Patrick Elliott's Blog, page 2
October 11, 2016
Writing Sample - Long Time No Anything
So, I have been posting this around and realized that I haven't posted here in forever. Work has eaten my writing! I think this belongs in my current work in progress, or one of them.
I know you want me to shut up. I know how much you want me to stop talking about how we have lost our freedom, how our government has been stolen, about our murdered liberty, and our violated and beaten rights. I know you want me to stop telling you about the corporations and men in power raped Lady Liberty then left her discarded, like a Muslim immigrant, on the Boston shore amongst the refuse, contaminated syringes, discarded condoms, and used packets of lightly sweetened, freedom flavored tea her only company. You're not alone.Everyone wants to silence me, begs me to put the gag in. You scream in a voice that echoes with their's. The two groups scramble over each other to burn the first amendment. I don't know who's worse, the ones telling me to shut up and check my privilege. Screaming at me to be silent, to let the victims speak. To stay out of the conversation and just let it play out, to nod along encouragingly while others write the world, to watch without condemning or condoning. On the other side stand those that shout in my ear that it is in my best interest to be still. They want me to just watch as others are oppressed and enslaved. Just keep calm and let us put them back in check. It's not your concern, after all, they tell me. You're nothing like them. Just hush, go back to sleep and let us do our work. Stay where you are and you'll be safe.What nobody wants, is for me to speak. No. None of you want me to talk about the truth I see. You don't want the uncomfortable visions of a freed mind. No matter what side they're on, hell, no matter what side you're on, there is one thing you want. You want me to sit on the couch, staring into the television. You want me to watch the stars and wait for the end of the world, with a Xanax smile, just like everyone else.I just can't do it. I'm too busy weeping for all of you that can.
#writingsample #amwriting #politicalcommentary #socialcommentary #author #writer #writing #shamelessselfpromotion
I know you want me to shut up. I know how much you want me to stop talking about how we have lost our freedom, how our government has been stolen, about our murdered liberty, and our violated and beaten rights. I know you want me to stop telling you about the corporations and men in power raped Lady Liberty then left her discarded, like a Muslim immigrant, on the Boston shore amongst the refuse, contaminated syringes, discarded condoms, and used packets of lightly sweetened, freedom flavored tea her only company. You're not alone.Everyone wants to silence me, begs me to put the gag in. You scream in a voice that echoes with their's. The two groups scramble over each other to burn the first amendment. I don't know who's worse, the ones telling me to shut up and check my privilege. Screaming at me to be silent, to let the victims speak. To stay out of the conversation and just let it play out, to nod along encouragingly while others write the world, to watch without condemning or condoning. On the other side stand those that shout in my ear that it is in my best interest to be still. They want me to just watch as others are oppressed and enslaved. Just keep calm and let us put them back in check. It's not your concern, after all, they tell me. You're nothing like them. Just hush, go back to sleep and let us do our work. Stay where you are and you'll be safe.What nobody wants, is for me to speak. No. None of you want me to talk about the truth I see. You don't want the uncomfortable visions of a freed mind. No matter what side they're on, hell, no matter what side you're on, there is one thing you want. You want me to sit on the couch, staring into the television. You want me to watch the stars and wait for the end of the world, with a Xanax smile, just like everyone else.I just can't do it. I'm too busy weeping for all of you that can.
#writingsample #amwriting #politicalcommentary #socialcommentary #author #writer #writing #shamelessselfpromotion
June 24, 2016
Digging to China
This is rough, no time to edit it.
In the dim that infests a single twin room, resting like a cavity, dead center, in an end of the road motel, the darkest of dreams will visit one's mind. Even when they one is wakeful, or leastwise fitfully unable to sleep. When rest eludes the body the mind traverses plains unknown to all but psychotropic enthusiasts and romantic poets.
Humanity likes to imagine that a man living in destitution does so alone. Each cavern a pre-emptive tomb for an unknown soldier in the war against capitalism. No one is ever alone though. If one is not indulging in vacation provided by acid, the other inhabitants, the bugs crawling over one's skin, must be real. It is enough to make one fantasize.
It is said that every man has at least one homo-erotic fantasy in their life. Mine was high tech. A robot penis. I imagine it would be hard, cold, and taste slightly oily. Such a creation would ejaculate a super hero. I contemplated giving my first and last blow job and the force of the machine's pleasure driving my thinking machine out of its case. A short step from deviant lover, to abstract artist. The robot in my dreams would paint the wall in red and gray. Crafting an image a psychiatrist could use to diagnose madmen.
Wiping the insects from my flesh I knew a change of location was necessary. Thus did I go from nearly dead to wandering vagrant. A dumpster, a cardboard box, an abandoned tent. Any one of them would do, sleeping under the stars would do good for my soul after so long in confinement. Then I saw it.
A Victorian treasure stood before my eyes. A for sale sign out front gave me hope. Not to purchase it, no. Men like me, those unemployed and lost to society, did not own homes. Instead I meandered to the convenience store and borrowed their phone.
No offers were as yet on the table, and no showings for at least two weeks. The asking price was high enough to make a millionaire blush. I would be able to squat in this home for months, if I was lucky. If I was very careful.
My possessions were sparse to say the least. I laid out my winter clothes, the mud stained item I would don, over the urine stained items I currently wore, when it grew cold. I laid out the faded blue piece of foam that served as my bed. As i prepared to lie down I looked at the wall.
Amidst the beautiful paper was a stain. I recognized the type. It was much as the mark left by sweat from a desperate man will imprint on a threadbare mattress when one foregoes sheets to save on water.
Peeling back that paper I found a hole that echoed the ache in my heart and lack in my soul. The dark cavern was filled with a corpse I recognized. How could I not? One is bound to know one's own face.
I drew back in horror, thinking of who to blame. I wanted to lay this at the feet of jack-booted government thugs. The wished to blame it on the indifference of corporate fat-cats. I knew though. I knew it was me. I left this corpse here when I gave up and gave in. In the homes of the hearts of every man over twenty-five there was a sacrifice like this. Laying discarded, waiting to be found.
I knew this must be disposed of. Nobody must ever see what I had done to myself. I thought of what those heroes on television would do. Retrieving the plastic utensils I kept for the rare occasion that a man of mercy provided me food I began to consume the remnants of the evidence of my crimes.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #surreal #writing #writer
In the dim that infests a single twin room, resting like a cavity, dead center, in an end of the road motel, the darkest of dreams will visit one's mind. Even when they one is wakeful, or leastwise fitfully unable to sleep. When rest eludes the body the mind traverses plains unknown to all but psychotropic enthusiasts and romantic poets.
Humanity likes to imagine that a man living in destitution does so alone. Each cavern a pre-emptive tomb for an unknown soldier in the war against capitalism. No one is ever alone though. If one is not indulging in vacation provided by acid, the other inhabitants, the bugs crawling over one's skin, must be real. It is enough to make one fantasize.
It is said that every man has at least one homo-erotic fantasy in their life. Mine was high tech. A robot penis. I imagine it would be hard, cold, and taste slightly oily. Such a creation would ejaculate a super hero. I contemplated giving my first and last blow job and the force of the machine's pleasure driving my thinking machine out of its case. A short step from deviant lover, to abstract artist. The robot in my dreams would paint the wall in red and gray. Crafting an image a psychiatrist could use to diagnose madmen.
Wiping the insects from my flesh I knew a change of location was necessary. Thus did I go from nearly dead to wandering vagrant. A dumpster, a cardboard box, an abandoned tent. Any one of them would do, sleeping under the stars would do good for my soul after so long in confinement. Then I saw it.
A Victorian treasure stood before my eyes. A for sale sign out front gave me hope. Not to purchase it, no. Men like me, those unemployed and lost to society, did not own homes. Instead I meandered to the convenience store and borrowed their phone.
No offers were as yet on the table, and no showings for at least two weeks. The asking price was high enough to make a millionaire blush. I would be able to squat in this home for months, if I was lucky. If I was very careful.
My possessions were sparse to say the least. I laid out my winter clothes, the mud stained item I would don, over the urine stained items I currently wore, when it grew cold. I laid out the faded blue piece of foam that served as my bed. As i prepared to lie down I looked at the wall.
Amidst the beautiful paper was a stain. I recognized the type. It was much as the mark left by sweat from a desperate man will imprint on a threadbare mattress when one foregoes sheets to save on water.
Peeling back that paper I found a hole that echoed the ache in my heart and lack in my soul. The dark cavern was filled with a corpse I recognized. How could I not? One is bound to know one's own face.
I drew back in horror, thinking of who to blame. I wanted to lay this at the feet of jack-booted government thugs. The wished to blame it on the indifference of corporate fat-cats. I knew though. I knew it was me. I left this corpse here when I gave up and gave in. In the homes of the hearts of every man over twenty-five there was a sacrifice like this. Laying discarded, waiting to be found.
I knew this must be disposed of. Nobody must ever see what I had done to myself. I thought of what those heroes on television would do. Retrieving the plastic utensils I kept for the rare occasion that a man of mercy provided me food I began to consume the remnants of the evidence of my crimes.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #surreal #writing #writer
June 5, 2016
A Tradition of Anti-Heroics
I'm not special.
Nobody likes bills. Everyone gets annoyed when they come in the mail. Most people get frustrated when the amount is wrong. I dare say most people call the number at the bottom to fix the problem. Most everyone wants to yell at the person, but, I think, almost nobody really does. I didn't, because I'm not special. I did call though.
Everyone loves a sexy voice on the other end of the phone. We start to imagine. All the features become physical. The full bodied laugh turns into eyes you can fall into. The sexy burr in the voice grows into that one part of the body, whatever it is, that you want thick when the rest is slim. For me it's the breasts, if I was a girl I bet it would be the penis. Like I said, not special. We fantasize our way through life, and phone calls are no different.
I even started off by telling Samantha, but you can call me Sam, that I didn't think I was special. She assured me that I was though. They're paid to say that you see. Part of their job is making customers feel important.
Anyway... she fixed my problem. So sorry Mr. Smith, this was a problem with our computer, and I have corrected it. I fell in love while she did it. I may not be special, but I'm not a moron. She was flirting with me. So I screwed up my courage and asked her out.
Sam must be something pretty special, because she said yes. We set the time and place. She gets off work in an hour and I'm supposed to meet her for drinks. She even offered to buy. So, now I'm sitting here thinking.
How ugly is this bitch? I mean, to say yes to a date with some loser on the phone who has billing problems? The Trumps of the world don't get miss-billed. If they do they don't even notice. How repugnant is her personality, when she's not hiding behind a phone, that she has to resort to turning her legitimate job into an escort service? I bet she's a goddamned serial killer and she's planning on selling my organs on the black market. Her breath probably smells like that fermented fish the old Scandinavians are so in love with.
I'm sitting here terrified. What if all of that is true? Well, maybe not the killer part, but I bet she has armpit hair and feminist-forest legs. What if all of that is true and I show up to be disappointed my her snaggle-toothed personality and Quasimodo looks? I'm not going.
I'm terrified. Worse than that? What if none of it's true? What if she is the perfect goddess I met on the phone? What if she's everything I imagined. Then she couldn't help but be disappointed by me.
I'm not going, and you can't make me. Don't judge me, because I'm not special.
You wouldn't go either.
I just want to say, for those confused by the title. If you don't know it, before comic books and RPGs co-opted the term as a synonym for dark hero, antiheroes were a literary device. The term literally meant, not a hero. Stories about them were stories about the common man. They weren't brave, or skilled, or stuck in great adventures. They were workaday people living workaday lives. This is something of a tribute, and a remembrance of words that have been stolen from us. If you didn't know that, well now you do. I just wish I could remember the style they were common in. I want to say Gothic, but I'm relatively sure that's wrong. If anyone knows, please comment below. If not, guess it's off to the library for me soon, since the interwebs have failed me.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer #writing #writingprompt
Nobody likes bills. Everyone gets annoyed when they come in the mail. Most people get frustrated when the amount is wrong. I dare say most people call the number at the bottom to fix the problem. Most everyone wants to yell at the person, but, I think, almost nobody really does. I didn't, because I'm not special. I did call though.
Everyone loves a sexy voice on the other end of the phone. We start to imagine. All the features become physical. The full bodied laugh turns into eyes you can fall into. The sexy burr in the voice grows into that one part of the body, whatever it is, that you want thick when the rest is slim. For me it's the breasts, if I was a girl I bet it would be the penis. Like I said, not special. We fantasize our way through life, and phone calls are no different.
I even started off by telling Samantha, but you can call me Sam, that I didn't think I was special. She assured me that I was though. They're paid to say that you see. Part of their job is making customers feel important.
Anyway... she fixed my problem. So sorry Mr. Smith, this was a problem with our computer, and I have corrected it. I fell in love while she did it. I may not be special, but I'm not a moron. She was flirting with me. So I screwed up my courage and asked her out.
Sam must be something pretty special, because she said yes. We set the time and place. She gets off work in an hour and I'm supposed to meet her for drinks. She even offered to buy. So, now I'm sitting here thinking.
How ugly is this bitch? I mean, to say yes to a date with some loser on the phone who has billing problems? The Trumps of the world don't get miss-billed. If they do they don't even notice. How repugnant is her personality, when she's not hiding behind a phone, that she has to resort to turning her legitimate job into an escort service? I bet she's a goddamned serial killer and she's planning on selling my organs on the black market. Her breath probably smells like that fermented fish the old Scandinavians are so in love with.
I'm sitting here terrified. What if all of that is true? Well, maybe not the killer part, but I bet she has armpit hair and feminist-forest legs. What if all of that is true and I show up to be disappointed my her snaggle-toothed personality and Quasimodo looks? I'm not going.
I'm terrified. Worse than that? What if none of it's true? What if she is the perfect goddess I met on the phone? What if she's everything I imagined. Then she couldn't help but be disappointed by me.
I'm not going, and you can't make me. Don't judge me, because I'm not special.
You wouldn't go either.
I just want to say, for those confused by the title. If you don't know it, before comic books and RPGs co-opted the term as a synonym for dark hero, antiheroes were a literary device. The term literally meant, not a hero. Stories about them were stories about the common man. They weren't brave, or skilled, or stuck in great adventures. They were workaday people living workaday lives. This is something of a tribute, and a remembrance of words that have been stolen from us. If you didn't know that, well now you do. I just wish I could remember the style they were common in. I want to say Gothic, but I'm relatively sure that's wrong. If anyone knows, please comment below. If not, guess it's off to the library for me soon, since the interwebs have failed me.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer #writing #writingprompt
May 30, 2016
Keepsakes
I should give up the paper. I really should. I'm probably one of five people in the city that still has the damn thing delivered. It's a risk, an affectation. Still, I can't give it up. I step over my guests to pick it up and bring it back in. I look over to their still forms again and smile. At least I didn't disturb them.
The front page is the same old crap. Russia is tired of our garbage, and we'll end up irradiating the world between the two of us. The big egos yelling at each other. The companies sponsoring them trying to convince us we should care. Tired of it, I turn to the local section.
High school sports, local art (if you can call it that,) and stuff to do on the weekend. Boring, who needs that in their life? Like I can't entertain myself.
So, I look at the police blotter. Damn it. Sometimes the universe leads us to the right place at just the right time. I've never had a day go bad, not after I brought guests home. This is terrible though. Have you ever looked into the paper and saw your name associated with a crime you didn't commit? I never thought I would.
Right there, in black and white, it says I robbed a bank. I read between the lines and realize they're be coming for me. I look over at the guests and realize my luck is just getting worse. I really can't let them be found here.
Wouldn't you know it? That's the moment the cops decide to knock on my door. "Police, open up!" Yeah, yeah. Okay. I can figure this out. Where did I leave my bag?
"Just a moment! I'm not decent. Oh... and I didn't rob any bank!"
I look around, where is it? I speak from the center of the room. It's the only way this is going to work after all. There it is. The cop is shouting his lack of concern at my assurances.
I kind of figured he would.
Just like I expected him to tell me to come out or he'll break down the door. I hope there are only two of them. I stand next to the door, knowing they expect me to be in the middle of the room. True to his words, the door shatters inward.
Two of those big cops rush through. You know, the kind that eat too much red meat and spend hours at the gym? None of it on the treadmill. Guys that will leave muscled corpses before fifty. Anyway, they storm in.
As I slide in behind them, the brains of the outfit spots my guests. They both aim guns, but it's the brains that speaks. "They're de..."
I slide a needle into each of their steroid enhanced necks and depress the plungers. Thanking god there are only two of them. Look, I never said I didn't commit any crime, just not some low rent bank job.
I hate unexpected company.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer #writing #writingprompt
The front page is the same old crap. Russia is tired of our garbage, and we'll end up irradiating the world between the two of us. The big egos yelling at each other. The companies sponsoring them trying to convince us we should care. Tired of it, I turn to the local section.
High school sports, local art (if you can call it that,) and stuff to do on the weekend. Boring, who needs that in their life? Like I can't entertain myself.
So, I look at the police blotter. Damn it. Sometimes the universe leads us to the right place at just the right time. I've never had a day go bad, not after I brought guests home. This is terrible though. Have you ever looked into the paper and saw your name associated with a crime you didn't commit? I never thought I would.
Right there, in black and white, it says I robbed a bank. I read between the lines and realize they're be coming for me. I look over at the guests and realize my luck is just getting worse. I really can't let them be found here.
Wouldn't you know it? That's the moment the cops decide to knock on my door. "Police, open up!" Yeah, yeah. Okay. I can figure this out. Where did I leave my bag?
"Just a moment! I'm not decent. Oh... and I didn't rob any bank!"
I look around, where is it? I speak from the center of the room. It's the only way this is going to work after all. There it is. The cop is shouting his lack of concern at my assurances.
I kind of figured he would.
Just like I expected him to tell me to come out or he'll break down the door. I hope there are only two of them. I stand next to the door, knowing they expect me to be in the middle of the room. True to his words, the door shatters inward.
Two of those big cops rush through. You know, the kind that eat too much red meat and spend hours at the gym? None of it on the treadmill. Guys that will leave muscled corpses before fifty. Anyway, they storm in.
As I slide in behind them, the brains of the outfit spots my guests. They both aim guns, but it's the brains that speaks. "They're de..."
I slide a needle into each of their steroid enhanced necks and depress the plungers. Thanking god there are only two of them. Look, I never said I didn't commit any crime, just not some low rent bank job.
I hate unexpected company.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer #writing #writingprompt
May 23, 2016
One Eyed Men
Don't blame me. Blame the #muse and the #writingprompt
it is the day after the world went blind
the last man who could see gave in and bought a tablet
i am as blind as anyone
my screen
my virtual reality
my all i see
if i looked around i would see that they are all like me
if i peered up i would see them all in the worlds orbiting mine
walking i repost stolen memes of political bigots and idolaters
if i pause i might see her the girl so lonely that she surfs the singles sites
i might ask her our because she is just my type
she might not slice into crimson chords that spill her lifes painting on white porcelain tonight
i dont and she will
i might see the man in blue as he watches the computer and aims the gun at the transient
it could happen that the bum would turn from the darkness of the news in the store window
i could step in and stop the bullet one way or another
there is a chance
just one chance
that i would see the boy playing a game on his phone
scoop him up before he enters the road
some small hope i could wave down the bus driver reading the electronic map
if any of us could see we might stop the travesty of a child buried under moving steel
if any of us could see we would see it is the screens that make us blind
if we took off our three dimensional glasses we might notice the darkness
we might understand it replaced the truth they were meant to bring
we might just might find a one eyed man to stop us from setting the world on fire
we dont though
we stay blind
the child screams and the world becomes tinder
ashes in our mouths
if only it was taste we lost
instead of vision
#shortstory #art #artiss #author #Awethors #commentary #experimentations #surreal #writer #writing
it is the day after the world went blind
the last man who could see gave in and bought a tablet
i am as blind as anyone
my screen
my virtual reality
my all i see
if i looked around i would see that they are all like me
if i peered up i would see them all in the worlds orbiting mine
walking i repost stolen memes of political bigots and idolaters
if i pause i might see her the girl so lonely that she surfs the singles sites
i might ask her our because she is just my type
she might not slice into crimson chords that spill her lifes painting on white porcelain tonight
i dont and she will
i might see the man in blue as he watches the computer and aims the gun at the transient
it could happen that the bum would turn from the darkness of the news in the store window
i could step in and stop the bullet one way or another
there is a chance
just one chance
that i would see the boy playing a game on his phone
scoop him up before he enters the road
some small hope i could wave down the bus driver reading the electronic map
if any of us could see we might stop the travesty of a child buried under moving steel
if any of us could see we would see it is the screens that make us blind
if we took off our three dimensional glasses we might notice the darkness
we might understand it replaced the truth they were meant to bring
we might just might find a one eyed man to stop us from setting the world on fire
we dont though
we stay blind
the child screams and the world becomes tinder
ashes in our mouths
if only it was taste we lost
instead of vision
#shortstory #art #artiss #author #Awethors #commentary #experimentations #surreal #writer #writing
May 15, 2016
That Girl
I've always wanted to be a badass, a successful badass. Failing that, and I have been for about half a life time, I've always wanted to pretend to be someone is. Part of that always required an audience that believed though.
The girl sitting next to me, no, the woman, was French and twenty-something. Say what you will about the older man, younger woman taboo, but here's a truth about it the media doesn't consider. When you're basing a relationship on lies, it's the best way to go. If she was older I never could have gotten away with it. The life story I told was two parts Heff, one part King, one part Lemmy, and a dash of Connery. A woman my age would have seen through some of all of it.
She wasn't.
I watched my worldly stories take her breath away. I saw the interesting things that did to her chest. Yeah, at first it was just physical. No, at first it was the badass thing. Second it was just physical. I don't want you to think I'm a predator, but that second part, the one where I noticed her body... Well, I don't know if I need to thank the king of porn or the sexiest Brit ever, but Frenchy and I ended up taking a trip to the bathroom.
Nearing fifty and joining the mile high club. It was hot. It didn't last long. I'm fifty-five percent sure she wasn't faking how much she liked.
Third came her talking. Telling me wild stories. Tales like my own youth, except brought forward. Propelled to a time when girls were free and morals were looser. I started falling in love. The looks she gave me... Well, I knew she could get past the age thing. I wondered if she could get over the lies. Then I wondered if I could keep them up forever.
I mean, hell I had a little more than thirty years left, if I met the average. Looking her over, thinking of a decade of wild sex with her I was betting I would be lucky to make twenty more if I got involved with her. Especially if her stories were true and her wild days were still going. Probably less, young girls suck life and money out of old men.
Everyone that chases the young ones knows that.
I decided I could keep up the lie, just as I felt a sting at the side of my neck. I slumped towards her, wondering how she smuggled so much liquid on board, as she slid the needle back into her purse. Her wicked smile curved her lips as she whispered to me.
"The men you pretend to be were all heroes of my father. If you were younger you might have recognized the women I chose for my persona. Every one of them would be proud of me, removing another pervert from the gene-pool. Sleep the sleep of damned, predator."
I swear she giggled as everything went black.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #commentary #France #writer #writing
The girl sitting next to me, no, the woman, was French and twenty-something. Say what you will about the older man, younger woman taboo, but here's a truth about it the media doesn't consider. When you're basing a relationship on lies, it's the best way to go. If she was older I never could have gotten away with it. The life story I told was two parts Heff, one part King, one part Lemmy, and a dash of Connery. A woman my age would have seen through some of all of it.
She wasn't.
I watched my worldly stories take her breath away. I saw the interesting things that did to her chest. Yeah, at first it was just physical. No, at first it was the badass thing. Second it was just physical. I don't want you to think I'm a predator, but that second part, the one where I noticed her body... Well, I don't know if I need to thank the king of porn or the sexiest Brit ever, but Frenchy and I ended up taking a trip to the bathroom.
Nearing fifty and joining the mile high club. It was hot. It didn't last long. I'm fifty-five percent sure she wasn't faking how much she liked.
Third came her talking. Telling me wild stories. Tales like my own youth, except brought forward. Propelled to a time when girls were free and morals were looser. I started falling in love. The looks she gave me... Well, I knew she could get past the age thing. I wondered if she could get over the lies. Then I wondered if I could keep them up forever.
I mean, hell I had a little more than thirty years left, if I met the average. Looking her over, thinking of a decade of wild sex with her I was betting I would be lucky to make twenty more if I got involved with her. Especially if her stories were true and her wild days were still going. Probably less, young girls suck life and money out of old men.
Everyone that chases the young ones knows that.
I decided I could keep up the lie, just as I felt a sting at the side of my neck. I slumped towards her, wondering how she smuggled so much liquid on board, as she slid the needle back into her purse. Her wicked smile curved her lips as she whispered to me.
"The men you pretend to be were all heroes of my father. If you were younger you might have recognized the women I chose for my persona. Every one of them would be proud of me, removing another pervert from the gene-pool. Sleep the sleep of damned, predator."
I swear she giggled as everything went black.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #commentary #France #writer #writing
May 9, 2016
No One to Save
It's an old story that is no less true for us than it was in the past No one thought they would actually do it. How many times have you heard it? Even if we only think of the last two hundred years or so?
No one thought they would put Hitler into power. No one thought they would drop those two bombs on Japan. No one thought they would napalm villages full of innocent people. No one thought those tanks would keep going over the students. No one thought the towers would fall. No one thought Trump would actually get the nomination.
Now, fifty years after that last one, add one more. No one thought they would actually push the button. No one thought they would drop the bombs.
When purifying flames fell from the sky, well, it was, oddly enough, mostly nonagenarians like myself who survived it. Upper-middle class old men who inherited houses from grandparents that were almost rich during the red scare. Men with forgotten fallout shelters hidden beneath our family homes. Some of us added some upgrades in the months before the end though.
When my monitor told me it was safe to go outside... well, I was, to say the least, surprised. How could the air be pure after only a year? I checked the instruments though, and they read true. So I unsealed my subterranean domicile and went outside.
It is amazing how nature, absent the cancerous influence of man, can take care of herself. She burned off all that crap we were using to kill her, and she did it using our own flames. When we set fire to the planet she used it to turn that pollution into choking smoke.
Then the plants took over, and I could see how they had grown. With no human hands to cut them down the trees were giant. Even the rose bushes were overgrown, taking in all the toxic smoke and creating clean air. With so much to filter out they overwhelmed the land.
The herbivores had grown to match the plants, and they wandered the land with almost no fear. The predators were mostly the same size, but they were faster, meaner. Their teeth and claws were sharper, they hunted in packs and killed without mercy. Huh, Darwin was right, and sometimes he worked fast.
So, that was what I stepped into. A world from the past, brought into the future by our own careless callousness. This was our planet now. I wondered if there was anyone left to share it with. Not that there would be any repopulating, not at my age. Someone would be around for that though, right?
I was wondering about such things when I heard a report. It was loud, especially in a world with no freeways. Then I felt the pain spread through my chest, the blood oozing down my chest. I looked over my shoulder, to see the twenty something that ended my life.
No one thought humans would stay the same after we ended the world.
#author #Awethors #shortsotry
No one thought they would put Hitler into power. No one thought they would drop those two bombs on Japan. No one thought they would napalm villages full of innocent people. No one thought those tanks would keep going over the students. No one thought the towers would fall. No one thought Trump would actually get the nomination.
Now, fifty years after that last one, add one more. No one thought they would actually push the button. No one thought they would drop the bombs.
When purifying flames fell from the sky, well, it was, oddly enough, mostly nonagenarians like myself who survived it. Upper-middle class old men who inherited houses from grandparents that were almost rich during the red scare. Men with forgotten fallout shelters hidden beneath our family homes. Some of us added some upgrades in the months before the end though.
When my monitor told me it was safe to go outside... well, I was, to say the least, surprised. How could the air be pure after only a year? I checked the instruments though, and they read true. So I unsealed my subterranean domicile and went outside.
It is amazing how nature, absent the cancerous influence of man, can take care of herself. She burned off all that crap we were using to kill her, and she did it using our own flames. When we set fire to the planet she used it to turn that pollution into choking smoke.
Then the plants took over, and I could see how they had grown. With no human hands to cut them down the trees were giant. Even the rose bushes were overgrown, taking in all the toxic smoke and creating clean air. With so much to filter out they overwhelmed the land.
The herbivores had grown to match the plants, and they wandered the land with almost no fear. The predators were mostly the same size, but they were faster, meaner. Their teeth and claws were sharper, they hunted in packs and killed without mercy. Huh, Darwin was right, and sometimes he worked fast.
So, that was what I stepped into. A world from the past, brought into the future by our own careless callousness. This was our planet now. I wondered if there was anyone left to share it with. Not that there would be any repopulating, not at my age. Someone would be around for that though, right?
I was wondering about such things when I heard a report. It was loud, especially in a world with no freeways. Then I felt the pain spread through my chest, the blood oozing down my chest. I looked over my shoulder, to see the twenty something that ended my life.
No one thought humans would stay the same after we ended the world.
#author #Awethors #shortsotry
May 2, 2016
Classics
It was a week after Toby's funeral and I thought I was out of tears.
Then that stupid bike arrived.
Once upon a time a bicycle built for two was a romantic thing. That was before insanely high divorce rates and children that had more rights than their parents. Children that were too safe, but in Toby's case, not safe enough.
Staring at that bike, with the half a smaller bike on its ass end, I discovered I had more tears after all. I cried myself empty and I went to bed. No Nancy there to comfort me, she was at her mother's. Our relationship was shaky before. After Toby... well, she blamed me for him, and to be fair she might have been right.
After tossing and turning I fell into a fitful sleep. I dreamed the dreams of the damned. Images and racial memories of better times. Of days when wives didn't leave you. Dreams of an era where we didn't make the world too safe for children and yet very few of them died.
When I got up the next morning, I went through my routine. I woke up, smacking the alarm to shut it up, and cursing work for making me get out of bed. I brushed my teeth, packed my computer bag, exited the door and drove to work on auto-pilot. All very robotic and mundane.
All very normal.
Toby was never far from my mind as I entered the building. I figured that was why the color drained from the world. I'd never been one to have vivid fantasies. So I guessed this might be a hallucination brought on by the misery. Maybe it was the receptionist's classic look though.
I opened my mouth to say good morning. My world went blank. No words came out, but she reacted like they had. Then she said hello.
In front of my face I saw one of those old speech cards from silent movies. The curly cues surrounded the words 'Good morning, sir!'
I stopped in my tracks and shook my head. 'Just like an old time movie,' I muttered under my breath, 'If only life still worked this way.'
Still nothing came out, but she saw my words and rage etched across her face. I knew I was in for a speech, and one that I was going to do a lot of eye rolling through. This time the card that flashed wasn't exactly words.
~The woman droned on for an interminable length about how terrible those times were for women, minorities, transsexuals and the like. A speech that even those who agreed with it were tired of hearing.~
I moved towards the elevator and muttered under my breath. I don't know if she saw what I did not hear. 'It must have sucked to live in a time when people didn't have to make up causes. When people knew you could love a thing without wanting every little bit of it.'
#shortstory #Awethors
Then that stupid bike arrived.
Once upon a time a bicycle built for two was a romantic thing. That was before insanely high divorce rates and children that had more rights than their parents. Children that were too safe, but in Toby's case, not safe enough.
Staring at that bike, with the half a smaller bike on its ass end, I discovered I had more tears after all. I cried myself empty and I went to bed. No Nancy there to comfort me, she was at her mother's. Our relationship was shaky before. After Toby... well, she blamed me for him, and to be fair she might have been right.
After tossing and turning I fell into a fitful sleep. I dreamed the dreams of the damned. Images and racial memories of better times. Of days when wives didn't leave you. Dreams of an era where we didn't make the world too safe for children and yet very few of them died.
When I got up the next morning, I went through my routine. I woke up, smacking the alarm to shut it up, and cursing work for making me get out of bed. I brushed my teeth, packed my computer bag, exited the door and drove to work on auto-pilot. All very robotic and mundane.
All very normal.
Toby was never far from my mind as I entered the building. I figured that was why the color drained from the world. I'd never been one to have vivid fantasies. So I guessed this might be a hallucination brought on by the misery. Maybe it was the receptionist's classic look though.
I opened my mouth to say good morning. My world went blank. No words came out, but she reacted like they had. Then she said hello.
In front of my face I saw one of those old speech cards from silent movies. The curly cues surrounded the words 'Good morning, sir!'
I stopped in my tracks and shook my head. 'Just like an old time movie,' I muttered under my breath, 'If only life still worked this way.'
Still nothing came out, but she saw my words and rage etched across her face. I knew I was in for a speech, and one that I was going to do a lot of eye rolling through. This time the card that flashed wasn't exactly words.
~The woman droned on for an interminable length about how terrible those times were for women, minorities, transsexuals and the like. A speech that even those who agreed with it were tired of hearing.~
I moved towards the elevator and muttered under my breath. I don't know if she saw what I did not hear. 'It must have sucked to live in a time when people didn't have to make up causes. When people knew you could love a thing without wanting every little bit of it.'
#shortstory #Awethors
April 24, 2016
When I was Old
I don't normally try to enjoy the sun, something about the White Irish gene. That's ginger to you folks that are even more bigoted than people who still say White Irish. Sunburn, heat-rashes, sun and heat stroke aside... strange shit always happens in the sun. I can't be the only one who's noticed that. Yesterday was no exception. Except to my rule about enjoying the sun.
So I was stepping outside and the first thing I see is me approaching. This was no normal me though. This was a me that was the same age as Kerry Charlton. As if I was going to live that long. Truth is, if my dad didn't turn out to be right, if the world didn't end... well eventually the years of smoking would catch up with me, or the days spent in the sun. No matter what, cancer was just a knock away.
So, this older than I'll ever be version of me storms up to me. I can't figure out why he looks so pissed off. I mean he looks like he holds the kind of anger I felt when I was in high school. Thankfully, I'm a vocal, passionate ass. No matter what age, no matter if I'm me or him. I don't have to wait long before he gives me what for.
"How dare you? Do you know what you're wasting?"
I open my mouth to defend myself, but then I interrupt me, of course.
"Do you know when an author does their best writing? Of course you do, every writer does."
I am about to ask him to tell me but then he does.
"It's before he becomes famous. Before he has to worry about appeasing fans and keeping an audience. When you do nothing but experiment, when your art is pure. Before you get stereotyped and pigeonholed into the crap some publisher wants."
I sigh, about to defend myself, but I won't shut up.
"We both know you're not famous yet, and this is the best time. How are you wasting it? You're chasing success instead of the art. Even the shit you do on that website is ego stroking. Why aren't you trying to break things? That's what an artist does. What the hell is wrong with you? You don't want to end up like me; rich, alone, unfulfilled, sold out. Start writing the revolution now, boy."
I open my mouth to tell him that he needs to learn to expand his prose. The idea is there but years of flash fiction limit him. He seems to know what I am about to say. He seems to hate that it makes his point. He l shuts my mouth by slapping me hard. My ear is still ringing when I realize he has gone back to his own reality.
#shortstory #Awethors #author #writer #aboutme #writing #anger
So I was stepping outside and the first thing I see is me approaching. This was no normal me though. This was a me that was the same age as Kerry Charlton. As if I was going to live that long. Truth is, if my dad didn't turn out to be right, if the world didn't end... well eventually the years of smoking would catch up with me, or the days spent in the sun. No matter what, cancer was just a knock away.
So, this older than I'll ever be version of me storms up to me. I can't figure out why he looks so pissed off. I mean he looks like he holds the kind of anger I felt when I was in high school. Thankfully, I'm a vocal, passionate ass. No matter what age, no matter if I'm me or him. I don't have to wait long before he gives me what for.
"How dare you? Do you know what you're wasting?"
I open my mouth to defend myself, but then I interrupt me, of course.
"Do you know when an author does their best writing? Of course you do, every writer does."
I am about to ask him to tell me but then he does.
"It's before he becomes famous. Before he has to worry about appeasing fans and keeping an audience. When you do nothing but experiment, when your art is pure. Before you get stereotyped and pigeonholed into the crap some publisher wants."
I sigh, about to defend myself, but I won't shut up.
"We both know you're not famous yet, and this is the best time. How are you wasting it? You're chasing success instead of the art. Even the shit you do on that website is ego stroking. Why aren't you trying to break things? That's what an artist does. What the hell is wrong with you? You don't want to end up like me; rich, alone, unfulfilled, sold out. Start writing the revolution now, boy."
I open my mouth to tell him that he needs to learn to expand his prose. The idea is there but years of flash fiction limit him. He seems to know what I am about to say. He seems to hate that it makes his point. He l shuts my mouth by slapping me hard. My ear is still ringing when I realize he has gone back to his own reality.
#shortstory #Awethors #author #writer #aboutme #writing #anger
April 17, 2016
JPMD
Everyone says "clown college" to make fun of lower class education. Some of us know the pride and tradition involved in the real thing though. When PT Barnum was running around the profession of clowning was an honor, not a joke. So revered were the men who graduated from our universities that we were immortalized on velvet. These days...
I guess that isn't the point though. Like my father, and my father's father before him, I attended JP Patches University. I did very well. Pie throwing, balloon animals, folding into the tiny cars, the psychology of children and mid-west families. I aced them all. Valedictorian of JPPU, it was an honor just to think about it.
I agonized over my speech for nearly a month.
I thought about what my people had become. The tragedy of a group that once taught, enlightened, and made happy... now a laughing stock. The kind of profession nobody wanted their son to become, or even worse for their daughter to marry. That wasn't so bad.
The fact that we all pretended it was nothing, that offended me.
A little known fact is that in every class there is one sad clown. Not the psychotic killer that writers make millions on and mothers scare their children with. Those clowns occur once every three generations or so. However, the sad clown is a necessary thing.
I had to decide before I gave my speech, light or dark, happy or sad. I could take on the mantle of sad clown. If I passed on it, then the honor would fall to the class clown, I know, the irony. If he passed, then someone else would take it up.
Someone would wear the frown though.
I had two speeches prepared, and even on the day of graduation I wasn't sure which one I was going to deliver. I put on all the makeup except the bit around my mouth. I looked at my lips and I thought.
No longer did my brothers climb out of the car, amazing the world with simple magic. No, instead we led malnourished elephants around big tops with almost nobody in them. We did not even try.
Once we were the servants of the dream-makers. We did our jobs for no reason more than making children laugh. Every tinkling of those voices birthed one of the fae. We rejoiced in that. Now though? Now we bent balloons for children absorbed in their iPhones, children who no longer believed in magic. We did this for the price of a can of tuna. I hated what we had become.
I hated them for accepting it.
I hated me for accepting it.
I donned the downward slanting makeup and I took the stage. I looked at them in shame and rage. I took my horn in my right hand and held my breath. The horn issued one sad, condemning honk, expressing my disappointment.
My classmates felt shame and wept their face free of their smiling disguises.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer
I guess that isn't the point though. Like my father, and my father's father before him, I attended JP Patches University. I did very well. Pie throwing, balloon animals, folding into the tiny cars, the psychology of children and mid-west families. I aced them all. Valedictorian of JPPU, it was an honor just to think about it.
I agonized over my speech for nearly a month.
I thought about what my people had become. The tragedy of a group that once taught, enlightened, and made happy... now a laughing stock. The kind of profession nobody wanted their son to become, or even worse for their daughter to marry. That wasn't so bad.
The fact that we all pretended it was nothing, that offended me.
A little known fact is that in every class there is one sad clown. Not the psychotic killer that writers make millions on and mothers scare their children with. Those clowns occur once every three generations or so. However, the sad clown is a necessary thing.
I had to decide before I gave my speech, light or dark, happy or sad. I could take on the mantle of sad clown. If I passed on it, then the honor would fall to the class clown, I know, the irony. If he passed, then someone else would take it up.
Someone would wear the frown though.
I had two speeches prepared, and even on the day of graduation I wasn't sure which one I was going to deliver. I put on all the makeup except the bit around my mouth. I looked at my lips and I thought.
No longer did my brothers climb out of the car, amazing the world with simple magic. No, instead we led malnourished elephants around big tops with almost nobody in them. We did not even try.
Once we were the servants of the dream-makers. We did our jobs for no reason more than making children laugh. Every tinkling of those voices birthed one of the fae. We rejoiced in that. Now though? Now we bent balloons for children absorbed in their iPhones, children who no longer believed in magic. We did this for the price of a can of tuna. I hated what we had become.
I hated them for accepting it.
I hated me for accepting it.
I donned the downward slanting makeup and I took the stage. I looked at them in shame and rage. I took my horn in my right hand and held my breath. The horn issued one sad, condemning honk, expressing my disappointment.
My classmates felt shame and wept their face free of their smiling disguises.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer
