I once walked along a path of roses.  The forgotten remnants of a wedding long since past.  And I remembered to say my own vows.  A vow to honor and cherish and love this life.  A vow to walk and breathe and live through sickness and health.  A vow to experience the world in all it’s glory until death made us part. 

I married my own joy that day… without a dress, without a witness, without a minister. 

At the end of the path, a lake was quiet in the evening sun.  No one cheered for my choices or made promises back.  But, in the mirrored surface of the water, I saw the woman that truly had the power to choose the path of my life.  She had been there all along.  The ripples of my tears could not alter this mantle of responsibility. 

I had been looking to others, to the external world, to give me permission to do what I wanted with my life, to love who I wanted to love, and to be who I wanted to be.  But whether they approved or disapproved, judged or remained impartial, no one in my life could give me a satisfactory answer.  No one but me. 

I married not only myself that day, but also my own sovereignty.  I hold the keys to an invisible castle bigger than my mind can imagine, and with each day I learn to rule my Queendom with compassion, playfulness, and a ferocious love for life.  But every Queen makes mistakes, and I am no exception.  Staring at the path below me, I thought to gather every rose petal and count my errors one by one.  But when I caressed each soft petal, I felt the fragility and beauty of each mistake. As each petal fell from my fingers, I intoned “She loves me, She loves me not.”   

As a Queen, a sovereign being, I’ve learned that mistakes are both the source of life’s greatest trauma and life’s greatest gift. Mistakes give us the opportunity to continue being in the process, the process of living, the process of learning, the process of remembering that this moment is all we’ll ever have. Because the day that we stop, we die.

I made one last vow as I walked back along that rosy path.  I vowed to always be in the process of being and let the roses fall wherever they may.

“A rose must remain with the sun and the rain or its lovely promise won’t come true.” ~Ray Evans

Comments, links to your writing, and readers are always welcome.

[Day 25 of 365]:

I’m still writing.  I almost can’t believe it.  It’s a struggle to sit down, find a prompt, and fill a page with words.  I usually hate the words, but appreciate the stolen moments with my MUSE.  And I’ve learned something.

Nobody sees the world the same way as me.

Not really a huge epiphany at first blush.  But what it means (at least to me) is that there is a point to all this scribbling and typing.  There’s a point to suffering through broken thoughts and story ideas that I can barely get on paper.  Every day I get better at describing the way I see the world.  Every day I get better at understanding how my world is different from yours and from my characters.  Everyday I get just a little bit better at putting those differences on paper.

Today’s writing was hard and worth every moment.  Not because it’s good (my inner critic despises every word) but because it proves that I still believe in my dreams.  I have a place to confront my demons and show them that I’m not impressed.  They still scare the crap out of me though.  Maybe tomorrow, I’ll scare them.

Writer’s Prompt: Write about something that frightens you.

Are you willing to wait?
Are you willing to withhold?
Can you contain your power?
Can you hold on to your dreams?

The world is patient, relaxed while we are tense.

Fuck!  Lara kept screaming.  Without a sound.

We could hear the wind for miles. Nothing but empty roads, street signs, and wind.  The sun was hot, burning a hole in the road.  You could almost feel the paint fading, moment by moment.  And yet, we still waited.

Why are we still here?

The hunger, the waiting, the prey would come one day soon.  Maybe this day.  The birds, black and tired screamed their own cries.  Lara felt kindred spirits drift by, the ghosts of predators past.  Nothing to see, nothing to taste, but the dry dusty wind and our own waiting.

Night, already.  Frozen, crouched, we watched the horizon for streams of light in the darkness.  And there they were.  How many days had we been there?  How many days had we been waiting?  How many days didn’t matter anymore.  The prey was here, the hunt was alive.  We were ready, ready to kill.  We welcomed them.

Screaming again, but not from us, not from the birds, not from the wind.  They were all screaming.  Holding on to the leather seats, to the broken windows, glass shards shredding their palms, watching the tires burn as we ripped them clear of the metal wreckage.  Screaming didn’t matter here. Not to them, not to us.  We didn’t care about the noise or the pain.

We only cared about the hunt.  The agony and ecstasy of playing with your food.  Would the right time ever come.  But our patience is rewarded.  Waiting forever made those last few moments the most precious, the most savored.  Their bodies filled with sweat, fear, anger, and all the sadness of life’s dreams left unfulfilled.

Why they ignored their hopes, we’ll never understand.  Why did they rush for a moment of dull and shiny greed instead of waiting, watching, searching for their real dreams.  Why did they forget what they truly wanted until those last moments, we can’t know.  Now they can never taste release from the waiting.

But we always do.

We dream of tasting.  We dream of the hunt and we are willing to wait.  We’d wait forever to taste our dreams, but we usually don’t have to wait that long.

The scent of them fills our mouth, we gulp their last breath as they exhale it.  Bittersweet and filled with death.  A piece of the world dies in our hands.  Our dreams are fulfilled as theirs die.  This is why we hunt, why we wait.  The kill is nothing.  The blood, the flesh, the bone, is nothing compared to the last breath of life.  So fleeting and yet it sustains us.

Lara and I wait for days, months, maybe years, living off their last breath.  A shining moment of life and death, the circle is complete because of us.  We give balance. We create balance.  Balance finally has meaning in that last breath.  It’s the breath of broken dreams. They realize they’ve been dead since they were born.  Only in that last moment of dying breath do they ever live.  Some even whisper their thanks, or beg for the gift of release that only we can give, Lara and I.  Their shining moment, a whole life lived just to die at our hands.

And then the breath is gone.  The body shudders but there’s nothing left.  The waiting is over, and so is the joy.  Life flutters away faster them it came and we return to the waiting.

The feast is over and we wonder, are you willing to wait?

“You block your dream when you allow your fear to grow bigger than your faith.”   ~Mary Manin Morrissey

Comments, links to your writing prompt results, and lurkers are always welcome.

[Day 24 of 365]:

I’m taking a little break, not from writing all together, but from short stories, vignette scenes, and fiction.  Sometimes the MUSE has something deeper to say in fewer words.  Sometimes I’m lazy.  I’m not sure which category this poem falls under, but somehow I think it’s both.

PS – I did figure out exactly what I want to do with my Shattered Souls story.  And I’m doing a lot mor planning this weekend then I’ve ever done on a novel before.  I can’t wait to see what my MUSE is going to show me next.  Yippee!

Writer’s Prompt: Create a story, poem, or any other piece based on this metaphor: “a cup of restraint.”

Teapot steam,

A Welcome cry.

A Touch of honey, Lullaby.

*

Stir in Remorse,

And take a sip.

A Taste of bittersweet, Regret.

**

Hands are Warm.

A Cup of Restraint,

Curved, Round Comfort, Hesitant.

***

If fear beckons

And doubt reigns,

A cup of tea can release your strain.

****

“A poem is never finished, only abandoned.” ~Paul Valery

Comments, links to your writing prompt results, and lurkers are always welcome.

[Day 23 of 365]:

While my MUSE contemplates the changes I’ve envisioned for Shattered Souls, I’ve decided to come up with new story ideas.  I can’t promise anything will come from these small scenes, but I want to explore the words and images that barrage my mind.

Every time I drive home, I feel the sensual world around me and hope that someday I can express what I feel in words.  One day…

Writer’s Prompt: describe the beginning of an ordinary day for you main character.

Rose stepped over another broken bottle.

She enjoyed hearing the glass crunch beneath her boots and she stomped hoping for another satisfying pop.  Rose always loved taking out her frustrations on the remains of last nights leftover party favors.  The club parking lot was full of them.

Bob, the bouncer, stepped out from the red velvet awning, frowning as usual.  Opulence and muscle wrapped into one vision.  He grunted and tipped his head up.  “You get tired of playing with college boys Rosie?” he snickered.

Rose ignored him but was grateful for the taunt.  At least somebody actually noticed her existence again.

“Dre in yet?” she asked.

“She’s late, like my girlfriends period, as usual.” Bob said.  “But Dirk is auditioning a new girl in VIP.”

“Great, fresh kitty.” Rose made sure to seem bored.  She knew the club could never have enough girls, but she really didn’t want to work for the job.  It wasn’t like strippers could negotiate for benefits.  She just hoped that some of her regulars were still coming around.  College was more expensive than she expected.

Rose stepped through the front door into the dark.  Her eyes slowly got used to the almost nonexistent ambient lighting.  Newly added spotlights led her down the familiar hallway.  It didn’t feel like home coming back to the club after her first semester of college, but it did feel like wrapping herself in a warm blanket.

Fresh red brick couldn’t cover the feint odor of beer, vodka, and sex on display. Strands of light swayed and sparkled as she passed under an archway of fake crystals.  Apparently, the club had a small upgrade since she left.  But when she walked into the open bar and saw the stage, Rosie sighed with relief.

New name, new decor, same bullshit.  Dirk was probably in the back trying to convince the new girl to give up her flower before throwing her on stage to fight the real wolves.  Rose hoped the money would be just as good as before.  Otherwise her dreams of become a real engineer would slide down the pole and out the front door.

A girl’s gotta eat after all.

“To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the making of bread.” ~James Arthur Baldwin

Comments, links to your writing prompt results, and lurkers are always welcome.

[Day 22 of 365]:

It’s not the writing that scares me today.  It’s the exposure.  Of who I am and what I think.  I’m afraid people will read what I write and judge me….Because it’s true.  But more than feeling not good enough (because I’ve been working on that in one guise or another all my life), I think I feel scared to be the creator of conflict that wasn’t there before.

I have spent a large part of my life trying to not be the source of conflict.  And yet, here I am, writing — a task which I wholeheartedly believe requires a deep understanding of conflict.  Writers create conflict, manipulate conflict, build conflict, and resolve conflict using just the power of language.  And I’m not sure if I can do that.

Sometimes I feel like I’m standing in front of a dam, chipping away at it by throwing tiny pebbles and wondering if trying to break open the dam is really a good idea.  I call this the “Why Bother Monster.”  He’s got multicolored fur, like a Wookie who fell into a bin of wet finger paint; gestures wildly while he talks; and has a tendency to stick out his tongue to make rude noises behind my back.  Other than that, he’s very charming.

Writer’s Prompt: Don’t give in to Doubt.  Turn to face it, and ask the most important question any writer can ask, “Why?”

(I’m sitting in a booth with my most recent manifestation of writers block.  I think we just finished our first round of tequila shots with a second batch on the way. The Wookie licks a lemon and grimaces with joy.)
LV: So, dear Why-Bother-Monster, Can I call you WB for short? I would love to know why you think I should doubt my writing hopes, dreams and goals.  What are you trying to tell me?

Why Bother (WB): Ugh. Aren’t you tired yet? Wouldn’t you rather read a book than keep writing?  Nobody is reading this stuff anyway.  There are so many other writers that are better than you.  Don’t you already have a really good job?
(Side note when talking to your monsters:  Havi says monsters are always trying to help, even when they are being mean.  Try to give them the benefit of the doubt.)

LV: Hmm.  I think I need a translator because I only seem to hear mean things when you speak to me.
(A tall man in a gray pinstriped suit falls from the ceiling using his huge umbrella to slow his descent.  He orders a Roy Rogers, opens his briefcase and shoves a sparkly purple fish into his ear.  The tail wags at me before disappearing.)

Translator: Hello LV.  Garglaspaf WB.  Flinp’gra nasflam.  (Which apparently means “Please continue” in Finger Painted Wookie Speak.  I’ll describe the conversation using the translated version for brevity.)

WB: As I was saying.  You needn’t worry about all the other writers out there.  It’s just your time to suck.  Sucking in the beginning is perfectly natural.  But, I’m concerned that you’re trying to rush the learning process.

Translator: So you’re saying that LV needs to slow down and smell the bicycles? (I’m pretty sure WB meant roses, but you never know with a Wookie)

WB: Yes.  If you push too hard, you’ll forget to enjoy the act of writing and focus too much on being a writer.

Translator: I see.  So is writing better than being a writer?

WB: By taking action every day and building a writing habit you can develop an easy connection and regular communication with the MUSE.  This is much more important than worrying about being an instant best selling author.  The joy comes from creating — from writing a story that only you can write.
(Suddenly, I can understand everything the pink, blue, and orange haired creature says.)

LV: And I’m not really sure exactly what I want from writing.  I just know that I’m passionate about learning everything I can about it and then experimenting with all the amazing things I can create.  I guess I’ll just have to wait and see about the rest.

Translator: Well then, WB.  Please explain how we can soothe and comfort your concerns.

WB: That’s easy.  Just consider this…Why bother worrying about getting published yet?  Why bother worrying about who is reading your work or who might read your work in the future?  Why bother worrying about anything except how to write your stories just a little bit better each day and enjoying every minute of it?

Translator: Hence the phrase “Why Bother.”

WB: Bob’s plat trasslemonglet! (This apparently means “Bob’s your uncle” to gray pin striped translators with fish in their ears…which apparently means “Exactly!” to people who love to write, like me.)

And yes, I did just imagine a scene where Star Wars, Mary Poppins, and Larry Dent’s Babblefish merge into one crazy, yet decipherable discussion about writing for the pure joy of it.

Comments, links to your writing prompt results, and lurkers are always welcome.

[Day 21 of 365]:

I have good news and bad news.  The good news is that I finally figured out why my MUSE has been getting stuck so often while writing the Shattered Soul’s scenes.  I have realized that my main characters just don’t have real, emotion inducing conflict keeping them from their goals.  They go about their daily lives and barely notice the antagonist that I’ve created.  They take easily achievable steps toward their goals and nothing seems to stand in their way for very long.   This is great for real life, but takes the excitement out of my story arc.

The bad news is that I haven’t figured out how to fix this lack of conflict yet.  But I’m working on it.  In the meantime, I’m going to keep work on writing every single damn day, come hell or high water and learning the black arts of conflict creation & plot development.  Either I figure this out, or I give myself up to writing nothing but miniature vignettes of people and places.  I’m not giving up though, not by a long shot.

Writer’s Prompt:  Today’s horoscope: Somebody close to you will tell your secret.  –The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood

I used to love reading the funnies.  The newspaper was always full of silly two dimensional cartoons making fun of politicians, stock brokers, and housewives.  Everyone was fair game.  And I usually skipped right over the Astrology section.  I didn’t believe in hocus pocus and I wasn’t about to start now.  Except today my Virgo sign was in big bold print, proclaiming it had all the answers.  I remember thinking, what could it hurt?  I’ll just read a little bit.

“Somebody close to you will tell your secret.”

Ha.  Well, that’s obviously false I thought and smiled.  I haven’t told anybody my secret. But my forehead creased and my eyes looked around the coffee shop to see if there was anyone close by who knew me.  Nobody was looking over my shoulder, nobody was even looking my way…. Except maybe that guy in the blue sweater vest.  He seemed to be taking much too long with the milk and creamer.  Did anybody really need that much sugar in their coffee?  I was sure he gave me a few more furtive glances before he walked out.  And suddenly, I was very afraid.

I folded up the paper quickly, tucking it under my arm and abandoning my half full mochachino.  I wasn’t about to sit around and wait for them to come for me.  If they knew, I was going to have to leave now.  And not just the coffee shop, but maybe the town.  Maybe the state.  God, maybe the whole country.  What was I going to do?  I hadn’t planned for this.  It hadn’t even occurred to me that somebody else might know.  I had never said anything to anybody, but what if someone had figured it out.  Fear gripped me and refused to let go.

Relax. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself.  I left the cafe and pretended to  enjoy the last rays of sunlight streaming across the ocean.  I had walked into town instead of riding my bike since I had the afternoon off.  But now I was regretting what seemed like a snail’s pace as I began walking home.  My anxiety got the best of me and I started to run.  My purple bejeweled flip flops smacked onto the pavement. Smack, smack, smack. I would probably ruin them at this pace and I started to wonder if I’d ever be able to get another pair.

If someone had discovered my secret, would they take everything away?  Would they make me give up my small two bedroom townhouse or my late model Mercedes?  I had worked hard and saved harder to get what little luxuries I owned.  Could they threaten me with my own secrets?  My breath felt labored and weak.  I was clutching my keys in my pocket and shoved them into the lock as I reached my door.  A quick turn of the wrist as I held my breath and took a final look over my shoulder.  No, they weren’t waiting for me here.  I slammed the door behind me and finally released a slow exhale.

My shoulders lowered.  I dropped my guard for just a moment.  Maybe it was all in my head.

And then I heard something clam shut.  Or at least I think I did.  Wait, was that the sound of breaking glass? Were they hiding from me or were they looking for proof of my secret.  I grabbed a purple umbrella from the coat stand beside the door. There it was again; a shuffling, clinking sound coming from the kitchen.  I considered calling 911 and then realized that they may already be here.  Or worse.

I flicked off my sandals and slowly walked down the hall, hugging the wall like they do in all those cop shows.  The kitchen door was swinging on it’s hinges, but no more sounds emanated from the darkened room.  The noise had stopped.  But, I couldn’t bear it, I had to know.  If they knew, they would be here, waiting for me.  The lights were off, but the orange light of sunset trickled through the door, like a psychedelic strobe light.

I took a deep breath, steadied myself and shoved the door open.  “ Surprise!” 15 voices shouted at me.  I started to swing my umbrella at the loudest one and watched my great friend George duck out of the way.  Fortunately, I missed him, but not the cake.  Oh god, they knew!  I don’t know how but they all knew.

Cake splattered up into my face as they sang “Happy Birthday to You, Happy Birthday to You, You look like you’re 40 and you smell like it too!”

I don’t know who told everyone about my secret but at least they remembered how much I love German chocolate cake.

“Nothing is given to man on earth – struggle is built into the nature of life, and conflict is possible – the hero is the man who lets no obstacle prevent him from pursuing the values he has chosen.” ~Andrew Bernstein

Comments, links to your writing prompt results, and lurkers are always welcome.

[Day 20 of 365]:

In a world of writer’s block, I am still trying to kill my characters off by Zombie infestation.  However, they keep fighting back… and winning.  I might just have to accept defeat and continue with my original story line.  However, tomorrow is another day…. of writing.

Hail to the MUSE!

Writer’s Prompt: Describe the aftermath.  Who is still angry, who is still jealous, and who is still looking for a little nooky?

Sera waited outside for her cab.  She picked pieces of bone and small chunks of flesh out of her hair and threw them into the street.  Her favorite dress was a complete disaster.  The bottom hem was ripped in four places and she was pretty sure the blood stains were starting to dry and set into the fabric.  The sweater Marcus had given her was still intact, although the collar ribbing had been broken and now it hung off one shoulder like she had just stepped out of Flashdance.  But it didn’t matter.

Even if he did eat crumpets and honey in the morning, he could kick ass like there was no tomorrow.  And she loved that.  Hopefully he was even better in bed, especially if his Zombie killing abilities were any indication.  She liked how that could turn out.  Damn it! Where was that cab.

She saw a Capitol Hill Taxi driving from a block away and started waving her hands.  She didn’t want him to confuse her for a zombie and run her over.  The driver pulled up along the curb and opened the passenger window.  “Are you 1566 Magenta Drive?”

“Must’ve been one hell of a party” he said as she sat down on the plastic coated seats. “where to?”

“Over to Nordstroms square, just north of pike street.” She pulled off her blood encrusted shoes and sank her toes into the plush carpet.  The driver sped off from the corner with a nod.  Dodging burning cars and running over dead bodies.

“Yep”  Sera heard the doors unlock.

“Huge Zombie infestation around here?” he asked.

“We cleared a big nest this morning” she said “But I hear Figi’s Zombie free right now. You happen to know a good pilot?”

He laughed “Actually, my cousin just got his license.” He handed her a business card through the lilttle glass window. It read “Jamil Preston, I’ll fly you out of this shit hole for cash”

Sera put the card into her purse and leaned her head against the cool glass.  The freeways were blessedly clear of bodies and the taxi driver floored it.  Traffic cops were pretty scarce at this point since most of them died while raiding Zombie nests.  She didn’t care how fast he drove as long as she got home in one piece.

She closed her eyes for a moment.  “Hey, which building is it?” He tapped on the glass “Are you awake back there?”

“Yeah, sorry.  Its 431 on Washington.” She slipped her shoes back on and pulled $40 out of her purse.

“32 bucks” the cab stopped in front of a four story building.  She lived in one of the apartments above the bar just like her brother.  But other than the commute to work, she hated the place.  Sera handed him both twentys and said “Sorry about the mess.”

“Thanks very much.  Tell my cousin you spoke with me.  He’ll give you a discount.”  Sera nodded at him and he sped off again.
She walked up to the building entrace and tried to shake off any extra dried gore.  Everything was pretty much stuck on now, so she gave up, passed through the main entrance and headed straight for the elevators.  She hit the button for the 6th floor and hoped her brother wasn’t home waiting for her.  She hated living across from him, but it was the easiest way to make sure they had enough protection if Zombies attacked and most people couldn’t afford the two top floor apartments anyway.  They were pretty plush.

She slid the key into her door and opened it quickly.  The anti-zombie security system threw a monkey hologram into the center of the room, clanking loudly.  She ignored it and punched her code into the keypad on the back of the door.  The monkey disappeared.  She punched a second code into the keypad and saw the mace sprayheads slide back into their dormant position.  She didn’t trust people or Zombies with her shit.

She locked the door and walked into the bathroom.  First order of business was a shower.

She was just toweling her head dry when she heard a knock at the door.  She had expected her brother to come looking for her by now but it wasn’t his usual knock.  She threw on a red tank top and jeans, twirled her wet hair up into a tight bun, and grabbed the berretta she kept by the door.  She tapped the video feed button and saw her ditched blind date standing with his arms crossed.
She sighed.  Couldn’t the guy take a hint. “Yes?”

“It’s me Sera.  Open the door” She typed in the deactivate codes again and opened the door.  she kept the doorway blocked with her body. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

“What do you want?” she said flatly

“I came by so you could apologize.” he stepped close and reached out to pull her head toward his “and pick up the kiss you owe me”

“Woah cowboy.” Sera lifted her hands in front of her chest. “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye, but I definitely don’t own you anything but an apology.”

“Come on.  You make a huge scene with an ex-boyfriend and leave me holding your damn umbrella.”

“Do you still have my umbrella?”  Sera loved that thing

“Yeah, I still got it.  It’s in the car.  Come have lunch with me and you can have it back.”

Sera weighed her options.  She got that umbrella at last years Bumbershoot festival so replacing it was going to be pretty impossible, but the thought of having to watch this guy eat again make her stomach turn.

“Naa” she said “You keep it as a token of my appreciation for understanding.”

“Fuck that” he tried to pull her hands to the side and kiss her again.

Sera hadn’t pegged him for an abusive guy, just a regular asshole. But she quickly grabbed the two thin steel spikes she used to hold up her bun.  Her hair barely had time to unravel before she shoved one inches from his chin and the other just barely above his belly button.

Ted froze. “I think I made a mistake” he began backing up trying to reduce the spike pressure on his jugular.  Sera followed him until he came to the elevator. “I’m just going to go” he fumbled behind his back for the elevator button and stepped quickly inside.  Sera stayed in the hallway.  “Uh, thanks for the umbrella” he said as the doors closed.

“Prick” Sera mumbled as she walked back inside and closed her apartment door.

Sera decided that with the Zombie attack this morning and Ted the dickhead’s behavior that she’d better add the double calf knife to her usual bar tending ensemble.  She also put on a black shrug  and a pair of cowboy boots to cover the calf knife.  Sera got her hair back into a bun before it got too dry and decided to wear the rose Marcus gave her.  He was going to come by later, and she wanted a few more brownie points in his book.  She smiled at herself in the mirror for a moment, trying to forget that her brother was probably seething downstairs since she was already an hour late for staging and restocking the bar.   Hopefully he’d feel guilty for setting her up with a total jerk and they’d call it even.

She locked everything up and headed down in the elevator.  Her thoughts kept running back and forth between the tea and crumpets Marcus vs the Zombie ass-kicking Marcus.  It was hard to belive it was the same guy.  But she was happy he’d stepped up.  She loved a good gunfight after sex.  “giddyup” she mummered to herself as the elevator doors opened,  and saw Marie smiling unpleasantly up at her.

“Hi” Marie said “We didn’t get a chance to meet.  You’re Sera, right?  I’m Marie.  I think we need to talk.”  Marie stepped to the side to let Sera out of the elevator.  Sera kept her hands ready in front of her.

“I’m late” Sera started to walk toward the entryway doors “I don’t really have time to… Talk”

“Okay then just listen.” marie continued to smile following Sera out the double doors in front of the building. “Marcus is having a tough time right now.  He’s got too much work on his plate and he’s trying to distance himself from his friends even though he really needs our help.  He has a tendency to pick up random woman when he’s overwhelmed like this and I’d hate to see you get hurt.  So, it’d be best if you stopped seeing him and just let us deal with the situation. Okay?”  Marie touched Sera’s arm.  Sera felt an odd electricity tickle her forearms but she didn’t try to shake off the touch.

Sera looked down at Marie’s hand and stopped walking just outside the Tooth and Nail.  She was glad for the extra weight of the calf knife along her legs. Her hazel eyes developed small golden flecks as she smiled back at Marie with all the piss and vinegar in her veins.

“Tell you what.  Why don’t you shove your shoddy explanation up your ass since I’m pretty sure Marcus can make his own decisions.  Okay?”

“You Bitch!” Marie stepped back as if Sera had slapped her.

“Look, Marie is it?  You can step up or fuck off because I don’t have time for this bullshit. I appreciate that you’re upset because you lost your fuck buddy but that’s not really my problem. You see the sign there?  It says “We have the right to refuse to serve your sorry butt” So either get off my property or I’ll enforce my right to kick your tiny little ass off it.”

“Fucking ignorant Brute.” Marie was starting to shake with rage and goosebumps raised up along her arms.  But she backed up step by step and finally unlocked a black Mercedes parked along the curb.  “We’re not done.” Marie said “You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

“I’ll be waiting to see you again then” Sera waved “me and my Beretta”  She watched Marie drive off.  She almost wished she had a few more Zombies to kill right now, because all this adrenaline was making her jumpy.  For the first time in 6 months, Sera gratefully walked into the Tooth and Nail, ready to work.

Her brother looked up, “Where the fuck have you been?” And just like that, her joy was gone.

How do you fight writer’s block?  Or how do you recognize where your story got lost and find a way to fix it?

Comments, links to your writing prompt results, and lurkers are always welcome.

[Day 19 of 365]:

I’m slowly learning that the best way to get my MUSE to show up every day is to stop censoring her when she gets a little crazy.  Unfortunately for me, that means when I get frustrated, my MUSE thinks that random zombie fights solve all my ills.

This scene started out perfect fine, but, as I was writing, I got frustrated and upset because I’m still stuck on how I want to change this story’s plot arc.  From what I’ve figured out so far, I already have to rewrite a lot of the scenes I’ve created for it, just so it’ll make sense later.  So, halfway into this new scene, I almost quit… and then decided I wanted to kill off all my characters.

Since I’m writing this thing, I figured I could throw a bunch of zombies at them and make them pay for pissing me off.   Boy was I wrong.

Writer’s Prompt:  Kick up the action by creating a difficult situation that your characters have to solve together.

Sera woke up alone to a room filled with sunshine sparkling off of glass.  Marcus had cleaned up the broken vase and moved the largest bowl directly under the skylight.  The dull sun hit the swirling colors and shot blue and green veins of light throughout the loft.  She was surprised and disappointed that he wasn’t still sleeping next to her.

However, she saw a steaming cup of tea on the bedside table and a note.

“I’m down in the studio. There’s crumpets warming in the oven, honey on the kitchen table, and a small gift.  Please come down before you leave. –Marcus”

Sera was glad for the scent of hot earl gray but who still ate crumpets?  Hunger overrode her and she padded barefoot into the kitchen.  The wooden floor was smooth and dry under her feet, even where the burnt living room carpet had been.   She opened the oven with a nearby kitchen towel and found a small plate of odd hole riddled biscuits.  Sera had never actually eaten a crumpet before, but she figured they looked like mini-pancakes, so they must be okay.  The first bite was tentative, but with a little bit of honey, soon the plate was empty and her spirits had lifted.

After breakfast, she found her dress hanging in the bathroom. She was very overdressed, but added Marcus’s sweatshirt over the top for extra warmth.  Seattle was not the place where you could take staying dry for granted.

The stairs where filled with colored light from the stained glass windows as she walked down to the bottom floor landing.  Happily, the small gargoyles seemed friendlier in the late morning sun.

Sera heard a deep sound like air rushing through a cavern, but she didn’t feel a breeze.  She knocked on the door, but nobody answered.  Marcus said to come down, so she opened the door. “Hello?”

A wave of intense heat hit her face.  Her lips and eyes felt instantly dry and she raised her hand to block some of the burning white light of the furnace.

Three men were standing around a long thin strand of rotating glass.  One rolled the glass along a wooden platform in a never ending back and forth rhythm.  The other blew into the end opposite a glass bubble, slowly increasing in size.  Marcus applied a strand of red along the edges of the bubble.  They were all sweating and speaking short bursts of words.

“Ready to roll?  Thin Exhale this time.  Get ready to pull.”  Their intensity held Sera silent for a few minutes as she waited.  Breaking their concentration while standing so close to a huge fire seemed  wrong.

“Sera,” Marcus had looked for the source of cool air, “Can you close the door? We need another 15 minutes to find a good place to stop.”

Sera wandered around the space, staying clear of the furnace and the 3 intense men.  The room was filled with bits of blobby glass in all different colors.  The only sunlight came from three short windows near the top of the wall and a bank of fluorescent lights that only covered half the room.  She wanted to explore but if she didn’t hit the bar by 1pm to start prep for that evening, her brother would threaten to have an aneurysm and leave the whole thing to her.

Just then, Zombies rushed in from every corner of the room!  The heat made their decaying flesh jiggle and swing with each broken step.  One of Marcus’s helpers screamed as they pulled him down.  He kicked violently and a woman with only one arm and missing half her face was thrown into the furnace.  Her chest exploded from heat and her flesh consumed like napalm.

“Just a minute” said Marcus.  He grabbed the nearby shotgun and started popping shots off into every corner.  A black guy with a gaping eye socket went down.  A business man with a blackberry half shoved up his nose was next.  The Zombies fell one by one.  Their hands reaching but never quite touching Marcus.  Click, click. He backed up into a side table filled with rounds and reloaded smoothly.

Sera decided she hated whimpering in the corner, found a bucket of tall glass shards and started shoving them into every chest that didn’t have a heartbeat.  Her hair was covered in gore instantly, but she didn’t mind.  She was happy to be doing something besides eating crumpets and sleeping.  She started laughing with joy hoping Marcus didn’t notice the manic tone.

Marcus, out of ammo, swung the shotgun and connected with the last Zombie skull in a satisfyng crunch. “So,” his breath came in gasps “how were the crumpets?”

Sera stopped laughing to give him the evil eye and looked down at the ruin that used to be her dress. “I think I need a vacation.”  She smiled “I heard Figi is Zombie free this time of year.”

He picked a piece of rotting zombie flesh off of his blood and sweat soaked t-shirt. “I’m pretty sure it’s not, but if you can find somebody that can fly a plane, I’m game to give it a try.”

“Don’t tempt me” Sera said.

“Oh, I almost forgot” Marcus shoved a headless torso off the side desk and opened one of the drawers.  “I made you something this morning.”  He held a yellow glass rose.  Each delicate petal unfolding from the center and outlined by a strand of bright gold.  A white silk ribbon spilling from the corner of his hand.  The whole thing nestled into the curve of his palm.

“Do you hate it?” she teased him.

“Of course I hate it. That’s why I’m giving it to you.” He lifted it and gently placed it into her outstretched hand.  She caressed the petals, surprised at how thin each sliver was and yet how solid it felt in her hands.  Sera lifted the ribbon and let the rose hang from her neck.

“It’s beautiful.” She kissed him gently on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“I’ve got to get home and check on the bar.” Sera said, “I’m hoping it hasn’t burn down yet.”

Marcus looked around his blood spattered studio.  “I’d better clean up this mess if I’m going to get any more work done.”

“Come by the bar later?” Sera asked.

“Absolutely, I need a reason to get drunk since I didn’t sell a thing at last night’s exhibition.” Marcus nodded.

“And bring your gun.”" Sera laughed.  “The zombies get rowdy after 1am”

Marcus watched her walk up the stairs, leaving bloody hand prints on the railing.

[Day 18 of 365]:

Sometimes, you can use your characters to give youselft exactly what is needed.  Sometimes they need to calm down, so that you don’t wear out your readers or yourself.  And that’s what I had to do today.

I needed my story and my life to calm down for just a moment, and since I figure I can edit it out if I don’t like it later, there’s nothing stopping me from writing exactly what I want and need right now.  Apparently writing means listening to myself and my characters needs.  And this is what my writing needed today.

Writer’s Prompt: For just a moment, let the beat of the story slow down.  Give your character a little calm before the next storm.

Marcus sat back on the bed, letting his touch calm her down.  “The fire’s out. Are you okay?  Are you burned?  Are you hurt?” her breath came ragged from her raw throat.

“I didn’t mean it” she coughed and squinted to see him in the darkness.

“The stove blew up.”

“I didn’t do it.” Sera hoped it was true.

“Of course not! It’s my fault.  I made the fire when we came in. I must’ve used too much lighter fluid” The words sounded false to her, but he didn’t seem angry.  She pressed her palms into her temples.

“Look, let me get you some water.” he said  “You need some rest. Especially, if my headache is any indication of how much bourbon we both drank.  I promise I’ll call you a cab in the morning.”

“I just need the bathroom, I think.”  He helped her to the toilet and she waved him away.

He went back toward the kitchen as she closed the bathroom door.  The mirror was fogged from the still running shower, so she shut it off and sat on the edge of the tub.

The memory of her mother’s death came back again and she didn’t hold back her tears.  Silent sobs shook her shoulders.  Marcus knocked on the door.

“Sera, are you okay?”  She wiped the wetness from her face and ran cold water into the sink.

“Yes” her eyes were red and her voice cracked. “Just give me a minute to settle down.” The cool water stung the salted tear tracks below her eyes.

“I’m going to put a pair of sweats by the door.”  Marcus said.

***

The door was silent as she opened it.  Marcus wasn’t there but the clothes he left were soft and comfy.  She peeled out of her sweat soaked slip.  Luckily, he had a separate shower and tub.  She jumped in before the water warmed up and rinsed the fear off her body.  The sweatshirt fit her like a seriously oversized gym shirt but Sera felt like an ocean swimmer in the pants.  She left them folded on the counter and toweled off her hair.  She even found a brush to comb out the knots.

Padding out of the bathroom she immediately smelled scrambled eggs and sauteed mushrooms.  She saw Marcus moving through the kitchen.  “Midnight omelets are the best after a scare” he said. “Do you like pepper?”

Sera heard rain pelting the skylights and looked up.  What a fucking night.  “Please, and extra cheese if you’ve got it.”

“Done and done.” he said.

The eggs steamed as he placed them on the oak table.  She was drinking a cup of roobios and cinnamon tea with cream.  A habit she’d picked up in college.  Marcus cut open the omelet center and blew across it.  “Wow” Sera said “This definitely doesn’t suck.”
Marcus just chewed on his mouthful and smiled.  She smiled back. Damn it why were the nice men so messy.  Especially men that cooked breakfast at 4am.

She finished and Marcus put both plates into the sink.  “I’m hoping that by stuffing you, it’ll be harder for you to leave right away.” Marcus said.

“It worked” She smiled and leaned back in her chair.  “I’m going to pass out again if I don’t lay down.”

“Then by all means” he motioned back to the bed.  Sera saw that he had removed the broken amulet box and had the amulet back around his neck.  It swung across his shoulder blades as he rinsed out the dishes and moved them to the dishwasher.

Sera noticed that her head felt much better.  Food and water can do wonders but sleep was what she really needed.  The green comforter wrapped her in warm cocoon and she snuggled into the cotton sheets.  For once, a small disaster didn’t end in a bigger disaster.  She smiled into the pillow and listened as Marcus washed.  Maybe he wasn’t a messy boy after all.  He sure knew how to show a girl a good time, although she was hoping their next date was a bit less exciting and a bit more contemporary.  She’d had enough fires in rainstorms to get over that fantasy when she was twelve.

She didn’t see Marcus clean out her teacup, careful to avoid getting the liquid on his hands or near his face.  His face withdrawn and cold compared to a moment ago.  He stepped away from the sink and opened one of the lower cupboards.  It was filled with odd jars of herbs and liquids, feathers, and rocks.  He pulled out a white feather with black speckles and a cork stopped jar of blue liquid and small floating strips of bark.

He took one of the candles from the kitchen table and dripped the blue oil around its base with the feather.  Swiping streaks of liquid from the bottom to the top and then placing the anointed candle on a sand covered plate.  Marcus carried it back to Sera’s sleeping form, lit it on the bedside table, and let the scent of vervain waft over both of them.

He let the candle burn until its’ spicy scent filled the air and then blew it out.  The amulet’s light pulsed with each flicker of the candle and then winked out of existence as the candles oily flame disappeared.

There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be much diminished by a nice cup of tea. ~Bernard-Paul Heroux

Comments, links to your writing prompt results, and lurkers are always welcome.

[Day 17 of 365]:

I’m having a lot of trouble developing the larger story here.  Some of the scenes keep coming, but the plot is falling apart between my fingers.  I wish I could say it’s been easy to write, but today was hard and frustrating.  VERY frustrating.

So I guess this scene comes at a perfect time.  I tried to let some of the frustration show through.  I tried to give my MUSE a voice without falling completely off the storyline.  However, I can’t promise that I won’t send in an army of zombies to kill off my characters completely.

On the other hand, it’s day 17 and I’m still writing.  I’m still putting words on paper and I still believe that writing is really something important in my life.

As they say in Monty Python… “always look on the bright side of life.”

Writer’s Prompt: Take your current emotional state and give it life through your characters.

When she started to doze, Marcus moved away from the bed and pulled the amulet off his body.  The heat was unmistakable and the emanating light became a deeper blood red.  Sera kept sneaking little peaks at him though.   She watched him open a metal box near the bed, put the amulet inside, closed the lid and mumbled under his breath.  Then he padded across the loft and into the kitchen.  Rummaging into the fridge for something and then returned to the bed with two bottles of water.

He layed back down, letting his eyes close and sighed. But Sera didn’t think it was contentment.  He seemed rather pensive and distant for a guy that had just had an awesome blow job.  But he began to snore softly and she figured his frowns were just misplaced shadows.

Sera had always hated post coitus.  What the hell were you supposed to do when your one night stand falls asleep.  But she couldn’t remember his address, so calling a cab was difficult.   She stared at his well built body.  Strong forearms crossed over a wiry chest, forever smooth from daily working with the kiln.

Sera smiled as a river of light spilled across his belly and small taut nipples. The shadows seemed to pulse with Marcus’s breath, changing from a light pink to a soft rose.  Sera looked to the skylights but only dark sky and a sliver of moon looked back. She reached her fingers out to touch that smooth skin, but paused before reaching his hip.

The last thing she needed was to get attached, even if 12 months is a long time to live without male comfort.  She missed the sturdy frame and easy disposition of having someone stronger than herself around. Someone to open stuck jars and gripe at to take out the trash. Even if they couldn’t figure out how to pick up their damn socks.

Her head started to ache and the pulsing light seemed to shine a deeper red. Were the room lights were getting brighter?  She looked up to find  the source, hoping she could turn it off and just ride out the hangover in the dark.  But it was coming from the amulet box and it really was getting brighter.  The idea of tripping around a strange bedroom, with a pulsing light, and the hallmarks of a bourbon hangover didn’t appeal to her.  Or maybe she was just looking for a reason to touch him.

Either way, she let her hovering hand extend over his belly and land above his bellybutton. His unexpected goosebumps prickled her palm.  She blushed remembering how ticklish he was elsewhere.

“mmm…Renee? You don’t have to go Renee. Just stay.”

Great, Sera though. Am I really that forgettable!  It upset her that she was feeling so connected to him yet guilty for playing suck my winkie with a stranger she met at a party.  Then again, he was very attentive to her needs a few minutes ago, and complaining wasn’t going to help her campaign for a second round.

She ignored the thought that she’d eventually have to sneak out of here early next morning and try to explain to her brother why she ditched his well picked ringer for a one night stand with a glass artist.  She couldn’t understand why he refused to understand that she had no intention of staying here.  Seattle was his town but not hers.  She didn’t want to work at a damn bar filled with alcoholics and assholes.  She didn’t want to live in a city with 345 days of rain a year.  She didn’t want to be a fucking bartender for the rest of her life.  And right now, she was wishing her name was Renee, because then she wouldn’t have to go.

She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears but they fell anyway.  Coming back to this gloomy city never improved her emotional disposition.  She was tired of being reminded of all the accidental fires she’d spent her entire life putting out.  All the doctors advice to keep her raging childhood emotions in control all the years ago.   Why did her mother have to leave her?  Why did she have to die? “It’s all my fault, again.”

“Renee?” Marcus blinked as if confused to be waking up in his own house and a bead of fresh sweat rolled down his chest and under her palm.  The wood stove must have found a hidden pocket of dry wood.  Sera sniffled at the smell of burning pine and flicked away her tears.  The room seemed to contract.  The air was too warm, the loft too cramped all of a sudden.  Sera slowly untangled herself from the mess of blankets and limbs.

Marcus shook his head.  “I was just leaving anyway” she mumbled and began to feel around the bed for her clothes.  Marcus reached out  to stop her.

He was still blinking through sleepiness. “Renee, you don’t have go”

“No, I’d better go.”  Sera shifted  her legs off the bed.  But his grip tightened.  Sera struggled but he didn’t let go.   “You’re sleep walking Marcus, wake up”

“You don’t have to go back to him” She could see his face from the light leaking out of the amulet’s box. Marcus tried to pull him to her.

“I’m not Renee, Let me go”  Sera tried to pry his hand loose from her wrist but couldn’t.  Her slip started to stick to her legs from the oppressive heat.  And her hangover had picked a perfect time to start throbbing.

“Just stay Renee.” Marcus’s eyes pleaded  “I forgive you. Just stay” His grip tightened even more and Sera finally felt her fear and sadness barriers collapse into anger.

“Wake up damnit! I’m not Renee” She scratched at his fingers and yanked hard at his wrists. “Let me go”

A booming noise shook the wood stove, throwing the flame guard across the room and into the largest floor vase. Sparks sailed from the  unconstrained fire and onto the carpet, lighting the Ikea version of a black ivy shag on fire.  The candles near the bed popped, sending wax and bits of lit wick onto Marcus’ back.  “Fuck!”

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit” Sera couldn’t stop.  She didn’t remember standing but now she was frozen, looking over her shoulder at another room filled with small fires.  She heard her dead mother screaming at her to run, but she couldn’t move.

Marcus, broken from his sleepwalking trance, picked up the almost full bottles of water and ran into the living room area. But there wasn’t enough left to douse all the growing sparks.

Sera began shaking but didn’t move away from the bed.  Marcus pulled the extinguisher out from under the sink and aimed it at the ruined and half wet carpet.  A whipped cream of white foam coated the growing circles of red and orange. The carpet was ruined but at least the fire alarm wasn’t going off.  He dragged the carpet down the hall and stepped into a hidden doorway.

Sera heard a shower running as he padded back out to her.  “Sera, are you okay?”

She still couldn’t stop shaking, her eyes wouldn’t focus on anything, and everything seemed to be covered in red splotches.

“Sera?” he grabbed her shoulders and she tried to look at his face, but her eyes wouldn’t focus “Sera!” he shook her shoulders.  “It’s okay, it’s out”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” Tears pooled in the indentation of her neck.

“Sera!  The fire’s out!” He wrapped his arms around her, gently rocking.

She looked up at him and suddenly gravity pulled her legs out from under her.  Marcus swept his arm underneath her knees as she dropped and scooped her limp body back onto the bed.

Marcus looked around for the second bottle of water and saw the amulet’s box lid was torn off it’s hinges.  The amulet bathed the room in deep red light.  He lifted it out of the box, and held it between his clasped hands.  “Ana Dua, baraca andua” he whispered.  The red light flickered out and Sera woke up screaming.

How do you keep writing when frustration sets in? Do you believe it’s better to fight or accept in a moment of difficulty?

Comments, links to your writing prompt results, and lurkers are always welcome.