Category Archives: creative writing

Last Day Of Fourth Grade

I love to make up ridiculous stories for my daughter. She has had a fantastic sense of humor since she was a baby and has been arching her eyebrows and rolling her eyes for almost as long. Her last day of school was earlier this week and I made this story up on our walk that morning. It is silly and over the top, but thought I would post it just for fun. You only get to finish fourth grade once unless you are really lucky!

that crazy kid

Once upon a time there was a girl who didn’t get killed in an earthquake. She avoided being bitten by poisonous snakes. Fire didn’t engulf her whole school. There hadn’t been a major explosion lately. Even the serial killers had stayed far, far away. As a matter of fact she had managed to escape most of fourth grade with only a scraped knee, a bump on her head and a couple of mosquito bites.

But it was almost her last day of school. Something was bound to happen. It had been too perfect a year. She had made so many great new friends, become even better pals with her old ones, loved her teacher and even did pretty well in school, except for the spelling, and the math, and maybe talking in class, but really, it was an amazing year.

Something was bound to jinx it. She looked everywhere for black cats crossing her path, walked around instead of under all the ladders, shuddered whenever she heard the number 13, threw salt over her shoulder and kept her fingers crossed while knocking on wood. No precaution was too much.

She woke up on that last day. Something seemed wrong. She kissed all her stuffed animals good morning and looked under the bed. No zombies or creepers. Hmm, no scorpions in her drawers or vampire bats in her closet.

She got dressed and went into the bathroom. No broken glass or stray razor blades on the floor. No blood poured out of the faucet. No crocodiles in the toilet. She looked up, she looked down, she looked left, she looked right. It was too quiet.

At breakfast her brother was a little too nice. He didn’t try to stab her even once. She tasted just a little bit of her corn flakes in case there was poison. It seemed safe. Yes, it SEEMED safe. She quietly finished her cereal and put her dishes in the sink. Her suspicions were growing.

Her dad and brother took her to school. This was unusual. They had a plan. She knew it. Maybe they would leave her on the bus and run. Maybe they would push her in front of a car. Her brother was even nice to her on the bus and let her play on his phone. She listened to see if it was ticking. A bomb? Perhaps covered in cyanide? Maybe it was a distraction and they would bury her in an anthill and laugh while she screamed. She made fists just in case she had to start clobbering some guys.

They dropped her at school with a kiss and a hug. Have a great last day of school! Sure. They would be back. And this time they would finish the job. She warily watched them until they disappeared around the corner. Hiding a little bit behind the front door near where there was a kid buried under the sidewalk (or at least that was the legend) she waited for them to come back. With guns. Or switchblades. Or maybe poisonous frogs. But they didn’t. However, she was on to their plan and she would be ready.

crazy kid 2

The school day started and for a moment she let down her guard and forgot about the plot to kill her. Then she realized the day was half over and she was still alive. Her perfect year was almost over. Wandering over to the window she nonchalantly looked around to see if there were snipers on the roofs of nearby buildings or ninjas climbing the walls with nunchucks or katanas. Nothing.

The hallways was clear of Mongol hordes and the bathrooms were not crowded with werewolves and dead Barbies. Then she saw him. Chucky! She screamed just a little until she realized it was just a fat red-headed kid in first grade. The kid cried and ran off to his classroom.

Back in her homeroom, she looked around at all the other kids. Which one has the poison tipped darts? Which one was planning to push her down the stairs? Which kid had the chainsaw ready to carve her up? They all looked so guilty. She was watching them. All of them.

Then, the teacher said it was time to say goodbye. She felt a sad lump in her throat and almost forgot that her life was in very grave danger. They all held hands and looked at one another. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she kept them peeled for suspicious movements. A few of her friends started crying. It was a trick, she knew it. Then her favorite teacher hugged her and she broke down sobbing. This was it. This was the end of fourth grade. Her teacher smiled and cried at the same time. They held each other so tightly, then let go, then hugged again.

The bell rang and she gathered her things. There were no booby traps that left her with missing fingers or broken teeth. Slowly she made her way down the stairs and nobody tried to shove her. She looked above the front door for a guillotine and walked out. The fat Chucky kid farted and she jumped, thinking it was a cherry bomb.

She stood on the street. School’s out. Freedom. She had survived earthquakes, fires, crocodiles, serial killers, ninjas, snipers, vampire bats, knife attacks, snakes, scorpions, Chucky, farts, poison, creepers, zombies and bombs. She raised her arms in victory.

She wiped the last tear from her eye. Bring it on fifth grade!!

That Time I Wrote 100,000 Words @750words At A Time

750 words history

I hit a major milestone last week. Since February I’ve written more than 100,000 words. Let’s put that into perspective. According to Amazon’s Text Stats, the median length for all books is about 64,000 words. I have written enough to fill one novel and am halfway through a second. While I doubt many of my words are novel-worthy, I know there are a handful of great ideas buried in all the debris. More importantly, I’ve developed as a writer and found a discipline that has eluded me for years.

I’ve always liked to think of myself as a writer. Witty, pithy, insightful, sure, but with NOTHING to show for it. Like many would-be writers I talked about writing, i thought about writing, I bought moleskins, notebooks, dictation programs, apps, but the result was always the same. Nothing! Maybe a half a page here, a blog post there, but mostly an empty page and a mindful of half baked ideas.

So one big goal for 2015 was to write more. For the last few years I set up alerts, systems, and tricks to get me writing more. Some things worked and others not so much. I managed to write once or maybe twice a week at best, but my natural inertia kicked in and I would find reasons not to write. I needed something drastic. Actually I needed two things. First, make the time and second, make it a daily habit.

To accomplish the first I waged war on my own busyness. I reduced my information and social media diets considerably. I found ways to eliminate digital distractions. And I put down my damn phone. I was able to write three or four times a week, but I still wanted more. I wanted to write every single day.

Then I found the solution, 750words.com. I wrote about it here a few months back, but with 100,000 later I need to shout about it a little more. I started In February, committing to write 750 words every day. AND, I wrote every single day. After fighting my own procrastination and laziness it was astonishing. Writing is hard work. Churning out words takes discipline and at first much of what I wrote was terrible. Too personal. Too mundane. Too repetitive. But at a certain point I got a rhythm. Pieces started to flow together. It may not be great, but some of it was worthy of posting on my blog, worthy of sharing and worthy of asking for feedback.

Some days I start with a rough idea. Others I already have a full post sketched out in my mind. Sometimes I just start writing and it begins to take shape. The ideas coalesce and 750 words later I am done. What is really critical is the discipline that has come with the act of writing. Initially it took sacrifice just to get my ass in the chair. Then it took work to write. Now it takes effort not to write. Whether I have anything to say or not isn’t important, it’s the ritual of sitting down, writing the first words and pushing through to the end. That’s the real moral to the story. Action. Writing. Results. Repeat.

750 words badges

It has been a total of 137 almost consecutive days of writing. I had a 118 day streak and then I spent a Saturday carpooling kids, cleaning the basement, mowing the lawn, running 6 miles and falling asleep at 9:30. When I woke up the next morning I knew something was horribly wrong. What was different about the night before? Then, it hit me. I didn’t write. I had fallen off the wagon, but I jumped right back on. It’s been another nineteen days and counting.

In the end, it’s not about success or failure, There are no awards or benchmarks apart from an occasional milepost that reminds me I have stuck to my resolution. My goal is not to make a living as a writer. It’s about a daily act, a simple ritual. Laptop in hand. Butt in chair. Four fingers and an occasional thumb typing away. The thoughts are mine. The words are mine. The discipline is a gift that I hope keeps on giving 750 words at a time.

750 Words About 750 Words

I made a 2015 resolution to write more. “Write more” has been a vague goal for the past few years. I wrote more in 2014 than I had in years past, but it still wasn’t enough. I wanted to write every day. I needed to make a commitment and take action.

I started the year by signing up for One Month’s 30 Day Writing Challenge. Every day for the month of January they sent me a writing prompt. The prompts were great and I started writing, every other day. And sometimes every third day. By the end of January I had written about 13 times. Still not enough.

I kept at it and whittled the list of remaining prompts down, but I needed more motivation. I wasn’t reaching my goal. One of the resources listed on One Month was 750 Words. I clicked and found myself challenged to write 750 words a day, every single day. Ok, I can do this. Sign me up now.

I started mid-February and my first order of business was to crush the remaining One Month prompts. I could write about anything I want. There were no rules. Just 750 words.

It’s been 57 days since I started and I haven’t missed a day yet. I’ve written poems, fiction, non-fiction, jokes, scripts, mantras and more. I don’t plan it. I just sit and write. It has been cathartic to spew three pages of my random ruminations every single day. It clears out my head to allow me to process my thoughts and focus on what is important.

Another goal for this year was increased focus. To get there I needed to simplify. I reduced my insatiable need for media input, unsubscribed from countless newsletters, slashed my RSS feeds and took a few steps back from several social media platforms. I couldn’t write if I was always reading. Over the last several weeks I have barely watched TV. My time has been focused on writing and reading real books.

Initially I hoped to use my 750 words to blog more, but I found that most of my writing was often about making sense of my day. Most days it is just a work in progress and not worth publication. It is my workshop. I can hammer out ideas and get to the essence of what’s happening. Somewhere in each of those 750 word entries, however, there is a solid future blog post.

For March I committed to writing every single day. I made it. Thirty one days. 24,000 words.

What did I learn?

Writing is hard. Good writing can be painstaking. There are a lot of ideas that sound amazing until you try to write them down. What seems so groundbreaking in your head seems pretty trite on paper. It requires focus, planning and a bit of inspiration.

Writing is work. The words don’t always flow, but you must keep going. Sit down. Pen in hand. Ass in chair. Words on paper. The point is to write. Don’t stop. Don’t check email. Don’t check Facebook, Twitter, Instagram or text messages. Keep writing. It will take shape. Words will come.

Writing is liberating. I have written out dark memories, deep fears and painful thoughts. Once on paper they just aren’t very scary. As a matter of fact they seem minor and insignificant. I put them down on paper and the process allowed me to let them go.

Writing is scary. It seems so simple, but once you start pouring your heart into it the work gets tough. I wrote about some personal things and changed to third person just so I could be more honest about what happened. I could write it about someone as if it were else but not myself.

I have published three pieces of fiction on my blog. This is a first for me. The pieces were fun to write and vaguely fun to read so I published them. Big risk, but I got some good feedback. Or maybe kind feedback. It doesn’t matter. I did it and I am proud of it.

I will never be a gifted writer. I am a solid, persuasive writer. Occasionally I get lucky and write something above my weight class. Real writing is a gift. You don’t see it often. But when you do it is breathtaking. That is not my ability.

I will keep writing. 750 words a day, every day. And I will focus on publishing more. One day I may prove myself wrong. Maybe I do have a gift. I just need to keep writing until I get there.

 

Knock Knock

This is another piece from One Month’s 30 Day Writing Challenge. The assignment was to write a story about an eight-year-old and an eighty-year-old. Again, it’s a bit of a risk to share my writing, but I want to ship it and see what people think. Thank you for reading.

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I tiptoed across the carpet of crisp pine needles. Each step filled the dark cathedral of trees with a terrifyingly loud crunch. Once there had been grass and flowers, but the undergrowth had scaled the trees blocking all possible sunlight. It was only fifteen feet from the sidewalk to the front door, but once I entered the canopy of shrubs and trees I was alone with the house. The street noise disappeared. I crept forward. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I had never seen Mrs Blackholler before. I had only heard the rumors about her haunted house on the corner in the middle of an otherwise unhaunted neighborhood. She was 80, 90, maybe even 100 years old and nobody had seen her in years. We knew she was in there because her children (who looked to be in their 70s) visited occasionally. Neighborhood dads loved to pile it on about her eating children and burying them in the yard. Kids shared those stories and embellished them further. Some heard screams in the night. Others told tales of disappearing kids. Bad juju. Most people under 14 or 15 would walk to the other side of the street or dash by quickly, particularly if they were alone.

My mom asked me to take her a plate of cookies.

What? I shrieked. Are you crazy? Her house is haunted, she eats kids, nobody get outs alive, I will never come back, you hate me, why, why, why, the horror, the horror!

Nodding slightly as if she understood my reservation, but standing firm in her demand that I take her the cookies, she repeated the request.

After delaying with every possible ruse, trick and deferral technique in my 8 year old playbook, I grabbed the tin of cookies and slowly walked the long hard slog to the sidewalk kitty corner from her house.

In the hot late morning summer sun her lot was a dark blot on a bright, cheery block. The blue sky and blooming flowers seemed to stop at the edge of her property. I surveyed the entrance to her yard from every angle. I walked up the sidewalk on the opposite side listening carefully for creaks, screams or howls. It was quiet. I counted to 30. Not quite ready. I counted to 45. Nope, still not ready. I started to count to 60. 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…

My mom stepped out the front door and yelled for me to get a move on.

I looked both ways in hopes of many cars to impede my progress. Nothing. One tentative step into the street. And another. My breath was short. My heart beat a fast rhythm in my chest. Even a drip of sweat rolled slowly down my forehead.

I put one foot on the sidewalk in front of her house. A car whisked by and honked. I started and stumbled up onto the walk. I was so close I could smell the bodies buried in the yard. Was that a scream?

The 15 feet to the door seemed impossibly distant. That was 180 inches of potential mayhem and even death. Her front door was a blurry gaping mouth in the still darkness of the yard.

Inching closer I could hear the blood pounding in my veins. I tried to hold my breath. The snapping pine needles were oh-so-many tiny breaking bones. Minutes…hours…days seemed to pass and the door was still miles away. Left. Right. Left. Right.

Three small steps led to a tiny porch of peeled paint and splinters. Creak. Croak. Crack.

I help out my hand.

tap. tap. tap.

Nothing.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Still nothing.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Absolutely nothing.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

A shadow passed behind the curtain. I swallowed hard holding the railing with white knuckles. I could feel myself starting to weaken. My stomach churning. My knees buckling.

The door opened with a long, sustained cry.

A tiny little voice whispered hello?

The tiny little voice came from a tiny little woman.

I’m I’m I’m I’m B B B B B B illy from m m m m m ac c c c c rosss the street, I ha ha ha have c c c c c c ooookies for you.

Come in dear.

Mothballs and grandma perfume filled my nostrils. She grabbed my free hand with a tiny little scale of a hand and tugged me gently inside.

So nice to have a visitor. I love visitors. She whispered. And I love cookies.

I sat in a very ornate fancy chair covered in afghans. Two or three cats lurked in the gloom. I searched the room for weapons, anything to defend myself.

She shuffled off into another room and reappeared with the cookies on a plate and a glass of milk.

Do you like milk?

Poison. I assumed.

It’s so nice to share cookies with you. She dipped hers in a cup of tea.

I watched her closely for fast movements and nibbled warily on a chocolate chip cookie, assuming it was safe since my mom had made it. My dry throat was getting drier and I could feel it closing up. In desperation I sipped the milk knowing that I would either choke to death or die of poisoned milk in that dusty, dim parlor.

She talked about summer and flowers and her children and growing up in that house, laughing and becoming more animated as the minutes passed.

I sipped the milk again and told her about baseball and the Beatles and Batman and my brothers.

She offered another cookie and I gladly accepted. Her cats sauntered out slowly and rubbed against my legs. Tin Man was silver and Freckles was a tabby. I scratched their heads and both jumped in and out of my lap at times.

Another cookie. Another glass of milk. More conversation.

A clock struck. I realized I needed to leave for baseball practice. I excused myself and the look of disappointment was clear. I told her I would be back with more cookies soon and she said she would make sure there was plenty of milk.

I held her hand as she walked me to the door. Goodbye. Thank you. And a big smile from her tiny face.

My brothers were shocked that I had lived. I told tales of cobwebs and bats and rats and bones and buried bodies. I trembled and shivered in mock terror, making sure they would never step foot near her property. Ever.

Why ruin a great friendship and a new cookie supply?

 

Fridgy the Gombor

This is another piece from One Month’s 30 Day Writing Challenge. The assignment was to create a monster. I also tried to write it in the voice of my crazy, hilarious daughter. Again, it’s a bit of a risk to share my attempts at writing fiction, but I want to share it and see what people think. Thank you.

Golem

Fridgy is big, fat and gentle. Or at least mostly gentle. When I say mostly gentle I mean he hasn’t killed anyone. This week.

Fridgy likes ketchup. Big bottles of red ketchup. Not so much with the catsup. Can anyone tell me what exactly is catsup? But back to the ketchup. Fridgy pours ketchup all over his food. Food becomes a ketchup vehicle for Fridgy. Like a pickup truck filled with ketchup. Slurp. You can’t imagine how much he likes ketchup. Especially on people.

But I did say he hadn’t killed anyone. This week. Last week, hmm. Let’s talk about that in a bit.

First you must forgive me. I got ahead of myself. Let me tell you more about Fridgy. Fridgy is a Gombor. Not your typical Gombor, all bad manners and farts and burps and bits of people stuck between the teeth. No, Fridgy farts and burps a bit, but he flosses and knows not to do his business in the house. Well, he knows not to, but it has happened. That’s why I have that shovel. And that bucket.

So I said he wasn’t your typical Gombor. Nope. Fridgy used to be a plain old, regulation, run of the mill Gombor, hiding under beds and in closets and in nightmares and old abandoned houses. He burped, farted and ate skunks and squirrels and scared old people and kids for fun. Naps. Snacks. Pranks. Naps and Snacks. Snacks and pranks. Pranks and naps.

But he stepped on my skateboard.

Thump!

Huh? Well, maybe not huh, but I don’t think there is a word for what went through my head when I felt the weight. Or was it the smell. The problem is Gombors are heavy. And they stink. Like worse than poop stink. So a loss for words isn’t really right. It was a can’t even before we couldn’t even.

And I couldn’t even. Breathe. Scream. Move. But I could punch. And I did.

Gombors could be confused for Golems. Big. Brown. Scary. Until you punch them. Golems don’t cry. Gombors do. Bigs tears and lots of snot.

Which is why I can say murderous and gentle. Or murderously gentle. Gently murderous? An oxymoron of soft, damp Gombor with a big goose egg on his head on my bed. Because of the skateboard.

Or because Gombors can’t skate. Or at least not very well. They are good at stepping on skateboards. And good at achieving a high rate of speed. And good at stopping. Abruptly. Headfirst. Just bad at not hitting their head and getting knocked out and winding up on top of me. Waiting to get punched. In the head. By me.

And they are good at eating old ladies. But would that be good or bad? Bad for old ladies. Good for Gombors. And people who sell ketchup. And tomato farmers. Unless they are old ladies.

So Fridgy cried, but he wasn’t named Fridgy then. That came later. Before the old lady and after the punch.

So using Kleenex is not a thing Gombors do well either. Or using them the right way. They are good at using them the wrong way. And I don’t think the box shows the right way and Gombors can’t read. Unless it says catsup. So never give a crying Gombor Kleenex.

And the old lady was kind of an accident. Gombors like to eat. I mean really eat. Like eat the guys who eat the hot dogs for the world championship eat. Or a six pack of biggest losers eat. So one old lady was like a toothpick. A toothpick with ketchup. And she was kind of dead anyway. From the scaring and the screaming and the falling down and the Gombors get hungry and some stuff happened.

But I called him Fridgy because he ate one. Not an old lady. A fridge. My fridge. Ice cube trays, the box of baking soda that doesn’t absorb odors and that jar of quince jelly that has been in the family since the gift basket of 1987. One bite. One crunchy  freon filled bite.

This week has been murder free. 7 days since our last on the job injury. No old ladies have been harmed in the making of this week. There was a raccoon. And a feral cat. A Christmas wreath. And some nachos. Well, more like a Taco Bell. But there were nachos inside.

And now I am stuck. With a Gombor. A big, fat and gentle Gombor. Good Gombor. Down Fridgy. Down boy. No, I don’t have any nachos. Fridgy, is that ketchup on my arm? Fridgy? FRIDGY!?!?

Home Run

It’s been a very long time since I’ve posted, but not because I haven’t been writing. After a break for a couple of months I began to write every day. I started with One Month’s 30 Day Writing Challenge. Then I signed up for 750 Words. It’s simple. Write 750 words every day. Most of this writing has been stream of consciousness blathering and daily diary exercises. However, a few of the One Month assignments allowed me to write some fiction. The following started with an assignment to look into a book and use the first sentence I read. The opening line in this piece is from To Kill a Mockingbird. The rest is pure fiction with little basis in reality. It’s a bit of a risk to share my writing, but I want to share it and see what people think. Be gentle and enjoy! Thank you.

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Our father turned around and looked up. The baseball hit him right in the forehead, knocking his glasses off his head. He grunted slightly and sat perfectly down on his ass in the freshly-mowed grass. The silence was frighteningly loud. It was cartoonish, comical and a little bit scary.

Our dad hated the next door neighbors, so we followed suit out of respect for dad and hated the kids, too. My father had unilaterally appointed himself head of the neighborhood watch and didn’t like the way they let their grass grow a little too long. Their house needed paint and there was moss on the roof. They yelled outside a lot and honked the horn while waiting in the driveway. Rules were made to be followed and, in my father’s highly opinionated opinion, these folks were grossly negligent

My father was at war with these particular neighbors, a cold war to be sure, but a war. His angry stare and barely perceptible flinch at any sign of noise or motion from their side of the fence was a dead giveaway. It was more than a stare. It was a nuclear grade glare, a battle grimace, a napalm frown and an icy burn all frosted with a nasty meringue of Catholic disapproval.

It seemed highly unlikely he would ever act on this pent up volcano of seething rage. Nope. He nursed that anger like a baby. Whenever he was outside his posture and demeanor changed. He was on high alert, constantly assessing the clear and present danger, ready to strike. He was “get off my lawn” in its purest form.

This went on for years. He would rarely discuss his fury about the neighbors, but a few random comments and the omnipresent thousand yard glare made it abundantly clear. The people next door were to be feared, mistrusted and hated. My father thrived on his disapproval of anyone who was the slightest bit different. It wasn’t about race or gender. It was a silent moral crusade against anyone who broke rules or defied conventions. Rules were everything. The law was absolute.

Also, my father hated children. One thing he hated more than children was loud, ill-behaved children. The neighbor kids epitomized the kind of kids he hated the most. Sassy, loud, crude and all fuck you in torn jeans and bad attitude.

And when the baseball hit, things changed. Not slow, barely perceptible change. It was instant, terrifying change.

The neighbor kids were dicking around, throwing the ball against the rotting cedar fence between the yards. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Each hit tensed my father further and further. A nail to the head. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Finally he yelled that they’d better knock it off.

A giggle and a snort from the other side of the fence.

Silence. Nobody moved.

Then a sneering fuck you followed by suppressed laughter.

Our father turned around and looked up. Bam!

My father rose from the grass, wiped his nose, grabbed the baseball and marched to the fence. With one swift kick he crushed two rotting cedar planks without a hitch in his step. He ducked down and walked into the adjoining yard. The kids looked up blubbering and scared.

I remember his glasses lying abandoned on the lawn.

He glared. Silence.

He looked at the ball, looked at the kids, looked at the house. He wound up and tossed the ball through a large bay window. The smash of the glass was an explosion years in the making. Nobody breathed. Silence.

“Explain that to your fucking parents you little shitbags.”

He walked back through the fence, walked into the kitchen and opened two beers with a smile.