The Crane

The metal monstrosity stood black against the black sky, silent and foreboding. I shivered, looking at it behind a fence that surrounded the construction. The wind blew warm, heat from the day still radiating from the pavement. I took a deep breath and glanced around. The street behind me was quiet and dark, not even lit by street lights. A siren sounded in the distance. I tightened the straps on my backpack, pulled on a thick pair of workman's gloves and climbed the fence. At the top, I pushed the barbed wire down with my hands and gave a little jump. 

I fell, sneakers landing, legs bending, hands hitting the ground, breath coming out of me in a gasp. I stood, feeling an ache in my knees, a good ache, one that comes from moving your body. I took off the gloves and stuffed in my bag and began making my way towards the crane. 

I maneuvered around the massive hole that was the foundation for the new building and quickly ducked behind a trailer as a car passed on the street. I breathed in and out slowly as my heart thudded in my chest. Calm down, I told myself, you're alright. 

I wasn't alright, though, not really. Someone whose alright doesn't break into a construction site, not without a good reason and my reason was flimsy at best. 

But that didn't matter anymore, I was in, I was going. I'd planned it for days, wondering why I was planning anything at all and now that I'd started, I couldn't stop. I'd crossed the threshold. Going back now, I'd always wonder, 'if I'd gone this far, why didn't I simply go through with it?'

My sneakers crunched gravel as I made my way to the bottom of the crane. I passed other machines, rusty dump trucks and towering excavators standing still as statues covering me in shadows as I went. I put my hand to one as I passed and shivered as it felt as warm as a living being. I could see it's dark windowed face as it slumbered waiting for an operator to bring it to life. 

I came to the bottom of the crane and looked up. I couldn't tell what was crane and what was sky. The night was a dark hole without stars and no moon that I could see. It would have been pitch black to someone who walked out his door into the darkness but I'd walked the whole way from my apartment here with little to no light, forcing my eyes to adjust. Though the top was lost in the darkness, I could make out the structure of metal in front of me on the ground well enough. I clambered over bars and walked over plywood, my shoes making hollow thumps, to the ladder. 

I took deep breaths until my heart slowed a little. I took off my bag and pulled out a black sweatshirt, slipping it on despite the warm night. I drank from a water bottle. Then I pulled the backpack back on. I tied my shoelaces as tight as they would go. I tightened the straps on my backpack and I climbed. 

I climbed, rung over rung, feeling good. I worked slow, methodical, careful, right hand up, left hand up, right foot up, left foot up. The hard metal felt good in my grip, feeling strong. I was soon sweating in my sweatshirt and wondering if I should take it off. 

It wasn't long before I was above the trees, black bushes beneath my feet. I took a moment to catch my breath and wipe my sweaty hands. I could see lights twinkling in the distance, the land stars of a bustling city. A red light in the sky blinked as a plane passed high overhead. I heard vehicles driving on the road, honks at an intersection. Buildings rose near me. I was not above them yet. I could see the the bridge and the river, reflecting the city's lights. I looked up and realized I had a long way to go. I shrugged. I didn't feel tired. In fact, I felt excited. I had no idea what I was doing or why but I felt elated. I wanted to get to the top. I needed to. 

I climbed again, faster, reaching, stretching, grasping rung after rung, lifting, pushing myself up at a good pace. I was really sweating now and regretting my decision about the sweatshirt. I stopped once again, gasping for breath and wiped my hands on my sleeves. I was above most of the buildings now, looking down at square rooftops and the cars looked smaller as they drove, headlights beaming across the ground. I shivered. 

I wrapped my arms around the ladder and tried to relax for a moment. It was then I realized the exact situation I was in. Metal bars surrounded me in a cage around the ladder. It was a long fall to the ground and I had only my own strength to hold on. A brisk wind blew fluttering the straps on my backpack. I shivered again, my sweat feeling cold against my skin. 

I hugged the ladder, trying to get my backpack off so I could grab the bottle of water. I slipped it out of one arm, then the other and then the strap slipped out of my hands. I made a grab for it, jerking my body but it was too late. I caught myself as the pack plummeted. It bounced as it fell from one side of the cage to the other, thumping, banging and finally hitting the ground with a soft thud. 

I gulped, seeing myself fall as the backpack had. No soft clean fall to the bottom here, no sir. Who knew how many bones you would break before the bottom finally ended your agony. Maybe it was time to head back down, grab whatever was left of my bag and get the hell out of there. 

"Fuck that," I whispered out loud. I was this far. I was getting to the goddamn top. I looked up and started climbing again. 

I don't know how long I climbed but I remember looking up again and again and feeling as if the top had not gotten any closer. My arms and legs ached as I pushed on. I felt myself getting more and more tired, my muscles protesting the repetitive movements. A foot slipped, a hand missed the rung. I gasped, I grabbed, I stepped, and I kept going. 

My neck hurt from looking up so I stopped. I looked only to the next rung, focusing on that alone and nothing else. I didn't hear the cars below anymore. I only heard my labored breathing and the enormous machine creaking around me in the cold wind that blew. 

I pulled my up my hood, shivering against the cold. The metal rungs were chilly on my palms. 

Oh god, I thought, is this really how I go? A fall from a crane? A messy jumble of body parts splattered against the ground below? I thought of the story, of what people would think. They wouldn't know what to make of it. 'Man falls from night climb of a construction crane, alcohol may be involved'. That's what everyone would assume, that I got drunk and thought 'hey, climbing that crane seems like a fucking cool thing to do!' I smirked at the thought. The truth was even more silly. I was completely sober. The question, that ultimate question of human existence would pester everyone. Why? Why did this happen? They would ask it over and over, why would someone do such a thing? What was the point? What was the ultimate truth here? The motive, the answer, the revelation? 

I thought of Forrest Gump right then, running. "I just felt like running," he'd said to that question. "Well," I said out loud to nobody, "I saw something fucking tall and felt like climbing it." 

I looked up and there it was, the top of the crane nearly in reach. I could see the metal assembly and the gigantic arm extending out into the blackness. I climbed up and collapsed onto a narrow metal landing, breathing in huge gulps of air. My muscles burned and I closed my eyes resting my head against cold steel. 

I opened my eyes and forced myself to stand. Beyond the bars and walls of metal lay an entire world stretched out before me. I laughed and shouted and hollered and screamed. I sat, still laughing. I didn't think about how I'd get down or what would happen if I was caught on the construction site or what sort of laws I'd likely broken. None of that mattered. I patted the crane with my hand, banging the hard metal. I'd conquered it. I didn't have a flag to plant but I had something else. I pulled a black sharpie out of my sweatshirt. 

"Jake was here"

A Walk in the Woods

It's Been A Long Time

I have not been doing too well on updating this thing, have I? Haven't posted for months. For calling myself a writer, I haven't written much of anything at all for awhile. Guess I should do something about that, shouldn't I? Nothing to it but to get back on the horse, as they say.

I could use the excuse that I've been working alot lately but that's never really a good excuse. If I have time to play video games than I certainly have time to do a little writing. I haven't even looked at my novel in weeks. It's because there is a massive amount of editing I need to do or at least it seems a massive amount. The second half was rushed in a splurge of words and shows. The characters lack motivation, the enemies lack depth, the plot is contrived at points, etc. The list goes on. I need to add more scenes but it's not that simple as I need to specifically figure out where each and every scene goes, how it fits in and smooth it in there like it was always there in the first place. There's just this editing wall that I need to break through but it looks impossibly vast and strong, meanwhile behind me lie short story ideas and other interesting things to take up my time. 

I wrote a short story, maybe you heard. It's called The Long Nap and is about a hard-boiled child detective using his wits and determination to set right the wrongs in his school. Or something like that. I rather like it. The links up on the blog's homepage, just look for the title. 

Despite my lack of writing, more and more ideas still whirl around in my brain-area. They sit, simmering and bubbling away like a witches cauldron. 

I'm currently reading The Harry Dresden Files which are good books. I'm on my third so far after devouring the first two. I would be done with this one as well but I simply don't have the ability to read on my commute anymore so my reading time has taken a nosedive. They are essentially supernatural hard-boiled detective mysteries with a wizard as the detective. Trust me, it works, it works very well. Harry Dresden is awesome. 

I recently finished Breaking Bad season 4 and oh man is it emotionally exhausting in a good way. It wrings you out through and through. It terrorizes you, it tortures it's own characters over and over and you keep wanting more. The writing and acting is superb. I love it and can't wait for the new season to start. 

The Killing season 2 ended and I finally know who killed Rosie Larson. Some may not have cared, thinking it took too long and the plot is rather slow and boring. I don't know, I guess I just got very invested in the characters. Season 2 explores all of them and their (incredibly shitty) situations. I never thought it was slow because every moment I was watching a character I cared about (except Mitch, she sucks). I will admit I got lost in this season what with all the plotty-ness going on, maybe too many twists or simply too much happening to keep up with, but the reveal at the end was utterly fantastic and worth it. It was great television and though I wish there was going to be more, it doesn't look that way. At least it ended without any loose ends. 

That's all for now, just a short little thing to show you this place "ain't dead yet". Plan on a couple more blog posts very soon so check back when you can. 

Can't We All Just Get Along?

There are times I get inspired to write a blog post but I put it off and put it off and keep putting it off. Why? Laziness? Procrastination? Probably. There's also this nagging worry in the back of my head when I have an idea. I worry I won't be able to put my thoughts down and have them sound the way they do in my head. In my head I can imagine writing perfectly but I know when I finally type it out, it won't sound as good. So I put it off and distract myself with a television show or a video game. 

Anyways, point is I was inspired recently to write a post and I've taken some time to actually write it down because of those reasons but here it is. 

I was walking home after work the other day, coming to a busy intersection off my street. A car had turned onto my street but couldn't keep going because the street is narrow and a car in the oncoming lane was too far in the middle of the road. He also couldn't move until the light turned green because there was a car in front and behind him. I saw everything and expected the usual, honking horns and swearing yells but none of this happened. The man in the way said "Sorry, there's nothing I can do," and the woman who couldn't go forward waved her hand and said "Don't worry about it, honey." The light turned green and both cars went on their way. 

I had expected anger and irritated exasperation but had found calm and polite conversation. It made me wonder why I had expected such a bad interaction in the first place. It's not because I think people in Massachusetts are particularly terrible or people in Boston. It's because I think people in general are terrible, at least in certain situations, one of which is especially driving. We honk and rage at the slow-movers, the ones who cut us off, those who make a stupid mistake and hold us up from our destination but really, we've all been there. Any one of us could accidentally turn and get caught in an embarrassing situation. Instead of assuming the driver who made the mistake is an asshole, why don't we assume they made a mistake and probably feel ashamed and embarrassed about it already? In the vast majority of the time, honking the horn is nothing more than a show of anger which literally accomplishes nothing. 

I think part of the anger comes because we usually can't see the other person in their vehicle. We are each in our own box going to our own destination and fuck everyone else. If you don't see the person, you don't think about them or that they might have made a mistake, you think they are slowing you down and what the fuck is their problem? Imagine if you were walking down the sidewalk behind a super slow person and there was no way to get around? Would you make a noise, huff and puff, swear and yell? No, that would be incredibly rude but once you're in a vehicle, attitudes change. These two drivers in the situation I described had their windows open and we're stuck next to each other so they could see each other. Perhaps that had something to do with their being nice. I could still have imagined the woman laying on the horn and shaking her head, muttering about 'this asshole in the center of the street' but she didn't. She was pleasant. 

There are assholes on the road but probably fewer than we think. We're all boxed up thinking about ourselves but all of us drivers are still people. We make mistakes. I just feel that people driving around are too angry. So someone cut you off, big deal, get over it. Is it worth it to express your rage through honking your horn like some child crying about life being unfair?

It's not even about driving. I just feel when some one inconviences us in any way, we immediately respond with a negative attitude, we assume the someone is an idiot or an asshole or worse. I get it all the time as a bouncer. If I don't let someone downstairs I am immediately branded a douchebag or an asshole. I just think we need to put ourselves in others shoes once in awhile. That bouncer that didn't let you downstairs? That's probably not because he's trying to be a dick or abuse his power, it's probably because he's trying to do his fucking job. That driver that cut you off? Maybe he just didn't see you because of a parked car. Instead of assuming the worst of people, let's assume the best. Seriously, what's the worst that can happen? I find I feel better if I give someone else the benefit of the doubt and in many situations, I will never find out if I'm wrong or not so why not? If I assume the worst, then I just feel anger towards another person that I will never see again. It's silly. 

So come on, let's all sing Kumbaya around a campfire....Just kidding. 

This isn't some hippy love each other bullshit, but can't we at least be pleasant to one another? Can't we be polite to strangers who we know absolutely nothing about? Instead of immediately judging them on one silly mistake? 

Can't we all just get along? (No we can't, but we could try to get along with some)

Tales From The Twitter and Other Things

I need to get back into writing regularly so I've decided to do Camp Nanowrimo. It's basically National Novel Writing Month but less serious or official. They have two of them, in June and August. I may be crazy and attempt both of them, not sure as of yet. I think I'm going to start the sequel to my fantasy novel which feels really crazy to me as I only finished it a few months ago and haven't completely edited it yet but that's what nanowrimo does. It makes you write really freaking fast. So I need to Edit and Write and do other stuff. I need to Blog and Tweet and Tumble and who knows what else.

Some guy is shouting out on the street and it's highly irritating.

I have been doing some editing of my novel. It doesn't seem that difficult but it is boring. Actually for the most part I'm simply excising commas. I use commas so much it's ridiculous and I don't know why. It's a bad habit really. Commas break up a sentence and slow the reader down. Without them the prose feels faster. The reader doesn't have to pause every second and then go on. But I have an obsession with commas. In my first drafts I feel like they should be everywhere and constantly convince myself that they belong. Thankfully it seems when I edit I can overcome those feelings, say 'No fuck you commas' and get rid of them. Then when I read over the lines they sound better and I feel pleased with myself.

I recently read Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman. It is thrilling and fantastic. With seemingly no effort he takes a modern day setting and blends it with high fantasy creating awesome mythologies and stories in a seemingly-mundane world. It's not something I've really seen before and the writing is superb. A very satisfying read. I'd recommend both of his that I've read, this one and American Gods. Great books.

I just finished The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway. Talk about a difference from Gaiman. No fantastical elements, just day-to-day life written in short punchy sentences. The writing is so simple that it's actually amazing. No excess detail or fluff, he just tells you what's happening. It's kind of crazy, really. Great read.

What else? Who knows? A girl at the bar where I bounce was dancing barefoot downstairs where glass is broken practically every hour. I told her she needed shoes and she pointed to her ridiculously high heels. I told her I didn't care, she needed shoes or she'd be thrown out. If you're going dancing for hours don't wear ridiculously uncomfortable shoes and especially don't walk fucking barefoot in a nasty downstairs night club. That's all I gotta say.

People. Sometimes I just can't stand people.

So I have a Twitter and occasionally I post teeny tiny twitter tales on it. You know how Flash Fiction is around 1000 words and Flash Flash Fiction is around a couple hundred? I guess this is Flash Flash Flash Fiction. I've thrown them up on Tumblr but I will also put them up here for those who don't have a tumblr. For those who do, here's mine. http://www.tumblr.com/blog/ingdowntherabbithole

Twitter Tales

Occasionally, I tweet tiny tales on my twitter. Thought I’d compile them and throw em up here.

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The scavenger fled past the Fence. The hunter followed him Inside. Terrors roamed here, beyond reasoning. Here they would meet

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“Don’t worry,” the time traveller said, “I’m here to fix things.” The old man sighed, “just like the last one.”

———————————————————————————-

He jumped in. The body felt fat and slow, unwieldy. He felt the Owner in the back of the mind, suppressed. “Time to ride,” he said.

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The day approached like a beast over the horizon, snarling and devouring the darkness with glorified pleasure.

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The alarm clock rang. He smacked it off the nightstand. He saw his hands were slick with blood. “That’s not good,” he said. 

He looked around and saw a blond woman on a red-stained rug. She didn’t move or breath. “That’s really not good,” he said.

Reality struck him like a truck. “Oh god!” He cried out. ” What have I done?” An empty whiskey bottle stared at him.

She had no pulse. A knife lay underneath the bed. “No no no no!” his voice, the only sound. The previous night lay forgotten

————————————————————————————-

“I’m a monster,” he said, baring fangs and tearing her throat out. Her last thoughts were ‘I thought he would sparkle…’

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The arrow flew, damning all hope.The boy died ‘fore he struck the ground. “We are lost, the Chosen One’s been killed.”

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The blade pierced his chest. He cried out in relief. “I die and may this time I stay dead.”

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A tweeter tweeted terrible tweets tactically telling technical tall tales to test technological techniques totally terrorizing tenuous twitsTwitter

Why We Should Root For The Bad Guys

I've been watching Breaking Bad, a television show about a chemistry teacher turned meth dealer. He is the protagonist, the (anti-)hero, the main character. The show is about him, you are meant to sympathize with him, to feel for him, to root for him, even as he kills people and deals drugs. Is this a good thing? He's a bad guy. You're rooting for him, what does that say about you?

Nothing.

My parents recently stopped watching Breaking Bad. The show is quite dark but they also don't like 'rooting for the bad guys'. They stopped watching The Sopranos for the same reason. You're not supposed to want the bad guys to win, the gangsters and the drug dealers. So why do we feel this way? Why do we watch these shows about the bad guys? I have a theory.

THEY AREN'T BAD GUYS! At least, that isn't all that they are. Television has become so good these days in creating three-dimensional characters, in making characters that feel real. These characters, the gangsters, the serial killer(dexter), the drug dealers....They seem like actual PEOPLE. That's why we root for them. Maybe they are criminals but they are also fathers and husbands and wives and lovers and friends. They are just like you and me and everyone else except that maybe they make poor choices. Walter White isn't a drug dealer. He is a husband, father, and supports his family. He just also happens to be a drug dealer, but that isn't 'who' he is. He's a person. That's just one aspect. That's why we can root for him, like we can root for anybody. People are people, with feelings, belief's and thoughts as all of us. Television shows where 'bad guys' are the main subjects show this very clearly. They make you sympathize with them which I think is a good thing. People don't want to sympathize with 'bad guys'. They would rather think of them as 'evil' so they don't have to feel bad when those 'bad guys' get punished. If we root for a drug dealer on tv, what about drug dealers in real life? If we root for criminals on television, what about criminals in real life?

I think it's a good thing to realize not all 'bad guys' are just 'bad guys'. They are real people like you and me. They've made bad decisions of course and should not be excused for what they've done, but they shouldn't be seen as less than 'people' either, without their own thoughts and feelings.

I think of Swearengen in Deadwood. He is obviously a 'bad guy'. He deals in everything and kills people numerous times. Yet you end up rooting for him because he's the guy who's going to fight for the good of the camp despite all his bad qualities. He's not a bad guy, just a guy who does some bad things.

This Right Here Is A Blog Post

So I finally finished that elementary detective short story and it is up on my blog. It feels good to finish something and the apprehension at having people read it has faded slowly, replaced with relief. I did it. It is a completed piece of writing. That feels good.

I haven't gone back to my novel since February and the longer I take to look at it, the more I don't want to. The more afraid I become that it is a terrible boring and in all ways bad piece of writing. I'm not sure why those thoughts are always there, though I feel like they plague most writers or artists. Why should someone read my writing? What am I contributing to the world that was not there? What's the point? Etc. But you fight through and you write anyways.

I'm happy with the story. The funny thing is when I began, I had no idea it was going to turn out the way it did. The plot changed in ways I hadn't expected, characters did things unexpectedly and the way it all turned out neatly in the end was as much a surprise to me as it may have been to any of the readers. Writing a story almost feels like I'm discovering it within myself. That sounds cheesy, I'm sure, but it's ultimately true. When I write, I usually don't know what's going to happen to the characters in a few pages, I'm making it up as I go along. Somehow, my subconscious is a genius because it all works in the end. It's fun though, in a strange way I can't really describe.

I guess I enjoy experiencing stories. Good stories with believable characters, emotions and conflicts. I enjoy them in every form: film, literature, video games and even writing them myself.

The Long Nap was an idea I had four to five months ago and was finished about a week ago. It probably should not have taken that long but I was particularly lazy in regards to writing. It is also completely unedited so there are likely a fair few grammatical/spelling errors not to mention other problems, such as word choice. The hardest part about writing about children is making it believable. Kids can be smart but they can also be really dumb. You have to watch what words you use in dialogue and what references you make. A kids isn't going to make the same connections in his head as an adult would, wouldn't use the same metaphors or the same cultural references. I just used the word references three times in three sentences. That's bad writing right there.

I have been contemplating my sci-fi idea and it has begun to take shape. My basic take on it is this, what if the consciousness was discovered, as a force or simply a 'thing'. What I mean is, what if scientists discovered a way to detect it, measure it, take readings, etc. Instead of being this thing we simply don't know anything about, or simply assumed as byproduct of our brains, what if it became known as some invisible force or object or web of knowledge, information, feelings that resides within us? Religious zealots would jump on this claiming that science has finally found our 'spirit' while atheist scientists would simply proclaim that the consciousness is simply something that comes about when the subject's brain is large enough, it is simply a byproduct of higher intelligence. Regardless, the brain is simply what holds this invisible web of our minds within. Using this crazy science fiction, it could be possible to transfer consciousnesses from one being to another. Considering we only use a certain percentage of our brains, it would be possible for a brain to hold two consciousnesses within it, containing the memories, feelings, and thoughts of both. Stay with me here...or simply skip this paragraph, it may not be making much sense anyways. Regardless, with this basic framework, my main character would be a person who would jump to others' brains and control their body, suppressing their own consciousness while he 'rides' their body. Doing this would enable him to protect witnesses, infiltrate practically anywhere and well, pretty much anything. I was thinking of the plot as something like this: The scientists use certain electrical charges to transfer consciousnesses. There are a few 'agents' who are used to do this for certain missions. One agent gets killed while in another's body but manages to jump to another's body. This is not supposed to happen and could lead to catastrophe, so an agent is sent after the rogue agent, both able to hop bodies and crazy antics ensue. Sound insane? Yeah, I know. It needs alot of work, but that's why I have it stirring in my mind at the moment.

Anyways, I've also been writing some flash fiction which is fun. It's simply writing a story in very few words, less than 1000 usually and sometimes even in just a 100. It's interesting and makes you cut the story down to it's most basic form. I will likely be throwing these up on my blog in the near future to see what you think. It's nice in that I can use these ideas that are whirling around in my brain and put them down in a very short form, cutting them down to their most basic essentials. I also like to do that on twitter, writing stories in 180 characters is silly but fun.

I'm following a few indie authors on twitter. It's interesting. Seems like many authors write blog posts telling others how to write, or giving tips on how to write or getting published, etc etc. I find that silly. Though they probably have more followers than I do...Perhaps I should change my method....

Tips On How To Get Followers To Your Blog!
Number 1: Don't say Fuck on your blog.
...Fuck

Well, who cares. I don't want to tell anyone how to write anyways. There are enough writers in the world, probably too many. Some of them should go into painting or art history or something.

Tangents aside, I've been reading William Gibson's Neuromancer. It's quite good, a sci-fi world not unlike Blade Runner, filled with cyborg-ish body augmentations, crazy neural hacking and all that good stuff. I guess the author basically envisioned the internet before there was an internet, so that's pretty cool. I am very much enjoying it.

I've been watching a show called Awake. It's about a detective who, after an accident, lives in two worlds. In one, his wife survived. When he goes to sleep, he wakes up in the other world, where his son survived. He sees shrinks in both worlds and both tell him the other world is a dream. Very interesting, with cool cases and some intriguing crossovers between the worlds while he goes slightly crazy. There is also some behind-the-scenes conspiracy going on about the accident but nothing will get resolved because it's probably going to be cancelled like all good shows are.

I've also been watching the second season of The Killing which has really ramped things up since season one. It is fantastic. It is depressing. I would liken it to The Wire in terms of acting, plot, characters and setting. Only this is focused on less characters and one case. So far it's been amazing. Watch it.

What else? Fringe is great because it's really accepted it's zaniness and has really gone over the edge yet still managing to tell interesting stories with the characters.

I'm out like a bad light bulb. Haha terrible joke.


“Cyberspace. A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation, by children being taught mathematical concepts... A graphic representation of data abstracted from banks of every computer in the human system. Unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the nonspace of the mind, clusters and constellations of data. Like city lights, receding...” 
― William Gibson, Neuromancer