Guest Post by Allison Maruska


The Biggest Killer of Creativity


First, I want to thank Jenny for hosting the Sunday Scribbles Challenge and for opening up her blog space for wee scribblers like me. I hope I can do this awesome blog justice.


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Now, let’s talk about creativity – and specifically about what kills it (for the purposes of this post, creativity refers to both the act of literally creating something and to sharing our already-created work with the outside world). As creative types, we need to know what hazards lie ahead so we can avoid them.

Unfortunately, this killer isn’t something we can avoid entirely. In fact, it’s one we likely face on a daily basis.

I’ve recently started reading Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. In it, she outlines qualities creative types must have in order to create, including enchantment, trust, and persistence. But the first quality she discusses is courage.

That means not being afraid, because as she says:


…when courage dies, creativity dies with it. We all know that fear is a desolate boneyard where our dreams go to desiccate in the hot sun.


She goes on to list 27 fears we face as we strive to live more creative lives, including fear of rejection, fear that we don’t have enough training, and fear that our work isn’t important enough to put out there. The easy advice would be to simply say everyone has fears so either suck it up and create anyway or go do something else.

Here’s the thing, though: Fears are real. They aren’t silly, irrational things we’re taught to ignore (for the most part). Fears keep us alive – we don’t run into traffic because of the fear of getting smashed by a MACK truck.


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Beep Beep!


But fear can also be paralyzing if we let it.

My bestselling novel was *this close* to being shoved under a mattress because of fear. After I got some bad feedback from a critique partner, I knew if I let anyone read it, one of two things would happen: 1. They would hate it and ridicule it mercilessly, or 2. No one would read it at all.

That’s right. I was afraid people would read it or not read it.

It took another, much wiser writing partner to talk me back off that ledge. I went on to self-publish the book and it sold twenty thousand copies in its first year.

And it wasn’t ridiculed mercilessly.

In her most recent flash fiction challenge post, Charli Mills says this (emphasis mine):


It’s not that fear itself is so bad. Fear is a warning — proceed with caution; be safe. Entrepreneurs and artists take calculated risks — they strategize to overcome doubt and fear to do or create something new. Fear is best acknowledged, not justified. It’s fear justified that skews thinking and actions.


Acknowledgement says, “Yes, this is a real fear that I have.” Justification says, “And because of it, I will or won’t do this.” Justification gives fear more credit and weight than it deserves.

I published my novel while carrying the fears that it would be poorly reviewed or not read. My wise writing partner even said, “Yes, those things could happen.” We acknowledged those fears and proceeded anyway. And you know what? Those things did happen! It got some bad reviews and I can’t get most of my own family to read it (among many others, I’m sure). But it also has lots of good reviews and fans anxiously waiting for the standalone sequel, which is now in revisions.

Fear is part of the creative process. Hell, it’s in every freaking step of it. If creativity is the Yin, fear is the Yang.

That doesn’t mean fear gets to kill our creativity. In fact, pressing on after acknowledging our fears makes having created and shared our work that much sweeter.


What fears do you face when creating? How do you overcome them?


0ec5e6b6a9fd960893ba80993bf75090.jpegAllison Maruska is the author of mystery, suspense, and YA novels, a humor blogger, former teacher, mom, wife, coffee and wine consumer, and owl enthusiast. Find her on her blog, Facebook, Twitter, and Amazon.


Guest Post by Allan G. Smorra


WUtdFyW3_400x400I entered J.A. Allen’s Scribbles on Cocktail Napkins contest and her prompt was to tell a story in just two paragraphs based on an unsettling confession during a blind date.
Thanks to everyone who voted for my story and a special thanks to J.A. for this opportunity to be a guest host on her blog.

You can find my blog at www.ohmsweetohm.me.


The Connection


It was a Friday afternoon and I was seated on a bench on the fantail of one the Golden Gate Ferry boats that run between San Francisco and Marin County, CA. In the waning light of an November evening it felt good to have open sky above me. I sat and drank my adult beverage while tourists and commuters loaded the boat for the 45 minute ride to the Larkspur Ferry Terminal.

aThe year was 1983 and I had finished my workday at the new KGO-TV television studios on Front St.  For the last six months I had spent seven hours a day, 5 days a week, in a noisy dark basement and it was officially no longer fun. I was part of the Mole Crew, the gang of electricians who toiled all day in the dim-lit basement running power distribution conduits for the studios and offices in the building above us. We only saw the sun at lunchtime or when we were on a break.

Passengers filled the boat in a steady stream and one in particular caught my eye. He was standing at the transom of the boat and wore a hip-length brown leather jacket with large flap pockets sewn on the outside of the chest and waist, dark denim pants, and heavy brown leather hiking boots that were well oiled and buffed to a matte shine. A gray cloth military patrol cap covered his head and at his feet was a large square cloth bag with two loop handles. One end of a long baguette of bread stuck out of the top of the shopping bag and I could see the tops of several packages wrapped in white butcher’s paper.

I thought to myself, This could be a scene out of a foreign movie; Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. And now, the boy goes to any length to reunite with his One True Love. I took another sip of my beverage. Yeah, right. Like that happens in real life. At least not in front of me, so far.

The stranger reached into his bag and carefully opened packages of meat and cheese. He took out a small paring knife and began to slice them into bite-sized pieces which he ate along with pieces of the baguette. It struck me as a very European way to travel and I made a mental note to try it myself some afternoon.

The boat was now loaded and the deckhands prepared to raise the gangway and cast off the dock lines. I headed for the bar to get a refill.

The ferry was in the process of backing out of the slip as I returned to my seat. The stranger was busy taking in the sights as we turned North and pulled away from the San Francisco Ferry Terminal. The Bay Bridge grew smaller as our view of the Embarcadero waterfront slipped by at sea level on our port side. A million-dollar view for under three dollars.

The stranger was busy taking photos with a 35mm point-and-shoot film camera and making notes in a small notebook that he had removed from a side pocket of his jacket.

He’s detail oriented. I like that in a person.

The boat cleared Pier 39 and the Golden Gate Bridge came into view. I took out my 35mm Pentax SLR camera and walked over to the rail. I love taking photos of the bridge at sunset and today was promising. After snapping off a few photos I sat down in my seat and put my camera back in my bag. Our ferry was approaching Alcatraz and our view of the bridge would be blocked by the island.

I sipped my drink and the stranger took a few photos of The Rock. He looked puzzled, took out a guidebook from another jacket pocket, and began flipping through several pages. He closed the book and looked around.

He smiled when saw me looking at him, and I nodded and smiled back. He took four steps in my direction and pointed toward the Federal Penitentiary. “Excuse me, please. Ist that Ang-gel Island?” I was right, he is European.

“No, sir. That is actually Alcatraz, the old prison.” I turned to my right and pointed again. “That is Angel Island.”

He smiled, “Ahhhh, yah. Now it makes sense. Thank you very much.”

“You’re quite welcome.”pablo.png

“That’s Tiburon. Sausalito is beyond that—at the other end of the Golden Gate Bridge. We can’t see it from here.”

“Ahhhh, yah. I understand now.”

“Hey, my name’s, Al.” I reached out and we shook hands.

“I am Johannes. It ist nice to meet you, Al”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Johannes.” The seat next to me was unoccupied. “Why don’t you get your stuff and sit down here? Take a load off your feet.”

“Ahhhh, yah. Thank you, I will.”

Johannes picked up his bag and sat down on the bench. “This ist such a lovely way to ride, this boat.”

“I love it, man. On the water I can decompress from the day’s work and arrive home a new man.”

“Yah, ist good. Leave your worries at work, don’t take them home with you.”

“What brings you to the United States? Vacation? Work?”

“Vacation. I have always wanted to visit America.”

“Well, welcome to the U. S. of A.”

“Thank you. Ist a good feeling to be welcomed. Americans are very friendly.”

I smiled, “Thanks, man. It’s easy to be friendly to nice people such as yourself.”

Johannes smiled, “Would you like a snack? I have bread, cheese, salami, and ham.”

“I don’t mind if I do. Thanks.” We proceeded to enjoy slices of fresh sourdough bread, Columbus Salami, and Jarlsberg cheese.

My curiosity was getting the best of me. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”

“Germany. I live outside Munich.”

“Nice. I have never met someone from Munich before. What do you do for a living there?”

“I work at the BMW factory. I am electrician.”

“An electrician? No kidding? Man, I am an electrician!”

We both laughed and shook hands again, brother-to-brother. “What do you do at the BMW plant?”

“We take care of maintaining the entire facility and install new equipment on the Assembly lines. What do you do?”

“I work construction and right now we are building television studios and offices for a local TV station.” I laughed, “What are the odds that we would run into each other on a boat in San Francisco Bay?”

Johannes chuckled, “Yah, ist a slim chance at best.”

“Hey, I’m going to get one more. Lemme get you something. What would you like?”

“A white wine?”

“Coming right up.” I got our drinks and sat down with Johannes. We toasted each other, sat, sipped and watched the world go by. Over the course of the next half hour we talked about our lives, families, and our chosen field of work.

It turned out that my new friend was in the last week of a 4-week vacation. He got six weeks a year off and this trip to the USA would zero out his vacation account. Part of his benefits at work was access to discounted travel. He got a corporate lodging & travel rate, plus a discounted rail pass on Amtrak for travel within the US. Johannes had visited New York City, Denver and San Francisco thus far. The final leg of his journey would be to Seattle where he would visit friends and then fly back to Munich.

On this particular day he was going to visit former neighbors who were living not far from the Ferry Terminal in Greenbrae. The next morning they would take him to the East Bay where he would catch an Amtrak train to Seattle. This vacation was one of those life-adventures that he would never forget.pablo

“I have no idea.”

“People find out I am electrician and they say, ‘You have easy job. All day long you twist little wires together. You don’t have to work hard.’ It makes me crazy!”

I leaned back and let out a howl. “Yes! Yes, I agree. I hear the same thing, ‘You twist wires together all day.’ It’s maddening.”

“Who do they think runs conduits for wire? Plumbers? Who pulls the wire? Trained horses? Twisting wires together ist at end of job, not entire job.”

“Johannes, we are more alike than we ever thought.”

“Yah, ist amazing, no?”

We exchanged addresses and sent each other a copy of the best photo that we took that day. For the next several years we exchanged cards and photos at Christmas. As time went on we lost touch with each other and eventually cards went unanswered.

I think about Joannes from time to time whenever I see a BMW on the road. Out here we call them Basic Marin Wheels, although the Tesla S sedans are quietly taking over that position.

What hasn’t changed over time is The Connection, the feeling that I experienced for a brief moment of time that November afternoon. I don’t know if we connected through our shared German heritage, or our chosen field of endeavor, but the time we spent talking on the ferry felt like it was time spent with a long-lost brother. We not only bonded as tradesmen, we connected like wires that were “twisted together.”


aCongrats again, Allan, on winning the 14th Sunday Scribble Challenge. And, thanks for accepting the invitation to guest post!


 

Unofficial Playlist/Old Souls


0ec5e6b6a9fd960893ba80993bf75090.jpegBefore we delve into this musical post a big congrats goes out to Allison Maruska, winner of the 15th Scribble Challenge! Allison is the author of the runaway hit, The Fourth Descendant, YA novel, Drake and the Fliers, and the Project Renovatio Trilogy. Her entry to the last challenge of the season accrued the most votes ANY Scribble Challenge has ever received.


Check out her website, AllisonMaruska.com, for great flash fiction and writing tips. We’re all looking forward to your guest post here on Scribbles, Allison!


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The hellions are finished school for the summer.


It’s great, because I can see them more often, and not great, because: writing.

There was a time I needed complete and utter silence to concentrate on my WIP. It was a BASTARD of a handicap. Life is loud. If ye authorly type-layers wait for optimal conditions to get anything done, the pace of ye work will inevitably suffer. That’s an old English proverb. Probably.

I had to train myself to write in a madhouse. My trick? Grabbing a set of headphones and subjecting the old eardrums to blaring music. As I tap away at my computer now, I’m happily listening to the Arctic Monkeys scream I Wanna be Yours while thirteen thousand of the hellions’ friends raid my cupboards for (crack) sugary snacks.

Over the years, the tracks I’ve listened to repeatedly while working on Old Souls have evolved into a playlist. While many budding authors dream of big-screen grandeur, it’s my hope that the story is developed into a Game of Thrones style television series one day, following the lives of my immortal characters back and forth through time.

For your listening pleasure, here are a few songs from the Old Souls soundtrack:

Lucien burns down The Gate:


Dreaming of Layla:


Doubts of sanity:

(Also the song I would use in my book trailer, if the world was a perfect place.)


Khai arrives at the hospital:


Layla talks about her time on Devon Island:


Rhiannon dies:


Lucien and Layla on the Carrier Pigeon:


The Stones attack Silas’ Ending Ceremony:


Lucien remembers pieces of his past:


Layla suffers in the Trogue Lair:


Layla is captured:


The Anunna leave Nigeria:


Morrigan kisses Lucien:


Lucien leaves for Ellis Fort:


The attack on Devon Island:


Morrigan’s revenge:


Catching up with Doctor Brauen:


End:


As I mentioned: The list is incomplete, but Wordpress doesn’t love all these YouTube links. It’s possible a more complete list will be posted when the book comes out.

For those who have been wondering, Old Souls edits are going well! Stay tuned to Scribbles for summer updates.


#SSC Wrap-Up

 


pabloWe’ve reached the end of the Scribble Challenge season.


It’s been a lot of fun! But, it’s not quite over yet. We need to announce the winner of the 14th Scribble Challengepablo.png! A big congrats goes to: Allan G. Smorra. His response to the prompt?


Sharon noticed the tall bearded man walk into the lobby of the restaurant, stop and slowly glance around the dining area. He fit the description on his dating site and she raised her hand to catch his attention. Joe noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye, smiled and headed in her direction. Halfway there he caught the leg of a chair with the toe of his shoe and stumbled towards her table. “First time with the new foot?” Sharon quipped.

Joe pulled up the leg of his pants to reveal an artificial leg. “As a matter of fact, it is.”


I’m sure everyone is just as excited as I am to read your guest post, Allan!


And hey, Scribbles is now accepting votes for Last Week’s Challenge. Because it’s the end of the season, we’re opening the voting polls to EVERYONE. Just check the responses to the prompt below and email your vote to: SundayScribbleChallenge@gmail.com.


LAST WEEK’S PROMPT:


angel-1891440_960_720“The challenge is based on something our family has been experiencing. One of the hellions talks in his sleep. It’s generally limited to sentence or two, most of which is completely unintelligible.

It’s the same for the characters of the prompt. But, one night the child says something the parents understand. Something entirely unexpected. They come to realize their little one isn’t sleep-talking at all, but rather, a being is speaking THROUGH them.

The submission should contain the line (or two) of dialogue, as well as the parents’ reaction when they realize who–or what–has been attempting to communicate for so long.”


Rachel Forsberg:


49f1fef829369cd622d0b66e911c0257.pngI don’t know why I woke. The house was quiet, the weather calm. The kids were sleeping. I stared out the window, thinking about all the things I’d have to do the next day, wishing I could fall back asleep.

And then heard the whispers. They were soft at first. Fleeting.

I shook my husband awake as they grew louder, coming from just across the hall. “It’s Keiran,” I said. “He’s sleep-talking again.”

It was an old habit. Usually the words came in just a sentence or two, that we rarely understood. But lately the murmurings had become something close to fervent. He lay in his bed, tossing and turning as we came in, pale skin gleaming in a thin sweat. I sank into the bed. Goosebumps rose along on my arms and up my neck.

My husband knelt beside us, eyes still puffy with sleep. “What’s he saying?”

A gust of wind filtered in through the open window. Kieran’s whispers had become words, loud words I couldn’t understand. They were clear, crisp, and urgent, and completely foreign.

I shrugged at my husband, eyes wide.

Trees swayed violently out the window. A light spread over the yard. Kieran jerked upright in the bed, his gaze wild and lurching, coughing and clawing at his throat as the light grew bright outside. Blood trickled from his mouth when he spoke again.

“I told you we were coming.”


Allison Maruska


0ec5e6b6a9fd960893ba80993bf75090.jpeg“I’m happy,” Connor mutters in his sleep. As usual, his eyes stay shut, but not as usual, his words are completely clear.

I haven’t tried to reply before, but what the hell? It could get us a good laugh. “What are you happy about?”

“Where I am. I’m happy. I like the brown doggie with the white spot. He plays with me. He likes to chase.”

“Brown doggie?” I glance at my husband. “He’s not talking about-”

“I think he is.”

I sit on the end of the bed. If he means Trigger, our brown Pit with an adorable white spot on his head, then he’s talking about the pet we had before he was born. Had Connor seen a picture of the dog?

“Connor,” I ask. “What’s the dog’s name.”

“Not Connor.”

“No, that’s your name. What’s the dog called?”

“Hunter. I’m Hunter. And I’m happy.” After a long sigh, Connor rolls over, pulling the covers under his chin.

“What?”

Shaking his head, my husband rushes out of the room.

I haven’t heard his name in so long – Hunter, our baby who died at three months old. The older brother Connor never met.

I can’t leave this bed. Connor may talk in his sleep again.


Juliet Nubel


.kjbThey sat on each side of her pink, princess bed. Sue stroked her daughter’s sticky, tousled, blond head, watching intently as her beautiful rosebud mouth moved, making a series of strange, loud sounds – ‘Ant, ant, ant.’ Always the same noises, almost every night for the last six months.

‘It’s getting worse, Sue. It’s much louder and she seems really perturbed now.’ He took Emily’s tiny hand, his brow creased deep with concern.

Short, quick gulps replaced his daughter’s calm breathing.

‘Ant, can you hear me? Ant, are you there?’ This was no longer their little girl speaking. Antony’s eyes flashed in recognition. Only one person had ever called him by this childish nickname.

‘I’m here’, he replied gently. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You need to tell your Dad that I hid it. It’s in a nylon stocking taped to the back of the top drawer in my dresser. He must find it before he signs the papers for the house and all the furniture tomorrow. It’s for Sue. He must give it to Sue. I can’t get through to him, Ant. Call him now, please.’ The voice faded to a low hum, and Emily returned to a deep, dreamless sleep.

‘Mum, are you still there? Mum, I miss you so much!’ Anthony bent over the pink and white checkered quilt and wept silent tears of pure, undistilled grief.

As Sue looked over at her husband, he lifted his head, slowly wiped away the tears, then dialled his father’s number.

‘Dad, sorry to wake you. I know where to look for Mum’s diamond ring…’


Chocobosage


9058ded50c754de4a391838b659ab882.jpegThe baby monitor let out the usual random babbling of their kid as she slept, a bit of laughing and some murmured half words. Then the dog sat up on alert, staring at the monitor intently. A low static came from the speaker which startled the parents, then silence. They both went to check on the baby and upon opening the door, found the window open and several different birds in the room surrounding their child. Watching her like they awaited instruction.

Then the child said: “Hello my friends, I hope you’re all keeping well?”


Dysfunctional Womans Digest


7aa4829822a87fcabacd52f76d77fd3fTonight he would be prepared. Climbing into bed with a pencil and pad of paper, his plan was to have these items ready as soon as the child was asleep and her lips began to move. The child’s sleep-talking had begun a few weeks ago and he didn’t pay much attention to her gibberish at first but over the following weeks the noises had turned into an intelligible form of discourse. Her audible murmurings were beginning to reveal things that a child of four, his child of four, should not and could not know. Her mother had been equally disturbed.

“I don’t know when all of this started but I am not getting any rest since Daphne starting sleeping in our bed,” she had said. “First it was your insomnia and now it’s her talking and rolling around and I am exhausted.” She pointed to the bags under her eyes as confirmation.

“I know, honey,” said Paul. “Let’s start a new bedtime routine tomorrow and we will make sure to wear Daphne out at the park in the afternoon. It shouldn’t take but a few days and then we will be getting a good night’s rest again, OK, honey?”

Paul secretly hoped that tonight he would be able to jot down what he was certain was an intelligence from another dimension. Somehow, someway, a transmission was occurring through his child and he could swear that he had been specifically chosen for this revelation. He just wished that his wife would not interfere until he could accurately transcribe the mysterious knowledge.

Paul reached to turn-out the light as his wife rolled over with a deep sigh and said goodnight. Setting the pad of paper and his pencil next to the bed, Paul made certain that his unopened refill of risperidone was still carefully concealed.


Larisanjou *New Entry*


1403112ec2638062f7b2a1e1ffb54d27.jpegOur beautiful child, the image of angelic perfection.

Just a short while ago, she’d been stomping her feet and crying in frustration. I thought bedtime would be the solution to her little temper tantrum.

From behind the pile of work on my desk, I’d heard the rustling of tossing and turning from her room. I tiptoed over to peek in on her. Cool full-moon light cut across her rosy tearstained cheeks. Her smooth brow contorted into a tangle, and she whimpered like an injured puppy. Fat tears pushed out from her tightly-squeezed eyes.
My heart cracked.

What could my child, my innocent daughter, possibly be disturbed by? What monster is chasing her through dreamland? At that age, dreamworld should be a lovely place of magic and infinite possibility.

“Do you still love me?”

I felt a painfully familiar hot stone forming in my stomach.

“I know I’m not good enough, I’ll never be…”

Through the mouth of my child, I heard the voice of my own demon.

How many times had she seen me, ripping my hair out at a project gone wrong? Crying over yet another rejection letter? Mentally flagellating myself, repenting for the sin of being myself? I was teaching her the art of self-loathing.

I removed her crumpled drawing from the trash. She had thrown it away in a blind fit, screaming, “It’s not good enough! I hate this! I’m bad!” The air had vibrated electric yellow.

Now, in the deep blue light, I unfurled it.

A single tear dropped onto her drawing.

It was a family portrait. Two smiling parents holding hands with their child in the middle, standing under a rainbow.

She had scribbled over her own face.

“Come to bed, honey.”

My husband’s gravelly whisper muffled the sound of my guilt. I turned to look at him, eyes overflowing with a lifetime of shame and overdue apologies.

“We’ll do better tomorrow.”


Good luck to all our participants. The replies were some of my favorite submissions of the season. The winner will be hard to pick!


 

Lovingly He Held Her Head Underwater


A Guest Blog by Juliet Nubel.kjb.png


For the last few Sunday mornings, when Jenny’s Scribble Challenge email lands in my inbox after a short flight across the Atlantic Ocean, I have opened it and laughed.

What would I possibly have to write about A Mother’s Twisted Love when my own mother unquestionably loves every square inch of my body and soul? An hour later, after getting my shoes out of the cupboard under the stairs I had the creepy idea of a child being tied up and locked away.

Phobias? I don’t have any phobias, I boasted to the cats, the only ones who actually listen to me around here. Bang on cue, a wasp flew into the kitchen through the open door and my declaration flew out the window. I don’t just have a phobia of wasps, I have a debilitating and ferocious fear.

But when I opened the third week’s Scribble email I actually snorted in disbelief. hjvA six word story with a twist? For heaven’s sake Jenny, we’re not miracle workers! But my brain doesn’t know that, so it got down to its current job of scrabbling around in the heaps of words living up there and it finally found something that I was happy with. As happy as an unknown, unconfident, part-time, baby writer can be: “Lovingly he held her head underwater.”

The fact that we were at that precise moment on holiday on the beautiful Italian island of Sicily, that there were two monstrous, sparkling swimming pools on the complex, edged by two sandy beaches, both lapped by the turquoise Mediterranean Sea, may have helped my hand a little.khb.pngSo that done and dusted, wiped around the edges (which doesn’t take long when there are only six words to wipe) I posted it and promptly forgot all about it, as we went off to play.

When we returned to our room much later that evening I found my pet iPad waiting patiently by the bed, proudly showing me a comment from Hugh’s Views and News in response to my entry.

lkn.png


“I wonder if he was doing it for goodness, rather than for evil?” he asked innocently.


And that, Hugh, is when you had me. How could I possibly not answer your question? A vague idea of why my character was doing this was swirling around when I put together the six words for the challenge. But you deserved a longer and better explanation. So my brain started its digging again. All the way back in the coach from a wonderful historical day trip, it poked around and pulled out words to string together to complete the story.

The result is below. It is for you Hugh, and for anyone else who may be interested in reading the follow-up to my one-liner. It is nothing like my usual chatty blog style but hey, I can wear a new hat if I want to.

And it is for you too, Jenny. You who, for some inexplicable reason, started following my blog one day, a couple of months ago. When I clicked on yours it was admiration at first sight. Thank you for inspiring me with your words and thank you for inciting me to write my own.


Lovingly He Held Her Head Underwater


hand-2262740_960_720His large, work-roughened hands shook hard, however, as he pushed down on her grey-tinged hair until the bubbles from her nose and mouth finally stopped rising. The flash of gold from his wedding band shining up through the ripples, reminded him of what he was actually doing – wilfully drowning his beautiful, beloved wife.

He would have preferred to see her eyes one last time instead of the back of her head, but he knew that if those clear, grey jewels had been looking up at him through the water he would never be able to go through with it. He would pull her out, gasping for breath, cover her with kisses and swear he had made the biggest mistake of his entire life.

Her eyes. They had melted his heart all those years ago and they still did. They seemed to change colour without warning, wavering between gold-flecked green and pale Caribbean blue. Sometimes when the weather was bad they turned to flint, reflecting the clouds racing overhead, the tiny gold specks changing to light silvery sparkles.
For almost a year now they had also betrayed her mood, becoming a dark, secretive hue he had never seen before. A colour he disliked and mistrusted. This sombre shade brought on by another man, surely. Someone she saw regularly who made her return home to him as flustered and perturbed as a teenage girl.

He had followed her one day when his doubts had gotten the better of him, and had watched her walking through a high, wooden door in the centre of town, using a code she must have been given for quick, easy access. The sight of her guilty step made vomit rise in his throat and hot tears run down his weathered cheeks.

And now she wanted to go. She had told him everything. Every last detail, every sordid secret she had held for months was now revealed in a bright, blinding light.

‘I will never accept!’ he had screamed at her, louder than ever before during the thousands of days they had spent together.

‘You must’, was all she replied, her pastel eyes now begging like a hungry pup.

For weeks he had tried to dissuade her. At times he used sweet, gentle cajoling. At others deep, unbridled anger. Neither worked, and slowly he realised that she really meant what she had said. She needed to go, desperate to be set free at last.

bedroom-1082262_960_720.jpgHis decision finally came one night as he lay beside her in bed, his arms wrapped around her frail body like thick chains.

‘I have always respected your wishes’, he announced. ‘You can go now.’

The depth of gratitude in her tired smile broke his heart into a thousand pointed shards, each one piercing his body and soul as he inhaled her scent deeply to memorise it for the rest of his life.

‘Thank you, my love’ she answered, her cancer-ridden voice much quieter now than before. ‘And just promise me that even if I start to struggle, you will keep pushing down as hard as you possibly can.’


Did you know?


pabloThere’s still time to participate in the FINAL Scribble Challenge of the season! Head on over to #SSC 15 to submit your response to the prompt for your chance to win a guest blog here, on Scribbles on Cocktail Napkins.


Hey, YOU!

Don’t forget to pop by DanAlatorre.com this Sunday for a whole NEW guest blog from Juliet Nubel.


Mayor Maynot


Guest Post by Ward Clever


Hi. I’m Ward Clever, a blogger type person.

According to my About Page that I just read, I’m a work of fiction come to life, a whore who can touch unicorns, a ghost manifest, a sensitive empath with a dark side, a watcher of the skies, a healer of healers, a lovable asshole, a guy who writes a nice bio.jhv

Welcome to this thing. I am a little teapot, and I put my whole self in and shake it all about. That’s what it’s all about.

I’m a struggling romance addict, lover of visual kei, and I occasionally speak in other languages. Sarcasm, metaphors, hai, yatta, ayamachi ni obore. Oyasumi,  oiche mhaith, tsai chen, bon nuit, buenas noches, and good night. I won’t explain myself, and I won’t stop ’til I get enough. But that’s all, because enough is plenty.

Here’s a little story about Mayor Maynot, called Mayor Maynot. He had an adventure, I guess, and this is it:


kjhnb


There once was a woman named David. But that was only once, so why bother talking about it? You know?truss-2355992_960_720

There once was a town called Malice. The town hated that name, and preferred to be called Sharon. And the town down the road was called Bob, which it liked, so it was cool with being called Bob. Well, it wasn’t long, like 15 minutes, before a town sprung up between them called Alike. This town wasn’t anthropomorphic, so it wasn’t sapient enough to give a shit what it was called. I think it would have enjoyed being called Alike, though.

Alike had a mayor. The mayor was Mayor Maynot. He spoke sort of like a pirate. Once people from Sharon came into the office and asked him “Who is in charge of this town?”

He said “I, Mayor Maynot, be in charge of this town.”

“Well are you, or are you not, in charge of this town?”

“Aye, I, Mayor Maynot, be in charge of this town Alike.”

“You can’t just be in charge because you like it.”

“Alike, it, this town, that I, Mayor Maynot, be in charge of.”

“Well, whether you like it is irrelevant. All we want to know is who is in charge of it.”

“Alike, the town?”martin-luther-617287_960_720.jpg

“I think so. You just said you did. Who is in charge of the town Alike.”

“I don’t be knowin’ what town you like, but Alike, this town, aye, I, Mayor Maynot, be in charge.”

“So if… but you said… I didn’t tell… aw, fuck it. We’re claiming this town in the name of Sharon!”

“Who be Shar-”

Just then, or maybe a few minutes later, actually, because Mayor Maynot paused to get a drink of something that Mayor Maynot be callin’ grog, there were some people from Bob who barged in the door. This was quite difficult, because the nearest water that could float a barge was 47 miles away, and that was just in a parade that celebrated the Loudest Cupcake Firecracker Rhubarb Turnover. But somehow, they managed.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Well, it is a specific pronoun denoting something close to the speaker, as opposed to ‘that’, which would denote something a bit less clo-”

“No, I mean, or we mean, depending on how many people from Bob there are in this part of the story, this, denoting the fuck that is going on here.”

“OH, that. Well, we are from Sharon, and we have claimed Alike for our own. So, good day, and have a nice life.”

“Not so fast!”

“Fine. Oh…that. Well… we… are… from… Sharon-“rovinj-2254575_960_720.jpg

“No, your speaking speed was fine. I mean, your actions are premature. Who is in charge of this town?”

“I, Mayor Maynot, be in charge of this town, Alike.”

“It’s good that you like the town, but you should be a bit more definitive on who is in charge.”

“Alike, I said, I, aye, Mayor Maynot, be in charge of.”

“Crap. Has he been saying this all day?”

“Yeah, I can’t get anything else out of him. Anyway, we the people of Sharon claim this town. We’re annexing it. That means joining it with ours.”

“I thought ‘annex’ was that thing that holds up your head.”

“Nope, definitely the taking over thing. It’s ours. It belongs to Sharon.”

Just then, Mayor Maynot realized that there was a barge, and being a pirate, he got a bit of the sea in his shorts.

“I be givin you the town Alike on two conditions.”

“Okay, what are they” both sides asked him without a question mark. Wow, that is a fucking good trick!

“One, Bob, ye be giving me that barge, so that I may once again set sail or whatever ye set with a barge, what, a pole?”

“Yes, something like that” said the person or people from Bob. “But what’s in it for us?”
“Me second condition be fer ye.”

“What’s your second condition?” asked the people from Sharon.

“Sharon, share Alike.”


hjio


If you like that, then visit my blog for depressing poetry. And a few more things like that, of course.

WardClever.wordpress.com

And maybe buy a friend’s book? Not to be all promotional. Here’s that:

Edward Hotspur – Scenes From A Hundred Morning Drives


DID YOU KNOW:


aWard won the opportunity to guest blog on Scribbles on Cocktail Napkins by winning one of our Weekly Scribble Challenges. YOU can win the chance to guest post here too! Just click #SSC on the toolbar above to check out the final prompt for this season. Participation is quick and easy, and a great way to procrastinate interact with your writing peers. 

Flash fiction challenges fuel creativity. They’re a relatively painless pool for writers who’ve never posted their work to wet those feet, OR for established authors/bloggers to pick up a few new readers.


So, what are YOU waiting for? This week’s challenge wraps up Saturday. Unleash your writerly self.


 

#SSC 15/ June 18-24th


It’s here!

The Final Scribble Challenge of 2017.


pablo


The last challenge of the season is based on something our family has been experiencing. One of the hellions talks in his sleep. It’s generally limited to sentence or two, most of which is completely unintelligible.

It’s the same for the characters of your prompt. But, one night the child says something the parents understand. Something entirely unexpected. They come to realize their little one isn’t sleep-talking at all, but rather, a being is speaking THROUGH them.

Your submission should contain the line (or two) of dialogue, as well as the parents’ reaction when they realize who or what has been attempting to communicate for so long.


RULES OF THE CHALLENGE:

  1. Participants have until Saturday, June 17th at noon, Eastern standard time to post ONE response to the prompt in the comment section of THIS POST.
  2. ENCOURAGE other scribblers. Try to comment (reply) to at least three other submissions during the week.
  3. As usual, after the Saturday deadline, players have a week to VOTE for their favorite submission by emailing: Sundayscribblechallenge@gmail.com. Place the lucky author’s name in the HEADER of your email.

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NOW to announce the winner of the 13th Scribble Challenge, where the main character was buried alive. After a few hours the victim heard what sounded like digging in the dirt. He or she soon realized the sound was coming from BENEATH them. Participants were to write the next line of dialogue, whether it came from the victim or their guest.

The votes were tallied, and the winner of #SSC 13 is Sarah Brentyn!


Sarah’s snappy submission:aaa

Sarah has been invited to write a post here, on Scribbles on Cocktail Napkins. We can’t wait to see what she comes out with!


*Remember, the primary focus of the #SSC is to help authors forge connections within the writing community. So, if you respond to this week’s prompt, just remember to comment (reply) to a minimum of THREE other entries before voting opens on Saturday, June 17th.

Get to know each other!

These challenges are coming to an end, so take a look at one another’s sites now.