No Sunset in the Desert

So this also was for a class, professors have this idea that from obstructions comes art, or something. Sometimes that's true, I guess, but this just felt mostly annoying more than anything. The first paragraph's obstruction was that the sentences could only contain 7 or less words. The second paragraph's obstruction was no periods, which I had no problem with whatsoever, they're a waste of time anyway. And the third paragraph just had to be all dialogue which is the only thing I'm decent at anyway. So here it is :



He threw his hands in the air. She was having a fit. The trip had failed, maybe. The sun was still high up. Where were they going, nearest motel. Barren fields laughing at this troubled couple. Little hope for them, they’d fry. They’d wake the next morning, with dissolution. Unaware still, stuck in the maze. Sweat dripping from his brow. Woman twitching her sunglasses, she wanted out. The man wanted out. The entire situation was dire. Where were they going. What next. They already tried that route. Going in circles in the desert. The sun dropping more now, just by a bit. It’s getting later, bit darker. But they’ll miss the sunset.

The man lit another cigarette, the woman fumbled for her own, it was hot in that old dark Buick, sun beating down on the dark paint, going around in those desert circles, nowhere to stop and ask, what the hell kind of place is this, is this a place, is this a land of nothing, barren of life, barren of time, only the sun can tell us when to head home, or at least try to find it, out here, the man adjusted his hat, pushing it farther up on his head, the woman took off her white gloves, why’d they leave LA, the car needs gas, they both needs a pillow, a motel, a place, people, the map made no sense, when you have no idea where you are there is no sense in looking at a dumb map, fucking thing was useless, fancy piece of paper, perhaps tomorrow will be better, the seat folds down, and the sides of the road will be the motel tonight, sun is dropping, and it’s getting a bit darker, but they’ll miss the sunset.

“Jesuuuus Christ, Angela”

“WHAT? How can you turn this situation on ME?”

“BECAUSE, you have the map. . .darling”

“You TRY and READ this goddamn thing!”

“But I am. . .driving”

“I’LL DRIVE”

“Right. . .”

“We’re lost TOM, we’re really lost”

“Yeah, and it’s fucking hot, it’s really just really fucking hot”

“God it is, I’m sweating everywhere”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh you stop it with that shit, I haven’t got the time for your antics”

“But. . . we could pull over”

“TOOOOM”

“HOLY SHiiiiT”

“WHAT THE HELL”

“HE CAME OUT OF NOWHERE. . .literally”

“ohMYohMYohMY . . .”

“You think . . . he’s. . .dead?”

“Oh mmmyyy gaaawwwd”

“Don’t start crying”

“TOOOOOM, YOU KILLED SOMEBODY. . . .BECAUSE OF MEEEEE”

“. . .Angela”

“GO CHECK ON HIM FOR CHRISTSAKE”

“okay, okaaay”

“GO”

“Holy fucking mother of god . . .ANGELA”

“WHAAAT?”

“HE’S GONE”

Real People

(had to write a piece containing 2 people and a secret for my short story class, fucked around a bit and got something alright -- CF) 

It’s a long open apartment, probably an old retired art studio, and before then a ballet studio. There’s long showing pieces of wood and piping on the ceiling, big spacious walls with random pieces of art on them. The walls are tall but there are windows above them and a few windows on the right side of the room. There’s a dinner table, and then a writing table near one of the windows with a cigarette burning in the ashtray and a typewriter on it with a half written poem still stuck in the typer. At the far end of the room there’s a bed, and a dresser to the left of it. It's lightly raining outside and you can hear the cars going across the freeway in the distance. 

What’s up with you today? I can tell something is goin on with you 

I don’t know. . . I think it’s because Richard is finally coming back tomorrow

So? We’ve been doing this for months now, so what if your husband is back from another one of his business trips

Yeah, but I haven’t seen him in like . . . a month and a half -- I’ve just been in this fucking apartment with you every waking moment!

Okay? That’s what we generally do

Yeah? And how’s Lucy, huh? How’s that little slut doing?

Hey! I don’t talk shit about Richard, you don’t talk shit about Lucy, the fuck Karen? 

OKAY

What in the fuck is with you today?

I’m fine

Really?

I’M FINE

Babe cman

JUST STOP

I seriously am going to lose my shit if you don’t just fucking say it

I’m gonna go

Like hell you are WOMAN!

You know what, fuck you SEAN. . .I’M PREGNANT

Pregnant?

PREGNANT

Fuck, whaaaat the fuuuuuuuuck -- It's not Richard's???

No. . .it can't be

FAWK you're sure??

What are you doing with that bottle?

I’m getting drunk, what does it look like?

OH THAT MUST BE NICE! GOOD WAY TO DEAL WITH YOUR PROBLEMS

I thought you were on the pill???

I thought I WAS, I MUST HAVE SCREWED UP, I’D BE NICE IF YOU WRAPPED IT EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE!

Yeah, well, fuck KAREN, I DON’T KNOW, THIS IS A LOT RIGHT NOW. Fucking dropped a bomb on me

OKAY okay OKAY, what do you think we should do???

The rain picks up outside and starts battering the windows, Sean lights a cigarette and keeps pacing around the apartment. Sean has his head in his hands now, shaking it back and forth. Karen is across the long room with her back on the bed and her feet dangling over the side. Her eyes are closed, and her mouth is open, fists clenched onto the sheets.

Maybe . . . we should take care of it

Karen bursts into tears, she has been able to keep it together for the most part up until now, she sits up on the bed, still with her feet on the ground, and now puts her head into her hands as well, running her fingers throughout her hair, crying.

I don’t know if I can do that

What do you mean?

I dooonnnt knoooow IF I CAN DO THAT SEAN!

What are you going to do? Divorce Richard?? You’ve been together 8 years now or something for christsake

7 years

Okay??

I don’t know Sean, I never thought about this, I never thought about ANY of this!!

I think we should just take a deep breath and think this over

Think what over?? SUCKING THIS LIFE OUT OF ME!

KAREN, KAREN! I DON’T LIKE IT EITHER BUT FUCK WHAT ELSE?? It’s not like you can just lie, HE’LL KNOW WHEN THE BABY IS BORN! Richard and I don’t exactly SHARE THE SAME COMPLEXION

WHATEVER! YOU’RE RIGHT, OKAY? I’LL JUST DEAL WITH IT

Karen, WEEEE CAN DEAL WITH IT?

Does this happen to real people Sean?

I don’t know Karen, but I want to say yes

Friday Night, 4:17 AM

I never met her, I mean really never have, maybe never will

But I feel as if I know her, I can imagine it in my mind

“Whiskey split with water, please, Vodka cranberry for her”

“You have another one of those? I have my own light”

The one to drive down the highway with no destination, dance in the desert sun, get lost in the dark, run from reality, rolling down the coast -- to feel the sun’s gaze, not needing to say anything to one another

Sending letters in the mail because, “nobody else does anymore”

Claiming records are still the only, “true way to enjoy music”

In every photo ever taken she always looked slightly over her shoulder, shooting a look you really can’t explain,

Maybe it was the distance that never made her real

I’ll see you someday

Maybe you’ll see me

An airport, a bar, a place, city

Always wearing her golden hair tied up, draped in colorful cloth, huge bug-eyed sunglasses, and those 70s styled boot fit jeans

She says she wants to see the Seattle skyline 

“I think I’d love it, I think I’d never want to leave”

Taking a long drag -- exhaling, looking into my eyes, putting on her sunglasses, and walking away as if she wasn’t ever there

Leaving me sleeping with my doubts 

Why I Like Fiction (or embellished reality -- whatever you want to call it)

I had to write a little blurb about why I like fiction for my short story class. I thought of it as busy work initially (common theme with me and school work/school) anyway, I found it pretty rewarding and cool to think about it, and eventually write about. Here are my thoughts about fiction, with a page limit of 2.

Why I Like Fiction:

            I think I like fiction because it takes bravery, sometimes conviction, and when done well it detaches myself and most readers from the coffee shop, their apartment, or place from where they are reading it. Just like a movie, a memorable song, or piece of art it encompasses a world, homogenizes it into a certain space and displays itself for you. However, unlike all those other things, all a piece of words have is, its words. All it has is the writer’s intentions, feelings, and emotions, which can be seen as a lot or not. It places a great part of responsibility on the reader to comprehend the meanings, and pros and take them in and digest them. Its almost as if it’s a transaction of trust between two people, the writer and the reader. The writer to create something from nothing, and the everlasting struggle with the blank page, and the reader finding time in their day to properly attack a collection of thoughts, and ultimately a story of some kind.

            For me, myself, I have a tendency to read authors that I am jealous of. Writers that either did it, or are doing it. I only read male writers, mostly because I find that I can align my thinking easier with their thinking. I myself am a writer and aspiring novelist and maybe screenwriter, so for the writers that I choose to read I have a predisposition to use their styles and tendencies when I write my pros and poems. I have a short list, and concise list of writers that I am always going back to when I have the time, fortunately the specific list has a great number of quality works that I can continually delve into for years to come. Those writers are: Hunter S. Thompson, Charles Bukowski, Ralph Ellison, Cormac McCarthy, the Coen Brothers (scripts), Slug (song lyrics/poetry), Wes Anderson (scripts), Jack Kerouac, Spike Jonze (scripts), and James Baldwin.

            What I like specifically about these writers is that they wrote or are writing about or from some form of reality, and for the most part they write in first person. They were/are writers that completely lived it for every moment that life provides, they didn’t leave or didn’t seem to leave anything hanging in the distance between the mind and the page, it was all there for better or for worse, for the publisher or whom it may have offended, they didn’t care because they were their God when using their words. I myself write mostly about things that I experienced or thought I experienced with maybe some embellishment when needed. I enjoy things that I can relate to, or things that I can see my readers or other readers being able to grasp and hold onto. Things from this world, our world, in this reality or some other reality of someone else. Ideas, stories, and things that can make people cry, laugh, and then jump up and down, all within a few pages: chaos to drive the story forward.

            My favorite titles that I have been able to read from those writers are: Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas (HST), Hells Angels (HST), WOMEN (BUK), Post Office (BUK), PULP (BUK), Invisible Man (RE), The Road (CM), Blood Meridian (CM), On The Road (JK), Sonny’s Blues (JB) Darjeeling Limited (WA), Bottle Rocket (WA), Molly Cool (SLUG), Scapegoat (SLUG), Guns & Cigarettes (SLUG), Her (SJ), The Big Lebowski (Coen Bros).