Writing Resolution 5

PEN IS MIGHTIER

An unbelievably fat woman dressed as Princess Leia gave me a magic ballpoint pen not too long ago.

I was at a writing expo, so I didn't ask her why she was in costume (or why she chose the bikini instead of . . . any other outfit the Princess wore), but I assumed she was promoting something. The pen didn't have any text on it, just looked like your run-of-the-mill Bic-type ballpoint. She told me it was magic when she handed it to me, and I didn't believe her, otherwise I would've started using it sooner.

One afternoon a couple of months later, I grabbed the pen from my backpack, and jotted down some notes for a presentation at work, and they turned out to be truly inspired. I got a promotion out of that. And the next time I used the pen, I wrote--almost without thinking--a wondrous short story for my nephew about a child who sleepwalks and wakes up in a fairy land where everything you ever dreamed you could be came true. I entered it into the Writers of the Future contest and was a finalist, and it was run on the Starship Sofa podcast.

I remembered how I'd gotten the pen, at that boring little writing expo at the airport Hilton, and put two and two together.

From then on, I only used the magic pen to write things that were important. I needed to parcel it out. A second short story (even better than the first) came next, and I started on a novel. It felt like the best thing I'd ever written, and I found myself feeling spent and exhilarated, like I'd just run a marathon or had sex with dark-haired twins.

My sister came over on Sunday, dropping off her four year old while she went to see the CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST remake with her latest boyfriend. I turned on the television for the lad, then went into the bathroom to dump and shave. He must have gone into the study and taken the magic pen while I was in there. I paid him no mind since my nephew likes to draw, and didn't even think about it until he came into the laundry room to tell me his pen didn't work anymore and he needed another one. I bounded up the stairs, two by two, knowing somehow which pen he had been talking about.

All the power had been wasted. I stopped just inside the living room and saw the magic pen abandoned on the floor, all out of ink and depressingly pale, like a dead fish left in the sun.

Rage filled me. I probably would have murdered the child, but I stopped when I saw the boy's artwork. There were seven amazing portraits of members of my family, done in the masterpiece style of a young Rembrandt scattered about the table.

My nephew asked me again if I had another pen for one more drawing. Of the cat.

pardon the interruption

The other day Jeff was telling me that the BBC got flooded with angry calls and emails after having one of those godless annoying pop-ups advertising another show dork onto the screen during a recent episode of "Doctor Who." Many loyal viewers were upset and, since the BBC is technically supposed to be people-owned, the station made a public apology and vowed not to let it happen again.

I usually wish I lived in the UK once or twice a week. Thinking back to times when Jeff and I were engrossed in a programme, only to have Kyra Sedgwick or Holly Hunter's fucking visages rape themselves onto the screen to promote another show, I did so once again.

Now back to more mediocre attempts at writing.

Rish "Which are still better than you'll manage today" Outfield

Writing Resolution 4

Alright, I forced myself to write a little story, then spent thrice as long making it exactly one hundred words long. Happy now, muse?

FLASHCARDS

Rebecca sat Dani down at the kitchen table. "You can do this, honey," she assured the toddler, and held up the first flashcard. "Tree!" Dani said. "Good. Next?" This card had a sports car on it. "Car!" The next was of an elephant. "Efant!" Rebecca made her daughter pronounce it correctly, then held up the next flashcard. "Fish!" Next: "Sun!" Next: "Candy!" Rebecca held up another one. Dani looked at it for a moment, puzzled. Then tears sprang to her eyes. "Monster!" the child wailed. Rebecca turned the flashcard around. How had a photo of Glenn Beck gotten in there?

Whoops, I forgot to write something today.

Do I have to?

It's not fun anymore.

Writing Resolution 3

AGELESS

Cody looked closer at the little plastic square. "Ageless," it said, "Do not eat." It had come with his beef jerky, and he had nearly thrown it away. But that word, "ageless" captivated him.What would it be like to live forever? To never grow old, never lose his hair like Dad, never strain on the toilet like Grampa? If someone lived long enough, they could rule the world.

Clearly, whoever had made Ageless didn't want others sharing in their immortality, using the warnings to frighten people away. Cody was braver than that. Smarter. He sliced into the packet and consumed the sand-like substance inside. Soon, he'd be ageless too.

Funeral services for
CODY JUDY JENSON
Will be held at Renton Mortuary
April 26th at 3:00pm.

Writing Resolution 2

Dammit, this ended up too long too.

BEYOND THE FENCE

A gust of wind yanked the kite from Alexi's grasp and carried it two blocks before releasing it. He watched as it flitted above the sidewalk for a moment before it dropped into the Swirskys' backyard, disappearing from view behind their ten foot fence. Alexi despaired. The Swirskys were an odd bunch of religious nuts who moved in at the end of the summer, paid some workers to put up the huge fence, and lived in isolation behind it. But Alexi had mowed lawns for three weeks to buy that kite, and he wasn't about to let it go. He grunted, strained, and reached, but couldn't reach the top of the fence. They really didn't want him coming in there, did they?

Finally, he took several steps back then ran at the fence, jumping as high as he could, catching the top of the fence and holding on for dear life. He pulled, using his feet to help him, and managed to hoist himself up to the top of it. The kite's string was right there before him, and he hopped down into the Swirskys' backyard to go after it.

One of the Swirsky children was holding the kite, glancing at it in puzzlement. He was filthy, his hair long and matted, wearing brown-stained clothing covered with mud (or worse). As Alexi approached him, he saw two more Swirsky children, young girls of six or so, gathering up the string. They were just as filthy, their eyes big and dark. "That's my kite," Alexi said, but froze when the children smiled at him. Their teeth were also brown, and very sharp. The fence hadn't been built to keep him out, but to keep them in.

Writing Resolution 1

Unfortunately, my first attempt at writing a drabble ended up being two hundred and forty words long. Damnation.

And no, I'm not going to hack and slash it just to fit into a silly arbitrary goalpost. It's hard enough for me to actually do this every day. So, here's "drabble" number one:


FEEDER

Carlitos had been much calmer since we'd gotten the birdfeeder. Usually so hyperactive and demanding, my son now sat in his little Mighty Thor throne and stared out the window while I got my work done. Every once in a while, the boy would laugh and say, "A red one!" or "Ohh, that one's big!" And when I sent off my first assessment, I came into the living room and joined him. Sparrows, robins, starlings, and finches all lit on the feeder at one point or another, enjoying the nuts and seeds we had loaded in there the day before. I tired of it quickly, but Carlitos stayed in his observation seat rather than watching the TV or wanting to play video games. The feeder had been a wise investment, and I mentally thanked my Aunt Gretchin for suggesting it.I was washing the pizza tray at the sink that evening when I heard a strange noise at the window. I was surprised to see several squat, lumpy creatures with luminous eyes climbing down the chain and gathering on the birdfeeder to examine it. One of them tasted a sunflower seed, spat it out, and chittered to the others. I suppose they were goblins, I don't know what else to call them. One of them noticed me watching them and the whole group turned and fixed me with such baleful, sad expressions that I found a lump growing in my throat. I stepped away from the window.

Carlitos woke me early the next morning, standing beside my bed. "Daddy, why is there raw meat tied to the birdfeeder?" he asked.

Writing Resolution Announcement

For twenty years now, I have wanted to be a writer and have been keeping track of the fiction I write. It's been a while since I looked over the numbers, but I don't have to have a database in front of me to know that I don't write nearly enough and hardly ever finish my stories. And when I do write and do finish, nobody ever reads it.

There's this dude the Drabblecast just mentioned who vowed to post a hundred word story on his website (or blog) every day for a year. I guess that was a while back, and he actually accomplished his goal and is able to hold his head up high when people recognize him in bookstores or at urinals.

Well, I figure I've got to be at least be one fifty-second as good a writer as he is, so I thought I'd try to do it for a week. You know, for the kids?

Let's see if I can actually accomplish a goal for once. Wish me luck.

FixFlix 23

You thought you'd be free of these? Never. Not while I live.

A Sore By Any Other Name

I just read that fans of the "Twilight" series are calling themselves Twi-hards. It strikes me as funny that their nickname is more clever than the source material itself.

Strange, when I was growing up as a "Star Wars" and comic book fan, I can't remember there being a cute little moniker for those two groups. I guess it's up to me to retroactively create one.

From this point on, what I was will be known as Catnip For Bullies.

Not sure if that has enough of a ring to it to catch on.

Hmm

I wonder if I used too many quotation marks on that last post.