Friday Fictioneers: Live Wire

 

BEGIN TRANMISSION.

 

Based on real events from last night. Filming football games takes a lot of mettle, I assure you. Especially when it’s 40 degrees and windy.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Image Copyright: Connie Gayer

Image Copyright: Connie Gayer

 

Title: Live Wire

Genre: Almost Nonfiction

Word Count: 100

 

 

 

The football stadium thrums with life. Our video feed, however, does not.

“We’re live in five minutes, people. Pick up the pace.” My boss tenses over his keyboard like a turtle under attack. The cold inside comes his temper.

“Page?” Someone asks. “Did we forget her?”

“Crap,” my boss said. “She had our video cable.”

“I’m right here,” Page said.

“Right where?”

“Here.”

“No, I mean the cable.”

“I guess I’m able,” Page says, chewing her lip. “I signed up for this, didn’t I?”

“The video cable.”

The crowd outside roars. Football must be a huge deal to some people.

 

 

 


 

 

Boy, when it rains it really pours doesn’t it? It always seems like whenever I actually have free time, there’s a thousand new things that I discover that come crawling out of the ground like zombies. The football filming I referenced in the story is one such 12 hour roadblock/zombie.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

 

Advertisements

Daily Prompt 5: “Snark Bombs, Away!”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Snark Bombs, Away!.”

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

I accidentally read this prompt as “Shark Bombs, Away!” and I thought it’d be about stupid amazing super villain weapons. Normally, I’d just do what I want anyway and proclaim my authorial independence but this time I’ll play along.

This compliance to your will shall not last, Daily Prompt…

 

Have fun~

 


 

Title: Snark Bombs, Away!

 

Prompt: “Try your hand at parody or satire — take an article, film, blog post, or song you find misguided, and use humor to show us how.”

 

I stand before you today, well, stand is just metaphorically speaking. I’m actually lording over these press bandits beneath me and am presenting myself as standing to you mere mortals viewing me from your smartphones and televisions. Stop picking your nose. You know who I’m talking to. Don’t think we can’t see you. It’s disgusting and morally corroding our society.

 

Now then. On the matter of the war.

 

There has been dissent concern that our nation’s method of “peace through war” is “Orwellian” or “pants-crappingly-terrifying.” Well, I’m here to lay these fears to rest. Right at your feet. Still writhing and gasping for life despite the futility of it all. Get used to the image, my people. All of these fears are just what the enemy wants you to think. They want you to compromise and become trouble with burdens of humanity and universal unity of our species. But when you look at the face of a child that hasn’t eaten for days and is desperately searching for his parents amongst the rubble of his bombed city, how can you feel nothing but rage? Rage will make us strong. Fear will make us wary. And wariness will ensure that no terrorist, conqueror, or Putin will break out spirits- because our spirit will be divided amongst the hundreds of millions of people in this country.

 

Every man will, so to speak, become an island. Isolated from global humanity and any hope of universal harmony. And that, my people, is how we win.

 

With each bomb we manufacture we condemn another family to misery (but who cares, they’re foreign, all the way across the big bad world!) and we get to boost taxes war contributions and keep… dropping more bombs!

 

Stay away from those blackboards you damn math nerds! And keep away from those dictionaries, blasted Liberal Arts professors! There’ll be no need to invoke the big bad D-word today. We always have enough money when we have people’s lives to ruin.

 

That’s what money’s made for, right?

 

Now, who has quesiton- Who’s a big dumb rube that can kiss my backside?

 

Oh, look at you with all of your hands up. How embarrassing.

 

THE OTHERS

 

 


 

I bet this was all just a clever ploy by Stalin to lead us dissenting elements out of the shadows and onto the anonymous labyrinthine internet. The old mustached bastard may not have thought that over too well.

 

Oh and also, he’s dead. I just felt on picking on Stalin today. It’s not a common occurrence, surprisingly.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

Daily Prompt 4: “By the Dots”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “By the Dots.”

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

I think I’ve been meaning to do one of these for a while but nope, just getting to it now. I really wanted to do that magical creature one but decided that extrapolating on a fantasy magic system I devised surrounding the power of words in a novel being transformed into real spell power (nepotism, you say? What’s that?!).

 

Maybe one day!

 

 

Have fun~

 


 

Title: By the Dots

 

Prompt: “We all have strange relationships with punctuation — do you overuse exclamation marks? Do you avoid semicolons like the plague? What type of punctuation could you never live without? Tell us all about your punctuation quirks!”

 

It’s really no surprise that I love dashes. These “-” and these “—” are brilliant little buggers. I always just use them as a kind of escape mechanism to make any kind of sentence I like- for instance I can just fashion other sentences onto earlier ones to make them seem like they’re conjoined but semicolons are far too rare for my liking. Besides, “-” lets me make snide remarks whenever I feel like it. Given that’s how I talk, just with more stuttering while my brain tries to find the right words and more mumbling as I make said remarks, it just seems natural to me. And I love to write as I talk because it lets me be unrealistically accurate with what I’m trying to say in conversation and I get to reach an audience where I won’t constantly be interrupted by the world around me as I’m wont to be!

 

Oh I love commas, too. Did I even need to put a comma in that last sentence? Who even knows!? I certainly don’t. But that’s part of the fun for me as a writer and for my editors. They have to work for their money to weed out all of the ill-placed and poorly-used commas! If they can survive the comma jungle then they can say they have edited something of mine.

 

Plus my drive to write dialogue in a such a way that it seems as realistic as possible helps, too. I really want to write a book one day where most conversations have at least one “um,” like,” or “er,” in them. Because that’s what we all talk like, right? Well, at least we young’uns do. And doing that in my medieval books would just seem weird if it was as prevalent as it would be in a more “modern” book. Even though people were far less educated back then, it just seems wrong to foul up their language- or I’m just overthinking it.

 

But I still managed to sneak that “-” in there after all!

Yeah, this’ll do.

 

 

THE OTHERS

 


 

I probably could have included italicizing and bolding as things I do way too often, too. But those technically aren’t punctuations, even though I use them to establish EMPHASIS. See how much more effective that was? The caps-lock was just added for special effect.

 

It may have also made you just read that in Josh Peck’s voice if you’re one of my contemporaries.

 

You’re welcome, by the way.

 

 

Pingback:

<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/by-the-dots/">By the Dots</a>

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

Daily Prompt 3: “Right to Brag”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Right to Brag.”

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

I’ve got 30 minutes before today’s done, making this Daily Prompt, by and large for no real reason aside from my arbitrary adherence to the space-time continuum, no longer relevant very soon.

 

Have fun~

 


 

Title: Right to Brag

 

Prompt: “Tell us about something you (or a person close to you) have done recently (or not so recently) that has made you really, unabashedly proud.”

 

 

Well, this one’s simple isn’t it? I normally don’t take pride in all of what I do or have done in life simply because if it’s worth being prideful over, it’ll have to be something truly great. And I’m only 22 years old with nary a scratch made into the world. Everything up until this point has just been what was expected of me. I finished High School, went to College, did very well in college (probably better than anyone would have dared hope), and met friends, helped people, had a couple relationships, did dumb and smart things, and generally made a normal mess of life as people are wont to do.

 

But you know what nobody told me to do? Nobody told me to write a book for my final assignment in my 301 Fiction Writing class. See, I could have put instead that I’m proud of my actual publishing of said book after editing it for a couple of months. Or I could have put that my fiction defence thesis went beautifully in my senior year of undergraduate and that I’m set to release my next book in maybe a month or so.

 

But nah, I’m choosing to focus on when I was asked to write “30 double-space pages, give or take a few” for my final assignment of 301 Fiction Writing in my junior year of undergraduate. And, like some gremlin meant to torment my poor creative writing teacher (this would be my third and final class taught by her), I handed in 124 pages totaling to a very messy and very ramshackle novella.

 

I got an A- on the assignment, by the way owing to my general lack of editing. And this was after spending no fewer than 9 hours on one day reading the entire thing from beginning to end and fixing whatever I saw. But fair’s square, I take the grade. Because, like that old stupid saying goes:

 

“When I say ‘jump,’ you-”

 

“Sorry, can’t hear you, I’ve already leapt clear through the ceiling.”

 

I may have paraphrased that a little.

 

Yes, the original state of Garamoush was ramshackle and held together naught but sheer ambition and imagination but dammit I felt proud (and exhausted, having turned it in only about two minutes before the final deadline) when I held those 124 pages in my hand and they weighed with a weight that I had never known before. It was the weight of accomplishment, of doing something that somebody had asked for in my own way and to my own level of quality and quantity. It was a work entirely wrought from my mind with my hands that could floor everything else I had ever created up until that point.

 

But see, I knew that it was better than anything else I had ever done. Usually I simply speculate on the importance of works or projects or wonder what greater role they place. That first state of Garamoush helped to define the next couple years of my life and sent me off on a path that I could have only started on if I threw myself up and out through that ceiling with caution to the wind and reckless abandon to assault my professor with tormenting nightmares of grading.

 

She liked me as a student, though! She sat on my council of literary judgement one year later and gave me a glowing (I assume) acceptance for my research honours thesis.

 

Or maybe she just wanted me out of her hair.

 

Until I emailed her about getting letters of recommendation for grad school!

 

She’ll never be free of me! Never.

 

 

THE OTHERS

 


 

Minutes to spare and I’ll I’ve got to do is write a lame little outro. I got this!

 

So now that’s my cue to start dawdling and wandering into any given Wiki site and emerge three days later with a huge beard and much more knowledge about the state of the Undercity or the political structure of the Imperium of Man than any human ever should.

 

Above and beyond, right?

 

Eh.

 

Pingback:

<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/right-to-brag/">Right to Brag</a>

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

Friday Fictioneers: Warm Breath

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

Friday Fictioneers? You mean Saturday, right?

Saturday Fictioneers just doesn’t roll of the tongue the same way, I guess though. Not like that’s going to stop me from being a day late, though!

Actually, I would have posted this yesterday, but because WordPress operates on some heathen time where it’s always tomorrow at only 11PM, I decided not to. It wouldn’t have changed anything in my submission date but I just wanted to write my bigger, more important stuff instead. Totally worth it.

 

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Image Copyright:  C. Hase

Image Copyright: C. Hase

 

Word Count: 100

Genre: Horror/Realistic Fiction

Title: Warm Breath

 

 

It was a strange little B&B all the way out in nowhere. Irish countryside and rain gave the place a cold and close feeling. The owner was a throaty man who breathed way too loudly.

The colossal fish-tank in the lobby caught my attention almost immediately. The detail was amazing, including a beach with matching small tree and rusted ship chain. There was even a shipwrecked skeleton amongst the sand. It almost looked real in its accuracy.

The owner’s breath was suddenly very close to my face and murderously warm.

And I suddenly realized that I really shouldn’t be there.

 

 

 


 

 

What’s with WordPress being really janky? Yesterday, the comment system totally botched my story for Flash! Friday and now I can’t get the blue frog to post into this entry. I mean, I’m sure it’s probably nothing and I’ll have it sorted off after using the traditional, “Turn it off then on again,” method of fixing something.

You know what Sci-fi technology I don’t see enough of? A kind of helmet or headset that lets you talk directly with computers. That certainly would make it easy to micromanage resources and fix problems as if you were just rearranging Legos.

It would also make these darn magical boxes a little less frustrating. That is, until the headset itself starts acting up. So then you make a headset to talk to the headset and then the bird is watched by the birdwatcher who is watched by the watchman and so on and so on until oblivion.

Thank goodness I’m not a scientist.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

 

Five Sentence Fiction: Friction

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

Is it just some kind of unwritten rule that I need to fail to log in to my blog at least two times. The hidden dangers of having your passwords replaced with little unblinking black eyes.

 

Anyway, here I am. I have no forgotten about this place. In fact, I have a BRAND NEW LOREQUEST which I’ll put up here TOMORROW. I swear. It’s even all-new, meaning I’m taking a break from Shadow of the Colossus/I’m very slowly working on all those damn Colossus entries one-by-one.

In the meantime though, here’s another existential crisis piece in five sentences or less, courtesy of a senior about to graduate college.

 

Enjoy~

 


 

 

Word of Inspiration: Changes

Word Count: 139

Genre: Creative Non-Fiction

Title: Friction

 

 

Whenever I hear the bells of the campus church chime, I imagine myself stuck in-between the last chime and the vast unbroken space beyond. I spent these four years figuring out who I am and what I want from life— some people go their entire lives without learning those things, so I’m proud (and then some) that I came through. Unfortunately, nobody wants you at workplace, they want what a cutout, a repertoire of résumé skills covered by a letter with “JOHN (or JANE) DOE” splattered across the top in corporate black. And the only thing I have a lot of right now is uncertainty and tightening feels in the gut. And, let’s face it; nobody wants to employ a doubt-ridden college grad with what may be indigestion at best and a crippling sense of being lost at worst.

 

 

 


 

 

FUN(ish) TRIVIA TIME: I actually chose this title because the page was still loading when I accidentally mis-typed “fiction.” And so I thought that it works, so I might as well just keep it.

Riveting stuff, I know.

 

Also, I saw a fun quote today which went something like this: “If you’re being told to be more creative or imaginative by somebody who invented the cubicle farm, you know it’s time to quit.”

Damn straight, person who obviously works at a huge insurance company.

 

I swear I’ll get that Lorequest up tomorrow! I’m actually really excited about it, even if it might just be a one-off.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk~

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

 

Five Sentence Fiction Double Feature: Sick and/or Dying + Making Noise

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

Why hello there. It’s been a little while, hasn’t it? I’d like to think it has been. Well, for the last few days I certainly have not been idle, I just haven’t been here. Well, I was sick for part of it. Sick with both a pretty nasty cold and a slowly-worsening case of senioritus. The fact that spell-check doesn’t acknowledge that word disgusts me. Well anyhow, I think (I think) that I’m very nearly done being sick. So now it’s just a matter of navigating all of the rest of the stuff in my life to keep my blog updated. And boy do I have some things to maybe share but in the meantime, here’s a special DOUBLE FEATURE of Five Sentence Fiction, one based on how I was feeling yesterday and one on how I was feeling the day before. Suffice to say, the height of my sickness was on Tuesday. And yet, the story based around Tuesday ISN’T the one about sickness.

Weird!

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Word of Inspiration: Isolation

Word Count: 131

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Title: Sick and/or Dying

 

Here’s something nobody tells you about being sick; people like to ignore you. Just because I’m probably highly contagious and I may have physically coughed up a lung once (but I can only do it twice, I mean I only have two of them) doesn’t mean I want to just stay in bed all day. Hidden benefit to being sick though— you can just guilt a lot of your friends into helping you and they wouldn’t dare say no to you unless they just want to prove how terrible they are at friendship and life. What do you mean you won’t run to the store and buy me Nyquil, oranges, two more pillows, a personal fan, and a baby ferret? You know what, I’m probably okay enough to just get myself.

 

 

ALTERNATIVELY

Word of Inspiration: Isolation

Word Count: 153

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Title: Making Noise

 

There’s noise coming out of my windows— not from the outside but from the inside. The noise is leaking out from my room and it’s the sound of keyboard clicks, shutters clacking, whispering and yelling and laughing and longing, and thoughts put to paper and screen and whiteboard. It must be deafening because nobody can look up from their walking in the streets to even look up to see where it’s all coming from. And I can see them from my window (I have seen their looks and haste before, you see) and I remember those looks from men and women in suits holding invisible gavels as they stand over the sentencing bench of my life. I have been making noise my entire life and now that the university falls away around me, I can see that the noise I thought was being loud enough to deafen was just falling upon deaf ears.

 

 

 


 

 

Yeah, something else nobody tells you about being sick is that it makes everything else seem a thousand times worse. And what’s even more terrible about THAT is that if you’re stressing about things that are actually bad then it just makes you feel even more sick. It’s a horrible cycle of destruction that is only solved by a timely intervention of Advil, sleep, and good luck.

At least two of those things you can get at your local pharmacy. I’m not telling you which two they are.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.