Saturday, October 11, 2014

The Windshield Incident Pt. 4 Sneak Peek

One of my favorite elements of The Windshield Incident has been Grant's everyman-ness. He doesn't automatically get jokes, or pick up on body language, or figure out the motivations of others. He's not terribly introspective or intelligent, as opposed to characters like Tucker Jones (who spends most of his day inside his own head) or even Aaron of Watching Him Back. My challenge for this latest installment was to let Grant grow up a little without losing the basic elements of who he is: friendly yet socially awkward, a long-term planner, easily caught off guard, and the type of guy to blend into the background.

Sarah and I were at a coffee shop in Springfield when I saw him. “Oh my god,” I said before I could stop myself.

Sarah turned to follow my line of sight. “What? What?”

Clearing my head with a shake, I tried to shrug it off. “No, I’m just surprised. The junkyard dog of my high school is in line.”

She laughed, showing off her pretty white teeth. “Which one is he?”


His hair was shorter now, more clean cut, but he had the kind of scruff that was either a bitch to maintain or he literally hadn’t shaved in two days. A pair of aviator sunglasses hung from the neck of his shirt, pulling it down just enough to show a smattering of fur on his chest. The leather jacket wasn’t the exact one he had worn in high school, but it probably smelled the same.

“The big guy with the Tigers shirt,” Sarah suggested. I glanced at the linebacker-gone-to-seed type she indicated.

“Nope. Don’t think bully, think anathema.”

She nodded her head at the front of the line. “Ordering now, neck tattoos, looks like he'd surprise you with a golden shower.”

That earned a chuckle. “Okay, the kind of anathema who still gets laid a whole, whole lot. Like an unreal amount. Boatloads.”

“Oh! Then him.” Sarah subtly pointed to Ryder Vance.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

The Very First Part of the Short Story Currently Known as Prom Night

It has been over a decade since I spent any time around high school girls, so I have no idea if this is an accurate representation of how they think or act. Whatever.

“Oh my god, seriously?” Kenzie squeals, piercing the refectory buzz. When you attend a fancy schmancy private school, you don’t call it a cafeteria. Flipping her smooth brown hair over her shoulder Kenzie leans in close. “He asked you?”

I give her a look. “Please. You know it doesn’t mean anything. We’re practically siblings.”

“But it’s senior effing prom,” she counters emphatically. “Josh could go with anyone, and he picked you.”

I know there’s more coming, but so is Josh and the rest of the upper echelon. “Shut up,” I say as a preventative measure.

“His childhood friend.” She clasps her hands over her heart.

“Shut up.”

“The love that has been right beside him all along.”

“Shut.” I kick at Kenzie under the table. “Up.”

“Hi!” she says brightly as Josh reaches our table.

Friday, October 3, 2014


The first story I started in this universe currently holds the title of "Prom Night," which is about a girl who tries to help her neighbor come out of the closet. The small city, private school setting provided the teacher for "Shouldn't." A tertiary character mentioned in "Prom Night" became one of the main characters in a short extra called "Olive Juice." Then I thought, Wouldn't it be nice to tell the story from the other guy's perspective? So "Shouldn't" is getting a sequel called, "Wouldn't" (I'm very creative) and "Olive Juice" has a prequel from Declan's point of view. Here's the part where the action kicks off.

We both realize what he just did at the same time. I think I frown, I don't know, but Will's eyes get huge. I never realized how black his eyes were until his face turned into a cartoon. Just two black circles on his face surrounded by shaggy black hair. It would have been funny at any other time. He looked like he was about to apologize, and then he ran, literally ran, to his car. He almost backed into our mailbox, he was in such a hurry to leave.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

On My Mind Grapes

Some of the most common comments* on my stories include the phrase "please continue!" I'm not intending to brag or complain; most of what I post on this blog or Literotica are parts of a whole. There's nothing wrong with people picking up on that. It's kind of a "I always thought of Dumbledore as gay," situation; there's always more backstory and epilogue than actually appears on the page. Or there isn't. The cranky writer and his hot neighbor were never supposed to be more than a one-off, which is maybe why I've been rewriting the last chapter for the past year. It never sounds right, because they were never supposed to fall in love. But usually my imagination provides far more information than anyone would actually care to read. The hardest part of writing for me is editing down everything that I wrote to make for a good story.

In fact, that's why I started this blog. My writing process benefits from being able to get the snippets out of my brain and onto a page. It's a rare tale that I write in chronological order. Most of them don't even have outlines. Some start with a what-if.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

The Worst Days 3.3

To read part 3.2 click here, or start from the beginning. Again, thanks to Luz for sending me a copy of this lost tome.
My heart immediately sped up. Sure, Lomagnia was landlocked on Nitkistan's north side, and Calterra was a dinky set of islands on the east, but I'd have greater chances of making it back to Lomagnia that way than trying to wait out the war.

"But how would I get out of this place?" I asked. "Mr. White is really good at those security systems."

"The best," Samarra nodded over her fabric swatches. "But it will be relaxed when guests leave the party this weekend. You could get away then."

I had to sit down. "I can't believe it," I said. I could barely comprehend such an opportunity was being laid in my lap, and so soon after arriving. Why was I not more excited? I should have been turning handsprings, but instead I had a knot anxiety in my stomach.

"The girls will be back any minute, so I'll make this quick," the seamstress said urgently. "You'll have to get Mr. White out of the picture, then you can sneak down to the garage and hole up in Alfevi's trunk; I'll make sure he doesn't check it—"

"Wait, wait," I interrupted. "What do you mean by 'get Mr. White out of the picture?'"

Wednesday, September 10, 2014


If I like this well enough to turn into an ebook it'll get a little more fleshed out and polished. Voici quand même.
"This is harassment," I said fiercely.

He grinned. "Please report me, then."

"It's not funny; it's the kind of behavior that can get you in real trouble."

He leaned in closely, too close, and mock whispered, "Yes, I'm very dangerous."

My fingers curled around my notebooks. "Mr. Griffith, I expect you to behave in a manner—"

"Oh, please say, 'befitting your station.' My mom watches Downton Abbey religiously."

"You are a student!" I left out the fuckings and goddams I'd have liked to include for emphasis.

"You're uptight."

"You don't know me," I snapped. "You don't know a thing about me."

"I know how you look at me."

Saturday, June 28, 2014

Windshield Incident 3 eBook Available

On the anniversary of Part 2, the 3rd installment of The Windshield Incident is now published and available for download. It's here on Smashwords, and will eventually show up on Apple, Kindle, Nook, and other partnered eBook retail sites. It's like buying me a quarter cup of coffee to keep me alert and typing.
Fun fact: The background colors correspond to Grant's mental and emotional state.
Guess what color Part 4 will be.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Power Plays

This story is fucking weird, and in my head the aftermath is drawn out and dark. I'm not sorry.
 "Excuse me?" Chrisette's slender eyes widen in disbelief. "Did I just hear you forbid me from seeing him?"

Should I have just kept my mouth shut? "I'm just saying maybe don't hang out one-on-one."

"Are you kidding me?!"

In a way this is a variation on a theme. I think she's allowing herself to be drawn into a second relationship, she thinks I'm just jealous. I spread my hands. "What kind of a guy takes another—" I don't even finish before Chrisette groans in frustration "—man's fiancée on a date?"

"It wasn't a date!"

"Certainly not a business lunch."

Chrisette folds her arms. "I invited you along. You said you didn't want to go."

"I said I didn't want to see the movie," I correct. "I thought you would go with Sasha or somebody."

"So you're mad because I went with 'somebody,'" she scoffs.

"No, I'm mad because you can't seem to understand that you're essentially cheating on me—"

"Oh my god!"

"—without the sex! It was dinner and a movie and he paid. That's a fucking date! You're about to marry me, and you're dating him."

This was probably the wrong thing to say, because Chrisette jumps off the couch. Is she looking for something to throw at me? "I cannot believe you don't even trust me."

"It's not that I don't trust you," I backpedal. "I don't trust him. That asshole is just waiting for the big fight when you come crying to him, and he finally gets to fuck you while looking like the hero."

I didn't backpedal far enough. Chrisette puts a hand on her hip. "I don't fuck anyone I don't want to fuck," she says through her teeth, "and you should be fucking grateful that I chose you. Nobody's going to be 'seducing' me. Especially not Todd."

Taking a deep breath, I lower my voice. "Please, baby, work with me. I know how guys think. Especially single guys."

"Todd is just a friend," she says, each word getting louder. "He's only single because Emily was a crazy bitch and they broke up. We are not interested in each other." She gives me a speculative look. "Would you be this mad if he were ugly? Like if he didn't dress well, or was a complete Elephant Man."

"Yes! It's not about the whole…" I gesture at my own face, which I hadn't worried about until now. "It's that he is single right now, and that you don't think he's ugly, and you call him when you're mad at me…" Why didn't I shut up? Chrisette's eyes have practically narrowed to slits.

"So I," she says slowly, "can't recognize that one of my friends is handsome, but you can jack off to porn every time I'm gone for more than twelve hours?"

"Baby, that was once—"

Chrisette cuts me off. "Do not. Bullshit me."

It was once, and I had made the mistake of confessing when she jokingly asked. "Chrisette, come on. Just work with me here."

"Work with you? Work with you?!"

I'm on a slippery slope now, and as much as I know I should placate her and save it for later, I try one more time to make Chrisette understand. "This is exactly what he wants! You're telling me, 'Oh, there's nothing to worry about. Oh, we're just friends,' but that's exactly how you and I started!"

"I wasn't dating anybody when I met you!" she yells. Chrisette takes a deep breath, shuts her eyes for a second, and gives me the coldest look I've ever seen from her. "I am leaving," she says. Damn. It. "I might come back tonight, but I might not be back until tomorrow. But I will not be off fucking anybody else, and I will not be masturbating to the sight of fake-tittied botte blondes getting fucked by monster cocks."


She cuts me off with a sharp hand gesture. "I can't deal with you right now. If you want to be a fucking jealous paranoid idiot, do it on your own time. I'll come back when you've cooled down."

I want to tell her that I'm cool, that I'm not paranoid, that I can definitely be dealt with…all of it sticks to the roof of my mouth as I watch her put her laptop in a bag with her toothbrush. If she goes to her mom's house I am toast. I'll be in the doghouse for a week, because her mom thinks Chrisette could do better.

It's only five minutes before I've sent her the first text. Baby, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone off like that. No response. Has she gone to complain to her mother, or to that motherfucker as a "fuck you" to me? I send another. Please just call me.

The lock clicks about an hour later. I haven't moved from the couch, so I'm halfway to the door with an apology on my lips when Todd walks in.

"Oh, hey man," he says casually, striding past me down the hall. "Chrissy asked me to get her phone charger."

Shit. She went to her mom's. I follow Todd into the bedroom, my bedroom, and watch him unplug Chrisette's charger from beneath the desk. "Is she with you?" I ask, trying not to clench my teeth. Count to three. Slowly.

Todd dangles his keyring in front of me. "Nah, she called and asked 'cause I've been working on a house two blocks down. I just used my key."

My brains goes haywire for a second. His key? Did he steal a key and have it copied? That's illegal, right? Would Chrisette defend me or him if I pressed charges? Maybe some of my thoughts are visible on my face, because Todd spreads his hands in a whoa, there gesture.

"It's cool, man," he says. "Chrissy gave it to me."




Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Watching Him Back 4.5

The first part of chapter 4 is here and 4.4 is here.

Crispin and I don’t get to hang out much in the week before prom. There’s some brief fondling in the art classrooms after school, but all his girlfriends want him to shop with them and plan for fucking after parties, and I’m busy trying to figure out how I’m going to take a cock up my ass for the first time in my life.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

The Windshield Incident Pt. 3 Sneak Peek

This is the closest thing to being finished, so here's a little more of the weird shit that keeps happening to Grant. It needs some work; this why I blog rough drafts.
I was stocking the cooler in the Vance Autobody waiting room when out of nowhere a hand reached in front of me. “Holy crap!” The can of soda in my hands dropped, clattering on the floor.

Ryder Vance popped the tab on the cola he had appropriated. “Just put that one in the back.”

Giving him an I-knew-that-already look, I grabbed the errant can. “What are you doing here so early?” I asked.

Ryder replied, “I’ve been full time since school ended,” strolling around the counter. "Restorations."

“Huh.” Still not great with small talk, I went back to my work. Two months remained until I could blow this joint and head down to Sedalia. Two years of community college, two or three more of real university, and I could pretend like I didn’t know this place even existed.

Ryder’s voice cut through my happy thoughts. “Do you ever fight back?”