Musings of JR Simmang

Them goats. They got themselves into the house 'tother day. Them was just playing around, doin' them goat things they do, eatin, shittin, makin a gen'ral mess of things. We usually keeps a tight ship here. My wife an I, we got the good blessin's of the Lord to have had a full house, and the even gooder blessin to have 'em kids leave the nest whence they were grown. So, whence they left we had to keep the farm run ourselves. The chil'ren were good fer hoing and plowin. My eldest son, he's the bright'un, he went off to college and got himself a good little girl. She's precious. A daughter, if'n you reckon what I mean. My youngest jus' left a few month back. It were he who always left the gate open so them goats would get free. I don't blame 'em. They smell somethin' nice comin' from our kitchen (my wife is the best damn cook in this here county), and they come waddlin' in. You see, them is silent. I call them, sometimes b...

Time for a short story. This is a response to the Writers Digest prompt for the week of the 28th. My grandfather always told me to never have children. He was scared our children would end up complete messes. His children certainly did. I was raised by my grandfather. My mother was "addicted to controlled substances," but I knew she was a sex-crazed meth-head. My father was a womanizing sports car driver with an enormous ego and severely diminished id. He didn't stick around. So, I tried to follow my grandfather's advice and aim for a life of celibacy. I joined the seminary, got a job preaching, and wound up a deacon, married, with three kids. I met my wife in the summer of '03. I was one of the pastors of our church and Anna was a recent college grad who was unconvinced religion was real. What ensued was 188 hours of deliberation, libations, and sex. My grandfather tut-tutted, but 10 years later, he's a proud grandpa. My kids, Eli, Nicole, and Claudette,...

Again, I find myself drawn to the shadorma. It's a gorgeous little form from Spain. Here's my most recent one. His seat was sweating with power soon to be overturned. Along the far horizon, the drums of war droned.

The poetic form Senryu is similar to a haiku. It has a total of up to 17 syllables, usually in a 5-7-5 pattern, and doesn't fit the nature or cutting archetypes of haiku. It's fun being concise. NOTHING FORGED IS NOTHING USED They forged the wall from stone and steel, hiding their eyes while their castle fell. GIVE AN INCH I always laugh at folks who insist upon rulers for life’s measures. BE STILL, YOUTH It’s a most curious thing, that tears of joy and pain are both the same color. OBSERVING REQUIRES SIGHT One of life’s ponderables: needing one’s glasses to find one’s glasses. SOMETHINGS NEVER CHANGE He picks up the old, battered coin, flips it, and walks to the nearest slot. BAREFOOT IN THE ASH As I walk barefoot in the ash, I remember that rain washed me clean

Waterlogged. The soccer game ended early and now, he stood on the curb, with the rain coming down, and the only word he could think of was waterlogged. Soaked, through and through, comes from the lumberjack tradition of sending logs down the river. They'd soak up the water, making them useless until they dried out. They'd weigh too much. They wouldn't burn. They'd have to sit out in the sun, and sometimes they'd mold over, making them brittle and hollow. Waterlogged. The streets glistened with the newly applied surface, the tires of cars-by squealing in lack of control. But with each new car that passed him by, he continued to be soaked through and through. He'd catch his death of cold. Wouldn't that serve him right? At least they won the soccer game. He laid down on the sidewalk and let the rain pelt him and squeak through him and touch him and know him intimately. He could almost feel him being sent down river. Soon he would mold. Soon he would b...

Sometimes, when I leave the windows open, I wake up with a slight chill, pulling at my covers. I try to go to sleep with the covers already on, though, so I don't wake up. But, sometimes I can't help it, especially in the middle of summer, when the heat just lasts on through the moonshine, and I feel like tomato soup. I say all that to say that I'm not accustomed to waking up in the middle of the night hugging myself. Why do they call it a "straight jacket" anyway. It doesn't keep anything straight. The two men were named Ajax and Phil. Nice guys. We probably could have been friends if it weren't for the fact that they were carrying me from my apartment into the back of the lorry. Lorry. I love the names the Brits give things. Bangers and mash. Tosser. Kip. Dog's bollocks. Ajax and Phil looked at me funny as they passed me into the lorry. I guessed I must be crazy. Why else would I be walked out of bed and into the back of a paddy wagon (that'...

Friday nights, I find myself planted belly up to the bar at Morrow and Bakers. The bartender's name is Jacky, at least that's what her name tag tells me. She works weeknights, so I only see her once a week. Jacky's an older lady, perhaps in her sixties, old enough to be my mom, so I can't help but think of her that way. Usually, our conversations don't extend past niceties, but I've been coming in here a while, though it's a dive, and Jacky's become a friend of mine and this bar is our treehouse. I always wonder why it is I come here, come back Friday after Friday, and I think it's the way Jacky hears the bell above the door and her eyes turn to face the draft, her lines seem to disappear and for just one moment her hair hints at a luscious brunette, and then she shadows over, face back to the brew, eyes back to grey. I asked her about it once. She said she hadn't had enough drinks. The next week, I asked again, because now that I noti...