Jonas Harper: Amateur Writer

What I Like

Donny paces his apartment kitchen twelve times then his hallway twelve and another set for the empty living room. Every morning, then he crosses over to the kitchen and prepares breakfast except for Tuesdays like these because I come over. You can tell plenty of a person by what they keep around. Donny lives on a fourth floor apartment his editor arranged for him and goes out for groceries once a fortnight and his floor has nothing but books and papers. He has a television that moves itself between the empty living room and his quarters, an old beat up thing from twenty years ago with four holes: one for cable and then audio video and he hardly uses the first. The news is a sad place enough for ideas. Donny is a writer.

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So I decided to play catch-up and got 3000 words done today for NaNoWriMo. Good night brain.

3 notes

agentsama:

Well, time to drive against the wind.

Also, listen to this radio show about video games that Darrell and I host.

Tune in to WMUC Digital at 4 PM EST.

Yeah I do this radio show or something. I don’t really every talk about it but whatever.

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A Way Home

There is a cavern nestled along the shore, a couple miles from the town I spent my earliest years. Centuries of waves carved out the basalt rock and formed a majestic place whose jaw opens wide and invoked a terror for us as youths. Our parents had grown in our town of Suthcliffe and made their lives there, and the reprimands our fathers gave us from mothers’ tears were surely the same they received in their time. They could not deter us from our explorations, however, despite firmness of hand or belt, for our resolve was strengthened just as that hole on the sea. Formations such as it are also called ‘littoral caves’, but for us and for generations before it was the Maw.

Cut wide with a grimaced smile that ate what entered, the Maw came to be my home and others. Our fortress, our nation, our realm, our world. We ate and slept and claimed it countless times in mock plays of war and tragedy. Cushioning sand and stable rock I recall more than grass blades, and taste of brine I keep firm in heart. Winds carried the scent of sea to the town but not like the smell at the Maw.

I do not know if it is the same anymore. Some years have passed since I returned for my mother’s funeral and stubbornly I refused to visit two tombs on one visit. My room at my parents’ house (now my sisters after her and her husband have moved in) was on the sunrisen side, a placement my father believed gave rise to my brash nature. It was the same when I left, with fresh sheets whenever I may come to visit though I hardly did. The window was open on the day of the funeral. When I came back I placed my cane next to the chair and I looked out that day towards the sea, towards the Maw, and I spoke to old friends.

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GOODBYE

The water was warm and tasted like steel. Every sink every shower every goddamn place. He spat it out, sure it was the same as the poison before. He punched a fist against the faucet in his frustration and slumped to the floor. They were tired but they were almost there. He pulled out the drawers but took nothing, looking and not finding. His fingers strained to drag him from the floor to sit on the lip of the toilet, and with baited breath he got up and limped out of the bathroom to the common area.

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