Sunday, July 31, 2016

30-Day Writing Challenge: Day 12

I hope at this point you aren't running out of creative steam.  Because, let's face it: as endless as that fountain of ideas may seem at 2 a.m. some nights, that dry screen other days will seem cruel and superior plenty of other times.  'You know what?' it says, 'Don't you think this page looks better blank?  Empty of your scribblings?  Your ramblings?  Your trite and hackneyed ideas and stories?'.  I don't have an answer to this ever, really- I don't argue when the other side can't listen.  One compromise (you may have noticed) I use, is giving the page some space.  A whole column of just whiteness and periods, before I spoil the beautiful emptiness with thought-splatterings.  That page can keep its blankness- but the next one is for the writing I know I need to get down.  If I don't, I never will have anything worth reading, and the blank page will have won.  

I know it may not be getting easier- yet.  Establishing a daily habit wouldn't be such a fantastic thing if it didn't take effort.  But you get what you put into it (like everything else), so I hope you get something good out of this photo from Kaboompics, where photographers generously put out their photos under the Creative Commons License, helping artists like you and me.






The sheets are soft and still smell like fabric softener.  Lucy doesn't want to leave them, and fumbles for the snooze button.  No, that's not for today, she remembers: Kristen's coming!  That name is enough to send her springing out of the bed, and onto the little rug in her apartment's single bedroom.  

Fumble through the dresser, throw together breakfast, and... well, the process of cleaning her place, small though it is, will take some time, and not a little effort.  But Kristen's coming!  And into her cleaning mode Lucy plunges.  


The vacuum is roaring over what Lucy is sure must be the last square foot of space when she hears the knock.  Not loud, not brassy-- Kristen never uses the knocker or the bell.  This is going to be so much fun.

"Kristen!"  Lucy squeezes her tight, and feels that easy laughter she's always loved bubbling up in her friend. "Oh, it's been too long.  you really have to come down to Austin more often than this.  Besides, a lovely musician like would love it here."  Then she suddenly pulls back.

"You have something to tell me."

Kristen laughs again.  Is it the same?  Lucy can't say what exactly strikes her as different, but she senses something in her friend's laughter- something nervous?  But, before she can ask, Kristen bursts out, "We're going on a picnic!", thrusting the wicker basket into Lucy's arms.

"A picnic?  Oh, you didn't have to make-"

"Nonsense.  I already know where we're going- you'll love it.  And I know you don't get out enough, so don't even try to get out of it."

"Alrighty then," Lucy concedes with a smile.  "I'll get my cane."

"Oh no you don't.  Or do you not trust me to guide you arm in arm anymore?"

Both women chuckle.  "Well, let's see," Lucy says, "You've got two broken legs, a broken arm, and a fractured wrist in your history.  And, heaven help us if you sneeze."  

"Oh, well, bring it if you like, but I think it will be more fun this way.  You don't need a "stick-eye" when you've got two friendly eyes and a chatterbox mouth for you.  And you really do need to get out of your little studio for some Vitamin D."

The sunshine does feel wonderful to Lucy as she walks with her friend.  It hadn't been a far drive in Kristen's car, though any car seems much faster than the bus, Lucy thinks.  She'd noted each of the turns announced in strident tones by the GPS- it had seemed strange that Kristen took two wrong turns, but Kristen had passed the time pleasantly by talking steadily about her work back in Dallas. 

But, after a steady stream, here in the park, she stopped.

"Lucy-"  Kristen was mumbling- something was wrong, I knew it, I knew it, Lucy thought to herself in a flash- how did I miss it before?  

"I-I don't know how to tell you this..."

Lucy squeezes her friend's hand, and hopes her smile is reassuring.  But the clamminess of her friend's hand does nothing to encourage that hope.

"I- I'm going completely deaf."

"It’s the medication I have to take for my allergies," Kristen spilled out quickly.  "I didn't know about the side effect, but it's already too far gone- I have a hearing aid, but the doctor said it's only a matter of time ..."

Lucy sits silent for a second, processing.  From the strange,  desperate tone of her friend's voice, it sounds like there isn't much that can be done about it.  But she's hardly thirty-

"Lucy?"  Even though Kristen is almost mumbling, Lucy catches the quiver in her friend's tone, as if she's become afraid of her own voice.

"Why didn't you say anything about it before?  No, never mind."  Lucy hugs her friend tightly.   "You are stronger than anyone I know," she murmurs, hoping that she said it loud and clear enough, but afraid it might've been too loud too.

"I-I just I don't know," Kristen whispers.  "I-I- but you know more about this than anyone."





Saturday, July 30, 2016

30-Day Writing Challenge: Day 11

Today's picture is brought to you from Picography, the lovely site where "photographs are provided free of charge and under the Creative Commons Public Domain CC0 license" .  The intriguing photo I selected, should you be interested, was taken by Dave Meier.




Would be glad to see what you come up with for this one in the comments (or whatever your thoughts are on my daily writing, which you are always welcome to share).
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Fall leaves feel

Jenny rubs at her face again.  "Sofu, I don't know about this haiku thing."  She looks at her grandfather, hoping he will understand her in English and she won't have to explain her difficulties in her stumbling Japanese.  "Sofu", the affectionate Japanese term for grandfather, is about the only word she would be sure she would get right. 

"I will see."  Her grandfather's wrinkle-creased eyes peer over her shoulder at the notebook.   The page is empty except for the one line, written in a careful, neat hand.  A cautious but uncertain hand, he thinks.

"It is not bad, Aiko."  Jenny bites her lip as he calls her by his Japanese nickname for her- 'beloved'.  "But, the haiku- you must feel it- different."

Jenny looks up at him confused, so he tries again.  "You see the two 'f's?  And the 'l's?  That is not what haiku is about.  That is English poems."

Jenny sighs.  Her mother had somehow thought that learning haiku from her grandfather would be so much fun for both of them, as Jenny excels in her freshman English class, writing A+ poems, and her mother cannot remember a time when her father didn't enjoy his amateur haiku writing.  

But, haiku is not English poetry, Jenny thinks frustrated, sighing again as she remembering her sofu's observation.  Haiku isn't about alliteration, isn't about similes and metaphors, isn't about rhyming-- it doesn't seem to be about anything Jenny recognizes when she thinks of poetry.  

"Take a walk?" her grandfather suggests.  

At least they can both enjoy the sunny but cool October weather of southern Hokkaido, Japan's northernmost main island; the pressure to speak and get things done blows away with the refreshing breeze.  Jenny thinks of the warmer weather back home; they'll be taking the long flight back to Southern California in a couple days, their visit to Japan and her mother's family over for this year.  Yes, at least the awkwardness isn't so bad out here; the quiet of the country surrounding her grandfather's simple little house is soothing, gently complementing the natural green beauty of the ponds and plants Jenny doesn't know the names of.  

"Aiko, you see that bird?"  Jenny turns to where her her grandfather's wrinkled index finger points.

The heron is perfectly still, a natural statue in a boat that seems as in harmony with its surroundings as the bird.

"You see it?"  Jenny is confused that her grandfather repeats the question.  Clearly, she must be seeing it; she's following his finger, and looking directly at it.

"Hai, I do," she answers a little quickly.  

"Watch."  A few moments later, the heron takes off, spreading its wings in a graceful arc of white and grey, lightly splashing the water with its feet as it rises from the boat into the air.  One moment there, then gone, but more beautiful than before and after is the special moment between the two, the flight that heralds fall. Jenny gazes after it for a moment. 

"That- that is haiku.  You feel it now?"

A simple moment in nature, a season in a moment- "Yes, I think I do, sufo," Jenny whispers, unwilling to disturb the moment.  Nature doesn't work with rhyme schemes, or strive for human structures- and yet...

"It is poetry," Jenny murmurs.  "Clear and beautiful."

The lines are already forming in her mind as she looks back at her grandfather, whose smile shines out like the sun emerging from a winter cloud.  

Poetry, a little pool, reflecting the facets of the world...




Friday, July 29, 2016

30-Day Writing Challenge: Day 10

Today's picture is from Superfamous Images (the work of Dutch interaction designer Folkert Gorter, based in Los Angeles).   The Superfamous images collection offers a lot of stunning vistas, cool pictures of stone, and interesting perspectives on water (more watery pictures can be found under the  but does it float page).  




Now, let's get writing!

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There used to be few things that I feared more than my fear of heights.  I've lived in the mountains for the last ten years now, and never gotten over that terrible acrophobia.  

And I have it bad.  A yard away from any edge, and I'll already get that sickening feeling, where my stomach starts playing at being ocean waves, my head pretends to be one of those spinning globes, and my knees start shaking like there's some incredible dance move they've got to bust.  Yeah, not much fun.  And don't even talk about looking down at any height above ten feet.  You'd rather I not throw up on you, right?

None of that has really changed.  And yet... well, I guess I should just tell you what happened.

Being the older brother of a fearless girl has never made my acrophobia easier.  But when Jenny was eight, I didn't think it could get any worse.  Who else could I depend on to tell every single one of my new middle school friends that I was super scared of heights?

"Hey Jimmy, guess what?  Tim is such a scar-"  I didn't always manage to stop her in time, though, and my secret was out.  Sure there wasn't any spot on the playground to test my fear- the monkey bars and playground were safe enough.

But, I knew that everyone else was thinking of the ledge behind the school when Justin, a boy I never liked, asked me if I was afraid of heights.

"


Thursday, July 28, 2016

30-Day Writing Challenge: Day 9

Rolling on, today's picture comes from the beautiful gallery of Life of Pix, "hand-made with love by Leeroy Advertising Agency in Montreal & its network of photographers" (as they state on their home page).  Pictures are organized under 13 categories: 

1) Animals 
2) Beach 
3) Black & White 
4) City 
5) Construction 
6) Desk 
7) Food 
8) Industrial 
9) Nature 
10) Object 
11) People 
12) Sea 
13) Textures  


And the picture we're actually concerned with?  Alright, no more delaying, from the Beach category...






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"Are you alone?"

Christi started at the sound of the girl's voice.  "I guess I thought so until a second ago," she tries to answer with a nonchalant shrug, and flick of the jagged black hair that fringes her eyes and vision.  The nonchalance doesn't come easy, and it must show.  Well, she doesn't need this stranger to know that.

"Its such a chilly place." Christi hears the girl shiver, though she must find the cold more interior than exterior; Christi would describe the temperature as cool, but not cold.  Not except for the grayness which she too feels piercing her to the core.  Well, there were plenty of other things that had already done that.

"So why are you here?" Christi asks the girl, still not turning to look at her, and keeping her own face hidden in the shadows of her hoodie.  The plenty of things had been painful, but to have her plan to end them interrupted?  Could the world stop being spiteful for a minute? 

"I was going to ask you that."  The girl steps directly out in front of Christi, and stares up at her.  Christi uses all the self-control at her command not to gasp.  That curly black hair, those grey-green eyes...

"You look like- oh, never mind."

"Well, why are you here?" the stranger girl asks.

"I asked you, remember?"  Christi wonders how long it'll take for the girl to go away.

"I don't have a reason unless you do." 

Christi looks up suddenly.  "What?"

"My reason is bound with yours- so why are you here?"

"This is ridiculous-"

"It is." the strange girl agrees.

"What?"  Christi looks up again.

"It's ridiculous that you want to take something infinitely valuable, and throw it away.  There are some who could envy you for it."

"Envy?  Envy what?  My life?"  Christi snorts in disbelief.  "I don't think you know what we're talking about."  What kind of pain we're talking about, she thinks bitterly, her insides curling in response to the reminder.

"If we could envy you, there are few things we would be envious of, but your earthly life, the time of your choice, and your pain would be towards the top of that short list."

Christi stares at the girl again.  "Envy a human life?  Envy pain?"

"Pain has immeasurable meaning and worth- only your mere mortal eyes can't see it," the girl answers cryptically.  Christi wheels around, but she's gone.

Meaning.  Worth.  Pain?  That sounds like... something in the back of Christi's mind clicks.  She'd heard that somewhere... where?  She has to find it.  Rising, she walks quickly away from the dark water and the death by drowning she had planned for herself.

She doesn't see the strange girl flash a smile at her earthly charge, so narrowly saved.     


Wednesday, July 27, 2016

30-Day Writing Challenge: Day 8

Wow, this week has just flown!  (Probably more like a darting kingfisher than a soaring eagle, but flown nonetheless).  The new picture for day 8 is from yet another free, quality photography site, Splitshire.  From their "Top Best Photos" collection, I bring you:


A story hides in this picture, I can feel it... and I can't wait to see what it is!  Come back tomorrow to read my version.
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The warm wind whipped at Emily's hair, playing with the golden strands as if to test and see whether they were truly as like the wheat stalks of the field as they looked.   What are you doing here?, it seemed to say.  And while the asker was a most irrational character, Emily recognized the complete legitimacy of the question.  Why aren't you in the hustle and bustle of downtown Austin, back at your office desk in the heart of a busy city, pulsing with energy and activity?  Why are you here instead, on this dusty road in the middle of nowhere?

She'd rather not think about the question, but it refused to leave her alone.  Down the highway and down the lightly-trafficked FM roads it had chased her, while she'd nervously glanced in her rear view mirrors, unable to shake off a feeling of pursuit. 

Which was ridiculous.  Nobody was going to come looking for her like this.  Not Andrew, mad though he might still be about their break-up two weeks ago. Not her editor.  None of the handful of writers she knew and tried to establish some sort of connection with.  And her family wouldn't have even known the difference.  Though geographically they lived somewhere around here, they were miles and years in the past; all ties were sundered on both sides when she'd 'run away to the big city' to pursue her 'writing dream'.  No, there was no one who would really follow her, was there?

Emily tapped nervously on the steering wheel, and turned the radio up louder, pretending the wind's whispers were a welcome, and not a warning.

She glances over at the can of pills in the passenger seat.  Funny, she thinks to herself, they don't look so very different from the ones recommended by that therapist she'd visited once.  She hadn't had the money to keep up with that sort of crazy thing, and ignored her gut feeling that she needed something to help her balance.  She was fine on her own.  Wasn't she?

She had failed.  Her writing dream- just a puff of smoke, unattainable?  Burned out?  A mirage?  She couldn't believe that her uncle was right- she wouldn't have done better if she'd stayed and let her mind rot in the stillness of their house, would she?  The dusty road seemed to mock her, puffing up clouds of sneering laughter.  You don't belong here either.

She slammed hard on the brakes, only noticing the bag almost as she was on top of it.  What was that doing here?

She stepped out of the car slowly, her eyes fixed on the strange bag.  A messenger bag had no business lying in the middle of a deserted country road.  

It looked nice too; not brand new- there was evidence of some use, but it hardly looked old or worn yet.  She touched it, and wondered at the quality of the leather.  Really, what was a perfectly fine bag like this doing here?  

Emily unlatched it.  Surely it would be empty; she'd been mentally preparing herself for that disappointment but not until she saw that it wasn't did she realize how dearly she'd been hoping it wouldn't be.

The first paper was- no, wait, that couldn't be.  She'd been the only one to keep a copy of her first story like this, she was sure.  And she'd shredded it before she set off on her desperate drive.  Yet here it was, as if it had come of the high school press just yesterday.

That was strange- but then so was the next piece that she recognized.  And the next one.  And the next one.  This was her portfolio? 

Emily flipped through the stack, briefly pausing thoughtfully at some, rolling her eyes at others, and wondering at the whole collection.  It was all here, with nothing else.  No, wait- attached to the last story- the last draft, really, that had been rejected by every single one of the three dozen publications she'd pitched, there was a note.  

"Here dies another day,
During which I have had eyes, ears, hands
And the great world around me;
And with tomorrow begins another.
Why am I allowed two?

-G.K.C.
Can't waste a precious day, let alone a precious life.

Emily put her head into her hands, and let all the tears she'd thought had already left her flow out.  This bag, showing her all that she'd tried and done as a writer... this note, reminding her that a life could matter, a day wasn't a misery to be escaped.  

Picking the bag up, Emily dusted herself off.  She may not be in good shape in her writing career, she might not have anyone waiting for her, but it didn't matter.  She had a story to write, and a life to live.      






Tuesday, July 26, 2016

30-Day Writing Challenge: Day 7

Here is the picture for Day 7, brought to you from Negative Space.  This site provides photos that are wonderfully organized, and high-quality.  I will definitely be going back to them for more photos in the future.



I haven't a clue what I'll do with this picture yet, but that is the point of this exercise, to stretch the creative muscles, and make sure to write regularly!  Fulfilling writing to you!
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"#1447441 Turner, Mark."

The fourteen-year-old boy wipes his sweaty palms on his torn, grass-stained jeans.  Nothing more he can do about the butterflies or the jeans now.  He steps out slowly into the glaring light of the white room.

"And the skill you will be demonstrating for us today?" Mark can't help but think the reflecting windows on one side of the room look like leering eyes, hiding the faces of the judges that are scrutinizing him unseen from the other side.  Don't think about them, they don't exist, he repeats to himself.  But his father's words sound hollow, powerless in this fateful white room.

"Drawing."  He lays out his pencils on the cold, metal table.  There is nothing else in the room, just him, the table, the pencils, and the overbearing whiteness of the walls.  Just him, and what he will make.  No eyes of evaluation, determining the continued existence or vaporization of this scrawny boy.  They don't exist.  They don't.

Mark closes his eyes for a brief moment, and then picks up the blue pencil.  See the lines, see them in your mind, he repeats in his mind.  That is the only way he can see them, anyhow- the ink, hanging in the air around him, is only visible to the eyes behind the glass.  The green, the yellow, the brown, the other blue, the green again, and finally the red, swish through the space, spend moments in one spot detailing, then arc to another point, dancing through the air like some crazy conductor's baton.  

"Time."  The voice is exactly the same as before, but this time Mark isn't afraid.  Not because there is no longer a reason to fear his fate.  No, if anything, he should be terrified.  But he can't but feel as if he's simply floating, as if motionless in water, unable to do anything about his destination, and completely unperturbed by his lack of control.  He closes his eyes, floating in his mind as he waits.  Is this really what it feels like to die?

"Results for #1447441."  Mark breathes again.  Funny, he'd never thought that air could actually taste sweet like that, normal and unremarkable one moment, and precious the next.  They weren't going to like his visual representation of their system.  

Incredible how a picture could bite harder than a million words, he heard his father remarking in his head.

"Subject has displayed extraordinary talent for visualization.  Will require close examination for rebellious, critical tendencies."

Mark exhales.  His life isn't over- yet.  The struggle has instead just begun.

Sunday, July 24, 2016

30-Day Writing Challenge: Day 6

Today's picture is from the lovely free stock photo collections at stocksnap.io.  Finding pictures on this site is a piece of cake, and the quality is a pleasant surprise.

Ready to write?  Try your hand at making something from this:


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Tomorrow has arrived, and another idea has splattered onto this page with it.  (Wow, if only it felt that easy, but looked nicer than that.  But we're going for regular writing exercise, people, and saving our quality worries for later).


"Shhh, he's coming..."  Kate hushes her little sister.  Marisa claps both her chubby 4-year-old hands over her mouth to hold in the giggles, only manages to look a pink balloon reaching the popping point, her little pink bow bouncing up and down as she jitters in anticipation.

Kate glances at their mother.  She's smiling, her face glowing in the light of the candles they've set up on the table in the backyard.  But there's something else that makes eight-year-old Kate pause.  What is it in her mother's face?  She can't identify it, and is soon distracted by Marisa's excited whispers.

"He's coming, he's coming!"  And then she can hear their father's step for herself.  Its heavy- heavier than usual?  Maybe- but the hope is that that will change.  Kate doesn't know what all the heaviness is about, but she wants, wants so much, for it to disappear, to fall away like dead leaves so the spring flowers can grow.

"Honey, I'm- wait, where are you?"

"Outside, hon," their mom calls, keeping her voice normal and nonchalant.

Kate beams as their father steps out from the dark house onto the back porch.  "Surprise!"

"What-what's all this, Joanie?" he stutters, turning to his wife.

"We just wanted to make tonight special," their mother murmurs.

He looks at her for a moment, and Kate wonders what their eyes are saying.  But then he sits down.

"Well, we'd better enjoy the food now, I'm famished!"  And he leads them in grace.

Dinner moves along, the food itself nothing extraordinary about the tuna casserole, Kate thinks.  But when they've all finished, and they join hands for the after dinner blessing, she hears her father.

"And Lord," he adds at the end, "we just want to thank you for all the wonderful blessings you have given us-"

What is wrong with their mother?  Her eyes are shining with something other than the happiness she carries with her beautiful smile all through the day, and all through the house, Kate notices.  Kate kicks at Marisa under the table, and nods to the door.

"Joanie," their father says softly as he gets up and comes around to behind their mother's chair.

Just before she and her sister melt into the shadows of the indoors, Kate pauses and looks back.

"I-I'm sorry, I just wanted to make it special, in spite of it all, but I- I don't know if I can do it-"

"It's alright, its alright," he murmurs, over and over again.  "He will take care of us, He will," he repeats, rocking her in his arms.  Kate slides away like a shadow, still seeing in her mind their father stroking their mother's hair as she sobs quietly.  Her dad, trying to be the strong one, even as he shakes inside at their situation.  No lights in the house- how will they pay the bill?  Kate doesn't know all the troubles inside, but she hurries Marisa into her pajamas and looks at the stars from their bedroom window- well, at least, she looks toward them, but clouds obscure the view.

"Dear God, is it true?  Will You take care of us?" she whispers into the night.

...................................................................

Kate closes the diary.  Ten years have flown, and these scribbled pages can still bring back scenes from her childhood.  She inhales deeply.

"I needed that, I guess, didn't I?"  She glances at the face on her phone, and frowns.  Its an attractive opportunity, sure this date- but what about the deeper things that count?

A true man.  That was what her father had shown her.  A true love: that was what her parents had shown her.  That was what she deserved, that was what she would settle for.  Nothing less.

She sighs, resolves, and does it.

Then her phone rings.

"Mom?"

"Katey-kat?  How's it going?"

"Fine."

"Oh?"

"Well, I think I did something right- but it wasn't easy."

"Could be a good sign, dear.  Want to talk about it?"

Kate looks over at the picture of her parents on her dorm dresser.  "Maybe later."  For now, they've said with their lives all she needed.

"Praying for you," her mom says after they've chatted about other things, her voice still managing to sound tender through the phone and miles of physical distance that separate them.  No distance between souls, her tone seems to say.  Kate smiles.

"Thanks, Mom.  That counts a lot."  More than she knows.

"He will take care of us, He will..."














30-Day Writing Challenge: Day 5

Whew, close one!  But the unbroken chain continues.  The picture for today will be another Jordan Matter selection.


Come back tomorrow to see what kind of ink (pixel tracks) I threw on the page (screen).
























For today's writing, I'm going to be less creative, and write one of those little articles about productivity, where I give you a handful of tips to optimize your working time (writing and otherwise).


Four Quick Tips to Maximize your Work Time

Tip #1: Organize 



Setting your work space in order does several things for you.  First, you feel like you've accomplished something, and it will relieve some of the stress you are likely to bring to your work; cleaning is actually therapeutic and healthful (check out this article from Huffington Post to read about the correlation).  From helping clear your mind, to making your different necessary work items easy to find, cleaning and tidying is an excellent way to start your optimized work time.


Tip #2: List and Prioritize



I know, this is easier said than done.  Sometimes, the importance of a project will make it more than clear where it should stand on your list (because yes, a list is very helpful)- and many times, the distinction won't be so obvious.  But, even when its not, writing out the tasks you want to accomplish will help you sort out the order in which you should tackle them.  Then, choose 3-5 to mark as more important than the others.  These 3-5 things you will resolve to accomplish before certain other time-suckers, such as checking email- limiting that to a cursory check for urgent messages (if you'll have those) will help keep your early working hours more focused and productive.  


Tip #3  Set a timer



Assign certain tasks specific amounts of time.  Don't make them unreasonably short periods, but go for shorter than you think.  Limiting the amount of time you're going to work on a particular task will help you focus better, and move through work more efficiently.


Tip #4 Take care of your most important tool: your body



When you're getting into your work time, you may no longer have much option to ensure you're properly rested, or eating healthy, or whatever.  But there are a few simple things you can do to help that frazzling brain and tired body of yours.  Drinking water (especially if you're running off of dehydrating coffee and soda) is one.  Deep breathing and increasing blood flow will also help keep you fresh.  Moving your neck from side to side will especially help "undeaden" your limbs and increase circulation, for those moments when you don't have the option to actually get up, though real movement is optimal.


Bonus Tips: Music, podcasts, and breaks

If you know you concentrate better with some sort of sound, making that a background noise (preferably with mindful-of-the-people-around-you-headphones) optimizes your time wonderfully.  Whether it be non-distracting music (the key is focus), falling water, or human voices, there are a multiplicity of options for you to make sure you get into "your zone".

Spacing harder projects with smaller more achievable ones is a helpful way to "break" things up, if you find yourself slowing down under too many "big" projects.  Stop, accomplish something smaller, and return with more confidence.

Friday, July 22, 2016

30-Day Writing Challenge Day 4

And we're back to the present, making sure we stay legal with our pictures.  Today's image is brought to you by (drum roll, please)... freeimages.co.uk.  The great thing about this site, is the order.  They're very well organized, with their free picture collections grouped in simple, intuitive categories (I found the above image in the Translucent section of Objects.  I know, I know, but I just wanted something random, preferably not a nature scene; those are more ambiguous to work with, and we'll work on our picture-prompt writing some more before we go for those). 

So, if you find yourself looking for an image to match what you've already written (the inverse of what I'm doing here) this site is a handy place to check.  

Enough of my recommending.  You and I both know why we're here: to write!  See what you can do with today's photo prompt...













Karl runs his hands through his hair for the hundredth time in the last twenty four hours.  

"I just want you back," he murmurs, taking her hands in his again.  He caresses the soft fingers in his own strong ones, looking longingly at the 4th finger he'd envisioned with a ring.  Every time that image has sprung to his mind in the last few hours, though, it has brought another type of pain.  

"I don't care if you're- if you're not the same.  And if you don't want- what you used to.  Just come back."  His voice cracks as he whispers the last sentence.

The nurse walks in and lays a gentle hand on the young man's shoulder.  

"You should rest; it's been over twenty-four hours now."  

Karl doesn't take his eyes off the young comatose woman in the hospital bed.  

"There's a room right over here."  Still he doesn't move.  "I'll let you know if anything changes immediately," she adds kindly.

Karl finally slumps down into the waiting room chair, leaning his head against the cold white wall and closing his eyes slowly.    

Against his will, his mind replays the moments when he got the call.  He can still see the shattered glass on the floor, from the vase of roses he'd dropped: a vase broken beyond repair.  The possible parallel makes him grimace.  

If only he wasn't so painfully aware of all the cold, hard facts of the situation.  He'd brought her here.  There's no way to silence the nagging voice that says she would've been safe if she'd just stayed in that backwater town.  

And the cold medical facts:
The recovery rate for comas is less than 50%.  
Every hour, every day, that his beautiful Muriel stays suspended between life and death,  the more that chance of returning decreases.  
And even if she does come out of it?  

Recovery.  A long, hard road, with so many twists and turns...

"Mr. Klein?"  Karl jerks his head up.  

Resolution.  It pulses through his exhausted body.  "It doesn't matter what happens outside of you," he hears his father's voice echo through him, "its what you choose to do about it that means something."




Ten years later...

"Oh, no, no, no..."  

"Honey!" he's calling from the front door.  She brushes at the pile of glass.  As he rounds the corner, he stops, the roses in his hand "Wait, what-"

"Just getting the broom," she answers, 

"Oh, no you don't," he says, sweeping her up.  

After their kiss, she sniffs at the bundle that he's dropped.  "Roses?"

"Just an anniversary.  Do we have any vases left?"

"Yes, you tease.  I haven't broken everything in the house- yet."

"Between you and Claire, I'm surprised we have anything fragile around here at all."

"Fragile?"

"Well, besides my strong, beautiful, flower."

"Two beautiful flowers: your Claire is napping after a long day of sunshine."

"Yes, two flowers..."  In the silence, they both think of the last few years. 

"Who would've thought we could prove doctors wrong?" Karl murmurs after a moment.

"Doctors and experts are wrong all the time, silly," she smiles back.

"All the time?"

" 'Never talk again: wrong, after two years."

" 'Never walk again took some more time: five years," he adds.

" 'And no way you could have a healthy baby girl!' "  

Yes, thank goodness for the wrongness, they both think.  Thank goodness we're not glass- something more than a body and breath.  Something more than roses and smiles that fade.  Something untouchable, intangible, eternal, in our delicate vases of clay.