Writers! What do you do for writer’s block?
I personally find myself listening to music, hoping that something…anything will come to me. Most of the time it works!
Untitled (Shelton’s POV) Chapter Two
The largest chimney stack of St. Lawrence is the first thing you’d see for at least a mile before even getting there. The smoke bellowed out of it and carried far across the rural fields, mixing in with the wispy clouds. As you got closer, you’d see an enormous brick-built Victorian style building closed off by a black iron gate. Behind that building were several other buildings that were all styled the same, but varied in different sizes for various purposes.
I wasn’t expecting to see any of that when I finally went to the institution. In fact, it contrasted greatly with the image I had set in my mind; dark sky, cracked windows, and overgrown grass to name a few traits.
Question Corner: What Time of Day Do You Write?
Writers!
What time of day do you write?
I normally write during the night. It’s the perfect time to relax and get everything I want down on the computer.
The Death Case
This was submitted to The First Line Literary Journal
Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die.
Stacks of books laid everywhere; papers from the last sixty years were strewn across her desk. Her old green eyes scanned the clutter in front of her. Where was it?
The only sound that accompanied her was the sound of rummaging–and the occasional tea sip coming from a tall and thin young man stationed right by her desk.
“Found it yet?” the man questioned before taking another sip of tea.
Mrs. Morrison could only glare as she sifted through boxes and boxes of ancient, wonderful memories. Anyone would stop to reminisce on the days of old, but not her: she had a job to do.
A Simple Mistake
In response to a writing prompt on Reddit
When together, my little brother Charlie and I became hellions. We’d scheme about who would steal the potato chips from the cabinet, we’d bounce on the leather sofas and beat each other up with mom’s very expensive pillows. When it came time to point fingers, we’d always blame on our dog, Betsy. Looking back, I knew mom and dad didn’t believe us; they just found it easier to pretend the lie was the truth rather than scold us about it.
Question Corner: Cliches
Writers and readers! What type of cliches in stories are you sick of?
One of the biggest cliches I can’t stand is when the main character who lives a “boring”, normal life suddenly has some supernatural power and some ancient prophecy reveals that he/she is the one who will defeat some mega-bad villain.
Moonshine (Chapter Two)
To read chapter one, go here
Later, I found myself standing in front of a mirror, hat in hand and eyes looking everywhere but the glass. I told myself I still looked nearly the same; that the demonic horns I now sported weren’t so bad and that I could handle going places without my favorite hat. After all, demons didn’t need hats. I also told myself being dead wasn’t so bad. Hell, I still kinda felt human, which was odd because I had always imagined giving up your humanity meant, well, becoming a different creature altogether. I had imagined that I would be nothing more than a snarling beast, one that would enjoy serving my master while my soul was forever tortured without the guidance of God’s great angels.
Quick History: Claudette Colvin
Year: 1955
Place: Montgomery, Alabama
As everyone knows, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on the bus for a white man, thus making history with her defiance and arrest.
However, back in March of that same year–and in the same place of Montgomery, Alabama–a young teen by the name of Claudette Colvin had already done this. She had refused relinquish her seat for a white person, and as a consequence, was arrested.
Getting Older.
In response to the one word writing prompt, Fifty
“Happy Birthday!”
I watched as my dad blew out the candles on the cake. A cheesy grin crept along the corners of his mouth. One candle had refused to go out.
That single candle danced back and forth, in front of the wax five and zero. Fifty years old.
For a brief moment, I looked at his face. There were wrinkles that hadn’t been there before. Stressful gray seemed to be winning the battle against his naturally black locks. My smile wavered. For the first time, I was scared for my dad.
Flash Fiction: Her Existence
This is in response to the one word prompt theme: Jeopardize
She didn’t know why she saved him.
Beady and expressionless black eyes stared down at the sleeping child. Every time he breathed, a wisp of gray escaped his almost blue lips. This prompted the creature to pull him closer against her still chest.
Wading Through the Papers of Time 