This one sings in riddles and prayers, like a beat poet eulogizing the absurd beauty of collapse. Each fragment feels like a found object—rusted, bright, and still humming. There's something holy in the way these characters fail and wander, wrapped in pipe smoke and fluorescent light, confessing to vending machines and vanishing from courtrooms with their dignity intact. I don’t know what you’ve written here exactly, but it’s true.
Now that line: the absurd beauty of collapse, is going to stick with me. Great one, Stefan. It's like your noble vices recently, another one that sticks. Many thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts. Much appreciated. And yes, I agree that there can be something holy in the wandering, the trying, the falling. All of it.
As always, Victor, grateful for the exchange. I’m glad the absurd beauty of collapse resonated. Some phrases feel like they come from somewhere older than me, like they’ve been waiting to be spoken.
Yeah, I guess they do.. :) I just get riffing sometimes. You know what that means, I'm sure. Guitars, drums, words... all good for riffing. Thanks for reading James and sharing your thoughts!
This is so embarrassing but sometimes I have to read the comments to better appreciate what I'm reading. I know I like it. The images are astonishingly vivid and fresh.
This comment helped me: "This one sings in riddles and prayers, like a beat poet eulogizing the absurd beauty of collapse."
And then it dawned on me...
"Oh, yeah, reading Victor feels like hanging around all the beat poets in 1980's New York. He's like a jazz musician."
Music and words are to me inextricably tied. Back in the day, I played drums in various jazz groups, including one in which we took turns with poetry. These days, I'm retired and living on the edge of society, but I still have my drums, which help me relax, think and come up with ideas.
As with everything I write, I leave it up to the reader to interpret in their own way. I love hearing how others see it, might be similar to the way I think about it, or totally different. No right or wrong, and I get ideas that way from others, too.
Thanks for checking it out, Rachel, and the lovely comment.
This was a trip, Victor. Some fantastic imagery and a lot of great lines. One of my favorites: "The moon crawled over the window sill and lay its leftover light upon the floor." The story about the teenage driver impressed me the most.
Thank you, KC. Glad you liked it - and it was a trip doing it..:)
As for the driver, well... I've written about this in other stories... when I was 16, I drove my Dad's Buick through a guardrail into Big Tujunga canyon, plunged down, and lived to tell about it. My friend Larry was with me... 5 years later he drove through another guardrail and didn't climb out. I wrote about that in He Lives Inside The Mountain Of My Mind, hiding in the archives if you're interested. No pressure, no hurry, just thought I'd mention it. The main thing is that I appreciate you checking out these 6 shorts, and sharing you thoughts. Many thanks, again.
These are awesome Victor. Quirky and unpredictable like dreams and always written from a big heart. I find myself smiling as I read and I always read your stories several times.
This one sings in riddles and prayers, like a beat poet eulogizing the absurd beauty of collapse. Each fragment feels like a found object—rusted, bright, and still humming. There's something holy in the way these characters fail and wander, wrapped in pipe smoke and fluorescent light, confessing to vending machines and vanishing from courtrooms with their dignity intact. I don’t know what you’ve written here exactly, but it’s true.
Now that line: the absurd beauty of collapse, is going to stick with me. Great one, Stefan. It's like your noble vices recently, another one that sticks. Many thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts. Much appreciated. And yes, I agree that there can be something holy in the wandering, the trying, the falling. All of it.
As always, Victor, grateful for the exchange. I’m glad the absurd beauty of collapse resonated. Some phrases feel like they come from somewhere older than me, like they’ve been waiting to be spoken.
Excellent, beyond words. Like skydiving into your subconscious while on a literary hallucinogen. Brilliant, inspiring, wild. Thanks for sharing this.
Yes, sometimes I jump from the sky and hope like hell I'll land in a haystack. Thanks for checking it out, Greg. Much appreciated!
So good, and if I didn't know you had written them, I would have thought, "Wow, these stories read like Victor wrote them."
Yeah, I guess they do.. :) I just get riffing sometimes. You know what that means, I'm sure. Guitars, drums, words... all good for riffing. Thanks for reading James and sharing your thoughts!
This is so embarrassing but sometimes I have to read the comments to better appreciate what I'm reading. I know I like it. The images are astonishingly vivid and fresh.
This comment helped me: "This one sings in riddles and prayers, like a beat poet eulogizing the absurd beauty of collapse."
And then it dawned on me...
"Oh, yeah, reading Victor feels like hanging around all the beat poets in 1980's New York. He's like a jazz musician."
Music and words are to me inextricably tied. Back in the day, I played drums in various jazz groups, including one in which we took turns with poetry. These days, I'm retired and living on the edge of society, but I still have my drums, which help me relax, think and come up with ideas.
As with everything I write, I leave it up to the reader to interpret in their own way. I love hearing how others see it, might be similar to the way I think about it, or totally different. No right or wrong, and I get ideas that way from others, too.
Thanks for checking it out, Rachel, and the lovely comment.
This was a trip, Victor. Some fantastic imagery and a lot of great lines. One of my favorites: "The moon crawled over the window sill and lay its leftover light upon the floor." The story about the teenage driver impressed me the most.
Thank you, KC. Glad you liked it - and it was a trip doing it..:)
As for the driver, well... I've written about this in other stories... when I was 16, I drove my Dad's Buick through a guardrail into Big Tujunga canyon, plunged down, and lived to tell about it. My friend Larry was with me... 5 years later he drove through another guardrail and didn't climb out. I wrote about that in He Lives Inside The Mountain Of My Mind, hiding in the archives if you're interested. No pressure, no hurry, just thought I'd mention it. The main thing is that I appreciate you checking out these 6 shorts, and sharing you thoughts. Many thanks, again.
Cool! Six-sentence stories! I'll have to experiment with that! Thanks, Victor
Yes, indeed. It's fun. My first attempt. Thanks for checking it out, Sharron. Much appreciated.
Fantásticos!
Gracias Mónica! Me da gusto que te gusto. Fue muy divertido! Osa te dice hola!
These are awesome Victor. Quirky and unpredictable like dreams and always written from a big heart. I find myself smiling as I read and I always read your stories several times.
Thanks, Jim. That means a lot to me. I'm glad you enjoyed, quirky and all. And really appreciate you sharing your thoughts, friend.