Tag: flash fiction

Weekends at play

Cover art from MabelAmber.

Creators all over the internet are taking advantage of this quarantine to create more than normal. There are more podcasts, more blog posts, more art. Every other post online seems to be about how everyone’s stuck at home, so we might as well have good things to read, watch and listen to.

Every time I see one of those posts, I kind of want to smack the person who wrote it. Yeah, lots of people have more free time than normal. Some of the rest of us are working harder than ever because we work in essential jobs. 

Now, I work from home. Please don’t think for one second that I don’t understand what an awesome privilege that is. I am safe, my family is safe. I’m not one of the many trying to get unemployment right now. I’m thankful for that. 

I’m also stupid busy again. I’m working extra hours, trying to get a book out, writing more for some of my freelance clients and PBW. Now seems like the dumbest time to add something else to my plate.

So, I’m not. What I’m doing instead is taking every other weekend off to write short stories. I don’t work on the novel, I don’t work on promotional stuff. I just write flash and micro fiction for a whole weekend. If I were a painter, I would liken this to stepping away from my work in progress to wash the paint off my hands and sketch. 

If you’re a creator, here are five reasons why you might consider doing the same thing.

Lets stories out that are talking to me.

Any writer will tell you that getting ideas is not the problem. It’s never been the problem. The problem is what to do with all the damn ideas! I have this great novel I’m writing and I’m super excited about it. But I also have this idea for an eerie little piece. And I want to write about some dark moments from my childhood. And some bright moments. And maybe I’d like to talk about some things going on in the world right now. 

There was a time when I thought serious writers worked on one project at a time. I thought that chasing all of these different stories was childish. It went right against the Lion meditation I love so much. 

But here’s the thing. When I ignore those stories, they start digging away. They become the distraction that I can’t ignore. They make me resent the story I’m working on. I can’t have all these other stories because I’m working on this one! That’s not a good way to work.

Gives me new material to get up faster than novels.

Novels take time. Anyone who has a favorite author knows this. I have a list of authors I check on monthly to see if their new book is coming out soon. This month. This year? Please?

I hope that somewhere a reader is waiting for my new book the same way I wait for Tamora Pierce’s new book. And if that person is out there, I want to be able to put out other things that might give them something entertaining to consume while they wait.

I also like to get my name out there every so often, to make sure people don’t forget me.

Lets me play with ideas.

I am an artist. I know I don’t put it that way often, but there it is. Writing is art. And I want to explore that. I want to try new things, new points of view. I want to write about weird little shit that might never make a full novel. Who’s that old man I saw on the bus, where’s he going? Can I write a story in a weird pov? Can I write a story about the lifetime of a shoe, or a bird, or a gift card? Can I write a story about this creepy picture I just found?

I need the freedom to explore. To write things that might not work. To write things just for me. 

Gives me a break.

Frankly, I need a break sometimes. I need to take my eyes off the project at hand and do something else. 

I’m writing dark science fiction. I might want to put that down and make a ghost story. Or maybe a little smut. Maybe a nonfiction essay. A change is as good as a rest, is what I’m saying.

Sends me back to my WIP with fresh eyes.

Of course, the weekend will end and I’ll get back to my novel. Of course, the work I did when not working on my novel is still writing. So maybe I learned something I can bring to my novel. Or I learned something new. Maybe it’s even something I can write into the novel. It all feeds into the work at large.

And even if I don’t learn anything new, my writing will be better for the fresh eyes I bring to it. 

PreorderFalling From Grace and be entered to win a free autographed copy of Broken Falling From Grace eBookPatterns.Click here for details.

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Golden Fruit

She held it in her hand, the perfect, glowing fruit. She’d tried for days to get it, climbing all the way to the top of the tree they grew on. It was a good one, a special one. She could feel it’s power, under the sun warmed skin. This would be something that would make people think. It had taken a long time to reach it, but it was worth it for him.

He didn’t smile, this human. He did all the other things most humans did, the eating and the sitting in front of their shiny boxes. He played with his children, and he smiled then. Not much besides that.

This fruit would make him smile.

She sought him out at the place he went every day. He sat quietly, tapping on the table with a pen. She set the fruit in front of him, allowing him to see the beauty. It caught his eye, she knew it did.

But he looked away. She nudged it closer, but he still refused.

She tried again. This time he was sitting quietly while his child took a nap. He had a screen in his hand. She again tried to give him the fruit. Surely he must want it. He had taken so many when he was young.

Again, he ignored it.

This time, when she retrieved it, there was a small brown mark on the bottom. The fruit was going bad.

It was such a bright one. She couldn’t let it go to waste. She would have to try again, soon.

The next day, he was sitting in front of the big shiny screen, after putting the children to sleep. She set the fruit next to him. It had several dark spots, he had to take it this time. He looked at it, and started reaching for it.

At the last moment, though, he pulled away, and stood up. He went away, and came back with a dark bottle, resolutely not looking at the fruit.

It was no good. She would have to give the fruit to someone else, or risk letting it spoil. He needed it, she knew he did. But there were others who might need it too, she reasoned. And so she took the fruit, and went off in search for another.

Sometime later, though, she looked in on him. She had another fruit, not as good or as bright as the last. He was sitting at the place he went, touching the plastic and metal thing in front of him. His face looked weary.

It wasn’t a special fruit, she didn’t know why he would take it when he hadn’t taken the perfect one. But, she held it out to him, not thinking that he would take it.

This time, he looked up, looking away from his screen. The fruit had caught his attention. He looked at his screen, then back at the fruit. Finally, he reached out, and took it. And as he did, he smiled.

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Markets, Imaginate

Hello, hello, and welcome to the very first market of June. I have high hopes for this month, with four of my short stories out right now. I hope yours are just as high. With that in mind, I’ve got a two for one market today, with Imaginate.

Every quarter, Imaginate runs two contests, one for short fiction and one for flash fiction. They give you an image, and you come up with a story based on that image.

Short fiction contest/Flash Fiction
Genre– Open/ Open
Word Count– 2500 words/ 100
Payout– 5 cents a word/ 5 cents a word
Wait Time– After end of contest/ After end of contest
Sub Date– July 1/ July 1
Rights– First serial/ First Serial

Here is a link to their full submission guidelines.  As always, make sure you check them before you submit!

If you have any luck with this or any other market, or just achive a great milestone this month, let me know and I’ll feature you on this months Brag Board, on June 30.

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Writing 101, Day 5

Today’s Prompt: You stumble upon a random letter on the path. You read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. Write a story about this encounter.

Alright, just tossed this together, not sure if the ending is strong enough.  What do you think?

I always hated working nights at the diner. I’d get the occasional family, some quiet people, but not many. No, most of what I got on those long nights were college students from the campus. Just a few years younger than me, a constant reminder of what I could have done if things had been better.

They didn’t tip well, didn’t eat much. They came in as loud, needy groups, or by themselves laden with books and papers. I poured their coffee, cleaned up booths covered in ketchup and eraser smudges after they left, and hated each and every one of them, except one.

One of them came in one night, shaking the rain from her coat as she went. She sat down at the bar, and ordered a coffee. She had a bookbag with her, but she didn’t take out any work. Instead, she waited, her eyes darting towards the big window every few seconds. Finally, she went to the bathroom, taking her bag with her.

When she picked up her bag, an open envelope fell onto the bar. I saw a handwritten letter slide out. And I knew that I should have just left it alone, but my worse nature got the better of me. I scooped it up, and started to read.

Maggie,

I’m sorry that it took so long for me to write you, but I wanted to make sure that you could think about this for yourself, instead of letting Mom tell you what you should think about it. Now that you’re in college, I hope you’re away from that.

Look, I know my leaving was hard on you, and I know that there can never be a good reason to have left you there alone. You were the only regret I had.

But I had to do what I did. Mom wouldn’t let me tell you about Becky. She never wanted you to see her, never wanted you to be the same disappointment I was. I know this is probably terrible of me, but I’m not sorry that she doesn’t want to see me still. Becky is too precious for me to share with someone so hateful.

Maggie, I know you went through hell these last few years. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there when Dad died. But I just couldn’t have Becky around that. She didn’t need to face that.

When I was going to Pitt, there was this little diner just off campus. If you can, meet me there on Friday.

Hoping to see you,
Candace.

The girl was coming back from the bathroom. I stuffed the letter back in the envelope, and set it back on the bar. She had her phone out, and stopped long enough to toss some money on the bar and grab her letter. I watched her look toward the door, as an older woman walked in, holding the hand of a three year old girl.
She knelt down to say something to the little girl, then give her a hug. With the little girl in her arms, Maggie gave the woman a hug. When she pulled away, there were tears in her eyes.

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