Fictions

Write stories without a care in the world and you will care for the world.

The knife I had thrown into the wall. Bounced off the wall. Lodged into my best friend’s skull. Went right through the top, punctured the brain. Made him act funny. We panicked like rascals. Scrambled we did to the doctor’s office. Can you help him, can you help him. The doctor was insecure. This friend, you must understand, is not replaceable. You must save him. You must. I hate myself forever for killing my best friend.

. . .

New life. There is a happiness for five minutes that lasts in the compartment of the brain that conjures hope and dreams. What if I could break free from this current, this downstream current. What if I was so free I could shape shift and fake everyone out. It’d be a new life. I could sleep sound. I could rob banks. I could rob the best banks.

. . .

Bing Crosby Update: The raving husband got on the moped and headed for the bar. He wanted to fight a man as angry as him who like him had jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge and swam away disappointed. Cry for attention my ass. Jump off something like that, your intentions are solid. He wanted to meet up with someone like that. After he swam to shore he climbed and jumped a second time. Each attempt the waters below became softer and more inviting. He was an angry son of a bitch for that.

. . .

Conversation starter. Good talk lasts two hours or more. Mini lectures go across. At. Talk at a person. This is what you should do. She’d say, “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.” Thank you for your cooperation. I went in and crossed out the word. It should say subordination. “Who changed the sign?” she asked around. Stupid bastard. She appeared in people across the globe, in men and women, in the fangs of snakes. I fell off my bike when I was learning just starting out, before my freestyle days BMXing. I could see stars, planets, Vishnu manifestations in there. My left knee is tricked out.

. . .

Heavy traffic cell phone talking petrol bumper to bumper favorite color red Hillary with all her friends on My Space growing up in a new punk rock devoid of anger and rebellion a haven a pit to let frustrations out a circle pit the rock the fuck out part of the song. MTV never gets it right. The old punk rock keeps underground, appears unannounced, steals your hubcaps so it can say it did. I did that.

. . .

Favorite authors all dead the way they should be. All the best are in the past back there resting chilled out, not rushing, like us, on RSS feeds, multi-tasking, taking self-help seminars, attending thousand dollar retreats to learn how to sit still and befriend our neighbors. One of the best authors, Henry Miller, was known for writing right here in this Houston coffee shop and flirting with the ladies. He was the first writer to grab a booth and slam down a typewriter. And folks didn’t mind the racket. They knew, “This is a genius at work.” This will fuel us for years to come. Yeah, Tropic of Cancer was written right here. HM. His initials carved in this very table.

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