I am not proud of this one at all...

This was not one of my bests. After a quick re-read I was thoroughly disappointed.  It's either because I'm a little bit tipsy or I'm just a terrible writer.  Whatever the case may be, I promised I would do a prompt and here it is.  With massive errors and all. I could edit it and have it not suck but... Meh.
A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems and Zachary Petit
January 10
Snow Day
“Write about a day during your elementary school years when school was cancelled due to snow. Remember waking up to the “good” news? How did you fill your newfound free time?”

My initial reaction to this prompt was that of a typical Southern Californian. We don’t experience snow days. Although it is not true. While my town is not really in an area with likely snowfall, it could happen, theoretically. That is, if the stars aligned and rain was in the forecast. While it can get below freezing in the San Joaquin Valley, unless it rains the chances of it snowing are really slim. Especially since we typically have an awful lot of sunny days. Which is why our entire state has been in a drought for some time.
The one and only snow day I ever got I remember very well. My mom woke me up at six in the morning. She whispered to me that she had something very important to show me. I was annoyed and told her I wanted to sleep. She assured me in the softest voice, that I would not be disappointed.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I walked across the hall to my mother’s bathroom where she had the window open. I looked through the undistorted view at the most beautiful scene I have ever witnessed.
In our backyard is a kidney shaped pool, with a large fiberglass rock waterfall at it’s head. There is even a matching fiberglass planter just to the left. In the summer it’s very beige and our backyard is typically very brown, except for the lush greenery in one corner. This particular morning every surface was covered in soft white powder. The flakes were still drifting down in small flakes.
My heart skipped a beat. “Wow” was all I could say.
In my younger years I went to a private Christian school. During the first year we moved from true southern California to the San Joaquin Valley, I would pray every day in class for snow. I drove my other classmates nuts. I distinctly remember this one morning there was a heavy layer of frost on the grass and this one classmate of mine said, “There’s your snow. Now will you stop praying?” This particular girl regularly hated me. So I just smiled and said no. (Believe me, she was a cunt of the highest order. She was one of the kind who hated me purely because I was fat.)
From my parent’s bathroom I rushed to the front door and looked out at my usually drab world covered in a glistening blanket.
The thing that sticks with me, just as vivid as the moment I stepped out the front door that day, was how silent it was. The silence was so other worldly. It was beautiful, but like the modern world tends to be, it was a true silent. Cutting through the serene silence was the snapping, cracking, of the trees. They were unfamiliar with the weight of the snow on their limbs and were growing weak as they attempted to keep them raised.
I rushed back inside and grabbed our old film camera and starting snapping photos. What came out was so very disappointing. The photos were very dark and did not, in the slightest, capture how it had looked when I took them. To make it worse, the flakes passed right in front of the lens and looked freakish in the photos. Almost like misshapen specters sailing through the air. Me being obsessed with the paranormal, fantasized that to be the case.
By some miracle, the school cancelled instruction for the day. My school typically didn’t even do fog delays like the other schools in the valley. So, it was so exciting to have a whole day to play in the snow.
The cold powder lasted until about midday and it began to melt. Our location is not conducive for the life of snow. Ultimately the only thing I did that day was build snowman cheerleaders in the formation of a two tier, pyramid. (Yeah. I wasn’t gay.)
It has been almost 20 years since that happened and the people in my town still talk about the snow day.

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?”

Right Wrongs Make it Right

This prompt was a tough one.  It took me more time than it should have to come up with a “coherent” story that wouldn’t require an exorbitant amount of explanation or plotting.  I’m actually rather proud of myself.  It’s not too bad.  Granted highly, HIGHLY, unlikely to ever happen, but that’s what makes it fiction.  Right?

A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A Klems and Zachary Petit

January 7
High Time
“Write a story that takes place somewhere extremely high-space, an airplane, a tower-but that features two characters doing the lowest things for what they believe is a worthy cause.”

 

The earth fell away from the small two man airplane and turned into a quilt stretched out unevenly over the land.  Ferris had studied the aerial night and day the past few months, studying landmarks to guide him on his journey.  Sloshing noisily behind him was a concoction of his own making.  It was a combination of pesticides one more potent than the last.  Very soon he would drop it onto the largest pests of all, mankind.

The plot had hatched in the wee hours of the night, like all good ideas.  At first he was hesitant and fearful to adopt his epiphany, but with each passing day he inundated himself with scientific studies of the harm man was doing to the earth.  The sea levels were rising, the ice melting, and the climates were shifting from what they had been for millennia. 

There were claims that this was the natural way of things.  It was just the earth evolving into a new age as it had done ages ago when the earth cooled and it was an ice age. Regardless of their theories it was evident to Ferris that the statistics didn’t lie.  The end was nigh if he did not do something about it.

For a moment he had contemplated a nuclear bomb, wiping out the major cities, but there was no easy way for him to even get a hold of that technology.  If it was someone would have done it long ago.  Ferris even contemplated getting someone to hack into the government mainframe and find out the launch codes.  Yet again, he was dreaming bigger than he could actually achieve.

It wasn’t until one day, when he was driving down the San Joaquin Valley when he saw the agriculture plane, with it’s elongated pipe, pouring pestisides on some grapes, that it became crystal clear.

The only problem was the money.  To buy a craft of that size it would take some hefty change and he wasn’t really rolling in it, while working at McDonald’s.  It was good pay but not for taking down a blight on the earth.  That’s when he came up with the idea of crowdfunding. The only question was, does he put his true purpose on the site or create a rosy fantasy?  In the end he thought, no one would really believe he was building a weapon to exterminate human kind, so he put it up there.  He figured, people would think it was a joke and donate for the laugh.  Like the homeless that stand on the side of the road with the cardboard sign “let’s be honest, I just want beer.” In certain circumstances he knew people who deliberately gave the man change because of his humorous honesty.

Within two days of his scheduled end date he raised the money.  Now, he just had to find a plane.  Despite having nothing really to stimulate the mind, the San Joaquin Valley was the cradle of agriculture in California and many farmers were willing to sell an old plane to upgrade to a new one.

Equipped with a plane all that was left were the pesticides.  Yet that was the easiest thing to acquire more than anything.  Plus, spreading out his purchases over the course of the year raised no such suspicion.  Although, just to cover his tracks, he created a fake agriculture company to buy the deadly chemicals.

Ferris wanted to go big for his first outing.  He wanted to attack the largest of all the polluters in the nation and luckily it was just two hours south of home.

Los Angeles was a glimmering destroyer of the earth and the logical choice for destruction.

Ferris kept a steady altitude until he crossed over the Los Angeles National forest and when he got closer to la-la-land he began to descend.  His mouth began to salivate as he thought of all the good he would do for the earth.  If only he had gotten a group together and form a coalition to save the planet from ultimate destruction.

After this, he thought.

He descended dangerously low over north Hollywood where he pulled the lever and filtered the poison through the air.  In time they would all pay for what they’ve done.  The snooty low-lifes who call for action but fail to act themselves.  They were hypocrites.  He was doing something.  He was making a difference.

He arched his way over toward Santa Monica.  On this mid-July it would be an absolute guarantee that he would find sun worshippers at the beach.  There he could claim so many lives for mother earth.

When the beige hem of the ocean came into view, with the people laying scattered like blisters he pulled the lever even further, pouring out as much as he could. 

It was then that he realized the major flaw in his plan.  His months of plotting had failed to realize that this would have to be a one-time thing.  Soon he would run out of fuel.  The likelihood of an airport allowing him to land was highly unlikely.

Panic ran through his body like ice in his veins. 

I have to get home. He turned and pointed the propeller north, pouring the earth saving potion until every was spilled.

As his plane sailed gently over the mountains, guarding the valley a fighter jet screeched toward him, launching a missile and ending his flight in a cloud of black smoke.

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.

Inspired by Drunk History

So... I already know what I'm going to write. I saw the prompt a couple hours ago when I had intended on writing (but didn't of course) and have been mulling it over in my head ever since.  And what I came up with I am rather proud of my lazy self.  So, here it goes...
A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A Klems & Zachary Petit
January 5
Power Outage
Storms have knocked out the power.  You find the flashlight and make shadow bunnies on the wall, but you can tell the kids are not amused.  So instead you decide to tell a scary story.  Create a story that would scare even the toughest of teenagers.

"Guess what kids," Gary said, "I heard rumblings that a hacker has wormed his way into the power grid and this is permanent!"
Gary's two teenage sons, Ryan and Travis, pick themselves up off of the couch and amble into the other room. away from their father.
"Just you wait and see."
Little did they know how right their father was, and four days without electricity, and no way to check their e-mail, facebook, twitter, instagram, or without the ability to text, their eyeballs bled out and they wasted away until their skin was taut across their bones.
As Gary laid his kids to the earth behind their suburban home, the air still thick with smoke, he said, "I told you, you sonsabitches."

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.