Nine Days, Nine Chapters

I love writing.

I love storytelling.

What I really love is writing that one perfect chapter that makes me feel like the whole world makes sense. Tonight, I wrote that chapter, the ninth in my chapter a day challenge.

Here's the first draft:

“I love the smell of tattoo shops, man!” The guy in the waiting area exclaims while flipping through the poster displays of flash art. He hops from one foot to the other and his excitement grows every time he runs across a piece of art that appeals to him. “I’ve been dying for this man, I’ve been dying for some more ink for weeks.”

The artist behind the counter smiles at his customer’s enthusiasm but says nothing as his gun buzzes away on the calf of a young woman clutching at the arm of the chair. Somewhere, deep within the shop, hyperactive rockabilly music twangs away while the singer tells a story about finding drugs on his farm. “So, Abbott.” The artist finally says. “You figure out what you’re getting today?”

“Not really Dan, I was thinking I’d jump in the saddle and we’d  just jam a little bit, you know?” He flips the poster display once more, not noticing the tattoo artist grit his teeth and shake his head at the girl in his chair.

Dan holds his gun up high to get a good echo so he can whisper to the blond staring up at him, “I hate it when they don’t know what they want before coming in. Just hate it!” He brings the gun back down to skin and shouts over the metallic rattle, “Right on, man. We’ll just cover what we can in four hours.”

“Yes.” Abbott declares before moving up to the counter and flipping open the other artist’s portfolio. “Where’s James today?”

“Oh, you know how it is man. The life a tattoo artist, we can schedule our own days off.”

“Cool. Cool. So, you got another appointment after me, man? Just in case we run long.”

Dan rolls his eyes, thankful his back is to the impatient customer. “Yeah, man. I got a butterfly after this and a faerie on a mushroom after that.” He puts his inking tool down and sprays a paper towel with a soapy solution and wipes the girl’s leg clean. “Alright, Bethany. All done.” Dan pats the skin dry and further treats the fresh meat, finally wrapping it in plastic film. He runs down the list of things she should and should not do to help the healing process and she hands him a handful of cash, which he discreetly pockets.

After the girl eventually leaves the shop and Dan’s had time to sterilize up his work area, he invites Abbott behind the counter and into the seat. “Man. He says as he sits, “I thought she’d never leave.” He wiggles into the seat and smiles, “Still warm.”

Dan does his best to avoid comments or expressions as he lays out a new set of ink cups and a new barrel. “So, where are we gonna start? What are we doing?”

Abbott rips off his shirt and starts tracing old tattoos. He excitedly describes a waterfall with some additions and awkward descriptions. Then rambles on about other things on other parts of his body. While he’s still describing his illustrated desires, Dan dips his gun and presses needles to skin. The band in the back fade out and ramp back up with another prerecorded track. A few minutes into the line work, Abbott relaxes his jaw enough to ask, “Who do ya got on the radio?”

“This?” He thumbs at the back door of his shop with his inking gun, “That’s the Reverend.”

“Reverend?”

“Horton Heat. One of the greatest psychobilly artists alive.” He smiles and runs the needles along the other man’s chest, leaving a trail of dark blue.

“I dig it, man. Not quite the country I’d normally listen to but it’s kinda raw. Sleazy.” He winces at the needles creeping up the skin under his nipple.

The session rolls through the first hour. Small talk is initiated on both sides of the gun and Dan frequently wipes the working area with a damn towel, sometimes to see the overall picture but usually, just to get some clarity on the canvas. The second hour moves a bit slower and within it, Dan switches the CDs in his stereo, provides Abbott with a couple breaks, and answers three phone calls.

By the time the third hour crawls up, a large amount of line work is crafted all across Abbott’s chest and belly in various shades of blue and gray. “God, I love tattoos.” Abbott confesses through clamped teeth while Dan begins to lay ground for the massive amounts of coloring to be done. “I hope you don’t mind but I have a friend bringing me some vodka. You know, to help dull the pain.”

Dan’s head rolls and his exasperation hisses from his mouth, “Come on Abbott. You know I don’t allow that shit in my shop.” Just as he finishes his statement, the metal bell above the front door dings and a sweaty ball of meat lumbers into the shop.

“Abbott!” The mahogany skinned man bellows. “I got yer fix my man, and the booze.”

Abbott nods and waves, as though his thick friend wouldn’t see him otherwise. “Right on dude. Check out this sick shit Dan’s slappin’ on me.”

The media circus begins. “Dan quietly gets back to work, humming through swirling pools and waves. After a moment of bantering from the macho machines, Dan looks up from his work, takes his foot off the pedal, and inquires, “What did he mean by that?”

“What?” Abbott looks at his artist. “Don’t you know nothin’ about trucks?”

“No, not that part.” Dan waits a moment while Abbott takes a swig of the clear depressant. He watches Abbott wipe his chin and clarifies, “He said he’s got your fix…and your booze.”

“Oh that.” Abbott drains more fluid from the bottle. “No worries dude.”

Dan sneaks a glance at the chunk of humanity flipping through his portfolio and gets back to work, wiping ink and blood from the man’s bare chest. The third hour squeezes slowly through the clock and through it, Dan feels pinned to a slab of cork board while these two friends yammer about trucks and having sex with each other’s mother. By the end of the third hour and the first bottle, Abbott’s pain threshold wavers, sending slips of profanity at his artist. The fourth hour rests more heavily on Dan’s frontal lobe as the alcohol has completely diminished Abbott’s sense of civility.

“Alright, man.” Dan stands, setting the gun on his toolbox. “I think we’re done for the day.”

“No we ain’t.” Abbott contests. He looks down at his raw belly and declares, “You don’t have it all colored in. We might as well finish.”

“I’d love to bud.” Dan lies, “But I have another appointment in a few minutes and I need to get ready for that. Besides, I think your skin has taken enough damage for the day.”

Abbott’s friend cracks open another bottle and wraps his molesting lips around it. The bell dings and a young girl walks in, chirping to the artist. “Hi Dan!”

“Hey Patricia, I’ll be right with you, let me just finish up with my buddy Abbott, here.”

The friend hands Abbott a brown paper sack and waddles past the girl and rests against the frame of the shop’s entrance. Abbott slaps his bleeding chest and nods at Dan, “Come on, I’ve been waiting for a long time for this so let’s get it done.”

Dan points at Patricia and apologizes, “Abbott, buddy. I’m sorry dude but my next appointment is here. I gotta get her started.”

Abbott responds to Dan’s statement by raising the bag at the girl. A flash of light and thunder clap shreds the bag, sending Dan into the air and dropping the girl to the ground with a spongy pinkish gray matter spilling out the top of her opened skull. “Looks like your schedule just opened up, Now get to work before you join her.”

The artist freezes, staring at the girl that was going to get her first tattoo today, the incredibly unique girl with a fascination with butterflies. Unique just like every other naïve, young girl that walked into his shop over the years. “Dan.” Abbott barks. “Sit yer ass down and let’s get ‘er done.”

The shop owner complies. He reaches for his gun, quivering in fear and dipping the tip of the barrel into a burnt orange. He taps on the foot pedal and the gun comes to life in his hands but the reverberation startles the artist and he drops the tool into his lap, marking a dot through his jeans and forever into his leg. “Shit. Shit. Sorry.” He scrambles for the inking machine.

“You better steady yer hand, dude. I don’t want no squiggly lines.” Abbott eases back into the barber chair and crosses his legs, careful not to drop the barrel of his pistol from his target. Dan gets back to work, his machine humming away against the human canvas, continuously mingling paint and plasma. The seven stinging needles cross raw skin under the man’s tit, scraping angrily against nerves, causing Abbott to holler and rub his trigger hand against his temple. “Mother fucker!”

Dan shrugs fearfully, “Sorry man, I can stop.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Abbott shoves the pistol’s business end against Dan’s thin head, biting his temple. The artist pulls away from the barrel and raises his free hand. His foot squishes the pedal, kick starting the inking tool. The buzz of the little gun relaxes the intensity of the bigger gun and the bleeding mass of a man eases up on the trigger. “Now, put a bad ass tree right there with a monster or some shit coming out from behind it.” His finger slides through the stream of multicolored fluid along his belly.

“I gotta finish coloring…” The pistol returns, thumping against the ridge of Dan’s temple.

“What you gotta do is put a fucking tree right there!” He illustrates his point by jabbing his stomach with the pistol. “Earl! You got that other bottle dude? I’m bone dry over here!”

The slob at the door speaks through a belch, “No way bud, I just killed it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah dude.”

Abbott mutters a string of swear words before braying at his buddy, “Well, don’t just stand there wasting space, go get some more!”The slimy man across the shop flies some colorful hand gestures and walks out the door, threatening to return while the tattoo artist exchanges barrels on his gun.

Dan slaves on, burning through clear skin, scarring it with multiple hues. Each dragging line brings out some sort of agitation from the man in the seat. Still, Dan continues, climbing up the chest with gnarled branches of black paint. Through the diligence, his living panorama barks out, ‘not so hard’, ‘quit going over the same spot’, and other such garbage. Each time the complaints fall from his drunken face, the death dealing gun waves closer to Dan’s sweating forehead.

Hour five drills into Dan’s head, next to the growing number of pink circles from the tip of Abbott’s gun and as the time wears on his brain, the vibrations from the tattoo machine wear on his knuckles. Abbott has slowed a bit, partially from the rushing effects of the alcohol and partially from the excessive loss of blood. His anger, while still present, rolls from his mouth like water from a leaking hose, “Hey fucker…” He slurs, “When are you gonna wipe the ink with that shit in the bottle?”

Dan pauses a moment, deliberating on his answer. “Well, Abbott. You’ve gotten so much done now that I can’t really wipe with the soap without contaminating your blood stream.” He turns a knob on his gun and taps the pedal. The adjustment gets the set of needles roaring and he presses down on the blurry man.

“Fucking wipe it, dude.”

“I can’t.”

The pistol fires. The kick throws Abbott’s hand and shoves Dan’s leg into spasms. Blood pours from Dan’s leg as naturally as the scream does from his mouth and Abbott lies in the chair, smiling with satisfaction at his own gun work. “Oh Jesus!” Dan drops his tattoo gun and clamps his leg, shoving his thumbs into each side of the hole to stop the flow.

“Better wrap it up and get to work bud, or the next one’s going through your eye.” Abbott watches as his words collide against Dan’s consciousness and the twiggy artist begins shoving wads of paper towel into the perforation in his jeans. When the shop owner gets back to work, Abbott nods his head and grits his teeth at the familiar burn of the needles. A few brushes of the gun and Abbott’s lust drools out of his face, “You ever hit that?” He nods to Patricia.

“What?”

“That chick. You ever nail these bitches that come in to get tramp stamps and shit?”

“What? No!” He spits his disgust.

“I would.” Abbott licks his cracked lips, “Hell, I’d nail that piece right now, missing head and all.”

Dan struggles to focus on his work while fighting a well of nausea and tears. His working hand no longer follows the picture he’s spent hours etching onto Abbott and the needles frequently dip into mushy shreds of flesh, kicking up bits of living tissue. His body of work tries drinking from the empty bottle, then scratches at his temple with the end of the pistol and mumbles something about the pain before his eyes roll back into his head.

Dan drags his needle again and again in one small patch of purple flesh. He gets no response from Abbott and stands to run but his quivering leg gives way underneath him, pushing him back onto his small stool. The lack of lacerations brings Abbott wide eyed into the realm of awareness and he swings the gun onto his target, jerking on the trigger and launching another slug through the tattooist. “Finish!” He yells and lies back, muttering, “Love…tattoos.”

Dan grips the burning hole in his stomach and sputters pink froth. “Fuck.” He wheezes, grabbing his tattoo gun with his empty hand. He leans heavily on the pedal and collapses onto Abbott, his gun vibrating into the man’s neck, drilling open his vodka laced throat. Both men expel a lungful of life and sleep in Technicolor.

Infinite Inkweel Writer's Guild Update

Image via Wikipedia

As this blog has slowly formed from my own desire to write, into a small guild of writers, it seems only logical that multiple people be allowed to create posts on this site.

As of now, this blog site is a forum for all of the writers in the Infinite Inkwell Writer's Guild so that, all of the writers have a platform of their works or thoughts. Each post is property of the individual guild member.

This action should open this blog into a multiverse of fiction and fantasy and can even act as a springboard to other blogs of each writer, just like my own blog about comic books.

Thanks for reading friends and don't just read, dip that pen!

Infinite Inkwell Writer's Guild - Challenge #2

This post is the next challenge for the members of the Infinite Inkwell Writer's Guild.
If you are not a member and would like to become a member, please e-mail me from blogspot and we can discuss entry into the guild.

Alright, fellow pensmiths, here is our second challenge! For this challenge, the main object of your short story must be the color blue. Whether it is the color itself or something that is that color. You are a writer, get creative. The criteria should range from three paragraphs to a single page of writing.

The main object is the color blue!

Post as a comment if you please.
Good luck! I will submit my own story on Friday.

A morning with Joe

On Wednesday, June 3^rd, Walla Walla Community College, with the assistance of Phi Beta Lambda, opened the doors of their theater in the Health And Science building for award winning local author and business entrepreneur, Mr. Joe Cooke, who spoke to an audience of students and Walla Walla residents on the topic of Creative Entrepeneurialsm, ‘The Road Less Traveled’. Here is a sample of what happened on this bright and pleasant morning for those unfortunate few that could not attend.

With an introduction of Mr. Cooke and his impressive accomplishments, including his college education, previous businesses, seats in office, and a mention of his publishing company, Cannon Publishing Group, Joe Cooke takes the stage and instantly captures his audience with a soft, welcome personality. His discussion on entrepreneurial success begins within Mr. Cooke’s own history and travels through his own ups and downs into the present.

Determining the message behind today’s discussion comes quickly as Joe not only talks about what one needs to succeed, but shows it in his speech, and that thing is passion. With an eloquent presence and skilled speech, Mr. Cooke brings the audience through a range of feelings from amused to inspired as his words find their way into each attendee’s ears and shoots to their motivation centers.

After his presentation, Mr. Cooke generously comes into the crowd and connects with many members of the audience, even staying well after the discussion to carry on community rich conversations with a few remaining people from the audience.

Through the day, the college was abuzz with the quality of this presentation and some individuals that attended were suddenly finding their passion again, rethinking their dreams and goals, and asking, “Why aren’t I getting my business started?”

From the grotto!

I have burned an idea through my head for some time now (possibly a year) and, as the planets align or the fates spin (whichever great destiny you may subscribe to), I have determined that NOW is the time!

The foundation of the Infinite Inkwell Writer's Guild has been set and the structure which sits upon said foundation is being developed!
Currently, our membership sits at two individuals. If you live in the Walla Walla area, have a sincere passion for writing, and would like to gain membership, contact me here or on Facebook.

We will gather for regular or semi-regular meetings. The goals of these meetings will range from writing challenges to network enhancement or any other discussion topic which will enhance our writing or publishing agendas.

Glance

Carrie poses awkwardly in front of her standing mirror, questioning her satisfaction of the slightly thick woman peering back at her. She rotates her broad hips and runs a hand down her shapely silhouette, frowning. "Maybe if I cut my hair..." her thought trails to nowhere as she scoops a handful of blond curls and presses them to her scalp. The bangs still frame her dollish face, allowing her pink, pouty lips to give attitude. Her focus is stolen from her flaws as a large void of light momentarily slips across the background.
Instantly, Carrie tastes her heart as the roots of her cherry wood hair lights aflame. Her hazel eyes scour the mirror, trying to glimpse the shade but has no such luck. Fear and desperation wheel her at the speed of panic away from the reflective surface and toward reality in hopes of locating the distraction. Her gaze races from nook to corner, running under the pillowy couch, behind the matching recliner and screaches to a halt at the partially open closet door across the room.
Between her audible breaths, a whisper escapes, "Has that been open all night?" Her finger absently jabs an accusing point at the door that holds back the darkness. No one answers her. Trying to dismiss the blackness of her shut away, Carrie visually investigates the room again without moving, for fear of giving away her location. Nothing.
In an attempt to remain calm, Carrie hopes to convince herself that she is still alone by voicing confidence building remarks such as, "It was nothing..." and, "You're just imagining things." This helps, if only a little, and, sheepishly, she turns back to the mirror, trying to regain focus on the frustration of her appearance. The criticism comes half heartedly as her eyes scout the room on the other side of the glass. Eventually, Carrie's terror subsides and her self esteem takes control again as it decides the black slacks she is wearing should not be where they are. Resigning to the will of her abused ego, Carrie watches her alternate self deprive her sandy hued legs of covering, exposing both her blue pearl panties and her non-matching peach colored stocking socks. She throws her rejected pants to the bed and scoops up a long black skirt, all in one motion.
When she turns back to her mirror, the negative presence is caught for the briefest of seconds in Carrie's view. Again, she tastes her heart. Rust coats her tongue and electric shocks bolt to the center of her body, just below her belly button. Her wide eyes try homing in but the presence is no longer present. Again, she spins about, hoping to catch her watcher but finds herself just as deprived as her legs. "Hello?" She sounds out to try greeting her peeper. Her voice is full of quiver, betraying her projected courage and showing her truth. Fortunately, she thinks, nobody responds. Perhaps that isn't fortune.
No longer thinking of what outfit to wear to work in the morning and the feeling of Carrie feels compulsed to try locating her stalker. Before she moves her feet, her hand snakes down to the vanity next to her and feels for a weapon as her eyes continue to act as lookout. Her shaking fingers weave around the nail polish bottles and lipstick cases and other such feminine products before finding the solidity of her hairbrush. Her digits cling to this as a drowning swimmer would cling to a lifeguard and her feet begin the longest journey to the front door so Carrie can determine whether it is still locked or not, being very wary with each step to avoid furniture and doorways.
Millions of footsteps later and Carrie finds herself at her front door, one hand pressed against the painted wood and her porcelain cheek resting at the frame. Her eyes scrutinize the brass knobs and levers, tracing each mechanical device to its proper locked position. "Still locked." She sighs. A thud sounds from behind her, on the far side of her two bedroom living area, near the restroom and she breaks out in a sweat. "The windows..."
Chaos erupts. She hurdles end tables and damages blinds in an attempt to secure the perimeter at each glassy entry way and at each look out point, she peers out, searching for more optical intruders. The next painful minutes are filled with swinging latches and scraped knees. She races from window to window, causing her partially buttoned peach blouse to flap in the wind her speed creates, forgetting that her legs are bare and she could be exposing the neighbors to her flashy underwear. Midway through her kitchen, Carrie slides to a stop in front a counter and whips open the knife drawer. Care escapes her mind as she rifles through the drawer, creating thin red lines across her hand and knuckles until she finds the most monstrous blade in the small wooden compartment. Leaving the hair brush behind, she continues her pursuit for security. 
After all entry ways have been barred, Carrie begins the hunt for the invader inside her home. Like a tiger in the brush, she stalks slowly and deliberately, plotting each step before taking it. Her golden mane sways as her keen eyes survey the prairie for the hidden gazelle. A bump to her right. She jumps. An open door to her left. She swings her knife wildly as she crosses the threshold. Her void watcher is nowhere to be seen in this room and standing motionless in the room, too afraid to move are a pale washer and an equally white dryer, both waiting for the partially clad woman to strike. In rage, she grabs the front of the dryer and throws open the door, unknowingly knocking her mop into an off kilter balance as she stabs inside the dryer barrel. Carrie then moves over to the washer and begins gutting the sunshine scented metal beast until she is satisfied that there is nothing worth stabbing inside.
Carrie stands, her round hip nudging the dryer and the dryer, in turn, taps the ill stabilized mop, which finally takes a spill and skitters across the ground, bringing along with it a couple brooms, a precariously perched dustpan and two mostly empty bottles of cleaning fluid from the neighboring shelf. The smashing clatter causes quite the start in Carrie and she spins about, knife jutting out and foot sliding through an oily scented substance freshly covered the floor. No longer able to contain her balance, Carrie begins the panic dance as her arms begin flailing in all directions, looking in futility for an anchor. Her hand refuses to release the knife, following strictly to its first orders of survival. She lurches forward, trying to grab the side of the washer but connecting to the corner of the dryer instead and with her jaw rather than her fingers. The blow knocks her equillibrium off. She instinctively attempts to correct but finds herself in a timeless descent to the ground, stopping just inches past the blade of her north pointing kitchen blade. The void comes into the room and covers her vision but her fear is replaced with comfort as the body numbs. Carrie's blood mingles with the bleach and she welcomes the embrace of the shroud as he carries her softly into oblivion.

God's Tears

"Why God?!" My hands thrust toward the sky and dropping on my knees to the muddied earth below me, I cried out louder, "Why have you done this? What have I done to deserve this hell?"
But no answer came. No remarkable sign or wash of feelings, just me, firmly in my place within the same soil from which I was supposedly created. Why then does the ground not bleed as I pour red from my engraved wrists which joins the rain and runs toward the grass like lightning looking for ground.
"I'm done with you! I'm not calling out to you for forgiveness, I've done that too often. I don't want your damn help anymore, I defy you! I deny you! Come on you wicked bastard, strike me down! I'm a sinner! Stop making me suffer and just punish me!"
I thrust my chest out, arms back; offering a target to the clouds and with clenched fists, I scream, "Strike me down! Punish me for my sins! My suicide is my last act of treachery and still you do nothing! I dare you, cast me down to Lucifer's infernal pit for my actions! You are nothing!"
Yet, there was no lightning. No earthquake. He didn't even send a runaway semi truck to plow me down. Nothing struck me but the weeping of God's tears streaking through the skies, striking my face and intermingling with my own pain, though, by this time I could no longer feel their thousands of little assaults.
I stewed in my own emotional Armageddon with silence and stillness as I bled out from the ends of my arms for an eternity. Suddenly, I noticed a sensation that had been with me for a while as my face gained a utopic warmth and a chaotic pulse of pin prickling brought my awareness to my gashed and gaping wrists, though my sight was dimming and I couldn't witness the crimson waterfalls. My ears caught the movement of dozens of invisible bees. It was no sooner than this point that God had finally decided to answer my challenge as his voice cut through the swarm, "I'm here to help you poor child."
By this time, my eyes have gone and my mind was following, so I couldn't glare into God's face. To double my rage, the dirt below me pulled all of my strength from my body so I was too weak to throw my fist but I intentionally radiated my immeasurable hate. Not even this deterred the almighty one from attempting to saving me by offering.....to call for paramedics?
My ears were the last to fail me and I was finally fully cloaked in the warm void.

Disconnected

My shirt pulls to the right. My pants want to wear to the left. One sock is on right but the other seems to have an invisible wad of discomfort invading on my little toe. I am watching my life from a third person view, not really inside my head but maybe just behind and all the sounds are muted, not silenced but suppressed. I have combed my hair a few times but can't stop the lanate rebellion no matter how hard I assault the counter with my brush. My shoelace is a python, constricting against the top of my foot and I can't sit comfortably in my clothes. All fabrics want to be anywhere but with me and I can't blame them, I am feeling the same way. The wad in my sock is backing my toe into a corner I didn't know my shoe even had. I'm not ready to start the day, I want to return to my awkward but reliable slumber. My keys seem to be hiding, my coat conflicts with my shirt, everything is just out of reach.
Now I have to go out, immerse myself in the swamp of humanity. Walking in crowds, suffocating, and the tar of interaction nearly brings me to a stop. Why am I being overwhelmed by this negativity? I analyze my life, my relationships, my self, my work, my habits, my dog, my analyzations. In each environment, I know there is good but I can't see past the small things. People are talking at me but I don't hear what they say. Focus is a lie. I'm sure these people tire of repeating themselves but I can't quite hold my thoughts on their blabbering. Nothing they say is important. I think my heart is beating a skip too late, maybe too early. Nothing really fits.
I think there is cotton under my upper eyelids and I feel as though I am deep under water. I move as though hindered and the constant pressure from all directions makes me want to implode. What does an imploder look like? I swim through my day, my feet constantly entangling in the gritty, oily seaweed. How long have I been under and why can't I keep my head above water? This lethargy is trying to kill me and that pisses me off. Everything pisses me off and THAT pisses me off. If I was actually in my own life, I might do something about it but I'm just watching me on TV and so I wait and hope that all these problems resolve themselves by the end of the hour.
I keep everyone at arm's distance. I am afraid to infect you, to poison you with my irrational negativity. Colors are askewed and distance is debatable. I know you, maybe care for you...if you are close in my life, then I love you but no matter who you are, I can't stand you. Your annoying little habits, your patterns that don't sit within my logic. You aren't funny. You aren't clever. You aren't witty. You aren't cute. I know that's a lie and when I can finally stay afloat, I will see your energy in a different light but right now, while I'm so detached; you bother me. You piss me off. Am I just projecting? Do I see my own flaws in your actions? These feelings are all subjective and when my mind becomes mine again, the subject won't change but the view will.
The buzzing doesn't end and I ask if it ever will? I look at life again and analyze it. I see great things here that should cause my joy. I see my success and the rewards of my efforts. Today, they don't feel much like my rewards or my efforts. I am out of place. I am one step behind my body, following the automaton that pretends to live through my life. I can't catch up but I can't stop following. Where is he going? Where am I going? I guess I will find out when I get there. Perhaps, when I am there, I might fit again. I might be alive again and not just watching. I might be me.

About Me

Welcome to my blog. This is where I plan on releasing my creative insanity from time to time. I love to write and can't always control what comes out of my pen so the shorts and random ones will come here for your reading enjoyment or displeasure.

I don't plan to bore you with a lot of self elevating BS that I think makes me some superb writer, instead; I will share with you one of the most vital turning points in my life.Read on------

I am very introverted and blunt. I learned most of my moral lessons in one big flash.

It was the summertime of my thirteenth year. I was a metal head troublemaker heading down the rocky path of hostile stupidity and self destruction. I lived to hate and could not care less as to why.

The evening was creeping across the horizon as my friend and I finally reached his house from a long day of trampling the town. I took control of the phone immediately, calling other friends to fill their ears with inane banality.

Without getting too involved, he ended up pointing a 44 magnum revolver at me (not maliciously - if you can understand that). The trigger was pulled and I was eating lead and gunpowder in my sleep. I awoke from my bullet induced nap being dragged backward, down a flight of stairs. My vision was red and obscured as in a dream. I was lucid at best and knew that I was falling down the stairs to Hell. My friend (and would-be assassin) found that I was very much alive and called 911 for help. The next couple hours flew by as I discovered many truths about life.

Paramedics are pushy, ambulance rides are exciting, don't flip off a friend to reassure him you are fine, you WILL get naked in front of women in the emergency room, and going into shock is better than any drug around!

I woke up a week later in a Seattle hospital bed, still not sure whether I dreamt the situation or lived it. I saw a lot of family and got to share my hospital room (after the Intensive Care Unit stay) with the most fowl mouthed torture victim I have ever met (he fell asleep in a fire and had to have his foot pinned to his knee for three months). I finally understood what happened! I got shot in the head! The only thing I could think of was the image of the teen that shot himself in the head with a shotgun (the parents blamed his failed suicide on the metal band Judas Priest)...shit I was ugly! My face was swollen three or four times its original size. I had new frankensteinesque slices on my face and neck, I was a freak...a monster!

I couldn't stop the wash of self loathing and pity that suddenly was drowning me! Worse, I didn't want to stop it. I was the most hideous thing alive! My only future was a sideshow freak in a carnival. Why didn't I just die? The pity that filled my hospital room suddenly became my sustenance and I was gluttonous! I gorged myself on the sympathy and negativity, not leaving a scrap in my wake. The tubes. Blood tests. Monitors and wires. I was a prisoner, bound to my bed and enduring the most humiliating thing a teenager could endure...bedpans. I was crushed. I had a beautiful nurse tending to me and all I could do to satisfy her was urinate to a specified line within a bottle.

My strength was gone, physically and emotionally. The staff was realizing that I was slipping into the void and devotedly tried to pull me out (except the fat nurse cow, Diane...you know who you are bitch) of my hole. To no avail. I would not leave my room and hid my face from even my mother. In their last ditch effort to pull me from my blackness, I was forced physically to get out of bed and into the recreational room for an evening with pottery.

This was the catalyst, more unsettling than the actual near death incident.

I hesitantly entered this room, apprehensive and full of hate. I sat at the table nearest the door in case the other patients began their barrage of laughter and finger pointing. What I was unaware of immediately was that I was sitting next to a living, breathing, mummified midget. My mother asked this child's mom (who was sporting an arm cast) what happened.

This woman was on vacation with her husband and two children. They rented a boat and were going to set out to see the coasts. Before they shoved off, the boat literally exploded...with her husband and two children still aboard. She was not nearly on board and was (as she put it) 'thankfully' slammed free. Her husband and daughter were taken from her. Her two year old son was now this walking band-aid.

I took the time to watch this boy draw pictures and try pounding clay with blistered stubs. He was happy. In fact, he was having the time of his life!

What fucking right did I have? I was not nearly as damaged or cosmetically challenged as boy Tut. I had a very good chance at living an almost normal life.

I gained new resolve right there. I again had an ego, even if it was little. My six month recovery time turned into twelve days. I fought. I had developed a strong will! This was tested almost immediately. Feeling good about your disfigurement is an easy accomplishment in a hospital full of freaks, but is an entirely different measure of failure in the Seattle airport FULL of eyes! I could have been a witch in Salem and felt less burning! Not one head was unturned as the amazing balloon head boy was wheeled along in my cripple chariot (my muscles had long since fell into entropy and I couldn't walk great distances). Every man, woman, and child reminded me why freaks shouldn't be let out in public and that society automatically condemns that which they do not understand. The thing that kept me going was boy Tut and his mother. She made the best of possibly the worst situation a person can encounter and she propelled her son into recovery with a positive, no-pity attitude.

I came out on top with many new outlooks and beliefs, some of which follow. I know now that with enough willpower and personal energy, ANYTHING can be accomplished. Desires drive you to unseen places. Nurses are VERY tolerant. Life is too important to screw off with non-directional hate (if you are going to hate, know what it is and direct your emotions). You are what makes you strong. Stupid people are best found in large groups as herd mentality possesses the mind of the individual.

Most importantly, pity has no place in man's world. Without pity, you have a strength to rival any one's. I will not ask for, or give pity. It is only a setback to the evolution of you. To live a vital existence, discard this parasitic feeling when it attacks you. The only way to truly find sympathy is to look in the dictionary between SHIT and SYPHILIS!

Be strong, survive, evolve!