If you like to read, and enjoy quirky, welcome. There are about 30 random things here for you. After you read a short story you may even find some personal comments/insights! The main purpose of creating this blog is for writers. I see so much written about writer's block, and honestly, I don't have it. Occasionally, I write short stories, longer stories, books, plays, one act plays, monologues, and sometimes I even think one is good enough to submit somewhere. Of course, when you submit a story to a magazine that receives 200 stories a month and publishes five, you'd better enjoy the process of writing. I'm not suggesting that I'm a good writer, merely that I can sit down and just start writing.

It is important to write, to constantly be working on your art. If you are constantly plagued by writer's block, perhaps you are being too selective in what you write about. With that in mind, I wanted to share with you some examples of my writing, from someone who can write all the time. Occasionally the topics are a bit strange, but I don't let that slow me down, I love to write and get to a finished product. Hopefully, by looking at some examples, you will say to yourself that phrase that all artists who visit MOMA in NYC say: "Well, I can do this!" That would be good, because you can! One of my posts is about a talking tomato. (You have to be able to do better than that!)

In part I'm trying to get some of my stuff in one place, so keep in mind I never claimed it was going to be an incredible read. You can decide that. I will tell you that occasionally I have a story in me that seems to fit the goal of a publication, and I try to write specifically with that goal in mind. Lately I've been considering publications that publish nonfiction memoirs, so some of the entries you'll find here will have that flavor. Perhaps this is a way to get past writer's block - find a publication looking for something that you'd like to write. It seems like memoir-based publications may be a good place to start, because we're all experts in our own families. I'm using a blog here to share some of the things I've written; the blog format is not ideal, so you need to poke around a little at old posts, to see if you can find a story or something else that may interest you.

Two last items. None of these are finished products. I usually get to a point where I have something written, and then stop. If it is something I may decide to submit for some reason, I'll finish formatting, following the specific rules of the magazine or organization (the rules are alwaysdifferent). If you do see something in here that you may be interested in using, don't hesitate to contact me.

So welcome to my blog. Welcome to my writing. Write, people, write! It feels good.

Please also consider getting a copy of my first book, Saturday Night at Sarah Joy's. All Royalties go to the Hurricane Sandy New Jersey Relief Fund. Please check out the book's blog at:

Thank you!

© 2012 John Allison

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

An American Thanksgiving

(I have no idea how this evolved, but hang on for a rough ride!)

We’re not the cool kids, not the jocks, not the babes, just the guys who always fall between the high school cracks.  Whatever. We still have dreams of coolness, but we feel the frustration of a lack of true thrills and excitement in our lives.  We are in our senior year, and decided we would do a little exploring.  All you hear about at school are drugs and sex.  Thanksgiving break would give us some nice blocks of time to see what the real story is on illicit substances.  I decided to just go hardcore and get it over with, so when we met Ned the Needle in the bathroom, I scored a little heroin, and Matt bought eight windowpanes of LSD.  We paid him extra, a lot extra, and he agreed to do it right and shoot me up with the H when I wanted him to.  He’s a fucked up drug dealer, but he’s an honest businessman.

Matt’s family had invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner, and my parents were OK with that.  Just as his mother called up to his room, telling us to come down and eat, Ned slid that needle into my vein, then slipped out of Matt’s bedroom window.  I was shocked that I so quickly started to melt.  I walked slowly, gingerly, down the steps and slipped into their living room sofa.  I heard Matt sing to his family, saying that I’d eaten at home, hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, and was just going to rest while they were eating.  His mother protested, but she let me be.  They say your first experience with heroin is often the best.  I say ‘shit yeah’.  I grew warm and started to glow, trying to turn down the intensity before Matt’s family came in to see what was going on.  The time from sitting down to collecting dirty dishes was so short, I almost missed it.  God had reached down and had picked me up, pulling me all the way to Heaven.  Between the two rooms was a serving table, and on it sat a huge homemade cake.  It kept growing bigger. I watched from Heaven as Matt’s little brother went upstairs to pee, and I heard him come down.  It was weird how he had Matt’s windowpanes in his hand, weird that he pressed them into the cake like he was decorating it, weird how he carried the cake in, weird when the noises began.  I don’t think he knew I was there, or watching.  White heroin from Hong Kong, Ned had said.  Hong Kong must be the capital of Heaven.  I think I said that out loud, because I laughed at what I said.  Hong Kong.  The perfect name.  Hong, Hong Kong.

The noises.  They were creepy for a second; screams turned into bells.  Beautiful ringing.  I slithered off the sofa onto the floor, one foot still by God; on hands and knees I thought I’d set my viewer on the dining room, which had grown quiet.  I had no idea how much time had passed but the dark floated in and around the window, wondering if it should enter the house.  Matt’s Mom was on the floor.  I crawled up to her, crawled past her shoes, up to her head.  I said, “Happy Thanksgiving” into her mouth.  Her eyes were open but she wasn’t talking.  When I saw her head, tipped on that angle, with her tongue actually hanging out (nice tongue Mrs. S!), I recognized the pose, having seen it in many movies.  I wanted to look around to mug for the cameras but forgot to.  Instead, I tried to stifle my smile, to let the video crew see a sweet look of feigned shock on my face – one they’d surely use.  As an added extra, I kissed her cheek.  Her soft skin filled me.  I tried so hard to give them a look of shock, but I busted up instead.  Oh well.  Let God edit it out. 

Matt’s father’s arm was hanging off the table.  I wouldn’t have known he was up there if it weren’t for his arm.  There was a button on his shirtsleeve cuff.  It reflected the light.  I saw a million reflections of it.  They filled the state.  His hand seemed to be covered with a cloud that shimmered and shape-shifted.  It was the color of mashed potatoes.  I imagined the turkey, still on the table, the boney frame hidden under the small of his back like a holiday lumbar support.  It must feel soooo good!  God bless you, turkey.

I watched Matt’s little brother’s foot slide on the floor through the swinging door to the kitchen, so I followed it.  I heard a sound, a continuous sound that seemed to have the flavor of his little brother.  It wasn’t a happy song, I felt, but I made it one.  On I crawled, through the door, and settled into a kitchen corner.  The walls against my back reached up to infinity.  That feels so good!  I reached for Matt’s grandmother’s dress, which was on the floor, along with all of her white underthings.  His brother’s song became muffled as the door to the oven shut.  I saw his eyes moving past the oven window and thought of how cool it must be in there for him, and how much his mother loved her huge oven.  Grandma’s naked hand on her naked body moved back and forth between the knobs on the oven, as the weight of her body rested on her knee, which was pressed against the oven door.  The sound of the oven when it lit up reminded me of so many past holidays.  It’s the sound of God huffing in the smell of baking turkey.  Grandma pressed her knees against little brother’s window, until the song slipped off our channel.  I saw her beautiful skin slide onto the top of the range, where she curled up.  The first time I got to see a girl’s nipples and it was Matt’s grandma’s!  I laughed.  Then it almost seemed like Matt’s brother wasn’t loving the warmth of his little womb, and that changed the smile I was wearing into a body frown, but not for long.  The turkey was just in there!  He must be loving it.  I felt tears on my cheeks, which changed as I saw small flames from one of the burners licking grandma’s leg.  A hand reached down and handed me a napkin.  It was Matt.  He asked me what I thought was happening.  He got down beside me on his stomach.  He licked the floor and kept asking what was happening.  My mind replayed the scene for him, of his brother adding the windowpanes to the cake that they all ate.  He didn’t seem to be receiving me at all, and he didn’t seem to see the beauty in any of this.  He said he was stuck to the floor, and asked me to get him a glass.  I fell in love with the word.  I said it over and over, turning it around, and inside out.  Glass.  Glass.  Ssalg.  I saw one on the counter above us so I reached up and let it float into his hand.  He looked through it at me for I think awhile, then started tap, tap, tap, tap, tapping its edge on the floor.  He tapped until the glass cracked and made a beautiful sound.  This allowed his stomach to separate from the floor and he sat in the corner with me, leaning against my arm.  He’s the best friend I ever had.  I watched him, with his hand up in front of his face, looking at his fingers.  I watched him raise the elegant broken edge and surgically cut across his skin.  I watched a red Christmas ribbon flow out of the cut.  He cut a small connecting line, finishing the letter L.  He looked at me and I tried to give him an all-knowing look and smile, but my head was moving slow.  He precisely cut a very nice O and G, and watched the blood drain, being careful not to smear it.  He looked at me with a serious look and said he had just logged on.  I didn’t get it at the time.  Then his arm stretched across the room and became a nice red curtain for the window.  At least that ‘s what he was seeing.  I could hear him.  I was so appreciative of all the colors and smells the family shared with me, and the warmth, and the daily love - the best Thanksgiving I’d ever had. 

Matt’s body slipped off mine and hit the corner hard as I started to crawl back into the dining room, hoping there was some leftover turkey somewhere.  The white meat was already in my mouth – the best turkey I ever had.  It was waiting for me to replace it with the real thing. 

I pulled myself up onto the table.  It was much more interesting than I had imagined.  So much food.  And then there was Matt’s Dad.  I stood on a chair and began to eat the food that had been calling me. 

‘I’m here, cranberry sauce!   You can relax now, I’m here.’  I shoveled a handful into my mouth, and knew I was kissing my creator. 

With all of God’s might, he threw me back into this craphole planet.  My body violently slammed onto Matt’s Dad’s.  Sorry, Matt’s Dad.  My mouth filled with a nasty turbo-vinegar taste, which only lingered for a second.  The explosion of taste became real as I vomited on the table and Matt’s Dad. Sorry, Matt’s Dad.  I never had the time to watch before, to watch it all evolve in space, to see the patterns in it, to calculate the trajectories.  Wow.  I can’t wait until Christmas, I thought, as I fell onto the floor and blackness wrapped around me.  It was a cold and pale blackness, with a single sliver that was open just long enough for me to see Matt’s grandma’s face sync with mine, as she started to drag Matt’s Mom into the kitchen.  My last thought was, ‘this will be my last thought’.  Is that too funny? 

Look at me now, guys!  Too kool 4 school.  I’m gonna get that tattooed on my forehead, if it’s not already there.  Maybe Matt will do it for me while I sleep. 

While I sleep.

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