Brianna ran her brush through her long blond hair, counting each stroke, a ritual she'd kept up since high school. She sometimes felt silly, but it really did make her hair that much silkier. Since she and Tim had found this old-fashioned vanity, complete with its fancy mirror, at a garage sale, brushing her hair at it felt right. She didn't know if it was real or faux antique, but she could picture an old-timey, high society lady from years past doing the same.
She set down her brush and did a double-take. Her reflection brushed its hair an extra time. They stared at each other, neither moving. Brianna let out her breath and giggled at her overactive imagination. She stood up to head for the kitchen when a shadow flashed in the mirror.
"What the hell?" She whirled around but didn't see anything. Tim was working late, so it couldn't have been him. Besides, she'd have heard the bedroom door open. It creaked even if moved an inch.
She turned back to the mirror and gasped. Not only was her reflection gone, but there were bright crimson splotches all over the surface. She hesitated for a second before runner her finger over one of the spots. It came back dry and didn't distort the crimson. It was on the other side of the mirror. Impossible. She ran her hand along the braided wood pattern of the frame and felt the back. Just wood-paneled backing, as she expected.
Before she turned her attention to the puzzle of the crimson splotches (blood?) and no reflection, the shadow again crawled across the mirror. It moved slow and seemed to focus on her. It glowed black, as if it not only blocked the light, but ate it as well.
In the mirror, the shadow lightened. Behind Brianna, in her room, in her world, the lights dimmed. The proportion of light lost from the lamps matched the loss of dark in the shadow's mirror world. Whatever it was that murdered her reflection (that's what it did, right?) was coming for her.
Brianna did the only thing she could think of: she picked up her hairbrush and smashed it into the glass. The vanity and mirror, being bolted together, rocked back, but the glass didn't have a mark. The light continued to seep out of her room.
She smacked the brush into the mirror again, this time leaving a dimple in the glass. The light flickered back to full brightness behind her. The shadow in the mirror world remained, but it looked halfway between solid and gone.
She swung again, this time breaking the impact zone into a spider-webbed crack. The shadow disappeared. Another smack brought a second large crack and got rid of the crimson goop. Her reflection flickered back--her true reflection from an ordinary mirror.
Brianna took a deep breath and stared at herself through the ruined glass. Whatever magic that had lived in the mirror was gone. Would it come back? She didn't know, but had no interest in keeping the vanity set to find out. She wasn't sure what she'd tell Tim. A lie would have a much clearer ring of truth than this mess.
She stood up and walked out of the room. All of that could wait. Right now she needed a stiff drink.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
3 Short Stories
Here are 3 short stories that I've enjoyed. I hope you enjoy them, too.
The first is called When the First Petal Falls by Sylvia Hiven. This is from the August 15th edition of The Absent Willow Review. It's a story of how a young man's true love sees him only as a friend, but he uses the magic of flowers to change that.
The second story also comes from The Absent Willow Review, this time from the September 15th edition. It is called Precious Blood by Greg Chapman. This one is an interesting take on a vampire story.
The third story is called Sweet Breath by Lenora Farrington-Sarrouf. It comes from the Fall 2009 issue of Allegory Magazine. When you read this one, you won't believe how great that breath mint is!
As is the case when I spotlight these short stories, I don't know these authors or anything about them. I'm not getting anything from the magazines. I simply enjoyed these stories and wanted to share. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
The first is called When the First Petal Falls by Sylvia Hiven. This is from the August 15th edition of The Absent Willow Review. It's a story of how a young man's true love sees him only as a friend, but he uses the magic of flowers to change that.
The second story also comes from The Absent Willow Review, this time from the September 15th edition. It is called Precious Blood by Greg Chapman. This one is an interesting take on a vampire story.
The third story is called Sweet Breath by Lenora Farrington-Sarrouf. It comes from the Fall 2009 issue of Allegory Magazine. When you read this one, you won't believe how great that breath mint is!
As is the case when I spotlight these short stories, I don't know these authors or anything about them. I'm not getting anything from the magazines. I simply enjoyed these stories and wanted to share. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Revision Tip
Since I finished my first draft of my novel not too long ago, I thought I'd give a quick tip about revision during the draft process. Namely, don't. If you polish your first draft while you're writing, it's just keeping you from getting all of your initial words on the page. One of the best tips I've ever heard about the first draft process (and I have this taped to my bookshelf next to my writing desk) is: All first drafts stink. Just keep writing.
What this means is that you're not going to get a polished, publishable piece on the first go-through. You'll need to revise. Give yourself permission to write bad in the first draft process. Why? Because you'll be able to fix it up, make it wonderful, in the revision process. Let yourself get to the 2nd draft by finishing the first.
How many times have you heard of writers having unfinished novels filed away somewhere. Why are they unfinished? Because they didn't give themselves permission to simply write the story. Their inner critic told them it was stinky, that this idea would never fly, so the writer just gave up on the project. I know because I've done it. If we ignore the inner critic and realize we don't have to put our best prose out in the first draft, we'll finish a lot more of our work.
First drafts should be about experimenting with the story. Even if you're a heavy outliner, you still need to play around with the words to make everything authentic in your story. While you get these words down on the page, don't go back and fix things you've already written. Finish what you started, and fix it later.
What happens if you come up with a stroke of brilliance that will help the beginning of your story? Make a note to yourself to fix it in the 2nd draft. If you know the change will be made, write the rest of the story as if you already wrote it. That'll save some of your revision time.
Finish your first draft, and fix it in the second draft. In this early part of your novel, the most important thing is to get that initial draft done. If you don't, there's going to be nothing to revise later. What good is a polished first chapter with nothing following it? I hope this tip helps. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
What this means is that you're not going to get a polished, publishable piece on the first go-through. You'll need to revise. Give yourself permission to write bad in the first draft process. Why? Because you'll be able to fix it up, make it wonderful, in the revision process. Let yourself get to the 2nd draft by finishing the first.
How many times have you heard of writers having unfinished novels filed away somewhere. Why are they unfinished? Because they didn't give themselves permission to simply write the story. Their inner critic told them it was stinky, that this idea would never fly, so the writer just gave up on the project. I know because I've done it. If we ignore the inner critic and realize we don't have to put our best prose out in the first draft, we'll finish a lot more of our work.
First drafts should be about experimenting with the story. Even if you're a heavy outliner, you still need to play around with the words to make everything authentic in your story. While you get these words down on the page, don't go back and fix things you've already written. Finish what you started, and fix it later.
What happens if you come up with a stroke of brilliance that will help the beginning of your story? Make a note to yourself to fix it in the 2nd draft. If you know the change will be made, write the rest of the story as if you already wrote it. That'll save some of your revision time.
Finish your first draft, and fix it in the second draft. In this early part of your novel, the most important thing is to get that initial draft done. If you don't, there's going to be nothing to revise later. What good is a polished first chapter with nothing following it? I hope this tip helps. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
#fridayflash -- Different Perceptions
I stared at the baby. "Why am I looking at it?"
The doctor frowned. "I apologize. I thought you'd want to. I should have asked."
I shook my head. "No, no. What I mean is, why am I looking at it instead of me being inside of it looking back at me?"
The doctor frowned again. It seemed to be one of the few expressions he was capable of. "I'm not sure I understand."
"I'm supposed to be in there. In its head. I paid a fortune to live forever, but I'm still me. In this cancer-ridden deathtrap."
He frowned, and oh god I wanted to slap it off his face. I might have done it, too, if I could move my arm that high.
"Mr. Riggs, I assure you all of your memories, your personality, everything is locked within that child. You. It's all in the brochure you read a hundred times, in the video you watched a dozen times. None of this should be a surprise."
"But I'm still stuck in this." I tried to thump my chest, but my arm only lifted off the side of the wheelchair and plopped into my lap.
"Did you believe your mind would cease to exist in that body? That we'd make you nothing but a vegetable, a shell? I don't know what sort of idea you have about us, Mr. Riggs, but we're in the business of saving and prolonging lives, not taking them."
A tear rolled down my cheek. "But you promised I'd never die. I'm going to die."
The doctor shook his head. "When you die, you, this new you, will be aged to 21 years old. You chose that, I believe?"
I slumped down. "It won't be me. This me. This me is going to be hollowed out by this damn disease, and I'll be in it the whole way."
The doctor put a hand on my shoulder. I didn't look up, but I wondered if he'd managed to put on a different facial expression.
"I apologize if you didn't understand." He gestured to the baby. "He'll, you'll, have all of the memories up until this morning. When the new body is worn out, we'll make another. All of the new and old memories will be transferred. It'll go on and on. Forever. I don't understand why you don't get it."
I sighed and wondered the same thing about him.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Freewriting
Freewriting is an important tool every writer should use. There are many benefits to this simple exercise, which involves simply sitting down and letting the words flow onto paper or your computer screen. You can use it in a number of different ways.
--Start your day with a freewrite. This will knock the rust off that part of your brain that gets the ideas flowing. If you are the type of writer who agonizes over the first few minutes of writing because the words struggle to emerge, a freewrite could take you past that step. Whether you're writing the first draft of a novel, a short story, poetry, or whatever, this could help you get out of the daily gate smoother.
--Kick start a project with a freewrite. If you're ready to move onto your next project, but you're not sure what it is, sit down and freewrite. Set an amount of time to write, and let the words flow. Don't think about what you're writing, and don't actively search for ideas. Once you've finished your allotted writing time, read over what you wrote. Most often, some sort of idea will be staring right back at you. Many times you'll get more than one, and you'll have plenty of ideas for future projects, as well.
--Use freewriting to flesh out your ideas. You may have a killer idea you know that'll make a great story, but you don't yet have all the details. Think about that idea, sit down, and freewrite. As always, don't let your conscious mind get in the way. Just let your pen or keyboard fingers do the talking. When you're done, read over what you wrote. You might not get everything you want out of a single session, but you should be well on your way.
--Writer's Block be gone! Freewriting is an excellent way to push past difficult parts of your work in progress. You may know what you want to do in your story, but the exact process might be a bit fuzzy. Does your protagonist fight or give in to flight? Freewrite out the possibilities and see what you like best. Or, if you haven't started something yet, and that dreaded blank page is staring at you, freewrite. Don't worry about coming up with ideas, just let your subconscious work through the fear that you'll never write again. A good freewriting session could be all you need!
These are some ideas of how to use freewriting to your benefit. I'm sure you have other ways in which freewriting has helped you. If so, feel free to leave these ideas as a comment. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
--Start your day with a freewrite. This will knock the rust off that part of your brain that gets the ideas flowing. If you are the type of writer who agonizes over the first few minutes of writing because the words struggle to emerge, a freewrite could take you past that step. Whether you're writing the first draft of a novel, a short story, poetry, or whatever, this could help you get out of the daily gate smoother.
--Kick start a project with a freewrite. If you're ready to move onto your next project, but you're not sure what it is, sit down and freewrite. Set an amount of time to write, and let the words flow. Don't think about what you're writing, and don't actively search for ideas. Once you've finished your allotted writing time, read over what you wrote. Most often, some sort of idea will be staring right back at you. Many times you'll get more than one, and you'll have plenty of ideas for future projects, as well.
--Use freewriting to flesh out your ideas. You may have a killer idea you know that'll make a great story, but you don't yet have all the details. Think about that idea, sit down, and freewrite. As always, don't let your conscious mind get in the way. Just let your pen or keyboard fingers do the talking. When you're done, read over what you wrote. You might not get everything you want out of a single session, but you should be well on your way.
--Writer's Block be gone! Freewriting is an excellent way to push past difficult parts of your work in progress. You may know what you want to do in your story, but the exact process might be a bit fuzzy. Does your protagonist fight or give in to flight? Freewrite out the possibilities and see what you like best. Or, if you haven't started something yet, and that dreaded blank page is staring at you, freewrite. Don't worry about coming up with ideas, just let your subconscious work through the fear that you'll never write again. A good freewriting session could be all you need!
These are some ideas of how to use freewriting to your benefit. I'm sure you have other ways in which freewriting has helped you. If so, feel free to leave these ideas as a comment. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
Thursday, October 1, 2009
#fridayflash--The Chosen One
No one believed him. No matter what he said, no matter how much he swore he wasn't lying, they just wouldn't listen. And, really, who could blame them? His stories were a bit outlandish for most folks. But if someone had just paid him some mind, he might still be here.
Greg Jordan was your average, middle-class male, with a pretty wife and two point five kids. (Janice, his wife, was four months pregnant at the time.) The Jordans had left their dingy two-bedroom apartment and moved into their own home. Greg and Janice had fallen in love with the ranch-style home in its nice neighborhood. They tried to mask their interest so the sellers wouldn't peg them as easy marks, a tip provided by Janice's dad, but the owners were eager to sell. They agreed to the Jordan's first low-ball offer without negotiating. The Jordans, including little Timmy and Britney, couldn't have been happier.
Their first month was terrific, even if it did include a ton of hard work. Being pregnant, Janice mostly sat down and gave orders. She could have done more, but she was the boss and everyone knew it. The kids, bless their hearts, tried their best, but being five and three, Timmy and Britney often did more damage than good.
About that time, Greg felt a presence in the house. He claimed he heard footsteps, voices, and other weird sounds. He swore a strange man occasionally walked through their living room, and at times a young man, maybe a teenager, sat in the breakfast nook. Neither the kids nor Janice heard or saw any of these things. Everyone, including friends and relatives who heard the tales, began to wonder about him.
Greg wouldn't be dissuaded. He knew what he heard, saw, and felt. He'd lay awake at night, listening and watching. Whatever was going on, this was his house, and he wanted to know what he shared it with.
That's when the voices started. At first it was just small talk. "How are you, Greg?" "Wife thinks you're nuts, eh?" "Can you buy us some beer?" (Actually, that last one was those teenagers who loitered outside the liquor store. It all blended in.) Then the voices grew more persistent and, Greg wasn't afraid to say, scary. "Join us." "We need you." "Kill the non-believers."
He learned to ignore the voices, but that just pissed them off. They turned from simple murder whispers to full-blown poltergeists. At first Janice blamed the kids when she found her grandmother's knick-knacks shattered on the floor. Then Greg got the brunt of her fury. It was a dark week in the Jordan household. Mercifully, the poltergeist activity didn't last long. Janice must have scared the hell out of those ghosts because they never touched her stuff again.
The final showdown came one day after work. With Janice and the kids out running errands, Greg had to face the spirits on his own. They materialized on the staircase, and he finally got a good look at all four of them. He still had no idea who they were, but they weren't in a talking mood. Greg tried to run out the front door, but it was stuck. He even tried jumping through the plate glass window, but no matter how hard he threw his body at it, the glass wouldn't shatter. He had only one option; he turned and faced his destiny.
Janice and the kids came home an hour later. Timmy and Britney ran into the house as soon as their mom opened the front door, and when Janice walked in, two little kids rolling on the floor laughing hysterically greeted her. It seemed Daddy had taken off all his clothes right there in the front hall. "Even his nunderwear," little Britney said between howls. Janice didn't find it nearly as amusing. The three of them wandered through the house looking for the "necked daddy." When he didn't turn up, Janice drove around the neighborhood. The search proved futile. Greg had vanished.
Not long after, Greg Junior arrived. Janice had to get a second job, but she managed to keep the house and a relatively good lifestyle. She hated Greg for abandoning the family, but something changed her mind. Actually that something was Greg Junior. Not only were his first words "Daddy," but he had the oddest habit of looking at nothing, holding his arms out for a hug, and giggling wildly.
Greg Jordan was your average, middle-class male, with a pretty wife and two point five kids. (Janice, his wife, was four months pregnant at the time.) The Jordans had left their dingy two-bedroom apartment and moved into their own home. Greg and Janice had fallen in love with the ranch-style home in its nice neighborhood. They tried to mask their interest so the sellers wouldn't peg them as easy marks, a tip provided by Janice's dad, but the owners were eager to sell. They agreed to the Jordan's first low-ball offer without negotiating. The Jordans, including little Timmy and Britney, couldn't have been happier.
Their first month was terrific, even if it did include a ton of hard work. Being pregnant, Janice mostly sat down and gave orders. She could have done more, but she was the boss and everyone knew it. The kids, bless their hearts, tried their best, but being five and three, Timmy and Britney often did more damage than good.
About that time, Greg felt a presence in the house. He claimed he heard footsteps, voices, and other weird sounds. He swore a strange man occasionally walked through their living room, and at times a young man, maybe a teenager, sat in the breakfast nook. Neither the kids nor Janice heard or saw any of these things. Everyone, including friends and relatives who heard the tales, began to wonder about him.
Greg wouldn't be dissuaded. He knew what he heard, saw, and felt. He'd lay awake at night, listening and watching. Whatever was going on, this was his house, and he wanted to know what he shared it with.
That's when the voices started. At first it was just small talk. "How are you, Greg?" "Wife thinks you're nuts, eh?" "Can you buy us some beer?" (Actually, that last one was those teenagers who loitered outside the liquor store. It all blended in.) Then the voices grew more persistent and, Greg wasn't afraid to say, scary. "Join us." "We need you." "Kill the non-believers."
He learned to ignore the voices, but that just pissed them off. They turned from simple murder whispers to full-blown poltergeists. At first Janice blamed the kids when she found her grandmother's knick-knacks shattered on the floor. Then Greg got the brunt of her fury. It was a dark week in the Jordan household. Mercifully, the poltergeist activity didn't last long. Janice must have scared the hell out of those ghosts because they never touched her stuff again.
The final showdown came one day after work. With Janice and the kids out running errands, Greg had to face the spirits on his own. They materialized on the staircase, and he finally got a good look at all four of them. He still had no idea who they were, but they weren't in a talking mood. Greg tried to run out the front door, but it was stuck. He even tried jumping through the plate glass window, but no matter how hard he threw his body at it, the glass wouldn't shatter. He had only one option; he turned and faced his destiny.
Janice and the kids came home an hour later. Timmy and Britney ran into the house as soon as their mom opened the front door, and when Janice walked in, two little kids rolling on the floor laughing hysterically greeted her. It seemed Daddy had taken off all his clothes right there in the front hall. "Even his nunderwear," little Britney said between howls. Janice didn't find it nearly as amusing. The three of them wandered through the house looking for the "necked daddy." When he didn't turn up, Janice drove around the neighborhood. The search proved futile. Greg had vanished.
Not long after, Greg Junior arrived. Janice had to get a second job, but she managed to keep the house and a relatively good lifestyle. She hated Greg for abandoning the family, but something changed her mind. Actually that something was Greg Junior. Not only were his first words "Daddy," but he had the oddest habit of looking at nothing, holding his arms out for a hug, and giggling wildly.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
1st Draft Done
I'm quite pleased with myself this week. I finished the first draft of my novel last night. As I've mentioned before, I've finished a couple of other works that I thought would be novels when I started, but they didn't work out--didn't have a high enough word count and just didn't feel like novels. This one actually feels like a novel to me. It still needs a ton of work--I have quite a few notes about revisions I'd like to make--but I'm off to a good start.
After I get it all typed up into Word (the whole thing is written in longhand), I plan to put it away for a month to let me look at it with a fresh eye. In the meantime, I'll get back to short stories. Other than the #fridayflash stories I've worked on for the past month or so, I've neglected them since I started on the novel. I need to market those I have ready, polish up some I've written, and get started on some new ones. I also need to get my already published stories in a ebook format to sell in the Kindle Store (or where ever is best).
This has been exciting for me. I have no idea if this novel will ever end up selling, but I think the experience is making me a better author. That's all I have for you this week. I'll be back on Friday, of course, with another #fridayflash story. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
After I get it all typed up into Word (the whole thing is written in longhand), I plan to put it away for a month to let me look at it with a fresh eye. In the meantime, I'll get back to short stories. Other than the #fridayflash stories I've worked on for the past month or so, I've neglected them since I started on the novel. I need to market those I have ready, polish up some I've written, and get started on some new ones. I also need to get my already published stories in a ebook format to sell in the Kindle Store (or where ever is best).
This has been exciting for me. I have no idea if this novel will ever end up selling, but I think the experience is making me a better author. That's all I have for you this week. I'll be back on Friday, of course, with another #fridayflash story. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
Friday, September 25, 2009
#fridayflash: Open the Box
OPEN THE BOX
Snerdlin snickered. He'd won. He hadn't done much, but he'd won. He picked up the jewel-encrusted metal box and shook it. No sound. That couldn't be right. Shouldn't a box this beautiful be filled with pretty things? It should be clanking with gold sounds.
"Put down the box! Snerdlin, do you hear me?"
Snerdlin clutched his prize to his chest and spun to face James, evil James. "No! Mine! I win fair and square."
"There's nothing in that box for you." James reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bag. A clankity-clank bag. A gold-sounding bag.
"Gold?" Snerdlin asked.
James nodded. "Give me the box and the bag's yours."
Snerdlin almost threw the box down and ran for the gold, but his little brain churned. If James would give him gold for the box now, maybe if he made James wait, he'd get even more gold.
"What are you thinking about? Snerdlin, your brain isn't built for thinking."
Snerdlin clutched the box to his chest. "No! Me want more gold. Another pouch or I keep box."
James closed his eyes and said something Snerdlin couldn't hear. He readied himself to bolt even though he knew James could catch him. But his tiny brain reasoned that James might not because he would risk hurting the box. No, Snerdlin's brain said, right now you are in charge.
"More gold."
"I'll take it from you."
Snerdlin sneered and lifted the box above his head. "You no take. I break before you take."
James raised his eyebrows. "You want to break it? Fine, go ahead." He put the pouch of gold back in his jacket. "I don't care. In fact, why don't you open it up? I'll even let you have what's inside."
Snerdlin gently placed the box onto the ground. "Me open?"
"Yes, you can open it. But hurry. We don't have all day."
Snerdlin moved his hand to rip off the latch when he stopped. Why did James want him to have the box if he'd been willing to give him gold? James used trickery. Snerdlin hated trickery.
"You open."
James smiled. "Okay. If you insist."
Wait. More trickery.
"No! Snerdlin open."
"Would you make up your mind? You found it first, Snerdlin, so it's your box. But you need to do something before Trilix gets here. I'll either give you the pouch of gold, or I'll get a safe distance away while you open it."
Safe distance? "Safe distance?"
"Yeah. You don't expect me to be an innocent bystander if that thing is the deathtrap I think it might be?"
Deathtrap? "Why it be deathtrap?"
"It may or may not be. Legends are sketchy. So what are you going to do, Snerdlin?"
"No deathtrap. You open. Me want gold." Snerdlin waited for James to pull out the pouch of gold, and then he snuck over to make the exchange. Once the pouch was in his hands, he scampered away until he felt he'd gone far enough. He turned and watched.
James placed the box on the ground and unlatched it. He pulled the lid up and stared inside. At first nothing happened, but soon the box came to life. Smoke rose from its depths, then a roar erupted from its midst. James's mouth moved, but no words came out. A bright light shot up. It hurt Snerdlin's eyes, so he turned away until he was sure it had dimmed. When he turned back, the light was off, the lid closed, and James gone.
Snerdlin thought for a moment. James couldn't have gone. He'd have had to run past Snerdlin, and he didn't do that. James got sucked into the box, it had to be true. Good thing Snerdlin didn't open the box himself. And he sure wasn't going to open it now. The box could stay right there forever. He clutched his bag of gold and ran out before Trilix arrived.
Snerdlin snickered. He'd won. He hadn't done much, but he'd won. He picked up the jewel-encrusted metal box and shook it. No sound. That couldn't be right. Shouldn't a box this beautiful be filled with pretty things? It should be clanking with gold sounds.
"Put down the box! Snerdlin, do you hear me?"
Snerdlin clutched his prize to his chest and spun to face James, evil James. "No! Mine! I win fair and square."
"There's nothing in that box for you." James reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bag. A clankity-clank bag. A gold-sounding bag.
"Gold?" Snerdlin asked.
James nodded. "Give me the box and the bag's yours."
Snerdlin almost threw the box down and ran for the gold, but his little brain churned. If James would give him gold for the box now, maybe if he made James wait, he'd get even more gold.
"What are you thinking about? Snerdlin, your brain isn't built for thinking."
Snerdlin clutched the box to his chest. "No! Me want more gold. Another pouch or I keep box."
James closed his eyes and said something Snerdlin couldn't hear. He readied himself to bolt even though he knew James could catch him. But his tiny brain reasoned that James might not because he would risk hurting the box. No, Snerdlin's brain said, right now you are in charge.
"More gold."
"I'll take it from you."
Snerdlin sneered and lifted the box above his head. "You no take. I break before you take."
James raised his eyebrows. "You want to break it? Fine, go ahead." He put the pouch of gold back in his jacket. "I don't care. In fact, why don't you open it up? I'll even let you have what's inside."
Snerdlin gently placed the box onto the ground. "Me open?"
"Yes, you can open it. But hurry. We don't have all day."
Snerdlin moved his hand to rip off the latch when he stopped. Why did James want him to have the box if he'd been willing to give him gold? James used trickery. Snerdlin hated trickery.
"You open."
James smiled. "Okay. If you insist."
Wait. More trickery.
"No! Snerdlin open."
"Would you make up your mind? You found it first, Snerdlin, so it's your box. But you need to do something before Trilix gets here. I'll either give you the pouch of gold, or I'll get a safe distance away while you open it."
Safe distance? "Safe distance?"
"Yeah. You don't expect me to be an innocent bystander if that thing is the deathtrap I think it might be?"
Deathtrap? "Why it be deathtrap?"
"It may or may not be. Legends are sketchy. So what are you going to do, Snerdlin?"
"No deathtrap. You open. Me want gold." Snerdlin waited for James to pull out the pouch of gold, and then he snuck over to make the exchange. Once the pouch was in his hands, he scampered away until he felt he'd gone far enough. He turned and watched.
James placed the box on the ground and unlatched it. He pulled the lid up and stared inside. At first nothing happened, but soon the box came to life. Smoke rose from its depths, then a roar erupted from its midst. James's mouth moved, but no words came out. A bright light shot up. It hurt Snerdlin's eyes, so he turned away until he was sure it had dimmed. When he turned back, the light was off, the lid closed, and James gone.
Snerdlin thought for a moment. James couldn't have gone. He'd have had to run past Snerdlin, and he didn't do that. James got sucked into the box, it had to be true. Good thing Snerdlin didn't open the box himself. And he sure wasn't going to open it now. The box could stay right there forever. He clutched his bag of gold and ran out before Trilix arrived.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Some Writing Tips
I've decided to occasionally post some tips that have helped me out in my writing. I hope by presenting these, they might help others. I don't profess to have come up with these tips, but I feel they're important enough to pass along. Without further ado, here are my first few writing tips.
--Sit down and write. In theory, this is the simplest rule of all. Otherwise, how would you ever get any words down? How would you ever finish your story? This can be, though, one of the hardest things for some writers to do. It's daunting to realize you need to pour your soul out on the page. A writer needs to get over that, however, and get the words on the page. Sit down, pick up your pen (or open your word processor), and start writing. Whether you have an outline or not is irrelevant for this tip. Get the words down!
--Don't forget to freewrite liberally. Freewriting can be used in a number of different ways. If you need to get into a rhythm and flow before you start on your day's work, freewrite until you're ready. If you're stuck in a tricky scene, freewrite possible solutions. If you don't know what sort of story you want to start on next, freewrite ideas. In all of these exercises, and more, freewriting will help focus your writing.
--My last tip for today is a bit quirky. I've recently discovered this one works for me. If I'm writing a story or scene in my novel, I sometimes get stuck even though I know what comes next. How do I say it? Why doesn't it come out the way I want? If I pick up a pen with different color ink (I'm one of those strange people who still writes longhand), for some reason it jars my brain and the words flow again. You can try this in your word processor, too. Try writing the next few paragraphs in a different font or color. I'm guessing the change of appearance on the otherwise bland page (esthetically, of course, not your word choice) brings a feeling of fun to your brain. (Don't forget to go back and change the font and color to your story's default!) Whatever the reason, it works for me, and it just might work for you.
There you go, three tips on helping you write. I wouldn't share these with you if they didn't work for me, so I hope they help. I'll bring some more tips up in future posts. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
--Sit down and write. In theory, this is the simplest rule of all. Otherwise, how would you ever get any words down? How would you ever finish your story? This can be, though, one of the hardest things for some writers to do. It's daunting to realize you need to pour your soul out on the page. A writer needs to get over that, however, and get the words on the page. Sit down, pick up your pen (or open your word processor), and start writing. Whether you have an outline or not is irrelevant for this tip. Get the words down!
--Don't forget to freewrite liberally. Freewriting can be used in a number of different ways. If you need to get into a rhythm and flow before you start on your day's work, freewrite until you're ready. If you're stuck in a tricky scene, freewrite possible solutions. If you don't know what sort of story you want to start on next, freewrite ideas. In all of these exercises, and more, freewriting will help focus your writing.
--My last tip for today is a bit quirky. I've recently discovered this one works for me. If I'm writing a story or scene in my novel, I sometimes get stuck even though I know what comes next. How do I say it? Why doesn't it come out the way I want? If I pick up a pen with different color ink (I'm one of those strange people who still writes longhand), for some reason it jars my brain and the words flow again. You can try this in your word processor, too. Try writing the next few paragraphs in a different font or color. I'm guessing the change of appearance on the otherwise bland page (esthetically, of course, not your word choice) brings a feeling of fun to your brain. (Don't forget to go back and change the font and color to your story's default!) Whatever the reason, it works for me, and it just might work for you.
There you go, three tips on helping you write. I wouldn't share these with you if they didn't work for me, so I hope they help. I'll bring some more tips up in future posts. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Latest Published Story--Three Seconds
My latest short story was published tonight. This one is a podcast, a first for me, so that was neat. It's also a young adult story, another first. The podcast is called "YA Literature Review." You can find it in two places: first on their website here: Three Seconds or on iTunes. Search "YA Literature Review" and download "Story Corner: Three Seconds."
I hope you enjoy the story, and please let me know what you think. I'd love to hear any comments you might have!
I hope you enjoy the story, and please let me know what you think. I'd love to hear any comments you might have!
Friday, September 18, 2009
#fridayflash--One Rainy Day
ONE RAINY DAY
Larry walked through the dark streets of Dillington with a briefcase in his left hand and an umbrella in his right. The rain hadn't started yet, but by the looks of the sky, it wouldn't be long. Besides, ol' Chuck Golightly of the Channel 10 News predicted a doosy of a storm. If Larry could make the bus stop before the downpour, he'd count himself lucky for the first time in a long, long time.
"Hey, buddy, spare a couple of bucks?"
A bum stood in a nearby alleyway. He was the stereotypical homeless guy, complete with a bottle of booze in a paper sack. Larry could smell him from ten feet away.
"A couple of bucks, buddy?" the guy asked again.
"Sorry, that's all I have, and I need it for the bus. I'm . . . never mind. Sorry."
"You're what? You were going to say you weren't doing so well, but then you saw me. Am I right?"
Larry gave a sheepish nod. "Yeah, something like that."
The bum smiled. "What would you say if I told you I could fix all your problems?"
"I'd say I don't believe you. No offense."
The bum chuckled. "None taken. I like you. You seem like a decent guy." His face grew serious. "But what if I insisted I have that power?"
Where this was going? He'd seen movies and read books where bums turned out to be billionaires and were just testing people, but this couldn't be that. Could it?
"Follow me. What did you say your name was?"
"Larry. Larry Brantz. What's yours?"
"Call me Mac. Everyone does."
Mac led Larry into the alleyway. This wasn't like him, but there was something about this bum, this Mac. Hell, as bad as things were going, he might as well see this through. Light at the end of the tunnel and all that.
Mac stopped at the chain-link fence that ended the alley. He dropped the paper sack to the ground but held on to the bottle. It looked like an ordinary vodka bottle.
"You're going to think this is crazy," Mac said, "but this is a magic bottle. When I break it, all your problems will drain away."
"Yeah, that does sound crazy."
Mac smiled. "Watch." He held the bottle by its neck and smashed it against a nearby dumpster. It cracked like a gunshot, but neither man jumped. When Mac held up the now broken bottle, nothing happened.
"Well?" Larry said.
Mac brought a finger to his lips. "Patience, Larry. The magic takes a few seconds."
A raindrop hit Larry on the top of his head, and he rolled his eyes. Why had he been so gullible? Instead of having his problems solved, he was going to get soaked. And he'd probably miss the bus to boot. Mary would be pissed when he walked in an hour late. Just what his marriage needed.
"Here it comes," Mac said. "Watch."
Larry did. Mac jammed the jagged bottle into Larry's stomach. Larry gasped and fell to his knees. Pain shot through his entire body. Mac let out a maniacal laugh and jabbed him a second time. So much blood leaked from the wounds that he could hear it dripping on the ground along with the scattered raindrops. Mac walked behind him and shoved him face-first onto the pavement.
As the bum ran off with his briefcase, umbrella, and wallet, Larry smiled. He couldn't call Mac a liar. It might not be a million dollars, but in a minute or two, Larry Brantz would never have another worry.
Larry walked through the dark streets of Dillington with a briefcase in his left hand and an umbrella in his right. The rain hadn't started yet, but by the looks of the sky, it wouldn't be long. Besides, ol' Chuck Golightly of the Channel 10 News predicted a doosy of a storm. If Larry could make the bus stop before the downpour, he'd count himself lucky for the first time in a long, long time.
"Hey, buddy, spare a couple of bucks?"
A bum stood in a nearby alleyway. He was the stereotypical homeless guy, complete with a bottle of booze in a paper sack. Larry could smell him from ten feet away.
"A couple of bucks, buddy?" the guy asked again.
"Sorry, that's all I have, and I need it for the bus. I'm . . . never mind. Sorry."
"You're what? You were going to say you weren't doing so well, but then you saw me. Am I right?"
Larry gave a sheepish nod. "Yeah, something like that."
The bum smiled. "What would you say if I told you I could fix all your problems?"
"I'd say I don't believe you. No offense."
The bum chuckled. "None taken. I like you. You seem like a decent guy." His face grew serious. "But what if I insisted I have that power?"
Where this was going? He'd seen movies and read books where bums turned out to be billionaires and were just testing people, but this couldn't be that. Could it?
"Follow me. What did you say your name was?"
"Larry. Larry Brantz. What's yours?"
"Call me Mac. Everyone does."
Mac led Larry into the alleyway. This wasn't like him, but there was something about this bum, this Mac. Hell, as bad as things were going, he might as well see this through. Light at the end of the tunnel and all that.
Mac stopped at the chain-link fence that ended the alley. He dropped the paper sack to the ground but held on to the bottle. It looked like an ordinary vodka bottle.
"You're going to think this is crazy," Mac said, "but this is a magic bottle. When I break it, all your problems will drain away."
"Yeah, that does sound crazy."
Mac smiled. "Watch." He held the bottle by its neck and smashed it against a nearby dumpster. It cracked like a gunshot, but neither man jumped. When Mac held up the now broken bottle, nothing happened.
"Well?" Larry said.
Mac brought a finger to his lips. "Patience, Larry. The magic takes a few seconds."
A raindrop hit Larry on the top of his head, and he rolled his eyes. Why had he been so gullible? Instead of having his problems solved, he was going to get soaked. And he'd probably miss the bus to boot. Mary would be pissed when he walked in an hour late. Just what his marriage needed.
"Here it comes," Mac said. "Watch."
Larry did. Mac jammed the jagged bottle into Larry's stomach. Larry gasped and fell to his knees. Pain shot through his entire body. Mac let out a maniacal laugh and jabbed him a second time. So much blood leaked from the wounds that he could hear it dripping on the ground along with the scattered raindrops. Mac walked behind him and shoved him face-first onto the pavement.
As the bum ran off with his briefcase, umbrella, and wallet, Larry smiled. He couldn't call Mac a liar. It might not be a million dollars, but in a minute or two, Larry Brantz would never have another worry.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
My Writing Process Pt. 2
Last week I gave insight into how I am working on my newest work as a whole, but I thought this week some of you might be interested in seeing how I write on a daily basis.
I make it a priority to write six times a week, and usually I do seven. Sometimes that seventh day is maybe a hundred words, but as long as something is on paper, I view it as a good day. The other six days, I require a few pages, not just paragraphs. And I say pages, not 500 or 1000 words, because I write longhand. I often get sneered at when I say this (or sometimes people will tell me in a hushed voice like I might not know that I can write directly into the computer), but I enjoy the process of writing with a pen and paper. I also like the quick editing I can do when I get around to entering my pages into the computer. It's not an official revision step, but it's a helpful part of the process for me. Will I continue to do this? Probably not for my next novel attempt, but maybe I'll go into the reasons for that in a future post. I'll never give up on the pen and paper approach fully, though.
When I sit down, the first thing I do is pick up a "how to write" book. It doesn't matter which one I'm reading at the time, and I have plenty to choose from (as I'm sure most writers do). I'll read a couple of pages of that and set it aside. I might also read an article in Writer's Digest if I still haven't finished the latest issue. This ritual gets me thinking about writing, which is an important step in getting started.
To be honest, the first 15 to 20 minutes don't usually go very smooth. Even though I'm in the writing mode, it's still not usually easy to kick-start the process. I don't usually get many words on the page at this point, but as long as I'm staring at the page, writing thoughts are going through my head. After this initial struggle, however, the words usually start to flow. As you all know, some days are better than others, but as long as I stick to it at my desk, I'll get my page count without too much trouble.
What do I do when I hit my goal? Depends on the day, and how the session went. Sometimes I can breeze through in an hour, and I may stick with it and keep working. Other days can be a struggle, so once the goal is hit, I stop at a good spot and leave it for the next day.
There you have it. My method isn't glamorous or ground-breaking, but works for me. As I said last week, I know many writers like to see how others go about their business, so that's your peak into my typical writing sessions. I'd love to hear any comments you might have about it, or how you structure your own time. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
I make it a priority to write six times a week, and usually I do seven. Sometimes that seventh day is maybe a hundred words, but as long as something is on paper, I view it as a good day. The other six days, I require a few pages, not just paragraphs. And I say pages, not 500 or 1000 words, because I write longhand. I often get sneered at when I say this (or sometimes people will tell me in a hushed voice like I might not know that I can write directly into the computer), but I enjoy the process of writing with a pen and paper. I also like the quick editing I can do when I get around to entering my pages into the computer. It's not an official revision step, but it's a helpful part of the process for me. Will I continue to do this? Probably not for my next novel attempt, but maybe I'll go into the reasons for that in a future post. I'll never give up on the pen and paper approach fully, though.
When I sit down, the first thing I do is pick up a "how to write" book. It doesn't matter which one I'm reading at the time, and I have plenty to choose from (as I'm sure most writers do). I'll read a couple of pages of that and set it aside. I might also read an article in Writer's Digest if I still haven't finished the latest issue. This ritual gets me thinking about writing, which is an important step in getting started.
To be honest, the first 15 to 20 minutes don't usually go very smooth. Even though I'm in the writing mode, it's still not usually easy to kick-start the process. I don't usually get many words on the page at this point, but as long as I'm staring at the page, writing thoughts are going through my head. After this initial struggle, however, the words usually start to flow. As you all know, some days are better than others, but as long as I stick to it at my desk, I'll get my page count without too much trouble.
What do I do when I hit my goal? Depends on the day, and how the session went. Sometimes I can breeze through in an hour, and I may stick with it and keep working. Other days can be a struggle, so once the goal is hit, I stop at a good spot and leave it for the next day.
There you have it. My method isn't glamorous or ground-breaking, but works for me. As I said last week, I know many writers like to see how others go about their business, so that's your peak into my typical writing sessions. I'd love to hear any comments you might have about it, or how you structure your own time. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
Friday, September 11, 2009
#fridayflash -- Uncle Ron
UNCLE RON
We arrived in New York Harbor on Mars in 2382 (Western Earth Years). We saw the faux Statue of Liberty in front of the spaceport and joked that we were like the immigrants to America back on Earth hundreds of years ago. After landing, we scoured our map and determined how to get to our housing district.
All except Uncle Ron, who seemed a bit distracted.
Next, we headed over to the transport center. We chatted about whether to take the aero-taxi or the land-roving bus. Both would be fun and give us a neat perspective of our new homeworld. Grandma Dakota, only half-joking, suggested we do one, then come back right away to try the other. If we hadn't been so eager to get settled, we might have done just that. We decided to choose one now. We could come back another day.
I think I was the only one that noticed Uncle Ron, who normally dominated conversations like this, stayed quiet.
The moving hallway took us from the terminal to the Intra-Planetary Transportation Center. I marveled at the vision screens. Instead of windows, the walls were lined with monitors that made it seem as if we were on uncovered walkways on the surface of the planet. With oxygen, of course. There were plans to add atmospheric effects to create illusions of scents, breezes, and other goodies. I looked at Uncle Ron, figuring he'd be thrilled, but he looked lost in thought.
Once at the Intra-Planetary Transportation Center, we decided on the aero-taxi. What better way to get acquainted with our new neighborhood and home than with a birds-eye view? The porter on duty informed us that we'd need to take two cabs. Each taxi had seats enough for only five, and we had six. Uncle Ron spoke up for the first time since landing and told the porter to hail just one. He wanted to look around a bit longer, and he'd catch up with us later. Everyone said that sounded great. No one thought it strange since it was just Ron being Ron.
Except me. Something was up. He hadn't been himself since we landed. No, that wasn't true. He hadn't been himself since the bottom of the space elevator in New Vegas. I loved and trusted my Uncle Ron, though, so I didn't say anything.
The aero-taxi would have been a neat ride if I hadn't been so preoccupied. Mom, Dad, Grandma Dakota, and Grandpa Drake all marveled at the sights, but I couldn't. The ride took forever, and I could only hope there was a message from Uncle Ron waiting for us.
Turns out I was right. I listened to his message twice, not bothering to check out my new living space, my new home. Uncle Ron had caught a flight to one of the moons of Saturn, where a new colony had just started up. After that, he'd heard of an experimental hyperspace jump that he'd like to be a part of. He promised to be in touch no matter what, but I knew we'd never hear from him again. I think the rest of the family knew it, too, but no one else seemed upset. They went on unpacking and making this new dwelling home. After all, it was just Ron being Ron.
END
This one is a bit more "slice of life" than story, but I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Uncle Ron seems like quite a character, and while I didn't explore him too much in this story, I may need to do so in the future. Sounds like he's in for some real adventures. Anyway, thank you for reading, and please leave a comment. I'd love to know what you think!
We arrived in New York Harbor on Mars in 2382 (Western Earth Years). We saw the faux Statue of Liberty in front of the spaceport and joked that we were like the immigrants to America back on Earth hundreds of years ago. After landing, we scoured our map and determined how to get to our housing district.
All except Uncle Ron, who seemed a bit distracted.
Next, we headed over to the transport center. We chatted about whether to take the aero-taxi or the land-roving bus. Both would be fun and give us a neat perspective of our new homeworld. Grandma Dakota, only half-joking, suggested we do one, then come back right away to try the other. If we hadn't been so eager to get settled, we might have done just that. We decided to choose one now. We could come back another day.
I think I was the only one that noticed Uncle Ron, who normally dominated conversations like this, stayed quiet.
The moving hallway took us from the terminal to the Intra-Planetary Transportation Center. I marveled at the vision screens. Instead of windows, the walls were lined with monitors that made it seem as if we were on uncovered walkways on the surface of the planet. With oxygen, of course. There were plans to add atmospheric effects to create illusions of scents, breezes, and other goodies. I looked at Uncle Ron, figuring he'd be thrilled, but he looked lost in thought.
Once at the Intra-Planetary Transportation Center, we decided on the aero-taxi. What better way to get acquainted with our new neighborhood and home than with a birds-eye view? The porter on duty informed us that we'd need to take two cabs. Each taxi had seats enough for only five, and we had six. Uncle Ron spoke up for the first time since landing and told the porter to hail just one. He wanted to look around a bit longer, and he'd catch up with us later. Everyone said that sounded great. No one thought it strange since it was just Ron being Ron.
Except me. Something was up. He hadn't been himself since we landed. No, that wasn't true. He hadn't been himself since the bottom of the space elevator in New Vegas. I loved and trusted my Uncle Ron, though, so I didn't say anything.
The aero-taxi would have been a neat ride if I hadn't been so preoccupied. Mom, Dad, Grandma Dakota, and Grandpa Drake all marveled at the sights, but I couldn't. The ride took forever, and I could only hope there was a message from Uncle Ron waiting for us.
Turns out I was right. I listened to his message twice, not bothering to check out my new living space, my new home. Uncle Ron had caught a flight to one of the moons of Saturn, where a new colony had just started up. After that, he'd heard of an experimental hyperspace jump that he'd like to be a part of. He promised to be in touch no matter what, but I knew we'd never hear from him again. I think the rest of the family knew it, too, but no one else seemed upset. They went on unpacking and making this new dwelling home. After all, it was just Ron being Ron.
END
This one is a bit more "slice of life" than story, but I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Uncle Ron seems like quite a character, and while I didn't explore him too much in this story, I may need to do so in the future. Sounds like he's in for some real adventures. Anyway, thank you for reading, and please leave a comment. I'd love to know what you think!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
My Writing Process
I've stated before here in my blog that I've noticed many writers obsessed with how others work. They want to compare their practices with others to see if they are on the right track. While writers need to just sit down and get their own work done, I believe it is helpful at times, especially when you feel you're in a rut, to peek into the writing lives of others. For this reason, I will give a quick look at my own writing process on my newest work in progress. Maybe it'll give some of you ideas of how you can get your own work done, or it might just fuel your voyeuristic pleasure. Either way, I'm happy with however it helps.
I start by taking some time to write out random ideas about the story to get it solidified in my mind. I think briefly about who the characters should be and write that down. After that, I write down ten or so brief scenes that will be used throughout the book. This gives me a rough outline, which grows bigger as I connect the dots, so to speak. I keep the descriptions of these scenes brief, on one 3x5 card for each. Of course some of the scenes may take multiple chapters to complete, but they're still brief on the card. I don't do much to flesh out the characters at this point--no bio, no card. I jot down notes when I think about things I need to know about them. Instead, I think it's more important to get to know the characters during the draft. The revision and rewriting stage is where I will flesh them out and make it look like the story started with just the characters instead of plot.
When I have my scenes on my cards, I put them in the order that I believe they go in and start writing. I feel this is a good balance between free-writing the first draft (sometimes referred to as "pantsing" as in writing from the seat of your pants), and working from an outline. It gives me freedom to explore my story and world while having a solid foundation to be anchored in. Plus, if I choose a different route than I'd originally envisioned in the outline, it's easy to make up new cards and set aside the old ones that no longer fit.
As I write, I keep plenty of notes for various reasons. Since I've just created a small outline, I need to make things up as I go. When I do create new rules, characters, or whatever, I jot those down so I don't have to search through many pages later to remember what I'd done--place names, character names, character traits, etc. I also make notes about revision ideas I have. I feel it's counterproductive to go back and fix already written work when I know I'll be changing things in my revision/rewriting stage anyway. It's more important to get that first draft done, so a quick note about what I want to change works much better for me.
That's really all there is to it for me. The main part of getting the first draft done is simply sitting down and putting words on the page. My simple outline gives me the freedom to enjoy the writing and creating process. Let me know what you think about my writing process, and feel free to share your own. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
I start by taking some time to write out random ideas about the story to get it solidified in my mind. I think briefly about who the characters should be and write that down. After that, I write down ten or so brief scenes that will be used throughout the book. This gives me a rough outline, which grows bigger as I connect the dots, so to speak. I keep the descriptions of these scenes brief, on one 3x5 card for each. Of course some of the scenes may take multiple chapters to complete, but they're still brief on the card. I don't do much to flesh out the characters at this point--no bio, no card. I jot down notes when I think about things I need to know about them. Instead, I think it's more important to get to know the characters during the draft. The revision and rewriting stage is where I will flesh them out and make it look like the story started with just the characters instead of plot.
When I have my scenes on my cards, I put them in the order that I believe they go in and start writing. I feel this is a good balance between free-writing the first draft (sometimes referred to as "pantsing" as in writing from the seat of your pants), and working from an outline. It gives me freedom to explore my story and world while having a solid foundation to be anchored in. Plus, if I choose a different route than I'd originally envisioned in the outline, it's easy to make up new cards and set aside the old ones that no longer fit.
As I write, I keep plenty of notes for various reasons. Since I've just created a small outline, I need to make things up as I go. When I do create new rules, characters, or whatever, I jot those down so I don't have to search through many pages later to remember what I'd done--place names, character names, character traits, etc. I also make notes about revision ideas I have. I feel it's counterproductive to go back and fix already written work when I know I'll be changing things in my revision/rewriting stage anyway. It's more important to get that first draft done, so a quick note about what I want to change works much better for me.
That's really all there is to it for me. The main part of getting the first draft done is simply sitting down and putting words on the page. My simple outline gives me the freedom to enjoy the writing and creating process. Let me know what you think about my writing process, and feel free to share your own. Until next time, keep reading and/or writing!
Friday, September 4, 2009
#fridayflash--When He Comes Calling
WHEN HE COMES CALLING
Another Day almost done. Reggie sat in front of the TV with his dinner--a microwave burrito and a handful of cheese twists. How had he survived without Margaret? She'd been gone for almost a year now, and though people said he'd adjust, he hadn't. In their forty-six years together, Margaret had been his everything, his entire life. Without her he was just going through the motions, and he wasn't sure he wanted to do that anymore.
As he took a bite of his bean and cheese burrito, the doorbell rang. "Who's that?" he muttered. No one had come to visit since Margaret's funeral. Reggie pushed himself up and shuffled towards the front door.
The bell rang again. "I'm moving as fast as I'm gonna." When he opened the door, a man, probably in his mid-thirties, stood on the porch. He wore a three-piece suit, carried an attache case, and had salesman written all over him.
"Hello, Reginald," the man said. "How are you feeling today?"
Reggie scrutinized the man a bit more. Nope, didn't recognize him. "Who are you?"
"This visit isn't about me, Reginald. How are you today?"
"I'm tired, I hurt, and I miss the hell out of my wife."
"Which is why I'm here." The man walked past Reggie into the house. Reggie wasn't much for strangers, but for some reason he didn't protest.
"Been hard without Margaret, hasn't it?" The man looked over at Reggie's TV tray. "Dinner certainly was better."
"It was, but I like microwave burritos. You still haven't stated your name or your business."
The man sat down on the couch next to Reggie's dinner and helped himself to a cheese twist. As he ate it, he looked like he would choke, but managed to swallow. "Honestly, I don't know how you people survive on this . . . this junk you consider food. Just the thought of eating here makes me glad I can head home for meals."
"You don't need to bad-mouth my supper," Reggie said. "I never did offer you any."
"I apologize, Reginald. I meant no offense."
"It's okay. You ain't told me your name or your business, so I won't bother askin' where you're from."
"You'll find out in due time, Reginald. Just be patient. Why don't you finish your dinner?"
The stranger stood up to give Reggie room to sit. Reggie hadn't realized how famished he was. He hadn't been this hungry since before Margaret got sick. He took a big bite from his burrito and chewed slowly.
"It may not be Margaret's special meatloaf, but it does have its charm." He placed a cheese twist in his mouth and grimaced. "You're right about these, though. Teach me to save a few cents on a cheap brand."
The stranger chuckled. "Where you're going, they're all name brands."
Reggie sat back in the couch and folded his hands behind his head. "I don't know why you think I'm going with you. I don't understand why I even let you in."
The stranger took a seat in the easy chair next to the couch. "You're lonely."
"And where exactly do you think you're taking me?"
"I can promise you this, Reginald: you'll have so many friends, you'll never be lonely again. And the food." The man licked his lips. "As I've said, it's far better than anything you can get here."
"So it's your hometown, eh? And when did you think you'd get me to leave?"
The stranger stood up. "Why, Reginald, we've already left."
"What?" Reggie leapt to his feet--far faster than he had in the past fifteen years--and knocked his TV tray over. He didn't watch his dinner splat on the carpet; he'd already turned his attention to the stranger.
"See for yourself." The man made a motion with his arm towards the couch, and when Reggie's eyes followed, he saw himself lying rigid. The TV tray indeed lay toppled over, and his burrito and chips scattered across the rug. Boy, Margaret would've reamed him good for that. He glanced over to the hallway, but in its place was a wall of bright light.
"Step in, Reginald. They're all waiting for you. Especially Margaret. You're all she can talk about."
"Margaret." Reggie didn't look back as he passed through the light. In seconds, the stranger heard terrified scrams, and he chuckled. "They always think I'm offering heaven." With a puff of smoke, he vanished.
END
I hope you enjoyed my second foray into #fridayflash. I'd be thrilled if you took the time to leave comments on this story. Thanks for reading!
Another Day almost done. Reggie sat in front of the TV with his dinner--a microwave burrito and a handful of cheese twists. How had he survived without Margaret? She'd been gone for almost a year now, and though people said he'd adjust, he hadn't. In their forty-six years together, Margaret had been his everything, his entire life. Without her he was just going through the motions, and he wasn't sure he wanted to do that anymore.
As he took a bite of his bean and cheese burrito, the doorbell rang. "Who's that?" he muttered. No one had come to visit since Margaret's funeral. Reggie pushed himself up and shuffled towards the front door.
The bell rang again. "I'm moving as fast as I'm gonna." When he opened the door, a man, probably in his mid-thirties, stood on the porch. He wore a three-piece suit, carried an attache case, and had salesman written all over him.
"Hello, Reginald," the man said. "How are you feeling today?"
Reggie scrutinized the man a bit more. Nope, didn't recognize him. "Who are you?"
"This visit isn't about me, Reginald. How are you today?"
"I'm tired, I hurt, and I miss the hell out of my wife."
"Which is why I'm here." The man walked past Reggie into the house. Reggie wasn't much for strangers, but for some reason he didn't protest.
"Been hard without Margaret, hasn't it?" The man looked over at Reggie's TV tray. "Dinner certainly was better."
"It was, but I like microwave burritos. You still haven't stated your name or your business."
The man sat down on the couch next to Reggie's dinner and helped himself to a cheese twist. As he ate it, he looked like he would choke, but managed to swallow. "Honestly, I don't know how you people survive on this . . . this junk you consider food. Just the thought of eating here makes me glad I can head home for meals."
"You don't need to bad-mouth my supper," Reggie said. "I never did offer you any."
"I apologize, Reginald. I meant no offense."
"It's okay. You ain't told me your name or your business, so I won't bother askin' where you're from."
"You'll find out in due time, Reginald. Just be patient. Why don't you finish your dinner?"
The stranger stood up to give Reggie room to sit. Reggie hadn't realized how famished he was. He hadn't been this hungry since before Margaret got sick. He took a big bite from his burrito and chewed slowly.
"It may not be Margaret's special meatloaf, but it does have its charm." He placed a cheese twist in his mouth and grimaced. "You're right about these, though. Teach me to save a few cents on a cheap brand."
The stranger chuckled. "Where you're going, they're all name brands."
Reggie sat back in the couch and folded his hands behind his head. "I don't know why you think I'm going with you. I don't understand why I even let you in."
The stranger took a seat in the easy chair next to the couch. "You're lonely."
"And where exactly do you think you're taking me?"
"I can promise you this, Reginald: you'll have so many friends, you'll never be lonely again. And the food." The man licked his lips. "As I've said, it's far better than anything you can get here."
"So it's your hometown, eh? And when did you think you'd get me to leave?"
The stranger stood up. "Why, Reginald, we've already left."
"What?" Reggie leapt to his feet--far faster than he had in the past fifteen years--and knocked his TV tray over. He didn't watch his dinner splat on the carpet; he'd already turned his attention to the stranger.
"See for yourself." The man made a motion with his arm towards the couch, and when Reggie's eyes followed, he saw himself lying rigid. The TV tray indeed lay toppled over, and his burrito and chips scattered across the rug. Boy, Margaret would've reamed him good for that. He glanced over to the hallway, but in its place was a wall of bright light.
"Step in, Reginald. They're all waiting for you. Especially Margaret. You're all she can talk about."
"Margaret." Reggie didn't look back as he passed through the light. In seconds, the stranger heard terrified scrams, and he chuckled. "They always think I'm offering heaven." With a puff of smoke, he vanished.
END
I hope you enjoyed my second foray into #fridayflash. I'd be thrilled if you took the time to leave comments on this story. Thanks for reading!
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