tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post2641200713214615147..comments2024-03-29T07:15:56.908-07:00Comments on Unemployed Imagination.: 2 Minutes. Go!JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-65314898804069208652014-07-06T12:03:44.295-07:002014-07-06T12:03:44.295-07:00lol
lol<br />JD Maderhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-45455115889683172372014-07-06T05:22:10.896-07:002014-07-06T05:22:10.896-07:00Ditto.Ditto.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-14569451357782061252014-07-05T12:53:03.313-07:002014-07-05T12:53:03.313-07:00This is a great piece, Lynne. And I think we can a...This is a great piece, Lynne. And I think we can all relate. At least those of us ballsy enough to admit it. I've often wondered how much of my life I "write". JD Maderhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-46931077575368098002014-07-05T12:51:51.215-07:002014-07-05T12:51:51.215-07:00Headed to your blog.Headed to your blog.JD Maderhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-1137700486423537802014-07-05T12:50:57.017-07:002014-07-05T12:50:57.017-07:00Twist! This is a dope one, too. Twist! This is a dope one, too. JD Maderhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-33205017856581632712014-07-05T12:49:52.406-07:002014-07-05T12:49:52.406-07:00This is lovely. And the beginning hits very close ...This is lovely. And the beginning hits very close to home for me. You got it right, lady. As usual. JD Maderhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-43523728662318829532014-07-05T12:48:46.437-07:002014-07-05T12:48:46.437-07:00I love this piece. Pasta? "Impostor, more lik...I love this piece. Pasta? "Impostor, more like it! I want to scream in his fat face." Too funny. JD Maderhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-37746574858932288022014-07-05T12:47:12.447-07:002014-07-05T12:47:12.447-07:00You're welcome, brother.You're welcome, brother.JD Maderhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-39219348144563345982014-07-04T22:29:26.522-07:002014-07-04T22:29:26.522-07:00First time in months she's been attracted to s...First time in months she's been attracted to someone, and there he goes -- out the door with another woman.<br /><br />The next few days are torture. She rides a roller coaster of ugly emotion: jealousy, depression, unreasoning hope. She concocts wild daydreams in which he swoops back into her life and tells her it was all a mistake. Passionate kisses, searingly honest discussions, tearful confidences. None of it real. All inside her own head.<br /><br />The drama finally makes her sick of herself. And then it hits her: of course. She's a writer. She's been coping the only way she knows how -- by spinning stories.Lynne Cantwellhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05397656985652575608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-4667110847904924272014-07-04T20:42:08.883-07:002014-07-04T20:42:08.883-07:00Again, was inspired to write more beyond these fir...Again, was inspired to write more beyond these first few lines. If you want to know how it ends, the rest is on <a href="http://www.the-migrant-type.com/blog/2014/7/4/sacral.html" rel="nofollow">my blog</a>.<br />_______________________<br /><br />He seemed to be the only penitent in the church. The airy hush was a sound larger than the place itself.<br /><br />The priest waited in the confessional until a shuffling noise told him the man had at last joined him on the other side of the grid. The voice in the near pitch-dark was shaky.<br /><br />"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…" So quavery it sounded more like a question, as if its owner couldn't settle on a tone. The man's breathing was shallow, rapid—the sound of near-panic. <br /><br />"Relax, we're all sinners here. How long since you last confessed, son?" the young priest soothed, suddenly aware of the awkwardness of such an endearment directed at someone probably no younger than he. Yet such was the nature of these things; how mysterious and nuanced the intricate bonds between shepherd and flock. <br /><br />"Not long. A while."David Antrobushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08486219404600185419noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-86214559960369129992014-07-04T16:45:29.506-07:002014-07-04T16:45:29.506-07:00A Fourth of July Story
Nothing good in Ruby’s lif...A Fourth of July Story<br /><br />Nothing good in Ruby’s life had even begun with the words “watch this.” From pranks landing boyfriends in the emergency room to the hundred bucks she lost in a bar bet, she knew she should have just walked away when her uncle lit that Chinese rocket on the beach. They were special rockets, he’d said, driven up from Florida, come from someone’s boat that nobody had ever seen again. Rumor was they actually came from China, not the part that makes things that end up in the dollar store, but the part people were rumored not to return from. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop seeing the image of him, in his bermudas and soaked white T-shirt riding up his fat, hairy back, crouched down to snap a lighter and give the fuse a ride. The blast knocked her to the sand. She didn’t even hear the screams. Or the sirens. Or anything else, for a long time.Laurie Borishttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08361627047571650547noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-21954446594416003532014-07-04T16:29:09.095-07:002014-07-04T16:29:09.095-07:00The bed was a slab of pain, no matter how the unsm...The bed was a slab of pain, no matter how the unsmiling nurse attempted to cushion it, and it barely cradled the sticking-out bones of her pelvis, in every position some flange of rib scraped a metal slat or a button on the mattress and extracted a new round of sobbing. Then from underneath the huff of her own ragged breath, she heard a voice. A sweet, full voice. A man. Reciting…poetry? The same lines, over and over, like music. Curling up, she got to her feet and padded to the door, the one they refused to lock, the one she refused to exit at night. Through the narrow window wired with netting, she saw him, a short, slight black man with thick eyeglasses and a narrow face. He was pacing up and down the back hallways their rooms shared. She couldn’t make out all the words but the cadence fell between poetry and song, a song maybe to keep her safe, to keep him safe, until the morning. Laurie Borishttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08361627047571650547noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-82870740366023074922014-07-04T14:07:11.244-07:002014-07-04T14:07:11.244-07:00He prides himself in being a sensitive bon vivant....He prides himself in being a sensitive bon vivant. To us he’s a bonehead who claims to know and love fine wine and scrumptious French cuisine, but he eats marked-down prepared meals out of Wal-Mart boxes and drinks cheap California wine. <br /><br />“You like my trés-belle tomato sauce?”<br /><br />Oh, another thing. Telling the truth’s a virtue, but with Antoine (born Anthony Rollo), you had to swallow your morality and lie like hell.<br /><br />“Delicious,” Mary and I say in unison, matching our lilting praise with what felt like crazy-glued smiles pulling our lips into crescent pink moons.<br /><br />“And my homemade pasta?”<br /><br />Pasta? Impostor, more like it! I want to scream in his fat face. If I look in his kitchen trash, I’d find an empty cellophane bag that reads anything but Barilla or even San Giorgio. <br /><br />Bonehead stars in his own fantasy world, thanks to cowards like us who haven’t the guts to call it like it is. Too many years now to suggest he get help. <br /><br />Antoine in his J’aime-Paree apron stands at the head of the table, a covered dish in both hands. “Le piece de resistance,” he says in his strong Brooklyn accent, “My own recipe for Gâteau Basque!”<br /><br />From the side of the almond cake, Bonehead forgot to remove the Wal-Mart tag.<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Salvatore Buttacihttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17477098872186908154noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-2103675170132070272014-07-04T13:52:38.805-07:002014-07-04T13:52:38.805-07:00Perhaps one of the nicest things anyone has said t...Perhaps one of the nicest things anyone has said to me. Thank you.Edhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14634773839102689759noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-66291371550530847812014-07-04T13:42:25.685-07:002014-07-04T13:42:25.685-07:00I love this piece, brother. You are so good at bal...I love this piece, brother. You are so good at balancing on the razor's edge of sentiment and sentimentality. That's one of the hardest things any writer faces. JD Maderhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-18284315484014334022014-07-04T12:58:47.965-07:002014-07-04T12:58:47.965-07:00We walked along the quiet streets of Sellwood on a...We walked along the quiet streets of Sellwood on a warm summer night. Tim's collie Sagebrush walked calmly ahead, waiting for us at every corner as he was trained to do before crossing streets. Two cats named Jeepers and Creepers darted along in the periphery of my vision checking out the neighbors lawns. After a few blocks they broke off to return home having exceeded their range for these late night walks. We came to East Moreland Park and I said, “It's nice out.” <br />Tim was unusually quiet, pensive. After a long pause he replied, “It is nice out isn't it.” <br />“Yes it is,” I said reflecting on another scorcher of an August day.<br />Tim looked up at the night sky and said, “Then we should leave it out.”<br /><br />RIP Timmy, I'll see ya when I'm lookin' at ya.Edhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14634773839102689759noreply@blogger.com