January 2015

10th Avenue West January 2014

I hate technology. I’ve been thinking about this all month. You just want it to work, right? When you get some irritating message meaning nothing you just want to return to yesterday.  Who’s writing this stuff?  It’s awful.  I love technology.

Right.  What a month it’s been.  Your time machine is working and here you are.  2015.  Strange, incomprehensible year (SIY).  Just like last year.

The taste for acronyms seems to be dying down.  Good thing too.  Extinction’s the inevitable result but other things are always evolving.  It’s common sense.  Let’s get started.

I’m not sure who these people are but I know in a general sense, so that’s positive.  The reading went well, and Phil who in his own mind, I’ve no doubt, even years later, was still scurrying around in his miniscule lodgings in Belfast, has been put to bed.  Yay.  175,000 followers can really pack a room.  Thank you for your business.  The other readers were terrific too.  Sugar Le Fae.  Diane Tucker.  Kevin Spenst.  Daniel Cowper.

Then STJR packed it.  Still think of the man and how, wow, he’s really not around here now.  Really.  A great man and across the great divide, sir, I salute you.  Thank you.  Thank me.  Thank everyone.  We’ll find a better ending for this paragraph later.

That’s right.  For whom the bell tolls.  Had your bell rung.  Five o’clock bells.  Tintinnabulation of the bells.  Bellwether.  Alexander Graham Bell.  Ding dong.

So you’re dead in January and what else is it but the cold, hard rain as described earlier?  Plenty else.  It’s three in the afternoon here on the late-breaking 25th and we’re heading to the beach.

Well trammeled by fine looking, living humans.  I’m thinking this sitting in the car sitting in the parking lot.  Here they are.  Walking the dog.  Jogging.  Slogging.  Partnering.  Friending.  Holding hands.  The sun is even shining.  How dare it?  It’s supposed to be overcast.  It’s pretty disappointing.  No it isn’t.

I enter a short story contest.  Why not?  I can use the $1500 US.  Probably the greatest short story I ever wrote born of honestly acquired pain and suffering and light sprinklings of deep psychic anguish.  Of course it was.  Pain is hilarious if you can get the words in the right order later.

So I’m not sure where this is headed.  February, probably.  It’s time to take stock and maybe make some.  Winter soup for the loved.  The lost don’t get any.  It’s too bad.  Short story update in a couple of months.  If this was Canada it’d be a year.  In terms of writing Canada takes more decades than you’ve got.  Chalk it up to experience and other clichés.  Graffiti the whole thing.





Author: Steven Brown


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