August 2, 2017 – Untitled Pt 5

Cheryl opened her mouth slightly, but no words came out. Her mind spun in a confused collage of images, memories, and bright emotions before settling on angry words.

* * * * *

What is wrong with you?” Gracie demanded in a deep, guttural voice. “You’re getting dirt all over the house. You’re definitely your father’s daughter, dumber than a a box of rocks!” Continue reading August 2, 2017 – Untitled Pt 5

Advertisements

July 25, 2017 – Untitled Pt 4

No, those lively woman could not be her mother. Her mother must be the one inside on this beautiful day, staring at the television in solitude.

Cheryl hesitated before slowly moving over to the loveseat. Should she sit on the opposite end, or plop into one of the chairs? She was unsure of what to do, unsure of herself. Her body positioned itself right next to the small couch and stopped dead. Her mother turned from the screen to look in her direction, most likely noticing the bulky figure in her peripheral vision. Continue reading July 25, 2017 – Untitled Pt 4

July 23, 2017 – Untitled Pt 3

    She rubbed her right shoulder blade, her left index finger swirling circles around the scar. She felt the heat and the pain all over again as if the tip of cigarette had been pushed into her flesh moments before. With each step, her body moved closer to the doors. They slid open before her. Her brain sent a signal to her feet to stop and wait until the doors completed their movement, but it also sent a warning shiver down her spine in anticipation of what was to come. Continue reading July 23, 2017 – Untitled Pt 3

July 18, 2017 – Untitled Pt 2

Was her shaking noticeable, or was it all on the inside? Emotions flooded through her entire body with each step, despair, worthlessness, hatred, anger. Some were not attached to conscious memories of events, but some were.

***

    The waft of stale cigarettes flooded her senses as she walked through the door. Her bare shoulders tingled from the warmth of the beating sun as she crossed the threshold into the house. It was if she had entered a cave. The windows were covered with curtains and drapes so thick that there was not even a crack of sunlight from the cloudless day that could squeeze through. The only light came from the television, casting its blue shine on the sleeping bear. She heard the soft, rhythmic snore emanating from the beast and knew it would be best if she were to quietly head to her room where she could pull back the covering on her window and work on her homework while she waited for it to wake.

    Taking a deep breath and holding it in, she gingerly stepped one foot in front of the other attempting to cross the living room as soundlessly as possible. A curse upon anyone who claimed it was karma. She didn’t deserve what happened. At the precise moment that she slowly stepped down with her left foot and heard the floorboards whine out a long winded creek, the picture on the television flashed to gunmen committing a horrendous crime. The shots blended with the creek reached an unfortunate noise level. The bear snorted as it awoke with a jerk. She froze, sending up a wish on her favorite star for escape. She continued to hold her one breath as she watched the beast focus on the television, knowing she would have to walk at high speeds to her room if it turned her way. Within seconds, it did. The head spun towards the door and spied her frozen on the floor.

    “What the hell are you doing home?” The beast said in a forceful burst. It didn’t wait for an answer. “Why the hell are you standing like that. I swear you got your daddy’s brain, don’t know your ass from a hole on the wall.” A left hand fumbled on the table beside the chair, knocking down a half empty wine glass. The beast sat up straight and howled. “Shit!” Its head whipped to the small table and then back to her.

    “Don’t just stand there like an idiot,” it ground out in a low, raspy voice. “Move! Go get a towel, quick.”

    She dropped her backpack on the floor and ran towards the bathroom. Her little hands reached up to the rack behind the toilet grasping the first towel it reached. Short legs carried her back into the living room as quickly as they could. The beast had found her pack of cigarettes and was lighting one up as she fell to her knees and crawled a few extra spaces to better reach the spill. She had only just begun to read on her own in her first grade class, but she had learned to mop up spilled liquids much earlier. Her hands pressed into the carpet to soak the drink into the towel before flipping it and pressing it down again. The beast remained sitting upright without even moving a leg to give her more space on the floor.

    It took a long drag, and a second later puffed out smoke. She closed her eyes trying not to breathe in too much of the stench. They wrenched back open when her senses warned her there was movement too close to her face. Her gaze barely registered the arm inches from her nose before it clasped onto the towel and jerked it out of her hands.

    “What the hell?!” came the roar. “Why would your stupid ass use one of the good towels? You’ve just ruined it, you idiot! Can’t you see this is red? Why the hell would you use a white towel? Don’t you ever use your head?” She cringed back as it waved the towel angrily in front of her nose. “You think I’m made out of money, that I can just buy new towels every time you screw up? You’ve destroyed this one. You’ve ruined the entire set. I’m gonna have to throw the rest of them away as well, you stupid girl.”

***

    She rubbed her right shoulder blade, her left index finger swirling circles around the scar. She felt the heat and the pain all over again as if the tip of cigarette had been pushed into her flesh just moments before.

To be continued…

July 16, 2017- Untitled Part 1

Writing Prompt: A dying character has been knocking things off her bucket list and has reached the last item.

    She cradled a scrap of paper ripped from a notebook without care. It was the words on the paper that mattered most. She ran a wrinkled thumb over the letters, scribbled by her own hand not more than two months ago. Hastily scratched lines were drawn through all of the words except one: Mom. The paper began to smear, and she quickly lifted her thumb. She turned it over and stared blankly at the lead smudged on the tip where she had run circles on the words.

    She turned her blank stare to the building. There were other colors about, but she was unable to identify what they were connected to. Her mind was not willing to register the bright blue hydrangea bushes in full bloom that lined the left side of the front entrance, nor the scaled greens of the hosta plants that intermingled with annuals of a myriad of colors in front of the ramp providing disability access to the automatic sliding front doors. All she saw was the reddish tint to the brick that lined the building. Brick after brick after brick. Each one lead to the next, and each one had its own flaws and imperfections. Yet, together, they met as one and blended into a force that would hold a building upright.

    Her eyes slowly moved to the large sign above the door as her mind began to focus on where she was and what she was about to do. Golden Living it called out to her. She mulled the words over in her head. They say that the end of your life is supposed to be the golden years, but she didn’t see anything in a life so close to death that would be worthy of being referred to as valuable gold. On the same token, she didn’t see anything in the physical space around her that should or could be compared to gold. The facility was relatively kept up, or at least the landscaping was tidy and neat. There were no windows bashed in, no graffiti on the walls. Did the simple lack of being worn down like the body of an eighty year old smoker mean that it was golden?

    Her mind was snapped back into focus when the automatic doors slid open and an tall, thin orderly in forest green scrubs wheeled a grey haired, overweight gentleman down the ramp. The orderly attempted to smile at her, a presumably welcome visitor, but it never reached his eyes. It transformed his face into a toothy grimace. She grimaced back, hoping it looked more like a smile than it felt.

    The man wheeled his client down the ramp and towards to the bench under the shade of an old oak tree. She stop staring, deciding it was time to go inside. Her feet felt heavy. Time slowed. Her speed was a hesitated walk, but time lapsed making it feel so much longer. The pit of nerves in her stomach fluttered its way through her body. Was her shaking noticeable, or was it all on the inside? Emotions flooded through her entire body with each step, despair, worthlessness, hatred, anger. Some were not attached to conscious memories of events, but some were.

To be continued…

1,000 Words a Day

trust-2335058__340

It is interesting to see where this will go.

If you want to write, you must write. Or, so goes the infamous advice from almost every bestselling author around. I read the advice for the last time today. It is time to follow it! I have attempted to in the past, but I always put in half-hearted effort and let it go by the wayside. This time will be different for one simple reason: arenas. I have a new system I started in 2016, or perhaps late 2015, that uses either a metric or a check system to log my goals on a each calendar day in four different squares. The advice was to keep it simple, so I stick with only four, two simple ones and two relatively harder ones.

The second part is to track the time you spent working on each goal by creating an arena just for that one specific goal. If you add up your time spent on one goal, at the end of the week and/or month you will see how much time you have actually spent working on your goal. This is the arena for your one specific goal. Carving out 30 minutes a day may not seem like a lot, but it can bog you down when attempting to repeat day after day. I know it has in the past for me. Yet, by tracking my arena time, I can look back on a month and see how much progress I have made towards the magic of 10,000. Just like the rule of 10,000 repetitions used for muscle memory, 10,000 hours spent in practicing a skill is seen as the point where one with natural abilities can enhance their skills to become a master. I have taken my metric and check system and amped it to the next level with the presence of arenas. Sure, I am looking to start writing 500 words a day and increasing the count until I have reached a habit or cranking out 1,000 words a day, but I am also going to be logging my time. I am slowly on my way to 10,000 hours of practice.

Where will this take me? I am not fully sure. How am I to describe this blog? I am in no way sure.

Literature is the way we process and communicate human nature to one another. I want to be a part of that communication.

This space is an outlet, a way for me to practice the discipline I need in order to be in a place I want to be. I want to write and publish books, whether they be full length novels, serials, or short stories. I understand that I will never be the next big thing, though I admit the prospect does come up in a few fantastical daydreams I live out in the private corners of my mind. In reality, I want to self publish and put my words out there for the world to glean. Maybe readers will take something away from my stories. Perhaps they will simply find enjoyment for the hours they are reading. In either scenario I will be content because there is something happening when I am able to communicate with others via the written word.