MASTER Update – 9/17 – Ellie Augsburger

rainy car crash

Ellie Augsburger, award winning cover artist, has agreed to design my cover for Master. I’m pumped! She is responsible for the following masterpieces:

augsburger cover augsburger 2 augsburger 3

We have agreed to give the cover a Gillian Flynn inspired tone – dark background, police sirens, ominous symbols and a strong, powerful title font. It’d be pretty sweet if it comes out looking anything like this:

gone girl 2

However, I’m sure anything Ellie does will be an improvement from my original cover for A New Kingdom:

dear... god

Anyway, recently I posted about how determined I was to establish a greater social media presence. I’m happy to say I’ve stuck with that goal, and am beginning to reap baby benefits. For one thing, my various websites are all the top five links provided when you enter my name in a google search engine (along with a scathing review of A New Kingdom – a sci-fi novel I wrote 6 years ago. Relax, I’m better now).

I knew an app developer, and I remember he advised me that the more webpages you have linking to one particular site, the more traffic will flood to that one site. I truly believe that now – I’ve witnessed it firsthand.

Twitter, btw, is awesome – it gives you the chance to connect with other authors, agents, and publishers. Snag an agent or two, you might just be able to establish one of those mythical social-media-networking things people tell tall-tales about. Another advantage, you can hook up your twitter account with your wordpress blog, that way anything you post on here will automatically have a link provided to your twitter followers. For real though – tweet central is worth checking out.

Goodreads though? That’s another story (pardon the pun). I’ve linked my goodreads blog with my wordpress blog, but every post on there comes out looking like shit. I’m having trouble making friends, because I don’t read half as much fiction as I write. And God knows for every one person who likes to read, there’s four-or-five maniacal writers already fighting to shove their books down his/her throat.

Other than that, I’m happy to know a few people are actually reading my short stories. I’m pleased with the first 3 parts to ‘Donald and Thurma’, but the fourth I had to write twice, and even the second try could use some improvement. The first attempt no longer exists (it will hereby be known as FAIL, and I would burn it in an instant if that didn’t mean torching my laptop).

I’m determined to deliver content that is entertaining through these short stories. I want to be the best writer I can be, so the more honest feedback you can give me in the comment section, the better. This means when you finish a story and are left with a feeling of ‘what the?’, I would be honored to have you write exactly that in the comment box, and for as many times as it takes for me to figure it out.

Keep keepin’ it real homies.

  • Thomas M. Watt

Donald and Thurma – Part 4 – Finale

200bp88

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

“I think I can,” he said to himself, chugging along the sidewalk tracks. “I think I can.”

Donald walked with both fists clenched. Amanda and Thurma strolled a short ways ahead, Thurma with her head down.

He wasn’t angry, he was determined – and approaching a girl who was more than likely to reject him was no easy task for Donald.

“Hey,” he called out.

The two girls turned around. Amanda smirked, and crossed her arms. Thurma stilted like a wooden statue.

“Let me guess,” said Amanda. “You found something and were wondering if it belongs to Thurma. Is that your excuse for talking to her? Because that’s not exactly original.”

“No,” said Donald. “I want to talk to her as myself.”

“Why?” said Amanda, narrowing her eyes. “Been acting like somebody else?”

Donald stared straight at Thurma. “Have you?”

Silence.

“Erm, I’ll leave you two alone,” said Amanda, before patting her friend on the shoulder and walking on ahead.

“What are you talking about?” Thurma said to him.

“This shit.” Donald pointed back to the bar. “You want some dipshit frat-boy, let me know and I’ll leave right now.”

“I don’t want that.”

“I’m a dork. My name’s Donald by the way.”

“Mine’s Thurma.”

“You’re one too.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Thurma. She twisted her lip, then sighed and lowered her gaze to his feet. “But maybe I’m not the bitch who you met, either.”

“Good.”

She looked back up. “Maybe I am just a basic bitch. Maybe if you knew the real me, you wouldn’t have come running to talk to me.”

“I like basic bitches. I’m a basic dude.”

Thurma chuckled, then hid her teeth behind her hand. “So what do you want?”

“Huh?”

“What are you after?” She said, then set her hands on her hips. “Is it a number, to brag to your friend about? Because if you really think you’re going to sleep with me tonight-”

“I came to talk with you. That’s all.”

“Why?”

“Because when I look at you I see a part of me, the part that I like.”

“What part’s that?”

Donald scratched the back of his head, then looked away. “I like good morning texts. I like snuggling. I like having to tell a girl she doesn’t have to worry about what’s-her-name, no matter how paranoid she’s being, or clingy she becomes.”

“I’m not following you.”

Donald shook his head, then returned his gaze to Thurma. He creased his brow when he noticed the mark on her chin, then leaned forward to get a better look at it.

“Stop!” she said, then covered the mark with her hand. “That’s rude.”

Donald grabbed her wrist and forced it away, then set his thumb on her chin. “I like the scar you try to hind behind your makeup.”

Thurma’s exhale came heavy. “Oh…”

“The stuff that puts other guys off, that’s the stuff that I like. You could say that’s from low-confidence, but I don’t think it is. I think it’s a preference.”

“Ok.”

“There’s no line I can say to make you want me, there’s no maneuver I can use that will get you to like me back.”

Thurma’s eyes fidgeted in Donald’s.

“I’m just saying that I’d like to get to know you. If that friend zones me, then fine-”

“You said it.”

“What?”

“About fifteen seconds ago. You said the line that won me.”

“Huh?”

“Kiss me dork.”

Donald moved in with a smirk, then gave Thurma a light peck on the cheek.

Thurma shook her head, then scolded him with a finger wag. “I swear to God, if that’s what you think it means to kiss a girl don’t ever-”

Donald slid his hand through her hair, raking her brunnette locks up in his fingers until he had his hand wrapped around the back of her head. He advanced until her forearm fell flat against his chest, then dug his lips into hers. Thurma’s eyes dropped closed and the phone she had been holding unraveled from her fingers and plummeted until it cracked against the sidewalk. She immediately pressed her newly-freed hand against the side of his face.

An obnoxious series of honks was followed by a loud holler:

“Fuck her already, bro!” Yelled Freddy.

Donald finally took a step back.

“Number,” said Thurma.

“I think your phone broke.”

“Ok.”

Donald smiled, then wrote his down on a wrinkled napkin he’d stored in his pocket. “Nice meeting you,” he said, then turned around and headed towards Freddy’s escalade. Once he took his seat Freddy sped away.

“You better get a tit-pit,” said Freddy.

Donald grinned and looked at him.

“What?” said Freddy.

“I’m the man,” said Donald.

“You’re a man, not sure if you’re the man.”

“No,” said Donald, before turning the bass up on Freddy’s sound system. “I’m the man.”

The End!

Hope you enjoyed.

  • Thomas M. Watt

Donald and Thurma – Part 3

200bp88

If you haven’t read part 1, start here.

If you haven’t read part 2, start here.

“Waddup bitches, see you’ve met my friend. Huge cock, case you were wondering.  Name’s Freddy,” said Freddy, as he extended his hand out for the girls to shake.

Donald took Freddy’s hand, then yanked him along with him, away from the two girls. “Time to leave.”

“Strip club?” said Freddy.

The pair passed through the doorway, hurried by the smoke crowds, and headed toward the parking lot.

“She’s not feeling it. I don’t want to be here, this isn’t me,” said Donald.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Freddy. He stopped on the sidewalk. “If you want to leave to go somewhere else, that’s one thing, but if you wanna book it ’cause of some chick-”

“I know, I get it, that makes me a pussy.”

“Jeeze, Donald,” said Freddy. He looked his buddy in the eye. “I wasn’t gonna call you that, you know.”

“Ok.”

“Super pussy. That was it.” Freddy’s eyes bulged, and he pointed back toward the bar. “Look!”

Donald whirled around. The two girls were approaching, only Thurma walked stilted, like Amanda may have had a gun to her back.

“Bye I guess,” Thurma said to Donald, as they passed.

Donald waved back. “Nice meeting you,” he muttered after they were out of earshot.

“Is your dick for sale cause that shits in demand these days,” said Freddy.

“What are you talking about?”

“You leave. She leaves. She comes your way, wishes you a goodnight, checks out your package. What do you do? You rotate your hand like the slow-mix setting of a god-damned cake mixer.”

“She checked out my package?”

“Winked at it.”

Donald gulped, lightly patted his hair, then slid his hand along his button-down to smooth out the creases. He then shook his head and turned to Freddy.

“I’m only going over there if you’re one-hundred percent sure she’s interested.”

“Bro,” started Freddy. “Interests is for loaners. Girl is invested. You know who invests?”

“Stock-brokers?”

“Heart breakers.”

“What?”

“Shit rhymes, bro,” said Freddy. “Called a metaphorical simile.”

“Huh?”

Freddy kicked Donald in the ass, leading him to stumble off in the direction of Amanda and Thurma.

“Go get her heart-breaker,” said Freddy.

Donald caught himself then continued to follow his feet.”I think I can,” He said to himself. A new flurry of visuals played through his mind, the type he wasn’t accustomed to – confident images. He stopped thinking of himself as an inconvenience to the world around him, and began to entertain the possibility that he actually could make a girl happy, and maybe Thurma would be the one for him.

“I think I can,” he said to himself, chugging along the sidewalk tracks. “I think I can.”

To be continued…

  • Thomas M. Watt

“Master” and Social Media – 9/6

PART_1441565706467_20150816_135846

Waddup, waddup.

I’ve been busy the last few days setting up a twitter and goodreads account. Well, not really. Setting up the accounts were easy – it’s figuring out what I’m supposed to do with them that has been giving me trouble.

My introduction to social media was myspace, but that was all about adding friends. I don’t even have a personal facebook account, and until two weeks ago ‘flippy’ was the only phone I felt comfortable using.

flip phone

  • That’s flippy.

Anyway, I’m in the midst of a social media push, tweeting like a madman about meaningful things… When you use a hashtag, are you supposed to press the pound sign (#), or is there a special hashtag button I’m unaware of?

Goodreads is another story. It looks like I can host a blog there, similar to wordpress. I tried taking one of their quizzes, thinking it would help me find friends or gain followers. Three hours into it, I noticed the quiz was titled “Never Ending Quiz.” I stopped taking it right then and there. I didn’t even get a good enough score for book worms to let me into their prestigious reading clubs.

I’ve got five beta readers working on ‘Master’ right now, and they’ve been overwhelmingly positive and excited about the material in their responses. That’s huge for me, because for the first time in my life I can honestly say I have a product that’s entertaining, thought-provoking, and ‘hard to put down’. It may not sound like much, but until you’ve put your own work under the spotlight, you have no idea how difficult writing entertaining fiction can be. #wordpressed

  • Thomas M. Watt

Craig and the BK Lounge – Part 2 – Finale!

bk lounge

If you missed Part 1, start here.

“Dear… God,” said Craig.

Buford and Marlon came sprinting from the Burger King across the street. They had decided to chase after Craig, who apparently had ‘desecrated’ the restaurant they worked at when he spilled the french fries he had ordered after passing through the drive thru. Still soaking wet from the coca-cola the two had poured on him, Craig had no choice but to rush inside the auditorium and begin the conference.

This was Craig’s last real shot to turn things around, and he knew it. The last few months had been difficult – one odd-job after another was no way to pay the bills. Not long ago Craig was one of Forbes top 10 motivational speakers, and now he found it difficult just to get himself out of bed every morning. With an imminent foreclosure in the works, everything was riding on this conference – after all, fifteen of the country’s richest CEOs had come to hear him speak.

Craig entered the auditorium, where he estimated five to ten thousand business professionals sat waiting for his talk.

“Where have you been?” said Darcy, his assistant. “You’re late!” She reached out to straighten his tie, then noticed the coca-cola drenching his suit. “Oh my God-”

“Just work with me, okay? Where’s my mic?”

“You look like shit.”

Craig stared back at her.

“Here,” said Darcy. She held out the microphone, and he grabbed it from her.

Craig turned it on, then secretly wished he could somehow fast-forward the next five hours. He opened while walking up the center aisle toward the stage.

“The key to success,” he began. There must have been at least a thousand murmurs about the dark soft drink dripping from his suit. He climbed on stage, then walked toward the podium. Every step he took was accompanied by a rubbery ‘squeak.’ Craig adjusted his collar.

“You see the key  to success is-” A sharp ringing from the microphone interrupted Craig and caused many in the audience to cover their ears. Craig lowered his head and sighed, then began to turn and twist his ear, a nervous habit he hadn’t been able to break since he was a child.

The hushed voices surrounding him quickly turned to full-blown conversations, and Craig didn’t have to be telepathic to know they were talking about him. This was it for Craig – his career as a motivational speaker was finished. He’d be lucky to ever work a decent-paying job again.

The doors to the auditorium flew open. The two Burger King employees, who were now wearing the plastic ‘King’ crowns the fast-food chain is notorious for, stormed in.

“Oh shit,” Craig said, into the microphone.

“Oh shit is right!” Shouted Buford, before flipping his mullet.

The audience turned around to face the men when they stood at the back. It was not uncommon for motivational speakers to use guest speakers as gimmicks to keep their audience engaged – unfortunately for Craig, this was not part of his act.

“Tell these fools why you better than us!” Said Marlon, who was Asian.

The audience laughed.

“Yeah!” Said Buford. “Tell ’em all about how crappy the BK lounge is these days.”

“Or how you hate black people,” added Marlon.

The audience gasped, then turned to Craig.

“Or!” said Buford. The audience returned their attention to him. “You can tell them the same thing you told us.”

“Yeah!” said Marlon. “Tell ’em Buford!”

Buford did:

“Tell him about how you went out of your way, came over to our place of work, and told us how to do our jobs better!”

“Yeah!” said Marlon.

Buford went on. “Tell ’em how, when I asked if I could take your order, you tried to get me to do my job better. Crappy service! That’s what this man said to me!”

Buford shook his mop at Craig. The audience started laughing. “This guy comes to me, wearing his freshly pressed suit, driving his Mercedez Benz, and tries telling me how I can be more like him!”

The audience cheered Buford on. He broke into a run, then climbed on stage. Marlon followed after him, but tripped and fell his first eight attempts. Buford paced around the stage as he continued. “Just cause I work at Burger King, that don’t mean you can come here and tell me how to do my job! That don’t give you no right to insult my service, say you’re gonna eat somewhere else if I don’t pull it together!’ He pointed at Craig. “But this man did.”

The audience cheered.

“Only rich dude I ever known in my whole life, who feels compelled to come to the BK Lounge, demand I wait on his order, then create a huge mess, just to make sure I would actually clean it up!”

Craig took a good view of the audience – they were grinning, nodding even.

“And it’s because of this man, ladies gentlemen, that I am here today.”

Everybody stood up – a standing ovation!

“Thank you,” said Craig, reaching out to Buford’s shoulder.

“I’m not finished!” he said, then swatted his hand away. “You think I’m finished talking about you, let me tell ya! I’m just getting started. Earlier today, he comes and says…”

For the next five hours, Buford repeatedly rallied the audience to their feet and convinced several of the country’s most powerful figures that even a Burger King drive-thru worker could learn to be as motivated as someone like Craig. After the seminar, all anyone could talk about was how remarkable Craig was for having such a tremendous influence on Buford’s life. Craig left the auditorium hanging his head, however, for he knew as soon as he got home he’d be back to dealing with the foreclosure of his home.

“Craig!” Yelled one of the country’s elite CEOs.

He turned around. “Yes?”

“That was some impact you had on that young man who spoke today!”

Craig scratched his neck, then turn to look at Buford and Marlon as they crossed the street. The men were at least ten years older than Craig. He returned to the CEO. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome! How would you like to come work for me?”

Craig tried to smile, then walked closer and let out a breath. “To be honest with you sir, I’m dealing with piles of unpaid bills and a soon-to-be auctioned home.”

“Then I assume you’ll take it?”

“I don’t mean to be frank, but unless the starting figure is six figures and starts tomorrow, I’m going to have to busy myself with lawyers and bank meetings for the next few months.”

The CEO looked both ways, then began walking toward a white van and waved for Craig to follow. Craig did, but stayed a few paces back out off caution.

“My company doesn’t believe in the green,” said the CEO, as he unlocked the door to his white van.

“The green? Sorry sir, I don’t follow.”

He opened the door, and outpoured gold coins, diamonds, and jewlery. It was as if the CEO had just driven from robbing a pharoahs tomb in Egypt.

“Dear God!” shouted Craig. “Where did you get all this?” he stopped, checked over his shoulder, then whispered to the CEO again. “I must be staring at a hundred million dollars right now.”

The CEO picked up a gold coin, rubbed it with his fingers, then flipped it over to Craig. “You’ll take the job then?”

“Absolutely!” said Craig.

The CEO smiled again, then reached inside the van. This time he retrieved a robe and crown, both of which he put on to wear.

“I just have one question, if you don’t mind,” said Craig.

“Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Who… are you?

“I am,” began the CEO, before grabbing hold of Craig’s shoulder. “The Burger King.”

Burger-King-the-king

  • Thomas M. Watt

Craig and the BK Lounge – Part 1

bk lounge

Craig had ten minutes before he’d be introducing himself as the keynote speaker in a conference that included fifteen of the country’s richest CEOs. He was across the street from the building, and just about to pull in, when he made a last minute decision to yank the steering wheel left, and take his rented Mercedes over to Burger King.

If he didn’t eat now, he’d be speaking on an empty stomach for the next five hours. And Craig knew all too well that this was his last chance to impress the right people and find a way to save his house from foreclosure. Hell, if it went really well, he might even be able to lease a decent car!

“What you want?” came the voice through the drive-thru menu.

“Yea, just give me a minute, I need to order something healthy. Sorry, I just can’t afford to feel like crap today.”

Craig looked sharp – freshly pressed suit, striped tie, polished shoes. He checked himself in the rear-view mirror, then brushed the little bit of hair he had left over his bald spot. Craig frowned.

“Go get food somewhere else then.” Said the drive-through speaker.

“Sorry? What was that?”

“If our food’s so crappy, order somewhere else.”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” said Craig. He smeared his forehead with his hand. “I just said, I said I can’t afford to feel crappy today. I’d like to order a-”

“Oh,” said the drive-thru employee. There was a sudden static sound, like a hand had grabbed onto the microphone. “He said he doesn’t want to feel crappy today.”

Craig heard a second employee say: “So our food makes people feel like crap, now?”

“No, just this asshole. Look at him. Sitting in his Mercedez, new suit, thinks he’s better than us. You’re bald asshole, why don’t you just go kill yourself!”

“Uh, excuse me,” said Craig.

“What you want?”

“Just forget it. I’m not going to order anything, just let me pass through and I’ll-”

“OH!” said the employee through the speaker. “Couldn’t find the non-crap menu, is that it?”

“No, it’s not that. I just have a really important conference that I need to get to.”

The same crumpled static sound returned. Craig shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he overheard another private conversation.

“What’d that bald asshole say?”

“He says he’s got a important conference to go to. Says our foods not that crappy.”

“He says it’s not that crappy?”

“Yea! You believe that?”

“Tell him he gets a free meal, on us.”

“Why?”

“So we can spit in it.”

Craig crossed his arms and waited for the employee to return to him.

“Sir,” came the voice.

“Yea?” said Craig.

“We at the Burger King have decided to offer you a free meal to make up for our crappy service.”

“It’s really ok. I’m just going to pass through once this guy in front of me gets his meal.” He checked his watch – five minutes before he needed to be on stage.

“Oh. Don’t worry, we got a speedy delivery service.”

Craig scratched his temple, then muttered to himself. “Speedy delivery?”

The customer ahead of him completed their purchase. The employee in the drive-thru window stuck his head out, then pointed at Craig. He had eyes as narrow as a falcons, and a long mullet in the back. He held an Xtra large fountain soda in one hand, and pointed at Craig with the other.

“Oh no,” said Craig.

He slammed down the gas pedal, and burned rubber as he tore through the drive-thru lane. Right as he was passing the window, both employees hurled coca-cola and french fries into the rental Mercedez. The food and drink splashed and stuck to Craig’s clean suit.

“Shit!” Craig yelled, screeching to a halt. He got out from his Mercedez and brushed the fries off. He shook his head, then shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Can’t afford to be upset today,” he told himself. “The wife and kids are counting on you.”

Craig opened his eyes to find the fast food manager standing by the doorway outside.

“Buford, Marlon! Get out here, some suit driving a Mercedez just poured his french fries out. Come pick it up.”

“Oh no,” said Craig. He rushed back into the rental car, sped straight across the street, then pulled into the parking lot. He took another deep breath, then spoke to himself again. “You can do this. Just calm down, that’s all behind you now.”

Craig exited his Mercedez, straightened his coca-cola stained suit, then checked his watch – he still had three minutes. “Punctuation is key to peak performance,” he said then adjusted his striped tie and smiled.

“You!”

Craig slowly turned and looked in the direction of the yell. Running across the street was Buford and Marlon.

Buford pointed with his mop. “You think you can desecrate the BK lounge and get away with it!”

“Dear… God,” said Craig.

To be continued…

  • Thomas M. Watt

The Ball that Disappeared – Part 3 – Story Finale

sandlot

If you missed Part 1, click here

If you missed Part 2, click here

Hugo remained where he landed – on top of the screen he broke down after diving into Old Man Semos’ living room. The harsh landing knocked the baseball out of his hand, and Old Man Semos had picked it up.

Hugo pushed himself up to his feet. The giant hound continued to bark ferociously as Hugo wondered what would happen next.

Old Man Semos wore a a big straw hat, and he chewed on a long piece of grass. A rifle lay in his lap, and Hugo had no doubt he’d used it before.

“What you doing over here, son? Some people get killed for trespassing.”

Hugo gulped. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Old Man Semos turned the rifle barrel and aimed it at Hugo. He squinted one eye, and locked in on his target.

“Pow!” He said.

Hugo flinched and took a quick step back. Old Man Semos laughed outrageously, then set the rifle aside. “Sure look scared,” he said.

“Give me my ball, sir.”

“What do I get?”

Hugo cautiously approached Old Man Semos. “Nothing.”

“Then I can’t give it to you!” shouted Semos. He grabbed the rifle and aimed it at Hugo again.

“Please sir, that baseball is the last thing my dad left me!”

“Your dad?” Semos lowered the gun, and arched an eyebrow as he stared at the ceiling. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Hugo, now would it?”

Hugo kept his eyes locked on that baseball. Semos was holding it in his hand still, which was at his hip and level with Hugo’s eyes. One quick snatch and he could have it.

“No,” said Hugo.

“What is it?”

“Pudgy.”

“Pudgy?” Semos said, staring curiously back at the boy. “You sure? Can’t imagine any real folks would be dumb enough to name their kid that.”

Hugo’s eyes went wide. “I swear it’s my name.”

“Well, that’s too bad then,” said Semos, before sitting down and tossing the ball up and down in the air. Hugo watched it rise and fall. Semos continued.

“Cause if you were a little boy named Hugo, I might just be able to tell exactly what happened to your dad.”

Hugo stopped tracking the baseball, and looked back at Semos. “What happened to Hugo’s dad?”

Old Man Semos grinned. “He left town altogether. His boy will never see him again, not for the rest of his life.”

Hugo’s heart sank. He knew his dad had left, but hearing he was gone for good made nothing easier. He turned around, then started walking away with his head down. “You can keep the baseball,” he said on his way out.

“Funny thing about that boy Hugo, though,” said Old Man Semos.

Hugo stopped at the doorway, and turned around. Semos tossed him the baseball and he caught it.

“I heard his pops telling people, right before he left, about that boy. Said he’s got an arm like you wouldn’t believe, and so much potential he has no doubt that his kid’s going to be someone special someday.”

“So why did he leave then?”

Semos grinned. “Well, Hugo’s father felt it wouldn’t be fair to the other boys if he stuck around to raise him. Said the only way he could possibly imagine his kid not succeeding, is if all the odds are stacked against him. Says no boy is tough enough to make himself into a man.”

“He said that?”

Semos nodded.

Hugo tossed the ball up, then caught it. “Huh.” He started toward the backyard again.

“Oh, and Hugo?” said Old Man Semos.

“Yeah?”

“As long as you don’t run, my dog isn’t going to chase you.”

Hugo nodded, then walked back through the yard. He squeezed through the fence, ball in hand, and found all the other kids waiting for him on the other side.

“Woah, he did it!” said Pudgy. “We thought you were dog food.”

“Way to go, Hugo,” said Measles, before tossing a friendly punch at Hugo’s shoulder. His reach wasn’t long enough so his elbow straightened and jammed instead. “Ow.”

Hugo smiled as he walked, tossing the ball in his hand as he did. The rest of the kids followed after him.

“What are we gonna do now?” said Measles.

Hugo looked around. He spotted an old, abandoned house way out in the distance. “Betcha I can hit that house.”

“From here?” said Pudgy, before laughing hysterically. “I’d like to see you try, straw man! Ten bucks says you can’t even throw it halfway.”

“I thought your mom gave you that money because you said you needed a better plunger?” said Measles.

“Shut-up Measles,” said Pudgy.

Hugo smirked, then whirled his arm around and let the ball fly.

THE END

  • Thomas M. Watt

Tinder Fun

tinder

A good friend of mine, let’s call him Harry, has this strange fascination with acting like a complete idiot in front of strangers. On a recent night of boredom, he decided to go on tinder and make a complete ass of himself. In case you’re unfamiliar with Tinder, it is a dating app where people match with potential partners then communicate to see if they have any chemistry. It is not uncommon for men to initiate conversations with pick-up lines. Harry, however, is no ordinary pick-up artist. Here are his results:

PART_1439946724621_PART_1439869430485_IMG_3612

PART_1439869431074_IMG_3611 PART_1439869430908_IMG_3607 PART_1439869430681_IMG_3613 PART_1439869430581_IMG_3610 PART_1439869430347_IMG_3609 PART_1439869430191_IMG_3608

  • Thomas M. Watt

Update From Berkeley

zombie-t-shirts

Spent all day yesterday shooting improvised scenes with my buddy. He wants to do a parody on MTV’s True Life. This particular episode focuses on a young man named Trent, who is obsessed with himself. I play Trent’s best friend, who tries to help Trent see the errors of his ways.

I think we got some good shots yesterday. I also felt that the more alcohol I consumed, the better an improvisational actor I became.

Today’s going to be more of the same, and I’d be lying if I told you that acting for my friend with a video camera in a public space is something that comes easy to me. At the end of the day, though, the people willing to make asses of themselves in public are the same people who give themselves an opportunity to make money doing it.

Happy Sunday.

  • Thomas M. Watt