100 Words – Mistletoe

Raul stood in horror. History repeating itself. He blinked hard to make it go away but still saw it even with his eyes shut. You can't unsee this sort of thing. They'd talked for twenty minutes. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever met. She was perfect, or nearly so. He was put off by her twitchy nature, circling him as they spoke. Like she was trying to get the attention he was already devoting to her. Suddenly, making no excuse, she marched away. Only then did Raul notice the mistletoe hanging over his head. He'd done it again.

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Writing Excuses

What do you do when you run out of excuses?

I want to be a writer but...

There are so many reasons not to write. Time, money, distractions and hundreds of other minor procrastinations keep us from doing what we want to do. Or do we? I'm talking about me here. I don't know about you. These reasons not to write are not right. Nothing but myself is stopping me. Oh yes, there will be sacrifices. There will be problems and conflicts and all that shit. If I want to write, then I should write and accept the consequences. For me though, I need a plan. I need to know there will be an outcome. Doesn't matter if that outcome is good or bad, but there must be a goal. Here I get into a sticky bit. I'm learning that I should never talk about my work in progress (WIP), because it is always changing and people think I lied to them when I told them about three revisions ago. So no details. However, thinking this all through has given me a plan, not only for this project, but for the next few as well. This is good. Now I just have to internally justify spending more time on writing. In the last month I've gone from half an hour to a full hour. Now it's time to add another half hour, but what do i give up? I do many things during the day that I don't "need" to do, but enjoy. Maybe I could do what I do but cut out five minutes here and there. That sounds so easy and logical. Of course I don't believe any of it. To my detriment, I'm a list maker. If I'm going to add to my writing time, piecemeal just won't do.

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100 Words – Solitary

Berger was a wasted wreck of a human being. A brilliant mind capable of amazing feats as long his nurse convinces him to eat and sleep. She developed a plethora of methods to distract him back to reality. This week nothing has worked. His latest project was a killer. He envisioned the crystalline structure. It wasn't right. As near to perfection as possible, but just not there. A solitary adjustment could complete it, or bring it all crashing down. He cowered before the potential tidal wave of failure in his mind. The nurse ends his misery with a fluffy pillow.

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100 Words – Promise

There was the promise of a keg. We arrived, unknown to the host, but our bottle of scotch bought us welcome. He took the bottle and disappeared into the crowd. We found no keg but ample beer in the kitchen. We settled on the couch. It wasn't until then that we noticed the complete lack of female guests. At first we thought it must be a gay party. Not a problem as long as the good beer held out, but then a loud argument broke out about Fortran vs. Pascal. They weren't gay, they were geeks. We fit right in.

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100 Words – Drive By Flirting

I was the victim of a drive-by flirting. It started with an observation without intent. The woman at the bar had a Betty Boop beer cozy. I commented on it. She smiled and told me the story of her life as a Betty and showed me her Bettie Page tattoo. It was when she pulled down her shirt, exposing the majority of her left breast, that I noticed one of her fingers was a stub. I laughed when her story of its loss mirrored my father's loss of the same finger. She grabbed my thigh, "let's go." I said no.

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Tom Week – Rex in Peace

Rex is gone. He couldn't stand up this morning and his sad confused eyes told us it was time. We had him over 11 years. The vet was very nice and comforting. Some days are just happy days. Got to drive on some great back highways today. Went from 40 degrees this morning to 75 this afternoon. I'm up to 528 followers on Twitter. That's 28 more than Monday. Two tweets yesterday. One bombed and one soared. Cool. I got an email from a recruiter today with a job that actually sounds enjoyable and I'm qualified for it. It's a remote 6 to 12 month contract. I just have to decide if I want a job right now. I wasn't expecting to start looking till January. Restarting work on the new novel(?) Working on my Twitter stuff I've developed a different approach to the first draft process. It's changing how I view the novel characters and calls for some replotting. My tablet died this morning. Went to WalMart and got a new one. It's amazing how much crap accumulated on the old tablet that I don't need on the new. Events continue to keep my depression at bay. Things that need to be done are doable. The wandering will continue. Wanted to ride today. Didn't. Went to renew four of my meds today. They turned down two of them. Turns out while I did have 1 refill left on each of them, the refill period for both ended last month. So tomorrow I have to go to urgent care and convince a doctor-like person that I need my meds. Such fun. Due to the Rex situation I didn't get to urgent care. Ah well, it's only depression.

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Are You A Real Writer?

Am I a real writer?

Of course I am. Are you a real writer? That depends. Have you written anything? That is the question. Have you written anything? For me the anything in that question means anything. Any written thing. If you've written a single string of words intended to evoke a response, you are a writer. Seems simple enough but not everyone shares my view. A recent on-line conversation showed me that some people try to invoke a stricter meaning on the title of writer. By some accounts I am not a writer because I've never been published by a "real" publisher. A bit of background; I self-published a novel and a book of short stories. I wrote two short stories that were published in on-line journals. I participate in a couple daily prompts on Twitter. I have over 500 followers. To some people all that does not a writer make. I disagree. Being published has little to do with being a writer. That's something that happens when the writing is done. The process of writing is not dependent on the existence of the reader. While most writers do want to build and engage with an audience. It is not a requirement. So why do some writers push for these boundaries? The most obvious reason is status. By saying you're not a writer unless your published, that restricts the world of writers to a much smaller, more select group. Therefor being a member of the group makes you more important than those excluded from the group. That's a greedy and weak point of view. Many of my favorite writers have never been "published." People who can make me afraid, aroused or amused with just a sentence or two. They aren't just writers, they are great writers. So if anyone ever tells you aren't a "real" writer, tell them that I said your were. Or better, tell them to masticate excrement and expire.

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100 Words – Bike Drunk

I love riding my bike when I'm almost drunk. "Of course I would never ride when I'm drunk." I say into whatever hidden microphones the cops might have placed on the bike path. Ah, the next dive. Whoever laid out these paths must have been a heavy drinker. At each and every end and junction is a bar of notable disrepute. The trail-heads of vice. If the police ever asked after me each bartender and waitress would swear I just had my two beers and moved on. They don't know they are just one step on the stairway to intoxication.

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The Characters of Hate

Hating hate

I hate hate. Even when it manifests as righteous indignation, I feel sullied by hate. It takes way too much time and energy. The writers who are reading this probably already see the problem. What is fiction without hate? I must also state that I'm not talking about evil. Evil is not always hate or even hated. Evil is a force or state of mind that does harm to others, whether intentional or incidental. Evil often causes hate, but the two are not mutually dependent. So how do I give my characters hate when I find it so abhorrent? Yes, I could create a world without hate but most people would find that hard to accept. Or do I create a character who hates, but learns not to. Sound rather heavy-handed to me. Maybe I just need to accept that hate exists. It's what people expect. It's like real life.

The Plan

I've started writing to a new Twitter prompt for ten word stories. I'm writing these from a bad guy's point of view. A couple were pretty good. A couple were pretty wimpy for a bad guy. But, I'm having fun with it.

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100 Words – Bots

She wants to know how I'm doing today. She wants to know if I'm married. She says she lives in Houston and wants to know where I'm from. Always the same questions. Always the same answers. One virtual encounter after another. The only thing that changes are the sexy stock footage profile pix. What do you do for a living? What's your phone number? Are you horny? I again find myself flirting with bits of code. Maybe this one is real. No evidence points that way but it is not outside possibility. No, again, she's just another damn chat bot.  

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100 Words – Bottles

Smiley circled the house twice. The first to check for any unlocked doors or windows. The second because Martha was crying and she couldn't be convinced nothing was wrong. Back at the front door she was still crying so Smiley kicked the door in. He was as shocked as Martha when he succeeded on the first try. Grandpa sat in his easy chair as lifeless as the sitcom he was no longer watching. Smiley counted the empty beer bottles. Martha counted the empty pill bottles. Neither the police nor the ambulance guys cared about the bottles. "He was 97, right?"

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100 Words – highway of light

I drive the highway of light. One slight nudge of the wheel and I would be on the road to darkness. There are things down that road. Danger, drinking, sex and adventure. "Is it worth the risk?" I think as I continue down the road of light. I see forgotten faces reflected in the window to my right. The ghosts of my previous traveling companions. Which would encourage the darkness? Which would insist on the light? But I am alone. Their thoughts and prayers are meaningless now. Wasted on my battered soul. Darkness it is. I run out of gas.

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Are all writers mentally ill?

Yes, but first we need to define our terms. Perhaps mentally ill is a poor expression. Mentally abnormal seems more correct, though that seems to have even more negative connotations. Though in my nomenclature abnormal could be anything other than average. Therefore genius would be considered an abnormality.

I toyed with the idea of using the phrase mental nonconformity but that sounds like a choice so it’s not appropriate. Mental abnormality it is.

I should mention here that, if they were asked, nearly every writer I know would give you a laundry list of their abnormalities. My own would include; social anxiety, depression, over-thinking, insomnia, self-doubt and poor self-image.

So are there sane writers? No, but using my criteria, it would be hard to find any human who doesn’t have mental abnormalities. It’s just that writers are mentally abnormal out loud. Their problems are documented on an ongoing basis. Then they actively try to have other people participate in their anxieties.

This is the problem when you over-think everything. You talk yourself in circles till all semblance of an answer is rendered useless. So I’ll just say this; You have to be crazy to be a writer.

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100 Words – Lips

There was nothing left in her apartment but a blood-stained Twinkie. The cops on the scene laughed at me till the gray-haired detective showed up had them bag the Twinkie for the lab. Two days later the detective was at my door. It was llama blood. Jane's life, of which she shared with me so little, was wilder than I ever imagined. The police knew where she was. She was watching me. All I saw in the window was her lips. Crimson flesh I worshiped. The things those lips said and did to me. I would always be her slave.

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100 Words – Reminds

The cool air reminds me that I shouldn't be thinking about her. Fall was our time. Me and the one who got away. I flatter myself. I like to believe I had her hooked but she was just teasing at the line. The warm sun reminds me of the one I should be thinking about. The one I did reel in, or perhaps she reeled me in. Mutual reeling? Sure, why not. The wet grass reminds me to dream about one I never met. I'd add a deep-sea fishing metaphor here if I knew anything about deep-sea fishing. I don't.

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100 Words – Martyrs

There are martyrs in the woods and candles in the bushes. The sky is dark and the time of wind is upon us. The dogs sense that something is wrong. They whimper at the movements in the shadows that only they see. The rocks in the road are sharper than my father-in-laws pocket knife. The squirrels leap across the branches to avoid them. Sadness seems to be winning. A chill reaches out for our bodies. After weeks of heat we consider submission. Tonight we will rest uneasy. The hatches are secured. The talismans are nailed to the door. God saves.

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100 Words – Wish Upon a Train

We saw the train and wished we were on it. Instead we walked in the rain along the tracks. Long ago surrendering all attempts at avoiding saturation. Jane spoke fondly of an umbrella that she once owned but left on a bus. We both came to the verge of tears at the thought of a bus. The rocky service road finally tore through my shoe. I took it off and threw it into the woods, swore then retrieved it. I took off my shirt and tore it in half. Jane tied a piece around my bloody foot. We walked on.

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RVing – Tumble Along

9/17/18

Rewired Pat's scooter today. I found several loose wires. It charges and rides much better now.

9/18/18

Seventeen mile bike ride this morning. Outside a bar called Zombiez I saw two goth girls sitting in rocking chairs. I waved. They didn't wave back. Swimming this afternoon. Tonya floated for nearly an hour in the heated indoor pool. Pat found the hole in her air mattress.

9/19/18

We stopped for lunch in Shamrock Texas where nearly every restaurant is closed. We settled for McDonalds. We're in Oklahoma! The welcome center was open and I collected a PILE of flyers and pamphlets. First stop Elk City. Weird experience at the local WalMart. I bought two bottles of Mexican orange soda and the check-out clerk commented, "Funny, I didn't peg you for Mexican." In the flat-lands sunsets take forever.

9/20/18

Hot, humid and windy. It was nap day to be sure. Who knew Oklahoma was so windy? Someone should write a musical or something about this. Tonight though the wind has turned cool and smells of rain. There is lightning on the horizon. Tumble weeds in the yard.

9/21/18

Long drive in heavy rain. We're now sitting in Yukon OK, just outside Oklahoma City. Renting a car tomorrow. Another city to explore. Abbie does not like toads. I think she thought it was a rock, till it jumped. Now she has to sniff every rock she sees.

9/22/18

Shopping day. Lunch at Jimmy's Egg, the place to eat in Yukon OK.

9/23/18

Laundry day! I did a bunch of research and found the best-rated laundromat in Yukon OK. Unfortunately, so did everyone else. So we moved on to one which had no reviews on-line but was located near an intersection that I remembered. A fine place. Many broken machines, water damaged floors and walls and even a bullet hole in one of the windows. Fortunately a young man there pointed out which machines worked best. I love people.

Pictures

[caption id="attachment_3403" align="alignleft" width="300"] What's a little radiation among friends?[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3404" align="alignright" width="300"] The local water. Made in Texas. Tastes like it.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3405" align="alignleft" width="300"] A rainy day in Elk City OK[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3406" align="alignright" width="300"] Don't worry, the shot came from inside the laundromat[/caption]

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100 Words – Alley

They were a boring couple and they knew it. Routine ruled their lives. Sex was the same. They tried role-playing, meeting as strangers, but they knew it was them. So he planned a surprise. Sent her an anonymous invitation that she knew was his. At the end of the alley was a dive bar filled with thugs and poets. He waited in the dark. There she was. He grabbed her and kissed her. She kissed back with a passion he'd never expected. Then felt the cold knife puncture his lung. Ten minutes later his wife found him. Bled to death.

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Tom Week – The Steep Part

The Steep Part

I dropped off the rental truck today and rode my bike back to the RV park. Most places this would be no big deal, but in Albuquerque that's a 9.5 mile ride with an 820 foot climb in 90 degree heat. Probably the toughest ride I've done so far. Definitely the toughest I'll be doing for some time.

School

Finally got some serious work done on my current school project. Taking a nap helped immensely.

Not School

Didn't get around to schoolwork today. I need to form one of them habit things.

School

I reorganized my approach to the project and things are going much smoother now. Lots of work done today.

Riding

Short bike ride today. New Mexico love its hills. Someday soon we're going to stay at a park at the bottom of a hill.

Sunday

We're in freakin Texas! I need to go to a roadhouse.

Monday

Texas has big news people. I love it! Finally a flat town. Bike riding is much easier when there are no hills. Got a tom of stuff done for schoolwork today.

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100 Words – Fingers Dance

Fingers dance across the melting keyboard. The keys must be hit quickly but gently to prevent the loss of fingerprints. I should go into the shade but I'm finding the sun bearing down on my bald spot to be energizing. The words are shooting from my brain, down my arms and into my hands. The words are nonsense and worthless but that's what rewrites are for. The spellchecker is screaming under the weight of my gibberish. I am the God of speed writing. Emily Wood and Mavis Beacon bow before my glory. I smell toast. Perhaps I have become insane.

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100 Words – Star Trek

Smiley didn't love Star Trek but he watched it whenever it was on. It was meditation. He knew all the words and as they were spoken they messaged his brain into nostalgic comfort. By Star Trek I mean the first real Star Trek. Not any of that crap that came later. Martha hates Star Trek in all its manifestations. She pointed out the plot holes and bad logic at every opportunity. Smiley didn't care. The more Martha complained the more aroused she got. Post Star Trek argument sex was the best. Still Martha asked, "How can you watch this crap?"

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RVing – a week in Williams

8/27/18

Williams AZ: We are making this all up as we go along. So we are learning things every day. Had I researched this park more I wouldn't have picked it. It is on the side of a big hill, has loose gravel roads, is at a high elevation and has a steep walk to the bathroom. But all that aside, it's a cool park.

8/28/18

We went to Flagstaff for supplies today. We were surprised to find a Sprouts, so Pat now has a stash of her favorite cookies. We need to get better at planning our supplies.

8/29/18

A wonderful sitting-around day.

8/30/18

Adventure day. We went downtown and I set up Pat's scooter. We took the dogs and walked around Williams. Ate at an outside restaurant that was OK with the dogs. The waiter even brought little bowls of water for them. The best part was when the bikers arrived and they turned out to be French tourists. I love when my expectations are so wrong.

8/31/18

When in Williams Arizona eat at Rod's Steak House. The food was amazing and the prices were good. We moved parks and we're right next to a truck stop. I know this should bother me but I love it. The funniest thing about this town is that many tourists are taking pictures of our yellow Winnebago.

9/1/18

Not quite a month in the RV any we are already having to rearrange some of the storage areas.

9/2/18

Today we took Abigail out to the picnic table and cut her hair. She's not all that pretty, but she'll certainly be cooler.

Pictures

[caption id="attachment_3335" align="alignleft" width="300"] Go Away. You can't see me.[/caption]   [caption id="attachment_3336" align="alignright" width="300"] The view out our front window[/caption]   [caption id="attachment_3338" align="alignleft" width="300"] Had to try the local beer. Not my favorite.[/caption]         [caption id="attachment_3337" align="alignright" width="300"] The fire hydrants are from Iowa[/caption]

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100 Words – Bear

Carla walked her dogs in the woods by the creek. The bear just sat there, unseen, watching her. They weren't walking towards him so he really didn't care. He wasn't about to give up this pile of berries. They were blue and yummy. The wind shifted and the dogs caught the bear's scent. They whimpered and growled. Carla shushed them then she saw the bear. She screamed and ran, dragging her dogs behind her. Their tiny dachshund legs unable to keep up. By the time the got to the car they were bruised and bloody. The bear ate his berries.

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Writing – cathedral raisins

Where lies the cathedral of the soul? I have chocolate-covered raisins.

I want to create a world where both those sentences have equal weight. A world where raisins and the soul have the same importance. So far I am failing wonderfully. As I may have said before, I enjoy writing. Not just the accomplishment, but the process as well. In the past I've accepted compromises in my stories in an attempt to finish them. Not this time. This one is going to be perfect. Of course by that I mean perfection to my vision. Each piece is getting better, but they all have a long way to go. The characters are fuzzy, the plot is forking and dead-ending and even the scenery changes from rewrite to rewrite. It's like putting together a puzzle where the pieces keep changing. And I love it. I will conquer this world of my own creation. When I do I will wring a story out of it. The hungry freaks will weep.

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100 Words – Highway

The highway is calling me by name. Not just wanderlust. It knows who I am and wants me and knows I want it. The miles must be beneath me and behind me. Road songs need to find the radio and cheer me on like I always hoped Jo Jo would, but never did. It's hard to have a cheerleader cheer for you when you play no sport. Distance is my goal and the game will never end. There will never be too many nights on the road. Too many towns with sights to see. Roads to drive. America to find.

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Who do you want to be today?

Who do you want to be today?

For me, what do I want to write today. Lately I've been writing a lot of flash fiction, which I love, but it does not fulfill all my writing desires. So what else do I want to write? The problem is that I don't usually get to write what I want to write. I have great literary aspirations, but my inner critics/helpers tend to undermine my goals. It's hard to expound on a woman's elegant beauty when my inner manly man is yelling, "Show us her tits!" But which side is the real me. Sometimes I think I'm "supposed" to write a serious novel, but I'm not a serious person. Can there be depth without seriousness? Is verbal slapstick an art form? Do I overthink everything? I have a novel in the planning stages. It's based on my fear of being in control of my own destiny, which manifests as dreams about preparing for journeys that are infinitely delayed. The conflict is that in real life my journeys happen, rarely with any delays. Then there is the twist, which is that I see this book as an homage to my favorite class of movies, the campy horror story. Sort of Vincent Price in Our Town if it was written by Kafka as told by Brother Theodore. Easy to describe, but to execute? I told you I think too much.

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100 Words – Papers

Leroy fell. His papers flew, littering the crosswalk. The people got out of their cars to help. A small army of strangers collected the papers mixing them into a pile in whatever order they fell. They didn't understand that the pages were worthless without the order. They couldn't know that the papers were not rightfully Leroy's. He thanked the people as best he could. They tried to help him to his feet but his left leg wouldn't work. The security guard's stick did a number on his knee. The mace put the guard in his place. Then came the sirens.  

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Writing – Comfortably Weird

I'm not weird on purpose, only I am.

I blame it on my brothers. They are 2 and 3 years older than I am. I could never compete with them so I wound up finding things that didn't interest them. Things that could be mine. Things I could be best at. That was the beginning of the weird. The trend was cemented by the record stores. I had little money so I scoured the cut-out bins. There I found many things never played on the radio. Odd voices praying to the night. Then there was PBS. Late night on PBS in Boston was a parade of oddness. Foreign films, British comedies, video art. My sensibilities were altered. Then I found the authors that my teachers never told me about. People who knew a world they never fully understood. Passions and paranoia unbounded. I wanted to be one of them. Now it's my turn to create. I wrote short stories to learn how to write. I wrote a novel so that I could say I wrote a novel. I write flash fiction to still the voices. Now there is the new novel. I am writing this one for me. My goal is to write a book that I would want to read again. It will not be a best-seller. It will be good though, just kind of weird.

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RVing – Moss Landing to Prunedale

LOG:

8/6/18 Today we drove to Moss Landing. Going down the highway the windshield was hit by what we thought was a rock. It made a huge bang and it looked like it made a big crack. Fortunately we later found that it was just a bug. I mostly love the Moss Landing rv park. The only problem is the horrible WIFI. Just stuff you have to deal with. At least until tomorrow when we go pick up our own hot spot. We were going to do that today but Gilroy was way too hot to stop. 8/7/18 Consumer errand day. Best Buy, Smash Burger, Rancho Laundramat, WalMart. We are finding more restrictions to travel than expected. The fires and heatwave are limiting us and every other RVer to a narrow strip of coast. We're all fighting for space. We're set through Monday but after that, we'll see. 8/8/18 We've made it all the way to Prunedale. A whole seven miles from Moss Landing. We're kind of hanging around till the heat wave eases. Supposed to happen late next week. I love no having to be anywhere. 8/9/18 Time to update the GPS maps. Today it led us to a Black Bear Dinner that had closed some time ago. Fortunately Pat found its new location on Google. It was just one exit further up 101. Upon arrival we were greeted and hugged by a person in a bear outfit. Perfect. 8/10/18 The first of several still days. It's nice to not have to unhook and rehook the RV. 8/11/18 Errand Day. Shopping at WalMart. Donations to Goodwill. Washing the RV. So much fun. 8/12/18 Great day hanging out. Tomorrow we're going to Hollister. A whole 20 miles away.

PICTURES:

[caption id="attachment_3274" align="alignleft" width="300"] This cat is the king of Moss Landing[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3275" align="alignleft" width="300"] Is there anything sadder?[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3276" align="alignleft" width="300"] We had a special visitor grace our RV[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3277" align="alignleft" width="225"] Tonya the tiger says RVing is Grreeaatt![/caption] [caption id="attachment_3278" align="alignleft" width="300"] The laundromat had a dryer called Rex![/caption]

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100 Words – Bacon

"Seriously dude, that is too much bacon!" Paul hated his room mate more now than ever before. A feat which he previously thought impossible. After all, what could possibly surpass the great hamster experiment of 2017? Loving bacon is one thing. Paul himself enjoyed bacon, but at normal non-sociopathic levels of enjoying bacon. What George was doing was beyond the scope of human decency. Four pounds of freshly fried bacon piled on a plate, about to be devoured and washed down with a quart of gas station tequila. George claimed holy direction and dug in. Paul fingered his rosary beads.

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RVing – Here We Go

7/29/18

Chester and I moved the first load to the RV today. It was a bit of an adventure. The storage yard gate wouldn't accept my code. We made several phone calls and pleaded our case to the answering machines to no avail. I was even contemplating trying to climb over or under the fence. Fortunately we weren't the only visitors to the yard and a sympathetic fellow RV'er let us in.

7/30/18

Our first full-time night in the RV. We are exhausted, in pain and emotionally wrung-out. I've never been happier.

8/2/18

So tired. Handing over the keys to the house tomorrow.

8/4/18

Lunch at JJ's. Get the bacon dog. Yum. Though Pat's chicken sandwich was a hamburger. The manager offered Pat a free shake in compensation, but Pat's allergic to milk. However she was able to get the website where the woman at the other table bought her hat.

Dinner at the Star. Thousands of fake pink flowers hanging from the ceiling. Seat yourself. Under-staffed. Great food.

Just after dark our neighbor starts yelling to me. I can't understand him so I go outside where he explains that there is a skunk under our RV. A cute little thing. I came back inside in hopes he'd wander away. Apparently he did.

8/5/18

Said goodbye today to the car and Chester. The Car was easy. Chester was hard. Tomorrow we head out.

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100 Words – Deviant

"I am a deviant." said the man who committed no crime. The judges stared down at him with pity, but there is no room for pity in the law. They whispered to each other and passed notes up and down the line. The man in the witness box looked to his lawyer for some sense of what was going to happen next. The lawyer knew but closed his eyes so as not to tell.

Finally the judges arrived at their verdict. "Not guilty." said the bailiff. Before the man could protest he was grabbed and dragged from the court room.

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100 Words – Masks

The death mask hangs in a basement corridor next to the mask of the man who ordered his death. The young man stands and stares at the contrast. The face of knowledge and the face of power. He sees what he came to see, but didn't find what he was looking for. There are no answers in the past, only lessons. Everything is open to interpretation. The winners write history. The rebels, their graffiti. The politicians decide what is truth and the peasants labor to make it real. Two masks hang on a wall. A young man stares, understanding nothing.

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Writing – Hate Writers

I'm a writer. I used to hate other writers. I hated them for their talent and success and general snottiness. I hated them for not being a pile of twisted mental. Why was it so easy for them and so hard for me? Obviously this attitude was delusional. I knew that, but still couldn't shake it. I think that's one reason all my favorite writers were dead people. Hard to feel competitive with a corpse. I wish I could say that I had a great epiphany and now I love all in the literary world. Not true. It took years of apathy and erosion of will. I learned over the years to get over myself. The final straw in this attitude was the stripping away of a long-held prejudice, the daily prompt. I always considered people who needed prompts as hacks. You need to write from within. Then I started reading some of what these people were writing. Turns out Twitter is good for something after all. It also turns out that I really liked a lot of what I was reading. So I jumped on the bandwagon. I'm having fun, but more importantly, I'm meeting writers that I like. Yes, it's only Twitter following right now, but it has opened me up to actually being, "sociable."

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100 Words – Prompt

Leroy was addicted to writing prompts. He followed 43 prompt websites and emails. For each prompt he wrote one sentence using the keyword or concept. Then he would spend the rest of the day trying to build a story out of those sentences. For Three hundred and seventy days he failed to develop anything but gibberish. Then one day it all came together. Like the proverbial room of infinite monkeys, the randomness paid off. The planets aligned as each sentence found it's place in the story of an old woman discovering the meaning of her life just before she died.

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