one day, while bored

a child waits outside a department store and plays with an ashcan. crushed cigarettes become volcanoes or meteors and the sand becomes a desert and/or some intergalactic soil. the sand still has the traces of the store's emblem that was stamped in at the beginning of the day. It's pattern captivates the boy and the pattern becomes something more to him; a sign and message that he must follow. He wishes there were more ashcans around, so the entire message could be read. the boy walks out from under the overhang of the department store roof. He looks left and right for another ashcan. There is none in site, the boy retreats back to the shade of the overhang. a man passes and is about to but out his cigarette, smoked down to the filter. he, instead, gives it to the boy to play with, perhaps even talks to the child and plays with him there before going into the store.

the boy's teeth are too big for his mouth, especially the upper incisors. the man guesses that those are the boy's adult teeth and that is why they look so out of scale with the rest of his mouth. The man notices this, but does not know what to make of his observation. He asks the boy about his teeth. a conversation between them begins. perhaps about beef jerky or candy bars. the man wants to know if the boy is out in front of the store selling either or both of those things. the boy pulls out some softened chocolate from his pockets. It is melted along the aluminum wrapper. The man declines and the boy, too, decides the chocolate is not for him and tosses it into the ashcan. to be continued (figured out)...

info-mercial

story/character sketches based on well known info-mercial characters/scenarios.

frustrated woman can't open a jar
window blinds are too high to dust
bag won't fit all of person's belongings
knife dull- can't cut or accidentally cuts a person's finger
vacuum too heavy to lift upstairs.
old person lost in hallway- needs light fast.
someone who is "always tired of..."

teeth and nails

where do fingernails and teeth come from? how strange it is to have these things come out of our bodies. they are attached, but how? how do eyes stay where they are?

a girl, a boy, and a car

this is their story...

Undone

A young woman waits on the corner for the signal to change. She is wearing a summer dress. It is white with thin straps and a blue ribbon that cinches the dress around her waist. On the left strap of the dress is a cloth pin in the shape of a small red bird. The young woman considers the bird to be what makes the dress.

Her pride in the dress shows as she waits on the corner. She stands straight, her right foot set a full stride ahead of her left; she is in a pose indicating strength and motion. Her right palm rests against the light post, her fingers arched slightly. Only the tips touch the pole.

A businessman walks up behind her. He is on a cell phone and speaking loudly. The man's voice is everywhere, invasive, like a brisk wind mussing her hair. She steps closer to the edge of the curb and away from the man, keeping the small bird on her dress as visible as possible. More people gather around her at the corner; a small boy and his mother and a group of middle aged women. They are all talking, all fighting for attention of a petty sort. The young woman edges even closer to the curb.
The signal changes. The traffic stops. The young woman looks over the stopped drivers and their cars. The gazes vary, but each seem boredom and disinterested. The young woman imagines herself crossing the street and the wonderment her presence will incite. Look at that lovely young woman, she imagines them saying. And that dress; it was made for her and she for it. She looks as delicate as that bird on her dress, that little one just below her shoulder. Yes, yes, she and that bird are really something.

The young woman steps out onto the street, making sure to walk well ahead of the crowd behind her. Her sandals slap hard against the asphalt with every step. She looks straight ahead to the light post on the other side of the street. That is her exit, her departure from the world of onlookers. She will be gone and they will scarcely remember what they saw. And in this way she will give them something special; in this way she will be adored. She will be the girl who, if nothing else, had a beautiful bird on her dress.

The young woman reaches the other corner and steps up onto the curb. She resists looking back at those she has passed. The young woman presses the dress against her body, flattening any fabric that may have become crumpled in the walk across the street. She does not feel her pin as she smooths out her skirt. She looks down and it is not there. It must have fallen off as she crossed the street. She looks back, but does not see it. The bird is gone. The young woman begins to cry and runs down the block. She will have to face the next corner looking plain; plain and alone.

thesis

comedy

interlude (three lives...)

tragedy

i'm blinking off and on and off again

Outside the motel window, he can hear the traffic rushing down the freeway. it is steady and persistent, like a wind through the trees. He steps out onto the small motel balcony. he can feel the dust beneath his feet. he lefts his left foot; blackened. he sets it back down on the ground. He is drinking tap water from a plastic cup given to him by the motel. There are three others, still unused sitting, on the counter of the bathroom sink. The water is warm. he takes one last drink and tosses the water over the balcony, holds onto the cup. The water splashes over a patch of tall grass directly below. A stream or drainage canal runs along side the motel. It is overgrown with grass, its banks obscured. The man is unsure if there is even water flowing. He cannot hear the familiar rush of running water. It is silent in the early morning hours, the sun not yet peering over the walls of the distant freeway.

On the other side of the stream is a parking lot; asphalt worn down to mere gravel. A large truck crunches over the aggregate. The man finds the noise comforting; assuring. He tries to mimic the noise with his teeth but cannot. The truck parks at the end of the lot closest to the stream. The boundary between parking lot and stream is unclear. The grass has filled in the gaps. The truck's driver may have tumbled into the ravine had he driven another foot forward. The steepness of the stream's banks is masked by the grass, tall and still in the morning air with not even a cricket sounding.

A man gets out of the truck and walks toward a diner at the far end of the lot. It is a 24 hour diner, as indicated by their neon sign, red and half aglow. The man standing on the motel balcony tries to follow the other man's movement through the diner; find his booth. The diner's windows, though large, do not allow the man to watch as he desires. The man looks into the empty cup of water and shakes it to gather any remaining drops together. He wishes he hadn't tossed the water out. He thinks about getting more, but he doesn't want to track in dirt. It's not right, he thinks.


(Notes: wants to eat at diner. order cooked cinnamon apples. something allures him. tie in stream creek- find significance. girlfriend is in bathroom. in tub. hears water splash occasionally. thinks about her. the weight of her head on his shoulders/ chest. the trust it takes to fall asleep on someone. unspoken connection. cannot fall asleep on her. are they more apart than together? is she rushing things by following asleep on him? kids play in stream. drains tub, water can be heard outside. sun comes up. wind like sound from traffic. what is he wearing? figure out diner.

the man is wearing plaid boxers and a v-neck undershirt. he can feel the cold air against the small patch of skin the shirt leaves exposed.

girlfriend is in the bathrom/tub. he hears her yell, godamnit. walks back into room. smells something burnt. asks, while still on balcony, have you been...walks into bathroom. have i been what? nothing, he replies. i was going to ask if you were smoking. he looks down to see a row of extinguished matches sitting on the edge of the tub along with a half filled cup of orange juice. i spilled juice in the tub. that's why i yelled. yes, i can see. you're floating in pulp. that's why i always get no pulp. (perhaps g/f's name is norma.)

she is sitting the the tub, legs spread as far as the tub will allow, knees, like peaks, cresting just out of the water. The water is murky with soap and dead skin, fallen off and floating. the man sits on the toilet next to the bathtub. sticks his right hand in, swirls the water, finds the sounding rippling water comforting. He splashes the water on his girlfriend's chest. they laugh.

a bucket of ice, the one left in the room by the motel, is sitting atop the toilet tank. a small bottle of orange juice is inside. it floats now that most of the ice has melted to water. a man picks out a piece of ice, rubs it along his g/f's thigh. stop it, she says. don't be a jerk. sorry, he says. lets the ice cube go. it plunks into the tub. she sighs, swishes the water with her feet, pushing the ice cube away from her. it swirls around the tub. she leans her head sideways toward the man, still sitting on the toilet. she puts her hand on the tub's ledge, then his thigh. she rubs his knee. it tickles the man. he squirms. again, they both laugh.

get in, she says.
i can't. my feet are dirty.
that's the point. you don't get into a tub if you're clean.
look at my feet. he lifts a foot onto his knee. shows the sole to his g/f.
you're right, that's gross.
she rests her hand on his, pulls it toward her. leans her head on it. feels wet hair. odd sensation (DESCRIBE).
should i get out?
it's up to you.
she looks at him.
let me see your hand, he says
her flesh is wrinkled from the water. he traces along the ridges with his fingers. wait a couple more hours. you're not fully pickled.
she smiles. he edges away from her, bored.
where are you going? she aks
i don't know. bed, i guess.
he leaves her wading in the tub, and listens to her splashing as he goes back to the balcony. he look down to the tall grass and a small patch of bushes. he hears a light rustling of branches. a boy if playing outside with a stick, making his way through the grass. it goes up half his chest. The boy picks up a few rocks and throws them in the direction of the parking lot and a tall light pole at its perimeter. Some of the rocks hit the pole with a loud clang. it is a sound of victory for the boy. he jumps every time he makes a hit....

hears major splashes of water from bathroom. girlfriend is getting out. (edna?) he heads inside, rubs his feet vigorously on carpet. would rater have dirt on floor than on sheets. climbs into bed, covered by only a sheet. he is on the far ide, farthest from bathroom. turns on small, bedside wall sconce. She comes out of the bathroom naked, a towel wrapped round her hair. she is still wet from he bath. dry me off, will ya? she says. She walks toward the bed carrying another towel. she crawls onto the bed and sits astride him. he can feel her weight on his stomach; the pressure he body inflicts ad the shallow breaths his lungs are now forced to take. She gives him the extra towel and begins to dry her off. he can feel the water's dampness soak through the sheets. he is becoming cold. he tries her off faster now, rubbing with speed and effort. once her front is dry she turns around, sits facing away. she indicates she wants her hair dried. he pulls the towel off her hair. she slumps, lowering her head closer to him. her hair is clumped in thick strands like rope. it is dark; black. He squeezes the strands as if wringing a mop. she mews. ow, not so hard. he lightens up. scrunches the hair at its roots, rubs the strands from side to side. he is sprayed, on occasion, by loose droplets. it feels like a mist, like a gentle rain. his fingers grow tired, but he enjoys the spray. She turns back around, facing him now. and lies down on top of him. her body subsides, hangs off to the right of his. her naked, right thigh is all the remains of top of him. She adjusts herself, nestles her head into his shoulder. Her hair is still wet. he can feel it on his chest; on the patch of skin exposed by the v-neck undershirt. he is cold, uncomfortable. he can not move. he looks to his right, to the balcony. he hears the last of the bathwater drain in a loud slurp. he imagines the small whirlpool forming at the bottom of the tub. there is a gurgling noise outside the room. it is the sound of rushing water. drained bathwater, now in the stream. The noise is carried inside by the winds from the freeway, the sound of cars whirring and cutting against the air; a tear and ripple through the silence. His girlfriend, now asleep on top of him is now asleep. her breathing is deep. she exhales at regular intervals. he, then, exhales; his labored breathe is out of sync with hers. the pale blue light of morning gives way to the piercing yellow of the afternoon. he squints at the coming sunlight and exhales yet again, unsure of when his next breath will come.) (fix time shifts/time table) tie in diner or cut it out. tie in stream
somehow).

make story trilogy: boy at stream, man at hotel overlooking stream, man in truck at diner. (man told to follow the river, it runs parallel to the freeway, get off at certain exit.) truck scares the boy. he runs away (use boy from "there is much to be made"). story takes place in small town or freeway exit, not even town, just a rest stop. plains, dry. flat space. long views into nothing.

There is Much to be Made

story of a young boy playing outside, in the front yard/driveway. he lives on a hill. the street curves up and around; out of sight. coming up from around the bend is a stream of water; sudsy. someone is washing their car up the hill. the boy cannot see the source. be begins to collect leaves/small branches/dirt from beside the garage. he means to dam the water. make small pools out of it along the curb; a play land. he is moderately successful. the water's flow is constant. it braids and twists as it goes downhill. sometimes runs clear; sometimes runs sudsy. the day ends when the water stops flowing or when the water increases and washes the dam away. trickle can be heard as water falla into the storm drain/gutter. it echoes. the space is hollow. large enough for a small boy to play in. he peers down into the gutter. sees tennis balls/ frisbee/ coke cans. a car comes down the hill. its engine is loud. the boy jumps out of the street and up the driveway and past the gate into his backyard. He hides behind the house's air conditioning unit. the fan blows and spins in great, hot gusts; musses the boy's hair. he watches as the car passes; a large brown truck. it clanks and rumbles. The boy wants to return to his stream, but does not. he watches from a distance, not wanting to be seen. someone knows of his dam. his city has been found/tarnished. he picks up a rock and throws it in the direction of the dam. it flies over the low gate and into the street, missing the dam. it ricochets into the street and into a small patch of daisies in the neighbor's yard. the boy is satisfied. he has made his peace. he goes inside the house intent on reciting his afternoon.

vending machine story

there's a trick to picking a snack from the vending machine when someone is behind you, waiting. one can't be too decisive while picking a snack. i always pause, consider my options, rub either the dollar bill or spare quarters between my fingers. i don't do it obsessively; as if trying to start a fire by the sheer friction of my rubbing. i rub the money together with a light touch. i find coin rubbing to be abrasive after a while so, if all i have are coins, i throw them back into my pocket and jingle them around, making sure they never leave my palm. the coins must stay in my palm. a loss of a coin means a loss of control. i'd have to dig into my pocket to find that coin again, maybe lean over to one side as so many people do while picking change out of their pocket. for some reason, there is the belief that by leaning, the change will separate itself from the keys, from the dirty tissue, from the pennies that are no use at a vending machine. Such movement is not suave, it is not the work of a man of confidence. it is the motion of a nervous man who is truly lost, instead of a confident man merely pretending in a coy and playful way to be indecisive about the task before him; picking a snack, espcecially while an attractive woman is waiting behind him.

meeting an attractive woman at a vending machine is about the best situation a man can find himself in, if he plays it properly. After making several sighs and money rubbing noises, i usually turn to the woman in back of me and ask if she has made her selection; if she would like to purchase her snack. She will smile for a moment, considering the offer. sometimes she doesn't sometimes she just says thanks, buys her mustard flavored pretzels and leaves. fine, that's fine, i don't mind at all. i don't want to flirt with mustard breath. gross. gag me with a spoon, get out of my face. don't waste my time. the girl that smiles and considers....she's the keeper. she stands next to me, looks at the options with me. we must look like idiots, standing in front of a glowing box, deciding which snack will occupy the next 10 minutes of our live, which one will carry us to lunch. the task appears to be simple. pick a snack and go, but such decisions are not easily made, especially when another person in present.

first there is the debate between salty and sweet. chips or cookies. candy or jerky. either way, i'll end up thirsty. i look at the prices and wonder why a four pack of oreos is pricier than a bag of doritos. i look at the ounces of each package and how filling each snack would be. doritios would give a satisfying crunch with every bite, while oreos, because of the fat content, might seem more filling. both have a high rate of crumbs, but chip crumbs are easier to wipe from the mouth. oreo crumbs line the lips and stain the teeth black. that is no good at the work place. now the debate between salt and sweet has turned into a decision of neatness. the neatness of a snack is important in a social situation. first dates rarely take place at rib joints. it's too messy; too much of a strain on an already unsteady relationship. first dates should involve easy to eat food, something like grilled chicken breast, or spaghetti if you are one of a commendable amount of dexterity in the finger joints. if one wants to impress, an asian restaurant; chop stick handling is always fun and playful. all this comes later, of course. the deal must be set first, and all this starts with the choice of snack at the vending machine.

ask what female wants. what she feels like. see if she too is indecisive. offer to buy one of her two choices so they can share. discuss the pros and cons of each of her choices. share your laments about the recent change out of twix for milky ways. find a way to relate vending machine grid choices to Battleship. offer her crisp dollar if hers isn't taken by machine. go over own choices in head. anticipate what she's thinking. proximity. what her snack choice says about her. is she truly indecisive, is he playing the game too? cheez it vs. better cheddar. skittles vs. starburst.

sees popcorn in vending machine. thinks about buying and popping it. will the popping be too distracting. too ostentatious a display...gratuitous preening. plus, the microwave does not work properly. how can he pop popcorn when the "3" doesn't work. the buttery scent could act as an aphrodisiac. there is still much to consider when it comes to the popcorn.

man wants to mention things he has noticed about his female coworker, but is unsure of how his compliments will be received since he has never actually spoken to her. will he be thought of as observant admirer or freaky stalker. it is a fine line. he must chose the right detail. must not make any mention of things he has found in her car/trashcan or that he watches her go to her car/digs through her trashcan. a balance must be formed. action should be kept to a minimum.

in the elevator

story takes place in an elevator. perhaps with two people, maybe only interior monologue; thoughts. getting in on a floor, up and down. needs lobby. takes stairs. watches people get on and off. maybe it's a janitor. or a visitor. a visitor who thinks about the janitor. how does mop water get up to the 12th floor? how can we get water that high? is it dangerous? elevator operator in rasputin s.f. long haired asian guy with glasses, sitting on a stool; pink hello kitty cd player blasting something obscure. elevator buttons were smoothed and greasy. think about elevator attendants/bathroom attendants/parking lot attendants/ jobs whose general purpose is mainly to wait. getting paid to wait; to not get bored.

the car and the fly

guy invites woman over for dinner. he even offers to pick her up and take her to his place. he makes a large turkey dinner and gives her lots of wine. his plan is to feed/booze her up so much that when he drives her home she falls asleep in his car and he can feel like a confident/protective man like in the buick commercials. he wants to imagine his 89' corolla being an '89 buick le sabre and he drives down winding roads and smiles assuredly over the woman knowing that both he and she will be safe as they cruise along in his luxury sedan. he then remembers the rest of the commercial involves childen in the backseat also sleeping and soon the car turns into a stained cloth seats sticky with grape juice, cracker, crumbs, and three gallons of bubble fluid that turned the whole back seat into a slip and slide for a week. the fantasy fades, but the man is still intent on asking the woman out. he needs to project the confidence of a man who drives a stylish yet safe automobile. this is what women look for; a cautious cat with a flair for the dramatic. he walks toward the woman with long strides until her realizes his fly is down. doesn't know how to act. where to go. she has made eye contact with him. what to do in such a situation. fake sack scratch? say something like, it's drafty in here, try to be discreet, walk away, ask her to zip it for him, ask her to reach in for a special surprise, ask her if it's noticeable, ask her if it turns her on, ask her if she would like to do the same to her own pants, ask her if she ever wished her vagina had a zipper or perhaps a zip loc seal to ensure freshness. all his ideas sound dynamite, it is now only a matter of choosing which one.

Wha' Happened?

somehow write a story that incorporates a character who insists on becoming famous by coming up with catchphrases. catchphrases include: traditional slice, new school slice, sorries, and suckers. maybe along the lines of mike lafontaine in A Mighty Wind. also likes to ask, hey guys, what's up with factories?

quotes and concepts

"why would someone choke on pork unless they didn't know how to chew?"

"let's not turn this rape into a murder."

+handi-snaks- always biting one's nails

would you stop it with the handi-snaks?

what are you talking about?

stop biting your nails. jesus, christ, it's not a sandwich


man is in library at one of those study desks, looking at maps/history of spoons in the ohio river valley
a woman sits on a study deskk facing him, but is out of sight due to partition. man can only see top of woman's head/hair. shades on her head. listens for drinking, writing, highlighting, page turning, sighs. drops pen on floor in order to look down, see if partition runs length of desk. wants look at feet/shoes. sandals or shoes. nail polish or not. imagines/fantasizes about woman on other side/what she is reading. looks for hands scratching head. ink on hands, nail polish watch, ring, bracelets, wrist size, arm hair, nail length, shape of nail, possible scent wafting over. a male visitor stops at her desk. a laugh. whispering. man gets jealous. hears cloth rubbing. a sign of embrace. imagines whispering into woman's ear, but can not do so w/o the lisp. ruins fantasy. sees part of purse peeking over edge of desk. imagines what is in purse. what secrets of her life are hidden within its depths and whether or not the items that may or not be held within are as important to her as the man is making them out to be to him. interior monologue.

a short short

a short writing exercise about a local diner that sucks ass:

Watson’s: Where People Go to Die

I pulled up the restaurant about two in the afternoon and found ample parking right out front, which I should have taken as a bad sign. I was supposed to meet my friend there, which I am always queasy about. Meeting people at restaurant is always a chore because I never know if they are there or not when I arrive. Do I tell the hostess I’m waiting, do I walk around the restaurant like an idiot looking for people? Having to walk through a pharmacy/restaurant like Watson’s is even stranger.

“Sir, are you going to buy that Preparation H?”

“Uh, no. I’m just waiting for a friend.”

I was fortunate enough that the aforementioned scenario did not befall me. Jen was sitting at one of Watson’s patio tables just outside the door. She was engrossed in Star Magazine and had already set herself up with a glass of water.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you want to sit inside?”

“Yeah, whatever. I don’t care,” I said.

“Is it nice inside?”

“It can be. You want to take a look before making your decision?”

Jen walked into the restaurant, took off her shades and inspected the shabby chic interior. She deemed the place suitable and wound her way over to a booth by the kitchen. Meanwhile, I carried her glass of water into the restaurant. An elderly woman with popcorn hair looked at me strangely. I guess she supposed I was a disheveled young man with enough nerve to bring in my own glass of water.

The original booth Jen had picked out was large enough to seat a small circus, so she chose a smaller one by the front window. I put the water down on the table, slid into the booth and came face to face with a reflection of myself against the mirrored wall. Rather disgusted by the image I turned away and focused my attention to the table, which was missing a menu for me to peruse. I looked around the restaurant, assessing the diversity of the patrons. What I found were three tables scattered around the restaurant, filled with the senior citizen set. It was too late for breakfast and too early for the early bird special that started at four. I wasn’t sure why they were there or where they found the energy to stay out of the house so long, but there they were. One man wore a fisherman’s cap and came in with a woman wearing shorts with a Hawaiian floral pattern. Outside, a man looking like Robert Duvall’s grandfather was sipping coffee. Other than those few and most likely loyal patrons, the place was empty. I can’t blame the place. It was two in the afternoon on a Monday. How much business could there be?

A waitress came by and gave me a menu and asked if we wanted anything to drink. I said no. Jen said that the water more than quenched her thirst and needed no further beverage at that time. The waitress left the table and busied herself somewhere off in the distance.

“Oh, I got a breakfast menu,” Jen said.

“Yeah, I did too,” I replied. It’s ‘cause they serve breakfast all day. They cater to our needs like that.”

“ I see.”

There was a brief pause in conversation at which point Jen decided to stretch her arms. It was an action that also included stretching and rubbing the skin over her eyes. In fact, most of the stretching had to do with her face skin more than her arms. After her hands left her face, they dropped to her sides; her elbows not getting the full work out they so richly deserved.

I told her, “I’ve never seen a stretch whose main goal was just to rub the eyes. It’s like your arms just gave out.”

She laughed, then stopped, then asked if I wanted to take it outside and made a fist with her right hand. No, she didn’t do that. But, she said she was a big fan of stretching and then demonstrated what a full back stretch entailed. It was pretty stretchy and impressive. Just then the waitress came by and asked us for our orders.

“Ladies first,” I said

“I’ll have a hamburger, please,” Jen told the waitress.

I told Jen that I thought ladies first meant I was going to order first. She laughed, the waitress laughed, and I felt warm inside knowing they appreciated my humor or were at least kind enough to give false, but generous laughs. I asked the waitress what shake flavors they had.

She rattled of the typical vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry, before launching off into a virtual cornucopia of fruits ranging from pineapple to blueberry, to Oreo (yes, Oreo is now a fruit), to raspberry, to banana, and then back to Oreo because she ran out of flavors. She gave a long hard squint in the direction of the kitchen, Clint Eastwood style, just to show she was trying extra hard to remember everything. After all that, I would’ve felt like a jackass if I’d have just ordered vanilla, so I went with the strawberry to go along with my cheeseburger.

Jen and I continued the stretch talk, believing it was the best course of action, given the circumstances. She told me of a friend who twists her wrists when she gets excited. I said that was okay, but nothing compared to my friend’s habit of waddling in place and shaking his hands whenever he gets nervous, especially while playing games designed for 10 year olds at Dave and Buster’s. Eventually the food came. Jen ripped open her burger bun and looked at the secret sauce.

“Oh, this stuff has to go.”

“Is it like, Thousand Island?”

“I don’t know what it is, but it’s coming off.”

I followed suit and almost drenched my curly fries in Watson’s nasty secret sauce. The conversation between Jen and me continued as we covered a wide array of subjects including children who wear turtlenecks and my dad’s propensity to yell. My milkshake arrived shortly thereafter. It had real strawberry pieces. It was a monster of a shake and looked as thick as yogurt, custard style yogurt even. After a relentless amount of good humored and relaxing conversation it started getting stale, mostly due to my lack of witty rhetoric. Jen pulled out her celebrity magazine and started to make fun of Britney Spears’s flabby abs. Jen was being brutal. I wanted to defend the poor lass, but Jen wasn’t having any of it. When the check arrived Jen said she was going to the gym to work off the 10 pound bun of bread she just ingested. I said I was going back to my apartment to sit on my ass.

After all our celebrity gossip exhausted itself, I walked up to the pharmacy half of the establishment to pay the bill. The woman behind the register had seen better days. She wasn’t what one would call haggard, but she wasn’t far away. She was a woman who looked to be in her early 40’s with fake, silver nails and a spray tan so thick it could have been Minwax varnish. As I paid the bill I noticed a small display of Epsom Salts, which I didn’t even know were still being manufactured. Maybe, I thought, this place is an old time diner, after all. The woman handed me my change, wished me a nice day, and continued about her business.

I left the diner and took one last look back. The glow of fluorescent light tubes filled my eyes and drew me to the false, dropped ceiling so prevalent in office buildings. I wanted to think of something profound and witty to say as I exited, but nothing came to mind. I bid Jen farewell and wished her luck at the gym, a place I had only heard about. I walked to my car and drove away. It wasn’t until about 10, ass burning minutes later that I realized I really needed some Preparation H.

two lives moving toward a dissapearing center

clyde (or herb from "the rise and fall of a most unpleasant man") lives in an apartment with his girlfriend it is a one bedroom. after an office party and many drinks later, clyde comes home convinced that his life needs order. this realization occurs after a lengthy discussion with one of the office secretaries who had a mad crush on clyde, but was always afraid to tell him so. during a particularly innuendo laden conversation about filing systems, clyde felt a sudden need to organize his life (add conversation b/w clyde and secretary). clyde took it upon himself to reassess his life and thought long and hard while watching grizzly adams, that he needed to be alone to find himself and not let the rush of emotions that had come on as a result of his alcoholism control him. in order to keep track of and visually convey to his g/f his emotional state, clyde developed a system to show how he felt. he moved out of the room he shared with his g/f and moved into their apt.'s living room. he bought a small tent and camped out there. he needed to maintain privacy, but wanted to remain connected to his "emotional monitoring officer": or EMO aka, his g/f. the water, but not light proof tent would allow the couple to see each other in silhouettes, or their physical essence, without being distracted by clothes/physical attractiveness. as time wore on, clyde found that he need another tend, mainly for space. he kept needing more room until, eventually the whole living room was a nesting doll of various tents, culminating in all their sheets being hung from the ceiling a mere 3 inches away from the actual wall. after a particularly insightful/moving bit of psycho babble from life coach extraordinate, dr. phil, clyde came to discover that what he needed to do was compartmentalize his emotional states into separate categories and understand where each emotion stems from, thus conquering the uncertainty it can produce in life. dr. phil's stirring expose on peruvian pregnant preteens and their petulant prenatal offspring opened clyde's eyes. a rather colorful add for closet world also affected clyde in ways that formerly, only cheap porn and hot pockets could do. unfortunately, because clyde watched both programs while in the third circle of his tents, both the sound and picture quality of the tv was poor, since it was placed on the outter most circle. clyde's nesting egg of tents came to represent his emotional state of the day, the further toward the center he was, the darker the emotions and the less amount of contact he would want with the outside world. the tents were loosely based on dante's circles of hell, maslow's pyramid of needs, his drunken conversation with the office secretary, and his childhood dream of living in some sort of homemade fort, preferably subsisting on a diet of smores and hi-c.

conclusion of the story ends with tents collapsing somehow/ for some reason. clyde is trapped in the center circle. his g/f, stuck only a circle away from him, desperately tries to reach him, thinking they are in the same circle. the two find each other and mirror each other's silhouettes and momentarily stand together, letting their shadows merge into a dark, amorphous shape, neither person distinguishable from the other. they both sit down. clyde asks her to think of an object and he'll try to guess it. they put their foreheads together and watch as the nylon gently billows with each other's breath. (a series of thoughts and guesses). their list becomes more random, desperate, until there is only disconnection. things fall apart. there is nothing between them. not thoughts, not words, not love, only the vague but ominous feeling that they each don't belong, and both were, inextricably drawn to each other, to the present, to that very moment in their lives. the reason for that moment is unclear. they only know that it is happening, now,before them; they realize that they are alone, together, and the center they tried so hard to find has utterly escaped they know they are here, but can never be Here. a place. a distinguishable point of reference, autonomous from the rest of their lives, from the stream of moments, the current of emotion. and so they lie there, motionless, moving (floating) through time as aimless as they began; their limp silhouettes consumed by the whole of night's languor. (look up last lines from interterm story, or whichever story was titled, Alone, Together)

notes on the story:
alternate beginnings...instead of merging unpleasant man with this, have characters begin by lying in bed in the morning. spooning. the sun shines through the curtains, but rather than flood the apt. in an amber glow, it is a cool, winter light, muted, glacial light, a light that brings with it not warmth, but the crisp chill of early morning, a sky veiled in a thin veneer of gray, and the distinct gratefulness that there is another body in the bed; a warm spot to crowd around and take refuge in. pleasant conversation turns into argument over clyde's lack of cleaning skills and the ease in which he becomes offended/hurt. he in turn sulks/broods, moves out into the tent.

alternate phrasings of last line:
their limp silhouettes washed over by the whole of night's languor.
their limp silhouettes engulfed by the whole of night's languor.
their limp silhouettes swallowed by the whole of night's languor.

description of g/f trying to find clyde:
fumbled toward him. they fumbled toward each other.

The Rise and Fall of a Most Unpleasant Man: the Herb Brendle Saga

here's a flash fiction i wrote for The Synchronocity of Indeterminacy. the idea behind the site is that people look at a random photo and write a story about it in one minute. so far, i haven't read any mind blowing one minute stories. i didn't read the part about having to write the story in a minute until after i wrote for an hour. so, i cheated, but the work is far superior. i didn't formally submit the to the site because i didn't want to get a flurry of comments telling me i did the assignment wrong. anyway, here is the story based on the photo they posted on may, 25th. the photo, by itself, can be viewed here.

The Rise and Fall of a Most Unpleasant Man: the Herb Brendle Saga

or

A Two Act Comedy of Tragic Proportions

Herb: An Introduction

Herb had been sober two years. Coworkers noticed the difference. His shirts were correctly buttoned and free of that booze smell that used to permeate all he wore. The random stains from whereabouts unknown also faded away and were replaced by crisp and iron dress shirts, some even with monograms. At the two year anniversary of Herb’s sobriety, the office threw a party. Cake was served; chocolate, topped with fresh strawberries. Herb came late to his own party. People talked. Carol, one of the secretaries said he was probably barfing all over himself in the office bathroom, drunk and disheveled, eyes more red than the light he was going to run on the way home. Herb did, in fact, stumble out of the bathroom with red eyes and an intoxicated grin, the one that was usually hidden behind an unshaven face and the bloated cheeks of a four day booze binge. Everyone stopped their revelry. Carlisle, the floor supervisor, slammed the copy machine shut he was so disappointed at Herb’s apparent lack of self control. To break the silence, Herb said, “I’m drunk…..drunk on life.” Office workers looked around. Was he alcohol drunk or silly, stupid Herb drunk.

After a heated exchange between office janitor, Julio, and Herb, not to mention a plunger induced black eye, all was well. Herb explained that he had become so overcome by the support his coworkers gave him that day he went into the bathroom and cried. He was too ashamed to admit as much earlier and he apologized to everyone for the confusion concerning his condition.

Herb: The Fall

A year and a half later, Constance, the assistant floor manager, had received a promotion and was climbing the corporate ladder and even moved to an office three floors higher. Her old office, eager to support their coworker decided to throw a party. In order to accommodate the whole floor, it was decided that the party had to be moved outside the office and to another locale. Craig, the Human Resources guy, was supposed to make the arrangements. Due to an extreme allergic reaction to a paper clip he swallowed earlier in the week, Craig didn’t make the reservations until the night of the party. The only space available was a banquet room at an older roller skating rink on the far side of town, over by the Tupperware plant, where the streets have more weeds than asphalt.

Everyone called Craig an asshole for making the reservations so last minute. He shrugged and put on his black sweater, the one with the red and gray stripes, the one that was mysteriously found in the women’s restroom along with one of Carol’s earrings. Regardless of his sexually promiscuous past and poor planning skills, people grudgingly showed up to the Craig’s reserved banquet room at the Fiesta Roller Rink. Craig, being the master planner that he was, only managed to put up some streamers and a few balloons. He didn’t even spring for helium balloons. He made Tricia, the Supply Rep. blow all the balloons up herself. Everyone called Craig an asshole yet again and he was getting fed up with it. Carol wanted to comfort him in more ways than one, but she kept her distance. Craig noticed this and wished they could run away together and live off the land like Grizzly Adams. He wanted to be a manly man and support his lady love. However, he was just a modest man of modest means and could not support the likes of someone like Carol, so full of youth, vigor, and a fashion sense that dictated red print t-shirts and pink scarves were acceptable and even considered trendy in certain circles.

Herb brought chips and dip to the party, but refused to share. He stood in the corner of the room, cradling the chips like a kitten and stuffing his face with onion dip. It was gross. He later loosened up and let people use his dip as long as the chips didn’t have ruffles, ridges, or any other unnatural chip shape alteration. Pringles were strictly prohibited.

As the night progressed, a piñata was hung from the ceiling. Amelia, being one of the employees with a little extra weight on her was invited to take the first swing; maybe break off the poor elephant’s leg; get some goods early in the game. She took a swing blindfolded. She missed and everyone laughed. The men circled around and watched her breasts swing just a half second ahead of her body, testing the limits of her green, silk top. At swing 17 she finally cracked that sucker open. Candy flew everywhere. Herb, still angered by the fact that he had to share his dip, dove for the candy. He looked like a cross between an eagle swooping in for its prey and a beached manatee. He garbled the things up right quick. It wasn’t until candy 389 did he realize they were booze candies. Each little chocolate was wrapped in a liquor bottle style aluminum foil. The chocolates not only tasted like alcohol, but had alcohol in them. Herb tried to stand up and had to hang onto the piñata for balance. Dean, the mail boy, could barely keep the piñata in the air with Herb’s flab pulling down so hard on it. Herb walked over to the strawberry margarita mix and downed the whole pitcher like it was Kool-Aid. His lips turned red and matched his bloodshot eyes.

Everyone started to stare at Herb in disbelief. Craig, pained by the throbbing in his loins after secretly staring at Carol for most of the night, stared longingly at the bathroom door. Carol, missed Craig’s pained expression and was instead looking at the humiliating spectacle that was drunken Herb. Julio, sensing his long time crush Veronica was drunk, asked her to dance. He knew she was gone because only a drunk girl would go out in a sweater as funky as the one she was wearing; a furry, fuzzy thing that looked as if a blind lady knitted it with her arthritis addled feet. Veronica accepted Julio’s advances, which were quick and smooth. He wanted to spin her to look at her ass, but she refused such maneuvers. Ashamed at being a pervert, Julio stared at his feet and tried to play the coy, embarrassed love interest. Veronica took the bait and intertwined her hand with Julio’s. His palm was sweaty, but he didn’t care. He was too focused on Veronica’s ass to care about his sweaty palm.

Meanwhile, Carol, along with some of the interns, continued to watch Herb writhe on the floor. The interns twisted their necks to figure out how exactly Herb became so entangled with a cardboard elephant. They debated whether he was trying to stand up or hump the thing. The consensus was a little of each. The upper echelon of the office; the managers and more reserved suits of the company, stayed toward the back of the room. They watched in awe of Herb and the seeming lack of concern his coworkers had for his well being. What was once a group of empathetic individuals had turned into drunken revelers eager to watch a known alcoholic pour guacamole on his chest and do the Electric Slide with no musical accompaniment or pants. The suits took notes on tiny clipboards and PDA’s. This would all go in their employees’ files; this would all be considered when it came time for employee reviews. As for Herb…well, his antics were humorous enough that the execs were willing to let him slide, let him slip by for old time’s sake. As long he proved to be entertaining, there was no sense in firing him, not unless he affected production. Then, of course, he had to go. Alcoholics of that nature were not to be tolerated; people with little self control would not last at such an esteemed financial planning institution. If a person were to survive they had to be smart, driven, professional, or so completely wasted they couldn't help but do something hilarious. Lucky for Herb, he was just drunk enough to get that particular job done. That's the kind of drive and loyalty they look for at Sherman, Sherman and Owens. That's what keeps the morale high and the money flowing. God bless you, Herb. You you slurry worded little bastard.

Herb: The Later Years

died of psorosis of the liver. funeral. company helped pay. some employees attended. drank champagne at reception. some one crowned new, company alcoholic. etc. etc. (more to come...)

a scene of dialogue for a yet unwritten story

Inside a bakery...

"do you want your own knish?"

"no, i'm not that hungry. can we just split one?"

"they're only a buck each, why don't i just buy two?"

"i don't want a whole one. and then i'll end up throwing it away after."

"i'll just eat what you don't finish."

"then you'll be too full for dinner. i didn't come out here to see you stuff your face with knish. we're splitting the knish. just get one. the goddamn deli lady has been staring at us for five minutes. she already thinks you're an asshole for arguing with me. order the knish so we can get out of here."

"fine. excuse me, can i have one of those potato knishes, please. thanks"

(description of action. watching her take the knish from the tray. some cosmic signficance. attitude toward characters also significant. whatever)

whispers...."don't forget to leave a tip."

"there's no tip jar, how can i leave a tip? i'm not going to tip a woman for pulling a knish from a display case. what am i going to do? give her a dollar? that's as much as a knish. i could buy another knish for that price. and i'm not going to leave change. 'hey thanks for that sweaty labor, getting that knish out and all. here's fifty cents.'what kind of cheap shit is that?"

"shut up, she can hear you."

"she knows what's going on. i think she's aware of the fact that she doesn't have a tip jar. it's her own fault. i didn't put her in this position. if she wants a tip, she'd make it easy to tip her. i don't need some awkward exchange. tentative hands, half outstretched like she's some charity case. (narrator intrudes: compares this tipping situation to tipping the barber. they're right there. hand them folded overr bills. hand them the money and run. when the money is unflolded, you're already out the door.) like you said, let's just get out of here."

they leave the bakery. walk along the street.

"where are you going? i just bought you a knish and now you act like it's laced with anthrax. do you want this thing or not? 'cause i'll eat the whole..."

"will you just shut up? i can't talk to you right now."

she grabs the bag from his hand and rips off a piece of the knish. chews the whole mouthful. continues walking quickly away from him. enters book store.

"hey, i can't go in a bookstore with a knish. it says no food or drinks."

"that's not my problem."

"i'll just finish what's left. meet you inside."

"you're not really going to eat it, are you?"

"no, i'm going to stand outside and cuddle with a knish, maybe sculpt the mashed potato into the statue of liberty. of course i'm going to eat it."

"but, i might want some later."

"that's why i wanted to buy two."

"just put it back in the bag and twist tie it up. we'll eat it later."

(blah, blah, blah. browsing bookstore. time elapses)

outside bookstore...

"finally, i was so hungry."

guy pulls out knish.

"here, you want some?"

"no, i don't want anymore now."

"what? you made me wrap this shit up because you might be hungry later and now you don't want it? why the hell didn't you let me eat it before we went in the store?"

"don't yell at me. i didn't know if i would wanted it or not, so i wanted you to save me some just in case."

"did the fact that i hadn't eaten anything all day cross your mind? did you somehow forget that the reason we bought the knish in the first place was because the only thing i've eaten was a banana? this is why i wanted seperate knishes. never again will i split food with you again."

"it's not my fault you're hungry. you should've ate something before we left. and don't try to make this my fault. "

"i should have eaten something."

"thank you. my point, exactly, now we can drop the whole thing."

"no, no. i mean, you said 'you should have ate something...' you should have said, "you should have eaten something. you used the wrong tense."

"oh my god, this is not happening. do not turn this whole thing into being my fault. i'm not going to take the blame for your stupidity. and don't you dare correct my english and stand there with your smug, self satisfied little grin. i swear to god..."

"hey, hey. there's no need to bring god into this. he never cheated me out of a knish. besides, it's not polite to swear. it's somewhere up there with not tipping bakery workers. 'thou shall always tip the knish lady.' i'm up there on the sinner's scale, right? selfish assholes are sure to burn a toasty death, right?... yeah, okay. go ahead and ignore me. cause that's the mature thing to do. this isn't first grade. we're adults and we can talk about feelings. can you talk about your feelings? cause i can talk about mine. guess what? today's conversation is sponsored by the letter "B." for bitch."

gently, the night

from euclid's "elements" book one, postulate five: If two lines are drawn which intersect a third in such a way that the sum of the inner angles on one side is less than two right angles, then the two lines inevitably must intersect each other on that side if extended far enough.

use def. as epigraph for story concerning old woman and her three dreams. each line representing a dream and the time line from which it comes; the intersection of said time lines; the limitless plane on which they all exist; the infinite nature of time; the loss of the concept of time and the slow disintegration of time into one plane in which there are endless amounts of lines, the original three now destroyed; breakdown of laws of time, science, math; relativity, the speed of time vs. the perceived speed of time; if time and perceived time stream at different rates, does it really matter to the person perceiving it because of the lack of ability to alter that perception (i.e. a woman with alzheimer's) woman lives in mexico. has fever. dreams ensue.
maybe drop the mathematical aspect of the story. keep it simple. focus on the three nights, dreams. use 2 page time sketch as a foundation.
glass, sand, time.
possible title: gently, the night

story shorts

• story based on the premise that a man wants to get both physically and emotionally close to women but can not because of a daffy duck like lisp that prevents him from whispering seductively into their ears. perhaps goes to linguistic specialist. has long conversations about language/meaning/semantics. engages in free association exercises. gertrude stein like poems emerge. finds in addition to lisp, has issues with teeth, smile, and taste buds, especially those sensitive to bitter flavors.
  

• drunken man at coffee/tea bar watches folk guitarist play in courtyard out in back. the cement is actually a large chess board. man walks around the 5'-0" queen chess piece. mothers cover their childrens' eyes. man sits down, arranges pawns in a cirlce around him. asks not to be disturbed unless it is for free refills on his iced capuccino.