He sits in his goddamn porch chair chain smoking.

And coughing.

Dog is collecting cancer cells by his feet. 

Refused to finish community service today. Ten hours.

Fuck head. 

I can’t stand looking at him.

I love him. 

Listen.

Tell us a little bit about your writing career.

I’ve self-published two stories, entitled, The Dark World, and The Immortal’s Guide respectively. They are a part of a series, that is to have two more books to complete the series in the coming years. I’ve also had a short story published in my college’s newspaper, The Vignette, and have had a poem published upon winning a contest whilst in middle school.

And of course there is the short story recently published with Before Sunrise Press, A Night of Frivolity.

What writers have had an influence on how you write?

Edgar Allan Poe absolutely had an influence on how I write. I first read his stories, The Raven, and the Tell-Tale Heart and was absolutely hooked. All things dark, bloody, and psychologically troubling that I write (mostly the poems I have written), I attribute subconsciously to Mr. Poe. J.K. Rowling was an author I grew up on, and how to tell a story was further expanded with reading the Harry Potter series, naturally.

There are many more authors that have influenced in some way how I write, but those are the two that have stayed with me and have had lasting impacts on my writing style.

How early did you begin writing?

I’ve been writing since I learned how.

My earliest memories of writing include being told to write a story (I forget about what) whilst in elementary school, but I remember writing a fairly mysterious, border-line horror story that included my little brother. It became poems from there whilst in middle school (to the acclaim of the English teachers in the school), and finally full-grown novels at the tail-end of my middle school career where I started writing The Dark World.

What’s your writing process like?

Hmm. I don’t believe I have a process. Well, that is until recently at least.

Before I would only write what came to mind, and I still do to some affect, but now I make it a point to outline my bigger works, expounding on the story as I go. I find, no matter how I try to prepare for the writing journey, that I usually end up writing what comes to mind regardless of the outline sketched out.

What are some specific troubles you have with writing? How do you over come them?

Besides getting stuck in a story, wanting to get somewhere (usually more interesting) than where I am, I do get bogged down with wanting to jump over the hurdle and just write the intense action scene, or the ‘big-reveal’ scene and leave the fairly mundane stuff to someone else (but there never is anyone else, is there). I overcome these nonsensical problems by gritting my teeth and writing through the mundane scenes to get to where I’m going, or sometimes (and rarely), I’ll write the action scene I want to write, realize (usually) that it has no place in the story, and go back and write the mundane scenes anyway.

I’ve been asked a number of times about writing articles on overcoming writer’s block. For our fellow writers looking to “arouse their Muse”, how do you overcome writer’s block?

As I mentioned above, I do get stuck in my writing. I used to get seriously sad about experiencing writer’s block, but recently with my having to write the sequel to The Dark World, The Immortal’s Guide (my fans would not take no for an answer), I learned, the fairly hard way, that there was no such thing as a “Muse,” and that if I was to get paid for writing, it was a job like anything else.

In 2012, I hunkered down and threw away any fancies I had about my “Muse,” and wrote The Immortal’s Guide until I couldn’t take it anymore. I followed the outline I had penned, and within a very stressful year, completed it to meet my deadline. That was when I realized I could write without relying on a “Muse,” to motivate me. But of course there are moments where you can’t get anything out at all. These moments I allow myself to have (if I can spare them). I often go to family and friends for advice on any works as I’m writing them for inspiration as well.

When it comes to writing, do you keep a particular ritualistic schedule, or do you loosely write when the moment strikes?

Now that I’m editing The Dark World, I do make myself try to get at least a few hours of editing in every day if I can. With finals and a puppy to watch over, it is often hard to find time as of now. But I know in the summer I’ll be back to writing every day (or every other day) to get it done.

As for my other projects, I do write when the moment strikes, but as I’ve said, I’ve tried to stop that and write at least every day, and if I don’t, I don’t beat myself up about it – there’s a time and place for everything after all.

Before Sun Rise Press is a quality publisher. Can you give a brief synopsis of the work you had published with them?

When the daring Miss Clarke enters a gentlemen’s club in London on one cold day in January, the year 1714, she is met with a most cunning vampire who would only see her his before the night is through. With several onlookers, unwanted solicitations, and the watching dark eyes of the mysterious Alexander upon her, Miss Patricia Clarke is forced before long to decide whether her desired night of frowned-upon fun is worth the trouble…and the blood in A NIGHT OF FRIVOLITY.

Finish this statement; I think writing should … drive you mad, and inspire you, in-turn, inspiring others to create what they want to create without fear of disapproval or denial.
___
Keep your bite!

-S.C. Parris

Before entering the fabulous world of WordPress, I had chosen to maintain a blog entitled The Vivekean Times at http://vivekpereira.blogspot.in/. It covers plenty of topics like the hypocrisy of the anti-corruption drive in India, India’s brilliant victory in the last cricket world cup and many other ‘hot’ current affairs topics. Above all, it focuses on the craft of writing and provides details of my first book, Rose Gardens and Minefields,  and of my recently published novel – Indians in Pakistan.

Rose Gardens and Minefields, a collection of poems, short stories and essays, was published by Leadstart Publishing in 2010. On the other hand,  Indians in Pakistan is an action thriller on terrorism and covers the history of the Indian subcontinent. It will soon be available on Pothi.com and on websites like Flipkart and infibeam.

The two years at home were not as blissful as I first imagined. It was in fact a lot harder to be at home, I craved adult conversation and felt isolated and worn out. Although I know that my son benefitted in so many ways; emotional and otherwise from my time at home, I was more than ready to go back to work at the end of my two year sojourn. I started jobhunting and was offered a teaching position. Taking the job would mean moving the whole family to the Middle East. Thanks to my adventurous and supportive husband who encouraged me to accept the offer, we packed up our lives in London, exchanging our parenting roles and leaving behind the dampness for the scorching heat of the desert.

We had mixed feelings about the big move ranging from excitement to fear. My husband would be staying at home for the first time in his long working career and I would be working full-time.  Naturally, the transition was very difficult at first, my son lost his appetite, my husband was finding it difficult to adjust to his new role as house husband and I felt guilty all the time.

This guilt has never gone away. I have now realised that this guilt burden is part of being a working mother. I feel guilty when I come home feeling so tired that I have no energy to play with my son. The last thing I want to hear on those days is the dreaded refrain,

‘Mummy please play with me.’

I  feel guilty that I look forward to the time of day when he is fast asleep in his bed. I also feel guilty when I lose my temper in the morning rush to get ready for work and school. There are days when it’s a struggle to get the teeth brushing, porridge eating and lunch making done without tantrums and yelling. I arrive at work worn out and yes you guessed it reader guilty! There are times when I can’t take the morning or afternoon off for school events and my husband attends without me. There are even harder times when he is ill and I have to go in to work choking back tears because I know that he needs his mummy at home. Guilt, endless guilt!

I have accepted that the guilt will always be there because our modern society judges women harshly and demands  that they be superheroes who bake perfect cakes, have splendid careers, tidy homes and well-behaved children. I have none of the above. But I do have a happy four year old who has an incredible bond with his stay-at- home- dad. So much so that sometimes he calls out for his daddy rather than his mummy. That he is happy and has two active parents in his life is a blessing and happiness in itself, guily or not.

Her eyes were filled with tears when they met.
He stood in darkness, hoping he wouldn’t be seen.
But she saw him. Her eyes were so young, so innocent, to see such terrible things.
He wasn’t much older, but he had already seen many terrible things. Done too many terrible things.
She dropped to her knees and cried the kind of crying that only sweet things do when all the sweetness in their world is taken away.
He should have killed her, that was the rule. In fact, she might have wanted death.
He drew the arrow.
Lined up the shot.
Pulled back on the bow.
Yet he only watched.
She saw him again. All the sweetness was gone. All that remained was confusion, sorrow, and rage. Lots of rage.
In that moment, he felt something.
Regret.
He ran.
But that kind of rage is inescapable.

**

Pen opens his eyes to see cheap linoleum through a padded circle where he face rests. Slowly, the feeling begins to return, especially when he feels a tug on his back.
“Ouch.” he murmurs, as the padded circle muffles his words.
“You are awake.” Someone replies. They are standing beside him, leaning over the table where he lays. Their voice has a hint of an accent, Russian, maybe from an eastern-block country. “You are quite resilient.” he adds.
“I’ve had practice.” Pen comments, quietly.
“So I see.” the Russian man says, equally quiet.
Pen can hear the discomfort in the man’s voice. He may be older, and seen much, but as usual, they haven’t seen the likes of Pen Delaney.
They remain quiet as the Russian man does his work. Pen can hear the club’s bass thudding through the floor. He guesses they are in one of the rooms on the second floor, at the back of the bar. The height of the table and padded circle his face rests in suggests a massage parlor. He hopes they have strict policies regarding equipment cleanliness.
“Did I hurt you earlier?” the Russian man asks.
“Nope. Why?”
“You were making noises, like you were in pain.”
Pen remembers flashes from his dream. It is usually the same kind of dream. At least this one didn’t get to the end. He’s never known if he has made noises when he slept, but if the dream ends like it usually does, his usual reaction isn’t quiet moans. It is loud, and traumatic, and never goes away.
“There! Finished.” The Russian man says.
Pen swings his legs off the table and gets to his feet.
“Careful! The stitches might tear!”
Pen gets a look at his doctor. He’s a tall, older man, with a solid frame. He steps back from the table, leaning on a cane that, like the man, isn’t fancy or special. But both are solid and built to last. Despite his cane and advancing age, he stands with a purpose and authority. On a hook near the door is a suit jacket that matches his pants, both simple brown. His plain, white shirt, with an outline of a undershirt beneath, has Pen’s blood on it. The sleeves are rolled up and he wears latex gloves on his hands. He’s the kind of man who always wears a suit, each and every day. Normally, he takes care of himself and his image, unless there work to be done. He’s not one for excess or expense. He’s the kind that shaves everyday, and always keeps his thick, grey hair well kept. He’s old-school all the way. But beneath his simplicity is a man who knows too much, and has seen too much. He knows the value of keeping things simple, especially in a world that continues to get more and more complicated.
“Boris Stromberg, I presume.” Pen says as he reaches behind him, feeling for the newest scar. He feels the fresh stitches and wetness.
Boris nods. “And you are Iron Bow, correct?”
Pen returns his attention to Boris. “When I’m working. Otherwise, it’s just Pen.” He offers his hand. “Thanks for the stitch-job.”
Boris smiles, he waves his left hand, as if saying ‘forget about it’, then shakes Pen’s hand with his right. His grip is firm and sincere. “Thank you for your help. Zoey is very dear to me.”
Pen nods. After they shake, he leans on the table.
“You are still weak. You may stay here until you are well enough to travel.” Boris offers.
“That was the plan.” Pen replies, smiling, knowingly. “But I won’t be staying long. I have business elsewhere.”
“With Ms. Pry, correct?”
Pen glances up at Boris, before straightening up.
Boris smiles. “It is my business to know things. I know you, and now I know her.” he nods solemnly, remembering. “She and her friend came to see me only a couple of days ago. At first, I wasn’t sure who she was. But I remembered before she left. I see so many in this line of work. But once I knew, I could not forget.”
“What did she want?”
“Originally, it was a local matter. But the memories of her past returned more quickly than the memories of mine.” He looks at Pen, catching and holding his gaze. “They are tearing her up inside.”
“I know. It’s why I’m here.”
Both men stand silently, reflecting on their past and connection to Andreas Pry.
“Do you know–” Pen starts to ask.
“She left Canyon Beach.” Boris cuts in, adding, “But she didn’t return home either. She’s unaware of…” he trails off, a questioning look on his face.
Pen looks at Boris, curious. He walks around the table and leans on the edge of it, crossing his arms. “Unaware of what?”
Boris doesn’t respond, but Pen’s gaze grows from curious, to serious, to severe.
A small, calm, diplomatic smile touches Boris’ lips. “Any threat you attempt would be futile. Your vehicle was removed the moment you walked through the front door. Your equipment is gone. This is my place. I make the rules. The information I gather protects me and mine. It is yours, for a price.”
“I don’t threaten people, mate. A ‘threat’ implies a lack on conviction. Do I look like a man who lacks conviction?” he leans to his right, dropping his hand to a lip just under the table. He straightens up and holds the small, stainless-steel hook used to stitch him up in front, between him and Boris. He looks at it as he turns it in his fingers. “The vehicle was a loaner. I left the keys in it. I wanted it to be stolen. My equipment is safe and sound, but I can work without them.” he looks from the hook, to Boris. “The information I want, won’t protect you.”
Boris stares daggers at Pen.
Pen looks back with cold, purposeful eyes.
Boris begins to smile. “And here I thought you were a hero, protector of Australia.”
“This ain’t Oz, mate.”
Boris chuckles, nodding. He holds up his hands. “Fair enough, I surrender.”
Pen lowers his hand holding the hook. “Then talk. Unaware of what?”
“Not a what. Who.” Boris replies, lowering his hands. “He is known as Jericho Mars. But his real name–”
“I know who he is.” Pen interrupts. “He’s found her?”
“Not exactly. But he’s closing in, using various, underworld connections.”
Pen nods, digesting the information. Finally, he looks up and hands over the hook.
Boris takes the hook and drops it into his pocket. He turns, removing the latex gloves, and dropping them into a waste can near the door. He reaches up, takes his jacket off the hook and drapes it over his right hand, that leans on his cane. “You may stay the night. But I expect you to be gone before nightfall. Follow me, I’ll show you better accommodations.”
Pen nods and follows Boris out the door.
Minutes later, Pen stands in a room that might have been an office once. The windows look out over Canyon Beach as the darkness fades to pre-dawn twilight. Besides the boxes and stacked chairs is a bed that he may never lay in. His back throbs enough to make sleep unlikely. He’s had worse. But it isn’t the pain that drives sleep away. It’s the past. Her past.
He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear the door open. But he hears the crash of the plastic tray and shattering of glass.
He whips his head around to see Zoey standing in the doorway, the light from the hallway splashing across his back. The stitch from earlier is prominent, but it is just one of hundreds of scars, of all sizes and shapes, carved into his back. When he turns to face her, his chest reveals even more. His torso is a road-map of agony and torture. And these are only the physical ones.
“I’m, I… sorry. I…” Zoey stammers, her eyes unable to look away from the twisted mass of scar tissue that covers Pen like a mad spider web.
Pen slowly approaches. When close enough, he reaches out and closes the door, pushing the tray and shards of glass back out into the hallways.
He goes into a make-shift bathroom and turns on the light. The dirty mirror doesn’t hide his reflection. He has become accustomed to the appearance of his scars. They are easier to deal with than the memories. But he forgets what others must think and feel when they see them.
He takes a small, pen-like container out of his pocket. He opens one end and shakes out a small, red pill. He pops the pill into his mouth and swallows it dry. The friends that gave him his equipment also gave him these, to make things easier, bearable. For years, he suffered with either the pain or the addiction to Morphine and Oxy-Contin. These red pills are neither. They aren’t addictive and they allow him to do what he does, what he’ll always be doing. Atone.
“Pen?” Zoey’s voice comes from within the room, tentatively.
He glances over his shoulder, puzzled at Zoey’s return. He turns off the light and steps out into the room.
Zoey crouches in the doorway, picking up the piece of glass. She looks up, about to say something, but when she sees Pen, she closes her mouth. Her instincts makes her look back to the floor, to continue cleaning. “I’m sorry about before. I should have knocked.”
“It’s alright. Be careful of the glass.”
Zoey quietly laughs. “I pick up tons of broken glass. Occupational hazard.” She puts the last of the broken glass on the plastic tray, beside a plate with a sandwich. She grabs the tray and stands, smiling at Pen. “The sandwich is still good! And I can bring up another glass of something. Or maybe a bottle of water?”
Pen walks over and takes the plate off the tray. “The sandwich will be fine.” He reaches for the door and goes to close it.
She blocks the door with her hand. “Why did you do that?” Zoey asks, as if angry and confused. Her words are halting, tinged with her Irish heritage. She talks as if she were forcing herself to speak. “Why risk your life for no one? What, were you expecting a thank-you shag? Because–”
“No.” Pen says, stopping her. “Just wanted to help.”
She laughs nervously, hiding her eyes as she wipes tears from them. She steps forward and hugs him, tight. “Thank you.” she says, her words muffled against his chest. As quickly as she lunged forward to hug him, she steps back.
Pen smiles, and nods.
“I’m sorry,” she adds, hesitantly, “for what happened.” she gestures to his body, the scars.
Pen reaches for the door. “I’m not. I deserved them.” He slowly closes the door.

Pry: The Ghosts of Promises Past: Iron Bow Copyrighted © 2013 Mark James MacKinnon. Any use of these characters, without permission, is strictly prohibited. Any similarities to individuals, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Inscription 4: The Dedication

It was the first time Edgar had been able to stand long enough to look out the bedroom window. His mother had taken care of the swollen gashes on his legs, sewing book bindings over the open wounds filled with precious book pages, bound to him with his own blood. Ever closer to those masters, so that he may become one himself.

He ran a dead finger over the windowsill, having long since forgotten that he could no longer feel anything with it. The everpresent flies landed on his hair. He waited. Edgar didn’t remember what time school let out; it had been so long since Mother had removed him. ‘A prodigy needs isolation, not the company of half wits,’ she’d said.

He did know that at 3:20 each afternoon he could hear Liv’s voice, laughing and saying goodbye to the other kids on the bus. Liv’s sparkling cheeriness in his bloody cobweb world was the only thing to awaken him lately. He would force himself to the window to see her today, even though he had not eaten for days and was so tired he could barely move. Hearing her had been the only reason he’d not succumbed to death when inspiration left him. If he could not write, he was a flaw in this world.

But she was perfection. To see her face would spark his passion and ignite his genius to finish this great American novel. He had nothing else.  The pages stuffed in his legs could not carry him to excellence anymore. The book spines that held those words inside him did nothing to keep their brilliance in his heart now.

He stood, shaking, waiting to hear her through the grimy window that was the only sunshine he could stand. Only three more minutes to first hear the rumble of the bus, the screech of the door opening, the kids jumping down the stairs.

He tapped the windowsill with the ballpoint pen protruding from his fingertip. Breathing heavily with nerves, exhaustion and his own stench, he patted his hair, the matted and oily mess that it was. As if she could see him. As if she would ever see him.

“Well, look at you.”

Edgar jumped, making his legs falter and his wounds screech.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

His mother looked out the window with him, her hand on his shoulder. “You got up. And the first thing you did was look outside? Not write?”

He hung his head, his mop of hair falling over his face. “I’m ashamed to say I feel too weak to write. My thoughts are not clear. I have nothing left to live for.”

“Edgar, poverty and self-denial fueled some of the greatest writers in history. You have more heart than even they do.”

The sharp sound of the bus coming to a halt jolted his head back up. Fighting back dizziness, he watched the high school kids get off, yelling to their friends in voices louder than Edgar’s had ever been. Then, there she was.

Liv bounced down the steps. Bright yellow hair shone in the sunlight, her silver headband glinting. It would have been painful to Edgar’s eyes if he had been closer. Violet and magenta flowers lined the sidewalk, bees buzzing around them with unhurried urgency, both purposeful and serene. Liv did not swat them away, but walked right through them.

Edgar jumped as his mother smashed and killed one of the flies on the window.

He forgot his mother next to him as he pictured sitting next to Liv on the bus, eating lunch with her, holding her books for her.  In his visions, his legs were normal, his ribs didn’t stick out, his hands were just hands. He wasn’t this thing.

“They are less than you. None of them could endure what you have. Their only genius is that they can survive each day in their utterly average world. Yours is something divine.”

His mother’s voice was cold and far away. As far away as Liv was.

“Why can I not be part of both worlds?”

A chill trembled down his body as his mother turned to face him. She put her hand on his side, her fingers nearly sinking in between the ribs. “Edgar. Roses cannot flourish when surrounded by weeds.”

Sunlight streamed in the window, highlighting half of the boy’s face, grimy and ashen. Gaunt. Edgar’s eyes glowed with fervor and he looked at his mother with a pain-filled fury. “Roses die, and accomplish nothing before they do. They are meant to be seen and loved for that brief time they live, and that is all that’s expected of them. Nobody urges the rose to be more than beautiful.”

She bent down to eye level with the hunched over boy, gray eyes boring into his ocean blue ones, the only color in the room. “You were right the first time. Roses do nothing but die.” Her heels pounded the dark wood floor as she stormed towards the door.

“Mother,” Edgar called to her.

She turned, a bitter smile darkening her face. “Something you’d like to say to me, Edgar?”

Edgar watched Liv close her eyes and tilt her head back to feel the sun on her face. He brushed away a cobweb on the windowpane and smiled.

“Yes. I think I would like a sandwich before I work.”

after having been seated for some time, she thought, i’m going home; i’m going home.

the gravity of those three simple words magnified at each silent utterance. she was filled with a rush of varying emotions and began to cry.

i always cry on planes, she remembered. the act of leaving one place for another usually evoked emotion for her, as it did for many people.

but this time, it felt different. she was going home.

…

cranberry juice in one hand and wheat thins in the other, her eyes stayed glued to the changing scenery as she reflected on her experience getting to the airport that morning. i never knew one could learn so much in a fifteen minute car ride with a stranger, she reflected. she felt like she had an experience with some kind of sage, as she remembered leaving the taxicab feeling like their conversation had been almost philosophical.

her cab driver was patient and helpful. he was friendly, too. but his benevolence was coupled with inquisitiveness, and she found herself in a conversation with him that required her to answer many questions that were somewhat personal.

“do you like dc?”

“well, it’s really different.”

“different? from where?”

“los angeles.”

“how is it different?” he asked.

she uttered something about the weather and the culture of dress that she did not and probably would never understand.

“everyone says people in dc are not nice,” he explained. “but everyone here is a stranger to each other…people come here, and they leave. would you be nice to a stranger?”

“you must meet a lot of people.”

“yes, i do. and they all say the same thing about this city. but everyone here is from somewhere else. even those who dress alike. they’ll tell you where they’re from, if you ask them.”

he asked her about business and education and finance. he was young, eager to know so much about her.

as he neared her destination he asked her how much her ticket was and she replied, “about three-hundred dollars.”

“is that one way?”

he pulled up to the curb.

“Father, forgive me for I have sinned.

Terrible things have been done to me. It arouses me. Pleasure at being used by a man I barely know in exchange for money. Even though I never sought him out in the first place, I cannot resist temptation. I have to go back for more.”

Tony Woods is bored. Money doesn’t excite him anymore but corrupting the straight-laced, naïve Ophelia does. He has no qualms making her into his personal sex toy.

Ophelia Wilde isn’t the same woman she was before. A year ago, she was an abused wife, unfamiliar with life’s pleasures. Now, her senses are on fire but she’s dying of shame, desperately trying to juggle her conscience and her wallet.

Trapped by her lies, she struggles to hide her sins from her new-found love, Josh Summers, living in fear of discovery every day. He is drawn to her vulnerability, seeking only to protect her from the big bad wolves out there, not knowing that she already belongs to one.

Will Ophelia find a way to leave Tony and escape the chains of her past, or will her misdeeds destroy Josh’s trust in her? Can their love survive the weight of her guilt?

Click here to preview!

You can do them in any order.

1. Keywords: throw, hit, low, enter, blur
2. Random: S/he’s spending Christmas with her/his ex
3. Picture: what does this inspire?
4. One-word prompt: eye

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.

Not sure where to start? Here are a few of my favorite short story collections:

Sad/romantic/lyrical:
Love Begins in Winter by Simon Van Booy

Funny/inventive/original:
Tunneling to the Center of the Earth by Kevin Wilson

Bite-size stories that are laugh-out-loud funny:
Ant Farm: and other desperate situations, by Simon Rich

Strange and fantastical:
Stranger Things Happen by Kelly Link

Mysterious and magical:
Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman

Contemporary, real-life issues:
Touchy Subjects by Emma Donoghue

Female narrators in Southeast Asia:
Lucky Girls by Nell Freudenberger

Imaginative and international:
The Secrets of a Fire King by Kim Edwards

Brief, intense, observant, Israeli:
The Bus Driver Who Wanted to be God by Etgar Keret

And for realistic fiction by the master of the short story craft, try anything at all by Alice Munroe.

Did I miss your favorite? Let me know in the comments! Reading suggestions are always welcome. And remember, if you read something that you think is awesome, put it in the Awesome Box!

Flora grew up in a large extended family but everyone in her family had to work very hard to maintain the very basics – shelter, food, water, clothes. “Everyone” included Flora. Flora began working at the age of 13. Back then she helped to organize the local Grocer’s stock in the storage room.

Now 23, and a mother to a 5 year old girl named Rebecca, Flora was anxious to give her daughter a different life than what she experienced. Flora barely made it through High School. There were so many distractions around her. From having to miss school to work extra hours at the Grocery store, and even as a maid, in order to bail her brother out of jail at least once every 3 months.

College, though a dream was not on the schedule for Flora following High School. There was no money to pay for it and Flora’s family automatically depended on her to keep cash flowing through the home just to keep up with the bills.

Flora found herself sinking into depression. She couldn’t afford to attend her prom. Her family did congratulate her on graduating from high school with a special meal one night but the occasion soon turned into a send-off for her brother’s – what seemed like – 50th arrest. It was actually the 4th time George had been in trouble and the family worried that he would not just get a “slap-on-the-wrist” this time.

Flora thought to herself, “Is this what my life will be about? – “Will I continue to work hard yet not really accomplishing anything?”

She was certainly discouraged at this point. She figured it was pointless to continue to walk a straight-line when all her effort was unappreciated and going to waste.

Flora began to keep the wrong company which led to corruptible habits. She also began to receive attention from a lowly and notorious individual. Ralph incited rebellion and mischief among the young people in the neighborhood. He also owned and managed the only night spot in the small town. As a result of becoming frequent at Ralph’s “night club” and being entertained by his attention, Rebecca was conceived.

However, after 5 years Flora still struggles to see Ralph truly accept responsibility for his daughter. Legal action has also been futile in the small town where “money talks”.

Flora knew that something had to change. She knew that she could not continue to live in her neighborhood for her daughter’s sake. Something had to change, and change soon!

Flora then took a chance. She persuaded her mother to watch Rebecca at nights and took a night shift as a waitress in the city nearby. She was determined to earn the resources needed to begin evening classes, also in the city. Of course she twisted her mother’s arm to watch Rebecca for more hours each day. Whatever was required, Flora was determined to find a solution to improve her own, as well as her daughter’s life.

Naturally distractions worked their way in. Manuel constantly found ways to extend Flora’s time at the small grocery store. It didn’t seem to matter to him that she started her shift at 6am and needed to leave promptly at 2pm in order to travel to collect Rebecca before heading off to school and a late late shift at her new gig, at a new upscale bar and club in the city.

This was Flora’s schedule most days of the week. She did have break from classes 2 nights of the week since she made a Saturday morning class and arranged a later Saturday shift with Manuel. Manuel also harassed Flora. He consistently told her that she didn’t have to work so hard. He was prepared to marry her and give herself and Rebecca a home. Flora comes close to vomiting every time she hears this. She finds even the concept of Manuel’s offer reprehensible. After all he is old enough to be her Father and isn’t the best kept or best smelling man. It was utterly Gross in Flora’s opinion. Still, Manuel didn’t let-up. Flora heard his offer at least 3 times a week.

Flora persevered beyond the obstacles, beyond the criticism and beyond any set-back, which tried to wedge its way in and serve as a detour.

Flora’s unrelenting focus led her to earn a scholarship. This meant she could quit one of her jobs. To Manuel’s and her family’s dismay – who also agreed that Manuel’s marriage proposal was a good one – Flora quit the Grocery job and spent time seeking day-time work in the city. This did make her feel immensely guilty, since this meant relying on her family more to the detriment of her daughter’s mental health, in her mind’s eye. Still Flora knew it was temporary and a necessary sacrifice.

Then she did it! It was a small step but Flora scored a day-time job as a bookkeeper with a small business in the city. Flora eventually worked hard enough and studied ferociously enough to acquire an affordable place of her own in the city. Now Rebecca could be with her full-time, with the exception of the time spent at the jovial Mrs. Lowrey. Mrs. Lowrey is Flora’s neighbor who routinely watches the children in the building. Since her husband past away, the sixty-something Mrs. Lowery welcomes the company of the children of the many hard working parents at the housing unit.

Flora is on her way to becoming a certified accountant. Her time as a cashier led her to fall in love with numbers. She has successfully completed a year of night classes and is prepared for the possibilities on the road ahead.

Where that road would take her? Stay tuned for more about what lies ahead for this relentless Flora Gerber.

I walk on my toes to the room, lie down beside you and pretend to be asleep, when I feel your weight move off the bed. You glance at me – idiot – I curse inside. What is left of me but the poundings of anger, neglect and disgrace? Two deaths and promises that fell into thin air.  I stood by you when you had nothing, now too much money has stuffed your stomach with pride. Your lies, cheating and insults have shaved all hopes of new beginnings.

I have resigned to fate, I will be the maid you never let me have, the fashionista that smiles wide to hide her pain, as we take the perfect picture. I am the first lady that feels like the last.

Where does a Governor’s wife run when her husband is the law of the land? She dies to the travails of living without rules and laws, yet baptised in political lies and unrestrained power.

My almost first child felt the stripes, blood, and wounds before he fell to his death. That moment reminded me of sightseeing the sun boiling the skins of people waiting for a rickety bus to drive them to their various destinations. Lives pushed to the wall, yet carving spaces to live like termites.

Baby two had complications, and while the doctors’ mouth drooled of how abnormal my situation was – I sat still, shielding the enemy. Don’t stare with surprise – when has your voice been heard against injustice and your stance remained unchanged when the brown envelope was laid bare before your hungry stomach. We all remain silent to injustice; we accept the evil doings of our leaders. In that still, stupid silence, change is dead. In silence, the courage to fight fails us.

I silently pray to survive my daily woes. Thoughts of self-accomplishment or exploring beautiful landscapes are as far as the heavens from the earth. Sometimes, after a round of beating, I walk around my big mansion and think about my past. I had learnt the rules of survival from an early age. I survived the harshness of the Sun when I was peddling in the village to garner funds for my schooling and daily needs. I lived through the nights Papa beat Mama after he got drunk. I endured by sitting with knees kissing my chest, an arms – as armour against the sounds of my father beating my mother, and mother yelling, ‘hey, you wan kill me.’ I outlived the groaning of my stomach for food and the dizziness of unhealthy living.

But tonight, I didn’t survive my husband’s hands choking me till my grave was fully dug. “Chike, I can’t breathe, abeg stop, pleas….ee.” I said, but he won’t listen. ‘You have no right nne, I can bring whomever I want to this house.’

For better, for worse, dies. A mistress is taking my home from me, yet I am to be quiet.

‘Who are you?’ Chika asked, with disgust shining through his eyes.

I was taught at Sunday school that we were all precious, purposeful persons.

His hands get tighter, tighter and tighter till I become numb.

***********

‘Amaka, Amaka, wake up, nne,’ he hits me.

But my breath has failed me.

Yes! My silence has silently killed me.

*********

Authors note

Change begins when we decide to voice our opinions against the enemy. Silence is synonymous with consent. Do not keep silent in the face of injustice; let your voice be heard.

Her mom is Melissa and we became friends because our sons were. Melissa is the adventurous, outdoorsy sort, and we’ve done campouts together for years. We’re always pushing ourselves to try new things.

Once she suggested we take the kids on a canoe trip. I grew up canoeing on the Upper Iowa with my dad and I was keen to go. We chose the Maquoketa and it was the year the dam broke at Delhi. That should have been our first clue.

I knew right off I was out of my element. The river was running high and it was all I could do to read the water far enough ahead to keep us off the snags. And snags there were—everywhere. God knows what was in that river after the flood, but it was treachery. We’d come upon random things like a refrigerator, half-buried in sand or a stove pulled apart into rusting metal.

Another gal was with us, up ahead with her teen daughters. Melissa, Kelly and Ayers were in the middle and Bryce and I brought up the rear. I spotted the danger easily, suspected a submerged tree and I was heading for the middle to avoid it. Melissa went straight for it. She’d had crazy luck all day, breezing through stuff I never would’ve attempted. She’d be fine, I was sure.

When she got caught, I held my breath, backpaddled and watched. Her boat broadsided fast–faster than anyone could think. I saw Melissa’s face, the startled O of her mouth. And then, she tipped. She washed downstream of her overturned canoe and was swept thirty feet away in seconds. She screamed: “My kids, get my kids.”

I never want to feel what she felt then.

I’m not a strong swimmer. And I didn’t have on my stinking life vest, so cocky and determined to prove myself that day. I don’t know how I managed to put the thing on and guide the boat toward the tree at the same time, it doesn’t seem possible. I don’t know how I jumped in the water without tipping the boat, how my son managed to breeze by cleanly on the right, now alone in the canoe.

The second I was in the river, I knew it was a mistake: I’d just made myself another victim. There was no saving anyone, it was going to be all I could do not to drown. I managed to grab the tree before the current dragged me past and made my way hand over hand to the overturned canoe. The water up to my chest and neck. I plunged a hand under the boat, feeling for the kids, finding nothing, working my way down to the stern. Searching. Trying to right the boat, but it wouldn’t budge.

Where were those kids? If I dove under, could I find them? I could hear my son, downstream, screaming. Those kids were going to die. I knew it then, could see it on the news, and this time I was there and couldn’t stop it.

Go under. Find them. I must.

But I couldn’t.

I was paralyzed. I’d drown. I knew it. Please please please God don’t let those kids die, not on my watch, please God get those kids. An eternity passed, me clinging to the tree, no sign of the kids. Bryce remembers it differently—says it wasn’t that long—but he wasn’t where I was, he doesn’t know. It was forever.

Ayers popped up downstream and at the same time, the woman with the teenagers appeared in her canoe, so determined, so certain, so expert. Barking commands at her teens, and then Melissa too, lifting Ayers from the water. Safe.

But still no Kelly. Oh where was she?

Suddenly she burst from the water, six feet away from me and upstream of the submerged tangle of branches, whiter than any human being should be and I was sure I was seeing a ghost. Each of us clinging to one end of the same slender branch, her and I—her just out of reach. I started for Kelly, to keep her safe. The branch sunk, each move I made threatening to submerge her.

I stopped, held still. “Hang on,” I screamed and could only watch her, helpless. Her eyes pinched tight closed, her tiny hands gripping the tree, the water rushing past us on all sides.

With Ayers safe on shore, canoe-woman came back, her daughter reached for Kelly and said, “Let go.” And as I watched Kelly lifted from the water I felt such a sense of wonder. They paddled away, Kelly fragile and shivering and me alone in the river. The water sucked the canoe under with a whomping sound and it vanished, devoured—like you imagine a hungry giant might snack on babies.

I let go; let the current take me until I could stand steady on my feet and could stagger to shore.

Bryce hugged me, hysterical. Couldn’t believe I left him and neither could I. I couldn’t believe any of it. What an awful day, it took me months to shake it, to not feel the water at my neck, not to see Kelly’s white face, just out of reach.

Since then, I’ve tried to think how to explain it, how I feel about Kelly and what happened that day, but it’s hard to find the words. It’s about the shared experience: her and I and the river and nothing else. Not even a future. And it’s about what it was like to be caught between my intentions and my shortcomings. But I think the biggest thing is, it’s because she showed me who I was. And who I want to be.

The colonel stroked his mustache.

“I was almost jealous of you then,” he said thoughtfully. “Our fairy permitted you to kiss her hand twice. Were they really your poems? They were about all kinds of flowers.”

“Yes, I wrote the poems myself,” I replied.

“It was frightful nonsense!” he said, as if to himself. “Excuse me,” he continued out loud. “I understand absolutely nothing about poetry, absolutely nothing at all. It’s possible that they were very beautiful. The fairy thought so.”

“But Herr Colonel,” I interjected, “what does any of this have to do with my poems? You were going to—”

“Certainly, I wanted to tell you something else,” he interrupted me. “But I’m doing it because of the poems. They say that people who write poems are all dreamers. I believe that poor fellow Bohlen, also secretly wrote poems.”

“What does that have to do with Bohlen,” I pressed.

He ignored the interruption.

“And dreamers,” he extended his line of thought further, “apparently dreamers are the ones that are easiest for her to capture. I want to warn you, Herr, as much as I am able to.”

He straightened up.

“Now listen,” he said very seriously. “Seven days ago Lieutenant Bohlen didn’t show up for duty. I sent someone over to his apartment, but he was gone. The police helped us; the district attorney’s office took all possible steps without any success. And despite the short time that has passed since then, I, for one am convinced that all further efforts will prove fruitless. There is no reason for it. Bohlen was very capable, had no debts, was very healthy and very happy in his occupation as a cavalry officer. He left nothing behind except a short note to me—whose contents I cannot share with you.”

I was seized by a boundless disappointment that my face immediately betrayed.

“Wait!” The colonel continued. “I hope that I can tell you enough to at least save you. I believe that Lieutenant Bohlen is dead, that he took his own life in a spirit of mental derangement.”

“He wrote that?” I interrupted.

The colonel shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not one word! He only wrote, “Now I am going to disappear. I am not a person anymore. I am a Myrtle tree.”

“What?” I cried.

“Yes,” said the colonel “A Myrtle tree! He believed that he had been turned into a Myrtle tree by the sorceress, by Frau Emy Steenhop.”

“But that is just a stupid fantasy!” I cried.

The colonel once more directed his searching, sympathetic gaze upon me.

“Fantasy?” he repeated. “You call it fantasy but it can also be called madness. One thing is certain. Because of it our poor comrade has gone into the ground. He believed he was bewitched. Weren’t we all a little bewitched by the beautiful Frau? Haven’t I, an old ass, been acting like a schoolboy fawning on her? I tell you, every evening an extreme yearning falls over me to go over to her Villa and press my gray mustache on her soft skin. And I see that it is not any different for my officers. First lieutenant Count Arco, whom I sent on leave yesterday, admitted to me that he spent five long hours in the moonlight pacing back and forth and I fear he was not the only one.

With grim humor I fight down my own secret desire and am the last one in the officer’s club every night just to give a good example. I assure you, I have drank more champagne this week than I have for years—but it has no taste—Drink! Drink! Bacchus is the enemy of Venus.”

He poured the glasses full again and continued;

“Now look here young Herr, if such a prosaic fellow as I can’t get rid of the itch or when a ladies’ man like Arco takes lonely walks in the moonlight, why shouldn’t I be afraid that Bohlen will not be the only one? I have no wish to see my officer corps transformed into a Myrtle forest!”

“Thank you Herr Colonel,” I said. “Without a doubt you have handled things correctly from your viewpoint.”

He smiled. “Very kind of you to recognize that,” he mocked. “But you would oblige me more if you followed my advice. I was once the elder, so to speak, the leader of a witch’s cult on Koblenz Street. Now I am the one that is responsible for everyone, not only for my officers. And I have the feeling—nothing more than a feeling, but I can’t get rid of it, that still more disaster will come from that beautiful Frau. You can call me an old fool, a fool, but promise me you will never again set foot in that house!”

He spoke so seriously, so intently, that a strange fear suddenly gripped me as well.

“Yes Herr Colonel!” I said.

“It would be best if you went on a trip for a few months like the others have done. Arco has gone to Paris with your fraternity brother, you can go there too! That will distract you and you will forget the sorceress.”

I replied, “Yes Herr Colonel!”

“Your hand on it!” he cried.

I reached out my right hand and he gave it a mighty shake.

“I will pack my things immediately and take the afternoon train,” I said firmly.

“Good!” he cried and wrote a few words on his business card. “Here is the name of the hotel in which Arco and your friend are staying. Greet them both for me, have some fun, raise a little hell for my sake, but come back to me—without that—gloomy smile!”

He stroked the corner of my mouth with his index finger as if he wanted to smooth it out.

I immediately ran back home with the firm intention to depart in three hours. My bags stood there already packed. I took a few things out and put some others back in. Then I sat down at the writing table and wrote my father a short letter in which I informed him of my trip and asked him to send some money to Paris for me. As I was looking for an envelope my glance fell on a thin stack of letters and postcards which had arrived while I was away.

I thought, “They can stay there until I come back from Paris.”

Then I reached out my hand—and pulled it back again.

“No, I don’t want to read them,” I said.

I took a coin out of my pocket and thought, “If it’s heads, I read them.”—I tossed the coin onto the table. It was tails.—”All right then,” I said. “I won’t read them.”

In the same moment I became annoyed over this stupidity and reached for the letters. There were a few bills, invitations, advertisements—then a violet envelope that bore my name in large, bold letters. I knew immediately that was why I had not wanted to look at the letters. I weighed the letter thoughtfully in my hand, but knew that I had to read it. I had never seen the handwriting before, yet I knew that it was from her. Suddenly I said to myself, “Now it begins.”

I didn’t mean anything by it. I had no idea what was now supposed to begin. But I was afraid. I tore open the envelope and read:

“My friend! Don’t forget to bring the orange blossoms this evening.

Emy Steenhop”

The letter had been written ten days earlier, on the day that I had gone back home. The evening prior to that I had explained to her that I had seen orange blossoms blooming in the gardener’s greenhouse and she had expressed the desire to have some blossoms. Early the next morning before my departure I had gone to the gardener and contracted him to send some blossoms to her that evening along with a card.

I read the lines very calmly, stuck the letter in my pocket and then tore up the letter to my father. I gave no thought at all to the promise I had made to the colonel. I looked at my watch—nine-thirty. That was the time she preferred to receive her visitors. I called for a cab and got dressed.

I went to the gardener and he let me cut some blossoms. Then, finally, I was in front of her villa. I was announced and the maid led me into a small room. I sat down on the sofa and stroked the soft guanaco pelt that lay over it.

Then she entered the room in a long yellow silk tea robe. Her black hair was parted in the middle and fell over her ears in light ringlets like the women of Lucas Cranach. She was a little pale and a violet gleam shone out of her eyes.

“That is because she is wearing yellow,” I thought.

“I was away,” I said, “for my mother’s birthday. I just got back this evening a few hours ago.”

She hesitated a moment.

“Just this evening?” she repeated. “Then you don’t know—“

She interrupted herself, “Naturally you know!”

She smiled.

“They would have told you everything in a couple of hours!”

I remained quiet and twisted my blossoms.

“Naturally they did,” she continued. “And still you found your way here? I thank you.”

She reached out her hand to me and I kissed it.

Then she said very softly, “I knew that you would come.”

I straightened up.

“Gracious Frau,” I said. “I found your letter upon my return and have hastened to bring you the blossoms.”

She smiled.

“Don’t lie!” she cried. “You knew ten days ago that I wrote the letter and sent me blossoms then.”

She took the branches out of my hand and put them up to her face.

“Orange blossoms,—orange blossoms,” she said slowly. “How magnificent they smell!”

She looked straight at me and continued:

You don’t need any excuse to come here.—You came here because you had to, didn’t you?”

I bowed.

“Sit down, my friend,” said Frau Emy Steenhop. “We will drink some tea!”

She rang the bell.

*               *

*

You can do them in any order.

1. Keywords: throw, hit, low, enter, blur
2. Random: S/he’s spending Christmas with her/his ex
3. Picture: what does this inspire?
4. One-word prompt: eye

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.

Anabel V.
Mr. Dickhudt’s 10th grade class

“OPEN UP THIS INSTANT!”

Never in my life did I think I would wake up early in the morning to such a thing.

“OPEN THE DOOR!”

Another loud thumping on the door, louder screams from the neighbors, more cries and more sirens outside in the streets. Who would have thought that all of this would be happening right at my own door? I knew something bad would eventually happen after all that I have been through but I never imagined being awakened at six in the morning by dozens of cops.

I should have known better. Sheesh, I feel stupid for ever listening to my cousin Michael. I roll over and notice that my little sister Karina is next to me. I totally forgot that she slept over the night prior. I get up from the bed and go to the door. The entire house is dark and all I can see are the cop lights reflecting through the windows and shinning on the walls. I lean up against the door to look through the peephole even though I already know who it is. It’s the cops.

“Shit meng” I say out loud to myself…

This post is part of a series.

Have a peek at the story. Think you’ll like it. http://foggedclarity.com/2013/05/who-has-time-for-stars/

That’s all for today friends.