Writing Prompt #2

She stared down the barrel of that shotgun with ice water in her veins. And while she was on the business end, he was the one that was shaking like a Chihuahua shitting peach seeds. The sweat on his trigger finger threatening a premature climax, she scolded him for all his wrongs at once: "This is exactly the kind of thing that put you here tonight. Big man with a gun, no dick without."

His convulsions, although slight were growing less controlled now. Loose. The barrel appeared to bend in the way a pencil might in the hand of an elementary school trickster.

"That thing ain't holdin' no magic genie. You pull that trigger on me and your problems ain’t gonna just wash away. Matter of fact, you ain’t lived nothin’ like what you liable to step into if you keep at it."

He knew she was right – she breathed nothing but facts – but backing down now would be an admission to the both of them that he wasn’t ready to make. For the first time in his life, quitting was not the easiest option. This evening was a runaway locomotive bound to end in blood.

The truck stereo was still audible from this distance. She was a rock, unmoved, but the grainy public radio airwaves were washing over him. Tchaikovsky swelling in his ears, Symphony No. 6. He had listened hundreds of times before but had never been inspired to this particular answer, then again, this question had never been one he’d asked. The plan was set: escape, join the symphony, achieve the dream: musician on stage.  The feverish harmonies were leading to the ultimate outpouring of emotion, his audience rapt.

On stage, his big moment was approaching – all eyes now attuned to him. Questioning glances darted from face to face throughout the hall. Calm yourselves, he thought. Sure, a mallet is your typical percussionist’s weapon-of-choice when faced with a gong, but I’m improvising for the 21st century: preceding the brass with steel.

His time was here! He sounded the funeral gong with a blast.

Pathétique.

Writing Prompt #1

I always knew I hated the zoo, but I didn't know why. I've been going to the damn things coast-to-coast for nearly three decades and they're all the same: no matter the weather, it's uncomfortable, typically sweltering, and devoid of shade when it's not a miserable soaker out; costs are less than affordable, yet continually rising; the food sucks; and the facilities and exhibits just don't spark a yearning for future visits. Yet, no matter the city or season, I still return.

     For years I supposed the ventures were urged by an awe that draped around me when I witnessed such foreign natural wonders up close. In fact, these thoughts are what steered me toward that biology major I shot for on my first go-around in college, realizing midway through freshman year that that wasn't the case, though. A decade and nothing to show for it later, I've finally figured out what it is that keeps dragging me back, and I guess that original awe that pawed at me so many years before wasn’t all that far off after all.

     My great epiphany: it’s the people! These people, they're so unlike me in all ways but shape, but I manage to keep to myself, watch curiously, and blend in for a short while. They are creatures so seemingly similar to me - all of us there for what would be reasonably assumed by most as the same reason - but I know this not to be quite the case. They are most assuredly there to enjoy what is truly foreign to them, but only in reference to the animals and plants from places far enough away to be thought other-worldly in their minds. I'm there, however, to walk amongst a mix of the people with which I do not share commonality; foreigners to some extent as well, I guess.

     It's just that when I visit the zoo, I attack it at a different slant. Who gives a shit what's on the other side of the fence? Look at this thing standing right here!, rubbing elbows with me, flashing that shit-eating grin every time that kid of theirs does something, anything. But, while my experience is indeed altered from that of the rest, it thrills me on some level to recognize that there’s a tangency, an unspoken, albeit slight, solidarity, between us: the idea that we're all gaining something personal from throwing ourselves into that which we are most unfamiliar.

Welcome: An Introduction

Welcome, all.


I've established this blog as a place for sharing my slowly growing collection of writings inspired by first line prompts provided by people from my circle of friends, extended family, and all points in between. You see, I have good intentions when it comes to creating: When I listen to music, I long to perform; when I read literature, I wish to write; I just want to contribute!, but between a full-time career during the day and loving husband/father duties at night, I'm strapped for time; a feeling I'm sure many of you know all too well.
Creating art, along with consuming it, makes me happy, though, and, as I am sure it is with a great many of you, it's my desired (required?) personal catharsis.


A peek into this blog's backstory:
Being far less than professional and having no attainable writing goal in sight, I've found it hard in the past to sit down and pound out much work. Fifteen minutes of "free time" here and there throughout any given week is just simply not conducive to creating any solid piece of work. However, I feel that, provided with recurrence of these brief moments to myself, I can manage to put together something small each time. And what better way to establish a starting point for each piece than to let you do it for me? It's lazy, sure, but I embrace it.


I welcome you to peruse this site, check back regularly for updates, and join in the conversation - after all, I'm looking to you for my writing prompts. I cannot guarantee that I will offer enjoyment or entertainment, but my hope is that somewhere along the line I will strike a chord with you.


Thank you, Namaste, and Good Luck.
Kane


P.S. For the more brevity-minded readers among us, the 140-character-or-less version of me can be found at Twitter.com/kaneharrell.