Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier. I saw the movie adaptation before I read the novel (I know, I know). I like the novel better. Now that is saying something.

It was seven minutes past three when he walked in. I greeted him with a quick “good afternoon”, making an effort not to sound spurious. He showed no sign of ever hearing my spiel. He glanced upward and scanned the items overhead, slowly turning his head left to right and back again. Unconsciously, he stroked his goatee while he considered his options. I couldn’t see his eyes — his wire-rimmed glasses reflected the fluorescent lamp from the ceiling. Occasionally, the light draft from the air conditioner ruffled his bangs, obscuring his view.

He was wearing a plain black shirt over black jeans. Over his shoulder, he slung a small dark blue backpack. He stood, still undecided, and let out a visible sigh at the same time slid both his thin, pale hands in his front pockets. In a quick moment, his right hand rose to adjust his spectacles while his left hand unceremoniously unfolded a crumpled mauve hundred bill into view. He bit his lower lip and stared at the piece of paper. His left hand went back to his pocket and he muttered something I couldn’t hear over the Sunset Daze song playing on the radio.

He took a step towards me and cleared his throat, “One tall cappuccino please.”


This piece originally appeared in Paperbag Origami as a creative writing exercise.

The March by E.L. Doctorow. War is hell. Poignant, too.

An alternate ending (in italics) to Neil Gaiman's Babycakes:

With the animals gone, what else could we do?

Some people complained, of course. But then, they always do.

And everything went back to normal.

But then the animals came back. All of them.

Dogs, cats, cows, birds, bears, snakes, fishes, lizards. All of them.

There was something different about them. They don’t scratch themselves. They looked clean. They don’t bark, purr, howl, hiss, croak or play chase. They made noises to each other as if they were saying things among themselves. And they walked upright.

They stared at us humans all day. They pointed at us with their paws, hooves and claws.

We didn’t know what to do.

A few of us locked ourselves inside our houses. Some of us shut our windows to avoid their stares. Many called the local veterinarian to do something. Anything.

Others got out with their shotguns to get rid of them beasts. They shot at the animals and burned their carcasses. They trampled on the little ones and built fences to ward off the large ones.

But the animals kept staring.

Autumn came. Golden leaves fell to the ground. Northern winds breathed a cold gale. The mist and fog pervaded the air.

Then the first of us began to disappear.



This piece originally appeared in Paperbag Origami as a creative writing exercise.

200 Words A Day. There you go.

Perhaps one of my favorite bloggers can best say it ...

My God. He can sing. He can really sing. Nifty.

 

Tears on the sleeve of a man.
I don't wanna be a boy today.
I heard the eternal footman.
He bought himself a bike to race.
Still I wrote you letters
And burned you CDs.
You were always amazing these past year.
Now hold on to something,
Be strong as you can.
Here's hoping for a pretty good year.

Let there be a bright sandy beach
That will bring you back.
Maybe soon, not so far off,
We're gonna see the world.
Well, let me show you the world.

Here's hoping for a pretty good year.

My heart is crying now.
Well, what's it gonna take
To make my baby alright?

And I'll go on writing letters with my acrostic pen.
Can't you tell it's you I'm missing?
You are so pretty,
The angels agreed.

Still, hoping for a pretty good year.

House Of Meetings by Martin Amis. Bleak, but hauntingly compelling. Nifty.

Read the Complete Review.

McEwan fans need not worry too much. The movie adaptation of Atonement doesn't suck.