Master and Too Perfect Marriage Update – 10/10

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I know many of you are looking forward to the next part of Too Perfect Marriage. I’ll get to that in a moment.

The cover to Master is in! I can’t wait to show it to you, Ellie Augsburger did an incredible job. I’ve finished Master, and currently am going through and solidifying things. It’s crucial to hammer out the plot in the first few drafts, but a side-effect of focusing on plot is the dialogue becomes interchangeable. Every word that exits a character’s mouth should be specific to their unique personality. A lot goes into a single line – plot, characterization, emotion, and intrigue, just to name a few. When I say intrigue, I mean that their are lines of dialogue that spark interest even without full awareness of the context.

Along with editing Master and blogging short stories, I’m also a full-time student at a local cc. So many hours spent on the computer can take a toll on you mentally – it’s important to use your body. Earlier this week I felt like I could read the same question from a homework assignment 15 times over and still not understand what it was asking.

I plan to transition from writing mode to promotion mode next week. Don’t worry, I’m not just going to fire out constant updates for Master. I’m inclined to post half-a-page of my book a day up until I publish it. Hopefully, doing this will show you that the book is pretty good, and maybe when I release it you’ll be curious enough to download it (I’m debating whether or not to make it available for free during the first five days of its release).

As for Too Perfect Marriage, I should be wrapping up the series next week. Check back on Monday, I plan on posting part 7 then.

  • Thomas M. Watt

Sunset – Part 2

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If you missed Part 1, click here.

Bad thoughts,” she said, then whirled around and strutted away.

“That was strange, very strange.”

D’angelo turned around. Guy with a brown raincoat and aviator glasses took the barstool behind him.

“What?” said D’angelo.

“That whole thing, you know, with that girl? Sunset? Didn’t seem normal… not at all. Did it?”

“No,” said D’angelo. Weird was one way to describe that bombshell – Threatening fit better.

“Name’s John,” said the man in aviator glasses.

D’angelo shook his hand.

“She wanted your number, didn’t she? And that was it? Sunset?”

D’angelo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yo bartender!”

The bartender stopped shaking the drink he’d been mixing.

“‘Nother whiskey ginger,” said D’angelo, tapping the bar counter. “Let’s go.”

“That was all she wanted?” said John.

D’angelo turned to him. “You’re wearin’ sunglasses. In a bar.”

John smirked.

“CIA or something?” said D’angelo.

Now John honed a full-on grin.

“Aight,” said D’angelo. “Whatchu got on that?”

“Suspicious, to say the least, dangerous, to say the most.”

“What kinda danger? You know her?”

John slid D’angelo a napkin and a pen.

“I can help, I think,” said John. “Number.”

D’angelo held a blink.

“Your number, write it down.” said John.

“Bartender!” said D’angelo.

“Hurry, time is running out. You should write it down, I think.”

“Why?”

“I can help, I deal with things… like this. A lot.”

“What things?”

“Odd Patterns. Stuff normal people miss.”

“You’re losin’ me.”

John chuckled. “I’m not surprised, but you are.”

D’angelo shook his head, then wrote down his number on the bar napkin. “Yo bartender!”

The bartender groaned as he brought over the whiskey ginger.

“9-1-8, 2-1-0-9,” said John.

D’angelo took his drink, then swirled it around.

“That’s why she wanted your number.”

D’angelo took a hefty swig, then coughed. “What?”

“The numbers. They mean something. You don’t know?”

“It’s a phone number. You get it at random.”

“You think. But sometimes, quite often, people think wrong. Others don’t.”

“Others? What? What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

John laughed through his nose. “Ordinary people, they never fail to amuse me,” he said, then tapped D’angelo’s digits into his smartphone.

“That makes you… what?”

“Extra-ordinary,” said John, with a sideways smile. He stood up. “Why don’t you come with me, I think you should.”

D’angelo raised his eyebrows, then followed John’s lead. John was much taller and well built, and oddly took long strides with only one leg. The two of them ditched the bar and carried on along the sidewalk outside.

“Everyday, millions of people go about their lives thinking they’re in control, but they’re not. Thinking that there is no big brother, thinking conspiracy theorists are loony, a bit nutty.”

D’angelo stopped. “That you? A Conspiracy theorist?”

John pulled his aviator glasses down to the tip of his nose. “I’m no theorist.”

D’angelo scratched the back of his head and nodded. The two returned to their pace.

“Why would the government, the U.S. government, care about a guy like you, is what you’re probably wondering,” said John.

“All I’m wonderin’ is why I’m still talkin’ to you.”

“The numbers.”

“What of ’em?”

“You want to know what I see, right, that’s what want you to know?”

“Nailed it bro.”

“Ok, alright, I see.”

“I don’t,” said D’angelo.

John laughed hysterically.

“Waddup, bro?”

“You do see. If you didn’t, you would trip, or at least need a cane.”

“Numbers John,” said D’angelo, before snapping. “Out with it.”

“Ok, I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to believe me.”

“I believe that.”

“Those numbers – your numbers, your phone number-”

“God-damn, bro! Spit it out!”

“Okay, I will, just hold on,” said John, before sticking his arm out. “You spot it?”

“What!”

“The cars – did you, do you notice that?”

“You’re on one.”

“A pattern. Green, red, red, blue, black, white.”

“Huh?”

“Watch,” said John, before pointing.

“You’re losin’ me bro.”

“Your phone number. It’s got coordinates.”

“What?”

“Treasure. Verizon didn’t give you that number – U.S. government did. Heard of Fort Knox?”

“You’re high.”

“Most certainly, I am not. Fort Knox doesn’t hold any treasure – it’s a showroom. All of it, an empty museum. Treasure is buried – destination? Unknown.”

Ho-ly fuck.”

“People have been searching for it – people like me. She’s one of them. You can tell by her hair – purple streak? Symbolic.”

“Illuminati?”

“Knights of Templar. You’re the one. You’ve been chosen.”

D’angelo stared at him.

“Don’t worry, I don’t want the treasure. Gold means nothing to me. I’m a hunter, it’s what I do.” John violently grabbed D’angelo by the throat, forced his back against the building beside them, then pressed close with a finger in his face.

“But if you cross me, and I do solemnly swear it, I will kill you. It’s also what I do. I’ve done it before – treasure’s my life. Not keeping it, just finding it, I want to be the one who finds it. You can be the one it belongs to – but I’m going to be the one who finds it. I was born for that, destiny, it’s my gift. I had no ordinary birth-”

“Get off me!” said D’angelo, shoving John away. John fell on the ground, and his aviator glasses spilled off his face onto the sidewalk. Still at a hunch, he rushed to pick them up. D’angelo stomped on them before he could get a hold of them.

“You’re fucking crazy,” said D’angelo. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

John gradually erected straight. He glared back, red-faced and shaking.

D’angelo quit looking him in the eyes. “You’re crazy bro,” he said, then patted him on the shoulder.

John inhaled giant gulps of air, both fists clenched.

D’angelo shook his head, took two quick steps, then checked over his shoulder – John hadn’t moved. D’angelo broke into a sprint away.

To be continued…

  • Thomas M. Watt

CLICK HERE FOR PART 3!

Trophy Wife

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2:00 AM

He put the phone down. Where was she? She was supposed to get home hours ago. He called again – no answer.

Mr. Turnip rolled out of bed. He rubbed the wrinkles out from his eyes, huffed and moved to the closet. He was in his pajamas and slippers. From the closet he grabbed a coat, top hat, and his rifle. The rifle was just precautionary, of course – he had no intention to use it.

Mr. Turnip exited through the front door, got in his Lexus, and pressed the start button. Rather than driving to her sister’s, or her friends, Mr. Turnip traveled to the one place he hoped not to find her – the one place he might need his rifle.

The beach.

She was a young fox. Jessica was her name, but she preferred Jessie. Too young. Too beautiful. Too arrogant.

Mr. Turnip knew she was with him for his money. Most girls got flowers for their first date. Mr. Turnip bought Jessie got a new rack.

The problem with Jessie wasn’t that she was a gold digger. It wasn’t that she was a cheater, either – Mr. Turnip didn’t give a damn about fidelity. He didn’t believe in love, he believed in money.

What was that thing people said? It’s what’s on the inside that counts? Laughable. Mr. Turnip was a man of power, and the only way he could maintain his pristine image was by force and manipulation. And if Jessie was on the beach with them, she’d be putting everything he ever worked for at risk. Mr. Turnip would be the laughingstock around town in no time. He looked at his rifle and gulped.

As he returned his eyes to the road ahead, an unexpected memory resurfaced.

His ex-wife. He thought about the time Scruffy ran away, and they spent the entire night driving through neighborhoods looking for him. Helena was so concerned. Her hand never moved from her mouth, and she must have asked him over a hundred times is he thought they’d really find him.

Mr. Turnip laughed in his Lexus, and a rare smirk formed on his weary face.

He’d been so grumpy that night. He’d been so nasty to her every night. But she always loved him, and she always needed him to comfort her.

Funny, he used to hate that so much. He used to hate how much she needed him. And now he was married to Jessie, who was half Helena’s age, a quarter her IQ, and an eight as dependent. She never needed Mr. Turnip for anything – but when it came to his money, that was a different story.

Mr. Turnip parked right by the train tracks, overlooking the shore. He could see the fire pit a short ways down, and the young people partying around it. Body make-up, palm trees, grass skirts and dancing. That came hand-in-hand with the ectasy, sex, and whatever other kind of trouble they could get in.

Mr. Turnip shut the car off and groaned. He shook his head, picked up his rifle, then exited his Lexus. He had no intention of shooting anyone, of course, but he couldn’t risk allowing the press to catch wind of his wife’s night time activities. And if he didn’t get her home now, she’d be lying on the beach half-naked and drunk when the sun came up.

He carried his rifle with him as he crossed the train tracks and started on the sand. He took his slippers off and walked towards the fire.

The thought of his ex-wife came to him again. She’d died a while back, not too long after their divorce. Many of her friends and family said it was the divorce that made her sick, and his new marriage that caused her death. Mr. Turnip had been able to shake that off with a grunt and some brandy for many, many years.

He saw his trophy wife up ahead. She was dancing with some young shirtless dude with dark hair and a dragon tattoo on his back. Not two seconds later her hands wrapped around his head and Jessie had his tongue in her throat.

Mr. Turnip scoffed and shook his head.

All these years the thought of Helena had been painful – he never liked to admit when he was wrong. But for some reason, on this night, Mr. Turnip felt at peace with his ex-wife. It was like they were together again – like those days when Mr. Turnip was just another working suit, fighting to pay the mortgage and keep up with the Jones’. Like he felt before he made his big payday and changed his life for the better. New car, new friends, new wife.

Mr. Turnip stopped and turned, looking back toward his Lexus.

“I hate that fucking car.”

He laughed after saying it, and when he did he swore he heard Helena laugh with him. Mr. Turnip smiled. If she were with him, if they were together, she would have laughed as well. And he would have bet every new dollar he had on that.

Mr. Turnip returned his attention to the party and moved onward. He gulped. He was nervous, yes, but he needed to get tough and fast. It was the only way Jessie would leave those idiots and come home for some rest.

“Hey,” said Mr. Turnip. “Party’s over, time to come home.”

He kept the rifle aimed at the sand, just so everyone knew he had no intention to use it.

Jessie turned to look at him, smiled big, then came prancing over with one hand behind her back.

She reached him, kissed him, then whispered in his ear.

“You’re right. The party is over.”

Jessie moved away, then swung her arm out from behind her back and into Mr. Turnip’s gut. Before he realized what happened, Mr. Turnip found himself falling over with a knife lodged in his stomach.

His eyes rolled up to see Jessie and the rest of her friends standing over him. The man with the dark hair picked up the rifle, loaded, aimed it –

Then he saw Helena again.

Thomas M. Watt

I’m Am Not Crazy Anymore Before I Wrote This

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Getting cold, my muscles jitter, brain it’s done but words don’t wither.

How much longer can I go pushing, when all the weights are filled with cushion?

What is wrong with all my thoughts when they all rhyme and words get tossed.

Do not think a line before, it just comes out and rhymes some more.

Getting colder, yes I am, feel oh-so close approaching death.

Tired friend, I really am, hurting much, close to the end.

Too much coffee, being alone, too much knowledge not yet exposed.

Understanding much doth bring lots of pain and comfort’s sting.

Just for once give me one fan, a reader of what I think not’s bland.

So much pain this job it brings so much of knowing uncertainty.

Days to nights from nights to day and all day long the words glow grey.

I see them coming from my pen, straight to my paper and edit them.

All for what, for who, for nothing, holy shit have I missed something?

I sure hope not, don’t think I have, I’m pretty sure I’m not that bad.

Hearing speak, it gets so old, almost all words are thrown at bold.

La-de-dah, da-de-de-doh, read my words or they’re unwrote.

No I don’t care much ’bout me nor bout the things that money brings.

But these words I feel them tear, I feel the way good words run fair.

Swooping circles, silent dew, some metaphors fill me with puke.

How can I judge, how can I say, how can my voice mean anything.

I am unpublished, not yet a dollar, just a lot of words and not much slumber.

Do-de-dah de-dee-de-dooh, I think this poem’s shitted gold.

I’m not yet crazy, not yet I ain’t, but maybe by the end I fade.

Seeing sounds and hearing lights and smelling touch and thinking howls.

Oh my goodness oh my gosh I have just lost it my brain needs scotch.

Settle down my fine brain please, it’s time to put the thoughts at ease.

Just let them stop we’re sounding mad, scaring off potential fans.

What will they think when they all know that we don’t think ’bout what we wrote.

Oh my golly goodness shoes! What do shoes even have to do, with anything here being used?

Brain I swear, I swear I fear you’ve lost your mind! Yes now I’ve said it.

You’ve gone away and left me endless. Need to please stop typing this, not one out there knows what we mean.

You’re scaring them, my brain, please stop! How many words does your work cost? 

Just lose it brain you need to quit it, this poem is a tale unwritten.

– Thomas M. Watt

Editing

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Words fall down to death by red sword, pen cuts out the excess whores.

Red pen ink, to my page, stains the thoughts I pressed in pain.

Cut the shit the darlings too, kill the ego made from ruse.

Red line runs through half a page, cuts out these words I thought were great.

Cut the shit, cut it through, line-to-line an ‘X’ marks lose.

Red ink here and there a lot, lines by circle coffee blots.

Oh what action oh what prose guess what my words it’s time to go,

Leave my pages, I’m sucking thin, the story goes without you in.

I am so sorry, understand, the reader has made his own demands.

He said your lovely quite alright but he fears you’re endless plight.

You see dear words your painted tint, a sort of way to fake a win.

I guess you came to satisfy these thoughts of mine which I thought write.

Looks like I tossed you in a pile, mulled you over for a while.

Fell in love with your sweet mirth, should not have slept with Mrs. Adverb.

Time to say goodbye to you, nice to make you show such truths.

I am so sorry and so sad it’s come to this oh yes it has,

One more chance to let you speak, just one last thought I’m setting free.

The words that float and sound so good, the two I say do sound so rude.

I’m going to have to end with that, a spit of banter yet compact,

Off you go unneeded prose, take your charm you’ve been disposed.

No more fancy, no more show, grab your friend and off you go.

Suck my words into the night, enjoy this rhyme and sleep alright.

Read a thing a time or two, see it’s madness writing for you.

Well my words goodbye you two, bull-shit ends now – I bid ado.

– Thomas M. Watt

Don’t said it wrong!

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Vision is dim eyes are blurred, where do I go, where had I were.

Grammar school lesson easily taught – the writers who make it don’t give a fauk.

What do we say, what do we do, what do we know, what’s new with you.

Laughing, happy, crappy, cough.

I hate all those people who constantly scoff.

Stand up my friend let’s hear your joke then,

Let’s see how it goes when the critic stands in.

Shitty dippy, dippity-doo. Find me a snack and I will bark for you.

Oh boy he’s crazy, shit now I know, I shouldn’t have read this, wait shit I wrote.

It.

What’s with this poem and all these strange rhymes? Did he really just add only one word to that line?

And who does he speak to, for whom is this written, why does he breakdown his voice intermitten?

God oh that’s painful, ‘nother word misspelled, dammit to heck the writer can’t seem to tell,

The difference ‘tween ramblings, spellings and his, ability to place commas within sentences.

And why does he talk with his voice like it’s mine, why does this guy pull this shit all the time?

Somebody tell him, please somebody say – We are all just waiting for your style to decay.

You will soon fall, dwell with the rest, you will shortly collapse and see our way is best.

No sir I’m sorry, really I do, the problem with me is, I just don’t care about you.

I am a bit crazy, hazy with words. See them like colors, splash on my verbs.

My work is of art, a mixture of paint. A strange tendency to love what most people hate.

Well fuck me I said it, I did what I do, scramble your brain, and be like mine too.

– Thomas M. Watt

(Painting courtesy of Ayse Juaneda, the greatest painter in the modern world. You can view more of her artwork at http://aysejuaneda.wordpress.com)