You are viewing farbel

The Image Collector [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
The Image Collector

[ website | David Scott Moyer ]
[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ archive | journal archive ]

How I ended up here, and where i met a bunch of you... [Dec. 9th, 2014|08:43 pm]
anarchy
Link3 comments|Leave a comment

Exercise. Dialogue, no descriptors. [Nov. 22nd, 2014|10:41 am]
“OK, I'll be the Jedi, and you can be the Storm Trooper.”
“How come you always get to be the Jedi? The Jedi always wins. I want to be the Jedi this time!”
“Too bad. They're my light sabers, so I get to decide. If you don't want to play, you can go home.”
“Fine. Bye.”
“Wait, don't you want to play? C'mon, I'll let you be Darth Vader.”
“No thanks. Darth Vader dies in the end. I'm going to go read a book.”
“Read a book? Nobody reads books. What a sissy! Nerd!”
“Who are you calling a sissy? Jerk!”
“OW!! That hurts! Stop!”
“Take it back!”
“No!”
“I said take it back, or I'll break your stupid light saber.”
“Sissy!”
“OK, you asked for it.”
“Wait! No! Please! I'll let you be the Jedi, just don't break it!”
“I don't want to play with you any more. I'm going home.”
“Boys? Anyone want s'mores?”
“Yes!”
“Yes, please!”
“Last one down's a rotten egg!”
LinkLeave a comment

Fuck This! [Sep. 28th, 2014|06:21 pm]
Another writing group assignment. I was in charge this time. I passed out photos I had taken for my 1000 Words series, and tasked everyone to write 1000 words about them. I got this one. Just under 1000.

P1017612sm

Fuck this! Why did I let that asshole drag me all the way out here for some hillbilly costume party? Fucker didn’t even give me time to put on makeup, which I hate doing, by the way, but he fucking expects it, you know? Now I’m looking at my reflection in the tailgate of his piece of shit truck, standing in pig slop, and all I want is a fucking cigarette, but did I bring them? No, he dragged me out of the house so fucking fast I didn’t realize I had forgotten them until we were half way to bum fuck Egypt, where there isn’t even a store, much less one that sells tobacco. Now I’ll be mooching off other people all night, people I have nothing to say to and sure as hell don’t want to listen to either. Fuck me! If I could call a cab, I would, but there isn’t even a fucking phone out here, and cell service? Ha! There's no profit selling smart phones to a bunch of cows, pigs, and the half dozen people who fuck them. God damn, this sucks. At least there is liquor. I hope they have something that wasn’t made in a bathtub. Maybe if I have enough to drink, listening to these inbreeds talk about the time they stayed the night in the motel down the road to have a Kardashians marathon will be tolerable. And what about him? He’s already off hitting on some bimbo dressed up as Daisy Duke. I hope it’s a guy. Serve that fucker right to get to third base and find a dick staring him in the face. Now that might make the evening interesting. “Hey! Sweetheart, got a cigarette? Thanks hon. Hey, you see that guy over there necking with your sister? Oh, your mother? Sorry. Well, I just thought I ought to tell you, he has a raging case of herpes. You do know what that is, right? Thanks for the smoke. Can I have another one? Thanks.” Fuck I needed this cigarette. I don’t even care that it is a nasty ass generic light. Stupid bitch didn’t even tell her mom. Figures. Her mom is probably a case study in STDs anyway. He’s going to get more than he bargained for tonight, and he sure as hell isn’t getting squat from me until he’s had every test in the book and then some. Fucking men are ruled by their fucking dicks. Everything they fucking do is to impress the current piece of ass or to catch the next one. If there isn’t any pussy around, they are just trying to out macho each other to bolster their egos for the next time one of us slaps them down. What is that fucking noise they are trying to pass for music over there? That song from Deliverance sounding like it was played by three fingered drunken monkeys. I’m supposed to dance to this shit? Fuck, I can smell them from here, or maybe that’s just the pigs, not that I can tell the difference. First time I’ve ever put perfume on my upper lip, but whatever works. Time to go separate the asshole from Daisy Dukes. Oh, fuck! They're already gone. I wonder which one of those nasty doublewides they went off to. Mother fucker! I’m just going to sit in the truck and wait. I can’t fucking believe it. They don’t even have radio out here. Wait, there’s something. What the fuck? Is that some alien transmission? Oh, right, it's fucking Indians. To Ho No Dam Dam, or whatever it is they call themselves. What a weird sounding language. No way I’m listening to that shit. Oh fucking great, now it’s God radio. Just what I fucking need. Some greasy haired, self-righteous southern adulterer telling me I’m going to hell. I can’t believe people hear this crap and then send money. Fucking idiots. I bet everyone who lives at this ranch worships this guy. They sure as hell aren’t listening to the Indians jibber-jabber all day. I swear if any of these freaks are going to heaven, I’ll pass. I choose hell, thank you very much. All the fun people are going there. Now where the hell did that whore take him? I know from a fuck of a lot of experience that he only takes about 3 ½ minutes to finish his business, and that’s with me. No way is he lasting longer than that with some strange tramp. I wish I knew how to hotwire this thing. I’d leave his randy ass flat. Fuck. Now I need another cigarette. Maybe he brought his. Not in the glove box, I wonder what trailer he's fucking mama in? Fuck it. I don’t fucking care if I interrupt them. I’ll just grab his smokes and his keys if I can find them and hightail it out of here. ‘”Hey, anybody in here? Damn, what is that smell? Fuck, that hurt. Walked right into a fucking bathtub. That sure isn’t hooch they are cooking in there. What the fuck? It stinks in here. I can’t see a thing. Where is that fucking lighter? Oh, Shi…….”
Link4 comments|Leave a comment

(no subject) [Sep. 19th, 2014|09:08 am]
1a
The Farbelist Returns
Link8 comments|Leave a comment

Guess What I Am [Sep. 16th, 2014|07:34 am]
P1017739sm
LinkLeave a comment

This week's writing assignment. [Aug. 2nd, 2014|06:47 am]
This week, we were given paint samples and had to write something using all of the names of the colors. Mine is a bit of a vignette. The colors are in italics.

Mathilde and Clarence were doing an approximation of the Hokey Pokey over by the coffee urns. The sound of sirens two blocks over on Orchard Street synced oddly with their musicless dance. Just smile, I thought, and I made my way over to the table at which Stone Brown, our newest resident, had spread his massive breakfast. He glowered at my approach, and crammed a fudge bar into his cavernous mouth. His triple-extra large t-shirt featured a faded image of one of the Spice Girls, was it Pepper Spice? I could never remember all of their names. I sat across from him, trying to ignore the melted chocolate that threatened to drip from his chin on to the Spice Girl. “Good morning, Mr. Brown! Welcome to St. Germaines!”
Link4 comments|Leave a comment

This week's writing group assignment: "Monsoon" [Jul. 18th, 2014|07:34 pm]
The staccato patter of water woke him. He shifted his head on the sweat-soaked pillow, pointing his bleary eyes towards the window. Only a dim, grey light penetrated the curtains. Could it finally be here? Had he slept through the opening salvos of thunder? His sense of direction, waking more slowly than his hearing, disabused him of the hopeful thought. The sound was coming from the bathroom: Damien in the shower.

Waking had activated his bladder. He separated himself from the damp sheets he had tossed and turned on all night and shuffled out into the back yard to pee. He picked the thirstiest looking tree, a difficult choice, and made his morning donation, looking up at the tantalizingly grey sky as he did so. As it so often did at this time of year, the lyric of a Sting song came to mind: "Heavy cloud, but no rain." He forgot the name of the song or what it was about, but he was pretty sure it wasn't Tucson. One had to live in the desert southwest to fully understand the powerful need of all of its denizens for the healing sustenance of rain after months without. He had spent his first four months here laughing at his friends back home, bragging about temperatures in the 70's and 80's during winter. Then, in May, it started getting really hot, and he developed a growing respect for the plants and creatures that endured here. The last six weeks had been progressively hotter and more humid, belying the "dry heat" cliche so often repeated through the rest of the year. A week ago his swamp cooler had changed from an efficient, economical cooling device to a sweat circulator, doing little more than moving the damp air about.

The shower had stopped when he stepped back inside, and Damien was on the couch, making his other ritual water sound, the bubble of a bong. Doing the "wake 'n' bake" again. Jake had no idea how Damien functioned all day, constantly stoned. Some people simply had that ability, he guessed. Damien flipped back his perfect dreads and started rolling a spliff for later.

"How do you survive it?" Jake asked.

"What, mon?"

"This weather! I am sweating like a pig, my clothes are moldy, I can't sleep through the night."

"It gets easier after your first summer, mon."

"Everybody tells me that. I guess if I make it through this one, I'll find out. What drives me crazy is the daily tease. First the weatherman gives you an arbitrary percentage chance of rain, then the clouds build up over the mountains or Green Valley, then ... nothing. When will the damned rain get here?"

"Soon, mon, soon."
Link2 comments|Leave a comment

The Color Red [Jul. 5th, 2014|06:42 am]
Joined a writing group. This was my first "assignment". Not thrilled with it, but it was an interesting exercise.

We see red when we are angry, yet we send red hearts when we are in love. Red is the color of Communism, and also the color of the Republican Party. Red is war and violence, and the Red Cross takes care of the victims Red means stop, red means yield, and the red line on your speedometer is full speed ahead. When you are red hot at the craps tables, you are winning. When you lose, you are in the red. Red indicates danger, and men are attracted to women wearing it. A red letter day is a good thing, a scarlet letter, not so much. Red cars are perceived as faster, red tape slows you down. Red is worn by Cardinals in the Catholic Church and by prostitutes in the Red Light District. Red is the color of Santa Claus and of Satan. Red chile peppers are hot, red cherries and apples are sweet. You wouldn't lay out the red carpet for someone you just caught red handed. Red lipstick attracts, a red herring distracts. Fast food restaurants use red in their logos because it stimulates the appetite, and poison warnings are printed in red. Shoes are Fuck Me Red, cars are Arrest Me Red, and barns are just plain Barn Red.
Link6 comments|Leave a comment

Everybody is an artist [Jun. 15th, 2014|02:08 pm]
10294256_10152048550782212_370497784019006590_n

for those of you who don't follow my other lj or facebook, I have completely rebuilt my website. You might enjoy having a look around it: davidscottmoyer.com
LinkLeave a comment

NSFW [Apr. 17th, 2014|12:18 pm]
LinkLeave a comment

navigation
[ viewing | most recent entries ]
[ go | earlier ]