Tuesday, 17 February 2009
David Mackey
David Mackey has new goggles for swimming and has discovered two new things. One: When he keeps his head above the surface, begoggled or not, the light is bent through the water, creating the illusion that the feet of the person ahead of him are further away than they actually are. Two: Jessica Goldstein from across the street wears an ill fitting bathing suit and if he swims behind her when she does the breast stroke he can catch a glorious glimpse of her much desired crack.
David’s mother is telling all her friends how proud she is of her son. He’s lost so much weight since he started the swimming, she says. He’s there every day for hours on end. He’s a born again dolphin.
David Mackey heard that playing with yourself will turn you blind. He knows that’s not true. His vision is getting worse, but it has nothing to do with that. That’s nothing but an old wives tale, told to scare old husbands and old sons. Just in case, though, he doesn’t tell his mom that he can’t see the board at school anymore. He moves to the front of the class, and though his grades don’t improve his teachers praise him for the burgeoning interest in his studies.
This kind of dedication, they tell his mother, might see him getting into somewhere like Berkeley. His mother is over the moon. Did you hear that, she says to David’s father. Berkeley! His father grunts approvingly and scratches himself.
David Mackey buys a dirty magazine from a store in New York on a field trip and the next week he takes it into school and unsticks the pages to show pictures of naked girls to the other boys in his class.
David has so many friends now, says his mother. I know that being popular isn’t the most important thing, but still… They’ve all started swimming too, say the other mothers. He’s such a positive influence.
I fucking hate David Mackey, says Jessica Goldstein. The big jerk off.
now published here... http://www.johnnyamerica.net/
David’s mother is telling all her friends how proud she is of her son. He’s lost so much weight since he started the swimming, she says. He’s there every day for hours on end. He’s a born again dolphin.
David Mackey heard that playing with yourself will turn you blind. He knows that’s not true. His vision is getting worse, but it has nothing to do with that. That’s nothing but an old wives tale, told to scare old husbands and old sons. Just in case, though, he doesn’t tell his mom that he can’t see the board at school anymore. He moves to the front of the class, and though his grades don’t improve his teachers praise him for the burgeoning interest in his studies.
This kind of dedication, they tell his mother, might see him getting into somewhere like Berkeley. His mother is over the moon. Did you hear that, she says to David’s father. Berkeley! His father grunts approvingly and scratches himself.
David Mackey buys a dirty magazine from a store in New York on a field trip and the next week he takes it into school and unsticks the pages to show pictures of naked girls to the other boys in his class.
David has so many friends now, says his mother. I know that being popular isn’t the most important thing, but still… They’ve all started swimming too, say the other mothers. He’s such a positive influence.
I fucking hate David Mackey, says Jessica Goldstein. The big jerk off.
now published here... http://www.johnnyamerica.net/
Monday, 16 February 2009
From Ribs Come Tales
A story begins at the point where two characters meet. If I put Adam in a garden by himself we don’t have a tale. Adam stares into space drumming his fingers. He doesn’t even think about anything because he has nothing interesting to think about. Now if I put Adam into a garden with Eve we have the start of something. Both wish to reach out to the other, and if they do we have a story developing. Sadly they are unused to company and the delicate art of small talk, and no conversation flows, and we have a story collapsing. Adam blames himself for being unable to think of anything worth saying and Eve blames him as well. At some point pride demands they give up trying to think of things to say and independently they both stare into space, drumming their respective fingers, each of them pretending to be on their own. It is not much of a story, yet, but we are getting there.
I put Adam and Eve into a garden filled with flowers. “Look at the flowers,” says Adam, “aren’t they beautiful?” “Yes,” agrees Eve, “they’re very beautiful.” “Yes,” repeats Adam, “they really are.” Adam is pathetic. Eve is becoming bitter. She resents Adam for having nothing more interesting to say. In the back of her mind it occurs to her that she too has nothing to say, and she blames Adam for this as well. Adam wears nothing and Eve wears nothing and their bodies belong together. What’s wrong with him? She glares at him with mean eyes that she hides from him when he turns, and she hates him because he doesn’t beg her gentle touch. She pictures herself tearing up the flowers and throwing the torn petals at Adam like vicious confetti. Still they have nothing to say to each other.
I put Eve and Steve in a garden together. Steve is slime. He slicks his hair back with wet look gel, wears snake skin suits and throws his arm in the air to pull back the sleeve when he wants to check the time on his designer watch. Within half an hour Steve and Eve are screwing on the freshly mown lawn. Eve is wondering what Adam is doing. She closes her eyes tight and bites her lip and makes noises of ecstasy in case Steve cares whether she enjoys herself. He doesn’t. Adam is watching from the other side of the garden, hot tears on his face. He is digging his uncut nails into the fleshy part of his hands and biting his own lip hard enough to draw tiny blood droplets to the skin. He is cursing himself, and Eve, and Steve. Mostly he is cursing himself. He remains silent and listens to Eve’s moans and wonders how she can enjoy herself with that asshole inside of her.
I put Adam in a room by himself and he jerks off violently, thinking of Eve. Now he has plenty to say.
A story begins at the point where two characters part.
From Ribs Come Tales will appear in Issue 20 of Neon On Line Magazine.
I put Adam and Eve into a garden filled with flowers. “Look at the flowers,” says Adam, “aren’t they beautiful?” “Yes,” agrees Eve, “they’re very beautiful.” “Yes,” repeats Adam, “they really are.” Adam is pathetic. Eve is becoming bitter. She resents Adam for having nothing more interesting to say. In the back of her mind it occurs to her that she too has nothing to say, and she blames Adam for this as well. Adam wears nothing and Eve wears nothing and their bodies belong together. What’s wrong with him? She glares at him with mean eyes that she hides from him when he turns, and she hates him because he doesn’t beg her gentle touch. She pictures herself tearing up the flowers and throwing the torn petals at Adam like vicious confetti. Still they have nothing to say to each other.
I put Eve and Steve in a garden together. Steve is slime. He slicks his hair back with wet look gel, wears snake skin suits and throws his arm in the air to pull back the sleeve when he wants to check the time on his designer watch. Within half an hour Steve and Eve are screwing on the freshly mown lawn. Eve is wondering what Adam is doing. She closes her eyes tight and bites her lip and makes noises of ecstasy in case Steve cares whether she enjoys herself. He doesn’t. Adam is watching from the other side of the garden, hot tears on his face. He is digging his uncut nails into the fleshy part of his hands and biting his own lip hard enough to draw tiny blood droplets to the skin. He is cursing himself, and Eve, and Steve. Mostly he is cursing himself. He remains silent and listens to Eve’s moans and wonders how she can enjoy herself with that asshole inside of her.
I put Adam in a room by himself and he jerks off violently, thinking of Eve. Now he has plenty to say.
A story begins at the point where two characters part.
From Ribs Come Tales will appear in Issue 20 of Neon On Line Magazine.
Introduction to a character you're not supposed to like
When I trip and hurt myself and somebody laughs I immediately think of my old, dear friend Marshall.
Marshall tended to dole out conversation to me in nugget sized chunks, regardless of relevance. "Never say sorry," he told me, apropos of nothing. "To say sorry is a sign of weakness. You should always say instead that you apologise. Allow me to explain.
"Sorry is an adjective, a passive word. When you say 'sorry' you are abbreviating the sentence 'I am sorry'. We can loosely translate this as 'I equals sorry'. You appear, ever so slightly, to be describing your entire being, and in an especially negative way. It's abject. You are identifying yourself to your audience as one with sorrow. It's not good. Not good at all.
"'Apologise', on the other hand, is a verb. A strong, active, doing word. 'I apologise.' The emphasis here is on the subject's actions. It comes from a position of strength. Your audience will look up to you. Do you see? How you present yourself is wrapped up in the language you use. When you use strong, active verbs in place of weak, passive adjectives you become stronger and you appear more active. And vice versa.
"Furthermore! Furthermore, to say 'I apologise' does not constitute an actual apology, in much the same way that saying 'I laugh' does not mean you are laughing. Yet your apologisee will every single time accept it as such. They concede their right to insist upon a genuine apology, and you once again are the stronger participant in this exchange."
"Okay," I said.
"Thank you," I said
Long acquainted though I was with the random topic generator that was Marshall's mind I never became wholly used to it.
"I once dated a girl," he began, and I knew this would have little or nothing to do with the implications of word choice in an apologetic situation. "Though we were clearly physically attracted to each other there was also, and above all else, this passionate intellectual eroticism to our relationship. You know I used to paint lipstick on her labia? We would talk of Sartre up to and after and during the moment of coitus. It's so liberating and refreshing to not be bound by sex talk when having sex.
"The first time we slept together as we undressed and caressed we discussed in depth her family history. She made a number of disparaging remarks about her stepfather, and throughout our dialogue her body language was tight and aggressive. She never mentioned his name, although she happily called her mother Elizabeth, and when she talked of him she punctuated her sentences with a stabbing motion using whatever was to hand. This piqued the pervert deep within me and in the moments between her onanising me and me penetrating her Crimson Sunrise vertical smile I said 'You don't much like your stepfather, do you?'
"She said 'No,'" and Marshall paused for dramatic impact, "'but he did teach me everything I ever wanted to know about sex.'"
Marshall stopped to assess the impact of his story on me.
"Shit," I said, and then I said it again. "Shit."
"Precisely," said Marshall, enjoying my disquiet.
"That poor girl."
I considered the scene Marshall had painted. His monologue had come to an end, and it gradually occurred to me that he was expecting rather more of a reaction than my hiding behind four letter words.
"I imagine that must have put a dampener on your night," I said, finally, in an attempt to show off to Marshall how casual I could be about such and such.
"On the contrary. It was some of the most enjoyable sex I have ever had. She fucked me like she was killing me with her cunt. We went together for eleven months and then her stepfather died and we split up."
"Oh God oh God oh God! For fuck's sake, Marshall! I do wish you hadn't told me that."
"Really?" said Marshall, after an age. He grinned widely.
"I apologise."
Marshall tended to dole out conversation to me in nugget sized chunks, regardless of relevance. "Never say sorry," he told me, apropos of nothing. "To say sorry is a sign of weakness. You should always say instead that you apologise. Allow me to explain.
"Sorry is an adjective, a passive word. When you say 'sorry' you are abbreviating the sentence 'I am sorry'. We can loosely translate this as 'I equals sorry'. You appear, ever so slightly, to be describing your entire being, and in an especially negative way. It's abject. You are identifying yourself to your audience as one with sorrow. It's not good. Not good at all.
"'Apologise', on the other hand, is a verb. A strong, active, doing word. 'I apologise.' The emphasis here is on the subject's actions. It comes from a position of strength. Your audience will look up to you. Do you see? How you present yourself is wrapped up in the language you use. When you use strong, active verbs in place of weak, passive adjectives you become stronger and you appear more active. And vice versa.
"Furthermore! Furthermore, to say 'I apologise' does not constitute an actual apology, in much the same way that saying 'I laugh' does not mean you are laughing. Yet your apologisee will every single time accept it as such. They concede their right to insist upon a genuine apology, and you once again are the stronger participant in this exchange."
"Okay," I said.
"Thank you," I said
Long acquainted though I was with the random topic generator that was Marshall's mind I never became wholly used to it.
"I once dated a girl," he began, and I knew this would have little or nothing to do with the implications of word choice in an apologetic situation. "Though we were clearly physically attracted to each other there was also, and above all else, this passionate intellectual eroticism to our relationship. You know I used to paint lipstick on her labia? We would talk of Sartre up to and after and during the moment of coitus. It's so liberating and refreshing to not be bound by sex talk when having sex.
"The first time we slept together as we undressed and caressed we discussed in depth her family history. She made a number of disparaging remarks about her stepfather, and throughout our dialogue her body language was tight and aggressive. She never mentioned his name, although she happily called her mother Elizabeth, and when she talked of him she punctuated her sentences with a stabbing motion using whatever was to hand. This piqued the pervert deep within me and in the moments between her onanising me and me penetrating her Crimson Sunrise vertical smile I said 'You don't much like your stepfather, do you?'
"She said 'No,'" and Marshall paused for dramatic impact, "'but he did teach me everything I ever wanted to know about sex.'"
Marshall stopped to assess the impact of his story on me.
"Shit," I said, and then I said it again. "Shit."
"Precisely," said Marshall, enjoying my disquiet.
"That poor girl."
I considered the scene Marshall had painted. His monologue had come to an end, and it gradually occurred to me that he was expecting rather more of a reaction than my hiding behind four letter words.
"I imagine that must have put a dampener on your night," I said, finally, in an attempt to show off to Marshall how casual I could be about such and such.
"On the contrary. It was some of the most enjoyable sex I have ever had. She fucked me like she was killing me with her cunt. We went together for eleven months and then her stepfather died and we split up."
"Oh God oh God oh God! For fuck's sake, Marshall! I do wish you hadn't told me that."
"Really?" said Marshall, after an age. He grinned widely.
"I apologise."
Valentines in a Trendy London Flat
Mark uncrossed and crossed his legs. He pushed his chest forward and up. One hand was on his knee with his fingers splayed and the palm raised and the other hand played with his hair. "Louise, are you still seeing that child?"
Louise had her legs wide apart and her pelvis thrust towards Mark. Her arms stretched along the top of the comfortable couch so that she appeared to take up the entire three spaces by herself. She half heartedly hid a mocking smile. "He's hardly a child, Mark. He's seventeen. And yes, we are still seeing each other."
Mark tucked his hair behind his ears. The movement of his arms lifted his top several inches and revealed his navel. He caught Louise looking at it and hurriedly pulled his top back down. "Well I think there's something wrong with it, Louise. It makes me very uncomfortable.
Louise scratched her belly slowly and deliberately. She dug a finger into her own navel and poked around in there. "You were the one who wanted an open marriage. You practically begged me for it."
"Well this is hardly what I had in mind, is it?" Mark pointedly shifted on the chair to direct his body away from Louise and pouted.
Louise rolled her eyes and sighed. Mark tried to ignore the all too familiar sound, but his pout slipped. It returned, briefly, but it no longer felt natural. "Mark, what do you want from me? First you want an open marriage, even when I tell you it's only going to cause problems. Now you don't want me to see other people. How am I supposed to keep you happy when you don't even know what you want?"
Mark turned his body back towards Louise and put his hands on his hips. He raised his voice and said "I know what I don't want though."
"Oh yes, you always know that, don't you? Half of London knows what you don't want."
Mark's eyes flashed in the living room light as he opened them wide in surprise and then narrowed them quickly in a controlled display of resentment. He made as if to say something and then markedly stopped and turned his head to the side. He swallowed with force and concentrated hard on not crying.
"Oh god, now you're giving me the silent treatment." Louise sank back into the couch and shook her head slowly. "I don't believe it," she said. After she'd shook her head for long enough and punctuated her disbelief with a few more sighs she slapped a hand hard on to the cushion beside herself. Because the cushion was soft it didn't make much of a sound. Louise stood up, and headed towards the door.
"I have to get out of here," she said. "This is the worst valentines day ever."
When she opened the door Mark clapped enthusiastically. "That was great," he said, a huge grin all over his face. "Now this time I'll be the angry husband and you be the wife."
Louise had her legs wide apart and her pelvis thrust towards Mark. Her arms stretched along the top of the comfortable couch so that she appeared to take up the entire three spaces by herself. She half heartedly hid a mocking smile. "He's hardly a child, Mark. He's seventeen. And yes, we are still seeing each other."
Mark tucked his hair behind his ears. The movement of his arms lifted his top several inches and revealed his navel. He caught Louise looking at it and hurriedly pulled his top back down. "Well I think there's something wrong with it, Louise. It makes me very uncomfortable.
Louise scratched her belly slowly and deliberately. She dug a finger into her own navel and poked around in there. "You were the one who wanted an open marriage. You practically begged me for it."
"Well this is hardly what I had in mind, is it?" Mark pointedly shifted on the chair to direct his body away from Louise and pouted.
Louise rolled her eyes and sighed. Mark tried to ignore the all too familiar sound, but his pout slipped. It returned, briefly, but it no longer felt natural. "Mark, what do you want from me? First you want an open marriage, even when I tell you it's only going to cause problems. Now you don't want me to see other people. How am I supposed to keep you happy when you don't even know what you want?"
Mark turned his body back towards Louise and put his hands on his hips. He raised his voice and said "I know what I don't want though."
"Oh yes, you always know that, don't you? Half of London knows what you don't want."
Mark's eyes flashed in the living room light as he opened them wide in surprise and then narrowed them quickly in a controlled display of resentment. He made as if to say something and then markedly stopped and turned his head to the side. He swallowed with force and concentrated hard on not crying.
"Oh god, now you're giving me the silent treatment." Louise sank back into the couch and shook her head slowly. "I don't believe it," she said. After she'd shook her head for long enough and punctuated her disbelief with a few more sighs she slapped a hand hard on to the cushion beside herself. Because the cushion was soft it didn't make much of a sound. Louise stood up, and headed towards the door.
"I have to get out of here," she said. "This is the worst valentines day ever."
When she opened the door Mark clapped enthusiastically. "That was great," he said, a huge grin all over his face. "Now this time I'll be the angry husband and you be the wife."
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