3AM Epiphany, Exercise Five

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 more then working on my novel. I guess I was further angered by that fact that I cannot enjoy my view of the Star home. I moved her SPECIFICALLY because this apartment was open and directly across from that great place. Frankly, I'd move in there if cash and fate would allow me. Not so much now. The family there is completely unaware, I can tell. They rarely have visitors. They hung a freegin macmame plant older with a dead plant off the wraparound porch. Must be from someone's Aunt Nancy.

Such disrespect to their historic home just makes a day of overtime all the more bitter. You'd think I'd be all themore happy with more cash available. No such thing.

Yeah, the boyfriend cancelled again too last night.

No, I'm not going to elaborate until I think about it some.

Journal entry several days later:

Yeah, well, fuck you too. Got into a screaming argument with the boyfriend. Yep. Me. Quiet little me. He who lets customers poop, verbally, all over me at work--because I need money--screamed back at the idiot. He called, finally, after two days of messages. FROM DeeJay's club too! He said he was waiting for the bathroom and that it was Cowboy Chris' birthday. At least the exe is getting attention I deserved.

yes, I see it. Why wasn't I invited?

Not sure. He says he tried to get hold of me. No emails in the box. No voicemails.

The bastard.

No gawkers. God must be sparing them my wrath!

I think I'll go to the corner liquour store and buy beer.

This writing exercise was a work of fiction from the perspective of a journal. The idea is that a journal has a limited reporting value that fiction, as a whole, does not. We cannot see the boyfriend's reasoning. We cannot fathom what is bothering this young man so much that it is out of proportion with what he is writing about. I am aware it is a character from another story, for those of you still reading from previously.