1. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist'Keep up, we'll gallop through this introduction, written directly in my true journal, just as I see it open in front of me now.
It's in faded cursive handwriting, in a black leather-bound book.
This is the 'Cast of Characters' who form a commune at Red Rocks Canyon:
Vicki - Peter's sister: A dark-haired, dark-eyed Hungarian beauty, who thinks her hair's too thin (it is, but who cares?). It took her weeks of country living to realize she did not need to wear false eyelashes daily. Funny! Such a gorgeous woman. An artist.
Mary - Initially with Terry: Lots of thick, wavy brown hair (short, unusual for the anyone then) with a smile that's a (de)light, who often thinks about Vicki's appearance and hers as a competition (no way!). A writer and [later] a teacher.
Winnie - Peter's brother: His name is a nickname for "Winston." Like they all were, he's a good-looking man, shorter than the others, with a stiff neck from a bout
2. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist' If you just began reading this, part one tells you who's who.2. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist'3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
I was a very young writer--don't expect good writing, but perhaps interesting storytelling.
John and Mary, me and Larry and Pat went to Libre today to pick up records and a drum. We had a very pleasant time talking to the people there. We were all quite happy, and it could be felt clearly all the way up there, because it seemed the people there saw it well, and showed it back to us through their own pleasure. There was a lot of interest, good will and affection. The visits to their various houses were very comfortable.
We did our thing with our usual style: jokes, spirit, talk, getting mud on their carpets and a car in their mud, and they with their style: talk, jokes, stories and questions about rumoured "orgies" we supposedly had. Mary answered most of those questions. Peter Rabbit asked how the sex was going and if we into Tantra yet, and Mary, laughing, said "Oh no. It's all the regular
Seventeen Ways to Be Unpopularby LJSeventeen Ways to Be Unpopular2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
1) Over-dress every day. You'll perspire and won't care.
2) Don't take a shower for several days in a row. Or don't take one for weeks.
3) Keep your hair oily. Recommended: comb it with olive oil.
4) Talk about death a lot, both generally and specifically, even though you don't know anyone who died.
5) Never tell a joke or laugh at one. No kidding.
6) Wear dirty clothes. Never go near a washing machine.
7) Wear filthy white socks -the kind that get gray- with your plastic sandals in all weather.
8) Keep your clothes monochrome. They'll get that way through constant use.
9) Spit on sidewalks frequently. Don't care if it hits someone's shoes. Spit on them if they protest.
10) Keep your fingernails grimy. Work on a car to get them that way, even if you don't know how.*
*Bonus* The car's owner will be furious.
11) Spray "JLow" perfume over your body odor when you leave your house.
12) Use "Fibreeze" in your house when your mother insists on a visit.
13) Wait! Don't be home whenever a
3. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist' If you're just beginning to read this, please refer to number one to know who's who.3. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist'3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
I was a very young writer, so don't expect good writing--look for some interesting storytelling instead.
Pat is really nice to talk to because she's been very happy and has all sorts of interesting things to say and, more than that, she listens well to what you have to say. I really dig her enthusiasm for music too (it's the sort I like!). I would feel more out of touch with all the old hard-rock concert scenes if she wasn't here to play records and talk all the "latent groupie" rap! The others, especially Terry (and sometimes John) get tired of our record-playing, but it sure helps when you miss that stuff, and we've all gotten into good dancing from them.
Dean came over from Libre and there was a lot of talk about domes, that was fun.
Plans flew for our idea to build a sixty-fo
Caught in Battleby LJCaught in Battle4 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Lately I've been doing a lot of not sleeping at night.
That is to say, I fall asleep fine, but about one in the morning the dreams turn to thoughts and I'm not asleep anymore.
I just lie there, thinking too much to even close my eyes.
My eyes feel bad in the red mornings, so tonight I light the oil lamp and sit up.
I might as well write what was requested by a friend a few days ago, at dinner together.
It doesn't kill dream memories, though.
At that dinner, my friend said, "They're nice stories and nice paintings you do, but they're not you, you know."
I protested. "They certainly are."
But she protested last.
"No, they aren't. They're other people's. You should write or paint yourself, for once."
I made a joke then, and said I'd do a self-portrait of me asleep. I'll write now instead.
The dream tonight was about the time I sketched a picture of him in the hospital. It was the last time I sketched him or was in a hospital wi
A Long End to a Brief Life I didn't know it was illegal to move a person's ashes from the spot you said they'd be (my garage) to multiple others. I put Mom-in-ashes in the trunk of my car because I thought we'd find a place for her soon, but Mom and I went hither and yon while my sister looked for a real "resting place."A Long End to a Brief Life2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I even forgot Mom was there, and we went shopping, to the movies, out to eat. Was it disrespectful? It didn't feel illegal.
When I thought about it, it seemed kind of cozy.
There came the day though, when my sister Jocelyn found a good mausoleum to put Mom at a full stop, the final resting place. I went with Jo, and that's how I found out it was illegal to move Mom beyond the shelf in the garage to the mausoleum -- it was supposed to be a direct line between the two places. Of course I didn't tell the man Mom had been all over town with me.
We had to pick out an urn to put at least part of Mom in (the whole of her was too big,
The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist' - Interlude.................................................................Interlude........................................................................The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist' - Interlude2 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
-- This is a "laundry list" of memories not in the previous journal entries, nor to follow. --
a.) I didn't leave Red Rocks to return to UCLA or Santa Monica or Venice or to go to New Orleans with Gene because I wanted to leave Red Rocks. I was asked to leave when my unhappiness showed like a sagging slip on a woman in a dress. So I missed the greater part of building the sixty-foot dome. But I saw pictures when I returned and they were very entertaining.
a1.) The folks there (and during the time I was first there) loved blowing holes with dynamite, and used it for the many holes needed for the foundation of the big dome, and for huge logs holding up a mezzanine inside it. One hundred holes at least. Dynamite is fun, but you kids, don't use it at home. The only underground-treatment I
11. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist' List and description of main people in Part One. I was young. Please look for storytelling over style.11. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist'3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Footnote -- introduces a new person. An interlude -- not at Red Rocks or that area.
This continues the "interlude" that included a stay at a crashpad in New Orleans. (It begins in Part Nine.)
Early-mid Jan., '71
When Gene and I got home, Steve began talking about making a thousand dollars by selling souvenirs at Mardi Gras -- we talked about it and decided to make candles and sell them on the streets. Gene will put up an investment, and we'll make maybe two thousand candles and have "Mardi Gras New Orleans 1971" written on them with permanent markers. I'm sure selling them on the street then will be a far out trip! I felt better and more involved after that talk.
Well, so late one night I talked to Gene about the trip between him and me -- how I felt annoye
Like Math, but with Less NumbersShe was like a New Yorker cartoon without the class. Dry, unfunny, and useful for impressing people who were easily impressed. We met outside a bar named after an Ivy League at five past two, when no one's in any particular hurry to grab their car before the pay lot closes.Like Math, but with Less Numbers1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
We had a grand total of nothing in common. She wore her hair short and smoked reds, I wore my hair long and smoked Spirits. She read Dostoevsky, I read Kafka. She liked her martinis shaken, I, stirred. She struck a match as I grabbed the lighter from my cigarette case.
"Show was pretty eh tonight, huh?" I said, realizing both of us were waiting on DDs who probably weren't sober enough to find their cars.
"You kidding? I haven't heard anyone butcher a Wren Harper cover that bad since Eli Reed meets Bloodstalker." She exhaled through her nose. "I'd say it was the worst three hours I've ever spent, but competition's real close."
"No way, not even top ten," I said. "You haven't had a bad three hours til - you know Perry
Boy Whose Parents First Wedded The Doubts They KepWhen he comes home he comes in without knocking.Boy Whose Parents First Wedded The Doubts They Kep2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He is a thin wisp slipping into the still cavity of a house, leaving behind a thread woven from misplaced items.
A delicate heat signature.
He is a cat laboriously dusting its hair over furniture, waiting for some suffocated heart to show itself, leap, and sneeze.
One of those NightsThe morning sunOne of those Nights2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
beams through the front windshield
like an intruder:
brash and unwelcome, forcing you to wake.
Whiskey eyed, smelling like an ashtray,
parked at the back end
of some ghetto ass neighborhood
wondering what the hell you did the night before.
It's like trying to remember words
you haven’t written yet.
One thing is for certain:
a little bit of rope goes a long way,
but a lot of rope
will hang you.
InnocenceIt was a time of love, a time of hate, the era of justice and immorality, the season of both insanity and clarity of mind. Sound familiar, don't it? Me wife used to love Dickens. Read him to me all the time, she did. That Jane what's-her-face woman, too: it is a truth universally acknowledged that a criminal who committed a crime is in want of a good hanging. Ring a bell?Innocence3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Yes, I like me literary allusions. I do, you know. Remind me of sweet Elaine. She was a messy death, but worth it. Oh boy, was she worth it. Crying and begging right up to the end. She had it coming to her, bet your arse she did, mate.
Why am I here anyway? I've already confessed. I'm a doomed son of a gun. Don't I get any last whatchamacallits? Can't I have a coldie, before I go up there and have me neck snapped back? Any beer will do I drink 'em all, so long as it's not that light crap.
Answer me, goddammit! What the bloody hell am I doing here? Kill me already. Inject me with the needle or string me up like
A Story About AnnaNever fall in love, lust, or even like with a potentially bipolar boy. That is the only lesson you could possibly learn from this latest relationship snafu.A Story About Anna3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It should not bother you, because you have moved on, found other minds and bodies you'd like to sink your proverbial and literal teeth into, found other mouths that you want to rip screams from and that's fine. But it still does bother you, because she's an entitled bitch, toting around her iPhone in her Fossil wristlet as if she actually had the right to own anything vintage-inspired.
You've been to her house group project, hate them so you've seen it. It's fucking huge, too huge for a family of five. There are wasted rooms all over the place, and it makes you sick. Not as sick as the thought of her with him, though.
It's not like he's special. It's not like he's a genius or a brilliant actor or even foreign he's ordinary and yet not. There is something about that boy that just isn't right, and t
It Was The Burglar's Idea The worst people hired him because he was the best burglar around. No one knew his given name, not even him. As a child, he'd grown and fed himself by stealing what he needed on the streets. He had no name. But since many people called him- "That one!" -the growing and adept burglar decided to call himself "Thone." He knew he needed at least a name, if not food, home, clothes -- and why not some kind of fame and fortune? Yes, he decided, he'd have both infamy and fortune. He was certain he was a clever, quiet, sneaky, and nice young man, fully deserving of both. Soon he had both.It Was The Burglar's Idea4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Late one night, a very rich man hired Thone for a new job and asked him the usual questions. Thone was as silent with the rich as he was with the poor. For that matter, he was more silent with the rich. Thone never explained his work to anyone, and it was always the rich who hired him. Thone was the most expensive burglar ever known to o
8. The True Diary of a Fake 'Communist' Most people have a short bio in Part One. I was a very young writer - please look for an interesting story rather than good writing.8. The True Diary of a Fake 'Communist'3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Indicates footnotes needed to introduce someone. Shows an interlude.
Today we moved up to the land! We all packed things with little organization into the VW vans, the Volvo and pick-up and all went in a little caravan to the land, happy and excited. Soon everyone was together, home in Red Rocks Canyon!
We set up a tent and the vehicles in a kind of circle around a pit for a fireplace. We put food on the shelves of the kitchen shed and Winnie and Terry worked on tapping the water line. That night we sat around the fire, talking and feeling great, then went to bed -- the couples in their respective vans, and John, David and me in the tent.
We all happily worked at various things -- Winnie built an
Out of the Ashes He burned down their house by the road. He built a fire in the middle of the living room floor and sat warming himself 'til he saw the fire was out of control. Then he staggered up and walked the path to his mother's house in the middle of the night.Out of the Ashes7 months ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
He told her, "Our house is on fire."
She didn't believe him because he was drunk and, drunk, he was a constant liar.
"Just go to sleep on that couch and leave your baby and wife alone here," she said. She went back to bed and slept, but also checked on him to be sure his little family wasn't bothered by his drunken lies and abuse. She could control him as his mother.
In the morning dawn, a farmer from down the road a piece knocked on her door.
She hurried to answer. People were still sleeping and the knock sounded urgent.
"Missus, that h
The Drop Slot Mr. Johnson had many cars, but he loved one car in particular.The Drop Slot2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He drove his wonderful, carefully waxed antique Volvo daily, and today was no exception. He loved to drive.
If one were to describe Mr. Johnson, it could take three initials: CEO.
If one were to describe his personality, it could take a story--a short one.
Two letters to mail this morning, Johnson thought. I can do this by myself.
It would take three days for the letters to arrive via the postal system, but they were the type that began: "Dear (Mr./Ms.). I know you've done your best for the company, but I must inform you that your job is no longer feasible...."
In other words, Mr. Johnson was sending letters by post to fire two employees he knew personally.
Both had served him well, but now they'd be replaced by a machine.
Johnson gave his employees notice no matter what. For Ms. Marcia
CrowBarGot hammered.CrowBar2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The Joy of CreationSix word stories?The Joy of Creation3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Four letter words.
Mingling"This is - "Mingling4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
" - my husband."
Drowning in Reversex. I still have your phone.Drowning in Reverse3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
ix. The boardwalk carnival was shut down a few months later, roped off and boarded up like a condemnation of joy. The ferris wheel still rose high above the skyline, towering in silent reminder.
viii. The funeral was on a beautiful, balmy, sunny day and somehow that made it all the worse. The wind would pick up a little and ruffle your goldspun hair and I could hope, just for a moment, that you were still here.
vii. It was a cold, white room. I don't know why hospitals are so cold. Or maybe it was just me - maybe it was just me trying to siphon out all of my warmth and channel it into you.
vi. I didn't see the crowd that gathered on the beach - I barely registered the flash of red and blue lights - I only saw you, skin pale as the stretcher they were loading you on to, blue shirt stained black like a death sigil.
v. Someone was drowning. You cast an arm out pointing - there was someone out there in the dark water drifting further and further from shore.
we walked in windwe walked in wind, free like waves in the grass of the plains as far as we could see.we walked in wind6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
hand in hand, skin to skin, skin to sky, saying no words, and none to say words against us.
two in one soul, one wind, one world.
His Better HalfBride/GroomHis Better Half2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
4. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist' To know who's who, see part one. Please realize the writing was done when I was very young (please?).4. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist'3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
3/4/70 Pat's Birthday
The beautiful thing about this country is the close presence of life and death. Things are so much more obviously young, old, sick or blooming into big life here than in the city. It all has a presence of power in the very air, the power of life and death itself, of energy, and it fills me up.
This isn't the place to be if I should want to keep a young, beautiful body. The country works on the skin, face and eyes, in some ways aging them more quickly than would happen elsewhere, and in other ways leaving smile lines where none might be. This is the place to be to have a strong and beautiful spirit, and that is young life. Young in that it isn't sealed away and caught in a narrow place -- the oldest man here can be full of that spirit and young life.