walk with me…

There is a pit, a long way away from here, though not as far as you may think. It’s not a good place, but it’s not what you think. It’s not a bad place, at least, I don’t think it is. It’s just a place, where I stand and watch.

People walk by, not knowing how close they come to the very edge, little bits of rubble slipping into the depths. Sometimes they see me. I smile and wave but they just push by. Unless they’re on my list.

You’re not on my list though. Not yet anyway. But it changes everyday. Names slip off the bottom or appear in between others. The higher you are, the less likely you’ll be to just pass me by.

It gets boring. And I have, on occasion let some slip through my fingers, just to see what might happen. It’s never good. I end up having to find them again. Then the screaming starts. I hate that part.

So watch what you do, what you say. Do no harm. It’s as easy as that. You know that old saying what comes around goes around. I’m the thing that goes around.

another prompt…

We danced until the sun set knowing it would be the last time.

more prompts…

We’ve covered that I love prompts, but I’ve been remiss in keeping them all listed. My friend Actively Dying is always up for a new one so here are a few I’ve sent out but have yet to write to since I’m knee deep in sand at the moment trying to get Sergeant DeHaven home.

~The white ash drifting down like the snow in the mountains of my youth
could have been considered beautiful if not for what was burning in
the distance.

~Just inside the gates stands a giant sign seemingly stolen from a sick
sort of amusement park. It reads “Welcome to Land’s End.”

prompt writing…

I initially had this as a page instead of a post, but as I’m discovering new to me things about wordpress I’m adjusting my bit of the universe to work better…

I adore writing to prompts. I never took a creative writing class in high school or college so I imagine these mini assignments are sort of like what went on in those classes. My first published piece, A Simple Warning in Black Ink Horror, was written from a prompt. Because I enjoy it so much I thought I should list all the prompts I’ve written to.

• On the far side of the river, a narrow piece of red rag, tied to the old rusted fence there, shivered in the breeze like a warning not to cross.
• I woke in the glass-encased lobby of some sort of apartment building, my mouth tasting of a mixture of puke and cigarettes and my left hand wrapped in a dirty white shirt.
• Crows hung like punctures in the sky and obscured the roof of the tin shack decaying at the very center of the long abandoned junkyard we played in as children.
• Lauren waited for him in the pouring rain, her umbrella bent beyond repair and only serving to channel water down her back.
• The train stops and it’s lights flicker off for a moment.
• Ribbons of light streamed through the wood planks above my head, the dust I’ve been choking on all night, like stars in the night sky.
• The note plastered by rain to the windshield read in big bold letters I know who you are, but at the moment, Mitch didn’t even know who he was.
• I skip rocks into the water as charred carcasses float past.

it’s saturday…

Damn. I know I set a goal for myself to submit by Friday of each week. And, I did submit for last week. But this has been quite a week, and though I had a story picked out, I did not get to rewrite it like I wanted… but this goal has not been scrapped. I had picked out Lilly Loves Me for this week, and I will pick out another for next week. So, because I missed my goal, I will attempt to catch up.

Two by Friday. Wish me luck.

he paints her living…

he paints her beautiful
his words tracing lines
drawing her body

canvas covered in clay
color speckled brush held tight

she looks away
cheeks flushed red
denying his brush strokes

oils tinted of earth and
swirled across his pallet

his thoughts smooth her imperfections
as hands brush away doubt
eyes seeing faultless shades

she smiles
turning to him
and shines for only his eyes
he sees her
and paints her living

rejection at its worst…

To be rejected by a publisher or agent is difficult, but the rejection writers cause themselves is worse. The pre-rejection stage where we refuse to send things out because they need to be polished a little more. For crying out loud girl, you’re rubbing the paint off it.

I’m not done polishing, but it’s time to man up and submit. Hell, I got published late last year in Black Ink Horror. Why not get published again… and again. Time to dust off my submission armor and send out some stories.

I promise one submission a week and you can call me on it if I don’t. This week I will find a place to submit Forbidden Place, do a last polish, and submit by Friday.

Here is a excerpt…

The junkyard stood tucked away at the end of a road the group of old friends had not ventured down in years. Crows moved in circling black waves over the trash strewn yard, each one like a puncture in the grim sky. They settled in barren trees and on discarded objects before a sudden flap of wings or errant cry sent the entire lot of them skittering back into the air in a mad rush where they would start the process again. Levi regarded them as an omen. They should not be there, the three of them, but this was the only way.

Skeletal silhouettes of things long rendered useless by time filled the bleak stone landscape. A fence, the once locked chain broken but still woven through the gate, marked the end of where they were permitted to wander.

“Think it’s still in there?” Lilly’s voice trembled as she touched the fence with slender white fingers. Her face pinched as if in physical pain.

It was there. Each one of them could feel it. It’s presence hung in the air like smoke, choking them. Lilly seemed to feel it the most, her delicate spirit almost destroyed over the years listening to its whispers.

a new prompt to work on…

There was a pair of children’s shoes, small and white, abandoned on the asphalt next to a glass jar filled with dead beetles.

Some days I can write all day on my novel. Other days, I just want a writing snack. Prompts are my half a PB&J folded over with the crust cut off.

bluing has a metallic taste…

A very quick attempt at ActivelyDying’s prompt.

I singe my finger with the match to watch the flame glow and smell flesh burn. It takes me home. Back to the times when I held a gun and felt safe. When it was all black and white. The enemy was the enemy and we were the good guys.

The room is empty for the most part. I never really cared to get back to civilian life or the trappings of it. Dust hangs in the air and I pace.

Do you ever feel your mind creep back to the scenes you thought you were long past?

Mine does.

I hear the outside world. It sounds suspicious. They’re out there. Around every corner, they wait for me to let my guard down. But I won’t. The enemy is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Two realities battle in my mind until I cannot find which one is here and now.

I load my gun. Here and now may be right where I cannot afford to be unarmed. I need to be ready for that here and now.

Shots. A car door slamming. Which is it? Both or neither.

Do you know what it is like to get lost on your way to the bathroom?

I do.

I can feel the heat and smell the diesel. Burning flesh.

I’m at war. But I’m at home. It is a long way between to two and I make the trip more than I want to.

My gun is my only comfort and bluing has a taste. The war will be over. And I will end it.

burning flesh…

‘I keep burning my finger with the match. To watch the flame glow & smell my flesh burn.’

I write with a few friends by trading prompts. This prompt is from ActivelyDying.