too intent on personal hygiene he trims his nails one morning before leaving for work. right after his shower cause that’s when the nails are nice and soft and don't hang so easy.
always he cuts things close. nails to the quick. hair to the scalp. razor to wit.
nail clipping possesses a strange sensation of self-mutilation. an odd sort of sharpening the talons that cuts them short. dulls them down. makes them impotent talons.
so he heads to work. ah the subway. he has a paper cost a quarter. wakes you up of a morning like coffee or an apple. sensational headlines, mistakes and lies. he skims politics and pedophiles. wonders where they secret merge. too many colorful adjectives tint the truth a reminiscent yellow.
sports section is benign. funnies are the best part. horoscopes are obsessing. read them all and attain a clear balance of hogwash. the sports section is benign. pseudoheroes compete, prevail. many fail. op/ed is strictly off limits. absolutely infuriating.
door swings open down the end of the car. makes for a more authentic experience. a loud clattering ride. and then he’s almost there and he gets to stop staring at people over the newspaper. not often he’s wholly acknowledged by a stranger past assault or insult. through a throng of goers and up myriad steps out of the deep ground. where all the ground is tunnels hundreds of feet deep. bright sun glints off his reflective sunglasses. shaves his head. works in an office. writes informative pamphlets. occasionally he manages to slip some wit into the driest demonstrational illustration.
he mastered the office machines. no halfass fumble through technology. even master of the obsolete. this all keeps him popular in the office. a man who can handle machines.
-please can you help me tame my machine?
-a chance to do something with my hands
obediently he endeavors make the machines obey. success is common.
he is proud of his mechanical metaphorical mastery. he works hard for the minimal proofs of his expertise. they enjoy his toils. the ladies of the office would take him to bed. they ask him to drinks for his gallant effort. which begins with turning the machine off and turning it back on. the best way to fix most electronic devices when they elect malfunction.
several of the office ladies have taken him to their beds. all on the basis of his rectifying paper jams and rebooting PCs. shutting off a powerstrip and turning it back on. anything to keep from thinking about what his job really is. but truly he has to give the shaved head some credit.
machines mean never to sleep. cuddle up to the hum and glow of such luminaries as toasters and obsolete floppy drives. such heated emissaries of the light of technologies.
-pleased to meet ya. my tummy grumbles. what can your peculiar brand of advancement do for me?
the response might look like: C:\ > with a flashing cursor.
invariably inevitably ostentatiously obstreperously they break down. machines crumble. they are assailed by misfortune, misuse and malfunction.
ah the relief, that, in an office, trouble is mostly operator error. (it was the pilot ran that paper shredder right into the ground. he shoulda wore a parachute.) or some breed of media jam. or something replenishable dissipates to nonexistence.
how much did he fix? how much does he fix? if it cant be fixed there are form and applications to enable replacement. how much does he fix? he keeps a little tool kit in the bottom drawer of his desk. better than carrying them on his person and interrupt the lines of his slacks.
‘power cycle’ is what they technically call it when you turn something off, wait a few seconds and turn it back on. he learned that from the IT guy. a ponytailed middleage smiling man of lebanese extraction with a penchant for complex nomenclature, pot and russian girls. call him joe.
this joe. this IT guy. there’s a fixer.
but our main character, the hero of our tale, nameless here like evryman. lets these ladies take him home when he’s fixed their machines and happy hour lasts 4 or 5.
-shit! who’s gunna drive me home?
-don't you ride the subway to work?
-do you think you could drive?
-where am i going?
he walks from the corner hopping the puddle in the gutter and scans the scant traffic of the avenue. he sees it a couple blocks away. the taxi sees his arm dance through the air slow like a swaying birch tree and charges headlong through two red lights and illegal crosstraffic and pulls up to their corner. he helps the lady past the puddle with mild success and pours her into the cab.
her house, it turns out, is a 30 dollar cab ride with a generous tip. the lady breathes crisp fresh flapping island highway air and regains enough composure
to re-invite him.
-one of the flippers on my pinball machine quit flipping
-i never knew a girl with a pinball machine
-it’s a rita hayworth pinball machine but it’s very frustrating.
-i keep my tools in the desk drawer
-oh that’s too bad. the flipper doesn't work.
up the steps of a brownstone in an area where increasing gentrification erases a rich ghetto history. into the foyer. she throws keys on the table beside the door and exhales.
-heh heh. all mine!
-well. it’s beautiful.
-wait’ll you see the pinball machine
she gives him a walkthrough just like it’s real estate with a venomous distaste for almost every object in the four storey brownstone.
-this is this and that’s that. it’s all just more stuff. oh look over there in the corner isn't that lovely stuff i have displayed for your pleasure? but no no you can’t have any. it’s all mine. come with me there are more interesting things than these.
-things to fix
-these things aren't worth the fixing
higher up they go the more the stairs creak. it’s the first time this lady took him home.
-ta da!
-ta da.
it’s the top floor almost exclusively bedroom. there stands rita hayworth all aglitter with flashing lights and bells. he approaches. takes a quarter from his pocket. into the slot. she lights up. the result is one of the flippers doesn't work. what can be done?
-well, what do you think?
-i didn't bring my tools
-maybe i have some tools
-maybe?
-well you never know. but i’ve never fixed anything.
-then they wouldn't be in this room
-not unless i was fixing rita hayworth
-you said you never fixed anything
-exactly
-maybe in another room or not at all?
-if they’re in another room they’re just stuff.
she seduces him blithely by the glittering light of rita hayworth.
-do you have any red wigs?
-wigs?
-yeah. more than one would be best
she opens a door and disappears. she emerges from the walk-in closet in a ferocious red wig. a second red wig dangles from her tiny mitt. she brandishes it and flings it at his shaved pate.
verily they tear every stitch from their writhing bodies. they leap around the room in an elaborate dance of avoidance punctuated by rendezvous in motion culminating in a song. a duet by the fireplace.
it really gets going when he tosses her on the glimmering glass of the pinball machine. they circulate like monkeys bent on tilt.
it’s the extra flipper. the third flipper that doesn't work. the one high up on the machine used to shoot the moon.
the machine jangles and flashes. they rack up points by punching the buttons on the side of the machine with toes or thumbs or tongues. it is an astounding feat.
the congress disturbs the inner workings of the pinball machine enough to knock the spring or stuck sprocket back into whack and suddenly the third flipper clatters in tandem with the rest and more bells and lights flash.
the lady’s face is mashed against the glass. smeared like a teenager on a plate glass window.
-it works! oh. it works!! shoot the moon. you’ve just got to shoot the moon!
there’s a long ramp at just the right angle from the third flipper that leads up to the boldest and biggest jackpot in pinball mythology. a tintinnabulation of whistles, lights and bells. a fierce cacophony of reward.
oh rita hayworth. gene kelly was always too much better than the rest to really dance with anyone but himself.
oh rita hayworth. how you glitter and shine like the moon.
shoot the moon rita hayworth. travel among the stars.
gigantic nuclear furnaces lighting a lot of nothing in between.
-shoot the moon!
she wails and it is thankful glass does not shatter.
he beats a tattoo with his big toes on the buttons. the flippers batter the streaking ball to tall corners of rita hayworth’s domain. the machinery wings the gleaming bearing screaming back as points ring high.
the first time the third flipper connects it wings the ball off into a shooting gallery of bounces and bumpers. another time the ball makes it half up the ramp, loses gumption and rolls back down.
after a thousand deflections the chance to strike the shining sphere with the third flipper comes again. the ball hits the flipper on the sweet spot. the weight can be felt in the button. even by a big toe. it is such a strong and right-aimed shot it shuttles up the ramp by means of pure speed in the metal, plastic and glass vacuum of the pinball machine free of all tokens of friction. it happens once in the repetitive manner of slow motion sports replays. and the moon is shot.
all manner of bells and confetti and carnival charm are revealed as rita hayworth reaches the apex of pinball delight.
-shoot the moon!
-i did
-shoot the moon!
he sees there’s no point in arguing and keeps the game going on the increasingly slippery pinball machine. he gives it one last all-out effort as bells and bulbs explode in ecstasy and he and she collapse panting like olympians.
slowly they slide off rita hayworth to the soft deep shag carpet.
after a few barrels worth of heavy breathing he aims at speech.
-i fixed it
he hears a rumble and feels a vibration deep in the house even in the plush shag, that he figures is a subway or something smaller and more devious.
yes the sound bears subterranean fruit. the sound is that of a very special door from a tunnel to the basement of the house.
she slaps her flat hand on his ass in surprise.
-oh shit!
-huh?
-my husband
-your husband?
-we’re separated but sometimes he drops by
-from the basement?
-there’s a secret entrance
-umm... cool
-he’s a superhero
-so, i’m in trouble
-yes
she nods gravely. her emotion doesn't make him feel any better.
-wow. i’ll get my pants. i cant stand up to a guy in spandex without pants.
-maybe you should go commando. he doesn't have the guts to fight crime naked
-he’s a superhuman adventurer not a pervert
-how do you know?
-i don't. i’m guessing. but you wont be gasping and clutching something to cover your shameful bosom when he comes in.
-no
-better after the fact than in the act
-it doesn't matter.
-i wish i had some boots
he lights a cigarette and leans against the side of the pinball machine.
-how come he drops by when you’re separated?
-he drinks. sometimes it’s a problem.
he smokes.
-honeeeey? honey. honeeeeeeyyyy? hello? anybody? are you here? am i? is this all really happening?
this message wafts up the stairs as a note to the superhero's forward progress. steps creak. finally a soft knock comes at the door.
he ashes on the shag. she clears her throat.
-go away.
-is there someone else in there?
-of course there is. go away!
the doorknob turns. the superhero is drunk.
-how can you do this to me again?
-you wouldn't know i was doing it if you stayed away.
-who is this guy?
-i fixed rita hayworth.
-wow. how’d you do it? i took my tools when she kicked me out. she never fixes anything.
he points his chin at the lady. not rita.
-call it a knack.
the superhero adjusts his cape. the man leaning against the pinball machine scratches his temple and realizes he’s still wearing the wig.
-excuse the wig. it’s been a busy night.
he takes it off and leaves it in an unceremonious lump atop the pinball machine.
-listen, uh, sorry about all this. at least i knocked.
-here’s my card. that’s my day job but this number is good. call me. i fix things.
-wow. i’m glad you fixed rita. i’m not very good with mechanical things. super strength can be imprecise when you’re nervous about it.
-there’s nothing more satisfying than fixing things.
-very little. i’ll leave you two alone now.
-pleased to be of service to you.
-thank you very much.
-thank you
she throws a red velvet pillow. the gold corner tassels pinwheel and slap the superhero’s face.
-go away!
-goodbye darling.
how adultery fixed rita hayworth
how adultery fixed rita hayworth
godless & songless, western man dances with the stuffed gorilla through all the blind alleys of a dead-end world.
-maxwell bodenheim
-maxwell bodenheim
-
hester_prynne
i thought 'hmm this is too damn long for the internet' but i also have it in my head this is the best short story i've writ.
it seems like the folks i've shown it to are somehow taken in enough to waste the 15 minutes.
so i'm glad you read it even if it's so long.
i have this problem though. this isnt the end of the story. it feels like a serial.
or a comic book. like the hero of this should be allowed to continue. and the superhero... well he'd be an interesting case to explore... and marianne or whatever her name is could shape up to be a helluva villainess.
yum juicy taboo.
thanks.
it seems like the folks i've shown it to are somehow taken in enough to waste the 15 minutes.
so i'm glad you read it even if it's so long.
i have this problem though. this isnt the end of the story. it feels like a serial.
or a comic book. like the hero of this should be allowed to continue. and the superhero... well he'd be an interesting case to explore... and marianne or whatever her name is could shape up to be a helluva villainess.
yum juicy taboo.
thanks.
godless & songless, western man dances with the stuffed gorilla through all the blind alleys of a dead-end world.
-maxwell bodenheim
-maxwell bodenheim
-
Doreen Peri
- Site Admin
- Posts: 14539
- Joined: July 10th, 2004, 3:30 pm
- Location: Virginia
- Contact:
I have to come back and read it when I have more time.
I really wish you used capitalization at the beginning of sentences.
Sometimes using all lower case type is an effective tool for various effects, but in this case, for a story, it makes it more difficult for the eye to read. Especially on the screen.
I have a habit of using all lower case, too, and I'm trying to break it, for this very reason ..... because people have told me that it makes it more difficult to read.
At any rate, I'm usually not one to ask for critique, but I do, sometimes, when someone asks for it. You didn't, so I apologize for offering it if you didn't want it.
Thing is... I really want to read your story. It's just that since it's all in lower case, it will take me longer to read than the time I have at the moment, so I'll have to come back.
There really is something to be said for using standard capitalization in prose, unless there is an effect you're trying to create with the lower case text.
I'll be back.
I really wish you used capitalization at the beginning of sentences.
Sometimes using all lower case type is an effective tool for various effects, but in this case, for a story, it makes it more difficult for the eye to read. Especially on the screen.
I have a habit of using all lower case, too, and I'm trying to break it, for this very reason ..... because people have told me that it makes it more difficult to read.
At any rate, I'm usually not one to ask for critique, but I do, sometimes, when someone asks for it. You didn't, so I apologize for offering it if you didn't want it.
Thing is... I really want to read your story. It's just that since it's all in lower case, it will take me longer to read than the time I have at the moment, so I'll have to come back.
There really is something to be said for using standard capitalization in prose, unless there is an effect you're trying to create with the lower case text.
I'll be back.
-
hester_prynne
Hell, I think the "he" character is the one to keep on writing with.
The superhero, his wife, all too common nowadays. I like the "he", character here, the significant insignificant.
Yeah.
Oh, and about the capitalization, well, it did slow me down too.
But heck, maybe that's good since I move too fast anyway.....
H
The superhero, his wife, all too common nowadays. I like the "he", character here, the significant insignificant.
Yeah.
Oh, and about the capitalization, well, it did slow me down too.
But heck, maybe that's good since I move too fast anyway.....
H
-
Lightning Rod
- Posts: 5211
- Joined: August 15th, 2004, 6:57 pm
- Location: between my ears
- Contact:
I really enjoyed this!
I read the whole thing too, usually when something's this long I give up, not worth the time.
You grabbed, nabbed my interest and I just had to keep reading. I thought this clever and witty, and I could picture the whole ludicrous(in a good way) scene. Good writing, I think.
No complaints and I believe I'll read it a few more times.
Thanks mindbum.
I read the whole thing too, usually when something's this long I give up, not worth the time.
You grabbed, nabbed my interest and I just had to keep reading. I thought this clever and witty, and I could picture the whole ludicrous(in a good way) scene. Good writing, I think.
No complaints and I believe I'll read it a few more times.
Thanks mindbum.
-
stilltrucking
- Posts: 20607
- Joined: October 24th, 2004, 12:29 pm
- Location: Oz or somepLace like Kansas
ten fouri thought 'hmm this is too damn long for the internet' but i also have it in my head this is the best short story i've writ.
at least it is the best one of yours I have read so far.
___________________________________________________
Trakl had too much imagination. For this reason he couldn't stand war, which arises above all from a monstrous lack of imagination. 1 --Franz Kafka
doreen-
one of my greatest bad habits. heretofore furtherly exampled. i could run it through whatchyacallit and fix alla errors. but yes i spose you make a good point about that. it's habit. and i dont notice the lack of caps any more. it's not even a case of 'i hate those dirty capital letters they remind me of authority' ... i usually do capitalize in prose... well, i mean, the western i'm writing has capital letters. it's a better habit than crack.
aaand, feel free to criticize any time. i prefer criticism to praise. so, thank you very much D, i hope you read it.
H- i'm thinking he would be a good character to hang out with superheroes but he's not one himself. but he fixes shit for them... it's gotta be better than that office job. call him the fixer.
LR, ST and mousey-- danke! lessee if i kin write some more...
one of my greatest bad habits. heretofore furtherly exampled. i could run it through whatchyacallit and fix alla errors. but yes i spose you make a good point about that. it's habit. and i dont notice the lack of caps any more. it's not even a case of 'i hate those dirty capital letters they remind me of authority' ... i usually do capitalize in prose... well, i mean, the western i'm writing has capital letters. it's a better habit than crack.
aaand, feel free to criticize any time. i prefer criticism to praise. so, thank you very much D, i hope you read it.
H- i'm thinking he would be a good character to hang out with superheroes but he's not one himself. but he fixes shit for them... it's gotta be better than that office job. call him the fixer.
LR, ST and mousey-- danke! lessee if i kin write some more...
godless & songless, western man dances with the stuffed gorilla through all the blind alleys of a dead-end world.
-maxwell bodenheim
-maxwell bodenheim
-
stilltrucking
- Posts: 20607
- Joined: October 24th, 2004, 12:29 pm
- Location: Oz or somepLace like Kansas
i thought 'hmm this is too damn long for the internet' but i also have it in my head this is the best short story i've writ.
I wish I could have obliged youprefer criticism to praise. so, thank you
"Praise is sweet in any language"
Charlie Chan
I like the feeling of a job well done, I hope one day to feel that way about a story of mine.
this probably don't make no sense because that gorilla keeps steping on my foot
The problem i think with praise is the feeling of gratitude which is vanity, I mean just because I like your stuff don't mean you owe me any gratitude.
frankly, st, i dont owe you shit. (i think i've said that before.)
it's vain to be grateful? i spose it is. and if i was an ingrate? you have not yet praised me highly enufff.
heh.
praise is so sweet a song. also, it is vain the song sounds so sweet.
he who tooteth not his own horn; the same shall not be tooted.
somethin like that.
i am glad when i see you've heard the tooting of my horn.
glad b.c i'm vain. (i'm so glad. so glad so glad so glad.)
glad b.c i'm sure you got a kick outta this toon.
watch out for the gorillas. worse than being poor dancing partners.
they have sharp fangs.
and tempers.
it's vain to be grateful? i spose it is. and if i was an ingrate? you have not yet praised me highly enufff.
heh.
praise is so sweet a song. also, it is vain the song sounds so sweet.
he who tooteth not his own horn; the same shall not be tooted.
somethin like that.
i am glad when i see you've heard the tooting of my horn.
glad b.c i'm vain. (i'm so glad. so glad so glad so glad.)
glad b.c i'm sure you got a kick outta this toon.
watch out for the gorillas. worse than being poor dancing partners.
they have sharp fangs.
and tempers.
godless & songless, western man dances with the stuffed gorilla through all the blind alleys of a dead-end world.
-maxwell bodenheim
-maxwell bodenheim
-
Doreen Peri
- Site Admin
- Posts: 14539
- Joined: July 10th, 2004, 3:30 pm
- Location: Virginia
- Contact:
third of the way through
here's my suggestion for a text edit... tell me to go to hell if you want... take my suggestion or leave them at the dor... no problem..
i see large potential in this narrative... this post reflects my initial work to suggest edits in regards to punctuation and presentation
again... take it or leave it
here's my suggestion for a text edit... tell me to go to hell if you want... take my suggestion or leave them at the dor... no problem..
i see large potential in this narrative... this post reflects my initial work to suggest edits in regards to punctuation and presentation
again... take it or leave it
Too intent on personal hygiene, he trims his nails one morning before leaving for work.
Right after his shower 'cause that’s when the nails are nice and soft and don't hang so easy.
Always he cuts things close. nails to the quick. hair to the scalp. razor to wit.
Nail clipping possesses a strange sensation of self-mutilation. An odd sort of sharpening the talons that cuts them short. Dulls them down. Makes them impotent talons.
So he heads to work. Ah the subway.
He has a paper cost a quarter.
Wakes you up of a morning like coffee or an apple.
Sensational headlines, mistakes and lies.
He skims politics and pedophiles, wonders where they secret merge.
Too many colorful adjectives tint the truth a reminiscent yellow.
Sports section is benign. Funnies are the best part. Horoscopes are obsessing.
Read them all and attain a clear balance of hogwash. The sports section is benign.
Pseudoheroes compete, prevail. Many fail. Op/Ed is strictly off-limits.
Absolutely infuriating.
Door swings open down the end of the car. Makes for a more authentic experience. A loud clattering ride. And then he’s almost there and he gets to stop staring at people over the newspaper.......not often he’s wholly acknowledged by a stranger past assault or insult. Through a throng of goers and up myriad steps out of the deep ground where all the ground is tunnels hundreds of feet deep –
Bright sun glints off his reflective sunglasses. Shaves his head. Works in an office. Writes informative pamphlets. Occasionally he manages to slip some wit into the driest demonstrational illustration.
He has mastered the office machines.
He has mastered the office machines, no halfass fumble through technology. Even master of the obsolete. This keeps him popular in the office – a man who can handle machines.
"Please can you help me tame my machine?
A chance to do something with my hands"
Obediently, he endeavors to make the machines obey.
Success is common.
He is proud of his mechanical metaphorical mastery.
He works hard for the minimal proofs of his expertise.
They enjoy his toils. The ladies of the office would take him to bed.
They ask him to drinks for his gallant efforts which begin with turning the machine off and turning it back on.
Turning the machine off and turning it back on - the best way to fix most electronic devices when they elect malfunction.
Several of the office ladies have taken him to their beds.
All on the basis of his rectifying paper jams and rebooting PCs.
Turning off powerstrips and turning them back on. Anything
to keep from thinking about what his job really is.
But truly he has to give the shaved head some credit.
Machines mean never to sleep ..... cuddle up to the hum and glow of such luminaries as toasters and obsolete floppy drives.
Such heated emissaries of the light of technologies.
-
stilltrucking
- Posts: 20607
- Joined: October 24th, 2004, 12:29 pm
- Location: Oz or somepLace like Kansas
very rough down and dirty spontaneous, I sometimes feel intimadated by the quality of the writing I have seen here and on litkicks. I can think of one person who I thought the cleanest brightest stories, so carefuly edited they shinned right off the page. Then I noticed she stopped using capitols, and I thought my god I have actually driven her insane with my pathetic attempts to howl across forty years.
I supposed one of the best things about a good read for me is how it starts my own story telling juices flowing. I had the same exact thing happen to me after I fixed her machine. Except I found her waiting for me when I got home, I was thinking of a good nights sleep after a long day. There she was sitting on my couch, my couch person let her in. She was sitting there with a big smile on her face and glazed eyes. I shot right out of there and went over to jitterbug's back porch and hid there. Later she got another DUI and was no longer a threat.
yeah gorillas scare me shitless, stronger than bears and smarter.
I supposed one of the best things about a good read for me is how it starts my own story telling juices flowing. I had the same exact thing happen to me after I fixed her machine. Except I found her waiting for me when I got home, I was thinking of a good nights sleep after a long day. There she was sitting on my couch, my couch person let her in. She was sitting there with a big smile on her face and glazed eyes. I shot right out of there and went over to jitterbug's back porch and hid there. Later she got another DUI and was no longer a threat.
yeah gorillas scare me shitless, stronger than bears and smarter.
I did the same thing that Doreen did to yours Mr Mindhummer, during the LitKicks freestyle writing workshops.
Made paragraph breaks, clarity stuff.
Did it with the critiques we did for our groupmates.
Admit the spontaneous creativity aspect don wann stop let'r flowww. But, ahem, we're among friends here.
Take a compliment. Try it .
Mr Stilltrucking\
I love ya man.
Why don't ya fast tomorrow\
an pray for me while am
working and getting it right,
want you to live and realise your worth.
ST show da man how to take a compliment.
You give art to the absurd.
You make the absurd art.
God is laughing
slaughter laughter
\rip it up.
Made paragraph breaks, clarity stuff.
Did it with the critiques we did for our groupmates.
Admit the spontaneous creativity aspect don wann stop let'r flowww. But, ahem, we're among friends here.
Take a compliment. Try it .
Mr Stilltrucking\
I love ya man.
Why don't ya fast tomorrow\
an pray for me while am
working and getting it right,
want you to live and realise your worth.
ST show da man how to take a compliment.
You give art to the absurd.
You make the absurd art.
God is laughing
slaughter laughter
\rip it up.
[color=darkcyan]i'm on a survival mission
yo ho ho an a bottle of rum om[/color]
yo ho ho an a bottle of rum om[/color]
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