My oldest brother and I had one goal on our trip to Chicago: See Howlin’ Wolf’s grave.
He had thought of it a few summers back on a drive-through trip with his wife on their way to visit friends in Indiana, but it had never fallen into place for them to stop. This time, with me backing him up and our mom surprisingly also on board, it came as a three-against-two vote against our significant others, and our trip home found us taking a twenty-minute detour due west to Oakridge Cemetery.
Google Maps has us completely passing the entrance to the place, which happens to be about fifteen times larger than any of us anticipated. “Where exactly is his grave?” My brother asks, turning onto the main road and driving slow.
“Fantastic question,” I reply. Continue reading
For Camp NaNoWriMo, I started out writing short stories around Robert Johnson songs. Well… that only lasted a handful of days because short stories tend to be the bane of my existence. I get a good idea, write the short story, and then all I want to do is expand on it.
I managed to finish four short stories and start on another four, but they have gone nowhere and Camp NaNo has now become a word document full of miscellaneous things I’ve been writing throughout April.
Now, if you haven’t read my “About Me page,” let’s just say I’m a little crazy when it comes to music. 90% of what I listen to is 1979 and before, stemming all the way back to the 1920s. …You know, in case you couldn’t tell from my mention of writing stories around Robert Johnson songs.
I had an idea a month ago to write a story around someone who finds themselves misplaced in time and can call back to where they are actually from through their music. Instead of making it a full-fledged thing, I wrote a short story called “Phonograph Blues” for Camp NaNo.
We had put her in a home just months before. It was necessary. With Grandpa gone and no one living close, it was our only option. Mom and Dad were both gone as well, leaving it up to us to take care of Grandma and her dementia. It may have been the saddest day of our lives, having to move her to someplace foreign. We could only remember the Grandma we knew growing up, the one who would sneak us pieces of candy under the table despite not finishing our vegetables, the one who would take us on long walks through the fields surrounding her house, the one who would let us stay up to an unreasonable hour.
I know I haven’t posted in well over a week. That’s my bad. To bribe all of you, how about a short story I wrote a month ago!
We’re getting closer and closer to the official release date of On The Border. This story and its characters have taken control of my life for the last two years. Every story I’ve tried to write not around them has somehow written itself around them.
So this is a short story that possibly takes place after On The Border; it’s vague enough to really take place whenever I feel like making it take place. Don’t worry, it doesn’t spoil anything.
Based on the song “Bad Sneakers” by Steely Dan, off their album Katy Lied.
Cassidy Sundance was going insane, or so she felt. Never had she felt so alone surrounded by crowds – waves – of people. With no one by her side to give her a metaphorical shoulder of support, she stood on the concrete sidewalk in a pair of bad sneakers and laughed. The weather in her head was more frightening than the cold rain in which she stood. Continue reading