Life in progress

Tag Archives: writing


by 19 Comments

March Break Blues

DSC00086

It’s snowing. And I’m thinking to myself, why the hell is it snowing when it’s almost the middle of March? And then I remember, oh yeah, I live in Canada.

I’m also right smack dab in the middle of March break. Kids are home and the youngest one is looking for something to do, as usual. I know what I want to do, but sitting around while I write, for some reason doesn’t seem all that fun to him. He wants my attention. Constantly. OR he wants my laptop, which is not very conducive to getting any writing done either.

So I pawned him off.

No, I didn’t sell him, though sometimes I’d like to. I gave him to a friend. Somehow I think he may be returned however.


by Leave a comment

… One Brother

White quiet halls, scuffs covering walls, nurses pad by in soft shoes. Whisper, obedient brother. Crumpled sheets on vacated gurney, heart leaps then falls as toilet flushes. Bow down, father’s son.

Brother, standing in the doorway of father’s hospital room, steps aside when an orderly arrives pushing a wheelchair.

“You takin’ him home?” the orderly asks.

“That’s what I’m here for,” brother answers.

The orderly leaves without comment. Father exits the washroom and torments brother with yellow eyes.

“Are you ready to leave father?” brother squirms, offering the chair.

Father turns, sits and waits for brother to gather his belongings. Brother wheels him to the car.

The two drive through rapidly emptying streets into the setting sun. Brother squints and glances at father’s hands in his lap. Old and sallow, liver failure tinctures his skin.

“Stop at the liquor store,” father commands, his first utterance of the journey.

“Yes, sir,” brother concedes, relieved to turn away from the blazing, bloody beam of the sunset.

(to be continued)


To go to the beginning of this series click here

Next installment click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


by 4 Comments

Fifteen Attending Brother

Oppressive darkness shrouds the vast black hallway while spotlights scream energy out on stage where there is air. Wait, raging son. Shrill electric pandemonium resounds from mile-high boxes, drowning out sickly shrieking adoration. Unclench, trembling brother.

Brother waits, impatient for his younger sibling to leave the stage.  Fists at his sides he scrutinizes the singer as he wails and thrashes for his audience. Brother’s fury lies in the frustration that the little shit would never mutter a sound while taking his beatings.

Brother ducks into the cover of the darkness as the song ends and the band begins to leave the stage.

“Sir!” calls a staff member, addressing man as he finally arrives in the wings. “This guy says he’s your brother…”

Man squints into the shadows. When brother steps forward he waves off his employee and approaches.

Brother cranes his neck to sneer at man’s effeminate make-up, his long hair, his slim body in tight clothing. He wonders how so many women can desire such a sissy.

“It’s father,” brother hisses. “He’s in the hospital.”

“Why should I care?” man asks, turning to leave.

Brother grasps his sleeve. “Mother wants you there.”

“Fine, I’m almost done,” man says. He walks back onstage to thunderous applause.

Brother seethes, biding the time until his next opportunity to shine in father’s eyes.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

Next installment click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


by 2 Comments

Scintillating Dialogue – writing assignment

“So,” Alice asked, looking down at her shoe as she prodded it into the sun-warmed sand, “what do you do for a living?” She kept her hands in her back pockets, knowing that if she took them out she would want to touch him. Anywhere.

Daniel lowered his sunglasses and gazed at her over the top with deep blue eyes. “I build houses. How about you?” he asked. “No wait.” As his eyebrows went up so did his finger, the bicep of the same arm bulging in response to the movement. “You must be… a model,” Daniel smiled.

“Funny you should say that,” Alice blushed, swiveling her shoulders. “I thought I saw you in a firefighter’s calender the other day. But no, I’m just a lowly shop girl.”

“In that case lowly shop girl, let me carry you over my shoulder to the bar for a drink.” He flashed a dazzling grin and her hands came out of her pockets as he bent down to take her in a fireman’s carry.

“Hold on there, Tarzan,” she laughed. “What do you say we walk to the bar?”

“Only if you’ll at least take my arm.”

His gaze pierced her like a bullet, traveling from her eyes straight down to her lower belly. She swallowed and opened her mouth to consent but realizing nothing would come out, made do with a nod.


by 4 Comments

Fourteen Stirring Mother

Home breathes, love pours comfort into cups of fine gleaming china. Catch the scent, dear woman. Steam rises in clouds of humidity, obscuring the impenetrable essence of life. Smell the coffee, tiresome bitch.

Mother smiles, watching her men at the kitchen table. Father and son laugh and drink to the joys of life and the trials of marriage. The aroma of bread baking in the oven turns her attention to the clock. Father senses her concentration.

“Where is the little shit now?” asks father.

“He should be here soon,” replies mother.

Man opens the front door as though on cue. The cat yowls as man trips over it.

Brother stands, knocking over his chair. He charges out of the kitchen, mother in his wake.

“I’mm sorry, mmother,” slurs man.

“He’s fucked up on drugs!” brother jeers.

Mother extends a hand to help man rise to his feet. Brother leers and kicks man’s unsteady legs from beneath him. Man slips back to the floor.

Father staggers from the kitchen to assist and mother stands back. Hands at her face she incredulously attends the thrashing of her youngest child. She jumps as the bell in the kitchen signals the readiness of the bread.

Emancipated, mother concerns herself with the rising of the bread and her concern over the immeasurable appetite of the three men near the front door.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Fifteen click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


by 2 Comments

Thirteen Idolized Man

The lights, the lights, like mother’s love burn through retina and numb the brain. Drink them in, precious boy. Screams of adoration oppress and uplift, confusing like family’s comforting reassurance. Float, young man.

Man drops his key card on the table inside the door of his hotel suite, his music echoes in his ears. He turns to his chosen one and bends to press his mouth against hers. His desire radiates heat through his body. His chosen leaps up, legs around his waist, her sweet scent reaches his taste buds. Man carries her to the bed. She knows what he wants. She has been his before.

“The sword is beside the bed,” man says.

Man lays back and his chosen slides from his lap to retrieve the katana he occasionally uses, like a benediction, to shave his face. She hands it to him and with a smile and a shink! he unsheathes the weapon.  He drops the scabbard to the floor and rests the sword on the bed above his head while she undresses him.

“Do you love me as I love you?” man asks.

“More,” his chosen whispers.

She crawls up his body to take the weapon.

Man closes his eyes. The lights and the roar of the crowd pierce his memory as he hungrily anticipates the inspiration of a fresh scar.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Fourteen click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


by Leave a comment

My mind is a landscape

Mountain

I see a vast plain lying prostrate at the feet of mountains, bowing to their majesty. Mountains which look up, extending their noses, straining to reach the praise of heaven. And a sky so blue, yet feathered with winglike clouds.

I have so many stories inside me, just begging to escape, from fingertips to keyboard. Tales of wanting and of contentment. Of bad behaviour and of good. Of kink and of chastity. And of faraway lands that are waiting to be discovered. Just like my landscape.

Now that I’ve got that out of my system…

I’m thinking about starting up another blog to go alongside this one but for more of the naughty type stories, so I can keep this one more family-friendly. And by family I mean MY family in particular. I think my biggest problem is not knowing how to properly separate the categories on this site, so that I could perhaps keep the nice away from the nasty and vise versa, and just keep one single blog.

Anyone have any suggestions? Advice? Sugar? Coz I’m also out of sugar.


by 1 Comment

Great advice for writers

Thanks to Wilson K for sharing this

wilsonkhoo's avatarWilson K.

Dialogue

Some useful tips when writing or rewriting your work:

So, how do I find a balance between dialogue and narrative? After reading Bransford, Fitch, and McCarver, I found three different techniques:

  • From McCarver’s article: Find a particularly long narrative section and see how it might be broken up into more of a scene with dialogue.

  • After reading Fitch’s post: Find a section in the story where the characters have a whole conversation, and then cross out the dialogue that is commonplace. Because, as Fitch says, “A line anybody could say is a line nobody should say.”

  • From Bransford’s post: If the dialogue does carry the story forward but still feels “thin,” look for places to add gestures, facial expressions, and/or any details from the scene that enhance that section. Bransford says, “gesture and action [are] not [used] to simply break up the dialogue for pacing purposes, but to actually make…

View original post 50 more words


by Leave a comment

Twelve Inherent Brother

Two spent bulbs reside darkly beside a third, dimly illuminating the marital bed. Go deep, vapid man. Clouds rage between two souls in thunderous silence. Attend, inconsequential man.

Brother slips on his black cotton pyjamas and glares down at his wife. He measures the years by the Christmases they have spent together. This one sees more lines about her eyes – lines of worry about how she plans to leave him for his younger brother.

“Why don’t you just go fuck him if you think he’s that much more of a man than I am?” brother spits.

She admits nothing, backing up from where she sits. Brother knows he is right.

He sees again as father stalks past mother to upend the kitchen table laden with hours of preparation. He beholds again as his sibling protects the children from the glass on the floor, protects their mother, protects his own wife while he looks on, paralysed.

“Chase him around the country like one of his groupie whores why don’t you?” brother continues as he administers the first pinch to her thigh. He sees the blood red and sickly green that this Christmas has become.

“Say it!” brother seethes. He crawls up her body, forcing her down. “SAY IT!”

“You should never have let him grow up,” his wife whimpers.

Brother rewards her with his love.


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Thirteen click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.


by 4 Comments

Eleven Visionless Mother

Christmas lights sparkle like champagne, ascending to the Angel atop the tree. Glow of family’s warmth pervades the room like a candle. Shine on, blind mother.

Mother places the final platter on the table with a smile and steps back to admire her work. She lifts her elbows as two of her grandchildren, chasing one another, careen past the crystal wine glasses, toppling one to the floor. Cursing her eldest son’s spawn she bends to retrieve the largest of the shards.

“Mother, let me help you,” says man.

Mother looks up at her son, wondering where he achieved his height. If only he would cut his hair.

“Thank you,” mother says.

Man bends to help her.

“When will you get married and have children like your brother?” mother asks him quietly.

Man smiles.  “I’m too busy for that,” he says.

From the kitchen doorway comes a grating whisper.

“Mother, he’s coming,” warns brother.

“Then get your children in order!” mother accuses.

Man stands to face his father.

“Lovely,” says mother, glowing. “Let’s eat.”


To go to the beginning of this series click here

To Twelve click here

Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.