I have an article/blog thingy on FlashFiction.net. I discuss the history of flash fiction, clausal implicature, structural concerns of, The Universal Question, and also Kelly Clarkson. I think if you go read this article you will most likely write like a fish attached to Autumn and flapping in the breeze, or I guess I mean waving.
HATE MAIL DRAMATIC READING PROJECT
My recent Flame War on flash fiction (which I do NOT want to revisit, but you can go revisit all the details here if you so, sow, sough desire) has been made into audio art. Very cool site. I think the Kyle Minor one is probably the best and I did much enjoy.
writer/bloggers eat squirrel…
Took Little Man with me to Wilbur Wright DNR. We hiked hill and dale and creek. We hunted squirrel. I made a spectacular .22 rifle shot. Then we had to cross a valley and a creek to find the squirrel. Little Man was a trooper. He was excited I think. We dressed the squirrel. We put it into buttermilk and breading. We fried like grandmother back in the day cathead biscuits go eat turnips raw with salt pocket knife slice right out the ground well water gravy. We put the squirrel on a plate with rice and corn and peppers.
I think Little Man knows now that meat was something, something alive. It does not just appear on a plate. I think people should know that, get to know that simple reality (or go vegan–another excellent choice). But I digress.
Am I the only writer/blogger who eats squirrel? probably not. That is a presumptuous thought.
Writers always eavesdrop, meaning this is what we do, either for material or an ear for dialogue or because we are intellectually curious or maybe because we are nosy/creepy bastards. Something. Today I didn’t need to eavesdrop to capture a couple great scenes, all out loud, very human.
First was at the beer store. I dropped by to buy a bottle of beer the size of Benson, England’s most loved fish, RIP. This fucking fish is incredible and if you don’t fall in love with this fish we don’t need to meet for disc golf or fartlek workouts or stimulating discussions of the awesomeness of flash fiction and all rivers in general and the new dive bar in the area and why is ketchup so perfect and also hot sauce adds to life and did you hear about that one truck stop off H 69 with the level 4 nachos that taste level 9 I swear and Regis Philbin, Regis Philbin, the empyrean muse.
Anyway, I stand in line at the beer store and wait for this older gent to count out my change (I used cash. Always use cash at beer stores, unless you are a phony), and this other grisly, dusty, obviously hard-working dude walks in with a bright yellow vest, you know, road crew (he’s even driving the typical, white, Chevy state IDT truck–for some damn reason, every road worker, in every state, drives a white pickup truck), etc., and he yells out to the cashier, “What you doing, Joe?”
Joe: (immediately, yelling now, with customers in the store) “Playing with my dick! You want to come over here and help me?”
Road Guy (yelling out): “I can’t I don’t think, unless I brought my tweezers. At least that’s what your little boys said.”
That one shut Joe down for a second, which you have to respect. You know the cliche about guys bonding over giving each other shit, but this was an impressive level of back-N-forth, parry and thrust. It felt off-the-cuff, but it could also be ritual. I don’t know this beer store that well, and it is on the highway. But still, very good material. I mean it included inappropriate levels of voice, inappropriate levels of voice in a public milieu, the term dick, which has been slowly working its way out of vogue, an ironic invite to assist in onanism, a quick and witty and off-putting reply (a sure sign of rehearsal, or intelligence. I am going with intelligence here. This guy could have replied this sharp to several volleys on alternate subjects, I feel) that was also a reference to the medical condition of micropenis and incest concurrently.
I took my change and walked out the door.
A few minutes later I was at the grocery.
I am in Xpress lane. The elderly woman in front of me plops down two giant yellow/white packages of Puffs (for noses in need) tissue. The young cashier does her Hello (bing) there, you (gung) hap-py pee-pul (splat)”-the splat being the drawer flying out thing as Updike would say.
And the transaction moves along–we are in the Xpress lane, remember?–and the elderly woman says, “Well, these were the last two Puffs on the shelf. I guess you won’t ever carry Puffs again.”
The cashier smiled. You know, first response, ignore old people. Pretend they never spoke.
The woman (voice lowered now, in mourning?): “Yes. You will never have them again. No more Puffs.”
The cashier (looks at me. Gives me that here-we-go glance, and I look away. I’m not the cashier’s ally. Hell, listen to the woman, OK? She’s in front of you, she’s a human, she’s lived five times your life.): “Ma’am, I think we will still carry Puffs. No one is going to stop carrying Puffs.”
The woman: “No, there were only two left.”
The cashier: (now in the loud, slow voice, the one where you treat someone 70 years old like they are 3 years old): “We will restock the shelves. We always restock the shelves. They just forgot.”
The woman (resigned, takes her change): “No, they are gone. They won’t make them anymore, and it’s the only ones I like. Thank you, dear.”
Walks off, dejected.
I pay. Go to my car. I was thinking on my drive home, the fatalism of that. To think that an item off the shelves temporarily means it is gone forever. It seemed to suggest a life of knocks, of knock downs. Things are bad now (shelf out of tissues) and will naturally get must worse (no tissues again, ever, period). Not sure where I am going with this…but maybe both of these scenes appear later in a story? Except in my story, the old woman pulls a fillet knife.
I just ordered AM/PM by Amelia Gray. I am excited to see and hold and read. Yes, I am behind on this one, but so? Can I read what I want at my own fucking pace, please?
(Geez, Sean, why so defensive?)
I am going to go run now. Run like a best friend’s closet. Dove sneeze. Something.