a vital decision

It was only four days since Steve had stopped smoking, but it felt good, like it was really the right thing to do. I am making a vital decision, Steve thought to himself (whatever that meant). I am making a vital decision. He was kind of enjoying the masochism of it, too. After ten years or so of wallowing around and letting himself do exactly what he wanted, here he was slapping the back of his own hand.

It felt vital, to Steve. It felt like he was suddenly a part of things and not watching them slip past him. Here I am, he thinks, alive and making this vital decision with my life.

Steve is standing in the bathroom. He is looking at himself vitally in the mirror. He is looking at his non-smoking face especially, and even though it has only been four days (three nights) since he quit, he is sure this face is starting to look healthier. It is looking pink and babyish and vital as hell.

Now Steve is standing in the hall. He is picking up the phone. He is wanting to make some more vital decisions with his life. He is calling the number for work and getting the answerphone (I won’t be in tomorrow, or the day after that …).

Steve is drinking milk from the bottle.

Steve is squinting admiringly at the bulge of his bicep as he lifts the bottle in the moonlight.

Steve is the most vital man alive.

Steve is fucking incredible.

Now Steve is tired and needs a cigarette and wants to smash everything into tiny little pieces.

moustaches, detectives, eels

for this post only, i am changing the name of this blog.

my short story 'day of moustaches' is now online here.

i just e-mailed Transmission my short story 'detective story' for their pulp-themed issue. it is a detective story. it is probably the worst detective story in the history of the genre. here is a short excerpt:

Okay, said the ‘broad’. Okay. She nodded and thought about my answers for a while. Then she asked me what my best detective simile was.

Um, I said.

I carried on playing with my gun under the desk. I cocked the hammer. I uncocked it.

Take your time, she said. I want you to come up with a good one.

A minute passed. She waited like a gigantic barrel of eels in a blizzard.

I can’t think of a good one, I said eventually.

eyebrows + reading

my story 'eyebrows' is now online at 3am. i like this story. i'm proud of it. i think i like it because i wasn't maybe trying as hard to write something 'literary', like 'nailed to the bridge'. although i like that one too. so i'm not sure what my point is. i guess i am just saying i like my stuff.

okay.

i read 'day of moustaches' yesterday at this little magazine fair at the Basement bookshop and cafe on Lever street (no. 24). i'd never been before. it looks like a nice place to go. i bought a big glass of apple juice. the big glass of apple juice cost me 50p. i also met the people behind Parameter magazine. they are good people. they are heroic. i post this picture of William Faulkner's moustache in salute to them and their fine magazine.