Dan's Bait & Tackle

Certainty

There’s only two things I hate in this world: people who are intolerant of other people’s cultures, and the Dutch.
~Nigel Powers

I admire your conviction, your passion, and your sincerity.
But what if everything you espouse is almost,
but not quite,
right?

Brother Jed,
campus minister,
was 100% certain in his beliefs. I got
him alone once. We had a normal,
civilized conversation devoid of hate and rhetoric. He told me that
college kids had heard a message of love and forgiveness
their entire lives. It worked for lots of them. But some,

he said,

some needed to be called
sinners, harlots, and worse.
Some needed to be shocked,
shamed, and stunned into
hearing The Good News.

Brother Jed’s lieutenants watched his
children play quietly
while students
picked Jed up, carried him
to the water’s edge,
and threw him in Mirror Lake.

I’m humbled and honored to have been invited by J. S. Graustein, managing editor of Folded Word, to edit their weekly “Pic of the Week.” You can read the archives here, then check out the current prompt by following @picficprompt on Twitter. Submit at SubMishMash, and see the selection on Twitter @picfic.

It sounds more complicated than it really is. Just surf on over to PicFic and take it from there.

I’m been selected as one of May’s “Dirty Dozen” by Vestal Review. The form is… “Stories of precisely 12 words (plus ONE word for the title). They have to be somewhat risqué, but not X-rated.” Check it out at Vestal Review’s website and in the forthcoming print issue later this year.

Maybe I’m missing out on golden opportunity to endear myself to the editors, but I rarely include a meaningful cover letter with my submissions. I don’t want to appear overly impressed with myself, especially since there’s damn little to impress anyone. Any thoughts from my fellow writers, or editors?

Half the time I make Walt Whitman sound
modest. That’s no mean feat, but
it’s easily accomplished when you’re the
crowning glory of existence: the
capstone of the universe.

Then, something happens.
Or, nothing happens.

True genius– barely
constrained on vinyl,
released by a diamond
stylus– cannot
be denied.

I’m never been to
William Duffy’s farm,
and I’m not one for hammocks.
But the conclusion is the same.

Check out my micro-story published by twitter-zine PicFic. You can follow them on Twitter @picfic.

It ain’t The Last Picture Show, but check it out anyway. A very short story of mine – three tweets to accompany three photos. Check it out at PicFic and follow @PicFic on Twitter.

When houses
appreciated and mortgages
flowed like champagne,
the inbox on my desk
was constantly full.
Now, I have no inbox.
I have no desk.
I have no office.
I sit in a box
called a cubicle.
I sit in one box
on Fridays and Mondays,
and a second box
on Saturdays and Sundays.
I don’t know those
who sit in the boxes
on the days I don’t.
They don’t have inboxes, either.

Prompted by We Write Poems Thursday Prompt #1: Boxes

Travellers:
weary but game,
wielding harsh words and
Tyson Fury if
you mess with us.

In response to the prompt at Rallentanda’s POW (Poetry On Wednesday).

The bottle arrived from
God-knows-where, driven
by forces beyond the
control of the sender. He had
simply cast the bottle to the
sea, trusting winds and currents to
deliver it safely to its destination.
The message inside:
Don’t be like me.