Toasting to Cigarettes

“She would have wanted you to be there,” said the girl with a beautiful smile beneath her big nose.

            I looked at her, and then at the photo of the face that I had been cracking jokes with for the past 11 months, “Are… are you sure it was her?” I said, feeling like a total idiot after I heard the question exit my mouth.

            She gave a sheepish smile and nodded, “She was my sister.”

I gave her an awkward side hug, “Sorry for your loss.”

            I walked outside holding the piece of paper of my friend sat against the wall, and felt the cloud of cigarette smoke engulf my nostrils, “Well…” and let out a string of profanities.

            The entire wall of kids stared at me with a silence that I’m sure could be heard from Jupiter. One girl with a bunch of face piercings came over and looked at the paper in my hand, “Oh no… not Binky.”

            A pile of street kids flooded over and stared. Even though throng of people were on that street corner, the silence in the shelter seemed to drown out everything within a five mile radius.

            “Dammit…” said a one girl as she brushed back her pink hair, “First Pockets, then Renu, and now this…” she inhaled her cigarette like medicine, “That’s that third one THIS MONTH…”

            We all exchanged the same looks of confusion and anger.

One kid blurted out, “Well, time to get high.”

            “Don’t do that,” I protested.

            She didn’t move, “I’m not going to do anything stupid. I’m just going to go to my friend’s house, go get high, and play Nintendo. Seriously, I could do worse things.”

            My mentor, a bearded man who had known the kids longer than I had been living my faith, looked at her, “You swear that’s all you’ll do?”

            She sniffled and nodded.

            “Okay, sweetie… go get high. Please be careful.”

            I gave him a quizzical look, “Seriously?”

            He shrugged, “Everyone grieves differently. At least I know she’ll be safe for a few days.”

Grief is a strange bird.

**

            The smell of beer hit me in a wave as I came into the pub. I tried not to flinch as I took my usual Friday night spot. I stared at the cigarette burns in the nice wooden finish of the bar.

            “Well, hey… if it isn’t Jesus,” said the beautiful red-headed barkeep with a thick Irish accent.

            “Oh… hey,” I said.

            “Shit man…” she said, “You look like you got hit by a truck. What the hell is with you?”

            “It’s… it’s nothing… rough day at work…” I pulled out the small wad of bills of my dirty jeans, “I don’t have much, so I think just have one beer. A big beer. A big ol’ beer.”

            She smiled, “Well, what kind? We got Guinness, Smithwicks…”

            I gave her a grave look and pointed to the wad, “The biggest that can buy.”

            She placed a frosty glass in front of me, “Jesus man… slow down…”

            I wiped he foam mustache from my philtrum, “Sorry… I just…”

            She gave me a smile, “You weren’t kidding about the day at work. Tell you what, I’ll give you another, on the house, if you promise you’ll drink it SLOWLY this time… okay?”

            I nodded.

            She slid the mug across from me and held a shot up, “How ‘bout a toast? A toast to me? Wait wait… I got a better idea… A toast to Jesus?” she teased.

            I held up my glass high, “No…” I said. I watched her look go from mocking to curious as I toasted, “To understanding…”

Introducing: Bud Floyd Patches (An Exercise in Characterization)

A wise writer once told me: "You should write characters, not caricatures." Unless you wish your entire story to be a wacky wonderland of Disney Cartoons, your characters should sound like real people. Mind you, they don't have to be the most NORMAL people, but they have to have human like attributes. They have to have a past, a favorite food, a favorite song, and a least favorite politician (if they care about politics at all).

When you put people in your story, there is a balance: don't put too many lunatics in your story that the reader can't tell which character they should trust. Conversely, don't make all of your characters too normal, or people will get too bored. Characterization is a delicate dance of balance and contrast.

So, how do we do that? How do we make characters interesting without making them unrealistic? Simple...

We interview them!

As much as it sounds like schizophrenia, interviewing your characters will give you a feel for what they are like as people. This not only keeps you from creating characters that sound like yourself, but it will also allow you to discover what that character is like. Only when we find out what a person is like can we see what they most like will do in the future.

                                           

So, without further ado, I would like to meet

Bud Floyd Patches

(Due to vagrant nature, picture not available)

Name: Bud Floyd Patches

Real Name: Andrew Floyd Smith

Age: 27

Occupation: free loving nomad/writer

Appearance: Short hair, average height, stocky, blue eyes, skin gets darker as the longer he chase’s summer.

Author’s note: At this point author will cease to describe Bud, and Bud will be answering the following questions.

What is your favorite sound? A bunch of people singing out of tune around a fire.

What was your childhood like? We were upper middle class. My dad was gone for half the year. My parents were opposites. So when my dad came home, they’d always argue about how to raise us right. Lots of yelling, no resolution, many broken dishes. In the end, mom would win, and dad would say “happy wife, happy life”. We were never hungry, never had to work for much. However, the house was weird… like there was always some sort of tension ready to snap if Mom wasn’t happy… My sister, a fervent AAer, recently said our house was “Alcoholic by nature”… meaning we never knew what to expect. I’m only beginning to understand what that means.

What would you do if you had $100 in your pocket? Buy a train ticket to somewhere and see who I would meet and how far I could get before I needed to turn back.

Your favorite curse word? Shit

What is your favorite physical trait about yourself? Right now, my beard. I’m going to see how long it will get before it reaches “creepy stalker” status.

What is your favorite non-physical trait about yourself? Conversation. Nuns, hippies, atheists… I can talk with anyone. Someone once asked me if I met a stranger in my life. I think I responded with: “Yes… but then he told me to get in the van…’ J

Do you believe in God? Yes… my faith is extremely personal, but if you want to hear about it, I be happy to conversate over a beer or smoking hookah.

What’s your dream? I’m livin’ it bro… travel the world, no cares, no nothin’…

What’s your favorite joke? “What do you call a fish with no eyes? ‘FSH!’”

What’s your favorite book? Other than the bible, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

What do you think is the biggest problem with people today? Dude… they don’t dance as much as they should. Have you ever been angry and dancing at the same time? I think not…

Role model? Jack Kerouac… or Amelia Earhart... that chick who left in a plane and never came back.

Do you do drugs? Why would I do drugs? I’m like this SOBER!

Are you a morning person? Yes… that’s when I’m the freshest… and when all the good restaurants throw out the crap from the night before. Dumpster diving, here I come!

What do you hate the most? Those who are not genuine… like politicians or models.

Ever plan to get married? Someday… if I ever find a girl who likes to be a nomad, has all her teeth, and doesn’t mind that I occasionally smell funky.

What do you think happens after you die? A big adventure mixed with hallucinations and talking to my dead friends, man.... 

Maybe something like this...

When Writing Sucks and Other Job Hazards

Perhaps I have cirrhosis of the brain today, but I really don’t want to write. Even though I find writing enjoyable, there are days when I really don’t want to give a crap.

I don’t want more closure. I don’t want to explore repressed memories. Aimless searches through the English lexicon to find the exact words to express my heart can die. Sometimes all I want to do is build a fort out of my bed sheets, snag a 24 pack of Pepsi, text people aimlessly, and hide in a cloud of caffeinated bliss.

SOUNDS DELICIOUS!

However, after a diabetic coma and peeling the sheets that stuck to the sweat on my forehead, I realize I can't live in a cocoon the rest of my life. I have to go. I have to go work at my job. No matter how awkward it is, I have to make face-to-face conversation with people. I have to ask that stoic cashier at the local corner store what her favorite joke is and listen her grunt in response.

I must trip, fall, refrain from cursing, and figure out who keeps moving that curb in front of the store.

It's annoying. You may not be good at it. But it has to happen!

Unless you are a fan of acid trips or totally insulating yourself through never-ending text conversations and Facebook, stimulus and conversation are necessary for your health. They dust off your brain. That is, of course, unless you have such a vivid imagination that you can travel to different worlds in your mind, like the Matrix, schizophrenia, or when you take bromodragonfly. If this is the case, please find a way to bottle and sell your gifted imagination for $29.95 on late night television.

However, for many, the ruts and routine of life hinder our imagination, quench our creative juices, and make us settle for bland versions of what makes us come alive. How else can you create a character after a bubbly waitress who secretly likes death metal unless you meet her? Where will you find that nerdy guy who could tell you Darth Vader’s middle name unless you go to the ComicCon?

(Which is a trick question, because he has no middle name). 

Life should be the catalyst for all your writing, and the only way to discover life is to live it. Without it, you may never find closure. And if that's okay, go back to texting... but....

Acid Dreams and Protest Scenes

This story is flash fiction. Flash fiction was started when Hemingway took a a bet that he couldn't write a story in less than seven words. His response was: "For sale: Baby shoes, never worn". 

The point of flash fiction is to tell a story with as few words as possible, usually less than 1000 words. 

Enjoy!

      So this one time, Cliff (you remember Cliff?), Cliff and I went to this party to protest something. You know: signs, paint, naked people holding babies… all that good shit. Some granolas were mackin’ on us, and we took some cid, right? After my tongue melted and my pants got wet, things got all fast, yanno?            

      Next thing I know, my dad came out of the house I was peein’ on, “HEEEEY…. Didn’t know you’d be here…”

      I could see in his eyes he was trippin’. “Neither did I… when’d jew get here?

      His eyes dropped, “Well… when your mother left… I just couldn’t stay in that house… you know…”

      I nodded, “That’s how I got here…”

      Dad’s face got serious, “Look son, you know that you can’t keep doin’ whatcha doin’. You know you’re going to end up dead like she did. Maybe even worse.”

      I laughed like an idiot for a second until I realized Cliff wasn’t laughing. He was passed out in the street, gagging for air. I wanted to move, but I couldn’t. I was transfixed on Dad.

      “Look, you may not care anymore, but I do. I know you may not have thought I cared much, but I give a damn. I give a damn about you and I give about your future. You’re a smart kid, always have been. Don’t piss it away because you’re mad at me… use your smarts to do something. Do something for you… Do something for him… dammit, DO SOMETHING!”

      We sat there and listened to the fluorescent streetlights and Cliff roll around in his vomit. I looked over at him, but I still couldn't walk away without saying something to Dad.

      “Hey…” I said, looking at the ground, “I know this the prolly the cid talking and that you’re still dead as a fucking doornail… but still… since you’re here, why did you leave me? I’m not Mom you know…”

      His head dropped to the ground in shame as he kicked the dirt with his toes. Then, with a sad smile, he said, “I dunno… maybe it’s because I finally realized you stopped lookin’ for me. I love you too much to stay around when you don’t want me… The last thing I want to give up is being a gentleman.”

      A labored cough came from behind me. I turned around to find Cliff almost turning blue. I looked to Dad, “Can you do something about that?”

      “Sure…” he smiled, “But you won’t like it…”

      “Dude, I gotta save Cliff…” I whined, still stoned out of my mind.

      That’s when the cops showed up, I got a really nasty date with a rubber glove, and there’s a big guy named Bubba in the slammer that keeps calling my cell phone. Cliff’s alright… I think… says he no longer needs his yearly exam...

      But seriously… Swear to God man… that’s how it happened… Swear to God…

Grammar or How to Make Your Grandma Live Longer

I used to not really care about grammar. To me, grammar seemed like broccoli, cholesterol, or the Libertarian party: I never really knew it's importance until I got much older.


With age, I have seen  the speed of communication increase with the use of technology. With our use of acronyms (ttyl, g2g, and SBD) and texting options, we have a choice: to be accurate and slower, or not accurate and finish this before I go to class. One makes English teachers proud and the other makes them request another drink from the metaphorical bar that all teachers drink at after school.



When I have corrected people's grammar in texts and a few conversations, I have gotten annoyed responses:

"Hey man, why you gotta be all grammar Nazi."

"Oh, c'mon, you know what I mean..."

"Thanks. I really needed to be reminded. Hey, does like rag smell like chloroform to you?"

or even "Don't talk to my mom like that!"

Sometimes I feel like this...

I know that rules of language ebb and flow, but why do we have to accept this current change? While I imagine many formal English people probably thought Chaucer's middle English sounded barbaric, sometimes I think the same with present-day slang. (Granted, I can pick up words like "swag" "kk" and "totes magotes perf" much easier than "Whan that aprill with his shoures soote, the droghte of march hath perced to the roote".)


However, I think we are missing the point here.


Aside from the fact that bad grammar makes you sound inarticulate, grammar can  actually change the meaning of sentences.


The classic example being:

Let's eat, grandma! (Jovial invite for dinner with elderly relative).

Let's eat grandma! (Jovial invite for cannibalism).



While extreme, a more recent example may hit closer to home.

A recent facebook status yielded the phrase: "I'd rather be pissed off then pissed on."

Much to the status writer's chagrin, this phrase changes meaning with the words "then" and "than". While we think we know the original intent of this clever use of wordplay, grammar plays a major part in the meaning of this joke. Sounding smart can make you sound very dumb if we don't pay close attention to grammar.


Now, I'm the first one to admit, I have looked down upon people who don't use proper grammar. I have called them names like "dullard" or "lazy" or even "Bob" (if you're reading this, next grammar lesson is on me Bob!).

I'm sorry for judging you.

However, when will it end? What hill are we going to die on for the sake of clear communication? When will we stop short changing communication because "it's easy" or "it saves my thumbs from hurting" or "I feel awkward when I talk to people in person".


I know, conversation is hard. I know that technology sure makes it easier to vent to millions of people that Justin Bieber is the hottest man alive. I'll even buy that it's a great marketing tool.


(Does marketing work in blogs? Ask Chase, the world's best blog writer who needs a date, and find out what blogging can do for YOU!).


However, how long will we blame technology for our own laziness not use rules we've known for years?


Technology is a  medium: it can't force nor give you permission to use proper grammar to make you sound like the intelligent person you are.

You have to give permission to yourself.

Don't Be So Dramatic or You'll Have Trouble Climaxing

Plot is a term that movie reviewers, mathematicians, and English teachers throw around a lot. When I was in English class, I often thought plot was some ploy teachers put on tests to freak us out and revere their intellectual prowess. However, as I became a writer, I realized the importance of plot in a story. It’s the meat. Without a good plot, you just have really interesting people, sitting in a room, fighting over who is the greatest. (Kind of like an episode of the Real World).



            The simplest definition of plot I have ever heard comes from my college theater teacher, Thom Talbott. He described plot as “X happened to Y because of Z”. If you cannot summarize what the story with this formula, perhaps you should rethink your storyline. While not all stories have an ordered “the princess was captured, the hero beat up the villain with cunning brilliance, and now they live happily ever after”, eventually the story must come around to having one or multiple “X happened to Y because of Z”s.

            That being said, this can happen many ways. The most traditional is known as the dramatic slope.

            All events are in chronological order and build in tension. The most tense and turning point of the story happens at the top with the climax. With traditional plot, if you can bait readers in the beginning, you have a captive audience. Good stories have you emotionally invested in characters quickly, so when trouble happens with them, the audience experiences dissonance. Their discomfort will ensure they read to the end.



            A classic (and not too disturbing) example of this would be Cinderella. In Cinderella, the main character experiences the injustices of being a disfavored stepchild. Because of her circumstances beyond her control at her birth, we see her being made a slave and working harder than her stepsisters (who are, at the nicest, a couple of jerks).

           However, have you ever been watching a movie/reading a book and say, “Look, they are going to get in a bind”, and behold, the main character is now in a pickle. While traditional plot is effective, it can be very predictable.


            We have been trained since we were little to see a story’s tension to happen in a rising and falling action. Sometimes plot needs to be shaken up, events can be taken out of order, and leave your brain wondering “What the heck just happened?”

            We call this non-linear plot. Events not in chronological order make us wonder why things are happening. When done effectively, this style can not only keep your readers interested, but it can also bring foreshadowing of future events. However, go too far out of order, and your readers can lose track of what happened, when, happened to whom. A delicate balance of cause and effect needs to be used in order to keep your readers understanding what your story means. Otherwise, it could just turn into a giant word story of Robot Chicken (if you haven’t seen it, it’s a very twisted show that I wouldn’t recommend for children).

           

A great classic example of non-linear plot is Sonny’s Blues (which can be read here). In it, the narrator is Sonny’s brother. It begins with him reading of the arrest of his brother in the paper and talking with his brother's drug buddy. Much has happened before this, and the author goes into unfolding how Sonny ended up where he is now.

Sonny, in his much later, yellow years.



            When no matter how much we roll our eyes, plot is essential for telling any story. It keeps people from thinking “why should I care?”. If done effectively, it can hit a message home harder than any slogan, propaganda, or beer commercial. However, we must make sure to pity the readers and manage plot well; Otherwise, they may be plotting our demise.