Sunday, September 25, 2011
Just a Note
Much more time has gone by than I would have liked and a post to my blog remains absent for almost two months. I've been compiling a list of notes and have been doing a ton of editing for other projects, but I do guarantee another installment of my current flash fiction project relatively soon. I hope to have all of you along for the ride of seeing the misadventures and viewing the lives of Larry, Fat Tompkins, and a few others that have yet to be introduced. I had said that there would be about 11 to 14 parts of this grand story, and I have no intention of merely forgetting about it. To those of you who have either posted a comment, whether on this page or via email, I appreciate the options and thrive on criticism. If you don't evolve, you die. And any artist must have a mindset that is ever changing in order to sustain a continuance of their craft. Thank you again for the viewership and I promise more posts to come.
Friday, July 22, 2011
1: Fat Tompkins
"So why the Mountain?" wondered Fat Tompkins aloud.
The Mountain, as the north end rich kids of Birch Crossing knew, referred to the old, never ending dirt pathway named "Cherry Mountain Road." Its given identity's only proof of origin was amongst the red leafed branches of Kansas' native oak trees. A rusty yellow sign stood hidden, overgrown with age and decay, more than likely untouched since the 1950s, nearly 80 years past.
"You know Deacon Gerald's son from Theology class?" questioned David.
When the younger and more timid of the two nodded, David continued.
"Well he lives somewhere up here, in one of the communities, ya know? Says the neighbors are all quiet-like, keep to their big yards and shit."
The two of them had been sitting in the Dodge Caravan of David's parents for what felt like an eternity to Fat Tompkins. All of the boys of Brady High tended to call one another by their surname, as was the protocol of this particular private school. But for one reason or another, David had been the exception to the rule, always remaining "David" to the rest of the classmates. On the first day of high school, the fate bestowed upon Fat Tompkins was far more cruel an experience than the welcoming received by the rest of the incoming freshman class. Growing up, Tompkins had always been the largest of his friends. Born big of bones his mother used to tell him. But lack of exercise and a preferred interest in book reading as opposed to basketball or soccer or whatever else would pop up as the popular sports trend of the season did the meek boy no favors. From the moment those upperclassmen stood by to glance at Tompkins step foot off that yellow bus, he was greeted with chants that took aim at his rotund figure. The jokes rarely missed their mark as if readied with the precision that came from the deft hands of a gunslinger. From that moment forward, Adam Michael Tompkins, was dubbed "Fat Tompkins." The very least that Brady High could do was to include his surname. And now, months later and on the first night of summer vacation, here he sat within the darkness of the Caravan and next to David. Just waiting for this time to come, seemed to him a lifetime.
Fat Tompkins' stare hadn't left the beginnings of where the dirt road started, but it continued deeply into the unanswering twilight.
No streetlights he thought.
David started the car back up, "So soak in the atmosphere, Tommy Boy. Tomorrow night, when we're with the others, there's no turning back."
But David's words might as well have been spoken to a wall, because Fat Tompkins wasn't thinking about the other boys or even the stupid prank he had agreed to. He kept thinking about how dark the Mountain looked. It was more than just the look. Since they parked near the top of the hill and outside the only gated community on Cherry Mountain, he stomached this feeling of dread. This was the same fright you might recall having as a child when waking up from a nightmare, even more similar to the experience of feeling trapped and alone as if your mother were dropping you off at daycare for the first yet final time. As they drove back down the road and away from the unfamiliar dark hill, Fat Tompkins had a chill.
(c) Jonathan Higgins 2011 blah blah blah
The Mountain, as the north end rich kids of Birch Crossing knew, referred to the old, never ending dirt pathway named "Cherry Mountain Road." Its given identity's only proof of origin was amongst the red leafed branches of Kansas' native oak trees. A rusty yellow sign stood hidden, overgrown with age and decay, more than likely untouched since the 1950s, nearly 80 years past.
"You know Deacon Gerald's son from Theology class?" questioned David.
When the younger and more timid of the two nodded, David continued.
"Well he lives somewhere up here, in one of the communities, ya know? Says the neighbors are all quiet-like, keep to their big yards and shit."
The two of them had been sitting in the Dodge Caravan of David's parents for what felt like an eternity to Fat Tompkins. All of the boys of Brady High tended to call one another by their surname, as was the protocol of this particular private school. But for one reason or another, David had been the exception to the rule, always remaining "David" to the rest of the classmates. On the first day of high school, the fate bestowed upon Fat Tompkins was far more cruel an experience than the welcoming received by the rest of the incoming freshman class. Growing up, Tompkins had always been the largest of his friends. Born big of bones his mother used to tell him. But lack of exercise and a preferred interest in book reading as opposed to basketball or soccer or whatever else would pop up as the popular sports trend of the season did the meek boy no favors. From the moment those upperclassmen stood by to glance at Tompkins step foot off that yellow bus, he was greeted with chants that took aim at his rotund figure. The jokes rarely missed their mark as if readied with the precision that came from the deft hands of a gunslinger. From that moment forward, Adam Michael Tompkins, was dubbed "Fat Tompkins." The very least that Brady High could do was to include his surname. And now, months later and on the first night of summer vacation, here he sat within the darkness of the Caravan and next to David. Just waiting for this time to come, seemed to him a lifetime.
Fat Tompkins' stare hadn't left the beginnings of where the dirt road started, but it continued deeply into the unanswering twilight.
No streetlights he thought.
David started the car back up, "So soak in the atmosphere, Tommy Boy. Tomorrow night, when we're with the others, there's no turning back."
But David's words might as well have been spoken to a wall, because Fat Tompkins wasn't thinking about the other boys or even the stupid prank he had agreed to. He kept thinking about how dark the Mountain looked. It was more than just the look. Since they parked near the top of the hill and outside the only gated community on Cherry Mountain, he stomached this feeling of dread. This was the same fright you might recall having as a child when waking up from a nightmare, even more similar to the experience of feeling trapped and alone as if your mother were dropping you off at daycare for the first yet final time. As they drove back down the road and away from the unfamiliar dark hill, Fat Tompkins had a chill.
(c) Jonathan Higgins 2011 blah blah blah
Thursday, July 21, 2011
0: Foreign Policy
A light groan escaped the lips of Larry Clarke as his morning alarm disturbed his deep slumber. He instinctively glanced at the clock. 8 a.m. Did I really manage four hours last night?
Larry believed he wasn't privileged enough to enjoy the luxury of a normal sleeping schedule. Judging by his own standards, four hours was indeed a vast improvement and break from the norm. He rolled back to his comfortable, sideways sleeping position, and turned toward the center of the bed, where his glossy eyes took notice of the girl with whom he slept.
Her name was "Sasha;" Or at least it was the name she had chosen to give him the night before. Juggling with both pride and indifference in his hands, Larry gazed upon the naked, lithe body of his blonde-haired conquest. His smile, though deep, shortened when he pulled the covers over her exposed, heaving chest. He stood and admitted to himself that work would soon be back in session.
"Who am I kidding?" he muttered to himself. Work for Larry was always in session. Words such as vacation or naps rarely entered his vocabulary.
Sasha stirred, as if prisoner in her self-enchanted dream, no doubt.
This was Larry's apartment: One room with a foldout bed and a meager 10 by 5 bathroom to spare. Aside from his makeshift bed, lay his three tools upon which his day relied. They sat atop his miniature dark wood bed table: Within his wallet contained his ID and PI license, his Gene Tech comm. receiver in the form of a small ear plug, and his Glock 35 series 4; the last of these items he was very proud. An ordinance had been passed just the week after he had gotten it registered for another two years. The new law had banned all handheld firearms of a Glock series from further registration. Something about the Kenshaw Robberies, which saw the local BC police outgunned by the assailants. This place, it wasn't much, but it was his. And within his home he was like any man, a master of his own domain and any fling or trick that chose to follow him from the bar was a foreigner to that domain despite the usual late-night company of the carnal kind. The next morning would have him shower the previous night's memories away, before leaving a cab fare for the female guest. It was his own little foreign policy.
He retreated to his bathroom. It was plain enough to make a 5th century Spartan warrior's living quarters look fitting for a king. Turning the knob slowly, the warm comforts of water exited from the shower head to greet his skin, and he reminisced the previous mornings' routine bliss. However, this simple pleasure did little to take his mind off the task at hand.
"Never mix alcohol and work..." Last night he learned all too well. When he left the bathroom to dry himself, he gazed upon the still sleeping girl on the bed. He couldn't leave her cab fare. He couldn't tell her to leave. Larry scratched his head realizing that he couldn't even drag her out, kicking and screaming.
She told him her name was Sasha.
This was the first time he ever slept with the client.
(c) Jonathan Higgins 2011 all rights reserved
(Prelude to about 13 to 15 pieces. I want to put some of these ideas on a bit of a dryrun, or at least get closer to those thoughts and see if I can get them working. At some point you have to take all the half ass imaginative notions and word doc. files full of unintelligible stream-of-consciousness gibberish and try to get them up off their feet into something live. You need to get it out on top of something concrete. Most of this is probably going to be crap. But you're not paying for it, so screw it. In 13 - 15 pieces -- plus this bit -- I'm trying to get something out in front of me where I can visualize it as I should. What better way than the writer to become the reader, so to speak? So this is me saying that I hope you get the opportunity to look at it and become the reader too.)
Larry believed he wasn't privileged enough to enjoy the luxury of a normal sleeping schedule. Judging by his own standards, four hours was indeed a vast improvement and break from the norm. He rolled back to his comfortable, sideways sleeping position, and turned toward the center of the bed, where his glossy eyes took notice of the girl with whom he slept.
Her name was "Sasha;" Or at least it was the name she had chosen to give him the night before. Juggling with both pride and indifference in his hands, Larry gazed upon the naked, lithe body of his blonde-haired conquest. His smile, though deep, shortened when he pulled the covers over her exposed, heaving chest. He stood and admitted to himself that work would soon be back in session.
"Who am I kidding?" he muttered to himself. Work for Larry was always in session. Words such as vacation or naps rarely entered his vocabulary.
Sasha stirred, as if prisoner in her self-enchanted dream, no doubt.
This was Larry's apartment: One room with a foldout bed and a meager 10 by 5 bathroom to spare. Aside from his makeshift bed, lay his three tools upon which his day relied. They sat atop his miniature dark wood bed table: Within his wallet contained his ID and PI license, his Gene Tech comm. receiver in the form of a small ear plug, and his Glock 35 series 4; the last of these items he was very proud. An ordinance had been passed just the week after he had gotten it registered for another two years. The new law had banned all handheld firearms of a Glock series from further registration. Something about the Kenshaw Robberies, which saw the local BC police outgunned by the assailants. This place, it wasn't much, but it was his. And within his home he was like any man, a master of his own domain and any fling or trick that chose to follow him from the bar was a foreigner to that domain despite the usual late-night company of the carnal kind. The next morning would have him shower the previous night's memories away, before leaving a cab fare for the female guest. It was his own little foreign policy.
He retreated to his bathroom. It was plain enough to make a 5th century Spartan warrior's living quarters look fitting for a king. Turning the knob slowly, the warm comforts of water exited from the shower head to greet his skin, and he reminisced the previous mornings' routine bliss. However, this simple pleasure did little to take his mind off the task at hand.
"Never mix alcohol and work..." Last night he learned all too well. When he left the bathroom to dry himself, he gazed upon the still sleeping girl on the bed. He couldn't leave her cab fare. He couldn't tell her to leave. Larry scratched his head realizing that he couldn't even drag her out, kicking and screaming.
She told him her name was Sasha.
This was the first time he ever slept with the client.
(c) Jonathan Higgins 2011 all rights reserved
(Prelude to about 13 to 15 pieces. I want to put some of these ideas on a bit of a dryrun, or at least get closer to those thoughts and see if I can get them working. At some point you have to take all the half ass imaginative notions and word doc. files full of unintelligible stream-of-consciousness gibberish and try to get them up off their feet into something live. You need to get it out on top of something concrete. Most of this is probably going to be crap. But you're not paying for it, so screw it. In 13 - 15 pieces -- plus this bit -- I'm trying to get something out in front of me where I can visualize it as I should. What better way than the writer to become the reader, so to speak? So this is me saying that I hope you get the opportunity to look at it and become the reader too.)
This is going to be the beginning of my blog I guess. For those that choose to follow I hope to have frequently updated content which will include several original works, mostly in the form of short story ideas and other excerpts from projects as I choose to work on them. I'll be talking about various different topics that will mostly involve pop culture. Essentially, in due time, I hope to have all readers and viewers alike to discover first hand why this is called "Higgins' Highlight Reel."
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