I like the sky. It looks nice. We can be nice. I’m tired, but I can still be nice and when that happens my hands won’t ache and my chest won’t feel so full; full like it’s going to burst unless I die, and maybe I shouldn’t die just yet because there’s so much to do that we have to do until it’s done, and maybe then.
Bukowski just called, told me he didn’t
want to talk and hung up.
Hemingway is in the barroom drinking
whiskey from a half gone bottle, cleaning
a rifle. Not caring who just called.
Vonnegut is on the porch smoking
cigarettes while looking at a dead
raccoon in the road and repeating, “so it goes.”
Steinbeck is petting Charlie in the living
room. Calm. Collected. Ready to go.
Emily is standing silently at the top of the stairs.
Frost is outside beckoning for everyone
to join him. It’s beginning to snow.
I’m sitting alone with my family wondering
who these people think they are.
‘Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well. Well, he would not have to fail at trying to write them either. Maybe you could never write them, and that was why you put them off and delayed the starting.’ -Hemingway, ‘The Snow Of Kilimanjaro’
A brilliant short story written by my favorite author. Notice his use of words and non commas when many would argue a comma was needed. I would debate that the commas not used were by design and the flow of the sentence as Hemingway saw it in his mind is much more important than where a comma ought to have been placed. The first line is a good example of what I’m typing about. Imagine a comma after ‘Now’ the entire sentence would stall. In my opinion he wanted the reader to keep pace, or to speed up.
And further, what Hemingway is writing about is truth. All of us writing currently, or whom have stopped writing, know exactly what Hemingway is talking about. For Hemingway to sum it up in one fucking sentence is why I honor the man. There is only one Hemingway and there can never be another.
I appreciate any and all of you who have continued to read my work.
‘I decided that I would write one story about each thing that I knew about.’ -Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast.
I sit with strong coffee and read his words. His words are so well used they live within me directly after having met them. I once wrote ‘You can’t rewrite Hemingway’ and feel this to be severely true and that no one person should even try. However, if one sits and writes about what they know and their voice is their own and is strong they’ve done it. Each experience is unique. A trip to get milk, written well, can be the best story to write and to read. And If I take Hemingway’s advice I’ll have enough to write about for the entirety of my life. In fact, I’ll not be able to finish.
Have a good day. I hope there will be wine and laughter. I hope you smile and are smiled upon. I hope we all do not take for granted today.
It’s no secret that Ernest Hemingway is my favorite author. This is my first six word story. When I feed Gavin I find myself thinking of little ones going without. Their cries shredding the night, falling on ears without care.
My grandfather was orphaned as an infant. I’m proud to say I see a bit of him in Gavin.