#FridayFlash 59: Write what you know

Photo shamelessly stolen from Neil Gaiman

She sat in front of her keyboard waiting for divine inspiration; she supposed this would be more likely if she believed in the divine.

She rolled her eyes and typed a few words.  Then she immediately deleted them.  The screen remained blank.

“To be a writer, you have to write.”  That’s what it said on the motivational poster on the wall.  But the words that used to flow so easily, had been silent for months.  Ever since…   Well, no point thinking about what was.  Now she had to write. Deadlines could be fatal.

She looked around the room.  There had to be something here she could craft a story about.  Hmmmm the paperclip?  Nah, Microsoft had claimed that one as a help icon.  Stickynotes?  No – that too had already been done.

The cell phone buzzing was a welcome distraction.  She’d sworn off the phone until the newest project was at least started, but it could be important.  Seeing her best friend’s name on the screen let her know she shouldn't answer.  But, maybe a break was what she needed? Maybe some time away from the white screen of emptiness would give her some ideas.  Perhaps a coffee would create a flow of inspiration.  Words would fill the page as they once had.

It was worth a try.  She closed the laptop and escaped to the local coffee shop to meet her two closest friends.  The girls gathered around their favourite table.  One white hot chocolate, one espresso, and one chai tea.  When they went for coffee it was accepted nobody would actually drink plain coffee.  She said all the right things as the gossip flowed, held up her end of the conversation – freely blaming her friends for her complete lack of productivity; after all, that’s what friends are for.  But when she smiled, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was quick to catch and interpret the brief look her friends gave each other.  She knew they worried about her, but she couldn’t be strong for them. Not this time. She could barely be strong for herself. And so before the pause could become awkward, she pleaded too much work and tossed her cup in the garbage on her way out the door.  She knew her friends watched her leave, but she never looked back.

When she got home the screen was still white, but this time, it wasn't intimidating.  She knew it was time.  The words would flow through her fingers once more.  But where once they had come from laughter and dreams giving light tales of romance and fun, this one would come from tears and reality.  She started to type.

“Six months ago, my life, as I knew it, ended.  Tomorrow, it will start again.  Today, I will complete the journey from death to life.  You may join me, if you’re strong enough.”

She paused and considered for a moment.  Her hands shook and a single tear crept, unnoticed, down her cheek.  She knew, if she continued, that by the end she would be exhausted.  She suspected she would likely become a far better writer.  And, she realized with a wry grin, she would be in need of a new market.  As she contemplated the fallout to come and realized that maybe, just maybe, she was strong enough after all.  And with that in mind, she let the words flow.

#FridayFlash 58: A Perfect Day

The air was warm and quiet. The lake was still and reflected the brilliant blue sky. He took a moment to appreciate the gift nature had provided. It was, he decided, a perfect day for murder.

“I’ve got the beer, you ready?” The greeting broke his contemplation. He schooled his expression to reveal no indication of his darker thoughts while he responded appropriately. It didn’t take long for the two men to load up the little fishing boat. Rods, bait, and the all-important cooler.

“I’m so glad you talked me into this,” Jake commented with a relaxed smile as they shoved off the dock. “It’s been way too long since I’ve had any time off. And it’s perfect fishing weather.”

“You work too hard. Everybody needs to escape once in a while.”

“You should tell my wife that!”

“I’ve tried. She’s not inclined to listen.”

“Yeah she’s a tough one, but she’s increased the business ten-fold and, you have to admit, she’s usually right.”

“So did you tell her where you were going today?” His question was perfectly timed with just the right easy tone.

“That would hardly be a wise decision,” Jake acknowledged. “No, as far as everybody’s concerned I’m in back-to-back client meetings downtown today. That way, if anybody tries to reach me and can’t, they’ll just assume I’m in another meeting. I’m covered for hours.”

“Brilliant,” he said with a smile, knowing Jake would misinterpret it. Everything about his attitude and conversation suggested he was happy to be relaxing with an old friend, but inwardly he was vibrating with excitement over what was to happen and what would come of it. This wouldn’t be his first time; that had been years ago. And there’d been others since. Several. But this would be the first time with somebody he knew. Somebody he used to respect.

He’d planned this one far more carefully than any of the others. He had a solid alibi lined up. Nobody could know they were out together, or even that he’d ever been on this trip. He’d thought through everything. The location was perfect; Jake’s lake was private and deep. Nobody would see. And it would likely be months, if ever, before the body was found. If he was even slightly lucky, Jake’s wife would sell the cottage property shortly after the funeral; after all, it’d been his hobby, not hers. She had never approved.

With location established he needed a method. A gun would echo for miles; hardly good for a subversive act that required a long time for a getaway. A rapid acting poison would be perfect except that Jake always brought the cooler. There was no easy way to change that tradition smoothly. A knife would be too messy and too risky; Jake might get the upper hand. He didn’t like to admit it even to himself, but success was more important than ego. After all, it was a perfect day for murder. It’d be a shame to waste it. And finally he came up with it. Sheer brilliance.

The only question had been whether Jake would tell his wife. The one who had put an end to their fishing trips and gambling excursions and general enjoyment of life. The one who had turned Jake into a boring, law-abiding, workaholic. And of course, the one who took over the books and stopped his handy access to cash. Jake had let her take over his life, but he hadn’t told her who he was meeting. It was indeed, a perfect day for murder.

He briefly considered actually fishing for a while first; it wasn’t likely he’d be out on a lake again anytime soon. But, he realized, success was more likely to be achieved by getting back to town as soon as possible. There was still a slight glimmer of a chance he might actually need an alibi this time, and getting back faster would make it stronger. Especially if he managed to get back before anybody noticed he’d ever left.

He was just about to make his move when he heard a sound in the distance. A sound that shouldn’t be there. A sound distinctly like a motor. “What’s that?” he asked, as though nothing more important that his fishing were being interrupted.

“Oh, I invited the rest of the old gang to come join us. I thought since I don’t get to see you very often any more it’d be great to have the whole group together.” The look Jake gave him was one of an excited child revealing a barely-held secret. He feigned the appropriate enthusiasm while feeling the crushing disappointment of wasted plans. But then he philosophically shrugged it off and settled in to enjoy the fishing.

After all, there would be other days.

One Word: Sail

They sail billowed and with it her relief flowed.  She was really doing it -- escaping the only life she'd ever known and travelling to the new world.  And nobody knew she was leaving.  She wondered briefly what the reaction would be, but knew she'd never be welcome back.

One Word: Chat

"Let's chat."  Such simple words but so many implications.  From your boss?  From your significant other?  From an old friend?  From a new friend?  Who would you most like to hear them from?  Why?

One Word: Grind

The daily grind was getting to me. So I did the only logical thing that made sense — sold all my belongings except a backpack and some clothes and set out to walk around the world. One step at a time.

#FridayFlash 57: When a warm wind blows

A warm wind blew on a cold night right before I died.

It was time. I'd lived long enough to see the rise and fall of an empire. Or four. I'd learned a dozen languages, traveled around the world and through time. I'd even managed to fulfill my childhood fantasy of being a princess. Ugh, what a mistake that was - let me tell you girls, there are much better fantasies out there! Tiaras are just not worth the publicity.

My life was, and I say this in all humility, the thing of stories. I kind of wish somebody cared enough to write it down; it would make the kind of epic tale that would gain a cult following from the fantasy types and puzzled disdain from all the normal people - but it would definitely stir up talk.

The problem, as I see it, is that I've always been a secondary character. And nobody writes about secondary characters - not even me.

I was born to the Aldmere family; ever heard of us? Yeah, I thought not. Like I said, secondary characters. And I was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter -- I know, cliche right? But it's a cliche for a reason. The whys and the hows were lost before they were ever known, but the end result is the Aldmere family are chroniclers. We provide an unbiased report of all items of importance throughout time -- albeit the definitions of both unbiased and importance are ummm sometimes open to interpretation. And in return, we live long enough to experience things worth recording. Some, like my cousin Agyfen, follow the rise and fall of an entire culture. He did his job exceptionally well! Academics still discuss his work. But sadly the anglo-saxons cared little for the names of their scribes, and so he remains anonymous. Then there are others, especially more recently, who live only long enough for a specific event. And then there are the sevens - of which I'm one. We are to oversee the greater picture - or so I was raised to believe. For me though, the picture's always been rather fuzzy - like those first black and white tvs. So I've always felt I had no real job to do. All the important details had their own chroniclers - cousins of mine mostly. Every time I found something exciting to chronicle it'd already been claimed. And while sevens are overseers, we also only get to write that which goes unclaimed.

To be honest, the only thing I've done that I felt worth recording, was dying. Now *that* was interesting. And I still don't entirely understand how it happened. It was night - the kind of night that's so dark you cannot see your hand in front of your face. No matter how wildly you wave it around in front of you! Not that I did that of course. And it was cold - appropriate for winter. But what was disconcerting was the wind. It had a Caribbean warmth to it - and I was far too far away for that to make any sense at all. I remember wondering if maybe it was a time storm; I'd experienced one of those as a teenager (volatile emotions and all that) - was how I came to know Agyfen. But my brother was three years ahead of me and he claimed story rights to time storms so I couldn't even chronicle that. Not that I'm bitter or anything - just letting you know how it came to be that in an entire life dedicated to telling stories, I have yet to write a word.

Anyways - it wasn't a time storm. I was way too old, and I didn't end up somewhere else in time, so clearly that was not the issue. Wasn't even a storm - no rain, sleet, snow, hail, or anything else. Just the eerily warm wind.

I was there - muttering about the folly of being out without a light - and then... I wasn't. The simplicity of it astounded me. Other chroniclers have covered death before; they come out with stories of bright lights and feelings of love. People love those stories. Some of their names even get remembered! Have to admit, I've always been slightly jealous of those who star in their own stories. I think I'd hoped to do that with the princess stint, but I got covered by a pop-fiction chronicler. It was a sadly embarrassing moment.

But right - exciting death's been done, so a seven cannot repeat it. But I really don't think my death, or any like it, has ever been properly recorded. Just going about the minutia of my boring day-to-day life and then suddenly I wasn't. And there was something reasonably exciting about that. I certainly wasn't bored anymore. And I no longer had to stress about what I was supposed to do with my life. But now, through my death, I know exactly what purpose my life has served. I was supposed to be a below-average quasi-failure... The running joke of the family really. Because, let's be honest here, fifty percent of us ARE below average and usually their stories do not get chronicled.

I, the ultimate secondary character, was supposed to chronicle the lives of secondary characters. A perfect fit really. Obviously I didn't figure it out in time to do anything about it, because as soon as a secondary character gets written about, well then they're no longer secondary and thus somebody else's job. A vicious cycle that. And death's already been done.

But there's one part of my story that to the best of my knowledge has never been chronicled. And from that I leave you with one simple warning:

Beware the warm wind.

You're welcome.

OneWord: Given

I was given the chance and I didn't take it. Fear - of failure, of success, of what others would say, of what others would think... These all stopped me. I was so young then. If only I'd realized what I'd really been given. If only I'd taken the opportunity presented. How different would life have been?