The Tort of Silence

Never have I wanted quiet will not come to me now. I had hoped to sit for three hours during my journey and write in peace.

But as it is, I am being punished for what I do not know.

Why was I given to be seated beside a woman who knows more words than I? Who does not understand the solace that I seek. I tried all manner of device to put her voice out of my mind – without success, I endured the endless chatter as she discussed all issues of her life with the companion, she thought to bring for such a trip, as I am sure they planned. For the first half hour, I listened as an observer to them without stop. The daily lives of these women were of little interest as I had planned to work on a story during my time. I had scheduled weeks in advance this trip with every intention of putting some ideas to paper while watching the countryside pass.

How many hours must I continue this tort of my desire for silence? I think it should not be so long because these women must eventually quit the words. They can not possibly have too many more stories of work, boys, and shopping adventures to keep up this dialogue.

We have stopped in Thurles to gather more patrons. At last, silence. I open my notes and begin to think of which scene to work first. The daughter betrayal of the father’s death before his captors? I know this story and have thought of the tension between a daughter who is in love with an ideological precept of faith for country and her religion and a father who is torn to betray his own beliefs to achieve the freedom of a foreign government.

The minutes pass quickly and our train departs without silence as these two women resume their chatted discourse. I close my notes and sit back to begin another leg of this dogged journey. There was no keeping pretence of my displeasure with the women. I scrapped cloth from a napkin and stuff the roiled tissue into my ears. But this is of no help as I can not escape their conversations.

The Marriage of Mole

Now, I have written a few paragraphs of this story and struggle with the structure. I had hoped to finish the draft and then archive this story for a while to age. Well I should work on it some this week and hope my muse will return so I can move on to the next story.

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The Marriage of Mole

For some years before his marriage the mold of solitude had invaded his life as none, nor manner of species had imagined, and he was neither content nor displeasured by the turn of events. There were just moments of solitude where he became remorse, but not angry with his situation. A few times during each week he cried, as a child without the quilt of an adult, but these moments were of not panged or anguish; not such that he released the pains that buried deeply in his heart.

The days of his lonely existence began with a modest breakfast a slice of toast, one fried egg, and a sliver of ham that he purchased each Sunday morning. There were not special moments that he shared with anyone. He sat with his back against the wall and stared at nothing in particular. The morning came as it should and so he gathered himself and cleaned the few dishes before returning to his bedroom for a shower. He paused long enough in the parlour to watch the people pass in front of his apartment.

Today he would meet Svetlana, as he promised, and muster the courage to ask her what he had so wanted for many months. He would propose a question, in hopes that she would be so inclined to consider his request. This was his chance to learn if her affections were true, and if she would become his wife.

Seo Geap Dohtor

This story is proving harder to write than I thought. But I will visit Belfast soon and hope to have the outline done by June. I like this story because it is set during the Irish conflict around the 1960's. There is a betrayal of a daughter and father conflict that I find interesting to write.

Don't know exactly when it will be done, as I need several trips about Ireland to get the inspiration for all the characters and locations.

Jon

Where has Natasha gone?

Another love gone for now, but what was lost might not have been forgotten. There are times in every writers life when they seek more than the loneliness of composition and search for something new. I chose to search for love of all things. But I do not regret that my opportunity for finding a life partner failed.

I wrote a couple new stories: The Tort of Silence was one that I hope to complete soon. I also went back to work on Hannigan's Meadow and hope to have some more chapters completed within the next month or so.

I think love is empty without trust, fidelity, and honesty. What is life with someone you can't trust? I wish that this time with Natasha gives me more insights into my desire to complete another novel, work on the next few, and put more effort into my short stories.

I am almost ready to begin submitting several of my short stories for publication.

Wish me luck!!!

Jon

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.

The tormentor fly.

I've killed that fly a dozen times in the past three or so weeks, and yet each time I go outside for a smoke he's there waiting for me.

I'm hot and miserable already. Sweat is dripping off my brow within a few minutes. It's too damn hot for confrontations. But that doesn't seem to matter because the fly buzzes around my head as though I were dead; picking at morsels of flesh and laying eggs in my scalp. I'm sure of it.

I can almost feel them breeding on my dandruff. Each time it lands on me I flinch because I can feel its tongue licking the salt from my body. That instrument leaves traces of fly saliva that I can't seem to wash off no matter how hard I try.

I've killed it a dozen times. I swear it. But each afternoon a replacement approaches from my blind side and begins to work on me, hastily nibbling on me before I take a swat at it, and all the while I'm sitting on the porch in misery and discomfort from the heat.

I can't stand it anymore. What am I going to do? I've become afraid to venture outside for fear that it will tickle my ear with its sickening whispers and foul laughter. The mind of a fly is a corruption that I find insanely jealous. I don't know how much longer I can take the fly's torture. What can I do? I am afraid that soon, I may start a buzz in the community, if I am caught chasing this demon about with a shovel. But I'm in distress from the heat and don't care at the moment. I just need to fly away from my problems and forget what'd I've heard from him.

I've become too disturbed by the tormentor fly to care if I live for his diet or die.

I just saw Jesus in the closet...

As I was leaving the restroom, I happen to peek inside the maintenance closet and that's when I saw the broom Jesus uses leaning against the wall. The broom was clearly marked with his name, Jesus.

I rubbed my eyes and turned to the guy behind me "Did you know Jesus was in the closet?"

He walked around the counter and looked inside, then chuckled "Funny. That's a good one."

Sure enough. The broom Jesus used to clean up was leaning against the wall. But if you don't wear your glasses, like I do once in a while, and come across an obvious sign like that one then it's time to re-evaluate life and ask yourself "What does it mean?"

Now I can take it several ways. I need to forgive someone. Or I am about to be forgiven for something I'm about to do.

Or maybe the message was "Salvation can only come out of the closet if you are prepared to sweep away the cobwebs."

Hmmm...I think I just had a spiritual encounter. What do you think? Has anyone else ever had one of those encounters before?

The Neurotic Cat.

My neighbor just told me about the cat out back last night. He told me that the cat out back kept scratching on my door. He told me this wasn't the first time he's seen this cat hanging around out back. I believed him because I have cats, strays I guess, visiting me every night when I go out for a smoke.

These cats began to appear my very first night here. I didn't think anything of it at first. But after a couple days I noticed how they seem to appear whenever I step out the front door. They don't bother me. They just sit and stare at me.

I've had my share of nature the past few years and have grown used to these events. So I have a neurotic cat now who demands to come inside while I'm asleep at night. Nothing new or exciting about all this, I'm sure.

So the crickets, scorpions, rats, and snails don't bother me now that I have a cat out back watching my back.

Disturbing behavior...

I write horror, suspense, and thrillers so I naturally have this tendency to dig deep inside for disturbing behavior that I can use in my works. I've written prose of extreme horror, death by means most people would cringe, and suspense that would be marked too realism for most.

But all this disturbing behavior of my characters are not me. I don't stalk women, nor do I pray on the innocent -- depraved behavior that drives my antagonistic characters. I'm a nice guy by my nature, so it pains me sometimes to exploit these feelings for my work. I love my writing, to a point I get excited by the dismal failings of humans when suffering, and yet I am troubled that these same thoughts that make my work believable are able to surface so easily.

I've seen dead prostitutes, murdered people, the scabs of humanity that walks silently while taking life without remorse, as I've seen and experienced so much pain in my time here. Now I draw upon these emotions for my work and it disturbs me sometimes.

How do people manage to remain sane when writing about insanity, chaos, death, or any form of humility at the hands of an antagonistic character?

I'm at a loss within myself to be the nice guy and the same man who will gladly open a wound to see my own suffering as a writer.

Any thoughts about the anguish of writing a genre that is so disturbing that it also affects your mental health?

P.S. I am writing a short story now about a young man who drags a dead uncle into Walmart (generic store) to cash the uncle's social security check. So, I must feel and think as this boy which bothers me a little.

When it thunders, my earth shakes, and so begins...

...another night of abject darkness, where I may be lost without light; without electric I can't communicate and so my world will be a void until the storm passes. I hear the storm approaching, and make preparations for an evening of solace. This is the first thunder storm we've encountered in a bit, so maybe the hot spell is over? I can't wait until it cools again so I can wear my sweater and cover up at night with a quilt.

Dead Cricket Disposal Expert Needed!

I admit I killed him. I watched him crawl off and die. I won’t lie to you, I actually enjoyed it. But now I feel guilty. I didn’t when he first appeared at the entrance to my bedroom. I didn’t when I rushed outside and grabbed a can of bug spray. I didn’t as he wiggled, crawled on his back legs helplessly about the carpet, and flopped over on his back in a final death throe.

I watched in awe. Black flag death reigns supreme. I watched the last moments of Mr. Cricket as he lay on the bathroom tile, withering in pain from the chemicals I had introduced to him. I paused a moment to think. “Who is going to pick him up and dispose of the body?”

I was at a loss. I hadn’t thought about that part of my murder plan. I was easily excited by the demise of a chirped invader, but alas! What to do with the remains? How can I, me of such gentle nature and befriend of nature, dispose of my murdered pest?

The day passed in silence as I pondered and wondered what to do about my little problem in the bathroom. I scooted past it (I say it because I don’t know his name) several times during my regular routines. But I couldn’t help and stare at the lifeless corpse that stood between me and the toilet. I was perplexed, distraught, and nearly grabbed a cloth to cover up my murderous act. But I couldn’t face him, or it, as I was too ashamed to acknowledge my crime.

I hadn’t thought of it, him, as such until later in the day. I needed refreshment after a grueling schedule. I needed time to relax and think of something pleasant. The mood of my afternoon became merry and I thought of a song to hymn while making a refreshing drink.

A noise? A chirp?

I listened and then I heard it again. My glass shattered on the floor. I had not forgotten my victim, but had not thought to hear him begin the banter of harmony that chilled my bones. I paled behind a ghostly thought. “Do crickets become ghosts if wronged in this life?”

I didn’t know the answer and really didn’t want to know if it was true. I only knew one thing and that was somebody had to get rid of the cricket or I would never get any rest.

There would be no sleep tonight until I found someone to dispose of my victim. But who? Who could I count on to keep my secret? I paced back and forth pondering my options. Should I call the police? Should I ask the animal control people to pick up the remains of my brief foray into murder? Who? Who can I trust?

The door to my apartment opens, as I suspected it would when my son returned from his scheduled afternoon adventures. I took him aside and explain the situation, careful to omit my glee while the cricket twitched in agony, while describing the events as best as I could recall under the circumstances. He listened, shook his head and politely replied “But dad, it’s just a cricket. Why can’t you do it yourself?”

He didn’t understand. How could I expect him to know of my guilt? How was he supposed to understand the torment I felt by enjoying the murder and death of a living creature? What could I say to explain my repulsion by the excitement I experienced for those few minutes while my victim clung to life, and expelled his last breath on this earth?

I begged him because of my weakened state of mind. I explained to him how I had not felt well since it happened. I was vague to the manner of my murder, but I think he understood somehow because he did what I could not. He packaged the cricket into a paper tissue and disposed of him just like an expert. I was in the kitchen, waiting patiently, and hoping he could forgive me.

The dead went quietly into my toilet without fanfare or family to bid him a safe journey. So I had imagined, and so had I hoped, until the chirp returned. I clearly heard the unmistaken rubbing of angry wings together while I lay in bed. I knew somehow that my crime would not go unpunished. I had thought no less than my own death at the hand of someone who would spray me with chemicals. I fancied the idea about in my head. The tick-tock in anguish became too much for me and I was exhausted from my schedule to remain awake.

But sleep was not so easy as I heard what I believe to be the chirp of another cricket. Or maybe it wasn’t?

{complete the rest later for publication}

Live astronauts capture zombie in outer space

NASA has declined an interview from this unreporter but don't deny that their top two astronauts are discussing how to return with the living dead without causing a panic. Rumor has it that the zombie was clinging to the Hubble trying to spy on people.



Originally posted on Absolute Write

Tales from the Crips -- Blood brothers (The Story)

"Got that right brother." -- Tookie the day after his execution.

How do you critique a pregnant woman?

Besides the critique I provided for Sara Lee tonight, I can't recall ever giving a critique to a woman expecting before.

What do you say? "Uh, nice shoes lady."

"Excuse me, but that's my pickle you just grabbed."

"I think chocolate looks good on you. But the mustard is hiding your chin."

I need more practice incase I stumble across a pregnant woman in need of a quickie critique.