Merkin

This is a very impressive startup for what appears to be an important story. It would not take much editorial guidance to set it right. Your command of English grammar is only slightly flawed and problems with voice and tense are easily remedied. What comes through very strongly for me is your ability to deliver nuance and subtlety. I encourage you to go on and I would certainly look forward to reading the result. Unfortunately I cannot offer to help with editing, but I am sure there is someone here with editorial skills whose imagination will be seized by this undertaking. James Merkin

Thank you all very much. When I first tried to write this it was at least three times longer and had a lot of characters and encounters and backstory. After all, what could be more exciting than being trapped in a pitch-dark mall with hundreds of strangers all out to pick your pocket? Flash fiction is an amazing filter for separating wheat from chaff. I'm very glad there's enough story left to please you. James

Holidays coming, time to hit the malls... Rescue in the Dark by Merkin ?I?ll get us out of this,? Jeremy said. Sam gripped Jeremy?s shoulders tighter. ?Jesus, Jere, it?s pitch dark in here with the power out.? Sam walked into Jeremy?s backside. ?Oof. Sorry.? Sam was close to panic. ?Relax, Sam. You?re safe with me. I know this mall like the back of my hand.? ?I guess you do, don?t you? Where are we now?? ?Just at the escalator.? Slowly they felt their way downward. Suddenly Jeremy stopped. ?Listen!? In the darkness ahead they heard soft sobbing. ?Someone?s lying on the escalator.? said Jeremy. Carefully he worked alongside a small form. ?Can I help? ? A small voice said ?I fell down.? ?Are you hurt?? ?I?m scared. Who are you?? ?I?m Jeremy, and this is Sam.? Jeremy realized this was a young boy. ?Can you get up?? The boy slowly got to his feet. ?I have to find my mom? Where is she?? ?I was meeting her at the food court. Then the lights went out and I fell.? ?What?s your name?? asked Jeremy. ?Arthur.? ?OK, Arthur, you?re safe now with us.? The boy sniffled and grabbed Jeremy?s arm. They made their way onto the main floor of the dark mall, Jeremy guiding as he confidently moved forward. ?There?s mom!? the boy cried, while simultaneously Sam shouted ?The lights are on!? ?Oh, sweetie, I was so worried!? the woman rushed toward them and hugged the boy. ?How did you get back here in the dark?? ?Jeremy did it,? sobbed Arthur. ?He found me, and led the way.? ?Thank you so much!? Arthur?s mother exclaimed, turning to Jeremy and putting out her hand. Puzzled, she saw Jeremy was looking over her shoulder. ?He?s blind, ma?am.? said Sam.

Distorted Perspective is finished, and I have done reading it. My first reaction was to just sit and take it all in. The ending is so... right. What an accomplishment for a writer! Then, thinking about all the principal characters, I realized they had all changed. Each had undergone a transformation before our eyes, and we could now see who they really were as our perspective on each of them shifted. This transformation was never inevitable, and for several of the characters it was highly unlikely. But it was fully possible. Thankfully, those possibilities became actualities, to the benefit of all. As for us, the readers -- we have changed, as well. Our perspective, no longer distorted, can now see what might be accomplished: through understanding, through effort, through love. Absolutely wonderful, Cole. James Merkin

If the order of posting is meant to stand when these are ultimately lashed together by Steven, then what precedes this final glimpse does expand upon the last sentence, and in a way that evokes (for me) both great sadness and a sense of completion. A most compelling series, Steven. James Merkin

A delicious spin, Gee. Reminds all of us to check our blinders. James Merkin

It's youth, Cole. They have a better memory for continuity, especially if there is a long interval between chapters. I'll wait it out too. James

I think you teach as much by example as by discussion. Since you and your wife are actively working at developing a lifestyle that includes accommodation to your orientation and open conversation about your writing, this will, over time, offer your sons ample opportunity to perceive that yours is a solid, established family situation with features of openmindedness and inclusion. That is who their mother and father are, and that is the example they will see for themselves as they mature and become more aware. As they come to you with questions about sexuality, or as you perceive the need to provide them with "the lecture" about sexuality, you will have already provided the groundwork they will need for you to include discussion about the orientations available to men and women, and about how you and their mother have worked it out. James Merkin

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

Whenever I dream of revenge I fear that something like this will trip me up. Spooked me, Steven. James

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

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. ###

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

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

I shall never look at another chicken without wondering if she has been the victim of some rude attempt at miscongenation.

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

'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.'

Makes no difference, Cole, since the Spanish is definitely a caballero...

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.

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

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

I wish all blog entries were this much fun to read. James Merkin

Thank you for your lovely responses! James

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.

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