James Hart / Fiction

If fiction is dead, reality is not far behind.

James Hart

James Hart
Location
Be Home Soon,
Birthday
December 31
Bio
Hart will have maintained this blog for One-hundred-sixty-nine million, nine-hundred-forty-eight thousand, six-hundred seconds through 31 May 2014. ******************************** ******************************** ******************************* A carpenter's level designs a calm sea. ******************************** ******************************** Violent movies and prime-time TV shows ought to have disclaimers as reality checks during curtain calls. The cast could gather for a bow and civil handshake and or cheek kisses in order to demonstrate (to the least sophisticated among us) to let us know that the aforementioned carnage was make believe. A fiction. An entertainment. Such reality checks (and stage craft tribute) would well serve a fairness to the deranged among us who are prone to confuse the fantasia of entertainment violence as 'acceptable reality behavior'. There are legions of empty vessels awaiting sustenance about 'how' to react. With sure-bet frequency, the ubiquity of guns and conditioned criminal reflex results in aberrant behavior with subsequent ruinous acts of violence. We see it along the road. We read it and see it and hear it in the news. Such a paradigm! Odd that bow and bow and bow and bow are the same word. One for thank you, one for protection (?}, and the other to stay off the icebergs ... and of course there's the shoe tie, and gift wrap and that bloke from Saginaw, reading USA Today on the Greyhound. Here's a limerick from my Average Guy series: Of all emotion, the grin 'n frown, the best among us, stand down. ******************************** Here's a paragraph from my Average Guy: a couple of satiate dinner guests had ensconced themselves on the living room sofa.* * Whoops that was an abandoned paste, thanks, Merriam W. }One Moment{ Like all boys they wanted everything: the wild treetops and Tarzan hollers, then back to the soccer game on Channel 9 with their buttered microwave popcorn and tough-guy toothpicks. The painted fancy news ladies, in high skirts. Slivered clapboard was a place to carve initials. Not far, canaries built their own thatch nest, hunkered and still against the wind from all directions. An onyx black crow its wing tips torn of feather like a shrapnel-wounded plane, stood watching. Until it was yellow and black, a flurry of woven grass and fallen scatter of shadowed ruin. A swooped escape of yellow dots and the black clawing predator of powerful wide wing, its bright beak triumphant to the sunshine, the white fluff chicks burst within merciless gripped coil. A quick flight toward 3 o'clock backward through nascent Linden buds. An automatic trick spiraling, a mystical bullet, the motion at once there and gone to stellar over soul of weathered naked branch. Its prize of canary chicks: a satiation to the endless March blue. ******************************** (more) Average Guy Then the Old Spiced Fuller Brush man shows up blowing Lucky Strike smoke rings, Dinah Shore had her own hour, and ol' Ike poured concrete, coast to coast. Sundays? Victory at Sea, Archbishop Sheen, Groucho Marx, I'm never sure, such awhile back, weren't the Commies about to attack? Then who'd blink first, Nikita or Jack? ******************************** She spoke of life she did. I'd a fascinating 'eye in the sky' riff' invoking the richly named Auden, at midnight: A to F, clamored-clack of generous muse, nearly always helmeted faces appeared, dusty in white powder, an encounter along the parallel hedgerow , of dog-eared tome, her lips an alabaster meow: some kindling, Edward R. Murrow, the who, what, where when and howl Another magnolia time, first daffodils, another year from June, cold-level ferns as white knuckles; O the color of yellow sugared Chuckles. a sow with piglets, upon the soil: where oil prisms the mud, A new day, so near insane, this autumn an abject postpartum; O bacon, o eggs, why did I start'em? Now I have to eat, the ceiling fan, an aeroplane prop, a yolk slurp, one more word, perhaps a fast break, maybe a dark hour, nothing but cake ... a belly ache ... cooler by the lake. &ah:It's a bit early, Oxford level though, as I'm left, in our adage: truth may vary. If only Aynie would have used "Atlas Mugged", as real utopian form. Keep those Dreamliners rollin'! Until greed and fear return to the dictionary, beyond the zone of human nature. Operative words above: OXFORD & ADAGE &/or: PEOPLE WE GOT THE POWER

MY RECENT POSTS

NOVEMBER 28, 2012 12:47PM

Minot [flash fiction]

Rate: 2 Flag

 

 

                                         rain sleet and extreme wind

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He backtracked toward the overpass.  Snow, frozen slush etched his half boots. He blew on cupped hands into an out of his pockets finally leaving his hands slid flat inside his jeans.  Trudging, high-stepping­­­-- trying to see-- his denim jacket and hooded sweatshirt sleet encrusted. He’d stop now and again averting his face toward the darkness as work-a-day headlights approached. The center gully had an ice layer beneath the snow.  He hunched low and folded his arms defensively.  The prairie wind seemed to intensify and he walked sideways away from it.

Beneath the overpass he attempted to stomp his feet on the slanted concrete. He shook ice off. Relieved from much of the wind, he tried to keep warm by working his arms up beneath his jacket and sat down near the top of the overpass.  Drowsily he thought that it was impossible to warm up.  He lay flat on his back with arms folded inside his jacket.  Tucking his legs beneath him he inched as high as he could up the concrete and curled up tightly just beneath the V crevice of the roadway bridge.

 He fought sleep.

Around him the snow squall howled swirling in off the plains.  The daybreak storm had accelerated. Now the horizontal velocity of pelting sleet caught up on and clung and built over everything in its path: the whiteout sticking to the enclave of the expressway bridge, mounding on it, through it, with a relentless heaping—a quickened continuous blue-white wall a foot deep and then higher.

Overhead an orange amber beaconed snowplow ground past.

A huge cascade of snow avalanched off the bridge forming a wall high enough to buffet the wind.  In the day-darkness, his sleeves pulled down over bare hands, he hollowed a concave within the berm.  He rolled his body small, rocking.

It was warm there.

Your tags:

TIP:

Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
Recipient's email address:
Personal message (optional):

Your email address:

Comments

Type your comment below:
I can almost feel the blizzard. Br-r-r.
he's gonna make it.