three war films

ideas are dime a dozen. at least they are where i'm concerned. things just pop into my head, and i really have no idea how they will end up. for instance, this is hardcore started out as 100 pages to 1/2 a book. the other part was supposed to be i still love the bomb. this is hardcore was supposed to be a fantasy romp with the devil and with only two real characters. it turned out to have much more depth and realism than the first idea, even though it still contained some bizarre events. for the most part though, it became a thriller.

now i have an idea for yet another book. no, not revolutionaries wanted, although that one is starting to shape up quite nicely, with some solid ideas forming (i actually think it might end up a horror book. with real live vampires. imagine that: a political opus on human rights with vampires. actually, that's not so farfetched when you think about it). no, it is not live acoustic (open fire), my experimental piece in deliberately deciding against preperation - that one will probably never see the light of day. nor is it i still love the bomb, my modern epic / sci-fi piece. the new idea is actually called three war films. i don't really have a clear idea of what it will be about, but what i do know, is that it will have nothing to do with war in the conventional sense, because let's face it; i'm a lazy fucking writer. having to research for revolutionaries wanted is bad enough. if i had to map out a battle plan, i think my head would explode. seriously though, i have no idea what three war films will be about except that it will involve three seperate stories, each involving a specific colour. at this point in time, i have white, white, and black.

at any rate, i have completed the first chapter to revolutionaries wanted. with this book, i am trying a new twist to my writing; it seems that my writing gets more and more concise with each book i write, so now i am at the point where i use a lot of sentance fragments and one word descriptions. i have also grown tired of writing, he said and she said, so now i've dropped that altogether for a more point-form sort of dialogue. i think it will take a bit of getting used to, but it should become easy to follow. i've already posted most of this before, but here it is anyway...


Her arms are tight around him. Her face, buried close against the nape of his neck. Her chest tight against his back, her legs draw up behind his with her knees snug, locked into the back of his. Her long, wispy blond hair is in her face, with her eyes fluttering behind closed eyelids. The eyelashes are long and black and thick. Her skin, pale and lightly freckled with golden spots. Her nose is small. Her lips are pink and slightly parted, breathing evenly, warmly against the back of his neck. She’s soft, young, her body still clinging to what little teenage fat she still had left. The room, white, bright, and empty; she clings to him amongst the white sheets, an island amongst a sea of rough, worn, hardwood floor. Four in the afternoon, babies don’t sleep this well. The pursuit of pleasure is tiresome. In the warmth of the room, the blinding whiteness, she stirs and opens her eyes slowly. She sits up and looks at him, with his slightly long, shaggy black hair. She slips out of the bed carefully, the bra she’s wearing stands in striking black lines that cut through all the whiteness. Contrast. Stand out. She goes to the washroom, long white legs and all, and sits herself down on the toilet. She finds her black panties hanging from the towel rack and slips them on when she’s done. She wanders back to the bed and snuggles up behind him. The pursuit of pleasure. It’s tiresome.

He grabs the clear plastic jug and rinses it out in the sink. He starches his bare stomach. He goes into the refrigerator and grabs a can of frozen raspberry concentrate. Opens the can, he spills the contents into the jug. The log of juice splatters against the bottom of the jug and there’s blowback. He flinches as the red stuff flies up to splash him in his eye. He blinks rapidly and rubs the back of his hand into his eye, smearing the juice around further. He glances at his reflection in the stainless steel silver toaster. There’s blood in his eye. After mixing the drink, he wanders back to the bedroom where she’s still sleeping. He pours himself a glass and sits down on the bed, causing it to shift slightly. This is enough to disturb her. She opens her eyes and turns to him. Gazing. He accidentally spills some raspberry juice on the white covers and watches with dismay. The red splotches grow deep and expand. Circumference increasing. Fight the fabric. Winning. Here’s to all the rivals. She just looks at him, watching the expression change on his face.

Free space. Sean touches her face and examines the large image framed on the wall behind tepid glass and boxed in by clean, black lines. The image is white. The image is three feet by two. The image is blank, with the words, ‘free space’ inscribed just off centre. In block. Like this - FREE SPACE. She buttons up her shirt, his shirt, charcoal grey with pin stripes, and touches the clean glass, leaving fingerprints. She gathers up the shirt that hangs bulky off her slender frame, and wanders across the ocean of hardwood and takes a seat at the table. She watches John drown the little brown coco bits. A tsunami of white, creamy milk. They bob in the fluid liquid and it makes her smile. Obviously. Man overboard. One of them pops its head up over the milk and she reaches over to plunk it back down. John pours her a bowl of cereal and then peers inside and pulls out a shrink-wrapped prize.

- Pass the milk? – Sean says. What’s the toy?

- A truck.

- That’s nice.

- Got a winch on it. – John touches it.

- What’s it do?

- Winches.

- It’s red. I don’t like red. – She scrunches her nose.

- It was free.

- With a purchase.

- So?

- At least you can eat the cereal.

- So?

- Never mind.

- What are you doing today?

- Gonna dream of a world beyond diamonds and gold. – She smiles.

- That’s nice.

- You?

- I was hoping we'd fuck again.