And you’re not.
    This blog has been a departure from my film reviews at the Only Magazine as well as my film work with the Narcoleptic Videographer but three months ago I was like, “Hey, why not give this whole literature thing a whirl.”  The time that I would have spent shaving or getting a hair-cut I’ve devoted to writing a story everyday. 
   But that’s just me.
Odd Slips

    Every couple of hours Wally stretches out his arms, legs and back. He has to. The cramped conditions of his existence requires that he find footholds for his feet and then he stretches straight up and then he rolls his neck a couple times and then he hoola-hoops his midriff to stretch out his back. He sings an inventory of his discoveries in this strange world between two walls that seems to go off forever in all directions. After singing about little shelves that contain light-bulbs powered by something unknown on the other side or a hammock held securely between two hooks that he returns to every 16 hours or so, he presses his gloved hands against the brick and continues down. He’s been awake for a while but there’s no means of checking the exact time. Ever since he woke up in the hammock a forgotten number of days ago, he’s explored this world. He tries to go down a little further each time but he has to return to the hammock. If he lets himself fall he will pick up speed until he spirals and spins against the brick walls. This is his nightmare that wakes him up some nights. Maybe mornings. He’s uncertain. Gravity is the only certainty in this world. He sees a light beneath him and then continues.