Busy Bee - Friday Flash Fiction Challenge - All audiences

This week's prompt for the flash fiction is the sentence "it's not unusual".

I hope you'll have as much fun reading this, as I had writing it.

It's what I like to call a "Moody Classic", meaning it has the classic "Moody Twist". For those of you who don't know me yet, you will soon find out what that means.

Have fun!!!

Busy bee.

She sat hunched over her keyboard and her fingers flew over the keys, pressing down quickly and lightly on those she needed. Her shoulders were slightly hunched and the frown on her brow deepened as the urgency in her eyes grew. She had to gather the information and she had to do it as fast as she possibly could. They were waiting for her and each minute that passed, was one too many. One more minute of danger to the teams waiting to proceed, one more minute added to the growing potential for total disaster. Her mind was racing, filtering through bits and pieces of information as they rolled across her screen, making connections at high speed. Connections that opened other doors. Doors that hid more information. Information that needed to be filtered.

Now!

She blew off her co-worker when he asked for assistance.

She didn’t have time for this.

“Not now.” she snarled as another one walked up to her station.

“Hey, but-”

“Can’t you see I’m busy!” she hissed, hunching her shoulders more.

She could only hope they would get the message and leave her alone.

She couldn’t afford to divide her attention.

Not now.

The frown grew wider and deeper. Things weren’t moving as quickly as they should and her feeling of frustration deepened along with her frown. She could feel the strain in her shoulders and arms, the building pain in her neck and the dull throbbing ache inside her skull.

This was getting ridiculous.

But she kept going, hands moving, muscles flexing.

She needed to get this done.

They needed her to keep at it and give them the information they needed.

Lives depended on it.

Lives depended on her!

Lives depended on her.

Lives never depended on her.

How come lives suddenly depended on her?

Shouldn’t they depend on someone else?

Shouldn’t someone else be responsible for the lives of those men?

Why was she-

‘Stop!

You don’t have time for this. Finish your job and get that information out there.’

She focused on her screen again, seeing the cursor blink on and off.

It never had time to do that.

Not when she was working on something as important as this.

Cursing herself softly, she went back to it, rereading the last entry.

“Can you help me with this?”

The voice startled her.

She hadn’t noticed anyone coming up to her this time.

She was too focused.

“I’m busy. Go away.”

She couldn’t put it any clearer than that.

“But-”

“Not now.”

“You have to help me, I can’t do it on my own.”

“What are we paying you for?” she snapped angrily.

God, she hated incompetent people.

“Paying? What are you talking about?”

“Leave me alone. I’ve got a job to do.”

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”

“What?” she snapped, getting very upset now.

“You’re stuck in your story again, mom.”

She looked away from her screen so suddenly she almost dropped out of her swivelling chair.

Next to her stood her own son, not some incompetent Federal Agent who couldn’t do his job on his own.

She had been stuck in her story again.

When she was on a roll, it wasn’t unusual.

More entries can be found here

I know why!!

I've read this article in the newspaper yesterday, about President Obama latest "slip of the tongue".
You know what I'm talking about, right?
This thing about the President paying a compliment to a female attorney general.

Well, I know why he did it!
And you know what?
I'm gonna share that secret with you!

Here's what the President said : "She also happens to be, by far, the best looking attorney general".

This simple statement hides a far more powerful truth about President Barack Obama.
You see, truth is, the President is gay.
This is just a simple way of making sure nobody will ever dare even suggest that he is. After all, gay men would never say things like this about women, now would they?
No, seriously. This whole marriage and two daughter thing, it's all just a front. He's hiding well, but compliments such as these are giving him away. I can see right through the whole charade.

Nobody has to worry about that compliment. The man wasn't being "sexist" or "dumb", it was a calculated move, much like so many others have been, to hide the ugly truth about his real and true nature.


~~~

No, seriously, all jokes aside, what woman in her right mind would feel offended or belittled or whatever, when one of the most powerful men in this world, pays her a compliment like that?
It's not like the President disrespectfully called her "a hot mama" or anything.
Since when is it wrong for a man to pay a compliment to a woman?
Since when does the whole world go into uproar because a man said something nice about a woman?

I think President Barack Obama is quite the looker, actually!

Is this going to make headlines across the world tomorrow??????
I don't think so.
Is it going to get me in trouble?
If it does, it'll probably be with his wife, and only if she thinks I'm a threat to her, which I'm not because married men are off limits. Period!
How big a wave is it going to make, when I say what I said up there?
I bet it isn't even going to cause a ripple!

So, why is it, that a statement, which is more likely intended as a pun (how many female attorney generals are there anyways?), causes such a huge wave?
Why is it, that we cannot get over ourselves at times like this?
I think it's about time we pulled our thumbs out of our asses and stopped being so goddamn politically correct all the time!

So President Barack Obama paid a compliment to a woman that is not his wife.

Big. Fucking. Deal. (do excuse my Dutch)

I would be honored and flattered if any guy (and I do mean any guy) called me the best looking whatever-job-I-would-be-in-with-normal-colleagues. I sure as hell wouldn't feel offended by it, especially not if that statement were a pun (because I'm the ONLY woman in that job, so I'm obviously the best looking one, no matter how butt-ugly I am).

Tell me one thing.
When did "politically correct" become "with a broom shoved up our asses so deep it pokes out through our nose"?
When did paying someone a compliment become "wrong", or "stupid", or "sexist", when that compliment is given respectfully and eloquently?

What is this world coming to, when everything we say and do is dissected and analyzed, taken apart and reconstructed, reproduced or pulled out of context, just so something negative can be said about it?
Wouldn't this world be a much better place, if we all looked at ourselves first?
How we act, how we speak to others and of others, what we value and what we don't give a damn about.
How can you judge me, if you know nothing about me?
Who are you to judge me, anyways?
Who gave you the right to judge me?
What gave you a reason to judge me?

Who are we to judge what a single man said?

Peace to you!



PS. Just in case, because I just know there will be people who will get their knickers in a twist over the first part of this post :

No offense to anyone, not to President Obama (whom I would love to meet), gays (all of those I've met, are absolutely wonderful people), or anyone else.

Get your knickers out of that twist already and enjoy life!

Child's Play - all audiences - Friday Flash Fiction

This week's prompt sounded very promising and I had half a dozen ways I could take it, but I chose to wait until I was actually ready to start writing, to decide where I would take it. I let "the flow" decide for me.

I hope you'll enjoy this short 'blurb'.

Welcome to my world!

Child’s play.

I didn’t have to think long about the title for this ‘work’.

It’s not always that easy though.

Sometimes I use a “working title”, sometimes I find a title that sounds ‘right’ before I even start to write, sometimes I end up keeping the working title; for lack of anything better.

What the hell am I talking about???

I bet you’re wondering about that.

Well, obviously – or not so – I’m talking about my writing.

It’s not always easy.

I like my title to give the reader a hint as to what they can expect from the story, but I also like to give it a twist if I can. I once wrote a story under the title “Presenting the bill” – which I intentionally misspelled – and proceeded to introduce Bill Buchanan – recurring role played by James Morrison on 24. It wasn’t revealed until right at the end, which is exactly what I wanted and intended. My readers loved it! So, my title worked! In more ways than one.

But like I said, it’s not always easy to find the right title.

Will it cover the load?

Will it hint to what might be coming without giving away too much?

Will it catch?

After all, a catchy title is always the best way to draw attention to your work. It should intrigue people, make them wonder what the underlying story might be about, make them curious about what is hidden within the pages, what adventure is mixed into the words. It should make them excited to find out how quickly you can take them from the front cover to the back, preferably in one swift swoop.

Isn’t that what we all want?

For people to pick up our book, or click on our link, and read our work in one sitting?

For people to want to find out what magic awaits behind the veil that is a title?

I know I do.

Always have, always will.

For as long as I’ve been writing, I’ve been trying to let people enjoy the magic of the word. I hope I’ll continue doing so for a very long time to come.

You’re probably wondering what this has to do with Child’s Play.

Basically, that’s what writing is to me.

It’s child’s play.

It’s a piece of cake.

I can sit down at my computer or pick up a notebook and a pen and just write. Fill the blank space with letters, words, paragraphs, chapters and make them all work together to tell a story. I can just do that. It’s that easy. I do not fear the blank page. I do not worry about minimum requirements – I usually go well over them. I do not hesitate to write, whatever is on my mind, whether that is good or not, whether that is fit for publishing or will forever remain private. The word does not throw me into a panic.

Right now, it’s 11.35 pm and I’m working on my entry for this week’s challenge.

Out of the blue.

Just like that.

Child’s play.

My mom would probably tell me to stop acting like a kid and get my act together, but what fun is there in that????

More entries to be found here

I am ... - Flash Fiction Friday - all audiences

Hello again, my friends.

Yes, it's that time of the week again. I know you've been impatient (I could tell by the number of views!!!), so here it is. It didn't really come out the way I was hoping for, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless.

I am …

This is my story.

The story of me.

A story like you have never heard one before.

This, is the story of my life.

My life is simple.

I have but one purpose.

My only purpose in life, is to eat.

I live to eat, I eat to live.

If I do not eat enough, I will not survive.

I must eat.

I eat from the moment I see the light of day, starting with what is closest to me … the egg I hatched from. It provides me with everything I need to begin my journey in this world. A journey that is all about food.

I must eat.

I must.

I have no choice.

My jaws are powerful enough to cut through the leaves I feed on.

My body functions solely around the food I ingest and my growth.

Massive growth.

I expand my body mass up to 1.000 times.

I bet you did not know this.

I told you this was a story unlike any you had heard before, did I not.

My body, always growing, always changing, contains over 4.000 muscles, all working together to bring me from one meal to the next. I shed my skin as it tightens and can do this several times before I am fully grown, fully fed. My legs, all of my legs, work to propel me from one meal to the next.

I am always hungry.

Always feeding.

My legs, six of which are real, grow with me to support my growing weight. All of my other ‘legs’, are merely there to help me move forward.

Always forward.

Always hungry.

Always eating.

I am a master of deception.

My hind legs are not real legs, they are used for balance, traction and forward motion, waving forward, always forward.

My colors vary from camouflage brown, to bright – almost screaming – colors.

I may be toxic, depending on the food I eat.

I may play dead, pretend to have a dozen eyes at the back of my head or grow bristle hair in protection against attack.

I may look like a leaf or a branch to hide from predators.

I may leave a silky, sticky trail.

But above all, I will eat everything I find on my path.

No plant is safe from me.

No leaf will be left untouched.

No chance left untaken.

I live to eat.

I eat to live.

For I, am caterpillar.

More entries can be found here

The power of true beliefs ... or something like that.

I realize I probably haven't been posting as much as I could have.
Problem is, I'm not entirely sure of what to do with this blog exactly.
Am I going to limit it to my stories?
Or should I just blog about whatever I feel like?
Will people be interested in what I have to say?
Who's going to read it?
Why?
When?
Will they comment?

If you know me, you know I'm what might be called "a comment whore". I know, it sounds horrible and it really doesn't describe me all that well, but it's the "common term" for it, so I might as well use it.
I love to read your comments on my work. I long to log on and find all kinds of comments, good or bad, encouraging or discouraging.

If you think what I do sucks, feel free to let me know. If you can do it in a polite and articulate way, I will probably read your words with much interest and see if they can help me grow or be better at what I do.

If you think what I do is wonderful, inspiring, enjoyable or otherwise brightens your day, I would love to know. It will brighten mine to know you enjoyed my work.

You're probably wondering what the title of this post has to do with anything and whether or not this is going to take a turn for 'the worst'. It probably won't. Not the way you expect it.
I started this blog in January, so it's been about 3 months now, and I joined the Now Hark This! weekly flash fic challenge a while back and that is exactly what this post is all about. You see, this challenge is doing something to me, with me. Before this, I had never - not ever - written any non-fiction. When I first read about the challenge, I figured I would participate every other week, when the challenge is to write a fiction story (or essay). I got entangled with the first non-fiction prompt though and I kinda liked what I did with it. I've been putting in my little 'extra effort' every week since. Now, I don't know what you think about it, but I think I've been doing pretty good on the non-fiction posts. (this is where the importance of your comments comes in, if you want me to know better, let me know what you think)

Thing is, this week's challenge didn't inspire me and I thought I was going to sit it out. Maybe (depending) I would end up writing something if the other entries gave me what I needed to get started. I needed something to point me in the right direction because the prompt didn't kickstart me the way it usually does.
Eventually, it wasn't even the other entries that gave me that boost, it was realizing +Krisann Gentry was expecting my entry. It was listed at the bottom of her own as "coming soon". That made me think again. What good is it to accept a challenge (I've been participating weekly since Feb. 3rd) only to back out when the going gets a little tough? What does that say about me? About my intentions? About the kind of person I am? Wouldn't it be easier if I changed that welcome text to: "never mind me, I'm a gutless excuse for a writer"?
I'm not ready to call myself that, so I took the boot to the ass and let it kick me in gear. The result may not be fabulous, but I can say this: Challenge Accepted!
Ha!

And you know what else I realized this week?
Aside from the fact I'm not ready to balk quickly.
I realized my blog has a steady flow of viewers/readers.
I realized that, on Friday, my little 'neck of the woods' gets its visitors.
You know what that told me?
It told me folks know I'm doing this weekly Friday Flash Fic Challenge and they're expecting something.
It told me what I need to know.
I may not be in the top 10 of Blogger's most frequently visited blogs, but I get my traffic, especially on Fridays. From here, things can only get better.

So, to you, my visitors, I say this:

Come back often! Because I intend to keep writing on this weekly challenge and if you enjoy my work, bring your friends. They might enjoy it, too.

If you're a writer and you're ready to take the challenge, jump on over to the Now Hark This! blog, read up on next week's prompt and get cracking!!!


Thank you all, you're making this 'little old lady' feel a little less old.

Flawless - Friday Flash Fic Challenge - all audiences

Flawless.

This week’s prompt didn’t really inspire me, so I figured I’d sit this one out, but then I went to read the other submissions and saw this listing: “Moody’s submission – coming soon”.

Now, I had absolutely no idea whatsoever on how to even get started on this, or where to take it, especially since it has to be non-fiction, but seeing this made me rethink my approach. Isn’t this exactly what I came here for? Why I joined in on this? On this “weekly challenge”.

Isn’t that what I label these posts with? Challenge.

What the heck kind of a writer would I be, if I balked at the first sign of adversity?

Not much good of any kind, I’d say.

So, here I am, sitting at my computer, tapping the keys on my keyboard while listening to some music and wondering what the hell I’m going to do with this. Where can I take this? Why am I even bothering if I have no idea? What the hell am I doing here, at nearly 1 a.m.?

What the hell am I doing here at this time of night?

What I’m doing is very simple, I’m trying to write something. Something that will make sense and that will follow the guidelines … or at least one of these. Hopefully.

So, where will I take this?

Sure, I’ve had some thoughts milling through my mind. Have you ever known me not to have thoughts milling through my mind???? Seriously, I have a dozen ideas bouncing around in there. They’re not always connected, nor are they always clear, but they’re there. That’s me. That’s who I am and how I ‘work’. But to create order in the bouncy castle … there’s a challenge!

So, my favorite character flaw.

See why this one’s a tough cookie?

Because you see, a flaw, per definition, is an imperfection. A fault. A defect.

It’s something ‘bad’.

Or negative.

How can something negative be favored?

Then again, who decides if something is negative?

Who gets to decide whether something you do is good or bad, positive or negative?

And how?

How can anyone determine whether something that makes you who you are, is good or not?

What do they base their judgment on?

On society? On what society thinks is acceptable?

Who made them experts on human behavior?

The way I see it, society is an expert on absolutely nothing.

For instance, I like to sleep. I love my bed and I love to spend long hours in it.

Is this good?

Or is this bad?

Is it being lazy?

Is it procrastinating?

And what’s so bad about that?

What would the world be like, if everyone had tons of energy?

We’d all be like the Energizer Bunny. Imagine that!

A big bunch of bright pink bunnies, hopping along without pause. The world would be a madhouse!

No, I think it’s a good thing to have folks like me, who like to sleep.

Besides, sleeping isn’t the only thing I do in my bed … okay, you can get your head out of the gutter now … my bed is my favorite place to think about my writing. It’s the place where I’ll ‘play out’ the scenes before I write them down. Where I’ll wake from a dream with a perfect scene for the project I’m working on, or a perfect plot for a new story. The place where most of my writing originates.

So, I ask you again, is it such a bad thing to like that place?

Is it a flaw to be lazy?

If it is, it might very well be one of my favorites.

But yeah, society might just think of me as a lazy ass.

If you think I care, you should think again.

Society has never been on my side, so why would I care what it thinks?

Why would I be held back by what others think are flaws, imperfections, faults?

Why would I let that determine who I am, who I want to be?

I know who I am, because I know where I’m coming from, what I’ve been through and what’s been done to me. I’m still here, I’m still standing, going strong, despite everything, despite my flaws, my imperfections. Despite my faults.

Over the years, they have changed, evolved, as have I. Some have grown, others have not, others yet may have been lost forever.

I guess it remains to be determined if that is a good thing or not.

We all have our flaws, as we all have our talents and I think we should just accept that little fact.

It is who we are.

Nobody’s perfect.

Maybe that’s my favorite flaw: accepting I’m not perfect and will never be, regardless.

More entries can be found here

What'll you have - Flash Fiction Friday - All audiences

This week's flash fiction prompt were the words "What'll you have".

This is the idea I've been playing with all week.

I hope you'll enjoy the read and if you feel like participating in this weekly challenge, check the link at the bottom of this post.

There are no restrictions, no obligations and no voting involved, the only 2 things you get are the fun of writing a new - short - story every week if you feel like it and the pleasure of reading other people's take on it.

Enjoy!!!

What’ll you have.

It had been one of those days, filled with thrills and awesome new finds.

He loved days like that.

They were the ones he liked most, because they proved beyond a doubt their hard work wasn’t going to waste.

What was going to waste right now though, was his time.

He had volunteered for a test and now he was standing in line with the other volunteers, waiting.

It was the worst part of it.

The waiting.

The seemingly endless waiting.

Waiting to start the test.

Waiting to get assigned to a specific subject.

Waiting for that subject to arise in the chain of events.

Why had he volunteered again?

Oh, yeah, he remembered.

It earned him extra notes on his own work.

Right now, those extra notes weren’t worth it.

Really not.

He was topless, standing in line with a good dozen others - also topless - and he felt out of place.

Hopelessly out of place.

They were all trim, muscular, tanned.

He stood out with his milky-white tone and wispy arms.

He stood at least 5 inches shorter than the shortest one of them, his torso only half the size of the thinnest one of them.

Why had he volunteered again?

Finally, the line started to move.

One by one, the men in front of him moved up to the counter and made their pick.

Finally, he reached the counter, too.

The man behind the counter looked down on him, a mean grin on his face.

“What’ll you have?”

He pointed and the man handed him his pick.

“Have fun.” he said, barely able to suppress his laughter.

He shook it off, or at least tried to, and followed the others to the large door.

The closer he came to it, the worse he felt about himself.

The worse he felt about participating in this test.

The worse he felt about the item he clasped tightly in his hand.

It weighed heavier with every step he took, pretty soon, he would be unable to hold it, let alone lift it.

Why had he volunteered again?

The doors opened slowly, creaking on badly oiled hinges and the light spilt into the dark hall where they stood waiting.

On the left, a row of helmets reflected the light.

They looked like they weighed half a ton, but he knew he would need it.

One by one, the men advanced, taking a helmet off the shelf and cradling it under their arm, after what they stepped through the open door, into the light.

The drumming of his blood in his ears drowned out any noise there might be and he felt the nerves soar through his body, shaking his slender limbs up.

Finally, he picked up a helmet and stepped out of the hall, into the bright light, onto the hot sand and into the packed arena.

“Gladiators, prepare for combat!”

Why had he volunteered to test the time-traveling machine again?

More entries can be found here

To write or not to write - Non-Fiction - All audiences.

This week’s Friday Flash Fiction prompt was “write a short essay from the starting point: being a writer”.

I have been playing with it all week, but never got around to writing anything down or working anything out. I had an idea of where to go, but none whatsoever on how to get there.

I guess that’s what “being a writer” is all about.

I’ve always loved to write, ever since I was a kid. In elementary, those were my favorite assignments, my favorite kind of homework. Take an idea, a paragraph or a handful of keywords and do something with it. Create something. Make some magic.

As a kid, I never thought of it as magic, I just really loved doing it. The words usually came naturally to me and I never tried to put a stop to that, never limited myself to the “minimum requirements” for the assignment. Sometimes that minimum requirement would be expressed in number of pages, other times it was expressed in a minimum number of words. I never had my eye on those. I would just get started and finish when I was done, not when I had reached that “goal”. It never was a goal for me to “write 500 words” or “fill 4 pages”. No, I always wrote a story, as requested.

I’ll never forget that one day in 6^th grade. My teacher had a habit of taking my assignment and putting it at the bottom of the stack, while every other one was put on top. I had been wondering about it, but at age 12, I was nowhere near confident (or ballsy) enough to ask her about it, so I complained to my mom (who worked at the school cafeteria). Mom’s wouldn’t be mom’s if she didn’t take my hand and take me to find my teacher to ask her. I got a reply I will never, not ever, forget.

My teacher, Miss Martine, told me she had several reasons for doing that, for putting my assignment at the bottom of the pile. The first reason was that my stories were always the longest, so she needed less time to read all of the others and kept the longest one for last. That already made sense to me and would’ve satisfied my desire for an explanation to her behavior. But that wasn’t the main reason. The main reason was that, not only were my stories always the longest, they were also always the best, so she kept mine for last to have something to look forward to while reading all the other ‘crap’.

Imagine being 12 and your favorite teacher tells you that!

That was my first boost.

It wasn’t the last.

In middle school (or junior high if you want to call it that), my French teacher (very eccentric, but awesome lady) convinced me to take part in a national writing contest. It happened on a Wednesday afternoon and I think I was 15 at the time. We had 4 hours to write a story. No prompts, no keywords, no topic, no directives, no limits, no nothing. You have four hours, start writing.

Out of almost 300 contestants, I came in 9^th.

You were saying?

Nowadays, I fill my pages and my time with as many words as I can possibly squeeze in. I have switched from writing in Dutch (my mother tongue) to writing in English (and you have Jack Bauer to blame for that, so don’t look at me!!) and I have grown massively over the years. When I go back to read my earlier stories, I keep thinking “Did I write that crap?” and even more so “And people actually liked it????”.

That’s right!

People actually liked it.

Good people. Smart people. Educated people … Well, most of them anyways, there’s always the odd retard who finds his way to your neck of the woods.

Am I a writer?

Maybe, I don’t know.

Sometimes it feels weird saying that, or writing that.

But, what else could I call myself?

An amateur writer?

But why an amateur?

I don’t like that word.

I may not be a published writer, but does that really mean I should call myself an amateur?

Does the fact your work is published make you a writer?

If not, what does?

What qualifies someone as ‘a writer’?

Is it enough to write to be called a writer?

Write stories that is, not poems for instance, because then you’re a poet. But isn’t a poet also a writer? And isn’t a writer also a poet, for instance when a description is poetic enough to move the reader?

Is that what makes someone a writer? To have readers?

If that’s so, I’ve been a writer ever since I was in elementary!

As for the ideas I had flying around my head all week about this prompt … this wasn’t one of them!

I guess that is what ‘being a writer’ is all about!

More entries for this week's challenge can be found here

A Frightful Night - All audiences - Flash Fiction Friday

I had a bit of trouble before I started working on this because I didn't really know what to do with the prompt "Fairy Tale with a Twist".

I hope you'll enjoy the read.

Frightful night.

For the first time in years, they dared to venture out of the house and into the forest. It was impressive and frightening to them, dark and powerful because of the threat that lived within. The threat that loomed over their lives, commanding and overwhelming. Unspoken and unseen but very real. Too often already had they seen others venture into the forest without ever returning. But Edward was certain they would return. He had prepared well, the bag of breadcrumbs on his hip was full and the long dagger in its sheath, sharp. He would leave a trail for them to follow home and if any trouble arose, he would defend Jessica, his little sister, with his life.

Many long hours of handling the dagger left him with enough confidence.

He could and would protect his sister.

Jessica was scared, but she did not want her big brother to know. If he could do it, so could she. She was a big girl now. If Edward wasn’t scared, then she wasn’t scared either. She would make her big brother proud of her.

Finally, he would be proud of her.

She wanted, no needed, him to be proud of her, so she sucked up her fear and followed him out of the house. Close behind, just half a step really, she followed as he led the way through the garden, down the path and to the forest. The big, dark, looming forest. It grew taller and darker with every step she took, but Edward would protect her. She knew it. She believed it.

Edward would protect her.

At the outer edge of the forest, Edward stopped and looked at his little sister.

“Are you scared?”

“NO!” Jessica yelped as if in pain.

It made Edward grin.

“Then why are you clutching my hand?”

She didn’t even realize she was and let go quickly, a blush rising to her cheeks.

“Don’t worry, little sis, nothing will happen to us.”

“I know.” she said.

At least she thought she said it even though no sound came across her lips.

Maybe she shouldn’t have agreed after all.

“Come on.”

Edward dropped a first breadcrumb on the path and stepped over it.

She followed hesitantly, her eyes glued to the tiny crumb on the immense vastness of the forest path.

They would never see it.

She panicked and ran after him, clutching his hand once more.

“I’m scared, Eddy.”

She did not need to tell him, he knew.

Her voice trembled and her hands were sweaty.

That alone told him how scared she was.

The way she called him Eddy made it even worse.

Eddy, teddy, teddy bear, big cuddly teddy bear.

“Don’t worry, Jessi.”

She would not let go.

“Here, you drop the crumbs.”

“No.”

“Maybe you should go back.”

“No.”

If she wanted to go back, she had to let go of him and walk through the forest alone. Looking back, she could barely see the edge of the trees.

No.

She wouldn’t let go.

She reached a hand into the bag of crumbs and dropped a few.

“Hey, not so many. Just one is enough and not too close together.”

“We’ll never find the way.”

“We’ll find the way.” Edward promised.

He tightened his grip on her hand and continued walking.

Every few steps, he felt her reach into the bag and drop a crumb.

The forest grew darker around them and Edward felt his sister’s fear crawl into him. He refused to let it stop them.

He was going to prove there was nothing to be afraid of. How could he do that if he let Jessica’s fear into his own heart?

“There’s something in the forest.” Jessica declared suddenly, gripping his hand tighter yet.

“No, there isn’t.”

“Yes, there is. Look, the breadcrumbs are gone.”

He turned back so suddenly he almost lost his balance.

The breadcrumbs were gone.

He couldn’t see a single one.

Jessica’s fear was now his own and he felt his heart pound furiously in his chest.

“How will we find our way back?” Jessica asked in alarm.

“There is no way back!”

The harsh, raspy voice startled them and Edward’s dagger was in his hands before he even realized he was reaching for it.

“What are you going to do with that little thing?”

“I’m not afraid of you.” Edward called, the tremor in his voice and the trembling of his outstretched arm betraying his words.

“I think you are, little boy.”

Suddenly, she was there.

A dark shadow with fiery eyes. Her hooked nose and evil snarl visible under the large, black, pointy hat. Her hands protruded like spiky claws from the long, black robe she wore and behind her, a black cat licked its chops.

Jessica screamed in horror and she laughed at the fear she caused.

It was an evil laugh, echoed through the forest and coming back at them from all sides.

“Come here, little girl.”

“Stop!” Edward shrieked, “Get away from her!”

He lashed out and – more to his surprise than to hers – actually cut her with his dagger.

She hissed in pain but did not pull away. Instead, she struck with her bleeding hand, leaving a sticky trail on his cheek and across his mouth.

Edward fell to the ground and curled up in fear as the shadow fell over him, threatening to swallow him whole.

“Are you afraid now, little boy?”

Her hand hit him again, leaving more blood in his hair, but then she turned away.

“Come here, little girl.”

She grabbed Jessica’s arm, making her scream again, feeling the bony fingers dig into her skin.

“There isn’t much to eat, but the two of you will have to do.”

She turned again, finding Edward no longer cowering on the forest floor.

Instead, he stood tall, a wicked snarl on his blood covered lips.

“Leave my sister alone.” he commanded.

“Your sister is my dinner and you will be dessert.”

She took one step and her arm came forward.

He bared his fangs and the fire in his eyes grew to match hers.

“What are you?” she shrieked in fear.

He leapt at her, sinking his fangs into her throat.

Twilight descended over the forest as he sucked the life out of her.

More entries can be found at the following location: http://nowharkthis.blogspot.be/

Ridiculous - Non Fiction - all audiences

Here's this week's entry into the Flash Fiction Friday Challenge over at Now Hark This!

This week is non-fiction week and the prompt was: "this year".

I've been playing with the idea all week, but never got around to actually writing it, but ... here I am.

I hope you'll enjoy the read.

Ridiculous.

Isn’t that what it is?

Every year.

Every single year.

Everyone does it, but seriously … what’s the point?

Really?

Every year. Always the same.

You want to know why?

Because it’s so damn ridiculous and we never keep ourselves to it.

We always find an excuse.

No, seriously, I mean, how often have you said it?

How often have you made a promise to yourself to do better, be better, eat healthier, move more?

I know I have.

More than often enough.

Every year, we make them.

Our New Year’s Resolutions.

Yeah, I capitalized each letter because this shit is important!

You know!

I really want to do this.

This year.

Not next year, not last year, no, this year.

But … what is so special about this year that will make us do the things we really want to do?

What makes this year so different from all the others we’ve already had or those still ahead?

Why not next year?

Maybe next year will be even better.

Have you ever stopped to think about that?

How come we always make resolutions for this year?

Why not say “Next year, I’ll join a club and exercise more”?

Why?

Because you’re afraid you’ll have forgotten by then?

Or maybe you’re afraid that if you wait till next year, it’ll be too late?

Why would next year be too late?

Why is this year the one that will change your life?

I haven’t got a clue!

I’ve said it enough myself.

This year, I’ll really work on being a better person, on keeping my house a little tidier, on taking more time to spend with my kid and do things with him, I’ll eat better, I’ll eat less crappy foods, I’ll work out more. All those resolutions that have come and gone.
I’m probably still pretty much the same person I was 10 years ago, only now I’ve grown a bit smarter and I’ve got 10 years of experience that I didn’t have then. My house is still an organized mess, I’m still finding myself short on time when it comes to my kid and we still don’t get to do half the things I would like to do with him, but does that make me a bad mother?
I have been eating better though, and I’ve cut crappy foods out of my ‘diet’ for a large part (not that I don’t enjoy an occasional piece of pie or burger and fries) and I’ve been working out a lot more than I used to.

You know what’s funny though?

It wasn’t a resolution.

I didn’t say “This year, I want to lose weight”.

Nope, that’s not what happened.

What happened is this, back in September, we had a dietician who came by the office and everyone who wanted could go for a short visit. All that really happened was that she weighed each of those who decided they wanted to see her (which was basically all of us) and talk – briefly – about the numbers on the scale. It really wasn’t more than that and each visit took about 10 minutes. I walked out of there with a tip. A single tip on how to improve my overall health.

I’ll share it with you: drink less coke.

It’s bad for all kinds of things and I used to drink about a bottle per day.

But I didn’t cut it out entirely, I still enjoy a glass or can of coke every day, the difference is that now, I can enjoy it. A bit like a treat.

It’s really funny how something as small as that, can have such an impressive impact.

Instead of pouring gallons of coke into myself, I switched to a variety of iced tea, one that has that ‘new’ sweetener in it and you want to know what … in 6 weeks time, I lost 3 kilos! That’s over 6 lbs for those of you who’re not familiar with the metric system.

No resolutions, just solutions.

I’ve now been seeing this dietician on a monthly basis since November and I’ve eliminated – I don’t want to say I lost it, because when you lose something, you’ll want to find it again and I do not want to find that weight on my hips again – over 10 kilos so far. That’s nearly 25 lbs since September.

What did it take?

Meeting the right person at the right time.

It sure didn’t take me saying anything that starts with the words “this year”.

So … what’s your excuse?

More entries can be found here http://nowharkthis.blogspot.be/

The joys of summer - Flash Fiction - All audiences

I'm taking a head start this week.
I've been playing with the idea ever since the prompt was posted last week, and I had some time on my hands now, so I decided to just go on ahead and write it. I'm only about half an hour early anyways.

I'm not going to post the prompt as it would give everything away, so enjoy the read and please ... feel free to comment.

The joys of summer.

“Salmon what?” he asked.

He was straining to hear, but he could hardly make out the words coming over the phone.

What a time to have such a crappy line.

Then, a thought filtered into his clogged up brain.

Maybe it wasn’t the line.

He hadn’t been feeling well and things weren’t improving.

At first he thought it was just an indigestion. Too much cake or something.

It had been a great party after all. Lots of food, lots of drinks, lots of fun. The weather had been at its best, the pool was cool and large enough to accommodate all those who wanted to take a dip and the tables had been set far enough away to avoid ‘sprinkling’, be it by accident or not.

It had been the first neighborhood summer barbecue he had attended, actually, it was the first one they held since he had moved in a few months ago. It had been a great day, he had met lots of new people and gotten to know his neighbors a tad, and some even a lot, better over a few beers.

After the appetizers, sprinkled with a glass of champagne to open the festivities, the richly loaded barbecue, from which he had tasted just about everything it had to offer, and too many different pieces of cake, it hadn’t come as a surprise to him to feel bloated and even a little nauseous. He never ate all that much, but he figured it would just go away if he kept calm and allowed his body to process it all.

The light feeling of nausea had grown as the evening went by, resulting in a rush to the bathroom at about three in the morning. It had been all downhill for him after that.

Shivers and spasms, diarrhea, hot flashes, more vomiting, cold flashes, blurry vision, drums in his ears, spots across his vision.

Hours later, he heaved himself off the bathroom floor where he had passed out and dragged his sorry butt to the phone and called his parents. His parents came and with them came a doctor who gave him a shot and a heap of advice he couldn’t have remembered if he’d tried. He left with a vial of blood, leaving him in his parents’ good care.

Now, he was straining to hear the doctor’s words over the drumming in his ears.

Something about salmon.

He didn’t recall having any fish in the last few days.

He couldn’t remember if he’d had any at that party.

“No, not ‘salmon’.”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“Not ‘salmon’. Salmonella. Bacteria.”

“But I don’t even like salmon.”

Other entries can be found here as soon as they are written/posted/linked:

http://nowharkthis.blogspot.be/

The nature of the beast - Non-fiction - all audiences

Okay, so I don't have enough time to get this in on Friday, but that's only a detail, isn't it?


This weeks non-fiction prompt was: Family Traits.

Welcome to my life!

The nature of the beast.

You don’t really pay any attention to it when you’re a kid.

It doesn’t matter.

Really not.

Everyone is different.

One kid is tall, another one short. One has dark hair, another is blond. One likes cats, the other loves dogs.

It’s normal we’re all different.

Or is it?

What if that first kid, isn’t the only one with those traits?

What if there are two?

Two of them tall with dark hair and they both like cats?

And the third?

Well, the third is short, blond and she loves dogs.

So?

It doesn’t matter.

Does it?

It never had.

Not until that day.

Not until the day this third kid found out where all those differences – she had never noticed – came from.

The day she had a good chat with her mom.

She was on vacation, home from her work abroad, and decided to spend the day helping mom at work.

A sunny day, warm and happy.

A good day for a heart-to-heart.

She had been away for work for a while now and had overcome certain things. Things she could finally talk about. Freely and without raising her voice … too much.

She never would’ve expected to find her mom comfortable to talk about certain things as well.

Things that concerned her.

Things they had never talked about.

How come they hadn’t?

Was it because of him?

He’s not even concerned.

Was it because she was afraid of her reactions?

She shouldn’t have been.

Wasn’t it important enough to talk about before she moved out of the house?

How old does one have to be, before they can be told the truth?

Would it matter if they understood?

What is there to understand either way?

That’s the way it is, full stop.

There’s nothing you can do about it.

I like the truth.

Tell me the truth.

I can take it.

And I could’ve taken it a lot sooner!

So what if your husband was an ass who had a debt and asked you to find a solution for it?

So what if the guy your asshole of a husband had a debt with, accepted to find a solution for it?

Maybe I wasn’t the solution, I sure as hell am the result of it!

What shame is there in doing something for love?

There is no shame in doing something for love.

Or did you wait to make sure you knew I understood that, before telling me about it?

Is that why you waited so long?

If it is, you were wrong.

If it isn’t, you were still wrong.

It doesn’t matter.

You shouldn’t have hidden the truth.

Maybe I don’t have our family traits, I sure have yours.

And his.

A little bit of both.

I have your build, your sense of humor, your love for books.

I have his hair color, his love of dogs.

It doesn’t matter.

Does it?

Mom?






More entries can be found here: http://nowharkthis.blogspot.be/

What's in a name - Flash Fic Challenge - All Audiences

Heya folks!

Here's my submission (I know, it's a little late) for the Friday Flash Fic Challenge over at Now Hark This! blog. It took me some time to get it done the way I wanted it, but that's life.
I'm glad I finished it and I hope you'll enjoy the (short) read.

Prompt: Fully create a character and tell their life in 300 words or less.

Here goes!

What’s in a name.

Michaela – Cayla – Langdon was born into a military family on the day of all days: July 4^th.

From the start, her parents had bickered over her.

Her father wanted a boy, her mother a girl.

Since her mother got what she wanted, her father got to pick her name.

Michaela!

'Mike' for dad, 'Cayla' for mom; they never seemed to agree on anything when it concerned her, except on the military career their child would have.

They sent her off to Military boarding school at the age of 6 and Cayla came to understand one thing very quickly: she was her own person. She had a mind of her own and could make it up for herself.

Karate was a first choice of her own. She loved the beauty of the art and excelled in it. Her discipline and hard work landed her on the US Military Demo Team in her second year in Military Academy. Three years later, she had made it to Captain of the team.

Unlike her parents – and much to their dismay – Cayla continued to study after the Academy, showing her parents fighting wasn’t the only discipline she could master.

On the mats, she fought; off the mats, she healed.

The toughest kind of healing.

She did battle every day, much like her parents wanted.

But her battle was for the sanity of her patients.

She fought for a living, much like her parents intended for her.

But her fight was with the demons that haunted others.

She had followed in their footsteps in more ways than one, marrying a Marine and ‘shipping off’ both their kids to Military boarding school, but she was still very much her own person.

Major Michaela Langdon, ‘head-doctor’ of the elite.

If you'd like to read some of the other submissions, go here:

Now Hark This!