The sea was a flat sheet of glass, a mixture of blue and violet as the surface caught and dispersed the sun. The clouds thin and high in the azure sky. The mullet were jumping off the west rock jetty and he knew that this would be a good day.
An excerpt from the forthcoming work of microfiction, Heming Ways, by Shane Huey. Written on September 7, 2021 from Key West, Florida.
I have continued to work on my forthcoming book, Heming Ways, a tribute collection of 50-word microfiction stories in the vein of Ernest Hemingway but it took the backseat to some travel and a few other projects and opportunities (one of which is writing from Ernest Hemingway's personal writing studio at his former home in Key West in just a few days).
Below is a recent excerpt.
To write is first to watch…to observe. The devil is in the details and one must first see the things that others gloss over or miss entirely before one can write anything real and good. Watch people, listen to their words, then retell it all. Good fiction is truth.
-S. Huey, Sept. 6, 2021 from Key West, Florida
There's a hum in the air...
A language not of words.
I feel it in my bones.
It is good and right.
They know me,
And I them.
- S. Huey
Written in Key West, from "Uncle Lou's" sidebar at Sloppy Joe's, September 2, 2021.
“Daddy look! Daddy look!”
He always has something to show me and his mommy.
At first I always looked, it was exciting to see him interact with the world around him, to learn, to grow and to develop. I was very proud.
To be honest, I am always proud of my little boy but I don’t always look. The novelty, it wears off over time and more “Daddy looks” that I can count desensitize me to his little, proud call for attention, wanting nothing more than my approval, a simple nod of the head or a, “That’s great son.” Yet I am busy. Busy working, doing chores, reading, always something—always busy. This is my excuse, though there is no excuse and it seems more like a defect of the heart.
All the while he continues to sprout and grow…a sapling in the shade slowly but ever surely reaching for the sun, one day to break free from the canopy to stand tall and firm as an oak. The growth occurs slowly yet abruptly.
Being with him daily, I am attenuated to the changes. Yet to those who have not seen him but for a few weeks, “My how you’ve grown!” And then, one day, I will look at him and see that he has become a man. I will wonder where the time went and wish that I could replay that time and look at him each time he said, “Daddy look! Daddy look!”
No…it isn’t a matter of looking. Much as one can hear without listening, one can look without seeing. That I might be able to see him each time he merely asks for a look.
“Daddy look! Daddy look!”
“I see you son…I see you.”
An excerpt from Heming Ways...
There is truth in every lie and, arguably, a lie in every truth. A writer, a good one in any case, walks the line between both worlds and not for the sake of writing but for the sake of living life itself. Living happens at the boundaries...the wild edges.
The old man sat down, middle of the bridge and watched his home and village burn. The others called to him but he would not hear. Some soldiers retrieved him and placed him down on the other side of the river. He lit a cigarette, drew smoke, and tears fell.
Cemetery of the Living, a chapbook of poetry in the tradition of memento mori, penned by yours truly, is now available. It may be read or downloaded below. Feel free to share. Enjoy!
day’s writing now done
softly sang the muse to me
the story’s ending
golden muse she sings
the resonant words of prose
close now with whisky