In a fairy ring broken
Your dreams lie trapped
Go grabbed them if you can
You are welcome to try
But be warned if you do
Because at your wits end
You will find that you are not alone
In your mind’s game
The world is ripe
The gears are in bloom
My machines will kill you
and you are all doomed
… I’m sorry
The hill rose before them as they struggled on the rain-soaked field. Mud cluttered against their shoes, weighing down their already tired legs.
He panted heavily and he could feel his throat drying up, despite the humidity in the air.
The wind blew across his face and foul stench filled his nostrils, making him snort in disgust.
He glanced at a cart next to him and saw an arm dangled by the edge, wobbling as the cart was dragged up the hill. The white bone on the dead man’s hand was contrasted by grey-green colour of rotten flesh. He shuddered at the thought of the meat being gnawed off by some rodent.
Staring in fascination at the white bone, he rubbed his own fingers against each other, wondering if he looked the same inside. Suddenly, a cough escaped him, making him stagger. While trying to keep in line with the rest, he rubbed the snot clear from his lips.
He could taste iron in his mouth and he stopped abruptly. As he did, a man cursed at him, from behind for holding up the line. Ignoring the man, he lowered his head and looked at his sleeve, a black-red liquid streaked along the cloth. His heart sank as he looked at it.
With his head still bent, He glanced around. Wherever he looked, glowering eyes, tense with terror, stared at him.
“No! No, stay away from me,” he roared as they tried to grab him by his cloak.
A sharp pain struck the back of his head and he fell to his knees. His senses swam and a second blow darkened his vision.
Awoken by his head throbbing, his vision swirled as he opened his eyes again and flares of light covered his sight. He clenched his fist, trying to rise, but a cold moist goo stuck between his fingers and made him slip. With a blurry vision, he looked at his hand; white maggots crawled from the goo between his fingers.
He let out a scream but only air came out as he lost his breath when the cart abruptly stopped. Suddenly, the cart dipped and he was sliding with the dead bodies off the cart.
Falling over the edge he stared up into the sky as rotten body parts fell all around him.
While falling, his vision cleared for a moment and he could see an eagle soar by the clouds.
The eagle let out a screech and he grabbed after it in desperation, his mind still dizzy and unaccepting of his imminent death.
Thank you Rokuro-sama for providing the art
© Christopher Stamfors
I can imagine a great number of you has new story ideas on a daily basis, at least, if you are the kind of person that lets your mind wander every now and again. For me, that usually happens when I am out driving. But, it can happen when we do other mundane things as well, such as doing the dishes, showering, or whenever it is impossible to do anything else but the task at hand.
Anyhow, we all have untapped ideas for stories and sometimes it can feel overwhelming choosing which idea to proceed with.
I’ve read that you should let go of some of those ideas if you feel overwhelmed, but how do you choose which ones to let go off?
Obviously, you can’t turn all your ideas into novels, or even short stories. So whenever I get a new story idea, I make it into a flash fiction; a story no longer than a thousand words.
Doing this gives you something tangible from your idea, rather than just abandoning it.
It really doesn’t take that long to write a flash fiction, and anyone can do it, no matter how little time you may think you have.
When you’ve finished your flash fiction, you will know whether or not you will be able to expand the story even further. But even if you don’t, you will still have created something, something to be proud of.
Though I don’t agree with them all, there is some advice to be had here as well.
He jerked his head up towards the sky and let the warming rays of the sun rejuvenate his spirits. With a deep breath, he returned to his notebook and scribbled skilfully the lines and shapes of what he saw. An hour went by and the sun slowly hid behind tall buildings that surrounded him.
As it fully disappeared, he relaxed and slumped on his bench. With a sigh, he looked around as the city darkened and a gloomy green light engulfed the city. ‘Deadlight’, he called them.
While looking around, he glanced at his sketchbook and frowned. He then stood hastily and walked down the crowded street, clenching his notebook tightly.
A shiver went down his spine as people whisked by him, chafing against his body. He tried his best to avoid them, but it was impossible, too many in such a small space.
My mind once dwelled exclusively in games, in movies and in TV shows.
Many an hour was spent – time wasted.
But was it really?
For games and movies provide visual aid to the things we have yet to see.
To scenery, which we have yet to phantom.
I want to believe that gaming provided me with a foundation for my own imagination.
Yet, as of now… my body rejects it.
My stomach pit when I do not write. Physically impossible to do anything else!
My body and soul rejects my old life; not yet! it says.
Someday, I can go back to those blissful days of gaming.
But now you must write! read! and at times, be alone with your thoughts.
There is nothing else.
You must improve!
The music and the motions of the violinist mesmerised him. The beauty and the skill in creating those notes were unmistaken. It formed the perfect atmosphere for the purpose of the party. He glanced around, finding people in fancy suits and pretty dresses that mingled amongst themselves; bowing politely as they discovered the prestige and wealth their conversation partners.
He had never understood this overly polite culture, where a person became someone’s better by having more money and power than the other, and should be revered and respected beyond common courtesy.
He did enjoy Japan, however, that was not the problem. It was his job, and the things he was expected to achieve. The brutal hours; the hierarchy; and the almost total lack of free time, made the generous salary less attractive the longer he stayed. It sucked the life out of him.
I groaned in pleasure as I stretched out my limbs and felt blood stream back into my lower back. With a yawn, I entered a quaint, yet shaggy, diner next to the road. I hadn’t eaten since last night, too afraid to stop at any other diner on the dusty roads of Arizona.
It should be fine, however, I must eat eventually.
The diner was surprisingly crowded for such a desolate area. Perhaps there’s a town nearby?
The holster chafed against my side as I sat in one of the stalls by the window. I corrected it and glanced at the handle of the gun that hid underneath my jacket. I was glad that I hadn’t used it yet. Though, I expected to… soon.
How often do you feel that the hours of the day just isn’t enough? I feel you…but it is not like I waste my time or anything. Heck, I spend 7-8 hours a day writing when I am not working part-time as a substitute teacher.
So, why do I feel like the days aren’t enough, even if I spend my time wisely?
I am at that stage of early improvement, when the writing goes from horrendous, to bad; adequate, to good. But then someone brings you back to reality and you realise that you are still bad. But at the very least, you are not horrendous anymore, you have improved. But do you improve quick enough?
There is a battle against time when you are a writer. It takes so much time to become well enough at your craft, before anyone would even consider buying your work, or hire you for that matter. There is always a sense of urgency. I don’t know how it is to have a publishing contract, but I can imagine that that sense of urgency still lingers even then, it never goes away.
So should you punish yourself? Do you need to commit your entire being into writing? To cast away everything else that is you? Until the glorious day when you become validated as a writer? I don’t really know. All I know is that time is short, and I cannot let the time be wasted.
I will be able to relax… someday.
“The best time to write is early in the morning” ever heard that before? Bullshit! I can be creative whenever I want!… or so I thought.
I have found that the writers muse is a very fickle thing. For instance, I have no problem writing a lot during the afternoon, or even late in the evening. But that is only true if I start writing early in the morning.
This became apparent to me after working part-time as a substitute teacher.
One day, after a day’s work (I came home around 4 or 5 pm) I just lazily sat around and browsed the web, watched some youtube videos. I couldn’t focus! I could not do any serious writing. At least, it took a while before my mind started to adjust towards doing creative work.
I believe, writing is like warming up before a jog. Your performance is a lot better if you do.
In other words; You can write for much longer if you start early.
But, ultimately, there are a lot more to it than that. I highly recommend reading this. It might help you find your creative optimum.