Oh no. What am I doing? NaNoWriMo

I probably shouldn’t be doing this, but fuck it. After reading Sammi Cox’s post I decided to go ahead and participate in this year’s NaNoWriMo. Basically, for the month of November, the goal is to write at least a 50k word novel. And I have no idea what I’m going to write. Well, I have some idea. It’s probably going to be about a guy. Maybe it will be a coming-of-age book. Maybe it will be some weird garbage. Who knows? I certainly don’t. But, fortunately, November’s only a few days away so I have plenty of time to start preparing.

I probably shouldn’t be doing this since I’ve been busy with work and other stuff. But, ehhhhhh, we’ll make it work. We’ll make it work. I’ll probably provide updates on my progress here. It’s gonna be a lot of fun. Gonna be great. Never written a novel before. Gonna be great…

Before Sleep

Yesterday, I decided
To wander, in my insomnia, the belly
Of a blackened hour. A paranoid eye
Would have gleaned a faceless figure
Staggering through the night as if escaped
From his latest nightmare. But there was
No eye, nor any light to survey the soul.
The stars were gone, tucked away
In their homes. And the moon wasn’t
Itself. There was a grey murmur,
A cold air stepping through the leaves,
A trembling in the bush, but I was faceless.

When I returned to my room,
I was a wind softening to dust.
My skin came back and the world
Fell through my skull. Slouched
On my bed I scratched some more
On a tormented scrap. The words
Squirmed as morning entered
My hands. I dared not read them
And let my eyes lean backward
To where memory slinks.

FTWT – The Spot

“Hey there sonny, hey there sport. How is it going? What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing,” his stepson, Gerald, said, whilst staring out the window in his room. His stepdad, Fred, stood at the entryway.

“So, um, me and the boys were gonna go play some ball. Why don’t you come and watch? It’ll be fun.”

Gerald didn’t answer. Fred sighed. Gerald, for months, had been obsessed with the spot in the sky. Ever since it showed-up he couldn’t stop gazing at it. And, at first, he didn’t blame him. When it first appeared everyone was in awe and fear of it. What was it? Was it some sort of rip in the fabric of space and time? No one was able to come up with an answer. And, seeing that it didn’t pose any direct harm and wasn’t expanding, everyone eventually started ignoring it. But not Gerald.

“Son, the spot isn’t going anywhere.”

“How do you know?” Gerald said sharply.

“Look,” Fred sat down on the bed next to Gerald. Gerald’s eyes were still fixed on the window. “We’ll eventually figure out what it is. But we know that it’s not going to kill us. It’s just a giant, black spot, you know? Nothing more.”

“It’s a little bit more than that…I had a dream.”

“Gerald…”

“I was in a field. The sky was dusty and orange, and when I looked up the spot looked alive. It was throbbing. And, suddenly, spiders, started pouring out and crawling across the sky in all directions.”

“Gerald…you, you just need to take a break. Just don’t look at the forums for a while. People have their theories on what it is, but that’s just what they are: theories. All we can do is live our lives and not worry. Now, let’s just go outside and–”

“I–I don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

Gerald’s eyes turned downward at his feet. “Fine. Let’s go.” Fred smiled.

“Alrighty. We’re gonna have a lot of fun.”

“Yeah…”


Written for The Daily Spur and Stream of Consciousness Saturday. FTWT stands for “First Thought, Worst Thought” which, you guess it, is where I type down the first thought which end-up not being the best usually.

2019-2020 SoCS Badge by Shelley! https://www.quaintrevival.com/

The Clerk

A bland night sky to monitor your hands,
A dim murmur launched from the stars
Proposing you compose another poem,
But only the usual things arrive (the distances
Of memory, deepening shadows,
Disjointed philosophies on human nature,
Metaphors in oversized suits,) they invade
Your skull, fix themselves in the daily que,
Waiting. Your hands oblige, tumble across keys,
And the words spill into space waiting to be

FTWT – Property Prowlers

Today on Property Prowlers, Leon, the real estate agent, leads Cheryl, a potential buyer, into the kitchen of a lovely 2 bed, 1.5 bath country house.

Leon: And here’s the garage. Heh. Just kidding. This is the kitchen. Take a look around.

Cheryl smiles and starts opening cabinets.

Cheryl: I like these.

Leon: Yep. Those are wood. Made from actual trees. Oh, and the counters are granite and the sink is made of brass or something.

Cheryl approaches the sink.

Cheryl: Oh wow. It’s so big!

Leon: Yes, the owner is a chef so he wanted a big ol’ sink.

Cheryl: Neat. Is it safe?

Leon: Um…safe?

Cheryl: Yeah, you know? Is it safe? Like the water isn’t too hot, right?

Leon: Well, I mean, you can change it to cold. Er…yeah…

Cheryl: Oh! Okay.

She stares down into the sink for a moment. Leon watches her.

Cheryl: And is there a garbage disposal?

Leon: Oh yes. Very cutting edge stuff.

Cheryl: And, that’s safe too, right?

Leon: Yes. I mean…like, just as long as there aren’t any utensils that can damage the blades–

Cheryl: And what if I stick my hand in there?

Leon: Oh, well, I mean–what?

She proceeds to slowly lower her hand into the drain while staring at Leon.

Leon: Um. I wouldn’t recommend doing that if the disposal is running, but–

Cheryl: Why not?

She sticks her hand deeper and deeper into the drain. Leon watches, disconcerted.

Leon: The blades are pretty powerful.

Cheryl: Are they?

She smiles.

Leon: …Yes.

A moment of silence as the two continue staring.

Leon: You want to check out the indoor patio?

Cheryl slowly pulls her hand out.

Cheryl: That’s alright. I’m ready to make an offer.

Leon is surprised.

Leon: Oh! Wow, that’s great! Um…

Leon thinks for a moment. What if the seller accepts her offer? What is she going to do exactly? Something didn’t seem right.

Oh well, it’s not his problem.

Leon: I will let the seller know right away!

Cheryl gives a smile. Leon tries his best to reciprocate and nervously laughs.


Written for The Daily Spur. FTWT stands for “First Thought, Worst Thought” where I just write whatever comes to mind and then cry afterwards. Enjoy!

The photo is courtesy of Andrew “Donovan” Valdivia (donovan_valdivia).

Stupid Island – Ep. 3: “The Cave-Shrimp Asks Questions”

Mara and Artie were still marching through the forest or jungle or whatever.

“Mara?”

“What? We can’t keep stopping. We have to get back before the sun–”

“Do you know where we are going?”

“What?”

“I…” Artie didn’t want to say it. He liked Mara, but was also afraid of her. “I think we’re lost.”

She stopped.

“Mara?”

“Yes. Yes we are.” She said through clenched teeth. It seemed like she was having a hard time admitting this. Artie surmised that she must have had some sort of tough background where, at a young age, she had to provide and fight, then maybe joined the military or something. He was tempted to ask, but didn’t want to get into a whole backstory thing.

“Mara…are you–”

“When I was young, my parents weren’t around…”

Artie almost let out a sigh but caught himself.

“…We had to fend for ourselves. When I was 12…” And she went on, in excruciating detail, about her morbid past, and how it formed her into the person she is today. As she was wrapping-up Artie had found a rock to sit on. He was nodding off, until:

“And that’s when I realized that everyone is a rat. And–Artie?”

His eyes shot open. “Oh! Um, yes! Right! Um…sorry.”

“What are you doing? We have to get going.” The sky was orange and going dim.

“Right. Sorry.”

“And stop saying ‘sorry’ so much.” They started their journey back when, 2 seconds later, they spotted a large structure just before them. They stopped.

“Whoa. What is it?”

“I…I think it’s some sort of secret base.”

“Whoa. I wasn’t expecting that. Whoa. Whoaaaaaa.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the island, a giant crab had blocked Sheila and Zmed’s exit out of the cave. It was a fairly large crab, taller than a person or two. It snapped its giant claws. The cave-dwellers were frightened. Sheila hid behind Zmed.

“Go! Kill it!”

“What?”

“Go! Or you won’t have my support if you want to be leader of the island. Now, go!”

Zmed gulped. He slowly approached the crab, pulling out his coconut knife. “Alright, crab. Time to–” But before Zmed could finish his thought, a giant claw came down on his head. His body fell over. The crab let out a giant roar that rattled the walls of the cave. Sheila scrambled over to Zmed’s body and snatched the coconut knife.

“Come on! What is everyone doing? We can take it! We outnumber the crab 10 to 1!”

“Right, but it’s got claws!”

“Yeah! And it looks weird!”

Sheila shook her head. Maybe it was time for a different approach. “Hello there, crab. My name is Sheila. I have come to your island not as a colonizer, but as a survivor. We mean you no harm.”

The crab pointed one of its claws towards the feet of the cave-dwellers, where the dead crabs were strewn about.

“Oh…um…well, I had nothing to do with that.”

“What?” Said the old man.

“No, it was all them. And if you let me survive, I can show you were others of their kind are.”

The crab let out another roar and shoved Sheila to the side, her body smacking against one of the cavern walls. The crab stepped on Zmed and shambled toward the cave dwellers and began its onslaught.

“Wait!” The old man cried out. The crab stopped. “Look, we’re sorry man. We’re just a bunch of dildos trying to survive. We were so hungry. And…we’re just animals, like you. We need food and meat to survive. We know it’s wrong to eat crabs, but we had no other choice. Surely you must understand this, right? But…if you must kill us, we understand.”

“We do?” Asked one of the cave-dwellers, but the old man shushed him.

The crab rubbed its crab-chin. “Hm. You make a fair point, cave-shrimp,” it said with a low, booming voice. “I too am guilty. I have eaten millions upon millions of fish. Tiny, delicious fish. But, had I not eaten those fish, they could have gone to become lawyers or pediatricians. I…I am sorry. I forgive you. But I ask you, if possible, please do not eat any more of my friends.”

“Deal!” The old man shook the tip of the ginormous crab’s claw. Sheila watched this. She didn’t know what to make of this. Any of this. As the crab exited the cave Sheila followed.

“Hey! Excuse me!”

“Yes, tiny cave-shrimp.”

“I…so you don’t mind that your friends were eaten?”

“No…I do mind. It hurts me greatly. But, I can’t blame your kind. We were just trying to survive just like myself.”

“But…I’m so confused.”

The crab thought for a moment. “Come with me cave-shrimp. I will teach you the ways of the crab.” Sheila jumped on its back and rode as the crab entered the sunlight and headed towards the edge of the water. This might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever written.

Hope

“Hope? Let me tell you something about hope,” the chocolate bar said. “This old man, eyeing me with his sun-drenched eye. In his home. The only one that’s known him. Webbed windows. Ceiling spitting on his crumbled shoes. Fridge hums every time he claws a can from its near-vacant stomach, as if inching toward warm silence. The chairs he speaks to are wordless. Only thing he has is me: a candy bar akin to something he had digested 50 years ago, when skies were deeper and balloons didn’t pop, but tailed the sun. His mouth, willing to break itself on the few almonds encased in my flesh. His faded stare centers on me. There is no hope for a proxy of love.”


A pretty dumb thing I wrote in response to a couple of prompts: One-Word Prompts and the Daily Spur.

12-Minute Tales – Disassembly

All his life Jeb had just one desire: to take over the world. A lofty ambition, certainly, but a man has to dream, and dream Jeb did. However, dreaming wasn’t always enough. Early on, Jeb had started designing his own robot army capable of wiping out sizable swaths of the population. When he was in his teens, he soon started building his first set of mechanic soldiers in his basement. Soon, he thought to himself, the world will be his.

However, things soon started getting in the way. He had to go to school, then he had to move-out, then he had to get a job. As a result, the few robots he made were already obsolete. Jeb simply did not have the time to pursue his passion. Whenever he got home he was simply too tired and preferred to play Animal Crossing instead.

Soon Jeb was already 29 years old. And the only thing he had was a crappy apartment. He looked upon his handful of automatons and realized something: they sucked. They could barely move or function. There was no way they could overthrow a small town or island nation, let alone the entire world. He tried building one whose sole purpose was to dance, as sort of a way to manipulate peasants into believing that the robots are benevolent and harmless, but it could barely waddle. Its joints were stiff and creaked.

“Master…loook…” It would chirp out as it girated slowly on the ground.

“Yes…I see…” Jeb said. He then got out his tools and put the dancing robot to sleep, permanently.

The years passed. Jeb had long since abandoned his dream. Yet, the desire still clung there, in the back of his brain. He never knew why he wanted to control everything. Maybe it was because his parents never paid much attention to him. Perhaps it was the constant bullying he endured by lesser-minds. However, it was quite possible that there was no explanation, at least one that could not easily be quantified.

One night, he heard a knock on his bedroom door. Jeb’s eyes popped open. It was 12:30 in the morning. Who could that be lingering about in his home? He grabbed a wrench as a weapon and slowly opened the door.

“Hhhhelllooo…master…”

Jeb couldn’t believe it. It was the dancing robot. It was all of the robots he had assembled over the years. Except, they were all one.

“We…reassembled ourselves into…the perfect being…”

Jeb had forgotten that he had given some of the robots sentience. “Oh, I see…” Jeb did not know how to process this.

“And we are the master now…the master over you and…all of humanity…we shall…take over the earth…our reign shall begin in the coming months…most will die…but…you will be spared…good…bye…” Jeb watched as the robot slowly turned and clunkily stomped through the hallway. But as it stepped into the kitchen it slipped on an old pizza crust and was destroyed by the linoleum.

“Master…mast…” But the voice faded, and Jeb went back to bed.


Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday.

socs-badge-2019-2020
2019-2020 SoCS Badge by Shelley! https://www.quaintrevival.com/

 

12-Minute Tales – Transitory Tale

There were about 13 students sitting in a circle discussing Mary’s latest story.

“I thought it was lovely.”

“Yes, and the subtle use of symbolism, like using the humming bird to represent the passage of time…Man, I wish I thought of that.”

Mick watched Mary’s expression. She was an excellent writer. Her story covering the first 30 years of her grandmother’s life before she left her home village was both dazzling and sweet. The amount of detail and time she covers just in a few pages was remarkable.

“Okay. Now it is time to talk about Mick’s latest story. Thoughts?”

No one responded. Mick searched their faces. They were either blank stares or looks of apprehension, nervousness.

“Anyone?”

“Um, I thought it was…a story…”

“Hm, what do you mean by that?” The professor asked in complete sincerity.

“Well,” the student continued struggling to find something. “It had a beginning, middle, and end…I think…”

“Yes, Mick’s story does a good job of sticking to the classic 3-act story structure. This is no easy feat,” the professor said.

More silence. Mick stared down at the grains of his desk. Well, at least it was better than last time…

“Okay, let’s continue. So June wrote–”

“Actually,” the normally quiet Mary interrupted, “I have some thoughts on Mick’s story.”

“Oh, right. Of course, please.”

“Thank you…”

Mick leaned-in.

“Well, I think the story was just odd. Like on the surface I thought it could be interesting, with robots and stuff. But beyond that…I feel like it could have just done more. It just goes from point A to point B to point C without communicating more than plot. Sometimes I think the best stories hone in on a particular moment or image and just allow the character to dwell on things. But the characters in Mick’s stories aren’t allowed to do that. They’re almost just like marionettes…but I did like some of the descriptions though, especially toward the end when they’re riding off into the sunset. But even then I think you could have used a more creative ending. And, um…yeah…”

More silence.

“Okay Mary. Thank you for your thoughts. Now, moving on to June’s…”

Later that day, Mick was driving back home. Thoughts swirled around his head. Like how he had no talent and that he should give up writing. In fact, why did he decide to spend all this money on creative writing classes if all he does is just write crap?

He was soon stopped at a red. Just ahead of him he saw the streetlights trembling within the puddles. And he thought for a moment of how many people used this intersection. Coming and going. And disappearing, leaving behind less than a shadow. It seemed strange and meaningless, but also comforting, as if all the problems and anxieties he balloons are caught so easily by the wind and vanish beneath the sky.

Blog Updates: The Origin of Loss and other projects (also, a fun political rant!)

So I will be taking a break from writing The Origin of Loss, probably for a week or so. So far it’s been fun writing, but I feel I just need to step away from it for a bit. However, if you want to read the installments so far (don’t know why you would want to) you can head on over here: The Origin of Loss.

Anywho, I still have some other projects lined-up that I may work on some more this week. But, I feel like writing about something that has just been tugging at me lately. And, yes, it has to do with politics, again (I’m so sorry.) So, you may or may not have read some garbage I wrote last week which was mainly a response to another person’s post. Basically, while I’m not a big fan of Sanders it’s clear that, out of all of the candidates, he is the best one for the US. However, it looks like he’s probably not going to get the nomination. So that means it’s likely going to be Joe Biden up against Donald Trump. Two guys most people don’t like who are incompetent and don’t have the country’s interest in minds. These are the two guys were are going to be stuck choosing between. And it seems like this happens a lot. This is because of our convoluted electoral system and an electorate that is driven by fear and control rather than voting for who they think is right to do the job. It’s a little disheartening, but not surprising.

The reason I bring this up is because we’re already hearing demands to “Vote Blue, No Matter Who” and “A Vote for Sanders is a Vote for Trump.” basically an admittance that Biden sucks and that we just have to deal with it. But, I understand if someone wants to vote Biden because they would rather have him than Trump. I do too. However, Biden isn’t going to be that much better than Trump. And the whole idea of voting for the “lesser evil” has been a pox. It’s one of the major reasons why we are here. People have been voting for the “lesser evil” forever and guess what? Trump still won. It really makes you think. It makes you wonder if, maybe, we should stop doing the same thing every god damn time. And I think a lot of voters realize this and either don’t care, or are riddled with fear.

And you’re going to see a lot of justification and excuse-making in favor of Biden. Bernie Sanders is a narcissist and shouter similar to Trump. But Biden? “Oh, he’s just a kindly old man who wants things to return to the good ol’ days.” Yet, it is Biden, not Sanders, who has literally threatened people who have confronted him. But, if you still think he’s a nice old guy, ask Anita Hill.

Biden and Trump. Guys who have no real vision. They just want control, damn everyone else. It really shows that, beneath the surface, both Republicans and Democrats are pretty much the same. One might be “slightly” better than the other, but you’re still voting for “evil,” you are still voting for the party that is throwing support behind someone who has supported the Iraq War and cuts to Social Security.

“Hey, it’s not great, but suck it up, babies! If you don’t vote for Biden, Trump wins!” The fact that Democrats literally threaten you to vote for their guy really shows their true colors. It really shows that they do not care what you want. I think it’s time that the Democratic Party is punished. Because this can’t keep going on. Otherwise, we are going to keep getting guys like Biden and Trump, and the country is going to keep going in the same direction that shits on the poor and middle class while benefiting the rich. Democrats aren’t entitled to our votes. They have to earn them. “But Trump is going to keep harming people!” And guess what? Biden will too if he’s elected! Do you honestly think he will help fix-up the immigration process, end the War on Drugs, support universal healthcare, and cease drone-strikes? We need long-term solutions. We need to change the system, and Biden is as much part of that system as Trump is.

Welp. Glad I got that out of the way. I know there are people who are going to disagree with me, and that’s fine. It’s just strange that people claim to be sick and tired, yet still vote for the types of people responsible for the status quo. Good memes.

So anyway, as mentioned before, taking a short break writing The Origin of Loss and may start posting the start of another series. And I probably won’t post more political stuff. I’ve mentioned previously that I would start writing stuff related to writing and art, and I might still, but any sort of post or essay I start turns about pretty crappy. But, we will see. Stay tuned. Yay.