That was the seventh cigarette in the last ten minutes. Yung counted. Something in him was humming, just watching Howard go through them. Yung worried somewhat—but he knew so many people that smoked, and, for some baffling reason, most of them seemed perfectly fine so far.
“Look,” Howard said, tapping away some ash, “I was just the same.”
“Yeah?” Yung asked, tilting his head. “You dealt with this too?” Continue reading
Along the rim, they walked, and Charles became worried about his stability. His feet were not working well, and not landing well, and not going in the exact way he would have wanted them to do so.
Sasha walked alongside him and did not seem to notice his little stutters of motion. She simply handed him another drink, something she brought with her, and he took a sip of it. It wasn’t alcohol; it tasted like water. Continue reading
I’m guessing some would recommend I don’t write about this, but, well, you all know I’m eccentric as it is—so, fuck it. Writers already have the stigma of being a weird bunch, but you’ve heard, likely, all the usual shenanigans—so, I’m doing you one better.
Not just researching murder methods, talking to people who they make up, or being totally willing to do dangerous/stupid things for the sake of a story: nah, I’ve got a set of much more unique quirks.
And it involves words and language. Continue reading
It takes long.
Longer than it seems,
To achieve those dreams.
Plant the seeds instead,
Of expecting the future. Continue reading
On the beat and the beer, they danced. Women and men, high on their own hormones and the feeling of youth, kept bouncing and singing.
The D.J. spun a new beat and then pulled the microphone toward him.
“Everyone put their hands up!” Continue reading
“Now honey, please don’t stay up late.” Margaret patted her son on the shoulder and gave him a little smile. “You need to take care of yourself, okay? That’s not a small fever, so don’t push it.”
“Okay, mom. I just want to finish up this round.” Billy clicked on the screen, making game cards move. The resulting graphics assured him that his latest move was a good one.
“Okay. I just want you to feel better.”
“Don’t worry—I will,” Billy said. Continue reading
Imposter syndrome, fear of criticism, and creative blocks. Some more legitimate than others, but all real. I would know, I’ve had them. But, despite being a nervous, introverted, lessening-so-but-still-shy person, I’ve done a good enough job of being out there with my artistic work.
Those issues I listed come down to a little voice telling us we are failures, that we are about to get shanked by the world at large for our lack of talent. And, while I don’t know how to make myself able to tell a speech to a crowd, I have advice for how to slay this beast of a voice. Continue reading
“Deep down there, in the deep, what did they find? What could make them sleep? On what do they feed, and what is seen by their endless eyes?”
“The tales they tell of what they have is not one for the foolish—only the dead.”
“No, please. This is going to hurt us. You are wrong.” Continue reading
The human chest segmented into five slices within a perfectly carved circle does not kill someone if they do the proper magical procedures beforehand. This process requires two people with a great deal of skill and fortitude.
And who are utterly insane. Continue reading
Officer Harriet walked into her house, covered in sweat and something not dust—but easier to call it that. More of such “dust” covered her chairs, her couch, and especially the little worn out bed she had off in her room. Continue reading
The cracks let in the wind. A howling wind. Moving there, touching a hair, a face, a piece of cloth. A taste on it, of gunpowder and ash. Of the ending of the world.
Terry kept his hand on the handle, though if it went, it would not stop from going by his grip. Haley clutched a collection of towels and buttons that made a bear. Continue reading
Lights are all over there.
Am I drunk,
Or deranged? Continue reading
I am a writer, and with that title comes all these stereotypes about the way I might dress or act. And, while some of these are accurate, some are harmful or untrue. Writers are stereotypically alcoholics, for instance, and that does not apply to me—I barely touch the stuff.
But, then, we get to the other stereotypes, the more neutral ones. The stuff that’s not harmful, and more just a product of popular culture, and, it is here, with these, that I have an interesting relationship. Because, I don’t wear tweed or carry around a paper notebook (I have a phone, after all), and I don’t constantly wear a knapsack or a fedora. But, unlike the bad stereotypes, some of these generalities I feel tempted to adopt, even if they are clichés. Continue reading
“Between the three of us, we have genius on lock,” said one, and he slurped his coffee. None of them noticed, or perceived even subconsciously, that they were breathing in perfect tandem.
“Oh, yes, we are sure to make this world quake with fear,” said another, and he took a long draw from the creamy froth he had in his cup.
“I agree,” said the third, and he wiped his brow, which was sweating. Without talking about it, planning, or any indication of forethought, the other two did so too.
“So, then, we should begin on the plan—we need to work out how we will rule the world.”
“I agree with that.” Slurp. “First though, I think I need a refill on this.” Continue reading
(It’s better to give than to receive, right? Well, since it’s Christmas and all–have one more re-post on me. My favorite Christmas story I’ve ever written. Originally posted December 10th, 2016.)
It’s getting cold even here in Florida, so I thought I’d write something a little joyful and a little warm.
I call it:
Being Happy In The Morning
Too early to do this, Charles concluded. Too early in the morning. But Charles would not have it any other way. Continue reading