To finish things off with an awesome dessert, Sandra defends, sci-fi, genre writing and fiction, in general.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
To finish things off with an awesome dessert, Sandra defends, sci-fi, genre writing and fiction, in general.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
And as long as I am rehashing existing bits from my old blog, you'll get me singing the holiday standards again...
Oh Christmas Pee
Hipsters roasting over an open fire
He knows when you are sleeping
So, if you order now, you will get a bonus track by MC Santa Clauz...
Silent night, holy shite
That's all folks, and Merry Christmas!
Monday, December 21, 2009
I'm working on something that better be ready for tomorrow morning, but in the meantime?
From Dan Piraro's Bizarro comic, this all you need to know about my taste in women.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Yeah, my sentiments exactly. While I'm burned out after a particularly taxing writing project, that just might be one of the best things that I've ever written, I need to find new inspiration. And hey, most importantly, so do you!
"My aim is to put down on paper what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way."
From The Creative Screenwriting Magazine's Weekly Newsletter
Last, but not least, a good friend of mine reminds us of why we even bother...
We do what we have to do so that we may do what we want to do.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
For all my people from The Twelve Tribes, she has a Do-It-Yourself Chanukah at Bier Magazine. Of course, we goyim can enjoy these good noshes, too.
If the holidays aren't your thing, I'll bet you chocolate is. Katherine has a chocolate truffle recipe, and an even easier fool-proof recipe for idiots like me, who tend to mangle desert.
She does this while editing Astonishing Adventures Magazine, writing her own fiction and covering movie scripts. That, is why I call her the "Super Editor."
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Keith Rawson has been doing some pretty tremendous interviews lately with some major authors, including the likes of Michael Connelly and Ken Bruen. His latest one is no exception, Joesph Wambaugh.
I must confess that I haven't read a lot of Wambaugh and the only book of his that I still own is "Hollywood Station."
That doesn't mean I don't appreciate who he is and what he's done. In terms of the modern police procedural, he is the biggest influence on my influences. Just ask Robert Crais, Michael Connelly, and James Ellroy, as to who inspired them. You can also Michael Mann, David Simon, Stephen J. Cannell and David Chase, because virtually every cop show drew from the Wambaugh well as a source of inspiration.
Every crime novel, tv show and graphic novel for the past thirty five year or so, has a little of Joesph's touch in it. So Ladies and Gentlemen, please pop over to BSC Review and check out Keith's interview.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
When it's a Splotchy Story Virus! But you ask, Center of Disease Control, just how does this work? I'll let Splotchy explain-
Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.
If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.
Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.
There always has to be a start of a story, so here it is.
The mall was crowded. There were happy people, angry people, people in a hurry, even a few people sleeping on benches. To the security guard, they were a blur of coats, hats and scarves. He was just beginning his second eight hour shift. He yawned, leaning against a pillar in the food court, the aftertaste of terrible mall cookies lingering on his tongue. His eyes abruptly snapped open with the loud sound of glass shattering behind him.
The glass landed on the main concourse floor and the strung Christmas lights around the mall made the floor glitter like a field of glittering gems. Out of Hot Topic came a huge tasseled-shod foot and the glass cracked like ice under the foot's immense weight. Above that antiquated shoe was a massive muscular leg, clad in green tights.
The elder Mrs. Hajba knows what this creature is and she screams out its name, yet no one understands her. Mostly because everyone else is too busy screaming, but also because the only person would understand, her daughter Anastasia, is across the mall at T.G. McFunster's...trying to find husband number four, lest her, and her mother be deported.
This being that apparently is unknown to America, stands some sixteen feet tall in bright green and red clothing that would be more suitable to the Renaissance. The brute is muscular and misshapen, with veins that bulge and throb at a preternaturally speed. Its skin is bright white, and its teeth silver and black like tinsel. The eyes of the beast have no pupils or irises to speak of. They could best be described as giant red, opaque Christmas ball ornaments.
Mrs. Hajba summons every brain cell that American TV soaps haven't manged to destroy yet and she yells at the security guard, "It's Ghost of Kreestmass Disappoint-ted!"
That's it for me, I pass the baton on to:
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
- Edith Wharton
"You must keep sending work out; you must never let a manuscript do nothing but eat its head off in a drawer. You send that work out again and again, while you're working on another one. If you have talent, you will receive some measure of success...but only if you persist."
- Isaac Asimov
From The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Ante Scriptum: This story has been removed in order to honor a contract with Untreed Reads. When the contract is up, this story will be reposted here.
This was for a flash fiction challenge and I have an alternate story that I did for this same challenge that I'll save for mid-December. This act of arson is allegedly based on an alleged incident that a supermarket allegedly pulled to get rid of a union warehouse. They allegedly did this so that they could move everything to a warehouse in the boonies, that was outside of the union's jurisdiction and in a the county didn't recognize the union's rules.
I don't know the particulars beyond the alleged forklift "accident" and the alleged sprinkler "failure." Everything I've heard about alleged incident was third-hand, so don't ask me to comment on it.
Quoth the Patti-
Steve Weddle recently posted a link on facebook to this. (People of Wal*Mart) and suggested along with Keith Rawson) that Aldo, Gerald and I host a flash challenge using this site as our inspiration.
What I would like to propose is a 750-800 word story that is set, or at least partially set, in a Wal*Mart Store.It could also be a story that refers to such a store in a meaningful way. If you take exception to Walmart, name it something else. We'll know what you mean.
Post the story on your own blog or on Aldo's Powder Burn Flash. I'm thinking of November 30th. Please don't post your story ahead of time--it throws things off. Let Aldo know if you want him to post it. Let Gerald or me know if you're "in" as soon as possible.
Walmart shoppers: beware.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
It's called Writer's Block Buster. It generates character development, scenarios, etc...and it is meant to defeat all the roadblocks you might encounter as a writer.
Now if only they had an app that helps with consistency and quality, I'd buy that for a dollar, RoboCop.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Super Editor and author, Katherine Tomlinson has a brilliant story up at A Twist of Noir called "Another Day In Paradise," that says Sartre was only half-right.
Looking to explore online sources for distribution, Darke Media is releasing the entirety of “Fierce Cravings” for free through sources such as YouTube and iTunes. Plans are in place to launch a second serial, starring the mascot Scarlett, of Astonishing Adventures, in mid 2010.
“Uncertain where the horrific changes to his body and mind are leading, the masked man begins documenting his descent into Hell.”
“Fierce Cravings” tells its chilling tale in the same cinematic style utilized by hits like “Paranormal Activity”, “The Blair Witch Project”,and “Quarantine.”
For more information on Darke Media please visit the dedicated website at http://darkemedia.wordpress.com/
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you "They Come From Above," at Beat To A Pulp.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
And remember, anything you say in bed, can be used against in the Court of Noir.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
We went to the store to pick it up on Thursday, and there was quite a commotion. There were kids bouncing around the store like Super Balls in a rubber room and their rude parents, who were just knocking over the unaware shoppers such as The Teen and myself, like sharks in an aquarium roundabout. Ah yes, you work so hard to teach your child some manners and to not walk through people, and then a bunch of adult idiots do their best to unravel that lesson.
There were five times as many people there as usual, I wouldn't have ventured in any further than the sales counter, but The Teen wanted to look at the manga section. We were in a hurry because I wanted to get back home in time for the Niner game. There was a small stage and quite an autograph line that was still going strong. So strong in fact, that I couldn't see who the author or authors were.
Yet, what do you care? You're more interested in the book I ordered, right? Here it is, "One Too Many Blows To The Head," which triples my "to be read" pile.
Oh, and the just who was the source of this hysteria? TMBG was there to do a quick gig and sign their new children's book. Of course I didn't figure that out until after I had left the store and saw a notice similar to this one in the window.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
This has been vexing me to the point that I can't really come up with a subject to blog about here. I have been basically linking other people's works (which I would've done anyway), and rehashing older stuff (which I wouldn't have done so much). So I had to outside for inspiration.
The place is named, "Would You Believe? Cocktails." Shouldn't that be, "Would You Believe, Cocktails?" Regardless, I'm a cynic, so the answer is, "no," however it is phrased.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Her story "Proof of Life" was in Issue #19 of Thug Lit and it is probably one of the most unique crime fiction stories that you will ever read. Katherine truly gave my favorite genre a third dimension, so please see for yourself with "Proof of Life." Todd Robinson really got it right when he chose it for that issue.
Yet, she's not one toot her own horn and so the work that should be recognized, almost becomes a strange version of that koan about the forest.
Two years later, Christopher Grant enters the picture, because that's the beauty of his site, A Twist of Noir. The stories that didn't find their proper audience the first time, can reach a new one and the reader benefits this time. Because not only do you get a chance to discover or rediscover a story, the artist gets a chance to do the little things to improve that story.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Christopher Grant gives you the revised and improved version of Katherine Tomlinson's "Proof Of Life."
Monday, November 9, 2009
Wolfmont Press is giving you, "The Gift of Murder." Nineteen stories of mystery, thriller and crime fiction revolving around the winter holidays...including one by our own Sandra Seamans. Best of all, all proceeds go to Toys For Tots. Click the "TGOM" link and you have your choice of purchasing via Wolfmont, eBook or Amazon.
Speaking of Ebooks, Full of Crow Ebooks has the "Less Than Three Anthology." Tales of absurdest fiction under three paragraphs, featuring Paul D. Brazill's latest tale, "M." Click the Full of Crow site and then click the "less than" symbol next to the number three.
Finally, if you are a fan of Sherlock Holmes, look no further than The Tainted Archive. Gary Dobbs has put together over thirty posts about the Great Detective over the weekend. Click here, here, here, and here. Whew, it's going to take a little more than a weekend to read all of them, Evelyn Wood.
It’s hot. Almost “ Death Valley kills the pioneers” hot. Which is no easy feat, considering that this is October in usually foggy San Francisco. But the Northern Californian version of Chandler ’s Santa Ana winds, the "Diablo," is seeing to that, making everything as arid as the Sahara.
Kelly Boles has it in his head to take a week off…unpaid. Fuck the mounting pile of bills on the stand by the door; he feels a novel running through his head like a dam about to burst. Kelly though he would he would try “kickwriting” like Kerouac did with “On The Road,” minus the rolls of tracing paper taped together and the Benzedrine.
He over-caffeinated himself and as a result, every single thing is a distraction: the wailing cries of his computer’s overworked fan, his dying piece-of-shit refrigerator, his growling stomach, and the ambient noise of his neighbors that is bouncing off the heat and into his open windows.
The couple next door is particularly vexing, as they argue about how to prepare a dish.
“It’s not Szechwan beef if you cook it vegetable oil! You have to use peanut oil!”
“Then why don’t you go buy some fucking peanut oil, already?”
“I will!...uh, can you lend me some money?”
Kelly cannot believe that she tolerates this tool. She’s beautiful and she can cook? That idiot should be kissing the very ground that she walks on. Women like that might become extinct within his lifetime.
Kelly’s stomach is grumbling, so he drinks a glass of water to shut it up. He looks across the street and sees “Szechwan Beef” dash into the corner store. Kelly thinks about the wonderful aromas from next door that are to come and his stomach grumbles again. He gulps down another glass of water.
As he puts the glass in the sink, he notices a balding man in a trench coat dashing into the store. Who the hell wears a trench coat in this kind of weather? A flasher? The guy has to be a flasher, because porn theaters don’t exist anymore.
“Open the register now!”
“Jesus, that guy had a shotgun under that trench coat,” whispers Kelly. The store’s owner reaches under the counter and oh shit, watch out Szechwan Beef! He didn’t see or hear “Trench Coat” and he panics, dropping the bottle of peanut oil and startling everyone.
The store’s owner brings his pistol up and “Trench Coat” pulls the trigger. Good God, the roar is deafening as the heat ricochets the sound all over the neighborhood. The store’s windows are peppered with blood, gore and holes. The store’s owner is nowhere to be seen. Trench Coat turns toward Szechwan Beef, but he already fled during the first shot.
Trench Coat pumps a shell into the chamber and takes a step. He slips, he disappears, a foot comes up, and there’s a muffled boom.
Kelly looks left and right, but there seems to be nobody in the store. He gets his phone and dials 911. He grabs a chair and stands up. Kelly can barely see Trench Coat’s feet twitching in the window and he sees what he guesses are teeth or bits of bone, right by the front door. It’s hard to tell from this distance.
The panicking footsteps of Szechwan Beef echo outside in the hallway. As the 911 operator puts him on hold before he can say anything, Kelly shakes his head. Not because of the operator, but because this would’ve made a great story. Unfortunately, Kelly feels that just like stickups, crime fiction doesn’t pay enough.
Note: I added a line to this version, because it's not entirely clear what happened to Kelly's obnoxious neighbor.
Friday, November 6, 2009
"There are some books that refuse to be written. They stand their ground year after year and will not be persuaded. It isn't because the book is not there and worth being written -- it is only because the right form of the story does not present itself. There is only one right form for a story and if you fail to find that form the story will not tell itself."
- Mark Twain
"In Hollywood, defining the content of a movie is like sex-- everyone thinks they can do it and do it well. And they're not inclined to give up the chance to do it just so someone else can do it."
- Terry Rossio
"Writing is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public."
- Winston Churchill
From two issues of The Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter and no, don't fling your writing toward the at large public, or at anyone in private.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
"Call me Mike?" With a huge bejeweled turban and a silk outfit like that, wouldn't you rather be called "Rajah" or "Maharajah?" Okay, okay, put the sword away, we'll call you "Mike!"
The robots of the world did not take kindly to Doris Dingleheim's panning of the special edition of "Metropolis."
Monday, November 2, 2009
...won't you please check in? A "spirited" place of hospitality, if there ever was one.*
"One Too Many Blows To The Head" by JB Kohl and Eric Beenter has been released on Amazon, and...
Last but not least, Veronica is back with a tale that will break your heart.
*Motel jpeg from http://www.anntorrence.com/
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
At any rate, that man is still very much with us and cats like Aldo Calcagno, Christopher Grant, and Col Bury are keeping the tradition of the man called "Tribe," going on strong. Mind you, there are plenty of great crime fiction sites, but these guys follow Tribe's tradition of crime flash fiction for the people, by the people.
As long as you follow the criteria of each site and you don't bring the weak stuff, you are in. No hoops to jump and no oddly distant rejection letters that make you wonder if the editor even read your story at all. Here is "Beef Wellington, It's What's For Dinner" and you even get the little side note/coda that I attached back in February 22, 2007-
They say that a man who defends himself in court has a fool for a client. So one of these fools told me that the law says that you have the right to be tried by a jury of your peers. Of course, the same fool had pizza for his last meal so that shows you where his head was at.
“Peers.” Ha, that’s a good one. If they’re my peers, then I’m an innocent man. Hold on, maybe I misspoke. I’m not claiming to be innocent…I’m just saying that I wasn’t guilty of this crime. Each of the two times that I’ve had to face the twelve people sitting to the right of the judge, I’ve never seen a familiar face.
By familiar, I mean someone who has even remotely looked like they’ve experienced even a fraction of the things I’ve experienced. They are not my peers. My peers know what I’ve gone through. My peers would’ve known right away that everything I’ve done, I did to someone else before they could do it to me.
By familiar, I mean someone who has had to risk their life to just to go to the store. Someone who has been shot at, just because some joke of a man was high and thought that I looked at him funny. Someone who has given his best friend a roof over his head and food, only to have that friend try and kill him over fifty dollars that wasn’t his to begin with.
So like I said, I’m not innocent, I just didn’t commit this crime. But the things I’ve done in life, who would believe me? I’m not even sure that I’d believe me if I sat in that jury box. I know I thought my real peers would understand, but let me contradict myself again. Who were my fake peers to judge me? Walk a mile in my shoes and you’d cut off your own feet.
Still, I’m not bitter…though I’m not exactly resigned to my fate either. I just know that it is my time…they’re going to get me one way or the other. My appeals are as exhausted as my spirit. I’m out of options, but I guess the one thing that I can do is to fuck them up for my last meal.
I want some of that beef Wellington that I’ve always heard about and some lobster, fuck that pizza crap.
Note: This story relates to my fascination with the last meals of death row inmates. Invariably, they tend to choose comfort food or the food that they miss the most from outside of the prison walls. So I always have wondered why haven't I read about someone who wanted something just a little more eloborate before the chemical drip.
I would've elaborated more, but Tribe set a 500 word limit.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Over at the other side of the pond, they bring a fresh perspective to noir and quite frankly, it tends to have a little more depth than most (though, not all) of American crime fiction. It is my belief that among those writers to change things up over here, will be Paul D. Brazill. He shifts from the abyss, to humor, to poetry, and all with amazing ease.
I will give you an opportunity to see for yourselves, by giving you two links to some of his horror writing:
His story "This Old House" is up again at A Twist Of Noir, and let's just say Bob Villa wouldn't last a minute in that abode.
And part of Erin Cole's Thirteen Days of Horror, comes "The Friend Catcher."
Monday, October 26, 2009
I said, "don't scream."
C'mon, give me a break, stop screaming already!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Beach says, "The strange man dressed as Carmen Miranda walked into the bar and demanded to know who had taken his pet iguana."
The Professor says, "On the sidewalk, fallen between the cracks was..."
I went with the latter. Here is "The Sidewalk."
“On the sidewalk, between the fallen cracks, was what looked like a twenty dollar bill.”
“Now, I will pass pennies right on by, and if I feel particularly limber in my advancing age on a given day, I will go after a dime. Nickels? Not even. So there was what looked like a twenty-dollar bill and I was on it like a kid hopped-up on sugar at a birthday party, in front of a freshly opened piñata.”
“Well, I hate to pass good money, but I really should have left this alone, because instead of Andrew Jackson on the bill? A picture of Pamela Anderson graced the illegal tender, and not a particularly good one. And the bill itself came with strings attached…literally, with a wire-thin metal cable that went below the sidewalk.”
“A wooden cage came down and trapped me like a lethargic and awestruck rat. Dumbfounded, I slumped down on my keister and that’s when they swarmed me. No, not bugs, but their high-pitched screams sounded similar to mosquitoes. They were blue Pygmies…or were they?”
“They were only five inches tall and they weren’t African, but they had on the same attire as Pygmies and they had blow darts…lots and lots of blow darts. It felt like a dozen beestings and I went from dumbstruck to woozy. My head felt like it weighed about one hundred pounds, and one of the miniature monsters grabbed a forelock of what was left of the hair on top of my head on my way down.”
“My skull bounced hard against the concrete and the little blue imp’s hold did not relent. I saw how they appeared out of the blue so fast, the little monsters had ropes dangling from the top of the cage that they rappelled down from. This one was brandishing a spear and he was about to poke me in my eye, when a purple cloud appeared around the cage.”
“They screamed in unison, ‘the Mauve Miasma! The Mauve Miasma!’ I laughed against my will, as their panicked running amok on my body tickled me. The swirling pale lavender cloud descended down at an alarming rate and the little fiends screeched and coughed as they collapsed on me. I soon followed them into that unwanted slumber.”
“I awoke some hours later, just how many, I don’t know. It was still daylight, yet somehow I was directly across the street from the place where I had fallen down. An elderly man stood over me and asked me if I was okay. He helped me to my feet and gave me a reassuring pat on the back.”
“As he walked away, pushing a laundry cart covered with a blanket, I thought I heard those familiar high-pitched screams again. I was too light-headed to follow the man. As I walked past the window of a closed store, I was in for a shock. I was purple! My face, my arms, even under my shirt, I was purple!”
“What, I’m telling you just what happened, as it happened, and…”
“Murray, stop it. That’s enough. You’re embarrassing yourself and you are embarrassing me, if you think I’m going to believe that horseshit. I’ve been stood up by better men than you, and they were at least polite enough to be honest about it.”
“How could you not believe me?”
“Because,” Dottie says as she gets up and licks her fingers, “this is why,” and Dottie rubs her fingers across Murray’s forehead. The purple above his eyes comes off. “What did you use, Murray, grape skins?”
“I’m telling you the God’s honest truth! If I’m not telling you the truth, may I be run down by an over-caffeinated waiter.”
As Murray stands up, a waiter with a tray of food comes along and bumps into him, sending the two men and the food all over the restaurant floor. Dottie takes her drink off the table and pours it on Murray’s head, washing all coloring off her sputtering never-to-be Lothario. Dottie storms away like a speeding cloud that is an omen before a hurricane.
“I suppose you don’t believe I was run over by an over-caffeinated waiter, either!”
“Give it a rest, Murray,” the waiter grumbles. “You owe me fifty for the stunt, another thirty for dry cleaning and for the food.”
“You, my friend, will receive no tip from Murray Himmelman.”
Saturday, October 24, 2009
I am now going to have a competition of my own, and give away the set of five autographed “No-Cry” books by Elizabeth Pantley!
Anyone can enter, and to enter I would like you to write a blog post about an old-wives tale that has to do with raising a child, and whether or not you think it has any relevance today (you can find some here if you’re stuck for ideas).
Link to this post so I can find the posts of course and spread the word. I’ll post the books to the winner no matter where in the world they are.
And I will send something special- and not necessarily parenting related- to the person who refers the most people here, so be sure others know to tell me where they came from ;). The competition closes on October 29th.
Click here for details!
Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Pamila Payne brings nuance to crime writing, that's right, nuance. I'm not saying that other crime writers tell a story without it (big glass house, right here), I'm just saying she understands it perfectly...right before she hits you with the denouement.
Keith Rawson finishes things up with whipped cream and a cherry, via an interview with Reed Farrel Coleman and Ken Bruen.
Lo and behold, Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, commies and conservatives, Cormac's San Francisco chili at Bier Magazine!
...or if you are out this way, Fat Tire or Anchor Steam!
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
No, I won't resort to gasoline or henna, but I guarantee you that I will be a Firecrotch one day.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
...and around, and around, and around. The greatest value in that is eventually you will find something of quality...at least in theory. Regardless, yes I did discover a golden nugget inside of a green apple...Green Apple Books that is.
At the Green Apple Book Blog, they said that author Sherman Alexie was going to pop in for a quick signing. So I brought The Missus and The Teen with me for this event, only I didn't tell them just why were walking down Clement Street with two Sherman Alexie books and a camera.
"Are we going to see Sherman Alexie?
You know that despite my best efforts to misdirect and misinform to the contrary, The Missus said, "you know that (The Teen's) copy is already autographed, right?"
"What, we're going out to eat, okay?"
Of course she didn't go for it, so I said, "well, he can autograph it twice, all right?"
"You are not going to ask him to autograph his own book twice."
"Fine, I won't ask him to sign it twice."
We waited upstairs in the Philosophy section for Mr. Alexie, and I leaned on the Russian history (which is some kind of omen, considering Russian history plays a small role in the story I've been stuck on). I wanted us to get there early, which just made things worse. By the time he showed up, I was good and nervous.
Luckily, Sherman worked with me, as I sputtered and mumbled. He signed my battered copy of "The Lone Ranger And Tonto Fistfight In Heaven," and he posed for a picture with me.
We talked for a few seconds and I thanked him for being such a wonderful influence on me. I meant my writing as well, but that was basically the only coherent sentence I got out where The Missus didn't have to translate it. He was nice enough to also autograph The Teen's "The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian" for a second time without me asking, saving me from the frying pan wrath of The Missus.
I felt bad that I had offered up dogeared book for him to autograph, so I grabbed a copy of "War Dances" and you know what?
Friday, October 9, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
What kind of work day did I have last night? I'll put it to you this way; the denizens of Hades are now saying, "whoa, I just had the day from Cormac."
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Okay, no Rich*rd G*re jokes, damn it! It's Friday Flash Fiction time!
MRMacrum came up with the starter sentence and it is: "Hanging on with one hand, he considered his alternatives."
Monday, October 5, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Saturday, October 3, 2009
In 2nd place, "At Least I Felt Something" by Sophie Littlefield.
And The First Watery Grave Invitational Award goes to "Beast" by Hilary Davidson.
Congratulations to the winners!
Friday, October 2, 2009
"If you're not failing every now and again, it's a sign you're not doing anything very innovative."
- Woody Allen
"The writer's only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one... If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the "Ode on a Grecian Urn" is worth any number of old ladies."
– William Faulkner
From The Creative Screenwriting Magazine's Weekly Newsletter
Uh, yeah, Billy? Sorry, my late mom is off-limits.
But that's not all, don't miss Doc's revisit of Aesop!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Enough with the questions. I had to get out of the house and out of the city, that much was certain.
Unfortunately the epiphany that I was looking for came about nine minutes too late. I had become one of those people in the newspapers that I hold in contempt, because their reflexes override their common sense. Like when someone is crossing the street on a stormy day and wind snatches their umbrella from their hands. They turn around and scramble for their umbrella, not realizing that the light has changed and the bus is going to run the umbrella and them, over.
Or when a house is burning down and someone goes back into the house to retrieve the family photo album, only to have the ceiling collapse and snuff out their lives. My undoing was my vanity, which managed to betray me twice. My fingers were still burning as I sat down in my Subaru station wagon, the bleach and cleansers amongst other things had done quite a number on my hands.
Nor did I feel clean despite soaking in the shower until the water heater cried “uncle.” I could still feel the dirt from the backyard caked all over me. I grabbed the rear view mirror and looked back at my tired eyes. I looked every bit as old and worn out as Miranda accused me of being; “thirty going on sixty-five,” despite the fact that I’m four years younger than she was. She knew from the very first date that we had, that I hated aging and she made it a point throughout our relationship to push that button like some robot that tests a part’s durability so many thousands of times.
I took a deep breath and adjusted the mirror back to its original position. I had to get away from this house…I had to get away from this city.
It wasn’t really someone or something chasing me away, it was all me and the fact that I couldn’t complete one simple, solitary thought. I had become a creature of pure instinct with barely any reasoning left over to control my own actions. I did somehow manage to book a flight to Cabo San Lucas and I also managed to pack a bag. Beyond that, I was just a hot tired mess. I got all of six blocks away from our cozy little house, before I remembered that I had forgotten both my facial scrub and moisturizers. I didn’t want to stop at one of the malls along the way or pay through the nose at the airport for my favorite brand, so I went back home.
As I pulled up, there was Miranda right there at the front gate of our little hideaway and she started in again with how ungracefully I was aging. She was telling me how she was going to leave me for somebody younger whose tits weren’t permanently going south for the winter.
“Nobody’s going to want you, Sheila, except for some museum that might use you as a stand-in at a mummy exhibit.”
I kicked the gate open and walked past her. Once I was in Mexico, my thoughts and mind would be my own again. Two minutes later and I had the very products that kept the wrinkles away under my arms in two small carry-on bags…unfortunately that was about three minutes too many.
My brother, who loves to drop by unannounced, pulled up right next to my station wagon and honked. He had a brand new floozy with him and she wasn’t the typical silicone-enhanced cheerleader-type that he usually had dangling from his arm when he’s in town. She had a definite and deliberate air about her.
She was also more butch than Miranda and I put together, which made me dislike her instantly because that was the very type that Miranda seemed to like to cheat on me with, the most. My brother and his new girlfriend got out, and he didn’t close his door all the way, which I had not noticed at the time. Introductions were made, though I still can’t recall her name as I was preoccupied with how was I going to get them to leave and make my flight.
It was at that point that I wondered if her “definite and deliberate air” had the scent of a law enforcement background, because she reeked of being a cop. Suddenly my brother’s car door flew open and a German Sheppard leapt out and ran past me into the yard.
His girlfriend ran after the dog and my brother said, “Wow, Fritzi must have the scent of a dead squirrel or something. She’s training to be a rescue dog and he just goes nuts when there’s anything dead around.”
My brother went after them and I went into a slow backpedal, until they went around the back of the house, where I then got in my Subaru and sped off.
The rest I’ll just have to imagine, as I am now just pulling up on the freeway. No doubt, the dog is still digging through the three and a half feet of dirt that took me some six hours to dig up and he when he finally reaches Miranda, she’ll still have that hateful smirk on her face. She'll have that same vindictive grin that somehow survived that tumble down the stairs that we both took; her neck breaking and me having to drag her into the backyard.
“You know you are going to age twice as fast in prison” Miranda cackles at me in the rear view mirror from the backseat. She has that same venomous sneer on her now purple lips.
I just sigh, as I’ve made peace with the fact that I’ve lost my sanity as far back as last night, when I was digging her grave. I chuckle and say with what little defiance I can muster “even in death, you still can’t keep that big fat trap of yours shut, can you Miranda?”
I changed the first two sentences to point the reader in the right direction, but other than two word substitutions, this is the same story from last year.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
A haunting we will go
A haunting we will go
Yeah...uh, anyway, F-F-F #3 is here. The Baroness Von Bloggenschtern came up with the starter sentence: "There was no respite; the vivid, violent dreams that ruthlessly tormented her slumber had now relentlessly stretched the abyss, to envelop her during her day."
Here are the wonderful results!