Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts

24 June 2016

The Mudslide and the Hemingway App

I used the Hemingway App to proof this piece for passive voice and clarity. Great tool now that Microsoft removed their passive voice feature from Word 2016.

The Mudslide

I was sick last year with the flu. I ran a fever which I can’t tell you how high because I’d given up on looking for a thermometer. I slept on the sofa the evening my fever broke, and I dreamed something frightening. I experienced a mudslide.

This was no ordinary mudslide like the countless ones you might see on the evening news. It did not contain debris like collapsed houses, uprooted trees and power lines. It was smooth and dark, like a giant Tootsie roll. Don’t laugh, because that’s not what I would call frightening.

It all started while I was at some resort, by myself. It was a couples resort and I was there alone and something did not feel right. The ambiance was off. The aftermath of a disaster appeared before me and it was calm, like the eye of a storm. Everybody stood around and looked relieved as if they’d just escaped death!

People smiled at me, their eyes lit up as if giving thanks for my presence. And then this man motioned for me to climb out of this pit. He lifted the net which covered the opening of the pit. I reached for his hand and tried to climb out, but my shoe lace got tangled up in the net. At this point, the net came alive and climbed up my leg to snatch me away.

Terrifying screams sprang from all directions as the man pulled me from the pit. He grabbed a knife from a sleeve on his hip and sliced the net away from my laces. With a violent hiss, the pit sucked the net in like a vacuum cleaner consuming a hair ball.


Leave a comment and let me know what you think of this piece and if you believe the Hemingway App would be useful to you. Try it here.




I won't show you the original, it was horrendous. :) I changed my mind. Look at the photo just above.


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04 April 2016

Dude, You Got Game!

So let me remind you all, in my A to Z Challenge, my short story titles start with the letter of the day, and today is the letter D!

After my last story, Charles on Weed and Feed, (which Charles informed me he read), he kindly noted that today would be "D-day". Oh my. That's the first letter of MY name (Diane, the antagonist).

Okay, so I get a chance to continue the story. What, what?! :D

Seems like our protagonist, Charles, has learned to pick up his game in the chat department. There IS hope in this romance, ya'll!




You know this man is a sport for allowing this. :)


A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P-Q-R-S-T-U-V-W-X-Y-Z



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03 April 2016

Charles on Weed and Feed

A little background before you read the next story, which is in the context of a chat just to mix things up a bit. This is a flash fiction romance story between Diane Carlisle (that's me) and the new man in her life, a guy named Charles. His last name is omitted to protect his identity, of course. 

Charles is today's protagonist. Watch him on his journey as he sets out to help the poor lady spread Weed and Feed in her yard. You see, Diane purchased the concentrated mix because she has a degree in Computer Science and therefore, can read instructions.






A
-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P-Q-R-S-T-U-V-W-X-Y-Z



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02 April 2016

Beetle Juice

The warmth of the sun produced enough moisture on the tanned surface of the man's skin, just enough so the landing would go unnoticed. Here we go...gently. Ease on down and hunker between the soft hairs just below the knee.

Feather-light feet press gently into the sweat, barely touching the skin. The absence of traction does not interfere with penetration. The sweet nectar feeds the hungry insect and her vessel swells with nourishment. Ignorance is bliss.

A sudden rupture. A bursting warmth. Darkness.


The End



brevity
[brev-i-tee]
noun
1. shortness of time or duration; briefness
2. the quality of expressing much in few words


A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P-Q-R-S-T-U-V-W-X-Y-Z



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01 April 2016

April Fools!

by Diane Carlisle

Yes, I did say I was participating in the A-Z Challenge (and I am), but did you really think I could come up with a short story every day? I can't even finish the one I've been working on for the past five years! Okay, but still, I'm sharing the word Apathy from an old post back in 2011. I will begin my stream of consciousness writing for all the days I can't seem to find a story in me. I promise!

But this one below is a story. Enjoy!

From Dictionary.com - apathy   [ap-uh-thee] noun, plural -thies.

1. Absence or suppression of passion, emotion, or excitement.
2. Lack of interest in or concern for things that others find moving or exciting.


Squeegee


The floating scaffold moved side to side, sloshing about the soapy water in his bucket. He whipped the squeegee downward in a quick motion, the excess fluid sprayed off into the wind like a mist. The muffled voices inside just another part of the scenery, a hundred feet in the air in front of his 15th window of the day.

The screaming on the other side seemed like a movie playing in the background. He pressed the spongy strip to the glass and made square patterns on the surface, the liquid dripping toward the bottom pane and carrying a summer’s worth of dust and pigeon shit in its stream. A green and white speck hitched a ride inside a soapy bubble the size of a nickel.

The woman threw a vase across the room, "I hate you!"

The man ducked and the fixture shattered against a closed door.

He'd witnessed this scene before in his own living room, back when Margie used to watch the Soap Operas. He would leave her alone, engrossed in her favorite episodes. Something else could occupy his time. Make a sandwich. Swat at flies. Anything.

He flipped the squeegee over to its rubber side and pulled downward, pressing hard against the glass. The water flowed quickly, gravity forcing the drips to race each other to the bottom.

In two large strides, the man closed the gap between himself and the woman, placing his hands around her neck. He looked angry.

The wind shifted the scaffold back and forth and the clean surface he just uncovered gleamed in contrast to the rest of the window. He again placed the squeegee back to the top and pulled down. A pigeon stopped in for a visit and perched itself on a side panel.

“Hello there little fellow.”

The pigeon cooed back at him.

The woman tried kicking and punching, but she looked as if she was losing in her struggle for air. Her punches and kicks slowed down and then she was still.

"People will be people, eh?" he said to the pigeon and then raised the squeegee to remove the rest of the soapy liquid before moving on to his next window.



A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P-Q-R-S-T-U-V-W-X-Y-Z


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22 March 2016

My 2016 A to Z Challenge Theme

I've chosen my theme for the 2016 A-Z Challenge. Every day in April, I will use the letter of that day to begin the titles of each post, because each post in April will be a "short" short story. Not even flash fiction, because I will try to keep them all under 500 words, some may be as short as 100 words, but I will ensure they are all complete stories!

This is my challenge to myself, so come along and pray that I don't screw this up by experiencing writer's block before I am able to finish the challenge!



A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P-Q-R-S-T-U-V-W-X-Y-Z


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27 September 2014

Ferret Flash Fiction - A Furry Tale

A Furry Tale, get it? Hahahaha!!

Once upon a time, there was a ferret named Shogun. He was the master of all ferret sages. Shogun carried with him the wisdom of several weeks training, learning the rollover skill. He carried himself with great pride and dignity, and whenever put to task, he accepted the challenge with great poise and inner pleasure a mere human could never fathom.


I accept your challenge, you
weak human!


No challenge ever phased Shogun, and so the master human placed before the mighty Shogun a new task. Extract the pink astral sphere from the domain of The Ninja Spirit.




The hell?! Did you say
The Ninja Spirit?



Before the master of all ferrets approached the domain of The Ninja Spirit, the flying weasel sprung from her abode and pounced on the mighty sage, leaving him stunned. The Shogun, dazed and confused, leaped from the ground and gained his composure.



That's me, bitch! Let's do this...


The Ninja Spirit was half the size of Shogun, and so they each fought their battles in their own unique style. Shogun with brute force, The Ninja Spirit, light and quick. They both fought valiantly and neither waned in their determination to win. The Ninja Spirit, defending that which was rightly hers...Shogun, driven by ambition and pride while seeking the glory in the acquisition of the pink astral sphere.


It's ON now!




Showcasing my favorite drinks in this campaign for #millerlite and #tab. Love my Ninja and Shogun .
Posted by Diane Henderson Carlisle on Saturday, December 19, 2015




When the battle was over, The Ninja Spirit paused with caution, taking in shallow breaths. Still shocked at her loss, she watched on as the ferret sage extracted the pink astral sphere from her branded domain. Without her sphere, she would have to find another place to practice her skills and build on her talents.



Mine! All MINE!!


With yet another challenge mastered, Shogun's desire to return with the sphere to share his success with the master human diminished. It no longer felt like success to simply take what belonged to another. He didn't get any real satisfaction after the acquisition. In fact, he bored quickly by the knowledge he did not actually use any of his skills to achieve this goal.



I will use the transform spell
and create!!


The Shogun, via the creative mind of the writer, mastered the transform spell in only five minutes. He felt better about learning new things, but he knew it would take lots of practice to master this newly acquired skill. But, he was impatient as all hell!



"Transform into a whole bag of
chicken flavored treats!"


Being the newbie that he was at transforming, Shogun made a very shameful mistake. The first incantation of the transform spell usually backfires when seeking objects inspired by one's own greed. Instead of a bag of chicken flavored treats he'd attempted to produce, Shogun had managed to transform the pink astral sphere into a new abode for The Ninja Spirit. A very nice one, too!



The Ninja Spirit learned the transform spell
many years ago, sucker! But thanks.


THE END


The moral of this story? You can take away my spirit, but you can't replace my knowledge. Please read more ferret fun on my blog. If you enjoy my ferrets, Shogun and Ninja, as much as I enjoy sharing, leave a comment and let me know to produce more! They ask that you please like them on Facebook. :)



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21 July 2013

Spirit Island - The Passage

Another Writers Weekend has passed and I'm sharing my flash fiction piece. Remember, the log line is at the very end.

***

Gilda coaxed the stone crab closer to the treasure, much of which had spilled from its cast iron box. An array of coins and jewels glimmered in the sand from the moonlight casting shadows across the isolated island. An ancient oil lamp lay upon the bed of jewels, the circular lid barely cracked open. She'd made the discovery three days ago, but who's counting?

On June 12th of 1762, she fell to her death from the docks of Montego Bay. The icy, cold water had left her paralyzed and she had waited what seemed forever to be rescued. Nobody heard her cries and when exhaustion overcame her, she accepted her fate and let the salty water consume her body and fill her lungs as she sank to the bottom of the inlet before losing consciousness.



Several hundred years must have passed, yet it felt more like several hundred lifetimes. She'd spent these years alone, wandering the island, with no companion other than the occasional crab which scurried up the bank and picked at decaying shellfish left behind by the receding tide. At times, a school of porpoises would jump in the distance against the backdrop of the horizon, reminding her of the world from which she'd been stolen.


The stone crab inched closer to the lamp and Gilda sang to reward him for his progress. When he climbed over the lid of the lamp, it popped off and sent the crab onto its back. He flailed about with his prickly legs and pincers, and then managed to flip himself upright and skitter off. Nothing but a puff of smoke and dust had escaped the lamp.


It was the most exciting thing to have happened in the several hundred years of haunting this deserted place, that Gilda's disappointment cut deep, "Oh how I wish more spirits could walk this island with me. Why must I be the only one?"

Her ghostly tears fell and the island grew silent when the lapping waters on the shore slowed to a stop.

A stout old man rose from the shoreline, cleaning his monocle. He looked up and placed the piece in his left eye, then smiled and waved at Gilda. Two ladies arrived behind him. They hovered close to one another, whispering in each other's ear. Neither waved to Gilda like the old man did, but they nodded their heads as if acknowledging her presence.

What to make of all this? For several days they all stood around and looked at each other, the only means of communication being a polite smile and a wave. Several other ghosts had arrived and all took to the same approach for communicating. The disconnect saddened Gilda further. It was worse than when she was alone. At least when it was only her, she didn't have to pretend to be happy.

"If only there were things to do together,” she voiced. “Ghostly things, even.” Her altruism and naivety pricked at her soul. “We would all communicate and get to know each other. Oh how I wish we could communicate!" Still, the island slept and a few porpoises bounced from the sea.

"Excuse me, miss?"

He must have been a new arrival. Gilda had not seen this spirit before. His hair barely touched his shoulders and his chiseled chest peaked out from a white, silk shirt, open at the top. Crystal blue eyes waited for her to speak.

Mesmerized by his voice, she barely got out her response. "Yes?"

He held up a deck of cards. "Would you like to play some Rummy with me?"

Gilda's spirit experienced an energy level she'd not felt in a long time. "I'm delighted!" She had to work hard not to sound like a squealing pig.

Blasts of laughter and the occasional shouting in the background drowned out any doubt the next several hundred years would play out much better than the first.

***

Jase smiled at her and winked. “I love the way your eyes light up when you see me.” They had met several days in a row by the hollow oak in order to escape the gossip of Gilda becoming smitten with the new guy.

He stretched out on the sand next to her and propped himself up on one elbow, his attention completely on her. When she told jokes, his laughter was genuine. When she spoke of her past and her desires to right what had gone wrong, he applauded her without question.

This made her ache inside. If she had a working heart, it would burst from wanting to hold him. This aching desire to be in his arms had grown stronger each day.



“If only I could hold you and feel the strength in your arms.” The words had escaped her before she could stop herself.

The seriousness in his eyes she’d not seen before made her blush if ever a ghost could do so.

“If I could hold you, Gilda, you would feel the strength of something other than my arms. I promise you.”

He said it with such seriousness her soul fell for the lack of support, the desire killing her. “My goodness, Jase, I can’t keep doing this.”

“What’s wrong, love?” His voice caring, yet strained with desire.

“I ache every day I realize I cannot touch you and feel you against me. The day I died in that bay, I felt so alone. But now I have you, yet my desire is killing me. What is happening?”

“A ghost in love is a ghost whose spirit is dying.” He reached over to touch her cheek and she felt nothing but the air and the unrelenting, familiar ache.

She grabbed for his wrist and felt nothing but the impotent air escaping her clenched fists, “I don’t want to die without you!”  A jab to her soul, an aching for the tears, hot and flowing down her cheeks, reminded her of the inability to feel his warmth. “I wish we could live together in the flesh!”



When he leaned in to kiss her, the warmth of his lips coursed through her body and his arms pulled her so close she felt the pounding in his chest beat against hers. There were no thoughts, just the feeding of desire. He took her and she accepted, all of him. Silence fell upon the island as they celebrated in the flesh and sought to release each other. They cried out in unison at the highest peak, and when their breathing leveled off, Gilda felt Jase roll off and collapse onto his back.

“What have I done, Jase?" Gilda said as an after thought. "We’re both stranded now, without food or shelter.” She didn't really care about that, it just occurred to her.

“I’ll build us a boat.” He placed a kiss on her forehead and smiled down at her.

“The boat better be big enough to carry some treasure.” How could she have forgotten about that? She never even showed him the treasure.



Six months later, as they set sail with their treasure box, the stout old man with his monocle waved from the shoreline.  The other ghosts behind him approached the shoreline as well, waving and smiling. Gilda smiled and waved back while Jase worked the sails. She would always remember this place as home. But now, she was off on an adventure with the love of her life!

The End

My log line -A ghost finds treasure on a deserted island.

I hope you enjoyed this, and if you did, stop by the Writers Weekend and join the fun each week!






14 July 2013

Welcome Aboard, M'lady!

Today I'm participating in Writer's Weekend 1 and sharing the story I wrote, all while abiding by restrictive guidelines. The "loglines" were pre-determined, which makes it more difficult, yet challenging to the creative muse. The "logline" I chose is shared at the end (please don't scroll down and ruin it!).   I hope you enjoy my story!

Welcome Aboard, M'lady!

Sir Grant Bennigan placed his right hand over the deck of cards on the wooden table. He lifted a quarter of the deck and picked up a single card from the top. “Yours?” he said to his brother and tossed the Ace of Spades over toward him.

Marcus yawned. “Card tricks? Are you that bored?”


The high seas swelled gently, a contrast to the crashing waves from the earlier storms. The Regallion Princess, a three masted barque, had remained in the family despite the controversies that flared upon the passing of their father, Sir Walter Bennigan.

Grant sighed and walked to the cabin window. The Pacific Ocean presented a peaceful glow, the moon glimmering on the horizon. “The boredom will pass soon, I suspect. More storms are coming.”

“How long before we dock?”

Grant rolled a large cherry flavored tobacco leaf and struck a sulfur tipped match across his leather belt. “At least four nights,” he said, before lighting up and filling the cabin with the fresh cherry aroma.

Marcus waved the smoke from his face, “You seek an early grave, my brother,” a bitter tone in his voice.

“It’s my only vice.” Grant scratched his chin, noting the days of growth on his face.

“And the occasional harlot.”

Grant stared at his brother. Oh Marcus, the virginal Marcus, with his sinister attitude always judging.  “Every port should have a handful of available ladies. It’s not like we have pickings out here in the middle of the ocean.”

Their current mission would take them into Port Castillo on the Valparaíso Bay, one of the larger bodies of the Pacific. Its massive trade venues always attracted seamen from around the world. It would be a great opportunity for the brothers to entertain the crowds with their magic and wares.


Marcus stood up, put his dinner plate into a tin basin, and reached into the cabinet above for his Whiskey. “This is all the companion I need.” He held up the bottle and gave a quick nod. “I shall retire.”

Grant looked back to his brother, but Marcus had performed his usual vanishing act. It was his best trick, unlike levitation and other illusions which had been perfected by the older brother. The captain pulled on his tobacco a few more times and stubbed it out in a bronze bowl before returning to his quarters. The calm seas would give him a good rest.

The next morning, though the skies glared gray and ominous, the slight choppiness of the water only hinted of brewing storms.

“Captain!”

The spoon fell onto the floor. The calling for his attention had broken the levitation spell. He cursed and pushed his way toward the outer deck.

A few of the men pulled a body onto the ship from a lifeboat they had apparently lifted from the sea.

“What’s going on? Where’s Marcus?” Grant asked.

“Captain, we called out for Marcus. He’s not answering this morning.”

The woman’s body was limp and pale in the deckhand’s arms, her frail torso and limbs covered in wet clothing. “She’s alive, sir.” Long blonde strands of wet hair plastered her cheeks.

“Take her inside,” Grant said, pointing toward the stern. “And the rest of you, man the ship!” He turned and followed the deckhand into the cabin. When they reached the entryway to the sleeping quarters, the Captain pointed to his own room.

“But sir—“

“I know. We do not have a maiden to assist. I’ll take care of her.”

He watched over her for the next several hours while the storm pitched The Regallion Princess to higher crests. The woman’s lips barely parted and her eyelashes, now dry, fluttered against the draft in the room.



He wondered what it would be like to lie next to her, to feel her cheek against his skin as she rested her head upon his bare chest. He wondered how she would respond to his touch, if he could feel her soft skin pressed against his. Would she grow to love him as he did her, forever in his spell.

Marcus entered the room, handed him a rolled, cherry tobacco leaf, and proffered a light. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is.” Grant puffed until the leaf was fully lit.

“Think she’ll make it?” Marcus took a swig from his bottle.

“God, I hope not.” Grant watched the rise and fall of her chest and ached to hold her. Her eyes fluttered and opened slightly and she shivered in her damp clothing. She coughed and tried to sit up. She looked at Grant and Marcus as if attempting to make sense of her whereabouts. Then she screamed an unrelenting scream. Her eyes, wild with fear.

“And here we go,” Marcus said, tipping his bottle again.

The brothers looked at each other, one puffing on his tobacco leaf and the other drinking from his bottle. The woman screamed louder, and continued to scream until the deckhand entered the room and ran to the bedside where she had been crouched, holding onto a bunched up quilt.

“Tis okay, m’lady. Tis okay!”

She put her arms around the deckhand and screamed into his cotton blouse.

A twinge of jealousy struck Grant, overwhelming him with more heartache. If she held onto him the same way, pleading for him never to let go, he would give anything to experience it.

“Please, m’lady. All is well.” The deckhand seemed to calm her.

“Who are they?” The woman cried out, tears staining her cheeks.

The deckhand looked to the center of the room. “That is Sir Grant Bennigan and his brother, Marcus. They will forever haunt The Regallion Princess unless the captain finds a wife, a lady who dies upon this very ship, and greets him in the afterlife. Only then will he settle into a peaceful rest. His brother is merely a companion.”

“A wife? But, he isn’t real. He’s a ghost!”

“Nay. Tis a spirit, m’lady.” The deckhand smiled at the captain and waved.

Grant threw his head back and laughed, but he knew they couldn’t hear him. In time, maybe? He puffed his tobacco and blew a stream of smoke into the air. He wondered if she would ever smell the cherry aroma.

*The End*

My logline: Two brothers, who are magicians, pick up a hitchhiker on a ghost ship.

Okay, so the hitchhiker was not conscious and the only part of the ghost ship were the brothers. It still meets the word count criteria! Hope you enjoyed.

22 May 2013

Google Plus Commenting Feature - My Fix

With the new Google Plus commenting feature turned on, I realize some readers are no longer able to post comments unless they create a Google Plus account. I feel horrible about this restriction and have received a handful of emails from concerned readers. 
In a good faith effort to show I do not wish to exclude anyone from contributing a voice here at Are We There Yet? I've decided to invest in a bulletin board system, fully embedded and integrated with my blog.

You don't have to comment on an article to contribute to the blog. In the forums, you can sign up with Facebook, Twitter, OpenID, Blogger, WordPress, or from any number of accounts and post about writing: flash fiction, short stories, novels, or even link an article. You can create a post about an upcoming event. Do you have a book signing in the future? Post about it. Want to upload the book cover? Go for it.

Anyway, I hope you will take this as an opportunity to become more involved here. I enjoy your comments, so I'm offering more ways for you to comment and share your stuff with me. Check it out. My husband posted a photo of the bay in Key Largo in the events section. It's where we will be spending our anniversary this year. 


25 February 2013

What the Leprechaun Said


This month's prompt at Absolute Write: Suggest-A-Prompt

We have so many good prompt ideas that don't get used, so it's now time to mix it up. Posters get to suggest a prompt for the next blogger in line! Be sure to list the prompt and credit the suggester in your post. My prompt is "What the Leprechaun Said". Thank you, Carol, for this great inspirational challenge!

All that gold...


"He's a legendary figure, Eric." Gracie pulled gently on her son's hand. "We're late. Maybe we can come back later and visit." They shopped every year on St. Patrick's Day because it was her sister's birthday and she always waited until the last minute. Previous years were much easier. Eric's curiosity about the world had grown and there never seemed to be enough time to explain everything.

Eric didn't budge. "Is he good or bad?"

"Well, lots of people think he's good because he brings good luck. That's why he's always around a pot of gold."

"But why does he look like that?"

"Like what, Eric?" Gracie peered at the leprechaun in the display window of Macy's department store, her patience wearing thin. The same leprechaun they put out every year stood in its designated spot, a smile plastered across his green, ceramic face, and his left ear chipped at the top, exposing the white plaster beneath the paint. His lifeless eyes stared out from behind the glass and his hand held up in a gesture, waving hello, or in Gracie’s case, goodbye.

Eric wriggled away from Gracie and approached the window, placing his greasy palms flat against it. "Where is it? Where's the gold you crazy lepachon. Gimme, grrrr!"

Gracie reached down and grabbed Eric by one hand, balancing her packages in the other. "Let's go, Eric."

Unwilling at first, Eric conceded, but kept his eyes on the leprechaun while they walked away.

"Mommy, does the lepachon know where the pot of gold is?" Eric asked while Gracie tucked him into bed that night. She wished she hadn't made him wear a green shirt today and she wished she hadn't mentioned anything about leprechauns, four leaf clovers, and pinching people who didn't wear the festive color.

The reflecting light of the moon beamed through the window, casting shadows on the opposite wall. A waving hand and the outline of the leprechaun and his chipped ear appeared briefly and faded from the shadowy wall.

"Some think so, Eric. But nobody ever really saw a real leprechaun. He's just a fairy-tale character."

"Is Santa Claus a fairy-tale character, mommy?"

"Eric, that's not the same thing, honey."

"But I never saw Santa Clause, and he brings me toys on Christmas. If I ask the lepachon for a pot of gold, do you think he would bring it to me since it's St. Patrick's Day?"

Gracie knew better than to continue this conversation. She kissed Eric on the forehead and turned off the bedside lamp. "Goodnight, Eric."

The night drew on and from the shadows, a whisper. "Psst, Eric..."

***

A searing pain in the pit of her gut woke Gracie in the middle of the night. Eric sat upon her, straddling her like a horse, wriggling a knife through her stomach. "Grrrr, gimme!"

Gracie gasped and grabbed at Eric's hands. The exiting blade sliced her palms open, "What are you doing, Eric!" The pain, the rush of adrenaline, and the warm blood seeping into her night gown, all indications she was not dreaming.

His lifeless eyes looked through her and he plunged the knife in again. "The gold is in there, mommy. It's what the lepachon said!"

THE END

Visit these other participants:

orion_mk3  - Yuppies Who Hate the Family Business
ConnieBDowell   Unexpected Library Encounter
bmadsen   Cupcake Disaster
MsLaylaCakes   Unfortunate Sports
HistorySleuth   Less Than Fortunate Foods
writingismypassion   Blind Date with a Ventriloquist
katci13   Evil Cupid
KitCat   Hunting with Hounds
Angyl78   A Ghost's Bad Day
randi.lee   The Wrong Bar
Lady Cat   Visitors 
pyrosama -  (You Are HERE) What the Leprechaun Said
Ralph Pines -  Under the Bed
dclary -  Warm Kitty, Soft Kitty, Evil Ball of Fur
meowzbark -  Road Trip
SRHowen -  Faded Blue Jeans

14 October 2012

Other Worldly Blog Chain

This month's prompt: 
Otherworldly at Absolute Write

Ghouls, ghosts and things that go bump in the night. Old Hallows Eve, Dia de los Muertos and Halloween. October is the month where the veil between our world and the other things. Therefore, this month is about those things beyond our world, be they scary, funny or anything in between. Write wherever the prompt inspires you, fiction or non-fiction, prose or poetry. Do try to keep things at a PG-13 level, though.

My Otherworldly Weirdness!


Who Art Thou?

"Who's there?" I insist.

The danger looms.

"I am that from which you have escaped many times," the low, raspy voice insists.

"Who are you?"

"I'm not here to harm you, only to help."

The kind sentiment puts me at ease. "You must know my dilemma." I ponder this aloud, attempting to unravel the mystery behind such a gracious offer of support.

The voice continues after a brief chuckle, "Ah, but you see, your dilemma is no mystery to me. By your escaping me, consistently and with much success, I can guess with relative surety what torments you. Your persistence, your tenacity, and your insistence in continuing escapades throughout my lands gives me a very clear picture of who I'm dealing with."

I wonder how I might respond to this interlude. I expect it to be brief. I will make an attempt to flee after I satiate my curiosity.

The dark figure, now looming over me, reaches out and lifts my chin. Red eyes glow brighter than rubies and burn into mine. They unleash a fire into my core, singeing my heart, and encasing its outer layer in a hard, blackened crust.

I feel hot tears fall down my cheeks, yet the curiosity lurks.

The figure speaks a final sentiment before it fades away, "Let your hardened heart heal on the inside. In time, you will understand my purpose in your life. For now, know that I am.


If you enjoyed this theme, please visit the other participants:


pyrosama:  (YOU ARE HERE)
xcomplex:  (post link here)

bmadsen:  (post link here)
bearilou:  (post link here)
CJMichaels:  (post link here)
Damina Rucci:  (post link here)


10 October 2012

My 50,000 Hit Giveaway

It's that time!


We are coming up on 50,000 hits on my blog, therefore I'm holding a giveaway because I do appreciate your support. Please put your creative minds to work. 

I will be giving away a Kindle with a copy of my first short story, Lethal Injection, The Seed. The winner will be chosen by a public vote on the entries for this 100-word flash fiction contest. 

Rules: 

  • You must provide a title (title words do not count toward final word count. 
  • Final word count cannot be more than 100 words. 
  • You must provide an email address in the format of name (at) provider (dot) com. 
  • You must provide title, story and email address in your comment to this blog post. 
  • The theme for this contest is The Seed (should not be your title). 

The contest will end when 20 entries are made or on October 21, 2012, whichever occurs first. I will then put up a voting gadget with each entry and invite people to read the entries and vote. I will leave voting up for one week, ending on October 28, 2012. I will then contact the winner who receives the most votes. I hope you will all participate because I look forward to reading your stories!

Contest over! No more voting, sorry.

25 August 2012

The Importance of Reading in a Text Based RPG


Patrick slipped his headset into place, securing the ear piece and twisting the microphone closer to his mouth. He reached for his bag of Cheetos and grabbed a handful of the thin, corn nuggets, then tossed the bag aside.

Seconds later, Todd's voice streamed through the receiver, "First lesson of a text-based role-playing game is to find a target that will fight back and then see what happens after you attack it."

"Okay, so let's try that newbie farm you were telling me about." Patrick was anxious to get started. He wanted Todd to show him this mysterious new text-based game he'd been playing for the past six months.

"When you see a portal, just type enter portal and it'll teleport you to where I'm at in the game. From there, follow Marythtor. That's me. Oh, and don't forget to wield your weapon."

Patrick nodded once as an assurance to himself that he will follow and learn. Then he logged into the game.

####################

A portal

You enter the portal

You are transported through thin air and arrive at the Eastern Farm!

Marythtor, the swordsman

Marythtor opens a gate

Marythtor leaves east

You follow Marythtor east

You have entered the farmyard!

Marythtor, the swordsman

A Yellow chick

Marythtor looks at A Yellow chick

You look at A Yellow chick

You say, "I should attack the Yellow chick, right?"

Marythtor says, "That's up to you. But you'll never know unless you try it."

You attack A Yellow chick with your tiny fists

You are not wielding a weapon!

A Yellow chick bites you

You are gushing vital fluids!

You hit A Yellow chick with your tiny fists and do little damage

A Yellow chick bites you

You shrug off your mortal coil
















You must pray before you can do anything else

You pray

You have been resurrected in the Temple of Vivoria

Marythtor enters the Temple of Vivoria

Marythtor laughs at you!

####################


Patrick placed a finger to his headset. "Tell me I didn't just die to a little yellow chick."

"That was freaking hilarious!” Todd’s laughter bellowed through. "Did you read the description? Dude, that chick was like seven feet tall. Who the hell attacks a seven foot bird without a weapon?"

Patrick removed his headset and spoke into the mouth piece, "Good night, prick."

The End

If you liked this, you should play Threshold.



10 August 2012

AW Blog Chain - Fursious Forest


This month's theme for the Absolute Write blog chain is Fire and Ice. I've linked all other participating blogs below. I hope you enjoy!


There would be no indication anything was awry with the exception of the shriveled leaves upon the trees and the browning hay-like underbrush. The sun, unforgiving, basted everything exposed to its rays.

These were the main features blanketing the vastness of Fursious’ Forest.  A forest, once green and vibrant, had become parched and decadent. Despite the beauty of the sun's rays and the sparkle of its reflection from the surrounding ponds and streams, the assault continued through the long summer days.  

The heat would not be contained. A spontaneous combustion in the underbrush burst into flames at the foot of a large tree.  The boughs of the oak swayed with the wind and fueled the hunger of the fiery beast which spread out of control, each living thing a conduit to the next.

The fire raged on for several days, obliterating all things in its path, leaving nothing behind but charred wood and ash.  When the flames dithered away, everything in sight lay blackened. White smoke permeated in swirls and all was quiet but the occasional crackle from the remnants on the ground.

Citizens from all walks visited the famous forest, rumored to have been destroyed by villainous demons.  Fursious also made annual trips to the forest to give blessings and to view the remains of the disaster.

He looked upon his forest with sad eyes, but he knew there was hope, no matter the peril which left this land in a state beyond recognition.  He prayed each day to Lord Belphegore, knowing the God of Battle, Rage and Fire would answer.  Years passed, though his faith in reaching Belphegore did not dwindle.

The day came when Fursious received the answer to his prayers. He had made another visit to the ash-filled grounds of the forest which bares his name.  A small blade of grass sprouted on the ground at his feet, so small that he would have missed it if not for the whisper in the wind which begged him to look down.

What had been destroyed years before became a breeding ground for new growth and the years ahead proved to be the most flourishing ever.

Fursious made several trips to the forest, and each year he visited, he brought family and friends to celebrate the new growth of foliage and wildlife.  The devastation had reaped something more powerful. The grass was greener than before and the flowers more vibrant than ever.

A beautiful blanket of new hope had replaced the stagnant and worn brush from the past.  Fursious' Forest had been reborn.

Visit the following participants in this month's blog chain, Fire and Ice!


orion_mk3 - (link to this month's post)
Ralph Pines -  (link to this month's post)
areteus -  (link to this month's post)
Catherine Hall -  (link to this month's post)
bmadsen -  (link to this month's post)
pyrosama -  (YOU ARE HERE)
meowzbark -  (link to this month's post)
BBBurke -  (link to this month's post)
writingismypassion -  (link to this month's post)
wonderactivist -  (link to this month's post)
SusanneSees-  (link to this month's post)
randi.lee -  (link to this month's post)
Proach -  (link to this month's post)
BigWords - (link to this month's post)
magicmint -  (link to this month's post)
tomspy77 -  (link to this month's post)




14 July 2012

Independence and Slavery Blog Chain


The July2012 Blog Chain theme at Absolute Write is Independence and Slavery. I hope you enjoy!

Young Fursious felt his calling to be of greatness and might. He found his heart called into the service of Lord Belphegore, God of Battle, Rage and Fire.

He approached with vigor and arrogance. He fought hard and he was dutiful in his worship to the Lord. But, his loyalty to the faith was not enough for he often found himself faced with failure. This was too much for young Fursious and so he sank into deep depression, turning his back to the Lord. He sought the comfort of complacency and peace so that he might nurture his wounded soul.

Lord Belphegore cast down his fury onto this mortal and demanded that he look deep inside and find his spark to fight these demons who weakened his mind and destroyed his hopes. Sorrow and self-pity were not welcome in Lord Belphegore’s church.

Fursious drew inspiration from Lord Belphegore and found his path once again. He learned fast and discovered his inner strength. 

Sorrow, oh sweet sorrow for myself has been my prison and the shackles of my soul. I will not let it stand in the way of serving my Lord. I shall prove to be worthy. I will unleash the fury that shall set me free from this bondage of self-doubt. I will fight again.


Lord Belphegore welcomed this mortal back into His church, proud as any God would be.

In response, Fursious cried out, “I will not be oppressed by my sorrows!"

And with that goal in mind, Fursious set out to rise above and prove that he can strive and be on top.

Fursious fought honorably, he fought with conviction, and he stayed true to all the ethical standards that were ingrained within his heart and taught from his youth. He fought with all the fury that burned in his soul, and the confidence in knowing that his life was not for nothing.

In the end, he did not have the riches that he’d sought as a young man. But on his death bed, he felt his heart swell. He was finally happy. Tears, not of sorrow, but of glory, flowed down his cheeks.

He had won the battle, for beside his bed were all those he inspired in life and the numbers were great and more than he'd ever imagined.

If you enjoyed this month's theme, please visit the following participants and their posts:

Participants and posts:
pyrosama -  (YOU ARE HERE)
Tomspy77 -  (link to this month's post)
dclary -  (link to this month's post)
ThorHuman -  (link to this month's post)




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