#h#a#s#h#t#a#g#w#r#i#t#e#r#s#

Many of these appeared on Twitter late at night. I like them so I am putting them here, too:

Don Knotts walking down a long, empty hallway, one small tear hanging from his chin. #gustaveflaubert

Three chicken nuggets, on the floor, never ever to be picked up, even to be thrown away. #raymondcarver

You and I are in an Ultimate Frisbee game and there's a caribou running across the field. #tcboyle

The guy keeps digging and digging under his fingernails, and eventually he finds his mother's skin cells. #chuckpalahniuk

Words turned blue in a garment bag. #douglascoupland

"Pop Tart?" "No, I'm good." #flanneryoconnor

A horse backs up when a firecracker goes off and it steps on your toe and it breaks it. #markrichard

Everyone laughs when the ketchup bottle sputters. #davidsedaris

Certain the hitchhiker has a knife. Pick him up & figure if he pulls the knife, you are more than ready to drive into traffic. #barryhannah

Door's open. Walk through. Fall to your death. Turns out you forgot you were on a helicopter. #lydiadavis

Guy at a party talks bonobo sex lives and it's: interesting, boring, annoying, creepy, and then fucking fascinating again! #jonathanfranzen

Carpal tunnel syndrome from spending all summer practice-writing "Have a good summer," for next spring's yearbooks. #samlipsyte

(Fixed a couple of typos.)

***

TMWCB Classic

Pet (July '07)


We bought a dog made out of sand.

I know. Buying a dog made of sand. Bad idea.

We bought the dog made out of sand as a gift for our son.

I know. Having a child. Bad idea.

Our dog made out of sand liked to run in the backyard. And it howled at the squirrels in the trees. And it lounged on the couch next to anyone who lay down there. And it ate the dry kibble we fed it with enormous gusto.

In this way, our dog made out of sand was just like all the other dogs in the world.

We were unable to wash our dog made out of sand because when we did, we lost parts of him.

The first time we tried to wash him, we poured water over his paw and watched a bit of it melt away and spin down the bathtub drain. He walked with a limp until we went out to buy more sand from a hardware store and repaired the wound we had caused with water.

So we knew not to wash him ever again. And we never let him out in the rain.

When the rain came, our dog made out of sand howled at the sliding glass door. He wanted to go out. He wanted to run around in the rain and gallop through the wet grass. He wanted to roll in the puddles.

But we could not let him out. We did not want him to fall apart, piece by piece. We loved and wanted to protect our dog made out of sand.

Often, a story like this will end in a sad way. Often, a person who writes a story like this will decide that in the end, the dog made out of sand would somehow get out of the house in a rainstorm, and melt into the grass. There is a tradition in a story like this of sad endings.

One wonders, then, how I will end it.

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This is my 4th favorite Tumblr.

There will soon maybe be an announcement about that guys Tumblr and something else.

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Made you something

I practically made this for you.

I mean, I practically did. Practically.

I made this part of it first, and when I looked at it, I thought of you.

I thought of you. I did. I swear.

I made this long part next, and while I wasn't really thinking about you while doing it, I was thinking about someone you know. It connects this long part to you in that way.

I made the part with the stuff on it while I was drinking a soda. And you like soda a lot. You always seem to be drinking soda. White sodas. Cola sodas. Root beer sodas. Green lime sodas. You and the sodas. So when I made this part and soda was involved, man that certainly seems to connect it to you.

There was a part here that I ripped off and threw in the garbage. And the thing is, I threw it in your garbage can. Remember that thing in the garbage? The thing you asked about? And I was evasive? Makes sense now, right?

That part there was an accident. Look away from it when you look at this thing. Pretend its not there. That's what I've been doing. Doesn't take long to get used to it. It gets easier.

I was thinking of blogging about the process of making this thing. But. Can't.

***

I like Twitter. I really do.

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I have a new CLVRSKLL column.

updates

Keyhole nominated me for a Pushcart. It's for a story I wrote called "Father" which begins:

We’re “living in sin” in the Keweenaw Peninsula with a big-ass Mastiff we call Father. And this is it, miles from anyone, no one bothers us anymore. Father must weigh upwards of 200 pounds, and has a motley face, with a huge frown and tiny black eyes.

This is what the Keweenaw Peninsula looks like.

***

On Twitter, I've been Speaking Truth to Cereal:

Captain Crunch decimated the native culture on Crunchberry Island.

The links between Cheerios and higher levels of serotonin are tenuous at best.

Frosted Flakes are not fooling anyone with the blond tips. We know they have gone gray.

The Yummy Mummy belongs in Egypt where it was found, not in some museum in some Imperialist country.

Froot Loops proves that the teaching of phonics is responsible for our pathetic standing in the world re: education.

***

A Local weekly newspaper called The Stranger is running a charity auction called Strangercrombie. There is a package called DIY MFA Semester Two, and if you win it you will receive a story consultation from Maria Semple and James Morrow, a graduation dinner with Ryan Boudinot, a custom laptop bag, free coffee once a week for three months from Short Stop Coffee, and also, I'll have a couple of beers with you to discuss writing craft. I think I originally volunteered to discuss white space for an hour with the winner. They have made it a little more open-ended.

Actually, it sort of looks like the winner and I will go out and get drunk together.

Seems like a proper DIY MFA experience to me!

It's for charity, and Ryan Boudinot is great. And James Morrow is great. And Maria Semple is great. You should bid and bid a lot.

***

Best guitar riff ever:

Suitor

(Part one here.)

There were bed-ridden months. The arm, half nude frame; the repairing cells, unable to keep up with the break down, inconsolable.

Months in bed. Curtained, halflight days. Water sucked through a twisted straw. Whole days finger-framed through his one good hand, close concentration on the sheet and blanket and pillowcase weave, off-white thread over and under off white thread. Stained dark sometimes.

And a wriggling. In his leg, a wriggling. Something usually dull. Something sometimes sharp.

Told he was bed bound no longer, he rolled up, and sat seated on the edge of the bed. For a minute full, he moved air in and out. Pushed arms against the mattress. Hopped down. Stepped with the left.

And when he raised the right leg, it came up faster than familiar. The familiar weight of his leg, gone. Something else in its place.

He stepped forward with the right, and came down. And heard a crackle. And felt a splintering. And he buckled. And he fell.

Your bones, a doctor said. A worm is in there eating the bones of your leg. Tunneling through you bones. He made so many in your right leg, it shattered from your weight. Holes and holes and holes. See? Look here at the fragments in the x-ray. Holes everywhere. He's done with the leg and moved on, but damned if I know where. We'll have to make you a new one. Leg. A new leg.

***

Me, Twittering.

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Me, running for breast cancer research.

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In case you missed it, me in love with CAVES.

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You? What about you?

***

Go listen to Yoko Ono.

"Don't worry, Kyoko. Mum's only looking for her hand in the snow."