Stories, Poems and Other Stuff...

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Clubbing 1988

 A writing exercise that keeps me writing daily. Not a lot of words per day, but word count does not matter so much in this. Normally it involves a couple of paragraphs, maybe a sentence or two, or some obscure, archaic word along with definition written down to make me feel literary and ease my addiction to the act of writing. Some days I feel like a weaning puppy. The following is an addition to something I posted a few days ago. I have no idea which way this is going. Maybe Robert will score. Maybe Jenny will mace Robert and kick him in the gut as he claws at his burning eyes. Maybe they will date, get married and raise a child who later becomes a serial killer, or televangelist. One thing remains, it is still just an exercise.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”
Slight editing (slight is an understatement) a few more words and still no idea where this is going.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”

As all of this is going on one of the bartenders slices his hand while cutting a lime; a hippie wearing something other than black, sticking out like a hippie in a sea of goths, sits in a corner attempting to light a joint with a spent Bic lighter; I am puking in the piss stained bathroom. The assumption from everyone close to me is that I am drunk. In fact, I am not drunk, but suffering from food poisoning contracted from a rancid gyro eaten a few hours prior.





© Charles Scott 2013

Clubbing 1988

 A writing exercise that keeps me writing daily. Not a lot of words per day, but word count does not matter so much in this. Normally it involves a couple of paragraphs, maybe a sentence or two, or some obscure, archaic word along with definition written down to make me feel literary and ease my addiction to the act of writing. Some days I feel like a weaning puppy. The following is an addition to something I posted a few days ago. I have no idea which way this is going. Maybe Robert will score. Maybe Jenny will mace Robert and kick him in the gut as he claws at his burning eyes. Maybe they will date, get married and raise a child who later becomes a serial killer, or televangelist. One thing remains, it is still just an exercise.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”
Slight editing (slight is an understatement) a few more words and still no idea where this is going.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”

As all of this is going on one of the bartenders slices his hand while cutting a lime; a hippie wearing something other than black, sticking out like a hippie in a sea of goths, sits in a corner attempting to light a joint with a spent Bic lighter; I am puking in the piss stained bathroom. The assumption from everyone close to me is that I am drunk. In fact, I am not drunk, but suffering from food poisoning contracted from a rancid gyro eaten a few hours prior.





© Charles Scott 2013
To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.
JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99
 "To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done."

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975


To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.
JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99

To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.
JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99
 "To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done."

JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975


To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.
JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99

Monday, February 10, 2014

Words paint beautiful pictures. One does not need to be verbose or a sesquipedalian to paint a mental picture. Sometimes, when being wordy one comes off as a written blatherskite. Think Hemingway on Faulkner, “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”. With that, I share quite possibly the best lyric ever written. It is from the song, Jumping Jack Flash by the Rolling Stones, "I was raised by a toothless, bearded hag."

See, best lyric ever that paints a beautiful picture. The picture that comes to my mind's eye is that of Witchy Poo from HR Pufnstuf. Sure, she does not have a beard, but she is a hag. Pretty sure she is toothless too.





© Chuck Scott 2013 except for the picture. that's   © Sid and Marty Krofft
Words paint beautiful pictures. One does not need to be verbose or a sesquipedalian to paint a mental picture. Sometimes, when being wordy one comes off as a written blatherskite. Think Hemingway on Faulkner, “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”. With that, I share quite possibly the best lyric ever written. It is from the song, Jumping Jack Flash by the Rolling Stones, "I was raised by a toothless, bearded hag."

See, best lyric ever that paints a beautiful picture. The picture that comes to my mind's eye is that of Witchy Poo from HR Pufnstuf. Sure, she does not have a beard, but she is a hag. Pretty sure she is toothless too.





© Chuck Scott 2013 except for the picture. that's   © Sid and Marty Krofft