Art Supplies as Presents

My mother bought me a ton of art supplies for the holidays. I'll be sure to make use of them, and take the hint.

Morning Pages? Not right now.

I tried and the first morning I was able to do the pages and I got out a very small short story, just to do something. I was proud of myself, but I'm not ashamed to have skipped the pages since then. Why? Because both mornings since then I woke up when I had to take care of my son, and was unable to write my morning pages because I was playing with my wonderful, laughing six-month old. Everything I do in life, I do for that little boy and his beautiful mother, whom I love with all my heart. I don't mind missing my pages for that. I can compensate, I believe, by starting to give myself the time at some point in each day to just do anything creative. I can write a poem, part of a short story, work on one of my novels (maybe I should work on one novel?), or draw a sketch or something in the room or my head.

I have two grandfathers in the hospital with the same condition for completely unrelated reasons at the same time. If that isn't the setup for a great dramatic piece, I don't know what is.

I really intended this blog to more more pieces of writing and art, than writing about my attempts at them. Not sure what I think about more "about" pieces, just yet.

Short Story - Traffic Violation

4:00 on the car's clock radio, and the stars shone above in the night. Michael made his way across town from a shadier side than he lived in. Guys like him drove to across town to that house at this time of the night just one reason, and he held it in his pocket burning a hole into his thigh. The red light flew over his head at just about the time he was thinking about how much weight he carried on him. The red lights were following him with sirens, now, and his car came to a jittery stop when he put the cops and his trip and his pocket together in his mind.

High beams shone in his eyes through the mirrors. He couldn't see the stars from here. Registration, insurance, drugs, check. He had everything he needed for getting pulled over. God, was this guy taking a nap back there or was it going to get over with? Michael just wished the cop would make his way up and get the search and arrest over, at least he could get into the cell to sleep sooner. He was tired anyway.

Finally the doors opened from the police care and an officer stepped out, slowly meandering down the side of the road to his car. He rolled down the window, but just about half way, and was ready to hand over his paper work. He couldn't decide if he should keep the seat belt on to show he wore it or take it off to get out for his body search faster. He didn't want to upset the cop before the stash was found. Maybe that would help everything go a little smoother. Search, arrest, jail, and quick, was the best he could hope for.

Shit, came the thoughts, when Michael began to think about the morning after, when he woke up in jail and had no idea what to do. His parents would see he never made it up, and Sarah wouldn't take long to hear about it when he didn't answer her calls. Michael wondered who she would hook up with by the end of the week and what his parents would do with his room. He handed the paperwork over to the police officer, because he knew that's what he was supposed to do, not because of instructions, which he didn't even hear.

Will and hope drained quickly. His heart sank, thinking about all the friends he knew who had been in jail. They all seemed diminished and he felt himself becoming like them already. The cop spoke, and he nodded and made vague responses, but never once was sitting in his car. He was sitting in his jail cell, wondering where he went wrong. He was having an awkward first shower in the joint, while the officer started writing tickets. His food tray was knocked over, when the ticket was passed over and he couldn't bring himself to read it. The officer told him to get some sleep, and he managed to pick that up, but he couldn't sleep with the looks he got from his cellmate. The officer was walking back, and he came back from his fear.

He read the ticket for running the red light, felt like a gaping hole was ripped in his chest, and pulled, slowly, onto the road to get home, sleep, and flush the toilet.

The Artist's Way - Morning Pages Again?

I don't know if I will actually keep with this, but I'm going to put a pen and notebook by the bed when I go to sleep tonight and hope that I start the morning pages from The Artist's Way, which I sadly lost my way in keeping up with some time ago. Maybe this will help loosen some creative juices, or at least just clear my head before starting my day.

If I do this, I will try to write a short story or something to post tomorrow, and if I keep up with it I will do the same each day for at least three days. That is, as long as I keep up with my morning pages, I'll keep up with a short story a day, and see how things progress. Will this show improvements each day from the morning pages? Who knows, if anything writing again at all will be very beneficial.

This outlet might help give some motivation. If anyone at all actually reads this, comment so I have some motivation.

Fred's Monster - Thirst

The monster under Fred's desk was tapping on his foot. He had to look around for anyone watching him before kneeling down to talk to the hairy, spiked beast drooling acid onto the office carpet.

"What do you want, Clive," asked Fred to the monster, "I have a lot of work to. I should have left you at home."

Clive looked at him with a menacing scowl and whispered like cockroach screams, "Oh, by Fred I'm thirsty. Can you get me a little cup of water," and he gave a grin that could kill when he asked.

"Fine," and Fred got up for some water, for the eleventh time today. And, don't think the floor manager, Mr. Roy, didn't know how to count to eleven. Fred had to make the walk from his cublicle, down the aisle, and then bare the eyes of Roy in his back as he filled a drink for himself, tried to enjoy it, and then threw the cup away to get another, which he filled to take back to Clive, who would not drink after anyone for sanitation purposes.

"Here," Fred muttered, trying to sternly hand the paper cup of water to Clive, as sternly as one can hand someone a paper cup of water, "now, stop bugging me so I don't get fired."

"I can't help it if I get parched."

"You can help it if you're the one who forgot your bottled waters." Fred tried his best to look extra busy and to talk quietly. He'd surely get a walk-by from Roy.

"Mr. Farnsworth, could you come talk with me on a walk to the water fountain," Fred heard Mr. Roy ask, from the opening to his cubicle. His blood felt cold in nervousness as he stood.

"Sure, I could use a drink," and he did his best to muscle a smile.

Spilt Mind

I have four blogs now. My tech blog is my most often used and popular (read: the only one with readers). I am trying to get my media review blog going. Resurrecting my editorial blog is down the road. Now, I also have a place to put my short writtings, musings, and artwork.

Spilt Mind will feature poetry, short stories, parts of larger stories, sketches, paintings, and more as I put my creative juices to work.

Look forward to the interesting things I have to show you.