kj's stevens, alpena, michigan, literature, short stories, creative writing

"Now, we work in factories, or don't work at all. Paper mill. Cement plant. Steel mill. The Thunder Bay River brings ships in and sends ships out. Lake Huron rises and falls. It works with the river moving people, goods, our lives, as best it can. Those things it cannot handle, it sinks, and the deep, cold water consumes." - from the short story, Thunder Bay, which is included in the book INFIDELITY.

Another naked night. Putting it out there. Here. For you. For me. And it doesn�t matter if we aren�t listening.

Ink blots the paper. Frost finds the glass. The light comes on. And we create to forget our dying.

It won�t be long. It�ll all fade out. And we�ll be left behind. Blind. Bumping soft wings against a ghostly bulb. Fearful of the dark.

We feel for feeling. Places to kiss. Breaths taken deep. Our sounds so subtle when we meet.

When we touch the stillness. Melt the layers. Ripple and sway. Trying, with all our might, to hide inside each other - and push this cold away.

We might go blind. Tonight. Both of us here. Meeting in the dark. Navigating by familiar landmarks. Your hand on my back. My lips on your neck. And we�ll move down in this dark. Find our warm place. Close our eyes. Consume each other. Breathe. Fall asleep. Dream.

She was sure of it. Passionate, in fact. And I believed her then, as I believe her now. In this old house. Eyes tired of seeing. Ears gone deaf from hearing. Skin gone numb from feeling.

Like this. Now. Both of us here. Wanting to be someplace else. Maybe together. In the dark.

It came slowly. Some fine, fluttering flakes dusting by the window as I sat in my cube, wondering once again... what in the fuck am I doing with my life?

At 5:01 PM, I was in the parking lot shoving three inches of snow off of my truck.

There is nothing like bundling up in a sweater, jeans, and a chook, and fighting to stay warm. I love the cold, the snow, and that everything goes gray. It IS depressing, and it can be very sad, but it is also my most creative time. If I didn�t have to work a "real" job right now, I�d be waking early, drinking lots of hot coffee, and writing more than ever. In fact, I wish I worked a job that allowed me to take the winter off. Sort of a hibernation period, but I wouldn�t actually be hibernating, I�d be HIDE-ER-NATING. Hiding from the world, except for an occasional visit to the grocery store, the video store, and the pub.

I like the challenge of the season. The struggle to maintain warmth, and to keep spirits up. Not just mine, but the spirits of others. Now is the time when we must bond together and rise above the drifts and the gloom, or sink down into it and pray we don�t freeze to death. I have nothing against prayer, but I�d rather take my chances at doing instead of praying.

I�m a winter person. I have my own, internal warmth - and so do you. Remember that.

Okay. Enough of my horseshit for now...I�m tired, and I want to look out the window at the snow just a little more before bedtime. Something good to take into dreams.

Worked more on the book. Have updated the "novel in progress" page (click the link above). Feel better to have worked. Too much time not writing. Too much time doing what everyone else does - nothing. Working the "real" job. Earning a paycheck. Falling into step with the living dead. It's disgusting. Frustrating. Makes me want to work harder at writing so that I can at least create my own peace. Make my own meaning. Fulfill my own destiny.

People will spend the next few days "giving thanks", which is fine and very noble, BUT what people ought to be doing is striving for more. Don't settle. Don't simply be thankful for what you have, but be thankful for all that you can do. Buck up. Turn it around. Imagine. Reach.

Need to keep at it, so I have decided to share chapters of the novel as I write them. They are not finished chapters. Certainly, they will be revised. But I thought it would be best for me if I started putting the writing out for you to read sooner than later. Click on the link above and you will be directed to the novel in progress.

October 22, 2005

10:24 AM

Color hanging over and falling into the cemetery. Red and orange leaves touching grey tombstones. Landing on the dead.

Blackbirds on naked branches. The white sky still. Flies knocked comatose by the cold. Upside down on the window sill. Praying for sunshine to revive them.

This morning, two hours spent on the novel. Feeling good. Alert. Awake. Strong and driven. It amazes me how right we feel when we do what we love. Two hours pulled out of a fast-fleeing week. Wasted time. Doing what�s expected of me. Punch in. Punch out. Pay the bills.

It is a fine day. Cold and cloudy, but light is up there in the sky, pushing through.

People are rising. Stretching. Eating breakfast. Drinking coffee. Watching cartoons. Maybe some children are brave enough to bundle up and play outside. Away from the video games. Apart from the internet. There very well could be people taking pleasure in the chilled air, the wet grass, this autumn day.

There is possibility. There is hope. Doors waiting to be opened everywhere.

~ k.j.

October 15, 2005

8:52 AM

Actually creating something with writing has been a stretch these days. Plenty of stories started, but I haven�t had the initiative or time to follow through.

I haven�t made the time.

Lately, I feel I�m moving closer and closer to being like everyone else. Punch in. Punch out. Get paid. Live for the weekends. Do things to preoccupy the mind, body, and soul so that I�m tired when I rest for the night, and when I wake I can stumble downstairs yawning, rubbing my eyes to another morning, convinced that I�ve had some sound sleep.

But maybe that�s the goal of this society. This survival. Our way of life. Sooner or later, we are pushed into giving up. We embrace careers, causes, God, and the family life, and we lose our selves.

Sure, there are people - usually those in positions of power and influence, or people dumbfounded and lost in the midst of these things - that will tell you different. They will say that these things (jobs, religion, matrimony) will help you to find your self. You will be redefined. You will see the light. You will be born again. And while there may be some truth to that, all we�re really doing is allowing ourselves to be shaped by what others have set forth for us.

We have lost our footing.

Severed our roots.

We cannot create our own light.

We don�t seek new in the old. We don�t teach. We don�t reach. We run through the days blindly. Tied to others. Tied to the dollar. Tied to expectations that are not our own.

What I fear most for the generation to come is that they won�t have the drive to do better. For themselves. For others. They will not be educated. They will not be free. Children will be programmed. Trained. Shaped to fit into slots that others have made.

Parents, teachers, and leaders will be focused on making sure children grow up to be "successful" - measured by their own ideas of (and failed attempts at) success. Driving SUVs. Residing in the burbs. Working in cubes. Living good Christian lives.

Children will be like flowers for show. Started indoors. In plastic cups. Watered. Trimmed. Fed Miracle-Grow. And when the time is ready to put the flower in the garden for the world to see, most will live superficially. Surface dwellers with weak roots. They will not know the beauty of the dark soil. They will not seek and absorb the truest nourishment because their roots have been stunted. They will never reach the deep.

There is more to all of this than good and bad, black and white, and even much more than the gray. But this is not easily understood.

Each day, I�m losing my understanding. I don�t know anything anymore. Everything appears random. Fluid. Yet everything is standing still. I take the same route to work. Talk to the same people. Listen to the same radio stations. Think of the same things. Every day.

And I think, there�s a reason for this.

It�s made me aware of my roots.

It�s up to me to find the fibers and particles. To discover the connections. To see the new. Taste it. Feed upon it, and grow. All of it is up to me. And so, I can live this unassuming life. Going through my days just like everyone else. The picture perfect American - another child who has lost his way, given up, and settled into dying. Pay bills. Pray to God. Work to fill another�s pockets.

But there is something that separates us.

You and I are living deeper.

We were not raised indoors. Seeds in cups. And so, we have a chance. A simple time. Right now. To go beneath the surface. To waken our roots and thrive.

~ k.j.

October 9, 2005

10:32 AM

It�s important that we write about the ugly. Sketch the road-kill. Tear away the scabs and taste the blood. To write truly is to be truly interested in understanding or misunderstanding. The best stories come from personal experience. They are not entirely made up. The characters are not characters, but are real people. They have shape. Sound. Intensity. Low beams or high beams. They posses light. And it is the writer�s responsibility to show the light. Sometimes the light can be shown simply, through an open window in the morning. Other times, it must be shown in the dark. Often, the brightest light is invisible. Found in the shade. Cloaked in shadow.

Good writers aren�t afraid of guts. What�s on the inside is just as important as what�s on the outside. We must be driven to succeed by that which eludes us. Love. Riches. Success. We cannot shoot for these things. Aiming for success only pushes it aside and under. The only thing a writer can aim for is the word. This word. Then that word. Putting this word and that word together. The end can be visible, but it cannot be in sight. If the end is in sight, then the writing will be rushed, false - hollow.

So, selfishly, I wear my guts on my sleeve.

What I have and what I have not, I share. With you.

keep on keepin� on...

~ k.j.

September 22, 2005

7:56 PM

First day of fall. Cool breeze. Sky going through the motions. Blue. Red. Orange. Purple. Then dark. But before the dark, against the last bit of daylight, the geese go flying. South, of course. Maybe now, for good.

For weeks they�ve been making test flights. Over the cemetery. The house. Into the fields. Gathering up in the evenings. Honking. Talking. Getting prepared. Tonight, a few hours into the new season, they�ve gone off into the evening sky. A series of V�s. Three of them. I watched. Listened. Until they disappeared. Into the dark.

I feel like I�ve given up. The writing. The late nights. The women. All of it less and less. And more and more there�s just me. A young man feeling much older than he is. Living a life like everyone else. Slowly allowing himself to be beaten down into believing what everyone else seems to already know - none of us are special. What we think we have to offer, so meaningful, original, inspiring - is nothing.

The time we have is important only because we make it so. Society, by design, is meant to give life a bit of meaning. But the meaning that society wants for me is meaningless. What I have to give is free, and nobody wants to buy. People don�t understand themselves so I don�t know how I ever expected them to understand me. To know me.

All of these fucking words. These seasons. This growth and change. And none of it means anything to anyone, except me.

And that in itself is the greatest reward.

Nobody gives a shit. And still, I keep going. Sifting through the layers. Exploring the days. Finding nuggets of gold in the rot, the destruction, the ruin. Holding treasure up to the light for everyone to see, but all anyone can see is rot, the destruction, the ruin.

And the geese fly. Into the cold night. Wings through air. Bodies warm under feather. Communicating through movement. Location. Simple sound. Navigating by all we take for granted. Flying free. While we sit - content in our fear and mediocrity - bound and silent. Ignorant, and oblivious to the urgency and strength so inherent in our desperation.

~ k.j.

September 20, 2003

9:01 PM

We gave up seeing. Blinded ourselves by what others wanted us to be. And we became nothing.

Just like everyone else.

A man and a woman. Living in a house. Going through the motions. Calling our cordial cohabitation "love" - because that�s what we we�re supposed to do.

We share the bills. Take turns doing household chores. Have rare, decent sex.

But that�s all we have. And I don�t know why we make it last.

I met a girl that made me feel.

You met a man that made you feel.

But you and I got so used to feeling nothing together, that anything else was frightening.

So I let her go.

And you let him go.

And what we�ve been left with are the mechanics. The vows. The pictures so perfect. Matted. Framed. Placed behind glass.

And we will stay this way - always.

Never striving. Never suffering. Never growing. And so, we�ll never ever be there again.

When did we forget ourselves?

Where did we leave ourselves?

Was it on the backseat of the old Chevy the night we kissed and fumbled out of our clothes and had our first awkward bout of love?

Was it down the drain the night you were cut?

Was it lost in the trees the night I wrecked the car?

I want to get back to the day we first met. When I saw you in your black shirt and jeans, under the big screen tv, while both of us were in Sammy�s Bar with friends, but looking for that something else, intoxicated with drink and possibility and wanting nothing more than to go home and sleep with someone besides ourselves.

When all we had was possibility, and that was enough to wake us up and push us through the day until we could sleep side-by-side again.

But it�s gone.

We�ve buried ourselves in becoming.

Lost our appetite with foolish consuming.

And tonight we�ll sleep away part of the routine. Back to back. Motionless. In dreams we cannot remember. Stirred only by the light of morning desperation.

~ k.j.

September 12, 2005

9:08 PM

Restless. Nightmares. Heat. Up on the edge of the bed. Staring into the dark. Aware, as usual, of an end coming. Me heading toward it. It heading toward me.

Shadows within shadows. Light. A fly buzzing. Landing. I swat. And swat again. It buzzes the whole night through. Windows open. No breeze. The smell of a pig farm. Shit in the night. And a skunk. And dogs crying. Howling at the sliver of moon that knifes through black, smoky clouds.

The nights have been having their way. Shaking me during the change of season. Flooding my body with urgency. Hunt. Gather. Make love. Find the warmth that comforts and blinds. Prepare for the end by disguising it in beginnings.

Another day. Sunshine. A new week. Changing leaves. Crisp air. The coming of autumn. Her kind words. Caring touch. The distance between us keeps the attraction. We dance apart. Come back for more.

A tired day. Weighted. Mixed. Fearless because there is nothing to fear. The weight of awareness is staggering. Another day of going through the motions. Saying what people want to hear. Doing what�s expected. Earning dollars. Making no sense.

People who are truly alive suffer.

Freedom came tonight. Hot, tired - exhausted from another phony day - I stepped outside with the hopes of finding cool air. A refreshing burst of autumn coolness. But I found the sparrows instead.

Two of them. Beaks open. Panting - if birds can pant. Trapped in the metal and glass box that I use for travel. My truck.

My approach sent them flying. Flapping. Made them frantic. They slammed against the windshield. The windows. The seat. Pounded the dashboard. Steering wheel. Rearview mirror.

Finally, they came to rest. On the floor, behind the seat. Unable to recognize the small opening in the sliding rear window. The place they�d come in but could not find to get out.

When I opened the door, they did not move. They sat. Staring at the big blue sky. Beaks open. Panting. Feathers matted. Wings heavy at their sides.

I stepped back, and I waited.

Sparrows trapped inside.

Not a good sign.

I feel the weight again. So restless tonight. Swimming in solitary thought. Very much aware of the darkness that�s coming closer every time I close my eyes.

~ k.j.

September 5, 2005

9:24 PM

Labor Day has nearly passed. Summed up summer with a bonfire and a small party. A few drinks. BBQ�d food. Laughter and late night fun. Woke up knowing full-well that things are going to change. I�ll be locking down now. Holing up to write. Will hold fast to a few lines of communication. Focus on a few relationships, but for the most part I�m done for a while. Meaningless meetings, silly socializing, phony encounters - these will be kept to a minimum.

It�s this ol� boy�s time to harvest. All the ideas, journal writing, story drafts have grown. Ripened. And now, I must get to work.

I�m looking forward to the days ahead. Not only because of the creative endeavors, but also because of simple things. Sweetened coffee. Hot soup. Watching movies. Reading books. Warm blankets at night.

I suspect I�ll be spending the season with someone. Sharing ideas. Conversation. Silence. And touch. For me, as summer fades and color gives one last show before the snow, I feel it�s time for me to narrow things down. To focus. Prioritize. Invest.

Still fighting. I�ll always be fighting. But the running�s done. I�m on my own turf. And the best way a man can fight the good fight, be happy, and share is when he learns on his own. At his own pace. At home. I�m finished with away games. Have lost a few. Won plenty. And now with confidence high and skills growing, I have decided to give all I can. To the writing. And to you.

Nights aren�t as quiet as they appear. There is action in rest. Eagerness in sleep. Sound in silence. Sex in celibacy. Commitment in this wandering. I am reaching. Beyond self-imposed boundaries. Through the dark. Patient, but ready.

The wheels turn tonight. All grip and sure force. Turning round. Digging deep. Moving. It�s time we ride.

~ k.j.

September 4, 2005

9:22 AM

Morning, folks. Here we are, on a glorious Sunday morning. Time for a report from your faithful correspondent in the Holy Land.

Leaves on the maples near the cemetery are changing. Patchy orange and red, but changing all the same. The birds are gathering in the tree tops in the evening, as they usually do, but lately they�ve been more chatty. There�s an excitement, desperation, internal movement in the air. It�s time to feed up. Put some meat on the bones. Work with the extra weight to build winter-time stamina.

Drastic change in the South. An awful event has occurred. The United States of America bumbling around till we drown. Certainly, we haven�t much control of the weather. Natural disasters have been naturally happening forever. Nature works over this planet the best way she knows how. Trying to keep things in balance. Killing when she has to. Healing when it�s needed. Our government, our leaders, protectors, etc. couldn�t have done much to stop this from happening. And they won�t be able to stop what happens next. However, what they could have done is be better prepared.

But how do you prepare for something that is so uncertain?

That�s the question. And the answer is that we do the best we can. Have we done our best? Nope. And why not? There are plenty of reasons, I suspect. Some of which I can�t begin to address because I haven�t the knowledge needed - I don�t know about the logistics of disaster relief efforts. I do not know how we secure aid from other countries. Shamefully, I must admit, I don�t know if I can even perform CPR. If the Great Lakes rose up and flooded the great state of Michigan, I�d be winging it. Doing the best I can. I can swim. I�m strong enough to pull people from the mess. I know enough first aid to get by. Like you, I�d be doing all I can to help us get out alive.

But we are not trained in rescue tactics. Most of us cannot design a levee. We don�t have the political connections and pull to get the assistance we might need. That�s where the trained professionals and leaders come in.

Or do they?

"To date, there are approximately 150,000 U.S. soldiers serving in Iraq, about one-third of them from reserve components." - CBSNEWS.COM

We have men and women in Iraq (as well as several other areas of the world). Doing their jobs. Securing the peace. Fighting for freedom. Spreading, as best they can, the eternal flame of democracy. In short, making the world more like us. Bless them. A soldier�s job is not easy. If it hadn�t been for soldiers (many kinds of soldiers), we wouldn�t be here. I wouldn�t be able to sit here and contemplate, and you wouldn�t be able to sit there and read - or at least, that�s what we�ve been taught to believe. As far as I can tell, America is the best. But maybe that has to do with the fact that I haven�t been anywhere else. Except Canada, but don�t tell anybody.

Our resources (energy, money, people-power) are being directed outside the United States. Our schools are losing funding. People - in the land of the free, and the home of the brave - are homeless. Part of our country is in ruin. A drowning city. Dying people. Hopelessness abound. Rescue efforts, food, shelter - HELP - has been slow-coming, not only because we weren�t prepared (even though government officials, our leaders, were made aware that this very same thing could happen), but also because our resources are being depleted by our efforts to democratize the world.

We can mobilize thousands of men and women (virtually overnight) to be in another part of the world the very next day. To kill other people. To drop bombs, food, and water. To destroy land. To preserve world peace. But, it takes four fucking days to get to our own people, in our own country? And then, when we do send help to an area they are worried about looting? Forget the people stranded in houses that are up to the attic in water. Nevermind the old woman who�s dying on the flooded sidewalk. Dismiss the people who are now struggling to survive in a water-blasted hospital because their life support system has shut down. Stop someone from stealing a TV?

Jeezus. Let the asshole who�s stealing get away with it for now. Those people will be in the criminal system again soon enough. The lives around you, the people struggling for safety are what should be of utmost concern.

But, that�s the American way. Distractions. Distractions. Distractions. How disconnected have we become that the first thing we think about when disaster strikes is stealing? How lost have we become that when disaster strikes we focus on stopping the thieves?

And here we are - calculating the loss - when we ought to be cherishing that which has been saved. And it�s only begun. As television news moves away from this event for the sake of ratings, and politicians use their weight to sway the public�s focus to something else (anything else), the healing process will struggle. We�ll continue banging away at Iraqi insurgents. Help to educate their children. Provide aid and shelter. And set the cycle of class division and inequality sailing. Because that�s what the Iraqis wanted.

Southerners are swamped. Floating and dying. Americans are paying top dollar at the pump. American families can�t afford to send their kids to school. Elderly people are being shipped out of care homes into sub-par assisted living situations because their insurance won�t cover costs. Another casket cloaked in the American Flag is on its way home.

And somewhere in Texas...or maybe in Washington D.C....pockets are getting deeper. Profits are soaring. And we widen the great divide.

~ k.j.

August 31, 2005

11:50 PM

Reality comes in the strangest forms.

Pictures she showed me from her roller coaster trip.

The bitter taste of stale beer.

My dazed, stupid stare at the Tigers game.

Her indecisive looks.

The squealing dryer downstairs.

All of it building up. Weighing me down.

But, I have good-sized shoulders. I can carry more than most. At least, that�s what I like to believe. So, fuck it - lay it on me. Load me up. I"ll be here for you. Your own personal pack mule. Just promise me one thing...when I finally break a leg, when I�m down and you know that I�ll never be the same again - shoot me. Put me out of my misery. Sell me to Purina. Or Chee Peng. Whatever place will take me.

I was all wound up after work. Another beautiful day. Blessed with more moments, but I was unable to see the goodness of it until I set myself inside a dark bar, drank a few beers, wondered at the beauty before me, then drove home alone. Listening to THE BEST OF YOU, PIECES, THUMBING MY WAY, and YELLOW. Caught in the quiet place between happiness and desperation.

And I�m up. And I�m at it. A head full up. A heart brimming. Wanting so much to share everything, but aware that I can only share a bit. A drop. A flake.

Isn�t it amazing how much we don�t know about those we love? Our family. Our friends. Ourselves - the dark stranger we pass in shadows and mirrors.

It�s not what you think it is. It is only words to paper. Life in letters. Being in paragraphs and punctuation.

Hang your head without a noose.

Nothing can be so wrong.

I�m thumbing my way back to heaven.

Because

for you, I�d bleed myself dry.

Chin up folks...

~ k.j.

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