Superheroes
Superman gets his powers by absorbing light from the sun. His body takes all that visible light, those gamma rays, that ultraviolet light, even the infrared light I can’t see, and sucks it all in. His cells absorb all that and turn it into heat vision, super strength, flight ability, etcetera. Superman has saved the world a million times – in the comics.
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Sunshine
I’m a sun worshiper – in a way. I don’t strive for the perfect tan, but I hold a secular reverence for the sun and the symbolic meaning we’ve given it. It represents everything good and nurturing in life, and this is my short ode to it: a piece of prose poetry that took me too long to finish. If you like this short read please use the social media tools below. Thanks.
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You wake up, but you’re still asleep.
Your dreams remain with you. Winning lottery tickets fly around in your head, alongside fantasies of childhood parental approval. Instead of saying “no” that time, you see the possibilities of a “yes.” You think of your ex-whoever and relive the moment when you realized it wouldn’t last. You feel the tear on your left check that you didn’t wipe away.
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Dead Labor
I’ve been writing a lot. In between stories when I felt stuck I sometimes wrote a short piece to get my mind onto to another topic and let it stretch. This piece is the outcome of one of those mental exercises. I revamped it for this post, while also taking inspiration from the political happenings in the U.S. and the larger world I share with the rest of you. Its theme is similar to the novel I’m currently writing, which will make me rich and famous maybe. Hope you enjoy this little bit of philosophical and/or/nor political prose.
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I leaned against a display of computer towers and computer printed price tags, while on my fifth day in a row at that place that I didn’t want to be in. A bank was holding me hostage. If I left they would kill me; they would starve me; they would let disease consume me; they would have me freeze under a bridge; they would turn me into food for vultures with bad habits.
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Something Missing
I always practiced writing, even when I sucked (an arguable point in time that may still exist). When I wasn’t practicing with fiction, which was too often, I made a point of turning everything else into a writing project.
Years ago I wrote an email to a loved one who was far away. I liked it a lot and a year after writing it I made it into this prose poem. I go to it every so often and change this word or that word. It’s finished now so here it is. If you feel so inclined please share it using the social media tools below.
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Took the subway this Thursday instead of driving. Wanted to avoid the traffic and nasty weather outside (the day’s snowstorm would’ve blinded me on the road). Got there, and I saw this obnoxiously loud group on my uptown ride on the E train. They got on at Continental Avenue, and were talking in that language/code that I could never decipher.
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Locmin For Senate (3 of 3)
So this is the last part of Locmin For Senate. I hope you’ve enjoyed the previous parts. As with all older writings I look back on this piece and think of what I could’ve or should’ve done. The story, however, is still good in my opinion. If you feel the same please use the media tools on the bottom to share it (or anything on this site) and let me know how you feel. To check out part 1 click here. For part 2 click here.
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Isaac turned away from Helen and, again, towards the RV window – unconsciously avoiding his wife’s talking points. From the interview Isaacs’s mind went back to replaying the funeral.
The priest told a story. “… He asked Simon to touch the holes in his hand. Simon had said he needed proof that Jesus had return. There it was. Because he lacked faith Jesus told him to look at his wounds, look at the scars he had been given so that humanity would be saved. Jesus than told us – that’s right, us as well as Simon – that blessed are those who believe without needing proof.
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Locmin For Senate (2 of 3)
This is the second part of a story that was intended to be read as a whole. Check out the previous part if you’re not sure what’s going on. It’s only a five minutes read and flows nicely to this one. If you like it then enjoy and let me know. Thanks
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Helen wore a softer version of Isaac’s outfit – with light beige replacing the navy blue. A homely looking woman, Helen had broad shoulders that were accentuated by her many business jackets. Isaac glanced at her with dull eyes before returning his gaze to the trees, bushes and mountain scenery flying past the window. He was glad he married her. She was smarter than him, and he knew it. Helen was the strategist behind Isaac’s campaign who did everything from writing his speeches and policy initiatives, to setting up promotional events and contacting the media.
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Small Story published by 5×5 Fiction
Though they took me thirty minutes to write I love four out of five of the little short stories I submitted to “5×5 Fiction.” I ran into their site (5x5fiction) during a late night search for journals to submit a short story to, and though it is very independent with a very small audience, the criteria looked like fun:
“Complete stories… must be exactly 25 words long, told in exactly 5 sentences, with each sentence comprised of exactly 5 words.”
I wrote them quickly enough, submitted them, watched “Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths,” then went to sleep. Below are all five:
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“Sex is Not Love”
She wanted it to last. Forever would have been nice. She wanted to be loved. To know she wasn’t alone. Eventually he came, then left.
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Locmin For Senate (1 of 3)
This story first appeared last August in the short story collection “Every Second Sunday.” I own it though, so I can do what I like with it. That means it goes up here.
This is the first of three parts, as it is too big to post as one story that people would realistically read in a single blog sitting.
I hope you enjoy this bit of fictionalized commentary on the political system in the U.S. coupled with a message about the potential for personal growth we all have.
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Getting ready to speak, Isaac worked up a smile and asked, “Hey John, what’s our ETA?”
“We should be at the church at about 9:35 Mr. Locmin.”
Isaac nodded, “Thanks John.” John smiled back.
Isaac remembered John because of the hideous mole on his right jaw. He tried a similar trick to remember his other aides, but the fact that Brian had the shortest hair, or that Chris had the brownest eyes didn’t work as well as the blotch of ugly sickness on John’s face. For the most part separating his chorus of handlers from each other was a challenge that Isaac overcame with charm, and a guessing game that he was very lucky in. His handful of advisers were faceless and interchangeable men with unremarkable features.
After John turned away Isaac’s smile quickly disappeared and he looked out of the three by three foot square window to his left with a blank expression.
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Catching Butterflies
There is a story behind my writing this short story, but I won’t share it unless you ask me in person. What I will say is that this was the first short story in my life that I wrote with ease. It broke some mental barrier that I had put up and I was able to write without feeling an awkward and anxious agony, like I was trying to paint with my feet. This story did it. I thank it, and I thank you for reading it.
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I knew it was the wrong decision when I saw the butterfly.
It was dirt brown and amber, and fluttered an inch away from my face. If I had grabbed the thing I imagine it would have fit neatly in my palm. Instead I simply let it fly past, passively observing it as it flew from my left to my right, then into the bushes where it disappeared.
With it gone I had to focus again on my dad and his friends as they played basketball at our local park. No, that’s not true at all. I wasn’t really focused on their game, but my anxiety about being next up to play. I didn’t play sports – I still don’t – but my father brought me along. In his words, “I just think you need to move your body a little more.” There was no meanness in his words, but they hurt nonetheless. I was standing on the sidelines of our local park’s basketball court out of guilt for being a quiet boy who watched life from his bedroom window and drew pictures of trees and hummingbirds. I was standing there because I told my dad I would play, but when I saw that butterfly I knew I made the wrong decision.
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13
This is a piece of prose poetry that I wrote after spending time with a woman I liked a lot. The night ended in me being frustrated with myself and the beginning of a writing spree that continues today. Thank you my muse. Muah! Right on the left check.
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At thirteen years old I had my first date…
I can’t tell you the exact age when the mechanical genius of the penis and vagina clicked in my mind, but I would guess it to be around nine. By nine I had an eye for the penthouse my cousin kept under his mattress; I was fast forwarding R rated movies to the sex scenes; I leered at all women, homely and beautiful, and imagined them naked and lying on top of me. A Playboy got me a call to my parents in the fourth grade.
… At thirteen years old I was a virgin and not at all happy about it. My older brother knew some of the cool kids my age that lived in the neighborhood and found out what girl my age was fucking the cool kids, in and out of my neighborhood. He arranged for us to meet up, as we did, on a cloudy weekday…
I decided to start seeing women seriously when I was nineteen. I convinced myself that I liked a co-worker whom I had nothing in common with. As a consequence we went on a miserable date. The film we saw changed my life, but I couldn’t talk to her about it because I didn’t think she would understand.
