Quill & Claw/Pen & Paw

I love scary stories, always have. The fact of the matter was, my mother sensed my intelligence and risked it once by buying me my first Stephen King novel when I was in the sixth grade. She sensed my reading prowness, coupled it with juvenile purient interests and then bought the book at a garage sale. I was hooked into the grotesque. Kinda explains my first marriage, come to think of it. Time passes and my tastes mature. I move up to Clive Barker and Robert McGammon. Then I see the movie "Silence of the Lambs" and have to review it for a newspaper I was working for. To make the story fuller, I went ahead and found Thomas Harris' text and expanded on the topic. And I discovered that sometimes truth is, by far, scarier than fiction. Also, scare-ily like my first marriage. Today's writing topic is what famous unsolved crime would I like to know the answer of. Well, the fact is, like Sherlock Holmes, I've read as many books as I can about good old Jack the Ripper. ...

Wait...one thing? Okay, okay, okay. All of us are on a journey in our life. Here's the problem, no one actually tells us what that journey is. Are we supposed to save puppies? Are we supposed to date that one person so they become famous and use you as the source for that one performace on hatred? No one freegin knows. Religion gives some ideas on the path we need to take for some. I'll buy that. But ORGANIZED religion merely just asks for money and sells platitudes for the masses. I mean, have you seen New Life Church? So basically, the plan is up for grabs. And frankly, with all my writing as of late working on a novel, I've discovered somethign that makes me more whole. I could literally do this for a living, believe it or not. Just sitting and writng has caused me to lose weight and reduce stress, not exactly what I would have expected. So, obviously, putting pen to paper has a purpose for my journey in some way. But knowing that I am improved in some way through the a...

Ijust received some terrible news. A dear friend of mine met someone, let that person housesit for them, and they robbed him blind. Took the car, took the DVD player, took money, took all the things that defined him in his environment. The guy is broken and I feel terrible about it. I wonder if I could have done or said something more to protect my colleague. Grant you, I doubt it, but if you care about someone, you don't particular want them to suffer. At the same time, I'm having a terrible time at my terrific job. I can narrow down my aggravations to one specific person (see Monday's input). Now this woman's involvement in my daily existence is nominal, not at all like taking my friend's life in a box and dumping on their pride. But still, it brought me to today's question... ...do we make our own luck? In Chinese cultures, there's the I Ching. The philosophy is that your luck will influence everything around you. Literally, everything, like coins in your...

The Republicans and their fellow Right Wingers (I collectively all them "the Flat Earth Society) amuse me. Yeah, I know it's a matter of perspective. When they had their man in the White House, Emperor Bush, they kept their traps shut. It's almost as if they realized through 9/11, Katrina and the bank crashes that their puppet was not one of their better choices. They wouldn't even quote him. Instead, they blanketed everyone critical as unAmerican, as if free speech and free thought were not be expected. Now we have Obama in Washington, it's amusing what they find fault with. He failed to get the Olympics to Chicago...they jumped on that. Of course, no one actually died from this failure, like invading the wrong nation for personal reasons, but they yelled. Then he follows up with getting a Nobel Peace prize. They screamed, "for what?" Since they couldn't seem to read the treaties the Swedes printed on the internet. Obama wants to fix health care. No...

Okay, I know I wanted to avoid this. I've doing my best to scream the praises of my current, brand-spanking new job, but there's someone I work with who is driving me nutzo. I mean, literally. Like I cannot function when they are around. And I don't mean like they are extremely hot or posed for covers of magazines or anything. I mean, they are driving me crazy. Now, I am aware that this is a difficult forum to air my greviences. I know future employers might stumble across this and go, "I won't hire him, he might whine about me...and he's really good about whining!" I'm not whining about my employers. I'm taking that out of the equation right now. I truly love my new job and the people within it's confines. In honesty? My last job gets worse and worse the more I work there--because I realized I was in the dark ages and pissing in a garbage can when I was there. When I left my previous job, I figured it was burnout. But when an old coworker...

I fucking hate commercials. Now I need to point out, I'm referring to those galloping aggravations on television. I hate, hate, hate them. I am a man with usually a one track mind. It's why I'm having problems with writing my book this month. I hate having to break it up into daily, short, inputs. I want to sit down on Monday and type through until the bleeding tale is done. Commercials turn me into a freak. Now, here's the further evidence I'm a freak. Commercials do actually work. Even I, when entertained by a decent show or commercial, like the good ones they attached to a movie--I'm sucked right in. I cannot help thinking I'm trying to avoid them because I am such a sucker. I keep thinking that I am not a slave to American buying machine. But look at me, I am all about commercialism. Cannot leave the house with a Mickey Mouse coporate logo. Starbuck's is fantastic. McDonald's chicken is decent! Is there any escape?

Seriously. The yahoos there voted down marriage equality. And, as usual, nothing happens. No one says a fucking word. Oh, wait, did I speak too soon? Yeah, straight people tell me to relax and point out it was only, by, like 2%. That somehow, losing, even tho another group of my people are out of equal rights, I should care about the small two percent. Then I hear the asshat of New Lick MegaChurch, Haggard gets a twenty minute coverage about his new church. He's 'changed.' Folks? He's still as queer as a caring conservative. He still likes to hide in airport restrooms with a wide stance. Do I care that he liked boys? Not really. I thought he'd find peace, like so many exgays who go on to help others avoid such snafus. But no. And his mere presence proves that this nation is still healing from the damage done from Emperor Bush. The fact of the fucking matter is, why the hell should they fucking vote. Do they vote on if everyone should breathe? Do they fucking have vo...

"Adopting a dog is the closest you'll ever have to picking a family member." I don't have kids. I keep mentioning that teaching is the best form of birth control I have ever encountered. Grant you, we lack a uterus between us, so that makes it difficult when you really think about it. There's an adoption option, surely, which involves in basically giving a shitload of cash to people who are completely overburdened and just wanna check to see if you have a clean bathroom. Once they discover that, they'll ask for more money and then send you through the American court system. Just so you can give a kid a life. It's ridiculous. My life is stressful as a teacher. I have a lot of responsibility for many, many children and have to really follow up. And I will tell you, for every group of parents I meet, the signs can be mixed. For every one that really is working towards their kids' future, there is an equal an opposite one that is screaming and yelling abou...

An excellent friend and I were discussing some random topic on Facebook and she inadverntatnly insulted me. She was talking about her aggravations with her coworkers, an all too famililar topic with many people over the globe, and pointed out ot her the Taoist concept of: "we can't others; we can only change ourselves." My advice followed the logic that perhaps she would be best to just change the way she interacts with that individaul instaed of trying to get them to bend to her whims. She called it a platitude. A deep philosophy was just reduced to a fortune cookie. However, I applied what I preached. This was an excellent friend and so I brushed it off. The fact is, even my Taoist self still wants and hopes for changes in many peoples and many environments. I think that is normal and motivates us to do things within our world. I can easily think of three things I would like to change within my own household: 1. As well as things are going here now, I would love for my...

I hate this weather. I seriously do. I look out the window here at the Starbuck's and all I see is the heavy flakes of a witner that is encroaching. But it isn't heavy enough to clog the streets and give me the break I so need from working. No, it's just enough to annoy, and seriously, that is what it's doing. Annoying me. And annoyance, as i probably already stated, means that something else is bothering me--I just can't put my fingers on it. I think it is because I'm going through all of these life changes and rites of passage as of now but I cannot, for life of me, tell if they are what I am supposed to be doing. I'm a big believer in Fate. I equate the concept with God--in that, I cannot thinking that both have a plan that they are following and we are supposed to fall in line with. When Fate sends signals, its not because God wants me to know the path, but merely that I was attune enough to myself to read the symbols. Like this Florida stuff. I know I...

I can't figure it out. I love my new job, I really do, but there is an aspect that is driving me zonkers. I'm a boss. Now, let's think about this, I teach children. One would think, with the supreme idiocy on the loose out there today, reining in adults would be a breeze. But the fact is, I have only read one management book: Mutiny on the Bounty. Beyond that, I've zero skills. And I act more like their friend than their boss. I have the hardest time with that distance. I cannot do that. It is not the way I work. I see everyone as fully as I can. I've taken pride in that. It explains the success I have with my students, frequently. I know they are people with likes and dislikes and it would be silly for me to see them as cardboard cut-outs. Grant you, my government wants me to not care any more. That way, they can give their friends lucrative contracts, destory unions and earn more cash than everyone. And if they can disinfrancise use, sobeit. Thanks Emperor Bush. B...

I suppose there is ome truth in this-some belief that people who like certain things like other certain things equally. It would make sense. Colors have long been linked to symbols of emotion, and since they are equivalent in some cultures, well, there you have it. The importance of stating your like your favorite color. However, as I have grown older, the colors have changed. I'm not as to why. There was a time, when everything had to be blue, including my Slurpee. I couldn't eat raspberries in real life, but dang, I loved my blue razzberry lollipops. But, once, as I got older, i found a green sweater that cut me a better view and I noticed, I kinda like green a bit. And no one held me to it. No one beat me up for liking both green and blue. I was into both and there was nothing. No violence, no color-guard to make me like one color. What I did notice, however was a natural drawing to a specific spectrum. Blues, green and blacks tended to naturally pull my eyes to them. It was...

I've often wondered why I try. I mean, just today, my husband let me know he has an idea for a book. I knew it. Wanna make a bet, he'll write it whilst he's unemployed and sell it? Just *puft. I work my ass off for years and he'll get it out in one second or two. I suppose I'm just trying to hard, but honestly, I don't think so. Look at this. July. The last time I wrote, it was July. That's not fair, it's just not fair. I gotta figure how the other writers do it. They have lives outside of their writing. They still teach and cough and raise kids and believe in goodness and, at the same time, pipe out enough vitrol that even Republicans might read it. Not that Republicans can read. I don't wanna make any gross generalizations about something so obviously not true. I quit my job. After so many years, I quit it. I needed something different. Something new. And it's facinating the change. Has the amount of work I do changed at all? Nope. In fact, it...

Louisa thought better about getting a job when she saw the mess waiting for her in the kitchen. She was surprised she had let it get to that moment, but the day was busy with laundry, as Thursdays always have been, and she was sure her constant munching and need for hot snacks paved the way for this demolition. She looked to the clock again. She had time to finish the job and set about the task. A job would give her some extra cash then her allowance would allow, and that part she relished. On the occasions that Gary did let her go out, she was never really sure what to do anyway and the cash never really let her feel free enough. Those choices removed, she came home still with a feeling of contentment. She said her prayers once more, knowing she was living the life her church had encouraged her to. She was doing God’s work by making the house fit for a home and family. She knew that if she removed all the stressors for Gary when he got back from work, the dirty dishes, the laundry ...

An Invisible Woman Elsie knew the change was coming; she had timed her whole day around it. She was waiting in the car, hoping against hope that it would go longer then ever before—but she could only predict the beginning. The last time she went see-through, it lasted a mere 20 minutes. As she pondered the change in her light, she realized that it had already happened. She had wasted valuable time outside the door. Herb’s house was just beyond her line of sight and if she wanted to make use of her time invisible, she would have to hurry. But she hoped her aggravation would so worth it. She arrived at Herb’s house and used her key to come in the back door. She still looked around, fearing that is someone saw the portal open without help, phone calls would be made. Herb should be gone for another hour. The boxes from her ex-husband still crowded the kitchen where she entered. There were the dishes he so argued for just a week ago, stacked as high as pancakes at a ...

Okay, what you see down here is a third character built from the first two..... And I think I might a use for him in my story! A new character built from the two previous JD thought the world had begun when he started that computer. With the amount of work he had to do each and every day, he loved to hear that hum before he even drank that first cup of coffee from the kitchen. He still liked to get ready for work, even treating himself to a tie or a bolo. They had stopped using the cameras for conference calls eons ago, most likely encouraged by his own self interests. He insisted that he was afraid to see his coworkers in their underwears. In reality, it was he was afraid to have to face a world that was so unlike the one he lived in. Once that computer started, he’d do all the things need to live—eat, brush his teeth and such but still, he closed the door. He rationalized it as keeping the office cooler and keeping the bills from getting higher, but the fact was, he coul...

Character ONE: He was always burdened with self-hatred, a gift that no one could even match, even in the depths of teen angst. As a kid, he’d set up scenarios involving all the other kids involved in the neighborhood baseball games. He hated baseball and all sports. But he’d make an effort to invite these boys over and hang with them. Eventually, they would wander off, having nothing in common outside of the shared events of swimming in his parents’ pool. He’d run to his parents and complain of his new loneliness and they were always too busy to notice the fabrication. Even these days, after college, he would sit in his apartment and discuss the needs to leave and cook dinner and wash some clothes. But his daydreams would wander and he would see the repetition of it all and just decide not to do anything but stare at the walls. He had friends now, stronger people who could take the volleys of his personality traits a bit better then most—so he would find reasons to merely skip visiting...

Create a letter written by one of the characters in your story. The letter is not to be published as part. In this case, I’ll not tell you the story—but see if you are interested in it regardless. To whomever finds this I am writing this letter as an act of desperation. I have no will, I cannot think of any kind of line or note I left for anyone. There was always some time, I thought. Some time before this weekend. I came up here with my girlfriend. Her uncle’s cabin was a great idea, his buddies fun to be with. I am going to tuck this note away in my hip pocket in the hopes that his story will be found. I am currently hiding here in the crawlspace beneath the house, cabin, whatever. I can see the dark outside through some of the slots. I want to write this fast, so I can kill the flashlight and not attract any more attention. I am torn. Do I tell you what happened? I don’t think these monsters that are after us clean up after themselves. I’m sure if you find me you will find that out...

Face Recognition *) 400 words *) Write about recognizing a person’s face I had climbed the same three steps three times. This was more of a task then it sounds, for the winter gifted a horrible snowstorm the day previously, those steps were more ice then all of Alaska. He knew I was coming, I could see him moving about in the kitchen off to the single story house’s right window. The yellow ceiling light bled onto the smooth blues of the drifts of his front lawn, his shadow cut a huge swatch as he moved from the kitchen to, I would later learn, to the small coffee table he used to serve dinner. Lasagna. I knew he was going to make lasagna. I stepped down the three steps again and looked at the rental. I could turn back now. My friends were having a shindig not too far away at their house. I knew everyone there. I knew I would have a guaranteed good time. But I made a promise to this stranger. I would meet them, at least once, this New Yea...

The Epiphany *) Write about the unwritten epiphany in a person’s life. 300 words…that might make this difficult The date had long been arranged before he even met Eric. He had know Teresa, or Tea as she liked to be called, for some time—her boyish cut of hair was unique at the college, her sports abilities meant that they kept bumping into each other at the school’s gym, either coming or going out of the weight room or locker rooms. So there they sat on the couch in his tiny little basement apartment and they were catching up on the better segments of Leno. “You want something to drink?” “Nah, I’m still good with this water. Could use some popcorn, but don’t wanna move much.” Tea had moved to leaning on his shoulder and Bob had thought she might begin to drool if given half a chance. He checked his crotch, to make sure that his jeans had not bugled when he slammed down—he had no urge to make it look like he was interested. He reached out and remem...

The Wilderness. *) Put two characters in the wilderness and let one find traces of the other along the way. Bert swilled the last bit of beer in his mouth like a bitter mouthwash. The act provided little use for Robert but to just make the alcohol last a smidgen longer. He even looked to the bottom of the bottle in the hopes that some drink had escaped him. The bottle was empty. Bert released the brake but did not but the engine back on. He listened to the strum of the sand and dirt on the duster’s underside as she slid into a parking space at the bottom of the small slope. There was little else to look at but the black truck of Ronnie’s, positioned parallel. The parking area was empty, a surprise for a Friday night. As Bert pulled the parking brake, several bottles rolled forward clanking in the foot-well on the passenger side. Robert swore and looked up towards the truck. No movement. Bert was surprised by this. ...

Create a small story where chaos follows your protagonist: Tyler was impressed as he rounded out the moping on the floor of the shop. He had opened the front door and propped it with a cleaning bin to let the evening's air flow a bit more freely. The clouds were rolling in and he had hoped to finish his chores a bit prior to the storm's impending arrival. Besides, the open door dried the floor a bit faster then he could with the heat from the just finished kitchen. What impressed Tyler were the three drops of water that had landed on his forearm. The parking lot was beginning to fill with the black dots of first rainfall. Three had some how found their way into his workplace and flew all the way to his blond fur on right arm. He smirked. His smile grew as he noticed a majority of the floor was truly dry. He wheeled the bucket to teh back of the back of kitchen and thought about what he could do with the rest of the evening. "Ayeeeeeeeflabuuushamasssssshhhh!" The smile...

Write about a Good person. I had known Kent since fall. How could I have missed something who I would later recall as one of my first crushes? He did please the eye, as young gay men are fond of noticing in their first crushes. He didn't do much. I knew he played football, only because he had to wear the required jerseys for game days and pep rallies. But I never saw him play. And I would watch too. Queer guys get a bad rap. Everyone thinks we hate sports. It is not that. It is that we hate to have to play sports that might ruin our hair or further scar us by showing together. So I would sneak out to the football games that I could. There was Kent, on the sidelines. He was obvious even under all of his armor, a piece of meat with a thick neck. I would watch him and not the gruntmakers on the field. And I would make a note of saying "good job" to him come Monday. My theatre friends were never the wiser. I always felt bad for him. I noticed that spring semester that his n...

Dear all, I seem to have killed the Writers' Block I've been suffering from. I've decided to continue Bertie's tale here in part, but if I feel the need to write about it elsewhere...if it has legs, in other words, might write about it in my journals. In the meanwhile, I'll be posting some more segments from my 3AM Epiphany text. Today just happens to be about Bert, but more often, I doubt it will. Keep reading.... Friends? Ronnie hated having a mobile phone. For with it, he knew that, even if he did not answer it, the pains of knowing that someone was trying to contact him would grow and grow until it would obscure all other thoughts. When the phone rang, he saw it was Bert, again, wondering where he was. Their childhood was unimpressive. They met in daycare, their parents kept mentioning. Ronnie always wondered how this would equal friendship. Their parents just put them together. No infant has the concept of friends. It just has the concept of companiship, a c...

Bertie came to his mother, his shoulder high in fear. He paused and took a deep breath. "Mother, what are you talking about?" "That!" She pointed with her trowel. As he waited for his response, she used the metal tool to scratch her left knee behind the pad. Bertie knelt to get a closer look, knodding deeply and dramatically. His mother stepped back and took a quick mental inventory of her new flowers. All were healthy, bright and ready to be planted. She reviewed her plan of attack. She had new soil; she had the new duds. But the sun was ratching high up into the sky and she knew her time outside was limited to begin with at her age. A huge cheer echoed from the nearby living room. She moved her view back to Bertie. The back of his neck also had joined in the chorus of the temperature-beads of sweat had started to form and drag down the sides of his throat. "Pulled me away from my game for..." "What?" "Nothing, I'm not sure what it is....

Mrs. Castle had time to garden. The rains had subsided two days prior and the ground had held onto the moisture well. She had treated herself many years ago to a pair of knee supports, but time was never available for her to dig them out of the garage. Work had finally died down and time opened for her to find those pads, her trowel and some old soil in a green bag in the back, near her recycling bin. She felt slightly giddy, like discovering a five dollar bill in her winter jacket a year later. she threw everything intot her son's old, old, red wagon and headed out to the front yard. Bert was responsible enough to keep the lawn mowed. She had aske dhim to week as well, but noticed he mere edged the weedaacker a bit closer to dandelions in response. He liked the outdoors, or so it appeared, for he took off his shirt during the time finishing his duties and seemed to like the schedule she proffered. He had finished early this Saturday. He had fallen into baseball season and was tr...

Ronnie began to twirl his keys. They were attached to small bizarre picture some ex-girlfriend had given him. It was ment as a good luck charm, a standard cross embelished with knots and details from a trip she had made on a mission to Eastern Europe. He felt that, with all that went on his life, this was a simple piece of constancy he could hold onto. He switched hands but kept the momentum going, something positive in this awkward dialogue. He leaned forward on the barren wood of the picnic table. Not the seat. Who knows what haed happened there. Instead they opted to the stereotypical drinking stance of young men, elbows on knees rearends hoisted to, but not fully on, the top part of the table. The creak from his movement could have easily been made from a bad back. Bertie lay back on the flecked green table, carefully placing his hand behind his head so as to not gain splinters in his scalp. The easement stopped his head from spinning and he squinted at the stars just peering out f...

Monroe looked hard to his right, as if the hockey game on the slim television had sudden gained interest. But there was merely a commercial, and his rapid head turn seemed out of place. He had hoped no one would noticed. "It helps if you actually have your computer on, dude," he heard from behind himself. His heart felt like it had gone over the first ledge of a rollercoaster. He smiled without thinking. "Excuse me, huh?" He mentioend as his head turned back, "and thanks for getting that for me." He moved his chin towards the half eaten scone and the cold mocha. He did not have to lock eyes with the barista working solo this lone Monday afternoon. He knew exactly what the young man was wearing. A wool cap, even in summer, kept back a blond and red mohawk, that just made him look thinner. He knew that the barista, named Nick, was also wearing an extra small beater underneath his blue work polo and apron. It pulled the edges of his shape aside and made hi...

"A bone fide coffeehouse," Bert looked around and upwards, as if the place was bigger then he expected. Ronald did not take his eyes off his friend. Friend? He had no better word for their relationship. They had been apart for a few years, and bumming into each other was more chance then force. A moment in the dairy aisle, Bert buying more milk because his mother was too sick to do so, and Ronald getting a quick snack. He had, at first wanted to walk away. His last time with Bert did not go well. They were in their senior year at Dornie High School and Bert had insisted on the two of them spending the night alone and getting drunk. Ronald really did not mind. But he had his family together; his sister was in town; his grandparents had just arrived. The late hour helped, but the feeling that he needed to be elsewhere was pervasive. Ronnie figured if he drank enough, the stresses of having of having so many family members together in honor of him might be reduced. Alas, since B...

Bert had a love for meatloaf, especially his mother's This night was no different. He could practically smell the wafting BBQ as he pulled up into the alleyway behind the house. His mother had told him that it was for dinner. Like himself, she was a glutton for schedules and menus did not escape her. She knew what she wanted to make before the days of the week began. Bert's job at the factory also granted him straight lines in his schedule. His mother could always predict when he would arrive. This was a comfort for both of them. Bert had a bad day, but that cleared out quickly when he got into the house. Mother had cleaned and readied everything, a visitor would half expect to see birthday baloons and brightly wrapped gifts heaved onto the counter when they entered. Bert also paused. A clean house was to be expected. Since her retirement, his mother had kept herself busy by entering sweepstakes, cooking and, most of all cleaning. But this work was exceptional. Recent spots f...

Bert realized that the act that he had envisioned in his head was nothing when played out in reality. He stared at the corpse in broad daylight. He could not see it breathe. Instead of stepping around it, large swatches of green grass at the boy's head and feet, he stepped over the body--lifting his feet high so they did not distrub the tableau. Now standing in the gutter, he squatted and placed the handgun over his rump. The weapon was a burning hot now, much warmer than the original firing. It pressed harder as he leaned in over the youth's mouth. He held a palm over the young boy's lips, as if saying a healing prayer. He felt no air. And Bert knew he should have shuddered. But he felt no cold for his actions. He only felt the warmth of the gun just under his belt. The chest wound was well placed into the boy's heart. It must have kept working, for he heard the gurgle. In fact, he reasoned, his hearing had increased tenfold. The birds did not herald his moment of con...

After she broke up with him, he headed to his room. His mother was good about cleaning up for him, the quilt from Grandmother was pulled so neatly across the mattress, it caused a grid of X's and O's that one could read from the door way. It was always amazing to him that the cut up magazine posters and images he chose for decor never bothered her. Even the gun cabinet, which he just liked to leave unlocked in case of emergency was well dusted and the glass was clear as spring water. He counted his guns and took metal notes to their placements. Not nary one was moved. His mother could dust with shifting their weight. He knew this. He stared more at the gun rack then the small tube television two feet away. Besides, the televison was in black and white. The guns were a series of browns and blacks, shades that gave as much comfort as a decent sized pillow. He closed the door softly. He felt the need to weep, he knew his eyes had filled up with tears but here, in the realm he cal...