An Old Man’s Teeth

I’m taking part in the Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge on Amlokiblogs, and am yet to write very many stories for that (I’m supposed to write 26 stories in 26 days) . I did a warm-up exercise for the A-Z project this morning based on a photo prompt, and here’s the result.

An Old Man's Teeth

(Photo by : Dietmar Temp)

He let his new fake teeth sink into each grape, red, plump with juice, empty of seed. This will feel part of your mouth soon, his dentist had said as she fitted him, just give it time.

But as his mouth flooded with the sugary bits of grape, flesh and skin and blood, he only felt plastic, and longed to spit the whole goddamned mess out, white acrylic teeth, chewed-up red grapes.

They can’t hurt you more, Burt, his wife soothed, I lost mine ten years ago, and am so much the better for it.

His teeth had their roots in him, they had torn apart sugarcane, cracked crab shells, opened beer bottles. They had munched on ice-cubes, clenching, had helped tie bits of string around the fence. And now they were gone, along with the strength in his arms, the surge in his loins, the memories in his head, his entire bloody spirit that made him race and lay bets and win. His win had gone.

For years his wife slept apart from him, and now it was time for his teeth. Sure as hell neither could hurt him no more, but a man is a man and can’t take comfort from such small things.

He squelched down the grape mush, and felt his new teeth with his tongue– hard, indifferent, insipid.

Like life, these teeth had to be endured, lived, day by day, beaten. He tore more grapes from the bunch and shoveling them into his mouth, began to chew.

Let’s Go for a Walk, You and I: #atozchallenge

Wishes tied on strings

Let us go for a walk, hand in hand, in this temple lined with tombs.

Tombs of the heartfelt desires of the rich and the famous, who lived and died noble, a thousand years ago. No poor man stepped here, because to light a lantern in this temple, you needed to have a family crest, and no poor man had a surname, leave alone a title.

They still light all these lanterns once a year, attracting long-dead desires like ghost moths to the flames, and greedy eyes eager for things beyond reach.

Tombs of the heartfelt desires

No one buys lanterns anymore, says the girl at the temple stall, they’re too expensive, cost millions of Yen. The clips in her held silver elements tinkle with each nod of her head. Buy one of these papers and tie it to the strings hanging from the branches of this tree, with your wishes. People believe they come true.

But next year, you say, the priests will sweep them away, tying new strings, for new wishes tied on new pieces of paper, to be swept away again. And look how bare the tree stands in winter.

But that has always been the poor man’s way, I say, and what difference between a lantern of metal or stone and a piece of paper? It is the weight of the wish that matters– these lanterns may not fly. Maybe this paper will.

We tie our wishes to the tree. We walk out of the red-colored temple gates, to be greeted by snowflakes. You smile at the white notes of blessings that flurry and fall, try to capture them on your tongue.

I feel light. We walk in the snow, hand in hand, burdened no longer by the weight of wishes.

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A to Z Blogging Challenge in April

This was a piece of fiction based on  picture prompts (from the Kasuga-Taisha Shrine in Nara, Japan)–something I hope to create on a daily basis during the month of April for the A to Z challenge, which basically requires 26 posts in 26 days based on 26 letters of the alphabet, one post beginning with each letter during the month of April, with Sundays off for good behavior.

So I’m asking you, my blogging audience, to challenge me with an interesting picture that you would like me to write on, and drop me story starters, each sentence/phrase beginning with a different letter (i.e. the first word of the starter must start with a different letter, from A to Z).  You can do this in the comments on this post. I’ll keep sending out this call till I have 26 pictures and 26 prompts that really challenge me!  The 26 posts will be featured on Amlokiblogs, my other writing blog.

Of course, when I post each prompt during April, I’ll link to you and explain why I chose it. You may also mail me the pictures and story prompts at atozstories at gmail dot com. You need not be participating in the A to Z Challenge to challenge me with either a story starter, or a picture, or both. The more the merrier! Last year I had asked for word prompts, and I got loads to choose from! This year, I’m taking it a step further.

Sign up for the challenge, (you know you want to!) and if you do, make sure you follow us on FaceBook and Twitter, and read The #atozchallenge Daily for updates!

4th Anniversary- Daily (w)rite Turns 4!

Book of Short Fiction

I started writing fiction nearly four years ago, in April 2008, and that was the year I also started this blog, as a place where I would post something every day—ah,well, as often as possible.

I was going through my old anniversary posts and here’s what I said over the years:

2011,  I said: It IS nice to go back and read my old posts, and comments by readers, and I hope I can carry this blog another year!

2010, I said: There would be light and shade, and at least 20 posts a month! (sigh…tall order) And there would be travel posts, mixed up with writing posts, depending on where I go, and what I do. So, hopefully, I’ll have a third anniversary post, eh, and other anniversaries afterwards?

2009, I said: I want to keep up this blog for as long as I can; and I want to watch myself grow, become a little smarter, a little wiser, more intuitive, with each day, each month, each year, each post.

So here I am, and this is how the blog did last year.

This year I made more of an effort, wrote a fair bit of fiction on the blog as well.

I took part in the A to Z Blogging challenge, which means I blogged 26 days in April. That adventure, surprisingly enough, led to the book: A to Z Stories of Life and Death, which, to my utter amazement, continues to sell to this day, without much promotion, if any.

2011 was a long year, personally, and an average year, writing wise.

But I’ve stuck to fiction, written bunches, published some.

And just like I did three years ago, I find myself eager to ‘watch myself grow, become a little smarter, a little wiser, more intuitive, with each day, each month, each year, each post.’

Amen.

Writing Flash Fiction based on Reginald Marsh

Writing flash fiction has become one of my favorite writing exercises, and this is my entry in response to the flash fiction challenge at Pattinase, (based on Reginald’s Marsh’s paintings).

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Reginald Marsh: Two Girls: Flash Fiction Challenge

It wasn’t her fault. The day was too gorgeous, Marta altogether too persuasive, the white swimsuit with black seams she had bought for herself the week before too flattering.

She had gone to the beach instead of staying home to tend to Charlie. Charlie had fever, yes, but it was summer fever, here today, gone tomorrow, and Charlie was a hearty boy.

The day had lived up to its promise. The warm sand had lulled her senses, Marta had made her laugh for the first time in months, the breeze had soothed her skin and the balmy, caressing water had made her wonder why she hadn’t done this before.

When she came back, the maid had called her husband. He stood by Charlie’s bedside, like a jug of ice on a summer afternoon, cold and sweating. He looked at the gasping boy and not at her when she spoke to him. He had his hand on the doctor’s shoulder.

Marta came to stand between them, one arm each around husband and wife, murmuring the sort of nonsense people utter at sickbeds without hope. It was to Marta her husband clung when the doctor closed Charlie’s eyes. If only you had called me before, the doctor said as he stood up, maybe I could have helped him. I’m so sorry.

Long after that sunshiny morning that darkened all the following days of her life; after they buried Charlie in a coffin the size of a crib, after her husband left her and married Marta, after her thick blonde hair grew wispy and gray, her body lost the battle of time without a fight– that day still came back in her dreams.

She willed the water to disappear, for the beach to become a desert, for the sun to burn her skin, anything to shorten her day out. She wanted to see Charlie. But lately, Charlie’s face had grown blurred in her memory despite the faded photographs by her bedside table. She felt tired, did not get out of bed unless she had to.

One night, as she slid again into that morning when she was a golden-haired goddess in the sun, who had a friend, a husband, and a son, and no idea at all that she would lose them all that very day, she decided she had grown too old to fight.

She had left Charlie back at home so she could enjoy a day in the sun, and that is what she would do.

As she let go, she saw the curve of her young back glowing in the sun, her blonde hair tangling over her blushing face, Marta’s neat figure in a swimsuit that was the same as hers except it was yellow, a red bandana holding back Marta’s dark hair. She saw her own face as it was on that day, smiling out a ruby-lipped smile, as if from a painting.

She wondered what had stopped her from doing this before.

Bad Movies Give Birth to Fiction

Alex J Cavanaugh decrees in his blogfest:

On Monday, September 19, post a list of up to ten of the worst movies you’ve ever had the misfortune to watch. Films that just oozed awfulness and featured plot holes so big you could drive a bus through them.

Alex's Worst Movies Ever Blogfest

So without further ado, I present the 10 worst movies ever, imho, but instead of writing about them, I’ll use as many of their titles in a piece of flash fiction (that would hopefully make more sense than the movies it was inspired by, lol.) Hopefully Alex forgives the liberty I’ve taken…(* I’ll run hide under the table right after posting this*

So here are my 10 worst picks:

1.   Heaven’s Gate (1980)                           2. Mommie Dearest (1981)

3. Showgirls (1995)                                     4.   Battlefield Earth (2000)

5. Sweet Home Alabama (2002)              6. Gigli (2003)

7.   The Room (2003)                                 8.   Derailed (2005)

9.   Alone in the Dark (2005)                   10.  I don’t know How she does it (2011)

So, ahem, now for the flash fiction:

Mommie Dearest, M.D.

Mother to Son, Mary Gallagher Stout

I don’t know how she does it, but Mommie dearest manages to derail my life every time she steps into it, which is often. By Mommie dearest, or MD (as I call her when I’m alone in the dark), I mean my wife Gigli’s mother.

Mine, bless her, gave up the ghost when I was still a fairly runt-sized boy, and just about the only thing I remember of that woman is the smack of her hand on my bottom.

MD uses big words like Heaven’s Gate, Hellfire, the Earth as a Battlefield Between Good and Evil. I’ve grown up with small words like cold, hunger, roof, money, food, knife, rain, dark, sun, blood, water, hate, winter, and done just fine.

So MD’s words are lost on Gigli and me, who, unknown to her mother, is a showgirl at a gig I got her in the next town, Muck City, in our sweet old state of Alabama. Gigli is what they call her there, and what I call her ever since I married her ten years ago. MD calls her Gertrude.

Just yesterday, MD stopped by, and tried yet again to take me to church, being Sunday and all. She calls herself my soul-doctor.  It has always been like that in my marriage; me, Gigli, and MD makes three.

I left, of course, so Gigli could deal with her mother like she always does. I got drunk as a skunk, and came back home hoping MD had left. Not.

So I went to The Room, where I take all ladies who remind me of MD, to be alone with them in the dark. Knife, blood, Heaven’s Gate, we did it all, as usual—me and the woman I found. I left her in a trash bag, the letters M and D scrawled on her pitted bottom.

I’m tired now, and if you know me, you’ll know I’m a man of few words. I like it straight and narrow. So the next time MD stops by, she comes with me to The Room, and I don’t care what Gigli has to say about it. I’ll make an honest, spiritual M.D. out of her yet.

———-

A to Z Stories of Life and Death

If you liked this piece and would like to browse through more of my work, check out  A to Z Stories of Life and Death, available on Kindle and Smashwords.

P.S: The story came from the movie titles and the picture, and I took it down as it came. It is not meant to offend sensibilities.

Patricia Lynne: Being Human

Being Human, by Patricia Lynne

I write quite a bit of short fiction on this blog, some of which resulted in A to Z Stories of Life and Death.

This week I’ve decided to switch it around a little–still short fiction, only I’m not writing it.

On the 25th, I hosted Stuart Nager’s flash fiction, and today I give you Patricia Lynne, whose book ‘Being Human‘ is making a quite a splash just now. If you haven’t heard of it, I suggest you follow the link here and take a look! Without further ado, I present:

Stars In Her Eyes Flash Fiction by Patricia Lynne

The first thing he saw was the stars. They shined brightly, filling the inky blackness. For a moment, he admired them. As he watched, one shot across the sky. A voice murmured in his head, a memory flitting to his forethoughts.

Look honey, a shooting star. Let’s…

The memory disappeared before it could finish. He tried to recall it, but it was gone. More memories followed, disappearing before he even had a chance to recall them. A knot of panic filling his chest, propelling him to his feet and into action. He ran as fast as he could, racing the disappearing memories and trying to reach… Where was he going?

When he finally stopped running, he didn’t recognize the house before him. Despite that, he found himself moving towards the door. Energy hummed at him, pushing him away. He fought against it, knocking on the door until a light flared overhead.

“Darren!” The woman at the door grabbed him, hugging tightly. She pulled him inside, the energy fading from the invitation. “Why were you knocking? Did you lose your key?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

He glanced at his unfamiliar surroundings. Was this home? A whisper of instinct said yes. It said this woman before him was important to him. But the reasons why were gone, vanished with his memories. He felt something else take the place of the memories, a pulsing and thumping that vibrated through him. It resonated in his stomach and as instinctively as he knew this house was his home, he knew what it was: Hunger.

“Darren?”

He looked at the woman. “Yes?”

“Where have you been?”

“I don’t remember.”

He could tell she didn’t like the answer, but she didn’t comment on it. Instead, she sighed deeply, as if the action hurt. “You’re filthy, come on, I’ll help you clean up.”

As she led him through the house, the hunger pulsed louder. It burned through him, yanking on him and demanding to be sated. His eyes locked on the back of her neck. So easy…

No! He banished the idea. He couldn’t hurt her. But he was so hungry. He swallowed, his mouth feeling on fire.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked when he softly whimpered.

He tried to find words to describe the pain he was in, how the hunger burned him. But her eyes had caught him, locking him in. In awe, he stared, forgetting for a moment the raging hunger and pain. Her eyes sparkled like stars and he swore he saw his missing memories. Each moment filled her eyes, telling him of his life – their life. It sucked his breath away.

“I love you,” he whispered.

A smile filled her face, eyes sparkling more. “I love you too.”

He lunged for her neck.

————–

Being Human by Patricia Lynne will be available on Amazon, Smashwords, and hopefully Barnes & Noble and other retailers August 30^th 2011. Thanks for reading.

email: patricialynne07@gmail.com

Twitter:  @patricialynne07

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/patricialynne07

Chuck Wendig Friday Fiction

Writing challenges kick ass.

I love the adrenalin rush of writing within specific limitations, and one of the places I seek it is  Chuck Wendig at Terribleminds. His challenge for this week :

“I ask is that you write a piece of crime fiction that features — and c’mon, this is so easy — guns as a feature. That’s like a present to you, from me. Mmmm. Guns.

You have 1000 words. Short flash fiction. Not a vignette but a complete story.”

Here’s my attempt at crime fiction, one that I wrote with my writing mates this week:

When Susan called me, I had just finished with Rita, kissed her goodbye. You know, all that shit. Only it was a final kiss goodbye because I had a .38 kissing her throat at the same time. This one would be a bit hairy, but I never had a situation I could not talk myself out of, and wasn’t about to start now. I put Rita in the boot and set off to meet Susan. I could always figure out what to do with Rita after.

What I didn’t know of course, was that Susan had other plans for our date. After we had polished off the gooey sauce and the sticky mashed potatoes off our plastic plates at the diner, she smiled at me and did that thing she does with her boobs. It is a sort of shrugging she learnt in belly dance class. That slow rotation of two boobs in opposite directions drives me mad and she knows it. Uses it every time she wants something done, which is all the time.

So we ended up back in the car, only this time Susan had the wheel. I know all the roads in my hood and beyond, but she found the only alley that I had never seen. And it was right beside the highway too. When the car stopped, I coughed to cover my chuckle, because we had come to an old graveyard. No guards about, in fact no one about that I could see, unless couples like us were shagging away like nocturnal rabbits somewhere behind the graves.

Somewhere in all that land would be some freshly-dug earth, and I’ll provide one of the coffin dwellers a new roommate. I’m nice like that. It’s all good, and if you think it isn’t, well… it’s not me, it’s your perspective.

Susan dragged me along by the elbow, she wanted to get down to business. I had begun to tire of her having her way all the time.  I checked on the .38. Maybe tonight she could  join Rita after I’d finished with her—sisters in life, united in the grave.

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A to Z stories

If you like flash fiction, look up my book A to Z Stories of Life and Death, which is available now on Smashwords and Kindle.

Show me a Rhythm and Love me a Dance

Crystal Blue Angel Wing Copyright Shadoweddancer

Each morning I write, sometimes days based on word prompts,  picture prompts on other days. Here’s the picture and the piece I wrote in the last ten minutes:

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Show me a rhythm and love me a dance, he said to her, his feathers ruffled against the cold breeze.

Now why did he say that? He had forgotten sensation in the time he had spent away from the human world, which could be an year, an aeon, or a few seconds in the silly vocabulary they use to measure the immeasurable, which is a point, after all, a line, a circle, a sphere, a spring all at the same time.

They sat suspended between times, between worlds, and it is this that intrigued him, that he could feel it all–how cold it was outside the cave, the softness of her skin embedded on her soul, the taste of her last meal of asparagus and wine, just before she left her world in his arms, this famous singer-dancer-entertainer.

He sensed it all, but could not decide if he liked it. He had moved so far away from like and dislike, from the polarities of that world.

But there was nothing for it, he had to wait before the gates opened again, and in this wilderness between worlds, this cave was all he could manage. Not much harm in letting the sensations take him for this breath of time, and then he would carry her to the gates, and return to pick up his next charge.

But that is not what happened.

The singer-dancer-entertainer woke up in her home, a few seconds later, coughing up wine, startling her guests who had begun to mourn her.

He found himself in the dark, reduced to a dot of existence, a cellular tissue of awareness. A mistake. All angels knew feeling was a mistake, they’re not supposed to feel, just be.

Now he must be born into this human world. Must learn, through pain and sensation, to rise above both. He must remember.

———————-

A to Z stories

If you’re intrigued by this story, look up A to Z stories of Life and Death,my ebook of short stories just like this one. Many thanks to Rachel Morgan and Alex J Cavanaugh for featuring this book on their blogs. I’m overwhelmed by the generosity of the blogging community, and would like to thank all those who visit my blog and cheer me on. Writing is sometimes a hard, lonely job, and I’m happy that other than the satisfaction that comes from the process of writing, I’m fortunate enough to be given so much love.

Do what you do: Another short short!

Do what you do: the Man and his Muse

Every once in a while I doodle on a writing prompt and it becomes a piece of flash fiction, and that is what happened this morning. Without further ado, I give you the result of the timed free-writing I did today:

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If Donatella Versace ever needed a double, this one would have worked. She had the fake hourglass figure, the stringy, flat, blonde hair, the bulbous lips, and sunken eyes penciled over high cheek bones. He checked his wallet. After he paid for the drinks, he might have just enough to persuade her.

He gulped down his drink, wiped his beard, and shuffled out to the men’s room, pushing through the crass Karaoke songs in Singlish, the cigarette smoke, the stink of cheap whisky, beer, and wine. She walked past him, almost colliding.

For a moment, he thought she would come undone, her breasts bounce on the floor, each going its separate way, her ass tumble out and rock slowly in its place, her lips splatter on the floor in a pink splotch. But her lipstick held back her lips, her bustier did an admirable job of keeping together her middle, and stockings and stays did the rest. She stayed within her skin and righted herself on her teetering heels.

Back on his seat, he waved for the check, and she came, holding the small black folder with her claw-like nails.  The sight of them prompted him to look at his own gnarled hands, yellow, blue, and green paint cracked under his nails.

When he asked her, she smiled, and said in her nasal, Texan drawl, aren’t you too old to be doing such things?

I’ll never be too old to do what I do, he said.

Afterwards, when he had taken off her breasts, her lips, her ass, her heels, she talked to him of her husband back home who had married again, of her kids who must have grown up by now, of how terrified she was of growing old.

The studio loft smelled of her, her perfume, and turpentine. His hands worked as she talked, and there they were, the swollen body parts she had stuck on herself to become more of a woman, hanging on sticks on his canvas, sailing on strings.  Behind her, from the window,  the lights of the Singapore skyline went out one by one, and the faint gray outline of tall buildings appeared against the dark of dawn.

Do me a favor, he said, come back often.

I will, she said. I love that you do what you do.

And so they came together, the man and his muse.

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For those who’ve already read my other pieces,  please help me spread the word about A-Z Stories of Life and Death, my book of short short stories. If this is your first encounter with my work, and if you like it, please check out my book as well!

A to Z Stories of Life and Death

A to Z stories of Life and Death

So, here’s the book cover, designed by the super-talented Marcel Heijnen at www.chemistryteam.com. The image is by Jake Garn Photography .

The book should be out on all sorts of e-book retail outlets in the next few weeks, and then the great e-book experiment will begin in earnest. With this e-book, I don’t mean to thumb nose at traditional book publishers–quite the opposite.

I seek to learn the ropes of the fluid publishing market. I’ve been traditionally published, and hope to be considered for publication again. But in the meanwhile, I mean to explore the burgeoning new avenues of publishing.

The idea of the book was suggested by the kind and generous readers of my posts during the A to Z challenge, and to them, and all others who have supported me since, I owe a million thanks.

To those who helped bring about this book, and you know who you are, I cannot hope to ever repay the favor, but please know that I’m immensely grateful.