Tag Archives: story

Dreams Scapes

Today I awoke from a dream in complete bewilderment.

From Ebaums World

Now like most lucid dreams I was totally engrossed in all sensory details so as you can tell when I opened my eyes I was a slight mess. But the dream wasn’t like most. It wasn’t some bizarre revelation or a psychological notice. No. Instead what I was involved with was a complete narrative that I had become a character in. The characters were real, I was not Damian, but some other name I can’t recall. The fear was real, the emotion was crippling and this dream felt like it had wound on for days. My dream began in the halls of AWP in the Hilton in Chicago, but that’s where the similarities with the real world ended (well until later).

The point I’m trying to make is that if I can day-dream story ideas and develop plots and stories while I’m ‘awake’, can I create those same ideas while I’m asleep? If you believe in lucid dreaming as a self-powered mental mechanism than can I place my mind into brainstorm mode while I sleep and use my awakened ours to craft and perfect those same ideas? The possibilities are truly endless and by utilizing my sleep cycles as a creative process I can truly delve deeper into my subconscious possibly to discover the darker more sinister sides of my tales.

Do you think dreams can be used as the basis for narratives or poems? Anyone have any experience doing so? Leave the comments below 

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New Story: Vampyre

Here’s a new piece of flash fiction. Enjoy 🙂

It is humorous that money buys nothing in the end. We work for this paper our entire lives and when the end is near we lie there like any other and wait for fate to come down and shit on us. Believe me, I have climbed the ladders from scum to supreme, from poverty to powerful, from a New York City bum to a corporate entrepreneur with more money than the goddamn president; but as I write this down I am immortal. The blood that flows through my veins is not pure, but a coarse black serum that keeps my pale skin thriving in the dark.

My secretary had first introduced me to the treatment. When I had been diagnosed with cancer a year ago I’d given up. The doctor told me I had less than a year to live, that no treatment would remedy the affliction. The bastard gave me a Medical Marijuana card, and enough painkillers to drug a fucking whale.

“I got something” My secretary said nervously, rubbing his hands together. “Shipped straight from Asia, real weird shit.”

“If I’m looking to get high I’d just smoke the weed, Tom” I had told him and twirled a quarter on my desk.  “I need a cure. I have all the money in the world, but the doctors got nothing.”

“Nah, a friend from overseas told me about something that’s been passed around in the underground markets. People call it ‘Vampyre’.”

“Vampyre?”

“Yeah as in ‘Vam-pire’. It comes in a fluid, you inject it and in three days the cancer will be gone.” Tom cleared his throat nervously. “But-“

“Side effects?” I asked.

“Typical bullshit- headaches, nausea, minor hallucinations, and in some of the cases death.” Tom paused.  “But that’s a small percentage of trials. “’Course it’s not FDA approved or nothing but I can get it in here in a week or two,”

That’s all I needed. I just needed to see a spark of opportunity, even if it were dim. I wouldn’t have cared if he were trying to pour rat poison down my throat, or inject cyanide in my veins. As the cancers swam through my veins each and everyday grew more dreary; more cold and hostile. I would eat my lunch at my desk and then stand tall and watch the world flutter by outside of the windowpanes. Sometimes I would count the snowflakes as they splashed against the glass and freeze. When each moment matters and death lingers at your doorway you have two options; to run away until it eventually finds you, or to jump into it and knock death on its ass. I chose the second path.

My secretary came to me one morning with this bottle of dark liquid. He placed it on my desk and dropped a black balloon and a syringe beside it. “Just like shooting dope,” He spoke as if it were nothing. I looked bug-eyed, but I let him tie my arm and inject the ‘Vampyre’ into my veins. It burned but then went cool as it climbed throughout my veins.  He found his way out of my office and I slit down the wall nearest my desk; my skin grew clammy and cold as my insides twisted and turned.  The morning came through the window but I shriveled away from the light of dawn, into a closet near the door. I didn’t leave my office for the last couple of days; I left my wife lonely at my home and my kids oblivious away at school. I cowered from the daylight and marveled in the shine of the harvest moon.

The cancer had subsided, and I watched the world at night through a thin glass array. To my family and friends I was a man who overcame cancer; but to me, I was Vampyre.


Story a Day May is here!

National Poetry Writing Month has come to close leaving me in the dust by ten :/

🙂

Blah, but oh well I tried, I came, and I conquered. No not really, but I did renew my interest in poetry, but now the new ‘contest for writers abound is here. Story a Day May has begun with an amazing rush of activity from writers of all sorts. I was lucky enough to have taken a workshop course before the month had started.

So I’ll keep this post short and snappy. The point of this month is to write a new short story every single day, so 31 days of May; 31 stories or May. Writers may share these stories on their own blogs, or on the website itself. I will be posting a new short story weekly, each and every Saturday. Though it will not be daily (need to keep some for the Continue reading


Frying the Cliche’

Can you smell it in the air? The breath of a fresh (not new!) cliche which is being weaved between the words of your favorite novels? A cliche is an unoriginal thought that is mostly known as the sign of a weak writer. We’ve all all been vicitms of cliche’d thoughts; whether good or bad that have made their ways into our minds. I sure know I have, some characters appear to be typical stereotypes, while others are advanced original chracters solid in their own will. Continue reading


Sometimes I’m an Honest Writer

We all know the parental iron fist which crushes down on us when we’re young : don’t lie, and stop making up stories! That is a debilitating blow to the young psyche, why can’t I make up stories? Dreaming up imaginary tales are a necessary act of any writer who dreams to share his stories. Fiction is the act of making up stories, but I try to tell the truth when I do it.

Censorship is lame. When I envision a story in my head, I translate the story to the page just as I see it. If I have a prison inmate who yields from the a poor neighborhood and has a not-so-flattering personality, I’m not going to have him yell “o sugar!” Shit seems like the appropriate response. Sure, some folks may find the words offensive to them, but the story can’t be penalized to the whims of certain fragile eyes. I think we can all relate when watching an older movie, the dialogue is choppy and doesn’t seem real. Darn, dangit and sugar may be perfect phrases for your grandmother or an older character but a murderer most likely will never utter the words.

Racism, sexism and genuine strange points of view are not reflections of the author’s principles but of a true-blue created character. If you know J.T. Harren, an old-school detective with a chip on his shoulder is not a fan of homosexuality, blacks, and likes to beat his wife; working that into his persona will be beneficial to your readers. They will be able to acknowledge his ideas and bigotries.

As writers of fiction we must describe our imaginary worlds as truthful as lies may be.


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