Circling The Drain

May 26, 2018

The guy had to be dealing some kind of drug, not sure what, but he stood there under the awning of the small liquor store, just barely out of the steady rain that had started in the morning and continued all afternoon.

All day long numerous people had stopped by his little nesting place, and even a moderately trained eye could see that there was some kind of exchange being made. What fascinated Roger most was that people from all races, cultures, and walks of life came by to buy his wares, and he seemed almost like a chameleon, blending in to fit each new person who approached him, joking and laughing or being tough and ‘all business,’ it was almost like watching a master painter at work, each new person was a sale, a way to earn a living and possibly more, he was well trained in the game he had chose to play.

Most would not see the small trickles of fear with every instance where he had to act tough or hard as nails, most would not see the impatience and annoyance with each joke or round of small talk he made. That, of course, was due to the pain behind the whole show being played out on this sad little corner of an impoverished area of the city.

Roger could free him from this pain, but what then, could he face what always came next?

Standing up from where he was crouching behind a dumpster across the street from the dealer’s spot, Roger could feel tears welling up from inside him. It was always like this, this gift, this intelligence, it hurt.

Once on the other side of the street, Roger began to walk faster, he was starting to have doubts. Each time he did this he was right there with his most horrible demons as well as the other persons, most of the time the knowledge he imparted to them he felt impotent or incompetent to use. It was the mysterious irony of the whole thing, once he gave them the key to the door, he was liable to make his own prison more secure later on.

Roger was there now next to him, past the point where he could appear like he was just walking past, maybe even pass off that approach as a way to use the awning the dealer was under to dodge the relentless drops of rain. The dealer was sizing him up, getting ready to use his own ‘gift.’

“What’s good?” The dealer said in a dead tone, all the better to adjust his camouflage once he could hear my reply and know which mode to go into.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Roger said, or thought he said, at any rate, once the process got to this point, it became surreal, like a psychedelic drug. You could be sure what you were seeing and hearing was based on true external stimuli, but you could never be sure of what you were actually seeing at all, a confounding experience.

Roger reached out and touched the dealer’s chest. His mind was filled with flowing images and sounds, mixing at merging at times, but then there were very clear pictures, ones that showed Roger what he was after. The dealer’s name was Michael but he went by ‘Rock,’ and his history passed in a slightly jumbled puzzle.
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Waste Magnet

April 24, 2018

I…

I may have been a bitter fiend, but behind that confessional screen, secrets were given that I too never wanted, swear I saw love there you later denied and never vaunted, once my sickness became clear.
Could not even get those basic handwritten letters, credits paid to lesser debtors, everywhere you all would go, sacred places I would never know, you make me feel horrible about my fear.

Meanwhile outside the din of voices, retconning my disaster era choices, the proverbial sticks, and zones, that in a speech to others, soil my bones, what will make those little mice cease?
So add those little lifelong gashes together, plus surviving my location’s severe weather, everyone says to seek delight, but every time I find a reason to fight, I just fold myself into another crease.

Seems this magnet only attracts eventual waste, so rather then more pain I will wear this face, hide wounded without a trace, radio silence in haste, hung jury and no damn case, yeah it is me who misplaced, but also me who has to live with what the others never said out loud and my own damn disgrace at wearing the mask.
Thomas Spychalski 


Writer’s Serenade

January 26, 2018

I want to make love to you with words,
Get down and grease you up in dirty verbs.
Talk about ‘freak’ but haven’t you heard,
This is the new sex darling, not so absurd.

Let me take you to places only I can imagine,
We can live there in decent/indecent fashion.
Buckle those head belts, seats securely fastened,
This love cannot be severed or rationed.

Let me sentence you, to sentences of English lust,
Don’t believe that skin, but in the soul, we must.
Wipe off that vanilla scent of redly golden rust,
Besides truly in the inner and outer who do we trust?

Paragraphs laid out in sweet dark temptation,
Take my hand, equal now, no more trepidation.
My prowess is my head, a nasty beautiful reputation,
Don’t try to reason now, lost in bliss, no equalization.

Follow along through the once created rabbit hole,
Don’t you see your hidden prominent godly role?
If I put you in words, you’re my heart and my soul,
Now tell me sweetly, do you really wanna go?
Thomas Spychalski

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Wise Thought of the Day #12

January 12, 2018

“The best tool a creative writer can have is his five-year-old self in his head, the kid that imagined they were in space floating in zero gravity when jumping on the bed and had tea parties with his or her best imaginary friends.” – Thomas Spychalski 


November: Month of Blistered Typing Fingers

October 29, 2017

On a catch up ‘day’

I am a glutton for punishment.

Last November, I ‘won’ NaNoWriMo, and even though that sounds like I contracted a rare tropical disease, it actually just means I wrote 50,000 words of the first draft of a novel by writing every single day in November (I am not gonna lie, I missed day one to three and played catch up several times but if there is one thing I can do, its drone on baby, especially in text format!) for National Novel Writing Month.

That was actually kind of a nice way to get motivated to actually knuckle down and kick out a book that has been in my head in some form or another since the late nineties at least. So of course, I plan on doing it again next month and although the daily word count does sort of flow from me once I am ‘warmed up,’ tackling the assorted tasks and mishaps that can come in writing the first draft of a novel is not easy if you have never tried it yourself.

So earlier in the week I was browsing around for something to inspire me so even in the not so perfect situation I am currently living in, I have no ‘zero days,’ even if the day itself was a lonely, boring, and painful day from hell.

In the process, I caught another of them there funny tropical diseases with the funny names: NaBloPoMo.

National Blog Posting Month…a post each day in November.

Now, where this new strain of writing motivation stands, I have a couple of easy ways out.

I sometimes publish fiction and poetry here from the WordPress Daily Writing Prompt, so there is a few at the very least. The majority of the content here is poetry, which flows from me like running water honestly and I always wanted to implement and post about the content of the book Thirty-One Days to a Better Blog on a day by day, post by post basis, but that may be umm…postponed.

However, I also decided to, with the handy aid of writer’s intuition to hopefully make the content accessible and readable, write a bit about my own life and the challenges within it.

Being the tidy sort that likes to keep his websites organized, that is why this new section: Effigies Vitae Meae was created.

Additionally, will also be writing more about what I see going on around me in the world, especially in modern times, which honestly just seems to get scarier and weirder as well.

Ideas for this section are already in place…watch this space.

Thomas Spychalski 

 

 


Charlie Irrelevant

September 24, 2017

Bit of hastily imagined short fiction for today’s WordPress Daily Prompt: Irrelevant.

Charlie stalked through the crowd, and it slightly parted as he made his way through the busy marketplace.  Maybe not as much of a part as the old prophet Moses made on Earth when he spread the Red Sea (was it actually red? Like the natural waste ponds on Aldranuich Seven? Who knew much about Earth now?), but the crowd parted enough that Charlie could feel that same feeling he always felt, like he was repelling people away from him, like an instinct.

Maybe it was a bad idea to leave the public hive building to go to the cinema.

Thing was, his neighbor and he had been talking the last weekend prior, a real treat for Charlie (alcohol was of course involved. It took ten Talbatian ales to make Charlie open up and half a dozen blue worm wine bottles to make Mr. Granfeild from frame 6-A to be able to stand to be within five feet of Charlie for an extended period) but he told him there was this great film from Earth that was playing at the Plateau Sixteen, called Catcher in the Rye, made in the late 21st century from an infamous novel from the twentieth century that Mr. Granfeild felt he might enjoy, maybe even identify with.

Problem was Charlie really liked the film, despite how true it stayed to the dialogue of the book, which he found quite dull and tacky, but he had to admit, as he passed all the people going to and fro in the twilight of this great city, the word ‘phony,’ however tacky, did seem to ring true.

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Spider Bites

August 29, 2017

Basic story idea from this Writing Prompt, opinions, advice, and comments gratefully taken and desired. 

liftarn_Girl_silhouette

Henry balled up both his fists again, the tight olive green t-shirt straining at the mass of his upper arm as he started his swinging motion, the same kind of T-shirt he told Cynthia he used to wear during basic training.

Thwack, thwack, boom!

Cynthia felt the pain explode in her head as she fell onto the kitchen floor, her hands shielding her head as she went into a fetal position. Cynthia’s right hand felt around her temple and her fingers slid into something wet and slightly warm, like some soup left in a pot that had to be reheated before it could be served.

Her eyes were closed but Cynthia could hear Henry take a step closer in his steel toe work boots. There was a minute moment of perfect silence, a muttering of what might have been the word: ‘Bitch,’ and then the pain and the blood from her now throbbing head was quickly forgotten as a worse pain exploded in her stomach and all the air was forced out of her lungs.

It was as if one pain outranked the other and told it who was in charge when it came to the pain game.

All this over a spider.

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