Freewrite: A Story told in drabbles, Part 8

The snow hissed beneath Fleming`s boots. He kept to the designated path for about 300 yards before turning back to see if Captain Kirkham had followed.

He veered to the right, heading towards the temporary headquarters. By now night had folded around the forest, dark and cold. Fleming imaged it was a cloudless night, though he could not see through the blackened tree boughs. It had always been colder on clear evenings.

Daddy had always said clouds were like God`s blankets. Well Fleming didn`t know about GOD, but he could do with a blanket and a stout.

In the distance he heard voices and Fleming threw himself down, and loaded his service pistol.
He thought of the Captain and his “fellow” soldiers when he took out the men.

The Lt cursed at him while Fleming dug into his pockets for tobacco and weapons He spit on the dying man, and stripped him naked.

He made camp late that night, greeted with a rowdy “Hallo Fitz!”

Fleming delighted in their screams as he lobbed his looted grenades.

Why I Love Freewriting

I used to get so incredibly blocked. I’d be going along and then bam! I hit a wall. I wouldn’t write for days, weeks.
I’d wait for my muse, but, creativity doesn’t work that way.
You see I made the mistake of believing I couldn’t write anything worthwhile without inspiration.

Inspiration is great. I love taking from my dreams and the world around me. To me that IS the Muse.
But you don’t work for your muse. No. Your Muse is a tool, a knife if you will. It arrives shiny, but the blade may often be dull.
And the only way to sharpen that tool is by actually trying to sharpen it.

If you just sit there and look at a dull knife, it remains a dull knife. What’s more: it doesn’t cut anything.
Your Muse can either be a ceremonial sword hung over the fire place, a machete, or a butcher knife.

When you free write, it’s a machete: slashing through the jungle. With free writing, you can write what ever you want. This is true creativity. This is your Muse at its most powerful in the creation process. You’ve got to be willing to let go enough to see what it up there in your mind.

You might discover Atlantis. You might build your own kingdom.
Most likely you’ll conquer a majestic beast. 
You’ve brought that story to its knees.

Good. And once you can slay the beast then you can be critical. That’s where you want a to bring out your editing arsenal: skinning, Hunter knives. Lastly, you’ll sharpen that butcher knife for rewriting.
It’s not a pretty as that sword over the mantle, but it sure tastes better in the long run.

Freewrite: The Re-Haunting of Edna Spoke

Edna, born Edward, had a decent childhood. Though she had been born Ed, she soon sorted out God and began to wear dresses wherever she went. Her parents at first protested. But at the ripe age of six, she finally conquered them.

Yes, everything was going fine until she visited the Postal Museum in Ritter. It was an old three story building filled with cobwebs and metal boxes and parents telling her to stick close. All Edna knew was the place gave her the heebie jeevies.

But soon enough her curiosity began to overtake her fear and Edna was tiptoeing away from her parents. She didn’t notice them walk out of the room until it slammed shut behind her.

She ran to the door, standing on her tippy toes to peer out of the grimed over window. Yanking on the door knob, she discovered that it was either locked or needed oil. Then a coldness set into her shoulder, beckoning her to turn around. Edna would never quite forget the ghostly visage staring back at her. She screamed. Her crying and pounding on the door finally  alerted her parents.

When they found her she was a shivering mess with deep gouges running down her cheeks. Nothing, she’d discovered later, that couldn’t be covered with a bit of rouge.

At the ripe old age of 26, Edna Spoke had been through doctors and surgeries, therapists and drug treatments. She was poised on the edge of a law career and in her first serious relationship since high school. Everything was perfect.

There was just one more thing to conquer.

As she stood in the doorway to the former Postal Museum, Edna swore she heard a voice whisper, “Back for more?”

She shivered, bid the night watchman to give her an hour and searched for the room. Everything was covered in three layers of dust cakes cobwebs, and she lit a cigarette.

After locating the box room, Edna waited and waited. But no slamming door. No dramatics. Just a whisper in her ear, a caress of her shoulder. Footsteps. Voices.

“Is that all you’ve got? ” she asked, the echoes swallowed by the darkness.

She snuffed the cigarette with her foot and left. It was then that she realized she forgot to lock the door behind her.

“No need love, let’s go for a ride!” A voice said through the car stereo.

Edna shrieked as the car shifted in reverse and took her on a wild ride through the old town. She pounded on the windows, tried the locks.

“Now, where do we live?” It asked her as the car flew by the “Leaving Ritter” sign.

Computer down

Hey guys my laptop has joined the Motherboard.

My updates will be slow for a while, but I haven’t given up. Thank you for your patience and encouragement over the past few months.

Freewriting: A Story Told in Drabbles: Part 7

Fleming and Captain Kirkham had split up hours ago trying to search for the rest of the troops.
“I imagine they cut through the forest,” Captain Kirkham said. “There’s farms that way, but there’s a temporary camp that way. The General wanted us all to rendezvous after the battle. You take that path by the barbed wire. I’m cutting to the right. If I don’t see anything by dawn I’ll go back to the path. We should sight them by dawn.”
And if we don’t? seemed to be the unasked question. Fleming was ordered to make for the nearest held village approximately 25 miles away.
“God help you,” Captain Kirkham said, and shook Fleming’s hand.
He waited until the private was out of sight before bolting off to the left. He was going home even if branded a coward. He had to see his Sweet Rita one more time.
But by and by, that leg began to howl at him. Kirkham slowed to a limp, then a crawl.
Around 2 AM he cleared the woods and entered the rolling countryside, or what was left of it. There he caught sight of a fire and without regard to his safety, Kirkham made for it.
There upon the scorched earth were two German girls, a blonde and a brunette, and a boy child roasting guinea fowl.
Nothing smelled sweeter to his nostrils. He stepped into the light and the brunette saw him.
She must have alerted the other because the blonde stood up and passed the child to the other.
“Wer sind Sie?” She said.

Freewriting: A Story Told in Drabbles: Part 6

Marjorie shifted the rubble around with her hands, calling out in the darkness.
“Jolie? Jolie!” Her voice was close to giving out now. She coughed.
Her eyes swept over the scene, once, twice, but no hand nor foot could be seen.
“Jolie,” she whispered through tears.
“Marj, I think she’s gone,” Edie said, bouncing a bawling Tavis on her hip. She held up a lantern covered in soot.
They had huddled together in the shelter beneath the barn when the bomb dropped. Hours of digging each other out had followed.
“No. No, we’re going to find her, even if it’s to give her a proper funeral.”
Tavis sniffled, Edie’s stomach growled.
Marjorie stopped. She had made a promise to keep them ALL safe and she had failed.
She coughed and stood up. “Have you found any meat?”
Edie nodded. “The food cellar is intact.”
Marjorie threw her hands up and thanked the Virgin Mary.
“We need wood and pots and water,” she said, ticking them off her fingers. “And oil.”
“Let’s build it close to the barn.”
Marjorie perked up. She could keep looking for Jolie.
Edie looked at her older sister and felt her heart break. Marjorie was trying so hard to be their mother, but she wasn’t a day over 17. She handed a fussy Tavis to Marjorie.
“You get what you can from the pantry.” She pointed to a spot by the apple orchard. “I’ll look around for firewood.”
They built a small fire and Marjorie hung two small hens to roast. She kept her eyes on the debris pile.
Marjorie sat Tavis on her lap and played with him for a bit. After a bit, Edie offered to go for more wood, but when she turned she stopped cold.
“Marj,” she said softly.
“Hmm?”
“There’s a man over there.”

Controversial Issues and Offensive Content

Incest, rape, murder, sex, child/spousal abuse, racism, sexism, poverty, religion, politics, war.

All of these things happen in real life, why then should we be upset when they occur in literature?

Good literature is not necessarily literature that makes you feel all warm and squishy inside. There are characters that are terrible and who commit heinous acts just as in real life. Should art not imitate life?

Stories like Huck Finn, The Scarlet Letter, To Kill a Mockingbird were all once [sometimes still] challenged by society. Often fictional settings can teach a reader a moral without being confrontational. Why take a valuable teaching tool away from the public in order to satisfy a few?

There is a slippery slope between declaring a topic or book is too controversial or offensive and outright censorship.

The Guppy Spitting Contest

Annette trailed behind her friends Erin and Georgia as they walked around the fair. Her ears were tingling as she heard shrieks of joy and fear from the Ferris wheel.

They came to a stop in front of a tent filled with cheering spectators. Several were  children throwing brightly covered objects at nets suspended from the ceiling. Upon further inspection, Annette realised they were throwing goldfish and guppies at a metal hoop ring. She watched as over and over, they retrieved fish from the large vat of water before hurling it through the air.

She could swear she heard the fish squeal.

Her friends began to bet on the freckled face boy. His fish seemed to fly the highest, climb the fatty. Oh yes, climb. Annette felt her eyes water from her stare of disbelief.

Sure enough, after every kid tossed their guppies, the fish wiggled up the nets towards the golden hoop.

“Go Brady! Keep it up boy!” Said freckle face.

The fish gasped and heaved. “Better be some gourmet bread crumbs in this prize.”

Annette gaped as the gold and white dappled fish barely made it before falling. The crowd howled their disapproval as a tiny girl in spectacles held up her winning guppy.

The boy was furious. Annette watched in horror as he stomped over to the writhing fish and crushed it underneath his sneakers.

“She cheated!” “Guppies are faster!” “Rematch!”  “Rematch!”

The leader, a man in a top hat and thick mustache, held his hand up. “I see it’s come to a spit contest.”

Georgia wooped her approval while Erin explained a guppy spitting contest to Erin.

“So all they have to do is spit it the furthest?” She asked, face turning green.Annette gaped.

“Yeah! Winner takes all!”

Annette stepped into the ring. “I’ll do it!”

“Miss please, it is only open to current participants!” The little girl took one look at her opponent and relinquished the guppy.

“Ha! I bet she can’t spit no how. Come on Big Red! You and me!” said freckle face.

“If I win, you let these fish go,” Annette said. She crossed her arms and glared at the leader. His mustache twitched.

The crowd booed. “Fine.” He rolled his eyes.

“You and me Big Red!” said Freckle face. “If I win, I’m going to have filet of guppy!”

Annette couldn’t see how that was possible, so she nodded. Freckle face’s new fish, either a massive goldfish or a baby koi seemed nonplussed.

“Hooray. My life sucks,” it said.

“Challenger goes first!” the leader said.

They faced each other and Annette gulped as she placed the slimely fish on she tongue.

“Dnff faffl meh nuff,” said Annette to Gumpy.

“Reaaaaaaaaaaaddddyyyy?!” called the leader.

Annette took a deep breath.

“Spit!”

Gumpy flew about six feet from her, landing in the grass. The leader marked the distance and Annette scooped up her fish and placed him back into a holding tank.

“Reaaaaaaadddyyy?” The leader called to Freckle face.

Freckle face seemed to be having some trouble getting his fish to calm down.

“Reaadddy?”

“Come on kid!” “Don’t let a girl beat you!”

He held up his finger and then his goldfish swam down his throat. Or he swallowed.

Unfortunately this did not sit well with Freckle face. His freckles stood out against his green skin like red confetti. And then he vomited all over the leader.

“Weeeeee!” cried the runt koi fish. “We’re free!” He flopped around on the ground until Annette put him in with Gumpy.

The crowd was a mixture of grumbles, boos, and hisses.

Georgia and Erin were so ashamed that their friend had ruined everyone’s good time that they left without her that night.

Annette was forced to walk home with 27 new fishy friends.

“Chin up kid,” said Gumpy. “You did the right thing.”

“But no one likes me anymore.”

“If the right thing was also the popular thing, everybody would be a hero,” Gumpy said.

Freewriting: A Story Told in Drabbles: Part 5

Captain Kirkham was shivering and thinking about his Sweet Rita again. He’d lost sensation in his leg and had a hole in his shoulder trickling blood.

All around him laid his comrades and his enemies in the muddied snow. If not for the darker boots, he would not have told them apart. He pulled himself up and surveyed the damage.

A thought occurred to him. A treasonous thought, a cowardly thought. Why continue? This wasn’t his war, this wasn’t his land. Sod them all. Captain sat up straighter. He reached for his dog tags and stopped when he heard groaning to his right.

Stealing a rifle from the corpse next to him, Captain limped closer. An enemy soldier lay there writhing, his hands firmly attached to his abdomen. Blood escaped between his interlaced fingers. The man saw Captain Kirkam and began to reach for a weapon. Kirkham could see his intestines.

He pointed at the man’s stomach and to his own eyes. The soldier set down his weapon and shook his head. Captain Kirkham made the sign of the cross and put him out of his misery.

There was no satisfaction in killing his fellow man, but in giving the man an honorable death, he found peace for a few minutes.

It was nightfall when Captain Kirkham reached the enemy trenches, and there he found Fleming passed out. Sleep sounded like a sweet respite now. He would lay down and ask the private where the men were, but for now he settled against the shaking form and closed his eyes.

Freewrite: Going Home

They found Grandpa. My heart flooded with a mixture of relief and dread to match the tone in Grandma’s voice.

“Where has he been?” I asked the empty room.

The previous afternoon had been uneventful save for a later dinner. Grandpa had refused to change his underwear before dining with us.

“Honey you smell like a tackle box. Go get in the shower,” Grandma said.

“Leave me alone! I’ll get a shower tomorrow!”

I stepped in between so he would not strike her. It had been like this for months now. The paranoia, the violence. If you had told me before that caregivers can be abused I would have laughed.

But the bruises and scratches on my arms weren’t funny when I earned them. They seemed to throb in time with my heart.

He put up a fight. I’d had to call the sitter to hold him while I wrestled Grandpa out of his urine soaked clothes. We coaxed him into the shower while he spit and cursed at us. He doesn’t really mean it, I told myself. I let myself ignore the sobbing from the other room.

When we finished, we set him in his chair with dinner and I went to the store for more diapers. When I’d checked on him at 7, he was gone. Vanished.

“Is Gramps with you?” I asked Granny, who had dozed off in front of Jeopardy. She called my mother and I got the flashlight.

I made a round of the house and walked up the street towards the drugstore. Maybe he went for beer again. No sign.

We called the church next door, which was having some kind of revival.

We called everyone. I spent the night in my car, cruising at 5mph up and down the backroads of Altoona.

“They found Grandpa,” Grandma said. We rushed to the Sheriff’s Office, wherein Grandpa was displaying all the strength o a retired Marine.

“Come on, let’s go home,” I said.

“I am home! Get out of my house!” he said. He coughed up a wad of mucus and cussed.

We were relieved the following morning to be told we could take him to a new home, to which Grandpa shouted, “Get out of my house!” to everyone in earshot.

I waved goodbye, promised to visit, and took Grandma back to the house.

“House.” She had corrected me, after I suggested we went home. “Without all of us, it’s not longer home.”