Michael (songstempest) wrote in coffeehouseclub,


I am Michael and I'm mostly a writer of blurbs. Nothing I have ever attempted - writing-wise, mind you - has gone anywhere, really, except for this one time when I published a short novella. It's about a boy who finds a mute boy whose only means of communication is a piece of red chalk, and a sidewalk.

I'm not a really "conventional" writer, so be forewarned. I'm mostly here to read, because God (read: Allah, Yaweh, Khodai, &c.) knows I don't do nearly enough reading as I should, and also to network with fellow writers. If this is too much information for an intro post, I am very sorry. I'll cut to the chase. It's a pleasure meeting you, even though technically I haven't met anyone yet.

Here's something I wrote yesterday.

He liquids his lament, his cup overfloweth & she's golden & she is faint, she is rising & she excuses herself politely to the ringing of the telephone, to a mother's voice that says "Hello how are you?" "Oh I am doing better" & so on. There is a trickle of laughter from the television, "I'm telling you Marty she was huge" "Ha! Ha! Ha!" "Well she couldn't have been bigger than that ego!" "Ha! Ha! Ha!" &c. Downstairs he is somber & reflexive, at the landing she is tall & she is majestic; she is the long reach of her shadow from tip to top, top to bottom & to the corner where the light begins to fade. The kettle harkens.

The television roars.

She says "Mother, where did the little king keep his armies?"

The kettle whistles.

"Up his sleevies."

The television roars.

"Ha ha Izzy you're a charm."

He is recalling summer at Tahoe with his skis & his friends & the way the Jeep went bump all the way up the winding roads to the cabin. He recalls the wind & the lifts & the pristine whiteness of the snow, the indescribable heaviness in his descent. The way it was meant to be memorable, like a postcard. Cut out & rehashed & spliced into the frame. A dot on the time-line between crawling out squabbling & watery-eyed & finding himself liquored & distant on his prerequisite black Italian leather armchair. The dog barks in the backyard. All Daniel wanted to talk about the whole trip was the breasts on the barista & the way that they bounced when she stirred his mocha & that the mocha was sub par anyway, but if not for the breasts on ol' whatsit he wouldn't have bought them anyway. They all laughed because breasts are things on women, things that bounce & make men happy. Though he sits & he thinks maybe at some point I never thought these thoughts, & maybe when I was young...

The television cues a commercial.

& the kettle harkens, & the phone line disconnects & fills in the blanks of what should have been a conversation. "Hello mother, I have never felt more distant & disconnected in my life" beep beep beep "Izzy, I want you to know that I love you" beep beep beep "Mother, what happened to all of us?" beep beep.

&tra la la, life goes on, cookie cutter & preset, the kettle harkens.
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