07.05.08
"Treppenwitz"
When the surge came, it marked the fifteenth hour of the baby’s ceaseless crying. Jean-Pierre pulled it close to his chest, shielding its eyes and squinting his own against the bright wash of light, whispering nonsense and “shhh” into its fresh, new ear. At its peak, the surge, the electricity could be felt on the skin, but it faded quickly, leaving post-coital hollowness in everything that could feel. The surge was what passed for celestial time in the place they called Treppenwitz, and fifteen hours, whether night or day, was a long, long time.
“Shut it up, then,” said Luc, done with cleaning his pistol for the fifteenth time in as many sleepless hours. “Shut it up or I will.”
Timestamp: 04:49 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
07.03.08
"Things half said, half thought, and mostly empty"
“Seems sorta specific,” I say, my hand stretched over my eye to better hide those parts of you that offend.
“So are swans,” you say.
It’s a point worthy of concession, but never that. Instead, I say, “I saw some glass in the yard, broken, reflecting potential. I saw some glass,” I say, “and only part of the bloody futures were you. None of them were me.”
Timestamp: 10:04 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
06.25.08
"Points of Impact"
We only heard it, at first, a sort of whistle, broken and thin. Then Ally pointed it out, added, “Make a wish,” even. When it kept falling, we kind of figured it wasn’t a shooting star, though, mostly on account of how they burn up after a minute. This one just got brighter and brighter, and then it hit. It hit so close that it knocked all four of us over, the shockwave or whatever, and it was all hot and dark for a while, ringing. It was me, Ally, and Bug that got up, after. Cassie was bleeding where she fell, her head nice and busted on the rock, there.
Timestamp: 07:27 AM. Comments: 1. References: 0.
06.04.08
"Port"
If it was her shirt, she stole it. It wasn’t hard to picture some other guy volunteering it for a morning, supposing he’d see her again. Maybe he would. Maybe stole was too harsh.
“Take it off,” I said, and she did.
Timestamp: 09:47 AM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
04.02.08
"And We Waited Out the Days"
The winds had died down by the time Olfstead arrived. Still, he made a show of the trials of his travel. An hour earlier and we might’ve cared. If he’d swung wide the great-wood door, soggy with the storm behind him and launched into his story of spooked horses and no-good assistants, of the roofs of houses spiraling skyward, their subsequent groundward falls, and of walls of impenetrable cold we would’ve sat at seats’ edges in anticipation of the next detail. Instead, it was the door swung wide, Olfstead dry and warm, and a sunlit backdrop that belied the week of wind and rain we’d come to loathe and fear during his absence. And he blathered through the details. And we tapped feet, checked watches, and imagined finer moments as we awaited the point to which it was all preamble.
Timestamp: 12:10 AM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
03.16.08
"Fair Game"
“I’d never steal your wallet.” That’s how they said it. “I’d never steal your wallet if I needed money.” Otherwise, it was fair game. Wallets, wives, heirlooms, and money—all of them were worthy of theft or destruction as long as the theft or destruction was in no way necessary. It was a matter of romance, of honor.
Timestamp: 04:45 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
03.04.08
"Principle uncertainty, soft miles"
If there was food, it was gone before she said it. There were other things in the course of the conversation, though, the word “dewlap,” maybe. If there were plates, they’d been cleared. She liked to compare things to dinner plates, size and shape. The table was a coincidence, probably. A breeze probably blew when she said it, fluttered the umbrellas above the patio’s tables. If they stood or if they sat, he didn’t know. There was only the timing of the breeze.
Timestamp: 09:10 AM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
02.19.08
"The Cincinnati Show"
He tested its weight in his hand, the feel of it across his palm. “How does it connect?”
“Well,” said Hep, “I suppose it connects like a hammer. You know, ‘cause it’s a hammer.”
It felt better than most. “No,” said Slesh. “To the show, I mean.”
Timestamp: 08:31 AM. Comments: 1. References: 0.
02.12.08
"Respite"
He knows the hand will come through the window. White-gloved and sure, he knows it will come. It will raise the pane. He will run. He’s had this dream before. He doesn’t need to turn to see how far the rows of empty, crisply-made beds stretch into the distance behind him. He should run before the hand comes. He should close the window, bar all entry. He doesn’t move. He knows he should, but he can’t. Through the window, the night pushes down on the trees with its thick weight. He hears shapes beyond the glass that are too poorly lit to see. The wind blows, whistling through the thin opening. The hand comes through, its traffic-director’s glove, its tight, black cuff.
Timestamp: 07:34 AM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
02.10.08
"Time"
The wheels, stoppers, gears, and shafts had been precisely machined by men long dead. “Back then,” to hear the boys say it, “way back then.” But that’s the boys, the ones who line the wall below its face. “Only clock of its sort,” they say between drags on their smokes and throws of the dice. Powered, as it is, by the spin of the earth, wind resistance, and seismic vibrations too weak to feel, it’s not too hard to believe the claim.
Timestamp: 05:16 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
02.07.08
"TKO"
The koalas stared out of their enclosure, bored with their lots or certain some other shoe was about to drop. They paid no mind to the eucalyptus branches the zookeepers had prepared. They paid no mind to one another. They paid no mind to the patrons, Craig and Jess included. Craig had had it.
Timestamp: 10:13 AM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
02.05.08
"It's nice without an umbrella, with no morning to worry over."
It’s not the darkness. It’s maybe not even the rain. Beyond the way the grays stack up on one another—the moon leaking down in graduating pales, reaching for the bay—there’s the weight of the street, your hand in mine, the cold, pushing us into one another, eyes forward. Where the light sticks, it’s bruised, lost in the mediation of arguments between colors best left to the sea. It’s all drowning with dry necks out here, and where are we going? Maybe that’s it more the anything. It’s darker, on ahead.
“I know how you’ll die,” I say.
Timestamp: 03:13 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
02.03.08
"Something I wrote on a napkin, once"
“No,” he said, “I been seeing that sorta shit for weeks.”
“I know,” she said, “right?”
Timestamp: 08:44 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
01.31.08
Test patterns in the snow, 1987
“You’re pretty Aryan,” she said. A slight, perhaps, but, in any case, he agreed. He mentioned a hint of Native American in his bloodline and the fact that he couldn’t grow facial hair. “I can’t grow facial hair,” he said, “not in any real way.”
Timestamp: 09:43 AM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
01.11.08
"Chip-chip"
Back then, we called it a chip-chip. Better names have come along in time, but it made enough sense in its senselessness.
Timestamp: 01:22 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
12.20.07
"Post"
“So,” he said, “we’re agreed.”
She nodded. “Nobody can draw a perfect circle freehand.”
They’d been at it for hours. She eyed the objects on the table—nothing of interest, nothing suggesting anything that hadn’t been suggested already. “I’m stumped,” she said.
Timestamp: 07:56 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
07.27.07
"A Good Marriage"
“Will you wear the antlers?”
Her body seemed to glow out from the deep shine of the polished living room floor, a mix of pink and white that defied the emptiness of the room. From the entryway he looked down on her, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a scotch.
“Not tonight,” he said.
She rolled onto her side with a sigh.
Timestamp: 09:54 AM. Comments: 2. References: 0.
07.12.07
"There"
There were no balladeers present when the doors were closed, the white sign hung behind the industrial glass of the service door with a black “X” and nothing more. No songs were written as the new workers—the formosan and dry-wood termites, the powder-post beetles, and the carpenter ants—set about their dismantling of the floors and walls. The strings of lutes and guitars were not plucked as the native grasses rediscovered the strength to reach upward. No audiences leaned forward with anticipation at the steady spin of the globe or almanac regularity of the shifting weather patterns that gave unofficial measure to the skilled, unpaid labor afoot. Yet the work was done, methodically, mercilessly, until nothing remained but the brick face and the girding and the glass, suspended in its metal frames, and those parts of the roof insubstantial enough to avoid the demands of gravity and proper dignity.
Timestamp: 04:07 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
06.22.07
"The Donation"
The thoughts rolled through her head in cadence with her steps, a simple ball of thoughts with alternating dull and shiny surfaces, the shiny parts glinting with each leaf cracking, root crunching step. Eggs (beat) milk (beat) spinach (beat) tomato (beat) spam (beat) bread (beat) beef (beat) pasta (beat) angel hair (beat) asparagus (beat) pencils (beat) Snickers ba—
Timestamp: 11:40 AM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
06.21.07
"Hammer of God (This is not a mix-tape)"
If it were a mix-tape, it would start with an ambient song, something process oriented, building on itself until its reason became clear in the contrast between the rich ending and the sparse beginning. If it were a movie, the hero would deliver an opening monologue, crying and bloody on some Liverpool street—having given up hope, despite the reversal afforded him by the laws of Drama. If it were a car, it would be a thing of beauty, fast and gleaming with promise, and at seventy-eight miles per hour all of its perfection would be interrupted by a single steel pole, unobserved, anchored in concrete. If it were a hammer, it would be a hammer of god, subtle cracks along its wooden handle, evidence on its weathered head of endless nails driven. If it were a question, it would be “how?” If it were a time, it would be—
Timestamp: 12:21 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
06.05.07
Newly Acquired Listing [4]
I will ask you to read my work. That's probably why I put this here, just so you'd know I was thinking of you when I wrote it. For you, I wish it was better. It's not, though, and our shortcomings, while disappointing, would be easier to manage if they were only ever ours to bear. This is not the case, though. If you don't read my work I'll become despondent and mean. If you do, I'll wish you hadn't. It's best that you trudge through it, suffer its failures, and make minor mention of it in casual conversation. Make no positive or negative assertions. Respond to queries on its quality with a gentle, "I'm still thinking it through. I can't decide how I feel." This will satisfy me.
As with everyone, I'm never satisfied. I couldn't be trusted if I were. That I am untrustworthy is the single trustworthy thing. Set your watch to it. Align the astrolabe and know any course to be true against which my nature is the fundamental constant. I will leave is what I mean, but before I do there will be honest moments--tender things no less valid in the coming light of my actions. You must take measures to understand in advance that what you understand to be real remains such despite the things to come. All that will have come is some new real, less real than this real now and that real back then, but only in the way that the writing in dreams is less real--it's only because we haven't got decent eyes for the task of reading.
Disregard everything I say. Know that I will do the same to you on your behalf.
Timestamp: 01:21 PM.
Comments: 0.
References: 0.
05.09.07
"Soot and String (Among other things)"
As stories go, that of Elsie Charmed and Eilsa Strange is not that vast in scope or range. Nor is it a rhyming tale, which should be clearer, now. It’s simple in so many ways, though hard to see in others. But where it starts is where it stays, because it starts with mothers.
Timestamp: 12:09 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
05.02.07
"Black Friday"
The boys had got off to themselves, escaped the husky section at an opportune moment, scrambled past the rows of junior miss, down through the petite, always skirting unmentionables. They’d got off to a spot clear of their mother’s wrinkle-eyed stare. They’d got off to a spot clear of everything, in fact, despite never having left the mall to their recollection.
Timestamp: 02:27 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
04.20.07
"The Eight-Fifteen
04.16.07
"Goodnight"
“I’d pay to be the first,” he said, a commitment to an inconceivable sum, given the impossibility.
Timestamp: 07:29 PM. Comments: 1. References: 0.
03.28.07
"Lethal"
“I’ll be Riggs,” she said, “and you’ll be Danny—wide-eyed Danny, round mouthed Danny. You be Danny, Danny. Be my Murtaugh.” She hadn’t stopped saying it for three hours. There were minor variations, but it was always the same underneath. Outside of the repetition, she’d figured out ways of sneaking into the backseat, climbing over during tricky pass or as we rounded a hairy switchback and curling up beyond my reach. From those spots she’d laugh and masturbate and whisper, “Be my Murtaugh, Danny. Be my perfect-headed Danny,” while I threatened to pull over.
Timestamp: 08:43 AM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
03.07.07
Newly Acquired Listing [3]
This is a novel, of course. We have time. If the story was as simple as you and I, as I and I, as any one thing so simple, there'd be little time at all. But this is a novel. The abrupt brush of arms and the firefly blink of our story might fill a page of twelve point Courier script. It might even fill seven if we had the vision to freeze our instant and stare it down. It might be exciting, but this is a novel. It will start with me. You'll arrive soon thereafter. There will be a fall. These things will be very real for us, but there is much more under the sun. There is a house, for instance.
Timestamp: 08:28 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
03.06.07
"I Won't Be the First to Let You Down"
“There’s a trick to disappearing,” said the man with the fiery hand. “Watch me, now, as I make it plain.”
Timestamp: 06:56 PM. Comments: 2. References: 0.
03.03.07
Newly Acquired Listing [2]
When I was seventeen I caught my jacket on fire while attempting to smoke a joint. It was a little thing, but it stuck with me. In that same year, I learned the word hypotyposis, a word as big as the animal it reminds me of. I thought long on what it meant, not just in fact, but to me. Seven years from now I'll crash my car into something sturdy. It will be an attempt at suicide, but I'll fail. I'll lose a significant amount of motor function. I'll learn to speak in Morse code with my eyes, but I'll write no novels of lasting import.
Timestamp: 03:58 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
03.01.07
Newly Acquired Listing [1]
I can't dance. Don't even ask me to. You will, of course, given time. I'll tell you that I can't dance. You'll convince me to give in, and I will. You'll see that these words aren't simply a work of fear or discomfort, but a representation of fact, plain and true. We'll share an awkward moment afterward. You'll say I did fine. I'll nod and thank you. The goodbyes will be permanent. I won't look back to watch you leave. I won't see the white of your legs as you sit in your car. I won't see the seven million little things about your face that make you a ghost in the memories of the men who've come before. I won't remember your name. I won't imagine the course of your car, the grooves it cuts in the grassy trails of this city's streets.
Timestamp: 10:10 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
02.14.07
"Inverted Pyramid"
What had seventeen hours ago seemed a clear case of homicide has since become a murky and baffling mystery. “We know there was a crime,” Detective Mark Bradley said at a press conference last night. “What we don’t know is what to make of the unfolding details.”
Timestamp: 01:17 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
11.21.06
"Zoo Day"
We both know I despise orangutans, so stop fucking sending me pictures of orangutans dressed as humans. I get it: you hate me. That’s no reason to parade orangutans wearing g-strings through my inbox. The fuckers make me physically ill. I feel like I made this very clear in the early stages of our relationship. I’d rather you told every chick you know that I was a terrible lay, frankly. At least that would be an attack on me, as opposed to an attack on my sensibilities.
Timestamp: 05:00 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
11.13.06
"The Bottle Factory Closed Years Ago"
I recently heard a story about two salesmen who spent so much time talking about sales that neither was ever successful. The things they said made perfect sense, on some level, but what remained were a handful of wasted moments and a tab to pay. There was a waiter, once, who never served a meal. He was an actor, I hear, and that tended to suffice. It didn’t change the absence of my dinner and drink.
Timestamp: 12:54 AM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
11.07.06
"Drive"
From time to time there were quiet moments. They’d begin like other moments, but instead of saying things like, “You’re fucking shitting me,” or, “For reals man, no shit,” they’d say nothing at all. These quiet moments would be spent doing all sorts of things. They’d adjust their positions in their seats. They’d fish through the CD wallet. They’d groove. They’d stare into the distance and think long on words unsaid in the quiet moments that had passed before.
Timestamp: 01:40 AM. Comments: 1. References: 0.
10.21.06
"I Remember Drive Time"
Note: Given the absence of new, completed work, I offer this ancient chunk of text. It's almost three years old, and it isn't strong in many senses. Still, it's one of my favorite things I've written in the short story form, and it's a blueprint for a conversation I'll gladly have wth anyone who requests it.
“The Whittic,” called the master hunter to his assembled class, “is, quite easily, the most cunning of our prey. It knows nothing of up or down, and knows even less of left and right.”
Timestamp: 04:34 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
09.15.06
"Sorry, We've Moved"
When the lights come up, there’s time to find new openings in the sky. Look carefully. In the darkness of space, three central figures can be drawn out. Brad opens a door. Skeletons fall from the space concealed. Jill knows one true thing. Olish is not a real person, only a dream of a person who seldom wakes.
Timestamp: 01:42 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
09.02.06
"Do you ever take that hat off?"
She looked him down. Lean. Tall. She opened a cabinet and pulled out some leather oil for the saddlebag seats of his Corvair.
Timestamp: 10:36 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
07.28.06
"Border"
It’s me and the man in front of me. The man in front of me gets papers. It’s me.
“Go on through,” says the gateman, no papers.
“Because I’m white?”
Nothing from the gateman.
“But won’t I need the papers?”
“The horse is your papers.”
“But,” I say, “I’ve come to sell the horse. Won’t I need papers once that’s done.”
Nothing. Icy nothing. “The horse,” he says, “sir,” he says, “is your papers,” he says, “sir.”
I sell the horse, exactly as the plan had suggested. I suppose the buyer has also purchased my papers. This leaves me—
At the border it is as one might imagine.
“Where,” asks the gateman, “are your papers?”
“The horse was my papers.”
“This,” says the gateman, “will never do.”
Timestamp: 01:11 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
07.15.06
"A Tree Falls"
There was no resort there back then. Back then it was all woods. The cabin was there, of course. The cabin had been chief among the handful of features that had drawn the developers to that odd mountain district in the first place. But they’ve manicured the wilderness since then, did it years ago. The cabin is one of seven stops along the historic trail now. The guides read from a script as manicured as the wilderness, and nobody has any concept of what happened in that clearing all those decades ago.
Timestamp: 07:19 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
07.10.06
"A Very Long Film with a Very Short Script"
The opening credits conclude and the score slowly fades.
Timestamp: 11:31 AM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
06.23.06
"Edwin"
The walking stick, the study of the walking stick, was, without a doubt, the single greatest pleasure in Edwin Morriss’s otherwise dull life. He would lie on his belly in the yard for hours. He had, on a few occasions, mistaken a standard stick for the insect, only to realize as much after a span of thirty or more minutes. No, he wasn’t the most with-it guy, but he also wasn’t crazy. He was, in point, as sane as a man could be, a real square peg of a guy.
Timestamp: 12:05 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
06.06.06
Jesus Overstreet's "Sweener"
I've been taking this creative writing class at the Y in East Point for the past couple of weeks. This guy is in my class. He doesn't have a website, so I offered to post one of his stories on mine. His name's Jesus Overstreet. He rides a bike. I don't think he has a job. Of these three things, I am jealous.
“So,” said the teacher, “that’s when they gave women the right to vote. You girls should be pretty damn thankful.”
Timestamp: 09:47 PM. Comments: 2. References: 0.
06.03.06
"The Killingses"
“I don’t know,” she said, looking Funch over as she spoke, “I guess it was on account of how you didn’t smell too much.”
Timestamp: 01:03 AM. Comments: 3. References: 0.
05.24.06
"Young God"
I guess there’s no shortage of stories about Young God, but my favorite is the one attached to this picture. I’ve been holding onto it for quite a few years, ever since I took that trip to New Mexico and stopped off at a flea market along the interstate on the ride back. I tend to shuffle through collections of old photos, my motto being that one never quite knows what one will find in such a collection.
Timestamp: 07:07 PM. Comments: 1. References: 0.
05.15.06
"Lupus Jones"
Lupus Jones is a real man with real feelings. Stop staring at his hump. So what, it’s big. So what, he must wear clothes ill fitted to his form. He went to college, you know. He had dreams. He loved, though seldom was that love returned. Does that make his love any less vital? His life, is it nothing to you, all on account of that hump?
Timestamp: 04:10 PM. Comments: 2. References: 0.
05.09.06
"Impasse"
OK, so the resulting pattern is something of a circle. It’s a holding pattern. Airplanes held to holding patterns will eventually run out of fuel, no doubt. They’ll fall out of the sky. Everybody’ll be like, “Hey, great tragedy, and whatnot.”
Timestamp: 06:28 PM. Comments: 4. References: 0.
05.03.06
"Onei Von"
Some people tell stories that use the phrase “high pressure sodium lamps.” I don’t. Besides, if I did, that’d be about the last phrase I’d use in this story. This is a story about people; so phrases like, “a general misunderstanding,” and, “altogether unfortunate,” are more likely to make their ways into the sentences comprising it. They won’t, though. This story isn’t about negative things like those two things. This story is about two people on the street. One is eating a sandwich. His name is Larry. The other is adjusting his glasses. His name is Larry.
Timestamp: 01:13 PM. Comments: 1. References: 0.
03.14.06
"Another Fine Mess"
First God, then vines. First water. Canyons came in time. Then self-satisfaction. Then the gloom. Who cleans the houses here?
Timestamp: 10:10 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
03.12.06
"All in All"
“I,” I said, “dropped the needle on The Wall and pretended to kill, and, over time, the needle became a laser, and the killing became real. And have you ever heard a helicopter? And have you ever forgotten to feel? And, over time, the killings became…real.”
Timestamp: 07:49 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
03.09.06
"Carpet" (C)
Carpet sales had been slow that year; nobody could deny it. Showrooms all over the country had been closing, and eventually their fate was shared by distributors and factories, as well. White Carpet MFG was one such plant. Named for the Kentucky town it called home as opposed to some monochrome business model, it lacked the resources to stand against the growing “hardwood wave” (dubbed such by Floor Coverings Quarterly and adopted by the handful of remaining trades). It closed shop late one October night. Word was given to its workers in the form of a sign that’d been attached to the locked gates barring their entry.
Timestamp: 08:48 PM. Comments: 1. References: 0.
03.06.06
"Room 520"
Note: This is the last of them. I'm disappointed that I didn't make it to twelve, but this story is a prime example of why. By the time I got here, I was really struggling. I'd thought to write it earlier in the session, but I'd decided against it on account of its being true. I only gave in and wrote it because I was entirely out of steam, and because ten of twelve sounded way better than nine, and because I only had thirty minutes left to make something happen. If my rules had been more strict, this story wouldn't have been allowed.
Jack Rogers is a regular where I work. He likes to come to the check-in counter during Happy Hour. We tend to joke around a little. He’s a talker, but he typically keeps it within the limits of comfortable conversation. He’s a short guy, muscular, and red-complected. He’s not an angry type, though; that’s just his skin color, or maybe he does too much drinking. I think he had heart troubles, recently, and that might have added to the color, as well. He’s nice, is my point. He loves his car and his son (a frat-boy, to hear Jack tell it), and those are the things we usually discuss.
Timestamp: 03:28 PM. Comments: 3. References: 0.
"God Armor"
Note: So, here's number nine. The less I say, the less I'll feel like I'm defending it.
She seemed serious. “No,” she said. “He ain’t gonna catch me off guard this time, uh-uh. I’ll be ready when he come back…stay ready…stay prayed up.”
Timestamp: 12:42 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
03.04.06
"Fish Bleeds Water"
Note: Number eight of the ten stories from my twelve-hour writing exercise. By the time I wrote this one I was struggling pretty badly. A different take on this story was contained in a screenplay I wrote a few years ago. The screenplay bears the same name, and I've been planning on novelizing it for years. It's a fine education in how seldom plans come together on my end of things. All of that aside, this isn't a cheat. The telling and stucture of this story are far different from those employed when the story is told in the script.
There’s an old story about three men wandering through a desert. They’d been dying slowly of thirst over a course of days. They were so hot, so dry, that to have seen them would be to have seen the walking dead. As the men climbed a particularly high dune, they collapsed to their hands and knees and, with the last of their strength, clawed their ways to the top.
Timestamp: 09:45 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
"A Thing of Beauty"
Note: Here's the seventh of the ten stories from my twelve-hour writing exercise. Thankfully, we're nearing the end. Most all of the changes are of the grammar and spelling variety, though there is the odd structural improvement here and there. I want to offer a small explanation on this one. It's something I'd wanted to write about for a while but had never gotten around to. By the fifth story in this cycle, I'd begun scrambling for ideas. This one came to mind, so I wrote about one of the characters from it. Then I decided to write the actual story a couple hours later. The idea is really the bastard son of two other stories by two far superior writers. The dress is a minor footnote within this book, and its effect on my story's characters was lifted from this short story. I read both within a week of each other, and the two things seemed a natural fit.
The men had been following the line for years, always on foot. They lived a train life, in this respect, but one that moved at a pace more fitting to their sensibilities. To reconnect with the network was as simple as walking into the next trainyard, but between each yard were miles and miles of open air, all theirs. They owned every mountain peak, tree trunk, and passing hawk. Who could be found to dispute their claim?
Timestamp: 04:33 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
03.03.06
"Land of Lincoln"
Note: Short and pointless, this is the sixth of the ten stories from my twelve-hour writing exercise from several months ago. Nothing much has been done beyond minor cosmetic fixes since the first draft.
I went to Disney World a few years ago. The Hall of Presidents, or whatever the hell they call that thing, was closed at the time, which was a drag. It was the only exhibit that really interested me. To make up for it I rode The Haunted Mansion a second time. Fun as that was, I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth. Fact is, I was hoping the Hall of Presidents would dispel these weird dreams I’d been having about Abraham Lincoln.
Timestamp: 09:07 PM. Comments: 2. References: 0.
"Pulling Up Stakes"
Note: This is the fifth of the ten stories from my twelve-hour writing exercise from several months ago. It was originally titled "Cold by Design." I'll explain a little more about it when I post its companion story (number seven).
“For the youngsters,” cried the barker, “the dismembered head of Saint Esmus of Erecley, and,” he added with a wink and a sly tone, “for the ladies, the dismembered member of King Leopold I.”
Timestamp: 07:11 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
03.02.06
"This Damn Hand of Mine"
This damn hand of mine started aching last week. I hadn’t punched anything or anything like that. It just hurt. At first I thought it was a reaction to something. Too much booze, I thought. Then arthritis came to mind. The arm was aching, too, so that didn’t seem so crazy. Thing is, arthritis is a joint sort of deal, and this was more of a meat sort of deal; muscle, maybe. So I went through the other stuff: vitamin deficiency, sleep depravation, hypochondria. None of it added up. Then I got to thinking it was a subconscious indication that there was something my hand needed to be doing.
Timestamp: 07:40 PM. Comments: 0. References: 0.
"A Choice"
Note: This is the fourth of the ten stories from my twelve-hour writing exercise from several months ago. Look, to anyone who's still checking this site, I'm sorry. I'm working again, so things should be better around here. If nothing else, there should at least be more to read.
The king of this place or that was once presented with a difficul