Wednesday Writing prompt

http://www.clipartguide.com/_search_terms/pencil.html

 Practice, practice, practice some more. Its said so much in everything we do, and writing is no exception. Critiquing is also good practice, but making yourself write no matter what is hard. I struggle with it all the time. I don't want to revise all my stories, so I clean instead and guess what I find? More stories to revise, yikes! some of them are not even finished and I'll have to take new twists with the MC's because it was back in 2004 when I just wrote and didn't care where it went.(well actually I cared, but my characters didn't, they took a break for a few years sticking their tongues out at me. lol)

http://www.clker.com/clipart-25670.html

But alot of what I wrote, even then, came from some kind of prompt. They are old prompts, but there are always possibilities...







 Write a scene as a page in a diary, you can use something you are currently working on, or you can use this to start ...a wife finds her husbands secret diaries and is shocked to find he leads a double life.
Happy writing!

Forbidden

You don't have permission to access /index.php on this server.
Additionally, a 403 Forbidden error was encountered while trying to use an ErrorDocument to handle the request.

Permission? but I signed up for it...big pouty face with wide eyes.

 Forbidden? Tears clump all my lashes together.

 Error? my heart drops to the lowest pit of my feet...

 But I really was looking forward to this write on con.....
 "Forbidden" the computer replies with every refresh in my undaunted request to pull the web page for this conference.
 "Fine I'll just find another route" I type "write on con" in the google search bar...
"Forbidden, you do not have permission..." Computer splashes the icky white page across my screen.
"Fine I'll wait for another link to pop up on the blogs" I stick my tongue out at my computer, I knew eventually someone will have a way in.
I rummage through others blogs with links to the conference. Ah I find one listing the activities with links attached "ah ha!" I tell my computer clicking a link...
 "Forbidden" The white screen laughs in my face. How dare it! My computer thinks its funny to keep a writer from a writing conference.
I pull in my pouty lip, wipe my lashes, and tell myself to think. how about an e-mail link from the write on con....so I go to my e-mail click the forums link they sent me....

"Forbidden" That's it this means war! I shake my fist at the screen....another way, hmmm what did that forbidden post say a bad port or something? well fine, lets try from a different computer, I have a laptop at my side...
"FORBIDDEN"
Taps fingers...tapping, tap, tap....pulling out my hair is out of the option- it wont help. Screaming at the computer might help me feel better but wont fix the problem....refresh dashboard, oh look! right there! a saving grace in the blogging world.... Elana Johnson, author- saves the day (mostly) <----click it if you can't get into the conference.

I have my happy face again, :)

Fiction planner

So much will be going on in the next few weeks. I start classes again up at the University of Wyoming, my girls will be headed back to school, and all those supplies. So in light of back to school, I would also like to add my "back to writing" item.

 We have school planners, why not a writing planner? A recent writing friend of mine is very into technology so to speak, Trinae Ross and she has whipped up something free and special for us writers. It is called a Fiction planner. You can download it free to use HERE I have taken a look and downloaded a copy for myself to use. It seems useful and logical. Enjoy!

HighDrama Blogfest Story

My story For DL's Highdrama Blogfest/giveaway

Branded

By Summer Ross

You cannot redistribute or use this or any piece of this story without my permission

Childhood tastes like stale cigarettes and warm beer on a hot summer night. The small coals from the fire shimmer, beckoning with red embers the wandering eye. The waves on Alcova’s beach slide over rocks and sand in the light from the half moon. Stars are shattered across the cloudless sky. In the delusions of the romantic evening, her decision remains.

The rush of tears stopped years before this moment, but the relentless nag of fear charged forth with every intimate relationship. Fear of needing a man. It rakes heavy claws through self-reliance using money as a hook to catch its prey. Fear of being alone, abandoned like a piece of rotten meat thrown out to the wild dogs. Fear of the shadows restlessly waiting in the dark to take advantage of the little girl sleeping soundly on a bright orange beanbag while her father tends to his party guests. Tired eyes watch as three men enter the doorway blocking the small light from the hall, then nothing but the nightmares of a frightened child remain in the obstructed memories of the adult woman.

The sand slinks over small delicate fingers clenching into a fist. The breeze from the shoreline invades thought patterns bringing wisps of dead fish to scent the past. The moon hangs its heavy burden over dark waters, and goose bumps remind the body the fire will die. Another sawed off log from the pile of dead trees thrown into the pit and the coals glow hot. The memories invade like splinters sinking into flesh. A tool shed built out in grandma’s yard stands tall, foreboding, with old dried lumber hanging from tarnished weather worn nails. The door creaks open and slams abruptly shut behind the uncle setting the six year old on a stiff bench.

“We need to get a screwdriver,” uncle says unbuttoning the small denim shorts on the girl.

The fire is bright as her hands rub together embracing the warmth. The flames lap at the log with uneven strokes. Strokes like those felt in the hand of a ten year old dreaming of a thick straw as she lay half-asleep on the supple couch. She never opens her eyes as she hears the hushed grunts of a father kneeled beside her. Instead pretends to be asleep and lets go as she folds her arms crisscrossed underneath her chest.

Thirteen, the girl starts puberty and then losses virginity to her brother, who sneaks past the parents’ radar into a dark room shuffling blankets with shaky callused hands.  Fingers crept silently along legs meant to be asleep. Her heart slammed into her ribcage every middle of the night for years until its left bruised. She climbed out of bed at seventeen to lock the bedroom door when the parental consequence of being grounded was overtaken by the need to break free.

In the end, despite the memories and touch that left an imprint on skin like branding a bull, the decision was found. The memories may haunt until death, her past will not vandalize her future.

Friday's Inspiration

courtesy of http://karenswhimsy.com/free-clipart-images.shtm

Inspiration: we all need it to write, to acknowledge what we enjoy. Some of us are inspired by children, for some of us its people, others its reading, and some even enjoy quotes. What ever the inspiration- Be inspired today. Find the thing that inspires you to do what makes you happy.One of my favorite things to do is write, so in light of my inspiration (which I find in many sources) I will use a quote.

"Trust only movement.  Life happens at the level of events, not of words.  Trust movement."  ~Alfred Adler

My action: I have submitted a short story to http://www.everydayfiction.com/