“…what do I really know about it except that you’ve got to stick to it with the energy of a benny addict…”
-Jack Kerouac’s advice to Neal Cassady on becoming a writer
My published writing so far…..
Flash Fiction:
We started a second bottle of Merlot in my bedroom. He was a mess until I came along. He looked like his mother had dressed him. But a home waxing kit and a quick introduction to hair products changed that.Now he was hot—the Milan runway kind of hot. He was visibly uncomfortable with this, but fashion isn’t for the faint of heart. He’d get used to it. He put down the wine and asked if he could look through my closet…
“Your shoulder blades move like angel wings,” he told me once.
He said the heroin made him a better poet. He would wrap that ratty leather belt around his thin bicep and pull it tight with his teeth, just like in the movies…
Sudden Fiction:
“I’m going to channel Fitzgerald tonight,” Marc said. He blew the smoke towards the slightly opened passenger side window. He had removed one white glove to hold the cigarette, and was careful not to ash on his white Flapper dress.
“Channel Fitzgerald?” I said, keeping my eyes on the road.
“Yes. I’m going to summon him on stage.”
I nodded. For the umpteenth year, we headed to another Halloween party at the gay club we frequented, I as a patron and Marc as a performer. Nothing special. But Marc had a talent for making the mundane interesting…
John overheard the two white men standing at the stairway entrance. Both were holding beer bottles. “Thank God they keep the gangstas in the basement,” one of them said. He emphasized the word “gangstas,” giving the two “s” sounds an exaggerated slur. “If they were up here I’d have to find a new club.” The other agreed and took another drink. The first must’ve been very drunk to say this, since John was clearly within earshot. Of course, in his pink button down shirt and tight blue jeans, John was no gangsta. But he was the only black face in the crowd…
Short Stories:
“Mom..Dad…I’m gay,” Colin announced at Thanksgiving dinner, with one hand on his bony hip and the other hanging from his bony wrist. How could they not have known? “And Dean is my fiancé.” He turned when he said this, his long, white index finger and recently manicured fingernail pointing directly towards me. Some of his family was there: his mother, his father, his two older sisters and their husbands. The brothers-in-law, who had been talking about the day’s football game before Colin’s announcement, were now visibly uncomfortable. Off to the right of us was the kiddie table, where Colin’s two and three year old niece and nephews were making messes, and arguing about whose sippie cup was whose, completely oblivious to the silence sitting right next to them…
“But, dear, that’s just Satan’s game. Once you’re convinced he doesn’t exist, he’s won.” Becky’s Aunt Datherine responded to Becky’s assertion that, perhaps, the devil was an artificial construction. Aunt Datherine spoke with the certainty of a scholar. She waved her thin white fingers, displaying the remnants of natural nail that were never manicured and always bitten to the skin, and periodically using one of her index fingers to scratch her scalp through her short, schoolboy haircut…
Rob sat in the living room and drank while I spun drum n bass our bedroom. We fell in love about seven years ago, and moved into a cramped one bedroom together in Asbury Park, along the Jersey shore. Before Rob I had fallen in love with the drum n bass scene: the records, the ravers, the drugs. As the years went by and Rob and I became more serious, I slowly lost contact with the ravers and the drugs. But never with the records. I cued the record with the skull and crossbones label. I applied slight pressure to the record with my small middle and ring fingers, making sure the platter still spun beneath. I played the record in my headphones, sliding the pitch up, then down, until the tempo matched the other record already playing. I repeated the process, fine tuning the tempo until it matched exactly. By now I had done this more times than I can count; the motions were an intimate part of me. I have no idea who this artist is, or what the song is called, but I love it because its bass line is intoxicating. And because Rob hates it…
…Drama…
John had short, chopped hair, frozen in place from massive amounts of styling gel. His lanky wrists hung from his forearms. He wore black shoes and black dress pants with white pinstripes. A tight black shirt, with gray lettering that read BOYS SUCK, accentuated the slightly developed chest given to him through genetics.
He was insignificant.
…Drama…
John heard from the next room the unknown queen who spoke on top of a pounding tribal beat coming from the large speakers chained to the ceiling. Her voice was altered, slowed down by the producer. She sounded like a demonic goddess.
He hoped Justin would be waiting.
…Drama…
Now there’s no more vinyl. It’s all abstract zeros and ones, intangible information, that a computer beat matches to the zeros and ones already playing and starts in perfect time when you hit the lighted button. Spinning no longer involves spinning. All its character, all its gut, all its audacity and rebellion, has been stripped and melted in the name of improving profit margins. It’s no longer an occupation that needs specialized skills; anyone who can press a few buttons and has an ear for a hit can do this job now….
Creative Non-Fiction:
Unlike Peter, I had to grow up.
But even as an adult, it feels good to return to Neverland now and again. Almost a decade ago, long before rent and utilities became a part of my vocabulary, I would pull a Strawberry Shortcake tee over my head, loosely tie my kwikwear pants around my waist, roll flourescent candy bracelets up to my elbows, and head out to listen to some happy hardcore with like-minded partykids. We lived at 160 beats per minute, dancing all night, “e-bonding” with friends and strangers, watching the sun rise, then doing it all again the next night…
I have to admit I’m a bit of a dork. I think it’s because I come late to everything. It’s not something I try to do; it just happens. Music, televison, fashion, whatever. You name it and I’m a step behind. And raving and happy hardcore were no exceptions…
