Well, I have this webpage and pay a hefty fee to have it exist in the “inter-webs” I might as well put it to good use. My theory has been to primarily keep it to writing and my journey to establish it, yet I haven’t worked on my novel in some time. It’s primarily due to the fact that I’ve been busy with my two on-line college courses, but that’s beside the point. In reality it may be due to the fact that the chapter I stopped on was in ROUGH condition. It needs a total rehab. Full gut, full rehab. And I don’t have the “funds” for that right now. Which leads me to my point… I am a very opinionated, self-absorbed, person. Typically I reserve my rants for Facebook, but I don’t want to be “that guy,” you know? I rather use it for uplifting shit, whatever that may end up being. So thus, I am using my personal site as a platform to shout my insane opinions.
For my first entry in this “re-branding” (if you will) I wanted to make it something I am passionate about. And other than writing (and cupcakes) I am an out and proud gay man, that cares about my community; and whomever may be in that circle. I say that last part because I came across a wonderful article: How Straight Spouses Cope When Their Partners Come Out by Christine Grimaldi. You can read it here .
As a gay man, I have gone through the journey of discovery and acceptance every homosexual (sounds so clinical) person has experienced. Mine was just as rocky as any others (I went to Christian school from pre-k to 8th), but in comparison to others it was a cakewalk. I struggled to accept who I was, but once I met my first boyfriend I knew I was gay and I accepted it without further hesitation, which is weird. I realize it now that my parents inadvertently raised me to be a confident adult with my own opinions and views. True, my mother was devastated that I was gay and subsequently didn’t speak to me for two months after I came out for the second time (That’s a story for another time), but I couldn’t live a lie. Side note, my mother now introduces my husband as her son-in-law. The woman is miraculous and amazing. And like any good gay son I cherish her.
Like many before me, I attempted to date girls. My tally only got to two, but that was all I needed to know that girls are just not for me. I feel no real connection other than one of a friend and no sexual energy at all. So, my foray into the straight dating pool never left the dock. I sometimes wonder if I had never met my first boyfriend and surrounded myself with a supportive girl friend, if I would have continued to deny my sexuality. And I can’t help but feel that I would have at some point accepted it, but it would have been in secret, hiding behind a woman. Standing strong in who I am now I see that as the most selfish thing that a person could do. It’s denying the heterosexual person in the relationship a chance at true love and romance.
In my life, I’ve encountered a high number of married men looking to meet up for sexual liaisons with men. And all I can think is ‘how could you do that to someone?’ Forget living a lie and the guilt and shame involved, let us set that aside. The wife is set up for so much agony. Maybe the husband shows her little to no sexual interest, what does that do to her self-esteem? Will she ever be sexually fulfilled? What if she worries that her husband is having an affair? Or evene worse, what happens if she finds out? What happens when/if kids are involved? So much hurt building up in this lie. I am glad I never did that. The consequences are so dire that no one will leave unscathed.
The only way these situations are going to change is with acceptance. Once social stigma has been erased from being gay/lesbian can people be allowed to live as their authentic selves. I cannot help but feel that this world would be better without religion… It’s with these beliefs that people bend and twist themselves to fit some mold that no one will ever live up to. Let us not forget, the Ten Commandments state lying is a sin, but says nothing about being gay.
Showing posts with label Hensley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hensley. Show all posts
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Reflection
So, here I stand poised on the precipice of a new year. Looking back at 2013 there was no particular milestone in my wishful career choices (aka writing, aka becoming an author) but the major things of note are: getting married to the man I’ve spent the last ten years of my life with; and going to a place I have dreamed of going to since I was a kid, London. Besides these major changes, my life was relatively stagnant for the majority of the year. These things didn’t even occur until November. So… At least I’m ending the year on a high note. Oh, and the other thing that was a major and wanted change was I finally broke my husband down, after years of discussion, to where he wants to adopt. Seriously… that’s big.
As per my usual M.O. I intend to dedicate this upcoming year to getting my book published. I feel optimistic about it because I’ve spent a lot of time mulling it around in my brain trying to make sure all the plot points and stories line up. I tricked my husband (can you tell I like saying that) into listening to the first chapter and give me any critiques he may have. It was truly helpful and brought about a different perspective. So I will make the necessary changes and move on to the rest of the story. Now if only I could get him to read the rest of it. But that’s more complicated than actually finishing-finishing the thing.
This Christmas my husband (there it is again!) got me a gift that I feel embodies this coming year. It is a watch. Now, it may seem like an ordinary object but for me it holds a lot of meaning, because sewn into the leather band is a tiny compass. For me it seems to say: it’s time to reach my destination. I’ve pussy-footed and dicked around when it comes to my novel long enough but it is at the point that it needs to be done.
So this years goals:
1 – Finish my novel
2 – Get an agent
3 – Lose 50 lbs.
4 – begin the adoption process.
By this time next year I’m hoping that things will be very different and that I myself will be unrecognizable.
As per my usual M.O. I intend to dedicate this upcoming year to getting my book published. I feel optimistic about it because I’ve spent a lot of time mulling it around in my brain trying to make sure all the plot points and stories line up. I tricked my husband (can you tell I like saying that) into listening to the first chapter and give me any critiques he may have. It was truly helpful and brought about a different perspective. So I will make the necessary changes and move on to the rest of the story. Now if only I could get him to read the rest of it. But that’s more complicated than actually finishing-finishing the thing.
This Christmas my husband (there it is again!) got me a gift that I feel embodies this coming year. It is a watch. Now, it may seem like an ordinary object but for me it holds a lot of meaning, because sewn into the leather band is a tiny compass. For me it seems to say: it’s time to reach my destination. I’ve pussy-footed and dicked around when it comes to my novel long enough but it is at the point that it needs to be done.
So this years goals:
1 – Finish my novel
2 – Get an agent
3 – Lose 50 lbs.
4 – begin the adoption process.
By this time next year I’m hoping that things will be very different and that I myself will be unrecognizable.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Prompt 12 of 31
I'm doing everything but writing, it would seem. Especially since I missed the last four days of writing my prompts because I was in Las Vegas carousing with my two best friends. Our evenings were spent gambling, drinking, and laughing. Only a third of the entire trip is a mindless blank. Either way it was such reckless abandon that kept me from my self assigned task. Now, back in the real world of obligations and schedules I am forced to pick up where I left off and I can do little if any at all. I'm worthless right now. I want to just sit and stare off into space but that will gain me nothing. Well, it would if I was letting my mind wander through a new story but I doubt that will happen. Only through working on a new prompt will my mind and writing be tested. So thus I give you number 11 of 31 (I will most certainly pull double duty soon to get my prescribed amount.)
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 110 "A train travels from Paris to Rome. there are several interesting characters staying in the sleeping cars. Write about what happens to each of them during the night: 1)an older married couple... 2) two young women who agree to share a room... 3) a football goalie who, earlier, that evening gave up the winning goal."
Start time: 9:07
The tiny serpent, Malk, with glowing red eyes slithered through the ducts of the train. It's small ears listened intently over the soft scratches of the budding spikes on his back against the metal of the tube. He was sent on a mission to find those deemed fit for departure to another place. Yet none were viable specimens. MOst had been asleep as he passed by their portion of the sleeping car. He thought of listening to their thoughts while they dreamt but that had always proven deadly in the past and would not root out a worthy candidate anyway.
"Ridiculous," he hissed quietly to himself. "Why couldn't he do it."
Finally he came to a compartment with an elderly couple readying for bed. The man helped his wife slip off her dress and shoes and into a silk nightgown with frilly sleeves. The wife did the same for her husband.
Malk rolled his eyes and curled up to watch. They had been the first to be awake and he wanted to make sure that they weren't the ones.
"What did you think of the Eiffel tower tonight, my love?" The man asked as he sat back with care.
His wife sighed happily.
"Even more exquisite as ever. I remember when you proposed to me," she looked at him wryly, "And how on the train ride home we made love."
The old man beamed his crooked smile.
"Would you like to do that again, my sweet?"
His wife gasped and looked about the compartment as if to see if others were about.
"I don't know if we should."
"I still can," he said.
Malk's stomach gave a lurch and bile rose up through his throat. He gulped it back down and slithered away as fast as he could. He knew they would have been a waste of his time, but he had to at least make certain. One time he had missed an opportunity when the husband had descended onto his nagging wife, choking the life out of her. Afterwards he had emerged from the compartment screaming that his wife had died in her sleep. He would have been perfect. Although the two never gave any such sign of animosity.
The next compartment was bursting with activity. He viewed it through the slats in the grate. On one said sat a blonde with her knees pulled up to hide her chest, with her arms wrapped around them. On the opposite side was a girl working intently on her cell phone, her thumbs flying madly over the glass screen.
"Are you sure there's nothing else?"
The girl glanced up from her phone for only a second. "Yes," she replied tersely.
The girl shifted in her seat and lowered her legs for a moment to throw them onto the bench of the compartment.
"This is ridiculous. Why can't you ride somewhere else? Certainly you could stay in the dining car. You seem like you would enjoy that."
The girl with the phone froze in place. Through Malk's eyes he saw the tension between them growing like a black orb, pulsing and swirling like a dark sun. His scaly skin tingled with anticipation.
"Yes," he whispered.
The two girls looked up at the vent.
'What was that," the girl with the phone said.
"Probably the air kicking on. It's insanely hot in here. You take up a lot of the cool air."
The girl with the phone gave her a sour look.
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Yes it does! I'm saying you're a fat cow."
The girl with the phone dropped it to the seat. It bounced once before settling in the crack.
"You want to say that again? I could take your skinny ass."
The other girl rose and quickly discovered that the other girl may have been bulky but she had also had height to portion it out. The two exchanged glares until the compartment door slid open and a young man poked his head in. The short girl's mouth fell open and she froze.
"Hello, Michelle, my belle," the boy said. He took a step in, while he held onto the side of the entry.
"Bonjour, mon ami," the girl with the phone replied.
"I just wanted to see how you're doing. I so appreciate you finding another car to stay in. It's not every day I get to see my family. I didn't know they were all going to come to Rome for the concert."
"no a problem."
"Do you need anything?" the boy asked.
The girl smiled and shook her head. And with that the boy left.
The shorter girl spun around furiously and rushed toward Michelle, who quickly responded with a right hook across the girl's chin. She spun around and fell into the bench seat.
Malk shifted excitedly. He knew his moment was about to arrive.
BUt the shorter girl was not deterred she quickly rose to her feet and, keeping a safe distance, smiled excitedly at Michelle.
"You know Aaron Rose? You TRAVEL with the greatest singer of all time?"
Michelle looked taken aback. Her brow met above her pointed nose.
"Perhaps." Michelle looked unsure.
The shorter girl screamed and rushed forward, wrapping her arms around the stranger and bouncing her up and down.
Malk hissed angrily and slithered to another compartment. He hated teenage girls. They were always hot and cold. One minute they were the most vicious conniving creatures and the next joyful and friendly the next.
The next few compartments were the same, filled with sleeping riders. Frustration began to buzz behind his eyes and he wanted to bite the next person he saw. But he knew if he marked an unworthy human his master would be angry. He might even punish him with eternal agony. He could hear his master's word echo across his memory. "I'll send you back to the depths where I found you if you fail."
Malk was determined and picked up his speed. The next few compartments were duds. One even had a football player in it. But all that radiated from him was disappointment and failure. Strong emotions, sure, but they would not be worthwhile to Malk's mission so he kept on. Finally he reached the end of the car and had to travel through the vent at the end and carefully make his way to the next.
Once he was safely inside he found more compartments of the same, except for one. A man quietly rose from the bed with a sleeping woman. He dressed just as carefully and slipped out the door. Malk could tell something was amiss and followed him down the hall, peeking in through the vents to make sure he still had sight of him. He found him in the restroom. The man looked both ways down the hall before he stepped in and shut the door.
The man went to the mirror and examined himself with a smile. The pride and anticipation radiated from him in red hot waves. Malk was exuberant.
"What is your secret," he hissed quietly. The man, so enraptured with his own image, didn't seem to notice.
A knock sounded at the door and he rushed to open it. He stuck his head out first and then returned with a woman in his wake. She threw herself into his arms and the two began kissing passionately. He moved his hands up her body, simultaneously lifting her dress.
"Did your wife notice," the woman said in between kisses.
"No," the man said. He pressed her up against the wall and squatted before her, kissing her as he went.
Malk couldn't believe his luck. Betrayal. Lies. Pride. HIs master would be ecstatic at such a find. With that he closed his eyes and breathed out all of the air in his body, turning his being into a dried up husk. A black cloud of smoke moved through the spaces in the grate and traveled in a whisp across the small space. He lingered for a moment, letting the man get more of his indecent pleasure in before he was marked.
The man stood again and the two kissed.
Now he thought and he dove for their heads.
The smoke gathered about their heads and set their eyes burning. The two secret lovers hacked and coughed, separating for just a moment, allowing Malk to escape out the crack at the bottom of the door.
He quickly traveled to the end car of the train where his master sat amongst the luggage and other things. He was crumpled up weak in the corner. A blanket over his bony shoulders. His skin was tight against his skull and pale white. His purple eyes protruded from their sockets, staring emptily into space.
"Master," Malk hissed.
The shadow of a man moved only his eyes to the whisp of cloud moving through the car.
"Is it done," he said, with a hoarse voice.
"Yes," Malk hissed.
The ceatures master stood up slowly.
"Join me," he said.
Malk's Master made his way to the marked strangers with his hand against one thing or another, with the other clutching his shawl.
When he reached them he threw open the door and stepped inside.
The woman screamed and man got angry.
"Get the fuck out of here," he screamed shoving Malk's master against the door.
The feeble man began to chuckle and then plunged his hand, with it's sharp talons, into the man's chest and wrapped his fingers around the man's beating heart. The cheating man gasped as a dark matter coursed through Malk's Master's veins. The man turned to dust and fell to the floor. The woman screamed again as her blue eyes looked in terror at the man that had turned a deep hue of blood and sprouted tiny horns from his forhead.
"Your turn," he said and descended upon the woman.
Malk watched from the corner as a thin whisp of cloud praying to his Master that he would be rewarded.
Standing before the whisp of cloud was a fully formed monster, the likes the world hadn't seen for over centuries.
"Did I did well," Malk said.
The purple eyes of his master settled on him. He grinned, revealing a mouthful of dagger-like teeth.
"Yes," he said.
He opened his mouth and stuck out a forked tounge that tasted the air. In a tiny explosion Malk returned to his former serpent form over ten times the size. He landed on a toilet that crumbled beaneath him.
"Let's take the rest of them," his master said and stepped into the hall.
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 110 "A train travels from Paris to Rome. there are several interesting characters staying in the sleeping cars. Write about what happens to each of them during the night: 1)an older married couple... 2) two young women who agree to share a room... 3) a football goalie who, earlier, that evening gave up the winning goal."
Start time: 9:07
The tiny serpent, Malk, with glowing red eyes slithered through the ducts of the train. It's small ears listened intently over the soft scratches of the budding spikes on his back against the metal of the tube. He was sent on a mission to find those deemed fit for departure to another place. Yet none were viable specimens. MOst had been asleep as he passed by their portion of the sleeping car. He thought of listening to their thoughts while they dreamt but that had always proven deadly in the past and would not root out a worthy candidate anyway.
"Ridiculous," he hissed quietly to himself. "Why couldn't he do it."
Finally he came to a compartment with an elderly couple readying for bed. The man helped his wife slip off her dress and shoes and into a silk nightgown with frilly sleeves. The wife did the same for her husband.
Malk rolled his eyes and curled up to watch. They had been the first to be awake and he wanted to make sure that they weren't the ones.
"What did you think of the Eiffel tower tonight, my love?" The man asked as he sat back with care.
His wife sighed happily.
"Even more exquisite as ever. I remember when you proposed to me," she looked at him wryly, "And how on the train ride home we made love."
The old man beamed his crooked smile.
"Would you like to do that again, my sweet?"
His wife gasped and looked about the compartment as if to see if others were about.
"I don't know if we should."
"I still can," he said.
Malk's stomach gave a lurch and bile rose up through his throat. He gulped it back down and slithered away as fast as he could. He knew they would have been a waste of his time, but he had to at least make certain. One time he had missed an opportunity when the husband had descended onto his nagging wife, choking the life out of her. Afterwards he had emerged from the compartment screaming that his wife had died in her sleep. He would have been perfect. Although the two never gave any such sign of animosity.
The next compartment was bursting with activity. He viewed it through the slats in the grate. On one said sat a blonde with her knees pulled up to hide her chest, with her arms wrapped around them. On the opposite side was a girl working intently on her cell phone, her thumbs flying madly over the glass screen.
"Are you sure there's nothing else?"
The girl glanced up from her phone for only a second. "Yes," she replied tersely.
The girl shifted in her seat and lowered her legs for a moment to throw them onto the bench of the compartment.
"This is ridiculous. Why can't you ride somewhere else? Certainly you could stay in the dining car. You seem like you would enjoy that."
The girl with the phone froze in place. Through Malk's eyes he saw the tension between them growing like a black orb, pulsing and swirling like a dark sun. His scaly skin tingled with anticipation.
"Yes," he whispered.
The two girls looked up at the vent.
'What was that," the girl with the phone said.
"Probably the air kicking on. It's insanely hot in here. You take up a lot of the cool air."
The girl with the phone gave her a sour look.
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Yes it does! I'm saying you're a fat cow."
The girl with the phone dropped it to the seat. It bounced once before settling in the crack.
"You want to say that again? I could take your skinny ass."
The other girl rose and quickly discovered that the other girl may have been bulky but she had also had height to portion it out. The two exchanged glares until the compartment door slid open and a young man poked his head in. The short girl's mouth fell open and she froze.
"Hello, Michelle, my belle," the boy said. He took a step in, while he held onto the side of the entry.
"Bonjour, mon ami," the girl with the phone replied.
"I just wanted to see how you're doing. I so appreciate you finding another car to stay in. It's not every day I get to see my family. I didn't know they were all going to come to Rome for the concert."
"no a problem."
"Do you need anything?" the boy asked.
The girl smiled and shook her head. And with that the boy left.
The shorter girl spun around furiously and rushed toward Michelle, who quickly responded with a right hook across the girl's chin. She spun around and fell into the bench seat.
Malk shifted excitedly. He knew his moment was about to arrive.
BUt the shorter girl was not deterred she quickly rose to her feet and, keeping a safe distance, smiled excitedly at Michelle.
"You know Aaron Rose? You TRAVEL with the greatest singer of all time?"
Michelle looked taken aback. Her brow met above her pointed nose.
"Perhaps." Michelle looked unsure.
The shorter girl screamed and rushed forward, wrapping her arms around the stranger and bouncing her up and down.
Malk hissed angrily and slithered to another compartment. He hated teenage girls. They were always hot and cold. One minute they were the most vicious conniving creatures and the next joyful and friendly the next.
The next few compartments were the same, filled with sleeping riders. Frustration began to buzz behind his eyes and he wanted to bite the next person he saw. But he knew if he marked an unworthy human his master would be angry. He might even punish him with eternal agony. He could hear his master's word echo across his memory. "I'll send you back to the depths where I found you if you fail."
Malk was determined and picked up his speed. The next few compartments were duds. One even had a football player in it. But all that radiated from him was disappointment and failure. Strong emotions, sure, but they would not be worthwhile to Malk's mission so he kept on. Finally he reached the end of the car and had to travel through the vent at the end and carefully make his way to the next.
Once he was safely inside he found more compartments of the same, except for one. A man quietly rose from the bed with a sleeping woman. He dressed just as carefully and slipped out the door. Malk could tell something was amiss and followed him down the hall, peeking in through the vents to make sure he still had sight of him. He found him in the restroom. The man looked both ways down the hall before he stepped in and shut the door.
The man went to the mirror and examined himself with a smile. The pride and anticipation radiated from him in red hot waves. Malk was exuberant.
"What is your secret," he hissed quietly. The man, so enraptured with his own image, didn't seem to notice.
A knock sounded at the door and he rushed to open it. He stuck his head out first and then returned with a woman in his wake. She threw herself into his arms and the two began kissing passionately. He moved his hands up her body, simultaneously lifting her dress.
"Did your wife notice," the woman said in between kisses.
"No," the man said. He pressed her up against the wall and squatted before her, kissing her as he went.
Malk couldn't believe his luck. Betrayal. Lies. Pride. HIs master would be ecstatic at such a find. With that he closed his eyes and breathed out all of the air in his body, turning his being into a dried up husk. A black cloud of smoke moved through the spaces in the grate and traveled in a whisp across the small space. He lingered for a moment, letting the man get more of his indecent pleasure in before he was marked.
The man stood again and the two kissed.
Now he thought and he dove for their heads.
The smoke gathered about their heads and set their eyes burning. The two secret lovers hacked and coughed, separating for just a moment, allowing Malk to escape out the crack at the bottom of the door.
He quickly traveled to the end car of the train where his master sat amongst the luggage and other things. He was crumpled up weak in the corner. A blanket over his bony shoulders. His skin was tight against his skull and pale white. His purple eyes protruded from their sockets, staring emptily into space.
"Master," Malk hissed.
The shadow of a man moved only his eyes to the whisp of cloud moving through the car.
"Is it done," he said, with a hoarse voice.
"Yes," Malk hissed.
The ceatures master stood up slowly.
"Join me," he said.
Malk's Master made his way to the marked strangers with his hand against one thing or another, with the other clutching his shawl.
When he reached them he threw open the door and stepped inside.
The woman screamed and man got angry.
"Get the fuck out of here," he screamed shoving Malk's master against the door.
The feeble man began to chuckle and then plunged his hand, with it's sharp talons, into the man's chest and wrapped his fingers around the man's beating heart. The cheating man gasped as a dark matter coursed through Malk's Master's veins. The man turned to dust and fell to the floor. The woman screamed again as her blue eyes looked in terror at the man that had turned a deep hue of blood and sprouted tiny horns from his forhead.
"Your turn," he said and descended upon the woman.
Malk watched from the corner as a thin whisp of cloud praying to his Master that he would be rewarded.
Standing before the whisp of cloud was a fully formed monster, the likes the world hadn't seen for over centuries.
"Did I did well," Malk said.
The purple eyes of his master settled on him. He grinned, revealing a mouthful of dagger-like teeth.
"Yes," he said.
He opened his mouth and stuck out a forked tounge that tasted the air. In a tiny explosion Malk returned to his former serpent form over ten times the size. He landed on a toilet that crumbled beaneath him.
"Let's take the rest of them," his master said and stepped into the hall.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Prompt 11 of 31
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 107 "An elderly woman decides to rebel against the conventions of socially acceptable behavior."
"It happened in church, Bella May, it surely did." Clara Anne said, while she daintily fanned herself in the shade of her massive hat.
"Oh, my," Bella May said, clutching at her pearls.
The two elderly ladies, with broad brimmed hats of vibrant colors, with matching dresses and pumps, sat out on a fine spring afternoon in Clara Anne's beautifully kept garden. Beneath a gazebo she begged George to build for her, the two ladies shared the local gossip of the small parish of Jefkey.
Placed before them were two large glasses with sweet tea and cookies baked fresh that morning.
"The ruckus she must have caused," Bella May took a sip of her tea. He pinky held up ever so delicately. "And that poor Reverend Smith."
"It's Smithe, Bella May. Smah-Eye-the."
"Yes, him too."
Clara Anne rolled her eyes and fanned herself ever faster.
"Sissy Jons stood up in the midst of a full congregation and began speaking at the top of her voice."
"-Oooh-"
"Jabbering on. We thought she was drunk on the spirit the way she was carrying on so. George thought she was speaking in tounges. Turns our she didn't have her teeth in at first."
Bella May snorted from a stifled burst of laughter, causing a gob of snot to run out of her nostril. She quickly grabbed her laced hanky from her purse and wiped it away.
"Did you hear what she had to say?"
"Darlin', you know you would have known if you had been there." Clara Anne raised and eyebrow over the glass she set to her lips.
Bella May wiped the subject from air.
"Preparation for the Ladies Society function. Being head chair has it's obligations."
"Surely," Clara Anne replied.
"Well obviously you didn't hear-"
"You must be pulling my leg, Bella May. The congregation was so overtook by her sudden outburst that every one got utterly silent. You could have heard a church mouse fart."
"Oh, Lord."
"Once her teeth were placed securely in her jowls she knocked her large caboose around to get to the end of the aisle. Poor Mr. Longley got a mouthful of buttock."
"I daresay he probably liked it." Bella May said. She smiled mischeviously.
"Oh, Bella," she swatted at her playfully, "How dare you. He's currently caught betwixt the widow Douglas and Ambbey. They are totally in the dark. I even heard," Clara leaned in closer, "That Mrs. Douglas arrived with a platter of finger sandwhiches right after a very vocal love making session."
Bella's eyes widened.
"I heard it from Yvonne Smirk after the book club."
Bella took a cook and ate away. She waved her hand at her dear friend and sad with a mouthful of cookie, crumbs flying all over the lovely lace table cloth, "Back to Sissy!"
"I'm getting there," Clara said, "DOn't stretch out your girdle." She took a deep breath. "Well once the poor woman finally freed herself from the pew she bustled up to the head of the congregation and nudged Reverened Smithe right out of place. The poor man was so overcome with shock he just stood there gaping."
Bella May chewed and shook her head absolutely enthralled.
"That's when the woman leaned against the pulpit. For a second I swear she pushed her teeth back in but George says I'm big fishing. Either way she opens her mouth and says, 'What the hell are we doing here.' I was just shocked. George still thought she was drunk on the spirit but I saw right through it. Now no one said a word so she went on. 'I have been coming here since I was born,' she said, 'and for the life of me I don't know why I kept coming. I've heard every story this book has to tell me at least three times each and not once has it made my life any better.'
"That's when the Reverend stepped in. He tried nudging her aside but Sissy just wouldn't budge. Instead she went on sayin, 'Instead of spending my days living life out with people that just enjoy life I have spent seven decades listening to all of you ladies just jabbering on about the other. One cruel thing after another. How dare you call youselves Christians. If there was a God I don't think he would want to spend a minute with you.'"
"I can't believe she could say such a thing."
Clara tucked her tongue behind her bottom lip and nodded, her eyes intense.
"And can you believe it, I look at George and he has this puzzled look on his face as if he's thinking it over. I give him a quick smack and he looks at me as if I'd been the one sayin such horrible things. The nerve.
"Sissy goes on to say, 'If there was a god I don't think he'd even want us to be reading from a book so easily manipulated by mankind. The verses are so generic they can be twisted and turned into anything you people feel petty enough to complain about. It's despicable.'
"Can you believe she has the gall to call us despicable."
"How do you know she was talking to you?" Bella May inquired.
Clara Anne's mouth hung open like a caught fish.
"She was gesturing to everyone in the church," she assured her companion.
Bella nodded.
"Finally someone takes it upon themselves to stand up and say something, but before old Mr. Clekney could get a word in edgewise Sissy swoops on in and cuts him off. 'Do you agree Mr. Clekney? I have heard you many a time tell me how tiring you get of your wife and her friends gossip. And how you feel that we should be taking on the poor people of our parish and caring for the poor. Has this place ever given you the opportunity or the chance?'
"the poor man was dumbfounded. Probably because he's been smoking the marijuana. I smell it, wafting into my bedroom window night after night."
"You don't think it might be your grandson Michael? His parents were very liberal ones. His mind might have been poisoned."
Clara's eyes and mouth narrowed to thin, severe, lines.
"My Michael is a holy man of God."
Bella held up her hands, "I meant no offense, Clara. It wouldn't be your doing. But his parents. May they rest in peace."
Clara turned her head to the side.
"It was that husband of my daughters. He corrupted her."
The two sat in silence for some time. The wind blew through the weeping branches of the willow creating a high pitched chorus that went along perfectly with the birds chirping in it's bows.
"Was that all?" Bella asked finally.
"Oh no, the woman went on and on bad mouthing the lord and the bible. It was amazing that more people didn't get up and storm out."
"You didn't?"
"Lord, no. I had to see the train wreck til the end."
"You know, Clare, I don't think it was such a thing. She just had an opinion and needed to get it out."
Bella May readjusted herself in the wicker chair.
"I beg your pardon?"
"She's right, I don't know why we've gone to that church for so long. We were just raised that way."
Clara sat up straight in her chair and looked down her charp nose at her table mate.
"We?"
"Sissy and I."
Clara was stunned.
"She and I have had it with all of you. It's finally time that we just come out with it. We're tired of you busy bodies. I'm just ashamed that I wasn't there to see her finally stand up and do what is right. I for one am proud of her."
"Surely you are joshing me."
"No, as a matter of fact."
Bella May stood up, her bag already in hand.
"Thank you for the tea and cookies."
"It happened in church, Bella May, it surely did." Clara Anne said, while she daintily fanned herself in the shade of her massive hat.
"Oh, my," Bella May said, clutching at her pearls.
The two elderly ladies, with broad brimmed hats of vibrant colors, with matching dresses and pumps, sat out on a fine spring afternoon in Clara Anne's beautifully kept garden. Beneath a gazebo she begged George to build for her, the two ladies shared the local gossip of the small parish of Jefkey.
Placed before them were two large glasses with sweet tea and cookies baked fresh that morning.
"The ruckus she must have caused," Bella May took a sip of her tea. He pinky held up ever so delicately. "And that poor Reverend Smith."
"It's Smithe, Bella May. Smah-Eye-the."
"Yes, him too."
Clara Anne rolled her eyes and fanned herself ever faster.
"Sissy Jons stood up in the midst of a full congregation and began speaking at the top of her voice."
"-Oooh-"
"Jabbering on. We thought she was drunk on the spirit the way she was carrying on so. George thought she was speaking in tounges. Turns our she didn't have her teeth in at first."
Bella May snorted from a stifled burst of laughter, causing a gob of snot to run out of her nostril. She quickly grabbed her laced hanky from her purse and wiped it away.
"Did you hear what she had to say?"
"Darlin', you know you would have known if you had been there." Clara Anne raised and eyebrow over the glass she set to her lips.
Bella May wiped the subject from air.
"Preparation for the Ladies Society function. Being head chair has it's obligations."
"Surely," Clara Anne replied.
"Well obviously you didn't hear-"
"You must be pulling my leg, Bella May. The congregation was so overtook by her sudden outburst that every one got utterly silent. You could have heard a church mouse fart."
"Oh, Lord."
"Once her teeth were placed securely in her jowls she knocked her large caboose around to get to the end of the aisle. Poor Mr. Longley got a mouthful of buttock."
"I daresay he probably liked it." Bella May said. She smiled mischeviously.
"Oh, Bella," she swatted at her playfully, "How dare you. He's currently caught betwixt the widow Douglas and Ambbey. They are totally in the dark. I even heard," Clara leaned in closer, "That Mrs. Douglas arrived with a platter of finger sandwhiches right after a very vocal love making session."
Bella's eyes widened.
"I heard it from Yvonne Smirk after the book club."
Bella took a cook and ate away. She waved her hand at her dear friend and sad with a mouthful of cookie, crumbs flying all over the lovely lace table cloth, "Back to Sissy!"
"I'm getting there," Clara said, "DOn't stretch out your girdle." She took a deep breath. "Well once the poor woman finally freed herself from the pew she bustled up to the head of the congregation and nudged Reverened Smithe right out of place. The poor man was so overcome with shock he just stood there gaping."
Bella May chewed and shook her head absolutely enthralled.
"That's when the woman leaned against the pulpit. For a second I swear she pushed her teeth back in but George says I'm big fishing. Either way she opens her mouth and says, 'What the hell are we doing here.' I was just shocked. George still thought she was drunk on the spirit but I saw right through it. Now no one said a word so she went on. 'I have been coming here since I was born,' she said, 'and for the life of me I don't know why I kept coming. I've heard every story this book has to tell me at least three times each and not once has it made my life any better.'
"That's when the Reverend stepped in. He tried nudging her aside but Sissy just wouldn't budge. Instead she went on sayin, 'Instead of spending my days living life out with people that just enjoy life I have spent seven decades listening to all of you ladies just jabbering on about the other. One cruel thing after another. How dare you call youselves Christians. If there was a God I don't think he would want to spend a minute with you.'"
"I can't believe she could say such a thing."
Clara tucked her tongue behind her bottom lip and nodded, her eyes intense.
"And can you believe it, I look at George and he has this puzzled look on his face as if he's thinking it over. I give him a quick smack and he looks at me as if I'd been the one sayin such horrible things. The nerve.
"Sissy goes on to say, 'If there was a god I don't think he'd even want us to be reading from a book so easily manipulated by mankind. The verses are so generic they can be twisted and turned into anything you people feel petty enough to complain about. It's despicable.'
"Can you believe she has the gall to call us despicable."
"How do you know she was talking to you?" Bella May inquired.
Clara Anne's mouth hung open like a caught fish.
"She was gesturing to everyone in the church," she assured her companion.
Bella nodded.
"Finally someone takes it upon themselves to stand up and say something, but before old Mr. Clekney could get a word in edgewise Sissy swoops on in and cuts him off. 'Do you agree Mr. Clekney? I have heard you many a time tell me how tiring you get of your wife and her friends gossip. And how you feel that we should be taking on the poor people of our parish and caring for the poor. Has this place ever given you the opportunity or the chance?'
"the poor man was dumbfounded. Probably because he's been smoking the marijuana. I smell it, wafting into my bedroom window night after night."
"You don't think it might be your grandson Michael? His parents were very liberal ones. His mind might have been poisoned."
Clara's eyes and mouth narrowed to thin, severe, lines.
"My Michael is a holy man of God."
Bella held up her hands, "I meant no offense, Clara. It wouldn't be your doing. But his parents. May they rest in peace."
Clara turned her head to the side.
"It was that husband of my daughters. He corrupted her."
The two sat in silence for some time. The wind blew through the weeping branches of the willow creating a high pitched chorus that went along perfectly with the birds chirping in it's bows.
"Was that all?" Bella asked finally.
"Oh no, the woman went on and on bad mouthing the lord and the bible. It was amazing that more people didn't get up and storm out."
"You didn't?"
"Lord, no. I had to see the train wreck til the end."
"You know, Clare, I don't think it was such a thing. She just had an opinion and needed to get it out."
Bella May readjusted herself in the wicker chair.
"I beg your pardon?"
"She's right, I don't know why we've gone to that church for so long. We were just raised that way."
Clara sat up straight in her chair and looked down her charp nose at her table mate.
"We?"
"Sissy and I."
Clara was stunned.
"She and I have had it with all of you. It's finally time that we just come out with it. We're tired of you busy bodies. I'm just ashamed that I wasn't there to see her finally stand up and do what is right. I for one am proud of her."
"Surely you are joshing me."
"No, as a matter of fact."
Bella May stood up, her bag already in hand.
"Thank you for the tea and cookies."
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Prompt 10 of 31
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 223 "While eating at the counter of a busy diner, a deaf man reads the lips of a fry cook who's telling a co-worker about the broken glass he folded into the omelet of a belligerent customer."
Start time: 11:19
"What're we doing here?" Garith said, as they stepped into the diner.
His sister, who had been looking at her feet, bumped into his back and nearly knocked him down.
Derrick strode in with all the confidence of the world and looked at him.
"Are you both okay?" Derrick asked.
Janithyn half smiled and nodded her head. Her black hair hanging like curtains about her face.
"I'll be fine," Garith said, waving his hand through the air to dismiss the topic.
"Do vampires eat food?" Garith said.
Derrick looked around nervously. He put one hand on Garith's shoulder and a finger on his lips. HIs friend pulled his head away and rubbed the bottom half of his face.
"Damn you're cold," He said.
"Be quiet," Jan said, "You don't want to give it away. Do you know what these people would do to him?"
She glanced around the diner.
Everyone in the joint was engrossed in their own lives not even paying attention to the strange patrons that had entered. Derrick nodded with approval and walked to the last booth and slid in. Garith took the other side and Jan stood at the end for a moment before she took a spot next to her brother.
"So the book wasn't at your place," Derrick spat out. He rubbed his cheek and blinked furiously as his mind processed and formed a new plan.
"What do you think could have happened to it?" Jan said. She brushed her hair behind her ear.
Derrick shrugged.
"At this point I don't know."
"How are you even sure that this book could have undone," Garith struggled to explain without stating the obvious. He gestured at Derrick with his right. "This."
"I went to see a psychic."
Garith rolled his eyes.
"You have got to be kidding." He said. His brow met above his hooked nose. "They're nothing but phonies, charlatains, and fakes. DOn't believe a word they say. There advice is as useless as... Well, I don't know what but it's not worth a damn."
"I understand that," Derrick said, "But it was the only thing I could think of."
A commotion drew the attention of the friends to the opposite end of the café. An unkempt man had trapsed into the establishment with two of his friends, his arms draped around their shoulders. It was obvious by the dull expression with a pirate's smile that he was three sheets to the wind. His friends weren't as far gone but just as annoying. They were talking too loud and making far more noise that was necessary.
"Where the hostess," the drunkest of the three said.
The waitress behind the counter attempted to get their attention to no avail.
"You seat yourself," one of the patrons said.
The two others had been locked in a giggle fest of a joke of their own and no one heard him.
Finally after more needless explanation they took a seat. Much to derrick's dismay it was next to them.
"Great," Garith said.
"Ignore them," Jan said in her usual quiet way.
The three tried to do just that but the moment the conversation found some sort of potential destination the three men would begin to hoot and holler, banging their fists on the table. When the waitress finally took their order one of them grabbed her ass, and when she jerked away from his rough hand she neglected to think of the other on the opposite side of him. He instead slid his hand up her dress.
"Excuse me, sir," she said, pointing her pencil threateningly in his direction.
The three men burst out laughing. The whole situation was a hilarious joke to them.
"I wonder what they're like when they're not wasted," Derrick said, more for himself.
"Exactly the same I Imagine," Garith said.
Derrick thought back on his living life. He had been one of those guys at some point or another. Liquor did things to him he couldn't quite explain. It was dark and wonderful and made every one of his pains disappear. Now if he wanted to drink it would taste like ash in his mouth. He could do it if he wanted but there would be no point.
A sense of guilt and shame draped over Derrick's shoulders. He wondered if he had ever crossed such lines with his friends. He wasn't a bad guy. During any sober moment he would have been a gentleman. At least, he thought.
"Maybe we should go," Jan said. She had pulled herself tight, almost as if she was trying to disappear
"Guys could you keep it down?" Garith said.
The three men looked at them with puffy red eyes.
"Shut the fuck up," one of them said, and all three burst out into laughter.
"Yeah, let's go," Garith said.
It was at that moment that Derrick heard before the man at the bar did. The cooks in the kitchen pointed fingers at the men and laughed. Their eyes were watching mischievously as the waitress brought out their plates of food.
"That was fast," one of them said.
The man at the bar had watched her the whole way. He jumped up from his barstool and bolted to the man that was about to shove the entire breakfast burrito into his face. He knocked it out of his hand and sent all of it's contents across the café floor. The man was so angry by the situation that he didn't notice the pieces of glass tinkling to the floor amongst the egg and sausage.
"You got a lot of fucking nerve," the man said, rising menacingly from his seat.
The man opened his mouth to speak but made no noise. Instead he began to sign to the man. He tried to emphasize what had almost happened.
Derrick watched enthralled. The man was being a hero. He didn't know that these men deserved to be punished, but not like that.
The man pulled back his arm and threw a right hook at the deaf stranger, knocking him straight to the floor.
Derrick was on his feet gripping the man's arm before the drunkard could blink. He squeezed his arm with all the strength her could muster.
"Do you know what he just did?" Derrick said through gritted teeth. "He just saved you from stuffing your pie hole to death."
The man screamed in agony as he dropped to a knee. Derrick twisted his arm behind his back. He shoved him down and forced him to look at the contents of his late night meal.
"See what was in there," He said.
Sadly the man couldn't have been able to since his eyes were shut tight from the pain Derrick was inflicting upon him.
"Please let go of my arm," He screamed.
Derrick shoved him down and released his arm.
The three men quickly got to their feet and scuttled from the diner.
Start time: 11:19
"What're we doing here?" Garith said, as they stepped into the diner.
His sister, who had been looking at her feet, bumped into his back and nearly knocked him down.
Derrick strode in with all the confidence of the world and looked at him.
"Are you both okay?" Derrick asked.
Janithyn half smiled and nodded her head. Her black hair hanging like curtains about her face.
"I'll be fine," Garith said, waving his hand through the air to dismiss the topic.
"Do vampires eat food?" Garith said.
Derrick looked around nervously. He put one hand on Garith's shoulder and a finger on his lips. HIs friend pulled his head away and rubbed the bottom half of his face.
"Damn you're cold," He said.
"Be quiet," Jan said, "You don't want to give it away. Do you know what these people would do to him?"
She glanced around the diner.
Everyone in the joint was engrossed in their own lives not even paying attention to the strange patrons that had entered. Derrick nodded with approval and walked to the last booth and slid in. Garith took the other side and Jan stood at the end for a moment before she took a spot next to her brother.
"So the book wasn't at your place," Derrick spat out. He rubbed his cheek and blinked furiously as his mind processed and formed a new plan.
"What do you think could have happened to it?" Jan said. She brushed her hair behind her ear.
Derrick shrugged.
"At this point I don't know."
"How are you even sure that this book could have undone," Garith struggled to explain without stating the obvious. He gestured at Derrick with his right. "This."
"I went to see a psychic."
Garith rolled his eyes.
"You have got to be kidding." He said. His brow met above his hooked nose. "They're nothing but phonies, charlatains, and fakes. DOn't believe a word they say. There advice is as useless as... Well, I don't know what but it's not worth a damn."
"I understand that," Derrick said, "But it was the only thing I could think of."
A commotion drew the attention of the friends to the opposite end of the café. An unkempt man had trapsed into the establishment with two of his friends, his arms draped around their shoulders. It was obvious by the dull expression with a pirate's smile that he was three sheets to the wind. His friends weren't as far gone but just as annoying. They were talking too loud and making far more noise that was necessary.
"Where the hostess," the drunkest of the three said.
The waitress behind the counter attempted to get their attention to no avail.
"You seat yourself," one of the patrons said.
The two others had been locked in a giggle fest of a joke of their own and no one heard him.
Finally after more needless explanation they took a seat. Much to derrick's dismay it was next to them.
"Great," Garith said.
"Ignore them," Jan said in her usual quiet way.
The three tried to do just that but the moment the conversation found some sort of potential destination the three men would begin to hoot and holler, banging their fists on the table. When the waitress finally took their order one of them grabbed her ass, and when she jerked away from his rough hand she neglected to think of the other on the opposite side of him. He instead slid his hand up her dress.
"Excuse me, sir," she said, pointing her pencil threateningly in his direction.
The three men burst out laughing. The whole situation was a hilarious joke to them.
"I wonder what they're like when they're not wasted," Derrick said, more for himself.
"Exactly the same I Imagine," Garith said.
Derrick thought back on his living life. He had been one of those guys at some point or another. Liquor did things to him he couldn't quite explain. It was dark and wonderful and made every one of his pains disappear. Now if he wanted to drink it would taste like ash in his mouth. He could do it if he wanted but there would be no point.
A sense of guilt and shame draped over Derrick's shoulders. He wondered if he had ever crossed such lines with his friends. He wasn't a bad guy. During any sober moment he would have been a gentleman. At least, he thought.
"Maybe we should go," Jan said. She had pulled herself tight, almost as if she was trying to disappear
"Guys could you keep it down?" Garith said.
The three men looked at them with puffy red eyes.
"Shut the fuck up," one of them said, and all three burst out into laughter.
"Yeah, let's go," Garith said.
It was at that moment that Derrick heard before the man at the bar did. The cooks in the kitchen pointed fingers at the men and laughed. Their eyes were watching mischievously as the waitress brought out their plates of food.
"That was fast," one of them said.
The man at the bar had watched her the whole way. He jumped up from his barstool and bolted to the man that was about to shove the entire breakfast burrito into his face. He knocked it out of his hand and sent all of it's contents across the café floor. The man was so angry by the situation that he didn't notice the pieces of glass tinkling to the floor amongst the egg and sausage.
"You got a lot of fucking nerve," the man said, rising menacingly from his seat.
The man opened his mouth to speak but made no noise. Instead he began to sign to the man. He tried to emphasize what had almost happened.
Derrick watched enthralled. The man was being a hero. He didn't know that these men deserved to be punished, but not like that.
The man pulled back his arm and threw a right hook at the deaf stranger, knocking him straight to the floor.
Derrick was on his feet gripping the man's arm before the drunkard could blink. He squeezed his arm with all the strength her could muster.
"Do you know what he just did?" Derrick said through gritted teeth. "He just saved you from stuffing your pie hole to death."
The man screamed in agony as he dropped to a knee. Derrick twisted his arm behind his back. He shoved him down and forced him to look at the contents of his late night meal.
"See what was in there," He said.
Sadly the man couldn't have been able to since his eyes were shut tight from the pain Derrick was inflicting upon him.
"Please let go of my arm," He screamed.
Derrick shoved him down and released his arm.
The three men quickly got to their feet and scuttled from the diner.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Prompt 8 of 31
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 47 "As two teenagers sit on the front porch of a house, a car with tinted windows pulls up. The doors open, and two men in black suite get out and start walking toward them."
Start time: 10:52
Jeremy threw tiny pebbles at Foster's window. His head darted back and forth to make sure no one noticed his efforts at this ungodly hour. They had planned to meet secretly in the meadow on the other side of town but Foster failed to show. Jeremy was certain that he wouldn't have done it on his own. Something had stopped him. He was taking a giant risk coming but he had some resolution.
A white blur moved in the darkened bedroom and grew larger through the window. It opened slowly and without a sound.
Foster looked through the small opening. He pointed a finger to the front.
"The porch," he whispered.
Jeremy ran around the side of the house eagerly. Hew didn't stop his wariness of his surroundings. Anyone could be watching.
He reached the steps and stopped. The wood was faded and old. He feared that if he walked upon them that it would make a sound so he waited. His heart raced in his chest. His mouth went dry and his head swirled with worry and panic.
Foster slowly opened the door and snuck outside. He took the steps of the porch like a cat, soundless. He lifted his arm to Jeremy who took it without thinking. Foster led him up the steps and to the far corner. When they reached the beam holding up the porch Foster threw Jeremy against it and the two kissed.
Even though he didn't want their moment to end Jeremy had to know. He had to.
He pushed him away gently, his hands sprawled on his chest; but he got one more kiss in before he spoke.
"Where were you."
Foster's overjoyed expression fell away. Replacing it was regret.
"I tried to tell my father that I had to work late with inventory. But he insisted that the mandated curfew negated that and my boss was being a tyrant."
Jeremy's brow furrowed. "He'd risk you losing your job?"
"He said the likelihood of that happening was one in a million. The curfew is iron clad." Foster suddenly became aware they were in the open. He looked around nervously.
Jeremy hated seeing the pain on his face. He leaned in and kissed him. In that moment only the two of them existed. The world around them fell away and it was bliss.
"Let's leave tonight," Jeremy said slightly above a whisper.
Foster put his fingers to Jeremy's lips and looked around.
"I don't think I should," he said, "At least not tonight. It's nearly dawn. We would most surely get caught."
"Not if we run."
Foster pondered for a moment, chewing his bottom lip.
"We can just say we are brothers. No one will know."
Foster looked back at the house.
"What if they put out an alert?"
Jeremy followed his line of sight.
He hoped that wouldn't happen but in all likelihood Foster's father would notify the authorities.
"I don't care," Jeremy said, "I have to be with you. We can make it on our own."
The two looked into the other's eyes.
A smile spread across Foster's face.
"Let's go."
Foster lead them down the steps and when they reached the bottom they kissed. With their foreheads pressed together Jeremy said: "We can do anything."
The black sedan with tinted windows roared up the road and screeched to a halt before the house. The boys instinctively parted but it was too late. They knew that the driver's had seen.
"Go, Foster, run."
Jeremy shoved on his lover's chest but he stood there frozen. Horror was etched on his face.
"Run!" He screamed.
The doors flew open and four men got out of the car, their weapons drawn.
"Get on the floor sodomites," said one.
Jeremy complied without a fight.
The men wore white plastic masks over their face, concealing their identities. Large red crosses were sewn on the right chest of their long black pea coats, tightly buttoned against their bodies. And their feet were encased in thick, shiny, black leather boots with spikes on the toe, and cleats on the bottom.
Foster decided then to run. He made it halfway around the porch until two of the men broke off and bounded after him with haste.
Jeremy realized that it was true. The selice were in fact genetically advanced.
The two grabbed each of foster's arms and threw him to his knees. He tried to fight against them but it was feckless. They were too strong. They didn't even have to fight to keep him in place. The moment they strapped the metallic collar about each of their necks Jeremy knew it was over. They were doomed.
"On your feet faggot," one of Jeremy's guards said.
He had heard stories of those that had followed without complaint and their less painful treatment.
The men bound the two boys to the roof of the car with magnetic bindings about their wrists and ankles. Once they were certain that they were unable to escape once they departed they got back in the car.
Jeremy heard muffled speech and managed to hear every other word. But he didn't need to know what was to happen to them now. They would be stricken from memory and record. IN the morning the authority would alert their parents of their disgusting ways and the members of their family would be forced to wear symbols to prove they were spreaders of the degeneration. Then the men would be sterilized to prevent any further offspring.
Everything that happened after was a blur to Jeremy.
The men drove the car through the city to the airport on the south end. Once they were there the boys were loaded onto a plane which was bound for the island. It was there that they would be exposed to hell on earth. But before they took off they were given a short film with footage of what they were to expect.
To Jeremy's surprise they were not the only ones on the flight.
end time: 11:45
Start time: 10:52
Jeremy threw tiny pebbles at Foster's window. His head darted back and forth to make sure no one noticed his efforts at this ungodly hour. They had planned to meet secretly in the meadow on the other side of town but Foster failed to show. Jeremy was certain that he wouldn't have done it on his own. Something had stopped him. He was taking a giant risk coming but he had some resolution.
A white blur moved in the darkened bedroom and grew larger through the window. It opened slowly and without a sound.
Foster looked through the small opening. He pointed a finger to the front.
"The porch," he whispered.
Jeremy ran around the side of the house eagerly. Hew didn't stop his wariness of his surroundings. Anyone could be watching.
He reached the steps and stopped. The wood was faded and old. He feared that if he walked upon them that it would make a sound so he waited. His heart raced in his chest. His mouth went dry and his head swirled with worry and panic.
Foster slowly opened the door and snuck outside. He took the steps of the porch like a cat, soundless. He lifted his arm to Jeremy who took it without thinking. Foster led him up the steps and to the far corner. When they reached the beam holding up the porch Foster threw Jeremy against it and the two kissed.
Even though he didn't want their moment to end Jeremy had to know. He had to.
He pushed him away gently, his hands sprawled on his chest; but he got one more kiss in before he spoke.
"Where were you."
Foster's overjoyed expression fell away. Replacing it was regret.
"I tried to tell my father that I had to work late with inventory. But he insisted that the mandated curfew negated that and my boss was being a tyrant."
Jeremy's brow furrowed. "He'd risk you losing your job?"
"He said the likelihood of that happening was one in a million. The curfew is iron clad." Foster suddenly became aware they were in the open. He looked around nervously.
Jeremy hated seeing the pain on his face. He leaned in and kissed him. In that moment only the two of them existed. The world around them fell away and it was bliss.
"Let's leave tonight," Jeremy said slightly above a whisper.
Foster put his fingers to Jeremy's lips and looked around.
"I don't think I should," he said, "At least not tonight. It's nearly dawn. We would most surely get caught."
"Not if we run."
Foster pondered for a moment, chewing his bottom lip.
"We can just say we are brothers. No one will know."
Foster looked back at the house.
"What if they put out an alert?"
Jeremy followed his line of sight.
He hoped that wouldn't happen but in all likelihood Foster's father would notify the authorities.
"I don't care," Jeremy said, "I have to be with you. We can make it on our own."
The two looked into the other's eyes.
A smile spread across Foster's face.
"Let's go."
Foster lead them down the steps and when they reached the bottom they kissed. With their foreheads pressed together Jeremy said: "We can do anything."
The black sedan with tinted windows roared up the road and screeched to a halt before the house. The boys instinctively parted but it was too late. They knew that the driver's had seen.
"Go, Foster, run."
Jeremy shoved on his lover's chest but he stood there frozen. Horror was etched on his face.
"Run!" He screamed.
The doors flew open and four men got out of the car, their weapons drawn.
"Get on the floor sodomites," said one.
Jeremy complied without a fight.
The men wore white plastic masks over their face, concealing their identities. Large red crosses were sewn on the right chest of their long black pea coats, tightly buttoned against their bodies. And their feet were encased in thick, shiny, black leather boots with spikes on the toe, and cleats on the bottom.
Foster decided then to run. He made it halfway around the porch until two of the men broke off and bounded after him with haste.
Jeremy realized that it was true. The selice were in fact genetically advanced.
The two grabbed each of foster's arms and threw him to his knees. He tried to fight against them but it was feckless. They were too strong. They didn't even have to fight to keep him in place. The moment they strapped the metallic collar about each of their necks Jeremy knew it was over. They were doomed.
"On your feet faggot," one of Jeremy's guards said.
He had heard stories of those that had followed without complaint and their less painful treatment.
The men bound the two boys to the roof of the car with magnetic bindings about their wrists and ankles. Once they were certain that they were unable to escape once they departed they got back in the car.
Jeremy heard muffled speech and managed to hear every other word. But he didn't need to know what was to happen to them now. They would be stricken from memory and record. IN the morning the authority would alert their parents of their disgusting ways and the members of their family would be forced to wear symbols to prove they were spreaders of the degeneration. Then the men would be sterilized to prevent any further offspring.
Everything that happened after was a blur to Jeremy.
The men drove the car through the city to the airport on the south end. Once they were there the boys were loaded onto a plane which was bound for the island. It was there that they would be exposed to hell on earth. But before they took off they were given a short film with footage of what they were to expect.
To Jeremy's surprise they were not the only ones on the flight.
end time: 11:45
Monday, July 8, 2013
Prompt 7 of 31
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 68 "You are riding a crowded subway with a huge wad of cash in your inside pocket."
start time: 10:24
I know I shouldn't, but I keep looking down regardless. I check and recheck to make sure that the bump isn't visible from the outside. The more I look the more in begins to protrude from my left breast pocket, hidden within my trench coat. My heart starts to pound in my ears and my breathing is quick and deep.
I look up and around at the subway. I try not to meet anyone's eye but I invariably do. People have that sensor in their brain that tells me they're being looked at. I meet the eye of a pregnant woman nursing another baby in her arms. The cloudy eyes of a man looks up at me from behind his crime novel. Then a man leaning against the banister by the automatic doors. His hands are tucked securely into his armpits, his arms tight around his chest. Each one acknowledges my glare and returns to their task.
They know. I know they know.
BUt do they? They don't know that I had stabbed a man in the alley to get it. NO one would expect a man with a suite and tie, pressed slacks, and a cashmere scarf to be a culprit of such evil. Neither would I if I saw such a man. But as I catch the look of my own eyes in the reflection in the glass across the crowded subway car I see a killer.
I quickly look away. I see the evil lurking in the eyes. If I can see it as can they. I look down and keep it down.
This is my second kill. Completely at random. I've watched so many crime dramas and I wonder what my motive it. What is my M.O.
I shake my head. I don't have one. I'm not going to do this again. I said I would do it til I had enough money to put back in the petty cash.
I close my eyes tight.
Fuck. I am an imbezzeler too. To top it off I used the cash to pay the credit card I had used on the business retreat in Las Vegas. I was supposed to be building a bond with my team instead I built a bond with the madam and three of her girls. Crystal. Revy. Caramel.
God, if my wife finds out...
I shift nervously.
The elderly woman in front of me glances at me out of the corner of her eye. I look at her and force a smile and nod. She does the same before moving her shopping bag to the other hand.
"I'm not a bad guy," I tell her.
She looks at me confused.
"I know what you're thinking and I mean you no harm."
"Good," she says and takes a small step away from me.
I look up and around. Everyone is looking at me.
"I'm a good guy." I say to everyone.
Everyone is still. There eyes blinking like Christmas lights.
I lower my head again. I shut my eyes tight and stare into the darkness.
The subway begins to screech to a halt. The overhead speaker announces the stop under the sound of static. If I didn't hear it everyday I wouldn't have known it was my stop. I quickly get off. Shoving my hands into my coat pockets I rush through the station and up the steps to the streets above. The winter chill is growing. My breath steams out of my like a locomotive as I scurry through the streets.
Then in a blur I see a hand shoot out like a viper and grip my arm. It rips me into the alley.
The hand multiplies and grip my lapels and throw me up against the wall.
"Hey there, Justin," Big Bowie says.
I look into his cold blue eyes. They narrow at me as he sneers.
I look to my right at the foot traffic hustling past uncaring.
"Where is my money?" he says close to me. HIs breath hot and humid fills my visison and nostrils. It reeks of garlic, cheese, and bile.
I gag.
He shoves me against the wall again and repeats himself, louder. As if that will somehow produce better results. I never understood that.
"Let me go," I say.
"Oh," he says cheerily, "So you do. That's good to hear."
"I didn't-"
"I know that Mickey wouldn't like to know you flaked on him for a third time." He holds up three fingers. "You're out."
He begins to reach into his pocket.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the wad of cash. This wasn't what it was for but I could die.
I slap the wad to his chest. He fails to grab them and they flutter to the damp asphalt.
He sniffs and leans forward to pick it up. That's when I pull the knife from my pocket it and plunge it into the crook of his neck and shoulder.
He screams and the passerbys look into the dim light of the alley, but they fail to stop.
I quickly pull it out and he stands up. I shove the knife into his gut and use my free hand to remove him from the blade and simultaneously shoving him backward. He stumbles and falls.
I drop to my hands and knees and pick up the money. I shove each bill into my pocket.
I crawl like a dog to him and dig into his pockets. He tries to fight me but groans and screams in agony.
"Help!" He screams.
My hands slither up to his mouth and muffle his screams. I follow them up and climb onto his chest. That's when I start to punch him with a left and right. I hit one after the other putting every ounce of fear, panic, pain, suffering, anger into that his cries begin to stop and his eyes begin to bleed.
I pull back exhausted. My arms stiff. I catch my breath and catch sight of the crowd gathering at the mouth of the alley.
"What're you doing?" Someone says.
"Someone call 9-1-1!"
I get to my feet and head down the alley.
I hear footsteps of someone chasing after me. Two sets. There pattern becomes intermitten.
I try to look but I can't see. I stumble over some debris but catch myself before I can fall.
Their paces match mine. I can even hear them huffing away.
There is a grunt and I am tackled to the street. The money gushes out of my as a fall. They flutter all around me as green confetti. The man spins me around and I look up into the face of my neighbor and brother-in-law.
"Justin?" He says, his eyes wide.
I am caught.
start time: 10:24
I know I shouldn't, but I keep looking down regardless. I check and recheck to make sure that the bump isn't visible from the outside. The more I look the more in begins to protrude from my left breast pocket, hidden within my trench coat. My heart starts to pound in my ears and my breathing is quick and deep.
I look up and around at the subway. I try not to meet anyone's eye but I invariably do. People have that sensor in their brain that tells me they're being looked at. I meet the eye of a pregnant woman nursing another baby in her arms. The cloudy eyes of a man looks up at me from behind his crime novel. Then a man leaning against the banister by the automatic doors. His hands are tucked securely into his armpits, his arms tight around his chest. Each one acknowledges my glare and returns to their task.
They know. I know they know.
BUt do they? They don't know that I had stabbed a man in the alley to get it. NO one would expect a man with a suite and tie, pressed slacks, and a cashmere scarf to be a culprit of such evil. Neither would I if I saw such a man. But as I catch the look of my own eyes in the reflection in the glass across the crowded subway car I see a killer.
I quickly look away. I see the evil lurking in the eyes. If I can see it as can they. I look down and keep it down.
This is my second kill. Completely at random. I've watched so many crime dramas and I wonder what my motive it. What is my M.O.
I shake my head. I don't have one. I'm not going to do this again. I said I would do it til I had enough money to put back in the petty cash.
I close my eyes tight.
Fuck. I am an imbezzeler too. To top it off I used the cash to pay the credit card I had used on the business retreat in Las Vegas. I was supposed to be building a bond with my team instead I built a bond with the madam and three of her girls. Crystal. Revy. Caramel.
God, if my wife finds out...
I shift nervously.
The elderly woman in front of me glances at me out of the corner of her eye. I look at her and force a smile and nod. She does the same before moving her shopping bag to the other hand.
"I'm not a bad guy," I tell her.
She looks at me confused.
"I know what you're thinking and I mean you no harm."
"Good," she says and takes a small step away from me.
I look up and around. Everyone is looking at me.
"I'm a good guy." I say to everyone.
Everyone is still. There eyes blinking like Christmas lights.
I lower my head again. I shut my eyes tight and stare into the darkness.
The subway begins to screech to a halt. The overhead speaker announces the stop under the sound of static. If I didn't hear it everyday I wouldn't have known it was my stop. I quickly get off. Shoving my hands into my coat pockets I rush through the station and up the steps to the streets above. The winter chill is growing. My breath steams out of my like a locomotive as I scurry through the streets.
Then in a blur I see a hand shoot out like a viper and grip my arm. It rips me into the alley.
The hand multiplies and grip my lapels and throw me up against the wall.
"Hey there, Justin," Big Bowie says.
I look into his cold blue eyes. They narrow at me as he sneers.
I look to my right at the foot traffic hustling past uncaring.
"Where is my money?" he says close to me. HIs breath hot and humid fills my visison and nostrils. It reeks of garlic, cheese, and bile.
I gag.
He shoves me against the wall again and repeats himself, louder. As if that will somehow produce better results. I never understood that.
"Let me go," I say.
"Oh," he says cheerily, "So you do. That's good to hear."
"I didn't-"
"I know that Mickey wouldn't like to know you flaked on him for a third time." He holds up three fingers. "You're out."
He begins to reach into his pocket.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the wad of cash. This wasn't what it was for but I could die.
I slap the wad to his chest. He fails to grab them and they flutter to the damp asphalt.
He sniffs and leans forward to pick it up. That's when I pull the knife from my pocket it and plunge it into the crook of his neck and shoulder.
He screams and the passerbys look into the dim light of the alley, but they fail to stop.
I quickly pull it out and he stands up. I shove the knife into his gut and use my free hand to remove him from the blade and simultaneously shoving him backward. He stumbles and falls.
I drop to my hands and knees and pick up the money. I shove each bill into my pocket.
I crawl like a dog to him and dig into his pockets. He tries to fight me but groans and screams in agony.
"Help!" He screams.
My hands slither up to his mouth and muffle his screams. I follow them up and climb onto his chest. That's when I start to punch him with a left and right. I hit one after the other putting every ounce of fear, panic, pain, suffering, anger into that his cries begin to stop and his eyes begin to bleed.
I pull back exhausted. My arms stiff. I catch my breath and catch sight of the crowd gathering at the mouth of the alley.
"What're you doing?" Someone says.
"Someone call 9-1-1!"
I get to my feet and head down the alley.
I hear footsteps of someone chasing after me. Two sets. There pattern becomes intermitten.
I try to look but I can't see. I stumble over some debris but catch myself before I can fall.
Their paces match mine. I can even hear them huffing away.
There is a grunt and I am tackled to the street. The money gushes out of my as a fall. They flutter all around me as green confetti. The man spins me around and I look up into the face of my neighbor and brother-in-law.
"Justin?" He says, his eyes wide.
I am caught.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Prompt 4 of 31
The Writer's Book of Matches pg.74 "If we have this conversation, it's going to end badly for you. Consider that a fair warning."
Start time: 12:23
"Believe me, Tristan, if we have this conversation, again, it's going to end badly for you. Consider that fair-"
"But, Jonathon," Tristan cut in, "I need some sort of hope or conclusion. I made an agreement with myself that I would decide, by the time I was thirty, whether or not I am going to have kids."
"We're gay, Trist, we can't have kids. We don't have the parts for that. Remember?"
"I understand that," Tristan said, he ran his fingers through his hair. "But there are other options. We could do surrogacy. Hell you could even have sex with a woman. I wouldn't care, as long as it resulted in a kid."
Jon looked at Tristan with disgusted disbelief.
"You must be out of your mind! I'm not going to do that. And let's just forget the fact that I physically couldn't, since my little general won't salute to the pussy platoon, I won't have a biological child. I won't."
"Why?" Tristan said, throwing his hands in the air. They landed on their white sofa with a muffled thud.
"HOw long have we been together, Trist?" He paused but not really for any sort of answer. "Twelve years. You know what my family is like. We have diabetes, schizophrenia, obesity, obsessive compulsive disorder, colon cancer. Why would I want to potentially pass on these fucked up genes to another living being? That's insane. It's a miracle I have dodged as many genetic bullets."
"The likelihood of that-"
"Is too much if even a chance that it could."
The two sat in silence. Their eyes locked in an invisible bond.
"Wanting kids as gay men is so selfish if it's biological."
Tristan opened his mouth to reply but didn't. His bottom jaw just hung slack.
"Think of it, Trist, there are so many kids in the system that have no one to love them. How callous, conceited, and cruel must you be to want to bring another life into this world when someone out there could use parents to love them. Anyone, to love them."
"But what about your family's troubles with adopted kids? Didn't Andrew try to burn down the house with everyone in it?"
"Try to, are you kidding. He tried once and succeeded the other."
"That's what I'm talking about!"
"That is an isolated incident."
Tristan rolled his eyes.
"Regardless it's still a risk."
Jon laughed and shook his head.
"Trist, that's a risk with any child. You know how mental illness runs in my family? What if our kid ends up schizophrenic? Or even if the kid is yours biologically, you yourself have a high risk of cancer and alcoholism. No one is immune. Us as gay men have to take into account so much more when it comes to having kids. It's not like a heterosexual couple that can bang and it results in a child. It just doesn't work that way for us. It just doesn't."
Tristan pressed his lips together and furrowed his brow.
"Trist, believe me I would love to see a little me running around. I would. But I would just feel guilty when I know there is probably a kid that wants so desperately to be loved that he would do anything. Most of the time that kid grows up and has other issues to contend with. Don't you want to save a kid? Wouldn't you want to look at our child and know that we took him in and gave him everything he could have ever wanted because we could do that. We may not be able to give them life, Tristan, but we can sure as hell give them love and a heightened chance at a successful life."
end time: 12:40
Start time: 12:23
"Believe me, Tristan, if we have this conversation, again, it's going to end badly for you. Consider that fair-"
"But, Jonathon," Tristan cut in, "I need some sort of hope or conclusion. I made an agreement with myself that I would decide, by the time I was thirty, whether or not I am going to have kids."
"We're gay, Trist, we can't have kids. We don't have the parts for that. Remember?"
"I understand that," Tristan said, he ran his fingers through his hair. "But there are other options. We could do surrogacy. Hell you could even have sex with a woman. I wouldn't care, as long as it resulted in a kid."
Jon looked at Tristan with disgusted disbelief.
"You must be out of your mind! I'm not going to do that. And let's just forget the fact that I physically couldn't, since my little general won't salute to the pussy platoon, I won't have a biological child. I won't."
"Why?" Tristan said, throwing his hands in the air. They landed on their white sofa with a muffled thud.
"HOw long have we been together, Trist?" He paused but not really for any sort of answer. "Twelve years. You know what my family is like. We have diabetes, schizophrenia, obesity, obsessive compulsive disorder, colon cancer. Why would I want to potentially pass on these fucked up genes to another living being? That's insane. It's a miracle I have dodged as many genetic bullets."
"The likelihood of that-"
"Is too much if even a chance that it could."
The two sat in silence. Their eyes locked in an invisible bond.
"Wanting kids as gay men is so selfish if it's biological."
Tristan opened his mouth to reply but didn't. His bottom jaw just hung slack.
"Think of it, Trist, there are so many kids in the system that have no one to love them. How callous, conceited, and cruel must you be to want to bring another life into this world when someone out there could use parents to love them. Anyone, to love them."
"But what about your family's troubles with adopted kids? Didn't Andrew try to burn down the house with everyone in it?"
"Try to, are you kidding. He tried once and succeeded the other."
"That's what I'm talking about!"
"That is an isolated incident."
Tristan rolled his eyes.
"Regardless it's still a risk."
Jon laughed and shook his head.
"Trist, that's a risk with any child. You know how mental illness runs in my family? What if our kid ends up schizophrenic? Or even if the kid is yours biologically, you yourself have a high risk of cancer and alcoholism. No one is immune. Us as gay men have to take into account so much more when it comes to having kids. It's not like a heterosexual couple that can bang and it results in a child. It just doesn't work that way for us. It just doesn't."
Tristan pressed his lips together and furrowed his brow.
"Trist, believe me I would love to see a little me running around. I would. But I would just feel guilty when I know there is probably a kid that wants so desperately to be loved that he would do anything. Most of the time that kid grows up and has other issues to contend with. Don't you want to save a kid? Wouldn't you want to look at our child and know that we took him in and gave him everything he could have ever wanted because we could do that. We may not be able to give them life, Tristan, but we can sure as hell give them love and a heightened chance at a successful life."
end time: 12:40
Friday, July 5, 2013
Prompt 3 of 31
(Stupid holidays and the preparation for them. I got sidetracked cleaning my house and then actually celebrating the fourth that I haven't posted. I'll be playing catch up today.)
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 121 "An old man returns to the tree in which he carved the initials of his long lost childhood sweetheart."
Gerald Whaley leaned heavy on his cane as he traversed the rough dirt path to the field. His mission was to reach the tree where he had carved the initials of he and his high school love, Tabitha Green. The satchel slung over his left shoulder weighed him down and made the journey harder than it would have been even if it didn't exist. But the trip would have been worthless if he hadn't brought it, so he took it in small careful stride.
Everything looks nothing alike, he thought to himself. His cloudy aged eyes looked up, when he felt it safe too, from the road and around him. None of it was familiar. It amazed him still, even after his eighty years of life, how the world, nature, was so liquid. It changed so quick and drastically. Even when he pulled up in his beat up Toyota Tercel he wasn't sure that he had gone to the right dirt parking lot off of the highway. But he was certain it had to be. The landscape may easily deceive him but his mind did not. That was still as spry and wary as it had been when he had carved those initials. It was his body that had turned against him.
He stopped at the edge of a rickety bridge, that crossed over a trickling creek. Below it was brambles and sharp stones that jutted up through the creek bed like teeth. He took a breather and judged the safety of the passageway.
"I don't know about this," he mumbled to himself. He opened his mouth and scratched his cheek with his free hand.
Gerald followed the path on the other side of the bridge. It wound behind the hill out of sight. But atop that hill, only a short distance away, was the tree.
---------------------------
(start time: 9:57, 7/7/13)
"Not far now," Gerald said to himself.
He grabbed ahold of the single banister on the bridge. Luckily it was his left and with the assistance of his cane he traversed the obstacle. When he got to the other side he released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. With one look back at the bridge he smiled and continued on the path to the tree.
He set his satchel down immediately. The weight had begun to get the best of him. Without it he moved with a new energy and traipsed around the trunk, his hands feeling along the rough bark. He had gone almost entirely around when he found it. It was higher than he had remembered but there it was. The initials wrapped tightly in a heart. HIs index finger traced the letters and border, and he smiled.
His mind whirled to life from the memory. He closed his eyes and was instantly transported back to the moment he and Tabitha had lain together beneath this tree and became one. It had been his first time, although he never mustered the courage to ask the same of her. He just wanted to assume that it was.
In the final moment of their passion Tabitha screamed out that she loved him and Gerald just remained silent. It had been awkward when they had dressed, and even more so on the ride home.
Gerald opened his cloudy eyes. Tears began to form beneath the powder blue of his irises.
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. He was going to undo that mistake. The beginning of all the missed chances in his life. He loved his children but their mother had been a witch he was expected to marry. The only thing she had taught him was that everything could be undone with life. You just had to make the sacrifice.
Gerald turned and leaned against the trunk. Using both hands he guided himself until his rear rested on the earth. He caught his breath that had fled in the struggle and grabbed the satchel. He flipped open the leather flap, retrieved the book from within, and tossed the bag aside.
"No going back," he told himself.
He opened it up and found the proper spell. He had followed all of the instructions thus far, remember. Now he just had to pay the debt. He reached into his pocket for his knife and followed the second step of the instructions, he slit his wrist horizontally and vertically on his palm.
Gerald held his head back and made sure his hand found the etching.
Looking down he read the words.
At first there was nothing. He just felt the warm blood running down his arm and wrapping around to pool at the crook of his neck and shoulder; his body grew weak.
He read the words again slower, enunciating each syllable.
Nothing.
His heart began race. Had he made a mistake, he kept thinking. But he began to realize even if he had he didn't care. He was where he had been the most happy.
He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the tree, and remembered. Everything once again alive to him. The sounds of the cicadae, the summer breeze brushing against his sweaty skin, the smell of the blooming flowers on the hill. He could hear the soft breaths of Tabitha.
Opening his eyes he was back.
He pushed himself up and looked around.
"What's the matter?" Tabitha said.
He looked at her from behind his circular glasses. her naked form laying seductively on the striped blanket.
"I-" he said trying to find the words for his joy.
Then he did the only thing he wanted. He leaned in and kissed her with all the passion that had been held back behind the societal façade.
She playfully pushed him back.
"Where did that come from?" she said, laughing.
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 121 "An old man returns to the tree in which he carved the initials of his long lost childhood sweetheart."
Gerald Whaley leaned heavy on his cane as he traversed the rough dirt path to the field. His mission was to reach the tree where he had carved the initials of he and his high school love, Tabitha Green. The satchel slung over his left shoulder weighed him down and made the journey harder than it would have been even if it didn't exist. But the trip would have been worthless if he hadn't brought it, so he took it in small careful stride.
Everything looks nothing alike, he thought to himself. His cloudy aged eyes looked up, when he felt it safe too, from the road and around him. None of it was familiar. It amazed him still, even after his eighty years of life, how the world, nature, was so liquid. It changed so quick and drastically. Even when he pulled up in his beat up Toyota Tercel he wasn't sure that he had gone to the right dirt parking lot off of the highway. But he was certain it had to be. The landscape may easily deceive him but his mind did not. That was still as spry and wary as it had been when he had carved those initials. It was his body that had turned against him.
He stopped at the edge of a rickety bridge, that crossed over a trickling creek. Below it was brambles and sharp stones that jutted up through the creek bed like teeth. He took a breather and judged the safety of the passageway.
"I don't know about this," he mumbled to himself. He opened his mouth and scratched his cheek with his free hand.
Gerald followed the path on the other side of the bridge. It wound behind the hill out of sight. But atop that hill, only a short distance away, was the tree.
---------------------------
(start time: 9:57, 7/7/13)
"Not far now," Gerald said to himself.
He grabbed ahold of the single banister on the bridge. Luckily it was his left and with the assistance of his cane he traversed the obstacle. When he got to the other side he released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. With one look back at the bridge he smiled and continued on the path to the tree.
He set his satchel down immediately. The weight had begun to get the best of him. Without it he moved with a new energy and traipsed around the trunk, his hands feeling along the rough bark. He had gone almost entirely around when he found it. It was higher than he had remembered but there it was. The initials wrapped tightly in a heart. HIs index finger traced the letters and border, and he smiled.
His mind whirled to life from the memory. He closed his eyes and was instantly transported back to the moment he and Tabitha had lain together beneath this tree and became one. It had been his first time, although he never mustered the courage to ask the same of her. He just wanted to assume that it was.
In the final moment of their passion Tabitha screamed out that she loved him and Gerald just remained silent. It had been awkward when they had dressed, and even more so on the ride home.
Gerald opened his cloudy eyes. Tears began to form beneath the powder blue of his irises.
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. He was going to undo that mistake. The beginning of all the missed chances in his life. He loved his children but their mother had been a witch he was expected to marry. The only thing she had taught him was that everything could be undone with life. You just had to make the sacrifice.
Gerald turned and leaned against the trunk. Using both hands he guided himself until his rear rested on the earth. He caught his breath that had fled in the struggle and grabbed the satchel. He flipped open the leather flap, retrieved the book from within, and tossed the bag aside.
"No going back," he told himself.
He opened it up and found the proper spell. He had followed all of the instructions thus far, remember. Now he just had to pay the debt. He reached into his pocket for his knife and followed the second step of the instructions, he slit his wrist horizontally and vertically on his palm.
Gerald held his head back and made sure his hand found the etching.
Looking down he read the words.
At first there was nothing. He just felt the warm blood running down his arm and wrapping around to pool at the crook of his neck and shoulder; his body grew weak.
He read the words again slower, enunciating each syllable.
Nothing.
His heart began race. Had he made a mistake, he kept thinking. But he began to realize even if he had he didn't care. He was where he had been the most happy.
He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the tree, and remembered. Everything once again alive to him. The sounds of the cicadae, the summer breeze brushing against his sweaty skin, the smell of the blooming flowers on the hill. He could hear the soft breaths of Tabitha.
Opening his eyes he was back.
He pushed himself up and looked around.
"What's the matter?" Tabitha said.
He looked at her from behind his circular glasses. her naked form laying seductively on the striped blanket.
"I-" he said trying to find the words for his joy.
Then he did the only thing he wanted. He leaned in and kissed her with all the passion that had been held back behind the societal façade.
She playfully pushed him back.
"Where did that come from?" she said, laughing.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Prompt 2 of 31
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 57 "Okay, it's true. I believe in vampires. But I have proof, okay?"
(P.S. these are all chosen at random.)
Start time: 11:13
"Okay, it's true. I believe in vampires. But I have proof, okay?" Derrick Trund said, running a hand through his long black hair. He leaned over the table closer to his friends, Janithyn and Garith. For the past thirty minutes he had been bombarded with questions from his comrades about his shifty appearance at the metaphysical section of the book store in downtown Boston.
"Well where is this evidence?" Garith said. He casually took a sip of beer from the half empty pint glass.
Jan leaned closer to Derrick. Her eyes wide behind her cat eye glasses.
Derrick's dark brown eyes flicked from one friend to the next before he opened his mouth and showed them his teeth. His canines were a little longer than normal.
Garith laughed, choking on his beer.
"That's your proof? My aunt Cecilia had abnormally long teeth too. You've proven nothing."
Derrick's face soured.
"They're not long enough because I'm new. I am a vampire. Not even a year old."
Jan gaped.
Garith just shook his head and chuckled.
With an uneasy hand Jan touched Derrick's hand. Immediately she retracted it.
"You feel like ice."
"You're imagining things, sis." Garith said.
Jan determinedly wrenched her brother's hand away from his beer and stretched it to Derrick's hand. He knew he could have met them half way but he couldn't have cared less about proving his point. He had other things to worry about.
Garith's finger tips rested on Derrick's hand for less than a nanosecond. He pulled his hand to his chest and stood up, the wooden chair scraped across the barroom floor.
"What the fuck," Garith said.
Derrick rolled his eyes and motioned for his friend to sit.
"I've been a vampire for the past six months and haven't hurt either of you yet. You have nothing to worry about."
"Yeah, now." Garith said, he took a step back, his voice getting louder.
Derrick could feel the eyes scattered around the bar looking at him. He had to nip this in the bud. He quickly stood and with sweeping moves, grabbed Jan's wrist, and hook his arm around Garith's and pulled them to the exit.
"Let go of me freak," Garith said. He attempted to pull his arm free but failed miserably.
The tension, excitement, and panic of the other patrons filled the bar to the brim and Derrick could feel his urge take hold. If he remained a second longer in Trombo's bar he would become ravenous. He knew from experience.
The cold autumn air embraced them with stiff arms outside the bar.
"Calm down, Gary," Derrick said.
The vampire let go of his friends. He could sense that Gary wanted to run but couldn't. He was afraid.
"I sought you two for a reason."
Jan's eyes widened behind her glasses.
"Why?" she said softly.
"I want to undo this and I know you can help."
"Is that why you started talking to us?" Jan said. Her shoulders went slack.
Derrick's expression was pained. He knew this would eventually come to light. Yes, he had treated them worse than any other kid during high school. Yes he had thought they were a couple of freaks then but now that he had been turned he knew they would understand. But even now he couldn't bring himself to say it. He was going to have to soften the blow. Plus, it may have started out trying to use them but his heart had changed since then. It only took taking away his mortal soul to do it.
"The why isn't important. You two have become my closest friends these past few months. You're the only ones that spend your waking hours in the dark. But it's more than that." He knew he had to deliver something quick. "You two are professionals when it comes to the paranormal."
Garith crossed his arms over his chest and held his head to the side. The energy radiating from him was beyond skeptical.
Jan on the other hand, she beamed at Derrick.
"Of course we'll help," she said.
"Jan!" Garith said. "Obviously he's using us. That's why he's been spending time with us. Obviously. God, how could we be so stupid. He wanted nothing to do with us in school."
Jan turned furiously to her brother. A few strands of hair fell from her messy bun.
"What does it matter how he treated us then."
"Because he's using us, sis."
"No he's not. Think of how long he's been hanging out with us and hasn't even brought up the topic of ghosts, werewolves, or vampires once! If he wanted to use us he would have just done it."
Garith turned to Derrick and pressed his lips together into a thin line, his bushy brows formed a single line. He looked back at his sister and the two held a silent argument that ended with a punch in the chest from Jan to Garith.
"How can we help?" Jan said cheerfully.
If derrick's heart was still beating it would have began to race with excitement. Instead he was filled with even more cold.
"Coincidentally enough I was in search of a book that Mr. Nemmits said you had purchased."
The two siblings looked at each other puzzled.
"It's called the La Inverser La Mort. It was written by Pierre-Jacques Lefevre."
The two remained silent.
"Do you know what book he's talking about?" Garith said, he pointed a thumb at Derrick. "Sounds French."
"I think I know what you're talking about. Let's go to our place." Jan said.
End time: 11:53
(P.S. these are all chosen at random.)
Start time: 11:13
"Okay, it's true. I believe in vampires. But I have proof, okay?" Derrick Trund said, running a hand through his long black hair. He leaned over the table closer to his friends, Janithyn and Garith. For the past thirty minutes he had been bombarded with questions from his comrades about his shifty appearance at the metaphysical section of the book store in downtown Boston.
"Well where is this evidence?" Garith said. He casually took a sip of beer from the half empty pint glass.
Jan leaned closer to Derrick. Her eyes wide behind her cat eye glasses.
Derrick's dark brown eyes flicked from one friend to the next before he opened his mouth and showed them his teeth. His canines were a little longer than normal.
Garith laughed, choking on his beer.
"That's your proof? My aunt Cecilia had abnormally long teeth too. You've proven nothing."
Derrick's face soured.
"They're not long enough because I'm new. I am a vampire. Not even a year old."
Jan gaped.
Garith just shook his head and chuckled.
With an uneasy hand Jan touched Derrick's hand. Immediately she retracted it.
"You feel like ice."
"You're imagining things, sis." Garith said.
Jan determinedly wrenched her brother's hand away from his beer and stretched it to Derrick's hand. He knew he could have met them half way but he couldn't have cared less about proving his point. He had other things to worry about.
Garith's finger tips rested on Derrick's hand for less than a nanosecond. He pulled his hand to his chest and stood up, the wooden chair scraped across the barroom floor.
"What the fuck," Garith said.
Derrick rolled his eyes and motioned for his friend to sit.
"I've been a vampire for the past six months and haven't hurt either of you yet. You have nothing to worry about."
"Yeah, now." Garith said, he took a step back, his voice getting louder.
Derrick could feel the eyes scattered around the bar looking at him. He had to nip this in the bud. He quickly stood and with sweeping moves, grabbed Jan's wrist, and hook his arm around Garith's and pulled them to the exit.
"Let go of me freak," Garith said. He attempted to pull his arm free but failed miserably.
The tension, excitement, and panic of the other patrons filled the bar to the brim and Derrick could feel his urge take hold. If he remained a second longer in Trombo's bar he would become ravenous. He knew from experience.
The cold autumn air embraced them with stiff arms outside the bar.
"Calm down, Gary," Derrick said.
The vampire let go of his friends. He could sense that Gary wanted to run but couldn't. He was afraid.
"I sought you two for a reason."
Jan's eyes widened behind her glasses.
"Why?" she said softly.
"I want to undo this and I know you can help."
"Is that why you started talking to us?" Jan said. Her shoulders went slack.
Derrick's expression was pained. He knew this would eventually come to light. Yes, he had treated them worse than any other kid during high school. Yes he had thought they were a couple of freaks then but now that he had been turned he knew they would understand. But even now he couldn't bring himself to say it. He was going to have to soften the blow. Plus, it may have started out trying to use them but his heart had changed since then. It only took taking away his mortal soul to do it.
"The why isn't important. You two have become my closest friends these past few months. You're the only ones that spend your waking hours in the dark. But it's more than that." He knew he had to deliver something quick. "You two are professionals when it comes to the paranormal."
Garith crossed his arms over his chest and held his head to the side. The energy radiating from him was beyond skeptical.
Jan on the other hand, she beamed at Derrick.
"Of course we'll help," she said.
"Jan!" Garith said. "Obviously he's using us. That's why he's been spending time with us. Obviously. God, how could we be so stupid. He wanted nothing to do with us in school."
Jan turned furiously to her brother. A few strands of hair fell from her messy bun.
"What does it matter how he treated us then."
"Because he's using us, sis."
"No he's not. Think of how long he's been hanging out with us and hasn't even brought up the topic of ghosts, werewolves, or vampires once! If he wanted to use us he would have just done it."
Garith turned to Derrick and pressed his lips together into a thin line, his bushy brows formed a single line. He looked back at his sister and the two held a silent argument that ended with a punch in the chest from Jan to Garith.
"How can we help?" Jan said cheerfully.
If derrick's heart was still beating it would have began to race with excitement. Instead he was filled with even more cold.
"Coincidentally enough I was in search of a book that Mr. Nemmits said you had purchased."
The two siblings looked at each other puzzled.
"It's called the La Inverser La Mort. It was written by Pierre-Jacques Lefevre."
The two remained silent.
"Do you know what book he's talking about?" Garith said, he pointed a thumb at Derrick. "Sounds French."
"I think I know what you're talking about. Let's go to our place." Jan said.
End time: 11:53
July July
A few weeks ago I had decided to spend all of July devoting an hour to an hour and a half to writing. The main goal being that I spend this time working on my novel to be ready to submit during august and into the fall. (Depending on it's likability.) But it seems that I am taking, quite literally, dime store advice from a tarot card reader on what I should do.
I was involved with the Hollywood Fringe festival. I performed as Barney in the sequel "love never dies." It was an hour long over the top production written by a good friend of mine. It was fun and a good way to end my theatre time. After our final show dinner we headed over to "fringe central." It was this non-stop party at an art gallery located next-door to the theatre. My ward (faith) and I arrived earlier than the rest and after doing a once around at the party I came across a man sitting in a big bird cage doing tarot card readings. I immediately stopped.
I have to admit that I do buy into horoscopes, palm reading (which I can do, by the way), and tarot cards. I could go into great detail to why I do but that isn't really the topic at hand. Either way, I just wanted to make it aware that I have a fondness for them.
The tarot card reader was working solely on tips so there was nothing really to lose.
The teller, Matt, asked me if I had a particular question in mind or if I just wanted a reading. I went with the latter because the only question I want to know I swore, a long time ago, I would never ask a fortune-teller. Ever.
Matt spread the deck across the red table cloth and instructed me to choose three cards at random. Two of my choices I can't remember the name of the cards. The first card I drew I will forever remember. It was the emperor card. That is the card designated to my birthdate. So, it was really eerie that it was the first card I selected. Of the other two, I remember that they were exact opposites. One represented struggle and pain and the other was extreme joy and happiness. His appraisal of my choices was: I was struggling with something that made me extremely happy. I can't remember his precise wording of the reading, I do remember he was uncertain and confused.
Honestly, his reading made so much sense that it brought me some relief. I have spent the past two years struggling and rushing to finish my novel. It's so close but no matter what I do I force myself back. I fill my time with other things or I push myself to do it and thus end up hating the entire experience. It's truly been a "struggle."
Matt's advice was that I should take some time away from this one particular project and work on other things and to come back to it.
His advice isn't that novel. (Ha, novel.) I have read over and over to take a break from certain projects that keep giving the artist a difficult time, and to just return refreshed and relaxed. I just ignored it. I feel 100% compelled to finish my book. I want to be published. I want to have my words out in the world. I just want to feel accomplished. So I am pushing myself into it without really enjoying it and sucking my enjoyment out.
I understand that at some point, if I ever do get published that I will be forced to work under strict deadlines. It is just a fact of the business (I have read.) But I'm not there yet. At least now I should enjoy it before I "American dream" it and end up loathing that which I loved.
So in taking Matt's advice, I will spend the month of July writing but not on my book. Instead I will spend an hour every night exercising my creativity. I have a copy of "The Writer's Book of Matches" and I will select a new prompt every night to write during that time. If I feel compelled to continue on with the project, so be it. If not, there is no pressure.
I was involved with the Hollywood Fringe festival. I performed as Barney in the sequel "love never dies." It was an hour long over the top production written by a good friend of mine. It was fun and a good way to end my theatre time. After our final show dinner we headed over to "fringe central." It was this non-stop party at an art gallery located next-door to the theatre. My ward (faith) and I arrived earlier than the rest and after doing a once around at the party I came across a man sitting in a big bird cage doing tarot card readings. I immediately stopped.
I have to admit that I do buy into horoscopes, palm reading (which I can do, by the way), and tarot cards. I could go into great detail to why I do but that isn't really the topic at hand. Either way, I just wanted to make it aware that I have a fondness for them.
The tarot card reader was working solely on tips so there was nothing really to lose.
The teller, Matt, asked me if I had a particular question in mind or if I just wanted a reading. I went with the latter because the only question I want to know I swore, a long time ago, I would never ask a fortune-teller. Ever.
Matt spread the deck across the red table cloth and instructed me to choose three cards at random. Two of my choices I can't remember the name of the cards. The first card I drew I will forever remember. It was the emperor card. That is the card designated to my birthdate. So, it was really eerie that it was the first card I selected. Of the other two, I remember that they were exact opposites. One represented struggle and pain and the other was extreme joy and happiness. His appraisal of my choices was: I was struggling with something that made me extremely happy. I can't remember his precise wording of the reading, I do remember he was uncertain and confused.
Honestly, his reading made so much sense that it brought me some relief. I have spent the past two years struggling and rushing to finish my novel. It's so close but no matter what I do I force myself back. I fill my time with other things or I push myself to do it and thus end up hating the entire experience. It's truly been a "struggle."
Matt's advice was that I should take some time away from this one particular project and work on other things and to come back to it.
His advice isn't that novel. (Ha, novel.) I have read over and over to take a break from certain projects that keep giving the artist a difficult time, and to just return refreshed and relaxed. I just ignored it. I feel 100% compelled to finish my book. I want to be published. I want to have my words out in the world. I just want to feel accomplished. So I am pushing myself into it without really enjoying it and sucking my enjoyment out.
I understand that at some point, if I ever do get published that I will be forced to work under strict deadlines. It is just a fact of the business (I have read.) But I'm not there yet. At least now I should enjoy it before I "American dream" it and end up loathing that which I loved.
So in taking Matt's advice, I will spend the month of July writing but not on my book. Instead I will spend an hour every night exercising my creativity. I have a copy of "The Writer's Book of Matches" and I will select a new prompt every night to write during that time. If I feel compelled to continue on with the project, so be it. If not, there is no pressure.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Let's Hope, Third Time is the Charm
I have sat down to write this blog so many times but... With the pressure of being judged or scrutinized it keeps me in fear of ever posting anything. That's pathetic. I have to realize that all I can be is myself and if no one likes what they see or read then... that is just their opinion. Someone will undoubtedly hate you regardless of your story or talent. Some people will dislike me for the simple fact that it's the thing to do. (Listen to me... talking about myself like I have an image or name. I'm adorable.)
Thinking back on my previous attempts to edit my novel, I realized that i had this want in me that I refused to believe. I just wanted to write. As I sat there pouring over line after line of sentences I just wanted to open up my heart and let the words pour out onto the page. That's what I craved but I ignored it. I didn't want to take all the work I had done and set it aside to redo it and possibly make it better. No. I was being lazy. I rather go through and nip and tuck the work I had until it looked somewhat distinguishable as a piece of work. Though like plastic surgery, there is such a thing as too much work.
Of all the articles I have read (and the sage advice of my blatant lover's girlfriend) the main theme has been "follow your instincts." That voice in my head has lead me down some interesting paths without even knowing it. Half the stuff I do when I write is because of listening to that voice, and the benefits were astronomical. But as of late I have ignored it. I set up a finish line for "success" (meaning becoming a famous author) in just a few months. I figured writing a rough draft of a novel in a month span that editing and revision would be just as simple. I am learning painfully slow that is not the case. All of this is a journey, and, like in my story, I don't want to rush it and have it be shit.
So to change my process (and hopefully jump start my energy) I am going to set aside each chapter and rewrite them 3 times each. Then I will sit down and decided which one was the best and go with that.
My nip-tuck process wasn't really panning out and I found myself more irritated and exhausted by the process. I love to write. So, it stands to reason that I should just write.
Thinking back on my previous attempts to edit my novel, I realized that i had this want in me that I refused to believe. I just wanted to write. As I sat there pouring over line after line of sentences I just wanted to open up my heart and let the words pour out onto the page. That's what I craved but I ignored it. I didn't want to take all the work I had done and set it aside to redo it and possibly make it better. No. I was being lazy. I rather go through and nip and tuck the work I had until it looked somewhat distinguishable as a piece of work. Though like plastic surgery, there is such a thing as too much work.
Of all the articles I have read (and the sage advice of my blatant lover's girlfriend) the main theme has been "follow your instincts." That voice in my head has lead me down some interesting paths without even knowing it. Half the stuff I do when I write is because of listening to that voice, and the benefits were astronomical. But as of late I have ignored it. I set up a finish line for "success" (meaning becoming a famous author) in just a few months. I figured writing a rough draft of a novel in a month span that editing and revision would be just as simple. I am learning painfully slow that is not the case. All of this is a journey, and, like in my story, I don't want to rush it and have it be shit.
So to change my process (and hopefully jump start my energy) I am going to set aside each chapter and rewrite them 3 times each. Then I will sit down and decided which one was the best and go with that.
My nip-tuck process wasn't really panning out and I found myself more irritated and exhausted by the process. I love to write. So, it stands to reason that I should just write.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Fear and Dying Cats
Sometimes it's better not to rush. I am slowly, if not painfully so, discovering this. I have set many a goal to finally finish editing my novel but every time I come up short. Part of me thinks its fear, laziness, but another believes its my brain telling me something isn't quite finished. I know that sounds silly, like the people that wait for the muse to hit them. (Wait... This is exactly that... Whatever.) but through the process I have realized certain aspects I had been missing and thus have slowly begun to flesh out my story even more.
To a point it's finished. I've written it, there is a beginning, middle, and end but at the same time it's not submission ready. Technically that is up to my personal opinion. For all I know it is. It may have just needed some polishing and a great many cuts (I have the tendency of being wordy...) and have been ready for agents eyes. Sadly I am a perfectionist and won't settle for less. And yet my standards may be too high. I expect my manuscript to be at the caliber of the greats yet who ever said they were great when they were published? (Oh, publishing houses.) but setting such a high bar also sets me up for failure and the fear of failing. I have a nasty habit of letting that fear dictate my choices and actions. It keeps me from succeeding in the fear that it will be shit. ("We are our own worst critic."-everyone, ever)
There in lies my major problem: thinking it is worthless. In my mind I see my manuscript and having any self confidence in my writing, in the vein of the tone deaf people on American Idol. They swagger in and stand before the judges adamant that they are the next big thing. If only they could win on confidence alone. Then they open their mouths and the sounds of dying cats dragging their limp bodies across a chalk board emit from their chords. The judges cringe and America shifts nervously in their seats. When these people are told they don't have what it takes they are heart broken because obviously someone, or maybe themselves, have been told they have the voice of Mariah Carey. They believe it and when their "dream" comes crashing down around them it is devastation. That is my fear.
So I am left to decipher if it is the fear I have that weighs me down or that there is still more to discover within my story. Dear god, let it be the latter.
To a point it's finished. I've written it, there is a beginning, middle, and end but at the same time it's not submission ready. Technically that is up to my personal opinion. For all I know it is. It may have just needed some polishing and a great many cuts (I have the tendency of being wordy...) and have been ready for agents eyes. Sadly I am a perfectionist and won't settle for less. And yet my standards may be too high. I expect my manuscript to be at the caliber of the greats yet who ever said they were great when they were published? (Oh, publishing houses.) but setting such a high bar also sets me up for failure and the fear of failing. I have a nasty habit of letting that fear dictate my choices and actions. It keeps me from succeeding in the fear that it will be shit. ("We are our own worst critic."-everyone, ever)
There in lies my major problem: thinking it is worthless. In my mind I see my manuscript and having any self confidence in my writing, in the vein of the tone deaf people on American Idol. They swagger in and stand before the judges adamant that they are the next big thing. If only they could win on confidence alone. Then they open their mouths and the sounds of dying cats dragging their limp bodies across a chalk board emit from their chords. The judges cringe and America shifts nervously in their seats. When these people are told they don't have what it takes they are heart broken because obviously someone, or maybe themselves, have been told they have the voice of Mariah Carey. They believe it and when their "dream" comes crashing down around them it is devastation. That is my fear.
So I am left to decipher if it is the fear I have that weighs me down or that there is still more to discover within my story. Dear god, let it be the latter.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Tell me about yourself
It's amazing how sometimes a fictional character can take on a life of its own. For instance I have been busily editing my first novel and I have come to a point in the story where I seem to have shifted into a wrong gear. No matter where I begin this particular chapter or put on the page it sounds wrong. And I refuse to let myself get bothered by it so I tried another approach.
The iPhone is a handy little tool. Truly. I especially love the notepad app because there is no bells and whistles it is exactly what it says. It's a notepad. Now while I was waiting to be picked up outside Von's I began to have a conversation with one of my characters. I asked her what she had been up to. It was through this series of questioning that I discovered that my recount of her portion in my tale was completely wrong. She was in fact in some place entirely different at the time of the chapter I'm having difficulty recounting. So with a few tweaks in the previous chapters I am absolutely certain it will smooth out my ride and ill shift into the proper gear.
So now I am jazzed to start fresh tomorrow with the knowledge I have gathered. This line of questioning has also inspired me to do the same to my other characters but instead of trying to figure out "what happened" during the gap of time she was gone I instead will have them tell me about themselves.
I know this isn't that original of an idea. I was told to do this exercise in my acting classes and in various "how to" novel writing books. This will be the first time I've ever actually utilized this tool. Now I wish that I had in the past. It was because of this line of questioning that the character became more vivid in my thoughts. Granted she is based off of a real life person but in the context of the story and the events that transpire in it she has become her own self.
P.S.
I found this website to be amazingly helpful. It has a VERY thorough character questionnaire. I found myself pretending to be a journalist as I asked the questions.
The iPhone is a handy little tool. Truly. I especially love the notepad app because there is no bells and whistles it is exactly what it says. It's a notepad. Now while I was waiting to be picked up outside Von's I began to have a conversation with one of my characters. I asked her what she had been up to. It was through this series of questioning that I discovered that my recount of her portion in my tale was completely wrong. She was in fact in some place entirely different at the time of the chapter I'm having difficulty recounting. So with a few tweaks in the previous chapters I am absolutely certain it will smooth out my ride and ill shift into the proper gear.
So now I am jazzed to start fresh tomorrow with the knowledge I have gathered. This line of questioning has also inspired me to do the same to my other characters but instead of trying to figure out "what happened" during the gap of time she was gone I instead will have them tell me about themselves.
I know this isn't that original of an idea. I was told to do this exercise in my acting classes and in various "how to" novel writing books. This will be the first time I've ever actually utilized this tool. Now I wish that I had in the past. It was because of this line of questioning that the character became more vivid in my thoughts. Granted she is based off of a real life person but in the context of the story and the events that transpire in it she has become her own self.
P.S.
I found this website to be amazingly helpful. It has a VERY thorough character questionnaire. I found myself pretending to be a journalist as I asked the questions.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Many Mini Revelations
So I've done it. I purchased the URL of my pen name and thus have begun a whole other journey. Sure, I'm putting the cart before the horse in some aspect but I wanted to have some blogs written by the time I start to query. The main idea being that if I have some examples of my writing online then they would be available if someone should google my name. I doubt it but you never know. The whole process has been interesting. I asked my partner/boyfriend/thing if it was odd that I made my own website and he thought I was rather ridiculous for doing it. I'm weird he told me. Which is true. I am a bit strange but there is a method to the madness. After many failed plans I have finally concluded that this must be my moment. I want to start out 2013 with a bang and focus on my writing. I have set a date of the 26th to be completed with my round of edits. Unlike in the past the process hasn't gotten me down. In an odd turn of events it's made me realize how capable I am of doing that which is expected of me. And even in some instances have walked away from my spout of editing feeling invigorated. Let's hope that continues this weekend.This weekend I intend to finish the main plot line of my novel. It has two that run parallel through the entire thing and tie everything up in a nice little bow. While reworking scenes and adding in/taking out characters I've developed a more coherent subplot that plays well into the main story. So, I figured it would be fair to dedicate time to each individual story instead of hopping back and forth as I have been. At two points in novel my characters had the same exact scene just hours later and in a different locations. The crux of my problem due to the fact that I had spent one week revising one chapter (to perfection, I may add) and the following on the following chapter which in fact has no real tie to the previous. (Who's on first?) The past couple weeks I have had this phrase recycling in my thoughts: You make sacrifices now to reap the benefits later. It's basically a reworded, reap what you sew or anything reaping adjacent. I never really understood that until recently. I guess some part of myself thought that the computer would just magically make the necessary revisions. Obviously that isn't going to happen so I'm rather glad that my brain has caught onto that fact. But i have to confess it is difficult when it feels like your inner critic and your partner/friend/thing seem to be best buds and grew up together. His words tend to feed this second sense of self and it keeps me down and wanting to hide away from my work.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Wake Me Up When September Starts
A new month is quickly approaching and is the end of the year and the end of my coincidental age/year correlation. I have been 26 for the vast majority of 2012. If you didn't gather 2 x 6 = 12. Anyway... I have this weird superstition with numbers. I tend to play these little games where I see if I can divide or mulitply something to equal 12. Most of the time it works, oddly enough. But I always see 12 as a sign of good fortune. For example when I was 13 I thought I had appendicitus. I went to the hospital and even spent a night there. But... the number I was handed in the ER was 12. I told my mom then and there that I was fine. Yet that didn't stop her worrying and spending a fortune for me to stay overnight and have nothing happen except the fact that I was poked and prodded for hours by amateurs that were insistent that I have an IV. Ugh... but I digress. My Birthday is november 4th. On that day I promised myself that i would have an agent. I intend to keep that or else I shall parish. This is the year that I make my career and life happen. I must. So with the approach of a new month, and my birthday drawing closer, I have decided to spend every day in the month of September working on one chapter of my book. I will devote the evening, after I get off work, to pouring over it and make certain that it is up to par. I know I can do it. I have found in the past, since the book I intend to finish-finish was done as such, that I work better under 30 day deadlines. I finished this novel during NaNoWrimo. I suppose it only seems fitting that I would finish it in a similar fashion. Instead of meeting a certain number of words per day I will instead work on chapters. Luckily my novel is only 33 chapters and tend to be rather short. So it isn't going to be overwhelming. I think that has been the crux of my problem. I just find the overall task of editing a novel length work of fiction daunting. I become frightened and scurry into the shadows avoiding it at all cost. I think it also doesn't help that I am turning a critical eye on to my art. But if I intend to make a career out of what i love to do (which is making up stories) then I must forge on.I have faith in myself. I know I can do this. I must do this. I will do this.
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