I dislike cheerful old people. Something’s wrong there: Them with their fastidiously kempt white hair; melanoma-proof golf course tans; smiling Hitler-blue eyes. The existence of cheerful old people proves that there isn’t an even distribution of pain in the Universe. Cheerful old people do not know the Endless Now.
My cat is dead. I know it even though I’m not looking at his still body.
I know this without having seen him. I’ve been unemployed for four months. For the past 121 days, when I’ve been home in the afternoon, which has been for most of them, Mittens, my cat, has come downstairs at around two o’clock to beg me for supper. It’s now five after two.
I try hard not to be too much of a cultural chauvinist, but some of the things Germans do are just wrong. Over the years I’ve learned to tolerate all manner of behaviors that made my younger self uncomfortable: people shaking hands in non-professional contexts, people not smiling when they say hello, people not knowing how to wait in lines, et cetera. I’ve even adopted a few behaviors that would strike many Americans as odd: I bag my own groceries, I don’t tip unless the person actually deserves it, and I can listen to political opponents without wanting them dead.
“No,” I told him, “we cannot ask the monk for the password.”
“Why?” asked the Apple support guy.
“Because he’s dead.”
I was seated on the train near the center car on the aisle so as to keep my gaze fixed upon the despicable Sandibal Huxley. He was a loathsome creature in need of gazing upon. I had picked up his trail around the Café Fulcro in Naples at about three in the afternoon and had trailed him to the Napoli Centrale. I watched him from a distance and waited for my orders to apprehend, which never came, so I boarded his train and continued my pursuit.
Here we are at Week 154.
Well this is our penultimate post.
I’ve always wondered about the word ‘penultimate’, I think it’s a bit up itself. Why would you feel the need to have a word for second to last? Does that mean it was more important to come second last than last? Some would argue that but if you were in a field of more than three, it’s still not very good.
There’s only one thing that you would want to be penultimate at and that would be at an orgy. If you were a female, you wouldn’t want to seem stand-offish and if you were male you wouldn’t want to show off, so coming second last would suffice.
Continue reading “Week 154 – Second Last, Panda Steaks And The Malevolent Hartley Hare.”
Night Train
Hey, this is for The Sake of Soul, minus rock and roll. I got news for you. I got blues for you. I got things for you to do. Dig what I say. Hear what I play. We gonna fill the hole in your soul, with the best of the blues.
“Does Frida have a good nose?”
Harold Zelenko lit his ninth cigarette of the day, and took a gulp of coffee. “Old ball and chain has the best nose in perdition,” he said. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. The Florida sun hadn’t yet reached its zenith, but there was no roof over the fenced motel patio, and it was a barbecue pit.
The night I asked Lena to drop out of high school and marry me, it was freezing. We were waiting out a fall hailstorm, hunkered together under the awning of Kennywood Amusement Park’s Haunted House which was Lena’s favorite ride, even though she rode it with her eyes closed. “Oh, Lennerd,” she said, “Yes. Yes!” Afterwards, we rode the neck-whipping wooden coaster, Thunderbolt, and she was a good sport about it.
This work is below our minimum word count. However, as we have said before, when something comes in that is just demanding to be published we are perfectly willing to be flexible. We have added our thoughts at the end of the post so that you can see our reasoning. Please feel free to comment – as always we love to know what you think.
She has a tattoo on her boobs with something written on it, but I can’t tell if it’s a quote from Marx or César Chávez and the uncertainty is killing me.
“Take a picture,” she says. “It’ll last longer.”
But a camera isn’t the issue, it’s the pronounced curvature.
“Don’t you think tattoos are like bumper stickers for humans?” I say. “It’s like the graffiti that used to be on walls moved on to the skin of people, making it much harder to read.”
She gives me a Frida Kahlo look.
“We’re alone in the universe with only our tattoos to express ourselves; they’re the only thing they can’t take from us. Show some respect.”
I apologize and change the subject, chat about the madness present everywhere and how we’re forced to squeeze a living out of whatever’s left.
“I work in a bar,” she says, “giving hand jobs. I need to get the guys early, while they still have money. It’s hard work. Some are older, and it takes forever, especially if they’re drunk.”
“You must have a strong grip,” I say.
“You can say that,” she says. “But work’s slow nowadays. No one carries cash and everyone’s on antidepressants. It’s like no one can handle happiness anymore.”
“It’s a damn shame,” I say.
“Happiness is in our Declaration of Independence, our Hollywood happy endings, our self-help books. Now it’s Citalopram and Prozac. It depresses me just to think about it.”
And I agree. America’s missing something, something vital. So, we keep lamenting our grim prospects, unpayable student loans, and I wonder how we’ll ever make it through the week, how will we ever survive. It’s an uphill battle, each and every freaking day. And I have no cash, and she has no hope.
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Diane:
I think it’s a real challenge to draw believable and visible character in such a short word count and that was the main thing that struck me about this piece, and what made me want to see it on the site. Just the very first line about the tattoo gives such a clear glimpse into the character of this woman. This is something with a literary quote on it, something more than just body ornamentation. Then we find more about her, her struggle and her despondency, her strength and confidence. I think the woman is the deeper character here and the narrator a foil for our look at her life.
When you consider that all this is packed into 294 words it is very impressive. It is a social comment of course and if it had simply been that – almost a rant – I wouldn’t have considered it for a moment, but it is a multifaceted story, a tiny slice of two lives which perfectly encompasses the problems of misery and struggle of modern life, mostly in the developed world.
Very clever writing in my opinion.
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Hugh:
I have just read Diane’s views on this wonderful piece of writing.
The comments and points she makes are concise and well observed.
I can only add, for me, such a small word count only works if it has a cutting point that is perceptive and relevant. This powerful piece of work does all of that superbly well.
If you are going to write under three hundred words, this is the way to do it.
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Nik
I experiment a lot with short pieces – 50 word fiction, drabbles etc. – because I love the challenge of getting depth into a story within the confines of a strict word count. It’s critical in my opinion that you get in two great lines – one to open and one to close – and that you keep it very simple for the rest. This piece opens well, closes well and is just a simple conversation. And yet as a reader I was able to picture the scene, flesh out the characters and feel a sense of hopelessness and despair. Clever stuff.
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