Sunday, February 10, 2013

334. Is Productive/Is Not Productive

Sundays are usually the best day for getting caught up on homework, but I'm not finding that to be the case this week. On the other hand, it hasn't been entirely unproductive. I started the morning taking Frank-dog on a nice walk after this morning's thunderstorms, did dishes, practiced piano a little, and finally got around to packing up my request for a copy of my divorce decree.

This is my second attempt to obtain a copy from the fine people at the Superior Court Clerk's Office at 3000 Rockefeller Ave, (Mailstop 605) Everett, Washington. They rejected my last request because I sent a personal check. Because I guess personal checks don't deposit into bank accounts just as easily as any other form of money? Right. Anyway, if all goes well, I'll have completed step 1 to getting my real last name back. I don't know how much it matters, a name is a name is a name. But it seems silly to keep one that was given to you by someone you no longer have any sort of connection with. I almost look forward to having to explain and then slowly spell out my surname for people again. Mostly, I just want my name, not his, printed on my associate's degree next May.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

333. The Fugitives

This week's exercise for fiction writing - write a scene (not a story) in which a character makes a bad decision...

The Fugitives
The fire doors burst outward as the two exploded from the stadium, running like they’d stolen something. Their helmets hit the pavement before their eyes had even had time to adjust to the blinding sunlight. The sound of slamming metal echoed down the alley after them, but faded away when it realized it couldn’t keep up.
“What were you thinking?!”
“I don’t know! I just had to!”
“Well you’ve done it now; they think I did it!”
Moments before, Derek and Jessie had stood at box level, overlooking the crowds of people milling around below. The pair leaned against the railing, bored with waiting to perform. Their polyester band uniforms were uncomfortable and making them itchy. 
“You know they say that if you dropped a penny from the top of the Empire State Building, it could kill a person,” Derek said. “Like a bullet shot out of the sky.”
“Yeah? What do you think it would do from the third story?”
“I don’t know, probably nothing. I haven’t got one to try.”
They contemplated the idea in silence. The sound of tubas drifted down the hall, mingling with the low din of a thousand indistinguishable conversations. Rainbows of plumed helmets ebbed and flowed around the bottom of the escalators as bands gathered in preparation to take the field.   
Suddenly, a wet, ripping sound emanated from Jessie’s throat. Derek’s eyes snapped upward to meet her face. 
Jessie grinned…and spit.
The gigantic wad of phlegm arced through the air, executing a swan dive that would make Greg Louganis weep. The very fibers of time slowed and stretched in order to better witness the voyage in all its glory. At its zenith, stadium lights splintered as they passed through its amoebic body, transforming it into a sloppy, glittering prism suspended weightlessly in space.
The glob landed with a splat on the epaulette of a drummer that had to be in his sixth year of high school. Derek and Jessie stood frozen in place, watching as comprehension slowly crept across the drummer’s face. With a roar, he turned his gaze upward, locking onto Derek, whose eyes were growing wider by the second. Jessie reached down and squeezed Derek’s hand, hard.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

332. Fictional Realism

Deadline for my first short story is in 3 weeks. Required length 5-7 pages.
I'm doing my best to start now so I'm not panicking at the last minute, but I'm stuck. I got up this morning, ate a wholesome and nutritious breakfast of cinnamon raisin oatmeal. Paced a little, loaded the dishwasher. Brewed some coffee and sat down to write. After only a few minutes, I settled in and started jotting down a scene that I was pretty happy with. I don't know where it was going yet, there was no plot. It was a start, though.

Realized I forgot about my french press of coffee and went to pour a cup. Researched some details I felt the story needed for historical accuracy. Things were going well until it occurred to me that I was writing historical fiction. The assignment specifically states no genre writing.

Scrapped. Back to the drawing board.
Literally...I went and blind contour sketched my cat.

Here's a film short I just finished. I filmed this without sound on Tuesday night at Black Thorn, and then mixed the audio tracks just now to create an ambient bar sound with rain and traffic in the background.