Only real data

I only use real words in my writing because I think it sounds better when things are real. Like, you can’t have a meal out of plastic food. There has to be actual food there for you to eat. Frankly, if it’s not real, like rally real, then how can you tell if something even exists?

It’s like…come on, it’s just so frustrating having to describe these simple concepts that are like, so totally ingrained in our nature. I mean, if poverty really exists, then why am I not impoverished, you know? So that’s not real data that I can use for my writing.

Another word that’s real that I like is “pizza.” It’s a real word that means food that’s in a circle with some cheese on top of bread on top of sauce, in that order. It’s very good, but I don’t like to eat too much because I have to watch my waistline. A waistline is something you get when you’re older and your legs have sprouted. Yeah, my legs didn’t sprout until I was seven, a little later than most, but oh well.

Another thing I like to do in my writing is to repeat things that mean stuff to me. If it doesn’t mean something, then I’ll like only say it once, but sometimes I’ll say it two times because of my bad memory. But anyone who knows me knows I have a bad memory, so if I say something three or four times, they know it’s really important.

Another thing I like to do in my writing is repeat things that are important to me. Cause then I’m able to remember it more and like where I left off, I can start again. Like a cycle of rebirth, drifting ever outward from the center of my creation, always molding and changing like the Atlantic Ocean during hurricane season.

Sometimes people tell me that my ideas aren’t good and stuff, but I tell them just look at Mark, and his ideas, and then they do that and come back to me and say what good ideas I have. Yeah, totally. Mark is like second rate, and I’m maybe like…not like first rate, but close to first rate. I think that’s why Mark gets jealous sometimes.

I also like to use opinions sometimes, like other people’s opinions from the newspaper. The newspaper doesn’t really use real facts all the time, so sometimes I have to get it from magazines. Tabloids are generally good cause I like the feel of them and the crust of the paper. It’s like a texture that my fingers like when they start thinking for me.


False Starts

I don’t know what I saw that night. It was a dark time for me, in emotion, spirit, and setting. The moon hung low, but it was waning.


The dolphin swam up the orb and poked the machismo with its snout. The bubbles from its blowhole floated and popped on the surface of the ocean’s water. The orb bobbed up and down with the waves.


A giant man ate the moon one day whilst I slept. I didn’t wake from the noise, nay! But from the hunger that ate at my own body, indeed my damn old soul. Traveling this world for centuries will make a man thirst for human blood.


He reached down for the beer and gripped the cup with his hand. Spittle dripped from his beard onto the scarred, wooden table.

“Hey, um…dude,” Rick said, sitting across from him in the tavern. “There’s like, saliva. It’s coming from your mouth?”

Henry, the spit man, stared at the table with dozen eyes. He was a drone, ready to move at the slightest suggestion.

“You…do you want a drink?”

“Yes.” Henry sipped his beer. He licked his lips and twirled his fingers in the drink. “I want to kill you.”

“Dude…why?” Rick hunched his shoulders and sighed. Henry always got like this, after a night in bed together. “It’s not my fault.”

“It is.” Henry sipped his beer, and then gulped it down with a great thirst. “You don’t have to love me.”

Scene: middle of the street


It’s night and I can hear people dreaming. See their thoughts float up into empty space? Out of all these houses, a thousand images drift upward. I can grab one and make it dark, or make it bright, depending on my mood.

I want to scare someone. Why? I’m fucked up like that.

In this man’s dream is a woman, one of the most beautiful that you have ever seen. I make her ugly, turning her skin to ash and her hair to webs. He wakes and the image is gone and he goes on with his night. He will not sleep again.

I have never slept, for fear of dreaming. So small am I, but look what I can do. Imagine the others in the night and what they may do to me.

Over there, a few houses down, you can see a dream of aliens, and the dreamer herself can jump ten feet high. I make the aliens evil. They rise into their ships and give her such a feeling of terror as she has never known. She stands clutching her heart to her chest, too frightened to wake.

We’ll leave it at that.

Don’t look behind you…

What is Writing?

It’s what you, or one other person, wants. Write for one person.

I want to go to the river with my wife. I’m there right now, and the trees are brushing each other from the wind. The leaves are grown now, having take their time through this indecisive spring. We watch as the faeries dip into and out of the water, swimming in the current and laughing.

And it makes me think of John. His wife died, and he’s at the river too, now. He’s sitting at the boat launch near Old Angler’s inn, where the corpse of a tired swimmer will wash up every few years or so. He’s praying to the dead and wishing that they will rise, so that he will not have to fall.

Just write for one person. Think of what they want. Write it out.

A warm-up piece for the day…

Tell me more about the oranges, grandaddy, she said.

Welp, he said. The best part about the oranges was when youd peel em. The smell was just heavenly and drifted all around. Youd run your fingers all around and lift the peels and throw em all up into a pile.

That sounds wonderful, grandaddy.

It was, my dear. Now how bout you hop on up into grandaddy’s lap. Lets go for a tractor ride.

Oh yay! I love tractor rides.

The old man already sat on the tractor. The young woman climbed up and sat on his crotch. The sun was setting in the distance and cast an orange glow over the dry and dusty landscape.

Do you think it will ever grow back, she said.

All of it? he said.

Some of it. A little bit.

A little bit will. Some of it. Most of it, over thousands of years, it will come back.

Lets start the tractor, grandaddy.

Okay, my dear.

The old man started the tractor. The engine chugged and vibrated and shook the frame of the machine. The young woman smiled.