Nanowrimo Comes to a Close

I posted to the Rogues Gallery Writers blog at the beginning of the month about Nanowrimo. Today is the last day of this crazy, inovational contest that challenges writers to pound out a full manuscript in thirty days. At the time of this writing, my personal word count is in doubt. Will I make the 50,000 words required to complete a successful Nano run?

There are a few hundred thousand who will complete the contest. My hat is off to anyone who even stepped up and attempted this writing gauntlet. You have to have writing guts. You have to have desire. You have to have a personality that thrives on perseverance. Then you have to make it happen.

I have successfully completed this task once. I would like to think as I key this that I have done it again. The feeling of writing invincibility is tremendous. The feeling of "I can write a book in thirty days euphoria" overwhelms you. Completing a successful Nanowrimo novel is the equivalent of winning an Olympic 100 meter dash.

You are wasted. Exhausted. Anxious to do it again while you kick back and bask in the glory of achievement. The largest difference between completing Nanowrimo and the Olympics though, is that few if any will see your accomplishment. But isn't that the way of the writer?

Sure, we all desire notoriety and popularity in the book sales department, but few of us crave the physical limelight of being placed before the masses visually.

Nanowrimo has come to its 2009 end. A sad day, yet one of grand euphoria for those who cross that finish line. Another wonderful aspect of this contest is that there are a few hundred thousand winners. Unlike the Olympics where only one can be on top, here a multitude can feel the glow that comes from attaining a monumental task.

For those who did not enter, know this: When you see we Nano's out there cranking out product while you struggle for a meager word count, don't look at us with contempt. Know that we were once there with you - we simply found an answer and ran with it. You can do the same.

You don't even have to wait for November. There's a new month ahead of you and a whole set of new ones on the horizon. Compete in your own private Nanowrimo. No one has to know, but I warn you - when your word count begins to soar, others will notice the pimp in your writer's step. They'll ask what your secret is.

It's up to you whether you tell them or not.

Write on!

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt. 10)

Daniel carried her into the cabin. Frost would surely cover the world in the morning. The pale sky was giving way to darkness. He sat her on the couch, went back to the car and fished out their minimal belongings - three bags of groceries and one bag of clothes. "I'll get us better clothes tomorrow."

"Hell, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon." Samantha laid down on the couch and propped her bad ankle up on the cushioned arm. "I think I'm going to like having a man wait on me hand and foot."

Daniel grunted, strolled to the kitchen and began to unpack their food. "Mac and cheese ok for tonight?"

"Oh my god, a gourmet in the making. I'm not cooking so I suppose it will have to do."

"What are the odds they are onto us already?"

"Took you a while to get there. You should have asked that before we left the hospital. We're both as good as dead right now."

"So what are they waiting for? If they know who I am, where we are and what we know, where's the holdup?"

"They may be waiting to see if you get anywhere with me."

"Isn't that a long shot?"

"With what I know, they'll gamble for the info."

"Why don't you just give it to them? What makes them want to kill you?"

Samantha rolled onto her side. She stared at the oak floor and said, "I turned."

"You turned? How long?"

"Months. They had me as a target. We were almost there. The first of the money had already come in when I killed one of their assassins. I didn't care. One more job and we were to be paid in full."

"So these three guys meant a lot to you."

"Only the world."

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt. 9)

Once in the car, Samantha shrugged off the oversized coat with the floppy hood. Walking was out of the question for a while. Somehow, Daniel had requisitioned crutches for her and they left the hospital in plain sight - she in a wheelchair and Daniel pushing, toting a doting husband's compliment of suitcases, crutches and make-up bags.

She had to admit he could be very resourceful. Where he came up with all the loot she never figured out. A good field agent would do the same. This worried her. Daniel promised to be more than he appeared.

We're headed for the mountains, in case you're wondering," Daniel said as the car woke to his key.

"Don't tell me. You just happen to have a cabin up there."

"No, but I happen to know someone who does and they won't be using it anytime soon."

"Do you make it a habit of barging in on other people's property like that?"

"Only when I need to. This is a need to situation." Daniel turned the radio down to a whisper and asked, "Why'd you kill them?"

"They had turned."

"Money?"

"Does it really matter?"

"I suppose not. How long had you worked with them?"

"Four years."

"Why aren't you lying? I thought you always lied."

"What's the point? I only lie when I need to." Samantha shifted in the seat. Her ankle ached from all the activity during there 'escape' from the hospital.

"So you decided to go out with them. They must have meant something to you."

"Bastards. They welcomed me into the group. We were going to be rich. No one could touch us. Let the world go to hell while we all sit back, drink heavily and fuck like rabbits."

"Were you tempted?" Daniel glanced her way. She felt his eyes study her face.

"Yeah." She lowered her head and muttered, "I was tempted."

"What made you decide to do the job. I presume you infiltrated them for that purpose."

"I gathered information I couldn't live with."

"What kind of information."

"Now you want me to lie. Let's leave it at money, alcohol and sex wouldn't be enough for me to be able to live with myself. They were into something nasty."

"Fair enough - for now. We'll need to hole up a while for your ankle to heal."

"What about you? You appear to know way too much about my line of work. What's your story?"

"I kill women."

She shot a glance his way then felt her face flush when she noticed he'd seen. "Ok, that's funny."

"No really. I don't lie. Women seem to die around me. I suppose it's my engaging personality."

"How do they die?"

"Not by my hand. They all seem to ... have issues. Drugs, pimps, agents, husbands. You name it, I've seen it."

"A dead babe magnet, eh?" She smiled for the first time.

"It ain't all that funny lady."

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.8)

"If they're the good guys, what's that make you?"

An evil bitch, Samantha thought as she sized up Daniel. "Let's just say I'm not the pristinely perfect lady. I have a few undesirable personality flaws."

"Oh? For example ..."

"I kill people for a living. I lie about everything and I don't floss." Daniel didn't react and she didn't like that one bit. She'd have to take a different tack.

"Did you kill those men in the car with you?"

He was cleaning his nails, not looking directly at her. This troubled her even more. He's not looking for body language clues. "Yes."

"I thought you lied about everything."

"Maybe I am."

"You're not. Why take yourself out along with them? Was that the plan?"

He's much too close to the truth. "I don't think you need to know all this. Go away and maybe they won't know you were ever here."

"We both know it's too late for that. If I'm going to go down, at least give me the satisfaction of knowing why." Daniel looked up and met her eyes with a cool stare.

"You could be anyone. If I talk to you, I could spill secrets that would cause far too many problems. Especially if you're the enemy."

"Look Samantha, you're the one who crawled up to my house broken and bleeding. If you singled your enemy out like that, then you are one incredibly talented agent. I just don't want to be caught up in something without knowing the score."

"Now who's lying? You love not knowing what's happening. It's the thrill of the hunt." Samantha vaguely remembered his house and the creaky screen door. The wreck felt like it happened years ago instead of days.

"Touche`." Daniel stood up and tossed some clothes on her stomach. "Get dressed under the sheet in case the nurse comes in. We're outta here."

Creating Product

Fiction's Footsteps is an interesting project. I'm attempting to write it without using notes or outlines. I just look at the previous post and continue the story from there.

Plot twists could spring from anything that may have happened during a day in my life. The unpredictability of this project could make it somewhat less than satisfying, but it may surprise and deliver a story we can sink our teeth into.

The Cold Bite of Autumn explores my ability (and lust) to create an alternate world that is accessible to most people and a joy to write. So far, I am encouraged by the writing. My writing is in need of overhauling so much, I fear when I click the "Publish Post" button.

No writer wishes to create product that stinks. Hell, we all dream of writing the "Great American Novel. Realistically speaking, most of us have a ton of work to do.

I will continue to create product, post it to this page, and hope that someone 'discovers' me and finds the fiction palatable and especially enjoyable.

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.7)

Half a day later, Cheryl/Samantha opened her eyes. Daniel remained still to see if she could focus on her surroundings.

"Where am I and who the hell are you?" She squinted his direction and rubbed her left hand on her temple.

"The hospital - and I should ask the same of you. Is it Samantha or Cheryl?"

Her pause revealed a struggle with who she was speaking to and how Daniel fit into her web of lies.

"Samantha," she decided.

"Nice of you to be so, shall we say - forthcoming?"

"Fuck you."

"Harold came by to see you."

An eyebrow betrayed her otherwise calm face. "Harold who?"

"If that's the thanks I get for chasing him off before he injects you with something nasty, you need to find your manners."

"You're in over your head hero. You shoulda let him do it. Woulda saved all of us some trouble."

"He and his buddy will be back soon. It's been about eight hours. Why don't you let me help you. I'm not asking you to tell me what this is all about, although it would be nice."

"You're dead just being in this room mister."

"Daniel."

"Daniel. Once they find out you've helped me, you'll die. They will find out." Samantha folded her hands on her lap and began to flex her fingers.

"That may be true, but I'll take a few with me before I go." Daniel collected some clothes he purchased for her after Harold left the building.

"No, you mustn't." Samantha's face contorted in bloodless white lines and a set jaw. "They're the good guys."

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.6)

A moan jerked his head toward hers even though he couldn't see her. The footsteps paused then quickly approached the bed.

"Samantha," a man's voice whispered. "Samantha can you hear me? It's Harold."

Another moan as well as movement of bed linens. Daniel imagined that guy trying to wake her up.

"Samantha, we hafta know what happened. Did they get the message out? Samantha."

Another moan, this time more vocal. Daniel realized the jerk was shaking her.

"Dumb ass. she's on more drugs than your local junkie," he thought as he pulled back the curtain for a better view. Harold's back faced him as did Cheryl or Samantha's bruised face. Harold gave up shaking her and pulled a needle from his pocket.

"That's all folks," Daniel mused as he pressed the nurse call button. Almost immediately two distinct knocks struck the door followed by a third emphatic one. Obviously this meant Harold should depart pronto. He shoved the needle back into his pocket and fled out the door.

Daniel stepped down and rubbed his scratchy face with his non-pistol hand. Cheryl/Samantha moaned again. He flicked the safety back on and placed the gun in his pants at his back. as the nurse walked in.

"Is everything alright?" she asked as she checked Cheryl/Samantha's pulse.

"She began moaning a few minutes ago. That's a good sign, right?" He knew her moans meant she was coming out of the coma, but he wanted to play the concerned husband role to the hilt.

"Oh absolutely. In fact, we were getting concerned about her. The broken ankle and busted ribs are one thing, but head injuries and concussions are another. Her vitals are strong. Don't worry, she'll be ok." The nurse gave him a reassuring nod and left the room.

"She'll be ok until those goons find out whether this "message" was sent or not," he muttered to the closed door. Time to plan his next move. Boy, Big Jim was sure going to be pissed at him this time.

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.5)

Daniel dozed off early around dinner time. Cheryl remained in a coma but the nurses brought him a tray without asking. As soon as she left, he settled back. Around ten o'clock he woke, poked at the cold turkey and gravy and opted for the cherry pie instead.

As the last bite disappeared into his mouth, a white van parked and cut its lights - too quickly. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and took in the two men that climbed from their respective doors - passenger front door and the door directly behind the driver.

He glanced around the room for areas to conceal himself. The only apparent place was the bathroom. He needed something closer to Cheryl. He pulled the curtain far enough to place a chair behind it but not enough to make someone check to see if there was another patient in the room. He stood on the chair moved around and checked for squeaks or other telltale noises. Satisfied of its silence, he hopped down and rigged the nurse station call button behind the curtain.

He pulled out his pistol, clicked off the safety, and remounted the chair. One day he would figure out why all the troubled women fell his way. He smiled as door creaked open. "I'm never bored," he thought as hard shoes clicked to her bedside.

New Fiction Posts

Hello fan. Oh! There's two of you? Well then, hello fans! Yes, this writing gig is a tough business. You write and write and write and who reads or cares? Two, three people? Well, as long as there is at least one, all is well.

I have decided to commit more seriously to The Cold Bite of Autumn. I'm even considering using the story as my main novel premise in this year's Nanowrimo contest. What is Nanowrimo? Egad! Tis only the most intense writing month of the year!

Na(tional)no(vel)wri(ting)mo(nth) begins November 1, 2009 at midnight October 31st. It runs until midnight November 30th. Basically all you do is write 50,000 words in thirty days or less. I've entered twice, finished (or won) once. Yes, in 2007 I wrote 50,186 words in 29 days. What a sense of accomplishment. That breaks down to 1667 words per day. Currently I am averaging 2000 words per day. Today's count should clock in around 4000. That's where I want to be.

Ok, so The Cold Bite of Autumn has now become a priority. I will commit to posting a new installment every Monday. The next two installments are already written, so look for them beginning Monday October 12th. If I am a good boy, I will keep this up until I have a viable book or someone tells me to hang up my thumb drive and get a real job!

This is a serious undertaking. I must do that thing which most writers rail against - I must discipline myself. I can and will do this. Hopefully you'll follow me down the storyline and we'll meet at the other end satisfied.

Wow, too bad writing like that gets missed by the masses!

Crazy, Hazy Days of Writing

C. Astrid Weber said, "The coroner will find ink in my veins and blood on my typewriter keys." Hopefully this describes me one day. While the typewriter has gone the way of Click Clacks and Wheelos (remember those?), a keyboard is a reliable facsimile.

I look at what I'm attempting to do as a writer and publisher and I am amazed. Amazed I'm not in bankruptcy court (yet), amazed I'm still married, amazed I know my children's names and amazed I still yearn for more.

Writing is much too complicated to maintain sanity, yet it is a simple process. Simply you, a keyboard and a blank screen. If you go retro, it's you, a pen and a blank page. Simple. The complexity enters from our minds. No writer has a static mind that just sits and contemplates his next dinner menu.

Ok, sometimes we do, but most often we fight self-made demons. The wicked witch that won't let us write even though she's not even around. She's in our mind. Who is she? A wife, a girlfriend, a mother, a daughter. Change gender there wherever suits you.

Then there's chores, jobs, responsibilities. They demand first priority.

I pose you a question. How old are you? Easy answer in terms of actual years lived on this earth, right? But my question, as many of my question do, has a much more sinister, diabolical intent. What if I changed it to - How old are you in relation to your pending death? Oh God, now he's going morbid on us, right?

No. I'm attempting to get you to snap out of your brainwashed stupor. I'm not being condescending here. I often have to do this to myself. What are you here for? How old do you have to be before you understand or realize that the excuses you have for not writing are imposed upon you by others. You must take control of your life. Your writing life.

So now the question becomes - How old is your writing life? Most of our "writing lives" stay on life support. We just give it the bare essentials and call that good enough. How many of us are willing to put it all on the line for our writing lives?

I don't see many honest hands. Mine screams to shoot up in pride and self promotion. But in order for the hand to be honest, it first must be at the task of promoting writing as a vocation day in and day out, with writing being the primary work of the day and all other items secondary. Working on the "writing life" involves a commitment that is not there at your regular job. It's not there in your marriage. Nor you friendships. The commitment to write has to become obsession.

Am I saying you are to trash your other relationships? Absolutely not. Relationships are the fertile ground from which ideas for writing spring. How do you juggle all this then? How do you work another job, have a life (relationship-wise) and keep up with all that happens around you? The answer lies solely within your own psyche. How important is it (writing) to you?

If writing is your passion, you'll marry someone who supports your passion. Someone who loves your passion. Someone willing to take a back seat to it. Not all the time, mind you, but it could be often.

You will also find work that allows you to make writing your priority.

Lastly, when it comes to trimmed hedges or writing, you choose writing. When it comes to mown lawn or writing, you choose writing. When it comes to a leaky roof or writing, you choose writing.

When the situation becomes simply a leaky roof, you fix the roof. When it is simply a lawn that needs mown, you mow the lawn. When it's just a hedge that needs trimmed, you trim the hedge. But never, ever, choose against writing.

What does that do to your life? Make it crazy? Make the days turn into hazy, vague remembrances of keyboards, supporting drinks and words? Absolutely. So again, I ask you, "How old are you?" Are you so old that you've given up on your dreams? Are you so old that writing is just a hobby that'll never amount to anything? Are you so old that our insane society has declared you mundane and a slave to its dictates?

Or are you forever young, vibrant and excited, if nowhere else, than on the printed page. If you aspire to write, I pray that you are forever young. I also ask the same for myself. I get trapped. I fall down. But when we're young, we pop right back up and go at it again. Don't let this world tell you how to live your life.

Jump up into the crazy, hazy days of writing and let your spirit soar.

What I Need as a Writer

Nothing like the pressure of the social networks to get a writer going. Once I posted my daily word count on Facebook, I nailed the lid of my excuse coffin shut. I exposed my desire to produce daily to the world. Is anyone watching? Most likely not at this point of my career. I'm about the only one all worked up about it. I have been unwilling to produce much in the way of new material for quite some time. Now I must produce daily.

Why?

Because I have pride and I desire to succeed. To succeed as a writer, get this - you must write! What is the one thing a writer struggles to do on a daily basis? Write. Crazy, isn't it? We are a strange lot. I haven't received any input on my "Cold Bite of Autumn" that I'm creating here and only here on my blog.

I'm sure that doesn't necessarily means it's shit, but writers can psyche themselves out and believe all kinds of nonsense like that. Or is it nonsense? I find it interesting that writers slave away at their (our) words with no real hope of anyone really taking them to any high level. I personally don't write to be shallow. I'm definitely not writing for market or I'd be making more money, so what is in this gig for us?

My reward is accomplishment. I may never be considered a brilliant writer. I've read brilliant writers and I'm here to tell you most are not published. That is the unpublicized aspect of writing. Those writers who can wrench your gut out most often squirrel their manuscripts away in a closet and hide behind a low self-esteem or a fear of failure/success mindset.

I've listened to people's writing that ripped my soul and I've watched sadly as they convince themselves in every way possible that they could never make it as a writer. They become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Sure, even thought their writing is pristine and powerful is no guarantee of success, but they have material most of us would die for!

I've attempted to encourage them to step out and make their writing public. To take that chance and put themselves out there for the world to see, but I've also seen years of negativity having beaten them down. Years of people saying both verbally and non-verbally that they will never amount to anything significant.

What really kills me is that the people who often become "significant" have no real claim to fame or intelligence other than the fact that they are willing to expose their creativity to a world that has a voracious appetite for creative material. There is so much weak writing in the world today that I am positive I fall in the upper half of the crap pile. I could be way up there. I may never be able to gauge where I stand in the avalanche of writing in this world, but at least I know I'm in there giving it the ol' college try.

This little blog is brought to you by: "Buck up! YOU could be the next Rowlings, Grisham, Hemmingway! Don't let the world beat you down. Grow some balls! Get off your ass! Get out there and make something happen! One day you'll be dead."

Why do I write THIS day? Because one day I'll be dead. I hope to continue my little story, "The Cold Bite of Autumn". I sincerely hope I'll develop a following. If it's only you, that is all I need.

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.4)

Daniel sat inside her room like a pensive husband. Most of the staff thought they were married and he didn't correct them. Not a single soul came to visit.

He checked up on whether anyone had notified next of kin and found that she had none. In fact, the hospital had been unable to trace anything through her driver's license. This woman had no job, no family and no history. The hospital personnel were unconcerned, especially since he stuck around, but Daniel knew trouble coursed through people with no histories.

Daniel felt a half-smile creep onto his face. A month's leave from police work lay ahead of him and the first day a near-dead chick crawls up into his yard and pique's his interest. Big Joe would be pretty pissed off if he knew Daniel paced this woman's hospital room instead of kicking back a few cold ones on the beach.

He crossed his arms and patted his waist on both sides of his body. The reassuring resistance of his non-issue hardware met his light touches. Daniel repositioned the chair for a strong surveillance view of the parking lot and the door to the room. Instinct told him to expect visitor. That same expectation screamed visitors to her room meant trouble.

If this woman proved to be another rotten peach, Daniel might need more than a month of R&R. The last woman he hooked up with put him on leave in the first place. Her death and his involvement forced Big Joe's hand. This chick might end up squelching his career.

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.3)

The woman's driver's license said her name was Cheryl Ann Socia. Thirty years old and blue eyed, the picture did not do her justice, of course. From what Daniel Thorgrave could tell, she worked out, took care of herself and did not use or need make-up. The license said she was five foot six, but her fetal position on the ground made height impossible to see.

"Her friends are all dead," the ambulance driver told him as he helped load her in the back. "Their car's wrapped around a tree about a half mile down the road from here. She's tough."

He slammed the door shut and bound around to the driver's side door and took off. Daniel hesitated, then grabbed the keys in his pocket. If her friends were all dead, maybe he could help her. Something in her eyes when they had their brief conversation disturbed him.

As he pulled out of the driveway, he shook his head and decided he had no sense whatsoever. Chasing after a near-dead woman he didn't know because of a gut feeling reminded him of numerous other mistakes he'd made in his life. Hopefully this woman would turn out to be normal.

Writing Enemies

Yes, writers have enemies. Our most formidable foe is ourselves. We run from our work like children from daily chores. Any excuse is acceptable if it relieves us of the duty that writing brings to us each and every day.

Idiocy, if you think about it. What do most all writers claim? "I LOVE to write." Yet we avoid doing it with distractions apparent and subtle. We play Spider Solitaire or War Craft. We decide the hedges we loathed trimming are now our most important priority.

Why? Why can't we simply sit down and do that which we know we love? I believe this fundamental question is what separates the Wannabe writers from the Gonnabe's and I Am's. I'm writing a paper called Wannabe's, Gonnabe's and I Am's.

Wannabe's talk about writing. They have great ideas for that blockbuster novel, the one that will sell millions of copies and land them on Oprah. They dog writers groups and established writers looking for that magic formula that will translate their words into gold. There's a home run waiting on them if they just swing that bat hard and true enough.

What Wannabe's don't know and often never get past is the fact that they are the PITCHER not the batter. Nothing happens, no ball gets put into play until they throw out that first pitch. Without a product, the Wannabe is going to die on the vine.

Let's not be too hard on the Wannabe though. All writers were Wannabe's at one time in their life. It's a stage that must be traversed. A writer must listen and learn and transition from the Wannabe stage into a Gonnabe.

The Gonnabe is a writer who actually begins to get it. This writer starts to get serious and sits down and puts words to paper (or electrons to screen). This writer still doesn't know quite what is involved, necessarily, but he/she pushes on, hopefully with a clear cut goal in sight.

It's critical that the Gonnabe completes a book. Too often the Gonnabe bogs down and switches to another "great idea" because the one being worked on has fizzled. Often, the Gonnabe deserts a project that is very close to a completed manuscript. In any case, it is a heck of a lot closer to complete than beginning from scratch.

The Gonnabe has to pursue writing with a more rabid mentality. The Gonnabe has to establish a "hell or high water" approach to completing projects. How the Gonnabe achieves this is not so important as simply attaining a draft manuscript. THEN, the Gonnabe has to weather the fact that he/she must go through many revisions, edits and rewrites to tighten up the original work.

This process, if approached from the right mindset, is very rewarding. As the Gonnabe works and works and works the manuscript, it becomes a living entity no longer needing life to be breathed into it by the writer's hands. Often, the Gonnabe gets sick and totally disgusted with the manuscript and just wants to move on to the next project. Here is where the Gonnabe must stick it out and polish the manuscript to its greatest potential.

Once that is completed, the opportunity presents itself for the Gonnabe to realize the transition to I am. I am is a tenuous pinnacle. It is far to easy to slide back into that Gonnabe stage where many projects make him/her feel like they are progressing but actually they've become stagnant. Or worse, the slide can go all the way back to Wannabe where all they are doing is talking writing.

I am is defined by confidence and a writing regimen of some sort. Without consistent writing in some way, shape or form, the I am is doomed to slip back. One advantage the I Am has over the other two is the knowledge that they were once there and can get back again.

I've run this gauntlet and I'm ready to get back to that point where I am producing once again. I slipped back to Wannabe for a while. I let the excuses build - I'm working so hard on Toastmasters, Publishing, running two other businesses in addition to working, taking care of four children, leading two writers' groups, chair a board of deacons at church and actually paying attention to the woman I love.

A near death experience (very, very near death) catapulted me to pursuing my writing dream. Michael Jackson's untimely death is another moment to contemplate. Forget whether we like him or loath him, he was my age. MY AGE. We were born the same year. He is dead. I have not achieved what I desire to accomplish in the writing world.

Therefore, I must pick myself up from my Wannabe ass, kick it into a Gonnabe gear so that once again I can realize I AM AN AUTHOR! The great writers get here and stay here, at least from my perspective. Once a writer defeats himself (his own worst enemy), he then has the opportunity to do great things. This is my rant, and you have heard me!

DarkThorn

www.michaelrayking.com

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.2)

Cheryl stumbled past a decrepit gate and fell into the rocky yard. A scream of pain ripped from her lips despite her sense that she could not hurt anymore than she already did. She attempted to pull herself forward with her arms but could raise neither high enough to do any good.

She heard the front door creak slightly and pictured a little old woman afraid of her own shadow opening it. Instead, a burly man swung the door open boldly, pushed open a screen door and took the steps two at a time. In an instant he knelt beside her.

"What happened? Car wreck?"

All Cheryl could do was nod. She felt his hands probing around gingerly but with enough force that when he touched her ankle she cried out.

"That's pretty messed up. Probably broken. Looks like you've lost some blood too. Do you feel cold?"

She nodded again, thankful her mouth was incapable of betraying her. She wanted to scream, "I should have died too." Bastards. They were supposed to all die together. Her benefactor kept taking an inventory until he was sure there were no other major injuries.

"I'll have an ambulance here in a second." The man stood up, bound back up the steps and was swallowed by the dim lit house. His muffled voice trailed off into a silken mist as Cheryl lost consciousness.

A Story by Any Other Name...

...would read as sweet. When I dream of writing, I dream of intricate characters intertwining their emotional desperations with the bravado's of strength they attempt to maintain. The problem quickly becomes - each character cannot get what he or she wants without exposing the vulnerability that consumes them.

When I practice writing, I do the same. I search for characters that feel. Characters that experience the emotional travails we all go through at some point in our lives. Rich characters make great stepping stones for stories marinated in passion.

When actually writing, I find these ideals elusive. The mission is to achieve that perfect story, the one that makes the young girls sigh and the old women cry. One day I'll write it. I'll know it, and you'll know it. Until then, follow my trek and let me know if I'm on the right path.

Each post on this blog is a rose petal peeled off its stem, falling to some destination unknown. Sometimes the petals will fall to the ground and rot like our bodies one day will do. Other times the petals will fall upon willing eyes that take in their plight and give them life through readership. Some will fall into the hands of evil and perverse people who would tear down all hope for the writer if his destiny lay in their hands. Others will nurture the petals with helpful comments and encouraging words. And so goes the petals that fall.

Walk with me through the world of writing. The stroll should be most entertaining!

DarkThorn

http://www.roguesgallerywriters.blogspot.com/
http://www.michaelrayking.com/

The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt. 1)

Dead wheels and lifeless bodies lay curled around an old oak tree.Crisp October air bit at Cheryl's throat as she staggered down the country road. The Milky Way shot silent stares at her as the heels of her shoes clicked erratically down the asphalt. Puffs of breath hung behind her like tiny clouds, slowly dissipating into oblivion.One moment they'd been laughing, whooping it up at Ted's expense.

In a blink of her eye, grim visages of death accused her of murder. All three men splayed around the car like discarded marionettes, lifelines cut by callous disregard for good sense. Why death skipped over her screamed of mystery or fate's cruel sentence.

Shock permeated her senses as she placed one foot in front of the other. Each step took patience and care as something felt broken. Maybe her ankle, maybe her leg, the pain when she placed her left foot to the road played pinball throughout her body. Dull light from a rickety front porch competed with the heavens for attention.

Cheryl focused her eyes as much as possible on that lonely bulb. If she ever wanted to pray, this moment begged for it, but she managed only a low, guttural keening. Perhaps fate desired that she live. After all, she tried her best to kill them all, including herself. Yet, she crawled from the wreckage and struck out for life. If another life awaited her, surely these three men would seek her out, if for no other reason than to find out - why?

This piece of fiction brought to you by:

DarkThorn King

To read more, check out DarkThorn's blog by clicking on his name in the links section