Works in Progress

Written By DWilliam 3/09/2011 06:58:00 PM

Update on the Dean short story:

It is still coming. I even have the first draft "done". Enphasis on air quotes. It still has a long way to go, but in the mean time, here's I little side project I've started:

Click for a LARGE veiw!

The plan is to make a "Case File" for each of the major charactors. Dean, Mal, and some others who I know are important, but are insignificat to anyone that might be reading this because I haven't written anything on them on here. Hopefully this will tide you over though.


More as it comes!


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Seven Years Bad Luck

Written By DWilliam 2/28/2011 09:37:00 PM

No one likes mirrors,
At least I don’t.
The way they follow you
Like some dreadful dancing doppelganger,
Deter-less despite dodges, and ducks
Done desperately by
You
As if they have no other want than
To prick
And prod
And poke
And prod
And prick
And provoke you until you—


No one likes mirrors,
At least I don’t.
The way they won’t let you hide
Or pretend that things look different
Than what they really are.
Like some stupid sun shinning
Shamelessly, shooting straight at
You
As if they have no other propose than
To show
And shimmer
And sheen
And shimmer
And show
And shout at you until you want to—


No one likes mirrors
Maybe you don’t too?


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Shameless Plugging

Written By DWilliam 2/24/2011 12:03:00 AM

The guy singing is as drunk as a skunk, but still hella fun to play.

By far My favorite of the night. Love me some good ol' blues.


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Little Vices

Written By DWilliam 2/20/2011 12:51:00 AM

When Things Get Really Bad, I try to keep myself busy. I pace. Or clean, or go run or train. Anything to keep my mind occupied, to keep the loneliness or whatever flavor of pain I had to deal with at bay for a little longer. Tonight I sat cross-legged on the cold, concrete floor of my dingy apartment arguing with myself of how to not think about what needed to be done. I settled on pulling out my battle-scarred single action Colt .45 out of the cheap cigar box I kept under my rusty bed. I checked the cylinder to make sure it was empty then laid it down on the floor in front of me, convinced that it wouldn't go off unless I wanted it to. 


Next came out the little cleaning kit I had put together over the years. All it had was some Ronsonal, a small shammy, and assorted rods and cotton swabs stuffed into a nylon toiletries bag, but it had worked well enough so far. From what I had seen, the "official" cleaning kits were little more than that anyway. I took each piece out individually and set it near the revolver, each item finding its own place on the ground. 


I picked the handgun back up, the heft of the steel and the sweat soaked wood grip comfortable and familiar. Even though it had been months since I'd had to fire a shot some part of me welcomed back the sturdy  weight. It disturbed me a little just how used to using the weapon I had gotten. There was a time when I would have curled my lip in disgust at the though of using the things. I couldn't understand why someone would use them, the cruel machines that only served one purpose, but those feelings were an innocence that I didn't have the luxury of keeping.  I knew know that even things such as guns-things that were only used for death-had their place in the world I had to live in. That even though they held dangers and consequences, the price of not using them was too high. Much like my own knowledge and abilities, whatever risks there were I'd face if it meant the safety of  another or myself. 


So I picked up the oil and some cotton swabs and settled into the silent, meticulous routine of cleaning my dangerous tool, hoping like I always did that I wouldn't have to use it.     










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