I'm up early this morning. Historically I have never slept well after nights of flagrant disregard for point of view and proper tense.

Or it could be all the Tang I drank. How do astronauts do it? I'd have space madness in record time. If I ever leave the Earth's atmosphere, I'll be certain to smuggle some Country Time Lemonade with me. I could drink that stuff all-to-live-long day. Probably 'cause I don't know what I'm getting.

I have a very interesting design on my inner arm. Since it is on my left arm and very weak conceptually, I assume I drew it, probably with one of the dry-erase markers that lie around the house. I suspect the blue one.

methinks has a birthday soon. Unless it passed. I'm not sure. Just to be safe, I shall celebrate over a blanket few days. Hell, I may even finish the meme she sent me which at the moment is residing in the electronic limbo of being a saved draft on Blogger. It is in elite company, as there are only two other drafts in there.

methinks was kind enough to let me know that I had been tagged. I was confused at first. I thought she meant more nature-show-documentary-kind of tagging. I imagined some brightly colored plastic tube filled with electronics firmly affixed by a tiny harpoon barb buried in my skin. I would hear it beep in rhythm with my heartbeat, but it would always hover just on the edge of my vision.

Not that any such device would be very exciting. Day 1: In his room. Day 2: Rearranging his room. Day 3: Washing his sheets and one pair of white athletic socks. Day 4: Going out to a bar; apparently fighting a bus. Day 5: Back in his room.

I predict a mad dash to cash the checks for the research grants and an equally mad dash to stop said check-cashers.

But enough about me. How are you? I see by your research tag that you've been pushing your own boundaries as well.

At least, that's what the data suggests. It's hard to really know without going native.

No Gurg?! I'm sorry. When I get upset I tend to withdraw.

Either that or...

inundate you with drunken ramblings!

Week Two of My Misadventures finds Guillermo suffering an all-too-familiar ethical dilemma.

Well, here I am, suffering this same ol' ethical dilemma. I wonder what I should do?

FUTURE GUILLERMO: Well, you could do what you always do and spiral down a path of angst and woe that you can easily translate to the common observer.

PRESENT GUILLERMO: How dare you refer to my observers as common?! I declare that they are as uncommon as any other!

FUTUR GUILLERMO: You will regret that statement.

PRESENT GUILLERMO: Ha! I regret nothing! What do you know, Future Self!

FUTURE GUILLERMO: Mostly everything ever.

PRESENT GUILLERMO: Well, we'll see about that!

Later, in the Future:

Guillermo: I should learn to trust myself! I seldom have reason to lie.

My creative writing class was cancelled. I lament. I look forward to this class immensely. I find it usually releases a wave of endorphins that I ride until it crests against the tiny desk that I squeeze into before my chemistry lab.

I do not find chemistry unpleasant. Not that I understand much of what is going on when it represented mathematically. The geometric representations, spatial relations, and the kick-ass properties of H20 are nothin but good times.

I will leave this topic before I convince myself to gain a net 4 hours of leisure by not attending.

In happier news, Venom will be in Spiderman 3, thus ensuring for at least three more years that people won't ask me what the hell I'm doing whenever I point my wrists at objects and shout "Thwip!"

I would like to learn how to write screenplay-style. Not for an actual screenplay, though. Only because I want to write a music video mocking the idea of Intelligent Design. In the video, a happy-go-lucky guy would ramble around marvelling at the myriad creatures that could "only be explained by Intelligent Design". He might even dance with a few.

Then I want him to get mugged, lose a loved one, and contract syphilis whereupon the heavens will open up and God will appear to give him a big thumbs-up. The beat-up, grieving, syphilitic guy will return the thumbs-up which will be ignored by God but returned by a nearby Panda.

All to the tune of "Faith" by George Michaels.

And cut.

I know this is like the worst thing you can say to someone who's depressed but damn it's funny.

The Story of
The Story of Jerald

Thank you, everyone, for your feedback. Now when I am critiqued by my classmates, I will have an idea of what to expect and, of course, prepare a tone-appropriate retort.

"Four heads in the car? That was a deliberately crude reference to genitalia! Male genitalia!"

"Of course I use the pronoun 'they' to refer to Jerald's belt! Referring to the belt as 'he' or 'she' would be discrimination of gender...and pwetty wiewd."

My personal favorite is stolen straight from Luis. If anyone refers to my "draft": "This ain't no draft, it's a story!"

As I mentioned in the post previous to The Story of Jerald (post #507 "Invisi-Gurg's Old Spice Adventures"), I vowed that I would not eat or put on any clothing until the story was completed. I kept this promise.

I did, however, put on sandals when I dropped off Brian Y. on the campus of Arizona State University. I think it's illegal to drive a car without footwear or something.

Other than the sandals, I was still in my towel.

I completed my story at 5:10 pm, thirty minutes before I, too, had to be on campus for my chemistry class. I threw off the towel, threw on some clothes, grabbed my books and my skateboard, and rolled off on my merry way.

So I did take some inspiration from my current situation. Jerald was in a towel because I was in a towel (a maroon towel) and Jerald was thin because I felt hungry. I'm also pretty sure that's why I threw in the muffin-eating scene. After the story was done I realized that Jerald reminded me of my friend, Brandon because of his curly hair. That and he hits cats with tire irons. A lot.

My writing teacher is T. M. McNally. He spoke of many things in class but he emphasized a select few: Show, don't tell. Character over plot. Concrete, visceral imagery. Something about theme or setting; something. Use the temporal frame to create suspense.

I focused on these. I started from the title (lovingly suggested by Kelly) and one of the most visceral images I had ever seen: a cat struck by a car that was still alive. I feel I should point out that I like cats. I even have a cat of my own. He doesn't live with me, but he is mine.

So there was my plot. A guy named Jerald drives a car and hits a cat.

I tried not to use any sort of "he said sadly" or "she looked puzzled". It was a painful weaning I hadn't realized how much I relied on those shortcuts to keep the story moving. Not that Tom Swifties are inherently bad but they certainly get old fast.

I wanted more characters to play with so I threw in a carpool. Shortly into the story I realized that they were all teachers at some kind of preparatory school. I toyed with the idea of making them all British but only left in Jerald's use of "honour". The UK version would have had them eating tea and biscuits and Jerald opening the boot of the car to give the cat a few bloody good whollops with a ye old mitre.

Er, I couldn't think of any British slang for tire iron so I just made up that ye old mitre bit.

incidentally, I decided that the sailor-tongued Mr. Eiderdown is an English teacher.

The names of the other teachers, Mrs. Plover and Miss Godwit, are also the names of birds. Sibbitt and I were on Mt. Mitchell, I think, and we had laughed at all the great bird names there are. My favorite was the dark-eyed junco.

And who can forget the booby-breasted nut hatch?

Jerald didn't get a bird name because he already had a name; Jerald.

He could use a last name, though. Jerald D.E. Junco. I like it.

Writing short stories is interesting. Hell, writing a draft with the intention of revising is interesting. Not too sure about an idea, line of dialogue, description, or phrasing? Who cares! Throw it in and we'll figure it later.

That's the spirit. The kind of spirit I like.

The Story of Jerald
(draft 1)
By Guillermo Lopez on 9-14-05



The black car pulled up alongside the curb in front of the small house. It idled for a moment and then gave a tentative honk. A few sparrows burst out of a frail poplar tree but the house remained still. Through the windows of the car, four heads simultaneously began to shake from side to side in protest of an unvoiced duty.

After a brief flurry of arm-waving, pointing, and lip-pursing, a man came out of the passenger side and began to pick his way through the front lawn. The grass was tall and healthy and still glistened with dew. He reached the doorstep, looked down at the clinging bits of grass and moisture on his shiny black shoes, sighed, and began to pound on the door. "Jerald! Jerald! Are you even awake, you son of a bitch?!"

As he raised his arm to begin a second barrage, the door swung open just enough to allow a long, thin face to poke out. "How could anyone sleep through such a warm greeting?" Jerald's sly grin staunchly refused to go along with the theme set by his squinting, sleep-rimmed eyes, his unruly mop of curly, brown hair, and the plush bath towel of deep maroon wrapped loosely around his waist. "Good morning, Mr. Eiderdown."

"I knew it. I fucking knew it. You know, you're the last one we pick up on our carpool for a reason. You'd think with more time you'd be ready but no, you just sleep in longer. You're worse than our students!"

The grin remained. "Hey, that is a cruel accusation-"

"How can we give out demerits for being tardy when the four of us show up late every day? You're turning us into a gaggle of hypocrites!"

Jerald flung the door completely open and stepped out onto the porch. "Let me know if your honour becomes wounded enough to consider ritual suicide. I may even perform it with you, just to be polite." He gripped his towel with one hand as he leaned around Mr. Eiderdown. He waved to the women in the car. "Mrs. Plover! Miss Godwit!" he yelled. The older woman stiffened indignantly and looked away. "I know none of you have had a decent breakfast! Come inside for a moment and have something to eat! I have muffins!" Jerald stopped waving and began to rub the concave portion of his abdomen. "Mmm! Muffins!" He adjusted his grip on the towel. "Hurry, before I become indecent!" The younger woman laughed and opened her door.

"You are already indecent!" shouted Mrs. Plover through Miss Godwit's open door. She opened her door and began to shuffle out. "These muffins had better be very good," she muttered as her lips began to twitch into a smile.

Mr. Eiderdown, Mrs. Plover, and Miss Godwit ate standing up in the kitchen. Mrs. Plover was beginning her second muffin (blueberry this time) and Mr. Eiderdown was pouring orange juice into a fourth glass when Jerald proclaimed himself ready to go.

"But where's your belt?" asked Miss Godwit.

"I have no idea," Jerald shrugged. "They're probably gallivanting about with my contact lenses."

"So that's why you're wearing spectacles. Hmm. I think you should let your contact lenses go gallivanting more often."

"What kind of example would that set for the rest of my belongings? I'd never find anything. I'll find them soon. For today, I shall just have to figure out another way of keeping my pants where they belong."

Mr. Eideldown handed Jerald a chocolate muffin on a napkin and the glass of juice. "Try eating once in a while. Now let's go."

"We can take my car; it's a bit roomier."

"What? Jerald, our cars are almost exactly the same size."

"I know, Eideldown. It's simply that when I spill this juice, I'd prefer it be in my own car."

"Fine, we'll take your car. Now let's just go!"



Jerald spilled his juice exactly two minutes into the drive when a primer-grey (except for the flecks of orange rust) truck with tires designed for traveling in mud squealed and swerved in front of Jerald's white sedan. Jerald jerked the car away from it. WHUMP! There was another squeal as the truck accelerated away. "What the fuck?! Did we hit him?!" shrieked Mr. Eiderdown, who had already been half-asleep.

"Language, Mr. Eiderdown, language," Jerald said absently. He stopped the car on the gravel shoulder. "I didn't get near that truck. But I am afraid we may have hit something else."

Jerald stepped out of the car. There was very little traffic. He squinted through the glare of the sunlight on his glasses. He heard it before he saw it.

A strangled hissing came from a dark, furry mound on the edge of the road. It was a cat. Some kind of housecat.

It was a sort of tabby, covered all over in thin dark lines. The lines around the head broke up into dashes and spots, marring the tiger pattern. Jerald stepped closer.

He was met with that same choking hiss. The hiss became a sustained screech as the cat's front legs struggled to move it forward, away from what had hurt it and what was still hurting it.

Jerald saw.

Where it approached the hindquarters, the smooth fur of the cat's body suddenly seemed to violently unzip like an overstuffed welted cushion. A coil of intestine spilled out and glistened purple in the sun. Thin, white streaks pulsed with the rhythm of the cat's shallow breaths. The tail, if the cat had ever had one, was gone and the hind legs were shapeless twists. The fur on them was stained with blood where it had been pierced by splinters of ruddy bone. The shards hung wetly in grotesque parodies of icicles.

Jerald had seen enough. He turned and briskly walked back to the car. The others had remained seated in the car, necks craned 'round. Waiting. "Was that a cat?" asked Miss Godwit. Jerald reached inside the car and pulled a small lever set underneath the dashboard. There was a dull click of the trunk opening.

"Leave it, Jerald, whatever it is." Mr. Eiderdown's forehead furrowed. "We should get out of here before the neighbors see.

"He's right, dear," Mrs. Plover called out. "There's probably nothing we can do for it now."

Jerald, opening the trunk, hesitated. The cat screamed. His trunk was cluttered and messy but it only took him a moment to find what he needed. He walked slowly towards the cat.

"Shit," Mr. Eiderdown muttered.

Jerald glanced up the road for cars and knelt down by the cat. It squalled at him and then turned and screeched at its own hindquarters, at the tangled mess of fur and flesh that held it prisoner. The cat wailed plaintively as its front legs scrabbled again at the asphalt. It stopped struggling, bowed its head, and mewed an acceptance to the hurt and the fear. The cat breathed shallowly. It watched Jerald.

Jerald reached towards the cat's black collar and gently removed it. The cat did not protest his shaking fingers. He removed the silver, fish-shaped tags and placed it in his breast pocket. He placed the collar aside. The cat's ruff still bore the collar's indentation and looked naked without it. Jerald unrolled a small, maroon towel and placed it over the cat as carefully as a father tucking in a child. No part of the cat could be seen. The cat did not protest.

Jerald's hand found the other object. It was a tire iron. He gripped the long part of the "L"-shaped tool and hefted it. His vision wavered as he tried to focus on the small lump in the sea of maroon that would be the cat's head. Underneath the towel, the cat mewed. "A broken, little lion," Jerald whispered to no one.

The tire iron flashed up and came down once, twice, thrice, and Jerald was back at the car, throwing the tire iron in the trunk and slamming it shut, behind the wheel, and they were all on their way once more.

No one spoke. The only sounds were the hiss of the air conditioning, the tires purring along the road, and the shuddering breaths emanating from Jerald's trembling frame. Once, only once, someone let out a whimper that sounded far too much like a wounded cat for anyone’s liking.

(in case I didn't mention it before, this is draft 1)