Daily Post 8: “Secret Admirers”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Secret Admirers.”

 

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I am having a disproportionate amount of fun making power grids and generators in Fallout 4.

 

Have fun~

 


 

Title: Daily Prompt 8: “Secret Admirers”

Prompt: You return home to discover a huge flower bouquet waiting for you, no card attached. Who is it from — and why did they send it to you?

 

So I usually try to tackle Daily Prompt posts that immediately appeal to me in that I know what to write almost right away. This time though, I figured I would try a prompt that I have very few ideas about.

 

For instance: I’ll just go ahead and say that I have no idea who sent me those flowers. The real question becomes then- who could send me those flowers. With no logical answer presenting itself, I must find a way to extrapolate on what I know and determine who could be the one with flowery fingers.

 

I’m just going to go out on a limb here and discount any and all of my friends. Dearest Liezl may seem like a suspect due to her caring nature and appreciation of her friends. And I’d like to think that we became very close over our Senior year in college. However, she has a boyfriend of many years that she would be much more likely to give flowers to. Not to say that she wouldn’t give flowers to anybody else but flowers have a specific romantic connotation.

 

Again, I seriously doubt Scott (read as: Scoot) would care if she sent me flowers, but with no real evidence against her, I shall be striking Liezl from the list of suspects.

 

Nobody else even comes close to being one to send flowers. Funny pictures, texts full of nostalgia, or inside joke presents, but not flowers. Not even my goofy ex-boyfriend. He wouldn’t do anything so conspicuous.

Something I’m well and used to by now!

*sad rimshot*

 

Okay, so, there’s no real reason why my parents or family would send me such a thing with no card or anything attached. And if they did, they would be sure to tell me it was from them relatively quickly after my seeing it. So they’re off the list.

 

I’ve narrowed this down, then, to the only suspect remaining. And it’s a troublesome revelation.

 

The flowers must have come from one of the surprisingly many people in my life that border on creepy. Yes, those exist. Small in number but unpredictable as a summer storm. Sometimes they go entire years before giving me a questionable Facebook message…

But even that seems unlikely given my general obliviousness to them all.

 

Let’s just say there were sent by me from the future just to see how I’d react. That seems the most logical suspect of this tomfoolery-myself.

Guilty Part: Future Me

Sentence: Condemned to be created by Present Me

 

Gotta say, I don’t envy the guy.

 

 

THE OTHER ENTRIES

 


 

Pingback:

<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/secret-admirers/">Secret Admirers</a>

 

Oh the worries of a man on his day off. How shall I spend it? Writing? Archery? Fallout 4?

Will these worrisome conundrums never end?

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

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Friday Fictioneers: Live Wire

 

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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.

 

 

Daily Prompt 6: “Million-Dollar Question”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Million-Dollar Question.”

 

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I usually don’t write during the daytime but doing blog stuff then instead of at night when I’m doing my novel-writing really seems to help me get out of bed and start making the most of my time.

Oh hey, it’s a Daily Prompt about why we do blog writing! How fortuitous!

 

Have fun~

 


 

Title: Million Dollar Question

Prompt: “Why do you blog?”

 

 

Interesting question, Paranoid Guy, whoever that is! In an attempt to be more candid and outwardly honest in my life, I’m going to be as frank as possible.

 

I blog is that I can hopefully drive more traffic to my books and other, much larger, creative works. There, I said/typed it and now it’s been breathed into the world. I think I actually started this blog to talk about NaNoWriMo, which I’m fittingly about to start doing again. Since then and since I started to write more books and get out there in the literary world, I wanted to turn my blog into some kind of useful marketing tool.

 

Now, that’s how it all started. And it still remains as part of the reason why I do what I do here on the blog, but I think I’ve come to realize that having people who look at blog posts doesn’t really equate to sales or even publicity. I remember talking to an alum from my school, Illinois Wesleyan University, and he said that even though he has a blog that gets thousands of hits, a minuscule percent (no exact numbers given) of those who visit actually buy this books.

 

So that dream, like many others, is heavily sleeping or hovering somewhere near death.

Anyway, onto slightly more cheery things!

 

Such as how my blog gives me a place to stretch my literary legs. I find doing flash fiction and short stories to be relatively cathartic and a kind of writing challenge that I wouldn’t normally partake in. I’m a novel-centric kind of person who also dabbles in video games and screenplay writing, but flash fiction and short stories never quite appealed to me. So giving myself a challenge in this way, especially when I also have a deadline (sometimes very aggressive ones such as with Flash! Friday), can be quite refreshing. There is something to be said about getting writerly fatigue when you’re working with a 100,000 word novel. Writing something short, easily digestible, but still creative can really free up the muscles of the mind and help you see things i new and imaginative ways.

 

I honestly do think that doing all of this flash fiction has helped me with having better control of my pacing in my stories, something that I oftentimes struggle with since I like spending so much time showing how my characters view the world, even if its stopping them from going out and seeing said world. Besides, if I can turn my writing skills to new avenues and reach more people, even if it doesn’t get me any more sales or publicity, there’s certainly no harm in that. I’m actually working on my grad school applications to become an assistant teacher as I type this and I think what I mention in there, such as how writing can not only be very liberating and illuminating for the writer but when ideas transcend the pages and start to influence other people’s lives, it can really show just how much power a collection of scribbled shapes on paper can really have.

 

Do I think that my flash fiction, so easily and quickly consumed and forgotten, can really change people’s lives in the same way that a novel can? Nah, not really.

 

But that’s why I’m still a novelist!

 

And then there’s Lorequest.

I decided to accidentally make my most (by a huge margin) viewed section of content almost entirely out of mass speculation and guessing at the inner workings of fictional worlds. How ironic that I decided to start Lorequest completely for fun and just for my own enjoyment and for the enjoyment of the passing enthusiast of whichever game I happen to be talking about and then it went on to become a huge percentage (over 1,000 views in this year alone) of the amount of activity I get on my blog. Even stranger is that its totally unrelated to any of my own fiction writing since I’m more of an archaeologist when I do Lorequest than any kind of storyteller.

 

But hey, I like it and people seem to like it so why stop? So long as I don’t get the pants sued off of me for talking about the vidjagames, I shall keep on questing for the lore!

 

And I might as well keep doing the other stuff too since it always does my heart good to hear people enjoying my stuff. Literature can bring people together, even from across our social-media-maze of a world. And that’s really kind of awesome.

 

 

THE OTHERS

 


 

Pingback:

<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/million-dollar-question/">Million-Dollar Question</a>

 

 

Boy I really should get onto doing those NaNoWriMo posts… I have to stop writing my NaNoWriMo story first though. And that’s just unreasonable.

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

Flash! Friday: “Momma’s Boy”

 

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Poor Flash! Friday always getting shafted when I’m tired and about to go to bed. No intro for you!

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Title: Momma’s Boy

Character: A Man-Made Sentient Creature

Setting: ANYWHERE STEAMPUNK

Word Count: 185

 

Mother’s house is strange. It’s all alone, away from the smoke-choked city. It sits on a hill like a raven, black and twisted. But I was made with brass and copper and gold. Mother always grins at me.

“I know you can’t,” she says, “but your whole body smiles for you.”

That’s right. In my gleaming metal and filled with clockwork muscles, I’m a shining figurehead on a merchant airship.

“Do you know why you’re so special, Joshua?” she asks me.

I know why but I shake my head anyway. I like to hear her say it.

“Because you’re smarter than all the rest,” she says. “Your cousins down in the city are just machines. They tick like clocks or clunk like cars but you’re special. You have a brain.” Then, she always places her hands on her lap and smiles. Her clothes are black, almost mournful, and moth-eaten.

Every morning, I pass by a portrait in the hall. Mother is in black, her hands on her lap. She’s frowning. A small, sickly boy sits on her lap. He’s wearing the same clothes I do.

 

 

THE OTHERS

 


 

 

I always wanted to be a steampunk robot for Halloween/cosplay but gosh-darn is it not practical at all to replace one’s organs and muscles with gears. It takes, like, three hours just to get everything in place, neverminding the whole “brass skin” thing. Just not worth it, in my opinion.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

Friday Fictioneers: “Rivers Flows Through Us”

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

Rain’s weird. It’s so damn neutral. Just nature being nature, not messing up lives or helping them. Just continuing the cycle, spinning nature’s big wheel. And it’s too quiet and contemplative to make a real plot out of.

At least my tired brain says so.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Image Copyright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Image Copyright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

Title: River Flows Through Us

Genre: Fantasy (?)

Word Count: 100

 

I wish my antlers could grow leaves. I could be more like unto my lord, nature itself. The way each drop falls from one leaf to the next one down to my own head and then to the soil. Rain is nature’s great river, touching everything in its flow on the way down.

My fawns are young but they know this to be true. They hold their heads up skyward, even without their antlers.

We all laugh, content to be part of the flow of the river, while humans run and hide from it all, running from parts of themselves.

 

 

 


 

 

There should be a law about making young people go to bed on Friday before 1:00AM. Just doesn’t seem right.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

Flash! Friday: “Boneyard.”

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

I’m starting to re-discover my love for TV Tropes.com. Someone please send help.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Title: Boneyard

Setting: The Middle of the Ocean

Theme: Power of Nature

Word Count: 125

 

My father told me that there used to be an ocean here, beneath our feet. But I don’t believe him. Oceans just seem so impossible. All that water and all that life taking up so much space. Where did all the people live before the salt-soaked Endless Land formed in its stead?

I ask if oceans ever existed. This makes my father sad for a reason I can’t figure out. He bends down and picks up one tiny bone. A fish bone, he tells me.

“There’s still more?” I say. “I thought I got them all.”

My father pats the huge ribs of the whale’s skeleton that’s become our house.

“That’s what we thought when the oceans were still around. That there’d always be more.”

 

 

THE OTHERS

 


 

 

I really am starting to think that TV Tropes is so brilliant because it’s like Confirmation Bias, the website. It makes you realize how not-insane you are for thinking that something was just soul-crushingly sad on TV when none of your friends think so.

But the internet knows better. It always does.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

Flash! Friday: “Long, Long Life”

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

Because I was feeling zippy and optimistic today, I decided to write about the collapse of an aging father’s family life and sense of joy.

We all just have days where we want to spread joy and love into the world, right?

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Title: Long, Long Life

Character: A Doomed King

Setting: A Castle

Word Count: 205

 

 

What happened to Don McClean and dinner with the family?

I think I saw them walk out hand-in-hand with my 14 year-old daughter and her 17 year-old boyfriend. She told me she’d be spending the night at his house, my castle. She came home to visit once in a when she decided to stay the night for the rest of her life.

My son was texting before I could dial a cell phone. He’d always be looking down at his screen, talking to somebody he doesn’t want me to see. When I was young, your neighborhood was your world and everyone knew each other. Now the whole world is at your fingers and is stealing conversations with my kids that I’ve never had.

Many dying years later, my son married to the man on the other side of that phone. I wasn’t even invited. “Too conservative and old-fashioned,” my son labeled me. I cried myself into a waking nightmare of an empty nest.

Elvis died on the throne, I always say. He won’t be the only king to die there. Every time the clock’s hand ticks, it slaps me in the face. I can feel my own life drain away like a thermometer in winter.

 

BLUE FRONG

 


 

 

Did you know that “Scorpion” is pronounced “Score-pea-an” and not “Scwore-pea-an” like I’ve been pronouncing it for years?

Oh, you did? Well then why didn’t you tell me?

Some friend you are.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.