brainstorming writing ideas, etc

[Evan]

Should I continue? is there anything of value here?

A writer, writes.

I picked up a few smooth stones off the ground in front of me; and looked out toward the neverending darkness of hawthorne lake, skipped one across the still water; used to come here a lot. Those were different times though. I guess I stopped coming a few months ago really. Anothe r rock, skips along the surface of darkness. I just didn’t want to remember all those things. Not that they were that terrible.
Maybe that’s why I came here now, when it’s dark, used to just hang out here in the daytime with the buddies. Another rock this time thuds into the water.
I’m not sure what urged me to come out on this cold night, guess I just had to get out; had to get away. It wasn’t like I was running away though... not really. I’d go back eventually, maybe when day broke… maybe when I knew she’d cooled off. Needed to give both her and I, a moment apart. My head was pounding, I had drank way too much.
We had been together almost three years now, our “anniversary” was just a few weeks away, but did any of that matter now? It’s so hard to tell, from my experiences in life. Someone can love you and then totally destroy you. I think saying, I love you, really just means.
“ It’s okay! I’m willing to let you destroy me! Break me! abuse me! wont you?”
Great, I’m crazy. Yelling to myself. I wondered if anyone else was out here. Did it matter? It didn’t feel like anything mattered anymore.
Another rock, glides atop the water.
“Why do I let shit get to me?’
I guess because you’re stupid, you’re a big stupid idiot. I had fucked up a lot in my life at this point I think. If I could just hold a steady job, if I could just make Elise happy again. If I could just, do this, or do that. Things just haven’t been the same, not since she miscarried. It really put a toll on her.
“It’s stupid! she thinks I’m gonna leave her? because maybe we won't be able to have children?”
I love her. I wouldn’t ever hurt her. Well, I guess the drinking hurt her, she didn’t want to see me like that again. I really don’t know why I did it. To be honest… Anyway, we’d been through alot together, we lived in a car together at one point. You know, I think people come into your life right when you need them to; and I probably needed Elise more than she needed me, although I don’t think I’d ever let her know that.
She stood beside me, after every job I lost. After all the smoking and the drinking. She put up with it. I’d been clean and sober a few months now. I really felt like I was over the curve. I guess that’s why I came back in this drunken state. Because, I used to smoke here. And now more than ever, I really could use a fucking blunt. We got into an argument, because I drank a handle of whiskey, and I hadn’t drank in a while.
“Forget about it” I thought outloud again.
Started making my way back through the woods. It was starting to get colder. I was sobered up, the headache started to fade... How long had I been there, I thought? I took out my phone. Dead. Not like it mattered anyway, I don’t think anyone was trying to get ahold of me. I grew up in foster homes and never really had anyone to “call home” to. Lately, the only person in my life has been Elise. I dumped all my old friends, when I decided to give up habits that I felt were tying me down, holding me back, I knew If I talked with or hung out with them again, I’d reenact behaviors that just were not me anymore.
The morning sun started to shoot through the trees, I felt so prescient now. So alert. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like. I had been drowning myself for so long; but you can only hold your head underwater for so long until you have to come up for air. It’d been 10 years since I had started drinking so heavily and only a few months that I’ve stopped. Elise saved me from my worst destructive behaviors though. I was deep into drinking and Elise really help me get through some hard times. She didn’t mind the weed smoking, but it really hadn’t helped me with anything, other than stifling my passion for writing.
Tree branches cracked under my feet. I was almost through the woods. I was grateful for the cool air waking me up, I still had a bit of a walk back into town.
Writing I thought, that’s what I always wanted to do, when I was a kid; I used to write songs and poems. I had dreams of being some kind of poet rockstar, or maybe even a journalist, or novelist. Or hell even a screenwriter. Even though I thought hollywood was a deplorable business. But, to be honest. I never could find that world i would escape to when I was young.
I had been washing dishes at the local chinese restaurant. I figured it was only a matter of time before I got fired or the place burnt down. It was always something, or I’d do something that would piss someone off. It’s like I could unintentionally find a way to push major buttons in people. I really didn’t mean to, it just.. Was in my nature I guess. For a long time, I thought it was something wrong with me.. But I just keep it real. That’s usually why people liked me, but I guess it didn’t work… at work. I needed to do something that didn’t involve people.
I need to get back to my roots, get back to what made me tick. It had been so long since I was in touch with that...It was time to turn dreams into reality. I never told elise about any of these passions. Hell, I’m not really sure what she even thought of me anymore. Who was I to her?
“Who am I? What’s my ending?”
I could hear a car coming up the road behind, I had been walking in the middle of the road. I hurried to the shoulder, the truck started to slow. I looked back, it was Wiz, he honked his horn at me. Wiz was a cook at the restaurant I was working at. I could see him motioning at me from inside the car, as if to say, “get in!”
’I didn’t really know Wiz that well, but he seemed like an alright guy. I opened the latch to the truck door and hopped inside.
“Hey bro!,” Wiz was bright and happy “How are you?”
I could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Hey you want me to drive man? I can smell the alcohol on you.” I didn’t really like this situation, and I couldn’t let him drive home like this.
“It’s all good man, I’m alright! I only had a few drinks. Let me take you home”
“No Wiz, Let me take you home man, switch seats.”
He got out of the driver's seat, and I hopped over. Wiz, gets in from the passenger door and lets out a deep sigh.
“Thanks man, I’m glad I saw you actually, hey man.”
He leaned over tapping me on the shoulder.
“I need to tell you something man, about work”
“Fuck,” there I went thinking out loud again.
Just what I wanted to hear right now; it’s middle of the night, and I was trying to get away from my problems for a moment.
“Hey,” wiz said,”It’s not bad dude!”
That’s a relief I thought..
“They want you to move up to cooking, dude!”
“A white guy on the line Wiz? Who approved that?” I said jokingly
“Aye, mi amigo, you’re a messican now!” Wiz said jovially patting my shoulder.


A painter paints

Jean, a thin, demonized looking man, moved his brush across the canvas, steadily and with purpose. Each stroke, showing another dimension of his self-purported madness, it was enough to him, he could paint all day. The painting didn’t have to have shape or purpose. He was displaying his heart. If you saw one of his paintings, it may stir your gut, like an old flame. He was earnest and true when he painted, he could hardly feel that when he was doing anything else. Nothing captured him in the same way. Not a relationship, not a joint, not even a bottle of booze. Painting, that’s what got him off.
He noticed that the more he could paint what he was feeling, the more he could feel that reverberating through his entire life, like ripples on a lake. And it was as if somehow, the painting could change not only his mood, but all the other people’s moods around him, he figured that, it was his perception that was doing this. However, the fact is, is that he was painting the feelings for everyone he would ever meet.
The particular painting that young Jean was working on, was a very strange piece that came to him in a dream. Jean was an outspoken vegan, according to his friends, anyway; he didn’t think he was, “outspoken”. However, he definetly was. He boycotted thanksgiving one year when he was twelve years old, he sat in the living room in silent protest. Even though later that night he gorged on mashed potatoes and leftover beats and dinner rolls. His family teased him the day after because they couldn’t make leftover turkey sandwiches, because a “ghost” had eaten all the rolls.
Anyway, sorry you ended up with an admitted side-tracking narrator. The painting young Jean was working on, was of a man cooking in a kitchen. It would be a series of paintings Jean had thought, the story could be told in reverse order. He had this idea in mind, that would show the life of a cook, who happened to have a taste for human flesh. Certainly, a strange idea, to base an art show around. But really, in this day and age, of the internet, and hell- just the way things are. It felt comfortable in Jeans worldview. He was a vegan, and in his mind. This would be a great way to show how disgusting it can be to rip apart another animal and eat it. However, instead of animals, he’d show humans.
The first painting was reminiscent of something you might see in a recipe book. The finished preparation of a meatball dish.
The second painting shows the chef cooking up the meat,
The third painting, shows the chef grinding up the meat
The fourth painting, shows the chef butchering human body parts.
The fifth painting, shows the chef dragging a body through the kitchens backdoor
The sixth painting shows the chef talking to a plump looking man in the street.
Jean couldn’t be happier with the morbidity of his work, it would get people to think twice about what they’re eating. A lot of people thought his work was trying hard to be subversive, but Jean just painted what he thought the universe was telling him, it didn’t really matter what people thought of it. It wasn’t really for them anyway.
There was a story in the paper the next day after he had finished his paintings. A local restaurant was found serving human remains, the owner arrested. A self-admitted serial killer. He had been kidnapping tourists that would come to the lake during summertime, Eventually they would connect the owner of the restaurant to over 30 disappearances, in the last 3 years.

A dog barks

Bruce, he was a good dog, a german shepherd, with one blue eye, and one brown eye. He could smell things better than any dog ever could, or ever will again. Bruce could smell things all day, Bruce liked smelling things. He would smell the worst things, which for him was intoxicating, and was kind of like the dog equivalent of doing dust-off. He loved nancy’s socks.
Sometimes, Nancy would slap bruces nose with the socks that he chewed up. He wasn’t really sure why she did it, but it always made him feel terrible. Why did she get mad that he chewed up those things she put on her feet? They tasted to good. And when she would slap him in the face with them, it was only teasing him to do it more. Because every time he’d chew through a pair, she would throw them away. Only for him to fish them out again. Sometimes she would go to great lengths to hide things from Bruce, but he would always find it.
To be honest, it’s something Nancy would ever tell anyone, but once she found her tampon ripped to shreds. The thought of her dog eating that really embarrassed her, but she figured it was in his nature, he couldn’t help it.
“Time for your walk brucie!” echoed through the house.
Hearing this noise, excited bruce so much! It meant he could go outside and smell the flowers, and sniff the butterflies that might be there. Oh it made him so happy! He scurried around the corner, his ass banging on the corner of the wall.
“Cmon bruce! C’mere!”
Nancy held out the collar and leash. Brucie, panting happily waits for Nancy to put his collar on.
“Woof! Roof!” Bruce tried to tell Nancy the best he could that he was ready to go. He always wondered what it would be like if Nancy was more like him, If she was on all fours like him, and covered in different furs. Instead, she put fur on, at least in Bruces mind when he would see her “put her skin on” in the morning. Or at least that’s what he thought she was doing.
And Nancy she wondered what’d it be like if Bruce was a man. Would he seem as majestic as a human as he was as a dog? It was a crazy thought, Nancy didn’t feel like anyone would love her more than Bruce. Nancy didn’t have anyone in her lonely life, and Bruce certainly will never know what it would feel like to have a pack of dogs to run with. However, they had each other, and this match worked, for both of them.

this is some really weird, rough outline of shit for the plot but the more I think about it the more trashy and drug fueled it reads honestly

murder mystery
shows a woman writer, writing a book
and her relationship with her dog
man gets broken up with
a painter of dogs
begins to follow a man
sees how man interacts with world
kills people man lusts for
or hates on
paints them
he creates a frankenstein woman for this man
when he meets him and shows him
its casual as ever
then when revealed
the frankenstein monster head is his ex.
he kills the painter
then kills himself.
a dog is born from the painters litter.

[Evan]

would anyone be interested in making an animated film, from the story about the girl and her dog. you may have to animate a dog dick