Bio & Pic - Yeah, I finally got around to doing them. Yeesh!

They are done, although I am not sure I will even need them. There are close to 35 people picked with 10 top winners and 25 honorable mentions. If I am in the honorable mention category, then they will not need the bio and picture. I would just have my name and story title listed. But they suggest having everything ready just in case I am picked. I take it that the process moves fast after second round judging.

Anyway, here is my bio (unedited.)

I live in the rural hills of Pennsylvania (yes, I am a hillbilly - you do not have to rub it in.) I am self employed in the wedding business where I create custom-made invitations and offer other services. I discovered a love for stories in highschool where I had the opportunity to annoy my fellow students by spouting out poetry. I even had my own critique group (the seniors) in the back of the school bus who gave me valuable tips as well as the latest schoolyard gossip. In pursuing a writing career, I made the move into computers -- I did not say it was my brightest move -- where I enrolled in Computer Business and Information Science to earn points toward an Associate Degree. (A hillbilly who knows how to make computer programs and debug them - what is the world coming to?) I have had several of my articles printed in my local newspaper and featured on their website. The WOW Summer 08 Flash Fiction Contest would be the first serious contest I have entered since I am not counting the other two short fiction contests because I did not come close to winning. At the moment I have a fiction manuscript making its rounds through the industry and will be finishing my new suspense, Untempered Thorn, by the middle of November. My pleasures in life involve laughing at a good pun, enjoying a good read, and having a good friend. You can email me at michhickman@gmail.com or visit my blog at http://thesurlywriter.blogspot.com.

Viola! It took me 2 days and a bottle of vodka to write it. I am joking. It only took 5 hours and a bottle of rum. Okay . . . 2 minutes and I imagined that I was drunk, which makes it easier for me to come up with my stories.

And now my *gasp* picture! My real picture. My really real picture. Hide your children and get your torches ready.



AIIIIEEEE! My eyes! Burn it! Burn it! How could I allow such vulgarity to be posted on this wholesome blog? Oh, yeah. Right. Never mind about the wholesome part.

Well, that’s me. I took a SEMI-GOOD picture for once. I uploaded it to the computer while all giddy with excitement. Then I took a closer look.

Holy Krakatoa! We have a massive eruption on the bare side!

A zit sat smack in the middle of my forehead. No, don’t go ruining your eyesight by gazing at my mug again. Although I don’t have the Photoshop program, I was able to just go into Microsoft’s Paint application. I did a little nip and tuck to get rid of the acne. I hate adult acne. I might as well charge them for rent on my face.

So, now I have come to a little dilemma. I’ve been thinking about changing my blog picture. I actually like how my photo turned out. And I am sure everyone is sick of seeing the feather. It is not as if I’ve been keeping my appearance a secret - I do have my kiddie portrait in the side bar and my reclined picture at the bottom of the blog. I might as well get rid of those ones and slap this one in.

But, what about my feather? It is my icon. My sketch. It’s a logo of who I am and people automatically know to delete my insane comment when they run across it on their blogs. I have the feather tattooed on my butt . . . Whoa! When did this happen? The things I will do when I imagine myself drunk. No, wait. It’s a real feather from the pillow. Whew! That’s a relief.
Which picture? The feather? The real me? Or maybe, just maybe, I could morph both of them together in a conception to procreate a new being, like the baby alien bursting out of the chest in those Sigourney Weaver Alien movies. Now that is a pretty picture to see - a feather bursting out of my forehead.

Why not? Let me work my computer magic . . . add all those gory things . . . lots of blood. Nice. Here we go.

Come on, people! You didn’t think I would make myself more gruesome-looking. I’m not THAT drunk in my imagination.

Which picture? The feather. The bare me? Or the merging of both? Let’s hear those opinions! What? You want some incentive? Like what? Yes, I know I haven’t posted any stories in over a week. But this post is starting to get long. OW-OW-OW! My arm is not supposed to bend in that direction! Fine! Here’s a little tidbit from my current writing project, as if you haven’t already read the first chapter.

I am too nice.
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"Koff-koff."

I lifted my hand. The arm flew back and forth almost on an invisible puppet string. I tried to steer it toward my coughing mouth to wipe away the drool moistening my bottom lip a bit too much. Fingers caught the liquid from wetting the linoleum, not that it mattered. A wet spot already dotted the floor beside me. I prayed it was sweat from my gloved hand because of the hot day instead of from any misplaced bodily function.

Well, at least my back stopped hurting.

Little comfort rested in this as my head drummed from a sleep headache. My raw throat burned from the medication although I had tried to pace myself between each gulp. Oh, who was I kidding? I had sat there gleefully chucking them back like bar nuts. Below, my stomach heaved. I felt every surge of fluid rolling up my throat. In a weird clinical observation I bent over and vomited clear liquid. It hurt when I did this. My stomach filled with just the leftover pills reacting poorly with each other. The wet spot on the floor grew bigger. I had solved that mystery in a messy way.

The pool slid toward my direction as I decided to seek a better place to sit. My body flopped over to the other side. Unexpected tingles ran along both legs. They had also gone to sleep while kept in the same position for too long. I figured I was far enough away to avoid the puddle, so I gazed around at my new surroundings. My eyes fastened on the nearest object. A lilac-colored pill. My stomach began to hiccup again, but this time I had enough control to keep it settled. Yet I still felt disgust. I felt disgusted at the sight of the pill and for my lack of control. I could no longer fathom swallowing any more of them for the rest of my life. My mind began to point out the pill’s flaws to strengthen my resolve. Why had it not done this last night?

Lilac? Who came up with these colors? Did they think that if they made pretty medication then it must taste good? My palm crawled toward the pill. A thumb and a middle finger touched tips, then flicked outward. The pill skipped across the strewn papers on the floor and rammed into the wall as it fractured apart. Two medium pieces and one smidgen of a pill bounced underneath the cobwebby bookcase.

I turned my face away as my thoughts finally clicked on to tell me where I was. I had stayed in the diningroom of the neighboring house. In case I had to make a break for the backdoor if this were a day the realtor scheduled to show off the property. Without my watch on I had no idea what time it was. Yet, judging by the sun shining through the south window, it had to be late afternoon. I hoped it was Sunday. This would not be the first time I went on an all-night bender and woke up several days later.

Most of what happened last night remained a fuzz in my mind. I remembered about staring at colorful pills in an aspirin bottle and relishing the faraway in never-never land sensation. I think I had even studied the bone while in my stupor. I had switched back and forth from a feral beast and pondering scientist personalities. My nose had sniffed at the bone and my fingers had measured the angles trying to deduce what animal had lost a body part. No closer to an answer, I had given up. Then I had . . . done something with it.

I frowned, hoping this would trip the mental switch for all my memories to return. I had played some type of weird game about rolling it around with . . .

My body shuddered as I banished away the memory. I knew I had done stranger things in my life, although all of them seemed to pale to this one. Hands smacked the side of my head.
Stupid Jena. Dimwit Jena. No more drugs. No more taking trips through the lilacs.

The headache worsened. I stopped the self-punishment and noticed the aspirin bottle resting on top of the journal. I had tipped over the bottle to eat most of the pills without overdosing. I had played demented games with a gnawed-on bone. Yet my mind had been too out there to read Grandpa’s thoughts.

Arms did a soldier’s crawl across the floor. I concentrated on opening my hands, as they responded in jerky movements toward the book. My eyes scanned a random page with the words registering in slow bursts of understanding. Yet I still felt myself drifting, wondering if I should go out to pick up the newspaper and whether Clare had grown worried over my absence and if Anna would bring those little snack cakes with her whenever she came for her visit with our granny. My eyelids squeezed tight as I berated myself.

"Concentrate, Jena. We can’t go for the newspaper right now because our foot won’t stay on the gas pedal in our loopy condition. That’s how we had ended up in jail when we stole the car to sell for drugs and crashed into the brick wall. As for Clare, she might be worried especially when she sees we raided her cabinet. But since we haven’t heard any police sirens then she probably went off with her church group to pray for forgiveness over our damned soul. And forget about the snack cakes. Anna will not bring any because of Granny’s diabetes."

Those questions answered, my head bent toward the page. It took a moment for the lines to match into the alphabet I had learned in grade school.
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