Tuesday, January 31, 2012

facebook & google+ status updates part VIII

The month of January, in updates. Did a lot more of them in the space of a month than I usually do; doubt the rest of the year will be near as prolific -- or should be.

Sometimes I forget how angry I am at you and a smile slips out. You have to know they aren't real.

We painted our faces the colour of our faces and smiled during the rally.

We all have songs in our head an' we never here anyone else's. That's the tragedy o' life. What? You asked, an' that's what my superpower'd be: to here other people's songs. To not be alone. That's a power, innit?

"I handed in my badge," the Detective said, "by this point in the story you should have returned it to me."
"I know," said the commander. "I think the cleaning people put it in the garbage; I can't find it anywhere."

Once upon a time – last week, actually, just before the bins were collected by the garbage men – Mr. Howard saw the Stilton kids leave the home old old Mrs. Witherspoon covered in flour and blood. He told the police his story, which they labelled as evidence then brought cameras into the home to nail the past down before it could change on them.
This is the story of what followed after.

"There's more than one side to any story and always more than one truth to see it by," the fox said. "For example, I only trick those who deserve it."
"You trick everyone," Bess said.

The Detective explained the series of clues and connections that let him to catch the Balham Phone box Killer.
"You remembered all that, but you forgot tonight is our anniversary," his wife said. "People ask why I drink while you've been sober for three years."
The Detective waited desperately for his beeper to go off.

If the universe is a science project, what grade was it made for?

The Detective had considered leaving the force to become a PI after the Sponge Cake Fiasco but realized that, as a PI, he'd never be better than Tracer Bullet.

"It would be easier to talk about this if you didn't keep using that scary voice," Boy muttered.
"And what voice would that be?" Bess said.
"The one that says that I'm wrong no matter what I say?"
"That's just my voice," she said.

Spam email are the best way to tell your fortune: look for patterns, repetitions, and how many you get from each country. The first spam you receive will contain the secret code for unlocking all messages that come after it. You *did* keep it, right?

Police officers catch criminals in part by thinking like them. The Detective was so good at this he sometimes was half-convinced he had committed the crimes in question.

They say time travel doesn't exist because no one sees any tourists. But who would travel in time and be a tourist? Consider this: what would you do?
Corollary: How do you THINK Hitler survived all those assassination attempts?

I don't have high expectations of happiness. It could just be this: you and me, a swingset, and forever.

The scapegrace is the opposite of a scapegoat; all good things happen to them, we all wish we were them and love them.

"I don't know why you killed those six men," The Detective said, "but it's people like you who keep us employed. On behalf of the department, I thank you."
The killer just stared back, something deep and human breaking in empty eyes.
The Detective was fired, but the killer never wrote a book about the killings. All told, it was a good ending.

"I didn't mean to fall in love with you," he whispered. "You just needed me so much I couldn't help myself."

This statement is now in the public domain, free to fly into the wild and morph into new forms of linguistic frenzy barely held at bay by dictionaries. Copyright of it has been released: please note this every time you use the statement and cite accordingly.

They told me I can't cut myself beautiful
but they do it all the time on tv
with bigger knives, a smiling actor-doctor, camera crews;
new smiles in old eyes.
I just have a pen knife but – you think –
if I cut myself just right, maybe?

There is a city no one remembers when they think about your country. The real is always like that, slipping away from us.

The real is too solid. We are mired in it, bogged down in ugliness so we flee to the beauty of dreams. There are children in china making most of the things we own; it is only dreams that insulate us from truth.

Every building I set on fire is another ghost I let to free. So many hate me now: the fire department, the police, the exorcists I put out of work.

"It's so frakbajulous," she said, having decided 'love' was too common, inventing her own word for what they shared.
He asked what he meant, she told here it meant, kind of, love.
At the divorce, she used the word and he finally understood.

You hugged me and said, "Shhh. It's okay. I'm here."
Only, sometimes, it's not enough.

"Your apology has been noted," she said, fingering her new scar, "and deemed worthless."

"You didn't pay back the loan," the bank manager says as if that explains everything, face morphing to becomes yours, alien shadows flickering in cold eyes. "We have other methods of recovering debt and you do have a most interesting life."

"We die, and all that is left is memories."
"Would that be such a bad thing?"
"Depends on what you do, I suppose. And who holds them."

He says, "I always wanted to be famous. It was this or be a serial killer."

All the copyright-extension and anti-piracy bills are actually being bankrolled by Disneyworld, which is determined that the Mouse That Shall Not Be Named is never, ever in the public domain.
Have heart, though: even they must run out of money.
Some day.

"Why is it so hard to get away from your tears?" he whispers.
The other man smiles, terribly gentle. "I'm not crying."
"Don't you understand? That just makes it worse."

He called last night, from the hotel. Asked about the kids and the dog. But never about you.

What if your life was going to be made into a TV show and you were obligated to make sure you did one thing, each day, worthy of prime time?

Jimmy flushed six goldfish before his mother caught him. He said he wanted them to go down into the sewer, to become mutants and eat pizza. She asked what they would eat it with, how they'd survive out of water, and his imagination was cut down by each word.
He has never become a painter.

There is a pause after we both pick the same bottle of wine, the waiter murmuring, "Very good," over our silence as we wait for each other to speak first, or laugh.

Re-post this if you hate posts telling you to re-post them.

I have always been a deep sleeper. I slept right through the sirens to wake to a newer world.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

home is where the heartache is

The dog doesn't wag her tail when I open the door, and all I feel is relief: if she'd barked, growled, treated me as a stranger -- but she does not, just looks puzzled. Waits for a biscuit while I don't remove my shoes. The mirror of the vanity beside the door is uncleaned, a stack of bills sits on it: all red and yellow primaries, final warnings.
"Where have you been?" she says, too tired to not be calm, so empty she almost cares.
"Work," I say.
"Did you bring home money?"
I think of her, and him, and coffee, try to frame epiphanies into dollar amounts, settle on, "No."
She barely looks disappointed this time.

I think of her waiting at the coffee shop, of the man coming in. I wonder if I'm both of them.
"You're smiling," she says, "are you having an affair again?"
"I never, and no." I head up to shower, alone.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

wandering in search of something to name

I've stopped buying coffee at the shop; the staff all know me now and I don't want to be a regular, a friendly face.  It's stigmata, in a city, when we all move here to be alone. But I find myself prowling the streets looking for her, for him. Alone, with each other, with other people. I'm living my life waiting for a frisson sparking from their secret lives they think no one has noticed.

I think my family is worried.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Where the writing is at ...

Currently I'm working on two projects. The Book of Going Forth by Night is the modern urban horror story that had a draft finished during nano. I wrote about 20K of the sequel to get a feel for it and then jumped back into this to redo it. I'm only 5 pages into but it's at least taking form again, albeit in present tense. I'm having fun fleshing out the character of Cindi and working on making the MC even more of a jerk since he basically is one at this point in his life.

Boy and Fox (aka Falling Toward The Sky) is on 11 pages and going a bit quicker, mostly because I am keeping a lot of description from previous drafts to use in it and I also have 60 handwritten pages done during travelling that shall be worked into it. (Or, realistically, about 10 of those pages.) I'm having fun fixing and keeping things and looking forward to reaching the point of New Plots vs. reorganizing old plots and concepts and meshing that together as the start. The other project is more fixing up plot and streamlining it; I'm not adding anything new in that sense so I figure it will be slower to write overall.

Beyond these, I'm trying to ignore other novel and story ideas wandering into my head so I can focus on this. How long that'll work is anyone's guess.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

the feeling that the feeling you have isn't real

People have entertainment budgets; I have 'discretionary spending'. The USA spends it on wars; I buy coffee at the one local place.

Decaf only; jitters just once.

He comes in some days, late. Tired and thin. Lost. Staring at the table she usually sits at. Is he who she was waiting for? I haven't asked. He doesn't return my smiles either, but I have fewer of them than I used to.

Monday, January 09, 2012

time and slippage

Somehow, I am here when she arrives. Not every day -- the world is too messy for that, but sometimes. She keeps her phone off now, watch gripped in one hand. Her nails are bitten to the quick and she stares at the door, waiting, in defiance.

Whoever she is waiting for never comes in.

She has stopped returning my smiles.

Sunday, January 08, 2012

Writing output..

For the day has been delete two pages.

Write one page.

Also delete it.

On the plus side, most of the first page of the second draft of The Book of Going Forth remains. For now.


(Make that half a page.)

Sunday, January 01, 2012

facebook & google+ status updates part VII

The number is always unlisted, the caller's voice always bland and pleasant. They are with the Company, and they offer you enlightenment for 5 easy payments: the deaths of the five people you care about least in all the world.
I know it's shocking. Only five?!

12K into sequel of exorcism story. Via it:
"There are some lines we don't cross even in the name of good, perhaps especially in that. If people aren't free to make mistakes then they aren't free at all."

"What do you mean, why am I wearing a black armband? What else is Black Friday for?"

Full disclosure: I automatically distrust any article that seems to think it has to include the phrase 'full disclosure'.

From WIP:
"You could tell her, 'I tried to love you, but it turned out you were you, so I couldn't'?" Damien offered.

Plagiarized from myself (via notes for current novel) to use in it:
"History is mutable in cities, less so in towns."

Unaired 60 minutes interview footage:
"Of course kids have to want things this season. If they don't want gifts, think of all the elves who'd be out of work." Santa laughed his deep trademark laugh. "It's not like they can go back to being munkchins. Why don't parents ever think of the elves?"

TV laughtracks are composed of the laughter of ghosts, because the dead really do watch over us and all they can bring themselves to do is laugh.

Nightcare: A daycare for vampire kids.

From notes for an Unknown Armies campaign (rumours for the PCs to encounter) ...
* N-Rays exist, only we call them X-rays. What’s really inside us isn’t what we see on film.
* You hear the one about the cat lady eaten by her cats? Truth is they all want the cats to eat them: it’s how cats gain human speech.
* Being on a Reality TV Show will drive you insane: what leaves the show isn't the person who joined but something else eager to get back into the world.
* The world is ruled by 300 white guys but they all live in cardboard boxes: it is their death-throes that cause the markets to change.

We unmake words with smiles; we unmake worlds with laughs.

When writing a short story that includes: 'Ever seen a superhero cry into his beer?' it is probably not  a good thing to write 'bear' instead. Though it would make the story a lot funnier if I left that in.

There is no such thing as clowns. If you think you've seen a clown, you haven't. Don't think too much about it or they will know.

Thoughts on christmas and giving: when is an open wallet the sign of a closed mind?

He called, wanting to get back together. But she said: "It's okay. I'm okay. It's better like this. I get so much more done with my day."

"We must stop the AIs. Do we have enough cat videos on youtube to slow down the invasion, sergeant?"

You can't tell people you made a doll out of them if they know what voodoo is.

He says, "I didn't mean to."
He says, "I thought I could hide it."
He smiles weakly, and: "We can get the stains out of the carpet, right?"

"Love," the demon says, "is such a glorious blasphemy; in it you even forget your God." He reaches a hand that moves as slow as his smile. "But not us. Never us. Why is that, do you know?"

What if every image you have saved on your computer could be used against you in a court of law?

I bought a dog. I thought it could help make the world a better place. But it needs me ... so much.

We are the last. There is no one left. We tried to warn

Cell phones and watches

She puts the phone away, studies her watch, face set in hard lines and then studies the door and windows, eyes narrowing. Her lower lip trembles, just for a moment, but her eyes are dry and the moment passes as she stands.

I want to say something, but I don't know what.

She raises her left hand to her right, running her fingers over a thin band on her ring finger, right hand shoving into her pocket as she checks the watch on her left hand again and walks past me, out the door.

All I can think to ask is why she has a watch and a cell phone. I hold it in.