Biking Across Texas

  • November 8, 2017
  • 1 min. read
  • sketch

It’s been a while since I’ve touched on my blog space. No big deal. I don’t know much how to blog. Too much like non-fiction for my liking. However…

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The Red Paint Flaking Free

In this old barn, something almost remembered. In the faded corn powder and littered straw; boards creaking underfoot, between the rafters and soft dirt below – shafts of illumined dust shimmering. Yes, something like a spirit maybe, only hidden in the very frame and footprint of the place, red paint flaking free, rotted tires within, and mouse nests – lots of mouse nest in the air.

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Animal Magic

On a nightstand the clock radio flipped a digit. Grace sat on the edge of bed in her underwear. She was painting her toenails best as humanly possible with her back to the bathroom light, a cigarette dangling from her lips, and two drinks down.

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Wading In Through Tall Grass

The old man must be dead (whoever he was) to let everything go to seed like that. Parking my ‘94 sedan I put my day’s prescribed itinerary and drive aside for a moment to work my way through the wilted wire fence toward an abandoned old barn. Tall grass sizzled at my waist as I approached and the tall trees confabbed – nudging each other with swaying limbs and leafy whispers. Grasshoppers zigged and zagged, until I at last I had become a farm boy again, not too smart for my britches, but a welcome stranger wading in from the roadside – with a hand to touch and an ear to lend to these leaning old walls should they have anything to share.


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The Speckled Egg

I am the speckled egg,
the nest in the breeze,
your feet on the ground,
and the hole in your sleeve.
– Anonymous

Once there was a house set upon the edge of a dark forest. The man of the house was a widower. He had two children, Marta, and Rico, who so loved one another that whenever they were apart they could only be sad.

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  • December 5, 2016
  • 4 min. read
  • sketch

Adrienne always scored poorly in the department of Tupperware management. A quick sniff and an off-color patch of fuzz were all one needed to know. She snapped the lid shut and pitched the left-over spaghetti dinner turned frat-party for germs full into the sink.

“I hate my life.”

She didn’t mean it. Adrienne simply hated the idea of MacDonald’s for breakfast. It would mean double-crossing her diet for the third time since Sunday and following a distressing time at the Laundry. After tugging into a nice clean sweater and brushing her hair she found the car keys and the door.

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The Shape of this Blog

  • December 1, 2016
  • 2 min. read
  • notes

Ray Bradbury wrote the following as part of his introduction to Bradbury Stories – 100 of his most celebrated titles. I got my copy from Google Books.

“The Pedestrian” was a precursor to Fahrenheit 451. I had dinner with a friend fifty-five years ago and after dining we decided to take a walk along Wilshire Boulevard. Within minutes we were stopped by a police car. The policeman asked us what we were doing. I replied, “Putting one foot in front of the other,” which was the wrong answer. The policeman looked at me suspiciously because, after all, the sidewalks were empty: nobody in the whole city of Los Angeles was using them as a walkway. I went home, sorely irritated at being stopped for simply walking—a natural, human activity—and wrote a story about a pedestrian in the future who is arrested and executed for doing just that. A few months later I took that pedestrian for a walk in the night, had him turn a corner and meet a young girl named Clarisse McClellan. Nine days later, Fahrenheit 451 was born as a short novella called “The Firemen.”

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Intro to Troders

If it has to do with you or me – or anything else outside the narrow sphere of his interests (that makes a Troder’s home) – don’t expect to receive a hoot. You’ll soon find there are exactly none given. The sign hung on the front door said as much in a few words.

Below the blue misty mountains, where nothing changes over thousands of years, among all things, a Troder shows the least promise of mellowing with time. Even a rock will exude more relaxation, weathering both sun and storm, in the process giving up a bit of itself in natural harmony with the surroundings. It does not think about it. It is only right.

But a Troder, given the same opportunity, only withdraws.

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phone booth

It is one of those glass phone booths straight out of the sixties or seventies, or whenever. The door is folded to one side. Nearby is a red fire hydrant, a bum on the curb nursing his paper bag, people coming and going. Nobody seems to notice or care what this phone booth is still doing here. Somebody bumps by. They smile a passport expression at you. Then the phone rings.


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