See what you mean and mean what you see right away
usually and almost always I hate short fiction pieces. I love them and then they end and then they make me sick with anxiety what with all the cliff hangers and irresolution.
WHAT THE FUCK cliff hangers dont make a piece good, and why the fuck cant your character just figure something out for real and be satisfied with at least some tiny thing other than
WILL THEY OR WONT THEY
STILL SAD OR PERHAPS HAPPY
ALONE BUT MAYBE WILLING TO OPEN UP
ANXIOUS AND NOTHING CAN HELP
PARANOID AND PERHAPS SCHIZOPHRENIC
HE’S DEAD OR DREAMING
LOVER DIED OR NON EXISTENT
fuck off you fucking bitch. finish your fucking story its not so hard, just do it. or write a fucking novel.
cliff hanger is for soap operas. what you do is GOING NOWHERE. the short story isn’t like a zen buddhist meditation or a haiku. it isn’t some disembodied piece of fuck all.
FUCKING FINISH IT ASS HOLE.
“Maybe you would relax if you took a nice, hot bath,” you say. You flip to a page in Soul Recovery that says The glory is there and when the source is tapped, healing waters spring forth. You have no idea what this means.
The insane woman says, “Im sick of taking baths. Why is everyone I talk to here always telling me to take a fucking bath? Am I that dirty?”
“We’re here to listen,” you tell her. “Thats what we do.” It is odd to be so unaffected by her anger, to resist the impulse to confer lucidity and righteousness upon her simply because she is raging at you. You are learning to love the sweet airless bloat of unconditional dismissal. The safeness of sloganeering. You may have found your major.
Later, the wild-haired young man sidles over to your cubicle and says, “You look no-nonsense today.” You smile up at him. When he swipes at the nape of your neck you are beyond flinching. There is an absence of something, a happy void like the shiny circle of colin’s glasses, and it occurs to you that your soul has not recovered but has instead simply left, and you wish it well.
I have the funniest group of hostel roommates EVER.
one of them is a taiwanese school teacher turned WA farmer visiting a sick friend. She is a wonderful conversationalist. and i mean she does not stop talking/teaching/being hilarious. I found out she is from a famous old money Shanghainese family. One that was evicted from Shanghai and tortured and reduced to rags. riches to ruin cultural revolution story.
she shared mooncakes with me and I learned….(as I should’ve realized before) that the character used to write my name in Chinese is the character for AI (which means love!) the second character is the one used for LI (which means a thousand) so in chinese…
my name translates to 1000 loves. which I love a lot more than LITTLE PRINCE.
the hostel mate in the bunk below me is an anorexic german beauty. 5’11, dark, big eyes, arms you could stick through a gutter grate. for real. i am scared that my nightmares trembling and rioting body will shake the bed so hard she’ll crumble, and I’ll wake up and find a pile of wrecked tissue paper with a pair of eyeballs stuck on top.