I have read more than a few writer blogs about book signings where the authors lament the lack of fans...or even any audience at all. A couple of them have even mentioned the odd book store customer here and there, that manage to mistake the author for a member of the store staff and ask them the location of something.
Yet, what if the very store that you were scheduled to read at, simply folded up just before your big day? Would you flake it off? Or would you decide that you should show up anyway? Who knows, maybe a fan might not be aware of the store's status or maybe they are simply dedicated.
Well Cody's Books folded up on Friday, June 20th and Matt Richtel, author of "Hooked: A Thriller About Love And Addictions" had decided to show up, just in case a reader did and the rest is almost surreal.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Writing Quote Time
Some writing quotes, courtesy of the Creative Screenwriting Weekly newsletter...
"Whenever you write, whatever you write, never make the mistake of assuming the audience is any less intelligent than you are."
"Writing is a solitary business. It takes over your life. In some sense, a writer has no life of his own. Even when he's there, he's not really there."
"Whenever you write, whatever you write, never make the mistake of assuming the audience is any less intelligent than you are."
– Rod Serling
"Writing is a solitary business. It takes over your life. In some sense, a writer has no life of his own. Even when he's there, he's not really there."
– Paul Auster
Saturday, June 14, 2008
"Flashpoint"
With gas prices rising, our plans had to change…if you could call them “plans.” We were already two months behind on our rent and the scratch that Jason and I eke out together as carpenters, isn’t cutting it. With Californian foreclosures at all time high and only so many remodel jobs to go around, our profession is as choice as opening a miniskirt shop in Saudi Arabia.
So Jason plans to pool our remaining $200 and head for Nevada, where we’ll make our rent and them some. If we weren’t so broke, I’d nix this, because Jason’s usual idea of a plan is $20 on black, $20 on green and $30 on “00.” I don’t trust roulette, as the ball always bounces badly like a toothpaste cap that bounces straight for the toilet.
We can’t buy food, cigarettes or gas along the way, as we’ll have to grab what we can and save the rest. I hate this part because I got sick the last time we siphoned gas, so I bought a hand pump in case we had to go through this again. We hit the places where people pull over to hike, so that we have more time to work.
Just forty miles west of Tahoe, around Cisco, our gas tank is running on fumes. We exit off Interstate 80 and we drive around for awhile. Pickings are slim, even though it is a sunny July afternoon. We see a brand new Ford Explorer just off the road and just in time, as Jason’s truck is on “E.” We pull past it some 200 feet away.
Apparently there’s no one around and thick trees on this side road make seem duskier than it really is. Jason has the gas can and I have the pump, we get within ten feet when the Explorer trembles. Two shapes move around in the back seat and we duck off the side road.
The vehicle starts to shake, and then it bounces around, just like a low rider. Jason and I look at each other, and then nod. So what if the SUV is a rockin’? There’s no choice, we have to risk it. Before I walk over there, Jason pulls the tubing off the pump and it hands it to me, I guess he figures the hand crank will make too much noise. I’m just glad I’ve had nothing to eat all day, that way there’s less to vomit up.
I pry the filler door with a pocketknife, fit the tube in the tank and I inhale off the other end. The hardest part is not the taste of gas, but suppressing the gag and not tipping off the couple in the Explorer, who seem to be getting real hot and heavy. The temptation to look is surpassed by my fight not to vomit, but then a woman’s scream for “help” changes my mind.
I carefully peek, they could be role playing, after all, but it seems like they’re not. My first clue is that they seem fully clothed, my second clue is her bulging eyes and his hands wrapped around her throat, and my third clue is the murderous look in his eyes. That same malevolent glare shifts to me and he throws her against the passenger door. I take a step back and reopen the pocketknife as he goes for the other passenger door.
He comes out and while I’m taller and got about fifteen pounds on him, his anger is at full steam and he is on the verge of turning rabid. We circle each other and just as I am about to stab him, liquid falls from the sky and splashes him. It’s Jason; he’s soaked this crazed demon with gasoline and before he can pounce on Jason, Jason has a lighter out. The would-be murderer just doesn’t care and he jumps Jason and he tackles him, the lighter flies out of his hand.
They roll around on the ground and Jason throws him off. As he lands, his belt buckle hits a rock and somehow he ignites. I’d rather not talk about what happens next, other than to say I won’t ever forget the smell of burning flesh.
The woman? She’s battered, she’s bruised, but relatively fine, considering. The police give us plenty of grief, and then they eventually let us go.
Today, her family gave us a reward, for saving her life. So, in a way, the roulette wheel actually bounced right…for a change.
This is for a flash fiction challenge that Patti Abbott posted
SHIFTING GEARS
Spring’s half gone, school’s out, so are you ready for another flash fiction challenge? Mystery Dawg, Gerald So and I have come up with a new one.
Here’s the idea: incorporate the following sentence into a flash story of around 750 words.
“With gas prices rising, their plans had to change.”
OR for those who prefer first person: "With gas prices rising, our plans had to change."
OR the bit ominous, "With gas prices rising, your plans had to change." (Thanks, Peter)
Anything you can do with that sentence as a part of your story is fair game. The line doesn’t have to be the central idea of the story. Or it can be. Whatever you want.
So Jason plans to pool our remaining $200 and head for Nevada, where we’ll make our rent and them some. If we weren’t so broke, I’d nix this, because Jason’s usual idea of a plan is $20 on black, $20 on green and $30 on “00.” I don’t trust roulette, as the ball always bounces badly like a toothpaste cap that bounces straight for the toilet.
We can’t buy food, cigarettes or gas along the way, as we’ll have to grab what we can and save the rest. I hate this part because I got sick the last time we siphoned gas, so I bought a hand pump in case we had to go through this again. We hit the places where people pull over to hike, so that we have more time to work.
Just forty miles west of Tahoe, around Cisco, our gas tank is running on fumes. We exit off Interstate 80 and we drive around for awhile. Pickings are slim, even though it is a sunny July afternoon. We see a brand new Ford Explorer just off the road and just in time, as Jason’s truck is on “E.” We pull past it some 200 feet away.
Apparently there’s no one around and thick trees on this side road make seem duskier than it really is. Jason has the gas can and I have the pump, we get within ten feet when the Explorer trembles. Two shapes move around in the back seat and we duck off the side road.
The vehicle starts to shake, and then it bounces around, just like a low rider. Jason and I look at each other, and then nod. So what if the SUV is a rockin’? There’s no choice, we have to risk it. Before I walk over there, Jason pulls the tubing off the pump and it hands it to me, I guess he figures the hand crank will make too much noise. I’m just glad I’ve had nothing to eat all day, that way there’s less to vomit up.
I pry the filler door with a pocketknife, fit the tube in the tank and I inhale off the other end. The hardest part is not the taste of gas, but suppressing the gag and not tipping off the couple in the Explorer, who seem to be getting real hot and heavy. The temptation to look is surpassed by my fight not to vomit, but then a woman’s scream for “help” changes my mind.
I carefully peek, they could be role playing, after all, but it seems like they’re not. My first clue is that they seem fully clothed, my second clue is her bulging eyes and his hands wrapped around her throat, and my third clue is the murderous look in his eyes. That same malevolent glare shifts to me and he throws her against the passenger door. I take a step back and reopen the pocketknife as he goes for the other passenger door.
He comes out and while I’m taller and got about fifteen pounds on him, his anger is at full steam and he is on the verge of turning rabid. We circle each other and just as I am about to stab him, liquid falls from the sky and splashes him. It’s Jason; he’s soaked this crazed demon with gasoline and before he can pounce on Jason, Jason has a lighter out. The would-be murderer just doesn’t care and he jumps Jason and he tackles him, the lighter flies out of his hand.
They roll around on the ground and Jason throws him off. As he lands, his belt buckle hits a rock and somehow he ignites. I’d rather not talk about what happens next, other than to say I won’t ever forget the smell of burning flesh.
The woman? She’s battered, she’s bruised, but relatively fine, considering. The police give us plenty of grief, and then they eventually let us go.
Today, her family gave us a reward, for saving her life. So, in a way, the roulette wheel actually bounced right…for a change.
This is for a flash fiction challenge that Patti Abbott posted
SHIFTING GEARS
Spring’s half gone, school’s out, so are you ready for another flash fiction challenge? Mystery Dawg, Gerald So and I have come up with a new one.
Here’s the idea: incorporate the following sentence into a flash story of around 750 words.
“With gas prices rising, their plans had to change.”
OR for those who prefer first person: "With gas prices rising, our plans had to change."
OR the bit ominous, "With gas prices rising, your plans had to change." (Thanks, Peter)
Anything you can do with that sentence as a part of your story is fair game. The line doesn’t have to be the central idea of the story. Or it can be. Whatever you want.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Assimilation
It seems so absolutely obvious now, but all of us were completely oblivious to them at the time and I was certainly not the exception. Actually, as a reporter, I didn’t need a crystal ball to show me the direction we were heading and any of us from the fourth estate should’ve been able to figure this out, but we couldn’t see what was just below the surface.
But that was exactly how it happened. With everyone looking perpetually forward toward the next trend, no one really noticed the signs of what was wrong in the present; the absences of wrinkles, the perpetually surprised look, the lips inflated to unnatural dimensions, and implants that defied logic and God himself.
They had covertly taken over our doctors, with emphasis on our surgeons and by the time actresses noses and nostrils were reduced to mere nubs of flesh, they openly walked amongst us. If you took a casual glance, you couldn’t tell them apart from us except their cheek and brow implants were a little more pronounced.
The odd thing was that everything on them that hinted of plastic surgery...wasn’t. The permanent eyeliner, pecs and calves of the males. The females with their lipoed tummies and thighs; the breast implants and faces that were so distorted, that they looked like they were somehow melted by the sun. All these features were natural to them and in that sense; we were the freaks of nature.
The whole time we were looking to the skies for signs of life, they were right under our very own nose jobs.
But that was exactly how it happened. With everyone looking perpetually forward toward the next trend, no one really noticed the signs of what was wrong in the present; the absences of wrinkles, the perpetually surprised look, the lips inflated to unnatural dimensions, and implants that defied logic and God himself.
They had covertly taken over our doctors, with emphasis on our surgeons and by the time actresses noses and nostrils were reduced to mere nubs of flesh, they openly walked amongst us. If you took a casual glance, you couldn’t tell them apart from us except their cheek and brow implants were a little more pronounced.
The odd thing was that everything on them that hinted of plastic surgery...wasn’t. The permanent eyeliner, pecs and calves of the males. The females with their lipoed tummies and thighs; the breast implants and faces that were so distorted, that they looked like they were somehow melted by the sun. All these features were natural to them and in that sense; we were the freaks of nature.
The whole time we were looking to the skies for signs of life, they were right under our very own nose jobs.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Happy Belated Birthday, Dashiell!
In my work-related stupor, I forgot to celebrate Dashiell Hammet's birthday (May 27th). So here's to you, Sam, you made crime fiction what it is today.
Alterna-Title-Sequel-Tive
Last week I saw a TV ad for a movie remake of a TV series that I kind of enjoyed as a child. It might turn out to be a good pic after all as the actors are good at what they do, but I kind of got the feeling that all this movie had in common with the original TV series, was the title and a couple of the characters names. It seemed to be the worst possible permutation of "missed it by that much."
I thought being a former aspiring screenwriter, why don't I adapt the same reverence and accuracy for the source material that Hollywood does, while even out "Hollywooding" Hollywood and going to the pointless sequel right off the bat.
I'll give you the original book title, and then I'll follow it up with the shameless pseudo-Hollywood rip-off, okay?
The Original: "Oh, The Places You'll Go!"
My Sequel: "Been There, Wish I Hadn't Done That."
The Original: "Jaws."
My Sequel: "Gums."
The Original: "Kiss The Girls."
My Sequel: "Trick The Girls Into Signing A Pre-Nup."
The Original: "Crime And Punishment"
My Sequel: "Parole, Minimum Wage And Ennui."
The Original: "Europe On $25 A Day."
My Sequel: "Your Backyard On A Bag Of Stale Airline Peanuts & Two Cans Of Flat Soda, A Day."
The Original: "The Moosewood Cookbook"
My Sequel: "Fifty Percent Of These Recipes Taste Just Like Wood, Cookbook."
The Original: "How To Influence Friends And Influence People."
My Sequel: "How To Spin Friends And Influenza People."
The Original: "The Old Man And The Sea."
My Sequel: "The Old Man, Spring Break, Viagra And The Heart Attack."
I thought being a former aspiring screenwriter, why don't I adapt the same reverence and accuracy for the source material that Hollywood does, while even out "Hollywooding" Hollywood and going to the pointless sequel right off the bat.
I'll give you the original book title, and then I'll follow it up with the shameless pseudo-Hollywood rip-off, okay?
The Original: "Oh, The Places You'll Go!"
My Sequel: "Been There, Wish I Hadn't Done That."
The Original: "Jaws."
My Sequel: "Gums."
The Original: "Kiss The Girls."
My Sequel: "Trick The Girls Into Signing A Pre-Nup."
The Original: "Crime And Punishment"
My Sequel: "Parole, Minimum Wage And Ennui."
The Original: "Europe On $25 A Day."
My Sequel: "Your Backyard On A Bag Of Stale Airline Peanuts & Two Cans Of Flat Soda, A Day."
The Original: "The Moosewood Cookbook"
My Sequel: "Fifty Percent Of These Recipes Taste Just Like Wood, Cookbook."
The Original: "How To Influence Friends And Influence People."
My Sequel: "How To Spin Friends And Influenza People."
The Original: "The Old Man And The Sea."
My Sequel: "The Old Man, Spring Break, Viagra And The Heart Attack."
Friday, May 16, 2008
A Perfect Writing Quote From Ray Bradbury
"What is the subconscious to every other man, in its creative aspect becomes, for writers, The Muse."
– Ray Bradbury
From Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter
Thursday, May 15, 2008
"Vanity Kills"
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 rearview 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 in unannounced, pulled up right next to my station wagon and honked. He seemed to have 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 rearview 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?”
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 rearview 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 in unannounced, pulled up right next to my station wagon and honked. He seemed to have 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 rearview 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?”
Monday, May 12, 2008
Even Bookgasm Is Mentioning "Astonishing Adventures Magazine"
Even Bookgasm is mentioning Astonishing Adventure Magazine. So what's your excuse? Check it out today!
Actually, this is just another excuse to put the cover up and I don't care what John says (even though he drew her), that's Darla Crane!
Actually, this is just another excuse to put the cover up and I don't care what John says (even though he drew her), that's Darla Crane!
Sunday, May 11, 2008
A Frank Misunderstanding
They broke up quietly, almost without a word. He thought they had something special and so did she, up until a point. He shared his apartment with two roommates and to say that the walls of the apartment were paper-thin was being generous.
So he would make the best of the situation by playing some music via his iPod, which he would dock into his clock radio. One night, his iPod was out of commission, so he borrowed his older brother's iPod Shuffle. Because he had to run a fair amount of distance to his brother's and back to get the Shuffle, his legs were on the verge of cramping up.
They merged and linked. An old Francis Albert tune from the 40's came on just as his right leg went tight and as he tried to work through the cramp, something magical and almost ethereal, happened for her. In the afterglow, she thought he turned the corner in terms of the bedroom and he thought that the crooner was her ultimate aphrodisiac. From then on, he associated the singer as all the foreplay that she would need and she wondered how just how a lover could go downhill so fast.
They broke up in less than a week; neither the wiser nor able to talk out what was right about the relationship or what went wrong.
Still, they ran in the same circles and had close friends in common. They would see each other and the flame that was their relationship never went out. They dated other people, but found the others to be even less desirable. As she lay depressed in bed one night, she decided to call him up and even though she woke him up, he was happy to hear her voice.
They talked until the sun came up and since they both had to go to work, they both decided to call in sick and sleep together...literally. When they woke up late that afternoon, she decided that they should talk it out.
With great reluctance because of her conservative upbringing, she had discussed what he had done right and asked him why he just did that the one occasion. Then she asked him-
"Why did you develop on obsession with Sinatra?"
"I really don't like him, I thought that you did."
"No, I can't stand him on most days and besides, his last name means 'without a duck."
They shared a chuckle, and then they shared a kiss. She made a suggestion about what she wanted and he listened. Then he made a suggestion and she reciprocated.
They moved in together and their connection is stronger than ever. They have an apartment with even thinner walls, but no roommates and nary a crooner album or single to be found.
So he would make the best of the situation by playing some music via his iPod, which he would dock into his clock radio. One night, his iPod was out of commission, so he borrowed his older brother's iPod Shuffle. Because he had to run a fair amount of distance to his brother's and back to get the Shuffle, his legs were on the verge of cramping up.
They merged and linked. An old Francis Albert tune from the 40's came on just as his right leg went tight and as he tried to work through the cramp, something magical and almost ethereal, happened for her. In the afterglow, she thought he turned the corner in terms of the bedroom and he thought that the crooner was her ultimate aphrodisiac. From then on, he associated the singer as all the foreplay that she would need and she wondered how just how a lover could go downhill so fast.
They broke up in less than a week; neither the wiser nor able to talk out what was right about the relationship or what went wrong.
Still, they ran in the same circles and had close friends in common. They would see each other and the flame that was their relationship never went out. They dated other people, but found the others to be even less desirable. As she lay depressed in bed one night, she decided to call him up and even though she woke him up, he was happy to hear her voice.
They talked until the sun came up and since they both had to go to work, they both decided to call in sick and sleep together...literally. When they woke up late that afternoon, she decided that they should talk it out.
With great reluctance because of her conservative upbringing, she had discussed what he had done right and asked him why he just did that the one occasion. Then she asked him-
"Why did you develop on obsession with Sinatra?"
"I really don't like him, I thought that you did."
"No, I can't stand him on most days and besides, his last name means 'without a duck."
They shared a chuckle, and then they shared a kiss. She made a suggestion about what she wanted and he listened. Then he made a suggestion and she reciprocated.
They moved in together and their connection is stronger than ever. They have an apartment with even thinner walls, but no roommates and nary a crooner album or single to be found.
Monday, May 5, 2008
On The Printed Page, San Francisco Is Crime Central
Recently the San Francisco Chronicle has been asking Bay Area writers "what's the best book that you've read that features San Francisco in it?" There has been a conspicuous absence by the interview authors of crime fiction, in specific? A certain novel about a bird that would eventually go on to make Humphrey Bogart a true leading star and put John Huston on the map.
Well, Eddie Muller was nice enough to take care of that omission and more, by picking out a list of some of the best "Crime Novels Set In The Bay Area." Click the purple and take a gander. Then he takes it step further by saying on the printed page "San Francisco Is Crime Central" and he backs that up with interviews of Bay Area authors.
Of course Mr. Muller cannot in good conscious add his own two great contributions to that list...
"The Distance"
Well, Eddie Muller was nice enough to take care of that omission and more, by picking out a list of some of the best "Crime Novels Set In The Bay Area." Click the purple and take a gander. Then he takes it step further by saying on the printed page "San Francisco Is Crime Central" and he backs that up with interviews of Bay Area authors.
Of course Mr. Muller cannot in good conscious add his own two great contributions to that list...
"The Distance"
Friday, May 2, 2008
The Third Issue of Astonishing Adventures Is Here!
The world's greatest pulp online magazine is back with its exciting third issue!
You can download it here at Media Fire...
You can download it here at Media Fire...
Or you can read it here at Issuu!
"Emotionally Pantsed" by Katie Schwartz
Hey, Katie Schwartz has been interviewed by Farmhouse Magazine, in anticpation of her soon to be released book "Emotionally Pantsed!"
Go check it out!
P.S. Don't you just love that book title?
Go check it out!
P.S. Don't you just love that book title?
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Spread The News!
At long last, the Internet phenomena is now available offline in a huge way. Robert McEvily's Six Sentences is finally a book:
6S
Six Sentences, Volume 1 – our exciting collection of original fiction and non-fiction – has finally arrived! The book is currently available at CreateSpace, and will soon be available at Amazon.com. THANK YOU to each and every one of our talented writers for making this fabulous collection possible. What can WE say in six sentences? You’ll have to get the book to find out!
Robert McEvily
6S
Six Sentences, Volume 1 – our exciting collection of original fiction and non-fiction – has finally arrived! The book is currently available at CreateSpace, and will soon be available at Amazon.com. THANK YOU to each and every one of our talented writers for making this fabulous collection possible. What can WE say in six sentences? You’ll have to get the book to find out!
Robert McEvily
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Groucho Speaks Again
This is a Groucho quote that all authors hope to avoid-
From the moment I picked your book up until I laid it down, I was convulsed with laughter. Someday I intend reading it.
From the moment I picked your book up until I laid it down, I was convulsed with laughter. Someday I intend reading it.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
"Hot Ice And Cold Blood"
This story was originally published in Powder Burn Flash.
Who was that idiot who said “the meek shall inherit the Earth?” And really, who would want the moldy crumbs that would be left over, after everyone else had taken their fill?
Charlotte took enough crap off her parents to last three lifetimes, and she wasn’t meek. She was the good daughter, the patient daughter, the respectful daughter, and for what? The reading of the will was a slaughter.
Her widowed mother gave the entire estate to Krista, an older cousin she saw only at family reunions. Charlotte was so taken aback that her heart actually stopped for two beats. Her chest felt like a mule kicked it, and adding insult to injury, Charlotte swooned like some third-rate soap opera actress.
As far as Charlotte was concerned, that was it. This was to be the last public display of weakness on her part, because this near-stranger inheriting everything was the last straw. Even before she returned to full consciousness, Charlotte surveyed the room and she figured out half of her plan. As the executor of the will informed her that her mother wanted Charlotte to make her own way in life, Charlotte had her scheme all figured out.
How can you make your way in life when your parents never let you get a job and forced you to take care of them? How could they leave everything to an outsider who had already retired and had a house that’s paid for?
So Charlotte made the electrician that was working on the house believe that she would finally give into his advances, after turning this cretin down for several weeks. Then Charlotte had to look up her abusive ex-boyfriend, Elwood. Because he was the only man she knew who could steal, get a gun, or even kill if he had to.
But it turned out that all of Elwood’s bragging was just that, and Charlotte had seen water pistols that were scarier than the gun he scored. So the electrician altered the wiring like Charlotte asked, and half the house “accidentally” burned down before the firemen could save it.
As anticipated, Krista took the jewelry out of the safe and she was going to take them to the bank for safekeeping. But not as anticipated, the old woman hired two bodyguards.
Fuck it, time to make your own way in life, Charlotte. The old harpy screamed and both bodyguards whirled their heads around to her. Charlotte had a ski mask on and Elwood’s .25 pointed at Krista’s head, using her as a shield. The bodyguards couldn't get a clean shot.
“Put the guns down, or you'll both be unemployed in a split second with a big red blemish on your resumes!”
This part was easy enough, Charlotte found out that these idiots exercised every muscle except the one between their ears. They could’ve taken her, but they let drag her hostage all the way to the gardener’s 4X4 truck. They also pointed the cops in the wrong direction, as Charlotte made Krista detour the truck down a dirt back road.
Charlotte didn’t want to kill Krista, but she didn’t want her tipping the cops off as to which way she was going. Elwood’s gun wouldn’t fire, so Charlotte pushed Krista down a steep knoll.
“Give my regards to Jack and Jill, bitch.”
She got in the truck and finally took the stupid mask off, like no one would’ve guessed it was her. What the hell. She hated that town and there was now no home to go back to, anyway.
Elwood had recommended a fence named Joss in the city. Joss told her that he would give her only $20,000 for $780,000 worth of jewelry. What could she do, go to a pawn shop?
When she put them on the table, Joss didn’t even bother with the loupe that you see in the movies. He looked down and muttered, “you are screwed like an asthmatic with a two-pack-a-day habit.”
“What?”
“These are fake. They’re completely worthless.”
“But they were appraised a month ago at nearly $800,000.”Joss grabbed a rubber hammer and hit the jewels. They crumbled into powder and he shrugged with a scowl.
Charlotte made it 1,130 miles before she was captured.
A week later, Krista had two visitors at the hospital. The two bodyguards from the robbery were keeping her company. One of the bodyguards seized the visitors before they could give Krista a bouquet of roses and a box of candy.
“That’s okay, Junior, let them by. Elwood? Joss? My hospital bill is coming out of your cut of the insurance money.”
Note: This was originally written for "Flashing In The Gutters" way back in the day, but I could never get it below Tribe's maximum word count.
Who was that idiot who said “the meek shall inherit the Earth?” And really, who would want the moldy crumbs that would be left over, after everyone else had taken their fill?
Charlotte took enough crap off her parents to last three lifetimes, and she wasn’t meek. She was the good daughter, the patient daughter, the respectful daughter, and for what? The reading of the will was a slaughter.
Her widowed mother gave the entire estate to Krista, an older cousin she saw only at family reunions. Charlotte was so taken aback that her heart actually stopped for two beats. Her chest felt like a mule kicked it, and adding insult to injury, Charlotte swooned like some third-rate soap opera actress.
As far as Charlotte was concerned, that was it. This was to be the last public display of weakness on her part, because this near-stranger inheriting everything was the last straw. Even before she returned to full consciousness, Charlotte surveyed the room and she figured out half of her plan. As the executor of the will informed her that her mother wanted Charlotte to make her own way in life, Charlotte had her scheme all figured out.
How can you make your way in life when your parents never let you get a job and forced you to take care of them? How could they leave everything to an outsider who had already retired and had a house that’s paid for?
So Charlotte made the electrician that was working on the house believe that she would finally give into his advances, after turning this cretin down for several weeks. Then Charlotte had to look up her abusive ex-boyfriend, Elwood. Because he was the only man she knew who could steal, get a gun, or even kill if he had to.
But it turned out that all of Elwood’s bragging was just that, and Charlotte had seen water pistols that were scarier than the gun he scored. So the electrician altered the wiring like Charlotte asked, and half the house “accidentally” burned down before the firemen could save it.
As anticipated, Krista took the jewelry out of the safe and she was going to take them to the bank for safekeeping. But not as anticipated, the old woman hired two bodyguards.
Fuck it, time to make your own way in life, Charlotte. The old harpy screamed and both bodyguards whirled their heads around to her. Charlotte had a ski mask on and Elwood’s .25 pointed at Krista’s head, using her as a shield. The bodyguards couldn't get a clean shot.
“Put the guns down, or you'll both be unemployed in a split second with a big red blemish on your resumes!”
This part was easy enough, Charlotte found out that these idiots exercised every muscle except the one between their ears. They could’ve taken her, but they let drag her hostage all the way to the gardener’s 4X4 truck. They also pointed the cops in the wrong direction, as Charlotte made Krista detour the truck down a dirt back road.
Charlotte didn’t want to kill Krista, but she didn’t want her tipping the cops off as to which way she was going. Elwood’s gun wouldn’t fire, so Charlotte pushed Krista down a steep knoll.
“Give my regards to Jack and Jill, bitch.”
She got in the truck and finally took the stupid mask off, like no one would’ve guessed it was her. What the hell. She hated that town and there was now no home to go back to, anyway.
Elwood had recommended a fence named Joss in the city. Joss told her that he would give her only $20,000 for $780,000 worth of jewelry. What could she do, go to a pawn shop?
When she put them on the table, Joss didn’t even bother with the loupe that you see in the movies. He looked down and muttered, “you are screwed like an asthmatic with a two-pack-a-day habit.”
“What?”
“These are fake. They’re completely worthless.”
“But they were appraised a month ago at nearly $800,000.”Joss grabbed a rubber hammer and hit the jewels. They crumbled into powder and he shrugged with a scowl.
Charlotte made it 1,130 miles before she was captured.
A week later, Krista had two visitors at the hospital. The two bodyguards from the robbery were keeping her company. One of the bodyguards seized the visitors before they could give Krista a bouquet of roses and a box of candy.
“That’s okay, Junior, let them by. Elwood? Joss? My hospital bill is coming out of your cut of the insurance money.”
Note: This was originally written for "Flashing In The Gutters" way back in the day, but I could never get it below Tribe's maximum word count.
"If Twelve Were Nine"
This story was originally published on Powder Burn Flash.
When it’s ninety-nine degrees in the shade, this is no time to wear green windbreakers, but they have to keep theirs on. Because this is when things tend to get confusing and confusion is bad in this business, because that’s when people get killed. As sunny and obnoxiously bright as it outside, it’s almost the exact opposite inside the hallways of this apartment building in Phoenix.
Aaron hates the way these jackets rustle and make noise, anybody with decent ears can hear them coming and he silently breaks off from the pack, like the wolf that knows that the rest of the pack are going on a futile hunt. No one notices as they are too pumped up and too distracted by the dimness.
They let loose clipped whispers in frustration-
“What are these, twenty-watt bulbs?”
“The building’s superintendent should be fired, the numbers are all jumbled up and-“
“Shhhh! There, two doors down.”
Two go to the left side of the door and two stay on the right. Two more come up with a heavy object and they hit the door-
…once
…twice and they pull clear, as the lock gives way and the door splinters open.
“Maricopa Sheriff’s Department! Get your hands up!”
To the left of the threshold, a pokes through high and another to the right comes juts through low. The apartment is barely brighter than the hallway, though now the green jackets with yellow lettering are visible on the male and female deputies for the city of Phoenix. With their guns out, they make their way across the dimness and search for suspects, yet they’re careful not to get in each other’s crossfire.
They quickly check the rather large living room and its adjacent closets. As they enter the kitchen, they come across a man who seems oblivious to them. He leisurely chews on a bowl of granola and as a gun points at him from across the table, he tilts his head, barely registering it.
“Put the spoon down, slowly. Put your hands up” Delia, the deputy in charge says slowly.
He complies, though he looks both surprised and baffled. Two more deputies have already broken off to search the bathroom and they yell “clear!” as they find it empty. Delia motions the man towards the kitchen floor. Two other deputies handcuff him and search him for weapons.
The man in the kitchen does not seem to match the suspect that they are looking for. He is average in size and the description of the suspect is more like an overweight boxer. The suspect has tattoos from the neck down like an American version of a Yakuza member and what skin this man has exposed from his tank top, suggest he has no ink on him at all. His hair color is different from the suspect’s, as is his face. He has on glasses and the suspect allegedly doesn’t wear any.
One more deputy breaks off to help the first two sweep the bedrooms. “Clear!” comes the first shout after about the first two minutes and the “all clear!” comes after three more minutes.
The prostrate man cranes his neck slowly and groans “did you check the apartment number?” One of the deputies runs to the front of the apartment and sees the number “twelve” on the door.
Embarrassed the second deputy mutters “shit” and uncuffs the prostrate man. The deputies rush out of there, fearing that they’ve already tipped off the real suspect and he might’ve fled.
The man gets up. He rubs his sore wrists, eats another spoonful of granola and gets a small backpack out from a cabinet. He quietly slides open the kitchen window, tosses the backpack out of the window and follows it, some seven feet down.
“Don’t be stupid! Slowly toss the backpack to your right!” Aaron yells at him. He does as he is told and Aaron stops just short, behind him.
“Put your hands on your head and spread your legs.”
Aaron keeps the gun trained on him as pats him down. He tells the other deputies that he has secured the suspect in the alley east of the building via his radio handset.
Aaron says “get down on your knees” and the man complies. “Now lay flat, facedown on the ground.”
Aaron handcuffs him and waits for the others. Delia comes out, followed by the other deputies and they all look as shocked as she is.
“What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?”
“No, check the picture of the suspect again, this is Barry Rose.”
Delia looks the picture over, then the man lying cuffed on the ground.
“They could be cousins. Where are the tats? The hair color is wrong, the weight is wrong, he’s got on glasses.”
Aaron hands a bandana over to one of the deputies and says “John, wet this up with that garden hose.”
John dampens it, wrings it out a little and hands it back to Aaron. Aaron rubs the wet bandana across the prostrate man’s back and like magic, tattoos appear.
“Movie stars use makeup to cover their ink all the time. Anyone can lose fifty pounds, especially if they get liposuction to go with their plastic surgery and just because it says “Miss Clairol” on the box, doesn’t mean that a man can’t use it. As far as the glasses? Don’t tell me that you can’t tell Clark Kent from Superman.”
John and another deputy take Barry Rose away. Delia whispers “how did you know?”
Aaron whispers back, “I didn’t. I saw that all the apartment numbers on the door were in the wrong order and figured it out from there.”
Delia looks Aaron in the eye and says firmly “just the same, don’t break off like that without telling me. You’re lucky that nothing serious happened. Understood?”
Aaron nods and mumbles “yeah.”
Delia taps Aaron in the jaw with playful right cross and back slaps him.
“Well done.”
When it’s ninety-nine degrees in the shade, this is no time to wear green windbreakers, but they have to keep theirs on. Because this is when things tend to get confusing and confusion is bad in this business, because that’s when people get killed. As sunny and obnoxiously bright as it outside, it’s almost the exact opposite inside the hallways of this apartment building in Phoenix.
Aaron hates the way these jackets rustle and make noise, anybody with decent ears can hear them coming and he silently breaks off from the pack, like the wolf that knows that the rest of the pack are going on a futile hunt. No one notices as they are too pumped up and too distracted by the dimness.
They let loose clipped whispers in frustration-
“What are these, twenty-watt bulbs?”
“The building’s superintendent should be fired, the numbers are all jumbled up and-“
“Shhhh! There, two doors down.”
Two go to the left side of the door and two stay on the right. Two more come up with a heavy object and they hit the door-
…once
…twice and they pull clear, as the lock gives way and the door splinters open.
“Maricopa Sheriff’s Department! Get your hands up!”
To the left of the threshold, a pokes through high and another to the right comes juts through low. The apartment is barely brighter than the hallway, though now the green jackets with yellow lettering are visible on the male and female deputies for the city of Phoenix. With their guns out, they make their way across the dimness and search for suspects, yet they’re careful not to get in each other’s crossfire.
They quickly check the rather large living room and its adjacent closets. As they enter the kitchen, they come across a man who seems oblivious to them. He leisurely chews on a bowl of granola and as a gun points at him from across the table, he tilts his head, barely registering it.
“Put the spoon down, slowly. Put your hands up” Delia, the deputy in charge says slowly.
He complies, though he looks both surprised and baffled. Two more deputies have already broken off to search the bathroom and they yell “clear!” as they find it empty. Delia motions the man towards the kitchen floor. Two other deputies handcuff him and search him for weapons.
The man in the kitchen does not seem to match the suspect that they are looking for. He is average in size and the description of the suspect is more like an overweight boxer. The suspect has tattoos from the neck down like an American version of a Yakuza member and what skin this man has exposed from his tank top, suggest he has no ink on him at all. His hair color is different from the suspect’s, as is his face. He has on glasses and the suspect allegedly doesn’t wear any.
One more deputy breaks off to help the first two sweep the bedrooms. “Clear!” comes the first shout after about the first two minutes and the “all clear!” comes after three more minutes.
The prostrate man cranes his neck slowly and groans “did you check the apartment number?” One of the deputies runs to the front of the apartment and sees the number “twelve” on the door.
Embarrassed the second deputy mutters “shit” and uncuffs the prostrate man. The deputies rush out of there, fearing that they’ve already tipped off the real suspect and he might’ve fled.
The man gets up. He rubs his sore wrists, eats another spoonful of granola and gets a small backpack out from a cabinet. He quietly slides open the kitchen window, tosses the backpack out of the window and follows it, some seven feet down.
“Don’t be stupid! Slowly toss the backpack to your right!” Aaron yells at him. He does as he is told and Aaron stops just short, behind him.
“Put your hands on your head and spread your legs.”
Aaron keeps the gun trained on him as pats him down. He tells the other deputies that he has secured the suspect in the alley east of the building via his radio handset.
Aaron says “get down on your knees” and the man complies. “Now lay flat, facedown on the ground.”
Aaron handcuffs him and waits for the others. Delia comes out, followed by the other deputies and they all look as shocked as she is.
“What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?”
“No, check the picture of the suspect again, this is Barry Rose.”
Delia looks the picture over, then the man lying cuffed on the ground.
“They could be cousins. Where are the tats? The hair color is wrong, the weight is wrong, he’s got on glasses.”
Aaron hands a bandana over to one of the deputies and says “John, wet this up with that garden hose.”
John dampens it, wrings it out a little and hands it back to Aaron. Aaron rubs the wet bandana across the prostrate man’s back and like magic, tattoos appear.
“Movie stars use makeup to cover their ink all the time. Anyone can lose fifty pounds, especially if they get liposuction to go with their plastic surgery and just because it says “Miss Clairol” on the box, doesn’t mean that a man can’t use it. As far as the glasses? Don’t tell me that you can’t tell Clark Kent from Superman.”
John and another deputy take Barry Rose away. Delia whispers “how did you know?”
Aaron whispers back, “I didn’t. I saw that all the apartment numbers on the door were in the wrong order and figured it out from there.”
Delia looks Aaron in the eye and says firmly “just the same, don’t break off like that without telling me. You’re lucky that nothing serious happened. Understood?”
Aaron nods and mumbles “yeah.”
Delia taps Aaron in the jaw with playful right cross and back slaps him.
“Well done.”
"Aria"
This story was originally published on Powder Burn Flash.
As the wind whipped the snow into Jed Thane's face, he pulled his collar up around his neck and pushed the door open to the empty meat processing plant. Nothing kills your soul faster than being the only human being for ten square miles around with nothing but the cow carcasses, blood, flecks of gore, and the stench of the killing floor to keep you company.
Though tonight for Jed, alone is a relative term.
Seriously, I really need to go back to school. Waking up at nine in the evening and driving nine miles through ice and snow, just to clean up a slaughterhouse? Using a water hose that has almost twice the pressure of a fireman's hose, has lost its appeal to my inner-child. People with severe learning disabilities get better jobs than this without even trying.
Well, Terry isn't here, so I guess I'll be working by myself-ooof!
What the hell?!
"How are you doing, Thane?"
It's some madman with a baseball bat. He's angry and Jed wonders if has something to do with the steroids that the guy must obviously be on, because he is yoked. The guy is about three times Jed's size, he has a haircut that probably costs more than Jed makes in a week and a leather jacket on that definitely costs more than he makes in a month.
Oh, Christ...that hurt. Who is this dickhead? Why is he calling me by my last name and what's up with the Louisville-
"No, no. There's no need to get up on my part, just make yourself comfortable right there on the floor. "
Ow, shit! That's okay, I don't need those ribs, I have a bunch more.
"Because that's going to be your new home, Thane. You think that would be able to help yourself to my girlfriend and I wouldn't find out about it?"
Gahhh! I guess I didn't need those teeth either. What the hell "girlfriend" is he going on about? Jesus, is this guy a drunk, or is he a crack head?
Jed mumbles through the blood and pain, "I don't know what you are talking about, man. I haven't been with a woman for months."
"Yeah, that's original. Let's see if this jogs your memory."
Shit! I can't breathe! How do I talk to this guy? He must be high out of his skull? What do I do? Just come up with something!
"See, I knew something was going on, but I didn't know just with whom it was until you went and got stupid, leaving your dry cleaning receipt...right under Joan's side of the bed."
C'mon man, think on your feet...your knees, whatever! Crap, that's it; I'll crawl towards one of the stations.
Jed manages to stop wheezing for a moment and he spits out "look at me. Do I look like I would need to have anything dry cleaned?"
C'mon, Barry Bonds. Just follow me a little further and we'll see how you swing that bat, then.
"Don't try to weasel your way out of this! I got your address off the receipt and I matched it to your trailer! I followed you out of your miserable trailer, all the way to over here!"
Oh, so that's why he's calling me by my last name. It must be my brother that is messing around with his girlfriend.
"Listen, Thane, listen. Can you hear that? The way that song just wafts through here? It's the fat lady and here comes her aria."
Jed crawls a little further. His assailant raises the bat and goes after him...for all of one step. The baseball wielding cuckold slips in blood and falls on his ass. He reaches for the bat, but it is too slippery with all viscera on the floor and it wouldn't make a difference, because it's too late. Jed grabs a boning knife and drives it downward through that two-thousand dollar jacket.
In a sickly combination of sputter and snarl, Jed sneers "I'm tone deaf and besides...I hate opera."
One minute later and the only thing left breathing in the building is Jed, albeit poorly.
He is in a tremendous amount of pain and he is sure that at best, three of his ribs are fractured.
He licks his mouth and his initial count is five teeth that are missing or chipped.
Hell, on top of trying to figure out a way of getting rid of this body and the car that brought it here, Jed still has to have at least half of this place clean before the 3 AM shift comes on, or he's fired.
All I can say is that after all this? My brother better sign his Mustang over to me.
As the wind whipped the snow into Jed Thane's face, he pulled his collar up around his neck and pushed the door open to the empty meat processing plant. Nothing kills your soul faster than being the only human being for ten square miles around with nothing but the cow carcasses, blood, flecks of gore, and the stench of the killing floor to keep you company.
Though tonight for Jed, alone is a relative term.
Seriously, I really need to go back to school. Waking up at nine in the evening and driving nine miles through ice and snow, just to clean up a slaughterhouse? Using a water hose that has almost twice the pressure of a fireman's hose, has lost its appeal to my inner-child. People with severe learning disabilities get better jobs than this without even trying.
Well, Terry isn't here, so I guess I'll be working by myself-ooof!
What the hell?!
"How are you doing, Thane?"
It's some madman with a baseball bat. He's angry and Jed wonders if has something to do with the steroids that the guy must obviously be on, because he is yoked. The guy is about three times Jed's size, he has a haircut that probably costs more than Jed makes in a week and a leather jacket on that definitely costs more than he makes in a month.
Oh, Christ...that hurt. Who is this dickhead? Why is he calling me by my last name and what's up with the Louisville-
"No, no. There's no need to get up on my part, just make yourself comfortable right there on the floor. "
Ow, shit! That's okay, I don't need those ribs, I have a bunch more.
"Because that's going to be your new home, Thane. You think that would be able to help yourself to my girlfriend and I wouldn't find out about it?"
Gahhh! I guess I didn't need those teeth either. What the hell "girlfriend" is he going on about? Jesus, is this guy a drunk, or is he a crack head?
Jed mumbles through the blood and pain, "I don't know what you are talking about, man. I haven't been with a woman for months."
"Yeah, that's original. Let's see if this jogs your memory."
Shit! I can't breathe! How do I talk to this guy? He must be high out of his skull? What do I do? Just come up with something!
"See, I knew something was going on, but I didn't know just with whom it was until you went and got stupid, leaving your dry cleaning receipt...right under Joan's side of the bed."
C'mon man, think on your feet...your knees, whatever! Crap, that's it; I'll crawl towards one of the stations.
Jed manages to stop wheezing for a moment and he spits out "look at me. Do I look like I would need to have anything dry cleaned?"
C'mon, Barry Bonds. Just follow me a little further and we'll see how you swing that bat, then.
"Don't try to weasel your way out of this! I got your address off the receipt and I matched it to your trailer! I followed you out of your miserable trailer, all the way to over here!"
Oh, so that's why he's calling me by my last name. It must be my brother that is messing around with his girlfriend.
"Listen, Thane, listen. Can you hear that? The way that song just wafts through here? It's the fat lady and here comes her aria."
Jed crawls a little further. His assailant raises the bat and goes after him...for all of one step. The baseball wielding cuckold slips in blood and falls on his ass. He reaches for the bat, but it is too slippery with all viscera on the floor and it wouldn't make a difference, because it's too late. Jed grabs a boning knife and drives it downward through that two-thousand dollar jacket.
In a sickly combination of sputter and snarl, Jed sneers "I'm tone deaf and besides...I hate opera."
One minute later and the only thing left breathing in the building is Jed, albeit poorly.
He is in a tremendous amount of pain and he is sure that at best, three of his ribs are fractured.
He licks his mouth and his initial count is five teeth that are missing or chipped.
Hell, on top of trying to figure out a way of getting rid of this body and the car that brought it here, Jed still has to have at least half of this place clean before the 3 AM shift comes on, or he's fired.
All I can say is that after all this? My brother better sign his Mustang over to me.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Groucho Speaks
Outside a dog, a book is man's best friend.Inside a dog, it's too dark to read.
Groucho Marx
Quote, courtesy of The Baroness.
Groucho Marx
Quote, courtesy of The Baroness.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
I Haven't Found A Home For This Line Yet...
Character A: Is it Kosher?
Character B: "Is it Kosher?" Like a bacon cheeseburger served on the Sabbath, it's Kosher.
Character B: "Is it Kosher?" Like a bacon cheeseburger served on the Sabbath, it's Kosher.
Monday, February 25, 2008
The Blogiversary of Cormac Writes
Last Thursday was this site's First Blogiversary or birthday if you will. I have another blog that I've done everything I could to distance this one from, because they had conflicted each other and they still do. The other blog as they say, is for "shits and giggles." So when I wrote a story and posted it over there, no one wanted to read that because they were searching for the usual irreverence.
Conversely, it takes away from fiction if the posts above and below them are quite silly or just plain nuts. If I were to make an analogy of the two blogs, David Letterman and Charlie Rose can guest on each other's shows, but you won't see either of them borrowing too much from the other, stylistically-speaking.
So February 21st, 2007, I reposted all the stories that I had from that blog, up on this one, as well as other stories that used to be on a flash fiction site. My grandmother had just passed and I was looking for a way to channel the grief. I don't think there could've been a better way to do just that and I put a lot of that sadness away, right here in these pages.
I apologize because I was going to post a new story, but I am playing a rather busy game of deadline mumblety-peg and I am losing fingers left and right, as I type this.
So if you've made it this far into this post, I thank you and I thank you for your readership. Hopefully I have entertained you with what can loosely be called "writing" and I can do an even better job in the future. Either way, come on back and I'll do my best not to disappoint.
Conversely, it takes away from fiction if the posts above and below them are quite silly or just plain nuts. If I were to make an analogy of the two blogs, David Letterman and Charlie Rose can guest on each other's shows, but you won't see either of them borrowing too much from the other, stylistically-speaking.
So February 21st, 2007, I reposted all the stories that I had from that blog, up on this one, as well as other stories that used to be on a flash fiction site. My grandmother had just passed and I was looking for a way to channel the grief. I don't think there could've been a better way to do just that and I put a lot of that sadness away, right here in these pages.
I apologize because I was going to post a new story, but I am playing a rather busy game of deadline mumblety-peg and I am losing fingers left and right, as I type this.
So if you've made it this far into this post, I thank you and I thank you for your readership. Hopefully I have entertained you with what can loosely be called "writing" and I can do an even better job in the future. Either way, come on back and I'll do my best not to disappoint.
Sincerely,
Cormac Brown
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Watch Me Grumble
The San Francisco Chronicle asks two authors, "what's the best book you've read that features San Francisco in it?"
I guess neither Anne Lamott nor Jack Boulware have heard of Dashiell Hammett.
I guess neither Anne Lamott nor Jack Boulware have heard of Dashiell Hammett.
Monday, February 18, 2008
"A Swing With A Certain Miss"
I used to say the right things; they would just come to me. Some people think that they are God's gift to mankind, not me. I am a person who considers himself lucky and it is very rare when I have had the opportunity to make my own luck.
Our relationship was tenuous in that I was just happy to say something that would make her smile now and then. Honestly, some days I could do no wrong. I could read the phonebook and she would just bust out laughing.
I'd make some offhand comment about barely surviving another day at work and she would laugh like I was a combination of Mel Brooks and Eddie Murphy in their prime. It was wondrous. It was a beautiful thing, though not so much for me, because I was always wondering just what it was that I did or said right. Eventually I grew confident, but not cocky because that would signify that I actually believed that I knew what I was doing and deep down; we both knew that not to be the case.
I didn't catch lightning in a bottle and to be honest, just what the hell would anyone do with lightning in a bottle? They would probably get killed trying to harvest it and I don't care how big the bottle is, it wouldn't hold or contain a bolt of lightning anyway. See? She would've been howling on the floor over that observation and me? I recognize that to be just as flat and dry as the floor of Death Valley.
At some point though I couldn't tell you when, I said the wrong thing and as far as I'm concerned, that is my true calling in life, for I seem to do it so well. When exactly did I said that wrong thing and what exactly was wrong about it, was just as equal of a mystery to me as to when I had actually said something right. I never saw the downturn; I just noticed that she laughed less, though I had attributed that to the complications that were going on her life.
Maybe she got sick of me, hell, I would've gotten sick of me too, if I had based a relationship on someone making me laugh and they couldn't deliver the goods anymore...a platonic relationship or not. Our last few conversations consisted of me calling her on the phone and her giving me curt or clipped answers, like someone that was cornered by "60 Minutes." Maybe that's what I should've done, shown up with a camera crew and asked her questions like "what was it that you found funny about me?" and "am I humor serial killer? Because you sure are acting like I made something inside you die."
After a couple of phone calls that almost froze me ear solid from the cold conducted through from her end, as well as emails that were even more terse, I just gave up. I thought we could still be friends, but if I couldn't say anything right anymore, what would be the point? We would just be in a room, me imploring at her with my eyes while she looks at everything in the room but me. No thanks, I could do that with a photo of her so she could get on with her life and I could suffer in private.
I wish her the best, I really do. And beyond that? I hope that she communicates with the next guy every step of the way through their relationship. Because if she chooses to continue down this path? She'll wind up as lonely as me, but slightly less enlightened as to why.
Our relationship was tenuous in that I was just happy to say something that would make her smile now and then. Honestly, some days I could do no wrong. I could read the phonebook and she would just bust out laughing.
I'd make some offhand comment about barely surviving another day at work and she would laugh like I was a combination of Mel Brooks and Eddie Murphy in their prime. It was wondrous. It was a beautiful thing, though not so much for me, because I was always wondering just what it was that I did or said right. Eventually I grew confident, but not cocky because that would signify that I actually believed that I knew what I was doing and deep down; we both knew that not to be the case.
I didn't catch lightning in a bottle and to be honest, just what the hell would anyone do with lightning in a bottle? They would probably get killed trying to harvest it and I don't care how big the bottle is, it wouldn't hold or contain a bolt of lightning anyway. See? She would've been howling on the floor over that observation and me? I recognize that to be just as flat and dry as the floor of Death Valley.
At some point though I couldn't tell you when, I said the wrong thing and as far as I'm concerned, that is my true calling in life, for I seem to do it so well. When exactly did I said that wrong thing and what exactly was wrong about it, was just as equal of a mystery to me as to when I had actually said something right. I never saw the downturn; I just noticed that she laughed less, though I had attributed that to the complications that were going on her life.
Maybe she got sick of me, hell, I would've gotten sick of me too, if I had based a relationship on someone making me laugh and they couldn't deliver the goods anymore...a platonic relationship or not. Our last few conversations consisted of me calling her on the phone and her giving me curt or clipped answers, like someone that was cornered by "60 Minutes." Maybe that's what I should've done, shown up with a camera crew and asked her questions like "what was it that you found funny about me?" and "am I humor serial killer? Because you sure are acting like I made something inside you die."
After a couple of phone calls that almost froze me ear solid from the cold conducted through from her end, as well as emails that were even more terse, I just gave up. I thought we could still be friends, but if I couldn't say anything right anymore, what would be the point? We would just be in a room, me imploring at her with my eyes while she looks at everything in the room but me. No thanks, I could do that with a photo of her so she could get on with her life and I could suffer in private.
I wish her the best, I really do. And beyond that? I hope that she communicates with the next guy every step of the way through their relationship. Because if she chooses to continue down this path? She'll wind up as lonely as me, but slightly less enlightened as to why.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Do You Have The Post-Valentine's Day Blues?
Do you have the post-Valentine's Day blues? Well just be thankful that it's not 1929 and you're stuck working in a certain little garage in Chicago, because then you'd really have something to be sad about. Other than telling you to "toughen up, you wussy!" Try reading these stories here or here. With the exception of that Cormac character's drivel, there's not a dog in the bunch. Good solid fiction with enough twists and turns to at least temporarily distract you from your love-related woes.
Oh, and you'll never win her heart with a stuffed emu. So you have no right to be sad because it's all your fault.
Oh, and you'll never win her heart with a stuffed emu. So you have no right to be sad because it's all your fault.
Friday, February 8, 2008
"Warmer"
Benton is a broker though the commodities that he deals with aren’t necessarily traded publicly. His specialties aren’t exactly illegal, yet they are rarely acquired through legal means. Most of the merchandise that he deals with, the public never sees, though some they do: the tabloid pictures and adult videos.
Some of these items were submitted by the owners in a misguided attempt to gain more publicity, but most were turned over by disgruntled employees and enemies of the former owners. So Benton is on the speed dial of many publicists and agents, or eventually they desperately seek his number out.
This arrangement also has created a lot of enemies for him; note the spray-painted “Fucking die, Bent-on, die!” on the side of his McMansion and the same phrase burned into his lawn, albeit misspelled.
Oh, shit, the alarm is off. Common sense would tell anyone to call 911, but Benton can’t risk the police because more than likely, someone is trying to steal their property back. Benton goes back to his Porsche for his gun. As he goes through the front door, he notices that the only lights on, are the ones not connected to the timers. The next thing he notices is a picture covered with rose petals.
Benton picks it up and sees a beautiful pair of immaculate female feet with toes painted bright pink and the words “follow the trail.” He tilts his head as he gazes at the trail of petals that go into the living room and beyond. Benton tucks his gun in his waist and follows the rose-covered road. The petals zigzag up the front stairs and they stop at the landing, right before a picture with shapely calves and the caption, “you are on your own, now.”
He decides to check the guest bedrooms first and he enters the closest one. There is a picture on the bed of a distended belly, bearing the caption: “you’re getting cold.” Benton checks the closet and under the bed to make sure that no one is there, then he goes to the next guest bedroom. He is greeted this time with a picture of a morbidly obese stomach with stretch marks and cellulite, and the caption: “colder still.”
There are no pictures in the guest bathrooms or linen closets. Benton creeps down the hall towards the master bedroom and in there, he shudders: on his bed, there’s a picture of decaying corpse and the caption “coldest yet.” He checks every hiding place in there and he goes down the back stairway.
In the den, Benton gets another shock because the painting that was hiding his safe and the safe’s door itself are wide open. He checks his safe and sees that it’s completely cleaned out, save for another picture and this one is of a slim woman barely covering her breasts with her right arm. This one’s caption reads “warmer.”
Benton is livid and he bites his hand to stifle a scream. He had over two million in bonds, valuable memory cards and photo negatives, as well as the master DVDs that hasn’t been turned over yet for production. The sound of his treadmill running in his exercise room gets his attention, but it doesn't lessen his rage as he runs in there. This time he has his gun out, though there is no one to aim it at. On his treadmill is a picture that seems to be a continuation of the last one. It is the same arm and breasts taken from further back, this time accompanied by slim hips and a thong that just barely covers the thinnest Isosceles of a Venus triangle. This caption read “warmer still.”
The quick whirl of his blender brings Benton into the kitchen and in his wide open freezer is another picture. This photo has the breasts bared and he's baffled because they look natural. This caption said “you’re getting hot” and he agrees, because he is about to blow a gasket.
“You’re red hot” says the woman behind Benton as she shoots him twice. He tries to place her face as he falls to the tiled floor, he guessed from the body in the pictures that she was one of those MTV celebutantes and now he is certain. She was on one of the DVDs, though he can’t remember if he has the sole copy.
As she walks away, he mutters “the joke is on you; your fifteen minutes were up a long time ago.”
Patti Abbott and Aldo Calcagno asked writers to post stories in the spirit of Valentine's Day. According to The Rap Sheet, it had to be 750 words or less and I snuck it in at exactly that.
Some of these items were submitted by the owners in a misguided attempt to gain more publicity, but most were turned over by disgruntled employees and enemies of the former owners. So Benton is on the speed dial of many publicists and agents, or eventually they desperately seek his number out.
This arrangement also has created a lot of enemies for him; note the spray-painted “Fucking die, Bent-on, die!” on the side of his McMansion and the same phrase burned into his lawn, albeit misspelled.
Oh, shit, the alarm is off. Common sense would tell anyone to call 911, but Benton can’t risk the police because more than likely, someone is trying to steal their property back. Benton goes back to his Porsche for his gun. As he goes through the front door, he notices that the only lights on, are the ones not connected to the timers. The next thing he notices is a picture covered with rose petals.
Benton picks it up and sees a beautiful pair of immaculate female feet with toes painted bright pink and the words “follow the trail.” He tilts his head as he gazes at the trail of petals that go into the living room and beyond. Benton tucks his gun in his waist and follows the rose-covered road. The petals zigzag up the front stairs and they stop at the landing, right before a picture with shapely calves and the caption, “you are on your own, now.”
He decides to check the guest bedrooms first and he enters the closest one. There is a picture on the bed of a distended belly, bearing the caption: “you’re getting cold.” Benton checks the closet and under the bed to make sure that no one is there, then he goes to the next guest bedroom. He is greeted this time with a picture of a morbidly obese stomach with stretch marks and cellulite, and the caption: “colder still.”
There are no pictures in the guest bathrooms or linen closets. Benton creeps down the hall towards the master bedroom and in there, he shudders: on his bed, there’s a picture of decaying corpse and the caption “coldest yet.” He checks every hiding place in there and he goes down the back stairway.
In the den, Benton gets another shock because the painting that was hiding his safe and the safe’s door itself are wide open. He checks his safe and sees that it’s completely cleaned out, save for another picture and this one is of a slim woman barely covering her breasts with her right arm. This one’s caption reads “warmer.”
Benton is livid and he bites his hand to stifle a scream. He had over two million in bonds, valuable memory cards and photo negatives, as well as the master DVDs that hasn’t been turned over yet for production. The sound of his treadmill running in his exercise room gets his attention, but it doesn't lessen his rage as he runs in there. This time he has his gun out, though there is no one to aim it at. On his treadmill is a picture that seems to be a continuation of the last one. It is the same arm and breasts taken from further back, this time accompanied by slim hips and a thong that just barely covers the thinnest Isosceles of a Venus triangle. This caption read “warmer still.”
The quick whirl of his blender brings Benton into the kitchen and in his wide open freezer is another picture. This photo has the breasts bared and he's baffled because they look natural. This caption said “you’re getting hot” and he agrees, because he is about to blow a gasket.
“You’re red hot” says the woman behind Benton as she shoots him twice. He tries to place her face as he falls to the tiled floor, he guessed from the body in the pictures that she was one of those MTV celebutantes and now he is certain. She was on one of the DVDs, though he can’t remember if he has the sole copy.
As she walks away, he mutters “the joke is on you; your fifteen minutes were up a long time ago.”
Patti Abbott and Aldo Calcagno asked writers to post stories in the spirit of Valentine's Day. According to The Rap Sheet, it had to be 750 words or less and I snuck it in at exactly that.
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