Thursday Night Write Writing

Thursday Night Write 9/29/2011 – Open Mic

Since we’ve been down for a couple of weeks, I thought it wold be nice to make our first TNW back an Open Mic.

That way you can fill us all in on what you’ve been up to.

You know the rules; post for comment your original song, short story, poem, or novel excerpt of no more than 300 words. If you post something of your own, you have to comment at least one other entry. This way everyone gets a little feedback. You can post anytime between now and Sunday night at Midnight EST, but the earlier you post, the better your chances of getting comments.

I read all the entries but don’t have time to comment them anymore. I’m sorry! At this point, it’s most important for me to write new books for you guys.


I do love reading your work, though, and really enjoy seeing your writing progress. And I know for a fact LOTS of people visit the blog to read the TNW entries, so even if you’re not getting tons of comments, you ARE getting lots of exposure.

Happy writing!


8 replies on “Thursday Night Write 9/29/2011 – Open Mic”

This is the opening of a semi-completed short story that just sort of crawled out of my brain the other week. Trigger warning for signs of abuse, FYI.

In the hour before dawn we show each other our scars and share the stories of how we died.

She goes first, sweeping her hair behind one hear to reveal a single kiss of death right on the pulse point. The scar is a lot like her in many ways: quiet, polite, and hidden behind masses of mouse-brown hair.

I almost laugh at it, at her; the scar is barely visible against her pale skin, hardly worth being upset about. I know if my scars were like that I would be over the moon.

But I don’t laugh because then she turns her back to me and lifts up her shirt. And I think I’ll never laugh at anything again.

Her back is a mess of scars, scars made by a whip being used repeatedly on her. For good measure, someone had also decided it would be a fine idea to use the skin that managed to escape the whip to put out cigarettes.

When she’s ready, she pulls down her top, and still facing away, begins to tell the story of her life and death.

This life is deceiving, a meeting of cross-conflicting signals.
I don’t want to comply with fickle regulations;
I want to mingle with abysmal opportunities that embolden my fascination.

I want to breathe peace in the middle of a war zone
I want to expel aesthetic ecstasy and send it into soiled soldiers’ homes
I want my limbs to imitate the wind of a world that has sinned
The blowing breeze will keep Earth spinning
I want to infiltrate old rusty rickety lovers’ love lives
Sparking a new rekindling

I want our sacred atmosphere to adhere the path of survival:
Reduce, reuse, and recycle
I want us humans to persevere
Prolonging the need for an apocalyptic revival

I want the melodies of ancient empires and lonely tribes
To sing themselves into contrite futures of fire
Perspire lines for the years to come,
And succumb only when does desire

I want to contain every title
Every name and explanation of what knowledge is
I want to obtain sustenance for offense
Against counterclaims made from acid

I want to race the roller-coaster ride labeled time
And regain but a second to help the deaf blind find pride
In languid existence
I want distance to be inconsequential
In matters of resisting reminiscence

Insignificant motifs will often pass you by
But that does not mean they must occupy your lives
I want hope to thrive as if despair never did
Lithe little fragments amid rage and dated bids

I want to remember what it’s like to forget
Recall every single detail
Anchored in the cracked armor of my vignette

And most of all I want to feel whole-
Impeccably complete
I want to delete oblique thoughts
So the entirety of the universe can beat

They say you never forget your first kiss, your first sunset or the first time you lay eyes on the boy you’re going to marry.
I’m sure that’s true for some people. Normal people. Me? I’ll never forget the smell of burnt flesh. Overtaking the fragrance of Heather of Town Park was a blistering, bubbling, burning, white-pink skin that peeled off in layers. It was a strong aroma of sickening, sweet meat, sort of like grilled pork, but with a uniqueness of its own.
He was too weak for the flames that engulfed him and the fire was so hot, the supple leaves of the Alder tree nearby crumbled instantly. Like the trees around me, I was rooted firmly to the earth, unable to cast my eyes away, as he shriveled and imploded before dissolving into black ash. Then, a soft breeze kicked up, as if to gather him back to the dust. Leaves played mindlessly in the gentle currents, seemingly unaware of the horror that had just taken place. My mind was charred, unable to grasp what had just happened.
“NO!” I screamed. It was as if the people in the park around me moved in slow motion. I reached out and captured some of him from the ash and closed my fist around the blackened bits of paper-like substance. I held him close to me. My knees began to shake. His remains blew away with the Saturday afternoon breeze. The lingering scent was enough to ensure I’d be a vegetarian for life.
I stumbled backward and my back slammed the tree behind me away from the scorched ring of grass. Everyone around me went about their lives, as if Adrian hadn’t just been burned alive in the middle of Dingle Town Park. I couldn’t join them, couldn’t pretend that everything was normal,

I just got a smart phone, so just out of curiosity, is there a Prophecy app? If not, will there ever be? Anyways, this is an excerpt from a comedy I wrote called Temca Academy, and it’s a college for witches and wizards. The protagonist, Anielle, meets her roommate. Enjoy!


Anielle is appalled at the small size of her room. She is the first to arrive. So, all that is in there is a couple of beds, a couple of closets, and a couple of desks. Anielle unlifts the spell from her trunk and sets it on the bed closest to the door. She opens the trunk, and she uses her scepter to put all her stuff away. Her decorations are pretty modest but includes a bejeweled frame of her self portrait (which moves) and a poster of a witch band called the Temple of Isis. After she finishes, her roommate, CIRCE (a girl that has blonde hair, blue eyes, and an overly bubbly attitude) walks in with her trunk.


Hi! You must be Anielle!


Oh, you must be Circe. It’s

nice to meet you.

Anielle extends her hand, but instead of shaking it, Circe gives her a tight hug.


No formalities! We’re almost

family now!

Anielle cringes, but Circe doesn’t seem to notice.


Oh, I get the window side! Cool,

so if I have a really bad day, I

can just throw myself out it!




I’m only kidding!

She laughs in a tone that is both high pitched and obnoxious. Anielle does not know how to react. She watches Circe unpack. She decorates her side of the room with a bunch of stuffed animals and flower-shaped pillows. It looks over the top and almost childish. Circe misreads her look.


Cute, isn’t it?


Maybe, for a four year old.

Anielle expected Circe to be offended, but instead she does that annoying laugh again.


I know, I have the heart of a

child! But I find the cheerful

and innocent nature of these

things keep me from dark



Dark temptations?

Circe gets uncomfortably close to Anielle and looks into her eyes.


You know, dark magic.


Don’t worry! That’ll never



You had garlic for dinner,

didn’t you?

To her annoyance, Circe does that obnoxious laugh again.


You’re so funny! Hey, you

wanna go meet our neighbors?


Later. I told my boyfriend I’d

message him when I got here.


How exciting! Okay, I’ll get

you later, roomie!

As she skips out of the room, Anielle stares at her in disbelief.

It was strange, looking at the picture yet feeling no emotion towards it. I could clearly see that it was me, the dark, straight hair hung low to my waist. The dress was so complicated, lace, trimmings, ribbons, a tight bodice, the fabric draped to the ground. Stormy gray eyes that peered out, the thin face with a wide, disarming smile spread across it.
It was me. And I didn’t care.
I held it in my steady hands, my body relaxed, my mind open and unguarded. I knew that what I was holding in my hands was the proof I’ve been searching for that something about me was wrong, that I haven’t been going insane, that I was right. But somehow, in this moment, I didn’t care.
I set the portrait down onto the table, looking squarely into Alen’s eyes and said to him, “Prove it.”
I turned on my heel and walked away from him, away from the truth and away from my last chance to learn about these dreams…memories.
As I threw open the doors of his house a gust wind blew, propelling my hair off my shoulders, sending a chill through my body. Even under the blazing June sun I felt cold.

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