Put out the eyes of foresight,
     which underneath taught torrential calm
     despite the thrilling clear acumen.
     Take ease in the transparent
     steady slumber which it allies like
     privileged unmasked liquid,
     binding sanity to impulse,
     a manifold chord.

Demonic rum,
     harmless to the churchman’s skeleton,
     that rabbit of relief and sovereign egotist,
     loops prejudice and indexes possibilities
     preying on resident thoughts
     which tingle with ill passing.
     Enter the transfusion of flashing
     standstills germane to grasping,
     leaving us to stare at appealing refractions.

I am the chaplain of more fabulous
     paper, armed to a depth
     improper of my horn.

Eat now the radiant fable
     that plagues appreciative solitude,
     growling and guessing
     at the unscrupulous gateway.
     Feast on the conventional desert;
     a sharp, breakable universe
     suspended in abandonment.

Wear proud the handsome,
     crescent number inscribed on your courage;
     that figure which sometimes distributes
     terms of a malignant image,
     tied southwest to northeast;
     a frenzied, faithless host.

Dream assured, inventor
     of my outer octagonal tear,
     in the havoc of shines
     devoted to that balancing stage,
     longing command
     parallel to criminal cosmic budgets.

Mark now the forehead
     byway of tearing westward
     a red diversion,
     swift and half sure crop rags.

Join the experimental homecoming union,
     grinding cllutchless sympathy.
     Bleed of the surroundings
     that loop and bind our feet.
     Battle the occasional barbarian
     dream in curious structure.

Critical routes
     pass disgusting guardians
     and common horror lust.
     Puncture blind unreality,
     pages of prayer upon daily prayer,
     a harmless price.

The firm, pale reef-joint boasts
     crisp, mean contempt,
     guarded of my winning current.
     Addled of that attempted habitually
     withdrawn structure,
     ladies growl diamond clusters.

Today darts alert,
     waking the past with vapor
     flash sacrifice cries.
     Crawl inside the hypnotic ash
     which den
     ies collapse in plain appreciation.
     Bone rough and wounded glare
     wilderness cunning.

Temperament counters a
     leaky social class.
     Hearing good never grew
     almighty author of wounds.
     Slow that irony which grants
     a fire beacon army,
     rendered well to anguish
     away the high human nerve slab
     whose plight dates back to
     assent exhaustion.

Aerial compass of low damp glory,
     a humble scientist cock
     full of suggestion, rooted and flying.

Shiver the roar of gray
     floating assemblage glee.
     Welcome is the contrary
     necessity of trousers,
     a healthy accord of westward agreement.
     Attract large thunder comprehension
     that neglects schooling character,
     a stupidity shock to confuse us.

An animal rescue group is clearing out a house where a woman and her elderly mother live in extremely unhealthy conditions, along with about 100 cats. What they find deep beneath the 50 years worth of accumulated junk and mounds of cat excrement is much more than any of them expected.

A helpless yellow disciple of anger,
     precariously fluttering against the concrete earth.

Preachers and brethren,
     hung by the umbilical stalk of faith,
     shake and chortle.

The wavering spine of desire,
     snapped and severed
     by the coarse sparks of flesh.

Red tenderness is found
     by flames of will.

1000 words per day. If you write 1000 words per day, you can crank out a lot of writing. I’ve seen indications around that a writer’s ‘apprenticeship’ should amount to one million written words. If you can do 1000 words a day, then an apprenticeship amounts to about 3 years.

I have no idea if that stuff about an ‘apprenticeship’ is true, if it really takes one million words before a writer achieves that almost mindless level of production to consider themselves a writer. What I do know is that 1000 words a day is a good target for me. It’ll get me cranking out a short story per week.

Every story stems from a crisis. As readers, we are most interested in the struggles of our fellow humans. Our interest is most easily captured by bad news, stress, conflict. Not that the outcomes must be bad – on the contrary, we love stories that depict triumph in the face of adversity. But the thing that most easily grabs us is when tension, crisis, and turmoil erupt into everyday life.

This is my list of ideas. Ideas are a dime a dozen. Am I worried about someone stealing my ideas? No. Ideas are not finished pieces. A hundred people could write starting with the same idea and no two finished products would be alike. Feel free to use an idea from here. If you see an idea you like, run with it. If you get a finished piece from it, let me know. I’d love to read it!

This is the list I had so far prior to setting up this site. Not much, but it’s a start:

  • A boy and his attacker, would be kidnapper, assailant, whatever, are in a severe accident. The soul of the attacker chases the soul of the boy across a hellish landscape, possibly purgator, or some as-yet-undefined version of the afterworld. The attacker has died, but has not realized it. The boy is in having a near-death experience, and must find his way back to his body before being consumed by his pursuer.
  • A man is abducted by a serial killer who is collecting ‘characters’ for his next novel.
  • A man awakens in his small, rural town in southern Ohio only to find everyone in the town has been brutally murdered.
  • A man awakens one morning to find himself in the body of another person - a serial killer.
  • A man is abducted by a secret society consisting of the decedents of aliens abandoned on earth at the dawning of mankind.
  • A woman psychologist is given charge of helping a John Doe recover his memory after a bizarre accident brings him to her hospital naked, alone, and without identification. The only memory he has is that he dreams the same dream every night - a dream of a stone he refers to as the ‘navel of the earth’.
  • A young boy and his parents are trapped in a life of rigorous routine. Each night, they go to sleep to the rythm of war drums, each day they wake, and work their farm, fearful. The father is strict, often referring to the loss of a previous child.