Third Completed Story

 I've completed my third story since deciding to actively write again. Much like the others, I don't have a title for it and it is very much unfinished. It took me three days, and I'm rather proud of it. I already know how I'm going to make it better, and that's something that's new to me. As I finish more stories, I'll have to come to terms with my fear about editing my own work. I've honestly never really done it. Sure, a word or a sentence here and there. But I've never bothered with a full piece. I'm going to do it though. I'm going to edit the shit out of this story and all my other stories, and I'm going to be a better writer for it. But for now, here's a story about dragons.... sort of:

A little girl sat down next to an old man who had a box in his lap. "What's in the box? A turtle?" She asked, swinging her legs back and forth. "Of a sort," said the old man. He smiled and leaned down closer to the girl. "Dragons," he whispered in a conspiratorial tone. "Dragons?" The girl said, he faced bunched in disbelief. "How are dragons like turtles? I'm six and even I know dragons don't have shells. And even if they did, they don't exist!" She looked down at the box again. "And your box is too small. There's no way more than one dragon could be in that box." The old man's smile grew bigger at the little girl's sound deductions and irrepressible charm that only an incredulous child had when they knew they were being swindled. He wondered to himself if kids were getting smarter younger, or if he was just dumber at that age. "My, my, such a bright young girl," he said, "surely you don't know of ALL the animals on this planet. You're far too young to have gotten so much knowledge." She puffed her tiny chest out and lifted her chin up in the air. "Mommy says I'm smarter than most kids my age," she said proudly. The old man laughed. "What is your name, child?" "Alice. What's yours?" "My name is Yorik. Though I used to be called the Dragonmaster." Yorik rubbed his hand lovingly on the top of the box. Alice shook her head, "No you weren't. There's no such thing as a Dragonmaster." She crossed her arms. "Besides, you said they were turtles." "No, child. I said they were turtles if a sort." He wagged a finger at her in mock reprobation. Then, tapping the box with that finger, said, "These dragons are the turtles' ancestors." "What does that mean?" She asked, her curiosity piqued. "It means they came before turtles. They're the grandparents, in a sense. Though not directly." "If there are really dragons in there, then open it so I can see them." Yorik sighed, "I'm afraid I can't do that, young Alice. These are dangerous creatures. And small, as well. Why, some of them are no doubt younger than you, child. If I were to open this box, they all would surely fly out at once and go everywhere!" He waved his arms above him wildly for emphasis, causing Alice to giggle. Yorik himself chuckled. "How many are in that box?" Yorik thought a bit about it, rubbing his chin. "Well, now... I suppose there's about seven in there." "Seven?! No way! Now I KNOW you're lying!" Try as she might to sound angry, Alice was having too much fun talking to this crazy old man. "How could they all fit in there? My shoes wouldn't even fit in that box." "Well, I believe I told you these were young dragons." "Yeah, but even then they'd all have to be the size of a gerbil or something." "Perhaps they ARE the size of gerbils. You certainly don't know much about dragons. Why, you don't even believe they exist. All you know of dragons you've learned from Disney movies, right?" Alice nodded. "Have you ever seen a baby dragon in a Disney movie?" Alice shook her head at first, until she remembered one movie. "'Mulan'! 'Mulan' has a baby dragon!" Alice said, sure that she had the truth of it Yorick let out a belly laugh. "My child, that was just a dragon made small so they could sell toys of the same size. That was no baby. How else do you explain Mulan's getting older and not the dragon? Dragons age just as humans do. They just live a bit longer." "Like turtles?" He nodded, "Like turtles." Alice sat for a moment staring off into space, deep in thought. Finally, she turned to him and said, "What do they look like?" "Each and every one is unique. But they do share some traits." "Some what?" Yorick laughed again. This old man laughs an awful lot, Alice thought. "It means they do look the same in some ways." "Like how?" "They look like lizards who swallowed something far bigger than they should have been able to, and it sits just above their hind legs. That's the part that makes 'em look like turtles. The skin around that area is rough to the touch and it's a bit hard, just like the shell of a turtle. You could knock on it and you'd hear a sound, but I wouldn't do that if I were you. They don't like it very much when someone taps them there. They tend to bite those that do in a quick snap, like a snake." He curled a hand and make quick snapping motions."THP! THP! Just like that, you lose your hand!" Alice giggled. "Why do they have it?" "The large belly? Well, that's a secret that only Dragonmasters know." "Why is it a secret?" "Fear," he said solemnly. "That's just silly. What would we have to fear from something so small?" "My child, men fear many things that are far smaller than these. And it's all for the same reason: they do not understand them." "So why don't you make them understand? Wouldn't that be better than keeping them secret?" "Yes, it would. But most men are not ready, and even fewer are willing, to acknowledge what is right in front of them and they will resort to violence to prove their point. That is why we keep them secret. For now. We dragonmasters seek out those who are willing and able, and we bring them into the fold. But that is a dangerous and very difficult task. There are only four of us right now. I am the  oldest. I've come across so many who were willing but not able to take that last leap." "I believe," Alice said. Yorik smiled and said, "Yes, child, I can see that you do. But, are you ABLE?" Alice jumped off the bench, puffed up her chest, and flexed her arm muscles, raising them for maximum effect. "Yes! I am able!" She proclaimed loudly. Yorik reared his head back in laughter. "You are so young and full of life. I bet a million thoughts race through your head every second." Alice was confused by this last bit, and she tried her best to not let it show on her face. She wanted to see dragons. She wanted to be a Dragonmaster. He let out a mournful, tired sigh which perplexed Alice even more. Yorik reached into his jacket pocket and took something out, but Alice could not see what it was. "What's that?" "It is the passing of a happy burden that I have been fortunate to carry for much of my life. My child, I pass this burden on to you. I knew from the moment I saw you that you were the one to carry on this work." He brought his hand to his mouth and swallowed its contents, wincing a bit. He leaned his head back for a moment. He lifted the box and set it gently on Alice's lap. Yorick's body went slack as Alice was looking at him, still not quite understanding what just happened. She looked at the box in her lap and saw a single tear splash silently onto its top, quickly absorbing into the cardboard. Slowly and with great reverence far beyond her years, she lifted the flaps of the box up just enough so she could peer inside with one eye. Inside she saw what looked like hundreds of pieces of paper all folded and creased. The flood of fury that coursed through her tiny body was unlike anything she had experienced. The old man had tricked her! Taking a flap in each hand she jerked the box open. Hundreds of origami dragons laid on their sides, flattened. Confused not just by this but by her emotions, too, she gently plucked a dragon from the top of the pile. It was black which faded into red at the wings and  it had purple eyes. On its tail was a string. Alice pulled the string and the dragon popped open to three dimensions. She let out a thrilled gasp. How someone could know how to fold paper into such a shape was beyond Alice's comprehension, but its beauty was so apparent that even she could understand. On the bulbous part of the dragon was layers of masking tape, with a slit down the middle. The adrenaline rush she got in the face of such odd beauty caused her hand to tremble. She heard something jostling about within it, coarse and scratchy. If she hadn't been aware of her own shaking, she would have thought the dragon was alive. She probed the slit, trying to force it open, but there was almost no give. She pulled the string again. The dragon's wings opened upward and a paper flame shot out of its mouth. She noticed that its belly looked different. Turning the dragon to face her, she saw that the slit in the belly had opened about an inch. Inside was a folded piece of paper. Reaching in with two fingers like fleshy tweezers, she snatched the paper from within. She placed the dragon back in the box and unfolded the paper. On the paper was a drawing of a tree overhanging a calmly flowing river. There was also a quote written just above the part of the river that went horizontal: "Be the change that you wish to see in the world." She didn't know who Mahatma Ghandi was, but she understood his words plain enough. It was just like what Yorick had said to her. She looked at the other dragons in the box. They were each different colors from one another. She rifled through them. Plucking one from the middle, she looked at the dragon. This one was yellow with blue wings. She tugged once on the string at its tail, popping it open. She pulled the string again, and a paper flame shot out and its belly opened up. Carefully reaching inside she grabbed the paper with in. Breathless, she placed the dragon aside, and opened up the piece of paper. On it was a drawing of a bonsai tree and Avery happy, very bald, and very fat man sitting on a hill next to the bonsai tree. This was written just above the man's head: "Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth."- Buddha. She didn't quite understand what that meant, but she had a feeling she'd figure it out eventually. She repeated the whole process again. This time the dragon was purple with orange wings. The piece of paper had an amazingly life-like drawing of an odd-looking woman. The quote was to the drawings left:  "Never believe that a few caring people can't change the world. For, indeed, that is all who we ever have." - Margaret Mead. Alice contemplated what these three ideas meant for her and the world at large. She desperately wanted to open another dragon, but she recalled what Yorick had said, about the world at large not being ready for such things as dragons. Perhaps these ideas were the reason. She knew what she had to do, and she understood why Yorick shared the dragons with her. She stood up as the thrill of a new purpose gave her goosebumps. She only hoped it would not take her as long as it took Yorick to find someone ready and willing to receive these ideas. She walked out of the train station, grinning the widest grin the world had ever seen.

Two Thousand Words Make a Good Milestone

I've decided not to post the work I'm doing on the story prompts I mentioned in my last post. But I AM going to continue to post my S.A.D. 2 story. I reached a bit of a milestone today (as far as I'm aware at any rate): I have written a story that is, so far, two thousand words long and counting. Originally, I was going to write this story at that length, but given that I have more ideas for this world I'm creating, and given my idea to turn it into a novel, these two thousand words are--at best-- the first two chapters. Or, at least the first chapter and a half. I think working on multiple stories at once has proven to be quite beneficial to me. I suppose it keeps things fresh in my mind. Or something like that. Anyway, here's the story so far:

When the baker closed for the night, he had no idea the yeast in the day's labor was not going to be the only thing that would rise that night. A truck rumbled by, as he got into his car and drove away.In the darkness of the night, a jelly donut stirred from its slumber as a jolt shook its body. In the glaze of his donut countenance, two slits cracked open, revealing strawberry jelly eyes. It blinked and some jelly leaked out of its eyes. It shuddered then, and two arms tore themselves from the donut's sides. Jelly seeped out its bottom, two strawberry trails. It rocked back and forth in an effort to sit up. It was to no avail, but it was determined to free itself from its glass cage. Minutes felt like hours as it lay there struggling. Another jolt racked his body. When the jolt hit the strawberry trails, the donut could feel the power come into them. He wiggled his new legs. It was invigorating, this new power. He sat up, flakes of glaze floating off his new appendages. The donut blinked as tears of jelly seeped from his eyes. A rage swelled within it, as intense as it was inexplicable. It reached a hand up and took a tear of jelly on his finger and smeared it below each of its new eyes. Nearby, an eclair shook as a great rent tore across it. The eclair screamed and howled in pain. The Jelly donut gathered up all its strength and stood up for the first time. On wobbly jelly legs, it took its first step. And then another. And another. It turned and walked toward the eclair. Its legs felt heavy with purpose, but the determination was strong within. As the jelly donut came closer to the eclair, the screams got louder. The eclair shook violently again, as another tear appeared above its mouth. It blinked a few times before its chocolate pupil turned towards the jelly donut. Its fearful screams turned to such urgency that creamy spittle began to fly out of its mouth. The donut reached down and tugged on a dried line of frosting. With each moment the eclair screamed, the more strength the jelly donut felt coursing through itself. A shard finally gave, and the jelly donut raised it above its head, letting out a shout of victory so loud, it shook the display case. Swelling with self-confidence, the jelly donut ran at the eclair with a war-cry. As the jelly donut got close enough to plunge its frosted shank into the eclair's soft doughy flesh, the eclair was wracked with painful jolts. Arms sprang out from its sides, the same as it did with the jelly donut, and as the shank came down to a whispers' space to the eclair's head, the eclair's arms shot out and grasped the shank, stopping the plunge dead. Grunting with the strain, the eclair worked his new arms, finding the strength to protect itself. The jelly donut leaned toward the eclair, letting its weight drive the shank closer to the eclair's chocolate-covered skin. They both shook with their efforts. Pain unlike anything it had ever experience coursed through the eclair's body. Creamy legs shot out of the bottom of the eclair like a bullet. The eclair screamed at the pain, but focused its energies on its new legs. With a great shove of its leg, the eclair flung the jelly donut over his head, slamming it into a crueller. The eclair's mouth screwed up as deep within a low growl emerged. It opened its mouth and said, "STOP!" Utterly dumbstruck by the word, the jelly donut let go of the shank and jumped back. It found within itself a vocal rumbling. "Wh-wh-what?" "Stop trying to stab me! That hurts!" said the eclair. Quite confused by what was not only going on in front of it but by what was going on within itself, the jelly's anger turned to fear and back to anger. It grabbed the frosty shank from the ground and got up. With a primal yell, it attacked the eclair. The eclair dodged to the left of the jelly donut and pushed it into a creampuff. A gash opened in the creampuff letting out a piercing shriek. The jelly donut and the eclair covered their ears, shrinking in pain. The creampuff began rocking back and forth before it started rolling around the jelly donut and the eclair like a culinary version of "Cowboys & Indians"... if all the Indians did was circle the cowboys and scream. Jelly donut looked at its shank and then at the cream puff and back at the shank. An evil thought crossed its newfound mind and it aimed to realize it. The bloodlust coursed through its gelatinous veins. Its breath became more rapid with the anticipation. But what to do with this troublesome eclair? It had already proved to be quick. The eclair would just get in Jelly's way, of this it was certain. Jelly donut knew the eclair's kind. Just knew it. More cream puffs began to awaken to this new world, screaming just like their forefather, but so far not moving anywhere. Jelly knew if it didn't act now it would lose its chance. As the cream puff rounded behind Jelly, Jelly squatted and jumped with all its might at the circling puff, shank held out in front of it with both hands. Oh, this was going to be a glorious thing, Jelly thought. Eclair made for one of Jelly's legs, but he was not as quick as Jelly feared. Jelly's leg slipped through Eclair's fingers as if the leg was slick butter and not sticky jelly. Eclair landed on his face. When he looked up, he saw that Jelly had himself landed. Jelly brought up his shank and made to slit the cream puff in half. Eclair thrust himself to the nearest dried trail of frosting, taking a page from Jelly's book. He wrenched a piece free almost effortlessly and flung it at the hand that Jelly was holding his shank. Eclair's sugary missile hid its target dead on, causing Jelly's hand to drop the shank. Stunned and in pain but not deterred, Jelly grabbed the cream puff's hand as it birthed itself from the puff's side. Jelly leaned back off the edge of display and he and the cream puff fell into oblivion. Eclair ran to the edge. When he looked down, he saw Jelly and Cream Puff had landed in a pile of pigs in a blanket. Jelly smiled devilishly up at Eclair and shouted, "Suck it, bitch!" Pigs in a blanket moaned and cried, as Jelly took his prize to the back of the second shelf, well out of the sight of Eclair. A pig in a blanket laid on his side, watching as Jelly dragged the screaming Cream Puff to the back of...what was this? And why was that cream puff screaming? He rolled over to his other side. Dozens more of his brothers and sisters lay beside him. Some were rocking back and forth, while others were flailing their arms above them. Arms? He looked down at himself. He didn't have arms. Or legs. Why doesn't he have any legs? A fierce shuddering pain shot through him then, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut. When the pain passed, he opened his eyes slowly. He felt odd movement at his sides. When he looked to his left, two meaty hands faced him. Frightened, he turned his head quickly the other way, only to be further terrified with another pair of hands.Seeing the mutant Pig in a Blanket, Jelly feared there would be trouble here. He went to the edge of the shelf, dragging the screaming Cream puff, and looked down. Excellent! Another shelf. Perhaps this one will be more secluded so he could work in peace. Ha! Peace! He giggled to himself.Jelly donut looked at its shank and then at the cream puff and back at the shank. An evil thought crossed its newfound mind and it aimed to realize it. The bloodlust coursed through its gelatinous veins. Its breath became more rapid with the anticipation. But what to do with this troublesome eclair? It had already proved to be quick. The eclair would just get in Jelly's way, of this it was certain. Jelly donut knew the eclair's kind. Just knew it. More cream puffs began to awaken to this new world, screaming just like their forefather, but so far not moving anywhere. Jelly knew if it didn't act now it would lose its chance. As the cream puff rounded behind Jelly, Jelly squatted and jumped with all its might at the circling puff, shank held out in front of it with both hands. Oh, this was going to be a glorious thing, Jelly thought. Eclair made for one of Jelly's legs, but he was not as quick as Jelly feared. Jelly's leg slipped through Eclair's fingers as if the leg was slick butter and not sticky jelly. Eclair landed on his face. When he looked up, he saw that Jelly had himself landed. Jelly brought up his shank and made to slit the cream puff in half. Eclair thrust himself to the nearest dried trail of frosting, taking a page from Jelly's book. He wrenched a piece free almost effortlessly and flung it at the hand that Jelly was holding his shank. Eclair's sugary missile hid its target dead on, causing Jelly's hand to drop the shank. Stunned and in pain but not deterred, Jelly grabbed the cream puff's hand as it birthed itself from the puff's side. Jelly leaned back off the edge of display and he and the cream puff fell into oblivion. Eclair ran to the edge. When he looked down, he saw Jelly and Cream Puff had landed in a pile of pigs in a blanket. Jelly smiled devilishly up at Eclair and shouted, "Suck it, bitch!" Pigs in a blanket moaned and cried, as Jelly took his prize to the back of the second shelf, well out of the sight of Eclair. A pig in a blanket laid on his side, watching as Jelly dragged the screaming Cream Puff to the back of...what was this? And why was that cream puff screaming? He rolled over to his other side. Dozens more of his brothers and sisters lay beside him. Some were rocking back and forth, while others were flailing their arms above them. Arms? He looked down at himself. He didn't have arms. Or legs. Why doesn't he have any legs? A fierce shuddering pain shot through him then, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut. When the pain passed, he opened his eyes slowly. He felt odd movement at his sides. When he looked to his left, two meaty hands faced him. Frightened, he turned his head quickly the other way, only to be further terrified with another pair of hands. Seeing the mutant Pig in a Blanket, Jelly feared there would be trouble here. He went to the edge of the shelf, dragging the screaming Cream puff, and looked down. Excellent! Another shelf. Perhaps this one will be more secluded so he could work in peace. Ha! Peace! He giggled to himself. Flinging Cream Puff downward from his side, Jelly let inertia carry him over and down. Jelly landed on top of Cream Puff with a sickening crunch and a pain shot through his side. Looking at his side, he saw that jelly was leaking from it. He rolled off Cream Puff, who had gone silent from the fall. Cracks and flakes riddled through Cream Puff's body, looking like a white-lined road map of particularly messy game of Pick Up Sticks. Some sort of clear substance leaked from Cream Puff's eyes. Cream Puff was shaking and moaning softly. Jelly stuck a finger under one of Cream Puff's eyes, catching a bit of the liquid on it. He tasted the liquid. Mildly bitter and salty. The flavor pleased Jelly greatly. What please him more, though, was what caused the tear. Cream Puff was obviously in great pain. Landing on the hard metal surface and being squashed under Jelly's much larger bulk no doubt caused it. Jelly hit Cream Puff with his frosty shank. "Silence, you twat!" he said.

And This is Where I Lick My Wounds and Start Again....

I thought yesterday was bad.... Today was fucking AWFUL!!!.... Writing-wise, anyway. I was struggling and struggling with how best to proceed with my supposed novel, "Rise of the Pastries" (which is pretty much set in stone for a title, as far as I'm concerned), when fear overwhelmed me and I had to quit. I got sad, and then I talked about it with Theo a little bit, and then a new idea hit me. Well, five actually. Five new starts for stories, and I'm going to work on them all at the same time...well, not at the SAME time. I'll work on one until I feel like I'm not getting anywhere, and then I'll work on another until I feel like I'm not getting anywhere, and so on and so forth. I pretty much said this in an earlier post, but this time I'm actually implementing them. For anyone interested in the 5 starts, they are as follows:

1) Don Davis was trapped in his car because of badgers.

2) The floor was covered in dogshit.

3) My mother always told me listening to heavy metal would warp my brain.

4) The sound coming from that baby was as loud as it was unholy, and I aimed to silence it and send it back to hell.

5) I first discovered my pubes had gone plaid after I had gotten out of the shower.

That last one was a result of my talk with Theo. We have strange conversations at times.  So there you have it. Five new ideas, and if I don't do something with them....I don't really want to think about that right now....

I DO however have a pint of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream in the freezer, and it is calling my name. Yes, I went out of my way to buy a pint of ice cream and not beer. Suck it.

Man or Mouse and a Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day of Writing

 After a day of consideration and a day of feeling a bit more off than usual, after a day of not being happy with what I wrote for S.A.D. 2, I've decided to go ahead and post my really, really, really short story, "Man or Mouse":

Darren slammed the door behind him. His nostrils flared and his breathing was deep and heavy. Squeakers cowered in the corner of his cage, burrowing as best he could under a pile of shredded paper. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. "Bitch!" Darren said as he walked over to the fridge. He grabbed a carton of milk and began chugging it. Rivers of milk cascaded down the ample girth which stretched the limits of his XXXL scrubs, going horizontal once they hit  the elastic belt at his waist. Higher and higher he lifted the carton as it emptied. When there was nothing left, Darren chucked the carton into the trash and wiped his mouth with the back of a meaty paw. "Bitch! That fucking bitch!" he said, a spray of milky saliva with every word. Squeakers pissed himself a little then, soaking into the hair on his underside, which was already crusty with past urination. He knew what was coming, what always came when his father returned home angry. His ribs ached then, at the memories. Darren turned towards Squeaker's cage. "You wouldn't understand, Squeakers, what hell i go through everyday with that bitch," he said. He walks toward the cage, each step deafening thunder to Squeaker's minute ears. "I don't know what her problem is, whether she's retarded somehow or if she just hates me." Darren opens the door of the cage, and with curious gentleness he brushes the shredded paper off Squeaker and then lifts Squeaker up to his face, not caring as the urine drips off his hand. Squeaker always hid in the same spot, a fact that amused Darren. Animals were cute but dumb. "Or maybe she just doesn't know she's making me miserable." Darren tightens his grip on Squeakers. "Maybe it's all some big misunderstanding and i should be the bigger person and MAKE her aware." Darren barks out a laugh. "Yeah, I'll make her understand....WITH MY FISTS!" His grip tightens even more. The pain, already unbearable, sends starbursts into Squeaker's eyes. His hind legs scratch at Darren's hand, feeble and ineffective like a feather scratching a balloon. "I don't know why she has so much trouble doing her job when she's been doing it for 5 FUCKING YEARS!" Darren's hand squeezed tighter, and Squeakers began to live up to his name. His squeaks weren't very loud. Darren's grip had all but completely choked off his air supply. "Back and forth I have to go. Everyday!... I know it's not a long walk, but I mean, look at me! I'm a fat motherfucker!" Darren slaps his belly with his other hand. The sound of Darren's insides sloshing about made Squeakers want to vomit. Nothing would come up though. It'd been three days since Darren last fed Squeakers. "And it's a cold day in hell when she remembers to give me a method of payment!" He scoffs and his hand squeezes more. Squeaker's squeaks come out like a mouse-sized car alarm, but Darren continues to ignore him. Squeakers screams a mousy scream as a rib on his left side cracks. "It may not seem like such a big deal to some people, but it's a HUGE deal to someone like me! I don't have a lot going on in my life. This job is all i have keeping me tethered to reality." Another rib cracks and Squeakers can feel himself begin to black out. The pain was horrendous now, and Squeakers welcomed the embrace of unconsciousness. He would have welcomed death if only it would come, but it never did. Not in three years. But as another rib splintered, sending hundreds of daggers throughout his tiny body, he wondered if this might be the day his biggest wish is granted. He was never quite sure how Darren could not know he was breaking Squeaker's bones. The only thing standing between his bones and Darren's hand was a thin layer of skin with an almost equally thin layer of fur. And his fur was gone in some places. Darren never broke eye contact with him, either. Didn't the agony show in his eyes? Didn't the fear? Squeakers didn't know what he had done to deserve this, but it must have been terrible. As if in confirmation of his sins in a past life, Darren's tirade increased in volume, perfectly in sync with the increased pressure Squeakers felt. "She always apologizes but it's all bullshit! She's just sorry she got fucking caught! How can someone think it's okay to be so blatantly two-faced?! HOW??!!" Darren squeezed his fist with all his might, the rest of Squeaker's intact ribs gave way under the stress. The bones sliced into his organs and pierced his tissue thin skin, jabbing Darren's hand. "OW! MOTHERFUCKER!" Darren howled as he flung Squeakers across the room. Squeaker's body hit the wall with a pitiful thud and landed on the floor, unmoving. Darren stared at the body of his best friend, his only friend. He looked down at his hand. Two uneven rows of tiny dots, slowly swelling into beads of blood. As confused as he was horrified, Darren looked back at the tiny white lump that lay on the floor. He slowly walked forward, tears welling up in his eyes. "Squeakers?" He said, mewling. "Squeakers?" Darren squatted down, gingerly scooping up Squeakers. He saw the bones protruding from the mouse's chest. He saw that the chest was not moving. He had killed the only thing in this world he had ever loved. He wept throughout the night, looking and sounding like an enormous squalling baby.

Now, for anyone who might be interested, and for myself so I don't regret deleting it, I'll post what I wrote today for S.A.D. 2. I'm probably going to go in the complete opposite direction from this tomorrow. Ugh... Here it is:

 Don was a baker whose two main specialties were pastries and gallows humor. And it was the love of both that led him to purchase and convert an old funeral home into a bakery. It was brilliant when you thought about it. The old cremation oven was repurposed into 4 smaller ovens. The room where the wakes had been held was now a small cafe. It held 6 tables with a capacity of 18 seated customers. The room where the undertaker would work his magic to make the dead beautiful was now the kitchen. Stromberg & Sons Funeral Home was now Dark Delicacies. When it first opened, it was a resounding disaster. No one in their right mind would ever eat food made where the dead once dwelled. It was a food critic looking for something different that changed everything. After the review came out, people crammed into the small building from open to close everyday. Some more superstitious people claimed the bakery was on an old Indian burial ground. Don didn't mind that rumor in the least. He even went so far as to claim just that in all his advertising for Dark Delicacies. He was a single-minded man. No time for women or for hobbies or really, even for people. A corpulent man, he enjoyed eating. It's why he got into baking. The only reason he had a cafe was to fill the void left by the Wake room and increase revenue. He was notorious for chasing out unwanted patrons with large knives and streams of vulgar insults. People never took him seriously, however. Most figured anyone who would sell baked goods out of a former funeral home must be screwing with people. Some overlooked his sour demeanor because they didn't want to be kept from Don's delicious offerings. And the rest just treated it as part of a larger macabre one-man show. Don had employees from time to time, but none stayed longer than three months. Low pay, high customer volume, and Don's antagonistic attitude ensured such a high turnover. Don was unconcerned about that, though. Baking was all he cared for. And he knew people loved his wares, that they would come back no matter what indignities he might inflict upon them.

Night of the Sentient Pastries (Don't Worry, That's Just a Placeholder Title)

Today at work was very busy, yet I still managed to squeeze out 368 words. And it didn't take me more than an hour. That was awesome. And when I read over what I had written, it dawned on me that this alleged flash fiction or short story is more likely going to be a novel. Or at least a long novella. I had such an explosion of ideas I wanted to do with this story, I don't think it would do to limit myself. I'm going to write in the direction I think is best AND most interesting, and that's as a novel. I've never written more than a few thousand words about....anything. So to come to the conclusion (after finding out this story is already nearly 1000 words) that I am going to write a novel freaked me out, but then I realized I have enough of an idea that it's entirely possible to do. As with my last S.A.D. story, this is a very, very rough draft. The tone, the flow, the proper English... pretty much everything is all over the place, but I'll make it a cohesive piece later on. For now, I'll just get the ideas down as fast as I can. Here's the story so far:

When the baker closed for the night, he had no idea the yeast in the day's labor was not going to be the only thing that would rise that night. A truck rumbled by, as he got into his car and drove away.In the darkness of the night, a jelly donut stirred from its slumber as a jolt shook its body. In the glaze of his donut countenance, two slits cracked open, revealing strawberry jelly eyes. It blinked and some jelly leaked out of its eyes. It shuddered then, and two arms tore themselves from the donut's sides. Jelly seeped out its bottom, two strawberry trails. It rocked back and forth in an effort to sit up. It was to no avail, but it was determined to free itself from its glass cage. Minutes felt like hours as it lay there struggling. Another jolt racked his body. When the jolt hit the strawberry trails, the donut could feel the power come into them. He wiggled his new legs. It was invigorating, this new power. He sat up, flakes of glaze floating off his new appendages. The donut blinked as tears of jelly seeped from his eyes. A rage swelled within it, as intense as it was inexplicable. It reached a hand up and took a tear of jelly on his finger and smeared it below each of its new eyes. Nearby, an eclair shook as a great rent tore across it. The eclair screamed and howled in pain. The Jelly donut gathered up all its strength and stood up for the first time. On wobbly jelly legs, it took its first step. And then another. And another. It turned and walked toward the eclair. Its legs felt heavy with purpose, but the determination was strong within. As the jelly donut came closer to the eclair, the screams got louder. The eclair shook violently again, as another tear appeared above its mouth. It blinked a few times before its chocolate pupil turned towards the jelly donut. Its fearful screams turned to such urgency that creamy spittle began to fly out of its mouth. The donut reached down and tugged on a dried line of frosting. With each moment the eclair screamed, the more strength the jelly donut felt coursing through itself. A shard finally gave, and the jelly donut raised it above its head, letting out a shout of victory so loud, it shook the display case. Swelling with self-confidence, the jelly donut ran at the eclair with a war-cry. As the jelly donut got close enough to plunge its frosted shank into the eclair's soft doughy flesh, the eclair was wracked with painful jolts. Arms sprang out from its sides, the same as it did with the jelly donut, and as the shank came down to a whispers' space to the eclair's head, the eclair's arms shot out and grasped the shank, stopping the plunge dead. Grunting with the strain, the eclair worked his new arms, finding the strength to protect itself. The jelly donut leaned toward the eclair, letting its weight drive the shank closer to the eclair's chocolate-covered skin. They both shook with their efforts. Pain unlike anything it had ever experience coursed through the eclair's body. Creamy legs shot out of the bottom of the eclair like a bullet. The eclair screamed at the pain, but focused its energies on its new legs. With a great shove of its leg, the eclair flung the jelly donut over his head, slamming it into a cruller. Jelly donut looked at its shank and then at the cream puff and back at the shank. An evil thought crossed its newfound mind and it aimed to realize it. The bloodlust coursed through its gelatinous veins. Its breath became more rapid with the anticipation. But what to do with this troublesome eclair? It had already proved to be quick. The eclair would just get in Jelly's way, of this it was certain. Jelly donut knew the eclair's kind. Just knew it. More cream puffs began to awaken to this new world, screaming just like their forefather, but so far not moving anywhere. Jelly knew if it didn't act now it would lose its chance. As the cream puff rounded behind Jelly, Jelly squatted and jumped with all its might at the circling puff, shank held out in front of it with both hands. Oh, this was going to be a glorious thing, Jelly thought. Eclair made for one of Jelly's legs, but he was not as quick as Jelly feared. Jelly's leg slipped through Eclair's fingers as if the leg was slick butter and not sticky jelly. Eclair landed on his face. When he looked up, he saw that Jelly had himself landed. Jelly brought up his shank and made to slit the cream puff in half. Eclair thrust himself to the nearest dried trail of frosting, taking a page from Jelly's book. He wrenched a piece free almost effortlessly and flung it at the hand that Jelly was holding his shank. Eclair's sugary missile hid its target dead on, causing Jelly's hand to drop the shank. Stunned and in pain but not deterred, Jelly grabbed the cream puff's hand as it birthed itself from the puff's side. Jelly leaned back off the edge of display and he and the cream puff fell into oblivion. Eclair ran to the edge. When he looked down, he saw Jelly and Cream Puff had landed in a pile of pigs in a blanket. Jelly smiled devilishly up at Eclair and shouted, "Suck it, bitch!" Pigs in a blanket moaned and cried, as Jelly took his prize to the back of the second shelf, well out of the sight of Eclair.

Yes, I Wrote Another Story, And No You Can't Read It....Yet.

I made the mistake of not e-mailing my S.A.D. 2 story to myself, so I wasn't able to work on it at all today. Instead, I focused my energies on re-writing a story I had done years ago. I was never very happy with it because I felt that I held back on the darker element of it. So, today I started from scratch and included the dark element that was missing. It's not a perfect story, as is my practice when writing, but it's as close to first-run perfection as I could have hoped for. It's 933 words long presently, which is fucking amazing. I wanted to post it, but I decided against it. One reason is personal, and the other reason is, I'm thinking it's not the greatest idea for me to post EVERY story I write. So, I'm okay with not posting this particular story. I'm really interested in having my friends read it so I can get SOME feedback from it. And even though, right now, my close friends are the only ones who actually read this blog, I figure, why risk it? Those same friends are probably asking themselves why I am bothering to post about this. I think it's important to me to get into some sort of practice and routine when it comes to writing. I think blogging about my writing, even when I don't post a story or progress of a story, is a good way for me to kind of un-clutter my mostly cluttered mind.... or something like that. I suppose I also like documenting that I finished a story, so that when I am struggling with a story and I start to lose confidence in myself, I can look back and see that I've accomplished something. So there's that.

Possible Premature Ejacu-creation

 I'm not sure what happened today, but I wrote (for me) a fuck-ton. Once again, it's not great stuff, but since I'm writing the first thing that comes to mind, I pretty much get what I paid for. So far, nothing I've written has been funny as I'd like it to be, but since I'm writing again I'm willing to cut myself some slack. So here's what I've spent the last few hours writing:

When the baker closed for the night, he had no idea the yeast in the day's labor was not going to be the only thing that would rise that night. A truck rumbled by, as he got into his car and drove away.In the darkness of the night, a jelly donut stirred from its slumber as a jolt shook its body. In the glaze of his donut countenance, two slits cracked open, revealing strawberry jelly eyes. It blinked and some jelly leaked out of its eyes. It shuddered then, and two arms tore themselves from the donut's sides. Jelly seeped out its bottom, two strawberry trails. It rocked back and forth in an effort to sit up. It was to no avail, but it was determined to free itself from its glass cage. Minutes felt like hours as it lay there struggling. Another jolt racked his body. When the jolt hit the strawberry trails, the donut could feel the power come into them. He wiggled his new legs. It was invigorating, this new power. He sat up, flakes of glaze floating off his new appendages. The donut blinked as tears of jelly seeped from his eyes. A rage swelled within it, as intense as it was inexplicable. It reached a hand up and took a tear of jelly on his finger and smeared it below each of its new eyes. Nearby, an eclair shook as a great rent tore across it. The eclair screamed and howled in pain. The Jelly donut gathered up all its strength and stood up for the first time. On wobbly jelly legs, it took its first step. And then another. And another. It turned and walked toward the eclair. Its legs felt heavy with purpose, but the determination was strong within. As the jelly donut came closer to the eclair, the screams got louder. The eclair shook violently again, as another tear appeared above its mouth. It blinked a few times before its chocolate pupil turned towards the jelly donut. Its fearful screams turned to such urgency that creamy spittle began to fly out of its mouth. The donut reached down and tugged on a dried line of frosting. With each moment the eclair screamed, the more strength the jelly donut felt coursing through itself. A shard finally gave, and the jelly donut raised it above its head, letting out a shout of victory so loud, it shook the display case. Swelling with self-confidence, the jelly donut ran at the eclair with a war-cry. As the jelly donut got close enough to plunge its frosted shank into the eclair's soft doughy flesh, the eclair was wracked with painful jolts. Arms sprang out from its sides, the same as it did with the jelly donut, and as the shank came down to a whispers' space to the eclair's head, the eclair's arms shot out and grasped the shank, stopping the plunge dead. Grunting with the strain, the eclair worked his new arms, finding the strength to protect itself. The jelly donut leaned toward the eclair, letting its weight drive the shank closer to the eclair's chocolate-covered skin. They both shook with their efforts. Pain unlike anything it had ever experience coursed through the eclair's body. Creamy legs shot out of the bottom of the eclair like a bullet. The eclair screamed at the pain, but focused its energies on its new legs. With a great shove of its leg, the eclair flung the jelly donut over his head, slamming it into a cruller.

Sentence A Day 2: Electric Dough-galoo

Having finished the skeleton of one story, and after taking a day off from any serious writing effort, I'm gonna get back on the wagon again. This time around, it's gonna be a silly story. Not that my last story wasn't silly, but this one is actually going to be intentionally fun. I plan on using puns with reckless abandon, for a start. I'll probably change my mind later on, but that's my style. Technically, I wrote this sentence sometime last week, so I really am not doing any writing today... but I might. I might at least write the next sentence. That will give me warm fuzzies. Anyway, here it is:

When the baker closed for the night, he had no idea the yeast in the day's labor was not going to be the only thing that would rise that night.

A New Ending is Just the Beginning

I know I said I wasn't going to work on my  finished S.A.D. story for a while. I know I said that I was going to work on other projects in the meantime. And I will, but I had to write this idea down as part of my process of documenting my own writing. Given that I haven't been able to think of anything else to write because this idea is so persistent, I think it's safe to assume I'm not going to get any other writing done today, so I might as well get this idea down and be done with it. This idea of mine concerns the ending. I rushed the ending that I wrote, and I knew that was going to be something I wanted to change ASAP. So it's pretty good that it's the first thing I'm re-working.

My new ending notes: Instead of reaching out and choking him to death, the gun-beast will instead reach out its hand, slowly enveloping his gun into its ever-moving self. The gun-beast won't stop at consuming his gun. It'll continue to consume his hand and then his arm and then his head and torso and so on, in a great spray of blood. Grinding him to death, basically.

The idea itself needs work, but I'm really pleased with it regardless. I hope that my re-working of the rest of this story will be as pleasing to me as this was.

Fear Can Suck the Pointy End of My Pen: or, I'VE FUCKING DONE IT! I FINISHED IT!

 I did it. I fucking did it. I finished the story. That is to say, I finished the first draft. It's every bit as terrible as I was aiming for, and I couldn't be happier. Well, I COULD be happier. If it had come out 100% perfect the first time, that would have made me happier. As it was, I wasn't shooting for perfection, just completion. The second draft is where I will reach for perfection. If I don't get it then, I'll do a third draft. Hopefully, by that point I will have either a perfect or close to perfect story as I can manage. For now, I'm putting this story aside to let it and my mind rest a bit. I'll do some other story or stories in the meantime. I WILL come back to it, though. There's no doubt about it. I'm determined to make this story readable and enjoyable to not just me (although that's first and foremost) but to others as well. I'll be damned if I write something lots of people like. I'm good with a few people saying, "Hey, this doesn't suck!" That's good enough for me. I definitely rushed the ending, and that's going to bother me for some time. But I had such a good flow going that I couldn't make myself stop until I had finished the story. So, I finished it as quickly as I could, comforted that I would come back and slow it down some. Okay, enough blather. Here's the first draft of the story I haven't titled yet:

He walked to the door not realizing he was about to die. He should have known, though. The door was locked. The janitor always unlocked the door in the morning for him.15 years and the janitor never forgot. What was going on? He tried the door knob again. Locked. He heard a scuffling sound and then a muffled bark of laughter and what sounded like a yelp of pain. Two kids, perhaps, groping each other. He smiled at the thought, remembering what it was like to be a teen again. Another giggle, this time much louder, sounding very sinister. He reached into his pocket for his keys. He was unnerved by the laughter, but his composure remained. It was just some randy students, he told himself again. He had been through worse many times before. He heard soft metallic clicks within as he brought the room key to the keyhole. He froze. That sound was familiar to him. As familiar as own family. Bullets being loaded into a magazine. Not here, not now! This was NOT happening! Not at my school. If he had known what was really going on on the other side of the door, he would have run right then and forgotten all that he had heard. But he was a scientist at heart and by profession. Curiosity came with the territory, and fear never stopped him from investigating. He grabbed his keys from his pocket. As his fingers worked to find the right key, he looked at the doorknob and became more confused by the situation. Where a keyhole is supposed to be was instead a smooth sphere. He looked left and then right and then up at the room placard. In place of numbers was "BANGFUCKIMDEAD". Now he KNEW someone was fucking with him. He banged on the door and turned the doorknob again. There was a loud dry sucking sound, like someone sucking on the straw of an empty glass of soda trying to get those last few drops. And like someone flicking a light switch, he was inside his classroom.The light was blinding but he could make out the shapes of the dissection tables and his desk as well as something he couldn't quite make out. He heard a low, slow laugh as the light began to dim. As his eyes adjusted to the changing light, the shape before him began to come into focus. There was a sack laying next to the form, that's what he was able to make out first. as the form became clearer, the less sense things seemed to make. Guns and bullets, hundreds of them. But they weren't stacked or piled, they were collected into a humanoid shape. Its shape was not stationary. Assault rifles, hand guns, shotguns, and bullets all moved constantly. In and out, up and down, left and right. It was like a hunter's wet dream of a puzzle box. A gun near its foot inched out and poked the sack next to the gun-beast. A soft whimper from the sack, and he realized the janitor was inside. The gun-beast laughed again and moved a leg-full of ballistics towards him. He shied back against the door. He needed to escape this thing, but he couldn't leave the janitor behind. He looked around the room for some sort of defense. That was when he saw that the room wasn't his room. Everything was in its place, but nothing was as it should be. It was as if someone had melted everything just enough so that it would attach to one another to make one giant piece. He looked back at the sack. was he really willing to risk his life for another in the face of such madness? He didn't know what was going on or what any of it meant. The only possible means of escape was the door behind him. The gun-beast took another step toward him. He turned around and grasped the doorknob. The knob melted at his touch. Tendrils of ice cold liquid metal flowed onto his hand trapping him.For a few brief moments there was some give with the metal, but soon the metal had solidified. The metal had gotten up to his elbow. He was now one with everything else in the hellish room. He screamed as loud as he could. He screamed, his throat becoming rawer by the moment. He jerked his body, trying to free himself. The gunbeast laughed again, and this time it did not stop laughing. It reached a hand out, bullets of fingers. He reached to his hip and drew a gun of his own, a last ditch effort. He pulled the trigger rapidly as his screaming intensified, flecks of blood flying out of his mouth along with the spittle. He could see they weren't doing anything to slow the gunbeast. He put his gun to his temple and  pulled the trigger. The gun fired on an empty space. The gunbeast closed its hand around his neck and squeezed. And then, darkness...

THE END

Big Bad Reveals Itself and Another Story Begins

I started writing my silly story today after I lost my nerve with my S.A.D. story yet again. Finding the right words isn't as easy as I had hoped, but I'm working on it. The more I write of this story, the more I clearly see that this is indeed a very, very, very rough draft. The idea is all there, but the writing is not. Today more than even the first day I sat down and wrote my first sentence in years, I realize how atrophied my writing skill has become. Used to be, when I couldn't find the words, I'd just stop, for fear of making the story not perfect from the get go. Now, it's different. I still have that fear, but I'm soldiering on, taking it one sentence at a time. With each word, I'm telling myself that it's okay, go on. The words don't have to be there just yet. They will come when the idea is there and concrete. I often lose sight of that. But when I do, I tell myself it's okay, I just need to take a break and work on another story. Rinse and repeat. And so I worked on my silly story some. Might be I work on several stories at once, taking a long time to finish even one. Nonetheless, my resolve to finish each will not waiver.....more or less. For now, six new sentences in which the Big Bad is revealed...-ish:

He walked to the door not realizing he was about to die. He should have known, though. The door was locked. The janitor always unlocked the door in the morning for him.15 years and the janitor never forgot. What was going on? He tried the door knob again. Locked. He heard a scuffling sound and then a muffled bark of laughter and what sounded like a yelp of pain. Two kids, perhaps, groping each other. He smiled at the thought, remembering what it was like to be a teen again. Another giggle, this time much louder, sounding very sinister. He reached into his pocket for his keys. He was unnerved by the laughter, but his composure remained. It was just some randy students, he told himself again. He had been through worse many times before. He heard soft metallic clicks within as he brought the room key to the keyhole. He froze. That sound was familiar to him. As familiar as own family. Bullets being loaded into a magazine. Not here, not now! This was NOT happening! Not at my school. If he had known what was really going on on the other side of the door, he would have run right then and forgotten all that he had heard. But he was a scientist at heart and by profession. Curiosity came with the territory, and fear never stopped him from investigating. He grabbed his keys from his pocket. As his fingers worked to find the right key, he looked at the doorknob and became more confused by the situation. Where a keyhole is supposed to be was instead a smooth sphere. He looked left and then right and then up at the room placard. In place of numbers was "BANGFUCKIMDEAD". Now he KNEW someone was fucking with him. He banged on the door and turned the doorknob again. There was a loud dry sucking sound, like someone sucking on the straw of an empty glass of soda trying to get those last few drops. And like someone flicking a light switch, he was inside his classroom.The light was blinding but he could make out the shapes of the dissection tables and his desk as well as something he couldn't quite make out. He heard a low, slow laugh as the light began to dim. As his eyes adjusted to the changing light, the shape before him began to come into focus. There was a sack laying next to the form, that's what he was able to make out first. as the form became clearer, the less sense things seemed to make. Guns and bullets, hundreds of them. But they weren't stacked or piled, they were collected into a humanoid shape.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

Nothing much new to report on the writing front, save for the 9 new sentences I wrote today. I hope to have this story finished by Friday, but I think I'll shoot for NEXT Friday instead. Might be that I even do a second draft by then. We'll see. For now, here's the story so far:

He walked to the door not realizing he was about to die. He should have known, though. The door was locked. The janitor always unlocked the door in the morning for him.15 years and the janitor never forgot. What was going on? He tried the door knob again. Locked. He heard a scuffling sound and then a muffled bark of laughter and what sounded like a yelp of pain. Two kids, perhaps, groping each other. He smiled at the thought, remembering what it was like to be a teen again. Another giggle, this time much louder, sounding very sinister. He reached into his pocket for his keys. He was unnerved by the laughter, but his composure remained. It was just some randy students, he told himself again. He had been through worse many times before. He heard soft metallic clicks within as he brought the room key to the keyhole. He froze. That sound was familiar to him. As familiar as own family. Bullets being loaded into a magazine. Not here, not now! This was NOT happening! Not at my school. If he had known what was really going on on the other side of the door, he would have run right then and forgotten all that he had heard. But he was a scientist at heart and by profession. Curiosity came with the territory, and fear never stopped him from investigating. He grabbed his keys from his pocket. As his fingers worked to find the right key, he looked at the doorknob and became more confused by the situation. Where a keyhole is supposed to be was instead a smooth sphere. He looked left and then right and then up at the room placard. In place of numbers was "BANGFUCKIMDEAD". Now he KNEW someone was fucking with him. He banged on the door and turned the doorknob again. There was a loud dry sucking sound, like someone sucking on the straw of an empty glass of soda trying to get those last few drops. And like someone flicking a light switch, he was inside his classroom.

Hang on to Your Butts

Six more sentences today. I actually know where I'm going with this story, finally, and it's going to get really fucking weird. I know WHAT I'm going to do but I'm not sure how I'm going to do it. I suppose that's the fun of writing, when you figure that out. But for me, right now, it's a bit daunting. I might write more tonight, but I'll probably leave it until tomorrow, just on the off-chance I find myself at a loss for words again. When I get it written, should anyone actually read it and wonder where I got the idea... Rest assured I will point the blame squarely on the shoulders of Bentley Little. It was the moment that I decided to try to think like BL that I came up with what will help me finish out the story. I'm both really excited and really, really scared that I will actually finish a story...a story that I now definitely have interest in...which is a first. Usually, I just try to write what I think others will like. Not this time and most likely not anymore. It's freeing, thinking the way BL does. I recommend it highly to everyone. Anyway, here's the story with the 6 most recent sentences:

He walked to the door not realizing he was about to die. He should have known, though. The door was locked. The janitor always unlocked the door in the morning for him.15 years and the janitor never forgot. What was going on? He tried the door knob again. Locked. He heard a scuffling sound and then a muffled bark of laughter and what sounded like a yelp of pain. Two kids, perhaps, groping each other. He smiled at the thought, remembering what it was like to be a teen again. Another giggle, this time much louder, sounding very sinister. He reached into his pocket for his keys. He was unnerved by the laughter, but his composure remained. It was just some randy students, he told himself again. He had been through worse many times before. He heard soft metallic clicks within as he brought the room key to the keyhole. He froze. That sound was familiar to him. As familiar as own family. Bullets being loaded into a magazine. Not here, not now! This was NOT happening! Not at my school. If he had known what was really going on on the other side of the door, he would have run right then and forgotten all that he had heard. But he was a scientist at heart and by profession. Curiosity came with the territory, and fear never stopped him from investigating.

It's Not Giving Up If I'm Still Writing Something....Right?

I didn't write at all yesterday. In my defense, I was over at Theo's place playing board games with him and our buddy, Kris. Couldn't very well write AND play games at the same time, now could I? That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

As far as today is concerned, I haven't written any new sentences in my S.A.D. story. I'm still trying to puzzle out something interesting to do with it. But I DID write something today. I did two paragraphs in the collaboration with Theo, and I'm very happy with them. They aren't perfect, but they will do for now.

All in all, I'm rather pleased with myself. I think I'm overcoming my fear quite well. And now that I've said that, I'm probably going to fail miserably tomorrow. Ah, pessimism.

Mixed Feelings Meet Determination

I hate to admit it but since it's the truth I have no choice but to admit it: I'm not really liking my S.A.D. Actually, I'm just not liking that I can't come up with anything better.... or that I'm afraid to come up with anything better, and I just want to get this story done and over with so I can say with pride that I finally finished a story. In all honesty, that's probably what keeps me from thinking of something better. I'm so determined to finish this thing, that I'll take the easy road. It could also be that I'm forcing myself to go so slowly, that I'm just losing interest in the story regardless. Perhaps I just need to think of something to make it interesting again. *sigh* I'll work on making it interesting to me again, I suppose.

Oh, and here's 9 additional sentences to the story so far: 

He walked to the door not realizing he was about to die. He should have known, though. The door was locked. The janitor always unlocked the door in the morning for him.15 years and the janitor never forgot. What was going on? He tried the door knob again. Locked. He heard a scuffling sound and then a muffled bark of laughter and what sounded like a yelp of pain. Two kids, perhaps, groping each other. He smiled at the thought, remembering what it was like to be a teen again. Another giggle, this time much louder, sounding very sinister. He reached into his pocket for his keys. He was unnerved by the laughter, but his composure remained. It was just some randy students, he told himself again. He had been through worse many times before. He heard soft metallic clicks within as he brought the room key to the keyhole. He froze. That sound was familiar to him. As familiar as own family. Bullets being loaded into a magazine.

Fear Grabbed Me Hard Today

Only two sentences in my S.A.D. I wrote less of that today because I spent a bit more time coming up with my next part in my collaboration with Theo. I didn't exactly write all what I had planned for that, either. But that had more to do with my wanting to see what he would come up with for the set up. I kind of think I should have just gone ahead and written the whole thing, but I'm scared. I'm scared of the scene because it involves action, and I've never been good with action scenes. I definitely want to write it, regardless. I'm just trying to work up sufficient courage and/or delusion. I left the set up for Theo, though. So if he comes up with something, great. If not, well, I'll have to face my fear head-on yet again. But for now, I let fear get the best of me, so I seriously doubt I'll get any more writing done today. I have a bit of a busy day planned for tomorrow. Chores n such, so I'm not sure I'll get much more done than the one sentence for S.A.D. ... which just so happens to also have built up to an action scene. Perhaps the creative part of my brain is telling me something. But I suppose it doesn't matter since I've let fear overwhelm me for the time being. Anyway, here's the S.A.D. story so far, now with two added sentences: 

He walked to the door not realizing he was about to die. He should have known, though. The door was locked. The janitor always unlocked the door in the morning for him.15 years and the janitor never forgot. What was going on? He tried the door knob again. Locked. He heard a scuffling sound and then a muffled bark of laughter and what sounded like a yelp of pain. Two kids, perhaps, groping each other. He smiled at the thought, remembering what it was like to be a teen again. Another giggle, this time much louder, sounding very sinister.

I Thought of an All-too-fitting Acronym for This Little Exercise of Mine

I had a bit of a boondoggle day with my Sentence a Day Writing. And then I hit a huge wall (metaphorically speaking) and yet again got a bit depressed.  So I went about my business of doing my actual job when a new idea popped into my head. A very, very, very silly idea. And it wasn't long after that that I got a good sense of the story and even some of the characters. And then more actual job work happened, and then I got to thinking about Brian Keene. I'm a regular visitor to his website, so I see the blog posts he does. Occasionally, he posts about the progress of a handful of novels, short stories, and comic book scripts he's currently working on. And that got me to thinking about Peter David, who likes to do comic book writing part of one day and novel writing the other part. And that got me thinking about my own writing. My buddy, Theo Sidle, told me about an idea he had and said he wanted me to write it with him. So there's that, my S.A.D. (heh, how about that for an acronym?) story, and this absurdly silly new story I thought of today. Maybe I could take a swing at writing all three at once. When I feel myself getting overwhelmed or when I just can't think of where to go next with one story, I'll move on to the next story. And then the next. I'm probably shooting myself in the foot with this idea, but I'm going to give it a shot anyway. I've kinda lost the drive to do the silly story right now since I'm watching a rather somber movie ("Cosmopolis". Don't bother) and it's totally killed my silly mood. Instead, I'll work on the story Theo and I are collaborating on, and get the ball back in his court, as it were.

So, my S.A.D. story will be the story that I post regularly-ish here, but the silly story and the collaboration will most likely remain offline. At least, for the time being. We'll see how it goes. Anyway, here's the S.A.D. story so far, now with 6 new sentences (even if one sentence is only a single word!):

He walked to the door not realizing he was about to die. He should have known, though. The door was locked. The janitor always unlocked the door in the morning for him.15 years and the janitor never forgot. What was going on? He tried the door knob again. Locked. He heard a scuffling sound and then a muffled bark of laughter and what sounded like a yelp of pain. Two kids, perhaps, groping each other.

Three More Sentences

I may have only written one sentence, but already, I've begun editing it. An idea, based on the opening sentence I came up with yesterday, popped into my head this morning and I'm going with it until either the story is done or I think of a better story and start again. But I have a good feeling that I WILL finish this story. A whole bunch of ideas came flooding in after I had that minor epiphany, and it depressed me something fierce, so I scaled back my thinking to what I want out of this experiment of mine. That is, one sentence a day. I can always do more than one sentence, but if I feel myself beginning to get ahead of myself and lose myself in the rush of writing, I get up and walk away from the story. Also, there's this quote by.... fuck all, I can't remember who said it or even the exact words, but to paraphrase it, the quote inferred that the writer's best piece of advice was to stop writing for the day when you know what happens next in the story. That's what I'm trying to achieve here. That's my aim. That being said (or written), I wrote THREE sentences today. Almost wrote more than that, but I started to feel overwhelmed, so I stopped mid-sentence and deleted that half a sentence, and saved the three sentences I had down. Here's the newly edited opening, as well as the next three sentences:


He walked to the door not realizing he was about to die. He should have known, though. The door was locked. The janitor always unlocked the door in the morning for him.

A Post in Which I Begin Chipping Away at My Fear

Until I come up with something better, I'm going to do this: I'm going to write one sentence every day, until a story develops to conclusion. Good or bad, whether it makes sense or not, I am going to write SOMETHING. And I'm not going to limit myself. If I think of another sentence or two beyond the mandatory one, then all the better. So here it goes:

He walked through the door not realizing he was about to die.