writing 101

A Place in the Sky

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A Place in the Sky

As I was sitting on the bench, I checked my watch.  I had about thirty minutes, and my bus would pull up, then.  An old man with a newspaper walked up beside me and sat down on the bench.  “Where are you headed?” I asked; why would he care if I spoke?  He was about to talk anyway.  “My friends call me Mr. Herund,” said the man holding out his hand.  At the age of ten, I figured I could give the old man a firm handshake.

I shook the man’s hand with a nice grip and said, “My name is Mike, and I am on my way to Kentucky.”  “Me, too,” said Mr. Herund, grimly.  “You sound somewhat sad,” I said, “Why?”  “Well,” said Mr. Herund, “I am going to visit my deceased mother.”  “Oh,” I said, thinking, “My aunt’s place is going to be at least funner than that.”  I decided to try to bring joy to Mr. Herund.

“Where could you go, if you could go anywhere, and what would it look like?” I asked Mr. Herund.  “That is a dangerous question to ask me,” said Mr. Herund.  “Why?” I asked, and he said, “I am an avid reader and private independent editor and book critic.  I can blow a living man’s mind like a blond on 4th st, and I just finished reading Austin Tappan Wright’s “Islandia”.  The book contained a fictional continent in our real world named Karain.  “Wow,” I asked, “What is ‘Karain’ like?”

“Well,” said Mr. Herund, “I could tell you all about it, that I would visit it if I found it to be ‘accommodable’, however it would not be as fun as asking you what you think your dream continent would look like.”  “Mine?” I asked.  “I think mine would be a whole lot like Australia, with a tropical jungle and shaped like South America.  I would live high up in huge trees with tree-house communities and large hammocks for summertime napping.  The birds would be vivid in color, the trees bulging with the water of life, and its rivers full of meaty fish.  I would hunt game and fish; I would write with the inks of plants for the enjoyment of others.”

“You have a pretty nice place to go to, alter-ed world wise,” said the old man, “Have you ever considered writing a book to describe a story there?”  “I have now, Mr. Herund,” I said, and the bus pulled up right in front of us, coming to a noisy halt.  We both boarded the bus and exchanged addresses – he was sure to make for an intelligibly enjoyable pen pal.

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writing 101 link

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On the Streams of Consciousness – The Death of a Guide, Writing 101, 6-14, link-post 1

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On the Streams of Consciousness – The Death of a Guide

Once upon a time, there were four people on a boat. The boat was floating down an overgrown jungle canal. There was the captain, a native of the area, two grandparents, and a young girl – Malody. Interestingly enough, the boat was floating down a stream, a branch of the Amazon River. The boat was more or less like a large canoe. The captain used a huge pole to help guide the vessel’s floating path.

Malody’s grandparents were on a vacation. They took two or three trips every summer, and Malody actually got to come along this time. “How many books have you written, grand-ma?” asked Malody. “Over seventeen, now,” said her grandmother. Her grandmother wrote books about old ladies, their lives, and what they chose to do for fun. Many of her novels included natural tragedies, death from terminal illness, and handsome men.

“So, what was your motivation behind writing?” asked Malody. “Him,” said her grandmother, playing around. Malody’s grandfather was looking through his binoculars at the “jungle to come” from the front of the boat – there was really nothing to see other than large old trees with mosses and vines. He himself was in the spirit, nonetheless. The occasional wild bird could be seen, and the passengers saw what they thought to be an orange Macaw, at one point. The native was in the back, steering.

Malody’s grandfather, Baron was working on his first novel. A retired salesman who used to work for an oil company, Baron did his own reading and writing all of the time. His wife and Malody’s grandmother, Maurine, was an actual novelist. She wrote and sold three books upon retirement; found a nice young male agent; and even began writing her novels for a major publisher. Baron wrote a few articles for a hunting magazine; he decided that he, too wanted to write a book. He brought an empty notepad to journal with during this trip. “I will not stop writing my daily thoughts until I have 100,000 words to revise for additional commentary,” said Baron, one time.

The boat turned and held good speed as its motion was guided by the native captain, Julio. The three tourists asked Julio questions from time to time about things like the rain and his home village. Malody was happy to be enjoying the ride. She was a huge fan of her grandmother and thought it to be an impressive rarity that she knew a famous published author. Malody wanted to know more and appreciated her grandmother’s commentary.

“You wrote one or two books a year there for a while,” said Malody, “Why have you not written anything for over a year, now?” “Well, Malody,” said her grandmother, “I love to write, we both know that, I just have not been inspired, lately. I have written a bunch of long stories people must have enjoyed, however I have not endured any reason for writing in some time. I will again, just not too soon.” “Have you seen any good movies lately?” asked Malody, “Are those not some form of inspiration?” “Well,” said Maurine, “Some movies have inspired me, like ‘Gone with the Wind’ and ‘Fried Green Tomatoes’, however the last movie I saw was ‘Austin Powers’.”

Baron, at that time, decided to jot some prose in his journal. There was an amount of violent activity beneath the surface of the stream. Julio saw it. The others saw it, too. “What is that all about?” asked Malody. “Those are piranhas,” said Julio, “They swarmed up on something in a school – possibly a long snake.” The swarming school would be the most exciting thing Baron could describe so far.

Julio looked over to Baron. Malody saw Julio; he was “pitching a tent”. Julio said to Baron, “With all of your writing about the trees and your words on wildlife, I have something you can describe right here.” This infuriated Maurine. Malody took one look at her grandmother, who had blushed red in hatred. There was a docking rope behind Julio; Malody saw that Julio and Baron were about to fight.

Malody ran over to Julio; tied him up with the rope; and submerged his head underwater. He shook violently as Malody manhandled his bound body. The swarming piranhas devoured the natives’ wet flesh. Julio’s neck and jaw where showing, and by the time Baron could figure out what Malody was doing to the guide, the small carnivorous fish had eaten the brain of the native, entirely. Malody pulled the brainless body back up, and her grandparents were astonished. “Well,” said Malody, “That was at least on occurrence you guys can write about.”

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link to writing 101

a piranha picture

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