Easy Prey

The horror lies within your imagination. Nowhere else. Sleep and you’re easy prey.

Run, run, run, but it’s right there with you. The darkness of being mauled and eaten comes from within because we know what that is.

We do it to every living thing and pretend we don’t. Anything but that. That’s what we say.

Awake and Not

I woke and thought about dying. I didn’t feel right or like I might expire.

There was no pain or discomfort, just a sense of something not working or not wanting to anymore. I changed sides but the feeling remained.

I was just going to end here. Not even a whimper. It was hard to get back to sleep.

The Genius of Failure (or Vice Versa)

I can see it clearly: the musty one-bedroom apartment, two floors up, a view of the parking lot out back. There’s a hotplate, mini-fridge, cabinet full of booze, an old wooden frame bed and a handicap accessible bathroom. I’ve seen it many times, and I will be there soon enough.

And I can see this: the back of a limousine, window half down, the warm desert air shuffling in as it begins to get light. There’s a band of pink strip lighting, mini-fridge, cabinet full of booze and a young woman curled up across from me.

The thing is that they’re same thing, just at different speeds.

No one Will Ever Know

No one will ever know that I cleared the path of fallen branches from the storm.

No one will ever know that I ever came this way or be aware of the things I felt when the sun was there or the clouds came in.

No one will ever know the misery I felt, the depression and angst and then the hope and glimpse of happiness.

No one will know the terrible things I imagined, my obsessive perversions, my sheer delight in that.

No one will ever know how much I cared and dreamed and wanted and regretted. No one will ever know any of that, no matter what I say, what I write, the pictures I take, the people I tell and beg to listen.

All of that will be gone, like everything else. And none of it will ever have mattered.

Writing Process: Clearing the Logjams

I was sick. That was my excuse. And I was tired. That too. Too much driving and holiday distraction. And my angst was at it again. All of those things.

I had to complete my submission for the Pitch to Page screenwriting contest for female-driven scripts. Think “Captain Marvel” and “Bridesmaids” – stories propelled by a central female character. My script The Sacred Whore was perfect. What could be better than the fantastic tale of a gang of prostitutes who kidnap a basketball team to air their views on America? This was it!

It was a nightmare getting started, restructuring and focusing, and then moving through it, but I did it and I almost feel good again. I mean, not really, but closish.

Thanks for What?

Leaders never lead. Communicators are never on Communication Committees. If she says, “I am the most loyal person”, you know she isn’t. If he says, “I am wise”, he is the opposite. “My door is always open”, and it never is.

As broad and simple as it sounds, it’s really an ugly thing, the reason for the missiles and executions, the world going to hell all around us. Hope remains the thing. Thanks for nothing.

Expunged Scene from “The Vanishing Pill”

“Have you seen Chris anywhere?” Blaire asked Davis, her heavy breasts pushing into arm. “Did he come?”

Davis looked around the half-crowded bar, the view of Granville Island and Burrard Inlet behind it obscured by the overpass stanchions. He didn’t recognize half of the people even though he had apparently been in college with all of them 25 years ago. “I thought he was dead.”

“Oh, hey, what?”

“Bad joke. I don’t know where he is.”

“Same old Davis.” She stepped back and crossed her arms over her beer. “Always saying crazy things.”

“That’s what my wife says too. She might be finally done with me.”

“Oh, hey, I’ve been there and it worked out okay for me.”

“I’m sure it will be fine. Yeah.”

“Hey, there!” Minnie, Blaire’s sister, arrived and kissed them both. “How are you, Davis? I haven’t seen you in years.”

“You know, living the dream.”

Minnie was prettier than Blaire but she had more a boyish figure and no breasts, not that Davis hadn’t tried back in the day. “You’re still writing?”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking. I personally hate it when people say that. ‘Living the dream’. It’s really stupid. Sorry about that.”

“Okay.” Minnie and Blaire laughed.

“I’m teaching. That’s what I’m doing, teaching. Although the way it’s going now, I don’t know.”

Minnie leaned in. “Nothing bad, I hope.”

“Bad? No. I think I’m going to get fired and my wife is kicking me out.” He threw his arms out. “But I feel good. I do. Could be the gummy bear, I don’t know.”

“Oh, hey, Davis, I’m sorry.”

“I’ve actually got a bone to pick with you?”

“Yeah?” She leaned in, smiling, and it seemed like no time had passed, like they were in a bar at college, and the weekend had just begun.

“You owe me money!”

“I don’t owe you money! That’s not true.”

“You’re right. You don’t. But what I wanted to say is that, as much I loved the good old days, there wasn’t enough sex.”

“You and Lynnie had lots of sex.”

“No, I mean me and you, me and Blaire, me and you and Blaire!”

They looked at each other, barely offering a smile.

“Not to be crass, but it would have been good.”

Minnie glowered. “Okay, Davis.”

“Hey, Davis, old buddy!” Jackson crashed into their tiny circle. “I haven’t seen you forever, man! Forever!”

“Jackson, hey.” David looked back, curious as to why he wanted to talk. They had never talked in college and, if anything, had been acrimonious.  “What are you up to?”

“Who the fuck knows?” He looked back and forth between Minnie and Blaire hello. “Who the fuck knows?”

“Hey, uh…” Davis leaned into Minnie. “Sorry about that. I’m just…”

“It’s okay.” She looked over at Blaire. “It’s okay.”

“It’s okay, Davis,” Blaire agreed.

“Yeah, Davis, man, it’s okay!” Jackson slapped him on the back.

“I gotta go.” Davis was going to kiss Minnie goodbye but turned and fled down the steps and was in a cab. “Number Five Orange. You know it?”