The Little Words Mean the Most

At any given time...

...my immediate world consists of friends I should call, friends I should contact, friends I should Friend, memories I'd rather forget, the clients hitting my windshield, my desire to surprise them, trying to help in my only area of apparent relative for now competence, trying to be pretty though not physically (that ship's sailed), worries, plans first class, plans second class, plans maybe, plans "oh come on!" ... and a bunch of other stuff. Flotsam poems caught in the throat. Envy of my betters (mostly literary). Appreciation of my betters (ditto).

A novel in 4 words

"Gun!" P{ause}. "Simone, 9-1-1."

Theothertomahern's Twitter Novel: Part1 - 2 Years Before

2 YEARS BEFORE

Phil loved his garden. Getting his hands dirty and growing things....

Made him happy. Though his landscaped gardens now were A Crying Shame. Knock huge percentage points off the resale value. Weeds: overrun the mulch. Battle royal! Them? Graduated. Weeds always won. Neglect sits the throne. He ... sure, he knew that. Always known that. Gone to Catholic school, for Christ's sake. Sorry,

he prayed toward his acoustic tile ceiling. Phil wasn't sure where to turn. He'd gone to Brown University, a lesser NOT LEAST Ivy. Secular. Admit it. Toward law school. Now dragging a torpedo, no direction home.

Years later the governor called. He offered Phil Gambardella — old friend; savvy and successful, fellow Brown alum; staunch supporter — a position of public service.

The governor made this irresistible offer: Would you please take over the fucking Sewer Commission before somebody down there gets shot?

Phil thought, Fuck me. Of course I will.

Theothertomahern's Twitter Novel: Part1 - It starts

Favors

A novel by Tom Ahern

For the fireman’s daughter;

for Steve M., with his true-life tales of corruption;

... and always Amen for Simone Joyaux, my principled wife:

none of these things would have happened on her watch.

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PRESCRIPT

The most painful thing Phil Gambardella had felt in his five years of marriage to Celie was the ache inside his gut each time he couldn’t get up the nerve to ask her, Would she, could she "make love"?

            In his mind "make love" meant "fuck" of course. He was male.

            In his mind she always said no. So he rarely if ever asked.

 

No matter what approach he imagined, it was always no. In his mind.

            He froze. Into mute smiling inaction.

            He couldn’t remember if she ever really had said no. Maybe once. For medical reasons.

            But that was enough. He didn’t have the guts to ask her again after that. For at least the last year, since the, their, baby died. Jesus wept.

 

Just a year ago, their marriage had been a bonfire of hope.

            Now it was cold ash. No warm bodies.

            Phil’s first waking thought each day: sadness, loss and resignation. He was happy for a moment when he wasn't awake, but just. Then the thought switched on in his brain's attic: he was due only sadness, loss and resignation. So he then and there each morning served himself a tiny cupful of just those three ingredients. He had grown quite comfortable with the whole thing.