WORKFORCE
1|2|3|4
In which we enjoy a small scene from our hero's adolescence; a brief discussion of the untaught wizard.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
True Secrets
To write is to expose one's terrible, screaming vulnerabilities (a childhood of abuse; a childhood of neglect, the deep-seated desire to be thoroughly boned by a melancholy vampire). It is to stand figuratively naked before the world. In this vein, and since I will never stand before you literally naked, I have decided to share some true facts about myself, verified by unimpeachable sources and brought to you, my audience, in the spirit of full disclosure.
TRUE SAM FACTS:
-If you ask him a direct question, he will never lie; however, he is the son of lawyers and thus ascribes to the "Lazarus Long" school of dishonesty - that being that there are two elegant ways to deceive, the first being to speak only the truth, just not all of it, the second being to tell only the truth, only in such a way that people hear a lie. So when he speaks, you can be sure that
A: It is completely true and
B: It is heinous bullshit.
-Has made 13 hippies cry since beggining count in 2007
-Suffered no abuse as a child, therefor must look elsewhere to explain grotesquely unpleasant personal manner.
- Slighty stronger than an angry chimpanzee, not as strong as the power of a mother's love.
-Cooler than Aquaman but then, who the hell isn't.
-Dreams of bludgeoning Neil Gaiman with a blunt instrument and eating his brain, to gain his talent.
-Dreams of bludgeoning Andrew Lloyd Webber with a blunt instrument and taking a vigorous piss in his brain, to prevent the writing of Phantom of the Opera 2: Suck Harder.
- Secretely wants to be Gay Jubal Harshaw when he grows up.
-Likes orange roughy more now because it's endangered.
-Thinks Pandas are a goddamn evolutionary backwater and should be allowed to quietly expire.
- Loves his parents very much; insulting his father will get you a bloody nose, insulting his mother will get you pounded into hamburger and fed to the neighborhood dogs.
- Acknowledges three people as his intellectual superiors: his mother, his fourth grade teacher, Batman.
-Has never spent more than 30 dollars for any article of clothing, ever.
-When everybody else his age was pretending to be a power ranger, he was pretending to be Ender Wiggin.
-If he is perfectly polite to you, it means he hates you.
-If he says nothing to you besides injuctions that he hates you and wishes you were elsewhere, it means he hates you.
-If he doesn't know you, it means he hates you.
-Makes ridiculous noises when confronted with a small mammal of any species or disposition. A kitten: AWWW WOOK AT HIS WIDDLE PAWS. A hamadryad baboon: AWW WOOK AT HIS ICKLE WICKLE CLAWSY-WAHSIES.
-Allergic to shrimp.
-Cried at the ending of "The Fox and the Hound". Last week.
-Hates children.
-Afraid of ghosts.
TRUE SAM FACTS:
-If you ask him a direct question, he will never lie; however, he is the son of lawyers and thus ascribes to the "Lazarus Long" school of dishonesty - that being that there are two elegant ways to deceive, the first being to speak only the truth, just not all of it, the second being to tell only the truth, only in such a way that people hear a lie. So when he speaks, you can be sure that
A: It is completely true and
B: It is heinous bullshit.
-Has made 13 hippies cry since beggining count in 2007
-Suffered no abuse as a child, therefor must look elsewhere to explain grotesquely unpleasant personal manner.
- Slighty stronger than an angry chimpanzee, not as strong as the power of a mother's love.
-Cooler than Aquaman but then, who the hell isn't.
-Dreams of bludgeoning Neil Gaiman with a blunt instrument and eating his brain, to gain his talent.
-Dreams of bludgeoning Andrew Lloyd Webber with a blunt instrument and taking a vigorous piss in his brain, to prevent the writing of Phantom of the Opera 2: Suck Harder.
- Secretely wants to be Gay Jubal Harshaw when he grows up.
-Likes orange roughy more now because it's endangered.
-Thinks Pandas are a goddamn evolutionary backwater and should be allowed to quietly expire.
- Loves his parents very much; insulting his father will get you a bloody nose, insulting his mother will get you pounded into hamburger and fed to the neighborhood dogs.
- Acknowledges three people as his intellectual superiors: his mother, his fourth grade teacher, Batman.
-Has never spent more than 30 dollars for any article of clothing, ever.
-When everybody else his age was pretending to be a power ranger, he was pretending to be Ender Wiggin.
-If he is perfectly polite to you, it means he hates you.
-If he says nothing to you besides injuctions that he hates you and wishes you were elsewhere, it means he hates you.
-If he doesn't know you, it means he hates you.
-Makes ridiculous noises when confronted with a small mammal of any species or disposition. A kitten: AWWW WOOK AT HIS WIDDLE PAWS. A hamadryad baboon: AWW WOOK AT HIS ICKLE WICKLE CLAWSY-WAHSIES.
-Allergic to shrimp.
-Cried at the ending of "The Fox and the Hound". Last week.
-Hates children.
-Afraid of ghosts.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Slight Apologies, Version 2
Alright. Well, life is being a bitch. So I'll leave you with this little snippet:
It was cold.
That seems a little inadequate, but it was. The sky was a steely gunmetal gray, and the clouds that darkened the horizon was gray, and the snow that covered the ground feet thick in some places was gray, probably from the ashes that had mixed up in the air when Fairfax burned, even though that was a hundred miles away.
It was cold like the end of the world.
Snow had obscured most of the graves, the rounded tops and the carved angels poking up out of the gritty hummocks like tombstones in miniature. All except hers, of course.
I trudged through the gray snow, clutching my scarf to my neck, my breath and the tiny margin of exposed skin at my face and wrists steaming in the cold winter air.
Her grave was clear. The grass that had grown over the the little mound was brown and dead, of course. A scattering of wilted roses lay limply at the base, crushed and brown. They'd come from our garden, no doubt, and for a moment I imagined I could smell them and in that instant I was back in our gardens and it was high summer, the sun hot on my neck as I toddled out to her, where she sat on stone bench next to the fishpond, her long white sleeves trailing into the water as she fed the fat, golden koi breadcrumbs from a basket in her arms.
But no. I was here, in graveyard empty of the living, in a city likewise.
ROSEMARY, the inscription read, fresh-cut, below the long, slanting angular sigil that was our familie's secret sign, under a pair of carved, feather wings. LOVING MOTHER.
Nusquam in vita , nusquam in nex, it said, underneath.
I put my hands on it, wanting it to feel different, somehow.
But no. Just stone.
There was nobody there. Just me.
“Hello, mum.” I whispered faintly “good to see you.”
Presently the snow began to fall again, clean white snow. The last storm had cleaned the burnt city from the air.
I left, alone.
It was cold.
That seems a little inadequate, but it was. The sky was a steely gunmetal gray, and the clouds that darkened the horizon was gray, and the snow that covered the ground feet thick in some places was gray, probably from the ashes that had mixed up in the air when Fairfax burned, even though that was a hundred miles away.
It was cold like the end of the world.
Snow had obscured most of the graves, the rounded tops and the carved angels poking up out of the gritty hummocks like tombstones in miniature. All except hers, of course.
I trudged through the gray snow, clutching my scarf to my neck, my breath and the tiny margin of exposed skin at my face and wrists steaming in the cold winter air.
Her grave was clear. The grass that had grown over the the little mound was brown and dead, of course. A scattering of wilted roses lay limply at the base, crushed and brown. They'd come from our garden, no doubt, and for a moment I imagined I could smell them and in that instant I was back in our gardens and it was high summer, the sun hot on my neck as I toddled out to her, where she sat on stone bench next to the fishpond, her long white sleeves trailing into the water as she fed the fat, golden koi breadcrumbs from a basket in her arms.
But no. I was here, in graveyard empty of the living, in a city likewise.
ROSEMARY, the inscription read, fresh-cut, below the long, slanting angular sigil that was our familie's secret sign, under a pair of carved, feather wings. LOVING MOTHER.
Nusquam in vita , nusquam in nex, it said, underneath.
I put my hands on it, wanting it to feel different, somehow.
But no. Just stone.
There was nobody there. Just me.
“Hello, mum.” I whispered faintly “good to see you.”
Presently the snow began to fall again, clean white snow. The last storm had cleaned the burnt city from the air.
I left, alone.
Monday, November 23, 2009
ASHLAN - Bonegarden - 1 of 3
A gift for Clifford, the first person to post a comment on my journal. Dear lad, this is for you. If you, uh, don't like the notion of two men who like to kiss one another committing felonies, you...probably shouldn't read this.
Friday, November 20, 2009
99.4 %
I can't believe it took a Sartre to figure out that hell is other people. L'enfer, c'est les autres...qui regardent la télévision
Ranting ahead!
Ranting ahead!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Quote of the day
Since tonight has become a ceaseless ravage, here is a quote that helped inspire tommorow's offering:
"Do not bite the sun, Traveler.
You will burn your mouth."
-Tanith Lee
"Do not bite the sun, Traveler.
You will burn your mouth."
-Tanith Lee
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Workforce - 4
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Apologies...
...but since tonight has been dedicated to studying for an exam and nibbling the ends of my fingers into bloody little stumps from dismay, tonight I shall leave you with a thought, instead of a story:
Loners have to be bossy. It's the only way they can get people off of their backs and out of their space.
Thank you. Back tommorow with Workforce, part 4.
Loners have to be bossy. It's the only way they can get people off of their backs and out of their space.
Thank you. Back tommorow with Workforce, part 4.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Workforce - 3
Chapter 3 in the ongoing saga of a magical crackhead and his continuing journey into long, distressingly delayed adulthood.
Friday, November 13, 2009
A/B
Random scene snippet. I dunno.
A: I tried to kill myself this morning.
B: But you had cake for breakfast!
(Beat)
A: I'm not...I'm not sure how that's relevant.
B: It was chocolate.
A: I mean, I'm talking about attempted suicide here.
B: It had buttercream icing.
A: Are we even having the same conversation? What is it you hear coming out of my mouth?
B: I baked for hours.
A: It's just...it all seemed so pointless.
B: Prick.
A: What?
B: Prick.
A: I don't even know what you're talking about anymore.
B: We're talking about my cake, asshole. It wasn't pointless. I put a lot of effort into that cake.
A: Umm...sorry?
B: Don't be sorry. You're my friend and I baked you a cake.
A: Well. Thanks.
B: Oh, don't thank me. You probably didn't even taste it.
A: No, it was good.
B: You're just saying that. You were like "Time to slash my wrists now." and you didn't even care. How am I supposed to deal with this cake when you're gone?
A: You could eat it, I guess.
B: I'm diabetic.
A: Oh. Right.
B: Prick.
A: ...sorry.
B: You should be. Fucking selfish.
A: I could eat some more now.
B: some of what?
A: Your...delicious friend-cake, friend.
B: Oh, no. It's all gone.
A: Where did it go?
B: Away.
A: Oh. See, because sugar's good for blood loss.
B: Asshole.
A: What?
B: So if I lose blood I'm just sort of SOL huh.
A: Oh, right. Your diabetes.
B: Yeah. My diabetes.
A: My wrists hurt.
B: My heart hurts.
A: I really did like your cake.
B: I know. I'm just giving you a hard time.
A: I'm still really sad.
B: Eat some chocolate.
A: I actually don't like chocolate all that much.
B: Prick.
(End)
A: I tried to kill myself this morning.
B: But you had cake for breakfast!
(Beat)
A: I'm not...I'm not sure how that's relevant.
B: It was chocolate.
A: I mean, I'm talking about attempted suicide here.
B: It had buttercream icing.
A: Are we even having the same conversation? What is it you hear coming out of my mouth?
B: I baked for hours.
A: It's just...it all seemed so pointless.
B: Prick.
A: What?
B: Prick.
A: I don't even know what you're talking about anymore.
B: We're talking about my cake, asshole. It wasn't pointless. I put a lot of effort into that cake.
A: Umm...sorry?
B: Don't be sorry. You're my friend and I baked you a cake.
A: Well. Thanks.
B: Oh, don't thank me. You probably didn't even taste it.
A: No, it was good.
B: You're just saying that. You were like "Time to slash my wrists now." and you didn't even care. How am I supposed to deal with this cake when you're gone?
A: You could eat it, I guess.
B: I'm diabetic.
A: Oh. Right.
B: Prick.
A: ...sorry.
B: You should be. Fucking selfish.
A: I could eat some more now.
B: some of what?
A: Your...delicious friend-cake, friend.
B: Oh, no. It's all gone.
A: Where did it go?
B: Away.
A: Oh. See, because sugar's good for blood loss.
B: Asshole.
A: What?
B: So if I lose blood I'm just sort of SOL huh.
A: Oh, right. Your diabetes.
B: Yeah. My diabetes.
A: My wrists hurt.
B: My heart hurts.
A: I really did like your cake.
B: I know. I'm just giving you a hard time.
A: I'm still really sad.
B: Eat some chocolate.
A: I actually don't like chocolate all that much.
B: Prick.
(End)
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Bander, 1 of 3
Bander, 1 of 3 - a short story about the world's oldest man; his notes on filling eternity.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Workforce - 2 of ?
Part 2 of the epic saga of a crackhead wizard and his delayed journey to post-adolescence, trapped among mortals and mundanes. In this installment, our hero makes a friend, finds his new home, and only (nearly) dies about seven times along the way.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Sentimentality
There's this desire, I think, or this need, among writers to sentimentalize. For example writing classes are peppered with stories about the nameless old couple sitting at the bus station. Great lacey traceries of love and devotion and tragedy and betrayal are what a writer will tell you he sees spelled out behind their gaze: I'll tell you right now, he's lying his ass off.
A writer sees what everyone sees: a couple of people who a few incidents aside are probably beyond the realm of all conceivable interest. The woman is not sitting there reflecting on the great beauty that is life. The man is not remembering the sunny fields of his childhood surrounded by brothers who would all come to heartrending tragedy. The woman is thinking about reality television and the man, I know by virtue of being male, is thinking about tits.
Writers lie, folks, hate to break it to you. Every line you read of poetic sentiment, every lofty ideal, every moral anecdote, every glistening chain of events that leads to a Real True Deep Ultimate meaning is bullshit. Utter and complete. Irrevocable, weapons grade, dyed-in-the-wool horsecrap and take yourself for a credulous moron if you've ever believed a word of it.
No. Waitaminute, that's not right either. Art is described as a mirror held up to the world - but if it is, it should be a mirror that inexplicably makes the world less fat. Stories are lies that sugar the pill. Stories are lies people can get behind. Stories are ultimately all we have except the grim and certain knowledge that we are, collectively, animate bags of meat and saltwater granted sentience either through random accident or the contrivance of something we don't know anything about.
So lie away, guys. Stories destroy and stories lie, and stories can do everything from spark revolution to quell it, but what they should never do is show you a world as boring and dreary as 99% of the one you live in.
A writer sees what everyone sees: a couple of people who a few incidents aside are probably beyond the realm of all conceivable interest. The woman is not sitting there reflecting on the great beauty that is life. The man is not remembering the sunny fields of his childhood surrounded by brothers who would all come to heartrending tragedy. The woman is thinking about reality television and the man, I know by virtue of being male, is thinking about tits.
Writers lie, folks, hate to break it to you. Every line you read of poetic sentiment, every lofty ideal, every moral anecdote, every glistening chain of events that leads to a Real True Deep Ultimate meaning is bullshit. Utter and complete. Irrevocable, weapons grade, dyed-in-the-wool horsecrap and take yourself for a credulous moron if you've ever believed a word of it.
No. Waitaminute, that's not right either. Art is described as a mirror held up to the world - but if it is, it should be a mirror that inexplicably makes the world less fat. Stories are lies that sugar the pill. Stories are lies people can get behind. Stories are ultimately all we have except the grim and certain knowledge that we are, collectively, animate bags of meat and saltwater granted sentience either through random accident or the contrivance of something we don't know anything about.
So lie away, guys. Stories destroy and stories lie, and stories can do everything from spark revolution to quell it, but what they should never do is show you a world as boring and dreary as 99% of the one you live in.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Workforce - 1 of ?
Part one of an as-yet interminably lengthed story about a crackhead wizard and his long-delayed journey into the world of post-adolescence. Drug use and implicit sex, but they're magic drugs and it's magic sex, so whatever.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Statement of Purpose (Revised)
My name is Sam Acheson. This particular browser-based cesspit-this boil, as it were, on the callypigean shoals of the internet-is the place where I'm going to put writing. Any writing. The rules are as follows:
I will write every day.
Everything I write will be at least tangentially creative; no movie reviews, no recipes, no long winded political rants.
This is not a blog. If I am autobiographical it will be incidental and by no means constant, continuous or chronological.
Welcome aboard.
I will write every day.
Everything I write will be at least tangentially creative; no movie reviews, no recipes, no long winded political rants.
This is not a blog. If I am autobiographical it will be incidental and by no means constant, continuous or chronological.
Welcome aboard.
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