A neighbor, I dare say.

Bam! Another lightening strike. This time our power of will went out leaving us in the dark with a horrid cat demon, our Siamese, and a pot roast in the oven.

Now the rain pelted our house again and again as it had not so much for an hour before. This torrid hatred of our little cottage had turned a night of pleasant company into a night of dread for the next clash of gods.

As it were, myself; and a remainder of my friends sheltered ourselves in the den. We were protected from the anger that came upon us tonight.

And what stopped as it began? The noise fell away. We heard nothing for a ten minute or twenty passing. The thundered of clashing giants was gone in just a manner that we felt beholden.

There was still a dinner to serve if the food would heat properly now that we had no fire in the stove. But we heard a foot the neighbour woman.

She was a fine mess alright. Harden lot she was and not a day over thirty, as I was told. Now her banging on the door alarmed me and my friend. We set about opening the entry for her. But not without a little fear, no less. She was known about as a strange woman. A something about the village that no one cared to explain for fear of her.

We stood, both, at the entrance to welcome her "Hello Natasha. What brings you out on such a terrible night?" Almost in echo, I think not.

She hand her basket of meats to my friend "I desired company. It's not a night for me, I'll say that. So move aside and let me in."

We broke ranks and handed her leave. My friend, Josh, had another spell and fell.

"Let him lay, he's a lucky man. We's a a bit busy now, so hurry man. There's a break in the storm. You don't want to have me caught in that business, eh?"

Why did a fat man need pink money?

I shoved the fat guy off me and rolled onto the cement floor.

"Where am I this time?"

The light shining inside my head confused me.

I was not at home in bed. I was not sleeping with my wife. But I wasn't about to let the voices tell me this time was real.

I had a five dollar bill in my left hand.

"What?" Someone stuffed money in my hand?

Why would they do that?

I pushed myself up. The fat man snored, loud, and scratched himself. He had a pocket full of pink money inside his pants. Why did a fat man need pink money? I wasn't asking. He wasn't going to speak for a little longer anyway, so I kicked him for making me buy another night of pitiful pleasures.

What is this? My pocket? I didn't have any pockets when I went to sleep last night. Now I have one. I have something poking me, and it's sharp. I have a knife? What else is in my pocket that I don't have? Is this an olive branch?

What am I doing with and olive branch and a knife? My pocket and a fat man that I have never had or seen now intrigue me.

I dig into my pink pocket and pull out my wife, a bed, and a shower.

Of course, I did. When I woke up in the jail of my dream, made for me again, I knew that no color or object was going to take away from me the truth that lay beside me.

Homeless writers.

I retrieved this essay for discussion because of the previous thread "Can I make a living writing" and I had another chat with a writer today who inspired my remembrance;

My god, I've had a few discussions over the months with writers who are destitute and living in shelters or sharing living arrangements with other people.

I’m sickened by this…

I’ve heard such stories for many years. I closed my ears because I wasn’t one of them.

I wasn’t sickly or poor. I paid no attention to their plight. Why should I? I am of sound financial status, beget a few times when I struggled to find suitable work, but I have a means to support myself. I don’t suffer such angst for this profession that I’d live in a homeless shelter until my work sells. I don’t folly about with a dream of hitting it big as a writer. But such people do, as I now know, and I am ashamed at my cavalier attitude about this preoccupation for writing.

Such is my pain tonight. I grieve for this poor fellow who desires so much more from his craft than I. This homeless man, with such courage and conviction, is worthy of more than I can ever hope to offer.

Yet, I can’t help but feel pity for him and I – who has lost much more than either has ever imagined.

So, I weep tonight for us – poor writers who are without home and love. But I also cherish this gentle spirit which as kept my poor friend warm, happy, and content to live as I had not thought possible.

I write, as true, to myself and others that we never forget those whose sacrifice is inspired by a noble thought.

Good night,

SpookyWriter

Originally posted at Absolute Write on 07-04-2006, 07:28 PM

Dairy of a madman.

I was wondering if anyone would consider reading the story of a mad dairy farmer? I had thought about putting together an outline for this story about Emmit who had issues with strangers who kept coming onto his farm to buy fresh milk. And other things...

See Emmit didn't sell fresh milk and had a sign at the front of his farm that said "We don't sell fresh milk".

But people kept coming by asking to buy fresh milk. At first Emmit didn't mind so much. He would explain that his farm sold to producers. But people didn't understand what he meant by "producers" and just thought he was being silly.

As the years went by Emmit began to lose his cows to issues. He still tried to keep up the farm even though the "producers" required more milk than he could produce.

And people kept bothering him for fresh milk.

His wife left him for a pig farmer. The kids moved to the city and stopped coming by to help with the farm. His crop of corn was eaten by crows. The country music station changed to rock.

Life wasn't going so good for Emmit.

So one day, Emmit snapped. He had enough and shot some poor fool who was stupid enough to as "Do you have any fresh milk?"

Now this story goes on a bit about Emmit hiding the bodies and such. But my question is "Can the dairy of a madman" be considered a memoir?

There lay I, a broken wheel and a spoke, beside the road of trespassers.

The story goes not forth, without time to reflect, while the words remain etched within the confines of my imaginary word-smith friend. But I found an escape, only recently, from the torture that had kept the remaining story from unfolding.

Yes! I am about to embark on the conclusion of this story that I began a fortnight and forty ago. Soon, my work on this tale will finish and nobody can stop me now. So we all have stories to complete, while fugitives from the demons of our own making, and exorcise excuses to finish them. I think so.

But the broken wheel that keeps us from finishing the race is a crutch, I believe. I will not allow the trespassers on my goal to finish this story and keep me from telling what I know. I am going to write whether or not it snows tonight.

What's that noise?

Oh I enjoy suspense in writing and when you have a group of kids there's not much more to say in a scary situation than "What's that noise?".

And so that's how I ended my last chapter because it was a logical break between scenes.

Remember to leave the reader wanting more. So the next chapter should either be an opening for what we want to learn or a continuation of a previous scene that was left hanging, But they all need to tie together so don't hold up the story for suspense if it's not going to move the plot along.

Six months of dry heat.

I'm working on another story while trying to complete Hannigan's Meadow. But the dry heat inside my head is keeping me from completing anything right now. I haven't updated my blog in just as long.