30 Days of Prompts: Woman on the Run

Yesterday's post contained prompts related to a dystopian future. Some could be connected, and some were unrelated. You decide how to use them. 

Today, I've pulled up prompts about Jenny, a woman on the run. The 30 days of prompts encompass a whole story that you can formulate based on the prompts. You can add to them, or change them as you see fit. 

Have fun with it and start a new habit.

30 Days of Prompts: Woman on the Run

Day 1: The inciting incident. Describe the moment Jenny realizes she has to flee, and what she witnesses that terrifies her.

Day 2: On the road. What does Jenny pack in her haste? Where is she headed?

Day 3: Disguise. Jenny needs to blend in. How does she alter her appearance?

Day 4: Flashback. What was Jenny's life like before she went on the run?

Day 5: Close call. A near miss with her pursuers puts Jenny on edge.

Day 6: Morality test. Jenny encounters someone in need. Does she help, risking exposure, or keep running?

Day 7: Exhaustion. Jenny finds a temporary haven. Describe her internal struggle: fear vs. hope.

Day 8: Unexpected kindness. A stranger offers Jenny a small act of generosity.

Day 9: Resourcefulness. Jenny finds a clever way to obtain something she desperately needs.

Day 10: Doubt. Jenny questions her choices and if she can outrun what's chasing her.

Day 11: Discovery. Jenny stumbles upon a clue that might help her understand what's after her.

Day 12: The pursuers. Describe them in detail. Are they human?

Day 13: Technology vs. Nature. Jenny must choose between using technology that could expose her or relying solely on instinct.

Day 14: Lost and Found. Jenny loses a precious memento. Does she risk going back for it?

Day 15: Dreams. A vivid dream offers Jenny a cryptic message or a glimpse into her future.

Day 16: Internal conflict. A part of Jenny wants to fight back. How does she navigate this urge?

Day 17: Unlikely ally. Jenny finds an unexpected partner in her fight for survival.

Day 18: Sacrifice. Jenny has to give up something important to stay one step ahead.

Day 19: The chase intensifies. Jenny narrowly escapes capture. Describe the chase scene.

Day 20: Hidden talent. A forgotten skill Jenny possesses might prove crucial.

Day 21: Moral dilemma. Jenny faces a difficult choice that could have lasting consequences.

Day 22: Revelation. Jenny learns a shocking truth about her pursuers or her past.

Day 23: Hope rekindled. Jenny finds a reason to believe she can actually win.

Day 24: Setting a trap. Jenny decides to take a stand and lure her pursuers in.

Day 25: The confrontation. Jenny finally faces her pursuers. Describe the battle (physical or psychological)

Day 26: Aftermath. Jenny deals with the physical and emotional repercussions of the confrontation.

Day 27: Decision time. Does Jenny continue running or try to rebuild her life?

Day 28: Unexpected twist. A new threat emerges or an old enemy resurfaces.

Day 29: Unfinished business. Jenny realizes she needs to address something from her past to find true peace.

Day 30: The ending. Choose an ending that feels right for your story. Does Jenny find closure or is her journey far from over?

Sitting On the Dock

We're getting down to the wire now. As of tomorrow, you have 5 days to write. Don't stop now, even if you think you can't finish. There is still time to get 10K-15K words. Really, there is.

Here's a new prompt for you to try. Your characters are sitting on a dock talking about something. Their relationship? The crime they've committed? Their kids? The trip they're planning? Maybe they're hiding from something in an isolated location. Perhaps someone has died and one is trying to console the other. Or maybe one of them just discovered they have a terminal illness. 

Whatever it is, you decide and use it to generate a new scene. 

And best of luck, my friends.

NaNoWriMo: In Still of the Night

Middle of the night, in a strange city, on a lonely street. A woman alone. Or is she?

Is she in her own city and couldn't sleep?

Does she make a habit of walking at night for some nefarious purpose.

Is she going to meet her enemy? Or a friend?

That's the thing about these images. You can write it anyway you want. As long as you build your word count.

NaNoWriMo: Thursday Initiation

Again, this is for those who are writing unusual stories. I won't label them with a genre. You can do that. But try and get this little scene in there.

I know there are at least 1000 words in this photo. Really. I could do it. 

What's this drink for? Why is it being served in this manner? Who will drink it? Is this some sort of ceremony? A picnic in the woods? Is she just warming the wine/drink with her hands? WHAT! 

Come on, fill in the story here.

NaNoWriMo: Wednesday Wizardry

Thanks to Pixabay.com

What is this? One of my NaNo novels might get more added to it from this photo. I have to keep it in mind when I'm working on it. I love the texture and intensity of the flames and the person in the robe with their ... whatever it is... pouring flames out of it. Awesome.

NaNoWriMo: Tuesday Terror

Thanks to Pixabay.com

It isn't my thing but if it is yours, go for it. I like my gentlemen with bite but this is taking it a bite too far.

You know, I could really keep going with this but I'll leave it here for you to toy with, just like a cat and mouse.

NaNoWriMO: Monday Wash Day

Thanks to Pixabay.com

Something a little more mundane today for you to try and get more words. 

Some of you may not have a use for this but surely some of you are writing novels where your character could be going to the laundry? 

Why as photo prompt? Because sometimes a photo can make something click in your mind and if you try, you can get a thread of a story started. Keep weaving that thread and you'll have a paragraph, a page, several pages. 

NaNoWriMo: Saturday Storm

Thanks, Pixabay.com

Hopefully, your Saturday is a productive one and your word counts are soaring.
You should be at 18,334 words.
If not, try using this photo to generate a new scene. Your MC needs help or someone else needs you MC to help them.

Who is in the car? Who was driving? Is that someone lying on the ground? How did your MC come to be here? What caused the accident?

You see, there are lots of ways to go and you can get an easy 1667 words out of this. Get busy! The clock is ticking!

NaNoWriMo: Thursday Apocalypse

Depressing. Bleak, War-torn. Destruction.

It's a stretch for me. I rarely write such depressing stories. 

What about you? Are you writing dystopian drama? Has a deadly disease ravaged society and lead to internal wars to survive? 

I'm depressed now. I am going to find chocolate.

NaNoWriMo: Wednesday Word War

Thanks Pixabay.com

Add 500 words to your story using this image. You can change what you like but use this as a jumping off point. 

Just think 500 words! That is about 1/3rd of the day's requirement. It will do your story good.

What is that guy doing anyway? How did he get there? Who is driving the car? Why are they driving with him on the hood? Why don't they stop? Is this a stunt, an attack, an accident? 

See, lots of ways to work it. Now, start.

NaNoWriMo: Pushing the Count

Thanks to Pixabay.com

Here's a new photo prompt to push that word count up. You're 5 days in and at the beginning of the Second Week Slump. 

So, find a way to incorporate the scene into your novel. You're a writer, you can dream up a reason he's out walking in the fog.

Tell Me the Tale

Your Grandmother died and your Aunt Mary asked you to come and help clear out the house. When you get there, she is working in the attic. She's sitting on a stool and rummaging through a huge trunk and invites you to take the other stool and help her. 

The first thing you pull out is an old manila envelope that appears to be filled with papers. You dump them out and a legal-looking document and several photos fall into your lap. The photo at left is the first photo you pick up. 

You turn to Mary and ask her about it. She glances at it and pales.

So, tell me the tale.

The Gin Joint

Casablanca
Staring Humphrey Bogart & Ingrid Bergman

Written 07/07/2010 for Writing Challenge #1.


I pushed open the heavy door beneath the blue, blinking sign and stepped into the nearly Stygian darkness of the bar, wincing as the screech of the hinges pierced my eardrums while the splinter from the weathered surface of the door frame pierced my hand. 

“Ouch!” I muttered and pressed the wound to my mouth. Maybe not the most sanitary but certainly a universal gesture and a comfort. No one in the room appeared to notice my entrance or distress. I rubbed the wound dry and stuffed my hands into my pockets to limit any further risks. I stopped a few feet into the room to allow my eyes to adjust. 

It was not a five star establishment. Someone was very concerned about the light bill because the fifteen watt bulbs over the booths and tables barely made a dint in the dark. Tables were clothless and most customerless. Impossible to tell what kind of wood paneled the walls. Eons of smoke had coated them to an indecipherable black. 

Along the wall, I could make out three people in two booths. The lone person's bald head reflected the poor light over it. With effort, he might be able to read something in that booth. Two other people were seated at two tables, one nursing a drink and another smoking a cigarette and staring at something in the darkness that I suspected only he could see. Smoke curled upward and caressed the light, as if to coax more from it. It was a wasted effort. The light only winked.

The bar that ran along one side of the room must have been magnificent when it was installed. Five dim, recessed lights placed equidistant over it made it only slightly lighter than the rest of the room. It was an ornate mahogany creation whose luster had been scraped away over the years by thousands of glasses, cuff buttons, and elbows and whose brass trim was long ago tarnished to a dull brown. A flyspecked mirror covered the wall behind it, the reflections in it only a dream half remembered. 

Three men sat at that bar. The first was tall and slender and wore a black trench coat. He sat leaning on the bar, one foot on the rail and the other on the floor. A briefcase lay on the bar at his elbow and when he raised his drink I caught a glimpse of something glittery on his wrist. Out of place, I thought. 

The man to his right was big, not fat but large and he wore a pair of overalls. His work boots were caked in mud and there was the distinct scent of farm about him. He wore a Braves baseball cap on his head. I got a flash of tractors and barns in my head and couldn't shake it. Somewhere in my brain “Farmer in the Dell” began a litany. 

It was the third man who worried me. He was obviously a policeman. I studied him a bit more closely. He was tall and clean-cut. He was the only man facing into the room. His eyes moved around slowly, pausing here and there to study someone or something. It seemed an odd place for him to be at this time of night. There was nothing happening here. But then, maybe that was why. 

I wondered which one was my contact. I had little to go on except he would meet me here at 11:00 pm. He would know me, he'd said. I looked at my watch. It was 10:30. I sighed and looked around. Plenty of places to wait but none inviting.

A low mutter came from my right and I glanced around, startled. A small wizened face peered up at me and the whites of the eyes glowed round and bulging. In a voice of rusty hinges he said, “Buy us a drink, honey.” He stretched out a hand caked in something, nails broken and he grinned, his mouth empty and black as the room. “We'll give you a lovely present. Buy us a drink.” The smell of old urine and rank breath wafted around me and my stomach folded in on itself. The smile faded and his face twisted, the mouth became a maw. “Buy us a drink, bitch and we'll let you live.”

I stepped back, moving toward the bar. Something cold and clammy slithered up my spine. What, I wondered, was that? 

From the far end of the bar a voice called out. “'ere now, 'arry, leave the customers alone or I'll show you the sidewalk.” 

I squinted. A form, darker than the surrounding darkness moved along the bar and a very tall, very pale man appeared. He stopped beneath the last light, nearest me. “Pay the ole divel no mind. Can I get you a drink, lass?” 

I stared. He was a ghost. His hair, brows, and skin was snow white and his eyes had a strange cast to them. I realized they were pink. He as an albino. “Um. . .” It caught in my throat and I swallowed, scanning the three at the bar. “Yes, please. Do you have Coca Cola?”

Someone snorted, the farmer I thought. Laughter came from the man in the trench coat. The policeman's eye locked on me and a slight frown creased an otherwise perfect brow. He was handsome. Again I thought it odd he was here.

“Course we do. Bottled. Would you like ice for that?”

“Yes, please.” I sat down at the table near the window. It wasn't much of a window. Even if it were the middle of the day it wouldn't have mattered. It was dirty, flyspecked, and cloudy with smoke residue. It was doubtful if they could ever be properly cleaned. 

“May I join you?”

I jumped and looked up. Trench coat stood over me. He wore a black suit and tie beneath the coat. He smiled down at me. Oh. 

I nodded. He sat down, his back to the room.

“What are you doing in a dive like this?” he asked.

Someone put money in the jukebox and the lights lit up one corner of the room. Sammi Smith began to croon “Help Me Make It Thru the Night”. The bartender brought me my cola with a glass of ice. I opened it, deliberating before answering. “That is a very old line, you know. But I might ask you the same thing.” I glanced over his shoulder at the policeman who met my gaze with an unblinking stare.

“Yes, you might. But I think you know why I'm here.”

I studied my drink. Yes, I did. 

“You have it?”

He smiled and leaned forward. I felt my insides flip-flop and turn to jello. I wondered how I was going to scrape them off the floor and separate them from the filth.

He reached out and stroked my cheek.  He whispered, “Darling, of course I have it. But do you have my money?” 

I nodded. “The merchandise first.”

He laughed. “Here?”

I looked around. He'd made me forget where I was. Not good.

“The money is in my hotel room. I'll give you the money when I get my merchandise.”

He shook his head and sat back. “Sweetheart,” his voice was soft and teasing, “we have a problem.”

Breathe. Breathe. I took a deep breath and let it out. “No, you do. I have the money. I want the merchandise and then, you get the money.”

“So, how do you propose to do this?”

I thought about it, not liking any of the alternatives.

“Tell you what, I'm perfectly willing to give it to you here, if you want. We can use the back room. But that means you have to go back and get the cash.”

Long sigh. Long drink. I nodded. “Right. OK. Um, you'll have to follow me to my hotel.”

The smile sent warm waves all over me. “Of course. Perfect solution. We could take my car. I'll bring you back for yours if you like.” At my look he shook his head. “All right. Not a solution. Why don't we take your car and I'll pick mine up afterward.”

I shrugged. “Right. That'll work.”

The policeman got up and strolled around the room, slowly making his way toward us. I stood up. “Let's go now.”

He laughed, and trailed his finger along my jawline. “My, my. In a bit of a rush, aren't we. Let me get my case.”

I bolted out the door and waited on the sidewalk beneath the blinking blue sign. He joined me and I pointed to my car across the street. With his hand at my elbow, we crossed the street. He opened my door for me. 

He tossed his briefcase into the back seat and before I could slip away his arm snaked around my waist and he pulled me against him. “I'll take a down payment, if you don't mind.”

I melted against him and moaned, slipping my arms around his neck. “Yes,” I whispered. 

He lowered his head and I raised my face to claim the kiss. I breathed in the scent of him. 

“Keys,” he murmured.

I pulled them from my pocket and handed them to him and slid across the seat, allowing him to get in the driver's seat. I saw the policeman come out the door of the bar. 

“Hurry. He's coming.” I said. The engine purred to life and we pulled away, leaving the officer staring after our glowing taillights.

“Which hotel?”

I gave him the address and leaned back and closed my eyes. I felt his hand on my thigh. I moved it off. “Stick with the plan.”

He looked at me, grey eyes smoldering. “If you keep this up, I won't be able to.”

I smiled a sultry smile. “Happy Anniversary, darling.”

The Watcher

I used the above Wallpaper as a writing prompt. 
Now you try it! Click on the photo for a larger version.

The sun dropped below the horizon and a warm breeze began to blow in from the ocean. The palms swayed as if painting the evening sky with yellow, crimson, peach, and violet. It was a nice night to sit and stare out the window at her hut. Tiki torches danced in the twilight, their glow spilling along the ground to blend with the glow from the open door and windows of her house. He sat the wine bottle and cork on the window ledge, picking up the glass and sipping slowly, savoring the sweetness. 

He'd watched for the last six nights and it was always the same. She'd get up and take an early morning swim around eight a.m. She'd go in and return with her book, a tall cool drink, and lie on the lanai in a lounge chair and read until just after noon. She'd take another dip, go in and not come out again until around four when she'd swim for about an hour and go back in for the evening. Three times she'd sat on the lanai until after ten, stretched out in that lounge, staring into the glittering night sky. At first, he'd thought she had fallen asleep but she'd reached for her drink or turned her head and he knew she wasn't sleeping. She was simply admiring the universe. Sometimes, after she'd gone in for the evening, he could see her walking around through open windows and the open doors. His binoculars had been little help since the blowing curtains more often got in the way. 

It was a vicarious experience for him. After the first couple of days, he'd begun to imagine himself there, with her. He began to believe he could feel the warmth of the water against his naked skin as they swam together, could feel the silky smoothness of her's as his hand stroked her thigh under the water. Sometimes they'd come together there, in the water, hands touching, caressing, lips meeting in a brief salty kiss, a promise of what would come with the nightfall. He'd felt the canvas deck chair against his back as he sat next to her and watched her read. He didn't need a book. All the stories he could imagine came easily to mind and would feature her as the lead character. He would be there with her, talking, laughing, making love to her there on the deck. There was no one to see them because instead of watching her from a darkened room he was beside her, lying with her against his chest. 

He shook his head and drank deeply of the wine, emptying the glass and setting it back on the window sill where he refilled it. He studied the shell that rested there. He'd picked it up on the beach the day he'd arrived. There was no one around when he arrived and he took the opportunity to explore the beach and the two huts that stood just across from one another, where the beach curved sharply inward. It had been around noon and the sand had been extremely warm against his bare feet. The urge to stretch out and let it soak into his flight weary muscles had been overwhelming. Instead, he'd picked up the shell and put it to his ear, closed his eyes, and listened to the roar of the waves. The forlorn sound tugged at his gut and made him abandon the beach for the shade of the house.

Now, he reached out and took it from the window sill.  Holding it to his ear, he listened and watched the waves that rolled onto the beach just outside his window. The sound seemed to blend in with the waves only a dozen feet from where he sat.  

A light went out in the hut across from him. The light in the living room winked out, followed by the porch light. Something was happening. He checked his watch. Bedtime. When he looked up, all the lights in the house were out. Carefully he placed the shell back onto the sill and dropping his arms back to the chair arms he slumped back in his chair. 

The entire week had been a wash.  The whole trip had been her opportunity to escape for a short time. He understood that. During the entire time, she'd done nothing that warranted his attention but he'd been drawn along, a part of her routine and ritual but not a participant. Despite all his efforts to prevent it, he'd become obsessed. 

He got up and padded across the darkened room to his bed and reached beneath it and pulled out his suitcase. Their flights left tomorrow, his at six a.m., her's at ten. They were destined never to meet. It had been determined from the beginning. He fumbled in the clothes until his hand closed around the cool metal. He glanced back to the window and wished for a light. Light would be cold, harsh, and real. There was none. 

Deftly, he shoved home the clip of the black 9mm. The cool of the barrel quickly warmed to his touch, much like he imagined she would have had he had the opportunity to make his daydreams reality. He slid the gun into the back of his waistband and slipped into the darkness at the back of his hut.

There was no sound in the hut when he stepped through the window on the far side of the lanai. He knew her bedroom was on the opposite end and that there was no chance that she'd hear him with the sound of the waves and the breeze blowing in through the windows. He padded carefully across the room and looked into the living area. It was darker than this room but, across from his position, he could see the outline of her bedroom door. A dim light fell across the carpet from inside the room, a soft and warm a glow. The moon had just topped the trees as he'd left his hut and tonight it was full but it didn't look like moonlight. Of course, he wasn't worried. After it was over, no one would see him leave.

He made no more sound than a shadow as he slipped across the thick carpet. Through her doorway he caught a glimpse of a small candle glowing on the dresser, the mirror casting the light back into the room. The warm glow made sense. He hesitated but it wasn't enough to do more than give a dim uncertain light. He stepped into the room and his eyes found the bed.

“Hello,” she said. Her voice stroked him like silk. “I've been expecting you.”

He stopped in his tracks, icy finger snaked up his spine. She was sitting up, her back against the headboard. In her hand, the barrel of a small revolver glittered in the flickering flame of the candle, as if it had a light of its own.

She smiled. “I hope you had a wonderful vacation. I know I did. Sad, isn't it. He'll never really be sure.”

The plane lifted from the runway in one smooth motion and she watched, smiling as the ground fell away beneath her. Sighing, she lay her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. She was tired. It had been a long night. 

Morning Coffee

A month ago I issued a challenge to the writer's group to write 500 words about this:  A man finds a woman he does not know drinking coffee in his kitchen. Alas, I have been sick most of the month, especially the week of the meeting. But I promised the group I'd finish it. And I did. . . tonight. It isn't very good but it got interesting. I took the liberty of switching genders. 

The smell of coffee tugged me awake, out of the dream of a warm, sandy beach where I walked alone, waves lapping at my feet. I lay for several minutes trying to figure out if I was still dreaming. The aroma of coffee upon waking was something straight out of my childhood and I couldn't recall ever, in my adult isolation waking up to that smell in my house. 

I sat up, frowning at my feet on the brown carpet with the cream swirl. No, definitely not a dream. I could smell coffee. Downstairs in my kitchen coffee was brewing. I clenched the edge of the mattress as my heart suddenly double timed and a knot formed in my gut. I live alone.

With every muscle tensing, I eased off the bed and tiptoed toward the door. The aroma grew stronger as I pulled it toward me. For only a moment, I hesitated. Who in the world would be brewing coffee? How had they got in? 

One way to find out, sister. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and crept down the stairs. At the bottom I paused again and listened. The only sound was the ticking of the hall clock that hung on the wall facing the front door. I looked up at it. Six a.m., way too early for me. 

The front hall extended to the back of the house and the kitchen door was the last one on the right. I could tell from the way the light fell that it was opened. I always closed it. I hesitated, looking left and right, and all around the room. No weapons. Fire poker in the living room but I didn't want to risk going back. Mentally I smacked my forehead. Pistol in the nightstand drawer. I shook my head and move forward, hugging the wall. 

When I reached the doorway I stopped again. My heart was pounding like a pile driver and I had to force myself to slow my breathing. I sounded like a marathon runner on his last legs. With a final deep breath I stepped around the door frame and into the kitchen and came to an abrupt stop.

He smiled slowly, a steaming cup halfway to his mouth. Leaning against the counter, his hands cradling the cup he looked perfectly at home. His eyes crinkled at the corners and he winked one of the green eyes at me. “Morning beautiful.”

I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. I frowned and shook my head. 

“I've made a fresh pot of coffee for you and there's a fresh danish in that white bag.”

I looked at the small white bag lying in the center of the table and then quickly back at the tall man leaning against the counter in my kitchen. I had no idea who he was or how he got in and while I thought it was a nice surprise to find something so delectable in my kitchen, it was more disturbing than nice.

“Who are you?”

He laughed, tilted his head slightly forward and gave me a chiding smile. “You do know you're running late for work?”

I gasped and turned to run back up stairs. 

With some annoyance I slapped the buzzing alarm with one hand and with the other, threw the covers back and, in one smooth motion, I sat up and frowned at my feet on the brown carpet with the cream swirl. I yawned and shook my head. What had that been about? I hated coffee.

The doorbell sounded and I shook my head. Who in the world came calling at, I squinted at the clock, 9:00 a.m.? I gasped. I was late for work. 

I darted across the room and ran down the stairs two at a time. Whoever it was was standing on the buzzer. When I reached the door I yanked it open, ready to give the miscreant a piece of my mind. I looked up into the face of the man who'd been standing in my kitchen, what.. moments ago? 

“Good morning. You wouldn't happen to have any coffee on, would you?" In his hand he held a small white bag.

The One Left Behind

For a week now I've lain here, in the dark and waited for someone to extend their hand and lift me from my squalor. The dust is thick and it feels as if I'm coated from one end to the other. Occasionally a shaft of light filters underneath my prison entryway. Shadows come and go and then the light is extinguished. 

It started at least seven days ago. Gavin came home from ball practice and without a thought he shoved me under the bed with my twin. It wasn't intentional. Really. It's just that he was in a rush and when faced with the decision on what to do with us, he balked, throwing us onto the floor and then, kicking us beneath the edge of the spread that dragged the floor.

We stayed there until Mary actually pulled us out with the vacuum. First my twin and then I was drawn up into the hose. It felt as if we'd be shredded to pieces but Mary acted quickly and turned off the machine and unplugged the hose. She fished us out with care, stared at us, crinkling her nose and uttering a soft grunt. Then, she tossed us into a large wicker receptacle that sat just outside the bathroom door. I don't remember much after that but sometime later, someone dumped several sheets on top of us. Breathing would be impossible for anyone else.

Several days later I could feel the container moving and I knew that someone was carrying it to the sanitization facility. This was a radical event and I wondered if my twin knew what was happening. I had no way to ask and I couldn't see where he was or if he was still here.

The fall, when it came wasn't as bad as I expected. The world seemed to turn on its head and I fell, end over end, until I landed into a large metal container. What came next still give me chills. The sound of running water filled the metal room and soon I could feel the cool waves lapping at my toes. With torturous slowness it crept up until if covered everything in the place. Then something clicked and a motor started and I was swirling around and was pulled and pushed and twisted in every possible direction. It was a nightmare. Twice I bumped into my twin and we tried to hang on to one another but the force of the waves ripped us apart. 

Finally, the water drained away, leaving us beached piles of sheets. I breathed a sigh of relief until I felt the room begin to spin. It went faster and faster until I was slammed against the metal walls and flattened. I couldn't move for what felt like an eternity. When the horror ended, I slid down to the bottom of the room.

I don't know how long it was before we were released. They put is in another room and it whirled around and became very warm. I must have lost consciousness because the next thing I remember was lying on a bed in a dark room. It was cool and I let myself enjoy the feeling of air as it moved gently around me. My twin lay quietly nearby. We lay there all day and finally the room grew dark, the house grew quiet, and everyone slept. We'd survived another day.

I heard Gavin's feet as he ran down the hallway. "Mom, I need my socks!"

"For goodness sakes, Gavin, you'll wake the whole neighborhood. The socks are on the bed in the spare room."

The door was flung open and the overhead light came on. Gavin reach over and grabbed my twin and then me and raced down the hall.

And it began again.




This was a prompt I found somewhere. Write from the point of view of a sock. 

A Long, Dark Hallway

I issued a writing challenge to my local group a few weeks ago. They were to write a scene/short story of no less than 500 words using the prompt: Write about walking down a long dark hallway.

Since I'm the leader, I figure I should be the first to do these things. Tomorrow is our meeting and everyone who did the challenge is asked to bring their story with them to share and critique. I decided to post mine here as well. 

My shoes sounded a tap, tap, tap on the tile floor as I walked. I could hear the sound of the storm outside as it whipped around the corner of the building and rattled the windows. Thunder resounded and echoed along the hallway, rushing past me like a wave. The tapping of my shoes ceased momentarily, instead, making a skittering sound as I jumped. I bumped into the wall, noting the nubby surface of the finish as my arm scrapped along it. 

For a few minutes I leaned there, listening. The distant sound of rain pelting walls, roof, and windows was like the churning of the ocean which lay only half a mile away. I could almost imagine I was on a ship at sea during a storm. I reached for the mast to cling to, only to find nothing. I sighed. The wall at my back was a comfort as the darkness of the hallway was disorienting. There was a dim light ahead of me and one behind me but the distance between was great and I couldn't really see anything up close. If there were doors, they had no seams for light to seep around. 

Of course, I was below ground level so, unless there were basement windows, there would be very little light from the outside seeping into any rooms down here. And today, it would be a diluted light, infused with the gray of the storm.

I stood up and straightened my dress. I wasn't generally afraid of the dark but this was an unknown. I'd never ventured to this part of the facility before and had no idea what lay ahead. I strained to see if I could detect any other sound above the sound of the storm. I was surprised to be able to even hear the storm down here but then, there was only the ground floor above me. The long hallways and cinder block walls would allow sound to travel fairly well.

Moving forward once again, I stayed close to the wall, letting my hand trail along the surface. Surely there were rooms down here. You couldn't have a hallway traversing a building as large as this one with out rooms and doorways. I glanced back, toward the light that grew smaller the farther I got from it. A shadow moved across it and was gone. I stopped and turned. 

“Hello?”

I waited for a response that never came. Squinting my eyes and straining my head forward, I stared hard at the light. Was there someone standing next to the wall, just at the edge of the light? I shook my head and straightened up. I couldn't tell. With more than a little hesitation, I turned and continued my toward my destination, the slightly brighter light at the end of this tunnel.

I don't know what brought me to this place. It wasn't intentional. I'd been perfectly happy in my job as assistant to the CEO of Barnwell & Sons,  LTD. The pay was adequate and the benefits were nice. I had  a nice apartment and a great boyfriend. The promotion, when it came, was unexpected. 

The sound of someone moaning brought me to a standstill. I was now in the darkest section of the hallway. I judged it to be about the halfway point. Glancing back over my shoulder, again I saw a shadow pass between me and the light, more distinct now, and definitely a person. But that moan, that had come from much closer to hand.

“Hello?” I whispered. “Is someone here with me?”

A scurrying sound swirled around my feet and I gave a tiny squeal and my shoes did a little tattoo as I danced. Visions of mice hordes flitted in my head. Another low moan. I was shaking like a leaf now but  I swallowed my fear and stepped away from the wall and walked faster, toward the light at the end. It was growing larger. 

Two dozen steps later I skidded to a halt as a shadow stepped out of the shadow of the walls and into my path. It was definitely human, tall, and black as suet. 

A whisper of a voice echoed behind me. “Run.”

I wanted to, really, but my feet were planted firmly to the floor. My knees would not have been able to propel me forward or backward without a force stronger than my will.

So, how would you expect it to end? What is going on? Feel free to share your thoughts. 

A Case of Bleh

You know, I read all those cool writer quotes and they just sound so understanding of a writer's struggles. Some are really funny and some very serious. Some chide you into making plans and plots and charts and appointments with yourself. I mean, with all that stuff on Pinterest, how can you not find inspiration and encouragement to write. 

Beats me.

I started in January working on my novel, the one I've been working on for ... too long. I love the story that has evolved and continues to evolve. Since I began this year's mission, I've been very excited by what I've been able to accomplish. I mean, I actually developed a timeline.. well, I started it. I haven't got the whole timeline done but it seems to be going along very well. Except when it doesn't and I have to reset it to a different day, three times. But I got past that. Until I had to reset some of the scenes. But since I'm trying to reorder and fill in the blanks, that's going to happen. Apparently, a lot. 

I'd just like to get past the halfway point in the story. There isn't enough story yet but the halfway point teases me. I mean, I think I'm going to get there only to find this gaping hole in the road, so to speak. Or maybe it it more like this huge piece of the trail missing... at 15,000 feet... and they did not install the hand rails this high up. I just write it and move across but in the next section... it falls down. Now I'm stuck on the wrong side, at the wrong time. I move some stuff, write some stuff, and now the trail is as good as new. Until I reach that curve where the whole thing is just gone. I'll deal with that later. I'm going to rest for a bit. Maybe have lunch. And dinner.

Still, things have been moving at a fairly steady pace. I've met my goals nearly every week. Until February. I've been sick with some of the worst pain I've had in a long time. If this winter gets much worse, I don't know if I can handle it. I'm ready to move to Arizona. I have a contact there. Maybe I should have him looking for a shack in the desert for me. Never mind. I'm not crazy about desert wildlife. 

Anyway, the pain in my joints was bad but I have to say, the pain in my neck has been beyond endurance. I'm not sure.. no I'm positive I have no words to tell you how bad it hurts. I had swelling in the left side of my neck that caused pain and numbness in my neck and jaw. I was unable to turn my head in any direction without shooting pains. I expected to see sparks fly out my ears from the current that appeared to be coursing through the tendons and muscles in my neck. They've (doctors) done nothing about it. No advice, no suggestions, no meds. I've awakened in the middle of the night screaming as some electric current shoots through my neck and I dream of hot blue cords in there. The pain is agonizing. I get up in the morning nearly dead from a bad night's sleep. I can only sit in a firm chair, straight up, looking straight ahead. I'm dying I think. If I'm not, I might consider it. This is hell. No really, it is hell and devils are sticking me with hot forks. I'm nearly done.

Still I tried to write. But finally, when the pain made it impossible to sit up or lie down I gave up. So, for at least two weeks, virtually no writing has happened. I've sought comfortable positions everywhere. Nothing last long. As of Sunday, three weeks after this started, I began to feel a slight improvement. I'm still having the numb spot on my left jawbone. I'm pretty sure there are some nerves being pinched all around my neck. But it is a bit more bearable. Today.

Tonight I actually got 300 words down! Wow, I'm elated. Not. I hate when the pain gets so bad it robs me of an ability to function, to create anything. And the exhaustion that has resulted from dealing with unrelenting, intense pain takes whatever initiative I have left. I get a hot towel, wrap it around my neck, lock it into place with a next pillow, and grab a blanket. I get as comfortable as possible. I might be good for 15 minutes before I have to reheat the towel to about 100 degrees.. not sure about that. Must measure it. Very, very hot. My neck turns red. Sometimes I have to put a cloth between me and the towel. 

So, here we be, we three. Me, my pain, and my frustration. My novel is somewhere around here. Maybe in that case of Bleh. 

January in Review -WRoE

Text View

 I finished January better than I anticipated. I just did the calculation of the total words written on my Primary Project and, although I would have liked to have done more, I'm happy with the outcome. For January I wrote 5,798 new words in The Dream Stealer. My challenge with my friend, Doug, seems to be working but he's way ahead in terms of words written. 

From the beginning, Doug's goal was to just write, daily. Mine was to write at least 500 words three days a week and edit a chapter. So, I wasn't just writing new material, I was editing old material. Scrivener doesn't count that. If you delete a word and add two new ones, you've only added one word to the work. A couple of times I was down 100 words! I started redlining words I was going to delete and that solved my deficit problem. 

I was thinking in terms of finishing a "chapter" a week but quickly realized this might not work. I don't have chapters. I have a bunch of scenes, lots of them. And many of them are out of sequence in the document. There's a post somewhere, either here or on Life on the Ledge about how that came about. Anyway, I decided to stick with the concept of three scenes to a chapter. Scrivener is awesome the way I write. 

I set up folders for my theoretical chapters and started sorting my scenes. Another problem presented itself. I was still having to read each one to find out where it fell in the order. This is tedious, especially if you have "Chap 1, Chap 2, Chap 3, etc. You'll understand in a minute.

corkboard view

There is a great corkboard feature in Scrivener that lets me see index cards with details about each scene or chapter, not both at once. So, if you're looking at chapters and there are three scenes, you only see the chapter descriptions in one view. If you go to text/scene view you only see the scenes in a single chapter. And sorting the myriad scenes in a chronological order was giving me a headache of global proportions. This was the wall I'd been coming up against for several years. 

Outline View

The outline view is astounding once you fill out the synopsis cards. With color coded file labels and synopsis cards filled in you can use outline view to get an idea of the flow and if something is out of place, you can see it pretty quickly. Wonderful. But totally impractical when you're still getting things in the right order. 

Chapter/scene headings

See, you have to move the stuff around. And yes, I could do that but it wasn't working for me for two reasons. Remember those titles? Yeah, you have to re-order them and type the correct chapter number every time you move something. I learned that a while back and stopped putting chapter numbers and went with character names. Equally as annoying since you may have 20 Simon scenes and 20 Cameron scenes and you have no idea what is in them! Yes, Scrivener can number and probably reorder for you but I am a control freak. 

Chapter/Scene headings in Text/scene view

The second reason was that I also write things that are missing while I'm sorting. For example, I might have three "chapters" in order but as I read over them, I realize some are missing some pieces or are not clear. So, I stop and write that bit. In outline mode, that's just a hassle for me. I have to switch views and I would have to switch views every time I changed chapters or needed to write something. You might find it ok but I didn't like it. I need to be in text mode to write and rearrange sections/chapters as needed.

About the third week of January, I stumbled on an idea. I decided that my problem was time. In this story, things are happening in a relatively short span of time and there are four very vocal characters who are doing things at the same time in different places. I have always known that this was a problem with the story but I simply couldn't find a work around without creating this elaborate time line and keeping it handy to refer to every time I wrote something, moved something, or deleted something! Look, I didn't choose to use four POVs. Who'd do that? But they just won't shut up. And yes I know it is insane but you write your story and ...well... we'll write ours. Anyway, I knew I had to nail down the timeline if I was ever going to get this mess sorted. 

Note: time has replaced "chapter" headings. 

So, I had this idea. Really, an epiphany. I would use the day and the time of the events as chapter and scene headings, breaking it down to minutes if I wanted. I began to go through each scene and establish when it was happening. I had several things going on at once but once begun, everything began to fall into place and it was like someone turned on the light. 

I was astounded how I began to get ideas and could actually move stuff out that either was in the wrong time frame or didn't even belong in this story. I was deleting more stuff and writing new stuff. All because I now had a time line in place to tell me where someone needed to be and when! It occurred to me that this should have been obvious sooner because the MC, Simon, is such a control freak he'd never go anywhere without some sort of calendar, either on his phone or in his head. And so would his former friend, Cameron. 

The best part is that the chapter/scene headings can remain in the final draft as "chapter" divisions.  I won't have to rewrite names over and over. Although, early in the process of establishing times, I've had to move things backward. By that I mean, I originally started the story on a Friday. You can see I've since pushed it back in the week. I've also moved some things back on the clock here and there. I may have to change heading if something needs to be moved on the timeline but that's still easier that the way I was doing it. 

At our last meeting, I told Doug that time was really arbitrary. It doesn't really matter when it happened as long as, from that point on, it is consistent. And day and time is much easier than reordering a bunch of numerically ordered chapters. 

So, there you have a review of what I did in January. In hindsight I can see I've done a lot. I've broken a rule here in that I've written about writing rather than writing the story. But I wanted to put something positive up that I could review when I get down on myself about how much I've accomplished. 

Giving Your Stories Away

I've been contemplating different kinds of publishing options simply because one is expected to if one writes. I don't know when or if I'll be officially published. I remember how excited I was when I got my first blog. Even though no one actually read it much, I was just tickled about it. So, these days my thoughts run to more official publishing... or creating another blog, or revamping an old one.

I ran across an article I found interesting on one of the blogs on my list, The Blood Red Pencil. The link is in the title. The author discusses e-publishing, in particular, giving away copies of your novel for a week. For her it appears to have been a good idea. So, I'll file it away for future consideration... should I need it.

In a post following the above post, Sense of an Ending the author discuses different types of endings. It is a short article but again, it was informative and I think I'll file it away for reference.