Flowering of the Undead

I have to admit, I'm rather proud of this one.  I wasn't entirely certain where it was going but it ended up being rather good.  If I do say so myself, and I do.
A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems and Zachary Petit
January 13
“Your neighbor has taken in an unsual pet and it does something unpleasant to your house/yard. Confront your neighbor.”

I stand in my backyard, admiring my work. My garden has never looked as wonderful as it does this very moment. In the far corner, bathed in the shade of the two willows standing sentinel on either side, is my most prized flower. It is a rare corpse flower and very soon it will blossom. Many have told me how insane I am to plant one in my very backyard but they do not know it’s value. The site of it is rather entrancing but the stench I’m afraid, well, it isn’t called a corpse flower for nothing.
I had come by it in the strangest of fashions. I took a trip with my neighbor to Indonesia. He had some family members there and I didn’t want to travel alone. We had quite a lovely time. Our only souvenirs was an old book given to him by a strange man in some market, and mine was a snippet of the Tetrastigma vine, by which the corpse flower can grow and survive.
The grass makes a metallic sound, like a brillo pad on a pot, as I walk closer to my pet. It stands taller than me. Maybe even past it usual height of six feet.
My heart begins to pound in my chest. Very soon it will blossom and when it does I will be on the front page of the life and time section of the local paper. And certainly, everyone in town will want to come and see it, get a whiff of it’s wretched aroma. How many people can say that they have? None. That’s how many. And here I am, the one with it blossoming in his garden.
The next day I wake early in the morning and rush out to see if the petals have begun to spread. Sure enough, it has. I take out a measuring tape and mentally note the length. It has gotten a full foot further away from its pistil. For extra care I get some manure from the garage and sprinkle it around it’s base and water it once more. That done I busy myself with the other parts of my personal eden to keep my mind off of my prized possession.
Before I tuck in for the night I measure it once more. The petal has lowered another six inches. Excitement rushes through my limbs like electricity.
Even with the excitement I am still able to fall fast asleep.
In the early hours of dawn I rush outside and before I’ve taken a step over the threshold I can smell the rotting stench of the flower. My legs can barely move quick enough for me and I nearly stumble over them in my rush to see my blossoming beauty. Shrouded under the willows it has opened its crimson petals, that bleach into a pearly white as it reaches the base of the pistil.
“Fantastic” I say, as I pinch my nose.
I hurry back inside and dial the number for the paper. The journalist insisted I call the moment it flowered so that he could come out and inspect it for himself, before writing the article of course. I was happy to ablige.
“Gerald,” I say, my voice raising in pitch, “I’m sorry did I wake you? No matter I have some exciting news.”
It is in my eager awaiting for his dreary response when I hear the crash and screech of wood. Glancing through the lace curtains I see no site of anything and return to the phone call. He quickly agrees to rush over immediately.
I hang up the phone and rush into the backyard and that’s when I see them, my neighbors zombies have congregated around my flower and are tugging on its delicate petal.
My hand flies to my garden shovel and I rush out to them and beat them back into Anthony’s backyard. They growl with irritation, one of them gurgles and glares at me with the eye dangling out of its socket. I replace the boards over the fragmented hole they had made in the fence.
“Damn things,” I say. “Anthony!” I call through the fence. I follow my beckoning with another and another until I am almost hoarse. The man must sleep like the dead.
The zombies listfully paw at the fence and that’s when I feel it appropriate to get the garden hose. The noze seems to turn forever until it jerks to halt and I know that the pressure it high enough. Placing my thumb over the spout an press the water into a sharp spray and point it at the pests.
They moan again and shuffle across the yard to the other side.
“That should do it,” I say.
I promptly return to my bedroom where I dress in a flurry, picking only the best ensemble for the event. Properly attired I resign to the living room to wait for my visitor.
At eight o’clock, on the dot, he knocks on my door.
“Gerald!” I say, opening he door.
He obviously spent little to no time on his outfit. What should be a nicely pressed shirt, with tie, and slacks, he’s donned sweatpants and a knitted skull cap. The only thing worthy of his esteemed profession is a Canon camera, on a strap, hanging at the top of his pot-belly. I force a smile and welcome him in.
“I could smell it from the street,” he says, “I can only imagine what it must be like up close.”
“It’s certainly a treasure.”
“I wouldn’t say something like that,” he says quietly.
I usher him out to my prize. The noble queen of my garden.
His expression goes sour and he holds up his camera with one hand, while pinching his nose shut with the other.
“It’s pollen isn’t toxic is it?”
“No,” I assure him.
He snaps a couple of photos and my heart pounds in my chest.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask, “Coffee perhaps?”
“Yes, please,” he says excitedly relieved, “Black.”
I bustle back into the house and buzz around the kitchen making a fresh pot.
Once again I hear the screech of twisting wood and the percussion of thin planks of wood falling into a pile.
“Dear god.”
In the back yard I see the zombies have forced their way back into my yard and have surrounded poor Gerald. I pick up the shovel and advance. The metal smashes against his face and one is momentarily stunned. The others continue on in their endless quest for flesh.
“Anthony!” I scream over my shoulder as I whack at another that has it’s rotting hands wrapped around Gerald’s wrist. The blade of the shovel severs the limbs from his torso and Geral goes stumbling backwards onto his rump.
I call again for my neighbor.
The most spry of the four, Sharon I think Anthony calls her, rushes upon the fallen journalist, but before she can realize she still has working knees I body check her to her side where she falls and lands on her back. Her limbs move continuously like a tortoise turned on its shell.
Before anoher one of the beasts could continue their attack I pull Gerald to his feet and escort him safely inside.
He is visibly frazzled.
“What the hell?” He screams, making his way into the living room. “I have to get the hell out of here.”
I Jump in front of him and barricade the door with my body.
“Please, no! I really need this article.”
“You’re insane. I’m not going back out there!”
The whites of his eyes are turning pink.
“I beg of you. Just sit tight. You are absolutely safe in here. I swear to you. I am just going to get my neighbor. They’re his zombies and I’m sure he can corral them.” I pause and study his features which have not softened in the slightest. “This is very important to me. You can’t leave just now.”
He jerks around, startled by some imaginary noise.
I Step forward and put my hands on his shoulders.
“You are far from danger in my house.” I step to the table by the door and open the drawer, retrieving the pistol within. “Here,” I hand him the automatic weapon, “take this just in case.”
With some reluctance he accepts it and I usher him into the recliner. Once the two meet he bounces once and he relaxes.
“Okay.”
My heart leaps into my throat.
“Thank you,” I say.
I exits and storm across the front lawn to Anthony’s front door, whereupon I bang repeatedly upon it until he arrives to answer the door.
“Can I help you Shawn?” he says.
He is clearly just waking, for his glass eye is pointed in an odd angle. Dressed in only a pair of leopard bikini briefs. The hair ringing the crown of his baldhead is sticking out at odd angles.
“You need to contain those monsters,” I say pointing toward his backyard. “They very nearly at the man who has come to write the column on my prized corpse flower!”
He rolls his one good eye.
“I promised I would not tell anyone you had resurrected the dead with the tome, but here I stand regretting that decision. Should I alert the townspeople.” I make a fake shocked expression. “NO need the journalist has already seen them.”
Anthony growls like one of his pets.
“Fine,” he mumbles.
He shuts the door and I return to my guest, who is still very shaken. He very nearly shoots me as I come through the front door.
“It’s alright,” I say, holding up my hands, “it’s just me.”
Gerald gulps and lowers the gun.
“All taken care of,” I say, beaming.
I wrench him from the chair and pull him back into the backyard. The zombies have long since fled, back into their yard.
The stench of the flower has only grown. I can barely stand in front of it without wanting to retch. The writer’s eyes dart nervously around as I lift the camera and cup his hand around it, while simultaneously turning it on. His finger intuitively returns to it and he finds himself calm enough to start snapping photos, moving around to get different angles.
I can hear Anthony in the backyard. He yells and snaps what sounds like a whip and the zombies moan, which in turn seems to startle Gerald who fires a shot into the yard and I hear a grunt and excited groans.
I poke my head through the hole in the fence to find Anthony dead from a gunshot wound right through the head, laying sprawled on the lawn. His zombies have eagerly descended upon their handler and are ripping into his flesh.
“Damn,” I say.
I rip the pistol from Gerald’s hand and storm into Anthony’s backyard and pop a round in each of the zombies brains, ending their undead lives.
Returning to my own lot of land I find Gerald staring slack jawed at me.
“Did you want to ask me any questions about my horticultural technique?” I ask.

The Eye of God

I have to say... this is a bit risky of a short story.  I couldn't help myself.  I want to be controversial but who doesn't?  Supposedly it acquires you fame or infamy.  Either ay it draws readers.  So, shamelessly, my mind wouldn't let this idea go.  Please know that I meant no harm. I just needed  characters of legend for a "matchup."
A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems & Zachary Petit
January 9
Matchup!
“Write a scene featuring a cruise ship or a boat, a sudden change of weather, and the idiom “Fools rush in.””

The prophet Mohammed stood on the rickety dock that jutted out into the waters of the Sea of Galilee. His band of followers were busily preparing the boat to set sail to the other side. One called from the ship, beckoning the prophet forward onto the skiff. Using the gentlest of motions he stepped down and they immediately set sail.
Mohammed tried dearly not to show his uncertainty, he was the prophet from Allah, he could not show any sense of fear, but deep down he dreaded being on the open sea. The fear of being washed overboard weighed heavily in his mind and he prayed for safe passage.
Then the clouds rolled in. Those around him commented at the momentary shimmer jumping from cloud to cloud. “It’s going to be a bad one,” someone said. Mohammed did not know who had whispered, what he thought, were the final words of his life. He had to admit that none of them truly mattered to him. They were mere stepping stones in his journey to retrieve the stone of power that rested on the other side. It was known as the Eye of God and any mortal that held it would take on the powers of one not of this world.
If it were not that he feared another would retrieve the stone he would have walked around the sea or at least found some other transportation other than the sea.
If only I had the stone now, he thought, I would stop this storm before it had spread like a disease across the sky.
The waves began to grow. They lapped at the edges of the boat, lobbing spray of sea at the men. The man chosen as captain tried his best to steer the ship through the waters. Mohammed would have thrown him overboard I he didn’t need him. The man clutched to the side of the ship, trying to stabilize himself, while keeping his eyes pointed ever forward.
The winds picked up and ripped the prophets ‘Imama from his head, relinquishing the greasy, black locks beneath. It whipped at his face like angry tentacles, entangling itself in his thick beard.
The wave first rose like a mountain rising from sleep at the bow of the ship, blocking Mohammed’s view of the other side of the sea. Then with the strength of the earth it crashed over the ship and sent everyone swirling into the blackness.
He scrambled. Climbing his way through the water but he could not tell what was up or down. But soon he found himself slowly drifting ever upwards.
His head broke the thrashing surface of the water. He gasped and gulped down the salty air.
“Why have you done this,” Mohammed cried out.
His black eyes scoured the sea for any sign of his companions. He knew none of them by name and felt it ridiculous to call out for anyone. There was no room for weakness.
A wave rose and cresting over it was another, larger, boat, still surviving the rough waters. It dove down the other side of the wave. It rushed past Mohammed, spraying him with a miniscule wave compared to it’s brethren.
“Over here,” he called out.
Lightning cracked the black and he saw the silhouettes of twelve men, scrambling across the deck of the ship. There was incoherent shouting but he did not recognize any of the words against all the other noise around him.
The storm quickly subside in a cool breeze.
“Look” shouted someone on the boat.
Mohammed waved his arms above his head and shouted again, until he was submerged in the water.
A hand grasped on to his shoulder and pulled him from the water.
Mohammed looked into the face of a Hebrew man, bearded like himself, with long locks of flowing hair. He knew that face. It was the man who claimed to be the son of God.
“You,” Mohammed said.
He looked down and realized with the sense of falling, that this man was standing on the surface of the water.
“Did you-“
“Yes, Mohammed, I got the stone.” Jesus sneered. “Cause only fools don’t rush in.”

Luck is for Fools

There is a lot of myself in today's story.  There are those who have luck and those who do not.  I am in the not category.  I'm not where near the other.  If there was a spectrum from 1 to 10, 1 being the luckiest, and 10 being the opposite of that I would be  hard 9.  It's just a matter of life.  Although, sometimes I tell myself (because of some gut feeling) that my luck just hasn't come up.  And right now, why would I want to waste my pot of gold on an actual pot of precious metal coins than on landing a literary agent and selling my book. (They're a package deal, by the way.  I'm talking to you fate.)
A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A Klems and Zachary Petit
January 8
Treasure Awaits
"You receive a letter in the mail from an out-of-town relative asking you to drop everything and meet him in Boston ASAP. He doesn’t say why, but signs off on the letter with the phrase: “Treasure Awaits.”"

The letter from my Uncle Bernard Frush came sealed with wax. Embossed into the red paraffin was the symbol of our family crest, a fish jumping from a grove of rushes. The writing on the front was beautifully written in the finest calligraphy I had ever seen, or probably ever would by a human hand. My uncle was always one for the dramatic.
“Who’s that from,” My wife asked.
I lifted the letter to show her, but before she could view the address she must have caught sight of the wax seal and pinpointed the sender.
I tore it open and began to read.
“So what does ‘ol Burns have to say,” she said.
She pulled a dish from the top rack of our faulty dishwasher and dried it with a towel.
I quickly scanned the letter written in the same hand as the envelope.
It was his usual weekly catch ups, informing me, his second favorite nephew after my cousin Brandon, of his recent travels. The man had chosen at the age of forty to go hiking across the United States. For what reason, I do not know. I guess he had had enough of suburbia and wanted freedom. Before trekking out on his journey he rid himself of the everyday trappings of normal life, cell phone, his house, furniture, clothes. Anything that wasn’t paper or transportable he ditched.
My mother tried to talk him out of it but could get nowhere. The one thing you could count on when Burns made up his made there was no changing it. Even if it was the wildest of ideas.
“Come on,” my wife said, “I’m dying of anticipation.”
“He’s just saying how well his trip is going and…”
It took me a moment for it to register but at the end of the letter he commanded me to go to Boston.
“He says that treasure awaits.” I dropped the letter, clutched in one hand, to my leg.
Michelle laughed.
“I’m sure it’s all of the life lessons he’s learned on his journey.”
I turned to her, arching my eyebrow.
“How do you get that?”
“Thomas,” she said, grabbing another dish, “Be realistic. The man is insane. Who gives up everything they have-“
“What if it is actual treasure?”
Michelle stopped drying the dish.
“He set out for some reason. Maybe this was it?” I said.
“The man had a mid-life crisis. He has nothing left to live for. No job. No wife. No children.” She said, stowing the dish in the cupboard and closing it’s door. “That must be terribly lonely.”
“But think about it,” I said, rushing to the breakfast bar, “He’s always been obsessed with history and conspiracy theories.”
“Yes,” she said, “He never had a television because he was convinced that it was a tool of the government to brainwash us.”
“Well-“
“He’s not right, Thomas.”
I looked at the letter one more time.
Come immediately. Time is of the essence.
I read the sentence over and over, until it was burned into my vision. I looked up at Michelle and the words flickered across her face.
“You’re not going,” she said.
I Put the letter back in the envelope.
“Maybe-“
“Besides we don’t even have the money to buy a plane ticket right now.”
I nod, defeated. She’s right, of course. I’m not Uncle Berny. I have Michelle, a mortgage, a job, and children. There is no sense in taking off at the last moment.
The next evening she and I are cuddled up on our overstuffed sofa that has long lost it’s selling point, while the kids played hide-and-seek around us. Our old tube television is flickering as the National evening news with Brian Williams pipes up at the top of the hour. The main story told by the faces of my uncle and cousin holding a chest filled with large circular pieces of gold in a rotting chest. My jaw drops open and I turn to Michelle.
“Maybe he’ll split it with us?”

Ambition Drought

A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems & Zachary Petit

January 6
I will consider myself successful when…
“Finish this sentence: As a writer, I will consider myself successful when…

This very questions has crossed my mind so many times over the years.  When I was younger I used to think that I will be successful when I have a New York Time No. 1 bestseller. When you dream, you’re supposed to go big, right? No? Well, as time has gone on I’ve discovered how hard it is to just finish a novel.  When I say finish I mean a first draft, followed by edit after edits, and with some final spit and polish.  This thing should fucking gleam in the sunlight.  That way when the agent opens it to read my manuscript they’re immediately blinded and I become their only client.

I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo a couple years.  Only the first though did I actually try and succeed.  I even spilled into December and finished it on the 6^th. I was so very proud of myself.  Now I’ve been pouring over it ever since.  I finished that one at the tail end of 2009.  Or maybe it was 2010… Regardless I have spent entirely too much time pondering the plot lines and if it’s good enough that I have written myself into a corner and fear taking a step out of it.  I imagine that has happened to so many before me.  I’m sure it’s what keeps others from even attempting at all. That’s just the nature of the beast and some artists are just not well equipped to handle the pressure that comes with trying to make a business out of their art.

At one time I thought success would be to get a book published.  Then I lowered that bar to getting and agent… And at some point I settled for just finishing my book.

The infuriating thing is that I know I can do it.  I can finish my book and submit it to agents.  There is no doubt in my mind.  I have the capability and drive to get me there.  It’s just my inner critic, my doubt, my fear, that keeps me stationary.

Once a polished manuscript sits in my hands, only then, will I consider myself successful. It means I have pushed through my worst obstacle, myself.

Get In, Sit Down, and Shut Up

Here is day 4 and I am still doing it.  Surprising to say the least.  But I do feel myself pulling away.  Although, why I don’t know.  Is it because of the pressure I am putting on myself to perform?  Or that there is a quasi audience reading what I write, judging me.  Or is it because I’m just a lazy fuck?  The world may never know.

In all honesty I should have done this earlier in the day.  I’ve been bored watching television and stuffing my face with the holiday cookies my husband made last night.  He’s been really busy the past few days, which left me alone to my own devices. 

I had attempted to continue reading about druidism but it was throwing so much information at me that I thought I was going to die.  Eesh.  But once the husband goes back to work and thus leaving me all alone, I’ll pick it back up.  Plus I need to read a book a month, per my year long goals.

Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems & Zachary Petit
January 4
365 Days
Something life-altering happened.  As a result, you’ve decided to give something up for an entire year.  Write a scene detailing the cataclysmic event, or the struggle to keep the vow you made.

 

I stood staring at the car, parked in the driveway.  It was covered in a thick layer of dust, that some punk from the neighborhood had decided to scrawl obscene words in, along with the images of dicks and even a pair of boobs.  Any other time I would have been furious.  I had loved my car.  It was the lover and friend I had always wanted.  Loyal.  No one drove her but me.  Now, I couldn’t care less what happened to her.

Ever since the accident I can’t bring myself to sit behind the wheel once again.  My girlfriend says that I’ll get over it, in time, but I’m not so sure.  It’s been a year since the incident and I still don’t even feel comfortable in a car, let alone drive one myself.

Angela walks up behind me and drapes and arm around my neck.

“What’re you doing, honey,” she says.

I lower my head.  For some reason I can’t bring myself to tell her that I had gotten the urge to try and drive down the street.  Maybe it’s because it would give her hope that I didn’t feel ready to give. 

I look into her sapphire eyes.

“Just wanted to get some air.”

She hugs me tighter.  With a peck on the cheek, she feels satisfied and turns to go back into the house.

I slowly walk around the front to gaze at her other side. 

The body shop did an amazing job.  No one would ever know that a Ford Bronco had t-boned me in the intersection.

A faint memory flashes through my mind of he headlights getting brighter and the deafening crunch of our cars colliding.

I stumble back out of breath.  I double over and try to catch the air that has left me.

I still don’t know how I survived.  By all accounts I should have been crushed.  When I replay it I just hear sounds.  No other details come to mind.  It was like my brain had put me into suspencion to protect myself from the crash. 

The next thing after the lights, that I remember, is waking up in the hospital days later.  The doctors were afraid I’d never wake up.

The doctors released me into my own care, but what they failed to realize is that I would be consumed with fear whenever in a vehicle.  I close my eyes and tense my body every time I go through an intersection.  Every car that waits until the last minute to stop will surely collide into me.  I just know it.

My heart begins to race.  I was stupid to even try.  I turn and head back into the house.

Halfway up the walk I hear Angela’s scream.  I rush up the rest of the way, throw oopen the door and find my girlfriend sitting on the kitchen floor, blood all over the white linoleum.

“What happened?” I say.

“I’m such an idiot.  I dropped the knife and it went right through my foot.”

She’s clutching her bare foot, the bloody knife only a few feet away. I rush to the drawer with the tea towels and grab everyone of the neatly folded cloths. I drop to my knees and begin wrapping them around her foot.

“You need to take me to the emergency room.” She says.

I look up at her.  My eyes are wide and my mouth is open. Very slowly, I shake my head no.

“I’ll call an ambulance.”

I stand up, but she grabs me around my arm and stops me.

“Are you insane? We don’t have that kind of money.  This isn’t that bad.” She says. “You can do it.”

I look at her.  I want to tell her know.  But her eyes plead with me and I can only agree.

I scoop her up into my arms and take her outside.  I don’t even bother to lock the door behind me. 

I gently lay her in the passenger seat and rush around the nose of the car to the driver’s side. I stop only inches from the repaired handle.

“Hurry, Jon,” she says, “I’m getting blood everywhere.”

I scream from the deepest part of my chest and pull open the door and toss myself inside.  She starts up instantly, like she was waiting for me.  Carefully, so carefully, I back out the driveway and head for the emergency room.

“You’re amazing.” She says.

My hearts pounding in my ears.  I can barely focus on the road and all I can think about is she did this on purpose.

Attempting Irony

Todays prompt is going to be a hard one. That’s for fucking sure. Mainly it’s because I have no energy today. I am just absolutely 100% out of it. But, such is the weekend.

A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems & Zachary Petit
January 3
A Cold Where you (Fill in the Blank) Instead of Sneeze
“You’ve developed a cold, only to discover that instead of sneezing, you (fill in the blank) every time you feel like you have to sneeze. This side effect proves to create a fairly entertaining scene at the office during your weekly budget meeting.”

Terry clutched the phone in his hands, listening to the ring on the other line. With any luck no one would answer and he could leave a message on the office answering machine. That was his best bet to avoid today altogether. No one at work would understand.
Although, the line clicked and Sheila answered the phone.
“Morgan, Pollock, and Masters, Magician Bounty Hunter.”
Terry pinched his nose.
“Sheila, It’s me, I’m not going to be able to come in today. I feel terrible.”
“Oh no, that’s not good! Well we will miss you at the financers meeting. The head from the state is coming in to talk to us about funding. I’m sure Lowell won’t mind. You get better.”
“Thank you,” Terry said from halfway down his throat.
The line clicked and went dead.
Relief flowed through his body and that’s when he could feel it surge. Terry craned back his head, his mouth gaping, and he let out the loudest sneeze, but with it came a puff of smoke and a young child appeared from within.
The young lad stepped from the thinning cloud and looked around Terry’s unkempt apartment. Panic was beginning to blossom in his face, as his lower lip trembled. There would only be a few moments before the boy exploded into tears. A crying child was the last thing his neighbors needed to hear. They knew he lived alone.
“Hey, buddy,” he said in a sickening sweet voice, “It’ll be okay.”
The young boy wrapped his arms around his stomach.
“Where am I?” He said stepping away from terry.
“It’s okay,” he said, “This is all a dream.”
The boy’s eyes grew wide.
“Really?” he said, “I don’t remember taking a nap. I was shopping with mommy.”
“Yeah, you fell asleep under some coats. She’ll find you in a second.”
The boy looked perplexed.
“How do you know that?”
“Cause this is a special dream.”
Preceded by a large gasp, terry sneezed again and the boy vanished from the room.
“Thank the gods,” he said.
The last few sneezes had become even more infrequent and produced the most horrible of momentary guests. At least the kid disappeared before he could cry. The one woman shrieked so much the nosey neighbor next door came poking around to make sure everything was “okay.” Terry wasn’t sure that he had bought that it was tv program he had been watching.
Now without the worry of work looming before him, terry rushed to the kitchen and began to concoct a potion to end this magical mishap. It wasn’t entirely obvious where he had gotten the calling cold but he had it never-the-less. He must have gotten it when he had been on assignment in Southron and they raided that sorcerer’s drug den. It had been absolutely unsanitary.
He was certain that had been where.
The ingredients came quick to his mind. This wasn’t the first time he’d have to brew one. He had gotten the same thing back in school. Luckily, his parents could excuse him and no one would ever learned he was a blossoming magician.
Pulling the sage from the cupboard he could feel another sneeze building. He tensed his face muscles and refused to let it out. Though try as he might it had a will of it’s own and he blew. This time he conjured a flock of parakeets that fluttered furiously around his apartment.
“I can deal with this,” he said.
He bustled around the kitchen pouring each item into his battered black cauldron. He stirred it the appropriate amount of times until it turned a beautiful lavender and he knew it was ready. He couldn’t ladle it fast enough into a copper mug.
Just as the rim touched his lips the phone began to ring. He looked over at the caller ID and it was the offce number. His blood went cold and he sneezed again, dispelling the birds back to wherever they had come from.
He set the steaming cup down and answered the phone, pinching his nose as he did it.
“Hello,” he moaned.
“Tare, look I know you’re sick but Sgt. Errol is coming and I know he will be absolutely pissed if you’re not here. He is insistent that he meets you. He wants to meet the man who took down the Black Ranfort warlock.”
Terry moaned again.
“Boss, I would love to but I can’t-“
“Terry, if you do you know we’ll get more money than we could ever need to take down these filthy magicians. Don’t you want to be the guy named the man who eradicated all things magical?”
Not really, he thought.
“I would, yes. But I can’t even get off the couch, Rick.”
“Look, if you come in I’ll give you the raise you’ve been hounding me for.”
Terry gulped. That raise had been his mission the past two years. It would give him enough money to move out of the tiny apartment he lived in, that he now noticed was covered in bird shirt and feathers.
“See you in a few.”
Before Terry could argue his boss ended the call.
For a brief moment panick gripped his chest, but then the saw the cup gleam out of the corner of his eye. He chugged it and waited, but within only a few moments he sneezed again, producing a pair of old men playing chess, table and all. But he didn’t have time to explain, he hurried around his apartment trying to get ready. Although he didn’t want to look too good. He put on a white shirt, top button undone, a striped tie as slap-dash as he could get it, and a brown coat. He put on his glasses and messed up his hair and then tried to wrestle it into something decent.
By the time he was dressed and ready to go he sneezed again and the men disappeared.
He hurried as quick as he could and got to the office without a single sneeze. That would mean the potion was working. He just needed to trust his skill.
He climbed the steps to the fourth floor office just o wear himself out and appear more sickly. This wasn’t his first rodeo. By the time he entered the office he was sweaty, red faced, and breathing heavily.
“Terry! You look awful.”
He could barely speak so instead waved and nodded.
“Go right on in.”
He wound his way around the cubicles to the conference room and entered. Everyone stood, especially Sgt. Errol.”
“Son,” he said, shaking his hand, “I really admire your moxy. If I was as sick as you I’d have told my boss to go fuck himself and not come in.”
Everyone laughed nervously.
“This is why I wanted to meet you. You are the best. I’ve been keeping an eye on you. I knew you were something special. It’s guys like you that will take down this magical menace and-“
The sneeze built in his chest, which prompted him to swallow air.
“You alright?”
Terry nodded as he cosed his eyes an concentrated.
“Course you are!” Sgt. Errol said, slapping him on the back.
Terry sneezed and in a puff of smoke appeared a man, bathing in a shower on top of the table.  The water slowly trickled away out of the shower head, as the man looked out of the clear curtain.

Attempting to be Unexpected

Well look at that, I made it to day two.  Give it a couple more days and I'll peter out.  I always do.  I think it's because I become so concerned with my writing style and technique.  Basically I think it's shit.  And I let that negativity bounce around in my brain until every part of it is now dented or bruised.  Ultimately forcing myself to give up because I'm believing that voice.
Strangely I don't feel that way yet.  I'm oddly calm and somewhat positive.  Again, just a fluke.  I'll beat myself into submission and give up, claiming I'm shit.
(That's he way to go about it, Josh, sarcasm and negativitiy! Good Job.)
Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems & Zachary Petit
January 2nd
High Stakes Holidays
"That's not a New Year's Resolution.  That's a death wish." Use this as a first line and run with it!
"So, basically," Anthony said, stuffing another crème puff into his mouth, "I'm going to just say fuck it and gain as much weight as I can.  I call it my 'Don't fear what you'll gain in a year.'"
"That's not a New Year's resolution, Tone," Becka said, "That's a death wish. Do you realize how unhealthy that is.  Well," she paused, craning her head back and blinking furiously,"or do you mean you'll eat whatever you want, but mainly vegetables.  Or is it an atkins thing?"
Tony shook his head, while devouring another puff in one bite.
"No.  This isn't a weightloss journey, beck.  This is I'm going to eat whatever the fuck I want whenever the fuck I want to.  Screw diets and working out.  That's for the birds.  I'm just going to live my life and eat whatever I want."
Becka stared slack jawed.
Tony popped his eyebrows and smiled. "Jealous."
"No. No I'm not. You're tying to kill yourself."
"Why does everyone always say that.  I'm not killing myself.  I would be if I was intentionally trying to get fat.  That would mean I was bed ridden and could never leave the house or have to work..."
"No! Tony, don't you go there! I see those wheels spinning.  Just take it back to eating whatever you want.  But to intention-"
"Are you kidding! I wouldn't have to work! I could stay at home and play my xbox all day." Tony looked off into the middle distance. A grin played about his lips.
In his moment of distracted contemplation Becka hurriedly seized her moment.  She shoved her hand into her coach bag and produced a pair of fuzzy handcuffs hich she proceeded to lock around Tony's wrist and her dining room chair. 
The people packed into her apartment carried on without a second glance.
"What the hell," Tony said, "Beck, where did you get these?"
"Tony, I'm doing this for your own good."
Tony opened his mouth to speak but when becka promptly turned to a pair of muscly gentlemen standing in her kitchen he didn't respond. They exchanged a few words as becka pointed over her shoulder. The two men laughed and walked around her and strutted over to Tony.  He watched confused as the men picked up the chair and carried him with it down the hall and into the spare room.
"Sleep tight, bud," one of them said.
They left the room, shutting the door behind them.
Little did they know that Becka had tricked them and Tony into a scheme she had concocted on the fly.  For the next three weeks she kept her friend hostage in her spare room.  She would visit nightly to feed him and bathe any exposed skin.
"Becka, you're insane, let me go."
She pressed herfinger to his lips.
"I'm crazy? You're the one who wanted to get fat on purpose.  I am saving you from yourself. "
"Please! Somebody help me!" Tony screamed.
Becka grabbed the ballgag and put it back into his mouth.
"Naughty, naughty," She said. "Remember we talked about that."
Tony groaned behind the red rubber gag.
It wasn't until the next day that Tony knew what he had to do.
Becka entered the room backwards, carrying a tray of sour dough bread and vegetable soup.
"I made it myself!"
With nimble fingers she removed the ball and prepared to spoon feed him, even though he had a free hand.
"Beck, I have finally realized the error of my ways."
Sitting up straight she lowered the spoon back to the bowl.  Her blue doe eyes fixed with his.
"What is it darling?"
"It is obvious that you care so much for me.  I want you to marry me and care for me this way always."
"What?"
"Yes. I must have you."
Becka frowned and put the tray on the floor to the side of her chair.  With liquid motions she pulled the key from her pocket and unlocked Tony from his restraints.
"I'd rather you get fat."

A New Year, an Old Goal

Back in July Writer's Digest (my hooker of choice) offered a special on a couple e-books. One of which was a book that offered a different writing prompt for every day of a full calendar year.  I wanted to start immediately, but seeing as how the book began on January 1st I thought I'd wait until that time to begin.  Especially since the prompts grew more difficult with each passing day.

Like most things I say "I'll remember this for later." I very nearly forgot. It wasn't until Writer's Digest sent me another dirty tease about that book which reminded me of it's existence on my computer.  So, if all of my other resolutions fail I wish for this one to at least go.  I think I can write everyday and post it on here.  (Can't I?)

The first prompt of Year of Writing Prompts (by Brian A Klems and Zachary Petit) is very fitting for the first of January.

"January 1. Your Resolutions. What are your New Year's resoltuions? Take one and create a fictional story surrounding it."

Like countless thousands, I have made at least one resolution.  Though being the lazy overachiever I am I have made a list of 6 different things I would like to accomplish in the new year. Whether I actually achieve them is an entirely different story.  One of my favorite quotes is from the movie Forest Gump which perfectly sums up my feelings about resolutions and a new year.  The scene is of Forest,Captain Dan, and the two hookery girls in a bar watching the ball drop in time square.  One of them with big doughy eyes watches and says in a whisper "I love new years. Everybody gets a second chance." And if I am given a second chance I'm going to at least mildly attempt it with gusto.
My Resolutions:
1 - Finish my book.
2 - Get in shape.  I'm 58 lbs overweight.
3 - Read at least 12 books.
4 - Get spiritually settled.
5 - Start a family.
6 - Pay off my credit cards.
Derek and Moira stood nervously in the exam room.  Despite having told her numerous times to sit Moira had refused.  So instead he wrapped his wife in his embrace.  He pressed his cheek to hers and hum a tune of his own creation.  It was one of the things she loved most about him.  The gentle melody soothed her nerves and she could focus on more important things like fertility and being pregnant. 
This was round number four in their battle with her failing uterus.  In one of there attempts she thought she had a knock out but it came in with a sucker punch and knocked all the wind from her gut.  The two had been devastated and spent nearly a year recuperating.
"Do you think she's taking so long because it's good news?" she asked.  She kept her eyes shut and focused on her and him, blocking the rest of the world out.  In her mind she and he stood in the vast expanse of the galaxy among stars and moons.
Derek stopped humming and hugged her tighter.
"It will be what it will be." he said.
Luckily her eyes were shut, and him not looking cause he would have been offended at her eye roll.  It was the best he coud offer at such a time.  He was just as clueless as her and she knew that.
They had prepared in the car before they dare enter the office.  And prior to that they had spent all night talking it through.  The final conclusion then was if this didn't work they would have to adopt.  Derek had made such a beautiful altruistic case for it.
"There are so many other kids in this world desperate for a family.  Why would we deny them a loving home?"
She had hated him for his sense of logic. Even a tiny bit jealous.  She had always assumed he felt the same as her when it came to biological or not. How could they be close to one that wasn't made up of the two of them? It was an absolutely selfish thought.  She knew that.  But with all her knowledge she couldn't change the pressing fear and guilt weighing in her chest.
Please, God, she prayed for the billionth time.
With a click of the door the doctor swooped into the exam room.  He instinctively looked at the table before looking around the door.
"Good afternoon," he said.
The two stepped from the other's embrace and stood, only inches apart, with their hands clasped together. Derek like the gentleman that he was offered his hand to the doctor. The white coat clad physician took it and gave it a firm shake.  Already his confidence and cool demeanor had Moira hopeful.  Of the times before she had known, before they had spoken a word, the crushing answer. 
"So we got back the test and I have some bad news and some good news."
Moira's heart froze in her chest.   Derek tightened his grip around her hand.  They could do this, it said.
"You are definitely pregnant," he said then looked down.
"You know what, Dr. Stewart, You can stop there.  Unless the bad news is that it would somehow harm my wife I don't think we should know. At this point, no matter how the baby is we will love it all the more.  Because it's ours."
Moira looked at her husband, studying his square features and stubbled complexion. 
"Okay." The doctor said.
Derek met his wife's gaze and smiled.
"Because it's ours," she said.

Unusually Complimentary

There has been a strange turn of events these past few days, my husband has shown interest in my desire to be a writer.  I know! I am just as shocked as you.  Don’t get me wrong, he is … “supportive” to a degree.  He’s just a realist when it comes to dreams.  If he cannot see a hard path, he is not taking it.  Does that make sense?  Well, anyway, since I told him my plans to document our trip to London on the cheap and possibly write a book he is on-board.  He even called me on Friday and started pouring compliments over me; my body was in shock.  It is not accustomed to such gushing, but I’m not one to turn it down.

My husband told me that he thinks I would make a good travel writer because I can tell a story and I am humorous.  Which, that sentence in itself shows my humor, because the man has never thought that I’m out-right funny prior to last Friday or at least expressed any similar sentiment.  It has not been until the past few years, hanging around our friends, that he sees I can be a downright riot.  If he and I are talking I can’t crack a joke and make him laugh.  He only finds me entertaining when I say or do something stupid and he can point it out.  And like the true attention whore that I am, I play right into it, developing a whole “persona” to go along with my flustered awareness.  We just have different styles of humor with only a portion of overlap.  The most ridiculous scenarios easily amuse me.  To be a little more precise: give me a cat video any day and I will laugh so hard I will cry.  He will not.

I don’t mean to discourage him or his compliments in any way.  He is an amazing man and honest.  That’s why I always go to him for an opinion.  He will not sugar coat it.  If I wasn’t good in a play or in what I’m writing he will tell me.  Which is a double edged sword, for him and me.  The fact of the matter is that if he says I’m good at something he truly means it, and with that I am energized.  So,  during our trip I’m going to be extra-observant and take copious notes, and when I get back I can write a book proposal.

Midnight Update

I have been in a rut for some time. Although, in reality, when am I not? I took some much needed time off from writing for school and to read one of my friends novels. Now that I have completed both (successfully I should say), I have been taking my time reading and resting my brain. At least that's how I sell the procrastination to myself.

Ever since I worked at Border's in the stock room, there has been a book that has jumped out at me. I've read the first few pages countless times. Just it's mere placement in the Border's store confused me. It was placed in metaphysical, the synopsis and cover seemed to state otherwise. Anyway, I just stocked the things. I wasn't the one dictating their placement. Either way, I've seen it around ever since and debated whether or not I wanted to toss out the cash to purchase it for my own use. A couple days ago I did just that in an effort to buy myself a little happy. I was stressing over my choice of going to a "special event" I had been planning on attending for the past six months, or doing a show written and directed by one of my closest (if not best) friends. At the time of auditioning I had an idea that it would conflict, but I thought it would be a simple answer and it wasn't. Basically it boiled down to my husband building up doubt in my thoughts until I couldn't handle my feelings. So, I escaped to Coldstone for a Strawberry Shortcake Serenade, which the bitch had no idea what I was talking about (noob), and then I traipsed over to Target to buy some more joy. Thus I finally broke down and bought "The Alchemist" by Paul Coelho.

The book was fantastic. His short, quick, style of storytelling was a little off-putting at first but once I had become accustomed to it the story opened up for me. As I was about halfway through the novel I understood it's Border's placement. It bordered on allegory, self help, and fiction. I wouldn't know where to put it now, really.

While reading it all I could think about was my own Personal Legend and how I was going to achieve it.

I don't want to ruin the ending, so instead I will just say: Read the effing thing now! It was very... As cheesy as it sounds, it was very inspiring for me. And I have taken a small step to get back to editing. I will have my novel finished. I will get it published. And it will be read by hundreds of people. (I'm starting small.)

Postcard From the Edge

It has been some time since I have written or updated anything with this particular online journal. Well, my personal-personal blog hasn't languished. It's been rather busy these past few months, but there are just some things you don't want to put on blast on one's own personal site. Especially since the intention of this site is to be a platform to build a writing/author career. But basically, people don't need a face for my crazy displays.

Insanity aside I have been making great progress with my book. I mean, enough that it has reignited my fire for my novel The Love Immortal. My current finish date is sometime in August.

I was having a tough time (if you haven't seen in prior posts) editing the damn thing. The moment I sat down at the keyboard to edit I would panic and then subsequently stop altogether because I had gone... for lack of a better word, crazy. I was just overwhelmed. So, I pushed it aside and then just tried to forget about it in an attempt to have my creative ego become a flat surface again. It was in these moments of silence in between projects that I came up with an idea.

When I was younger I remember I would spend hours, HOURS, sitting at my keyboard editing my novel at the time. I would prop up my notebook with either my new chapters to input into WordPad or my corrections from the work already inserted, and I would go to town. I love that memory and would look back and wonder what happened to that kid. Where did he go?

I analyzed the scene and it became clear to me. I would work at one piece at a time. I took baby steps in a larger project. That thought then lead to when I actually finished this project the first go around, NaNoWriMo. And then it dawned on me that it's all about moderation. When I took a massive undertaking and broke it into bite size pieces I was able to accomplish my goals. So, I took my entire novel and broke it from one word document into 31 and agreed to work on one chapter at a time.

I was still nervous from my previous attempt and decided to vent my fears on my personal blog. That was when a person I had never met offered up a token of advice I had never thought of; she said to print out each chapter and edit them on paper.

At the time I thought this woman's suggestion was preposterous. I didn't see how printing it out would make any difference than reading it on a computer screen. Editing is editing regardless. Although, I was desperate and didn't see the harm In giving it a try. Besides, it fit in with that memory of mine.

On the first day I blew through the first chapter and made some great notes and corrections. On the second I input them and transferred the file into a folder titled "Final." Since that time I have finished 8 chapters and couldn't be prouder or more exhilarated to continue on. It felt as though I had found that kid in that moment.

Now, I am forcing myself to remain focused on this task and not on my query letter synopsis.

I hope to have another update soon sharing even more about my progress.

My advice to you (whomever you may be) print the damn thing out to edit. It DOES make a world of difference.

Up From the Murky Depths

It's difficult to become a writer. It's even worse to get past your own demons. I know I've written about this many times before but it is a problem that plagues me every single day. In the moments that I feel strong and the darkness has crept back into the murky hallows of my thoughts I feel invincible. I know that when I get home I will sit my butt down in my chair and I will write. My fingers will fly over the keys giving birth to my words. Yet it is in the moment that I sit down that the creatures of fear and insecurity smell the fresh creativity and they come slithering from their holes and consume everything in their sights until I am left hallow and can barely bring myself to even look at my manuscript. (They just might eat that too... you never know.)

Patton Oswalt has this bit about this movie he saw called "Death Bed" and his own journey of screen writing. It's a hilarious piece of writing and if you're easily offended I'd tread lightly with his other pieces but this one is pretty tame. It mainly is his imagined story of the guy that wrote and sold the idea for "Death Bed: the Bed that Eats People," and how the author had never any doubt in his mind that it was good. Or, as Patton so eloquently puts it, even worse had his moments of doubt and pushed through them to finish the script to the horrible film.

As I struggle through this I am amazed anything ever gets published. Truly. If I ever come into contact with someone who has truly taken the time to edit their work, sent it to an agent, and had it commercially published, I want to shake their hand where I will then inevitably fall to their feet, clutching onto their legs, while I cry. My main goal to hopefully absorb their supernatural powers. If that plan fails, then I would ask them what they did. I've read a few books. All of it is the same. "Ignore your inner critic." You've met critics, right? They're loud, obnoxious, opinionated, douches; and the only way to ever silence them is to hit them with a car. So, unless I want to write a book in the vein of "orange is the new black" that isn't the route I particularly want to take.

I feel like I need to be more specific. Where track on my creativity train seems to end is when it comes to editing ravine. The men that were supposed to build a bridge failed to complete it across the expanse and now whatever attempts are made causes the train to derail and plummet to the rocky terrain below. I can't be critical with my own work. I could when I was kid, for some reason, but as an adult I'm way more fragile than I ever was as a high school student. I remember sitting at my computer for hours after inputting my written notes into WordPad and then going through cutting, rearranging, rewording, each one of my chapters without shedding a tear. It was just something that had to get done. It was just part of the process. No one ever told me, I just knew. It's only after I read books and put all the pressure on myself that I I'm scared to even try.

I wish I could go back and talk to my childhood self. It never occurred to me, until just now, that no one (other than my school teachers I guess) how to edit. It was just something I did. It was a process I picked up entirely on my own and I would remain at my desk for hours doing it. Now when I pick up the story that I edited from that time it's really quite good. The tone, the structure, the pacing. Everything. The story captured my attention that even I, who knew where the story went, wanted to keep reading. I had forgotten so many of the little things I had done.

Musings of a 10 year plan

So, I’m flighty. I know it and am owning it. I flit from one thing to the next always hoping to find where it is I belong. I don’t understand why I couldn’t have done this when I was a teenager and not in my twenties but… life lesson learned, time wasted, moving on. My main goal will always be the same. No matter what new dream I concoct it will always remain “get published.” Even when I buckle down and then spaz out because I become increasingly overwhelmed I still maintain that hope of one day publishing one of my novels. That’s how I know it is what I want to do. Now, I may want it more so now than later but I am discovering the art itself has a mind and a clock of its own. And I may want it done at one point but it will inevitably be done when it’s done. And as embarrassing as all of my “breakdowns” have been they haven’t been for nothing. I have discovered/realized that a few pieces in my moments of madness weren’t working or were missing entirely that became abundantly clear.

My most recent meltdown has lead me to a hiatus until march, whereupon I will return to my manuscript with vigor and a fresh eye. I know I put too much pressure on myself and expect 100% perfection the first go around. And that’s not how writing works. It’s editing, editing, editing, editing, editing, editing, and editing. Editing. And I’m a lazy son of a bitch. I don’t want to do that so I want it to be perfect from the word go which boils my brain and causes me to crash, hard. Thus I have to take long sabbaticals just to get my ducks in order. At this rate I’ll get my book done in 20 years. That just doesn’t work for me. As petty as it sounds (and a bit arrogant), I want to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I have plans with my writing career and I have other stories to tell.

Thus, I’ve started to develop a ten year plan in my head. I’ve never really done one before. Sure in my sophomore year of high school they asked me to do one but that one was just to turn in so I could get the credit. It wasn’t thought out at all. I basically just threw words at a page. Now I want to do a proper one. So beyond my ultimate goal, and a more realistic, solid (dare-I-say ‘achievable’) goal is to move to and live in London. It’s something I’ve always wanted and still want. My trip last year only solidified that desire even more. So, how do I get there? I need to work backwards. I do like to write. It’s relaxing, especially when I’m not doing it on company time trying to keep an ear out for my boss coming around the corner. (Is that an admission of guilt?) So what are ways to earn an actual income doing that? Journalism. Okay, how do you get into that? I did some quick research of job listings and most jobs require an applicant to either be in the process of getting a bachelors in journalism or a post graduate. Balls. I have next to no higher education. It’s that lazy thing again. So that leads me to the next lower step. Education. Thus, a ten year plan and not five.

It’s been so long since I’ve been in school. I’ve taken the odd class here and there at the local Junior College but nothing noteworthy. And one of my classes was, according to my teacher, beneath me, but she would shower me in compliments and had such a personality that I stayed in her class. But I never did any homework and failed it with a big fat F. As much fun as she was, I DO NOT want to re-take Basic English. Yes. I took Basic. English. It was during my “get back to basics” phase. I don’t know what the hell I was smoking. I was in a delirium is all I can say. But while I was taking this class I was also doing Creative Writing and got an A. So… go figure. One would assume one would cancel out the other but that’s not how it works, thus my dilemma. Luckily, there is a wonderful little loophole that if I switch to a different JC, and don’t transfer any prior credits, I can start with a clean slate. So that’s what I’m going to do, as a way to ditch the shortcomings of old Josh.

How I look at it, Journalism benefits me personally with my own personal goals, it also looks good on a resume that I have a college education, and it gets me into writing. I don’t really see a downside, other than I’m starting this as I’m pushing 30. God, I hate me. Always late to the party, aren’t you, Josh?

Reflection

So, here I stand poised on the precipice of a new year. Looking back at 2013 there was no particular milestone in my wishful career choices (aka writing, aka becoming an author) but the major things of note are: getting married to the man I’ve spent the last ten years of my life with; and going to a place I have dreamed of going to since I was a kid, London. Besides these major changes, my life was relatively stagnant for the majority of the year. These things didn’t even occur until November. So… At least I’m ending the year on a high note. Oh, and the other thing that was a major and wanted change was I finally broke my husband down, after years of discussion, to where he wants to adopt. Seriously… that’s big.

As per my usual M.O. I intend to dedicate this upcoming year to getting my book published. I feel optimistic about it because I’ve spent a lot of time mulling it around in my brain trying to make sure all the plot points and stories line up. I tricked my husband (can you tell I like saying that) into listening to the first chapter and give me any critiques he may have. It was truly helpful and brought about a different perspective. So I will make the necessary changes and move on to the rest of the story. Now if only I could get him to read the rest of it. But that’s more complicated than actually finishing-finishing the thing.

This Christmas my husband (there it is again!) got me a gift that I feel embodies this coming year. It is a watch. Now, it may seem like an ordinary object but for me it holds a lot of meaning, because sewn into the leather band is a tiny compass. For me it seems to say: it’s time to reach my destination. I’ve pussy-footed and dicked around when it comes to my novel long enough but it is at the point that it needs to be done.

So this years goals:
1 – Finish my novel
2 – Get an agent
3 – Lose 50 lbs.
4 – begin the adoption process.

By this time next year I’m hoping that things will be very different and that I myself will be unrecognizable.

Prompt 16 of 31

The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 224 "My God, this is like that old Abbott and Costello routine, 'Who's on First?'"

Start time: 9:26

"My God, this is like that old Abbott and Costello routine, 'Who's on First?'" Garith shouted at his sister and vampire friend.

The two turned to him.

"How is this even remotely like that?" Derrick said.

Garith looked side to side.

"It doesn't," he said. He looked down at the ground. "I just wanted to be a part of the conversation."

Derrick gave a half smile showing his canine that had become longer from yesterday.

end time: 10:29

Okay... It is rather obvious that I was not feeling that one at all. It was a dud, dud, dud, dud. I tried to make it work but I really had nothing come to mind. Instead I got lost in a tumblr vortex of doom. Anyway, I'm just going to go ahead and choose another one because that was rather shameful.

The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 69 "I'm here to answer the ad in the paper."

Start time: 10:44

The door to Lynette's house cracked open and a single green eye looked through to the outside world. As the door open further a head sprouted from head with dark black hair and milky white skin around a plump face. If you watch closely she moves out further and inspects her surroundings. They are foreign to her, but she is calm.

A car passes by and she is frightened. The elusive Lynette scurries back into the house and watches through the peephole until all has gotten quiet again. She sighs to herself and laughs. One can only imagine what is going through her very fragile mind at this point. It has been sometimes since the subject has been outside of her house. If it hadn't been the pressure of her online support group she would not have even decided to broach the subject now.

"You can do this," she says to herself.

The lynette tries again. At first her actions are slow going but eventually she winds up outside in a very normal suburban neighborhood. The sky is cloudless and the sun in shining. She looks around at the world's beauty. Her expression is unsure but she stands firm as another car goes by.

Once the vehicle has gone quickly around the corner she shuffles to the car and climbs into her old volkswagon bug. For a moment we see her fumble around through the purse she had packed haphazardly this morning. It has been some time since she's needed the assistance of one.

Like any red blooded woman she finds her keys at the bottom of her purse. She sticks it in the ignition and attempts to start the vehicle.

What she has neglected to think of, as any other red blooded American would, is that since her car has spent many years in the driveway without a start it does not. She tries again and again with the same success rate.

Frustrated she bangs furiously on the steering wheel and rushes back inside the house.

There she rushes about furiously trying to find her house phone. She has an appointment to make and already she will be late. Lynette must see this and has become frantic.

"Hello," she says into the phone, clutching at it with both hands. "I need a taxi. Could you send one right away?"

The voice on the other line says a few unintelligible words and she hangs up.

For the next ten minutes Lynette wanders aimlessly around the house. She checks her appearance in the mirror many times. Sighing to herself she shakes her head. Earlier we heard her feelings about her apprehension to answering the personal ad she had found in the paper.

The leader of the group seemed excited at her approach to moving outside of her confined living. She beamed back at her patient and told her to keep trying.

The driver arrives with a knock and Lynette rushes outside. She hops in the car, looking about nervously. The cabby in the driver seat furrows his thick brow and looks at her with unsure eyes.

"Where to?" He says, in an accent.

"The coffee shop on," Lynette says, she rolls her hand in a circle. It seems she has forgotten the name of the establishment she is meant to meet her date. "Harrowley?" She looks at the cabby's reflection for approval.

"Sure," he says and begins to drive.

Lynette sits back and bites at her thumbnail. She clutches her hefty purse to her stomach and taps her foot wildly.

It was explained that her decision to answer an ad was from a dream she had had a few months back. She shared in the group that it was also the wording of the man's post that had her intrigued.

"It was so," she had said. A few moments pass that elude to her not being able to find the right word. Finally she settles on, "Nice."

The others in the group had asked her to read it but for whatever reason she had refused. She blushed at the mention of it and every group since had inquired.

Lynette finally arrives at the agreed upon location. She pays the cabby who seems relieved to be rid of her and doesn't tip him. Although it is acceptable seeing as how she hasn't been accustomed to the real world for some time. He on other hand drives off in a hurry.

The young girl walks in and finds the man seated in the far corner. On the table before him is a single white daisy, per her request. She stops in her tracks and waits. For a moment it looks as though she might turn and run but the gentlemen sees her and stands, smiling.

"Lila!" He says to her waving her over.

She puts her hand to her mouth and shuffles around to tables to get to him. She immediately gives him her hand and they exchange pleasantries. The young man has tight blonde curls, bright blue eyes, and a beautiful smile.

"I have a quick confession to make," Lynette says.

The young man leans forward and steeples his arms on the table.

"Go ahead," he says.

"My name is actually Lynette. I told you that name because I wasn't sure if I was actually going got make it."

The man raises his eyebrows and he sits back in his chair. His face looks uncertain of what to make of the situation.

"Alright," he says, nodding, "Well my name is still Greg."

The two laugh.

"Good," she says.

Prompt 14 of 31

Tonight I will be pulling double duty to make up for yesterday's missed prompt. It's funny how life just gets in the way. Ha, what am I talking about, life. I saw the conjuring yesterday. Fantastic movie. During the course of the movie I realized why I don't see horror movies in the theatre. (I tend to only watch them at home.) I tend to scream and convulse like a spaz. It's really comical for others, not so much for me. Either way, it was fun. I'll do anything for a laugh. Well, as long as it's on my terms.

The Writer's Book of Matches pg. "A man learns that what he thought was chronic heartburn is really terminal cancer."

Start time: 11:17

Shella Fidgeted with her cell phone while she sat in the waiting room of the doctor's office. Her husband rick was seated beside her; hunched over, his elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped together in a single fist. Her sapphire eyes looked at him and then she frowned. Her manicured hand went to his back and rubbed tiny circles. At time she lifted her palm from his back and it was just her nails. He chuckled and turned to her with a sad smile.

"I had completely forgotten," she said.

She did it again and he jerked away.

"So I heard from my mother today," she said matter of fact. She pocketed her cellphone and then turned towards him.

"What'd she have to say," he said, peering at her over his shoulder.

Shella shrugged a shoulder and looked at her nails.

"I guess my brother is back in rehab. My dad caught him trying to steal my mother's jewelry. He broke down crying right then and there and confessed the whole thing."

She paused and looked at him with imploring eyes. She hoped this different change of topic would get his mind off of the whole situation.

When he sat back and sighed she knew it had worked. She kept the smile that wanted to play on her lips safely tucked away. Rick rested his head against the wall and left his hands, fingers sprawled, on his knees.

"Poor Jackson," he said.

His mahogany eyes searched the air before him.

Shella's brow furrowed.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't imagine what that would be like. You know how my dad was an alcoholic. I say that my mother made excuses for him when I was a kid but she believed he could change. She wanted to know that he would start being the man she had met. I just don't see how your father can deal with that. If Jeremy ever becomes an addict I don't know what I would do. It'd break my heart."

"What about my brother?"

Rick looked at her, pressed his lips together, and shrugged.

"We are the master's of our own destiny."

Hot anger climbed up her face and turned her cheeks a rosy red.

"You're one to talk. This heart burn of yours is all your doing. If you didn't eat all those fatty foods on your lunch it wouldn't happen."

Rick leaned forward again and regained his previous pose.

Shella hid her eyes behind her hand. She felt like such an idiot.

Well, that was pointless, she thought.

She dropped her hand into her lap and leaned to his shoulder.

"Honey, I'm sure it's nothing. We're just getting a second opinion per doctor laurel's request. Okay?"

She kissed his shoulder.

"The antacids, the meds, do not work, Shell."

"Sometimes things can be so severe that you need to see a specialist. That's why we're here."

Rick rolled his eyes.

Shella sat back and studied him. Her mind knew what was wrong already. Her heart refused to believe. She kept telling herself the same lies she told about her brother. Except he could help his problem.

She smiled weakly to herself and then looked down at her thumbs. She couldn't believe she was wishing that he was just an addict. Of all the things that could happen to him it had to be this.

"Rick Torrent," The nurse said, her arm wrapped around the clip board.

The two got up and headed to the exam room for another agonizing wait.

Rick stayed silent the whole time. He just stared at his feet, bouncing the toe of his boots on foot at a time.

She had seen him do that many times before, like when they were waiting to see if they were in fact having a boy. Or there was the time that his mother had been found beaten, almost to a pulp, and they were waiting in the lobby of the ER. That had been back when they were still in high school.

Her heart began to ache from the thoughts of their love's life time and she focused again on his feet. She picked apart his shoes, his gestures, everything to keep herself from thinking that which she already knew.

The doctor swooped in and immediately headed to the sink and washed his hands.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Torrent."

"How're you today?"

Shella always wondered why a doctor asked a patient that. It seemed like such a silly question. Well obviously we're terrible. We're here to see you, She thought.

"Just waiting on those results." Rick said. He sighed and looked at the doctor. "Doctor Laurel couldn't make heads or tails of it so it's prolonged this for far too long."

The doctor produced a pair of spectacles and put them on.

"I certainly can understand that."

Then get on with it!

The doctor pulled up the rolling stool and sat down. He pulled out a pen, clicked it and began writing notes. All of his actions seemed as thought they were half speed.

Shella fidgeted nervously in place.

"I'm afraid that it's not acid reflux."

Shella's breath caught in her chest.

"You have cancer on the lining of your asophogaus. It's caused by HPV. Most men don't ever show symptoms. They just carry the disease."

Shella's brow furrowed.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"It's alright. It's not life threatening. We will need to perform surgery quickly though."

Shella forced a smile.

"I see."

Shella stood, clutching her purse at her waist.

"Will you please excuse me. I'll just let you two gentlemen talk this out."

Shella rushed through the doctor's office, out the main corridor and down a flight of stairs faster than she could have ever thought possible. Before she knew it she stood at their lifted black truck. She stopped and studied it for a moment. Her eyes peering at every detail.

She flew to the driver's side door and wrenched it open. It didn't matter that the corner of the door cracked the window of the vehicle next to hers. She was on a mission. She tore through the center console, ripping out everything she got her well manicured hands on. When that didn't present any results she moved to the glove box, then under the seats. She was about to start ripping up the carpet floor when Rick came outside.

"What are you doing?" he said.

Shella looked at him. Her sapphire eyes were a hurricane and it was headed right for him.

"How the hell do you have HPV, Richard Torrent?"

"From you, I imagine," he said.

Shella smiled, her tounge prodding her left canine.

"Is that so," she said. "Well I know I haven't had anything to report and do you know how I know? I get this," she gestured at the apex of her legs, "I get this checked by a physician every goddamn month. If I were to have anything she would notice!"

Shella's voice had grown steadily louder as she spoke. The passersby all slowed their journey to where they were going and watched the spectacle. Rick looked around nervously.

"Honey-"

"Don't you honey me, Richard. Or should I say Dick!"

Shella hopped down from the truck and then slammed the door. Straightening her short denim skirt she walked away as fast as her legs would carry her. Although much to her delight Rick followed right behind.

"Honey, I haven't cheated on you." he said to her back.

She pretended to ignore him.

"Who would want to even try? All the women in the office know that you have a mean streak a mile long. You have weapons on your finger tips!"

Shella cracked a smile and all it did was enfuriate her more. She balled her fists, stopped abruptly, and spun to meet him face to face.

"Then tell me something I don't know."

Rick opened his mouth to speak but couldn't seem to find the words. He hung his head and shook it back and forth.

"Do you remember when we were in high school-"

"It was only six years ago, Rick, I'm sure I can remember that far-"

Rick put a hand over her mouth.

"Just listen for a second. I haven't cheated on you while we've been married. There was this one time in tenth grade when we broke up and I saw Susie Lee. We went on a couple of dates but I just wanted you."

Slutty Susie Lee she thought.

"That was the only time I've been with any other woman."

Relief washed over her shoulders and the fire receded quickly back into her chest. She relaxed for only a moment until she thought what this meant. But then her curiosity got the better of her.

"So, if you have it, why don't I?"

The corner of Rick's mouth tried to touch his ear, as he rubbed the back of his head.

"Well," he said, "Honey, I've never... Done anything with my mouth."

Shella looked around nervously. HIs voice was already low but it wasn't low enough. If someone should hear she would be mortified.

"Yeah, because it's disgusting. And thank god I feel that way or I'd have it. Stupid, slutty, Susie Lee."

Prompt 12 of 31

I'm doing everything but writing, it would seem. Especially since I missed the last four days of writing my prompts because I was in Las Vegas carousing with my two best friends. Our evenings were spent gambling, drinking, and laughing. Only a third of the entire trip is a mindless blank. Either way it was such reckless abandon that kept me from my self assigned task. Now, back in the real world of obligations and schedules I am forced to pick up where I left off and I can do little if any at all. I'm worthless right now. I want to just sit and stare off into space but that will gain me nothing. Well, it would if I was letting my mind wander through a new story but I doubt that will happen. Only through working on a new prompt will my mind and writing be tested. So thus I give you number 11 of 31 (I will most certainly pull double duty soon to get my prescribed amount.)

The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 110 "A train travels from Paris to Rome. there are several interesting characters staying in the sleeping cars. Write about what happens to each of them during the night: 1)an older married couple... 2) two young women who agree to share a room... 3) a football goalie who, earlier, that evening gave up the winning goal."

Start time: 9:07

The tiny serpent, Malk, with glowing red eyes slithered through the ducts of the train. It's small ears listened intently over the soft scratches of the budding spikes on his back against the metal of the tube. He was sent on a mission to find those deemed fit for departure to another place. Yet none were viable specimens. MOst had been asleep as he passed by their portion of the sleeping car. He thought of listening to their thoughts while they dreamt but that had always proven deadly in the past and would not root out a worthy candidate anyway.

"Ridiculous," he hissed quietly to himself. "Why couldn't he do it."

Finally he came to a compartment with an elderly couple readying for bed. The man helped his wife slip off her dress and shoes and into a silk nightgown with frilly sleeves. The wife did the same for her husband.

Malk rolled his eyes and curled up to watch. They had been the first to be awake and he wanted to make sure that they weren't the ones.

"What did you think of the Eiffel tower tonight, my love?" The man asked as he sat back with care.

His wife sighed happily.

"Even more exquisite as ever. I remember when you proposed to me," she looked at him wryly, "And how on the train ride home we made love."

The old man beamed his crooked smile.

"Would you like to do that again, my sweet?"

His wife gasped and looked about the compartment as if to see if others were about.

"I don't know if we should."

"I still can," he said.

Malk's stomach gave a lurch and bile rose up through his throat. He gulped it back down and slithered away as fast as he could. He knew they would have been a waste of his time, but he had to at least make certain. One time he had missed an opportunity when the husband had descended onto his nagging wife, choking the life out of her. Afterwards he had emerged from the compartment screaming that his wife had died in her sleep. He would have been perfect. Although the two never gave any such sign of animosity.

The next compartment was bursting with activity. He viewed it through the slats in the grate. On one said sat a blonde with her knees pulled up to hide her chest, with her arms wrapped around them. On the opposite side was a girl working intently on her cell phone, her thumbs flying madly over the glass screen.

"Are you sure there's nothing else?"

The girl glanced up from her phone for only a second. "Yes," she replied tersely.

The girl shifted in her seat and lowered her legs for a moment to throw them onto the bench of the compartment.

"This is ridiculous. Why can't you ride somewhere else? Certainly you could stay in the dining car. You seem like you would enjoy that."

The girl with the phone froze in place. Through Malk's eyes he saw the tension between them growing like a black orb, pulsing and swirling like a dark sun. His scaly skin tingled with anticipation.

"Yes," he whispered.

The two girls looked up at the vent.

'What was that," the girl with the phone said.

"Probably the air kicking on. It's insanely hot in here. You take up a lot of the cool air."

The girl with the phone gave her a sour look.

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Yes it does! I'm saying you're a fat cow."

The girl with the phone dropped it to the seat. It bounced once before settling in the crack.

"You want to say that again? I could take your skinny ass."

The other girl rose and quickly discovered that the other girl may have been bulky but she had also had height to portion it out. The two exchanged glares until the compartment door slid open and a young man poked his head in. The short girl's mouth fell open and she froze.

"Hello, Michelle, my belle," the boy said. He took a step in, while he held onto the side of the entry.

"Bonjour, mon ami," the girl with the phone replied.

"I just wanted to see how you're doing. I so appreciate you finding another car to stay in. It's not every day I get to see my family. I didn't know they were all going to come to Rome for the concert."

"no a problem."

"Do you need anything?" the boy asked.

The girl smiled and shook her head. And with that the boy left.

The shorter girl spun around furiously and rushed toward Michelle, who quickly responded with a right hook across the girl's chin. She spun around and fell into the bench seat.

Malk shifted excitedly. He knew his moment was about to arrive.

BUt the shorter girl was not deterred she quickly rose to her feet and, keeping a safe distance, smiled excitedly at Michelle.

"You know Aaron Rose? You TRAVEL with the greatest singer of all time?"

Michelle looked taken aback. Her brow met above her pointed nose.

"Perhaps." Michelle looked unsure.

The shorter girl screamed and rushed forward, wrapping her arms around the stranger and bouncing her up and down.

Malk hissed angrily and slithered to another compartment. He hated teenage girls. They were always hot and cold. One minute they were the most vicious conniving creatures and the next joyful and friendly the next.

The next few compartments were the same, filled with sleeping riders. Frustration began to buzz behind his eyes and he wanted to bite the next person he saw. But he knew if he marked an unworthy human his master would be angry. He might even punish him with eternal agony. He could hear his master's word echo across his memory. "I'll send you back to the depths where I found you if you fail."

Malk was determined and picked up his speed. The next few compartments were duds. One even had a football player in it. But all that radiated from him was disappointment and failure. Strong emotions, sure, but they would not be worthwhile to Malk's mission so he kept on. Finally he reached the end of the car and had to travel through the vent at the end and carefully make his way to the next.

Once he was safely inside he found more compartments of the same, except for one. A man quietly rose from the bed with a sleeping woman. He dressed just as carefully and slipped out the door. Malk could tell something was amiss and followed him down the hall, peeking in through the vents to make sure he still had sight of him. He found him in the restroom. The man looked both ways down the hall before he stepped in and shut the door.

The man went to the mirror and examined himself with a smile. The pride and anticipation radiated from him in red hot waves. Malk was exuberant.

"What is your secret," he hissed quietly. The man, so enraptured with his own image, didn't seem to notice.

A knock sounded at the door and he rushed to open it. He stuck his head out first and then returned with a woman in his wake. She threw herself into his arms and the two began kissing passionately. He moved his hands up her body, simultaneously lifting her dress.

"Did your wife notice," the woman said in between kisses.

"No," the man said. He pressed her up against the wall and squatted before her, kissing her as he went.

Malk couldn't believe his luck. Betrayal. Lies. Pride. HIs master would be ecstatic at such a find. With that he closed his eyes and breathed out all of the air in his body, turning his being into a dried up husk. A black cloud of smoke moved through the spaces in the grate and traveled in a whisp across the small space. He lingered for a moment, letting the man get more of his indecent pleasure in before he was marked.

The man stood again and the two kissed.

Now he thought and he dove for their heads.

The smoke gathered about their heads and set their eyes burning. The two secret lovers hacked and coughed, separating for just a moment, allowing Malk to escape out the crack at the bottom of the door.

He quickly traveled to the end car of the train where his master sat amongst the luggage and other things. He was crumpled up weak in the corner. A blanket over his bony shoulders. His skin was tight against his skull and pale white. His purple eyes protruded from their sockets, staring emptily into space.

"Master," Malk hissed.

The shadow of a man moved only his eyes to the whisp of cloud moving through the car.

"Is it done," he said, with a hoarse voice.

"Yes," Malk hissed.

The ceatures master stood up slowly.

"Join me," he said.

Malk's Master made his way to the marked strangers with his hand against one thing or another, with the other clutching his shawl.

When he reached them he threw open the door and stepped inside.

The woman screamed and man got angry.

"Get the fuck out of here," he screamed shoving Malk's master against the door.

The feeble man began to chuckle and then plunged his hand, with it's sharp talons, into the man's chest and wrapped his fingers around the man's beating heart. The cheating man gasped as a dark matter coursed through Malk's Master's veins. The man turned to dust and fell to the floor. The woman screamed again as her blue eyes looked in terror at the man that had turned a deep hue of blood and sprouted tiny horns from his forhead.

"Your turn," he said and descended upon the woman.

Malk watched from the corner as a thin whisp of cloud praying to his Master that he would be rewarded.

Standing before the whisp of cloud was a fully formed monster, the likes the world hadn't seen for over centuries.

"Did I did well," Malk said.

The purple eyes of his master settled on him. He grinned, revealing a mouthful of dagger-like teeth.

"Yes," he said.

He opened his mouth and stuck out a forked tounge that tasted the air. In a tiny explosion Malk returned to his former serpent form over ten times the size. He landed on a toilet that crumbled beaneath him.

"Let's take the rest of them," his master said and stepped into the hall.