Merkin
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Posts posted by Merkin
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Whenever I dream of revenge I fear that something like this will trip me up.
Spooked me, Steven.
James
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Thank you all for your encouraging comments. What's their story? Well, I wanted to write about hero worship -- especially when we are young and wouldn't dream of approaching the object of our admiration. It's a form of puppy love, I guess, and I'd guess most of us have experienced a harmless form of it at some point. But imagine what might occur in a worst-case scenario. Swimmer is the result, and I sincerely believe it could happen that way.
James Merkin
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Hallowe'en getting close...
Swimmer
by James Merkin
Troy liked not knowing which way was up, which down, as he swam in the dark. Air and water had no separation in the darkness, except that the air was breathable, the water not. He planned to test that distinction when he was tired enough. It was why he was here tonight.
Ben had followed Troy from the cabin to the pool, puzzled as to why Troy had come out so late with only his swim trunks on. Ben admired Troy, his cabin counselor, and his eyes and thoughts had followed him everywhere since the first day of camp. Unseen in the dark, Ben kept silent and still as he watched. He saw only the occasional flash of an arm, heard only the random splash. But this was enough for him to keep tracking the swimmer as he lapped back and forth, back and forth.
The sounds were irregular, the splashes few. Ben thought Troy must be getting very tired. Soon there was nothing to hear except for the occasional gasp. Then, nothing. Ben waited. After ten minutes there was no water moving, no sound to be heard.
As Ben walked slowly back to the cabin he wondered if he would be able to take that swim himself tomorrow night. He hoped the night would be just as dark. Somehow that would make it easier.
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Bear in mind that each oncoming younger generation always delights in finding and using new words and phrases to set them apart from the older.
James
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Chapter 11 is just amazing. This story never ceases to surprise, and it is filled with twists and turns that are mostly quite unexpected yet in retrospect make sense and nail down the narrative. Chapter 11 is no exception, and I am left in awe of Mr. McCluskey... and of Cole.
James Merkin
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I shall never look at another chicken without wondering if she has been the victim of some rude attempt at miscongenation.
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I'd like to direct your attention to a wonderful, touching, bittersweet short story by Jack Kendle entitled "Mr Pym," just posted over on IOMFATS. This is the story of an aging Englishman who travels to a small seacoast village in Normandy in order to seek the grave of his brother, lost in the war many years before. Within a few days in this pastoral setting Peregrine Pym experiences a life he had not known before, discovers a truth, and is changed forever. It is among the most tender and evocative stories I have read in a long time, and I believe it can offer every reader a new understanding of our human condition. Find it here.
James Merkin
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'Later, as he began to awaken, he became aware that his arms and legs were stretched unnaturally in the direction of the four corners of the bed, and that his ankles and wrists seemed to be bound tightly; in fact, the only appendage free to move about was his member which, alas, appeared to be turgid.'
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Makes no difference, Cole, since the Spanish is definitely a caballero...
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It's always good to keep you up to snuff, Cole:
cig?a?rette also cig?a?ret (sĭg'ə-rět', sĭg'ə-rět')
n.
A small roll of finely cut tobacco for smoking, enclosed in a wrapper of thin paper.
A similar roll of another substance, such as a tobacco substitute or marijuana.
[French, diminutive of cigare, cigar, from Spanish cigarro; see cigar.]
The American Heritage? Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition
Copyright ? 2009 by Houghton Mifflin Company.
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Bruin, it is a stunning story and deserves wide circulation for it tweaks and goads so much of our idealistic confidence in technology's ability to make the world more convenient. I shudder to think of what is actually in store for us, and you have made the nightmare even more real.
James Merkin
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I'd have to disagree also. Like Baby Bear said, for me it's just right. We're left with no doubt of the quality of the relationship and the personalities of the pair. The last line is perfect for the buildup, and too much more would belabor it.
Beyond flash -- its telegraphic.
James Merkin
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Thank you for your lovely responses!
James
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Bruin's latest flash just keeps on generating more.
Marks & Spencer
by James Merkin
I'd flown to London with very little advance notice, and I was in Marks & Spencer trying to remedy my luggage shortfall. Browsing for socks and underwear, I came face-to-face with a beautiful boy, aglow with that freshness of youth sometimes seen in the first full flush of adolescence. He was accompanied by three energetic women in full sail, who were discussing the relative hygienic merits of y-fronts versus boxers. The boy, clearly embarrassed, had just yielded to their forceful argument as they settled on three packets of classic whitey-tighties on his behalf. He looked up as I walked by, and when he saw that I had overheard them he rolled his eyes. I gave him a wink and a little smile, unseen by the minders. He blushed and looked away as they convoyed on. I made my selections and continued browsing, looking next for a belt.
A little later I saw them in the store cafe as they plied him with salmon-cucumber sandwiches while he argued for a sticky-toffee tart. Our eyes met again briefly, and this time he smiled first as I rolled my eyes.
I sat, sipped my tea, and watched them -- three self-sufficient ladies, each quite proper in that unmistakable English manner that combines costume and composure to signal condition and class. One was obviously the boy's mother; one younger, with nearly identical features, was likely an older sister; a third, somewhat elderly, perhaps a maiden aunt. This time I was too far away to hear their conversation but clearly they were intent on sorting the boy, and his shrugs and grimaces were clues to his response. As they were finishing their refreshment the boy rose and headed for the Mens. I gave it a few minutes, then followed him.
He was drying his hands as I entered, and he looked up and recognized me. We were alone in the room. "I just wanted to tell you," I said, "that if you were a few years older and I fifty years younger, I'd ask you out in a heartbeat."
He blushed, looked a little frightened, but then said, "I saw you watching me." His voice was a high clear soprano, and charming.
"Here," I said, "can you stash these somewhere unseen? They're for you." I handed him a small green bag, one of my purchases.
He took the bag and looked inside, at the three-pack of the smallest, brightest bikini briefs I could find. He blushed even more deeply, then gave me a big toothy smile as he pushed them under his jacket. "Thanks," he whispered, and ran from the room. I didn't follow.
My poem does, however, attempt to follow this boy a few years later:
To My Dear Ladies
Dear mother, sister, maiden aunts,
whose Marks & Spencer underpants
define your sense of suitability;
I've grown bolder as I've grown older
and wish to state I'll no longer shoulder
your so persistent management of me.
Please restrain your machination,
I've no desire for procreation --
That's not what I'm intended for;
I've met with grace your candidates
through endless teas and sups and dates,
and find these lovely daughters are a bore.
Don't waste your time by pushing others,
what I long for are their brothers,
and only when I've found Him will I rest.
So please disband your lofty plan,
I'll be bringing home a man,
and what he's in next to his skin won't be my test.
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My view is that 'poetry' and 'prose' are ways of describing locations along the same spectrum. How we perceive the world and how we write about our understanding of it results in locating our work somewhere on that spectrum, and I find for me that is a shifting location depending upon what I am trying to communicate. Like Maddy, I lean toward expressing my perceptions "poetically" and I think that is because the words themselves beguile me into making them dance to act out my message.
James Merkin
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Feel powerful and pissed off.
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Very powerful. A sparse, tightly guarded admission of tense uncertainty, yet every word points unerringly toward the mystery of love, the bewilderment of inexperience, the terror at revealing oneself.
James Merkin
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Oh, Henry!
Brilliant twists.
James
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And mine:
With tears streaming down my cheeks, I stared into the mirror, my normally dancing, sparkling blue eyes dark with pain and sorrow as I examined my lithe, 5' 9" body with its treasure trail leading to my 5" (soft, 6.84" when fully extended) cock as I wondered why, why can't he see that I love him passionately and forever in spite of the fact that we met only yesterday when he passed me in the hall at school and our eyes (mine blue, dancing and sparkling; his brown, bloodshot and shifty) exchanged that momentary glance, all that it took for his to communicate a lifetime of passionate interest in sport, girls, and bullying those smaller and weaker, a point he made clear by slamming his massive body into my slender frame, thus pinning me into my locker, as he spat the word "Fag!" into my desolate yearning face.
James Merkin
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Mirror Image
Who is this stranger in my bathroom mirror?
The ghost of an ancestor? If only he were clearer?
Where are my specs? Damned things are never there,
Wait - they rest above, perched in my hair.
What hair? Don?t mock my shining pate,
Premature loss has always been my fate,
And hair?s not the only thing to disappear:
I haven?t had my manhood up at all this year,
Although I?d never know, below this gut,
When conditions might be ready for a rut.
Thank goodness, I?ve been spared the chance
For medical emergency, should I attempt that dance!
Yet I surely grudge the possibility I'd meet
A cute Responder, who?d sweep me off my feet.
Come to think, I?d no doubt be splayed already:
Even at the best of times I?m none too steady,
And such an opportunity to spread my bony knees
Would be lost, in circumstances sure to seize
This worn heart, which thank goodness still provides
That essential spark, and keeps my hopes alive.
James Merkin
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Brilliantly stated, Ele.
We are all bricks, perhaps yet to discover our potential as brickbats -- or perhaps already used up to build the walls that protect the establishment.
James Merkin
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Enormously moving.
Merkin
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So I think it's fair to say that teachers, regardless of locale and specialty, are subject to the same bell curve distribution that the rest of us fall on somewhere. There are a select few who are outstanding teachers who are capable of truly inspiring their students, a somewhat larger group who are good in some ways, followed by a large group who are merely mediocre at best.
That's pretty damn scary, don't you think? What if it were surgeons? Would we stand for it?
The intake process for wannabe teachers needs a good hard rethink. In fact, in most places there is no intake processing--if you want to be a teacher, all you have to do is sign up for some courses leading to "certification." How bizarre is that? Can anyone identify the quality controls within most certification programs? They are practically nonexistant. We place our kids in the hands of complete unknowns.
James Merkin
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Not biscuits. *shudder*
A lovely tease, Des.
James Merkin
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Shocked
in Poets' Corner
Posted
The interesting aspect of the villanelle form is that it provides support for the kind of thought pattern shown here, where the frustration and sense of rejection/opportunity lost keeps running around and around in the head until it seems you will never be able to move beyond it.
Well done.
James Merkin