Tuesday, February 22

23. (Fiction.)

He watches the gold-fish float along, the blue-green light of the aquarium casting its glow on their table. The small, graceful fish vanishes behind her head and his attention is on her now. Her hands move quick and easy--graceful--and bring the noodles to her mouth, but the chopsticks in his own hand are far more clumsy. The noodles slip and splatter, but not enough to mark his clothing or the white table-cloth.

She giggles, dark eyes narrowing slightly in mirth. "This was a good choice."

"I'd heard that it was the least Americanized in town; you were just complaining--"

She interrupts: "It's not as bad as some, but I approve." A smile. "Next week, sometime, I'll have my mom make you some of this. Show you how it's supposed to taste."

"I'd like that," he replies. They go silent again as he struggles to use the foreign utensils. A woman swings by and snatches up their glasses. His companion rises and strides off, then returns with a completely different selection of food. The woman drops off fresh glasses of soda.

He's up now, and away, examining potential meals through well-cleaned glass. Could he use the chopsticks on this? How about that? Rice was out of the question.

He goes back to the table, just as she rises for another helping. She comes back with a bowl of fried rice, with chunks of egg and chicken. She eats it with a fork. They smile.

Some god or beast glares at them as they leave, frozen in stone. She complains, verbally, that she hates this synthesized bullshit. In the car, in their shelter, she pops in a CD of music that she thinks would fit the establishment better.

He can't help but agree.

Sunday, February 20

22. (Something I'd like to share.)

"...if the story is about a man and a woman changing a tire on a remote highway... you've nonetheless got to convince me of the highway, the tire, the night, the margin, the shoulder, the gravel under their knees, the lug nuts, the difficulty getting the whole thing apart and back together, and the smells. You must do that. But that's not what you're there to deliver. That's the way you're going to seduce me... after you've got my shirt caught in the machine of the story and you've drawn me in, what you're really going to crush me with are these hearts and these people. Who are they?"
--Ron Carlson, in an interview with Susan McInnis (as transcribed in Imaginative Writing: The Elements of Craft by Janet Burroway)

I love his use of conflicting imagery. The use of seduction moving straight into an image of a machine, which is crushing him... it's lovely. It just goes to show that imagery doesn't have to be straightforward to reach you.

Wednesday, February 16

21. (We're All Looking for a Little Piece.)

A moist, rotting room, full of thugs. Sam stands in the door, paused mid-stride as he enters. It's his room. What little goods he owns have been smashed--some still in the process. The urge to lash out wells up within him, but fear overtakes him and Sam turns to run. In seconds, the thugs are on him, beating him, mocking him. He lashes out when he can, but the beating continues until Sam can barely move. The thugs exit, jeering. Sam moans. His typewriter is destroyed, his work, his livelihood set alight and burning. He screams in anger.

Another moist room, less ramshackle than the previous. Eileen, getting on in years, pushes back a mop of gray hair and stares at Jessica, wide-eyed in shock. Her eyes are blue, blood-shot. The sounds of Sam's beating reverberate through the floor.

You call that music? You are a scary little thing, aren't you? It's no wonder they left--oh, don't make that face. Drink your tea, girl. He's better off if them finish him--you are, too. The two of you... quite a pair. He knew they'd be down there, you know. But he had to check. S'why he came up here with you. Wanted you to be safe. Must feel alien for you, huh? Your parents never felt like that, s'why they left, I bet. Stop looking at me like that, you little wretch. I didn't ask for you, I didn't want you. If he doesn't come back for you, it's off to social-services. I'm not like him--not a fool. S'probably why he's getting roughed up now, and I'm brat-sitting a lunatic like you. Oh yes, girl, I heard the stories. Gun must've felt mighty heavy in your hands, huh? Did you watch them bleed? Did he look scared, watching you kill them?

She pours another cup of tea, making sure to drop in an ice-cube so the tea is not too hot. The girl starts to look drowsy, and Eileen brings her to a ratty sofa and lays her down, letting the child rest. Chatting away the whole time, admonishing the girl, mocking the man downstairs. She pulls a blanket over Jessica to make sure she's warm, then sits in the recliner opposite, watching the exhausted child sleep. After a moment she rifles through the girl's belongings and retrieves the gun--right as it enters her rant--and with an uncommon comfortability she removes the clip, pops the bullets out one at a time, and replaces the now-empty clip in the gun. The weapon is then placed back where she found it, in the pocket of Jessica's large jacket. Eileen returns to the recliner, watching the child sleep.

Monday, February 14

20. (Of Omens and Ironies.)

The first thing I laid eyes on as I left my house this morning was a dead bird. My puppy had gotten a hold of it. I don't know when.

Suffice to say the realization didn't dawn on me until I was on my way to school that that might have been a bad way to start my day. It being Valentine's day and all. An omen? I don't believe in anything about the future being set in any way. The last time I did, I found myself horribly mistaken, and now I'm not willing to place bets on the future at all.

But back to the subject at hand: a dead bird, first event of the day, Valentine's day.

Lovely, no?

And oddly enough, I was just having a conversation last night--technically this morning--with the person with whom today should be significant in regards to me.

Death is a funny thing. I'm a spiritual person. I believe in things we can't see. So maybe it was a warning of some kind? Warning me of what, though?

It's all very perplexing. Perplexing.

Friday, February 4

19. (Plugging.)

If you're reading this, then you're probably aware that I'm a writer. Well, guess what? It's time to plug the living shit out of my work. Following are several links directly into my DeviantArt Account. Anything with more than one part will link internally to the later parts, so that things don't get repetitive in this post.

Feel free to read if you want. Or don't, if you don't want to.

Of course, this isn't everything. Just the things I'm proud of.

"Dejeme Adentro"
"The Blind Bravery of Thieves"
"Under"
"We Jedi"
"Lost"

If you only read one, read the last one, "Lost". It's my best.