Writer’s Workshop – House of Error

Writer’s Workshop – Being in a Gas Station While It’s Getting Robbed

This post was written on Monday the 15th, the day after my February “break” post.

A lot of things happened today.

By way of update: I was woken up by the guy upstairs playing his music. But when I went on an investigation (fully contemplating gross sabotage of their front door), I discovered that not only was the music actually coming from downstairs, the people blasting it were an old couple. Which I discovered because they cranked it so loud that I heard it through my noise-cancelling headphones (which work, but aren’t literal magic capable of perfectly muting 80 decibels), so I just had to go down there, knock, ask nicely for whoever to turn it down, and pray for the best. Thankfully, they turned down the music enough where I barely hear it without the headphones, and don’t hear it at all with the headphones.

With that out of the way, I was also in a gas station earlier, when it was getting robbed.

And, this totally was not what I intended to write about.

But how the fuck could I not?

Because, on one hand, I’m still processing. And, on the other hand, in the most mercenary-writer way, it’s at least a useful experience.

I will say immediately that I’m pretty sure the other people involved were fine. I was literally the only person not behind a counter, and the people the robber was threatening were behind a protective barrier, but they still immediately gave him money (meaning the chances of him shooting them were extremely low–if you don’t know, people committing robberies in real life usually don’t want to shoot anyone and make their rap sheet worse). Anyway, this was also not a small mom and pop gas station, so the only loser today was the gas station chain (and, whatever–get fucked American corporation).

That said . . .

The confusion hit first. Something like the Uncanny Valley. I was hearing an amalgam of a million movie quotes, but spoken aloud–sincerely.

My brain took a moment to catch up, so it’s impossible to remember what he said, but it was something like, “Alright! I am not fucking around! Let’s go!” The words of a caricature, stepping out of the fourth wall to remind me that, yes, these things happen.

I looked and saw a man poised against the gas station’s counter, his hands on it, arranged to conceal what could only be a gun (there was no way clerks behind a wall wound freak out for a knife). And as I turned back, I realized a few of things:

I didn’t wear my glasses today. Half-awake and in the heat of preparing to confront a noisy neighbor, I stumbled out of my apartment without putting them on. Because of course I did.
A lifetime of action movies trained me to expect Arnold Schwarzenegger, Spider-Man, or whoever to show up and stop this. As a writer hearing dialogue and auto-assigning the next step in the action, I know I thought of this for a moment, but only in relation to whatever process reigned it in–the part of my brain that sounded the This Is Not A Fucking Movie alarm.
I was the only person standing on the store floor. There were people behind the gas station’s counter–women who were screaming and a guy who kept shouting something–and one guy behind its mini Dunkin Donuts counter (who disappeared into the back immediately to–I assume–call the police) but I was the only person on the floor itself.
And I was standing at the ATM, which still had my card, and was slowly dispensing my rent.

All it would take was for this man to look to his left, see me at the ATM, and he could’ve walked up and demanded what I was taking out. Because I, a person who has experienced guns before, knew that they are the ultimate means of control. If someone points a gun at you and tells you to do something, you do it–unless you have real life training that gives you other options (which almost no one does).

In that scenario, I would either give him the money, or he’d shoot me for it.

But . . . he was too busy shouting for the clerks to “Get the other one! The other one!” which I guess meant “the other register.”

I stood there, frozen, staring at the ATM screen as it processed the withdrawal, contemplating if I should just leave, aware that the clerks would be fine because this was a chain (they had nothing to lose, were already giving the robber the money, and thus, he was extremely unlikely to shoot them). Honestly never for a single second did I think I should help (all of the boyhood fantasies I’ve had about confronting a robber and / or talking them down were lost immediately in the sea of adulthood–the cold, hard realization that “there is no wall protecting me, so on the off-chance that he really is trigger happy, he can just fucking shoot me whenever”).

A thousand breathless thoughts before the ATM flicked to “Your transaction is approved!” and the male clerk behind the gas station counter shouted, “That’s it! We’re closed, man!” And then, in an oddly casual way, like either he was tired of shouting or he and the other clerks had retreated far enough–into a room behind the counter–that they knew they were fine, “We’re closed, man. Nah, we’re closed.” I still don’t know what that means.

But the ATM whirred and finally finished dispensing.

And then, I did not even look back, certain that if I did, I’d be spotted.

I just took the money–folding it into my wallet in one quick motion which, in retrospect, was probably the dumbest thing I could’ve done (guaranteeing that if he saw me, “Give me the money!” would’ve turned into “Give me the wallet!”).

But, if he did see, he deemed the risk of trying to rob a dude who was already walking out of the store–a man who maybe didn’t see him?–not worth it.

The only reason I didn’t run is because, when I came out, there was another guy standing near the door who had to be a look out, and I didn’t want to draw attention. For the same reason (I honestly did not remember the Dunkin worker at the time), I didn’t call the cops, assuming that keeping an eye out for snitches was part of guy #2’s job. I just crossed the street immediately, looked back (which was another stupid mistake because, without my glasses, the station and guy #2 were just a massive blur from that distance [so all looking back did was almost get me caught]) and then kept walking.

I’ve been checking the news since to see if I could find details about the robbery. I even made the mistake of downloading Citizen App again–which, if you’re unfamiliar, is an app that shows incidents, like stabbings and fires, in a region (which means it’s massively depressing for New York)–but I’ve found nothing. [Edit: Even checking back now, on Sunday afternoon, I found nothing about my robbery.]

Which cranks the hopelessness meter to ‘Ultra Max,’ even though I didn’t lose anything, and–to my knowledge–no one else did either.

In part, it’s because I could not give a single detail about this robber–the ATM was far enough away from the counter that I, a blind man without his glasses, couldn’t have made out the dude’s face even if he looked back at me and I stared, neither of which happened. The glance I took was on the dude’s hands and posture, so I’m not even secure in the observation that he had a dark jacket on.

So, basically, I would be less-than-no-help in this situation, which makes me feel so oddly stupid.

And that’s probably the major takeaway here, writing-wise; I’ve been robbed at gunpoint before–when I was much, much younger–and that came with its own, way more acute sense of hopelessness, but even just being a bystander, realizing that there was genuinely nothing helpful that I could do in the moment (that legitimately I would only make the situation worse) fucking sucks. But that feeling goes beyond the moment; having been involved in police investigations before–working security and the aforementioned time I was mugged–I can’t help imagining the look on an officer’s face when I tell him, “No, I didn’t have my glasses, but maybe he had a dark jacket on?” I can almost hear him sighing, “Waste of my fucking time.” Like, thanks. I fucking hate it. I hate that sleepily deciding not to go back for my glasses impacted the day that strongly. And I hate that, even if I had gone back for them, I would only be able to provide a detail or two to the NYPD, an institution that, after 2020, demonstrably doesn’t give a fuck about me or any of the minorities working that gas station–an institution that would only be motivated to catch that robber if it turned out he wasn’t white.

Okay. I’m just moving on from that. I’m frustrated, guys. My bad. Focusing now–we’re focusing.

Another writing takeaway: in the moment, information is crystal clear but processing at such a hectic rate that you easily forget things. Like, all data is streamlined for your survival (i.e. “I’m at the ATM,” “he has a gun,” “no one else is on this side of the counters with him but me,” etc.), but that means some data is shoved right the fuck out of your brain to make space; I saw that dude working the Dunkin Donuts counter, looked at his face and acknowledged he was not the dude who was normally there, and then noted that he disappeared during the incident, but by the time I was outside (10 seconds later) I completely forgot he’d been there at all when I was considering calling the cops. That weird survival instinct to, I guess, override non-threatening information is totally new to me. Like, if it wasn’t pertinent to me getting the fuck out of that gas station, it did not exist.

And, last thing, having that event just absorbed by the general horror of life–finding that it was not bad enough to make headlines–is also kind of terrible.

Because worse things happened in the Bronx [that day].

At least it’s a soft confirmation that no one in that gas station got shot.

The little things, I guess.

~~~

Phew.

I genuinely don’t get how my life has become this batshit. Like, everything is a bad mess lately. I don’t want to go into detail, but yeah, the rest of the week was bad too.

But I’m just tired of focusing on all of that. I really want to get back to posting happy, fun stuff. I also want to redesign the website (I made a new logo for it and everything, and I’m excited to settle into a new, more fun vibe).

So, today, I’m gonna go order a veggie burger with coffee and get to work making things better for myself–in whatever ways I can.

Thanks for listening, and hopefully my account of this experience can be useful to your writing.

If you’re new here, thanks for passing by. I post every Sunday, so if you’re keen to hear more–about my life or my writing progress–feel free to stop by next Sunday.

Until then, take care, breathe deep, and maybe just lie down for a minute. Like, just breathe slowly and let a nap happen if you can. Cause we all deserve it.

Writer’s Workshop – A House on Gravel (& Some Much-Needed Venting)

The house looked like it was falling apart. A squat, thin rectangle of wood slowly dipping toward the gravel, but never quite making it. Not because it refused to go down, but because giving in would be too much work for it. “Ugh. I’m just gonna stay just like this,” it might sigh, and I, slow blinking as I looked at it, would nod and say, “I get it.”

“It looks terrible on the outside, but inside it’s really nice,” my friend said. He wasn’t wrong; the room he wanted to rent to me was particularly nice–larger than any of the rooms in my current apartment, especially after I came out of my room on December 21st to find the superintendent splitting the living room into two more bedrooms. Apparently, my old roommates, having moved on to a house, went full-on “money-hungry assholes”; they’re cramming as many people as possible into this tiny apartment. Because of course.

Which is why I was in Connecticut in the first place. I was really, really hoping to make a quick move to avoid whatever eight additional people my old roommates were going to wedge into their old apartment.

But then, there was the house perpetually tipping. And their bathroom with literal shit caked on the toilet. And the town itself, where we grabbed dinner and I was warned to quiet down because I was making fun of flat earthers and apparently there was a 90% chance one of the old white people watching me at that restaurant was a flat earther.

I was so hopeful that it would work out. And if I was a different person, it definitely would’ve.

But, as I am now, I couldn’t help looking at that tired house and nodding.

“Better to just stay like this.”

It’s been a while since I’ve done a “Writer’s Workshop,” and this is one I needed to do.

Because I really needed to vent.

After my last post, shit fell apart pretty quickly. The super was here almost the entire time, using power tools and leaving piles of empty Coors Light cans fucking everywhere.

I’ve still stayed productive, and it’s probably for the best that I didn’t have a totally chill, calm holiday because I would’ve become complacent. As is, I’m actively going out, trying to find somewhere else to live while hoping that, in the meantime, my new roommates won’t be loud monsters.

So far so good–I met one of those roommates, who came in while I was eating dinner last night. An old black man who was wearing a mask and–thankfully–was not down to shake hands or stop and chat. The nightmare for me is the party dude who comes cartwheeling in without a mask and asks what I’m cooking, so an old man saying hi and going to his room to tend to his own business is exactly the kind of roommate I want.

Fingers crossed for the rest of them.

And fingers crossed about any of the jobs I’ve been applying to. This week, I delve into the bizarre realm of freelance work, temporarily sidelined by packing up when I hoped I was moving to Connecticut. With any luck, I’ll have a good enough first week to feel secure leaning into it.

Because the dream is not having to strap in. I don’t want to be here a few more months.

But if the first few weeks of the Year of Endings are any indication, this is going to be a non-stop struggle.

Because of course.

~~~

Thanks for passing by. I’m definitely going back to the usual content next week, but I just got back from CT yesterday and needed to vent.

I’m pretty sure I’m going to gush about my writing group next week, because I’ve wanted to talk about them for a while–how two close friends have kept me going for months now and how they’re helping me make Memory awesome–so expect that next Sunday.

Until then, thank you for passing by, and I hope you have a Happy National Spaghetti Day! And no, I’m not making that up. The 4th is also National Trivia Day, but not on this fucking blog. Get yer spaghet, erbody!

Writer’s Workshop #5 – “Let’s Dance”

Disclaimer: I went in . . . really hard on the “I’m going to start posting whatever day of the week” thing. If this is your first time hearing this, yes, expect posts on days other than Monday. My work schedule continues to demand flexibility from the rest of my life, so I’m now officially posting on whatever day I have off. I will always aim for “before the weekend” though.

Anyway, thanks for popping in for a read!

The other day, I was texting a friend.

She was bored at work, and I, being the world’s biggest enabler, suggested, “Why not try a little writing?”

She perked up, totally went for it . . . and asked me for writing prompts.

Huh . . . It’s not like I have something against writing prompts, but I never do them. Even when they’re posed to me, I have a hard time working on one instead of just gravitating toward a WIP.

So, with that said, I’ve definitely never made one up.

Still, this friend is “The Best Person in the World” on my phone, so I wasn’t going to let her down.

I came up with two prompts . . . both of which came easily, to my surprise.

Your favorite character from the book you’re reading walks into you job. Sure, it could be someone who looks like them . . . but you can’t shake the feeling it’s really them. Is there some way to find out? Some way to ask without being rude or weird?
A living, breathing ostrich walks into your job. No one else sees it, but maybe that’s because it seems tame; it’s not squawking or running around. In fact, it’s just standing there, calmly looking around before expectantly looking at you. There’s a note tied to its neck.

My friend did the first prompt, which she left off with a cliffhanger I’m still curious about.

But, me? I’ve decided I have to do the ostrich prompt. Enjoy.

~~~

It was often quiet at the reception desk. Hours would pass with only the occasional phone call — people ringing to ask the same three questions. After long enough, reception started to feel like its own pocket dimension; was there really an outside? Did people ever see each other, or did they just call to ask, “When are you closing today?”

“6PM, sir/ma’am.”

“Okay! Thanks!”

I mean, what else would people say to each other? Louis wondered.

And that’s when the doors beside the reception desk banged open — the antechamber giving Louis a chance to jump awake and straighten his shirt. Some other poor soul had stumbled into this quiet hell, and Louis was determined to at least nod to them.

But, when he looked up with a casual smirk, there was an ostrich standing at his desk.

Louis went wide-eyed and leaned back. Ages previous, he’d been in the hallway of the Bronx Zoo’s education department when a kangaroo had walked out and started aggressively gnawing at his shoe laces. It hadn’t actually hurt him, but it could’ve. It was big enough . . .

. . . and this was a giant bird. It was looking down at him, triggering his fear of cassowaries.

Only . . . the longer Louis stared, the calmer this ostrich seemed. The quieter. He glanced at the security desk, where an officer sat, staring at a screen of camera feeds. She hadn’t even turned around. Why? Did she not hear it?

Or am I . . . hallucinating this ostrich?

With a deep breath, Louis nodded to the silent creature.

And it quirked its head to one side — a small gesture that unsettled the pink bow around its neck just enough for Louis to realize it wasn’t a bow at all.

“Is –,” Louis began without thinking. Rule #1 of Being Crazy: At least try not to be crazy in public. If the ostrich wasn’t there, he’d be talking to an empty office.

Thankfully, the security officer was still staring at her camera feeds.

Quietly, Louis waved the ostrich closer.

There was something tied to its neck.

Careful, gentle, Louis reached up and untied a small roll of parchment. He wanted to ask the ostrich, “For me?” but it wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t — he was going to read it regardless.

As quietly as he could, he unrolled the parchment, and squinted at words in a neat, flowing hand.

“Let’s dance.”

Music came on. A simple jam of loud, obnoxious synth bass on a five second loop.

The ostrich started bobbing its head to the beat. Then started doing ungraceful hops around the reception desk.

Louis narrowed his eyes. No . . . I refuse to believe I’m this crazy.

When the ostrich started squawking, the security officer spun around, cried out, and jumped to her feet, cursing. She rushed off, shouting into her radio . . .

. . . as the antechamber door banged open . . .

. . . and Louis jumped awake, straightened his shirt, looked up.

His relief was smirking at him. “Lunch time, dude.”

As he stood, Louis saw a feather on the floor, caught in the breeze from outside. It was obviously a pigeon feather.

But Louis still smiled as his dumb kid brain gasped, wide-eyed. “It wasn’t a dream!”

~~~

Well, there it is. The first writing prompt I’ve ever committed to. Really, it was just another opportunity for me to write something weird, so how could I pass it up?

I hope you enjoyed this one, and, as always, thank you so much just for passing by and giving me a read.

My name is Louis Santiago, and I’m a fantasy writer based in the Bronx. My short story, “Aixa the Hexcaster,” was published last year in Mirror Dance Fantasy. However, I’m still very much learning about the writing process — still trying to figure it out — which means posting here every week, even though I make absolutely no money from it. So, if you like what you read here and feel up to getting updates by email — a new post from me delivered right to your inbox — then please hit the Follow button at the bottom of this page. Because, even though all I get from this site is emotional support, that support means the world to me.

May your dreams tonight be filled with dancing animals. And, as always, write well.

Writer’s Workshop #3 – Crazy, Teddy Bear-Headlock Lady

I’d just sat down for coffee and a bagel when she walked in. A woman in her 20’s, hair in a wiry bun at the top of her head, wearing a fuschia coat that was too baggy for her stick thin body.

At first, I thought maybe she had a disability. If so, it would’ve meant she was functional–out and about on her own–which is always a nice thing to see. My mother has taught children with learning disabilities for decades, a job focused on teaching disabled kids how to function in casual society.

At first, I also thought maybe she was nice–possibly because of the pink coat.

But then she opened her mouth.

“I don’t have time for this shit!” she belted, in a voice that made it clear she had no disability. That this was just a woman in her 20’s, pissed that no one was at the counter when she walked in.

That’s when I noticed the first teddy bear, clamped under her right arm in a tight headlock.

Another man might have thought she was taking that bear someplace–that it was a gift for a child, maybe–but I spotted a second teddy bear immediately, grasped by its face in one of her hands, a talon of thin fingers constricting a button nose.

She kept cursing, walking back and forth along the length of my local Dunkin Donuts / Taco Bell combo.

And I just set in on my bagel. Not saying anything, not telling her to simmer down.

Because I’m a New Yorker. In that moment, I was wearing a t-shirt with a giant, smiling cat on it, rosy-cheeked as it thought of burning a house down. It is not the most embarrassing shirt I’ve ever worn, but it’s close. And yet, I was still outside, wearing it, not caring. Because I’ve seen people do worse things than this woman, wear worse things than my shirt, and not a one of them had been violently crazy.

We’re just a bizarre city.

One bite of my bagel, one sip of my coffee, and she was gone, disturbing no one–never really making a scene.

And a half hour later, while I was in F.Y.E., the bell for the front door chimed. The employees at the counter let up a little cheer–a fond greeting. I looked up from the Nuka Cola shirt I was about to buy, and there she was, smiling, waving, both teddy bears still clamped close to her body.

I smiled.

~~~

Thanks for reading!

If you’re a regular, I appreciate you stopping by again. If you liked what you read, please drop a Like–it helps me determine what my readers enjoy on here.

If you’re new, my name is Louis Santiago, and I’m a fantasy writer based in the Bronx. My short story, “Aixa the Hexcaster,” was recently published in Mirror Dance Fantasy. However, I’m still very much learning about the writing process–still trying to figure it out. Part of that means posting on here every weekday, even though I make absolutely no money from it. So, if you like what you read here and feel up to getting an email every weekday–a new post from me delivered right to your inbox–then please hit the Follow button at the bottom of this page. Because, even though all I get from this site is emotional support, that support means the world to me.

But no matter what you do, no matter where you come from, thanks for checking out my site. And, as always, write well.

Writer’s Workshop #2 – The Quintessential Cat

Hi there, and welcome back to the Writer’s Workshop.

For today’s edition, I thought I’d depart from tasting things (my memory of roman nougat’s Pink 12 flavor from last week is still too fresh in my mind).

Instead, I’m going visual this week, focusing on reading emotions.

Now, full disclosure, I’d been intending to go to the MoMA and workshop a particular piece that heavily influenced my early fantasy work, but I didn’t get my days off last week and didn’t want to sacrifice a few writing hours to go downtown. Especially when today’s also laundry day.

So, instead, I decided to take the challenge of fully describing something that has a complex personality . . .

. . . but also doesn’t talk.

Why? Because I have a completely non-expressive familiar in my current WIP, so trying to describe my cat, Kendra, in a way that does her justice, feels like a relevant challenge.

Here we go.

~~~

She was a black and white ball of fur and contradictions. In that way, the exact kind of cat that made people dislike cats.

She loved to be pet, but only on her terms. She never bit, clawed, or snapped at anyone, too sweet for that. But if you tried to pet her more than she wanted at a given moment, she’d give up on you. It was the only way to put it; unwilling to give you a second chance, her green eyes would roll away, looking at nothing, following it out of the room, even if she’d run to you seconds before, eager for a petting.

She’d give you an oddly gentle death stare if you pressed your face against her, trying to emulate cat affection–potentially offensive, in her case.

And if you glomped her, she would jump to outraged confusion.

All of those emotions played out on a face of strong features that never moved, her feelings expressed only by a lifting and lowering of her eyelids. If they were wide open, it meant she was surprised, confused, or curious. At 75% open, she was comfortable, tired, or sleepily wondering why I just glomped her. 50% or lower, she was enjoying being pet, or already deep in a dream about ignoring someone who wanted to pet her.

But, naturally for such a cat, she loved having those dreams while cuddling with her human as they slept. As if she wanted to love, but only when no one was awake to see it.

~~~

I wound up posting this a later in the day than usual because I kept trying to get a picture of Kendra for a feature image. She wasn’t having it. Surprise, surprise.

Gotta be honest here . . . That wasn’t hard at all. I feel like I basically just ranted about my cat for a moment, although some of the descriptions were fun.

Regardless, it was okay practice for describing the personality of something that barely emotes–a reminder that you have to rely on such a thing’s actions to illustrate its personality. And that, regardless of how inaccurate they may be, guesses at such a thing’s intentions help illustrate how the viewer relates to said thing.

I’ll take it. Next week, however, it’s challenging workshop or bust. I will get to the MoMA.

But, for now, thanks for reading. And, as always, write well.

Writer’s Workshop #1 – A Box of Discounted Chocolates

It’s Fuck It Wednesday.

What’s that? Never heard of it? Well, let me enlighten you. Fuck It _____day is the day after Valentine’s Day. A day when all of the romance is over, and what matters is that Valentine’s Day chocolate is super discounted. And hey, maybe you’re on a diet.

But eh. Fuck it.

Why am telling you this? Well, I woke up today with an intense urge to turn one of my writing habits into an ongoing series here on the site.

You see, sometimes, I want to write, but I don’t have my WIP handy. At those times, I buckle down and write something insubstantial anyway, just for practice. As a really intense editor, one of my favorite aspects of writing is problem solving, so I often take these WIP-less moments to try to describe something I see in one clear, evocative sentence. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

But either way, I’m here today, on Fuck It Wednesday, to share a box of chocolates with you by trying to describe a few pieces in as few sentences as I can. Just to warm up before the day’s writing session.

My rules: I’m going to take more than one sentence here, because I think it’ll make for a better read. I’m also going to pretend I don’t know what some pieces are, because I’m a fantasy writer, not a food critic; my entire deal is describing new, strange things, not reporting on the quality of $9 nougat.

My hope: I get the one really, really gross piece before I’m done.

Let’s get to it.

First Piece:

Immediately, he knew he’d made a mistake. The first bite was anti-flavor embodied, coming in slow rushes as he chewed, making his own mouth betray him. There was chocolate, yes, but inside of it waited a clinging mass of chemicals. It tasted like a color. He decided that color was Pink 12, and somewhere, in the heart of a factory, a machine had been too generous with it.

Comments: Oh God. That was it–immediately. I got the gross one. I think it was supposed to be cherry, but it never is. Ugh.

Wait. Hold on. The box has one of those cheat sheets . . . “Roman Nougat.” There it is. When in Rome, eat disgusting candy.

Okay. Moving on.

Second Piece:

He expected to bite it, but broke it with his teeth instead. A fragile piece of candy that was oddly mute. Safe. Meant to be a buffer between him and its brethren, perhaps, but incapable of impressing on its own, without a doubt. It was only arguably remarkable in the shadow of other chocolates.

A strange thing for a piece of candy, he thought.

Comments: I think that was nougat? Wait. Checking the cheat sheet. “Chocolate Butter Cream.” Hmm. If you say so.

By the way, it feels weird to be giving this much attention to a box of chocolates. But, to be honest, I had no idea what I was going to write for this second chocolate, so at least I’m actually warming up.

Third Piece:

It refused to be eaten.

He tried his best, even mouthing a determined grunt as the chocolate fought back. Eventually, he won, rewarded with a mouthful of chewy molasses, clinging to his teeth so long that he wasn’t sure the chewing was ever truly over.

Comments: That one was clearly caramel, so the challenge was not just saying, “It’s caramel.”

Although I’m finding it interesting that I’m getting weird with all of these. I guess it’s just my reflex to make descriptions strange? To personify chocolate and make it contentious?

Whatever. I’m having fun.

Last Piece:

He was off guard the moment he started chewing.

The candy wasn’t bad, but he had no idea what was in it. No, it was somehow worse than that. The candy didn’t want him to know what it was. There was a crunchy bit that made him think of almonds, but there was only the one–a ghost in a sharp affair of other flavors, all of them rushing in, too strong for him to taste anything but sweet.

Comments: Oh yeah, that’s my last piece. I’m assuming it was almond something? . . . “Chocolate . . . Butter Cream.” What the hell? Well, that was the last thing I expected to happen here. I realize now that this piece does look like the second, but they genuinely tasted really different.

Maybe that means the second piece of roman nougat isn’t as vile? I’m not gonna find out.

This last piece says a lot about paying attention to individuals in a group. Of not assuming that one leaf, for example, will look exactly like another leaf. I’m a big fan of paying too much attention to everything, so I’m glad to put an admittedly bizarre example of uniqueness out there–especially because experiencing it was so easy to miss.

Maybe I’m just being weird, but I would’ve had a much more boring experience if I’d just looked at the cheat sheet and known this last piece was chocolate butter cream before eating it. I’m glad I didn’t.

Especially because I think that, as humans, we naturally do that all the time. We know that each leaf is different, but we dismiss them as identical on a daily basis. I don’t want to get all meta here though, so I’ll just say this:

Don’t forget the small details. They’re beautiful and they matter.

~~~

And also, if you have a box of chocolates, why not have an existential crisis over it? That would make a weird afternoon, you say? I agree.

But eh. Fuck it.

As always, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this one; there will be more Writer Workshops in the future for sure.

Until then, thanks for passing by. And, as always, write well.