Photo by Eric G.
[PS, this has been my first Daily Prompt ever, Flee!]
County Sheepshire lies between the wooded hollows in the Valley Without Name. Imagine a sleepy part of the country, spread with idyllic farms and jovial townspeople who’ll gladly take a traveler in, in exchange for a hard day’s work. Who raise barns overnight and drink warm cider, and whose most pressing concern is whether the weather will hold for the season. There, can you imagine it? Yes, just like that. A bucolic paradise. Well County Sheepshire is nothing like that. County Sheepshire is a fucking terror. Continue reading
photo by Pekka Nikrus
I saw people on the pedestrian bridge tonight releasing balloons into the sky. I wanted to ask what they were doing, but as I got closer, I saw they all were crying.
“Do you two know each other?” Isabel’s little coins jingled on her skirt.
Sylvia was convinced this must be a setup. She had stumbled through this new city for months without recognizing a single face, seeing a single individual more than once. But here he was, the Man on the Bridge. Noah, rather. Now he had a name. Continue reading
Those deepest things you might never tell to your best friend somehow always come out to the Thoughtful Stranger, poised entirely out of your own context. First impressions make first derisions, but not with the Thoughtful Stranger. Sylvia found herself telling the woman with the perfect eyeliner much more than she intended: the truth. Continue reading
The truth was layered thick:
Sylvia did not know why she had left New York, or Liam. Her job. Weekends upstate where everything was bold and green, unlike here where the world withered into a faded brown.
“Give yourself some time. You’ve been there a day. Jesus.” Of course Liam was right. He always tried so hard to be.
“I’m so bad at meeting people.” Sylvia thought it funny: she had no recollection of ever meeting him. Liam had always been.
Re-watched Gormenghast for the first time in 16 years, so here’s Christopher Lee throwing a cat.
It had been at that greasy pizza place near Fort Lee, alight in fluorescent opulence, where she last saw Liam. Outside that pocket of majesty, the world was still and dark. Sylvia had sat alone, spinning strands of cheese around her fingers before biting the gobs off. Continue reading
They call it a haunting when a spirit attaches to a place and won’t let go. Sometimes, they say, it happens with people, too. Ghosts cling to the living, meddling in those things they’re no longer able to control. Everywhere you go, they follow.
There’s something either chocolate or caramel on my arm from where I held the patisserie bag.
The ducks are splashing through the part of the park that goes underwater when it rains. I think how so many people believe life’s secrets can be found in nature.
Here is a duck fluffing its butt. Nothing elegant or mysterious there, just the echo of nature justifying “Do what you can, when you must, and try to survive.”
But really, is it honey mustard?
At least I tried…?
Having been consumed by two separate screenplay rewrites the past month, I don’t know how I ever imagined I’d have time to speed-write a loose fantasy novel draft. I’m cluelessly ambitious, I guess. Unrealistic aspirations aside, Camp Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month’s springtime little cousin) is a great excuse to congregate with other writers and get some thoughts on paper. All glory to the wretched first draft. Praise be.
Until the last year, I believed that the small tweaks and grammar corrections I made to my writing constituted “rewriting.” I heard about people starting over with their rewrites and thought “well clearly they didn’t have this amazing base for their work that I do.” That overhaul rewrite was for other people, not me.