Sunday - Just a blog post.

Yep.
That's what it is today.
Sunday.
And it's a sunny day, too.
It was long overdue!
Finally, the sun is coming out to play again.

I went shopping this morning, coz I couldn't be bothered with it yesterday, but that meant I had to get going early. There's only one supermarket in the area that's open on Sundays and only till 1 pm. I had an excuse to get up early today, as early as ... oh, about 8.30 or so (yes, that's early!!) because it's my ex-husband's "weekend", so he would be knocking on my door around 9. He wasn't though, he sent a text message to the kid, letting him know he would be on the 9.30 bus, so we had some time to spare. It meant waking up at a more leisurely pace instead of jumping out of bed the moment he knocks (that would be me, the kid's usually up around 8). I usually go back to bed once they're gone, but since I had some shopping to do (groceries, coz school starts again tomorrow), I didn't go back to bed (booo-hoooo). Instead I turned on my computer and checked a few of "my sites".

This one in the first place.

It's nice to see the number of viewers/readers grow steadily. It makes me happy to know people are coming to *my* page to see what I've been up to. I hope you're enjoying the stay ;o)
I also checked Facebook, played the only game I'm still playing regularly (just don't have the time for all that begging and building and begging and building and .... you get the picture, right?) and checked my messages. Only one, but it was one I had been hoping for, waiting for. It made me extra happy. I replied, turned my computer off again and set out to get my shopping done.
All in all, it didn't take me long to get there, shop, pay and get home. By the time I got back, it was getting warm. The kind of warm we've been longing for for weeks now. The kind of warm it should've been all damn week, all damn month!!!!

Yeah, yeah, I can hear you nagging about "What's all that about global *warming* now, huh??", but you can cut the crap, I've had it with that. And I really don't want to get into that right now. It could only mess up my mood, which is good (for a change).

On to some better topics.
Writing!
I love that one!
I came across a post from one of my Facebook contacts sometime this week, about a writing contest. The Writer's Weekly 24-hour writing contest, to be precise. Now, for those of you who know me, you'll understand why this got my attention, aside from being a writing contest. And for those who don't know ... scroll back to the top of the page here and have another look at that handsome devil. Now do you get it????

Anyways, I decided to enter.
At least, I was hoping I could still enter, because there's a 500 participant limit, so I was hoping I would still "make the cut". I entered all my information and submitted the form, then waited patiently (yeah, right), until 7 pm yesterday. At 7.01 pm I was checking my mail and .... BINGO!!!!! The topic had been dropped into my mailbox. I started reading it, finding my mind whirling with images in a matter of seconds. Images that instantly started competing for my attention, screaming "use me, use me", giving me a splitting headache in no time. DUH!! I blocked out the screams and continued reading. Maximum word count .... (uh-ohhhh, I'm not good with those) .... 925 words ... WHAT???? Are you kidding me??? 925????

Blahhhhh!!!! I write that in 5 minutes!
Damn!!!
That is sooooo short!
I had been expecting a little more than that.
I've done it before though, actually, I've been doing it every Friday for a few months, but this ... no, this was a bit unexpected. It's really all about getting the damn thing right from the first try. Sure, you can change things and tweak it a little, but there's not a lot of room to work with. Really not.
I didn't start writing at once. I let it all just sink in and let the ideas take over, allowing them to fly freely and either grow or dissipate. One grew strong, but I only had one image to describe and a crushing ending. I started writing it, but pretty soon found myself struggling with it. The image just wouldn't expand. It usually does once I start writing, but here, it just didn't. It bulged somewhat, but not nearly enough to allow for a 925 word description of it.
So I saved it and closed it, started closing window after window of open programs (not that I have 20 of them open, but still, there are a few X's to click), but then I changed my mind, opened a new word document and started writing afresh. Something new. Something else.
There wasn't even a picture, it was just a nagging thought at the back of my mind, unwilling to leave me be, unwilling to let me go to bed and find sleep. I'm sure I would've laid awake, tossing and turning, had I gone to bed after all. There would've been no peace for me, so I did the only thing I possibly can do, I wrote the damn story!
It came out alright and I let it rest, the whole 899 words of it.
Today, I sent it to a friend for a "first impression" and that came back positive, so I opened the file again and had another read myself. I tweaked some, I changed some, I added some. Now, I think I'm done, but I'm waiting for a second opinion before moving on to the next step, which is to submit my story. I have a few hours to spare.

I'll keep you posted as to how it goes.
Keep your fingers crossed for me!!!!

Earning your wings - Friday Flash Fiction - all audiences

Hey guys,


Yes "another" Friday Flash Fiction.
It's not with the same prompt, as it originates on a different blog than usual. I found it a short while back, and decided to check this week's prompt. I felt good about it and gave it a go.

Here is the prompt:

Use the quote below to tell the story of how your primary character comes to the edge (a cliche). Note: Your character may/may not fly. However, he/she encourages others to start a new beginning – i.e. to “fly.” Spring offers new beginnings to grow and soar. Tell this story in no more than 1,500 words (no less than 800) with a balance of dialogue and imagery. Now let your story fly!

“Come to the edge, He said. They said: We are afraid. Come to the edge, He said. They came. He pushed them, And they flew . . .”
 — Guillaume Apollinaire -  French poet.


And here's the story.
Enjoy the read!

Earning your wings.

The winds were a lot stronger up here.

He never would have thought they might get this strong, even as high up as they were. But he was here now, and so were they, mere steps away from earning his wings. It was what he had worked towards for such a long time, but now, his stomach knotted up and he felt the nerves soar through his body, making his limbs tremble in fearful, yet excited, anticipation. He feared taking ‘the step’ as much as he was longing to take it. As much as he was looking forward to taking it. It was the last he would ever take and it was the first. The first of millions more. It was the contradiction that made him fearful. It wasn’t full blown fear though, he couldn’t describe it as such. It was more a waxing and waning anguish, flowing at the pace of his blood pulsating throughout his body.

He looked up at the sky, stark blue with an occasional fluff of white, the bright yellow fire ball sitting high above. He didn’t feel its warmth though. Not up here. Not with these winds. He felt no comfort at this time, even though the peaceful view usually brought some.

‘I’m not afraid’’ he told himself quietly, hoping to somehow calm his nerves and soothe his racing heart.

It had been a very long time since he had last felt like this.

Years.

Decades probably.

It was supposed to be healthy, but there was a dangerous undertone to the feeling.

Something ominous.

Something he couldn’t quite place.

Then again.

If he failed, he would not earn his wings.

That would be devastating.

All that hard work gone to waste.

“Okay, this is it.”

The voice startled him and he lowered his eyes from the skies to the man who had brought them here.

“Is everybody ready?”

They all acquiesced.

So did he.

He was ready.

“Okay, step right up.”

Why did he volunteer to go first?

“There is nothing to worry about.”

“I know.”

“Good. Here, let me anchor you.”

He watched closely as the man performed his actions quickly but securely, fastening a safety harness on him and connecting it to the thick cable overhead.

“Nothing can happen to you.”

“I know.”

“Everybody gather around. Stay behind the white line and you’ll be just fine.”

“But the winds.” someone said.

“Are not strong enough to lift you off your feet.”

They approached hesitantly, their eyes going back and forth between the men standing at the edge and the void beyond them.

They did not come as far as the white line, obviously distrusting their guide’s words.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, I am.”

“They don’t look like they are. Maybe it was a mistake bringing you up here today.”

“No, it wasn’t. We’re ready.”

He turned, overlooked the gathered group of people he had come to know so well over the past – What had it been? Months? Years?

“Come to the edge.” he said.

“We are afraid.” they said, almost as one.

“Come to the edge.” he said again.

“Look. It’s easy.”

He had no idea where he suddenly found the courage, but he turned back to the edge and stepped forward, into the void.

He fell, as expected, but then the safety line snagged him from his vertical pattern. In the same instant, his motion went from vertical to horizontal and he felt a different kind of nervousness soar through him.

Would he succeed?

He could not fail.

Failure was not an option.

It never had been.

It never would be.

“I can do this.” he said while the safety line slid along the cable.

“I can do this.” he repeated, louder this time.

“I can do this!”

He felt the strain in his neck and shoulders.

“I can do this.”

A sudden flash of pain.

“Nothing to worry about.” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

He had to if he wanted to hear the sound of his own voice over the roaring winds.

“You can do this.”

The pain disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

“Yes!”

He closed his eyes, picturing himself on his mind’s eye.

“You can do this.” he said slowly.

He was no longer screaming.

The winds were no longer roaring.

The safety line no longer held him.

He opened his eyes again. Looking down, he saw the world flying by him in a blur, unrecognizable at this speed. Looking up and to the side, his smile widened as much as his face would allow for.

“YES!” he screamed, no longer out of necessity, but out of pure excitement.

“I did it!“

He tried to steer and felt his body respond.

He had not failed.

He had earned his wings.

With a huge smile on his face, he turned back to where the others stood waiting and watching.

“I told you it was easy.” he called from a distance, “Who’s next?”

The hesitation was slowly dissipating.

They needed more convincing.

He landed next to their guide, a small nod the only ‘reward’ for his achievement.

“You’re next.” he said, reaching for the one standing closest to him.

He quickly and securely anchored his fellow candidate, took a step to the side and nudged him gently.

“You can do this.”

With those words he gave another nudge, sending him over the edge into a vertical drop.

He didn’t remember screaming, but he guessed he must have until that line snagged on him.

“We can all do this.” he said, turning to the others, “This is what we have worked for. This-”

He deployed his wings.

“is what we all want.”

“Congratulations.”

The booming voice made him turn, though not in fear or surprise.

It filled him with warmth.

“Not only have you earned your wings, you have also earned your title. Go and spread the word, my friend.”

“I will.”

He spread his wings and stepped off the edge, soaring on the strong winds as they carried him to the portal.

The gate swung open and he cleared it with a happy smile.

“Angels do exist.” he called to the lone man sitting outside.

“And you are one of them.” the old man replied quietly, a faint smile curling around his lips.

Another one who had come in, doubtful and in fear, and now flew back out on those same wings he had always belied.

Afterlife was good.

More entries can be found here

Also, be sure to check out even more entries linked on the different pages.

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/