The Highest Form Of Art (and goodbye to the G-Man)

                       "If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything." - Mark Twain

I recently found an old journal from a creative writing class in college in which I jotted down everything that teacher said. She told us that the highest form of art is literature and all art is about loss. I didn't understand that at the time, but I wrote it down, sitting on the edge of my seat and taking it all in. It seemed deep, like the Albert Camus novel,The Plague, which my sister gave me to read when I was only thirteen. She had high hopes for me, and I knew I was supposed to like it, but I didn't understand it.

When my brother's house burned to the ground, I wrote a poem. When we found out a family member had cancer, I wrote a poem. When my mother broke her leg and my father couldn't get out of his chair, I wrote a poem. Driving home from the hospital and forgetting the order of the Sorrowful Mysteries, I wrote a poem.

I just found out this morning that Galen Hayes, known in the blog world as Mr. Knowitall, the host of the Friday Flash 55 I participated in for several years, has died.  In one of his last posts he wrote, "Thanksgiving is not about Black Friday sales, or kicking off the Christmas shopping frenzy, it's about family, friends, and the joy of living." I did not know Galen personally, yet felt I did. I sat here and cried for this man I never knew but who touched my life and encouraged me to write my best. I would write an eulogy in 55 words but it seems this would cheapen the loss his family must now live with.

I feel guilty, relying upon tragic events for inspiration, taking advantage of misfortune to compose a sonnet, using the pain of others as fodder for my writer's ambition, my selfish dream of one day being remembered.  Must we experience tragedy and hardship to write anything worth writing? Can a youth unbowed by life write anything that will last beyond their years?

And what about memoir? After writing one, will your family still talk to you? Will they smile when they see you, or will a cloud of hostility color your gatherings, making you an outlier at the table? As a writer, if we aren't telling the truth, is there any point in writing at all? In the back of this old bedraggled journal I'd scribbled, "Write the truth as you know it."  With memory such a fickle creature, that leaves a lot of room for interpretation. Then there is also what Emily Dickinson so wisely said, "Tell the truth, but tell it slant."  I like that.  Goodbye Galen.  I will miss you.

The Swan Song for Flash 55

Many a Thursday I stayed up late

to write a story for the man.

He liked beginnings and he liked neat ends,
so I labored long over rhythm and rhyme,

whilst counting my words and staying inbounds.

Other than word count, all he asked we do

was make it fiction, wasn't supposed to be true.

On a cold winter morning a girl was found

frozen to death in the snow

Nobody knows what happened

but speculation abounds.

Did she slip and fall by her own accord?

Too much drink and a lover’s row?

Would it were summer we could sleep it off

and wake in the arms of the morn.

After hosting the Friday fun-fest for 7 years, Galen Hayes aka Mr. Knowitall is passing the reins to someone else. I would encourage you to join the farewell tour.

All good things come to an end.

Galen, you truly are the most gracious of hosts.

I’ll miss writing for you.

Under The Knife (Fri.Flash 55)

Would they have us melt some Tupperware
and spread it on our bread?
One molecule from plastic
should be their claim instead.
Round-up in the waves of grain
they took her breast by knife.
The deer steer clear of GMOs,
amphibians the coast.
Let’s all melt some Tupperware
and spread it on our toast.



If you like butter on your toast, let the G-Man know!

Sorry, G., I’ve veered out of the fictional world this week into reality’s nightmare.With the latest news I got all creepy. The brown food coloring in cola has now been determined to be a carcinogenic. Pepsi rebuked the findings, saying even if true, most of their customers only drink 1/3 of a can a day so amounts should be considered safe. Does anyone know anyone who opens a can of pop and only drinks one third? And why is margarine in the dairy aisle? It isn’t even food. And it certainly isn't yellow. Margarine was “invented” and it is grayish white, the way you’ll find it in Europe (if you find it at all), where they aren’t allowed to dye it.

Boomerang (Friday Flash 55)

Even as a child, she was drawn to the night
when the air was soft and fraught with life.
He, too, a child of twilight—
mysterious boy boomerang in his belt.
Was my father’s, he said,
dog circling, divining the night air.
Fingers entwined, he taught her to throw
so it would always come back.



If it's Friday, or Friday Eve, it's time for Flash, Flash 55.  This weekly event is hosted by the G-Man who loves fiction with a plot and 55 words.

Drinking a Dead Man's Beer (fridayflash55)

   

Someone poured a stein for the deceased
and set it on the mantle.
It had warmed but wasn’t flat.

The sun danced off the lake
which should have been ice-covered
but was as bare as the hands
wrapped in a rosary.

Let them wonder that you walked
amongst their grieving
and finished your final beer unfettered.



If you ever drank a dead man's beer, let the G-Man know. Write a flash piece of fiction in exactly 55 words and let the most gracious host know. Cut it up right. And have a Happy New Year!

The Ghost of Red Rover (Friday Flash 55)

The girl's locked in the outhouse,
a boy climbs a tree.

Hiding in the brambles,
two maybe three.

Merry-go-round twirls,
ribbons in her hair,

teeter-totter trembles
with a weight that isn't there.

A wistful wind whistles
through the lilac hiding place,

telling of those who huddled there
when they were young and scared.



This is a Friday Flash 55 for the G-Man. If you write a flash piece on Friday, let him know. This is written in rememberance of playgrounds with steel slides and wooden teeter-totters. Playgrounds that were a refuge and a curse, playgrounds that instilled bravery when we were young and scared.

Self-Service (Fri. flash 55)

The man's stump
hangs at his side like a tuber.
He pushes his cart
and stands in line.
The stump is hairy, like an old man's ear.
 
I watch my mother
struggle from walker to bed,
the laborious lifting of a leg,
the settling in.
The collective exhale
when she opens her eyes
and smiles.


Written belatedly for the host of Friday Flash 55. Here's to hearth and home and lingering at the table. Have a good weekend.

Death Of A Writer (friday flash 55)

The writer's cabin
built atop a dune
was supposed to inspire
the writer.
Now it is empty of the writer.
Only clutter
that doesn’t belong
to a writer
remains.
The wind reshapes the dune.
The dune grass bows to the wind.
Its roots hold the dune in place
but the writer was not to stay.


If it's Friday, it's Flash 55, (a short in exactly 55 words). If you want to read more, or if you've written one yourself, go here.
Don't worry, be happy. It's Friday.

TGIF

The Scarecrow Has No Face

Three whitetails paw the earth,
ignore scarecrow.
Heads lift to danger, nostrils flare.
Breath plumes in the morning air.
Crow feeds in the middle of the road,
red hawk circles the coop and dives for a kill.
Two whitetails dash over the misty field,
like schooners escaping under full sail.
The scarecrow has no face.


This is a Friday Flash 55, the weekly writing exercise sponsored by the G-Man, aka Mr. Knowitall. If you have a story to tell in 55 words, let the Maestro-of-Flash know.

Happy Halloween

RUBY (Friday Flash 55)

My hair falls out in front of my eyes
but the sun breaks through the frosted glass
of the shower and hot water sluices
off my shoulders and breasts.
I twirl strands into tufts on the tile,
like locks in a baby book.
Baby’s first haircut.
It doesn't even hurt, and I towel myself dry.

 
A Friday Flash 55. Fifty-Five words for the G-Man

TGIF

After The Knifing

he avoided her father.  
But when the wound started to heal,
he knew he’d be left with a scar.
He’d never been cut,
and he wondered why
his uncle, a veteran of undeclared war,
hadn’t warned him about the aftermath of that.
The crushing humiliation of having one’s mortality
laid open for all to see.


It's Friday. It's the mean season (the writing season), and time for a Flash 55. If you have written a short story in a sparse 55 words, post it and let the world know. Or at least let the G-Man know.

Hello fifty-fivers!! TGIF!

After I posted this, I realized I was a day late, lost in time . . . but not a word shy. So, TGIS!

Friday Flash 55 - Faith Or Reason

She saw a falling star and made a wish. But it was probably only a piece of space junk and the wish negated. Tons of junk were in orbit and sometimes stray pieces drifted too close to the boundary between turbulence and calm, falling to Earth if they survived the inferno. All the time falling.



If it's Friday it's time for flash fiction in 55. Visit the G-Man, the maestro of Flash, to read more.

TGIF. May the rains stop and the water recede.

Wage Theft At Sea (a friday flash 55)

Snake climbed the ratline and glassed the ocean. He wouldn't be free until his bond was paid, but asylum in Cuba awaited if he could escape the capitalists and their dangerous shortcuts. He cut the anchor rope and waited. The island’s bluff rose from out of the sea, and he silently slipped into the ocean.


The above flash fiction is 55 words for the G-Man.

TGIF and hello, Havana!

The Rental (Fri.Flash 55 )

They took the house before they saw
the stones hanging from the trees,

the fire pit and the stick formations

and the window that wouldn’t open

and the one that wouldn’t shut

and the frogs that came in

and the path in the woods that led on

and on.

And the woods.

And the woods.

Just a little story for the G-Man. TGIF!

The Owl and the Compass (Flash 55)

With bloodied hands and twilight gathering, he lost himself on a road without name. Gnarled roots of ancient hemlock clogged the ditch like Gretel’s wood, and the dashboard compass spun like a weather vane. A shadow separated itself from the spinning dial and buried itself in his neck.  An owl watched from above and blinked.


The above is flash fiction in fifty-five words for the G-Man. Visit his site for more Flash 55's, and if you write one, let him know.

TGIF and Good Friday to you all.

Happy Easter.

The Campfire People (A Fri. Flash 55)

The buzz of the chainsaw
interrupts her bird watching.
They cut down the woods
so they’d have a meadow.
They build fires at night and
move trees by day,
plopped here and there so prettily.
Buildings she never wanted to see
emerge through the trees.
They invite her to their campfire.
They built a meadow.


The above is 55 words for the G-Man's Friday excercise.  If you write one you should let him know so we can all read it. The sun is shining, the snow is melting off the sunny side of the porch, my basil on the windowsill has germinated, and the puppy is eating my socks and chewing on my electric cords.  Life is full.

TGIF!!

Better Than Jumping Off A Bridge (FF55)

Her albums are arranged
in alphabetical order facing left.
The silver is polished
with serrated edges pointing right.
Bottles in the rack are arranged
with the labels facing up.
Her life is a pattern pinned to the fabric
so as not to waste an inch,
edges cut with a pinking shears
so they won’t unravel.


It's fictional Friday and time to tell a story in 55 words. Check out the G-Man for links to more of the same, or better yet... post one of your own and let Mr. Knowitall alias G-Man know.

TGIF

How To Make Mary Stay

Mary will stay
for days and days

if we pour boiling water
on her head

and strip her naked
like a dead thing with no privacy
in the cemetery of the living.

Mary comes but never stays

breezes in and bakes brie soufflé,
polishes the floor then off she goes

because Mary can never stay.

This is fifty-five words for the G-Man's Friday Flash 55. He prefers it be fiction, but it doesn't have to be, but he will rap your knuckles if you don't have exactly fifty-five. If you have a story you can tell in such a succinct fashion, you'd best let the big guy know. Enter his fold; he won't let you go.

TGIF!!

The Dance (Fri.Flash 55)

Daddy taught me how to dance

how to step and how to follow

how to twirl like a top,

knowing he would find me. 

I collect the scattered coin

from off the floor and search

for the hearing aid remote

that gets lost

like the cane and the thoughts

and the steps for the dance.

 

 

This is 55 words for the G-Man's Friday Flash 55.

 

TGIF and may you always have someone to dance with.

The First Time (Friday Flash 55)

She bent over him, and her breath was warm and sweet as summer. He bit down on the back of his hand to stifle a moan.

It was late when he left. The moon had set and the sky pulsed with stars. The Big Dipper lined the edge of the world and the world was still. 

 

This is 55 words for the G-Man's Friday Flash 55.

Keep warm and TGIF!