Don't have a lot of news here. Been getting some writing done. The first issue of Crash--due out next January--will feature a story by me called "The Sounds of Victory."
I've got 16 submissions out there. Two stories: "In The Supermarket Where Elton John Was Once Spotted Stealing Pears" and "The Best Place For Surgery."
Cross your goddamn fingers.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
all right stuff. i've got some more stories up this week. they are here:
http://wordriot.org/template_3.php?ID=2037 (House of Holes at Word Riot)
http://www.righthandpointing.com/Issue28/fiction/raymond.html (House of Bees at Right Hand Pointing)
http://www.downdirtyword.com/authors/timothyraymond.html (The Fountain at The Legendary)
two more stories--Box of Fire and The Cotton Man--got picked up by Writers' Bloc. How to Live Together got picked up by Colored Chalk.
and i've come up with a topic for the thesis.
http://wordriot.org/template_3.php?ID=2037 (House of Holes at Word Riot)
http://www.righthandpointing.com/Issue28/fiction/raymond.html (House of Bees at Right Hand Pointing)
http://www.downdirtyword.com/authors/timothyraymond.html (The Fountain at The Legendary)
two more stories--Box of Fire and The Cotton Man--got picked up by Writers' Bloc. How to Live Together got picked up by Colored Chalk.
and i've come up with a topic for the thesis.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Leaf Garden Issue 4 is now up. It looks good, and it features a story by me called "The Garden." You can download the issue by going to their website:
http://leafgardenpress.blogspot.com/
http://leafgardenpress.blogspot.com/
Friday, August 28, 2009
so, news. i've got stories coming out in september in the legendary, leaf garden, necessary fiction, and word riot. i'll post links as soon as those go live.
meanwhile, a story of mine is up at for every year, a webjournal run by crispin best. here's the link:
http://foreveryyear.blogspot.com/2009/08/1501-co-timothy-raymond.html
also, here's a story called "the air show," which can't find a home.
The Air Show
There was an air show. It was summer. The street festival on Locust would start later in the afternoon. It would reach all the way up to Bradford Street, where we lived in our little house. The planes in the show were a part of the festival. They flew in shapes under the clouds.
I left the house to meet Joyce at the coffee shop where she worked. The shop was on Locust. Her plans were to come home after her shift, but I decided to take her out to look at flowers in the store down the street.
On the corner before Joyce’s coffee shop, a woman in a yellow bandana was setting up a tent. She was alone, looking overwhelmed and troubled. Next to her were boxes of candles, a table, and two folding chairs. When the tent finally fell to the ground I walked to her to help out. She laughed me off at first, but then accepted.
We talked.
She said, “My husband and I are trying to sell some candles. Go ahead and take one when we’re finished. For your help, I mean.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’d be great, yeah.”
Other people were setting up tents and carts on the street. Across from us was a young couple behind a crepe stand. Down the way a little was a hot dog vendor. Farther down was a tent full of coolers for beer and soda.
“I’ve never been here during the summer,” I said.
“You mean Milwaukee?”
“Yeah.”
“The festivals are fine,” she said. “I can usually sell a lot of stuff. Tom’s going to help me this year.”
I assumed Tom was her husband. He wasn’t around though, as far as I could tell. The woman’s name turned out to be Rita. That’s what she told me. She looked older than the other people setting up their temporary businesses. The bandana, from far away, made her look younger and less haggard than she really was.
“Where’s your husband?” I said.
“Over there.”
She pointed across the street to a bar. Someone had put tables out in front. A man was drinking beer and looking in our direction.
“The one drinking the beer?”
“We got married last week,” she said. “Here.”
“Last week?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Here.”
Two bars stuck out of the ground, partially holding up the awning. She put my hands on one of them to hold it all together, while she took the other two bars and put them, one at a time, into the grips in the awning.
“Let go now,” she said.
I did. I let go. Then she let go too. The tent stood well enough. She started to talk, but as soon as she opened her mouth two planes flew by, sounding off loudly so that all I got was Rita’s lips moving. This made her look small and sweet, like a doll. Like something you could hold.
Rita took me to the box of candles and sifted through. Tom came over while we looked for one I could take.
“Honeypie?” she said. “Vanilla? What scent sounds good?”
Tom said from behind us, “What are you doing?”
“Tom,” she said.
“I’m Josh,” I said.
“Tom,” he said to me.
We didn’t shake hands. Tom’s face showed that he had things on his mind. Rough things. I didn’t hold those things against him. He got the table and set it up. It all looked a little shaky to me when the two of them started silently putting candles on display.
“We forgot a price sign,” said Rita.
Tom just kept working.
That was when I left them. That was when I left Rita and Tom. I held the candle that Rita had given me. It turned out to be the one she had called Honeypie. I never actually burned it. Joyce and I really didn’t burn candles in our house. Not back then. But I carried it with me anyway.
We’d been living together for about six months. We moved from Colorado. Together.
And we have a thing that we do. But we save it for special times. What we do is, I kind of sneak up on her and then gently pull her arms behind her so that her hands touch on her lower back. The she hums a little bit and steps back into me.
I greeted her this way after I left Rita and Tom. We did our dance, proud. Her hair smelled like coconuts. I just smelled her and did my best to make sure that we were right.
The flower shop was closed, so we went to a café back towards where Rita had set up her tent. We sat upstairs and looked out of the window at the street. We watched people. That’s another thing that we do.
We watched Rita and Tom through that window. They were in the distance, looking young again.
Still I knew they would never be new again.
The table that Tom set up must have had screws loose, because it fell under the weight of all the candles. Joyce and I watched the two of them fumble around, sitting on the ground like they had died in some way. The candles looked like exotic fruits when they spilled from the table. I fingered my candle. I told Joyce that I bought it from the people outside.
That time watching Rita and Tom reminded me of the first time Joyce and I watched someone. It was in our then-new house, our first house, the one on Bradford. We could see into the neighbor’s kitchen from our bedroom window upstairs. One morning, while looking outside, Joyce noticed the woman over there cooking naked. Later we would find out that she lived alone, but that’s not what I assumed upon seeing her. I assumed first that she was living with someone else, and that somehow over the years her nakedness had become an absolute given in the household, like she and the other person were forever colliding. Vulnerable, but in a good way. This made it all the more precious for me.
It was what I wanted. It was what Rita and Tom didn’t seem to have.
That day Joyce and I had watched the naked woman until we couldn’t stand it. Then we made love.
The air show kept going. Joyce and I stayed through that afternoon. We kept watching. A solo plane passed, making a sound like it had cracked open the sky. I waited for the stars to fall through. Eventually Rita lay back onto the grass, tired with the broken table. I remember trying to explain to Joyce later that night why Rita’s giving up like that made me feel like a boy again. It was something about grace, I said to her, something about the way that old woman seemed to fall asleep out of nowhere. Something about the way she moved, so musical.
meanwhile, a story of mine is up at for every year, a webjournal run by crispin best. here's the link:
http://foreveryyear.blogspot.com/2009/08/1501-co-timothy-raymond.html
also, here's a story called "the air show," which can't find a home.
The Air Show
There was an air show. It was summer. The street festival on Locust would start later in the afternoon. It would reach all the way up to Bradford Street, where we lived in our little house. The planes in the show were a part of the festival. They flew in shapes under the clouds.
I left the house to meet Joyce at the coffee shop where she worked. The shop was on Locust. Her plans were to come home after her shift, but I decided to take her out to look at flowers in the store down the street.
On the corner before Joyce’s coffee shop, a woman in a yellow bandana was setting up a tent. She was alone, looking overwhelmed and troubled. Next to her were boxes of candles, a table, and two folding chairs. When the tent finally fell to the ground I walked to her to help out. She laughed me off at first, but then accepted.
We talked.
She said, “My husband and I are trying to sell some candles. Go ahead and take one when we’re finished. For your help, I mean.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’d be great, yeah.”
Other people were setting up tents and carts on the street. Across from us was a young couple behind a crepe stand. Down the way a little was a hot dog vendor. Farther down was a tent full of coolers for beer and soda.
“I’ve never been here during the summer,” I said.
“You mean Milwaukee?”
“Yeah.”
“The festivals are fine,” she said. “I can usually sell a lot of stuff. Tom’s going to help me this year.”
I assumed Tom was her husband. He wasn’t around though, as far as I could tell. The woman’s name turned out to be Rita. That’s what she told me. She looked older than the other people setting up their temporary businesses. The bandana, from far away, made her look younger and less haggard than she really was.
“Where’s your husband?” I said.
“Over there.”
She pointed across the street to a bar. Someone had put tables out in front. A man was drinking beer and looking in our direction.
“The one drinking the beer?”
“We got married last week,” she said. “Here.”
“Last week?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Here.”
Two bars stuck out of the ground, partially holding up the awning. She put my hands on one of them to hold it all together, while she took the other two bars and put them, one at a time, into the grips in the awning.
“Let go now,” she said.
I did. I let go. Then she let go too. The tent stood well enough. She started to talk, but as soon as she opened her mouth two planes flew by, sounding off loudly so that all I got was Rita’s lips moving. This made her look small and sweet, like a doll. Like something you could hold.
Rita took me to the box of candles and sifted through. Tom came over while we looked for one I could take.
“Honeypie?” she said. “Vanilla? What scent sounds good?”
Tom said from behind us, “What are you doing?”
“Tom,” she said.
“I’m Josh,” I said.
“Tom,” he said to me.
We didn’t shake hands. Tom’s face showed that he had things on his mind. Rough things. I didn’t hold those things against him. He got the table and set it up. It all looked a little shaky to me when the two of them started silently putting candles on display.
“We forgot a price sign,” said Rita.
Tom just kept working.
That was when I left them. That was when I left Rita and Tom. I held the candle that Rita had given me. It turned out to be the one she had called Honeypie. I never actually burned it. Joyce and I really didn’t burn candles in our house. Not back then. But I carried it with me anyway.
We’d been living together for about six months. We moved from Colorado. Together.
And we have a thing that we do. But we save it for special times. What we do is, I kind of sneak up on her and then gently pull her arms behind her so that her hands touch on her lower back. The she hums a little bit and steps back into me.
I greeted her this way after I left Rita and Tom. We did our dance, proud. Her hair smelled like coconuts. I just smelled her and did my best to make sure that we were right.
The flower shop was closed, so we went to a café back towards where Rita had set up her tent. We sat upstairs and looked out of the window at the street. We watched people. That’s another thing that we do.
We watched Rita and Tom through that window. They were in the distance, looking young again.
Still I knew they would never be new again.
The table that Tom set up must have had screws loose, because it fell under the weight of all the candles. Joyce and I watched the two of them fumble around, sitting on the ground like they had died in some way. The candles looked like exotic fruits when they spilled from the table. I fingered my candle. I told Joyce that I bought it from the people outside.
That time watching Rita and Tom reminded me of the first time Joyce and I watched someone. It was in our then-new house, our first house, the one on Bradford. We could see into the neighbor’s kitchen from our bedroom window upstairs. One morning, while looking outside, Joyce noticed the woman over there cooking naked. Later we would find out that she lived alone, but that’s not what I assumed upon seeing her. I assumed first that she was living with someone else, and that somehow over the years her nakedness had become an absolute given in the household, like she and the other person were forever colliding. Vulnerable, but in a good way. This made it all the more precious for me.
It was what I wanted. It was what Rita and Tom didn’t seem to have.
That day Joyce and I had watched the naked woman until we couldn’t stand it. Then we made love.
The air show kept going. Joyce and I stayed through that afternoon. We kept watching. A solo plane passed, making a sound like it had cracked open the sky. I waited for the stars to fall through. Eventually Rita lay back onto the grass, tired with the broken table. I remember trying to explain to Joyce later that night why Rita’s giving up like that made me feel like a boy again. It was something about grace, I said to her, something about the way that old woman seemed to fall asleep out of nowhere. Something about the way she moved, so musical.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
hey friends. i've got a few short shorts up at The. you can read them here:
http://welcometoyethe.blogspot.com/search/label/timothy%20raymond
http://welcometoyethe.blogspot.com/search/label/timothy%20raymond
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Here's one that I can't seem to place anywhere.
The Day That Erin Left Us
The pile of shopping carts was just outside in the alley. I still don’t know where they came from, but I know that Frank brought them. Last I checked there were nine of the carts altogether, stacked up solidly into a shaky-looking steel pyramid.
Frank was the one from across the street. He’d been around the neighborhood since before I moved there. You got used to him quickly. You really did. His eyes seemed to be shoved too far into his head, so that his eyelids were sucked in. In an odd way the look was a comfort.
For the most part he wandered the streets, old and happy, seeking small talk with the local residents. The managers of the building across the street let him sleep and clean himself in a room in their basement, as long as he cleaned the laundry room down there when he wasn’t busy. Frank would tell you about it after you saw him a couple of times.
I had more time to see him after Erin left. She left a month before the carts showed up. She had been living with me. We told each other that we were in love. It was just us and my cat Squirrel, a fat young cat with a creamy belly. The three of us lasted two months, then it was over. The two months were good. Erin and I worked from home doing transcription work for a company called SoundIt. Next to each other we would type on our computers, smoke on the couch during our break, and then curl up and sleep for what seemed like forever. I loved it.
Eventually Erin got tired of something. Of what, exactly, I didn’t know at the time. You don’t know immediately when you’re the problem. Or maybe you do and just don’t want to admit it.
So Erin started to take long walks alone at night. Sometimes she would get in after I was asleep. These were nights of only fitful sleep for me. I would ask her again and again what was wrong, and she would just say something meant to be soothing.
“I’m just adjusting to living together,” she would say.
“Okay,” I would say.
“I’m just taking time to think about my career,” she would say.
“Okay.”
I secretly hoped that she was pregnant.
“I’m just stressed.”
“Okay,” I would say again.
After all, she was not pregnant. She was just tired. The last thing that she said to me was “You’re infringing. You’re wrecked. It’s all wrecked.” That was the real one. That was the one she meant.
That was also the day that Erin left Squirrel and me. I don’t know. These things happen. I remember that she was going out to walk around. She put on her shoes and found that Squirrel had vomited in them.
“It’s just a hairball,” I’d said.
“Infringing,” she started. “Wrecked.”
I followed her down the block when she left, but she was too fast. On my way back home I pulled an advertisement for a clerk-job working at a clinic down the street. I decided I should take it. Just get out of the house.
After taking that job I was out during the day, able to see more of Frank, who would tell me about the neighbors or about when he worked as a beekeeper. This was great for me, seeing someone on a regular basis. I enjoyed it.
Then Frank started bringing in shopping carts. Bringing them into that alley. When I saw his growing pyramid I eventually went down to him to find out what was going on.
“Frank,” I said.
“Nick,” he said. “Nick, good to see you again.”
“What’s with the carts, Frank?” I said. “I’ve been curious.”
Frank looked at the carts without changing his expression all that much. His eyes looked like cheap stones. Then he began to smile.
“It’s nothing, really,” he said. “Remember when I worked for the forest service?”
“No,” I said. “You never told me about that.”
“I worked for a forest service. I met a guy there who liked to hunt. Once he brought me to his house. He had this basement halfway underground. In the basement he kept the skeletons of the stuff that he killed. He didn’t keep the other parts of the animals. The moose, the rabbits, the deer, the birds, everything. He piled them up together. I only saw it once, but it was amazing.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“That time I saw it,” he said, “a bird flew through the window and landed on top of the pile. It just stood there for a second, and then it was gone. I was feeling bad around that time, but the bird did something to me.”
“Wow,” I said.
“It was nothing,” he said. “I was searching for something like that. It could’ve been a piece of cotton that landed on the pile, it wouldn’t have mattered. But I liked that pile of skeletons. I found this first cart in the alley here already. I got some more to make the skeleton thing again. I guess the cart reminded me of it.”
It made sense for me in my own little way. I looked again at the pile and then went home.
I don’t care now if Frank was lying about all of it, the jobs or the bones or the bird. He lived in a basement. I don’t know why. I don’t care. It’s just, there is a moment from time to time when everything gets to be too much, and you just kind of burst from the inside. It’s the feeling you get when you run too hard for too long. It’s rough, but it isn’t all bad. It’s a release. Frank was a part of all that. He really was. Whatever it was, he held it like water, and from time to time, when we needed it, he gave it to us.
The Day That Erin Left Us
The pile of shopping carts was just outside in the alley. I still don’t know where they came from, but I know that Frank brought them. Last I checked there were nine of the carts altogether, stacked up solidly into a shaky-looking steel pyramid.
Frank was the one from across the street. He’d been around the neighborhood since before I moved there. You got used to him quickly. You really did. His eyes seemed to be shoved too far into his head, so that his eyelids were sucked in. In an odd way the look was a comfort.
For the most part he wandered the streets, old and happy, seeking small talk with the local residents. The managers of the building across the street let him sleep and clean himself in a room in their basement, as long as he cleaned the laundry room down there when he wasn’t busy. Frank would tell you about it after you saw him a couple of times.
I had more time to see him after Erin left. She left a month before the carts showed up. She had been living with me. We told each other that we were in love. It was just us and my cat Squirrel, a fat young cat with a creamy belly. The three of us lasted two months, then it was over. The two months were good. Erin and I worked from home doing transcription work for a company called SoundIt. Next to each other we would type on our computers, smoke on the couch during our break, and then curl up and sleep for what seemed like forever. I loved it.
Eventually Erin got tired of something. Of what, exactly, I didn’t know at the time. You don’t know immediately when you’re the problem. Or maybe you do and just don’t want to admit it.
So Erin started to take long walks alone at night. Sometimes she would get in after I was asleep. These were nights of only fitful sleep for me. I would ask her again and again what was wrong, and she would just say something meant to be soothing.
“I’m just adjusting to living together,” she would say.
“Okay,” I would say.
“I’m just taking time to think about my career,” she would say.
“Okay.”
I secretly hoped that she was pregnant.
“I’m just stressed.”
“Okay,” I would say again.
After all, she was not pregnant. She was just tired. The last thing that she said to me was “You’re infringing. You’re wrecked. It’s all wrecked.” That was the real one. That was the one she meant.
That was also the day that Erin left Squirrel and me. I don’t know. These things happen. I remember that she was going out to walk around. She put on her shoes and found that Squirrel had vomited in them.
“It’s just a hairball,” I’d said.
“Infringing,” she started. “Wrecked.”
I followed her down the block when she left, but she was too fast. On my way back home I pulled an advertisement for a clerk-job working at a clinic down the street. I decided I should take it. Just get out of the house.
After taking that job I was out during the day, able to see more of Frank, who would tell me about the neighbors or about when he worked as a beekeeper. This was great for me, seeing someone on a regular basis. I enjoyed it.
Then Frank started bringing in shopping carts. Bringing them into that alley. When I saw his growing pyramid I eventually went down to him to find out what was going on.
“Frank,” I said.
“Nick,” he said. “Nick, good to see you again.”
“What’s with the carts, Frank?” I said. “I’ve been curious.”
Frank looked at the carts without changing his expression all that much. His eyes looked like cheap stones. Then he began to smile.
“It’s nothing, really,” he said. “Remember when I worked for the forest service?”
“No,” I said. “You never told me about that.”
“I worked for a forest service. I met a guy there who liked to hunt. Once he brought me to his house. He had this basement halfway underground. In the basement he kept the skeletons of the stuff that he killed. He didn’t keep the other parts of the animals. The moose, the rabbits, the deer, the birds, everything. He piled them up together. I only saw it once, but it was amazing.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“That time I saw it,” he said, “a bird flew through the window and landed on top of the pile. It just stood there for a second, and then it was gone. I was feeling bad around that time, but the bird did something to me.”
“Wow,” I said.
“It was nothing,” he said. “I was searching for something like that. It could’ve been a piece of cotton that landed on the pile, it wouldn’t have mattered. But I liked that pile of skeletons. I found this first cart in the alley here already. I got some more to make the skeleton thing again. I guess the cart reminded me of it.”
It made sense for me in my own little way. I looked again at the pile and then went home.
I don’t care now if Frank was lying about all of it, the jobs or the bones or the bird. He lived in a basement. I don’t know why. I don’t care. It’s just, there is a moment from time to time when everything gets to be too much, and you just kind of burst from the inside. It’s the feeling you get when you run too hard for too long. It’s rough, but it isn’t all bad. It’s a release. Frank was a part of all that. He really was. Whatever it was, he held it like water, and from time to time, when we needed it, he gave it to us.
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