Note: (01-29-2010) This is going to get changed. I had some details revel themselves to me, so skip this entry, for now at least!
Start Fiction:
It had been another rather easy evening at work. Tony drove home relaxed, enjoying the clear fall night. He loved getting off at midnight; having the roads to himself was a strange sense of freedom. Most nights, he drove the highway instead of the interstate. Even less traffic and even less light pollution, better to enjoy the night sky. Tony often stared at the stars, thinking about all the constellations he didn't know, the distances the light from the stars had traveled, how incredibly big the universe felt; how incredibly insignificant he felt.
As he looked off to the south, he saw what appeared to be a shooting star. His footed lifted off the gas pedal and Tony watched as he thought it would be very brief. To his surprise, the shooting star broke in to what appeared to be several dozen smaller pieces. The object kept falling; Tony knew this wasn't just a shooting star. He turned on to a gravel road, stopped the car and jumped out; the larger pieces of the object fell towards the horizon. He waited for it to fade away, to explode again. It didn't. It just kept falling, yet it was getting bigger.
Tony realized the object was coming his direction; it was going to hit the earth nearby. No longer relaxed, he climbed on the roof of his truck with all the excitement of Christmas morning and watched the object fall.
It hit; a smaller glow from impact that Tony expected. No sound, no concussion.
“Maybe it's not that close after all,” he said a loud. Tony was disappointed. He had heard crazy stories about meteors crashing though cars in a person's driveway; blasting through the house and taking out the only toilet in the house. Not that this would have been nearly as exciting or as dramatic, but it would have been his meteor story.
Tony kept remained focused in the direction of the impact. As he studied the glow, he realized he was seeing the faint line of a tree. Either that is one gigantic tree, or... His heart raced; his body froze. Adrenaline rushed feverishly through his veins. How could an object fall from outer space and not make a sound? It didn't make any sense. It went against everything Tony thought he knew about physics.
As his eyes remained fixed, he climbed down from his truck and began to walk in to the field towards the glow. Tony guessed the impact couldn't be more than three to four hundred yards away. The glow remained fairly constant; it didn't diminish as rapidly as Tony anticipated, which was a good thing. It would help him locate it a lot easier.
End Fiction... for now...
This stems from something I saw last fall as I was driving home. Granted, all I saw was a falling object in the sky, but this makes it a lot more interesting!
There is definitely more to come...
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
01-25-2010
Start Fiction:
Drew ran wildly towards the gate; screaming, death shrill came from his lungs. Even he was surprised such noises came from a human being. However, this watching were evenore surpirsed he was acting in such a manner due to a feeble, aged burro who was trotting in his general direction.
"Get 'em!" several children yelled encouraging Sally Mae, and at the same time instilling a greater fear in Drew.
He reached the gate and ran ten yards more; he didn't stop until he heard the clank of the gate closing. The crowd cheered, mockin him of course. Drew turned and bowed. His ability to laugh at himself kept him sane.
"You're too kind," he told his audience. He waved his best beauty pagent wave, blew a few kisses.
"That was silly, Dad," a little voice said from behind him. Drew turned around and knelt down in front of his daughter.
"But it was funny, right?" he said.
"Yeah!" she giggled and gave him a hug. Behind Emma was Drew's ex-wife, Deena. Arms crossed, as always, shaking her head at him.
"I am so glad we had a daughter," she said. "You two are so much alike, even your screams are similar." Drew stood, picking up Emma.
"You say it like that's a bad thing," he said, smiling. Deena rolled her eyes.
Having the ability to laugh at yourself can really annoy those who can't laugh at you. Deena was one of those people.
Bafoon, clumbsy, childish, moronic, and of course stupid. All classics that often came from her mouth shortly after they married when she began to realize that (to her) Drew was not merely silly, but a fool.
He annoyed her more and more until she couldn't take it anymore. She told him she wanted a divorce the day after Emma was born.
End Fiction.
Blah. There is something about Drew I like; might have to revist him some day...
Drew ran wildly towards the gate; screaming, death shrill came from his lungs. Even he was surprised such noises came from a human being. However, this watching were evenore surpirsed he was acting in such a manner due to a feeble, aged burro who was trotting in his general direction.
"Get 'em!" several children yelled encouraging Sally Mae, and at the same time instilling a greater fear in Drew.
He reached the gate and ran ten yards more; he didn't stop until he heard the clank of the gate closing. The crowd cheered, mockin him of course. Drew turned and bowed. His ability to laugh at himself kept him sane.
"You're too kind," he told his audience. He waved his best beauty pagent wave, blew a few kisses.
"That was silly, Dad," a little voice said from behind him. Drew turned around and knelt down in front of his daughter.
"But it was funny, right?" he said.
"Yeah!" she giggled and gave him a hug. Behind Emma was Drew's ex-wife, Deena. Arms crossed, as always, shaking her head at him.
"I am so glad we had a daughter," she said. "You two are so much alike, even your screams are similar." Drew stood, picking up Emma.
"You say it like that's a bad thing," he said, smiling. Deena rolled her eyes.
Having the ability to laugh at yourself can really annoy those who can't laugh at you. Deena was one of those people.
Bafoon, clumbsy, childish, moronic, and of course stupid. All classics that often came from her mouth shortly after they married when she began to realize that (to her) Drew was not merely silly, but a fool.
He annoyed her more and more until she couldn't take it anymore. She told him she wanted a divorce the day after Emma was born.
End Fiction.
Blah. There is something about Drew I like; might have to revist him some day...
Sunday, January 24, 2010
01-24-2010
I had some wickedly marvelous dreams last night; great story material!
However, this one could be more than just a quip of an entry. I have been obsessed with story details all day and feel I could make this in to a good sized story, if not a series.
I am trying to decide what to do... man I love this!
However, this one could be more than just a quip of an entry. I have been obsessed with story details all day and feel I could make this in to a good sized story, if not a series.
I am trying to decide what to do... man I love this!
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
01-19-2010
Start Fiction:
Gerry walked along the river, each step requiring thought; almost a drunken stumble. His head pounded, his balance became more unstable as he moved, breathed. Screams, shouts, whispers attacked his ears, so he thought, from all directions. Darkness, light; day, night spun wildly in front of him.
I have completely lost my mind, he thought. Or at least someone in his head thought.
A loud, ground shaking boom knocked him to the ground. He laid face first in the grass along the sidewalk. The noises, voices and flashes of light seemed to stop. Gerry feared to move.
As he lay there on what he thought to be a warm May afternoon, he tried to gather himself the best he could. He flinched and flexed various parts of his body slowly. He did not want to cause any unnecessary attention from the voices.
Opening his eyes was reserved for last. As he began to relax he knew it was day time, or a well lit area. His eye lids slowly parted and he lay transfixed on what he saw.
The river was purple, lumincent. The grass was not green, but brown; fall grasss. The sky was a lighter version of the purple river.
Gerry raised his head, looking straight ahead. The landscape was familiar; however, the buildings and bridges were different. Different in structure and arrangement. Their materials, architecture was, well, odd. Odd as they seemed, they were magnificent.
Gerry sat up, still facing the river. There was a serenity unlike that which he had experienced before. There were no sounds of anything... anything mechanical. No cars, trucks, air conditioners, fans, blowers. Nothing. Yet, this was as much of a city as he had ever known. A lot cleaner, but a city of substance.
End Fiction.
Not sure what this is... Blah.
Gerry walked along the river, each step requiring thought; almost a drunken stumble. His head pounded, his balance became more unstable as he moved, breathed. Screams, shouts, whispers attacked his ears, so he thought, from all directions. Darkness, light; day, night spun wildly in front of him.
I have completely lost my mind, he thought. Or at least someone in his head thought.
A loud, ground shaking boom knocked him to the ground. He laid face first in the grass along the sidewalk. The noises, voices and flashes of light seemed to stop. Gerry feared to move.
As he lay there on what he thought to be a warm May afternoon, he tried to gather himself the best he could. He flinched and flexed various parts of his body slowly. He did not want to cause any unnecessary attention from the voices.
Opening his eyes was reserved for last. As he began to relax he knew it was day time, or a well lit area. His eye lids slowly parted and he lay transfixed on what he saw.
The river was purple, lumincent. The grass was not green, but brown; fall grasss. The sky was a lighter version of the purple river.
Gerry raised his head, looking straight ahead. The landscape was familiar; however, the buildings and bridges were different. Different in structure and arrangement. Their materials, architecture was, well, odd. Odd as they seemed, they were magnificent.
Gerry sat up, still facing the river. There was a serenity unlike that which he had experienced before. There were no sounds of anything... anything mechanical. No cars, trucks, air conditioners, fans, blowers. Nothing. Yet, this was as much of a city as he had ever known. A lot cleaner, but a city of substance.
End Fiction.
Not sure what this is... Blah.
Monday, January 18, 2010
01-18-2010
Start Fiction:
The full plates shattered in a muffled crash as they hit the diner's floor. Standing in front of Rosemary was Vic. Vic, who was suppose to not only be under a restraining order, but still incarcerated.
Rosemary took a couple slow steps backward, eyes fixed on Vic. Her lungs were frozen; she shook. Vic remained still, thumbs in his front pocket, looking her over, smiling.
Several regulars stood up from the counter and moved towards Rosemary. They knew something was wrong. She wasn't afraid of anyone, or anything.
"You alright, there, Rosemary?" Chuck said. He stood several feet in front of Rosemary between her and Vic. Other wait staff came and began to clean up the floor, looking up at Rosemary from time to time. Even they knew something wasn't right.
"Just a bit clumbsy this morning, I guess," she said trying to smile. She reached the end of the counter and moved behind the register. Vic had yet to move. It was just like him; messing with her mind, keeping her guessing.
Chuck walked down to Vic and sat on a stool in front of him. Crossing his arms, he leaned back against the counter. "What can we do you for this fine mornin'?"
"Hot tea, would be nice," Vic said. "If it is not any trouble, sir."
Chuck looked back towards Rosemary. She shrugged, nodded a quick yes.
"Hot tea with no trouble," Chuck said as he stood, "comg right up."
Rosemary moved toward the hot water and grabbed a cup. Vic made himself comfortable at the counter, waiting patiently.
Nice? Tea? What was he up to? Rosemary thought.
She grabbed a tea bag and moved to Vic. He smiled.
"Thank you, Rosemary," he said. He was sincere.
"You know you ain't suppose to be this close, Vic," she said in a hushed tone. "What do you want?"
"To apologize."
"Yeah?" Rosemary leaned back against the counter. "For what this time?"
"Everything," he said Ina calm voice as he sipped his tea. "I have wronged you in so many ways, I couldn't even begin to think you could forgive me; however, I know I owe you more than a mere apology can offer."
Rosemary was confused. Was this the Vic she knew, or was this just another one of his wicked mind games? She knew if she let herself play along once more, she'd end up dead.
End Fiction.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
01-17-2010
Start Fiction:
Billy wondered how pan handlers always were able to get a hold of a black marker to write on their cardboard. Sharpies are not just lying around, nor do most pan handlers look like they would spend money on a marker to make a sign to get free money.
As he drove on by the most recent beggar, he figured perhaps they were able to get a marker at a shelter; borrowed or stolen. But why would a shelter keep buying markers that would just get stolen? Seemed like a huge budget drain. The system has flaws, indeed.
Billy arrived at home and pulled in to his garage. The evening sun was setting and the stars were beginning to pop up to the east. He walked to the mailbox and stood on the curb, watching the night sky slowly awaken. Would it really be so bad to sleep under this every night? he wondered. He turned to his house, realizing how lucky he was to have the option of shelter, safety, warmth. He looked down as he shook his handful of bills. Maybe they know something we don't.
Walking back through the garage, the sound of music came from the house. Bethany must be cleaning, again. Must have been a shitty day at work. Billy looked back towards the street, the encroaching night sky, stepping slowly towards the garage door.
End Fiction.
Short, but I am more worried about getting back in to the habit!
Billy wondered how pan handlers always were able to get a hold of a black marker to write on their cardboard. Sharpies are not just lying around, nor do most pan handlers look like they would spend money on a marker to make a sign to get free money.
As he drove on by the most recent beggar, he figured perhaps they were able to get a marker at a shelter; borrowed or stolen. But why would a shelter keep buying markers that would just get stolen? Seemed like a huge budget drain. The system has flaws, indeed.
Billy arrived at home and pulled in to his garage. The evening sun was setting and the stars were beginning to pop up to the east. He walked to the mailbox and stood on the curb, watching the night sky slowly awaken. Would it really be so bad to sleep under this every night? he wondered. He turned to his house, realizing how lucky he was to have the option of shelter, safety, warmth. He looked down as he shook his handful of bills. Maybe they know something we don't.
Walking back through the garage, the sound of music came from the house. Bethany must be cleaning, again. Must have been a shitty day at work. Billy looked back towards the street, the encroaching night sky, stepping slowly towards the garage door.
End Fiction.
Short, but I am more worried about getting back in to the habit!
Saturday, January 16, 2010
01-16-2010
A little rusty, but I am trying to get back in the habit. I had a lot more written last night, however, I lost it as I was not as familiar with my new software as I needed to be! It's kinda glitchy, but free is hard to beat.
Start Fiction:
"A life of luxury," Ellen shouted. "That's what I deserve. My life has been horrible and it's time things work out for me for once!" she tripped over the carpet and ploughed face first in to the couch.
Stan crossed his legs and raised his glass to his lips. He had heard all of this before, seen all of this before. There was a time he felt she might be right, that she indeed deserved more, a fair shot at least. Then there was the period he found her utterly amusing. Now, well, now he knew her all too well; no sympathy, no compassion, just pity for her.
Ellen fought with the cushions, and gravity, as she tried to right herself. Grunting, cursing, she finally gave up and fell on to the floor. "Can I get a little help here?" she yelled at the ceiling.
Stan raised his glass once more, taking a long drink. "Would telling you that since you have, once again, gotten yourself in to this mess, that perhaps you should get yourself out be the sort of help you are looking for?" he said.
Ellen screamed in frustration. She began to flail about, her coordination completely shot, but her mouth worked fine. "I don't need a lecture, Stan," she said. "who the hell do you think you- where do you get off telling me- where do you get off acting like your better than me?"
Stan set his drink on the table. Lacing his fingers as he rested his hands on his lap, he waited. He wanted something new to come out of her filthy drunken mouth, her alcohol soaked neurons. There was no entertainment value from watching the same train wreck week after week. It was time to disembark from this expedition.
"Seriously, you asshole," she continued, "who the fuck do you think you are? You're no better than me. Sitting here moping about some chick you love when clearly she is out of your league." Ellen had magaged to roll herself on to her side, looking at Stan.
"Who do you think you are, Ellen?" Stan asked as hensat forward.
"Fuck you."
"No, seriously, who do you think you are? I mean, there must be some reason you think that a bitter middle aged alcoholic woman who constantly makes horrible decisions deserves what you proclaim to be rightfully yours!" Stan said as he eased himself back in to his chair.
Ellen just stared at him. He wasn't sure if she was mad, hurt or had no idea what he had said; but she was quiet.
"Fuck you," she said.
"No, Ellen," Stan said as he rose out of his chair, "you've fucked yourself."
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
"A life of luxury," Ellen shouted. "That's what I deserve. My life has been horrible and it's time things work out for me for once!" she tripped over the carpet and ploughed face first in to the couch.
Stan crossed his legs and raised his glass to his lips. He had heard all of this before, seen all of this before. There was a time he felt she might be right, that she indeed deserved more, a fair shot at least. Then there was the period he found her utterly amusing. Now, well, now he knew her all too well; no sympathy, no compassion, just pity for her.
Ellen fought with the cushions, and gravity, as she tried to right herself. Grunting, cursing, she finally gave up and fell on to the floor. "Can I get a little help here?" she yelled at the ceiling.
Stan raised his glass once more, taking a long drink. "Would telling you that since you have, once again, gotten yourself in to this mess, that perhaps you should get yourself out be the sort of help you are looking for?" he said.
Ellen screamed in frustration. She began to flail about, her coordination completely shot, but her mouth worked fine. "I don't need a lecture, Stan," she said. "who the hell do you think you- where do you get off telling me- where do you get off acting like your better than me?"
Stan set his drink on the table. Lacing his fingers as he rested his hands on his lap, he waited. He wanted something new to come out of her filthy drunken mouth, her alcohol soaked neurons. There was no entertainment value from watching the same train wreck week after week. It was time to disembark from this expedition.
"Seriously, you asshole," she continued, "who the fuck do you think you are? You're no better than me. Sitting here moping about some chick you love when clearly she is out of your league." Ellen had magaged to roll herself on to her side, looking at Stan.
"Who do you think you are, Ellen?" Stan asked as hensat forward.
"Fuck you."
"No, seriously, who do you think you are? I mean, there must be some reason you think that a bitter middle aged alcoholic woman who constantly makes horrible decisions deserves what you proclaim to be rightfully yours!" Stan said as he eased himself back in to his chair.
Ellen just stared at him. He wasn't sure if she was mad, hurt or had no idea what he had said; but she was quiet.
"Fuck you," she said.
"No, Ellen," Stan said as he rose out of his chair, "you've fucked yourself."
End Fiction.
Friday, January 15, 2010
01-15-2010
Start Fiction:
As he stumbled over a snow drift, Tom mumbled to himself about his displeasure towards winter. With each passing year, his bones ached worse, his tolerance for the cold lessened, and his lonliness intensified. The last seven winters were the worst of his seventy-three winters, since he buried Peggy.
It had been hard for him to deal with life without Peggy. He wondered why he lived on; his poor health, his drinking, smoking. When would his number be up? When would his worn out body finally wear out? When would the Angel of Death finally come calling?
Most of his friends and family had passed. Tom had grown up an only child. He and Peggy had no surviving children, no grandchildren; no genetic line was going to carry forward. With only a handful of his world left, he fretted to be the last.
End Fiction.
As he stumbled over a snow drift, Tom mumbled to himself about his displeasure towards winter. With each passing year, his bones ached worse, his tolerance for the cold lessened, and his lonliness intensified. The last seven winters were the worst of his seventy-three winters, since he buried Peggy.
It had been hard for him to deal with life without Peggy. He wondered why he lived on; his poor health, his drinking, smoking. When would his number be up? When would his worn out body finally wear out? When would the Angel of Death finally come calling?
Most of his friends and family had passed. Tom had grown up an only child. He and Peggy had no surviving children, no grandchildren; no genetic line was going to carry forward. With only a handful of his world left, he fretted to be the last.
End Fiction.
01-15-2010
New software on my iPod Touch! Hopefully it will make it easier to find a few minutes to write!
Now, let's just see what happens!
Now, let's just see what happens!
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Sad...
I can not believe I haven't posted since August. Wow, no wonder I full mentally full! I guess I will need to change that.
I was busy though doing lots of programming, making some "extra" money.
I miss writing. I miss the thinking, the challenge, the pleasure.
I was busy though doing lots of programming, making some "extra" money.
I miss writing. I miss the thinking, the challenge, the pleasure.
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