Mamaw don’t want to lock you in a cage, but I got no choice,” she apologized to her wailing granddaughter as she extricated herself from the overwrought child, both covered in spittle, snot, and tears, an ectoplasm of bodily fluids. The child desperately reached for her, arms stretched, fingers twitching, head thrusting.
Continue reading “Caged by R H Nicholson”
Jimmy Comerton and I were given the task of tidying up the big shed at the back of the yard. It was a wet autumn day, ideal for the job. After the frenzy of the harvest, the shed was in a mess. Bales of hay and straw had been thrown higgledy-piggledly everywhere, some bursting out of their bindings in an untidy sprawl. Machinery and tools had been lackadaisically discarded in unlikely places. We had also been commissioned to prepare a makeshift pen for the lambing season – my father always tended to think ahead.
Continue reading “How the Captain Got his Garter by Ian Douglas Robertson”
“I’ll need his name, something of his, and payment upfront, of course,” I say. The young brunette sitting across from me forces a half smile.
“Of course,” she replies. “His name is,” She pauses and her lower lip trembles slightly. “His name was Theodore,” she corrects herself. She reaches into her Dior purse and pulls out a pair of cufflinks. She then pulls out a matching wallet and pauses. “You said cash only, right?” She inquires. She slides her Gucci sunglasses off to see better in the dim lighting. Even from across the table, her eyes look red and puffy, presumably from crying.
Continue reading “Swindled by Seth Bleuer”
Alan had a presentiment of a Nelson Rockefeller Moment in Dorothy’s shower, so he chose the healthy granola option for breakfast, rather than a bacon roll. It was a rare, cold, bright, windless, January day. After he’d loaded the dishwasher, he decided to take a walk down to the shore.
Continue reading “Alan’s Lost Domain by Michael Bloor”
I engage in a strange activity when no one is watching. When I see a small stone on the sidewalk I will choose an area then give the pebble an “accidental” kick in that direction, which is never farther than two feet away. I ask myself “Will everything be alright?” as I hit it with my foot. Nothing else happens after that. I cannot remember when it began, sometime in junior high school, I know that. What it means used to exist, but I can no longer get to it. This happens a lot. At least a half dozen times a day for over fifty years.
Continue reading “Week 533: Private Games and an Ode to Bill”
In the days after the accident, William was haunted by fragments of that morning: the screech of tires, the screams and sirens, Robby’s crumpled bike on the pavement.
Continue reading “The Haunting of William T. Jacobs by David Henson”
“You can’t see anything going that fast, especially at night.”
“You can see everything going that fast, especially at night.”
Nora has no idea what Jack means. He drives the speed limit back to her apartment and drops her off.
Continue reading “There Are Just Too Many Places I’ve Got To See,’ Jack Says”
Pre-Experiment Introduction
It took James Joyce seven years to write Ulysses. As a teen it took me almost as long to read it. The stream of consciousness, which marked the passing of 16 June 1904 in Dublin, second by second, thought by thought, was way too confusing for someone at age fifteen, especially the “Circe” section that goes on a hundred-fifty pages. But that is how it goes with classics written by adults for adults (a point I’ve ranted on before). A person needs a few years as a grown up in her soul before something like Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter can connect to her. Same goes for everything written by Joyce (except a couple from Dubliners–Araby and The Dead can be understood by High Schoolers, I think–at least I “got” them).
I successfully read Ulysses when I stopped demanding it to make linear sense. I let it happen to me. I concentrated on simply reading the words and gave my subconscious the task of sorting it out. Not once did I ask myself stupid questions like “What the hell is happening now?” and went with the flow.
That worked very well. I began to get into the swing of the thing about four chapters in and made it through to the other side. I read that you need to know Irish history to understand the book deeply. Still, I say all you really need to know about Irish history is that before independence (and for a long time thereafter) shit, especially royal and government shit, rolled downhill. Nowadays, however, Ireland is a comparatively uphill, wealthy nation, which means that most of the undesirable blood (such as my father’s side of the family) was safely siphoned to America a long time ago.
This week I shall experiment with Stream of Consciousness, like Joyce in Ulysses, but omitting disgusting items as I wish Joyce would have done with Mr. Bloom, he of the jakes and secret pocket. It was amazing that Joyce was able to put together a narrative from thoughts as wildly scrambled as Burroughs’ Junky.
The Experiment begins:
Tis Aphid season. Three, four attracted by the screen. Keylimegreen. Bugapalooza.
–Arpfmagarpth? Whuzzat. Oh. Hairball. Izzy on the dot. Split. Cats never step in human puke. Selling Buicks at Ralph motors. High scoo. Igglesniff on your nose. Too much Black Velvet. Bring your own spins.
–I ralphed a beeyouick on the rug. Izzy. Speaking. Talking Cat with no hat. Get cleaning it washermygosherwoman.
–You and the Catnip you rode in on.
–Are those your shoes, gibbergimlet?
–All right all right. Two for the price of one, how the west was won. Eyeyiyi of cyclops voice of Joe pazuzukudzu. Stunkofaskunk bee bop bloom a lulu.
The Experiment Ends
Strange things happen when you let your jabbering mind off the leash. Ulysses is hard to read, but like Chaucer and Shakespeare it gets easier as you go. Then you find yourself doing the same, doing the dame. Words scrump up from below, nonsense rhymes squeeze the flow. Flibbergimletjibbeetly we all a go go.
Great, now my mind has gone all Dr. Seuss in Auld Ireland on me. Gotta rate the Catholics Kings and Whoremongers on the quay…coppers singing Galway Bay, bay-a-bee….
What? Oh knock it off, quit leaking fey words into my fingers you goddam whichever lobe that shit is kept. Stop stop stop, he bop, she bop….Bloom bops alone…
Enough! Look what I have done to myself. Beware stream of consciousness. You might drown in it, like She Woolf, with stones in your knickers…
Let’s escape through The Week That Was portal!
The Week of Gems
This was a peculiar week for us because it featured six writers who have appeared with us before. Some several times. Usually there’s one new kid to introduce, but not this time.
And I say six because Our Harbour by site friend and frequent commenter, Paul Kimm, was a featured rerun this past Sunday. It rates a special mention. For anyone who has still managed to miss it, I encourage you to take a look.
The work week began with Meetings and Partings by Nidhi Srivasta Asthana. Nidhi needs to be congratulated on her professionalism during a long editing process as well as the insightful result of the work itself. It is a revelation involving Indian culture and the ancient practice of arranged marriage.
Christopher Ananias has been on a roll ever since his site debut last year. In the Flames is his latest look into the heart of darkness that beats inside the world. Great evil has always been commonplace (look up Richard Speck or the Triangle shirt fire). But nowadays there’s a relatively new dynamic behind it, something that went up the tower with Charles Whitman long ago. Christopher manages to effectively describe the madness with admirable objectivity.
Wednesday saw the welcomed return of J. Bradley Minnick. The Day the End of the World Was at Hand. It too speaks of madness, the organized one called war. I remember the Vietnam era. I was a child and it all seemed unreal to me, like a TV show, until someone we knew lost a son. The darkness will look for us all, and it is up to us to feel it if we are to grow. Brad shows this sort of thing with great polish and sincerity.
Digital to Analog Conversion marked another welcomed return, this time by Bud Pharo. There is way too much AI in the universe. A strange case of a glut of something that only exists in a half-assed sort of way (I hope “Annie” is not related to the feeble minded Google Assistant). But this one had enough charm to get over, which is a credit to Bud.
Simon Nadel closed the week with Crime Wave. There’s a silkiness to this otherwise hard-bitten narrative. Like Chandler and the underrated Spillane, the cynicism and booze flow in an eloquent manner.
Kudos to all our repeat offenders–I mean contributors. People without the determination to do something good, although difficult, never get across. The writers who appear, and those who keep trying to appear, deserve credit for having that aspect in their characters.
More Stream of Consciousness
Recently I was bored (aka “at work”) and I began to consider what are the greatest scenes I remember from film. I decided that the Stream of Consciousness Approach could work here. Instead of actively seeking examples, I let them come to me. Below are the ten film scenes I came up with. (Readers sharing, as always, is strongly desired.)
Leila
“I’ve signed you up for swimming lessons at the Y.M.C.A. Lessons start Monday. That’s tomorrow,” Mother said as I stood on pretty pink petals that lined the ground of our backyard jungle. A late spring snow had just left the rooftop of our home. The gutters were filled with brown, wet leaves. Father stood high atop a wooden ladder. Looking up, I saw his blue jeans and the dirty soles of his shoes. Mother stood under him, holding the bottom rungs. She wore a small bee-hive hairdo, a plaid shirt, and black slacks. Every so often a clump of leaves exploded in a burst behind me.
Continue reading “The Day the End of the World Was at Hand by J Bradley Minnick [1]”
Madhu flatly refused to meet Shyam after having met Deepika Aunty. Imagine having her turn into Mummy! She could not bear the thought. How can a gut reaction be put into words and explained? Even Madhu’s parents couldn’t understand why she had refused to meet him. Since they couldn’t connect with her decision, they were deeply disappointed.
Sometimes it’s not just about dramatic happenings, but simply about how you think.
***
Continue reading “Meetings and Partings by Nidhi Srivastava Asthana”
literally stories 