Writing

The written words, man….
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

A Harvest of Letters

- by Typewriter Fox

It was a road trip steeped in letters.  Reflective letters on highway signs. And stunted exit markers. Digital letters blinking on the dash; fictional letters winking inside my head. Letters carried inside a battered typewriter case. And in my back pocket.  Some were meant for outright dismissal. Especially the hypothetical ones. The ones yet to be written were better off being cheerfully ignored. Because words only seem to cause chaos these days. And I’m getting a little too old for those kinds of literary shenanigans. Other letters were destined for a final delivery. Into the embrace of the coal-barged currents of the mighty Ohio. The ones carefully bundled up in a bright red ribbon. Because they deserved a little recognition. And a cheery reward after having …

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Canis Lupus

- by Typewriter Fox

The initial compulsion was to comfort. Strong arms, battered from the bruising battles against tin monsters, wrapped protectively around the softness of her vulnerability. Held the tenderness of her hurt right against a heart well-versed in the peculiarities of that fatally familiar storyline. And it was difficult to let her go. The smell of her hair reminded me of Irish innocence; the weight of restrained tears crushed the brittle skeletons of hopeful expectations. The ones promising better outcomes. Because everything new is always old again. And she was caught hard in the hopelessness of that contradiction. I wanted to protect her. And champion the cause of her more gentle angels. Because I have known that hurt; I have lived that story. Those experiences branded me deep. …

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Graduation

- by Typewriter Fox

If they only knew the truth.  Because it’s always the same fucking thing.  “I love the writing!” “You definitely have talent.” “Is any of your work about me?” Fleeting praise I once admittedly loved. But that now makes my stomach churn. Because it’s just superficial flattery pushing a jet-blasted brain into recoil mode. More hollow compliments masterfully baiting all the caged demons to collapse into their liquid howls of disgust. It makes me want to rage and lash out. Scream the indignity of my discursive curse. And ultimately embrace the anonymity of my more vulpes nature. Because no one ever fucking acknowledges the cost. Or the exhausting burden of investment required to put something meaningful on paper—I am terrified of a blank page.  Because it’s too …

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Tuesday

- by Typewriter Fox

I didn’t intend to get accidentally whiskey-ginger drunk. On that claustrophobic Tuesday night. In the strip mall heart of fucking Dewitt, Michigan. But, it happened.   I tripped into those triples shortly after kicking a virginal 767 off the ramp. The one loaded with critical healthcare medicines and ridiculous consumer madness. Ten tons of overflow Amazons and random online acquisitions—not my best flight. But we still made it work. It was a weird drunk, too. Not the actual inebriation aspect. Because let’s be honest, that’s a familiar fading, here amongst the shuffling Q.D. Zombies. But I still learned some important lessons, teetering precariously on the edges of a barstool disaster. I discovered it is better to avoid anything passed the upside of West State Road. Because the …

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Clip Show

- by Typewriter Fox

“Have a good weekend!” they said, shuffling out.  But like always, that sentiment wasn’t really meant for me.  Because it was a superfluous holiday. An unappreciated recess tacked on to the tail end of a shortened week. A week spent soaking more blue into thrifted collars, while all around bigger engines whined and spooled white smoke. An echo of a day left to wander unsupervised. And, unappreciated. Watching the people all scurry and shuffle. Packing their bags for better places. The ones I am never destined to see.   The summer race was on.   The race to escape the stink of The City. And to chase down the refreshment promised by the U.P. That sprawl of a Mittened peninsula, jutting out into colder water. But I was …

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Letters

- by Typewriter Fox

I thought about writing a letter tonight.  But I am admittedly a little afraid to actually know her. It has honestly been a minute since I have tortured someone with my rambling correspondence; I feel out of practice. Out of touch with more gentle thoughts; out of time to the rhythm of all these 517 hearts. I find myself terrified of letters. Probably because it’s only been a little over a month now. And I haven’t yet found the courage to read the last one I received. The one that came at me hard on that awful, and beautiful, Wayne’s City night. But it’s still right there.  That letter is still tucked away, unopened, inside a locked typewriter case. The vintage companion that has traveled with …

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Last Call

- by Typewriter Fox

She was there when I needed someone the most. She was there on that awful stain of a 517 Thursday. A shitty day, full of shitty airplanes, tacked on to the end of another shitty week. Maybe I was just grouchy; maybe I was just manstruating my way through another shift of maniac, Mittened madness. Maybe I was still hungover from the night before; maybe it was an indecipherable combination of reasons spawning all the suck.   I just knew that I needed to tap the fuck out for a second.   I needed to catch my breath. And to realign my head into a better place. Because I was honestly about thirty seconds away from jumping headfirst into a rotating jet engine. Figuratively, of course. I’d never …

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500 Mile Drive

- by Typewriter Fox

I still think about that drive. The tenacity of those Tennessee roadside concessions. The ones fueling those dirty dashboard confessions; the ones screaming at a Pigeon Ford quickly evaporating in a smoky rearview mirror. Because I never had the opportunity to properly explain myself. I just remember Knoxville coffee punching hard against softer insides. And how that burn helped to round out the sharpness of those elevated curves. And smooth the stark indignity of unused emergency runaway ramps. The ones scratched and clawed into an unnamed mountain’s downward slope. Cities were on fire then. It felt like the whole world, locked down and suffering, was about to collapse. Which I thought was fucking hilarious. Because I was tired of the abuse. And wanted to break free …

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The Ring

- by Typewriter Fox

There was once a ring. She never knew about it; it was the only secret I ever kept from her. Because after that first Wayne’s City kiss, I pledged absolute transparency—I knew that was the only way that we would ever work. And I wanted to be understood as a fox of his word. The gamble was enormous. The one involving state lines crossed. And expensive pettifoggers. Endless boxes and bruises. The ones ending in too many damn sleepless nights; the ones bleeding into hot, hard days scrambling up those congested 120 miles. Pushing to build a comfortable life from a tender start of want. Those early days holding the promise of only two tea mugs, a simple kettle we both kind of hated, and a …

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The Raven

- by Typewriter Fox

Indiana was unexpected that night; it wasn’t at all what I had planned.   So it is fair to say that I was unprepared. Truth is, I was already at the bar when that text hit my phone. A familiar dive, comforting in its lack of complexity. A place where mostly empty bottles help to fill up even emptier Old Town people. Where the lights flicker randomly. And there is always the underlying vibe that things are just one minor party foul away from a major shuffle. A familiar tension, reminding me of family.  But at least they finally repaired the back door. The one recently battered in and then boarded back up. And that simple restoration made it easier slipping out for smokes between the pours. …

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