Yep, I started writing a few years ago. Nothing serious, just making up weird stuff, but then realized I could get more complex with a little work. I would say the past two years have been more serious. Im slowly but surely putting together a collection of my shorts and self publishing that book. Then I'll be looking for an agent for the novels.
There's nothing more irritating for me about a movie or story when things are just weird for weird's sake. Ya know? It's why Im not a big Stephen King fan, even though I do like a lot of his stuff, but things are just evil because. It's easier to write like that, but I like to have purpose and a reason for things. At least Cujo had rabies.
Here's a really short short I wrote last year. One of my favorite light-hearted ones to give you an idea of my style which is all over the place; dark humor, horror, comedy, sci-fi.
The Arrogant InchwormDetermined and clueless, the worm plows his fragile body into the unknown. He never pauses for a breather as he watches the world pass by an inch at a time.
“Hey there little buddy, do you know where you’re going?” I ask.
The green worm ignores me and keeps moving, flexing into an upside-down U with every squirt forward. Apparently this worm is in a hurry and doesn’t have time for conversation.
“Excuse me? Little one? Would you mind telling me where you’re heading?”
The inchworm stops, probably for the first time in his life, and slowly turns his head to face me.
I stoop closer to the ground, “Hi!”
The worm shakes his head, “Please, not so loud. Your voice is like a nuclear bomb against my body.”
“Oh, sorry. I should have known that,” I whisper. “Wait, I thought caterpillars didn’t have ears?”
Did the worm just roll his eyes?
“No, we don’t have ears, but I can sense that you’re being loud and obnoxious by your pointed facial expressions.”
“I apologize.”
“Well, I see that you have nothing of any usefulness to offer, so I’ll be getting on my way.”
“What’s the hurry?” I ask, still whispering.
“Well, if I don’t find a tree, weed, or whatever to build my cocoon on, I won’t live to be a big, beautiful butterfly.”
I turn my head, hiding a grin. The worm must have known I was trying not to laugh when he asked, “What’s so funny?”
“Oh nothing. You better just keep moving." I cough, slurring the word, “Moth”.
“What did you call me? I do hope it wasn’t a moth.”
“I did. I called you a moth. That’s what an inchworm becomes; a junk butterfly. Sorry to bear such bad news.”
“No, that’s not bad news, but incorrect news. You see, I’m going to be a Monarch butterfly and flutter about the great plains of daisies a couple miles East from here.”
“Uh, no you’re not.”
“Oh yes, I am. I’m going to be glorious, orange and black, licking nectar straight from the flower’s ample bosom.” The inchworm raises his head in triumph, beaming toward the heavens.
“Hmmm....”
“What? You think otherwise?”
I clear my throat, “When I laughed, I wasn’t really laughing because you thought you were becoming a butterfly, even though if you cocooned, you’d become a moth. No, I laughed because you’ll never find a tree, a weed or whatever, as you put it, for your cocoon. To a Raven, you are neither a moth nor a Monarch, but just a worm.”
With the flick of my beak, a moment later the worm is screaming all the way down to the bottom of my belly.
“What a stupid worm.”
* * * *
Behind a lock of rustling weeds, a coyote stares down a black raven cawing and hopping from one foot to the other. He hunkers down, digging his claws into the moist earth, thinking, “I hope you’re not too full to fly, bird.”
