Quick Hitters

[Gobbo]

I'm going to post some quick hitters. Basically I decided to write another/a real novel(la). This will be practice, and I definitely need it. I haven't written fiction in a while, but I got a new job such that I can write fiction without it weighing over me that I need money, and I should write for money. That's uh... what was happening before I realized. I would sit there like, "Hmm. How can I write the next Hunger Games?" I now have enough (see: haha not really) to live in Vancouver kinda-not-really comfortably and write with the freedom I've been waiting for. Long story short. I'm going to start writing some things: if you see anything you like or hate, definitely let me know.

[Gobbo]

When Dennis Fran was nine he was placed into a wheelchair permenantly due to a fluke accident. The way that Dennis looks at it (which is away), he should have died that day, so the fact that he lives on with half of his body intake seems like a fair trade. What happened took enough time for Dennis to stare into the face of death long enough to again see life, and he hasn't stopped being thankful to witness earth's gentle embrace. The details--well, they don't matter, because he tries not to think about it.

Dennis spends a considerable amount of time on the internet, though. A considerable amount of time just thinking. He isn't one of those wheelchair triathalon, wheelchair basketball, or any kind of wheelchair sport because he doesn't even like sports. He never did to begin with. He likes learning; and he envisions his trips to and from different websites visually: boundless speed, and the creative grace of a ninja. He leaps to and from digitial building to building, investigating the make-shift rooms of online forums and the second-life workplaces of the moderators; he envisions every analog alcove and bittorrent territory; from the annals of the underground to the tip of our culture--millions of minutes, all staring at a screen.

Today, however, is a new day.

Dennis believes that he will go to the store himself in search of a watermelon.

[Gobbo]

There are triangles on the wall in Jedidiah’s room.
“What is this shit?” One of the guards asked him one time.
“Those are triangles.” Jedidiah didn’t feel like there was much to explain.
He was sent to this hole.

“What is this shit?” The warden had asked the guard, upon being brought down to inspect. “You said I had to see this—and this, Frank, is a bunch of fucking triangles.”

He was returned from the hole shortly after, but the guard kept a watch on him. Now, there are more triangles on the wall in Jedidiah’s room.
The pattern is a simple one, but it holds more complex patterns should one know how to extrapolate them. Either way, it was something to pass the time for the passenger of this small room on its journey through the dark night of the soul. Jed has been in prison for a little under six years now, and he has drawn a lot of triangles.
—And why not? The triangle is incredibly sturdy shape and incredibly powerful symbol. There is a reason that Pythagoras favored it above all else. The convicted knows he does not know all of the secrets held within those 3 lines, but after six years, he has garnered what he would categorize as an initiated understanding of the shape.
Jedidiah has no books here. None he would consider to shed any further light on the matter. He could not risk bringing the town’s books into this place. Instead, he has existed in his mind, and with the triangle.
In a sense coming to prison has served him quite well. For the magician is focused on one thing primarily, achieving no-mind: the alignment of mental faculties to enter into the gnostic state from which the divine ray of intention springs forth. From this sacred plateau, it should really not be so hard to presume that a precise-enough effect can be had.
But it is.

The guard—Frank—is walking by the cell again. “Hey, Shapes, I heard you’re getting out soon.”
Jedidiah chooses not to respond. The guard mocks him with that name.
Frank looks about the cell, assessing the triangle patterns. He looks like he’s about to open up the cell to come in, but instead he just grins and walks away. “See you around, Shapes.”

[Gobbo]

I REALLY, REALLY WISH YOU WOULD ENABLE THAT PHPBB [PRE] FUNCTION SO I COULD INDENT THESE PARAGRAPHS.


TRYING TO FORMAT THIS SHIT IS HARDER THAN TRYING TO WIPE SMALL PIECES OF SHREDDED CHEESE OFF OF A WET COUNTER.

[Gobbo]

For Travis, the key to biting nails and picking the skin around them is to remember that one can rarely make a cut straight across, or retaining the same depth. Human skin is interconnected, and it takes years of practiced obsessive compulsion to even begin to fathom the way in which one might make a natural pull. Sure, one could use a set of nail clippers to jaggedly erect right angles in the crevices around a thumb, but there is no artistry in that. To go for the gold—to peel away the overused and so hardened skin that comprises the arch of any finger—without any blood, or the hint of pink flesh, that is the grail of any that might seek this grail of oral fixation.
Disgusted at himself for thinking this way, Travis hides fingers carefully as he navigates the aisles of the local pharmacy, looking for a new set of nail clippers. Since he has been hitting his vaporizer he walks back and forth in the store with a marked lack of direction or methodology to his shopping. The faint smell of weed the inability to open his eyes betrays his otherwise composed attire. He finally finds a set of nail clippers and brings them to the counter.
“I assume that you found everything that you need?”
Travis cannot tell if it’s a question or a comment, from the rather relaxed way in which the 30-something blonde working the counter asks. He gets the feeling she is trying to expedite his leaving the store because of the smell. Usually the cashiers at this particular brand of pharmacy say say ‘looking for’ instead of ‘need.’ Maybe she knows exactly how much he needs this? There is someone behind him in line.
“Yes. That is it.”
He proceeds to hand her his bankcard, and several attempts later, the transaction has still not gone through. The cashier looks to the next person in line apologetically.
“Here, let me try.”
Travis grips his bankcard with the agility of a magician, ripping it through the swipe slot with a torrent of rushing air passing plastic. He then proceeds to spin it around on his finger, and back into his wallet with flair of showmanship.
TRANSACTION APPROVED
“Wow.” A woman’s voice can be heard behind Travis. “That was…impressive.”
He turns around to meet his dream girl.
“Thanks,” he says instinctively.
Her hair is threaded from silk vapors of blonde that shine in the retail luminescence, and her hipster glasses and anime-style alludes to a proclivity in gaming. Wouldn’t that be nice? “I use my hands a lot for…” Let’s not get excited, Travis, “…my interests.”
She grins mischievously.
Naturally her eyes find their way to his fingers, the topic of the conversation, and Travis can see the exact point that her vision is met with the mangled bare flesh that enshrouds his stubbly nails.
“Would you like your receipt?” The cashier demands his attention. There is now someone behind the girl who is behind him.
“No, thank you.”
Travis glances back to the girl as he moves forward with his purchase. She does not want to exchange any more looks, let alone a phone number, staring straight ahead at the cashier as if a steel rod had been implanted into her neck to prevent motion.
Travis arrives back at home and clips away and unneeded skin, carving the messy pulls down to a base level of raw, but uniform skin. Lotion. Underneath he can see the blood that keeps him alive coursing through is body, just barely contained as this fingertips evidence. He would allow himself to think back about all of the years he has allowed his subconscious to override the conscious with the demanding impulses of the Id, but he has no time for that. A deeper call can be heard ringing from the midst of his mental city, and it is one that Travis must answer.
He flies into his computer seat. His hands take positions of already ancient prominence on the keyboard and mouse.

[Ichthus]

Enjoying

[Gobbo]

Wendy Newman considers herself an eco-friendly individual, so when she overhears the young man on the bus employing what could only be called a travesty of logic, she knows she had to do something. On warm summer days such as this one, there is a certain air of necessity, for who knows how many there are left?

There are those on the earth for whom the grace of nature has endowed with the ability to see the grace of nature, and Wendy is one such individual. She knows the difference between the so called ‘right’ and ‘wrong' because the garden god speaks through her vines, and we're all a part of the garden. There is no deterring Wendy that all on earth exist to serve her. Not even if Wendy's life should come to it.

What did he say?

“I said it’s perfectly fine to litter in certain areas because people are literally paid to pick up trash in those areas. I watch these people walking around with nothing to do; I am giving them something to do.”

“So, what, you just throw stuff on the ground when you could otherwise throw it in a trashcan?” One of the friends of the man in the blue sweater poises this question. Instead of a blue sweater he wears a tight muscle T-shirt, which can just barely contain his possibly drug-infused physique.

Wendy thinks this question is a good one. She allows her attention to wash over the halfway attractive acquaintance. In fact, she wants to admit that the young man with the T-shirt seems to have more of a mind about himself, and is a near-perfect ten—however a body so marinated in psychic unpleasantries of a diet of almost all store bought meat means unsightly protein oils in the acne of his brow. Wendy puts her mind back to the original culprit.

“Sure. Watch this.”

The “this” is the opening of the bus window, and his shoving the pop can in his hand, out through the glass slot.

“What’s that supposed to prove?” T-shirt asks, watching the can bounce on the sidewalk before the bus move them out of range. Columns of sunlight stream through the metal apparatus as it breezes through the warm summer day.

“We’re on the campus. One of the jobs they have is for people to pick up litter and tidy up the grounds. “It’s the same thing as when you go the movie theatre, and leave your garbage there. People come afterwards to pick it up.”

The bus is coming to what appears to be their stop. Wendy gets ready to get off as well.

“…I think it would be the same if I went to the movie theatre and just purposely threw shit around.”

They both get up and proceed to exit the bus.

And what happened after that?

Wendy didn’t explain the details on how she found the man with the blue sweater again; furthermore, her method of identification becomes difficult as he was no longer wearing a blue sweater this time. This particular event took place after the sky had moved to black. Suffice to say, she did find him.

[Ichthus]

I would capitalize the goddess pronouns to be clear they do not refer to Wendy, and the vague ending is a cop-out unless you add some stronger foreshadowing of Wendy's past dealings w/ litterbug sorts.

Also take out the italicized parts or create a character for them.

[Gobbo]

I can see a whole story. Wendy is a straight up psychopath parading around as a psychic. An possibly real psychic. She is willing to kill people without prior provocation.

But these are quick hitters. I had to end it somehow. It was a copout; I really had to go, though.

would capitalize the goddess pronouns to be clear they do not refer to Wendy

She's not receiving instruction from an external god.

Also take out the italicized parts or create a character for them.

I was thinking either psychologist or cop.

[von Rivers]

When Dennis Fran was nine he was placed into a wheelchair permenantly due to a fluke accident. The way that Dennis looks at it (which is away), he should have died that day, so the fact that he lives on with half of his body intake seems like a fair trade. What happened took enough time for Dennis to stare into the face of death long enough to again see life, and he hasn't stopped being thankful to witness earth's gentle embrace. The details--well, they don't matter, because he tries not to think about it.

A few wrinkles, I think.
1. That an accident could have been worse is not likely to make someone think the result was a "fair trade". It's not really a trade at all. Language wrinkle.
2. "Stare in the face of death" is just too cliche, and "earth's gentle embrace" in the same sentence is startlngly dramatic and obscure, and fits oddly with the just previous idea that Denis had gone through some terrible unfortunate tragedy---some "gentle embrace", eh.
3. That Denis tries not to think about the details would imply that the details matter, otherwise he wouldn't need to try not to think about them.

I'm not sure, but maybe these wrinkles arise because you are thinking/writing from the beginning toward the end, rather than from the end toward the beginning. I think you write well, and realize these are just quick scribles.

You'll get the je ne c'est quoi soon, which I'll call sauce for lack of a better word. Have you seen this one? viewtopic.php?f=10&t=178465&p=2294367...THAT's some sauce

[Helandhighwater]

I read that as Quick Hitlers. Which I would imagine would be a pretty interesting read.

My Sims character is currently writing a Book called a Brief History of Onanism, after finishing his best seller: Spanking the Monkey which rode on the back of his widely acclaimed and also best selling opening novel, Numb Left Handed Ham Shandies. My next novel will be a space opera based on the musical The Rocky Horror Picture Show called From the Rear with all guns blazing, I know it's childish, but for some reason it amuses me.

Interesting shorts btw.

[Slow John]

PART ONE

When Dennis was nine he was permanently relegated to a wheelchair due to a freak accident. Dennis tells himself that since he probably should have died that day, and instead came out with half a body, he is fortunate and should be grateful.

Furthermore, the accident supposedly afforded Dennis a good, long stare into the face of death, and surviving it allowed him to see and appreciate the simple gift of life with uncommon clarity. A blessing, really.

Dennis continues to be thankful for the gentleness with which the Earth turns, the grand sweep of the universe, and the privilege to think and learn and marvel. By contrast, the details of his disfigurement and disabilities don't seem to matter much.

Dennis spends oceans of time on the Internet, and also just thinking, staring into the middle distance, reviewing the various passages and portals of his mental adventures. He's at peace in a cerebral world, where others might become restless – the wheelchair triathaletes and ball players who chase after the rush of sports, push themselves, struggle to hold on to the physical world, the power of body.

But not Dennis. He never liked sports to begin with, so if anyone was to be afflicted in this way, it should, perhaps, be him, who prefers the boundless speed and creative grace of a net ninja, cortex lunging and twirling through cyberspace, leaping from digital building to building, investigating make-shift rooms of online forums and second-life workplaces; every analog alcove and bit torrent territory, etched out in the pixels of his mind from the annals of the underground to the tip of the zeitgeist – all this, merely staring at a screen.

This worldview worked for Dennis, until one night, he realized he wanted something...something he didn't have, and wouldn't have, unless he went to the grocery store, his caretakers having left for the evening.

After years of asceticism, Dennis' biology mysteriously, inexplicably roars from its crib.

It's saying, "watermelon."

And though Dennis' body is weak, and the predicted journey labyrinthian and fraught with peril, Dennis knows at once, his biology will not be denied.

He turns off the computer, the screen goes black.

PART TWO

??? (Perhaps in this section Dennis has a run-in with the Quick Hitlers. Just a thought, not married to it.)

[Gobbo]

That was awesome. It motivated me to write something else, but unfortunately I cannot publish it here.

[Gobbo]

Sargent Jacob Meyers watches the “Liberate the Lemonades” group, some single-day bullshit event from the larger, transnational hippie conspiracy “We Are Change” group, as they intentionally break the law in front of the White House. Selling cups of lemonade for ‘ten cents,’ they are luring people in to drink the lemonade. It is a hot day, and a drink like that would seem appealing.

“Liberate the lemons.”

His annoyance with these people is rising, and several other police officers have arrived on the scene as well. Unlike the others, he is a member of the Smithsonian Lodge of Maryland, and he has been given a direct order by his ranking officer, another lodge member:

Instances where the law is being broken by anyone who seems to have a clear understanding of the law, is to be dealt with in a way that would be a deterrent to those who do not.

These, mostly kids, are law students and other civil rights activists who are here to make a point. Sargent Meyers doesn’t really fucking care what that point is; all he cares about is the fact that they're trying to intentionally do something illegal and use the cover of something that people happen to like as the backdrop in which to do it. It’s past the point where people should be able to just disrupt government because they feel like it, and it’s Jacob’s job as a police officer to operate in the grey to work to disestablish some of the more archaic, and restricting laws the constitution places on police officers and the work that they do. It may not be the most important work, but it is important. Sargent Meyers keeps these punks safe at night.

In the lodge you learn that your will power stems from a divine order, and to accept impedance is nothing short of blasphemy. This is an important lesson to learn as a cop, and Jacob has become better for it. The uninitiated are irrelevant. The lodge has their plans, to which he is not fully privy, but if preventing these nutjob fucks on the front lawn of the White House from accomplishing their socially disruptive mission is a part of it, then Jacob will use his positioning in society to aid in the great work—after all, it is of the divine order, and the ends of the craft supersede the individual whims of kids on computers. They wouldn't understand even this police officer just spilled the beans suddenly.

“Get your lemonade.”
“Ten Cents.”

A young family walks up to Sargent Meyers: Mom, Dad, and two kids. “What is going on here officer?” the father asks.

“This group of radicals is selling lemonade without a permit.” Sargent Meyers keeps a neutral tone. “We’re surveying the situation.”

The family looks other to the young kids and similar parents lining up for the drink. “Seems harmless.” The mother this time. She forces a laugh to emphasize her observation, glaring at Sargent Meyers.

“Ma’am, with all due respect, I’m not at liberty to discuss the full extent of the details at play here.”

The father, a relatively demur-looking man pipes up with more force now. “You’re not at liberty to discuss why there are 6 police officers standing around watching a lemonade stand instead of policing the streets?”

“Not the full extent of those details, no, sir.”

Meyers, come in, over.

The Sargent picks up his radio from its attachment on his breast pocket. “Meyers here.”

This is Brass. How many people are there filming now?

Jacob surveys the situation. “I would say about seven or eight.”

The family he was talking to is now looking around as well. Meyers walks away from them to get some privacy. The father mutters something about being a “public servant.”

Shut it down. Arrest them all. Use whatever force required.

“Yes, sir.” Jacob turns back to the family, who has not yet moved into the line. “Alright, folks, show is over,” he says to them, before turning back around to the gathering of people, moving into it and shouting what he said again much more loudly. “Alright, folks, show is over. These people are all under arrest for selling lemonade without a permit,” Sargent Meyers finishes, walking up to the lemonade stand. He gives the rest of the squad the signal “No one here moves. You’re all under arrest.”

The cops move in, repeating the verdict, grabbing the mostly female perpetrators. Jacob grabs one in particular he found the most annoying, squeezing her arm in such a way that it hurts without bruising.

“Ow! Watch it!”
“You’re under arrest. Put your hands behind your back.”
“For selling lemonade? That is fucking absurd!”

Someone else from the on looking audience chimes in. “Why don’t you go police the actual criminals?”

He gives this a response tailored for the camera, turning to look directly in it, flashing a lucid grin. “This group knowingly sold lemonade without a permit. We gave them multiple warnings to leave, and they proceeded to ignore those warnings. They wanted to get arrested, and now they are.”

“Don’t you see what you’re turning this country into? We’re going to put this footage on Youtube. People are starting to get fed up with these unlawful actions of police officers!”

Sargent Meyers grins to himself.