Twitter lit

Let me be frank regarding my loyalties:  Twitter people are my people. 

I've said it before:  Twitter fuels revolutions, Facebook lets you pretend to be a farmer.  There's just something about Twitter - I guess it's the freedom of the platform, the immediacy of the content - that feels right to me.  I'm not much of a talker; maybe that's part of it.

Yes, I have a facebook account, and it's a great way to keep up with friends, but it is by and large a time-wasting whirlpool of vapidness, a hub of digital navel gazing.  I view Twitter totally differently:  its' necessary brevity and ticker-tape speed doesn't really suit mopey self-reflection.  I can just dip in and out as I feel the urge.  It allows for a real frank exchange of ideas without all the superfluous social niceties that really do little more than drive me to distraction.  Did I mention that I'm a borderline Aspie? 

I have been told my comments on Facebook tend to be a bit "spicy".

What brought me to the subject of twitter, however, was something less than political:  fiction (Or, I don't know, maybe that's one of the most political things there is).  The idea to write a work of fiction on Twitter first came to me probably about six months ago.  And, the thing is, this would be just me making up things about myself - otherwise known as "normal Twitter" - no; I would tell a story from a character's point of view, having him relate his story through the medium of Twitter.  Turns out I wasn't the first with this idea.

I have started a rough outline and composed a few rough tweets.  I even set up a twitter account for the work, the ID and password for which I promptly forgot.  Before I set up another one, I think I'll get a little deeper into he planning stage.


Listening to:  Help I'm Alive - Metric

Drug of Convenience

I've heard it said before that there are are no "recovered" (past tense) addicts, just addicts who've shifted their priorities. I'm not sure who said it; maybe I even made it up, though it sounds perhaps a little too clever for me. The point is this: The drug that brought my life into the wall was weed, which, I realize, is pathetic. And maybe that gives you an idea of the sort of stuff from which I am made.

Sometimes - though not very often, as I kept my crumbling inner life extremely well hidden - people ask me if I miss it; if the desire for drugs that once controlled me still calls. I'm not stupid; I know the answer, the only answer that a recovering addict can give: "Yes, sometimes, but I know it's just not worth it." Bullshit - all of it - every word.

The real answer is this: "Yes, I think about it literally every day. When I find my self alone and bored, it's all I can think about. I mourn my drug of choice's passing as I would the death of a family member. I was watching a movie the other day where the characters were taking hits off a bong they were passing around - I noticed that each time one of them took a hit, my mouth opened, and I took in a slow, steady, deep draw of breath.

"I made a big show out of deleting every contact out of my phone, but I know with religious certainty how my numb addict fingers will dial any number of them, the beeps and boops of the keypad hitting my ear like a symphony as my virtuoso fingers play the keypad like a concert instrument. But I don't. I can't even say for sure why; maybe I'm just getting used to not running myself ragged around an elaborate scaffolding, forever patching holes in my stories and keeping my structure of lies from crumbling around me. And it's nice not to be completely exhausted all the time. So yes, I suppose I know it's just not worth it, but that doesn't make it's siren song any less tempting."

Back to shifted priorities; from my drug of choice I had to switch to a drug of convenience, of pragmatism: Coffee. I come downstairs every morning and put on a kettle, poured from a water filter to get all the chlorine, salts, and everything else man deems fit to either introduce or not filter out. This water is pure, uncut, the best you can get. Next I scoop the coffee (fair trade, organic) and three scoops into a french press - none of that automatic drip swill for me - this french press is an elegant work of art, glass and chrome, imported from Europe. By now the kettle is whistling; I wait till it hits a certain pitch, indicating a particular fervor to the boil, before I take it off the burner and let it sit for thirty seconds. Yes, I actually do watch the second hand on my kitchen clock. When it's time, I pour the water in. The grounds seem to accept the steaming water as an extension of their own being, and they suck it up, becoming somehow more than the sum of their parts.

From there, I wait three minutes, until the grounds have all risen to the top, and the bubbles that were on top of the grounds have popped, leaving little craters on the grainy, quicksand surface. Then I insert and push down the plunger, all the way down, then bring it back up, and push it back down. At this point, my intuition takes over; it may be done, or may need one more plunge. A subtle calculus aided by each of my senses at once will let me know which is the right action. From there, I pour the coffee into another, identical french press, clean, sparkling, and once it is full, the plunger goes in - more to keep the heat in than anything else.

This ritual is the sacred to me, nearly - but not quite - inducing the same trance-like state that unrolling a baggie, cleaning the pipe, filling the bowl, and rubbing my thumb across the cross hatched metal wheel of a Bic lighter used to bring.


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Listening to: Sleater-Kinney - The Fox
via FoxyTunes

If this blog were a dog, it'd be dead...

Long time, no write, bloggosphere.

Well, that's not entirely true - I've been writing like an MFer for weeks and weeks now, desperately trying to get my novel finished and edited to the point that I'd feel OK sending it off to get printed (one of the prizes for winning NaNoWriMo is a certificate for a single printing of your novel. Only one catch: must be redeemed by June!).

I've taken a brief break from the novel to do - guess what - more writing! I've just put the finishing touches on an entry for the latest Clarity of Night writing contest. He be the fruits of me labor:


Get Ready For The Weirdness
By Kurt Hendricks


"Get ready for the weirdness," I said, turning the knob.

We were blinded as the huge picture window was revealed; it was a brilliant, clear day outside. As our eyes were adjusting to the sudden brightness, Lisa gasped and took a step back. I thought she was startled by the rather large disco ball hanging from the ceiling, but even as the thought was forming, a solid 'thwack' reverberated through the room.

I expected some reaction from Mayme, but she didn't stir from her seat by the window. I walked over, repeating her name, louder and more urgent each time. An apprehensive hand reached out to touch hers, which was clutching the joystick controller for her electric wheelchair. It felt like defrosted poultry.

"Another one," I told Lisa. This was her first time delivering, and I wanted to instill in her an expectation of this sort of thing. She just looked right through me with a thousand mile stare. I turned to Mayme and sighed.

I never thought I'd end up a drug dealer again. Ever since legalization, the glamour - not to mention the money - had left the profession. The clientele had changed, too; now mostly senior citizens looking for pain relief or a way out. Coltrane played on softly in the background.

“That crow…,” Lisa whispered, “it flew right into the window.” She was still obviously a little shaken. “It must’ve been attracted to the shiny thing.”

“Yeah,” I said, “you’ll get a lot of that.”


Thanks for all the fishes!


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Listening to: Monty Python - Always Look On the Bright Side of Life
via FoxyTunes

Flash Fiction Friday - How To Walk A Plank

How To Walk A Plank

This morning, first thing, I got a paper cut - a deep one at a weird angle. It left a little flap of skin, one that I could peel open and close, starting and stemming the blood flow as I wished. I was pissed at the time, but now am so grateful for it.

Once I had put a bandaid over the cut, I inspected the itinerary (which was the paper I had cut myself on) that was slipped under our cabin door overnight. It was rather light compared to the previous ones on the cruise, only one item - a gathering on the top deck. I turned the paper over to check if there was anything on the other side, but it was blank. I absentmindedly tossed it on the dresser and went over to the bed, kneeling down and giving Karen a soft kiss on her forehead. Her moaning reply made it clear she would not be up for joining me this morning. "Feel better," I whispered in her ear, and then I left. I am so very grateful for this little, seemingly meaningless interaction. You have no idea.

Between the paper cut and the fact that my wife was seasick, I was sure it was going to be a bad day. The seas had been very active the day before, though they calmed significantly over night. Checking myself in the mirror, I combed my hair and left for the top deck, where I arrived into this nightmare.

I was sure I hadn't heard the man right; he did have a very thick accent. A flash of knife blade and a nod toward the railing aided in my comprehension. "Walk the plank," he had said.

I goggled incredulously. Do they even do that anymore? I refused to believe they did, even as they were shoving and threatening me toward the starboard railing. As we got closer, I saw a length of board sticking out over the edge. The other passengers were screaming and yelling, but it sounded very far off, as if I were hearing them from a nearby island rather than from the same boat.

A makeshift staircase had been cobbled together to help me up to the plank. It felt almost like I was floating up them due to all of the pirate hands that were helping me along. Once on the board, all the hands disappeared, and I knew for the first time in my life the feeling of being truly alone.

The wind had picked up again. I was worried for a bizarre moment about being blown off the board before I had walked off the end. The absurdity brought a laugh up from somewhere in the depths of me, but it erupted instead as a wailing sob. I felt so pathetic, so embarrassed. I wished I didn't have to do this in front of everyone.

Now that tears were flowing, a procession of images that had been clawing at the back of my mind burst forth: my wife...what would happen to her? They didn't know she was still in the cabin. Would she be killed? Raped? I scanned the horizon for any sign of rescue. It was an extremely stressful proposition to look out past the end of the plank, but for my wife I did it. There was only ocean.

I was shaken from my thoughts as my hands were pulled behind my back and tied. One of the men asked me if I wanted a cigarette. I thought long and hard about it. It was an unbelievably difficult decision for me; the toughest one I can remember in my life. I don't smoke. Eventually I said yes, but spit it out into the sea almost immediately. The pirates laughed. I had a tiny cruel hope that maybe they would decide that I was OK, that they'd take me down, maybe even welcome me into their ranks. Would I be OK with that, with stealing and killing? I wondered.

My hands were, as I mentioned, tied behind my back, but they were positioned such that I could feel the paper cut I 'd received this morning. My bandaid had fallen off, probably due to all the sweat. I stood there on the plank, unbelieving, rubbing my thumb across the flap of skin. I was very happy to have something to focus on, to distract me.

Flash Fiction Friday - Hint Fiction

Seeing as how I'm prepping for another (most like demoralizing) contest entry, I thought I'd shoot two barrels of fish with one shotgun and post some of the compositions I'm considering for submission.

The contest? Hint Fiction.
The deadline: August 31 (this coming Monday, I believe).
The skinny: Compose a story in 25 words or less - perfect for a twitter post. Come to think of it, I should post mine on my much neglected Twitter account. I'll try to due that right after I send in the entries for consideration.

Well, here they are:


The Funeral of an Enigma

The programs were referred to often - compulsively, it seemed - as the structure they provided was some sort of relief from the awkwardness and boredom.



Baggage

From the pedestrian bridge, she emptied the purse into the river, laughing through the tears. She kept the purse, though, for the memories it held.



The Humanity

"There is a indifferent, yawning chasm in between compassion and resentment," Drake drawled as he withdrew the blade. Footsteps echoed down the alley.



He Was Supposed To Have Made His Mark By Now

From the opposite sidewalk, surreptitious sideways glances at the girls walking by in tight, skimpy clothes. The sight was suddenly, for the first time, depressing.


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Listening to: Miles Davis - So What
via FoxyTunes

Flash Fiction Friday - The Old Man and the Mailbox

The Old Man And The Mailbox

"It's hot already," John muttered to himself as he wiped his dampening forehead with a white handkerchief. He thought about just unfolding it completely and draping it over his head, like he had seen the Arabs do back in the war, then thought better of it and folded back up and slipped it in his shirt pocket. He slowly traversed the blinding white concrete of his driveway, like a firewalker, towards his mailbox at the end. Today was the day he got his Social Security check - they arrived like clockwork on the 5th of the month, or the 6th if the 5th was on a Sunday. And the postman was always there by 10 AM; it was 10:30 now.

His shuffling feet had made their way halfway down the driveway before he had to pause for a break. He had a walker but refused to use it most of the time. He was still man enough to walk out to get the mail, for Chrissakes. Again the handkerchief came out and wiped away the sweat, on his face now as well as his brow. He remembered marching through the deserts of Africa during the war, in the somewhat romantic way that time can tint such things. He started toward the mailbox again, letting his memories distract him from the pain in his joints until, like a blessed oasis, he was at the mailbox at the end of the driveway.

It was impossible to see inside the dark cavern when he first opened it; his eyes needed a few seconds to adjust. His eyes still worked pretty well, he thought. He took comfort in thee small blessings whenever he noticed them.

To his surprise, the box appeared empty. He reached his shaking hand inside and felt around. Nothing. An odd sad sensation flooded into his veins, and he closed the mailbox. He retrieved his handkerchief yet again and wiped himself down. It's too hot to think, he thought. The handkerchief finally went on top of his head, awkward appearances be damned, in an effort to cool down.

John checked the watch on his well-tanned wrist, a beautiful gold Rolex he got when he retired from the car factory. The watch said 10:40. John opened the mailbox again. Still nothing.


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Listening to: Sybris - On Man!
via FoxyTunes

Flash Fic Friday - Kvasir Sat

My offering today comes from an idea I had on my way out the door to work yesterday, as I was generally lamenting a mild case of writer's block. In the way of background info, Kvasir is the Norse god of inspiration.


Kvasir sat alone in the large alabaster room. The immense space was lined in the distance with billowy curtains, also white, which hung still and sterile. The room seemed to have no discernible boundary. Kvasir sat on a weathered wooden stool in the middle of the room. In front of him on a large raised pedestal was a chunk of marble, rippled and veined with thin rivers of crystals in several magnificent colors. In and of itself, the marble might be considered a work of art. Kvasir sat.

"What am I going to do today?" he asked out loud into the expanse.

His tools, a chisel in his left hand and a hammer in his right, were heavy. His grip was, ever so slightly, weakening. The instruments were heavy not only with the substance of their composite materials, but heavy with time. All the time.

The block of stone and the pedestal it sat upon were covered with a thick layer of fine dust, so powdery and light that it was hard to actually see. A thin layer had even seemed to have settled over Kvasir himself, collecting in the whiskers of his beard and the wisps of his long thinning hair. His naked back, though muscular, appeared worn by time and the enervation of a difficult existence.

"What am I going to do?"

The sound of his voice had an empty quality, most likely due to the fact that his words left his mouth and just kept going, into seeming infinity. His hands tensed up, absentmindedly manipulating his sculpting instruments. Kvasir sat, staring at the block of marble in front of him, at first intensely, then drifting off into something more like lassitude. He let out a deep sigh. His breath disturbed the dust on the marble and pedestal, sending a whisper of silvery powder into the air. Some of it drifted back and settled over him.

"What," he asked, "am I doing?"


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Listening to: Sleater-Kinney - Dance Song '97
via FoxyTunes

Flash Fiction Friday - The Raisin Girl

The Raisin Girl


"What nationality you think the Sun-Maid girl is?" Steve asked through the wispy trails of smoke that rose between us.

"I don't know, Steve," I replied, and left it at that, savoring - in a moment of fully self-aware passive-aggresiveness - the deliciously agonizing limbo in which he was now swinging, just begging for me to relive him, which, finally, I did. "What do you think?" I asked, extending my open hand.

Floodgates open, the words gushed through. "I used to think she was like, Italian or something, I don't know - when I was growing up. Or maybe just a white chick like that Dorothy chick in 'Wizard of Oz'. Now that I'm older and more world-weary, I'm thinking Mexican...maybe an outside shot she's Indian."

I think he meant 'world-wise'. "She's fictional..."

He finally passed me the lighter and continued. "Like Pocahantus."

I ignored him and sparked up, drawing the dancing orange flicker in until it was a barely visible blue.

"I wonder what her life was like," he said, looking to me for a response.

I turned my eyes to him and shrugged, grateful that my mouth was occupied so he couldn't expect much in the way of a reply.

"She probably died young," he supposed out loud. "Smallpox...or maybe the Spanish flu. And I wouldn't be surprised if she was raped more than once."

I exhaled a smooth plume of blue smoke. As my lungs emptied, it began to feel like I was melting just a little. I smiled dumbly to myself, feeling very much at peace. "Sucks," I said to Steve; I was referring to the fate of the poor Sun-Maid girl, but I then thought that he might think I was referring to the weed.

"Oooh!" Steve burst out, pointing a fat, boorish finger excitedly in my face. "Oooh! Like the Land O Lakes chick...you know, that Indian chick with the butter?"

I thought of that trick where you cut out the butter she's holding, then fold her up so that her bare knees show through and look like boobs. I was going to mention it to Steve, as I'm sure he'd constructed one before; hell, probably even jerked off to it, but he pre-empted me.

"Do you think, Joe, that they were..." he seemed to lose his train of thought for a bit, then found it again, "think they were...passionate women?"

"Fictional," I repeated.

"Man, I bet they could fuck," Steve said longingly. "The both of them."

I shrugged again. Soemtimes, that's all I can do.

"Tell me you wouldn't hit that," Steve demanded.

I did not tell him that, or say anything, actually. All I could do was sit there and think, over and over, that I simply had to get a new pot dealer.


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Listening to: Brendan Small - Louis Louis Rap
via FoxyTunes

Flash Fiction Friday - The Clown Flashes Back

Goal: 600 words or less.

Actual count: 613 words - close enough.

NOTE: The following scene takes place in a small town around the turn of the 20th century. The big tent for the traveling circus caught fire during a show. The town has no hospitals anywhere near, so all of the injured are brought to the town pharmacy.

THE CLOWN FLASHES BACK

Ross wandered throughout the triage area with a full bucket, offering ladles of water to anyone conscious. Except to those who were moaning, or crying, or screaming - they terrified him. He felt an odd revulsion, like he might catch something from them. He knew this was a ridiculous thought, but he couldn't shake it. His wanderings took him to a clown with an ink dark face and huge white mouth painted on in the shape of a frown. A clown next to him was painted similarly, except with a red face and a smile. They reminded Ross of the iconic drama masks he saw in advertisements. The smiling clown was dead.

"Kid," rasped the still-living clown, "help me out here." He struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. Ross knelt beside him, proffering an overflowing ladle.

"Nah," the sad clown waved the water off. "Can you reach into my breast pocket, kid? My medicine..." he asked.

Ross gingerly snaked his hand into the clown's pocket, carefully avoiding any physical contact. He pulled out a silver flask, dragging along with it a photograph, which fell to the floor beside the clown. The photo was of a young woman, light-haired and in refined dress. She was beautiful - Ross could not help staring.

The clown took a swig from the flask and wiped his mouth with a sooty sleeve.

"You have no idea what it's like, kid," the clown whispered after a moment, beckoning Russ closer as he spoke. A glaze was forming over his old yellow eyes. Ross figured his medicine must be kicking in.

"There was my Gretchen..." The clown paused briefly as emotions flushed through his face. "...lying limp on the dock - I kept praying she would pass out and be spared the pain. Her leg stuck out at an obscene angle. I could see the bone; jagged and messy. The blood was everywhere, kid, growing in a pool, staining the new white dress I had bought her."

He paused for another sip from the flask.

"A crowd gathered, and I felt as though we were in some absurd play. I wanted to yell at them - tell them all to go away...no one would help. They just stood there - dumb!" he exclaimed loudly. More quietly, he continued, "I suppose there was nothing they could do."

Ross listened intently. Between the clown's story and the beautiful picture at his side, he was able to block out most of the moaning and screaming in the pharmacy.

"As she passed, I stroked her hair and face to comfort her, and I positioned myself to block her view of her horrible misfortune...and then...such a beautiful sound I heard. Two ships in the harbor were sounding their signal horns alternatively. C# and A, so haunting and stark. A third horn joined. I closed my eyes. It sounded like a chorus of angels in my head. I felt an overwhelming impulse to lose myself in that sound, to leave the horror of the moment and flee to the world of those horns, like sweet Sirens they called me."

Tears were tracing big, ugly lines through his grease paint face.

"I was holding her, and all I could think of was running away! I hear that music every day - it haunts me, it won't leave me..." The clown broke down into sobs. Ross sat there as trailed off, afraid to move, unsure of what to do, until his father called for him to come back behind the pharmacy counter.

Behind the counter, his father grabbed him roughly. "Keep away from that dirty drunk!" he scolded. "Lord knows what you might catch from him."

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Listening to: The Drones - The Minotaur
via FoxyTunes

Flash Fiction Friday - Overheard Over Beers

"Well, that sucks," Zoe commented, then finished her beer. She set the opaque brown bottle down on the old lacquered wood table.

"These things happen, it was your first time, don't worry," Rick comforted her, sort of. "We'll try again tomorrow night."

Zoe let out a heavy sigh, surreptitiously slipping a burp in underneath it. She fiddled with the tattered remnants of the label she had peeled off of her beer bottle; she spread it out flat on the table with her hand and then let it go, watching as it slowly rose and curled back up on itself.

"Don't be discouraged," Rick added. Zoe dismissed his encouragement as an attempt to break the awkward silence between them.

"I don't know what the fuck I did wrong...I did everything exactly like I was supposed to!"

Rick bristled at her language. Zoe sensed his discomfort and felt a little surge of something - passion, adrenaline, anxiety - she didn't know what, but it kind of excited her. Maybe it was the beer. With her long fingers, she picked at the amorphous blob sitting on the table. She brought a bit up to her lips - a little salty, too gooey.

"Don't get upset. It happens to me all the time - I follow the recipe exactly, double check everything, but sometimes..." he trailed off, looking out the big picture window at the dark city outside. They sat in silence for a while before Zoe got up and fetched a couple more beers from the fridge in the back. She sat down hard on the padded stool. She was never good at concealing her emotions. She even sat angry.

Rick grabbed the opener out of his apron pocket and pulled the caps off of the beers. "Sometimes," he continued where he had left off earlier, "sometimes the bread just doesn't turn out right."

Zoe took a long swig, and Rick took the opportunity to continue.

"I'm worried about you," he stated.

Zoe pulled the bottle from her thin, strawberry lips and swallowed. "Worried about me why?" she asked, short of breath from her drink.

"You know why," he replied. "You should really come with me this Sunday."

"Oh, Jesus, Rick. Not this again..."

"It would mean a lot to me. And it could really help you; help you make a difference in your life." Zoe's big eyes rolled like fat summer moons as she turned her head to the side. "Look, I know what I'm talking about here. I used to be just like you. I went through all the same things: the doubt, the depression, the anger..." Rick trailed off, watching her face to see if he had hit his mark. She turned back and stared at him, poker-faced, for a moment before slowly bringing the beer back up to her lips.

"It doesn't have to be like this for you," Rick implored. "Sometimes things aren't as bad as they seem."

Zoe held her stare, gradually making Rick uncomfortable enough to look away. An old fan droned in the background.

"Sometimes," she paused to drain her beer before continuing, "sometimes things just don't turn out right, Rick."



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Listening to: Warpaint - Billie Holiday
via FoxyTunes