Hey Dr. Hutto!

tonight’s title prompted by finding out my GP reads my blog…

i’m a speed writing report behind, and i missed last night’s due to all three of my potential rides crapping out (for very good reasons). this saturday i’m hosting speed writing at Star Co in Round Rock, so there should be another entry along these lines pretty soon.

noun – whiskey, verb – fired, adjective – dirty, adverb – noisily

“Evil incarnate walked into the saloon, staggered to the bar, and vomited noisily upon the cool marble surface.
“That’s disgusting, you dirty sumbitch,” the bartender exclaimed.
Evil incarnate, also known as ‘One Ball Eduardo’, pulled his pistol and fired it into the air.
“Whiskey, goddamnit!”
The bartender served him a shot of Chupacabra Bile, and watched him chug it down.
“Three minutes,” the bartender thought, “and I’ll have another dead asshole to bury out back.”
But much to his surprise…
(tentatively considering continuing this one)

no idea what the prompt was…

A thousand days, floating in the upper reaches of Jupiter’s atmosphere. It had sounded like a dream job to me, total isolation while gathering data on the largest weather system mankind knows of.
Storms were a problem though, and I’d endured more than my share. I’d lock myself into the chair, which would make the hookups for breathing, sanitary and dietary functions, the cabin would fill with foam, and the hell-ride would begin. Absolutely terrifying.
Otherwise it was nice.
Until people starting talking to me from outside my ship.

no idea about this prompt either…

I was always impatient with my Uncle Frank, even when I was only crawling. He was slow… so slow. Something to do with an injury he got in the war that had damaged his spine. His stride was measured in mere inches, and not many of them. His shuffling, almost indiscernible progress around the house was torturous to watch, especially to me. I was always full of energy, darting back and forth, inside and out, except when Uncle Frank was in my way.
It frustrated my parents as well, although they didn’t say anything because he’d suffered his injury in the war.
I know he knew how much it bothered all of us… he told me so the night  he drove a railroad spike into my spine.
“Eddie,” he said, “now you’re going to understand. I got this wound, this handicap, for you and all the other kids, to preserve your goddamn freedom, but you little shits don’t deserve it!”
They took Uncle Frank away, leaving my lower body useless, and my parents dead in the kitchen.

again, no clue as to the prompt…

The music box was all I had left to remember my mother.
After Sweet Baby Jesus took her to Live With Him in Heaven, Daddy couldn’t stand to see any reminder of her, so he got rid of everything.
I barely managed to hide the little blue jewelry box with the dancing bear under my pillow.
I never let him see it.
I never wound up the music box and played it when he was home.
He died when I was sixteen, and I got rid of all his things. He’d tried to wipe her out of our existence. I did wipe him out of mine.
No, I didn’t kill him or anything, but I sure as shit didn’t mourn him when he was gone.
I sat and listened to the music box for hours the night of his funeral, trying to remember her scent, her face, the feel of her hands, her hugs.
I couldn’t. I could only remember that damn song.


listening to: the Furry Five snoring
mood: relaxed


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