On My Father and On Happiness

Another small hint fiction and a slightly larger story for you. I feel bad for not posting another story yesterday, so I’ll catch up today.

On My Father

He loves peanut butter,
He loves chocolate,
But he hates Reese’s.

On Happiness

When you ache
From all the times you thought you’d fail
And you were sure it was over;
When you thought you were stuck,
And that someone pulls you up.

On Baseball

In honor of spring training and the weather being nicer, I’m posting a short story on baseball, titled: On Baseball. This is shorter than usual, so I might post something a little later on in the day. Stay tuned!

On Baseball

No one has enough time
To sit and watch
A newly installed clock
Behind home plate counts
Down
Until
It’s time to go.

Newspaper

Last week I had a pretty cool assignment that we all had to do in class: We were given pages from an old book filled with items that could be used for many things aside from their original purpose. We had to copy the language of the book and turn it into a quick, little story. I don’t know if my story has a plot–do stories need plots in order to be stories?–but I like how this came out regardless.

Here’s the page for inspiration:
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I’m sure you could do this with any kind of dictionary-type book. These kinds of books are also good for erasures, which I will try to do at some point. But I plan on doing this exercise again when I’m feeling stuck.

Newspaper

What makes a newspaper a newspaper, and who gets to decide it is strictly for news? For example, Why are we allowing the government to bring us back to the dark ages, where news was mostly manufactured?–because a newspaper could be used for so much more, which includes: making balls for the playground; bedding for pets; twisting into rings and piled to support chunks of food wrapped in aluminum foil; book covers; making covers for shopping bags–the usual things that, in reality, are news for all of us, because who actually knew any of this before?

Crest Glide

This story comes from an in-class assignment where we were given random objects and were told to write a personal story about whatever we were given. I ended up with one of the more random objects: dental floss. This is a short-short story, which is fiction, but based heavily off my own experiences. Enjoy!

Crest Glide

It happened the other day when I woke u and finished brushing my teeth. There were no individual, single-use floss…things? what do you call those? in the cabinet.

I thought it was odd having to go back to such a primitive method of cleaning my teeth. What was more shocking was where the little container came from: a small-to-medium-sized drug store called Genovese on the corner of Hempstead Turnpike and Hicksville Road. A.C. Moore is now in its place.

My father used to take me there when he didn’t have much of a choice. He’d tell me If I bring you inside, we’re only going in and out. No treats; no can I have this or that. Got it? But I, of course, would ask for Airheads and gummy Coke bottles, and, of course, I was told no. I wondered if this container of floss was something he had bought, perhaps a message of some sort.

Whenever I flossed, I felt like I was on top of the world, actually following the dentist’s orders. When I opened the container, to set the tone for the rest of the day, the floss, having been sitting in the cabinet for at least twenty years, was undone and trapped inside.

On Macro Photography

This was for an assignment where we simply had to write a “short-short story.” When writing this and the piece on prose poems, I was having so much trouble getting my thoughts together, but I do like how this one turned out. One question I have is: am I telling too much at the end?

On Macro Photography

A young man sat in his study trying to write a story about something deep and philosophical. He had Nietzsche and Marx on his mind due to the gloomy political atmosphere that he couldn’t wrap his head around, but nothing made sense on the outside and inside. The enormity of the election in regards to how many people who voted for a billionaire con artist could only be explained through philosophy, he thought, but instead, he found himself sitting on his computer looking at macro pictures of all kinds of things like coins, flowers dipped in gold, nuts and bolts, a pile of cogs, and master locks. Before, the young man felt safe with the idea that our way of living could not survive, along with the idea that none of it mattered anyways. His passion to find something with their works to explain what was going on came to a sudden halt when he realized that he was approaching things from the wrong point of view. Picture after picture on the forum were macro shots. Everyone was showing off the new worlds they discovered, which were right under our noses the entire time and the answer to our calls for escape.

Prose Poem

I hate prose poetry, but maybe I like this? I had to write one for a tiny text class and came up with this in a fit of writer’s block. To get out of it, I decided to just write how I felt about the genre, or lack of genre(?), instead. So tell me: Do I like this?

Prose Poem

I don’t know whether or not a prose poem needs to look more like prose and sound like a poem or look like a poem and sound like prose, or if there’s a difference between the two. And what’s the difference between prose poems and free-verse poems? Whitman, who some say is the founder of free-verse, but before anyone else knew what to call his work, would write lines that went on and on that took up two lines, a concept that still doesn’t make much sense to me. Were the original editions these giant books where one line could be one line or were they the standard size we see today? And what’s the meaning behind one line that takes up two lines or one long line if, at the end of the day, we know that it’s all supposed to be one line? Could it just be two lines? What does that change, and how? The fact that there are no rules makes me want to say this is dumb. I feel dumb writing this, but there’s something pleasant about just writing, eliminating genre. I feel a flow, but it could just be bullshit. Should I indent this, or include a title? What if I don’t?

Riley

I wrote this poem for one of my best friends. I loved writing this as much as I loved him. I’m sure you know we all miss you!

Riley

It took the entire day to convince him
to take me on a walk. I wanted to explore
the neighborhood and
what goes on beyond the
backyard and houses
to the left and right. I want to
see the trees, the tall oaks
in the preserve, their acorns
always hurt my little feet
when I walk along the rooted paths.
We settled for a quick walk—
to see my friend Eddie who’s always looking for me.
The trip to his house is nice but I always get
Distracted by the cars and trucks their horns
are always too loud they hurt
my ears and I can’t think I want to run
but I’m always being held back. I’m told
the street isn’t safe to cross and I can’t
just run wherever I want,
but it’s instinct.
My daddy keeps me close by
while we walk down
the sidewalks, mindful of
the broken glass and dirty objects
with the funny smells. I run
around the poles to see how long it takes
him to catch me.
He has such long legs compared to mine.
I wonder what it’s like to be a giant,
to have to bend down
low to show me love, a pat on the back,
and a cookie, with a nice bowl of ice water,
and a nap until dinner time of course.
The clouds in the sky start to grey and I
can feel and smell and even taste the
trouble in the sky. I pull back towards
home as fast and as hard as I can.
Daddy knows I’ve had enough.
My mind starts racing and my little legs
Can’t keep up. I stop, scared,
in the middle of the street.
A big brown truck with the mailman I hate,
Who’s always at our house, who’s always
ignoring me when he leaves the boxes
I love to rip up, comes
roaring down the road and I want to bark
at him and make him stop. If he gets out
I’ll rip him to shreds.
I’ll tear that brown uniform apart. He’s,
he’s—lucky to be in that big brown truck.
The vibrations rattle all my organs and I can’t think I
have to stop and rest.
Otherwise I won’t know where I am.
Daddy picks me up and takes me home,
when we get back, that familiar car
in the driveway tells me
mommy’s home so I run and bark and grab my toys,
my mouth is full but as soon as I see her
she says “Hi, baby!” and it’s
all okay again.