two sentence stories: august 24, 2016 edition

Thoughtfully she chewed the orchid with her chipped teeth. Her mother had not shown her how to hem the dress.

When the waiter approached her table, she wondered if she would get a wink. But he just asked if she wanted extra tartar sauce.

The hell of it was, there had been other options. The adrenaline made his hand shake as he unscrewed the hose from the bent faucet.

In eight grade his father gave him an old Briggs & Stratton lawn mower engine to disassemble. He got a C, the lowest grade he ever got for an elective class.

"We have seven weeks," she said, tracing the top of a wine glass half full of Merlot. He nodded, thinking he'd made the wrong choice with the wine.

The sadness that weighed on them both was largely unspoken. He eventually took the room downstairs, but slept no better.

The movie was called The Last House on Dead End Street, though it was also once known as The Cuckoo Clocks of Hell. He came to regret disposing of his hacksaw so soon after viewing.

things that were on my writing desk at one time or another but no longer are

an ashtray stolen from a strip club
a bone fragment, probably deer, found in the Selkirk Range
a frayed friendship bracelet from someone who is no longer a friend
empty bottles of Boone's Farm fortified wine
empty Keystone Light cans
a skull wearing a top hat smoking a cigarette ring
a picture of the abandoned house, since demolished, that sat on my parent's farm and once housed an aunt who disappeared
a rock someone gave me
a rock I gave someone which they did not want
an ashtray made out of a salsa jar lid
a Brother electronic typewriter
a bottle of white-out
a skeleton earring
cigarette ashes
a letter from someone I loved
a letter to someone I loved
coffee mug stolen from Denny's
sunglasses
3D glasses from Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare
Olivia De Berardinis pinup trading cards bought in a Spokane comic book shop that almost certainly doesn't exist anymore
empty airport bottle of Jack Daniels given to me by my wife before she was my wife because we couldn't be together on our first Christmas (which I spent alone in a small apartment)
a story outline on a napkin written when I was only writing poetry
a bottle of red nail polish
a bottle of black nail polish
a Sid Vicious postcard sent from L.A. from my oldest and one of my dearest friends
blue pens
other things I've forgotten

thoughts on a monday afternoon in august

For the last six weeks, thanks to what has turned into an unusually hectic and full summer, writing time has been scarce to come by. The few windows that I have managed to carve out have not felt very productive. Slower than molasses and a little too much staring out the window. Summer is the hardest season for me creatively; my creative mood and the weather are connected on a deeper level than I generally care to admit. The words have never come easy in the summer.

Today, due to the misfortune of my daughter not feeling well and therefore not going to swim practice, I ended up with a window to write after work. It was a productive time, though nothing spectacular, just the standard time grinding away that any writer serious about their craft has to put in. But I made progress, and sometimes that's enough. I also submitted another story, and there's a certain satisfaction knowing I'm continuing to push myself in that regard.

The last year and a half have been very difficult for a number of reasons, and some of those reasons are still very much present. It affects the time I have available to write and sometimes affects the actual work. Yet today I was surprised to realize: I actually believe in my work. I actually think it has value. And that regardless of what happens as I stick my toes in the submissions water a little more, or struggle with same creative stasis that every writer wrestles with, I'm still doing meaningful work. Perhaps it's only meaningful to me, and it certainly comes much slower than I would like, but it is not time poorly spent.

I still dream of taking a three week holiday in a cabin and doing nothing but writing and revising, but if such a chance never comes to fruition, I at least know that I'm working constantly. Perhaps not as hard as I should be--I fear I'm lazier than I want to admit to myself--but steadily. If I fall off the horse, I get back up on it. I have days like any creative person where I feel I've never done anything good and never will, days where the words won't come no matter what, days where the pull between the creative life and "real" life feels like it will snap me in two...but I take those days one day at a time, breathe, and continue working. It's all part of the cycle. And it's still exciting. And just maybe I believe in myself more than I realized.

one step up

An awful lot of the act of writing involves staring blankly out the window. And sometimes listening to the songs that say everything better than you ever could. If I ever wrote one thing as truthful, beautiful and close to the heart as this, perhaps I would feel satisfied. But probably not.

Woke up this morning my house was cold
Checked out the furnace she wasn't burnin'
Went out and hoped in my old Ford
Hit the engine but she ain't turnin'
We've given each other some hard lessons lately
But we ain't learnin'
We're the same sad story that's a fact
One step up and two steps back

Bird on a wire outside my motel room
But he ain't singin'
Girl in white outside a church in June
But the church bells they ain't ringing
I'm sittin' here in this bar tonight
But all I'm thinkin' is
I'm the same old story same old act
One step up and two steps back

It's the same thing night on night
Who's wrong baby who's right
Another fight and I slam the door on
Another battle in our dirty little war
When I look at myself I don't see
The man I wanted to be
Somewhere along the line I slipped off track
I'm caught movin' one step up and two steps back

There's a girl across the bar
I get the message she's sendin'
Mmm she ain't lookin' to married
And me well honey I'm pretending
Last night I dreamed I held you in my arms
The music was never-ending
We danced as the evening sky faded to black
One step up and two steps back