August 05, 2015

It's not my fault...

Wednesday has come to feel like work-in-progress day. I've been writing steadily on Figment, and I'm surprised (and, honestly, elated) about how the story is progressing. This week, I learned that one of my characters ties his own fly fishing flies. Which is interesting, because I know exactly zero about fly fishing. (Hello, research!)

I haven't posted the story in order. And I have no real concept of how I'm going to publish it. Originally, I actually wanted to put it up online in pieces—with a different color ink for each character. (There are a lot of fucking characters.) But I am not worrying about that right now.

For the previous bits, please go here.


He couldn’t fight with a hard-on. He felt shaken. He wasn’t a pansy. He’d never fucked a guy before. Never even thought of it. What was wrong with him?

An unexpected punch made him lose his balance. He fell back against the bricks. The man he was fighting looked down at him, spat on the ground near him. Jan refused to move. He wasn’t out, but he faked it. He felt lost.

He heard a car’s motor. There was a car idling at the end of the alley. The man behind the wheel motioned to him. He pulled himself upright, one arm against his stomach, feeling sick. Slowly, he made his way to the passenger side of the sedan.

“You okay?”

Jan didn’t know how to answer that.

“You need medical attention?”

He shook his head.

“Get in. You can get cleaned up at my place. I’ve got an empty bed. You can sleep it off.”


“Fuck you,” he says. “I know what you’re doing. You’re going to give the husband a soul, aren’t you? Why would you do that? He’s only a shadow right now. You can leave him like that. The reason she had to run away.”

It’s not my fault. I can’t stop when they start talking to me. I can’t turn them off, deny them their say. I can’t.


The driver looked like one of those people who hands out religious pamphlets door to door on Sunday mornings. So diamond-edged, clean cut his jaw looked sharp.

Jan slumped in the passenger seat. His head was spinning. He couldn’t even remember what the fight had been about. Liquor usually chilled him out. Tonight, he’d seen blood in his eyes.

He started to breathe slower, took stock of his current situation.

The car was the cleanest vehicle he’d ever been in before.

He had the same thought about the guy’s house.

There were plastic flowers in all the rooms. Strangest thing he’d seen in his life. Giant arrangements of daffodils and irises. He knew the flowers because his grandmother had kept a small garden. She’d told him the names when he didn’t have time for flowers. But he’d remembered.

She’d also told him where his name came from. Some singer who had been popular before he was born. His grandmother didn’t have much in the way of possessions. She lived in a dilapidated cottage in a section of town that was slowly being taken over by box stores and car lots. He didn’t think she’d approve of the plastic flowers.

But then, Jan didn’t think she’d approve much of him, either.

The man let him in. Gave him food. A frozen TV dinner heated in a microwave. Jan saw that the man’s freezer was filled with similar dinners. All the same variety. TV dinners were TV dinners, but wouldn’t you want to try a Salisbury steak every once in a while? After Jan was finished eating, the man showed him the spare room. He even turned down the corner on the sheet. Jan was tired. He fell asleep remembering the smell of daffodils and thinking of old records and a needle that skipped.


This week, I added characters, which is daunting. I practically need a family tree to keep track of their interactions. Or an emotional road map. I also learned that one of my characters uses a pocketwatch. So I lost a few pleasurable hours "researching" those.


1 comment:

Miz Angell said...

*chills* Love it. Love it. Love it.