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bleek
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« Reply #100 on: July 17, 2014, 09:16:37 PM »

The Author lives alone in an old Victorian house outside town. He writes all day and writes all night. His writing room is still and full. Motes swirl and dance in the golden-hour rays. They brush the Author’s beard and glasses. The great leather books sit quietly on the shelves wrapped around the walls, spilling out and piling up on the floor like frozen waterfalls, their thoughts and dreams hanging in time and space like a crystalline mist. The books smell old. Some books do that.

The writing room is snug and warm, like someone had lit a slow fire in the corner. There was no fire though, only the faint glow of embers in the stillness. The glow seems to creep in through the windows and through the spaces between the books. A small wooden table, varnish still gleaming (somewhat) dominates the center of the room, nearly invisible beneath a pile of papers, tomes, and various trinkets and curios. There is a large magnifying glass and an even larger hourglass that needs to be turned. Lizards float in yellow liquid on the table, several more stare down from the shelves, jealous of the table lizards’ place of honor.

The place smells like old wood. The Author hears a muffled knock from downstairs. He writes. The knock is still. Then again the air is disturbed. The mist-words flutter off to calmer climbs and the dust falls to the floor in a hushed avalanche. Sigh. He stares at nothing for a while. Like waking from a dream and contemplating whether its worth trying to get it back. Sometimes, if you act quick enough, you can slide back in, but usually the dream, like the mist-words, flutter off to some stranger’s bed.

He closes his laptop. It clicks to sleep. A gentle pat and he rises slowly. The green fabric of his chair is damp where he sat. He adjusts his jeans as he rises into a half stand, like an athlete preparing to block a pass or return a volley, but no, he’s just adjusting his faded jeans. They may have come like that.

He rolls the chair back. It misses a pile of red books under the desk. His arms are cold. He stumbles a bit as he tries to get out from between the writing desk and chair. If only he was stronger, or older. The dust makes way as the great writer scooches under hills and through valleys. Birds sing over head and swoop down to greet him. He waves back and cracks a smile through his majestic beard. Its been a while since he’s smiled. The dust falls like snow as the lizards look on.

The Author’s steps drown out the knocks on the front door. He touches the writing room door knob. Why one door and not another? Or is this the right one? All doors lead to the same room after all. The knob is cool. He can almost taste the sharp metal through his slim fingers. Delicate fingers. Not the gnarled digits of a worker or the precise tools of a doctor. Just the slim quills of an Author.

He turns the brass and the door swings outwards slowly.
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Glyph
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« Reply #101 on: July 18, 2014, 10:53:25 AM »

We accept things the way they are
because they've been that way
long enough for us to accept them.
When we reach a
pivotal age
we wonder about these
predefined predilections;
these partialities, penchants,
and predispositions towards
things the way they are.
Question long enough, and one could
uncover more about
themselves or
maybe just a
subcutaneous subconscious,
drowned but not asleep,
thought once locked away by the
rusty key in that
forebodingly big house where
the fire started.
Rejoice, though, it's never freed,
buried in
tempered chains of reason
thicker than a man's skull.
We eventually avert our eyes from such a
battered and bruised
part of ourselves and
finally
look to the present
with our biases and inclinations
towards
things the way they are.
Charred beyond recognition by the
awakening of oneself,
put to ultimate rest,
our tiny,
inconsequential belief in
-- so dubbed by the
waking world --
the impossible.
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« Reply #102 on: August 10, 2014, 11:45:31 AM »

The now ex-husband of a friend of our family was the high school band teacher. I had told him of my interest in jazz and he confessed that he was interested in forming a high school jazz band but needed a bass player. I agreed to try and, for a trial summer session course, we began.

One of the songs was a variation of

by the Weather Report. Their renowned bassist was Jaco Pastorius.

Long story short: even though I couldn't hit every note, an extracurricular after regular hours class was created for the following year. So, I must thank my instructor and the true musicians of the band for helping me to learn enough about music to continue playing blues and jazz throughout college.

I'm out of practice though. I've only been refurbishing guitars and singing, however.
« Last Edit: August 13, 2014, 08:35:13 AM by ithamore » Logged

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« Reply #103 on: September 05, 2014, 03:06:01 AM »

Earth Quake

It was around 3:00 AM that the bed began to shake. It reminded me of being in a cart going up a rollercoaster.

There were no downward G's, so I soon fell back to sleep.
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« Reply #104 on: September 05, 2014, 08:11:19 AM »

Today is the day before tomorrow.
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Yeah.
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« Reply #105 on: November 24, 2014, 07:09:55 AM »

What Ms. Kantress taught us in junior high was that smoking is like suicide on the back burner. It's been 35 years since and the memory came back to me yesterday while waiting in the grocery line. So, that's how I bought my first pack. That paltry, secret treasure of mine.
« Last Edit: November 24, 2014, 08:12:25 AM by Saturator » Logged
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« Reply #106 on: November 30, 2014, 10:03:14 PM »

'Twas an unusual morning for Mr. Breffles – Lord Breffles, in fact. Quite recently so, for he had only just a day ago slipped into aristocracy. This furniture-centered, name-mangling state of essence. Rather pitiful, he thought, but he had not dared speak his mind during the ceremony. Quite frankly, he hadn't really thought it through at the time.

Having his tea poured – something he'd been doing himself up until yesterday – the scent did strike his head with the sudden realisations. This was awful. Utterly awful. Immensely awful. Bloody claws-joddling surpentaneously awful with sugar and braces on top. Those were his British internal interjections.
« Last Edit: November 30, 2014, 10:14:58 PM by Prinsessa » Logged

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« Reply #107 on: January 05, 2015, 04:25:22 PM »

Soon people hear I’m the one that killed
the pilot in the giant robot.

That I drank the stars and sent their children
laughing into interstellar space.

That I killed the sea monster.

That I killed the space shuttles and the astronauts.

That I killed the passengers in the airplane and
the girl with the German Sheppard bite wound.

That I killed the children in the phone booths.

That I killed the lions.

That I helped a girl kill a woman
with a horse painted on her face.

They think I am the monster now. All of the monsters
that ever existed rolled into one. King of the monsters.

People can’t tell the difference between monsters
and people anymore.
Neither can I.
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« Reply #108 on: January 05, 2015, 09:49:03 PM »

"Are you ready?"
"Mhm.  I think so."
"You sound nervous."
"Maybe a little bit."
"Okay, we'll start slow then.  Here, just put your hand riiiiiight... there."
"Is that right?"
"You're not gripping it right.  You gotta-"
"Like this."
"Yeah, yeah. Just like that."
"I hope I'm doing this right."
"You're doing fine.  Practice makes perfect."
"...Hey, Todd?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm getting tired.  My arm's getting tired."
"Well, duh.  You're not gonna get anywhere with just one."
"Where do I put it, though?  There's so much to hold."
"Just grip something, and I'll guide you from there."
"How am I doing?"
"Lemme just... Ohhhh yeah.  Perfect.  Perfect."
"And then I-?"
"Just pull.  Really put all you've got into it."
"But it's so hard!"
"So I've heard."
"...Alright, that's it."
"What?"
"This is pointless."
"You think so?  I'm really enjoying it."
"Oh yeah, I'm sure you're feeling great right now, but I'm not getting anything out of it."
"Oh yeah?  Anything I can do about that?"
"I think I'm ready for the real thing."
"You think you can handle it?"
"...Yeah."
"You sure you don't want to ease into it or-"
"I can take it."
"I don't know, I've heard that from plenty of other girls, and none of them have been able to keep up with me."
"Someone's modest."
"I'm just saying; the thing's a monster.  There's a reason why it has such a legendary reputation."
"You know, I'm not 'other girls,' Todd."
"I know, I know!  Just saying is all."

"You really think I'm that much of a pussy?  Alright, whatever Todd, I don't need your opinion. Just harness me up and swallow your pride, because I'm about to climb the fuck out of this mountain."
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« Reply #109 on: February 02, 2015, 03:35:59 PM »

http://www.saddogstories.com/td/bearskin.html
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« Reply #110 on: February 04, 2015, 08:22:28 PM »

http://www.saddogstories.com/td/m&s.html
« Last Edit: February 08, 2015, 11:02:25 PM by Capntastic » Logged
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« Reply #111 on: February 08, 2015, 11:02:11 PM »

http://www.saddogstories.com/td/lpdm.html
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Capntastic
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« Reply #112 on: February 18, 2015, 09:29:58 PM »

http://www.saddogstories.com/td/applepie.html
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Capntastic
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« Reply #113 on: February 19, 2015, 04:11:42 PM »

While the above four (and most of my posts here) are the results of flash fiction group prompts, all critiques are appreciated. Likewise, if you post something here I will probably get around to giving it a once over.  Thanks!
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« Reply #114 on: March 05, 2015, 05:08:37 PM »

http://www.saddogstories.com/td/minum.html
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autumnspark
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« Reply #115 on: March 08, 2015, 01:14:57 PM »

Anyone bored and want to read about a violent reality altering phenomenon beheld by a nine year old? Here be some chapters.
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« Reply #116 on: March 13, 2015, 08:24:52 PM »

http://www.saddogstories.com/td/lighthouse.html
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« Reply #117 on: March 16, 2015, 09:25:50 PM »

http://www.saddogstories.com/td/HeLa.html
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Capntastic
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« Reply #118 on: March 30, 2015, 03:37:23 PM »

www.saddogstories.com/td/acetone.html
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