By The Pen

Satire Sunday

2011-09-18T15:30:00.000-07:00

SenatorBurns Cannot Be President

“Well why notMary? He’s personable, experienced,politically savvy, and a dyed in the wool party member. He’s served the United States Government andthe good people of Arizona for over fifteen years. He’s a social conservative, an economicanarchist, Chairman of the Special Committee on Homeland Intelligence, and leadCzar of the War on the Impoverished.”

“Yes Sir, but he shot a dog.”

“He introduced a bill last year to cut taxes foranyone who owns a Rolls Royce. He hasperfect hair. He’s been a long standingsupporter of our platform to reduce teacher’s pay. Why he even… did you say he shot a dog?”

“An Irish Setter, yes Sir.”

“Are you, are you telling me that Thomas Burns,Senior Senator from Arizona used a gun to shoot a dog?”

“A forty-five Magnum, Sir.”

“So, a big gun.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well, well I suppose that’s not out of keeping withhis policy on capital punishment.”

“I’m sorry, Sir?”

“I assume this dog did something to provoke thismeasure? I would guess that perhaps itwas old or sick, but that would be oppositional to his stance againsteuthanasia. So, what did it do?”

“The Irish Setter, Sir?”

“Yes, yes, did it kill his cat or dig up his yard?”

“No, Sir.”

“Did it chase the mailman or eat the Christmas turkey? Did it take a dump on his newspaper? What?”

“No, Sir. Petals belonged to his uncle and was tied up at the time.”

“Petals is the dog’s name?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“The Irish Setter?”

“Yes.”

“Where did this take place?”

“It was just outside the main pavilion-”

“Oh god, don’t tell me.”

“At his cousin’s wedding last June.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this right. Senator Burns, our man on the MarriagePermanence Act and mandatory federal prayer, used a forty-five Magnum to shoota previously unknown Irish Setter named Petals at his cousin’s wedding, withlittle or no provocation.”

“Blam.”

“Don’t get cute Mary, this is serious.”

“Sorry, Sir. Yes, that is what happened.”

“How bad is this going to get?”

“Pretty bad, Sir. The pictures don’t cast the incident in a positive light.”

“Pictures?”

“Here’s the file, Sir.”

“Hmm, yes well. I suppose that is a fine looking animal. And there’s… oh no.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“All over her dress!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why does he pick it up?”

“I can only speculate, Sir”

“He tosses it onto… Whose car is that?”

“It belongs to one of the groomsmen, Sir.”

“Mary, how is it possible that I have not heardabout this before?”

“The senator issued the attached letter to the majorpress outlets, Sir. He includedPolaroids of some of the news directors’ children sleeping and detaileddescriptions of what will happen to them if the story breaks.”

“There’s a good deal more cursing in this than Iwould have expected from Tom.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Okay, let’s move himto the maybe pile. Who’s next?”

Weekly Enigma

2010-06-25T12:03:00.000-07:00

Old Swimmer Jack, so long and green
His smile’s as big as any you’ve seen
His dentist bills must be obscene
Perhaps that’s why he’s always mean

Weekly Enigma

2010-06-18T12:32:00.000-07:00

The fear began because something went wrong
What was at our feet, just didn’t belong
They moved what was there to where there was more
But couldn’t get all of it up off the floor
Now the sky up above starts where it’s not
We linger in it in darkness, forgot

Weekly Enigma

2010-06-11T09:57:00.000-07:00

Many think me just to be an endearing simile
When it’s said I am compressed, bitter anger you express
Move me down and you will see uniform conformity
My incline can sometimes mean ordered silence on the scene

Weekly Enigma

2010-06-04T08:46:00.000-07:00

My partner talks and listens, my partner breaks my sleep
I tell my partner “quite down” so he won’t make a peep
My partner can’t do dishes and never walks the pooch
I pay to keep my partner, but don’t think he’s a mooch

Weekly Enigma

2010-05-05T14:32:00.000-07:00

Dumb Jack was afraid of the thing
Though ‘twas held into place by a ring
“It’s got teeth that don’t bite.
That just doesn’t seem right!”
So he froze outside till the spring.

Weekly Enigma

2010-04-28T08:37:00.000-07:00

A crooked spire grows in barren stones.
Its twisted arm plants the iron bones.

Weekly Enigma

2010-04-19T11:52:00.000-07:00

Peculiar one, in nature rarely found
Upon your back we’ve built our own new world.
In every brick and structure thee abound.
In each true wall you fit your place uncurled
You, greatest within the confines of three.
You, brother to all in confines of four.
Even misplaced, wrong you can never be.
A slight curve in thy making thee abhor.
Thou art not with an aberrance of one
Your import is never understated
With meager variation you’re undone!
Yet, when cardinals meet four times created.
What fool riddler could fail to name ye?
When in their vision thou must plainly be?

Weekly Enigma

2010-04-06T10:27:00.000-07:00

Can't be seen: warmth is here
Can't be drawn: danger's near

Daily Enigma

2010-03-19T05:50:00.000-07:00

It gets bigger every hour
It increases every day
There exists no earthly power
To make it go away
You can lie, pout, cry, or glower
But it is yours to stay

Daily Enigma

2010-03-17T10:24:00.000-07:00

Dumb Jack held a jar in his fist
Kept shut despite his hardest twist
He shook it and smashed it
And when finally unlatched it
Was thoroughly soaked by the mist

Daily Enigma

2010-03-16T06:45:00.001-07:00

“I’m quit discontent with what I have seen.
No one could live here no matter how meek and mean.
I can’t even walk through the bedroom door.
The fire I built set ablaze the whole floor!
I’ll never fit all of my goods in this place.
I demand a refund for this sham and disgrace.”

What did this fellow buy?

Daily Enigma

2010-03-15T07:41:00.000-07:00

One fish just swims up the other just down.
When two fishies meet that’s where fisher is found.
If fisher’s not there, then the fishies didn’t cross.
No fisher: no fishies at market, just loss.

Weekly Enigma

2010-03-09T06:36:00.000-08:00

A tooth that bites but does not chew attached to a hairless head.
When the owner cries out you best look about, or you might wind up dead.

Weekly Enigma

2010-02-24T07:18:00.001-08:00

While it’s contained, one hopes it retains: eight angles, eight handles, refined cream.
Once it’s been cracked, your friends will attack, leaving nothing behind but the steam.

Weekly Enigma

2010-01-12T10:33:00.000-08:00

It’s delivered each day, whether you want it or not, in your mail, on your desk, at your door.
You can work your way through it, but why bother to do it?
Tomorrow will only bring more.

Weekly Enigma

2010-01-06T09:18:00.001-08:00

It can’t be measured, but weighs on your back.
It does not move, pull, or wind, but draws in your slack.
Acquire too much and you’ll have an attack.

Once more unto the breach!

2009-12-03T07:28:00.000-08:00

I’ve decided to enter the 2010 short story competition. It was one of my first forays into the world of publication and nothing brings out my productivity like a solid deadline so this should be interesting. Wish me luck! http://www.nycmidnight.com/2010/SSC/challenge.htm

A few deep thoughts

2009-11-24T10:19:00.000-08:00

I don’t think that it is illegal to cook bacon in front of a pig, but it should be.

I want to know that the Obama administration is doing to end the cola wars.

I don’t think the government should spy on people, but I do think they should spend more time spying on squirrels. They are up to something, I know it.

How come sheep don’t shrink in the rain?

A peanut is not really a nut, it’s a legume. Neither a raspberry nor a blueberry is a real berry. A raspberry is a compound fruit and a blue berry is an accessory fruit, like a banana. Why does food lie to us?

They should make it so the combination of Coca-Cola and Pepsi is poisonous. That would weed out the fence sitters.

Telepathy is easy. I’m thinking of a blue fox, now you are too.

I don’t think we should ever get rid of books. Sure we can pack lots of information on a Kindle, but you would need a lot of Kindles to fill up a bookshelf and they are expensive.

Candy Bar

2009-10-23T11:31:00.000-07:00

I was stuck on a life raft with political extremes; they all had advice for what to do with my candy bar.

Communist: We will split the candy bar into equal pieces. As the administrator I will eat all the pieces of the candy bar itself, for the good of the raft. The rest of you will eat the wrapper.

Republican: Since you bought the candy bar, you get to eat it. I would happily starve to death rather than live in a world where we have to endure some kind of pinko candy sharing scheme.

Democrat: In order to make everything fair, everyone gets one candy bar. Seeing as our resources are limited, I will collect the bar from you as the most candy bar wealthy individual on the raft and use it, along with our other equipment, to make a machine that makes “candy” bars out of seaweed. Sure, the machine might not work, the seaweed bars will take forever to make, use all of our resources, and taste like old fish, but at least we will all be equal.

PETA: Put the candy bar into the ocean so that the fish can eat it. Then throw yourself in too. I will stay on the raft so I can steer it to shore so that it doesn’t pollute the environment.

Anarchist: Put the candy bar in the middle of the raft and give everyone a paddle, let’s see what happens.

Kim Jong Il: I will eat the half the candy and burn the rest. You and the rest of the passengers will slowly eat the raft itself while singing my praises. I will also use a paddle to occasionally spank a passing shark for my amusement.

Mobster: Nyah see? Give me that candy you mook. (Steals and eats candy bar)

Televangelist: Give unto me three fourths of the candy bar as an offering to god, that I might eat it, in his name.

Sharia: None of the woman on board will receive any candy. Anyone who tries to steal the candy will lose both their hands.

Big Business: Let me hang onto the candy bar. In seven years I will give you two candy bars. Every quarter I will pay you a dividend of one M&M which you can either eat or reinvest. (Eats candy bar, declares bankruptcy)

Weekly Enigma Make Up

2009-10-15T13:08:00.000-07:00

1) If you run in to meet it, it won’t be there.
But when you’re away, it sits in your chair.

2) Watch how he blinks not through his fiery eyes.
He bears silent witness to the ones in disguise.
In the space of four days, he withers, and dies.

3) There’s a door in the floor with no handle, hinge, or lock.
No one’s going to open, no matter how hard you knock.

Weekly Enigma

2009-09-15T08:42:00.000-07:00

The man from Bethlehem, one day performed an awesome trick.
You can do it too sometimes, though be careful of the slick.

Weekly Enigma

2009-09-10T08:45:00.000-07:00

Lead Pipe Jack, his bones you crack.
He don’t owe you money, but you give him a whack.
He’s a tough one Jack, thick as hard tack.
He dances left to right, but never front to back.

Weekly Enigma

2009-09-02T10:38:00.000-07:00

What road is this that goes one way and traffics back to back?
A detour or a jam up and your vision fades to black.

Weekly Enigma

2009-08-25T08:57:00.000-07:00

Triplets are we, I’m center of three
I’ve more kin, but out of my sight.
Bound into place, we sit face to face.
Left brother is three less than right.

Weekly Enigma

2009-08-18T11:34:00.000-07:00

You never meant to let me in and you can't get me out on your own.
I'm nothing to see when I'm out in the world, but once I get close I am shown.

Weekly Enigma

2009-08-10T12:48:00.000-07:00

It leaves heavy tracks across the land but doesn't have any feet.
It growls and shrieks as it passes by and hurries 'cross the street.

The Gauntlet Revisited

2009-08-05T05:54:00.000-07:00

Those of you who have been following my little adventure from the start know that I have been working hard to get published this year. That, or at least collect a healthy stack of rejection letters from a few magazines, 20 in total by August 2010. As of last night I’ve got two rejection letters, that’s 10% of the whole show. With a single year left before I am standing tall before the man I need to knock out about 1.5 stories a month to meet this deadline. I have no shortage of things I am eager to write about so this is really just a logistical problem at this point. Where do I find the time?

I have to be at work early on weekdays, so mornings are out unless I start waking up at 6AM. My weekday evenings are usually a good time, but I am often pretty exhausted by then. Weekends are ok, but I am often out doing something with friends. Really, my most productive time is Sunday afternoons, the laundry hours, but that is not nearly enough.

Looking back at this little calendar of excuses makes me ashamed of myself. Stephen King managed to knock out a his first few novels when he was working full time in a laundry and teaching, not to mention raising a couple kids. If I can’t have that kind of discipline while working an office job and having no major responsibilities outside of work I have no business calling myself a writer.

Weekly Enigma

2009-08-03T08:28:00.000-07:00

“Be a good man and start a fire.”
Said I to the Butler in fine attire.
“I don’t mean to complain, but this place is quite plain.
If I don’t get some heat, I’ll expire!”

Where was I?

Weekly Enigma

2009-07-27T12:20:00.000-07:00

Why must you take those I know?
Fish that swims where no plants grow.
With shining tail and silver fin, you take up lovers, friends, and kin.
Oh how I wish it wasn’t so.
You break earth’s laws and let them go.

Another one into the nether

2009-07-20T14:06:00.000-07:00

I’ve submitted another story out into the wide-wide world of publications. I have to admit; I cheated a little this month and updated an old story rather then write an entirely new one. If there is one thing I can definitively say about the writing process it is that I will find any excuse possible to not write. That being said, I have made some significant progress on some old projects recently by starting fresh. There is nothing I dislike more than my own writing when it’s more than a few months old. Apparently it has a shelf life, who knew?

The story I re-tooled and sent out is one of my favorites, Large Slug. There is really nothing more to the story then what is implied in its title, it’s a story about one very big slug. Let’s hope it slithers me a little closer to publication. Still no word on Dark yet, but the editorial process takes about 8 weeks so no surprise there.

Weekly Enigma

2009-07-20T08:18:00.000-07:00

I look with supreme satisfaction at the lack of correct answers in my last two weeks enigma comment sections. Here is an easier on for you.

I am called what I cannot do.
Sitting here, so close to you.
Trapped in cloth both night and day.
How I wish to myself away.

Weekly Enigma

2009-07-15T11:42:00.000-07:00

If it is, you own it.
If it isn’t, you’ve sown it.

Weekly Enigma

2009-07-08T08:14:00.000-07:00

We sit here in the darkness, me and all my brothers.
We have a single father, but none of us have mothers.
When we are finally born we unmake the birth of others.

Bi-Weekly Enigma

2009-07-01T12:26:00.000-07:00

Sorry all, I dropped the ball on this last week. Here you go.

Momma doesn't mind the kids and Momma doesn't cook.
Thousand sisters in the house and not a single book.

On Submission and Twitter

2009-06-17T08:49:00.000-07:00

Well I went and did it. I dropped Dark in the mail. That marks my first submission to a magazine for possible publication. It took me the space of about three hours to wish fervently that I hadn’t made the final changes on it before letting it go, such is life though. The only thing I can do now is get started with my next story and try and forget about it.

In looking at the steadily growing pile of my written work I’m starting to see the beginnings of a pattern emerge. A good deal of what I write could easily be categorized as horror, another large section would fit neatly into the humor category. All of my short stories have in common is the fact that they are weird. No matter the occasion, I can never seem to resist adding a touch of the fantastic to a story. I’m not apologizing mind, that’s just seems to be my way. What does give me pause for thought is the fact that I haven’t really branched out much. I don’t pretend to be an expert in the writing game but I know enough to say that I have no real idea what I am doing. What? It might be clearer to say that I am still trying to figure out just what kind of writer I want to be. Anyway, I am going to try and hammer out something that is a little less horrific and a little less funny and perhaps a good deal more personal. That’s what Danielle recommended anyway and she’s pretty smart.

I can see how writing a story that strikes close to home could improve my writing just by virtue of it being easier for me to understand and identify with. Still, without the comforting distance of a good joke or the otherworldly abstraction of horror I can see how this could get a little too close for comfort. You never know the meaning of the word “hot” until you stick your hand on an iron.

In other news I’ve taken another step down the wide, straight road of technological damnation and signed myself up for twitter. I’m not proud of myself, but I can’t fight the future forever can I? My username is ByThePen if you feel like following along.

Down from the door where it began...

2009-06-11T08:43:00.000-07:00

I take comfort in imagining that all writers, even the great old ones, occasionally feel like I feel today. I am on the verge of sending my first submission out for consideration to the wild world of publication. This should be a happy time for me, a milestone on my way down a new and exciting path, but it isn’t. Instead I stand in the shadow of Vonnegut, King, Bester, Rushdie, and Orwell and feel a hideous surge of shame at the humble work I’ve cobbled together so far. Will I drop this sucker in the mail? Absolutely. I’ve put too much juice into it to turn back now. Still, I can’t help but fret over the fact that I am swimming in unfamiliar waters surrounded by some very big fish. The world I know is one of politics, paper, and numbers. Academia and the austere reaches of the business and government affairs are the only worlds I know. Every step I take toward writing fiction is a step away from the comfort of home, and adventures do make one late for dinner. I might as well get used to the idea, when a wizard comes calling there’s just no getting the bastard to leave.

More to come.

Weekly Enigma

2009-06-09T05:56:00.000-07:00

With my first submission to Weird Tales held up a week I don’t have much to report on the writing front. Still, here’s another riddle to keep you wanderers thinking.

A thousand teeth of cloth and steel inside a towering beast.
Every morn’ it chews its food, but later it’s released!

What are the teeth? What is the beast? What is the food?

Weekly Enigma

2009-06-02T06:54:00.000-07:00

Ever since my grandmother read me The Hobbit when I was about six years old I have been fascinated by riddles. Reading through Stephen King’s masterpiece The Dark Tower series recently has re-kindled my love of these little word games. I find that creating riddles focuses the mind as much as trying to solve them. I’ve accrued a great many of them in the margins of short stories and letters I’ve been worked on over the last two years. I will make an effort to post a new one here every week, guess away in the comment section.

Here's an easy one to start us off:

An army marching around the dead
Always in circles
They’ve caps, but no heads.

Who are they?

Food Rage

2009-05-26T10:01:00.000-07:00

This was my submission for a 750 word short story for Writer's Digest.

“You’re in trouble doughboy.” said Sergeant Atkins.

Cop clichés appear again and again on T.V. shows and in movies for a reason, there is some truth to them. Perhaps the most well known and therefore truest of these familiar scenes is the “good cop bad cop” routine. Trust me, it works. The best way to get a confession out of a sobbing butterball like Duncan Starger was, is to have one dick be his buddy while the other one becomes Torquemada.

“Look at me when I’m talking crap-stack!”

Atkins always played the boogieman, sick bastard probably loved those Saw movies. It was hard to argue with his methods though, he almost always got results and from the way this sack of Jello was wobbling I figured it was only a matter of time before he confessed to the whole thing.

Atkins and I were called into investigate a series of arsons at several Krispy Kreme donut franchises around North West. Setting fires is a big no-no anywhere, but DC has seven different law enforcement services. That makes burning down a donut shop like abducting the commissioner’s daughter, very stupid. On top of picking bad targets Stager was spotted fleeing the latest scene on a motor-scooter with two Molotov cocktails in the saddlebags. I’m surprised he made it as far as he did, between the helicopter, the seven police cars, and the secret service van; he had zero chance of making a getaway. It was a bike cop that nailed him in the end, jumped right off his cycle and tackled him.

“No, no it wasn’t me. I, I, I’d ne-never do that.” Starger said.

He had one of those high pitched voices that made you want to cram a plunger over his mouth.

“Look, Duncan, we’re going to do what we can for you, but Molotov cocktails, those are pretty serious.” I said

“Th-those aren’t mine. I sw-swe swear.”

Running this meatball into the ground was taking a surprisingly long time. There was no question that he was guilty, but a confession was still a hell of a lot cheaper than the lab work to actually prove that he did it, so until he cracked, there was no going home.

“You make me sick! How much do you weigh lardo?” said Atkins.

“Th-three, th-three, th-three-“

“Yeah yeah, so what do you got against donuts huh? Big fella like you must put them away by the box.”

“I love donuts, it’s just that, it’s just that, th, th, the.”

“Spit it out big boy.”

“Krispy Kreme is bullcrap.”

All of a sudden Atkins and I were looking at a different person. Duncan wasn’t shaking anymore, his voice dropped an octave and he was eyeballing both of us like he was ready to take a bite.

“Is that so?” I asked.

“Factory processed trash, if you ask me.”

Atkins opened his lunch box and brought out a small bag with orange and pink lettering. He pulled out a confection slathered in half-melted chocolate frosting and set it on the table between them. If I had known what he was planning, I would have stopped him.

“What’s that?” asked Atkins, smiling.

“That my friend, is a real donut, Boston crème if I’m not mistaken. Freshly baked, hand stuffed, and served with a smile that’s the way it’s supposed be, anything else is just garbage.”

“Atkins what are you-“

Suddenly, the sergeant brought his fist crashing down on the pastry sending a spray of crème and sprinkles everywhere. Seeing the donut destroyed like that sent Starger over the deep end. Despite the fact that the tables are bolted into the ground he flipped it over like it was made of cardboard sending me straight into the wall. Atkins tried to pull his gun but Starger threw him into the one-way mirror and then crushed him against it with his big fat body. When I came to I could see Atkins flailing getting weaker and weaker and figured I only had one chance to save him. I jammed my taser into Starger’s back and let him have it. He squealed like a branded hog and passed out.

Atkins was in the hospital overnight for his busted ribs. Starger ended up in some nut house, split personalities they call it. The interview room still smells like bacon left out on a hot day. This job may be half clichés, but occasionally something comes along they would never put on T.V.

Keeping Busy

2009-05-15T07:32:00.000-07:00

A new sort of literature needs a new sort of critique, does it not? Like many eighties kids who didn’t excel at sports I’ve been playing videogames for as long as I can remember. Many in the literary world may regard this burgeoning media as another symptom of an ailing culture. However, I’d like to put forward that back in the 11th century this crazy slang called Middle English was just starting to make a splash in the British Iles. All I am suggesting is the benifits to keeping an open mind and that art springs from humble beginnings.

Like them or not, there is no way to put video games back in Pandora’s Box. I feel that this new clay ought to be something the literary world is engaged in, rather than apart from. It is in this spirit that a friend of mine, Daniel Bullard-Bates, started a new forum to weigh the cultural and artistic merits of video games. Along with another friend and constant gamer, Joshua Raisher, we will be tossing our two cents at what interactive media has to offer the world of fiction.

I will be the first to admit that video games have a long way to go before the median produces a true Mona Lisa or Enchantress of Florence, but given time and the engagement of discerning fans I think we will all be pleasantly surprised.

Come see what we’ve had a look at so far at Press Pause to Reflect.

A Word on Character

2009-05-01T11:01:00.000-07:00

I’m resolved to keeping this blog as focused as possible on literary matters, but recent events force me to divert for a moment to address a terrible wrong. Last night my friends and I saw the premier of X-Men Origins. I won’t drag out the myriad details of this film’s failure; I will simply say that it let me down.

The first thing I said to my friends walking out of the Georgetown theatre after the midnight showing of X-Men Origins was “Why Stan Lee? Why’d you do it?” Standing there in the misty rain at 2 AM on a weekday, dressed as superhero at the age of twenty-five, I wasn’t feeling quite at my best. Fourteen friends and acquaintances had gathered together that evening to see a film about our most beloved cultural icons. We so loved these characters that no bounds of common sense, social convention, or good taste could have stopped us from making an appearance that night. We came for many reasons, but mostly, mostly we were drawn by the guileless enthusiasm of my best friend. Hours before the show he had put the final touches on a set of cardboard claws he had proudly worn across town, smoking a cheap cigar to complete the look. Seeing him after the show, his face white with shock and his claws discarded, was like looking at a child who had just learned about the death of a beloved pet at the hands of a careless trucker.

Of course, in the cold light of day we must come to terms with the facts. I know how it happened of course, the same force that has driven the video game world and the music of our times from their lofty beginnings to stinking quagmire of mediocrity in the arts has set its sights on a new target, comics. After the new Star Wars trilogy and the unspeakable abomination that was Indiana Jones: Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, how long did we think our beloved comic heroes would be safe? The truth is that this was inevitable. The moment it was realized that we, the avid consumers of modern myth, were in fact a profitable demographic, our fate was sealed. Our legends were bound to be strained, diluted, and served en masse to the drunken hoards of movie goers and toy shoppers who scoff at the consequences of their over-indulgence and move from fad to fad after the next quick fix.

The real tragedy is that we asked for this. While we tried to set our expectations low every true fan that set foot into the theatres harbored a secret desire that somehow our legends would win through and that the movie would meet our most desperate ideals. When faced with Hollywood’s inevitable betrayal and cheapening that secret hope died inside us, wounding us so deeply because we kept it close to our hearts where the world couldn’t see it. We set ourselves up for the fall, and fall we have.

The only question that remains is what to do next.

To the writers out there, I implore you. To thine own characters be true. No matter what the material temptation may be, we must remember that the generations that come after us will only have our fiction to truly tell them who we were. Every time we give into stereotype or hammer down our art to make it more acceptable we are reducing not only ourselves, but the essence of our generation. We must do better than this.

To the readers and movie goers, I say there is no other recourse then to heal and move on. We can point fingers all we want, we can rage against this injustice with all the power the internet has, we can even boycott. I tell you though that none of these things will make it better. Until we learn to admit that we are hurt, admit that we are scared, and learn to love again, we will never be whole. Don’t turn your backs on fiction; you’ve been friends for far too long for that. Let solace in the company of friends and time regenerate the damage we’ve suffered, then head out again onto the open roads of fantasy with a clear mind and no memory.

It’s what Wolverine would have wanted.

The Gauntlet

2009-04-29T12:29:00.000-07:00

While going through the agonizing process of applying for grad school I had the good fortune of coming across a fellow named Stephen Graham Jones, a writer and professor at the UC Boulder. (Check out his website here) Once I was accepted into the program and made the decision to defer I asked him for a challenge to tide me through the months between now and when I actually get to school. He came back with this

“Get publishes in WEIRD TALES and FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION. Or collect about ten rejections from each. It’s the kind of assignment that entails writing better, writing a lot, writing when people say you shouldn't, writing even better, tailoring your work to fit, doing the research to make it fit, all that.”

Having never submitted anything for publication, this is a mighty task indeed. I am determined to make it happen. It’s going to require me to really step up my game in terms of the amount of work I am producing each month.

Blog, be reborn

2009-04-27T12:54:00.000-07:00

My name is C.T. Hutt and I am the standard 20 something, D.C. stereotype. I wear a suit and tie, own an impressive rolodex, and am dirt poor. Post College, my “career” has progressed fairly well in a short period of time. I spent a year in Japan teaching English, got some government service under my belt, and now work for a successful consulting firm downtown. I’m what you would call “on track”; if I keep up my tempo I could ride this train to any number of fine, respectable jobs.

Of course, there is a twist. I was recently accepted to the University of Colorado at Boulder MFA program in creative writing. That’s right readers; beneath the austere shell of this budding bureaucrat is a dyed in the wool pen jockey. When I’m not typing up expense reports or researching the latest development in so-and-so’s business model, I’m trying to wring a little inspiration onto a page.

Being such good eggs, the staff at CU boulder not only let me into their program, but let me defer for a year. I’ve got 18 months to build up my chops before picking up my life and catching the next wagon out to the Rockies. Until then I will be posting various short stories, book chapters, and other good stuff right here. Please enjoy and let me know what you think.
Regards,
C.T.