Ralph Pullins

I want to tell you something I am not proud of: when I was a teenager, I used to tell racist jokes.  We would sit around and tell these shitty jokes and laugh, just a bunch of white as Wonder Bread suburban boys giggling at stupid stereotypes, and I swear I would never have understood why it was bad, if there were no people that would be offended by it around to hear it.  What was the harm, if nobody cared?  It honestly didn't occur to me that I should have been offended, that I should have cared.

I don't tell racist jokes any more, haven't for decades, and the reason I don't is because I understand now.

Words have power.

It is not okay for a jackass teenager to tell racist jokes because it only serves to preserve these ideas, to solidify them in our minds, because there was always that one kid there that would laugh too hard, too long, that would then say something violent or truly hateful.

And even though I would have fought you if you called me out, I would have tol…

“The world has moved on,' we say... we've always said. But it's moving on faster now. Something has happened to time.”― Stephen King, The Gunslinger


Okay, so this one might get a little nerdy, friends, so buckle up.

We're going to flash back a few years ago, to when Microsoft was about to unveil their new gaming console. It was rumored to be called Xbox 720, the double of the 360, get it?  I'm an Xbox guy, given that Halo was the first version of a console FPS that I loved, and I think their controllers are superior to those of the Playstation, and so I was very excited to see the unveiling of a new console.  Leading up to this, nerds everywhere were speculating and rumoring, and 'it is expected'-ing, and it became pretty clear to those of us that were paying close attention that it would likely be a large improvement hardware-wise, that there would finally be an integrated Blu-Ray player, since the other format, HD DVD, fizzled out.. Nerd Stuff.  You get …

When the spotlight hits the stage, it illuminates a single microphone on a stand.  The restless crowd goes quiet.  I walk out from the wings, in a black suit, no tie, shirt untucked.  It is very apparent that all the workouts and disciplined eating have really paid off.

I stand there for a moment, and appreciate the vast darkness that seems to swallow all sound.  There is the occasional throat clearing from the audience, but all eyes are on me.  
I lean to the mic.  "Hi there," I say. "Thanks for coming out tonight."  There are a couple claps and as is always the case in these situations, some character in the back yells, "You're welcome!"  I smile and wait for them to quiet down again, then I clear my throat.  I reach into my inside jacket pocket, and pull out a single piece of paper.  I unfold it, look at it for a moment, then reach into my other lapel and pull out a pair of half rim reading glasses.  Behind me in the darkness there is movement and …

Somewhere out in the darkness of the forest there is a path.  Not everyone who looks for it finds it, and not everyone who finds it was looking for it.  Many who take the path wish they had not, and many that pass it by wish that they had the courage to take it when they had the chance.  

At the end of the path is a clearing. In the center of the clearing is a standing stone, weathered and ancient, the once sharp corners rounded by time and by touch. It is a hidden place, a place of loss and pain and sacrifice, but also a place of rest, a place of freedom. The front of the stone is stained, layer after layer, cracked black and dusty brown and wet shiny red.

We speak of sacrifice, but what does that mean?

The kid hangs onto my arm, clings in fear.  He is maybe eleven, and even though he is big for his age, he feels small.  He shakes and clutches to me, flinches at every sound.  He knows that the world hurts, knows too young that mostly we live and die alone.  He has been left and aban…

I write things without knowing what I am supposed to do when they are done.  when I finished the first draft of Antiartists, I literally Googled "I finished my novel. What do I do now?" If I feel compelled to write for whatever reason, I always write first and figure out what to do with it after.  Sometimes these strange orphans find a home, sometimes they just wait until they come of age and then go out into the world alone.  This is one of the latter.  I don't remember when or why I wrote it, but I think it is beautiful and thought I would share it since it never got adopted.  It looks like a poem, and it is, but it is also a story.

The Impossible Distance
Off the late shift, walking and staring up at the stars, the impossible distance Between me and them, them and each other The impossible distance…
I worked, and I didn't speak to another person It is the nature of the job, a simple thing soon to be automated Soon I will be redundant.
At home awaits cold darkness, an ind…