Something About a Chicken in Purgatory and How to Just Write Nonsense. (Writing Tip)

Nearly every morning, I open Word and just write whatever comes into my head (trust me, it’s a carnival of wonders), or jot down sentences, paragraphs or characters on the notepad next to me.

This ‘nonsense‘ as I call it, may or may not evolve into an actual story, short, long or otherwise. One particular reason I started this blog, too. Whether anyone reads it or not. I am doing this for myself and hopefully someone gets something out of what I write here.

I find that after I have done my hour walk in the morning. My brain is amped from the fresh oxygen supply. I have breakfast, I sit down and write. I sometimes work on my actual manuscripts, but lately, I am just simply not feeling their groove. Once again, hence the blog. I call myself a writer, so I must of course, write.

I see many writers lamenting about their MS on Twitter and I often wonder if they are being too focused on the one thing. This is why I write nonsense. I read a ton, too. At the moment I am reading across eight novels from a mixed bag of genres. Reading also helps my nonsense get ideas which then gives me more ideas for my WIPs, and, more ideas for any future stories.

This is how you will expand on your skills, too.

So! Below is an example of my nonsense which I sat down and spat out in 45 minutes this morning. Think of it as a form of exercise in itself because it is. I don’t even bother editing it.

………………

Kentucky Fried Purgatory

Johnny B’s was crowded. Cigarette smoke lingered like unwanted, unwashed ghosts. Dense and thick. Like the crowd that comes and goes day and night, too. Unwanted and unwashed. The band was loud, too loud. A wire mesh cage surrounded the stage to protect the bands from beer bottles and glasses. It’s not that the music is bad, or that the band can’t play, but. Any night, the crowd inside Johnny B’s does get wild with impatience. Nothing more than lost and angry souls bitter at the not knowing. So says Johnny B, the heavy set, forever sweaty owner with a perpetual churlish mouth. Not his real name, though. ‘Raphael’ if anyone asks. But no one ever gets a chance in this place. Not that anyone cares to know, either way.

On this particular night, at Johnny B’s is, Bruce Parsons. Divorced. Lived a relatively sheltered life up until ten years ago. The barstool he now sits on, has his butt print permanently smoothed into the wood.

‘Gary.. Gary, look? You’re a chicken. What the.. you know? Fuck, do you know?’ said Bruce.

‘Rooster,’ said Gary.

‘Rooster, goose, chicken.. hen.. chook… bird… fucken MAGPIE. Whatever.. Gary.’

Gary sucked on his cigarette, inhaled and surveyed the room.

‘Not much hen action here, tonight,’ said Gary, as he exhaled his smoke.

‘Is there… like, ever? Gary… bird,’ Bruce belched.

‘Rooster!’ Gary slapped the bar with his wing. ‘Damnit, dickhead. You pull this shit every time you get drunk and get rejected by the blond who works the bar.’

‘Slow your roll, Colonel Sanders,’ said the blond from behind the bar.

The bar staff only appear when the drinkers need a top up. No one notices for the most part, as there are no actual staff. Male or female. Gary thought he noticed this fact, once. The bar is long, so long in fact it gives the impression of stretching to infinity and Gary can’t recall if he had ever sat at, the other end.

The band were in their, ‘we’re tuning our instruments please bear with us’ part of the set. The discordant adjustments saw a few brown bottles fly their way. A table full of Vikings raised their bull horns full of mead, presumably, since this is all they seemed to drink, and nothing else. Sometimes, Gary thought it strange that there seemed to be a permanent large roast leg of some animal sitting on the Viking’s table with slices hanging off it.

‘Look. Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to ‘peck’ your head off,’ said Gary.

His cigarette, now down to the butt and dangling from his beak, which went up and down on each syllable as he spoke. Gary lights another.

The blond bartender said, ‘You boys, good?’

‘Two more, thanks,’ said Gary, and he held up two feathers.

The guitarist on the stage stood too close to the amplifier creating feedback that screeched through the room at a glass shattering level. Gary slapped his wings to his earholes. Bruce tried hard not to stare at the blond as she poured their drinks, but he too, slapped his hands to his ears. The drinks appeared and the blond was gone. And the Vikings threw their large roasted leg at the stage. No one noticed another large roast leg had appeared in the centre of the Viking’s table.

‘Fucken hell!’ said Bruce, throwing his whiskey glass at the stage. ‘Why do we even come here, man?’

Gary stared at the bar top and lit another cigarette. ‘You damn well know why, Bruce.’

Bruce wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy returning a middle finger to the guitarist who now wore Bruce’s whiskey.

‘Sorry, Gary. What did you say?’ said Bruce.

Gary slapped his wing down hard on the solid oak bar top and flicked his coxcomb to the other side of his head.

‘I said. You fucking know why we came here.’

Bruce had never considered why they were here, or come here, for that matter. He scratched his head, particularly the bald patch at the back. Bruce turned to the door and watched it for a time. It never opened nor closed, once. The place is full, but not capacity. ‘Is there a capacity?’ he thought. A mix of human and animal. Every now and again, the mythical. Last night, Bruce had a deep and meaningful, with a quite drunk ogre. The large boar standing upright wearing a black t-shirt with ‘SECURITY’ in large white letters, at the door, noticed Bruce looking in his direction and gave him a ‘what?’ shrug.

‘Gary? … I don’t know why we come here,’ said Bruce. ‘I don’t ever remember arriving, here.’

Bruce had a brief flashback, he thinks, of being on a long, dark highway that stretched to nowhere. He had a shotgun in his hand, he thought, and wore a bloodstained shirt. Gore and viscera on his face and in his hair. ‘Did I?’ he thought, again. Bruce remembers, ever so vaguely, a digital clock reading ’21:27′ or was it a clock, or a quote from an illuminated sign outside of Johnny B’s. Was it even Johnny B’s?

…to be continued?

Published by G.D. Ison

I'm a neurodivergent heavy metal loving motorcycle riding cat owning writer living in Brisbane (Meanjin), Australia. Always was, always will be Aboriginal land. I hold a Masters degree in Creative Writing from the University of the Sunshine Coast and a Bachelor degree in the same, obtained from the Queensland University of Technology. I also hold a Bachelor degree in Visual Communication (Design) from Griffith University College of Art. Considering those academic achievements, I actually failed high school.

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