The first time I ever saw a real life corpse, I found the whole experience not-very-earth-shattering. I mean it was almost a bit anticlimactic. He just lay there. Sure, there was a small hiss coming from his chest and lips, but nothing beyond that. If I hadn't been told he was dead by the paramedics that arrived later, I probably would have written the whole experience off as a man in a very drunken stupor.
But that wasn't the case.
I had known the man, don't get me wrong and he was the kind of son of a bitch you get a vibe from when you first meet him. He's cute, sure, with short blonde hair and lanky, fit frame. The words roll off his lips like he practiced saying crap from the day he could utter the word "Ma, get me a beer." Our meetings were always impersonal. I just kept away from the dude.
The first time I bumped into him, I, quite literally, bumped into him. I had balanced most of my things from the dorm on top a tray I had found in a garage sale over on Minneasota Avenue. The tray was so strudy, it felt like you could rebound bullets off the fucker. Not that tired. On some nights, when Libby and I were so drunk, we thought about buying a gun and finding out, but we gave up around the time we passed out.
So there I was, climbing the stairs and wasn't watching where I was going. Couldn't. The unironed shirts piled themselves to my chin and I had to raise my head to hold them in place. So I had a great view of the ceiling of the apartment building I was escaping to. I didn't see Jerry.
He didn't swear, he didn't even waste a stink eye on me. He mumbled a clear, "move," and then pushed me into the stairwell's flakey wall.
I had met Jerry. I didn't think anything of it until about two days later.
Libby was working late at the campus cinema and I had begun to indulge in cheap beer a few hours before she was due. I heard the screaming, looked at my beer and then the television.
The screaming was coming from neither of those things.
It was coming from the wall beyond my living room.
I stood, got a dirty glass from the sink and decided to test the theory that you can hear better through a wall with it raised to your ear. By the way, you can.
I met Jerry and Tina that night. They were dancing the night away next door. The screaming? It was Tina REALLY enjoying the night.
Libby joined me in giggling the next night when it all started up again.
I found Jerry in hallway several times. His clothes were clean, his soul? Not-so-much. I just couldn't help thinking this guy was not all he seemed.
I was right a few weeks later.
The love-screaming subsided for many weeks. I was content with my beer and didn't notice until the sounds became something more ominous. I opened to the door to might the neighbor right across the hall this time. Mrs. Pruitt, who exchanges the cross on her door as frequently as I change my underpants, met me face to face. Her eyebrows were not raised as high as mine.
"Jerry and Tina, must be the third time," she shook her head as if to say, 'tutt-tutt-tutt.' "Son, you should have looked elsewhere."
My eyebrows raised even higher.
She called the police while I heard a scream from Tina. This one did not end with sighs or laughter. It did not end, as a matter fact, it just changed pitches.
Mrs. Pruitt's phone call gave me a week of sleepless nights. I think Tina left or Jerry, for I saw neither. But when I bumped into Jerry again a week and half later, it took only a few hours before the screaming began again. Mrs. Pruitt was gone for the reason, so I had to make the call.
You'd think that I'd sleep better. I didn't I was too afraid that Jerry would figure me out and I'd start screaming as he began to beat me.
I met Tina in the laundry room and decided that enough was enough. I didn't want to confront her, but I wanted her to know she wasn't alone. Sure, oh sure, she nodded a lot in that conversation--but she never did say anything worthwhile.
Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Now, you gotta understand, I'm a chemistry major. Not because I wanted to be one. It's just that I had that down. I flunked everything in high school. Yep, even physical education. Couldn't do anything but type, surf the 'net and remake copper from aluminum with 5% loss of composite decay. My paper is due next month. But most of it is written, so I'm not that concerned.
So I left a peace offering one night for Jerry and Tina. The beer was the kind I always drank. The cheap crap you snag from over at Econofoods for less then a buck a can. Sure enough, the next morning, the box and cans were gone. A few days later, they made an appearance in the rubblish bin. No questions were ever asked.
So I left another two weeks later. Now understand, I didn't get to see Tina at all during this time. I didn't want to alienate her at all. Not at all. But I'm sure she ran. Ran as far away as she could from the bastard. I don't blame her. I hope I was the one who encouraged her. But without a target, my fears grew of the schmuck who lived next door to me. I was afraid that Jerry would figure that one out--that Mrs. Pruitt and I were the co-conspirators and the lifeline to the police.
Those cans were snatched up. Not a single fucking thank you.
Not that it mattered. Free beer tends to make men forget to check things.
I had laced each can with my own concoction. The recipe is complicated, a mix of alloys in minute amounts. The substance is a bit waxy, but if applied by a Q-tip, you don't notice it--especially if you are in a hurry...for free beer.
I didn't call the police this time. I just waited to Mrs. Pruitt couldn't stand the smell any more.
And when they wheeled that body out in front of me, that was the first time I saw a corpse.
But like I said, the whole event was pretty uneventful.
Today's entry is about a tale written in first person by someone who was a meddler.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
The 3 A.M. Epiphany, Exercise Nine
It is here, Brother Montrose realized, having been absorbed by his thrice reading of the Timothy gospel. He had picked up the book and decided these passages would calm him the most while the ship pulled up to the dock. He looked to the men on the ship and turned to the fortress' portal.
The portcullis had been brought from Macao and was not original. If had be built for this particular environment, it would not have stuck out at the lip of the brick and tile building. The arch doubled up near the trellis, giving the illusion of a maw readying a decent bite of food.
The gangplank of the small boat was no more inviting.
On the upper potion, waiting for him, were two samurai in full regalia. Father Hernandez had warned him that the men would be dressed to such an extent, but the Father's words did no justice to the showmanship. The reds and yellows of the Shogun's house and colors draped the ship and these two men sent to great him. Brother Montrose requested to greet the boat solo, telling the other servants and men to stand back-wishing to appear every bit the servant to the Lord and make a nonthreatening presence to the people of Nagaski.
A small interpreter stepped out behind the samurai on the left, as if memorizing the floorboards. His eyes were up, Montrose noticed, but he dare not look at the intimidating presences that flanked him. Brother Montrose found his connection and looked at the handsome youth.
Montrose noticed the other sailors, dressed in nothing but brown rags that clashed with the angry red that circled the ship. Servants. These were the people who should minster too, these are the ones who needed the Lord's prayers for hope.
One of the sailors treated himself a glance at the young friar. The navy man sneered and covered his face.
The Portuegues man sniffed himself. He had tried to adapt to the locals cuisine, something he had learned about working with the converts of the Middle East. Smells are strong; so he stopped eating meat a week and a half ago.
The sailor's expression showed that his body's aroma had not left. He sighed and readied his overnight pack, making sure his Bible found itself on top. He waited for his invite, standing as tall as possible.
The two samurai were expressionless behind their gentaos. The fangs were meant to intimidate, but Montrose realized they were just posturing. It was mean to impress.
And Montrose was impressed. The arms of the men were bold, built and pressing against their armor. Their swords were at the ready, but unwarranted. They both took deep breaths, fighting to keep balance against the rising tide on the fortress' docks.
Montrose realized that the two knights knew not what to do. Years of protocol had not spelled out the exact etiquette for meeting the emissary and diplomat of the Vatican's Pope.
Both masks turned to their beautiful interpreter.
And they screamed.
Montrose lost face, but he had not known yet. He dropped his bag and it landed firmly on his right sandaled foot. He struggled to pick it up.
They continued to bark orders, the same words in differing cadences, at the underling. The laison bowed to the floor and Montrose's face broke a slight smile at the awkwardness of it all.
The samurai noticed and stopped talking at the top of the gangplank and their eyes narrowed to slits in their eye holes of their masks.
Montrose swallowed hard.
Both men reached for their swords and started down the bridge to the dock. Brother Montrose did not move, he was not sure if escape was possible.
The small interpreter was between the advancing samurai and himself and was chattering about something, quickly to the men. They stopped a fourth of the way down.
The young man bowed deeply and turned to Brother Montrose.
He bowed again and Montrose was impressed at the young man even moreso up close. His clothes were tailored, unlike the others on the small boat, and he had his hair clicked back with oils. He was a servant of some power, probably because he spoke Portuguese.
"Brother Montrose. Welcome to Nagasaki, summer palace of the Shogun. We are honored by presence as a representative of the Christian Pope. The Shogun has full colors to escort you to the palace."
"Thank you!" He stepped onto the plank, his legs already water-wary from weeks upon the sea, and approached the interpreter. "I look forward to the meeting! It's Catholic, by the way, the Mother Church, my young man, Catholic."
THe intperper kept his head down but his head lifted as his eyes went wild.
The two samurai, again, imagining a slight, clicked their weapons slightly forward.
The interpret spoke with his eyes.
"But, your Portugese is flawless, I cannot thank you enough to have such a worthy interpreter," the young man bowed deeper at the complement.
The men returned their swords. But they did not relax. They turned in military precision and headed back onto the swaying bardge.
When Montrose finally got on the boat, he heard a whisper from the interpreter.
"Bow"
He did.
The two samurai looked at each other and returned the gesture.
"Lower, for your sake." The whisper continued.
He did.
The samurai looked at each other again and shouted something much calmer to the interpreter.
He looked relieved.
Brother Montrose was too.
Write historical fiction...without doing research.
The portcullis had been brought from Macao and was not original. If had be built for this particular environment, it would not have stuck out at the lip of the brick and tile building. The arch doubled up near the trellis, giving the illusion of a maw readying a decent bite of food.
The gangplank of the small boat was no more inviting.
On the upper potion, waiting for him, were two samurai in full regalia. Father Hernandez had warned him that the men would be dressed to such an extent, but the Father's words did no justice to the showmanship. The reds and yellows of the Shogun's house and colors draped the ship and these two men sent to great him. Brother Montrose requested to greet the boat solo, telling the other servants and men to stand back-wishing to appear every bit the servant to the Lord and make a nonthreatening presence to the people of Nagaski.
A small interpreter stepped out behind the samurai on the left, as if memorizing the floorboards. His eyes were up, Montrose noticed, but he dare not look at the intimidating presences that flanked him. Brother Montrose found his connection and looked at the handsome youth.
Montrose noticed the other sailors, dressed in nothing but brown rags that clashed with the angry red that circled the ship. Servants. These were the people who should minster too, these are the ones who needed the Lord's prayers for hope.
One of the sailors treated himself a glance at the young friar. The navy man sneered and covered his face.
The Portuegues man sniffed himself. He had tried to adapt to the locals cuisine, something he had learned about working with the converts of the Middle East. Smells are strong; so he stopped eating meat a week and a half ago.
The sailor's expression showed that his body's aroma had not left. He sighed and readied his overnight pack, making sure his Bible found itself on top. He waited for his invite, standing as tall as possible.
The two samurai were expressionless behind their gentaos. The fangs were meant to intimidate, but Montrose realized they were just posturing. It was mean to impress.
And Montrose was impressed. The arms of the men were bold, built and pressing against their armor. Their swords were at the ready, but unwarranted. They both took deep breaths, fighting to keep balance against the rising tide on the fortress' docks.
Montrose realized that the two knights knew not what to do. Years of protocol had not spelled out the exact etiquette for meeting the emissary and diplomat of the Vatican's Pope.
Both masks turned to their beautiful interpreter.
And they screamed.
Montrose lost face, but he had not known yet. He dropped his bag and it landed firmly on his right sandaled foot. He struggled to pick it up.
They continued to bark orders, the same words in differing cadences, at the underling. The laison bowed to the floor and Montrose's face broke a slight smile at the awkwardness of it all.
The samurai noticed and stopped talking at the top of the gangplank and their eyes narrowed to slits in their eye holes of their masks.
Montrose swallowed hard.
Both men reached for their swords and started down the bridge to the dock. Brother Montrose did not move, he was not sure if escape was possible.
The small interpreter was between the advancing samurai and himself and was chattering about something, quickly to the men. They stopped a fourth of the way down.
The young man bowed deeply and turned to Brother Montrose.
He bowed again and Montrose was impressed at the young man even moreso up close. His clothes were tailored, unlike the others on the small boat, and he had his hair clicked back with oils. He was a servant of some power, probably because he spoke Portuguese.
"Brother Montrose. Welcome to Nagasaki, summer palace of the Shogun. We are honored by presence as a representative of the Christian Pope. The Shogun has full colors to escort you to the palace."
"Thank you!" He stepped onto the plank, his legs already water-wary from weeks upon the sea, and approached the interpreter. "I look forward to the meeting! It's Catholic, by the way, the Mother Church, my young man, Catholic."
THe intperper kept his head down but his head lifted as his eyes went wild.
The two samurai, again, imagining a slight, clicked their weapons slightly forward.
The interpret spoke with his eyes.
"But, your Portugese is flawless, I cannot thank you enough to have such a worthy interpreter," the young man bowed deeper at the complement.
The men returned their swords. But they did not relax. They turned in military precision and headed back onto the swaying bardge.
When Montrose finally got on the boat, he heard a whisper from the interpreter.
"Bow"
He did.
The two samurai looked at each other and returned the gesture.
"Lower, for your sake." The whisper continued.
He did.
The samurai looked at each other again and shouted something much calmer to the interpreter.
He looked relieved.
Brother Montrose was too.
Write historical fiction...without doing research.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Television List
Okay, okay, remember when I used to this with my best friend and his blog? It must be a few years ago--when I first started publishing online back in 2004. Well, we used our own personal 'top tens' for books and movies. Television was never tackled.
There's a reason for that.
I hate television.
And, for some reason, I love writing about things I hate, right?
Not always. I didn't think that addressing my 'favorite' television shows would make sense. But my best friend persisted and I relented. So, yeah, I hate television. I see no possible reason to sit, passively infront of a box. Really. I'm terrible at relaxing, if you've not ever figured that one out. For me, if I'm going to sit down and do nothing, well, I better just go to sleep. Look at my vacations. I never go to Hawaii or Mexico, where the choices are limited to the beach and the beach---and nothing there by tanning. I go to the Disney parks, chock full of activity after activity.
I like to think that it was borne of my first marriage. Whenever I would collapse on the couch after a rough day of teaching, I was greeted with "you're a lazy shit...I'm surprised you're not fatter!" I would look around as if I were dreaming and then run to the gym. Or the laundry. Or the dishes. Even today, supposedly the day of rest, I've graded several gazillion papers, typed 12 pages of lesson plans, got my hair cut, cleaned the kitchen, made lunches for the week, edited one of my stories, journaled...and...and...and..
See? Television interrupts that. What's worse? Commercials. I love the 'last' button on my remote. I switch back and forth during commercials watching two program simultaneously. Drives my Beloved nutso. Poor guy.
I kinda see it like sitting infront of a slot machine. You put money in and pull a lever. Then nothing happens.
So, yeah, I hate gambling too.
But, as we know, the world is not absolute as we like to think. I DO, on occasion, watch television. Heck, there's one here in my little writing office that I occasionally indulge in when I'm writing my letters and cards to family and friends. But, exactly, really draws me in to watching?
I have to be honest, only one show do I actually watch religiously in some form or another. A majority of the time, I merely surf and find whatever movie I can. Most likely a movie that I've seen before and already own a DVD of.
One thing that does need to be mentioned is that there is a channel that I do tend to float towards. LOGO has greatly changed my viewing habits in astonishing ways. For the first time ever, I watch commericals on that channel. I mean, gay and lesbian programming? WOW. Who sponsors that!
Okay on with the actual countdown. Unlike my best friend, I'm not going to merely list titles. I'll try to add stuff whenever possible.
5. NEWS...this is the only show I watch religiously, as mentioned. I'm addicted to news. My addiction started in college, when CNN changed the world by fully broadcasting the nation at war. For me, I was hooked--I was taking a broadcasting class at the time and was the acting anchor for the KVUU show on campus. I wasn't a reporter, per se, but did have to review news items and I really got into it. I watch any news over fiction--20/20 if it's interesting; CBS news on LOGO if it's a new episode. I'm usually up at the crack of bleedin' dawn and find the morning news on ABC. Heck, it's a Disney affiliate and the graphics are good. And then I'll slide over to CNN for Robin during the commercials or sports (tho her sports reporter, Rafer and weatherman Van Dillen are pinups in their own rights!). So news is going to be on this list. What is interesting, however, is that I'm also highly critical of the news--if I see a report on the nightly news of Paris or Britney, I know it's a slow news day and get mad...leave that to Entertainment Tonight, folks. And, btw, I'd watch more Entertainment Tonight if they didnt' spend 50% of their show broadcasting "coming up next" or "tomorrow on ET..." Um stick to the news folks.
4. Ghosthunters...my hatred of television is magically doubled when it comes to reality television. When I was in a Seattle hotel back in 2002, I figured I'd order a pizza and do what everyone supposedly does in a hotel room---no, not watch porn, but watch actual television. I'd not turned it on that week I was there for a workshop until Thursday night, choosing to get my news from the radio in my computer. But, sure enough, I watched "Big Brother" and started to wretch and the stupidiy of humanity and that producers felt THESE people were some how worthwhile observing.
Well, they were goodlooking.
So reality television died a little in my book while watching this "Survivor for Dummies" television show...until Ghosthunters. I read about it online (where I tend to be more then the television) and thought, well, I wanna see that. Was the premise? No. Was it the cute stars? No.
It was incentive to write more scary stories. I used their banter, their observations, their drawls in writing the occasional scary story. But as I analyized and analyzed more and more, I found that this show was something more watchable then I thought. And so it ended up as something I do watch.
3. X-Files...This was a show that drew me in. Just like Ghosthunters, it gave me ideas and concepts to filter through my own mediums. But the titles kept me thinking and mulling more then the writing could support. Stuck in the midst of an awful first marriage, this was my solace--he'd go and get drunk at his little buddies' houses and I'd lock myself in with my step-mutt and we'd treat ourselves to a candlelit X-Files episode.
2. Medical shows...Surprisingly, cop shows rarely cut it for me, even tho I usually use police offiiers and procedures in my authorship. But it's medicine shows that bring back positive memories. I remember racing home from my ASL 4 class to catch St. Elsewhere and taking Thursday nights to succumb to ER. I don't watch it any more...I have a family now, but I did catch a viewing this past week as I was making dinner. And I stumbled across the fact that it is still very high tension--what I think draws me in. I occasionally have the television on when I'm cooking dinner and I also kinda watched Gray's Anatomy and felt the same thing. It's tension is taut and the friction is palapble. That draws me in and will keep me there.
1. Sitcoms
There's a reason for that.
I hate television.
And, for some reason, I love writing about things I hate, right?
Not always. I didn't think that addressing my 'favorite' television shows would make sense. But my best friend persisted and I relented. So, yeah, I hate television. I see no possible reason to sit, passively infront of a box. Really. I'm terrible at relaxing, if you've not ever figured that one out. For me, if I'm going to sit down and do nothing, well, I better just go to sleep. Look at my vacations. I never go to Hawaii or Mexico, where the choices are limited to the beach and the beach---and nothing there by tanning. I go to the Disney parks, chock full of activity after activity.
I like to think that it was borne of my first marriage. Whenever I would collapse on the couch after a rough day of teaching, I was greeted with "you're a lazy shit...I'm surprised you're not fatter!" I would look around as if I were dreaming and then run to the gym. Or the laundry. Or the dishes. Even today, supposedly the day of rest, I've graded several gazillion papers, typed 12 pages of lesson plans, got my hair cut, cleaned the kitchen, made lunches for the week, edited one of my stories, journaled...and...and...and..
See? Television interrupts that. What's worse? Commercials. I love the 'last' button on my remote. I switch back and forth during commercials watching two program simultaneously. Drives my Beloved nutso. Poor guy.
I kinda see it like sitting infront of a slot machine. You put money in and pull a lever. Then nothing happens.
So, yeah, I hate gambling too.
But, as we know, the world is not absolute as we like to think. I DO, on occasion, watch television. Heck, there's one here in my little writing office that I occasionally indulge in when I'm writing my letters and cards to family and friends. But, exactly, really draws me in to watching?
I have to be honest, only one show do I actually watch religiously in some form or another. A majority of the time, I merely surf and find whatever movie I can. Most likely a movie that I've seen before and already own a DVD of.
One thing that does need to be mentioned is that there is a channel that I do tend to float towards. LOGO has greatly changed my viewing habits in astonishing ways. For the first time ever, I watch commericals on that channel. I mean, gay and lesbian programming? WOW. Who sponsors that!
Okay on with the actual countdown. Unlike my best friend, I'm not going to merely list titles. I'll try to add stuff whenever possible.
5. NEWS...this is the only show I watch religiously, as mentioned. I'm addicted to news. My addiction started in college, when CNN changed the world by fully broadcasting the nation at war. For me, I was hooked--I was taking a broadcasting class at the time and was the acting anchor for the KVUU show on campus. I wasn't a reporter, per se, but did have to review news items and I really got into it. I watch any news over fiction--20/20 if it's interesting; CBS news on LOGO if it's a new episode. I'm usually up at the crack of bleedin' dawn and find the morning news on ABC. Heck, it's a Disney affiliate and the graphics are good. And then I'll slide over to CNN for Robin during the commercials or sports (tho her sports reporter, Rafer and weatherman Van Dillen are pinups in their own rights!). So news is going to be on this list. What is interesting, however, is that I'm also highly critical of the news--if I see a report on the nightly news of Paris or Britney, I know it's a slow news day and get mad...leave that to Entertainment Tonight, folks. And, btw, I'd watch more Entertainment Tonight if they didnt' spend 50% of their show broadcasting "coming up next" or "tomorrow on ET..." Um stick to the news folks.
4. Ghosthunters...my hatred of television is magically doubled when it comes to reality television. When I was in a Seattle hotel back in 2002, I figured I'd order a pizza and do what everyone supposedly does in a hotel room---no, not watch porn, but watch actual television. I'd not turned it on that week I was there for a workshop until Thursday night, choosing to get my news from the radio in my computer. But, sure enough, I watched "Big Brother" and started to wretch and the stupidiy of humanity and that producers felt THESE people were some how worthwhile observing.
Well, they were goodlooking.
So reality television died a little in my book while watching this "Survivor for Dummies" television show...until Ghosthunters. I read about it online (where I tend to be more then the television) and thought, well, I wanna see that. Was the premise? No. Was it the cute stars? No.
It was incentive to write more scary stories. I used their banter, their observations, their drawls in writing the occasional scary story. But as I analyized and analyzed more and more, I found that this show was something more watchable then I thought. And so it ended up as something I do watch.
3. X-Files...This was a show that drew me in. Just like Ghosthunters, it gave me ideas and concepts to filter through my own mediums. But the titles kept me thinking and mulling more then the writing could support. Stuck in the midst of an awful first marriage, this was my solace--he'd go and get drunk at his little buddies' houses and I'd lock myself in with my step-mutt and we'd treat ourselves to a candlelit X-Files episode.
2. Medical shows...Surprisingly, cop shows rarely cut it for me, even tho I usually use police offiiers and procedures in my authorship. But it's medicine shows that bring back positive memories. I remember racing home from my ASL 4 class to catch St. Elsewhere and taking Thursday nights to succumb to ER. I don't watch it any more...I have a family now, but I did catch a viewing this past week as I was making dinner. And I stumbled across the fact that it is still very high tension--what I think draws me in. I occasionally have the television on when I'm cooking dinner and I also kinda watched Gray's Anatomy and felt the same thing. It's tension is taut and the friction is palapble. That draws me in and will keep me there.
1. Sitcoms
*pause*
Okay, see, my best friend doubles as a dork. He's like, acting all mad that I didn't pick SHOWS as opposed to just listing genres as I've been doing. He, apparently, thinks that there's a difference between news-programs; that, somehow, a sitcom has enough strength that one can pick between them.
Aw poop. I've never seen it that way. Television is a fattening mess, second only to Washington stupidity.
However, he is my friend. And when he says things, they tend to carry more weight. So, with the guilt I feel, I'm going to pull a small list out of my ass. I'll go ahead and number them in order, and see if that gives him the feeling of superiority he's craving by making me stay to task, the poopiestupidearface.
And yeah, he's right, I know it. And he must like television. He'd rather cancel something like exercise then miss some aborant crap liek Amercian Idol.
So, here are my number one sitcoms.
MASH
Taxi
Designing Women
Frazier
Will and Grace
One thing I do notice about this list. All are ensemble pieces. Each show has several players and, with that, mulitple storylines. Each show carries, also, some weight--in that they mention social issues or criticism for the world. I need that and carve it.
I hope that makes sense!
Peace out.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
The 3 A.M. Epiphany writing exercise, number 8
I don't know what caused me to wake up this time. The shock I experienced, however, was the fact that sleep had found me and that rest was somewhat worthwhile. Time had not been kind in the sleep department. A rough estimate would be that the last time I enjoyed a night's rest was at least five years ago. Marie would have been in my fiend of vision.
A dog barked across the side alley in some oddball pattern that vaugle sounded like a record skipping.
As my ears focused to the now present waking world, a hard rapping was inviting me to the front door. A low murmur, most likely the culprit of the knocking, silenced the noise of the knocks.
I knew a phone call was next.
In other words, I had to rise. The vanity mirror in the corner caught the hall lamp and did it's best to insult me. I suppose the hair on my face, now truly white, was there yesterday, but since I make it a point to not look at mirrors these days--the question was lost. I used the reflection to hunt for my slippers. The corner where she had left them all those years ago was bare. Barren all this time.
The phone rang. It was supposed to.
"I'm up, I'm up." I hated yelling. I did not have the energy yet to support it anyways.
Last night, I wondered if I'd ever have company again. I didn't think it would be in the middle of the night.
"I'm up, I'm up, up, up, up...."
When a house is empty, the sounds resonate. My slippers, now found and discarded made their own call as we padded to the end of the hall to the front door.
Even the light switch to the front hall decided to make an echo. The clock blurted the honest time...3:12am. The knocking started back up, probably notified by the now present light.
My gut communicated that trouble had come to find me this night and that wishing for company had very little to do with it.
I gave myself the benefit of the peephole.
It was a beat cop. My job as county coroner never ended.
Rewrite part of an old story you have worked on from third person to first person. When you are reworking, count the number of 'he's or she's and then reduce that number by half in the newest creation. Then, let that sit for a while and see if it helps the piece or not.
A dog barked across the side alley in some oddball pattern that vaugle sounded like a record skipping.
As my ears focused to the now present waking world, a hard rapping was inviting me to the front door. A low murmur, most likely the culprit of the knocking, silenced the noise of the knocks.
I knew a phone call was next.
In other words, I had to rise. The vanity mirror in the corner caught the hall lamp and did it's best to insult me. I suppose the hair on my face, now truly white, was there yesterday, but since I make it a point to not look at mirrors these days--the question was lost. I used the reflection to hunt for my slippers. The corner where she had left them all those years ago was bare. Barren all this time.
The phone rang. It was supposed to.
"I'm up, I'm up." I hated yelling. I did not have the energy yet to support it anyways.
Last night, I wondered if I'd ever have company again. I didn't think it would be in the middle of the night.
"I'm up, I'm up, up, up, up...."
When a house is empty, the sounds resonate. My slippers, now found and discarded made their own call as we padded to the end of the hall to the front door.
Even the light switch to the front hall decided to make an echo. The clock blurted the honest time...3:12am. The knocking started back up, probably notified by the now present light.
My gut communicated that trouble had come to find me this night and that wishing for company had very little to do with it.
I gave myself the benefit of the peephole.
It was a beat cop. My job as county coroner never ended.
Rewrite part of an old story you have worked on from third person to first person. When you are reworking, count the number of 'he's or she's and then reduce that number by half in the newest creation. Then, let that sit for a while and see if it helps the piece or not.
IF
If you could confess to any crime, what would you confess to and why? That's an easy one. Or I'm thinking it's easy. I cannot, for the life of me, think of a single crime. I've never knowingly stolen anything outright. Sure, I might avhe taken a few hearts or the occasional cookie or two. But all I can think of is lying as a child. Being a theatre kid borne and bred, my tendency to embellish has outlived it's usefulness. I quit lying many moons ago, to the point that I've gone the other direction. I tend to be blunt and profane due to it. I also, upon my marriage, swore to be honest at every turn. I made a promise in a House of God. I shall not turn against that like so many other of God's followers.
If you could work for one person for the rest of your life, who would it be? Okay, okay, okay, I'm going to cheat here. I want to merely answer "myself" as an author. But that's not to be. So may I use an 'audience?' I'm really thinking of this from the prospect of a full-fledged author. Someone who writes to clear their minds, to bare their souls and to express creativity. I suppose that isn't truly being my own boss. I'd be at the whims of my publishers and editors, but I cannot help thinking how I'd love to sit at my desk the whole day and just create, create and create. Then I'd walk the dog. Then I'd vacuum and set up the slow-cooker. Then I'd get back to writing and editing. What would motivate that? If I publish successfully. Then, as the book moves forward, I'd have that cash to kill other meadering concerns.
IF...Today's first challenge is write something to PRESENT to today's coffeehouse. My best friend is here and, since he NEVER writes...the idea is that we'll both write about an 'IF" statement and the present to the group. Since I have my laptop on the ready, I'll go ahead and do mine directly to my blog. Remember, this is unedited and written as a train of thought.
If you could work for one person for the rest of your life, who would it be? Okay, okay, okay, I'm going to cheat here. I want to merely answer "myself" as an author. But that's not to be. So may I use an 'audience?' I'm really thinking of this from the prospect of a full-fledged author. Someone who writes to clear their minds, to bare their souls and to express creativity. I suppose that isn't truly being my own boss. I'd be at the whims of my publishers and editors, but I cannot help thinking how I'd love to sit at my desk the whole day and just create, create and create. Then I'd walk the dog. Then I'd vacuum and set up the slow-cooker. Then I'd get back to writing and editing. What would motivate that? If I publish successfully. Then, as the book moves forward, I'd have that cash to kill other meadering concerns.
IF...Today's first challenge is write something to PRESENT to today's coffeehouse. My best friend is here and, since he NEVER writes...the idea is that we'll both write about an 'IF" statement and the present to the group. Since I have my laptop on the ready, I'll go ahead and do mine directly to my blog. Remember, this is unedited and written as a train of thought.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
3 AM Epiphany, Exercise 7
Harold could not understand how people could eat like his family did. In his few years, he just sat back and watched in amazement how they could pack it all away. Appetizers were the biggest anomaly of all. Everyone indulged in the huge bowls of dips knowing full-well that a lasgana the size of a football field was in the oven--having been placed there by his type-A aunt long before they left to the wake.
The only difference, he noticed was the expressions on everyone's faces. Instead of raising their wine glasses high and repeating phrases like, "to die for" over and over again, they drank somber coffee and kept thinking before taking another cracker of food. It made the room dour like he never could remember.
Uncle Teddy had always been rail-thin. The family looked upon him, jokinly, as if he were the child of an errant mailman. They smirked as he tried to put down food like the rest of them, but as the family got older and rounder, he maintained the waistline of his teenage years, even though he professed a love for the family's pastas and breads. Today, he seemed to lean a bit closer to the dip then ever before. Perhaps, with his father's passing, God had granted him permission to gain weight as well as a smidgen of happiness.
The silence drove Harold bonkers and he paced before the windows of his Aunt's home. He could not understand the noises he grew up with had finally been silence. There was always a child crying some where in his Aunt's house; someone was talking about something, or yelling more like it, over the radio--which blared classical tunes. The phone would ring constantly with this person or that, wishing happy-this-holiday-or-that.
Today, the house reveresed direction. Harold felt it. He had always hate the concept of his heart being pained. It was his mind, his rational being insisted. Your heart never really hurt, per se, he pleaded.
Until today. The ache became too much. He decided to make a noise for himself. He could not have staged it better. A pile of toys, long abandoned by the now-adult children of the family, lay in a pile in a box. Another round of cleaning out Grandpa's home coming to a close. He looked at the box and pulled out a cylinder.
"You remember this?"
The sudden sound caused everyone's head to rise and look at him by the fireplace. His smirk molded to a full smile.
"Tinkertoys," Harold reminded the room, "tinkertoys! I mean, when was the last time these were made? I used to play with them all the time! Windmills, cars. We used to hang tracks over them and use them as bridges for the Matchbox cars." He began to dig further into the box to see if the cars had been retrived.
He kept his smile.
"The cardboard is finally rotting," Uncle Teddy identified.
"Huh?" Harold stopped his search and tried to find the meaning of the sentence. He looked to the bottom of the box to see if the statement was true.
"No, of the cylinder. The cylinder's bottom is rotted. Look," Teddy pointed to Harold's prop. Harold was clutching it to his chest. He removed it and looked down. Sure enough, the items that brought such happiness had left white and tan flakes on his tie and shirt. He brushed them away.
"Not totally. Besides, these must be worth something on ebay, ya know? Look at this," he looked down the cylinder and smiled broader, forgetting their purpose for the gathering and enjoying the memories the toy brought forth.
"No, no, it's rotted and no good. It's probably going to pop," Uncle Teddy rose and put down his napkin from the snacks. He removed it from Harold's grasp and put it back in the box. "No Harold, look at this stuff. No need for it now. You're grown. Your cousins are grown. Best to just get rid of this stuff. Your grandfather didn't want it."
"Then why'd he keep it for so long? There were no kids to entertain," Harold identified. He watched Uncle Teddy put the toy back into the main box. He elected not to bother his Uncle. Such a useless argument just showed how well he was not handling his own father's death. "I'll take it home. It's no big deal. You don't have to worry about it."
"I'm not worried, but you could be infected. These things are probably crawling with disease. Rot from being hoarded for so long. Dad never threw away anything, not a thing. Just his family. I mean, why would he keep this crap? In case YOU had kids? Great-Grandkids? Doubtful."
"Oh, okay, um, okay," Harold's smile gave away his inner thoughts. The expression on his face turned to a furrow.
Uncle Teddy shook his head. "Sorry, your grandfather left a lot more baggage then this, taht's for sure."
"Apparently."
Uncle Teddy leaned over and pet Harold's scalp, moving the small amount gray hairs forward for an instant.
Harold sneered.
"I just figured," Uncle Teddy identified, "I just figured he'd have cleaned up a bit more before his passing."
"I think, in a way, we all thought he might."
This is, for the first time in these writings, one that hits close to my heart and I utilized real life experience to create. Again, this is writing about a fictional family where the POV keeps shifting between different people looking at the same event. I've been rereading some of these posts as of late, folks, and I do apologize for the poor English grammar. You were warned these were unedited!
The only difference, he noticed was the expressions on everyone's faces. Instead of raising their wine glasses high and repeating phrases like, "to die for" over and over again, they drank somber coffee and kept thinking before taking another cracker of food. It made the room dour like he never could remember.
Uncle Teddy had always been rail-thin. The family looked upon him, jokinly, as if he were the child of an errant mailman. They smirked as he tried to put down food like the rest of them, but as the family got older and rounder, he maintained the waistline of his teenage years, even though he professed a love for the family's pastas and breads. Today, he seemed to lean a bit closer to the dip then ever before. Perhaps, with his father's passing, God had granted him permission to gain weight as well as a smidgen of happiness.
The silence drove Harold bonkers and he paced before the windows of his Aunt's home. He could not understand the noises he grew up with had finally been silence. There was always a child crying some where in his Aunt's house; someone was talking about something, or yelling more like it, over the radio--which blared classical tunes. The phone would ring constantly with this person or that, wishing happy-this-holiday-or-that.
Today, the house reveresed direction. Harold felt it. He had always hate the concept of his heart being pained. It was his mind, his rational being insisted. Your heart never really hurt, per se, he pleaded.
Until today. The ache became too much. He decided to make a noise for himself. He could not have staged it better. A pile of toys, long abandoned by the now-adult children of the family, lay in a pile in a box. Another round of cleaning out Grandpa's home coming to a close. He looked at the box and pulled out a cylinder.
"You remember this?"
The sudden sound caused everyone's head to rise and look at him by the fireplace. His smirk molded to a full smile.
"Tinkertoys," Harold reminded the room, "tinkertoys! I mean, when was the last time these were made? I used to play with them all the time! Windmills, cars. We used to hang tracks over them and use them as bridges for the Matchbox cars." He began to dig further into the box to see if the cars had been retrived.
He kept his smile.
"The cardboard is finally rotting," Uncle Teddy identified.
"Huh?" Harold stopped his search and tried to find the meaning of the sentence. He looked to the bottom of the box to see if the statement was true.
"No, of the cylinder. The cylinder's bottom is rotted. Look," Teddy pointed to Harold's prop. Harold was clutching it to his chest. He removed it and looked down. Sure enough, the items that brought such happiness had left white and tan flakes on his tie and shirt. He brushed them away.
"Not totally. Besides, these must be worth something on ebay, ya know? Look at this," he looked down the cylinder and smiled broader, forgetting their purpose for the gathering and enjoying the memories the toy brought forth.
"No, no, it's rotted and no good. It's probably going to pop," Uncle Teddy rose and put down his napkin from the snacks. He removed it from Harold's grasp and put it back in the box. "No Harold, look at this stuff. No need for it now. You're grown. Your cousins are grown. Best to just get rid of this stuff. Your grandfather didn't want it."
"Then why'd he keep it for so long? There were no kids to entertain," Harold identified. He watched Uncle Teddy put the toy back into the main box. He elected not to bother his Uncle. Such a useless argument just showed how well he was not handling his own father's death. "I'll take it home. It's no big deal. You don't have to worry about it."
"I'm not worried, but you could be infected. These things are probably crawling with disease. Rot from being hoarded for so long. Dad never threw away anything, not a thing. Just his family. I mean, why would he keep this crap? In case YOU had kids? Great-Grandkids? Doubtful."
"Oh, okay, um, okay," Harold's smile gave away his inner thoughts. The expression on his face turned to a furrow.
Uncle Teddy shook his head. "Sorry, your grandfather left a lot more baggage then this, taht's for sure."
"Apparently."
Uncle Teddy leaned over and pet Harold's scalp, moving the small amount gray hairs forward for an instant.
Harold sneered.
"I just figured," Uncle Teddy identified, "I just figured he'd have cleaned up a bit more before his passing."
"I think, in a way, we all thought he might."
This is, for the first time in these writings, one that hits close to my heart and I utilized real life experience to create. Again, this is writing about a fictional family where the POV keeps shifting between different people looking at the same event. I've been rereading some of these posts as of late, folks, and I do apologize for the poor English grammar. You were warned these were unedited!
Sunday, March 16, 2008
3 AM Epiphany, Exercise SIx, I believe
We entered the room with our collective breath held shut. We knew that violence had wrecked the place, but we did not expect that to still hold or be visible. Still, one hopes there's a smidgen of creepiness floating about the room. Some errand blood stain that escaped the clutches of the police investigators; some lock of hair, scraped onto a single nail on the far wall, that still held.
There was nothing. That did not mean we were disappointed. Anna entered and moved to the right, watching for image to form in her head. She remembered the details from the articles and books, we reviewed them together before heading to this haunted location.
We wanted so desparately that ghosts still existed in these walls. Of course, there was nothing we could do to bring them about; nothing to encourage them to make the walls bleed in cinematic fury. We would have to supplant the history of the house with our own imagination. And as we all know, imagination can be far worse then reality.
We creaked the floor with every step, even when having to walk on the throw rug. The room itself was something out of picture book--every bit of furtiture was in the same postion as the books mentioned. Nothing had been touched. Dust was removed. The hooks of French curls held up every arm on the couch and chairs, clawed feet supported the coffee table. Dark brown held the light lower then it should have been. The only thing missing were the shadows of twilight. And considering it was merely post-lunch, they wouldn't be coming soon.
We both circled to the bay window behind the high backed couch. There, the rug halted, the back of the divan creating a small wall. The street was empty, surprising for this rush hour. The floo's bare wood lay before us.
This was weird the corpse had lay.
"This is so cool," Anna smirked.
"Agreed. All we need is it to be Halloween and we'd be good to go for a few scary stories!"
The clock on the mantle chimed and we both jumped. Haunted houses were great fun. Even with doing nothing, we had packed a few minutes with terrific energy. We didn't want to move.
Anna's stomach growled.
"Don't you ever get enough food?"
"Nope. Should we take pictures now or after raiding the fridge?"
"We'll never think clearly if we keep going back to your stomach. Let's eat something first."
"We can only hope the kitchen looks this, ah, authentic!"
She was right.
In this exercise, apparently part of a series related to pronouns and syntax-subjects; I had to use the plural "WE." I was not to use "I" at any point.
There was nothing. That did not mean we were disappointed. Anna entered and moved to the right, watching for image to form in her head. She remembered the details from the articles and books, we reviewed them together before heading to this haunted location.
We wanted so desparately that ghosts still existed in these walls. Of course, there was nothing we could do to bring them about; nothing to encourage them to make the walls bleed in cinematic fury. We would have to supplant the history of the house with our own imagination. And as we all know, imagination can be far worse then reality.
We creaked the floor with every step, even when having to walk on the throw rug. The room itself was something out of picture book--every bit of furtiture was in the same postion as the books mentioned. Nothing had been touched. Dust was removed. The hooks of French curls held up every arm on the couch and chairs, clawed feet supported the coffee table. Dark brown held the light lower then it should have been. The only thing missing were the shadows of twilight. And considering it was merely post-lunch, they wouldn't be coming soon.
We both circled to the bay window behind the high backed couch. There, the rug halted, the back of the divan creating a small wall. The street was empty, surprising for this rush hour. The floo's bare wood lay before us.
This was weird the corpse had lay.
"This is so cool," Anna smirked.
"Agreed. All we need is it to be Halloween and we'd be good to go for a few scary stories!"
The clock on the mantle chimed and we both jumped. Haunted houses were great fun. Even with doing nothing, we had packed a few minutes with terrific energy. We didn't want to move.
Anna's stomach growled.
"Don't you ever get enough food?"
"Nope. Should we take pictures now or after raiding the fridge?"
"We'll never think clearly if we keep going back to your stomach. Let's eat something first."
"We can only hope the kitchen looks this, ah, authentic!"
She was right.
In this exercise, apparently part of a series related to pronouns and syntax-subjects; I had to use the plural "WE." I was not to use "I" at any point.
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