Uhmmm…

I seemed to have missed Saturday. Speaking of missing things…

Writing progress

Uhmmmmm…

Not so much?

I have a friend who sets out every once in a while to do some sort of challenge… an illustration a day, a painting a week. She inevitably trails off and eventually stops.

A failure?

I think not. Because there are always some lovely drawings left behind to commemorate the attempt. Trying is never a failure. Not trying isn’t either. The idea of failure is an external force… at least that’s my excuse.

And I have some great outlines and background info now so that’s a positive. I am sure I will get back to it. Eventually. Maybe. No drama though…

Old and unfinished

I started this back in 2014. Theres about 2500 words more and then it just trails off. But I kinda like it.

Morning was definitely broken. Henry ‘Hank’ Hagar Jacobs slammed his index finger unerringly down on the cancel button of his alarm clock and buried his face in the remains of his pillow. It had been a life-long dream to hunt down the sonofabitch who’d invented mornings and show him the real meaning of life.

He kicked off the faded purple comforter and rolled his feet to the floor. From the scratched and dented blue and brass trunk at the foot of the futon he dug out a new pair of black cheenos, tags still hanging from the waist. He had a client to see this morning and you never get a second chance to not give a crap about making a good first impression.

Rubbing his eyes with the back of his knuckles, he staggered across the room to the small kitchen, plugged in the dingy electric kettle and sat on the edge of his table while he surveyed the jars and cans piled haphazardly on the counter. Spotting the nearly empty jar of instant coffee, he grabbed his mug from the pile in the sink and opened up 5 sugar packets from his stash, courtesy of corporate coffee, and poured them in. He dumped the last of the coffee in the mug, banging on the bottom of the jar, hoping it would be enough for a caffeine fix. The hot water went into the coffee jar and a few swishes ensured that he’d gotten all he could out of the efforts of Juan and his hardworking ass, before it joined the spoonfuls of sugar in the mug. Just the medicine I need. he thought as the sweet, syrupy liquid flowed down his throat.

As life started to seep back into his brain Hank stared sightlessly at the garishly stained red doors of the wooden cabinets. What in god’s name was that lunatic of a landlord thinking when he did that? For the forty-millionth time he resisted the urge to buy a can of black enamel spraypaint and rectify the situation. But I don’t want to start down that road, do I.

Mug empty, it went back into the sink and he gathered up a chipped but clean Denby bowl acquired recently from the local discount store and a bright yellow box of generic cereal and turned to the single chrome and vinyl chair at the table.

Jacobs brushed the pile of magazines and unopened mail to one side, a couple of them sliding to the already littered linoleum floor. The box of generic toasty Oaty O’s yielded most of a bowl of disgusting circles of dirt-flavoured breakfast before dumping the obligatory hated pile of cereal dust and chunks on top of his breakfast. He blew as much of it away as possible, gave up and glanced around the table.

“Fuck. I knew it. There is no spoon.”