EPTGood Read's blog is about girls, language, humanity, purple colored clouds, poetry, joy, third century robots, love, evil tongues that give eternal pleasure, dead butterflies, jumping on a lake, and everything that tickles the intellect, makes the heart feel sublime emotions, and opens your mind about life. It is my way of contributing my talent and my heart to TL. Enjoy!
Hi guys! How have you all been? Sorry I've been busy with school stuff and many things. I was not able to respond to some of your messages and PMs. But finally here I am, ready to fulfill the requests sent to me via PM to write on my blog more often. I was a bit worried because I don't have much time but I don't want to disappoint my fans and readers. So here goes. For this blog entry, I will use a writing technique I learned in the recent novel writing seminar which I attended. They all praised me for my bravery and vision, and others even say I need more work. It flatters me that famous writers and critics want me to write more. Enjoy guys!
The Sun is Wet Under the River:
How a Story Journeyed Through Eternal Memory,
The Lasting Peace of Solitude Or Nothing At All
How a Story Journeyed Through Eternal Memory,
The Lasting Peace of Solitude Or Nothing At All
There was a bit of a fire in the village. First there was one house. One. Pretty. House.
But there was none. It was not even a house. Is it a giraffe? Oh goat, who is the greatest of all time when it comes to putting out fires? Maybe the cops know.
It was 3am. The window framed the city lights. Inspector Mills run his hand through his hair. Thinking. Breathing hard. "Tonight you are mine", said the Inspector to his lover. "Tonight, I am ALL yours" the young man replied submissively, as he unbuttoned both their pants. Their masculine silhouettes wrestled and fought each other in the dark, as the city was burning.
By now, the little fire was already city-huge. An woman, early 40s at least, was running on stiletoes, carrying her beloved 30-inch flat screen television, a sign that she has succumbed to the promises of a neoliberal capital economy, which promises progress, the life of luxury and prestige, but was actually built on the backs of ill-paid, and overworked sweatshop laborers in the Third World country.
Just the same, her thoughts or none: which she actually had plenty (if not for the tireless idea that had been bugging her all day), she rested. She wept.
"What better time!" What better time indeed, for no sooner than his brain uttered this thoughts past through the complex neuronetworks of itself (the very same brain), that she found herself wanting some warmth for the early morning - the fire was just not enough.
Or maybe it was a Tomasian fire, one that burns within. Not of this world but in my heart. The Pope knew of love too - Deus Caritas Est. God. Is. Love. Is. He is Alive. Inside me. Fireman, please fill me up inside! I want that fire to burn bright inside me.
It was 3:05 in the morning. There was nowhere to do it so we did it behind the fire hydrant. A 2-foot metal tube covering our sizzling body. The world in chaos. Yet nothing is more important. Not for my longing 42 year old body. Not now.
6:00. PM. The night, now a distant memory. Or is it.
"Ding Dong!"
I rushed to the door of my hotel room. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Could this really be... Is this really...
Slowly like a dying cat, or an elephant sleeping in under a tree in the savannah. I pulled the envelope. It was old, and sterling. I flipped it over.
From... JACQUES... SAUNTERE...
(First of many parts... to be continued)
. I think you should write a book and sell it, and then wait for the rave reviews!!! I think there are some people out there who would eat this up. Art doesn't really have any standards anymore, its pretty much anything goes!
