New Writing Assignment

Use this picture I found on Photobucket and write a story about (or indirectly concerning) this photo. Leave your short story here or post it on your own blog and comment a link. Good luck!

part of a book

"Ya like my little Spongebob window cling, doncha?" the haggard trucker whistled through a sly grin of missing teeth and gum disease. He motioned to a small fabric reproduction of Spongebob Squarepants which hug with suction cup hands and stared blankly into infinity. Infinity, or perhaps oblivion.

There were times when this old trucker would laugh away the miles and hours, locked in an intriguing dialogue with Mr. Pants. Neither of them were going anywhere for a while, atleast not in the spacial sense, so what better way to pass the time and distance than with good conversation among old friends?

This time, however, he was not speaking to Bob. Instead, he was speaking to Penny. Penny was a small, gangly girl, age 11. Her coal black hair hung heavy and wet around her face, except on the left side which was bitten back with a skull-headed clip. This was normally the sign of a dark and twisted youth, but in Penny's case it wasn't so. To the contrary, Penny had quite an elevated spirit. Her grandfather had always taught her -

Her grandfather.

Penny's elevated spirit dropped. She felt herself melt into the truck's springy passenger seat as her head wilted towards her lap. She could hardly hold herself upright any longer.

"You look tired, missy," snaggletooth trucker guy said. In reality, his name was Herman. He had spotted Penny walking through a torrential downpour along the edge of I-109 and had actually turned his truck around to pick her up. He wasn't a bad person, in fact he was quite the good samaritan. He asked Penny where she was going and asked if she'd like a ride.

Penny had spoken about a place called Mesmer Mansion.

"Oh yeah, the haunted mansion at the Mesmer Carnival Site," trucker had replied, without missing a beat. He knew very well of Mesmer Carnival, as he had visited it many times as a kid. Most everyone in Clearwater and surrounding areas had been there. It was a big deal in it's days of operation, which - as far as trucker Hermin knew - stretched all the way back to 1892.

Penny went on to explain that after the fire of 1947 which destroyed 90% of Mesmer Carnival, it's mysterious curator and namesake - Alfred Mesmer - simply vanished, and a young caretaker left at the carnival grounds, remained in Mesmer Mansion awaiting the return of his boss.

This caretaker was Penny's grandfather, Daniel Lennon. He had stayed in Mesmer Mansion long after accepting the fact that his boss wasn't coming back. He had raised a family in Mesmer Mansion, watched them grow up and move out on their own. He watched from Mesmer Hall as his children each had their own families and children, and grew particularly interested in Penny. She was always quick and bright - sharp as a tack - and he just knew there was something special inside her that would literally change the world.

Penny loved her grandfather dearly, and was practically raised by him. One year ago her grandfather vanished from his home at Mesmer Mansion and although the family still felt a small ember of hope in their heart, they were all slowly coming to the agreement that grandfather was gone forever. In an effort to accept this, today was the day of his mock funeral. People would cry, songs would be sung and nice words said, but it would all be in the presence of an empty box.

To be continued...

Write Club Ghost Town

Come on. Surely there is one other creative person in our Blogger circle. Someone put their talent where their mouth is and join Write Club! It's gonna get really old if I just post all the stories.

The Pussification of Modern Man : Volume One

by Rush Montgomery III

My name is Tom Norman. Yes, two first names. My family is the Normans. Originally Vikings, they were comprised of the Viking outcasts. While Olef the Strong and Erik the Criminally Insane were busy chewing on branches and kicking the asses of trees to produce their mighty sailing vessels, my Viking ancestors - Kell the Kindhearted and Norman the Nice - were generally looked-down upon by their peers, and given a boat if they promised to sail in the other direction and never come back.

On one particular day, the regular Viking war machine sailed West towards the Americas, where - as an interesting side note - they were all abducted and dissected by aliens. The Normans, captained by the ever friendly Norman the Nice, sailed into Scotland, where they quickly had their asses kicked crooked.

After the battle, the Normans and Scotts decided it might be better to just shag a little, and this produced the Scottish Normans. My great-grandfather Shaney Norman was the guy who suggested potatoes might be a good source of food.

His son, Mallory Norman, inherited the family’s potato farm and grew it into Scotland’s largest potato production facility. The Norman family became one of the wealthiest and most-influential families in Scotland. At the height of their fame, there was even an honorary beer named for them. Norman Special Hopps or something like that.

Mallory’s son, Vermil, was a tinkerer. He was interested in odd contraptions and science. As a child, he would often build bombs to blow up chicken coops, much to the village’s dismay. He soon inherited the family potato production plant, and quickly upgraded it with the latest in potato processing machinery, opening a new division to produce chemicals that would revolutionize the way potatoes were grown. Vermil Norman became the accidental inventor of an anti-root vegetable bomb which exploded across Scotland, producing what history refers to as “The Great Potato Famine”.

The Normans quickly spawned a following. A following of people who seethed with hatred at the mere mention of the Norman name. The Norman surname even spawned its own word for the entire world to use in mockery - normal. Normal was a word that cursed a person to limbo, by not being much of a threat against anyone, but also not being much help. To be normal, meant that you were neither here, nor there, but just kind’a stuck in the middle - lost in obscurity.

The Normans were then moved far away from Scotland, to do harm on another land of people that was reportedly made up of the same kind of tinkering riff-raff shipped out of England during the "Purification", which most Americans refer to as Independence Day. There are always two sides to every story, as my conspiracy theorist friend Stan always says.

My grandfather, Shamus Norman, was a captain in the Navy. In 1944, during a major battle with the Germans, he dove off of a sinking oil tanker, swam 3 miles in the icy waters of the North Atlantic, and climbed on board an unsuspecting nazi U-boat. Before they knew what hit them, he tore open the hatch, dove into the submarine, slit everyone’s throat, and single-handedly drove the bastard back to the American shore... This morning I got a paper cut reading my Danielle Steel novel and it hurt so bad I cried like a lost kitten in the fetal position for 3 hours.

Shamus Norman planted soybeans, cotton, corn, potatoes... He tilled the soil, marched the field watering and inspecting, day after day with the hot sun blistering down on his dark, muscular, sinewy skin. He single-handedly plowed up 15 acres, and planted all his crops with a manual plow that he pulled himself. I spend most of my time digging through mushy eggplants at the grocery store and complaining that their tangerines aren’t as fresh as I’d like them to be.

My grandfather is the type of guy who suffered 3 heart attacks in a span of 4 years, and never once went to the doctor because he didn’t want to be a pussy about it. This morning I called in sick because I was coming down with a headache. The week before, I found a lump on my bunghole and I ended up quivering like jelly on the examining table with the doctor’s middle digit up my piehole, only to be diagnosed with what the medical profession calls a hemorrhoid.

My grandfather still lives today in a house that he built. He just walked in the forest and kicked the shit out of some trees. Beat them down with a double-bladed axe and whipped them into a log cabin. He built all the furniture - coffee tables, chairs, dining room furniture. He wired the electricity, laid the plumbing, did all the carpentry. I once bought a desk from IKEA, had it delivered and then ended up on their tech support line for 4 hours trying to get help translating Dutch instructions into English. I ended up hanging up and paying my 10-year-old nephew to put the damned thing together.

All of the advancements of my ancestors were done with sticks and hammers and shoe leather and sweat and tears, and although the Normans fucked up, they accomplished things. I sit here at my PC doing nothing. I’ve sat at my PC doing nothing for the past 30 minutes, because I can’t make the damned thing start.

Vikings plundered civilizations with a tree log boat and axes, and I can’t make my computer start. My computer that is so smart and fast, and without which my own personal life doesn’t exist.

If the Vikings had seen a computer back in their day, they would have either smashed it to bits for being so odd looking, or worshipped it like a god. I can’t even get a fucking C prompt.

The Third Rule of Write Club

...is if this is your first time here, you have to write.

Come on! More people join! More people write!

The Benefit of Being Numb

by Rush Montgomery III

Kurt looked down at the city's lights. For a moment the world was smeared with the glaze of too much medication, giving the traffic below a liquid appearance. Radiant amoebas swirled and intertwined, molesting one another with their threads of luminescence.

What am I doing? he managed to think. This is all fucked up.

Kurt leaned a little too far over the edge of the building rooftop on which he had perched. His hand slid on the coarse concrete lip of the roof's parapet, and was immediately warm with a flood of fresh blood.

Christ, the colors, Kurt commented of the world that even still danced rhythmically beneath him. It all seemed to pulse to the beat of a patternless and almost incomprehensible song.

Tires on pavement. Angry motorists honking. Tired engines revving.

Beep. Honk. Click. Slam. Scream.

Doors. Tires. People. Dogs.

Kurt stumbled away from the world orchestra and teetered on one weak leg momentarily. His mind reeled, his world shifted dramatically from wonder to fear, and he toppled helplessly onto his back. He thought for a moment to focus on the pain in his lower back, he thought for a moment to focus on the warm river of blood which was filling his palm and soaking his right sleeve, and then eventually decided to focus instead on his heart, which was beating out of his chest.

My God, I'm dying, he decided, and fumbled with his good hand, trying to grip a large enough portion of reality to set himself upright. Instead, Kurt gripped an empty pill bottle.

Across a swirling maelstrom of hallucination, Kurt's left hand reeled in the bottle, in the hopes that he could reach his limited field of vision. Pulling and pulling across the endless haze, his hand – with bottle in tow – pulled to a stop just beyond the tip of his nose.

Zoloft, it read.

What have I done? his mind asked. Even throughout the pain and confusion, he was able to question his actions, yet with the questions he asked, more questions surfaced.

How did I get here? Why did I take these pills? Am I dying?

My God, I'm dying.

Through the haze, Kurt noticed a shapeless form swimming. It bobbed rhythmically from side to side. It grew and grew and grew until it seemed to fill his field of view. It twisted and contorted and the top portion seemed to shrink and fold in on itself. Then, just as the top seemed to vanish completely, it was apparent that it was actually growing. More that growing, it was moving closer.

Someone is with me, Kurt finally realized. This shapeless form was a person, and they were leaning in close to him.

"Hello, Kurt," the person said. It was a familiar voice, and Kurt was more than surprised to realize that he could understand them.

Kurt tried for a moment to reply, and eventually came to the realization that it would not be possible. His mind was awash with strange vision as if he were lost in a waking dream. He could not speak, he could not move, but he could understand.

"You've really fucked up this time," the voice spoke again.

Have I? he asked himself. He couldn't make much sense of what he was seeing, but he was slightly aware of the fact that he had not done this to himself. His head ached with a dull throb. Had he hit his head earlier during the fall? No, he was sure it had hurt from the very beginning.

"You"ve always been a fucking wasted pillhead," the voice spoke. It was muffled and warped, like playback from a melted record, but it was becoming familiar, as if he was able to tune it in through the interference. The voice was Kurt's wife Cynthia.

"You think you'd be a better parent then me, Kurt?" she asked, knowing he couldn’t respond. "You think you can just take my baby away from me?"

"I –" Kurt gasped. It was a word. He had managed a word, and it felt surreal. He seemed to focus on that one word, that self-defining pronoun, for an eternity. He was more than surprised that he was able to say anything at all, and extremely dismayed to suddenly be drowned by the realization that he would be unable to finish his sentence.

There was something in his mouth. It was cold and hard, but no other feature of the item was immediately apparent. It was cold and hard, and it tasted somewhat like blood. It wasn't blood.

"No one will miss a washed-up pillhead," Cynthia said and punctuated with a snap of her fingers. It wasn't her fingers. It was a familiar sound, and it wasn't the sound of finger snapping.

There was a flood of vision, perhaps even a flood of realization. Kurt could see his childhood, sitting under a bridge and playing a dime store guitar poorly. There was the seedy clubs, the smoke-filled bars, the sound of punk music.

Screaming. Banging. Stomping.

Beep. Honk. Click. Slam. Scream.

Kurt had met his best friend in a underground punk club. His friend's name was Steve. Kurt called him Steve-o. Steve-o would take him to other local punk and hard rock clubs. Steve-o introduced Kurt to Phil.

Phil was a pusher. Phil dealt in weed. Phil dealt in coke. Phil dealt in OTC pharmaceuticals.

Kurt bought weed. Kurt bought coke. Kurt bought Zoloft, Xanax, Lithium, Prozac, Adderall, Straterra, Concerta, Ritalin, Dexedrine.

If Jesus wanted the world to love, he should have given Zoloft to his disciples.

Phil had given him every feel-good drug known to man. Phil had also introduced Kurt to Cynthia. Cynthia was also into weed, coke and OTC meds. During punk shows, Kurt and Cynthia would screw in the maintenance closet behind the stage. There was something about having sex with an audience cheering, something that made it all better.

It was at one such rendezvous that their daughter Piper was conceived. Piper was an angel sent from God. A God, oddly enough, whom Kurt had grown to hate.

"Where are you, fuckhead?" Cynthia asked, obviously aware of Kurt’s drug-induced daydreams. "I need you here for the finale."

The cold, hard object stirred in his mouth. His teeth clicked against it, but Kurt couldn't feel the sensation directly. It was almost as if he was dreaming the entire event.

Blood, Kurt thought of the taste. It wasn’t blood, it was metal.

It wasn't finger snapping, it was the hammer click of a handgun.

Phil had introduced Kurt to Cynthia. Cynthia and Kurt had a daughter, Piper. Piper was three and Cynthia suggested they should have protection against anyone who might hurt them. Cynthia had convinced Kurt to buy a handgun.

There had been fights and arguments. Piper had gone for days to stay with grandma. Sometimes days were weeks. Kurt and Cynthia would fight. There would be loud arguments, shouting, arms flailing.

There would be weed, there would be coke, there would be OTC meds and fucking on the floor.

Kurt began to pray. If the complete absence of God was leaving Kurt in a world of shit and drug-abuse, perhaps the smallest bit of God added to his life couldn’t possibly hurt anything.

Out of the haze, Kurt began to view his own life. There was too much weed, there was too much coke, there were too many pharmaceuticals. Kurt would have to slow down, to back out. He'd have to get his life straight.

This suggestion was passed to Cynthia, but it's common knowledge that one person's epiphany is not easily shared with others. She was not receptive to the thought and scoffed and laughed at Kurt. Kurt had decided to leave Cynthia.

"I can't leave Piper with her," he had confided in Steve-o. Steve-o was his best friend and would surely understand. What's more, he would surely help him break away from Cynthia and live a normal life with his daughter.

Steve-o was Kurt's best friend, but weak to the desires of the flesh. Many nights, he had rolled lustfully on the floor with Cynthia, who had pulled him deep inside her. Through sweaty kisses, he had revealed Kurt’s plan, almost as the punchline to some cruel joke.

Screaming. Banging. Stomping.

Beep. Honk. Click. Slam. Scream.

There had been a phone call to Kurt.

"Meet me downtown on the roof of the Walker Building," Cynthia had asked. It was a place they had often gone to have sex. The view of the stars from the rooftop was breathtaking. "We need to talk."

Kurt had gone, had walked out onto the rooftop. There was an explosion of light, like a camera flashbulb popping. The world tilted.

Suddenly, even trough the haze, everything made sense again.

My God, I'm dying.

Unknowingly to Kurt, and ceasing all remaining memory, the hammer fell.

The Second Rule of Write Club

is to kick rush in the nuts. I KID! I KID!

anyhoo, just checking to see if this piece o' crap works.

love ya. call me.

The First Rule Of Write Club...

Is you don't talk about Write Club. The sucky thing is I created this blog under my profile, so it has the same picture and info as my other blog and I can't change it. Ah well, I could always start another blog, but I'm not sure if you can do that with the same email address. Ah well, no biggie. Just log in, post your stories, etc. If you'd like admission in the circle of writers, just email me.