Story by Michael Lee
            Johnson


            
Manic is the Dark
            Night: Flashlight Fiction


            
 

            
I found myself somewhere in the middle
            of my life, around the mid-to-late twenties. Until then, I was
            busy living my life day by day and sure thinking of myself as
            sane. You know the brief story lines: reach out and touch people,
            get involved, don't close yourself in, dance till dawn or till
            your cigarettes run out or your shoes wear holes in leather bottoms.
            I'd lived it all day by day, night by night; shoplifting during
            the day, running with women in the evening hours, normal. I had
            new clothes to wear all the time; I tossed the dirty ones away.
            I was too busy for laundry; I saw the line my life was taking.
            I was sort of in exile living two lives but no one really cared;
            just the people affected, or should I say infected by me? Either
            way it was just a change of pace.

            
At times life dragged on like being on
            a Georgia, summer, chain gang; at other times it moved so fast
            I couldn't stop the sled of Edmonton, Alberta snow like experiences.
            Crazy as it seems.

            
But I came to my senses, a series of serious
            life events caught up with me - minor things like jail, termination
            of three marriages, and going to a Gestalt therapist for rejuvenation
            of spirits and afterward, sweet cherry wine.

            
I got older quickly and before I could
            make any real money my hair turned gray and no one would hire
            me. So I sat at home and wrote poetry and allowed editors to
            shred me apart and tell me of my shortcomings electronically,
            which was better than no response at all like in the old days
            of snail mail when it cost too much to write a few lines to grace
            me with joy or simply bitch.

            
I'm not certain I ever developed a plot
            I could truly figure out or walk the path of for any length of
            time. Plots always seemed to confuse me. Drain my energy, keep
            me away from living, and force me to look for explanations or
            creativity within squared off walls. I was never good at long
            stories; I was never good at looking at structures. All the events
            in between are just boring anyway.

            
I have now shaved out a rectangular box
            in myself, for myself, with a shadow inside to live in. I now
            live in a square window box, tan trim, no flowers inside, just
            a black background that allows only night images to seep through
            the white shutters that reflect and refresh me.

            
I'm still open to new experiences, everything
            now seems short and to the point, just the time of night never
            changes anymore¾ manic is the dark night. Creativity is
            the way I express it, fragmented.

            
©Michael Lee Johnson
            2008

            
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet,
            and freelance writer, Itasca, Illinois and author of The Lost
            American: From Exile to Freedom. He has also published two
            chapbooks of poetry. He has been published in USA, Canada, New
            Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria,
            Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Nepal,
            Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, and Malaysia. He is also publisher and
            editor of four poetry, flash fiction sites--all presently open
            for submission:

            Author website: http://poetryman.mysite.com/



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