FireVaney

Tonight I woke with an idea: Terror Theatre —a showcase for balls-out, over-the-top horror comedies and melodramas. H. Oozewalt, Jr. would present each play (à la Rod Serling) and he would give sole authorial credit to his late father, H. Oozewalt, Sr. The general conceit: H. Oozewalt, Jr. murdered his father for being a superior writer. Hence Jr.’s penance for presenting Sr.’s work. What’s more, Jr. is plagued by Sr.’s ghost. In fact, Jr. is only left in peace when he recites (stages) Sr.’s stories.  But here’s a thought: What if horror in our printed fiction and projected upon our silver screens allows us to ignore the true horrors of the real world? We close the cover on the horror novel, or exit the multiplex (our nerves drawn taut) as the credits roll, and we breathe a sigh of relief. (That is, presuming the book or the flick did its job.) And then we smile, or perhaps we chuckle, and we remind ourselves that it wasn’t real. And we do so whilst skirting the begging vagabond. ...

So this one guy hops aboard a Red Line train and offers copies of his writing to perfect strangers. He says he’s seeking feedback. I’d seen him pull this stunt before, some three years ago, aboard a CTA bus. To me, it seemed like a ruse, a con, a ploy. If you actually took a look at one of his pages, he might ask, “How much would you pay for it?” Possibly, he’d mean it sincerely. He might even promise to include you on the Acknowledgments page when he finally found a publisher. Well, he didn’t find any takers today, on the “L,” nor three odd years ago, on the bus. Here's hoping he’d revised his magnum opus since the last time we shared public transit. In sooth, I wish I had the courage to discuss his work with him. But then he might’ve followed me off the “L” and all the way home. I might’ve felt compelled to invite him in for a sampling of my mother’s legendary borsht. And after spooning up the last of a delicate teacup full of it, he might’ve threatened me with the rusty marlinsp...

Erryk and Jeffie rent an apartment above a block of empty storefronts on the far north side of Chicago. Unless you’re a gang banger, or a vigilante martial artist, you wouldn’t want to be caught walking the streets of this neighborhood alone at night. At least that’s the general vibe. Teenagers hang out in the recesses of storefront doorways and smoke dope in the cold. Up and down the sidewalk all varieties of trash stick to mounds of snow and ice. Erryk called the cops a few nights ago, when a homeless drunk broke into the building and made a nest for himself in the stairwell. When the cops arrived, Erryk watched through the peephole as they thrashed the drunk with their fists and their billy clubs.  18 February 2001

His best idea involved a young man afflicted with a speech impediment very much like the one suffered by Donald Duck. That is, until, one day, when he encounters a young woman who, by her mere presence, remedies said impediment. But he is only “cured” when he talks to her , and her alone.  8 December 2000 

Start: There isn’t a time when I wouldn’t eat cheese at sunset in the park. No, I’ll eat cheese at any time, during sunset, in the park. Yes, I would not like to enjoy the turbulent kites of your apples. That makes all of us. When the eatery closes tonight, would you like to go back to my palace for a cup of pea soup? I make the very best pea soup. No, that’s a lie. I don’t make it, I get it out of the can. I’ll pour it into a bowl and stick it in the microwave for three and a half minutes. That’s the truth, Ruth. How are you today, Ruth? I haven’t met many Ruths in my time. Are you named after a relative? Tell me, Ruth, when the apples are ripe you do enjoy eating the worms that don’t want to leave them? Worms have a lot of protein, from what I understand. When I write, I almost always consider listening to a classical station in Wyoming via iTunes. Likewise, I almost always consider “tuning-in” to the same station, “Classical Laramie,” when I read. Unlike WFMT in Chicago, “Classical ...