Better Late Than Never. . .

So, it's July 4th (technically, it's the 5th but who's looking anyways?) and I've been a bad, bad, writer. I've neglected this poor bastard and for that I am sorry. However, to make amends, I'll do a quick freewrite. Because I can. I've reading a lot of short stories lately and I coming closer to a conclusion on my feelings about them. I think they're better than novels. They're shorter for one. But they also require a more thorough examination when writing one because of their relative short span. And so thus, my new goal is to pump out some drafts of short stories. The thing that I think works best with short stories, however, is that you might be able to expand on one that you've written. Perhaps make it a novel? I've read some SF short stories that that has worked for such as "Ender's Game" by Orsen Scott Card or "Blood Music" by Greg Bear. Card's story worked well in a novel. Bear's slumped and disappointed. So I am in the belief that it'll work superbly or it'll fall flat on its face. But you never know till you try, right? Right.

And so I'll start something here that may or may not be worthy of rehashing, rewriting, or even finishing. But that's the greatness of freewriting, it's always open to new things, ideas, and venues of creativity.


Someone once told me that when you're backed into a corner, you fight even harder. At the time I thought it made sense. With nothing to lose and being in a desperate state, you're more likely to grow claws, your eyes will dim and glimmer with a lusting rage, and even in a hopeless situation you will vent out with all you've got. Win all or lose all. When you're forced into that position, consequences are hardly your first concern. Survival takes over and you relinquish your senses to a carnal, primitive mindset; instinct consumes you.
It's quite an ironic statement to me at this point. I'm sitting here talking into a microphone that's I'm holding in my left hand, a loaded gun in my right. Since it's closing on 3 o'clock in the morning, all the lights in this office building are off creating a dismal scene around me. It's dark, it's quite, and it's where I somehow ended up. Very fitting, I think. In mere minutes my office door will burst open and the men chasing me will kill me, shoot me dead. And I'm not trying to survive it. I'm not going to fire back. An hour ago I would have, but now? I've seen what matters and my life isn't on that list. Not anymore. And that's why I'm recording this. To tell the truth. To make it be known what actually happened to Pamela Steinbrecht and Finny Zane. I'm going to blow the whole truth open here, right now, right before I die. I'll be able to hear the others coming down the hallway so I'll have the time to hide the tapes. They don't know about this little hand recorder in my desk so they won't be looking for it. And when it's found, they're all going to suffer for what has happened.
I better make this quick in case they arrive sooner than I wish them to.
Let me start at the beginning. . .


I have a good idea where this is going, but I have to work tomorrow and it's getting pretty damned late. Feel free to contribute to this piece. I've left it OH SO WIDE OPEN. For a reason, of course. And yeah, I know there's not much there. But we'll build it up maybe? Or drop it altogether. Who knows?

Ciao, goodnight, and good luck.