Watching as the frilly panties run...

I suck, I do, I do, I do. I got nothing. I know no one is actually reading so it doesn't matter, but I have nothing. I said to myself "I'll do something for here every Monday" nope. I made it 3 weeks (4 maybe, I don't know). I've failed.

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"Give me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy"

Not a lyric at all this time, this one is from the genuine Fitzgerald. I have my own little saying that I'm using for the story that I decided to write. "Give me a villain and I'll write you a comedy," that's the plan anyway. I'm not sure I should put anything up for this one since I'm supposed to try and get it published to a magazine. I've been trying to work on the other one that I put the first scene to below, but it's not coming to me. I'll put up a very rough draft of the second scene, click below and be bored:

Sitting at a booth in the dim bar we came to a startling realization.

"“So where, when, and how?" Legionnaire said.

"“Where, when, and how what?" Fool replied.

“You know...” pantomimed a hanging, complete with the snap of inertia which breaks the neck when done properly, Bear shivered at the act, we sat silent, none of us had an answer. It had never really come up before, we knew we were going to, we knew we were doing it together, and the decision and joining together seemed like the difficult part. I had an almost religious delusion, in the back of my mind, that it would just happen, we'd pick up Legionnaire, the group would be complete, the ground would split and we'd fall in. The actual grisly details never really came into play. Now seemed as good a time as any to hammer them out.

"Shooting, hanging, any kind of jumping off, into, or in front of, and bleeding the wrists or neck are out. Don't really lend themselves to groups." My words broke the previous silence and brought on a new one. "“I need a drink, it'll help me think,"over to the bar I went, nice lady was tending, gave me half a bottle of bourbon for the price of 5 drinks, she said "“You're saving me the trouble of washing the shot glasses."

I took a few good tugs on the bottle on the way back to our booth. Legionnaire and Fool were talking in harsh whispers about the relative merits of various poisons, Bear was watching them and chewing her nails away. I took my seat across from Fool and took another good pull of the bourbon, I was going to kill this bottle before we left, maybe even grab another. Fool and Legionnaire were too absorbed in the practicality of cyanide Vs. the poetic significance of hemlock, to notice as I offered the bottle around, Bear took a sip, coughed, sputtered, her eyes instantly bloodshot and puffy "“I think I'll get something else," more for me I thought, the bottle made a noise like a drowning man as it emptied.

Not complete, but that's what I got. 2 and a half pages of shitty exposition and an incomplete second scene. If you read it, tell me what you hate, I'll bet it's the same things that I hate.

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And I've written pages upon pages, trying to rid you from my bones... [random story]

Okay, it's 11 o'clock and I am going to try to start and finish a short story before midnight, for shadow boxing since no one has given me comments and indicated that they are reading. I would also note that I have stopped trying to find appropriate The Who lyrics and that today's title is from the Decemberists. Bourbon in, story out (I hope). Here goes:


"Put your fiath in the POWERS-that-BE and Their powers will continue you to BE!" The bum's sign read, I threw my change in his outstretched cup, chipped black with a mathematic proof of theory of relativity on the outside in chalk-white. I wondered at the meaning of his sign and then at the more pressing issue of getting a meal for myself. I had wandered into town a few hours before and intended to spend only a few more here before hitching a way back out again.

The beat-up pickup truck that brought me into town had only stopped at a light that was just off of the highway exit and lead straight back onto the highway out of town. It's driver didn't really seem to avoid the town, but rather ignored it. He had forgotten at first that it was here, only remembering it when a sign told us it was only five miles away. He was heading north and I was trying to get west, another interstate running east-west was "a mile, maybe two" outside of town. He dropped me here and I decided to find a meal, but I was far enough out of my element that Hardee's was Carl's Jr and people look at you funny if you ask about Kum and Go. My beaten and battered innards couldn't take another gas station meal of beef jerky and diet pop without rebelling horribly miles from a toilet.
I kept looking around the little town and asked a few people, but my ragged appearance, while normal to the people who picked me up when I was hitching, made them point me towards the homeless shelter. I settled for a gigantic greasy burger and a couple of beers at a local bar.
I moved to the edge of town where the beat-up pickup's driver had told me the interstate would run west. The driver was right and I found an interstate heading west. I stuck out my thumb and hoped.

Okay, separated from the story, I have no idea. This is crap, but I'm twenty minutes ahead of my deadline so I'm calling it. Here's what you get, no plot, no tension, no finish, now go away.

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Send your troubles dancing he knows the answer [First part of my longer short story]

Here's the first part of my longer short story, I'll try and post the next part next Monday. I don't think that anyone cares whether or not I actually write anything when I say I will, but I figure it's like shadow-boxing, I have to pretend I have an audience. Click below for the first part of my longer short story, the title of which I am still considering, currently leaning towards "A Plucked Branch," which I think is more pretentious, but less shitty. The story was inspired by this article. Click below, read, then give me a damn suggestion for a title.

Edit: I've gone back and marked the posts with stories in them so that if a new person wants to read them, they're not just The Who lyrics.


Self-murder, "catching the bus,"” "punching out,"” "“blowing oneself away," "topping oneself," "Pushing the cosmic abort button,"” gun in the mouth, gun to the temple, gun against the heart, razor down the block, razor across the neck, rope around the neck, poison, overdose, jumping from building, bridge, or cliff. I knew a lot of ways to say it and a lot of ways to accomplish it. I even had my own term for it: "“joining the forest." I still wasn't sure how, but I knew I wasn't doing it alone, I had done too much alone already. Might as well be sociable for my final moments.

Legionnaire was the last part of our group and he was late, it didn't bother the rest of us, it only mattered that the group was complete. Apparently he was the oldest of us at 56, I was next at 27, then Menaced Fool somewhere over 21, but younger than me, it was harder than hell to get a straight answer from him about anything. Bear was 22, she was sleeping fitfully on the bench seat in the back of Fool's old Pontiac Transport mini-van. She was turning, twisting, and talking nonsense. I was sitting hunched on the back bumper, smoking a little hand rolled cigarette. I would have sat inside, but Bear's ramblings were too creepy.

We were going to meet Legionnaire in the parking lot of this Kum & Go on the edge of town at 5:30pm, it was now almost 6 and Fool was ranting at the clerk inside, I was smoking my fifth cigarette. I saw an old man with a thick curly brown beard step out of a beat uJapanesed japanese-made car, the kind of car that is about a year or a fender-bender from sitting in someone's yard with a cardboard sign in the window with "“$200 OR BEST OFFER"” written on it in black sharpie. With the beard he looked like cross between a statue of a greek god and a retired boxer who grew old emphasizing the drunk in "punch drunk" with cheap beer. He started to walk over to me and the van.

Fool left the store, two cartons of Lucky Strikes sticking from the top of a plastic bag. He looked at the old man walking towards us, a huge grin split his face, Fool waved and yelled to the man "Howdy, wanna grab a drink?" Legionnaire nodded and we went to find a bar.

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And they couldn't prevent Jack from being happy...

If you're reading, here's the opening paragraph to my long short story, titled "Suicide Solution: Four Player Edition" for the purposes of saving it to my hard drive, I will think of a less pretentious/shitty title before I finish it. The first lines as of now are available by clicking below:

Self-murder, “catching the bus,” “punching out,” “blowing yourself away,” "topping yourself," “Pushing the cosmic abort button,” gun in the mouth, gun to the temple, gun against the heart, razor down the block, razor across the neck, rope around the neck, poison, overdose, jumping from building, bridge, or cliff. I knew a lot of ways to say it and a lot of ways to accomplish it.

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Your part is to be what you'll be...

Alright anyone who has been coming here. I've decided I would like to get more people to come here. This decision is because I want criticism of the stories that I've put here. I don't really like them and I want to know what might make them better. I've decided that every Monday, I will post some kind of writing here. If you read it, comment, I don't care what you say, just say something. I'd prefer criticism and suggestions, but insults and mockery are welcome and encouraged, so are links to shock pictures, not goatse, tubgirl, lemon party, or harlequin fetus though (I've already seen those).

I'll be starting with this on Monday, I hope to post the first scene of the short story that is the final for my creative writing class. It should be 2-3 pages. Criticise away, please, I have to write 20 pages of it by the 28th of this month. There's the plan, if this is the first time you've been here check out the past posts for my previous stories. If for some reason you like it, link it to your friends, maybe they'll hate it and can give me some criticism.

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Just to shake her shaky hands... [Story here]

Based on the overwhelmingly positive response (all two) and the fact that around 5 people have been here and none of them have threatened my life, I have decided to post another story I had to write last night. Again, I don't have a title, but I guess I'll use the shuffle for iTunes and use a lyric from a random song. Flogging Molly "To Youth," I guess So Goodbye is the title now. Click below and if it makes your eyes bleed from badness, don't say I didn't warn you.

He hadn't stopped crying for the last twenty miles. As Eliza pulled into the gas station, the lightning flickered again. It cracked close and and she heard a car alarm sound briefly, then stop when it realized there was no danger. She clutched the baby as she ran into the brown wood paneled and white stuccoed building. A woman was sitting behind the counter, thick glasses, pale flabby skin and a large gap in her large front teeth that prevented her from being bucktoothed. The floor was wet and Eliza's shoes squeaked like vicious mice as she stepped across the aging white linoleum. The whole place reeked of wet dog and stale cigarettes, despite the signs that told her both were not allowed in the store.

“How can I help ya?” The woman behind the counter said, helpful, but loud to be heard over the thunder, now frequent, and the baby's crying, which was constant.

“Is there somewhere I could change him?” Eliza said, bouncing Jonathan jr. ad she said it.

“Bathroom's back there” The woman, Joan according the the hand printed name tag on her white polo shirt, replied gesturing towards the area to the left of the register. “It's purty small, but so's he” she grinned wide as she said it.

“Thank you” she ducked into the bathroom, which was as small as a bathroom could be without using the toilet as a sink and changed him on the lid of the toilet. Washing her hands she looked at herself in the mirror, and proceeded to agonize over her wrinkled, sun-damaged tan face and bottle blond hair, which was matted from the rain. She spent several minutes trying to dry her hair with the cheap, ineffective hand dryer, giving up she grabbed her baby and made another mad dash around the building to her white, late-model Trans-Am. As she did so the woman behind the counter shouted “Aren't ya gonna buy something?” then when the answer was clearly no, she added “Bitch!”

She would have felt bad about not buying anything on any other night, but tonight she had to keep moving. If someone had asked her why or where she was going, she would have been at a loss, unable to explain it. She just knew that staying still for any longer than absolutely necessary was not an option.

Of course she knew why she had started moving, it was over, everything, it was all falling apart. It had happened in her first marriage, the hanging feeling that it was over, all but the lawyers and custody battle, but this time it was different, stronger and more terrifying, it wasn't just her marriage, it was her who was falling to pieces. She had decided to go to a friend's house about a hundred miles away, wait for the feeling to abate, call her lawyer and go back home. The friend was out of town for the week, she forgot to check ahead, she got in her car and drove away from home, that was three hundred miles before.

Jonathan was crying again, she kept driving, while trying to comfort him. The crying kept going, she turned, and screamed “Shut up, why do you keep crying? We can't stop again, we just can't, so stop it.” As she turned to look back at the road, a flash of lightning showed the milk truck she had been following jack knife, the trailer snapping loose and twisting to reveal Garfield the Cat declaring his love of milk. She realized just before the car hit that she was going to have to stop, the terror of stopping flooding away the fear of her or Jonathan jr's death. The car crumpled, the milk tank burst and leaked into the ditch mingling with the rain water. The paramedics arrived 30 minutes later, the milk truck driver needed a dozen stitches in his forehead, Jonathan had miraculously survived the crash unharmed, and Eliza just sat in the puddle of milk and rain water and laughed, the water soaking her red sleeveless shirt and faded denim shorts. She stood up after they had checked her over and began to run the direction she had been driving. The paramedics grabbed her and forced her onto a gurney, strapping her down. Jonathan had stopped crying and slept gently during the long drive to the hospital, while Eliza screamed and the truck driver stared.

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And freedom tastes of reality... [First story I've written for the class]

Here we go with another story, this is actually only the second story that I've ever written. The one lower down is the third and the first was a collaborative effort with my brother when I was 13 or 14 that will never see the light of day ever, I hope that it is in fact destroyed, I'm currently looking at notebooks from that time and if it were any worse (even a tiny bit) than those, I'd have to blow my brains out to prevent a possible reoffense. I don't really have a title for it. I guess I'll use "There Goes My Gun" for now. That's a good song, the Pixies are god damn incredible. It's shorter and I didn't write the first line, it was given to us as part of the exercise. In a week or so I plan on posting the opening scene of the much longer short story that serves as the final.

Samantha would always regret leaving the balcony doors unlocked. A man stands on the balcony, the sun rising a deep orange behind him. He opens one door halfway and slides through the opening on to the light red carpet of the living room, lit with the first creeping rays of dawn. He moves through the living room, his legs swinging with the precision of a metronome. Opening the door to Samantha's bedroom, he steps towards her bed. Standing over her as she sleeps, he lets out a polite cough. Rolling over she looks up and sees a thin figure silhouetted in the door frame.

Still in shock, she gapes as he reaches into his jacket and draws a small semi-automatic pistol, glinting a bright silver. Raising the gun slowly, he puts the barrel against his right temple, the pistol and his forearm flat as a board. He let's a terse “sorry,” escape his lips as he squeezes the trigger. The sharp report of the pistol pierces her ears as blood sprays from the left side of his head. His body collapses out of sight on to the floor.

Her ears still ringing from the shot, she stares at the space where he stood. Samantha reaches for the light switch, her hand moving through the dark in a smooth practiced manner, it had done the same on hundreds of other nights. Light fills the room stinging her eyes.

Leaning over the edge of the bed she looks at the figure now thrown into sharp relief by the cheap fluorescent light fixed to the ceiling. Lying on the floor is the corpse of a thin gray haired man in his mid-fifties wearing a dark blue suit and a plain red cloth tie. Blood now drips slowly from his head staining the white carpet.

Stretching from ear to ear on the man's face is a grin filled with straight, gleaming teeth. Her mouth opens and closes in a pantomime of speech. Eventually it drops open and she begins to scream as tears stream from her eyes. She continues to scream until the police arrive, then stares with dull unfocused eyes, her cheeks stained with tears and jaw now drooping against her chest, seemingly unable or unwilling to speak or move. The paramedics move her out of her apartment, through a crowd of onlookers, into the waiting ambulance.

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