After we rose screaming and before we became a shower of stars
a sudden silence and the body floats slow; but the soul's velocity still wants to go and go.
Cover your ears. We'll puncture the air next to drill a hole in it, straight to shake the ground.
A faint crackle burning in distant thunder across the towns below
who couldn't care less as we fade among the sound of a new row.
You are Ferlinghetti of the papa burbs enlightened in your revisitation unbuttoning the button down straight out to the Northern Star
The view from the window is quite good, there is always a flurry of activity on the street below. Quinn Smith was a reclusive fellow, he wasn't always that way but a few years in the big city, away from the warmth of small town life had driven him to isolate a bit. It had been more than a week since Quinn had left the apartment, he went out for some groceries and made it the entire two blocks to the local IGA and back. He worked as a copy writer for a women's magazine so there was never a need to commute any distance that couldn't be measured in meters.
Quinn amused himself at times by staring out the window at the intersection below. This evening in particular he had spent the last three hours glued to the street dramas. Things were starting to clear out now though and there was barely anybody left out. He'd often pretend that there was an emergency and he'd put himself into the hero's role. Charging down the stairs, his imaginary self would step in to save the day. Most of the time the emergencies were auto wrecks or senior citizens with heart problems. Quinn was a certified EMT and had never had the chance to use his skills.
Today however, Quinn was feeling fiesty. He imagined a mugging. Ok, he thinks, what's that man doing? Every hair on his body stands up, he's riddled with adrenaline and ready for action. He runs down the stairs and grabs the brute right by the head, pulling it back. Quinn's elbow then slams into the mugger's windpipe and he drops like a rock. Swooping down and picking up the dropped handbag he returns it to the woman with a sly, somewhat rakish smile. A smile that says "Yeah, I can be a manly and rough but I have a charm and seductive intelligence to me, and of course I'm spectacular in bed." The woman would be obliged to ask him to have coffee with her, her treat, which would be nice because copy-writers don't make a lot of money. They'd spend the afternoon blissfully discovering all of the things they had in common, remarking on how lucky it was that they were together and safe.
Quinn caught movement at the northern corner of the street, breaking the spell and interrupting some particularly forward remarks from the young lady he had just rescued. A woman, a very pretty one was moving quickly toward the streetlight. There was a man behind her who in two or three quick steps caught right up. Quinn's heartbeat quickened and the adrenaline wash started, his arm hair was on end. With a fluid motion the man grabbed the lady's bag with one hand and punched her in the face with the other. He hit her three times in quick succession and darted off with her purse. The lady stayed there in the foetal position until the police showed up about an hour later.
:grumpy:
Hey stinky, is this an excerpt from the manuscript?
Thanks 
It's actually some output from these writing exercises I've been doing where I set up four or five different beginning/middle/end plotlines and write them out in as many paragraphs. I've been doing it in order to step back from the bigger piece that I'm working on.
How much stuff do you have sitting around? I know there are other 12stoners who write (port and mingus come to mind) maybe we could do a little short fiction/poetry collab.
wow..... they're getting really good
post some more please
If I looked at the dates on all the stuff I've never finished, I'd become too depressed for words.
It's Canuck day today, and as I finished reading that first persist poem, I heard a firework go off. NO SHITTING. spooky.
I've got too much stuff on the shelves, at least ten buried screenplays and novels. And still making new stuff. But in reality, it takes a few trunk novels to get to the point where you can write something competent of length. So it doesn't bother me. Gotta keep slugging or quit.
Collaboration can be fun! Or at least good for motivation.
Rock'n. We should have more writing posted for sure.
Slightly related: Talking to my friend Brock last night, he said he'd been talking about me not too long ago. Sitting with a friend I'd walked past(down town or on campus no doubt) and the friend had said I was an... "angry chick" I believe were the words used. Brock said "oh thats pam, she's a sweetheart." To which the friend replied "have you ever seen her at poetry night? one time she read this peice about screwing a guy in a quick trip or something, and about how disgusting it was and the sweat dripping on her face and shit." Brock said it was like he was having some sort of war time flash back. I think that's the best thing I've ever heard about my writing.
This is the poem in question. > I fucked him in the back of a seven eleven.
I did it out of spite really.
There’s something about watching their pudgy, piggy faces contort that renders me immune to them.
I watched his piggy little eyes squint up as he panted and dripped sweat on my face.
I can always pick out guys like this; they stick it in and suddenly they’re king of the world.
Five bucks says he’s got an ex-wife, two kids, and a broken down Chevy in a trailer park five miles south of here.
I collect them, the memories of whatever contorted, squinting, half-leer of an expression these men make.
It doesn’t matter if they’re a 3rd year philosophy student or a balding gas station casher, Assholes always fuck the same.
Nice
I'm going to move this to Projects & Theory, post whatcha got...
The clicking of toe-nails on floorboards filled Edgar's dreams rousing him from a very hot and very naked encounter with a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. It was generally the type of dream that he would be a bit perturbed about being roused from but she had a cock. It was in the back, just above her butt-crack and it wasn't erect or anything but his dream-self still felt like there was something amiss. So the clickity-clack was somewhat welcome.
Franco the Black Labrador Retriever was scooting around on the floor, his huge negro head would perch itself on the mattress for a second or two at a time, fixing Edgar with big brown dog-eyes. A whine would slip out and Franco would go back to shuffling. He obviously needed attending to. Edgar responded, swinging his legs out of bed dragging on his gym clothes as the cheerleader faded back into his subconscious.
"Ready to go motherfucker?" Ed long suspected that Franco, underneath his doughy, Lab exterior wanted desperately to be a hard cunt and like any good custodian he did his best to make allowances for his charge.
Franco responded by woofing in a husky voice. The two of them left the house and began walking along the empty streets. The city was still asleep, to compound things it was expecting a pretty good hangover when it finally did wake up. Ed took a special sort of joy in these early morning walks with Franco, the normally bustling streets of Newtown were near dead until at least 10:00am on a weekend day. They had been walking together in the morning since Franco was a pup. For the most part the only other people about were other dog walkers, the other intrepid souls who, like Ed, were caretakers of hounds; hounds with weak bladders or circadian rhythms that ticked over just a bit too early on a Sunday morning. Here they were in their hung over glory, the dog managers of Newtown. There were always at least two others in the park around eight on a Sunday morning.
As Franco was released from his lead he charged the open field, running around for a bit before stopping in front of a young woman who was not in fact a dog walker but simply on her way from the gym to go home and take a nice warm shower. Franco moved his bulk in front of her, blocking her way and easing into a sitting position. She smiled broadly, he was a gorgeous dog, big and black and shiny with just the right amount of fur---not too shaggy and not too short.
"Sorry about that, he's a bit friendly and doesn't understand that not everyone wants to pet a big stupid animal at ten o' freaking clock on a Sunday morning." Ed was smiling, taking note of the woman's shape as she bent to scratch Franco behind his floppy ears.
"Don't worry about it. He's beautiful, what's his name?"
"Franco, He's registered as Franco the Idiot but I sometimes call him F-dawg" Franco's ears cocked slightly " because I think he wants to be a gangster."
The girl giggled a bit, probably a bit more than she should have and she mentally told herself to shut the fuck up and keep her pants on. This would not in fact be the case. Her pants would soon be off---both the current pair and other, future pairs of pants that her current pants represented at a conceptual level. Ed Parnell and Patricia McIlheney began talking up a storm, entertaining one another. F-dawg inched inward, paying close attention to the conversation between his custodian and this new person, his big black lips curling a bit. He let out a whimper and Ed, like the sensitive dog owner he was, took the cue.
"So, it was nice to meet you Patricia, er Patty?"
"Patty's fine." She smiled but mentally kicked herself, she hated Patty.
"I've got to get ol' Franco back home, but I'd like to hang out." Smile, hold eye contact "Up for a Sunday sesh this afternoon at the Courtie?"
"Yeah, sounds great!"
Franco had moved into range, sliding between the two as they exchanged mobile numbers, nuzzling Edgar's shins intently. Ed made some apologies and began walking off, as it turned out Patricia didn't live too far away from Ed and they were both heading in the same direction. The small talk continued, they walked three abreast along Church street with Franco between them. Church street was narrow but always busy and there was, rather uncharacteristically for a Sunday morning, a lively streetfull of cars and trucks. A moving van turned the corner just ahead of them, Patricia was laughing at one of Ed's one liners and as the truck approached Franco shifted his weight into her legs. As she fell in front of the truck, Franco felt a great sense of satisfaction and relief Edgar still belonged to him. And yes, Patricia's pants did come off but it was the paramedics, not Edgar that removed them.
yeah, and I know it's another dog story but I needed to crank another short out and it came to mind
See, you just can't trust dogs.
Nice consistent voice & flow, a compelling read as always.
jaysus that's some brutal writing there StinkFist! Good stuff!
My ability to critique writing begins and ends with picking up on minor errors ... in the dog story - do they meet at 8am or 10am? cos it seems confused about that.
Originally posted by: DontBogartMe jaysus that's some brutal writing there StinkFist! Good stuff!
My ability to critique writing begins and ends with picking up on minor errors ... in the dog story - do they meet at 8am or 10am? cos it seems confused about that.
Thanks man and good catch with that, I'll have to go back and edit it for consistency. It was supposed to be taking place at eight AM
Skipper Pete be findin' a land lovin' beatnik who stoled aboard t' vessel. He be crouched in a potato sack with a midget wearin' a rat skin for a hat. We put t' wee midget t' work in t' galley and we named him Wee Midget.
He be peelin' a potato smartlyer than I ever did see. So thinks the likes of t' cook who had dem pants o' his slide so as his crack be made known for all man and beast to see. It be a vision placed with honour at t' side o' vile horrors I be seein' these long year at sea.
As be t' fate o' our beatnik bucko, his chicken neck be trussed ready t' be walkin' t' plank come sundown. There'll be no trees for ye t' hug in t' ocean, bucko. Thar be best t' set ye sights on swimmin' hard as ye can from t' shark callin' thar name. That thar sea dog will clean take ye face off.
Us crew be in good grog for t' approachin' calamity. T' see a stow away jump t'
his watery grave stir joy into t' hearts o' those who be said t' possess t' blackest
o' souls. Like Big Fanny in t' galley. A full year pass since he be abandonin' ship
but what a piece o' work he be. Could drink ye under t' table in t' blink o' an eye
and had a goiter on his neck that ye'd pass t' be a shriveled six pounder ball.
Some say they did hear it speak t' them. I don't be doubtin' that testimony.
I says a plank day be makin' me fair happy t' says I be Cap'n. Other days, say, Sat'dy, when Baby Ollie took off with me compass, a day t' which I not ever live t' likes o' again. I never recovered me instrument and for it that monkey be damn lucky I got only one arm as fair trade.
That be hangin' round me neck with a message loud and clear for dear Baby Ollie. If it were not for Skipper Pete weepin' bitterly into his duff like a fairy I be throwin' that furry sack clean over board. It looks t' be like t' day be smartly upon us that I be no more feared throughout all seas. I be known as t' man with compassion that be coursin' through his veins like poison. A fate worse than t' plank.
Avast! T' plank. T' beatnik. His eaye did search us crew for one ounce o' pity while t' clock did toll for his end. Ye not be gettin' it from me, son! I frittered me year's portion on one armed Ollie! Ye be best turnin' around and marchin' down that thar plank.
It was but pittance t' thar vision I had o' that thar moment. He but all passed from our eaye after he shot into t' oggin like a boulder. A joy be short lived.
Be t' luck o' t' ship, I be not port open-mouthed if we chance upon him crouchin' in that thar potato sack once more. How he came t' be amongst our like be not for our knowin' but curses be in store if I spy ye again, me beatnik bucko.
T' cut 'o' ye jib speaks little for ye.
T' cut 'o' ye jib speaks little for ye.
i love that line!!
garr
Lousy beatniks.
In This Dust,
Violent devices are the bodies we inhabit. Life passes through us. It has no time for prolonged visits.
There are symptoms which are present.
Human bodies weighted in the heat and the silence as the sun scrapes the plains of the earth.
In a drought's year, spooling out the barbed wire, another knot of steel, another scratch to mark the day behind.
In this dust, work, blood and sweat is the evidence in the eternal argument that claims we are alive.
A simple man came to us to finish the argument with sharp edges and focused eyes, his shirt with ivory buttons, and western hem.
Economic to the core, where logic and requirement tally the final score.
This man lead us onto his fields, a Noah in reverse Where flood afflicted Noah then, drought wiped out this Earth.
The simple man directed the build. We followed a line of small angles, in a tabernacle of time, to mend a fence that defined a cathedral of land.
_The first section was from an earlier bit of writing I posted ages ago. It seemed like a better use here. _
Nice stuff persisto
I take it the inspiration for that was your farmer friend in Montana? You should pick up The Joy of Man's Desiring by Jean Giono, you would really enjoy it.
edit:
I always post these things and then immediately regret not letting them sit for a week or so for another edit. There are a lot of parts that I think could be either fleshed out or tightened up
You need to write a full travel guide.
A lively rollicking tale, as we have come to expect from the richness of your ouevre.
One minor note - "flagellate" (sp).
Thanks for the catch on that one, I have a shitty spell-check dictionary
Originally posted by: arigato You need to write a full travel guide.
Ha, now that is a capital idea my friend
Your journalist stylee implies further wisdom; I already feeel the warm glow of contemptuous adventurism and one-eye-squint-for-focus boozy ne'er-do-wellship slapping their clammy thighs together.Your stories are a charming travelogue but also a cunning guide to those amongst us that desire "not at me" shit raising adventures.
HOW TO BE A FUCKER & LIVE - ON ALL THE CONTINENTS Scotty Fucking Weeks, Esquire.
fucking brilliant mate
sounds like I need to be drunk in more countries... lines up Japan next