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Week 217 (June 11-18). Stories. Topic: Writer’s Block.
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It's time for me to get back on my horse. And then once I do that, I'll stroke the horsy-pie's ears and feed him a carrot. ^_^This week's story will be called "Play With Me" and it goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
Cory Grant, Despondent Lego Collector
Terri Evers, Cory’s New Girlfriend
Nick Evers, Terri’s Son
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Cory has writer’s block, only with toys. Is that cool?
SYNOPSIS: As Cory gets ready to meet Terri and her son Nick, he already has a lot on his mind. He’s depressed about not being able to play with his Lego collection anymore over what he perceives to be a “lack of imagination” due to growing old. When Cory and Nick start to bond, the latter tries to instill that playful spirit back into the former with old Lego sets from the Time Cruisers and Time Twisters series.
Here is my short story submission for this week's topic: Writer's Block. Feedback is ALWAYS welcome!
Word count: 844. Author: Melissa Andres
POWDER AND WHITE DIAMONDS
She hadn't been back to visit in years. She always meant to come back but she was constantly overwhelmed with meetings, edits and book signings. Life in New York was certainly more hectic than in this tiny Texas town.
The ranch house looked just the same. A coat of paint might help. A few errant weeds could be pulled. Memories of childhood brought forth a smile. Her hands began to shake.
"I can't do this," she said aloud as she turned off the engine to the rental car.
Her Daddy appeared on the sidewalk, a slight limp in his gait, or was that a skip in his step? She had been in a meeting with her agent when he had called with the bad news.
"Oh, kitten!" Daddy exclaimed in his low booming voice. "It's so good to see you!" He enveloped her into a big bear hug.
Stepping back, she studied her father. A little more gray around the temples. A few more wrinkles around the his bright blue eyes. He had gained a few pounds around the middle but he looked good. Damn good.
"How are you doing, Daddy?" she asked as she hugged him back tightly. She didn't want to ever let go.
"Doin' okay, kitten," the old man responded. "Got the animals fed. Let's get you inside out of this cold."
She hadn't even noticed the chill. Texas winters were nothing compared to the sinking temperatures in New York.
"Can I rustle you up some lunch? Some coffee maybe?"
"Coffee would be nice," she smiled weakly.
They walked arm in arm toward the house and she paused on the wide front porch. She could imagine her mother sitting in the old rocking chair. Tears stung her eyelids.
"Now, my coffee ain't nearly as good as your Mama's but it'll do in a pinch." Her father shuffled into the kitchen but his voice soon became a faint buzz inside her head.
Moving slowly through the spacious family room, she allowed her fingertips to softly caress old photographs, knick knacks and throw pillows.
"I can warm you up some lunch later after you're settled in. Some of Mama's church friends brought a casserole yesterday." Her father's words registered as just a faint whisper.
Turning slowly, she noticed her mother's old recliner. The same ugly brown plaid fabric; a small rip on the right armrest. A light blue shawl was tossed haphazardly across the seat cushion.
Sitting gingerly in the shabby chair, she pulled the shawl around her shoulders. She breathed in her mother's aroma. Rose-scented powder and White Diamonds perfume. Sobs wracked her body.
Daddy placed a steaming mug of coffee down on a side table and patted his daughter's hand.
"I can't do it, Daddy," she said. "I wrote the obituary and emailed it to the newspaper; those are just facts. But, how can I write Mama's eulogy? How can I sum up in just a few words what she meant to me? I'm surprised she didn't hate me because I didn't come back to visit when she was so sick. I'm just always so busy and ..."
Daddy interrupted. "Your Mama loved you, kitten. She was so proud of you. I want to show you something."
Pulling the shawl around her slight torso she followed her father down the long hallway that led to her childhood bedroom. A small, framed purple-painted hand-print adorned one wall, a picture of her in pigtails and braces graced another. Softball trophies and a few favorite stuffed animals were scattered throughout the little girl space.
The yellow child-sized dresser held every novel she had ever written. Picking one off the top of the pile, she thumbed through it absentmindedly.
"Letters Home by Wendy Breland." Daddy peered at the book. "I think that was your Mama's favorite, kitten." He carefully opened a dresser drawer and extracted a large scrapbook. "She saved everything you've written. Letters from church camp, poetry from junior high, all the articles you wrote when you worked at the newspaper. Remember?"
She remembered.
"She bought all your novels and cut out all the reviews. Folks would always ask us, 'What's gonna be in little Wendy's next book?' Your Mama was so proud of you."
They flipped through page after page of clippings, photos and handwritten notes.
"She wanted her eulogy, written by you, to be the last thing in this scrapbook." Daddy pointed a finger at the final blank page.
Wendy Breland, coffee mug and notebook in hand, sat on the front porch steps and looked across the barren cotton field at the setting sun. As she tugged her mother's shawl closer, a high wind kicked up, chilling her to the bone. Notebook pages fluttered wildly. Her hair blew around her face. Yet, as suddenly as it appeared, it was just as suddenly calm once more.
The aroma of powder and White Diamonds hung strongly in the fresh air. The rocking chair moved back and forth, back and forth.
"I love you, Mama," she said to the stillness and began to write.
Word count: 844. Author: Melissa Andres
POWDER AND WHITE DIAMONDS
She hadn't been back to visit in years. She always meant to come back but she was constantly overwhelmed with meetings, edits and book signings. Life in New York was certainly more hectic than in this tiny Texas town.
The ranch house looked just the same. A coat of paint might help. A few errant weeds could be pulled. Memories of childhood brought forth a smile. Her hands began to shake.
"I can't do this," she said aloud as she turned off the engine to the rental car.
Her Daddy appeared on the sidewalk, a slight limp in his gait, or was that a skip in his step? She had been in a meeting with her agent when he had called with the bad news.
"Oh, kitten!" Daddy exclaimed in his low booming voice. "It's so good to see you!" He enveloped her into a big bear hug.
Stepping back, she studied her father. A little more gray around the temples. A few more wrinkles around the his bright blue eyes. He had gained a few pounds around the middle but he looked good. Damn good.
"How are you doing, Daddy?" she asked as she hugged him back tightly. She didn't want to ever let go.
"Doin' okay, kitten," the old man responded. "Got the animals fed. Let's get you inside out of this cold."
She hadn't even noticed the chill. Texas winters were nothing compared to the sinking temperatures in New York.
"Can I rustle you up some lunch? Some coffee maybe?"
"Coffee would be nice," she smiled weakly.
They walked arm in arm toward the house and she paused on the wide front porch. She could imagine her mother sitting in the old rocking chair. Tears stung her eyelids.
"Now, my coffee ain't nearly as good as your Mama's but it'll do in a pinch." Her father shuffled into the kitchen but his voice soon became a faint buzz inside her head.
Moving slowly through the spacious family room, she allowed her fingertips to softly caress old photographs, knick knacks and throw pillows.
"I can warm you up some lunch later after you're settled in. Some of Mama's church friends brought a casserole yesterday." Her father's words registered as just a faint whisper.
Turning slowly, she noticed her mother's old recliner. The same ugly brown plaid fabric; a small rip on the right armrest. A light blue shawl was tossed haphazardly across the seat cushion.
Sitting gingerly in the shabby chair, she pulled the shawl around her shoulders. She breathed in her mother's aroma. Rose-scented powder and White Diamonds perfume. Sobs wracked her body.
Daddy placed a steaming mug of coffee down on a side table and patted his daughter's hand.
"I can't do it, Daddy," she said. "I wrote the obituary and emailed it to the newspaper; those are just facts. But, how can I write Mama's eulogy? How can I sum up in just a few words what she meant to me? I'm surprised she didn't hate me because I didn't come back to visit when she was so sick. I'm just always so busy and ..."
Daddy interrupted. "Your Mama loved you, kitten. She was so proud of you. I want to show you something."
Pulling the shawl around her slight torso she followed her father down the long hallway that led to her childhood bedroom. A small, framed purple-painted hand-print adorned one wall, a picture of her in pigtails and braces graced another. Softball trophies and a few favorite stuffed animals were scattered throughout the little girl space.
The yellow child-sized dresser held every novel she had ever written. Picking one off the top of the pile, she thumbed through it absentmindedly.
"Letters Home by Wendy Breland." Daddy peered at the book. "I think that was your Mama's favorite, kitten." He carefully opened a dresser drawer and extracted a large scrapbook. "She saved everything you've written. Letters from church camp, poetry from junior high, all the articles you wrote when you worked at the newspaper. Remember?"
She remembered.
"She bought all your novels and cut out all the reviews. Folks would always ask us, 'What's gonna be in little Wendy's next book?' Your Mama was so proud of you."
They flipped through page after page of clippings, photos and handwritten notes.
"She wanted her eulogy, written by you, to be the last thing in this scrapbook." Daddy pointed a finger at the final blank page.
Wendy Breland, coffee mug and notebook in hand, sat on the front porch steps and looked across the barren cotton field at the setting sun. As she tugged her mother's shawl closer, a high wind kicked up, chilling her to the bone. Notebook pages fluttered wildly. Her hair blew around her face. Yet, as suddenly as it appeared, it was just as suddenly calm once more.
The aroma of powder and White Diamonds hung strongly in the fresh air. The rocking chair moved back and forth, back and forth.
"I love you, Mama," she said to the stillness and began to write.
I hope that is a GOOD wow, Gecko.
I read a thousand stories, at least my 23 years - but the scoreboard at Goodreads only reflected my 1 per week. The sun deck where I read was equipped with a catlogue raisonne that gave a play by play of subjects and notes. The pentad of my harvest was complete a little after a month, and I challenged books to corrupt the trouble shooter quests of authors to give me eye opener putts that would send their messages whirling into holes equpped to handle the cross eyed craters of the moon-like propensities. In other words, I liked the abstract, and the wingless aspirations of Goodreads authors helped me further my implications.
There are leaky entrances, but the first sentence supposedly gives the book a chance. Self- renunciation is a self-starter, the bark of any good story. Why is the tree always deemed to hunch in an apathetic arch running lights along the reader's imagination. I do not know what I am saying, I only the 2300 stories I have read in my life did not prepare me for Chris's argy-bargy. Inflicted in truth, only by my eyes's argus tendencies. The hundred or so prejudices I bring to the page, and the block and tackle
occurances I have to engage in order to bring up a new stake.
The story wore mourning clothes. I suppossed I was suppossed to cry at the mention of a hero's do's and don'ts gave me a mental poise that made me wish I were reading the story in open secret for the first time. Something known to my one and only friend Theresa on Goodreads, and the sky's brillant sun who knew nothing new ever really existed. But what am I saying?
The elysium of reading such a novel made me pine for my father's arm muscles. I missed the hunch of dark brooding willows along a easy breezy read. The ship of the line came gliding boy through my eurytopic breeze ways, and the shiny gloss of steel blue sublunary ink wells gave me reason to reconsider my earth bound sea swells of bliss that accompanied me through each reading encounter. In other words, I hated the book, and the book hated me, and I posted a review on good reads just to prove the river's current could not retrieve me from the pull of the story's sell.
But my father, he always like to bunt a bother, and I only knew one way to express myself: to write a review and put a book according to color back on the shelf. The story gave me an inch to quiver in a war like dance before another - more serious condolence gaga premium on haitus. My eyes were only the prevalence of color upon an impassible page. While the story asked for a grace, a brace, a cage of a review that I could neither write or prove. I quit my computer and sought a rage of abhorrent persistence of redd sage. To conquer in reflection what I had sought to catenulate around my experience on Goodreads. The arms of reading willows were like the muscles of my father: not skip jack: a play at the surface of the water, but trover - my expository tending to reach over the line preceding the leaves on the water or mind, and subliminal - the theme like leaves accumulating - short and fat - on an evening of mine - combative with the winds - beating my hoorah to finish - on a currish drum.
There are leaky entrances, but the first sentence supposedly gives the book a chance. Self- renunciation is a self-starter, the bark of any good story. Why is the tree always deemed to hunch in an apathetic arch running lights along the reader's imagination. I do not know what I am saying, I only the 2300 stories I have read in my life did not prepare me for Chris's argy-bargy. Inflicted in truth, only by my eyes's argus tendencies. The hundred or so prejudices I bring to the page, and the block and tackle
occurances I have to engage in order to bring up a new stake.
The story wore mourning clothes. I suppossed I was suppossed to cry at the mention of a hero's do's and don'ts gave me a mental poise that made me wish I were reading the story in open secret for the first time. Something known to my one and only friend Theresa on Goodreads, and the sky's brillant sun who knew nothing new ever really existed. But what am I saying?
The elysium of reading such a novel made me pine for my father's arm muscles. I missed the hunch of dark brooding willows along a easy breezy read. The ship of the line came gliding boy through my eurytopic breeze ways, and the shiny gloss of steel blue sublunary ink wells gave me reason to reconsider my earth bound sea swells of bliss that accompanied me through each reading encounter. In other words, I hated the book, and the book hated me, and I posted a review on good reads just to prove the river's current could not retrieve me from the pull of the story's sell.
But my father, he always like to bunt a bother, and I only knew one way to express myself: to write a review and put a book according to color back on the shelf. The story gave me an inch to quiver in a war like dance before another - more serious condolence gaga premium on haitus. My eyes were only the prevalence of color upon an impassible page. While the story asked for a grace, a brace, a cage of a review that I could neither write or prove. I quit my computer and sought a rage of abhorrent persistence of redd sage. To conquer in reflection what I had sought to catenulate around my experience on Goodreads. The arms of reading willows were like the muscles of my father: not skip jack: a play at the surface of the water, but trover - my expository tending to reach over the line preceding the leaves on the water or mind, and subliminal - the theme like leaves accumulating - short and fat - on an evening of mine - combative with the winds - beating my hoorah to finish - on a currish drum.
There's been a change of plans, ladies and gentlemen. No matter how many times I play the scenario of "Play With Me" in my head, I can't seem to get a solid grasp of what it will look like on paper. So instead, I have an alternative story: "Bedroom Destroyer". Okay, so I may have ripped the title from a Phil Anselmo song. Here's how it goes: MAIN CHARACTER: Ethan O’Henry, Traumatized Photographer
PROMPT CONFORMITY: An unclear head won’t allow Ethan to brainstorm ideas for a book cover.
SYNOPSIS: While walking the streets of Paulson City, Ethan is accosted by a group of thugs who for no reason want to shoot him. Despite getting home in one piece, Ethan’s traumatized mind races just days before he has to meet a deadline for a book cover photograph. Can he keep it together long enough to present a good product to the publishing company? Time will tell, but time isn’t something Ethan O’Henry has a lot of.
AUTHOR: Garrison KellyTITLE: Bedroom Destroyer
GENRE: Psychological Drama
WORD COUNT: 1,424
RATING: PG for mild violence and mild swearing
It happened a week ago, but to Ethan O’Henry, it seemed like minutes. His mind replayed in the incident over and over again as if to rub it in his face that he was almost killed at gunpoint.
Ethan had just finished eating a lovely crab fettuccini Alfredo dinner at his favorite restaurant. He was so excited about striking a deal with an editor from a publishing house to do a cover for an upcoming memoir about self-destruction. Ethan was a photographer whose skills were in high demand. And why wouldn’t they be? He was a repeat award winner every time his work got published.
Once the dinner with the editor was over, Ethan walked happily down the street to his car for a relaxing evening in his soft beddy-bye. As he was walking, he could hear the sounds of mocking laughter behind him. He turned to look, but there were only shadows from the night sky.
Ethan continued walking and once again heard the childish laughter. This time he was able to see three teenaged boys in sports jerseys, khakis, and rags around their faces.
It seemed like a ridiculous thing to be afraid of a few teenagers, but Ethan picked up his pace anyway until he heard one of them say, “Hey, where’re you going?! Get your skinny ass back here!”
That was when Ethan went from brisk walking to a full-on sprint to the parking garage where his car was being held. He didn’t even look back at the thugs, but he probably should have paid attention to where he was going, because Ethan ended up banging his knee on a city dustbin before and falling to the ground.
The three thugs walked toward the downed Ethan O’Henry and surrounded him with evil stares behind whatever the rags on their faces didn’t cover. One of them pulled out a gun and pressed the barrel to Ethan’s cheek. The gangster said, “What do you say, little man? You want to be famous tonight? I can make you famous. You’ll be all over the news after I pull the trigger.”
Ethan wasn’t going to try any foolish heroics. In fact, he didn’t look anything like a hero with his quivering body, shaking lips, and a singular tear running down his face. Another one of the thugs pulled out his smart phone and took a picture of Ethan’s tear. “That’s definitely going on the internet. He’ll really be famous now!”
The teenagers laughed their heads off while Ethan pleaded for his life with, “Don’t do this. Please, I just want to live. I didn’t do anything to you guys.”
The third teenager leaned his face down and said, “You want to live? You want to live, little man? You’re in the wrong part of town for that, man! This is our neighborhood. You had the chance to get the hell out and you blew it.” The third teenager said to his gun-toting friend, “Go ahead and shoot this guy! Nobody’s going to miss him except for the roaches and crickets!”
Ethan was saved at the last minute by the sounds of police sirens blaring down the street where this hostage situation was taking place. The teenaged thugs cursed to each other and retreated without making their kill. The rest of the night was still a blur for Ethan, because he closed his eyes shortly after he was saved. All he could hear was gunfire between the police and the three thugs. Nothing like hot lead to cap off a night of tearful paranoia.
Whether Ethan was traumatized from the incident or not, he still had a deadline to adhere to. He had only a few more days until his photo was due for the book cover unveiling. The thing about trauma is it doesn’t care what kind of life the person leads. It doesn’t care about high points, low points, or somewhere in between. When a memory offends, it will continue to haunt the victim until a resolution is reached.
The truth was, Ethan was probably never going to see those three kids again. It didn’t stop his exhausted and numb brain from tormenting him on a daily basis by blowing things out of proportion.
The poor photographer tried to carry on with his daily routine. The trauma of that night made him forget a lot of important steps in his routine. Sometimes he would forget to brush his teeth, shave, do laundry, or even feed himself. What this all amounted to was Ethan lying in bed wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt while trying to remember what the hell he was supposed to do.
He tried to wake up his mind. He would even go so far as to slap himself in the head to wake up those neurons. The slapping became addictive over time. The more numb his mind and cold his brain felt, the harder he would hit himself. He would yell over and over again, “Wake up! Wake the hell up! Wake UP!!”
The painful memories were frying Ethan’s brain to where he could no longer control his anger. When he snapped, he made the most of every minute of fury he was granted. The rage started by punching and kicking his pillows and mattress. Soon he added ripping his hair out to this burning repertoire. As his punches and kicks got fiercer, his bed frame broke and the mattress folded over.
His bed wouldn’t be the only thing taking a smashing. Ethan threw the blankets off of him and started destroying the nightstand next. He picked up the ceramic lamp and smashed it repeatedly against the wooden furniture until both objects crumbled into a heap.
His next act of rage involved running up to the chest of drawers and punching, kicking, and clawing them. Ethan developed bumps and bruises on his limbs from doing this, but he didn’t care. The assault on the drawers ended when he tipped them over and jumped on them repeatedly to create another broken wooden heap.
Ethan wasn’t done there. In fact, by the time he was finished, a total stranger might look at his room and say that a tornado or an inferno went through it. Nope, that was just Ethan O’Henry, who was boiling over with fury to the point where his mirrors were shattered, his TV was destroyed, and his closet was a pile of broken wood and torn clothing.
Once there was nothing left for the traumatized photographer to destroy, he could do nothing but crumple up in a corner and cry his eyes out. He cried because he couldn’t do anything to stop the gangster himself. He cried because he was seconds away from being murdered in cold blood. He cried because the tear stain on his cheek would be broadcast to the internet for everyone to see. But most importantly, he cried because he lost control of everything. He was riding high with his success as a photographer and through no fault of his own lost it all.
He tried to remember the artist’s adage of rising from the ashes and building something beautiful from the wreckage. What could he possibly build out of everything he destroyed? How was there any silver lining to his suffering? Truth was, he might not have gotten over this. Maybe the memory was going to be a lifelong curse.
What happened next was crazier than any act of rage. Ethan O’Henry suddenly got an idea that was so crazy it bordered on genius. The memoir was about self-destruction. Ethan had a self-destructive moment.
He stood up and ventured out to the living room in search of his camera. Once he found it laying on the coffee table with the magazines he was published in, he knelt down and clutched it like he was a child with his favorite toy. He cried and snuggled with the piece of artistic equipment.
And then he did the unthinkable. He went back to his ransacked bedroom and took pictures of the wreckage in hopes it would make a decent book cover. In hindsight, it would have been easier to photoshop something together. But this was genuine, so much so that Ethan was practically sharing his experience with the author. With one crazy idea, he made art. In the end, his gamble paid off. The editor loved the photographs as did the author. Hopefully, the paycheck would be big enough to replace the destroyed furniture and maybe get a bottle of Xanax (with a prescription of course).
Melissa, that was a touching and beautiful story. I like the idea of Wendy's father calling her "kitten". Kittens are cute and cuddly and the nickname only adds to the sweetness of the story's spirit. :)
while since i wrote anything so here goes. Shadows in the night. 669 wordsThey came for me just as I was dozing off; shadow creatures without name. In the inky darkness they whispered sweet words of encouragement with a singsong melody.
They were dying; slowly drowning in a imagination that was being throttled and destroyed piece by bloody piece.
They wanted to breathe the air, feel alive with love running through their being and live the moment.
But there was something stopping them, and that thing was my other half. They called it the dark-half, a half that opposed creatively, spontaneity and zest for all things that make us unique.
Rising from my bed I fumbled in the dark, almost ready to switch the bedside light on when they whispered, "Don't,you're wake the dark half."
Looking back I could see my other half asleep, his mind content with dreams of predictively and boredom, his mind afloat on a pillow of serenity.
I stumble through the gloomy twilight, followed by the soft tread of shadows dancing through the inky gloom.
Reaching the kitchen I switch on the kettle, and wait for its soft keening whistle.
Outside the moon passes across the kitchen window bathing the room in a gentle glow and illuminating my
new found friends. What surprises me the most is the boy who's obviously the leader. He can only be about ten or so, with spiky blond hair, and a scar across his dirty cheeky face. But what strikes me is the rags around his tiny bony frame; he is starving.
Then the clouds cross the moon and he and his friends are swallowed whole by the darkness once more.
"What's your name?" I ask, shocked at his condition. "Do you want anything to eat?"
He looks bemused at my questions and answers with, 'It's Persil, and we can only eat and drink your imagination. the more fantastical the story the fatter we get.’
There is a lot of whispering amongst the shadows as I contemplate this bizarre information.
"Persil, that's a funny name, what's that then Greek or something?" I ask, pouring the water for my tea.
"Don't know,but it's the name you gave me."
Suddenly I'm blinded by the harsh glare of the light as my wife enters the kitchen.
"Who are you talking to darling?" She asks all bleary eyed.
"Nobody, myself most likely. You know what is like when I get a story in my head, just won't leave me alone and die."
As I look round the bright room I feel a tang of sadness at the disappearance of my friends.
"I'll make us a nice cup of tea dear," I tell my wife, before sitting down and chatting about mundane things like work and Elise the noisy next door neighbour.
"How's the story coming on anyway?" The wife asks.
"Not very well, I had an idea but it's dying like shadows of the night."
"Very good title that darling, now come back to bed and forgot all about it."
I was woken by sunshine floating lazily through the curtains and the gentle sweet sound of bird song.
On my pad is a drawing of a young boy with spiky hair and a scar. The words 'they came for me just as I was dozing' is scrawled next to it.
"Are you alright, darling?" My wife asks me.
"Yeah, fine just got an idea for a story that's all," I reply, looking down at the words.
"Told you that writers block wouldn't last long dear. Not with imagination like you've got."
I've only read Melissa's story but was blown away. In a few sentences felt that I knew the characters all my life. Really enjoyed and it read very well. Every word used was perfect. Well done.
I somehow missed your comment, Garrison! Thank you so much! I am glad you enjoyed the story and the kitten-nickname! :)
Paul, thank you so much for the wonderful compliment! You are so sweet!
I really enjoyed your story as well! I love the concept of how the story is "alive" in the author's head but the writer's block is causing the characters to "die". If we could all see writing like that, we would never, ever be discouraged!! Awesome!
I really enjoyed your story as well! I love the concept of how the story is "alive" in the author's head but the writer's block is causing the characters to "die". If we could all see writing like that, we would never, ever be discouraged!! Awesome!
Written OutRussell Jones
Word count: 1672
Winston was parked on his usual barstool near the end of the bar, lost in thought, a heavy smooth shot glass cupped between his palms, admiring the smooth meniscus where the aged Scotch liquor met the glass. The band had taken a break. The thirsty dancers crowding up to the bar, sweaty and loud, holding out bills or credit cards to try to get the attention of one of the bartenders, didn’t disturb his reverie.
Winston had the entire plot of his next novel laid out in his head. He could see it, could smell fresh ink on clean paper, the exquisite anticipation of opening his newly printed book for the first time. It was going to be a great novel.
Just one last sip, he promised himself. One last swallow to fuel the creative heat. Then he’d go home and start writing.
Like clockwork, he’d completed a novel every four years for nearly half a century. This one had been gestating, growing, swelling, and now it was kicking; time to let it out. Yet somehow, he’d been unable to produce. The words, so pure and clear in his head, the jolts of excitement from the twists and turns laid out in his brain like interwoven crystal steps, the deep, fully-realized characters, were unable to survive the transition from imagination to actualization.
But maybe tonight was the night. He picked up the glass and swirled the remaining amber liquid, holding it up to the light. He hesitated one last second, then closed his eyes, threw back his head, and swallowed. When he put the glass down, the blonde woman was there, watching him. She looked familiar.
“Getting ready to go?” she asked.
Winston grinned at her. “I have to go write,” he said. “I’ve been here for a couple of hours now, crystallizing the plot, but it’s time.”
“What are you writing?” asked the woman. She was holding some kind of green drink in a margarita glass. She picked it up and took a small sip, leaving lipstick marks on the beveled edge.
“I write novels,” said Winston, “or at least, I have written several.”
“Name one,” said the woman. Her hair slipped over her eyes, and she brushed it back with one hand. Her nails had some kind of Chinese symbols painted in black over a pale background.
Winston had been through similar conversations hundreds of times. Rather than answering, he pulled out his cell. Holding it close to his mouth, he said clearly, “books Winston Farmer Mathers,” then held the results out so the woman could see.
“Oh my God!” she said when she saw the titles. “I recognize these.” She pointed. “This one was a movie—and that one, too.” She flashed a big smile.
She had very white teeth, Winston saw.
“Yep. Winston Mathers, that’s me,” he said, a little pride creeping into his tone. He held out his hand. She took it.
“Frieda Sorrow,” she said, squeezing his hand a little. Winston started back in shock, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“What’s this about?” he said harshly. “What do you want?”
She looked surprised. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“That name. I know that name. That can’t be your real name.”
“It is, truly. I know it’s odd, but—that’s my name.”
“Prove it.”
Giving him a strange look, the woman dug her wallet out of her purse, unclasped it, slid her driver’s license out, and handed it to him.
“There, see? I’m telling the truth.”
Winston looked at the license. Sure enough, there it was, Frieda Kara Sorrow, big as life. Thirty-two, residence in Michigan, just as he had imagined it in his head. He turned the license over, examining it, trying to decide if it was fake. It looked real. He handed it back.
“That’s quite a coincidence,” he said. “I was just sitting here, fleshing out the characters for my new book, and one of them is…Frieda Sorrow. And she’s thirty-two, and lives in Battle Creek. Just like you.”
Frieda slid her license back into her wallet. She gazed at him disapprovingly. “I’ve heard a lot of pickup lines over the years,” she said coldly, “but this is a first. Really? Are you so desperate that you have to tell a woman that you’re writing her into a novel?”
Winston flushed. “It’s not like that,” he stammered. “I really was—just a few minutes ago—imagining you. And now here you are.”
She leaned back and looked at him appraisingly. “Oookaaay. So now it’s your turn to prove it. If you’ve imagined me so well, tell me something else about your character.”
Winston thought hard, speeding through the plot in his mind, trying to gather all the threads of Frieda Sorrow’s character. “Give me a second,” he said. He closed his eyes, trying to immerse himself into the story.
She drummed her nails on the bar. The sound made him remember. “Okay, here are some facts. Frieda, like I said, is thirty-two, and lives in Battle Creek.”
She interrupted. “But you got that off my license.”
He held up one hand. “Wait. She’s been married twice, the first time very young, at eighteen, to a boy named Brian who later died from a heroin overdose. How am I doing?”
Angrily, Frieda grabbed her purse and slid off the stool. “I don’t know who the hell you are,” she hissed. “Maybe you’re a writer like you say, but I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you.” She paused, and then started again, her temper making her voice rise. “How the hell did you find that out?” She looked at Winston, whose eyes were wide and surprised. “Stay the fuck out of my life,” she snarled, and turned to go.
Frantically, Winston clutched her arm. “Wait! I promise you—I’ve never seen you before in my life…well…except in my head. And I’ve never done any research on you. Seriously. I made all this up.”
“Like hell you did,” she said, shaking his hand loose.
“No, think about it,” Winston said pleadingly. “How would I…how would anyone know what I just told you? And there’s more.”
She was turning to leave, but something about Winston’s face held her back. “Like what?”
“Sit back down—please. People are looking at us,” urged Winston. “I don’t know what’s happening here, but…it’s just weird. I have to see how far this goes. I mean—has anything like this ever happened to you?”
She considered, then sat back down, but held onto her purse, ready to leave instantly.
“Okay, she said. “I’ll stay for a second. But don’t grab me. I don’t….”
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. You don’t like to be touched.”
“If you knew that, why did you?” she asked, with a touch of asperity.
“Sorry,” Winston said again. “I just…well, I guess I just didn’t make that connection. I mean, between you and my character. I won’t do it again.”
She relaxed a little. “So go on.”
“Okay, like I was saying. Frieda’s second marriage was to Enrico Porras, a Spanish national. He taught her to shoot. They both liked danger and excitement—extreme skiing, skydiving, and especially rock climbing. But sadly, Enrico fell to his death from the Tangerine Dream climb out in California, and…. Does any of this sound familiar?”
She nodded. She was tapping her nails again, her golden-brown eyes fixed on his face, looking for any evidence of perfidy, but he looked perfectly sincere, excited as a child to find the fruits of his imagination written in flesh.
The tapping sound pounded through Winston’s temples. He was on a roll. This was a miracle. To be this close to a dream. He wanted to touch her, to feel her under his palms.
She brushed her hair back and motioned for him to continue. “And then what happened to your Frieda?”
Winston hesitated, suddenly remembering the plot. “Um, well, she took over Enrico’s business.”
“Which was?”
Winston didn’t like where this was going.
“He worked as a hit man.”
“You mean, a hired killer?”
“Uh. Yes,” said Winston, faintly. He had the sudden realization that if this Frieda was, in fact, a match for his imagined Frieda, then he was sitting in the presence of an accomplished assassin.
“And what happens to her?” asked Frieda, gently.
“She…she,” Winston’s mouth was suddenly dry. The band had started up again, the lights had gone down, and the dancers had drifted off. The bartenders were at the other end of the bar, laughing with waitresses, and watching the band. He swallowed hard. “She takes a big contract, and then…disappears,” he finished.
“That’s right. It’s truly amazing,” said Frieda. “You really do know everything about me. Right down to the end.”
She stood up and waved a twenty in the air. The flash of money attracted one of the bartenders, who came toward them to cash the woman out. She dropped the bill on the bar. Winston watched it flutter down, seemingly in slow motion, frozen in place as her manicured hand dipped back into her purse, coming out with a small lethal-looking pistol. She pointed it at him.
“You don’t have to do it,” he pleaded, his words fast and breathless. “You don’t understand. It’s not just me. Think! Remember how it ends. I could change it. There’s still time to rewrite.”
“No,” she said calmly. “There isn’t.” She pulled the trigger. The report was loud and harsh and sudden even over the music. A small hole appeared in Winston’s forehead. His eyes went blank, and his head fell heavily to the bar. A growing pool of blood leaked out from under his cheek. The gun clattered onto the wooden floor.
Even as they cuffed him and led him away, the bartender clung frantically to his story, clutching his head, repeating it over and over again, as if trying to make himself believe it. The woman, the man, the gun, the shot, and then… “She just disappeared,” he insisted. “She just fucking disappeared.”
I liked your story Russell. It was a gripping take on the topic. Excellent job!
Garrison wrote: "It's time for me to get back on my horse. And then once I do that, I'll stroke the horsy-pie's ears and feed him a carrot. ^_^This week's story will be called "Play With Me" and it goes like this..."
I took the advice you gave yourself, Garrison, and 'allowed' myself some time off to get other stuff done. Sorry if you all thought I'd deserted you, but I'll be back in the saddle myself soon. Just got the charity anthology to publish in the next couple of weeks then my time is all mine for writing again :)
I've really missed you guys.
We missed you too, Jay. How about a huggle? ^_^
Hey Jay! :)
Pirates, we've come to the end of another week. Polls will be up in a little while, so if anyone wants to put in an entry, do so now or forever hold your peace :D
Pirates, we've come to the end of another week. Polls will be up in a little while, so if anyone wants to put in an entry, do so now or forever hold your peace :D
Thank you, Gecko! I am glad it was a good wow! It's very difficult to keep up with such excellent writers here!
Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don’t use a story previously used in this group.
Your story should be between 300 and 3,500 words long.
REMEMBER! A short story is not merely a scene. It must have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
This week’s topic is: Writer’s Block.
The rules are pretty loose. You could write a story about anything that has to do with the subject. I do not care, but it must relate to the story somehow.
Have fun!
Thank you to Thomas for suggesting the topic!