I walked into the cafe, and my eyes instantly met his. Like a chiseled, adolescent god of uncertain gender, his face was. Marble skin and eyes that penetrated to such depth, beneath perfectly sculpted eyebrows. He looked shocked to see me, and covered his nose immediately.

I knew why.

He was going to change my life forever. He stood up, muscles rippling with a particular hunger beneath his tight shirt. He swirled a long black jacket over his shoulders, but not before the door opened, and the last rays of light fell upon him. His skin was radiant. His arms and face glittered with destiny, sparkled with promise. Read the rest of this entry »

The writer writes in a void.

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Premise:

Do you remember the stories that made you cry? The faithful dog died. The hero sacrificed himself to save everyone. The star-crossed lovers died rather than live without each other. The cancer is a slow painful descent. The crash ends that young life all too soon.

Now you’re a writer. You want your readers to cry. You know what to do. The ultimate tearjerker in three concise parts. Page one: our sweet young protagonists’ receives word her beloved grandfather has died. She, herself, is dying of cancer, and you hint that her vitals have been dropping. As she cries over her dear grandpappy, she asks the boyfriend to walk the dog, but he gets loose, and the dog bolts into traffic. The boyfriend tries to save him from the oncoming truck, but they are both flattened by the semi. It takes the family a while to notice he never returned, but by the fifth page, they see cars rubbernecking outside. They tell their poor cancer-ridden daughter, and she overdoses on her medication. The parents are tragically killed when driving to her funeral.

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Avatar, technologically groundbreaking but storyline standard, features the Na’vi people; aliens that are drawing accusations of racism due to character design involving tribal/ethnic elements. The film’s art direction is unequivocally beautiful—it immerses the audience into a world in which everything glows when poked, and air jellyfish can detect pure hearts. Peace and harmony abound until the humans arrive, because the blue cat-people are an unrealistic construct.

Avatar, the best moneymaking scheme since The Titanic, hit theaters several weeks ago and is still at the top of the box office. (This may be in part because 3d and Imax tickets cost more. I viewed the 3d version, and everyone in line in front of me complained of the price to the ticket seller (which he greatly enjoyed). Raising the price for escapism in a down economy is a dangerous move, yet somehow, it just might pay off for James Cameron.) Read the rest of this entry »

I stare. I can see the bowls. The man in white dumps out yesterday’s water. I am disappointed. A fly drowned in the bowl yesterday. The fly promised that if I could get there, I would get a drink and a tasty morsel. He pours in fresh water. I watch to see if anything spills. My tongue is so dry. He puts fresh chunks of meat into the other bowl. I can smell it. Blood, life, fresh flesh. Need. My jaws need to snap the meat in pieces.  My tongue needs to slide the meat into my mouth down my throat into my belly.

My nails dig into the hardwood floor. My feet slip, but I keep scrambling. Splinters in my paws. A nose, a nose! If I could get a nose closer, I could taste the moist chunks of meat. I can taste it, juicy salty filling the gnawing hurt.  I can taste it in my mind, and I snap, I snap at the meat.

But my neck hurts. If I pull too hard against the chain it hurts more. I stretch, I stretch. I know I can get my neck closer by a nose. I stretch, my neck is choking and pain. And then my nose hits a smooth cold barrier. My breath whuffs out, and frosty fog blocks out the meat.

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On this pivotal date, 01.10.10, I am here to inform you of the exciting schedule for the new year, here at fictician.com.  You are permitted to expect important and compelling updates Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. A variety of topics will be presented in a random interval schedule. Topics include, but are not limited to:

1. All things fiction.

2. Character sketches, exercises, and short short stories.

3. What psychology is useful to character and situation.

4. Reviews of various forms of fiction, provided in an unhelpful and untimely manner.

5. A bimonthly artistic update.

6. Responses: email all your fiction questions to fictician@gmail.com and the Fictician will blog you an answer.

7. Special requests?

Dear Fictician,

I am a writer of fictions as well. I am also an avid reader. I read, of Thomas Hardy, that “Hardy manages to merge the various factors of his tale–character, incident, and setting–into close co-ordination, thereby achieving a high degree of unity.” How important do you think merging elements into a united whole is? I rather like books with subplots that are not singular, blunt objects.

Sincerely,

Hardly Hardy

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What is happening in this picture?

Is this

a. A sunset

b. A gold jar

c. A sunrise

d. The Rapture

Samuel Trader ducked and the pen hit the wall behind him. Julia Delmark grabbed the pages of an article off the table and shoved them into her briefcase.

“You’re as bad as my goddamn husband.” She slammed the case shut. “Worse. Let them have their faith.”

“Don’t you want to know if it was actually schizophrenia?” Samuel smiled as he held out her coat.

“Looking through those damn bug eyes won’t prove that god didn’t talk to her.” Her chair screeched against the kitchen tiles as she pushed it away. “Or are you after the ratings? Do you think they’ll flock to leer at that sensationalist burning at the end? You pig! Some stories shouldn’t be debunked. And no one should go through that kind of snuff film.”

At the door she paused, flashing him a glare, and yelled that she was going bird watching, despite the rain. She slammed the door. But this had happened a dozen times. Samuel fully expected to make up in the living room, the kitchen, and the stairwell before dawn.

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