I write primarily short stories and flash fiction or experimental prose, inspired by a lifetime of curious learning about, and cogitating on, the nature of the world and our existence and like, what it’s really all about anyway, man.
I’ve also been inspired by a lifetime of reading SF and Fantasy, horror, classical and contemporary literature, historical (or as my dad used to put it, hysterical) fiction, The Onion News, and all manner of who-knows-what-else I could get my hot little hands on. Here is an example, or more, of some recent work. All Rights Reserved, please contact me if you would like to get permissions or talk further.
You know, it’s the same every damn time.
Every six months or so, there’s another one of them a-holes, a-riding up into town, clad in worn, dark, tattered leather, waving his gol-damn pistols around and ordering people around like he owned the place. I don’t know what they think gives them the right.
Why, just last week, one of ’em tried to get fresh with me… Said I would even ask him, all sweetlike, when he was done hittin’ about four other dudes and knocking them out, and punching some giant alien lizard repeatedly in the face.
Why, I had to tie him up with his own lasso, lash it to his saddle, and set his horse to spookin’. I tell you what.
My cousin Marlene, she really wouldn’t stand for that sort of thing. Pulled a shotgun in one gentleman bastard’s face, she caught him trying to sneak in her window. She didn’t buy his flimsy chemise of a tale, about needing to hide from some guys chasing him in a steam horseless carriage!
It took him showing her his badge before she realized she was nearly gonna shoot the U.S. Marshal, and boy, was she floored then.
Me, I’d love to quit this town, travel off to who knows where, maybe someplace with some boats and colored parasols, someplace where it’s always spring. I had a girlfriend told me about that, once. She talked about the light through the tree leaves, how they made this pattern, and cherry blossoms rainin’ down like snow, falling into your lap. Maybe some pretty string music playin’ in the background, what did she call that instrument? Oh, I forget, me…
Anyways. Too damn many of these outlaws, all tryin’ to be hard, to prove themselves. And they never clean up after themselves, or pay for things they broke, neither. It’s up to us townspeople to do that. They’re almost as bad as the missionaries, although at least the missionaries remember to feed us.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to stay here and let a damn fool outlaw man fall in love with me, or worse yet- me in love with him. Although I can’t imagine such a thing- always sulky and broody all the time. What fun is that? Go out on a Saturday night, and you can’t enjoy yourself as your beau keeps challenging the man at the next table to a fight? It’s terrible dull.
I just know if I stay here, I’ll wind up in the family way, and sent off to Mother Beatrice’s Home for Girls, just like all the rest of them foolish chits in this town.
And my lone hero? He will have rode off into the sunset, looking for his next town to catch a break from. Screw him, anyways. I always did like that shy young man at the booksellers’, anyway.
(Well I’m not sure as he’s really a man, you know what I mean… But he’s always so nice. Don’t make no never mind to me.)
Just as long as he don’t get into readin’ none of them outlaw storybooks. Damn waste of time and money, you ask me.
I sure do like some of the pictures on the covers…
S.B. Appel 7/15/15