Archive for the character development Category

The Whale-Shaped Man (fiction? poetry? both? neither?!?!)

Posted in character development, characters, creative writing, daily writing, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, short stories, short story, surreal, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , , , on November 30, 2017 by Robert Crisp

The Whale-Shaped Man

Is he in his office? asked the whale-shaped man.
Is who is his office? the woman in sparkly pants replied.
You know.
I don’t.
Him.
That doesn’t clear it up.
The whale-shaped man grimaced. I’m talking about your father.
Oh. Why do you want to see him?
To ask for your hand in marriage.
That’s stupid, the woman laughed.
What?
Why would I marry you? You’re shaped like a whale.
But I love you.
That doesn’t change anything.

So the whale-shaped man left. Inside his office, the woman’s father sighed in relief.

Leaves for a Pillow (short fiction)

Posted in character development, characters, creative writing, dialogue, fiction, flash fiction, short stories, short story, story telling, surreal, Uncategorized, writing, writing craft with tags , , , , on November 27, 2017 by Robert Crisp

I remember writing this creepy little story while at my son’s taekwando practice…and then, as I do with so much of my writing, completely forgot about it. I did a little tweaking here and there and am mostly satisfied with it. Why you would gather leaves for a pillow is beyond me, but that’s what the character insisted on doing, both during the first draft and this morning. So be it.

Now that my health is back under control, I’m writing again but not as frequently. I have zero interest in submitting poetry, so I’m taking a break from that. Instead, I’m combing through stories and poems written during the last year and seeing what can be salvaged.

Here’s the story. As always, thanks for reading.

 

leaves.jpg

Image courtesy of Flickr and the Creative Commons license

 

“You’re very kind,” the girl said, kneeling on the ground and gathering leaves.

The boy watched. He wasn’t kind, but the girl didn’t need to know that yet.

When she had enough leaves, the girl walked back toward the farmhouse. Not enough for a pillow, but a good start. The boy followed but stopped on the porch while the girl opened the door and went in.

“Do you want to visit for a while?” the girl asked. “Mama won’tt mind. She’ll be in the kitchen, fixing supper. Daddy’s gone to town for the day.”

The boy studied the girl. He liked her bone structure, her fine ankles, the tilt of her head and the slow blink of her eyes. She dazzled in a bar of sunlight. He nodded.

“You don’t say much,” the girl remarked, turning and facing the boy. “Or anything, really. Can you talk?”

The boy nodded.

“But you don’t have anything to say right now?”

The boy nodded again.

“Well, then,” the girl said, “I need to get these leaves in a pillow case and gather more. I’ll introduce you to Mama first. Come on.”

The boy followed the girl into the kitchen, where a tall woman stood over a sink snapping beans. She turned and regarded the girl and boy.. “And who’s this?” she asked.

“I don’t know his name,” the girl said. “I found him in the woods. He’s very kind.”

The boy studied the girl’s mother. He didn’t like her bone structure. The girl didn’t favor her at all, lacked the woman’s long face and protruding brow.

“We don’t take in strays,” the woman said. “We don’t have an extra plate, if it’s food you’re after, and we don’t need help on the farm.”

The boy didn’t move. The girl said, “He doesn’t talk.”

“I can see that,” the woman said. “Is he deaf?”

“No,” the girl answered.

“This is my house, you understand?” the woman said, tossing the beans into the metal colander and closing in on the boy. “You’re not welcome here, no matter what my daughter says. Go back to where you came from.”

The boy still didn’t move. The girl said, “Can he help me put leaves in my pillow.”

“No, he can get himself out of here.”

The boy flicked his right hand and the woman disappeared. The girl gasped. “Where’d she go?” she demanded.

The boy shrugged.

The girl thought for a while. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad with her mother gone. She could be quite cruel, and the boy was very kind. Her father might be a bit put out. Maybe the boy could make him disappear, too.

“Would you like to help me now?” the girl asked.

The boy nodded and followed the girl upstairs to her room.

“You Can’t Just Pet My Head and Expect Me to Poop Out Jewels”

Posted in character development, characters, creative writing, fiction, freewriting, story telling, writing with tags , , on March 23, 2016 by Robert Crisp

I didn’t intend to write this, but that’s how it goes sometimes. I like to think that in an alternative universe, Isaac and Charlie are working on a new album.

“Well, you can’t just pet my head and expect me to poop out jewels,” said Barney Carter, confusing and disgusting the patrons gathered at Stumpy’s Bar. But bass player Isaac “Pinky Man” Ray and guitarist Charlie “Bugaboo” Ramirez perked up, got out their instruments, and launched into a crazy improv number that turned into “Jewel Thief.” The song entered Billboard’s Blues Album chart in the summer of 1996 and climbed to number twenty.

“It was a trip when that song started doing well and getting picked up by radio stations, man,” Ray says. I’m sitting with him and his musical co-conspirator Ramirez after they tore up at stage at Asheville, North Carolina’s Bluesville Festival. “I mean, it wasn’t many stations, but I heard it a few times driving around in my truck. I was like ‘That’s far out.’ I never expected any of our music to reach the masses, let alone that song.”

By the summer of 1996, Ray and Ramirez had been playing for nearly thirty years in the Burnin’ Junk Blues Collective, a huge band with rotating members and only Isaac and Charlie as the only permanent fixtures. At one point, they even convinced Barney Carter to hit the road with them, despite the fact that he played nothing and couldn’t sing.

“Shit, Barney was crazy, that’s why we brought him on the road,” says Ramirez, fingering chords on his bright blue ’67 Telecaster and smiling. “We just wanted him there for the good times, you know? He always brought that with him. He jumped in on a few tracks of our Catfish in Heaven album, just making all kinds of hoots and hollers. We had him do one of his fucked-up spoken word things and we were going to have it as an intro, but decided against it.”

“Yeah, [producer Rick] Arnett was not down with that,” Ray picks up. “He didn’t even want him in the studio, period. Said he stank too much, which was true. Barney wasn’t too keen on baths and he slathered himself with that god-awful Patchouli oil.”

Of the inspiration for “Jewel Thief,” Ramirez says, “Barney was always spouting out shit that didn’t make any sense to anyone else but him. He was pretty fried all the time and drank this foul mushroom tea that sent him somewhere like the 5th dimension or whatever. I just kind of thought the idea of Barney pooping out jewels was funny, and so I came up with the riff real quick, and Isaac began cooking on the bass. We wrote the whole thing in, like, ten minutes.”

Ray laughs and takes a drag on his Marlboro Red. “It’s not like any of our songs are all that complicated or took all that long to write,” he adds. “The longest time we ever spent on songs was when we were making our last album, Shock Proof. Damn, the second track [“When the Cat Bites You, it’s Done Passed Time to Get a Dog] clocks in at eight minutes forty three seconds, but we wrote in under an hour and told the rest of the guys, ‘Do whatever you want to fill in.'”

As for their future, Ray and Ramirez are hopeful but also practical. “We had a modest hit in 1996, and now it’s 2016. I’ve got grand kids older than that song, and you know what? They don’t give a shit about it. They’d just like me to come around more often and take them fishing.”

Ray, who’s been married to his wife Bonnie since 1979 and has four children and seven grand children, feels similarly. “We’ll keep playing festivals like this from time to time,” he says, “but I like hanging out at home. Plus, carpal tunnel’s a bitch. We’re not the Stones, man. If we had that kind of money, maybe we could be. I don’t know.”

I ask about Barney Carter, the man who unwitting inspired a hit song, and both Ray and Ramirez chuckle. “I wish I knew where that bastard was,” Ray says. “I mean, he might be dead, or maybe he got clean and is living in a cabin or some shit. Sounds like something he might do.”

“Your job is to find him and report back to us,” Ramirez instructs me. “You got it? Using your reporting skills or whatever and find Barney Carter.”

“And if you do,” Ray says, “tell that old sonofabitch he needs to come up with another idea for a hit song.”

Reggie and Len (a dialogue)

Posted in character development, characters, creative writing, dialogue, fiction, writing with tags , , on January 28, 2016 by Robert Crisp

I was scribbling in my journal the other day while with my kids at karate practice, and this is what came out. As I continued writing, I began picturing Bert and Ernie and one of their many conversations at bedtime. You know (or maybe you don’t), the ones where Bert is desperately trying to go or stay asleep, but Ernie has something terribly pressing he must share. By the end of the conversation, Bert is awake and generally pissed off. Here’s one of my favorite examples.

What follows is a riff on Bert and Ernie’s Odd Couple‘s chemistry, though with decidedly fouler language. Reggie begins the dialogue:

My eye hurts.

Man, fuck your eye.

Well, it does.

You want me to punch you in the mouth so you can bitch about that, too?

No.

Alright then. Go to sleep.

I can’t.

[sighing] What?

My eye.

Ah, Jesus.

It really hurts, man. I think I need to go to the doctor.

You don’t need no fuckin’ doctor, man. Go wash it out or get some fuckin’ ice.

When we were little, my brother and I were playing with some neighborhood kids, and this girl–

Did I ask for a bedtime story?

Just listen. So this girl hurls a massive rock at my brother. I mean, out of nowhere. We hadn’t even been arguing with this girl or her friends. And she had damn good aim, too, hit my brother right in his left eye. She ran off after that, and we went home.

What the fuck was the point of that story?

My brother is basically blind in that eye now, like 30 years later. Started out with a detached retina and got worse.

All because some bitch hit him with a rock?

That’s my theory.

Reggie, did someone hit you with a fuckin’ rock today?

No.

Then why–

I worry about my eyes.

Please shut the fuck up and let me sleep.

[a beat]

It might be pink eye.

Are you fucking serious?!

Look, that stuff’s nasty. It’s basically caused by shit in your eye. Like real shit. Fecal matter.

What the Jesus, Reggie? You trying to keep me awake and make me sick?

I’m just worried.

Look, I get it, but you can’t do anything about it, right?

I could go get some ointment.

Then get your ass on a bus and go to the fuckin’ Rite Aid on Lincoln.

I don’t know. I’m kind of tired.

What?!

Yeah. Good night, Len.

The fuck? After all that running your mouth and hyping me up, you’re just gonna–

Shhh. Come on. It’s been a long day.

[Len, wide awake, stares at the ceiling]

bert angry

 

Merry Christmas, or Something (flash fiction re-post)

Posted in addiction, alcoholic, alcoholism, character development, characters, creative writing, fiction, flash fiction, freewriting, writing with tags , , , , , on November 29, 2015 by Robert Crisp

I originally posted this in November 2012, and something reminded me about this piece of flash fiction. Heavens, it’s dark. For the record, I feel pretty good this morning. The speaker’s tone doesn’t reflect my current state…though I imagine I was pretty down when I first wrote this.

Merry Christmas, Or Something

There’s nothing left for me here, but that doesn’t mean I’m leaving.

I’ve grown accustomed to the ache, the longing to be elsewhere, and that’s usually enough most days. The nights are what worry me, when he starts playing that old guitar, the one his father stole for him a thousand Christmases ago, that he doesn’t touch unless he’s been drinking, transforming it from a piece of junk into a troubadour’s dream.

He coaxes such painfully beautiful music from the instrument, it nearly makes up for his caterwaul of a voice, his hesitant delivery, the way he stumbles over words he should know
because I know them and just about everyone who isn’t deaf knows them, too.

“You don’t understand music,” he always tells me, but what he means is, “You know a shitload more about it than I do,” so I keep my mouth shut and listen to him, settling against my longing to leave like it’s another lover, a more patient one than him, this would-be musician singing in a destroyed living room.

The winter night looms outside the windows, waiting to creep in when the lights are off and we’re in bed, clothes scattered through the place, his hands wandering across my body, re-staking his claim to make sure my dream to get the fuck out of this town doesn’t come true, the dream where I grab what I can, cram it in Mama’s pink and brown suitcase and shove his old car in gear, willing it to work at least across the state line.

Diary Entry or Letter or Something From Charlie

Posted in addiction, alcoholic, alcoholism, character development, characters, creative writing, daily writing, fiction, freewriting, short story with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 21, 2015 by Robert Crisp

Bear with me on this, folks. As some of you know, I recently bought an old typewriter, which has been an enormous source of inspiration (and a bit of frustration, too).

typewriter poem
When I use the typewriter, certain distinct voices emerge, voices decidedly different from the ones that make themselves known when I use pen and paper and when I use a word processing program. That makes sense. Frederick Nietzsche’s friends said his writing changed after he began using a typing ball. Not that I’m Nietzsche or anything, but I imagine most writers are sensitive to which medium they choose for writing.

When I took the typewriter yesterday, the voice of a man named Charlie emerged. From what I can tell, Charlie has a drinking problem (shocking). There’s more to his story, but the pieces come to me slowly. I sussed out some more details on the drive to work today (like who Liza and Tom are…still not clear on Brother George). I also don’t exactly know where Charlie lives. Anyway, here’s an image of the diary entry or letter with a transcription following:

charlie

I woke up with a bird beside me. You read that correctly; a small finch had perched itself on the mattress to the left of my head. It regarded me curiously and without fear.  For my part, I studied it for a few moments before becoming alarmed. Was I dreaming? But I knew it wasn’t a dream. The bird was real.

Continuing…

I wasn’t sure what to do next. How often does one find the way of being in the world? i resist the urge to tell the truth, i know. let me die in peace. there wont be a better time my dear than to say than today when all are weak and weary they ask me if i been drinking so i tell them the truth. yes. old liza aint happy with that but that dont matter. it was just a matter of time before i started again. thats what brother george said and he should know. hes an old drunk like me.

A bit more…

I worry about liza though cuz she too old to start down tha path. she eyes my bottle though like it some kind of treasure. it aint but thats between me and the devil and god if the three of us ever get to talking. i suspect we will one day or night.

there aint much left of this old ribbon so id better stop. tom wont get a new one until next month.

-charlie, june 7, 1966.

Hmm. I’m interested in how Charlie’s diction changes as he types. At first, I imagine him waking sober (if hung-over). As the entry progress, his lack of punctuation and general disregard for grammar makes me think he’s drinking as he writes.

More updates coming.