The man I loved until he died at 58 wasn't an Indian but he was something like the Indian man in your fictional story. We met as 17 year olds. He served in the war in Vietnam during the year we turned 21. There was something he had done that he believed was unforgivable, something he believed he would go to hell for, something that he believed he could never tell anyone. It was not clear whether the incident happened during his time in Vietnam or before or after. But he was absolutely clear to me about the nature of what he had done. It was of the nature of things that he believed you have to keep to yourself always. He couldn't forgive himself. He couldn't love himself. I don't believe in Satan or hell. I believe he did. I believe that unconditional love awaits all those who can't love themselves in life. After he died, I felt his unconditional love. Still do. The man's story rings true. He knew what he did was wrong. He didn't expect mercy. And he loved.
I had a roommate I loved in the uni. I killed his religious faith and probably his future ease with his existence by talking talking talking for a whole school year. I wrote a poem about our friendship, included in my first book SIX MILE CORNER:
Fort Hill
Dogs
mammaldom’s Boston Irish
rant from porches. Park
hoodlums
glitter at us
like battered letter knives
and the white
washed monument
built
when my friend’s greatgranddad who said
“I spit upon the people” was boss
in Boston – squat
lighthouse jammed up through a doghouse
-- at least at some time since
has been
a public privy. Not
even that use mars
its now lovely
disrelation. Across
where the walls of a half-bulldozed tenement bloom
Really good. You have a fantastic noir voice, was reminded of Dashiel Hammett. And the note you put up, about the cousins, one a cop, the other a bank robber, was good too -- for the red noir novel that you suggest/I hope you write. Maybe this killing is the, or a, mystery at the core? And the whole thing screams "film me." Especially if the res is photogenic. I was thinking big mountains, but maybe Seminole? Anyway, very promising.
What a delightful and engrossing read. You never know where the story is going while reading but every action makes sense in retrospect. Reminds me of why I fell in love with Alexie’s writing when I stumbled upon “The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven”
Wow!!! what a story to read. Nailed it, sir! Yes you did!
The man I loved until he died at 58 wasn't an Indian but he was something like the Indian man in your fictional story. We met as 17 year olds. He served in the war in Vietnam during the year we turned 21. There was something he had done that he believed was unforgivable, something he believed he would go to hell for, something that he believed he could never tell anyone. It was not clear whether the incident happened during his time in Vietnam or before or after. But he was absolutely clear to me about the nature of what he had done. It was of the nature of things that he believed you have to keep to yourself always. He couldn't forgive himself. He couldn't love himself. I don't believe in Satan or hell. I believe he did. I believe that unconditional love awaits all those who can't love themselves in life. After he died, I felt his unconditional love. Still do. The man's story rings true. He knew what he did was wrong. He didn't expect mercy. And he loved.
Another slam dunk from a masterful story teller. Thank you.
I had a roommate I loved in the uni. I killed his religious faith and probably his future ease with his existence by talking talking talking for a whole school year. I wrote a poem about our friendship, included in my first book SIX MILE CORNER:
Fort Hill
Dogs
mammaldom’s Boston Irish
rant from porches. Park
hoodlums
glitter at us
like battered letter knives
and the white
washed monument
built
when my friend’s greatgranddad who said
“I spit upon the people” was boss
in Boston – squat
lighthouse jammed up through a doghouse
-- at least at some time since
has been
a public privy. Not
even that use mars
its now lovely
disrelation. Across
where the walls of a half-bulldozed tenement bloom
Puerto Rican reds and golds,
an accordion
solo whines
Rocco and His Brothers.
Uncut yellow
ragweed wet
with bottle glass
hides ruggedly distinct
little boy / little girl games.
My above
mentioned friend
and I sway on the one green slat
of a bench, chat-
ting, having
never found (in slight sight through mist
of the new Prudential megalith
on Washington Heights)
anyone
each the like
of the other.
Really good. You have a fantastic noir voice, was reminded of Dashiel Hammett. And the note you put up, about the cousins, one a cop, the other a bank robber, was good too -- for the red noir novel that you suggest/I hope you write. Maybe this killing is the, or a, mystery at the core? And the whole thing screams "film me." Especially if the res is photogenic. I was thinking big mountains, but maybe Seminole? Anyway, very promising.
My goodness
What a delightful and engrossing read. You never know where the story is going while reading but every action makes sense in retrospect. Reminds me of why I fell in love with Alexie’s writing when I stumbled upon “The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven”
This is why I spend time with Substack!
Many thanks
Masterful. You’re a true genius with words. And my feelings…..
Intense - I loved it.
you're good....
Dude
Excellent writing! I can relate to the incident with the cops and having to convince them about being the father of the child.
This is fantastic. Your short stories are my favorite pieces out of all your work.
I think things like this happen IRL a lot more often than people want to believe.
Great story! I love all the details, like the scars in his stomach he played like a flute.
Yikes!! I did not see that coming!
No surprise that I couldn’t stop reading. That I believed it knowing it was a story.
The ruler I use: If it’s good, you believe a story is true.
Is this a true story? And didn’t you publicly confess to a murder?
I thought so too -- even though it says "fiction." Then I realized that "fiction" is another literary conceit, meant to throw off the cops.
It says fiction right there in the subtitle.
Okay, I ‘m an idiot!