Posts Tagged ‘writing’

This is Day 3 of the Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge.   I was invited to participate by Emilio Pasquale at “Photos by Emilio”. The challenge is  to “post a photo each day for five consecutive days and attach a story to the photo. It can be fiction or non-fiction, a poem or a short paragraph and each day nominate another blogger for the challenge”.  

Today’ nominee is Jan Marler Morrill at https://janmorrill.wordpress.com/. Jan’s the author of “The Red Kimono”, a novel about the interment of the Japanese in the US during WWII.  You need to read it.  She also writes haiku and explores various issues on her blog.

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Welcome to Day 2 of the Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge. Emilio Pasquale at “Photos by Emilio” invited me to take part. The challenge is  to “post a photo each day for five consecutive days and attach a story to the photo. It can be fiction or non-fiction, a poem or a short paragraph and each day nominate another blogger for the challenge”.

Today, my nominee is Sandra Crook at https://castelsarrasin.wordpress.com/. Sandra, I know you’re cruising the waterways of France, with iffy internet connections at best, and busy besides, and of course, you have no obligation to participate.  But Sandra’s a wonderful writer and I want to introduce those of you who don’t know her to her work.

Janie, our first rescue dog

Janie, our first rescue dog

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Emilio Pasquale at “Photos by Emilio” invited me to take part in the Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge. The challenge is  to “post a photo each day for five consecutive days and attach a story to the photo. It can be fiction or non-fiction, a poem or a short paragraph and each day nominate another blogger for the challenge”.  I’ve been neglecting the writing part of my blog for a bit due mostly to a combination of my part time job and spending time outside because it’s spring.  This will be a good opportunity to bring the writing back in and combine it with the photos.  So thanks, Emilio, for helping me get back on track.  And be sure to check out Emilio’s blog and his wonderful photos.

For my nominee, I choose Allan at ohmsweetohm.me.  Allan’s last job before retirement was working as an electrician on the Golden Gate Bridge and he has some amazing photos and stories.  Allan, you’re under no obligation to accept the challenge, just take it as the compliment it’s meant to be.

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I’d never been to Omaha, Nebraska before June 6, 1944, and I never went there afterwards, even though it didn’t have a beach.  Never bought a German car, either.  My ideas of hell bear a strong resemblance to what I saw that day.

We went of the sides of our Higgins boat early that morning, the water stretching endlessly ahead of us and then the open, flat beach.  Behind that, the Germans and their guns lay in wait, knowing we’d have to come to them, through the water and across the mine-strewn beach.  How in God’s name we were expected to make it in alive, I’ll never know. Many of us didn’t.  My best friend drowned right next to me, in water turning red with our blood,  held under by the weight of his pack and the water trapped by his helmet. Bodies were everywhere but the only way was forward so I kept on moving, just hoping to stay alive.  Was I scared?  What do you think?  But what else could I do?  Just keep moving and, if you were a religious man, pray.  Thank God, Rommel wasn’t there that day or the results might have been different.

I still dream about that day sometimes all these years later.  And I’ve never gone back.  Some things are best left in the past.  But I still remember.  They say war is hell.  Most of them have no idea.  Unfortunately, too many of us do.

If you love to write, but are at a loss for words, Friday Fictioneers is for you.  You only have to find 100 of those words, craft them into a story roughly based on a picture prompt (or maybe barely related), go to Rochelle’s site (she hosts the whole shebang), link your story, then read as many of the other stories as you can or like, preferably commenting on the ones you read.  If that sounds like fun, please feel free to join us every Wednesday for the new prompt (although you may post a story up until the following Tuesday night.)  If the prompt comes out on Wednesday, why is it called “Friday Fictioneers?”  Well, that’s a whole ‘nother story and I only have time to tell one this morning.

This week’s prompt is from Erin Leary.  If you’d enjoy reading other stories, please click on the blue linky critter at the end of my story.  But be sure to check back, as writers will be posting for many days.

Erin Leary

Copyright Erin Leary

The Assignation

It was just before dawn when I slipped from the house, checking to be sure no one saw me. She was waiting at our usual spot, half hidden behind a tree. No demonstrative greetings; only time to briefly cup one ample curve. We had to move quickly and quietly.

About fifteen minutes later, we reached a place we’d often used before. Underneath “our” tree, the leaves were soft, with other trees and vegetation nearby for cover. She ran ahead, eager to find just the right spot. I followed, anticipating how many pungent black truffles her snout would unearth this year.

 

Waking from a half-remembered dream, my mind struggles to orient itself, like a drunk concentrating on trying to walk a straight line while actually staggering in all directions. I lie motionless, swathed mummy-like in blankets against the cold. I will myself not to look at the clock, something that invariably kick-starts my mind. If I look, I won’t go back to sleep easily.

2:37 am.

My thoughts shudder slowly to life, wondering fuzzily whether I really need to use the bathroom, how many hours until I have to get up. Since Bryan left, I often wake in the night and as always, I listen to the creaking sighs of everything gradually subsiding from relative warmth to chilly silence until the next furnace cycle. Outside, the wind alternately shrieks and murmurs in its restless quest for something, anything to liberate from its place and relocate in the neighbor’s yard half a mile away. I remind myself to figure out what makes that persistent banging and begin to drift off with the lull in the wind.

The next sound I hear is the low grumble the back door makes when opened carefully.

Writing 3.7 – Writer’s Block

Posted: November 17, 2014 in Writing
Tags: ,

Rich, a friend and published author, has these good thoughts to share on getting over writer’s block.

brainsnorts inc.

writer's block

Everyone wants to not discuss writer’s block, including me.  For many years I couldn’t understand why anyone actually experienced it.  I had always assumed it was just poor planning until I was recently up against it myself.  The good news about writer’s block is that it’s very easy to work through it.  The bad news is that the ways to work around it aren’t all that much fun.

Keep in mind that I have probably been writing for longer than you’ve been alive.  I wrote my first real short story back in ’86 and my first novel somewhere around ’92.  I’m not saying they were any good, but I wrote them, and that’s the first, most important, and most difficult step.  However, this piece isn’t about writing.  It’s about not writing, so let’s not write.

First, what is writer’s block?  It depends on how you write and whether you are a…

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Vacation hiatus over, it’s time to get back to Friday Fictioneers, writing for small people.  Whoops!  I mean small writing for people.  🙂  Tight, with well-chosen words to get the most bang for the buck (or the hundred or so words);  based on a photo, at least to some degree, often only in the mind of the author. Designed to, what?  Comfort? Surprise? Horrify? Amuse?  Shock?  Create recognition? All depends on what the author decide and what the reader brings to the story…and takes away from it.

“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”
~Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

 

In the Early Morning Rain

A chilly winter morning; cold, grey light reflecting from the lake. He stood motionless on the shore, staring into the distance. She wanted to call to him, speak his name, have him turn, see his face light up when he saw her; run to him, then sit quietly by his side.  Of course, she couldn’t. It was no longer her right or privilege.

It began to rain, the freezing drops like diamond tears cried for the lost. He sprinkled the ashes on the water. She touched him then, the lightest touch of warm breeze, then moved on through the morning.

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(From the days when songs were the focus, not the show.)