No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Still I feel I am one now with dispossessed my imaginary sees encamped in the Arizona desert (along with Cochise, perhaps, and his Chiricahua over that rise there, with John Brown And Nat Turner, plotting some bloody revenge), but my peace is separate—I have O2 at night.
Coasting: Pretend you're an airplane. Turn off your motor. Stop buying things. And see how long you can remain in the air.
She had recalled how they first locked eyes over the counter at Midas, when she was still working multiple, minimum wage jobs with a college degree. He came in when his car over-heated, which he needed fixed ASAP as he was moving to Iowa next month. He had brought McCullough’s "John Adams" to read for the 4th of July, but it clearly wasn’t holding his interest, as his eyes kept wondering up to hers when he thought she wasn’t looking. She took a chance.
Once while an undergrad, I took an Autumn off to teach English in China. Packing light, the only book I brought with me was the unabridged Don Quixote, figuring that a solid 1,000 page tome would be more than enough to last my entire stay.
Johnny had officiated 6,782 wedding ceremonies in his career as an Elvis impersonator. He hadn’t always needed the wig, and girls hadn’t always needed to be drunk to give him their numbers, though usually they were. Marrying folks had just been for the extra cash, at first. He’d done the ceremony so many times he could, and had, barreled through it drunk, high, or both, without missing a beat. Once, when he’d done a ceremony sweating and plastered, the groom shook his hand vigorously afterward, and thanked him for his “commitment to playing his character.” Johnny had had to try very hard to not puke on his shoes.
I read what calls to me and try not to limit myself because of preconceived ideas about genre or an arbitrary scale of literary merit. I’m writing a speculative/sci-fi novel. I write short stories and let them be as strange as they need to be.