Tardy

Recently I was involved in my first attempt at entering some of my writing in a contest I found online. I had never really thought to do this before; I was content to write in my blog and express myself that way (it sure beats the box full of old notebooks containing my writings, the ones no one ever reads because...I guess because they are too much trouble to read) since I get great folks giving me feedback on my stuff and sharing in my journeys, feelings, transformations, etc. Well, I didn't have something ready for the deadline. This was due to many factors but it was mainly due to me not trying harder in my writing. The deadline came and went and I hung my head with shame. However, after several days of just ignoring the writing part of my life I finally decided to try something I had thought about many years ago, which is presented in the Experimental post. Perhaps I'll explain what I'm doing with that style later, but most likely I'll let you discover the secret for yourselves.

But here are the beginnings to the short story contest idea. I don't like any of them now...at all! I'm so glad that things have worked out this way. To give you some background, the contest was for an original, non-published/presented (like in a blog) piece that was 1,500 words. The length of it was not the problem for me. I have plenty of ideas to draw upon, or I can simply make something up to write about. The difficulty I had with this piece for the contest was in deciding if I would write the story from the first (I) or third (he) person point of view. I never could get it to flow. Here are my fledgling thoughts. Think of this as a sticky pad, not as a first attempt. Like I said, I'm very glad I missed the deadline. It just never clicked as you can see for yourself.

1. (First person) In this hurtful night on hushed darkness and solitude I notice, upon exiting the old house for a respite cigarette, the foreign click-clacks of the elusive deer that sneak into the neighbors' yards to forage.

2. (Third person) He stepped outside, squeaking the screen door and huffing into a fresh cigarette, amid the amplified silence of the timid smattering beginning of a hushed rainfall. His mind was encased in the complications of a lifetime of bad turns and this suffocating quiet inside of the moonless night seemed to threaten his sanity, until his attention was held by the click-clacks of deer hooves on fallen leaves.

3. Starlight dotted black November sky inbetween encroaching limbs half-shedded of reluctant leaves over the chilled bed of the rusted truck where he sits smoking, thinking, transitioning into nighttime. He thinks of killing...time, of breaking...his binders, of snapping...out of foggy daydreams. This brown truck is reliable in the stadid intertia of being parked until he, the driver/owner/failure, can motivate it, and himself, into forward motion; it makes a great backrest under calming clouds of smoke and thoughts of betterment.

The thoughts of betterment come from slowing cooling calves, from hotspots on feet, from shadowy fears that are only now beginning to abate. He calms on the stadid truck and ponders why it cannot be driven to the store, why he has to walk one and one-half miles to get the necessary pack of cigarettes and the lone, cheap-ass beer. His night is quiet now, restful, relaxing, trustful again after the gauntlet he survived in his voyage for mandatory provisions.

His steps were unsteady, as was his direction and purpose and confidence, so he packed a knife and left his puny five-dollar bill and told her he loved her before deadbolting the door to his temporary residence.