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Short, short, short fiction October 31, 2006

Posted by dr. gonzo in Writing.
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Dr. Gonzo still exists he is just on hiatus, until then his alter-ego, Andy, will post nothing here. Except maybe some writing. Perhaps after Thanksgiving my motivation will return.

I have been experimenting with ultra short fiction, bite sized stories, you know, for the kids. Not really, the first one has some adult language and content. You are forewarned. Three pieces follow.

Cold, Stacked Sandwiches

Cold, stacked sandwiches. Piled on the table. The only reason they’re cold is because the heater won’t work. Maybe, it’s the stack of unpaid bills sitting next to the sandwiches. Or maybe it’s the fucking pilot, again. Maybe it’s not the cold. Maybe it’s the Need. Maybe the desire. Of frustrated mind, of lostness, being accepted forever. Perhaps. Or maybe, indeed. Indeedily so, it must be. But it’s a burn to the very core. All the way to the fleshy marrow, buried, way down deep. And it blows every single fucking thing. Fuck the heater anyway. The Need is far to great to even consider the trivial. Like a heart fire. Unstoppable save one method. The sweet prick. A short stab away. And so, fuck the heater. Pretty much. Cold nights are tolerable. Dry nights are unacceptable. The Need creeps up, like it does everyday. But it’s not the unpaid bills or the broken heater. It’s a lost soul. Alone. On a couch outside an abandoned gas station. Deserts. Flaming in from the outskirts of Barstow. Bleak. Stark. And so cold. That’s where the soul is stuck, lostness, forever. When you’ve accepted lostness, fifteen degree nights don’t matter. Nor does nearly freezing to death under a viaduct north. But days have blended together. And they drifted into years so quickly. And everything went blue in the end. In the end.

The Last, Lost Stars

“Mad, like, how? Like one of these raving lunatics? Escaped from a primeval state-run institution. To roam and rampage the forests on the outskirts of town. Straight outta the straight jacket. Is that how?”

“No, at least I don’t think so.”

Didn’t someone say that once, aloud or in their head, right next to your ear?

“Not, like, straight jacket mad.”

“How then? Like how?

“Mad, in that . . . eccentric, beat sorta way.”

A nod, a smile and an understanding of madness. Burning so bright across the last, lost stars. Twinkling at their own midnight. Madness and madness and madness, cubed, cursed and kept.

“Didn’t you say you read On the Road? Didn’t you say you liked it?”

“I did.”

“You, like, said that?”

“I did.”

“Mad.”

Or is it, Yes, yes, yes!

“It’s both.”

That elicits an astonished glare! “Did you just read my mind?”

“I, like, did.”

Gasp.

“Are you sure you’re just not angry?”

“I think, I think. I’m sure. I’m not angry, but I’m madder than hell.”

Weird Memories

I have odd memories. Dotted with color and alligators. Dotted with speed and fire and a burn for a desire to live. Odd memories of downtown streets. Streets bathed in yellowish light. They always flick off when you pass them by. Downtown streets. Odd memories of snow covered lawns. Only white light bathes this place. Weird memories, of purple and gold and black. Snow covered lawns. Odd memories of thinking alone in cherished rooms. Maybe it was Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick. Flanked by nothing. In cherished rooms. Odd memories of dewy sweat, sickly sweet, irrestible. I have weird memories.

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