you know those blogs that are nothing but promises to post more?
this is gonna become one of those if this keeps up.
I did my other new year’s thing before I wrote tonight and my mom’s occupying the tv like it’s zucotti park, so I thought I’d do something different.
here’s some raps I wrote a while ago! Read more…
So, I’ll assume you’ve read my story Studies in Film Noir I. I should probably re-read it before writing this, and likely will before I get to the jump. Let me just say that I was in high school when I wrote that. It seems a little Pretty Hate Machine, looking at it now. Needlessly dark and moody, clipped and withdrawn. I’m not saying it came from pain, I’m saying it so badly wants to be seen as serious. I wrote it seriously. The first part I wrote, actually, was Part Four. And originally, that was the whole story, until I wanted to know more about who was involved and what happened to all of them. Isn’t that the way the best stories are written, after all? Stephen King said he has no idea where a book is going when he writes it. In my first attempt to write a novel back in November, the pressure of 20 thousand words got to me. I knew where it was going, so I stopped. And really, that’s the biggest obstacle between me and being a good writer: knowing where it’s going.
You see, after I wrote Studies in Film Noir, back when that was its title, I started thinking about doing other stories in that fictional universe. Somewhere in the near future, after the Equal Rights movement has led America to a second Civil War (escalating into an [idealistically] non-nuclear Third Global Conflict), and the States have healed, but barely. It’s a setting that allows for a few things. Meditations on communal hatred, gay veterans, aptly named bars. It also allows for that gritty, post-WWII narrative–the hardboiled. Where heroes have jaws the size of a shark’s and, in my case, heroines are as ballsy. So, I started wondering about a couple of the characters in Studies in Film Noir I, and found that there were two stories I wanted to tell. Warning: spoilers for Studies in Film Noir I, The Ballad of Skinhead Bob and Studies in Film Noir II after the jump, so read it if you haven’t. Read more…
Be sure to read Part 1!
Jane scaled the stairs back to her apartment. The lights in the hallway were too bright. Her eyes fought to focus in the confusion. Once she reached 337, the room she shared, she let herself in and found the lights already off. She let out a sigh, and dropped her keys on the floor.
Gabe entered the hallway without a sound. He saw her palely lit by the moonlight.
“Whoa,” he said. “You look horrible.”
Jane walked through the apartment, back towards the bedroom. She opened the door and sat on the edge of the bed. Gabe followed and sat behind her. It was worse than he’d imagined. She was broken in so many places. But she would heal, and fast. They always did.
“There was a fight,” she said over her shoulder, avoiding his eyes. He tried to examine her injuries and found the shirt getting in the way.
“You were always one to meddle,” he mused. He sighed and placed his hands in his lap. “This is useless with that shirt on.”
She smiled–or at least tried. It turned into a wince when her cut lip spread. She nodded slowly, breathing through her nose.
Gabe looked at her shirt. It was torn and stained with blood. He reached around her waist and began to peel it off of her. She helped him as much as she could. Read more…
Thought I’d do something weird this weekend and post something I wrote a long time ago. This is really just to make sure it gets into a book, specifically I’m Not a Fanboy Vol. II. I might review it Monday. Anyway, warning for very, very strong language, very frequently. Adults, keep your kids away if they got here through my Pixar review series.
Rob scaled the stairs up to his apartment. His mind was coated in a haze. He tried to blink it away, but it just wouldn’t lift. His jacket weighed him down like it was made of lead. He kept up the stairs.
He noticed that his pants were getting heavy–his wallet, his boots, everything. His vision got hazier. He collapsed on the stairs and stared up at the ceiling. Out of sheer coincidence, his wallet fell out of his back pocket.
The haze lifted.
Filled with desperation, he reached over and tore a patch off of the worn leather of his jacket. The haze lifted again.
He rose slowly, and started tearing off more and more—the more left behind, the more he could see. By the time he had reached his apartment door, only underclothes and keys weighed him down. Yet his vision wasn’t 100%.
He drove the key home into the lock. The pins aligned, he turned the knob and he dropped the keys on the ground outside. The haze was almost gone. Read more…