Lolligan the knight-Writing class-Character sketch

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class work, fiction writing, practice, writing class

It hadn’t gone as planned, the journey, long, treacherous, and unfruitful. The knight removed his helmet and cast it away. A clunk followed as the warrior too collapsed into the desert sand. Lolligan was too dehydrated to sweat. Vomiting had drained his body of its last precious bit of moisture. His lips were thin shriveled stretches of jerky. If only he’d held on to the horse’s reigns, if only.

Scavengers glided overhead, their grim shadows the only shade for miles. Heat beat down upon the hapless champion. Armor, once the protector, now helped to usher in his fate. He’d been near death before, but this time he could smell her foul breath. Lolligan resigned to her will. He fell backwards, and all went dark.

Six segmented legs whisked across his brow, a quick slap. Reality struck, a gauntlet in the face awakened him from his slumber. The wee hours upon him now, the cool air refreshed him, giving him a spark, the same spark that emboldened him in battle, and a moment of clarity helped carry him to his feet. Only one thing mattered, keeping a promise.

“Mother if I live I shall do no more harm,” he said.

Saying the words out loud gave them power somehow, strengthened his resolve. He’d always been a fighter, violence an instinct, so easy for him, killing a natural talent. Effortless and final, he’d taken down all who challenged. But, there were always the nights that followed, filled with regret. Faces young and old, opponents worthy and otherwise, all snuffed out by his sword, they haunted him.

No, he would live. Dying now would be too easy, and he’d always taken the easy road. With each strap undone a burden was eased, not just the physical one as the armor’s load was removed, but a mental one. Lolligan left his past among the discarded plate, and walked towards the moon in his undergarments. “I will do no more harm.”

Work Environment: assignment from my writing class

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learning to write, new writer, writing, writing class, writing practice

Ideal work environment:

I like the dark. My desk lamp is always pointed at the rear wall. The bounced light illuminates the room just enough to see my keyboard. The sound of the corner fan humming soothes me. It’s difficult for me to do anything without a little noise. My first apartment was on a busy street, and I got accustomed to the many sounds of the city at night. Even sleeping is difficult without the melody of the whirring fan blades. The same could be said of the cool breeze it produces. It reminds me of a time in my youth when I’d sleep with the window open letting the evening air envelop me. With keys clicking I write my thoughts. Each button press adding a note to the music played by the humming device. A duet in a shadowy quiet room. Heaven.

Least ideal work environment:

Damn phone, I can’t type three words without its infernal sounding. How am I ever going to get this done? Great, here comes the boss now. I click the the little icon to minimize my computer’s window. At least I thought that’s what I was doing. I click the “x” instead. It’s all gone every word I typed. Why the hell didn’t I save? Idiot. I drown my sorrow in the emptiness of data entry, and daydream of a time when writing is my only job.

Character sketch for my writing class

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character sketch, writing

Steve Schaffer was a little weasel of a man. Everyone he knew described him as a weasel. He lied about everything. Short of stature, standing only about five foot five, he never looked anyone in the eye. Whenever he was caught telling one of his tales, he’d put his head down and mumble. It was quite reminiscent of those old cartoons where the ostrich would bury its head in the sand. Steve had deep crows feet twisting up from the corners of each eye; because he was constantly squinting. Adorning his lip was a small mustache just a little bigger than Hitler’s. When he’d walk he always did so hunched over as if the weight of the world stood balanced on his back. Known for his whining more than his skill, he rarely received complements on a job well done. All of this seemed to stem from being emasculated by an overly dominate mate. He was a short little scumbag, frightened of his own shadow.

The boss

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boss, work, work place, writer, writing, writing snippet

Every day a voice (annoying, loud, and intense) orders me do things I’ve already accomplished. I reply, “Oh, great one. I’ve already executed those orders, perceiving the need in advance.”

The voice is a Philistine. A caterpillar uni brow perches upon its forehead. Always watching, a lion in wait, he pounces upon me at the slightest hint of weakness. My cunning, a deadly weapon, it wounds the great beast.

Clever as I am, the voice has the power. With extraordinary effort I make that power my own, and the great voice heeds to my advice.

I send the voice to quest the lands with unimportant busy work. It leaves me to my own devices. I’ve become the puppeteer wrenching the stings of a mighty foe.

Then I put my feet up on my desk and eat my lunch in peace. Hoping the boss stays away for the rest of the day

The Young Wizard’s Folly (Flash Fantasy Fiction)

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flash fiction, magic, new writer, practice, Wizard, writer

A Young Wizard’s Folly

The Young Wizard’s Folly

Those rats are back. Two or three at a time they come sniffing around. Looking here and there, trying to find it. He’s a wise wizard. I’ll give him that much. Sending his familiars to search for the book, but they’ll never discover its hiding place. I didn’t just fall off the turnip cart yesterday. The only way he’s getting his hands on my father’s spell tome is to face me like a man.

Burnt hair smell, sparks, and smoke, a single magic arc takes care of the rodents. Now, how to go about finding my bothersome foe? A pinch of ash from his little fury friends should suffice. Where’s my mortar and pestle?

“Livingston? You filthy scoundrel, what have you done with my equipment? Livingston?,” I scream. Here he comes now. That’s what feeling sorry for someone does. When I took the hunchback, the gimp, the hideous creature in and fed and clothed it, and gave it room and board, I had no idea what a commitment I was making.

“Yes, master?” he says.

“Where-is-my-mortar-and-pestle? Where? Do I need to speak slower?”

“There master.”

He points to my implements, sitting to the left of me, in plain sight.

“Very well, go catch a cat, or do whatever it is that you do. Leave me now.” Giggling, I can hear him as he limps off.

Back to the spell: a shard of blood-quartz, the ashes of a foe’s pet, three troll eyeballs (for flavor of course), and a little magic. You best be ready old man, because I’m coming for you. The potion goes down smooth-ish. When the coughing starts I’m ready for it. Great clouds of ashen smoke seep from my lungs into the room. Before long I’m unable to see. A flash of blue energy and the incantation is complete. The smoke clears, and my laboratory is gone.

Teleportation is tricky magic. My head is on backwards, and the old wizard is standing here smirking. He keeps looking at my butt and then up at my face, which at the moment seem to be in the same orientation.

“Looks like you got that spell bass-ackwards,” says the old man.

Before I can react his fireball catches me in the back. Sizzling flesh and the smell of burnt facial hair, the first signs that things are not going well, and then the pain hits and confirms it. Somehow, I’m on the floor. On my stomach, but still looking up at the ceiling. Stalagmites hang down like giant teeth. Of course he’d live in a cave, reclusive old coot. Standing over me the old wizard cracks his knuckles, and smiles.

“Now lets see if we can get that head of yours straightened out,” he says.

Of all the ways I’ve imagined dying this was never one of them. At least he’ll never get my father’s spell book.

Free Write Practice

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A mothers love, writing inspired by a photo, writing practice

Her little foot quivered as warm breath touched the wet toenail polish. The purple makeup’s fumes filled the one room apartment, and caused Jamie’s eyes to water.

“Mama, that tickles,” she said.

“ Almost done Jamie,” replied her mother.

“Then I’ll have pretty toes just like you mama.”

“You do have nice toes. In fact they look almost good enough to eat,” said her mother.

The little girl began to squeal as her mom gently tickled the soles of her feet.

“Now hurry up and get dressed we’re going to be late to meet your grandma.”

With a hop and skip the girl was up and getting dressed. Pale skin shown through the tattered holes in her jeans, and her pink shirt was faded showing the effects of a multitude of washings. In spite of her obvious lack of riches the girls heart was full of joy. A mother’s love is undervalued in this world of lust and wealth, but in the eyes of the little girl it was clear that her coffers had been filled with its priceless warmth.

The Neighbor – Flash Fiction

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flash fiction, killers mind, writing practice

The Neighbor

 

I murdered a bird today. Feathers and blood are enough to temporarily quench the thirst. Its death holds back a deeper urge, and treats but one symptom of my unwell mind. Slaughtering a person – that would be the grand finale in this show of insanity. Alas my conscience (bothersome thing that it is) stands in the way of fulfilling my need. I’m enslaved by morality (damn you Sunday school).

“Good morning, Elliot,” you say.

My disguise is elaborate – mild mannered neighbor. After returning the greeting, you drive away. Your daughter is the reason I moved here. For three hours every day you leave her alone and vulnerable. Predictability is my addiction’s ally. She’ll be my canvas, and I’ll paint my bloody masterpiece. Everything is in place. I need only act upon my evil concupiscence. Guilt, why do you shackle my hands?

My pacing wears trenches in the carpet. One thin string of humanity is all I have left. It chases away the illness in my head like a pit bull pursues a cat. But, like cats my lusts are persistent. Imagine my thumbs plunging deep into her eyes and releasing thick red tears. How orgasmic would the symphony of screams be? There’s a knife in my hand, and how it arrived there escapes me. I feel myself losing control. Only one remedy remains. It’s bloody and final.

#

Blood is beautiful. Rhythmic geysers from deep wounds spurt out and pool. The hearts tempo gradually slows. There’s a release. Semen and blood mingle. Consummation of lust, and absolution of guilt, are the origins of my smile. Cleansed in death, I’ve been reborn.

Words of damnation and lines of scripture attempt to surface from the depths of my psyche. They roam the passageways and cisterns of my mind seeking an entrance to my soul. Thick is the darkness that now dwells within me. No light can shine here.

“Murder, defiler, sinner,” the voice of reason attempts to speak to me. My illness strikes fast and snuffs it out. There is no redemption here.

Fingers twitch as the last drops of life drain. The climax is upon me now. As darkness falls upon my countenance, I examine the lesion on my wrist. My breathing slows. I killed a bird today, but it wasn’t enough.

The End.

Writing Practice

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descriptions, prose, writer, writing practice

Dogs of Wrath

Dogs of Wrath are vile creatures. Imagine a pit-bull with two fang filled heads, large square jaws lined with black leathery lips, and low hanging jowls dripping with thick saliva. Their six foot vertical frames, engineered musculature, and piked digits, created with genocide in mind. Gore is their sustenance, and butchered men the source of such gore. They Feed where they defecate. Wretched filthy animals are those Dogs of Wrath.

I desire such a weapon.

Monday and the Good Guy (flash fiction-tragedy)

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barbecue, flash fiction, summer day, tragedy, writing

Monday and the Good Guy

“It’s barbecue time big boy,” said Larry. He picked up little Mike and bounced him on his shoulder. “Barbecue, Barbecue, Barbecue,” the two of them chanted. It was a beautiful sunny August day. A Monday to be exact. Larry should have been in a dreary office sitting barley visible behind a mountain of paperwork. Family time was more important, so he took a sick day.

“That’s my steak daddy,” said little Mike.

“Oh, really? Because, I had dibs on that one,” said his father.

“Daddy always was a meany!” said Sarah. She kissed Larry on the cheek and rubbed her little ones head. “Now come to momma. Dad needs to finish up dinner.” The little boy giggled and jumped in to his mothers arms. Sarah looked over her husbands handiwork. “Looks like you missed the pepper on that one,” she said. He gave her a wry smile.

“You know very well I don’t like pepper,” he replied.

“Oh, do I? Hmm…maybe a little pepper would save you a few hours in the gym,” she said. With a smile and another giggle from little Mike she patted Larry’s pot belly.

“Very funny woman. Keep it up and I’ll give you a little exercise. If you know what I mean?” said Larry. With that, he reached and grabbed a hand full of Sarah’s derriere.

“What’s he talking about momma?” said little Mike.

“Just you never mind sweetie. Daddy’s a silly goose,” she replied. She gave Larry a flirtatious smile, winked, and walked away.

“Love you babe,” yelled Larry.

He picked up a cutting board upon which were three large porterhouse steaks. A wide eyed grin crossed his face. “ Barbecue time!” he said again. With the cutting board in one hand and a large two pronged fork in the other, he headed for the backyard. Using his backside he slid open the glass door leading to the patio and the grill. He breathed in the fresh air. Then Larry stepped outside. A coil in the water hose caught his foot. The smile on his face turned to fear. A moment later he was on the ground. The steaks were spread out across the perfectly fitted patio bricks. The sharp end of the barbecue fork protruded from the back of his skull.

The blood curdling screams of Sarah and the cries from little Mike filled the air. The clouds rolled overhead and shaded the backyard. The birds sang their songs, while bumble bees hummed and drank from flowers in the garden. It was a beautiful summer day.

Free write exercise

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aspiring writer, free writing, learning to write

Stomach hurts. Why? Who the hell knows. Doctors don’t. They do know how to empty my wallet though, yeah, real pros at that. Coffee is the worst. Feels like I drank battery acid after I consume a cup of the dark black drink from the gods. No pizza, no tacos, no tomato sauce, my restricted diet is prison. I drool every time I smell spaghetti. Just one more bite of tangy meat sauce, that’s all I ask.

But, alas, it’s not worth the pain. Irritable bowels, torture, the older I get the more health problems appear. Maybe it’s time to get in shape, nah. Too much work, and I’m just not motivated enough to get on an exercise machine.

No way I’m going to a gym. Why? So fit people can watch the fat guy sweat to death on the treadmill, or so an old guy can stick his pee pee in my face in the locker room. No, I think I’ll just keep killing myself slowly with steak sandwiches and french fries. Yeah, that sounds good.