Kurt Brindley's Blog, page 127

Even Lonely Roads Provide No Refuge

The little white dog romped in the wild, dormant grass along the side of the road while the man made a show of waiting impatiently for her, as if he were being kept from an important engagement; though, when the dog popped back out onto the road and started making her scattered, sniffing way forward again, the man’s slight smile belied this show of his as he kept a slow pace behind her, as if he were afraid to lose sight of her, as if she were some kind of jubilant roaming compass upon which his direction was dependent.

The dog darted back into the grass and all the man could tell of her existence was her rustling wake waving through the dried, graying growth. He growled at her to watch for ticks. She popped back out onto the road once again and, free from the constraints of the wild, quickly motored forward, this way and that. He was able to take only three or four slow strides before she caught another scent and was back, once again, into the grass, off on yet another hunt.

He stopped, growled something else at her, and then let his eyes fall on the expansive, bleak view. Row upon row of severed stalks, some upright and blunt, others twisted and mangled, ran all the way to the bottom of the hill. It seemed to him as if he were looking down upon an abandoned, rotting cemetery. An unseen sun was setting behind cold clouds that threatened the coming of snow. A chill overtook him and he tugged on the already tightened coat zipper. The old, puppy-happy dog, still frantic with scent, did not notice the car as it approached.

The man did and he watched in silence as it slowed and then stopped along side him. The window came down and he was taken aback somewhat, if not more, when the driver said in a sand-scraping voice, “Shouldn’t you have that little puppy of yours on a leash?”

It took him several seconds before he could fully comprehend what had been said. The words, at first, didn’t make any sense to him. Then he looked down hard at the woman. He was unable to make out her age, her dyed hair was that red. Plus, her hair was just about all he could make out of her. That, and the knotty, wrinkled hands that seemed to be at the extent of their reach as they gripped the steering wheel. How could she see the road to drive when it seemed she couldn’t even see over the dashboard, he wondered.

“Excuse me?” he growled in earnest.

“I’ve seen you out walking with your little puppy before, you know. She’s so tiny. Aren’t you afraid a little thing like that might get hit by a passing car?”

He looked down at the oblivious dog and calculated that she was an easy three feet off the road. He then slowly, intentionally, looked up and down the lifeless, windswept road. Finally, he looked back down on the woman and a sudden rush of who he used to be came over him. He tried unsuccessfully to keep his hands from tightening into hard, hammering fists. He took a step closer toward the open window.

The dog popped back out onto the road and looked up in panting anticipation at the man, her thirsty tongue bobbing up and down in time with her wagging tail.

The man knew exactly what the old dog wanted. He relaxed and bent down and scooped her up with gentle, protective hands.

It seemed as if he didn’t hear the woman when she asked again, this time in an even more urgent, condescending tone, “Shouldn’t you at least have her on a leash?”

He just turned and made a slow way back in the direction from which he and his old companion had come. His growling response, if there was one, was lost within the cold hum of the snow-scented headwind.

 

 

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Filed under: Flash Fiction Tagged: country roads, dogs, fiction, flash fiction, friends, living, loneliness, memories, refuge, short stories, solitude, writing

Even Lonely Roads Provide No Refuge

The little white dog romped in the wild, dormant grass along the side of the road while the man made a show of waiting impatiently for her, as if he were being kept from an important engagement; though, when the dog popped back out onto the road and started making her scattered, sniffing way forward again, the man’s slight smile belied this show of his as he kept a slow pace behind her, as if he were afraid to lose sight of her, as if she were some kind of jubilant roaming compass upon which his direction was dependent.

The dog darted back into the grass and all the man could tell of her existence was her rustling wake waving through the dried, graying growth. He growled at her to watch for ticks. She popped back out onto the road once again and, free from the constraints of the wild, quickly motored forward, this way and that. He was able to take only three or four slow strides before she caught another scent and was back, once again, into the grass, off on yet another hunt.

He stopped, growled something else at her, and then let his eyes fall on the expansive, bleak view. Row upon row of severed stalks, some upright and blunt, others twisted and mangled, ran all the way to the bottom of the hill. It seemed to him as if he were looking down upon an abandoned, rotting cemetery. An unseen sun was setting behind cold clouds that threatened the coming of snow. A chill overtook him and he tugged on the already tightened coat zipper. The old, puppy-happy dog, still frantic with scent, did not notice the car as it approached.

The man did and he watched in silence as it slowed and then stopped along side him. The window came down and he was taken aback somewhat, if not more, when the driver said in a sand-scraping voice, “Shouldn’t you have that little puppy of yours on a leash?”

It took him several seconds before he could fully comprehend what had been said. The words, at first, didn’t make any sense to him. Then he looked down hard at the woman. He was unable to make out her age, her dyed hair was that red. Plus, her hair was just about all he could make out of her. That, and the knotty, wrinkled hands that seemed to be at the extent of their reach as they gripped the steering wheel. How could she see the road to drive when it seemed she couldn’t even see over the dashboard, he wondered.

“Excuse me?” he growled in earnest.

“I’ve seen you out walking with your little puppy before, you know. She’s so tiny. Aren’t you afraid a little thing like that might get hit by a passing car?”

He looked down at the oblivious dog and calculated that she was an easy three feet off the road. He then slowly, intentionally, looked up and down the lifeless, windswept road. Finally, he looked back down on the woman and a sudden rush of who he used to be came over him. He tried unsuccessfully to keep his hands from tightening into hard, hammering fists. He took a step closer toward the open window.

The dog popped back out onto the road and looked up in panting anticipation at the man, her thirsty tongue bobbing up and down in time with her wagging tail.

The man knew exactly what the old dog wanted. He relaxed and bent down and scooped her up with gentle, protective hands.

It seemed as if he didn’t hear the woman when she asked again, this time in an even more urgent, condescending tone, “Shouldn’t you at least have her on a leash?”

He just turned and made a slow way back in the direction from which he and his old companion had come. His growling response, if there was one, was lost within the cold hum of the snow-scented headwind.

 

 

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Filed under: Flash Fiction Tagged: country roads, dogs, fiction, flash fiction, living, loneliness, refuge, short stories, solitude, writing

トウモロコシの枯れ野だの

Kurt Brindley ✍ ✄ ✍:

The lovely and loving Megi at Happynest In America always has the most lovely and loving photography and inspirational words for us. I wish this were a better translation, but it even sounds beautiful when google says it:

Green foxtail’s the pampas grass

but the oak twig bird’s the hill beyond the sunset’s

the madder, field that is dyed in sepia also a good

Originally posted on :

エノコログサだの

ススキだの

カシの小枝の小鳥だの

丘の向こうの日暮れだの

茜、セピアに染まる野に

ひとりたたずむ

秋の宵

　　＊　　　＊　　　＊

にほんブログ村 アメリカ情報でも、更新記事をお届けしています。

Filed under: Photography, Poetry Tagged: fields, HappyNest in America, Japan, Japanese, language, nature, photography, poetry, writing

Night Light

 

 

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Filed under: Photography Tagged: art, barns, corn fields, farm house, farms, fields, graphic art, graphic design, harvest, nature, nocturnal, pastoral, photography, pictures

Onomatopoeia Flu

A sniffle a snort

A wheeze and a sneeze

A belch a burp and a moan.

A slurp a sigh

A hiss and a buzz

A babble a wow and a groan.

An utter a sputter

A mumble and a grumble

A barf a spit and a spew.

A cough a hack

A hum and a yawn

A sheesh then finally…a whew!

There are flues that can make smoke float up,

And there are flues that can make folks lie down.

But the Onomatopoeia Flu is the only flu

That can make you make really weird sounds.

 

From Poem Man

 

 

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Filed under: Poetry Tagged: flu, flues, grammar, language, onomatopoeia, Poem Man, poems, poetry, rhymes, rhyming poetry, sounds, words, writing

To save all you Angry People the trouble…

I created an FAQ page, that’s right, a Frequently Angry Questions page, just for you, Angry Person… >> CLICK CLICK

Filed under: Humor Tagged: authors, FAQ, frequently asked questions, humor, marketing, publishing platforms, writing, writing humor

Moon Vision

 

 

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Filed under: Photography Tagged: art, eyes, graphic art, graphic design, moon, nature, nocturnal, photography, solar system, universe

The Happily Disgruntled Writer reflects on the various Indie Author marketing strategies…

 

 

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Filed under: Humor Tagged: authors, fiction, Happily Disgruntled Writer, humor, Indie Authors, indie publishing, literature, publishing, writers, writing, wrting humor

Flowers and the Fallen

 

 

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Filed under: Photography Tagged: art, digital art, digital design, flowers, graphic art, graphic design, leaves, nature, photography, pictures

Hey Author, let’s make a deal (condensed version)

Sometimes the mojo magic gets to workin’ in me and gets me going on a post and before I know it that post is a mile long…

Such is the painfully apparent case with the original “Hey Author, let’s make a deal” post.

Yeah…I went to read over it again this morning, before my coffee had a chance to bake in…not good.

That sucker’s so long it makes the Great Wall of China look like the Just Above Average Wall of China…

It’s so long it looks like I’m getting nothing but sympathy “Likes” on it. You know those kind of “Likes”…if I “Like” it, maybe it will then just go away…

Yeah…I understand.

But what I’m trying to do with the post is important to me so I’m compelled to shorten things up a bit so you can actually finish reading something of mine in at least one sitting.

So, to reiterate what I reiterated way too many times in the original post but what you probably managed not to read anyway, here are the key points of what is so important to me and what I would like us both to do:

Your tasks:

1. Like this or/and the original post

2. Follow this website

3. Subscribe to my newsletter (this is key…I know, everyone hates to do this but please do)

4. Purchase my short story LEAVE

5. Write a smokin’ hot review for it

My tasks:

1. Finish reading and reviewing HANDS OF EVIL

2. Pick the best smokin’ hot review of LEAVE

3. Ensure author of smokin’ hot review meets all eligibility requirements

4. Purchase a book or story of author of chosen smokin’ hot review

5. Read the author’s book

6. Review the author’s book

7. Publish the review of author’s book here

8. Publish the review of author’s book at Amazon

9. Publish the review of author’s book at Goodreads

10. Publish my review of author’s book, the author’s review of my short story, and an accompanying author profile, in my newsletter (

(Since newsletters are probably the best way to engage with your readers, I strongly encourage all of you to fire one up, as well. If you do, let me know. I’d be happy to subscribe. (: )

That’s the crux of it…short and to the point.

Just like the original.

. . . .

Um, excuse me, before you go. . .

I know, I know. . .

But before you go, I’d like to say something real quick about my short story LEAVE…and this applies to all my stories, including my book The Sea Trials of an Unfortunate Sailor, with a navy setting.

I am always receiving feedback from readers of my so-called “navy stories” that initially the readers were hesitant to read them because, let’s face it, who really cares about what’s going on in the navy. Aren’t they the kind of stories that only a certain kind of people, sailor people perhaps, would only want to read?

My answer to that is, sure these are stories with a navy setting, but they aren’t necessarily about just navy things.

Because all this is so fundamental to who I am, I have been planning to discuss all this much more in depth later, but in my About page I mention that I consider myself a Human Relations kind of guy. I believe I am qualified to say that because I spent a good chunk of my life studying humans…

I spent three months at the Defense Equal Opportunity Management Institute for some hardcore Diversity and EO training.

I was then certified as a Navy Equal Opportunity Advisor, where I worked daily managing EO issues and providing EO and Diversity training all throughout the navy’s Western Pacific operating area.

And, I have a masters degree in Human Relations (go figure).

So my “navy stories” are mostly about what most stories are about — humans and how we relate with each other. Which is often, not so well.

And these stories specifically put a special emphasis on those difficult relationships…relationships dealing with sexual orientation and race and gender issues and our perceptions and stereotypes of them and the harassment and harm we sometimes inflict on each over them.

So yeah, these stories, most of which you can read online for free right here, are navy stories in the sense that that is where they are set. . .

But it was my intent and my hope that they be stories that transcend way beyond just the navy and right into the heart of all of us.

 

 

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Filed under: Books Tagged: authors, book reviews, books, bullying, equal opportunity, harassment, human relations, Indie Authors, LGBT, racism, sexism, sexual orientation, writing