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Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

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Skyfire Part III

In Fiction, Sci-Fi, Skyfire, Writing on May 23, 2015 at 4:26 am

We found the cave by accident.

So many people on the freeways, the streets, so many accidents from people watching the fireballs instead of the road. Mom had given up calling the FBI to find what had happened to Tony. She said we had to get out, and she would call once we got settled. Something in her eyes told me I’d better not ask more questions just then. She packed us up like we were going camping, making room for Maxwell next to me in the back seat, heading toward Tesla Pass to get to Tracy and beyond. This seemed to be in alignment with what Mr. Amberson had told me, and I assumed he had texted my mom. I thought we were on the right path.

We weren’t the only people trying to avoid the gridlock on the freeways, though. We got stuck in traffic on Tesla before we ever got to the pass. Mom turned onto Mines Road out of frustration, saying there was another way to the Central Valley. A military roadblock stopped us from reaching the alternate route, so we just headed up to Lake Del Valle, thinking we’d wait it out. It was packed — the main parking lots looked like a flea market — but Mom knew a fire road that went back behind some stables. Text messages still worked, then. She let a couple friends know about it. Pretty soon, we had three extended families sharing our camp. All of the adults were people with knowledge: engineers, physicists, architects. Mom was very selective. We’re pretty lucky she made that choice, I think.

I had taken it upon myself to ‘train’ Maxwell, and I was overjoyed to be able to explore what I thought of as wilderness with him. I would make him sit down all the time, telling him, “I love you. Be safe. Stay.” Positive reinforcement, you see.

Meanwhile, what we thought would be a few days became weeks, then months. And being in camp was so much fun. It felt like a long, nervous Memorial Day Weekend, in the beginning. While I played with Maxwell and my friends, our parents were making forays out onto the various fire roads to find another way around the roadblock that prevented us from getting out. They learned that there were roadblocks on every road leading out of the Bay Area; it was rumored that these fireballs were only hitting this region, but there was no way to make certain. The media were unreliable. But our parents filtered as much of this as they could. It was a vacation.

Maxwell wanted to play all the time. He loved everyone. Back on the day of the first fireball, we had called the number on his tag, but the operator said there was no 925 area code. Not here, in the Bay Area. Not anywhere else in the world. So we had kept him with us and posted fliers in the days before the agents took my brother. No one ever called, no one ever came for him. Maxwell became my dog. He might be the best thing that ever happened to us. To me, at least.

It was while we were playing hide and seek with Maxwell, beyond the confines of our secret camp at the far southern end of Lake Del Valle, that we found the cave.

It went like this: we would make him lie down and we would sneak away. Once we were all hidden, he would follow our scents and find us one by one. He loved this game, and he kissed us all every time he found us. Stinky breath dog kisses. Then he would lead us back to camp and we would play again until our moms made us do chores or something. One day, though, Maxwell nosed and herded us in camp until we all sat down in a circle. Then he barked at us once and walked toward the edge of camp.

He stopped and looked back. At us.

At me.

I got that pain in my forehead again, that dizzy feeling. And I knew. “He wants us to count to one hundred,” I said.

The other kids played along.

When we followed, we saw him walking far ahead, following a cow path that lead up over a distant hillside, farther than we’d ever explored. We ran after him.

He stopped and looked back, in the same posture he’d used at the edge of camp. He barked once, then ran. We chased, laughing, but when we caught up to where he had been there was no sign of him. We searched for hours, but he was nowhere to be found. We started to get scared, and Anselm wasn’t looking where he was going. He tripped, falling into some wild sage. When he didn’t get up right away, I asked him what he was doing. He said, “The air is cold here.”

In some mud near the entrance to the cave was one paw print. Maxwell had been there.

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Skyfire Part II

In Fiction, Sci-Fi, Writing on May 22, 2015 at 10:45 am

Local Weathermen were saying that the fireballs were all just debris from a recent meteor shower.

NASA scientists confirmed it: natural phenomena.

Tony’s WeTube video got a million hits in the first day alone, with a lot of people laughing about my mom saying I’d peed my pants, and a lot of other people saying his ‘cinematography’ was too slick, that it looked like Hollywoodland production values. But Tony was an amateur filmmaker, and a brilliant photographer. All anyone had to do was look at his other work, right there on his channel, and they would see how good he was. I got so mad when I read those comments that I stopped feeling embarrassed about peeing my pants. Now I see how funny it was, the way my mom’s voice trailed off.

When a fireball hit the Labs and destroyed a bunch of administrative buildings, everything changed. My mom worked there, her friends worked there. A lot of people died that day. There was a guy who started posting comments on Tony’s page, that day, right after the fireball hit. The comments said that Tony was part of the attack, that the ‘fireballs’ were actually debris of alien spacecraft shot down by the International Space Station. It also said that all of the recent push to colonize Mars was the White House backpedaling as they tried to keep the lid on what was, “ … an all-out alien invasion.”

I think it was those comments that brought the FBI to talk to Tony.

When the neighbors saw the agents coming to our house, they panicked. It was smart panic, quiet panic, but it was panic. Just like those dreams I used to have about an earthquake up 680 into the Bay, flooding all the way down to Dublinton and Altamont, people began packing and leaving.

The Ambersons did it first, and I think they might have actually gotten out before the quarantine. Mr. Amberson was a geologist at the Lab. He was standing there, watering his lawn when the car pulled up. He smiled and waved at the agents, watching them until my mom let them into the house. When the door was closed, he waved me over, and knelt down to talk to me, pointing at a dandelion on the edge of his lawn.

“Marie, honey, do you know those men?” he said.

“Nope, but I heard them say FBI to my mom. They asked for Tony,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. “I think it’s time for a family vacation. You want to come with us, Marie.”

“I have a dance recital,” I said. Ballet was really important to me back then. I was determined not to piss my tutu for a third time.

“I know that, honey, but you should tell you mom, as soon as those men leave, that we’re headed up to the Lakes, in the mountains. She knows the way. Tell her I said, just like we talked about. Can you do that, honey? Say, George says, ‘Just like you talked about.’”

“George says, ‘Just like you talked about.”

“Good. And if they ask, I was telling you about dandelions. And how they spread on the wind. To take root far, far away.”

Mr. Amberson got his family together like they were going on a picnic. In under twenty minutes.

He drove away slow, waving and smiling, but his eyes were serious.

Mrs. Amberson was staring straight ahead, tears streaming down her face.

I forgot to tell my mom.

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Skyfire

In Fiction, Sci-Fi, Writing on May 21, 2015 at 3:01 pm

The day we saw the fireballs I was seven.

We had found a black dog wandering down the street, and my brother Tony went inside to get his phone to call the number on the dog’s tag. “Hold him, Marie,” he said. I knelt next to the dog and petted him. He kissed me, and he had very stinky breath. The dog was named Maxwell, and he was looking around like he was worried or late. That’s what it seemed like to me. I said, “It’s okay Maxwell, we’ll get you home.”

He turned and looked at me, looking directly into my eyes, and it felt for all the world like he’d heard me. Not just heard, but understood. I had the feeling he was saying something. It’s not like I heard words in my mind. It just seemed like he was saying, I love you, but you will not get me home. I am from this place, but other. I need to get back to the this place that I am from.

I had the image of two identical dogs leaving two identical dog houses, only one of them stepped through a hole in space and the other did not. It was clear, and weird, and made me a little dizzy. There was a pain in the left side of my forehead.

Tony was trying to dial the number on the gold colored tag on Maxwell’s collar when there was a flash in the sky. We looked up, and there was another flash, brighter than the sun. Out of a clear blue sky a fireball was falling toward earth.

Tony said, “Holy shit,” and started taking video with his phone.

I was scared, I remember that very clearly. I had to pee when we saw Maxwell, but now I forgot that I had to pee. Because I peed my pants, and I didn’t even notice.

Our mom came outside to see what we were doing, and she noticed the puddle under my sandals. I don’t know why I used to pee myself when I was little. She said, “Marie, honey, you … you peed …” By then she was staring at the fireball as well.

She was there when the second one came into view.

Its flames were purple.

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Today’s Haiku

In Comedy, Employment, Intent, Open Mic, Standup, Theatre, Writing on January 22, 2015 at 9:44 pm

I’ve started doing standup at open mics in SF.

The following are haiku based on my experiences en route, during, and at home afterward.

If you like them, I welcome your comments. If you hate them, I welcome your comments.

Last two nights: SF
Open mic standup is fun
Ev’ryone is sad

White guy wizard beard
Walking lone through the Mission
Nobody comes near

Unemployment sucks
Hard to wake up before nine
Debate: write or wank

How to get to BART
All I have is a dollar
Soccer moms need cock?

Foot fungus in chunks
Time to get some tea tree oil
Expensive? Sell death

Job interview good
Haven’t said too much but then
Ha ha foreskin joke

I will look like that
When I’m sixty-five years old
Need to learn more spells

Guilty Christmas cards
Are the only kind I send
Mass apology

Pornhub so much fun
Comment on the happy vids:
“No sex life for me.”

She-she speaks the truth
Thus inspiring standup act
Transformation thence

Satan has a bump
Satan shares his bump with me
Now I have a rash

Cabbage soup today
Blood pressure too god-damn high
Dad expressed concern

I am unemployed
This is White Male Privilege:
I am still alive

First audition miss
Since one seven seven six
Shame chagrin and guilt

House so cold at night
Heating with the gas stove thanks
Yes I know the risks

Money running low
How to get to open mic
Soccer moms are gone

EDD card what?
Oh that paid the WordPress fee
Monetize or die

Postcard mystery
Last year so anonymous
Then the postcards stopped

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Steam

In Writing on February 3, 2014 at 10:50 pm

I wrote the following last night, it’s a first pass at poem for Brandon Fraley’s new game, “…Of Sword and Steam”:

In Days of Sword and Steam

I know it’s not quite there, yet. But I thought I’d share it. Fraley is certainly pleased.

I’d love to know what you think.

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NaNoWriMo 2013

In Writing on October 31, 2013 at 9:09 pm

Last November, I joined NaNoWriMo.  For those of you who have trouble navigating the Intrawebnets (my parents), that means National Novel Writing Month. At the time, I was thinking something along the lines of, “Golly, I’ve been writing Notes From The Future since April 22. I should try my hand at writing an actual novel.” So I signed up about two weeks in to NaNoWriMo and read all the stuff: 1,066.66 words per day, goals, pep talks, things and thingnesses. Sure, I was two weeks into it, but I was certain I could make it work.

I started writing Down With Dogs. Here’s the synopsis I put on NaNoWriMo: “Classically-trained non-union actor trapped in the East Bay of the SF Bay Area takes a job teaching youth theatre in order to finance his return — read, escape — to the East Coast.” As one attentive reader has recently pointed out elsewhere, my claims at avoiding biography are transparently false. To be clear, it’s writing a bio about myself as an unpublished author that I find daunting. And depressing. So I can’t take it seriously. Some might counter that with the statement that I am published via these various blogs. And that would mean something if a) I was making any money at it, and b) anyone other than bots or very close (read: obligated) friends would comment on my work.

Seeing my word count not quite meet what I thought it would, I began to worry. Then, for shits and giggles, I pasted everything I’d written for NFTF into OpenOffice and did a word count. As of November, 2012, I was well over 250,000 words. I’ll be honest: I seriously considered taking down the blog, putting Down With Dogs on a back burner, and sneakily replacing it with NFTF. However, my approach to ethics is tinged with remnants of my training as a Boy Scout. That tinge creeps in to much of what I do. Not everything, but a fair amount. So, rather than falsify my results, I let Down With Dogs languish (I did eventually write and post some of the first chapter, which the curious reader may find here). I had Thanksgiving upon which to focus, anyway: preparing two turkeys plus stuffing and gravy for 40 people, with basically no help in the kitchen whatsoever. AND a bunch of people arriving with dishes that required “just fifteen minutes” in the oven or on the (single, four-burner) stove. Which, for the record, TOTALLY FUCKS WITH THE TIMING OF GETTING THE TURKEY TO THE TABLE.  (More idiot me for not demanding Kitchen Minions.) And, while the turkeys were tasty, I believe that much of the food was cold by the time it reached the table. Big, drafty loft + no food warmers + no kitchen help + 5 last-minute warm-ups = cold Thanksgiving dinner.

By this time, I was deep into planning for The Three Musketeers at Solano College Theatre. Or, as the Administration of Solano Community College would prefer it to be called, some random classes at Solano Community College that don’t actually matter. When I am acting or directing, the project takes over my life. Which would be awesome if it always paid a living wage or was close enough to home to make it financially viable. Long story short: I poured my heart, soul, blood, sweat and tears into that production. No longer under the thumb of uber-controlling Solano Youth Theatre, I intended it to be a masterpiece. It very nearly was. However, it was not enough to convince anyone that I was the right guy for the Full-Time Theatre Faculty position recently vacated by George Maguire. Within a couple weeks of the show closing I learned that I had so vastly failed at just about everything that I was not even considered worthy of a second interview. So, there you go: my talent is not enough to get me in; the only thing that matters is whether or not I have a MFA or a PhD. So, rather than having a neatly finished NFTF to show to the world, I was surviving on tiny unemployment checks as I applied for menial jobs. Every potential employer has rejected my applications, assuring me that I am either over-qualified or utterly unqualified.

An amusing example: I am unqualified to work at Orchard Supply Hardware (hereafter OSH). Here’s the response I received:

“Dear Edward,

Thank you for your job application for the Sales Associate position received on 9/22/2013.  We regret to inform you that after reviewing your application, we have decided to pursue other candidates.

Thank you for your interest in Orchard Supply Hardware.

Talent Acquisition Team”

When I went to OSH several times last week in preparation for our annual Hallowe’en party, I was unable to find anyone who could answer my questions or help me. The one person who did almost assist me was vague, uncertain, never made direct eye contact, then promised to find the answer I sought. He left and never returned. I waited for twenty minutes. But I, with twenty-five years experience as an actor and director, a superior grasp of the English language, and direct eye contact galore, I am not worthy of pursuit by the Talent Acquisition Team.

Same with REI. Same with everywhere else I’ve applied.

So, fuck it. I’m doing NaNoWriMo. We’ve nicked a financial artery and we’re bleeding out, but fuck it. I’m putting all my eggs in this basket, blissfully typing away as my car needs repairs I can’t afford, we’re weeks late on rent, Veronica is taking out monthly paycheck loans to get groceries and make car payments and pay medical bills and insurance. Lovely. Fuck it. This is what I’ve got right now.

I finished Notes From The Future on October 14, 2013. My final post received 4 +1’s via Google, two comments via Blogspot, and absolutely no shares via Facebook or Twitter. Somehow, as of today, I have 16,732 pageviews of that blog, but only 237 comments. The pageviews and comments are for all entries, for all the time I’ve been posting there, not just for NFTF. However, the majority of the comments are for NFTF. And most of those are from three people who know me. So. Here’s hoping that what I produce in November is better than NFTF.

Which brings me to my NaNoWriMo project for 2013: The Faerie Garden. I am writing 1,667 words, minimum, per day, no matter what. There will be some days when I am unable to do so: November 6, 7, 8; November 11; November 28. In preparation for those days, I write double the amount needed: 3,334 words per day, minimum, on November 3, 4, 5, 10, 27. During the next month, I am focused almost entirely on this project. The almost is reserved for Thanksgiving and a couple other slight distractions: a callback for a short film movie-musical about time travel; a medical appointment; a day of prep for that appointment; a day when an old friend is in town from Europe.

I am also leaving time open for the only thing I can see as an earning option at the moment: Tarot readings. I’m pretty darn good at this. And I really need money. So if you’re interested, I’ll charge one dollar per card for your first reading; this can be either a 3, 5 or 10-card draw. Your second reading — as in, the second set of cards drawn — is $25.00. I don’t have a working car at the moment, so you need to come to me for this. I can walk to a local coffee shop if you think that this is all a clever ruse to lure you into my house and murder you, cleverly posted publicly on my website where no one will see. Muah-ha-ha-ha, he wrote, wondering if this would actually scare away business but kind of not caring, because anyone stupid enough to fear that I will murder them is probably not the ideal candidate for a Tarot reading. Then again, I really need the money. Dilemma. Resolution: I promise not to murder you and will walk to the closest coffee shop. No murder. I promise.

Share your thoughts and reactions in the comments, please. Messages on Facebook or via e-mail are disheartening to this lowly writer, who wonders why his blog is not good enough to warrant your direct commentary thereupon.

Sincerely,

Edward