Trouble finishing

31 12 2008

I’m having trouble finishing this series.

1. Have to tidy up all the old story lines. Or at least the major ones.

2. Dig deeper

3. Which may lead me to rewrite the whole thing. I’ve already decided to cut out the whole Maynard G. Krebs blog. (Treating it as a separate story.)

4.  Try to publish (first in small reviews and emags and then later in a pub or epub

5. Consider illustrations. The plaza is down the street. Got to start photographing. But it’s winter.  And I’m procrastinating. And getting older.





Ballad of a Heist

7 12 2008

BALLAD OF A HEIST

Man called Fu. Slap stepping. Into a New World. The drug store. Where he had never been. Not a foot. If you don’t count looking in. And wishing. They wouldn’t let him in. Been warned. No beggars in the aisle.

“Oh man,” he said. His eyes were wide open. “Look at all this shit! It hurts to look.”

He was wiped out. But why had he been drawn inside the New World? Something had whispered in his ear.

Today your future will be revealed in a lullaby.

Behind him. But not too far behind him stepped the Drug Store Bandits. Doing the Fox Trot and leading the way was Tony. Boy, did he look sharp? Pressed and put on a bright new Hawaiian shirt.

“Hey man,” he said. Even his voiced sparkled. “Don’t I look sharp!” He was glad that he showered and shaved that morning. The drug store was so clean. Wouldn’t want to look out of place. On the surveillance.

Now Teddy came in toe tapping. Put metal clamps on the bottom of his running shoes. On his toes. That made each of his steps tap. He had a few moves that he was willing to dump. But mostly he felt his routine was top rate. God, he hoped his mask was on straight. And who the hell was Tricky Dick?

Sean brought up the rear. Like doing a line dance. The Stroll. Stepping down the gauntlet of household products. Lead me to the drugs, he hummed.

Out of the back of the drug store stepped Mr. Edwards. He’d seen better days. His smile was a heavy load to bear that day. Deborah Hall winked at him.

“How are you doing today, champ?” she cried. “Where’s the spark? Bend your ear, and listen to my version. Life is its own reward. You don’t need a long face. Squint those eyes. I’ve never been happier.”

The cashiers, Bea, May, and Josephine, danced like a chorus line out of the room that read Employees Only. Singing, “We’re not really late, boss. We had a revelation. Who wants to complain about low pay and long hours? As long as you’re alive, there’s no reason to cry.”

Mr. Martins sat at the heart monitor. His arm stuck in the sleeve. He waved at Tony as he approached the pharmacy counter. Felt like a lounge singer. Aka Frank. All he needed was a tie. Loosened. A fedora. Tipped to one side. And a voice.

“I don’t know the kid,” Mr. Martins explained, “but it doesn’t do any harm to be friendly.”

Tony stepped up. Pharmaceutical counter. And demanded to be serviced. Teddy moved over to the west side. Took out his plastic gun.

“I was up bright and early,” he said to no one in particular. “God, the air was clean.”

Sean moved to the other side. And wished he’d had a smoke. There was a sign that read No Smoking. And it was by law.

“I’d like to find a tree that’s shady.” He smiled.

Tony took out his gun. And threw a bag over the counter.

“I want all your drugs. Especially the expensive ones. And don’t try to skin me. I know my meds. And this gun is loaded. Waiting to explode. And if I was you, I’d fulfill my requests.”

“You can say that again,” Teddy roared. “I used to be a cry baby. But if you think I’ll shrink from blowing a hole in your head, just try me.”

Most of the customers who were gathered around, including Mrs. McGuire, Mr. Johnson, Tom Payne, Fu, and the three cashiers, hit the floor. Smack. Smack. Smack.

Except Mr. Newton. The bank manager stood in front of Tony. He turned around.

“I was here first,” he said. “I demand to be served first. That’s my right. And I won’t give it up to the likes of you. Hooligans.”

Tony placed the barrel of his gun against the temple of Mr. Newton. And pulled the trigger. A flash sprang out the barrel. And burned Mr. Newton’s skin. Who winced. Tony had the lighter. At that same moment, Sean had grown tired of waiting and taken out a smoke. No Smoking. What do I care? When he lit his cigarette. Sean had the gun and not the lighter. How had things gotten so messed up. And if Sean could have rectified things he would have. The bullet fled up the barrel. Of the gun. Continued on up the barrel. Of Sean’s head. His nose. Into his memories. And out his skull.

“That was a mistake,” he might have said.

Mr. Newton fainted. Knowing the bloody brains splattered on the wall should have been his.

“What a thrill!” everyone else cried.

Teddy began to cry. His solace could not be eclipsed.

“He was my friend,” he sang. And once on key.

Tony was out the door. Which read Fire Exit.

Everyone else breathed easier. Except Sean.

Fu jumped to his feet and waved his hands in the air. “I see a chance to change my life. I’m going back to high school.”





The End Of Jazz

2 12 2008

I’m almost at the end of my jazz novel. Or series of jazz stories. One of my daughter’s expressions that I love is the word random. And that is what these jazz stories (interlocking stories) have been about. Not only does each story take off like a instrumental solo but some times the images or responses inside the story are random. (They don’t follow some of the conventional rules of order that are dictated in lessons about how to write.) The randomness makes them fun. But, in order to be jazz like they must return to the original idea of the story and then the book. So there has to be an internal order that continues to draw them back. Much like the movement of a river where different currents will leave the flow of the river and take off, perhaps even slip away and branch off. But they inevitably return to the core of the river itself. It is as if in a physical reality there is a law (outside the physical reality) that defines what is that physical reality. (That’s enough of that kind of talk.)

I think I shall try a publish the pieces of this novel (OPEN 24hrs) at emags/ereviews and see what happens. I have considered making new illustrations for it (perhaps using the sight of the strip plaza, that the stories grow out of, as a base for what I call imaginative photographs. Anyway, I only have so much time. Sometimes I feel that I don’t have enough time. I guess none of us do.