Writing Practice 1/6/2019

[author’s note: sometimes I write something during this writing practice and I think, “Man, what would it be like if I actually came back and edited this and re-wrote it?” Generally that’s because it’s kind of wanders a bit before settling down to get to the point, and I feel like it could be much more focused and make a greater impact if I took out that rambling and lack of focus. This is one of those exercises. What do you think – agree or disagree?]

Describe the most boring day of your life, but do it as an action movie trailer voice-over…

In a world where everything is always as it seems… one day … NOTHING WAS RIGHT.

Well, not exactly true. SJ woke up one morning with a pounding headache. Thinking this might be the result of a terrible party the night before, he checked his clothing … No bloodstains. He checked his bed … no strangers. He checked his car, parked where it normally would be, right in the garage – no marks or tickets plastered to it. He checked his phone – no outgoing drunk-dials at two in the morning.

Damn, this must have been not the result of a party. Just a regular, boring old headache.


SJ stared at himself in the mirror. “Maybe a tumor.” He thought to himself. “Maybe a blood clot. Should I take something?”

He did. Two Tylenol, straight from the bottle. Didn’t even wash them down with a swig of water or anything. Boom! Instant relief.

Well … not instant. It would take a while, and SJ knew it. So he decided to lay back down. He got in his bed, pulled the covers up to his chin, and prepared for the worst …



Tremors? Who knows what he might do with such powerful drugs coursing through his system? He thought of writing a note before he fell asleep, to explain his profound sorrow at all the destruction he would soon wreak on the unsuspecting citizens.

But then he thought, “Nah, this is pretty comfortable, and maybe I really just need some more sleep. Besides, the notebook and pen are all the way in the other rom. So I guess I really don’t want to get up. I’m probably good, anyway.”

Turns out …

He was right.

SJ slept the rest of the morning. When he woke up at half past noon, he peed, took two more Tylenol. For his headache was gone, but he figured, it had helped him sleep so well before, why not?

Why not, indeed?

Little did SJ know that behind the scenes, while he slept, his body was plotting against him.

Sabotage –

Mutiny –


Call it what you wish; in the end, it would be the untimely action of SJ that would determine all their fates.

Not only him, but his silent assassins lurking within. Who will win? SJ? Or the microbe population that was now running rampant with the superpowers brought on by the Tylenol?



To find out.

Coming soon to a theater near you.

You won’t BELIEVE how this one turns out.

Writing Practice – 8/26/2018

Sara’s Game (Book 1) – nook p. 100

“Sara wadded up the slip of paper and threw it at the cage wall, toward the tall man’s face.”

He ducked, slowly though, and it slid through the bars and hit his shoulder. She knew she was taunting him, torturing him, and it felt good. “There,” she said. “Eat that.”

He knelt down and picked it up. From behind the cage walls he looked as if he’d shrunken six inches in the last two days. And why shouldn’t he? He’d lost everything – freedom, hope, even, it seemed, the will to live. His long fingers stretched to pick up the crumpled wad of paper, on which he’d written, in his own blood apparently, PLEASE LET ME GO. When he passed it to her, silent, pleading with his eyes because his tongue couldn’t work any longer, because it was lying ten feet away in the dirt, flies already attracted to the rotting flesh, he hadn’t been able to meet her gaze. Her, the tormentor, the captor, the role-reverser.

Her, the one who’d taken him prisoner and thus begun her revenge just twenty-four hours earlier. Her, the one who’d been severely traumatized by this same man twenty years earlier. Her, who had spent years and years in the meantime plotting this revenge, this retribution, this justice that was so far from coming in the “injustice” system that was the courts. Justice? Ha! She’d seen what justice looked like when the judge did not believe a nineteen-year-old girl about the horrors this forty-one-year old had inflicted upon her. Injustice when they said that the statute of limitations had expired. Justice? To say that simply because it was way back in the past it didn’t matter, didn’t count, or still wasn’t impacting her daily life?

Sara had accepted his note, had read it, had crumpled it up and tossed it back in his face. He did pick it up, then, unfolded it, and turned it to show her. He held it upside down.

She laughed. “Damn,” she said, and reached in the bars to right the paper. “It goes this—

He grabbed her hand and yanked her towards the bars. Out of his mouth came a spew of blood, spraying her eyes and blinding her. The shock startled her, and before she could react he had his other hand too through the bars onto hers, and she was somehow now pinned against the wall of the cage with her arms trapped inside, held in a vise grip of his two stronger ones.

“Oh fuck,” she thought. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-“

Writing Practice 8/17/2018 – an action scene

World’s Great Adventure Stories – p 227

“Slide had found out what was intended, and the news sobered him instantly.”

He decided to fight back. He jumped up from his spot at the bar, and readied his fists. The three men who’d been approaching suddenly stopped in their tracks. Their advantage of deceit was now gone. Slade, six feet and a half, three hundred pounds, and known to be able to take out six average men on a night with either his words or his propensity to drink them under the table, made quite a sight.

The three – Tamson, Byers, and Rogerleth, stood ten feet away and looked at one another. The rest of the bar noticed the commotion and cleared off. They wanted nothing to do with it. Kylie, behind the bar, would have tried to shove them out into the parking lot, but she knew it was safer for her, and for her supply, if they just fought it out there and then and got it over with. She hinted at one of the other regulars at the end of the bar with a hand up to the side of her head, thumb and pinky extended, that he should make a call, and he did. The cops would show up, but and it would be well after Slade had taken care of business, but they needed a ride for the three anyway. Probably to get stitched up.

Byers reached out first. He composed himself, took a big breath, and closed the gap. Rogerleth followed, with Tamson trying to circle around the back. He didn’t make it. Slade kicked a stool at him before anyone even got within five feet, knocking him off balance and intercepting their coordination. Byers led with a punch, which Slade backed off easily, then came in hard with one to the gut. It doubled Byers over, and while he staggered off Slade took an elbow tot he side of his ribs from Rogerleth. It did nothing. The big man made a slight “oof” sound, as if he were puffing a dandelion, then launched his shoulder into the man half his size. His momentum, and the fact that he was coming down from far above, knocked Rogerleth to a knee.

By this time Tamson had picked himself up and was approaching again. Slade saw him coming and donkey-kicked behind him. He missed. Tamson grabbed for the leg and he missed.

Rogers and T now had beads and distances on Slade, so they started aiming jabs and kicks in his direction. Thumps sounded as the three closed in on him, a miniature swarm upon a massive beast, and he swirled and twirled to throw them off. Fists, elbows, knees, hair flew. Echoes of the impacts bounced off the barroom walls. Grunts and scuffs of tables being shoved out the way, the thwock of a fist against chest, grunts and moans as the three attackers thought better of their strategies and reconsidered their attack. Finally Rogers lay on the ground, bleeding form two cuts under an eye and nursing a soreness in his ribs that could only be described as excruciating. T, too, was on a knee, breathing hard, while Byers was nowhere to be seen. Witnesses later say he ducked out the back after taking a solid elbow to the head. Slade, bruised and winded, stood over his two mutineers like a lion over his pride, victorious, glorious, regal, despite the mess on his face and knuckles. He simply nodded to the two on the ground, pulled a stool back up to the bar, sat down and picked up where he had been, and went back to work. The police arrived a few minutes later and found R and T outside sitting on the stoop. When they asked what happened, R started with, “well, Slade jumped us -” and the officer cut him of with a dismissive wave of his hand. He’d had enough in fifteen years of visits to this bar. He knew better than to assume Slade was ever an instigator. He smirked. “You boys learn your lesson?” R and T hung their heads in shame. “Yessir,” T said.

And that was Tuesday.