600 words a day ... or something

Presenting a partly edited rendition of yesterday's copy, which (not surprisingly) sucks just as bad. Also a few musings on what it's like to go running in shorts with no drawstring, because, you know, why not?

Let's address the shorts question first.
I should level and say that I don't particularly even enjoy running. I do it to stay in shape. And during the fall, especially on days like today, when the air is crisp and there's a slight rain ... it's actually kind of fun.
Let's also level about one other thing -- I'm not the type of dude who goes all out and buys all sorts of running gear. Never have been. I wish I was one of those guys, but I don't have the money to put together a decent wardrobe for when I'm not exercising, so, you know, priorities.

I've been running in the same pair of shorts for about eight years now. I have many others that I wear, but I'll come back to Corporal Blackbottom (yup, named them a while ago. Shut up.) about once a week.
Back in high school I stole borrowed the shorts from the lost and found and never put them back.
Hey, the kid who had them obviously didn't care enough about them. And I've worn these damn things for 8 years now. I'm sure the shorts are happy.

Anyway, Corporal Blackbottom really isn't much for running. The shorts are more like pantaloons and whenever I'm running down a hill the sides will balloon out and nearly fall off.

They never really fit right. But I always had the drawstring. Until I lost it about 2 weeks ago. So now running with Corporal Blackbottom is more a test of how well I can hold the damn things up. And it's a challenge. I was running by a minivan today and the pair nearly fell off. The mother shot me a dirty look. But she just doesn't get it. I'm not ready to retire Corporal Blackbottom just yet.

I have a plan. I'll stop running. Fill out a bit. And then we'll be back in business.


-1-

“How do you feel about turning into a crow for a few hours?” asked Deputy Minster Anderson.
President Gorman paused and sat back in his chair. “There’s something about this my rivals are just going to love.”
“I know,” Anderson replied. “But look. We need this. Besides, it’s a short time. We’ll run cover on it.”
“And how exactly are you going to do that?” Gorman asked. “Remember Prime Minster Bilken? The Shawnee turned him into a whale two years ago. ‘Bilken Goes Beluga’ was in the headlines for weeks. And the cartoons …”
“Were unflattering.” Anderson said. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Look, if you don’t turn into a crow, someone else will,” Anderson adjusted his tie and sat forward. “This is an arms race Mr. President, pure and simple. If we want to deal with the Shawnee those are the terms. And believe me, we want to deal with the Shawnee.”

-2-

Alexander Blu didn’t want to go camping with his son.
For starters, Jason asked too many questions. A camping expedition with him was like fielding press queries at a congressional hearing. And it was only slightly less scary.
Because when it came to camping, Alex didn’t know anything.
“The fire won’t start,” Jason said.
“There’s no kindling,” Alex said.
“What’s kindling?”
“What you need to start the fire.”
“Where do I get it?”
“The woods.”
“Why didn’t we just bring it with us?”
“Because then it wouldn’t be …
“Dad, what’s that light?”
“Huh?”
“Over there, didn’t you see that?”
“Son I have no idea what you’re talking …”
Then Alex heard the boom.

-3-

The pair waited until morning to explore the wreckage.
Only there was no wreckage to explore, just four carriages and about half a dozen men and women dressed in carnival gear.
Three women set awnings over open carriages while two men fussed over a copper cylinder situated in the middle of the circular wagon train. The carriages looked altogether unremarkable, except for the strange series of glyphs pasted above what appeared to be several white sheep lounging in a pen.
“Heck of a place for the carnies to shack up,” Alex said. “Figures them making all that noise. They were probably shooting off fireworks all …
“What’s a carny?” Jason interrupted.
Alex sighed. “Never mind. Just follow me.”
The pair started toward the wagons. The carnies took no notice of them. The women continued to hang the awnings. As the women worked the men coalesced around the copper tube. One man knelt near the device, extending his hand while an other held up a gray stone. A bolt of blue streaked from the kneeling man’s head, sounding a loud crack as it contacted the device. The tube vanished.
“Dad … how?” Jason said.
“I don’t know.”
Suddenly one of the men looked up.
Alexander Blu just made first contact with the Shawnee.

-4-
Luckily, he was wearing his wool hat.

The Shawnee who looked remarkably human and spoke English in an accent Alex would later classify as slightly “Wisconsin” briefly glanced around the wagon train. “We could turn you into … that.”
“A deer?” Alexander asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“It’s … uh … complicated.” “But we’ll change you back. You just have to give us that.”
Alexander followed the Shawnee’s finger. It was pointing right above his head.
The horrifying revelation settled in. “You want to steal my brain?!?”
“Uh … no. That.”
Alexander grabbed his wool hat. “You want my hat?”
The alien nodded vigorously.

-5-
Alexander Blu would later describe the “deer experience” in his book Sharing with the Shawnee thusly:
It was an altogether incorporeal journey – the center of which I have no recollection. My human consciousness ebbed away as the reality of the deer’s mind pranced forward. My arms lengthened into legs as my feet kicked back, slamming my face into the ground before reoritneing my self in my new quadrapedal manner …”
Alexander wasn’t the world’s greatest writer. But he was the first human to experience a Shawnee transformation and that made him and expert.

-6-

600 words a day ...

I'm starting this crappy experiment again.
Why?
Well, mainly because it feels like I'm trying to cut through a steak with a crayon every time I sit down to write.
The wheels just aren't turning. And the prose? Yeah ... totally lame.
This being the Internet, however, I feel inclined to share my lameness with the whole world five readers here.
Enjoy. Remember: be abusive in the comments.

Note ... all this is unedited, stream of consciousness drivel. But the mental head trips are fun, kids. Write! Don't do drugs.

-1-

“How do you feel about turning into a clownfish for a few hours?” asked Deputy Minster Anderson.

President Gorman paused and sat back in his chair. “There’s something about this my rivals are just going to love.”

“It would only be for a few hours,” Anderson replied. “We could probably run cover on it. Besides, there are thousands of scientists out there who’d kill for the chance.”

“Too bad I’m not one of them.” Gorman said. “And how exactly are you going to run cover on it? Remember Prime Minster Brown? The tabloids are still all over the 'minister goes monkey' debacle. How do you live down eating your own feces, Anderson? Explain that to me.”

“Look, I get it. You're concerned. But we'll cover this. And if you want to deal with the Shawnee those are the terms.” Anderson said. “And believe me, we want to deal with the Shawnee.”

-2-

Alexander Blu didn’t want to go camping with his son.

It wasn’t that he was a bad Dad, he was just busy. And Jason asked a lot of questions.

“You’re a journalist Alex,” Mariana would say. “He asks questions because he’s trying to imitate you.”

After four days Alex was just about questioned out. And as the pair doused the fire and settled in for their last night camping Alex nearly ignored his son’s query.”

“What’s that light?”

Then Alex heard the boom.

-3-

Alex and Jason waited until dawn to leave their campsite to investigate the disturbance of the preceding night.

Three miles later they were at the crash site. It looked as if nothing had been disturbed. And for an instant, Alex wondered if maybe Jason had somehow tricked him into investigating the crash as a way to lengthen their trip.

Then he spotted the carriages. There were four of them, all wooden and adorned with cheesy advertisements similar to the magazine ads Alex’s dad used to collect back in the 1950s. Three women were setting awnings over the open carriages as two men focused on a copper cylinder in the middle of the wagon train.

“Heck of a place for the carnies to shack up,” Alex said.

“What’s a carny?” Jason asked.

Alex sighed. “Nevermind. Just follow me.”

The pair walked toward the wagons. The women hanging the awnings didn’t seem to notice them. The two men with the copper tube knelt near the device, one extending his hand as the other held up a gray stone. A bolt of blue suddenly streaked out of the man’s hand, connecting with the tube. It vanished. The air filling with a crack into the previously occupied space.

“Dad … how?” Jason said.

-4-

Alexander Blu was lucky to wearing his wool hat.

The Shawnee briefly glanced around the wagon train. “We could turn you into … that.”

“A deer?” Alexander asked.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“It’s … uh … complicated.” “But we’ll change you back. You just have to give us that.”

Alexander followed the Shawnee’s finger. It was pointing right above his head.

The horrifying revelation settled in. “You want to steal my brain?!?”

“Uh … no. That.”

Alexander grabbed his wool hat. “You want my hat?”

The alien nodded vigorously.

-5-

Alexander Blu would later describe the “deer experience” in his book Sharing with the Shawnee thusly:

It was an altogether incorporeal journey – the center of which I have no recollection. My human consciousness ebbed away as the reality of the deer’s mind pranced forward. My arms lengthened into legs as my feet kicked back, slamming my face into the ground before reoritneing my self in my new quadrapedal manner …”

Alexander wasn’t the world’s greatest writer. But he was the first human to experience a Shawnee transformation and that made him and expert.

Uh ... that's about 600 words, right????

Flash Fiction: Dusty Cowboy!

Even by the river, the dust was incredible.
It got into everything. Your boots. The tip of your hat. The lapels of your coat.
The dust was a part of everything, but after a while, you just didn't really notice it anymore. That was the Valley. And the dust was part of it. It was part of you. It was part of home.

****
Clarence brushed off his coat and along the Ake River bank. He'd worn two of his best Colts for the occasion, holstering them in the Smith-Worthington holster his Daddy got him when he turned 10 all them years ago.
Daddy'd been the one who'd taught Clarence how to shoot, but it was his mother who taught him how to steal. It was tough being a kid in the dustbowl. Sometimes you had to steal to survive and hope that the more fortunate would simply look the other way.
Clarence's Momma didn't like stealing, but sometimes it was just necessary, she'd say. A harsh reality of life, as it were.
So as a kid Clarence sometimes snuck onto old man Godfry's farm and lifted a chicken or a few ears of corn. It was nothing major. His Momma needed it, after all.
But raising a child to steal can be a dangerous thing. And it didn't take long for young Clarence to fall in with the wrong crowd.

***
Clarence spent three years with the self-proclaimed "Wild Boys" before his first duel. The Wild Boys were a rag-tag group, made up of a bunch of teenagers from the Valley who were just getting their first shadows of beards. They weren't bad kids. In fact, some in the valley, called them heroes. It was the Wild Boys who weren't afraid to rob a bustingl farm and give the spoils to a hungry family.
It didn't take long for people around town to have an idea who'd done it. The crops would disappear at almost the same time every month (and always at night, after the dust settled) but most everyone just looked the other way. The harsh reality of the Valley was many did have it better than others. So why not share?
Besides, farming was a matter of dumb luck. Just because Mother Nature decided to throw Old Man Godfry a little extra rain meant that Clarence's mother had to go hungry? Not likely.

***
Fadius Hiker moved into Godfry's plot in May, after the old man finally died.
It didn't take long for Hiker to develop an acute aversion to the Valley's "Wild Boys." Hiker was a stern man and a fastidious businessman who counted every last penny. But more importantly, he was an outsider.
And having come from New England, he wasn't used to the dust.
"It gets everywhere," he'd tell whoever would listen. "I just can't get used to it. A man can't even steal a yawn out in them fields without getting a mouthful."
So Hiker wasn't here for the scenery, that was sure. He was here for the money. And while old man Godfry might have tolerated Clarence and the Wild Boys' occassional thefts, Hiker did not.
The first time the Wild Boys hit the farm Hiker was in Sheriff Jenkin's office the following morning, blazing mad.
"It's them boys, it's gotta be," Hiker said. "What do you call em? Them Wild Boys! I tell you, I heard voices out in the fields last night. Laws, I shoulda know it was them! But here's me half asleep and dreaming, thinking I'm hearing the ghost of old man Godfry or something like that. I didn't pay it no heed. Then I wake up this morning and guess what? Three chickens gone missing! Whadda you say to that? That's robbery, plain and simple. That's what it is. Now you gonna see they get caught for this, right Sheriff? You gotta punish them boys, show 'em what's what!"
Of course Sheriff Jenkins wasn't about to arrest the Wild Boys, the Boys were a mennace sure, but they were widely ignored. Heck, in some circles, they were even liked. But Hiker wouldn't never understand. And Jenkins didn't expect him to.
So he just kept nodding.
"Three chickens, you say? No! Well, we'll take care of it, Fadius, don't worry none."

***
Next month Clarence and the Wild Boys snuck back on Hiker's farm, lifting four corn stalks and three more chickens.
The following morning Hiker gave the same dog and pony show to Sheriff Jenkins, who greeted the man once again with the same smiling nod.
"We'll take care of it, Fadius. Don't worry."

***
The following month Hiker was ready when the Wild Boys came. He'd has his gun at the ready, but of course that was more just for a scare. Hiker wasn't no murderer. He wasn't about to shoot anyone on site, but the thefts of Clarence and the others had gone to far.
Those were four of my best chickens! Hiker thought. Think of all the eggs I coulda had!
So Hiker made his stand. When the Wild Boys came he casually walked out, eyed Clarence and challenged the shocked young man to a duel.
"Bring your friends if you like, but I only challenge you. Old man Godfry may have turned his eyes away from your treachery, but I won't. I don't care who you're stealing for, fact is you're stealing. And that ain't going to crackle. Meet me at the Ake riverbank, tomorrow, 1 o'clock."

***
Clarence adjusted his Smith Worthington holster and walked down to the river. With a strong swat he kicked up some of the residual dust clinging to his poncho and gently scattered the arid cloud with his cold breath.
Hiker was waiting with his flask.
"A drink before it all, son?"
"No, thank you."
"Right. Well then, let's get to it, shall we?"

***
The other Wild Boys where there, but Clarence told them not to bring any weapons. If things went bad he didn't want a war on his hands. Sure the Wild Boys stole when necessary, but they weren't killers. Clarence told them they needed to remember that, no matter what happened.

***
The duelists met on the riverbank. Hiker was mumbling something about the dust, which was choking the cool breeze coming off of Ake.
Both men had agreed it should be Sheriff Jenkins who should call the draw. Clarence had known the sheriff for years and trusted him. Hiker was just happy Jenkins was finally helping to take care of the Wild Boys problem, like he'd always promised.
The Sheriff cleared his throat, tried one last time to talk them both out of it and when neither relented, reluctantly called the draw.

***
"On three boys ..."
The dust stirred and Clarence suddenly felt an awarness of the entire valley creep into him.
"One!"
The mesas, the Ake River, old man Godfry, his mother, his home. The dust ...
"...Two!"
Clarence sighed and thought of the Wild Boys. They'd done good work and he was sure they'd continue to do it. His thoughts turned back to flashes of his mother and then the Valley, his home ...
"Three!"
Which he never saw again.
Even by the river, the dust was incredible.

Flash Fiction: Something about a robot

Flash Fiction: 6/19/09

The little robot waddled up to the microphone, pantomimed a few deep breaths and calmly addressed the hordes of reporters and cameramen.
"My name is Krispin. The first fully-autonomous home assistance unit capable of logical, complex thought. I will now entertain your questions."
The little guy couldn't have been more than three-feet tall, but the commotion he caused was towering.
There was a brief, maybe two-second window of wide-eyed wonder on the part of the reporters, all of whom were struggling to internalize just what this little guy had just said. The Robo-Corp's newest invention was said to be "huge," but none of them had ever expected it to be this game-changing. This was one of those rare cases were the PR hacks weren't lying. This was big. Really big.
Krispin floundered under uncomfortable silence moving to adjust himself despite the fact that his red carapace was devoid of any clothes. He anxiously waited for the silence to break and mercifully, after what seemed an eternity, a camera flashed. Followed by another. And another. Reporters began shouting questions and their inquiries gradually rose into an incomprehensible din of confusion and excitement.
Krispin switched his audio inputs, gathering all voices at once and processing their questions to analyze which he would answer first.
He could have answered them all simultaneously, of course, but his programming told him the ensuing cacophony of 36 simultaneous answers might unnerve the reporters. Besides, they wouldn't understand it, so what was the point?
He picked a question at random, pointed to the reporter and waited for her to repeat it so the others could hear.

***
Stephen sat watching the press conference on the 11'0clock news in something on an unbeliving fugue.
This was it. This was the day he'd dreamed about since he was a little kid. Your very own robot, and one that could think, no less. Sure it was the price of a small house, but right then Stephen knew he had to have a Krispin unit. He just needed one.
So he started saving his money. He took extra shifts at the Stay-N-Shop and even got to volunteering for the weekend and night shifts to earn a little extra cash.
After 3 years he'd saved up enough money to buy one of the little guys, which were now in their third-iteration of firmware. That pesky bug responsible for the Bender's Creek incident was totally ironed out now. Krispin units were failproof.
He cut his check, dropped the order form in the mailbox and set to waiting.
The ensuing week was one of the longest of his life, but eventually the day came when the Krispin package arrived at his door and he opened the box with a kind of anxious delight he hadn't felt since Christmas with his father over 25 years ago.
Initial setup of the Krispin unit went well, despite the hiccup with the Korean langauge outputs (he'd had to call a friend to come over and set the guy back to English). But after three hours the little guy was up and about, introducing himself and running down a laundry list of functions.
"Best investment I ever made," Stephen whispered as he knelt in front of display projected from the robot's hidden holographic projetor. "Look at all these options!"

Stephen had no children. He had no family. So naturally Krispin filled that void. At times a son, at times a daughter, or a father, mother and brother, Krispin was there to fulfill a variety of unexpected roles. He could converse just as easily about Jesuit philospohy as he could about the Sox's pitching rotation and Stephen never tired of putting the little guy through the ringer of conversational topics ..............................

Micro Fiction: Vol. 1 June 2009 Entry #1

Starting today, Morning will begin a new, five-day-a-week publishing regimen of micro fiction during the month of June. Each story will run between 300 to 650 words and all ideas will be taken from two randomly generated words or phrases. Works must be written in under 30 minutes. Honor system, guys.
I fully expect most of the material produced by this experiment to be nonsensical, but who knows ... we could stumble on a gem.
Want to contribute? E-mail me.

06/08/09 - TWO RANDOM TERMS: Horse/Navy Pier (Chicago)

Before departing the Pier for her apartment in the South end, Nadine always stopped for fried dough.

One serving with two spoonfuls of sugar. Hold the sauce.

It'd been her weekday lunch for the past five years.

Nadine would be the first to admit the fried dough regimen wasn't going to make any dietary advice books, but what did she care? She drove a horse for a living — it’s not like she was on television.

Besides, Grant, proprietor of the old fried dough stand, seemed to like having her around.

And he absolutely loved Clarence.

Nadine had purchased Clarence 20 years ago from a farm in her native North Dakota. She’d shipped the cream-colored Clydesdale to Chicago in 1993 and had been giving horse-drawn tours ever since.

Over the years, the Navy Pier had changed a lot.

Restaurants came and went. Kitsch stores hawking model skyscrapers and “I Saw Oprah” T-shirts opened and closed at a nearly monthly rate.

One by one, the mom-and-pop business of the 60s and 70s shuttered their doors — selling their valuable real estate to young investors hoping to score the next big restaurant deal.

But all the changes didn't stop Clarence and Nadine.

The popular pair continued to be a hot attraction among the tourists, who enjoyed Nadine’s insights on the Chicago's history and the relaxing clomp-clomp of Clarence’s hooves.

Lately, Nadine always ended her tours with the same line.

"Finally, ladies and gentlemen, on your left ... you’ll see Grant McCormick, proprietor of the Navy Pier's only authentic homemade fried dough stand. I myself have been a steady customer for more than 15 years. Why not try a slice of Chicago's history?"

Usually Grant would look up and offer a casual wave before directing his attention back to his modest stand, but increasingly there were never any customers in the queue as Nadine and Clarence made their final turn into the pier and Nadine uttered her two-second pitch.

"I tell ya, Nadine,” Grant said, “you two are the only thing keeping me afloat.

“Twenty years back there was none of this chain crap down here. Used to be just good old cookin'. You’d come to the Navy Pier to get a Chicago-style pizza, not some shitty Thai dish ...

“I swear though, if you didn’t have Clarence and your tours, I dunno what I would do. These new places all have music, cheap menus and booze for Christ sakes. And whadda I got? This dumpy little stand with its 20-year-old heating unit and crappy yellow umbrella. That’s what. Hmmph.”

One time, after working up some courage, Nadine blurted out the obvious question.

“Well if you hate it so much, why keep coming down here after all these years?”

Grant paused and stifled a short laugh.

“Look, kid, if you’re expecting some grandiose bit of wisdom … I don’t got it. I work because I have to. Why do you?”

Nadine didn’t have an answer for that.

She preferred the farms of North Dakota to the congestion and noise of the city. She made decent money giving tours, but could have found work elsewhere.

“I guess guiding Clarence was all I ever felt right about doing,” she thoughtfully responded. “If he were to go away, I’d be lost. I’d lose my purpose. There’d be nothing keeping me here anymore … I’d leave.”

A flash of something flickered across Grant's eyes. His old face broke into an unreadable smile.

Chuckling, the old vendor reached into the stand and pulled out a hot slice of fried dough.

Two spoonfuls of sugar. And no sauce.

"Here you go, kid. No charge."

Nadine never had a better tasting lunch.