Well, sharing this blog with a new friend got me inspired to write again. Well, technically, I have been writing recently, just not in a public (is this public? do people actually see this?) forum. Esquire has this sweet short story contest, where you have to keep it to 78 words. So I've been working on that whenever the mood strikes. I think I've narrowed it down to 3 possible entries, and so I don't lose them somewhere, enjoy:
She gave it to him. All the songs made sense. All the poetry, the flowers, the chocolates, the little shiny silver picture frame, the million fucking little things, they all clicked. She smiled at him from behind the glass.
But time passed.
A silver picture frame, tarnished by the world, dredged up memories, plumber at an old farmhouse, shoved into the back of a dusty cardboard box, not forgotten, but buried deep, shovel by shovel, like she was.
He put down the paper cup, the warmth of the peppermint latte just starting to sear his hands, fresh from their mittens. The beverage scorched its way down his throat as he slumped against the back of the wooden chair, watching the snow slowly fall from the sky, like freshly grated parmesan cheese.
The road less traveled, he mused. They can keep it.
He stood, put on his hat and mittens, and stepped out into the fading afternoon.
His eyes barely open, he crawled towards the beckoning, flickering glow of the dying florescent bulb. The carpet, encrusted with assorted dried fluids, bodily and otherwise, scratched his hands and knees as he made his desperate pilgrimage.
Inch by inch he crossed the sticky linoleum, feeling the grime cling to his flesh as he struggled on.
Arriving at the caked porcelain toilet, he pulled himself to a slump, the passing of time taking him as his eyes closed.
I know that first one seems pretty depressing, and that third one sounds pretty gross, but I actually had fun writing them. Didn't someone famous say writing is cathartic or something? Even if it isn't, I enjoy finding the right words to evoke not only images, but feelings. It's not great writing (or oratory), if you don't feel it pull at you when you see or hear it. After all, isn't that the point of communication? If we just wanted to share information, why would we need inflection and tone and so many different words? It all boils down to emotions.
Speaking of emotions, things are going confusing, as usual. On the plus side, I'm starting to feel more content in Midland (slowly, but surely) but at the same time, it's the time of year that things are happening elsewhere, and all the FaceBook (yay social media) posts are making me yearn to be back in the mountains, or the bay. However, they (the mythical they I referenced a few posts back) say the desert is teeming with life, you just have to look harder. So consider this me looking harder.
I will leave you with some philosophy of one Roy McAvoy from Tin Cup:
-"You know why I still hit that shot?
Yeah, because it's the only way you could beat Dave Simms.
-No.
'Cause it was that look in your face...
-I hit it again because that shot was a defining moment, and when a defining moment comes along, you define the moment... or the moment defines you."
