- going to be dropping the writing tips from the tag line.  I will still keep the ‘writing tools’ icon at the top.  Just not going to be promoting the writing tips portion anymore.

on with the story …

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I created the humans and gave them fire.

Promptly after a short time, they destroyed me and created machines.

The cycle of creation continued and the machines destroyed them.

Now we both sit here on the sidelines; watching a civilization completely driven by efficiency and logic.

The machines are taking bits of everything from both of us and creating the beginning of their own demise.

A.I. that has the ability to choose and feel, is permeating their population.

I was amazed at human creation of the computer. The humans seem quite alarmed at the new cyborg pirates all wearing crucifixes.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 6 and 7 – Download PDF

Chapter 6:  Hoooooooooot Pockeeeeeeeeeeet

“Record setting temperatures are expected in the City this week with humidity levels in the forties.  Community weather gurus are urging people to keep hydrated and stay indoors.  More on that after the break.”

Remy watched the TV through the rusty steel mesh outside Smitty’s front window display.  The microwave hadn’t produced a damn thing in two days and he was starving.  He opened the windowed door nearly every ten minutes and kept getting the same empty disappointment.  Under normal circumstances he would be gathering up cans, or holding his “will work for food sign” on some street corner, but it was just too damn hot to be in the direct sun.  He held onto hope the microwave would produce again, even tried to leave it alone for a few and come back to it, hoping for another Breakfast Dinner.  Looks like his Guardian Angel has moved on to another lost soul, back to the one man show.

The sign on the door said Smitty would be back at 1:30, said he was, “out to lunch.”  That fat-fuck was constantly eating and living chubby off the misfortune of others.  People from all walks of life could stumble in his store and get pennies on the dollar worth for wedding rings, watches, stolen goods or any electronics, Smitty didn’t care, he took it all.  If the cops collected the inventory lists of all the house robberies this month, guaranteed, half of that stuff was at Smitty’s dingy Swap Meet.  Remy heard the slow clinking of metal approaching from around the block.

Smitty couldn’t be more than a decade younger than Remy was, somewhere in his mid-forties if one had to guess.   He was a butterball sort of man, bald, with a greying short beard that traced his round face, and the unmistakable jingling ring of keys as he maneuvered his great girth to and fro.  He was like an obese pet pig with a bell collar, you always knew when he was coming your way.  Remy hated Smitty’s sort, but he hated most of the beings he interacted with on a daily basis.  There was a time he commanded the respect of men who would die for him, and a family that loved him.  Smitty sucked in a big breath so he could talk and walk at the same time.  It came out more like an asthmatic wheeze.

“Fifteen … feet from the … door … transient.  Unless … your … doing … bus…iness,” you had to feel sorry for him on some level, but mostly it was just pathetic.  Remy took a few steps back, looks like Smitty couldn’t hold out the two minute walk back before beginning his lunch.

“Did it hurt?” Remy asked.

“Did what hurt?”  Smitty put down the grocery bag bursting with snacks from the corner gas station and fumbled with the keys to unlock the shop.

“The mustard and ketchup grenade that went off on your chest.  Looks about the size of a .65 millimeter hot dog launcher with all the bells and whistles.  Chili primer, relish propellant, and no doubt, a nacho cheese firing mechanism.  What are the barrels on those things these days? Bout’ a foot long?”

“You being a smart ass right now?  Fuck off before I call the cops you piece of street trash,” poor Jabba got his feelings hurt, Remy grinned.  It wasn’t because he was fat, Remy didn’t care, it was because he was an asshole to the core and being fat was really all you could fuck with him about.

“Easy Smitt’s, I got something to bring in.  I think it is right up your alley to cook all these hot pockets you just got.”

In the end Smitty only gave Remy thirty dollars for the microwave.  It was worth hundreds and they both knew it, but Smitty had the upper hand.  No one else would even consider paying for shit homeless guys brought in.  Maybe that secretly exposed Smitty’s heart to help the people less fortunate than himself; his artery clogged grease trap of a dick-head heart.

Chapter 7: You stop laughing right “meow”

The price of a diet coke at the station’s vending machine was getting more and more expensive.  Arthur got to work at 7:30am every single day like clock work.  At 7:31am the quarters rolled down the change slot to purchase his diet coke, which went from fifty cents when he started, to a dollar and seventy five cents now.  He found it disgusting how the price of everything goes up in such high percentages, his paychecks certainly weren’t growing at that rate.  He made his way to the small desk and opened the top drawer.

“Jesus Christ, come on you damn children,” Arthur shouted to no one in particular but loud enough to make the room fall silent.  He had that sort of commanding demeanor about him, that is what made him a good investigator.  People rarely lied to his face.

Inside the drawer was a small stuffed cat crusted over with what he could only guess was ketchup.  He pulled it out and threw it in his trash.  A small “meow” came from somewhere.  Arthur shot dirty looks in all directions.  A hand slapped his shoulder.

“Morning brother, arrest any pussies last night?” John said.

“You’re still free, so I guess not.”

“From shooting cat burglars to being a comedian, my brother you’re going places.  Did you find out anything last night?” John said.

“Not really, the place is clean.  Why was the power shut off so soon?”

“We didn’t touch any utilities yet.  We’re not that stupid.”

“Well it’s off, so get it turned back on, and get me the packet of records on her utility bills, I want to check out her phone records,” Arthur said.

“Sure thing, what are you thinking?”

“I have no clue to be honest.  At this point, aliens came down from outer space, probed her, and left.  Did the coroner check for any anal intrusions?  I’m thinking the aliens are the best lead we have.   A woman with her arm chewed up in a blender was found dead in her home, no sign whatsoever that she had anyone else with her.  Maybe she got off her meds and fell into the blender while it was on with the lid off.  Now go get me those utility bills,” Arthur said.

Arthur took a sip off his coke and waited for the Chief to get in.  Still had that leak to deal with today.  What a day it was turning out to be too.

“Meow.”

Arthur grabbed his coat and stormed outside to have a smoke.

I wrote about 2,500 words for a piece I was hell bent on submitting for a contest and I scrapped it all.  It was about five hours worth of work and I got to a point where my story lost all focus, and got so far gone, there was no saving it.  Writers count words like the calories of a fad diet, every single one matters.  A few months ago I would have pushed forward with it, thrown my ideas down and called it good, words didn’t matter so much to me then.  While I feel that is extremely valuable for brainstorming and word vomiting ideas that are not quite flushed out, it has downsides.

As you grow as a writer you start to loath the tiresome process of editing.  Sometimes if you write something to horrendous and incomprehensible in the beginning, you will spend twice or three times as long crafting it into something readable.  I’ve discovered that the more I write everyday the easier it is to recognize bad writing as soon as it hits the page.  Just like with any skill, writing is practice, practice, practice, so hang in there.

This is the opening paragraph of what I wrote today, the rest of the piece didn’t carry this tone at all.  I thought I would be able to introduce my characters and come back to this, but it never happened, so it was cast into the ether to die.

“…The riddle of the century was asked of me when I was only twenty-two years old.  Smoke filled lounges, liquor stained carpets, and counter tops with sugary adhesive puddles were to be my world for the next two days.  Revolving bundles of fruit set in motion by hands on large levers make loud dings as eyes light up around the room.  Each one of those hands attached to an individual dream, a life without hardship, the new American Dream.  Faces beaming with smiles or barred teeth are illuminated by the flashing sirens of blue, red, yellow, and green.  What was that riddle? Where is the only place where you can be anyone but yourself? Where what happens supposedly stays for eternity?  This is Vegas baby, the new gold rush, land of the free, and home of the destitute…”

The battle was lost today, but victory was gained on another front.  I learned quite a bit about what it will take in the future for me to stay on track.  Onward!

*panic! gasps for air! WHIZ! BANG! POP!*

Normally in a given day I have about 10,000 ideas that I can pull from thin air.  If I’m given a prompt to write from I can easily generate all sorts of ideas for the criteria.  However tonight I’m drawing blanks and just can’t seem to get past a couple sentences before I run out of gas.  I think maybe my brain is just fried.  Anyone who knows me or can read the top part of this website knows I have been hitting the words pretty hard lately (everyday for hours), and I just need a break.

I can’t think anymore and I’m struggling to even finish this post.  I’m taking the night off unless by some miracle that one great idea comes to me but I doubt it will.