Monday, May 28, 2012

Jake Oliver—"Let the Good Times Roll"

When I first began this blog, I loosely "promised" that I would eventually be including an occasional Featured Writer post. Well, that time has finally come. Hopefully there will be a couple more of these over the summer.
I first met Jake Oliver a couple of years ago in a poetry class. I was pretty much immediately drawn to his sick, fearless mind. This particular piece is what I would consider quite tame for Jake's standards, though still well-written. I think he was just scared to send me any of his psychosexual stuff. 

Let the Good Times Roll

It started out as something like Leaving Las Vegas without the theatrics or the bad haircut, and certainly no Elisabeth Shue. I unwrapped a fifth of whiskey; I believe it was Penderyn, which is to my knowledge the only Welsh whiskey, and with a shaking hand I poured a drink any proper Englishman would deem ghastly—but I’m an expat, and here in this closeted environ, a dingy motel room at thirty-six quid a night, there are no noses to be looked down and surely a suicide, a drawn-out one or no, isn’t concerned with English claims to undisputed gin superiority. I don’t believe the English distill whiskey, and in this still we’re looking at, hand wrapped around a smudged glass that must’ve gone a week since its last cleaning, the man framed couldn’t give two shits.
            The man in the still has come to Hammersmith to drink himself to death. 

Jake Oliver is a righteous dude from Maine who also happens to have a morbid fascination with Nicolas Cage and believes Deadfall may be the pinnacle of cinematic achievement. He attends San Diego State University and is closing in on completion of an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry). 

Saturday, May 19, 2012


Okay, so school is over for the semester, so hopefully I'll be posting at least slightly more frequently throughout the summer. Here's a little quickie about a man in, ahem, love with what he finds to be the perfect woman...


     “I've been needing to see badly. Please come with me tonight.”
     The lost man pleaded through the meticulously adorned glass.
     “My wife thinks I had to drop off some paperwork so I could come out this way.”
     She did not respond, did not even bother to look at him.
     The dress salaciously hugged her breasts and waist.
     She modeled Juicy Couture, advertised at Saks for $99.99.
     Her legs reflected fluorescent lighting, both blinding and stirring him.
     “Please tell me...I don't even know your name.”
     Her face eternally yearned.
     He loved her dearly.
     She was plastic.