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Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. Try not to repeat a song title. It's harder than you think. Let's hear some of yours!
Your Artist: Bon Jovi
Are you male or female: Good Guys Don't Always Wear White
Describe yourself: It's Just Me
How do you feel about yourself: Just Older
Describe where you currently live: I Love This Town
The first thing you think of when you wake up: I'll Sleep When I'm Dead
If you could go anywhere, where would you go: Destination Anywhere
Your favorite form of transportation: Mystery Train
Your best friend is: Captain Crash and the Beauty Queen From Mars
Your favorite color is: Blaze of Glory
What's the weather like: Dry County
If your life were a TV show, what would it be called: Outlaws of Love
What is life to you: It's My Life
What is the best advice you have to give: Dyin Ain't Much of a Living
If you could change your name, what would it be: Joey
Your favorite food is: Too Much Of A Good Thing
How I would like to die: Last Man Standing
My soul's present condition: Right Side Of Wrong
How would you describe your love life: I Got The Girl
What are you going to post this as: Lost Highway
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Another 20 Minute Story
This one comes from my friend Suzi, who writes two pretty cool blogs herself. Check them out here and here. Suzi had a pretty tough combination to work with here, but I think she pulled it off very well!
Character: a priest who's lost his faith
Conflict: digging up the wrong grave
Location: a mall
Father Joe sat in the food court, pushing his food from one side of
the tray to the other. He hadn't said grace before eating. What was
the point? What was the point of anything?
He slipped his hand into his pocket and let his fingers slide over the
cool shape of the trowel in his pocket. The only point left was this
one last job. When he was done with that-well, he didn't know what.
Death? Arrest? Possibly. He refused to think about the future held
after tonight. He imagined that an atheist must feel this way all the
time.
The activity in the mall was winding down as it closer to closing.
Father Joe stood and dumped his untouched dinner in the trash can and
then made his way to the public restroom at the back of the food
court. With a little luck, though he no longer believed in luck, he'd
be able to stay in the mall the rest of the night. The trowel banged
against his hip, reminding him of his duty for the night.
Having safely evaded the janitor and the security guard (neither of
which seemed devoted to their jobs) he stopped up to the planter in
the middle of the mall. Why, why had Father Clemons passed this to
him? Why did he feel the need to fulfill the dying priest's last
request?
Father Joe knelt before the largest stone in the planter. Almost, from
habit, he crossed himself, but pulled his hand down after the opening
gesture. He dug in the dirt, one ear listening for the guard who might
suddenly feel a need to do his duty. No footsteps echoed to him, but
he did hear the clink of the trowel on something, just as Father
Clemons had promised.
His hand trembled a little, as he reached into the makeshift grave.
There was no better word for it. Grave. Father Joe couldn't lie to
himself anymore. He knew that Father Clemons had done something
terrible and hidden the evidence here.
When Father Joe pulled out the little tin he opened it up and threw
his fist into his mouth to stifle the howl that wanted to burst
through him. It wasn't the hand and rosary that Father Clemons had
told him he'd find here. This was a set of teeth and fingernails and a
religious medal of another priest.
It was the wrong grave.
END
Character: a priest who's lost his faith
Conflict: digging up the wrong grave
Location: a mall
Father Joe sat in the food court, pushing his food from one side of
the tray to the other. He hadn't said grace before eating. What was
the point? What was the point of anything?
He slipped his hand into his pocket and let his fingers slide over the
cool shape of the trowel in his pocket. The only point left was this
one last job. When he was done with that-well, he didn't know what.
Death? Arrest? Possibly. He refused to think about the future held
after tonight. He imagined that an atheist must feel this way all the
time.
The activity in the mall was winding down as it closer to closing.
Father Joe stood and dumped his untouched dinner in the trash can and
then made his way to the public restroom at the back of the food
court. With a little luck, though he no longer believed in luck, he'd
be able to stay in the mall the rest of the night. The trowel banged
against his hip, reminding him of his duty for the night.
Having safely evaded the janitor and the security guard (neither of
which seemed devoted to their jobs) he stopped up to the planter in
the middle of the mall. Why, why had Father Clemons passed this to
him? Why did he feel the need to fulfill the dying priest's last
request?
Father Joe knelt before the largest stone in the planter. Almost, from
habit, he crossed himself, but pulled his hand down after the opening
gesture. He dug in the dirt, one ear listening for the guard who might
suddenly feel a need to do his duty. No footsteps echoed to him, but
he did hear the clink of the trowel on something, just as Father
Clemons had promised.
His hand trembled a little, as he reached into the makeshift grave.
There was no better word for it. Grave. Father Joe couldn't lie to
himself anymore. He knew that Father Clemons had done something
terrible and hidden the evidence here.
When Father Joe pulled out the little tin he opened it up and threw
his fist into his mouth to stifle the howl that wanted to burst
through him. It wasn't the hand and rosary that Father Clemons had
told him he'd find here. This was a set of teeth and fingernails and a
religious medal of another priest.
It was the wrong grave.
END
20 Minute Stories
Some writer friends of mine and I got together for a little fun. The idea was, can you write a complete story in twenty minutes, no matter how ridiculous the subject? We pulled our inspirations from the proverbial hat and tried to make it all work. We each received a character, a setting, and a conflict, sometimes creating pretty outlandish combinations, and then had twenty minutes to craft a story out of those elements. Here is one of mine from that evening and remember, it went from idae to story in twenty minutes:
SETTING: A Biker Bar
CHARACTER: Trash Collector
CONFLICT: Good vs. Evil
The dumpster behind the Piston Ring Bar was always overflowing and if Randy was in a playful mood he’s sometimes engage in a little dumpster diving before slipping the forks in and tilting the whole mess into the back of his truck. He’d found dozens of skin mags and a few pornos. Sometimes there were drugs and twice he’d found a handgun. Nothing ever really surprised him any more. Or so he thought. But when he lifted the lid and saw the glowing red eyes of the Demon Strum starting up at him he got the shock of his life.
A wide grin stretched the beasts black cracked lips and it climbed menacingly out of the trash and into Randy's gaping mouth.
The Demon took control of his body and after a few wobbly, tentative steps, pulled open the back door and entered the dim, dark, biker bar.
“What are you doing in here?” growled one of the bikers. Strum reached out a finger form the trash man’s hand and touched the biker’s forehead. Said biker burst into an orange flame and suddenly collapsed into a smoldering pile of gray ash.
“Who’s next?” Strum hissed, ready for a good fight.
“I am.” Came a high pitched voice from the ice maker behind the bar. The door slipped open and from behind the ice cubes came a blinding light as the anti-demon Cord leapt out. He looked around quickly and wriggled his way up the left nostril of the bartender.
After falling into the bottles behind the bar and sending them crashing to the ground, he found his footing and leapt over the bar.
“I can’t let you leave here.” Cord said, in a voice that sounded like angels singing.
“Try and stop me.” The demon Strum said in a voice that sounded like every politician you’ve ever heard.
They leapt at each other and the battle raged, sending the bikers running into the street.
For nearly a month the fight inside the Piston Ring could be heard from the street and every night the bikers waited to see who would emerge.
Finally on the thirtieth night, the war ended, and while nearly a hundred bikers waited at the front door, the fight's winner slipped out the back, down the ally and disappeared.
END
SETTING: A Biker Bar
CHARACTER: Trash Collector
CONFLICT: Good vs. Evil
The dumpster behind the Piston Ring Bar was always overflowing and if Randy was in a playful mood he’s sometimes engage in a little dumpster diving before slipping the forks in and tilting the whole mess into the back of his truck. He’d found dozens of skin mags and a few pornos. Sometimes there were drugs and twice he’d found a handgun. Nothing ever really surprised him any more. Or so he thought. But when he lifted the lid and saw the glowing red eyes of the Demon Strum starting up at him he got the shock of his life.
A wide grin stretched the beasts black cracked lips and it climbed menacingly out of the trash and into Randy's gaping mouth.
The Demon took control of his body and after a few wobbly, tentative steps, pulled open the back door and entered the dim, dark, biker bar.
“What are you doing in here?” growled one of the bikers. Strum reached out a finger form the trash man’s hand and touched the biker’s forehead. Said biker burst into an orange flame and suddenly collapsed into a smoldering pile of gray ash.
“Who’s next?” Strum hissed, ready for a good fight.
“I am.” Came a high pitched voice from the ice maker behind the bar. The door slipped open and from behind the ice cubes came a blinding light as the anti-demon Cord leapt out. He looked around quickly and wriggled his way up the left nostril of the bartender.
After falling into the bottles behind the bar and sending them crashing to the ground, he found his footing and leapt over the bar.
“I can’t let you leave here.” Cord said, in a voice that sounded like angels singing.
“Try and stop me.” The demon Strum said in a voice that sounded like every politician you’ve ever heard.
They leapt at each other and the battle raged, sending the bikers running into the street.
For nearly a month the fight inside the Piston Ring could be heard from the street and every night the bikers waited to see who would emerge.
Finally on the thirtieth night, the war ended, and while nearly a hundred bikers waited at the front door, the fight's winner slipped out the back, down the ally and disappeared.
END
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Clowns and Vampires
My good friend Kim and I continuosly challenge each other to write short stories about absurd things that wouldn't normally go together, our first was vikings and butterflies, and if you'd like to read some of those, check out Kim's blog. Our latest challenge was to write a story about Clowns and Vampires. Stories have to be at least 1,000 words. Here is mine. Feel free to give it a try if you like.
WAR PAINT
by
Bill Wilbur
The world had moved on. Darkness and decay became the norm, where once there was hope.
At the beginning only small towns fell, and then cities and states, and eventually, as the darkness grew to unimaginable power, entire countries succumbed until the world finally became united. World wars no longer mattered when every day was a war of survival for those who remained. Of course, his father had seen it coming. He’d called it. Long before the rest of them recognized the apocalypse for what it was, his dad had pronounced the end times’ arrival and he’d been silenced for it.
But he’d been right. And Stanley supposed the joke was finally on those who claimed power. They were dead now too, or worse and all that remained was the daily fight for survival.
Stanley meandered through his fortress, feeling the weight of the new world, allowing himself a few moments of self-pity before moving on. They’d lived here once, he and Penelope, and they’d been happy. An uneasy laugh escaped him in the darkness of the room. Happiness was such a foreign and distant concept now that the word itself held no meaning.
He found himself in the bathroom doorway, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Christ he’d gotten old in a hurry. As near as he could remember, he’d turned thirty-two a couple of months ago. He looked fifty-two. Deep lines spread out from the corners of his eyes and his forehead held deep fissures created by worry and sorrow. Fighting vampires could do that to you.
He was still alive because they hadn’t known who he was or how to find him. He’d been careful to conceal his identity, traveling only on sunny days.
But somehow they’d found him.
He’d hidden his face every time he’d gone outside. Survivors soon discovered that the vamps shared a single consciousness. If one knew something, then they all knew it. That was one thing the movies and books he’d seen as a boy had never mentioned. Stanley smilled grimly. A boy, he thought. That had been a lifetime ago, when the monsters stayed at the back of the closet or tucked neatly beneath the bed.
He’d met Penelope after spending countless weeks alone. Back then, when he’d still allowed himself to hope, he’d stayed on the move. Every day he started at dawn and walked until late afternoon searching for normalcy, for a world he recognized, but that world was gone. Still he kept going, his search now focused on finding other survivors. After nearly a month, he’d discovered Penelope looting what was left of a convenience store.
They’d been cautious of each other from the start, circling one another like warriors seeking an uneasy alliance. Somehow they’d found a way to trust long enough to become friends, and over time, lovers.
Travelling together, they’d found others and soon had a mobile community, but when their numbers topped twenty it was time to settle down in one spot. Others would find them eventually and they’d soon have a small town full of people...real people.
Hope began to return.
It wasn’t long before a group of Vampires found them. The demons travelled in packs, another surprise the movies never mentioned. They moved fast and they were smart. Half our population was wiped out that first week and we learned to start hiding better and disguising ourselves. In our war paint we went out in teams and hunted them during the day. It was slow, disgusting work and it drained us both mentally and physically.
Penelope was like a machine in those days. She had more kills than anyone and Stan soon began to worry that she was enjoying the work a little too much. Her hatred grew and eventually blossomed into a mushroom cloud and all he could do was get out of the way.
Three months ago the Vampires took her. Stanley didn’t know how they’d found her, but early one morning she went out on a recon mission and never came back. They’d searched for days but nobody expected to find her. Stanley only hoped she’d died quickly and without pain but he doubted it. The vamps enjoyed causing pain.
And now they’d come for him. For all of them really.
Sometime in the night, he’d awoken to deliberate scratching at his front door. The heavy oak had been infused with garlic juice and splashed with holy water, and whatever creature scraped the words there endured considerable pain to do it.
Tonight, the crudely etched message read, bring them all. Paradise.
The Paradise, he thought. A run-down strip club in its best of days, now a pit so dark that vamps could sit inside and watch the street. Stanley opened up his makeup kit and grabbed the whiteface. He sighed deeply. What did it matter anymore? Why bother to conceal his identity now that they knew who he was? Closing his eyes, he applied the white to his already pale skin. The makeup was symbolic now more than anything. One day other survivors would come and they’d recognize the fight that he and his small group endured.
This morning at the town hall meeting he could see it in their eyes. They were tired, ready to fight or die and he suspected most didn’t care much one way or the other. Fight or die? Breathe or feed? Every man and woman in the room agreed to a single winner-take-all battle. A rumble from hell. A few of them even thought they could win.
Ringing his sad, bloodshot eyes with a bright, cheerful red makeup, he started to cry. Luckily for him the colors were waterproof. There was no hope left inside him and his body convulsed with the sobs that overtook him. When finally he’d regained control, he put on the finishing touches but he refused to redden his lips. No painted red smiles for him anymore. It looked too much like blood.
There was a knock at the door and he could see through the window the rest of the clowns standing and waiting. They all carried a shoulder bag filled with wooden stakes, but most had accentuated their arsenal with knives and swords as well.
Stanley slipped his bag strap over his head and picked up his shotgun. It couldn’t kill them, but it sure as hell slowed them down some. With a last glance in the mirror, he opened the front door and headed for Paradise.
It would be good to see Penelope one last time.
END
WAR PAINT
by
Bill Wilbur
The world had moved on. Darkness and decay became the norm, where once there was hope.
At the beginning only small towns fell, and then cities and states, and eventually, as the darkness grew to unimaginable power, entire countries succumbed until the world finally became united. World wars no longer mattered when every day was a war of survival for those who remained. Of course, his father had seen it coming. He’d called it. Long before the rest of them recognized the apocalypse for what it was, his dad had pronounced the end times’ arrival and he’d been silenced for it.
But he’d been right. And Stanley supposed the joke was finally on those who claimed power. They were dead now too, or worse and all that remained was the daily fight for survival.
Stanley meandered through his fortress, feeling the weight of the new world, allowing himself a few moments of self-pity before moving on. They’d lived here once, he and Penelope, and they’d been happy. An uneasy laugh escaped him in the darkness of the room. Happiness was such a foreign and distant concept now that the word itself held no meaning.
He found himself in the bathroom doorway, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Christ he’d gotten old in a hurry. As near as he could remember, he’d turned thirty-two a couple of months ago. He looked fifty-two. Deep lines spread out from the corners of his eyes and his forehead held deep fissures created by worry and sorrow. Fighting vampires could do that to you.
He was still alive because they hadn’t known who he was or how to find him. He’d been careful to conceal his identity, traveling only on sunny days.
But somehow they’d found him.
He’d hidden his face every time he’d gone outside. Survivors soon discovered that the vamps shared a single consciousness. If one knew something, then they all knew it. That was one thing the movies and books he’d seen as a boy had never mentioned. Stanley smilled grimly. A boy, he thought. That had been a lifetime ago, when the monsters stayed at the back of the closet or tucked neatly beneath the bed.
He’d met Penelope after spending countless weeks alone. Back then, when he’d still allowed himself to hope, he’d stayed on the move. Every day he started at dawn and walked until late afternoon searching for normalcy, for a world he recognized, but that world was gone. Still he kept going, his search now focused on finding other survivors. After nearly a month, he’d discovered Penelope looting what was left of a convenience store.
They’d been cautious of each other from the start, circling one another like warriors seeking an uneasy alliance. Somehow they’d found a way to trust long enough to become friends, and over time, lovers.
Travelling together, they’d found others and soon had a mobile community, but when their numbers topped twenty it was time to settle down in one spot. Others would find them eventually and they’d soon have a small town full of people...real people.
Hope began to return.
It wasn’t long before a group of Vampires found them. The demons travelled in packs, another surprise the movies never mentioned. They moved fast and they were smart. Half our population was wiped out that first week and we learned to start hiding better and disguising ourselves. In our war paint we went out in teams and hunted them during the day. It was slow, disgusting work and it drained us both mentally and physically.
Penelope was like a machine in those days. She had more kills than anyone and Stan soon began to worry that she was enjoying the work a little too much. Her hatred grew and eventually blossomed into a mushroom cloud and all he could do was get out of the way.
Three months ago the Vampires took her. Stanley didn’t know how they’d found her, but early one morning she went out on a recon mission and never came back. They’d searched for days but nobody expected to find her. Stanley only hoped she’d died quickly and without pain but he doubted it. The vamps enjoyed causing pain.
And now they’d come for him. For all of them really.
Sometime in the night, he’d awoken to deliberate scratching at his front door. The heavy oak had been infused with garlic juice and splashed with holy water, and whatever creature scraped the words there endured considerable pain to do it.
Tonight, the crudely etched message read, bring them all. Paradise.
The Paradise, he thought. A run-down strip club in its best of days, now a pit so dark that vamps could sit inside and watch the street. Stanley opened up his makeup kit and grabbed the whiteface. He sighed deeply. What did it matter anymore? Why bother to conceal his identity now that they knew who he was? Closing his eyes, he applied the white to his already pale skin. The makeup was symbolic now more than anything. One day other survivors would come and they’d recognize the fight that he and his small group endured.
This morning at the town hall meeting he could see it in their eyes. They were tired, ready to fight or die and he suspected most didn’t care much one way or the other. Fight or die? Breathe or feed? Every man and woman in the room agreed to a single winner-take-all battle. A rumble from hell. A few of them even thought they could win.
Ringing his sad, bloodshot eyes with a bright, cheerful red makeup, he started to cry. Luckily for him the colors were waterproof. There was no hope left inside him and his body convulsed with the sobs that overtook him. When finally he’d regained control, he put on the finishing touches but he refused to redden his lips. No painted red smiles for him anymore. It looked too much like blood.
There was a knock at the door and he could see through the window the rest of the clowns standing and waiting. They all carried a shoulder bag filled with wooden stakes, but most had accentuated their arsenal with knives and swords as well.
Stanley slipped his bag strap over his head and picked up his shotgun. It couldn’t kill them, but it sure as hell slowed them down some. With a last glance in the mirror, he opened the front door and headed for Paradise.
It would be good to see Penelope one last time.
END
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Your Heart Can Take It
I’ve decided it’s time I got myself a meat smoker. I like to BBQ. I like smoked meat. And now I have a reason that cannot be ignored!
I’ve put it off for years, finding one excuse after another to avoid buying one. Many of my friends have already taken the plunge and it seems that my cowboy personality is in serious jeopardy due to my lack of cooking meat in this manner.
So what changed my mind? After years of grilling, why suddenly make the switch?
Two words: Bacon Explosion
5,000 calories, 500 grams of fat, 4 pounds of pork and all the heart attack you can handle.
When challenged to come up with a BBQ recipe for bacon, the guys over at www.BBQaddicts.com headed out to the local butcher and bought twenty dollars worth of pork. They began weaving strips of raw bacon into a mat. The two spackled the bacon mat with a layer of sausage, covered that with a crunchy layer of cooked bacon, and rolled it up tight.
I’d love to see the guy from Man vs. Food give this a shot.
As a lover of foods that are bad for me, I am dying to try one of these. Of course I won’t eat the whole thing myself. Well I might, but not in one sitting!
For more details and pictures, use this link:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/28/dining/28bacon.html?no_interstitial
I’ve put it off for years, finding one excuse after another to avoid buying one. Many of my friends have already taken the plunge and it seems that my cowboy personality is in serious jeopardy due to my lack of cooking meat in this manner.
So what changed my mind? After years of grilling, why suddenly make the switch?
Two words: Bacon Explosion
5,000 calories, 500 grams of fat, 4 pounds of pork and all the heart attack you can handle.
When challenged to come up with a BBQ recipe for bacon, the guys over at www.BBQaddicts.com headed out to the local butcher and bought twenty dollars worth of pork. They began weaving strips of raw bacon into a mat. The two spackled the bacon mat with a layer of sausage, covered that with a crunchy layer of cooked bacon, and rolled it up tight.
I’d love to see the guy from Man vs. Food give this a shot.
As a lover of foods that are bad for me, I am dying to try one of these. Of course I won’t eat the whole thing myself. Well I might, but not in one sitting!
For more details and pictures, use this link:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/28/dining/28bacon.html?no_interstitial
Monday, January 26, 2009
Cherry Bomb Slushee
So, I entered a writing contest where I am assigned a genre and a subject and have a week to write a 2500 word story. Last year I finished in the top 30. This year my assignment was Horror/Bus Stop. I wrote the following piece in two days, stressed that I might miss the deadline. It is not the best thing I have ever written, but is it strong enough to move me to the final round? We'll have to wait and see. DISCLAIMER: There is some language and a sex scene in here so reaad only if you are comfortable with that.
HEAT 5
Cherry Bomb Slushee
2383 words
SYNOPSIS:
Jeremy Fletcher encounters a beautiful woman at a bus stop late one night and discovers the thin veil between the worlds of light and dark.
Jeremy Fletcher was thinking about murder when he saw her coming toward him. He was sucking down a cherry bomb slushee, courting a very serious brain freeze and concocting gruesome ways to kill his boss when the most beautiful woman in the world crossed beneath a street lamp at the bus stop half a block away. Though the sodium vapor lamp shone brightly, the shadows moved with her, hiding her features as she weaved, unsteady along the sidewalk. Only her hair shimmered, so black it glowed blue under the light, and when she looked up, strands of pure white framed her dark face and pooled at her shoulders.
Jeremy Fletcher fell in love the moment she passed through that light and carried the darkness with her like a shroud.
He walked slowly, head down and tried not to stare, but her dark beauty commanded his attention. As they drew close to each other, she glanced up with heart-wrenching eyes and smiled. The air turned intensely cold. “Hello, Jeremy,” she said as she passed.
Jeremy stopped. His heart pounded in his chest. He was suddenly aware he could see his breath, while breathing itself became more difficult. He turned to watch her glide past and started to say something, to ask how she knew his name, but the words stuck in his throat.
Beyond the spill of light on the sidewalk, the shadows grew heavy around her as if she radiated darkness. He had to focus hard on her movement just to see her. A moment later, she crossed beneath another streetlight. She seemed to shimmer in the warm glow, to become less real somehow. For an instant she was nearly transparent. Ghostly and ethereal she floated to the street corner and vanished around the far side of the convenience store.
He released the breath he’d been holding. Raising the cup, he slurped absent-minded at the icy mixture. She’d been stunning! He imagined he could see a faint ebony glow along the path she’d walked and he knew, suddenly and completely, that he’d do anything she ever asked of him. But a woman like that was beyond his reach, out of his league, and with a last glance toward the street corner, he walked slowly toward the bus stop bench and sat down. Soon his thoughts turned back to murdering his boss. The rich old bastard had stepped on a lot of people to get where he was and now it was his turn to be squashed.
“How would you do it?”
Jeremy nearly leapt off the bench. The base of his spine went cold. He spun toward the voice. Standing behind him only inches away and shrouded in a cloak of darkness and shadow, the dark beauty offered a sensual smile.
“I did it once” She leaned toward him over the bench and flicked her tongue against his ear. “He was my lover. I killed him slowly,” she whispered. “I felt like I owed him that much.” Grabbing Jeremy’s face under the chin, she pulled him to her and kissed him hard. Her hands caressed his chest through the shirt. She darted out her tongue, met resistance and then overcame it.
When she finally let him up for air, Jeremy pulled away and slid down to the end of the bench, at once terrified and aroused. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips. His tongue, where it had touched hers, was icy cold and throbbed in time to his rapid heartbeat. “Who are you?” Uncontrollable tremors raced through his extremities. “What do you want?” After all those adolescent fantasies about women, all those wet dreams about what he could do with a woman like this, Jeremy found he was scared beyond belief. And that made him want her even more.
Like a predator, she climbed over the back of the bench and crouched on the seat. Her pale skin glowed against the tight, black silk bustier she wore and the swells of her breasts rose and fell with each rapid breath. “You crave this body.” She trailed a fingertip from her pouty lips down her neck and along the line of her cleavage. “I can feel desire pulsing off you in waves.” Reaching out her hand, she stroked the inside of his thigh through his jeans.
Jeremy shuddered, nearly convulsing. His hand clenched, crushing his cup and squeezing cherry slushee all over himself. Jumping to his feet, he brushed the sticky ice from his pants, which had taken the worst of it, before it could seep through to the skin.
The woman threw her head back and screeched in horrible laughter. She pointed at the red stain spreading across his slightly bulging crotch. “It looks like you peed blood!”
Jeremy took a step backward. “That’s not funny! The fuck kinda game you playing? None of this is funny!”
She turned suddenly serious, her eyes hard and unblinking, her lips pressed into a thin line. “None of this is supposed to be funny, Jeremy.” She flipped back to bubbly again and patted the bench seat beside her. “Come sit down.” Coyly she batted her eyes like a cartoon character. “PLEEEEASE?”
She drew out the word with pleading flirtatiousness, but beneath it there was something else. Jeremy thought he detected anger behind the playful tone, her insistence more command than request. Feeling the pull of her, he took an involuntary step and it took every ounce of strength within him not to take another. For something to focus on, he looked at his watch. The crystal face was shattered and the hands stood at 11:32 but it couldn’t be that late already. When had the damage happened? He tried to think through the fog that filled his mind but nothing came. He was suddenly confused, like he didn’t belong here, like the world had moved on somehow and left him behind. Looking far down the street in first one direction and then the other only increased his confusion. Where the hell was his bus? It surely should have been here by now.
“I killed my lover on this bench.” She whispered in his ear, her body pressed against his, her eyes searching his for some measure of understanding, some unknown truth. “I come back here a lot, almost every night. I sit at the exact spot that he died, imagining I can still see the blood stains. I stared into his eyes as the life drained from them. You have no idea how sexual it is. One minute there is a spark in the eyes, there is life, and the next there is nothing, the eyes turn glassy and they stare without seeing. It was the first orgasm he ever gave me.”
“Leave me alone!” Jeremy’s fear ratcheted up a notch. He shoved her roughly and she fell back onto the bench laughing. In a blur of movement she grabbed his belt buckle and yanked him on top of her.
“I love it when we fight.” She gripped the back of the head and traced a line behind his ear with her tongue. “You never win,” she whispered and bit his earlobe playfully.
As he struggled to free himself, she flipped him effortlessly onto his back. Last time he weighed himself he came in at just under two-twenty, yet she’d tossed him like a pile of laundry. She straddled him, pinning his wrists under her knees and suddenly Jeremy knew. Laying there with the slats of the bench pressing into his back, staring up at her incredibly beautiful face, Jeremy Fletcher knew he was going to die.
“If you behave yourself,” she said, slowly grinding her hips in a circle against his crotch, “we can have a little fun before you go. We don’t have much time.”
“The bus,” he blurted as she rubbed against him faster. He fought valiantly against his body, willing it not to react. But he lost the battle. As he felt himself stiffen beneath her he stammered, “The bus will be here any minute!”
She giggled like a child. “Your bus doesn’t stop here anymore. It hasn’t stopped here for months.”
The fog in his brain thickened. In a tired, defeated voice he said, “I take this bus every night.”
“No. You wait for this bus every night, but it never comes.”
Reaching behind her back, she produced a pointed stainless steel rod, like a nail the size of a railway spike. “I can feel how much you want me.” She ground her hips harder against him. “I was never able to cum but the sex was always intense, that’s what I miss most.” She laughed and a mock expression of sadness crossed her face. “Am I bad for missing the sex more than the man?”
“You’re crazy,” he said and with all his strength, Jeremy bucked his hips up into her, trying to dislodge himself and knock her to the ground. He gritted his teeth, straining hard against the slats of the bench but she barely moved and the effort left him drained and winded.
“Oooh, Lover!” she squealed. “You can’t even wait until we get these clothes off! I like that.” She bent down and kissed him passionately. Staring into his eyes she said, “Patience, my love. Patience. We’ll have our fun. But first I need you to do something for me.” Her hand trailed down to the bulge in his jeans. “I need you to put your hands together over your head. Like you’re diving into a pool. Can you do that for me?”
“Fuck you,” he rasped with as much conviction as he could muster. His thoughts felt mired in sludge and he had an overall feeling of being less there somehow. Faded. Had she drugged him? Pain shot up suddenly from his groin.
“Do it!” She spat. “We have to hurry before you go.”
He thrust his hands above his head in a point. His breaths came in gasps. “Why me? How did you know my name and why did you choose me?”
“It’s always been you.” There was a sudden bright flash as she raised the spike above her head and drove it down into the palms of his hands, pinning them to the bench.
The pain was intense and white hot, shooting tendrils of fire up his arms. But an instant later it turned muted and distant, as if he could remove himself from it and experience it from a distance. Through the fog he felt her loosening his belt. She yanked down his pants and he marveled that he was still hard. The pain and the fear had not affected his desire for her. And when she took him in her mouth the burning cold only intensified his erection.
The night sounds quieted and the streetlights dimmed. Jeremy was lost in a cloud of ecstasy. She brought him to the brink time and again but would not let him orgasm. The torture was exquisite and the throbbing in his hands no longer mattered.
With a devilish grin, she stood, hiked up her skirt and straddled him. Within minutes her breathing became heavy and her grinding hips slowed and undulated with more precision. She leaned forward on top of him and stretching out, gripped the steel spike. As she continued to ride her, sinking him deeper into her with each thrust, she twisted the nail.
His screams seemed to increase her mounting pleasure. He felt a shiver pass through her.
“Almost time,” she said through teeth gritted against the pleasure, prolonging it. “Almost…time.” Her body tensed and she sat up, wrenching the spike from Jeremy’s flesh. As the first convulsive spasm wracked her body, she plunged the spike into her lover’s chest over and over. Killing him anew. Killing him again. Killing him always.
Her orgasm lasted several minutes and she remained atop Jeremy for all of it. Wave after crashing wave rocked her and she went with them as far as they’d take her until finally her pleasure subsided. She straddled him and waited. It was almost time for him to go.
With a jerk, she pulled the stainless steel nail from his chest, staring at the puckered hole it left behind. She missed the blood. She missed the smell of it, the taste of it. Blood was everywhere the first time she’d killed him, so much of it that it surprised her. She missed the way it pulsed from the ragged holes in his chest. Of course, he’d been alive that first time.
Climbing off of him, she smoothed her skirt and slipped the spike into a pocket. She glanced at her watch. It was almost time. Squatting next to him, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “See you tomorrow, baby,” she whispered even as he began to fade. For an instant he was there and not there at the same time, existing in two worlds at once. At 11:32 exactly, Jeremy faded into nothingness, just as he had every night since she’d killed him three years ago.
She’d gotten away with it, had never even been a suspect. At the funeral she’d been inconsolable, and not all of it had been an act, she’d genuinely missed him. Not enough to regret killing him, but almost.
After a month, she’d returned to the bus stop – the killer returning to the scene of the crime, the poor lost girlfriend searching for answers, and she’d been shocked to find Jeremy sitting there, confused, disoriented, and with a complete lack of memory. That first encounter, she’d hidden in the bushes and watched him. And when he disappeared, she’d walked to the convenience store at the corner, bought a bottle of tequila and drank the apparition from her memory.
She came back the next night.
And the next.
On the sixth night, she screwed up her courage and walked past him on the sidewalk. Within a month, she was talking to him.
Soon she began killing him again and again.
Each night he reappeared shiny and new, with no memory of her or the things she did to him. He never wanted to sleep over, she could date other guys, and the sex had become amazing! He was the perfect boyfriend.
So what if he was dead.
END
HEAT 5
Cherry Bomb Slushee
2383 words
SYNOPSIS:
Jeremy Fletcher encounters a beautiful woman at a bus stop late one night and discovers the thin veil between the worlds of light and dark.
Jeremy Fletcher was thinking about murder when he saw her coming toward him. He was sucking down a cherry bomb slushee, courting a very serious brain freeze and concocting gruesome ways to kill his boss when the most beautiful woman in the world crossed beneath a street lamp at the bus stop half a block away. Though the sodium vapor lamp shone brightly, the shadows moved with her, hiding her features as she weaved, unsteady along the sidewalk. Only her hair shimmered, so black it glowed blue under the light, and when she looked up, strands of pure white framed her dark face and pooled at her shoulders.
Jeremy Fletcher fell in love the moment she passed through that light and carried the darkness with her like a shroud.
He walked slowly, head down and tried not to stare, but her dark beauty commanded his attention. As they drew close to each other, she glanced up with heart-wrenching eyes and smiled. The air turned intensely cold. “Hello, Jeremy,” she said as she passed.
Jeremy stopped. His heart pounded in his chest. He was suddenly aware he could see his breath, while breathing itself became more difficult. He turned to watch her glide past and started to say something, to ask how she knew his name, but the words stuck in his throat.
Beyond the spill of light on the sidewalk, the shadows grew heavy around her as if she radiated darkness. He had to focus hard on her movement just to see her. A moment later, she crossed beneath another streetlight. She seemed to shimmer in the warm glow, to become less real somehow. For an instant she was nearly transparent. Ghostly and ethereal she floated to the street corner and vanished around the far side of the convenience store.
He released the breath he’d been holding. Raising the cup, he slurped absent-minded at the icy mixture. She’d been stunning! He imagined he could see a faint ebony glow along the path she’d walked and he knew, suddenly and completely, that he’d do anything she ever asked of him. But a woman like that was beyond his reach, out of his league, and with a last glance toward the street corner, he walked slowly toward the bus stop bench and sat down. Soon his thoughts turned back to murdering his boss. The rich old bastard had stepped on a lot of people to get where he was and now it was his turn to be squashed.
“How would you do it?”
Jeremy nearly leapt off the bench. The base of his spine went cold. He spun toward the voice. Standing behind him only inches away and shrouded in a cloak of darkness and shadow, the dark beauty offered a sensual smile.
“I did it once” She leaned toward him over the bench and flicked her tongue against his ear. “He was my lover. I killed him slowly,” she whispered. “I felt like I owed him that much.” Grabbing Jeremy’s face under the chin, she pulled him to her and kissed him hard. Her hands caressed his chest through the shirt. She darted out her tongue, met resistance and then overcame it.
When she finally let him up for air, Jeremy pulled away and slid down to the end of the bench, at once terrified and aroused. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips. His tongue, where it had touched hers, was icy cold and throbbed in time to his rapid heartbeat. “Who are you?” Uncontrollable tremors raced through his extremities. “What do you want?” After all those adolescent fantasies about women, all those wet dreams about what he could do with a woman like this, Jeremy found he was scared beyond belief. And that made him want her even more.
Like a predator, she climbed over the back of the bench and crouched on the seat. Her pale skin glowed against the tight, black silk bustier she wore and the swells of her breasts rose and fell with each rapid breath. “You crave this body.” She trailed a fingertip from her pouty lips down her neck and along the line of her cleavage. “I can feel desire pulsing off you in waves.” Reaching out her hand, she stroked the inside of his thigh through his jeans.
Jeremy shuddered, nearly convulsing. His hand clenched, crushing his cup and squeezing cherry slushee all over himself. Jumping to his feet, he brushed the sticky ice from his pants, which had taken the worst of it, before it could seep through to the skin.
The woman threw her head back and screeched in horrible laughter. She pointed at the red stain spreading across his slightly bulging crotch. “It looks like you peed blood!”
Jeremy took a step backward. “That’s not funny! The fuck kinda game you playing? None of this is funny!”
She turned suddenly serious, her eyes hard and unblinking, her lips pressed into a thin line. “None of this is supposed to be funny, Jeremy.” She flipped back to bubbly again and patted the bench seat beside her. “Come sit down.” Coyly she batted her eyes like a cartoon character. “PLEEEEASE?”
She drew out the word with pleading flirtatiousness, but beneath it there was something else. Jeremy thought he detected anger behind the playful tone, her insistence more command than request. Feeling the pull of her, he took an involuntary step and it took every ounce of strength within him not to take another. For something to focus on, he looked at his watch. The crystal face was shattered and the hands stood at 11:32 but it couldn’t be that late already. When had the damage happened? He tried to think through the fog that filled his mind but nothing came. He was suddenly confused, like he didn’t belong here, like the world had moved on somehow and left him behind. Looking far down the street in first one direction and then the other only increased his confusion. Where the hell was his bus? It surely should have been here by now.
“I killed my lover on this bench.” She whispered in his ear, her body pressed against his, her eyes searching his for some measure of understanding, some unknown truth. “I come back here a lot, almost every night. I sit at the exact spot that he died, imagining I can still see the blood stains. I stared into his eyes as the life drained from them. You have no idea how sexual it is. One minute there is a spark in the eyes, there is life, and the next there is nothing, the eyes turn glassy and they stare without seeing. It was the first orgasm he ever gave me.”
“Leave me alone!” Jeremy’s fear ratcheted up a notch. He shoved her roughly and she fell back onto the bench laughing. In a blur of movement she grabbed his belt buckle and yanked him on top of her.
“I love it when we fight.” She gripped the back of the head and traced a line behind his ear with her tongue. “You never win,” she whispered and bit his earlobe playfully.
As he struggled to free himself, she flipped him effortlessly onto his back. Last time he weighed himself he came in at just under two-twenty, yet she’d tossed him like a pile of laundry. She straddled him, pinning his wrists under her knees and suddenly Jeremy knew. Laying there with the slats of the bench pressing into his back, staring up at her incredibly beautiful face, Jeremy Fletcher knew he was going to die.
“If you behave yourself,” she said, slowly grinding her hips in a circle against his crotch, “we can have a little fun before you go. We don’t have much time.”
“The bus,” he blurted as she rubbed against him faster. He fought valiantly against his body, willing it not to react. But he lost the battle. As he felt himself stiffen beneath her he stammered, “The bus will be here any minute!”
She giggled like a child. “Your bus doesn’t stop here anymore. It hasn’t stopped here for months.”
The fog in his brain thickened. In a tired, defeated voice he said, “I take this bus every night.”
“No. You wait for this bus every night, but it never comes.”
Reaching behind her back, she produced a pointed stainless steel rod, like a nail the size of a railway spike. “I can feel how much you want me.” She ground her hips harder against him. “I was never able to cum but the sex was always intense, that’s what I miss most.” She laughed and a mock expression of sadness crossed her face. “Am I bad for missing the sex more than the man?”
“You’re crazy,” he said and with all his strength, Jeremy bucked his hips up into her, trying to dislodge himself and knock her to the ground. He gritted his teeth, straining hard against the slats of the bench but she barely moved and the effort left him drained and winded.
“Oooh, Lover!” she squealed. “You can’t even wait until we get these clothes off! I like that.” She bent down and kissed him passionately. Staring into his eyes she said, “Patience, my love. Patience. We’ll have our fun. But first I need you to do something for me.” Her hand trailed down to the bulge in his jeans. “I need you to put your hands together over your head. Like you’re diving into a pool. Can you do that for me?”
“Fuck you,” he rasped with as much conviction as he could muster. His thoughts felt mired in sludge and he had an overall feeling of being less there somehow. Faded. Had she drugged him? Pain shot up suddenly from his groin.
“Do it!” She spat. “We have to hurry before you go.”
He thrust his hands above his head in a point. His breaths came in gasps. “Why me? How did you know my name and why did you choose me?”
“It’s always been you.” There was a sudden bright flash as she raised the spike above her head and drove it down into the palms of his hands, pinning them to the bench.
The pain was intense and white hot, shooting tendrils of fire up his arms. But an instant later it turned muted and distant, as if he could remove himself from it and experience it from a distance. Through the fog he felt her loosening his belt. She yanked down his pants and he marveled that he was still hard. The pain and the fear had not affected his desire for her. And when she took him in her mouth the burning cold only intensified his erection.
The night sounds quieted and the streetlights dimmed. Jeremy was lost in a cloud of ecstasy. She brought him to the brink time and again but would not let him orgasm. The torture was exquisite and the throbbing in his hands no longer mattered.
With a devilish grin, she stood, hiked up her skirt and straddled him. Within minutes her breathing became heavy and her grinding hips slowed and undulated with more precision. She leaned forward on top of him and stretching out, gripped the steel spike. As she continued to ride her, sinking him deeper into her with each thrust, she twisted the nail.
His screams seemed to increase her mounting pleasure. He felt a shiver pass through her.
“Almost time,” she said through teeth gritted against the pleasure, prolonging it. “Almost…time.” Her body tensed and she sat up, wrenching the spike from Jeremy’s flesh. As the first convulsive spasm wracked her body, she plunged the spike into her lover’s chest over and over. Killing him anew. Killing him again. Killing him always.
Her orgasm lasted several minutes and she remained atop Jeremy for all of it. Wave after crashing wave rocked her and she went with them as far as they’d take her until finally her pleasure subsided. She straddled him and waited. It was almost time for him to go.
With a jerk, she pulled the stainless steel nail from his chest, staring at the puckered hole it left behind. She missed the blood. She missed the smell of it, the taste of it. Blood was everywhere the first time she’d killed him, so much of it that it surprised her. She missed the way it pulsed from the ragged holes in his chest. Of course, he’d been alive that first time.
Climbing off of him, she smoothed her skirt and slipped the spike into a pocket. She glanced at her watch. It was almost time. Squatting next to him, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “See you tomorrow, baby,” she whispered even as he began to fade. For an instant he was there and not there at the same time, existing in two worlds at once. At 11:32 exactly, Jeremy faded into nothingness, just as he had every night since she’d killed him three years ago.
She’d gotten away with it, had never even been a suspect. At the funeral she’d been inconsolable, and not all of it had been an act, she’d genuinely missed him. Not enough to regret killing him, but almost.
After a month, she’d returned to the bus stop – the killer returning to the scene of the crime, the poor lost girlfriend searching for answers, and she’d been shocked to find Jeremy sitting there, confused, disoriented, and with a complete lack of memory. That first encounter, she’d hidden in the bushes and watched him. And when he disappeared, she’d walked to the convenience store at the corner, bought a bottle of tequila and drank the apparition from her memory.
She came back the next night.
And the next.
On the sixth night, she screwed up her courage and walked past him on the sidewalk. Within a month, she was talking to him.
Soon she began killing him again and again.
Each night he reappeared shiny and new, with no memory of her or the things she did to him. He never wanted to sleep over, she could date other guys, and the sex had become amazing! He was the perfect boyfriend.
So what if he was dead.
END
Friday, January 23, 2009
110 People per Day
I have been in two major accidents in my lifetime. I'm not talking minor bumps, exchange your insurance info and drive away kind of accidents, we've all had those. By major I mean air bag deployed, car totalled, lucky to walk away from kind of accidents. One was my fault, the other wasn't and in both cases the responding officer took the report, looked from me to my car and back to me again. "You're lucky to be alive," they said. Don't I know it. Not only am I alive, I walked away from both accidents with only minor scrapes and bruises.
There are many who are less fortunate.
According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Commission more than 40,000 people are killed in auto accidents every year. 40,000! Averaging 110 deaths per day! Let that sink in for a moment. If a plane carrying 100 people crashed EVERY DAY the airlins would be shut down. But because these accidents happen by ones and twos, we rarely notice them anymore. Unless, of course, we are stuck in the aftermath on the freeway. I was once a passenger in a car when the driveractually said, "Somebody better have died up there." I understand the frustrations, but come on. No matter how long you sit on the freeway, no matter how late you are to wherever you're going, somebody up ahead is having a worse day.
So friends, please slow down a little, and drive safer. Don't become a statistic, I kinda like having you around.
There are many who are less fortunate.
According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Commission more than 40,000 people are killed in auto accidents every year. 40,000! Averaging 110 deaths per day! Let that sink in for a moment. If a plane carrying 100 people crashed EVERY DAY the airlins would be shut down. But because these accidents happen by ones and twos, we rarely notice them anymore. Unless, of course, we are stuck in the aftermath on the freeway. I was once a passenger in a car when the driveractually said, "Somebody better have died up there." I understand the frustrations, but come on. No matter how long you sit on the freeway, no matter how late you are to wherever you're going, somebody up ahead is having a worse day.
So friends, please slow down a little, and drive safer. Don't become a statistic, I kinda like having you around.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
History Before Your Eyes
Whether you voted for him or not, it is hard to ignore the historical significance of Barack Obama’s presidency. Depending on which news organization you pay attention to, he is either an inexperienced moron or the second coming of Christ or at the very least JFK. The answer, of course, lies somewhere in between.
He ran on a platform of hope and of change. He spoke eloquently of a government willing to do things different. He made grand, sweeping statements but spoke mostly in generalities before moving back toward the middle of the road. And the country responded. We as a people have said for years that we want someone in the white house who will do things differently. Politics as usual just won’t cut it anymore.
His inauguration speech was everything it needed to be. It was at once: uplifting, hopeful, stern, and a call to action. The American people, when energized behind a common goal can accomplish amazing things. My hope is that Obama is the spark that lights the flame beneath a nation on the ropes.
No president in history will be scrutinized more intensely during the first hundred days than Obama. I sincerely hope he is the kind of president he promised he could be. It is about time we had a rock star for a president. I just hope that he doesn’t burn out like most rock stars.
Monday, January 19, 2009
It has more things that will kill you than anywhere else
Australia has secrets. Every year, scientists are discovering new species that have been around for centuries, hidden by Australia’s vast, harsh land. Today scientists announced just such a find from the sea.
This newly discovered carnivorous sea squirt traps fish and other prey in its funnel-like front section, scientists announced today. Most of the 2,000 or so known sea squirt species are filter feeders that strain plankton from seawater. Pretty cool huh?
Consider these words from Bill Bryson, from his book entitled “In A Sunburned Country”
It is the home of the largest living thing on earth, the Great Barrier Reef, and of the largest monolith, Ayers Rock (or Uluru to use its now-official, more respectful Aboriginal name). It has more things that will kill you than anywhere else.
Of the world’s ten most poisonous snakes, all are Australian. Five of its creatures—the funnel web spider, box jellyfish, blue-ringed octopus, paralysis tick, and stonefish—are the most lethal of their type in the world. This is a country where even the fluffiest of caterpillars can lay you out with a toxic nip, where seashells will not just sting you but actually sometimes go for you. Pick up an innocuous cone shell from a Queensland beach, as innocent tourists are all too wont to do, and you will discover that the little fellow inside is not just astoundingly swift and testy but exceedingly venomous. If you are not stung or pronged to death in some unexpected manner, you may be fatally chomped by sharks or crocodiles, or carried helplessly out to sea by irresistible currents, or left to stagger to an unhappy death in the baking outback. It’s a tough place.
In short, there was no place in the world like it. There still isn’t. Eighty percent of all that lives in Australia, plant and animal, exists nowhere else. More than this, it exists in an abundance that seems incompatible with the harshness of the environment. Australia is the driest, flattest, hottest, most desiccated, infertile, and climatically aggressive of all the inhabited continents. (Only Antarctica is more hostile to life.) This is a place so inert that even the soil is, technically speaking, a fossil. And yet it teems with life in numbers uncounted. For insects alone, scientists haven’t the faintest idea whether the total number of species is 100,000 or more than twice that. As many as a third of those species remain entirely unknown to science. For spiders, the proportion rises to 80 percent.
You take my point again, I’m sure. This is a country that is at once staggeringly empty and yet packed with stuff. Interesting stuff, ancient stuff, stuff not readily explained. Stuff yet to be found.
Trust me, this is an interesting place.
28 days
Award-winning nature photographer Jim Brandenburg gave himself a challenge: for 90 days between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice, he would take only one photograph each day in the forest of the great northwest where he lives. As a nature photographer he is used to shooting hundreds of photos a day, so limiting his creativity to only one shot a day was like handcuffing himself. The results were incredible. Brandenburg documents the choices he made throughout his cleansing journey. Forsaking sure-thing photo opportunities for the possibility of a better one before the sun set. Chased by the light indeed. The cynic in me wonders if he truly limited himself so stringently. We may never know.
Inspired by his quest, I once limited myself to one roll of film per day on a weekend photo excursion. Yes, film. I’m old, get over it. The point is, I respected his challenge enough to try it, but was neither cocky enough nor confident enough to limit myself to single photo each day.
I’m happy to say that I am cocky enough these days, though still not confident that I can pull it off with as much grace and success as he. I am not in the great wilderness, I am not a world-renowned photographer, and I am limited by my day job for the amount of daylight hours I can shoot, but I’m going to give it a go. For the entire month of February, I will travel everywhere with my camera and I will snap only one photo per day. 28 days/28 photos. No cheating. Only found photos, pictures I come across during my daily life. There will be nothing staged. I will snap a single photo per day for the entire month of February and post them here the following day. Wish me luck, I’ll need it.
The link below will take you to Jim Brandenburg’s images from the project:
http://www.jimbrandenburg.com/gallery/90%20day%20images/90day_htmls/day_01.html
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Friday, January 16, 2009
Ten Questions from Inside the Actor's Studio
These 10 questions originally came from a French series, "Bouillon de Culture" hosted by Bernard Pivot.
They're better known in the USA as the questions that James Lipton asks every guest at the end of "Inside the Actor's Studio".
Here are my answers I gave them no thought and typed them as they came to me. Try it yourself…don’t try to think of something cool, that cheapens the experience. Answer them honestly. Please post your own lists in the comments section here.
1 What is your favorite word? Peace
2 What is your least favorite word? Can’t
3 What turns you on? Intelligence & Laughter
4 What turns you off? Negativity
5 What is your favorite curse word? MotherF*cker
6 What sound or noise do you love? The laughter of children when they think no grown-ups are around
7 What sound or noise do you hate? My mother crying
8 What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Helicopter Pilot
9 What profession would you not like to do? Politician
10 If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? You’re Early, go back and finish your work
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They're better known in the USA as the questions that James Lipton asks every guest at the end of "Inside the Actor's Studio".
Here are my answers I gave them no thought and typed them as they came to me. Try it yourself…don’t try to think of something cool, that cheapens the experience. Answer them honestly. Please post your own lists in the comments section here.
1 What is your favorite word? Peace
2 What is your least favorite word? Can’t
3 What turns you on? Intelligence & Laughter
4 What turns you off? Negativity
5 What is your favorite curse word? MotherF*cker
6 What sound or noise do you love? The laughter of children when they think no grown-ups are around
7 What sound or noise do you hate? My mother crying
8 What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Helicopter Pilot
9 What profession would you not like to do? Politician
10 If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? You’re Early, go back and finish your work
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Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Dust Bunnies
So I have been entering writing contests lately with mixed results. Some stories, I know going in that it does not deserve to win, that I have handicapped them in some way. Time or subject constraints can damper the creative process more than you know. But some stories, a select few, feel really good. These stories almost write themselves, molding themselves to the subject and word count of the contest.
I wrote the following story a few months ago for a flash fiction contest. The story had to be 100 words or less and the theme was “Under the Bed”. 100 words are not a lot, most people use more than that to order lunch.
I loved my little story. Friends and family loved my little story. The judges however, did not.
Here it is for you to decide.
Dust Bunnies
She could ignore the music, low and tinny sounding to her little girl ears; some form of disco-punk she would never listen to if she had a choice. And she barely noticed the thumping on the underside of her mattress anymore, but the rotating streams of light shooting out from under the bed were a little much. Another dust bunny party, the third one this week. She pulled the pillow over her ears, but somehow the sound made it through…and those bits of light were driving her crazy. Where the heck did they find a disco ball that small anyway?
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