Category: fiction

Mindless

Seven in the morning. It’d had already slid into another shitty day when Don’s mind shrilly and loudly said, “I can’t take this fucking shit.”

That tone cut Don’s ear drums. As Don winced and clapped his hands over his ears, his mind stomped through his brain. “I’m fuckin’ outta here.”

Looking up, Don said, “No, wait,” beginning to stand as all this happened. His mind wrenched his brain’s door open.

Used to being closed, the door shrieked, “Hey, what the fuck? I was sleepin’, man.”

Stepping out, his mind slammed the door shut behind him, rattling Don’s empty head. The door said, “That’s fuckin’ better. Now keep it down. I need some zzzs.”

Just like that, Don’s mind was gone again.

Sitting, Don sighed. Sipping his soda, he picked up his phone with his little hands and opened Twitter. It was gonna be another mindless fucking day for him.

2

Compelling

It was the fourth series of the show. I’d watched and enjoyed two episodes. Character driven but with a strong plot, the pacing was fast, with powerful acting. Then I watched the third episode…

As George T. would say, “Oh myyyy…”

I had to know what happened next. The plotting became diabolical, with more twists and cutbacks than a lonely mountain road. The characters’ complexities increased, the acting stayed sharp and the pacing intensified.  WTH, I thought as Monday slipped into Tuesday, I’ll watch one more. Then I watched another, and then, well, only one remained.

So it was that I’d binge-watched the final four episodes. And it was fucking brilliant and clever, what I look for in my entertainment. No wonder it’s been consistently nominated for awards, and often wins. Love that series, but they’re so far apart. Just like they do to me with Game of Thrones, Stranger Things, and several other series I enjoy.

Sure, I didn’t get to bed until two thirty on Tuesday morning, but I have no regrets, and lots of coffee.

 

0

Imagination

“I always worry about you injuring yourself with that tool that you say that we don’t have, the chain saw,” she said.

“The one you never see me using?” he asked.

She nodded. “That’s the one.”

1

Getting Weird

Rounding the corner, pushing himself to walk hard and fast, he almost ran into another person. The other guy seemed to be doing the same thing as him. As both jerked back in reaction, they looked at one another in the face.

Blue eyes rested a in tanned and lean, craggy face under short, sandy-blonde hair.

He almost gasped aloud. He almost said, “Steve McQueen.”

Quickly, the other man turned and strode away. As he gaped at the man’s receding back, he thought, that can’t be Steve McQueen. Steve McQueen died a long time ago, like decades ago, or something, from a heart attack. He remembered it because McQueen and his father had been born in the same age. McQueen’s death, when he was just fifty, scared his father.

He wished he could call his father and talk about it, but his father had died the year before. As he mused on that, wondering if it was McQueen’s doppelganger or maybe a son, he almost ran into another man.

“Excuse me,” the other man said with a smile.

He jerked back in shock. “Johnny Carson?”

The man put a finger to his lips with a furtive grin. “Shh. Mum’s the word.” Then he turned and hurried away into the brightening day.

0

Progress Report – Incomplete States

I wrote five books (originally four) for my latest work in process.

I began work on this series in July, 2016. It was originally one book in concept, but what did I know? Eventually, it became four books. Then I felt it necessary to split the original final book into two books because it was over six hundred pages and three hundred thousand words. In an amusing aside, twenty-five documents were created to develop the five books, with well over a million words.

I considered the first take on the entire series to be a beta draft because the novels’ story lines were so interwoven. While written one at a time, I often edited and revised the previous books as I learned the story.

Now I’m editing the fourth book, creating a true first draft of the Incomplete States series by clarifying that story. Once the first draft is finished, another draft will be required to ensure that the same story is being told in the series’ five books (Four on Kyrios, Entangled LEREs, Six (with Seven), A Sense of Time, and An Undying Quest). Then comes another draft to sharpen and polish, and then it goes to the editors for their input.

I’d expected to have the series’ first draft completed by Thanksgiving, but my error (not saving a backup) set me back (lesson learned). I now have December twenty-first as my target date for completion. It’s not unreasonable, as long as I don’t do anything stupid.

Meanwhile, it is fun to read my creation. I’m enjoying myself. My writing /editing time is a sanctuary from existence’s frustration, pain, and weariness.

Time to edit and write like crazy at least one more time.

0

The Knowledge

Listening to sudden sirens outside, he wondered where they were going, and what sort of emergency prompted the sirens during the night’s darkest trenches. He didn’t know, and would probably never know.

What he knew, he thought, wasn’t much, about anything. He knew a little, pretended to know more, and bullshit about knowing much more. But when reviewing what he knew while staring into the dark hours dedicated to sleeping, he knew he didn’t know much. Didn’t know what was going on with his body, his mate, his house, or politics, nothing really, not even when more was revealed. In fact, he decided, he could probably fit what he knew into the tip of one little finger.

He didn’t know if it would fit into the right or the left better. He assumed they were pretty much the same, but he didn’t know.

0

The Secret Hour

We’ve voted in our house, and agree that we should have a secret hour – that extra one that doesn’t show up anywhere but in your sleep – every night. (Amusingly, it’s called setting the clocks back to conceal the deal the Feds made with the Time Fairies.)

The vote was unanimous and not a surprise that the cats all voted for it. We had to wake them up to vote. As Papi summarized, “If it’s food or sleeping, I’m all for it.”

We know better than to actually advocate for a secret hour every night. There are dangers associated with having the Time Fairies come each night to give you the extra hour. One, your time isn’t infinite. Those hours come from somewhere.

Two, and more worrying, for every hour they give you, the Time Fairies own you more.

Most worrying of all, the Time Fairies are thin-skinned and petty. They’re wont to go for revenge at the slightest perceived insult. You must be careful not to piss them off.  I’m sure you’ve seen some of their victims, listless as they wander around, craving sleep that will not come, not able to die because it’s not their time, but without the energy to do anything, because the Time Fairies own their time.

 

3

I Live In My Writing

I live in my writing,

an odd place to be,

but you’d be there, too,

if you see what I see.

 

I live in my writing,

and lose track of time,

at least in this world,

but, to me, that’s fine.

 

I live in my writing,

enjoying the ambiance of life,

it’s an unlimited existence,

and has far less strife.

 

I live in my writing,

and some are dismayed,

so am I, really,

because I never get paid.

 

I live in my writing,

it’s a solitary existence,

and maybe existential,

but at least it’s consistent.

 

0

The Optimistic Writer

He’d died, but he didn’t know it. He’d been writing his novel, and then editing and revising it. It wasn’t until he’d finished it that he came up for air and discovered he no longer had a body, and wasn’t a part of anyone’s earthly existence.

As far as he could ascertain, he’d been dead for several months. Probate of his meager estate was concluded, his clothing and personal items given away, and his name moved from one set of records to another. The cause of his death wasn’t clear. It seemed that he couldn’t see that, no matter how he tried to view it.

After some reflection, he wasn’t too concerned. Being dead meant no more concerns about money, health, politics, and the environment. He didn’t need to worry about being killed crossing the street or shot by some madman with a gun. The worst part about his death appeared to be that he was out of coffee.

That was going to put a crimp in his plans. On the other hand, he had a new novel idea.

He couldn’t wait to get started.

0

The Secret

“Magic,” she said.

She saw his eyes narrow and his facial lines smooth out, a typical reaction (although some laughed in scorn (or disgust) and others often swore and walked out on her). This reaction was considered the polite one, but he’d probably already decided that she was a nut, and that he would leave.

But he was still there now.

“Magic,” he said in a bland, heavy voice.

“Yes, magic. Magic is everywhere, and in everything, but magic takes different forms. Magic is universal, but the magic you have and how you use it can be different.”

Ah, a rarity. Pupils widening, his eyes opened a millimeter. The light in his brown irises changed.

“Consider water,” she said. “Broadly, water is the same everywhere, a transparent and tasteless liquid chemical substance with the formula H20. But water varies, doesn’t it? Water can become ice. Water becomes snow, hail, and steam. Sea water, tap water, and river water are different, aren’t they?

“Our magic is akin to water in this way, it has different forms and qualities. You have to find your magic in you and learn how to use it.

“That’s the secret to success.”

0

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