Hours pass in that slow and quickly manner, until they come again, their wings a ghostly banner. A banner of all the feathers that had fallen, like the battles just took them all in. But with them this time they bring a lonely friend, and he sits we me as we face what could be the end. We turn to stare into each other’s clouded eyes as we wait for maybe our last sunrise. And in this secluded spot I respond as I wouldn’t dare elsewhere, and in turn he speaks with his shattered stare.

Finally as the dark comes to a close, the sun rises and shrouds the earth in vibrant clothes. He takes my hand and I feel his body’s cold as only one could when they’ve their warmth sold. We breathe in deeply and let the colors blind us. And then the angels bravely step up behind us. Their wings spread across the pleasant little back drop, like a shadow across the world’s last stop. They sing a song that sounds a lot like silence’ end, and then we step into the light, us two friends.

The place is once again silent and empty. It barely remembers when it was filled with life aplenty. The sun rises across the deserted sky. And the clouds rain with a final goodbye.

Apenas han pasado unos minutos después de la medianoche. El calor esta insoportable, me gustaría estar tumbado en mi hamaca, en el patio de la casa de mi infancia, con mi perro. A mi perro lo mataron, estaba tirado en el patio de la casa, tal y como hacen los perros cuando están dormidos y parece que van corriendo, pero mi perro ya no se movía. Yo cerré los ojos y estaba dispuesto a dormir, cuando sonó el teléfono. Abrí los ojos, salí de la casa y detrás de mí cerré la puerta. Mi perro estaba tirado en el patio de la casa de mamá, tenía espuma en la boca y me dijeron que lo habían envenenado, yo pensaba que había muerto de viejo o porque sus riñones habían dejado de funcionar, pensé que tal vez el asunto era la edad y no la maldad de las personas. Desde luego que mi teoría no tenía base alguna, así que todo era posible.

Me llamaron porque habían encontrado, los cuerpos de dos personas sin vida. Ellas estaban tirados en el suelo al igual que mi perro, desde luego que ellos no correrían para salir a la búsqueda del pan para sobrevivir en el día a día, a leguas se notaba que eran personas humildes que pasaban los días con los pocos pesos que ganaban.

Mi perro era blanco, no era uno de esos perros chiquitos, que todo el tiempo están nerviosos y no dejan de ladrar, ¡No!, mi perro era grande, cariñoso y me gustaba jugar con él. Cuando yo era aún más pequeño, juraba que era un caballo pequeño, lo montaba y él me paseaba por toda la casa.
Tome algunas fotos de los cuerpos sin vida, supongo que fueron víctimas de alguien, aunque por su aspecto, bien podría jurar que han muerto de forma natural o incluso que se han envenenado y adoptaron esa posición antes de morir. Estaban en posición fetal, uno detrás del otro, haciendo “cucharita” que es el termino más coloquial con el que lo conocemos. Pensé en que habían sufrido un paro cardiaco, no se ocurría otra cosa. No tenía indicios de haber sido envenenados, ni presentaban rasgos de violencia. Lo que llamaba la atención es que estuvieran tirados en el suelo, y desnudos. Quizá estaban haciendo el amor y algo fallo en sus órganos vitales y les causo la muerte, desde luego que después de el examen del médico forense podremos saber mucho más.

Me pregunté quién podría haberlos matado, si es que ese era el caso y desde luego por qué.

At least it says “profession” and not “job,”  so I don’t have to include the sorts of things no one wants to do, like moving human waste around or picking up garbage. And I see it says “a profession,” but you know I’m going to take longer than that.

A trifecta of horrors

Historically my bottom 3 career choices have been politics, journalism, and childcare (including teaching). This is because I loathe politics, which are stupid when they aren’t boring, and with the news, journalism, and current events all being meshed up in one another, it’s not hard to see why I’d also hate it for being kind of a package deal. Plus, I can’t even abide reading a newspaper, with their own special version of English that includes rules like “mangle, paragraph, repeat,” let alone writing for one. (And no, TV journalism is absolutely no more appealing.) And childcare! Have you heard me on children? I don’t like them.

Everyone tells me no one likes other people’s kids and love their own, but it seems to me that everyone mostly seems to love kids. I’m with Robin from How I Met Your Mother; it’s kind of neat that their shoes are so tiny, but otherwise, what’s the point? Dr. George says the future does not belong to those without kids; that’s okay, I’ve never wanted the future. Children are embarrassing and unpredictable. I was embarrassed by children when I was a child, avoiding them and hanging out with the easier-to-understand adults or — the ultimate preference — alone. At first, I was a pretty good babysitter, and I used to watch kids for the women’s Bible study and also did children’s church. Whether it’s because the rate I was “tipped” for watching the kids shifted from $6-$9 for 1-2 really fun children to $2 for 5 really horrible children, I couldn’t say, but I got to the point I had to quit all children’s ministries because I felt tense and uncomfortable around them. This embarrassed discomfort around kids has increased to the point where I can hardly stand to look at one. I’m not exaggerating. Being a teacher, nursery school worker, childcare professional of any kind sounds to me like a dismal abyss of horror. Since that’s the field I really started ranting about, I guess it’s the one I most, most do not want anything to do with.

Actually I was going to narrow down on librarian topics because now that I have this monumentally expensive degree, the thought of doing anything not related to it fills me with creeping horror. Insert graceful segue from childcare professional to school and/or children’s librarian. Thank goodness, I literally can’t work in a school library (or “media center,” as they call them these days).  Somehow when I say I’m looking for a job, schools are the first place uninvolved people ask me about. “I have a degree in English.” “Ah! So you’re going to teach?” NO. I AM NOT GOING TO TEACH. Actually, I was going to go into publishing, if you must know, editing. (Although that now sounds pretty tedious.) “I have a degree in library science.” “They have a degree for that?” No, wait, that’s the most common reaction to that; the second one is, “So like for school libraries and stuff?” NO. I’d rather be shot, which is why I’m not certified for it. Yes, to work in a media center, you have to specifically train for that and be licensed and certified, and I’m not, so don’t even ask. Five million types of libraries in existence, and you want to shove me in some nasty high school? My parents used to say, “Do well on your tests or we’ll send you to public school.” It was the worst threat ever. Why would I want to spend my adult life in a place I’ve spent my life avoiding? (This includes medical libraries, because I won’t have anything to do with hospitals and doctors.)

So really the major professions now that come up as things I really do not want to do are children’s librarian (lot of postings for those) or instructive librarian. Instructive librarian is like teaching, and even though I included teaching as being lumped in with “childcare,” I meant teaching at any level whatsoever. So many positions I see want someone with teaching experience, and I won’t even apply for them, because I got pretty scared when during that interview for the dirtiest-named Catholic college I’ve ever heard of, when the librarian said I’d have to teach a class periodically. What. The. Heck. I did not train to teach classes! I trained to catalog books! Lastly, archivist. I’m not in danger of becoming an archivist, but I thought I’d toss it in because, well, I didn’t like any archivists at library school, and I don’t like archives much. (Archives get rid of things, libraries keep them. It’s true.)

You can do them in any order.

1. Keywords: taste, define, region, true, opponent
2. Random: too much garlic
3. Picture: what does this inspire?
4. Monday Monologue: It’s your character’s birthday but someone’s forgotten

Have fun, and do paste your writing in the comment boxes below so we can see how you got on!

See below for explanations of the prompts, they do vary…

• Sentence starts = what they say on the tin. You can start the beginning of the story with them or a later sentence but they’re a great way of kicking off.
• Keywords = the words have to appear in the story but can be in any order and can be lengthened (e.g. clap to clapping).
• One-word prompt = sometimes all it takes is one word to spawn an idea. Sometimes it easy, sometimes hard but invariably fun.
• Mixed bag = two characters, an object, a location, a dilemma, a trait. Mix them all together and you have a plot… hopefully.
• First person piece or monologue (a one-sided conversation).
• Dialogue only = this is where you literally just write a conversation between two people. No ‘he said’, ‘she said’ or description, just speech and the reader has to be able to keep up. :)
• Second-person = some of you will know that I champion. The prompt can be in any style but has to be written in second-person viewpoint… oh, what a hardship. :)
• Title: This is the title of your story.
• Picture prompts = nothing other than a picture. What does it conjure up?
• Random = whatever takes my fancy!

Tips

• Don’t forget your five senses: sight, sound, touch, taste, smell
• Show don’t tell: if your character is angry, don’t tell us he is, have him thumping his fist on the table.
• Colours: Include at least one colour in your story. It does add depth.
• Use strong verbs and avoid adverbs: Have a character striding instead of walking confidently.
• Only use repetition to emphasise.
• When you’ve finished the first draft, read the story out loud. It’s surprising how many ‘mistakes’ leap out at you when you read out loud… assuming you have any of course!

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com

I love to talk about writing so feel free to email me. I’ll be pasting these in this blog’s Facebook Group so you may find some other comments there. If you’d like to submit a story for critique on this site, see Submissions. The other critique writing groups are:

• Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group (http://nonfictionwritinggroup.wordpress.com / http://www.facebook.com/groups/335526669896374)
• Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group (http://novelwritinggroup.wordpress.com / http://www.facebook.com/groups/508696639153189)
• Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group (http://poetrywritinggroup.wordpress.com / http://www.facebook.com/groups/388850977875934)
• Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group (http://shortstorywritinggroup.wordpress.com / http://www.facebook.com/groups/544072635605445)

Thank you for reading this and we look forward to your comments.

A dark, cobblestoned street. Well-kept brick houses with an air of desertion. The façades are beautiful, but still they project something sinister. A very small girl walks rapidly down the street, stumbling every few feet on uneven paving. She glances frequently over her shoulder and around at the empty windows, keenly aware of being watched—by whom, only she knows. She barely spares a glance to check the numbering of the houses; she cannot be near her destination. A light wind lifts the leaves on the few gray trees, but, like everything else in these environs, it dies quickly. The stillness that follows this breeze is ghastly. The little girl’s entire frame seems to bend backward, as if she wants only to run, and only her feet move on, carrying her with a sort of ticking frenzy. Finally, she arrives at the destination she has sought. It is an empty lot at the very end of the road. There is nothing beyond this address.

It appears at first to be nothing more than a twisted garden. The actual house is set back from the street, accessible by a narrow lane on which the girl’s feet can only fit one in front of the other. Although the overgrowth seems not to have stirred in weeks, the yard is alive with a dread hum of scurrying things. Perhaps they are creatures, but perhaps they are only the minions of Death himself, lurking in the smoky haze. The little girl stops short at the sight of this place, wild and forbidding. Only a small, splintered gate separates her from the interior of the yard. Slowly, unwillingly, she reaches out a hand towards it. She does not want to open it, but something is pushing her, guiding her frail, half-starved arm.

The gate does not so much swing as fall open. It is barely strung on by a hinge, and it dangles, lopsided, carelessly inviting the little girl in. Her tiny, motheaten foot rises stiffly in front of her, and in a moment she has stepped onto the path. She is no longer being pushed. Now she has entered the pull. Every step she takes from here to the door will be orchestrated by a Puppet master. As soon as she has cleared its arc, the gate closes behind her. There is no latch, for it will just as soon open again. The gate is indifferent.

It is a long walk from the fence to the house. It is a long, dark walk. It is a long, tangled walk. It is equal parts torment and peace, for Death is equal parts torment and peace. It is the final wretchedness and also the time when all wretchedness fades away. The little girl struggles to fill her lungs, for there is no air in the garden. There is nothing but unseen monsters and uncreeping brambles and stale, empty blackness. It is through this undefined terror that the little girl moves, through which she walks forward, even though she knows that that house will swallow her whole.

That house casts its shadow over the entire grounds, yet it is not until the little girl is very near that she sees the building itself. It is a large, old-fashioned edifice, elegant and unfaded. Like the other houses, it must be occupied by ghosts, for it is well-kept and untenanted. It rises three rather imposing stories, with several gabled windows and a porch wrapping around the front. The door stands open; perhaps there is no door. The little girl is welcome. All are welcome in this house, for all must eventually stop here. She is here to beg food and rest as much as she is to meet her end. The doorway looms high above her as she reaches the steps to the porch, but here she must stop. It is never easy to ascend those steps, even for those who are ready. She looks into the doorway, trying to see into the blackness. There is nothing to see, no indication of what might be inside.

It is with apprehensive resignation that the little girl puts her foot on the bottom step. It is remarkably solid. The little girl is surprised that she still has mass, weight. Moreover, her whole body sags with reluctance. She heaves the other foot onto the next step. A light gust of cold air greets her from the doorway. It is breathing on her. Third step. She can almost hear the inside of the house panting, wanting her, expecting her.

She reaches the porch. Only a few steps stand between her and the fatal darkness within, more dense and oppressive than the darkness without. Only a few steps during which to relinquish her hold on life. For the first time since beginning her journey, the little girl pauses. She has no idea what is inside. What lies in Death’s darkness? Is there light at the end? Or is it just unfeeling nothingness? This uncertainty stops the little girl. She takes a deep breath, but there is nothing to breathe. She gasps a few times, inhaling emptiness and darkness. Inside, the low panting breaths of the darkness tell her that it senses her imminence. She gasps again and takes a step forward. Then another. She is walking slowly to meet Death. There are no more breaths. There is no more feeling. There is nothing else to sense on this earth. There is…

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm not actually being lazy here; I just have no idea what to write about today.  I do, however, have quite a few compositions lying around with no real outlet or market--"snippets" I call them.  Here is one such snippet that I wrote while listening to a friend play the piano.  It is a writing born in free thought space: he played the piano, and I let the pen go, not contemplating or premeditating the words, letting the tone and pace of the music guide me.  I wish I had cited the piece he played, for the story was very much influenced by the movement of the music (It was probably by Chopin or Ravel...).  For me, this is as nondirected as it gets.  I hope you enjoy.]

[CREDIT: The former quotation above is the first half of a poem by Shel Silverstein.]

What is this glass wall pressing cold on my bumpy nose?

Shields my eyes from the truth that is not necessarily reality

A world I can smell, but not touch

A world I can hear, but not see

The voices, the voices again

Today they are quiet

Yesterday, yesterday they were relentless

Distractions beckon, bruised pears rolling on the pavement

Loud honks swaying the pulse of the madness

Chaos really

You’d think that was enough for them

Relentless, undying, detached from the pain of the physical

Numbing, cooling

Frustrating

Murmurs

A fool and his money are soon parted and this fool knows that too well

Hands tied, smiles wide, loathing this man who came to my ‘rescue’

Taunt him, tease him, squeeze out the last ember of his patience and maybe then,

Maybe then the truth will come spilling out of his mouth

quick relief, and maybe the voices will abate

Leave you be this once

To enjoy the incessant buzzing energy steaming around you

To taste, touch, breathe the havoc of pure human decadence

Yesterday, HA!

Yesterday they came at me, knives and forks at the ready

Armed to the teeth so to speak, ready to poke and bite out every ounce of Zen steadily constructed over sweet troubled years

They say karma, I say bullshit

These are the sounds run from the bayou, oozing from the shamans grinning mouths

A soul they have found

A vessel for their dark deadly magic

A hamster for their wheel

A rat for their lab

Run you may try, hide, smile, try

There’s enough sorrow in this world to last entire infinities

There is no finite joy, peace, calm

Take it in your stride, breathe, taste, touch the madness

Press your wide bumpy bruised nose against that cooling suffocating glass wall

Reach your nimble pasty battle-worn fingers out to that glass ceiling

Press hard, it might crack, it might shatter and rain unending diamonds down the length of your dotted back

We are the voices

The constant in your troubles, your peace, your ageing and your hereafter

Our word is as sure as dawn

Donate in Brinda’s name

I believe in magic

Its everywhere I look

I see it in my children’s eyes

Its in a babbling brook

I believe in magic

I see it all the time

In the trees that whisper come to me

And in the stars that shine

I believe in magic

Its in the wind that blows

I watch it in the sky above

And as the sunset dips so low

I believe in magic

Its in the rainbow’s hue

I feel it in your hand I hold

I only wish you knew.

I believe in magic

Its in my best friends touch

It sits deep in my old dogs eyes

Its in my mothers hug

There’s magic in my soul mates voice

And magic in his words 

There’s magic all around me

It sparkles and it moves

It dances and it sings to me

As nature and I converse

I believe in magic

It fills the universe.

I have no need of pixie dust

Or magic wands and spells

The magic I see is real for me

Open your eyes

Look hard now

May you see magic as well.

Tell me, when you look in your partners eyes, do you feel the intensity of their being staring straight back in to the depths of your soul?
Can you honestly tell me that you fit like two pieces to the jigsaw puzzle? Or are you just settling in to the same routines day by day – not daring to test the unknown as you feel safe in the arms of your other half?
I mean, I’ve listened to endless songs, and poetical ranting’s on “that love”…. I am so intrigued by this love that no matter where in the world I am, I find myself in this conversation.
That love,
The love that declares:
• there is no other but you
• from the top of mountains and resonates in the deepest of oceans – that is greater that the intensity of the fire that burns off the largest star
• I love you in every dialect known to the universe
• The one that says I can’t stand being without you, with every breath I take I have you somewhere in the corners of my mind
• that I could give up everything and live in a tent in the middle of nowhere because you define my happiness
• you define my happiness and I cannot stand a moment that I have you not in my mind
• The notebook type love
• That love jones type love
• That brown sugar type love
I am not talking about that restraining order type love… I just want to know if it’s a fact – that such a love exists? I know that the lust that convinces us we love someone that the early stages of relationship is fleeting – but long term love. I have only seen very few old couples – who have gazed in to each others eyes, with that I imagine to be; the exact intensity (if not stronger) then the moment they said I do decades earlier.
This is the soul mate connection that I am so fascinated by.
I did feel this connection once. I was never brave enough to explore the possibility. I’ve connected with so many people, on so many different levels – but this one…
I can’t even explain to you how many times I feel the universe whispered for our souls to connect. I was too scared. I don’t know what his excuse was – and perhaps I will never know.
I felt inspired to write this – in the hopes that if anyone reading this has felt that connection , perhaps you’ve just walked past him in a bar, or he’s just spoken to you to let you know that he’s leaving your company, or he’s offered to share a taxi with you to the airport, she’s given you a business card or he’s told you how nice your dress is…. If you feel that electricity jolt through your spine…. Take a step towards it, you have nothing to lose and everything gain! The worst thing that you could do is to let it go… and wonder, what if….?

You can do them in any order.

1. Keywords: taste, define, region, true, opponent
2. Random: too much garlic
3. Picture: what does this inspire?
4. Monday Monologue: It’s your character’s birthday but someone’s forgotten

Have fun, and do paste your writing in the comment boxes below so we can see how you got on!

See below for explanations of the prompts, they do vary…

• Sentence starts = what they say on the tin. You can start the beginning of the story with them or a later sentence but they’re a great way of kicking off.
• Keywords = the words have to appear in the story but can be in any order and can be lengthened (e.g. clap to clapping).
• One-word prompt = sometimes all it takes is one word to spawn an idea. Sometimes it easy, sometimes hard but invariably fun.
• Mixed bag = two characters, an object, a location, a dilemma, a trait. Mix them all together and you have a plot… hopefully.
• First person piece or monologue (a one-sided conversation).
• Dialogue only = this is where you literally just write a conversation between two people. No ‘he said’, ‘she said’ or description, just speech and the reader has to be able to keep up. :)
• Second-person = some of you will know that I champion. The prompt can be in any style but has to be written in second-person viewpoint… oh, what a hardship. :)
• Title: This is the title of your story.
• Picture prompts = nothing other than a picture. What does it conjure up?
• Random = whatever takes my fancy!

Tips

• Don’t forget your five senses: sight, sound, touch, taste, smell
• Show don’t tell: if your character is angry, don’t tell us he is, have him thumping his fist on the table.
• Colours: Include at least one colour in your story. It does add depth.
• Use strong verbs and avoid adverbs: Have a character striding instead of walking confidently.
• Only use repetition to emphasise.
• When you’ve finished the first draft, read the story out loud. It’s surprising how many ‘mistakes’ leap out at you when you read out loud… assuming you have any of course!

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com

I love to talk about writing so feel free to email me. I’ll be pasting these in this blog’s Facebook Group so you may find some other comments there. If you’d like to submit a story for critique on this site, see Submissions. The other critique writing groups are:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

• http://nonfictionwritinggroup.wordpress.com
• http://www.facebook.com/groups/335526669896374

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

• http://poetrywritinggroup.wordpress.com
• http://www.facebook.com/groups/388850977875934

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

• http://scriptwritinggroup.wordpress.com
• http://www.facebook.com/groups/319941328108017

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

• http://shortstorywritinggroup.wordpress.com
• http://www.facebook.com/groups/544072635605445

Thank you for reading this and we look forward to your comments.