Green Eyed Shadow

Jack repressed the headache with the back of his hand. It was already late and he was still only half finished. The words on the page spread out before him like highway that disappeared from sight before the end. 

"And miles to go before I sleep . . ." he muttered to the glow of the computer. It was the only company he had in the pitched silence of the room. He shoveled some more willpower into the furnace of his brain and began typing again. Slow at first, but after a while he settled into the flow of his mind and produced a steady rhythm of sentences. 

So immersed was Jack that he didn't realize the change in pressure as a door opened and closed in the living room. The shadow found it easy, so very easy to stand so very close to the typing man. The shadow could smell the must of a few days absence of shower on him, the oils rising like a filmy fog. "Oh this will be so very easy" whispered the blade as it slid out of the sheath and into the base of the man's neck. 

The keyboard stops clacking, the computer screen starts flickering, and in its fading glow the face of a green eyed woman without a mouth examines her work. Where lips would be press against where fleshy cheek would sit.  But alas, the man with miles to go has broken down on the side of the road. The stretch of words fades into oblivion. There is only darkness. 

The shadow leaves just as she came, without a passing thought to Jack staring into the blackness of the room.  The blade is glowing now, and soon, oh so very soon, it will be bright enough to pierce the hearts that truly matter. 

On Networking to the First Job

         Its never the first step that's the issue, it's what happens after that first step. So you have made it. You graduated. Congratulations! Have lunch with you family, go out and get wasted with your friends, update your resume and smile at your accomplishment.

         Now to do something with it.

         This is where to watch that perilous stretch of stepping stones rise out of the river rushing in front of you. This is the writers attempt at a metaphor for networking, did you find it amusing? Not the point. Time to pick up the phone and schedule a meeting with everyone you know who is both successful and connected to someone in the field you want to pursue. In my case its the writing industry, the publishing world, and the realm of  makeup artistry.

          Work hard. Wrack your brain and your legal pad for all the burning questions that will lead you to that dream job. Pull the suit out of the closet and put it on. On the way to the interview rehearse your opener and your bullet points until your blue in the face, until its so natural its like someone slapped the words on your brain like a slab of meat on a steel table. Know your questions raw and well done. I swear I'll stop with the butcher metaphors now.  Use your best professional voice. Cross your ankles and whatever you do: don't stare and don't say "um".

          After your pitch (which should sound like your asking for advice on how to get a job and not "please could you try and get me a job as a writer somewhere?) is the most important part: listening to every word they say. These people are the keys to your future. They may only give you breadcrumbs to follow, but if you listen to the words coming out of their mouth the path will lead to more and more individuals who will have the answers to your questions. One of them will even tell you there's a job you'll be perfect for if you only apply. It will be a slow, uphill climb-but at the end will be your dream job. I haven't made it there yet but I'm sure It will be worth every ounce of effort. Thank the people giving you advice, write down their names and once you are hired, send them something they will enjoy.

          I will close this blog post with a word of warning to the aspiring writer/reporter/publishing house worker: Sometimes the stepping stones lead right back to where you started: on the other side of a big river. If this begins to happen its time to stop networking and start taking matters into your own hands. Best of luck guys.

On Perserverance

          

Turn down the background noise. Shut off all the lessons that you have learned, all of the hobbies that you have acquired through friends, shed away where you were, are, and will be.

                Just sit there for once, in original thought. If you are afraid let the fear wash over you, through you, and then drift away behind you. It is here, in this silence, when you truly are yourself, when you truly grow. Love or hate, anger or depression, you are feeling not because you should, but because you are.

                This is where you grow, and move along your own path in this life. 

on a glimpse into my past

I guess you could say my family is typical. We consist of generations of Americans, as in, they were born here, raised here, went to school here . . . and died here. This rinses and repeats all the way back to the signing of the Declaration of the Independence, to the army of General George Washington. It is safe to say that I am American. No, no, scratch that. I am a New Englander. My clan has settled all over the north from New York to Maine.

But before that?

Before that my family knew the lands of Ireland, knew a congregation of Methodists who grew tired of the potato famine, and thirsty for a life of prosperity, across the sea.  Before that my family knew the walls of castles, and social turmoil as they fought for power in the court of Henry VIII.  And before that? Well, that is unknown. It is rumored that Wright is a Celtic name, and that my people may be the figures seen in history books dancing and leaping, paying homage to their Goddess, praying for a fruitful harvest and a fertile spring.

Now my family consists of nuclear detachment, but that is a personal history for another day. I have grandparents. I love them as much as any grandchild loves their respective elder. They are the key to my past, the shareholders to the files of information I grasp onto and fuse into my mind. They are the reason I know who I am today, and why I will someday tell my grandchildren who they are. My Great grandparents have passed on before I really grew to know them.

Growing up there were few traditions. They typically circulated around a roasted turkey and a Christmas tree. Father always played Santa. Mother always cooked the best mashed potatoes in the world. We always hung an ornament on the black carved wale that lays guard over the front door. This is something my grandfather carved before the paralysis took him. Perhaps one thing, a tradition you may call it that is quite significant is when my family needed to sell the houses. We buried a statue of St Joseph, and then, once the house sold (and it always did shortly after), we would dig it up and set it in a prominent location in the new residency.

At FSU I attended break dancing classes intermittently but never pursued it seriously. Growing up I took a few dance classes in middle school. This consisted of ballet for two years, and then they (the big tall scary grownups) wanted me to join point. I went to two classes and promptly dropped it, with respect of course to the art of standing on your tippy toe with a millimeter of cardboard protecting you from excruciating pain, I still couldn’t see myself doing that.  I still have this dream though, of being front row center of the stage doing spin after spin on one toe, while the audience sits awed, and then cheering at the talent.

My true dream is to have a talent. Period. To discover what it means to have talent and be close to talent. Movement is the expression of the soul. Maybe in this class I can learn how to express my desire to be great at just one thing through dance.

On Transitioning into the Real World

The past few days have sunk me into a haze that drifts between the absence of thought, time, and space and spurts of activity, of life. When all you've known is school and a job, and it's cut from you like an umbilical chord, you float in a sea of absence. There is no inspiration to write, because that originally came from school. There is no inspiration to read, everything I had to read was because of school, there is no reason to clean, that was the only escape I had from being scholastically productive.

So for three days straight I sat and stared at facebook, not reading, not really interested in what was going on, just zoning out. The whole time there is a voice leaning into my ear "you should do the dishes . . . you should make a makeup tutorial . . . you should play your piano . . ."  Things I said I would do once I was done with school. For some reason I had no motivation, like it was post traumatic stress disorder. Did I have shell shock from the absence of school?

Yes. Yes I did.  I think I'm starting to come back from it now. I forced myself to clean the house from top to bottom. I even used bleach and scrubbed the floors. Something about the smell must have burned my brain back into reality. The house is clean now. I just finished blow drying my hair and am about to start on a pile of laundry that will surely dominate my existence for the next two weeks. The struggle for motivating myself to do something seems to be at an end. I think I'll even pull my piano out from the closet-hell, I think I'll reorganize the whole damn closet. It will be a blank slate.  

Tomorrow is a very big day for me. Tomorrow I walk down that all too important aisle and step into my future. No, I'm not getting married, I'm graduating from college.

From now on when I write it will be for me. It will be because I want to.

Morning's Light Part 2

[Authors Note]-this is just a smattering of sentences I have in mind to use for the full piece. I must have stared for a good long while trying to put them together and fill them in with an artistic fashion. For some reason the words won't work for me today, so its better to just get them out rather then forget. I can edit them later, when the inspiration strikes.The bracketed comments beside the sentences show what my thoughts are as I'm writing, and what my plans are to form the words into a piece. I'm going to have to make a second part to this so you can see how it transforms into something I want to send out.  The fragments are pasted without commentary for your perusal. Any suggestions are greatly appreciated.

Piece with commentary:
They wiped the road from their faces and stared in wonder at the place.
The diner stood in a cloud of dust. [I like this as it is. quite satisfied having it stand alone, like the diner]
Inside were mismatched plates and faces, but the coffee was hot. [the rhythm of this sentence is off, going to have to find another phrase to even it out]
She leaned over it all and whispered to him with the fire in her eyes
Lets do everything we should have done. Lets throw our fears in their faces. [noticing that I have used face too much, going to have to find another word]
He leads her to the kitchen and against the steel and stone they press each other close.
The pie juices run freely down their thighs. [more exposition is required, the reader will be very confused . . . perhaps the piece should be more surreal from the beginning?]

In the thickness of the dark her arm coils around his heart . They both lie awake, unknown to one another. The arm begins to shake with silent sobs. He does not stir. [there's a breach in time here that will need to be filled ]

In the later years of life they will fear they have tread on shallow waters. 

Piece without commentary

They wiped the road from their faces and stared in wonder at the place.

The diner stood in a cloud of dust.

Inside were mismatched plates and faces, but the coffee was hot. 

She leaned over it all and whispered to him with the fire in her eyes

Lets do everything we should have done. Lets throw our fears in their faces. 

He leads her to the kitchen and against the steel and stone they press each other close. 

The pie juices run freely down their thighs.

In the thickness of the dark her arm coils around his heart . They both lie awake, unknown to one another. The arm begins to shake with silent sobs. He does not stir. 

In the later years of life they will fear they have tread on shallow waters. 

Morning's Light

The grey lit up behind fluttering lids. Slowly they open. The morning is blue and fresh, but there is no joy. She looks over at him, form weighed with life and reason he stares down the stainless road, the lines on his face are still there. But despite everything, his hand finds hers.
They do not speak.
They had been driving all night, and would continue to drive.
They still wait for someone to tell them where they are going.
Behind them is a trail of grime and sweat and fruitless dreams.
Ahead is only the green of the land, the coal of the highway, and the hope in their hearts.

On becoming a big kid . . . for real.

It's hard.

Personal Statements. Resumes. Curriculum Vitae. Masterpiece (make sure its at least 30 pgs of solid awesome). Assignments I don't know what to write about and decisions I don't know if I'm ready to make

There's a difference between knowing how to do something and actually doing it. I know how to apply for college. I know how to apply for jobs. The struggle comes when I have to sit down with my entire life beside me and somehow spill it onto the paper in words that sound both creative and professional, witty and evocative.

How do you do that? My life is not so interesting, or so they say, or, rather, noone has asked so I have never thought to reflect on it and try to put it into story form. My life has melted away behind me like words on a dry erase board. I'm sure if I turned the dial back to actually look at them they wouldn't be very interesting to begin with.
Dammit, I'm going to have to look anyway, because They want to know. The future is becoming such an arduous thing. I'm starting to think I should just stay right here. Frozen in time. typing my silly little words on this silly little blog.

I know what this is, this is the dreamer in me (the one who has had control all along) throwing a temper tantrum because the artist in me actually wants to make something out of the mush I've accumulated all these years. . . Wow, interesting realization. . . I guess she's ranted herself out.

I need to do some yoga and meditation for real, lack of centralization is making this process harder.

On meeting a word count

This has never been a problem before, but this semester I have found my writing to be much more succinct. Perhaps I have been narrowing the writing as I'm going, perhaps my brain is simply not choosing to put down that witty yet poignant adjective that would stretch the sentence just so.

Perhaps it is nothing to worry about. After thinking about why my pieces are coming out just at the assigned length or just shy I started rereading the works. Again, nothing sparks up and says "wait, this is something that needs to be fixed-no, no, lets add another scene in here . . ." In actuality, I don't think this is a bad thing. I'm not going to panic-I'm just going to hand it in.

So I'm looking at MFA programs, and most require 15-20 sometimes even 30 pages of sample writing. If your someone like me who's longest work is 12 pages at best then I hear your heart drop with mine. But. And in grad school searches there is always a but. Ira Sukrungruang, my fiction teacher and blogger of "The Clever Title", says that if you have 15 pages of solid work then short change them intentionally.

Don't lengthen a work simply because you have to meet a quota. You will end up strangling it. At the risk of sounding cliche, think of your piece as a flower you are growing from seed . . . No, wait, don't. It does sound too cliche.

My advice to the writer who is struggling is to just relax. Finish the piece as you want it to originally be finished and go back to it at a later date. If there is still no inner voice that jumps out at you with more that can be done then let the piece sit on the table.

In short Speak louder. Not longer.

I bet your thinking there's a dead horse in this room Im sitting in by now. Your probably right.

On the future

If you dropped a marble into the pool of my life I don't think that you would see ripples
You would see an explosion of thread and color.

My life is a path spreading out in many different directions, each one so different from the other yet so appropriate. I could choose to go to grad school. I could choose to get a regular job here. I could choose to write,write, write and try to get published. I could pursue Makeup Artistry. I could go to Makeup Artistry School. I could get a second Bach degree in technical writing and make more money.

I could get married and have kids.

I could sell everything I own and move to Europe for a year.

Watching the threads leap and cling to my heart fills me with excitement. Fills me with anticipation. Fills me with a sense of urgency because all of the threads are whispering to start down one of these paths. . . Which one?  For surely only one will grant me happiness. Will grant me the answer to life's questions. And noone wants to make the mistake of going down the wrong path.

And you know what? I choose all of them.

On love . . .

I've always held things at an arms length, its just been safest that way. But arms get tired every once in a while. Its been a long time, and I still feel that recoil when you press close and ask to be let in. I still retreat a little to the back of my mind where no matter how hard you try-you or any of the others will never hurt me.

Now, I've watched many grow together and I've heard the sounds they make when they rip apart and I'll tell you love-I still dream about it.
And, I've heard of love existing in this world, and sometimes I see it in the sides of my eyes but never with it fully naked in front of me, perhaps this is because people are private about their most sacred treasures. I'm rambling.

We watched your old soul walk towards another man with a ring on his finger. You smiled. You cried. We froze together in happiness for our friend, and not just because it was cold. We watched her stand in the center of all our eyes and press her face close to his and smile. Their lips moved. She laughs.

Another day I would have told you this never will happen to us. I would have dropped my arms and ran, flapping into the dark. But that day, with your face pressed to mine. My smile spread to the whole of my body.

I tried to breath you in.

I think my arms are weary. I think its time to let you in. I think its time. I think its time. I think its time.

A few scattered thoughts on writing

What are writers?
Writers are organisms of evolution. We have to adapt to the changing world of readers with attention spans ranging from horny teens to Buddha. We have to be willing to change, to become better, to push against that invisible wall in our brains that separates us from the next bout of brilliance. If the world asks for fire we must learn how to burn, how to make the words smolder to ash between our fingers. Ice and we must pack it around our hearts and sprinkle over our typewriters.

Then there are spans of time when the fingers have to rest. They feel neither hot nor cold. They feel no vibration. The heart that races in the passion of the scene  races now in anxiety because your hands, feet, heart, and brain are chained to a register. Sometimes a writer walks a path that takes them very far away from the keyboard . . . but when you come back you are closer then ever before to breaking that invisible wall. The words are sticky at first, but after a few days of practice they flow with ease. . .

until the chains reappear.

Writers know true sacrifice, true challenge. Because if we didn't you would never read about it. We are the warriors of time. The last knights on the unspoken crusade. We are the artists in a world where art is dying.

So how do we reawaken the written word? What does it take to stop men, women, and children from watching the youtube version of a short story? How am I getting you to read this right now?

Because I am also asking you to start writing. You all have something to say about the world-the only way it will be heard is if you pick up pen, paintbrush, instrument or dancing shoes and use them. Art is only dead when we fail to express it. So please, support your local artists and writers, not because they need to eat and pay rent like you, but because they have a message that may very well change your life forever. Thats why writers still write. The dying artist still has something to say. The word has a specific weight to it. The word puts your own  unique version of a scene into your head. The written word makes it your own in a different way

Peace guys,
-Samwise

William Haddock Part 3

He had done it.

She was looking right at him. He didn't care too much for her expression- actually he didn't care what her expression was as long as she continued to pump down the window. She was yelling at him, at least she was talking to him even if it was obscenities and threats to sue him if he did anything like that again. She yanked her head back and forth at traffic and then at him while they cruised at the same speed: too slow.

All Billy could do was smile and wave the insults away. It was the smile he used to flash at Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake. Back when he was at the top of his game. It must have worked because she calmed down enough to rationalize.

"Do you need something? Do you need help or something?"

"No, everything's fine, I just wanted to tell you how beautiful your voice is."

She stared at him for a few seconds and then began to roll up the window.

"Wait, I'm serious. I work in music- I'm a scouting agent . . .I know what I'm talking about!" He fumbled in the jacket pocket beside his seat for a few precious seconds and then thrust the card out for her to see. She squinted at it through the glass. Billy thought she must not have perfect vision because she had to roll down the window again and leaned farther out. Her lips moved as she read the words "William Haddock, ARock Records, Tampa, Fl".
They had to slide forward again before she recognized him.

"Oh my god! you guys are the ones who work with Ingrid Michael! I love her!"

"Ha, Ha, yes, we are. Ingrid is a close friend of mine actually. I'd love to arrange a meeting.the glaze in her eye was what Billy was counting on. She was baited. Now all he had to do was reel her in and post for prize money.

 He put his car in park and leaned far enough forward that she could take the card from him. I think in the car behind him  "Money" by Pink Floyd had just begun on the radio. He smiled to himself as she read over the card.

"Call me. We will set up something with the producers. I can make you big darling." Calling her darling was a big risk, but when she nodded vigorously he know the contract was as good as signed.
That is until she furrowed her brow. Billy swallowed hard and asked her as innocently as a fifty year old can manage. "Is something the matter?"

But by then the cars ahead of them had started to pull forward with increasing velocity. Whatever had been causing this traffic constipation from hell was finally over. She turned to ask him something but as soon as her mouth opened the driver behind her decided to lay on his horn, shaking them both into action. She shook her head and he waved at her and began to roll up the window. She did the same, but not before making the well known sign language combo " I'll call you".

Billy drove off, pushing the Mercedes as fast as it could go, leaving her behind so she wouldn't see him bouncing up and down and squealing like the kid with the transformers doll. He flipped open his phone and called his boss.

"Hey J, I just found you're next Diamond Record slot." As his boss was congratulating him William's eye wandered to the clock 5:53. Looks like he would be late for dinner, but he didn't care.

The price was well worth it.

William Haddock coming tomorrow . . . promise

yea. life. . .

It's not a slow thing as of late. Between school and work this week I have had ZERO time to write . . . which is a total qq factor because I was writing not just a few days ago that writing only takes a half an hour to produce material. The pressure set in today, and after a way too long day at work (1-9:00) I find myself shoveling food faster than is deemed healthy, and cutting through a mountain and a half of work that is due at o'dark thirty in tomorrow's AM. . .

Yea, I realize I'm making excuses. This should stop.

William Haddock continued later.

<3 Guys, thanks for your patience.

-Sam

Good evenin'

You are probably wondering what has happened to William Haddock eh? Well, safe to say he is still stuck in traffic, terrorizing local girls . . . just frozen for the time being.

The post didn't happen tonight and I apologize about that. He will definitely return to you tomorrowish. Sleep well guys! And stay on top of your assignments!

Peace

Writing exercise

in exactly one minute, I am going to write for exactly half an hour. lets see where this gets me.

Last night in my dreams I left work and went out to eat with some friends. What was meant to be a  five minute leave of absence ended up being close to an hour. So, of course, in my dream I had no concept of time, and it may have very well been five minutes later when I returned.

And much to my dismay the front door was unlocked, and the entire 300 lbs Iron safe was gone. Just picked up and walked out. And even thought it was a video retail shop, some jewelry was gone from the glass casing, as was my jacket. I called the police, my boss, and they all stumble through the door like drunken maniacs. Their eyes are red and my boss, Gary's tone is rasped and short.

He is beyond mad.

I shake uncontrollably as the police ask me questions
[two minute break to pour out some tea]

My voice is as far from being hysterical as a hair's decent on a knife. My eyes are on Gary as he paces back and forth on the phone with his boss, Raymond. The police seem to fade as ghosts into the background as I stand and walk through their filmy presences and stand before Gary and Raymond, who is now miraculously here. They are standing inside the back room, which was left untouched for lack of key access. It crosses my mind strange that the robbers would lift 300 lbs of dead weight
[4 minute break for kitty pettings and retrieving tea]
...lift dead weight and still not rip the door off the hinges. They are talking about me, and standing there makes me remember what Gary asked me when he got through the door "where were you when this was all happening"
I tell him.
He looks at me incredulously. "What are we going to do about this?"
"Sir, before you let me go, please salvage any respect you have left for me and give me the opportunity to put my two weeks in first."
That gives you till november. In my dream we were in March. Some notice.
It was here that I begin to cry hysterically-remembering the conversation, realizing that I didn't want to leave my job, and knowing that I had absolutely no control here whatsoever.
What's interesting is I am strangely invisible to their conversation. Raymond is weighing the loss over the mistake, and for some reason, thinking it not necessary to let me go. Gary has no choice but to agree. He polarizes between what he said to me and what he is now saying to Raymond.

I stand ready to be dropped into a boiling pot of oil at any minute. When the drop is made I am jacks shattered kidneys. Raymond leans around Gary and stares straight at me. Without moving his lips I know already what he has asked.

There is no escaping the dream now. There is no way to avoid the truth. At this point its a dangerous battle against your subconscious. To lie to the Regional Manager is to lie to your very subconscious. The deepest cut.

The hair falls upon the blade.I respond with the truth of where I was.

I am told to get out. But I do not leave. They do. The surroundings do not change but the season does. I am leaning against the wall of the abandoned building, looking down the sights of a rifle. The broken in doorway is silent for a few minutes  . . . but then I hear it. The soft "Ssssssssssss" of a creeper.
It slides across the doorway, aiming right for me. With a sad smile I squeeze the trigger and the creeper explodes, caving the old store and me into a silent crater.

This is when I woke up into another dream.

[30 minutes have gone by, and look at how much was written. There were a few points to this exercise, one is to show you what its like to take breaks while writing, the other is to show you how much can actually be done in just a few short minutes a day. Hopefully this encourages you to realize all it takes is a small block of time, preferably the same time everyday. Just write what comes naturally to you at that moment. Soon, with practice, this should help when it comes to writing essays and other papers for school. Thanks for reading guys, catch ya on the flip side.]

Part 2:

Billy stared in disbelief at the Hispanic man in the van leaning so far up against the wheel that it might very well have been attached to his abdomen. His wife and kids sat half hidden behind him. 

None of their mouths moved.

On the other side of him was a fat faced pustule looking kid was slamming his transformers doll against the dashboard. His mom behind him was running her fingers through her hair in exasperation and clearly seemed to be considering throwing the child onto the highway. Or at least Billy was. "No, No, No . . . where the flying fuck is it?" The cars all contained faces that neither matched the savior's voice or sex. And then the cars began to move again, along with the voice, which seemed to be drifted further and further away.

Billy harassed the car in front of him like he was trying to get barrier at an ACDC concert. The voice was getting fainter and fainter. He threw his head from side to side, jerking the car this way and that in an attempt to find where she was. 

Then the voice stopped. Billy's eyes may very well popped out of his head at that point. He was being ridiculous and he knew it. The silence seemed to unveil the insanity of the matter. There was no way he could have heard a voice. He could barely hear the American Flag toting Harley that guttered by the car twenty minutes ago. Billy was so concentrated on keeping his heart wrapped inside his chest that he almost hit the Hispanic family's van as it cut in front of him. 

The Mercedes' breaks squealed to a stop just centimeters away from the rusted fender. His heart and eyes somehow managed to stay attached to his body this time, but Billy had had enough. In submission he let his forehead sink down onto the steering wheel. His mind started to draw up a rough draft of what his resignation letter would look like when suddenly he thought he did hear Amy Lee on his radio. Some sick joke from God probably. Billy lifted a salt and peppered eyebrow so he could glance at the traffic ahead of him and the CD Display. But it was off. 5:39 pm. 

The girl was singing again. And this time it sounded as though she was sitting right next to him on the faded leather. His head jerked up in desperation and rested on a slender girl in the car just next to his. 

She was sitting up straight in her seat, cocking her head back and singing as though there was nothing else in the world that was more important. Billy stared at her with jeweled eyes and licked his lips like she was a roasted chicken that he had been starving a week for. He was frozen in captivation. The world seemed to narrow in on this girl and stay there. Slowly Billy pressed on the automated window button so that he could be closer to the sweet Muse singing just five feet away.

The sound of the highway rushed into his car, flooding him with heat, exhaust and mufflers vibrating, all vying for his attention but Billy paid no heed. All that mattered was the strawberry haired muse, singing just slightly louder as the song entered a bridge. He had to get her attention. He called out.

But the sound was lost in the rush hour outside. 

He called louder, but the sound was absorbed by the rolled up window of her green VW bug. 

He tried waving frantically but she was too absorbed.   He had still not understood why he heard her voice, and only hers, but he didn't question it. He only knew that this was his ticket into ten more years in the music industry. If only he could get her attention!The cars ahead were starting to move .

William Haddock had to think of something fast.

There was a lound Thunk as the three year old blackberry connected with the window of the bug, and a lound scream that nearly burst William's ears.

Hey guys

So it's Saturday night, and I'm still trying to figure out this whole blog thing. Establishing a schedule of what to write when and so forth.
 So there is a guy on the internet who does a live show on Ustream Sunday through Thursday for about an hour. Some of you may know him, he does commentary for Starcraft II, Day[9]. Good guy. Funny stuff. Not the point though. Point is that he takes weekends off. This sounds like a good thing to do, since I am trying to graduate and work a steady job. So tonight is just a lackadaisical night. Reading "A Game of Thrones", drinking some wine, and just generally relaxing.

There will definitely be a post tomorrow though, stay tuned guys, and thanks again for the support.

-Samwise :)

William Haddock

It was a sweltering summer afternoon on the interstate. The sea of cars spread out like a river of writhing, screaming heat. A fifty five year old William Haddock wrung his hand on the steering wheel and glanced at the clock every time his car inched forward and slammed to a stop. 5:33 pm . . . .still 5:33 pm ... and still so far until the drive home. But that wasn't all on Will's mind. His cell phone went off.
"This is Billy" 5:34pm
"Billy! how's it goin' dude?"
"Currently in traffic at the moment sir, is there anything I can do for you?"The 2003 Mercedes' breaks were going with each slam and so was his mind.
"Listen Billy, Lexi Starfighter fell through, they're just not what the label's looking for right now."
"Oh is that so? I'm sorry to hear that, she was supposed to be the next Hayley Williams." Fuck. . . and the leathered band slammed down onto the leathered steering wheel. That was is best client.
"Yea, well, not so much, look Billy, we need your back up."
 There was no back up.
"Oh yea, sure Dan, I'll have a meeting set up next week,"William's heart splashed into his chest.
"Awesome, thanks Billy, see you tomorrow-oh and don't forget those contracts you said you would write up"
"not a problem sir, they're as good as on your desk right now."
"Thanks Billy, this is why you're the man!" and the cell phone lit up when Dan disappeared. William threw it onto the dashboard and looked around in despair. He would have to look for a new job, and soon his would be replaced by someone half his age, like what they did with Richard . . . who was now the cocky 27 year old who dangled Williams job above his head like a worm on a hook. What the hell am I going to do? the words sang out in his head, reverberating past the car and joining the waves of heat.

It was here that William Haddock heard the most beautiful voice in the world. She was belting to a broadway song he had never heard before, but the clarity and tone was spot on. He looked to either side of him, eyes mad with desperation.
He had to have that voice.
It was perfect. It was the next Amy Lee. It was going to be his next idol.
But the cars around him contained neither rolled down windows or women.

(To be continued)

Welcome!

Hey guys and gals, my name is Sam.

This blog marks a few things actually, first thing is serving as a testament to my ability to write everyday. My goal is at least 500 words a day ... even if it kills me. This blog will focus mainly on flash fiction, with a few other tidbits of book, movie, and video game review.

This is my first blog, so bare with me, this is a journey for both of us.
That also means if you have any suggestions or comments to offer, they will be greatly appreciated.

Maiden Voyage

 I'm approaching the last day of my undergraduate career. Soon I will be taking that piece of paper granting me permission to move on, and I will come to stand at the doorstep of that big scary world everyone warns you about.

I have been told to stay under the wing of school, I have told others to cherish their lives inside the protective walls of college, of their parents homes-and now here I stand, with all of those warnings shouting from behind me, and an unknown future unfolding before me. Six months ago I would have broken down, would have fell to the floor immobilized. But that was so long ago now. Now I'm not scared anymore. Im exhilirated.

 The edge of that cliff Im standing on is not so high up. And the jump looks like it will be fun. Who knows what the future has in store for me after that last leap. All I know is that I have time to figure it out. I have time to find happiness and try out new things. I will get to know more of me.

 I will see if I have wings to fly with