Flash Fiction Challenge

Thought I would get a quickie in because unfortunately I have to work. How about a three sentence, 100 word or less story? You can meet the challenge too at TerribleMinds!

Pouring rain and surfing in the Pacific Northwest. Murky waters are a feeding ground for sharks. Something surfaces out of the water and quickly disappears in the corner of my eye as I paddle out to the next wave.

Fp.II

EDIT: Wow, apparently I never published this part, saved as draft this whole time. Well, here it is.

In case no one is aware at this point, this is a short story that I am writing that is loosely based on my recent trip to the coast. Enjoy.


Friday pt. II

It's been raining all day but fortunately I have quiet a large roll of thick plastic that I was hanging up and taping what I can in the wet, covering as much of myself an the bare wood. It feels good to light up that cigarette in my car at the end of the day, taking in that first drag as if it's my last. I had a cigarette an hour ago so honestly it isn't that big of a deal.
I pull out of the driveway of the million dollar estate and head around the corner to the freeway. Of course, this is Puget Sound so there are plenty of freeways, and this isn't the one I need to be on. In fact, I have to get on this one, then another, then another. And they all have traffic.
Surprisingly, the first freeway is relatively clear. I think to myself, "Hmmm. I wonder if traffic is going to be that bad?" Thoughts come too soon. As I merge onto I-405, I realize, of course, it is the first weekend of summer and pouring down rain,why wouldn't every damn person in the area be heading out to go camping. A spider crawls out of the Rubberware container of plum tree wood and onto my sleeping bag as I pour myself a beer in an empty coffee cup .
Finally get to I-5 and once again, everyone is still going to enjoy the weekend, as if hundreds and hundreds of Toyotas and Volvos are trying to sniff out each other's rumps. I eventually reach Federal Way, Tacoma and then Olympia. In four hours. Time of my life I am never getting back. The road clears up and off we go. 50 miles per hour, 60 miles per hour, 70, 80. I clutch the steering wheel with my legs and pour another beverage into my coffee cup. Wait, the speed limit is 70.
85. 90. 95.
110 miles per hour.
At this speed a car can change lanes rather quickly. I weave through three or four cars, fairly spread out so not as dangerous as it sounds. And the highway was a long straight stretch, perfectly safe. I slow it down after a short amount of time.
I head towards Rainier, Oregon as I pour myself a Rainier. A stuff another can underneath the passenger seat. A sound of empty aluminum vessels rattle.

A Taste

Friday pt. I
I swear, today, work is lasting far longer than normal. And I am even getting off a little bit early, in this position's standards anyway, nine to ten hours being the norm. All day long, strip varnish and look at the clock. Strip more varnish, burn myself with the heat gun and look at the clock. Tape up a section of fiberglass, strip, burn, look. A process that repeats itself.
A process that repeats itself.
Finally, 4:30 rolls around. I gather my equipment inside the cockpit of the sailboat, safely stowed under the canvas awning as to keep them dry over the weekend. The owners said absolutely to my asking permission to leave my tools on board over the weekend. Very sweet people. A man of about 50 and a slightly wonky eye, you can tell he has a few stories. He comes out in the morning and says, "Hey Jay. How are ya." It's nice to hear a greeting with my name in it, seems much more personable. Myself, I cannot remember names for the life of me. I have to meet you two or three times before I even start remembering what your name starts with. It isn't that I don't care (well, I don't to an extent), it's my terrible short term memory. A pathetic memory it is. Give me a number, I'll forget it in 15 to 20 seconds. If I am in the bathroom for example getting ready for work and I remember to do something before I leave, I will even repeat it out loud to myself over and over, but as soon as I stop the repeat process, gone, remembered half way to the city. That's the thing too, I'll remember what I forgot just a little bit after when I was supposed to do it. As if my brain is a simple, archaic processor, maxing out it's power after a couple thoughts, having to store away early thoughts to make way for new ones and once the new once have dissipated the old ones can begin to resurface. I can't remember his name.
She is a good-looking, middle-aged blondie, extremely generous. She comes out to make sure I have everything I need. It is raining so she brings me hot black tea to warm me up and help with a little vigor. I am assuming that is her kayak on their private little pebble beach, the word "MILF" in colorful letters on the side. I can't remember her name either.
My car is packed to the brim with camping gear. Two rubberware containers of dry, plum tree wood (pieces from branches that had broken off in my back yard during the last snow storm) sit in the back taking up most of the room. A sleeping bag, tent, crab trap, shovel and axe.

!!!

ACK!!! I'm late for work!!!

Purpose

You know, I have been trying to figure out what the point of this blog actually is. It started as a way for me to get back into writing, at least doing a little bit of it every day, and I am terrible at keeping my interest in things for a very long time so I am surprised I am still sitting here in the mornings, spewing out whatever comes to my head to just about no one. But now it kind of morphed into this goulash of random crap that I am involved in. Than I realized... this blog is about the hundreds of projects I have to constantly create for myself to stay creative and busy. Be it a board game design, board games themselves, writing or reading, and now, taking pictures.

Scatterbrained?

Overwhelming myself?

Not sure, but I do know that I am an artist in the very least. I need to make, to build, to give life to. It absolutely doesn't matter what it is. I work with paper mache, oil paints, random crap I find and try to figure what can be done with it. Who knows if the world will ever really see what I come up with, but it sure feels good doing it. It's kind of like I'm a "Jack of All Arts". Can do a lot of things, just isn't very good at any of them. Now now, I'm not feeling sorry for myself, don't get me wrong. It's ok, I am aware of the cynicism in my voice sometimes and I apologize.

Anyway, here are some photographs I thought I might share. Bought a decent little Nikon Coolpix s50 about five years ago. Stopped using it for a long time and now I am starting to at least have it in my car as much as possible.Been trying to snap a few shots here and there if I see 'em.

I've always really enjoyed the setting of dusk and having the colors in the sky as a backdrop to the filled in, black trees and plantlife.

Off my front yard.

From my back yard.

Out of my car window while sitting, waiting to go to work.

Unexpection

What a weekend. Had an amazing time surfing. Caught some pretty good waves and tried to teach my buddy how to even sit upright on his board. I am incredibly tired right now and my left arm is killing me (pretty sure I slept on it wrong last night). I think I've forgotten  how much of a workout this passion is.

I think I can write out a pretty decent short story based on this trip. My own form of gonzo. A look into the wanting of getting out, the stress and anxiety you bring with you and realizing that you are yearning to go back to the one you love.

I am going to try and work on this today during lunch. In fact, I am going to hit the showers right now and if I have time before I have to leave, begin outlining it.

Here We Go!

Finally!

Bout fucking time we got to the end of the week. Just have to get through one more day of work then I am off to the land of the free, the last frontier, my home world. So, that said, I know no one really reads this stuff, but I won't be posting all weekend. When I return though I will have a short story detailing my adventure. Have a good weekend everyone!

Oh So Close

I was perusing through the board games on eBay and almost forgot to post!

So close to the weekend. Going to be leaving straight from work and head down south to Oregon. Depending on the weather, which unfortunately looks like a shit ton of rain, we may or may not just head down there Friday night. We might even just wait till dawn Saturday morning. I am getting some very conflicting weather reports:

 RAIN
http://www.weather.com/weather/weekend/Manzanita+OR+USOR0207:1:US

CLOUDS & SUN
http://www.surf-forecast.com/breaks/Manzanita/forecasts/latest/six_day

Who fucking knows. Hoping for the latter but we are going to hit those waves be it pouring or not. Surfing in the rain? Check. Crabbing in the rain? Check. Clamming in the rain? Check. Fuck it. Might even camp in the rain.

I plan on writing a short story on this little adventure. Maybe some crazy shit will go down. Maybe not. Maybe I'll get eaten by a shark in those murky waters. That would make a good story. They are my wife's favorite animals. I wonder if they would still be after a situation like that?

Do iPods Float?

Day 12 of the 15 Day Writing Challenge: Provoke. I am going to take this with me today and see where it takes me, although I tend to do this too much.

Yesterday was one of the most terrible days I have had in quiet some time. Even while driving to work in the morning I knew there was a bad moon rising as I fought back unexplainable tears the whole way, just enough to distort my lower lip. Fight 'em and don't let them out. I get to work and load my arms up with the equipment I need and begin walking down to the dock. Well, I'm not sure how I didn't keep myself from swaying left and then right, and then stepping straight off the dock with my right foot, catching myself in between the dock itself and a neighboring boat, slamming my knee straight down. Ouch.

The day goes on. I have been on this boat countless times. The side has about 8 inches of a deck that you can walk on, holding onto metal rails mounted on the sides as you shimmy along, but this time was different for some reason. To be honest, I am not 100% sure how it even happen. Lost my balance. As I realize I am falling off the side and into the chilly, northwestern water, I try to catch myself on the neighboring boat (once again) and bang my elbow on the side of it as my other knee (the one that hasn't already gotten slammed) bangs down onto the cap rail of the boat I was on. Splash.

So there I am, luckily catching myself halfway, holding on to the side of the little ship, my legs dunked up to my wist. I immediately thought to myself, wow, I am sure glad I don't have my wallet on me and my iPod is in my chest pocket. And the chest pocket is unzipped! Phew. Thought too soon.

I shimmy my way over to the dock and as I am pulling myself out a little "sploosh" happens right in front of me. My iPod had slipped right out of my pocket and into the water. Needless to say, we all now know iPods don't float.

Lumps on both knees, a bruised elbow and a sinking iPod. Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.

Day 11: Declutter

Tis day 11 of the 15 Day Writing Challenge, decluttering. It is very strange too because last Sunday I gave my kitchen a thorough cleaning. Also mowed the lawn, cleaned up the backyard and chopped up some wood to take to the beach with me.

All I can think about is this coming weekend, my surf/camping trip. I go to work and daydream all day long, time moving slowly along as I wash another boat or wax another brow. This job is getting to me. I don't have to think, I just put the brush to the surface or wipe away the residue with a towel. Manual labor makes me feel like an idiot. I need something else. Like travel the world. Oh ya! That's what I might be doing!

And then I think of my next possible position and the anguish washes away. Private deckhand on a 20 million dollar yacht, cruising around Alaska, Canada, all of the west coat, Mexico, South America. And then I think of the possibility of not getting the position, which is what I am waiting to hear about, and all that anguish comes flooding back in. I had a little run in with a DUI situation when I living in Maui about six years ago. Currently trying to find out if it is actually on my record. Why, you ask? Canada looks at DUIs as felonies (which is completely outrageous if you ask me. I actually think it is pretty cool with being so hard on drunk drivers, but are you really not going to let someone into your country just because of a simple mistake made in their past?) and if I can't go along with the ship as it passes through Canada, no position for me.

Anyway, to make myself feel better, I have decided to put a few pictures together just to illustrate what I will be doing this weekend.

Dungeness crabbing!

Clamming!

Surfing!

Campfire!

Drinking!

Camping! Ok, it won't be as picturesque as this. In fact, it will probably be pretty cloudy. But fun.

Sharing a Nightmarish Weekend

Relief and warmth sweeps over my body. Coffee.

Day 10 of the 15 Day Writing Challenge. Promotion of a fellow writer's work. Well, I am a huge scifi fan, so I have read quiet a few really great books, but I don't think any compare to the works of Alastair Reynolds. His books can take place in the not so distant future or, for example, House of Suns, which is one of my favorite books of all time, millions and millions of years in the future. Alien civilizations that the main characters know aren't going to be around in another 200,000 years or ships spanning miles and miles. This shit will blow your mind, reconstruct it, and shove it right back through your earholes. My only issue with the writing though is that every single little detail that is mentioned in the book will have something to do with the story later. He never puts in anything unless it is integral, so foreshadowing is a little tough when you read a little encounter or something, you think to yourself, "Oh, well I guess we will see him later on", so don't forget. Ya ya ya, you will of course have the die hard Heinlein fans, but honestly, his ideas are great and I have read some of his work, but let me tell you, talk about cookie cutter characters. Every one of them are the same. For some reason, in all of his big universes he creates, aside from naked mannequin-looking people or strange humanoid aliens, everyone and thing are witty and snappy. Seems far fetched don't you think (as you read outrageous science fiction).

This weekend was very strange for me. The other night I went to sleep around 3:00AM (had a four hour nap earlier that day, long night beforehand) and woke up around 3:30AM. In that 30 minute span, I had a nightmare within a nightmare within a nightmare. Woke up gasping for air. Fucking inception. I can't really remember the very first nightmare, but I remember waking up and my wife was still awake next to me. I mentioned I had a bad dream but she wouldn't look or talk to me., She was just sitting up in bed, staring ahead. So I ended up going downstairs and laying on the couch and I left the lights on because I was still a little freaked out. As I lay down on the couch and begin to pull the blankets up, I can hear my wife come in and shut the lights off and close the door. I yell and yell at her to turn the lights on but she still wouldn't answer me. So I went upstairs and walked over to our bedroom and asked, "Why the hell did you turn the lights off?" She was still just sitting up in bed, looking forward, and said, "You were making too much noise." Mind you I was just laying there, so, if I remember correctly, I immediately got the sense that I was having a nightmare and woke up. I woke up in the darkness of my bedroom and got up to go to the bathrooms. I flipped on the light as I walked out of the bedroom and when I came back the light was off. I ended up tripping over a little fan that is set up in our doorway and I fall to the ground, sandwiched between the bed and the floor. I begin to yell but the fan also begins to yell, giving off this loud whirring sound. I start to yell louder, trying to get my wife' attention to help me but the fan just got louder and louder, drowning out my cries. That's when I woke up gasping for air. In the real world this time.

I don't know why, but these dreams disturbed me all the rest of that day. I ended up laying in bed for an hour staring at the ceiling, too startled to go back to sleep. I cruised around on Jeff Goins' blog until I finally fell asleep. I don't really know what else to say or even how to interpret these strange dreams.

Neglection

Well, talk about neglecting. Have a shit ton going on right now. Trying to get this position on a private yacht so that has taken a lot of my time. Also my board game is moving along in production so I have been involved in that heavily. It is coming closer and closer to becoming a Kickstarter campaign. I am also looking forward to this surfing trip immensely. I need this very badly, I can't stress that enough. I am becoming more and more disillusioned with the world and people around me that I absolutely need to get out of here and reconnect to nature, the sand, the ocean. Plan on crabbing and clamming as well (mentioned that before of course).

Is anyone listening?

It's ok. Writing makes me feel good, better even.

For whoever is out there, thanks. I appreciate it and I hope to see you again tomorrow.

Love.

Stop Crying

Don't worry, I will be back tomorrow morning. My stomach hurts.

Day 9 and Realize

Well, it's day 9 of the 15 Day Writers Challenge and I really don't think I will be able to accomplish much in this case. Networking and obtaining fans and patrons? Ugh, I'm not cut out for that kind of shit. Truth be told, I don't like people. I don't like the human race very much at all. Disgusting creatures that have disconnected themselves so far from their roots that only a handful have even come to realize this. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not a filthy, dirty hippy, although I do consider myself a neo-hippy (a techy-savvy, peace-loving fool).

Ishmael. Read it.

I am also, like, 1/16th Cherokee (God I hope I got that tribe correct. Pathetic I don't even know my true roots and this is the kind of shit I'm talking about) so I'd like to think my past was grounded to Mother Earth.

I love trees and I believe my spirit animal are crows and ravens, if not birds themselves.

We are wasteful and choose to believe in a higher being only because we are afraid of what will happen after we die and haven't "followed the rules". Believing in God makes you feel at peace? Give me a fucking break! Take some mushrooms or drop some acid and it will change your mind (I have never taken acid myself, though I have had quiet a few trips with the Fun Guy). Have you ever seen a fat priest? Gluttony. He is going to Hell... oh wait. It's ok because God forgives all. Huh? Why is there a Hell then? How about all of those child molesters in the church (who knows how many of those cases are true. I am sure most of them were kids and parents trying to get a settlement). They are in prison now, getting sodomized roughly two to three times a days. They are forgiven. By God, not us. We hold grudges apparently. But truth be told, if it were me, kill 'em. Kill 'em all.

I really think I could go forever on this. A pathetic rant that I am sure you have all heard a million times. My point? Reconnect with the Earth. I'm not saying to start bathing in compost and rainwater or eat Douglas Fir Bark Soup, just realize. That's all.

Realize.

Surf Clamming

Day 8 of the 15 Day Writing Challenge. This is my finished blog post. Ha!

God damn I can't wait until There is a decent weekend down on the Oregon coast. Gettin' my shellfish license so I can get some crabbin' and clammin' in and then head on over to Cannon Beach and hit the waves. It will be the first time I have ever surfed in the wild Oregon Pacific, but I am definitely looking forward to it. There is something about the allure of the Pacific Northwest surfer that fascinates me. And the sport of surfing itself is one of the most peaceful practices I have ever had the pleasure doing. You literally become one with the ocean, feeling the ups and downs, listening for it to whisper in your ear, "Get ready, I'm about to give you a little taste buddy."

Sure, I lived in Maui, Hawaii for a couple years and you most certainly cannot top the waves and beaches there, but I grew up in Oregon and the coast is most definitely where I want to be when I retire. The smell of sea salt in the air always brings a smile to my face, and the giant clumps of frothy sea bubbles that collect on the sandy beaches... well, that doesn't really bring a smile to my face but the story I was told while growing up does. My dad used to tell me that those masses of salty, smelly air pockets was whale blubber and it was whale shedding season. Yes, I believed that for a long time.

I am yearning for the coast my friends. I miss it. I need it. I don't know what it is but I feel so calm or "at peace" if you will, whenever I walk on those Oregon beaches. In fact, here is one of my favorite pictures of my wife and seesters on the coast. Amazing huh? This was a couple years ago and I don't remember exactly where it was at, but I believe somewhere around Yachats.

Seven Carpool Lanes

Day 7 of the 15 Day Writing Challenge.

Write something crappy huh? How about something I've already written and plan on refining into a novella? Check back to one of my later posts, REUNITE.


Am I the only one that thinks the carpool lane is bullshit? Why do cars with more than one person in them get an advantage over everyone else that is returning from work? Is it to cut down air pollution? An incentive to drive fewer cars, allowing you to bypass all of the fools stuck on I-405 for an hour to go 10 miles?

How about this; <by the way, did I use that semi colon correctly?> Screw the carpool lane. Open it up. If the carpool lane is there to reduce the amount of cars on the road and reduce air pollution in the process, why don't we change the carpool lane into an open lane for all. This will allow traffic to move a little bit smoother/faster and also cut down on ALL of the idling cars, pouring exhaust into the air we breath. A win win? Please tell me if this is a ridiculous idea...

Open the damn express lane to all!!!

On a side note, my wife and I played a fun two-player board game last night entitled Mr. Jack.

Fun game indeed. One player plays a detective and the other plays Jack the Ripper and the detective must deduce which character is Jack before dawn arrives or Jack escapes the city. Check it out.

My second board game creation is coming along nicely. Just need to fine tune some rules and should be creating an alpha tester soon.

Inspiration and Quitting

In response to Day 6 of the 15 Day Writing Challenge:


I actually get a lot of inspiration from music, and other literature of course.

"So it goes." -Vonnegut

"We are a generation of men raised by women." -Palahniuk

"It hasn't gotten weird enough for me." -Thompson

"I've seen the needle and the damage done." -Neil Young

"The lunatic is in my head." -Pink Floyd

"Heavens just a scab away, I'd like to see you after just one taste." -The Mars Volta

I wish plagiarism wasn't real, then I would copy all of these artists' words thoroughly.

Well, day one of no smoking. Last cigarette was eight and half hours ago, and that was just a butt I picked out of the ashtray. This will be a brutal day I am not going to lie, for everything pretty much triggers the need for a cigarette for me. After a cup of coffee (which I am drinking right now. Bad start), getting into my car (usually smoke about three before I even get to the shop), getting back into my car after leaving the shop, getting to the first job site, a break before lunch, one before eating lunch, one (sometimes two) after eating lunch, a break after lunch, getting into my car to go home (and most likely two more before I actually get home) and more and more as I sit at home. Wow, this is the first time I have actually tallied up the sticks. That is at least 15 before I even get back home. What can I say, I love to smoke. I've actually tried the patch before I it worked stupendously. But I only had a week's worth and no more money when I ran out so I immediately relapsed as soon as I didn't have any more patches left.

Luckily I don't really start smoking until 7:00AM (when i get in my car to leave for work) so I am currently in a stable state, but you wait until tomorrow morning and I am sure you will really get a piece of my mind then.

Big Plate Special

So have you ever realized that you might have a little too much on your plate? Come on, of course you have. I think that is a staple of the human psyche, even before plates were around.

I have a few writing projects that are in my head and half laid out on papers and computer programs, I have two board games, one having the art worked on and pretty soon will be launched on Kickstarter. The other I am still fleshing out. I have about three books I am in the middle of that I normally read during my lunch break at work but have been preoccupied with my writing projects and board games. And even those take a backseat when I feel like reading instead.

I get these waves of interest throughout my life. Phases. Not phases to the point where I am really jazzed about something and then I am over it, never to do that activity again. In actuality, I still do the things I first got into four years ago, seven years ago, a decade ago. I just get really excited about something and I do the shit out of it until I get bored or tired. Could be a week, two weeks, maybe a month or two, but eventually I will get burnt out and move onto something else. But then I will get burnt out on the new subject and suddenly have a renewed interest in whatever I dropped. It is strange. I didn't like knowing that I pick things up and put them down, but after realizing that I almost always pick it back up again, it makes me feel a little better.

Anyway, about my board games. Interested? I don't know about you but I think board games are incredibly fun and brings a dynamic into group interactions that video games just can't match. Here is a picture of the beta tester board for my first board game that will be going to Kickstarter soon, although there have been some SERIOUS changes done, so the board doesn't even look the same and the aspect of the game is completely different as well. But hey, that's ok.

VOID OPUS- A space opera board game, although it is now a space race rather

The revised version has you racing from planet to planet, trying to place your flags before your opponent does, all the while the "evil government" are sending probes out to the planets arresting people and the Syndicate are just harassing anyone they can.

The other game I'm working on has two players racing to get off of their home world because their sun is dying and it is going to engulf their planet. The game takes place over 4,000,000 years and I am fine tuning some unusual mechanics. Fun.

Well, anyway, looks like it is Monday. Keep your heads up. I'll see you tomorrow morning.

Love.

Wow. Here I am again. Sunday morning. Getting ready for work.

My life is pretty hectic right now. The only time I find to write is in my car, leaving early so I can ease my anxiety (it's a strange habit of mine where I must be at least 15 minutes early for anything).

I am really tired. Must... drink... coffee...

TGIF

Damn it feels good to have money. Went grocery shopping at 5:00AM. And now I have to get some serious shit done so unfortunately I will not be going on and on about nothing this morning. I will also be doing a double on the 15 Day Challenge tomorrow.

Sorry!

Spirits at 2:30AM?

Well, it certainly isn't 2:30AM. In fact, I decided to sleep in this morning, so it is actually 5:20AM. Sorry Jeff.

I have actually been leaving early for work so I can sit in my car for 15 or 20 minutes outside of my office and write in my notebook.

Is there a lot of people out there that prefer to write with a pen or pencil on plain 'ol paper? Every now and then I will write on the laptop... actually, now that I think about it, I write on my laptop every morning, on this here blog. But these are short segments of writing, not full stories. I am just able to put my thoughts out there on paper so much easier than a computer screen. See, as soon as I was done with that sentence I had to stop and think about what I was going to write next. Obviously I didn't think of anything to write because I wrote that last sentence... and that last sentence... and that... I digress. My point being, writing in a notebook? I give it two thumbs up.

Are there any books out there that are basically character studies of people the author has met? Strange and interesting people that the writer just decided are way to out there to not be written about? I feel like I know a lot of these characters to tell you the truth. I actually want to go up to my bar in Fremont with a voice recorder and just go around and have conversations with all of the regulars. See what they really have to say, which I get an ear full already whenever I go there. I guess that's what I am kind of doing with A Year To Fix Nothing: Wash My Boat, but I almost feel like I am trying to find a purpose in writing that. And I think I have found a decent ending, being that I am leaving that company for bigger and better things.

Still in the middle of Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72. I am not a terribly fast reader, sometimes only reading three or four pages a day, but this is mainy due to the fact that I haven't had a day off of work in almost a month and a half and I work relatively late every day. When I come home I tend to smoke my cigarettes and my weed, maybe crack open a brewskie if there happen to be any in the fridge, though I must bid this lifestyle adieu. With my new gig coming up, I am going to have to stop smoking cigarettes and weed and tone down the drinking.

Bah!

Looks like I will be taking up spirits. Good thing that's a lot easier these days.

Prologue

I came back to Seattle to settle down back in May of 2011. My wife and I had a little bit of a rough stint in Southern Oregon (not marriage problems, family problems) and decided that wasn't the place for us at this time. We missed the city (I love the country mind you. Born and raised in Oregon, I love that territory) and we were also making no money at all. She had a shitty clerk job at a huge casino truck stop and I had... well, I had nothing. Six months of sitting around the god damn house, trying not to smoke another cigarette or bowl, and I couldn't find a job anywhere. I couldn't even get hired as a Pizza Hut delivery guy. "What the fuck", I kept asking myself, trying to convince the person inside of me that he isn't a complete fucking loser, that these people don't know what the fuck they are talking about. And nowadays I think, THANK FUCKING GOD! If I had gotten a job down there, my wife would probably have taken the manager position at that truck stop and I would be making minimum wage as the spunk cleaner at the run down, local X X X theater.

So we decided to get out of there. We both started looking on craigslist feverishly, trying to find something we might be able to enjoy with a decent pay rate. I am guessing we had a decent amount of good karma in the karma bank for we both found jobs that we were very excited for. I had a phone interview and was asked to drive up to Seattle to have a face to face (the phone interview went really well so I figured this was just to close the deal. And luckily my uncle lives around here so I was able to have a bed to sleep in). My wifey also had a phone interview and was hired on the spot. 

BAM.

We moved up here and started our new jobs on the exact same day, May 20th, 2011.

If your wondering why I am posting this information, it is kind of a prologue to A Year to Fix Nothing: Wash My Boat.


On a side note, I am participating in the "15 Habits of Great Writers" challenge over at http://goinswriter.com/ . Today's challenge is tricking myself into believing I am a writer. Really? Do I need to trick myself? Nah, I'm just kidding. I believe I enjoy writing. I believe that I would very much like to be a writer. I believe that if I keep on keepin' on I can do this.

We'll see if I can wake up two hours early tomorrow though. I already wake up at 4:30am...

Anyway, he has some excellent tips for us aspiring writers so I suggest you check it out. It isn't too late to participate either!

Writer I Am

I enjoy writing very much. Happiness sweeps over me when I am able to have ideas flow from my head onto a sheet of paper (for that's how I prefer to write, pen it then type it later on). English class was always relatively easy, but that's because I kept myself in the lower level classes. I know I could have sat in Advanced English or College Prep English, but I didn't want to. In fact, my teacher, Mr. McGladery, always told me that I should be in the advanced class. At that time I thought he was full of shit and I was definitely full of laziness. But these days, after realizing the thrill of coming up with an amazing story or being able to give details of an insect that makes the reader want to flick it off the page...

I AM A WRITER.

And it feels damn good to say that. Not, "I enjoy writing", or, "I am an aspiring writer", but...

I AM A WRITER.

I am going to take my pen and write the shit out of some paper damnit.

That feels kinda good.



So I was on my way to work yesterday morning, cruising up Westlake Avenue, past the marinas and up and around the small bend to reach the light located at the Fremont Bridge. Now, mind you, I was born in the wrong generation. I think that the optimum year that I should have been conceived is 1958. Ya ya ya, I know. Many people have told me that I am full of shit and I have no idea how good I have it nowadays, blah blah blah. But it isn't about how good I have it or how shitty the world is today. I definitely agree, the world today is in a slightly better position than it was in the 50s, 60s and 70s. But like I said, it isn't the world, it's the music man. In my eye, those three decades brought the greatest artists that have ever lived (mostly the 60s and 70s). Creedence Clearwater, Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Neil Young, The Beatles, Jethro Tull, David Bowie, Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin, Molly Hatchet, Foghat, Styx... do I need to go on?

"Now I am just a sheep being shepherd by the man." -Myself, on a phone call with my dad. You see! I channel the hippies all the time! An expanded consciousness man.

I digress. My point being, as I am driving to work and reaching the Fremont Bridge traffic light, there to my right is a homeless man that looks like he just got back from Vietnam, bandanna around his head holding back his long, dirty, dishwater, blonde hair out of his eyes, an army bag undoubtedly with all of his things, not counting what he stores near the troll under the bridge, and sometimes he even has a walkman, begging for money with a good set of tunes lodged in his ears. No walkman this morning thoguh. This is normal, the poor bastard sitting at this light, with a sign that reads, "Anything helps." But this time is different, for this morning I decided to turn the volume up on an album that I was playing, which I don't normally like to do, preferring a quiet, NPR car ride. Not today. I was playing Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon, one of my favorite albums of all time, cranked up to 41, windows down, not realizing what song was playing as I stopped at the light and waited next to the hippy from Vietnam. Money.

But on a music sidenote, you should all check out Pickwick, a local Seattle band. They only have an EP out right now but they put out some amazing music and I hope they keep on keepin' on.

Thanks for reading!

Gonzography

Recently I was talking to a captain of a yacht that I had finished up waxing and washing, asking him how he got in this business (for that is something I have always been interested in. Hey, if I'm not making money off my writing I need to do something). Just in the 30 or so minutes we had talked, he was able to intrigue me thoroughly with some of his stories he had. Then he started talking about how he and his wife had always thought about writing a book about their lives, because apparently they have gotten into some pretty wild shit in their days. Well, when he mentioned the book idea, I told him, "You know, I'm something of an aspiring writer. I would love it if we sat down and threw some ideas around, could be fun. Maybe get something together after all?"
He seemed somewhat interested. I think the fact that I never went to school for it sets the tone for me not being particularly serious about writing. I assured him that I am extremely interested in doing something like this, gave him my e-mail address and maybe, some day, some crazy, weird day, I'll get an e-mail asking me to come on over and have a beer.
Shortly after I started thinking about how I would write something like that, a biography of sorts. I'm not too keen on just blurting out short anecdotes and barraging the reader with nutty facts throughout the pages. It brought me to thinking of Hunter S. Thompson and his famous Gonzo journalism. I could definitely write a biography in the perspective of myself, sitting down with the interviewee and making the reader feel like they are in the room with this gentleman, exchanging wild stories. I dub it Gonzography.
Ha! I'm sure someone out there has already thought of this but what the hell. I thought it was a cool idea and I am hoping to have an unread message in my inbox some day, calling me out to play.
Some day.

New Job

Well, I guess the title of the character analyzation of the small pacific northwest company is fucking perfect (A Year to Fix Nothing) for I have worked there for one year and was recently approached by a certain gentleman and offered a job as the head caretaker for their 16 million dollar yacht. Fucking amazing. I really don't know what I do to deserve these opportunities I am offered. I can't really go into the details, extremely hush hush, but it is pretty exciting.

So unfortunately I haven't been able to get any new writing done. Went out last night and right now my head feels like a swollen pimple, about to explode it's puss... hold on, this is grossing me out. I can't talk about that right now. Need some bread or something to soak up all the booze in my stomach.

Weekend Work and Some Scifi

Well, it's Saturday morning and here I am, drinking my coffee, laptop in front of me, preparing for work. Actually, I haven't started preparing for work and based on the fact that I have been working every weekend on top of the normal work week, I think I'll get ready and leave whenever I damn well please. Luckily I don't ever have a problem waking up at 5:00AM. Unless I am really hungover.

So I thought I might post up that short science fiction story for today. As I've said before I am trying to expand it into a 150-160 page novella. I've been told that it is along the lines of a Heinlein book, which is incredibly flattering, but Robert certainly doesn't have the most vivid, in depth characters. They all seem to act like the same person. It's kind of weird, although Methuselah's Children was a damn good book. Anyway, here it is, the short story and soon to be novella, REUNITE.

1

CONFESSION

I am not guilty.

2

INTRODUCTION

“Jackson, I want you to meet Delilah.”
Jackson turns the key on his yellow Hoverec. He lowers the kickstand, propping the Hoverec inches off the ground and waits for the engine to die down before looking up. His jaw drops and Delilah smiles, the static in the air seemingly rising around them. Hundreds of honking horns reverberate between the buildings and the layers of rush hour, air traffic above the ground-level causes the sunlight to strobe upon Delilah’s jet black hair, the poof hinted with purple. Her red lips vibrantly stand out, contrasted against pale skin. And a slender, red dress. Jackson hasn’t seen a woman in a dress in a long time, skin-tight suits being all the rage. After wiping the moisture content of his palm onto his pant leg, Jackson holds his hand out. “Hi. Jackson.”
“Delilah.”
The introducer, Kyren, a bartender at one of the only ground-level bars left on Earth, looks at each of them, a smile smeared on her face. Her silver, skin-tight leotard flashing reflections onto the couple, hands still locked together and faces rushing with blood. “Sooo… do you two want to go in? First drinks are on the house.” She waves them in through the red door across the sidewalk, a neon ‘OPEN’ sign buzzing on and off above her head.
Jackson nods and nearly stutters. “Yea. Absolutely.”
His eyes never leave her.

3

SYSTEMATIC BETRAYAL

“Jackson Harper, you have been found guilty of the rape and murder of Delilah Harper.”
A witness. A woman on the stand claiming to have seen me herself doing the deed that need not be said. My body shakes with sadness, boils with anger, shudders with repulsion. Soon all the emotions flooding my head melt and form into each other. My poor Delilah. She did not deserve this. I have never felt my heart sink so low.
The judge glares at me.
“You will be sentenced to life in penal colony 032986, Naphorim.”
And then it sinks deeper than I could have possibly imagined. I try to scream at the bitch upon the podium, obscenities ready to fly through the air and stab her in the forehead, but my mouth is paralyzed, injected earlier with a muscle number, keeping me from having “outbursts”.
The worst of the worst reside in Naphorim. It isn’t even Earth-exclusive. I am talking about the melting pot of the universe. The bottom-of-the-barrel scum, far worse than the most vile Earth-history-warlords you can think of. I try to close my eyes, the images of tentacle-wielding rapists and pedophiles flooding my brain, but the muscle number has done the trick. My eyes stay wide open.
And that’s just the inhabitants. Naphorim’s atmosphere is thick with sulfur, burning your nose with a goulash of eggs and shit with every breath. Seas of stagnate, infested waters pocket the landscape, making you hope to god someone or something here has figured out how to purify the rancid liquid.
“You will be cast in a hibernation tube, frozen in a paralyzed, conscious state, much like the paralysis you are undergoing now, for the duration of the journey, approximately 50 years.”
Son of a bitch.
“When you reach Naphorim, you will be quickly thawed to begin your sentence.”
I would cry if my tear ducts weren’t already bone dry. I have never been so aware as I am now of how much the judicial system relishes in the suffering aspect of incarceration. And another 50 years tacked on? For what, contemplating my actions?
“This is part of your sentence Mr. Harper. The hibernation tube will slow down your body’s ageing process while still allowing you to have partial vision and auditory use and a conscious state of mind. This will give you the time to think about what you have done.”
Motherfucker.
“Once you get to Naphorim, you won’t have time to think.”
The judge slams her mallet down.

4

ETERNAL

Jackson’s index finger and thumb measure out an inch, displaying it in front of Delilah’s face. “I love you this much.”
Delilah giggles and shoves Jackson’s hand away. A smile forcefully makes it’s way between her cheeks when looking at Jackson‘s face. “Really,” she says. “Tell me. How much?”
They both lay naked, sweaty limbs entangled with one another. Jackson stares into Delilah’s eyes, both of their fingers running themselves up and down the slippery skin of each other’s back, legs and arms. Brushing hair from her face he says, “Your eyes are what pull me in. I find myself floating freely from star to star. That’s what you make me feel. Lost in the vastness and free from the constraints at the same time. Absolute freedom.”
Delilah grabs Jackson’s head and presses it against her own, their lips mashed into each other. Jackson smiles and holds up the measured inch between his fingers. Laughter ensues and they cover themselves up with the sheet as they begin to press their bodies against one another.

5

ITINERARY

I can’t help but feel like I’m being buried alive as I slide into the red, coffin-shaped hibernation tube. I have never traveled off of Earth, so having no experience in hibernation is making this a nerve-racking moment on top of a shitty situation.
The doctor on my right begins to speak. A mad scientist sound. “Alright Mr. Harper, I understand this is your first time in hibernation. Once the lid shuts the process will begin instantaneously. There will be pain and then a state of being. Once thawed on Naphorim you will slowly regain all your senses in which time you will be held under security as for your protection.”
A state of being? What is this supposed to be, a vision quest? And why the security?
“Now, during the hibernation state, you will be able to somewhat hear and see, and you will be fully mentally conscious. Although you won’t be able to close your eyes (we will make sure they are open, with the right devices), your mind will go into shutdown if it needs to. The equivalent of sleeping. It could last for minutes and it could last for years.”
Let’s hope the latter is more prominent.
“Ok Mr. Harper. Keep your arms inside.” The doctor pushes a button on a panel in front of him and the lid to the tube begins to seal itself over me. Light continues to shine in my eyes through the clear panel inset into the lid, right in front of my face. With the sound of the locking mechanism comes the pain. Ice daggers stab and twist every inch of my body, instantaneously.
The pain demands for my mind to shutdown.
The pain decides for my mind to wake up.
My entire body aches but not nearly as bad as the experienced pain earlier.
Earlier? How earlier? How long have I been out for? I try to move my hands and legs and laugh at myself for even trying. All I can see through the glass panel is a metal wall, red lights giving it a bloody hue. Crew members and guards periodically pass through my vision. I can hear them talking to each other, though slightly muffled by the ice caked in my ears. I hear them referring to me as a rapist and murderer. And what they do to rapists in Naphorim.
The physical connection to my body is becoming less prominent already.
The solid red lights shining on the wall in front of me begin flashing, a siren reverberating off the metal. Crew members are racing back and forth. I can hear the automated female voice over the intercom. An emergency landing?
Maybe this is a good thing.
I can feel the floor vibrating. Subtly at first, then violently. So violently my coffin is disconnected from its base and topples to the floor. After hitting the floor, expecting the jarring to hurt, I realize that I barely felt it at all.
I am facing upwards, all I can see is the ceiling of the ship, but luckily a ceiling with a window. Through the window is heat. The heat is so intense it takes on a physical form, glazing over my window, the horizon of a planet spinning around the edge. We must be entering the atmosphere. Then another thought crosses my mind. We may be a space faring, human civilization, but the universe is still vastly unexplored. We could be stuck on this planet for years. I could be stuck in this thing for an insane amount of time.
My coffin is violently slammed against a wall as the ship comes to an immediate, crashing halt.

6

PLANNING AHEAD

Delilah takes out a piece of paper and lays it on the table of their booth. On it are names written in ink. Baby names. “Oh really,” Jackson says, grinning.
The waitress arrives and pours Jackson and Delilah each a cup of coffee.
Beaming, Delilah says, “They’re just suggestions. Names that I’ve actually had picked out for quite some time. But they are here so you can look them over. I want you to pick your favorite.”
Jackson slides the paper from across the table and looks over the names. “I like them all, but gimme some time.” Delilah nods and Jackson folds the paper and slips it in his pocket. “We aren’t pregnant yet.”
Delilah looks down at her cup of coffee, the steam wafting up into her nostrils. “I know, but just the thought of starting a family with you makes me feel amazing.” She looks up into Jackson’s eyes, Jackson returning the gaze. “I just love you so much. You‘ve been there for me like no one ever has.”
Jackson grabs her hands. He smiles and says, “And I’m a damn good kisser.” He smiles and Delilah raises an eyebrow. “ Oh come on, you know I’m only joking. To the end of days Delilah. To the end of days.
They both grin. Jackson takes a sip of his coffee. ‘If you love me so much,” he says, “tell me something you would only know about me.”
Delilah looks around the restaurant, from the register to the windows. Her eyes move down to the napkin on the table in front of her, a knife, fork and spoon placed neatly on top. She grabs the silverware and holds up the spoon and fork. “You like small spoons and big forks.”
Jackson begins to laugh out loud, leans over the table and kisses Delilah.

7

NATURAL HISTORY

Years pass. I am assuming. I have been in the pitch green depths of this planet’s ocean, little light reaching my whereabouts. Very similar to Earth’s sea water, but seems to be thicker, creatures move incredibly slow. And these are some of the largest, most prehistoric looking creatures I could have ever imagined.
My mind is no longer confined to my own body. I feel my limbs no more. My thoughts are trapped within this metal coffin with a window for my viewing pleasure.
Minutes feel like seconds. Hours feel like minutes. Days feel like hours.
No, years feel like hours.
Shutdown.
A light shines through the glass panel and stimulates my physical optic nerves. Before me is a mass of bipedal humanoids very much similar to ourselves and the indigenous peoples of Earth, before we, the “sophisticated form of human“, exterminated them. They have me propped on a small stage made of various branches and stone. I hear them chant as they dance around a large fire, free from the fashion constraints of my own civilization, loin cloths being the hot item. I seem to be a worshipped artifact.
Wait, decades feel like hours.
I have no idea how long I have been buried. I witnessed a whole tribe grow and unify with their surroundings, only to be systematically destroyed by a neighboring, advanced race of the same humanoids. Funny how things work in the universe. My being a sacred piece of history to the clan, I have been tossed and erased from memory by the enemy, buried away from view.
Centuries most certainly have passed. My memories have become extremely faint and my mind has become a separate being from the physical form that bound it. My mind is constantly wrapped up in thoughts that take an immense amount of time to form themselves, my physical brain slowing down from the freeze. With nothing to stimulate my physical senses, time becomes an element of ancient history.
Once again, a light shines through the glass panel. Sand and dirt is brushed away from the window, allowing the sun to whitewash my vision. I am once again found and being transported.
I spend a bit of time in a large white room surrounded by these bipedal humanoids in white clothes. Sophisticated versions of the indigenous peoples that worshipped me centuries ago. A laboratory? I overhear them exclaiming that they are close.
Close to figuring out how to open this blasted thing.
Wait? Freedom? No. They will find out who I am. Who I am… I realize I haven’t used a label on myself in centuries. I have no memory of this. Why am I even in this tube? Do I want to be released? This is my world. This viewpoint is my world. Why would I want to leave it?
In the meantime apparently I have been put up for display in a museum. Men, woman and children… well, I guess I can’t really tell how many sexes there actually are in this species… they all line up, gazing at this strange box with a preserved, ancient human being inside.
The beings in white return me to the white room. This time they seem to have figured out how to unlock my world without destroying the contents inside, but the necessary tools are on a neighboring planet. Once again, I am to be shipped.

8

DENIED EQUILIBRIUM

The night is brisk and the small lights along the path give the ground a slight, golden hue. Jackson and Delilah are jogging side by side. Delilah speaks between gasps of air, “How did I let you talk me into doing this?”
Jackson laughs. “Oh come on. It isn’t that bad. It’s good for you. Besides, you better start working out now before you get too far in your pregnancy.”
“I know, I know.”
As Jackson and Delilah trot around a small bend, a man in a skin-tight, black suit steps out from behind a bush, a steel pipe in his right hand. He begins to catch up to the couple, his speed picking up as he gets closer and closer. He raises his equipped right hand and the pipe slams across the back of Jackson’s head, knocking him unconscious. On an immediate backswing, knocks Delilah across the jaw. She stumbles and falls on her back. Immediately the assailant is atop Delilah, buttons flying as he begins to violently rip her clothing off.
Her shrieks ring out in the night sky.
Jackson slowly regains consciousness and is made alert by his wife’s cries. He looks over to the battered woman and runs to her side. Lifting her head to his lap, blood smearing on his hands, he positions her head so her eyes could meet his own. Tears well up in Jackson’s eyes. “Which way did he go baby,” Jackson exclaims. “Where did he go?!”
Delilah points into the darkness and Jackson runs, following her finger’s accusation.
A nearby woman sees Jackson run off and quickly makes her way over to Delilah. She takes out her communicator and begins calling emergency meditechs. “Who did this,” the woman asks Delilah. “Who was that man?”
Delilah whispers, “Jackson.”

9

FLOW

The ship I am being loaded on is massive. Larger than any ship I have ever seen.
Later I find out that the gargantuan size of the ship is due to the fact that by “a neighboring planet”, they mean a 150 year trip. Being that they don’t make these too often, a large amount of others will be coming. Especially for such a historical moment as cracking open a centuries-old piece of history. An arsenal is also required. Space pirates love treasure.
I’m curious if they will be able to restore my memories. Nowadays though, they are all but faint, blurry dreams. I believe they are hard to reach because of the slow processing power of my former body. If I am released and am placed back into my carrier, my memories might be restored. Then I think, do I want to go through with that?
I am placed against a wall and strapped down. A strange feeling, seeing guards and crew members walking back and forth. Almost like a déjà vu. A green light gives the wall in front of me a mossy hue.
75 years have passed. I know this because these humanoids have realized that I could still be fully conscious and started showing me current calendars and clocks through my viewing panel.
As a child humanoid is reading me a story, an adult figure runs up and grabs up the young one in his arms. Distress is all around. Faces look scared, sad, angry. The green light creates a strobe effect on the wall. It wasn’t long before an explosion rings out through a nearby hallway. The pressure drops and almost immediately I am ejected through a small puncture in a window.
As I slowly float away from the destruction, my view of the battle becomes a vista. Smaller ships fly in and around the massive ship. Some begin to board the vessel, others take more shots at the small evacuation pods. The ship begins to dissect itself.
I am not seen; overlooked debris.
  I float indefinitely. The vastness of space before me. Stars sparkle in the distance.
A tear freezes over my cornea.

END

So I put this story away for a few months and now as I am reading it over I am getting really excited about expanding it. There is a lot that can be done, and I look forward to brainstorming his tragic journey.

Thanks for reading and I will see you laters!

Good morning to all.

Listening to a fantastic song right now, entitled "If They Left Us Alone Now" by Wool. Heard it for the first time on Lost Discs Radio (lostdiscsradio.com) and fell in love with it. I eventually e-mailed Jim E. himself and told him how enthralled I was with that certain episode (there were quiet a few good songs on there) and he ended up ripping the song for me off the LP and sent it to me. Very nice of him! Also, there will be a live show this Saturday night so you all should check it out, online at 10:00PM eastern.

Currently reading Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72. Great book so far. Honestly, I never thought I would ever be able to enjoy a political book, but luckily it is as if the book is about him (well, duh) with the background being the current politics. And of course it helps that he is an incredibly interesting character himself. I also find the addition of fictional characters (Raoul Duke for instance) very intriguing, letting the reader wonder who is real and which characters Hunter is using to fuck with you. Gonzo journalism/literature is fascinating to me.

Currently working on that character analyzation of a small company in the Pacific Northwest. It should be interesting. I believe I have finally come up with a title: "A Year to Fix Nothing". Will post a piece here and there when I complete them.

Thanks for reading and I appreciate any comments flung at me!