A Profound Blog Post by K M Weiland

K M Weiland on her blog WordPlay wrote this:

"I find it interesting that so many writers, myself included, tend to be introverts. Here we are creating hundreds of in-depth human beings for the page, and yet we struggle to understand and communicate with other people in real life. Or is it perhaps the other way around? That we tend to take a step back from the frenetic bustle of life and ask the questions (write the stories) about people and relationships, which then allow our characters to resonate on the page? Is it because we are seeking more than the obvious that we are able to better illuminate the common emotions we all share?

Her article is a discussion about why she (and we) write. She goes on to explain.

"If I’m being honest, I have to admit in answer to my titular question that, really, I write for myself. I write because I want to find the answers, because I want to understand and be understood. But it is also a prayer of my heart that somehow my ramblings might find a place in the bigger picture, that they might resonate with even just one reader and form that invisible, ineffable line of connection between my soul and the soul of another. My heart hurts for people who disparage art, including fiction, as a waste of time. They are missing so much."

It is a short post, but contains some profound words about one of life's great mysteries: why we are driven to write.

Thanks, K M.

For the complete article go here.

Yeah, I know. I am becoming a shameless K M Weiland cheerleader. But hey, you gotta have a hero in your life somewhere.

 

Lonely Child

Jimmy pulled his Little League uniform out of the commercial dryer. It was still a little damp, but he didn't have anymore money, so it would have to do. He had collected cans to sell to the recycle place so that he could bring his uniform to the laundromat. It was important because today was a big day; he was going to actually get to play in this game. Usually he just sat in the dugout and passed cups of water to his team mates when they came off the field, but not today. Coach had told him that, since they were playing a team that had never won a game, he could play left field.

When he thought about the other players, he could not help but wonder how they got away with cheating the way they did. He knew for a fact that Bobby's dad actually taught him how to pitch and how to bat. Jimmy had seen it with his own eyes. And he suspected that most of the others parents did the same thing. He thought, “Now if that ain't cheatin', I don't know what is.” His parents would never think of such a scandalous act.

After scurrying home, he ran up to his bedroom to change. He did not want to be late for the game, so he would have to hurry. He pulled off his dingy pants and felt a little uncomfortable that he had not been wearing his underwear. But it could not be helped; they needed washed and he had put them in with his uniform. He had not wanted to face the possibility of getting injured in the game with dirty underwear.

He was careful, as he pulled his undies over his foot, not to catch his toe in the hole that was forming. He had done that once and had torn the hole so big that half of his left cheek had been exposed. He could not afford to do that this time because he knew he would not get a new pair until school started two months from now.

He thought back to his recent visit to Steve's house. Steve was a classmate of Jimmy's and had invited him over for lunch one day last week. His friend's house made him uneasy; it was immaculate. It looked like one of those houses you see on a TV show; they always looked like nobody lived in them. When they were in his bedroom, Steve had opened a drawer and Jimmy had been shocked to see the contents. The boy had an entire drawer full of underwear. It had looked like a store shelf. The shorts were all neatly folded, just like they were new. And none of them seemed to have any holes. In fact they were still white. Jimmy could not believe his eyes; he had never seen such a thing except in the store; certainly not in someones home.

Just as he was pulling on his uniform shirt, he heard his parents car pulling up into the driveway outside. He buttoned his shirt and hurriedly grabbed his fielders glove from under the bed. The wrist strap pulled open, reminding him that he had to be careful with it because the button hole was torn out a little. He guessed that was why someone had thrown it out. Other than that, it was in useable condition, though.

He ran down the stairs and into the kitchen where his parents were just coming in the back door.

 “Mom! Pop! Guess what? Coach said I can play in the game today,” he said. His excitement could not be contained.

“That's nice,” said his mother.

“You want to come and see the game?”

“No, damn it. We're tired. Now just go on,” his father said. His mother nodded in agreement.

“Okay. I just thought . . .” his voice trailed off. He had known that they wouldn't come;. they never came. He had been stupid to even ask.

He pushed the old wooden screen door open and headed outside. He would have to run or he would be late. As he got to the sidewalk, a car passed. Bobby's hand poked out of the rear passenger window and waved.

“See you at the game,” Jimmy yelled as he began running down the street.

Revenge Scene

Henry made the corner onto the street where his home was located and slowed his car as he turned off the headlights. He could see the man's car in his driveway. The nerve of that guy, parking right out front while he cavorted with Henry's wife.


This had happened many times before in many different states. For fifteen years, he had watched as she slept with dozens of men. But this time was going to be the last. Henry had insisted on moving to this state because he knew that the law here would not punish him when he finally put an end to her adultery. Divorce would have been cleaner, but he was not about to let her walk away with half of his money and half of his property.

Henry had been careful not to let her see him load the rifle into his car and he had not told her that he was taking the night off of work. She had no idea that she was about to get caught in the act with her latest stud. He stopped half a block from the house. He would walk from here.

He carefully slid the bullets into his 30-06 rifle. Six should be more than enough. Before exiting his ten year old Chevy, he pulled back the bolt and then shoved it forward. The first round was chambered. He opened the car door and stepped out leaving the door slightly ajar so as to not make noise that would reveal his presence.

As he crept around the back of the house, his heart began to pound against his chest wall. His hands trembled violently and he began to fear he might not be able to hit his target. He wondered if she was even doing what he suspected. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe he would not have to shoot.

He eased up into the tree and onto the limb which he had carefully selected yesterday. This spot gave him the perfect angle to the head of his bed. As he shifted into position, he could see them – two naked bodies lunging against one another in his bedroom.

He lifted his rifle and peered through the scope. Carefully he examined the faces and confirmed his worst suspicions. It was his wife and his best friend, and he was plainly inside of her. He lowered the rifle momentarily and took several deep breaths to steady himself. Rage seethed inside him.

Once again, he shouldered his weapon and found the head of the man laying on top of his wife. The man was thrusting hard and his head became a moving target. Henry struggled with timing the shot. He made three mental attempts at the shot before he was satisfied that he knew when to fire. Then he held his breath, waited for just the right moment and squeezed the trigger.

He watched as his friends head exploded in the dim light of the bedroom. Henry then pulled the bolt back and jammed it forward, sending another round into the chamber. Once again he raised the rifle. This shot would be easier – she was pinned under her dead lover. Her head was raised and she was trying to push him off of her body. Henry homed in on his wife's head and jerked the trigger. She fell back onto the bed as her brain matter splattered onto the head board.

Henry had his revenge. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed nine one one.

#

Someone is Watching

She had been at the convention hall since early this morning and now, as dinner time neared, it was good to get back to her hotel room. She opened the door and stepped inside, tossing her purse onto the bed. Food sounded good, but first she needed a nice hot shower.

She peeled off her clothes and dashed into the bathroom on bare tip-toes. She glanced behind her. That same feeling had returned. Every time she came into this place she had that vague feeling that eyes were probing her nakedness. She saw no one and as usual thought she was just being paranoid.

She turned on the water and ran her hand under the stream, testing it's temperature. When it felt warm to the touch, she eased her body under the gently falling water. She felt the tension in her muscles being swept away by the warm drops as they first landed on her skin and then slid down toward the drain. She closed her eyes and lingered on the feeling for a moment before reaching for the bottle of body wash.

Once again that unsettling feeling came. Someone is watching. She opened her eyes and looked around as she squirted liquid soap over her breasts. A chill went up her spine as the feeling intensified. Then her eyes landed on something shiny in the air conditioning duct.

She turned the water off and snatched the towel from the rack, holding it in place over her naked body as she wrapped it around her. Then she stepped out of the shower to investigate.

She ran a finger along the inside of the vent until it bumped into a small square object. Her finger hooked behind it as she pried it loose. It fell into her hand and instantly she recognized the device as a miniature camera. She screamed as she ran for her clothes. Someone indeed was watching.

Another Writing Excercise

The sky was bright with only a spattering of small fluffy clouds. The temperature was perfect for bare arms – one of those days when you do not sweat and do not get goose bumps. The trees were just beginning to put on new leaves. It was a wonderful day as I strolled along Collier Street in the downtown section of a small berg named Newton, Indiana.


There was a tiny trailer parked near the curb about a half a block from me. As I approached, I saw that it was a little traveling store. It had a window on its side which hinged up and made a kind of covered patio where one could stand in the shade and make a purchase.

“Coffee, please.” I was not one to pass up a fresh cup of caffeine. The lady inside handed me a paper cup full of fine Columbian java and with a smile she took my money.

The park bench near the trailer was beckoning me and I sat back with my ankles crossed while I sipped my coffee. As I sat there, an old man emerged from the Plasma Center two doors away.

His clothing was out of date by at least a decade. His shoes had cracks and holes. His steps were somewhat unsure and I wondered if he had been drinking. But as he walked past me, it was not alcohol I smelled. I struggled to recognize that smell for a moment, but then it came to me. It was the distinctive aroma of a Goodwill store. It was the smell of clothing which had hung in a closet for a very long time.

In his hand, he clutched a crumpled ten dollar bill – precisely the fee paid by the center when one allows them to extract a pint of plasma. “Poor fellow,” I thought as his steps took him from one side of the walk to the other.

He stepped up to the trailer store and said something to the clerk which I could not understand. Then there was an exchange of a package of Marlboros for his ten spot. He took his change and turned to look at me and the bench. Then he began to stagger in my direction.

It seemed certain that he wanted to sit down next to me, but his journey was cut short. When he was about ten feet from his mark he came to an abrupt halt and began to cough. He bent over at the waist as he hacked and chocked. A spurt of blood came from his mouth and nose, landing at my feet.

Gasping, he grabbed for his chest. He fell to his knees and I stood up to help him. His chest gurgled and rattled as he collapsed onto his face. By the time I managed to travel the two steps between us, he was dead.

A 15 Minute Writing Exercise

It had been raining for nearly a week and the pasture was soggy, but he had to go out and check on the sheep. It seemed to him that sheep were the dumbest animals on the planet, but these particular sheep were his charge. He could not neglect his duties any longer.


He slipped under the fence and looked around, trying to get a clue where the flock had headed. This was a big pasture and it would be easy to miss them if he went the wrong way. He sniffed the air a few times but smelled nothing. He decided to climb the small hill to get a better look around and as he slowly climbed to the top, mud squished between his toes.

Once at the top of the hill, he sniffed again. Turning his head he caught the unmistakable scent of dirty wool. “That way,” he exclaimed to himself and took off running through the pasture toward the smell of sheep.

Soon he began to hear bleating. “Bahhhhh! Bahhhhh!” It caused some kind of primal alarm in his mind. There was trouble. He ran faster. He bounded over another hill and he could see the herd. He yelled at them and they turned to look at him. They seemed afraid, but they were sheep and sheep were too stupid to run from danger.

When he got within about thirty yards of the herd, his nose told him why the sheep were afraid. A wolf was near by. He knew had to find it quickly before it got to the herd.

He turned to the west, instinctively heading into the wind and began to run as fast as his legs would carry him. A few moments later, he saw the thing. It was large and grey and looking for a meal -- one that it would not be permitted to take.

His feet dug into the mud as he screamed ferociously at the wolf. Running down hill, his speed increased as did his heart beat. Faster – he had to chase it away.

Suddenly, he awoke with a start. His master was bending over him in the middle of the living room, stoking his furry head. “You alright, buddy? Looks like you were dreaming.”

He licked his master’s hand lovingly as his heart began to slow its pace. Then he ran off to the bathroom for a quick drink from the toilet. Life was good.

Back to the Fiction !!!

Here it is! The blog I woulda, shoulda, coulda done originally. Now I will finally get back to writing fiction. It's much more fun that political commentary.

Look for short stories, writing exercises, lists of my favorite authors, and more, more, more !


Be seeing you right here.

J S Williams

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