He left the man bleeding in the mud. It had been a long chase but in the end, the fight had gone out of him. Thornton couldn't blame him; his horse had died and he'd run outta bullets. Not many would that would fight on after running two days through the desert and then still have it in them to grapple their pursuer. Thornton stood up and wiped the mud from his boots on the man's pants. The knife came smoothly out of its sheath and Thornton bent down to cut off the man's head.
No head, no proof, Thornton said. Ain't nothin' personal.
He always found it funny how easily a knife could cut through a man's flesh. Fragile creatures. Like to think we're invincible but a fella with a well-placed punch and kill you. The head made a sickening crack and squish as Thornton pulled it away from the sinew and bone. Thornton put the head into a hessian sack. He looked down and admired the corpse. The man had been fitter than hell. Big arms, broad shoulders, legs as strong as a horse's. At the end of them shone some nice, shiny boots, almost looking new.
Bad luck to take a dead man's boots, Thornton said. Shame to waste them. The buzzards'll have a hell of a time with ye, though.
Thornton climbed up on his horse and rode off. A heavy, hot wind was setting in and he knew that soon a sandstorm would make this ride impossible. Up a ways he remembered there were some caves set into a small outcropping of rocks. If he could just make it there, it would be fine. Then he could wait the storm out, hand over this man's stinking head and get his gold.
Just as the wind was picking up, driving the sand hard into his face and making his horse rear up in discomfort, he found the cave. He rushed inside, dragging the horse in through reluctant whinnies. He set the horse to eating its grain and made himself a small fire, cooking a small pot of road stew.
I wonder what ye did, Thornton said to the hessian sack. It sat opposite him across the fire.
Not many men, he said, could piss of a county as much as ye gone and done. A hefty fee fer bringing you in, y'know. Hefty even for a murderer.
Sorry fer killin' ye, he said as an aside, quietly as if not to rouse the man's ghost. They said they really wanted ye alive, but that was so they could hang ye in the streets. And to be honest bringing ye back alive was just too damn hard. If yer head's anything to go by, you'd have been a heavy bastard to carry back. That and all the flailin' yer sure to have put me and my horse through. And what would I have done with ye tonight? Putting ye over in the corner, hopin' ye don't escape, not gettin' any shut-eye. No, it was easier to kill ye. Better than hangin' in front a' all them people, all the anticipation and such.
Thornton took a spoonful of the stew and slurped it up.
Good, he said. Good stew.
The storm would die down by morning but for now it rung heavy and musical across the mouth of the cave and soon it lulled Thornton to sleep.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Stories from Nothing: The Spies
Catalyst:
This one actually got its inspiration from a Cracked article about games you should give a shot playing in your own head to make life more interesting. One of these was to have a look at people on the street or train platform or bus and figure out which one of them was a spy or assassin and who their target was.
Story:
She stepped down onto the platform and took up her place next to the air conditioning vent, to the right of the small conductors' office. Her mark was already standing there, as was her second sent by the Agency.
She threw a casual glance at the two of them. After a day or so of not being up close to him, the mark was much fatter than she remembered. And the agent was a short, handsome man with small glasses. Like they had organized, he was reading that free gossip newspaper they hand out at train stations.
The rumble from underneath the platform told her that the train was almost here. She put her bag down onto the air conditioning vent and dug around and found her black day planner. She opened it and began writing. Hopefully the Agent would notice. This was the signal that everything was a go. A chattering group of school children passed her and she watched them go. Made eyes with the Agent. She turned away. On the bench, the Agent put the newspaper into his satchel bag and took out a small black book of his own and had a look at something, nodded, and replaced it in his bag.
The train pulled up to the station. The Mark checked his watch. It was late. The doors opened and the Mark went on. She followed and right behind her, the Agent stepped onto the crowded train.
This one actually got its inspiration from a Cracked article about games you should give a shot playing in your own head to make life more interesting. One of these was to have a look at people on the street or train platform or bus and figure out which one of them was a spy or assassin and who their target was.
Story:
She stepped down onto the platform and took up her place next to the air conditioning vent, to the right of the small conductors' office. Her mark was already standing there, as was her second sent by the Agency.
She threw a casual glance at the two of them. After a day or so of not being up close to him, the mark was much fatter than she remembered. And the agent was a short, handsome man with small glasses. Like they had organized, he was reading that free gossip newspaper they hand out at train stations.
The rumble from underneath the platform told her that the train was almost here. She put her bag down onto the air conditioning vent and dug around and found her black day planner. She opened it and began writing. Hopefully the Agent would notice. This was the signal that everything was a go. A chattering group of school children passed her and she watched them go. Made eyes with the Agent. She turned away. On the bench, the Agent put the newspaper into his satchel bag and took out a small black book of his own and had a look at something, nodded, and replaced it in his bag.
The train pulled up to the station. The Mark checked his watch. It was late. The doors opened and the Mark went on. She followed and right behind her, the Agent stepped onto the crowded train.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Week 18 - Catching Up!
Though in previous weeks I've been behind on my short story writing, this week marks a wonderful turn; I'm ahead. Yesterday, I spent most of the day scribbling out stories, which caught me up to this week's quota of 18 in total. I punched out the finish to a story I'd started weeks ago which desperately needed an ending; I wrote a short film which - as it is a short piece of fiction, totally counts - I'd been fermenting in my head for days; and the best one of all, I revisited an old favourite and wrote a new pulp piece featuring the heroic Captain Horatio Silverthorn. Anyone who'd like to read that joy, please just comment and I'll pass it along to you. This one's a doozy - airships!
I even started a new one today. A new story, when I don't have to! I've decided to get a head start on Week 19 so that way I don't fall so behind again.
All of this, of course, means I've fallen desperately and perhaps irretrievably behind on NaNoWriMo - but you know what? I don't care. I didn't really feel the impetus when I started this year's one and so I'm not perturbed by being so behind. It's been good to revisit the old story that I'd started so many years ago, work on that world again, but I think I'm going to do it at my own pace. When I have days where my mind just isn't conducive to writing and yet I am forced to, I just write out schlock that I know I'll have to remove or edit later, and I'd rather not do that labour. So, for now, I'll work on that beast when I feel I have the right reigns.
Mahalo.
I even started a new one today. A new story, when I don't have to! I've decided to get a head start on Week 19 so that way I don't fall so behind again.
All of this, of course, means I've fallen desperately and perhaps irretrievably behind on NaNoWriMo - but you know what? I don't care. I didn't really feel the impetus when I started this year's one and so I'm not perturbed by being so behind. It's been good to revisit the old story that I'd started so many years ago, work on that world again, but I think I'm going to do it at my own pace. When I have days where my mind just isn't conducive to writing and yet I am forced to, I just write out schlock that I know I'll have to remove or edit later, and I'd rather not do that labour. So, for now, I'll work on that beast when I feel I have the right reigns.
Mahalo.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Weeks 15, 16 & 17 - And NaNoWriMo
Jesus it's been another intense month. I've been terrible at updating and I apologize. I was doing so well there at the start, too.
In Week 15 I caught up to where I was supposed to be and started a Zombie short story but for some reason I couldn't finish it. It was just going to be too damn long and I didn't have the energy to sit and write a long piece. Then Week 16 rolled around. Just like I knew it would.
I started another story but it, too, I soon lost the taste for. I was losing my impetus. Starting to want to give up on this whole nasty, diabolical business. Sometimes, I still do. I know I did when Week 17 came upon me.
I managed to pump out a pulpy story about an explorer and quicksand and etc, etc. It was fun to write. Really fun. I miss writing pulp, so I think that'll be the case for the next few weeks.
And November started and so came NaNoWriMo again. For the third time. I wasn't going to do it initially - why do that when I have so much Bradbury-ing to do, right? Wrong. When so many people assaulted me with "are you?" and "why aren't you?" and "you should", I said what a madman says when asked if he hears voices, "yes".
I'm seven and a bit thousand words in now and I'm honestly not regretting it. I'm working on a story that I'd given up on a few years ago and it's good to settle into something like this. I'd clearly been reading a lot of Bukowski at the time. That feels good. Fun to write, too.
And then there's the comic. But that's a story for another blog post.
Mahalo.
UPDATE:
I don't know how I forgot to mention this, but it seems I did and apologies to all those involved!
It was around week 16 that a friend, Mr. David Sander of Surfaces Rendered, came to me with a proposition. He gave me some work on editing his screenplay. I accepted and began to devour and twist and edit! That was something nice and different from my usual fare. With Final Draft open on my desktop each night, it was certainly a fruitful labour that continues!
In Week 15 I caught up to where I was supposed to be and started a Zombie short story but for some reason I couldn't finish it. It was just going to be too damn long and I didn't have the energy to sit and write a long piece. Then Week 16 rolled around. Just like I knew it would.
I started another story but it, too, I soon lost the taste for. I was losing my impetus. Starting to want to give up on this whole nasty, diabolical business. Sometimes, I still do. I know I did when Week 17 came upon me.
I managed to pump out a pulpy story about an explorer and quicksand and etc, etc. It was fun to write. Really fun. I miss writing pulp, so I think that'll be the case for the next few weeks.
And November started and so came NaNoWriMo again. For the third time. I wasn't going to do it initially - why do that when I have so much Bradbury-ing to do, right? Wrong. When so many people assaulted me with "are you?" and "why aren't you?" and "you should", I said what a madman says when asked if he hears voices, "yes".
I'm seven and a bit thousand words in now and I'm honestly not regretting it. I'm working on a story that I'd given up on a few years ago and it's good to settle into something like this. I'd clearly been reading a lot of Bukowski at the time. That feels good. Fun to write, too.
And then there's the comic. But that's a story for another blog post.
Mahalo.
UPDATE:
I don't know how I forgot to mention this, but it seems I did and apologies to all those involved!
It was around week 16 that a friend, Mr. David Sander of Surfaces Rendered, came to me with a proposition. He gave me some work on editing his screenplay. I accepted and began to devour and twist and edit! That was something nice and different from my usual fare. With Final Draft open on my desktop each night, it was certainly a fruitful labour that continues!
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Weeks 11, 12, 13 & 14
Argh! Well this has been the worst month for writing.
I missed one week and then another and another and before I knew it, three short stories behind. I managed to get one down but then a new week flipped over (14) and then I was still three behind!
I scribbled out another one, just something short and weird and kind of erotic and I don't know why but it's there and it's done and it's something to mark on the tally.
I was debating starting to write an issue of the comic or the pilot of my TV show I want to do but that seems like cheating. It is, right? Right.
I'm pushing out the last two now and it's just a fierce bastard to do. It's amazing how you completely reset to absolute zero when you miss out on a couple of weeks of this. Shit. It builds up like NaNoWriMo and resets your mind to NOTHINGNESS.
Irritating.
Once again, if anyone wants to read these things, let me know.
Mahalo.
I missed one week and then another and another and before I knew it, three short stories behind. I managed to get one down but then a new week flipped over (14) and then I was still three behind!
I scribbled out another one, just something short and weird and kind of erotic and I don't know why but it's there and it's done and it's something to mark on the tally.
I was debating starting to write an issue of the comic or the pilot of my TV show I want to do but that seems like cheating. It is, right? Right.
I'm pushing out the last two now and it's just a fierce bastard to do. It's amazing how you completely reset to absolute zero when you miss out on a couple of weeks of this. Shit. It builds up like NaNoWriMo and resets your mind to NOTHINGNESS.
Irritating.
Once again, if anyone wants to read these things, let me know.
Mahalo.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
10 Weeks: Reflection
This is it - the big ONE ZERO. I've hit ten weeks of this taxing writing experiment known as the Bradbury Method. It's been something, that's for sure. Only forty-two more to go.
I find, as I finish my late-in-the-week story for this week - a short piece that I wrote in a rush because my mind wasn't ready for other things - that I am enjoying the act of writing more and more. The process itself makes more sense to me, feels better. I'm more willing to expand on certain paragraphs and ideas. The stories feel fuller, when it strikes me anyway.
I'm also finding that I'm becoming less afraid. Each time I think of a new story idea, I no longer shy away from starting it for fear of ruining it. I just let 'er rip. I've been thinking of more of them than usual, too, which is nice. Kind of bombarding my mind it's hard to always keep track.
Anyway, thanks for sticking through this bastard of a thing with me.
Mahalo.
I find, as I finish my late-in-the-week story for this week - a short piece that I wrote in a rush because my mind wasn't ready for other things - that I am enjoying the act of writing more and more. The process itself makes more sense to me, feels better. I'm more willing to expand on certain paragraphs and ideas. The stories feel fuller, when it strikes me anyway.
I'm also finding that I'm becoming less afraid. Each time I think of a new story idea, I no longer shy away from starting it for fear of ruining it. I just let 'er rip. I've been thinking of more of them than usual, too, which is nice. Kind of bombarding my mind it's hard to always keep track.
Anyway, thanks for sticking through this bastard of a thing with me.
Mahalo.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
And that's Week 9...
...and what a week it was!
All in all, not a bad one. I started one story only to realize, after a discussion with my fellow Bradbury Method partner, that it could be taken to all of these wonderful places and would be far too long to be able to finish this week.
Luckily, though, I had a half-finished piece from last week that I hadn't had the energy to really look at. Fortunately for me, this week was better for it. Nailed it to the wall tonight. That felt good.
Mahalo.
All in all, not a bad one. I started one story only to realize, after a discussion with my fellow Bradbury Method partner, that it could be taken to all of these wonderful places and would be far too long to be able to finish this week.
Luckily, though, I had a half-finished piece from last week that I hadn't had the energy to really look at. Fortunately for me, this week was better for it. Nailed it to the wall tonight. That felt good.
Mahalo.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Weeks 7 & 8
So, I know I said that a) I would post more and b) that last week (Week 7) I was totally catching up. Well, I was, but the third story I started for the week completely eluded me and made itself far too intangible. Completely untouchable.
Today, however, midway through Week 8, I have written two stories. Two. Today. Two brand new stories that brings my total back up to in line. I've caught up! The stories came to me today and I just shot them out through my (now sore) fingertips!
I didn't finish the one I started at the end of Week 7, but now I have a bit of wiggle room in being able to work on it properly without too much stress, so that feels pretty good.
Mahalo.
Today, however, midway through Week 8, I have written two stories. Two. Today. Two brand new stories that brings my total back up to in line. I've caught up! The stories came to me today and I just shot them out through my (now sore) fingertips!
I didn't finish the one I started at the end of Week 7, but now I have a bit of wiggle room in being able to work on it properly without too much stress, so that feels pretty good.
Mahalo.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Weeks 4, 5, 6 & 7!
Agh! So I have just been the worst lately. Due to sickness/food poisoning during Week 4, I didn't write a story, so I didn't update. Then I had a family crisis in Week 5, so I didn't write anything and then I decided why bother updating? Week 6 I was lazy because of unemployment and only did two of the three stories I had accrued over that time; and now we're into Week 7 and I'm only just catching up!
I'm back to work as a labourer and I managed to get some time in today after work to write a full story, so that's nice. I have the start of another story that I have to finish before the end of the week to get back on track. I like the start of it, but I don't want to rush it just to get it done. I want it to work.
It's been tough to catch up. It's like NaNoWriMo where if you miss one day of writing, your tally is doubled for the next day. I'm almost back to normal output, but yeah, thanks for sticking through this with me and sorry I haven't been posting! I promise I'll do better.
Mahalo
I'm back to work as a labourer and I managed to get some time in today after work to write a full story, so that's nice. I have the start of another story that I have to finish before the end of the week to get back on track. I like the start of it, but I don't want to rush it just to get it done. I want it to work.
It's been tough to catch up. It's like NaNoWriMo where if you miss one day of writing, your tally is doubled for the next day. I'm almost back to normal output, but yeah, thanks for sticking through this with me and sorry I haven't been posting! I promise I'll do better.
Mahalo
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
The Third Week
Holy mackerel has the time just flown by! It's already the end of the third week of The Bradbury Method, although it feels like it's been going forever. I managed to punch out a short, short story which I'm quite pleased with and with the help of Luke and Omar I managed to make it even better. So, thanks a LOT to those guys for putting up with my pestering.
I'm so pleased with it, actually, then I'm going to send it off to a mag shortly, once I've gone over it for the bajillionth time.
It's tough actually sitting down and finding time to write at the moment, what with life being what it is with all its necessary insanities. If anyone wants to read them, feel free to contact me with your email in the comments - or, if I know you, just get in touch with me however.
Back to it! BRARGH!
Mahalo.
I'm so pleased with it, actually, then I'm going to send it off to a mag shortly, once I've gone over it for the bajillionth time.
It's tough actually sitting down and finding time to write at the moment, what with life being what it is with all its necessary insanities. If anyone wants to read them, feel free to contact me with your email in the comments - or, if I know you, just get in touch with me however.
Back to it! BRARGH!
Mahalo.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
The Second Week
Today brings a conclusion to the second week of The Bradbury Method and the start of the third. It's tough, this deal. Making me realize some things about the style of short story that I write. I know the types I like to read and obviously there is a certain imitation to the styles of those in search of my own voice. Etgar Keret and Joe Hill have been particular inspirations, as I'm sure I've mentioned before. And Raymond Carver. Neil Gaiman. Charles Bukowski.
Short pieces of fiction that are not only self-contained but satisfying in their own way. I've realized about myself that I don't write very long short stories. Now, I know it may seem counter-intuitive to have a "long short story" but it's not, really. A short story can go anywhere, it seems, from 500 to 15,000 words. After that, it's really a novella. My peak seems to be anywhere up to and including about 3000 words. Anything longer than that and I feel I might as well make it a damn book. I don't even really like reading short stories that are more than about ten pages. I like them short. That's why I like Keret and Bukowski especially - easy bite-sized chunks of interesting dialogue and happenstance.
I wrote a story on the first day of this week. One I'm pretty happy with. I think I might chop off the ending; I think I just wrote the last paragraph because I felt the story was too short but it doesn't really fit. Some parts in the middle could maybe use some expanding or made to flow better, but it's there on paper. It's written. That's two for two so far. I have to start a new one tonight or at least sometime this week. I have the idea, at least.
Mahalo.
Short pieces of fiction that are not only self-contained but satisfying in their own way. I've realized about myself that I don't write very long short stories. Now, I know it may seem counter-intuitive to have a "long short story" but it's not, really. A short story can go anywhere, it seems, from 500 to 15,000 words. After that, it's really a novella. My peak seems to be anywhere up to and including about 3000 words. Anything longer than that and I feel I might as well make it a damn book. I don't even really like reading short stories that are more than about ten pages. I like them short. That's why I like Keret and Bukowski especially - easy bite-sized chunks of interesting dialogue and happenstance.
I wrote a story on the first day of this week. One I'm pretty happy with. I think I might chop off the ending; I think I just wrote the last paragraph because I felt the story was too short but it doesn't really fit. Some parts in the middle could maybe use some expanding or made to flow better, but it's there on paper. It's written. That's two for two so far. I have to start a new one tonight or at least sometime this week. I have the idea, at least.
Mahalo.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Dog Exercise
Okay, so maybe this is me, but there's something I find cruel about dog exercising.
Not the kind of thing where you take your dog to the park, run around, play fetch and have fun kind of exercise. That's all joy and wonder.
No, what I'm talking about is something like dog training.
I was walking through the park and I saw this big, brawny guy with his pet Staffy. The dog had a harness on and a number of heavy weights attached to it by a cord. The man would them call the dog over, getting it to run - lopsided because the weights wouldn't trail directly behind it - and he would time how long it took the dog to run to him each time.
Now, I know there are probably some good reasons for dog training, though the only one I could think of is Police Dog stuff, and this sure as hell wasn't that. This was just some guy who wanted his Staffy to have that really bulked up front look. Maybe to be a guard dog, maybe because he wanted a dog as bulky as him.
Either way, it seemed cruel to me to watch this dog hauling these weights behind it, clearly encumbered and uncomfortable, lopsided and pulling everything with its neck.
Mahalo.
Not the kind of thing where you take your dog to the park, run around, play fetch and have fun kind of exercise. That's all joy and wonder.
No, what I'm talking about is something like dog training.
I was walking through the park and I saw this big, brawny guy with his pet Staffy. The dog had a harness on and a number of heavy weights attached to it by a cord. The man would them call the dog over, getting it to run - lopsided because the weights wouldn't trail directly behind it - and he would time how long it took the dog to run to him each time.
Now, I know there are probably some good reasons for dog training, though the only one I could think of is Police Dog stuff, and this sure as hell wasn't that. This was just some guy who wanted his Staffy to have that really bulked up front look. Maybe to be a guard dog, maybe because he wanted a dog as bulky as him.
Either way, it seemed cruel to me to watch this dog hauling these weights behind it, clearly encumbered and uncomfortable, lopsided and pulling everything with its neck.
Mahalo.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Stories from Nothing: The Flower
Catalyst: L found a flower on the ground and put it in an open mailbox on the way home.
Story: The flower lay in the mailbox, unexposed to the elements, atop the Morgans' electricity bill. Laura and Richard came home at the same time and, as Richard parked the car, Laura would go out to the mailbox and retrieve whatever lay within.
Reaching her hand in today, she pulled out the still-crisp flower and stared at it.
"Richard!" she said, stomping into the house. "Richard, come here!"
"What?" Richard put his keys on the kitchen counter.
Laura held the flower out to him. "Someone put this in our mailbox."
"Who?"
"I don't know, Richard, why don't you tell me?"
"Honey, I don't know who would do that," Richard moved to her, to take the flower. "Where was it?"
"I told you it was in the mailbox!" she held it away from him. "Was it her, Richard? Was it her again?"
"Jesus, Laura," Richard said, turning away. "It's over with her. I ended it. You know that."
"Do I? Because this says different!"
"No it does--"
"She's coming back! She's putting things in our mailbox now!"
"We don't know for sure--"
"Don't be a child!" she threw the flower across the room. "Who else would it be?"
"It could by anyone!"
"Why would anyone put a flower in someone's mailbox?" Laura began to cry. "You bastard," she said, then. "You bastard."
"Who would do this to us?" Richard said to himself, under his breath. He sat at the kitchen table. "Why?"
Story: The flower lay in the mailbox, unexposed to the elements, atop the Morgans' electricity bill. Laura and Richard came home at the same time and, as Richard parked the car, Laura would go out to the mailbox and retrieve whatever lay within.
Reaching her hand in today, she pulled out the still-crisp flower and stared at it.
"Richard!" she said, stomping into the house. "Richard, come here!"
"What?" Richard put his keys on the kitchen counter.
Laura held the flower out to him. "Someone put this in our mailbox."
"Who?"
"I don't know, Richard, why don't you tell me?"
"Honey, I don't know who would do that," Richard moved to her, to take the flower. "Where was it?"
"I told you it was in the mailbox!" she held it away from him. "Was it her, Richard? Was it her again?"
"Jesus, Laura," Richard said, turning away. "It's over with her. I ended it. You know that."
"Do I? Because this says different!"
"No it does--"
"She's coming back! She's putting things in our mailbox now!"
"We don't know for sure--"
"Don't be a child!" she threw the flower across the room. "Who else would it be?"
"It could by anyone!"
"Why would anyone put a flower in someone's mailbox?" Laura began to cry. "You bastard," she said, then. "You bastard."
"Who would do this to us?" Richard said to himself, under his breath. He sat at the kitchen table. "Why?"
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Stories From Nothing
I've decided, since I haven't posted in a while (sorry, by the way) that I am going to set myself a deadline for posting and each week I will have to post at least one what I am deeming, a "Story from Nothing".
This is where - with my mushy, crazy writer's brain - I extrapolate a plausible (or, hell, even an unlikely) story from a seemingly minute detail or event in my or my friend's lives.
This week's is brought to you courtesy of J.J., where she "Maybe he was going to a dinner where he was proposing to his wife-to-be but his boss yelled at him because he wanted to take off a minute or so early to swing by the ring place and pick it up before the dinner was supposed to start but his boss didn't let him and so he had to put on his suit in the car and drive super fast to get the suitcase to you so he could get to the ring store and pick it up before his dinner with his wife-to-be was completely ruined. And what if he didn't make it, huh? What if dinner was ruined? No one thinks about poor courier man!
Then he's hit by a truck just after he delivers your suitcase.
He's whistling. He's happy. Nothing can kill his feeling. Sure, he had to make an extra delivery and now he has to rush, but hell, he's gonna marry the love of his love. Sandra, he thinks to himself, God I love you. He goes around the side of his car to open the door but drops his keys. He bends down to pick them up when he hears the loud honking. Turns his head in time to see headlights. A truck driver who fell asleep at the wheel. Wham. G'night, Johnny.
Meanwhile, Sandra sits alone in the restaurant. She cries, wonders what she's done wrong. What could she have done to drive Johnny away? No, it's not her, she realises, it's him. He's a pig! She leaves the restaurant, but not before calling and leaving the most hate-filled message on his answering machine.
Little did she know, though, that the ringing phone was in Johnny's fingers, an unsent text saying he might be a little bit late. He pulls the phone to his ear to hear her voice for the last time, and it's an angry tirade. "I hate you!" she yells, rain starting to fall on them both. The same moon beams light down on them. "You're a bastard! I fucked Roger anyway!"
A tear streaks down Johnny's face. This is the last thing he ever hears. Sandra hangs up before she can hear his last breath.
The next day she gets the phone call. Johnny's been killed. Sandra's head is in a spin. A spiral of self-hatred and resentment destroys her life and she turns to alcohol. No one will speak to her - she has driven them all away.
Decades later, in her studio apartment above an old Chinese restaurant, she quietly dies from a heart attack in her sleep. No one finds her for days. When they do, it's because the chefs downstairs are complaining of the smell and a stain on the ceiling coming from her room.
They're not even buried together.
This is where - with my mushy, crazy writer's brain - I extrapolate a plausible (or, hell, even an unlikely) story from a seemingly minute detail or event in my or my friend's lives.
This week's is brought to you courtesy of J.J., where she "Maybe he was going to a dinner where he was proposing to his wife-to-be but his boss yelled at him because he wanted to take off a minute or so early to swing by the ring place and pick it up before the dinner was supposed to start but his boss didn't let him and so he had to put on his suit in the car and drive super fast to get the suitcase to you so he could get to the ring store and pick it up before his dinner with his wife-to-be was completely ruined. And what if he didn't make it, huh? What if dinner was ruined? No one thinks about poor courier man!
Then he's hit by a truck just after he delivers your suitcase.
He's whistling. He's happy. Nothing can kill his feeling. Sure, he had to make an extra delivery and now he has to rush, but hell, he's gonna marry the love of his love. Sandra, he thinks to himself, God I love you. He goes around the side of his car to open the door but drops his keys. He bends down to pick them up when he hears the loud honking. Turns his head in time to see headlights. A truck driver who fell asleep at the wheel. Wham. G'night, Johnny.
Meanwhile, Sandra sits alone in the restaurant. She cries, wonders what she's done wrong. What could she have done to drive Johnny away? No, it's not her, she realises, it's him. He's a pig! She leaves the restaurant, but not before calling and leaving the most hate-filled message on his answering machine.
Little did she know, though, that the ringing phone was in Johnny's fingers, an unsent text saying he might be a little bit late. He pulls the phone to his ear to hear her voice for the last time, and it's an angry tirade. "I hate you!" she yells, rain starting to fall on them both. The same moon beams light down on them. "You're a bastard! I fucked Roger anyway!"
A tear streaks down Johnny's face. This is the last thing he ever hears. Sandra hangs up before she can hear his last breath.
The next day she gets the phone call. Johnny's been killed. Sandra's head is in a spin. A spiral of self-hatred and resentment destroys her life and she turns to alcohol. No one will speak to her - she has driven them all away.
Decades later, in her studio apartment above an old Chinese restaurant, she quietly dies from a heart attack in her sleep. No one finds her for days. When they do, it's because the chefs downstairs are complaining of the smell and a stain on the ceiling coming from her room.
They're not even buried together.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Pierce Malloy UPDATE
Hey everybody!
Got a link so you can download PIERCE MALLOY: PARANORMAL DETECTIVE! Just click on this here link and download away!
It's a pulp piece written for a deliberately incredibly pulpy magazine! Within that folder is also the first piece I wrote for that mag THE TALL TALES OF CAPTAIN HORATIO SILVERTHORN!
Enjoy!
NOTE: All spelling and grammar mistakes are the fault of the editor, and not yours truly, some of which were deliberate to give the mag a more pulpy air.
Got a link so you can download PIERCE MALLOY: PARANORMAL DETECTIVE! Just click on this here link and download away!
It's a pulp piece written for a deliberately incredibly pulpy magazine! Within that folder is also the first piece I wrote for that mag THE TALL TALES OF CAPTAIN HORATIO SILVERTHORN!
Enjoy!
NOTE: All spelling and grammar mistakes are the fault of the editor, and not yours truly, some of which were deliberate to give the mag a more pulpy air.
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