Biscuits, Triscuits…


“Early Morning Pluck”- Patrick Maguire
September 23, 2013, 7:14 am
Filed under: Micro Fiction | Tags: , , ,

I’ve never had much love for early morning spiders; those careless arachnids that spin their one strand webs over shaded paths.

Their uselessness astounds me, baffles me even. Never have I seen an insect stupid enough to be caught by such a flimsy trap so this can’t be the way they acquire food. They could be using it for transportation but how much traveling could a spider do to justify remaking such an extravagant bridge daily? It could be the beginning of some grand web by a particularly ambitious eight legged beast but I’ve gone on vacation and come back weeks later to no more than the few strands that are built daily.

Even if I cannot figure your reasoning, you tiny creature, I know that every morning I will meet your web on the way to my car. Every morning, every morning for more than a decade now. Lately I’ve been thinking perhaps we aren’t struggling against each other. Perhaps we struggle in parallel. You know you try so hard not to be as useless as those early morning spiders but sometimes…

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“Do You Dream, Dezi?” – Patrick Maguire
September 13, 2013, 7:32 am
Filed under: Micro Fiction | Tags: ,

Back before those-that-claimed-they-loved-me began questioning my mental state, I used to live to dream.  Every night traveling to the same familiar location.  Experiencing unusually cordial encounters with those that anchored my waking life.

I so rarely met a new face.  That’s why she stood out.  Dezi.  Her name was simply present, as if I’d known it all along.

Grace told me that I had constructed her out of my unconscious.  Said that Dezi represented my want for love and acceptance.  Treated her like some kind of loose leaf handbill for my emotional needs.  This backbiting psychotherapist reeked of peach pits and perpetually sucked on lemon drops.  She was also full of shit.

Regardless, the dreams are gone now.  Scooped out by bastards and whores.  But I can get them back, through 2C-E.  Fifteen milligrams reveals the window, twenty undoes the lock, and twenty-five lets me through.  So I chase down thirty with a bit of water.

Oh, those tiny crystalline shards of wonder.

My habit is no more economically debilitating than a caffeine addiction and infinitely more thrifty than hundred dollar an hour doctorates.  I’ve cast away the lie that my health has no price tag.

During psychedelic sessions I can only manage four words:

“Do you dream, Dezi?”

She never replies.  Never tells me I’m ungrateful.

Tusten told me I had to find peace and love within myself.  Said that Dezi was purely a random construction of my mind.  Scolded me for directing my focus away from enlightenment.  I always thought Tusten was a stupid name.  His ideas were just as idiotic.

The room in which I dose perhaps served as a pantry under previous tenants.  Charcoal drawings, flaking pastel colors, jigsaw floor to ceiling.  The phenethylamine draws her from my second-rate artistic renderings.  Her dress is woven in fractals and edged by tracers of tracers.

Suborned specialists have, at one time or another, awarded me every disorder that can be pharmaceutically treated.  It was somewhere between taking Lorazepam, because the well educated misdiagnosed my heroin addiction for catatonic depression, and being prescribed Methadone with Xanax that the dreams stopped.

Every substance abuse counselor has been asinine.  No one’s wanted to talk about Dezi.  Not Donny or Jason or Megan or Steve or Aubrey or Rich or Dameon or Jennifer, none of the counselors I’ve had.  They were always more interested in horseshit stories about stealing microwaves and flat screen TVs.  Group is a bunch of addicts getting new contacts to score from.

Those-that-claim-they-love-you are a tricky bunch.  In youth they abandon you.  In adulthood they shun you.   And as parents, well, they give up lying at some point.

Everyone’s given up but me.

Just me… and her.  Dancing for hours on end.  Birthing performance pieces that depict everything from creation to Instrumentality.  Her body arcing in an overly familiar fashion.  Showing off a face that says ‘no one’s gonna love you.’

Always replied by a smirk that says ‘I know.’



“Positive Qualities” – Patrick Maguire
September 4, 2013, 8:02 am
Filed under: Micro Fiction | Tags: , , ,

I’ve often thought that the lies we tell ourselves are the most interesting of all. They are pure; they are innocent. They are not tarnished by malice, regret, or some other disgraceful sentiment like the lies that we tell others.

And I knew it as soon as it slipped past. I was immediately caught in that aha moment, knowing full well that this was a lie that I was telling myself. Two words, contradictory words, that attempted to nullify truth.

If I told you there was a boy and he had positive qualities you’d know. You’d know immediately that he is a bad person. You don’t look at Gandhi and list off his positive qualities. It’s a lie, meant to excuse the inexcusable and it will work more times then not.

I look past my cigarette, out on to the open road and mumble the phrase so I can hear it’s deceit with my own ears.



“Memories of Old and Young”- Patrick Maguire
August 28, 2013, 8:59 pm
Filed under: Micro Fiction | Tags: , , , ,
 
My grandfather came to live with us for a time when I was eleven. His first night was the first night I heard the screaming.
As small boy’s are known to do, I immediately looked to the shelter of my parents. My mother soothed my fear as only she could. “Grampa sometimes makes noises in his sleep. He’s done that ever since I was a little girl but it’s nothing to worry about.”
Back then we didn’t have words like PTSD in the popular vernacular. My mother lacked the resources to accurately describe what WW2 had done to my grandfather but her words were a comfort. The screaming was something you got used to like the popping of radiators when the heat comes on. The thing that was hard to get used to was the crying.
One day when I got up to use the bathroom I found my grandfather crying on the hallway floor. This was not the first time I had found him in such a position but it was the first time I did not retreat back into my room to stare at him nervously through a barely cracked door. This time I walked up to him and said, “I’m sorry about what happened to you.”
He looked up at me with such a look of relief, which I at first mistakenly attributed to my saying sorry. With tear stained checks he then said to me, “Don’t worry son. I’m not crying because I was there. I’m crying because I’m so happy to be here.”
 
 


Blogshare with Patrick Maguire: “Three Coins”
August 20, 2013, 9:22 pm
Filed under: Micro Fiction | Tags: ,

Failure to post needs to stop. Being done with grad school should allow for plenty of time to write in here however, it’s harder than I thought. So I’m gonna get a good kick in the ass by the talented Patrick Maguire who is going to be guest writing on Words For Food once a week.

Patrick is the author of the novel Oldandgoodfriend. He has also been writing short fiction that has appeared around the web since he attended Emerson College. Patrick now concentrates mostly on micro fiction. Below is the first piece to be featured on Wordsforfood, followed by once a week stories. Perhaps our words will combine or overlap at times in terms of theme or subject, but for now enjoy!

Three Coins

I step away from the post office. In my hand are a four coins. Change given to me by the post office attendee. Among the grouping is one of the dirtiest pennies I’ve ever seen. The kind that wore away it’s shiny exterior far too early to ever get it back. The kind of penny that has spent the last few years on the streets. The kind that has made hard choices, made wrong choices. The kind that maybe has too strong a taste for whiskey and too weak a will to function otherwise. The kind that would spend a whole day’s take on a burner phone but not have the stones to call his little girl. The kind that they threw a parade for when he came home but now stares at four coins in his fingerless glove. At least now I can afford a nip from the liquor store off Ashland.