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Writing was once a respected profession Before the corporate machine took over Stories are quickly losing power As decisions become top heavy No degree, No contract Credentials impress but don’t sell Leaving the public with only academic voices Fostering intellectual resentment Fans hate a snob Fifty printers go bankrupt every year Easier to regulate away the talent Lock the library doors Firewall the card catalog To any new points of view Book editors chastise ambition Jealous of the lives ...

On April 20th, 1999 an unemployed writer named Alex Hutchinson walked into his favorite Bridgewater coffee shop and heard a loud radio announcing that there had been a high school shooting. Not surprised, he cut past several gossiping listeners and ordered his drink. The other patrons were whispering in hush tones that they couldn’t believe this was happening and what has this country come to? Nonchalant about the event Alex caught all of their attention when he said; “It’s about time they t...

And so I didn't go to my grandfather's funeral They would all be there, snickering, gossiping My hair would be an issue, my career would be an issue They would ask about my relationship She's twelve years younger than me They would cry, they would snivel I would be the only person there to mourn They would harangue, they would bicker I didn't want to be the focal point They would make me more important than him And so I didn't go, Sorry Grandpa. Alex Hutchinson Suburban Fiction.com

Advice for Neo-Scribes Be unique. Quality narratives are little more than a landscape for unique ideas. Transcend the commonplace. Social knowledge need not be repeated. Let no cliche leave your lips or poison your pen. Proof to near perfection. The flaws in Walden are opportunities for the next generation of poetic wanderers. Sell out to yourself. Encapsulate your expressions together with your needs. Write for money and art, for one soul's sake and for mass consumption. History will thank y...

“I don’t care who ate it. I want a new fucking sandwich right now!” Murphy Burke, Damian’s father, had fallen into one of his rampages. Damian was hiding downstairs in the cellar rumpus room opposite his mom’s office. It was better to let his dad calm down a little before attempting to talk to him with any measure of reason. Damian was curled up on the end of a couch, reading an oversized coffee table book about wolves. His forced concentration was broken by each heavy footstep that thudded o...