I’m not sure if you know this about me, but I’m a master of beginnings. As in, my MFA really stands for, “Master of First Attempts.” But middles? Ends? Yeah, not so much. Let’s just say if my hard drive is a vast desert, story beginnings bounce like tumbleweeds over the horizon. And there I am, dragging my parched, sunburned body along the sand, just trying to capture one of them — any of them — in my maniacal story web. How’s that for dramatic imagery?
Rather than attempting to give this post an end here, I’ll toss you over to Write By Night, who have been kind enough to publish my musings on the subject of beginnings that have no end. Here’s the article. Voila! Go forth! Complete something for once!
Woohoo! (Did you know there’s a Wikipedia entry for Woohoo?). Another piece in Blackheart Magazine!
It’s called Bulbs and it’s about energy efficient solutions…for the heart. Oh just read it.
A gaggle of elderly men shuffles past the coffee shop lead by their Pekingese pups. One is the height of a light pole, yet it’s potbelly, bellybutton, heart attack as far as the eye can see. Another sucks food from his teeth, his reddened cheeks inflating and deflating beneath sporadic patches of a white whisker facescape.
Too eager for hydration, the first dumps an icy drink onto his tonsils, then rolls over his potbelly and gasps for air. The second laughs and pounds his back heartily, then mirrors his movements with consumptive coughs. Then a third man nudges around the corner, peering over his walker like a beady-eyed gunner into the South Pacific night. He steers his ship toward a bike rack, straightens suddenly, and belches into the trees.
“To the beach!” he cries. And I wonder what it must be like to be old.
A few months back, I had the pleasure of having my short short, The Secret Society of Carpet Liers, published in Pindeldyboz. How’s that for alliteration? Check it out on their website here.
This piece was the result of experimentation in the last months of my MFA with shorter forms and more precise phrasing. I always tend to move in this direction after struggling through a poorly conceived novel. BIG to tiny. For me, short shorts mean declarative sentences which mean depressing prose. Fortunately, I had just gotten out of a relationship at the time, and had plenty of heart-wrenching things to say.