I only recently found this band after Warren Ellis wrote a post about John Allyn Smith Sails, one of the other songs on their album. He didn’t seem too impressed with anything else on their The Stage Names album, but I really enjoyed most of it. He mentioned their songs are often overwritten, but I guess I like thought-out, dramatic songs.

They’re an indie rock band from Austin, Texas. They have five albums out, so I’ll be browsing through the rest of their discography. I find their lyrics really engaging.

I wrote this last year. It was supposed to be the first scene of a novel, but I couldn’t decide if I wanted to continue on with it. The idea of writing an entire novel is so daunting. It’s a fairly long-term commitment, and it’s hard to settle on a plot I’ll want to spend that much time fleshing out. I have a hard enough time deciding on a movie I’d like to spend two hours watching.

I feel like I’ve gotten better with my descriptions since writing this, but I do like the general idea, so I think I’ll give this chapter a quick rewrite and continue on with it. I need to stop worrying about where it’s going to end up if I want to get anywhere. I should just start writing and see where it takes me.

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Mark Dryer was a man of many talents. Many may, in fact, be too strong a word. He had several talents – a few, at the very least. He could juggle, and he was quite good with numbers. He was also very tall.

Unfortunately, none of these talents could help him right now, except that he was able to see the bald spot on the top of the head of the man pointing a gun at his chest.

They were standing in a filthy alley, desolate apart from the pile of trashcans the man had been hiding behind and a littering of garbage blown across the cement. The faint bustle of the busy street Mark had left behind still resonated within his head.

“Hand over the bag,” said the man with the gun. Beads of sweat hung from his brow, despite the November night chill. He had several layers of mismatched clothing on and a desperate look in his dark, sunken eyes.

“Okay. Please, just don’t shoot,” Mark said, slowly pulling off his bag. He hesitated, feeling the weight of his computer pulling down on the strap. He should have walked around the block, but he was lazy, ignored the advice given to him by every after-school special in existence, and tried to save five minutes by cutting through an alley. He offered the man the bag.

“No! Get back”. The man jerked the gun towards Mark’s face. “Put it on the ground.”

“Listen, take it easy. I’m just trying to do what you want.”

“Stop talking, don’t talk to me,” the man said, grabbing the side of his head and cringing. His bloodshot eyes were begging, pleading with Mark. “Drop it.”

Mark placed the bag at the man’s feet.

“And your wallet, the wallet too.”

Mark reached into the back of his jeans and pulled out his wallet.

“Slowly,” the man shouted. “Don’t…just…do it slowly.”

Staring into the barrel of the shaking gun, Mark tossed his wallet to the ground and took a step back. He put his arms up in the air. The man hadn’t asked him to, but it just felt right.

With one hand holding the gun, and the other holding the bag, the mugger stood staring at the wallet, looking unsure of how to proceed. He slowly began to lower his gun hand, and then jerked it back up with a start and scowled at Mark.

“Maybe you should pocket the wallet before lifting the bag,” Mark suggested.

The man put down the bag and lifted up the wallet. He stood still for a moment. “I haven’t got any pockets.”

“You have three pairs of pants on, surely one of them must have pockets,” said Mark

The man checked again. “Nope, no pockets.”

“Just put it in the bag then!”

Still pointing the gun at Mark, the man grabbed the bag with his left hand and tried to unfasten the button, but it wouldn’t give. He stepped on the bag’s shoulder strap and tried the pull the button apart, but to no avail. He then lifted the bag by its lid and began to shake it vigorously in the air.

“Just let me open it,” said Mark, taking a step forward.

The man instantly dropped the bag. “Back up against the wall,” the man screamed. “Don’t try anything.”

As Mark’s back touched the cold, cement building, the man reached down again for the bag, never lowering his eyes or gun. Mark held his breath, afraid to make the slightest move.

A high-pitched ring shattered the silence. Mark let out a gasp and instinctively reached for his pocket to mute his phone.

The ring was followed by a thundering bang and a sharp pain in his chest. The back of his head smashed against the wall and he toppled over, holding a hand against his soaking shirt and crying out in pain.

The world began to slip away.

With his cheek against the dusty ground and the taste of asphalt in his mouth, Mark expected the next sound to be the man’s footsteps trailing off down the alley. Instead all that came was the muffled ring of his cell phone from under him and a slight crackling noise. His last sight, before giving in to the darkness, was a single smoking sneaker abandoned in the middle of the alley, foot still attached.