Michael Henrik Wynn

[MichaelHW]

This is of course me I am no "important" writer, but I like to write short stories and poems once in a while. I am also a literary historian, and I edit a small blog and netradio-stream at historyradio.org.

Anyway, I have written some small things, and I couldn't find an appropriate thread to place it. So I am brashly injecting my text into this Forum.

I wrote a short story a few days ago. Here it is. I have also published it at my blog. Link below the text.


"The Garden Hose" by Michael Henrik Wynn

I have suspected my neighbor of using my garden hose without my permission for many years, perhaps even 20. Of course, I have never asked him about it, even if he sometimes comes to dinner in my own home. In stead, I have begun watching him. I sit by my window in the evening observing him as he goes about his business. My thought was that if I could catch him in the act then I would rush out and finally have my theories proven.

I am retired, and I don’t have much else to do. After having been at my post every morning some years, I discovered that someone else, the neighbor one house up, was in fact using my neighbor’s garden hose in his absence, most certainly without his permission. Clearly, this was extremely immoral, and I would not stand for it. So, I got the idea that if I informed my long hated Nemesis about the fact that his neighbor was taking liberties, the two of them would bring about each other’s downfall.

So, one morning I casually walked up to my dishonest neighbor and mentioned, almost in passing, that I had seen the neighbor one house down entering his house that morning. My neighbor did not say anything, but his eyes revealed a total shock. I was very pleased, and returned to my lookout post.

The next day, I could see my Nemesis peering through his curtains, obviously trying to verify my gossip. He also began walking down the road, looking up at his neighbor’s house in disbelief. The two passed even each other in the street, and my Nemesis gave the neighbor a very nasty look. I almost had to smile.

But what happened then was not what I expected. My Nemesis told me over dinner that he had discovered that the matter was related to a use of a garden hose, and that he had talked with his neighbor one house down, and that the garden hose would be placed in the shed, where they both could get to it with ease. The matter was settled, he said.

This was not what I wanted, so I had to come up with something else in the spur of the moment. “And what about your car?” I asked. “My car?” said my neighbor. “Yes, I have seen your neighbor driving your car while you are away? I thought you had an agreement?” My neighbor was wonderfully shocked, threw down his dinner napkin and ran out the door.

The next morning the two of them were shouting it out on the front lawn. I was hidden behind a semitransparent curtain in front of an open window. I could not see their faces, but I saw the distinct silhouettes of their waving arms and heard their mutual accusations and insults. I almost laughed when my long held Nemesis struck his neighbor in the face. Now it would be a matter for the police, and the courts would be involved. And I was quite right.

I wandered down the road to the neighbor one house down. I have never known him very well. Still, I feel some connection to him because his sister is the ex-wife of my own brother. She is a very nice person, but I have kept my distance out of respect for my brother. They quarreled, you see.

I found him frantically dialing something on his mobile phone. He had a black eye, and was very agitated. “Hello”, I said. “Have you been in an accident?” I pointed to my own eye to indicate what I meant. “No! I most certainly have not,” he said. “My neighbor has gone absolutely insane and has started to accuse me of using his car. It all started with me using his garden hose without his permission. I thought it would be no big deal.”
“No big deal!!” I exclaimed. “Taking liberties with others is a huge breach of trust. And now he has struck you in the face! You must take legal action!”
“I was planning to, but then I thought my credibility would be ruined by the fact that I had used his garden hose. I have admitted this in front of witnesses. But using a garden hose is not the same as using his car. Which is what he is now claiming.”
“Well”, I said. “Your neighbor might not be as morally upright as he is pretending to be. In fact, I may be willing to testify in court to this fact. And as you know, I may be retired. But I have impeccable credentials after spending almost 40 years as a clerk in the legal department of the town property registry. No one will doubt my word”.
“Really? You would do such a thing for me? But we hardly know each other?”
“We do in a way. Many years ago, your sister was married to my younger brother. I have never mentioned it because they argued so terribly, and I kept my distance out of respect for my brother. But I have always liked your sister much better than my own brother.”
“I see,” he said and thoughtfully scratched his ear. “Will you give me a week to think about this. I will do as you say. But I must find a good lawyer. Some are very expensive?”
“Of course”, I said and smiled confidently. “I understand completely”.
I then returned to my home, and had a full bottle of wine to celebrate. Finally, I would be given a chance to confront my best friend about his illegitimate use of my garden hose. The whole world would be able to read the court transcripts a hundred years from now. If there is one thing a legal clerk knows, it is that history does not remember things that are not written in black and white.
A week later, I was informed that a date for a trial was set. Of course, the case was not given priority, so we all had to wait half a year. But it was worth the wait because matters of principle cannot go unsettled.
The two of them appeared in court on opposite sides with each their own suited lawyers. I was seated at the back, and would appear as a witness later. They both knew this, but I had not been too specific about what I was going to say. I had mentioned the hose, but I thought I would air some other flaws in my Nemesis’ character that had annoyed me over the years.
First, there was some legal mambo-jumbo, but then finally the man was on the stand telling the horrific story of the unmotivated violence to which he had been so unfairly subjected. I smiled as he recounted the unsubstantiated car story to the court. “But of course, this is nothing compared to the man who is about to appear as a witness. He always uses this man’s lawnmower when he is gone. And he also sometimes steals his mail.”
“WHAT!!” I shouted from the back.
“Yes, I can confirm this” my Nemesis said. “I have seen this many times. He is always taking liberties. He is not honest. I am very sorry for having struck you. Will you forgive me?”
Then the two of them met in front of the judge, and hugged. The judge sighed. Then, he lifted his gavel and, almost in dismay, struck at the table as he said: “case dismissed”. My two neighbors and their lawyers then left, almost without looking at me.
I sat alone at the back utterly confused. But then I got up and shouted at the judge: “I have NEVER EVER used someone else’s lawnmower without their permission. These are all lies, I tell you!”.

The Garden Hose | Historyradio.org

historyradio.org

 

[MichaelHW]

I just wrote another short story. Felt a little inspired. This is set in Victorian London. I would be interested to hear what you think of it? It was a few sentences too long to post in full here, so I have to link to my blog. It is not very long, though. I just wrote it, I will weed out typos etc later.

The Doctor | Historyradio.org

historyradio.org

 

[MichaelHW]

I recorded a reading I made of my short story, added a sound intro and some graphics. It turned out ok, i think

 

[MichaelHW]

I also recorded a reading of one of my poems. This is a satirical poem

 

[MichaelHW]

I have had dogs for most of my life and they are wonderful creatures. There are innumerable sentimental stories written by owners over the years. I thought I would make an addition to the list of nausiating clichees. A little romantic, set in the past. But the landscape is slightly similiar to where i am now. There is no snow here, however. I wrote this this morning. Here goes:

The old major and his dog
There lived an old retired major in the hills of central Europe. No one knew in which armies he had fought, or which battles that had disfigured his wrinkled face. Some took for granted that he had supported the Nazis during the war. They barely knew his name, and only referred to him with contempt as “the grumpy old major”. His home was a log cabin, overlooking a valley that was often covered in mist. And when the rains and the wind darkened the evenings, the light from his window was a solitary gleam - like the eye of the mountains themselves - peering down on the village below.

The major was thoroughly disliked because of his ferocious temper. He arrived in the afternoons, unshaven, stinking of sweat and alcohol, and then he would be very rude and cold - if he indeed he said something at all.

The only creature on this earth that seemed to be good enough for the old major was his dog. No one knew the age of the creature, or even of the of the major himself. The dog walked with a proud skip in its steps, and he showered it with luxury and food. In the evenings the major would silently ponder the landscape from his vantage point. What his thoughts were, not even the dog could tell.

There was never a visitor to the old cabin, but the major sometimes sobered up and cleared the path. He worked into the afternoons with a pick ax and shuffle. When he was done he would take a seat in a chair outside, and drink whiskey and smoke until he fell asleep where he sat. The evening chill would wake him and then he would withdraw to his bed. Sometimes when the major slept he would kick and scream, as he was struggling for his life. Then the dog would jump down from the bed, and lie down in a corner until he quieted down. When the major woke, he would be sweaty and confused, and then he would drink coffee, and then read a book til dawn penetrated the morning mist.

The landscape around the village was vast and wild, and the major would limp up and down those isolated paths followed by his mute companion. In winter, blizzards would descend upon his outpost with terrifying violence. A lighted fireplace and piles of wood kept him warm. He stored canned food of various kinds, beans, spam, fish, and he salted meats to comfort himself. When the water froze he opened the door and collected snow in a bucket which he melted by the fire for his coffee.

Sometimes, when he was in the mood, he dug deep into a wooden chest and found an old battery powered radio, and he would sit quietly, intensely concentrated trying to move the antenna back and forth in order to make out those almost imperceptible voices that penetrated into his dominion from the world outside. But sometimes this proved impossible, and therefore he did not receive advance warning of the horrific storm of 1973.

On 21 of October that year the heavens gave birth to the worst winds and heaviest snow fall seen in those parts. The other villagers never talked to the old major because they did not like him, and by the time storm had arrived, and he entered their thoughts, it was too late. They thought that the cabin on the hill has stood there for hundreds of years. Like the major himself it seemed carved out of the hillside. If he just sat quiet where he was, no harm could befall him.

And they were right, and the old major knew it. He did what he normally did during winter storms, lighted his fire. The flames flickered, and when the shutters were secured, they filled the room with comfort, light and heat, while the Day of Judgment brewed outside.

The old major was used to this, it had been his life, in every sense. He got up a bottle of whiskey, and sipped from a glass. His dog, however, was utterly terrified. It crawled under the table, and whined. The old major tried to reassure the creature, calm it with offers of treats, but the howl of the winds, the creaking walls and what seemed like an inexplicable drone from the heavens above frightened it, and it would take no food.

The old major then got down on his knees under the table and sat next to the dog with his glass of whiskey. He looked at the dog, and for a while dog was calm. But then suddenly a tremendous gust blew the door open, filling the room with swirls of snow. The old major rushed to his feet, and struggled against the wind to shut it. When that was done, he noticed that the dog had fled into the night to seek refuge among the trees.

First, he was overwhelmed with grief when the room was quiet. He looked at the empty space where the dog used to lie. Then his eyes were suddenly filled with defiance, an old soldier was returning to battle. He put on his thickest coat, and hat and scarf, grabbed an oil lamp and unlocked the door.

So it was that the old major decided to take on the very spirits of the mountain to fight for his dog. He waded to his ankles in snow for a few hundred meters up the hill. He shouted, but his voice was inaudible. As he became removed from his cabin, he saw its light extinguish in the storm. And not soon after, the old major was overcome with fatigue and sat down under a tree. That is where the men from the village found his frozen body two days later.

They did not have much sympathy for him because he had always been mean and yelled at them. The dog, however, was found alive in the shed outside. Everyone thought that this was the most faithful creature on earth which stayed so loyal to such a terrible person. It was brought down from the mountain, and given to a breeder, who made sure that it produced many litters, whose offspring still run around on the meadows in those parts. They say old majors die, but their dogs live on forever.

by Michael Henrik Wynn

 

[MichaelHW]

The last story was a little sad, but that is part of that particular genre. I just want to post another text to show that I write other stuff, and that I have done this long enough to have some distance to what I write. Even if I write some satire occasionally, you will not find anyone who will claim that I have been personally rude to them on the basis of some disagreement over politics, and that sort of thing. I don't know how original or successful the text below is, but it was the best I could do yesterday.

Some years back I was a movie blogger, and I even took a course in the history of cinema. I thought it was fun, but eventually grew tired, and now I almost never bother to watch any movies. But I must admit I also acquired quite a lot of prejudices about how stories end up on screen. So, below I poke a little fun at this sort of people. I just like playing with the sentences and the myths:

A Hollywood script is a venereal disease
Let us take the hypothetical case of the transvestite Hungarian biker who lives in a motor-home near San Diego. He quit his executive job in Europe, and relocated to the US to make it big. How this happens is of no consequence whatsoever. In his spare time from his new job at McDonald’s he pens a script based on an old but recently re-appraised novel, and starts stalking various movie producers. It so happens that he avoids a restraining order, and corners one of them in a cafe. Just before his green card expires, the newly converted Scientologist wins his jackpot: the script is bought and suddenly he is also blessed by Tom Cruise. The script, however, ends up in a stylish mahogany drawer and gathers dust.

After the divorce of his seventh teen-age wife, the first producer rediscovers the script in his new love's Barbie collection, and is about to bring it to the local flea market when his old brother in-law, a fellow movie producer whom he dislikes intensely, is persuaded to buy it. Being closeted man who uses his brother-in-law’s sister as a beard, the new producer takes offense to the hetero-typical noir protagonist, and decides to replace the masculine and clearly butch hero with a gorgeously robed gum-shoe resembling Julie Andrews. Into the drawer the script goes, and more time passes.

Unfortunately, it is an illusion brought on by excessive make-up, cosmetic surgery and unnatural hair-pieces that gay men do not die of old age. In the present case - believe it or not - it was true! The demise of this particular producer was brought on by a cocaine overdose at a local bathhouse. His son describes his father’s pathetic death-scene in a tell-all. On Oprah, he recounts the tear -jerking story of how this made him lose faith in late his father’s judgment, and why he then sold all his father’s scripts to a genius who applied science to literary analysis, a guru of digital humanities, a man trying to link Hollywood with trans-humanism, cryogenics and Silicone Valley.

The script is analyzed using revolutionary AI and tailored algorithms. Various story elements are tested against focus groups to measure potential revenue models. It may be that the optimal setting for the story is not some Vegas casino, even if this was the intention of a Pulitzer Prize-winning alcoholic. Perhaps a space station would generate more income, and perhaps the Julie Andrews character should not have a car, but in stead an elephant?

Of course, this elephant must be created using CGI, and then PETA and certain special effects companies must be contacted in order to ensure realism, and an ethical and accurate portrayal of the species - and ascertain the per second cost of each animal sequence. Could production perhaps be outsourced to Columbia if the villain in the story resembled Pablo Escobar? Is it possible to exploit this for marketing, or could an appeal to controversy, perhaps involving sexual innuendo and martians, do the trick?

In view of many real, imaginary and self-inflicted expenses, the wizard of Silicon Valley was relieved to discover that the NIH offered a huge grant to any movie producer who might help disseminate knowledge of venereal diseases. Incorporating such information into the dialogue by means of said AI-system, and introducing tasteful cameos of Musk and Trump - and their logos - might offset the CGI-cost and widen target audiences.

However, any naturalized citizen of the United States must avoid contact with judges, even on public transport. Therefore the literary estate must be approached - in some alley, if need be. This hypothetical adaptation of the literary canon came to a permanent halt when lightly dressed invitations to several beach houses failed to prevent a top publishing lawyer from knocking at several doors, rehashing the often repeated truism: “the similarity between Hollywood scripts and venereal diseases will be painfully obvious to all lovers of good fiction. They are passed from person to person socially, mutate and are not really wanted by anyone. Having one in your drawer(s?) is, however, considered proof of virility”.

The project was immediately scrapped, the name of the original author deleted and the script sold in an undisclosed bankruptcy settlement to Marvel, who - according to inside sources online - will re-write it as an episode of Dr Weird, five years from now when “a not named Pulitzer Prize story” finally passes into public domain.

by Michael Henrik Wynn

 

[MichaelHW]

The Barrister
At an undisclosed time in British history, there lived a 14 year old boy with undiagnosed, but mild autism who was fond of school debates. His mind was such that he could challenge most normal people simply by overwhelming them with masses of facts from his prodigious memory. As he grew older, he realised that he could use this in a court of law, and make good money as a barrister. Passing a degree in pedantic quotation and logics posed no problems for a high riser of his particular talents. He got top marks, and was immediately hired by a large London law firm to argue a very important case before a senior and very respected judge.

When the new barrister entered the court, however, he immediately turned many heads because of the sound volume with which the fresh legal representative presented his arguments, this being the method he had applied to win school debates. The old judge - first frowning, then staring in disbelief - observed the performance in silence, and then – out of sheer curiosity – got the solicitor into a short discussion. I say short, for five minutes later the fresh barrister was arrested in contempt of court on the grounds that “shouting and screaming like a madman does not improve a flawed line of reasoning”.

The barrister remained in his cold cell a few days, until the judge took pity on him, and paid a him a visit. He sat down next to the man, and assumed the role of a well-meaning grandfather. “I am going to order your release tomorrow", he said. "But in my 40 years as a judge, I have never seen something similar in my court as what you perpetrated a few days ago.”

“I understand”

“There is a condition to my release, so do not rejoice until you hear it: I want you to promise me that you will NEVER work as a barrister, but in stead find a profession more suited to this kind of rudeness, these constant interruptions with tedious facts and details. This inability to allow a full line of reasoning to reach a natural conclusion. This sort of circus will halt all progress in my cases, and assure that nothing gets done, you see. Will you promise me this?”

The young barrister sighed. He was not a bad person, in fact he was kind. He just did not understand. Nor was he a person who would knowingly disrespect authority.
“I will heed your advice, Your Honour.”

The door slammed shut behind the judge as he left, and the very next morning the barrister was released. He quit the law firm, and for while drifted aimlessly through various business ventures. Even with moderate success in these, he felt that he had been robbed of a setting in which his natural talents for debating would blossom. However, this story has a very happy ending, for the historical records indicate that he - 20 years after the said events - became the most admired Speaker in the history of the British House of Commons.


by Michael Henrik Wynn

 

[MichaelHW]

I wrote a new poem. The effect is almost a little too much. But I am posting anyway.

At the ward
Nurse! Nurse! Come quickly!
I am in pain, when will my doctor come?
“I cannot say, I just passed by.
Have you submitted your forms?
Are you registered?
If every paragraph is obeyed,
then surely he will be here soon?”

Nurse! Nurse! Come quickly!
I am in pain, when will my doctor come?
“But, my dear man, look at your neighbor,
how he suffers too?
Is your life worth more than his?
If you are worthy of treatment,
Then surely he will be here soon?”

Nurse! Nurse! Come quickly!
I am in pain, when will my doctor come?
“When the moon climbs high over yonder ridge,
When boughs stir in the gentle breeze
and a starry carpet unfolds above,
in soft tweets and rippling brooks,
in the sigh of evening, in dawn and morning mist.”

by Michael Henrik Wynn

 

[MichaelHW]

I have started making radio pieces of some of my old articles. Here are two (an extra s snuck into the intro in one of them. I will fix later some time):

 

[MichaelHW]

 

[MichaelHW]

I wrote some new texts. Here are some of them

Celebrity Mourning​

The crowds waited in anticipation as the pompous fanfares marked the opening of the red carpet, a crowd of slick journalists rushed to the front fence. An even larger crowd consisting of “common men” were held back at the perimeter – like some reserve force. And then they arrived, the dashing superstars in their lavish costumes. The simultaneous flashes of hundreds of cameras enlightened the long expected arrivals from constantly shifting angles. Some of them sweated, others blinked, but they all kept their faces. They smiled because they were used to it, and they lifted their arms and waved. They paraded along the marked lines giving autographs, and they were all in a splendid mood.
“The film was excellent, Mark Thompson! How did you feel upon receiving the award”
“It was a great honor, of course.”
“How do you feel about being nominated as the most sexy man in the business”
“I appreciate good taste when I see it”, the middle aged actor said and put on his best grin.
Those who heard him – and there were plenty of these – roared with laughter. They would have escorted him to his limousine, but sunglassed guards – probably picked or perhaps even bred for size and grim appearances – blocked their way. Strangers struggled, they shouted after him, and for their sake Mark Thompson stopped, walked over to the fence where they stood and signed several autographs. Then he moved on to the next fence closer to the parking lot. There were three of them along the way, and Mark Thompson radiated even more humor and wit at the two next ones. He was warming up. Only the last two hundred meters did he walk a little faster when he noticed an open limousine waiting for him. He sighed when the car doors slammed shut behind him, because he now was protected from a multitude of stares by bullet proof colored glass. But a sigh was all he could manage because even if they could not see him, he was able to see them, the vast moving crowd, an organism by itself, twisting and turning, giving off sounds of hysteria, of admiration and sometimes – more often than people realize – of disgust and resentment.
The car navigated through the streets of the city center, and stopped by the venerable Grand Hotel. The door opened, and again he was exposed. But there was that million dollar, tastefully bleached smile that had melted so many hearts, and there was that sharp tongue that always knew how to dodge awkward questions. It had served him so well, and it only became more and more efficient with age. It ripened like a fine wine.
At the reception, men and women he had never met and sometimes not even knew existed told him from a mahogany podium about how he had completely altered their lives, sometimes saved them from bad marriages, improved their sex lives and prevented suicides. Of course, he had no choice but to be humbled by his enormous power, such good fortune that life had bestowed upon him. He was obliged to tell them of his own struggles, and how thankful he was that he had made it, arrived at his station, and how they too could make it if they just followed their dream. Ever onwards and upwards.
There was fine dining, exquisite cuisine, which he enjoyed in silence, while hum and chatter, and toasting glasses sounded over his head. Then he got up, excused himself and rushed through the velvet corridors for the bathroom. But a young blonde had made it passed the guards, was blocking his way and was flashing her excellently sculpted breasts. Then, there was a bizarre situation in which a gigantic two meter black body guard chased the tiny creature down the corridor. Mark Thompson walked by and smiled.
“They never stop”, he told the guard, “they can’t help it. You’re doing a great job, thank you, but be gentle on her. She is drunk and very young.”
“Yes sir”, said the giant bodyguard.
He did his thing in the toilet, washed his hands in the gilded sink, and returned to his seat. His agent was on the phone, several radio stations wanted his views on some matter. He found a quiet corner, and called them. He preferred these brief phone interviews. No one could see his face, he could even do them in the nude at home, if he wanted. But somehow it never seemed right. Even in their voices, he could sense their eyes.
At ten o’clock that evening he called it a day. He had been at it since morning. Then there was the routine of leaving the building, the choreographed exit, the waiting door. The relief of departure, the oddness of seeing those ordinary people walking along the bar strip as his limousine passed. The loud music, the distant laughter. He had been 18 once, hadn’t he? He had not always had this life. Many many years ago, he too could walk down that strip, and no one would even look twice at him, a pimpled mumbling nerd. The girls had even giggled at him with pity, the pathetic boy who would never get laid.
The cortege struggled through traffic, but as they entered the more affluent areas, people and vehicles magically dispersed. He was left with majestic glass and steel constructions, all polished and glimmering, fancy restaurants with private entrances and then the villa area: well kept gardens with pools hidden by carefully landscaped residential palaces. As dusk fell, the stars had come out and they hung over his home, stretching endlessly towards a million dollar horizon and view. Below them lay the vast pulsating metropolis. On top of the hill stood his isolated palace, his marble columns, his tiled walkways.
Another open door was waiting for him, and he rushed towards it. He had made sure that it had been made of the most quirky wood he could find. It stood out because it had the texture of an English cottage door. The faces that met him, his servants, were friends at least, he thought. He paid them enough to fake it.
“Is she still awake?” he asked as the maid took his coat.
“Yes, sir. She is awake”
He then stopped by the stairs, and wondered whether he would he would be brave enough to enter her room. But the memories overwhelmed him, and he bit his lip as climbed the steps.
There was the door he dreaded. He leaned his forehead against it as he knocked. It squeaked open, and the silhouette a huge bed and a dying woman was visible against the moon light from a half open window. He walked those final steps to the vacant chair, and an imperceptible breeze silently swung the door shut behind him.
by Mchael Henrik Wynn

 

[MichaelHW]

Here are two poems:

To the Harvard Pathologist who Sold Body-Parts Online
Dusk swallows modernity,
pimpled students withdraw to their own future,
and ancient winds swirl the leaves over cobblestones.

It is then, accompanied by the owls of the city,
that a regular apparition moves under a fleeting moon.
Like a ghost of Burke or Hare
it steals across the parking lot towards a waiting morgue.
Footsteps on venerable floors, doors creak,
panting down those countless winding stairs
to the bowels and intestines of academia.

And there it was,
the illuminated cold storage of many minds!
Jarred egg-heads and poetic hearts in formalin.
Who would not have bought a decapitation of Peirce,
or the preserved moustache of William James?
But one must take what life offers.
Then the giggling tomb raider
flings a sack of spoils over his shoulder:

“How stupid they all are! Naive to the last.
These relics of preserved flesh
will fetch a fortune on the open market!
No need……. no need whatsoever,
to inflate tuition fees.”

by Michael Henrik Wynn


The Third World
Racism is abhorrent,
whatever are they up to
in those countries where negroes live.

Conflicts are very evil,
- and none of these are ever sold
in any of our supermarkets.

Poverty is a post-colonial stress syndrome
that forces the untainted among us
to become legal guardians.

You see, there are horrific crimes in those countries
presumption of innocence does not exist.
And we cannot force it upon them?

by Michael Henrik Wynn