I'm not sure if anyone will take a look at this, but in the case that no one does I'm hoping to use this as a corkboard of sorts to manage out my ideas for the new year. Its been a solid year, maybe more since I've done anything at all on here, and to tell you the truth that just made me sad. And I'm tired of being bummed all the time, being bummed really gets old. I gotta get where its at. I gotta get happy. So, I'm starting with this: I pledge to make something new each day of the new year. I've decided each day of the week I'm going to post something on here that I've done, even if it is just a picture or something of the like. It doesn't have to be much, just something new, a drawing, a story start, a bit of music, or just talking, maybe some craft junk (I have been wanting to make a paper bag puppet for quite some time). Just new things, for a new year.
I've also decided to get into better shape. I'm still not sure what that means yet, but from the knowledge of the world around me, I've understood that being bummed all the time is a result, in part, of eating like shit and not doing anything. And I don't want that. So I think I'm going to buy some kind of exercise bike or something, not sure, any suggestions let me know, or if anybody knows a decent gym near Logan Square.
Finally, I've decided to talk more. I kinda feel like I've managed to be a "good enough" talker. One who does not initiate any form of conversation and skitters along the top of topics because I'm not sure how I feel about talking or the topic. I've decided I want to talk to you, and if I've offended you in the past I'm sorry, but hey, I want to tell you I apologize.
Oh, and before I post the story for today, I'm going to say I want to be less of a slob about my things. I'm going to start to take care of the things that I own more, cherish them you could say. That's what I'm working on too, to clean this apartment.
So I guess those are the four bullet points--oh--and reading more. So five I guess. I'm reading Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and really like it. I'm going to try to finish it by next Sunday.
And now, to keep this still a writers blog, I have a story for the first entry. This is a short one, because I think I've filled up enough space already, a flash fiction piece I submitted to my college for a some thing. Anyway, here it is, nice and hot.
Pelican
There was a pelican on top of Kilroy’s hardware store for three days before anyone noticed. The first to spy it was Jason, a boy who lived half the town over on McKinley, and was only riding over to pick up a can of WD-40 for his father. Jason had pedaled the length of McKinley up and down three times before coming down as fast as he could, the wind whipping powerful white noise into him, skidding to a stop in the stagnant around the east end of Kilroy’s parking strip, next to the dumpster, right before the swamp lands. There was about three feet of pert grassland next to Kilroy’s before a mushy drop of about five feet to marshlands stretching in a zig-zagging wave to the river. Jason stared out into the marsh, the hanging moss creating a barrier that not even his mind could penetrate as he tried to think of what could be in there, maybe big salamanders the size of a grown man’s arm, or a snake whose eyes were as milky white as the moon. After thinking, he kicked his bike’s stand into place and walked inside.
“There’s a pelican on your roof.” He told the skeleton figure of Old Kilroy, as that is what most people called the owner.
“Huh?” sputtered Kilroy, “There’s what?”
“It’s a pelican, a large aquatic bird with a sack for catching fish in its jaw. It’s pushing squatters rights on your roof.” Jason mumbled while snatching up a can.
“What? Really?” And Kilroy sidled himself around the counter and held the door for the two of them to exit. They both stared at the unmoving bird.
“A pelican. Never seen one before, nothing ever came out of the swamp.” Spoke Kilroy with hands on his hips as Jason shoved two-forty into the front apron of Kilroy and then jumped onto his bike.
Jason wouldn’t come back to the shop for three days, but when he did the pelican had not fluttered away, its feathers a deeper gray brought on from sitting through two rainstorms that had widened the length of the parking lot puddle. Kilroy was outside with two other shop owners from the down the lane.
“Ya see it hasn’t moved in three days, and I tried everything, throwing fish around, and hollering at it—The thing won’t move.” Kilroy spat, rubbing the stubble around his chin. The men around him followed his gesture until one spoke.
“My mother told me a story once about a heron, that’s like a pelican. Way back when, in a desert, to provide for its chicks a mother bird pecked a hole into a big vein so that her babies could drink. People saw it and made the bird bleed more by throwing stones, and it bled out a river, which provided for everyone, but the bird died at the end.”
The man who had spoken nodded and adjusted his hat as everyone and Jason looked at the marsh. Jason thought about what terrible thing had bled to make that mess. He went inside and came back out with three rolls of duct tape, which he paid four-thirty-seven into Kilroy’s front pouch.
It was a week until Jason came back a third time, his mind thought about the story the man had said, and he wondered what was in the marshlands, if anything crawled and bled in there, if anything had a family to feed. There was a crowd gathered outside of the hardware store. Jason didn’t have anything to buy so he joined the loose semi-circle. He came to see the bird, which stayed where had always been, but this time its eyes were closed. Jason saddled up by Kilroy, who was as quiet as the rest of the crowd, all staring. And then a wind picked up, a gale so large and loud that it could be heard knocking the limbs of trees against one another before reaching the marsh and scooping up the rotten smell up past the crowd, ruffling the coarse ashy feathers of the pelican, enough to open its eyes and raise a wing as it teetered to one side in a jostled dance. There was a red mark there, beneath the wing, pulsing and leaking. Those who saw it well grimaced and covered their mouths, and from the strained way it lulled its head back to a settled place the crowd understood.
Jason was the first one to throw a stone.
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