Misc Writer Crew - Misc Writing Challenge!! Wordsmiths assemble!

[csbrah]

You should take it out and read it again with fresh eyes. If your daughter cried reading it, it's a good sign.



First you have to pick a system you like/are comfortable with. You can derive existing mechanic from games that already exists (e.g. Call of Cthulhu have a deep mechanic popular for investigative and horror games). Popular ones are DnD classic, d20, GURPS, Savage Worlds, are often used for fantasy but can work with any genre. However, I find those systems too deep and their learning curve is too steep for both GM and the players to learn, the rule-books often are hundreds of pages long, those games are often very statistic-heavy.

I use Strain system. The complete rulebook is only 32 pages and includes mechanic for combat, settlements, leveling up etc... It's very well suited for Survival Horror with a decent system for character progression. An even more simplified system exists, it's called Strain Basic, which is only 2 pages long and includes the most barebone mechanics, no settlement, leveling, etc but it can work just as well and is popular for plot-driven games. All you need to really play is a dice (there are apps that can roll dice for you), a character sheet (downloaded on the internet), pens/pencils and papers, that's it.

What you do as a GM is you create the setting from scratch. How I do is I start with the background info (political, historical...), then locations (by hand-drawing a map), maybe I'll write down what items can be looted from a specific area, what the players are permitted to do etc, then I start profiling the NPCs, what they look like, what they wear, what equipment they carry, what their background is, how they affect the story, how they will react to the player character's actions, the important dialogues)

The writing and brainstorming process is very important, because that is how you flesh out and learn your created world and story. I use a notebook, which I divide into sections (locations, items, npcs) and place bookmarks so they can be accessed easily during a game. I let the players do whatever they please, but I control the consequence. Every obstacle, be it fighting an enemy, jumping over a crevasse, cooking a healing item requires a roll of a dice with the consideration of the player character's skills and stats.

Example: im writing a campaign where the player characters have to rescue a village from the vengeance of a demonic duchess. In our first game my wife and son, knowing nothing about the plot, decided to walk the opposite direction. I let them walk and throw in logical obstacles like frostbite and animal attacks, and they die over and over until I feel bad and tell them they were walking the opposite directions. You can give the players hint or place obstacles/clues that steer them toward the story. The GM is a literal god in the game, you can make anything happen but the point is to have fun and let the players have fun too.

This whole thing sounds time consuming, which it is, but also extremely fun. Sometimes, the players do the things you do not expect which in turn makes for a much different story than you anticipate.

Don't hesitate to ask if you have any question.

Thx brah, I will check it out. BTW check out tvtropes.org if you want some extra ideas for brainstorming

[Azn00Superman]

Been screwing around the past months, maybe writing twice a week max. Disappointed with myself. When it comes to time to sit down and write I always let minor inconvenience stop me from doing the work. Today, had a pounding tooth ache, took some CBD that helped for about three hours and now it came back. I tried to write but the pain kept on nagging and I couldn't concentrate. Feels bad mane.

[Azn00Superman]

First update of the year. Since losing the whole draft due to computer being broken, I've been back on the drawing board. Because of this, I've taken a good look at my earlier draft of this novel and realized a lot of issues with it. One of the major issues being that the things that happened in the story do not always play a part in the plot, but rather they were my futile attempts at making as many things going wrong as possible in order to keep the reader interest. This can be good, but I think I did it too often so it became rather trite. Also, there isn't much character development either, there is no clear motivation for anyone beside the protagonists, and that is very obvious once those side characters appear and proceeded to do nothing but make comments and mill around. The third issue is I realized my main character is too old for me to write about. This goes back to the tenet of "write what you know", which isn't necessarily meant to be taken literally, but a man in his seventies would have spent a great deal of time in the 50s and 60s, which make up a great part of his memories and personality. And I, being a few months shy of 30, I would have done this character zero justice. So I decide to bring his age down to 40-50 years old, still older than me, but I'm more comfortable writing protagonists of that age range. This negates the need to research about the bygone era of the 1950s and a host of medical problems that an septuagenarian would have. However, it will undoubtedly impact how much the story will deviate from my original vision, as my protagonist is now younger, more capable, but at the same time I want to keep his personality the same.
Lots of work to be done.

[etet1919]

First update of the year. Since losing the whole draft due to computer being broken, I've been back on the drawing board. Because of this, I've taken a good look at my earlier draft of this novel and realized a lot of issues with it. One of the major issues being that the things that happened in the story do not always play a part in the plot, but rather they were my futile attempts at making as many things going wrong as possible in order to keep the reader interest. This can be good, but I think I did it too often so it became rather trite. Also, there isn't much character development either, there is no clear motivation for anyone beside the protagonists, and that is very obvious once those side characters appear and proceeded to do nothing but make comments and mill around. The third issue is I realized my main character is too old for me to write about. This goes back to the tenet of "write what you know", which isn't necessarily meant to be taken literally, but a man in his seventies would have spent a great deal of time in the 50s and 60s, which make up a great part of his memories and personality. And I, being a few months shy of 30, I would have done this character zero justice. So I decide to bring his age down to 40-50 years old, still older than me, but I'm more comfortable writing protagonists of that age range. This negates the need to research about the bygone era of the 1950s and a host of medical problems that an septuagenarian would have. However, it will undoubtedly impact how much the story will deviate from my original vision, as my protagonist is now younger, more capable, but at the same time I want to keep his personality the same.
Lots of work to be done.

Hey Superman! I was just doing a fly-by, and happened to catch your post. Good to read from you again!

I can't even get give much feedback on how the art of creative writing is such a messy whirlwind of a process, partially due to the fact I haven't had my morning black coffee yet. But I can tell you this- good idea changing the main character to someone closer to your age group! It's very difficult to "get into someone's head", and authentically write from that space, when trying to empathize as a person who hasn't experienced that amount of life yet. Good thinking! If you want to ask me a few (safe) questions on what it was like growing up in that generation, or living your prime years before social media and cell phones (I loved it!), then I'm your girl- depending on the some of your characters. I can only try to get into a limited number a peoples' heads nowadays, mainly due to temporary brain fog Gotta go...I'm imagining smelling that black coffee right about now! Happy New Year!!

[Azn00Superman]

Hey Superman! I was just doing a fly-by, and happened to catch your post. Good to read from you again!

I can't even get give much feedback on how the art of creative writing is such a messy whirlwind of a process, partially due to the fact I haven't had my morning black coffee yet. But I can tell you this- good idea changing the main character to someone closer to your age group! It's very difficult to "get into someone's head", and authentically write from that space, when trying to empathize as a person who hasn't experienced that amount of life yet. Good thinking! If you want to ask me a few (safe) questions on what it was like growing up in that generation, or living your prime years before social media and cell phones (I loved it!), then I'm your girl- depending on the some of your characters. I can only try to get into a limited number a peoples' heads nowadays, mainly due to temporary brain fog Gotta go...I'm imagining smelling that black coffee right about now! Happy New Year!!

Hello. I always love and appreciate your positivity. How has your writing been lately? Thanks for the offer, I don't have any questions at the moment as I haven't truly decided on what age the main guy will be yet. Maybe I just won't mention his age at all lol.
Yeah, the idea of the character age change happened when I realized that my protagonist had known the loss of a child and I hadn't known any kind of pain close to that level. I realized I was way out of my league in that respect.
Cheers and happy new year!

[etet1919]

Hello. I always love and appreciate your positivity. How has your writing been lately? Thanks for the offer, I don't have any questions at the moment as I haven't truly decided on what age the main guy will be yet. Maybe I just won't mention his age at all lol.
Yeah, the idea of the character age change happened when I realized that my protagonist had known the loss of a child and I hadn't known any kind of pain close to that level. I realized I was way out of my league in that respect.
Cheers and happy new year!

Hey Superman! I'm not currently writing. But I remember you had mentioned submitting a transcript of a Halloween-themed short story (?) to a horror magazine/publisher. How did that go?? That must have been thrilling

Um, yeah, the loss of a child...one of the greatest tragedies a parent or close family member can experience. All I can say, at the moment, is I know a few people (in my circle) that have lost children. However, you wouldn't know this kind of grief had happened to them just by looking in their eyes while talking to them. They are amazingly strong, kind, warm, hard-working and successful people. You just never know what kind of pain some people have gone through continually, but willfully, and not only survive, but thrive in spite of it. The human spirit is something else...no other words or sentiments right now.

One last thing, from one writer to another: You don't have to go through the same exact painful experience to feel compassion or cognitive empathy and then write about it. You can draw from your own emotional experiences or the trials of others. And you can use your gift of imagination, as an artist, to create an original piece. Continued success to you!!!

[Azn00Superman]

Hey Superman! I'm not currently writing. But I remember you had mentioned submitting a transcript of a Halloween-themed short story (?) to a horror magazine/publisher. How did that go?? That must have been thrilling

Um, yeah, the loss of a child...one of the greatest tragedies a parent or close family member can experience. All I can say, at the moment, is I know a few people (in my circle) that have lost children. However, you wouldn't know this kind of grief had happened to them just by looking in their eyes while talking to them. They are amazingly strong, kind, warm, hard-working and successful people. You just never know what kind of pain some people have gone through continually, but willfully, and not only survive, but thrive in spite of it. The human spirit is something else...no other words or sentiments right now.

One last thing, from one writer to another: You don't have to go through the same exact painful experience to feel compassion or cognitive empathy and then write about it. You can draw from your own emotional experiences or the trials of others. And you can use your gift of imagination, as an artist, to create an original piece. Continued success to you!!!

I did sent it and got a form rejection. To be fair, the story wasn't that good anyway. I was trying too hard to impress and there was little authenticity in it. Besides, the story was about stupid zombies lol.

Thanks for the tip. My uncle is the only person I know to have lost a child, and afterward he'd become very cold and withdrawn, what little love he had left he gave only to his surviving son, even his wife get little of that affect. It's sad to see. I wish I can pick his brain because he'd quiet just like the guy I'm writing about, but at the same time I think bringing up the subject would make him isolate himself even further. So I guess I got more reading to do, but I'm not disappointed about it because there had been great writers who put grief on the page so succinctly that they can speak for people who lacked the skill or the outlet to express themselves.

Anyway, cheers.

[Tiffinbrah]

Rejection sucks. Sent out a batch of 8 queries back in september and ive struck out 8 times.
Im quitting my job at the end of february and ima spend 6 solid months at the library giving it all i can.

Id go into a depression if i lost my draft cause my comp was broken lol. Back that chit up on google drive m8.

Also, not sure what software ya'll are using, and word is as good as any, but check out scrivener. Has a 30 day free trial and available on mac too if your'e a homo.

*sent from my macbook*












(No homo)

[Azn00Superman]

Rejection sucks. Sent out a batch of 8 queries back in september and ive struck out 8 times.
Im quitting my job at the end of february and ima spend 6 solid months at the library giving it all i can.

Id go into a depression if i lost my draft cause my comp was broken lol. Back that chit up on google drive m8.

Also, not sure what software ya'll are using, and word is as good as any, but check out scrivener. Has a 30 day free trial and available on mac too if your'e a homo.

*sent from my macbook*












(No homo)

Sup breh.

Why are you quitting your job if you don't mind me asking? If you have 6 months of doing nothing but writing then I'm jealous of you lol.
Regarding the backup. I had scrivener on that laptop too, I used the 30 day trial, loved it so much I spent $40 on it. I love everything except the interface looked blurry on my screen. I lost a whole draft that I spent months working on and an outline for a completely different project. I took the loss so hard I abandoned the other project altogether lol. Now I stick with Google Drive/Doc, not as robust as Scrivener but my Chromebook cost $99 and my work is saved all the time.

If you have six months to do nothing but write, you should look into joining a writing group. I want to join a local group that meets every Thursday but their schedule interferes with my work, so I hadn't been able to go. Even if you don't gain anything from the critiques, it's still motivating to be around people with the same goal.

[Azn00Superman]

This month I think I've spent a lot more time reading than I do writing. Which is fine, considering the amount of sleep I get (3-4 hours a day) would not be conducive to good writing, as I feel more like a zombie most of the day. However, I can get excellent reading and decent writing sessions if I incorporate some kind of exercise prior to get the blood flowing. It helps lift the fog of sleep deprivation for about half an hour to get a few paragraphs in. This method helps me a lot and I'm going to use it until I'm able to get more sleep.

[BadLee]

I agree that good writing is one of the most useful skill you can master. It can get you that A grade in English classes, but I never had much time for practicing, so I prefer ordering my papers. Choosing a reliable one can be difficult, once i ordered an essay from Academized, here is their overview, but they didn't meet the deadline, and delivered a poor quality paper. I think it is better to read some reviews about the services before applying.

[jreacher]

How you doing, OP? You still check in here?

I was thinking about you yesterday (no homo) and suddenly your thread got bumped

[Azn00Superman]

How you doing, OP? You still check in here?

I was thinking about you yesterday (no homo) and suddenly your thread got bumped

Sup brah. Still doing good here, still writing. I just hadn't been on the misc for the past few months, this place is too toxic for me. How is your writing?
I've been on a huge literature binge lately. Been reading a lot of literature textbooks, analyzing stories, poems, plays etc. It's helping me a lot with my own writing as well.

[jreacher]

Sup brah. Still doing good here, still writing. I just hadn't been on the misc for the past few months, this place is too toxic for me. How is your writing?
I've been on a huge literature binge lately. Been reading a lot of literature textbooks, analyzing stories, poems, plays etc. It's helping me a lot with my own writing as well.

Glad to see you check in.

My writing is pretty much nonexistant right now. Understaffed at work, a bunch of overtime, etc.

That's awesome that you are analyzing things. You have come a long way, and your work ethic is crazy amazing. Keep on pushing hard for what you want to accomplish.

[Azn00Superman]

Glad to see you check in.

My writing is pretty much nonexistant right now. Understaffed at work, a bunch of overtime, etc.

That's awesome that you are analyzing things. You have come a long way, and your work ethic is crazy amazing. Keep on pushing hard for what you want to accomplish.

Thanks bro. It doesn't sound too exciting but I'm glad you're busy with work and not struggling during this time. Writing is always going to be there when you want it Keep hustling.

[Azn00Superman]

rambling

hi all, long time no see, long time no post. it has been almost two years since i’d self-exiled from the forum, only recently i received a notification on Goodreads of THE MISC’s public revival did i come in to relive old memories

sadly it gave me bittersweet memories, for years prior to 2020 the forum has been shuddering from an impending death, for years we feared the place we loved so much where we found camaraderie and solace, where our purpose hung like boundless fruits for the picking from the tree of our shared solitude: every young miscer, directionless and without proper role model, stumble into this circus and, starving for a light of his own destiny would see this tree of common, heavy on their branches and available freely for everyone’s picking, the forbidden fruits; the pride, the call for self-reliance, the ambition to hustle toward CEO’hood. the only problem is that these fruits us lost young men devour are only temporarily sustaining, for cloistered within their cores are the worms of narcissism, sexism. we, those who starve for solidarity, who hurt for acceptance and found none among our peers, we had turned to this enclave of our similes for an answer to questions regarding life, friendship, love, found ourselves further insular through this narcissistic infection brought on by the likes of Zyzz, and by its various extensions through the champions of far-right ideologies and intolerance.
it has been years since i last read a misc thread, through this interlude i begin to go through a period of metamorphosis that might not have happened at all, ironically, had it not been for the MISC’s existence. i begin to care for and understand my own soul, i no longer pose the question: why am i not successful? I ask myself: why am i not content? I find for myself, by meditating over the whirlwind of my youth, that the essence of life’s meaning isn’t finding the extremes of one’s accomplishment, but having enough meaningful accomplishment that just as a fine breeze pass through you, you can say “this is absolutely nice” and reel in the euphoric rush of contentment. i began focusing on things that make me the happiest; writing, reading literature, spending time with my wife, reading and more reading and more writing…

note on reading literature, for the last two years i’d read nothing but literature. one fine afternoon i got baked and began to read Vandermeer’s Annihilation, the same time Colson Whitehead’s Year One, i began to see the real power of good writing, the possibility of language… thus began my journey, which took me to Herman Melville and Toni Morrison, and Bolano and Marquez and Kafka and Stendhal and Doris Lessing and Kerouac and Faulkner and Bukowski and Virginia Woolf and Knauusgaard and Joseph Conrad and Rushdie, Pynchon and McCarthy, EM Forster, Dostoyevski, to Bronte, Platonov and Nabokov and William T Vollman, i read from the time of the Boccacio’s Decameron and Dante's Divine Comedy to the modernist era, to the post modernists whom i consider the greatest craftsmen of language. I supplement novels with poetry, Byron, Wordsworth, Whitman (whom i consider to be just average), Rimbaud, Larkins, Eliot, Dickinson, Akhatova (overrated), and whom imo the greatest poet of all times, Baudelaire.

reading these illustrious masters i feel as though i had been coached by them, trained under and studied from them, i learn that human, no matter their physical configuration, their place of origin, their ingrained belief, can only ascend to godhood, in another word, deified, through their intellect. did these writers not, through their intellect, reached out to me from beyond their mortality and the centuries and possess my mind? Is that not the act of a god? by extension, does it not make sense that man can also give birth to god, whom he subjects himself to, and in this respect man through his own intellect also triumphs over himself? you see it yourself, dynasties rose and fell to man’s words, histories are grabbed at the horns and steered by the arms of visionaries? and if one witnesses such transcendent acts of miracles, where is there room for trivialities like finding a 10/10, big ass, big tittied woman, or working yourself into an alpha male of an imagined order?

not saying i’m ready or even equipped to write such transcendental texts, but i’m saying my priorities have been rearranged. i no longer imagine myself rich and famous as a writer one day, that was never about writing, it was about having money and fans and sweet vengeance over those who doubted my path, the same impetus which drove me while i was a MISCER, now i focus about the craft, about what i admire and aspire to be, about expanding my skill as a writer, so i can crane my neck and see the sheer cliff of mastery, thousands of miles high and at the top, immortality.

[jreacher]

Very glad to see you back. I was getting ready to send you the book thread link but I see you already posted there.

[Azn00Superman]

Very glad to see you back. I was getting ready to send you the book thread link but I see you already posted there.

thanks brah

[Azn00Superman]

a draft that's been in my head for a couple o days. sorry for the lack of punctuations and capitalization, it's something i do for first drafts.


inspector martin sat cross-legged on a cross-plank in a gondola thumbing a lighter, a pipestem stuck between his teeth. he shakes the lighter several times then thumbs the flint wheel, there’s a spark but no flame. the gondola master watches him from his perch at the stern, the oar, wrangled by his rail-thin arms, glances into the noxious water, murky and toxic, the oar blade brushing the unending ranks of long seaweeds, occasionally touching the bodies of the huge eels who came to nose along the gondola’s bottom, searching for chinks.
the oarmaster says ‘your thumb will go raw before you’d lit that pipe’
the inspector turns back, ‘eh?”
‘the air is too moist, here.’ he takes out from the satchel across his waist a hand torch and offers it to his client
the inspector takes the torch, holds the nozzle against the pipe’s bowl and pushes the button. a jet of flame burns the tobacco. the inspector passes the torch and the pipe to the oarmaster who receives them gratefully
‘thank you, sir.’ he takes a long suck through the stem, one hand always on the oar
inspector martin pulls the smoke into his lungs, he regards the oarmaster ‘how long before we get to the other side?’
‘about an hour’
the inspector turns around to face the oarmaster, stretching out his legs, might as well make himself comfortable. he starts conversation with the older man behind the oar. his name is max, and he has been a ferryman since he was a boy, working alongside his father carting passengers across the swamps of the lowlands,
‘my father used to own a ferry, which could carry forty people at once, he’d built it when he foresaw the secession, he thought soon the mainlanders would be coming in droves, there would be schools, factories, markets, centers of civilization, and they’d all be coming in on his ferries. his ambition was very large, looking at him you would think his mind rarely moves past the next meal, but damn he had a tiger of an ambition, he planned to stay in the ferry business for a few years, and when he has made enough money he’d start building roads, he talked about draining out the swamps with giant machines and hoses, and clearing the fog with pyrotechniques, i asked him what about the eels, he said he’s drag them up by the netfuls and my mother would reinvent the American cuisine, believe it or not the eels don’t taste so bad if you season them right. then he said he’d build roads linking the village to the mainland, and we’d finally get a name, some kind of -ville that you can point your finger at on a map. looking at his eyes you can see his gaze moving beyond this wild dream, beyond our time, to an imaginary era where our village might become something like New York, spoken with glittering awe, a radiant myth. what ended up happening was the secession happened, but afterward nothing’s changed. nobody spared us a thought, we’re still so alone, so insulated, that even after the secession our charter still maintain us as part of the Anteveds, and nobody thought it important to change it. it’s a pity, really. we ran the ferry for exactly a year, taking a passenger here, a passenger there, usually a journalist, an explorer, or someone from a biology department from some universities, then one day my father didn’t take out the ferry anymore, said it was easier on his body to drive the gondola, and that was the end of his american dream.’
‘thanks for sharing your story, max.’
‘it’s a part of the service, inspector, anyway, are you part of the police?’
‘indeed i am.’
‘someone in the village is in trouble with the law?’
the inspector says with good humor “i can’t disclose official business to anyone but the constable’. the oarmaster, max, says ‘well i see folks coming and going, everyone comes in and out through the mouth of the river, unless you want to trek along the south and risk getting lost around four hundred miles of swamplands, truthfully, inspector you’re the first outsider i’d seen in the past six months, and a lawman no less, tell me, why does the government suddenly care about us?’
inspector martin sees the oarman’s wheedling attempt at extracting information, he does not like it. ‘i’m sorry, but the government… how shall i say this… they’re not aware of your village, in fact, in my briefing i was given numerous cartographical documents all of which say everything beyond this lake is empty swamplands’ he blows the ashes of his pipe over gondola’s side, onto the viscuous water, which rolls against the wooden hull like some kind of black oil.
max the oarmaster doesn’t seem offended, his paddle continue to strike the water at an even pace, above him the midnight fog rolls, once in a while a breeze wails across the lake and stirs the fog, and through the shredded wisps one can see jet black puddles of sky, the amorphous openings into the abyss beyond, and when the openings widen enough to show that starless circle, the inspector gets a feeling that he would distangle from the earth’s gravity and stumble upward from the boat into the abyssal night. the effect is so severe that once the fog reforms, sealing up that sterile void, does the inspector feel his equilibrium return.
‘are you alright, inspector’
‘yes, i apologize… and for my rudeness.’
‘rudeness? no sir… i savor our conversation, i like outsiders, you folks aways come innundated with ideas, subjectivities and objectivities in the right doses’
inspector martin squints ‘i wouldn’t characterize most mainlanders with those terms. there’re spectrums of people just as there are everywhere else. unfortunately after the secession many are rabidly political’
‘ah, we don’t have such problems here, here we don’t talk about anything outside of our concerns, we do away with abstractions, away with concepts that are one step further ahead of our systems of understandings.’
‘which is?’
‘which is to say, we know the system of basic trade, the mechanics of hunting and fishing and some tools making, i know the system of running a ferrying business, the logistics of operating a gondola… but democracy? freedom? intellectualism? explorations? those ideas travel on steam engines, written in books, blaring through transistor radios, they will never come out of our salt-dried lips, which only open to discuss the tides, the water-vine harvests, the fish haul, building of this hut and that hut, or telling the children to ignore the cries coming out of the reeds at night’
the last part perks the inspector’s attention, he asks the oarman to elaborate, max makes it obvious he’s avoiding the question, that underneath the current of their conversation is an exchange of information, you scratch my curious back, i scratch yours.

[Azn00Superman]

been extremely busy. got a promotion coming up at work, not pay i want but still going for it. wife brought home puppies, these ****ers aren't even potty trained lol, more work for me. at least the kids are going to school now.

now for my writing. been working on a short story based in Vietnam, based on a dream i had. it's about a young street guy who joined the mob to build his name as a gangster, but ended up being a victim of human trafficking and slavery. had to cut out a huge part today because it was inconsistent with the story i had in mind, here's the cutout part.

he slept on the street, on a cold granite bench engraved with Ho Chi Minh’s name, near him a street lamp blinked and blinked, swirling with gnats. once in a while a stray dog came to sniff his feet, one spotty mutt lifted its hind leg and urinated by the bench, causing bao to spring up and chase after it with a sandal.

unable to sleep, he walked to huong’s parent’s house, his phone died.

Thong Son markets had closed, the street echoed with the sound of his flipflops. klap klap klap. a noodle shop was still open though deserted, its owner standing bare-chested outside the front door, smoking a cigarette and slapping the mosquitoes alighting on his bare skin so that his waist, arms and chest showed multiple palm-prints

bao greeted the shop owner, who proceeded to stare at him as he passed the noodle shop and continued his way down what the main strip of Thong Son Market, what was now at night, a trash-blown avenue of boxy, multi-storied tenements, whose first floors were almost universally shops or unrented frontages with metal doors pleated like an accordion’s bellow

past midnight, the trash collectors came out and picked through society’s leavings , balancing their loads of recyclables on wooden shoulder poles. their body odor was revolting. bao nearly gagged, how could a person tolerate this smell on their person?

he felt a pang, suddenly remembering that when he was much younger, his mother had worked as a trash collector as well, back then she could still see through both eyes. her day job had been to smash iron links with a hammer until the links clipped into each other and the whole thing, link into link into link, would form a metal chain. the job was easy and repetitive. in their neighborhood every stay-at-home mom and unemployed father were making chains, and the whole neighborhood rang with the brisk sounds of hammers on chain links

but it didn’t pay well, thousands upon thousands of athritic strikes of the hammer, multiple inflamed joints, bouts of carpel tunnel, barely paid enough to feed a family. to supplement her income his mother collected recyclables at night. why at night? ten year old bao had asked his mother one night, as she was shrugging her right arm into her workshirt, which reeked indelibly of dried vomit. she’d explained that the best time to go collecting was late after midnight, when the drunks cast their bottles and cans into the public street

he imagined, in his mind’s eye of the past; his mother wading through a river of litter, the twin loads spaced across shoulder pole that wrenched her trapezius down from her neck, she was moving like a nocturnal cockroach from one bloom of trash to another, prodding, looking, recovering the garbage others cast out, her miserable form truncated as she moved in and out between the shadows of the tenements, he wished he’d been kinder to her.