“The Prodigal” by Alexander J. Allison

                Alexander Allison shows up in all the right places. Timing appears to be a certain knack of Alexander’s. Maybe it is an English thing the dedication to punctuality. I’m not sure. 2011 changed a lot in Mr. Allison’s life. Whatever ball started rolling regarding writing, editing, submitting poetry in 2010 gained traction this year. 

                For in 2011 everything changed for Mr. Allison. The Lemon Press continued to be diligently edited by him but new things appeared over the horizon. Suddenly he began to show up in more and more reputable online literary magazines. Or however repute is calculated online. All of these submissions were leading up to something truly amazing. I read this amazing thing.

                “The Prodigal” is Alexander Allison’s amazing thing. When I read it I felt strange. Martin (the main character) grew on me. Each character in the story got fleshed out. Instead of it being merely a story, I felt I was spying. Perhaps that was the omniscient narrator. You get to know everything. Honestly you end up knowing more about Martin than you’d really care to at times. The extremely voyeuristic nature appealed to me. Authors tend to edit out the more extreme details about a character leaving only the basic parts of the story. Extreme details are all over “The Prodigal”. You use these tidbits to form the portrait of Martin the main character. 

                 It is a full book. There are no gimmicks. Rather he manages to bring together multiple addictions and compulsions into a single character. Compulsive behaviors do not necessarily mean the person is ill. Usually it means there is a certain vacuum, emptiness within that person. Alexander leaks details throughout the book through Martin’s thoughts slowly describing what lead to this eventual attitude, position, event, etc. 

                Once it ended I felt a bit sad. This is a dark book. Humor shines through occasionally usually of the dark variety. Alexander makes the dark humor work in conjunction with the story. Every line relates to another line. In a world where I often read random cheap gags in literature and television it is refreshing to see a writer (particularly one so young) creating a story I can care about.

                Going through Alexander’s simply named blog “So It Goes” I see he’s been working on this type of writing for a while. Since 2009 he’s been updating his blog on a fairly regular basis. For the more recent posts I see the updates have grown smaller and smaller. Yet that focus away from the blog lead him towards more productive pursuits. Now he has more time to spend on poems and books.

                Personally, I have a lot of respect for what Alexander does. I hope he continues to write more books. “The Prodigal” is a strong start for this surprisingly attractive Englishman.

Effing Twenty Something: A True Story

                  I thought it would be different. Society glorified your twenties as some remarkable, un-reproducible piece of your life, something you’d look back on with fondness. 

                “You’ll have so much fun” the television blared in front of me “All that awkwardness will be eliminated, to present to you the prime time of your life” various advertisements tell me on the internet, radio, newspapers, magazines, songs, movies, etc. 

                All of it was wrong. None of it told the actual truth, of what it is like to be a twenty something. Perhaps my parents warned me of this, of their problems which make mine seem miniscule. They fought in wars; they watched the USSR’s rise and fall. Plenty of horrible stuff occurred during their time growing up, yet somehow it felt better. Reasons, evidence existed that things would get better. Where’d that evidence go? 

                Why the lying? I don’t get it. Who felt there was a need to create this great illusion, this false reality I could believe in? I got promised so much, and received so little. Sure, I’m fortunate enough to have this computer, this roof over my head, this car, this money, this job, but it isn’t exactly what I hoped for. 

                Now as I try to explain to people what’s happening to me, they tell me “Oh, it gets better in your thirties.” When I was in my teens, these same people told me it gets better in your twenties. What is the waiting time before things get better, more interesting, more exciting? Do I have a time line for this, or will my satisfaction constantly get pushed further and further into the future so by the time I get to that terminal endpoint I’m given a sticker that says “Relax” in big bold letters. By the time I realize that things don’t get better, that the entire universe moves in a constant state of entropy, of moving from high to low energy, those liars will be long gone, passed onto another realm. 

                Everything I was supposed to do I did. That 401K got set up. At work I maintain a perky, cheerful attitude that brightens up the office. My tastes would be considered ‘cool’ or ‘hip’. I take care of other people, have empathy for others. Yet after I do all this careful planning, all these things that are supposed to make me better, I don’t feel better.

                Trying to complain, I’m told I can’t. Venting is apparently wrong. Whenever I have problems I try to tell other people, they tell me to think about all the people who have it worse than me. I don’t understand who the fuck installed this fascist bubbly optimism regime, but I hate it. 

                Instead I jump up and down on my bed as my music plays. Lately it seems that technology has become the new opiate of the masses. No matter what bad thing happens, if I get lost, get delayed on a train for 8 hours, so long as I have an IPOD, I can tolerate it. Every time I scroll through the meticulously well-picked songs I got for myself, it reminds me that someone I’ve never met cares.

                Is this what being in your twenties is supposed to be like? All this disconnection can’t be good for me. Occasionally I wonder whether or not I’ll ever be able to find that other voice in the dark, shouting, longing for someone to understand. The more I speak with my friends; I realize they have the same issues. 

                By society’s standards, I’m a loser. Yet I’ve traveled to multiple continents, have helped people in the direst of situations, and have been there in general for countless numbers of people I may never meet. Somehow that doesn’t even count, I haven’t created my own company like the smug asshole Mark Zuckerberg, I haven’t gotten my book published, I haven’t accomplished as much as people tell me I should’ve gotten done. While I’m being told of everything I need, am supposed to do, I’m told I ought to be having fun. Maybe if everyone stopped talking at me and began listening, I might not feel so sad, so trapped, and so small. 

                How can this be the prime time of my life? I know there’s that silly saying of “No pain, no gain” but I at least thought I’d have some company in this twenty something misery.