Jonathan Eaton's Blog
January 26, 2024
The Avalanche
A new (free) short story for you on my short-story website. This one is my brother's translation of an Italian short story by Cesare Cantù, written in 1836.
Enjoy
https://coryluspress.com/the-avalanche/
Enjoy
https://coryluspress.com/the-avalanche/
May 11, 2023
Metal Man of the Prairie
The totally unanticipated sequel to "The Prairie Martian" is here (it only took me 7 years):
Metal Man of the Prairie
Metal Man of the Prairie
November 7, 2022
The Impudent Weeds of Sin
You can read my short story "The Impudent Weeds of Sin" for free on CorylusPress.
Warning: Long and Gruesome (probably too long and too gruesome).
ENJOY!
(click on the image below)
Warning: Long and Gruesome (probably too long and too gruesome).
ENJOY!
(click on the image below)
August 23, 2022
The Prince of Salerno
I am pleased to report that the esteemed frontier-themed e-zine CorylusPress has published my short story "The Prince of Salerno", and you can read it for free.
OK, I confess that CorylusPress is me. Still, free short story, right?
(click on the image below)
OK, I confess that CorylusPress is me. Still, free short story, right?
(click on the image below)
July 21, 2022
Phoebe's Elixir
Put a new (free) short story up for you on my website: "Phoebe's Elixir" (click on the image)
October 9, 2020
Silence
Waves beat against the side of the ship, the oars dip into the water, seagulls wheel and cry overhead–but the sailor, rowing, hears nothing. He turns his head to see how the captain is doing. The captain looks awful. He’s struggling so hard to free himself that he’s bleeding where the ropes have cut into him. He’s knocking the back of his head against the mast, his mouth is open, his tongue is flopping around, he’s drooling, the veins of his neck are bulging out, and tears are streaming down his cheeks. The sailor, his ears full of beeswax, can’t hear a thing, and thinks it’s kind of nice for a change, this silence.
(From 50 Stories 50)
(From 50 Stories 50)
December 1, 2019
Method as Poetry
A big part of writing is thinking up the right word. When I'm really struggling to find that word, I sometimes resort to list-making. I ran across some notes I'd made in the course of an unfinished work, and I found a list where I was trying to complete a simile. I thought the list worked pretty well as a poem. Here it is:
***
Common As
Common as lies
Common as flies
Common as Pharaohs in Egypt
Common as stitches in a tailor's shop
Common as stars on a moonless night
Common as talk
Common as days
Common as bungles
Common as cures
Common as earthnappers
Common as dreams in a youthful heart
***
***
Common As
Common as lies
Common as flies
Common as Pharaohs in Egypt
Common as stitches in a tailor's shop
Common as stars on a moonless night
Common as talk
Common as days
Common as bungles
Common as cures
Common as earthnappers
Common as dreams in a youthful heart
***
October 31, 2019
For Whom the Bell Pepper
It's just a free short story on my website:
https://coryluspress.com/for-whom-the...
Sometimes, what the future holds is a sickle.
https://coryluspress.com/for-whom-the...
Sometimes, what the future holds is a sickle.
October 21, 2019
Flash History
One of my favorite things about research is running across a little pearl of a story. Some are just fragments that set off a cascade of ideas and images, others are complete tales in themselves. Here are some I've run across recently. I'd call them "flash fiction", only they're not fiction, so maybe "flash history" (Titles are mine)
***
The Plaintiff
Plaintiff's dwelling is almost under defendant's trestle work; her buggy house is nearer the railroad than her dwelling; sparks of fire emitted from defendant's passing locomotive engines are thrown onto plaintiff's premises; plaintiff's houses are constructed of wood.
***
The Cyclone at Savoy, Texas
"Mr. McMurry and I had retired for the night, our bedroom being in the front part of the house. We were awakened from a sound sleep by deafening peals of thunder, the terrible roar of the wind, and a mighty downpour of rain that fell in blinding sheets. Our first thoughts were of Minnie, who was sleeping alone in a back room that opened onto a porch. When we opened the door that led to her room we found that the room had been blown away! Her father and I rushed out into the black night in search of our child with no light to guide us but the vivid flashes of lightning. We called and called her name, but there was no answer, for our voices could not be heard above the roar of the elements. Minutes seemed years! We continued to call and creep, inch by inch, over the debris which the storm had left in its wake. Finally there was a lull; things grew quiet, except for the cries of the distressed. We continued to call our child and to pray that we might be directed to her. God hears and answers prayers. In the distance there came a plaintive answer to our calls, 'Here I am, Mamma, in the pig pen.'
"The pig was dead, but Minnie we found on her bed, unhurt, except for the terrible beating of rain and mud."
***
The Railroad Trestle
A passenger on defendant's train was carried half a mile past his station on a dark and damp night. In walking back to his station plaintiff had to cross two trestles on his hands and knees, owing to the darkness, and his knees were consequently sore and stiff for some days. He had been sick with jaundice, and the exposure gave him a cough which lasted for some time, and in crossing one of the trestles he was frightened by the sound of an approaching train. Held, that a verdict in the plaintiff's favor for $1,000 was excessive, and should be reduced to $500
***
A Youth of Nineteen
The wife of Sim Harper, of Pulaski county, eloped with Mark Shelton, a youth of nineteen, both riding one horse to Stanford, where they stopped over night, their alleged destination being Indiana, where they were to be married. That night Shelton sold the horse, obtained from the woman all the money she had, and left the town alone. The authorities at Lebanon, being telegraphed to, arrested him there, and Harper came up from Pulaski county to prosecute him. They failed to make out a case of grand larceny, and Mrs. Harper returned home with her husband
***
The Ballad of Nellie Crockett
Charlie Campbell, formerly of Kentucky, but a musician at the Red Light for a year, had been drinking a great deal and became quite reckless on account of his girl, Nellie Crockett, who is an inmate of the same house, being on the eve of leaving him and going to Colorado to get married. Last night at 9 o'clock he took a large dose of morphine at the St. Nicholas saloon, and went up-stairs, telling a servant that he was going to die and to let him die easy. Directly he was heard groaning. A doctor was immediately called. Campbell died within half an hour. This is the second man who has killed himself about this woman--the other was Dave Brown, and occurred a year ago.
***
Illumination
Happenings at Brenham.
Special to the Herald
Brenham, Oct. 9.--Dr. Wilson, an Englishman, and a physician practicing at Greenville, in this county, took two ounces of aconite at 2 o'clock this morning, and was a corpse before daylight. The coroner's inquest gave a verdict of suicide. He had been drinking heavily of late.
Fine cotton-picking weather this week.
The Banner office is now illuminated with gas from the city gas works.
***
Dr. Bly
***
The Plaintiff
Plaintiff's dwelling is almost under defendant's trestle work; her buggy house is nearer the railroad than her dwelling; sparks of fire emitted from defendant's passing locomotive engines are thrown onto plaintiff's premises; plaintiff's houses are constructed of wood.
***
The Cyclone at Savoy, Texas
"Mr. McMurry and I had retired for the night, our bedroom being in the front part of the house. We were awakened from a sound sleep by deafening peals of thunder, the terrible roar of the wind, and a mighty downpour of rain that fell in blinding sheets. Our first thoughts were of Minnie, who was sleeping alone in a back room that opened onto a porch. When we opened the door that led to her room we found that the room had been blown away! Her father and I rushed out into the black night in search of our child with no light to guide us but the vivid flashes of lightning. We called and called her name, but there was no answer, for our voices could not be heard above the roar of the elements. Minutes seemed years! We continued to call and creep, inch by inch, over the debris which the storm had left in its wake. Finally there was a lull; things grew quiet, except for the cries of the distressed. We continued to call our child and to pray that we might be directed to her. God hears and answers prayers. In the distance there came a plaintive answer to our calls, 'Here I am, Mamma, in the pig pen.'
"The pig was dead, but Minnie we found on her bed, unhurt, except for the terrible beating of rain and mud."
***
The Railroad Trestle
A passenger on defendant's train was carried half a mile past his station on a dark and damp night. In walking back to his station plaintiff had to cross two trestles on his hands and knees, owing to the darkness, and his knees were consequently sore and stiff for some days. He had been sick with jaundice, and the exposure gave him a cough which lasted for some time, and in crossing one of the trestles he was frightened by the sound of an approaching train. Held, that a verdict in the plaintiff's favor for $1,000 was excessive, and should be reduced to $500
***
A Youth of Nineteen
The wife of Sim Harper, of Pulaski county, eloped with Mark Shelton, a youth of nineteen, both riding one horse to Stanford, where they stopped over night, their alleged destination being Indiana, where they were to be married. That night Shelton sold the horse, obtained from the woman all the money she had, and left the town alone. The authorities at Lebanon, being telegraphed to, arrested him there, and Harper came up from Pulaski county to prosecute him. They failed to make out a case of grand larceny, and Mrs. Harper returned home with her husband
***
The Ballad of Nellie Crockett
Charlie Campbell, formerly of Kentucky, but a musician at the Red Light for a year, had been drinking a great deal and became quite reckless on account of his girl, Nellie Crockett, who is an inmate of the same house, being on the eve of leaving him and going to Colorado to get married. Last night at 9 o'clock he took a large dose of morphine at the St. Nicholas saloon, and went up-stairs, telling a servant that he was going to die and to let him die easy. Directly he was heard groaning. A doctor was immediately called. Campbell died within half an hour. This is the second man who has killed himself about this woman--the other was Dave Brown, and occurred a year ago.
***
Illumination
Happenings at Brenham.
Special to the Herald
Brenham, Oct. 9.--Dr. Wilson, an Englishman, and a physician practicing at Greenville, in this county, took two ounces of aconite at 2 o'clock this morning, and was a corpse before daylight. The coroner's inquest gave a verdict of suicide. He had been drinking heavily of late.
Fine cotton-picking weather this week.
The Banner office is now illuminated with gas from the city gas works.
***
Dr. Bly
October 2, 2019
How to be a Doctor
If you want to be a doctor, you need to do a little bit of doctoring every day. Doesn’t have to be brain surgery—you can just perform an appendectomy, or lance a boil. If you’re really busy, give a friend some medical advice, or walk into the nearest morgue and perform a quick autopsy. The doctoring you do doesn’t have to be much—doesn’t have to be “good”—just do it. Get into the habit, and soon you will have that thriving medical practice you’ve always wanted.
Obviously, that’s not going to work. And yet, so often people (even writers!) say that if you want to be a writer, you need to sit down every day and write something. Like removing an appendix before your first day of medical school, that’s putting the cart before the horse. So what should a writer have, before sitting down to write? Eight years of writer school? Nah, I don’t think so.
You need an idea.
What makes you want to write so bad you can hardly stand it? If you’re like me, it’s a great idea for a story, or for a scene in a novel.
What is “writer’s block”? Writer’s block is that miserable condition of wanting to write and not being able to think of something you want to write about. And what advice are wannabe writers so often given? “Don’t worry about having something you want to write about, just write something.” Sure, invite those starry-eyed word-worshippers to see how long they can stand a daily dose of self-inflicted writer’s block, and when they find they’d actually rather do laundry, or the dishes, or binge-watch something on Netflix, well, it’s not your fault they lacked the extraordinary will-power it takes to be a writer.
There are bound to be some people out there who can force themselves to sit down and write a great novel, while hating every minute of it, but for most of us mere mortals, if we don’t want to write, we’re not going to write—life is just too distracting (and anyway, is that what you want? To spend a year or more doing something that makes you miserable, just so you can say “I wrote a novel”? Really?)
So how do you get that story idea that begs you to write it? I think you have to do two things: First, you have to find an idea, and second, you have to nurture it. I think most of us have ideas for stories, but fall through on the nurturing part. So how to nurture? For me, it’s reading related materials, and thinking about the idea without distractions (AKA a long walk in the park).
Bottom line, get yourself really worked up over an idea, and then sit down every day and write. If you don’t feel like writing, taking a long walk in the park and get yourself excited about your idea again.
One more thing: if you’re going to be a writer, you’re going to have to get over any shyness you feel about self-promotion, i.e., here’s my latest, a book of short plays I wrote especially for staged readings (but I think they’d make great little performance pieces as well). If you know anyone who might be interested, please send 'em the link.
Obviously, that’s not going to work. And yet, so often people (even writers!) say that if you want to be a writer, you need to sit down every day and write something. Like removing an appendix before your first day of medical school, that’s putting the cart before the horse. So what should a writer have, before sitting down to write? Eight years of writer school? Nah, I don’t think so.
You need an idea.
What makes you want to write so bad you can hardly stand it? If you’re like me, it’s a great idea for a story, or for a scene in a novel.
What is “writer’s block”? Writer’s block is that miserable condition of wanting to write and not being able to think of something you want to write about. And what advice are wannabe writers so often given? “Don’t worry about having something you want to write about, just write something.” Sure, invite those starry-eyed word-worshippers to see how long they can stand a daily dose of self-inflicted writer’s block, and when they find they’d actually rather do laundry, or the dishes, or binge-watch something on Netflix, well, it’s not your fault they lacked the extraordinary will-power it takes to be a writer.
There are bound to be some people out there who can force themselves to sit down and write a great novel, while hating every minute of it, but for most of us mere mortals, if we don’t want to write, we’re not going to write—life is just too distracting (and anyway, is that what you want? To spend a year or more doing something that makes you miserable, just so you can say “I wrote a novel”? Really?)
So how do you get that story idea that begs you to write it? I think you have to do two things: First, you have to find an idea, and second, you have to nurture it. I think most of us have ideas for stories, but fall through on the nurturing part. So how to nurture? For me, it’s reading related materials, and thinking about the idea without distractions (AKA a long walk in the park).
Bottom line, get yourself really worked up over an idea, and then sit down every day and write. If you don’t feel like writing, taking a long walk in the park and get yourself excited about your idea again.
One more thing: if you’re going to be a writer, you’re going to have to get over any shyness you feel about self-promotion, i.e., here’s my latest, a book of short plays I wrote especially for staged readings (but I think they’d make great little performance pieces as well). If you know anyone who might be interested, please send 'em the link.
