The Search for the Holy Girl

Thank you everyone who has been yelling at me for missing a few last week. It's appreciated, even if I grunt at you. After all, some days I am just a caveman in a grownup suit.
For all you avid readers today will disappoint you. I did write, a good hour too. I just won't post it yet because it's unfinished. I know, I post unfinished stuff, it's the way I'm doing this. But todays has holes in the middle that I really want to flesh out tomorrow, So I am holding it, because if I posted it ow and then put in the rest tomorrow it'd be ruined for you, and what fun is that?

Well, I knew I wouldn't make it a week and I was right, but that's no reason to stop. Of course I notice that when I miss one day, which I did Thursday because of long hours at work, it's really hard to write the next, which is the only reason I didn't on Friday and Monday. So here I am on Tuesday and I have to write something or I fear I may give up completely. i need to get back into it. So here's a short imagined painting I'm not skilled enough to paint.

Right-arm crooked through the giant red letter O. It's late at night, the sky black, but lit by city lights and the large letters on top of the building. We see only the bottom two-thirds of the letter O and parts of each letter to the left and right, however unrecognizable. The man leans on the O, head looking down at his feet. His face covered by hair, shaggy, but not long. Slung across his back is a dark-colored 1976 fender mustang guitar. His jeans and white t-shirt partly illuminated by the light of the O.

a convoluted mess

Let me explain a little. I sat down this morning with a purpose. An experiment in mind. I want to write a tv series, but in novel form, BUT I want to also write about someone watching the series, and what they feel when they watch television, and what conversations they have when they watch television. I've had the idea for a long time but kept telling myself it was impossible, at least for me. So that's what I started today. I wasn't too worried about the content but really wanted to see HOW I might try and pull it off. I think it's safe to say a narcissistic narrator who announce his presence with a weak attempt at thunder is not the ideal way to go. Maybe the subtle use of quotes for tv, and non-quotes for real-life will be enough, coupled with character names. I don't know, the experiment will definitely have to continue. But here's todays writing anyways. I call it "a little business - a mess on the carpet". Yup, sure is clever.

A Little Business/ A Mess On the Carpet

Tim walked through the small living room into the kitchen, shirtless, hair a mess.

“What the hell Tim,” said Rob, “I woke you up an hour ago, what are you doing?”

“Cereal.”

“My parents are coming in 20 minutes to take us out to dinner.”

“What are you doing?” asked Tim.

“Building a log cottage.”

Boom, crack, boom. That's the sound of thunder. I use it often to announce my presence. For I am Narrator. And I like to explain things to you, mostly because you aren't bright enough to figure them out yourself. But also because we're gonna be all over the place. If you have any questions please raise your eyebrows and I will call on you when I get a chance. Again my name is narrator, but you can call me sir narrator if you wish.

There, introduction over let's discuss the story. What you are seeing currently is the pilot episode of a television show called “A Little Business” being broadcast into the home of Anne and Jonathon Rosemaster. Let's join them as they watch.

That's not a log cottage, Jon, it looks like he's painting an apple.

It's called sarcasm dear, Tony told me about it the other day at work. It's like people lying to be funny because they can't think of anything witty to say.

Oh. Lets change the channel.

click

“And now,” exclaims the overly enthusiastic host, “for Ten! Thousand! Dollars! Would you rather be walking down the street and see a puppy or a homeless man get struck by a car, knowing it wouldn't kill them. Please write down your answer.”

The woman scribbles quickly and smiles at the camera, her bangs frozen in place, four inches above her forehead.

“Okay Kate, a dog, or a homeless man,” asks the host.

“Well, Ron, I can't stand to see anyone suffer. I put a homeless man.”

“Let's go to you panel, is she telling us the truth?

“Ron, just look at her. She's wearing a sweatshirt with a black lab on it in front of millions of people, she's obviously a dog person, I say she's lying,” Celebrity panelist 1 says.

“Okay, what about you celebrity panelist number 2?” asks the host.

“No one in there right mind would want to see another human hit by a car, even if it meant a dog did, I'm gonna say she's telling the truth.”

“Wow, a split decision, looks like Robin Williams is going to have to make the decision again.”

“Well, Ron, achh! Like I know people are supposed to be important and all, but like look at her. She's lying like my dead grandmother in her grave.”

“Okay folks, we'll be right back after this to find out what this pretty young lady really wrote down.”

click.

Johnny, I was watching that.

Oh give it a rest woman, she's lying. I wanna get back to the show.

Boom, crack, boom.

Well kids, there you have it, I hope you understand what's going on no so I don't have to jump in all the time and explain. And now, through the beauty of DVR, we're gonna go back to “A Little business” right where we left off.

“Dude those are my paints,” Tim said as he peered over Rob's shoulder. “And you can't even paint.”

“Well actually they're still my paints, since you haven't paid me for them, just like the last 2 months of rent.”

“Yeah, but you can't paint. You're an elementary school gym teacher.”

“Anyone can paint, Tim, I just can't paint well. And go get dressed you're eating a free meal on my folks.”

ding-dong

boom crack boom. Yes, I saw your eyebrows raise, and no I will not call on you. I don't announce myself with a ding-dong, I use THUNDER. So get back to the show.

ding-dong

Tim sits himself on his favorite orange chair as the doorbell rings. Rob laughs a little and goes to answer the door.

“Yeah I got a registered letter for a Tim Minilow. That you?” asks the man at the door.

“Nah he's right here.” Leaving the door wide open and returning to his painting of an apple. “Tim.”

“Come on in man, I'll sign whatever you got.” Tim leaned back into the reclining position of his chair. “What is it anyway?”

“I don't know, I just deliver it.”

The delivery man handed Tim the letter and clipboard to sign and left while Tim began to read.

“You know any Thomas Baxter?” Tim asks Rob.

“Nah, why?”

“I'm supposed to go to his will reading tomorrow.”

“Call your mom.”

“Fine. Man, what is it with you and family today?”

a 500-word beginning to a bad idea

It's meaningless to me. There's no story, only a smidgen of character. But yet I've never felt better because I sat down and wrote. Damn, I actually made it to day 2. Yeah yeah, let me enjoy my small victories.

Anyway, here's the second day of writing, it's dull, but it's words. Plus I know I will continue it at some point, because there's gonna be a bear, yup a bear!! Grrr.

A Pup Named Pulp

Balk lets the cigarette fall from his lips and crushes it beneath his blue wing-tip as he lights another. His body slants against the old street lamp.

The fog and drizzling rain make everything gray. He feels like he's in an old detective movie. He hates old detective movies.

A young woman in fur sits a few feet away at the bus stop, just within ear-shot.

It's her fault he has to be here he scowls to himself.

“No, I can't come to your office, they have people following me,” she had told him over the phone. “And wear a disguise.”

He tried to tell her he was no good with disguises, he knows how to blend, to go unnoticed. But she insisted, and she had the money. So here he is, looking like Groucho Marx in a thousand-dollar suit and a Chicago Cubs cap.

“Thank you,” she tells him as she takes out a small envelope and sets it beside her. “This is all the information I have at the moment and $5,000 to get you started.”

Balk doesn't look at the envelope or the girl, he just listens, still a bit upset about the situation. He can't believe he forgot to bring his overcoat. His best suit is slowly soaking in the dirty rainwater.

“You have to find him quickly, because he won't last long without his special diet,” she continued. “Please, understand that this isn't just any dog. He's everything to me.”

Balk coughs as he chokes on the smoke, partially because he doesn't really smoke, but mostly because he's shocked.

“Your what?” He turns and looks directly at her for the first time, just as the bus approaches.

The woman jumps on without a word.

“Fucking animals,” Balk says to anyone around as the bus pulls away.

Maybe it's because his sister is a veterinarian, his only sister, his sister who won't even speak to him, no matter how hard he tries. Or maybe it's because his last two cases dealt solely with chickens, and both went horribly wrong; he has the scars to prove it.

Either way, Balk didn't have the luxury of being too particular about cases. His cash-flow was wilting and his bar tab growing. He had plenty of nice things, like clothes and a nice apartment, but that was from money he made a long time ago. When he had been the only detective in town.

Now, though, Balk takes what he can get, animals or not. He's sick of living like a poor farm-boy off at college. Noodles and bread for every meal.

He stuffs the envelope into his breast pocket without looking at it and walks back to his office to get a change of clothes.

And it begins with a talking toaster

The talking toaster

“Bobby.” The mother screamed as she grabbed the four-year-old from behind and uprooted him from his standing position on the kitchen chair.

“Ow,” Bobby yelled.

“Just what do you think you're doing with that knife?” she asked, still breathing heavier than she ever felt she had.

“The toaster told me to.”

“What?”

“The toaster told me to.”

“What?”

“The toaster.”

“I know,” she interrupted, “the toaster told you to. My god.”

The mother set the child down, setting herself onto the chair his feet had just been in, and slowly turned him to face her.

“Bobby. You just put a knife into the toaster. Why would you do that? We've talked about danger, and things not to do, and this was definitely one of those things Bobby.” The mother inhaled deeply. still trying to catch her breath. “So why did you do it?”

“The toaster told.”

“Stop,” she yelled, before lowering her voice in an attempt at placidity. “Toasters can't talk. Please, Bobby, tell me what you were doing?”

“Mom, I told you the toaster.”

“Bobby,” the mother's voice continued to rise and fall, “there is no such thing as a talking toaster.”

“I beg to differ.”

“You what?” she asked as she grabbed Bobby's shoulders before realizing the sound hadn't come from him.

The mother looked toward the door, the window, and the old yellow corded phone sitting on its perch.

“See,” said Bobby as he pointed at the toaster.

“No, I don't see, Bobby. How did you do that?”

“Well it's not exactly magic, but it's a bit more complex than a tongue and a voice box,” replied the appliance that had previously been known only to take up space and occasionally burn bread.

“Pinch me Bobby.”

“Ow, what the ... Thanks.” The mother said as she picked up her son, still in his blue flannel superhero pajamas, and set him on her lap. One arm fell across the boys waist while the other hand held her own head as if suffering from a migraine.

“See,” said Bobby.

“Yes, I see Bobby. I see.”

The mother and son sat quietly in the kitchen. Not thinking, not talking, not waiting, just sitting.

“Well?”

The mother jerked her head at the sound of the still unfamiliar voice.

“You seem to be taking this better than I expected,” continued the toaster.

“The world is full of strange things,” she said as she set her son down once again and stood from the chair. “Bobby, why don't you go into the other room and play now.”

Bobby ran from the kitchen, his blue flannel pajama feet slipping a little with each step.

The mother turned to the counter and the 10-year-old toaster that had apparently learned to talk. She grabbed the cord right below the plug as if it were a skinny human throat.

“I've accepted the unacceptable here, and I really don't even care. I just want to know one thing.” The mother spoke directly to the toaster now. “Why in the hell did you risk my son's life by telling him to put a knife in you?”

“I'm sorry,” replied the crumbly voice, “I had to.”

“You what?”

“I had to.”

The Mother's hand squeezed the cord even harder, although it barely seemed to affect the toaster's voice as it continued.

“I've been talking for years, telling you to have a grapefruit, or a salad for lunch, or to even stay home from work, and you do. You listen. You listen, but you never talk back.”

The mother felt she knew where this was headed, but didn't say a word.

“I had to make it count. If there was nothing at stake you'd never grasp the truth. So I had to make it count. There had to be something to lose.”

“My god,” the mother said as she wrenched the cord from the outlet. “You're as bad as a human,” she let the toaster fall into the trash, “you think you're using logic.”

A Common Writer year

This is it. MY great experiment. No one actually makes it through January with New Year's resolutions, so I am starting mine now.
It is going to be a hectic year. Changing more than ever before in my short 28 years here.
But I'm making an attempt anyways. A serious attempt.
I am writing every day. Every weekday at least for now.
I will post here my story each day. It may not have a beginning, nor an end, but I will be writing. The one thing I seem to always fail at.
It's for the world to read, although few will. At least it is some sort of pressure. A pressure I need to make myself go.
Watch me as I make a serious attempt at one thing, one thing I've never been able to do. Write regularly. Just know, I'm not promising quality. Unfiltered, unedited writing. Words on paper (screen). Words from me, to make a habit of myself and my craft, to someday create something bigger.
If you're entertained, let me know. If not, let me know. But mostly if you have some critiques of the work, even better. Every comment is an eye, every eye is steam in my pressure cooker.
It's going to be a challenge. I shy from challenges. But maybe, just once, I can do it.