Quill & Claw/Pen & Paw

A majority of my entries, it seems, have been nonfiction about myself and my opinions. This afternoon, I'd like to take a moment and do a brief sketch...as requested from my writing exercise book-Something titled "The Closet." THE CLOSET Cindy loved the apartment just as much as she loved her boyfriend. It fit their personalities perfectly. The ceilings were exceptionally high, resulting in doorways that he did not have to bob his head through and had the wonderful added treat of small windows at the top that were opened copper stilts on the doorframes. It was the stuff that writers dreamed of. From the modern computer, they could look down the hallway, across the red floorboards and see the original stained glass from 1881. She could not just walk away from the place. She could not just walk away from him. But he insisted. She appreciated, what she could, of his candor. He had everything neatly packaged up as soon as he spoke of the break up. It was as if he did it prio...

I've always been angry when I hear comments like, "everyone's more rude today," or "today's worse then it was!" Um, it's like DUH, people. Nothing is like it used to be. It can't be. When standards are changing and trends are moving in different directions, so point out that things of any manner are different then they used to be is like someone taking a survey on if everyone points up for "up." The fact of the matter also is that there will always be the basics in life. For as much good we are capable of, there can be (but not 'must be) an equal piece of evil. For every thrill we experience, there must be a payback. As I look upon today's topic, I cannot think of a single THING I'd remove. I love technology--after all, I'm on a blog as it is. But to 'uninvent' would be to step backwards in time, to seek something that we've obviously needed. And, yes, guns are needed, I'm sad to say. I believe they have ...

1. If you could teach your pet one trick to do, what would you like her to do? I have a trained cat and dog, I am very proud of this fact. Like raising children, when you have expectations that are high-they will rise to meet it. The cat, in absence of the canine, BECOME the dog for many, many moons. She wants to be held, she actually speaks on command. Then the dog? She is so smart, she learned, 'can you move out of the way, please?' She'll follow up by moving SIDEWAYS out of your path. She even knows 'inside voice.' So to train either one? There's really no point. However, Penelope, the corgi has terrific potential and I think I might be missing the opportunity here to have a show dog. She still jumps uncontrollably if someone doesn't pay attention to her; she can be very rough on those she bumps into and doesn't know. For me, I'd love for her to learn to be one of those pets that helps childen in the hospital. If only she would be willing to just...

I guess you could call it a confession, but for those who know me, this tale is as old and predictable as the church's stance equality and polictians non-evidence of honesty. But I never wanted to own a home. As much as I love my husband and all he has to offer him; as much as I wanted a dog to call my own-I could not, for the life of me, own a home. There was too much money involved. Too much work. I mean you're looking at someone who burst into tears when his toilet overflowed and who thought his partner had begun speaking Hungarian when he suggested we...WE... are the ones who pain the house. I grew up in a condo. Attached to seven other homes. I never knew of a world that had a lawn or needed paint. There was always a clubhouse with a hot tub. Was it ritzy? Nah. But my energies were redirected. I was not held to the listings of chores most kids had. Most kids had to mow that lawn. Some kids had shovel that snow. I didn't. So to arrive at this question for a journal top...

I really hate politics, on so many levels. At least a salesman has a product in his favor. Something tangible, something real. A politician works on belief. But his/her beliefs are less then that of religion. Religion may fail in the concrete evidence department, but still has a structure and system to follow. But politics? Squat, generally. And the polls and pollsters make it worse, much, much worse. Four years ago, Bush rallied on the fact that Kerry had flipflopped on several issues. But the fact is, all politicos flipflop, merely due to polls. So not only are their beliefs fluid--they ability to even stay on topic for too long is at risk. I mention this, because I follow gay issues so closely. Yeah, an oxymoronic statement. I hate politics; I follow gay issues on politics. But then again, I hate some kinds of food--so I do watch for them on my plate. Lately, the winds of change have swept gay issues up to the forefront. Now, again, we are a topic for warm debate amoung the hets...

Okay, I admit it, I'd love to give the snarky answer here. I was so tempted to just put "no" and leave, like the entire page blank, ya know? How pedantic would that be? But the fact of the matter, I've been railed again from some of my friends from all over the block for my constant critism of classics. I thought, for example, that Gone With the Wind and Dances with Wolves were voluminous hack-jobs that made, by far better movies. Anything made my John Grisham was convoluted and should also be punished--yep--by being made into sub-par films for 4 star actors to finish up their studio contracts... I also felt that many classic books SHOULD be held to the light, repeatedly, to help persuade us and remind us why, in the first place, did we see them as "classics." I look to specific fame there. I mean, The Adventures of Huck Finn? Every time I've looked between the covers on that one, I'm always impressed...the book does stand tall and resistant to cri...

Dear Reader, I'm really, really trying to get back into writing, at least once a week. Here's his week's topic: If you had to name the single most regrettable thing about your country's history, what would it be? I'm reminded of a scene in the sci-fi movie Alien Nation. In it, a slave ship from another planet crashes near Los Angeles and the creatures aboard find themselves as a new minority in the City of Angels. As usual, it is not easy going, as many people suddenly say, "they are infrindging on my rights! They are reducing my freedoms." The aliens cannot assimalate smoothly besides their abilty to learn at an advanced rate and helping the economy. In this particular scene, both a human (James Caan) and an alien (Mandy Patankin) are getting drunk and letting the sparks fly. The alien realizes something the human never could. See, the human had all the rights and freedoms of his country for so long, he never realized that they might not be excluding anyo...

I know that I have committed several sins for seeing this arthouse indie-the tabloids have run all over I'm Watching and its filmmaker. If film is a reflection of the creator's soul, then this movie provides a certain importance. The family of his victims must have thought so. They have completely opened up to the showing of the film, producing some of its distribution. I think they know that this tragedy will never disappear and that by limiting some of the movies distribution, they've kept a certain seriousness to the film. You have two levels to this movie. One, a man who was of the utmost evil, commiting crime and, instead of keeping mementos to his crimes, he kept videos. However, he did not film the horrific murders or their aftermath. He filmed his victims as he stalked them. He used various cameras and angles to get an understand of the individuals, sometimes returning to their favorite haunts and filmming books they read or places they sat and ate. But a narrativ...

"Honey, I want to lock the shed, I'll be right back after..." "After..." his wife called from the basement rooms, somewhere behind several walls. "After, what? "After, I, well, after I find my keys..." Shelia smiled. This was nothing new. The house was new, however. Well, wait, it was new to her and her husband. It was made in the fifties if the handprints on the front sidewalk were to be believed. They were child's hands and they had 'September 52' written beside them. So it must be the fifties. But the house held no smell at all. It was not a clean aroma; it was not a clouded aroma of reconstituted rooms. It was the lifeless smell of empty rooms. Rooms that now were filled with boxes. The new employment meant that they did not have to beg, borrow or steal items any more--she noticed and regretted that the cardboard around her were a litany of words from local groceries and food suppliers. Black marker covered what it could--but it st...

Roland hugged his wife a bit longer then he realized he ever had. "Heh then Mr. BigBear!" she said, unreturning the hug in the kitchen. She had on her kitchen mits from checking the meatloaf and did not feel that it was appropriate. So instead, she smiled at the attention her husband showed and responded, "must have been a rough Bible study." "Huh? No, no, no, it was fine, the usual Thursday night fights. But I luckily had someone to come home to. The biddies are probably still there plotting something involving a verse or two." "Did you let them know we can't do the bake sale this weekend?" "No, sweetie, totally spaced it, totally. I can call Marcie right now," he started to pick the phone on his hip. In one swoop, Alanna had rotated and used the motion to toss her oven mitt in the direction of the sink. She approached the sliding back door and hollerated through a opening of no less then 5 inches. "DINNER! BRY! DECLAN! NOW...

It says here that the last time I posted was back in April, and that sounds about right. I have to admit, I didn't like the journal entries that were recommended to me for today; I'm just not feeling the motivation for fiction right now. But, at the same time, I needed to update everyone on who I'm doing. I had surgery. And it looks like the winner of the whole event is, well, pain. I had pain going in. And with all the ranting and raving of my family and friends, apparently, the pain is supposed to stop after the surgery. I neglected to ask WHEN that would be. So here I am, unable to really twist my wrist at all--and buttering myself with Aleve and Tylenol. I hate it. But I am glad I went through with all this. I'd ever experienced, really "surgery" before. Some observations: 1. Nurses are better then doctors. I've never seen so many people who knew what was going on with me better then I did and were able to respond in kind. After not eating for 24 hour...

Roland kept noticing he had to go the bathroom. The feeling kept returning, even after relieving himself and coming to Marcie's house. He checked his shirt, he checked his fingernails. He ran his fingers through his hair again. It may have been Marcie's house, but in her own way, she was late. She had stayed in the kitchen after all the coffee and water was served. Still, she insisted, the food needed to be reheated. Mollie kneeled on the couch to Roland's right and stared out the window, through the lace curtains. "I can still see the flag. That stupid bright flag. How he dares! I can see it through the blue, blue," she paused, "Marcie, this curtains are very, very clean. Did you do this yourself?" "No, husband treated me to that drapery cleaning business, you know, from television?" she yelled over no noise. Sharon did not look up from her Bible. She had crossed her legs and pulled her dress over the knee. It tick-tocked with a large wall ...

Well, I'll go ahead and be redundant. We're doing another one of those IF writing activities. In this one, I have to cancel one aspect of my job, what would it be? Considering my woes as of late at my place of employ, my first instinct would be to yell SHOWING UP. But, to be serious, I'd say that we've lost sight of working with children. I spend most of my day planning and working when I'm supposed to be interacting with kids and making the smarter. Politcians whine and the world watches how we handle education giving it importance. They make unilateral decisions, regardless of who or how it effects the kids....and then everyone complains about how education is a mess. Yet, for all those whining, no one seems to want to go back in, get their hands dirty and see what is happening on the front lines. It reminds me of a President who decides to invade a soverign nation without thinking. He send in the troops, children of his people, without remorse. He then claims no...

Okay, okay, okay, at the coffeehouse again. And to encourage my friend to write, we're going to address the book "If" with our next available journaling. He never really writes for any reason for his own (I probably should follow his example!) and I'm just curious as to what he pens. This is our way of writing for another person. He's picked a topic which I'll list next and we'll both write responses. He, in his journal; myself, right here. "If you could have survived any historic disaster, which would it be?" Let's be realistic here. Not a whole lot phases me when it comes to fear. I mean, I've been reading Mr. King since sixth grade, I saw Halloween in elementary school. Yeah, sure, maybe it's helped me develop into psychopath into training, with tales of bloodletting I sometimes write, but it also has helped me develop a fairly tough skin when it comes to the scary stuff. I love watching my students talk about some horror movie li...

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 gara...

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 boa...

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 t...

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 ...

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 reall...

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 hi...

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 crea...

December something or other, 2007 It's been warm this winter and I know this because not because of the weather, but because the throngs of people are still standing outside of my window. I'm writing this as a group of four are out there now. Two adults, two kids. You should see them. There they are, the dad making up some gory tale for the kids to remember the moment they stood outside the Star home. Great way to raise your kids, bucko. Soon he'll begin pointing to the upstairs window, the one you can see the clearest from the street below...yep, there he goes. Proves a point. He knows nothing. The last murder happened in the back parlour, bucko. Now he's circling his pointed finger. Not sure what that means. Probably something about blood splatter. Thinks he's a fucking CSI member. Decemeber, the next day. Sorry about the swearing. I had a bad day at the call center. I started working there because the hours were so reasonable. But it seems I'm working there m...

There has been a comment made about why I'm posting an explanation AFTER the writing exercise. I did this for the benefit of the reader--if you come to the piece cold, your opinions will be about the writing itself and not about the specifics of the journal entry. So, I'll include the information at the END of the entry. Enjoy and peace!

I alway give myself time to imagine I'm famous. I watch Britney self destruct and think, 'that poor girl...fame has not done her well.' But then I think to myself, 'she just wasn't ready.' I'm ready. I think I can do it. I can go to the spa and handle when someone says, "he's put on weight. He's put on A LOT of weight." I know my family trained me for my ongoing sucess. They are mean and loud and know everything about me and still love me. Imagine the world at large doing the same. I mean they seem to like me-or at least put up the facade strong enough. I like to pretend, in my head, that I'm reading the article about myself. "Smith seemed to be prepped for fame. His mother, the very definition of a stage-mom. Only she had one difference, she wanted her kids to have a certain understanding of the world. "John Smith was no difference. He illustrated a profound ability on the boards, being pushed onto them at the tender age ...

The knocking on the cabin's door was slightly muffled by the strong wind running beside it. Mrs. Bledsoe had an incident when she was a child that resulted in her always sleeping practically fully clothed. She remembered the story briefly as she rose, paused and waited for the pounding to begin again. She hated referring to the portal as the 'front door.' Sure, it faced where she put her car, but it was a sliding glass that resembled the back door of her house in Colordo Springs. But here, it was the main entrance. With the curtain drawn, she could11 only see the outline of a man rapping away. Without a chain on the door, all she could do was pull back the curtain some and hope he was not strong. He was not. He was bleeding. "Get in here! Oh my goodness!" The young man held his side as if a violent apendisitis had taken away his lower right half. She signaled to him to her chair and pushed her laptop and several binders to floor. Lowering them softly to the pages...

Calm yourself. Remember the rules. No, you can't hit them--that's illegal, tho their own parents do it repeatedly. No it doesn't matter that he chucked his pencil at your head. All for merely pointing out that he hadn't turned in his homework again. No, you were not going to give him an A. Earn a grade you want in this classroom. Calm yourself when call the parents. Tell them the true but use simple, positive vernacular that they have no concept of understanding. Know you are right. Know you can do this quickly if you don't say much. Know that the parents like hearing, "what else can I do for you?" And know that you are right in heart. Relax! Give yourself a reward when you get home, something like sleep or reading a book. Stop arguing! It somehow gets done. Don't try to make them learn. Just teach what you know and hope on a bigger scale. Know they won't change, the world, the government and the kids. Know that you can change your attitude about t...

I'll go into details of the exercise at the end, for my own purposes. The coffeehouse near our place has everything a writer like myself could ever need to create beyond our own doors. It has coffee, foremost, and, even for it being a chain, it lists a terrific set of flavors and wonders. Aztec Mocha, a wonderul concoction of cinnimon, chili powder and chocolate, takes the bitter hum of java to new, beautiful levels. I treat myself daily here, wondering over sometime after CBS Sunday morning signs off and the responsibilities of the day begins. Daily lesson plans take priority, so those are brought up long before any creative-ness hits the brain cells. That act itself creates a sense of completeness that makes the creative process have a much sweeter reward--the reward that all the writing I'm doing is not limited by the confines of my own life encroaching. How many authors have stopped what they are penning because they realized the catbox needed emptying, the dishwasher ne...