by Thane Thompson
I have a friend named Darrin Wilson, and while I haven't known him very long, maybe three or four years, it doesn't take much to realize that he's just an all around great guy. I don't want to envy him, though – not his six-figure salary, or his amazing family, or his beautiful wife; because you see, Darrin's a pediatric oncologist, and, even though he never talks about work, I'm betting his stories could make your hair fall out. Darrin lets himself get drunk one day a year, on October 22nd, whether he needs to or not; and I finally figured out why it's that day in particular. He asked me to go with him on his yearly bender, and I promised, on the drive home from the bar, to take that little side trip to Holy Angels cemetery. I was just about to ask him what the hell we were doing when he asked me to stop the car; and then he got out, swaying a bit as he did it, lay down on the uneven grass and dry, brittle leaves, and wrapped his arms around the headstone of a six-year-old little girl named Hannah, who'd died on October 22nd, 1993. As he lay there, he slurred out, "She was the first one I ever lost," and I knelt down and put my hand on his shoulder while he cried; and then I thought about my own family, and my measly little job with its meager little paycheck, and I realized that, no, I didn't envy him – not one little bit.
6S
Thane Thompson, author of Far Too Good for Ordinary People, writes literary prose and poetry, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared at The Writer's Eye Magazine, Pen Pricks Micro Fiction, and is forthcoming at Tiny Lights "Flash in the Pan." He lives in Ohio with his wife, daughter, and two highly opinionated cats. He freely admits to liking cheap wine, expensive movies, and hand-blown glassware.
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Thane Thompson. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Thane Thompson. Sort by date Show all posts
20080501
20080422
Contemplating Kant and Trophy Wives
by Thane Thompson
Their shrill screeches echoed around my cramped newspaper kiosk, straining to carry over the throb of their iPods as they performed bitchy-sounding gossip at each other; only getting louder as an impatient queue grew behind them before finally taking a moment from their overacted pantomime to shout "Cosmo!" and "People!" and "Us!" at me. The tall, chesty, blonde-haired one, with a few less smoke lines above her tight brittle mouth and pale lanky fingers made for hand shakes and hand jobs, handed me a C-note and turned back to her friend faster than I could point to the "No bills larger than a $20" sign or ask her for something smaller. I stood there for a minute, weighing the possibility of them pitching a full-blown hissy fit and scaring away my other customers, then dug under the register for my only $50, added three crumpled $10s and a still-crisp $5 to the top of the stack, and then handed the pile over to them. They didn't even notice my hesitation; standing there juggling the change, the magazines, two cups of Starbucks half-caf frappa-whatevers and some over-schmeared whole-grain bagels above the kids in the color-matched Bugaboo strollers. Her daughter cringed at an especially loud epithet and then peered up at me – reaching with her eyes from the wells of her soul towards a real live human rather than a walking, talking blow-up doll with too-tight spandex jogging shorts that showed all the wrong things to all the wrong people. I deferred turning back to The Contest of Faculties to smile at the girl and give her a friendly little wave, which she was in the process of returning when her mother noticed me and whipped the stroller around, hiding her from my sight and stabbing me with a "pervert" glare for good measure.
6S
Thane Thompson writes literary prose and poetry, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared at The Writer's Eye Magazine, Pen Pricks Micro Fiction, and is forthcoming at Tiny Lights "Flash in the Pan." He lives in Ohio with his wife, daughter, and two highly opinionated cats. He freely admits to liking cheap wine, expensive movies, and hand-blown glassware.
Their shrill screeches echoed around my cramped newspaper kiosk, straining to carry over the throb of their iPods as they performed bitchy-sounding gossip at each other; only getting louder as an impatient queue grew behind them before finally taking a moment from their overacted pantomime to shout "Cosmo!" and "People!" and "Us!" at me. The tall, chesty, blonde-haired one, with a few less smoke lines above her tight brittle mouth and pale lanky fingers made for hand shakes and hand jobs, handed me a C-note and turned back to her friend faster than I could point to the "No bills larger than a $20" sign or ask her for something smaller. I stood there for a minute, weighing the possibility of them pitching a full-blown hissy fit and scaring away my other customers, then dug under the register for my only $50, added three crumpled $10s and a still-crisp $5 to the top of the stack, and then handed the pile over to them. They didn't even notice my hesitation; standing there juggling the change, the magazines, two cups of Starbucks half-caf frappa-whatevers and some over-schmeared whole-grain bagels above the kids in the color-matched Bugaboo strollers. Her daughter cringed at an especially loud epithet and then peered up at me – reaching with her eyes from the wells of her soul towards a real live human rather than a walking, talking blow-up doll with too-tight spandex jogging shorts that showed all the wrong things to all the wrong people. I deferred turning back to The Contest of Faculties to smile at the girl and give her a friendly little wave, which she was in the process of returning when her mother noticed me and whipped the stroller around, hiding her from my sight and stabbing me with a "pervert" glare for good measure.
6S
Thane Thompson writes literary prose and poetry, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared at The Writer's Eye Magazine, Pen Pricks Micro Fiction, and is forthcoming at Tiny Lights "Flash in the Pan." He lives in Ohio with his wife, daughter, and two highly opinionated cats. He freely admits to liking cheap wine, expensive movies, and hand-blown glassware.
20080716
Six Sixes by Thane Thompson
an Online Magazine from Six Sentences
Thane Thompson gives us Memoirs of the Marlboro Man. To view the magazine, just click the blue “OPEN PUBLICATION” tab above. You’ll be taken inside, where you can turn the pages by clicking the arrows to the left and right. To view a “full screen” version, once inside, just click the diagonal arrows above the document (located to the left of the little envelope). Enjoy!
6S
Six Sentences are all you need. (Unless you need more. Or less.)
Thane Thompson gives us Memoirs of the Marlboro Man. To view the magazine, just click the blue “OPEN PUBLICATION” tab above. You’ll be taken inside, where you can turn the pages by clicking the arrows to the left and right. To view a “full screen” version, once inside, just click the diagonal arrows above the document (located to the left of the little envelope). Enjoy!
6S
Six Sentences are all you need. (Unless you need more. Or less.)
20080428
Far Too Good for Ordinary People
by Thane Thompson
The maître d' at the upscale tea room gave the man a glare that threatened to crack his tuxedoed and bespectacled façade; but he snapped his finger at the waiter who was hovering nearby like a tremulous hummingbird and stomped back towards the kitchen with the faux bone china cup firmly in hand. "Considering that he attempted to sell me an $8 cup of God-knows-what made from second-rate, bag-derived leaf fannings that were doing a miserable job masquerading as a quality Darjeeling," the would-be connoisseur blustered, "I thought I was well within my rights to return that over-brewed cup of dishwater." He went on, saying, "I suppose I may have gone a bit far," acting like he was holding court with his overly-loud voice, "by asking him if he would know a well-cured leaf of camellia sinensis if it bit him in his bony ass; but if he's going to try to fob that dreck off onto me, I might as well just stay home and brew a cup of PeeGee from the hot water tap." When the waiter returned, I sat back in my chair, hoping that the movement would distance me from the petty, disgruntled little man as the other clients darted angry glances at him; though what may have kept us from acknowledging and even supporting his little... scene could have been our frustration and self-blame at over-paying for a commodity that we knew too little about. The waiter placed the man's new cup on the table with a flourish, then rasped out in an icy, French-derived hiss, "As monsieur has requested; a cup of hand-harvested, Competition-Grade Makaibari Silver Tips, graded 'Finest Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe.'" The snooty little man gave the waiter an ingratiating nod and then began to "ooh" and "ahh" to himself, mumbling about the heady floral scent, the bright coppery liquor, and the lively muscatel finish, though, more and more quietly, until his hand finally went to his throat and his last breath came in a strangled rattle; making me realize that I wasn't just imagining the not-so-subtle scent of bitter-almond that was wafting over to me from his dainty white cup.
6S
Thane Thompson, author of Contemplating Kant and Trophy Wives, writes literary prose and poetry, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared at The Writer's Eye Magazine, Pen Pricks Micro Fiction, and is forthcoming at Tiny Lights "Flash in the Pan." He lives in Ohio with his wife, daughter, and two highly opinionated cats. He freely admits to liking cheap wine, expensive movies, and hand-blown glassware.
The maître d' at the upscale tea room gave the man a glare that threatened to crack his tuxedoed and bespectacled façade; but he snapped his finger at the waiter who was hovering nearby like a tremulous hummingbird and stomped back towards the kitchen with the faux bone china cup firmly in hand. "Considering that he attempted to sell me an $8 cup of God-knows-what made from second-rate, bag-derived leaf fannings that were doing a miserable job masquerading as a quality Darjeeling," the would-be connoisseur blustered, "I thought I was well within my rights to return that over-brewed cup of dishwater." He went on, saying, "I suppose I may have gone a bit far," acting like he was holding court with his overly-loud voice, "by asking him if he would know a well-cured leaf of camellia sinensis if it bit him in his bony ass; but if he's going to try to fob that dreck off onto me, I might as well just stay home and brew a cup of PeeGee from the hot water tap." When the waiter returned, I sat back in my chair, hoping that the movement would distance me from the petty, disgruntled little man as the other clients darted angry glances at him; though what may have kept us from acknowledging and even supporting his little... scene could have been our frustration and self-blame at over-paying for a commodity that we knew too little about. The waiter placed the man's new cup on the table with a flourish, then rasped out in an icy, French-derived hiss, "As monsieur has requested; a cup of hand-harvested, Competition-Grade Makaibari Silver Tips, graded 'Finest Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe.'" The snooty little man gave the waiter an ingratiating nod and then began to "ooh" and "ahh" to himself, mumbling about the heady floral scent, the bright coppery liquor, and the lively muscatel finish, though, more and more quietly, until his hand finally went to his throat and his last breath came in a strangled rattle; making me realize that I wasn't just imagining the not-so-subtle scent of bitter-almond that was wafting over to me from his dainty white cup.
6S
Thane Thompson, author of Contemplating Kant and Trophy Wives, writes literary prose and poetry, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared at The Writer's Eye Magazine, Pen Pricks Micro Fiction, and is forthcoming at Tiny Lights "Flash in the Pan." He lives in Ohio with his wife, daughter, and two highly opinionated cats. He freely admits to liking cheap wine, expensive movies, and hand-blown glassware.
20080514
Stew Bum Salvation
by Thane Thompson
The faded, mustard-yellow playbill pointed me further into the alley and read, "Whisker's: NYC's Sweetest PUSSYcats!!" I strayed deeper into the bowels of the alley until I found the battered, nondescript steel door that was painted black, but had a shiny, well-used handle. I'd never done anything like this before, and my heart was throbbing in time with the bass that banged away at the inside of the door; as terrified as a fresh-fish convict on his first night in the big house. When I stepped in closer to reach for the handle, my foot brushed against a pile of newspapers, and I jumped back as a stringy-haired stew bum sat up, fixed me with his rheumy gaze, and rasped out, "That's right, boy, get in there and get what you can; 'cause the Devil's in the details!" He gave me a coy little smile and then flopped back down into his little nest just as my cell phone rang, and I was startled enough to answer it instead of sending it straight to voice mail. I stood there, suspended between heaven and hell, and babbled, "Yeah, baby... uh-huh... just about done... yeah, the meeting went well... OK, I'm heading home now... love you, too... OK, bye," before I took a last look at the throbbing door, and then started back up the alley towards the subway.
6S
Thane Thompson, whose full catalog is here, writes literary prose and poetry, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared at The Writer's Eye Magazine, Pen Pricks Micro Fiction, and is forthcoming at Tiny Lights "Flash in the Pan." He lives in Ohio with his wife, daughter, and two highly opinionated cats. He freely admits to liking cheap wine, expensive movies, and hand-blown glassware.
The faded, mustard-yellow playbill pointed me further into the alley and read, "Whisker's: NYC's Sweetest PUSSYcats!!" I strayed deeper into the bowels of the alley until I found the battered, nondescript steel door that was painted black, but had a shiny, well-used handle. I'd never done anything like this before, and my heart was throbbing in time with the bass that banged away at the inside of the door; as terrified as a fresh-fish convict on his first night in the big house. When I stepped in closer to reach for the handle, my foot brushed against a pile of newspapers, and I jumped back as a stringy-haired stew bum sat up, fixed me with his rheumy gaze, and rasped out, "That's right, boy, get in there and get what you can; 'cause the Devil's in the details!" He gave me a coy little smile and then flopped back down into his little nest just as my cell phone rang, and I was startled enough to answer it instead of sending it straight to voice mail. I stood there, suspended between heaven and hell, and babbled, "Yeah, baby... uh-huh... just about done... yeah, the meeting went well... OK, I'm heading home now... love you, too... OK, bye," before I took a last look at the throbbing door, and then started back up the alley towards the subway.
6S
Thane Thompson, whose full catalog is here, writes literary prose and poetry, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared at The Writer's Eye Magazine, Pen Pricks Micro Fiction, and is forthcoming at Tiny Lights "Flash in the Pan." He lives in Ohio with his wife, daughter, and two highly opinionated cats. He freely admits to liking cheap wine, expensive movies, and hand-blown glassware.
20210513
Stew Bum Salvation
by Thane Thompson
The faded, mustard-yellow playbill pointed me further into the alley and read, "Whisker's: NYC's Sweetest PUSSYcats!!" I strayed deeper into the bowels of the alley until I found the battered, nondescript steel door that was painted black, but had a shiny, well-used handle. I'd never done anything like this before, and my heart was throbbing in time with the bass that banged away at the inside of the door; as terrified as a fresh-fish convict on his first night in the big house. When I stepped in closer to reach for the handle, my foot brushed against a pile of newspapers, and I jumped back as a stringy-haired stew bum sat up, fixed me with his rheumy gaze, and rasped out, "That's right, boy, get in there and get what you can; 'cause the Devil's in the details!" He gave me a coy little smile and then flopped back down into his little nest just as my cell phone rang, and I was startled enough to answer it instead of sending it straight to voice mail. I stood there, suspended between heaven and hell, and babbled, "Yeah, baby... uh-huh... just about done... yeah, the meeting went well... OK, I'm heading home now... love you, too... OK, bye," before I took a last look at the throbbing door, and then started back up the alley towards the subway.
6S
Thane Thompson lives in Ohio with his wife, daughter, and two highly opinionated cats. He freely admits to liking cheap wine, expensive movies, and hand-blown glassware.
The faded, mustard-yellow playbill pointed me further into the alley and read, "Whisker's: NYC's Sweetest PUSSYcats!!" I strayed deeper into the bowels of the alley until I found the battered, nondescript steel door that was painted black, but had a shiny, well-used handle. I'd never done anything like this before, and my heart was throbbing in time with the bass that banged away at the inside of the door; as terrified as a fresh-fish convict on his first night in the big house. When I stepped in closer to reach for the handle, my foot brushed against a pile of newspapers, and I jumped back as a stringy-haired stew bum sat up, fixed me with his rheumy gaze, and rasped out, "That's right, boy, get in there and get what you can; 'cause the Devil's in the details!" He gave me a coy little smile and then flopped back down into his little nest just as my cell phone rang, and I was startled enough to answer it instead of sending it straight to voice mail. I stood there, suspended between heaven and hell, and babbled, "Yeah, baby... uh-huh... just about done... yeah, the meeting went well... OK, I'm heading home now... love you, too... OK, bye," before I took a last look at the throbbing door, and then started back up the alley towards the subway.
6S
Thane Thompson lives in Ohio with his wife, daughter, and two highly opinionated cats. He freely admits to liking cheap wine, expensive movies, and hand-blown glassware.
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