Battling Writers' Block

I want to address a question from the comments.

For the last several months, I've only been writing my weekly flash fiction, and I've been very terrible - yes: very. terrible - at visiting other blogs, even my favorites. So naturally, there are only a handful of regular-ish readers on this blog. 

Since most of what I do is flash fiction these days, I thought I'd explain a little.

During the A-to-Z Challenge, I actively solicited suggestions from readers, and managed to write an entire month solely using reader prompts! Since then, although my concluding note always asks for prompts in the comments, there have been few. 

Sometimes, like this past Fiction Friday, I sit at my computer with a blank mind. No ideas, no characters, nothing. Writers' Block. There seems to be nothing to write.

However, I am dedicated to my weekly fiction commitment! What to do when the brain is devoid of ideas?

In cases like that, I force myself to sit down - there's a grace period, since I'm 12 hours ahead of the US - and just use whatever phrase or quote comes to mind. For my most recent flash fiction, I ended up editing out my opening line. It happens. I don't even remember what it was.

I have a list of prompts, gleaned from the internet and my verbose husband, but my favorite thing when I'm stuck is to follow a random phrase in my head.

Now, there is ALWAYS a song in my brain. Always. I can't stop it. But also, influences from nature, from TV, from daily life - what would someone else do? - or the illustrious "what if?" and those often feed these little flash fiction tales. 

It's quite freeing, to know that I don't need to follow the story through and actually answer the questions that come up. So WHAT happened to Paige? I don't know. Does she have amnesia? Was she at a resort that brainwashed her? Was it an alien abduction and replacement scenario? 

I don't have a lot of luck with this but...

...What do you think? Which direction should this story go?

Fiction Friday - The Reason (Finale to The Neighborhood and The Continuum)

This story is the conclusion of  "The Neighborhood" and "The Continuum". If you haven't read those first two parts, it will help if you check them out here (part 1) and here (part 2).
 

Colleen drew a bath as she talked. Willis watched her movements, not yet fully convinced he wasn't imagining things. The master suite looked the same as usual, and Colleen looked the same as usual. Their hug downstairs was the same as usual, but she'd disappeared once, so he didn't believe it wouldn't happen again.

"I'm really, so sorry this affected you at all. It's all my fault." She paused and hesitated near the hamper, in the end deciding to drop the pajamas she'd been wearing into the dirty laundry. They'd been worn the whole time she waited for his timeline to catch up to hers, after all. Sighing, she turned to him with a weary smile.

"I bet you're confused." The only response was a nod, so afraid he was that speaking would break the spell and he'd wake up in front of the TV downstairs. She nodded steadily back at him, checked on the water level in the tub, added some bath salts and bubbles, and returned to the bedroom. Noticing his lack of movement, she said, "It could take a while. You might want to pull the chair over to the bathroom door."

Willis complied, still saying nothing. The white brocade-upholstered chair was her addition to the bedroom suite, and had become visual white noise to him. Now, he moved some of her clothes from yesterday off the chair and onto the bed, and pulled the chair to the bedroom-bathroom entrance to sit comfortably. 

He sat and watched as she tested the temperature of the water,  then a thought dawned on him. "You don't have a bath every night. Isn't this a 'change of routine'? Will you disappear again?"

Colleen crossed back over to him, took both of his hands in hers to give a squeeze, looking deeply into his eyes with compassion. "It's okay." She went to get into the bath, moaning with delight as she did so. 

Her head resting back on the bath pillow, she closed her eyes and started talking. "First off, no. This is a deliberate change due to a change in situation. My whole day was lost, so the bath instead of shower is fine. Last night - no, yes, how long ago? whatever. The night I disappeared I was simply distracted and did each usual step out of order." She sank down to wet her hair and rose again. "Distraction and inattention is the bad part."

"For what?" She had told Willis she would explain, but so far nothing seemed explained. "I mean, you can't possibly be 100 percent attentive  to everything 100 percent of the time. I've lived with you." He offered a playful smirk, but didn't feel it.

"I'm a bit hampered by how much I can say. Your routines, for example, won't have any effect. You can change things up as you like."

"Well good. I do."

"I know." Willis watched his wife settle back into the tub, her head relaxed with eyes closed, arms resting on the sides of the tub. Her left hand, against the wall away from him, he could see was drumming a pattern of thought. That was her habit when she was weighing her words.

"Okay," she had come to a decision. "Some of us - I can't say who, but there's a word for us that begins with an 'I' and ends with an 'I' - please don't say the word out loud." The last part came out so fast that Willis didn't even have time to think the word "illuminati" before she continued. "This is harder to explain than I expected." A groan upward toward the shower head and she turned a tired smile toward him. "I'm one of the ones who can affect change by making change."

In the time it had taken for her to find words to scratch the surface of the huge subject she was trying to explain, Willis had found his voice. "You said this was 'only 22 hours'. What's happened before?"

"Nothing due to me," she was quick to reassure him. "Mostly, we just - live our lives. Certain routine actions indicate that all is well. Life and everything around is functioning ... as it should. Minor changes with intention don't effect anything. My guess is that someone else's evening routine was disrupted as mine was."

"Did you see someone?"

Colleen rocked her side-to-side against the bath pillow, clearly tired. "It doesn't work like that. I wouldn't know another person like me if we were standing in line together at the deli. No. Last night I went to bed as usual - well, not as usual - and when I woke up it was evening. For me. I stayed inside, and found myself downstairs in the chair where your timeline eventually caught up with me."

"But how -"

"By staying in one place, my time didn't move. I may have adjusted a few minutes here or there, as I wandered the house in confusion. The point is, I didn't disrupt anyone else's timeline, so my time was static. In this house. Until this house - and you - caught up with me." She grinned over at him. "All clear?"

Willis sighed his response. "Clear enough for me to go to bed, I guess."

"I love you so much. You know that."

"I know," Willis couldn't forget Hank's comment. "If you were gone for longer, I might've had a hard time convincing the police of that."

Colleen pulled the drain plug and rose from the tub, dripping with scented water and a few lingering bubbles. "I know. My heart hurt for you." Her wet arms were open, awaiting an embrace. Willis grinned, grabbed the nearest towel, and wrapped her in it, drying her as they embraced to begin a "welcome home" night to end all others.

It's FICTION FRIDAY!
Every Friday, a new flash fiction story, inspired by reader comments (as much as possible). Feel free to leave a prompt for future use in the comments below. This story was actually loosely based on a conversation we actually had at my home. It got me wondering, "what if?"

If you choose to join in for Fiction Fridays, post a link to your story below in the comments. If there's interest or participation, I may start suggesting prompts here for the following week.

Fiction Friday - Gone

image courtesy of D.B. McNicol

June burst into the house. “Mom?”

“In the kitchen, Honey!” Ruby had intended to get some food going but was just at that moment opening the refrigerator. She saw her deli sandwich from her uneaten lunch sitting there and was stalled. Her brain saw it and stopped. 

The deli sandwich was from a world of doubt. 

It was a Schrödinger’s Cat sandwich. 

At the moment she purchased it, her eldest daughter was missing, but there was no true knowledge about what happened. She was both reassigned, and not. Like Schrödinger’s dead and alive cat. If she hadn’t been reassigned, would it have been better? What then? What was the alternative - missing? Dead? Reassignment, the way the People handled it and May's counselor had explained it, was something between the two. 

Ruby had no real answers, no information about where the reassignment had taken May, so she was essentially missing. They assured her she wasn’t dead… at least not yet. Would anyone call them if she died at her new location? Probably not, because they didn’t acknowledge any true family connection.

“Mom. Mom?” Ruby came to herself, holding the fridge door open and staring at her sandwich. She didn't move. June was standing in the kitchen looking at her with concern on her face. “Are you okay?” Ruby was still paralyzed. June stepped closer. “You’re not.” She peered over her mother’s arm into the fridge, looking for the cause of the shock. Standing so close to her mother and seeing nothing shocking in the fridge, she gently pushed the door closed. “So I guess she’s gone? For good?”

June had never seen her mother this way. It worried her. She put an arm around her and escorted her to the kitchen table, pulling her through some invisible molasses that dragged at Ruby’s feet. Seated at the table, Ruby’s head collapsed onto her arms and she started weeping. Quietly. Like a whisper of sadness had entered her heart. June didn’t know what to do with the tears that were rising in her own eyes. She pulled a chair close to the woman who gave her birth, put an arm tenderly across her shoulders, and allowed tears to spill down her own cheeks. But she permitted no sound out of her mouth. This was not her turn to cry for her sister, yet she couldn’t stop the tears from falling. 

After a few moments of time standing still, June tried again. “Mom?” Her voice barely made a sound, she was so hesitant to interrupt her mother’s mourning.

“Gone,” was all Ruby could manage to say. 

June let another moment slip by while a crease deepened on her brow. “The farm?” For some reason she found herself mirroring her mother’s brevity. Her mother just shook her head, rolling it from side to side over her folded arms. Finally, raising her head as if awakening to a new world, she took June's face in her hands and, with tears streaking her cheeks, said, "You're my only daughter now."
 
It's FICTION FRIDAY!
Every Friday, a new flash fiction story, inspired by reader comments, when possible. Feel free to leave a prompt for future use in the comments below. Today's Fiction is part of my project for NaNoWriMo. As I write a new novel this month, I may be sharing occasional short scenes that may or may not end up in the finished product.

Fiction Friday - Changing the Routine

 

image courtesy of D.B. McNicol

June tried not to keep a strict routine while she was on the road. Everything back home had been on a schedule, and Don, one of the Resistance members she had met with, told her that needed to change. 

Before she’d left home, her parents encouraged her to vary things she could. She still had to be certain places at certain times, and since her bus driver recognized her by name, it would be weird if she varied that schedule. But in between school and visiting Gina - the trips the bus driver knew - she changed things as much as she could. Study group met at a neighbor’s house, but after study group, she took a walk. A circuitous route home, different every time. 

She changed her bedtime and wake up time. She did her homework in the middle of the night, or at 3am when she woke up. She started trying to follow the moon as much as possible. It gave her a feeling of routine, even though daily she was wildly out of routine. The new moon was the hardest part because you can't see a new moon, but her moon clock kept her straight.  It turned out to be good practice for being on the road. 

Now she was in Colorado, and she was very glad she had started at home. No one knew her here; no one knew what was normal for her. She could meet up with her contact at strange times. She made a friend at the corner store, but always went there at a different time of the day or night, just so it wasn’t an “everyday” thing. June knew she wouldn’t be here long – just long enough. 

At moon-rise she ate what she called her breakfast. That could be any time of the day or night. She always had a yogurt drink for protein, and some kind of fruit or vegetable – cooked or raw – whatever was available where she was. Also a mug of hot coffee. Or tea. Someone had suggested she get used to tea as a substitute, another variable. So now, if moon-rise happened in the morning hours, she’d drink coffee. If in the afternoon, tea. One more way to give irregularity a semblance of regularity. 

On each major stage of the moon – full, new, and quarter – she would move. Whether that meant changing city, changing lodging, or if she was staying in the same house, she’d try to change to a different room or bed. Gotta keep changing, be unpredictable. The best would be to just “go missing” if she could manage it. How would she manage it? 

June borrowed whatever she could, and tried not to look the same two days in a row. Of course, facial recognition cameras would not be fooled, but at least if her makeup was different, and her hair either messy or neat, or wearing someone else’s coat one day, then the same shadow or shape wasn’t seen passing through the woods or town. 
 
It's FICTION FRIDAY!
Every Friday, a new flash fiction story, inspired by reader comments, when possible. Feel free to leave a prompt for future use in the comments below. Today is the first day of NaNoWriMo, so I'm being lazy and sharing a short scene that may or may not end up in my November Novel.

Fiction Friday - Good Beer

"Oh, this one's quite good!"

Ty smacked his tongue through his teeth a few times, a thought frown forming a crinkle between his eyebrows. "Hm... It's okay. Kind of lackluster. Let me try that Lemonhead Pilsner again." 

Monica handed him the requested glass, which was sitting on her end of the beer flight. It was a new tradition: On the weekends, they always sought out a microbrewery to test.

Ty was more particular than Monica. He had opinions about everything. They would share a flight of tastings - usually four to eight 4-ounce glasses of different brews from that brewery - then they'd each order a pint of the one they liked best and share some pub food, if available. (Not every brewery offered food.) It was a new thing for them to do together. He fancied himself a bit of a connoisseur, she'd found.

Now that he'd retried the pilsner, he was re-trying the stout. "See, I love this stout right after that pilsner, but it's a little..." Monica nodded absently as he explained his feelings about the stout. She knew which one she wanted. It was just up to him to make up his mind. She wasn't exactly ignoring him, but he talked about ingredients he could taste, and "notes" and how the flavors "hit his tongue." Monica loved him and tried to share his interest, but she didn't care as much. It was just beer. She knew what she liked, usually within the first couple tastes. Ty took longer.

Did he really know the stuff he talked about? Monica couldn't tell, but he was having fun and they were together.

She still had "Wine Wednesdays" with her friends, and he went out with the guys, but their counselor had suggested they find something they both enjoy. They'd made a Venn Diagram of interests, and beer was one in the middle. 

So they started doing this.

And it was helping.
It was. 
Not only did they have a stronger relationship for sharing each other's interests, but as a bonus, the beer they kept in the house often had an interesting story they could tell guests!

That was another therapy thing: Remember to be grateful for the little things.

It's FICTION FRIDAY!
Every Friday, a new flash fiction story, inspired by reader comments, when possible. Feel free to leave a prompt for future use in the comments below.

Fiction Friday - Welcome Back!

Tricia looked around her classroom, giving a final once-over before heading home. Tomorrow was the first day of school. Of course, her homeroom wouldn't stay this pristine for long, but she took pride in it all the same.

Desks lined up, supplies in neat order, bulletin boards fun and eye-catching for her middle-schoolers.The anticipation was over, and Tricia was ready. She nodded to the empty room, turned off the lights, and went home.

*****
The next day dawned bright and sunny. It was going to be a hot one. Summer vacation was over, but the summertime heat was not yet ready to say good-bye.

Tricia left home with plenty of time. She always did. It was pleasant to arrive early and have a few minutes of silence before hearing the energy and noise build to a frenetic pace as the school day began.

As she drove the same old route on autopilot, she felt the tempo of the traffic trail-off. Carefully, she tapped into Google Maps on her phone. Red lines all over. Oh no! Zoom out ... more red. There were no good alternate routes. No! No-no! As her car was forced to a stop on the highway, she rested her head on the steering wheel. There went her cushion of time.

She wasn't late, but by the time Tricia reached the school with just a few minutes to spare, kids and staff were all over the grounds. People were exiting when they should have been entering! Tricia found a parking spot at the back of the teachers' lot. Parking was just another reason to arrive early. Walking toward the building, she scanned faces to find someone in authority.

"Mr. Nuñez! What happened?"

"Good morning, Miss Planck. I wondered why I hadn't seen you yet."

"Major pile-up on 85."

"Oh, you were caught in that? Rough. Meanwhile, one of our pranksters couldn't even wait for the start of the school day to pull the fire alarm."

"Oh good grief." Tricia's shoulders slumped involuntarily. "Already? That's a fun start to the year."

It's FICTION FRIDAY!
Every Friday, a new flash fiction story, inspired by reader comments, when possible. Feel free to leave a prompt for future use in the comments below.
Today's story was inspired by the prompt "back to school", given by Liz A. of Laws of Gravity.

The Ghost of Flash Fiction

I needed inspiration after being sick a few days. That's a good time to check into the most recent  Sunday Photo Fiction!

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a story of less than 200 words, based on a photo prompt. To join the fun...
Click on this link


Last Sunday's inspiring picture:

Image: Fandango

“Shh… Mabel, more Living are coming.”

Mabel didn’t shush. “Oh, George, you act like they can hear us. Just don’t rock that rocker!”

The Living came into the ancient, decaying cabin, armed unlike any previous visitors. Usually Living meant hikers, tired, seeking a roof, holey as theirs was, to shelter from the elements. Or teens looking for a private place to do private deeds. Mabel hated that. She felt so defiled when kids screwed on her living room floor.

This was a group of three Living, carrying bulky cameras. 

One with black-rimmed glasses was scribbling in a notebook. Mabel moved closer to look over her shoulder. She was drawing intricate sketches of the old house. “Ooo… George, check this out.”

“I can’t move, remember?” the old curmudgeon grumbled from his seat by the fireplace.

“These are perfect,” announced the taller man wearing a jaunty scarf, as he placed each hand on the two rocking chairs. “They are the essence of this place. Kay, sketch them in situ, and then add them to the truck. I’m going out to look for the perfect piece of nature.”

And in moments, their chairs were gone. George cursed. He never cared about art.

Word count: 199

The Greatest American Parade Every Year

Sunday Photo Fiction time! (Check it out HERE)
It's Tuesday for me, which means it's probably Monday for most of you, so I'm not as late to the game as my last one. You know the drill. Fiction under 200 words, inspired by the selected photo.

Photo credit: C.E. Ayr

“Here come the bagpipes!” This was Kitty’s favorite part of any parade. But to be here, on New Years Day!

Her friends were talking amongst themselves. They didn’t get it.

Her eyes lit up as the “American Sons of Scotland” neared, playing a highland tune she vaguely recognized. So many bagpipes! The sheer quantity of pipers was impressive, in addition to the power of the music she was smiling and humming to. Heaven.

She knew there would be more later, too. The annual Tournament of Roses parade always had several groups playing bagpipes. State Trooper units from around the country, a military group, smaller bagpipe bands from communities around the US that just wanted the honor to play in this event.

As the “Sons of Scotland” passed, she turned back to her friends. “That was amazing,” Kitty gushed.

“Dude. You look like you just fell in love.” Despite his name, Scotty would never understand.

“Not just,” she explained. “Years ago.” Why did she always get defensive about her heritage? She sat sullenly watching her friends. She should have come alone. She shed a silent tear for Uncle Mike, who first introduced her to the beauty of her highland home.

word count: 199

Sunday Photo Fiction on Thursday

I tried this once, but I keep forgetting to check back. It's time for another  Sunday Photo Fiction! Yes, I'm aware it's Thursday, but I've been unpacking since Saturday.

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a story of less than 200 words, based on a photo prompt. To join the fun...
Click on this link 

This week's photo inspiration comes from Anurag Bakhshi.

“Am I pretty? I think I need to be pretty? What’s pretty?”

“Hello! We say, ‘hello’.” Lily was going to have to teach the friend she made.

“Hello? Hello!”

“I made you and just gave you life. Do you want a name?”

“Yes, please. A pretty one, please. Am I pretty?”

“Pretty enough for me. I will call you ‘Meili’. That means ‘beautiful’.”

“Oh, thank you! Can we play together?”

“Well, sort of, but you can’t go anywhere. You have to stay here and keep birds out of the flowers.”

The fabric head tilted forward ever-so-slightly. “Oh. Flowers are pretty. I like pretty.” Meili’s head returned upright. “I wish I could see them better.”

“Maybe my daddy can fix your neck, so you can bend more.”

Just then, Lily’s mama called from inside. “Lily! Come inside! It’s time for lunch and you have to do your daily reading!”

“Oops! Bye!” as she started to run to the door, her new friend shouted, “Wait! My neck!”

“Yes, yes. Later. Bye!”

Meili was still calling after her, “My neck! Flowers! Pretty! Pretty flowers! Help!” Lily didn’t see the tear that escaped her painted eye, until it had already left a stain. 

Words: 199