Followers of Awesome Writing

Sunday, April 24, 2016

When I was Old

I don't normally try to enjoy the sun, something about the White Irish gene. That's ginger to you folks that are even more bigoted than  people who still say White Irish. Sunburn, heat-rashes, sun and heat stroke aside... strange shit always happens in the sun. I can't be the only one who's noticed that. Yesterday was no exception. Except to my rule about enjoying the sun.

So I was stepping outside and the first thing I see is me approaching. This was no normal me though. This was a me that was the same age as Kerry Charlton. As if I was going to live that long. Truth is, if my dad didn't turn out to be right, if the world didn't end... well eventually the years of smoking would catch up with me, or the days spent in the sun. No matter what, cancer was just a knock away.

So, this older than I'll ever be version of me storms up to me. I can't figure out why he looks so pissed off. I mean he looks like he holds the kind of anger I felt when I was in high school. Thankfully, I'm a vocal, passionate ass. No matter what age, no matter if I'm me or him. I don't have to wait long before he gives me what for.

"How dare you? Do you know what you're wasting?"

I open my mouth to defend myself, but then I interrupt me, of course.

"Do you know when an author does their best writing? Of course you do, every writer does."

I am about to ask him to tell me but then he does.

"It's before he becomes famous. Before he has to worry about appeasing fans and keeping an audience. When you do nothing but experiment, when your art is pure. Before you get stereotyped and pigeonholed into the crap some publisher wants."

I sigh, about to defend myself, but I won't shut up.

"We both know you're not famous yet, and this is the best time. How are you wasting it? You're chasing success instead of the art. Even the shit you do on that website is ego stroking. Why aren't you trying to break things? That's what an artist does. What the hell is wrong with you? You don't want to end up like me; rich, alone, unfulfilled, sold out. Start writing the revolution now, boy."


I open my mouth to tell him that he needs to learn to expand his prose. The idea is there but years of flash fiction limit him. He seems to know what I am about to say. He seems to hate that it makes his point. He l shuts my mouth by slapping me hard. My ear is still ringing when I realize he has gone back to his own reality.





#shortstory #Awethors #author #writer #aboutme #writing #anger

Sunday, April 17, 2016

JPMD

Everyone says "clown college" to make fun of lower class education. Some of us know the pride and tradition involved in the real thing though. When PT Barnum was running around the profession of clowning was an honor, not a joke. So revered were the men who graduated from our universities that we were immortalized on velvet. These days...

I guess that isn't the point though. Like my father, and my father's father before him, I attended JP Patches University. I did very well. Pie throwing, balloon animals, folding into the tiny cars, the psychology of children and mid-west families. I aced them all. Valedictorian of JPPU, it was an honor just to think about it.

I agonized over my speech for nearly a month.

I thought about what my people had become. The tragedy of a group that once taught, enlightened, and made happy... now a laughing stock. The kind of profession nobody wanted their son to become, or even worse for their daughter to marry. That wasn't so bad.

The fact that we all pretended it was nothing, that offended me.

A little known fact is that in every class there is one sad clown. Not the psychotic killer that writers make millions on and mothers scare their children with. Those clowns occur once every three generations or so. However, the sad clown is a necessary thing.

I had to decide before I gave my speech, light or dark, happy or sad. I could take on the mantle of sad clown. If I passed on it, then the honor would fall to the class clown, I know, the irony. If he passed, then someone else would take it up.

Someone would wear the frown though.

I had two speeches prepared, and even on the day of graduation I wasn't sure which one I was going to deliver. I put on all the makeup except the bit around my mouth. I looked at my lips and I thought.

No longer did my brothers climb out of the car, amazing the world with simple magic. No, instead we led malnourished elephants around big tops with almost nobody in them. We did not even try.

Once we were the servants of the dream-makers. We did our jobs for no reason more than making children laugh. Every tinkling of those voices birthed one of the fae. We rejoiced in that. Now though? Now we bent balloons for children absorbed in their iPhones, children who no longer believed in magic. We did this for the price of a can of tuna. I hated what we had become.

I hated them for accepting it.

I hated me for accepting it.

I donned the downward slanting makeup and I took the stage. I looked at them in shame and rage. I took my horn in my right hand and held my breath. The horn issued one sad, condemning honk, expressing my disappointment.


My classmates felt shame and wept their face free of their smiling disguises.





#shortstory #author #Awethors #writer

Saturday, April 9, 2016

Origin Story

So, the prompt this week led me down the path of choose your own adventure. So, I decided to experiment.





You did not realize it when you woke up this morning, but this is the day you become a super hero. Or you thought you did not, but obviously you actually did. You packed your lunch and went to school, as usual. You carried your cartoon lunch box, as usual.

Chemistry class started out like normal. Being partnered with the hottest girl in school distracted you though. Despite your shaking hands, and your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth you attempted to carefully mix the components to the specifications the teacher wrote on the board. But your partner's posterior kept distracting you. The fact that she was laughing at all of your lame nerd jokes did not help either.

At step five she asked you to the upcoming dance. Your hands were shaking so badly you could not measure accurately. The fact that you turned your head is the only reason the concoction did not end up in your eyes. So you still have your eyesight, and that's something.

As you said yes the toxic looking purple goo violently expanded. The foam covered your hands, causing a tingling sensation. There was no pain, but it was not pleasant. Eighteen hand washings later your skin is still stained violet. Your chemistry professor has assured you there are no harmful side effects from the compound you were creating. Still, it's hard to be sure.

Lunch comes after chemistry. Opening your box you find no trace of the meal you packed for yourself. Instead, sitting next to the empty thermos is a note. A note from your past self. You read with great trepidation, and trembling hands.

Dear me,

We have just had an accident. I ate all of our lunch for breakfast. This may seem greedy, but I promise there is a reason. The compound still on our skin will give us super powers, based on the next thing we eat. Choose wisely.

Love,
You

Obviously precognition and an extensive vocabulary will be amongst your powers. Your meal choice will determine the last and greatest of your abilities. Looking around you see a few options. You realize you must choose wisely as your responsibility to the world will be determined in this moment...

To gain X-Ray vision and start the path of a perverted gray hero, eat some carrots and turn to page 5.

To obtain mental powers such as mind reading and telekinesis, destining you for a secret identity revolving around government work after graduation, gobble some fish and turn to page 9.

For physical based powers and the life of a mindless bruiser that makes it on looks and charm without substance, grab some spinach and turn to page 15.

To choose the life of a villain and powers of darkness and danger, leave the school, snack on the nearest baby and turn to page 666.


In order to gain powers of domination, teaching, and creating obedience, swallow the note itself and continue on to the next page...





#shortstory #authot #Awethors #comedy #experimentation #writer #writing #writingprompt

Sunday, April 3, 2016

While You're Here

While you're here, looking at free stories, do me a favor and check out these two links. The first is a cooking site that is a business my father is trying out in his golden years, though they might be rust years for him. You never know these days. The second is a site featuring yours truly, because I'm God Damned Awesome!

https://cookingmadeeasyforeveryonecom.wordpress.com/2016/03/11/cooking-made-easy-for-everyone/

http://thewritersemporium.blogspot.com.au/2016/03/meet-out-featured-author-patrick-elliott.html






#shamelessselfpromotion

Thursday

These days, they all blend together. Just another day, I think it was Thursday. Shit, shower, and shave, just like I did on Wednesday. Like most adults, I had mornings down to a science. As the towel carried the last drops of moisture to the floor, the coffee pot finished its magical mission. Delivering the nectar of the benevolent gods into a transparent casing, prepared for my digestion.

The rationing was the worst. Two cups of coffee a day is not nearly enough for a writer. There was plenty of whiskey at least, but still... not enough coffee. On top of that, when I looked in the fridge I realized if I wanted pleasure to last the week, I had to choose. Sugar or cream, but definitely not both.

I decided I could drink it black on Saturday, so I opted for both anyway.

I stood at the window, thinking about how I needed to get back to the real world. I needed to get back to it soon, but mornings are special. I sipped from my cup of decadently rich coffee and stared through the glass.

And into the darkness. The Void, someone was paid way too much to come up with that term. That was back when money mattered though. When there were still such things as ad men. That was back when our currency was made of paper. Now, it consisted of something more important. Now it was made of art.

I needed to get back to the real world.

I took another shallow draught of my beverage. I stared into the darkness, and we all know what happens when you do that. It filled me, or it refilled me. Inspiration was hard to come by after we recreated the world in our image. I remembered when the darkness that inspired me to write was literary. Now it was literal.

I imagined a sunrise. The kind I would have seen before the clandestine agency that separated those of us who created from those of you who consumed did their work. I knew there was one. My clock told me it was time for such things.

I could not see it though, just the void. That bothered me. That spoke to my artist's soul. It filled the inner being with words for the paper. I needed to get back to the real world.

I finished my coffee.

I sat down to write. Back to the real world, my real worlds. I had as many people from our previous reality to populate them as any of the other artists. Later I would log on and we would discuss what we were doing with them. I wanted a good story to tell.


Perhaps it was the all encompassing darkness that made me decide to write something light, and the varying degrees of such.




#shortstory #writing #Awethors