Moved

Thanks to everyone for coming to take a look.  I wanted to let you know that I have moved my blog to wordpress.

If you are still interested you can find it here:

tnkerr.wordpress.com

Thanks

April 2013

06 April 2013

The prompts were:
1. The welcoming committee
2. Wicked attraction
3. Rainbow, X-Ray Glasses, Stapler

Begin writing
It was a clear day but the air I was breathing belied that.  Cars and trucks rushed by, mere inches from the toes of my boots.  Bus stops are places where I hang out a lot these days.  Not really by choice, more a matter of necessity.  When the bus is your primary mode of transportation you tend to spend a lot of time in bus stops.  It was beginning to grow on me however.  I found it fascinating to study my fellow passengers.  
Today there was one other gentleman hunkered down in the shelter that covered the bench.  He was wearing bunny slippers and a large, hairy thrift store coat with a fur lined hood pulled over his head.  I thought he was talking on the phone but, it turns out, he was just talking to himself and chuckling.  Hmm, maybe telling himself jokes he had never heard before.   I approached the bench when I arrived at the stop.  He jumped up and pulled a stapler from his greatcoat pocket.  Brandishing the stapler like a weapon he screamed unintelligibly at me.  I put up my hands and backed away a couple of steps. Returning the stapler to his pocket he sat back down and watched me from the corner of his eye.  
"This guy has a larger than average personal space," I thought but, he seemed calm now.  My grandfather had taught me that discretion was the better part of valor so, I determined to respect this man's foibles and give him his space.
The number 6 bus chose that moment to arrive.  I noticed that overnight new ads had been placed on the side.  The dark and foreboding illustrations of vampires and seductive young people had been replaced by a sickening tableau of pink and yellow teddy bears, rainbows, unicorns and princesses.  I almost decided to wait for the next bus.  What if someone I knew spotted me on this conveyance.  I would be the laughing stock for weeks.
I looked around furtively and the coast was clear so I hurried on to the bus anyway.  The risky times would only be boarding and exiting.  If it looked like I would be spotted getting off, I would simply stay on for one more stop.  Nobody but other riders notice who's aboard when the bus is moving.
I dropped my token into the thing that you drop your tokens into and turned toward the back of the coach.  I began walking slowly aft, making sure everyone got a good look at me.  I was strutting and swaggering, looking left and right.  The people I looked at all began to fidget.  They would turn slightly or lift their packages to their laps, clutch books and bags closer to their chests, cover up.  I tried to look tough and menacing but had to smile.  This always happens when I wear my X-Ray glasses on the bus.
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

That was fun.  There were only 5 of us at the meeting today so we decided to have another go at it.  This time we all wrote from a single prompt - time was limited to 15 minutes.

The prompt was:
1. What he/she left behind was indescribable

Begin writing
It seemed like yesterday.  Maybe because it was yesterday.  Today was Boxing Day.  Yesterday had been Christmas.  The family was all coming to our house for a proper Christmas feast.  Annabelle, my new bride, was nervous.  Her mother was coming and so was my new deadbeat brother in law, Andrew.  My Aunt Sally and her husband would be there but they would be late.  They were always late.
The decorations had been fussed with until everything was perfect.  Santa had come the night before and what he had left behind was indescribable.  Not because it was either horrible, or spectacular but, because I could not, for the life of me, figure out what it was.
I mean, I could describe it up to a point.  I could identify that it was large, rectangular, red and blue.  I could tell you that it was covered with a symphony of switches, buttons dials, levers and flashing lights but, that only works up to a point.  I could not describe it's purpose.  I could not describe it's use.  I could not understand it.
Andrew knew what it was though.  Or, at least he pretended to know.  He said something about the new ionizing proactive spectrum generator and asked how I liked it.  Before I could answer he lifted a panel at one end and slipped inside.  Quickly Annabelle reached over, flipped a latch on the panel, toggled two switches and pulled a lever.  A small puff of smoke came from around the panel through which Andrew had entered and the thing was silent.
I looked inquiringly at Annabelle.  "Yep," she said, "and unlike Andrew, it works."
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

13 April 2013

The prompts were:
1. The person in the mirror was not who I expected
2. Grandma's Cottage
3. Being human

Begin writing
I sat down at the long wooden bar and waved at the bartender for a beer.  He nodded and I watched him in the mirror as he made his way down to the taps to draw me a cool one.  What the hell was I doing?  Why was I here?  This is the act of a desperate man wasn't it?  Was I a desperate man?  
Being human is confusing.  Internet dating is frightening.  In strict adherence to the couples.com policy no photos had been exchanged.  I had no idea what Ms. X was going to look like or how old she was.  Nothing.  But, she was in the same boat.  She knew nothing of me either.  The computer had analyzed the data we had submitted and determined we would be compatible.  I had received an email from couples.com counselor, Pat Greenly advising me to be at this bar, Grandma's Cottage, of April 13th at 7:00pm.  I was to wear a navy blue blazer with a green handkerchief tucked in the breast pocket.  I was to meet Ms. X here.  I would recognize her by the flower she would be wearing.  A red hyacinth would be tucked behind her ear.
Grandma's Cottage was decorated like a Marie Callendars or a Mimi's Cafe. Strange motif for a bar.  I had already scoped out the patrons when I arrived.  Not a red flower to be seen so I kept my eye on the mirror where I could watch the door.  The door opened and I found I was holding my breath anxiously waiting to see who came in.  It was a tall man in a red cardigan.  I breathed a bit easier when I saw he was not wearing any red flowers.
"This is crazy," I thought and stood to leave.  "What was I thinking when I agreed to this?"  Just then, light flooded the bar and I looked at the long mirror again.  The person in the mirror was not who I expected.  It was Elizabeth, my ex-wife.  She still looked good.  I hadn't seen her in years.  There had always been a strong physical attraction between us, but emotional and intellectual conflict had proven stronger than lust and we had agreed to separate.  No kids, no communal property, no complications.  It had been easy to do.
Then I noticed the flower she pulled from her bag and tucked quickly behind her ear.  I tucked my handkerchief deeper into my breast poked and ducked my head.  I headed to the back
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

20 April 2013 

No meeting today.  I thought I would give it a try on my own.  I made up a prompt and gave myself 25 minutes.

The prompt was: 
1.The devil dances in empty pockets  
 
Begin writing
My name is William Potts.  They are going to kill me today. 

I was a poor farmer with a few acres just outside of Spotsville when I met Lucinda.  She was a young girl with a slender waist, firm breasts and pale alabaster skin. Her hair was as black as tar and her eyes were blinding, like looking at the sun.  Her smile? … well when she looked up and smiled at me I was done for.

They will hang me tonight when the sun drops behind those mountains and the shadows are long.  They should be hanging Lucinda as well.

I wasn’t enough for Lucinda.  She could never be a farmer’s wife but, I had to have her.  The devil dances in empty pockets and my desire was strong.  I had no money but I had my land.  I sold my land in a futile attempt to buy her favor.  I learned too late that she was not the kind of girl who coveted money or jewels.  She craved adventure, she craved danger.  I craved Lucinda - so we took the money I got for the farm and headed west in search of our destiny.

California, San Francisco, and we were down to our last.  Lucinda could not be kept by a pauper and I could sense her slipping away.  Desperation helped me to recognize that the old man was a target of opportunity.  As luck would have it, he died easily and yielded a saddlebag of gold.  I learned that there were lots of miners in San Francisco, ripe for the pickin’.  Lucinda and I were a good team.  She would bat her eyes and I would bash their heads.  For her, the accumulation of wealth was secondary to the thrill of the kill.  After a successful night Lucinda’s passion was unbridled and my lust would be stilled.  But, she preferred the hunt, the action, the murder.  I however, had a single goal.  Keep Lucinda happy.  

Seeking further adventure we kept moving.  I acquired a clipper ship from an out of luck captain in a gambling den.  At Lucinda’s urging we took our gold, hired a crew, and sailed to China.  We found an unlimited supply of Chinese business men who were willing to trade opium, fireworks, silk and tea for the gold we had brought.  We also learned that those same Chinese businessmen wanted whiskey, women and guns even more than they wanted gold.  A red haired whore would fetch a good price on the waterfront in Shanghai.  We were in the trading business.  We had found a demand that we could fill and I had found a way to keep Lucinda excited and happy.  She was transported to another level when there was a storm.  Or when someone needed killing.  A bit of piracy came easily and we 
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

March 2013

02 March 2013

The prompts were:
1. Cupcakes, Punk Rocker, Chopsticks
2. Cold Case
3. Crystal Ball, Geisha Girl, Dive Bar

Begin writing
The dog sat on the roof, hunched over his typewriter.

“It was a drak and smarmy night” he wrote, cursed, pulled the paper from the platen, crumbled it and tossed it into the trash can.

“It was a drink and sloppy night” he pecked out before repeating the ritual of the tossed page.

He was getting good at that ritual.  He had been trying to start this novel for years.  Once or twice he had even gotten the first sentence right and begun the second.  “Suddenly a snot ran out” had condemned more than one ‘2 line short story’ to the landfill though.

Pushing away from the typewriter, he considered how much easier it must be to type if you had hands instead of paws.  Faster too.  Heck, everything would be easier.  People with hands don’t appreciate how difficult it is to maneuver chopsticks without thumbs or that you have to use your mouth to take the wrapper off your cupcakes and muffins.

You are effectively blocked/banned from a multitude of professions too.  You can’t be a carpenter if you can’t hold a hammer.  You can’t be a punk rocker if you can’t reach across the neck of your guitar.  That’s why he took up writing.  Although he was unable to grasp a pen or pencil he had thought that a typewriter would allow him to flourish as an author.  How many years had he invested in the pursuit of this dream and never gotten more than two sentences on the paper? 

Lucky for him that round headed kid kept bringing him food.  Lucky for him that round headed kid always brought dog food and not Kung Pao Chicken.  That kid understood the problems that dog’s had with chopsticks.  That round headed kid was a great friend, they could eat together, play baseball together and go on walks together.  Maybe he should give up writing and just hang with that kid until he could break into the theatre.

Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper. 



09 March 2013

The prompts were:
1. It was mind blowingly amazing
2. It didn’t impress me much
3. All right you smart ass
4. Three thousand miles to Graceland

Begin writing

Ricky and I stood on the rim of the canyon gazing below.  It was mind blowingly amazing.  The colors, the rock formations, the sheer depth of the gorge took your breath away.  I said as much to Ricky and he shrugged his shoulders, “It doesn’t impress me much” he said, “it’s nowhere near as impressive as Waimea Canyon.” 
I carefully considered his opinion and then promptly dismissed it.  I told him “Waimea is awesome, I’ll grant you that but this is the Grand Canyon.  The GRAND CANYON! And, I think it lives up to it’s name.”
Ricky shrugged his shoulders and tried to look bored, “Let’s get back on the road, vato.  We still got 3000 miles to Graceland.  If we keep moving we can make it to Oklahoma by tonight.  Unless you make us stop in Roswell to visit the ‘Area 51 Museum.’”
What?” I was dumbstruck, “There’s an Area 51 Museum in Roswell?  We gotta go!”  I hadn’t even known about that.  I had hoped to convince Ricky that the petrified forest outside Shiprock was worth a stop.   Maybe the reservation at Silver City or the galleries in Carrizozo but I could forego those attractions for a chance to see an ‘Area 51 Museum’.

“No, there’s no ‘Area 51 Museum’” Ricky grinned, “I’m just fuckin’ with ya!” 
 “All right you smart ass,” I was pissed off now, “then we are going to drive the Southern route.  We’ll stop in Deming and take in the Rubber Duck Races.  Going East from there is nothing but desert.  I know we are going to Graceland but we gotta enjoy the journey, not just the destination.” 
I realized we had somehow made it back to the car park and were standing next to my dusty, rusty old car.  A 1992 Buick Roadmaster – The Ride - !  I got behind the wheel and fired up the car,  Ricky fired up a J and I pointed The Ride towards Truth or Consequences.  From there it was an easy, albeit roundabout trip to to Pie Town and then the SETI site not far from Socorro.  Oh, we were going to drive all day, all right but, we weren’t gonna be very close to OKC by nightfall.

Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper. 

Have you noticed just how little you write in 25 minutes?

16 March 2013

The prompts were

1. Erotic Karma
2. Chicken bones, a fake ID, a book of matches
3. Halftime

Some background before I share my story -

Wow! Quite a collection of prompts.  I had no preconceived ideas or inspiration and then I got hit with these prompts which only served to further confound me.  My fellow “Book Bandit” Frank was sitting next to me today.  Frank is a very talented writer and, about the same time as I wrote the root beer story Frank had written about a Doctor who grew orchids, killed his wife, went on the lam, had “the operation” and returned years later, as a woman, to re-buy his house.  The house where he had killed his wife.  So, apologies to you Frank.  I think this story came out simply because you had the unfortunate luck of sitting next to me today.

Begin Writing

Frank had gotten out of prison on a “compassionate” parole.  He was 92 years old and the judge had deemed that he was no longer a danger to others.  There were conditions though.  Cross dressing was strictly prohibited, horticulture was allowed but no orchid cultivation would be tolerated, vegetables were encouraged.  He was not allowed on the west side of the city.  Could not get closer than a 5 mile radius of his old house.  The ankle bracelet monitoring system was designed to ensure compliance with that restriction.  His parole officer would monitor the others.

Immediately after his release Frank planted some tomatoes in the yard and began plotting how to grow orchids again.  God, he loved orchids.  He figured he would need a fake ID and procured one from an independent businessman he had met on the street.  His new friend Spike was only too happy to sell Frank a stolen drivers license in the name of Beatrice Jones.  Beatrice was only 67 years old but Frank had kept a trim figure in prison and looked younger than his 92 years.  There was even a passing resemblance if no one studied the photo too closely.

Using his new identity Frank had rented greenhouse space from a farmer about 2 miles east of town.  He had been forced to turn on the charm a bit to get Farmer Perkins to lower the rent but, Frank had impersonated his dead wife for years undetected and he was able to fool the farmer easily.  It didn’t hurt that he had looked quite striking in the flowered frock he had worn out there that day.  Frank had surmised, rightly so, that farmers retired early and rose early – so Frank would dress carefully, just in case, and visit the greenhouse only after 8:30 at night.  He seldom ever saw the farmer.

While in prison Frank, with his exceptional intelligence and his background in horticulture had secretly developed a formula for a “miraculous” plant food.  He got the idea for his discovery while spreading bone meal in the prison garden.  Frank had begun experimenting with different types of bones to try and develop a “super food” for orchids.  He knew that his wife’s bones would work well but he no longer had access to them.  Ground chicken bones turned out to be the ticket.  Ground fine enough the bones could permeate the mulch and release the nutrients that they carried for the orchid.  As orchids do not require soil and will shoot roots from above ground it was important that the bones be ground fine enough to suspend in a solution and spray onto the plants as well.

Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper. 

23 March 2013

The prompts were:
1. Mustache, tube of lipstick, ray-gun
2. Total recall
3. The finish line was in sight

Begin writing

She surveyed the faces around the table and intoned mildly, “I like killing people.”  Her expression and tone belied the context of what she had just said.  I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly.  I was about to ask when she looked up and repeated, “yes, I like to kill people.”  She didn’t appear to be overtly dangerous.  I couldn’t see any weapons so I started to wonder how she killed people.  Was she a sniper who killed from a distance?  Was she a ninja who killed and then disappeared, undetected, under cover of darkness?  Did she kill with a knife or a bomb?  Poison?  Maybe she killed with kindness?  Maybe she knocked ‘em dead from a stage?  I studied her from across the table but her countenance yielded no clues.

I looked closely at her and did not sense any particular malice in her behaviour or any hint of jucularity either. I believe what she says but I am skeptical.  I mean this was so random.  Maybe I need to approach this from another angle.  I thought about what she had told us.  She had said, “I like to kill people.” I need to analyze that statement.  It is quite bold.  She spoke without remorse or fear.  She spoke openly, not like it was a confidence or a secret.  She might as well have said, “I like going to the beach” or “I like bacon.”  She was unconcerned about any consequences or punishment.

My thought process was suddenly interrupted when she pushed back from the table and stood.  She raised her arms to those of us around the table as though she was presenting us with a gift.  She raised her wings and spread them.  Where did those come from?  How had I overlooked them before?  They were magnificent. 

“I am Loki” she said, “I am Yama, I am Azrael, I am the angel of death.  I am going to rain destruction from the sky on all your sorry asses.”  Passive was no longer the appropriate description here.  She now commanded the room.

“Oh, lighten up lady” muttered the kid sitting next to me. It was the last thing he said before he burst into flames and collapsed on his chair – nothing more than a pile of ash and floating bits of carbon.  The heat that had immolated the kid had been intense but, aside from the damage it had done to him there had been little effect.  Some smoke curled up from his seat and my eyebrows were a bit singed.  I noticed a faint aroma not unlike a burned electronic component.

No one had moved so I slid down in my chair and then under the table.  I heard a roar and a laugh.  The room began to get dark and then it got loud.  Real loud.  It sounded like a freight train had run into the building.  Lights were flashing and chaos was everywhere.

Then suddenly – silence.  The sprinklers came on and it was akin to rain.  I stayed put for a while and then stuck my head out from under the table.

Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

30 March 2013

I missed this meeting - see ya next week