Angel Colón's picture
Angel Colón from The Bronx now living in New Jersey is reading A Big Ol' Pile of Books April 16, 2014 - 11:32am

Thank yah kindly.

CheffoJeffo's picture
CheffoJeffo from Toronto is reading 'PERDIDO STREET STATION' and 'THRILL ME' April 16, 2014 - 3:29pm

Hi folks ... first-timer who has really enjoyed reading this thread. Thanks for sharing.

Here is the beginning of something I started a couple of days ago.

His watch showed 8:13pm, barely two minutes later than the last time he checked. It had taken the wreckers a little under over two and a half hours to hoist the wreckage onto a flatbed and the police had spent another twenty-seven minutes measuring and marking before finally re-opening the road. That was thirty-six minutes ago.

The bus smelled of french fries, old tobacco and dirty feet. From the back came the gagging snore of a fat man who had finally stopped coughing and fallen asleep. Liam looked over his shoulder. The old lady across the aisle had turned away, but her eyes remained locked on his bouncing left knee.  Liam pulled his pack to his chest and faced forward, watching the asphalt run through the headlights. On the horizon, the band of orange continued to narrow.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 9, 2014 - 1:17am

Not a paragraph, but a recentish poem:

Fairy stared into her reflection,
Looks longingly at her complexion,
Wishing for a prettier face,
Instead she drowns from an injured wing,
A sting of thorns on her back.

She stares into the sky longingly,
Watching her reflection shine …

In the light.

I seem to have on and off writing ability latelly. Sometimes I'll write whole self-styled jingles, to things more like this. I'm still rewriting my short fiction.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 11, 2014 - 2:14pm

Also from a seventh draft:

How did things come to this?

All I could remember up to that point was being on a ledge, and the moment of an abrupt fall. It’s not the fall that gets you, but rather the sudden stop. I went pop onto the concrete, and at that moment I felt complete. My vision at that time began to completely fade, and everything as I hoped would soon come to an end.

This is my song of lost youth.

Shannon Barber's picture
Shannon Barber from Seattle is reading Paradoxia: A Predators Diary by Lydia Lunch May 11, 2014 - 3:40pm

I'm experimenting with some horror. This is what happens when I watch too much trashy tv.

 

Madam’s hands cover her eyes as she wails, something about another lady calling her a bitch at tea. She cries, she howls that she has feelings too.

 

Angel Colón's picture
Angel Colón from The Bronx now living in New Jersey is reading A Big Ol' Pile of Books May 11, 2014 - 5:57pm

Something I just wrote in the WIP.

I bring my head back up and open my eyes. In the mirror’s reflection, they’re in here with me. Every last person I’ve murdered. Every last wound open and weeping black against paper white skin. Their mouths are wide open—jaws stretched beyond the brink of breaking—but they’re silent. The air’s thick with gnats. They float over me—pour out of the open wounds of the dead—whispers of their touch irritating my skin. My hands shake. Breathing in gulps. I’m crying and I have no idea why or how it started. Charlie places a hand on my shoulder and it doesn’t pass through. I feel his fingers, heavy and freezing. I try to scream, but I’m as silent as the rest of them.

voodoo_em's picture
voodoo_em from England is reading All the books by Tana French! May 12, 2014 - 12:57am

^ Love that, Angel.

Angel Colón's picture
Angel Colón from The Bronx now living in New Jersey is reading A Big Ol' Pile of Books May 12, 2014 - 4:58pm

Thanks Em! Listened to Chuck and tried to inject movement into the scenes. Luckily, the bugs work with the piece.

lwibberley's picture
lwibberley from British Columbia Canada is reading A Fine Balance May 12, 2014 - 5:38pm

from a middle grade novel, Anastasia the Blue 

     The twins’ mom turned to look at me. She must have been thinking hard, because she just stared at me. I could almost see the gears turning. After what seemed like hours, but was probably only a minute, she said, “Fine, that would be nice, thank you for the cookies.” The edges of her mouth turned up,  but just a little. Like an upside down staple, you know, not scary looking but sharp just the same.

Tantra Bensko's picture
Tantra Bensko from Zionsville, Indiana is reading Weaveworld May 13, 2014 - 4:19pm

There was never a time Amla and I didn't get together over Yebra Mate tea, even before we were born. The tea itself is the key to this paradox, being particularly flavorful. The liquid is so hot and dark, our faces reflect back to us through the steam changed in the ways that make for excellent conversation and laughter like children as yet unborn, and smiles of the recently dead, and memories of the distant ancestors who cycle into our lives again and again through their grandchildren.

Angel Colón's picture
Angel Colón from The Bronx now living in New Jersey is reading A Big Ol' Pile of Books May 23, 2014 - 4:24pm

He watches me. Sad smile on his face. Eyes wet—forever fucking wet. Dead center of his chest, a single little red blossom of a bullet hole—singe marks fray the edges of his shirt where the slug entered. The air hangs still between us. I reach out to place a hand on his face and I make contact. He’s icy cold—hard as stone—unmoving.His hand shoots up and grabs mine vice tight and I feel his chill spread through me. I’m lost in his stare and feel absolutely nothing for the first time in a long time. Wonder if this will be what it feels like when I finally go, when I finally die. I choke for breath; try to pull my hand away—no dice. His little bow lips part and open like a crypt. Smell gunpowder, copper and excrement around me. Flies buzz and vibrate inside of my head.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami May 23, 2014 - 11:13pm

.White walls were illuminated in the almost darkness, and only the overheads gave the hallways some level of lighting in the prison. A man in silhouette was sleeping, and when nobody was peeping slowly got up off of his bed. He would have rather gotten a death sentence, as even that brief moment of ones head exploding paled in comparison to the years he has been here. It was day in, and day out. In the morning he would operate the conveyor belt. That would be until the afternoon, where he would get merely a bowl of stale porridge for lunch with a side of dead mouse. It was not the smell of peppery fur, that made him retch -- though that did not help, but rather that a mere mouse had to die to keep himself fed. It was a silent lunch. And then finally in the evening he helped the other pack supplies to send to the “mother” colony.

Yes every now and then, I will write a honker of a paragraph. Thats seems to be more of a current problem, rather than with my previous short fiction.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami June 8, 2014 - 7:07pm

My latest work is a little different from my old science fiction.

It was a warm day in spring, when she ran through the long wild grass. After what felt like nearly a month of rain, Gharina walked out of her mushroom, and combed her hair. For she was very vain. Not enough to not be pleasant company for her father, but just enough not to have many friends. The one she had, was never bad, unlike dear Gharina. Her pet squirrel followed quickly behind, as his good friend jogged through the grass wanting to fly. Fly away high into the sky, she could not deny the taste for the wind blowing onto her face. “You don’t want to injure your wings again do you?” said the squirrel.

And before you ask, yes it's for a middle grade book.

Angel Colón's picture
Angel Colón from The Bronx now living in New Jersey is reading A Big Ol' Pile of Books June 9, 2014 - 2:46am

From a piece I'm waiting on a reply for inclusion in an anthology.

Gerald looked at the beater. It had two doors from two separate cars. Rust lay like a blanket over the hood and the trunk. It sputtered pathetically as it ran idle. He shook his head. “I’m ready. No bags. Just have the clothes on my back. No need for, uh, material possessions when you have the Lord.” He ran his fingers down the lapels of his faded, black suit jacket. Checked the wad of cash in the inside pocket with exactly $213.41 collected from Friendly Liquor & Wine’s register and clientele.  He moved to the car. “Mind if I ride shotgun?”

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami June 16, 2014 - 11:01am

Minimalist storytelling is pretty hard, though I'm finding it easier thinking in terms of how a haiku might be constructed, and then doing haikuplets:

Sun and moon shines over the mountain-side -- clear flowing water.

Rain droplets falling into the far grassland -- feeding fawn feeds.

And so on. While it's not perfect, I'm finding it a life saver as I pair down my short fiction into something like an easy reader format. One drawback I'm finding though is it tends to make dialogue hard. When I go back to doing cyberpunk like fiction, I may go back to that twitter epistolary format.

Eddie McNamara's picture
Eddie McNamara from NYC is reading High as the Horse's Bridles July 3, 2014 - 1:34pm

If you want to be a private chef, the most important thing has nothing to do with your cooking talent, your resume or your background. The client isn’t interested in the work you did under a celebrity chef, your appearance on The Iron Chef, or the signature dishes and concepts you introduced to their favorite restaurant menus. The most important thing, and it’s not even close, is convincing the rich husband that although you’re a foot taller, two decades younger, covered in tattoos (so they know you’re legit) and far better looking than he is: you are not going to bang his wife. In my experience, the best way to do this is to give an outrageous price quote. Charge double what the other guys charge. He thinks the more he pays for your services, the more he owns you, or maybe the hefty price tag makes you seem more professional. Whatever the reason, it works.

But, without fail, you are going to bang his wife. It’s as much a part of the job as chopping onions. By the third week, he’ll be away on business, she’ll text you about how much she loves your carrot tahini dressing and how she wants to learn how to make it the next day. When you arrive the kids will be away, she’ll have an odd new look and smell really good, and then it happens. It always happens.

A couple of days later, he’s telling you how great your Wellington tastes and you’re wondering, “how does my dick taste on your wife’s lips?”

Once the wife becomes obsessed with menu planning and hanging around the kitchen for cooking lessons the gig is up; figure 3 months after being hired. Hubby’s tired of hearing about how awesome you are and it’s time to move on. Luckily, she’s hyped you up so much to her friends and co-workers that the next gig and wife falls right into your lap.

That’s how I ended up here today in the ass end of Brooklyn cooking—actually, the opposite of cooking—preparing, raw, vegan, organic food for a housewarming party. Mike and Janis hired me based on my last client, Imelda’s rave reviews. She was incredible, and her boyfriend was such a jerk job, I didn’t even feel a little guilty about Hulksmashing her for 12 weeks.

Angel Colón's picture
Angel Colón from The Bronx now living in New Jersey is reading A Big Ol' Pile of Books July 3, 2014 - 5:01pm

She was incredible, and her boyfriend was such a jerk job, I didn’t even feel a little guilty about Hulksmashing her for 12 weeks.

Eddie, I might love you for this one - fair warning.

Angel Colón's picture
Angel Colón from The Bronx now living in New Jersey is reading A Big Ol' Pile of Books July 3, 2014 - 5:06pm

Romeo stands. I straighten out as well. We play the staring game for a minute before he picks up the glass. I smile and pick mine up. Raise my drink to him. “Slainte bradán bod mór agus bás in Eireann.” I knock back my shot and so does Romeo.


He swallows hard. “What was that you just said?”


I smile and slam my glass down on my desk. “Old Gaelic toast. Something about fish and big dicks.” I watch him a minute. He can handle his liquor—good.

“So, anyway.” I slide the mason jars I pulled from the shelves forward. “The fella in the jar under my right hand is what folks in my business call an Argas—short for the latin term, Argasidae. References the family of soft-bodied ticks.” I lift the jar. Inside floats what looks to be the front half of a deer tick the size of my fist. The backside of it is tailed like a tadpole. Its head is a wide open maw of razored teeth in circular rows. “If it makes it easier for you, call it a demon. I do.”

Devon Robbins's picture
Devon Robbins from Utah is reading The Least Of My Scars by Stephen Graham Jones July 3, 2014 - 6:22pm

Close your eyes, but the white light bleeds through the thin tissue. Orange and silver. The siren outside is a warm guitar, sliding through the high notes of a melody just for me. And I’m floating, in utero, sifting through burnt memories. Delicate pictures that, once touched, turn to ash. Jeremiah, smiling at me with his mouthful of broken teeth. And he’s laughing, holding my hand. Our skin melting together as he lights his cigarette with the burning fingertips.

From my Arrest Us story, Alchemy and Atrophy

Aud Fontaine's picture
Aud Fontaine from the mountains is reading Catch-22. Since like, always. July 4, 2014 - 6:39pm

The Great Lake seeped toward the shore, like so many shards of broken mirror heaving under the charcoal grey sky. The fabric of her coat, already a dark red plaid, was splattered in dripping crimson. Droplets fell, almost black, on the virgin snow covering the rocks. The wind bit into the cliff face and shook the fleece collar of her coat. Snow billowed, half obscuring the hatchet from view. Tears formed in the gentle amber eyes that stared blankly into the distance. Thin fingers twitched under the weight of the droplets. Blonde hair caked in coagulated darkness whipped around a pale, narrow face. An old knotted willow, dead for the season, stood watch over her. Her toes teetered on the edge as the wind howled. Behind her, the bamboo fountain clacked, continuing its cycle.
Amara had lived.

This was inspired by the Fleetwood Mac song Landslide. I might do something with it, I might not. It just happened.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami July 5, 2014 - 1:35pm

Still writing, but its slow again:

The skull-fairy queen stood around the camp fire with the others, when she was made aware of the fact that a young girl’s mother had arrived in the sands of grey. It seemed like there was more humans arriving in the world of death than even in the last year previously. She wondered if it had to do with the surgies that were being botched in the living world. “Fair light fairy, what has brought you here?” she said to the young woman. She was one of them that seemed to have died for other reasons, for she still had her glowing golden wings in tact. “Is an illness, a murder, an accident, for what my dear?”

simulacrum's picture
simulacrum from Las Vegas is reading shit July 6, 2014 - 12:46am

The soft glow of the moon crept onto Eduard's face, casting shadows over the sockets of his eyes and the bridge of his nose, painting his features as though they were absent from his face. Spying his distorted likeness in the window of a vehicle as he passed he took to imagining that his features were disappearing in series: first the eyes, then his ears, his hair, lips, and finally his head. He would continue walking home a headless specter, his limbs then nearing complete opacity before ultimately disappearing.
Losing his arms first, his legs would soon follow: first the left, then the right until only his torso remained. The ultimate performance in Eduard's fantasy is performed by the crowd of those emerging from the theater, taking to the streets and too drunk with high spirits to notice that they are all trampling over the disappeared and disappearing Eduard. There would be no corpse to remember, only a faded memory exclusive to Kinsley who was likely to forget it given time.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami July 7, 2014 - 10:55pm

From one of my picture books.

It was on a cold August night, when ghouls during the glow of the light from the lamp, withered at night. Two stray cats by a trashcan, had nothing to eat. The smells of cooked steak filled the air, polluting the sky.     

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami July 15, 2014 - 11:15am

Rather than tell about the anti-character, I'll just show the writing practice I did for figuring out not just a character, but the impact of their world with that character after they are gone.

Visiting an old bedroom, there lies a stack of papers. There are many sheets: journals and old essays, family photographs of those no longer there. Chicken scratched notes, the lions share. For the house had no movers, no one to give a new coat of paint. It's color had long sense began to peel, exposing the dry wall underneath the outer skin. A voice from years ago, stuck in an old piano. Playing its keys forever.

It's still not a perfect concept, and has many flaws. I'm still sort of trying to refine the concept, for when I try to edit and revise my middle grade novel that's been paired down to 17,900 words.

Angel Colón's picture
Angel Colón from The Bronx now living in New Jersey is reading A Big Ol' Pile of Books July 15, 2014 - 11:35am

“Where the fuck is she?” Blacky’s Irish brogue echoed as he walked into the garage. He stepped between Frank and the client. Grabbed Frank’s head with both hands and drove it into the Elantra’s hood with enough force to take both men off their feet. Blacky scrambled up to his feet like a man possessed. Shoved the Elantra’s owner to the side and lifted Frank back up. Brought his head down against the hood a second time. A Pollack splatter of red burst all over the shiny, champagne finish. “Asked a fucking question.” Blacky left Frank down this time. Paced back and forth with the ease of his namesake.

Andrewbee's picture
Andrewbee from Chicago is reading some YA book, most likely July 18, 2014 - 7:57am

From my sci-fi/crime novel Kato's War, currently being written:

Kato sighed, and looked at Zara. A tear formed in the corner of his right eye. He clasped his hands and paused, as he tried to find the right words. “I couldn’t have wished for a better daughter,” he said. “I’d hate to think it would have just been me now, had you not joined me in space. You’d never have entered hibernation, so you wouldn’t be here now.”

Zara smiled, with fine lines forming in the corners of her eyes. “I don’t feel old when I’m with you, Dad. And it’s not just because I’m twenty-nine years your junior, either.”

The conversation paused for several minutes.

“You know,” Zara said, “the details of how I ended up in space by your side are still a little sketchy. By which, I mean, I haven’t got a clue.”

Kato nodded, in his usual calm manner, as he looked out at the stream. “I remember rather more of it, my dear,” he said. Zara noticed his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he spoke. He turned to look at Zara. “You got there by pulling off the greatest theft of all time.”

Jean Hobbs-Castle's picture
Jean Hobbs-Castle from California is reading Focault's Pendulum July 18, 2014 - 8:39am

A single solitary hour. She sat in the dark in her little red truck and thought. She thought about the old family farm, long sold off to some developer who had divided it up and sold the little bits of land to folks who then put trailers on it. There were some thick woods out there on the back forty. The same back forty that had a view of the small town cemetery. How appropriate. She thought about how to deal with him. Single shot to the head? Or maybe a shot to an artery in the leg? Guns make too much noise. She’d cut him up instead. The thought of duct taping him to a tree and leaving him to bleed out all alone was the idea she liked most. She thought it highly unlikely that he would be heard, but gagging him would be a necessity just the same. Just in case. Duct tape to the rescue again.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal July 20, 2014 - 9:50am

Alright, haven't done this in a while...

I catch my breath approaching the priestess. She scurries back until she hits a barrel behind her. Her hands raise, extend, head shaking back and forth, silently begging for mercy. I flip my visor up. She recognizes me. “Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.”

RhysWare's picture
RhysWare from Worcester, England is reading The Warriors July 22, 2014 - 1:31pm

A little paragraph from my next short story, Running Through The House of Neon.

‘Someone came to the cashpoint. Just before the fucking blast, they came to it, card out ready and everything. I put in way too much gas, like, we hadn’t planned exactly how much you had to put in and I just put in too much and so it went up like a fucking bomb. And that kid, man, he was there in it. You know who it was? It was one of the Thrones. Young One.’

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami August 7, 2014 - 8:23pm

Flickering lights buzz, the blue evelopes like fuzz. Forming a foam around around the edge of the tiny eye. It squints in pain. ... static. The patients vision formed into what could possibly be percieved as television noise, it buzzed in their brain, that was now partially man and machine. Yet there were no other aspect that distinguished them from any other human being. It had been a week sense they had been on the emergency room table, then they got up abruptly as if it had only been a day. He, or what was left of him, began to see a computer database in their right eye. “Merging with the flesh interface, initiated. Take a few weeks to get used to the new network. Not many made it out. You were lucky.” The patient wasn’t sure where the voice was coming from, all he knew was that it was not his own.

Still not totally used to science fiction.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami August 18, 2014 - 5:14pm

Don’t worry ma’am, we’ll make sure your son doesn’t have another eye problem again were the words burned into the rent keepers memory. It was a doctor’s voice Ren heard as he reeled on the table of the surgery room. No more vision, no more light. Staring into the darkness forever. A new vision. A green grid forming a mixture mechanical and organic visual sensory perception. Ren was in hot pursuit of a released patient. A man in his mid-twenties. It took him many tries to find him, but eventually they narrowed down to a single apartment room. Ren knocked on the door, no answer. “We’ll have to pick the lock.” he said, then hurried his female assistant back to the car. Then put a posted note on the door. Darold needed to pay the due by Monday, or his stuff will go to the landfill.

Big paragraphs are completely exhausting.:/

Delete Me's picture
Delete Me August 28, 2014 - 8:26pm

From a short story collection called Plastic Pieces.

Room 232 was mine. It was missing all the charm you would expect a thirty dollar a night room to be missing. My cell phone rested on the bed between us. I stared at the phone, willing it to ring. She stared at me, waiting for permission to proceed.

TomMartinArt's picture
TomMartinArt from Amherst, MA August 29, 2014 - 6:44pm

A light began to bloom beneath them, a green-blue gloaming swelling in the black. As they grew closer, the cloud of light began to break up into tiny glowing specks. They descended into a dense cloud of phosphorescent jellyfish that must have been three miles in diameter and, shortly, settled on the floor of the sea.

Thuggish's picture
Thuggish from Vegas is reading Day of the Jackal August 29, 2014 - 6:45pm

Room 232 was mine. It was missing all the charm you would expect a thirty dollar a night room to be missing. My cell phone rested on the bed between us. I stared at the phone, willing it to ring. She stared at me, waiting for permission to proceed.

That's rather intriguing. 

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami August 30, 2014 - 12:07pm

It was a long lonely night, in bed sleeping till the morning would come. What felt like forever in bed, would turn out to be something totally different. I got up, put on my loafers. Then walked into the kitchen in order to see what was going on. I slowly closed the door, and felt like something was missing. Although I could not particularly put my finger on what. In the kitchen, I paused. Rubbed my eyes, then walked over to make sure I got a hard look at the clock that had the digital time: it was three thirty six. All fine and good. After going back to bed I slept for some more. Then woke up again for what should have been an hour later.

From a writing sample of mine on Ink Blazers. Then again, this small excerpt doesn't really do the speculative element any justice.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami August 31, 2014 - 4:59pm

Something else I'm experimenting as a way of making caption writing for graphic novel script more efficient. If I were to write about nature, and it's epitaph I would use ... an epiku (Epitaph/Haiku.)

Here lies the flowers
long wilting in the suns heat
un-watered and dry.

One of the reasons I thought about this, is as with many writers I have a tendency to be verbose when I'm wanting to write prose. Therefore I thought that would help fit within a twenty word caption in order to streamline the process.

S.B. Smith's picture
S.B. Smith from Indianapolis, IN is reading Mongrels August 31, 2014 - 7:57pm

An excerpt of my current WIP short story "Investigations"

Once the call ended, I slipped the phone into my pocket and reached for the door handle. I pushed it open with my foot and, misjudging the effort that was needed, sent it careening back into my face. My eyes were riddled with a thousand stars. The embers of my cigarette exploded like a firework, showering me with burning tobacco and ash. The slow simmer of frustration had finally reached its boiling point.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami September 2, 2014 - 7:02pm

From Vice President Slasher Teddy (title subject to change):

     It was your regular semester, with vampires and werewolves; robots and androids, wannabe detectives and writers that always wished to write the perfect love interest.

     Then a regular day in a college dorm, though the lights were buzzing out. The bathroom was in complete disrepair; the bathtub was rusty with total red stain, the toilet had layers of brown rust, and the mirror had not been washed in over a month. On the bed, was a loner. He belonged to no particular sub-culture, merely being themself. But this caused various people on classes to hate him. That would point to him, and say your a not the numero uno. One day he decided, they were wrong. He was something.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami September 6, 2014 - 7:28pm

“Welcome to Waking Town, we decapitate out thieves.” An old sign on the outskirts of the mining town. But Rudy did not much care, as he would not be here long. The only girlfriend he once had here, he had long sense broken up with. He walked around the road, until reaching the village proper. A mining town, around since before the warming. It has since become a ghost town due to the primary resources being in the city. At once, Rudy saw his old girlfriends house. Then went to go visit her.

At the door, he went to go knock. She was standing outside, simply chilling out. “So what’s with you? Your looking a little stoned.” But she was to out of it to say anything of value. He noticed there was a crumbled piece of paper between her wooden shoes she wore with a pair of thick wool socks. So he bent down, grabbed the paper. Then left the house. That was to easy, thought Rudy. After all one does not ordinarily steal anything from anyone here. Ella was the only one who smoked weed, she was definitely odd in many respects.

This story Rudy NumeroHex, is notable for my writing in that I'm using a JRPG I'm developing as the outline for the flash fiction story I finished.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami September 6, 2014 - 7:28pm

“Welcome to Waking Town, we decapitate out thieves.” An old sign on the outskirts of the mining town. But Rudy did not much care, as he would not be here long. The only girlfriend he once had here, he had long sense broken up with. He walked around the road, until reaching the village proper. A mining town, around since before the warming. It has since become a ghost town due to the primary resources being in the city. At once, Rudy saw his old girlfriends house. Then went to go visit her.

This story Rudy NumeroHex, is notable for my writing in that I'm using a JRPG I'm developing as the outline for the flash fiction story I finished.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami September 10, 2014 - 11:10am

This is what I more naturally do when I'm not plotting, or not trying to be Uber SF.

     “You may for this night only, but I will have more chores for you in the morning.” Victoria’s stomps could be heard throughout the house, prompting her mother to tell her to quiet it down. As she entered the room, quietness. The moon from the window eased in through the curtain that just barely covered the night. She tossed off her shoes that felt like logs rather than actual shoes, put herself over the covers, and then finally began to drift off to sleep. It was a while coming, but eventually she came upon the dream-gate. Victoria found herself walking through the gardens, that have long sense overgrown. The grass was already much longer than how it was before, when she first arrived. If there was any point she regretted becoming older, it was that silence that has continued since she made her decision to tell herself that nothing that was real, and that nothing going on was really happening.

Angela Bailey Pearson's picture
Angela Bailey P... from Texas is reading Have A Little Faith, by Mitch Albom September 17, 2014 - 8:53am

     The closer I got to my thirtieth birthday, the more worthless I felt. I was a joke. I was the music minister who was always late for church. I was the housewife whose house was never clean. I was the girl who had graduated high school and started college two years early only to wind up at age thirty the degree-less, career-less mother of four children resulting from one failed marriage and another that had been on the rocks almost since the wedding. Something in my head told me that I was supposed to “have it all together” by age thirty. I was supposed to be established, to know what I was doing, and to be good at it.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami September 23, 2014 - 6:46pm

Partial of a recent poem:

Can you see the window sing,

Her tune of necter and honey,

'Oh what heaven, it wants to bring,

No song but from a year ago,

     No songs of necter and rhyme.

Caitlin Winterbauer's picture
Caitlin Winterbauer from Springfield, Illinois is reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman September 26, 2014 - 10:10am

You'll undoubtedly find this counterproductive. Considering you no longer own me, think what you will. I no longer play in the bile of our failed attempts to love one another. I'm not obedient, I do not care. I'm sending this to you as a peace offering to no one but myself. You were blind when I knew you so maybe this will paint a clearer picture. My journal is prized and it has kept me warm when you did not. Treat it well and burn in hell.

Love,

Lanette

Aud Fontaine's picture
Aud Fontaine from the mountains is reading Catch-22. Since like, always. September 26, 2014 - 7:27pm

Caitlin Winterbauer.... I don't know you but I think I'm in love with you....

Kacie Cunningham's picture
Kacie Cunningham from Indiana is reading too much to keep this updated October 1, 2014 - 7:43pm

From one of the two projects I'm currently working on:

How much focus does it take to fuck in front of a camera for a few hours? Bo sternly rebuked herself for even thinking it … she and Sunny had long ago agreed to disagree about Sunny’s ‘career choice’ as an ‘adult film actress’. The very thought made Bo roll her eyes. Dressing it up didn’t change it. A porn star was a porn star, just like a housewife was a housewife, not a ‘domestic engineer’ or ‘household manager’. Honestly, Bo’s issue with her sister’s career wasn’t even a moral one. Bo wasn’t overly traditional or conservative, and had no problem with porn in general. Her main problem was that Sunny was entirely too intelligent to be making a living with her body instead of her brain. She was slightly appeased to know that Sunny was slowly pursuing a Master’s degree in social work, so at least there would be something for her to do when she was done with the ‘adult film’ industry. Bo forced her thoughts into a straight line.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami October 1, 2014 - 10:13pm

From an old short story from '08:

'Otis was working the night shift, and couldn't wait to get home. He was sweeping the floor of the mini-mart, till the marble had a shiny finish to make the boss proud. For the newcomer wanted to make his employer proud. Yet he was deep in thought, the first of many accidents to come. Brian sneaked up behind, yet his shadow from his incredible height gave his presence away. Otis turned around. "Oh how's it going?" The boss looked him all over, and sniffed.

"Otis, if I see you twiddling your thumbs again, I'm throwing you to the streets." Brain said.Yet Otis knew good and well he was getting his work done, but like a good little punch clock chose to ignore it and and did his boss proud.

I still wouldn't say I'm proud of the story, but revising it.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami October 3, 2014 - 7:29pm

Part of a poem, of my experience at night camping:

They are knocking, at my door,
In that rhythm, I abhor,
Knocks and voices, calling my name,
You may think, they look quite tame,
     Those beings I abhor.

Those faces knocking, at my door,
When you open, there in the door,
Satan laughing, having his lark,
"Can we come in." they request,
     Voices at my behest.

L.W. Flouisa's picture
L.W. Flouisa from Tennessee is reading More Murakami October 9, 2014 - 8:55pm

Third revision of Song Of Lost Youth:

"I am tending the kitchen, while waiting for my stepfather to call my name. He usually does, while for you my bedroom. You shall have to wait, for the embrace of the night. For the call for stepfather’s tea is now urgent. “Bianca, is it ready yet?” I hear him say, his voice trickling down my spine."

The first person/second person hybrid is still a little clunky, but a lot more natural to both write and say out loud as I edit.

Question: Do we still have the large quote?

SConley's picture
SConley from Texas is reading Coin Locker Babies October 23, 2014 - 4:51am

He does not know what to do with my nipple, this boy. Four boys have known so far, two boys squeezed too hard, two boys went for my private, one boy tried to put his mouth on it, one boy pinched the nipple just right but then pulled down hard so I bit his tongue and lip together until I sipped his blood and he pushed me off and held his mouth and called me a rabid cunt, already out the door and jumping down the steps two at a time. I spat blood out the window and I think I nailed him as he darted off the front porch.
“Vampires drink blood, not rabids!” I shouted after his middle finger. I wonder if my mom heard it.