Show Don't Tell

PRE-VERSE 1

Don’t tell me about the ghostly music

Show me sound waves liquefying his brain

Don’t tell me he’s about to lose it

Show me twitchy faces as he’s going insane

VERSE 1

Reading about scandals in the newspaper

Won’t give you the most intimate flavor

An old man’s gyroscopic wiener in motion

Leaves her trapped above the Atlantic Ocean

Few seconds of assault becomes a life of trauma

But they’ll brush it off as SJW drama

She’s a hero for telling a story that pains her

And showing the old fart he’s a walking failure

PRE-VERSE 2

Tell me you’re hurting without telling me so

The hangover turns your head into a bomb to blow

Tell me why you’re drunk without telling me why

Because it’s better than letting monsters see you cry

VERSE 2

A fictional world becomes real in a hurry

When the lines of fantasy become so blurry

Is the author a racist or just bad at his craft?

When the audience screamed, the Nazis laughed

Five hundred pages of knights and mages

And lovers so fine with questionable ages

He’s a villain for telling a story so awful

And showing why he’s still on the side of lawful

PRE-VERSE 3

These stories don’t connect in any meaningful way

They’re just random thoughts barfed onto the page

Get a nice editor to tell you that you’re full of it

Test your resolve, we’ll see if you’re full of quit

VERSE 3

In the end, we all have our stories to tell

But it’s all a matter of if they’re told well

We don’t mind a little bit of being disturbed

As long as there’s substance to go with big words

Everyone has potential to live beyond themselves

And see their very best efforts on library shelves

You’re a human for telling a story the world needs

And showing them all you despise corporate greed

How Could You?

Ross Maynard sipped his iced tea and read his newspaper as nonchalantly as he could. Even with a nearly deserted Denny’s like this one, he still had to keep his secret in the public eye. Wouldn’t want a nosy waitress making too much small talk with him. In between reading various stories in the paper, Ross would sneak a quick peek at the front entrance. He knew he had to keep calm at a time like this, but his racing nerves wouldn’t slow down for even a moment.

And then the Mexican bombshell Fatima Ruiz entered the establishment with a frilly red cocktail dress on and a heat-seeking glare. Normally she glided across the room with the grace of an angel. But even in high heels, she pulled off the perfect angry stomp with both fists at her side. Ross took another sip of iced tea to settle himself for the shit sandwich he was about to eat (not because he was dining at Denny’s).

Fatima sat across the booth from Ross and spent the first few seconds staring icicles into her former lover. She tapped on the table with her manicured fingernails and fidgeted with her long black hair, but never once taking that ice cold stare off of Ross. The guilty-looking gentleman took another sip of tea and maintained his silence. This lengthy moment of discomfort melted Ross’s heart like butter on an English muffin. He knew why she was here. He knew he was screwed.

Fatima gazed down at her engagement ring with even more ice cold bitchiness before ripping it off and waving it in front of the smart phone she pulled out of her purse. The sounds of popping and crackling echoed in Ross’s ears while a siren going off in his head told him to get the fuck out of there.

“When were you planning on telling me you were a cop?” asked the stone cold Fatima Ruiz. “Did you think I was stupid? Did you think I would never find out? Do you think this shit is going to end now that my father is in jail? This shit’s not over until I say it is.”

Ross fluffed his jacket and wiped his wet hands on his jeans to buy time. When he had enough of it, he folded his hands across the table and looked seriously into his lover’s eyes. “Your father was the leader of the Ruiz Cartel. He was responsible for too many deaths in this city. He had politicians and policemen alike in his back pocket. Not this time. A lifetime in the hole is where he’s headed. I make no apologies for my detective work, Fatima. It’s my job.”

“No apologies, huh?” asked Fatima rhetorically while nodding. “That’s your job: breaking women’s hearts? I trusted you, Ross. I let you into my home. We made love together. And now you’re telling me that doesn’t mean shit to you?” When Ross refused to show remorse for his actions, Fatima swatted the newspaper off the table and yelled, “What do you have to say for yourself?!”

“Nothing,” said Ross with a frosty tone. His confidence returned and he showed it with furrowed eyebrows. “I’m an FBI agent. It’s what I do. You were an easy target. You were my golden ticket into the Ruiz Compound. That’s how these investigations work, Fatima. I’m sorry you got your heart broken, but it is what it is. None of it was real. It was all business.”

Ross’s stony expression countered Fatima’s criminal rage to where the Latina beauty hung her head and allowed tears to flow softly from her eyes. Agent Maynard slowly reached his hand over to comfort his now ex-lover and she jerked away while shouting, “Don’t touch me!”

The agent allowed the tension between them to simmer down before asking, “So what did you come here for? To let me know that you’re on to me? To deliver some veiled threat? To kill me? Your entire cartel is being rounded up even as we speak. There’s nobody left to help you, Fatima. Your empire is gone. Gone!”

The Latina sobbed some more while gently saying, “I could kill you right now…” When Ross snapped at her to speak up, she snapped back with, “I could kill you right now! I don’t need a gun or a knife. I want to strangle you with my bare hands. I want to rip your balls off. I want to rip out your tongue for all of the lies you’ve told me!”

“If you’re so eager to join your empire behind bars, I’d say go for it. Go ahead. Slap me. Punch me. Do whatever it is you want to do. I don’t give a shit. I’ve got the cuffs in my jacket pocket. You want some new jewelry, be my guest,” said Ross in his increasingly icy tone.

Fatima wiped the tears from her eyes and gingerly picked her head up to meet her ex-lover’s hateful gaze. Her own heartless expression turned into a sadistic smile, but Ross remained undeterred. “Like I said,” she started with. “This isn’t over until I say it is. You think you’ve got the upper hand because you put my family in jail? You think you’re the only one who can play games with people’s emotions? I’m pregnant!”

Ross scoffed, “Bullshit!” and Fatima smiled even harder. She even threw in a few giggles. The detective’s solemn expression grew even darker as he contemplated the potential reality of what his lover just said. “Please tell me you’re bullshitting. This is all a joke, isn’t it?”

“I make no apologies for my detective work, Agent Maynard,” said Fatima. “I’m keeping this baby and I’m going to raise him as my own. You and I are going to have a family together, Ross. Oh wait, you already have a family, don’t you? A wife and daughter of your own. I wonder what they’ll think when they find out daddy impregnated a gangster chick. What will your coworkers think? What will the judge think when I demand child support from you?”

“You don’t know shit about being a mother!” belted Ross.

“And you don’t know shit about being in love. It’s all fake to you, right? I bet your own family doesn’t get to see the side of you that you’ve shown me all this time. All those expensive gifts. All of those happy moments. All of the love we shared. The whole world will know and you can do nothing about it,” grinned Fatima.

“So what are you going to do with that little runt, anyways?” asked Ross hastily. “You’re going to raise him to be a gangster just like every other member of your sick family? You’re going to teach him to murder and steal? You’re not a mother. You’re a damn fool! You’re going to march over to that abortion clinic and…”

“And what? Give you the satisfaction of fucking me over one more time? I don’t think so, honey. We’ve done things your way for the past couple of months. Now we’re going to do them my way. Here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to rebuild my empire from the ground up and you’re going to help me. That means getting my peeps out of jail and recruiting new members. I don’t want just some hoods and thugs running around here. I want top brass motherfuckers on my payroll. I want cops, politicians, and other cartel factions. And who knows? Maybe if you do all these lovely things for me, I’ll show you what true love really is. That’s what you seem to be lacking these days,” said Fatima with a red-hot smile and villainous eyes.

“Give me some time to think about it, Fatima,” said Ross.

“Take all the time you need, baby cakes. It’s not like this little guy is going to pop out anytime soon,” said Fatima. She mockingly waved goodbye to her ex-lover and blew him a kiss before turning heel and model-walking out of the restaurant.

Ross tried to keep up his emotionless stature, but he couldn’t help holding his head in his hands and wondering how the hell Fatima Ruiz got the best of him. He thought of his own wife and daughter and all of the happy days at the beach they had. The little lady would run across the sand and bounce in the water like a little froggy. He would hold hands with his wife and shower her in kisses despite the disgust of those around them. He loved his family and he didn’t care what anybody thought.

He cared what his fellow FBI agents thought, however. They were going to tear him limb from limb, rip his badge away along with his heart and soul, and leave him homeless and alone. What kind of life was that for a soon-to-be former detective and his family? They’d have to do illegal, disgusting things just to get by, much like how the Ruiz Cartel got started. Ruiz Cartel…Fatima Ruiz…that bitch!

Ross pulled out a six shooter and fully loaded every chamber. One bullet for her. One bullet for him. Four bullets for anybody who disagreed with his dark logic. He kissed the barrel of his weapon and angrily whispered, “I’ll show you what love is, Fatima, you fucking bitch. I’ll kiss you with a bullet!” He knew he looked insane to the waitresses and waiters, but he didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck. In fact, he loved the bloodlust in his bulging eyes.

Where's My Free Stuff?

Colleen Holt had been on autopilot since she opened the Red Apple Convenience Store for the day. Her eyes were dark with sleepiness, her posture was hunched over, and she barely remembered the name of the man in the camouflage jacket who purchased a newspaper with a debit card. Yes, the card said Richard T. Betts, but what made him so different from any other putty faced customer that came in here? Colleen even let the man read the newspaper at the counter. She was so sleepy that she didn’t think to ask him why he would want to stay here. As long as Richard whatever-the-fuck didn’t bother anybody else, Miss Holt would be cool with it.

The one person who could snap Colleen out of her trance sauntered through the door and ran the bell. “Hey, Joey, how are you doing?” she asked in a perky voice. The gentleman she was referring to was Joey Elkins, a heavily bearded millennial with a ripped Pink Floyd T-shirt barely covering his chubby gut, blue fleece pajama pants that were too high for his ankles, and flip flops that showed off his yellow toenails. When asked how he was doing, Joey gave a slight wave and a half smile to his favorite clerk.

Whenever Colleen saw him walk through the door on a daily basis, his presence reminded her of the many members of her family who had a mental disability of some kind, most of which were confined to mental hospitals with nothing to do all day long. A singular tear dropped down Colleen’s dainty face whenever she thought of Joey in that way. That one drop of water represented a schizophrenic aunt, a bipolar sister, or a depressed father who attempted suicide twice in his life. Miss Holt didn’t want Joey to suffer the same fate, so she made it a point to be as nice to him as possible despite the fact that she hated working here.

“Just the Snickers bar and the can of Coke for today?” asked Colleen with a smile when Joey Elkins approached the counter with those two items. With a nod of the customer’s fuzzy head, the clerk rang him up and announced the prices as two dollars even. When Joey pulled an EBT card out of his lint-filled pocket, that was when Richard pulled his attention away from the newspaper and gave him a wicked glare. Colleen ran the card and it successfully went through. After giving Joey his receipt, she said in her cheeriest voice, “Have a good one, buddy!”

“Good to know my tax dollars are being well spent,” said Richard sarcastically.

“Excuse me?” asked Colleen with her arms folded defensively.

“Oh, nothing,” continued Richard. “It’s just that normally when you buy something from a convenience store, you do it with your own fucking money. There is no free lunch in this country. You’ve got to work your ass off and earn everything you get. You can’t live off of the hard labor of others like a goddamn leech!”

As soon as Joey trembled with anxiety, Colleen tried to step in with, “Excuse me, sir, but you can’t…”

Richard held an open palm to Colleen’s face and said, “Uh-uh! You’re not going to cut me off. This is a free country and I’m invoking my first amendment rights. There’s no safe space for you or this mooch. So step back for a few minutes and let me get this off my chest.”

Colleen felt the harshness radiating off of Richard like a nuclear rod and slowly backed away. She knew she should do something about this coldhearted oratory. It was not only her job as a convenience store clerk, but also a human being with at least a shred of decency in her body. The anxious energy in her gut told her to back off. Perhaps she was the next one to be locked in a padded cell. Maybe Joey would make it there first since he was already trembling like an earthquake going off in his body.

“As I was saying,” said Richard with a switchblade tongue as he pointed at Joey repeatedly. “If you think you’re going to live off of my hard work and take food off of my table, you’re sadly mistaken! Ditch the pajama pants and the crappy T-shirt and get some real clothes so that someone might actually hire you! You’ve got to make your own money and stop expecting society to baby you through life!”

As Joey’s convulsing worsened to where he whimpered, Colleen held up her finger and said, “To be fair…”

“Jesus Christ, lady, what now?!” snapped Richard.

“To be fair…” said Colleen in a shaky voice before clearing her throat. “Welfare and social security are only a small part of the federal budget. We…we…” After being told to spit it out by Richard, she said, “We spent more on war than we do anything else.”

“War?! War?! You think we spend too much money on war?!” shouted Richard. “Check out the jacket, missy! I used to be in the army! We need war! There are terrorists out there who want to bomb the shit out of us and you want to just sit back and do nothing?! That’s extremely disrespectful to our military! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You want to talk about people getting free shit?! Where’s my free shit?! Huh?! Where’s my social security?! I served overseas and you don’t want to give me a damn thing?!”

Colleen just wanted to sink into the ground and cry for the rest of her life. She was done for. Joey was done for. This cold-blooded snake was going to send them both into a nervous breakdown. Not that he’d ever call 9-1-1 except to report an alleged abuse of the social security system. Just when her nervous system was about to shatter like peanut brittle, she overheard Joey pulling the tab on his Coke.

“What?! Uh-uh! No way!” bellowed Richard. “That’s my Coca-Cola! My tax dollars paid for that Coke, so you’re going to give me a drink! As a matter of fact, give me the whole fucking thing while you’re at it!”

Ask and ye shall receive. Joey took a sip of Coke and spit a brown sugary mist all over Richard’s now drenched face. Seeing that image brought tears to Colleen’s eyes, but they were tears of laughter. “That was awesome!” she said with a newfound sense of courage. “Give me five, buddy!” The two high-fived and their anxieties were replaced with comical joy. No more shaking. No more hurting (except for their ribcages). Just solidarity and sweetness between two friends.

Richard, on the other hand, was trembling for a different reason than anxiety. He seethed silently as he grabbed a paper towel and slowly wiped the liquid candy off of his face. He didn’t even care that his cheeks were still sticky with soda. He gritted his teeth and growled like a wolf before attempting to lunge at Joey. He would have had his hands wrapped around the kid’s neck if it wasn’t for Colleen diving across the counter and acting as a barricade between Richard and Joey.

“I’m going to beat your fucking ass, you fucking jerk!” roared Richard as he was being held back by Colleen, whose anxiety had been replaced with lava hot adrenaline. She didn’t care that the man was twice her size; there was no chance in hell he was going to let him hurt her favorite customer. “Let go of me, damn it! I’m going to kill him!”

“Stop it! Stop it!” screamed Colleen and Richard suddenly discontinued his struggle. “You are way out of line, Mister! You can have your free speech and whatever, but you are not entitled to beat the shit out of a mentally disabled man! You know what?! I’ve made up my mind! You’re blackballed from this store! I have your face on the security cameras! I have your credit card information! Your name is Richard T. Betts and you’re never coming back here again! If you do, I’ll have the police come and take you away! Now get the fuck out of my store!” Colleen never trembled so hard in her life. Her heart never beat so quickly. Her head never ached that badly.

Richard spit on the floor and said, “Good, I don’t want to come back to this dump anyways. In fact, I hope this place burns to the ground with both of you trapped inside!” Colleen’s evil stare refused to change in the midst of this bold threat. Nonetheless, Mr. Betts pointed at the teary-eyed Joey and said, “And you! If I ever see you on the streets again, I’m going to beat your fucking ass!” The ex-soldier stormed off and bumped his shoulder in the door on his way out.

Colleen’s expression softened when she saw Joey’s tears multiply and snot building up in his nostrils. “What a jerk! Are you okay, buddy?”

“N…No!” sobbed Joey Elkins, who then received a tight hug and a kiss on top of his shaved head from the equally teary Colleen Holt.

The two of them just stood there hugging it out and crying on each other’s shoulders. Colleen gently whispered, “It’ll be okay, Joey. It’ll all be okay. He’s never coming back again. I promise I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”

“Why do people have to be mean to each other? All I wanted was something to eat and drink!” quivered Joey.

“I know, buddy. I know. I would never look down on you for using a food stamp card. You’re too sweet to me,” said Colleen. She barely noticed a customer standing at the counter with a case of beer tapping his foot impatiently.

She snapped at him, “Hey! Give us a minute! You’ll get your goddamn beer soon enough! Jesus Christ!” She continued to hold Joey in her arms and whisper, “I’m sorry this happened to you. I really am.”

The impatient customer cursed and walked out the door. Colleen didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck. Comforting Joey and making sure he wasn’t alone in this world was more important than a case of beer…and even more important than Richard Betts’s precious tax dollars.

"Basket Case" by Carl Hiaasen

BOOK TITLE: Basket Case

AUTHOR: Carl Hiaasen

YEAR: 2002

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Mystery

GRADE: Pass

Jack Tagger, Jr. is a middle-aged former elite reporter who has since been demoted to writing micromanaged obituaries after going on a tirade against his newspaper’s corporate masters. Life is slow, miserable, and boring for Mr. Tagger until he’s tasked with writing an obituary for Jimmy Stoma, a rock and roll icon who is believed to have drowned in an unfortunate diving accident. Jack’s investigative instincts cause him to dig deeper into this case in an attempt to uncover a conspiracy involving murder and number one hit songs. Without the support of his supervisors, Jack has to make do with his relatively short leash and his modicum of clues and suspicions. Can he bring closure to the family of his all-time favorite musician or will Mr. Stoma’s case go cold before it even begins?

Colorful, wisecracking characters are to be expected from Carl Hiaasen’s thrillers and Jack Tagger himself is no exception to that rule. It won’t matter whether the subject is sex, rock and roll, journalism, politics, or violence, because Jack, who happens to be the first person narrator, will always get a chuckle out of the reader with his commentary. A sense of humor is probably necessary for his necromantic line of work. Without it, he’d probably go crazy and there would be nobody to give Jimmy Stoma his due sending off. If he wasn’t so dedicated to being a newspaper reporter, he could probably make it as a standup comedian.

But he’s a truth-seeker first and a smart-ass second. He’s dedicated to weeding out the BS of corporate news even if it means getting himself in boiling hot water. His dedication to his art form is second to none, so much so that he would have seen Jimmy Stoma’s case through even after potentially being fired. In today’s era, we need more honest people like him to deliver the world’s news, even if that news tastes bitterer than a dissolved Xanax tablet washed down with horse piss beer. At forty-six years old, he doesn’t have time for corporate shenanigans or dishonest scum bags.

Speaking of not having time, Jack Tagger’s obsession with death is fascinating to read about, especially when he compares his own age to those of dead celebrities he once admired. Writing obituaries for so long makes him wonder when his morbid end will finally come and how it will happen. So many of his favorite public figures have died at forty-six years old and even at slightly older than that. His grim obsession has driven his loved ones away from him despite their pleas for him to just forget it and be happy with what he has.

It’s creepy to think about, but since it’s a Carl Hiaasen novel, it’s almost comical in a way. One of Mr. Hiaasen’s gifts to his profession is his ability to mix seriousness with humor in a subtle way that doesn’t take the reader out of the story. Trust me, there will be plenty of times to get darkly serious, especially when more bodies drop and living people mysteriously vanish. Despite Jack Tagger’s disdain for guns, he just might have to use one in order to see this case through. You can still chuckle at his wisecracks, just stay on the edge of your seat while it’s happening.

Of course, Jack Tagger isn’t the only colorful character you can expect great things from. Jimmy Stoma, even in death, is mentioned as a party animal with a deep soul and undying charisma. Emma Cole, the twenty-something editor at Jack’s paper, is a pain in the butt at first, but turns out to be a charming sweetheart once the reader gets to know her. Janet Thrush, Jimmy Stoma’s sister, has a day job as an internet stripper with a SWAT team gimmick; if that doesn’t pique your interest, I don’t know what will. Juan Rodriguez is a Cuban immigrant who is so good at writing newspaper stories that he might as well be a New York Times bestselling novelist.

And then you have the characters that deserve a stone-handed punch to the face. Cleo Rio, Jimmy Stoma’s widow, comes off as a shallow and spoiled pop princess with no appreciation for what her husband left behind. Jerry, Cleo’s chubby bodyguard, is a little harder to punch in the face due to his fighting abilities, but that doesn’t mean you won’t want to at least give it a try. Loreal is a bogus music producer with about as much credibility as the corporate profiteers running Jack’s newspaper outlet. Speaking of which, Race Maggad III (jokingly called “Master Race” by Jack Tagger) cares more about making money than he does about producing truthful news and his crippling budget cuts make that very clear.

The battlefield is set and the goofy characters are ready to clash with each other over the mystery of Jimmy Stoma’s suspicious death and the fate of realistic journalism. If you want a well-constructed mystery with quotable one-liners and a reliable narrator, grab a copy of “Basket Case” by Carl Hiaasen. To my knowledge, he hasn’t written a bad novel in all of the times I’ve read his work. I don’t think he knows how to!

Flash Fiction

In the same way that writing doorstoppers doesn’t necessarily mean that the author has a gigantic penis, writing flash fiction doesn’t necessarily mean the author has a small penis either. In fact, it just might be the other way around. If you don’t know what flash fiction is, here’s the deal. It’s just like any other story, but the general consensus is that it can be anywhere from 400 words to 1000. It’s not a hard and fast rule, but it’s enough to get the inspirational dynamo going. No matter what word limit is imposed on the author, the whole point of flash fiction is that it’s extremely short. To be able to pop off a fully functional story in such a tight space takes a lot of talent. There are so many things you have to remember while writing a story and with flash fiction you have to work within a tight focus. The rule of “show, don’t tell” still applies, characters going through personal transformations by the story’s end still carries water, and the ending has to stay within the story’s universe (in other words, Deus Ex Machina is still a no-no). Doing all of this in 400 words or less should be worthy of publication. In fact, I’m hoping that somewhere in the bibliosphere (I know, it’s a made up word), someone has published an entire anthology of flash fiction stories. I can’t imagine any doorstopper material coming from such an anthology, but that’s only because flash fiction is a highly underappreciated form of art. The only forums I know of that ask for such submissions are literary magazines and DeviantART. I could be limited in my scope of where flash fiction is published and if I am, I’d be grateful if someone showed me where the remaining sources are. I know of one other source which has a great amount of appreciation: newspapers and internet articles. It’s basically flash nonfiction because each article is only supposed to be 400 words or less, with as little elaboration on minor details as possible. Every Wednesday I volunteer my time at the Kitsap Historical Society and so far I’ve submitted two flash nonfiction articles to their newsletter. I hope they get accepted, because that would be a huge feather in the cap of someone who wants to write for a living but has limited outlets for doing so. In a way, these blog entries are like flash nonfiction since they’re only one page long. I’m hoping that this blog gets enough views so that I can start earning revenue for advertising banners. Now that I think about it, maybe flash fiction isn’t as undervalued as I previously thought. Hey, we all have to start somewhere, right?

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“For a corporate sponsor, you get one of those companies that loves to smear its logo feces all over the landscape. Budweiser will jump at this shit in half a minute.”

-George Carlin-