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Archive for the tag “fic: original”

Six Sentences on Sunday

sixsentences~~ Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project —published, in progress, for your cat — whatever. ~~

From a sequel to a novel from 2015 that is still being rewritten:

I’ve never liked these “meet and greet” events. Don’t get me wrong, I love interacting with my fans–I’m a total attention-whore normally–but there’s nothing fun about sitting for hours until your ass is numb while your hand cramps from signing hundreds of autographs, your brain turns to mush from answering the same questions, and you kind of go deaf from all of the screaming girls. And no matter how much your hand hurts or how numb your ass is, you just keep smiling and signing and telling the girls they have a pretty name and pretty eyes because it’s in your contract.

My partner in crime today is Blaine Cavanaugh. He’s on the rise thanks to the movie we just made, and he greets each fan enthusiastically even after three hours of this shit.

He’ll burn out before he’s eighteen.

Original fic: After Effect

A story written for my fiction class. It had to be under 500 words. I chose to do another “ripped from the headlines” story. This one is based on an accident that happened in the Vancouver area a while back. A teen waiting for the school bus was hit by a woman who then neglected to tell police she thought she hit someone. He broke both of his legs and wasn’t found until an hour later when the tow truck driver showed up. He was lucky to survive.

(c) Mitchell Joyce 2008

(c) Mitchell Joyce 2008

After Effect

When they say that your life flashes before your eyes when you are dying, what they really mean is that your future is played out. It’s like nature laughing in your face. Oh, you’re dying, haha, here’s everything you’ll miss. Loser. When I tried to explain this to my mother after the fact she cried.

“Eli, don’t say such things,” she moaned. Then she fretted over the way my blanket lay across my jacked-up legs.

I never saw the car that hit me. I was late for the bus on a Wednesday. The wind stung like a thousand bees, numbing my exposed skin. I got to the corner, checked my watch, and woke up in the ditch, snow all stuck in my lashes.

“Hmm,” I thought, “this isn’t right.”

I tried to move, but the air was too heavy. I shouted for help, but my voice got lost in the wind. I prayed for the angels to come, but they never did. I don’t remember feeling much pain, just cold. They said I was lucky.

I never saw the car that hit me, or the terrified look on the driver’s face when she neglected to tell the police I existed. While I lay in the ditch, feeling almost no pain, I saw the image of a girl. She had brown hair, sort of curly, and blue eyes. Our future together sped past my eyes in a blur. I tried to tell my mother about it; she tsked me and told me not to be silly.

“Only God knows what is in store for us.”

“Maybe God gave me the vision. To show me what to fight for.”

I got tsked again for that. Then fretted over while she attempted to hide her tears.

I never saw the car that hit me, or the terrified look on the driver’s face, nor remembered the man that found me. He came to tow away the wreck and heard moaning in the trees. I read about it in the paper–how he vomited at the sight of my mangled legs.

They say I may never walk again. That makes my mom cry. Everything makes her cry. I tried to tell her I was okay; I was alive. She can only sees the things I’ve lost because she didn’t see my future flash before her eyes–she didn’t see everything I will gain. Starting with the brown-haired girl visiting the kid in the room next door.

Original Fiction: Bad Kitty

Another story from my fiction workshop. This one is based on an incident that took place in my small town in 2011–an anti-government gun hoarder killed his family, set his house on fire, then had a shoot-out with the police. All of this took place blocks from my kids’ elementary school. I listened to the gunfire and watched the smoke from my yard about a mile away. It was intense.

(c) Betsy 2007

(c) Betsy 2007/Flickr

Bad Kitty

Her grandmother considered black cats to be harbingers of doom, Julia Carlson recalled as she left for work. Otis, the local stray, zipped across her yard, his black tail disappearing under her porch. Silly cat, she thought. She skipped down the rickety stairs, digging through her purse for a stick of gum. Alex would be at work today–he had dreamy chocolate eyes.

A cobalt blue car idled empty in the middle of the street, coughing up exhaust. She looked around for a driver. A man dressed in a business suit scrambled away from Mr. Peterson’s front door as the window of the car exploded, peppering Julia with shards of safety glass. Someone screamed; she didn’t think it was her.

Read more…

Original Fiction: The Spirit in Christmas

Written for my fiction workshop class. It’s kind of a tearjerker. I cried as I wrote it, and I cry every time I read it. Then again, I’m an emotional basket case.

(c) Matthew Kenwrick 2012

(c) Matthew Kenwrick 2012

The Spirit in Christmas

Harold eased the car up to the intersection, breaks squealing. He knew they needed replacing, but he’d spent the money on Christmas gifts for the girls. He glanced over at eleven-year-old Amelia. She drummed her fingers against the door, puffing hot breath onto the window.

“So, which way do you think?”

He could hear Claire’s infectious enthusiasm urging him to the left like only his four-year-old princess could. He cranked the wheel, giving the whining engine just a little gas. Read more…

Original fic: A Girl I Used to Know


(c) ronholpic 2009

A Girl I Used to Know

Eve was a girl I used to know. Blond hair all trussed up in pink bows. She had eyes like emeralds, and a smile that frightened even the devil.
She talked to me once. We were ten, and I found her out in Vernon Woods, near the creek. She was poking at something in the dirt. She told me the raven had fallen from the sky. Dead. She said of a broken heart; I’m pretty sure it was a broken wing.
I helped her bury it under a willow tree. She said I was sweet and kissed me on the cheek. I ran home and never spoke to her again.
I opened the paper today; the headline read, “Bodies Found Under House Near Vernon Woods.” The suspect: a woman with blond curls, emerald eyes, and a devilish smile that sent shivers down my spine. She told the police they’d died of broken hearts. I’m pretty sure she was the one to break them.

Original Fiction: Hallmark Doesn’t Make a Card for That

Written for my fiction workshop class. The focus was dialogue. I don’t know why I changed the names, but I based this off of my “The Story” characters of Tucker and Sarah. It’s funny because I kind of like the new names.



Hallmark Doesn’t Make a Card for That

The numbers all blurred together. This was the part of Emma’s job she hated the most–the part that involved math. She erased another error. If she hurried she could still make her date with Derek. She glanced around at all of the books needing to be shelved. Really hurried.

The bell above the door tinkled. She hated that bell. “We’re closed,” she said without looking up from her scribblings. Shoes squeaked across the linoleum floor. With a sigh, Emma raised her head. “I’m sorry, but we’re-” Her words trailed off, all thought abandoned at the sight of the man standing in front of her. “Cooper,” she whispered. Read more…

How not to write angst?


cover made by me using various digital scrapbooking supplies just for fun

The question mark is correct. This isn’t an article on how not to write an angsty novel. This is a request for tips to get out of the habit. My NaNo novel was intended to be a light-hearted, silly summer read about a boy and a girl that don’t get along who are forced together to do the Summer List to win a prize eventually falling for each other.

I’ve written (and rewritten because the tense/perspective was wrong on the first go-round) the first act and I’m checking my notes for the second act and have realized I’m already firmly into teen drama-angst land. I want there to be a little of that but this has gone way overboard.

I think I’m going to have to slap my hand every time I start to write something melodramatic or overly-angsty. Also, I have a tendency to show the feelings from an early start. In the book the two main characters aren’t supposed to to start liking each other until half way in (their internal thoughts) but they aren’t supposed to notice/now the other likes them back until the end. Already have them flirting (at least in the way they do it) and glancing at each other. Blah.

I have to rethink the entire outline. Which I’m not going to do during NaNo. I really need to learn pacing and tone. And theme. I suck at understanding theme. Luckily I’m going back to school in January and will be majoring in creative writing-fiction so… maybe I’ll figure it out eventually.

Original fic: The Showing

The Showing
by jennickels (aka Jen Connelly)
1382 words
rating: PG


A loud whine emitted from the speaker on the wall followed by the crackle of static. Someone coughed, cleared their throat. The noise subsided.

“Attention, all ages. If you have strawberry blond to red hair please proceed to the showroom immediately. All red heads, all ages to the show room. Thank you.”

Everyone returned to their work. Except Agatha. She took a deep breath then quietly gathered her things. In the hall she found Brian waiting for her. His hair reminded her of the color of cooked carrots. Agatha’s was a deep red. More like the color of cherries.
“Pretty exciting, huh?” said Brian, taking her books and tucking them under his arm. Read more…

Original fic: Waking Up Strange

This is another intersection, this time with jem0000000. Hers can be found here. You can read them in any order.

Waking Up Strange
by jennickels (aka Jen Connelly)
1251 words
rating: PG

I woke with a gentle breeze across my forehead, yet I did not recall opening a window. How odd. The morning sun peeked through the curtains, shining light on the many dust motes making homes in the draft. It was awfully cool for a mid-August morning.

Unable to shake the chill that had awoken me, I dressed in warm pants and a sweater. I reached for my necklace, but found it missing from my bureau. I seemed to be losing many things lately. Old age they called it. Surely it would turn up somewhere. Read more…

Original fic: Venture

by jennickels (aka Jen Connelly)
Hoyt, Gery
1399 words
rating: PG-13


The air sizzled, the smell of burning ozone tickling my nose. Klaxons wailed from all over the ship, their red lights creating shadows across the metal walls. Like I need more warnings. I shimmy under the control console of the command center. Half the controls aren’t working—there had to be a short somewhere in the system.

Gery, where’s my bleeder?” I reach my hand out for the tool. “Gery!”

This ship shudders, tosses me around a bit.

Hoyt, get up here. We are going in!” Read more…

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