Jeff Phillips: God’s Least Likely to Succeed [excerpt 2 from the novella]

Drinkers with Writing Problems

dan9 Image by Dan Macrae

Fib changed into the tuxedo pants, slid on a white, cotton undershirt. He laced up the black leather shoes, they felt sturdy. The robotic Tiedt offered him a small handgun to tuck inside one of his black, argyle socks. After he was dressed, they departed from the car wash and rode through the night. Orange sunset dimmed the sky to a dark dome and Fib couldn’t keep his eyes off the play of lime green LED lights that cast an upward blink on the mannequin face. It was Tiedt’s face, the more he looked at it. Minus the large pores and coat of skin oil, the cake of pale dead skin cells bloated by sweat. It was a prettier Tiedt, a Tiedt without the chip on his shoulder, but the plastic looked odd, too smooth.

The robot’s voice was calm and told of the next agenda…

View original post 1,256 more words

Advertisements

Jeff Phillips: God’s Least Likely to Succeed [an excerpt from the novella]

Drinkers with Writing Problems

dan1 Image by Dan MacRae

Tiedt walked over to his briefcase that he had placed on a chair in the corner, opened it, retrieved a stapled packet, and handed it to Fib. On the cover page was the title, “A History of the Fib Lineage.”

“Read it. Then you’ll know you’re perfect and you will fulfill your duty. But for who? I don’t know. I hope you’re loyal to your own goddamn country. A country that is good at doing its laundry. It may take a while to get to it sometimes, but loads get done.”

Tiedt left the room.

The packet was 43 pages but a Post-It note on the front said, “Turn to pg. 17,” so Fib did and found a highlighted paragraph. Fib glanced over the pages prior to glean that this was a dossier on his family tree. So he flipped to the indicated page to read…

View original post 1,404 more words

Jeff Phillips: The Starman’s Luminous Hanukkah [Repost]

Drinkers with Writing Problems

Jasper Mangold had been in orbit for eight months. His work was mostly maintenance on damaged satellites, redirection of the strays, some meteorological observation. Despite daily exercises on a machine that looked like a rowboat, a bicycle, a hamster wheel, and apparatus hanging in a meat locker, his muscles were starting to feel like nothing. Loss of muscle density in zero gravity was no joke, limbs start to look smaller and coordination flounders; not good when navigation of a starship requires precision. He still had a month before the rotation called for his descent. But there was something else that seemed to dwindle. Maybe it was his curiosity. A sense of stir crazy had maybe eroded. He was just there. There was so much out there.

He looked at his calendar and realized it was the first day of Hanukkah. There were no presents on the way for him. A…

View original post 2,126 more words

Jeff Phillips: God’s Least Likely Influences

Drinkers with Writing Problems

IMAG1824My recent novella, titled God’s Least Likely to Succeed, is an amalgam of odd fascinations I’ve never been able to shake. Chief among them: hallucinations and secret societies.

When I was a young kid, my family and I went to the movies to see The Bear. I have a vague memory of a scene in which an orphan cub eats a mushroom he comes across in the moist forest. Soon the cub is disoriented while witnessing shifting shapes and vibrant colors. The mushrooms he nibbled were apparently of the magic variety, and the subsequent montage I found beautiful. I was in a trance, curious as to what caused the cub, as if under a spell, to see things that weren’t really there. If I saw this movie near its release in 1988, that would put me at 5 years old, ignorant as to the nature of drugs, though in…

View original post 1,171 more words

Jeff Phillips: You Know Jimmy

Drinkers with Writing Problems

I was doing laundry one night, and as I was leaving my apartment to switch my load to the dryer, I heard an elderly woman’s voice from down the hallway call out “is that you Jimmy?”

I replied “No, it’s your neighbor, I’m Jeff.” She looked like she was in her early 90s, shrunken and frail. I offered my hand in introduction. There was something that caught me off guard about her eyes. It wasn’t like she was blind. She seemed to see me, but it felt like she wasn’t quite registering me.

“I thought you’d be home earlier Jimmy,” she said.

“I’m not Jimmy, I’m your neighbor, Jeff. I live down at the end of the hall.”

“Oh, where’s Jimmy?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t met Jimmy yet. Is Jimmy your husband?”

“Jimmy’s my son. You know Jimmy?”

“No, I don’t know Jimmy, I’m sorry.”

“He might be at…

View original post 1,334 more words

Jeff Phillips: Do Nuts, Ya Sweet Chili Floaters

Drinkers with Writing Problems

One time Fats Hugo was pissed at all of his friends because they seemed to always find ways to laugh at him. They teased him not only for his weight, but his lack of comfort with the 55 pound weight gain he had within a calendar year. It was, of course, awkward for him; there was this whole other mass for him to get used to maneuvering around with, and it didn’t help to see the constant mimicry of the way he carried himself.

He made these donuts with what he called a “suggestive” nut. He crushed and pressed them into the chocolate glaze. He offered them as a dessert.

“Donuts.” He said.

“Do. Nuts.” He growled at anyone that tried to refuse.

This “suggestive” nut was a rare one from the Amazon rain forest, with a more scientific name of anacardium chukli. Most everyone, any normal person, is actually…

View original post 628 more words

Jeff Phillips: The Rooster Purge on the Spit

Drinkers with Writing Problems

Sorry if I was out of commission yesterday. My stomach was feeling a bit off. We went to a party at The Belly and that chef, Chubb Champo, had just got back in town; he’d taken a trip into the rural cornfields of Illinois and came back with some spoils. Spoils. That might be the best way to describe what he brought back. It was real important that he throw a dinner party immediately.

As Chubb served us through the window of that decrepit food truck, his name written in soap on the windshield, he told us about his dish in that booming voice of his. There were probably a hundred of us gathered around it, the word had spread quickly that morning. What he had cooked up did smell amazing: citrusy, with a peppery kick that activated your nostrils further, and it overpowered the usual hint of dusty brick…

View original post 1,302 more words

Jeff Phillips: The Oyster Binge Slumber Party

Drinkers with Writing Problems

More turned out for the experimental feast than expected. Fats Hugo was consistently told to shut up about his dreams, he could drone on and on about every detail he could remember, and his memory was agile. While his culinary partner, Chubb Champo, was down in the bayou, scouting new ingredients, Fats decided to host the party he’d been stewing on for years; a supreme celebration of dreams. They were both larger men, the product of their ample tastings and re-tastings and devouring of a dish so good, so artful, that cravings couldn’t be suppressed; but oftentimes it was the size of their egos and competitive compulsions that boxed each other out.

In the expanse of a warehouse-turned-arts-gallery-and-party-space in a rundown industrial corridor on Chicago’s west side, Fats had some breathing room for the weekend. He could relax, with a little less judgment in the air, could fully commit to…

View original post 1,306 more words