Tag Archives: story

A Noir: In Three Parts

Part 1: Introduction

Our hero stands not so tall above the grime and grit of the City. He wallows in the gutterstench and he has a grease slick smile that spreads like spilled oil. His words burn spark and inflame the coming conflict. More than anything, it’s his ability to rub everyone the wrong way that opens up the case.

He moves in slow spirals toward the abyss, circling passed the bottle blonde with the pouting lips and the hair’s breadth dagger, passed the two-timing hood with the half-bent nose and absent heart, passed the reclusive old man who buries his dirty secrets in the City’s darkest chasms.

Down the detective moves, into darkness, where only the sound of his heart can be heard.

Part 2: The Conflict

It starts as a heartbeat’s slow thud rhythm. A steady punctuation mark, an ellipses between actions…waiting. Then a noise. Cloth rustling.

The beat speeds up.

Then another rapping. Footsteps tapping on concrete floor, hard shoes that run for cover, ringing out staccatto beats. Stutter step, a missed beat here, quick step slide. A beat with no rhythm now. Missed breath, catch in chest, ratta-tat-tat, quick, duck, down, low.

Silence.

Explosion of noise. Orange flame, dark night, sparks of light. Here, here, here. Flash and bang. Quick shots. Duck, roll, drop, spin. Violent percussion, cacophony. No beat.

Just noise.

Then the scream…the wail….break and silence looms.

Part Three: The End

A long whispered sigh begins to count out the evils that lead to this moment; to this point where the detective stands over the villain. A quiet thrum of dialog that explains everything. The gradual spilling of truth in a room heavy with copper smells and acrid smoke. The dead keep silent in the wings while all is revealed and they find out why they had to die.

An unfolding explanation that brings resolution to the reader and leaves the detective nothing but a mouthfull of ashes and a longing for the bottle.

Dylan Charles

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Filed under Experimenting

Me and the Devil Blues

I’ve not really been on speaking terms with music lately. I’ve listened to the same two playlists over and over again, to the point where I no longer hear the music. It’s just a droning noise in the background, indistinguishable from any other sound. An endless, sound that rolls and wavers that is little more than white noise to me. Occasionally I’ll catch a snatch of something that sparks, jolting me into actually hearing what I’ve been listening to, but then it subsides again into a mindless atonal noise.

It’s a depressing thing, because while having music isn’t the end-all for me, it does mean something to me and it plays an important role in my creative drive. It’s always been there to me, to more or lesser degrees. I’ve even based some stories (loosely) on songs I’ve listened to. Sometimes it’s just a feeling that the song provokes that I then translate into story format, like the song “Wanna Rock & Roll” where a man with a cold black heart and red hot mind kills his lady because she dances with another man. If you’ve read my stories, you can probably see why this song appeals to me.

It’s always functioned as a catalyst for me, but lately I’ve been stuck in a rut, both in my writing and what I’ve been listening. So maybe if I switch up what I’ve been listening to, I can get back to writing again in earnest.

If I can find the time anyway.

15 Days Remaining.

Dylan Charles

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Filed under Pop Culturing: Movies, Books, Comic Books and Other Arts

Portrait of a Writer’s Block

It is not without trepidition that I start this post. Not because I’m concerned that I’ll reveal some deep dark secret, one that will shock the world and cause my friends to abandon me in droves. Nor am I concerned that I’ll dissolve in a misty, murky jumble of emotionally driven platitudes and cliches, vomiting out angst onto the screen for everyone to see.

Both would actually be preferable to the reality: which is that I am devoid of idea, absent of thought and bereft of creative jots.

At the most, my brain holds an iota (but no more) of concept, lurking somewhere in the back; a thing, frail Phantom, waiting in the wings to deliver The Idea. I can hear him, just a murmur, a whisper of notion.

But so far, he’s not saying anything that I can hear.

So I keep writing, in the hopes that he’ll speak up before I hit the end. But it’s becoming more and more unlikely that he’ll make an appearance. Deus ex machinas are so rare in real life. No shadowy figures standing in doorways who step into the light to reveal it’s the hero that everyone thought was dead. No cavalry, who conveniently remained hidden behind a hill until they were most needed, and then burst onto the scene to the joy of the buxom woman and the desperate gunslinger, their backs to canyon wall while fearsome injuns prepare to pepper them with arrows.

I’m getting closer to the end now and still nothing. I fear my Phantom idea has exited, in hopes of finding greener passages in which to burgeon. Which leaves me to dig deeper, trying to find the words to end this entry, releasing both you AND me from this shapeless purgatory.

In cases such as these, it’s always best to just go with the cliche. That’s why they exist after all, to provide refuge for those who cannot find the words to describe something.

So let’s cap this off with two little words and you can be on your way. Leaving me here, still looking, still hoping, that I’ll come up with something to write about.

THE END

Dylan Charles

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Filed under Writing: Novels, Stories, Blogs and Comics