When I attended graduate school for writing in the midwestern USA in the mid and late 1990s, all the best classes and writing workshops were held in bars, pubs, and-or saloons. A slight exaggeration, but only slightly. It was the tail end of an era when drinking and writing, at least in the USA, were still seen by many as activities that go hand in hand. And hand in hand with drinking goes smoking, so most of the drinking writers in the writing workshops were also smokers too, either heavy, medium, or light. The second-hand smoke that was consumed along with the first-hand smoke along with the beers along with the shots of whisky while writing was being discussed in the writing workshops that were happening in the bars, makes me not wonder why I already have Stage One Emphysema nor why I’ve already had a stroke. I’m healthy as a horse otherwise (yes this is possible) and I’ve already done what you need to do to slow emphysema down which is quit smoking. I stopped drinking twenty-one years ago and there is no doubt that I would be dead now if I had not stopped drinking. Three of my writing teachers from those days are dead from drinking and smoking even though, if alive, they would not yet be 80 years old. All three of them died from some combination of chain-smoking cigarettes and alcoholism, the functional, working variety of it, that is. These men never stopped working. But they also never stopped drinking or smoking. And it put them in an early grave, just as it promises to do for almost everyone who goes too far with any of these activities. My fellow students in the writing programs were also alcoholics. One of them I almost married, except that she turned out to be an even bigger alcoholic than I was. It’s sad to see a brilliant brain slowly bludgeon itself into submission right in front of your eyes when you yourself have already done the necessary work that is required to save yourself from a similar fate. Keith Richards quit heroin in the 1970s before it killed him and his girlfriend refused to do so which is why he had to tell her sayonara, beautiful lady.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever Escaping from Prison: A How-to Article By Dale Williams Barrigar”Tag: Short Fiction
Danny by David Henson
After a groan of a day at work, Harmon Donovan riffles through the musty comic books he salvaged from his mother’s estate sale. He feels something under the stack. A beak? Of course—Danny. Harmon turns the toy over in his hands. About six inches tall, the wooden duck stands upright. Harmon traces his finger down the head where the blue-green paint is chipped and fading. The plaything transports him to simpler times. Before his boss, Mr. Murphy. Before—
“Harmon, are you going to mow the lawn or not?” His wife’s sharp voice from downstairs pops his daydream.
Continue reading “Danny by David Henson”One Monkey Don’t Stop No Show by Frederick K Foote
White Rock Road, (WRR) the Poet Laureate of San Juan County, California, was asked by a listener to his popular podcast, Talking Black, what the saying, “One monkey don’t stop no show.” meant. WRR responded with the following examples.
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Continue reading “One Monkey Don’t Stop No Show by Frederick K Foote”Beware the Wild Geese by Michael Bloor
June, 1971
Andy had messed up big-time in his final year at uni. He didn’t like his course. Economics, the ‘dismal science’ that ascribed a sovereign power to selfishness, thus scorning as scientifically irrelevant altruism, paternal and maternal love, solidarity, charity, and every noble human impulse. He was repelled by his tutor, a posturing, pipe-smoking, bow-tie-wearing fraud. Andy had received an education there, but he had received it from his friends. He found Borges’ stories, Bergman’s films, Auden’s poems… You can fill-in the list for yourselves.
Continue reading “Beware the Wild Geese by Michael Bloor”Sunday Whatever – Style by Frederick K Foote
A Piece by Mr Foote that we weren’t sure where it fitted and so a Sunday Treat.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – Style by Frederick K Foote”Week 582 – A Wrecking Crew, Going For Five And Let’s Not Forget.
Here we go again. Welcome to Week 582.
Before I start, I’ll answer the riddle that I set on my last posting.
Off the top of my head –
Two letters make a male – He.
Add one to become female – Her.
Add another to become male again – Hero.
Add three to go back to female – Heroine.
Take one away and if you take this you won’t care what you are – Heroin.
Continue reading “Week 582 – A Wrecking Crew, Going For Five And Let’s Not Forget.”A Body Without Organs by Miles Efron
Abdi barges into my craft room, without his glass eye. Which he knows I hate.
“Hey, Mom?” he says.
“Did that Zoom call already finish?” I ask. This homeschool group is such a jerkoff. Why do we even pay for it? I mean, I could teach him nothing by myself for free.
“I found this snowglobe eyeball online. It’s so cool. I could flip my head upside down and then…”
Continue reading “A Body Without Organs by Miles Efron”Bullfrog by S. M. Rosen
There’s a smell, a humid kind of smell. Wet concrete—car fumes. A fire hydrant cracked open, cool water steaming on the New York July sidewalk. I remember because my feet were burning. Cool water on too warm concrete soles.
Continue reading “Bullfrog by S. M. Rosen”Strings Attached by Geraint Jonathan
‘Who are you? What are you?’ I mean these were his first words. No ‘my name’s Hedrik and you are . . . ?’ holding out his hand to be shaken. Not a bit of it. Who are you, what are you? I mean, pardon? But then he’s a genius, you see, and they have different standards. They don’t need to stoop to the niceties, not when their heads are chock-full of . . . whatever it may be, tones, colours, visions, the likes of which the world has yet to fathom. Wars come and go, but Hedrik and his ilk come and go once only. There I go saying Hedrik and his ilk. His having an ilk at all was not something he cared to acknowledge, in fact he spat the word, as though I’d said something offensive, as if my saying ilk had meant that I saw him as one man among many, that there was an ilk from which he’d emerged or an ilk he belonged to, like some club. But the ilk of which I spoke was that of the elite, the pantheon of the greats, the most luminous of roll-calls there is. Once that was explained, he eased. As to the question who was I and what was I, I had no answer, which I suppose was answer enough in itself. But it was soon clear to him that, above all, I knew his music. I could hum the opening of his Palindromeda, could cite the shifts in rhythmic accent in his Strings Attached. The pathos of the toy-piano was known to me. There were rhythms I could mimic by tapping on a tabletop, whole sections I could whistle at the drop of a hat. He was perhaps impressed, despite himself. If so, it didn’t last. He was, unsurprisingly, upfront. ‘How can I put it,’ he said: ‘Fuck off.’ Just like that. I thought if he says anything like that again I’m just going to get up and walk out. His twilight years, these. Polly Tonal, I said, who was she? Just kidding. But seriously, polytonal, as distinct from atonal as distinct from parallel fifths all sixes and sevens and diminished this and augmented that and if the tone of C produces overtones of G and E the overtone G produceth subovertones of D or is it B whereas whole tone scales differing as they do from the diatonic bring to bear the atonal polyrhythmical dissonance such as heard in your Staccato-in-fucking D!
Continue reading “Strings Attached by Geraint Jonathan”Old Haunts by Christopher Ananias
I can’t help the past. Even if it would have been good, and sometimes it was… It’s gone. I met Angie where all transitory beings are met. I met her in a bar.
A cool basement bar, the “Das Keller,” scattered with peanut shells on smooth cement. Where a young demonic Hitler might thrive, but there were no demons on that bright, wasting-away afternoon. Unless you counted the ones inside me.
Continue reading “Old Haunts by Christopher Ananias”