Category Archives: Free Writing

Less Than White

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Soft and sweet. A foot the size of my hand making an impression of itself on my lap. A red impression. Smile. A smile upon the child’s face, not that I could tell. Sticky fingers across my eyes, so I shut them and smile back.

Wake up.

‘Wake up.’

‘Yes I know.’ I say.

One room centred towards a balcony. Dry more than clean. The balcony unreachable, for now. The whole room coated in the smell of hot cotton. I look at my hands and they’re fine. Not a sign of chaffing nor a laceration to speak of.

‘Yes, but who are you speaking to?’ I said

‘Me.’ I answered with a smile.

No more smiling. It’s morning.

From the hallway comes the sound of steps. Trembling in apologetically is the outline of the child I’d seen many a time prior. The dark scares it but the sight of my smile encourages it to stand still and place its head into its hands. If I was going to smother it now would be my chance. I reach for my pillow but the child sits on it. Strange.

‘Weren’t you just in front of me?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ replies the child, now gazing in interest to his right side, legs crossed upon the pillow.

‘Well it’s just that, just now, just this instance, you were more like two yards in front of me.’

‘I couldn’t see myself getting smothered.’

‘In fact, child, you wouldn’t have seen it. I suppose I should apologise for my manners though.’

The child lets his head drop to one side and catches it with his hand. Another smile. Not the same I’d been wearing some minutes before. Before I could figure it out the child makes its way to the balcony before pausing against the solitary glass window.

‘Again, I am sorry. I am a Sod in the morning.’ I chuckle.

I assume the child isn’t listening as he stares across the room from the window, almost hiding from something inevitable. However, it replies ‘Oh come now, you’re being silly. One apology is quite enough. Besides, it’s a touch redundant apologising for something you’d do again given the chance. I wouldn’t apologise for something I intend to carry on with. That said, I can’t account for myself regarding what’s been and what is to be. You can weigh your past up against your future and seek a victor. But I’ve found mine both triumphant. I couldn’t honestly tell which I prefer. Hold on.’ The child retires from his gaze and employs a whole new expression. His eyes close gently for the first time since my own met his.

‘I didn’t mean to startle you with my abruptness, but I think I’ve found something.’

‘Don’t be so absurd.’ I start. ‘There’s nothing in here to find.’

‘I’ve found a vibration against this window. Are we moving?’

Annoyed. This child is boring me. Perhaps I should smother it now and be done with it.

‘I said, are we moving?’

‘No! Alright. No. I’ve told you more than a few times now that we’re not moving.’

‘You’re lying on two counts.’

‘Lying?’ I spit.

‘You haven’t mentioned that before and more importantly, we are moving. Shame on you.’

‘Shame on you, more like! Despicable child. I ought to smother you.’

‘You ought not to. It’s not a nice affair that. You’d probably regret it. And when we think about it, in this moving room with evasive balcony, if I were to be smothered I couldn’t tell you what I’ve found.’

‘You’ve already told me.’ I reply victoriously.

‘Ah. But I haven’t told you which vibration I found. Come here.’

I haven’t ever been close to the balcony. It’s so white out there, beyond it. Not to say that it’s not white in the room, but there’s a veneer about it that remains inviting, welcoming. A glance at the balcony is enough to tell me that I must find some excuse. I can’t make it to the balcony, not now, not after all I’ve said. What with this smothering business. Who needs a vibration anyway? After all, it’s morning and the balcony is no place for a half-naked man of my age.

‘I’m sorry, it would be inappropriate to come anywhere near you. You might be a girl. It’s already unreasonable of you to come in here, to a mans bedroom, where he sleeps, when you may well be a girl.’

‘I see your reasoning. But I’m not a girl.’

‘You don’t sound like a boy.’

‘Neither do you.’

‘Because I’m a man.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Oh stop playing games with me. You’ll have me scratching my face off.’

‘Who gives a Fuck?’

Insolent little child. I run over and crash my pillow into its face which doesn’t make a sound in itself, but sends the back of his skull crushing into the window which makes quite the deafening racket. I push the pillow – fists gripped tight – hard and around its little head. The child doesn’t kick at all. I feel the sweat dripping on my head, tickling me, but I smell the child’s pain and think nothing of the discomfort the sweat brings me, even though I long for the dryness my room once brought me. Suddenly a voice from the other side of the pillow.

‘My legs aren’t kicking a bit. I always assumed they’d kick.’

I pull the pillow away in horror. To my delight the child is motionless. Last words. It was a boys voice that time, I’m sure of it. No need to worry about what others may have heard transpire then. I couldn’t do with him next-door and her two-doors-down informing others, my family, my students, that a strange girl was in my room with me.

Of course, the room was moving, but I couldn’t exactly admit that, not then. It was none of the child’s business. What a smart young chap he was though. I pull him onto my lap. I laugh at some of the things he said as I look at the smile upon his face. No time for that now. High time I inspected this ‘vibration’ business.

—

Instantly the left side of my temple tickles. Early this morning the sky was white, though less than white. Now I send my eyes out into the green sky and see what I hadn’t seen through this balcony before. I can’t help but miss the child. Perhaps because he was right. No wonder he felt content and comfortable enough to berate me in my own home. At least he felt as I do now, when he was smothered. Benign, giving and morose all at the same time. I displace my cheek and it slides down the window pane at a rate slow enough not to concern me. Far from it. I go with it. What a journey, I think. Smiles. Forget benign, I’ve misjudged this. That I can see clearly now. It’s euphoria, this window. I can see all that I needed to see and it’s all because of these wonderful vibrations from this moving room.

Why no Harry Potter or Stephanie Meyer?

Free Writing

Dear Readers,

We’ve received countless searches at PublicLiterature.org for current bestselling books. Unfortunately, we can’t place the full text of these books online (that would not only be illegal but immoral). We are trying to contact the author or publishing company for frequently requested books. We would like to post snippets or multiple chapters if possible. Some common searches we’ve received are:

While we have a few participating NY Times Bestsellers, it is very difficult negotiate with publishing houses during the busy launch of a new book. The other interesting trend we notice is searches for books that have not yet made their way to public domain. Some of these examples are below. I would suggest patience…

  • Clockwork Orange
  • Of Mice and Men
  • 1984
  • Lord of the Flies

For further information on copyright laws in the US, see Public Domain by Wikipedia. Sorry, but at the moment we can only offer books in the public domain and works from contributors. We are working with publishing houses to bring more current book samples to our readers (look for an announcement in the next week or so).

Thanks everyone!

Ryan

Warrior Of Light online: The fifth cardinal virtue: Justice

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According to the dictionary: from the Latin justitias: conformity with the law; act of giving to each what belongs to them; equity; group of magistrates and the people who work with them.

According to Jesus Christ: You have heard that they were told, ‘An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I tell you not to resist injury, but if anyone strikes you on your right cheek, turn the other to him too. (Matthew 5: 38-39)

At another moment of the Gospel: And Jesus went into the Temple of God and drove out all who were buying and selling things in it, and he upset the money-changers’ tables and the pigeon-dealers’ seats. (Matthew, 21:12)

According to Bankei: during one of Zen master Bankei’s classes, a pupil was caught stealing. All the disciples demanded he be expelled, but Bankei did nothing. The following week, the pupil stole again. The others, irritated, demanded that the thief be punished.

“How wise you all are,” said Bankei. “You know what is right and wrong, and you can study anywhere you like. But this poor brother — who does not know what is right or wrong — has only me to teach him. And I shall go on doing that.” A flood of tears purified the thief’s face; the desire to steal had disappeared.

Letter from a man condemned to death: Death row is the arena where the politics of Power, Retribution and Violence are applied to a man using concrete and steel. Until this man turns into steel and concrete. And yet, although steel can be hard, it is still capable of being flexible, and although the heart can turn to concrete, it is still capable of beating. (Justin Fuller, executed in Texas on 24/08/2006)

During the Spanish Inquisition: In the 15th century the Inquisitor priests went from town to town gathering the inhabitants together in the main square. After a sermon was preached, they would choose at random six or seven people who were then interrogated about the life of their neighbors; in every case, these people always accused someone, for fear of being considered heretics.

In the application of justice: “Hell is Iraq” (answer given by Saddam Hussein, when one of his executors shouted “Go to hell!” on 29/12/2006).

At the tea ceremony: We see evil in others because we know evil through our own behavior. We never pardon those who wound us because we feel that we would never be pardoned. We tell others the painful truth because we want to hide it from ourselves. We take refuge in pride so that no-one can see how fragile we are. That is why, whenever you are judging your brother, bear in mind that it is you who are on trial. (Okakura Kakuso, The Book of Tea, 1904)

Looking for proof: Despite being inefficient as a means of proof and method of investigation, for centuries torture was the juridical method to discover the truth of facts. (Paulo Sérgio Pinheiro, Professor of Political Science)

According to the tutor of the King of Persia: When he was young, Cosroes (later on Cosroes I) had a master who managed to make him an outstanding student in all the subjects he learned. One afternoon, for no apparent reason, the master punished him very severely.

Years later, Cosroes succeeded to the throne. One of the first measures he took was to send for his childhood master and demand an explanation for the injustice he had committed.

“Why did you punish me without my having deserved it?” he asked.

“When I saw your intelligence, I realized right away that you would inherit your father’s throne,” answered the master. “And so I decided to show you how injustice is capable of marking a man for the rest of his life. I hope that you will never chastise anyone without reason.”

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Scratching Mahogany

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I ran the usual thoughts through my head and hoped that they were from the heart. This time it ended up with me collapsing on my bed and shouting into the sheets, fists gripped tight. Conscious act. Probably.

Just listen to the music. No time. “What?” came the inquisitive. Laced with what I was meant to convey as a quiet yet sincere concern. “Ah.” Thoughts. “I just fucking banged my toe on the bed again.” Chuckling and smiles wide.

“And I’ll stand over your grave ’til I’m sure that you’re dead!”

Harmonica.

“Don’t have no High School Football teams or nothing like that though. No cheerleaders.”

Why’d he say that? Stop talking. Cigarette.

More aware of time and day, I marched and door knocked. My Father answered and in the usual manner, merely left it ajar and made his way for the table in his dining room. He did it so our hello’s would be reserved for when seated. Mahogany with ornaments but mainly magazines placed over scratches and mug stains, not so much as to hide them; he didn’t care who knew they were there. More to suspend our blushing at such hideousness.

“Yeah, I finished last month.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re a qualified teacher though.”

“Well it does.”

He frowned, purposefully dismissive. “Well. When I did it you still had to complete a few years teaching. So right now you’d be just a trainee.”

“Yeah, right now I’m a teacher.”

“Yeah, right now you are.”

Look at the table, move a magazine. Or two. Yeah, I moved two.

Chess again. We play to the invisible crowd. It’s not enough for us both to just play each other. We have to think that someone can see us, or know that we’re playing. Look. His grubby garden fingers patted a dog and lurched toward the board. He always took so much pride in making a sound as he clapped a piece down on the board. The sound growing in intensity as the game went on. Or if a significant move was to be played, he’d look at me first, head still facing the board, and make it, checking to see if I was taking in what he was doing. His physical, to him one-and-the-same with his cerebral. I moved pieces at a greater speed, Queen to H6. I considered the notion that I played chess like I play life. But disregarded the thought almost as quickly as it came about. That way of thinking is something disgusting to me. So is that. Can’t shout into the sheets now. His Rook took my Bishop as if fate was real.

Eyes. Mahogany. Magazines.

I couldn’t sit comfortably on that chair. The chair I always sat on during these Chess sessions. Castle-King-side. I quipped that he purposefully gave me the uncomfortable chair. He laughed with me.

“Yeah but there’s nothing wrong with the chair.”

I withdrew the smile as I muttered “Yeah, I know.”

We talked about books. I hadn’t read any of the stuff he had recently. He hadn’t read any of what I was reading. “It’s funny that our tastes don’t even overlap.” I said. “Well, when you were young, your Mother was very liberal with letting you read what you wanted. Which is fine to a point, but you probably became comfortable within that when you reached puberty.”

“I think it’s got more to do with individual taste. Anything created can only be judged with a reminding prod to yourself that personal taste is a factor.”

“Mmm” he agreed. “I think it’s got more to do with being mollycoddled toward puberty.”

My bishop took his. He wasn’t concentrating.

“Still, you’ve always had good taste in popular music. What was that band you had me play?”

“Joy Division.”

“Yes, very dark. Very menacing.”

Nothing he ever said annoyed me. I didn’t care. When did he stop having anything over me? These thoughts were clear, no confusion. He looked at the board for the longest of times. I looked at him every now and again, hoping he’d show me what he was cooking up. He placed his Queen behind his King. No loud clapping. The game had reached one half of an hour. I couldn’t tell you what moves preceded the one he made in which I could barely hear the wood meet glass. It took me less than a thought to realise why. I moved my Bishop wider than the imminent smile and said “Check mate, right?”

We both looked at the board. My Dad moved the magazines. I ran my nails into the mahogany. No more eyes.

The afternoon went on as per our usual. I got the feeling that my Father was searching for conversation to negate the Chess game which incidentally, was the first time I’d beaten him apparently. We concluded that I’d rode my luck well.

—

Years later I found his stupid poetry book. I read all about that day again. I read about how I had surpassed him and how he could never put into words what he had felt. I got the feeling it wasn’t pride, or that it had much to do with me at all. Why does everyone reach for the pen if words fail them? I suppose that’s what he refused to do at the time. I read, not even taking in a rhyme, something about life. But he’d lost his point as the emotion drained from his blood in the first few lines. I thought about articulating this critique when I saw him and laughed at that thought itself. Remember. I sat at the mahogany table. Sickness had changed my Father, it took the closeness to death for him to realise that no one cared about scratches and mug stains, and if they did “they could go fuck themselves.” Now his favourite finisher to any statement regarding people.

I opened his door “Happy Birthday” I gestured. He said they’d all been happy birthdays. “If you ask them.”

“Hey, wanna play Chess?”

I couldn’t help myself. He didn’t answer.

He asked if my sister was coming. I reminded him that she hated him. “Well that’s no reason not to come and wish me a happy birthday”. He sighed “It’s not like I’ll have many left, if any at all. Life is not an inexhaustible well

Leopard Print Dress

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The dress fit Julie like a tattoo.

She sat at the edge of the sofa. Gary’s sofa. Gary’s living room.

Gary.

The only light filtered through the curtains from a streetlight half-a-block away.

She smoothed the front of her dress. She tugged a little at the hem and it rode a bit higher on her leg, almost defying decency.

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” Gary said. “It’s never meant anything at all. I was hurting, am hurting, I needed reassurance that she’d, you’d, someone would be there for me.”

Julie was not moved, not moving. She was immovable. This time, she thought, like all the other times, if I give him an inch, he’ll forget to wake up and smell the coffee.

Except this time maybe he’ll not be waking up.

She reached into her purse, for the pistol. It was so real that she could feel its color in her hand.

It had a whaddya-call-it? A pulse.

What was she worried about?

Nothing.

Except a ricochet. As if that were likely with all the target practice she’d been taking.

Wait.

That wasn’t it. Not target practice. Anger management. That was what she was taking.

“I was sitting here all night Gary. I have a key. I know you and Lisa. . . ”

“Lori. . . ”

Hearing the name, the names, made Julie queasy.

A minute passed like a mirage.

Gary’s eyes got used to the dark. He saw the gun, a .22. He’d seen it before. He saw the dress.

That was new. Very new. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dress.

“The bullets are getting restless,” Julie said. Her voice was numb.

Gary looked as if he were pretending to be absentminded.

“It’s not loaded Julie. You don’t know how to load a dress.”

“A gun.”

Warrior Of Light – The fourth cardinal virtue: Wisdom

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According to the dictionary: deep knowledge of things, natural or acquired; erudition; rectitude.

According to the New Testament: For God’s folly is beyond the wisdom of men, and God’s weakness is beyond their strength. For consider, brothers, what happened when God called you. Not many of you were what men call wise, not many of you were influential, not many were of high birth. But it was what the world calls foolish that God chose to put the wise to shame with, and it was what the world calls weak that God chose to shame its strength with (Corinthians 1: 25-27).

According to Islam: A wise man arrived at the village of Akbar and the people lent no importance to him. Except for a small group of young people, the wise man was of no interest to anyone; on the contrary, he became a object of irony for the inhabitants of the city. One day he was walking down the main street with some of his disciples when a group of men and women began to insult him. The wise man went up to them and blessed them.

When they left, one of the disciples remarked: “They say terrible things, and you answer them with nice words.”

And the wise man replied: “Each one of us can only offer what he has.”

According to the Hassidic (Jewish) tradition: When Moses ascended to Heaven to write a certain part of the Bible, the Almighty asked him to place small crowns on some letters of the Torah. Moses said: “Master of the Universe, why draw these crowns?” God answered: “Because one hundred generations from now a man called Akiva will interpret them.”

“Show me this man’s interpretation,” asked Moses.

The Lord took him to the future and put him in one of Rabbi Akiva’s classes. One pupil asked: “Rabbi, why are these crowns drawn on top of some letters?”

“I don’t know.” Replied Akiva. “And I am sure that not even Moses knew. He did this only to teach us that even without understanding everything the Lord does, we can trust in his wisdom.”

In the animal kingdom: The centipede decided to ask the wise man of the forest, a monkey, the best remedy for the pain in his legs.

“That’s rheumatism,” said the monkey. “You have too many legs.”

“And what do I have to do to have just two legs?”

“Don’t bother me with details,” answered the monkey. “A wise man just gives the best advice; you have to solve the problem.”

A scene that I witnessed in 1997: Hoping to impress his master, a student of the occult whom I know read some manuals on magic and decided to buy the materials mentioned in the texts. With considerable difficulty he managed to find a certain type of incense, some talismans, a wooden structure with sacred characters written in an established order. When we were having breakfast together with his master, the latter commented:

“Do you believe that by rolling computer wires around your neck you will acquire the efficiency of the machine? Do you believe that by buying hats and sophisticate clothes you will also acquire the good taste and sophistication of those who made them? Objects can be your allies, but they do not contain any type of wisdom. First practice devotion and discipline, and everything else will come to you later.”

Before Alexander: The Greek philosopher Anaximenes (400 A.C.) approached Alexander the Great to try to save his city.

“I received you because I know that you are a wise man. But you have my word as king that I shall never accept what you have come to ask me,” said the powerful warrior to his generals.

“I just came to ask you to destroy my city,” replied Anaximenes. And in this way the city was saved.

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A Thousand Points of Darkness

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What is on the horizon is not pretty. The seemingly imminent financial crash will be dark and dreary.  What we are seeing now, is like a trailer for the movie of this madness. As an artist, I have an insight here. Like everyone else, I offer no good answer, only a parallel. Our brains think this way; needing an association in order to comprehend the unthinkable.

My last watercolor is a mess. That is, it looks terrible if you stand too close. All the colors conflict and the freckles look like leprosy. But when you stand back, you see the charm in the little girl holding her breath.

The world seen up close can be hideous too. The debate last night had that look. In rallies and photo ops, these candidates have an aura. Standing within a few feet of each other, the picture was hard on the eyes. The current that flowed between them was toxic. Sparks seemed to fly out of Sen. McCain’s eyes. It might have been easier if he had spontaneously combusted.

What a proud moment in time, for our nation to have an African-American citizen in a first presidential debate!  I am very proud of him, myself being a daughter of the South. The baggage a Dixie childhood brings with it includes some racial dirty laundry. What matters is that we saw that time pass and we can see the difference the Civil Rights Movement made in our lives.

Up close, the anger that disseminated between these two politicians was just plain ugly. To me, it was a thousand points of darkness. Sen. Obama held up well and smiled despite the poisonous arrows hurled his way. McCain grinned. There is something to be said about the way people smile.

Others can study the body language and the language of hope. It did not fall upon my ears last night. Sen. Obama was put on the offensive early on. I felt like I was watching a boa constrictor swallowing a baby chick. Believe me, I want to stand back so the picture looks better. From here it is as pretty as sludge.

History will paint these times in subtle hues or brassy shades. In the future, when we stand back from this moment hopefully we will see greatness and determination. Maybe we will see leadership. Posturing does not make a good portait alone. Sen. McCain may grab his favorite Sharpie and scribble out the mess in Washington, as he claims. All I can say, is thank God artists and writers can envison and invent things. Thank God I am one of them.