The (Not) Just No Stories ... Casey Karp tells us about yet more ways for The Internet of Things not just to run, but to ruin, our lives. Not scary at all!
Art history, religious history - on the history of the fig leaf, all the way to Instagram. Spiff.
Reider reading! I am shamefully late to getting to it, so probably anyone here who frequents the comments at Janet Reid's blog has read this already, but Jen Donohue was published recently, and her short story is very good. Hop on over to Syntax and Salt, sink into it slowly, and enjoy.
Can we please dispense with the precious little phrase "open secret" now? In the past three weeks alone, we've encountered an open secret in Hollywood - oh, and in politics - now it's academia - and media-curated regions of the world or remoter reaches of the United States - and it's been discussed about Silicon Valley for many years, at this point. "Casting couch" is a phrase probably nearly as old as the phenomenon is, which may be about a century at this point (if you only count *film*). THIS IS OUR CULTURE. Not some isolated little "secret" - open or otherwise - affecting isolated little islands of people other than ourselves. This is the world. Women have never not-known this. So who thinks this is any sort of a secret? Oh yeah. All those men who're so surprised that rape and sexual extortion/blackmail/revenge is a thing. And it's not a secret, even from them. They've just enjoyed the privilege of obliviousness.
Showing posts with label short work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short work. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
the thing he loves
May I say ... something?
Oh it did annoy me when they called me Little Nell.
But when I told Chuckie he mustn’t—when he stopped, I found I missed it. Gruff old Chuck. And only I got to call him Chuckie. My duckie, my fellow. And just after I turnt twenty-one, he called me Missus, and I confided to him the secret, I had liked to be *his* Little Nell. He allowed then he would be my Chuckie.
Chuck had all the flattering words for me until we married, but the garrison must be obeyed, and once he'd dipped me and done me, he was off ... and I sighed relief.
My pain I could not feel.
I never let it be heard. But Charles. He frightened me. No idea the tiger I had gripped by its tail. And when his tail was limp, it was his fists grew hard. When he found he could not be hot, then he grew cold, and Regent's Park—a place *I* never saw—made itself my refuge.
He loved me little, but long enough to make me his claim to shame.
It was a lucky thing; perhaps still thinking me their Little one, mum and da opened up and let me come home. We called me Glendell.
But the claim. Twas a noose on me.
Would I have worn it without a sigh? Had I known?
Did we play only the roles playwritten for us, or was my life—was Chuckie's—such a dark disgrace? Perchance he found the honor in it, and maybe just as well. The Wilde might have meant that was redemption.
Where lies the collateral? To Chuckie's—to Charles'—propitiation?
What is the measure of his death to mine?
A ballad. And eleven inches. More than the tiger's tail.
***
He must have thought I might actually come. Summoned to Regent's Park, where I had not been permitted to darken the doorways an they called me Mrs. Woolridge, I sent instead the letter asking him to
Beat my face and snap your fingers, thinking I will come for more? Not so long as there is a bolt-hole, and I will bolt under a labor of moles, if it is safe from your visitation.
Those men. They did not wish him married in the first place, and they encouraged his dissent against me in the second—she has been untrue, she is posting more than the mail, old boy—and in the third, my neck and a razor.
Oh it did annoy me when they called me Little Nell.
But when I told Chuckie he mustn’t—when he stopped, I found I missed it. Gruff old Chuck. And only I got to call him Chuckie. My duckie, my fellow. And just after I turnt twenty-one, he called me Missus, and I confided to him the secret, I had liked to be *his* Little Nell. He allowed then he would be my Chuckie.
Chuck had all the flattering words for me until we married, but the garrison must be obeyed, and once he'd dipped me and done me, he was off ... and I sighed relief.
My pain I could not feel.
I never let it be heard. But Charles. He frightened me. No idea the tiger I had gripped by its tail. And when his tail was limp, it was his fists grew hard. When he found he could not be hot, then he grew cold, and Regent's Park—a place *I* never saw—made itself my refuge.
He loved me little, but long enough to make me his claim to shame.
It was a lucky thing; perhaps still thinking me their Little one, mum and da opened up and let me come home. We called me Glendell.
But the claim. Twas a noose on me.
Would I have worn it without a sigh? Had I known?
Did we play only the roles playwritten for us, or was my life—was Chuckie's—such a dark disgrace? Perchance he found the honor in it, and maybe just as well. The Wilde might have meant that was redemption.
Where lies the collateral? To Chuckie's—to Charles'—propitiation?
What is the measure of his death to mine?
A ballad. And eleven inches. More than the tiger's tail.
***
He must have thought I might actually come. Summoned to Regent's Park, where I had not been permitted to darken the doorways an they called me Mrs. Woolridge, I sent instead the letter asking him to
Beat my face and snap your fingers, thinking I will come for more? Not so long as there is a bolt-hole, and I will bolt under a labor of moles, if it is safe from your visitation.
Those men. They did not wish him married in the first place, and they encouraged his dissent against me in the second—she has been untrue, she is posting more than the mail, old boy—and in the third, my neck and a razor.
Friday, February 24, 2017
The Trick Question is: "WHAT was terrifying?"
Janet Reid is running another flashfic contest this weekend.
Smooth, ensconsed, and safe. Comfortable. Desolate. Warm.
Oppressive.
Deserted. Alone. Imprisoned.
Hungry.
Wanted … crunch, and edge, and contrast, and cold. Wanted … out.
No chink to pry. No way to gnaw out.
The urgency was physical.
Kick. Strain. Peck. Hours, it took; eternity.
Jettisoned.
Blue sky. It was terrifying.
Most beautiful thing in the world – the whole world: outside the egg.
Okay.
Now that the contest is over and Nate Wilson ran OFF with it (and sightly ro), I want to ask about this story, and whether it works.
Given Lilac's comment on it the other day, I wonder whether a clue is necessary: that what was breaking out of this egg was monstrous. I hoped the harshness of some of the words I chose pointed that way, but that would not be so much "beautiful"as horrifying.
With a 100 word limit, this clocks in at a mere 62, but I felt no desire to add to this piece. Does it need more heft? Does it creep anyone out, or does it just read like a wee little bird fighting to find the world?
I would LOVE to hear from y'all, and not just Reiders! Many thanks to anyone who might share your opinions.
Smooth, ensconsed, and safe. Comfortable. Desolate. Warm.
Oppressive.
Deserted. Alone. Imprisoned.
Hungry.
Wanted … crunch, and edge, and contrast, and cold. Wanted … out.
No chink to pry. No way to gnaw out.
The urgency was physical.
Kick. Strain. Peck. Hours, it took; eternity.
Jettisoned.
Blue sky. It was terrifying.
Most beautiful thing in the world – the whole world: outside the egg.
Okay.
Now that the contest is over and Nate Wilson ran OFF with it (and sightly ro), I want to ask about this story, and whether it works.
Given Lilac's comment on it the other day, I wonder whether a clue is necessary: that what was breaking out of this egg was monstrous. I hoped the harshness of some of the words I chose pointed that way, but that would not be so much "beautiful"as horrifying.
With a 100 word limit, this clocks in at a mere 62, but I felt no desire to add to this piece. Does it need more heft? Does it creep anyone out, or does it just read like a wee little bird fighting to find the world?
I would LOVE to hear from y'all, and not just Reiders! Many thanks to anyone who might share your opinions.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Collection
Always a sucker for a good sword-making article, I reveled in Tom Williams' latest post, looking at the combination of iron and carbon best calculated for "the whole cutting into your enemy and killing him bit." Pattern welded steel - the work of ages.
In "worst pink label EVER" news ... yes, it is true. Melania wore a pussy-bow blouse (why yes, of *course* it was PINK) to cap this weekend's sexual assault extravaganza. Sigh.
By the way. Is there ANYBODY left who doesn't understand the concept of rape culture?
In a much happier link: death! And taxes! Please click and enjoy a short story from Stephen G. Parks - and leave him some feedback, too, if you have any.
Teh Funnay! Also: because I needed MORE blogs to be addicted to. What it's like to be married to a writer. Pure reality gold, my friends.
In "worst pink label EVER" news ... yes, it is true. Melania wore a pussy-bow blouse (why yes, of *course* it was PINK) to cap this weekend's sexual assault extravaganza. Sigh.
By the way. Is there ANYBODY left who doesn't understand the concept of rape culture?
In a much happier link: death! And taxes! Please click and enjoy a short story from Stephen G. Parks - and leave him some feedback, too, if you have any.
Teh Funnay! Also: because I needed MORE blogs to be addicted to. What it's like to be married to a writer. Pure reality gold, my friends.
Monday, September 26, 2016
Edits
My entry for Janet Reid's last flash fiction contest was completed at nearly three a.m. on Sunday morning - an unconscionable hour to hit the "submit" button on any writing (and comments on the internet), but ... I'm actually kind of happy with this piece.
Two edits did come to mind, and though they look small I think they make all the difference.
"Eleven replies!"
Mom was frantic about the wedding. Cakes, invitations. She wasn't joyous, it was just her job to do, her attention to get, her show, her stress.
How had this become about her?
It became my way to prove her wrong. We’d have more than a pot to pee in.
But we couldn't even afford toilet paper. The last week before our first anniversary, dad drove 500 miles to help me move back home. OJ's slow chase on the TV. Rodney and I queerly relaxed. Dad wasn’t.
Hope crushes easy as a Dixie cup. We couldn’t afford those either.
"Eleven replies!"
Mom was frantic about the wedding. Cakes, invitations. She wasn't joyous, it was just her job to do, her attention to get, her show, her stress.
How had this become about her?
It became my way to prove her wrong. We’d have more than a pot to pee in.
But we couldn't even afford toilet paper.
The last week before our first anniversary, dad drove 500 miles to help me move back home. OJ's slow chase on the TV. Rodney and I queerly relaxed. Dad wasn’t.
Plans crush easy as a Dixie cup. We couldn’t afford those either.
***
That "paper/the" break provides a necessary segue, a beat and a physical separation to represent the 51 weeks that have passed.
Hopes and plans are different things, and ... to be honest, in this piece (which is not fiction), hope had little honest place. The PLAN, back then, had been to prove mom wrong, to get over those lies not actually in the text above, to transmogrify into a Grown Up magically, without actually maturing or growing. Aplan (hope?) destined to failure.
We really were listening to O. J. Simpson's slow-speed chase as we packed up, and my dad definitely was unspeakably distressed. Beloved Ex and I really did find ourselves relaxed, after the decision to separate was made. We were done, the worst had happened (for the first time ...).
My mom, for the record, was NOT really like this. Well, not specially so. But it was a curious time, especially looking back on it. The wedding seemed, sometimes, to have little to do with me. Less still with BEx. There was a lot of part-playing going on at that time in my life, and I wasn't the only one doing it.
We did split a week before our first anniversary; it seemed a good idea, so as not to falsely celebrate. And yet, BEx had gotten me a gift. He'd researched - year one was cotton. I still have the woven throw he gave me; it's waiting to be laundered, having been a favored Gossamer-nap-spot this summer. We at the top layer of our wedding cake together, before dad even came, I think. I probably gained five or ten pounds. It was good cake, though. Almond. Golden pound cake.
The curious coda, of course, has been that BEx is what he is in my life. Still important, though we haven't seen one another face to face since September 2001. Still someone I admire - and, oddly enough, can depend upon.
He was a good man, and I knew that, and that was why I married him. If only I'd been a good woman. Or a woman at all. At least, I am a good friend. I was a rotten wife.
Still working on that part.
Two edits did come to mind, and though they look small I think they make all the difference.
As published originally ...
"Eleven replies!"
Mom was frantic about the wedding. Cakes, invitations. She wasn't joyous, it was just her job to do, her attention to get, her show, her stress.
How had this become about her?
It became my way to prove her wrong. We’d have more than a pot to pee in.
But we couldn't even afford toilet paper. The last week before our first anniversary, dad drove 500 miles to help me move back home. OJ's slow chase on the TV. Rodney and I queerly relaxed. Dad wasn’t.
Hope crushes easy as a Dixie cup. We couldn’t afford those either.
As I'd like to edit it ...
"Eleven replies!"
Mom was frantic about the wedding. Cakes, invitations. She wasn't joyous, it was just her job to do, her attention to get, her show, her stress.
How had this become about her?
It became my way to prove her wrong. We’d have more than a pot to pee in.
But we couldn't even afford toilet paper.
The last week before our first anniversary, dad drove 500 miles to help me move back home. OJ's slow chase on the TV. Rodney and I queerly relaxed. Dad wasn’t.
Plans crush easy as a Dixie cup. We couldn’t afford those either.
***
That "paper/the" break provides a necessary segue, a beat and a physical separation to represent the 51 weeks that have passed.
Hopes and plans are different things, and ... to be honest, in this piece (which is not fiction), hope had little honest place. The PLAN, back then, had been to prove mom wrong, to get over those lies not actually in the text above, to transmogrify into a Grown Up magically, without actually maturing or growing. A
We really were listening to O. J. Simpson's slow-speed chase as we packed up, and my dad definitely was unspeakably distressed. Beloved Ex and I really did find ourselves relaxed, after the decision to separate was made. We were done, the worst had happened (for the first time ...).
My mom, for the record, was NOT really like this. Well, not specially so. But it was a curious time, especially looking back on it. The wedding seemed, sometimes, to have little to do with me. Less still with BEx. There was a lot of part-playing going on at that time in my life, and I wasn't the only one doing it.
We did split a week before our first anniversary; it seemed a good idea, so as not to falsely celebrate. And yet, BEx had gotten me a gift. He'd researched - year one was cotton. I still have the woven throw he gave me; it's waiting to be laundered, having been a favored Gossamer-nap-spot this summer. We at the top layer of our wedding cake together, before dad even came, I think. I probably gained five or ten pounds. It was good cake, though. Almond. Golden pound cake.
The curious coda, of course, has been that BEx is what he is in my life. Still important, though we haven't seen one another face to face since September 2001. Still someone I admire - and, oddly enough, can depend upon.
He was a good man, and I knew that, and that was why I married him. If only I'd been a good woman. Or a woman at all. At least, I am a good friend. I was a rotten wife.
Still working on that part.
Sunday, September 25, 2016
Flash
Janet Reid is having another flash fiction contest, to win a copy of Donna Everhart's The Education of Dixie Dupree.
Per our Supreme Hostess, the rules:
The usual rules apply:
1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.
2. Use these words in the story:
dixie
eleven
lies
home
mom
So this is why I am up at this ungodly hour. I've been writing ...
"Eleven replies!"
Mom was frantic about the wedding. Cakes, invitations. She wasn't joyous, it was just her job to do, her attention to get, her show, her stress.
How had this become about her?
It became my way to prove her wrong. We’d have more than a pot to pee in.
But we couldn't even afford toilet paper. The last week before our first anniversary, dad drove 500 miles to help me move back home. OJ's slow chase on the TV. Rodney and I queerly relaxed. Dad wasn’t.
Hope crushes easy as a Dixie cup. We couldn’t afford those either.
Per our Supreme Hostess, the rules:
The usual rules apply:
1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.
2. Use these words in the story:
dixie
eleven
lies
home
mom
So this is why I am up at this ungodly hour. I've been writing ...
"Eleven replies!"
Mom was frantic about the wedding. Cakes, invitations. She wasn't joyous, it was just her job to do, her attention to get, her show, her stress.
How had this become about her?
It became my way to prove her wrong. We’d have more than a pot to pee in.
But we couldn't even afford toilet paper. The last week before our first anniversary, dad drove 500 miles to help me move back home. OJ's slow chase on the TV. Rodney and I queerly relaxed. Dad wasn’t.
Hope crushes easy as a Dixie cup. We couldn’t afford those either.
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