Writing

Morning Glory Pool

morning-glory-pool

The sign says this is Morning Glory Pool in Yellowstone National Park. But is it the edge of the forest, or the edge of eternity? A wishing well, or a gravity well?

When I visited, no one else was around, so I jumped in for a quick dip. I played with fate and tried to dive as far down as I could. I can tell you, hell indeed hath a fury far exceeding a woman scorned.

When I emerged from the drink, I was just upriver from Hoboken, New Jersey. I grabbed the first woman I saw and married her straight away.

When she furies like a woman scorned, I smile and kiss her and tell her that her fury is nothing compared to…and you should see how mad that really makes her!

We have never visited Yellowstone together. And I think we never will.

Almost Spring

lake_clark_wildflowers__alaska_usAh, that moment when spring, though not yet arrived, is suddenly inevitable and no longer a fool’s winter memory of a long-forgotten dream. This time when the nihilist turns merely skeptical, the cynic merely ironic, and the broken and bitter become almost lovers. But not quite.

Short Story: If Only

wtf_skip

She said.

But we didn’t like what she said.

Then she said.

And we liked what she said the second time better.

Then Clover said.

And I told Clover to not say such things to her.

He asked why.

I said why.

She told me not to talk to Clover that way.

I asked why.

Clover said why.

I told Clover what he could do with his stupid plaid coat.

She said.

Clover liked what she said, but I didn’t. I didn’t like what she said, but Clover did.

Clover said and she said. Clover said and she said in unison.

I told Clover what he could do with the rope.

She said. Clover said.

I didn’t say anything.

I left.

And they lived happily ever after.

Emerging Context

My offering for the latest Friday Fictioneers challenge.

Copyright Sean Fallon

Out of context. Everything begins out of context. Everything begins out of context at least with respect to itself. From its own frame of reference. From its own point of view.

Out of context until something emerges to give it context. A detail. A broad stroke. A battery.

Then the context grows. The context and the emerging details grow and develop a context around the thing. At least with respect to itself. From its own frame of reference. From its own point of view. A jar.

But does the thing grow? Does the thing grow within the emerging context? The detail, the broad stroke, the battery, the jar? Or is it your understanding that grows when the context emerges? Your understanding grows but the thing does not grow. Only the context around it–the context that you understand–grows and emerges and grows. Like a battery. Like a jar. Like a brick.

The thing remains what it is. At least with respect to itself. From its own frame of reference. From its own point of view. Context grows with respect to you, not it. From your frame of reference. From your point of view.

The thing remains what it is. It is not you. You are not what it is. You know nothing of the thing apart from the growing emerging context. You know nothing about the thing. The thing itself. The thing with respect to itself. From the thing’s frame of reference. From the thing’s point of view.

A battery. A jar. A brick.

It.

Weekly Writing Challenge – A picture is worth 1,000 words

A brick. A photogenic brick. I was a photogenic brick in a past incarnation. How many past incarnations ago, I am not sure. I only remember a few of them. But I remember this one. This one in which I was a brick. A red brick. A red brick in a wall. But not just any wall. Not just another brick in just another wall.

A dark red brick. I was a dark red brick in a wall of red bricks. Lighter red bricks. I was a dark red brick in a wall of light red bricks.

A long brick. A long brick in a wall of mostly short bricks. A long dark red brick in a wall of mostly short light red bricks.

Not just another brick in the wall. Never just another brick in the wall.

A bottom brick. The bottom-most brick in the short wall. The third from the left. The bottom-most brick. The third from the left in the bottom-most row. The foundation row.

The longest darkest red brick in the bottom-most row.

As you can see, not just another brick in the wall. And next to me, a whole row of short light red bricks on edge. Always on edge. That’s what I do. Put others on edge. Regardless of my incarnation, I put you on edge.

A brick. A dark red brick. A long dark red brick in the bottom-most row. Not just another brick in the wall.

In the wall. A wall on edge. On edge.

On edge.

Don’t be just another.

The above is a work of fiction for the weekly writing challenge. It’s a lot of fun! To join in or see how other bloggers interpret the challenge you can find out more here.

Becomes the Happy Man

Becomes the Happy Man (2012)

This is my first novel. I wrote it in the summer of 2011 and self-published it in the spring of 2012.

Feel free to try out the first chapter by clicking the link in the right sidebar.

It is available in paperback through Amazon, and in Ebook for both the Kindle and Nook.

The official blurb:

The man wakes up one morning to find the woman missing. His search for her leads him on an adventure of discovery and remembrance that answers more than just what has happened to her and why.

The style of this novel is unique. Readers say it is a little difficult at first but once they get used to it they engage with the story. The style is itself a part of the story, so overcoming the challenge deepens the meaning of the novel.