Enter Scene.
Setting: A late Sunday morning. Lazy, by any stretch of the imagination. A small quaint house. With wind chimes. I’ve always wanted to have a house with wind chimes.
Characters: An altered and more comical version of myself, and my mute, invisible, and intangible butler, Charley.
The options are unlimited, the outcomes uncountable, the word count: roughly 600 words. May I present a story that you have not will read. A story of layers, and layers, of possibility.
—
The pond ripples underneath my fingertips, and my face sputters into a mess of stretching lines and round curves. And it spreads across the entire pond, in however small a way. I take a drop and smear it across my forehead, and it feels cold with the summer heat.
It’s tempting to plunge my entire hand into the froth, and feel the strains against my skin, but I can’t, not here, not now.
I catch the eyes of a few other park patrons, and it seems as good a time as any to walk away. So I do. And I don’t. And some days its seems hard to tell how many ways I can be wrong and right at the same time. Continue reading
“What’s the point of this Brandon? Why are you putting yourself through this? All this worrying?”
“Well, I want to do something different on the blog.”
“Different how?”
“You know: new. I write about writing all the time now. I used to write about movies, but even that didn’t stick. I love writing fiction, but they don’t read it enough. I write this blog for them. Not just for me.”
“Well, then write more personal stuff.”
“I can’t.” Continue reading
I thought I was done with them. That they were gone. But they would not leave my head. So, as another first for this site, may I present the first “Flash Fiction Trilogy” to ever grace Coolerbs Writes.
I have no idea if there will ever be another. Or even if I will finally be able to leave these characters alone. But until then, enjoy the third installment in this weird story about the end of this world.
If you haven’t already, I HIGHLY suggest you read “My Fingers Are Cold” and its sequel “My Feet Are Cold” before you even attempt this one.
For everyone else, let’s begin:
—
Our hearts are cold, so he snuggles up between us. He is warmth. He radiates it from every inch of his skin. From his still growing hair, to his hands no larger than our fists. He opens his eyes, and stares at us with those globes of pure yellow light.
Continue reading
You know, some people really over-romanticize what it means to be a writer. I guess it’s their way of minimizing the stress of what’s actually required of people like us. Even the non-professionals have some serious shit they have to go through to create full books or fully readable stories/articles.
A journey that can, and often does, leave you with odd habits, difficulty getting along with people who aren’t also an artist of some kind, and the weirdest sensations in your fingers after a long typing session.
But then again, on the flip side, can you really blame them for hyping it up to this beautiful, magical thing? When we get to experience feelings that might be unique to only us? Continue reading
Marking a first time for this blog: a direct sequel story. If you haven’t read “My Fingers Are Cold” then I recommend you do. Or none of this is going to make any sense.
And for those who have already. May I present:
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My feet are cold, so I wrap them in the last of my bandages. I once had shoes. But I wore them out a long time ago.
So now, as I run up the hill and along the street, my feet are perpetually cold. Continue reading
A list to remember, a list to remind. A list for those of us already here. And those still behind.
My fingers are cold. So I rub them together and hope for friction. Me breathing on them is the only sound for miles and miles. And the ash spreads across my knuckles.
I pull my jacket tighter to my body, and walk towards the shell of a building. My feet leaving prints in the soot.
I hold out my hands and hope for some warmth from the wreckage. But it’s as cold as everything else in this world.
I tuck my hands underneath my arms and hope for my pits to offer something close to heat. I keep my head down when the wind picks up.
It sounds like someone talking. Saying over and over again the word that graces my lips every few minutes. “Cold” it says. And I can almost see the wreckage of a man whisper it through a shattered jaw bone and fleshless grin. Continue reading
Talent is a double-edged sword. Not so much because of its existence. But because to a beginning artist, it can make or break them.
Artists will create regardless—it’s part of our souls—but I don’t think I’m going to get many people arguing against the idea that the thing that sparks the idea, the dream, of doing art for a living is the sentence: “Hey, look at that, you’re talented.”
And for pushing an artist to really start pouring their efforts into their craft, there is nothing more effective than some version of that sentence. And just the knowledge that somewhere, somehow, someone chose them to create, will keep an artist going for a long time. Enough to get them through the beginning cramps.
But then the sword swings backwards, and here’s the problem. You get so used to the idea that you can just ART without any effort, that you might think you don’t need to improve. I know this from personal experience. Continue reading
“No, come on, will you please look at this?”
If the term cold shoulder was literal, she would resemble an ice princess. As it stands, she’s wearing a fire red shirt that hugged her upper body as hard as I want to most of the time.
“No, Kevin. We’re not doing this. That machine…what you do…it’s not healthy. When did you even last go outside?”
Trying to not let her notice, I roll down my jacket sleeve and look at my skin. If light hit that, I’d probably blind someone.
“Well…it’s been awhile, I’ll admit. But you know how important this device is to me.”
“Yes. Yes I do.” She keeps her back to me, and lets out a long sigh. “Important is definitely the right word for it. I remember when other things were important to you.” Continue reading
“I put a pair of stainless steel steak knives from my thirteen-piece cutlery set through their fucking hearts.”
Sales Rush by Brandon Scott
“Something intimate. Something I had to dig for, rip into and pry from her. I wanted to see her soul. And I wondered how red that ebony skin was going to get before I found it.”
Waking Nightmares by Brandon Scott
“He stops. Cerebral fluid draining on the rich mahogany wood.”
Piano Player by Brandon Scott
***
I kill characters. I murder them. Butcher them. I delight in the well set-up destruction of a fictional person I created.
I admit it readily: I am a killer of characters. As serial as they come.
And I am not alone. Among the great destroyers of protagonists and fictional people are the likes of Josh Whedon, George R. R. Martin, William Shakespeare and even—if you think about it—J.K. Rowling.
Death is, and always was, a massive part of fiction. Because there is no more basic, primal fear than death. And damn is it good to create drama.
And while there might be plenty of lists online talking about why you should kill a character, and why you shouldn’t sometimes, I am going to talk about something different. I am going to tell you about how you kill a character. What you should at least consider when you decide that Joe Protagonist needs a spike through his head. Continue reading
“Stand still.”
Of course I do. It seems the most obvious thing in the world. My muscles lock up so tight I can’t even bend my tongue.
“Oh, where are my manners? Breath.”
The air is cold and sweet when it rushes down my throat. My dog, Skipper, whimpers next to me. He sounds scared. But the gentleman keeps on petting him, running painted green nails across Skipper’s fur.
“Do you understand what’s happening to you? Answer and then say nothing more. I forbid you to scream.” Continue reading
Little Billy had a Christmas wish. In point of fact, he had several. Several little things he’d like.
He had a friend named Sarah, whose hair he thought was pretty. It was nothing more than that. He was too young to love her, to think her a crush. But he did think her hair was pretty. So he wished for similar. For his head to have as nice a blond look as her.
And so he did. When Christmas day came around he found inside his gift a wig, which he proudly placed on his head.
Now, Little Billy was a popular kid. He had many warm friends. And some of them also had things he wanted.
He had a friend name Kyle, whose feet found sports easy and quick. He could make so many baskets that Little Billy could not. And Little Billy was, admittedly, a bit jealous. Just a little. He wished he could run and jump so well. Continue reading
Are you a writer trying to think about what you want for the holidays? Do you have a special writer in your life? Do you want a humorous holiday-themed article to read?
Then I’ve got you covered. And though the writer’s “Holiday Wish List” is not exactly a unique article idea, I thought I’d put my own spin on things.
So, let’s begin.
Writers like books. All of us. Okay, most of us. But I don’t trust those guys. And we are always searching for new books, even if it’s just for our shelves. Not sure what specific books they want? Just ask. Chances are they will have a long list.
In addition to books, writers tend to like coffee. Correction: need coffee. And for those that don’t: tea. So it makes sense to give them a literary-minded way to drink it. The words on the mug should preferably be witty. So that the writer gets a good bit of amusement and inspiration when they start their day. Continue reading
He puts down three glasses in front of me.
“Drink.”
He holds out his hands, palms upward, gesturing over them.
“Have a drink.”
“Do I have a choice?”
”Of course you do. You get to pick which one to drink.”
I lean across the table, getting as close to him as I can. My tape recorder’s still going in my pocket.
“And then you’ll tell me who killed Becca?”
“Of course.” Continue reading
Coolerbs Writes 