Lowrywrites.com

The concept of 10 ideas a day isn't mine. I borrowed it. But if the brain is a use it or lose it option, then the science behind it makes sense. The basic plan is this. Write down 10 ideas every single day. They can be about anything. And there's no such thing as a bad idea. Let me give you an example. I think the Covid Crisis created a glut in commercial real estate space. Why? Because suddenly, millions of workers were forced to work from home during the quarantine. Big giant corporations found out that half of their non-essential workforce is just taking up space at the office. They realize they don't need as much "space" since their workers can do the job from a home office. This opens up a world of opportunity for: Home Office Design Home Office Supply Supply redevelopment and what to do with all that office space in the buildings downtown? See, companies can save money with work from home employees or a remote work force

How's it going? We're reopening back up, with new restrictions and new guidelines. Like masks.  Are you wearing one? I mean, besides in the bedroom. I have a buff I put on, sometimes. They won't let you go into a restaurant here without one. (mask or buff) But once you are inside and they deliver your drinks, you can take it off. Because you can't eat with a mask on- And you get exposed to everyone else in there breathing without a mask, so if someone has Covid, then it's in the air vents and circulating? Some stuff doesn't make sense to me. Maybe that's the new normal.  I get one year older and stuff that seems like common sense flies out of the window. I suspect my grandfather felt the same way about a lot of things. He grew up with no electricity in rural Arkansas as a dirt poor farmer to become a carpenter.  He was born in the 1920's, grew up through the depression, a World War, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq twice. Drought. Depression. Poor. Divorce. Women&#

Get ready for: NOTHING FROM NOTHING A Jake Burbank Mystery CHAPTER ONE Brill Wingfield went home. It was in the middle of the country, just south of middle of the state. A delta backwater that once was the jewel in the crown of cotton country. Back in the day. A century ago. Now it was on a long slow decline. Abandoned homes. Empty lots. Crime. Brill knew how it happened. He got off a bus at a station four blocks from Main Street and stared at a vacant lot next to a crumbling mansion. Pink paint faded to a color that wasn't in the rainbow spectrum. Covered with grime from car exhaust at a four bay car wash across the street. Vines covered the front of the two story structure. Nature may have been the only thing holding the balcony up. The Bluff, as they called it growing up, was a victim of laws in other states. Back when it was a crown jewel, the population was high. There were factories to work with, and industry keeping unempl

Chapter Two The guy set off alarms in his head. One of those greasy looking weasel types, up to all sorts of nefarious undertakings. Brill walked past him as the man leaned against the rough edge of a brick corner of a building. He was being too obvious about watching it, staring at the door to the four story walk up in the middle of the block. The windows were dark, empty, and the building looked abandoned. Brill almost dismissed it as just a homeless guy looking for a place to squat. There were thousands of them in the city, always on the hunt for a safe space to hole up for the night or weeks at a time. Until some landlord or cop made the effort to move them along and they were on the hunt again. Except this guy had nice shoes. His clothes didn’t seem slept in, or sheathed in a layer of grime that multi-days of use seemed to create. He was fresh shaven, and his black hair looked washed. The man on the corner also had a gun on his back, fit f

The Fall   He sat on the edge of the creaky wooden porch, rocking back and forth in the scratched rockers that old lady Walden kept out there for her guests.   He wanted a cigarette, could almost taste it, but he gave up that habit ten years ago.   He wasn't about to start again. "They're late," he said to no one in particular. He was alone out here, except for the crickets, and lightening bugs winking in the thick, humid air.   He had been on the porch for over an hour, forty-five minutes longer than he was scheduled to wait.   He didn't mind. When he was a young man, what felt like a thousand years ago, he had crouched in a hollowed out tree stump barely three feet tall, and half that deep for nine hours.   He was on a mission to shoot a North Vietnamese Army General that intelligence said would pass by with a convoy.   He did, Bog sniped him, and had to be folded out of the stump by a Green Beret patrol.   They carried him for three miles before he got

            Beckett sat in the corner of his cell watching the sunlight drift through the bars on the window.   It was faint, warm afternoon sun angling in over the razor wire, diminished slightly by the gray walls that tried to suck the warmth out of it, but failed.   The rays landed on the tips of his feet as he stretched his toes to reach it.   His shoes were under his bed, at right angles to the wall and hallway bars, just as he always kept them.             "You awake over there?" said a voice from the cell next to him.             Beckett stretched even further, pushing his whole foot up to his ankle into the light.             "Yes, I'm awake," he said.   "How could I sleep on such a rare and wonderful afternoon?   It's like a gift."             In the cell next to him, Chuckie Allbright leaned with his arms between the bars, staring out at the dingy narrow hallway.   There were sixteen cells lined up along one side of a tiny corrido

RITES OF PASSAGE         The heavy weight of a .357 revolver rested in the right hand pocket of his trenchcoat.   It was too warm to wear the heavy coat, but the fat gray clouds that threatened rain would suffice if he had to make an excuse.   Brad Christian was an expert at making excuses.   Some would say the thirteen year old was even pathological, he was so good at telling lies.   He would shrug, and ask what pathological meant if someone mentioned it to him.   He knew he was a good liar.   It was all part of growing up.       Brad had overheard his stepfather tell his mother that one night when they thought he was asleep.   It was their fault really.   They should have known to keep their voices low in the tiny three bedroom singlewide trailer the small family shared.   Even though his parent’s room was separated from the middle bedroom by the kitchen and living room, any sound louder than a whisper floated through the thin wood panel walls like wind through a window screen.

              In the dark hours of the early morning, actions become muddled, fatigue clouds judgement, inhibates thought for most people.   Dr. Garon T. Morganson was wont to sit at his desk for three hours after midnight at least four times a week.   He claimed to any who would listen, and sometimes there were not many, that in the night, the brain released chemicals that allowed individuals to perceive the world from a unique perspective.   Usually, people were asleep, and called those perceptions dreams.   But Morganson stayed awake, to capture his thoughts on paper, scribbled notes scattered across the surface of his desk, like debris from a tornado wasteland.   It was in one of the late night vigils that he conceived the idea of the SVA translator, and many more nights followed while he constructed a prototype.             The genisis of the idea came to him after reading an article on simian intelligence.   Morganson had long held the belief that mankind was, if not alone in