First draft of story 10 is finished, it is tentatively titled "Selfishly, together- your bones and your sounds."
Story 11 is two thirds written. That's 66%.
Story 12 is in my brainstorm phase.
I'm still alive I promise I am.
If you know me, you know I have an Edward Gorey tattoo on my right calf, it is of The Doubtful Guest.
I'm being asked to cover the Edwardian Ball for the second year running. It is this weekend, the 18th and 19th of January in San Francisco. If you make it out come say hello, I'll be the one dressed half as classy as the others but twice as classy as your average San Francisco weekend denizen. An article written will follow. I've being reading Fitzgerald all week in an attempt at grasping the incredulous bourgeois and their manner of speak.
Here's something I wrote a number of months ago, unedited and untitled as all get out!
She didn’t need two bags of cat food, she didn’t need one but he father had set her out to buy kitty litter to keep in the trunk of her car incase she should ever need it. He told her she may need it one day should gasoline or antifreeze leak in an accident, he told her the kitty litter would soak it right up and render it less dangerous. He was playing it safe, and she asked, as she would to be difficult, “what if I get into an accident on the way to the store?”
He responded by tossing her a towel. It was clean and dry yet torn up and disregarded after use in the birthing of six puppies not but two months ago in that same garage. He tossed it to her in a ball and she caught it with only her thumb and forefinger. “Use this then,” he said.
At the head of the warehouse store she thought to head to the auto parts isle for premium litter, which she was later informed did not exist by a clerk and rerouted to the pet isle. She grew up in a dog family, plain and simple, her mother was allergic to cat dander and her father wanted to believe in a living breathing security system, he wanted a loyalty that would not short out at the hands of some wire cutters or a passcode on a garage door.
In the pet isle she moved slowly past the various aquariums, wondering if the fish were attracted to the bright red of her long hair that she had dyed last week. She pinched and held out the ends of a small handful where it bloomed like an exotic sea anemone and dusted children’s fingerprints from the glass. She made fish faces with her lips, she could have been lost. She threw a two pound bag of generic kitty litter over her shoulder while comparing and contrasting the dry dog and cat food. It didn’t seem that different to her.
She got her license a week ago and made a deal with her parents, she could use the car as long as she run every errand they ever asked, “ever?” she said, “ever!” they said. They knew her curiosity would keep her places, they called them “learning experiences.”
She bought two bags of cat food and one bag of cat litter. Her father gave her five dollars and she ended up spending fifteen, ten of her own. She remembered spotting two feral hungry cats throughout her life, now she would be able to feed the third and the fourth. After dropping all three two pound bags into the trunk she wondered if all of her errands would end this way. She wondered if her father would mistakenly feed the family dogs the cat food. Or if he would feed it to them out of the laziness of not wanting to purchase more dog food when they ran out. She didn’t notice the radiator leaking antifreeze when she drove back home but she kept her eyes peeled for hungry cats on the sides of the road.
“Come to me,” she thought, purposely hitting speed bumps to encourage the rattle of the kibble in her trunk as if hunting them.
“Come to me,” she whispered under her breath with the radio off so she could hear their meows. And with only the intention of feeding feral cats she became the most attentive driver in her home county.
Story 11 is two thirds written. That's 66%.
Story 12 is in my brainstorm phase.
I'm still alive I promise I am.
If you know me, you know I have an Edward Gorey tattoo on my right calf, it is of The Doubtful Guest.
I'm being asked to cover the Edwardian Ball for the second year running. It is this weekend, the 18th and 19th of January in San Francisco. If you make it out come say hello, I'll be the one dressed half as classy as the others but twice as classy as your average San Francisco weekend denizen. An article written will follow. I've being reading Fitzgerald all week in an attempt at grasping the incredulous bourgeois and their manner of speak.
Here's something I wrote a number of months ago, unedited and untitled as all get out!
She didn’t need two bags of cat food, she didn’t need one but he father had set her out to buy kitty litter to keep in the trunk of her car incase she should ever need it. He told her she may need it one day should gasoline or antifreeze leak in an accident, he told her the kitty litter would soak it right up and render it less dangerous. He was playing it safe, and she asked, as she would to be difficult, “what if I get into an accident on the way to the store?”
He responded by tossing her a towel. It was clean and dry yet torn up and disregarded after use in the birthing of six puppies not but two months ago in that same garage. He tossed it to her in a ball and she caught it with only her thumb and forefinger. “Use this then,” he said.
At the head of the warehouse store she thought to head to the auto parts isle for premium litter, which she was later informed did not exist by a clerk and rerouted to the pet isle. She grew up in a dog family, plain and simple, her mother was allergic to cat dander and her father wanted to believe in a living breathing security system, he wanted a loyalty that would not short out at the hands of some wire cutters or a passcode on a garage door.
In the pet isle she moved slowly past the various aquariums, wondering if the fish were attracted to the bright red of her long hair that she had dyed last week. She pinched and held out the ends of a small handful where it bloomed like an exotic sea anemone and dusted children’s fingerprints from the glass. She made fish faces with her lips, she could have been lost. She threw a two pound bag of generic kitty litter over her shoulder while comparing and contrasting the dry dog and cat food. It didn’t seem that different to her.
She got her license a week ago and made a deal with her parents, she could use the car as long as she run every errand they ever asked, “ever?” she said, “ever!” they said. They knew her curiosity would keep her places, they called them “learning experiences.”
She bought two bags of cat food and one bag of cat litter. Her father gave her five dollars and she ended up spending fifteen, ten of her own. She remembered spotting two feral hungry cats throughout her life, now she would be able to feed the third and the fourth. After dropping all three two pound bags into the trunk she wondered if all of her errands would end this way. She wondered if her father would mistakenly feed the family dogs the cat food. Or if he would feed it to them out of the laziness of not wanting to purchase more dog food when they ran out. She didn’t notice the radiator leaking antifreeze when she drove back home but she kept her eyes peeled for hungry cats on the sides of the road.
“Come to me,” she thought, purposely hitting speed bumps to encourage the rattle of the kibble in her trunk as if hunting them.
“Come to me,” she whispered under her breath with the radio off so she could hear their meows. And with only the intention of feeding feral cats she became the most attentive driver in her home county.