Friday Freewrite

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

Hey, this would make a great blog if I could tie it to books!1

We walk around with plastic smiles on our lips, pretending to be happy, void of meaning, empty, our hearts a vacuum without meaning. We search, yearning for Truth, meaning, a place where we belong, and we don’t find it. So we drown ourselves in booze, drugs, entertainment; we get caught up in surface things so we won’t have to feel the deepest longings in our heart and our pain at having them unfulfilled. We try to dull the pain, even though it only masks the symptoms, and doesn’t cure the disease. And so the disease, without us feeling its presence, silently eats away at our souls, until nothing is left.

2


Footnotes

1. Sadly, this blog has yet to be written…

2. Yeah, that’s it for this week. I wanted to post more, but this was all I had written that day, and it stands too well on its own for me to add more.


If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.

A Case of Mistaken Identity, Part 9

You can read part 8 here. Reading for the first time? You can find part 1 here.

I stepped out into the hallway, quivering with adrenaline in the aftermath of revenge. Each of my senses had stretched as far they would go, so that I was no longer certain if the creaks and thumps I heard were real or if they were a product of my frenzied imagination. I stopped, paused to make certain the footsteps I heard were my own, then crept along the hallway like a spider, keeping as much to the feeble shadows as possible.

Soiled ivory-colored objects lined the walls at intervals, strung together so they resembled primitive necklaces. Some were long, others were short. Some were connected by balls and joints, others hung by only the string that bound them. I peered more closely, and almost gave myself away with a cry when I realized they were bones.

I moved faster.

I was halfway to the stairs when I heard a sound, a faint clicking noise, followed by what I was sure were feet padding across the carpet. It came from the open doorway of a room very close to where I stood. My head swiveled first to the room to see if I’d been spotted, then around again in search of cover.

I spied a bookcase filled with dusty weathered volumes beside me. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could find, and I dove for the shadow it provided.

I froze. Waited. Listened. When I was certain it was safe, I crept closer to survey the threat and to figure out when it would be best to continue my trek down the stairs.

The light inside was dim, and I had to strain my eyes to see. When I caught sight of my double’s mom, I nearly recoiled again. But her eyes were closed, and she was sitting Indian-style on the floor in front of her closet. She obviously hadn’t seen me. Around her neck hung a necklace like the ones I’d seen on the hallway walls. I stared at her, trying to discern what she was doing.

Suddenly her eyes popped open. I ducked behind the door frame, and I waited for ages before I dared peek again. When I did, I found her staring ahead at her closet. I relaxed.

She got up, and as if in a trance, she began to move toward the door. She reached for the knob and opened it. I gasped.

I’d seen this once before, when my double had opened my closet door and shown me another world. I was certain I’d discovered a passage home. I would follow her through the door, and then I would find mirror-Eugene and make him pay for what he’d done.

I rushed into the room. Fear evaporated, reduced only to raw instinct and determination. The door closed behind my double’s mom just as I reached the knob. I grasped it. Twisted. Pulled.

The door opened.

Read part 10 here.


If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.

Friday Freewrite

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

Even among so many people, I feel alone. A million voices scattered clumsily about, clamoring over one another, competing for attention, and mine sits still and silent, huddled up against the wall in a lone booth.

The soul inside of me cries without sound, a silent weeping that sets my heart aflame with a searing loneliness that scours me to the bone.

I don’t even really know what to write now1, but I’ll let association and the the abscent2 ramblings of the pen do their magic.

A blinding brilliant azure flash, from which all was created ex nihilo, a vast sprawling universe of stars, clustered into galaxies, of planets, thought, sense and purpose. All these, which sprang unbidden from the pen, a conduit through which the Creator has done his handiwork.

Write a flash fiction story3, about God creating the universe, but doubles as a writer. And when the writer is done, he looks at last upon the world of his creation, and concludes that it was good (Bible parallel.)

“…ink, the lifeblood of creation.”


Footnotes

1. Whenever I don’t know what to write about, I continue on anyway. The idea behind freewriting is to keep the pen moving. Eventually, something will pour into your head, and you’ll start generating ideas again. Even writing about a lack of ideas can sometimes yield a fruitful harvest.

2. This should be spelled absent.

3. You never know when a random freewrite will turn into a story. It’s always a happy accident :)


If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.

Friday Freewrite

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

The bathroom as a place of silent reflection.1

“The bathroom makes a philosopher of us all.”

OR

“He was the great bathroom philosopher.”

And tie philosophy into excrement in the toilet.


I wish I could experience the fullness of my being in a brief moment that lasts forever.


Christmas2. He’d tallied up the cost one day, and determined that, in general, one breaks even; you tend to receive in value what you’ve given to others. Well, he thought, why go through all that effort to break even when you could just do nothing and wind up in exactly the same state.


Luck is merely the perception of a pattern in the midst of chaos, the one-in-a-million favorable outcome already predicted by the cold hard numbers of statistics.


For anyone who’s had a bad year3, I’d like you to remember the Phoenix, for, just as the mythical bird is borne of its own dying ashes, so too can you hope that 2014 will be a good year, born from the painful ashes of 2013. Happy New Year, everyone!


Story4 about a guy who, in waking and sleeping, jumps about through various stages of his life, and maybe how this ultimately serves some purpose, makes it so he can do something synchronized across different times.


Light fractured along the surface of the glass5 like shards of stained glass5.

Golden light sparkled like needles, making Jared squint.

Long jagged crystals of light jutted through the glass surface.


He stared at the sun until the light began to hurt his eyes, then returned his gaze to the computer, where a shifting inkblot followed him wherever he looked.


Footnotes

1. I think I was just being silly here.

2. I was fleshing out a potential character, not expressing my own views about Christmas. I’m not this miserly, I promise!

3. I ultimately intended to post this on Facebook for New Year’s Day, then promptly forgot to do so. Oh well, now I can post it here instead.

4. Sometimes, I know right off the bat that what I’m freewriting is going to be a potential story.

5. Not my proudest moment as a writer… I guess my subconscious was feeling redundant that day. When I wrote this, I was attending a celebratory dinner with co-workers and had decided to pull out my notebook, zone out and focus on the way the light was reflecting off the glass table (doh, I said that word again!)


If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.

Friday Freewrite

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

The same wind that bristled the leaves of the trees and whispered sweet nothings in Jared’s ears, a song of peace, a ballad of content. It caressed the tender flesh of his cheeks and face, ruffled and tousled his hair like a father or a mother, like a friend, like a lover.


The sky cycled through light and dark, periodic bursts of life and energy that pulsed like a heart, pumping life and energy into the world, which vibrated and tingled and hummed sweetly with the beautiful presence of life, a deep rumbling sound from deep within the earth that resonated with Jared’s own heart.


Wet paw prints adorned the sidewalk, brief photographs that would quickly fade like the afterflash1 of a camera, echos2 of a time that had ceased to exist the moment it had come.


Life speeds on by, like a dream. Though we feel rooted to the moment, to all the many trivialities and comforting mundanities, that moment is speeding, hurtling through time and space at the speed of light. Each moment fades and ceases to be as soon as it comes into existence.

The years melt and bleed, run into one another until they form a bittersweet alloy of incoherent half remembered3 thoughts and moments, an insubstantial haze made of moonbeams and gossamer threads.


A moment’s existence4 meets its end before our minds even have the chance to process it; we perceive not the Words of creation themselves, but only their echo.


Footnotes

1. I’m pretty sure afterflash isn’t a word, nor does it even make sense. Flash would surely have been sufficient.

2. Why yes, I am aware of the misspelling. Thanks for noticing ;)

3. That should probably be half-remembered. *

4. I ultimately decided to use this passage in a novel called Purely Coincidental, a dark fantasy for adults which I talked about here.

*As you can see, even after having posted a couple of freewrites, I’m still extremely uncomfortable presenting spelling and grammar errors to the public. Shame on me for being a perfectionist…

If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.

Friday Freewrite

What’s Friday Freewrite? Find out here.

He thought of the dead, said a silent prayer. And as he did so, he asked his God for a word of protection against the souls of the damned, for such things did prowl the world, though encounters with them were rare.


We have finite length lives in which to figure out what the Truth is, and all the while have to fear death. Death is scary.

Is death the end, or just the beginning?1 And if it’s a beginning, what kind of beginning? The beginning of Heaven? The beginning of Hell? Or just another beginning in an infinite chain of beginnings and endings?

I’m confused. I don’t know what’s true and what isn’t. I have a mystical outlook on life. I know we exist in this world for a reason, and I strongly expect that we are loved, supported and protected in profound ways that we couldn’t even begin to imagine.

What is this life all about? Everything to us is surface and appearance. Most of life is but the thinnest of veneers, stretched taut and thin. That veneer breaks sometimes, stretches too thin and tears like paper. And what lies beneath the surface, what we hover over everyday without seeing, that great and terrible waging war between good and evil, it would freeze the blood in our veins, make the hairs on our arms and legs stand tall and rigid and erect.

Good and evil2. Evil and good. What is good? What is evil? They transcend definition. They just are.

Good is love. Good is kindness. Good is patience, support and gentle understanding.

Evil is a baby left on the street to die. Evil is a baby punctured in the hollow of the womb and left to die. Evil is pain and wickedness and suffering.

Yet, what is evil but a counterfeit good? All that is evil has its origins in something good, because evil is nothing more than the great imitator. What is a lie but a modified truth?


Footnotes

1. This paragraph I actually edited and posted on my Tumblr as a writing fragment. You can find it here. If you’ve read this before, now you get to experience the broader context in which it was written.

2. This and the remaining paragraphs were what lead me to write the blog Does Reading About Evil Make You Evil?


If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.

A Case of Mistaken Identity, Part 8

You can read part 7 here. Reading for the first time? You can find part 1 here.

I hid behind the door, wearing the darkness of the night like a cloak. I waited, eager for freedom, eager for revenge. I would no longer be my new big brother’s punching bag. The prey had become the predator.

I chose the night, not only because the dark gave me an advantage, but because that was when my brother usually came to see me. He liked to torture me before bed. Today, the tables would be turned.

I crouched, face hidden in shadow, and I brooded. How could my double have done this to me? He’d pretended to be my friend. We’d told each other stories. We’d shared in each other’s secrets. And then he’d betrayed me. I’d been so naive, so quick to trust. I would never make that mistake again.

I heard footsteps, muffled at first, like the sound of a distant drum. Soon the sound grew louder, until it had approached the other side of the door.

“Hey, dumbshit. I’m coming in to say goodnight.”

Tom. He laughed, a malevolent chuckle that caused the surface of my body to break out in goosebumps.

I stood there, silent, taut and alert.

A set of keys rattled. There was a clunk, a sound like a zipper as the key fed into the lock, then a click. A pinprick of time stretched, pregnant with possibilities. Then the door creaked slowly open. Light poured into the room.

“Hey Dumbshit, where are you?” Tom looked around, unable to see me from the doorway.

I’d performed a dozen thought-experiments, had trained myself with countless mental simulations. But this was not a thought experiment. This was real life, and real life was good at throwing wrenches in even the most well laid of plans. I had to tread carefully.

“Lost your voice, Dumbshit?” My new brother crept forward, eyes focused ahead as he scanned first the bed, then the space by the closet. “Get out here. Now.”

I grabbed the edge of the door to steady myself, sweat popping out of my forehead. I inched closer, one tiny step after another. I had to be careful, had to time this just right. If Tom moved at the wrong moment, if he turned his head before I was ready

Tom’s eyes flicked in my direction. I rushed him.

“Eug

That was all he managed to say before my foot thrust upward, making contact with the tender spot between his legs. Tom grabbed himself, eyes bulging with pain and surprise. He sucked in a lungful of air, hoarded it like a spoiled child before letting it out in a long and shuddering gasp. He sank to his knees, looked up and opened his mouth again.

“Mom!” he rasped. “Euge

I kicked him again. Again. And again.

Each blow produced a soft thud, a sound entirely at odds with the force of my blows. I delighted in his suffering, reveled in it. Where was that evil grin now?

“How does it feel?” I asked, planting another one squarely in the groin. “Does it feel good?” Thud. “Tell me, Tom.” Thud. “Does it feel good?”

He writhed on the floor like an injured snake, clutching at his man parts. I could hear him trying to speak, and I kicked him again.

I didn’t want to pull away. I wanted to hurt him some more, wanted to pay him back for all he’d done with interest. But I had to get out of there before my new mom wandered by and discovered what I’d done to the light of her life.

Tom curled into a ball like a rolley-polley. I left him there, confident that he wouldn’t be a problem for a while. I headed for the door.

I squinted up at the flood of light from outside my room, momentarily disoriented. I clutched the threshold with trepidation, not quite believing that I could walk away so easily. I couldn’t screw this up now, not when I was so close. I hesitated, glanced over my shoulder at the closet where my double had imprisoned me only three weeks ago. Once I left this room, that door was lost to me forever.

Actually, it was already lost the moment I’d attacked mirror-Tom. But once I left that place, I would have to admit to myself that there would be no rescue, that nobody would come bursting through the door in the nick of time as had happened so often on TV. I would have to wander through the desert of a foreign world in search of a way back home, understanding that I may never get there, that mirror-Eugene might forever enjoy what he had so callously stolen from me. The thought filled my gut with bile, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

When my eyes adjusted to the light, I spared a final look at Tom. He was no longer moving. Had he lost consciousness? I looked out the window, glimpsed the stars, spattering the sky like glitter, and thought of my double, a nine-year-old Judas Iscariot. I promised that I would come for him, that I wouldn’t let him get away with what he’d done.

Then I stepped across the threshold and said a silent prayer for deliverance. I still had to make it downstairs and out the front door.

Read part 9 here.


If you want to keep up with my work and to know when I publish my next book, join my mailing list by clicking here. In return, I’ll send you a free copy of my short story The Sign. I’ll only send you an email once a month and you can easily unsubscribe at any time.