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After we rose screaming and before we became a shower of stars


a sudden silence and the body floats slow; but the soul's velocity
still wants to go and go.

Cover your ears.
We'll puncture the air next to drill a hole in it, straight to shake the ground.

A faint crackle burning in distant thunder across the towns below

who couldn't care less
as we fade among the sound
of a new row.

You are Ferlinghetti of the papa burbs
enlightened in your revisitation
unbuttoning the button down
straight out to the Northern Star

The view from the window is quite good, there is always a flurry of
activity on the street below. Quinn Smith was a reclusive fellow, he
wasn't always that way but a few years in the big city, away from the
warmth of small town life had driven him to isolate a bit. It had been
more than a week since Quinn had left the apartment, he went out for
some groceries and made it the entire two blocks to the local IGA and
back. He worked as a copy writer for a women's magazine so there was
never a need to commute any distance that couldn't be measured in
meters.

Quinn amused himself at times by staring out the window at the
intersection below. This evening in particular he had spent the last
three hours glued to the street dramas. Things were starting to clear
out now though and there was barely anybody left out. He'd often
pretend that there was an emergency and he'd put himself into the
hero's role. Charging down the stairs, his imaginary self would step
in to save the day. Most of the time the emergencies were auto wrecks
or senior citizens with heart problems. Quinn was a certified EMT and
had never had the chance to use his skills.

Today however, Quinn was feeling fiesty. He imagined a mugging. Ok, he
thinks, what's that man doing? Every hair on his body stands up, he's
riddled with adrenaline and ready for action. He runs down the stairs
and grabs the brute right by the head, pulling it back. Quinn's elbow
then slams into the mugger's windpipe and he drops like a
rock. Swooping down and picking up the dropped handbag he returns it
to the woman with a sly, somewhat rakish smile. A smile that says
"Yeah, I can be a manly and rough but I have a charm and seductive
intelligence to me, and of course I'm spectacular in bed." The woman
would be obliged to ask him to have coffee with her, her treat, which
would be nice because copy-writers don't make a lot of money. They'd
spend the afternoon blissfully discovering all of the things they had
in common, remarking on how lucky it was that they were together and
safe.

Quinn caught movement at the northern corner of the street, breaking
the spell and interrupting some particularly forward remarks from the
young lady he had just rescued. A woman, a very pretty one was moving
quickly toward the streetlight. There was a man behind her who in two
or three quick steps caught right up. Quinn's heartbeat quickened and
the adrenaline wash started, his arm hair was on end. With a fluid
motion the man grabbed the lady's bag with one hand and punched her in
the face with the other. He hit her three times in quick succession
and darted off with her purse. The lady stayed there in the foetal
position until the police showed up about an hour later.

Hey stinky, is this an excerpt from the manuscript?

Thanks

It's actually some output from these writing exercises I've been doing where I set up four or five different beginning/middle/end plotlines and write them out in as many paragraphs. I've been doing it in order to step back from the bigger piece that I'm working on.

How much stuff do you have sitting around? I know there are other 12stoners who write (port and mingus come to mind) maybe we could do a little short fiction/poetry collab.

wow.....
they're getting really good

post some more please

If I looked at the dates on all the stuff I've never finished, I'd become too depressed for words.

It's Canuck day today, and as I finished reading that first persist poem, I heard a firework go off. NO SHITTING. spooky.

I've got too much stuff on the shelves, at least ten buried screenplays and novels. And still making new stuff. But in reality, it takes a few trunk novels to get to the point where you can write something competent of length. So it doesn't bother me. Gotta keep slugging or quit.

Collaboration can be fun! Or at least good for motivation.

Rock'n. We should have more writing posted for sure.

Slightly related: Talking to my friend Brock last night, he said he'd been talking about me not too long ago. Sitting with a friend I'd walked past(down town or on campus no doubt) and the friend had said I was an... "angry chick" I believe were the words used. Brock said "oh thats pam, she's a sweetheart." To which the friend replied "have you ever seen her at poetry night? one time she read this peice about screwing a guy in a quick trip or something, and about how disgusting it was and the sweat dripping on her face and shit."
Brock said it was like he was having some sort of war time flash back. I think that's the best thing I've ever heard about my writing.

This is the poem in question.

I fucked him in the back of a seven eleven.

I did it out of spite really.

There’s something about watching their pudgy, piggy faces contort that renders me immune to them.

I watched his piggy little eyes squint up as he panted and dripped sweat on my face.

I can always pick out guys like this; they stick it in and suddenly they’re king of the world.

Five bucks says he’s got an ex-wife, two kids, and a broken down Chevy in a trailer park five miles south of here.

I collect them, the memories of whatever contorted, squinting, half-leer of an expression these men make.

It doesn’t matter if they’re a 3rd year philosophy student or a balding gas station casher,
Assholes always fuck the same.

Nice

I'm going to move this to Projects & Theory, post whatcha got...

The clicking of toe-nails on floorboards filled Edgar's dreams rousing
him from a very hot and very naked encounter with a Dallas Cowboys
cheerleader. It was generally the type of dream that he would be a bit
perturbed about being roused from but she had a cock. It was in the
back, just above her butt-crack and it wasn't erect or anything but
his dream-self still felt like there was something amiss. So the
clickity-clack was somewhat welcome.

Franco the Black Labrador Retriever was scooting around on the floor,
his huge negro head would perch itself on the mattress for a second or
two at a time, fixing Edgar with big brown dog-eyes. A whine would
slip out and Franco would go back to shuffling. He obviously needed
attending to. Edgar responded, swinging his legs out of bed dragging
on his gym clothes as the cheerleader faded back into his
subconscious.

"Ready to go motherfucker?" Ed long suspected that Franco, underneath
his doughy, Lab exterior wanted desperately to be a hard cunt and like
any good custodian he did his best to make allowances for his charge.

Franco responded by woofing in a husky voice. The two of them left the
house and began walking along the empty streets. The city was still
asleep, to compound things it was expecting a pretty good hangover
when it finally did wake up. Ed took a special sort of joy in these
early morning walks with Franco, the normally bustling streets of
Newtown were near dead until at least 10:00am on a weekend day. They
had been walking together in the morning since Franco was a pup. For
the most part the only other people about were other dog walkers, the
other intrepid souls who, like Ed, were caretakers of hounds; hounds
with weak bladders or circadian rhythms that ticked over just a bit
too early on a Sunday morning. Here they were in their hung over
glory, the dog managers of Newtown. There were always at least two
others in the park around eight on a Sunday morning.

As Franco was released from his lead he charged the open field,
running around for a bit before stopping in front of a young woman who
was not in fact a dog walker but simply on her way from the gym to go
home and take a nice warm shower. Franco moved his bulk in front of
her, blocking her way and easing into a sitting position. She smiled
broadly, he was a gorgeous dog, big and black and shiny with just the
right amount of fur---not too shaggy and not too short.

"Sorry about that, he's a bit friendly and doesn't understand that not
everyone wants to pet a big stupid animal at ten o' freaking clock on a
Sunday morning." Ed was smiling, taking note of the woman's shape as
she bent to scratch Franco behind his floppy ears.

"Don't worry about it. He's beautiful, what's his name?"

"Franco, He's registered as Franco the Idiot but I sometimes call him
F-dawg" Franco's ears cocked slightly " because I think he wants to be
a gangster."

The girl giggled a bit, probably a bit more than she should have and
she mentally told herself to shut the fuck up and keep her pants
on. This would not in fact be the case. Her pants would soon be
off---both the current pair and other, future pairs of pants that her
current pants represented at a conceptual level. Ed Parnell and
Patricia McIlheney began talking up a storm, entertaining one
another. F-dawg inched inward, paying close attention to the
conversation between his custodian and this new person, his big black
lips curling a bit. He let out a whimper and Ed, like the sensitive
dog owner he was, took the cue.

"So, it was nice to meet you Patricia, er Patty?"

"Patty's fine." She smiled but mentally kicked herself, she hated
Patty.

"I've got to get ol' Franco back home, but I'd like to hang out."
Smile, hold eye contact "Up for a Sunday sesh this afternoon at the
Courtie?"

"Yeah, sounds great!"

Franco had moved into range, sliding between the two as they exchanged
mobile numbers, nuzzling Edgar's shins intently. Ed made some
apologies and began walking off, as it turned out Patricia didn't live
too far away from Ed and they were both heading in the same
direction. The small talk continued, they walked three abreast along
Church street with Franco between them. Church street was narrow but
always busy and there was, rather uncharacteristically for a Sunday
morning, a lively streetfull of cars and trucks. A moving van turned
the corner just ahead of them, Patricia was laughing at one of Ed's
one liners and as the truck approached Franco shifted his weight into
her legs. As she fell in front of the truck, Franco felt a great sense
of satisfaction and relief Edgar still belonged to him. And yes,
Patricia's pants did come off but it was the paramedics, not Edgar
that removed them.

yeah, and I know it's another dog story but I needed to crank another short out and it came to mind

See, you just can't trust dogs.

Nice consistent voice & flow, a compelling read as always.

jaysus that's some brutal writing there StinkFist! Good stuff!

My ability to critique writing begins and ends with picking up on minor errors ... in the dog story - do they meet at 8am or 10am? cos it seems confused about that.

Originally posted by: DontBogartMe
jaysus that's some brutal writing there StinkFist! Good stuff!

My ability to critique writing begins and ends with picking up on minor errors ... in the dog story - do they meet at 8am or 10am? cos it seems confused about that.

Skipper Pete be findin' a land lovin' beatnik who stoled aboard t' vessel.
He be crouched in a potato sack with a midget wearin' a rat skin for a hat.
We put t' wee midget t' work in t' galley and we named him Wee Midget.

He be peelin' a potato smartlyer than I ever did see. So thinks the likes of
t' cook who had dem pants o' his slide so as his crack be made known for
all man and beast to see. It be a vision placed with honour at t' side o' vile
horrors I be seein' these long year at sea.

As be t' fate o' our beatnik bucko, his chicken neck be trussed ready t' be
walkin' t' plank come sundown. There'll be no trees for ye t' hug in t' ocean,
bucko. Thar be best t' set ye sights on swimmin' hard as ye can from t' shark
callin' thar name. That thar sea dog will clean take ye face off.

Us crew be in good grog for t' approachin' calamity. T' see a stow away jump t'
his watery grave stir joy into t' hearts o' those who be said t' possess t' blackest
o' souls. Like Big Fanny in t' galley. A full year pass since he be abandonin' ship
but what a piece o' work he be. Could drink ye under t' table in t' blink o' an eye
and had a goiter on his neck that ye'd pass t' be a shriveled six pounder ball.
Some say they did hear it speak t' them. I don't be doubtin' that testimony.

I says a plank day be makin' me fair happy t' says I be Cap'n. Other days, say,
Sat'dy, when Baby Ollie took off with me compass, a day t' which I not ever live
t' likes o' again. I never recovered me instrument and for it that monkey be damn
lucky I got only one arm as fair trade.

That be hangin' round me neck with a message loud and clear for dear Baby Ollie.
If it were not for Skipper Pete weepin' bitterly into his duff like a fairy I be throwin'
that furry sack clean over board. It looks t' be like t' day be smartly upon us that I
be no more feared throughout all seas. I be known as t' man with compassion that
be coursin' through his veins like poison. A fate worse than t' plank.

Avast! T' plank. T' beatnik. His eaye did search us crew for one ounce o' pity while
t' clock did toll for his end. Ye not be gettin' it from me, son! I frittered me year's
portion on one armed Ollie! Ye be best turnin' around and marchin' down that thar plank.

It was but pittance t' thar vision I had o' that thar moment. He but all passed from
our eaye after he shot into t' oggin like a boulder. A joy be short lived.

Be t' luck o' t' ship, I be not port open-mouthed if we chance upon him crouchin' in
that thar potato sack once more. How he came t' be amongst our like be not for our
knowin' but curses be in store if I spy ye again, me beatnik bucko.

T' cut 'o' ye jib speaks little for ye.

T' cut 'o' ye jib speaks little for ye.

Lousy beatniks.

In This Dust,

Violent devices are the bodies we inhabit.
Life passes through us.
It has no time for prolonged visits.

There are symptoms which are present.

Human bodies weighted in the heat and the silence
as the sun scrapes the plains of the earth.

In a drought's year,
spooling out the barbed wire,
another knot of steel, another scratch
to mark the day behind.

In this dust, work,
blood and sweat is the evidence
in the eternal argument
that claims we are alive.

A simple man came to us to finish the argument
with sharp edges and focused eyes,
his shirt with ivory buttons, and western hem.

Economic to the core, where logic and requirement
tally the final score.

This man lead us onto his fields, a Noah in reverse
Where flood afflicted Noah then, drought wiped out this Earth.

The simple man directed the build.
We followed a line of small angles,
in a tabernacle of time,
to mend a fence that defined a cathedral of land.





The first section was from an earlier bit of writing I posted ages ago. It seemed like a better use here.

Nice stuff persisto

I take it the inspiration for that was your farmer friend in Montana? You should pick up The Joy of Man's Desiring by Jean Giono, you would really enjoy it.