tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.comments2014-12-07T11:04:05.115-06:00Postcard Fiction CollaborativeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-49448322076433379622014-12-07T11:04:05.115-06:002014-12-07T11:04:05.115-06:00From Alan:
Haunting pieces. Lyle for your "...From Alan: <br /><br />Haunting pieces. Lyle for your "actual puff of smoke" and Johanna for your photo as crazy allegory. Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-28097568168893973982014-08-03T13:41:01.260-05:002014-08-03T13:41:01.260-05:00Comment from Alan:
I love these. Little seats. ...Comment from Alan: <br /><br />I love these. Little seats. Great ride/view.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-85255377187437515262014-04-21T14:29:58.533-05:002014-04-21T14:29:58.533-05:00nice stuff, gang. forrest, will borrow the tricke...nice stuff, gang. forrest, will borrow the trickery. nice guide for students. thanks!Alan Semerdjianhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01312626695659048927noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-60864091006085475202014-02-01T17:23:49.658-06:002014-02-01T17:23:49.658-06:00A comment from Alan:
What is it about the water t...A comment from Alan:<br /><br />What is it about the water that causes such confessions? Lovely work. Alan.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-67239244760005571022013-08-28T08:45:47.299-05:002013-08-28T08:45:47.299-05:00Someone named Theresa wrote a comment (I'm not...Someone named Theresa wrote a comment (I'm not sure why they're not always showing up): This is awesome!<br /><br />Thanks for reading, Theresa.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-55498115543597730452013-08-06T11:05:58.318-05:002013-08-06T11:05:58.318-05:00"They were in love with words and talking and..."They were in love with words and talking and also, to a lesser extent, silence." OK. That's a good description of me. <br />"Such knowing from a stranger. Such shared experience. This must be right. This must be when things turn." Now your reading my mind.<br />Nice work.<br />midnightwriter54noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-76505941160032585862013-08-05T17:51:23.012-05:002013-08-05T17:51:23.012-05:00Thanks for your continued reading, Roy.Thanks for your continued reading, Roy.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-80740731914045261322013-08-05T17:51:03.027-05:002013-08-05T17:51:03.027-05:00A comment from our own Alan:
"And your frien...A comment from our own Alan:<br /><br />"And your friends will ask you about driving with one headlight in the sun, if only because they did not see the face of who was next to me." <br /><br />This sings, Forrest. Nice work, all. Here's to the apocalypse. <br /><br />AlanAnonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-49691746291432911612013-08-04T16:12:58.573-05:002013-08-04T16:12:58.573-05:00Cool stuff, guys!Cool stuff, guys!Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13255127379876254965noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-53089708913846004372013-07-19T14:31:53.781-05:002013-07-19T14:31:53.781-05:00Thanks for reading. Thanks for reading. Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-20609395022145619092013-07-19T11:50:15.580-05:002013-07-19T11:50:15.580-05:00Wow! Nice work, especially Alan and Johanna. Fas...Wow! Nice work, especially Alan and Johanna. Fascinating. Found this off of Lyle's page.<br /><br />midnightwriter54https://www.blogger.com/profile/03054713146949245826noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-10797620180373769152013-07-15T12:48:34.062-05:002013-07-15T12:48:34.062-05:00Alan's comments:
Found myself reading and re...Alan's comments: <br /><br />Found myself reading and rereading this month (and not just for Lyle's "cloacally"). Lots of mystery, friends. Feels like Postcard Prose Poem Collaborative this one. Lovely work. AlanAnonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-91291892518109590222013-05-18T22:31:59.388-05:002013-05-18T22:31:59.388-05:00Really like these self-standing stories. A fun on...Really like these self-standing stories. A fun one (but always a little serious too...thinking of Johanna's last line). We've created temporary housing!Alan Semerdjianhttp://www.alansemerdjian.com/noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-73268603512970426532013-04-05T21:50:47.871-05:002013-04-05T21:50:47.871-05:00“But why do you suppose he put it there?”
“To scar...“But why do you suppose he put it there?”<br />“To scare me, that’s all. Jerry thinks he’s being funny by putting it on our doorstep.”<br />“But doesn’t he believe you? I mean I believe you, why wouldn’t he believe you?”<br />“I don’t know.”<br />“But you saw him, right? You saw him—it, whatever it was? You saw him. What did you call him, a lobsterman?”<br />“It was just his claw, Mom, or his hand. I don’t know. And it was dark. It could have been anything. It could have been a man holding something: a pair of shears, some type of tool, anything. I don’t know?”<br />“A man with a pair of shears doesn’t run off into the woods when you see him, Mark. You did see him, didn’t you?”<br />“Yeah, Mom. But it was dark.”<br />Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02988599436300374575noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-80076352587109812462012-10-25T13:15:25.592-05:002012-10-25T13:15:25.592-05:00Deadbeat
What did it matter if his shirt was irone...Deadbeat<br />What did it matter if his shirt was ironed? This would last a few hours at most. And if his aunts and uncles were upset that he wasn’t going to wear black slacks and a white shirt like they asked, this would be their problem, not his. At the very least he was going—even going to be a pall bearer. They should be happy for that. <br />It’s not like he even cared for this man, this man that manhandled his mother, gave her the chip in her teeth she still had now, the four kids he abandoned. But now it seemed they were about to be reunited or at least walk together for one last time and he could care less about how he looked. He would just go through the motions. Accept what would sound to him like empty and automatic condolences. Words people had to say, words that would free them from any potential criticism for not honoring the dead, however horrible the dead really was.<br />Fuck. If it was up to him, he would have done something else with the body: dumped it in the lake. If it was up to him, he would have dumped the body among the reeds and the lilies that would envelop the corpse and welcome this devil to a murky hell. It’s not like his dad would have objected. Hell, if his dad didn’t spend his time drinking and womanizing, odds were that he was at the lake fishing. If he could do it right, make it so he wouldn’t float, he’d sink the body into the muddy waters and be done with him. <br />But knowing him, knowing the tenacity of his absent father, knowing that evil never ceases to exist, the body would likely return as an alligator or a crocodile and haunt the waters below, bully the fish like he did his mother and his sisters. Knowing that son of a bitch, he would probably remain the monster he was before and threaten life in the lake like he did on land. That son of a bitch was always a bully. Always a fucking bully. What the fuck did it matter if his shirt was ironed?<br />Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02988599436300374575noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-57542487093833624182012-10-05T09:32:03.539-05:002012-10-05T09:32:03.539-05:00Love the folklore quality of these pieces. The pot...Love the folklore quality of these pieces. The potential of things to happen, if they haven't already. Such spiny, strange, alligatory tales.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-75611994575662959522012-08-14T18:21:16.763-05:002012-08-14T18:21:16.763-05:00Josie
By A. Dos Talamantes
Josie, the homeless ...Josie<br />By A. Dos Talamantes<br /><br /> Josie, the homeless woman that pushes an empty baby stroller up and down Flores St., says she found something she calls a pretty tree. But when we ask her where it is she says she won’t tell, that it’s hers. And when we ask her where her baby is she points to the empty stroller and says Baby Joise is asleep. We look at one another and laugh and ask her more questions about both. We ask her until she realizes that we are only teasing and then she says fuck off and most times we do. Most times Juanito tosses a rock at her when she too far to catch us and then we run. Next time Juanito says we should follow her because they say she lives woods, past the tracks. He said we just need to take a lot of rocks. <br /><br />- - -<br /><br /> “Maybe it’s something that has to do with the minerals ‘round here. Maybe them damn minerals seeped up into that tree, like the tree took a gulp of silver or something. They got that damn fracking going on in Floresville. Maybe it’s got something to do with that?”<br /> “Maybe. I just never seen anything like it. I done heard of trees becoming petrified, but never heard of them turning to metal. You showed it to anyone else?”<br /> “No, you the first. Figured I’d call you before I called anyone else. Thought maybe you’d seen it happen before since you from ‘round these parts.”<br /> “I ain’t ever seen anything like this. You sure no one else knows?”<br /> “Well, sometimes I get this homeless woman that likes to sleep near the creek, built herself a damn tent of tarps over there. Had to tear it down once, but ain’t no one gonna believe her.”<br /> “No. I suppose they wouldn’t, but it’s not good to have a vagrant milling around your property. I’d do something about that if I was you.”<br /> “I suppose I should.”<br /><br />- - -<br /><br /> “Where did you come from, pretty tree? From heaven? From Mr. God? Did Mr. God not want you anymore? Did Mr. God send you down from a cloud? Did you fall? Is that why you ain’t got no leaves? No matter. You just keep quiet. You keep quiet, pretty tree. You mine now. You mine now, pretty tree. You just be quiet because Josie knows. Josie knows. Big Josie knows you came for me and Baby Josie. Baby Josie is asleep right now, but Baby Josie knows, too. Big Josie told her all about you, pretty tree. You here for us. Ain’t no one taking you from us.” <br /> <br /><br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-15993332504232985992012-08-03T13:20:32.170-05:002012-08-03T13:20:32.170-05:00Bravo. Forrest, I particularly love the revisitati...Bravo. Forrest, I particularly love the revisitation. And indeed Lyle, the clouds are pornographic in this context. And I do see myself in there, J.Alan Semerdjianhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01312626695659048927noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-18257480820942915462012-08-02T10:41:01.946-05:002012-08-02T10:41:01.946-05:00Loving these oh so disparate stories with an intri...Loving these oh so disparate stories with an intriguing connection: An updated Jack and the Beanstalk from Alan ("That's where he first split his head open" suggesting that it is all a delusion -- but from the inside of the story); Johanna's fairy tale forrest revamped (so florid and fluid: "The forest had been dying from the beetles and blue stain fungus long before the wave of silver splashed against its conifers"); Forrest's reconsideration of Walden (concept and reality wrapped up in language: "waiting to write something you will never see me in—a house, for instance"). Such excellent work.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-91854845899803301092012-07-27T17:15:05.728-05:002012-07-27T17:15:05.728-05:00eerie. love it.eerie. love it.Johannahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16286803615719974642noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-20856341432914555832012-07-09T16:14:18.407-05:002012-07-09T16:14:18.407-05:00Lost
By A. Dos Talamantes, Jr.
“I found Lilly’...Lost<br />By A. Dos Talamantes, Jr. <br /><br /> “I found Lilly’s doll this morning. The one she says she lost.”<br /> “Oh yeah, where was it, in the yard I suppose?”<br /> “Near the burn barrels, past the dump.”<br /> “Past the dump? How do you suppose it got out there?”<br /> “I’m not sure but she’s been asking about it for days, she ask me to pray for it, to pray for her safe return—even wanted to put together a “missing” poster to put up in town, wanted to offer a reward.”<br /> “She’s so sweet. She told me the same thing. She loves that doll; she’s had it since she was in diapers.”<br /> “I know. Aunt Tilly bought it for her, but the thing is…is that I found it in pieces.”<br /> “Pieces?”<br /> “Pieces.” <br /> “Maybe the dogs got to it, you know, just tore it up. Those dogs will tear up anything.”<br /> “This wasn’t the dogs. It was burned as well; I found the head propped up on an old milk jug.” <br /> “Burned?”<br /> “Burned.”<br /> “On a milk jug?”<br /> “Yeah, the head was sitting on the mouth of the milk jug like a golf ball on a tee.”<br /> “Oh my! Well, I don’t think we need to trouble her with this, it was probably one of her friends that took it—took it out of jealously, you know, kids can be cruel. I think we should just pretend to keep looking for it and not mention we found it, maybe get her a new doll.”<br /> “I think that’s what she wants us to do and that’s what troubles me.”Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02988599436300374575noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-44710555280885367962012-06-23T11:47:59.852-05:002012-06-23T11:47:59.852-05:00Hi, guys.
A friend and fellow writer here in San...Hi, guys. <br /><br />A friend and fellow writer here in San Antonio came across our post for May and was inspired. Here's the excellent result.<br /><br />The Truth by Dos Talamantes<br /><br />This is Bill’s idea. This visit to what he calls The Graveyard of American Heroes. In reality it’s a host of white men immortalized in marble behind a brutal chain-link fence with little chance of escape—it almost seems fitting, like idle inmates in a prison yard. They added Regan he says as makes his way through the open gate, caliche dusting the car and I’m already bored because it’s hot and he will likely lecture us on the brilliance of trickle-down economics and the Cold War victory, things we learned in school. Mr. Gorbachev, tear this wall down he keeps saying and each time he looks to my mother and me for some sort of agreement or a smile of assurance but I always look away. Looking away helps me ground any sort of confidence he may gather before it takes flight and I think he knows this. But my mother doesn’t. She looks at his profile and repeats the Gorbachev phrase in broken English to Bill’s delight. <br /><br />Arnold, look at the look in Ronald’s eyes, don’t they look like the eyes of a man with vision, a man that understands the direction our nation needed to go he asks and I can’t get past the fact he calls me Arnold when my name is Arnulfo and I don’t answer. To answer would mean I’m okay with it, okay with this. <br /><br />Mijo, Bill asked you a question my mother says apologetically and looks for some sort of obedience in the backseat but I ask when we’re going home and she mouths a Mexican adage that accuses me of being ungrateful in the midst of graciousness. It’s enough to make me correct Bill with the truth: It’s Arnulfo not Arnold, Arnulfo, like my dad I say and the word dad startles my mother enough that she stretches into the backseat and quiets me with a vicious pinch. <br /><br />Bill half listens to the suppressed uproar and waits for my mother to attend to the problem, like a patient pedestrian faced with a rambunctious dog, he lets the owner address the misbehavior and it works. And I look out, closed-lipped, into the cemetery of white men and think about my father who is still very much alive in Mexico.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-79827403002543293452012-05-15T17:09:26.664-05:002012-05-15T17:09:26.664-05:00Glad you liked it. I just added Nicco's websit...Glad you liked it. I just added Nicco's website to the bottom of the post. Thanks for the comment.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/15559084906353145855noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-69020188090798588162012-05-15T05:49:55.201-05:002012-05-15T05:49:55.201-05:00What a cool idea! Nicco just launched a website, ...What a cool idea! Nicco just launched a website, http://www.niccoloathens.com I hope readers will come and check out his other works there :-)<br /><br />~IanIan Howellhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10141576937734812685noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-407058407753345083.post-35632707210231663022012-04-28T08:16:52.241-05:002012-04-28T08:16:52.241-05:00The milk carton viewfinder resonates! It freezes ...The milk carton viewfinder resonates! It freezes everything in its path (including people). What a life we have here, friends. What cool writings.Alan Semerdjianhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01312626695659048927noreply@blogger.com