Writing without my floaties

Vulture Droppings (brainnuggets)

I started my new schedule today. Which means that I started a schedule. Just like any addict, I have to remove myself from situations that encourage relapse. In this case, I am seriously addicted to procrastination. I just hope I put as much systematic effort into my schedule as I have into my procrastination. Writers are usually inspired to write by something or someone. Either it is an ideology, a work ethic, not to die (the premise of one of my stories)…or it is a fictional manifestation of that ideology or work ethic. It is whatever motivates them. I believe Stephen King’s is, according to his book On Writing, a fat guy in a tutu smoking big fat cigars.

Today, I didn't Google 'scheduling' or search for an app that helped me do it. I sat down, like I normally do, to a blank page. I woke up Mr. Logic and asked it, 'what do I want to do?' The reply was, 'I don't know...stuff.' I realized that my teenaged self fell asleep in the library again. So, I shuffled him off to bed and asked my question again. 'You want to write. More specifically, you want to order your day so you can write and not be distracted by all the other stuff you need to get done.'  

I made a list of general things I need to do: fiction, content, email (check, delete), learning, and social media. I decided to not slot times for them. No one's the boss of me, except for my wife. I hate having a schedule. It's too constricting...it's a tool of the man, man.

So, to stick it to the man, I decided that each day I am going to take the general things I need to do during the day and prioritize. Today, it is content; learning; fiction; social media; email. At the end of each day, I am going to look at all the things I did/didn't do and all the notes that I jotted down while getting the prioritized things done, and prioritize for the next day. Always stop and write down new ideas. Even if you are in the middle of writing something else. Have a pen and paper if you want to keep current and unformed ideas separate. I have a new document open so I just click, type and come back to my current work. This might or might not work for me.I have a sporadic mind, but I also tend to be ‘meh’ about things that I have otherwise deemed to be important. I have realized that I am not ‘meh’ about the work itself, just the idea of having to work to get what I want. I am still very much the ‘little rich boy’ growing up in a white suburban neighborhood. I have come really far away from that. I tend to gravitate to small, rural towns where the idea of a book might be to go really fast down a hill, or people wonder what the benefit of a library really is and can they not spend the money on (at the very least) maintaining a legal association to a library (touchy issue; I won’t get myself started).

To make things work, I also have in my notes things that work and don't work. If something I know is distracting keeps distracting me, I write it down. I don't worry about solutions. They are just notes for later. 

Scarlet Gown

Blood coursed from her veins, seduced by the warm bathwater.

Diffusing through her liquid tomb, it billowed around her legs and hugged her body. It flowed out of her as had his love for her from the cavity left by his decayed heart.

Red from white, her skin released her gown for their dark wedding. As he drank the poisoned present she left for him, she floated in her spent life. 

They both slowly faded. 

A red bride and empty groom, scarlet and hollow they would be.  

Forever. 






Photo Credit: Subbotina Anna (Adobe Stock)

Look at me now

He hit the wall and his body went limp. His skin and clothes snagged on the porous and jagged red brick as he slowly slid to the ground. Scraping and tearing sounds harmonized together, voicing its pleasure in his pain. 

Just after hitting the cement, he tried to rise. He rolled off his left side and hit the wall, this time at a much lower velocity. This knocked his 200 pounds over on its back and he rolled onto his side and fell onto his front. Noticing the cool pavement on his cheek, he took that pleasure away from himself and pushed up with both palms planted firmly on the ground. He lost his balance twice, once from his head swooning. The very wall that had aided in his self immolation helped him up, getting a scrape across his palm for good measure. 

The security light at the top corner of the building clicked on, highlighting his efforts.

He stood as a drunk stands taking a break from his sojourn home: One arm propped out, a palm supporting his swaying body on the wall, head bowed. The blood ran down the front of his face and dripped off his nose. It flowed from his head. The skin on his bald head burned and tingled from scrapes and lacerations. 

The security light clicked off.

"Don't turn off the light...One more time coach," he slurred, "I swear, do good papa. oranges in the can until Sunday. " 

The irony was that he could not drink anymore. Every time he drank, he drank to a stupor.  The memories were clearer when he was drunk. The real life monsters morphed into unspeakable beings of darkness and pain.

He took a deep breath and, waking up the security light, shuffled past the end of the cracked pavement onto the sparsely grassed dirt of the playground, fifty feet from the wall. He turned and face the building.

He swiveled his head, and jumped up and down, shaking out his hands and arms. 

"Watch this, you...ahhhrgh"

He sprinted as fast as he could and slammed into the wall, his head taking the brunt of the force. 

Sister Mary would find him in the early parts of dawn. Seeing him out of the corner of her eye, she thought it was the drunk that sometimes fell asleep on the grounds, so she did not notice his bloody face or his caved-in head until she looked up from her keys and locked her gaze with his dead eyes. 

Stubborn

I took a sip of water straight from the tap. It was so cool, but I drank until I was full. I stood ups and wiped the water from mouth. I heard the door open. Slowly at first, then it stopped. I waited. 

I jumped as the door slammed open, and slammed into the wall. 

I knew it was her. 

The smell, which wafted in with the opening of the door, was horrid. Rotten, like a cheerleader in pajamas who hasn’t showered for days.

She was dead. 

The mud smeared across his clothes, in his hair and under his fingernails told him so. 

The smell was stronger now, as he heard her shamble to the entrance to the kitchen. 

“You always were stubborn. I should have dug a deeper hole. 

Bloody Treat

The skin comes off, first in small pieces, then in whole sections. Using a finger from only one hand he picks at the wet skin and has problems grabbing it. He finally manages to pinch the flesh, but puts ever more gingerly. Slow and steady he pulls from the wrist to the crook of the elbow. This piece is wider, so he grabs the steak knife and says gently. He rolls the skin off the arm and throws it over his shoulder. The skin hasn’t been hitting the ground. His dog is very happy. 

George makes a note of this. He still doesn’t have full control over him yet, but at least he is feeding him. He’d rather have bigger pieces, like the ones the man served himself at dinner. But He thinks it might take great effort, a puppet or not, to cut your own skin off. 

The skin slips out from under George’s paw and it slaps into his muzzle. He shakes his head and the meat drops to the floor. He quickly snatches it up and chews and swallows. 

George licks his paws and the sides of his snout for the remaining morsels and realizes that the man is not cutting anymore. The sounds he hears coming from the man are no longer from the cutting. These sounds were different.  From the back of the couch, he sees the man shaking, then the sounds became louder, not unlike his howls when he gets hurt by the man or when the man leaves him outside to long in the snow. 

George’s tail wags, barks and trots to the front of the couch. He barked and growled at the man. He picked up the knife in his mouth and put it on the man’s lap. He barked his deep bark and bared his teeth. The man's eyes met George's and the crying immediately ceased. He nodded, fighting back tears.

The man whimpered. He picked up the knife and went to work on the underside of his arm. 

Third eye therapy

http://aspeckinthemilkyway.tumblr.com/post/46017192752

It was not the headaches. Fred was unfortunately used to those. What pushed him in to the doctor's was the voice in his head.

From his head? He wasn't sure.

This morning, Fred was so fatigued that he barely had the strength to get out of bed to call in to work. It was a chore just opening his eyes and dialing the number. He didn't have the energy to care that he hung up on his supervisor in mid-sentence.

After Fred hung up, he could swear he heard laughing.

Fred willed himself to Uber his way to the doctor. The driver was not willing to take an extra $100 to come to his room and help him to the car. A skittish man by the sound of his voice, had set to pick him up, then canceled. The second guy, a spindly man in his 50s, the kind of guy you knew was old, but could probably kick the shit out of people half his age, was more than willing to help him for $150. He helped Fred to the car, a vomit-inducing, lemon-green late-model Monte Carlo, despite having to tell him to shut up several times.

When they got to the doctor's office, the guy's surly good-naturedness turned to a surprisingly articulate assertion that he didn't care how much Fred tipped him, he would not drive him home. He just about kicked him out of the car, muttering something about keeping his smart ass comments to himself.  Fred heard a graveled version of his voice tell the man to go fuck himself before almost falling over as the car sped way.


Fred stood in front of the doctor' office entrance door--cracked and duct taped--before entering and thought about how important was it, really, that he saw the doctor? How was he going to help him anyway? He was unaccustomed to the type of waiting room utilized by people who had no insurance, or anything else to lose. He didn't really have a choice, though. This was the place closest to his home that the driver would drop him off. Shaking from more fear than prompted him to get to the hospital in the first place, Fred opened the door and walked in.

The interior was worse than the outside indicated. The warm air that rushed up his nostrils wanted to make sure he knew someone had recently taken a shit, and it was not in the bathroom. The light flickered as if to signal his entry. The handful of people sat in chairs set in haphazard rows. They all stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him. Wide eyed and gape mouthed, the people seemed to be in varying degrees of illness and or decay. As he shuffled to the counter to check in, Fred could barely hold back his hatred for those who looked at him.

Fred sat down in one of the stiff, thin-cushioned chairs next to a portly, mutton-chopped man  in a cheap, sci-fi t-shirt. The man's rotund belly and flabby chest were accentuated by his suspenders which framed the lumps, making it difficult not to look.

"You got a head-eck mister," Suspenders asked Fred in a lazy dialect he could not place. The only reason Fred looked at the man was because the he looked and sounded absolutely terrified.

Ignoring the man, Fred promptly fell asleep, despite all eyes being on him.

Fred was pulled from sleep by a siren.

Flabbergasted as to why someone would have the audacity to bring, much less use, a siren into a doctor's office, he opened his eyes and sat up.

The only difference between when he previously walked in to now was the caterwauling siren, which was coming from  a lady across the room who was slowly approaching him.

Fred stood up and almost fell over from his swooning head. Once he regained his vision and balance, the same low gravelly voice that had cursed the Uber driver said in barely louder than a whisper, "As it turns out, you don't need a doctor, idiot. You just need some therapy"

Fred realized that not only had he regained his equilibrium, but the headaches were gone.

The lady had ceased her screaming, and pointed at him and said, "Abomination! Abomination!"

Fred seethed, clenched his fists and walked toward her and grabbed her by the neck. His right hand, no longer under his control, squeezed her frail neck and pushed her up the wall. In a window looking out over the parking lot, Fred caught a glimpse of what most likely set the lady off. On his forehead, splitting through the skin, was one black eye. He thought it a trick of the warped glass, until he saw it blink.  The fatigue he had felt earlier was not only gone, but he felt energized. His mind clear, he smiled. A soothing feeling washed over him as he increased the pressure on the lady's neck, snapping it.

Fred took his hand away and the lady's body slid in a lump of fat and bone on the floor. He turned and looked at the handful of people watched, either frozen by fear or compelled to record the horror on their phones.

Neither Fred's heart rate, nor breathing rose above normal, as he tore everyone in the waiting room limb from limb.

Woes of the Trypophobic

Exploding into his eyes, no longer blocked by Johnson's head, Peter could not see directly in front of him. As the world in front of him slowly filtered back in to focus, Peter wanted to put the words back in his mouth. He feared he had revved Johnson up and had just signed on for a half hour long diatribe on the inherent evil of the welfare system.

"He's not aimlessly wandering, or whatever Hemingway shit you would write in your stories," Johnson said lighting a cigarette. He squinted his left eye reminding Peter of Popeye.

"Every time I see him, he's roaming on the grass or the shoulder of a road."

Exasperated at him or the smoke in his eyes, Johnson scoffed. "Can't people walk on the grass anymore? Everything's paved, gone the way of the concrete grave."

Not in the mood for his conspiracy theories, the most tolerable (because of its entertainment value) of which was that Kennedy and Elvis were rigging this year's election to ease the importation of drugs.  He was concerned for their friend, Angus.

"..and fucking Obama...he wants people to accuse him of being Muslim and not being born in the USA, because it frees him up to..."

"Angus ever tell you about lines or..."

"Cracks, not lines, cracks. Crack kills...Kills Angus anyway. Yeah, well, that would explain the grass wouldn't it...no lines."

"But he drives," Peter said.

"Stepping," Johnson lit his second cigarette off the first and inhaled deeply. "He has to step on them. He gets to car, he's fine. Should see him when he gets to the parking lot and has to follow a crack or line all the way until it ends. It took him an hour and a half to get into the grocery store once. Go anywhere with him, you better drive separate or you could be there all night."

"What happens when he does?"

"He took that shit with the 'mother's back'... 'Step on a crack, break your mother's back; Step on a line break..."

Peter told Johnson to get on with it with a glare.

"He thinks bad shit will happen. It's like OCD, anxiety or whatever on crack."

"No," Peter said, "not what he thinks will happen, but what happens when he steps on one?"

Johnson thought for a few seconds, took a drag from his cigarette, and said through a cloud of smoke, "Don't know. Not a conversation piece, know what I mean?"

"You never saw it happen?"

"No," Johnson said, obviously annoyed that they were talking about the same subject for more than a minute. "Seen him cowered in the corner of an alley once because the lines took him back there."

"Cracks," Peter corrected.

"Right, cracks," Johnson said absent mindedly.

"How'd he get out?"

"Don't know," Johnson said. "Left him there," and then he walked off.

Peter was not surprised by Johnson's response. Johnson once left him at the bar without a ride home after hitting it off with a girl, and was mad at him for making him wonder where he was later that night. The combination of sporadic absent-mindedness and almost total aloofness toward his fellow man did not make Johnson the most reliable of people, much less friend.  The door across the hall slammed, and Peter grabbed his keys and hurried out the door.

Everyone in this area of town walked everywhere. If you lived near the downtown area, you didn't really need a car. There were convenience and grocery stores, as well as anything else bachelors and others living pay check to pay check needed. Following Angus was not a problem. His crack obsession made him quite a slow walker.

After he made it to the door on the ground level, the routes and detours he took seemed to be mapped out. Angus knew which cracks he needed to avoid and which ways he needed to go. It was not until about a half a mile that Peter realized that he didn't know why he was following him. Angus knew his way. Like anyone with a disorder like his, he had his world figured out and was able to, with the help of adjustments, navigate through it.

But what happened when he couldn't?

Peter stopped.  Had Angus broken down in the alley that night Johnson was talking about and crossed the crack to get home? Did he have to be restrained or knocked out or drugged to be taken out?

After another mile, it actually began to irritate Peter. Like a gambler betting on obscure happenstance willing the unlikely to happen, he wished Angus would step on a crack. In the fading light, Peter stared at Angus's back trying to push him with his non-existent mind control to step on a crack.

Breathing heavily and visibly shaking, Angus suddenly turned and walked toward and then away from the entrance to an alleyway, jigging and jagging almost turning around and facing Peter. He turned again, and went into the alley way.

Peter stood at the entrance to the alley and peered around the corner. Angus was stationary in the middle of the alley, and had taken out his phone and was texting someone. Peter slinked around the brick corner to the alley, hunkered down and crept until he was behind a dumpster. Before he had a chance to feel ridiculous, or maybe talk himself out of doing it or something similar, Peter lunged out from behind the dumpster and shoved Angus.

Before he had a chance to react or catch himself, Angus's foot landed on the crack in front of him. Just as he did, Angus made a sound, almost like wood splintering and he grabbed his chest. He fell forward to the ground. His eyes were wide and he was not breathing.

Peter looked around him to see if anyone had seen what happened, more for verification than a concern for getting caught. Because, aside from falling from an apparent heat attack...

Before committing what he saw to his actual events of the day, Peter bent down to check for signs of life, and found none.

What he also did not find was the tip of Angus's right foot. Where the toes should be, where he stepped on the crack, his foot was cut. It was as if a  bloodless vivisection had been taken of his foot, right through his Chuck Taylors.

But he did see Angus's phone. He picked it up and read on the screen,:

"I can't...I need this," in response to the John382, who requested he leave someone alone.

"If I do, it'll take me, piece by piece..."

"Where," John382 asked.

"I'don't know. Think it just cuts...he's still behind me..." Then, in almost one word, "Ohmygod hes followingme. I think it's going to happenits..."

Peter began to walk forward, and began to sweat and his head throbbed with his increased heart rate. He stopped short of the crack directly in front of him. Struggling for air with panicked gulps, like a goldfish trying to breathe out of water, he scrolled  to read the rest of the message.


"Im finally free of this curse."

Ignominious Past

The wood was as grey as the sky. He could not see where the mist ended and where the ground began. He would be able to see his breath. He eagerly left the bustle of the rat race of school pick up, with its sampling of uppity and self-righteous parents; he turned his back on the small town he had called home for the past ten years. 

Humbled, he stopped. He had no choice.

The boy in the torn, red hoodie told him to go, he pointed.

He turned and vomited.

The fluid out and steaming on the ground, its hot mess writhing with partially digested ham and eggs, including the ubiquitous half mutated chunks--of what he didn’t know. He heaved again, his body protesting the reflection of its regurgitation, but nothing came out. Specks of light flashed in his lidded eyes at the strain.

The boy had diverted him, changed his route, his day, his life. The past that he ruined now controlled his future. 

He looked up.  The boy, his eyes blind white, stood mere feet from him. He pointed toward the woods.

On weak legs, he stood up. And trudged on.  Away from the boy and into the woods.

Into the dark.

Last Errand

Photo: clem-onojeghuo.com

"He won't wait long," Laura reminded herself. "Hurry."

Laura was ready to crack. Her ten year old voice whispered and whined through tears that still choked her up after all these years. She let it go on her whole life.

She was near tears now, but she would not do it...she would not cry.

"How many times without crying," she whispered "makes it okay to break down?"

Laura ignored looks from the people as she walked past the checkout lanes, and the whispers of the stock boys as she walked lop sided down the hardware aisle. She grabbed what she would need for him.  She looked down at the items Dale needed so badly that he had to beat her out the door.

Laura checked out, shuffled across the parking lot and sat in her car. She closed her eyes and tried to slow down her breathing.

"You want it fixed? Stop hiding the goddamn tools..." still echoed through her head. She instinctively shrunk away from the hit that had followed.


The phone rang and she jumped.

Laura was now sitting in her idling car in front of the house she has shared with her husband for three years.

Laura picked up before the first ring was done as she was getting out of the car, carrying what Dale had wanted and so deserved.

"I'm almost home," she said before he was done yelling. The cut on her lip cracked open sending that all too familiar coppery taste through her mouth as she gazed at the back of his head through the sliding glass window.

Laura dropped the sack with the steak sauce and the beer and opened the sliding glass door. He stood up and turned, already revved up in a bellowing yell. She silenced him as she plunged the screwdriver through his gaping, yelling mouth.


<<Droppings 3>>

Scenes from my mind (Brain Droppings)

Conviction

Walking the tightrope on the shoulder between the road and the gravel, he jerked every time a car sped by sending up a spray of water.

He stopped.

His narrow frame, shrouded in a hood and black trench coat, resembled that of death. He laughed to himself and threw his head back as he realized what he must do. The laugh was genuine because he was amazed that he had not thought of it before.

Tears of joy in his eyes, his face was a beacon of light in the dreary November day.

Witnesses would later say they saw him hopping and skipping as he ran in front of the semi.



<<Droppings 1>>