Monthly Archives: November 2015

THE MEAN

As I make my way through the journey of obtaining an MFA in creative writing, it’s strange that philosophers (especially Aristotle) continue to invade my life (you know, because I have that undergraduate in philosophy–though it makes me no expert by any means, no pun intended). Despite the fact that I recently had an awakening, if you will, about how much philosophy and creative thinking (i.e. art) go hand-in-hand (Practical Art), it still surprises me. The surprise is a good one because it further validates that I am on the right path.

At any rate, after having been recently subjected to an Aristotelian quote through one of my MFA courses, I went through one of my old term papers about The Mean. It is equally strange and interesting to go back through old writings because I wonder how I ever managed to persuade an A out of my professor.

As I reread, I don’t remember exactly which book that particular theory came from and now realize that I did a poor job of summarizing the content for someone who has never read the material. Clearly the paper was to one particular audience–the professor. And, because he is well-versed in the subject matter, his brain probably just filled in all the holes from a summary standpoint.

Regardless, The Mean is about obtaining an appropriate level of virtue and that one must be raised the right way in order to achieve that goal. The link below is an attempt to explain the elements Aristotle requires to be virtuous, the anomaly I believe I saw in his argument and the reason I believe it would not allow for people to think for themselves.

THE MEAN-Aristotle

Sleep tight for me, I’m gone.

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Hint Fiction

Shadow man | by BusterBB001

Shadow man | by BusterBB001

First Thanksgiving

The table was lavishly decorated—worthy of a magazine cover, even. The turkey glistened golden brown, but I don’t understand why it was meowing.

 

 

Distorted Nightmares

The wrinkled farmer, his mouth disproportioned and agape, crouched at my beside. He was screaming, but no sound emerged. I wasn’t supposed to be there.

Military Experiment

As the room violently shook, the General whispered, “He knows.” Lights flicked into darkness. And then, a stabbing, white light erupted from the laboratory door.


THE DAYDREAMER

Daydreamer Coming SoonCOMING SOON–Here’s to what daydreams may come.

In the meantime, don’t forget about my e-book short story, Meet Mr. G. Get your copy today for only $0.99. After you’ve read it, please write your review on any and/or all of the following sites: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Smashwords and Goodreads.

You can also “like” my Facebook page. The link can be found at the far right, near the bottom of the page.


CURSOR

The moon hung low in the blackness of midnight. Its brilliance shimmered across the turbulent waters below as the tide cascaded across jagged rocks. With each swish, a gentle breeze blew through the windows covered by floor-length, delicate lace curtains adorned with intricate scalloped edges. They waved rhythmically with the crashing tide, as if breathing.

Hunched over a dimly lit desk, in her cramped office, Alison rested her forehead in the palm of her hand, fingers entwined in her hair. With heavy, sleep-deprived, eyes she glanced out from under the brim of her glasses to peer through the slivered opening between curtain panels to glimpse the moon, but quickly returned her focus to the blinking cursor demanding her attention.

One of the panels flickered out-of-sync, drawing Alison’s attention to the window as a shiver ran down her spine. The dead silence that fell upon the room pierced Allison’s eardrums while she watched the curtains dip in slow exhale to form a frame around the silhouette of a woman in a distressed mourning gown.

Mesmerized, fear welled up, high into her esophagus, burning like flames bursting from hell as the oxygen was stripped from her lungs, rendering her breathless and unable to move or scream. The shadow lunged forward. With thinly pursed lips, her ashen-face scowled from under a tight, silver-streaked bun as her boney fingers clawed out Alison’s soul and poured it into the glowing monitor. Alison’s lifeless body slumped over her keyboard while the demanding cursor blinked to life.