his handshake. He looks up at me - the thing wearing his face looks up at me - and smiles broadly. "Jimmy, my boy, it's been too long!" he roars, loud enough to be heard across the room. "Come join me for some breakfast!"

I slip into the booth across from my handler. He doesn't have any food in front of him, not yet, but he has a newspaper and a huge mug of coffee. The empty sugar packets scattered on the sticky table show it wasn't his first.

"What do you want?" I ask the demon.

My grandfather's face smiles, but the flesh ripples slightly, as though being seen through water. "Jimmy, is that any way to talk to your dear departed grandfather in public? Let's not make a scene. As far as these good people know, we're just having a friendly breakfast together." He pushes a menu toward me. "So how was the little slut you had last night?"

"That's none of your damned business," I say, even though I know that that is exactly wrong.

Algolagnus laughs hollowly, not at all like my grandfather's deep, barking laugh. "Of course it is," he says. "Everything you do is my business, until the day you die and we collect on your contract. She looked pretty. She's well-connected, you know. Her husband is a very important man." He daubs at his mouth with a napkin. "Very involved in social circles, charitable work. Sit up straight, here comes the waitress. Make a good impression."

The waitress is young, pretty. Nice tits, big eyes, blonde hair disheveled in the cutest way. Her hips say she might have had a kid. No ring on her finger, thank God, or whoever.

"Hello again, Meghan-with-an-H," the horror sitting across from me says jovially. He turns to me. "Spells it in the authentic Irish way, dontcha know. Isn't that something!" He turns back to her. "This fine young gentleman is my nephew Jimmy I was telling you about. He's decided to join me for breakfast. Would you be so kind as to take his order?"


"Sure. What would you like?" she asks, in a voice that is sweetness and innocence and sunshine. She is possibly falling in love with me already.

"Bacon and eggs, over easy," I say, not looking up from my menu. "White toast, light, with butter."

"Coffee?"

Yes, I think, coffee would be good right now. I glance at the demon's feast across from me. He doesn't care much for food, but goes mad for coffee. He once confided to me that the goatherd who discovered coffee had made a deal of his own, one that had resulted in centuries of misery for his descendants. Everything has a price.

"No," I reply. "Grapefruit juice, please."

"I'm so sorry, we're fresh out. Is orange juice OK?"

Of course you are, I think. "Yes, that will be fine," I tell her.

"Be right out," she says. Looking at my "grandfather" - well, I guess he's my "uncle" now - she asks "Are you sure I can't get you anything, honey?"

"Just some more coffee, and maybe a slice of that cherry pie. No point in watching my figure at my age!" He laughs a counterfeit of my grandfather's laugh. She takes down his order and slips away.

"She likes you," he hisses at me. "Play your cards right and you'll be banging Meghan-with-an-H as soon as her shift's over."

"Maybe I don't feel like it," I say. "Maybe I'm tired of this game."

"You can quit any time you like," he says through a tight grin. "We'll just collect immediately."

The world behind Algolagnus falls away like a dropped curtain. My grandfather's face fades, replaced by something that is shaped all wrong, with lopsided tusks and horns and eyes out of a nightmare, half-seen through a greasy smear. I smell the sweet odor of maggots. I taste rotten potatoes. I hear babies tossed on bonfires. I feel the embrace of a dinosaur's teeth on my chest.

And then...nothing. Nothing at all. No sight, no sound, no smell, no taste, no touch. Nothing. Utter nothingness..

Nothing but an endless longing for something that will never come.

The vision fades. My grandfather smiles at me from across the booth.

"You ready for that, boy?" he asks. "Or do you want to keep screwing whores who find you irresistible?"

I shake my head. This isn't what I had bargained for. I had no idea what I was getting into. I was drunk when I made my deal with the devil, and while that may get you out of a marriage, it doesn't apply in this situation.

"What's the point?" I ask. "What's the goddamned point? How do you benefit from me getting laid?"

Allgolagnus grinned, took a deep sip of coffee. "Jimmy, my boy. You don't get it. It's not about the screwing. It's not even about you. You're an agent of misery. You're helping to maximize the overall suffering in this godforsaken world."

"By getting laid?" I ask. "By screwing a different woman every night if I want?"

"You just see them as things that you fuck. You don't get it that they're people too, with their own lives and hopes and dreams. And relationships, don't forget that. Look sharp, here comes Meghan-with-an-H again."

We both sit up straight as Meghan lays out our breakfast in front of us, and refills my demonic handler's coffee mug. She gives me a little smile as she leaves us to our meal. Dammit.

Once she's out of earshot, Algolagnus continues. "Like that one that you nailed last night. What was that, your third time with her? She's married, don't you give a shit?"

"She's married to a total bastard. A lawyer. A shark. She's just a trophy wife to him. What, are you lecturing me on morality?"


He chuckles as he takes a forkful of pie. "So what? Just because she's a trophy, you think he doesn't care? Sure he does. He cared enough to have her followed. He'll be getting the report in a little bit. In an hour and twelve minutes he'll take a shotgun to that faithless whore's guts. She won't die, not right away. She'll suffer for a while. Long enough for him to regret what he did. Long enough for him to get caught - red-handed, as they say. Caught and arrested and put on trial. But don't worry, somehow your identity will remain a mystery. You'll get to go on with the next one, and the next one, and the next one."

I put down my fork. "Why?" I say. "Why her?"

He laughs again, a derisive, mocking laugh. "You dumb shit, you think this is about her? She's nothing. It's like I told you. Her husband may be a bastard, a shark, but he's involved in the community. He's behind a lot of charity work, social services, crap like that. When he takes that shotgun to his wife, he'll be blasting away all that stuff, too. The net misery in the world will increase by a whole lot as that network of charities falls apart. It's all already in motion. No way of stopping it. All thanks to you."

I sit and watch my bacon and eggs get cold.

"So what about this next one?" I ask. "I presume you're setting me up with the waitress next."


"Heh, that's up to you, boyo. I don't give a shit whose life you destroy next. But destroy you will. Meghan-with-an-H one has a kid, eighteen months old. She lives with her grandmother, an honest-to-god-for-reals grandmother. Maybe you'll give her the clap, like that high school chick a few months ago - wrecked her reputation, you know. Maybe you'll just knock her up. Maybe she'll decide she wants to go back to her party life, ditch the kid and her grandmother. Whatever. It won't end well."

He sits back and pulls out a pocket watch, just like the one my grandfather used to have. "Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but you aren't my only account. Better be moving on. Pay the pretty lady, will you? You'll find your wallet is fat again. Try not to spend it all in one place."

He stands up, pulls out a hat of a style that hadn't been worn since Kennedy's time. "Give sweet little Meghan-with-an-H my love. Repeatedly." He smiles at his little joke. "You'll be hearing from me in a week or two. Maybe we'll hit a club some Saturday night." He winks, turns, and walks out of the diner. I wonder how much longer he'll keep wearing my grandfather's body.

Meghan comes to check on us, sees that my "uncle" is gone, sees that I have barely touched my food. I ask her for the check, as coldly and impolitely as I could.

I wonder about Sara. How long does she have? Can I save her? Algolagnus said there's nothing I can do to stop her husband from shooting her. Did he lie? I know where she lives, know what her husband looks like. Is there time?

Meghan comes back with the check, and another slip of paper. Her number, maybe. I take the check, stuff the other paper into my pocket without looking at it.

Meghan is raising a kid on less than minimum wage supplemented with tips. Probably taking care of her grandmother, too. I pull out my wallet. It is stuffed with twenties, tens, and fives. Algolagnus makes sure I am well-funded.

I pull out a couple of twenties and tuck them under my plate. She can use the money.

No.

I take back the twenties and reach into another pocket for change. I find what I am looking for. Pennies. Two of them. An ancient insult. I put them prominently on the table, where anyone can see. Meghan will be crushed. She gave us good service. She deserves a tip. Needs a tip. She will hate me for this.

No again.

I scoop up the pennies, empty my wallet onto the table, take back enough to pay for the meal and cab fare to Sara's home. I discreetly hide the bills under a plate. I don't need the money, but Meghan does.

I pay the bill and head out the door without looking back for her reaction.


Maybe it really is too late to do anything about Sara's husband. Maybe her fate is sealed, and his as well. Maybe she will be killed regardless of what happens next. Maybe nothing I can do will change any of that.

But maybe I haven't screwed up Meghan's life yet. And maybe, if I can convince Sara's husband to shoot me, too, maybe I'll never get the chance.


Fun fact: Shortly after I presented this story for the first time, I saw a man in Sam's Club who looked exactly like my grandfather, and was even wearing a suit that would have been stylish in Kennedy's day. He was walking by as I was exiting the checkouts, and didn't look at me or acknowledge me in any way. So I guess it wasn't a supernatural entity sent to warn me off writing these stories. Maybe.

Oh, the devil in the story is named after the practice of algolagnia, a sexual paraphilia in which pleasure is derived from the application of painful stimulus to the erogenous zones. See, I saved you from having to look that up. You're welcome. 

Writers' Showcase THIS SATURDAY!

The Winter edition of the Writers' Showcase is THIS SATURDAY, February 27, 2016 from 7:00 PM to 9:00 PM! It will take place at The Old Brick Theatre, 126 West Market Street in Scranton, Pennsylvania from 7:00 PM - 9:00 PM. Admission is $4.00. Readings will include poetry and prose.  The other featured readers will be David J. Bauman, Mason Crawford, Jason Allen, and Alicia Grega.

If you can't make it, fret not - I intend to post the pieces I will be reading here, as well as some bonus material. But I would absolutely love to see you there!

Writers' Showcase, February 27, 2016

On Saturday, February 27 I will be one of the featured readers at the Winter edition of the Writers' Showcase. It will take place at The Old Brick Theatre, 126 W Market Street in Scranton, Pennsylvania from 7:00 PM - 9:00 PM. Admission is $4.00. Readings will include poetry and prose. I will be debuting a brand-new poem that night. Come on out and see (and hear) us!

poster by Alicia Grega

Facebook event page for The Writers' Showcase Winter Edition
Facebook page for The Writers' Showcase

Characters and plots, in writing and life

I'm a writer. Sort of. I've written quite a bit. Once upon a time my writing was mostly confined to personal communications, intended for one person at a time. Then I became a blogger, and my writing became a sort of journaling intended to be shared with the general public.  After a few years of that, I began to start flexing my fiction-writing muscles. Then I got involved with a now-defunct writing group and decided to try my hand at poetry, something I hadn't done since college.

I haven't been writing much lately. I've been doing other things, some of which I can't really talk about - though if I could, they'd make great (yet preposterously unbelievable) stories. (I may turn one of them into an opera, if I can ever connect with anyone who knows anything about opera. It's full of heroes, villains, sacrifice, love, violence, and death. Needs music, I suppose.)

Through it all I've met a lot of people. Some have been nice, some have been awful. Some have come into my life, left their mark, and vanished.

We like to think of people as complex creatures, full of layers and surprises and hidden motivations. Characters in stories tend to be much simpler: they perform functions, serve as plot devices, do what the writer needs them to do to move the story along. Characters in stories can be summed up in neat character sketches, but real people are too complex for that.

I have learned that in many cases this is simply not true.

Over and over again I have met individuals who can be described in just a few sentences. From that basic sketch you can predict most of their future behavior with a disappointingly high level of accuracy. You can hope that they will prove you wrong, surprise you, pull out a spectacular twist that reveals depth and complexity: the inner hero in the villain, the good guy waiting to be brought out of the "bad boy", the strength and courage of the timid coward.

For the most part it's wishful thinking, naive at best, dangerous at worst. It sounds like pessimism, and maybe it is. It's certainly not a new idea. "The leopard cannot change its spots," the old saying goes. The scorpion saved from drowning by the toad stings the toad to death, and when the dying toad asks it "Why?", the scorpion responds "Because it is my nature."

Accepting this suddenly opens up new pathways for predicting the future.

From every moment an infinite number of futures are possible. But only one of those futures happens, as far as we can observe. Which future that is is based on an enormous number of factors, from the quantum scale on up. Some large-scale variables are based on the decisions made by people. If those decisions are dictated by a very simple set of rules, the number of possible futures becomes very small. For certain items under consideration, a single possibility becomes far more likely than all the others.

I was involved in a situation where this came into play some time ago. It's one of those things that I can't really talk about. It was a matter of life and death. Several other individuals were involved, with one of them largely in control of the situation. I had never met her. She had attained a status in my mind of a legendary boss monster, someone others had encountered and survived, but not me. And now she had done something - we weren't sure what - which could profoundly affect the health and well-being of another person. Shortly after becoming aware of the situation, I found myself in a police station, explaining what was going on in agonizing detail to a police officer. His face betrayed an increasing level of consternation bordering on disbelief as the story went on. (A quote from Shakespeare was running through my head the whole while: "If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as improbable fiction." – Twelfth Night, Act III, scene 4.) Finally we got to the end, and I did a thing you're probably not supposed to do: I conjectured. I told him what most likely happened next in the story, where he would be most likely to find the person in danger, based on my understanding of the actions and motivations of a person I had never met.

Forty minutes and many phone calls later he confirmed that every conjecture I had presented to him was correct. Unfortunately, the person who we believed to be in danger was now well beyond our reach. A few weeks later, my worst projections turned out to be true. (The police officer never knew this, as far as I know. I have long hoped to be able to run into him again to let him know.)

It wasn't the only time in the last few years I've had a chance to watch a character play out true to their brief sketch. In fact, it has become disappointingly routine. Sometimes there are surprises, but these are rare, and not always for the better.

It seems to me that what we perceive as a good or interesting or well-written character is often unrealistically written, in that they are complex and full of hidden motivations, capable of changes of personality or great or noble deeds quite unlike their real-world counterparts. Iago, the villain from Othello, is frequently criticized as being one-dimensional. He is rotten from start to finish, and unrepentantly so. He feigns an appearance of trustworthiness and honesty, but this is a falsehood from the beginning.

In the same way, plots in stories are sometimes far more complex than in real life. Greed, lust, hate, jealousy: sometimes that's all there is to a plot in real life. But stories written with such simplistic motivations will not hold readers' interest long, on bring them back for more. So we weave intricate storylines and backstories to explain motives and consequences. Because, ultimately, fiction is more than a journalistic chronicle of the acts of individuals. It has its own goals, and serves a need in the lives of readers. Writers need to recognize those needs and create characters and stories that fulfill them.

"If I had the time to write about every little thing that happened in my life..."

"If I had the time to write about every little thing that happened in my life, I wouldn't." That was the opinion of blogging expressed by a friend of a friend about ten years ago. That was before Twitter and Facebook came along end encouraged people to engage in a degraded sort of blogging, a running commentary and series of "lookit this!" presentations.  (Ultimately the person who made this statement had a nervous breakdown. I'm not saying the two things are related, but...)

So I guess this is going to be another one of those "Where I've been / What I've been doing" posts that have taken the place of a lot of the blogging I used to do. Only it won't be like them, because I'm going to be leaving out most of the details. One of the reasons I haven't been blogging is because much of the stuff I've been doing has had me intimately involved in someone else's personal life, in a way that neither of us is really comfortable talking about yet. Facebook has a relationship status of "It's Complicated," and the two of us would be the prime example of that status - if she weren't already seeing someone else. To give you an example: Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and I spent several hours after work with her - helping her shop for Valentine's Day stuff for her boyfriend. She saved a bundle on chocolates thanks to a coupon I had for Barnes and Noble, and his homemade Valentine's Day feast was made in cookware provided by me. So, yeah, it's complicated.

And it's not just that. That's just the part I can talk about. There was other stuff going on, stuff that made me glad she has a boyfriend to help her and watch over her when I'm not around. We've decided that when everything is over and the dust has settled, we'll write out an account of some sort. I'm thinking that opera would be the best format: huge, preposterous themes, heroes, villains, a young, plucky, tragic heroine, her handsome but arrogant suitor, the well-intended but buffoonish older fellow, reversals of fortune, death... What else could possibly contain all that? Even the driest and most objective version of the story could easily be dismissed, to poach a phrase from Shakespeare, as an improbable fiction.

Her life has settled into a new normal in recent weeks, in part because of a horrible and vile event I can't talk about. This has taken some of the pressure off of me. For a long while I was seeing her two or three times a week, sometimes more, usually from immediately after work until after midnight - meaning that I would be getting home and into bed at best by 1:00 in the morning, to wake up at my scheduled time of 5:15 or so. (Did I mention she was living very close to where I used to work, back when I had a high-paying job in the DVD industry that made it possible to afford the gas for such a commute?) But because of what happened a few weeks ago, it's not absolutely necessary that I be there two or three times a week, and because of a reduction in the obligations she has, obligations which pass on to me as her personal driver, my visit time is considerably shorter - as is my commute. Plus she's now in a new living situation which presents her with the opportunity to take advantage of living within a supporting community - but also poses a new set of hazards to her well-being. A guardian demon's work is never done.

Poetry reading at the Vintage, January 16, 2014. Photo by Carlton Farnbaugh.

I'm still writing poetry. I presented one of my best works so far (in my opinion) at an event in Scranton on January 31, and plan to present it (with minor revisions) at the Third Thursday Poetry Night at the Vintage in Scranton this Thursday, February 28. The Vintage is located at 326 Spruce Street in Scranton; doors open/signups begin at 8:00 PM, poetry begins at 8:30 PM. All are welcome to read or listen, and admission is free, though donations to the Vintage are encouraged.

Reading at the fourth edition of the Kick Out the Bottom open voice poetry reading at
Embassy Vinyl in Scranton, January 31, 2014. Photo by Charwonica Dziwozony.

Usually my blogging takes a dip in the Winter months as the usual hibernation reaction / seasonal affective disorder kicks in. This year I can't really blame that. All the other stuff I've been doing has actually helped keep me going through these months, even as it has reduced my time and freedom to post. Still, I can't promise that I will be resuming anything close to my old blog-a-day schedule anytime soon. You will occasionally see new posts from me at the other blogs listed on the sidebar, so you can know I'm still around, even if you don't follow me on Facebook or anything like that. I do hope to come back to blogging. I just don't know when.

Poem: Ex nihilo

This is a poem written especially for the second edition of the Kick Out the Bottom Open Voice Poetry Reading, held the last Friday of every month at Embassy Vinyl, 352 Adams Avenue, Scranton. Sign-ups begin at 6:45 and readings begin at 7:00. Standing room only, bring your own chair. Limited to thirteen slots, which fill up fast, so show up early if you'd like to read! 

Writing is the perfect art for people without much in the way of resources. Pen and paper are desirable, and having a word processor and printer are ideal, but you can compose an epic tale or a great poem entirely in your head and carry it in your memory. You can write words in dirt with your finger - heck, Jesus did that (in an apocryphal tale which does not appear in any copies of scripture until a certain point in history, and then appears consistently, in what may have been an early bit of fanfiction; see Bart Ehrman's books for more information.) 

Writers have the unique ability to weave realities from nothing. In hearing a poem or story you may be deeply touched by the meaning, or caught up in events. You may become upset at the fate of a character, a character who never existed except in words strung together by the author, and in the image those words created in your mind. This is an amazing thing. It has always seemed to me that creators partake in some aspect of the divine in their creation, whether it is in building a material object, creating a work of art, or conceiving a child. But it is writers and poets who truly create these things from nothing, nothing more than words and sounds, immaterial things which we have had to invent a means to represent. This creation from nothing most closely mirrors the divine act of creation.

Ex nihilo

We are liars and thieves
weaving realities truer than truth
from lines pilfered from ancient epics
and last week's comic books

We steal from the gods themselves
Not, like Prometheus, something as small and simple as fire
We steal their power, claim for ourselves
their divine purview to create from nothing

We fuck with our fingers
on keyboards, or gripping pens
that inseminate paper with ink
throbbing words that penetrate brains

the smell of good cognac, served slightly warm
sharkskin suits and cigarettes rolling down trolley aisles
droplets of water that drip down thighs and cause listeners to nearly break their own arms
windshields with the stories of our lives written on them in dents and spiderwebs of cracks

These are our creations
these are our children, born of furtive trysts
and well-planned couplings
and we show them off, proud parents
knowing that ours are the cutest and the smartest and the strongest
and everyone else's are just a little bit funny-looking

Holiday Reruns: The Littlest Turkey!

The return of a beloved classic, touching the hearts of dozens since 2005! Gather around the children and leave them with emotional trauma that will take years of expensive therapy to overcome! IT'S TIME FOR THE LITTLEST TURKEY!

(First published in one post on November 24, 2005.)

THE LITTLEST TURKEY
by
D.B. Echo

Once upon a time there was a farm where turkeys lived. All of them were young and plump, big and strong and proud. All of them except one. He was smaller than all the other turkeys. He was called the Littlest Turkey.
The Littlest Turkey wanted to run and play with the other turkeys, but they didn't want to play with him. "Go away, Littlest Turkey," they would say. "Come back when you've gotten bigger."

But the Littlest Turkey was sure he was as big as he was going to get. He tried to eat as much as he could, but he never seemed to get as big and plump as the other turkeys. And he knew that unless he got big and plump like the other turkeys, he would never get to go to the Laughter House.

The Laughter House was a wonderful place. The Littlest Turkey had never been in there. He knew that only the big and plump turkeys would get to go inside the Laughter House. He had seen them go in once, and had heard their squawks and gobbles of laughter for a little while. It must be wonderful in there, the Littlest Turkey thought. All those turkeys go in to laugh, and none of them had ever come out again. How much fun they must be having!

The Littlest Turkey decided that, big and plump or not, he would get into the Laughter House the next time they let the turkeys in.

*********

THE LITTLEST TURKEY
Part 2
by
D.B. Echo

The weather started getting cooler, and the leaves on the trees started to change colors. All the turkeys knew that soon it would be time for the biggest holiday of the year, Turkey Day.
"Just before Turkey Day is when they take the big and plump turkeys into the Laughter House," thought the Littlest Turkey. "But this time I'm going to get in there, too!"

It wasn't long before the big day came. All of the big and plump turkeys lined up to go into the Laughter House. The Littlest Turkey waited near the entrance of the Laughter House, then squeezed in between two very big and plump turkeys. No one noticed him because he was so little.

The Laughter House was dark inside, and there was a sort of moving sidewalk there that was taking turkeys into another room, where he could hear gobbles and squawks of laughter. One by one the turkeys hopped up to ride the sidewalk. The Littlest Turkey hopped up, too.
The turkey in front of him, whose name was Tom, turned around. "Go away, Littlest Turkey," he said. "Come back when you are bigger."

"Yes, go away," said the turkey behind him, whose name was also Tom. "They do not want little turkeys at the Market. Only big and plump ones."

"No," said the Littlest Turkey. "I want to go to the Market with you." He had never heard of the Market, but he realized that it must be even better than the Laughter House.

A Man spotted the Littlest Turkey. "Go away, Littlest Turkey," he said. "Come back when you are bigger."

"Oh, please, Mr. Man," said the Littlest Turkey. "I do so want to go to the Market with the other turkeys."

"Very well," said the Man. "We've got a quota to meet, anyway."

The Littlest Turkey rode the sidewalk into the other room. He wondered what things would be like at the Market.

*********

THE LITTLEST TURKEY
Conclusion
by
D.B. Echo

The Littlest Turkey was cold. He was colder than he ever remembered being before. But then again, it was hard to remember much since they had chopped his head off.

He was in a case with the other turkeys, the big and plump turkeys. Turkey Day was coming soon, and people were coming to the Market to pick turkeys to take home.

They always seemed to want the big and plump turkeys. One time a little girl had seen him in the case. "Mommy, mommy, look at the little turkey," she said. "I want to take home the littlest turkey."

"No, dear," her mother said. "We are having many people over for Thanksgiving. We need a big, plump turkey."

One by one the other turkeys left the Market to go home with people. Turkey Day was coming soon, and people were taking away more and more of the big and plump turkeys. But no one wanted the Littlest Turkey.
Finally, the day before Turkey Day came, and the Littlest Turkey found himself all alone in the case.

"How sad," he thought. "No one wants to take me home."

It was late in the day, and the Manager was about to close down the Market for the night. Suddenly a Man came into the store.

"I have a coupon," he said, "for a free turkey. Do you have any left?"

"You're in luck," said the Manager. "I have one left." He showed the Man the Littlest Turkey, all alone in the case.

"It's a little small," the Man said. "But I guess beggars can't be choosers. Besides, it's just me and my wife this year. A little turkey might be just what we need."

The Manager took the Littlest Turkey out of the case and traded him to the Man for the coupon he was holding. "Happy Thanksgiving!", he said to the Man.

"I'm not going to be left behind for Turkey Day," thought the Littlest Turkey happily as the Man put him in the trunk of his car. "I'm so happy. But I'm so cold." He rolled around a little as the car pulled out of the parking lot. "I sure hope I'm going someplace warm."

THE END

The faceless, nameless stranger

It's time for another one of those "where I've been" posts. (It's also time for the reposting of "The Littlest Turkey", which I'll get around to soon.)

I've been busy, delightfully so. I've been spending a lot of time with my writing group, and writing, and going to poetry and prose open mics, and trying and failing to list and publicize all of those events, because there are just so damned many, and what kind of area is Northeastern Pennsylvania where you can run yourself to the point of collapse just going to open mics and poetry readings? Plus I've been allowing myself to develop a personal life beyond the personal life I already had. It may all end in tears someday, but for now I'm having the time of my life. And getting healthier as a consequence; I need to go out and buy some new clothes soon, but in the meantime I guess I'll have to rely more and more on suspenders to keep my too-large pants from falling off.

On Saturday morning I met with my writing group in Scranton. We were all still basking in the afterglow of Thursday's open mic night, the biggest and best and most successful open mic we've had in a long time, or ever, in my brief experience. The group was small but most of us had stuff to read. I read a poem, the new one I had read on Thursday, since KK missed the open mic and I wanted him to hear it. One of our newer members, a published author of hard-boiled crime stories, read the first chapter of his current work. Chaz, the founder of our group, pulled out a bronze bull, wrapped in newspaper, and presented it to me. I was deeply honored to receive this gift. The meeting ended just after three, so I called my mom to tell her I was on my way, but maybe she should get alternate transportation to church so she wouldn't be late. I tossed my phone and my coat and my little blue notebook into the car, carefully secured the bronze bull in the back, and drove off.

I stopped at the first traffic light, the one on Adams and Lackawanna. It seemed to take forever, but eventually turned green. Lucky thing I told her to get a ride to church. I hit another traffic light, this one on Lackawanna, just before the turnoff to 81. In a little bit I would be zooming along at highway speeds, but for now I was stuck at an endless red light, a line of cars behind me. I fiddled with the radio as I waited.

Finally the light turned green, and I immediately heard a banging on my car. Did someone just hit me? But no, it sounded like someone slamming on my car with their hand, and as I turned to my left I realized that that hand probably belonged to the torso that was filling my window.

I rolled down the window a few inches, not wanting to take chances with a random Scranton crazy person, and said "Yes?" Without a word the figure outside of my car removed my black binder from the roof of my car and passed it through the opening in the window. He didn't bend down; I never saw his face. He just handed me the binder and walked away.

I thanked him profusely before I sped off through the green light and around the curve that would lead me to the highway.

Fiction: The Writer's Imp

This story started off as an alternative to punching someone in the face. But it grew to incorporate all the fears, misgivings, and doubts that plague any writer - or anyone. Note some NSFW language toward the end.

The Writer's Imp
copyright 2013, Harold Jenkins

Doug rolled out of bed, hung over and headachey. He trudged to the kitchen, stepped over his beagle Towser, and squeezed past the small folding table and its two chairs. He ignored the assorted monster-branded cereals on the counter,  put a small pot of water on the stove to boil, and started the coffee maker. He pulled the milk and a container of yogurt out of the refrigerator, grabbed a grapefruit out of the fruit bowl, and added a scoop of oats to the boiling water. Leaving the food on the counter next to the stove, he stepped out to get the morning paper.

A few minutes later he poured the coffee, gathered together the bits and pieces of his breakfast, and carried them back to the breakfast table.

The Imp was perched on the back of one of the chairs, eating out of a box of Frankenberry.

"What the hell are you making all that crap for?" he demanded. "This shit's delish. Why'd you buy it if you're not gonna eat it?"

Doug had always wondered if the Imp was average-sized as far as imps go. It would be small as a human, barely four feet tall, though its bald, leering head seemed far too big for its body. Its feet and hands seemed disproportionately large, too, while the little bat wings that poked from its shoulder blades seemed too small to be good for anything. And the less said about the stubby, prehensile worm that lurked on its crotch, the better.

"Oh, I get it," the Imp said, his lips pulling back to show a mouth filled with overlapping, yellowed teeth. "You're trying to eat right. Lose weight. Impress her. Pathetic." He grabbed another fistful of pink cereal. "It won't work. You're old and fat and ugly, and you're not gonna change that. Now, how about getting to work? You haven't written anything in ages."

Doug ignored the Imp, unfolded the paper, and read it as he ate breakfast. Towser stood up, looked at the Imp warily, then lay down at Doug's feet.

+++++++++++++++++++

"Oh, what the hell is this crap now?" the Imp demanded as the bus headed downtown.  "You're supposed to be meeting your group, didja forget? Or are you just too embarrassed 'cause you haven't written shit in weeks?"

Doug continued to ignore him, swaying slightly as the bus bumped along the road. The other passengers had no difficulty ignoring the Imp, even the one whose head he was sitting on.

"Your group is on the other side of town. What are you doing, going to the farmers' market?"

Doug got off the bus at the farmers' market.  He paused at a few stalls to look at their wares, then slipped into a small shop that sold herbs.

"Sage? Rosemary? Thyme? You forgot parsley, you dope," the Imp said from atop a refrigerated display case. "And how stupid are you? Yarrow's a flower, not an herb, everybody knows that. What are you gonna do, get a reading from the I Ching? The way moves, I could tell ya that much. There. Saved you the trouble."

Doug stepped into a flower shop and told the tiny Korean woman behind the counter what he was looking for. She nodded and brought out a bundle of flowers. After he paid her, she directed him to another shop.

"What the frick are you doing?" the Imp demanded. "Anything but writing, that's what. I been hanging out here 'cause you showed promise, you putz. But you're not gonna get anywhere as a writer if you don't write! You just keep mooning over what's-her-name, half your age and ten times the writer you'll ever be if you keep this up. Now, if you're not going to the group, howabout heading home and getting down to writing?"

The last shop on Doug's list was a junk store of sorts, with a hodgepodge of  stuff from all over Asia. It didn't take long to find a Tibetan brass bowl of the right size. The clerk showed him how to brush it gently with a padded mallet to produce a deep, pleasant tone.

"What is this crap?" the Imp yelled from inside a garbage can. "You better be working on a story, I'll tell you that. Wasting a whole Saturday here! Now, if you're done with your little shopping adventure, how about heading back to the bus so...are you even listening to me? Where are you going?"

Doug walked across the street to a parked Mini Cooper. The driver's window rolled down and a beautiful woman smiled at him broadly.

"What's she doing here?" The Imp was outraged. "I thought she was gonna be in...what, Lancaster or Hershey or something? Wait, you had a conversation with her last night when you were drunk! You know I don't like when you get drunk! What the hell did you two little sneaks talk about last night?"

She passed a small parcel to Doug through the car window. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Doug took it, leaned down, and kissed her.

"You sick bastard! She's, what, twelve? OK, twenty, whatever, doesn't matter, same thing. You're more than twice her age! What are you, a pedo perv? Sheeut, you're gonna be doing your writing from inside a Federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison! Get away from her before somebody sees the two of you together!"

Doug squeezed her hand, turned around, and headed for the bus stop.

"Better," the Imp said, sitting on the peak of the Bus Stop sign. "Well get home, put all this nonsense behind us, and you can get down to writing again. We'll make you the writer I know you can be!"

++++++++++++++++

Towser barked and wagged his tail as Doug came home. Doug pulled some newly-purchased treats out of his pocket and gave them to him. The dog growled briefly at the Imp, then went back to his treats.

Doug set the packages on the table. He pulled out the bowl, gave it an experimental ping, and produced a rich, deep tone.

He headed into his bedroom and came out with a stack of paper.  Sheets, some loose, some stapled together, some worn with age and heavy use, others fresh as the day they were printed.

He put the paper into the bowl.

He pulled a chair away from the table and set it in the middle of the floor. Tentatively, he stepped onto it.

"What the hell are you doing?" the Imp asked. "You're gonna break your damn fool neck."

Doug pulled the cover off the smoke detector and removed the battery.

"Smooth move, Holmes," the Imp said. "Now you're in violation of the fire code. What would you do if the fire inspector came in here right now? Look like an idiot, that's what, and you'd have some 'splainin to do."

One at a time, Doug removed the batteries from every smoke detector in his house.

"So now what, boy? This ain't gettin' you any closer to writing. Just sit your fat ass down and start writing."

Doug poured a glass of wine and set it on the kitchen table.

"Better. But clear all this crap off the table, and...hey, are those your stories in that bowl?"

Doug took the parcel he had been given and removed the string. He unwrapped the paper to reveal an old book, possibly hand-bound. He set the book aside and began laying the yarrow, rosemary, sage, and thyme out on the wrapping paper. He rolled the whole thing up into a sort of fat cigar and tied the bundle up with the string. He got up from the table, went to a cabinet, and pulled out some matches.

"Wait. What the hell are you doing?" The Imp looked confused. Worried.

Doug sat back down at the table. He opened up the book to a place indicated by a ribbon, read silently for a minute, and set the book aside. He lit the herbal bundle, passed it over the paper-filled bowl three times, and dropped it in.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!"

Doug picked up the book again, opened it to the same spot as before, and began mumbling quietly.

"WHAT THE HELL DID THAT LITTLE BITCH GIVE YOU?"

Doug smiled. "It's a hex book, over a century old. Homegrown magic for all sorts of occasions. Including banishing malicious spirits." He continued to read aloud from the book.

The imp's skin had begun to turn gray. "I'M NOT MALICIOUS! I'M HELPFUL!"

Doug looked up again. "You are annoying as hell."

Smoke curled from the bowl but didn't spread through the house. It formed a cloud over and around the Imp.

"STOP IT! STOP THIS RIGHT NOW AND WE'LL PRETEND IT NEVER HAPPENED!" The Imp's skin was charcoal and ash, flaking like the charred paper in the bowl. His eyes were beady and red.

Doug set down the book, smiled at the Imp, then looked into the bowl.

"YOUR WRITING SUCKS!" The Imp shouted. "YOUR CHARACTERS ARE STEREOTYPES, YOUR STORIES ARE TRITE, YOUR POETRY IS HIGH SCHOOL, AND YOU CAN'T WRITE AN ENDING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE!"

"I dispel you," Doug announced, and blew into the bowl.

The ashes stirred slightly and flew into the air. The Imp, shriveled and defeated, let out a final croak.

"I knew I shoulda been a gargoyle."

There was a long, deep sigh. Then Doug was alone in the kitchen with Towser.

Doug sat there for a while, then looked down at the book Kim had brought back from Lancaster. He noticed that he had been reading from a recipe for shoo-fly pie.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Kim.

"It's done. He's gone. Your plan worked." A pause. "You are. That's why I love you." Another pause, then a laugh. "That too. But, hey, I gotta clean up and take a shower. See you for dinner? OK, see you then."

He looked at the mess. Charred flakes of everything he had written while under the direction of the Imp were scattered everywhere.

"Damn, that guy was annoying," Towser said.

"He sure was," Doug agreed.