It all starts with a good story, who's telling it, how, when and why, then all that's left is what it takes to get it heard. Any way you hear a story, in print, Blender or 65mm, it starts with words. Any writing you keep reading is art.
In Vino Nihil Nisi Veritas
Vino Nihil Nisi Veritas He knew it would only be a short while left in his quarantine cum self-imposed exile on the island. And when the most doleful parts of spring’s rebirth to him had passed it seemed it was already fall. The idea of summer seemed only to have been that. The winter of his discontent, chasing barn owls on the isolated island without her or them, had caught up to him in the form of ennui he’d never before known. He could not complain as the entire world it had been in its own quarantine, felled by pandemic that would at least see him in paradise at the end of the summer and into his first semester as an adjunct. But is there any greater sorrow than to be alone in the garden of Eden in the dog days of summer, with only barn owls and mezcal for company?
Superman's Got Nothing On Him
I’m not supposed to talk about this. Privacy is important to my family. Always has been. But I am certain nobody reads anything anyway and the act of writing is not so heavily scrutinized that anyone would ever stumble over a story of my own personal hero. I am biased and partial. I am family. Though, if my sister reads this, my kinship might be rescinded. This is the story of my baby. Well... my nephew in truth. In life, my hero.
- First Place in Goodbye Donald Challenge
Dear Mr. Trump
Dear Mr. Trump, On this evening, the last of your presidency, I was going to rant, rave and recall everything that has happened under your watch over the last four years. But I shan't do that. You see I write to you exhausted and embarrassed from an apartment in Mexico City. Far from my home town of Los Angeles, I have been able to get some semblance of peace in one of the busiest city in the Americas. The irony doesn't escape me that I came here to get a respite from my own country. You see in the days leading up to the last election I became exhausted. Exhausted is an understatement. The initial depression of your election to the office grew to despair and anger, ennui and contempt. It was a very long four years that I would not wish on another country. So after I was sure that the now President-Elect would be just so, I threw in the towel on the good old US of A, I got a Covid test and boarded the next plane I could find to Mexico City. In your loss of the election, I took some comfort in the fact that the last days of your position were at hand and that every tweet, post or news of your presidency were simply the last vestiges of a crippled water fowl. You would swiftly become irrelevant. Of course now I know I was mistaken. There was no swamp you couldn't foul more as was proven on January 6th and probably until the very moment you leave an office you have stained forever in a country you nearly brought to its knees, you will find a way to sully more, insult to injury, flies to shit. I do have one last question for you Mr. Trump.
We were ill-suited and perhaps this is the reason she was my wife for a very short time. As if it were preordained that we wouldn’t be growing old together. I should have known from the start. She was too lovely and lively to be married to an academic. Now she’s gone.