Musings of JR Simmang

Good morning. I'm hoping to turn this one into a short film. I think it has potential. Puppets and Pools I was supposed to meet Will for lunch this afternoon at this little café off Letty Street. Normally, we meet at the sidewalk under his building. That’s one of the drawbacks working in two different buildings. It’s sometimes hard to coordinate. I must have made it out first because Will wasn’t where he usually leans. I got my phone out and buzzed him. “Hello?” “Will, it’s Steve.” “Oh, hey bud.” “Lunch?” “Oh, shit. Yeah, sorry. Time got away from me. Mr Worthen is working my team hard.” “Tell me about it." We shared a chuckle. "Where are you man? You sound like you’re in a tunnel.” "I’ll be down soon. Reception sucks up here.” "Alright. Bye." We hung up, and I leaned in Will’s spot, a nice shaded area just under the awning and next to the trashcan. The streets were busy, which was unremarkable. It was lunch time after all. People ...

This is a response from a Writer's Digest prompt. I think it has some potential. I wear pajamas. My girlfriend makes fun of me for it. It all started back before I started school. I would floss, brush my teeth, take a shower, towel off, and I would put on my jammies. My mother would buy me a new pair every Christmas and on my birthday. I had ones for hot weather (a breathable number from Patagonia®), and I had long underwear for the cold winter months. This morning, at around 3:15 a.m. I happen to be wearing my chili pepper pants. My shirt was lost in the midnight tossing and turning. I awaken to the sound of the doorbell ringing. And ringing. And ringing. I throw off the covers. My girlfriend tosses her arm over my chest and makes a sound similar to a lioness in heat. “Hmmrrrgggg. Who that?” Her faculties haven’t quite kicked in yet. “I don’t know, hun. I’ll check it out.” The doorbell rings again, and as I walk from my bedroom and grasp the handle of my Louisvill...

Too Brief A sneeze. A cough. A wink. A sigh. A touch. A love too brief. We stand in the shadows of giants, feeling the earth rumble and shake with each footfall they make, making small smiles with small teeth. We are fragile in completion, stronger in the baking after we have been kneaded and stretched. We, spoken best by Shakespeare, a quintessence of dust, float upon the surface of our mouths and in the view of our eyes. A breath, too short. Our life...

The last entry was a little hard to read due to my ineptitude in posting decorum. Here's hoping this one turns out better. As some of you out there (the 32) who have viewed my blog may know, I also contribute to Writer's Digest. This story is a response to a prompt about meeting a band, dead or alive, backstage and an adventure that ensues. Hope you enjoy. I don’t know how they did it. I didn’t care. I was going to see Nirvana. Sure, it was kind of creepy that Kurt Cobain was playing the lead. I mean, he’d been dead for almost 20 years already. Modern science, right? Tickets went for about 2 grand. But, lucky for me, I knew someone heading up the shindig. My two VIP passes arrived in the mail a week before the show. From: A Friend. Thanks, Tommy. We’re even now. I decided to take Dana Wendy. She had this fiery red hair and emerald green eyes. She was my luck o’ the Irish. Well, at least I wanted her to be. She prattled on and on when she found out I got tickets. I ...

I am always never certain about what's coming up. I know, too many absolute statements make for rash judgements. So, I'm going to throw this flash fiction in with the category of "I might do something with this later." Here it is, Exes and Flashes. Normally, our meetings ran on the second Tuesday of the month. We met for usually an hour or two, depending on who just shot whom in the foot. Being a creative professional has its series of ups and downs. Today was Friday, and I was in no mood to return to work from my lunch break. I have to go on record saying I hate my Samsung. Oh sure, all the apps are great. The phone functions like a dream. But, it always brings bad news. Last month, during the dry season, I lost my car. Yeah, lost it like a goddamned gerbil. So, I reported it thinking I was going to have it back by dinner. Well, the dinner bell rang and no phone call. The next day, they got me around lunchtime. Mr Worthen? Yeah? We found your car. Great! Where? ...

My bed, a refuge. Here, the covers make of me a second flesh, protecting me from the harsh winds and blistering suns. For my life, as long as my breath can remember, I have been a mole, scrounging around my sheets, abounding on the bed, wallowing the darkness that darkness can allow. Constant people, mirrors of people, floating by my face, checking the tubes, hollow veins of my body, haunting my dreams, awake and asleep. My nighttime terrors, confused by my daytime horrors, convinced me it did not matter when my eyes were closed. Today, my fingers feel out for my legs, my shriveled excuses for legs. I could be lucky to feel. I could be lucky to feel anything, a needle prick, a hint at cold, the flesh of a woman, and respond with my flesh, controlling my fear and pain and private convulsion, and contolling hers as well. But, that, that, may never be again. I sigh. My breath a rattling revulsion, my brain asea without a propeller, my fingers... my legs... S...

I recently discovered a modified haiku named the Tanka. So, here are a few of mine: "Ahead of the Curve" Dreaming of a house built on the firmament of deepened, blue waters surrounded by luminous wings of solid gold feathers. "Simple People" We are proud people too proud to be disgrace-ed though we spit distaste on the feet of tradition; too proud are we to atone. "Underwhelmed" Wet lips, salivate fingers brush the flush-ed cheek eyelids flutter closed open to impassioned breath this agonizing rapture. "To Travel: A Thought" A suitcase is full only when the lovely memories of the past find a place among the small necessities of life. "Night Orchid" Before the day wakes before the dawn shakes the Earth before the light shines the delicate blue orchid smiles and sheds its nightly skin.

"Dinner alone" Dinner. Sure. Of course. Thank you. Please pass the salt. Wine. Water. Wine. Wine. The night slowly slipping to dawn. Laughter. Touching. Laughter. A smile, nervous smile. Corners of my mouth salivating, slavering with the ring of a bell. Sardonic lace. A moment. Connection. Wasted. Daylight brings a loneliness. Tomorrow? Time and money. Dinner.

I haven't been on here in a while, and it feels a little awkward trying to get back in to it, like falling off a bike and swearing it off for a time. So, I thought I would ease back in with something I am more comfortable with, a poem. "Bespoke and speak" Our last communique tempestuous and writhing with the agony of a too short message. For within that spanse expectations hang nigh, floating and weaving, sputtering and spoiling; Words losing sight of themselves, drifting further and further into static. Dialogue, dear precious conversation, confined within that delicate prison. Pick up. My words would truer find your ears were your ears listening. Pick up. This unholy ringing in my ears leaves my breath baited. Pick up and speak to me.