The guilt was too much to bear

The guilt was too much to bear.

Corbin stabbed into the soft earth and brought up another shovelful of dirt and tossed it into the pile with the rest, the mound steadily growing as the grave deepened. He heard a soft chuckle coming from behind him and he spun to face the darkness and saw nothing but a wisp of smoke wafting through the trees.

“Come out, Shamus,” Corbin growled, but he was answered by another low snicker.

Corbin kept digging. Shovel after shovel full of dirt, faster and faster now.

“What you burying her for?” Shamus asked, finally stepping out from the tree line and he came to stand beside the mound of dirt.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Corbin answered.

“Right thing to do would have been not to kill her,” Shamus mused, pacing in a circle around Corbin and the grave. Corbin tried to ignore him, hoped that Shamus would go away, and he kept digging.
Then Shamus moved to the body that was laying under the blue tarp and he lifted the material to view the corpse. Shamus whistled low under his breath and shook his head before lowering the tarp back over the girl.

“My now,” Shamus said. “Looks like the Little Prince lost control of himself, hmm?”

“I am no one’s prince,” Corbin said.

“That’s not the word on the street. Word on the street is, the Eldest chose you.”

“I never asked to be chosen for anything. All I’ve asked for is to be left alone, but your kind just won’t let me be.”

“Your kind?” Shamus repeated. “But you are of our kind, Corbin. Why say ‘your kind’ like it’s some sort of insult?”

“Just because we share the same blood doesn’t mean we share the same purpose.”

Corbin leaned against the shovel and sighed. The hole was deep, deeper than it needed to be. He lifted the body wrapped in the tarp with ease and lowered it into the grave.

Shamus stood and watched while Corbin worked backwards now, filling in the grave with much more speed than he’d dug it, and the task was finished in minutes. He patted the earth down with the shovel and stood back to observe his work. The rain would come and wash away his tracks, and by tomorrow this would not look like a grave. It would be just a regular patch of mud in the middle of the woods.

“What are you doing out here, Shamus?”

Corbin locked eyes with the man on the other side of the grave and after a long moment Shamus smiled wickedly.

“It’s been years for you, hasn’t it? I can tell by the look in your eyes. You still look desperate, and something like this should have sated you. What did it feel like, huh? When you knew she was dead? When that blood rushing over your tongue started to taste like death instead of life?”

Corbin prayed that Shamus hadn’t noticed him shudder, but by the laugh that was barked across the grave, apparently his prayer was ignored.

Shamus laughed again, loud.

“It’s alright, Little Prince, I won’t tell. Just another animal attack, right? Nothing to see here.”

This was written for week #111 for the Yeah Write Speakeasy Challenge.  The challenge was to write a piece of fiction of 600 words per less using the first line 'The guilt was too much to bear.'

I am currently in the planning stage of a new project and I plan on using writing challenges to flesh out some ideas, so these characters might keep appearing here on the blog.

Anxiety & Not Creating, Which Creates More Anxiety

I've been having a terrible time of things lately and I haven't wanted to talk about it with anyone. I know that isolating and keeping my issues to myself is just going to make things worse in the long run, but it's hard to admit that you have problems and that they are affecting your daily life, isn't it?

Yesterday, I read a blog post that has been making me think differently in every waking hour since reading it. It was a post on the amazeballs writing blog, Writer Unboxed, called: Let's Talk About Anxiety and the Creative Process.  

That article eventually led me to this video, which you just need to watch right now, because this dude says everything that I need to say to get you to understand where I am at right now.

I'm scared. That's it. I'm scared of everything. I'm scared that no matter what I do, it doesn't matter and no one is going to care about it anyway, so what is the point of anything? And so I do nothing, and I continue to cycle those thoughts, and I get more depressed, and still, I don't do anything.

So I am just going to start talking about this more now, because I see that there are an awful lot of other writers and friends of mine who are struggling with what seems to be crippling anxiety over creating, and here I was thinking I was the only crazy one who over inflates her own ambitions..

The thing is, I have to do things. I have to get up in the morning and get my butt in the chair and do things. But I can't do those things without support, and I am afraid to talk to people - even people who I thought were close to me or who I think of as friends - I'm scared, is the theme of the day here.

The act of creating and publishing invites judgement, especially self-judgement. Being a writer is often a new identity that one carves out for themselves, while everyone else around them clings to other ways of labeling them: mother, spouse, colleague, sister. They don’t easily accept defining the writer as such. - Dan Blank

I've spent six months flailing around and freaking out over every little thing and it's kept me from doing ANYTHING. It's impossible thinking that things aren't worth doing and telling yourself constantly that you are going to fail. It's no way to live, telling yourself that what you do has no purpose.

So here I am and here I'll be, every day, until I get things right. And written.

In the Mansion on the Hill

Thomas McCord's house "The Grange," built in 1819 and situated opposite Black's Bridge, at the first lock of the Lachine Canal, Nazareth Fief, Montreal, QC, 1872
He stood on the hill, gazing up to the house that was illuminated with each flash of brilliant lightning. It had been storming throughout his daylong journey, and he breathed in the sweet petrichor before burying the tip of his cane into the the soft, muddy ground and climbing the length of the drive to the door. 

The man pulled the end of a frayed rope hanging to his right, and heard the chimes of thick bells gong out in what he assumed was the barren unfurnished rooms of the old manse. 

A short time later the door opened before him and the man stepped through the threshold, handing his cane and umbrella to the troll standing before him. The man removed his long black cape with a flourish and shook it out, spattering the troll below with a deluge of raindrops before he dropped the cape into the troll’s outstretched arms.

“Where is he?”

“In the parlor, Master Hargrave,” the troll said, gesturing and moving toward another room.

“No,” Hargrave snapped at the troll. “I will go to him myself. Leave us be.”

“Yes, Master,” the troll grumbled, and hurried through the entry hall and out of sight.

Hargrave waited until the troll was out of earshot and strode into the dark parlor. If Marbury cared to use electricity in his new home, he had yet to turn on the service. There was a small fire in the hearth and a single candle sitting on the table between two chairs, one of which was already occupied by Marbury. Hargrave walked the length of the room and stood before the man in the chair.

“You could have picked a less conspicuous location, Marbury. This damn house can be seen for miles around.”

“I’ve had my witch perform a number of protection and repulsion spells. We will not be bothered here. Sit, let us talk.”

Hargrave sighed and collapsed into the chair next to Marbury and stared into the fire while he listened to Marbury begin to speak.

“I’ve been in contact with the Eldest -“

“Of course you have,” Hargrave whispered, but Marbury ignored the comment and moved on.

“It seems that we have found one of them -“

“A chalice? Is that why I have been summoned?”

“If you would refrain from interrupting me Hargrave, I would be more than happy to -“

“Well get on with it then, where is it?”

“America,” Marbury said with a smile. “It seems as though the chalice is already in the care of one of us, and it is your job to go get it.”

“In whose care?”

“Corbin Le Bane has become… rather attached to it,” Marbury snickered. 

Hargrave narrowed his eyes at Marbury before standing from his chair to glare down on his rival.

“I will get the chalice and bring it to the Eldest, then,” Hargrave said as he strode to the door. “It matters nought to me who I must take it from.”


This was written for Write at the Merge, Week 21, using the image above and the word petrichor - which is the word for that amazing smell that comes with the first rain after a long dry spell.

Wow. Okay.

I have really sucked at writing lately, I mean I've failed brilliantly at producing anything I've thought worth keeping or showing in the last month, but nonetheless I have been thinking constantly about a story that needs writing and when I was sitting down just now to do this challenge, this just came to me - out of nowhere.

Not for nothing, but these writing challenges that I do (and don't do often enough) really help things along for me sometimes.

Today, all it took was the photo of the house above and suddenly I knew exactly what kind of characters would be inside of it, doing their dirty business.

It feels really good. Thanks, Write on Edge!

Seriously, just go sit down.

Get your butt in the chair.
Seriously, just go sit down.

Open up your laptop to a new
Scrivener file, and of course
choose "novel with parts"
because we're being hopeful here, and
you're going to learn
to have some faith in yourself.

Just show up and do the work.
Your muse is a myth, he's a figment,
he's an empty promise.

No more of this trite,
pedantic crap.
No more of this:
I can't, I can't, I can't.

Get your butt in the chair
and your hands on the keyboard.

Seriously, just go sit down.

I wrote this for week seventy-eight of the Trifecta Writing Challenge. The word to use was:

: of, relating to, or being a pedant(see pedant)

: narrowly, stodgily, and often ostentatiously learned

I have been having an unbelievably hard time writing lately, and this silly little poem doesn't even begin to describe how bad of a problem this is for me. Lame duck sauce.

After Midnight Musings

When I went on vacation last month something happened that I really didn't expect: I just stopped writing.

I had been writing on for over 100 days in a row, and when I went to Arizona I missed a day and so I just stopped. When I started blogging in January with the intention of keeping that up every day for a year, I got to 91 days and then stopped.

I don't have much of a follow through with anything in my life. Sometimes I think the only thing in my life I can say for certain I've not given up on is Elise, my daughter. I'm still a mom. That's gone on for over seven years now and of course I don't have any intentions on quitting being her parent, but sheesh, I wonder to myself. My track record for follow through and finishing things is quite poor.


I have been struggling lately. I struggle when I don't write.

For me, struggling is seething alone in my house in front of a computer screen, telling myself how useless I am and how hopeless my life is because I'm never going to be able to make my own dreams come true.

It's gross and it's ugly and sad and pathetic and embarrassing, but I am willing to bet that some of you know exactly what I am talking about.


Tomorrow this cool dude named R.J. Torbert is coming to the bookshop to do a reading and signing event. I don't know if I am going to be able to go yet. If I do, I will probably have to get a babysitter, or else just try to get there early and leave quietly through the back if Elise starts making some sort of scene.

Elise's behavior has been strange lately. She has her normal social issues going on at school, but she is really talking back to me more often now than she ever has before, and her language is getting quite colorful. Sometimes I forget I am talking to a seven year old and not a seventeen year old. I want to go to the event but I don't want to cause a disruption if Elise cannot hold down quiet book-event time behavior.

Anyway, thinking about him coming to the event tomorrow night made me think about the Ghost Face mask, and the Scream franchise in general, and I thought to myself, hmm... hmm...

And then I started writing tonight. Not much, nothing to write home about (har de har har). 370 words, ripped out after midnight, because I had to. I had to. The words "writer's block" were starting to creep into the back of my mind and I had to get them out! I had to prove myself wrong and I did, so good. That is a really good way to end the day.

Moving in a new direction again.

I feel so silly doing this, I'm going to put that out there right in the beginning. It's just that I realized something last week that has had me stumped and unable to communicate online because the thing is, I just don't do it right.

I am never going to be a blogger.

I've had five months to make something of myself with the time that I have and I haven't done anything because I've felt stuck in a rut and pressured to be something that I am not - I am reaching toward the wrong goals and the wrong people. I've just been reaching for all the wrong things and I just need to start over. Again. Again. I'm always starting over again.
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...