A Tired Monkey

The wingbat stared at the sky and pondered what might be in another era. Thousands of years had passed and the gubers lived strong. These beasts, with horns that reached hundreds of feet high and trunks like the elephants that you had nightmares of as a child, destroyed the homes of the wingbats, who flitted of to Mars to live the rest of their sols.

The gubers ruled the Earth for millions, if not many millions of years. Decades? Centuries? Millenniums? They were nothing to the gubers, who wanted only production and evolution, management and organization, peace and brutal warfare.

The moon was home to an old species…you guessed it, humans. They were tall and thin and light from Luna’s light tug, but had little food to subsist on. More water evaporated into space than could be replenished. The humans were to die, and the gubars only waited.

A new type of wingbat was born one day, on Christmas Eve in the year 86,723,148 A.D. He flitted about and felt the wind of Mars and was ever happy and proud. All the other wingbats were in awe of his speed, his dexterity, and his abilities in the game of poker.

One day, an old wingbat approached Maximus and said, “My crapson, you are the fucking chosen one that our goddamn, dumbass people have spoken of for like three years. You know your shit and that’s why we’re fucking sending you to the worst kind of shit your ass has ever witnessed.”

“Just tell me what to fucking do,” Maximus said to the old wingbat.

“Go kill the shit. On the thing.”

“What the hell? You speak of Crappy the Crap, the crappiest crap who ever crapped?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“I’ll fucking go to Earth and fuck some shit up.”

Maximus, the crapperson of Plentimus, flew off to Earth to face Crappy the Crap in battle. When the young wingbat arrived there, however, he witnessed something that disgusted him: All of the gubers were ugly, lazy, and malcontent. It would be an easy battle, but there would be no honor in it.

“You there,” Crappy the Crap said, the biggest guber said. “You are Maximus? I hear you play a good poker game. How about we play a round and whoever wins shall inherit the Earth?”

“I can fucking deal,” Maximus said. Winning in poker against one of the greatest gamblers in the universe would certainly be a greater honor than slaughtering the pathetic creatures.

THe first hand was the wingbat’s, but the guber came back around in the second. The battle tipped up and down for each combatant and there was the ever flowing sound of chips being transferred back and forth as each other one gained the upperhand. Finally, Maximus landed the best hand imaginable.

“No,” Crappy muttered. Hands of sludge covered his eyes as tears poured forth like Niagara Falls expels water during spring. “It can’t be!”

“Oh, but it can, bitch,” Maximus said, the wingbat’s eyes gleaming with the shining light of righteous victory. “It can, bitch.”

“Five kings! Five of a kind! Why, this hasn’t happened since Bleepy destroyed Gappy in the Great Poker Tournament of 24,565,019 A.D.!”

“Give us our home back.”

And so the wingbats returned to Earth from their temporary shelter on Mars. The humans left the moon at the urging of the wingbats and returned to Earth, where they crossbred to become something like angels.

The gubers, on the other hand, were left with a Mars that was already rusting over. The radiation set in after three hours.

1st person, present

If people insist on writing in the first person, present tense, then how about they write steam-of-consciousness works? This crap where it’s the MC just observing what’s happening and reporting to the reader feels more impersonal and broken than writing in the third person.

“I walk down a hall. I see a dragon. Then I run away from the dragon.”

This is boring. I mean, I’m falling asleep here! Let’s jazz that up:

“The hallway is too dark, but there’s a little bright light that I see and I’m not sure if it’s just my eyes tricking me when I find a beast. Its jaws are going to destroy me, shit! Run, run, run, damnit, run!”

Anyone who wants to write in this style should be required to read James Joyce’s Ulysses.

Does your mind ever take a break? Are there times when you find that others have been talking, but you have not been listening? Of course! It happens all the time! So if you’re going to write in this style, don’t have the MC be a damned omnipotent god. In third person, it’s okay to reveal everything.

Just make it real. Put me in the person’s head. Their thoughts should be their actions.

The Martian does a pretty good job of it.

Open Letter to a Yeti

Listen. I saw a yeti yesterday. It was big and hairy and it stood there in the street (many people were in the street, for this was a festival) as though attempting, albeit failing, to be an obstacle. I felt then, so long ago, and again today, so far in the future, that the yeti was there to remind me of something. It wanted to be noticed, but not despised. Perhaps it was self hate.

A dangerous man with a knife threatened the yeti. The man with the knife stood in front of it for a few moments, perhaps now considering that there were children about, unaccustomed to gore and most likely to be traumatized by it. Sure enough, the man’s young son approached him and pulled at his shirt. The man looked at the yeti, his son, and the yeti before finally tilting his head down and leaving.

This interaction was beautiful. It reminded me of those aspects of human nature that many like to deny the existence thereof. A man can change, although he may presently be violent, despicable, and rapacious. A man can surely change.

The yeti followed me home yesterday. I cannot be certain why it followed me home, why it picked me over the thousands of fellow festival-goers. It walked inside and sat in my breakfast chair. I gave it some cereal.

It stares at me now, resting on my couch and flipping through the channels on the television (not having cable narrowed that slim selection). It stares through me. In me.

Somebody…listen…let the yeti out.

Procrasta-astanation…

The rolling waves of tomorrow’s crest destroy the passing thoughts of future obligations. The ocean drives its angry water further inward, deploying its salty weapons upon the empty shore. A man may think he has an inkling of his purpose, a goal in his mind, and the means to enact all this within his own power, but that envious wonderment is only the foam that the wind drives up the dunes.

The coast is worn from the storm’s thrashing. Erosion cycles its surface so that it shows preserved freshness, unnatural in its constant newness. The tree that was safe for decades from the water is now only a resting place for the birds. Had it been allowed to triumph against destruction, then what wonders may have flourished from its seed!

The gulls dare take flight from that stump just a minute fore the air’s weight crushes their wings. Collective calmness soothes their bellies, waiting for the storm to pass. Patience is a virtue, for it allows us to wait til the moment for action is ripe. It is also a curse, for it forces us to stake our aspirations in the ground.

The hazy dreams of yesterday float tween the water and the sun, afraid to evaporate in the cold air. The day brings heat, and soon, clear skies. Attempts are made to grasp onto one last cloud, but gusts blow the thought away. Another time, another place, another way. Just not today.

 

The Son Also Rises

I’m half convinced that Hemmingway just had a lot of random crap in his stories and hoped some kind of symbolism would come out of it…

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Bobby said that Sue wouldn’t love him after that. He was always saying things like that, and only half the time believed it. I knew that Sue would be fine.

We left the store and had some drinks behind the counter at the Select. The drinks were nice. I enjoyed a whiskey. Bobby got the same dark beer he always drank in moods like this.

“It’s just that, I don’t know that she’ll forgive me.”

“Don’t be a fool,” I said.

“Jack, it’s true. Settle down.”

“Settle down? I’ll settle when I fucking feel like it.”

“Oh, come on now Jack. Relax a little. I only wanted to talk about my Sue and see where it will take us.”

I sipped my whiskey and spied the dancing floor.

“That’s it, how about a dance? That lass right there is rather frisky. Or the blonde in the green dress, how’s that for you?”

The barkeep poured me another whiskey.

“Let’s talk about my Sue.”

“What obligation do you have? You’re not married and haven’t promised it.”

“Well, there are certain expectations involved.”

“Your last left before those could be fulfilled.”

“Sue isn’t like Kate, not in the least. Why, if Sue and Kate stood next to each other in my home, I’d have to take Sue.”

“In the same way you’d have to take your current car because you’ve already placed the deposit.”

“Oh, come now, Jake.”

“She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

Bobby looked at the dance floor, then the bar, and sipped his beer.

I drained my third glass.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I have to send off some e-mails, get back home,” I said, leaving Bobby in the bar. He’d follow me home and knock on my door. I’d probably open it and let him in for a drink or smoke.

Little changes.

 

I finally completed my character outline after 82 years. Please read.

Wacky Doodle – Always whipping it out and masturbating, the one thing he wants is to finally find his lost towel.

Penelope Vagina – Wacky’s love interest, the only thing she is interested in is swooning over people who aren’t Wacky.

Marco Daniels – Totally is a dick who Wacky hates. He wants to have intimate relations with Penelope, even though he doesn’t deserve to.

Prick McKenzie – Person who bullied Wacky as a kid and is now a Dragon that Wacky must defeat so that he can finally claim Penelope as his property.

Yogurt Kunt – Girl who rejected Wacky and is now just a giant biznatch who Wacky doesn’t like. She wants to pretend she doesn’t love Wacky, even though she obviously does, and only left him because she was intimidated by how great he was.

Towel Master – Wacky’s best friend, who’s always there for him no matter what. Wacky loves TM and always wants to be with him over the company of any other person ever, living or dead. Towel wants to love Wacky, but he can’t feel emotion because he is a towel.

So basically the plot is that they all have to fight and shit in an arena that’s actually in Outer Space. I’ve developed this idea over 82 years, so I know it’s really good. Wacky basically finds out that Prick is cheating in the fight, because he’s a dragon and that’s not allowed. He then beats Prick, and then Penelope tears her clothes off at the very sight of him as the ultimate victor. Then Marco is like oh no and starts to try to get intimate with Penelope Vagina, but Wacky fights him to the death and wins and the Prick, who is a dragon, is now on Wacky’s side. Yogurt tries to defeat Wacky, but Wacky seduces her and then she and Penelope have a threesome while Prick the Dragon watches. Then Towel Master comes and cleans everything up and then they go home and live happily ever after.

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So what do you think? Pretty amazing, right?