by Mark Antony Rossi
The act of writing short fiction is not a sunny stroll down nostalgia lane. It’s more akin to the creative modification of truth to make a dramatic point. Despite puritanical criticism, I am steadfast in my conviction that straying from the sequentiality of reality is not denial but rather a willful rearrangement of events to broaden the scope of truth.
For Truth is regularly concealed by rigid facts preventing contact with its intended audience. For Truth is under siege frequently by organized thoughts playing house with the harlots of ideology. Its bruised arms whipped by impure passions are handcuffed to the likes of prejudice which in the family tree of tribulation is related to rationalization. And rationalization is a wide-eyed zealot blunting the sharp edges of life in the benighted belief that an efficiency is a form of ethical conduct.
Hence the writer intervenes on behalf of truth through cautious excavation and honorable investigation to permit the world stage an unrestrained clarity of saints and serpents secretly battling for our admiration. And yet those who weaponize Truth do so at the risk of shattering the human spirit. Man is a delicate creature incapable of plunging off a cliff without dire consequences but is prepared to climb down a mountain and face self-evident truth on a fair playing field.
Humanity has no moral standing to complain to the heavens about the creation of hell on earth. We are the authors of the badly written book called the human condition. And we are hostages to its mistruths and reprehensible memories. For stories to be told with a grain of integrity the writer must adhere to vigorous core principles firm enough to resist faithless self-deception. For lies are less the products of corruption as they are the costumes used to hide how unattractive our fear has made Truth.
About the Author:
About the Author:
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