How would a person cut mustard? For beginners, what utensil would you even use? That saying has always burred me.
Rabbit’s foot–lucky for the rabbit?
I tried a Dundee Honey Brown Lager today. I suspect it is a major brewer masking itself as a micro, a very vogue technique recently. Coors makes Blue Moon and Killian’s. Miller tried to do this with Red Dog. Anyway this beer tasted like a rag soaked in an image of a badger on a limestone wall. If you come across a raccoon at daylight, or this particular beer–avoid.
Hayden’s Ferry Review has a blog. Do they know most in the writing world consider them the slowest responding magazine in the Megaverse? (I learned Monday there is not one universe; there are several, contained in a Megaverse.) Absolutely glacial. I sent Hayden’s a story once and by the time I got their rejection I had finished Infinite Jest, and had married/divorced/remarried/divorced an Irish actress. The usual lie to spare my feelings rejection notice was yellow and crumbled in my fingers.
By the way, Mark Neely says he has actually read all of Infinite Jest, but I do not believe him.
I’ve decided I like Justin Rands’s blog. He seems angry.
Justin Rands was something he didn’t know what to make of.
Justin Rands was long pale petals.
Justin Rands was banned from the radio.
Justin Rands was a sleeping hound.
Justin Rands was clinging weeds dredged from the bottom.
Justin Rands wasn’t understood by some people. Justin Rand was clearly understood by some people.
Justin Rands was something that closed the show. His eyes went full and overfull. Then Justin Rands filled the room. That thing so large and low and a weight like deep inside. And the room blacked out and the service paused, hands frozen—ice melting, ashes growing—and this thing floating and crushing and there, a presence: sure as music, the crowd, sure as Lady Day. Frozen in the spotlight, hands clasped, frozen. Only tears.
Justin Rands was flatly refused by Columbia.
Justin Rands was lightning wrist-snap.
Justin Rands would make them shout, “Please sing Justin Rands!”
Justin Rands was half-expecting blood.
Justin Rands was silence stretched.
Justin Rands would make them shout, “Never sing Justin Rand! Don’t you ever!”
Justin Rands left a long pause at The Apollo, then the sorrow of a thousand sighs.
THE LOUDEST SOUND I HEARD TODAY: A low flying helicopter. I could feel it inside/outside, like in my stomach, the rotors. In Muncie, IN, this means nothing. When I lived in Memphis, TN low flying helicopters were always police aircraft and, if hearing one directly above, you were most likely standing very near an ax-wielding murderer. One time a helicopter hovered over my house and just froze there in the air. We could feel its engines and rotors through the roof and walls. It was like standing in a woofer/bass speaker/belly of a satyr.
My mom said, “John, what is that?”
My dad (John) said, “Huh? I don’t hear anything.”
The next day we found out the criminal element had actually been hiding in our garage; then stole my Crazy Cat banana seat bike and tried to petal away.
I got the bike back, so it’s cool.
I’ve been writing flash fictions from the perspective of a disillusioned wife. This wife feels her marriage is like this: she turned down a wrong road (this was before in-car GPS) and tumbled/stumbled into a playground featuring greased guillotines and then around this corner and into a big, difficult neighborhood where packs of dogs limp and snarl and since time never travels backwards without great agony she doesn’t know how to leave.
Dogzplot took two of them yesterday, so look for them soon-ish, peoples.
“Someone Emailed Me Last Night and Asked if I Would Write About Nachos” is the title of a piece I wrote this morning. I would like to see it out in the world, and things look good for that to happen. I think anyone who admires nachos will likewise glee here.
Flash Fiction is a gray workday thunderhead.
Flash Fiction is John McEnroe.
Flash Fiction is RUN DMC on emeralds.
Rose Metal Press gets it. I adore them. I truly do because they are way ahead of the curve, folks. The press has released Geoffrey Forsyth’s IN THE LAND OF THE FREE. This book is the winner of the Second Annual Short Short Chapbook Contest. I will review it soon for NewPages.
Small Town Seventeen – An American Triptych
by Ann Garvin
Read it in The Del Sol Review.
Pretty sharp. A little Mellencamp, a little Susan Allen Toth. I said, READ IT!
Until then, live your life void of history and context.