Saturday, October 24, 2020

WEP: Grave Mistake

As usual, I'm a day late for this posting. I missed the deadline to add my entry to the WEP/IWSG flash fiction linky. Oh well; at least I finally finished a story. Wasn't sure I had it in me any more. The last Windows 10 update practically wiped my computer, and I've had a rough time getting my Word program re-installed. I almost had to purchase it again. Long story I don't have time to relate just now.

Lets get to the fun stuff.


I wrote a flash fiction! Yay! I started this a week ago, but had computer problems, and work, and family issues. Wow, who knew writing 1,000 words could take so long? But here it is. I don't have a creative title so you're stuck with the blogfest title. And I'm too tired to give proper introduction to this month's WEP Flash Fiction event: Grave Mistake.

Feel free to browse the WEP website for full posting criteria, as well as visit other participants.


GRAVE MISTAKE

943 words

Full critique acceptable

Hump’s feet ran faster than his thoughts. Not unusual; at 28 he still retained his long, gangly limbs and the slim runners body that made him Coach’s pride all the way through high school. Too bad his brain was a bit slower than his distance runners feet or he may have attained a scholarship.

A cacophony of sirens and shouts followed behind him. Ahead, the general populace hadn’t yet caught on that the clammer of the next block was approaching. Quickly, relentlessly, noisily.

God! Why can’t they just give up? Its been 10 blocks already.

The satchel of money cleared the confused market crowd before him. His eyes darted everywhere, not registering anything he saw until –

A darkly clad shape bending into the rear seat of a car. A kid screaming a protest from within.

Escape! Finally. If he could just get in before the cops caught up.

He pounded to the parked car, shoved the being aside, slid into the back seat, and placed the .45 against the screaming kid’s chest. The grounded figure screeched curses and seemed to levitate to its feet. Her feet, he realized, as long nailed fingers clawed at his shoulder in an attempt to pull him out.

Hump ignored her ranting and yelled, “get in the car and drive. I swear, I’ll shoot you both and boost the car if you don’t hurry.”

“Mommy?” the said in a quiet rasp

Mom stared at him for a half a second, and he felt his head filling with a rush of blood and dizziness. Suddenly he felt caught, exposed. Like a deer waiting for the car to swerve into him. Then she slammed the car door on his foot. He groaned, blinked in pain and surprise, pulled his foot all the way into the car, and forcefully latched the door. They were moving almost before he’d realized Mom was in the drivers seat.

Traffic was starting to back up the intersection as the sirens grew more intense. Still, they were three blocks away from the hijacking point before he thought to ask where she was taking him.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Uhm,” he said, trying to think past the sudden headache. Adrenaline, he thought. The crash after the runners high. It happened frequently after after a long, grueling competition. The race is over, he thought. Just need to eat and get settled somewhere.

“Home,” he said, the wondered why he would want to go there. “Your home. Where do you live?”

“OK,” Mom said, not taking her eyes off the traffic.

The kid seemed to nod agreement. Hump looked at the child closely, a girl. Like the mom, she wore a dark hoodie pulled over her head, patched jeans shorts, and nothing but dirt on her tiny feet. Dark eyes drooped in a pale, nearly luminescent face. 

He looked up to see that same creepy looking face gazing at him in the rear-view mirror.

“Hey, eyes on the road,” he yelled, and lifted his hands to massage his temples.

Headaches after competition had kept him out of classes too often, but he had never experienced one this intense, or this sudden. Migraines his doctor had called them. He sat back in the seat to rest his throbbing eyes.

The gun! Was his first thought when the sound of the car door woke him. And then “Where are we?

“Home,” Mom said. She turned her back on him and followed the kid to the front door of a run=down mobile home.

Hump blinked to clear his eyes and head. He was dreaming about his family, his home. The memories were so vivid he was disoriented for a moment. Then he remembered. He looked frantically for the gun, found it on the floor, then scrambled out of the car to catch up with his hostages as they entered the dark home.

He wondered how it got so late; it was late morning when he’d robbed the Loomis van, surely they could not have driven through the afternoon, into evening. He checked his cell phone for the time but it was dead.

Loomis van! He turned suddenly to the car, a wave of dizziness nearly knocking him off his feet. But there it was, the money satchel, in the front seat. He grabbed it, held the gun out in front of himself and raced for the house.

Glowing orbs of movement made his eyes and head throb. “Got any food? Juice?”

“We were out food shopping when you interrupted us,” one of the glows said. It sounded like Mom.

Hump shielded his eyes with his gun hand. “Turn on the lights.”

“No power,” Mom replied.

The smaller glow glided to a back door and opened it. There was still enough daylight to dampen her glow, and Hump realized one of his hostages was making a break for it.

“Hey, get back here,” he called, pointing the gun at her back.

“Grandpa needs fed too,” the girl replied.

She kept moving, so Hump followed. IF there was another person on the property he needed to know.

“Yes,” Mom said, gesturing for Hump to follow them out the door.

They hadn’t gone far into the woods, Hump struggling to keep up, before they entered a mausoleum like cave. The two glows nearly merged, blinding him with their brilliance.

An explosive pain knocked him to his knees. Hump felt himself passing out. Another light appeared behind him as he was passing out.

“Thanks,” nearly echoed through his skull.

“Can we go home now Grandpa?”

“Not for a while Little One. We need more power.”

“He has people, family, nearby,” Mom said.


Wednesday, October 7, 2020

IWSG: Working Writer

Hello.

Yay for October - Fall is my favorite season. Love the cooling days and warm soil. I just wish I had grass (meaning a lawn) in the back yard. One day . . .

So many things going on in the world its hard to know what one day to the next will bring. Being the ultimate pessimist, I'm not seeing an end to this pandemic. I don't know exactly where the large numbers are coming from, at least not in my area, but it sure is fueling controversy and fear. Should make it easier to write a horror store this month at W E P. 

Is anyone out there forced to work from home? I'd like to work from  home. Would certainly help me do some actual writing - I think. Which brings us to this month's Insecure Writer's Support Group optional question:

October 7 question - When you think of the term working writer, what does that look like to you? What do you think it is supposed to look like? Do you see yourself as a working writer or aspiring or hobbyist, and if latter two, what does that look like?


I'm sorry I missed last's months IWSG post, I really wanted to answer that question, something about the author to meet or emulate. But that also ties into the concept of "what a working writer looks like." Stephen King is the author I choose to be like. I know he put in his time as an aspiring author, and worked a day job while waiting to be discovered. He wrote short stories, published in all kinds of magazines and contests, and eventually was able to quit everything except writing. Awesome.

I consider him brilliantly talented, even though he has written what I consider some epic fail stories and novels. But I like how he just shrugs it off and keeps going. Proving that just because you make it to "working writer" doesn't mean you'll never see a rejection, or bad review. I'm also a character driven writer, and I think I learned that love of ordinary characters in extra-ordinary situations from reading Stephen King novels. There are plenty of other authors who are my idols, but King is the ultimate fan crush.

Personally, I'm a hobby writer. I don't have the s kill or dedication to put in the time and effort of "working writer." But I enjoy writing stories, and its been gratifying to see some of my stories published. Its a hobby though, much like people who joint pool teams, bowling, display quilts at fair's,  You don't have to earn a living at something to enjoy doing it.

Although I'm not blogging much, or writing for publication at this time, I still sit once in a while and work on some of the ideas in my head. I've even finished a few short items, but no editing. Just having fun. One day maybe people will not be allowed outside their homes for travel or shopping. Then my employment will end, and I might take a stab at "aspiring" to be a "working writer" again.

I hope everyone is staying safe and taking care of themselves and their families.

Be sure to thank (by visiting) our IWSG host Alex J Cavanaugh, and his co-hosts Jemima Pett, Beth Camp, Beverly Stowe-McClure, and Gwen Gardner. Check out the IWSG linky for posts, and to sign up if you haven't already.

Oh, P.S: I didn't have any trouble creating a blog post since the Google changes, but I do have issues posting on Word Press blogs. Sorry, still trying to get my Disquis and Word Press ID's to work.