Uh! I suck at writing blogs… and—or… but, I mean… in the sense that I just don’t ever (rarely) do it… I started off pretty well. The first year, methinks I managed about three a month—of putting at least something out there… (in here…) But now? Oh, what the hell is the point? (Nobody reads this shit anyway…)
So here’s some stuff I jotted recently:
“Uh! I enjoyed that with all the profuseness of my generally darkly nebulous demeanor!”
“So it was good?”
“…It was okay…”
I want to be anywhere else but here…
though I know, when I get there,
I still won’t be happy.
“That… is a mighty fine looking peach you’ve got there! But you’re far too conservative in your eating of it, methinks; don’t mind me—feel free to slurp vociferously if you’d like.”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—I couldn’t. I reserve truly slurpy sounds exclusively for very hot soup and oral sex… (if saying such isn’t entirely redundant!)”
“Ah, so a Presbyterian then…”
“Holy crud! You’re choking! Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry—yes, I’ll be fine. I was just eating some almonds, and it always chokes me up a bit… you see, that’s how Grandma Noonie died…”
“She choked on some almonds?”
“No, I ate her.”
—though doesn’t such imply
I ever really had a chance with her?
…then, with so many years gone by,
I see her gazing at me across a crowded room,
an inquisitive twinkle in her eyes…
At first I think: Is she wondering, as do I,
about what might have been?
…but then I think: Oh, crap!
How long have I been just staring at her?!…
from ‘More Than Kin and Less Than Kind’ (the novel I’m currently writing):
But the bear remained silent, staring off into the forest and absently scratching his belly.
“Or not,” surmised Konstantin. “At any rate, I must profess, ‘tis passing strange for us to meet a bear of your intelligence—let alone loquaciousness. I’ve heard of such far away in the west, beyond the Karzelek Mountains, but—”
“You think bears be unintelligent?” asked Scrofula, turning his eyes to regard the prince. After a moment’s hesitation, the bear shrugged. “I can see that. Though ‘tis more apt to say, methinks—gi’en mine own experience—we be held back from our intelligence. When it came upon me, ‘twas as a veil being removed from… from within me, mesupposes. From where it lay betwixt my perceptions an’ my thinking.”
“Fascinating,” declared Yaromir. “So you were not always thus? And whereby did you come to the… uncommon name of ‘Scrofula’?”
“Methinks ‘twas always so, though ‘til recently I had not the voice for it. I suppose I recognized it not wholly ‘til I became intelligent, though it seems, e’en as a cub, ‘twas as my dam intended—though when she said it, ‘twas more of a… a not unaffectionate beller with a blow to the head. I know not what. I’ve always been a bit… glandular? And when I was young, I often coughed up quite a lot of blood. Oh, but not my own—just from whate’er I’d eaten.”
/a bitter chastisement~/:
every while I’s poopin’, hey—
eat my spleeen……
/ah’m jes sayin’/
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—Mishka Zakharin © 2016
My first published novel, Natalya’s Tale: http://www.amazon.com/Natalyas-Tale-Mishka-Zakharin-ebook/dp/B014AO0YWK/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1451148977&sr=8-11&keywords=mishka+zakharin