Sir James was drinking from his goblet when he heard the ferocious roar of the dragon. Surely this was a noble mission that only a brave knight, like James, could accept. It was in his creed to defend the citizens of Living-Roomvandia from dangerous creatures. Equipped in full body armor, he slid on his helmet, grabbed his mighty sword, and strode bravely from his home in the Kitchen.
The pot atop his head flopped and he had to keep his chin pointed out to prevent it from falling off. The cardboard box worn around his torso, with arm and neck holes cut out, was badly beaten, for he played this game many times, challenging countless mighty foes. Despite the raggedness of his armor, his trusty blade was sharp and strong as ever.
Sneaking into the dragon’s lair, he was fortunate to catch it napping. The crimson creature had its wings wrapped around it and long neck curled with its chin tucked into its yellow breast. He knew that any sudden movement could awaken the beast, so he crept silently. Alas, one of the dragon’s minions pounced from his rear!
“Fluffy, get out of here!” Jimmy yelled at the cat. It purred as it rubbed against his leg. He poked it sharply with the wooden sword. Fluffy squealed and ran out of the room.
This disturbance awoke the fierce creature, and James had no choice but to defeat it head on.
“Attack!” he shouted.
The dragon’s jaw snapped down at him, but he rolled to the left and avoided the flesh-tearing teeth. He quickly popped to his feet, sword before him, ready to strike. He waited for an opening, hoping to counter-attack next time the dragon dove at him. The magnificent beast rose to its rear legs, towering above James, and spread its wings, hissing fire at him.
“It won’t end here,” James reassured himself.
The dragon released a roar that shook the cave walls, causing debris to rain down from the ceiling, then bomb-dove at the small human. Anticipating this move, James tucked into a ball as he summersaulted forward, sprung out of his coiled sphere, and thrust upward at the dragon’s canary stomach, piercing the thick scales. The beast cried and tumbled to the ground, dead on impact.
James sighed in relief, but it was too soon, for just then an evil troll entered the lair. James, spun to face it, sword readied.
“James Francis Smith! What do you think you are doing?” the gruesome fiend bellowed. “You have destroyed that couch cushion!”
James recognized that this troll was too tough to defeat and prepared to flee. He scanned the area for the easiest route of escape, then blast from his spot.
“Oh, no you don’t!” the ugly troll screamed and scooped him up into its arms. “You are getting punished, you little brat.”
He tried desperately to defend himself, swinging his sword and hitting the troll’s arm. It cried out in agony.
“Now you’re gonna get it,” she yelled, holding his wrist with her good hand. She ripped the sword from his small hands and threw him to the ground. “You need to learn a damn lesson. You are too old to be playing these stupid games.”
She whipped the wooden plank at his bottom, stinging it and causing tears to burst from his eyes. And she did it again. And again. And repeated smacking him until Sir James the Mighty was once again Jimmy, the Weakling.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Not a Swimming Story
Shannon woke up on Wednesday. It was 5 AM, as usual. She got out of bed, put on her clothes, went to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, grabbed her pre-packed bag and drove to the gym. At the gym, she went through her routine of stretches, lifting, and breathing exercises with the team. Then she dove into the pool. She swam laps all morning until practice was over and it was time for class. She showered off, changed, ate an apple, a peanut butter power bar, a string cheese, all of which she washed down with an orange smoothie, and walked with a teammate to their 11:30 Econ class. After classes, she consumed a healthy meal, completed her homework, and watched TV for an hour, before falling asleep for the night. And she did the same thing the previous day, and would do the same thing the next day.
On Friday afternoons, after all the swimmers were done with classes, they would meet in the gym to discuss the competition for the weekend, then they’d board the bus if it was an away meet, which it was this particular week. Shannon sat near the front of the bus with the other captains. She didn’t say much as he bus rolled along, she never really said much, period. She listened to her iPod and watched the trees move past her window.
The scenery was really lovely. The bus driver preferred to stay off the highways, it was rumored he was afraid of getting into an accident because his parents died in one when he was young, so the long red vehicle moved along the country roads. Shannon peered out her window; isolated farmhouses interrupted the endless plains that passed beside the bus. The pale tanned grass and brown barren Beech trees moved up and down as the bus drove over hills. Occasionally, Shannon spotted a cow or horse, but the trip was typically uneventful.
At the home school’s city, the team checked into a motel, where they went to sleep early to prepare for the following day. Shannon took Nyquil, because she couldn’t fall asleep.
At the pool, coach gave an inspirational speech to the swimmers, who mostly ignored him. Shannon made mental notes on the facility: the number of people in the crowd, the color of the lines on the bottom of the pool, the brightness of the lights, random things like these. By the time her race was starting, she had filed away all these facts and observations and crouched at the edge of the pool in diving position. As the buzzer sounded, Shannon dove headfirst into the pool.
Every muscle in Shannon’s body had a purpose. Her arms whipped around in the butterfly stroke that was ingrained into her memory. It was an automatic motion that happened beyond her mental control; it was purely physical repetition. She knew the perfect way to pull the water behind her with her hands and slice them forward through the water, only to repeat the action of dragging the water backwards in a circular pattern that propelled her slender body forwards. Her long, sinewy legs flutter kicked, the tips of her feet lashing. She watched the burgundy lines pass underneath her and spotted the girl in the next lane falling behind her. Halfway down the length of the pool, she exploded from the surface to take in a breath, droplets of water splashing outward, her two shoulder blades jutting from her back like dorsal fins, before plummeting back into the over-chlorinated water.
As she neared the end of the race, her intensity and desperation grew. The edge of the pool was just a few kilometers ahead and Shannon exerted every ounce of strength she could muster. Closer, closer; inch by inch; stroke by stroke. And when she felt like the wall was within reach, she made her final stroke, forcing the water backwards. Her biceps burned, her shoulders ached, but she lunged forward, arms and fingers slowly extending to their full length.
The female human heart beats about 75 times per minute meaning; in the single second it took Shannon to hit the wall in her final stroke, her heart beat two times due to its working extra hard to pump the necessary blood through her body as it fully exerted itself. These two “ka-thumps” in her chest, without her knowing, would reverberate throughout the atoms that compose her body, acting almost as a tiny massage to ease the stresses they were receiving from the race. The molecules of the H2O that surrounded her knocked each other backwards like billiards balls lined up in a row, shooting her forwards at their expense. And the tiny air bubbles that trickled out of her nose slowly floated to the surface to escape, but not before Shannon would feel her fingertips graze the tiles on the wall, signaling her victory.
She burst from the water, panting, grasping for breath, as her teammates ran over to congratulate her on her win. They all smiled and patted her on the back as she hoisted her sore body out of the pool.
But Shannon was not thinking about her race.
No, before she won, before the atoms and muscles inside her worked in unison to force her forwards, before she dove into the pool, before she fell asleep the previous night, before the long drive through empty fields past farms and animals, before completing her homework, before her dinner, before her final class, before her 11:30 econ, before morning practice before stretching before she drove to the gym, before she packed her bag, before her teeth were brushed, before she peed, before she put on clothes, before she got out of bed, before she woke up at 5 AM, before Fridaythursdaywednesdaytuesday… she walked to her first class as normal. But on the way a young man came up to talk to her.
“Hey, you dropped this notebook. Your backpack is open,” he said.
“Oh, uh… thanks,” Shannon replied.
“You’re welcome. This might sound a little forward, but I think you’re really beautiful. Would you like to go get some coffee. I’m Ken, by the way,” he said.
“I’m Shannon,” she said. “And I don’t think I can, I’ve got classes.”
“Oh well, that’s fine, maybe some other time.”
Shannon watched him walk away and turned to go to her 11:30 econ, but stopped and yelled after him, “You know what, I think I will have that coffee.”
The handsome young man looked back over his shoulder with a marvelous smile. And Shannon went to coffee, and lunch, and a movie then a small party with him, getting home late with a smug satisfaction as she crawled into bed.
On Friday afternoons, after all the swimmers were done with classes, they would meet in the gym to discuss the competition for the weekend, then they’d board the bus if it was an away meet, which it was this particular week. Shannon sat near the front of the bus with the other captains. She didn’t say much as he bus rolled along, she never really said much, period. She listened to her iPod and watched the trees move past her window.
The scenery was really lovely. The bus driver preferred to stay off the highways, it was rumored he was afraid of getting into an accident because his parents died in one when he was young, so the long red vehicle moved along the country roads. Shannon peered out her window; isolated farmhouses interrupted the endless plains that passed beside the bus. The pale tanned grass and brown barren Beech trees moved up and down as the bus drove over hills. Occasionally, Shannon spotted a cow or horse, but the trip was typically uneventful.
At the home school’s city, the team checked into a motel, where they went to sleep early to prepare for the following day. Shannon took Nyquil, because she couldn’t fall asleep.
At the pool, coach gave an inspirational speech to the swimmers, who mostly ignored him. Shannon made mental notes on the facility: the number of people in the crowd, the color of the lines on the bottom of the pool, the brightness of the lights, random things like these. By the time her race was starting, she had filed away all these facts and observations and crouched at the edge of the pool in diving position. As the buzzer sounded, Shannon dove headfirst into the pool.
Every muscle in Shannon’s body had a purpose. Her arms whipped around in the butterfly stroke that was ingrained into her memory. It was an automatic motion that happened beyond her mental control; it was purely physical repetition. She knew the perfect way to pull the water behind her with her hands and slice them forward through the water, only to repeat the action of dragging the water backwards in a circular pattern that propelled her slender body forwards. Her long, sinewy legs flutter kicked, the tips of her feet lashing. She watched the burgundy lines pass underneath her and spotted the girl in the next lane falling behind her. Halfway down the length of the pool, she exploded from the surface to take in a breath, droplets of water splashing outward, her two shoulder blades jutting from her back like dorsal fins, before plummeting back into the over-chlorinated water.
As she neared the end of the race, her intensity and desperation grew. The edge of the pool was just a few kilometers ahead and Shannon exerted every ounce of strength she could muster. Closer, closer; inch by inch; stroke by stroke. And when she felt like the wall was within reach, she made her final stroke, forcing the water backwards. Her biceps burned, her shoulders ached, but she lunged forward, arms and fingers slowly extending to their full length.
The female human heart beats about 75 times per minute meaning; in the single second it took Shannon to hit the wall in her final stroke, her heart beat two times due to its working extra hard to pump the necessary blood through her body as it fully exerted itself. These two “ka-thumps” in her chest, without her knowing, would reverberate throughout the atoms that compose her body, acting almost as a tiny massage to ease the stresses they were receiving from the race. The molecules of the H2O that surrounded her knocked each other backwards like billiards balls lined up in a row, shooting her forwards at their expense. And the tiny air bubbles that trickled out of her nose slowly floated to the surface to escape, but not before Shannon would feel her fingertips graze the tiles on the wall, signaling her victory.
She burst from the water, panting, grasping for breath, as her teammates ran over to congratulate her on her win. They all smiled and patted her on the back as she hoisted her sore body out of the pool.
But Shannon was not thinking about her race.
No, before she won, before the atoms and muscles inside her worked in unison to force her forwards, before she dove into the pool, before she fell asleep the previous night, before the long drive through empty fields past farms and animals, before completing her homework, before her dinner, before her final class, before her 11:30 econ, before morning practice before stretching before she drove to the gym, before she packed her bag, before her teeth were brushed, before she peed, before she put on clothes, before she got out of bed, before she woke up at 5 AM, before Fridaythursdaywednesdaytuesday… she walked to her first class as normal. But on the way a young man came up to talk to her.
“Hey, you dropped this notebook. Your backpack is open,” he said.
“Oh, uh… thanks,” Shannon replied.
“You’re welcome. This might sound a little forward, but I think you’re really beautiful. Would you like to go get some coffee. I’m Ken, by the way,” he said.
“I’m Shannon,” she said. “And I don’t think I can, I’ve got classes.”
“Oh well, that’s fine, maybe some other time.”
Shannon watched him walk away and turned to go to her 11:30 econ, but stopped and yelled after him, “You know what, I think I will have that coffee.”
The handsome young man looked back over his shoulder with a marvelous smile. And Shannon went to coffee, and lunch, and a movie then a small party with him, getting home late with a smug satisfaction as she crawled into bed.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Earwax
Anyways, I’m in front of the mirror shaving my scraggly beard, when I realize I haven’t cleaned my ears in…oh, probably a month. I mean, I’ve stuck my finger in there, cleaned some shit out that way. But not like a legit q-tip swab of the crevice. Which is strange, cause I love that eargasm when you stick in a cotton stick and twist it around. You know what I’m talking about. It feels simply incredible. It’s like scratching an itch, but a thousand times better.
So I’ve had this revelation, and I now have two choices: ask one of the 50 guys living in the frat for a q-tip until someone gives me one, or ignore it. Take thirty seconds to clean my ears, or forget it ever occurred to me. I chose the latter.
As I was selecting a shirt, like twenty minutes later, I again thought, “Maybe I should clean my ears?” But my immediate response was, “No, what is the chance that this is really going to matter? What are the odds that I am going to wish my ears had been cleaned?” Like I mentioned, I was on a bit of a cold streak and in no way did I think that earwax would be a game changer.
By now you can probably tell where this story is going. Not only did I find a drunken dame who wanted to make out with me, but she was also into licking my ears. VERY INTO MY EARS. Not “into” as in “attracted,” but “into” as in “tickling the lobe of my brain.” And the whole time she is doing this, I swear to God, I’m thinking about how absolutely filthy my ears were and how, just hours earlier, I was considering the necessity of cleaning them. I had LITERALLY debated whether or not I would find a girl would want to lick my lobes, and then met the most ear-obsessed human being I have ever encountered in my entire life! And I knew for a fact that they were disgusting. So now I was trying as hard as I could to not laugh my ass off as she is standing on her tiptoes, tongue outstretched, getting way up there, polishing my ears with her tongue. Both of them!
I wish I could say that a mouthful of earwax was enough to end that kissing sesh, but unfortunately I am not that proud of a person. We did end up separating during the night, at which point I realized that I had no clue what she looked like and conceded that she had disappeared into the annals of drunken sorority hook ups. But at least my ears were clean.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Library
For those who are just tuning in, I am on the 4th day of my week of writing/posting original short stories. I would love if everyone read them all, but I understand the only thing more difficult than reading 7 stories is writing them. If everyone reads just one story, I will be satisfied.
I’m also interested in receiving some reader commentary. I would love to hear from you, to know which stories you preferred and why. I do not pretend to be a master, so any praise and/or criticism is important for making improvements.
The other thing I would like to see is some of your stories. I think every person has a good story in them, either true, fiction, or some combination of those. I highly recommend that everyone try writing a short story; it is really fun and can reveal a lot about yourself that you may not have known.
With all that said, I now present Tuesday’s short story: The Library. *(Bonus kudos if you can figure out what story this is based on)*
The Library
Alan wore a dusty shirt with khaki shorts, his text open to the chapter on respiration. Emily had on a red tank top and mini skirt. The pair was in the Educational Documents, Essays, and Novels section of the library. Having finished memorizing zoological taxonomy, they were joking and giggling before moving to the next subject. Alan held the sides of his abdominals as he rolled with laughter. The librarian smiled proudly.
As they continued pouring over notes, the librarian excused himself, leaving the couple by themselves. Emily heard a soft rumbling in her belly and walked to the abandoned center booth in search of food. On the counter lay a box of chocolate bars being sold for charity. Without any money, Emily was unable to purchase these treats. Her stomach hissed at her, a subtle reminder of hunger, so she swiped two of the candies, since nobody was around to stop her.
She unwrapped and bit into the bar as she returned to the study table. Tasting how good it was, she gave some to Alan, and he ate it. The two barely spoke while scarfing down the chocolate.
Once finished, they tried to return to their studies, but were unable to focus. Gone was the light-hearted mood that previously permeated the room. Alan read aloud from the textbook, uncomfortably pronouncing the names of reproductive organs and processes. Likewise, Emily had lost her ability to laugh honestly and tried to compensate by forcing a chortle to interrupt the silent void.
Startled, Alan looked up from the phallic images on the page, his vision met by the low-cut of his companion’s white tank top. Two curved mounds peaked his interest, until embarrassment jolted his eyes back down into the book. He did not dare raise his head, terrified he would not be able to control his desires.
Emily was all too aware of the situation. She suddenly felt ashamed for displaying such copious cleavage. It was warm inside the building, but she pulled a sweatshirt over her head anyways. Alan took note of this and realized he was covered in grime. He felt the filth scuttling from his body across the table and consuming Emily. They both held unflinching; dirty and self-conscious.
The librarian reentered the room and immediately sensed the discomfort in the air. Unsure exactly what was wrong, he sat at his desk and observed the young duo. They avoided looking at each other, instead burying their faces in notebooks. Squinting at them suspiciously, the librarian noticed two crumpled candy wrappers and understood what had happened. He approached the guilty party and accused them of theft and breaking his trust.
Unable to lie, they confessed to their transgressions and pleaded for forgiveness. The librarian refused to pardon them, banished them from the building, and demanded that they never return- slamming the large dual doors shut behind them. Alan and Emily stared out silently into the afternoon sun, confused and ashamed.
I’m also interested in receiving some reader commentary. I would love to hear from you, to know which stories you preferred and why. I do not pretend to be a master, so any praise and/or criticism is important for making improvements.
The other thing I would like to see is some of your stories. I think every person has a good story in them, either true, fiction, or some combination of those. I highly recommend that everyone try writing a short story; it is really fun and can reveal a lot about yourself that you may not have known.
With all that said, I now present Tuesday’s short story: The Library. *(Bonus kudos if you can figure out what story this is based on)*
The Library
Now Alan and Emily were studying biology in the library. The two were under the watchful eye of the librarian, who sat at the center kiosk organizing the tomes. He was pleased with their existence in the otherwise empty building; much preferable to being all alone.
Alan wore a dusty shirt with khaki shorts, his text open to the chapter on respiration. Emily had on a red tank top and mini skirt. The pair was in the Educational Documents, Essays, and Novels section of the library. Having finished memorizing zoological taxonomy, they were joking and giggling before moving to the next subject. Alan held the sides of his abdominals as he rolled with laughter. The librarian smiled proudly.
As they continued pouring over notes, the librarian excused himself, leaving the couple by themselves. Emily heard a soft rumbling in her belly and walked to the abandoned center booth in search of food. On the counter lay a box of chocolate bars being sold for charity. Without any money, Emily was unable to purchase these treats. Her stomach hissed at her, a subtle reminder of hunger, so she swiped two of the candies, since nobody was around to stop her.
She unwrapped and bit into the bar as she returned to the study table. Tasting how good it was, she gave some to Alan, and he ate it. The two barely spoke while scarfing down the chocolate.
Once finished, they tried to return to their studies, but were unable to focus. Gone was the light-hearted mood that previously permeated the room. Alan read aloud from the textbook, uncomfortably pronouncing the names of reproductive organs and processes. Likewise, Emily had lost her ability to laugh honestly and tried to compensate by forcing a chortle to interrupt the silent void.
Startled, Alan looked up from the phallic images on the page, his vision met by the low-cut of his companion’s white tank top. Two curved mounds peaked his interest, until embarrassment jolted his eyes back down into the book. He did not dare raise his head, terrified he would not be able to control his desires.
Emily was all too aware of the situation. She suddenly felt ashamed for displaying such copious cleavage. It was warm inside the building, but she pulled a sweatshirt over her head anyways. Alan took note of this and realized he was covered in grime. He felt the filth scuttling from his body across the table and consuming Emily. They both held unflinching; dirty and self-conscious.
The librarian reentered the room and immediately sensed the discomfort in the air. Unsure exactly what was wrong, he sat at his desk and observed the young duo. They avoided looking at each other, instead burying their faces in notebooks. Squinting at them suspiciously, the librarian noticed two crumpled candy wrappers and understood what had happened. He approached the guilty party and accused them of theft and breaking his trust.
Unable to lie, they confessed to their transgressions and pleaded for forgiveness. The librarian refused to pardon them, banished them from the building, and demanded that they never return- slamming the large dual doors shut behind them. Alan and Emily stared out silently into the afternoon sun, confused and ashamed.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Day 3 of Short Story Week: Acting
This piece is a little rushed, but I feel proud of it and that's all you can ask from a first draft. I must warn that it does contain graphic language and images, so don't read if you're easily offended.
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I wanted to groan, but proper social norms dictated that I control my primal urges, at least until I could release my disgust in privacy.
My friends invited me to their improve show, which I was immediately skeptical of, but I went out to support their “craft” and “career” choice. That, plus I’d heard that out-of-work actresses would fuck a writer for a role. So I put on silk shirt and one of those phony LA scarfs and tucked a notebook into my jacket pocket, which I could pull out at moment’s notice to scribble bullshit notes about future screenplay ideas. Nothing entices the ladies in LA like whipping out your pen and pad, except maybe your wallet.
Anyways, here I am at this terrible improv with a bunch of self-righteous actors. And I specifically mean actors- not comedians or improvisational performers or entertainers- but actors. There is a HUGE difference between entertainers and actors. It’s like the difference between reading a Pulitzer novel and a tabloid. Entertainers want to, well, entertain their audiences, while actors simply want to get paid. Or to get kudos for their acting. Actors are whores for praise. So between each sketch, they allow a few full minutes for applause, fueling their show like an asshole automobile. Which is I guess is why Hollywood is so fond of the Prius; they can personally relate to it.
To make matters worse, the audience in the small broken-down theater is comprised mostly of other actors who have been invited to the show by their friends on the stage, so there is an astounding abundance of assholes all around me. I may as well be a proctologist’s index finger. These pretentious fuckers keep laughing at all the jokes- more out of necessity to please the performers than any actual hilarity- while the actors are playing to their audience by breaking character to throw in industry lingo. I’m witnessing a gay 69 between these conceited actors with both sides blowing each other. And let me say; I’ve seen gay porn, and it didn’t make me as queasy as this sausage sucking. This is the literal incarnation of “ego stroking.”
And now they’re on stage playing actors. Seriously, they are playing characters who are actors. Why do actors think it is so clever to play characters with the same professions that they actually hold? Do you think a dominatrix goes home and ties her husband’s wrists to the bedposts while beating him with a riding crop? NO! They go home and try to push their work duties as far out of their minds as they possibly can- like the rest of us. Not actors. They think it’s edgy and hilarious. It’s even better if they’re pretending to be actors who are playing actors acting like actors in a sort of never-ending Penrose staircase of arrogance. I know Shakespeare said “All the world’s a stage,” but this is fuckin ridiculous.
Actors think it’s funny to play an actor because they’ve devoted so much time and energy to their art instead of learning skills relevant in the real world. Now they finally have an outlet for all of those pointless insider terms and gestures that nobody else understands or cares about, so they stuff them in performances for the same reason famous actors cram political references in public interviews- they only have two or three meaningful topics to talk about and are otherwise utterly dull. And all the laymen in the audience have to put up with these crappy, unfunny jokes while the fellow actors do these fake-ass laughs that are supposed to sound sophisticated.
I’m sitting near the back and the lights are shinning in the actors’ eyes so my friends can’t see me and I don’t feel obligated to crack up at every joke. Don’t get me wrong, some of the skits are quite funny, including one where the one guy describes a scene and the other actors silently enact the motions he is narrating. But then there are others that are just awful- and not even improv! They are rehearsed auditions that are being passed off as spur-of-the-moment comedy. And it might have be funny if it wasn’t being falsely advertised as improv.
If it sounds like I’m bitching and being overly critical; I’m not. On numerous occasions I caught some of the normal folks- supportive boyfriends, girlfriends, and family members- checking their cell phones, wishing the masquerade would end. I made eye contact with a cute brunette wearing a Soundgarden t-shirt after a particularly pathetic joke about putting out on the casting couch, which of course made the crowd roar with laughter. She was across the aisle, but I could tell she thought it was just as lame and self-gratifying as I did, so I simply rolled my eyes. She chuckled at that, which was a better reaction than the actors were getting.
Oh yeah, that’s another thing! Actors believe that their profession is difficult and only with years of training are you qualified to act. But I was in a play in 5th grade and rocked it. My little sister sang a jingle in a commercial she got in simply based on her looks and made a couple G’s from that shit, and she hadn’t so much as sang in the shower, let alone consulted a vocal coach. If you can lie, you can act, I always say. But, of course, actors need to be commended for their lying; patted on the back and given awards commemorating their spectacular lies.
When the rest of us non-actors lie, it is to get something. But it the result of the lying, not for the lying, if that makes any sense. It’s like this; at inter-mission, I approached the brunette and cracked a joke about the show. She laughed and admitted that she was an aspiring actress, but she did think actors could get pretty self-involved. I told her I was a writer, which is only a partial lie, and I sold that shit cause her eyes lit up and she asked what I was writing. I told her I had a TV sitcom lined-up for the future, which is a complete-bullshit lie. But that was all it took for her to give me her phone number. Should I have been given a Golden Globe or Oscar or SAG Award for my performance? The answer, obviously, is “no.”
It didn’t end up amounting to anything; she was just as boring as most actors. Ask an actor what made De Niro so incredible in Raging Bull and they will have a precise, well-rehearsed response, but bring up the economic climate and they’ll give a confused look, like a celebutante trying to grocery shop. Which is particularly ironic cause they all have service industry jobs making min wage plus tips, but don’t give a damn cause they’re only one gig from getting discovered and making millions. Anyways, I talked to her again after the show, and she didn’t even know who Soundgarden was! She just liked how the shirt looked! I wanted to backhand her, but just ripped up the number instead.
Afterwards, compliments were exchanged, which is to say that praise was dumped on the actors who in return lavished their friends for participating in the event. When everyone was done jerking each other off, my friends and I went out for drinks. I told them I really enjoyed the show and couldn’t wait for the next one as I sipped on a Gin-and-Tonic.
The two of them prattled on, recapping the entire damn thing- every single sketch. Loose from the drink, I interjected, asking why so many of their skits were rehearsed instead of ad-libbed. They looked puzzled and slightly offended, but responded that no true art is entirely spontaneous. Rappers have prepared rhymes for freestyle battles, comedians have material for a multitude of subjects, and painters have a vision in their minds at the outset of all projects. I pointed out how preposterous that notion was, that any great artist could create art on the spot, whether they were prepared or not. As an author, I know that when I sit down at a keyboard I usually have a general idea, but no clue where it’s going until I start typing. This example shut them up, probably because that was the extent of their argument and weren’t prepared with a retort.
Anyways, I felt rude for hurting their feelings, so I offered to pay the tab. I’m reaching for my wallet and my notepad falls out, which I had totally forgotten about, but the hot blonde waitress/model sees it and realizes I’m a writer and starts hitting on me, telling me that she like my scarf. I say all the right things back to her; say how difficult acting seems, how jealous I am of people who can go onstage in front of audiences to bear their souls, and that it takes a talented person to pull off a convincing performance. She’s totally impressed by me, so she jots down her name and number in my pad. Guess the night turned out to actually be pretty entertaining after all. And I didn’t need to take acting classes in order to invent that masterful fib.
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Acting
I wanted to groan, but proper social norms dictated that I control my primal urges, at least until I could release my disgust in privacy.My friends invited me to their improve show, which I was immediately skeptical of, but I went out to support their “craft” and “career” choice. That, plus I’d heard that out-of-work actresses would fuck a writer for a role. So I put on silk shirt and one of those phony LA scarfs and tucked a notebook into my jacket pocket, which I could pull out at moment’s notice to scribble bullshit notes about future screenplay ideas. Nothing entices the ladies in LA like whipping out your pen and pad, except maybe your wallet.
Anyways, here I am at this terrible improv with a bunch of self-righteous actors. And I specifically mean actors- not comedians or improvisational performers or entertainers- but actors. There is a HUGE difference between entertainers and actors. It’s like the difference between reading a Pulitzer novel and a tabloid. Entertainers want to, well, entertain their audiences, while actors simply want to get paid. Or to get kudos for their acting. Actors are whores for praise. So between each sketch, they allow a few full minutes for applause, fueling their show like an asshole automobile. Which is I guess is why Hollywood is so fond of the Prius; they can personally relate to it.
To make matters worse, the audience in the small broken-down theater is comprised mostly of other actors who have been invited to the show by their friends on the stage, so there is an astounding abundance of assholes all around me. I may as well be a proctologist’s index finger. These pretentious fuckers keep laughing at all the jokes- more out of necessity to please the performers than any actual hilarity- while the actors are playing to their audience by breaking character to throw in industry lingo. I’m witnessing a gay 69 between these conceited actors with both sides blowing each other. And let me say; I’ve seen gay porn, and it didn’t make me as queasy as this sausage sucking. This is the literal incarnation of “ego stroking.”
And now they’re on stage playing actors. Seriously, they are playing characters who are actors. Why do actors think it is so clever to play characters with the same professions that they actually hold? Do you think a dominatrix goes home and ties her husband’s wrists to the bedposts while beating him with a riding crop? NO! They go home and try to push their work duties as far out of their minds as they possibly can- like the rest of us. Not actors. They think it’s edgy and hilarious. It’s even better if they’re pretending to be actors who are playing actors acting like actors in a sort of never-ending Penrose staircase of arrogance. I know Shakespeare said “All the world’s a stage,” but this is fuckin ridiculous.
Actors think it’s funny to play an actor because they’ve devoted so much time and energy to their art instead of learning skills relevant in the real world. Now they finally have an outlet for all of those pointless insider terms and gestures that nobody else understands or cares about, so they stuff them in performances for the same reason famous actors cram political references in public interviews- they only have two or three meaningful topics to talk about and are otherwise utterly dull. And all the laymen in the audience have to put up with these crappy, unfunny jokes while the fellow actors do these fake-ass laughs that are supposed to sound sophisticated.
I’m sitting near the back and the lights are shinning in the actors’ eyes so my friends can’t see me and I don’t feel obligated to crack up at every joke. Don’t get me wrong, some of the skits are quite funny, including one where the one guy describes a scene and the other actors silently enact the motions he is narrating. But then there are others that are just awful- and not even improv! They are rehearsed auditions that are being passed off as spur-of-the-moment comedy. And it might have be funny if it wasn’t being falsely advertised as improv.
If it sounds like I’m bitching and being overly critical; I’m not. On numerous occasions I caught some of the normal folks- supportive boyfriends, girlfriends, and family members- checking their cell phones, wishing the masquerade would end. I made eye contact with a cute brunette wearing a Soundgarden t-shirt after a particularly pathetic joke about putting out on the casting couch, which of course made the crowd roar with laughter. She was across the aisle, but I could tell she thought it was just as lame and self-gratifying as I did, so I simply rolled my eyes. She chuckled at that, which was a better reaction than the actors were getting.
Oh yeah, that’s another thing! Actors believe that their profession is difficult and only with years of training are you qualified to act. But I was in a play in 5th grade and rocked it. My little sister sang a jingle in a commercial she got in simply based on her looks and made a couple G’s from that shit, and she hadn’t so much as sang in the shower, let alone consulted a vocal coach. If you can lie, you can act, I always say. But, of course, actors need to be commended for their lying; patted on the back and given awards commemorating their spectacular lies.
When the rest of us non-actors lie, it is to get something. But it the result of the lying, not for the lying, if that makes any sense. It’s like this; at inter-mission, I approached the brunette and cracked a joke about the show. She laughed and admitted that she was an aspiring actress, but she did think actors could get pretty self-involved. I told her I was a writer, which is only a partial lie, and I sold that shit cause her eyes lit up and she asked what I was writing. I told her I had a TV sitcom lined-up for the future, which is a complete-bullshit lie. But that was all it took for her to give me her phone number. Should I have been given a Golden Globe or Oscar or SAG Award for my performance? The answer, obviously, is “no.”
It didn’t end up amounting to anything; she was just as boring as most actors. Ask an actor what made De Niro so incredible in Raging Bull and they will have a precise, well-rehearsed response, but bring up the economic climate and they’ll give a confused look, like a celebutante trying to grocery shop. Which is particularly ironic cause they all have service industry jobs making min wage plus tips, but don’t give a damn cause they’re only one gig from getting discovered and making millions. Anyways, I talked to her again after the show, and she didn’t even know who Soundgarden was! She just liked how the shirt looked! I wanted to backhand her, but just ripped up the number instead.
Afterwards, compliments were exchanged, which is to say that praise was dumped on the actors who in return lavished their friends for participating in the event. When everyone was done jerking each other off, my friends and I went out for drinks. I told them I really enjoyed the show and couldn’t wait for the next one as I sipped on a Gin-and-Tonic.
The two of them prattled on, recapping the entire damn thing- every single sketch. Loose from the drink, I interjected, asking why so many of their skits were rehearsed instead of ad-libbed. They looked puzzled and slightly offended, but responded that no true art is entirely spontaneous. Rappers have prepared rhymes for freestyle battles, comedians have material for a multitude of subjects, and painters have a vision in their minds at the outset of all projects. I pointed out how preposterous that notion was, that any great artist could create art on the spot, whether they were prepared or not. As an author, I know that when I sit down at a keyboard I usually have a general idea, but no clue where it’s going until I start typing. This example shut them up, probably because that was the extent of their argument and weren’t prepared with a retort.
Anyways, I felt rude for hurting their feelings, so I offered to pay the tab. I’m reaching for my wallet and my notepad falls out, which I had totally forgotten about, but the hot blonde waitress/model sees it and realizes I’m a writer and starts hitting on me, telling me that she like my scarf. I say all the right things back to her; say how difficult acting seems, how jealous I am of people who can go onstage in front of audiences to bear their souls, and that it takes a talented person to pull off a convincing performance. She’s totally impressed by me, so she jots down her name and number in my pad. Guess the night turned out to actually be pretty entertaining after all. And I didn’t need to take acting classes in order to invent that masterful fib.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Calculating the Percentages
James calculated the percentages in his head. He figured he had an 88% chance of winning and went all in. The man across the table called, flipped his cards to reveal two pair, aces and tens, insufficient to James’ flush. The dealer dropped the river card onto the table, an ace, which gave the other man a surprising victory and sent James away from the table, upset at the results but not his play.
The odds were in your favor Jimmy, he thought. You played well but sometimes the cards just don’t come as you’d like.
Dejected by the results of the tournament, he sat down at a blackjack table and eventually won back the entrance fee, plus a little extra. He couldn’t quite count cards, per se, but his memorization was rather unique and afforded him every opportunity to improve his chances of winning. After a lobster dinner with scallops and mashed potatoes washed down with a Hefeweizen late in the evening, he left the casino satisfied.
On a blustery winter morning, after a long night of tournament poker, James went to his accountant job for Harriston Financial, Inc. He sat in his little cubicle punching numbers and reviewing his hands from the previous evening. He went through each one methodically, recalling the cards, the odds, and the outcomes.
One particular series bugged him, in which he folded the best hand, only to find it out later. And the player wasn’t even bluffing. He was on a bad straight draw that he never got before losing to a fat bald man with a pair of sevens. The thought caused James to frown at his own simple miscalculation.
James desk was neatly organized. He had a two layered plastic shelf marked appropriately for “inbox” and “completed” materials. There was a plastic red mug from The Ohio State, his Alma mater, stuffed with pens and pencils. There was a large calculator alongside an accounting manual with crisp pages. What his desk did not contain were personal, non-work related items. No framed photographs, no Sudoku books, no bobblehead dolls, or any of the stuff that cluttered his co-workers desks. James sat at his desk and finished his work, before heading home for the evening.
***********************************************************************************
"He didn’t even see it coming," said James. "He ran out into the street, I think to catch the bus, and the car just hit him."
"Where were you when this happened?" the lady news reporter asked.
I was at the same corner, waiting for the light to change. He came running down the block, waving his arms. Made it half-way across the street before the car hit him. It tried to stop, I could hear its brakes squeal, but it’s an old car. You need to change your brake pads every couple years, especially if they start squealing like that. You have to check when you hear it making a high pitched sound. If it’s less than a quarter of an inch thick, plan on replacing it soon. But if it gets down to…
"So he crossed when the light told him to stop?" the reporter asked.
"Yes, the red hand was still showing. It's best not to cross when the light tells you to stop. Accidents occur 4.45 times more frequently when someone is disobeying the law. It just isn’t worth the risk. There will always be another bus", James said.
"Thanks, James," the reporter said. She stared into the camera, "For Channel 5 News, this is your reporter on the field, Amy Summers."
The cameras turned off and the crew packed up, leaving James alone.
*********************************************************************************
Paula followed James out of the bar. They hollered a cab and drove back to James’ apartment on the pretense of looking at James’ CD collection, particularly his Beatles albums. Sitting on the couch, listening to Yesterday, and sipping cheap wine, Paula put her hand on James’ knee, and they began making out.
"I really feel comfortable with you," she said. "I’ve never done anything like this with someone on only the third date."
"Yeah, I think you’re really great," he said.
After a few minutes, things escalated and the two made their way to the bedroom, where James started rolling a condom over his erection.
"James, I’m a second grade teacher and I’m on the pill. You don’t have to worry about me," she smiled.
"Yeah, I know, but I’d prefer to do this anyways. It reduces the chance of pregnancy and the transmission of STDs. Seventy percent of unwanted pregnancies are the result of improper protection and fifty percent of the general population have an STD they aren’t aware of," he said.
They had sex, but she never called him or returned his phone calls.
*********************************************************************************
James developed a fever and sore throat in mid- November, which two weeks afterwards had not subsided, prompting him to check into the hospital. The doctor told him that it was common and suggested he continue taking aspirin and Dayquil, get plenty of rest, and drink hot liquids. Two weeks later, as James coughed into a napkin during a board meeting, one of his co-workers pointed out little red splatters on the tissue. He returned to the doctor, whose eyes darted uncomfortably as James explained his continued illness. The doctor sent him to the lab to get some tests and scans done. The doctor’s informed their patient that he had a large tumor on his left lung and had very little chance of survival.
On average, someone with an affliction like yours only lives another ten to fifteen months. You could try chemotherapy, but there is only a 5% likelihood of success, a handsome man in a white lab coat said. But it will be long and arduous, and the time might be better spent with friends and family, rather than worrying about appointments and struggling through the sicknesses and pains that result from chemo. It is a tough decision and we don’t expect you to make it now. Go home, discuss it with your loved ones, and let us know when you’ve made up your mind.
James went to the library and researched his disease. He found articles in medical journals of people who had survived but all were considered aberrations to the norm and each review gave approximately the same likelihood of survival as the doctor had. Then he went to a computer and Googled “lung cancer.” Again, the same results appeared prevalently. He even tried calling an old professor at the university, only to learn of his retirement a few years earlier.
Later that night, James ate his ordered in Chinese while watching Wheel of Fortune. He sat silently, eyes transfixed to the TV, watching the vibrantly colored wheel spin. At the end of the show, James set his box of chow mein on the coffee table and stared at the ceiling. He weighed his options, both seeming grim. Then, with no clear answer, no more resources to consult, no family to confide in, and no god to hear his prayers for a miracle, James reached into his pocket. He pulled out a shiny new quarter and began fiddling with it nervously.
The odds were in your favor Jimmy, he thought. You played well but sometimes the cards just don’t come as you’d like.
Dejected by the results of the tournament, he sat down at a blackjack table and eventually won back the entrance fee, plus a little extra. He couldn’t quite count cards, per se, but his memorization was rather unique and afforded him every opportunity to improve his chances of winning. After a lobster dinner with scallops and mashed potatoes washed down with a Hefeweizen late in the evening, he left the casino satisfied.
On a blustery winter morning, after a long night of tournament poker, James went to his accountant job for Harriston Financial, Inc. He sat in his little cubicle punching numbers and reviewing his hands from the previous evening. He went through each one methodically, recalling the cards, the odds, and the outcomes.
One particular series bugged him, in which he folded the best hand, only to find it out later. And the player wasn’t even bluffing. He was on a bad straight draw that he never got before losing to a fat bald man with a pair of sevens. The thought caused James to frown at his own simple miscalculation.
James desk was neatly organized. He had a two layered plastic shelf marked appropriately for “inbox” and “completed” materials. There was a plastic red mug from The Ohio State, his Alma mater, stuffed with pens and pencils. There was a large calculator alongside an accounting manual with crisp pages. What his desk did not contain were personal, non-work related items. No framed photographs, no Sudoku books, no bobblehead dolls, or any of the stuff that cluttered his co-workers desks. James sat at his desk and finished his work, before heading home for the evening.
***********************************************************************************
"He didn’t even see it coming," said James. "He ran out into the street, I think to catch the bus, and the car just hit him."
"Where were you when this happened?" the lady news reporter asked.
I was at the same corner, waiting for the light to change. He came running down the block, waving his arms. Made it half-way across the street before the car hit him. It tried to stop, I could hear its brakes squeal, but it’s an old car. You need to change your brake pads every couple years, especially if they start squealing like that. You have to check when you hear it making a high pitched sound. If it’s less than a quarter of an inch thick, plan on replacing it soon. But if it gets down to…
"So he crossed when the light told him to stop?" the reporter asked.
"Yes, the red hand was still showing. It's best not to cross when the light tells you to stop. Accidents occur 4.45 times more frequently when someone is disobeying the law. It just isn’t worth the risk. There will always be another bus", James said.
"Thanks, James," the reporter said. She stared into the camera, "For Channel 5 News, this is your reporter on the field, Amy Summers."
The cameras turned off and the crew packed up, leaving James alone.
*********************************************************************************
Paula followed James out of the bar. They hollered a cab and drove back to James’ apartment on the pretense of looking at James’ CD collection, particularly his Beatles albums. Sitting on the couch, listening to Yesterday, and sipping cheap wine, Paula put her hand on James’ knee, and they began making out.
"I really feel comfortable with you," she said. "I’ve never done anything like this with someone on only the third date."
"Yeah, I think you’re really great," he said.
After a few minutes, things escalated and the two made their way to the bedroom, where James started rolling a condom over his erection.
"James, I’m a second grade teacher and I’m on the pill. You don’t have to worry about me," she smiled.
"Yeah, I know, but I’d prefer to do this anyways. It reduces the chance of pregnancy and the transmission of STDs. Seventy percent of unwanted pregnancies are the result of improper protection and fifty percent of the general population have an STD they aren’t aware of," he said.
They had sex, but she never called him or returned his phone calls.
*********************************************************************************
James developed a fever and sore throat in mid- November, which two weeks afterwards had not subsided, prompting him to check into the hospital. The doctor told him that it was common and suggested he continue taking aspirin and Dayquil, get plenty of rest, and drink hot liquids. Two weeks later, as James coughed into a napkin during a board meeting, one of his co-workers pointed out little red splatters on the tissue. He returned to the doctor, whose eyes darted uncomfortably as James explained his continued illness. The doctor sent him to the lab to get some tests and scans done. The doctor’s informed their patient that he had a large tumor on his left lung and had very little chance of survival.
On average, someone with an affliction like yours only lives another ten to fifteen months. You could try chemotherapy, but there is only a 5% likelihood of success, a handsome man in a white lab coat said. But it will be long and arduous, and the time might be better spent with friends and family, rather than worrying about appointments and struggling through the sicknesses and pains that result from chemo. It is a tough decision and we don’t expect you to make it now. Go home, discuss it with your loved ones, and let us know when you’ve made up your mind.
James went to the library and researched his disease. He found articles in medical journals of people who had survived but all were considered aberrations to the norm and each review gave approximately the same likelihood of survival as the doctor had. Then he went to a computer and Googled “lung cancer.” Again, the same results appeared prevalently. He even tried calling an old professor at the university, only to learn of his retirement a few years earlier.
Later that night, James ate his ordered in Chinese while watching Wheel of Fortune. He sat silently, eyes transfixed to the TV, watching the vibrantly colored wheel spin. At the end of the show, James set his box of chow mein on the coffee table and stared at the ceiling. He weighed his options, both seeming grim. Then, with no clear answer, no more resources to consult, no family to confide in, and no god to hear his prayers for a miracle, James reached into his pocket. He pulled out a shiny new quarter and began fiddling with it nervously.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Fletcher in the Lie
“You know my friend Fletcher?” I asked.Susan held my hand as we walked down Hollywood Boulevard. It was an overcast afternoon, with a pale grey glow as the smog and clouds veiled the California sky. Large billboards lined either side of the street, advertising the latest movies and TV shows with over-sized versions of their stars. We stepped on the stars of former entertainers- movies stars, singers, directors- but paid little attention to who they were.
“Of course. He’s hilarious,” she replied.
“Yeah, he is a really funny guy. He’s just…”
“What’s wrong?” she asked. She read me so well.
“He… he lies. All the time. Compulsively.”
“I hate people like that. Janice does that all of the time, I can’t stand her!” Susan threw her free hand into the air emphatically.
“But I do like Fletcher! He’s a great person to be around. He’s always good for a laugh. But…”
“…he lies,” she finished my sentence.
“Yes! And not because he needs to get out of a bad situation. Or because he wants to exaggerate details of a story. He lies because he can’t help it.”
“How so?”
“Well, just the other week, we were talking on the phone and suddenly he was like, ‘Oh shit, there’s been a bad car wreck. Can I call you back later?’ I agreed, of course.”
“Let me guess, he never called back,” she sighed.
“Yeah, but I didn’t expect him to. The astonishing thing is that there wasn’t even a crash! Not even a fender bender! He made the whole thing up.”
We squeezed between the tourists to avoid running over anyone with eyes glued to the colorful characters performing on the street. Mexicans with flyers tried to convince us to join them on a double-decker bus for a tour of celebrity mansions. We had already been on one previously, and it was a little disappointing.
“Why did he make it up? Just to get off the phone?” she inquired.
“Good question. I asked him, later, and he didn’t even know. He lies just for the hell of it.”
The sun peaked out from behind a cloud, so I put on the glasses hanging from my shirt collar. I noticed I was the only person around not already wearing them.
“It’s gotten to the point where nobody can take him seriously. No matter what he says, you assume there is some part that is embellished.”
“That is so strange. Why are you friends with him?”
We passed a street vendor selling hotdogs off a portable grill. A short, round man wearing Mickey Mouse ears had both hands wrapped around one, shoveling it into his mouth.
“Cause he’s still a cool guy. If anything, his lying makes him even more fun to be around. In college, we’d go out drinking on the weekends, bounce around between bars and, ya know, get into trouble, or whatever, and usually we would have a few stories when it was over. Like almost getting in a fight, or hitting on some girls, or seeing the cops arrest some guys, or just general drunkenness. But point is, when we’d hear him tell the story, the next day or week or even a year later, it was like we weren’t even there. He was telling a story so completely different than what anyone else experienced.”
“So… he made it all up?” she asked.
“Some of it. He kept the basic story the same, but added to other parts. Some of it was totally fabricated, and people would start laughing so hysterically he’d keep pushing that storyline out like a tangent, until it morphed into something entirely different than what he started with. But other times he would give such a sincere account, recalling details- the pace of his heart beating, the smell of sweat and booze, the ornament of a girl’s necklace- with so much precision that you couldn’t tell if it was fake or not. He could be making it up on the spot, but he could also be remembering those details, like some sort of autistic savant. You didn’t know what was truth and what was lies.”
“Wow. That must have gotten annoying.”
A man dressed as Spiderman pointed to his bucket in an attempt to get our money, but we walked past without talking to him.
“Not really. You sort of learn to take Fletcher as an entertainer. You just listen to his story and don’t worry about what the facts are. As long as you enjoy yourself, that’s the important thing.”
“But you could never communicate with him. You could never have an honest discussion. I, personally, couldn’t handle being friends with someone like that.”
“You can’t really be friends with Fletch. He’s too wrapped up in doing his own thing. He’s a wild animal, and we’re all domesticated. If you’re lucky enough to hang out with him, you just grab hold and enjoy the ride while it lasts. But it will end. You accept that, just like you accept that he will lie.”
“So you have to change who you are to accommodate having him around?” Susan huffed. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s not, but with Fletcher it doesn’t last that long. You may see him every day for a week, then not again for six months.”
“Where does he go?”
Three men in suits greeted us on the street. Two were wearing masks, George W. Bush and Bill Clinton, and the third was a black guy. From the way he asked if we wanted a photo with him, I could tell he was supposed to be Barak. We kindly declined and moved on.
“Where does he disappear when you don’t see him?” she asked again.
“That’s just it… you never know. One time he said he spent three months in Florida, bumming it on South Beach. Another time he told us that his grandma had been sick, so he moved in with her until the family could put her in a nursing home. But you can’t tell what is fact and what is a fiction. Everything he says has so much authenticity and detail. It’s like he even believes all his lies.”
The sun had retreated behind the clouds, and I considered removing my shades before ultimately deciding to keep them on.
“Well I don’t know how you stay friends with this guy. I would not be able to put up with all of his lies, his deceits,” she asserted. “If he wants to live in a fairytale, then that’s his deal. But I’m not able to have to someone lie directly to my face and just listen to them spout complete bullshit without calling them out on it.”
“If I had to deal with him every day, I might feel different. But in small doses, Fletcher’s stories are actually very amusing. You just can’t take them for anything more than that: Entertainment.”
We hit the end of the tourist section and were about to head into the poorer part of town. The buildings in this area lacked the glitz and glamour we had just walked through. They were mostly comprised of grey apartments and small businesses. Susan asked if we could turn around, and I agreed.
“I guess that makes sense,” she conceded. “As long as it’s just temporary. If I had to put up with his stories every day, I’d kill myself. Oh look!” she exclaimed, pointing at a billboard. “Can we see that?” It was for the latest film in a book series she enjoyed. I wasn’t really into it, but I told her we could go together, anyways.
“I’m so excited!” Susan shouted.
“Yeah, I’m excited to.”
“It’s going to be so good!”
“I’m sure it will be,” I said.
I stared out of tinted lenses at the flurried movements of people around me as they rushed to meet their favorite characters and step into the footprints of famous movie stars.
I woul like to use this space to announce the start of a challenge, mostly to myself, to write and post a new short story each day for the next week. So starting today, I will be updating my blog for seven straight days with a new story. I will try to keep them no longer than this one (3 pages) but I think this will be fun. Or stressful. But interesting nonetheless. I would love to get feedback from readers, letting me know which ones you like best. And if you want to contribute, I would love to read another person's work as well. You don't realize how fun it is to write fiction until you try. Just don't go overboard, or you'll end up like Fletcher.
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