Friday, January 27, 2012

Flash Fiction Friday #8

I call this one, “Waiting.” 
I considered for some time whose perspective to take when I looked at this week’s photo prompt.  The person who just boarded the train?  The cagy looking guy in the ballcap?  The porter?  However, I was repeatedly drawn back to the little boy.  He doesn’t look worried – just oddly trusting and patient as well as a bit curious. 
We never may know why he is in the train station, but this is what I think happened:
James said, “Stay there.  Don’t you move.  Don’t talk to anybody.”  He said he had important business in the city and it was too dangerous for little kids.  He gave me a hug and said he would be back soon.  He never hugged me before. 
Seventeen trains came, but James wasn’t on any of them. 

I had to pee real bad now, but James said don’t move.  A nice lady asked me if I was lost, but I didn’t talk to her.  James said don’t.  It was getting dark, but I didn’t worry.  James said he would be back soon. 
(See if you want to play too)       

Friday, January 20, 2012

Flash Fiction Friday #7

The museum, from the grandeur of the architecture to the collections of brilliant artwork, was my vision of nirvana. Perfect – less the throngs of gabby, babbling self-appointed art aficionados. The profound communiqué of the masters would never be heard by these.
I was engaged in a wordless tête-à-tête with Gauguin’s Te Arii Vahine when I heard yet another imbecile insist, “My third grader can paint better than thaaat!”
My left eye twitched. I ached to argue the precision, the technique, but recognized I needed to be more persuasive.  I aimed low to avoid spattering her viscera on Femmes de Tahiti.

Friday, January 13, 2012

Flash Fiction Friday #6

Reaching, stretching, determined to grow. Maria worried about the chances for this bare start of an oak. Its single root struggled for purchase on gravel instead of the rich soil it needed for nourishment. Pondering its blind faith shifted her mind from the call she received from Dr. Powell only moments ago. She made the appointment because she’d been tired – achingly exhausted – and plagued with daily nausea and headaches for weeks. Blood work pinpointed the exact cause of her illness. Fear and joy now wrestled in her heart. At the age of 45, she was for the first time, pregnant.
P.S. I'm neither 45 nor pregnant (thank God).  This is the first thing that popped into my mind when I saw the photo prompt. 
P.P.S. If you'd like to play 100 word Flash Fiction, check out Madison's blog: 
Be sure and post your work in your own blog (or her's if you don't have one) as well as a link on Madison's blog and Twitter (if you tweet) so the other #FridayFictioneers will be able to read it.  Join us!          

Friday, January 6, 2012

Flash Fiction Friday #5

Bowser’s eagerness to get going today was uncharacteristic even for the overgrown pup.  His enthusiastic yips forced my overgrown rump out of slumber and into the early morning chill.
With one sniff, he bolted and was gone.  Laboring along behind, wishing he’d given me time to start the coffee, I heard his excitement change timbre.  With a new urgency, he called to me.
“What is it boy?  What!” I hurried on and caught up with him around the bend.  Bowser was on point at a holly bush.  Fallen berries blazed red on the snow-covered ground.  Berries…no, crimson beads of blood.

Monday, January 2, 2012

Honesty is the Best Policy

I think the last time I really concentrated on my book was sometime back in August.  I’ve dibble-dabbled since then – but nothing serious.  I’ve maintained my Twitter and my blog under the pretense that all was going well with my writing.  It wasn’t.
I’ve pondered why I all but abandoned what seems (at least to me) to be a great story.  At first I blamed procrastination and laziness.  Then I blamed writer’s block – or whatever you want to call it.  Them I felt overwhelmed by the whole mess.  Now, I think I realize it was because I was still not writing for myself.  I was criticizing and critiquing as if it were ready to go to a publisher instead of enjoying the writing process itself. 
When I first started, I got pure pleasure from seeing the story unfold in my mind’s eye.  Then, I think I started to get bogged down in the details and the questions.
“Is it good enough?”
“Am I good enough?”
“Is this word better than that word?” 
“Will anyone want to read this?”
“Will this get published?”
I think it is time to go back to square one.  To finish the story.  To get Christine out of those woods in one piece.  I owe it to her.  I owe it to myself.