Monthly Archives: June 2015

Flash Fiction Challenge.

The best thing I can say about this is “DON’T READ IT!” seriously, it’s dark, nasty, horrible. Sad. Sad, as in, I kind of know this girl. This is another one of those things I’ve written that came out like a horrible gush of vomit. Continue at your own risk.

Drivin’ Nails in My Coffin

When I woke, my baby was crying somewhere in another room. I listened for a moment, trying to get my bearings. In the end, I had to admit failure. Failure, as in I had no fucking clue where I was. The ceiling was smooth, not that spackle-board stuff that leaves star-shaped designs dripping out like cake frosting. The walls were pale blue. The wicker furniture was light and airy, the kind of stuff you’d find at a beach house.

As my eyes adjusted, though, things came into sharper focus. The dresser leered at me, snagletoothed with its missing drawer. The powder blue of the walls was punctuated with dirty smears. Holes over the window testified of curtains that had hung, then fallen, bringing the rods down with them. None of it stirred a memory.

A beautiful antique table sat under the picture window. Among the empty liquor bottles and overflowing ashtray were my pipe and my panties. I’ll probably need them both today, but I only grabbed the pipe. Panties aren’t a necessity.

Outside the bedroom I found a hallway that turned sharply to the right and opened into a kitchen, where three dudes I didn’t know were smoking cigarettes. They leered at my naked body, but so what? They’ve probably seen it before anyway.

“Anybody got some?” I held my pipe up, showing them it was empty. The one with long blonde hair, matted to his forehead, shook his head no.

“Just boiled our last rock, babe. Might be, I could make some arrangements, though.” He looked at my breasts, then back into my eyes.

“Maybe later, I need some now.” The baby was still crying. Probably laying in shit again. Every time I wake up she’s crying. “Where’s my baby?”

The guys looked at each other, uncertain of how to answer. I focused on the blonde guy, since he’d already talked to me. My stare drew a reluctant response. “I think she’s downstairs, with Jillian?” His answer sounded like a question.

OK, Jillian. I remember that guy. I think we’ve been fucking.

Downstairs, Jillian had her legs up, holding both ankles in his right hand. He was raping a baby, but was it mine? This one’s bigger than mine, I think. I don’t really remember. No, that’s not my baby girl. Who else would have a baby here? I couldn’t recall another baby, but then again, I still didn’t know where “here” was.

“What the FUCK, Jillian?”

He pulled out and turned to be, his prick covered in blood. “Hey, hi there. No, I was just…”he trailed off.

“You were fucking my baby girl! What the fuck is wrong with you?” He looked down, at his feet or his prick or whatever. Upstairs, I heard the outside door close. Everyone had left, before the fireworks. Before the fight. Before the cops showed up, maybe.

“Listen, hey, I’ve been feeding her and stuff. You’ve been asleep for days. I was worried about her, so, you know, I took care of her. But I hit a rock and got kind of horny, you know. It just kinda happened.”

“Is this your house?” He shook his head yes. “Gimme some more rock or I’m calling the cops.”

“Sure, yea Babe.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a pretty righteous boulder for me, walking back with his naked prick bobbing as he walked. I wanted to kick it. Wait until you get your rock. He extended his hand, the pink little gem held between thumb and forefinger. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“Shut up, asshole.” I snatched the rock from his fingers and shoved it in my pipe. “Where’s your goddamned lighter?”

He handed me the lighter and watched hungrily as I inhaled the white tendrils of smoke. “You mad at me, babe?” He knew I couldn’t answer. I was holding my hit. “The reason I ask, you know, I got some guys coming over later this afternoon. They think you’re pretty hot. You’ve been going at two rocks per fuck. You take care of them and you’ll have a week’s worth of ice. Of course, I’d want a little bump for getting everyone together, but still…”

I closed my eyes as the rush crashed into, then over me. Jillian was talking, talking so much. A momentary disorientation, a step across a few dimensions, and I was back in the room with him. Back to my old self. “Enough for a whole week? Yea, I’m up for it.” I suddenly wanted to lay on the back porch, naked, and let the sun bake me for a few minutes.

As I stepped outside, still naked, I heard a baby crying somewhere in the house.


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Writers Tips #101: 17 Tips from Writing the Blockbuster Novel


When you read your story, does it sound off, maybe you can’t quite put your finger on it, but you know you’ve done something wrong? Sometimes–maybe even lots of times–there are simple fixes. These writer’s tips will come at you once a week, giving you plenty of time to go through your story and make the adjustments.

When Albert Zuckerman wrote his acclaimed book, Writing the Blockbuster Novel (Writers House Press 1994), he made no apologies for directing this how-to-write book at those who want to pen the big story, the one that vaults a writer to the fore of his art, the script that makes movie makers drool. All novelists aspire to that (in the way all children aspire to be President), but few will achieve it. Nevertheless, the tips he shares serve every story well, even the niche novel that only appeals (though rabidly) to a cult of…

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