Ghost story finished

If you would like to see just how crazy I am and just how bad a story teller I am, then please leave a comment here with your email address. I will send you the first draft of my ghost story for critiquing. All comments on that journal entry are screened.

Still working

I'm still working on draft 1 of the ghost story. The story's not finished yet. I am actually writing. Well, not at the moment. I'm actually not sure if I'll post the whole thing here now, because it's going to be kind of long. I'll see how it looks in the rewrites.

Still working

Hopefully in the next two or three days, I'll have something to post. I'm writing a short story that partially takes place on a fictionalized Edisto Island. I'm debating about putting the whole thing on here or just an excerpt with downloadable PDF. That's kind of all academic anyway since it's not finished yet. I'd also like to wait until I have a second draft done, so it may not be up until next week. I have a bad habit of writing dialog and forgetting to explain what's going on around that dialog. I blame television.

Coming Real Soon Now™

• Probable rewrite of "Mike's Rent."
• Draft of a short story from one of a selection of starting points I came up with tonight...not necessarily genre.
• Possible resurrection of stuff written years ago, though I doubt that.

Basically, we'll see. More stuff coming, though.

Mike's Rent

Sunlight had been burning its way through his eyelids for some time now. He had tried to ignore it. He covered his face with his pillow, but that just left him breathing hot, stale air. He wrapped part of his blanket over his eyes. This just made his head feel worse. There was no avoiding it any longer. Mike would have to get out of bed.

It had been a long night at the bar. The tips he came home with—money he hadn't spent buying shots for other service folks in return for shots forced on him—would definitely take the edge off his bills this month. He'd need more if he was going to make the rent.

Mike looked at the clock, barely 10:00 AM. Barely 5 hours of sleep if you could call it that. He couldn't remember the last time he had a decent 8 hours. He could lay in his bed that long, but sleep, that was something else. Sleep was just a cherished memory. These days, passing out from booze, pills, and exhaustion were more likely, and it took a lot more booze and pills.

He kicked a primrose path to the kitchen to fake coffee. He had a roommate once who helped keep the place clean. That was before. The roommate was gone save for a little reminder here and there. The coffee pot was stuck to a plate of something yellow in the sink. The coffee can was empty and in the trash. Mike found some coffee beans in the freezer left by another roommate. He chewed a few and washed them down with a half can of cola he had left in the fridge before work last night. Then, he kicked another path into the living room. At least it wasn't bright enough to hurt his eyes in there.

Roommates, they were useful occasionally. They helped with the rent. Mostly they got on Mike's nerves. He knew the feeling was mutual, of course. He had heard—in great detail—what an imperfect being he was from the last few, and none of them even cleaned. The clean one, she didn't say anything when she went. She hardly ever said anything.

Mike remembered the time he had crawled into her bed thinking it was his. She tried to shake him, she told him later. She even tried kissing him to wake him. Finally, she kicked him in the shin and said, “go to bed.” Then, she rolled over and went to sleep herself. He thought the kiss was a little weird.

He shook his head and realized he had sat down on something hard in his daydreaming. There was an ashtray on the chair. Why was there an ashtray on the chair? He shook his head. This was not helping him get the rent. It was hard to make a living these days, and tending bar only netted so much. He ought to get out of the apartment and see what he could find.

He got up to get dressed. The soda can was empty. He tossed it on to the chair and went to the closet. Nothing. His clothes were in a pile in his room. He should have known that already. The only things in here were reminders. He shoved a few things around until he found hers, the clean one. A thumb and a forefinger in a yellowing liquid, that was all he had left of her. He rubbed his eyes. He really needed to stop this memory lane stuff today and concentrate on getting the rent.