The 20th Fire: A Tale of Desperation

20 fires down, how many more to go? I have a set number, and I'm sure you'll figure it out. I just want to keep doing this, I just want to keep writing. That's all that anyone has told me I'm good at, along with everything else that I do. But writing is my passion, writing is where I can create, where I can spin the words, ideas, and images that constantly run inside my head. We live in maddening times. It's important we get that madness out and let the world see as we do it. Thanks for hanging with this madman, y'all are pretty cool.

Writing A Story

When he looked at the clock for the thirty-seventh time, he knew he was fucked.

There was no fucking way he was going to get this stupid fucking story done in time for his weekly series, something that no one asked that he do, yet he still did it all the same, as if someone had asked him to do.

He was pounding hard the on keys, that usually made them work better. The words spilled out and were immediately struck red by the real writer, the computer program.

If computers could kill themselves, this one would have chosen that option long ago. Once used exclusively for pornographic images and motion videos, the computer had found new life as the basis for creating the most stupid and insipid writing this side of the world wide web.

It was awful. It was poorly done. It had no soul but it did have an extreme lack of character. To sum it up, it was probably the worst shit anyone had ever written. And he was trying to do this fucking shit weekly.

He thought he was so fucking clever, typing away, making a joke out of what he really did. No one was laughing, save few readers chuckling to themselves.

“I wondered how long it would take him to figure it out,” They said aloud in their homes or workplaces, reading the shitposts of a madman loose online.

Will he end it there? Cop it out early, say that it was just so fucking clever, all it needed was a page or two? Or will he continue, realizing what he had just wrote?

The time was never the issue. It was a matter of him running out of ideas. He really thought he could at least come up with a different story every week. And it was quickly becoming apparent, first to the reader, then to the author, that he couldn’t.

Not every week was a good one. Not every week was a long one. Sometimes they were shit and people would roll their eyes and mumble about the shit on the internet these day.

Still, the maniac kept typing. The thing was, he did know. He had known all along. What he wrote didn’t fucking matter to anyone.

Except for one.

And that one person is why he kept it pumping out, week after week, month after month.

Now some readers think they are the one. See how clever this author thinks he is?

Desperately continuing, he tried to extend this facade even further.

Tell them a story about a heroic knight, who turns out to be a robot.

Tell them a story about a teenage vampire who has just been accepted to magic school.

Tell them a story about a fart and its journey out of the asshole.

Just tell them something, FUCK!

He was starting to get frustrated, his jarring, uneven writing being the first clue. It was getting all choppy and broken up. The writer usually did that when he was completely out of anything more to say, anything more to fill.

All of life is but lines on paper. It’s up to us to write on them.

Oh Jesus fuck, now he’s trying to get all poetic and shit. You should really have stopped reading like, thirty sentences ago, but now you’re vested. Now you’re determined to see this to the end. I tried to warn you. I should have tried harder.

Once he is exposed as a sham and hack, the author will just fade back into society, into the mold or placement that others put him into. Maybe he’ll get lucky and get a job with a cool boss and a hot co-worker. Though he’ll probably get a job at the hot dog factory, cleaning out the beak grinder until an accident becomes the best thing to ever happen to the author. Disability for life.

Then he re-opens his fucking nasty-ass computer again, and the cycle continues. Suddenly the author has even more time to write, to polish his turds.

Getting half of his left hand ground out and then made kosher by a rabbi was the best thing that could have ever happened.

Now it is time to close, this shittale has gone for too long.

The author pulled back from the screen and gave himself a smug little fuck-all pat on the back.

“Motherfucking best one yet!” He said out loud to no one.