I’m writing this for the Selected Shorts writing contest. The limit is 750 words, which is much shorter than I thought, but I think I’ve trimmed it down. Any response or criticism is appreciated, but be quick, for the deadline draweth nigh.

Miles lay awake in his dark room, restless and unhappy. The sound of his own breathing sounded alien to him. Light from the parking lot filtered through the blinds on his window, cutting stripes of light into the shadows on the wall. This was normal, but tonight the pattern seemed to carry some cryptic and sinister meaning, like the barcode on a doomsday machine.

He was an orderly person, a man of neatly tied shoelaces and securely locked doors. The small apartment bedroom and the adjoining living spaces were his refuge. Miles had long suspected that apartment buildings were God’s filing cabinets for people, uniform little containers for human lives, stacked on top of each other and numbered for easy reference. An entire individual, with all their neuroses, relationships, aspirations, and transgressions took up a space of roughly 1400 feet. Miles felt safe in his compartment, knowing everyone else was safely separated from him in theirs. Read the rest of this entry »

I read this article, by William Zinsser, from the American Scholar website today about writing (prose) well. It was an orientation speech at Columbia University, given to international students, but don’t let the “English as a second language” aspect of it turn you off. It has great advice for any one who wants to write — even those who have been speaking English since they’ve been speaking.

Here’s the jist of it, and I quote:

“Short is better than long.
Simple is good. (Louder)
Long Latin nouns are the enemy.
Anglo-Saxon active verbs are your best friend.
One thought per sentence.”

I’ve never seen the Columbia so calm.
The surface smooth and placid
reflects the rolling brown hills
as frozen chocolate confections
with icy sugar patches
and a healthy topping of whipped fog.

Hydroelectric dams and buoys
measure and harness the strength
and potential of this long snaking beast.

Great white windmills
stand in militant rows and watch
for the smallest ripple, sea birds landing
in the water devastating the landscape below them.
Barely turning in the almost stagnant, cold desert air.

Don Quixote would be terrified.

A large rottweiler sits at my feet.
Leaning its head against my legs,
the rarely removed harness buried in its fur.
Stitches still peek and peer
From the shaved stump that was once its back leg.

A stump that occasionally begins to shake
as if to scratch an itch.

The dog soon remembers its loss and lays its head
back down on my thigh.

A railroad runs on either side
Of the river and a chain of boxcars
Can be seen on occasion, sweeping
And retracing the scars along the muscular hills.

I reach down to pet the dog.
Its neck and shoulders are tight
And hard and I am reminded of the popular use
For this particular breed
As pictures of something being
Disemboweled flash through my mind.

It licks my hand
And I run my fingers over the harness
Again, just to remind myself.

The Native American reservations
Are out there somewhere.
The original stewards of this great land
Are now subdued with federal aid and addiction,
Softened with the comforts of Western European society.
Free to hold tight to their piece of property
When their forefathers hadn’t a notion of such boundaries.

I am hitching a ride to a city
Where I am to take on the mantle of a state education.
Just enough money in my pocket
And possessions in my suitcase
And federal aid in my favor.

My aunt and uncle listen intently to
Their newest book on tape.
Their two children are busy with their own devices.
The van is warm and comfortable.

And a three-legged rottweiler sighs at my feet.

This morning the air — finally
turned crisp and cold — cuts into my lungs with
each drawn breath and the
whole frozen world seems designed to inflict damage:
The brown-stubbled field
evokes needles and nails
I imagine bloodying my feet as if they were bare;
Sun slices into my vision while
wind whips at my hair and makes my
squinting eyes water;
Bare branches stretch upward as if to bruise
the pale blue sky
where instead it is a flock of rising
birds that pierces
holes with their blackness.

My pyre is a dancefloor
Twist and spin
We fling out our limbs
Happy to animate
our frames and frailties.

A defiant celebration of our end.

To spit in the eyes
Of oblivion
And willingly speed our meeting.

The cement floor runs ragged
Beneath our feet
Whole cities and even empires
Decay and collapse
Still we dance with the same
Savage determination as
Time’s acid corrosion
Wears creases and lines
Beneath our eyes
Just to run down our faces
Until the day
The skin separates
Dividing like tectonic plates
The eyes sink in
So as not to be seen
The teeth become naught
But the spaces between.
Until myself and my mother earth
Are the same again
And our faces crack and dry
And the continents
Beneath the ocean swim.

The flame from my pyre
Will keep me dancing
When I’m dead
The sudden loss of moisture
Pulls the muscles tight as puppetstrings
A shaky and quiet
Reanimation to which we prefer
To bear no relation.
A corpse is an object.
And fit for cremation.

Even down to the oxidized atoms
Of my ashes and dust
I’ll be spinning and twirling.
Throw me away
On the wind and the waves.
Water will carry me
Until the end of days
When our world evaporates
Make no mistake
Make no escape
Just remember to send up a mean step in your wake.