“The end must justify the means,” the voices whispered as she traveled through the dark caves.
The voices of her ancestors, calling her home as she traveled through the winding caves toward the altar.
She had been chosen as the sacrifice to the gods that year, and she promised not to disappoint as all the others had.
“The end must justify the means,” she answered, her voice barely above a whisper.
She stepped up onto the altar just as the sky above cleared.
Lightning struck and she was reborn.
The photographs over the last year said more than she could ever put into mere words. When she had left, her brother was a little twerp, hellbent on tormenting her days. When she had returned, he was a young man, still a little imp, but better at understanding how things had changed.
Her parents and her friends all welcomed her with open arms after being gone for such a long time, but she knew she had to get rid of all of them to go back and be where she truly belonged.
He rushed down to the cafeteria, his sneakers whining against the linoleum floors. Biscuits and gravy for lunch, and he couldn’t miss it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten them when warm and fresh, usually something tended to distract him in the busy hospital.
“Doctor!” The harsh charge nurse called out as he sped past her in his excitement. “They’re serving meatloaf instead.”
His dreams were dashed, but he kept the smile on his face. “Do they still have the carrot cake?”
“Quarter if I shine your shoes, sir?” The boy was skinny, dirty, and covered in coal dust. Not quite old enough to work in the mines, but getting close. His jacket was too big around his shoulders, too worn to be his own.
The business man looked down at his perfectly shined shoes. There was something in the way the boy looked that made him pull a quarter from his pocket and pass it to the boy. “Keep it, young man,” He said.
He was about to sign the papers that would make the town apartment buildings.
Doubt surged through her as he made another excuse for being late. She had set up dinner, had timed it perfectly to when she knew he would be home after work. She had waited for him, but he had been two hours late coming home.
They argued that night. He wouldn’t give her any explanation. Her doubt grew further.
A week later, he came home early with a bouquet of roses and a puppy.
“Sorry, I couldn’t tell you why I was late,” He said, giving her a kiss. “I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”
She stood at the foot of the bed, holding onto the railing for dear life as she looked over the wrecked body before her. She hadn’t expected the accident to be that bad, she hadn’t expected to find herself there, at the foot of his bed, hoping, praying, wishing for good news.
“Tissue?” The doctor next to her asked.
She nodded silently, and took it from his outstretched hand.
“I hate to do this so soon,” The doctor continued as she watched the machines breathe for her husband. “But we do have to start thinking about options.”
“If I’m not back in an hour, go on without me.”
Forty-five minutes and she was starting to get antsy. The hour mark quickly approaching, she felt her mouth water, and not in any way that was appetizing. Her stomach turned, her heart raced. Fifteen minutes remained, but it felt like a lifetime and not enough time.
Fifty-eight minutes and something told her he wouldn’t be returning, so she began to pack it all up and take what she could.
One hour. She left, as he had instructed her to do.
The task was monumental. Too much for one man to undertake. The fear pulsed through him, latched onto his own racing heart beat.
“I’m going to kiss that nurse!” He thought to himself and in the flash of a moment, he grabbed her, a complete stranger, dipped her, and kissed her like his life depended on it.
Most of us who call ourselves writers are often more than just writers. We have day jobs, hobbies, families, pets, and probably a thousand possibilities for distraction every second of every day. Sometimes, writing can seem impossible.
This last month, I wrote for Camp NaNoWriMo and for the first two thirds of the month, I struggled. I was thousands of words behind on my goals and writing wasn’t working, so I found time and I made it work.
How I did that was to Make Writing Work For Me (not the other way around).
Making writing work for you is possible when you do what is best for you.
For instance, I knew I had signed up for Camp NaNoWriMo with one project, but I knew I needed to finish a draft of a novel, so I tried working on both, but it wasn’t working, so I put one aside and worked until I finished the draft.
Another way you can make writing work for you is to follow what advice works for you best.
There is all kinds of writing advice out there for new writers, and honestly not all of it is the greatest. If you can write every day AND stay focused on one project for long periods of time AND make a writing schedule AND everything else that is popular writing advice, good for you! I’ve tried it, and I’ve beat myself up when I can’t do it, and that only makes writing seem more like a chore.
Sometimes I follow the advice, and sometimes I don’t. That’s how I make writing work for me.
Writing should be fun! It’s your writing craft, so make it work for you.
He worked for them for months before he gave them his two weeks notice. He had worked night shift for them, busted his hump to make sure things ran smoothly, rolled with the changes the best he could, though things changed a lot.
He finally gave his two week notice because the higher ups refused to notice him and his needs.
He realized that he could do so much better, so he did.
Squeezing lemons was easy. Squeezing the life from her eyes was a lot harder.
Squeezing out a lie of why his sister couldn’t make it down to dinner was difficult. Squeezing through the bars of the jail cell was even more difficult.
He was now a felon, but he could still lure women in with his smile and his subtle scent of lemons.
The house lay empty and barren after the billionaire died. He hadn’t had any children, had married too many women, but had never produced an heir.
So many riches saved up, all lost to time, and looters and museums because there was no heir to claim them.
He had treated his staff well, and gave them what he could, but the vast majority of his riches were taken and distributed to all of the museums of the world.
Sitting in her studio, she looked over the garbage she had collected for her art piece. She hadn’t intended on using garbage, but there wasn’t much else she could use. Everything else was just too clean.
As she looked over her finds, she realized they weren’t garbage at all. It just seemed that way to other people.
She had to admit her sculpture looked good with the blue ribbon pinned to it.
The day her mother died, she dyed her hair pink in protest. Fate was cruel, taking her mother away when they were just starting to like each other again. Life was cruel, giving her most of her mother’s features.
Now when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see a miniature version of her mother, but her own person, bursting out into the world in a plume of flamingo pink.
The heat surged through her skin, her eyes squeezed tight as hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She had worked too hard, studied for too long, achieved too much for all the credit to go to her husband.
“No,” she said, once she had gathered herself and returned to the meeting. “My name is staying the way it is. My husband didn’t go to medical school. I did.”
I’ll be out of the office this weekend. I’m spending time with family. Thanks!
To create is to defy. To make in a world that only wishes to destroy is an act of defiance. To create in the world as it is now, is an act of courage and strength. To build instead of destroy, to give instead of taking away, is a privilege not many people have. The world is a mess, and through every act of creation, if we can make it right for just one person, then it becomes worth it.
“The opposite of war isn’t peace, it’s creation”- Jonathan Larson.
They all sit, huddled around the small waiting room, waiting for news. In one room, their grandmother is fighting for her life after a fall and a broken hip. In another, their daughter is in labor with their first grandchild. The timing couldn’t be more perfect, or more imperfect.
Both are in surgery now. A hip replacement and an emergency C-section.
The whole family is stone silent, waiting for any kind of news, except for grandpa, at the window, his lips moving in silent prayer.
Someone is making their departure tonight. Who do you save?
Note: I had to look up what Earthflax was. It was a multifaceted search, but I learned something new!
To look at such a beauty, one wouldn’t think she could be so dangerous. As she sat there at the table, building her model airplanes and chewing on the end of her paintbrush, she looked so innocent.
He had no idea she would choke the air from his lungs, and make him feel like he was drowning. She was a dangerous poison, wrapped in a pretty pink package.
When I was more active and doing things in certain communities, I went to a ramen and sushi restaurant with a bunch of colleagues. One gentleman opened the menu, closed it, and ordered Shrimp Tempura.
I ordered curry, because I was afraid of making a mess and splashing everyone around me if I ate ramen.
Later we learned the gentleman got a menu in full Japanese and ordered what he wanted anyway.
I ordered because I was scared. Perhaps I need to take a lesson from that gentleman, and take more risks.
