Tag Archives: writing tips

If I Had Another Life

Writing Prompts, , ,

Offering up samples of writing prompt exercises, I have done. This series is from Chris Brogan’s book – Find Your Writing Voice. These are mostly unedited not meant for publication. The title reflects the writing prompt. Do you want to join in? You can buy the book and share your samples.
Or just create your own prompts to share.

If I Had Another Life

I am swimming in my indoor pool. I have always wanted one. It is zero fucking degrees outside and my pool is warm and so steamy. Above my skylight reveals stars that appear bigger than my fists. I am chilling on my back letting the water hold me, my arms resting on floaties. I am back in the womb – listening to the muffled beat of my mother’s heart. Her blood fed me, my first vampiric relationship. I never outgrew the desire for women, listening to the sound of life rushing through them. Especially in the heat of passion, their hearts, lovely and full, beating hard and fast. I want to reach in and devour them, feeling the hot iron taste of arterial blood running down my face. It’s sick, isn’t it? Thinking about devouring another person…
I am glad I was born a man in a man’s world. I love women. The scent of them. The roundness of some and the angles of others. I love their minds and the flash of emotion behind their eyes. The best is a woman across from in the boardroom. They don’t wear their strategy on their sleeves. This is no chess game where you can see the moves played out. Women have learned to keep their moves to themselves. More than once I have left the boardroom realizing I have been completely outmaneuvered. Man, I love it. I got screwed up my big manly ass and I am smiling like it is my goddamn birthday.
But its still a mans world and that woman has had to cut some friends and grab the balls of a smarmy guy to get into that room. Me? I just had to show up in my suit, or play golf, may down shots and beer and doors swing open.
Don’t get me wrong I worked my ass off. Hauling boxes from trucks to stockrooms climbing my way up to manager. I read everything I could about business, looking for an opening.
I landed a gig driving for execs from Wall Street firms. I was the go-to guy- women, drugs, gifts for wives and girlfriends. All the time I was listening. If they mentioned a stock I would follow it, learning what I could until I felt I could start investing on my own. And if the time was right I started asking questions. Proving I had half a brain, I moved from the car to the office and finally, I was the one in the back seat. I really wasn’t that ambitious. I was curious and I wanted a damn indoor pool that was heated in the winter and cool in the summer. I am a pale Irish guy and hated the sun. I would burn, peel and freckle. I hated the unrelenting heat and preferred drinks under the canopy watching the women in their bikinis. I am not ashamed. Aren’t we lustful creatures after all?
I met my life under the canopy when she came under to cool off. She did that thing with an ice cube- running it along her neck, her arms across ample cleavage. She was a freakin’ bronze goddess and I was mesmerized. She turned and flashed a smile that pierced me through to Celtic heart. The bonus for me was discovering that she was a kick-ass lawyer with a fierce nature that could crack a man. I marveled at her beauty, respected her talents and loved her laugh. I was content as hell to let her be the woman in front of the man. I came up from the stockroom of Big Box stores I was happy to have made enough to get my pool and be comfortable. I don’t have to win every game- I just enjoy playing it. I think this has kept me sane and successful. I stepped on a couple of heads but made some loyal friends.
Now I get to float in my pool and I watch the stars. No stress, just this lovely warm water, and a powerful wife. Yeah, I can admit to being screwed, but she is much better than I am- let her stress.
I am just offering this up as a tasty tidbit for all you suckers out there sitting on a box in a back room. Or slapping the hand off your ass of some sweaty boss. What’s your dream? Five kids and a backyard? A Ferrari? Get curious. What are you going to do with this one fucking life? Devour life. Taste blood. Go toe to toe. Create some drama. Now get out of my life, go create your own – I am floating here.

Books link to my Amazon Associate account. I may get five cents, but hey, five cents adds up. Buy me lunch…. someday.

Childhood home From another perspective

Writing Prompts, , ,

Offering up samples of writing prompt exercises, I have done. This series is from Chris Brogan’s book – Find Your Writing Voice. These are mostly unedited not meant for publication. The title reflects the writing prompt. Do you want to join in? You can buy the book and share your samples.
Or just create your own prompts to share.

Childhood home From another perspective

I am so weary of this place. It has grown gray and dry with age. The warmth of firelight is gone. The old mantelpiece has been bricked in so no real warmth is allowed in anymore. The little girls have turned on the oven and are wrapped in blankets vying for some warmth. Their mother, full of sorrow and loss, is inclined to rest in her bed. Her redheaded man has died and she is left with these dark-haired girls to care for and all she really wants to do is die herself.

I remember her husband, as a boy, living with his mother and father. He was pale as ice, laced with freckles with a swath of red hair that seemed to glow in the dark. Like his dad he was training to be Press Man, the stain of ink was already permanent on his pale fingers. At night, under the gaslight, I would watch him draw into the morning. The cold glint of the morning light would come through and he would put on the water for tea and cereal hastily putting away his drawings from unapproving parents. His talent was real, but this was idle folly. Nothing could come of it. He used his talent to draw out images for the vendors that needed something for advertising. His real talent would be lost to time. His sister who suffered from Cerebral Palsy would stir first. Her twisted body uncomfortable from her stiff little bed. He helped her to the chamber pot taking care of her needs before her mother roused.

His mother would suffer the same sorrow of his future wife, losing both her husband and daughter within six months. Later her red-headed boy would die young and she would leave his young wife to her sorrows while she went to the Crazy house to suffer hers.

I was here from the start – when this place was a showplace, the first garden apartments. The mahogany banisters curved up, and the fireplaces kept the main rooms warm. The gaslight gave the rooms a dark glow, making everyone’s features soft. There was nothing around at the time and there was a direct line to the East River and the Steinway Piano Factory that gave work to the local men and some of the women. The gardens were filled with roses, and lavender and scented the air. At night the fog horn could be heard warning the boats to be aware.

I was happy here as a young wife. Until my husband took to drink and late nights and violent moods. And then I lost my baby girl, her tiny frame turning pale blue in my arms. I am afraid I began the sorrows that have pervaded this place. The wooden frame darkening from it over time. It was the dark night when my husband’s rage took me too. I gladly gave myself over to death. But no one would mark the death of another woman and so I have kept watch over the family’s here. Growing fond of the red-headed boy and his sweet little girls, happy when they left to be released from the sorrow of this place. Now I am just a wisp that lingers over the new construction. Tickling the neck of a workman, or knocking down a can of paint. Silly stuff really. I wait. There is a red-headed boy coming down the block.

Books link to my Amazon Associate account. I may get five cents, but hey, five cents adds up. Buy me lunch…. someday.