My piece "Being a Writer" at Shelf Life Magazine:
http://www.shelflifemagazine.com/Writer.html
or, if you prefer, at the Swedish part of the internet.
Yes, I accidentally got this one placed twice. It may start a chain reaction of doom. But likely not.
http://www.frostwriting.com/issues/article/being-a-writer/
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
Carolers
The wind howled as the rain poured. It was the night before Christmas. Larry and Shelley Frank were eating roast quail and butternut squash soup, accompanied by a glass of Spanish Merlot, when there was a knock at the door. Shelley got up and answered it. “Larry, come here quick,” Shelley said in a tone that indicated, “You better not make me go through this alone,” not “You gotta see this!” Larry threw his napkin down and slid out his chair in the way that conveys “supreme inconvenience.” In their yard were Carolers, “Joy to the World” at their mouths. A young boy, seven, played the recorder while ten adults stood around singing to the sky and waving their arms with mitten-covered hands.
Larry lit a cigarette; Shelley pulled a flask out of her housecoat, finishing it in one slug. The Carolers left, oblivious to anything but themselves. The Franks shut the door and went back inside.
“Well, that’s a good way to ruin a perfectly good Christmas,” said Larry.
“Amen,” said Shelley.
“Can you grab me a beer, Hon?” said Larry.
“Fuck you,” said Shelley, “Get it yourself you miserable Bastard.”
“Stuff it up your cunt you ass-faced Bitch,” said Larry.
The Franks went to sleep leaving all the lights on.
In the morning they fucked but Larry came too early. Shelley said, “Ahh, for Christ’s sake,” and got up, pulling her soiled nightgown down as she wandered off to the toilet. Larry rolled over and lit a cigarette.
Around the tree they opened each others gifts. For Larry, the toque that came with last night’s fifteen pack of Budweiser. Shelley got some of her own perfume and a discount box of tampons Larry bought at the Chinese convenience store while Shelley was in the shower.
The fireplace roared, fueled by a knitted sweater, an Asian fusion cookbook, and several electronic devices.
Shelley threw the wrapping paper in the garbage while Larry took the dog out for a shit on the curb.
They made breakfast. Larry burned the eggs. Shelley burned the toast. The sausages weren’t cooked fully through. Larry absent-mindedly ashed in the orange juice. Shelley pulled the coffee pot out before it was finished brewing and burned her hand.
“The dog’s humping the turkey,” said Larry.
“The cat has worms,” said Shelley.
“Fuck,” they both said.
The dishes were left in the sink, the cat licking up the grease from the pans.
The Frank’s went to their offices cursing one another along the way, “Fuck you” this and “Fuck you” that.
They settled in at their computers and with all the Yuletide clarity one could ever ask for, sent identical emails to their lawyers with the subject heading “I want a divorce.”
Larry lit a cigarette; Shelley pulled a flask out of her housecoat, finishing it in one slug. The Carolers left, oblivious to anything but themselves. The Franks shut the door and went back inside.
“Well, that’s a good way to ruin a perfectly good Christmas,” said Larry.
“Amen,” said Shelley.
“Can you grab me a beer, Hon?” said Larry.
“Fuck you,” said Shelley, “Get it yourself you miserable Bastard.”
“Stuff it up your cunt you ass-faced Bitch,” said Larry.
The Franks went to sleep leaving all the lights on.
In the morning they fucked but Larry came too early. Shelley said, “Ahh, for Christ’s sake,” and got up, pulling her soiled nightgown down as she wandered off to the toilet. Larry rolled over and lit a cigarette.
Around the tree they opened each others gifts. For Larry, the toque that came with last night’s fifteen pack of Budweiser. Shelley got some of her own perfume and a discount box of tampons Larry bought at the Chinese convenience store while Shelley was in the shower.
The fireplace roared, fueled by a knitted sweater, an Asian fusion cookbook, and several electronic devices.
Shelley threw the wrapping paper in the garbage while Larry took the dog out for a shit on the curb.
They made breakfast. Larry burned the eggs. Shelley burned the toast. The sausages weren’t cooked fully through. Larry absent-mindedly ashed in the orange juice. Shelley pulled the coffee pot out before it was finished brewing and burned her hand.
“The dog’s humping the turkey,” said Larry.
“The cat has worms,” said Shelley.
“Fuck,” they both said.
The dishes were left in the sink, the cat licking up the grease from the pans.
The Frank’s went to their offices cursing one another along the way, “Fuck you” this and “Fuck you” that.
They settled in at their computers and with all the Yuletide clarity one could ever ask for, sent identical emails to their lawyers with the subject heading “I want a divorce.”
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