Consider my magic solution.
Ever been to a Fairy Tale?
I have.
I walked around Snow White and her short friends. They were paper-thin. Every time I stopped, they began to move and play their games. When I moved, they just fluttered in the fairy-tale breeze like paper silhouettes thought up by some apathetic creator.
Rode a sailboat with Sleeping Beauty. She wasn't asleep; she was dead drunk from a pitcher of martinis. You ever seen somebody passed out from too much Grey Goose and olive juice? It isn't very beautiful. Doesn't even approach flattering.
The Prince was there pretending to be both the Captain and the bosun. I held the Book open for him. "Says here you're going to kiss her, wake her up and love her," I said.
The Prince just frowned and poked her snoring face with the end of the mop we used to clean the deck. She moved a little bit.
"I'm not going to kiss her," he said. "Stupid drunk bitch. She can't even afford Grey Goose."
Sometimes on the shores of the lakes and the rivers, blue people appear and smile. It doesn't happen as much as it used to. That fucker Disney invaded that world, made everybody wear white gloves and be happy all the time. He gave everybody the same script. "Do it this way and I'll have real people dress up like you in Florida and Anaheim. You'll be famous."
I guess it's not all his fault. Sure isn't my fault, though. When I visited, I gave chocolate to Goldilocks, so she wouldn't go to the Bear's House for fucking soup. I tried. She didn't like chocolate and got mauled anyway. Just for soup.
Nobody there likes to dream anymore. Too many folks getting hearing-aides to better hear what's going on in halls that smell like antiseptic and reality. Nobody likes to dream anymore. Yeah, I've been to a damn Fairy Tale.
I'm not going back.
Gandpa's Potage
Gandpa's potage.
1. I mean, this was back in the day, Patsy.
This was back when the only connection between serfs and waves were the cascades of rye flowing right by the shadows of the Black Forest. When the Lord came to take your best-looking daughter for a private Maypole party. Here's what the Lord said: "Hey you! Serf! Ganpa Serf! Fetch me some of that butter. Fetch me that plump daughter; she's a barleycornfed lass. She will fetch me some pleasure, then I will cast her aside for the scullions to enjoy at the Manor. Fetch me a ladle of that potage. What's this? Is this a chunk of hare in the potage? You thieving Gandpa! The Medieval Rules clearly say that lowly serfs like you can have none of my graceful rodents. Illegal pottage. Fetch me a sword with which to disembowel you. Now you are dead. You were a faithful serf."
Yeah, Patsy. This was back in the day. Before freedom. Count yourself lucky. You see, Dinty Moore never needed to explain the beef in his stew.
Fetch me some sense!
1. I mean, this was back in the day, Patsy.
This was back when the only connection between serfs and waves were the cascades of rye flowing right by the shadows of the Black Forest. When the Lord came to take your best-looking daughter for a private Maypole party. Here's what the Lord said: "Hey you! Serf! Ganpa Serf! Fetch me some of that butter. Fetch me that plump daughter; she's a barleycornfed lass. She will fetch me some pleasure, then I will cast her aside for the scullions to enjoy at the Manor. Fetch me a ladle of that potage. What's this? Is this a chunk of hare in the potage? You thieving Gandpa! The Medieval Rules clearly say that lowly serfs like you can have none of my graceful rodents. Illegal pottage. Fetch me a sword with which to disembowel you. Now you are dead. You were a faithful serf."
Yeah, Patsy. This was back in the day. Before freedom. Count yourself lucky. You see, Dinty Moore never needed to explain the beef in his stew.
Fetch me some sense!
Editor's Rant
For 2.5 years or so, I've been editing for a self-publishing firm. Some of the books are good, some passable, but some are pure, rotting SHIT.
And this is shit that keeps on steaming, friends. Cause these good folks write books and stories, engorged with a passion for filling up the world with their lovely, broken-down ideas, cluttering bookshelves with pus, much like eight-legged frogs in Michigan and women's apparel made from pizza toppings and fucktours in graveyards.
However, I am an encouraging editor. I understand that Neil Young wants us all to keep on rockin in the fucking free world, and that includes all the Wombat McKenzies, Shortwit Joneses and Apple Oranges who want to see their stories and ideas in print. If I come across a vapid character, I politely suggest that the writer provide some dimension to make that character interesting. When a character suddenly sticks her head out, with no context, I don't write "Sticks her head out of what? What, is she a fucking turtle? If she's not a turtle, you must be one, cause you and turtles have about the same corn syrup ideas about writing a book!"
No. I am a professional.
I will not inform these writers that they put the "less" in hopeless. I will not tell them that they've turned creativity into a negative energy. I will not tell them that their books cannot even be helped by sewage treatment plants. I will not write, "John Lennon would laugh at you!" I do not ask them if I can use their vacant heads for storage next time I have to move. I will not even write, "So! YOU'RE the one who bought those new clothes from the Emperor!"
No. I am a professional.
A professional idiot.
Give me motley. Give me a cockscombe and I'll pull my rainbow wand from my ass, then dance and sing through your fucked February imagination. I have ascorbic acid for your scurvy sentences and prosthetics for your paraplegic paragraphs. Welcome to fucking first grade. Put that apple back in your pocket.
I fucking hate apples.
And this is shit that keeps on steaming, friends. Cause these good folks write books and stories, engorged with a passion for filling up the world with their lovely, broken-down ideas, cluttering bookshelves with pus, much like eight-legged frogs in Michigan and women's apparel made from pizza toppings and fucktours in graveyards.
However, I am an encouraging editor. I understand that Neil Young wants us all to keep on rockin in the fucking free world, and that includes all the Wombat McKenzies, Shortwit Joneses and Apple Oranges who want to see their stories and ideas in print. If I come across a vapid character, I politely suggest that the writer provide some dimension to make that character interesting. When a character suddenly sticks her head out, with no context, I don't write "Sticks her head out of what? What, is she a fucking turtle? If she's not a turtle, you must be one, cause you and turtles have about the same corn syrup ideas about writing a book!"
No. I am a professional.
I will not inform these writers that they put the "less" in hopeless. I will not tell them that they've turned creativity into a negative energy. I will not tell them that their books cannot even be helped by sewage treatment plants. I will not write, "John Lennon would laugh at you!" I do not ask them if I can use their vacant heads for storage next time I have to move. I will not even write, "So! YOU'RE the one who bought those new clothes from the Emperor!"
No. I am a professional.
A professional idiot.
Give me motley. Give me a cockscombe and I'll pull my rainbow wand from my ass, then dance and sing through your fucked February imagination. I have ascorbic acid for your scurvy sentences and prosthetics for your paraplegic paragraphs. Welcome to fucking first grade. Put that apple back in your pocket.
I fucking hate apples.
Achieving Polite Nirvana/ Room Wanted
Achieving Polite Nirvana/ Room Wanted
About an hour ago I sat down in front of the Bizarro Factory and plugged my iPod into my ears to listen to some mind-moving tunes. See, this usually drifts me one thousand doorways away where my flesh is gone, but I forgot to lock the doorway of my apartment.
A few moments into the drifting, I heard a thump during a song with no percussion. Pulling the headphones out of my ears, I swiveled around to see that a man and woman had entered my apartment. She was wrapped in black cellophane and wore a rainbow baseball cap. He was dressed in a fine silk suit, but it was on backwards. I could tell they were angry with one another, so I hesitated. It's important to be aware of others' feelings.
He switched on the corner lamp by the door and plunged an accusatory finger into her breastbone. "!regoR ni depparw eb ot tiaw ouY !thginot hguone ton si citsalP"
"Oh, that trick is getting old, Bob! The party's over! Stop talking backwards! I want nothing to do with Roger. He thinks he's an amphibian."
I spoke up. "Excuse me, can I he . . ."
The woman glared at me. "Can't you see we're having a discussion!"
Bob's stare returned me to my seat. "How rude!" he said. "Lock the door, Marjory, and come sit down on the couch." Marjory bolted shut my door and followed Bob to my amputated sofa. They squabbled for a bit, and I tried so hard to zone out their conversation, but it was loud and juicy and I caught things like "giraffe", "rubber-band ball", "scientific calculator" and "Peter Travers." Once the squabbling softened into polite discussion, I offered them some Halloween chocolate I never gave away.
"You want some chocolate? I don't like it myself."
Marjory looked at me like I was a BM that she'd forgotten to flush days ago. "Chocolate makes us agreeable. No thanks," she said. "Do you have any wine?"
"Of course! I have a nice Shiraz made in Wisconsin! Do you want glasses with or without stems?"
"With," said Marjory.
"Without," said Bob.
I poured the wine and gave them the bottle, then returned to the Bizarro Factory and pretended to be invisible. Not thirty minutes went by before they were sloshy and all over each other.
"Come on love, let's go to bed," said Marjory. "It's time to make a baby, and there's enough room here for a little one."
Bob sucked in a growl. "!yletulosbA" He rose and picked her up, carrying her backwards into my bedroom. The door slammed shut. There were whispers and low laughter for a few minutes, then the door opened.
"Excuse me," said Marjory. "I think you should go. You've been here long enough as it is."
"But all my clothes are in that room," I said.
She looked me up and down. "What you've got on now looks pretty warm." She shut the door.
Luckily I have another sweater on a chair out here. It is the season of giving, right?
And I really like to walk.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/filamentroad/blog#ixzz0zYcAcWfH
About an hour ago I sat down in front of the Bizarro Factory and plugged my iPod into my ears to listen to some mind-moving tunes. See, this usually drifts me one thousand doorways away where my flesh is gone, but I forgot to lock the doorway of my apartment.
A few moments into the drifting, I heard a thump during a song with no percussion. Pulling the headphones out of my ears, I swiveled around to see that a man and woman had entered my apartment. She was wrapped in black cellophane and wore a rainbow baseball cap. He was dressed in a fine silk suit, but it was on backwards. I could tell they were angry with one another, so I hesitated. It's important to be aware of others' feelings.
He switched on the corner lamp by the door and plunged an accusatory finger into her breastbone. "!regoR ni depparw eb ot tiaw ouY !thginot hguone ton si citsalP"
"Oh, that trick is getting old, Bob! The party's over! Stop talking backwards! I want nothing to do with Roger. He thinks he's an amphibian."
I spoke up. "Excuse me, can I he . . ."
The woman glared at me. "Can't you see we're having a discussion!"
Bob's stare returned me to my seat. "How rude!" he said. "Lock the door, Marjory, and come sit down on the couch." Marjory bolted shut my door and followed Bob to my amputated sofa. They squabbled for a bit, and I tried so hard to zone out their conversation, but it was loud and juicy and I caught things like "giraffe", "rubber-band ball", "scientific calculator" and "Peter Travers." Once the squabbling softened into polite discussion, I offered them some Halloween chocolate I never gave away.
"You want some chocolate? I don't like it myself."
Marjory looked at me like I was a BM that she'd forgotten to flush days ago. "Chocolate makes us agreeable. No thanks," she said. "Do you have any wine?"
"Of course! I have a nice Shiraz made in Wisconsin! Do you want glasses with or without stems?"
"With," said Marjory.
"Without," said Bob.
I poured the wine and gave them the bottle, then returned to the Bizarro Factory and pretended to be invisible. Not thirty minutes went by before they were sloshy and all over each other.
"Come on love, let's go to bed," said Marjory. "It's time to make a baby, and there's enough room here for a little one."
Bob sucked in a growl. "!yletulosbA" He rose and picked her up, carrying her backwards into my bedroom. The door slammed shut. There were whispers and low laughter for a few minutes, then the door opened.
"Excuse me," said Marjory. "I think you should go. You've been here long enough as it is."
"But all my clothes are in that room," I said.
She looked me up and down. "What you've got on now looks pretty warm." She shut the door.
Luckily I have another sweater on a chair out here. It is the season of giving, right?
And I really like to walk.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/filamentroad/blog#ixzz0zYcAcWfH
BIBLIOGRAPHY
TODD AUSTIN HUNT’S BIBLIOGRAPHY
“Something Good to Eat” THE FORTEAN BUREAU 2003
“Thinking of Diane” LULLABY HEARSE 2004
“The Picker’s Harvest” NOCTURNAL OOZE 2005
SHADOWCAST AUDIO 2010
“Dr. Plato’s Surprise” BREATH AND SHADOW 2005
“The House Guest” DARK KRYPT 2005
“Auction” SINISTER TALES 2006
“What the Chickens Play Before Sunday” CHIMAERA SERIALS 2007
“The Old Ladies and their Beloved Children” ALIENSKIN MAGAZINE 2007
“Stuck” NEW GROWTH: RECENT KENTUCKY WRITINGS 2007 (2003 Honorable Mention Ray
Bradbury Writing Contest)
“No Travelcard” BREATH AND SHADOW 2007 (Nominated for Pushcart Prize)
“The Introduction of Phisto Realkind” ALIENSKIN MAGAZINE 2008
“Apparel for Hopelessness” SINISTER TALES 2008
“He Said Something” MORPHEUS TALES 1 2008
“A Confectionary Giant” ALIENSKIN MAGAZINE 2008
“Mural” WORDGATHERING 2008
“The Benefits of Public Transportation” FANTASTICAL VISIONS IV 2009
“I gave her the wrong flowers.” IT ALL CHANGED IN AN INSTANT: MORE SIX-
WORD MEMOIRS BY WRITERS FAMOUS AND OBSCURE 2010
“In a Community of Women” BARDS AND SAGES 2010
“At the Expense of Kings” MISSING PIECES 2010
“The Definition of a Line” SHADOWCAST AUDIO 2010
"Dirge in Alaska with an Organic Violin" BARDS AND SAGES QUARTERLY JULY 2011
"Inside the Actor's Studio" BOSLEY GRAVEL'S CAVALCADE OF TERROR JULY 2011
“The Little Girl Who Cried in the Back Room” SPACE AND TIME MAGAZINE
Forthcoming
“Something Good to Eat” THE FORTEAN BUREAU 2003
“Thinking of Diane” LULLABY HEARSE 2004
“The Picker’s Harvest” NOCTURNAL OOZE 2005
SHADOWCAST AUDIO 2010
“Dr. Plato’s Surprise” BREATH AND SHADOW 2005
“The House Guest” DARK KRYPT 2005
“Auction” SINISTER TALES 2006
“What the Chickens Play Before Sunday” CHIMAERA SERIALS 2007
“The Old Ladies and their Beloved Children” ALIENSKIN MAGAZINE 2007
“Stuck” NEW GROWTH: RECENT KENTUCKY WRITINGS 2007 (2003 Honorable Mention Ray
Bradbury Writing Contest)
“No Travelcard” BREATH AND SHADOW 2007 (Nominated for Pushcart Prize)
“The Introduction of Phisto Realkind” ALIENSKIN MAGAZINE 2008
“Apparel for Hopelessness” SINISTER TALES 2008
“He Said Something” MORPHEUS TALES 1 2008
“A Confectionary Giant” ALIENSKIN MAGAZINE 2008
“Mural” WORDGATHERING 2008
“The Benefits of Public Transportation” FANTASTICAL VISIONS IV 2009
“I gave her the wrong flowers.” IT ALL CHANGED IN AN INSTANT: MORE SIX-
WORD MEMOIRS BY WRITERS FAMOUS AND OBSCURE 2010
“In a Community of Women” BARDS AND SAGES 2010
“At the Expense of Kings” MISSING PIECES 2010
“The Definition of a Line” SHADOWCAST AUDIO 2010
"Dirge in Alaska with an Organic Violin" BARDS AND SAGES QUARTERLY JULY 2011
"Inside the Actor's Studio" BOSLEY GRAVEL'S CAVALCADE OF TERROR JULY 2011
“The Little Girl Who Cried in the Back Room” SPACE AND TIME MAGAZINE
Forthcoming
Publishing News.
For those of you who like my stories, I thought I should create and update a list of upcoming publications which will include my fiction.
NO YOU SHOULDNT YOU NEED TO CRAWL INTO A BADGER SET DRENCHED IN EARTHWORMS ASK THE BUS TO RUN YOU OVER AND DONATE TO FLATTENED LOSER MUSEUM GIVE UP WATER AND VISIT DEATH VALLEY WEARING NOTHING BUT A GALLON OF CORN WHISKEY IN YOUR HAND LEARN TO JUMP AT THE EDGE OF THE COOPER RIVER BRIDGE
Please shut up, Voice Who Hates Me.
Anyway:
August 2010 - at GenCon - "At the Expense of Kings" - DragonRoots Magazine Anthology
2010 - "The Definition of a Line" - Disgustipated Contest Winner - ShadowCastAudio
Late 2010/Early 2011 - "The Little Girl Who Cried in the Back Room" - Space and Time Magazine
IS THAT ALL? LOOKS LIKE YOUR ENGINE'S KAPUT, OR YOU'RE A DEAD TURTLE YOU NEED TO . . .
Again, shut up. Whitney Houston told me I should love myself.
More later, friends and volks.
NO YOU SHOULDNT YOU NEED TO CRAWL INTO A BADGER SET DRENCHED IN EARTHWORMS ASK THE BUS TO RUN YOU OVER AND DONATE TO FLATTENED LOSER MUSEUM GIVE UP WATER AND VISIT DEATH VALLEY WEARING NOTHING BUT A GALLON OF CORN WHISKEY IN YOUR HAND LEARN TO JUMP AT THE EDGE OF THE COOPER RIVER BRIDGE
Please shut up, Voice Who Hates Me.
Anyway:
August 2010 - at GenCon - "At the Expense of Kings" - DragonRoots Magazine Anthology
2010 - "The Definition of a Line" - Disgustipated Contest Winner - ShadowCastAudio
Late 2010/Early 2011 - "The Little Girl Who Cried in the Back Room" - Space and Time Magazine
IS THAT ALL? LOOKS LIKE YOUR ENGINE'S KAPUT, OR YOU'RE A DEAD TURTLE YOU NEED TO . . .
Again, shut up. Whitney Houston told me I should love myself.
More later, friends and volks.
Dream: The Mirror on the Balcony
Dream June 9, 2010
The Mirror on the Balcony
I looked over the railing of the balcony and saw a vast ocean roiling 5280 feet below. The balcony floated, unsupported by any building. Filling up the horizon was a sizzling yellow sun, large and crude, as if drawn by a god with special needs.
I was here for the mirror. The tall mirror adorning the door that wasn’t there. It reflected the sun, multiplying the light and heat. I reached for the mirror, and a little boy stepped through, wearing a tank top and shorts. Instead of a hat, his head was covered by a janitor’s broom brush. He didn’t see me, but rushed past a table over to the railing to gaze at the water.
I saw the LADY on the other side of the mirror, peering at me. She knew what I wanted to do. I realized that the mirror was her favorite physical object in the universe, carried from generation from generation through the dying eyes of the MOTHERS to the DAUGHTERS. But the only reason I was here being to break the mirror. To crack to smash it, the desire like a dehydrated burning thirst for water in my throat.
A brick was in my hand.
The LADY clutched her face in her hands as I struck the looking glass again and again, shattering and pulverizing its surface. When just shards remained, the LADY walked through the door that wasn’t there. She wept, her eyes melting down her cheeks.
“Why have you done this? This was my window to eternity; this was my divine heirloom.”
I had no reason within my head for what I had done, other than I thought it might create something new.
She picked up broken pieces, trying to recreate the mirror on the table. She managed to assemble a crude circle with the slivers, and immediately images were apparent inside.
A huge crush of people moved through and down the alleyways and concourses of what appeared to be an Eastern Bazaar. All the vendors and all the buyers were angry, teeth pushed out of their snarling mouths. All the people were tall and morbidly obese, which meant that nearly all the space between individuals was used up. And while each enormous body appeared to be flesh and blood, heads and necks were composed of cheap fabric, with bulbous eyes of painted burlap. Some of these angriest banged their wrathful, puppet heads together.
One small figure raced through the endangered openings, hurrying for something, someone. She was a little girl, and her regal face resembled the LADY’s.
The LADY was shrieking now, screaming at the little girl within the circle. Distracted, the girl looked, which caused her to bump into two gargantuan women yelling at a cloth vendor. Their burlap eyes found the girl, and they rotated toward her, slinging back pillar-sized arms to slap the girl, but she had already begun to run again.
The women missed the girl and slapped each other. Upon contact, they howled and their swollen eyes turned black and red. Each hunched over and scrabbled for the little girl. The small one tried to flee, but they grasped her tightly and shook her in the air above their horrid faces, holding her around the neck and squeezing, biting at her poor feet. They wrung her neck until her lovely little head popped off. Gouts of red yarn, instead of blood, exploded from her severed neck and head.
The LADY wailed. I turned away from the broken shards and saw that she had a long pole in her hand, at the end of which was a wicked hook. Her face was now dry; her eyes intact. With a quick, brutal motion, she pounded the boy on the head with the hook, piercing the broom-brush hat.
The boy turned away from the ocean, his face broken in surprise and horror. He removed the rectangular broom handle from his head. Trickles of blood came down from his scalp. The LADY tapped his head again. This time, the blood fountained. The boy cried quietly and somersaulted backward off the railing into the water.
I tried to close my eyes, to block away the broken mirror, to conceal from my mind what the LADY was now doing with the hook.
She stabbed the sun. Stabbed it and punctured it and gouged it until its moving insides fell out into the ocean below.
Dream Over
The Mirror on the Balcony
I looked over the railing of the balcony and saw a vast ocean roiling 5280 feet below. The balcony floated, unsupported by any building. Filling up the horizon was a sizzling yellow sun, large and crude, as if drawn by a god with special needs.
I was here for the mirror. The tall mirror adorning the door that wasn’t there. It reflected the sun, multiplying the light and heat. I reached for the mirror, and a little boy stepped through, wearing a tank top and shorts. Instead of a hat, his head was covered by a janitor’s broom brush. He didn’t see me, but rushed past a table over to the railing to gaze at the water.
I saw the LADY on the other side of the mirror, peering at me. She knew what I wanted to do. I realized that the mirror was her favorite physical object in the universe, carried from generation from generation through the dying eyes of the MOTHERS to the DAUGHTERS. But the only reason I was here being to break the mirror. To crack to smash it, the desire like a dehydrated burning thirst for water in my throat.
A brick was in my hand.
The LADY clutched her face in her hands as I struck the looking glass again and again, shattering and pulverizing its surface. When just shards remained, the LADY walked through the door that wasn’t there. She wept, her eyes melting down her cheeks.
“Why have you done this? This was my window to eternity; this was my divine heirloom.”
I had no reason within my head for what I had done, other than I thought it might create something new.
She picked up broken pieces, trying to recreate the mirror on the table. She managed to assemble a crude circle with the slivers, and immediately images were apparent inside.
A huge crush of people moved through and down the alleyways and concourses of what appeared to be an Eastern Bazaar. All the vendors and all the buyers were angry, teeth pushed out of their snarling mouths. All the people were tall and morbidly obese, which meant that nearly all the space between individuals was used up. And while each enormous body appeared to be flesh and blood, heads and necks were composed of cheap fabric, with bulbous eyes of painted burlap. Some of these angriest banged their wrathful, puppet heads together.
One small figure raced through the endangered openings, hurrying for something, someone. She was a little girl, and her regal face resembled the LADY’s.
The LADY was shrieking now, screaming at the little girl within the circle. Distracted, the girl looked, which caused her to bump into two gargantuan women yelling at a cloth vendor. Their burlap eyes found the girl, and they rotated toward her, slinging back pillar-sized arms to slap the girl, but she had already begun to run again.
The women missed the girl and slapped each other. Upon contact, they howled and their swollen eyes turned black and red. Each hunched over and scrabbled for the little girl. The small one tried to flee, but they grasped her tightly and shook her in the air above their horrid faces, holding her around the neck and squeezing, biting at her poor feet. They wrung her neck until her lovely little head popped off. Gouts of red yarn, instead of blood, exploded from her severed neck and head.
The LADY wailed. I turned away from the broken shards and saw that she had a long pole in her hand, at the end of which was a wicked hook. Her face was now dry; her eyes intact. With a quick, brutal motion, she pounded the boy on the head with the hook, piercing the broom-brush hat.
The boy turned away from the ocean, his face broken in surprise and horror. He removed the rectangular broom handle from his head. Trickles of blood came down from his scalp. The LADY tapped his head again. This time, the blood fountained. The boy cried quietly and somersaulted backward off the railing into the water.
I tried to close my eyes, to block away the broken mirror, to conceal from my mind what the LADY was now doing with the hook.
She stabbed the sun. Stabbed it and punctured it and gouged it until its moving insides fell out into the ocean below.
Dream Over
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