Kevin Carlin's Blog

The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:

Prompt: The Sound of Your Own Voice

It seems to be relatively unanimous that as humans, we all hate the sound of our own voice when heard on a recording. The voice inside our own heads is so much smoother, more assertive, sexier, etc., than the sound the rest of the world hears. If only everyone else could hear the way my voice sounds in my own head, we all think, I'd have to hire bodyguards to help fend off the suitors.

But why do we all hate our own voice? Is there an evolutionary reason? Thousands of years ago, when we lived wild and naked and free in the bush, was there a survival reason for developing this distaste for one's own voice? A prehistoric predator, perhaps, that would learn your voice and mimic it to lure you in? Some sort of giant venus flytrap or vicious species of parrot that, upon perfecting its impression of you, would call out in your voice and list off all of your deepest darkest secrets, your hopes and dreams, like so many mythical creatures in fantasy lore, and if you rose to the bait you'd be eaten?

So that millenia later, we are all descendants of the select cave women and men who had a genetic predisposition towards thinking of their own voice as nasally and annoying, and who therefore survived long enough to procreate without being eaten by telepathic demon parrots?

Or is it perhaps just jarring because it's not what you're used to? Nah. It's gotta be demon parrots.

The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:

Prompt: Ice

Come on down to Crazy Tim's Indoor Ice Climbing Emporium. We've got membership packages for the whole, adventurous family. Is the regular rock gym just not giving you that fluttering feeling in your loins anymore? You need something more extreme? Well, check us out today. We're right here on the corner of Colfax and the North Gatdang Pole. Bring your ice climbing boots and your ax, and we'll send you up the most insane indoor ice climbing wall you've ever seen.

You think we're not extreme enough? We had three people break their femurs just this week.

You think we're just a regular indoor climbing gym that forgot to pay our heating bill because we were so jacked out on edibles last month, and the front window got busted out by the guys I was trying buy meth off, which then let in a crapton of this good old fashioned Colorado January ice storm, and so I'm trying to just roll with it and pass myself off as an indoor ice climbing gym instead of sucking it up and fixing the window and making good with the power company? Is that what you think?

Well, you're dead wrong, because my name isn't even on the mother effing power bill. I'm squatting here, okay? The real owner of this place skipped town when the pandemic hit. He went back to one of those states where people cry about their freedoms. He's probably hospitalized with the virus by now, but who cares? All that matters is us extreme ice climbers finally have a place to hone our skills indoors.

The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:

Prompt: Carriage

“It was a night just like tonight,” whispered the driver, as he whipped his steeds into high gear. “The worst fog I ever seen.”

I shifted uncomfortably next to him in my seat atop the buggy. My mother and sister were safely inside, oblivious to the disturbing yarn the old man was spinning. I wanted to lean over the side and remind them through the window to keep the door locked.

The driver continued, “Most terrifying sight you'll ever see, that neckless horseman.”

“Er, you mean the headless horseman,” I prompted, having already been familiar with the story from other townsfolk.

The driver ignored me. “Now, that neckless horseman, he comes right out of the fog, and he's on us like that,” here the driver snapped his fingers to accentuate the suddenness of the horseman's emergence from the fog. “I jumped right out of my seat, I did,” said the driver.

We rode in silence for what felt like an eternity, until in the distance I heard the unmistakable whinnying of a ghostly horse. And then, just like that, out of the fog there was a very round man on the path, waving his arms at us.

“Tis him,” cried the driver. “The neckless horseman.”

And though the man on the road had no horse, and even more importantly, he did have a head, I must admit, the rotundness of his body and slope of his noggin' gave it the appearance of being attached directly to his shoulders. As fantastical as it may sound, the man really, truly, had no neck.

“Um, sorry to trouble you, gentlemen,” said the neckless, horseless man as the driver pulled his team to a full stop, “but my horse appears to be knackered. I don't suppose I could catch a ride back to town?”

The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:

Prompt: Carriage

“It was a night just like tonight,” whispered the driver, as he whipped his steeds into high gear. “The worst fog I ever seen.”

I shifted uncomfortably next to him in my seat atop the buggy. My mother and sister were safely inside, oblivious to the disturbing yarn the old man was spinning. I wanted to lean over the side and remind them through the window to keep the door locked.

The driver continued, “Most terrifying sight you'll ever see, that neckless horseman.”

“Er, you mean the headless horseman,” I prompted, having already been familiar with the story from other townsfolk.

The driver ignored me. “Now, that neckless horseman, he comes right out of the fog, and he's on us like that,” here the driver snapped his fingers to accentuate the suddenness of the horseman's emergence from the fog. “I jumped right out of my seat, I did,” said the driver.

We rode in silence for what felt like an eternity, until in the distance I heard the unmistakable whinnying of a ghostly horse. And then, just like that, out of the fog there was a very round man on the path, waving his arms at us.

“Tis him,” cried the driver. “The neckless horseman.”

And though the man on the road had no horse, and even more importantly, he did have a head, I must admit, the rotundness of his body and slope of his noggin' gave it the appearance of being attached directly to his shoulders. As fantastical as it may sound, the man really, truly, had no neck.

“Um, sorry to trouble you, gentlemen,” said the neckless, horseless man as the driver pulled his team to a full stop, “but my horse appears to be knackered. I don't suppose I could catch a ride back to town?”

The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:

Prompt: Cafe

“You must be Mark,” she announced to me as I walked into the coffee shop. “It's me, Sandra.”

I wasn't Mark, but her tone wasn't accusatory and she was extraordinarily cute. She was in a coffee shop meeting a “Mark” whom she had never met. This must be an internet date; right? I hesitated for a second, but when she cocked her head awaiting a response and her dark curls bounced, I smiled and sat down.

“I sure am,” I said as I sat.

“You're late,” she announced, but her tone had a friendly lilt. Again, not accusatory. Could the real Mark have been dumb enough to have stood up this beautiful goddess?

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I said. “I was, um, nervous.” Seemed like a good excuse in my head, but it sounded dumb coming out of my mouth.

We began to chat, telling each other about ourselves. I did more of the talking than I wanted to. I wanted to ask her about herself and then shut up for a few minutes, but she kept firing questions at me, and I kept answering. When I managed to get in a question about her she would smile and give a short answer, then return to asking me questions.

Admittedly, there were signs that something was amiss. Some of the questions should have been blatant red flags that I had misread the situation, but as I stared into her eyes, I could barely concentrate on why she was asking me complex hypotheticals and requesting narratives of very specific incidents in my life, like a time I had a conflict with a co-worker, and how I resolved it.

Even when she asked me about my proficiency with Microsoft Excel, I just answered as honestly as I could, not pausing to wonder why. The question about how flexible I can be with my schedule didn't phase me, either, since of course my potential future girlfriend is going to want to know how much time we'll be able to spend together.

It's when she told me the starting salary that it finally began to seep in that she was not interested in me as a boyfriend. At first I thought I was about to win the lottery of life, that this gorgeous woman was apparently rich and wanting to be my sugar momma.

But then I realized what it was the real Mark had blown off.

Anyway, I've had this job for five years now. That's how I became an accountant, and that's why everyone here calls me Mark.

The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here. This story is fiction, but is a mashup of several stories told by my grandfather, who did indeed learn to play the accordion as a POW in Germany:

Prompt: Everyone Needs a Spare Accordion

“Miller, you're up.”

I started to move, but not fast enough for Remington. He grabbed my arm and shoved me violently through the hole in the barracks wall. The Nazi guards had just come through for their nightly headcount. They counted 15, the correct number. On they went to the barracks next door, where 14 men were engaged in singing raucus sea shanties. The 15th member of that barracks was currently ten feet below ground, digging a tunnel to freedom. That's where I came in. I fell backwards through the tunnel and into the adjacent barrack hall, ready to be counted as their 15th man, Nazis none the wiser.

I scrambled to my feet, and Fitzpatrick shoved an accordion into my hands. "Drunken Sailor in G," he whispered. I slung the strap over my shoulder and squeezed as hard as I could, just as the door opened.

“Attention on deck,” shouted the Nazi lieutenant. “Line up for headcount.”

It had only been a month since I'd arrived in the POW camp, my Boeing B-17 having been shot down on Valentine's Day. The camp band had an accordion, but no one knew how to play it, including me. How hard could it be, I had wondered, sizing up the piano keys on the side. I'd been playing piano by ear since grade school. By the end of my first week, I could no longer remember not knowing how to play the accordion.

“Shave his belly with a rusty razor,” I belted. “Shave his belly with a rusty razor.”

“I said line up,” shouted the guard, but I loved this song too much to stop now.

The next day, Jones tried to help me patch up my black eye, but no one could patch my accordion. No matter. The guards never figured out they'd counted me twice.

The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:

Prompt: Fire

“Ready. Aim.”

“Hold on, hold on,” cried out the marksman on the far left. There were nine of them in a line, all pointing their high caliber rifles at my center of mass. Only five of them have live rounds, I'm told. The other four have blanks, so none of the marksmen know for sure if they fired the shot that killed me.

The ropes on my wrists chafed as I squirmed uncomfortably. I squinted into the sun as the errant marksman opened the bolt and fiddled with his firearm. What is the problem? I thought to myself. Is this guy for real? Can they not just do it with eight? Surely four live rounds will get the job done. It's not like any of these guys are going to miss.

“Okay, I think I got it, said the executioner on the left.” My left, not theirs. Stage left, I suppose you could say. “Yeah, I think I'm good,” he said, but his voice was less than confident.

The warden rolled his eyes, but he once again raised his right arm high. “Ready,” he began again.

“No, wait, sorry,” said the same marksman as before. “No, this is all jammed up.” He resumed wiggling the bolt.

The warden slumped his shoulders. I honestly felt bad for him. I'm sure he's got better things to do than babysit this incompetent executioner.

What a weird rule about the blanks, I thought to myself to kill the time. Why do these guys need to have a question in their mind whether they were the one who killed me? If they're willing to participate in this execution, surely they've made their peace with the taking of a human life. If they haven't, they have no business being on this firing line at all. Just cowgirl up, load your own gun, and accept the moral consequences of intentionally ending someone's life.

Also, I doubt being a member of the firing squad is a once in a lifetime kind of thing. If they're in the position that gets asked to do this, they probably get called out to every execution. If you've got a better than 50% chance of having a live round each time, then by the time you've done four or five of these you're all but guaranteed to have used deadly force. I mean, that's just math. So why bother with blanks? Why not just pump me full of nine live rounds? It just doesn't make any–

“Okay, I got it,” said the marksman.

“Fire,” cried the warden.

The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:


Prompt: Castaways

Life on the island may not have been ideal, but it wasn't bad. It had been almost six months since they'd been stranded, and though the hunter, chemist, stoner, and carpenter missed their lives back home, all of their basic needs were provided for on the island.

When their lifeboat first washed ashore on this uncharted patch of land, they had been lost at sea for almost a week, and had run out of water. Even in his parched and delirious condition, the chemist was able to quickly get to work building a makeshift distillery using anything he could find on the island. By the following morning, he had desalinated enough seawater to quench their collective thirst.

With only one more day of food rations left, the hunter disappeared into the brush that grew just beyond the beach. Just before sunset she reappeared dragging the body of a wild boar onto the beach. A makeshift spear was slung across her back.

That night it rained. Hard. The four castaways huddled together for warmth, and in the morning, as the rising sun began to dry them off, the carpenter got to work building shelter. Meanwhile, the stoner pulled out her trusty lighter and got a signal fire going. By nightfall, their shelter was sturdy enough to keep out the rain, and the stoner had stoked the fire with enough palm fronds to keep it smoldering through the night.

For six long months they survived. It was hard work, but satisfying to know that if they worked together, they could keep themselves alive indefinitely using only their wits. Every day for eight hours, the chemist distilled seawater into fresh water, the stoner stoked the signal fire, the carpenter built up and maintained the shelter, and the hunter hunted for pigs, chickens, and coconuts. It was hard work to keep up the equilibrium, but with every day they all grew stronger.

Until that one day, when it all came crumbling down.

Late in the morning, the hunter came running out of the jungle, excited and waving her arms. She called out the chemist's name, and told him to come quick. He followed her into the brush, all the way asking what it could be.

“You have to see this,” was all she would say.

Around midday, they pushed their way through the brush and into a clearing. There was a large meadow, filled with tall grass. Through the middle of the meadow a stream cut its way down to the sea.

“Fresh water,” announced the hunter proudly. “We could move our whole camp up into this meadow.”

“Who else knows about this?” asked the chemist.

“What? No one. I just found it. Isn't it wonderful? We don't need to distill seawater anymore!”

The chemist pondered the revelation. “And so what will my contribution be?”

The hunter looked confused. “We can split up the remaining labor. If you spend two hours a day at the fire, two hours working on the shelter, and two hours hunting, we could all work a six-hour day and still have everything we need.”

“But I only know how to distill water,” replied the chemist. “I don't know how to hunt for boar. If I stop contributing, you'll stop sharing your boar meat with me, and I'll perish.” The chemist looked defeated as he thought about the consequences of losing his employment.

“Of course I'll share with you,” the hunter said. “We're in this together!”

But it was too late. The chemist had made up his mind. He picked up a large rock from the ground and advanced towards the hunter, who had turned to scoop up some delicious, cool water from the stream.

That evening the chemist returned to the camp on the beach alone. His arms were full of coconuts.

“Where's the hunter?” asked the stoner, tending to her fire.

“I don't know,” the chemist responded. “I think a boar might have got her.”

“What are we going to do without her?” asked the carpenter.

“We're going to have to start working ten-hour days to pick up the slack,” said the chemist.