Lit. Fiction

My 1930’s Underwood Typewriter.

Long before I ever set eyes on a guitar, I found myself drawn to the written word; both through reading, as well as crafting my very own flights of fancy with a trusty HB #2 as a youngster. With a rather impressive list of read literature under my belt by my early teens (largely due to long summers at the lake and my Father’s influence), I moved over to this family heirloom and began hacking out  ideas during my High School days. It remains close to my heart and a major conversation piece even now, and currently resides in my living room, displayed on a pedestal table from an even earlier period.

This page features sample chapters from a few of my short stories spanning the past 15 years. They will be bundled along with essays, poetry and social commentary in one volume entitled ’12’ — but more about that HERE. For now, feel free to acquaint yourself with just a few of the many characters I’ve lived with over the years…

 

Quetzacoatl’s island of Modernity                          ©2008 Jon Mychal

It was as though the two factions had set up base within the perimeter of a theme park, overlaid with the usual trappings associated with those ‘cookie-cutter’ strip malls found in most American suburbs.

‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ gave way to a ‘Starbucks’, where a child had been born two nights earlier under the light of an emergency back-up system.
Those who chose to call this shop home crunched hungrily on biscotti and chocolate-covered espresso beans, huddled behind the barista’s counter while fires raged outside and the sound of yelling and broken glass could be heard.

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rAnDi sPuN WyLdLeE!™ and the Heavy Heart          ©2002 Jon Mychal

The ghostly forms move through the swirling mist with the fluidity of assassins from antiquity, dropping in sequential unison then parting, their willowy limbs wired to undulating torsos as modern synthesizers drone over spent tribal rhythms. A lone figure emerges from the darkness and struts with the grace and determination of a runway model toward the front of the stage, captured in silhouette as a small sun goes supernova somewhere in the distance. Perfectly cued, the din ever increases, causing dizziness for some and rapture for others: rAnDi sPuN WyLdLeE!™ has arrived.

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The Death of I Am          ©1997 Jon Mychal

Once again, it’s midsummer, when sticky July days give way to comfortable nights; when warm breezes carry the smells of the city up the nine stories to my open balcony door.  The wind, moving over clay chimes that are fastened to a hook which bleeds rust down the outside bricks, lingers long enough to stroke them gently.  I hear them from the study–always singing the same song in no particular key; calling out and announcing their loneliness.  A burnt red sun is casting off the last of its anger for this day; the heat crinkled air slowly smoothing itself out as the sun relents and begins a slow descent past the row of high-rise buildings three blocks west of here.

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