Fifteen Minutes

Blog With A Very Short Lifespan...

2007-09-21T05:01:00.000-07:00

This may very well be the shortest lived blog ever. Okay, maybe not. But after two weeks, it is officially dead.

Not because it's not a good blog. No, people seemed to be enjoying it - both writers and readers. It's dead because I've built a new website site to replace it.

Fifteen Minutes Of Fiction

The new website is mostly functional. There are still a few features missing, and I'm sure a few bugs here and there, but you can do all the "important" stuff.

Any of the readers of this blog who want to give it a try, just go to the site and create a membership account.

Click the image below to visit my writing profile:

Computer Mayhem Part I

2007-09-14T15:16:00.000-07:00

"Hey, pass me that nut driver!" I yell at nobody in particular - before remembering that today, I'm at the shop alone. With four computers to build, a computer with spyware, a computer that's not booting properly, and another computer that won't boot properly.

All within five measly little hours. Welcome to a day in the life of a computer technician. That's me.

I find the nut driver myself, and screw in the little feet that are supposed to hold the motherboard in place. One of them doesn't want to screw. I put the nut driver aside for a moment, and set up the computer needing spyware removal.

I set it up at one of the three stations on our counter. After plugging it in and turning it on, I wait for it to load windows. And wait. And wait. And wait. Finally, I go back to the computer that I'm building. I force the nut into place, and dig the mother board box out from the bottom of the box with all the other components.

I find the mother board, and place it on the nuts. The nuts are created so that another screw can be driven in top. I screw the mother board in, and get ready to find the CPU. My eye falls across the computer I just set up - finally fully started.

I go back to that computer. Clicking on the start menu, I see something that catches my eye - a little icon next to the clock that says "Norton Internet Security Suite." Great. Just great. Five seconds later, the start menu pops up. I run MSCONFIG and see what's running in the start up. "Contra-Virus Pro" catches my eye, as well as "Win Anti-Spyware Pro." Rolling my eyes, I disable them, and reboot the computer.

While the computer is rebooting, I go back to the one I'm building. After finding the CPU and placing it on the mother board, I put the memory, the video card, and the modem in their respective positions. I plug the cables from the power buttons and LED lights onto the mother board, and put the CD and Floppy drives in. I plug the power onto the mother board, and stand the whole machine up.

Taking it to a second station, I plug it in. It turns on, and I attempt to go to the BIOS to set the boot sequence. I get the following message: "Error: Keyboard not detected. Press F1 to continue."

This post was written in 15 minutes

Stay tuned for part two!

Phone Bill

2007-09-13T06:14:00.000-07:00

This piece of foolishness is a follow-up to the post: Gregory

It's been two weeks now since I found out that my rock's name was not Gregory, but Willis. To be honest, I don't think he really looks like a "Willis". In my mind, Willis is a name for someone who could play in a DieHard movie.

And although Willis would certainly induce a great deal of pain if he was hurled suddenly at someone's head, he is neither photogenic nor athletic enough to star in an action-thriller movie.

Ever since I found out his name is really Willis, I've been careful to stop calling him Gregory. The change has been extraordinary. Now my rock is eager to chat - in fact, I would say he's downright talkative.

"Hey Willis, have you got my phone bill?" I asked him yesterday.

After a pause he said, "Hey, what's this phone call to East Timbuctu?"

"Just visiting with my cousin Ethel."

"For forty-five minutes? Do you have any idea how much that phone call cost?" He sounded a bit aggrieved.

"So?"

"So, I'm also sitting on your 2007 budget figures, and I guarantee we don't have money enough to be throwing around like that."

I glared at him. He seemed impervious to my stare. "We?" I demanded.

He didn't shrug, but I'm sure if rocks had the ability to shrug, he would have. "I live here too, you know," he said.

"I don't see you doing much to increase our net worth," I replied. "You want to start talking about our money, I suggest you get a job."

"I already have a job."

"Really? What are you? A brain surgeon?"

Sarcasm is lost on rocks - even intelligent ones like Willis.

"No, stupid. I'm a paperweight."

I hadn't exactly thought about it like that. I suppose, technically, he was working for me.

"You know the book of Leviticus, in the Bible, says not to withhold your neighbor's wages," he continued piously.

Leave it to Willis to bring in the heavy guns. The book of Leviticus. Considering carefully my options, I realized there was only one solution to my unfortunate dilemma.

I'm going back to calling him Gregory.

This post was written in 10 minutes.

Pumping Gas

2007-09-11T12:34:00.000-07:00

"That'll be $37.52, sir."

Horace's hand, which had already half removed the credit card from his wallet, stopped abruptly. Horace looked up at the young cashier, dismayed.

Unshaven, greasy haired, with half-closed eyes, the cashier looked like more like a zombie than a living human being. Horace wondered when the boy had last slept, last bathed, last shaved.

"I bought a bag of chips and a soda," Horace protested.

"And gasoline. Pump Three."

Horace glanced out the window at a dark blue mini-van parked out fron. It was the only vehicle near the pumps.

"That's not my vehicle."

"I watched you stand out there and pump gas into it." The boy's eyes were now a little wider open; he sensed a fight, and was drawing on unexpected stores of adrenaline to wake himself.

Horace glared. "I most certainly did not," he said.

"Ain't no one else in the store, sir."

Horace looked around. It was true. There was no one in sight, which was unusual for such a large and successful variety store. He was beginning to feel like he was in an episode of The Twilight Zone, or maybe Candid Camera.

"Is this a joke?" he demanded.

The boy's eyes narrowed back to tiny slits, but now he looked more suspicious than sleepy. "Well I ain't joking," he said.

Horace looked around the store again. "Anyone in your restroom?" he asked.

The boy shook his head. "We don't got a restroom."

Horace shrugged. "Well, it's not my car, not my gas, and I'm not paying for it."

The boy pondered this for a moment. He couldn't remember anything in his training about a customer refusing to pay. "I'll need to call the manager," he said.

"Fine. You two have a nice chat. While you're at it, you can put these back on the shelf, because I'm not buying them here." He slammed his snack food onto the counter hard enough to crush most of the potato chips.

Without another word he stomped out of the store and around to the side parking lot. He stopped. He stared.

"Hey! Where's my car?"

This post was written in 13 minutes.

Life

2007-09-11T10:11:00.000-07:00

Life can be funny.
Life can be cruel.
Life can be hard.
With effort, life can be fulfilling.
Life can seem like a boat on a stormy ocean on a dark night.
But the morning will always come again - and the sun with it.

(Authors note: This was written intended for someone, and if that someone were ever to visit this site, they should be able to know who they are.)

This post was written in 6 minutes

September Morning

2007-09-10T15:15:00.000-07:00

Cold, damp, and dreary;
Soaked and chilled by the fall rain.
September morning.

This post was written in 4 minutes.

Starry Night Far From The City

2007-09-08T04:14:00.000-07:00

The sun had set three hours ago, there on the side of the mountain, forty miles from the closest town, eighty miles from the closest city. The night was clear, and for the first time, James was able to see the lights in the sky that had always been hidden by the lights of civilization. The stars seemed to him to be cold, piercing crystals hung haphazardly on a black curtain.

He remembered visiting a planetarium once, and having constellations pointed out to him. Now he was unable to remember or recognize a single one - except he was sure he remembered those three stars in a row were a man's belt.

But James didn't care about constellations - for the first time in his life he understood how ordered his life was. From city streets to ticking clocks, from regimented school work to deadlines and urgent priorities, everything was neatly organized and blocked off in lists and grids.

But here was a stunning display of a random myriad of glowing lights neither designed nor dictacted by the power of man. Yet Man was not content to find a heavenly display over which He had no rule or power. So He crafted for Himself a story which explained the positions and orientations of each of these uncontrollable lights. In creating these stories, He could fool Himself into thinking He was in control.

Tonight, James had no interest in control. He just wanted to feel small in the vastness of an inexplicable, uncontrollable display of light and dark. For tonight, he felt a strange comfort just to be dominated by the violent display of disordered and uncontrolled lights.

This post was written in 15 minutes

George's Firewood

2007-09-07T03:47:00.000-07:00

"George! George!"

George looked up from the sums he was writing on his slate. Father is home! Quickly he dropped the slate, got up from the grassy lawn where he was seated, and raced toward the sound of his father's voice.

Father had been away on business in the city and he always brought home something special for George when he returned. Sometimes it was a piece of candy, sometimes new clothing, and sometimes an unimagineable trinket from the far reaches of the world.

Father was standing, looking stern, next to the newly cut and split stack of firewood just to the rear of the mansion. "What is this?" he demanded.

George looked with pride at the enormous stack. "It's firewood, father."

"Hm." Father's response was noncommital. After a pause he added, "Did you cut it yourself?"

George grinned. "All by myself, father."

"Tell me the truth, son. I was only gone five days; you cut all that wood by yourself in five days?"

George didn't like it when Father doubted him. "Father," he said reproachfully, "I cannot tell a lie. It was I who cut down your cherry tree."

"Very well, son. It's a relief to have that ugly old eyesore off the lawn - wasn't bearing any fruit anyway."

"No sir," George said, looking expectantly up at his father.

"Oh, very well," Father said, reaching into his pocket. "I guess you've earned your pay this time." Pulling his hand from his pocket, he tossed five shiny coins into the air. They glinted in the sunlight as they tumbled in high arcs toward the young woodsman.

George scrambled for each of the valuable silver dollars while his father, chuckling to himself, entered the mansion. George waited until the door had closed behind him, then called out, "Fred! Fred!"

George's younger brother Fred came running from the other side of the yard. He stopped abruptly in front of George and held out his hand.

"Thanks for chopping down that cherry tree, Fred," George said. "Here's your twenty cents."

This post was written in 14 minutes.

A Bird In The Hand

2007-09-06T03:50:00.000-07:00

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,
That's what the ancients have said,
My problem is this: knowing the wildness of birds,
A bird in the hand is most typically dead.

So what to conclude from this tired old phrase?
That one bird dead is worth two birds saved?
I must confess I enjoy the one's singing,
More than fifty lying cold in the grave.

This post was written in 13 minutes.

(Explanatory note: yesterday I walked up to the cemetery to Tommy Boyd's grave. Tommy's gravestone has an etched photograph of Tommy holding a live bird in his hand...a rare and unusual sight.)

Gregory

2007-09-05T13:42:00.000-07:00

Gregory is a rock. I don't mean he's a pillar of support in times of trouble, or any such metaphorical nonsense. No, I mean it literally. He's a rock.

I was out walking on Hill Street when I saw him. I'd like to say there was something special about him that attracted my eye - some luminescenece, some pattern of coloring or shading of dark and light. But there was nothing about Gregory that made him leap out from among his peers, except this one thing: he was smooth and flat on the bottom, and nicely rounded on the top.

The perfect paperweight, I thought as I picked him up and jammed him into my jeans pocket.

Why I named him Gregory, that's anyone's guess. I don't even remember if I had a childhood friend named Gregory - a couple Gregs, and I suppose Greg was short for Gregory, but I never thought of them as Gregory.

But this rock - he was definitely a Gregory.

For three weeks I kept him on my desk, between the computer and the printer. Every morning I would say to him: "Good morning, Gregory, it's a beautiful day today," or "Hey Gregory, can you believe how hard it's raining out there? Good thing you're in here where it's dry, huh?"

To each of my inquiries, Gregory would, with the arrogant indifference that only a rock can express, remain silent and still.

When I needed a paper that Gregory was holding down, I would say, "Pass the electric bill, please," or "Hey, Gregory, have you got my paycheck?"

And still, Gregory would remain strangely mute.

On the bright side, Gregory would never complain when I left for the day - no whining and complaining "You never spend enough time with me," or "Is your work more important than me?"

For three weeks he sat there on my desk, between the computer and the printer, saying nothing. And then, at the beginning of the fourth week, I think something snapped. It was right after, for the four hundredth time, I called him Gregory.

"My name," he announced with more irritation than I have ever heard from a rock, "is Willis."

This post was written in 11 minutes.

This foolishness is continued here: Phone Bill

The Premise Of This Blog

2007-09-05T07:15:00.001-07:00

The Premise
I like to write. But most of my writing is technical writing, instructional writing, competition math problem writing, or sermon writing.

I would like to do some "just for fun" fictional writing, but I never seem to find time for it. So I decided that the "Fifteen Minutes" blog would be the perfect place to find time and make time to write "just for fun".

The title of the blog is "Fifteen Minutes", because I won't take more than fifteen minutes to write any given entry. Which means I probably won't spend much time doing proofreading.

I remember reading once that John and Terry Talbot, for a period of a year or two, wrote a song per day. Mostly they just sat down, scribbled out words and music, and nine times out of ten just chucked it in the trash when they were done. But the point was, they were getting lots of practice.

So, even though I'm not committing to once per day (or even once per week!) I think the premise is good. Sharpen the wits, explore the imagination, get ideas down, recognizing that they may not be great ideas or well written, but at least they are sharpening skills!

The Rules

Every entry (discounting this one) will be fictional in nature.
No item will take more than 15 minutes to write. At the end of fifteen minutes, the item gets published (on the writer's honor!).
In order to promote creativity, "serial" items (sequential items which tell a single story) are not allowed. If I find myself quite interested in a particular story/setting/character I've created, no more than one out of each three posts will relate to that story/setting/character.
I will vary my writing between descriptive and dialogue, and between a variety of genres, including both poetry and prose, and including science fiction, fantasy, historical...but you probably won't find me writing much romance here!
I am NOT specifying a frequency with which I will write here.