Sunday, June 7, 2009

Sunday, Sunday...

Had a good day with the Mid-Wife and her family. We went into Brooklyn for a family get-together and a side trip to a neighborhood street fair. I ate too much, spent too much, and had a great end to a damn-near perfect weekend.

So, where to go from here? Well, as I said before, I decided to start a blog for a number of reasons; the major one being that I wanted to work on my writing skills before going too public with any story or article. I have been told by more professional writers than I can shake a pencil at that the best way to get good at writing was to write every day.

So here we are at day two... and I've decided to try out something new for me. Two of my biggest problems in writing is how to start an article/story and when to end it. I always admired writers who could break things up into discrete chunks without losing the story for the reader. By that I mean, the serial story.

I know there are tons of serial story blogs out there, and I don't expect this to be the best of them, but I want to try this out and see what people think. I will be happy to hear what think.

So, I'll just start it off right here...


You Lost Me...

A serial story
By MiddleMan

Part One

He felt relieved to remember how to open his eyes, but disgusted that his current state made the need for remembering necessary and painfully unrewarding.

He glared about his room from his bed, but the no matter where he looked, everything seemed to packed in cotton and glass shards as far as his eyes were concerned. Even his normally sedate bookshelves screamed with every color that graced each spine.

"At least it's quiet," he told himself as quietly in his mind as he could muster. He was grateful for that, considering all of his senses were as sensitive as they were shredded.

What did he do last night? What was his crime? He scoured all of his most recent thoughts until he came up with two that seemed to make the most sense: he drank too much (no shit, Sherlock), and he kissed...

"That bitch!" he said more over than under his breath than intended. She was the reason he drank so much. That red-haired, eternally pissed-off... Wait... Did he kiss her while he was drunk, or before? He suddenly grew doubtful that he had done the former, and feared that he had done the second. That he had kissed her sober.

As this was doing cartwheels in his head, he found himself musing over what other stupid things he may have done...

His ears made sure that any more thoughts were long in coming when they painfully reported that someone was hammering on his door with sharp little knuckles. "Craig, get your ass up and get out here!" Crap, his sister, Kelly. What could she possibly want?

Jumping out of bed with more might than he thought he could muster, he lunged for the door, almost tripping over the pile of clothes that he could have sworn moved directly in his path as he dodged them. He opened the door, and just got out, "What's the matt...?" before a pair of sneaker were thrust into his arms. Recently vomited on sneakers. Sneakers which looked a lot like his sister's favorite pair - only now vomit colored in spots.

With a kick to his shin, she ended this conversation with, "Clean this up, jackass! If you ever do that again, I intend to kick higher next time!", and strode off into the hallway like she was going to find another target for her wrath. Craig felt he got off easy.

With one mystery solved that he really could have lived without; he limped down the hall to the bathroom to clean the sneakers, and his now matching vomit stained undershirt. He got about halfway before another voice broke his concentration. His mother's.

"Craig! Linda's on the phone!" she said in her way-too-matronly-nice voice she used when acting as the family answering machine.

Tossing the sneakers into what he hoped would be the direction of the tub, he made an attempt to collect the upstairs phone without breaking his stride. He picked up the phone and said as clearly as his tongue would let him, "Hi, Honey! How are you this morning?" His headache made this less sincere than he meant it to be.

"Don't 'Honey' me! Get your self together, and meet me NOW!" came the voice on the other line. This was followed next by the four words no man wants to hear: "We have to talk!"

He meekly agreed and hung up the phone to continue trudging to the bathroom. He had hoped that he wouldn't have heard from her until later in the day, but the grapevine worked so much quicker than drunken reflexes.

His only thought right before hitting the shower was, "Is it a bad thing to make something up about a bad thing? Especially when you can't remember what it was?"

This enigma was soon drowned in the sound and sensation of hot water cascading down his aching body.


Sorry this post is long and late, but I wanted it to be just right before I posted it. I will pick up this story next Serial Sunday.

Until tomorrow...


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