Wordsmith Holler

Original Pulp Fiction

Tag: Stories

  • Cindy's Sin - A Las Vegas Story: Cindy’s Sin – Chapter 10

    Cindy’s Sin – A Las Vegas Story: Cindy’s Sin – Chapter 10

    He Like a Good Steak

    Todd Loudin owned a lot of places and people in Sin City. The people owed him favors; the places owed him nothing. The people sometimes ended up hurt; the places were infamous.

    He liked a good steak and no place proved better than the Silver Steer. Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack ate here, the King of Rock and Roll held court, and Natalie Wood bought her own velvet touch. Todd like to do business in a leather booth next to the restaurant’s decorative bottles of Bordeaux.

    The dinner crowd waltzed in around five, so Todd always started around two. He always ate a petite filet mignon, medium rare with a gorgeous crust, and an extra-dry martini with his head right below Marilyn Monroe’s smile. Sometimes he ate alone or with an occasional partner. Most of the time, dinner was pleasure. Sometimes it was all business. Today Johnny May and Freddie Mite joined him. The first man was an imposing bodyguard on payroll. The second man was a private investigator with news about the robbery at the Glitter Gulch.

    “They cleaned out the till. Got away with maybe a thousand,” Johnny said. “Luckily, Charlie had moved most of the night’s take into the safe.”
    “Took a bullet too,” Freddy said. “They’ve got him over at Valley. Looks like he’s going to live.”
    “The club is a mess. We’re looking at least ten grand to make it right,” Johnny said. “Bullet holes everywhere. Plus, a scorched spot on the floor where Bill burned up.”
    “He always made a statement,” Todd snickered. “How did that happen anyway?”
    “A bullet tore through the fish tank, the lights fell from the ceiling, and old Bill was on the floor,” Freddie said. “He burned up in the fire. The firemen put him out, but half his face is gone.”
    “Closed casket?”
    “Either that or a lot of makeup.”

    A server wearing a black tuxedo filled the water glasses. He readjusted a napkin hanging over his arm and poured the carafe into Todd’s glass. He moved the bread bowl and scraped the crumbs over the linen tablecloth into his waiting hand. The men watched him in silence. The waiter nodded at them and walked back to the kitchen.

    “Excellent service,” Todd said. “They do service right.” The other men nodded in agreement. “Old Vegas through and through.” He continued talking about the morning events.

    “Let’s recap. Charlie’s bummed up, Bill’s burned up, and we need to rebuild the club,” Todd said. “What about Wallace and the girl?”
    “Says she knows you,” Johnny said. “Wallace was eating his eggs. Now, he seems to be helping her.”
    “Helping her do what?” Todd said.
    “Crazy stuff,” Freddie said. “Says her name’s Cindy Lash. She wouldn’t be Tommy’s daughter, would she?”
    Todd thought back twenty years to when Tommy Lash worked as a bodyguard. Johnny placed his fork and knife beside his plate. He leaned back with Freddie waiting for Todd to talk.

    “Tommy’s death was unfortunate,” Todd said. “He was a good soldier who got in over his head. I had nothing to do with it. What does the girl want?”
    “She wants to talk,” Johnny said. “She went to the club looking for you.”
    “Is she connected to the guy who robbed me and killed Bill?” Todd said.
    “He’s a mystery,” Freddie said. “Shot the girl, so I doubt it.”
    “The police picked up Feather,” said Johnnie. “She seemed to be friends with the guy.”
    “So we have nothing” Todd said.
    “Pretty much.” Freddie said.

    Todd studied the two men seated next to him. Johnny wiped his mouth and set the napkin next to his plate. Freddie cut another slice of steak and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly waiting for Todd to speak. The server poured more water and took Todd’s plate. Behind him, a man began preparing Banana Foster; cutting up the bananas and adding butter to a hot plate. He mixed in brown sugar, rum, and tossed the whole desert into a plate with an added scoop of vanilla ice cream. He set the plate in front of Todd and gave everyone a spoon.

    Todd dipped his spoon in the desert and looked up waiting for the others to join him. Johnnie reached his spoon over while Freddie waved him off. Todd took a drink and let it wash over his tongue.

    “If the guy and the girl aren’t working together, why does she want to see me,” Todd said. “And why is Wallace involved?”
    “Could be a shake down,” Johnnie said.
    “The guy shot the girl with Wallace next to her,” Freddie said.
    “She probably thinks there’s a payday,” Johnnie said.
    “What bothers me is that she’s Tommy Lash’s kid,” Todd said. “He didn’t die too well and she might know our business.”
    “She looks pretty young,” Johnnie said. “I don’t think she’s lived the past.”
    “It’s not the past I’m worried about,” Todd said. “I’m worried about the present.”

    Read more: Cindy’s Sin – A Las Vegas Story: Cindy’s Sin – Chapter 10
  • March 15, 2017 Scribble

    I spent twenty minutes holding my head to the right as a doctor went in again for my fourth thyroid biopsy. “Boy this is really deep,” he said. “Yep, maybe you’ll be the guy,” I said. It is clear with have a nodule or two. We don’t clearly know if it is cancer. “At least if it is cancer, this is the best one to get,” said my endocrinologist. “It takes so long to grow.” Comforting. While other writers are busy taking people to other places, I’m in an endless loop of out-patient surgery. No, you would not be interested in the waiting, prodding, and sore neck. It doesn’t jump off as one of those stories you want to hear.

    ***

    Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” True. Sometimes you just have to write it out and hope something sticks. Then let it fall to the floor. In Hemingway & Gellhorn  he says,” Never crumple pages. Always let them float gently into the basket. Any writer who rips out his stuff and crumples it will go insane in a year, guaranteed.” I like the idea of floating paper to the trash. I would float this to the trash, but it’s a huge monitor.

    ***

    It turns out nobody reads this blog. (more…)

    Read more: March 15, 2017 Scribble
  • March 3, 2017 Scribble

    March 3, 2017 Scribble

    You can read this if you wish although it consists of thoughts and fragments as I attempt to free write 750 words every day. Some of this may end up in a Story or a Conversation. Anyway, this is how one learn and shapes up The Craft.

    America is divided. The Hatfield vs. the McCoys. #BLM vs #BLM. Of course, it is nowhere near the biggest mix up as The Orange and the Green.  At least not yet. (more…)

    Read more: March 3, 2017 Scribble
  • A Moment of Pure Truth

    A Moment of Pure Truth

    Christopher stood over the maze of workday and eyed the ocean. A thin fog cloud floated passed his perch on the 45th floor. On the docks, sea lions barked at tourists. East Bay traffic sought a faster path, ships hauled electronics in and almonds out, and the blood-red sun sunk into late afternoon north of the Golden Gate.

    In the conference room, five people sat in executive chairs around a table. Their faces reflected gloomy sullenness. They might as well said they intended two more hours of arguing and defensiveness. He crushed out his cigarette and flicked it into the wastebasket.

    A nervous man hunched from a camera with a stenographer perched to the side wearing a mask. Christopher thought he could use oxygen too. While the inventor told his story, the woman repeated what he said.

    “Does she have to do that?”
    “We need an accurate transcription,” said an attorney seated at the end.
    “Isn’t the video enough?”
    “I want to read it tonight.”

    Christopher rocked forward. He ran his right hand through his hair and looked over at the inventor. “Forget the transcriber, Mr. Wells. The quicker you answer, the faster we can get out of here.”

    The nervous man explained his one-of-a-kind process. It required this and that and one thing or the other. It mattered little to those at the settlement conference. The questions rolled, and the answers landed in a flat dud. Each person rubbed their eyes and wished for sleep.

    Christopher turned to the window daydreaming of places far from this evening. He watched the sun drop into the sea until the dying light filled the room.

    ~

    Five hours over the vermilion bridge, he opened the fabric roof. Clammers walked along the beach carrying clam guns and pails. They laughed in the ocean air. Christopher breathed deep taking in warm relief. The surf sweet. Sentries of redwoods stood on the cliff and a lone tree marched out to the shore. He longed to join its rush to the sea. Away from him, he picked up the faint smell of skunk. Humboldt County Fog, he guessed. A guy in a beanie and a girl in a flannel shirt smiled and waved.

    Christopher touched the solid dash. It was real, although, he still wore his virgin wool dress pants. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them quick. A pair of 501’s replaced his wool pants. He looked in the mirror and dark sunglasses reflected his face. He settled into the car seat steering the wheel from the sand.

    The redwoods rose above the ocean. Ferns and grass bunched up crowding the road. The path intruded on the stillness giving way to silence. Sentries of trees towered until only darkness touched the sky. Christopher came to seek solace, and the forest ignored him.

    He slowed the car into a clearing. The tires crunched over cones, broken branches, and fronds. A hard thump echoed from the closing door. He regretted disrupting the surrounding cathedral.

    Christopher wandered over fallen timbers and rocks. Over a ridge he scanned for the forest tops watching the breeze sway each branch. The woods reached a a prominence beyond his imagination. He leaned against a trunk rounder than his stature. He followed the ridges and cliffs of bark as high as he could see. It never ended. Christopher guessed this tree stood stories tall long before his great-grandfather arrived in California.

    The width of the tree circled around and Christopher stepped over ferns as he rounded it. A black ant carried a golden speck of pollen at the end of a mile long trek. It rushed to disappear under the surface of leaves going deep into the humus. Christopher looked and failed to see the clearing’s starting point.

    A beam of light surrounded a smaller tree with a pathway from the sky. Dust and insects crisscrossed the dancing light. Christopher stood in awe breathing in the serenity.

    Christopher walked away from the big tree to stand under the light shaft. The illuminated tree as stood tall as the last one. This one though had the purest white branches. His shoulders shuddered, and every tree stepped back with appreciation and respect. He reached up stroking an albino cone of pure whiteness. Then a subtle spark passed through his hand twinkling in the light. Christopher rubbed together his fingers relishing the soft white powder. A jolt of energy flashed from the tips and floated to his core. He felt alive and full of wisdom.

    The light illuminating the ghost tree shown brighter, and he stood alone looking up. In the light glow, Christopher’s face expressed joy.

    ~

    “Is that what a nervous breakdown looks like?” asked Mr. Wells.

    Christopher jumped back from the table. The room became larger and the crowd surrounding him snapped to attention. The transcriber braced Christopher’s back as he sank into a chair confused. Everyone stared. A hand pushed him a glass, and he sipped the water allowing himself to return to the meeting.

    Christopher surveyed the balcony. Stars touched the rooftops of the city and a helicopter searched the bay. He pondered the outside while the others waited for him to say he was okay. Christopher cleared his throat and everyone turned to him.

    “Answers come at the strangest times,” he said.
    “How do you mean?” Mr. Wells asked.
    “All this means nothing. None of you should win.”
    “But we are so close.”
    “A settlement over a slight?”

    Christopher pushed himself from the table. He stood for a moment before the people seated opposite him. He nodded, smiled, and looked up. They followed his gaze to the ceiling tiles where his answer revealed itself to him but no one else. The others in the room only recognized a crisscross pattern.

    As they tried to understand the truth, Christopher gathered up his papers, turned away, and walked out the door.

    Read more: A Moment of Pure Truth
  • Inspiration: Mining Subjects Close to My Heart

    Inspiration: Mining Subjects Close to My Heart

    I grew up trout fishing. But I will never be able to capture the river like Norman Maclean.

    I once toiled as an innkeeper. But my experiences were nothing like described by John Irving.

    inspiration

    Inspiration Comes From Experience

    I am a product of the American West and my inspiration comes from those people. I take inspiration from their stories and those subjects are close to my heart.

    When Tom Booker stopped at a remote four-corners somewhere between Nevada and Utah, I was there. Nicholas Evans reminded me I had been at that crossroads a few times. I understand the loneliness of a desert valley surrounded by a ring of mountains.

    I have this great idea for a novel set in Paris, but I have never been there. I struggle to place my characters at a corner cafe I have never set foot in. The story lies flat because I can’t put any description into the place.

    Irving wrote about the feeling he had as a child. The deeper context comes from the adult. Maclean also wrote about his family, his childhood, and the pains of adulthood. All wrapped up in these stories are bigger images, but the writers mined subjects close to their hearts to arrive at the wider story.

    It is better to stick to subjects you understand and attempt to create deeper meaning. Your experiences fold together to create a grander tapestry. Would it be impossible to write the Paris story? Likely not, if I visited the Arrondissements and smelled, tasted, and wondered.

    Stories come easier when the milieu can be seen by the author. Otherwise, a lot of research must be done. Inspiration comes when the writer can just tell the story. Place is easiest arranged when the writer already sits there.

    [plain]What do you think? Can a writer create a place they have never visited? Or, do you have to experience it first to obtain inspiration? Leave a Comment below.[/plain]

     

     

    Read more: Inspiration: Mining Subjects Close to My Heart
  • A Tall Tale of Sin: Greyhound Arriving

    I work downtown Las Vegas. For all of the glitz and wild scenes on Fremont Street, what is often overlooked is this town is a business. And that means for every cup tossed on the ground someone has to come along and pick it up. While the entire street is a stage, it still needs to rest, if only for a few hours between parties.

    I’m also fascinated with neon and what it means. Las Vegas discards its neon signs; they can be found at the Neon Museum. Unfortunately, many of these signs no longer light up. I often wonder if each neon sign is waiting for someone to jump start their hearts so their lights can be alive again.

    I’ve been pondering an idea for a while that will take more effort than a 1,000 word short story. Not quite a novel; I think it’s more of a 60-page novella. However, it will take some time to write and I may need to draft it in smaller assignments.

    Clearly this story will have some fantasy, crime, and drama.

    So what will follow is a serialized short story and a way for me to plod along until I finish it. Short of NaNoWriMo, I tend to drop the ball and there are lots of stories I have written waiting for a finish. My two NaNoWriMo efforts still need me to edit them; those stories may never see the light of day! Too many half-baked ideas waiting for an editor. With this project, I anticipate it will be a forced march of sorts to reach the finish line. Hopefully, it doesn’t end up in a trash can.

    Each segment will be like a short chapter with the main title “A Tall Tale of Sin” preceding the current effort.

    I plan to discuss my story idea and share my planning. Frequently, I may update this post to add character sketches or to expand on the idea. By the way, you can find the tools I have created to help me write here.

    Planning

    Read more: A Tall Tale of Sin: Greyhound Arriving
  • The False Ending

    I have mentioned that many stories fail to gain traction in the second act. This is where the viewpoint character forgets why they are in the story. Of course, it is the writer who has forgotten; either by writing by their pants or failing to plot in enough conflict to keep the story moving forward. Stories thrive on conflict and bad things must happen to the hero before it all ends up as good and satisfying.

    That is why within the second act, is the false ending. In fact, you might say this is the top of the hill. And this is why screenwriters call it the midpoint. Everything works up to the midpoint and then tumbles down into the depths of hell before the beginning of the end.

    Screenwriters know they must take the viewer to the first turning point within 12 pages. Novelists also incorporate a turning point before the end of the first act. The second act is reserved for the hero doing heroic things; nothing can go wrong. And then it happens: the midpoint. Writers reserve the midpoint for the center of the story and add the ultimate conflict for the hero to face.

    The midpoint is when the girl discovers the guy is hiding a secret girlfriend (who usually is revealed in the third act as his sister). Or at the midpoint, the hero faces emotional or physical death. Will she make it? Keep watching. Everything is revealed in the third act.

    A good midpoint incorporates a false victory for our hero; she defeats the bad guy, only to discover a badder bad guy is standing behind her. Another excellent midpoint is to have the hero face ultimate disaster; the singing cowboy movies called this a cliffhanger. Finally, a midpoint should provide the ultimate obstacle in the story. What happens to give the antagonist the upper hand? What is the chink in our hero’s armor?

    Midpoints add conflict, which is the main reason anyone reads a novel or watches a movie; they want to see the hero defeat the antagonist. They want to see the hero survive the midpoint.

    [plain]How have you used this technique to infuse your stories with conflict? Reply below in the comments.[/plain]
    Read more: The False Ending
  • Pantser Plotter

    There are two camps of thought: the people who listen to the muse and write by the seat of their pants and the people who write an entire book-length outline prior to starting to write.

    I prefer to combine the two, without writing an entire book-length outline. Let me explain my thoughts on this debate.

    Pantsers argue they are free to listen to the story and the characters. It is a muse-centric approach, with the characters exploring the milieu and wandering about discovering the story. All fine and well. It is interesting how a story can take on a life and allow a writer to document scenes and fill in the story.

    Plotters say there is no way a story can take shape without a road map: it requires a structure to allow the characters to face their inner and external conflicts. The characters are forced to face their fears. Plotters like to know where the story is headed.

    Here is my take: Pantsers need to outline and Plotters need to be open to just writing.

    In my experience, without an outline I have twice been abandoned by my characters in the second act. They exhibit attention deficit disorder and climb out of the book. The characters say “well, that’s all I got,” and the story sort of fizzles out. I’m rewriting “Fish Tacos: Or How I Went To Mexico to Save My Soul” because the main character started bitching about his past and failed to get off his butt. Sure, I’m the writer, it is my story, but I let the character dictate where he would go and when he would get there. Believe me, if left to his designs, the main character would still be sitting in the desert waiting to move.

    So now I plot everything: short stories; novels; non-fiction; and, screenplays. I give the viewpoint characters a purpose and a timeline to meet. I challenge them to face their demons. I gift them happy successes. By the time the story ends, they see their doubts, obstacles, challenges, and growth.

    In some ways this is the perfect way to write by the seat of your pants: the story structure lets them wander about, as long as they meet their deadlines. So I guess I’m a Pantser Plotter . It seems to be working.

    [plain]How do you plan your projects? Do you outline or just let it flow? Leave a comment below.[/plain]
    Read more: Pantser Plotter
  • The Thrill of Writing

    I started Wordsmith Holler to experiment and put myself out there. I have no other reason. It seemed pointless to keep writing first drafts and store them in the cloud. Stored and forgotten. Go ahead and post them and let others decide their true worth.

    I also do not understand the current publishing business. Writers are discovered online on Twitter. Can 140-character riffs really indicate your ability to write? I suppose if you are writing one-liners. Before my birth, a writer would sit in a pub, think Starbucks, and write an essay, short story, diatribe, and submit it for publishing. Edgar Allen Poe comes to mind.

    (more…)

    Read more: The Thrill of Writing
  • Making Time

    I dislike the gym. I do not have a gym membership and the thought of exercise sends me back to the couch. I like the couch. It is safer and never leads to a pulled back muscle. Of course, I could use some stretching of my back muscles.

    Writing – the actual practice of sitting down and writing – has never been a problem. I mean, the actual knocking out of words. The words flow when I need them too and I can write understandable sentences. Those words are for work assignments; I never have trouble writing for work.

    Creative writing is a challenge. It always feels like it should come as easy as my non-fiction or technical writing. And it should be perfect on first draft.  That perverse thought comes from my television career. When writing news it is a once-off and there is no time for multiple drafts. You correct the errors on the next version and send it off to the teleprompter. Such is the quick pace of writing television news stories.

    However, with creative writing, I want the words to flow and the stories to build without hesitation. It is never the case; creative writing requires more effort. I sit and get stuck in the character, or the plot takes a turn, or I get down a rabbit hole and it leads to a dead end. Creative writing makes my back hurt.

    So I must make the time. Create a schedule and stick to it. Allow the stories to be told in their way rather than forcing the words to tell the tale. Take some time to ponder. Listen to the words. Then write them down.

    [plain]What kind of a writing schedule do you keep? Add your thoughts to the comments below.[/plain]
    Read more: Making Time