Beau Johnson's Blog, page 3
August 22, 2018
free story.
I REMEMBER
I remember holding you in my arms for the first time. How you turned your head and grasped my finger with yours. It’s how I fall in love.
You had blue eyes at first and eyelashes as long as your mother’s even though you weren’t an hour old. I remember feeding you, bathing you, and pretending to hurt myself because of how it made you laugh. All told, the very best parts of any parent’s day.
I remember walking you to school. JK. SK. All the grades up to and including four. You are ferocious in your learning, hungry for everything that was new. I remember figure skating, Minx the cat, and all the times I carried you to bed. The teeth you lost and the smiles you gave; a heart which seemed to dance. All of it, every part: our lives as meant to be.
I remember the Officers, their posture, and how they held their hats as they stand outside our door; that our prearranged meeting time for walking home alone had come and gone and the grace period you knew nothing about had come and gone as well. This is how it starts. How we knew something had gone wrong. Once he has been caught, I try my best to burn holes into the back of what passes for his head. He never turns to meet me, not in all the years it takes.
I study him, dream of him, and become something less in the exchange---a version of myself I can’t help but begin to hate. Your mother tries with me, cries with me, but everything you were is bigger than the sun. I give her what she wants, but not what I believe she needs.
I fall further, deeper, the blackouts I create as feared as they are embraced. I want oblivion. I want clarity. Each and neither at the very same time. Only when I’m told he’s been granted early release am I able to put these things away. Not for me, but for you; because you were my child.
Free, I remember the day he is paroled and the day I follow him back to his father’s farm. He bolts when he sees me, recognition creating flight. I pass goats and cows and un-mucked stalls as my body becomes younger than it is, faster than it should be. Unlike him, this comes from memory. From days I longed to know.
I follow him up the silo, his face turned down towards mine. It’s exactly as I picture your face, there when your fear was at its worst. At the top I stop, step forward, my mind ablaze and set. He knows this, sees this, his mouth going on and on and on. I don’t think, only act, and ensure I end up on top. We fall, him screaming, my hold upon his body stronger than the stone atop your grave. It compresses when we hit, collapses, crushing breath and bone alike. Liquid splashes upwards, outwards. I feel it mix with mine.
I recall all of this, every bit, but the part I remember most is how I held you in my arms. How you turned your head and grasped my finger with yours.
It’s how I fell in love.
I remember holding you in my arms for the first time. How you turned your head and grasped my finger with yours. It’s how I fall in love.
You had blue eyes at first and eyelashes as long as your mother’s even though you weren’t an hour old. I remember feeding you, bathing you, and pretending to hurt myself because of how it made you laugh. All told, the very best parts of any parent’s day.
I remember walking you to school. JK. SK. All the grades up to and including four. You are ferocious in your learning, hungry for everything that was new. I remember figure skating, Minx the cat, and all the times I carried you to bed. The teeth you lost and the smiles you gave; a heart which seemed to dance. All of it, every part: our lives as meant to be.
I remember the Officers, their posture, and how they held their hats as they stand outside our door; that our prearranged meeting time for walking home alone had come and gone and the grace period you knew nothing about had come and gone as well. This is how it starts. How we knew something had gone wrong. Once he has been caught, I try my best to burn holes into the back of what passes for his head. He never turns to meet me, not in all the years it takes.
I study him, dream of him, and become something less in the exchange---a version of myself I can’t help but begin to hate. Your mother tries with me, cries with me, but everything you were is bigger than the sun. I give her what she wants, but not what I believe she needs.
I fall further, deeper, the blackouts I create as feared as they are embraced. I want oblivion. I want clarity. Each and neither at the very same time. Only when I’m told he’s been granted early release am I able to put these things away. Not for me, but for you; because you were my child.
Free, I remember the day he is paroled and the day I follow him back to his father’s farm. He bolts when he sees me, recognition creating flight. I pass goats and cows and un-mucked stalls as my body becomes younger than it is, faster than it should be. Unlike him, this comes from memory. From days I longed to know.
I follow him up the silo, his face turned down towards mine. It’s exactly as I picture your face, there when your fear was at its worst. At the top I stop, step forward, my mind ablaze and set. He knows this, sees this, his mouth going on and on and on. I don’t think, only act, and ensure I end up on top. We fall, him screaming, my hold upon his body stronger than the stone atop your grave. It compresses when we hit, collapses, crushing breath and bone alike. Liquid splashes upwards, outwards. I feel it mix with mine.
I recall all of this, every bit, but the part I remember most is how I held you in my arms. How you turned your head and grasped my finger with yours.
It’s how I fell in love.
August 1, 2018
the Giveaway
I think I'm going to do a giveaway. I've never done one before, maybe I should have, but for my second book, I think this is in the cards. Mark Westmoreland over at Story and Grit has agreed to help me out with what I have in mind, a sort of Easter egg hunt if you will, with two correct winners each receiving a signed copy of The Big Machine Eats. A copy I myself will mail anywhere in the world on my own dime. Sounds like a party, no? I hope so. So stay tuned, my friends, all 8 of you, as it's about to get hot up in here! Ok. Maybe room temperature. I mean, it's not like I'm 30 anymore.
July 22, 2018
the Best Type of Connection
I received a message from a reader today. Said he finally began my first collection, A Better Kind of Hate. What he also said is the thing most of want to hear, writing for ourselves or not. He said the best compliment he could give right now was that he'd become thoroughly engrossed in my writing and that I was entertaining him, which for him was a welcome change. Guys, there is not a better compliment than that. I kid you not. I told him so, too, just incase you were wondering. Doesn't happen very often to me (unless you're my moms, ha!) but as I have said before, when it does, THAT'S the gravy.
July 11, 2018
the Big Machine Eats
so I have a new book coming out in November of this year. The 26th in fact, and man, did it come about in the most unexpected way. Look for The Big Machine Eats this Christmas, where the struggle for Bishop Rider continues. Buyer beware: It might not be pretty, but then again, fighting for what's right rarely is.
June 2, 2018
May 27, 2018
the inner struggle continues
If i'm honest, I am a selfish person. I think everyone is. Only when the selflessness of our actions meet this can we strive to hit the middle. And It has to be about us. Our inherent nature. But when we accept this, this is when we are open to helping others. Not all of us. Fuck no. A jerk is a jerk and a Dude who chooses the blinders will surely die a lonely man. Anyway, I don't want to get preachy. That wasn't my intent. Just felt like sharing. It has to do with books of course. And reviews. My lack of the latter being what got me thinking these last few days. I have done reviews myself, but again, I do these in the hope I might receive some in return. Selfish, yes, but sliding back toward the middle by attempting a selfless act as well. Hey, it ain't saving the world, I know, but it's how I've come to work. Selling books is an extremely hard racket. I love writing. Cherish it. When the words can do no wrong and fall into the places they were meant to be. The cadence. The rhythm. But what I don't like is what goes in to promoting a book and what essentially is me begging for reviews. It is what it is, though, and I don't see things changing anytime soon. Like most of us, sometimes I just need to let out some air. Anyway, for maybe the one or two people who read this, hey, thanks for letting me vent!
May 15, 2018
Dead Space
Great game. Awesome atmosphere. Highly recommend. the sequels too. Unfortunately, #3 did not met expectations and it looks like there will not be a fourth. Too bad, I would have liked to continue on as Isaac Clarke as he tore through some more Necromorphs. Anyway, until I start a religion called Unitology and pray to the "Marker", you can get all three Dead Space's on the cheap. Have fun. Make the purchase. You wont be disappointed.
April 24, 2018
the Avengers: Infinity War
Growing up I often wondered why I loved comics so much. Wasn't until my wife asked me the same question early into our marriage that I stumbled onto the answer. What I believe to be the answer anyway. My father died when I was 6. My mother bought me my first comic book at 8. Sometime later she finds me crying in my bedroom. She ask what's wrong. I tell her how Peter's Uncle Ben has died. The correlation between Spiderman's Uncle dying and my own father succumbing to cancer is more than obvious. Blatant, really. It had me hooked, though, from then on out. I don't read much comics anymore, but what I have instead is the big screen version of what I grew up with. I have taken my boys to see every Marvel movie out there and this Thursday evening will be no different. Except as ever, there will be no tears, just a smile on my face as I watch the Avengers kick ass and remember my father as I do.
April 21, 2018
the Two Hannibals
Not to mention Hannibal. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love the movies. Except Hannibal Rising. Piece of shit, every frame. Sucking all the balls all at once and never pausing for air. But Anthony Hopkins, he made the character his own, doing his best, in my opinion, in Silence of the Lambs. Now, on to Bryan Fuller's small screen version and how he one-upped something that I thought couldn't be done. From the casting of Mads Mikkleson, Hugh Dancy, and Laurence Fisburne to how they even go so far as to incorporate the Clarice character, albeit by proxy of course. Beautiful. All of it. From the directing to set design to the long cons of certain plots points. Sadly, the bastids at NBC cancelled it after three seasons. Never should have happened. Not to something that well put together. There is hope, however: I've read many a number of participants are willing to reprise their roles and strap on the old feed bag once again.
if such a thing occurs I will do what I must.
I will dance the dance of joy.
if such a thing occurs I will do what I must.
I will dance the dance of joy.
April 16, 2018
Heisenberg
But Breaking Bad...oh my sweet Lord Breaking Bad. Now there is a show to write home about. And one which stuck the landing to boot! The writing. The directing. The acting. I mean, man! Perhaps the only show to come close would be The Wire, but even then, it's not really a fair fight. Lovely. Just lovely. Cranston and Aaron Paul deserve all the Emmy nods and kudos they received. In the immortal words of Tuco Salamanca: that show was tight! Tight-tight!
