Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
The category, Elbow, is for posts that make us laugh.
When the man woke, he turned to see the woman mouthing words at him from across their pillows. He could see the lips moving, and the tongue pushing the words out between the teeth, but he heard nothing. Maybe he had gone deaf in his sleep. But he recalled the jarring buzz from his clock radio.
George found it amusing, Martha’s attachment to old technologies. There was the grandfather clock in the living room with its big brass pendulum and the Latin inscription on its face—tempus fugit—or as Giuseppe the barber liked to say: Time, she fly.
The vacuum cleaner wasn’t working. Back after three weeks on the road, Harlan wanted to clean out the van, get rid of the stray potato chips and gas station receipts and pea gravel tracked in from motel parking lots. He wanted to give the van a real going-over. But when he ran the nozzle across the upholstery, nothing happened.
And by “Like” I mean “Like” as in feel great affection or affinity for, as opposed to “Like” as in click an up-turned thumb on a Facebook page.
During the Christmas holidays, I had my comeuppance. I had to face my family and confess that I had lost my iPhone.
Almost two years ago, The Guardian published 10 Rules of Writing from Elmore Leonard. Leonard is famous for his allergy to adverbs and his advice in The Guardian includes the usual harangue. But Leonard goes further …
I dreamt I died and went to heaven. When I got there, they told me there was no such thing as print media. They said: books are physical things, but we, as incorporeal spirit beings, have no fingers to turn the pages.
Note: Part way through writing this piece of flash fiction, I got my testicles caught in a band saw. Industrial accidents are a horrible thing. Always wear protective clothing. Billy-Bob turned to Jethro and said: “Hey man, let’s drive into town and get us some pussy.” “Yeah, BB. You know there’s nothing I love better’n…
Personally, I don’t see the appeal of slaughtering, plucking and skinning one them, letting it simmer in its own juices for five hours, then serving it up on a platter of bread crumbs and whatnot that have cooked inside its own body cavity…
what a fucked up thingto nail Jesus Is Coming to a treebeside a highway in north ontarioa via dolorosa which is latinfor road through the middle of nowhereand prompts an eternal question:if a soul declares its christin a forest and there is no GODto hear it…a tree-spiking evangelist isno concern of mine no soulsharmed in…
The Kardashian sisters, whose sole claim to fame is that they are famous, can now claim novel-writing as another of their accomplishments.
The poets I read are really aliensreporting from distant worldsall they see through bulbous eyes: beachheads by lakes of firewhile overhead the sky igniteswith the light of twin moons rising oceans of liquid methanechurned by the tidal pullfrom ring-wound gas giants gravity lenses that bend lightand draw a heart’s beatto the span of a frozen…
Moby Dick is one of those classics everyone knows but few have ever read. We know it because it has given us iconic images that have sunk to the rock bottom of our culture: the whale; the whiteness of the whale; Ahab’s rage; Queequeg worshiping before his idol; and the opening line: “Call me Ishmael.”
Toronto City Councillor, Doug Ford, has found himself in a battle of wits with local area resident, Margaret Atwood, who has mounted considerable opposition to his efforts to close branches of the Toronto Public Libraries.