Coffeeshop Confessional.

This post is long overdue, so let me quickly give thanks for the patience of my fellow bloggers:
Laura and Jen Coyote! Please check out their Confessionals.

Laura's: That Grrl: The Coffee Shop Confessional
Jen's: Coffeeshop Confessional


This last confessional found me, once again, at Barnes and Noble. I stared at the board and contemplated the silliness of Starbuck's words for size selection. I wasn't in the mood for anything Venti, and while a Grande was nothing close to grand, I decided that whatever my appetite landed upon, I would opt for the medium. But what to order? It was a conundrum I wasn't shocked to find myself in. Normally I would order a hot chai and that would be the end of it, but I have learned that a good chai is quite rare at a Starbucks. So what to get?
I allowed my mind to drift as the party ahead of me ordered their drinks and paid for their books. It was an interesting family to say the least. The child looked boyish, but if my life depended upon a description I would have had to say it was a girl. My brow furrowed as I paid close attention to the sound of the voice and the mannerisms. The more I thought of it, the more I was sure of my opinion. I felt glad of my quiet and dark presence. While it can be troubling at times, I have yet to be mistaken for someone of the other gender, and for that I can be happy.
I knew those thoughts were disturbing, to say the least, so I purged them from my mind. I looked up at the board in vain again. Nothing seemed appealing.
The family left and a gap appeared in the line before me. A woman I had mentally grouped with the them stood motionless, her eyes on me. She looked at me quietly and something in her expression gave the distinct impression that she expected that I would step up to the counter ahead of her, and she looked quite resigned to the fate. I faltered and in the blink of a moment it struck me that she must be used to being overlooked. I smiled ruefully and motioned for her to take her rightful place at the head of the line. Her shock was evident as she bowed her head, a pale pink flushing upon her cheeks.
I stared at the board from behind her. Nothing. I looked around, the tables were teaming with 'customers', and I use the word lightly. Some were sitting, nary a drink between them, talking boisterously and waving various periodicals in animated discussions. Others sat at their laptop computers, working on whatever project they were currently pressed with. So many full tables without drinks on them or in the patrons hands. I sighed.
Just as the woman turned and moved aside I saw a sign on the counter, 'Caffeine Alternatives,' it read. For no particular reason, I scanned the titles of the drinks listed, hoping to find the object of my mind's unknown desire. One in particular caught my attention.
"What is a... Cream Steamer, exactly?" I asked. Satisfied with the answer I asked for the Grande. My drink was done in but a few moments, the girl behind the counter smiled at me and I turned to leave, mentally remarking how very colorful the tattoo of a sun was on the exposed portion of her right breast. The woman who had ordered before me stared at my cup, her gaze was as emotionless now as it had been before. Quiet resignation seemed to emanate from her, 'He may as well have ordered first anyway', I was sure she thought as I walked past.
The tables still full, I walked back to the children's area where my wife sat on the floor looking at books for cake decorating. Her beauty struck me and I smiled as I sat down next to her. She was my best friend and closest companion. I watched my kids playing with the toy trains for a moment before setting to work on my Confessional. Once it was complete and we were ready to leave, I snuck back into the Starbucks area of the store and placed my napkin on the table with the sugars and straws where the lady had stood when I walked by, drink in hand.

And the Winner Is....

Laura From ThatGrrl won the Short Notice Short Story competition! She'll be taking home 40 dollars and a jar of my wife's tasty Strawberry Jam! (I'm a pantry bandit, if you haven't already guessed as much!)

Strawberry Jam with Ginger

"My Mother isn't coming for a social visit, she wants to inspect us, dissect everything I've done with the house, the girls and you." Blair pulled the blankets back over her head.

"Your Mother is coming to see the girls and us. You make her sound like a hyper critical bitch and she's really pretty sweet." Bob pulled the blankets off the bed, trying to force Blair to get out of it. "I had Alice and Claire all dressed up but they wanted your strawberry jam on toast and now they're all sticky. But they loved the jam Mommy made."

Bob sat on the bed next to Blair while she curled up, tried to pretend it wasn't too cold to go back to sleep.

"Did you like the jam?" Blair said.

"I did. Now get up. I said we could make the jam this morning, together. You didn't have to stay up so late just to make jam. I offered to just buy some so you could put it in the mason jars and let her think you made it."

"She would have known." Blair laughed. "I wanted one really homemade domestic thing done before she comes out here. I wish I could have made bread too. I just couldn't keep myself awake long enough for it to rise twice."

"Come on, get up, your Mother isn't as evil as you want to think she is." Bob gave her a playful swat on the butt. "I'll change the girls, you have to get yourself changed and showered. I can put coffee on once I've got the girls all frilled up again."

"Thanks." Blair rolled herself out of bed. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror. Just turned on the shower, peeled off her nightie and stood under the hot water, letting it sink into her befogged brain.

Half an hour later as she was pulling her hair into order with a big 'bad hair day' barrette she heard her Mother arrive. "All hail the Queen." She murmured quietly.

It wasn't that her Mother was a demon in disguise she just had higher standards than Blair could ever meet. Over the years she had given up on ever being good enough or having everything done well enough. Her Mother would come in and take over. Blair hated having to be nice and let her Mother re-wash her dishes, re-order her closets and re-arrange her flowers on the table even.

Then came the advice, always well meant. The girls should have another hair cut. Bob really should be treated more like the man of the house and why can't Blair just let him sleep in instead of expecting him to be up with his daughters every morning. Not that Blair never helped out. She worked nights and Bob worked days. It wasn't easy being a couple that way but they wouldn't have to do it forever. Bob liked his mornings with the girls, especially on weekends when there wasn't a rush for school and work. Blair was the afternoon shift, home after school, until Bob was there to get them into bed.

Blair pulled a shirt over her bra, put a smile on her face and went out to bell the dragon.

"Blair!" Her Mother's eyes lit up and she came over for a hug and kiss. No, dragon wasn't fair. Her Mother really did love everyone, the family. She just needed a few boundaries... just as they say on those afternoon talk shows.

"Hi Mom." Blair hugged her back.

"Bob and I have just been having coffee with your great jam. I think you put ginger in it? It's really good. I just wish you had waited...
you and I... we always make the strawberry jam together. I nearly stopped and bought two flats of strawberries on the way here today, just hoping we could make the jam this weekend."

Her Mother, the dragon, the demon in disguise, gave Blair a watery smile. "I like that we can still do some things like the jam making and the crafts for Christmas. I don't get to do much of that with you any more. Your sisters never did those things, it was always you and I. Kind of silly to get emotional about it. You did just fine without me. You're good at so many things. Always have been."

Blair felt her own tear attempting to leak out. "I wanted to make bread to go with the jam too. Just got home from work so late last night... I have everything, fresh yeast, flour... Claire and Alice can help and Bob is really good at taking over the kneading when my arms get tired."

Blair laughed. "I'm glad you're here Mom. I always liked making jam, bread and holiday sewing things with you. Now that you're here a few days we can teach Claire and Alice how to do those things too."

Blair's Mom smiled, wiped a tear remnant away and sat at the table.
She sipped her coffee, looked at the girls in all the frills and bows on the pink dresses they wore. Bob really had outdone himself on pink and frills. "You know... later we could take the girls for a little hair trim. Maybe a little styling up too. They have such nice curly hair, it's a shame you don't do just a bit more styling with it Blair..."

Blair smiled patiently but inside she was rolling her eyes... Mothers!

Just hours left!!!!

So far I have had one entry for my birthday Short Notice Short Story competition. Please read my last post for the requirements but I am afraid that you only have but three hours left.

I realized that this could fall in either direction, but I was hoping for at least a handful of entries.

-Brady

Short Notice Short Story Competition!

Attention all!

I am hereby announcing the very first HuntingtheMuse.com Short Notice Short Story Competition! This event will correlate with my 28th birthday and all entries will be due by midnight of April 28th, 2008.

Guidelines:

• Entries will be limited to 5,000 words or less.
• Entries will be judged for content and integration of selected theme.
• All entries will remain the property of the author, with first publication rights belonging to HuntingtheMuse.com. Once the story has been published and remains on the site for a period no shorter than 3 weeks, the author may request that the story be removed and the request will be honored within a reasonable time frame.
  
• No previously submitted work will be accepted. All entries must be written in the short time provided in order to be Short Notice Short Stories.
• Email entries to brady at huntingthemuse.com (no attachments, just copy and paste into the email) with a subject of Short Notice Short Story.
• Do not include your name anywhere on your entry, I will email the winner to get all appropriate information.
  

The Theme:

The theme for this competition will be Strawberry Jam. The theme must play an important part in the plot of your story. It can be subtle or a very prominent part of the storyline. But it must exist and entries will be judged on how well it is pulled off.

What You Win:

The winner will receive $40(US) in the form of a gift card or Paypal payment as well as a jar of my wife's tasty homemade Strawberry Jam! (Shh! Don't tell!)

Time is short so start writing!

Email me or comment with a link to your promotional post on your own blog to see your link below!

That Grrl

Lyric Writing: Theory

Welcome to the introductory post of lyric writing at HuntingtheMuse.com. Today we will be discussing the theory behind the lyrical side of songwriting. This post won't fully prepare you to write your own lyrics but it will help to set important groundwork that we will expand upon with each part in the series.

Just like any poem or short story, lyrics have the power to take our imagination on a journey, to inform us, to put a question in our heads, and to soothe our souls or instigate inner turmoil. That said, writing lyrics isn't just for yuppies looking to score a quick buck in the music industry.
Instead of a guide to Pop startup, consider this as a grassroots approach, if you will.
For this project I decided to pull out one of the greatest tools in my research arsenal, www.google.com. Unfortunately, the results I got back were mostly the piranha sites for seemingly bogus songwriting contests. The content sites I came across could be described, in my opinion, as fluff adsense pages. The sole purpose of their existence, it would seem, is to generate money with the promise of better content through adsense links. This isn't to say that there aren't great internet resources to help the aspiring lyricist, but it does go to show that any serious writer will need to put a lot of effort to get any real information from the net on this subject. It wasn't long before I decided to abandon the search and filtration process and move toward printed publications. My selections for this projects were: Songwriting for Dummies and Songwriting: A Complete Guide to the Craft by Stephen Citron

Both of these books opened my mind to just how expansive this subject is, and just how much those other websites left out. I decided early on that there was no way I could possibly cover all of the aspects of songwriting in a single post. In fact, it would likely take nearly a month of well thought-out posts to cover the true heart of the subject with enough meat to leave you with anything more than a basic understanding. Since I'm no expert, this approach seemed off skelter. I have, instead, decided to split my post into a three-part series that will cover theory, inspiration, and structure. Consider this series as the beginning of your quest to broaden your horizons. It could be nothing more than an experimental deviation from your routine, or it could possibly open the door to a path that leads you to a life of songwriting that you never imagined. Whatever the case, I hope you enjoy what I've put together.

What does it take to write lyrics?
Formal music training is not a must. It can help, but it isn't required to write inspiring, powerful lyrics. Many successful songwriters collaborate with other artists to create award-winning songs.

Not all songs need to be serious, either. If you're feeling the tingle of a funny bone, go for it. Lyric writing is like any other type of writing in that you take an idea or ever a string of ideas and expand on it. An important starting point is to take those ideas and create a "thesis," a one sentence description that explains your lyrics. All ideas throughout your song should find their grounding point in this thesis. If there is no clear connection between a particular line and your thesis, take it out and save it for another project.

Here are some samples I have created. It sounds more daunting than it really is.

I failed the drug test because I ate a poppyseed muffin. (The Poppyseed Muffin song - not based on actual events).

Three men go off to war, only one returns.

A man is tempted with adultery, but remains faithful.

A girl finds out she's pregnant and doesn't know what to do.

A piece of terminology you may run into in the lyric writing scene is the Lyrical Hook. This is the part of the song that summarized the message. This is what makes the song identifiable to people and evokes comments such as, "Oh! This is our song!" The lyrical hook should be at least somewhat, if not totally, evident in the title. Ever hear a new song on the radio and tried to guess the name? Effective titles will play a strong part in the lyrical content. Think "Amazing Grace" or "No One" by Alicia Keys, Kerry Brothers Jr., and George D. Harry. But don't let this limit your title selection. Take a moment, if you will, to check out "Tire Swing" by Kimya Dawson (impromptu performance). This was on the Juno soundtrack, a movie I enjoyed immensely - wonderful banter.

As a final point to the theory section of lyric writing, I would like to touch on lyric types.

Songwriting for Dummies lists a few as concept-driven, story, and love lyrics, as well as current events, novelty or humor, parody, and inspirational.

My favorite example is "Stan", written by Eminem, Paul Herman, and Dido--sung by rapper Eminem, as it falls under the story-driven type of lyrics.

Whatever lyrical type you choose, writing lyrics is an amazing way to tell a story. Some of the most powerful ideas can come in form of comedic jest or solemn reflection. Your homework for this post is to pick a lyrical type and formulate your thesis. Once you've done that, click here for an outside lyric writing reference.

Lyric Writing Delayed Until Tomorrow.

It seems as though I have come down with a nasty bug and had to take the day off work since I was feeling so bad. I still have a bit of polish work to do on the Lyric Writing: Theory post that I was going to have up today and I just haven't felt up to the task. In fact, I just told my wife that the next time she goes to the library I would like her to pick up "1984" because I wouldn't mind watching that show, err reading that movie.... My thoughts are all muddled up and I just need to take a good, long nap.
I appreciate the comments today, they were all very nice and made me feel a little better.


-Brady

Listening Leads to Better Writing?

Can listening to other people lead to better writing? I sure would like to think so. I mean, we all know that watching our surroundings can not only give us ideas for our stories, but our observations can lead to elements that work themselves into our writing without us really even recognizing it. The way people look at each other, the mannerisms that random people seem to duplicate, and even the oddities that stick out in our minds; these observations can be priceless tools to use as we write.
Something I noticed at Barnes & Noble this afternoon:
She waited in the line for customer service, probably looking for a specific book she needed pulled up in the computer. A girl, I presume to be her two year old daughter, was held lovingly in her right arm. It was tattooed, and while I could make out wings, it didn't appear to be an angel she had imprinted on her once delicate skin. I looked away as she made eye contact, I hadn't meant to stare. She seemed pleased that I was admiring her ink, I walked by without a second glance. I'm quite sure it wasn't an angel. Faeries have wings, though I couldn't be sure it was even one of those, the image had looked rough and somewhat manly.
I saw her again at the magazine rack as I attempted to help my wife find one dedicated to cake decorating. My search was not looking promising so I stole another glance at the ink, her other bicep had a scrawled design as well. I've never gotten a tattoo myself, but I could tell the dark lines on her back were fresh by the shiny cellophane that covered them. Her daughter was silently inching away from her and I couldn't help but wonder if she wasn't just affording me another look at her art. I looked away again and walked over to the writing magazines. I didn't write down the submission address for the short story compilation mag that I normally write on a scrap of paper and lose a short time later; but I thought about it.
I turned to find my wife, we should be leaving soon. The young woman was standing in front of me and I looked down at her daughter who was grinning back up at me with a mischievous grin I recognize from having three little ones of my own.
"What did you just put in your mouth!?" Her mother demands and the child turns away in stubborn defiance; a dance that has played out through the ages since the dawn of time, I'm sure.

So, that's my result from casual observance. The payoff of my efforts is mostly right here in this post. I am sure I'll take some small token of the experience with me as I write new projects but any reference to this particular event may seem trivial. What then about listening to the stories of others? Unless you get permission to make the story your own and put it into print, you might get into a spot of trouble. That's never been my desire anyway. Someone once said (and I can't remember where I heard it) when writing for the screen you must take care not to write events just as they happen, there is a certain flow that must be sustained. Ken Armstrong could probably better attest to that with his experience with writing plays. My point is, I like listening to people for a similar reason that I like reading. I'm not looking for direct inspiration. That said, I think I just like listening to other people tell their verbal stories about their experiences because it helps define them as people. The more you know about people and the more you discover about their personalities and perspectives, the better you can flesh out believable characters. Your characters don't even have to have anything in common with the people you know, you just have to know how real people are built.
Who am I really to give writing advice? No one. Not by any industry standard anyway. Consider any form of advice in this blog as an outward expression of the advice I give myself. You are welcome to take what you wish and consider the rest as simple comedic relief or what have you.
Sometimes we can get so caught up in the stories in our heads that we forget that there are people in the world who are deathly afraid of being labeled as writers. They may type with one finger and some may have never even looked at a computer. These people will never put pen or pencil to paper to chronicle their lives but if you get them talking and they sense they have a listening ear, they will tell you the most interesting stories you've even heard. They will tell you stories that industry would never print for lack of prospective sales. That's the problem with taking in published works as a sole input. What we see and hear eventually impacts us and if you are only reading what a small group of people think to be profit worthy, you are doing yourself a great disservice.

(By the way, 30 Days of Night was okay. The story was a little unbelievable to me simply because I've lived in Alaska. Forget about the vampires. I expect a little craziness from a vamp movie.)

Creative Writing Exercise:
Try to recall the last story someone told you.

Dark Rough Draft, Needs work

I was all set to write a nice post tonight about how effective writing can stem from effective listening, but the baby is cutting teeth and the wife needed some time to work on her medical transcription. So, I took the wee one to the store and we walked around for a while so she wouldn't fuss. While we were there we picked up some stuff to make her gums feel a little better and we got Momma a treat and rented a movie. There wasn't much of a selection at the Red Box movie vending machine so we ended up with 30 Days of Night.
Since it's late and I have a gruesome movie to watch (not much plot and a lot of action/gore to make up for it - I'll let you know what I think about it in tomorrow's post.) I will leave you with a rough draft of the story I wrote just prior to writing "Intuition", the one I submitted to a national short story competition. I must warn you, it is very rough, having not seen a single revision. There are definitely things I would change. I think the beginning could be a bit more subtle, a bit less telling. But hey, that's what rough drafts are for right? Getting it out there in whatever form?

If you have sensitive tastes, you may wish to skip this post.

To the casual observer Danny was that guy, the one that no one felt comfortable being around; the one with the shifty appearance and the suspecting stare. At thirty-six his hair was starting to show the first signs of gray, but his eyes looked tired and had long lost their youthful luster. He was not blissfully unaware of the unkind words spoken under the breath of passersby. In fact, he was quite astute when it came to recognizing the accusing glances of colleagues and strangers. It was no secret that his wife had been committed six months ago. It was a private scandal. So naturally everyone knew.

Danny’s fingers twitched nervously as he unfolded the newspaper. He wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the latest drivel and slop about last night’s big game or who had scored the final point but his fingers found the section nonetheless. This finely practiced art of being fully submerged had been a survival mechanism he had picked up years ago. Old habits died hard.

“Cup of sugar, bag of rice.” He muttered to the black and white of the newsprint.

He looked up briefly enough to recognize a tall man walking toward his table in the break room.

“Danny.” The man nodded.

“Brad.”

Brad sat down next to him at the small round table. Danny ruffled the paper importantly, hoping to display a sign of great interest in the subject on the pages.

“It’s upside down.”

“Hmm?”

“Your paper,” Brad said, “it’s upside down.”

“Yes, of course.” Danny folded it unceremoniously and tossed it on the ground. “Just finished, you see.”

“Yes, I see that.” Brad chuckled. “How are you Danny?”

“Quite fine, quite fine, lovely day.”

The weather, ironically, was not fine. Thunderstorms and a heavy downpour had saturated the morning and news reports gave no indication of a let up. Danny, too, was obviously not fine. His greasy, unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes were telltale signs that he hadn’t slept for days.

“I didn’t believe it, you know, when you showed me the letter.”

Danny’s eyes narrowed.

“Damnit, Danny, these places are supposed to be safe. They keep the crazies in and the good people out, right? And just because some nut- just because a patient says she’s breaking out to finish what she started… Well how many patients say that?”

“That patient is my wife, Brad. She tried to kill me, remember? She just sent me a letter and told me she’s getting out and she’s going to do it right this time around. And now she’s out, right?” Danny stared down at the paper he had thrown on the floor.

The silence between them grew until Brad could barely breathe.

“Listen, you dropped Nina off at school?”

Danny nodded.

When the officer with the sleepy voice had called that morning to notify him of his wife’s early and unauthorized departure from the psych ward he had expressly noted that there was nothing to worry about. Everything was under control.

“He said that we should do things by the book, everything just like normal, safety in normal.”

“He?”

“Officer Johns.”

“Right, Officer Johns.” Brad said, and added, “You’re not afraid?”

“Damn straight I’m afraid. You don’t think I’m scared? Janet tried to castrate me with a chain…“ Danny looked around the otherwise vacant break room and continued slightly above a whisper, “You don’t think I’m afraid? She came after me with that saw and she, well she meant business, didn’t she? And now she’s out again and she’s promised to finish the job, but it’s not just me she wants, it’s Nina too. And here I am being normal, whatever the fuck that means!”

“Damnit,” Brad leaned in a bit closer, “fuck Officer Johns. What does he know, ‘Safety in normal’? That’s bullshit.

“I got a place on Third and Oak. It’s been empty for weeks, no tenants. You’re beat, I see it in your eyes, Dan. You need sleep.”

“Haven’t slept a wink in three days.” Danny nodded.

”Your mom still lives in Hartford? Call her up and have her take Nina away for a few days while this clears up. School… that’s the first place Janet will look! I mean, fuck, you might as well just hand her over right now.”

Danny’s eyes glared brightly for a brief moment before he resigned. “You’re probably right, I’m not thinking straight, you know.”

“You need to disappear for a while, let this just blow over.”

Danny scratched the stubble on his cheek and rested his head in the palm of his hands before clenching his hair in tight fists of frustration. “Fuck it.” He muttered.

Two hours later his mother had driven from the country and picked up Nina at school. Against Brad’s advice he had decided to walk the ten blocks from Data Firms United where they worked to the little apartment on Third and Oak. Water from the rain had crept up the legs of his pants and now reached uncomfortably past mid-calf. The wind tossed his umbrella mockingly, sending the random torrent into his eyes, the grass on the park strip was littered with night crawlers creeping their way to the sidewalk.

“Hmph. Encyclopedia Brown.” Danny whispered as he rounded the final corner to the small, run down apartment complex, vividly remembering the case of the magic worm powder from the days of his youth.

The stairs up the landing creaked and moaned with each ascending step, the rust flecked railing felt cold on his already numb hands. The key was right where Brad had said it would be, just under the heavy ceramic pot of the plastic plant outside the door. Not exactly as obvious as above the doorframe, Danny thought to himself, but not a comfortable spot when you had a crazy wife with homicidal tendencies on the lamb. He slid the key into the pocket of his slacks and shook the water off his black umbrella before closing the door behind him. He checked the lock twice before turning to observe the one bedroom apartment.

The light flickered a dull yellow before humming to life. He wiped the dust from the switch on his pants and stepped into the kitchen. It was small but there seemed to be an odd familiarity in the old cabinets and outdated sink. The kettle on the stove, the glasses in the cabinet just where he expected they would be; everything was in perfect order.

Danny filled the kettle with water and set it to boil on the electric coil of the old stove. He opened the cabinet overhead instinctively and pulled down a box of herbal tea, unwrapped a tea bag and dunked it neatly into the empty glass he had set on the counter. It was in that moment that the hair the back of his neck began to prickle as a distinct feeling of unease trickled down his spine.

“Just nerves.” He said with a dry smile as he picked up the glass and inspected the reflection behind him. Just as quickly as he had seen it, the glint of metal disappeared behind the doorway of what looked like the single bedroom of the apartment. It could have been anything, surgical scissors, sharpened knitting needles, a cruel trick of the light. But he had felt it, that uneasy presence, of that he could be certain. He quickly took inventory of the steak knives in their wooden case under the paper towel holder, all present and accounted for.

He inched slowly out into the living room and peeked cautiously into the bedroom, flicking the light switch on and off a few times, nothing. The bed was still made neatly, the window tightly shut. There might have been movement behind the wooden slats of the closet door but it was probably just the light, Danny thought to himself. Three days without sleep and anyone might start to see things, even without a crazy wife out to get them.

Sighing deeply, he turned and walked back to the couch in the living room, the glass still in his hand. He slumped down in a tired heap on the dusty cushion and closed his eyes. The skeletal fingers of sleep began to creep their way over his scalp as he almost nodded off, quickly jerking back to wakefulness and rubbing his eyes. He yawned.

The dull sound of the meat tenderizer smashing down his left pinky did nothing to snap him out of the tired haze. He stared at the bloody mess on the end table where his hand had been only moments before. He now clutched the broken bits of bone and flesh to his chest, clearly in shock. It was the instant wretch of vomit that saved him from the crushing blow to the head that followed next. The tenderizer thumped harmlessly into the cushion behind him.

“You kept me waiting, Danny.” Janet giggled. She blew flirtingly at a curl of strawberry blonde that had fallen down over her eye. She was not an unattractive woman.

As Danny stumbled backwards toward the kitchen he couldn’t help but notice how good she looked in those stolen scrubs. He wiped at the saliva string that hung from his lip with his right hand, noticing as if for the first time the glass he had intended to fill with tea. Without a second thought he threw it at Janet and flinched as bounced off her forehead and smashed on the wall behind her. A trickle of blood escaped out of her eyebrow and ran down her cheek like tears. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Did you miss me?” She asked, a dim smile of hope danced on her lips.

“You smashed my fucking pinky you whore!”

“Whore? Whore?! I’m the whore?” Janet hissed.

“That’s right.” Danny looked down at his broken pinky, it was throbbing intensely now. “While he was filling you with lies and cum, Nina and I were at home. You think it was me who was sleeping around because it’s easy for you. Grow up!”

“I never...” Janet threw the lamp but missed Danny by a long shot. “I never cheated!” She screamed.

“I’ve been here before, Janet! I know this is where you fucked! On the counter in the kitchen, the table, the couch, the bathroom, everywhere but the bed, right?”

“There too, you spineless fuck!” She raised the tenderizer above her head with both hands and ran at him, tears now mixing with the stream of blood on her cheek.

Danny made a dash for the kitchen and grabbed at the first object he saw, the knife sharpener in the wooden steak knife holder with its rounded handle and dull grated end. Spinning around to defend himself he felt the sudden weight of his wife’s body on the sharpener as the tenderizer smashed down on his shoulder, ripping the top of his ear as it whisked through the air.

The dull point of the sharpener had torn through her once perfect breast and now stuck out from her back with bits of pink lung clinging to the file-like edges. Danny groaned under the weight of her body as she sunk her teeth into the meaty flesh where the tenderizer had landed.

“Yeaargh!” He yelled as he pushed her back, feeling her teeth sink deeper into his shoulder. He thrust out the sharpener and kicked her heavily in the stomach once, twice, three times with a vengeance. Her bite finally gave way, leaving a few teeth in its wake. She slumped back off the sharpener and crumpled with a sick sucking sound as the air escaped her punctured lung. Danny stood there just staring at the pile of grief on the floor. The kettle began to scream behind him.

Slowly he inched toward her and poked her with the tip of the sharpener, his knuckles now white from his death grip. Her blank gaze stared back at him as he knelt down to check her pulse. For the first time in over a year he felt the warmth of her hand on his as her eyes focused slightly. She smiled. Danny couldn’t help but smile back, feeling pity now for his dying wife. She tried to sit up but he stopped her and rested her head in his lap, stroking his hands through her beautiful strawberry blond curls.

“I’m going to fucking kill you.” She whispered through ragged breaths.

“I know Janet, I know.” Danny sobbed as he watched his wife die in his arms.

The sound of keys at the door behind him brought Danny back to the small living room in the apartment on Third and Oak. His wife’s body still lay limp in his lap, the kettle was still screaming on the stove in the kitchen. When the door opened he stood to meet Brad’s gaze, a mixed look of disbelief and hatred showed clearly on the man’s face as he looked from Danny to Janet and back at Danny again.

“You fucking son of a bitch! You killed her!”

“It was an accident, Brad.”

“You fucking killed her, you spineless fucking prick!” Brad ran to Janet’s body and cradled her in his arms.

Brad stood, the look of disbelief now replaced with sheer hatred.

“You were never good enough.” He said as he pulled out the gun that had been tucked in the back of his waistband. “You could never love her like I did. You’re too fucking stupid, Danny.”

“How could you say that? She was my wife!” Danny backed up toward the kitchen. “You don’t think you were really pulling a fast one on me did you? I knew. I knew about the two of you. I’ve known for a year now.”

The sound of the gunshot startled him more than the impact or the falling sensation that came as he flew backwards onto the yellow kitchen linoleum.

“Then I was wrong, Danny, you aren’t stupid, just weak.” Brad kicked him in the stomach and smiled, somewhat satisfied with himself. “After I dump you in the woods I’m going to swing by Granny’s house.”

He turned off the burner set the kettle aside before turning his attention back to Janet. “You didn’t deserve this.” He whispered. “I could have given you so much mo-“

The tinny twang of the kettle reverberated through the room as it came thudding down on Brad’s head, boiling water splashing down over his face. Danny reached for the gun but thought better of it and stepped back into to kitchen, returning seconds later with the tenderizer. Brad was standing now, screaming, his hands covering his face in pain.

“I’m here Brad.” Danny said calmly.

Brad’s hands dropped to fists of rage and lunged forward at the sound of Danny’s voice. The cracking of bone and the crash of his body followed shortly after as the tenderizer swung downward.

Danny slouched back toward the kitchen, the bullet hole in his abdomen now burning like fire. He picked up the phone and fumbled in his pocket for moment before dialing the number on the business card he had managed to recover.

“Officer Johns? This is Danny.”

A muffled greeting replied back.

“Johns, you were right. Brad helped her escape. I’m in a mess, Third and Oak… right. Yes, I’ll stay here.”

Brady Frost ©2008

TGIF!

Well folks, not a whole lot to update you on tonight. I ended up falling asleep after work today, what an exhausting week! It was just one thing after another, and just as I thought it would let up... BAM! Yet another thing dumped on my plate. I will greatly enjoy the break this weekend, that's for sure.
Tomorrow morning I will be taking care of the wee little ones while the wife goes to her first cake decorating class. This was my gift to her for her birthday/our anniversary (which are on the same day). She has already made some very cool cakes so I thought this would be a great opportunity for her to flex her creative muscles. She's very excited, and while I try not to let on too much, I'm very excited for her as well.
I won't spend too long on the post tonight since I have to wake up early to take care of the kids in the morning, but I did want to post and let you know that I'm not dead. Not yet anyway. For those of you who may have missed the comment, Jason has posted about his Blog-to-Blog Project as it relates to my upcoming series on Lyric Writing. Again, expect to see the first installment by Wednesday of this coming week!

Creative Writing Exercise:

An Introduction to Lyric Writing

Aha! It's Thursday, and what a dreadfully sleepy Thursday it has been! But, never fear, I am here with yet another installment of HuntingtheMuse! Today I began fleshing out the beginning of a three-part series on Lyric Writing.
As I mentioned earlier, Jason at LittleRockJams has requested this piece to help out his guitar students as they begin to expand their music skills from playing existing songs to perhaps writing their own. I am very excited about this project and have decided to present it in three parts. First will be Theory, then Inspiration, and finally I will touch on Structure. I would like to release this series through multiple mediums so expect to see available through blog posts, but it will also be available by PDF or perhaps as a video installment. I am doing my best to ensure that it is not only an informative piece, based on fact and viable resources, but also that it is fun and entertaining as well.
Pay close attention folks because Jason has even offered to turn his students loose on the lyrics of my choosing. They will set the words to music and the song will be recorded. How brilliant is that?! If that isn't incentive enough to participate, I don't know what is!
Before we jump the gun and get all crazy, let me assure you, the judging will be completely fair and based off the criteria that I will establish in the third installment of the Lyric Writing piece. I will set a due date for entries and all submissions received by that date will be considered, with a limit of entries per person, of course.
You can expect to see the first installment of Lyric writing sometime between Monday and Wednesday of next week. I hope you're looking forward to it as much as I am!

As a bit of a side-note, my birthday is coming up. On the 28th I will be 28 years old. To celebrate this once in a lifetime occasion, I will be hosting a short story competition. The trick is, it's going to be a bit of a short notice short story competition! Expect to see details about this sometime next week. As a reward I was thinking something along the lines 40 bucks, but you'll have to wait and see when I release the details! Don't miss it!

Obviously, I will be needing all of your help with promoting these two events. I will be passing out the link love for those of you who comment or email me with a link to your promotion post. You can help by linking to the first installment of Lyric Writing early next week and/or my short story competition announcement, which you can expect closer to Friday.

Creative Writing Exercise:

Stuck in a Dream

I have to come clean... I haven't been writing much lately. I don't just mean with the blog, I mean I haven't been working on any stories since I finished up my Bebo Author Contest submission. What's weird, the thing that has me at odds with everything, is that story ideas are starting to take over my life. I think I opened the floodgates with that last short story and I'm almost a little afraid of what keeps bubbling to the surface. I'm having the most vivid dreams, so much so that it's hard to wake up in the morning because I seem so drawn into the stories that unfold around me. It's exhausting, really, almost too much so.
In my job I do a lot of troubleshooting. It's hard and a little slow at first because I require a deep level of understanding for even the simplest of tasks. I can't be satisfied with "just because" - it just doesn't work for me. The more I absorb the easier answers seem to just come to me out of thin air. For example, and this will sound weird, the other day I was working on a migration that seemed to be fighting me the whole way through. When I first started out I would have stopped and uninstalled and then reinstalled and tried again. Now that I know so much more about how things work I pressed on. At each failure point it threw me a wrench and almost out of instinct each problem was resolved without a second thought. What was really strange is after getting it to the midway point and fixing yet another weird occurrence, I upgraded the software to the final version, when this happened the application threw an error that it could no longer attach to the database. In an instant an image flashed in my mind. It was my own writing in a notebook I had taken notes in when I first started. I distinctly saw the line of text where I had written the forgotten solution in the event that it ever popped up. I went to the config file and sure enough, there was an added line of text that I had to delete. The application worked perfectly once I made the change. The whole thing seemed a tad bit surreal and I even took a few minutes to thumb through the notebook but couldn't find that line of text through casual skimming, but I know it's there.
Time just feels so different lately. It really seems like I'm stuck somewhere between wakefulness and a dream, a very lucid dream. I don't want to scare any of you away. I'm not intentionally being weird or paranoid. There's no conspiracy theory. I just can't make the connection. If material is so handy, if ideas and plot and conflict are so easy to come by, why am I not writing? This is what has me worried the most. I should be capturing all of this creative energy, whatever the source, be it my subconscious or just a flash of creativity. Right? But I feel somewhat hesitant for some reason. I wonder if it isn't because I'm afraid that the fantasy will end if I give it an outlet, or perhaps I fear that this is something that should be more controlled?
I guess you could say that I may be a bit mistrusting. Nothing in life has ever fallen out of the sky before me, so why should it now?
Have you ever written something that was so powerful to you that it changed the way you thought about things, even just a little? I definitely feel that we make a connection with our writing that other people may never realize, that even at times we may never realize. The way we think, the way we put things together, it's all a part of who we are and what we've experienced, how we think, how we feel, how we love, and even how we hate. That's why two people will never write the same exact thing, with the same exact details. Some may be close, but they will never write like you do. You can copy style but you can't duplicate genuine thought. So the question is, is this creativity a product of things about myself that I'm ready to face? If I truly open up to whatever it is that feels so determined to surface, will I be able to handle what finally emerges?
The vivid dream I told you about the other day was about aliens harvesting memories from us, even going to the lengths of creating simulated memories, which ended up causing them some problems when they attempted to assimilate, something that they had not yet discovered. These complications were the basis for the whole thing. And like I said before, it was a very realistic dream. I can't really go into the specifics of my role in it all, because that would give away far too much of the story that I do plan to write and share.
What I remember of the dream I had last night is still a bit vague and sketchy. I forced myself to wake up so I didn't end up late for work, thus I didn't take much to time to try and remember. What I do recall is that I was the child of someone very important. This important person's fate was in question and 'the enemy forces' were drawing near. If they killed me they would win. I wanted to fight, I wanted to avenge my father. I wasn't me though, in fact, I was a girl, which I don't think has ever happened before. I mean, I've had dreams where I was someone else, but I don't recall ever being a girl in any of them. Just odd, but not a big deal. Anyway, the part of the dream I remember involved some adviser-type people trying to usher me off to safety and me trying to stand my ground to fight the oncoming forces. There was a distinct feeling that they were trying to tell me, or her, that there were things in life that are bigger than all of us, and sometimes we have to let go of our own struggle to see the larger picture in life and the impact our actions could have on others. Who knows, I could be full of it.

Creative Writing Exercise:

A New Addition

Last night I went to visit my younger sister in the hospital. She just had her first baby. This is the second addition to the family in about five weeks or so. My brother had his second kid a little over a month ago. It's strange how life moves us onward and how changes seem to seep through the fabric of our lives.
In a way, this all has me thinking about a younger me; the younger me who used to wonder what the older me would be like. Did you ever do that in your youth? Ever ponder how you would turn out?
One thing that shocked me, I can tell you, is that there was never a transition point in my life where I drew a fresh breath and tasted the victory of manhood. It's sort of something that snuck up on me and I find that it's more of a continual process than a destination. Mostly, I would have to say that while I have matured, I'm still very much a kid at heart. I will admit to being a little worse for wear, not the nice little boy I once was, but all in all I suppose I could have turned out worse.
When I think of my childhood I can't help but feel a little sad. There was the pain that I experienced while growing up, as I'm sure most of us have felt in one form or another, but as I grow older and experience the joys of having my own kids I have found a new kind of pain that I never expected. This winter I helped my kids build a snow slide in the backyard. They had a hoot and I was surprised how much they loved playing on that thing even when all the snow on the ground had melted and it slowly slumped down to a pile of mush. As I watched them playing one day, I felt my heart ache and was startled at the realization that my father had never taken the time to do anything like that for us. There were no snow slides, no snow forts. I do remember a lot of driveway shoveling while he was inside reading his paper though.
This isn't a post about how horrible my childhood was. It isn't a pity party. It's just the outward expression of the thoughts swirling around in my head this evening. If anything, just take a moment to think about the little things you do that other people take great joy in. One moment in time can change lives.

Creative Writing Exercise:

Upcoming Features

I don't have a whole lot to write about this evening so I thought I would drop mention about what I'm currently working on. I've been asked to write a piece about lyric writing by Jason at Little Rock Jams. I'm very excited about this article because I honestly don't write many lyrics, but it's something that I have been very interested in for a while. So far my only hit is a song called "Poppy Seed Muffin". That being said, this is giving me quite the opportunity to research and expand my own horizons. I'm very stoked.
Next on my list will be a guest post on Tam's blog, Fighting with Writing. Tam was nice enough to give me a little link love in his Saturday Sink post this weekend. Check it out here.
While I'm throwing out links, let me take a moment to share a blog I've got open in another tab in Firefox. Un1versal Sessions has successfully swooned me with its very soothing soundtrack. I stopped by to drop my Entrecard and couldn't help but enjoy the ambient sounds that loaded with the page. I actually wasn't planning on posting tonight until the music told me to do otherwise. So, here's to you Charles!
I guess that just goes to show that music can always be a great inspiration whenever we're feeling less than inspired.

Creative Writing Exercise:

Creative Writing Exercise

First off, I would like to thank those of you who suffered through my April Fools joke on the 1st. I had a lot of fun doing it and I tried to make it cheesy enough to not be 100% believable. I do like the idea of putting together video posts every now and then, though, and this was a great way to have fun while experimenting.

The other day I posted a Creative Writing Exercise that I promised I would elaborate on. Unfortunately I haven't heard a peep from the leader of our Speculative Fiction Writing Group, so I'm just going to have to wing the meaning. Hopefully I remember it well enough.

If you didn't get a chance to participate in the creative writing exercise earlier, you can take a few minutes to complete it now before reading further. Just follow the link above and you will find the exercise at the bottom of the post.

Here's what I wrote:

1. (You're in a forest, describe it)
As the first breath of consciousness enters my being, I realize that I'm no longer in the familiar surroundings in which I fell asleep. I keep my eyes closed and allow the clean air to fill my lungs. I listen to the sounds around me, the ambient orchestra that nature is conducting for me alone. I feel the forest loam beneath me, it is soft and inviting. I open my eyes. I open my eyes and gaze upon my friendly guardians, the majestic aspen trees that form a silent army around me; watching, protecting.

2. (You follow a path, describe it)
I manage to stand, my muscles are weary and ache from a struggle I no longer remember. The pain in my side and shoulder is overwhelming, but thirst has overtaken me, I must find water. Before me lies a path. It is smooth and well worn from years of travel. No pebbles line its surface.

3. (You see an object (whatever you decide) What is it, what do you do with it?)
As I follow the path down the gradual slope, an object in the distance catches my eye. The shiny metallic surface is alien in this peaceful wilderness. I approach and take it in my hand. "Objects in mirror are closer than they appear." Its wisdom is infinite. I tuck it into my back pocket for safekeeping.

4. (As you follow your way through the forest, you suddenly see an obstacle. What is it?)
I return to the trail and the slope begins to increase. The smoothness is shattered by small breaks of pebbles and rocks, followed by patches of boulders that threaten to impede my progress.

5. (How do you overcome the obstacle?)
I press onward, determined to go where the game have gone for nourishment for countless years.

6. (As you walk again deeper into the woods, you see a lake. Describe it.)
The rocks disappear once again and the smooth, dusty appearance returns, my feet are thankful. Up ahead the trees break to the glimmering blueness of a lake. It's as beautiful as the forest I've left behind. A fish leaps into the air, sending ripples that sweep away my imagination.

7. (What do you do? How do you react to the lake?)
I close my eyes again and the ripples dissolve into a memory that seems distant and foreign. The sounds of crunching metal and shattering glass in the back of my mind sends me scrambling for the lake and its serenity.

8. (If you travel even further, what do you finally meet or see?)
I bend down and take a drink. I feel refreshed. The shiny object finds its way into my hand again. It's as much a part of me now as the lake before me and the forest behind me. I sit and breathe. I finally see. I place my head in my hands; the tears roll down my cheeks freely.

Creative Writing Exercise:
Check the comments for this post for the "meaning" of each of these paragraphs. Write about how the meaning applies to what you've written. Do you agree or disagree?

HuntingtheMuse Goes Video!

I am proud to present my first Video Post!

Enjoy!