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The Fox

- by Typewriter Fox

I woke up in a panic. It wasn’t the usual, had the same fucking dream, kind of panic that I’m used to facing when eyes crack open.  But rather, it was the variety I only experience when I’m on the road.   I glanced at the bluffs overlooking the Ohio outside my balcony window to help ground me.  And for once, I can honestly say that I was thankful for the existence of Kentucky. After hastily getting dressed, I zombied down to the lower level after a detour to the parking lot.  I needed some smoke to help chase away the fog.  As I sat on the ledge overlooking the hilltop entrance, I couldn’t help but miss the convenience of immediate self-destruction. But I guess those days …

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The Escape

- by Typewriter Fox

It was a foggy start to the break.  And for once, I’m not talking about the usual, self-inflicted hangover variety. A thick blanket of actual fog obscured The City, a fact noticed immediately after my two asshole cats woke me with the pointless insanity of their morning zoomies performed right across my face.  A first glance out the window made me think it was time to maybe change my contacts.  Those daily disposables that I habitually wear until they decide to plop themselves off my eyeballs all on their own. But no, it was just Mother Nature in her white robe.  Bringing a rarely displayed layer of modesty to The City.  Because for a brief moment, if you squinted just the right way with stale contact …

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Sunday Coffee

- by Typewriter Fox

Blue Owl S. Washington The days all seem to start out the same way. Same intro; same cup of coffee. Same view of the same people. Admittedly, there is some comfort in that familiarity. But change is more fun. I guess maybe that is why there is always that push. Because laurels aren’t meant for resting. They are meant for pasta water—we just call them bay leaves when we do that. So let’s get something cooking, yeah? Maybe even incorporate that low hanging literary fruit I just picked. Mash it up. Let it ferment into a higher proof. Or like me, decompose slow at the back of the fridge, forgotten and unpalatable. Mix up the metaphors. Shaken, not bacon. Squeeze out the gooey center. Because that …

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The Interview

- by Typewriter Fox

It’s weird waking up to the realization that a whole city is going to read my name. Steel workers and teachers. Construction monkeys with blue on their collars. Empty suits shuffling meaningless paper. Coffee shop vagrants. And the matted masses collecting across the street for their yoga class. Or, as I like to call it, “Bendy Toots.” It was a strange experience being the subject of an actual interview. Usually I am the one chasing the stories. But instead, I stood awkwardly in front of a gallery wall covered with the stupid shit I drew and answered the questions of a talented reporter to the best of my socially retarded abilities. And he did a great fucking job with the story. Not only is it an …

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The Opening Part Two: The Closer

- by Typewriter Fox

Eerybody has been asking about the status of the second part of the story.  But honestly, I debated even writing it.  She did say that Part One was a lovely opening to an experience that had left her mind reeling.  As admittedly mine had been, too, ever since the taillights of her green Subaru faded south, leaving The City to feel that much more empty in her sudden absence. My weiner was starting to feel a little peculiar about it all, too.  Not sure about how hers was feeling.  Things not meant to cling were starting to get sticky.  Weird, but in a way not entirely unpleasant.  Like going to the gym drunk. But I still found myself hesitating. And it didn’t really help literary matters …

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The Opening: Part One

- by Typewriter Fox

She walked right into the story, just like she had always done before. And exactly when I fucking needed her the most—funny how we always seem to work that way.  Through a string of ridiculous occurrences, a significant collection of my doodles ended up on an actual art gallery wall. In an official show. In all their quirky, unrepentant glory. Such was my excitement at the stupid shit I drew garnering some actual attention, I broke the cardinal rule of “coolness” and showed up early for the opening celebration, rather than fashionably late. And I cannot help but blame that faux pas on the nature of my day job. Which is actually a night job. One demanding a strict adherence to time if we are going …

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40 Miles and a Lemonade

- by Typewriter Fox

She had told me about it the day before.  And it was just my kind of ridiculous.   So I had to make it happen.  There really wasn’t fuck all else to do with the morning, beyond a few errands and the lingering angst of the tin waiting to be kicked.  But that was still later’s problem when I first hit the road.  And I was determined to make the most of the day.  Because just like I tell everyone who will listen, life is much more fun when you say “yes.” It didn’t matter that I would be driving over 40 miles round trip.  Or that I planned on dropping a 3,000% markup on a single glass of lemonade.  I told her I would be there.  …

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Barking Foxes

- by Typewriter Fox

Good morning again, Michigan.  This one isn’t going to be easy to write. Or much fun to read. But I am going to say it plainly anyway. No need for flowery verse. Or clever wordplay. This isn’t the time.   Because I wish that the people I care about would just quit fucking dying unexpectedly.   That would be absolutely ducky.  Another transcontinental text; another fallen friend. Another gap in the collective hive-mind of memory. Another empty seat at a table whose ranks are rapidly dwindling with each passing new year. And that widening void breaks my fucking heart. I have been writing long enough to understand that our stories are themselves living creatures. Constantly evolving. Adding pages. Taking notes. Absorbing punctuation. And occasionally, delighting in the masochist …

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