Monday, November 28, 2011


      "What happens to love when it disguises itself as a foggy window?" Edgar asked as he squatted near the side of the pool table to gain a better view of his balls. He had a difficult shot on the 11 which would leave him nicely lined up against the far rail for a great follow-up shot, but the 15 was just sitting there, perfectly aligned with the corner, begging to be kissed in. "Inquiring eyes want to see what's on the other side, then a hand moves in to wipe away the window sweat," he lined up on the 11, took his shot, and missed before continuing, "and with a quick swipe, love becomes transparent, obvious, stares you right in the face again."
       Edgar stepped away from the table and placed his cue stick in the nook where the wall met the back of his chair. He picked up his beer, took a long sip, and turned to look out across the bar just in time to see a girl with pink hair standing on a bar stool. Several people were gathered around in excited fashion, and after a few moments of discussion she pointed at two guys, nodded, and they quickly reached in and yanked the stool out from under her. Edgar lost sight of her as she crashed to the floor, her body disappearing within the gathered group of onlookers.
     "What was that all about?" Em asked as she made short work of her next two shots.
      Edgar turned back toward the game at hand. "I'm guessing she thought she could levitate," he replied, "I'm also guessing she's fairly drunk."
      Em continued her Sherman-esque march across the pool table, sinking one billiard ball after another. Edgar seated himself at the waist high wall table and watched while she did her damage. Next to his elbow lay a small stack of books, scattered sheets of papers, two cell phones, two beers, an electronic dictionary, two pens, and a VOX bag. He looked down at the top sheet of paper and smiled at the myriad scribbles she had made within the margins. Notes, ideas, reminders to check/change lines later. "This girl sure knows how to write," Edgar thought to himself as he looked back at the game. She had just made her fourth shot in a row and was lining up on the 8 ball. "And she sure knows how to kick ass at billiards too," he thought again.
      "Hey, Em, you really suck at this game, you know that?" Edgar chuckled at her teasingly.
      She paused mid-stroke, turned her head back, shot him a trumped up smile and continued. There was a sharp cracking sound followed by the 8 ball disappearing into the side pocket. Em stood up and placed her cue stick against the table, turned back toward Edgar and said, "That's game, my snigger!"
      He watched her sit in the chair next to him, confidence replaced with cockiness. She was still smiling as she grabbed her beer and finished it in one swallow. She reached for the electronic dictionary and turned it on, and a moment later slid it in front of Edgar. He looked down and it read: snigger (n.) an utterance of laughter made in jest.
      Edgar smiled, finished his beer, and said, "Did you know there are 437 movies with the word love in their title?"
      "Why are you so interested in love today, Edgar?" Em asked.
      "Because it's February," he replied.
      "Um, no. It's still December, silly" she added curiously.
      Edgar looked back across the bar, carefully scanning the room for any abnormal activity as he spoke, "Did you know pigeons mate for life? And that the reason a homing pigeon hurries home so quickly is because it yearns to be reunited with its lover?"
      He turned his gaze back toward Em and caught her smiling in such a way that her cheeks pushed her thin-rimmed glasses up. She didn't catch him looking, she was too busy fingering the corner of a sheet of paper that lay between them. Her long black hair fell across her shoulders, slightly brushing the table top. Ali Baba couldn't have asked for a prettier thief. Edgar recalled the first time he saw her, sitting at a bar called The Patch on the other side of town. She was alone then, but carried with her a warmth that illuminated the entire room. It was a brief encounter that will forever be etched in his memory, and since that night, they've been practically inseparable.

      "I'm scared of stones. And birds. And multitasking. I would love to spend a night with you. Just once," Em suddenly said aloud.
      And without hesitation Edgar replied, "Once a night, in the land of multitasking bird stones, a mother hen crushed her fragile eggshell competition."
      At this point Em had straightened herself in her chair, her eyes locked onto Edgar's as she continued, "The knowing crows hissed and clawed purposeful crosses in the softness of the hen's pastry sensibilities. But once a day, she crushed everything."
      Edgar quickly followed, "She crushed everything, and left a noble forgotten god burning like pepper in a frying pan. And the hen said: love me not, for I am inside out, breast to scar, a momentary act of feathered reason."
      "And with flashes of bright orange and neon yolk yellow, she acknowledged her stones sitting warm in a pot. No soup can come if I leave it alone," Em added.
      "Over you, my mind dribbles, over you, all things come. I stir my drink and nothing nibbles, I start to think and leave it alone," he said.
      "So with everything brewing but nothing much cooking, mother hen shuts her window again. The crows will all know if I make soup from these stones, it's best just to leave it alone," she finished.

      They sat in their chairs for a moment staring at one another, smiling uncontrollably. Then Em hopped over into Edgar's lap and kissed him.
      "You need a girlfriend, can I go find you one?" she asked. "I'm pretty sure it'll be easy to pick up Miss Pink, ya know, since she's having trouble standing on her own two feet tonight."
      Edgar laughed and squeezed her tightly. "That was pretty cool what we just did there. You are remarkable, Em, I'm so glad I met you. Now if you'll excuse me, I do need one more beer." Edgar stood up and walked over to the corner and smashed a nearby spider with his fist. He brought the dead thing back, grabbed his empty pint glass, and excused himself to the men's room. Em asked what the hell he wanted with a dead spider, to which he answered, "I'm going to place it in the bottom of this cup, pee into it, and give it back to the bartender. Upon seeing the spider floating in what he can only assume is beer, I will surely be granted a fresh one, compliments of this fine establishment."
      And at that, Edgar turned with a nod and a grin and headed off to the bathroom.
      Watching him walk away, Em muttered, "I love that man."

Saturday, November 12, 2011

The Incubus Woodstock

Halloween came and went, and this is what I looked like this year:

Allow me to explain a few things about this costume and answer questions that I'm sure you have. The first, and most obvious question, what the heck am I? Good question, and to answer it I will tell you how I came up with this creation. I do the same thing every year: I go to all the local thrift stores and explore every nook and cranny for odd assortments of interesting clothes and accessories. As the day progresses and I accumulate material, a vision formulates in my head as to what my costume will look like. This outfit came together rather quickly. It only took two thrift stores and about 3 hours to put this thing together. Fantastic! Now, what am I? Of all the people in my life I have only one friend who, instead of asking me what I am, instantly decided to name me. She called me The Incubus Woodstock. And I love it! Thanks, Brit, I adore your creative mind ;)

And for those of you interested in some of my creations from past Halloweens, I will indulge your curiosity:

 Okay, moving on... I experienced a momentary spell of writer's block there for awhile. It had to do with personal things happening in my life, which I won't go into detail, but I will say this: I've learned that the poems and stories and blogs I write are sort of like my children. I create them, I care about them, and I'm protective of them. There is no worse feeling than sitting in front of my laptop staring at a blank screen and a blinking prompt, waiting for the words to come and they never do. Night after night, blank screens and dissolving dreams. It was getting to the point where I thought maybe I had ridden this literary horse as far into battle as I possibly could, and that it was now time to fall on my own sword. But no, the writer's block has lifted and my current gift to you, dear readers, is yesterday's raunchy story and today's Saturday Song Salute:

Today I salute the band, The National, for their song Slow Show. I'm not sure exactly what to say about this one. The somber sound of the tune appeals to me greatly and the lyrics remind me of the odd thoughts I often give to many of my characters when I write. It's a strange dichotomy between incoherent ramblings and ideas that make perfect sense. I just love this song, give it a listen:
Slow Show

Standing at the punch table swallowing punch
Can't pay attention to the sound of anyone
A little more stupid, a little more scared
Every minute more unprepared

I made a mistake in my life today
Everything I love gets lost in drawers
I want to start over, I want to be winning
Way out of sync from the beginning

I wanna hurry home to you
Put on a slow, dumb show for you and crack you up
So you can put a blue ribbon on my brain
God, I'm very, very frightening, I'll overdo it

Looking for somewhere to stand and stay
I leaned on the wall and the wall leaned away
Can I get a minute of not being nervous
And not thinking of my dick?

My leg is sparkles, my leg is pins
I better get my shit together, better gather my shit in
You could drive a car through my head in five minutes
From one side of it to the other

I wanna hurry home to you
Put on a slow, dumb show for you and crack you up
So you can put a blue ribbon on my brain
God I'm very, very frightening, I'll overdo it

You know I dreamed about you
For 29 years before I saw you
You know I dreamed about you
I missed you for, for 29 years

You know I dreamed about you
For 29 years before I saw you
You know I dreamed about you
I missed you for, for 29 years

Friday, November 11, 2011


Kim calls me from her friend's apartment phone at 2 a.m. I don't recognize the number, so I don't answer. I'm sitting on my couch practicing scales on my guitar and watching old school bush porn when my cell rings again. It's the same unrecognizable number.
     "You were supposed to be here an hour ago. Where are you? What the hell are you doing?" she asks.
     "I didn't recognize this number." I say as I reach for the remote and turn the volume up on the television. A knock suddenly raps against my front door and I ignore it.
     "What does you not recognizing this number have to do with you not being here an hour ago?" she asks. I can tell that her mood is off, that maybe she is a little perturbed tonight. Earlier today she missed her period and most likely this was still weighing on her mind. She also woke up late and missed an early bird shoe sale at Journey's. Girls have strange ways of dealing with things.
     A man partially dressed as a mechanic has slipped out of his work pants and is now banging a brunette against the side of an old Plymouth. Her arms are outstretched across the top of the car and her head is tossed back in pleasure. She moans loudly, telling the mechanic how badly she wants him between heavy breaths. Her tits flop against his Dickie's work shirt while he rails her and grabs her ass cheeks with his hands. A second round of knocking can be heard at the front door again.
     "Is that a girl I hear in your apartment? It sounds like she's crying," Kim says.
     "She is very sad, she just found out her poodle died," I lied. "Her boyfriend is here and he keeps telling her 'oh yeah, it's good' and all she can say is how badly she wants him. She really loved that dog I think."
     The knocking on the front door continues. I hear Kim say something to someone there, her hand muffling the sound of her words as she speaks. When she returns she says, "Emkay wants to know if we should wait to start dealing the next hand. You were supposed to be here an hour ago."
     I'm very aware of the guilt trip she's laying on me. She is so skinny and her pussy is small and my cock feels like a champion inside her when we fuck. I love her, and she always wants to face toward me during sex, but I have trouble cumming when she looks me in the eyes. I was the first boyfriend she fell in love with, so naturally I have to pretend that fire-breathing dragons still exist in the land of Camelot. I'll protect you, my dear.

     I answer the door and it's Becka. She has a cat in her arm. "I'm pretty sure I told you about our pet deposit, right?" she asks. This is our code. About a month ago we decided that if we were going to keep it up we needed to devise a plan, and so the cat idea was born. Becka glanced past me and noticed the sex taking place on my television. "Looks like I caught you just in time."
     I glanced back into the living room just as the mechanic was about to peak. The brunette's moans were especially loud now as I retrieved the remote from my pocket and turned the volume up several more notches. I was trapped. A pearl growing inside of a clam. Suddenly I found myself wanting to be free. Spit out from the mouth, the music cut in half. I wanted to become a memory and float away lazily, landing softly in another town. I set my phone down on the junk table near the door and grabbed Becka by the shoulders and bit her on the nose. She freaked out and released the cat, which ran off into my bedroom.
     "You just fucking bit me!" she screamed.
     "No I didn't," I replied and walked past her out the door.


Note: My friend tells me the point of writing fiction is that it doesn't have to be clarified, and yet here I am making this disclaimer anyway. This is just a story, people. Something I made up in my head with the help of several beers. It's just practice for my writing. Yes I used first person narrative, and I think I did that so I could get closer to what my character might feel in this shitty situation of sex, lies and adultery, but fear not friends, none of this happened. And in case you're wondering why I even feel the need to make this clarification, my mother sometimes comes here to read me. This story... probably not her favorite :)