Sunday, July 18, 2010
My first published writing
6S held a contest recently to write a six-sentence story with the writing prompt "Who is the Mysterious Dr. Ramsey?" I submitted my six, and my story was selected to be in the print collection. It's on Amazon, if you care to check it out. That I can now say that I am a published author is quite surreal, and I'm digging it!
Kevin Smith I'm Not
The Six Sentences Social Network is hosting a Summer Film Festival, where participants are asked to create a short film - between 0:06 and 2:06 minutes in length - based on a six-sentence blog post. I made two videos for the competition:
My Analog Mind
and
Soulshine
This is my first attempt at video editing and I'm happy with the results, but I'm not looking to win any Oscars. I think I'll stick with written word for now, even though it sure was fun making those videos!
My Analog Mind
and
Soulshine
This is my first attempt at video editing and I'm happy with the results, but I'm not looking to win any Oscars. I think I'll stick with written word for now, even though it sure was fun making those videos!
Blue Ridge Reflections
Posted on the 6S Social Network 15Jul10
I started the day by taking a drive along the parkway: windows down, radio off, a full on thinking binge. I was lying on my back; now in the woods of the Blue Ridge Mountains on a crisp fall afternoon, utterly alone, looking at the multi-colored leaves resting peacefully in chaotic order on the ground. Jesus Christ, last week my kids were babies and now they’re grown, making their own babies. My eyes grew heavier, but I knew that if I went to sleep, I would lose the time, so I fought to keep them open, burning as they were. Clichés the only thoughts running through my mind: I should have spent more time at home with my kids and less time working...I should have taken more of an interest in my wife’s hobbies...what were her hobbies...Did she have any?Just before I closed my eyes for the last time, I looked over at the rattlesnake that I beat to a pulp and asked it, “What have we accomplished?”
I started the day by taking a drive along the parkway: windows down, radio off, a full on thinking binge. I was lying on my back; now in the woods of the Blue Ridge Mountains on a crisp fall afternoon, utterly alone, looking at the multi-colored leaves resting peacefully in chaotic order on the ground. Jesus Christ, last week my kids were babies and now they’re grown, making their own babies. My eyes grew heavier, but I knew that if I went to sleep, I would lose the time, so I fought to keep them open, burning as they were. Clichés the only thoughts running through my mind: I should have spent more time at home with my kids and less time working...I should have taken more of an interest in my wife’s hobbies...what were her hobbies...Did she have any?Just before I closed my eyes for the last time, I looked over at the rattlesnake that I beat to a pulp and asked it, “What have we accomplished?”
To Each Their Own
Posted on the 6S Social Network 11Jul10
If the world were blind, music would be the vision of beauty, not the catalyst for lust. Words would be spoken, not written; the first draft would be the final draft. If the world were deaf, music would be a manuscript, passed along from soul to soul, each deciding the rhythm and reason. Spoken inflections would be lost to time, the con-artist losing purchase. If the world were mute, words would be written with conviction, no explanation of why a sentence had to be written, only more useless words. "I love you" would come from proof, not from thin air.
If the world were blind, music would be the vision of beauty, not the catalyst for lust. Words would be spoken, not written; the first draft would be the final draft. If the world were deaf, music would be a manuscript, passed along from soul to soul, each deciding the rhythm and reason. Spoken inflections would be lost to time, the con-artist losing purchase. If the world were mute, words would be written with conviction, no explanation of why a sentence had to be written, only more useless words. "I love you" would come from proof, not from thin air.
Soulshine
Posted on the 6S Social Network 30Jun10
Over fifty years I've worked my fingers to the bone. Fifty-some years I've been saving, scrimping, making sure my family had what they needed, waiting for my rainy day. I've looked forward to the things that I would do in retirement for over half a century, once my kids were on their own. Stage four colorectal cancer the doctor tells me; chemotherapy, he says. I sit in this house all day, I'm still waiting on my rainy day; it looks like my rainy day wont get here until stage five. Son, don't wait for the clouds, they don't seem to care.
Over fifty years I've worked my fingers to the bone. Fifty-some years I've been saving, scrimping, making sure my family had what they needed, waiting for my rainy day. I've looked forward to the things that I would do in retirement for over half a century, once my kids were on their own. Stage four colorectal cancer the doctor tells me; chemotherapy, he says. I sit in this house all day, I'm still waiting on my rainy day; it looks like my rainy day wont get here until stage five. Son, don't wait for the clouds, they don't seem to care.
Hugo
Posted on the 6S Social Network 27Jun10
We were up all night listening to the wind howl, feeling the house shake, and collectively cringing each time we heard the trunk of a two foot thick pine snap, hoping that it wouldn't be the last thing that went through our minds. The noise was deafening, our silence more so. Our consistently sporadic eye contact took the place of words that would be lost in the gale; the dog, oh god we forgot our dog. The storm passed and we ventured out into a new world; at least a dozen pines that once stood tall in the yard were strewn about like fuzzy matchsticks, somehow none of them hit the house or our dog. Walking into the aftermath of a category four hurricane on a cool September morning was a surreal moment for everyone; there was destruction and disarray as far as the eye could see, but it was all washed clean by the torrents of rain and was utterly pine scented. It was beautiful chaos at rest.
We were up all night listening to the wind howl, feeling the house shake, and collectively cringing each time we heard the trunk of a two foot thick pine snap, hoping that it wouldn't be the last thing that went through our minds. The noise was deafening, our silence more so. Our consistently sporadic eye contact took the place of words that would be lost in the gale; the dog, oh god we forgot our dog. The storm passed and we ventured out into a new world; at least a dozen pines that once stood tall in the yard were strewn about like fuzzy matchsticks, somehow none of them hit the house or our dog. Walking into the aftermath of a category four hurricane on a cool September morning was a surreal moment for everyone; there was destruction and disarray as far as the eye could see, but it was all washed clean by the torrents of rain and was utterly pine scented. It was beautiful chaos at rest.
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