I was surprised what one of my writing prompts pulled out of Bare Naked Prose writer, Matt Garcia. Matt has given me permission to post his inner dialogue. Thanks Matt!
Below is the result of Matt’s writing prompt from 05/12/16:
“You know this is meaningless, right?” I look side to side, uncertain of where that voice came from. But slowly and surely, I begin to piece it together.
“Oh, it’s you again,” I respond, with a hint of disgust.
“Look at you,” he says, “you’re barely keeping yourself afloat on this one. I mean, you know this isn’t going to work out, so why bother?”
“I’m sure that’s what you’d like me to think.” That’s the best I could come up with. I’m still developing this muscle, you know. “So what if I’m not enjoying this week. What right do you have just waltzing in here and causing a scene?”
“You realize you can’t get rid of me, right?”
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I have to listen to you.”
“What are you talking about, you ponce? You’re listening to me right now!”
“You know what I mean.”
“Whatever, the situation stands. You’re in a tough spot and let’s face it, you’re fucked, pal!”
God, he is annoying. But he’s persistent, I’ll give him that much. I try not to let him get to me.
“I’m not fucked. I’m just having a rough week. Ebb and flow.”
“Ebb and flow? Are you seriously calling to mind that rubbish Lindsay’s telling you?”
“It’s not rubbish if it’s right. Now please, leave me be. I’m trying to do this workshop.”
And then he goes for the low blow.
“You’re just trying to hide from the fact that you’re a boring failure. Take some responsibility, man!”
“I am taking responsibility. Me doing this workshop has nothing to do with hiding. I’m trying to better myself as an artist.”
“Whatever, man. Seems to me like you’re just afraid of being alone.”
“Hold on a second, we’re not even talking about what you were bothering me about earlier.”
“Oh, don’t worry, you’re still fucked. F. U. Q. E. D. Hey, did you just make me sound stupid?”
“Sure did. That’s the beauty of these writing prompts. I can depict you however I please.”
“Nice try, asshole. Now you’ve got my undivided attention.”
“Oh, I’m glad to hear that you’ve been half-assing this the whole time.”
Seriously, he’s like the guy who won’t leave the party even after it’s over.
“Okay, how much longer are we gonna keep doing this?”
This is what street poetry looks like in San Francisco.
I picked this up off the ground on Lombard and Fillmore today. I can only assume it was taped to a telephone pole and slid off during the brief rain. The title is The Complete Destruction of a Beautiful City, by Zachery Mohler.
I brought it to the bookstore to discuss how the cadence and randomness appear to be drug induced.
“So does your desire to pick the dirty thing up,” said my friend.
Elitist techie scum is the first line. . The notes on the page’s margins written in pencil by four different hands are about as interesting as the poem. My pic wasn’t able to pick up the best parts.
When my boyfriend got home, he set down his briefcase to look at the water soaked mud stained paper.
The Goal of this exercise was to cut and paste two random pages from two different novels and create a pattern. Our Professor’s guest chose Anne La Puceile’s, Heretic and Dylan Thomas’, Skin Trade.
This is how much fine I’m having.
Our work room.
The Skin Arc
From classical authors to flesh
"The rights," I said. From classical authors to flesh
A plump blonde girl. According to the conscious even that duty is note worthy heeled shoes. The heels click. The apparitions, Leslie whistled after her, open.
Not to give them any physical.
"Business first," I said.
The siege of Orleans.
"Oh, boy!" Leslie said.
And she's too fat.
Who fought along side Joan.
Knew her better than most.
"One and a penny."
"What'll it be then?"
The more that she had a vision in God for safety, we walked towards the Saint of France.
Smacked by lamplight, seeing trial Saints Michael and Catherine. Street-wash of the tower, balls of fur hearing the sneeze. A ship hoots life. A fog. Joan adapted her counsel which dates from before,
right on the dot.
Berry smelling of wet rabbits, self and Scottish auxiliary soldiers in the soles squelched.
The Rabbit Who Wants To Fall Asleep , by Carl-Johan Ehrlin is being marketed as a new way to get your children to fall asleep. Even the syntax, with it’s not so random bold print and sentence structure is designed to make eyes go in and out of focus.
The sign pointing to the rabbit hut saying, I can make anyone fall asleep, is ominous and the repeats of, you are very sleepy, I found unnerving.
Our children’s specialist can’t keep it on the shelf; further proof that moms in San Francisco have been desperate for awhile.
Becca, (Rebecca Ashley) has a lot to be thankful for. She solved her art instructor’s murder before graduating art school, and left for Paris, France with her international outlaw companion.
Now, back in San Francisco, Becca is adjusting to life as a paid artist working as a cataloger and host at an an auction house. Things are less than perfect. Clark remains unavailable overseas, and could be arrested, there are conflicting personalities at work over a co-worker/stripper, and none of this compares to her estranged Aunt Allison’s apparent suicide down in Santa Cruz.
Becca meets Sebastian, a graduate student who was a friend of her Aunt’s and involved in her suicide investigation. Helping her family down in Santa Cruz, Becca puts together additional information that points at murder instead of suicide. With Sebastian’s help, Becca uncovers a secret cult, back room deals with the Catholic Church, and a multitude of deaths all leading back to a ghost town in the Santa Cruz Mountains.