Funeral for a Bastard

I would like to welcome the first writer, other than myself, to the Bad Thoughts Publishing Company Blog and to the Bad Thoughts family, Michael Porter. I have known Porter for a few years now and have always admired his writing prowess. I am honored to have him contribute to the Bad Thoughts Blog.

I asked him a few questions just to introduce him to the few who read the Bad Thoughts Blog. Feel free to fall in love with him and his writing. 

Question: Where are you from?

Porter: I was born and raised in the City of Angels. I currently call Baldwin Village home.

Question: What compelled you to become a writer, can you pinpoint the exact moment where you knew you'd be a writer? 

Porter: I can't honestly say when I thought to pursue a career in writing. I guess my memory is pretty bad, so maybe it comes from needing to document things and keep track of my position when arguments arise.

Question: What is your favorite book and how has that book influenced your life/writing? 

Porter: My favorite book will always be 'The Fall' by Camus. The choices made by Albert when constructing the book really set it apart from anything else I have read. If you haven't, please read it.

Question: What is your favorite film genre and what film encompasses that genre the most? 

Porter: I can't choose a favorite film genre, as I love them all, but some of my favorites over the years are Taxi Driver, The Thing, Battle of The Algiers, Pan's Labrynth, Cool Hand Luke and There Will Be Blood.

Question: Do you have a writing routine? If so, what is something you absolutely have to do before you can put words into the universe? 

Porter: When it comes to a routine, it may sound trite, but I try to write everyday, whether it be a single sentence or a few pages. When I do sit down and start to "put it all together", it helps to have a glass of something nearby.

Enough with introductions. Here is the first of many amazing posts from Michael Lorenzo Porter.

Funeral for a Bastard

      His friends traveled from far and wide. Some enter the church hand in hand, others, crooked eye to crooked eye. Many shed tears and a great many more speak only of what he owed as their cold, wet eyes burn holes through his casket.

      His mother is there too, if only out of necessity. His brother - grief stricken as he is, wants revenge. This was no accident. The man or men responsible would pay. He is certain of that fact but even this does not bring him joy.   

      His wife says nothing. She is totally without signs of life save for a river of salty tears that pour down her soft face like a faucet that will not be soon shut off. Not once does she dab her cheeks with the kerchief in her left hand. She is numb and allows water to rearrange the makeup she put on over earlier tears that morning. She weeps silently and no one dares console her. 

      The bastard snake had few enemies and even fewer real friends. Needless to say, there were not many he trusted. In turn, his own mind turned against mim, and he was forced to stew quietly and solve most of life's mysteries in solitary.

      He lived alone and was always drunk before his wall clock struck noon. He did not know what an honest day's work meant and constantly lied to Himself and said: "It will all make sense in the end." 

It did not.  

      He sat on the third floor in the his tiny bachelor naked, his mind a-blur. He lit a cigarette and contemplated his life's work. Which is to say; his mind was blank.  

BANG!

    A single shot pierced the airwaves and crashed through the rectangular window opposite his skull. Time did not freeze so much as it sped up while he sat there, brains askew. Red and gray pulp now made up the wallpaper. Brain no worse for wear it was just as his rotten mind had still occupied his old head. 

      What was left of the his face stared straight ahead for miles as the lighter he recently lifted from his pocket had hit the floor and quickly engulfed the tiny room in flames, the carpet was alcohol-soaked. 

      He was found by no one. The lighter hit the floor and proceeded to erase him from the earth, along with the building and many others who by reasonable standards were innocent of any real crime. He took more than ten lives with him, but even his journey to the other side was to be a lonely one. 

      Now his acquaintances sat around an empty casket and wondered what his final thoughts consisted of. Did he think of them? Was he truly happy? Did it matter?

      The casket was lowered into the ground and many found it ridiculous seeing as he had already been unintentionally cremated.

      A few giggles echoed across the lawn as the coffin jiggled and jumped while being lowered into it's final resting place.

One empty vessel deserves another.