Excerpt No. 6

Hey ya'll. Hope you're still following along. Here's the next excerpt:

He entered his apartment and greeted his equally exhausted wife, Seren, holding their young child, who, having just benefited from a nap, was the only Blauer in a pleasant mood. Jerry kissed his tired wife on the forehead and leaned in to kiss the young Barrett as well. 

“How was your day?” he asked Seren. 

“Oh, the usual. Nothing to report.” She smiled. Seren had found a teaching position at a very nearby private college, shortly after the birth of their son. Entering at the bottom rung of the university teaching world, while far from glamorous, had afforded her the flexibility she needed to care for Barrett. It also gave her retrospective approval for seeking out a master’s degree in English. She enjoyed it enough and now saw teaching as a perfect way to spend her future. She dreamed of someday getting associate professor status. “Finals are coming up, and I’m getting a little swamped with emails from frightful students, but I suppose that’s to be expected. Anything exciting in your day?” 

“Not really. Danny had some more bullshit conspiracy theories to tell me about, I got hounded by my boss about the quarterly reports, same old, same old. There was a cellist in the subway, though. He sounded great. It gave me a bit of a lift.” 

“What was he playing?” 

“Nothing I recognized. But it captured me. I almost missed my train because of it, if you can believe it.” He laughed quietly, nearly inaudible, to himself. “I really miss performing regularly. I was thinking I should call up some of the guys I’ve played with recently to get a part-time, recreational thing going.” 

“Well you know I support you in your creative fantasies, but we’ll have to make it work around our schedules. I guess your mom could watch Barrett a little more each week.” 

“I’ll try to make it work. I don’t want to put a greater burden on you, but I think it’s something I need. Today marked one year at the Department, and that reminded how much I really hate it there. I think I need something else to grasp on to before I lose it.” 

“Like family?” 

“Of course family is something that keeps me going day to day. That’s why I work at the Department.” He refrained from calling his place of work “shithole” in the presence of family. 

“But I honestly believe that in order to be a good father to Barrett, I need that release that I only get from music. I think you should get back into your writing as well. When was the last time you wrote a poem? A story? I think we have to show little Barry there’s more to life than nine-to-five. We can’t forget our passions when it becomes inconveni—” 

“Alright, Jerry, don’t get melodramatic. We’ll make it work. I want you to be happy. And for your information, I wrote a poem for Barrett this afternoon.” She boasted with a wide smile.

“Well that’s great. I think we should call him Barry while he’s young. Barrett is still a little stodgy for a baby.” 

“Barrett was your idea. And I don’t stodgy means what you think it does.” 

“Well let’s call him Barry till he’s at least like ten. Then he can be Barrett. Now tell me about the poem. And I think stodgy was the right word.” 

“Who’s the English teacher?” Jerry’s rolling eyes signaled his defeat. “Right.” The broad smile returned. 

“The poem?” 

“Ah yes, I’ll show it to you after dinner. Your mom made shepherd’s pie. It’s reheating in the oven.” 

“I love when my mom pretends she’s Irish for a day.” 

After dinner and after the baby had been put to sleep, our sensual protagonist and his beautiful wife made love, and he wasn’t thinking of the new secretary with the low-cut blouse. 

At 3:30 AM, Jerry woke up to the sound of Barrett’s piercing screams. He picked up his sleepless son, attempting to calm him, and sang softly into his little ear. He sang a melody, whose words Jerry had forgotten; yet this song is what his mother sang to him every night when he was very young. Had he remembered the words, he would have sung this: 

Was soll ich länger weilen,
Dass man mich trieb hinaus?
Lass ihre Hunde heulen
Vor ihres Herren Haus;
Die Liebe liebt das Wandern—
Gott hat sie so gemacht—
Von einem zu dem andern.
Fein Liebchen, gute Nacht. 

Had he remembered the lyrics to the song he hummed and remembered what those words meant, he would have told the little Barry that he’ll never leave him. Good night doesn’t have to mean good bye. 

By this point, even my distracted readers have noticed a penchant for inner dialogue and self-reflective babbling in our protagonist. While singing into his child’s ear, he succumbed to this exhausting tendency. No matter your cost, consequence and burden, he thought regarding the life he held in his arms, you certainly are a blessing. His thoughts continued on in this predictable and clichéd manner, so I will spare you the details. You’ve heard it so many times before from young parents, awed by their ability to create a living being and aware of their responsibility to care for it. But these weaving thoughts reminded him of something his wife had mentioned during dinner. 

“I forgot to tell you before, I have some bad news,” he recalled Seren saying. “Tanya, one of the grad students in my department, had a miscarriage.” 

Poor woman, he now thought to himself as he laid Barrett back in his crib and slipped back into his own delicate sleep.

Cheers,

Flying Dutchman.

Excerpt No. 5

Well, it's Wednesday again, so that means time for another excerpt. Hope you enjoy.

The remainder of Jerry’s day went much like any other. He totaled three hours and fifteen minutes of productive number crunching, fifteen minutes of pointless daydreaming, roughly twenty-nine minutes of shit-shooting with Danny (largely concerned with lowness of the new secretary’s blouse and the Rangers’ chances in the playoffs), and a minute refilling his coffee. At five o’clock he left the office exhausted and generally dispirited. It had not been a terrible day itself, rather the mundaneness of his day-to-day routine for a whole year without break had worn him down. There was no comfort in numbers. No comfort in interpreting the vast quantities of data representing the wellness of thousands of subjects. He couldn’t even be too sure of the effectiveness of his job. Where was the general improvement in the average person’s life since the inception of triple H? He saw nothing to give him hope. He tried to push it out of his mind, but negativity is so persistent. It slips into one’s mind any moment the defenses are down. The only way to keep its attacks at bay is to actively remain focused on the better things. Jerry tried this tactic, but quickly wearied, and the negativity assumed control. 

He exited the building and walked the short distance to the 5^th Avenue station, where he took the train only a few stops to Times Square, where he sat waiting, waiting longer, and waiting still for the next train to take him home. If there was ever anything to cap off a shitty day, Jerry believed, it was being stuck in the station waiting on the last train to complete the journey home. These stations were a miracle of science; they were completely incapable of maintaining a comfortable, livable temperature. In the summer time they boiled the temporary inhabitants. In the winter they preserved the commuters in a near cryogenic frost. In spring and in fall it was a toss-up, but regardless, one was never comfortable. On this particular rainy, spring day, it was unbearably humid, and the clothing which served to protect him from the elements outside, now merely served to encase him in a thin layer of sweat inside the too-warm subway station. 

The holographic television screens, which had been installed in the stations in recent years in order to further saturate the daily commuter with even more advertisements, pointless news and mindless attempts at humor, added to Jerry’s exhaustion. A teaser for the local news: tonight, are we on the verge of an epidemic? More on the drug that could keep your family safe; an ad for a sitcom: tomorrow night on Doctors Without Borders, Cheryl finds out that Roger has been cheating on her with the cleaning lady, and she starts fucking the groundskeeper out of revenge—hilarity ensues when the Chief of Medicine tries to fire all four of them for engaging in an orgy in an operating room in the middle of surgery (not suitable for children under the age of six); a feminine hygiene product: now introducing scented pads with TomPads’ patented Phero-Cast™ system—make your man go crazy, while you go crazy! 

Finally, his ear detected something more pleasant further down the platform and he instinctively followed it as a hungry man would follow the scent of an operating kitchen. He came upon the soft spot of the advertisement saturation. In this kind nook, the deafening nonsense was at its quietest. It was a sweet escape, but not for silence. There was something far sweeter. A man, not much younger than our own protagonist, perhaps just out of college, was performing something mildly exotic, beautiful and improvised on his cello. Jerry stood entranced by the soothing timbre and melody, reminding him of beauty. 

He closed his eyes and let the somnambulant tones drift through his head, entering through the ears and caressing the nerve tissue down his spinal column and easing each inch of his body as they crept slowly through. For just a moment he neglected his anxiety and inner tension. He forgot about the errors in his last quarterly report and his boss creeping behind him and breathing down his neck. The caked salt of sweat on his arms could not interrupt his sleep-walking dream of living sound comforting him the way no woman ever had been able to. But daydreams too have their limitations, and he thought of his wife, whom he missed, and now he wished again to be home as soon as possible. On cue, the 1 train came to take him away from this fleeting bliss. He smiled at the young cellist, tipped him a dollar and boarded the train. Just then ending the piece, the busker returned the smile and gave a grateful thumbs-up. 

The train reached the end of the line. Jerry disembarked and headed to his apartment in the West Bronx. The spring air was still humid, though the rain had subsided. The walk from here was not as convenient as the walk from the station to work, but he often enjoyed the therapeutic quality of a leisurely walk after a day of work. It allowed him to decompress in between the claustrophobia inducing stress of the subway and the stress of family at home. After casually strolling the several blocks en route to his apartment, enjoying the scenery of urban life all around him, he reached his steps and entered the building. He was immediately greeted by an increasingly familiar voice, “Good evening and welcome home, Mr Blauer, would you like to hear your news this evening?” It was the building’s new doorman. Or I suppose doorbot is a better term. Or maybe door-sentient-programming….Nonetheless the rental company had splurged and purchased a Quantum Tech customizable security system, complete with tenant personalization and fingerprinting technology. It was a fine substitute for a doorman, and in the long-run it was cheaper than the labor. Its particularly tempting feature was its analysis of all of the tenant’s interests and activities, which it used to produced marvelously apt small talk—mostly discussing the news of the day, in which the tenant would show the most interest, depending on his statistics. 

“Not today. I’ve had enough news for tonight.” He replied as he scanned his finger and entered the second door. “Good night, Andy.” All of Quantum Tech’s security systems were named Andy. 

“And good night to you too, sir. Until the morning.”

Cheers,

The Flying Dutchman.

Excerpt No. 4

Thanks to everyone who's following along. Here's the fourth excerpt.

Kenneth Gilbert, CEO of the universally respected Pflege Corporation for nearly a decade, prepared for lunch. He took his coffee mug to the sink in his office and gave it a quick rinse; Mr Gilbert drank coffee at nearly all moments of the day save for two, when he was eating his lunch and dinner. His assistant—the intelligent and ever-ambitious Anna Cotillard—brought in his lunch and poured him a scotch and water. 

“Thank you, Anna. Would you inform my brother that I am now available to see him?” 

“Of course sir, right away.” 

At that moment the holographic image of his brother appeared in the room. While it still waited on the approval of the assistant as any typical guest not transmitted across a coast by 1s and 0s, it required no formal entrance into the office of his elder brother. It merely appeared out of the appropriate machinery. 

“Ah, good day Ned.” 

“How are you Ken?” 

“Wonderful, and you? I’ve been looking forward to our lunch this week all morning.” 

“Oh I’m doing quite well, and I too look forward to our lunches every week. And of course, you’ve met the respectable Senator Thornton. I invited him to join our lunch. I’m sure you don’t mind.” Kenneth Gilbert had obviously been aware that his brother’s image was also accompanied by an old, familiar face. Ned—or rather Edward Gilbert, only family called him Ned—had only mentioned the Senator to break the awkwardness of his having been in the room without being acknowledged. Edward was constantly having to correct and apologize for the poor manners of his elder brother, especially in the company of politicians. Kenneth knew all too well who really held the power, and he liked to flaunt this knowledge in subtle, yet explicit, gestures. 

“Indeed, Mr Thornton. It is always a pleasure to enjoy a meal with an old acquaintance. How is the campaign this time around?” inquired the elder Gilbert. 

“Third time’s the charm. As you know the first two were close calls, but this time my team and I couldn’t be more confident. We’ve nearly met our fundraising goals, and I hold double digit leads over my opponent in most polls,” replied the sturdy Senator William Harold Thornton. He had not been suckered by the elder Gilbert’s power play. He knew too well not to show any vulnerability or sign of weakness. Ask for a favor and you’re always in debt. Ask for nothing and you’ll always have what you need. He appended, “It feels like the old days running for the House, feeling virtually uncontested.” 

“I couldn’t be happier to hear such fantastic news, Mr Senator. You and your staff have always been very kind to this company, and rest assured you can count on a generous contribution from us yet again this campaign season. You need not worry about your fundraising goals any more, Senator. God bless free speech.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” Edward butted in. The CEO and the Senator nodded, slowly sipping their respective drinks. Kenneth sighed inwardly towards his brother’s eagerness. He and Edward had an unequal relationship. It is true that Kenneth was the older brother, but that was merely a technicality of half a minute. Nevertheless he never had to force the upper hand; throughout their entire lives, Kenneth always got the first word in, always did better in school and sports, and always got the better girls. He lovingly looked down on his younger, fraternal twin the way any older brother must find superiority over younger siblings. In their psyches, thirty seconds was as vast a gap as thirty years. 

“Let us get on to more important things,” Kenneth ended the silence of a few moments. “My brother, the cabinet secretary of the Department of Human Health, Hygiene and Sanitation Services, informs me, kind Senator, that you’ve been working on a new proposal that might involve my company.” 

“Yes, quite true, Mr Gilbert. My constituents are growing concerned over the birth rates in the slums outside New York City. The overpopulation situation is grave now as it is. We believe it necessary to institute a contraceptive program targeted at lower income families in the poorest of neighborhoods. And Pflege, as you obviously know, offers the world’s best contraceptive medications. It would be an entirely mutual benefit for our offices to partner in this venture.” 

“Not only mutual for us, Senator,” the elder twin agreed, “but a mutual benefit for our whole society. The slums need more swaddling infants like I need a bullet to the head. If we can lower the birth rates, we can help save these wretched creatures from poverty, all the while diminishing their burden on the state. I’ve heard all the arguments before, and I could not stand in firmer agreement. I assure you, Senator, we have already begun programs to this end, but a public initiative would be most delightful. Greater profits for my shareholders and a caring image of you for the public to see. It’s always pleasant partnering with you, Mr Thornton.” 

They each issued their goodbyes, and the holographic projectors ceased broadcasting the corporeal likenesses of the cabinet secretary and the Senator. Ms Cotillard entered the room, collected the dishes, and, at his request, scheduled a meeting for Mr Gilbert with the head of the contraceptives sector. 

At about this same time, our patient protagonist was finishing up lunch with Danny. He listened with polite indifference, as Danny continued on about the covert operations of Israeli agents in Saudi energy fields, alien ships attacking US military aircraft, and a doomsday bunker in the plains outside of Denver. Jerry wasn’t yet exhausted of hearing these tired tales; they were far more exciting than the stool samples of subject 196-03-9943.

Cheers,

The Flying Dutchman.

Excerpt No. 3

Thanks to everyone who's been following along with these excerpts. I'm going to be posting new ones every Wednesday. All comments and feedback are appreciated. Thanks.

Neither dishwasher nor dishmaker, our dear protagonist did not understand his place in the human ecosystem of New York City. And in his year at shithole, he had not gained any greater insight into his puzzle. What was so important about these unceasing numbers? he all too frequently asked himself. Why do I care that subject 196-03-9943 has blood in his stool? I don’t send a note to his doctor. I do not inform my superior of the possibility of a hematochezia epidemic. It merely stands there as written, on record. Blood in the stool—April 18^th, 2024. 

There was no satisfaction in this useless invasion of privacy, our puzzled and pained protagonist continued to ponder. Fuck it, our now profane protagonist ended the discussion. 

Finally settled and ready to begin his day’s work, he was once again, immediately and inconsiderately interrupted. It was Danny coming in over the vid-com: 

“Hey Jerry, did you see what the new secretary was wearing today?”

“No, I didn’t. And why do you bother asking me on the vid-com, we’re right next to each other.” He surveyed the adjacent cubicle but found it empty. 

“Dude, I’m on the can. They installed them last week.” 

“Jesus, man.” 

“I know, it’s awesome, right?” 

“No. That’s disgusting. Why on earth would we ever need a vid-com system in the restrooms?” 

“Well I suppose it’s to keep jockeys like you from wasting half a day of work passing last night’s steak dinner.” 

“Charming. And, you know, I’d get a lot more work done if you weren’t pestering me constantly.” 

“Alright, alright! Take it easy. No need get worked up over a couple of toilet-coms. You know, you have to work on your stress levels. Besides, your boss is right behind you.” 

“Mr Blauer, I see we’re off to a productive start this fine morning. Remember your quarterly reports are due next week, and I want them pristine. No more mistakes. You could probably avoid such egregious oversights if you weren’t constantly engaged in locker room antics with your esteemed colleague, Mr Martinez.” 

“Yes sir,” muttered Mr Blauer apologetically, “And if I might add, I was just beginning my work before I was interrupted, and I was in the process of ending the conversation as soon as I could.” 

“Well I hope you maintain such vigilance in the future.” Satisfied, but still lightly annoyed, Blauer’s superior vacated the cubicle in favor of his own corner window office. Mr Blauer in turn began his day’s work at a furious pace, and by some miracle of god or the Secretary of Human Health, Hygiene and Sanitation Services, our diligent protagonist worked until lunch without a single interruption from Danny or his own conflicted, inner dialogue, asking such immediately pertinent questions like, Who am I? What am I doing here? or Am I a dishwasher or a dishmaker?

 Cheers,

The Flying Dutchman.

Excerpt NUMMER ZWEI!

Alright, so I guess it's time for a second excerpt. Thanks to Ashleigh, Vieshnavi and Orysia for your feeback so far. The first excerpt was a very brief sampling, so I thought I'd put a little bit more out there this time.

Having reached the tenth floor and arrived at their respective, adjacent cubicles, Danny continued, “I mean it dude, Israeli agents in cahoots with America are systematically sabotaging Arab Union factories.” 

“Man that’s Old World shit. Israel has been at peace with the Arab Union for ten years. There’s no more sabotage or espionage.”

“That’s just what we’re supposed to think.” 

Though in a better mood induced from caffeine and the positive psychological association of the taste of coffee, our Jerry had to cut this enlightened conversation short, “Well man, I got a lot of shit to do today. We can continue this at lunch.” 

“Dude, you don’t work.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck off.” 

Now, while the consummate work of shithole was patriotic and edifying, our benevolent protagonist could claim neither of these adjectives for his work. Our Jerry was merely a datajockey, as they referred to those in his line of work. The Triple H maintained a fascinating stream of data for nearly every resident in the city and state of New York. Equally impressive facilities collected data for every major metropolitan area in the US. The system remained federated for the time being; they were not collecting information on a national scale yet. 

Mr Blauer’s measly job was handling a negligible percentage of this data. A pebble amongst this mountain. He observed, analyzed, organized and never editorialized this constant stream. His life was a blur of tables and spreadsheets, numbers and graphs. 

Now, you may be inquiring as to the nature of these magnificent numbers around which our beloved protagonist’s life revolves. Well it is really quite simple. These numbers are everything. 

The 2021 Act of Human Health, Hygiene and Sanitation Services not only created the department of the same name, but also set into motion the directive for which these earnest datajockeys work. This act installed so-called Health and Wellness Monitors in every urban and suburban household in America (the rural HWMs came later), simultaneously improving the health of the country and creating thousands, no millions, of jobs. 

These splendid devices collected samples daily. Blood samples. Stool samples. Urine samples. Air. Hair. Skin. Fingernails. Sweat. Tears. Anything. Everything. 

Mr Blauer certainly did not dream of being a datajockey his whole life—quite the contrary in fact. Jerry grew up in a fairly musical family. Those who were not musicians nonetheless had musical inclinations. He was always surrounded by music, and at a relatively young age he became musically active, beginning piano lessons at five and guitar at nine. The skill did not immediately come easy to him as it did so many of his family, but he worked hard and became respectable at both instruments, though his love was for guitar. In and out of bands from the age of thirteen he endlessly imagined he could someday make a living off music. A common dream with uncommon satisfaction. 

Until his unfortunate employment at shithole a year ago today, our beloved Jerry was even doing quite well for a musician. Yes, it is true, he brought in roughly 51% of his earnings from a locally owned, independent bookstore, a fast-dying trade itself, he did indeed make money from performing his music. He still hopped from band to band, a so-called hired gun, but it was money, and it was music. It made him happy. At least relatively so. He still wrote his own music on the side. And this was enough to keep his inner creative turmoil busy. 

But life’s little, quaint responsibilities have a way of squelching every artist’s desires. For Jerry this came in the form of a child. Little darling Barrett Dylan. What a ghastly and pretentious name. The instant you hear such a name you know the parents are so up their own ass with artsy-fucking-fartsy bullshit….I’m sorry. Your honest narrator will try to refrain from injecting his own judgments into the life and decisions of our dear protagonist. Nonetheless, devoted family man that he wished to become, Jerry felt it necessary to join the ranks of the hapless nine-to-fivers he detested. He knew his child and dear wife needed something steady and stable. Steadiness and stability: the death knell of any artist’s career. Art cannot be steady and stable! The very definition forbids it. 

But all artists must grow up some day. His wife’s uncle just happened to be a sector head at the recently created Department of Human Health, Hygiene and Sanitation Services. And they were looking for datajockeys. What luck! Though of course, the uncle did not use the term datajockey, but rather the more enticing health statistics analyst. Yes, it is not terribly more enticing than datajockey, but it certainly sounds more important. 

Now—of course—all jobs, from the most menial to the most illustrious, are important in their own way. As all creatures and beasts serve a function in each ecosystem, all careers are necessary for the function of society. Insects are vile creatures. They pester, and they do not invite the poet’s inspired verses like a soaring eagle or a majestic tiger command. No, they merely eat away at the decay and filth of putrescent life. Biology assigns these tasks to each order of life. Likewise human life is an ecosystem with its own modes of putrefaction, real or figurative, which requires the low rungs of society, the nobodies, the losers. Therefore the winners know they need the losers and make it their civic duty to keep them down and out. If there were no garbagemen the city would pile high with waste. If there were no dishwashers, mountains of disposed dinnerware would be as ubiquitous a sight as cracked concrete—though the business of manufacturing such dinnerware would immediately become very profitable. 

….I digress. Forgive me for my spurt of useless babble. 

Cheers,

The Flying Dutchman.

First excerpt

As I posted the other day, I am in the process of writing a short-story/novella, and I did get one request for a short excerpt, so I will oblige. So Vieshnavi, this is for you, haha.

Here you have the first page and a half or so:

One year, thought Jerry Blauer as he exited the subway car and walked toward the office building. One year in this shithole. Ten years ago this was not where he wanted to be, shut in, day after day in the same cubicle. He crossed the street, after waiting for the little white man to give the ok, and entered the lobby of 75 West 59^th street, the Department of Human Health, Hygiene and Sanitation Services, referred to in documents as DeptHHHSS, by the media as the triple H, by those in public who frequented it simply as the department, and by our beloved protagonist and his equally well-tempered co-workers as shithole.

The operations of shithole were simple: keep the public safe from its own goddamn disgusting behaviors. Or more tactfully put in its manifesto and statement of purpose: The Department of Human Health, Hygiene and Sanitation Services defends the public good and the common order of civilization by maintaining the cleanliness of our cities and our bodies alike, enforcing and maintaining a standard of living by which all may enjoy the beauty of our collective lives.

One year in this shithole, continued Jerry’s inner soliloquy. At least it’s a paycheck. It keeps my wife happy. It pays for diapers. It pays for formula, for babysitters, for cribs, and so on continued the rationalization for his daily sacrifice to shithole, all the while trying to keep silent his true feelings on the matter. Stupid kid ruined my life; now, now, I love that kid, he makes me happy. Makes me smile. But look what it drove me too. If only he’d come two years later or something. Then it would have been alright.

He entered the elevator and selected the tenth floor.

His inner soliloquy, now becoming more akin to an inner dialogue, was cut short—though to be honest he was not reaching any greater conclusion any time soon—by Danny Martinez, his co-worker and only friend at shithole. Danny was small, underweight and generally rat-like in appearance. He claimed a stature of 5’6”, but his own body and confidence (or rather a distinct lack of it) betrayed him. Our beloved protagonist approximated his height at a less substantial 5’5”.

“Dude, did you see the news last night?”

“No.”

“Dude. Major shit’s going down.”

“I don’t care.”

“No man, listen. They’re saying that a natural disaster knocked out the Arab Union’s solar fields in Medina.”

“So fuckin what.”

“It wasn’t no wind storm, man. It was Israeli agents. It’s just so obvious.”

“Does it affect my paycheck?”

“Well, no….Obviously not, man, in the, uh, short term sense….”

“Well then at least wait till I finish my coffee before you barrage me with this babble.”

You see, the thing to realize about our friend, Danny Martinez, is that for him, no official story was satisfactory. There are all sorts of skeptics and conspiracy theorists. There are those, who bathe themselves in stories of extra-terrestrials and UFOs. There are those, who breathe in the air of black ops and back door deals of world powers. There are those, who when confronted with news stories of major world catastrophes, accept all accounts other than the official statements of the major parties involved. Danny Martinez was all of these sorts. Jerry Blauer was none of them. It’s not as if he readily accepted all official storytelling of the world order, but rather that he did not have the time. Your story, his story, their story. Didn’t matter. He didn’t believe any of it, and that didn’t particularly bother him. The world was full liars and exploiters on all sides, and as long as they refrained from fucking with him explicitly, he really didn’t have the effort to care.

Danny had perhaps a little too much effort to expend. But that was all well and good. To each his own. It didn’t bother our dear protagonist so long as he had his morning coffee. Danny’s stories entertained him. True or not.

Hope you enjoy. Any feedback, kind or not, is appreciated ;)

Back in the game!

So those of you who know me well know that I love to write. What you may not know is that I've been trying hard to begin writing fiction. It's always been a dream of mine, and particularly I've always maintained that someday I would write a novel. I've begun many failed attempts, even at short stories. It always just seemed too hard to find a story I cared about. Well I think I've got one now. I'm so optimistic as to think that this could turn into a full-blown novel, but I feel it could at least be an interesting short story.

I'm only about five pages deep, but I just started a couple days ago, and I'm pretty excited about it. I've got a good angle, narrator, protagonist, story, etc, and I feel that as long as I can keep at it I can write something good.

So please let me know if you're interested and I can start posting excerpts on this blog.

Cheers,

The Flying Dutchman.