The Last Time
Screenplay
Cosmic Rays
Flash Heart
Puppet
The Sequel
Wicked
Empty
Untied
The Setting Sun
Performance
Wife and Spouse Read NY Times
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Story Virus v5
This is basically a series of flash stories. I was tagged by my good friend the writer CJT on her wordvamp blog to help continue a project with some great writers, and given the list of previous posts so I could bring it forward. I will add to the story, then tag more people for them to keep it moving. It has gotten interesting, and I hope my taggees can find some time to help it along.
The chain begins here:
I, Spotchy
Then continues at:
Cormac Writes
Then:
Lost in the BoZone
Then:
David Barber’s Fiction World
Then:
Writing The Hard Way
Then:
Not From Here, Are You
Then:
I Can’t Believe It’s Not Better!
And finally:
CJT's wordvamp, before coming to me.
Here is my addition to the story:
The Team, comprising Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, and Blitzen, or Rudolph's Boys for short, were sitting, red-nosed and bleary-eyed, round a flattened tree stump that served as a card table. There were empty booze bottles lying all over the place, and bowls that might have once held snacks, but now were overflowing with upchuck sat uninvitingly to the side.
"Kris ain't here," said Donder. "Who's asking for him? Oh, it's you Blanco. What the hell, happened to you? You look like you ate some bad fish."
"Where's Kringle? He said he'd get you guys ready to go on a mission to save the world, starting with the Universe Mall."
"Who does he think he is, Doc Savage? We got but one job a year, and we don't feel like donning those frigging reindeer outfits to go saving the world without time and a half for overtime."
"Listen, Donner," said Gary, "Can't you guys...?"
"That's Donder, dicktard. Why does everybody get that wrong?"
"Sorry, I heard it in a song or something," the detective said. "Can't you guys get into the spirit of the season just a coupla days early, and help us out?"
"What's up?" asked Blitzen, and the others gave him a look that said, Don't involve us in anything too taxing.
"Is this all you lamefaces do all the time, sitting around throwing back the hootch?" Blanco asked. As his color was deepening he felt the whole season was falling away to the dogs.
"How do you think we fuel up for the big night?" Dasher said, and that raised laughter from the rest of the team.
At that, Rudolph came out of the back of the barn, wiping his hands like he'd just come from a restroom. "What's up, fellas?" he asked. "Who're these guys?"
"Ummn, you'd better go wake up the Fat Man," said Blitzen, "Looks like we got another job this year. These guys want us to help 'em save the world."
"Scrotum," shouted Rudolph, who suffered from intermittent Tourette's syndrome, "Balls! Ass! Titties," and his nose began glowing redder than a stop sign at a school crossing. "Waddaya want us to do?"
"Don't you think we should wake up Kris..." Blitzen started to ask.
"Nah, shit! Blueballs! Jack-off! We can handle this, and be back in time for the big giveaway. Damn!" He kept rubbing his hands, but now he looked as if he anticipated big adventure.
"I'm not so sure you understand the nature of..." Gary began.
"Just lay out the plan," Rudolph interrupted, "Christ! Mess! We're more than ready for some action and mayhem. Motherfu..." he stopped, as everyone turned to see Kris Kringle, himself, waddling out from the back while zipping up his fly.
"You guys know who's in charge here. Didn't I tell y'all to wake me when these two arrived? Christ, where would this season be without me?"
Now I tag the following:
mkooch
Green Monkey Tales
Bukowki's Basement
Notes from the Überground
The Way It Is
The chain begins here:
I, Spotchy
Then continues at:
Cormac Writes
Then:
Lost in the BoZone
Then:
David Barber’s Fiction World
Then:
Writing The Hard Way
Then:
Not From Here, Are You
Then:
I Can’t Believe It’s Not Better!
And finally:
CJT's wordvamp, before coming to me.
Here is my addition to the story:
The Team, comprising Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, and Blitzen, or Rudolph's Boys for short, were sitting, red-nosed and bleary-eyed, round a flattened tree stump that served as a card table. There were empty booze bottles lying all over the place, and bowls that might have once held snacks, but now were overflowing with upchuck sat uninvitingly to the side.
"Kris ain't here," said Donder. "Who's asking for him? Oh, it's you Blanco. What the hell, happened to you? You look like you ate some bad fish."
"Where's Kringle? He said he'd get you guys ready to go on a mission to save the world, starting with the Universe Mall."
"Who does he think he is, Doc Savage? We got but one job a year, and we don't feel like donning those frigging reindeer outfits to go saving the world without time and a half for overtime."
"Listen, Donner," said Gary, "Can't you guys...?"
"That's Donder, dicktard. Why does everybody get that wrong?"
"Sorry, I heard it in a song or something," the detective said. "Can't you guys get into the spirit of the season just a coupla days early, and help us out?"
"What's up?" asked Blitzen, and the others gave him a look that said, Don't involve us in anything too taxing.
"Is this all you lamefaces do all the time, sitting around throwing back the hootch?" Blanco asked. As his color was deepening he felt the whole season was falling away to the dogs.
"How do you think we fuel up for the big night?" Dasher said, and that raised laughter from the rest of the team.
At that, Rudolph came out of the back of the barn, wiping his hands like he'd just come from a restroom. "What's up, fellas?" he asked. "Who're these guys?"
"Ummn, you'd better go wake up the Fat Man," said Blitzen, "Looks like we got another job this year. These guys want us to help 'em save the world."
"Scrotum," shouted Rudolph, who suffered from intermittent Tourette's syndrome, "Balls! Ass! Titties," and his nose began glowing redder than a stop sign at a school crossing. "Waddaya want us to do?"
"Don't you think we should wake up Kris..." Blitzen started to ask.
"Nah, shit! Blueballs! Jack-off! We can handle this, and be back in time for the big giveaway. Damn!" He kept rubbing his hands, but now he looked as if he anticipated big adventure.
"I'm not so sure you understand the nature of..." Gary began.
"Just lay out the plan," Rudolph interrupted, "Christ! Mess! We're more than ready for some action and mayhem. Motherfu..." he stopped, as everyone turned to see Kris Kringle, himself, waddling out from the back while zipping up his fly.
"You guys know who's in charge here. Didn't I tell y'all to wake me when these two arrived? Christ, where would this season be without me?"
Now I tag the following:
mkooch
Green Monkey Tales
Bukowki's Basement
Notes from the Überground
The Way It Is
Sunday, November 29, 2009
other stories and observations
Trophy at Fictionaut
...anything but love... at Fictionaut
Mack's Kids at Out of Ruins
Qwerty at Six Sentences
Outlook at Six Sentences
Men and Women at Six Sentences
Six Verses Before the Chorus at Six Sentences
Misinterpretation at Pen 10 Scribes
...anything but love... at Fictionaut
Mack's Kids at Out of Ruins
Qwerty at Six Sentences
Outlook at Six Sentences
Men and Women at Six Sentences
Six Verses Before the Chorus at Six Sentences
Misinterpretation at Pen 10 Scribes
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Memoirist
October '95, I think it was Friday the 13th, we had a cocktail party. Wanted to get both families together. Figured it would be a lark to invite Malachy, who was a personality. If he would come. Nora asked him to bring his brother Frank, a darker light, because she wanted the balance right.
They came and the party was a success. All evening long, Malachy regaled us with personal achievements. Frank quietly impressed with tales of overcoming hardships. He never mentioned he was writing a memoir, only that he was about to retire after many years of teaching.
At one point there was a toast to Nora's mother, who had been hospitable when first Frank the lad, then later Malachy, had returned to America.
I joined in, though this was only a story to me, and I felt inadequate under Malachy's gleam.
The next year, on publication of Frank's book, saw a shift in their status. Suddenly, the quiet one was the star.
Nora and I went to every booksigning and reading within our range.
One evening, I'm sure it was before the Pulitzer, I had to work late. Nora went to Barnes & Noble and saved me a place. When I arrived, they had already closed off the public access. When Frank arrived, I was allowed with a couple of other latecomers to ride down in the elevator with him and his agent. I nodded but there was no sign of recognition. As we exited, someone led him to a table and handed him a glass of wine. I joined Nora and her young cousin Stephen in the seated crowd.
After a sparkling reading, he signed many copies of his book. We straggled until there were only a few people left.
Nora placed a book in front of Frank and asked him to address it to Stephen. The agent spoke up. "Please, no personal requests. Only autographs at this time." I looked around the room. There were only nine people still in attendance.
Nora said, "That was a wonderful reading, Frank. I wish you much success."
He looked up and for a moment it seemed he had trouble connecting the words he had heard with their source.
Then he said, "Nora? Is it little Nora? Jaysus, don't do that to me. You scared me half to death. A voice out of my past."
"I'm sorry," she said. I was holding her elbow and I could feel her tensing.
"How many years has it been?" Frank asked.
It was then that I realized he had crossed over. Twenty minutes earlier the room had been filled with close to two hundred people, and Frank had treated them to bits and pieces of his dark history, opening his soul as it were, and he hadn't seen, I mean really seen, any of the faces in front of him.
They came and the party was a success. All evening long, Malachy regaled us with personal achievements. Frank quietly impressed with tales of overcoming hardships. He never mentioned he was writing a memoir, only that he was about to retire after many years of teaching.
At one point there was a toast to Nora's mother, who had been hospitable when first Frank the lad, then later Malachy, had returned to America.
I joined in, though this was only a story to me, and I felt inadequate under Malachy's gleam.
The next year, on publication of Frank's book, saw a shift in their status. Suddenly, the quiet one was the star.
Nora and I went to every booksigning and reading within our range.
One evening, I'm sure it was before the Pulitzer, I had to work late. Nora went to Barnes & Noble and saved me a place. When I arrived, they had already closed off the public access. When Frank arrived, I was allowed with a couple of other latecomers to ride down in the elevator with him and his agent. I nodded but there was no sign of recognition. As we exited, someone led him to a table and handed him a glass of wine. I joined Nora and her young cousin Stephen in the seated crowd.
After a sparkling reading, he signed many copies of his book. We straggled until there were only a few people left.
Nora placed a book in front of Frank and asked him to address it to Stephen. The agent spoke up. "Please, no personal requests. Only autographs at this time." I looked around the room. There were only nine people still in attendance.
Nora said, "That was a wonderful reading, Frank. I wish you much success."
He looked up and for a moment it seemed he had trouble connecting the words he had heard with their source.
Then he said, "Nora? Is it little Nora? Jaysus, don't do that to me. You scared me half to death. A voice out of my past."
"I'm sorry," she said. I was holding her elbow and I could feel her tensing.
"How many years has it been?" Frank asked.
It was then that I realized he had crossed over. Twenty minutes earlier the room had been filled with close to two hundred people, and Frank had treated them to bits and pieces of his dark history, opening his soul as it were, and he hadn't seen, I mean really seen, any of the faces in front of him.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Published at Out of Ruins
My story Mack's Kids appears at Michael John Grist's site Out of Ruins, a mixed 'zine of dark fiction stories and Haikyo photography.
I consider this my first published piece because unlike the work at Six Sentences, it is on a site to which I am in no way affiliated. M.J. Grist, thank you for helping me climb out of the dark ages.
I consider this my first published piece because unlike the work at Six Sentences, it is on a site to which I am in no way affiliated. M.J. Grist, thank you for helping me climb out of the dark ages.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Graffiti
This story has been taken down for an overhaul.
Thanks to all who read and commented. Your kind words and advice have inspired me to rewrite parts, and this piece has been published on Out of Ruins where it fits in nicely.
Thanks again.
Thanks to all who read and commented. Your kind words and advice have inspired me to rewrite parts, and this piece has been published on Out of Ruins where it fits in nicely.
Thanks again.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
World Peace Day
Wouldn't it be great if there were no news items posted anywhere or reported on television about any sort of discrepancy, disagreement, fighting, arguing, or criminal activity? What a boring news program, and what a treat to our overtaxed psyches. I'm keeping my fingers crossed, well, not at the moment while I'm typing, that everyone everywhere takes the theme of the day to heart and tries to help someone somewhere who may need it.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
I am a Hoarder
In going through my mail today, I found a notice from A&E Insider News about a show they have called Hoarders. I haven't watched it, and after realizing my own situation, I'm kind of afraid to see myself in one of the episodes.
Reading Wikipedia's take on the situation was enough for me to see and say, yes, I am a bibliomaniac and a digital hoarder, and yes, I am the child of a traditional hoarder.
There is help all over the place including YouTube, but it is hard to admit to oneself that something needs to be done, and the only way to do it, is to get off your duff and take action.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Starting out on the right foot
Sondra Harris, who has been maintaining an online diary called The Ministry of Silly Walks since November 2001, and whom I found out about through Rob McEvily's searching through the archives at his Six Sentences, began the whole thing in exactly the right frame of mind for an unknown blogger. I wish I had approached this with the same sense of deliberation.
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