J. Storbakken

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Mar, 2020

Stories (27)

27 Stories

632 karma pts

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“A Winter's Fly” by J. Storbakken

Submitted to Contest #95

for my motherChapter 1A winter fly, a French fry. And a few other French fries: what's behind the first of the little cabinet panels. And behind the other cabinet door, on the upper left: a bowl of fresh, ripe-red, highly organic cherries. They're all stored, cozy. Hold: still life.Moocow fresh cow, how now, love bow, moocow fresh cow, hownow, love bow, moocow, freshcow... M...

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“The Sailboat” by J. Storbakken

Submitted to Contest #94

Ineluctable modality of stark technological advancement...---*andante*---(A hint: The meaning of it all is just this, Technology is our organ of Time, an organ which we, up until the past 120 years or so, have not had, and this is, evolutionarily, very interesting)It all began with the salutary suggestions and advertisements on Facebook following him. How are they doing it? he would think constantly to himself, more and more paranoid with every knockabout day....

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“Because Monsieur Proust Said So | Section B2” by J. Storbakken

The double-doors are open: back of the house: darkness, lit by thy light.Monsieur Proust's Du Cote de chez Swann plays on Youtube as I write: thrumming, a strange voice, an arid voice from the strange afar of the Macbook's speakers. Lit by the light of thy MacBook. I must hear it in French, the native tongue, in order to even begin to get a taste for the genius therefound. Lobbying under the frontispiece of truth. I know a handful of French words. I will learn it someday, the language, proper. For now, ...

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“Because Monsieur Proust Said So | Section B1” by J. Storbakken

I am, a l’huere actuelle, trying to remember the face of a man, the identity of whom I remember nothing about. The man once shared with me his sullen opinions of a woman, a woman whom he had never met, a woman who read for an audiobook recording of Swann’s Way. All I can remember, and this vague, far memory came back to me uninvited, frankly, is the man’s disgruntled opinion of the way in which the woman read from Proust's Swann's Way. He really hated her guts, he had told me, not lightheartedl...

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“NEWS AND FIELDFLOWERS” by J. Storbakken

Submitted to Contest #94

S.P.D. was here: this novel was written by Spoonfed Pumpernickel Dawn Esq.‘Ol George Magoopie, that’s who. Have you seen him? Have you seen the man standing at twilight by the dark edge of the bay's waters? He who cuffs his collar wide. He sits like a temple. Like a great god. I have no idea what to say to him. Cuckoo. Who is he? Who-o? He is me. I know him. Who are you, stranger? We are trying to make this clear for the pe...

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“Because Monsieur Proust Said So | Section A” by J. Storbakken

Submitted to Contest #94

The Los Angeles writer, after stepping over a pigeon that was plopping its body about by the bus-stop on its one leg (the other fowleen appendage, a pink, rattail-ish trunk, hung down, tapping like a broken stick onto the sidewalk, rhythmically, as if it were scratching a little pigeonitch on the tiny stump-tip), boarded the outgoing bus and took his seat. The writer stepped over the pigeon. The Los Angeles writer stepped over the blarmey pigeon that was hopping and plopping itself about here and there, meddlesome and un...

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“The Sixth of the Thomas(es)” by J. Storbakken

Submitted to Contest #93

Angry, transmogrified, livid, drunken, the writer has just closed an e-mail which he was reading. It was an e-mail sent him by Austin MacCauley Publishers, "accepting" his piece. AM Publishers: one of those fake, disease-ridden (co-)publishing companies which exist to steal from all starving, naïve, and ignorant artists; the poor foolers. The poor fools, too.The writer leaves it, hear: like a shitepaper on a shoe'sbottom:"Dear Mr MacLane, Settling a Classic Novelette, your manuscript, was brought to our...

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“Oh Boy, There's a Sitcom A-comin'!” by J. Storbakken

Submitted to Contest #93

These are the times of the inspirationally un-inspirational.I am going to write a few words on the artistic value of the American sitcom.I am here watching an episode of a certain show, in a certain anonymous motel, somewhere in the U.S.A., and I am thinking about the obvious beauty of the American sitcom. Its truth.It is a dead art. None of the sitcoms today, not one, can match the essential beauty of the classic American sitcom. Not the Goldbergs, none of them.Maybe it is the ...

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“The Love of My Life by Stephen MacLane” by J. Storbakken

Submitted to Contest #93

THE LOVE OF MY LIFE [& somewhere, scribbled in this particular edition of it: "F. Scott is not dead....."]by Stephen MacLane for Paolathe first night Call me Stephen.....this one’s for you, P. Walking here over to the "King's Lodge" I thought about a stream of consciousness novel, written within such mental bouts and such boundaries, but all being driven and flowing...

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“The Drunken Starfish” by J. Storbakken

Submitted to Contest #93

He's purring underneath the morning, there. Ah, heavy, heavy, disparate morning.... &…. & See the red cups there and there and there. Notice the blandished headache. Notice the trees. Notice the cool, kissing breath of early morning. Notice the boy stumbling drunkenly north down Forrey St. to the bus-stop on Greenleaf. Notice how ecstatic he looks. Notice his disheveled beautiful and ugly facial expressions. Notice the small, oily stain on his leather jacket. Notice his hair...

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“Chess With le Chat Ti Gris” by J. Storbakken

There sitting at his desk: lamp light. He has his e-mail account open, he is using a fresh, new message to write a scattered poem. He writes the following: a novel poetic style incorporating the aesthetics of the modern Information Age...."Midnight Angel, a poemsidewalk standing room, 8 PM, standing by the red light, walk(3 spaces for long pauses, 5 for longer(est))"here I come, midnight angel," I said. Prose like this. The "o" button on my ke...

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“A Door's Door” by J. Storbakken

Beth shut her eyes, opened her mouth in a droll show of complaisance, and leaned forward into the spoonful of steaming chicken broth. Nicholas guided it gently to her tongue, tipped, and removed it with care. She coughed a little, letting some of the contents spittle onto the napkin she had tucked into the neck of her blouse. Nicholas wiped the creases of her mouth with a napkin, and let some seconds pass before handing her another spoonful.“Ma, maybe we can try a walk today, huh?”She looked at him blankly, and her lips form...

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Author bio

J. Storbakken is a poet, a starving artist, and apparently an artful blogger of some kind or sort. He has dropped out of college more times than he has been accepted into college, and he is very proud of this feat. He is a vegetarian and a yogi and suspects his prior life was lived on Mars or whereabouts. He is a lover of all things poetic, as in, life. At times, he is a galavanting postmodern cartoon of himself. Some aspects of postmodernist literature include self-reflexivity, metanarrative, second-person narrative, hypertextuality, multiperspectivity, unreliability and anything else we can come up with.