In my entry last Friday, I told the story of a boy on the eve of adolescence who suffered an injustice and fought back the only way he knew how, by hurling dog excrement at a cancer patient. Alas, he was the product of a system designed to keep him down and he failed.
The story worked thematically and artistically as it was, but that was not my original intent.
When I began writing, the idea was for it to be part of a larger work called "The Healing Power of Innovation." Years after his disappointment, the narrator was to make peace with the painful memory of the art fair by inventing a device that was a combination pooper scooper and Chuckit. Cathartic vindication would come as he launched each poochy payload high over rooftops toward the grills and chili vats of backyard barbecues.
I ultimately decided that such happy are the stuff of bestseller pablum and have no place in a serious literary journal like Poison Spur.
The story worked thematically and artistically as it was, but that was not my original intent.
When I began writing, the idea was for it to be part of a larger work called "The Healing Power of Innovation." Years after his disappointment, the narrator was to make peace with the painful memory of the art fair by inventing a device that was a combination pooper scooper and Chuckit. Cathartic vindication would come as he launched each poochy payload high over rooftops toward the grills and chili vats of backyard barbecues.
I ultimately decided that such happy are the stuff of bestseller pablum and have no place in a serious literary journal like Poison Spur.
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