The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 121 "It got me thinking: Am I as big a disappointment to him as he is to me?"
Start time: 9:14 (I'm going to try and finish it, dammit. Or go for my scheduled allotment of time.)
My father was my hero. All my friends always chose superman, batman, the ninja turtles, or some other-worldly thing that I felt could never get close to the master man of my father. I'm sure many kids felt the same way. And probably still do. But when I discovered what my father had done he ceased being my everything.
I was thirteen when I discovered that the scholarship he had received for football was a lie. He had taken steroids almost his entire senior year and the grades he received to even get him near enough to be considered a 4.0 were also faked. He was a sham. He was worse than what I had thought of those fictitious heroes my friends idolized. They may have not been real but at least the writer's, artists, publishers knew what they were and had no lies about it.
After my discovery I distanced myself from my father as far as I could. He had nothing to teach me, unless it was to steal another identity altogether. So in an effort to prove... something, I don't know, I went the exact opposite.
Instead of getting a high GPA I got the lowest. Instead of extra curricular activities I went for toking up in the parking lot with my friends and ditching last period.
After I was expelled for too many missed schools days and no real learning to speak of, my parents then kicked me out of the house. My things were neatly packed in boxes in front of the garage. My father stood over them, smoking a cigarette he held between his lips.
As I collected my stuff he said nothing. I threw every swear and slur I could at him, throwing his failures in his face, but still he remained stoic. I hated that. I hated him.
Now as I live underneath this highway bridge, a couple of junkies shooting up just down the way, it got me thinking: am I as big a disappointment to him as he is to me.
I may not have any book smarts but I wasn't an idiot. Of course he was. What father wouldn't.
End time: 9:32
----------------------------------
When I randomly chose this one, my finger landed between this and one I had done previously. I chose this one to challenge myself but I ran out of steam because there was not real conflict that would inspire a major change. Nor did I give/put the character in a situation that would really warrant it. So, for the rest of my time I'm going back and adding to the prompt about the old man and his lost childhood sweetheart. So check that one out.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Prompt 5 of 31
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 164 "You are not going to believe what I found in his bathroom."
Start time: 4:14
"Tracy!" Sheena screeched as she ran down the hallway awkwardly, with her hands behind her back. "You are not going to believe what I found in his bathroom."
Tracy dropped the couch cushion she was holding and hustled to meet her friend. She pulled up her size too small jeans over her round rump.
Sheena stopped, her eyes wide and a goofy grin, and produced her treasure. She held a multi-colored make-up bag the size of a small purse; and it was loaded.
"Sheen!" she screeched, running in place for a second.
Sheena dropped the bag to the floor and the two followed closely like vultures onto a kill. Tracy went straight for the zipper and opened eagerly. Sheena gripped the bottom and dumped it's contents onto the carpet. Pouring from the jagged mouth was a motley collection of items: lipstick, a dull shade; mascara; eye liner; dental floss picks; an extra large condom; a bottle of lube; a small, unlabeled, brown bottle; and a pink tampon applicator.
The girls stood back and examined the contents.
"Um," Tracy said, scratching her scalp beneath her unkempt hair, "What the hell is this."
Sheena leaned forward and separated the objects into three piles.
"These make sense," Sheena said, pointing to the first that consisted of the lipstick, mascara, eye liner, and dental floss.
"He is a beautiful rock star with a perfect smile."
The two girls sighed simultaneously.
"What about these?" Tracy said, returning to the moment with irritation.
She pointed two fingers at the remaining piles. The middle consisted of the condom and lube and the latter the remaining bits.
"He doesn't have sex, he's waiting until he's married, and we both know he doesn't have a girlfriend. What gives?"
The front door in the adjoining room clicked and swooshed open. Voices were talking to each other.
"Shit!" Sheena shouted. She jumped to her feet and helped her friend. She kicked the items and they scattered across the floor.
"Hide," Sheena screeched as hushed as she could muster, which frankly wasn't very much. The voices in the other room paused.
"What was that?" one asked. "Is that Harry?"
"No Jenai has him."
Sheena ducked behind an arm chair and Tracy hustled behind the armoire that contained the flat screen television.
Start time: 4:14
"Tracy!" Sheena screeched as she ran down the hallway awkwardly, with her hands behind her back. "You are not going to believe what I found in his bathroom."
Tracy dropped the couch cushion she was holding and hustled to meet her friend. She pulled up her size too small jeans over her round rump.
Sheena stopped, her eyes wide and a goofy grin, and produced her treasure. She held a multi-colored make-up bag the size of a small purse; and it was loaded.
"Sheen!" she screeched, running in place for a second.
Sheena dropped the bag to the floor and the two followed closely like vultures onto a kill. Tracy went straight for the zipper and opened eagerly. Sheena gripped the bottom and dumped it's contents onto the carpet. Pouring from the jagged mouth was a motley collection of items: lipstick, a dull shade; mascara; eye liner; dental floss picks; an extra large condom; a bottle of lube; a small, unlabeled, brown bottle; and a pink tampon applicator.
The girls stood back and examined the contents.
"Um," Tracy said, scratching her scalp beneath her unkempt hair, "What the hell is this."
Sheena leaned forward and separated the objects into three piles.
"These make sense," Sheena said, pointing to the first that consisted of the lipstick, mascara, eye liner, and dental floss.
"He is a beautiful rock star with a perfect smile."
The two girls sighed simultaneously.
"What about these?" Tracy said, returning to the moment with irritation.
She pointed two fingers at the remaining piles. The middle consisted of the condom and lube and the latter the remaining bits.
"He doesn't have sex, he's waiting until he's married, and we both know he doesn't have a girlfriend. What gives?"
The front door in the adjoining room clicked and swooshed open. Voices were talking to each other.
"Shit!" Sheena shouted. She jumped to her feet and helped her friend. She kicked the items and they scattered across the floor.
"Hide," Sheena screeched as hushed as she could muster, which frankly wasn't very much. The voices in the other room paused.
"What was that?" one asked. "Is that Harry?"
"No Jenai has him."
Sheena ducked behind an arm chair and Tracy hustled behind the armoire that contained the flat screen television.
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
Prompt 1 of 31
The Writer's Book of Matches pg.99 "What the hell do you know about anything? I mean, seriously, you're just a dog."
Start time: 12:39
"What the hell do you know about anything? I mean, seriously, you're just a dog." said Thomas, disgust dripping from every word. "How is that you feel remotely qualified to give me relationship advice."
Eric sat stunned across the small bar room table. His hand gripped a beer bottle, held at chest level.
"How many girls have you been with," Thomas said.
Eric opened his mouth to begin, shoving his free hand into his pocket.
"This month," Thomas interjected.
Eric stopped and stared.
Thomas knew he had him cornered. He felt a sense of accomplishment wash over him. He pulled his shoulders back and held his head higher.
"Exactly," Thomas said. "So before you feel the need to open your mouth and tell me what I should do with my fiancé, just think that the longest relationship you had was for approximately five hours. And that was because she was a narcoleptic that fell asleep over the course of you sexual interlude."
Eric remained speechless. His expression blank.
Thomas watched his every movement hoping for some sign that he had hit a nerve. He must have. He felt invincible, that is until the beer bottle Eric had been holding came crashing over his head. It knocked him out cold.
When he awoke he was strapped to a gurney in the back of a whaling ambulance. The EMT sat beside him, busily bandaging his head. Next to him was Eric. His eyes wide, biting his lip.
When Eric noticed Thomas was awake he leaned forward.
"I am so sorry," Eric said.
His fingers wrapped around the railing of the bed.
"I don't know what came over me."
"Well a bottle went over his head," the EMT remarked.
Eric's face winced in pain. He released his grip of the bed and dropped his head into his hands.
"God, Tommy," he said hidden in his sweaty palms. "You have to break up with, Tabitha. She's sleeping with another man."
Eric lifted his head and found Thomas staring. His lips pressed into a thin line.
"I didn't want to tell you, I truly didn't."
"How the hell do you even know?"
"Please, gentlemen," the EMT said. He held out his hands between them. "You may want to hold off on this discussion until he's had some time."
"No," Thomas spat, "Tell me, Eric. How do you even know?"
"Because I found her with my sister."
"I didn't see that coming," The EMT said, returning to his work.
End time: 12:56
Start time: 12:39
"What the hell do you know about anything? I mean, seriously, you're just a dog." said Thomas, disgust dripping from every word. "How is that you feel remotely qualified to give me relationship advice."
Eric sat stunned across the small bar room table. His hand gripped a beer bottle, held at chest level.
"How many girls have you been with," Thomas said.
Eric opened his mouth to begin, shoving his free hand into his pocket.
"This month," Thomas interjected.
Eric stopped and stared.
Thomas knew he had him cornered. He felt a sense of accomplishment wash over him. He pulled his shoulders back and held his head higher.
"Exactly," Thomas said. "So before you feel the need to open your mouth and tell me what I should do with my fiancé, just think that the longest relationship you had was for approximately five hours. And that was because she was a narcoleptic that fell asleep over the course of you sexual interlude."
Eric remained speechless. His expression blank.
Thomas watched his every movement hoping for some sign that he had hit a nerve. He must have. He felt invincible, that is until the beer bottle Eric had been holding came crashing over his head. It knocked him out cold.
When he awoke he was strapped to a gurney in the back of a whaling ambulance. The EMT sat beside him, busily bandaging his head. Next to him was Eric. His eyes wide, biting his lip.
When Eric noticed Thomas was awake he leaned forward.
"I am so sorry," Eric said.
His fingers wrapped around the railing of the bed.
"I don't know what came over me."
"Well a bottle went over his head," the EMT remarked.
Eric's face winced in pain. He released his grip of the bed and dropped his head into his hands.
"God, Tommy," he said hidden in his sweaty palms. "You have to break up with, Tabitha. She's sleeping with another man."
Eric lifted his head and found Thomas staring. His lips pressed into a thin line.
"I didn't want to tell you, I truly didn't."
"How the hell do you even know?"
"Please, gentlemen," the EMT said. He held out his hands between them. "You may want to hold off on this discussion until he's had some time."
"No," Thomas spat, "Tell me, Eric. How do you even know?"
"Because I found her with my sister."
"I didn't see that coming," The EMT said, returning to his work.
End time: 12:56
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.
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