Gargleblaster: Progress

 

         Kara raced through the meadow chasing butterflies.  She spent hours picking wildflowers and creating imaginary games.  Life was so easy then.   Twenty years later she stared at the concrete jungle that replaced the fairyland of her childhood as a lone tear fell.

Note:  This 42 word fictional story was written for the Yeah Write Me #170 Summer Series Prompt "Where have all the flowers gone?".

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Drive Haiku

on the road again

lifetime of lonely highways

always craving home

Inspired by the prompt at

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Let it Go: A Writer’s Enema

       Writing, blogging, hunting and peck typing….they are all related.  There are words on the page, right?  Yes, there are.  So I am writing.  That is half the battle with writers block.  Just sit down and type.  Type random thoughts at the top of your head and let them flow on the screen.  Who said it had to be perfect?  Me.   That is why a lot of things get backspaced and deleted into oblivion, simply because letting just anything flow on the page often ends up looking like raw sewage.  It stinks…BAD.  Where is the industrial size can of Febreeze when you need it?

        What amazes me is then a person puts that raw sewage out there.  You fan the stench by sharing it on every social media platform known to man hoping, against hope, that some sorry bastard will be curious, follow that link, and read it, and maybe even form enough of an opinion to actually comment on it.  Deep down in your heart, you know it is raunchy and crusty.  You know or believe it sucks.  Still you post it anyways just to prove you can.  You wax poetic.   You post it because, honestly, that is all you got! Wonders of wonders, folks stop in and read the raw sewage that flowed out of your brain and actually comment.  If you are like me, you try to avoid the ole inbox because deep down you know what you wrote was shit, the simple ramblings from a very foggy brain, but you still want people to LIKE your shit.   Your inbox fills up to overflowing.  Amazed you simply can’t resist going there and reading what they have to say about what you wrote.  You HAVE to know.

 
           At that point, if you are me, you become hopelessly confused.  Do these people actually LIKE shit or are they just being polite? Have they bought into that ‘say something nice or don’t say anything at all’ that you have been spoon fed since birth and follow it to a tee?  They know it is shit, you know it is shit, but still they spout that “this is so poignant, so brilliantly written BS” and you know what?  You buy it.  You want to believe the fairytale that your writing is actually good.   You so desperately want people to get you.  Understand where you are coming from, that you thank them, are unbelievably floored by their amazing comments, and rush right out with your dreams and heart on your sleeve and write more drivel once again.

                It is a vicious cycle, I tell you!   Lately it has driven me up the proverbial wall.  So far up, that I am in danger of plunging off and shattering into a million pieces, much like Humpty Dumpty.  Quickly checking to make sure I am not really SHAPED like him.  No, no I am not.  At least, I am not shaped like that YET.    Then there is the question, if I can have this much diarrhea of the brain spewing forth onto the computer screen…am I truly blocked after all?  Am I just a sorry lazy ass?  Do I need the metaphorical enema to spew forth a piece of writing which is actually entertaining and brilliantly written?  Obviously, yes, yes I do… because the bottom line is…I AM full of shit.  You know it, I know it, and everybody knows it.

         With that said, how do you battle that dreaded writer’s block that leaves you panicked, pissed off, and feeling despondent? 

       1. Write!!  Something, anything.  Let that raw sewage flow.  Let it go!!! Don’t hold back anymore.  It is no fun being constipated.  Let it spew forth and free you! 

2. Don’t worry.  Be happy!

3.  Laugh!  Giggle until you pee your pants, your belly hurts, and fluids are leaking from every known orifice then transfer that unbridled glee to that blank screen.  Let people THINK you drink hair spray and you are bat shit crazy if that is what does it for you and then write that shit down!!  God knows, you must document this moment, if for no other reason than because you can.

4.  Read.  Yes, you heard me.  Read other people’s work.  If they can write it, so can you!

5. Believe in yourself.  That is one I have to work on big time.  Believe you can instead of believing you suck and can’t.

6.  Last but not least, if you got nothing after all that, walk away for a while.  If you are not feeling it, don't force it.  Sleep, drink, eat, and be merry doing something else.  When you come back refreshed, you may be surprised to find your words have returned with you.  Start back at square one and let those pigeons loose.  Let it go!

     Before you know it, writer’s block will be a thing of the past.

Speak Easy 169 : Over the Valley

      Jane didn’t have many friends.  That was okay.  She didn’t really need them.  She was busy enough with her imagination.  It was the only place she could escape her father’s grasp.  She would pretend she was a butterfly flitting from flower to flower without a care in the world instead of the damaged goods she really was.   Still when she met Phillip she hadn’t expected for them to be so much alike. She had been in the meadow behind her house in hot pursuit of a brilliantly blue butterfly when she had first seen him taking a piss on the big oak tree on the edge of the woods.  She had watched transfixed, losing sight of the butterfly in the process.  As far as boys went, he was classically handsome.  Still she had been a bit leery of him.  After all, he was not only a boy but a stranger.  Where had he come from?  She had lived here all her life and had never seen him.  She would have remembered.  Phillip was like no one she had ever seen before, as if he had been dropped here from somewhere else entirely.

      Their eyes had met when he had finished and the heat that instantly warmed her cheeks seemed to warm his as well.  Awkward!    The smirk that quickly followed his initial look of surprise was classic.  In embarrassment, she had run away and his hearty laughter had followed her.  As fate would have it, they met again the next day at school.  He was the new kid, and as soon as their eyes had locked instant recognition had caused her cheeks to grow hot once again in embarrassment.  She had played it cool and continued to draw butterflies on her notebook as he watched her from across the classroom.  When the bell rang, she made a beeline for the door only to have him pursue her and finally catch up outside her locker.

        “Did you like what you saw?” he asked boldly. 

         “You are sick, whatever.  Just leave me alone.” She had begged. 

       It was then he had slammed her locker shut and forced her to look at him.  At that point he hadn’t known the horrors she had endured at her father’s hands, although she believed it was as obvious as the nose on her face.  What she had seen in his deep brown eyes was the offer of friendship and even the recognition of understanding that he couldn’t possibly have had then.    Eventually she learned to trust him and believe he could be the knight in shining armor that would save her from the atrocities she faced nightly at home.  From that day on, they had been inseparable.  Rather than having to confess her secrets, he somehow seemed to instinctively know so she didn’t have to.  He was her friend, her savior, her partner in crime.  From that day forth, they were like two peas in a pod, their fates entwined as destiny ordained. 

      They met daily in the meadow.  They lay on the grass amid the wildflowers and watched the clouds chase lazily across the sky sometimes seeing tigers and other times bears.  They dreamed of escaping the personal hell that awaited each of them at home.   They consoled each other, and as the years passed shared the unthinkable truth and the shame neither of them could ever truly escape.

          The last day she saw him there, he was more tortured than she had ever seen him.  She understood his angst, had went through it herself, but she couldn’t have predicted the way events would finally play out.  He seemed especially agitated that day.  Finally the clouds and gentle warm breezes had lulled him.  He was quiet, brooding, seeming almost a million miles away.   She had blown off his mood, thinking it would pass.  The next day, she had found him there hanging dead from a tree, the evidence of his father’s most recent beating shadowing his skin in horrific detail.  Tears clouded her vision as she watched the police cut him down.   It was that day she chose to escape her private hell and run away.  If only this epiphany had come sooner.  They could have run away together, plucked up courage and sought help.  He would still be here with her.  It was the only thing she regretted, the possibility she could have saved him and in the process saved herself. 

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Party Haiku

festive atmosphere

gathering friends and family

food music and games

Inspired by the prompt at

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Another Butterfly Zentangle

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