Solutioned!

I've decided exactly what I'm doing.

This blog will stay as is, i.e. bits of fiction and poetry and generally whatever I bloody well please whenever I bloody wish it (except more often).

The rest will be divided among my beer blog (under construction) and journal blog (under inception).


Cheerio!

Breathe, Damn it!

So it's time to resurrect this guy right here and get into regular postings (again?). I'm going to be altering the format of the blog to include more writing than just the four-sentence flavor stories and random smatterings of whatever I want. The main point is to bring more organization to the blog in the hopes that it can come alive and really represent the writing I do. Anybody who actually checks in on this, feel free to e-mail me or leave a comment with your suggestions of what you might like to see happen here. I'm pretty set on making the end of the week into Flavor Friday and posting my favorite flavor stories I've written that week, but the other days are fluid. Thanks!


Oh, and the flavor series that makes up the most recent (ha) postings will also be concluded before the new schedule/format will be put into effect.




Dig it.

Harlot Iscariot (X.)

She was another of Rhiel's unorthodox staff, or so I assumed because she always answered the door. I would give the special knock, and she would pry open the crooked facade with bracelet-laden spindly arms. Her sunken eyes shone glassy in the dark and the street lamps hit her sallow midriff so that I could see her hipbones jutting out over her studded belt, then she backed into shadow to clear my way, made mouthless by the swallowing obscurity. The night that kid came just before me, I was so stunned because I watched her step out onto the porch towards him, wearing a silver smile, and speak.

The Culture (IX.)

Rhiel's house was always humid with bodies: tattooed and slump-jawed gargoyles sitting sentinel on a bare mattress on the floor, watching with glazed hunger while others sat at the edge of Rhiel's computer desk rolling blunts that they dipped and passed. Their women lay about them in the smoke, hunched over their pregnant bellies and bitching for empty bottles in which to flick tufts of ash. They did not speak but with each other. They had grown there, shadows of the den.

Fly Prometheus (VIII.)

Rook struggled to keep the kid against the wall, taking shots at his ribcage with his free hand and spitting in his face. The oft-silent husband swiveled his head back to the room, "Get in this nigga's pockets!"
The sullen crew leaped from the bed and turned the kid's jeans inside out while he squirmed and gurgled. The Master Bag fell from his fingers, Rook followed it with his eyes, and foolish or desperate the kid took the opportunity.

Rook (VII.)

I don't understand that time I had to wait. Rhiel had gone to re-up, and I wasn't about to leave and come back and cause a bunch of traffic. In the TV room, billows of milky smoke wrapped behind her husband like the back of a wispy, gnarled chair, enfolding his sturdy ebony arms and anointing the heads of his accomplices sitting around him. His ethereal majesty faded into vapor then, lighter than the cash in my pocket.

Lovin' It (VI.)

Roll the bag, tuck it, then fold over. Place in empty prescription bottle and seal. McDonald's sweet tea, extra ice, enough to bury the bottle and keep it from floating to the top, close lid. Let them pull me over and see if I don't just sip this shit.