johnsonboy

He fell in love without much thought. It was wild, barren and lonesome outside and very easy to die. Therefore when he fell in love it didn't need much thought.
The sea growled and sent long scuppers of foam like sexual advances up the rivermouth. The river pulled it all back, and the sea spumed again, hairy at the breakwater and running in a long green hump along the jetty. Up the river until it was lost.
He stood on the bridge watching a crab boat lunge at the current in the narrow and treacherous length of play where the swell ran to ground. Cold grey rain chewed at his ears under the old hat he wore and he carried a light sheath of rainwater on his clothes. He touched his beard and the water in it filled his hand.
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That's how the story begins. It's the first fiction I've tried to publish since 97. Last night it was accepted by the class that puts out the school literary magazine.
It has no dialogue, no one is named, and there is no real plot.
But in every other way it apparently satisfactory.
I used a lot of language people didn't understand, and coined a few words along the way.
I think it's a fun read. I'm happy about having it in print, but not overjoyed. I have to finish the story it starts out to tell. How can I do that if there's no plot?
It's a love story. Love doesn't have a plot either. At least none that I can discern.
In the last week I've had news, essays, interviews, poems, photographs, fiction, my column and my horoscope either accepted for publication or published during the week. Thousands of words worth. And yet I feel as if I'm doing nothing with my time.
And I have to decide pretty soon whether to stay here or move north, up the coast like a migrating whale.


My brother wants me to go up the desert next week and shoot assault weapons with him.
He likes to drink, play pool, and drive too fast through the puddles. It's really a lot of fun