She was a zombie and a zombie, she was. She recalls ringing in her ears as truck hit the back of her bike and the front metal grill smashed into the back of her skull. She recalls the lights fading through the muffled gasps and screams of people around her for an ambulance. She even recalls the sense of cold as her heart stopped beating. What she does not recall is ever wanting to eat brains.
That was the stereotype from movies and horror novels. Undead beings roaming the streets without a thought in their heads only sensing the living and seeking the next meal hidden within their skulls like the crab shacks she used to go to while visiting family on the east coast. Now she only sees heat patterns in people and the shocked crowd backing away as she stands between the paramedics crouched and falling backwards as they had just pronounced her dead on the scene. She could see them clearly as she had to lift her head to see any direction other than straight down. Her neck muscles seemed to be failing her post-crash and she had to place a hand on each temple to direct her line of sight. It would be difficult to get back on her bike and ride home this way, but she had to get home. The remodelers were installing the granite counter top in the new kitchen today and she would rather die than miss that. She figured she could grab a handful of hair and ride home that way, but she was not about to mess up the 45 minutes of blow-drying from the morning.
As the masses parted, she could see the police coming forward tentatively with guns drawn. They were not sure what to make of this situation. It was not within the realm of standard police procedure, but coming back from the dead could be considered a time for "proceed with caution" and that's what they were doing now.
Becka reached down for her bike and stopped. Lying at her feet were both bicycle wheels stacked on top of each other. Each was still attached to the frame bent in half from the truck's front bumper crushing it as the bike turned sideways and the back wheel had caught on the pavement. With a shrug of her shoulders, she began to walk home directly in the path of the police officers aiming at her.
Through what seemed like miles of water, she heard a muffled voice screaming to her. It was the officer in front of her and he was shaking. One more step forward was greeted with a fiery flash and kick in the chest that knocked her over. The bullet had sailed through her chest and out the other side into the crowd hitting a man standing in the doorway of a shop nearby. He dropped instantly to the ground. Both bodies lay still for a moment as the crowd remained silent before both began to stagger to their feet.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Connector: Part 1
He had forgotten who he was in that other world and rightfully so. Curtis had been blacking out for a couple of months, but had only recently sought medical advice for the condition. These blackouts would typically only happen at night at first and he would usually wake up in his own apartment. The location within his apartment could be attributed to sleep walking and the vandalism found in areas seemed to indicate he may have tripped over a coffee table or an ottoman while roaming.
The one piece he was no certain of it's meaning were the marks in groups of fives on the wall next to his dining room table. One morning he would awake strewn on his dining room table and find roughly 1800 scratch marks similar to those on old western, war and prison movies used to track the days of incarceration. That same day, he had returned from the hardware store with plaster patching putty and spent the rest of the day sanding down the dry putty and repainting to wall before he would awake on the table the next morning again with the same marks dug into the wall again save for the addition of one more mark for the new day. The carpet was riddled with paint drops and chunks of putty.
After one more attempt at a patch with the same results, Curtis gave up and attempted to cover the markings with a sheet of plywood screwed into the wall. He then hid his tool in a locked closet in the hallway outside of his apartment and went to bed. The following morning, he found the corners of the plywood firmly screwed to the wall while the remaining body of the wood panel had been hacked out with one of the steak knives from the set on his kitchen counter. It was still leaning against the wall covering some of the old markings. Curtis picked up the large chunk of wood with difficulty as he found his arms were well worn from what must have been an exhausting amount of effort to hack down the board in his sleep.
With a grunt, he chucked the remaining board against his couch with at soft bounce before it landed on his cheap coffee table. the weight of the plywood was well beyond the limits of the flimsy coffee table from the neighborhood salvation army store and one of the legs buckled and snapped off. After a slight burst of vulgarity aimed at the balsa painted a faux oak consistency, he turned to see the normal markings were different today. The previous counts were still there, but behind the newest mark was writing on the wall. After the last mark, he found the words "You can't keep me here forever!" in bold red letters. The closer he got to the wall and the writing, the more aware he was of the faded consistency of the ink used. It smelled slightly of decay and not of the intoxicating fumes of a red marker as he likely would have used in his slumber.
Some sections were stickier and thicker than others such as in the defiant dot at the bottom of the exclamation point and the long downward sweep of the letter "p". Curtis turned to get the paint from the closet when he noticed his front door was open. The chain was ripped from the wall as if forced by an outside intruder. It wasn't until he reached the door that Curtis saw the finger prints on the door in the same red as the lettering as if the door had been ripped open from the inside. On the faded yellow carpet in the landing, he noticed drops of red moving to the stairwell and then he heard the sirens coming down the block.
The one piece he was no certain of it's meaning were the marks in groups of fives on the wall next to his dining room table. One morning he would awake strewn on his dining room table and find roughly 1800 scratch marks similar to those on old western, war and prison movies used to track the days of incarceration. That same day, he had returned from the hardware store with plaster patching putty and spent the rest of the day sanding down the dry putty and repainting to wall before he would awake on the table the next morning again with the same marks dug into the wall again save for the addition of one more mark for the new day. The carpet was riddled with paint drops and chunks of putty.
After one more attempt at a patch with the same results, Curtis gave up and attempted to cover the markings with a sheet of plywood screwed into the wall. He then hid his tool in a locked closet in the hallway outside of his apartment and went to bed. The following morning, he found the corners of the plywood firmly screwed to the wall while the remaining body of the wood panel had been hacked out with one of the steak knives from the set on his kitchen counter. It was still leaning against the wall covering some of the old markings. Curtis picked up the large chunk of wood with difficulty as he found his arms were well worn from what must have been an exhausting amount of effort to hack down the board in his sleep.
With a grunt, he chucked the remaining board against his couch with at soft bounce before it landed on his cheap coffee table. the weight of the plywood was well beyond the limits of the flimsy coffee table from the neighborhood salvation army store and one of the legs buckled and snapped off. After a slight burst of vulgarity aimed at the balsa painted a faux oak consistency, he turned to see the normal markings were different today. The previous counts were still there, but behind the newest mark was writing on the wall. After the last mark, he found the words "You can't keep me here forever!" in bold red letters. The closer he got to the wall and the writing, the more aware he was of the faded consistency of the ink used. It smelled slightly of decay and not of the intoxicating fumes of a red marker as he likely would have used in his slumber.
Some sections were stickier and thicker than others such as in the defiant dot at the bottom of the exclamation point and the long downward sweep of the letter "p". Curtis turned to get the paint from the closet when he noticed his front door was open. The chain was ripped from the wall as if forced by an outside intruder. It wasn't until he reached the door that Curtis saw the finger prints on the door in the same red as the lettering as if the door had been ripped open from the inside. On the faded yellow carpet in the landing, he noticed drops of red moving to the stairwell and then he heard the sirens coming down the block.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Green is the end (not really)
It had been a few weeks since any of them had been back to the surface and a bit of cabin fever was setting in for the six survivors of the Taft attacks. Bill had been the one to admit that he had picked up the land line telephone when it rang out of an old habit from before they had known they were being monitored. The signal sent upon picking up the phone alerted those things to another town of inhabitants back on the grid. The attack did not last long and they were the last six of the twenty inhabitants of the small community of Taft, Iowa. The ground began to rumble as it has been found to do seconds before the bubbling begins and the creatures rise.
As far as they had been able to figure over the past couple of months, the completion of the "How Green Your Planet" campaign which successfully pulled the planet off of depending on any grids for power or oil for creating the power was the beginning of the nightmare. It was the dream the environmentalists had tauted for years and it finally came to pass. Families would power their homes for an eternity on the various devices granted by their government. Wind turbines now gained efficiencies enough to power a small city on just three well placed machines. Individual households did not use his power for themselves after the finding that various waves of sunlight have different energy levels that could now be harnessed with near total efficiency and zero loss. The sudden drop in carbon footprint and CO2 creation was nearly as much of a shock to the planet as the dirty plants people had created a century before.
The monitoring stations near the polar ice caps noted the recreation of many new layers and sizes of glaciers. This was the last report before the teams communications went silent. The best anyone could assume was that these groups could not fully survive on the power of the wind and the solar trappings were negated by the longer periods of night in that region of the planet. A few old gasoline powers generators still existed. The exhaust would have been noticeable now that it would have been one of a minuscule number of points on the earth still putting out that level of CO2. The video captured on the net camera setup at the station was murky due to the bubbling rise up from the ground. These oily things made their way to surface, presumably, by the lack of obvious life thanks to the greening efforts. They must have laid in waiting for their time to rise and over take us when our numbers were low.
The miscalculation on their part did not weaken their strategy and our slow realization that they were not friendly did not cut into their forces. The steaming oil shapes took out multiple researchers on the video before the camera seemingly melted. These kinds of attacks were reported over the following weeks as various towns and cities mistakenly attempted to use old oil based power sources at various times quickly followed by reported earthquakes in the areas. By the time they hit Taft, most of the country had been hit at various times. The Taft hit made it apparent that these things had begun monitoring other utilities to find survivors. That's how Bill's gaffe with the phone was detected. That's how the six of them had ended up in an abandoned fall out shelter from the 1950s and why the other five people were now preparing to mutiny against him and toss him to whatever fate may lie outside the shelter door still.
As far as they had been able to figure over the past couple of months, the completion of the "How Green Your Planet" campaign which successfully pulled the planet off of depending on any grids for power or oil for creating the power was the beginning of the nightmare. It was the dream the environmentalists had tauted for years and it finally came to pass. Families would power their homes for an eternity on the various devices granted by their government. Wind turbines now gained efficiencies enough to power a small city on just three well placed machines. Individual households did not use his power for themselves after the finding that various waves of sunlight have different energy levels that could now be harnessed with near total efficiency and zero loss. The sudden drop in carbon footprint and CO2 creation was nearly as much of a shock to the planet as the dirty plants people had created a century before.
The monitoring stations near the polar ice caps noted the recreation of many new layers and sizes of glaciers. This was the last report before the teams communications went silent. The best anyone could assume was that these groups could not fully survive on the power of the wind and the solar trappings were negated by the longer periods of night in that region of the planet. A few old gasoline powers generators still existed. The exhaust would have been noticeable now that it would have been one of a minuscule number of points on the earth still putting out that level of CO2. The video captured on the net camera setup at the station was murky due to the bubbling rise up from the ground. These oily things made their way to surface, presumably, by the lack of obvious life thanks to the greening efforts. They must have laid in waiting for their time to rise and over take us when our numbers were low.
The miscalculation on their part did not weaken their strategy and our slow realization that they were not friendly did not cut into their forces. The steaming oil shapes took out multiple researchers on the video before the camera seemingly melted. These kinds of attacks were reported over the following weeks as various towns and cities mistakenly attempted to use old oil based power sources at various times quickly followed by reported earthquakes in the areas. By the time they hit Taft, most of the country had been hit at various times. The Taft hit made it apparent that these things had begun monitoring other utilities to find survivors. That's how Bill's gaffe with the phone was detected. That's how the six of them had ended up in an abandoned fall out shelter from the 1950s and why the other five people were now preparing to mutiny against him and toss him to whatever fate may lie outside the shelter door still.
Friday, April 25, 2008
A Movie Script is born
"Night falls on darkened city. No lights illuminate the skyscrapers tonight. I beautiful woman walks warily down an alley try to get home in the midst of the darkness. The darkness breeds the kind of hooligans a long standing power outage might. Those on the verge of riot without the conviction gained be a promise of long term radical loss of creature comforts. A beer bottle smashes to the street behind her as a couple of men step out from the shadows into...well, more shadows, but not as much shadow. The kind of less shadow that still has a bit of moonlight to make them visible enough to be menacing. The shorter one has his hand behind his back as he calls out for her to stop and come with them for her safety."
"She begins to run, but falls and looks up in time to see 5 men coming from another direction. One of them taunts her making lewd and threatening remarks and pulls out a gun. The shorter man yells back that she is with them and the other 5 can not have her. The one to speak first pulls out his gun and fires at the taller. Nothing but a metallic clang is heard because he shot the robot. Oh, yeah. I forgot. They are in the future and the shorter guy travels with a robot. The robot has infrared sight, so he is not concerned about the night since he can see everything no matter the amount of light. And, of course, he's a robot."
"The man with the gun fires at the shorter man this time, but hears the same metallic clang because he hits the robotic part of the shorter man's body. Oh, right. He's part cyborg on his mother's side. Not like a genetic cyborg thing, but her family is a bunch of scientists that helped rebuild him after a tragic lawn dart incident paralyzed him before another tragic lawn mowing incident. He didn't die because it was a manual mower and the guy pushing it was blind, but has since been fired. That leads to a discrimination lawsuit and the blind man wins the right to everything the family owns including the man he ran over because of the cyborg implants. So he makes him fight crime even though the shorter man was an old timey soda jerk by trade."
"To make a long story short, it's a love story and a buddy cop type movie as well. There are some trials, struggles and comical fish out of water story lines about being a machine in a human world, but they all learn to trust in goodness of humanity and there's a car chase too. Yeah, and maybe the car explodes. I'm still working that part out. I don't have the full plot together, but the title is going to be TinWalker, Texas robot ranger. I'm thinking we cast Chuck Norris in it somewhere as the chief and maybe that kid who played Darth Vader as the robot."
A rush of water fills the urinal as Martin Scorsese turns toward the bathroom attendant pitching his idea.
"If the robot can secretly be Hitler, I'm in."
Welcome to film making in the 21st century.
"She begins to run, but falls and looks up in time to see 5 men coming from another direction. One of them taunts her making lewd and threatening remarks and pulls out a gun. The shorter man yells back that she is with them and the other 5 can not have her. The one to speak first pulls out his gun and fires at the taller. Nothing but a metallic clang is heard because he shot the robot. Oh, yeah. I forgot. They are in the future and the shorter guy travels with a robot. The robot has infrared sight, so he is not concerned about the night since he can see everything no matter the amount of light. And, of course, he's a robot."
"The man with the gun fires at the shorter man this time, but hears the same metallic clang because he hits the robotic part of the shorter man's body. Oh, right. He's part cyborg on his mother's side. Not like a genetic cyborg thing, but her family is a bunch of scientists that helped rebuild him after a tragic lawn dart incident paralyzed him before another tragic lawn mowing incident. He didn't die because it was a manual mower and the guy pushing it was blind, but has since been fired. That leads to a discrimination lawsuit and the blind man wins the right to everything the family owns including the man he ran over because of the cyborg implants. So he makes him fight crime even though the shorter man was an old timey soda jerk by trade."
"To make a long story short, it's a love story and a buddy cop type movie as well. There are some trials, struggles and comical fish out of water story lines about being a machine in a human world, but they all learn to trust in goodness of humanity and there's a car chase too. Yeah, and maybe the car explodes. I'm still working that part out. I don't have the full plot together, but the title is going to be TinWalker, Texas robot ranger. I'm thinking we cast Chuck Norris in it somewhere as the chief and maybe that kid who played Darth Vader as the robot."
A rush of water fills the urinal as Martin Scorsese turns toward the bathroom attendant pitching his idea.
"If the robot can secretly be Hitler, I'm in."
Welcome to film making in the 21st century.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
How I Met Your Fictional Mother
My son Franklin was sitting somberly on the edge of his bed when I returned from dropping my wife off at the airport for the weekend. She was on her way to visit friends in NYC and I had agreed to take care of the kids while she was away. I hadn't expected it to be a high maintenance job with the exception of your 12 year old daughter. I definitely had not been expecting it from my 17 year old son.
"Why the mopey demeanor, bud?" He instantly straightened up and and adjusted his dockers. He had begun hanging out with a bunch of different friends this year compared to last year. He had taken to wearing khaki pants to school with heavy metal t-shirts. 99.9% of these shirts are black, but Franklin's was blood red today. The cartoon severed head appeared as if it were bleeding all over the cotton. I suppose that's what the devil holding it intended.
"Nothing. I...nothing, dad."
"Go ahead. I'm here for you and your mother isn't around, so we can have man type conversations with her out of the house." Whatever that might mean.
Franklin or "Fdeath" as his buddies liked to call him hesitated. It was fairly obvious I needed to make a step towards gaining his confidence, so I went with the only thing I refused to do when his mother was around. "Come on, fuhdeath. You can talk to your buddy."
I didn't think a man's eye could roll that far back intentionally. "It's F-Death, dad, but thanks for trying. I'm just a little upset about something from school today."
"What happened, fuh...buddy. You know you can talk to me."
The pause was longer than I expected and I admit I had begun to fantasize about the pot roast Jen had left in the fridge for the kids for dinner. My son's voice shocked me out of my dream of juicy beef over garlic mashed potatoes. The fork was almost to my lips in my dream world before the source of my son's drama came out.
"Cynthia Crantz turned me down for the spring formal. It was embarrassing. All of the guys were standing by and saw it."
"I'm sure it wasn't that embarrassing. Could they hear what she said to you?"
"No, but they saw her dump that day's spaghetti over my head. It's lucky it was my red Braindeath t-shirt day." It was then that I noticed a couple of small, dried strands of pasta still staking claim to the fabric.
"I'm sorry to hear that. People can be cruel in high school when they think it will make them look better in the eyes of their friends. I remember going to the hospital at age 6 because John Fingus thought he would look cool if he jammed a full length blue crayon up my nose. To this day, I swear I know what blue smells like."
" What does that have to do with high school?"
"John was 19 and still a freshman. Some people are a little more desperate for attention than others. Maybe this Cynthia just wanted to feel like she had some edge over you because you have an obvious personality and relatively stable group of friends."
"She always seemed kind of cool. She was one of the few people that didn't mind working with me in bio lab or partnering up with me on English writing projects."
"Why the mopey demeanor, bud?" He instantly straightened up and and adjusted his dockers. He had begun hanging out with a bunch of different friends this year compared to last year. He had taken to wearing khaki pants to school with heavy metal t-shirts. 99.9% of these shirts are black, but Franklin's was blood red today. The cartoon severed head appeared as if it were bleeding all over the cotton. I suppose that's what the devil holding it intended.
"Nothing. I...nothing, dad."
"Go ahead. I'm here for you and your mother isn't around, so we can have man type conversations with her out of the house." Whatever that might mean.
Franklin or "Fdeath" as his buddies liked to call him hesitated. It was fairly obvious I needed to make a step towards gaining his confidence, so I went with the only thing I refused to do when his mother was around. "Come on, fuhdeath. You can talk to your buddy."
I didn't think a man's eye could roll that far back intentionally. "It's F-Death, dad, but thanks for trying. I'm just a little upset about something from school today."
"What happened, fuh...buddy. You know you can talk to me."
The pause was longer than I expected and I admit I had begun to fantasize about the pot roast Jen had left in the fridge for the kids for dinner. My son's voice shocked me out of my dream of juicy beef over garlic mashed potatoes. The fork was almost to my lips in my dream world before the source of my son's drama came out.
"Cynthia Crantz turned me down for the spring formal. It was embarrassing. All of the guys were standing by and saw it."
"I'm sure it wasn't that embarrassing. Could they hear what she said to you?"
"No, but they saw her dump that day's spaghetti over my head. It's lucky it was my red Braindeath t-shirt day." It was then that I noticed a couple of small, dried strands of pasta still staking claim to the fabric.
"I'm sorry to hear that. People can be cruel in high school when they think it will make them look better in the eyes of their friends. I remember going to the hospital at age 6 because John Fingus thought he would look cool if he jammed a full length blue crayon up my nose. To this day, I swear I know what blue smells like."
" What does that have to do with high school?"
"John was 19 and still a freshman. Some people are a little more desperate for attention than others. Maybe this Cynthia just wanted to feel like she had some edge over you because you have an obvious personality and relatively stable group of friends."
"She always seemed kind of cool. She was one of the few people that didn't mind working with me in bio lab or partnering up with me on English writing projects."
"It's not always easy to judge somebody's character at times. Your mother seems to have a knack for looking past all the personality quirks and bad decisions and see the actual person. How else would she have allowed herself to fall for me?" I realize now it is never good to ask questions you are not prepared to elaborate on in a conversation. This was one of them.
"What do you mean?" I had managed to gain his trust in talking about his awkward attempt at love. Lying may have made me look better in hindsight, but I really didn't want to lose his trust.
"I already told you how we met at a train station in Chicago, right?" Franklin nodded. "Well, it may not have been as simple as a chance encounter."
"So you managed to plan out a way to meet her?"
"No. This was definitely chance and most definitely not planned. I had broken up with Michelle who is now married to your Uncle Jake. Jake was my best friend at the time and we are still close, but it's always a bit strange to see a friend so happy with a woman that, at one time, tore you apart when she didn't want to be with you anymore." His eyes kept staring intently at me. I wasn't going to shake him by stalling with the details.
"Well, I had been alone for months and finally had begun to think about dating again. I thought I was ready when one day I saw a gorgeous woman already seated on the train from downtown. I had never seen her before but, as I stood next to her seat, we began to make subtle eye contact. It happens on occasion that you can see in someone's eyes how sweet and good of a person they are and begin to feel confident that they would never hurt you." Franklin nodded again as if he understood.
"We kept looking away embarrassed by the eye contact off and on until I reached my stop. I hadn't managed to say a word to her and had no guarantees that I would see her again, so I had to make a tough decision that affected the remainder of my life."
Franklin nodded as if he knew where this was going. "So you skipped your stop a kept riding with her, finally talking to her and asking her out, right? I'm sure I've heard this story before."
"Not exactly, son. You are half right. I did miss my stop and I continued standing next to her as people left. Seats began to open up and I was getting farther and farther away from my stop. I was frozen and couldn't bring myself to speak to her in front of everyone so...uhh I kind of forced the situation a bit." I knew he was still watching me, but I was never very proud of my tactics and never wanted to tell me son about them. When I looked at him again, he was still staring at me expectantly.
"One part of the story I didn't tell you was that this woman was sitting in her seat so she wouldn't have to stand and manage the large HP printer box next to her on the ground. I don't know why I decided she might think it was romantic, but I grabbed the box at the next stop and ran out onto the platform. Like I expected, she came out after me, but I didn't expect she would have pepper spray or begin beating me with her shoe. I ran out of the train with the box and stood waiting for her for about 15 seconds before I recall her standing at the door of the train already spraying me. The next moment I was curled in a ball while she kicked me and started pummelling me with her shoe while I screamed that I had just wanted a reason to talk to her."
"The train stayed in the station while she beat on me as the conductor and the passengers cheered her on with criminal intent as far as I could tell. That's when your mother showed up. By chance, I had run off at her stop and she had come up in time to find the woman winding up for a kick that may have prevented us from ever having this conversation."
"What happened?" Franklin was trying not to smile. He really wanted to stay upset about that girl today, but I was making it difficult.
"Your mother tackled her. I saw a foot coming towards me and then I saw your mother ling on top of the woman. That's about the time CTA security came in and separated them. I was escorted out of the station and tended to for my eyes from the pepper spray. Your mother and I talked while she waited for me to be able to get my sight back enough to read street signs and walk home. She seemed endeared by my sad attempt at flirting and gave me her number. And that's how we met." He had a strange look on his face, but he definitely wasn't upset anymore.
"If it's alright with you, Dad, I think I'll wait for Mom to get back for advice on dating. I'm too young for a criminal record."
Dating tips from Dad: Do whatever it takes to meet her, just leave enough gap between your scheduled date and time of meeting to allow for time to pull together bail.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Welcome to the revolution...not really.
Imagine if you will a world where anyone can post their thoughts at any given moment for anyone in the world to read, ponder and decide "this guy is a moron." Welcome to the world of tomorrow, people. I've yet to find myself an inspiring project to rationalize the effort of consistent blogging, but let's see where this one builds too.
I've tried different types of writing projects that just wear down quickly. I tried to write a reverse story on livejournal and quickly abandoned it. It felt too much like building a puzzle and trying to make the connecting sections so obvious that it began to feel like I began each subsequent post with "Previously, on this failed writing project...". I also tried a shared blog also with livejournal to trade off on writing a story section by section with a friend which quickly became absurd. I have additional ideas that have not yet fully filled out like a story on a neighborhood coming from each house resident's past leading them to the mysterious style neighborhood. It feels like I'm trying to recreate Lost without having a hook for why anyone should care about the place, but someday it may come to me.
Additionally, I used the old pencil to paper method a month or so back and scrawled an outline for three chapters of a story that started to sound suspiciously similar to the Joss Whedon project "Dollhouse", so that idea still needs some work to make it feel original.
With all of that said, I will try and utilize this space to write original pieces and ideas that come to mind and, if anyone out there comes to find any of these ideas interesting and think they are worth of a full blown piece, I can revisit them. I shall call this the critics corner where everyone can tear my stuff to pieces and I will hopefully learn from it. Target centered. And go...
I've tried different types of writing projects that just wear down quickly. I tried to write a reverse story on livejournal and quickly abandoned it. It felt too much like building a puzzle and trying to make the connecting sections so obvious that it began to feel like I began each subsequent post with "Previously, on this failed writing project...". I also tried a shared blog also with livejournal to trade off on writing a story section by section with a friend which quickly became absurd. I have additional ideas that have not yet fully filled out like a story on a neighborhood coming from each house resident's past leading them to the mysterious style neighborhood. It feels like I'm trying to recreate Lost without having a hook for why anyone should care about the place, but someday it may come to me.
Additionally, I used the old pencil to paper method a month or so back and scrawled an outline for three chapters of a story that started to sound suspiciously similar to the Joss Whedon project "Dollhouse", so that idea still needs some work to make it feel original.
With all of that said, I will try and utilize this space to write original pieces and ideas that come to mind and, if anyone out there comes to find any of these ideas interesting and think they are worth of a full blown piece, I can revisit them. I shall call this the critics corner where everyone can tear my stuff to pieces and I will hopefully learn from it. Target centered. And go...
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