The homunculi leave us nothing but a drab fixity suspended in the isinglass of a dude named Albert whose variety shop we visit out of habit. Every morning the package of peppermint gum, because we think we know what peppermint is and believe we enjoy its flavor. Every morning the local paper, because we might…
Thoughts: Weariness
At 48, I seem to have reached an age at which the daunting prospect of growing older has given way to the desire to be done with my "career" and back in control of my own life, a life which to this point has been largely a failure. Meanwhile, I have no idea how--emotionally, intellectually,…
Thoughts …
“Look at him swing that freaking arm!” Blessed by the heavens, our town had its own human metronome by whom we set the tempo of our days. Fuzzy and disheveled, The Arm loped along warren and thoroughfare alike, always a clutch of worn paperbacks in left hand as if in counterbalance to the exaggerated arc…
Thoughts…
Lock up the night-soil men who prowl our secret alleys and cart away our ripest fruit. Kleptomaniacs all, they do their dirty work on our dime. They eavesdrop on confidences exchanged with our BFFs. They sell us offal, call it Ovaltine, then assure us it's a small world after all. Bored with larceny, they muster…
Thoughts …
While my stubborn, or stupid, or philatelic nature won't allow me to give up, I am fairly reconciled to the reality that my chosen form of creative expression becomes, year after year, ever more an oddity--like an American cricket team, but with fewer enthusiasts.
Ed Desautels' Maximum Fiction 