Brad Simkulet's Blog, page 108
January 7, 2012
after XVIII
He turned on his heel and walked out into the sun. He had nothing to smoke. He didn't smoke anyway, but some inherent theatricality told him he should in a situation like this. With nothing to smoke he just walked into the thick grass and paced his stress back and forth across the Police Station's lawn.
January 6, 2012
Help me publish my short story!
The more comments on my short story, the better chance I have to win my way into the anthology "Change in the Wind" over at Second Wind Publishing. And my story isn't even dark for once. It is all hopeful and shit. Come read it and say something. Please?
after XVII
"Yes?" she asked, staring unblinkingly through her frames.
"…"
"Do you need anything?"
He coughed, forced a choke, then asked, "Can I step out for a smoke?"
"Of course. I'll let you know if they need you.
January 5, 2012
after XVI
He reached the window, but as he put his hand on the counter and leaned forward to question the Severe Receptionist, the answers to his questions heaved in his chest, and the implications caught the words in his throat like a mini-puke that needs to be swallowed. They hadn't found the killer. It was too soon. And if they'd found the killer, they'd have found the car. His car. The killer had his car, and he knew it, he'd known it all along but blocked it out somehow. He'd seen the killer drive off, and he'd done nothing, said nothing. He'd seen Maggie dead through the window. He'd seen the blood. He'd seen her death rattle. He'd watched her die and done nothing. They'd have questions of their own: why are you telling us this now? Why didn't you call for help? What did you see? How did you get home? How did you know Miss S—-? You broke up? How long ago? How? Why?
January 3, 2012
after XV
He clenched his teeth to stop the chattering, leapt to his feet and crossed to the receptionist. He had to ask if they'd found the killer. He had to know if they'd found Mags. He was in a police station. They'd have to know. What was being done? Was there any information? Was the killer the son of a bitch who stole his car?
January 2, 2012
pants
I wore pants for about half an hour today. I think the last time I wore pants was Halloween night to stay warm during the kids trick or treating. I hate fucking pants, so as soon as I came home I went bottomless and cooked a curry while I was in the bottom nude because my cut-offs were drying.
They are now dry. My second skin is intact. I feel much better.
January 1, 2012
Our Yoko
A short story of mine is competing for publication over at Second Wind Publishing, and they say that reader commentary will play a part in the final judging. So go take a look at my story, if you've some time, and leave a message. You may help me to victory and a place in their spring anthology.
Click here to read Our Yoko by me.
December 28, 2011
This Be the Verse
by Philip Larkin
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
