Career Suicide (part I)

Drops of rain find their place on the window, coalesce, then glide deeper into it.




So we’ll see.



This is part one of at least seven:



Since you chose the themes from the options I proposed for you (see “Opt. 3, April, 10 2010 and “Reprobation (dude, Rovinj is super dobro),” published on April 6, 2010),
I will give you the chance, if you like, to contribute feedback and
steer the direction of this thing, if you like.



We’ll orchestrate the cattle drive together.



On feedback.

I always say, with all sincerity, that if you hate what I write, fine, but please tell me why.



One of my operatives informs me that
several of my long-time acquaintances
in the Southern Hemisphere castigate me,
quite publicly, (and virulently) but are, nonetheless,
constantly scurrying off into dark corners where they can
read my offerings and titter and gasp without fear of association.



For you then, my scampering, literary rodents,
I’ve enabled anonymous comments on this site.
So do as you will, but feel free to express yourself without fear of repercussion. Otherwise, apparently, due to the extent of my global network, those who cross me would find no respite from my vengeful omniscience and cetera, & c., et cetera.



As an added bonus for you, this is going to be starring “You.”

As usual, I am having fun writing this: fun is my ‘rashida’.

As usual, me having fun is no guarantee that You will have fun.



Do jaja, then.



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I. Career Suicide

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You asked your agent to shop your script. You had assembled a story about overcoming the odds, featuring a protagonist immersed in the seedy world of infant-necrophilia.



Your agent told you that some topics are off-limits.

“Besides, it would be career suicide.”



You moved slowly from the building into the glare of the sun.
The glare,
you remember,
was amplified by the shell-white stones
of the walkway.
You sat on a low bench and withdrew the flask from your back pocket.
Filling this flask had been your preparation for the meeting.



Sailor Jerry Rum.

Your eyes began adjusting to the light.

Another pull.

“Career suicide.”


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NEXT TIME: 

 “A Very Brady Suicide”

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