20111203

A Loner

by M.E. Purfield

He stayed in his house. He didn’t talk to his neighbors. He worked from home. He never had visitors. No one was surprised when the police arrested him for murder. I was surprised I got away with it.

6S

M.E. Purfield has fiction on the web and in print. You can find him here.

10 comments:

carlos de la parra said...

Not all loners are running from the law. Some just don't want to be in the same box as everyone.

Adam J. Whitlatch said...

Whoa! Nice twist!

Cynthia said...

fantastic.

Rebecca Jane said...

I got away with it, too. I totally identify! Thumbs up!

Anonymous said...

I loved the twist at the end.

Jeanette Cheezum

Abhra Pal said...

Loved it! I am working on micro fiction myself.

Kraxpelax said...

My art:

WWW

---

I said: "The theologians really know
their topic; are these people smart like eighty-
one people quite like you together, so
just do like me and pray and trust them, Katie,

their knowledge adds to a tremendous mass
of safe and very holy gravitation!"
– "Oh yes?" said Katie, "What if all that jazz
is very simple at the final station

what do you say? I don't want to be rude
not even really to oppose your mission.
But tacitly this concept may include
an untold power, that's my slight suspicion,

I mean, that Truth was never too complex –
You may say 'God'; the real thing still is Sex!"

My poetry:

Single Swingle

---

Algorithm of Being

To live reactively, responsively, creatively, as an artist, act the way your life forms the best possible narrative, like a novel or a film, towards Death, End of the Story. According to Heidegger, Life is what Is. Sorge. Being kind of your own God? Primacy of Aestethics over Ethics.

My philosophy:

GAMMABLIXT

Et ma poésie...

LE FRUIT DU CIEL
.
Un orage nocturne illmuna maintenant l'Amazonie, franchis les Andes, envoya des jeux de cartes gigantesques et frappantes en bas à la Pampa –


Puis: petit déjeuner à melon; café fumant !


À la bague du cigare tu lis, étonné: GÉOGRAPHIE.

Poétudes

In Totenstadt kann Nichts wachsen,
Nacht bebaut die grüne Bezirke.
Wache, Kind, wache!
Es kommt ein Mann zum Haus.

Es läuft das Gerücht um schwarze
Schein von brennende Schächte.
Wache, Kind, wache!
Er öffnet die Tür zum Zimmer.

Das Mond der Nachkriegszeit fällt
seine Auge über allen Gärten.
Wache, Kind, Wache!
Der König hat er gestürzt.

Deine Atemwende wird leicht als Tod
und Erwartung in der Himmelskapelle.
Träume, Kind, träume!
Dein Vater ist immer bei dir.

FREMDE GEDICHTE

-----

Reciprocity! You do me a favor promoting YOUR blogs on mine.

- Peter Ingestad, Sweden

J Hansen said...

Wow. I write flash fiction but could never write a story in six sentences.
My blog: http://incessantdroningofaboredauthor.wordpress.com
My books:http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MysteryRiter

Oceana Setaysha said...

Aha! Love it!

Paul D. Brazill said...

Great!