About Jason Kenney

likes to pretend to write once in a while. Sometimes he impresses himself. Most of the time he doesn't. He resides in Richmond, Virginia with a cat and angry stomach.


Her name was Summer but her stage name was Spring, not to be funny but because it was her favorite season. Up to a week ago she had been employed at the Candy Bar, working lunches Monday through Thursday. She didn’t particularly enjoy the work and it showed in her performance, which was why she worked lunches, Monday through Thursday.

A week ago was when I met her, at first briefly as she drunkenly stumbled into the motel room next to mine, her sweaty companion winking a lewd wink my way as he followed her in. Her sweaty companion had not been there before, leading me to believe their use of the room would be measured in the single digit hours.

I was mistaken.

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Frequency (Story And A New Tag)

After the cut you’ll see a small bit of a story I started to fiddle around with a few years back. It’s not much, just a concept that came to mind and got churned out and will probably never be revisited again. With the posting of it, I’ve created a new tag others can play with: “False Start“. Feel free to put in any of your little thoughts or ideas or stories that just never took off or got finished. It’s always neat to see what folks have played with over time.

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Jack Diamond: Hell Of A Way To Live

There’s something to be said for that first cigarette after going without for so long. You realize the things that you usually take for granted: the feel between the fingers, how it sits between your lips, the smell of the initial burn, the long, slow inhale and soothing sensation as it rolls down the back of your throat and into your lungs, a cloud of softness comforting your nerves as it runs out your chest and through your arms and legs, spreading out and settling down.

For a moment, one blissful moment, it’s like meditating. The all encompassing ohm. It makes you wonder what all the fuss is about.

It only takes a shorter moment spent with a woman thrashing in your backseat, screaming as she claws at her arms to wretch out the poison that tears through her veins, that burns at her organs, the frothing of her mouth, the groan and snaps of her joints that spasm at unnatural angles, all in response to a voluntarily injected substance, to remind you that the same thing that drives her back to this point at least twice a month is the same thing that makes that cigarette seem so damn good.

Addiction is a hell of a way to live.

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