Amid the Lousy Smarch Weather

A lot has been going on that I will touch on in another blog, but for now here is my newest promptly contribution.

Write a story featuring an author, the ocean, and an antique weapon.

“This is poetic, isn’t it?” I thought to myself. The white peaks of the waves crashed with a quiet power. There wasn’t a seagull to be found, the wind and water filled my ears. I had placed myself on one of the outrageously large boulders that lined the shore. It was cold and hard, but somehow comfortable. A spider crawled across my moccasin, clearly in a hurry. I let him live.

In my satchel, which usually contained my laptop and notepads, was an antique crossbow. I bought it at a Renaissance fair a week before. I guess I was searching for an elegant way to die. Of all the muskets, samurai swords, and Native American daggers, the crossbow seemed to be the best way to go. Everything else was just laughable. The refinement of the crossbow was clear. It had the curves of a woman, the size and sexiness of a James Bond pistol, and the rust of something that had seen some action. I couldn’t think of a better way to die, so I forked over the two hundred dollars to the portly proprietor.

To hold a lethal weapon in your hand is a powerful feeling. You can either save a life, or destroy one. In my case, I was out to destroy one. It was almost like a game of Clue. I found the weapon. Next was the location. The beach was an obvious choice. There is nothing poetic about shooting a crossbow in a small and confined condo with posters of Batman and David Bowie on the walls. I’m not really sure why the ocean popped into my head so quick, but once it was in there it wouldn’t leave. I could see it all. It would take place at dusk, the setting sun sitting on the horizon. Not a soul in sight. Totally poetic.

I took another long look around. This was perfect. With a deep breath I raised the crossbow to my chest. It was a little more awkward than I anticipated. The length made it impossible to hold it like a gun. I held it with both hands, as though I were choking it. Not what I was expecting, but it somehow looked more tasteful to hold out the crossbow like an offering to God. This was it. I cocked the bow. It creaked like a ship on its final voyage. The click was loud and startling. I held my breath as I pulled the trigger. I exhaled.

There was no arrow. I just needed to see what it would be like. I’m a writer, about to start my third novel. Since I saw Stranger Than Fiction I’ve had an inexplicable need to experience the largest moments of my characters. I also need to know the ending before I begin. It really helps me get in their heads. In this case, it also gets the blood flowing. Who would have thought a crossbow suicide by the ocean would be such a great way to die? I sure didn’t, until I tried it.

WACKY WAVING INFLATABLE FLAILING ARM TUBE MAN

Prompt:For Lent, someone you live with is partaking in the tradition of giving something up for 40 days and 40 nights—and it's one of the most bizarre things you've ever heard of anyone giving up.

On Fat Tuesday, some friends and I went out for drinks. We were all raised Catholic and discussed what we weren’t giving up for Lent. Collectively, we agreed to go out of our way to eat meat on Fridays. My roommate, Tommy, was eerily quiet.

“Tommy, what’s going on? You’re quiet as balls,” I asked.

He sipped his Guinness and wiped the distinctive cream foam from his moustache.

“Well Joe…”He took another sip. “The Lord has put it upon me to take a journey this Lenten season.”

We put down our beers and looked at each other. Tommy never said anything positive about religion in the 15 years we’d known each other, let alone giving in to the practices of the church.

“For the next forty days and nights,” he continued, “I will sacrifice one of the essential elements of my life for the betterment of my eternal soul.”

“And what element is that, Tommy?”

“Walking.”

We burst out laughing and continued with our celebration, figuring Tommy got us good. He returned to his beer and didn’t speak for the rest of the night.

The next day, I woke up to the previous evening being a happy blur. The details of what happened weren’t as important as the good time I must have had. My headache was evidence of that. I opened my door to discover Tommy on the floor…reading a Bible.

“Good morning, Joseph.” He turned to greet me, ashes on his forehead. The discussion about Lent started to return to me.

“Hey…Tommy. I’m going to McDonalds for some grease. You want to join me?” He carefully closed the Bible as though it were the Dead Sea Scrolls.

“Yes, Joseph. I believe I will. But I will have to catch up to you, I have some praying to do.”

I nodded and headed out the door. Tommy was freaking me out. I kept piecing together the elements from the night before. I knew Tommy mentioned giving up something for Lent, but my memory skipped straight to laughing at whatever it was. Then I heard some very loud stomping coming from behind me, fast. I turned. Tommy was running towards me with a goofy smile on his face. His arms were flailing and his legs bounced around. He was like those Wacky Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Men that are displayed in front of car dealerships. Tommy quickly caught up to me and began running circles around me.

“Tommy, what the hell are you doing?”

“I gave up walking for Lent, Joseph!” He was breathing heavily, but was still smiling. I just shook my head and continued.

Tommy stuck with it. He ran everywhere. We would be on one end of the bar and he would dash over to the bathrooms. I learned quickly to bring him his drinks. He ended up losing twenty pounds. After Easter, he went back to normal, not mentioning Lent ever again. I’m still not sure what it was really all about.

About Damn Time

Finally Promptly has given me a good prompt. Many of the recent ones have revolved around the premise of one liners: what would late literary greats tweet today? These are problematic for me seeing as I am not particularly well-read when it comes to classic authors. I suppose I could have done something biblical, but it's a little late for that. Anyways, I finally got a prompt I can use. Most of it is a true story, however it happened at a Christmas instead of my birthday.

In regards to other creative output, I've been composing a little different stuff lately. I'm trying to get a new album out there, but also keeping material in mind for my next project with DeNu. I'm kind of waiting on him right now, but that's fine. It gives me some time to feel out this "new direction," which isn't really new at all, just embellishing on some older techniques.

I've also been realizing where a lot of my influences are lately. Music that I haven't really forgotten about, but am starting to hear my own music in theirs. My dad seems to hear a heavy influence from Chip Davis (the Mannheim Steamroller guy) in some recent works. I'm not sure I hear it, but he always hears things much differently than I. Oh, that reminds me. Two weeks ago a complete stranger e-mailed me asking to use one of my songs for a short film he was creating. I gave him permission and he seemed very grateful. The video better not suck. But the point is that it was very cool to have someone from Canada be interesting in my music. Just a cool feeling.

Anyways, here's the prompt: It was a birthday present he’d never speak of again.

No More Alexander Hamiltons

-Nathan Honoré-

There are many ways to fake knowing someone when it comes to birthday presents. The digital age is making it even easier with online gift cards through Amazon and iTunes. Gift certificates were becoming more and more prevalent as I became a reclusive teenager. We didn’t see my extended family much so it was a given that we didn’t know a lot about each other. Gift certificates were aplenty.

However, my Grandpa decided to buy me something on my seventeenth birthday, straying from the usual cash that looked like it had been through every war of the twentieth century. Alexander Hamilton was very worn by the time he got to my wallet. Grandpa’s gift was one of the last of the party. Everyone was in a good mood and laughing. Now, gag gifts were not uncommon on that side of the family. My uncle would present my dad with a twenty-four pack of toilet paper before giving him the newest version of Uncle Jon’s Bathroom Reader. Another common gift was movie passes, prefaced by a singular piece of candy in a gigantic box.

Grandpa handed me his gift. More than the usual card, I braced myself for a gag. Anticipatory giggling filled the room. I ripped open the small rectangular present. An instructional fishing DVD greeted my eyes. I immediately burst out laughing. My brothers and parents all joined in. What an amazing gag! We were almost to tears by the time I looked over to Grandpa. He sat very still in his chair, hands folded, straight faced. He didn’t get it. This was no gag gift. I tried to back pedal and look at it seriously saying things like, “Yeah, this will be useful.” But it was too late. Grandpa was pissed and hurt. And soon after the party, so was I.

Fishing had once been a big part of my limited relationship with Grandpa…when I was ten. I hadn’t touched a fishing pole in at least 5 years, much less watched instructional fishing videos. Since I entered high school, I was all about music. It was my life. Every day I’d go home and play guitar, bass, drums, and tuba (I know, tuba.) I even played at church to gain more experience. Fishing was dead to me, a relic of my childhood. Then I realized something: my Grandpa had no idea who I was. I became angry and spiteful. At least my other relatives went to the trouble to ask what stores I wanted gift certificates for. Grandpa was still convinced I was a prepubescent turd who loved fishing. A little late, old man.

Anyways, I was eventually forced to call my Grandpa and apologize for laughing but pointed out why. He didn’t take it so well. I think this was when he started being a crotchety old man, a good indicator of what was to come. We don’t talk much anymore, but that present will never be mentioned again.

Flex those Muscles, Brain!

Wow-what an incredibly productive weekend. It felt amazing to give my brain muscles a chance to flex. Yesterday, I composed two songettes for the project with Mr. DeNu and continued to read an entire novel. Today I fixed one of the songettes (will explain briefly) and did another one for a new genre/theme.

We've been focusing on a "church" theme for our project which, if I haven't explained before, is basically partnering music with photography. The music represents the image and vice versa. They are incomplete without the other. So I've been banging out these miniature songs (songettes) for a few weeks and thought I had run out of ideas. There was almost two weeks where I had absolutely nothing. But this weekend completely tossed that out the window and I was back in business. In fact, the ones I made this weekend make all but one of the others look like complete shit. I think I've found the three that I would like for our trilogy and have seen one of the partnered images and it's going to be very cool.

Not sure how to present it yet-possibly putting them all together into one iMovie? It's hard to find a way to represent both as equals. Any thoughts?

Anyways, I recorded one of the songettes with this moog-like synthesizer but the tuning started going funky about mid way through. I believe it was slowly detuning the entire time and by the time I recorded the melody it sounded like a pig eating a pigeon. So I went back and recorded the entire songette with different and more instruments. Turned out much better.

So I read a Nick Hornby book yesterday and one last weekend. He is amazing at keeping my attention, which isn't always easy in literature. There's a reason I started and finished a book yesterday. His plot lines don't go where you think but are still very realistic. I'm learning a lot about dialogue in his books. The language is nice and casual and so is the dialogue. It's interesting how he keeps it moving though. I find that mine gets stale if it's too casual.

The only downside to this weekend is no actual writing. But reading is like homework. I'm learning a lot from these books lately and the articles I've been checking out in Writer's Digest are also helpful. Work has been very draining, along with the extra stress that this Budget Repair Bill is putting on me and Kristen, it's no wonder I haven't had the energy to do anything during the week.

All in all, a good weekend. Now time to go back to the job where my creativity is stifled.

No Funyuns Tonight!

The call came in at the newspaper reporter's desk late on a Sunday. Finally, he wanted to meet.

No Funyuns Tonight

The Governor’s new changes had just gone through. He had refused interviews for weeks. But now, late on Sunday night, he called the Reporter’s desk. He was finally ready to meet. The Reporter arranged a meeting at his own home in an hour. The Reporter was as angry as anyone else. The Governor’s ideas seemed to come straight from the Totalitarian and Fascist handbook. The National Guard was brought in. It was as though he started reading the history books but didn’t finish them. The Reporter’s wife was one of the workers who took the brunt of the hit. She had followed every inch of the campaign, sent letters and e-mails, and made others aware. But in the end she lost half of her budget, among other things. The Reporter tried to prepare, but his anger shrouded his usual impartial attitude towards stories. His words were failing him.

When the Governor arrived at the Reporter’s house, he wore an expensive suit and a beaming smile. The Reporter had two chairs set-up in the living room with a coffee table between them. The lights were low, creating a dark shadow upon the Governor’s face. The Governor was in high spirits.

“I’ll have a Johnny Walker, if you have it,” he said. “Do you have any Funyuns? I love Funyuns.”

“Sorry, no Funyuns. And I only have Dewar’s.”

The Governor sighed, “I guess that will do. Give me an extra olive or two.” He took a seat in the bigger chair and waited for his drink. The Reporter came in with the drink and his recording device.

“Ooh. No recordings please,” the Governor said, losing his smile. The Reporter nodded. He opened his mouth to start his first question, but the Governor raised his hand to stop him. He was chewing one of the olives in the fashion of a cow.

“No, no, no. You see, you’re going to print what I tell you.” He swallowed the olive. “I know who your wife is. I know that you, along with the rest of this state, are not happy with me. But that’s not what matters. “

“Oh?”

“What matters is that you’re going to start changing their minds.” He paused for a sip of his scotch. “The National Guard can only be on alert for so long, you know.” The smile returned.

Before he could respond, the Reporter’s wife emerged from the back room. They both turned. She walked slowly towards the Governor. He stood up, dug his fingers in his drink and popped another olive in his mouth, smiling. She stood for a moment, then slapped him. The Governor fell backwards, over the chair. He started choking on the olive. With one hand, he grasped his own neck. With the other, he reached out to them. The Reporter ran to him and attempted the Heimlich, but he had stopped breathing. The Reporter’s wife calmly called 911, and grabbed the Governor’s drink.

“Good scotch,” she said as they waited.

Give Me Some Ouija, Soul Brotha

Hey Hey. Started and finished the other Nick Hornby novel last weekend. High Fidelity was freaking awesome. I haven't been that drawn in by an author since I went through the entire Jonathan Ames catalog this summer. These are the books I wish I would have known about in high school. My life would be profoundly different, I'm sure. For those of you who didn't know me in high school, I was a bit of a jackass when it came to English. All the books I was forced to read for the first two years completely turned me off to reading or writing for that matter. The material was stuffy, outdated, and terribly taught. After two years I stopped reading the material all together, relying on classmates, skimming, and cliffnotes. Needless to say it worked. In retrospect, this was a terrible decision as I missed reading countless classics that I'm going back to read now, however my appreciation is much greater now that before. It was a lesson I had to learn. I had to find the good books on my own. This is great because I obviously love reading and writing now, but terrible because I pseudo-wasted my time in college. However, my musical education is not useless, but provides me zero income. And I wouldn't trade my radio experiences for the world. Anyways, Hornby is pretty awesome and I can't wait to get my hands on more of his books.

Here is my newest crack at a promptly. I had the first sentence easily and struggled with the rest. Not really that happy with it, but I'm glad I finished it and such.

Write a story featuring a Ouija board, a search engine, and a self-help book.

Joey had been on an overnight drunk for the last seven years. Accompanied by a soundtrack of David Bowie and the Pixies, he drank his way to the bottom. Rehab did not come easy, but when Joey emerged, he found something else to focus on: Ouija. A self-help book he got in rehab recommended filling the void his drinking once occupied. Ouija seemed reasonable enough.

Every time Joey felt unsure about anything, he would go home to his shared apartment. He locked himself in his room, lit some candles and brought out the Ouija board. Most of the time it would tell him soothing phrases like “job well done”, “keep it up”, or “stay strong.” Joey loved guiding the heart shaped triangle and receiving the encouragement he needed. The spirits loved him, he decided. So he would spend most mornings, post-work afternoons, and evenings with the Ouija board.

One afternoon Joey walked home and Google-ed himself. A co-worker recommended it. She said it was great fun. Joey loved great fun. He searched through three pages of results and nothing came up that was about him, Joseph Patrick Henderson. All that came up were Facebook and twitter accounts of other Joseph Patrick Hendersons. Joey started to sweat and his mouth was dry. “Do I not exist?” he thought. He quickly zoomed through another twenty pages of search results and received nothing. He ran to his room and looked under his bed. The Ouija board was not there. Joey panicked. He needed its guidance.

When his roommate, Shawn, came home that night, he found the apartment in complete shambles. Furniture was turned over, lamps destroyed, and a hole in the TV. Shawn rushed to Joey’s room and found him hiding in his closet, clutching two empty six packs of Labatt Blue, the plastic still holding them together. Joey was soaked in the beer. Wide-eyed and shaking, Joey looked up at Shawn. He saw his precious Ouija board under Shawn’s arm. He lunged out of the closet at the board, knocking Shawn over. Shawn dropped it and ran out of the apartment, screaming obscenities. Joey opened the board and searched for guidance. His fingers guided and guided, but no words were forming. He continued.

When Shawn returned, he was accompanied by three large men in white clothes and a stretcher. Joey was still sitting on the floor with the Ouija board. Joey looked up and said, “It won’t speak to me…will you speak to me?” The men in white said nothing as two of them grabbed him underneath his armpits, picked him up and placed him on the stretcher. They pulled the straps tight across his chest. He didn’t put up a fight. Joseph Patrick Henderson merely sang a song he had heard from a Dr. Demento collection years before: “They’re coming to take me away, ha ha, they’re coming to take me away, ho ho he he ha ha, to the happy farm, where life is beautiful all the time.”

Stella gets her groove back...AGAIN

My creative side has been quite unleashed lately. It's nice to get back into a routine that allows for that. Not only have I been writing consistently, I've been reading A LOT. I always read during my lunch at work and really how it's going. I read a short story from Ernest Hemingway, then continue on The Know-It-All, a book about a guy reading the entire encyclopedia Britannica. And at home I just finished a book by Nick Hornby (creepily pictured right) called Songbook. I thoroughly enjoyed his style and his take on pop music. I have another book of his that I'll probably start today, but it was a very quick read.

In regards to my Cranston-ing, I've decided to hold off on another album and to focus on the cross country collaboration. We've kind of chosen a theme that I've been composing to, a sort of church theme. More spiritual I suppose, but also inspired by the architecture and beauty of old cathedrals and such. I've come up with 5 or 6 songettes and am really getting into it.

So, it is really nice to find a balance between reading, writing, and composing. I've labored under the assumption that I had to choose between my writing and music for the last two years or so, but words from a few people have really helped me realize how stupid that is. It's like Bruce Wayne and Batman. I can't choose to be either of them. They are one and the same.

So here is yesterday's promptly. I tried to put a much bigger idea into 500 words and will probably expand on this one, but try and fill in the gaps. That may help.

She'd passed him the note years ago, when he was studying abroad. He'd never had it translated. Until now.

Raymond had loved and lost several times since his return home. He tried to forget her. But with each new lover came great disappointment. They were not what he desired. Occasionally he would find one or two aspects that sent him to a state of pure bliss. Of course those things would soon be drowned out by their true personalities. They weren’t bad. They just weren’t her.

Etheline. She was what he dreamed of. She was what he left behind. Ray was enchanted by her eyes, crippled by her voice, delighted by her skin, incapacitated by her lips. They had four weeks together. She was a native of Florence, Italy. Etheline had traveled the world, but was in love with her home. She made a living giving tours to people studying abroad and selling flowers on the street. Ethaline loved both of those things and knew that she could never leave.

Raymond had been in one of her tour groups and immediately fell for her. He asked many questions on the tour, most of which a five-year-old knew. But it was a chance to talk to her. He found her selling her flowers outside a bakery the next day. Raymond asked her to create a bouquet fit for a queen. He bought it and handed it to her with a juvenile smile on his face. Her eyes widened and said, “But I am no queen.”

They saw each other every day, taking walks and doing all the things a couple that has been together for twenty years do. To Ray it was perfection. Her hand would crawl inside of his in a way that tickled but was incredibly intimate. There was nothing he didn’t love.

On his last day in Florence, Raymond proposed to Ethaline. He asked her to come back to America with him. They would live a charmed life, he claimed. Ethaline looked at him and stroked his face with the back of her hand. A tear escaped from her eye. She turned for a moment, scribbling something on a scrap of paper. She placed the paper in his hand, kissed him softly, and turned. She knew he would be disappointed and heartbroken, but it was all a dream to him. She knew they would not be able to continue living their life in America. She would be grounded there. This was where she belonged. He did not.

Raymond went to the airport full of rage. The note was in Italian. She knew he couldn’t read it. He had planned it all out. He had planned that moment the day they met. This was not how it was supposed to be. He returned to America.

Years later, after Raymond’s failed attempts at finding a suitable replacement, he had the note translated. It was one sentence, clear and concise: “I was born to fly.”

He crushed the old paper in his hand. Raymond went out into the night, searching for another Ethaline, one that wouldn’t need to fly.