First 100 Words

I like Saturday mornings. Wish every morning was Saturday morning. Unlike those other used-up mornings, Saturday morning is all potential. All is possible. Anything might happen. The first one hundred words, perhaps.

For me, most Saturday morns begin with groceries shopping, the urban human's nod to the ancient need to hunt down dinner. Only I am pushing a shopping cart. And the ground beef is easier prey. Have an inexplicable hankering now to fingerpaint the apartment walls like Lascaux: the hunt for the great ground beef, its one-pound pieces across the freezer case, and my hand print.

Heh, Yes, Saturday morning groceries-gettin'. I've become fond of going the couple of miles east to the Superstore. There's the hunt, already mentioned. Just as useful, because on occasion I write, is the Saturday morning opportunity for people-watching. Useful, for the research. People-watching also is non-fattening, free entertainment.

Saw the expected this morning. People ignoring the mostly vacant parking lot away from the store: the resultant gridlock of too many cars and not enough parking at the store front. And folks chattering away on cell phones as they shopped.

And some really quite personal chatter, y'know. Hey, I don't consider it eavesdropping when someone decides to chatter private matters, in a public place, and loudly enough this weekend writer hungry for research can hear them from the next aisle over. They're lucky I'm discreet.

Did spot one scene. It happened before me like a scene. Like something that might work in sci-fi. The bluetooth flashing ear-bug directing a fit-looking fellow in unnecessarily bright beach shorts and t-shirt along the pasta aisle.

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It is a nice sunny Saturday out, too. I'd like the beach...

Beach Day - Scratch That

Went out yesterday, believing a change of scenery and gut'ful of fresh sea air might do me good. Perhaps be, as it were, the flashing saber, and shear the cork end off my bottled up writing ambitions. Yeah, no, flashing the fresh scenery was, and distracting, as it turned out.

Swung by the mall first. I was multi-tasking: there was an hour and half until the tide would be as I like it; I had window shopping in mind, and one chore. Dealt with the chore: renewed auto insurance. Quickly visited HMV, EB games; Indigo Books, when I spotted it, an actual bookstore I could not walk past.

My all-time fave bookstore disappeared years ago: replaced by an Apple Store, and not mmm'tasty non-trademarked apples either.

Anyway. Exited Indigo Books with two jewels. Brit Lit, both. Terry Pratchett's, The Colour of Magic (Enjoyed Mr. Pratchett's Night Watch: wanted to begin DiscWorld from the beginning). Neil Gaiman's, NEVERWHERE (Urban alienation, and horror, and He's...Neil Gaiman: and I liked his recent add to the Doctor Who canon).

I proceeded to the beach.

Multi-tasking was my undoing, I see now.

Kayak'd, just the hour allotted. Reviewed notes, but I kept seeing rippling sun-dappled water, and wanted to kayak more than the hour allotted. Restarted reviewing notes, but there was all that unfamiliar beachy scenery. Cars and girls on bikes and people and cars and thundering trucks all flashing by. And the kayak, just there. Began reading NEVERWHERE, because I didn't feel like reviewing nor scribbling more than a few notes. Then hit the sun'headache from squinting at the beachy scenery. Or maybe from trying too hard. After lunch, when I'd sucked dry the two juiceboxes of non-trademarked apple, I packed, went home.

No, not the fun and productive beach day I'd envisioned.

Today, this afternoon, I'm home and happy at screen and keyboard, currently doing but one thing, and in pleasantly unstimulating surroundings.

Crosshairs

Sheba's a pan-dimensional pirate, foot to the floor, taking all she can from this shade world, while she remains here. Soul harvester. Loving the swing and swerve of this place. Of the clumsy machine she acquired. Air reeking of sour brimstone. Wailings of the damned.

Her disguise slips but briefly. Glimpsed horns. Nasty grin, all teeth. She isn't concerned. No one ever believes the horror they've seen.

She re-composes her mask, removes her one eye from the flatworlder road, relishes the slow thumping of her heart, and checks new email. The buyer willing to sign, his life, his children's, for the cramped box in the sky.



Okay, so it's only my artistic impression of what the entity perhaps be. Am on vacation, at last, y'see. Needed a free writing exercise.

BC's HST...Yeah, Yes Means...No

Ahhh, that felt good. Needed a good, long laugh tonight, at the close of another work week. Trust government to make Yes mean No. And, yes, now No means Yes. Yeah.

And on Vancouver Island, at least one mischievous naysayer (who is really saying "Yes, this tax is a good thing) has been changing Yes signs to No. Amusing little corner of the world, this.

I will find a big brown envelope, when it's time to carry my multi-enveloped ballot out for mailing. Just to be extra extra safe. Y'know.