Sunday, July 22, 2007
...And another three...
Deus ex Machina
Phoebe cringed from the fiend. ‘Save me, somebody!’
A huge hand plucked her away.
I chuckled. As The Author I could do what I liked with my characters.
I’d started draft two when I felt the twin pressures at my temples, like the grip of an enormous finger and thumb...
The Mission
Roger swam as if his very life depended on it. His target was a giant egg. Yes, Roger was a spermatozoon.
He thrashed his tail frantically, trying to blot out the terrible reality of what he’d seen: the tonsils a moment ago, and the moustachioed lip on the way in.
Phoebe cringed from the fiend. ‘Save me, somebody!’
A huge hand plucked her away.
I chuckled. As The Author I could do what I liked with my characters.
I’d started draft two when I felt the twin pressures at my temples, like the grip of an enormous finger and thumb...
The Mission
Roger swam as if his very life depended on it. His target was a giant egg. Yes, Roger was a spermatozoon.
He thrashed his tail frantically, trying to blot out the terrible reality of what he’d seen: the tonsils a moment ago, and the moustachioed lip on the way in.
Shirley and Derek
They met, made love, married. He drank, she cried, he hit.
She hacked. Then walled him up.
He rotted. Neighbours complained. She disinterred him. He lived (well, sort of). He bit. She turned.
They lurch. They bite. They spread their contagion. In their undead way, they still love one another.
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You and the undead. Always with the undead. When you've figured out a way to concentrate on the associated lichens, molds and the like--you know, LIFE, then I'll support you in everything you do.
Until then, I'll pray for you to the God of the Catholics.
Until then, I'll pray for you to the God of the Catholics.
"Shirley and Derek"? You may have changed the names, but that is still the story of my first marriage.
My! These have gotten darker.
We traveled for a long time. Thrown out here, kicked out there, rejected, plucked off, hurled away. We did as best we could. Some of the us survived by entertaining, others bit and kicked. They call us bloodsuckers. We finally settled on foot Eater's soft underbelly where he cannot scratch.
We traveled for a long time. Thrown out here, kicked out there, rejected, plucked off, hurled away. We did as best we could. Some of the us survived by entertaining, others bit and kicked. They call us bloodsuckers. We finally settled on foot Eater's soft underbelly where he cannot scratch.
I hope the drive a corpseina, with their names in green plastic on either side of the windscreen. Those names deserve a windscreen.
Joe and Jim, Jim and Joe
Joe did not like people especially his neighbor Jim, who was about to win the bowling tournament again. And then the trumpets sounded. Everyone flew off. Jim flew off. Joe watched them go. Joe was delighted up to a few seconds after Jim, startled, let go of his bowling ball.
Joe did not like people especially his neighbor Jim, who was about to win the bowling tournament again. And then the trumpets sounded. Everyone flew off. Jim flew off. Joe watched them go. Joe was delighted up to a few seconds after Jim, startled, let go of his bowling ball.
These are dark gems twinkling from the dank walls of your uneasy mind, Foots. I want to reach out and touch one, turn it over and examine its beauty, but the walls are too slimy, hiding other, more fanged forms of life. Your stories are best read gloved.
One up
They had been at it for years.
First one, the other, then back again.
It was a simple thing. Just fifty words, excluding the title.
"Monstee?" He said. "I have three more."
The old man handed the paper over.
The gray-blue thing took the paper and read.
"Dang you Footeater."
They had been at it for years.
First one, the other, then back again.
It was a simple thing. Just fifty words, excluding the title.
"Monstee?" He said. "I have three more."
The old man handed the paper over.
The gray-blue thing took the paper and read.
"Dang you Footeater."
The Comeback
The trouble with Monstee, I thought as I sat at my keyboard, coffee at my elbow and Bach’s Goldberg Variations on the stereo, is that he always includes too much extraneous detail to be a true master of this fifty-word art form. Bad planning will always be his downfall, and
The trouble with Monstee, I thought as I sat at my keyboard, coffee at my elbow and Bach’s Goldberg Variations on the stereo, is that he always includes too much extraneous detail to be a true master of this fifty-word art form. Bad planning will always be his downfall, and
SafeT: one lichen-themed mini-saga coming right up! When you resume Closure, that is.
Oh, God, I got you good.
FS: a zombie sparrow? Now that does deserve a story, and a fucking screenplay to boot.
Justin: yes, I note your jibe. I de-linked you because you hadn't posted anything on your blog for so long, you fool. I see there are signs of life there, so I'll re-establish contact, link-wise.
FMC: you've been watching Six Feet Under, haven't you? By the way, if anyone wants to read a great mortician-themed comedy novel, try The Loved One by Evelyn Waugh. It had me in stitches (no pun intended).
Justin: a slapstick mini-saga! Excellent. One of these days I'll post some of the winning entries in the original Mini-Saga competition, after I've sorted out all the copyright bullshit with my lawyers.
Sam: your comment reminds me of a Ramsey Campbell (Google him) interview somewhere in which he said something like the most disturbing idea he'd ever had was reaching out in pitch darkness and feeling his fingers encountering a wet mouth fringed with bristly hair.
Sarah: you're fixed on those mushrooms, aren't you? I've just had a great idea, though. Will elaborate later.
Monstee: what I said in my last comment.
So far I've received four of your mini-sagas. I'm going to be posting these soon, and y'all have to guess or work out who wrote each one. If you want to take part, email me your contributions. Remember, they have to be a complete story that's exactly fifty words long, excluding the title (and I do want a title for each one).
Oh, God, I got you good.
FS: a zombie sparrow? Now that does deserve a story, and a fucking screenplay to boot.
Justin: yes, I note your jibe. I de-linked you because you hadn't posted anything on your blog for so long, you fool. I see there are signs of life there, so I'll re-establish contact, link-wise.
FMC: you've been watching Six Feet Under, haven't you? By the way, if anyone wants to read a great mortician-themed comedy novel, try The Loved One by Evelyn Waugh. It had me in stitches (no pun intended).
Justin: a slapstick mini-saga! Excellent. One of these days I'll post some of the winning entries in the original Mini-Saga competition, after I've sorted out all the copyright bullshit with my lawyers.
Sam: your comment reminds me of a Ramsey Campbell (Google him) interview somewhere in which he said something like the most disturbing idea he'd ever had was reaching out in pitch darkness and feeling his fingers encountering a wet mouth fringed with bristly hair.
Sarah: you're fixed on those mushrooms, aren't you? I've just had a great idea, though. Will elaborate later.
Monstee: what I said in my last comment.
So far I've received four of your mini-sagas. I'm going to be posting these soon, and y'all have to guess or work out who wrote each one. If you want to take part, email me your contributions. Remember, they have to be a complete story that's exactly fifty words long, excluding the title (and I do want a title for each one).
actually, that's brilliant. Thank you. I'm going to pass that on to a couple of people.
# posted by 
: 4:15 am
: 4:15 am
actually, that's brilliant. Thank you. I'm going to pass that on to a couple of people.
# posted by : 10:19 pm
: 10:19 pm
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