Piddling Drivel

Almost four years since my first post. Time is fucking flying. My wife recently prodded me to join a writing group at our local library, and we just held our 4th group the other night. Joining this group has energized my desire to write, even if only a few tidbits of things the group leader uses to challenge us.  He also encouraged me (us) to put something out for all to read and critique, and although hesitant at first, I submitted a short story in two parts. Our next session sometime in February will give the group a chance to offer their commentary, something I'm a bit apprehensive about but looking forward to at the same time. I know me, and it'll be a struggle to keep myself from taking things personally. I think I'm ready for it, though. How do you handle "constructive" criticism? Any thoughts? Thank you in advance.

  All my friends are gone. Smoosh. Creamed. Together, we were a tight team. Alone, I wish I hadn't survived. Sure, you could say I'm being a Negative Nancy. "Make the most of it," you say. "Be thankful you made it out alive". Easy for you to say. And just how am I supposed to go on without my friends? You're not the one sitting here, all alone on this fucking piece of toast, smothered with the creamed remains of my brethren. How in God's name did I not get shredded by those spinning blades, not to mention how long that fucking thing had to run to assure the ultimate creaminess. Homemade is awesome, yeah, but at what expense? The jar my friends and I were dumped out of held what- several hundred, some whole, others halved at the roaster? What could I have done to deserve this fate? And don't for a minute think I was added after my friends were killed. This is real life, man.  

Funny/Boring story- While picking up some trash the other day I found a take-out bag with an unopened fortune cookie inside. Not wanting to throw the cookie away,   I tore the wrapping and cracked open the cookie, and this was the message- A keeper, I thought, so I brought it home and taped it to my favorite bookmark. Have an enjoyable weekend, all.

My brother's message scared me once I had a decent signal and could listen to it.    However, I wasn't completely prepared for the days to follow. We can't change things that might have been meant to be, but it doesn't make it any easier. His goal was to remain hidden, not wanting to be found. He'd reached some end, couldn't dig his way out of whatever he'd gotten himself into, and aimed to hide, much like a dog or cat when they know their end is near.  I'm sure that, even if I'd heard his message earlier or, more so, answered when he'd called, his mind had been made up. Though ten years apart in age, he and I were alike in some ways, and when his voice said "I thought you would understand" at the end of the message, I knew something terrible had happened.   After two days of searching by the family and many volunteers, his body had been found. By then we all knew. It was in our family already. One successful suicide, two confirmed atte...

  Are creatives overly dramatic?  Do you consider yourself among that type?  My wife and I each grew up with drama to some extent (who hasn't, really?).  Hers was due mostly to her mother.  She was unhappy, cried easily and felt like she'd been dealt a raw hand. Everything had to be about her.  My family, on the other hand, was just fucked up dramatic.  Everything that happened, everything anyone ever said or did was like, "Oh my God, can you believe that?" or "Holy shit!  Wait til I tell...." or "Why me?" and on and on.  Nothing could be simple or easy to explain.  I'm finding that I still, after so many years away from my over-dramatic family and with my level-headed wife, find I need to catch my words and phrases as my mouth opens to pour them out and rearrange them in a less dramatic way. Old dog/New trick, right?

  No, seriously, I mean, is this really where we're at?  I read and watch the news most days, and I can be naive and simple, but what the fuck?   A friend and I were catching up the other day, and she was telling me about a vacant commercial property she shared ownership of that'd been sitting on the market pretty much since the first days of the pandemic.  She mentioned that they finally leased it with the option to buy, and the one clause the lessee wanted added was that, in the event of war they could be released from the contract.  Just words, sure, meant to cover their asses, but frightening nonetheless.   No doubt, we're all aware of the headlines from half a world away, and given the past behavior of those responsible for said headlines, times most certainly are causing stress and feelings of dis-ease, but really?  I know I don't have that mature content warning on this blog, but what the fuck?!   How is it that we've come t...

  Yeah, I'm back.  I'd lost that creative spark some time ago, and my blogging/writing time has for months been eaten away at by job and home hunting.   So anyway, Yesterday afternoon, after a vigorous intimate encounter as my wife and I lay in our bed working on a word puzzle on her cell phone, something odd happened.  Apparently, and without realizing it I'd suggested the same word as a guess four times in a row, forgetting between each guess that I'd already guessed it.  My wife looked at me at one point and asked, "Are you okay?"  I felt odd, puzzled and uncomfortable.  Around the same time for who the fuck knows what reason I'd realized that I could not for the life of me remember the names of two people I typically encounter several times a week at work.  Also, I couldn't remember the make of car someone close to me had just purchased and with which we'd had a recent bout of difficulties.  Now, I have no clue why I was thinkin...

     My beer, a chocolate colored ale with banana bread notes, was perfectly chilled.  The bright midday sun streamed through what amounted to a large glass-paneled garage door   warming my back and lulling me almost into a dreamy haze.  My wife sat across from me at the tall cocktail table whose top was littered with syrupy glass rings surrounding a stack of obviously unused paperboard coasters, sipping her frosty Kolsch.  Hillman Beer, one of so very many brew pubs in and around Asheville proved to be the perfect spot to break this spell that's been haunting me for so long now.  Our conversation began as a couple took a table across from us, their half German Shepherd/half gray wolf nudging us at the end of her leash for attention.  London was her name, the man told us, and she ate up the attention of strangers.        "We'll stay where we are for the time being as long as you're happy with your job," my wife said....

Nothing.   The leaves are turning, the air temperature is dipping and the acorns are dive bombing the car.  The cat's got a lame leg, I've washed all the windows & vac'd all the screens, and my wife's homemade apple pie is to die for.  I can look up the mountain from our home and imagine the bears that'll soon be prohibiting me from continuing my trailblazing.  The wild turkeys remind me of myself as an awkward teen  (not sure I understand this one). I'm surrounded by writing prompts.  They're unavoidable even if I intentionally try.  Point is, I know they're there and free to use, just not for me.  Not right now. What I'm reading doesn't matter.  Oh sure, I've polished off two time-sucks of psychological fiction  since my last "What I'm Reading Now" post, but haven't felt like posting about them. Long story short, the time I'd typically spend writing things and practicing has been kidnapped by work related stresses,...

I wrote an op-ed for a small newspaper recently, a blunt assessment of an ongoing local issue that affects everyone and has the potential to cause harm to innocent people and animals.  Not expecting anything to change, my intention was simply to get my thoughts off my chest.  My first submission, which included a few words like "moron", "cretin" and "idiot" (what can I say- it was my opinion, and I was fuming), may have been a little rough around the edges, but the editor helped me pare it down and clean it up so it could be published.  I was fine with that, but he'd also said something that hasn't been sitting well with me since then.  After reading my first draft he'd emailed me that he was the editor of a "positive" paper, and only accepted such pieces for publication.  Opinions are, well, personal opinions.  I understand some of my word choices may have been a little crass and I was fine with making those changes, but this whole ...

One for the head, one for the heart. One through an eye, the other between your ribs. I hated your threats, your raised fists and the bruises covering my body.  Night after night you came, smelling of booze.  I ached.  I bled.  I was too scared to see a doctor, ashamed of my shredded innocense.  I hated you for making me your whore. Coming home late you knocked me around and insulted me, then forced yourself into me.  I was scared and you were strong.  You assaulted me, then left me hurting and nauseated from the stench of blood, sweat and your rotten seed. When finished you rose, muttering "You should be ashamed of yourself.  You're filthy and bloody." Tonight was my breaking point.  You lay there in my bed, drunk and snoring. The color drains from your face, and the screwdrivers protruding that way make me laugh nervously. "You should be ashamed of yourself, daddy.  You're filthy and bloody." I don't love you.  I won't miss you. A...

  "How are we supposed to eat?"  She was serious, and aftwerwards I felt bad for laughing.  I'd arrived to look at their microwave, which apparently had stopped working.  I determined that there wasn't much I could do and would have to replace it.  "I can't believe this," she said, obviously seriously annoyed.  Husband came back into the kitchen and said "For what we pay you'd think the fucking appliances would work when you need them.  Now what do we do?" "Are these people serious?" my internal voice said.  "You see those pots and pans and utensils in that cupboard?  And how about that big white metal thing with knobs & buttons and four round things on top that get real hot?"  Again, the internal voice only.  I needed my glamorous maintenance technician job. Another apartment, another family: "But how will we wash the dishes?"  She was as straight-faced as the woman in the previous story.  All manner of di...

  Pocketing the key, I press the front door closed as my eyes adjust to the shadows.  The flashlight on my cell barely illuminates the living room in the childhood home I shared with my twin.  My hand tingles with numbness, the heft of the marble collection we shared as children a sharp contrast to the fabric of the pillow case wrapped around my fist.  Memories long repressed gnaw at the nape of my neck as I pause to focus on a framed photograph of the four of us in happier times.  Shuddering, I force myself to continue to their bedroom at the end of the hall.  Though I have no solid evidence, I'm certain mother and father are responsible for what happened to Bobby.  "Accident-prone, my ass," I whisper to myself.  My life effectively over since the day I lost my brother- my only sibling and best friend- and not wanting to live for anything life had to offer, I vowed revenge.  So strong it was, fogging my every decision, dictating the directio...

  I just finished reading "The Photographer", Mary Dixie Carter's disturbing debut novel about a talented New York City photographer who, let's say, inserts herself into the lives and families of her clients in unsettling ways.  This was another one that was hard to put down once I dug into it, and I was intrigued with the way the protagonist was able to manipulate not only her photos, but her clients as well.  Another fantastically disquieting read.

  My wonderful, loving, caring much younger wife has helped me over the years convert my beerlove from an almost-12-pack-a-night cheap lite shit habit to a more refined occasional local-microbrew-or-two per week one, and my health's all the better for it.  Honestly.  I'm healthier and feel better in my fifties than I did in my twenties and thirties thanks to her.   Between the above-mentioned habit shift and an almost 80 lb. weight loss over a few years I quite literally owe her my life.  Stepping on our scale is a morning routine, and this morning I found myself feeling bloated while undressing for my shower.  Yesterday we picked up a sixer of one of many awesome local Octoberfests (wifey's a fiend) now that they're coming out, and we each sipped a couple while Netflixing and enjoying an intensely heavy thunderstorm.   So this morning I stripped naked and, after observing my paunch in the mirror reluctantly stepped on the old honesty meter....

  A little advice, please-  I've written dozens of flash- and short fiction tales, and most are not what one would consider mainstream and are a little offbeat for most "normal" literary journals.  I've spent way too much time searching for literary journals that accept darker pieces, but after perusing submission guideline after submission guideline I just can't seem to find a suitable home for my brief tales.  If anyone has any insights into who might be willing to look at darker fiction I'd appreciate the suggestion.  

  I just finished "The Widow", a twisty tale of abduction, pedophilia and secrets that, although a novel of fiction is, unfortunately all too real.  The things not spoken between a husband and wife can be unsettling, and there are those out there whose sympathy-seeking ploys fuck with one's mind.  Fiona Barton's debut novel was another creepy read that was hard to put down.

  Are you afraid to die?   During a recent hike I thought about this, and the notion has taken up residence in my head since then.  A trail my wife and I were on had a section that was quite hazardous with slick, moss-carpeted rocks and a steep downward slope on one side.  As happens often my imagination got the best of me, and I envisioned myself slipping on the rocks and dropping over the edge, my scream echoing off the surrounding mountains we'd been admiring only minutes earlier. I imagined the pain my death would cause my wife and children, and the horror my wife would feel seeing me disappear, my screams most certainly haunting her for eternity. I suppose I'm not afraid to die; the older I get, the more I think, "Well, when it's my time, it's my time."   I think what actually scares me is dying a painful death.  That makes me a sissy, sure, but there you have it.  The pain, and also- and this is probably ridiculous- the idiotic concern ...

  So here's the final piece of my short story I teased a while ago.  Apologies for leaving most of the story out, but I'm hoping to have this one submitted to a literary journal soon.  Thanks for reading.   "It hurts, daddy.  I don't want you to go!"      "You know I can't stay here, physically, but remember- I'll always be with you."      "Daddy!  Please!" Barb cried.  "I love you!"      "I love you, too, my Barbie," the old man answered.  They hugged, a hug that Barb hoped would last forever.  She remembered how good her father's hugs felt.  She didn't want to let go.        As the kids approached, they found Barbara standing by the driftwood, staring out at the water.  Tears flowed down her cheeks, and she had her arms wrapped around herself.     "Mom, your freezing!"  shouted Travis.  Barbara snapped back to ...

  "The Voices", by F.R. Tallis is creepy reinvention of the classic haunted house tale, and was difficult to put down once I cracked it open.  Eerie responses to taped questions, unfathomable disappearances, baby monitor static and ghostly whisperings culminate in a clash between the here & now and the beyond in a frightful novel that'll give you goose bumps for sure.  Once again, a delightfully dark tale to please my palate.  I finished this one just now with barely enough time to complete my morning routine and head out the door for work, but it was well worth it.