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<!--Generated by Squarespace Site Server v5.11.81 (http://www.squarespace.com/) on Fri, 24 Feb 2012 02:39:15 GMT--><rss xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/" xmlns:wfw="http://wellformedweb.org/CommentAPI/" xmlns:itunes="http://www.itunes.com/dtds/podcast-1.0.dtd" xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/" version="2.0"><channel><title>Writing</title><link>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/</link><description></description><lastBuildDate>Thu, 16 Feb 2012 04:02:21 +0000</lastBuildDate><copyright></copyright><language>en-US</language><generator>Squarespace Site Server v5.11.81 (http://www.squarespace.com/)</generator><item><title>Laptop Judo</title><dc:creator>[Your Name Here]</dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 14 Feb 2012 06:03:53 +0000</pubDate><link>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/2012/2/14/laptop-judo.html</link><guid isPermaLink="false">577417:9478334:15026713</guid><description><![CDATA[The jazz is thick in Puff's hips and it propels him forward into the night. Dark mysteries and limitless options branch at every intersection presenting a mother-load of sensual, libidinous options with elbow room for improvisation. He&rsquo;s been here before and he can read the signs in any language. The streets of Shibuya are a glittering black snake rolling beneath his feet to a crackling tempo that switches time on a whim.]]></description><wfw:commentRss>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/rss-comments-entry-15026713.xml</wfw:commentRss></item><item><title>Corpus Delicti</title><dc:creator>[Your Name Here]</dc:creator><pubDate>Thu, 26 Jan 2012 05:58:25 +0000</pubDate><link>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/2012/1/26/corpus-delicti.html</link><guid isPermaLink="false">577417:9478334:14738193</guid><description><![CDATA[“Seriously, Perry, you shouldn’t eat the Fae.” Barton’s glasses were glowing, reflecting the flames from the campfire. His head was wrapped in a black plastic bag and his face was smeared with soot. Draped over his shoulders was a thick, soiled cloak made from an old quilt. He was sharpening his machete, applying the sandstone to the blade in slow, loving strokes. “I’m serious, Perry, killing it is understandable but eating it? You’ll bring us all bad luck.”]]></description><wfw:commentRss>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/rss-comments-entry-14738193.xml</wfw:commentRss></item><item><title>The Animal Lover</title><dc:creator>[Your Name Here]</dc:creator><pubDate>Thu, 12 Jan 2012 19:52:50 +0000</pubDate><link>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/2012/1/12/the-animal-lover.html</link><guid isPermaLink="false">577417:9478334:14554751</guid><description><![CDATA[It was late and a frost had settled, crisp and brittle, over a thin trail running between the Rhine and the sagging, weary town. Hond sniffed the air and the cold stung but he was sure he smelled the warm, metallic tang of food. At this hour no butcher would be plying his trade so he suspected a darker tradesman had left the meat cooling in the winter air. He followed his nose through the filth along the river bank and the water flowed, black and sluggish, no faster than he walked. The river reeked of sewage and threatened to drown the smell of blood that cut a ribbon through the air and led Hond on a desperate hunt for sustenance. He was close now and began to run in the hopes that he might be the first to the meal. The competition would be fierce and he wasn&rsquo;t sure he could survive another fight, a collision of fangs and boney hides, over meager scraps of garbage.]]></description><wfw:commentRss>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/rss-comments-entry-14554751.xml</wfw:commentRss></item><item><title>When Summoned</title><dc:creator>[Your Name Here]</dc:creator><pubDate>Wed, 04 Jan 2012 06:07:43 +0000</pubDate><link>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/2012/1/4/when-summoned.html</link><guid isPermaLink="false">577417:9478334:14432089</guid><description><![CDATA[Charlie paused, silhouetted in the doorway, and slapped dust from his leathers while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A window overlooked the mud of Main Street but the glass had long been stained by grime that choked every feeble mote of light. The Law Office of Martin Banks Esq. was painted on the window in gold script and the lettering was chipped and fading. Like everything in Cherry Cove it was worn and in a state of advanced disrepair.]]></description><wfw:commentRss>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/rss-comments-entry-14432089.xml</wfw:commentRss></item><item><title>The Spirit of Giving</title><dc:creator>[Your Name Here]</dc:creator><pubDate>Thu, 29 Dec 2011 16:11:34 +0000</pubDate><link>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/2011/12/29/the-spirit-of-giving.html</link><guid isPermaLink="false">577417:9478334:14369694</guid><description><![CDATA[It&rsquo;s Christmas morning in St. Joseph, Michigan, and Caroline Hubbard peels away layers of thick, silver wrapping paper to reveal a heavy, yellowed wheel of cheese. Odor, rich and fetid, spreads across the living room in a wave and her husband looks up, frowning from his easy chair.]]></description><wfw:commentRss>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/rss-comments-entry-14369694.xml</wfw:commentRss></item><item><title>Sun Chang Happy Fortune</title><dc:creator>[Your Name Here]</dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 16 Dec 2011 01:53:31 +0000</pubDate><link>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/2011/12/15/sun-chang-happy-fortune.html</link><guid isPermaLink="false">577417:9478334:14137027</guid><description><![CDATA[&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; My boss takes a bubbling sip from his caramel latte and steam from the drink fogs his glasses. His lips are wet and pouting, his eyes are weak and watery. They don&rsquo;t match the power he&rsquo;s struggling to project from behind his desk, a giant oak sonofabitch that&rsquo;s been in his family for generations.]]></description><wfw:commentRss>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/rss-comments-entry-14137027.xml</wfw:commentRss></item><item><title>Ozymandias</title><dc:creator>[Your Name Here]</dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 09 Dec 2011 01:18:49 +0000</pubDate><link>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/2011/12/8/ozymandias.html</link><guid isPermaLink="false">577417:9478334:14035867</guid><description><![CDATA[&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&ldquo;Tamerlane online,&rdquo; said Dr. Chang. A cascade of lights illuminated the control deck and washed over her. &ldquo;Cortez and Tecumseh saw a 17 percent drop in power but they seem to be stabilizing.&rdquo; She cracked her knuckles and leaned over the array of controls to view the drone in its launch silo as it ran through systems diagnostics; gouts of steam rolling from exhaust vents and the flicker of external cameras acknowledging its environment. To either side of Tamerlane&rsquo;s silo his fellow drones creaked and settled into Awareness State. The thrum of their drives could be felt through the concrete walls but, from the insulated Operations room, they were silent. In the silo great slabs of armor would be screeching, slowly dragging against one another, and the drone&rsquo;s generators would be roaring to life at deafening levels.]]></description><wfw:commentRss>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/rss-comments-entry-14035867.xml</wfw:commentRss></item><item><title>Reaching for the Singularity</title><dc:creator>[Your Name Here]</dc:creator><pubDate>Wed, 07 Sep 2011 02:29:28 +0000</pubDate><link>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/2011/9/6/reaching-for-the-singularity.html</link><guid isPermaLink="false">577417:9478334:12756211</guid><description><![CDATA[&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Fading ink etched in skin and sharp, pressed khaki&rsquo;s invert. The faceless grind of time loops then bends, wearing smooth the details. Paths of rough, coarse stone stretch and become elastic, an even path to well-worn ideals where the near blind suffer their individuality. Masses fold and recombine with a practiced smirk into the many-armed Goddess, wreaking destruction to purge and reanoint her children, the blessed fools. Her reflection catches her eye and she can&rsquo;t help but wonder at her beauty.]]></description><wfw:commentRss>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/rss-comments-entry-12756211.xml</wfw:commentRss></item><item><title>Back to the Future</title><dc:creator>[Your Name Here]</dc:creator><pubDate>Wed, 24 Aug 2011 03:57:28 +0000</pubDate><link>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/2011/8/23/back-to-the-future.html</link><guid isPermaLink="false">577417:9478334:12607382</guid><description><![CDATA[&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I speak with my sister every week. Our Sunday night phone calls have developed into a tradition that we haven&rsquo;t missed in the past three years no matter where I am in the world or how hard she&rsquo;s working. We plan in advance to both drink the same wine and since she likes lights, fruity whites and I&rsquo;m always drawn to deep, rich reds so we take turns choosing a bottle. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;We try to keep the topics light and the bitching to a minimum but you know how it goes, sometimes you can&rsquo;t have that conversation until you unload some stress. The thing is this: I kinda love my life and I struggle to manufacture gripes just so we can have an even exchange. It&rsquo;s never even, though. She tells me about the clinic and the losing battle with half her patients, the slog of fighting with insurance companies for payment and her family issues. I don&rsquo;t want to get into that. Sorry, but just talking about it stresses me out. When we speak I am left feeling powerless and frustrated. Last time I saw her, on a layover in LAX, her hair was gray and wrinkles, sharply defined, were crowding her eyes.]]></description><wfw:commentRss>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/rss-comments-entry-12607382.xml</wfw:commentRss></item><item><title>Let 'em Eat Cake</title><dc:creator>[Your Name Here]</dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 19 Aug 2011 01:36:33 +0000</pubDate><link>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/2011/8/18/let-em-eat-cake.html</link><guid isPermaLink="false">577417:9478334:12560895</guid><description><![CDATA[&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know, Pop, it just doesn&rsquo;t feel right, you know?&rdquo; Johnny Barsetti took a moment to check his hair in the restaurant window, the interior lights reflected off the glass and his coifed reflection stared back at him, framed against the black of night. &ldquo;I was talking to Pauly the other night and he said most weddings are more for the parents then...&rdquo;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;His father cut in, &ldquo;Pauly? Now you&rsquo;re getting wedding advice from Pauly the Puss? When did you see him?&rdquo; Lou Barsetti wiped his mouth with a starched, cloth napkin and glanced at his wife across the table. She rolled her eyes.]]></description><wfw:commentRss>http://www.bradmack.com/writing/rss-comments-entry-12560895.xml</wfw:commentRss></item></channel></rss>
