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David Lynch On Fishing For Ideas

26/04/2016

David Lynch on deep downthis is an idea I’ve touched on a couple of times myself

 

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Ray Bradbury On How To Write A Good Short Story

14/04/2016

Ray bradbury write a story

“Write a short story every week.
It’s not possible to write 52 bad
short stories in a row.” — Ray Bradbury

“I’ve proved otherwise.” — David Gerrold

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Fictoid: punting

8/04/2016

Edwin Georgi - how long

art by Edwin Georgi
text © Buzz Dixon

 

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a lover’s limerick

1/04/2016

Isabella and the pot of basil - William Holman Hunt

Isabella and the Pot of Basil
by William Holman Hunt

A young lass named Isabella
Said, “It’s easy to keep my fella.
His head’s in a jar
So he won’t go far
Unless he grows some flagella.”

(I’ll admit,
John Keats
did it a whole
lot better…)

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Is You Is Or Is You Ain’t?

29/03/2016

Ursula K LeGuin always was a writer

“But when people say, Did you always want to be a writer?, I have to say no! I always was a writer.” — Ursula K. LeGuin

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Hemingway On How To Write

8/03/2016

Ernest Hemingway - there is no one rule

“There is no rule on how to write. Sometimes it comes easily and perfectly; sometimes it’s like drilling rock and then blasting it out with charges.” —  Ernest Hemingway

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a short silly poem

20/02/2016

jean jean jean valjean
lived inside a submarine
kept it neat, kept it clean
jean jean jean valjean

George Roux - Master of the World Jules Verne 07art by George Roux

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Fictoid: Another Day While Arranging Flowers…

9/02/2016

touch me again cap

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Someone Asked, So…

30/01/2016

Someone asked for a link to all my poetry posts.  Since some of my Fictoid entries are in the form of blank verse, I’ll include those as well.

Amos Sewell - poetry howl

For those of you who aren’t interested in my poetry, here’s a great chance to avoid it all at one time!

Did I See A Ghost On The Sidewalk?

Halloween 2012

Scene Missing

The Sodomites’ Song

A Poem For Christmas 2012

Perhaps Petroleum Is A Poison

Thresher

fearless

So Maybe There Was This Little Boy...

21st century sinnerman

Flush

Fictoid: into the unrealm

Fictoid: the counterfeiter

Fictoid:  some pig

Fictoid:  are you my daddy?

Halloween Poem 2013

4 haiku for the city of angels

A Factual Statement Everyone Can Agree On

Fictoid: the infernal triangle

He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands

Fictoid: the last robot

Fictoid: the last dinosaur

A Meditation On “Playing Post Office” And “Going Postal”

Fictoid:  Al’s History Repair (based on an idea by Jim MacQuarrie)

Fictoid: a horror story for believers

Fictoid:  So I Says To St. Pete…

running

Happy Birthday, June Foray!

a poem for eternity

out along the cygnus wall

Fictoid:  if you want the right answer, ask the right question

los angeles: a love song

Fictoid:  gamblers

they tore the roof off the poet’s house

Fictoid:  the sniper’s lament

let me show you a ghost

Indians 

Ode To A Christianist Screechweasel

Imagine If Jesus Were A Vegan…

The Frustrated Communist Architect Blues

Problem/s Solved

Uncle Festus

Fictoid:  conundrum

Fictoid:  Stop Me If You’ve Read This Before

Death And The Typewriter

The Sweet, Sweet Song Of Death

look what we dug up

Fictoid: The Boogeyman

Fictoid:  monster movie mash-up

halloween poem 2015

Fictoid:  Death’s Jest

Trippi The Guilt-Spider

The Comedian’s Dead Son’s Memorial

Only One Way

the big red truck

 art by Amos Sewell

 

 

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The Last Night For A Teddy Bear Spy

29/01/2016

“We had Beirut.”

“We had Beirut.”

“Mumbai was good.”

“It was.”

“And Caracas.”

“And Caracas.  Especially Caracas.”

“It’s sad it has to end.”

“You could always come over.”

“Would you?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

She stubbed out her Gauloises on the already scarred nightstand.

The garret felt hot and dry; outside she could hear the city softly crying itself to sleep.

The time for tears was over.

“We could have made quite a team.”

“We were quite a team.  Unofficially.”

“Unofficially.”

Nobody knew the truth, not even in the official sealed reports labeled Ultra Top Secret, buried in lead-lined vaults so deep and publicly denied so often that even their existence was forgotten…

…or the stuff of legend.

They made quite a pair, one working for this side, one working for that side.

Years of surgery transformed him, changed him, altered him.  Years of training and a fanatical devotion to duty enabled him to stay at the top of the game.

He looked so harmless, so innocent.

So fuzzy.

An adept in nirodha yoga, he could remain motionless for hours, his heart slowed to an imperceptible murmur, his breathing so shallow as to escape detection, his brain operating below even the lowest detectable delta wave frequencies.

He would be a gift to a diplomat’s daughter, a present, a souvenir.

He would sit motionless on a shelf or a dresser in the child’s bedroom, or even tucked in next to the little girl as she slept.

Then, in the dead of night, he would creep out to spy on the diplomats, to learn their secrets, to betray their confidences, to thwart their plans.

He was a great secret agent, and he sacrificed much to the cause, but underneath the plastic surgery and hormone treatments he remained a man.

With a man’s wants and needs and desires.

She came from the filthy back alleys of Wahiawa, daughter of an apostate Mormon stripper, stepchild to a dozen and one soldiers and sailors and other skilled practitioners of homicide.

Her surrogate fathers liked her, and taught her well, well enough for recruiters to notice her and find her and offer her a job at the one thing she did really skillfully, the one thing she truly loved:  Killing men.

They taught her all the tricks of the trade that she didn’t already know, then turned her loose and watched in amazement as she invented brand new tricks.

Her original orders were to kill him, only nobody knew who he was, much less what he was or what he looked like.

By the time she learned his secret, she was already in love with him.

She killed his handler on that first mission, and told her handlers that the dead man had been the spy.

She didn’t tell her side that she had kidnapped the real spy, and kept him locked safely in a toy box in her closet.

He escaped, of course, but he couldn’t hate her; that was impossible.

She excited him, aroused him, summoned forth feelings he never thought he’d experience again.

His cause be damned:
She was his woman.

They hid their relationship from their superiors, and she had to hide his true nature from her side as well.

The noose began tightening around them, however.  Questions were being asked, demands were being made.

Their brief and sporadic hours of happiness came further and further apart, until finally they came to the one they knew would be the last, the climax (as it were) to their relationship.

“Are you afraid?”

“No, my dear.”

They both knew at best only one of them would leave the garret alive, albeit wounded non-fatally in the heart.

The Latvian was the best assassin for hire.  There were men — and one woman — better than he, but they were all committed players.

The Latvian would work for anyone who would pay him.

Who to shoot first? she wondered.

If she shot her lover then the Latvian (she could sense him, practically smell him lurking near the edge of the garret window) would doubtlessly kill her.

And if she shot the Latvian, wouldn’t her lover spring forward with a concealed switchblade and stab her through the heart?

You already stabbed me through the heart, you bastard.

A faint creak on the roof:
The time of decisions had passed.

Whipping out her customized 9mm Taurus PT92 from under her pillow, she fired a single impeccably aimed, instinctively guided Barnes TAC-XP round through the head of her lover and into the heart of the Latvian.

The Latvian blinked in surprise and died with a look of disappointment on his face, as if he’d already been mentally spending his bonus.

Her lover just lay there motionless — genuinely, for once – his now truly lifeless eyes staring at the cockroaches mating on the ceiling.

She gave him a last chaste kiss on the cheek, her tears soaking his fur, then dressed, turned out the lights, left the garret, and locked the door behind her.

Sixteen hours later she crouched atop the Chrysler Building in Manhattan with a 7.62mm Dragunov SVD-63 sniper rifle.

But that’s another story…

Teddy Bear Spy

text © Buzz Dixon

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