Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts

Friday, February 3, 2012

A Parable

I actually got to do some story-writing for work the other day. I'm not sure what I think of the result. I'll let you judge for yourselves.



I heard a story once about a poor blind man who lived next to a mountain, famous for its hiking trails and amazing views. At the top of the mountain were a wide field and the ruins of an old castle. During the busy months of the year families would make the long, difficult trek up the mountain. Children would climb all over the ruins while their parents soaked in the view.

Every day the blind man made his way to the base of the mountain with a cooler full of bottled water and sold it to the hikers passing by. He was a man who had made some bad choices, and life hadn’t given him many good turns, but he liked to think of himself as a pretty decent person, just trying to make a buck. He was trying to save enough for a cart and stand to make his little shop a more permanent fixture.

One hot summer day the trials were busier than ever, when the blind man began to hear the voice of a young boy calling out to the hikers, “Excuse me, sir! Will you please take me with you? Excuse me, would you please help me to the top?” He was curious, and the boy’s persistence after twenty minutes of constant rejection tugged at his heart.

Finally, he called the boy over. It took a bit longer than he expected for the boy to come close. “I admire your determination, kid. Why do you need someone to take you up the mountain?”

The boy hesitated at first stumbling over his words, but then it came out in a rush. He was crippled in an accident when he was just two, and every year since, on his birthday, his dad had brought him to the mountain and carried him up to look at the amazing view. Today was his tenth birthday, but his dad was…away. The trail was too steep and narrow for his chair. “I just wanted to see the view from the mountain on my birthday, just one more time!” he finished.

Well, I’m sure you can see where this story is going… the blind man had to make a choice. The climb would be treacherous with a boy on his back. He’d have to trust the boy to steer him the right way. And he’d miss out on a big day of sales. Today might just give him the cash he needed for the cart he wanted!  Plus, he thought to himself, I couldn’t even enjoy the view at the top. I don’t owe this boy anything!

But, in his heart, the blind man knew what was right. Sure, it would be hard, it would take some serious self-sacrifice, but he knew he could take the boy up the mountain.

“Well boy, if I walk for both of us, you’ll have to see for both of us.”

The boy thanked him over and over, the excitement and joy in his voice contagious enough to put a smile on the poor man’s face. It made him feel stronger, noble. For a day, and forever in the memory of that child, one poor blind man was a hero.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Halloween Story 11

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Okay.  I think this is on.


12:00 am exactly.  I'm pulling out of my spot on the berm just before the construction zone.  No traffic.  I'm keeping the headlights off.  Light from the moon is enough.
O God, I can't believe I'm doing this.


There he is, holding that stop sign, looking the other way.  You think it's just another day, don't you, Benito.  It's not!  It's Halloween, Benito  Halloween!  Hahaha.  Here I come.  Fabiola, you're free!  Free to love me!


O God O God!  It's not him!








It wasn't him.



Friday, November 6, 2009

Halloween Story 10

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Construction zone.
Energy brew empty.
O God.
Construction zone.

Switching to voice recorder.

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Halloween Story 9

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Tapas 321 Nightclub.  In through the front door, talked with the bartender who was dressed like a kitten.  Out through the kitchen.
Left my credit card with the homeless guy in the alley.  Hope he knows how to use it.

Time for the drive.  This is it.
Nerves of steel.  This is it.
O God.  Nerves of steel.
Time for the drive.

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Halloween Story 8

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In the car.  3/4 of a tank will be enough.  New oil, new filter.  Death on iPod shuffle.  64oz. of energy -- my own personal mixture -- a perfect blend of coffee, AMP, and moonshine.
Ready.  O God.
Ready.

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Halloween Story 7

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I tried Fabiola's phone.  No answer.
It's him, I know it.  He won't even let her talk to me!

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Halloween Story 6

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Benito is arriving at work.  This very moment.

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Halloween Story 5

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That's one ninja and fairy princess who will know better than pound on my door!  Hahaha!  You should've seen their faces when I dumped those roaches in their candy!  Annoying little brats.  Got what they deserved, that's all.

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Halloween Story 4

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These AMP drinks aren't so bad if you mix them with large quantities of coffee.

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Halloween Story 3

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Dang.  Cockroaches can be elusive.

Halloween Story 2

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Fricken trick-or-treaters!  Incessant pounding on my door.  I can't concentrate.  My nerves slowly unravel, a braid untied.
O God.
I must go through with it.  It's all for Fabiola.  I'm her only hope, I'm giving her a chance!  I must.

Shh!  Stop pounding on the fricken door!  My head is throbbing.  If those kids can't lay off the bell...

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Halloween Story 1

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Everything is set.  Benito is working tonight.  Some projects don't stop for holidays.
Some live for them.
He'll finally get his due.

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Halloween Story

On Halloween my housemates and I all wrote scary stories (and Mike made an amazing song and video).

My story is in the form of journal entries.  I'm going to post them in series on this blog over the next few hours, with the time stamp associated with them in the actual story.  It begins at 4:03 pm, and ends at midnight.  Enjoy.

Mwahhahahahaa!!!!

Next

Friday, May 1, 2009

dreams

I had another strange dream.

I dreamt that I was having a conversation with a friend on gchat. Only, it was a very frustrating conversation, because he wasn't typing real words. It was almost like he was just mashing keys. Strange combinations of characters rendering the whole conversation unintelligible. I was trying to decode it or something, but it wasn't even a code. It was just gibberish.

I think the strangest thing was that I was dreaming about a conversation in gchat. Like, why not just dream a conversation face to face, right?

I had another dream last night that I wanted to share, but now I can't remember it. Memory, dreams... the mind is such a wonderful, mysterious thing.

Friday, April 17, 2009

a dream

Last night I had a dream, and unlike the last one, this is for real.

Belinda and I were car shopping together. We end up at this small ranch house -- it may have been a bi-level. I remember thinking that it was a cute house, white siding and blue shutters, and a small porch in the front. Flowers were in bloom. It was summer. The house was built in from of a lake, and in the back of the house was a large deck. Two piers came off of the deck out onto the lake: one uncovered and empty, the other covered by a large tin structure. It reminded me of a green house in shape, half a tube. It didn't have windows, but it was large, and well lit by several bar bulbs along the length. Kind of creepy, actually.

We walked into this structure like we'd been there before, or somehow knew where we were going. There were several people inside, along with a bunch of used boat-cars that were for sale (or sail). I know this doesn't make sense, but they had wheels in back and a hull in the front. I don't know how we could see the wheels, because they were floating in the water, and I'm not sure how they were floating at all. The hull was removable, I think remotely, and there was another set of wheels underneath, so regular road driving. Somehow, this made prefect sense to me, and this kind of vehicle was also for some reason cheaper than a regular car.

The man who greeted us was the owner of the house and used boat-car establishment. He was a white guy, slightly shorter than me with close-cropped blond hair and looked like he could pick one of the boat-cars up with minimal effort (he was that ripped). We were looking for cheap and he showed us the cheapest -- and old white one with a pale green boat-part. The car part looked like a 1980s Civic, like the White Stallion (Ryan's old death trap, for those of you who knew it and were glad for its demise). $200 was the going price.

We agreed to pay it, but just then a young Asian chick walked in, a teenager, and pulled the big salesman aside, apparently giving him a better offer. She talked casually with us about some cool features she wanted to add to trick the thing out: a stereo system and a built-in iPod and some other stuff I didn't really pay attention to. She was going to pay $1000 for it, I think. Or her parents were going to pay $1000 for it. And she was using a credit card. It disgusted me.
And I really think that she didn't realize that the $1000 she had offered for the salesman wasn't going to add all the extra features she kept rattling on about to us, as if she hadn't just scooped our deal and we were actually her best friends.
And I wanted to pull the salesman aside and tell him he could have the $200 from us in cash immediately or put this poor, unsuspecting teenager in debt up to her ears and guilt trip him into selling it to us (for his asking price, no less!) but then I woke up.

Monday, April 13, 2009

The Ragman, the Ragman, the Christ!

Andrew Peterson wrote a beautiful piece about his Easter Sunday experience over at the Rabbit Room. I love his use of language.

Here's an excerpt to wet your appetite:
I looked at the sky and made myself consider its color, reminded myself to imagine that first Resurrection morning. Still, I felt nothing. It’s okay to feel nothing, I told myself. The stories are true, whatever I may feel about them. The kids always treat me like a new toy when I first come home. They laugh and tell what happened to the doll’s hat, or about how Moondog’s collar slipped off at the park, or about the next chapter in The Goblet of Fire. I nodded and tried to sound excited, but I was struggling to keep my eyes open...

Read the whole story.

Monday, March 30, 2009

a dream

So I had a dream where I was sitting around at my old apartment.  Actually I was standing around, because all the furniture was floating up near the ceiling, like it was all full of helium.  There must have been some kind of breeze because the couches kept bumping into each other and squeaking like balloons.  Everyone who has ever lived at the apartment was there, including all the people I'd never met but whose names used to appear on our junk mail.
We were drinking tea the way they serve it in Cairo, in little glass cups with the loose tea still left in the bottom.  But most people didn't know how to drink it and some of the people I didn't know thought they were shots and gulped down a few ounces of scalding liquid before they realized it was actually tea.
Then suddenly there was a campfire in the middle of the room, but it didn't seem to bother anyone, so I decided not to let it bother me.  I was wearing a kilt and playing a rams horn.  And someone grabbed bongos and congas and a djembe and we started playing crazy music and dancing around the fire.  There may have been a didgeridoo as well, and an accordion.  My brother Timothy (whom I met in Cairo) showed up with a guitar and started leading the who show, which was good because we weren't quite out of control enough until then.
The furniture started popping like fireworks and we cheered as the crackling sparkles rained down in the room and turned into fairies -- blues and greens and yellows.  A tiny yellow one flew up and landed on the tip of my nose.  I looked at him, quite cross eyed, and he started to dance.
I sneezed, and woke up.



Until this very line, the entire post was fictional.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

idea

What if the daughter of an important political figure was leading a double life as a member of an assassins' guild -- and was called upon to take out her dad.

She hates her father and her public life, but still, he's her dad...

Saturday, March 7, 2009

write or die

Interesting, helpful, and hilarious.  What more do you want in an app?

I definitely struggle to write at length when I'm writing creatively.  I usually spend far too much time editing as I write, which slows the writing process down significantly and doesn't really improve the results all that much, because I end up editing everything again anyway.

I was introduced to Write or Die.  I have yet to try it, but I think it will be motivating.  And until God provides me with a job for the next three months, I may set aside a few minutes each day to write creatively.  If it seems interesting, I may report my progress.

HT: Chris

Thursday, February 12, 2009

insanity

Today I opened a folder named "Matthew 10th Grade projects." Inside the sub folder called "English" I found a document which contained this letter. I wrote this on Nov. 21, 2001. I have no idea what kind of assignment prompted this, but it was fun(ny) to read.


Sister,
Ghosts! You sent me to ghosts and a possessed woman. My hands are trembling even as I write of it. All the men were gone – dead. Three years ago today they died in a horrible bog during a hunting trip. Their bodies where never recovered. But the crazy woman – she was possessed, I tell you – has left the French doors open all these years, waiting for them to come home. She talked about them as if they had just gone out today, and their return was expected at any moment. Crazy! She was in a worse condition than I was. I am far worse now. I saw their ghosts. I saw them with my own two eyes. They came back, their ghosts came back to haunt me on the anniversary of their death. Even the tired old dog came with them. Save me! Oh, why is it always me? You have to get me out of here. No one cares about me out here! Stupid doctors…they can’t even agree on what I should eat. They’re coming! The ghosts are coming. I heard them, I tell you. I heard them at the door. Save me! This isn’t good for my condition…there’s no hope for me now. I’m beyond healing! How could you have sent me there? A little girl was the only sane one in the house. I can’t live like this! I’m just a poor little man. I can’t live my life being chased around by a possessed woman’s dead husband and her dead brother, not to mention a bally old dead dog! Oh, goodness, someone’s pounding at the door. They’re here, I tell you. They’re coming for poor old Framton Nuttle. I’m going to die. We’re all going to die! There’s the dog. Did you hear him? He’s barking at the door. We can’t let him in Framton, can’t let him in. Don’t worry about me, sister; save yourself. Run away…call the police…do something!
F.N.