Jim Linsa's Blog
January 26, 2017
The Perfect Dream
Here's a scene I've been working on lately.
Later she took a bath while he made a fire. He had left all the lights off, and it was dark when she came down from upstairs into the flickering shadows, wearing her jeans with nothing under them; he could tell as she came closer because they were open in front all the way down to the bottom of the V. Then there was the ruby necklace Gideon had given her, and the emerald pendant dangling from her navel, the same one she had worn the day of the father-son tournament. Ah – they were the same jeans.
You could say she was giving mixed signals, the red light of Gideon's ruby, the green light of the pendant; and in between, where you might have expected the amber light for caution, nothing but her stunning bare breasts glowingly illuminated by the light of the wood fire.
It certainly was an eye-catching ensemble, but after he had taken it in Jim cast a look of at the ruby and scowled. “Why are you wearing that?”
“Don't you think they should have come back by now?” Linsa asked, coming closer to the fire for warmth and pressing against him, sitting on the rug in front of the wood stove, choosing to ignore him, adding instead, “If they were going to?”
Jim continued to stare at the offending ruby, and muttered, “So I killed you.” Silence. He spoke again, clarifying. “In a previous lifetime.”
"Um-hum."
The ruby glinted between her breasts, so close that it was hard not to melt against it, and he did; and in the process he touched her breasts too, and his cheek to hers, taking in the scent of her hair.
"There was another one, though,” she said, drawing her cheek across his lips as she turned her head to face him.
"What do you mean?”
"Remember? I told you?”
Clearly, he didn’t.
“That night at the Machrie? After the best fuck of my life? Omigod! I wish it had never ended.” A shudder passed through her body. “That night, I mean.” Their lips were so close to touching that they were touching, but only just barely. “That wasn’t the only time we were together,” she murmured. She sighed as they shared each other's breath. "The first time you killed me. The second time I killed you." She looked into his eyes from so close that their eyes were all that they could make out of one another.
"How do you know it was me?" Jim asked. Perhaps not the response she had expected, but a reasonable question to ask. "I mean, was my name Jim? Did I look like me?" His hands traveled down her back to her hips; then while one moved to stroke the base of her coccyx and explore the cleft beneath it, the other squeezed between his body and hers to enfold a breast. “All right. There was another time. You killed me. You wanta tell me about it?”
"Okay," she whispered, staring into the flames as he kissed the hollow between her neck and her shoulder and his hands burned into her, even hotter than the fire.
Later she took a bath while he made a fire. He had left all the lights off, and it was dark when she came down from upstairs into the flickering shadows, wearing her jeans with nothing under them; he could tell as she came closer because they were open in front all the way down to the bottom of the V. Then there was the ruby necklace Gideon had given her, and the emerald pendant dangling from her navel, the same one she had worn the day of the father-son tournament. Ah – they were the same jeans.
You could say she was giving mixed signals, the red light of Gideon's ruby, the green light of the pendant; and in between, where you might have expected the amber light for caution, nothing but her stunning bare breasts glowingly illuminated by the light of the wood fire.
It certainly was an eye-catching ensemble, but after he had taken it in Jim cast a look of at the ruby and scowled. “Why are you wearing that?”
“Don't you think they should have come back by now?” Linsa asked, coming closer to the fire for warmth and pressing against him, sitting on the rug in front of the wood stove, choosing to ignore him, adding instead, “If they were going to?”
Jim continued to stare at the offending ruby, and muttered, “So I killed you.” Silence. He spoke again, clarifying. “In a previous lifetime.”
"Um-hum."
The ruby glinted between her breasts, so close that it was hard not to melt against it, and he did; and in the process he touched her breasts too, and his cheek to hers, taking in the scent of her hair.
"There was another one, though,” she said, drawing her cheek across his lips as she turned her head to face him.
"What do you mean?”
"Remember? I told you?”
Clearly, he didn’t.
“That night at the Machrie? After the best fuck of my life? Omigod! I wish it had never ended.” A shudder passed through her body. “That night, I mean.” Their lips were so close to touching that they were touching, but only just barely. “That wasn’t the only time we were together,” she murmured. She sighed as they shared each other's breath. "The first time you killed me. The second time I killed you." She looked into his eyes from so close that their eyes were all that they could make out of one another.
"How do you know it was me?" Jim asked. Perhaps not the response she had expected, but a reasonable question to ask. "I mean, was my name Jim? Did I look like me?" His hands traveled down her back to her hips; then while one moved to stroke the base of her coccyx and explore the cleft beneath it, the other squeezed between his body and hers to enfold a breast. “All right. There was another time. You killed me. You wanta tell me about it?”
"Okay," she whispered, staring into the flames as he kissed the hollow between her neck and her shoulder and his hands burned into her, even hotter than the fire.
November 19, 2016
Babbling
Everyone thought he was great, and may again some day. But at the moment no one likes him.
November 16, 2016
Electrocution
Hanging out around here feels kind of like being electrocuted. Of course, playing golf, another thing I putatively enjoy doing, also feels like being electrocuted. I've given up all the other things I "enjoy" doing.
'cept writing. That I love.
'cept writing. That I love.
November 10, 2016
Leibnitz
I'm working on a cyberpunk sci-fi story set on and around the Santa Cruz Boardwalk not too far in the future called Leibnitz. Sex, supernaturalism, skateboarding, and Leibniz come into it. Aliens. Divination. Topology.
It turns out Leibnitz is really spelled Leibniz, if you want to be correct about it. There seems to be a Wikipedia entry spelled Leibnitz, which may be how I got off on the wrong track. At this point I feel comfortable using the "wrong" spelling. My method of writing employs a lot of alternate reality experimentation anyway. The eponymous character in Leibnitz really has very little to do with the German philosopher. I do plan to read Monadology and have the character Leibnitz speak in German periodically, quoting from the book. Interestingly, Leibniz wrote Monadology in French, and the version I'll be reading will be an English translation. My current plan is to run the English through the Google English-German translator for the German passages in the story, thereby returning Leibniz' original ideas to his native German by way of French and English.
Anyway, having fun with it. Here's a sample passage.
Winding [on skateboards] through the stretch of Miramar Drive that tilts beneath the mountains and above the ocean they arrive together at a mushroom joint open late run by aliens called Sea Fungi.
When their courses arrive, Tula observes, "I never know what these things are. I just like the colors."
She and Aston Martin are seated beside one another in a booth next to the wall. They can barely restrain from kissing and would never consider not touching while they eat. Great Granny O'Reilly [she's 150 years old] sips a cup of mushroom tea. A sort of mushroom salad is being shared by the ladies. The gentlemen have ordered an item called starfish steaks, the colors of which shimmer and shift as they broil in their hot dishes, and James Bond's Luger [it's a vaporizer] is shared around to everyone.
"Are these GMO?" Tula inquires of the alien waiter, who is dressed up as a leprechaun, presumably as a joke, but his costume is appropriate to his diminutive stature.
"Five grams psilocybin to the pound for the steaks, your Highnesses. The salad is completely natural and organic. A little of this and a little of that."
"The tea is delicious."
"Thank you."
"Reminds me of the dung tea we used to drink in the Old Country."
It turns out Leibnitz is really spelled Leibniz, if you want to be correct about it. There seems to be a Wikipedia entry spelled Leibnitz, which may be how I got off on the wrong track. At this point I feel comfortable using the "wrong" spelling. My method of writing employs a lot of alternate reality experimentation anyway. The eponymous character in Leibnitz really has very little to do with the German philosopher. I do plan to read Monadology and have the character Leibnitz speak in German periodically, quoting from the book. Interestingly, Leibniz wrote Monadology in French, and the version I'll be reading will be an English translation. My current plan is to run the English through the Google English-German translator for the German passages in the story, thereby returning Leibniz' original ideas to his native German by way of French and English.
Anyway, having fun with it. Here's a sample passage.
Winding [on skateboards] through the stretch of Miramar Drive that tilts beneath the mountains and above the ocean they arrive together at a mushroom joint open late run by aliens called Sea Fungi.
When their courses arrive, Tula observes, "I never know what these things are. I just like the colors."
She and Aston Martin are seated beside one another in a booth next to the wall. They can barely restrain from kissing and would never consider not touching while they eat. Great Granny O'Reilly [she's 150 years old] sips a cup of mushroom tea. A sort of mushroom salad is being shared by the ladies. The gentlemen have ordered an item called starfish steaks, the colors of which shimmer and shift as they broil in their hot dishes, and James Bond's Luger [it's a vaporizer] is shared around to everyone.
"Are these GMO?" Tula inquires of the alien waiter, who is dressed up as a leprechaun, presumably as a joke, but his costume is appropriate to his diminutive stature.
"Five grams psilocybin to the pound for the steaks, your Highnesses. The salad is completely natural and organic. A little of this and a little of that."
"The tea is delicious."
"Thank you."
"Reminds me of the dung tea we used to drink in the Old Country."
October 27, 2016
October 13, 2016
Thinking in the inside-out box
Authors write in the present as if it were the past or the future. Even when they write in the present tense it's not that present. It's some other imagined present. Why don't authors write in the present? Why do they fracture time? Break its bones and rearrange them somewhere else?
Well, they have to because the present isn't interesting enough. They can think themselves out of the present in only a few sentences, and then they have to go somewhere else. The past, the future. They have to jump right out of this moment, and though having jumped out of it they remain in it, they're not writing about it; other moments, remembered, imagined. The mind can't say this is what's happening, this is what's happening now, because nothing is happening.
Things only happened or will happen. Nothing is happening. I'm writing. That's what's happening. It's nothing as far as something to write about.
Well, they have to because the present isn't interesting enough. They can think themselves out of the present in only a few sentences, and then they have to go somewhere else. The past, the future. They have to jump right out of this moment, and though having jumped out of it they remain in it, they're not writing about it; other moments, remembered, imagined. The mind can't say this is what's happening, this is what's happening now, because nothing is happening.
Things only happened or will happen. Nothing is happening. I'm writing. That's what's happening. It's nothing as far as something to write about.
