751

Waiting for an Echo

14Apr2022
Funny. I can only shake my head at it.  Sometimes reading something written by one of literature’s Greats will inspire an effort to emulate their creative effort – the effort alone, if nothing else that is theirs.  But sometimes reading that very same work inspires only dread and fear.

And sometimes, the inspiration arises solely from reading something I have written in the past (which felt successful, worthy, to me at least, if to no-one else).

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821

Thoughts at a memorial service

08Mar2022
Love is how you will be remembered.  Not you, specifically.  Not your name.  Nor your face.  But your love – the love you give to others, the love you show – this love is eternal.  This love will pass onward through time, when all else is gone.  Those you love will take your love and make it their own.  They will pass love on to others, who will love in their turn, down through the ages.

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783

Aaaaaaaaand good night.

21Jan2022
About what does one write, when one has as much ability to give a shit as in impacted bowel?  Which is to say, I am….  I can’t.  I just…can’t.  And yet, I feel…compelled…to express myself.  With absolutely no concomitant compulsion regarding subject matter.  I can stir up no definite opinions, nothing that seems worthy of expression.  Let alone anything that seems to require such effort.  I do no give a flying prolapsed anus about any of it.  Which is almost certainly little more than a defensive reaction to the wholesale slaughter of human/humane ideals that we see every day.  But even recognizing that, and acknowledging the vanishingly small urge to express myself, and taking onto account my inherent laziness….

I can’t.

I also, it would appear, can’t stop.

If I had just a liiiiiiiitle more drive, I could be a passable politician.

Fuck that shit.

And good night.

796

Awaken

16Jan2022
I glanced at the clock above the stove, green, digital, commonplace.

It read 16:79.

I thought, “Oh god, where am I this time?”

746

Self-awareness is a Bitch

23Dec2021
There are some authors who just simply make one despair of ever achieving anything.
Glen Cook.
“Old Tin Sorrows” was published in 1989. He finished seven more novels in that series alone before he published “Cruel Zinc Melodies” in 2008.
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781

Tuesday (pt. 2)

30Nov2021
Part Two of the continuing Saga of Mr. Reginald Tuesday, hitman.

 

Now, one of the greatest difficulties of the profession is advertising.

No one can hire a hitman if they don’t know where to find him.  But, if there’s one thing a hitman can’t afford, it’s to be found by just anyone.  Over the years, many solutions have been proposed for this particular problem.  Clubs, job fairs, personals ads and dead-drop mailboxes.  The advent of the internet eased things considerably, but brought its own set of security risks.

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818

Tuesday (pt. 1)

18Nov2021
There are those stories which beg to be told.  Others absolutely demand it.  A very few simply cannot go untold.  

This is not one of those.  

It is not even one of those stories which simply finds itself told, for no better reason than that it exists.  No, this story is one which must be dragged, kicking and screaming and biting and pissing all over your trouser legs, out of the darkness and forced into the light of day, leaving everyone involved – reader and writer and story itself – feeling dirty and violated.

It is not a good story.

It will not be well written.  Absolutely refuses, in fact.

But here it is, all the same.

 

You have been warned.

 

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