From Sonya’s 3LineTales at Only100Words.
You can find the original prompt here. Thank you, Sonya.
photo by Boris Smokrovic via Unsplash
I flit and flutter and fly, waiting and searching for you, my dearest love.
High and low I seek, knowing I must find you before I die.
When at last we meet, we waltz across the skies, lovers, soul mates, our destinies entwined, if only for today.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
I love John Muir. Have I mentioned it before? There is something magical, contradictory and surprising in the phrase “They make their way into the heart of the roughest solitudes with smooth reserve of strength…” I’m not sure I have ever considered solitude as rough. But being alone, working alone is not always easy.
And I love the idea of conquering the challenges we face with quiet courage. There is an enviable beauty in the creatures who can reach their goals without wailing and lamenting their fate. There is grace in the steady steps and focus that makes them mountaineers.
How will you face your day?
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Title: Bird Away
Source: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
Word count: 270 words
This week’s photo prompt is provided by Yinglan. Thank you, Yinglan!
Slim, Joey and me was out in that old, dry riverbed. Just past old man Whiteblood’s place? Ya know? I was slinging pigeons, cause they wouldn’t let me shoot. Said it weren’t no fun when all my pulls was kills.
Likes I says, I was slinging pigeons, and they was a shooting. Missing, mostly. And after a while, my throwing arm was gittin sore. On account theys such bad shots, I could throw some birds three or four times.
Anyways, as we was shootin, the clouds started rolling in. They wasn’t like ordinary clouds, they was kinda spooky, not natural. Ya know? So, I was walkin out, picking up away birds and all of a sudden like, it got pitch black. And it got real cold. I got those goosebumps all over.
Then we seen this light. Brightest light I ever saw, coming through the clouds. Joey asks me ‘Did I see it,’ and I says ‘Yeah’. The boys they came and stood right besides me.
And thats when this big old silver disc appeared. Hangin right over our heads and all full of flashin lights. Kinda like a Christmas tree. Ya know? So, we was standin there watching and not knowin what to make of it all. And none of us sayin nothing. Didn’t want to sound all crazy like. Ya know?
Then this door thing, maybe a like a hatch or something? Ya know? Well it opened up. And this creature, I don’t know what you’d call it zactly, but it walked just like you and me. Ya know?
Well, that’s when Slim handed me his double barrel.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash
The hairbrush whizzed past my head, and struck the doorjamb, before falling to the floor and skidding under the bed.
“You bastard. You’ll ruin my life,” she screeched.
I stood in the doorway prepared for the onslaught, ready when it came. She slapped my face, and I felt my flesh burn. Her fists pounded my chest, and I smelled her familiar fragrance, it always enveloped her. I tasted it when we kissed and smelled it in my clothes when we were apart.
“You can’t leave. We love each other too much,” she said as the pummeling stopped. She leaned in, her arms weaving themselves around my neck. I wanted to hold her but forced my hands to obey.
“You love me. I know you’re angry, but you always come back. So just stay,” she cooed. Pressing against me, she lifted her head, wanting to be kissed.
I turned, and her lips grazed my still stinging cheek.
Offended, she pushed away, “Why does it matter? Why do you care?” she hissed and stared at me, tears welling in her eyes. Then she turned, collapsing on the bed and sobbing into her pillow.
That’s how I left her all those years ago. Smeared mascara, highlighting bloodshot eyes that said everything was my fault. It was a lie. It was too late. It was over. No one blamed me. They knew about the hidden bottles, the late nights at smoky bars and the denials, rehabs, and relapses.
Late at night, my phone buzzes.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
A daily writing practice is hard to achieve. Many things vie for our attention and our time. Family, friends, social media and the newest Netflix release are relaxing, enjoyable, and easy. Temptations abound. But every day I write. Sometimes the agonizing grind produces one hundred words. Occasionally, a writing session is filled with magic, pixie dust and a torrential release of words. It is the sporadic reward for making a commitment and doing the work.
What steps are you taking to make writing a habit?
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
I had a short conversation with a new friend yesterday. Our discussion centered on the recent loss of a loved one, and their legacy. It got me thinking, as these things do, about my legacy. It is easy to descend the rabbit holes of Netflix, and text messages, and cleaning, or other time-consuming things. As much as we enjoy or feel compelled to participate, they don’t seem epitaph worthy.
Do you want to be a beloved parent, spouse, child, or friend? A gifted artist? An advocate for the needy? A philanthropist? A prolific writer? Legacies don’t show up without work, effort and determination, every single day. What will they write on your tombstone?
What can you do today to take a small step toward your legacy?
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Title: One More Step
Source: Friday Fictioneers sponsored by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple
Word count: 100 words
PHOTO PROMPT © Dawn M. Miller
I step past the tangled tree limbs encroaching on the railroad bridge, stopping at the edge.
“Do you dare step onto the bridge?” the voice asked. “One more step and no one can save you.”
I crossed hundreds, thousands of bridges, in my traveling years. I had never heard this voice.
“One. More. Step.”
I glanced around. I was alone.
Fast-moving water churned thirty feet below, the chill wind tugged my threadbare coat, my pack dug into my shoulders the weight a ton of bricks.
I stood.
Minutes? Hours? A lifetime?
Time to go home. It was one more step.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
This cartoon hits home. I am completely focused on “not finishing my novel”. But it doesn’t mean I am not writing. In fact, I find writing is now easier than it was before November. Words spill onto the page in record time. I glance up and I have 300, 500, or 1000 words starting at me. The words are not bad. I like this side effect.
I feel like a weightlifter who has trained hard and then returns to the “normal” routine to find it has become too easy. I like getting more done in less time.
Have you noticed any residual effects from NaNoWritMo?
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Title: Dark Clouds
Source: Weekly Writing Challenge #170
The five words: LATE, STORM, FRAME, STRIKE, WRAP
Word count: 370 words
Photo by Brandon Morgan on Unsplash
“Mom, we’re gonna be late,” Carrie yelled as she ran to the minivan. The large equipment bag hung from her shoulder, bouncing on her hip and her leg as she ran. She gripped the strap of the backpack slung over the top of equipment bag to keep it from sliding and crashing to the ground.
Missy stood under the gym canopy with the other moms while the girls chatted. She clicked the fob, unlocking the door for Carrie.
“Looks like it going to storm,” Rina said pointing to the dark clouds on the horizon.
Missy nodded, worry lines creased her forehead. She had checked her phone, finding angry red blotches on the radar display. It projected the storm would run straight at them.
“Mom lets go.”
Missy said goodbye to Rina, waved to the girls and hurried to the van.
***
The van’s windshield framed a massive lightning strike. Missy jumped, and Carrie screamed then giggled nervously. Blinded by the brilliant flash Missy felt the hair on her neck and arms stand on end. She blinked, trying to focus on the highway in front of her. Thunder cracked and boomed around her, slamming through her chest and rocking the van.
More lightning flashed, rippling across the sky, pulling giant chains of thunder through the sudden blackness it left behind. It was morning, but the sky was dark as night.
“Oh man,” Carrie said as she rubbed her hands over, her bare arms.
Then, almost on cue fat raindrops pelted the windshield and obliterated their view of the highway. Missy slowed the van and turned the wipers on high. The rain rose to the challenge and fell harder as the wipers danced. All around them the storm raged, and Missy slowed the van, pulling onto the shoulder before she stopped. It didn’t take long for the windows to fog as the temperature changed.
Carrie dug a hoodie from her bag, wrapping it around her in the sudden chill. They sat, huddled in the van and watched the greatest show on earth.
As the storm diminished Carrie reached over and held her mom’s hand.
“What a cool reason to be late.”
Missy smiled at her daughter and pulled back onto the highway.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
I may or may not confess to hearing voices on occasion while I am writing. They might inform me about the dialog, or way the character should act. Sometimes they might divulge secrets about their past or share their hopes and dreams.
I hope writing fiction continues to be legal, or there is a change I could be in trouble.
What are your voices telling you today?
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
