"Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the internet." Cyrus Farivar

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Friday Night

I'm discovering all these songs in my personal collection that I forgot I had. Music win. 

248 words. 

Friday Night
Wincing, he blinked a few times as the sunrays crossed his face. He didn’t remember making it to his bed, but as his eyes adjusted, that was certainly where he found himself. Rubbing his face, he frowned as someone shifted next to him and an arm draped across his torso. Peering at the arm from between his fingers, he followed it up to the owner.
            “This was unexpected,” he said, staring at the other occupant of his bed. The owner rolled over.
            “Go back to sleep,” the voice grumbled, half mumbled through a pillow. Seeing him shift again, they stared face to face.
            “Good morning, Elliot,” he said, staring at his best friend, promptly followed by a long stretch of silence.
            “Cam… what…?” His groggy friend seemed to sit up, glancing around the room at their current predicament.
            “Last night… did we...?” Elliot trailed, the alcohol still clouding his mind.
            “Yes…” Looking away, he focused on his hands.
            “Well, how was I?”
            Struggling to hold back a laugh, he smirked. This wasn’t how he imagined that party to end. Last Friday night had certainly done something to him – all that alcohol he wasn’t used to consuming.
            “You were fantastic,” Cam said, patting his friend’s arm.
            “I’m honored I got to experience your homosexuality, Cam,” Elliot said, sitting up. Expecting him to get up, Cam sat quietly. But he didn’t feel the bed shift in that direction. Glancing up to his friend, he was instead met with a kiss.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012


Ask and ye shall receive? I was complaining on Tumblr about how I hadn't written much, and then this happens a few hours later. What? 

118 words.


            Few visitors came to his room. Every so often he heard the nurse wander in and she’d ask him a question or two. He’d make a non-committal noise, his eyes focused elsewhere despite his current position facing out the window. There wasn’t anything familiar about this view. Normally he’d see high rises; other businessmen lurking on the streets below; the taxis bustling by with their fares.
            On lucid days he’d just gaze at the passing cars of the suburb, wondering what his life had become. Shifting barely in his wheelchair, he blinked back tears.
            “Mr. Wilson, is something wrong?” The nurse was checking his pulse and giving him a once over as her training dictated.
            “Everything,” he whispered.

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Never Ask

Whoa, first story update of 2012.

Never Ask

            It was quiet in the apartment; something that was unusual for a Saturday afternoon. Normally he’d hear music blaring through the speakers, and find his boyfriend vacuuming or working on some other chore that he’d saved for the weekend to do together. The chores weren’t going to be finished, and the music was going to remain off.
            Sitting heavily on the couch, he stared at the fireplace. In the back of his mind he knew he needed to change out of his suit so it wouldn’t wrinkle, but he couldn’t convince himself to do it. He tugged at the black tie, feeling it ease its hold on his neck. Striding to the kitchen, he noticed the plethora of casserole dishes and other items people left in condolence. Bypassing all the food, he snagged a bottle from the freezer and poured a shot. Downing it, he felt the burn in the back of his throat before he went for another.
            Things needed to be done; he couldn’t let life pass by. But something was stopping him as he thought of his partner and their chores. Wiping his damp eyes, he rubbed his face. They had never discussed the coupons. He had no idea where they were, and now he could never ask.