I've decided on an experiment, and am writing a short story, (hopefully) in a week. The fun part is you get to see it throughout development.

To follow the progress, go to my creative writing log. You'll also find the link in my Links block to the right.

So, that leaves this entry to fill up with non-creative writing. There's not much, but for fascinating fun watch some videos of mentalist magician Derren Brown. You must have the evil Real Media Player installed, but it's worth it in this case. Here's a link to the download via Download.com, so you don't have to try to figure out where it is on Real's site.

For my money, the most illuminating video is The Magic Doll. This segment should give pause to anyone who believes things based on experience, as in "well, I've experienced it so I know it's true."

That's it!

This will be a shorter entry, but I'll still fit the theme of the last few days and throw a little fiction your way.

When he was six, Michael could play the guitar as well as his old man. For most boys, this wouldn't be saying much, because guitars are the Budweiser of instruments. Anyone can afford one and figure out what to do with it, and once you learn a few tunes girls think you're better looking than you are.

But Michael's dad played in clubs, not headlining, but picking up regular work for the last ten years, and that's saying something. He used the extra money to buy nicer vacations, a better school district, and a quarter-size guitar his boy could fit his fingers around.

At first, Liz neither encouraged nor discouraged her husband's music, or teaching it to their son. She loved to hear them both play, because it meant they were close. It could have been ballet or boxing, and as long as they came to dinner on time and washed up, she'd be thankful.

That changed when Michael was five. Liz walked past the living room, not looking in, just on her way to the garage, and heard her favorite tune that Gage would play. He'd played it on their first date, and at their wedding, and on a CD he'd made with a local band. She came back with the new bag of cat litter and called out, "Gage, you play that song too long and I won't love it as much."

"Come in here Liz. I've got a surprise for you."

She dropped off the cat litter, walked in, and there was Michael, picking out the chords and walking his fingers up and down the frets better than he walked the stairs. He looked up when she came in, but didn't stop playing.

Gage's eyes were getting wet, and he wasn't a man who cried except at weddings, funerals and their anniversary.

"Miracle. Liz, a damn miracle, our boy. Listen to your son, babe."

Liz listened until the song was over. Michael kept strumming idly, and said "Sunday night is mashed potatoes and gravy."

They laughed, Liz not sure what to think, and Gage saying "Time to put the guitar away, little man. You can play later."

"Okay," he said, and went off to find the cat.

And now, before your very eyes, I combine description and dialogue into an integrated, short term whole. Voila!

"She took three steps today."

Larry looked up from his cereal bowl. "Hmm?"

"Three steps. By herself, Melissa took three steps before she fell. You should have seen her."

"Yeah," said Larry, taking another spoonful of bran flakes. "Sorry I missed it. Did she cry?"

"What do you mean?"

"What I said. Cry. Did she cry when she fell?"

"Oh. No. No she just tried standing back up, but I put her in her bed instead. I could tell she was getting sleepy."

Gwen picked up a used napkin from the table, crumpled it, then took it to the kitchen to throw away. She walked back toward the dining room, but paused, watching Larry eat his cereal, his back hunched over, slurping occasionally. He'd cut his hair short, recently, but it was still beautiful. It always had been, black, curly, like wet waves on an oily beach.

She sat across from him, again, and pecked at her eggs.

"Larry?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think you could take Melissa to the park on Wednesday? Instead of me doing it?"

Larry looked at her. Not angry, not curious, just . . . empty. "Why?"

Gwen tried to mirror that apathy. She knew it worked great for him in the courtroom, and especially when making deals with the other attorneys. But it bothered her to see it at home. She felt like a witness. Had been feeling that, more and more.

"I'd like to get my hair done, maybe a manicure."

"Can't you take her with you?"

"Not if I want to keep the stylist from cutting off an ear." She tried to make it sound funny, but he didn't laugh.

"Okay," he said, "What time?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Would 3 be okay? That's when I usually go, and I know Maureen has a time open She always takes a few extra minutes with me, and doesn't charge for it, so--"

"How long until you get back?"

She tried to look at his eyes. When had she stopped being able to? "Here!" she used to tell people, handing them a picture, "Look at my husband's pretty grey eyes!" The other women were always envious.

"Five?"

He sighed, just a little, just enough for her to hear it, then went back to eating.

"Fine."

"Thanks." Gwen ate another bite of toast, then stood. "I'm not really hungry. Sorry. Just leave your bowl and I'll clean up. I know you have a big day."

"Okay. Thanks. It's a tough case. Bastards are giving me lots of shit."

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault," he said, not nastily, just . . . just out of habit, she realized suddenly, glancing at him on her way to the kitchen.

She knew, then. As she scraped her plate into the garbage disposal, she hoped the feeling would go away, but it didn't. When she said his name in her mind, "Larry", it was a face. A face, not an emotion.

In the next room, Melissa was waking up. Gwen turned on the cold water, flipped the switch to grind the food, waited for that change in pitch signaling the pipe running clear, then left her husband to take care of her daughter.