I'm a writer currently living in Las Vegas, loathing the city and drinking away the days, trying to escape the madness. Check out DrewBlanche.com for more info.
A Collection of Mostly Trash!
[Note: A while back, I had planned on releasing a collection of stories, mostly unpublished snippets of failed writing and I was going to call it, “A Collection of Mostly Trash!” Well, I never did compile the book or put it together—this was really as far as I had gotten. Enjoy!]
Introduction:
A short story is like a pill, you need a whole lot of them to clear the voices in your head so here is a collection of them. Mostly unpublished works, rejected by the same magazine more than once. Some however never submitted at all. I couldn’t afford to do so, whenever I send out a story and it goes unanswered I am out about 10-15 bucks each time. Who can afford to throw money away? Not a struggling writer like myself. So I hope you enjoy this collection of mostly trash! Most of these short stories were written in an hour on cold, dark, lonely nights where I sat alone in my room and struggled to breathe. Struggled to cope with the insane tense madness that this writing life is. Often you say to yourself, self, what the hell am I doing. Why bother? This life is stupid and meaningless, but then you realize you haven’t anything else. That you’ve been cursed with this madness for a reason and that is to continue on until the ship sinks.
-DB
“My Heart Sinks & My Shit Stinks!”
I’m writing a short story because I haven’t written one in a long time. I’m hoping it is awful but I don’t have to hope too much. I’m staring at this fat chick with short hair, drinking V8 out of a large bottle. Her left eye is twitching, and she scratches her brow like it might just fall off. Her husband is in the background somewhere reading some tech nonsense and I could care less. I just want to see her huge tits. I’ve seen them before, I might even have pictures of them saved somewhere I’m not entirely sure. Her lips are plain even though she might be wearing gloss. Her eyes look better than they usually do since she is sort of half dolled up.
People in the room talk nonsense. The ceiling fan twirls and my mind seems to go blank. Later I stand outside for an hour peeking over the wall into the neighbor’s kitchen window. There’s some person sitting in a stool with a device in their hand that they can’t seem to put down. I look around, over this shoulder and that shoulder and listen as another’s AC kicks on and makes a rattling noise; small bugs pass by and a spider remains upside down in its web in front of my vision as I stare through the top of the brick wall. I’m not sure what I am hoping to see, this is a kitchen window, most people do not walk around their kitchens in the nude. However, I do. Partially. Mostly I am semi-nude and pacing back and forth through the kitchen and living room passing the nonexistence of a dining room and back around again.
I do this every day when I’m alone in the house and no one’s home. Thinking about writing, about the future, about tomorrow, about yesterday, about the girls I want to sleep with and the hotels I want to live in. The alcohol I want to consume and the stories I hope to write someday. Today, everyday. I try to gather the pigsty of thoughts, try to sort them out in my worried head, my buried mind—sometimes it just runs on blank—repeat. A memory of some horrid past mistake I’ve made and can’t seem to swallow. Though years pass, sometimes time remains the same.
Then I look and I see the figure adjust her leg, it’s a her and she’s a she or the leg is a female so to speak. A male leg on a female body I probably wouldn’t be looking at, not now, not here, not in the heat while standing outside with bugs and voices. I think I hear voices, sirens and depth and strangeness about.
This short story had no meaning or purpose but I’m glad you read it anyway. I only wrote it so I could go to bed.
“Beer Is Queer!”
This beer is my first in a while. I’m alone in a house, not on a hill, not in a cave or near a grave. The house is in a normal looking neighborhood and I’m sitting here in a dark bedroom, writing. Of course I’m writing what else would I possibly be doing. I already made and had my supper. My plate is now resting in the sink beneath water on tap. The music from my speakers is playing and sounds lovely and lucid. I feel somewhat glad to be writing at the moment but not so happy that nobody is here to enjoy the moment. The actual act of writing is like a gift of magic, here I am performing a trick but nobody is here to see it. How sad. Sad thoughts start to storm madly inside my head. I am not too happy at the moment but I wasn’t really that thrilled before I began. You see, this is just another story tale. It isn’t meant to be long or big or that amusing. It’s really rather only here just to pass the time. Which is why I am writing it, so I can get it all over with. This wasn’t meant to be shocking or moving or pretty. Stories aren’t pretty. Most, if not all of them are lonely, all sitting on cold metal shelves waiting to be adopted. All the writers just left them out in the wild, to survive on their own. But most of them don’t make it long, nobody wants to home these lonely beasts. These strangers of the night. They don’t really know where to put them once they buy them anyhow.
“E.T. Was A Cross Dresser”
Being a person who began masturbating at the age of four, I can’t remember why I wanted to rub my penis or why I suddenly had known it would feel good. Of course at age four you can’t have a “real” orgasm. Not in the sense that white goo will fly out of you and make a mess all over your bedspread. In fact, nothing comes out but a clear sticky substance that seems to almost magically disappear altogether.
I recall the first girl I ever masturbated to, ever pictured in my head and wanted to have sex with and it was Kelly from Saved by the Bell. I would rush home after school and lay on the sofa and stick my penis between the cushions and start humping away. I’d have to look up and watch the staircase to make sure my mother wasn’t around. Then I’d wait for Kelly to appear on screen; start attacking the cushion like flies on shit. I’d pump and pump until she disappeared off screen. Then I’d lie there and sigh and wait patiently for her return. I pictured being Zack and dating Kelly, it seemed to thrill me. I would then picture being on the set, behind the scenes and kissing her off screen. Romancing her up, doing the dirty in a backseat of a convertible. I was hard, as hard as any boy could get at my age.
Then Kelly was back on and I made a mess in the couch. I pulled up the front of my shorts and sat up, all good now. Mother could come downstairs and not know the difference. Not know that I just watered the sofa with my sticky goo, that Kelly from Saved by the Bell was responsible. It wasn’t my fault at all; she was just so pretty and her curves and buttocks and breasts were all so perfect. It couldn’t be my fault I thought, and often my mother cleaned the couch and found the dried stains and I began switching sides, using the whole sofa, all the cushions, having sex with them all. Some felt better than others, deeper, tighter, smoother, and softer. I miss that sofa couch. I had sex with it in every place I possibly could until we later sold it to my uncle. Once I went over their house years later and stared down at it.
How’s it going babe? I miss you. But I’ve moved on. Don’t worry, and I hope you have found another boy to accompany your stay. I walked away feeling as if I had just broken up with my first girlfriend. Later, I went home and hump our new sofa.
NIGHTNIGHT by DEDDY
