blogspam?
Good god, there sure are a lot of independent record stores around me and up into Lakeview/Wicker Park. This is DANGEROUS for my bank account but AWESOME for me.
So since I'm taking creative writing...what the heck else am I going to use the LJ for? Might as well post all the shit I have to write. Watch me progress in real time! I've got two poems and a short story due Wednesday. For the short story, we had to free write in class while the prof gave prompts ('write some dialog that ends in a question mark,' 'write a sentence with a dash in it,' 'write something shocking,' etc) then turn that free writing into a 3-page story. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out, but I do see areas that need improvement. Anyway, without further ado!
P.S. Margi is the name of my boo, but the character isn't based on her!
‘til-death-do-us-part
“It’s these goddamn terrorists Margi, I swear to Christ! They’re going to be the death of me.” With a miserable huff, Oliver Collins pushed a hunk of crusted-over mashed potatoes to its side. His breath, foul of brisket, lingered longer than Margi would have liked. She scooted her plastic patio chair away from the kitchen table and rocked back a little.
“Every ten feet, it’s burka burka burka. Would you believe? I was doing my laps at the pool, and damned if I didn’t see a couple girls- I think they were girls- go running by. Jogging, you know? In their little scarves!” Margi clenched her teeth, but she didn’t realize it. The CBS Evening News flickered on the kitchen TV, and the washed-out beiges, reds and grays of Fallujah transformed into the jarring yellows, greens and purples of the San Diego Zoo. Ling-Ling and Mei Xiang still hadn’t humped, and Margi unclenched her teeth.
“Was the roast good?” Margi fished for a compliment as she picked at her sizable slab of lingering brisket.
“Could’ve used less salt- I about had a heart attack. No, it was fine.” With a chalkboard scrape, Oliver cut the last chunk of meat on his plate into two lumpy cubes, and forked the less charred of the two into his mouth. He spat some gristle at his plate, and it bounced off a flawless, if cold, cob of corn onto the equally cold tile floor. Margi picked up the congealed sperm-looking glop with a paper towel and threw it in the sink disposal.
“Yeah, I guess…but still and all? What was your favorite part of dinner? If you liked something in particular, I can make it more often…looks like you did pretty good on those potatoes!”
“I mean, it was all pretty okay. Did you pick up any ice cream sandwiches?” Oliver held his plate out at his wife, his eyes darting from her to the adorable herpes-infested couple dawdling down a white sand beach in an AstraZeneca commercial.
Pissed she hadn’t received one compliment satisfactory that night, and more so that Oliver thought she was his fucking mother, Margi decided in the name of righteous indignation to troll her husband.
“You know Ollie,” she said with a musical lilt to her voice, “I was reading in the Reader’s Digest today- there was this great article in the Health section. Kali…Gibran, Gibraltar or something was the author- a Muslim. But it wasn’t all ‘death to America, death to America,’ he was talking about peace and how to live a happy life. You should read it!” She sung at him. “I can steal the office’s copy if you want to-“
“What?”
“I said, in the Reader’s Digest-“ She knew he was about one match from an arson, but kept pressing in spite of his impending wrath. She balled up her fists, but she didn’t realize it.
“No, I heard you” Oliver interrupted again. Calmly, sternly. He stood up. “You don’t understand them, Marj. You don’t goddamn know.” He worked the spit around his mouth. At this, Margi knew what was coming.
“Their eyes bulging out under those turbans, always plotting, scheming, plotting something.” He was a mountain. “I see the way they look at me! All the fucking time!” No, he was a dormant volcano. “You don’t have to worry, do you? You just wander blissfully through life like everything’s fine.” Rumble. ”Well not me- I see what’s going on.” Rumble. “Those fucking terrorists think they can bomb Oliver Collins, they got another thing coming- and now I’ve got heartburn, oh Jesus!” Ka-boom! “You know what, Margi? Fuck you, and fuck your heartburn-inducing brisket. Fuck the terrorists *cough* fuck the *cough* brisket, and fuck *cough cough* fuck the…”
Margi closed her eyes and tuned out her private travel-sized Mount Olympia. After seven years of blissful ‘til-death-do-us-part, she’d gotten to be a pro at this. She counted her breaths: one through ten, back down to zero, and repeat. She did her visualizations. She was copasetic, she was a stone, she was floating. One more lung-bursting breath, and she opened her eyes, interrupting his tirade with her burly glower.
“Ollie, I’ve fucked my share of Persians, and I can assure you- some of them are genuinely kind, gentle guys- really. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not terrorists, not Islamo-crazies, just guys, alright? They’re just fucking people, which is more than I can say for you.” She unballed her fists. Ollie’s ass hit his chair with all the weight of a Buick.
“Jesus, I feel like I have a brick on my chest” he wheezed out. “Fuck, Jesus!”
“Yeah, I’ll bet!” Intermission, she thought, but it wasn’t.
“No, I mean…Marj, Jesus Christ.” He pushed all the air out of his lungs through pursed lips like he was throwing a 200 pound bench press.
Margi could smell the familiar stench of poorly-chewed meat and flat Coors on her husband’s breath as it hit her face, but all he could taste was copper.
So since I'm taking creative writing...what the heck else am I going to use the LJ for? Might as well post all the shit I have to write. Watch me progress in real time! I've got two poems and a short story due Wednesday. For the short story, we had to free write in class while the prof gave prompts ('write some dialog that ends in a question mark,' 'write a sentence with a dash in it,' 'write something shocking,' etc) then turn that free writing into a 3-page story. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out, but I do see areas that need improvement. Anyway, without further ado!
P.S. Margi is the name of my boo, but the character isn't based on her!
‘til-death-do-us-part
“It’s these goddamn terrorists Margi, I swear to Christ! They’re going to be the death of me.” With a miserable huff, Oliver Collins pushed a hunk of crusted-over mashed potatoes to its side. His breath, foul of brisket, lingered longer than Margi would have liked. She scooted her plastic patio chair away from the kitchen table and rocked back a little.
“Every ten feet, it’s burka burka burka. Would you believe? I was doing my laps at the pool, and damned if I didn’t see a couple girls- I think they were girls- go running by. Jogging, you know? In their little scarves!” Margi clenched her teeth, but she didn’t realize it. The CBS Evening News flickered on the kitchen TV, and the washed-out beiges, reds and grays of Fallujah transformed into the jarring yellows, greens and purples of the San Diego Zoo. Ling-Ling and Mei Xiang still hadn’t humped, and Margi unclenched her teeth.
“Was the roast good?” Margi fished for a compliment as she picked at her sizable slab of lingering brisket.
“Could’ve used less salt- I about had a heart attack. No, it was fine.” With a chalkboard scrape, Oliver cut the last chunk of meat on his plate into two lumpy cubes, and forked the less charred of the two into his mouth. He spat some gristle at his plate, and it bounced off a flawless, if cold, cob of corn onto the equally cold tile floor. Margi picked up the congealed sperm-looking glop with a paper towel and threw it in the sink disposal.
“Yeah, I guess…but still and all? What was your favorite part of dinner? If you liked something in particular, I can make it more often…looks like you did pretty good on those potatoes!”
“I mean, it was all pretty okay. Did you pick up any ice cream sandwiches?” Oliver held his plate out at his wife, his eyes darting from her to the adorable herpes-infested couple dawdling down a white sand beach in an AstraZeneca commercial.
Pissed she hadn’t received one compliment satisfactory that night, and more so that Oliver thought she was his fucking mother, Margi decided in the name of righteous indignation to troll her husband.
“You know Ollie,” she said with a musical lilt to her voice, “I was reading in the Reader’s Digest today- there was this great article in the Health section. Kali…Gibran, Gibraltar or something was the author- a Muslim. But it wasn’t all ‘death to America, death to America,’ he was talking about peace and how to live a happy life. You should read it!” She sung at him. “I can steal the office’s copy if you want to-“
“What?”
“I said, in the Reader’s Digest-“ She knew he was about one match from an arson, but kept pressing in spite of his impending wrath. She balled up her fists, but she didn’t realize it.
“No, I heard you” Oliver interrupted again. Calmly, sternly. He stood up. “You don’t understand them, Marj. You don’t goddamn know.” He worked the spit around his mouth. At this, Margi knew what was coming.
“Their eyes bulging out under those turbans, always plotting, scheming, plotting something.” He was a mountain. “I see the way they look at me! All the fucking time!” No, he was a dormant volcano. “You don’t have to worry, do you? You just wander blissfully through life like everything’s fine.” Rumble. ”Well not me- I see what’s going on.” Rumble. “Those fucking terrorists think they can bomb Oliver Collins, they got another thing coming- and now I’ve got heartburn, oh Jesus!” Ka-boom! “You know what, Margi? Fuck you, and fuck your heartburn-inducing brisket. Fuck the terrorists *cough* fuck the *cough* brisket, and fuck *cough cough* fuck the…”
Margi closed her eyes and tuned out her private travel-sized Mount Olympia. After seven years of blissful ‘til-death-do-us-part, she’d gotten to be a pro at this. She counted her breaths: one through ten, back down to zero, and repeat. She did her visualizations. She was copasetic, she was a stone, she was floating. One more lung-bursting breath, and she opened her eyes, interrupting his tirade with her burly glower.
“Ollie, I’ve fucked my share of Persians, and I can assure you- some of them are genuinely kind, gentle guys- really. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not terrorists, not Islamo-crazies, just guys, alright? They’re just fucking people, which is more than I can say for you.” She unballed her fists. Ollie’s ass hit his chair with all the weight of a Buick.
“Jesus, I feel like I have a brick on my chest” he wheezed out. “Fuck, Jesus!”
“Yeah, I’ll bet!” Intermission, she thought, but it wasn’t.
“No, I mean…Marj, Jesus Christ.” He pushed all the air out of his lungs through pursed lips like he was throwing a 200 pound bench press.
Margi could smell the familiar stench of poorly-chewed meat and flat Coors on her husband’s breath as it hit her face, but all he could taste was copper.