The truth is, I haven't been writing. For the last week I have felt completely paralyzed every time I open up a text editor, and I haven't been able to create anything worth sharing.
It shocks me, still, how much it hurts when I can't write.
Okay, okay. I shouldn't say can't. Because I can, and I will if I make myself. But that doesn't mean it feels good, that doesn't mean it feeds my soul. Sometimes it's just hard work that I have to get through, work that I even end up resenting in the end because I am left with these thoughts, always these thoughts of
this isn't good enough.
NaNoWriMo is coming up soon. I am getting psyched up for it, getting ready to get my novel on. I still have no idea what I am going to write this year, which is nothing new. I usually go into NaNoWriMo with just a faint flicker of an idea and a whole lot of hope and nothing more.
Turns out you can survive on hope. This last week, not writing, I've been hoping to get my groove back. I've been hoping that the day will come when I'll open up a new file in Scrivener and be inspired to start writing something new.
I hope it will happen soon, and even if it doesn't I'll be hiding behind this computer screen, typing a whole bunch of trite, useless blog posts that will never get published about how I can't write the way I wish I could.
But that's okay, you know. Even when it sucks, it still passes the time.
I am linking up with my homies at Studio 30+ with the prompt "hurt" and for the first time with Five Minute Friday with the prompt "true."
Showing posts with label writing challenges. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing challenges. Show all posts
Message in a Bottle
When I was younger I used to walk on the beach near my house looking for sea glass, but one day when I thought I was just reaching for a great big hunk of green gold, what I called the beautiful emerald green glass that was some of the rarest out there on our shores, I pulled out a whole bottle instead.
The mouth of the bottle was chipped, that was the part I grabbed, and it sliced into my skin, a fragile, minuscule little cut, but I watched a drop of blood drip from my finger and onto the piece of paper that was wrapped up inside the bottle.
I found a message in a bottle.
The cork was gone, or maybe it was never there. I thought that the message inside would be lost, but when I finally realized I had to smash the bottle on a rock to get the message out, I found that it seemed to be written in blood on a piece of thin cloth, like maybe a men's dress shirt, but it wasn't paper at all.
I unrolled the fragile fabric, gasped at the words.
My Dearest Love,
I know this will never find you, and I know now I will never be found. My boat washed ashore, I am not dead. I am not yet dead.
Please know that whatever happens to me, I loved you. I still love you on this lonely island, you are all I think about, you are all I dream about.
I've built a raft and I am leaving now. I am coming back to you.
Pray for me. I love you.
- J
There is a man somewhere. Maybe he made it home to his dearest love, and maybe he was finally lost forever at sea. Maybe he made it, maybe he was doomed from the start.
And there is a woman somewhere. And she is loved, she is loved, she is loved.
For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Michael gave me this prompt: I don't know where I'm going, but I sure know where I've been.. I gave SAM this prompt: What do you see by the dawn's early light?
The mouth of the bottle was chipped, that was the part I grabbed, and it sliced into my skin, a fragile, minuscule little cut, but I watched a drop of blood drip from my finger and onto the piece of paper that was wrapped up inside the bottle.
I found a message in a bottle.
The cork was gone, or maybe it was never there. I thought that the message inside would be lost, but when I finally realized I had to smash the bottle on a rock to get the message out, I found that it seemed to be written in blood on a piece of thin cloth, like maybe a men's dress shirt, but it wasn't paper at all.
I unrolled the fragile fabric, gasped at the words.
My Dearest Love,
I know this will never find you, and I know now I will never be found. My boat washed ashore, I am not dead. I am not yet dead.
Please know that whatever happens to me, I loved you. I still love you on this lonely island, you are all I think about, you are all I dream about.
I've built a raft and I am leaving now. I am coming back to you.
Pray for me. I love you.
- J
There is a man somewhere. Maybe he made it home to his dearest love, and maybe he was finally lost forever at sea. Maybe he made it, maybe he was doomed from the start.
And there is a woman somewhere. And she is loved, she is loved, she is loved.
For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Michael gave me this prompt: I don't know where I'm going, but I sure know where I've been.. I gave SAM this prompt: What do you see by the dawn's early light?
Before the Thaw
"Aim right for the center," he whispered in my ear, "Aim right for the heart."
I held the bow steady and pulled back the arrow, breathing slow and deep and even, willing myself to be one with the weapon.
"You want to aim at the middle of him, see. You want to aim at the widest part so you'll have the best chance of bringing him down."
I lowered the bow and turned, and my father frowned deeply.
"Papa," I said, "I know that if I want to kill 'em I've gotta get 'em in the brains."
"Right," he agreed, face softening. "But a good hit to the chest will slow them down every time."
For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Grace O'Malley gave me this prompt: Aim right for the center.. I gave kgwaite this prompt: Write about the birth of something.
I stewed over this prompt, and then finally wrote the first thing that came to mind just before the link up deadline. Who the hell knows who these people are? Sometimes writing things is a complete mystery to me, and this mystery is part of what I love so much about it.
I held the bow steady and pulled back the arrow, breathing slow and deep and even, willing myself to be one with the weapon.
"You want to aim at the middle of him, see. You want to aim at the widest part so you'll have the best chance of bringing him down."
I lowered the bow and turned, and my father frowned deeply.
"Papa," I said, "I know that if I want to kill 'em I've gotta get 'em in the brains."
"Right," he agreed, face softening. "But a good hit to the chest will slow them down every time."
I turned before I sighed, so Papa wouldn’t see me rolling my eyes at him. I got back into position and aimed like he told me, at the center of the target that was hanging around the neck of a dummy I had made to practice with. I breathed in and out, concentrating hard, and then let the arrow go.
It sailed into its target - not the center like Papa had told me, but into the forehead of the dummy instead. I could see the arrow from here. I had pierced clean through where the brain would have been, the point of my arrow sticking out the other side of the dummy’s lumpy head.
“Marissa,” Papa said, his voice behind me filled with disappointment. I turned to meet his gaze, then let my eyes fall to the ground.
“Don’t you understand that it’s my job to protect you? That everything I do, it’s for you? Why won’t you just listen to me? Why won’t you respect me?”
There wasn’t a hint of anger in his voice. I looked up to see his sad, tired eyes, his wiggling lip. Would my father actually cry?
I was filled with shame. I dropped my bow and ran to him, feeling his shock and slight resistance as I threw my arms around him and cried.
“It’s okay, little heart, it’s okay.”
Papa rubbed my back while I cried, just like Mama used to do before they got her.
“You just need to listen to me,” he whispered as I trembled. “The thaw is coming and you are a big girl now. Eight years old! If you listen, I can teach you to protect yourself.”
“In case anything happens to you, right?”
“That’s right, little heart, that’s right.”
For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Grace O'Malley gave me this prompt: Aim right for the center.. I gave kgwaite this prompt: Write about the birth of something.
I stewed over this prompt, and then finally wrote the first thing that came to mind just before the link up deadline. Who the hell knows who these people are? Sometimes writing things is a complete mystery to me, and this mystery is part of what I love so much about it.
The Humming
Chris couldn’t sleep. He lay for hours next to Rachel, listening to her breathe and snort and snore while he just lay there staring at the ceiling praying that sleep would come, but it didn’t. He listened to rain pound on the roof and windows, listened to the ticking of the clock and wondered how much longer he would have to suffer through the night, but he just couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t wait any longer.
Chris peeled off the sheet and slipped out of the bed so he wouldn’t wake his girlfriend and then he crept into the living room, shutting the door behind him. He stood there for a moment in the dark, waiting, listening for Rachel stirring in the bed, but everything was silent so Chris moved across the room and into the kitchen where he turned on a light and then went straight for his backpack.
He grabbed the pack, it was still soaked from when he was out in the rain earlier, and lifted it from the kitchen chair. Immediately Chris felt something strange in his hand, a feeling, more like a sensation of a low vibration. It was what was in his pack that was doing it, Chris knew. He had to open the bag anyway.
His kitchen table was a mess, not to mention a window into the life of a man who was himself a thorough mess. He brushed away cigarettes that had fallen out of the ashtray and relocated a stack of CDs and his collection of pills to the counter behind him before placing the backpack on the table. He sat in front of it, watching it, readying himself to open it. There was a bottle of bourbon on the table and Chris took a long gulp and then slammed the bottle down. He ripped open the zipper like it was tape over his mouth, quick and violent and with courage.
The tesseract bounced out of the bag, and Chris’s hand shot out and grabbed it from the air. He balked at himself. His hand felt like it had moved on its own accord. Certainly he didn’t want to be touching this thing, Chris thought to himself, yet he clutched it in his bare hands and stared into its depths, the brilliant cube that expanded infinitely inward inside itself, glowing.
Now that he was home, now that he wasn’t running for his life, Chris could get a good look - and feel - of the thing. Its size was deceptive: it fit into Chris’s palm, it was maybe three inches square on each side, but he guessed that the thing weighed almost two pounds.
The tesseract thrummed in his hand. Again, he was hesitant to think of it as a vibration. He remembered last week, having sex with Rachel while they were hiding in someone’s bedroom at a party they went to. He had put his hand over Rachel’s mouth to dampen her groans, and that’s what the tesseract’s vibration reminded him of - a humming. But it wasn’t just that either, was it? Because it felt warm, too, and alive. It felt very nearly like it was breathing.
Chris held it up and squinted at the cube. It was dirty, the revolving colored glow was muted and not nearly as brilliant. He grabbed a box of tissues that was buried on the table and gently wiped the cube, turning it in his hand and noticing for the first time that the tesseract wasn’t completely clear. Where the vertices of the cubes met, there were what looked like minuscule, practically microscopic blue stones.
Sapphire? he thought. What the hell is this thing?
Chris didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know whether he should tell anyone about this or just keep it to himself. But how could he keep it to himself? Of course no one believed him when he told people that he’d seen lights in the sky the other day. They all thought he was drunk, which he was, of course, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t drunk when he had seen them again tonight, and he thought he had seen what was making them, too.
He had run so fast into the woods when he first saw the flashing in the sky. He wanted to prove it to himself that he wasn’t crazy, that something was really going on out there. The rain had been pouring, there were flashes of lightening and claps of thunder, and then he had seen it, this tiny glowing thing dropping out of thin air - the tesseract.
He had run to it, and when he reached the spot where it had landed he could have sworn that when he looked up through the tree canopy he wasn’t seeing a clouded sky, he was seeing something big and metal, and blocking out the clouds and stars and whole wide rest of the world.
So he had run back the way he’d come, cutting a serpentine path through the woods, dodging rocks and branches and the deadfalls, he’d run home with the thing strapped to his back, and now, what?
What was he going to do with it?
The tesseract hummed and glowed, and Chris was so very afraid.
For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Anna N. Mouse gave me this prompt: Use these words in your story: A box of tissues, cigarettes, bourbon, a stack of CDs, serpentine, sapphire, pills.. (You can find the words bolded in my response.)
I gave Barb Black this prompt: Start your piece with this line: 'It was bad enough just being in the basement, but then of course there were rats."
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I want to thank Anna for the most challenging and one of the most fun writing challenges I've ever done. Her prompt, to add a bunch of random words, was HARD. Good thing I find the hard challenges to be the most rewarding in the end. This was really fun to write.
This piece is also an immediate follow up to a scene I wrote for Write on Edge last week. If you are interested in reading more about Chris you can read The Tesseract, short and sweet at around 500 words.
Suzy's Big Mistake
Suzy Brown was only five years old, she shouldn’t have been wandering off so far from the house and into the woods on her own at such a young age. It wasn’t that there were bad people around town or hobos in the woods that would prey on a young girl, and there hadn’t been sightings of any wild animals that could pose a danger this close to town and populated areas, but…
Little children get lost in the woods. They wander off and get themselves all turned around and then they can’t figure out which path through the trees will bring them back home. Most of the time, if a kid gets lost in the woods, you send out a search party and you find them crying on a rock, hungry and scared. But sometimes you don’t.
Suzy Brown wasn’t lost in the woods that day though, she knew exactly where she was going, to her special place in the woods where she stored all of her treasures.
Little Suzy loved collecting rocks. She had done it for as long as anyone could remember in her short years, and as she got older her parents were delighted to find that her interest was genuine. Suzy asked for geology books for her fifth birthday, and her parents had surprised her with a trip to National History Museum, where she got to see all sorts of rocks. Rubies and diamonds and moonstone and even rocks from the moon.
Her treasures were stored under a flat rock that sat between the base of two small trees. Suzy crouched down on the ground and looked over her shoulder in both directions, already at five years old she was sneaky and smart. Satisfied that no one was spying on her, she lifted the rock to reveal the hole she dug out between the trees that was filling up with all of the rocks she’d collected. Most of them were filled with shiny, but brittle pieces of mica, and some of them were dark red garnets she’d found near the stream.
Suzy ran her hands over the rocks, picking some of them up for a moment to examine and then put them back down before covering up her secret treasure trove again.
This was her habit, her ritual. First, Suzy would check to make sure that her hiding place had not been disturbed and that her rocks were all there, and then she would go out hunting for more.
It was a nice warm day in spring, and Suzy headed farther away from her house and towards the stream where she found all the best of her treasures. The walk was much farther than Suzy’s parent’s liked, a good five minutes into the woods at a child’s brisk pace. It doesn’t sound far, and it never feels far to Suzy, but to a parent, a five minute jog is an uncomfortable distance away from your child.
This is why Suzy lied to her parents and always swore to them she never went anywhere near the stream.
The only person who Suzy ever told the truth to about her adventures was her Papa. He had been delighted when Suzy told him that she’d found rubies in the stream, and Papa had thrown back his head and laughed and told her that they were really garnets, a common stone.
“But they are beautiful, Papa,” she’d whined, and he laughed at her again.
“Yes they are, precious.”
Suzy’s Papa died last month of the cancer. She missed him terribly, missed being able to tell him about her adventures, but for some reason losing her Papa had only made Suzy feel even more adventurous.
Suzy skipped through the woods, brushing her hands over the tops of the tallest ferns that she passed on the path that she had made through the woods to the stream all on her own. Another thing her parents would be horrified to find out, that their daughter had defied them so often, she’d beaten a well worn path of lies.
The sound of water babbling over rocks came to Suzy before she saw the stream through the trees. She sped up, but then came to a stumbling halt about twenty feet from the stream when the ground in her path seemed to rise up in front of her and block her way, a wall of dirt about a foot and a half high and just as wide.
Suzy skirted the edge of this wall, slowly, but with more fascination and wonder than confusion. She faced the other side of the wall and saw that a bowl shaped impression had been ground into the earth, the displaced dirt curving up from the ground to form the little wall of dirt that had startled her. Turning her head, Suzy saw that a ragged path in the dirt was cut over her own, with little waves of dirt marking its straight edges as it went directly into the stream and stopped.
She walked the length of the path, noticing how hard the earth was packed down by whatever it was that had made these marks. She thought it looked like someone had dropped a bowling ball from an airplane and it had rolled down her path and into her stream.
Suzy peered into the water, watching a leaf ride the current toward her and then into the mouth of carved path that had cut into the side of the stream bed and let the water rise past its banks.
Suzy searched the water and the stream banks, not knowing what she was looking for at all, but she knew something had made that cut in the earth and that something ended up in the water, because that is where the path had come to its end.
Suzy walked along downstream, following the current. She didn’t want to cross to the other side and risk getting wet, but this side of the bank was covered in thickets of ferns and low bushes that tangled her ankles, and then she had beat her way through a forsythia bush and came out the other side covered in little yellow petals. She smiled looking down at herself, and didn’t bother trying to shake the petals away.
It was after this emergence that she saw something glinting in the stream. The sun was coming in a beam through the green canopy and reflecting off something black and shiny that was spinning in the water.
Suzy ran to the edge of the water and plopped down on her knees, leaning over to get a closer look. It was about the size of a bowling ball, just as she had thought (Suzy was such a smart girl), but it wasn’t smooth at all. It was rough and jagged, not completely round because there were jagged little knobs sticking out in places. It looked to Suzy like a volcanic rock, except it was not as porous, and it was jet black and gleaming, the water giving it a brilliant dark shine, but Suzy could still tell that the surface was rough and would probably feel like sandpaper to touch.
The rock was spinning in the stream, caught between the edge of the bank and a tangle of branches that had fallen into the water, making a dam and keep it from floating any farther downstream.
It never occurred to Suzy that rocks don’t float in streams, and this is why children should never wander off into the woods by themselves.
It is clear what had happened. Something fell from the sky, the force of its impact sent it careening into a neighboring stream where it traveled down a few dozen yards and was caught for an unsuspecting five year old to find.
It would have been clear to Suzy’s parents that the best case scenario would be that what Suzy was pulling out of the stream had been dumped from the toilet of a passing airplane. If adults had come upon this sham of a rock, floating and spinning in a stream, they may have been smart enough to call in some authorities to deal with whatever it was. But of course there was no way for little Suzy to realize the enormity of what she had done when she carried that black rock back to her treasure trove, and upon reaching her stash, decided that this rock seemed to special to leave outside.
So she took it with her into her house and into her bedroom, where only a few hours later when Suzy was back outside playing with her dog, the rock began to hum.
And then it cracked open.
This piece was written using the Studio 30+ Writing Community's weekly writing prompt, which was to use the word 'Papa' and/or 'enormity.' I used both.
I think at this point I should admit to myself that the three pieces I wrote for prompt challenges this week are shaping up to be something a little more than just three characters dealing with creepy things out in the woods.
I mentioned the other day that I have been feeling strangely quiet, and yet I've also been having really good writing days. I am finding that when I sit down and put my fingers on the keyboard, they just start to GO. What a wonderful, refreshing change that is.
The Tesseract
Chris sprinted through the woods, dodging trees and rocks and the deadfalls of old leaves he knew must be hiding out there. The rain stung his face. It was a hard, cold rain for so late in the spring, and he wiped his eyes again with the back of his hand, not as if it would do anything, but because it was habit. When you couldn't see, you tried as hard as you could to see.
In his left hand, Chris clutched his backpack by one shoulder strap. He had been too panicked to strap it to his back before he began running, and too panicked to stop. Occasionally as he ran, the backpack would jostle and slam against something, and Chris was caught between terror that what was in the bag would break, and equal terror that it wouldn't.
Finally he saw his garage through the trees. He had left a light on in one of the rooms above the garage where he lived, and it was a beacon guiding him home.
Chris sprang from the woods and beat feet to his door. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, tried putting the key into the lock, and failed. He dropped them in a puddle of water at his doorstep.
"Oh, shit," he squealed. Frantic now, Chris dropped to his knees and plunged his shaking hands into the puddle to search for his keys and found them finally.
Standing to try again, Chris froze when he heard something behind him. The crack of a tree branch, perhaps? Something falling from a great height onto a rock, it could be...
But this time his key slid in and he turned the door handle and dashed inside.
He ran up the steep stairs to his filthy apartment, flipping on light switches as he went. In his kitchen, he slammed his bag down on the table that was covered with weeks worth of litter - old coffee cups, cigarette packs, the detritus of a lonely life, and he swept it all to the floor.
He opened the bag and dumped it out onto the table. The cause of all his miseries, the source of the lights.
It was a tesseract. Chris remembered what these were from high school physics class. A cube within a cube within a cube. It was built of what looked like glass, though it was lighter than glass and shimmered like a diamond as he watched with revulsion as the thing lit up his apartment with its sickening glow.
"Baby?"
Chris's heart slammed in his chest. It was Rachel, in the bedroom. He had completely forgotten she was there.
"Baby what is that, what are you doing out there?"
For a moment he considered telling her everything. About the lights in the woods, about the dreams. But then the light changed again, from that vile green to the calm white, and he was filled with quietude.
Gently, he put the tesseract back into his bag and zipped it up.
"It's nothing, Rach. I'll be back to bed soon."
This was written for Write at the Merge Week 24 over at Write on Edge, which is becoming my favorite place to link up because it's not (yet?) a huge community. I don't feel lost there, is what I am saying.
The prompt this week was hard but it has inspired me big time. We were to use the image above, and the word "tesseract." Yes, I had to look that up on Google, and you should too.
In his left hand, Chris clutched his backpack by one shoulder strap. He had been too panicked to strap it to his back before he began running, and too panicked to stop. Occasionally as he ran, the backpack would jostle and slam against something, and Chris was caught between terror that what was in the bag would break, and equal terror that it wouldn't.
Finally he saw his garage through the trees. He had left a light on in one of the rooms above the garage where he lived, and it was a beacon guiding him home.
Chris sprang from the woods and beat feet to his door. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, tried putting the key into the lock, and failed. He dropped them in a puddle of water at his doorstep.
"Oh, shit," he squealed. Frantic now, Chris dropped to his knees and plunged his shaking hands into the puddle to search for his keys and found them finally.
Standing to try again, Chris froze when he heard something behind him. The crack of a tree branch, perhaps? Something falling from a great height onto a rock, it could be...
But this time his key slid in and he turned the door handle and dashed inside.
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| Image courtesy of liam_101 via Flickr Creative Commons |
He opened the bag and dumped it out onto the table. The cause of all his miseries, the source of the lights.
It was a tesseract. Chris remembered what these were from high school physics class. A cube within a cube within a cube. It was built of what looked like glass, though it was lighter than glass and shimmered like a diamond as he watched with revulsion as the thing lit up his apartment with its sickening glow.
"Baby?"
Chris's heart slammed in his chest. It was Rachel, in the bedroom. He had completely forgotten she was there.
"Baby what is that, what are you doing out there?"
For a moment he considered telling her everything. About the lights in the woods, about the dreams. But then the light changed again, from that vile green to the calm white, and he was filled with quietude.
Gently, he put the tesseract back into his bag and zipped it up.
"It's nothing, Rach. I'll be back to bed soon."
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This was written for Write at the Merge Week 24 over at Write on Edge, which is becoming my favorite place to link up because it's not (yet?) a huge community. I don't feel lost there, is what I am saying.
The prompt this week was hard but it has inspired me big time. We were to use the image above, and the word "tesseract." Yes, I had to look that up on Google, and you should too.
She Saw the Light
Every muscle in her body was tensed and locked tight, her slim form straight and still under her bedsheet, which she had clutched in white knuckled fists under her nose. You couldn't tell if you looked at her, but she had part of that sheet balled up and crammed into her mouth to keep her from screaming.
It occurred to her though, perhaps screaming would have been the smart thing to do. Of course there was no one around to hear her, not unless there was someone out in the woods or walking past on the road, but since it was the middle of the night, that wouldn't be likely. If she screamed, though, it would at least mean that she was still alive. It would mean that she was actually there, at home in her bed, and this wasn't a nightmare she couldn't wake up from.
Outside her window she saw the light again. It was pulsing, at first dim and then it grew with brilliance until it was almost as bright as the sunlight, but it came from the opposite direction, from below, not from above. Not to mention, the light changed color, alternating its pulses between a harsh white light, a cool calm blue, and an eerie green.
What does this mean? She wondered. Are they only watching her, lurking out there in the woods?
She could picture them among the trees, slim gray figures that shimmered and then blended in with their surroundings, becoming invisible before her eyes.
That's why she cowered under her sheets, not bothering to look out her window. Even if they were there again, she might not be able to see them.
If they kept taking her away, she knew the day would come when eventually she would disappear, too.
Once a girl who no one believed when she told them why she was scared of the dark. Then the girl who turned into a shadow. Then the girl who was gone.
This was written for the Trifecta Writing Challenge - to write a 33-333 word piece of fiction using the third definition of the word 'light.'
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.
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.
In the Mansion on the Hill

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:
2 : 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.
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:
1 : of, relating to, or being a pedant(see pedant)
2 : 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.
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