Content Warning: This post contains adult language and themes.

Oh, splendid. You're here. I have a story to tell you—a delightful tale to regale you with. Come, come. Now, did I ever tell you about the time I tried to become a pilot? Well, I wanted to fly, take to the skies, without chemical assistance mind you. So, I looked into what it would take to get ‘airborne’ as it were; get my private pilot’s license and lift off into the clouds. Turns out way too bloody much. Too much time, too much money… just plain too much effort and I was running dangerously low on all three counts.

But, I wasn’t about to let that stop me, you see, I was determined. You have to fight for your right to party as the old saying goes, so I had to figure out another way. After about a good thirteen, fourteen minutes ruminating on my particular predicament, I landed on, oh, I made a funny, I said landed on a skyjacking. Quite the clever term that. It’s a portmanteau you see. You have ‘sky’ and ‘hijacking’ and you put the words together and well, you have skyjacking. Sit tight fellow, there are more aviation puns where that came from, you better believe it, old boy.

Now, skyjacking being the somewhat, well let’s just say tendentious term that it is, implying you know, force and hostages and the like, let’s ahh for the purposes of this story go for a little rebranding, shall we? I was going to borrow an aeroplane while it was in the air.

Then it hit me, like a lightning bolt. How was I going to get on a plane to borrow it in the first place? Security checkpoints, they don’t like me. And I was bereft of the proper documentation, or even the dosh for a ticket for that matter. And how was I going to find my way into the cockpit?

Cockpit. Why do they call it a cockpit? Up there, a heap of male chickens pecking around. Needless to say, but I’m saying it anyway, I had to reassess.

Now, where was I going with this? Oh, right!

This is where your Uncle Jim comes in. You remember your Uncle Jim, don’t you? Jolly good fellow, God rest his soul. Never should have spent that weekend in Santiago. Shame that. I wonder whatever did happen to that goat. I mean it wasn’t easy getting it up there in the first place. Blimey, we had to graft that day, I’m telling you, old chap!

Anyway, where was I? Yeah, so your uncle Jim, that crazy son of a goose tit. Speaking of melons, have I a story for you and it’s a doozy; black market business, agriculture, dames, and a dash of foreplay, I’m getting right worked up just thinking about it. Cor, cor, cor!

Hang on, that’s not the story I’m supposed to be telling. Where were we?

Ah, yes, your uncle Jim. He didn’t have an aeroplane, but he knew a chap who had a brother who worked with a security guard who could get us onto the grounds over at Dover Field, pounds to pennies. So that’s what we did.

On the night, we were outfitted in specialized equipment. Where your uncle Jim procured, I dared not ask, but you should have observed me appearing akin to a member of the Special Air Service, garbed entirely in black attire from head to toe, moving surreptitiously while maintaining a low profile. The situation necessitated utmost discretion and secrecy. Access was granted through the use of a lock, a key, and the willful ignorance of an authority figure.

And by God we made it. We made it across the runway in the dead of night to one of the private hangars. And there she was. Wasn’t much, one of those little prop jobs. But those lines. That pinstripe outlining those swooping curves. I slowly reached my hand up to the cool metal handle and slid the door backward along the fuselage. Mighty fine. Plane. Mighty fine plane.

I slid across the passenger seat into the pilot’s. It was compact, as in tight inside, but everything I dreamed of. Eyes up. Nose out of it. Mind out of the dishwater, if you please. Still talking about the aeroplane here, not whatever you were obviously thinking about.

So there I was, the beauty ready to be liberated from the beast that was her true owner. I’m not sure that metaphor even works, but… I even had a flying scarf tucked away and proper gloves. Did I mention the scarf? Ah, it doesn’t matter.

Jim! Bless his squirrely little nuts. Your Uncle Jim, he strapped into the passenger seat, gave a coy little smile and gestured for me to proceed out of the hanger and onto the runway.

And this is the happy ending; the part of the story where we flew off into the stars waving toodle-oo to the lads and lasses below… would have been a most excellent end to this tale, but that, unfortunately, is not what happened.

You see, other than the fact that it was nighttime, making things exponentially more difficult in terms of aviation, there was another problem. I’m not a pilot, am I? Needless to say, this plan didn’t exactly get off the ground. Woah, punchline. Jolly good that. Well, three problems actually; it was nighttime, I’m not a pilot and there appeared to be no less than fifty-two bricks of Bolivian marching powder in the rear cabin.

He was about to continue when his grandson interrupted:

“Grandpa, umm I was just supposed to come tell you that supper was ready.”

© Nash Urban, 2024
All rights reserved.

FYI: The article voiceover contains additional spice! Also in Podcast flavor.

Long time no see. Work/Life balance is a myth.

So this was an interesting one. One I reverse-engineered the writing prompt for after I had already written most of the story. But before that, let’s talk about the story voiceover, or, more accurately, lack thereof.

I did initially try to record the VO for this, and I was excited about it, it was just taking way too much time. I was doing, not only a character voice but a poor British accent at that. I kept having to do retake after retake, there were interruptions, my current recording setup isn’t the best for multitrack recording and editing, etc. So there will be no story voiceover for today… and the foreseeable future, but that’s okay.

I was always on the fence about narrating the passages. As I mentioned in a previous post, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to have my voice floating around inside your head or to just let you use what you thought the character’s voices would sound like, aka your imagination. Also, what am I to do with my female characters? And, after today’s difficulties, it became clear that I should just hit pause for the time being. So that is what we are doing.

Not that I don’t like doing character voices, I very much do and that’s why I decided to give it a go in the first place, it’s just very time-consuming. My short-term to medium-term goal is and has always been to improve upon and get as much writing out there as possible. This will allow me to better accomplish that.

But, as a consolation prize, I do have quite a few lines recorded, so I might tack a few on at the end of this pod. Think of it as bonus content.

With that out of the way, back to the reverse-engineered writing prompt. What had happened was that I was digging through some old notebooks looking for some "sensitive information" when I stumbled upon this little ditty about becoming a pilot. (Yes, I just used "ditty". No, I did not do any singing.) For some reason, I had written down the word count (150) in increments of 25. Not sure why. Must have been some kind of personal challenge or Twitter thing perhaps. Regardless, I decided to use it for a post, so I took a picture to refer to later. Electronic shutter sound

Later the following week, I was traveling for work and had some downtime. I decided to hit up a local craft beer joint and copy over the prose into a new notebook. So from an old notebook to a new notebook. What's that you say? Pointless? Quite the opposite, friend.

You see, one of the best ways for me to understand something, really understand something, is to write it by hand; even if it is just copying. I wanted to understand what I wrote those few years back and get my head around the prose to be able to talk about it here in the notes section.

As I started to copy, I just kept having this thought in my head: "And then what happened?"

WRITING PROMPT: "AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED"

Like I was telling a story to a young child. And then what happened? And then what happened? I mean that's the proverbial “flow”, right?

Very quickly my 150 words ballooned into 950. I would have kept going but decided to pump the brakes with the grandson interjecting. I think it made for a nice comic beat as well. That, and my glass was empty and I was out of cash.

Now, for the first draft, I had the voice of a Southern Gentleman that I was working with while writing and reading it aloud; I do love a good character voice. It was working, but let's just say it was a little too edgy. And by edgy I mean uncomfortable. We will revisit Mr. Southern Gentleman at some point in the future, rest assured. Next step:

Writer Pro-Tip #253: Sleep on it

So I slept on it… So I thought about it while lying in bed. Why not make it an old man? I said to myself at 2:30 am when I should have been fast asleep. This is why I keep a notebook on the nightstand.

During the next writing session, I decided to try it on for size, changing bits of the narration and reading them aloud. Very quickly it turned into a kind of older gentleman British accent, partially because I'm fond of that character voice and partially because I wanted to say aeroplane instead of airplane.

This is where the research began. I had a lot of fun trying to insert British slang into the story and replace the existing American slang. I think I did a fair job, even though it wasn’t the most consistent, and my accent/character did tend to slip in and out a bit (the v.o. is so good because it is so bad). Ultimately and as always, I will let you be the judge.

Additionally, whenever I hear or think of a British accent, I automatically think extra IQ points. Maybe this is just an American thing. This might explain why a lot of film villains are British. Smooth, intelligent, articulate and dapper. An evil genius with a master plan and impeccable manners. Except for the ones that aren’t.

Not that this character was evil, quite the loquacious fella really. But because of my biased IQ factor, I tried to add a bit of that articulate speech in between the rambling, haphazard nature of the story and storyteller.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading the story. I know I enjoyed writing it.

See you on the next page,

Nash

Side note: With this passage, gDocs kept prompting me to change my language settings to British English. I refused. No taxation without representation and all that.

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Content Warning: This post contains adult language and themes.

John held his card up to the reader and let out a well-deserved sigh. The week was done. "Heading to the Alibi to grab a few drinks. You joining?" he called out, stepping to the side of the reader.

Jessie took his turn at the machine, greeted by the sweet sound of clocking out. "Naw," he groaned. "I need to work through a few things. Last night the Mrs. seemed pretty upset after our monthly salsa in the sheets, if you know what I mean."

"Hey Romeo," barked a voice from behind Jessie, who hadn't realized he was holding up the line. "Mind salsa-ing somewhere else?"

"Yeah, sorry Tony," he mumbled, turning back to John to walk with him towards the lockers.

"Is that the end of the story?" John prodded.

A few paces later Jessie muttered, "...bering her."

"Bud, I know Tony caught you with your pants down just then, but I can barely hear you over the noise," John remarked, leaning in closer.

"She said I need to stop encumbering her," Jessie blurted out with slightly too much force.

John let out a confused "What?" with Jessie not seeming to notice.

"Thing is, it's the only sexual position I'm good at. She knew that when we got married," Jessie continued, oblivious to John's confusion.

John just smiled, waiting to see where this ship was sailing, as they rounded the corner and headed into the lockers.

"Yeah, I don't get it. I thought I encumbered her real good," Jessie mused. "Anyway, I'm gonna pick up some flowers and do a bit of my own research. Maybe hit up one of those Dr. Lady relationship websites."

"Dr. Lady?" John echoed, equal parts amused and confused.

"You know. Those relationship counselor sites that give advice from a lady's point of view," Jessie explained. "Try to smooth things over. Maybe learn a few new moves and whatnot."

John bit his lower lip, just holding back a snort and the urge to ask Jessie his definition of encumbered. Instead, he placed his hand, straight-armed, on Jessie's shoulder. He looked him dead in the eye and offered what any friend worth their salt would say:

"Can't go wrong with flowers. See you on Monday?"

Jessie nodded, a hint of relief in his eyes. "Yeah, see you on Monday John. And thanks. You’re a good friend."

© Nash Urban, 2024
All rights reserved.

So, I wrote way too much to start these Nash's Notes—burning flesh and blackout curtains among other things, don't ask—so I did one of the hardest things a writer has to do... or have someone on the payroll do for them: 

DELETE, DELETE, DELETE.

Long story short, I forgot to take my phone to the gym the morning I wrote Can’t Go Wrong With Flowers. No music. No screen. I got home and thought you know what, I just kind of want to stay off screens for the rest of the day. But I also want to continue my coursework and knock out the next writing prompt, and it's all online. I don't have anything printed out.

I have no prompts written down and nothing comes to mind, save the 100-word drabble idea. And a blank page and "just write anything" is a death sentence. What's a slightly balding middle-aged man to do?

While pondering my dilemma (and my hairline), sipping a cup of Peru Blue and blankly staring at the living room bookshelf, my good eye glanced at the spine of our family dictionary. I was reminded that I use it to choose a keyword for my kids' biweekly diary entry wherein I pick a random word and they have to work it into what they write somehow.

Just open to a random page, point a blind finger and voila, Bob's your uncle.

Bingo. Problem solved. Constraint realized. Level up. And other things.

This is how I quite literally landed on "encumbered," my keyword for today.

WRITING PROMPT: "THE ENCUMBERED EDITION"

So, I grabbed my keys and a notebook and headed to a coffee shop, where, coincidentally, everyone else was partaking in the very thing I was attempting to escape for the day. Funny that (he said sarcastically).

Earlier in the week, for reasons I won't get into here, I found myself partaking in an online grammar test. Shit was hard. Not gonna lie.

Relevant to the prompt, there was a word association section with a few terms I was unfamiliar with, which got me thinking about my own vocabulary and led to an "oh, shit, have I been using that word incorrectly this whole time?" moment.

Also funny because, as I'm sure most of you have experienced, a friend or colleague has been on the wrong end of that equation with you there to bear witness—not quite making it to the "oh shit" moment, but rather the "yeah, I know big words good" moment.

Humorous (if I do say so myself) personal anecdote inserted here in the article voiceover.

Thus, I had the idea for, not just the what, but the how of what I wrote today. I thought I would go for some humor and shenanigans (am I using that correctly? Probably not.), rather than 'appropriately' using the term. Hopefully, I got a chuckle out of you. Or at least half of one.

Until next time…

See you on the next page,

Nash

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Content Warning: This post contains explicit language.

The car shifted into neutral and rolled to a stop, the sound of the rain and the wipers a barrier to the outside world, dull and unbiased. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Each aggressive word in staccato accompanied Alex's open palms pounding on the steering wheel, crescendoing into a final "Fuuuuuuuuck!"

He wasn't quite sure why he chose this spot. Both hands ran through his wet hair from front to back. It was a lie, of course. He knew exactly why he chose this spot. It was quiet with a view. Happenstance. A first kiss. A proposal. It was hers and his. It was theirs.

He wiped the wet from his cheeks, not quite sure where the rain ended and he began. But why? She was better than this. She was perfect. He must have missed something, said something, done something. Thoughts pointed inward, racing to find what he did wrong. Every possible memory flashed by like a social feed in his head. Wait. What's this? His heart skipped a beat, and he had to remind himself to breathe. This can't be right. The feed algorithm adjusted. This wasn't me... It was him. It was always him. "That sonofabitch." The algorithm had won.

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, eyes shifting towards the glove box and the promise of protection that lay quietly tucked inside. The beats were back, pounding. The stick shift slammed into reverse, gravel spewing from the front of the car. Alex knew where this road led. The question was, did he?

© Nash Urban, 2024
All rights reserved.

Apologies for the language kind of out of left field there. This might be my first and only apology though. Reminds me that I should go and check that box on my podcast settings. I guess this is a good time to share my thoughts on profanity and the like, the gist being, if it serves the story.

Here is the thing: while I don't mind using profanity, I'm not a fan of profanity for the sake of profanity–it needs to make sense. It needs to be part of the character and/or the story I am trying to tell. That is not to say that my usage will always be subtle and tasteful, but for me, it will always be in service of the story or in the pursuit of my craft.

That's why I'm here and hopefully you, the reader, as well, asking questions like: Where is this author at? Where is he going and where has he been? How is he telling his stories? How is he growing? Is this someone I want to give my time to? Was the story entertaining?

Which brings about the broader topic of crossing lines. Well, I am new to this whole writing fiction thing. Put another way, I am green. I will only know when my line is crossed once I step over it. I need room to experiment and grow without the pitchforks coming out. But this is my line and my line is probably different from yours. But guess what? That's okay. If I offend you, that's also okay. If I spent all of my time worrying about offending or upsetting strangers on the internet with what I write or say, I would never get anything published.

That being said, I am not out here trying to be a shock jock or be hateful or malicious under the guise of fiction. I just want to tell stories, and stories go places. Characters can be scumbags and scenes can make us feel uncomfortable. But we need that and we need to know why. And our opinions need to be our own, not what the nameless mobs think. And we can share those opinions or not. But we can be respectful and civilized about it.

But while I am writing for me, the reader is the one holding the key. You see, while I have the power to put metaphorical pen to paper and dictate my own boundaries, you, dear reader, have the ultimate power: choosing to read or not. I'm reminded of the saying "If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" Which is to say, if I write something and no one is around to read it, does it even exist?

Time. Time is our most valuable resource, and seeing as how you are still here, it means you shared a little of yours with me. And for that, I am truly grateful. I'm here for the fiction. I hope you are too.

Okay. Allow me a moment to step down off my soapbox and we can get into today’s writing prompt which is:

WRITING PROMPT: "JUMP INSIDE THEIR HEAD”

In this prompt, I was to choose from a list of provided scenarios and “jump inside the character’s head” to write a scene that describes what this character might be thinking. The scenario I chose was: 

A husband or wife finds out the other has been cheating.

Did you catch on before reading this? I think that much was obvious, though I did want to leave a few things up to the reader’s imagination by only hinting at them. Hope you enjoyed the story.

A couple of additional things:

1. I was to get inside the character's head, which I attempted. But, also, the character was kind of getting inside their own head. That’s where the idea of the algo came from. Seeing what you want to see.

2. I bent perspective from third-person limited a couple of times, but I think it worked.

3. I am still not sure when to use italics for internal monologue or if that’s where I should be using them at all.

Until next time.

See you on the next page,

Nash

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Disclaimer: Prompt from "The Foundations of Fiction" course by J. Brody & J. Rendell on Udemy. Not sponsored or affiliated. Used for commentary and educational purposes under fair use. For full course, see Udemy.

“What's that? Something on my... Oh, the drabble on this shirt. Well, this is embarrassing. Yeah, no matter how many times I wash it or take it to the cleaners, it's still there - always and forever, forever my partner in this button-down life, ha. I know, I know, why not just get rid of the shirt? Well, it's a good shirt; it was a gift. I don't care if she left me for a French pianist; most of the time, it goes unnoticed by... I'm sorry, do I know you? You seem to care an awful lot about my drabble.”

© Nash Urban, 2024
All rights reserved.

No, that’s not what a drabble is at all… (But I guess it could be. My world, my rules and all of that.) So what IS a drabble then?

According to Wikipedia: A drabble is a short work of fiction of precisely one hundred words in length.[1][2][3][4] The purpose of the drabble is brevity, testing the author's ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in a confined space.

To which I reply, “Brilliant!” and “How have I never heard of this?”

Backing things up a bit, I was cruising through my feed of Substack Notes, iced coffee in hand, trying to figure out if [Notes] was something I truly want to engage with, when I stumbled upon an article by Veronica Llorca-Smith on minimalist writing. I'm simple and I like to keep things simple (for the most part) so the title caught my attention. Part of the article talked about practicing short-form writing and introduced the concept of the drabble to Nash Urban for the first time.

This idea of prioritizing brevity to test ability appealed to me on many levels from haikus to puzzles to wanting to share a nice tidy little piece of fiction. I have a tendency to over explain things both in real life and with my writing—as you might have well noticed. I think there is a saying out there that goes something like "Don't say in ten words what you can say in two." Something like that. Anyway, you get the point.

So today I took a detour from my coursework with the self-assigned writing prompt:

WRITING PROMPT: "100-WORD DRABBLE"

In this prompt, quite simply, I completed the very straightforward task of writing 100 words. No more. No less.

How I ended up with what I wrote was kind of unusual in that it started out as the very first paragraph of the Nash's Notes section. I was going to write the note first, as I kind of had all of that information in my head, and then go back and do the actual prompt. After editing a bit I thought hell, this is pretty much what I needed to write anyway. I mean, it's humorous. It satisfies the writing prompt. I enjoyed writing it. Why not just futz around with it a bit to hit the word count and call it done.

So, that's what happened.

And, as my good park-bench-box-of-chocolate friend always says, "That's all I have to say about that."

See you on the next page,

Nash

…

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I’ve prepared a little game that can only be found in the audio version of this post. If you would like to check that out and have a little fun, do not read the rest of this post until after listening to the audio in full. It might spoil the game. And, as always, the audio version contains a little bit of extra spice that can only be found there. For the full Nash Urban experience (because I am so important and acoustically impressive), be sure to check it out.

In the last post, I briefly touched on the course I am progressing through—Writing Mastery: Foundations of Fiction—and the first writing prompt:

"TOO MUCH INFORMATION" (BAD WRITING)

This involved describing a character's appearance with way too much information, rather than being clear, concise, and memorable. I was given a list of 13 characters, from which I was to choose one to complete the exercise with. You can find that post here: Nothing Against Vampires

At the end of the lesson, there were some bonus prompts. 

• Write a good description of your character

• Pick a different character and try again

• Team up with a writing partner and challenge each other by making up characters for the other to try describing

I decided to riff on the idea, and get a little extra practice, by trying to write decent descriptions for all of the remaining 12 characters.

• A Vietnam or Iraq vet

• A celebrity chef

• An alien

• Your first-grade teacher

• Han Solo

• A first-class passenger on the Titanic

• Your son or daughter

• A drunk or alcoholic

• A famous movie star

• A hedge fund manager

• A 90-year-old grandmother

• A medieval knight

Decent Character Descriptions  by Nash Urban

He stood tall, proud, with a square jaw and a forehead to match. His haircut was high and tight. But the eyes—those baby blues had seen some shit. A look into the soul of a changed man, a tired man, whose body and posture projected a different story.

He was an asshole through and through and he knew it. Didn't matter. He was an asshole, but a rockstar in the kitchen. Slight in stature, but didn't seem to notice. Like a Chihuahua thinking it's a Doberman. And swearing, lots of swearing at anyone and everyone. The crook in his nose, the meticulous 5 o'clock shadow, and the need to wear aviators any time not in the kitchen only added to the facade of confidence of an insecure little boy.

As the cold metallic door slowly opened, a thick, swirling fog poured out, paused, stuck in time, then dissipated in an instant, sucked into an unknown vacuum that left me looking into a mirror, a slate-colored reflection staring back at me. The only telltale sign was the skin—slightly tinted with gray, pale like a sickness. Everything else was flawless, uncanny. And the symmetry—no human is this perfectly symmetrical. The eyes, the ears, even the nose. I guess the little green men didn’t get the memo.

It didn't matter what the weather or occasion was, she always wore a long-sleeved flower print blouse and skirt that went down to her ankles, even on Halloween. And although she did experiment with hair accessories from time to time, her salt and pepper hair was almost always pulled back in a tight bun, making her slender facial features and big kind eyes all that more prominent. Her thin, gold frame glasses with saucer lenses had one of those chain things so she didn't misplace them. Or sit on them. That only happened once from what I am told. But if I had to sum Mrs. C up in one word, it would be ‘warmhearted’.

Pose. Smirk. Smile. Cocky. Smuggler. Leather jacket, head of hair, and a modified heavy blaster. 

His walnut brown derby, perfectly shaped to his head, framed two twinkling eyes that sparkled with the kindness of Saint Nick, complemented by a belly to match. A long, russet mustache, assiduously twirled at either end, felt right at home with a smart three-piece suit that might have fit an oversized child. A beautifully crafted cane served its intended purpose, helping with a wobble that afflicted his left side, rather than being ornamental like so many others embarking on this maiden voyage.

Robert Louis Stevenson would have been at a loss for words, but she is and will always be my little girl.

If no one had told me, I would never have guessed. 

Sarah was a middle-aged soccer mom who took pride in the role. Petite, vivacious, with a bubbly personality that was infectious, she greeted everyone with a big smile and an even bigger hug. Her dishwater blonde hair in a ponytail pulled back through the opening of her Warriors cap. Black yoga pants with a pocket for her oversized phone bunched and stretched as she slid out of the driver's seat of her obnoxiously large SUV. Her toes struggled to find purchase on the pavement. All par for the white suburban course.

 Had no one told me, I would have never guessed... she was an alcoholic.

She was a mess. A pill-popping, line-snorting, chain-smoking mess. But on screen, she was a dream. A vision of youth and beauty. Inviting lips, elegant lines, with just a hint of playful mischief. A glance, a smile, a tantalizing promise. Look, but don't touch. And when that camera started rolling, and you entered that dream, you almost forgot... Almost.

I thought your physical appearance going to shit because of stress was just an office myth, but man, Barry is the barely-living embodiment of it, head to toe. His wrinkled suit, tie askew or missing, shirt half-tucked, barely-laced oxfords, and MIA belts. He's even worn mismatched trousers and jacket more than once. His face is starting to remind me of that mask from Scream, and I think he is quite literally pulling his hair out. 

I have no idea what's going on in that head of his, and I love him like a brother, but I thank the baby Jesus I'm in a more sane department.

As she slowly walked up to the covered porch, expectations in hand, a petite elderly woman came into view. She was rocking gently and cradling a cup of tea. 

"Are you Millie?" Sarah asked, approaching the steps with a touch of sour. 

"Well that depends on who's asking," the woman replied with a bite and a smile.

 "My name is Sarah. I'm a Judge Advocate with the U.S. Navy. I'm here to ask you a few questions about your grandson." 

Millie's eyes gestured toward the outdoor sofa. Despite the many creases and wrinkles that framed them, they burned with a sharp wit and intelligence unexpected in someone her age. The air smelled of chamomile. Stomach troubles, perhaps.

His coif revealed a pudgy face that was almost entirely obscured by a beard and bushy eyebrows. Tall, dark, and handsome, it would seem, was not to be found at Silverbrook Manor—quite the opposite. It would pain one, in fact, to think how feudal duties had been managed to this point at all. Nevertheless, Sir Girthmore appeared to be comfortable in his station and to have things well under control, one might go so far as to say flourishing.

© Nash Urban, 2024
All rights reserved.

That’s a wrap. People still say that, right? Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed my decent descriptions.

See you on the next page,

Nash

…

Disclaimer: The prompt in this post was part of The Foundations of Fiction (Writing Mastery) course by Jessica Brody and Joanne Rendell on Udemy.  This post is not sponsored and Nu Fiction is not affiliated with the course, the authors, or Udemy. Excerpts from course materials are used for commentary and educational purposes under fair use guidelines. Please check out the full course and resources on Udemy.

The Dan by Nash Urban

I never did like History much. Especially 4th-period history. There was only one thing I ever thought of during 4th period—lunch. Well, two things if you included Stacy, who sat a few rows over and one up, but mainly lunch.

"Why are we still sitting here, Mr. H?" sighed Carol from the back row.

Mr. H shifted uncomfortably behind his desk. "Just sit tight for a bit longer. Shouldn't be too long now."

"What shouldn't be too long now?" whispered Dan across the row, which in my mind was right at me. "His dick?"

Dan didn't have much of a way with words, but man, was he cool. He somehow managed to go through a huge transformation in the three months between the end of 8th grade and the start of 9th. I guess that's what happens when you are in the gym all day every day and go so far as to make a big deal about the fat content of the sour cream on your taco.  

Of course, he had the perfect look to go with his now 9% body fat: a sweet Cowboys jersey that showed off the guns, baggy jeans from the outlet mall that I have never been to, and killer white Adidas, I think they were Stan Smiths. Even a nice fade that came to a peak at the top of his forehead, like a buff rhino.

So, of course, his comment caught me off guard, and I panicked. 

"Yeah, his dicks," I blurted out, in plural form for some reason, in a barely comprehensible fashion.

"Not so loud, dude," Dan said out of the corner of his mouth, eyes straightforward, probably hoping nobody noticed.

"Is there a problem back there, Sheffield?"

"No, Mr. H. Just ah, hungry is all," I winced.

What Dan lacked in the word department, he made up for in social situations. That, and the hit things hard department—a story for another day, perhaps. I, on the other hand, was one part deer in the headlights, one part unfiltered mess, and one part "not in the face," and those parts never mixed well. On top of that, I could barely put together matching socks in the morning; my clothes were hand-me-downs; buzzcut was the only cut; and I'm pretty sure I was all body fat.

The only thing I had going for me was a seemingly endless supply of useless knowledge. I owned trivia night at my house. I secretly think my stepdad wishes I was old enough to drink so he could take me to the bar to win a few bucks on the weekly pub quiz. If he stopped going to the bar, he could save more than a few bucks in my opinion. I only said that out loud on one occasion. That was more than enough.

© Nash Urban, 2024
All rights reserved.

A Note on Formatting: Due to the limitations of the text editor, this fictional work appears without traditional indentation for new paragraphs.

I mentioned in my welcome post that "I have no background, no training, and no education, both formal or informal, in creative writing and literature more specifically" which is 96% true, but I did attempt to take a Skillshare course for a hot minute about 8 years ago... And whatever English 101 counts for. But that was too many decades ago, so I would say not much at all.

Anyway, I had completely forgotten about this until I found myself doing some Google Drive housekeeping in preparation for this publication, at which time I stumbled upon this little diddy.

I have no idea what the name of the course was, or the prompt that brought this story to bear, just that it was from Skillshare.

So this is where I was at at the time. I figured this would make a good baseline of sorts for things moving forward.

See you on the next page,

Nash

Nothing Against Vampires by Nash Urban

The Monster's Ball is supposed to be something sacred, something celebrated; something I look forward to year after year, and it was, up until he showed up.

Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against vampires, alpha tendencies, and all. I mean they are quiet, both in action and in voice, very well-mannered for the most part, and play a decent game of chess. They can be quite scary and a bit aggressive from time to time, but hey, aren't we all being "monsters" and all? But Vlad. All bets are off when it comes to Vlad.

It is as if you took the most stereotypical human Hollywood vampire ever known, mushed him in a coffin with what's his name, that Rocket Man character from the 1970s... Elton John, that's right Elton John, and just let them marinate in the dark slumber of a thousand centuries for... a thousand centuries.

Just look at him as he flamboyantly floats into the room midnight blue velvet and all. He had skin so white you'd swear he was a mime, if not so loud in both senses of the word. I have seen capes with high collars, but this is ridiculous. Not to mention "Paint the town red" in cursive in no less than 2,431 magnificently sparkling vermilion sequins across the back. A periwinkle puffy shirt with more lace than a lingerie shop, check. Jet black, oil-slicked hair that would make Wall Street jealous, check. A large, ruby-encrusted pendant that resembles a coiled dragon, check. Feathers where there shouldn't be feathers, check. And the blood rose-colored star glasses, I mean, c'mon.

You know what, Austin Powers. It's like vampire Austin Powers with much better teeth and hair. Now all he needs is some kind of obnoxious catchphrase, which he probably has.

I mean even his name is pretentious. Vlad "Cuz" Cantacuzino. Come to think of it, I'm quite positive that isn't even his real name, I mean what kind of self-respecting vampire is called Vlad? A consummate dark showman who knows how to engage and excite an audience, I guess?

Oh, shit, all 185.76cm of him are floating this way. Does he see me? I am invisible. The hat, I forgot to take off the hat.

"Dr. Griffin so good to see you, love," Vlad chuckles at his own emphasis of "see". "I hope you are finding the party well." Another chuckle.

I hate puns. "It's had better years, but yes."

"Yeah, baby!"

I hate Vlad even more.

© Nash Urban, 2024
All rights reserved.

A Note on Formatting: Due to the limitations of the text editor, this fictional work appears without traditional indentation for new paragraphs. I will remove this note eventually, but not yet.

I started a course on Udemy because it seemed as good a place as any. There is plenty of free advice out there, but I wanted to start with something that was explicitly designed from top to bottom to be a course rather than what you would typically find on a place like YouTube. Not to discount all of that style of information, but it tends to be more sensational than educational, and I didn't want to take the time to sift through all that sand without a better idea of what it is that I am actually sifting for.

WRITING PROMPT: "TOO MUCH INFORMATION" (BAD WRITING)

So I find myself exploring The Foundations of Fiction lesson block on characters, which happens to be the first real lesson of a 56-lecture course. The takeaway is strong characters are fundamental to compelling fiction. Indeed.

This first exercise is on appearance and has me doing... what not to do. That is describing a character's appearance with way too much information rather than being clear, concise and memorable.

In this prompt, I was to pick one of the characters from the list below (or make up my own).

• A Vietnam or Iraq vet

• A celebrity chef

• An alien

• Your first-grade teacher

• Han Solo

• A first-class passenger on the Titanic

• Your son or daughter

• A drunk

• A famous movie star

• A hedge fund manager

• A vampire

• A 90-year-old grandmother

• A medieval knight

There was a bit about setting a timer and yada yada yada, but I just wrote until I didn't.

See you on the next page,

Nash

…

I’m Nash Urban, and for the past two decades, the idea of becoming a published fiction author has been circling the drain of my life goals, never quite being pulled down into black, yet never quite rising above the whirlpool of wishful thinking.

You see, I’m not even quite sure that I like writing, more that I like having written. Writing is hard. It’s a hard thing to do. Perhaps, like many of you, I overly romanticize the idea itself rather than the act or occupation.

Well, it’s time to find out, for I finally find myself at a juncture with time in one hand and means in the other, leaving no hand free to hold my excuses with.

I have been told that one should show their best work. 'Best' is currently non-existent for me as I am quite literally starting at zero. I have no background, no training, and no education, both formal or informal, in creative writing and literature more specifically. Instead, I am electing to share my process and progress rather than waiting for the aforementioned best work to happen. Should be fun. Should.

One step back. Perhaps. As long as it’s a net forward.

This publication will start out being comprised of clearly labeled/tagged fictional entries with notes and supplemental material (i.e. writing prompts or thoughts among others) as needed, as well as personal updates and perhaps the occasional newsletter summarizing monthly or quarterly efforts. I am not quite sure how to categorize and organize things, but I’m confident that the problem will sort itself out once the wheels start turning. This is all TBD, so please bear with me. Even I don’t know who did it in this ‘whodunnit’ tale we are embarking on. The important thing is to write. Everything else is window dressing. Two more steps.

My modest goal as of this writing will be to finish and publish a novella. At the very least, I hope to produce a few short stories that I am proud of. Whether they (or anything published here for that matter) are good or not will be entirely up to the reader, but I am fully prepared for the failures to far outweigh the successes, and I am under no illusion that this will not require a tremendous amount of time and effort if it is even something I am capable of at all. Father Time will be sure to let me know. 

I am here to learn. I am here to grow. I am here to write Nu Fiction.

The date is May 1st, 2024. Remember it. I most certainly will.

And even if this whole experiment ends in a fiery car crash, at least it is my fiery car crash.

See you on the next page,

Nash Urban