Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Rejection Letter

Dear *******,

Thank you for your interest in *********. Unfortunately, your work doesn’t quite meet our needs at this time.  Due to the high volume of submissions, we can only publish a small amount of what we receive.  We wish you the best of luck in your future writing endeavors.  
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Monday, May 12, 2008

Six Word Stories

So I read a Wired article about six word stories, the most famous of which was by Hemingway (For sale: baby shoes, never worn). There are dozens more by authors such as Alan Moore, Joss Whedon, Kevin Smith, Stan Lee, Frank Miller, etc.

Of course I'm no Hemingway but I decided to try my hand at some six word stories. It's much harder than it sounds, but it's also kind of addictive. Here is a few I came up with:

He plucks the strings. I sigh.

Futility: I repeat myself; nothing changes.

One thousand breaths, slowly pain subsides.

No calls. No messages. You're gone.

Four hundred beached whales at dawn.

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Friday, January 25, 2008

The Best Days of my Life

I can’t remember what city we were in, but we traipsed through the cobbled street at three in the morning still high off the adrenaline from the rock show that ended two hours earlier. We stepped over puddles of god-knows-what while Lucas gushed about his favorite band eating just two tables away from us at the diner. We walked arm in arm, hardly able to contain our impatience for the next show, the one we would have to drive six hours in the dead of night to get to. Will and Carrence wanted to hit a bar before we got on the road promising to keep us awake as we barreled down the interstate at ninety miles an hour. Predictably they fell asleep ten miles outside the city limits, so we pulled over at rest stops and cut lines of coke on the backs of CD cases to keep us awake. We managed to catch some sleep on the concrete outside of the venue while the police watched over us, a sea of still bodies wrapped in black fishnet and sleeping bags. The next morning, someone told us that the drug dog went crazy; barking its head off, but the cop just told it to shut up because he was chatting up some underage goth chick and didn’t want to be bothered. We exchanged glances that said “Thank god he didn’t find that eight ball in our luggage.” The show was everything we wanted, loud sweaty and violent. We clung to the metal railing that was the only thing between us and our rock gods, not letting go even when the men with shaved heads and leather jackets punched at us and pulled at us hoping to pry us off so that they could have our spots. We would withstand any abuse to show our devotion to the rebels without causes that waved their flags and made our nostrils flare with the promise of sex and glory. Afterwards, we hobbled out of the venue, covered in sweat and bruises. We all piled into the car, convincing ourselves that we could hit one more show, one more city, that we could miss one more day of school, of work. We never wanted that trip to end.

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Thursday, January 24, 2008

That Night

My bed is so ripe with dreaming now remembering that night when I saw you looking at me saw your eyes from the corner of my eyes and you were looking at me blankly not smiling not inviting just being and letting me be too while the room danced around us and suddenly you were my radar I wanted to get closer to you wanted to shop for cutlery with you wanted to wrap my arms around your waist and feel your black leather jacket creak under my skin wanted to feel your hair brush my cheek wanted to sit in the corner with you and drink wine from the same bottle letting our fingers intertwine the cool redness sliding down the back of our throats while you looked at me not speaking just being and letting me be too.