Start Fiction:
Donald bounced a few times as he hit the concrete. The bouncing turned to sliding, causing about as much pain as he expected. Being thrown from a moving vehicle was a totally new experience for Donald, but not the pain.
As he ground to a halt, Donald ranked the experience up there with the time he dumped his motorcycle on gravel wearing only shorts. Granted, that was born out of drunken stupidity; not people willfully wanting to cause him bodily harm. None the less, it still hurt like a son of a bitch.
The limo he was thrown from was gone. Donald lay still, staring at the street light above him. His flesh burned from the grating it received from the concrete. He knew movement was going to make his current pain pale in comparison, so there was no sense of urgency.
As he lay still on the concrete trying to breathe and calm his mind, Donald heard several voices passing by on the sidewalk. There wasn't anyone who was about to see if a white guy thrown from a limo needed help in this neighborhood. As far as they were concerned, trash day was tomorrow; his body could just be picked up then.
His breathing slowed, deepened. His mind was drawing still.
Donald realized the concrete was nice and cool; it felt good against the burning of his flesh.
Noting the relative quiet, he felt lucky he was thrown out on a street with little traffic. Not that he planned on napping, but at least he wasn't too concerned of getting run over, either.
Slowly Donald began to take an inventory of his injuries. Selectively flexing various muscles, he began checking for the responsiveness of his appendages and the presence of pain. Everything responded, and painfully. Nothing seemed broken. So far, so good.
Continuing his damage inventory, Donald was surprised as he moved his hips ever so slightly, to feel the pressure from his gun holstered in the back of his pants. Why Tony and his goons didn't take it in the first place was odd, but after his pounding from the pavement Donald was surprised it didn't dislodge and end up in the gutter. Well, in the actual sewer drain as he was all ready in the gutter.
Slowly Donald opened his eyes; his head slightly turned to the left. He studied the night skyline trying to determine his location. It looked familiar, yet nothing came to him right away except the quick onset of a throbbing headache.
As he reached up to grab his head, a woman screamed to his right. Apparently there was at least one person in the neighborhood with some concern.
"Why you do that!" she yelled at Donald. "I thought you were dead!"
He tried to roll on his side towards the woman. It was not as easy a task as he had planned. "Sorry," he said, grunting from the pain. "I'm new to the neighborhood."
End Fiction.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
03-30-2010
Start Fiction:
Jake liked a blank page about as much as he liked an empty whiskey bottle. Both needed to be full. However, they were always at odds with each other. One slipped away as the other came into being.
Jake fought with himself about all the drunk writing he had been doing lately. He felt the whiskey was cheating somehow. If it was just a way to let himself relax and let his talent flow from his pen, as Susan always told him, why did it always cause him such dispair upon a sober read of a completed piece?
All this drinking just to be able to write wore on Jake. He was of the mindset if he were truly talented, he should be able to write as well sober. But, that simply was not the case.
And why was that, exactly? He held vague memories of getting stories started, talking out some of the details with Susan as she helped him christen yet another bottle. However, when it came to reading a completed piece under sobriety, it was almost all, well, unfamilar.
Not completely unfamiliar, mind you, as the writing was his style and the general plot was his rough idea. But, the characters were well developed, the setting was descript and the dialouge was smooth.
Jake wondered when he learned such skill, such technique to bring together such a fluid piece in a drunken state. Was he talented, or just lucky? Did the whiskey really effect his ability? And even if he didn't remember writing some of the previous night's work, is it any less his work?
The despair drove him to drink. The drink drove him to write. The writing drove him to live. But feeling as though the writing wasn't truly his, the drive to live seemed to be slipping away.
Jake stared at the bottle of whisky as it sat on the table like a centerpiece. Fitting, he thought. Such as my table, the whisky has begrudgenly become the center piece of my life.
End Fiction.
Jake liked a blank page about as much as he liked an empty whiskey bottle. Both needed to be full. However, they were always at odds with each other. One slipped away as the other came into being.
Jake fought with himself about all the drunk writing he had been doing lately. He felt the whiskey was cheating somehow. If it was just a way to let himself relax and let his talent flow from his pen, as Susan always told him, why did it always cause him such dispair upon a sober read of a completed piece?
All this drinking just to be able to write wore on Jake. He was of the mindset if he were truly talented, he should be able to write as well sober. But, that simply was not the case.
And why was that, exactly? He held vague memories of getting stories started, talking out some of the details with Susan as she helped him christen yet another bottle. However, when it came to reading a completed piece under sobriety, it was almost all, well, unfamilar.
Not completely unfamiliar, mind you, as the writing was his style and the general plot was his rough idea. But, the characters were well developed, the setting was descript and the dialouge was smooth.
Jake wondered when he learned such skill, such technique to bring together such a fluid piece in a drunken state. Was he talented, or just lucky? Did the whiskey really effect his ability? And even if he didn't remember writing some of the previous night's work, is it any less his work?
The despair drove him to drink. The drink drove him to write. The writing drove him to live. But feeling as though the writing wasn't truly his, the drive to live seemed to be slipping away.
Jake stared at the bottle of whisky as it sat on the table like a centerpiece. Fitting, he thought. Such as my table, the whisky has begrudgenly become the center piece of my life.
End Fiction.
03-29-2010
Start Fiction:
It was always harder for Samuel to sleep under a full moon. The illuminated blinds cast dubious shadows across the room, creating a playground for his imagination.
He was drawn to the ligh; her suface glowing so majestically, features more descernible at times than others. Samuel often felt it was the similar to the light at the end of the tunnel people saw near death. It touched him, moved him, brought peace upon him.
It made perfect sense to Samuel why the ancients worshiped Luna.
He often joked he was part werewolf as he felt so invigorated by the moon light. Shorter than normal sleep periods and a clarity of mind came with Luna. He had urges to take late night walks under a full moon, urges that didn't pull at his being cone a new moon.
There were no great tale or myth he was told as a boy that caused him to be so taken, effected by the changing illuminated surface of the celestial body.
It was magical.
End Fiction.
Not feeling this one. Blah.
It was always harder for Samuel to sleep under a full moon. The illuminated blinds cast dubious shadows across the room, creating a playground for his imagination.
He was drawn to the ligh; her suface glowing so majestically, features more descernible at times than others. Samuel often felt it was the similar to the light at the end of the tunnel people saw near death. It touched him, moved him, brought peace upon him.
It made perfect sense to Samuel why the ancients worshiped Luna.
He often joked he was part werewolf as he felt so invigorated by the moon light. Shorter than normal sleep periods and a clarity of mind came with Luna. He had urges to take late night walks under a full moon, urges that didn't pull at his being cone a new moon.
There were no great tale or myth he was told as a boy that caused him to be so taken, effected by the changing illuminated surface of the celestial body.
It was magical.
End Fiction.
Not feeling this one. Blah.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
03-27-2010
Start Fiction:
I walked through the pub's front door; all conversation halted. Synchronized drinks were taken as heads turned and eyes hesitantly looked in my direction.
I wasn't well known in town, but something told me that was changing. I had always gotten along with most citizens, even though I tended to keep to myself. That is until Frank Hollins decided to drive his truck across my front lawn crashing into my wood shed at two in the morning, butt ass drunk.
Apparently, calling the police is not well received throughout the town. Even the arresting officers seemed rather put off that I had made the incident such a bug deal. A drunk crashing his truck anywhere seems like something one should report; except here, I guess.
Frank was well liked by everyone. He was the youngest son of a good farming family, active in the community and a well liked carpenter. They all knew he could be a little 'rambunctious'; I found it interesting that this was the same term everyone used when it came to Frank. I preferred dangerous. However, I was beginning to understand that I lived in a town of enablers.
I made my way across the front seating area to my regular booth. By regular, I mean the booth I sit in every six to eight weeks when I actually eat out. I made sure I made eye contact with those who
'dared' look me in the eye.
I gave simple nods of acknowledgment; I had no hard feelings not did I have anything to prove. We just didn't have the same take on social responsibility, civic duty. The small town mentality was going to take quite a lot of getting used to, more than I suspected. I, as much as they, just needed to give it some time.
I sat down and opened a menu. No need to draw the moment out any longer than need be. Plus, I was really hungry. No matter how little Gerald thought of me, I was a paying customer, and a generous tipper. I'd get service, but without a smile.
The group began to whisper, turning back to their conversations. Slowly, they forgot I was there and things began to return to it's normal level of gossipy chatter.
That didn't take long, I thought.
I continued to scan the menu, even though I had it memorized. I just wanted to fit in where I could. As I flipped the menu over, I heard the door open behind me and silence one again fell over the pub.
That didn't last long, I thought. It must be Frank.
End Fiction.
I walked through the pub's front door; all conversation halted. Synchronized drinks were taken as heads turned and eyes hesitantly looked in my direction.
I wasn't well known in town, but something told me that was changing. I had always gotten along with most citizens, even though I tended to keep to myself. That is until Frank Hollins decided to drive his truck across my front lawn crashing into my wood shed at two in the morning, butt ass drunk.
Apparently, calling the police is not well received throughout the town. Even the arresting officers seemed rather put off that I had made the incident such a bug deal. A drunk crashing his truck anywhere seems like something one should report; except here, I guess.
Frank was well liked by everyone. He was the youngest son of a good farming family, active in the community and a well liked carpenter. They all knew he could be a little 'rambunctious'; I found it interesting that this was the same term everyone used when it came to Frank. I preferred dangerous. However, I was beginning to understand that I lived in a town of enablers.
I made my way across the front seating area to my regular booth. By regular, I mean the booth I sit in every six to eight weeks when I actually eat out. I made sure I made eye contact with those who
'dared' look me in the eye.
I gave simple nods of acknowledgment; I had no hard feelings not did I have anything to prove. We just didn't have the same take on social responsibility, civic duty. The small town mentality was going to take quite a lot of getting used to, more than I suspected. I, as much as they, just needed to give it some time.
I sat down and opened a menu. No need to draw the moment out any longer than need be. Plus, I was really hungry. No matter how little Gerald thought of me, I was a paying customer, and a generous tipper. I'd get service, but without a smile.
The group began to whisper, turning back to their conversations. Slowly, they forgot I was there and things began to return to it's normal level of gossipy chatter.
That didn't take long, I thought.
I continued to scan the menu, even though I had it memorized. I just wanted to fit in where I could. As I flipped the menu over, I heard the door open behind me and silence one again fell over the pub.
That didn't last long, I thought. It must be Frank.
End Fiction.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Iowa Summer Writing Festival
Damn iPod deleted my post! And it was a good one! Arg.
Anyway, let's see if I can recreate my thought...
As I lay here typing with my left thumb, I am realizing that perhaps this writing thing is more than just a thing; a something, maybe even a need.
I feel that by not being detered to type with only my thumb on this magnificent yet tiny keyboard, I may just have realized that which has been so obvious.
Living in Iowa City, I have been aware of the Iowa Writer's Workshop and the Iowa Summer Writing Festival since junior high.
It has almost a mystical air about it when the locals speak of it; the best of the best come to our village to create art. Well, maybe that is more the way I percieve the Workshop and Festival, but it is truly highly regarded amongst the locals!
For the last decade I have looked over the Summer workshops, wondering if there was something I would be worthy of attending; nay, participating. I think of meeting so many different people, intelligent people. I wonder about the stories to be told, the sharing of techniques and methods, the laughter, the tears; the atmosphere generated by the collective desire to be creative.
This year is no different.
I have the site bookmarked for this year's workshops. They are so many good ones, I think I would find it hard to decide if I were to attend.
But I think this is the year; this is the year I step WAY outside my comfort zone. I want to attend at least one workshop.
And as I begin to believe I can really do it, take that step, it begins: doubt.
Am I really ready?
Am I good enough?
Would I be wasting my money?
My time?
Other's time?
Would they laugh at me for being there?
Or pity me?
What makes me think I really belong/deserve/am skilled enough to attend?
Who do you think you are, fool?!
Etc...
Etc...
But not this year. This year is going to be different.
I can no longer accept my answers to those irrational questions based purely on my assumptions. I have to go and see it, hear it, feel it from others if I belong; if I can consider myself a writer or not.
As the Buddhist teaching says:
"Nothing is good or bad; only your perception of it." And that is how I will approach the workshop, to see it for what it is, not what I think it is.
I look forward to the experience.
And perhaps some answers, too.
Anyway, let's see if I can recreate my thought...
As I lay here typing with my left thumb, I am realizing that perhaps this writing thing is more than just a thing; a something, maybe even a need.
I feel that by not being detered to type with only my thumb on this magnificent yet tiny keyboard, I may just have realized that which has been so obvious.
Living in Iowa City, I have been aware of the Iowa Writer's Workshop and the Iowa Summer Writing Festival since junior high.
It has almost a mystical air about it when the locals speak of it; the best of the best come to our village to create art. Well, maybe that is more the way I percieve the Workshop and Festival, but it is truly highly regarded amongst the locals!
For the last decade I have looked over the Summer workshops, wondering if there was something I would be worthy of attending; nay, participating. I think of meeting so many different people, intelligent people. I wonder about the stories to be told, the sharing of techniques and methods, the laughter, the tears; the atmosphere generated by the collective desire to be creative.
This year is no different.
I have the site bookmarked for this year's workshops. They are so many good ones, I think I would find it hard to decide if I were to attend.
But I think this is the year; this is the year I step WAY outside my comfort zone. I want to attend at least one workshop.
And as I begin to believe I can really do it, take that step, it begins: doubt.
Am I really ready?
Am I good enough?
Would I be wasting my money?
My time?
Other's time?
Would they laugh at me for being there?
Or pity me?
What makes me think I really belong/deserve/am skilled enough to attend?
Who do you think you are, fool?!
Etc...
Etc...
But not this year. This year is going to be different.
I can no longer accept my answers to those irrational questions based purely on my assumptions. I have to go and see it, hear it, feel it from others if I belong; if I can consider myself a writer or not.
As the Buddhist teaching says:
"Nothing is good or bad; only your perception of it." And that is how I will approach the workshop, to see it for what it is, not what I think it is.
I look forward to the experience.
And perhaps some answers, too.
Monday, March 22, 2010
03-22-2010
Start Fiction:
Work always wore on Glen. Thirty years of hard labor, straight out of high school, did more than wear down his body. Having a few beers after work at Stu's, the local bar, helped soothed his aching bones. At least that is what he told himself.
Verging on fifty, Glen was still a bachelor living in the same one bedroom apartment in the building next to Stu's over Furlong's Furniture; the same apartment he moved in to the day he turned eight-teen.
Glen had rarely traveled, or spent much time outside of the surrounding communities. He was the extreme definition of a local.
Now, he wasn't a bum or a charity case by any means. Not only had Glen lived in the same apartment for thirty years, he worked for the same company, attended the same church and participated in the same social events as well.
He was well liked, even respected. Glen was a reliable worker, he rarely spoke a harsh word towards any one and was always asked to cook for the local fund raisers.
However, here he sat, again. Still drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, sitting on the same bar stool, listening to the same complaints about life from the various patrons of the day, watching the minutes click by on the Hamm's clock.
Glen longed for something different, but he felt if he hadn't done something about it by now, he probably never would.
Little did he know, he wouldn't have to do anything besides be in the right place at the wrong time. And the wrong time was fast approaching.
End Fiction.
Work always wore on Glen. Thirty years of hard labor, straight out of high school, did more than wear down his body. Having a few beers after work at Stu's, the local bar, helped soothed his aching bones. At least that is what he told himself.
Verging on fifty, Glen was still a bachelor living in the same one bedroom apartment in the building next to Stu's over Furlong's Furniture; the same apartment he moved in to the day he turned eight-teen.
Glen had rarely traveled, or spent much time outside of the surrounding communities. He was the extreme definition of a local.
Now, he wasn't a bum or a charity case by any means. Not only had Glen lived in the same apartment for thirty years, he worked for the same company, attended the same church and participated in the same social events as well.
He was well liked, even respected. Glen was a reliable worker, he rarely spoke a harsh word towards any one and was always asked to cook for the local fund raisers.
However, here he sat, again. Still drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, sitting on the same bar stool, listening to the same complaints about life from the various patrons of the day, watching the minutes click by on the Hamm's clock.
Glen longed for something different, but he felt if he hadn't done something about it by now, he probably never would.
Little did he know, he wouldn't have to do anything besides be in the right place at the wrong time. And the wrong time was fast approaching.
End Fiction.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
03-21-2010
This is an actual dream segment. It is not in great detail, but it was so vivid I wanted to get most of it down!
Start Fiction:
As I climbed the stairs, I took note of the masterfully crafted banister, the intricate paneling on the walls and the firm, wide steps. The staircase had all the makings of a Victorian age home, but it all seemed so new; so fresh.
It wasn't until I reached the top of the stairs and turned towards the rest of the house did I realize it had been nearly gutted by fire.
A dream, for sure, I told myself. I looked back down the stairs; still unscathed. Most of the damaged materials from the fire had already been cleared out, and the house was ready for the beginnings of a great remodel of a classic structure.
But what was this place?
Why am I here?
Why do I have a sense if ownership to this property?
How did I not smell the chared remains?
I walked back down the stairs minding the chared remains. How did I miss that? I asked myself as I stepped on to the landing of the second floor.
A white door stood before me. I did not notice the door or landing on my way up the stairs. Strange. The door was white, clean, yet the trim was blackened and scratched.
I continued down the stairs to the main floor and stepped outside. There were a dozen people feverishly constructing a new landscape.
I reached the sidewalk and turned back to the house. The exterior was pristine.
Odd.
How could the exterior, yard and staircase be pristine, yet the rest of the house was destroyed?
I would ask someone, but no one will make eye contact with me. Do they even know I am here?
Oy.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
As I climbed the stairs, I took note of the masterfully crafted banister, the intricate paneling on the walls and the firm, wide steps. The staircase had all the makings of a Victorian age home, but it all seemed so new; so fresh.
It wasn't until I reached the top of the stairs and turned towards the rest of the house did I realize it had been nearly gutted by fire.
A dream, for sure, I told myself. I looked back down the stairs; still unscathed. Most of the damaged materials from the fire had already been cleared out, and the house was ready for the beginnings of a great remodel of a classic structure.
But what was this place?
Why am I here?
Why do I have a sense if ownership to this property?
How did I not smell the chared remains?
I walked back down the stairs minding the chared remains. How did I miss that? I asked myself as I stepped on to the landing of the second floor.
A white door stood before me. I did not notice the door or landing on my way up the stairs. Strange. The door was white, clean, yet the trim was blackened and scratched.
I continued down the stairs to the main floor and stepped outside. There were a dozen people feverishly constructing a new landscape.
I reached the sidewalk and turned back to the house. The exterior was pristine.
Odd.
How could the exterior, yard and staircase be pristine, yet the rest of the house was destroyed?
I would ask someone, but no one will make eye contact with me. Do they even know I am here?
Oy.
End Fiction.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
03-17-2010
Start Fiction:
Nate walked down the center of the highway. Toeing the centerline as though he was walking the tracks. No cars had passed in over a half hour, and no city lights came any closer.
He lit a cigarette, illuminating the highway around him. He took a long drag. A cow mooed to his right, faintly.
Nate closed his eyes and listened to the silence. Early spring kept the critters at bay; it was truly silent.
He strolled down the highway, kind of sauntering. Nate had no where to be, no one waiting for him; nothing to do, period.
He imagined he was stranded on the continent by himself; perhaps an unknown continent. He could be near a river, the ocean, or neither.
Nate stopped walking and sat down on the highway. He looked towards the stars, let out a large puff of smoke. It disipated slowly in the still night air.
"Perhaps being alone wouldn't be so bad," he said aloud.
The cow mooed again, seemingly agreeing with Nate.
End Fiction.
Nate walked down the center of the highway. Toeing the centerline as though he was walking the tracks. No cars had passed in over a half hour, and no city lights came any closer.
He lit a cigarette, illuminating the highway around him. He took a long drag. A cow mooed to his right, faintly.
Nate closed his eyes and listened to the silence. Early spring kept the critters at bay; it was truly silent.
He strolled down the highway, kind of sauntering. Nate had no where to be, no one waiting for him; nothing to do, period.
He imagined he was stranded on the continent by himself; perhaps an unknown continent. He could be near a river, the ocean, or neither.
Nate stopped walking and sat down on the highway. He looked towards the stars, let out a large puff of smoke. It disipated slowly in the still night air.
"Perhaps being alone wouldn't be so bad," he said aloud.
The cow mooed again, seemingly agreeing with Nate.
End Fiction.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
03-12-2010
Start Fiction:
It all was dark, not just the sky. Words fluttered about his mind in an even more senseless manner; thoughts were trite and worn. It was all comong together, after all these years.
The sensation of imprisionment was at fever pitch; Darryl was on the edge. He had felt the need to break out before, but these sensations were exponentially more intense. He began to scratch at his arms. His spine twitched, his shoulders spasmed, his legs were afire.
It wasn't physically painful, rather, it fed his brain which caused more anxiety, panic as Darryl moved about the room.
'Out,' he told himself as he rushed towards the patio doors. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his hands fell cold. 'Out!' he repeated to himself. His chest tightened; short, shallow breaths. Air; more air.
Darryl slammed the patio doors open and moved to the yard, slowing and hunching over with each step. 'Out.'
End Fiction.
It all was dark, not just the sky. Words fluttered about his mind in an even more senseless manner; thoughts were trite and worn. It was all comong together, after all these years.
The sensation of imprisionment was at fever pitch; Darryl was on the edge. He had felt the need to break out before, but these sensations were exponentially more intense. He began to scratch at his arms. His spine twitched, his shoulders spasmed, his legs were afire.
It wasn't physically painful, rather, it fed his brain which caused more anxiety, panic as Darryl moved about the room.
'Out,' he told himself as he rushed towards the patio doors. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his hands fell cold. 'Out!' he repeated to himself. His chest tightened; short, shallow breaths. Air; more air.
Darryl slammed the patio doors open and moved to the yard, slowing and hunching over with each step. 'Out.'
End Fiction.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
03-11-2010
Fancy new netbook... Love this thing!
Start Fiction:
Sara sat across the room from Dave watching his mouth as he spoke, eyes wide; her head nodding slightly, slowly. She felt by watching the words fall from his mouth, they would somehow make sense.
They didn't.
"I know this all seems rather... bizarre," Dave said. He moved to the window of her office, peeping out behind the curtain. He wasn't nervous, jittery like he normally was when they met.
"Bizarre," Sara repeated. Although she was dazed, she knew he had some words with meaning in there somewhere. She just couldn't figure out where. "You," she began.
"Seem confident? Self-assured?" Dave said as he sat back down.
"Yes."
"Pretty, odd, isn't it?"
Odd indeed. They sat in silence; Sara studied her client. He was different, but not in a manner that caused her alarm. It was exciting. He was... exciting.
End Fiction.
Start Fiction:
Sara sat across the room from Dave watching his mouth as he spoke, eyes wide; her head nodding slightly, slowly. She felt by watching the words fall from his mouth, they would somehow make sense.
They didn't.
"I know this all seems rather... bizarre," Dave said. He moved to the window of her office, peeping out behind the curtain. He wasn't nervous, jittery like he normally was when they met.
"Bizarre," Sara repeated. Although she was dazed, she knew he had some words with meaning in there somewhere. She just couldn't figure out where. "You," she began.
"Seem confident? Self-assured?" Dave said as he sat back down.
"Yes."
"Pretty, odd, isn't it?"
Odd indeed. They sat in silence; Sara studied her client. He was different, but not in a manner that caused her alarm. It was exciting. He was... exciting.
End Fiction.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
03-09-2010
I am feeling the urge to write as I am thinking in words; a slight noise becomes narrative...
Might have to hand write one tonight with the temp one arm thing...
I love the itch...
End Fiction.
Might have to hand write one tonight with the temp one arm thing...
I love the itch...
End Fiction.
Monday, March 1, 2010
03-01-2010
Wow. Almost a month since I posted here! Oops. At least I have been hand writting and researching.
Wounded paw makes it difficult to type...
End Fiction.
Wounded paw makes it difficult to type...
End Fiction.
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