Moving On

Wow things got heavy around here.

So let's move right along:

I've started my latest novel project.

Before I'd always work months and months in a moleskine getting beat after beat and attempt to link them up while I wrote.

This however hit me so pristine and hard two weeks ago that I just wanted to start. We shall see how it ends up.

As it starts to flesh out I'll post more details.

Words per Day

The First March Post!!!

I really don't know how some people do it. Everyday they pop up with content. I can barely write on my projects everyday let alone post in this thing.

Twitter, even that becomes a burden.

They way that writers write and the only way to be successful is to constantly be churning a personal NaNoWriMo that brings forth word count. Every day.

That's just crazy.

So much has happened in my personal life in March that it takes time to process and perhaps I'm such a writer that doesn't experience things with the instant thought of "this will be great to blog about."

Ususally I have a hard time deciding what to write about, stories that is, but recently I've begun work on no less then five different stories at the same time. One of which, if it doesn't start behaving is turning into a novella.

I suddenly find myself with too much to write and not enough time to do it, which for me is usually the opposite of norm.

Is this a problem with anybody else?

Guess What Came in the Mail Today?

Wil Wheaton owns the internets. It's true. I have to pay a nickel everytime I log on. Anyway, on his blog today (I'm a Link!) Wil talks about the Lizard Brain theory. Basically, it's this idea that somewhere deep in our brain there exists a subconsciousness unrelated to our other normal little voice inside.

This is a reptilian mind, sluggish and dormant but aware. It's this parasite that lives inside and thinks only of survival. And perhaps sitting on a hot rock.

The Lizard Brain is the part of us that not only avoids risk but actively seeks to circumvent our attempts at self indentified risks. Including, and this is important, creative works. If you believe that writing for goals and purpose is risky, this dinosaur step child will actively seek to stop you from doing anything to reach your dreams.

This is important for me at this moment. When I was a student, writing was second nature for me. I probably threw away five times as much words as I turned in for assignments, happy. Why? Deadlines. An outside reason for punching keys. Grades, diplomas. Those were the ten ton weights that drove my internal pullies.

That was years ago. Since, without having an external purpose making me write, I haven't been the writer I've dreamed of becoming.

Why?

Because, I've become too internal. I'm scared of rejection, of daring to call myself a writer.

I'm a husband. I work 8-5 to provide for my family. I have responsibilites.

Great excuses right?

Maybe I'm not any good...

Seems a little cold-blooded don't you think?

Like a reptile.

Well, I bring all this up to say that today I received my copies of the Genre Wars Anthology of which yours truly is a part.

Regardless of the number of readers, seeing my story in print. Bound. Published. It's a deep strike at that bastard within that wants me to quit dreaming and quit trying.

I know that a lizards tail will grow back, today though I have it my grasp and it feels pretty good.

In my sidebars is a link. Pick up a copy, it's Awesome.

love,
B

Genre Wars Out Now!

I'm a pessimest. That comes as no surprise to anyone that knows me.

At the end of last year I entered a short story contest. I came in third in my genre but that was good enough for publication.

That's right, someone was dumb enough to pay money for publishing my bs.

So anyway Sunday the 14th my first foray into public print is public. Click the cover above to go to the Lulu.com storefront to purchase.

All proceeds from the book go to writegirl

...dimaggio

I asked you once, do you know how much I love you?

You said, why don't you tell me.

I could feel the heat of our bodies and synchronized breath. I looked into your eyes and remembered.

Back in '98, I had just broken up with some girl. I can barely remember her name now, anyway she cheated on me and I found out. I was heartsick for months, you know, she was the one and all.

My dad went to a cemetery to see his mom's grave and I was in a maudlin mood so I went with him.

I heard weeping. Heart rendering sobs of grief. Pain and love. Longing. Mumbled, I miss you's and I love you's over and over.

I look down the long aisle of tombstones and see a man bent over, wracked with grief. One of his hands was clutched around his heart, the other tracing the etched name of the tombstone.

My dad felt uncomfortable being by that much emotion and signaled me to go. As we passed near the man I was able to see the dates.

June 1, 1926 - August 5, 1962. Thirty-six years ago, he still weeps.

That is how much I love you.

Interior Design

Entered as part of a writing contest on The Public Query Slushpile

It took four years and a brutal divorce to get to this point. I got sick of blaming her. She is not done blaming me. I need to open the windows and get some air in here before I pass out from the paint fumes. My head throbs.

The phone is ringing. Five will get you twenty that it's the realtor. I keep moving back the sell date. Little fixer projects keep compounding. Cabinets need hung, tile needs grouted, rooms need a fresh coat of paint.

Especially this room.

I've finished everything I could think of, all installations are plumb and ablaze with new paint. The house looks better than when we bought it.

All except this one room.

I remember that day we got the house. Janice was so happy and her head was dizzy with excitement of what it would look like after a few years of hard work. It was OURS. I looked at it more with apprehension, I'm an office drone, hard work is as alien to me as an intake manifold gasket. I smiled and carried our daughter inside. Maybe we would make this work.

Little Izzy picked out her bedroom and said, "I want a princess room!" My little girl got everything she wanted. I spoiled her but she deserved it.

I got every single can of Pink Pastel Princess paint I could get my hands on and covered that upstairs room. Pink ceiling fan, pink trim, pink light switches. Izzy loved it.

And now I sit on an empty industrial size bucket of Alabaster White, alone in an empty room, in an empty house.

I've bought every different shade of white available and sat watching it dry. Eggshell, Off White, Bride White, Cream, and every combination I could gather. The realtor said the only way to sell a house is to paint all the rooms neutral. If the prospective couple had a boy they wouldn't be able to picture him in this pink room.

So I've been trying to cover and erase the memory of my daughter's wishes. But every time that white coat dries, the pink can be seen. It refuses to be let go.

I scraped the walls with sandpaper, and the pink shows.

I laid seven coats, and the pink shows.

I put up white wallpaper, and it fell to the ground.

Four years I've tried to whitewash this room and for four years I've seen that paint dry to a bleeding pink. My wife told me I was abandoning my daughter.

My daughter was the greatest gift I've ever received, and I could never abandon her or let her go.

The phone rings again.

The pink fades in on the wall.

If I can't cover the pink, how am I ever to cover the bloodstain near the floor?

The Gift

Posted on ficly.com

As usual we are running late for, well any kind of occasion, but tonight for my birthday dinner. I’ve been dressed in my tux for a half an hour or more while you’ve been in the bathroom doing whatever it is female’s do.

This scene replays so often that I don’t even glance at my watch or give a shit anymore. I just put the TV on ESPN.

The door opens and you stand there looking at me…

A vision of angels greets me. After all these years, little moments crystallize in my mind of how fucking beautiful you are.

I swoon with pride, lust, and love.

I reach for that special spot on your hip, that place where my body melts into you.

“Baby,” you say, “we’re already late…”

“It’s my fucking birthday.”

We fall into the bed together, breathing each other.

We make love looking into each other’s eyes, slowly, I relish the feeling.

I love this woman.

She orgasms with me, we are in sync.

She looks me in the eyes, “Happy 90th baby.”

Flames and Regrets

Ficly.com

Within minutes our home would be gone.

We were evacuated days ago; the flames were close

We scrambled out the door with everything else we could fit in the cars.

Something is still missing. I ducked under the dividing tape to get back to the house.

I fan the flashlight over our wedding photos, eyes puffy from joy.

I pass a picture of me as a child waiting for a baseball to land in my glove, thrown from my father who just like the picture, was always just out of the frame.

What else is there?

I go to the bedroom as I see the flames reach our neighbors house. I rummage around in a drawer.

Too late…

I rush out of the house.

My wife, on our second date made me write a letter to my father forgiving him and asking for an apology.

I never mailed it, much to my wife’s disappointment.

The fire consumes the house.

I drive to my mother in law’s house, on the way I mail the letter. I didn’t fill out the return address, he died in 1998.

I call my wife, “I love you and you were right.”

Life Resumed

Ficly.com

After 35 long years, it had finally happened.

She sits at the table like every other morning. The newspaper was read, the coupons clipped. The coffee was gone, another pot was brewing.

Thirty-five years of being tethered to a wheelchair and hospice bed.

Half a dozen times she reached for the phone to call the nursing home. She always had to call to make sure they got him out of the bed otherwise he’d lay all day and get bedsores.

She looks through the mail. A mountain of sympathy cards and final bills from insurances. A large manila envelope held a death certificate.

Her grandson left a brochure for a cruise…

With the Caribbean at his bag, he laughed that great big roar of joy, “Baby, I’m the King of the Ocean, ain’t no place on the water we won’t see.”

The next week he was diagnosed and her life stopped.

Now it can start again, the future was hers.

Seventy-five years old.

She pores another cup of coffee and reaches for the phone…

How to Lift a Curse

Another ficly.com original

I am cursed, have been since I was a boy.

My dad said it was because he fucked a gypsy in Peoria.

Every time I fell in love with a girl, they moved away.

Every rock star I loved, dead at 27.

Even the food I love will suddenly stop being sold at grocery stores .

Literally, I am a dead end for dreams of fulfillment. If you want to go somewhere in life, don’t let me know about it.

My dad knows all about my curse. Used to beat me every night. He told me it was my fault Twilight Zone got canceled. To hear him, I’m to blame for everything from the cancellation of Star Trek to the Kennedy assassination, both of them.

My penance has been four broken clavicles, a detached retina, internal bleeding, and a few anal fissures.

But,I’ve decided my revenge, every thing I love and idolize dies.

Dad you are my hero…
I want to be just like you…
Everything you do is right…

It’s been ten years of worship.

My wife has a restraining order against me and my son is in traction.

The Continuing Adventures of Mordecai the Forever

originally posted on ficly.com

He is alert now. More then ever before.

He can feel the heat rising in the air, taste the fear.

He smells urine, sweat, and regret.

He senses the change in the atmosphere, the residual ozone of his brothers cut down by the last group of stragglers. The food chain is made of barbed wire sometimes.

They had cornered the family in an old church. Mordecai could smell the dry rot and termites. Dust of prayers never finished, the Lord had been gone a long time.

One by one his nest had braved the doors only to be spurned and burned by the family holding a cross.

“Back demon! The power of our God will smite you!”

With a confident stride he walks towards the church door. When he is aroused by blood, Mordecai becomes silent and arrogant.

“Demon! You will not harm us! Die like your foul brothers!”

A man puts the cross in Mordecai’s face. They expect fire, they receive a chuckle.

One by one Mordecai feeds. The last survivor clings to the cross, “Why didn’t the cross stop you?”

“I’m Jewish.”

Customer Service

Another ficly.com original. Ficly.com the most fun you can have with your pants on. At work

It never gets easier.

This fucking job…

A punch clock on the soul. Start and finish, minute and hour. Ever closer to death.

I exist in definitions I’ve never found to be true.

For eight-ten hours a day, I become labels and employee handbook regulations. I walk through a door and become someone I am not.

The beauty part is that it all starts over again tomorrow.

I have dreams and aspirations. But not from 9.00 AM to 5.00 PM. Those hours I’m a drone.

Minute and hour.

For what? I don’t even fucking know anymore. You come to my house it looks like a goddamn Ikea catalog.

I hate my fucking nightstand.

I have nothing to show for myself outside of this time frame of work. Everyday I turn myself off for 8 hours so that I can enjoy the other 16.

My house bores me to tears.

So, I tell you this not to be depressing, but to tell you, don’t take it personal.

It’s a paycheck.

Now close your eyes.

You won’t feel a thing.

That’s a good girl.

Don’t flinch…

Semi-Colons: Friend or Foe

Recently got into an online argument with a dude who insisted I needed to use a semi colon in the following sentence:

The bridge was too high, the water, black and cold was too, too far below.

Grammatically, he may be correct. The above is a run on sentence. But I never care about such things.

My use of semi-colons has forever been altered by Kurt Vonnegut.

Here's his rule:

Here is a lesson in creative writing.

First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college.

And I realise some of you may be having trouble deciding whether I am kidding or not. So from now on I will tell you when I'm kidding.

For instance, join the National Guard or the Marines and teach democracy. I'm kidding.

We are about to be attacked by al-Qaida. Wave flags if you have them. That always seems to scare them away. I'm kidding.

If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practising an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.

I think that pretty much sums it up.

Thoughts?

21,537 People With My Name

Ficly.com allows for sequels and prequels to any story. I was bored and added to my first piece, 51,324 People With My Name

I have a purpose now.

A direction.

I’ve never been more ashamed. I’ve never been happier.

For all my wandering and all my searching for a clue, I have found one thing to be true.

Killing makes my back hurt.

I take a Darvoset every morning and Oxycondine every night. My world is a fog. Last night I hurt my wrist when the crowbar hit a brick wall instead of the much softer middle school principal/pederast crying and dying in the alleyway.

I have a different appreciation of the words “Dead Weight” now.

The newspapers call me a pervert and a deviant. They can not see the message, the gift. I am a true American hero, I am fighting for individuality.

As of this date over 30,000 men have applied for a name change. For the first time in history no babies have been blessed with mediocrity.

And yet I still must work. I am not yet truly alone. A status of being I’ve been destined to.

“Hey buddy, you got a light?”

The guy I’ve been watching crosses the street.

“Hi, I’m James, what’s your name…”

The Last Twenty Four

Original Post of Ficly.com

She looks at me for the final time with no tears in her eyes. It’s the first time since we found out the news she’s been able to look at me.

Breathless and exhausted, we stare into each other souls.

There are no words anymore. Just breath, scent, and heart. This moment is the moment that I’ve been waiting for without realizing it.

Our lungs synchronize with the clock.

Tick.

Tock.

Another couple of seconds burn off. It’s getting darker now.

It’s getting cold.

We spent a furious day in bed. The sex was urgent, insistent. She pulled me into her with more power than her 110 pound should ever produce. The fabled mom strength where she would be able to pull a car off a child.

I walk to the balcony naked. Her hands never leave my body.

“Baby, it’s close to time.”

Tick.

Tock.

“I know Max. Any regrets?”

The sun begins to rise over the mountain. As the light hits my face, I feel warmth for the first time.

“Nah, today was the best day ever.”

We turn to each other.

I succumb.

Tiles in the Ceiling

Classy Porn Challenge on ficly.com.

92

Blink

93

Yawn

94

Sigh

95

He moves into my vision with that sad, slack-jawed, Droopy McCool look in his eye. He smiles at me like a three year old who went potty like a big boy or a dog that killed yet another gopher and deposited it all self congratulatory on my back porch.

He gets up and moves away, laughingly high fiving the other guys.

The camera guy yawns.

The director snorts another line.

Darla comes in over my left shoulder with a towel and bag of ice. One for the mess and one for the swelling. She’s a chubby girl, not a performer, just some sister or cousin or failed film school reject looking for a foot into the bigs. She reassures me, “You’re doing so good…Only thirty more.”

She can’t look me in the eye.

I stretch my legs. Extend my back a little.

I motion to the next guy.

“I’m your biggest fan.” His breath smells like whiskey.

Action

He makes the bed rock. I stare at the ceiling, his shoulder blurs my vision every other second.

96

Yawn

97

Sigh

98

Blink

99

Blink

100

Called to the Principal's Office

Another post at ficly.com. Entry into "A Touch of Madness" Challenge

Ah, Clint come in please. You can shut the door.

Now you may or may not know why I called you in here. I must inform you that your actions today will influence my decision whether or not to call your parents and tell them why you are wasting their well earned $55,000 a year on this institution.

Your teachers and roommates have lodged several complaints. We at Chapley Hall are future captains of industry, men of power and action.

We are not, and I quote:

Gilligan’s brother
Half bird
A mutant with the ability to catch on fire by eating sunflower seeds
We are not sunflower seeds

Am I getting through to you?

We men of Chapley do not also:

Have the ability to fly after eating beans
We do not have secret Mongolian Kings as father’s

We are not fanciful.

Mr. Clint, all that you have done at this institution is create fancy and fantastical. I hereby am placing you on probation until you appear to have remorse for all the above and painting the words, “Captain Hamburger” on all your uniforms.

Like You Need Another Hole in Your Head

Originally posted on ficly.com

You know, I didn’t mean it.

I mean I don’t even really like this job.

It’s just one of those things you fall into. Who wants to be a long shore man? Or a grip for porno movies. I, I mean grip as in, you know, a stage hand, not “grip a cock” or “grip some titties.” Anyway, some of these gigs man, they just exist to catch star eyed disappointments.

A catchall for misfits.

I used to be a detective. No shit. Catch the bad guys and all that jazz. It was fun.

It was hell.

But, you can’t always win if you’re a good guy. Fuck, sometimes you can’t stay a good guy.

Dies are tossed, coins are flipped. Sometimes you’re the winner and sometimes you’re the fucked.

It’s just odds. Sooner or later, someone like you is going to think it’s a good idea to get something for nothing and run. Then I got to get my fat ass off the couch and find you.

It’s just nature man. The circle of life. You get born, you get pussy, you get greedy, you get shot.

Not like I got to tell you that right?

One Born Every Minute

Another flash posted on ficly.com

I like to whistle. Something about little diddies made up of my breath helps to calm me when I’m sad. Invisible music.

I am sad today, and I’ve been sad for the last few days. I’ve lost my puppy, Mr. Scraptastic.

He’s fond of trashcans and sewer lines. He’ll run for miles after a ball and sleeps inches from and within my heart.

I whistle “How Much is that Doggy in the Window.”

---

I see some guy dressed in clashing dacyron looking in a trashcan across the street. God damn he is ugly.

“Hey we about ready to go?”

“Yeah Gritz, let’s go.”

“So we gots ourselves a target?”

“I think I just found one.”

“Who?”

“That faggy butterfly across the street…”

“What’s he doing? Is he fooking whistlin’?”

We cross the street. Gritz tightens his fingers around the grip of the bat. I shift my knife to my right hand.

---

I like to whistle. I wish somebody would come help me look for my puppy.

Here comes two guys now…

51,324 People With My Name

First post on short fiction site, ficly.com. Please click here to rate.

My name is, well it doesn’t really matter now does it? You wouldn’t care, it’s not particularly good name, just plain, unassuming. Pretty much just like me and my parents and my grandparents and on and on through time and generations. A whole family populated by wallflowers with social phobias.

We don’t leave footprints.

We do not matter.

Whether the Mayans’ calender holds true and we are obliterated in a couple years, or we all have to wait until Rapture, one thing is certain.

St. Peter won’t recognize anybody with my last name.

I was always told that I could be anyone I wanted to be, rich, fat, and famous. I just had to work hard. My blood is a composite of generations of non-athletic, scholars who are allergic to hammers.

I am an amalgamation of those who just get by.

I tried for years to get noticed. I was a failed class clown, failed jock.

The only thing I’ve been able to achieve was something five minutes ago. They’ll know my name now.

James Smith, the murderer.