As a writer I feel like I have grown, less like a flower more like a weed… fast but rough around the edges. It has been two years since I started this blog and  I have now participated in a year’s worth of Writer’s Weekly 24-Hour Short Story Contests. This particular story I actually completed in about 3 hours and is dedicated to Steve Poltz and his wildly entertaining tweets.

The Easy Way Out

Silence filled the living room. Superficial words were only thing passed between us in what seemed like weeks. Her eyes looked shallow from lack of sleep and constant crying, yet hard with the same intensity of the question that managed to come racing out of her lips. It was brave of her to make the first move.
 
The grandfather clock in the hall, a wedding present from her parents, chimed, reminding me I should be leaving for work. But somehow I don’t think even work will grant me reprieve. Yet still no words were coming.
 
I would like to say there is an easy explanation as to why she saw me walking barefoot down the sidewalk at 7 a.m. Sunday morning wearing a silver, sequin dress with the matching pumps swinging from my finger tips. I would like to say it was just a silly frat boy prank played on me by old buddies from my college days, or even a cross-dressing theme party thrown by coworkers down at the firm. Those would have been the easy way out; well, if I hadn’t let my instincts take over. Ducking behind the nearby park bench maybe would have worked, if she hadn’t already locked eyes with me as she slowed to get a better look.
 
Oh, and I have to say borrowing (and subsequently losing) her handbag wasn’t one of my brightest moves either. But I really couldn’t justify buying a new one since she already had a purse that perfectly matched the dress AND the shoes.
 
My lifelong weakness had always been for football, golf, and younger women but ever since that night I first got up on stage with the lights and the room filled with young college boys and bachelorette parties, none of that mattered anymore. Anyone who sings karaoke or performs in a play knows the feeling. The high from the cheers and boos from perfect strangers acknowledging your guts for doing what they are too timid to try themselves.
 
The night in question, instead of sneaking home after the show, I stayed to watch the carnage that I had heard so much about from the other drag queens. The nightly hook ups turned the club into a feeding ground for unsuspecting young boys. I figured these kids had to know what was coming with a place called the Cockpit, located many miles from the nearest airport.
 
Staring at the mirror backstage, I touched up my make up. The vultures had already made their way onto the floor, already fighting over the best morsels. I found myself drifting ghostlike and ghost white around the club, not sure of where to turn. Bailing after each show separated me from my audience and now here I was, mingling amongst them.
 
A drink, I needed a drink. As I saddled, rather floated up to the bar a older gentleman dressed in a suit complimented my performance and offered to purchase my drink. I thanked the guy and accepted his offer even though free drinks were on the house for all performers. We got to talking about dog shows and horse racing, two of his passions in life. I interjected a thing or two but it was mostly just him droning on. I was slightly interested, but getting sleepy. I excused myself from the conversation politely, stating I needed to retire for the evening. He generously offered a ride home, noting that I looked utterly exhausted. I respectfully declined even though I was drained. That is the last thing I remember before I woke up with a pounding headache, naked in a strange house to the wafting smell of bacon cooking and coffee brewing.
 
Panic filled my lungs as I scrambled to gather my clothes scattered about the room. Squeezing back into last night’s dress was the last thing I wanted to do, but it beat the alternative. I noticed the sliding glass door of the bedroom led to the back porch. My heart raced, as I opened the door and dashed out, though the yard, over the fence and down the back alley. I didn’t stop running until I reached the park just blocks from our house, where I slowed to gather my thoughts.
 
Struggling to remember the details of the remainder of the night, suddenly I felt a gentle touch on the pulsating vein on my hand bringing me back to the quiet living room, my eyes flashed open and in the same instant, the words finally came, “Annulment now.”

Another short story spawned from the Writer’s Weekly 24-Hour Short Story Contest from back in January.  I also tried to get this one published with The Latent Print. I totally understand why they won’t publish it. What with unoriginal characters that could cause  potential lawsuits. Or they just plain thought it sucked. This one was fun to write regardless. At least I have this site to share it with all of you. I am totally open to constructive criticism as it help me grow as a writer.

I Hate Glitter
 
“Let’s get building!” Bob the Builder shouted as he rode up on the big yellow dump truck with the bed full of Legos. The bedroom had become a construction zone as Bob led his crew of toys in building a house for the Bratz girls, Cloe and Sasha. The two BFFs squealed with excitement as the crew of toys got to work. 
 
“We will finally have our own pad… complete with two walk-in closets and a beauty salon!” Sasha exclaimed.
 
“Bigger and more bad-ass than Barbie’s dream house,” replied Sasha, nodding in the general direction of the two story Victorian dollhouse with a pink Porsche parked out front.
 
From the top of the bed, the pack of teddy bears rubbed their eyes while emerging from their cave of blankets. 
 
“What’s all the commotion?” asked the largest in a deep growl.
 
“Yeah,” the little scruffy teddy interjected. “We still have several more months of hibernating before our cozy cave becomes a tent of sheets.”
 
“Come join my Can-Do Crew,” Bob cheerfully responded from the top of the fireman’s ladder. “The Bratz would be overjoyed if you helped sock monkey with coating the bricks with glitter. He really doesn‘t have your finesse.”
 
The bears glanced down to the front steps, where sock monkey tossed glitter willy-nilly as the Little People walking past sneezed.
 
“Humph,” said the biggest bear. “We’ll pass. Tell them we need our beauty sleep. I’m sure they’ll understand.” 
 
As the they ambled back into their cave, the littlest bear stumbled and toppled off the bed. He fell on the crank to the Jack-in-the-box, who was hiding from all the action. The crank turned just so that Jack popped out of his box, scaring sock monkey, who lost complete control of the glitter.
 
Glitter was everywhere. Glitter covered not only all of the blocks, but the new guitar and karaoke machine that the toy soldiers had bought as house warming gifts for the Bratz. The Little People sneezed up a storm. They sneezed so hard that the gust blew rubber ducky off the fire engine controls. Bob, humming and hammering away, didn’t notice all of the commotion below. With ducky no longer in control the ladder shook and Bob wavered and fell. He landed face first into his tool box.
 
As he stood up the room hushed with gasps, while Sasha fainted in a pile of crayons that were set out to become the fence. Bob had lost an eye.
 
The play phone rang at the same time the emergency crew arrived. 
 
“Elmo says you be ok.” Tickle Me Elmo reassured as he and Dora the Explorer helped Bob over to the school bus, the only vehicle not being used for the construction.
 
In the closet, an Operation removing a funny bone occupied Nurse Barbie’s attention. Cloe busted through the door shrilling uncontrollably and waving her arms. Suddenly, a red light and a sharp buzzer went off. 
 
“What is your problem?” Nurse Barbie threw down the forceps.
 
“B-B-B-Bob, glitter everywhere, monkey, ducky, fell,” is all Cloe could get out.
 
Just as Barbie was going to probe further, the door swung back open. And in walked Bob, assisted by a stuffed elephant and Elmo, with his one beady eye glimmering with hope.
 
Without even trying to go into what happened, Barbie asked Bob to lay his head in her lap. His shiny black eyes stared up at her as she dug through her basket of replacement doll parts to find an eye with just the right size and glean. She admired his permanent red smile as she gently inserted the needle. 
 
“This shouldn’t take long,” she assured him.
 
Just as she was about tie a knot, he lurched in her hand. 
 
“I knew you could do it!,” Bob said maintaining his grin. “I would like to stay and chat but the toys and I have lots of work to do.”
 
“Thank you for your handy-work!” he said waving goodbye while heading towards the door.
 
Many of the toys continued to work without their leader, cleaning up the glittery mess since they knew Bob’s mantra, “The Fun Is In Getting It Done!” But when they heard the cheers of the toys outside the house, they rushed over to the newly installed windows, scrambling over each other to press their noses against the chilly, clear plastic pane to see for themselves.
 
Dora edged forward and started to celebrate with her signature “We Did It” dance which got the rest of the toys jumping, dancing and shouting in unison, “Bob is back. Hip Hip Hooray!”
 
Fingering his tiny overalls, Bob shouted out to his team, “What are you all standing around for? We’ve got a job to do!”

Written on January 24, 2010

I guess I should stick to my day job. The results for Writers Weekly’s 24 Hour contest came in at the end of last week. Me, not a finalist of any sort. But that does not mean I am giving up on writing (in fact I have already signed up for the Winter 2010 Contest on Jan 23). I love words and the way they can paint a picture, just as I love actual paint. So read my story, then take the time to read the winners’ stories as they are definitely good reads.

———————

Rural Squall

Anticipation filled his chest as the cameras unloaded from the van to set up next to the entrance to the corn maze. Marcus hopped out of the passenger side of the van in his flannel shirt and jeans, trying a little too hard to fit into the rural atmosphere that he just emerged into. Today will be his first live segment interviewing a farmer in central Wisconsin in advance of next weekend’s county fair. The rains from the early afternoon made the ground underneath spongy, adding a little spring to his step.

“Hello!”

Weathered and jolly, an older man hurried towards the camera crew with two dogs trailing behind him. His chest puffed with impending pride as he introduced himself to Marcus.

They chatted about the dreary weather and the positive effects on the crops, as the crew finished setting up. Waiting for the segment to start, the farmer meticulously picked at his vest that he donned for the special occasion. Marcus envisioned how the farmer’s neurotic ways surely would earn him the blue ribbon for his biggest pumpkin.

As the farmer shared his tales of obsessive tending and gentle turning with the camera, Marcus instinctively turned his head toward an infant’s cry. At the top of the hill, under an old maple, a pretty girl was shielding a bundle from the wind, fumbling with her blouse. Distracted by the sight of the woman’s ordinary behavior, Marcus stumbled through the rest of the interview.

As the camera equipment was being loading back into the van, Marcus glanced back up the hill observing only the silhouette of the old maple as the clouds turned shades of orange and pink from the sun setting.

“She is stuck up,” the farmer disclosed, irritated that the woman had interrupted his moment of glory.

“Who is she?” asked Marcus still gazing up at the painted clouds.

“That’s Elle, the daughter of the Hagens, who live next door,” He said conclusively. “She cares for no one but herself. Like I said, she’s stuck up.”

The cold wind started again and he shivered, watching the sky darken too quickly Marcus ambled into the town’s only pub to get out of the weather and have a cold one before heading back to the inn for the night.

Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” was playing on the jukebox while a number of local farm boys on the far end of the bar pounded drinks like the frat boys did back in Madison.

Marcus pulled up next to a girl with her head down on the bar, soggy hair flowing around her ears. She looked vaguely familiar.

“Elle?”

She turned in his direction looking through him, not at him. The farm boys were now pretending to shear the bar stools as if they were sheep with wooden legs.

She giggled, prompting Marcus to look in the direction she was staring. He laughed along.

“I saw you on the hill today overlooking the Altenburg Farms. Where is your baby?”

Without blushing, she answered assuringly, “With my parents.” She cautiously continued, “I am living with them for a while, until I can get on my feet.”

Prompted by Marcus’s prodding questions, Elle continued to speak about life in a small town and her dreams of leaving the rural life to become a hair stylist for a fancy salon. With each question she became more intense, divulging more than he asked. Marcus was fascinated by her wisdom for such a young age. She was maybe 21 or 22.

He found out that she had grown up in Wisconsin Rapids her whole life. Her parents had been supportive when she became pregnant after being raped by some local farm boys, not unlike the rowdy boys at the end of the bar.

Even with all of her troubles, she seemed to have her life in order including step-by-step plans for fulfilling her passions.

It was late when Marcus walked Elle back to her car. Walking along the tree lined Main Street, he noticed for the first time that she was barefoot. She carried her shoes in her right hand swinging them in time with her stride, allowing the rain soaked sidewalks to wrinkle her toes. This prompted a smile on his face.

“It was great to talk to you tonight,” she said seriously. “I really needed that.”

She hugged him tightly, squeezing his chest to where he thought he wasn’t breathing. Before he could open his eyes, she was in her car driving away.

The tires splashing through small puddles of rain was the only sound on the town’s quiet streets as Marcus made his way back to his hotel.

Frigid morning air flowed through the van’s open window stinging Marcus’s face, as the crew headed back towards Madison. Marcus reflected on the evening with Elle and how he may have just ruined his chances for any future live segments due to his inability to focus during the interview. His thoughts were so distant that he was completely unaware of the news report on the radio stating police had found an infant drowned in the Wisconsin River.

Every year, San Diego City Beat runs a contest called Fiction 101 (now in it’s seventh year). The goal is to write a fictional story in 101 words or less. That is pretty much it. This was the first year that I entered and while I didn’t win or have an honorable mention (psst… there really isn’t a prize besides seeing it in print anyhow), I did want to put my stories out there for people to read. So here are the two short stories I submitted for your enjoyment:

Second Life
Behind the wooden bookcase, through the paneled wall in the study hides a door to the room where he spent his nights alone. His wife would never understand if she discovered the room he built to hide his deepest secrets. His second life gave him autonomy and power that his real life at home and working in the factory had always lacked. In his room, the Lilliputian people with their painted on smiles frozen in their stance waved up at him in his blue and white striped conductor’s hat, as he prepared the next miniature train for departure. All Aboard!

The above story was the first one that came to me. It really is inconclusive with no depth. I think I just really wanted to use the word “Lilliputian.”

The Bouquet
An elderly man sat on the patio of a café savoring each sip of his wine. He arrived in Madrid that morning. Watching the pigeons scavenge crumbs from the cobbled streets, he thought about his family left behind, wars fought, and miracles witnessed. A young boy on a bicycle stopped to smell flowers at a cart across from the café. The man reminisced returning from the war, embracing his wife and the floral essence of her perfume. “It is time,” he whispered, as he walked back to his hotel, to swallow the pills that will take him back to her.

The second story sort of stem from my grandfather’s trip to Spain. He flew to Spain for one day and then came home (no, he did not commit suicide). His trip to Spain at 82ish years old is one of my favorite stories from his many life stories and a true testament to who he was. Adventurous and caring (he went there solely to teach a friend to fly via Space A – military flights). The man was amazing. We charged me with helping him finish his biography/memoir when he passed away. I don’t know if I could ever do him justice, but I will try.

The last few weeks I have started writing just for writing sake. I entered two short stories competitions: Fiction 101 with City Beat and 24 Hour Contest with Writer’s Weekly. City Beat should be publishing the finalists in the next couple weeks and Writer’s Weekly won’t publish their results until almost Halloween. Win or lose, I will post the stories once the results have come in.

Deadlines seem to help drive my imagination, as do word limits. College was great for that. How can I say a sentence the most eloquently or creatively in the least amount of words? I guess that is another reason that I like Twitter. Sometimes it feels like a puzzle, re-arranging words and using the thesaurus to get the right phrase to give the right feeling.

I have always wanted to write a book, but I am a bit of a procrastinator. It is also hard to imagine writing on one subject for 100 plus pages. That is where blogging and short story writing comes in.

Ray Bradbury is my favorite author of all time. Well known for his novels “Fahrenheit 451” and the “Martin Chronicles”, Bradbury composed most of his stories as chapters or short stories to be published in journals (he could make more money that way too). His short stories are descriptive and captivating. The endings are never what you imagine.

He also wrote a book on writing called “Zen and the Art of Writing”. Inspiring, yet simple. He talks about why he writes and where he gets his inspiration from. You can see common threads that run through each of his stories that allow you to see pictures of the whole from only reading pieces.

If you have never read anything of Ray Bradbury’s except for “Fahrenheit 451,” try something new for a change. Here are my favorite novels and short story compilations:

“Dandelion Wine” My favorite novel of all time about a boy and one summer of his life. Horrible description on my part, amazing story from a child’s mind.

“Something Wicked This Way Comes” The carnival comes to town and the dark things that come with it. Again, from a child’s view.

“The Veldt” Short story published in “Illustrator Man” and “The Vintage Bradbury”

“The Small Assassin” Short story published in “Dark Carnival” (Ray Bradbury’s first published book of short stories, now out of print and pricey), “October Country”, “The Vintage Bradbury” and “A Memory of Murder”

“Skeleton” Short story published in “Dark Carnival”, “October Country”, and “The Vintage Bradbury”

“The Gift” Short story published in “A Medicine for Melancholy” and “R is for Rocket”

“The Anthem Sprinters” Short story published in “The Machineries of Joy” and “The Vintage Bradbury”

“Yestermorrow” A collection of essays from Bradbury on projects that he worked on including Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln at Disneyland and the design of Horton Plaza mall. This one is hard to find since it is out of print.