Creative Writing

Flash Fiction – Untitled (for now)

She slammed the sledgehammer against the giant block again. After a thousand, she stopped counting the blows. Flakes of whatever it was made of littered the ground, but she was no closer to destroying the thing.

Seven days ago she almost managed to start the apocalypse. Everything was going along perfectly until a stray thought about mythical creatures ruined it all. What a terrible idea it was too! Of course, that was the problem. The worst concept in history created the block before her. She attempted everything to break it: a chisel, blowtorch, freeze ray. She even tried with a ball of twine, which didn’t make sense but she couldn’t get it out of her head so she tried it anyway. Only the sledgehammer she held had an effect, but it took too long.

Already she could feel the apocalyptic urges fading. So close! Thoughts of that stupid unicorn were replacing her carefully laid plot to start a war. Her plan to destroy…something important…nope, gone. Instead, she kept seeing a fat old book being used as a grappling hook. What? She couldn’t stop the bizarre, random ideas from coming.

She glanced at the block. Oh crap, it was getting bigger, just like the grappling hook book. Titles of thick novels flashed until she latched onto one. She didn’t want to but she had no choice. Sometimes she hated being a muse.

Cutting off that line of thinking, she tried to concentrate again on her objective. She had to find a way to break through. Maybe a bayonet would work.

Sara sat at her computer and tried to will herself to write. Ever since that stupid unicorn story popped into her head she’d been stalled. This was the worst case of writer’s block she’d ever had. A whole week with no writing! It sucked but some part of her felt it was a good thing.

Sometimes she thought her muse must be evil. Too many thoughts of world domination or destruction crossed her mind for her to entirely trust her ‘imagination.’ She knew it was silly to think of her muse as separate from herself, yet, she strongly felt it must be so. Sara believed was a good person and there was no way such immoral thoughts could come from her!

She took one more look at her screen before giving up on writing for the day. Perhaps now would be a good time to find a show to binge-watch. As she walked away from her desk she wondered if writing down the dumb unicorn story would help beat her writer’s block.

(One year later Sunny the Super Unicorn was a best seller with the sequel eagarly awaited by fans. Yet, no one would ever know a mental image of a unicorn rescuing someone with a ball of twine, a bayonet and an old copy of War and Peace potentially saved the world.)


I wrote a story! I don’t even care about the flaws. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to sit down and write more than a few ideas.  You probably figured out this story was born of my own writer’s block. I actually jotted down the basic idea weeks about, along with the bones of eight or nine other stories. The problem wasn’t my creativity shutting down, it was my motivation turning completely off. So more of a writer’s funk but as bad as being blocked.

There are many potential reasons/excuses but I believe it all comes down to pain. With all the troubles I’ve had with my back it’s no surprise it finally got down. It sucks but there it is. I spent a lot of time being angry, then feeling sorry for myself. Now I’m back to angry, but it’s a will inducing, motivation driving anger.

Instead of being resentful of my situation I’m pissed off at at the pain and myself for letting it stop my forward writing momentum.

My first step in using this anger is this story. The next steps are the other story ideas I have written here and there. As I write I’ll post most of them. One or two I might use to finally enter some contests. I’ll keep everyone updated on that.

I also have several novels plotted out. If inspiration leans that way then I’ll work on one of them as well but I want to concentrate on flash fiction and longer short stories for now.

 


Rough draft 481 words
Photo by Sunyu on Unsplash
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My Writing Journey, Part 2

To read Part 1 click here.

Ah, the teenage years. What a beautiful, crazy, terrible nightmare they were. I could tell a million stories from that time, but I’ll stick to the writing-related stuff for the sake of brevity.

I didn’t often write back then. Like most teens, I was crippled with self-doubt and unexplained fears. How on earth did we all survive blushing almost daily? It was during these formative years that I had a lot of serious upheavals and changes.

When I was thirteen, my parents divorced. This was both painful and welcome. They hadn’t gotten along for years, so we all knew it was necessary. The hard part had to do with being a daddy’s girl. There was a time I would have done anything to please my father, but I was learning that he was human and I didn’t like it.

He was an alcoholic, which I barely understood and probably affected me the least of all of my family since I was the youngest and his favorite. In the days leading up to my mom leaving him, I finally saw some uncomfortable truth. My dad was a high functioning alcoholic, as in he came home, drank a lot of beer and you couldn’t see much change. However, he was an a-hole when he was really drunk, but like most heavy drinkers, it was even worse when he wasn’t drinking.

I need to clarify that I was the one who couldn’t see much change when dad drank. I was young, dumb, and oblivious. My mother and brothers definitely weren’t in the dark. In a way, this lack of knowledge made it harder when I saw the truth.

Anyway, I won’t go into too many details, but the night we left, my dad did the unforgivable. He slapped my mother. I may have been a daddy’s girl, but no one touches my mother. Even worse, in my barely teenaged mind, it was my fault. He was drunk and pissed off because of something I did that my mother punished me for.

I don’t remember what stupid crap I’d pulled, but I do remember I deserved to be in trouble. All she did was ground me, but I was his baby, and I don’t know if he assumed I hadn’t done anything or if he thought she was too harsh. It doesn’t matter, he had no right to do what he did. Hell, he didn’t have the right to be yelling at her for it.

The words and images are fuzzy for me except the look on his face when I screamed at him. The shock and betrayal in his expression are still clear in my mind. Sitting here, writing this I keep thinking ‘he felt betrayed, what about us?’

My mom was smart enough to use the interruption to get the hell out of there. She grabbed me and my older brother and took us to her sister’s house. She filed for divorce soon after.

I need to backtrack a moment. My dad was a good man, once. He treated me like a princess and loved me with everything he had. He treated my mother well too, in the beginning. He didn’t treat my brothers the same, but I don’t know if that was the beer or just how he was.

Alcoholism messes people up, and he’d been that way for most of his adult life. Part of me believes if he’d ever completely given up beer, he might have become the man he should have been. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.

Once they split up, I picked up a pen again. I wrote about my feelings and then tore up the paper into confetti, every time. It helped. Life settled into a routine for a while. Then my mom started dating someone.

I was happy for her until I met him. His name was David, and I hated him, instantly. This was no teenager issue, though my mom thought it was. No, I got a bad feeling from him. I’d only gotten this feeling with one other person, and it turned out my gut was right that time. So, in all my experience and wisdom I told my mom how uncomfortable he made me. She produced the knowing smile adolescents everywhere hate and kept doing what she was doing.

Everyone assumed I would hate the first guy she dated because he wasn’t my dad. HA! Little did they know my ‘bad feeling’ was never wrong. The guy turned out to be a pig, which is the nicest thing I can say about the man. As a side note, years later, I ran into this man at the local mall, where I worked (I was 18 or 19). He told me how much I looked like my mother, how he missed her, and then hit on me! GROSS!

I occasionally pick on my mother for not listening to me, but my choice in men was much worse for a few years so I keep it to a minimum.

Not long after dumping the jerk, she met my future step-dad. I liked him right away. He was weird as hell, had a dry sense of humor, and he adored mom. No bad feelings cropped up, so I was happy for her. They got married in October 1988, and we moved from our tiny little town to the bigger city ten miles away.

It might as well have been a hundred miles. I wasn’t sad to move, but I was sad to leave my friends. I figured we still see each other often, but it didn’t take long for everyone to move on. I loved and hated my new school. There were so many people! Unfortunately, some were little assholes. Some were amazing. I found the weird tribe and joined. I settled in and decided it could have been worse, then it was.

At the end of December, fifteen days after I turned 15, my dad died in a car accident. He was driving through New Mexico, on he way to El Paso to visit his parents. My brother and I were supposed to be with him, but we didn’t go. He was mad at both my brothers for something stupid and I was mad at him. On Christmas Eve, he yelled at me and told me I ruined Christmas because I defended my siblings. It was all so unimportant and silly, but we didn’t want to be around him when he was a jerk.

As you can imagine, I was a wreck. Grief and guilt consumed me. My relationship with my middle brother fell apart. He already resented me because I was dad’s favorite and was treated differently. Now that our father was gone, there was only me left to take the blame. My mother hardly knew what to do with me.

The years that followed are particularly painful for me, and I don’t want to rehash everything. I didn’t get arrested or do a bunch of drugs or anything like that, but there are some things I’ll never talk about again. I will say that I wrote more during this time than I ever had. I got angry at my mother often back then. She was very non-confrontational, and I am the opposite. It made me so mad when she wouldn’t fight! So I wrote her letters. I wasn’t capable calmly telling her how I felt and she wouldn’t let me yell it, so it was my only option.

Those letters, which she still has, changed my world. You wouldn’t believe how many drafts of each one I wrote. I cared about how well they were written. It bothered me to misspell something or if my grammar was off. I realized how much words mattered. I also learned that I could truly express myself with a pen.

Fear still ruled, but I’d taken steps in the right direction. Years later my mother told me she thought I should write after reading those letters because they were well written.

Remember when I used the word brevity at the beginning of this post? If you know me, I figured there would be some eye-rolls, well deserved.

Certainly, I wrote more than intended but sometimes the words have to come out. Thank you for sticking with me. In part 3, I’ll cover my failed marriages and bad choice in men. Those were the years that almost broke me and nearly killed my love of writing.


 

 

Yearly Goal Post

Every year I write a post about my goals. I don’t like to make resolutions because those fail. I can say I want to eat better, and I might for a short time, but it won’t last. There will always be chicken strips in the world!

I could state I will work out more. I probably will do this, but it won’t be because I claimed I would on January 1st. I’ll do it for my health and because it helps me deal with back pain.

What I will say is I want to write more this year. I intend to; it is my primary goal. This is not a resolution; it’s what I’ll do.

Generally, in one of these posts, I make a long list of writerly goals. Not this year. There are too many roadblocks in my life to plan for anything too specific. So I’m sticking with writing more than I did last year.

I don’t want to be disappointed by too many bullet points like I was last year. However, if I’m lucky, motivated, dedicated, and able, then I will write many short stories, a novel or two and a lot of blog posts.

I’m not against other people making resolutions, but they don’t work for me. If you’re making some, I hope they work for you.

Sidenote: I’m working on a suspense novel! I started it years ago but put it aside to work on fantasy. It’s time for a change, so I picked it back up. I replotted it, with very few changes. Now I’m trying to fill in holes in the middle before I sit down and write the thing. Wish me motivation!

 

My Writing Journey, Part 1

One doesn’t choose to be a writer, it’s in you, but you do have to decide to write. Being a writer is part of me, it always was, but I didn’t always choose to do anything active about it. The road to writing regularly was bumpy, often blocked, detoured, sabotaged, scary, and sometimes impossible.

Even now, as in the last few months, there are times when I write next to nothing. I aim to change that, starting with this post. There are many reasons why I’ve been in what I call a ‘writer’s funk,’ but I’ll get into that in a later post.

For now, I’m going to share with you all how I got to where I am today. I called this post Part 1 because it will take several to get it all out. I don’t know how many but I would rather do this in sections than give you with a ten thousand word post.

It all began when I was a child. I’d like to say I always wrote. I wish I had hundreds of journals worth of childish thoughts and stories, but I didn’t write back then. I was capable of it, but things more powerful than the urge to write ruled my life. Fear and shame. Not fear of life or a person, just fear of baring my soul and shame when I did and was rejected. I tried several times, with diaries. After writing a few lines, I would seize up and put them away.

Opening up still fills me with dread. There was no significant event that started it. It was a mix of small childhood traumas that stifled me so much.

I was one of those kids who liked to make crazy things up. Fantastical stories with me as the star. A few times I tried to share these with friends and family.  My parents didn’t actively discourage me, but with three kids and jobs, they didn’t have time to ‘indulge’ me.

My friends were tolerant but more heavily grounded than me, so not particularly interested. All the girls my age were more interested in love stories, and the boys just wanted to watch cartoons and ride bikes. While I was imagining having a superpower or flying on a dragon, the other kids were busy being normal.

One of my brothers, who shall stay unnamed, but it’s the one I don’t get along with, had a different reaction. He made fun of me. Then his friends joined in. I won’t go into details except to say he liked upsetting me and succeed often. I valued his opinion above all others and he used that mercilessly. It wasn’t too long before I started keeping my stories to myself, even from the people who didn’t mock me.

I didn’t even want to write them down. Hence the started yet never finished diaries. What if someone read them? I would have died before letting anything see how weird I was. Now, all these years later, I don’t know what it was those boys said that made me feel so much shame, I only know the result.

Watching other girls writing their secret thoughts made me so jealous I could hardly stand it. I didn’t care what they wrote, but I wished to be like them. I wanted to be as brave as I thought they were.

I still made stuff up regularly, anytime I had a quiet moment. I kept it all to myself, for years. It took my mom pissing me off when I was a teenager so bad that I wrote her a letter to express my feelings before anything changed. That’s a story for next time.

As I stated above, I don’t know how many posts it will take me to tell my writing journey. I’m winging this one. Some posts may be short, others longer. There is also no schedule for when I’ll write them. I’m in the process of getting back to writing regularly so I hope to be very busy soon.

In my next post I’ll tell you all about how I started to embrace my weird and took a step closer, and many steps back from active writing.

Did any of you guys have problems with other people judging your creativity as a child? Feel free to share your experiences in the comments.


In a Nanowrimo kind of mood?

Nope. I was, or at least I thought so. All it took was some outside negativity, and I was ready to jump ship.

I’ve put off deciding on a project, which means I’ve also delayed any planning, all month. So it’s probably safe to say I leaned toward not participating all along. Add in the fact that most the writers around me are also not feeling the call, which always gets to me and I never win when I go it alone, and this is no surprise.

Sadly, I needed a little encouragement, specifically today, to get over this dread and fear, or whatever my problem is, but there was none to be found. That’s not 100% true. My husband always encourages me, but in the face all everything else bringing/dragging me down, his awesomeness didn’t have a chance of working on me. Logic be damned! I’m as susceptible to feeling down and unmotivated as anyone else.

Who knows what the next thirty days will bring. I could change my mind, two or twelve times. Inspiration might smack me in the face (I wish), or I might re-watch Charmed all month. I’ll keep you all updated as I wade my way through this muck.

For anyone out there doing Nano this year, good luck. If you’re thinking about it, I strongly encourage you to go for it. Just because I’m not in the right headspace doesn’t mean I don’t believe the process works. It’s probably not for everyone, but it could be for you. Most years it’s for me too.

For those who don’t know what Nanowrimo is, go here. If you want to develop a daily writing habit and can handle being competitive with yourself, it’s an excellent way to go.

Flash Fiction – Never Again

Jen’s finger hovered over the trigger while she nervously waited. Her breath came in hard bursts, so loud she thought it would give away her location too soon. Eventually, Nathan would find her hiding spot anyway, he always did. This time would be different, she told herself.

If he found her before she was ready, she would be forced to do whatever he wanted, usually something sexual. All the other times she never had a chance. Even now, she wouldn’t stay hidden for long. Still, it would be different now, because she was prepared.

The first time, she’d tried running, but he caught her within minutes. Hiding seemed the better option, but he still found her quickly. So today she would try something new.

She barricaded herself in what she liked to think of as a nest. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried this tactic, but it would be the best. To get to her, Nathan would have to enter through the only opening she left him. When he did, revenge would be hers.

A sound startled her out of her thoughts, the tiniest of scrapes. From long experience, she knew he was testing her defenses. She hoped he would assume she was burrowed in tight. Instead, she stood in plain view, slightly to the side of the doorway, gun raised.

He burst in and reached for a box to start digging her out. She pressed her trigger three times, hitting him in the chest. The ‘oof’ sound he made with each hit was satisfying. She knew exactly how much it hurt being struck with a paintball. When he fell to the ground, she laughed.

She stood over him as he gingerly rubbed his chest, spreading paint everywhere. He grinned. Of course, the idiot would be proud she finally beat him. She’d have to do something about that.

“Since I got three shots on you, you have to do anything I want that many times,” she stated.

“Yep, that’s the rules,” he answered with a smirk. “What will it be?”

“Laundry, dishes, and dusting.” Your least favorite things to do, she thought.

Nathan’s smile disappeared. “What? Of all the things you could make me do, you choose cleaning?”

“Yes. That was fun. We should do this more often.” It was her turn to smile. Jen had a feeling they would never play paintball again.

 

Rough Draft 395


This story was inspired by a one word writing prompt: trigger. I wrote the draft months ago but didn’t type it up until last week. I never planned to show anyone because I worried it would be a ‘trigger’ for some people. Violence against women is a serious problem, and I certainly didn’t want to make light of it.

So I put it away and felt guilty for a while. Then I remembered something. I’m a writer. I write stories, whether they are provocative, serious, light, funny, weird, scary, ridiculous, or something else. Or all of the above. It’s my job to write and stifling myself is not something I’m willing to do.

I’ve had a severe case of writer’s funk/block for quite some time. Telling myself I can’t write a story because of how others might react isn’t going to help. So I can’t restrict my muse this way.

If I have offended anyone, then I am sorry, but I have to do what I do.

Flash Fiction – A Useless Friend

Karen always gave me cigarettes when I needed one. And she was always there if I needed to vent or tell her about my accomplishments. I can’t tell you how many times she did things for me when we worked together. Still, she was pretty useless as far as friends went.

I never could get her to babysit. I know she only met my kids once but come on. Nor would she run my errands for me, as if she were actually always busy writing. Everyone knows writers spend most of their time on Twitter. Likewise, she refused to help me get my cousin’s car from another city, giving me some nonsense about how driving for two hours would hurt her back. I mean, didn’t she have surgery to get that crap fixed? Her excuses were nauseating.

It’s not like I asked for favors very often, only once every four-six months. We didn’t even talk very often so I don’t know how she could say I was always trying to take advantage of her friendship. Okay, those weren’t her exact words, but that’s how I heard it, and she hurt my feelings. I’m still angry at her for making me feel guilty. Of course, I don’t only call her when I want something!

I did everything Karen ever asked of me, although at the moment I can’t seem to recall any of those things. Odd, now that I think about it, she never really did talk about herself. How inconsiderate she was. You know, I don’t believe she even told me her birthday. The nerve of that woman! We were friends for almost ten years. You’d think she would have shared more of herself. After all, she knew everything about me.

Anyway, this time she’s done the last and shittiest thing she’s ever done to me. I tried to call her to ask her to take my Grandmother to get a pedicure, and her phone was disconnected. My message on Facebook went unanswered. I finally contacted her brother only to find out Karen had passed away, a year ago! She didn’t even tell me she was sick, at least, I don’t think she did.

Now who’s going to take Grammy to her appointment? What a useless friend she was.

 

Rough draft 379 words


This story was inspired by a phone conversation I had today. Someone made me very angry (enough to use the word ‘very’ when I’m trying to remove it from all my writing). When I get upset I tend to vent by turning bits of the situation into fiction. If the person who I’m unhappy with reads this post they will know they were the catalyst so it’s safe to say the story is only about 50% fiction.

Still, I owe that person my gratitude. It took them pissing me off before my muse put in an appearance for the first time in too long. It’s not much of a story and the situation half wrote it but I did the rest so I’m claiming this one!

So, from a useless friend to my current antagonist, have a mental middle finger of thankfulness from me to you!


 

 

 

Flash Fiction – Jewelry Shopping

With nerves strung high, Liam stepped into the store. Six pairs of feminine eyes tried to meet his gaze. Ugh, he thought. Being the center of attention was not something he enjoyed, but this was important enough to face what was sure to be an uncomfortable time. Any amount of uneasiness was worth finding the perfect gift for the love of his life.

Liam straightened his shoulders and walked up to the first glass case. The knowing smile on the saleslady’s face irritated him, but he would deal with it. He hated that she could see how tense he was, but he answered her probing questions and let her steer him to another display.

His eyes went straight to it. In shock, he stared at the most beautiful piece of jewelry he’d ever seen. It sat nestled on a large stand raised higher than the ones surrounding it. Heart shaped and shiny with blue stones, the exact color of his love’s eyes, lining the edges.  Nothing else in the case mattered. The woman explained something about birthstones and prices, but he barely heard her. Picturing the recipient wearing it held his attention.

The perfect necklace for the perfect woman.

She would think of him every time she looked at it, and of course, she would never take it off. It made him happy that she would always know who loved her most. Triumphant and smiling he turned to his companion.

“This is the one, dad,” he said and pointed.

“World’s Greatest Mom,” Dad read. “Perfect.”

“Just like Mom,” Liam replied. He couldn’t wait to get home and give her the best Mother’s Day present ever.


Rough draft 275 words


I wrote this piece in my notebook on Sunday during my writing group. I was looking through writing prompts and came across one I thought would make a cute story:

A boy buys a gift for his mother.

With Mother’s Day coming up, it seemed like a good one to use. It took me a few minutes to come up with something, but once I got going, it didn’t take long to write all my ideas. I planned to type it up and figure out what to keep and discard when I got home.

I didn’t. I put the notebook down and didn’t pick it up again until today, though I did think about it some. My muse was nowhere to be found, so I didn’t try very hard.

Then I went to my follow-up appointment (after having an injection in my back). It was reiterated to me that I either get to keep taking pain pills, agree to get a pain relieving implant, or have major surgery – another fusion. I wasn’t in the best mood afterward, and I was fairly irritable, just ask my poor husband.

I watched some TV, did some reading, messed around on the internet, and felt sorry for myself. Then something happened. I don’t know what prompted it, but my muse slapped me around a bit. I grabbed my notebook and started typing. The story was surprisingly easy to write because I just didn’t care if it sucked or not. All I wanted was to get it written. I used every idea I had on Sunday, and while I know it’s not perfect, screw that, it IS perfect because I wrote! At this point, any writing is good. I was in pain as I wrote this, but I still did it, so I’m content.

As for posting it now instead of waiting for Mother’s day, I figured the little twist would be too obvious if I posted it then.

Flash Fiction – The Fence (Redo)

Two years ago I wrote a piece of flash fiction called The Fence (click here to read the original). It was one of my favorite stories, but there was something wrong with it. I couldn’t figure it out, but I knew it didn’t flow as well as it could. Eventually, I asked some other writer’s what they thought the problem was and almost all of them said the change in viewpoint was what threw them off.

I jotted down a few ideas to fix it and put it away. Today I picked it up and made the changes and the following is the result. Any thoughts about it are welcome!


The Fence

“Momma, why is the fence so high?” Taryn’s piping voice sounded, interrupting her mother’s thoughts.

“Because it has to be,” Laurel answered as she continued pinning clothes on the line. It was the third time in a week Taryn asked the question.

“But why? You never tell me anything.”

Damn right, I never tell you. “It keeps the bad things out.”

Taryn crossed her arms over her tiny chest, pouting. “I don’t believe you. I want to go out.”

Out? Fear gripped Laurel. “We don’t go out. You know everyone stays behind the fence.”

“That’s a stupid rule.” The girl turned her back and stomped to the fence.

The older woman watched her child for a moment. Taryn’s blonde curls, so like her own once was, had escaped the braids so patiently done that morning. It stood out at all angles, emphasizing the girl’s anger.

“Will we ever go out?”

“No Taryn, it’s not safe. Just because you haven’t seen the bad things, doesn’t mean they aren’t there.” Laurel heard a strange sound on the other side of the fence near where her daughter stood. It was almost birdlike, but she knew no bird had ever made that noise.

Her daughter’s head jerked up, and she sniffed the air. “Momma, I’m hungry.”

Knowing full well what that meant, Laurel moved quickly. She grabbed Taryn and ran to the cellar door, throwing it open. She pushed the child in and pulled the door closed.  The girl fell down the last few steps, but Laurel was too busy with the lock to help her. She struggled with the bolt until it slid into place.

Laurel carefully descended the stairs, stepping over the last lock of her hair she hadn’t felt fall. Taryn sat on the floor crying. She was poking at something in front of her. Oh hell.

“Sorry Momma, I lost another finger.”

She sighed. Hopefully, they wouldn’t lose any other parts today. She was startled when the door rattled, but the lock held. She rushed back up the steps and pressed her remaining ear to the door to listen as the intruders passed by.

“We shouldn’t have crossed the boundary, John. This is dangerous,” she heard one of them say.

Laurel agreed.

“I know they were here Tommy. I heard them growling and carrying on at each other.”

“I don’t know, I’ve never heard of a zombie doing laundry. Let’s get out of here.”

As the men started moving away, Laurel glanced at Taryn’s sad face. Only one thing would make her feel better. With a sigh, she pulled the bolt and prepared to get her daughter a snack.

 

*Second draft 433 words.

Flash Fiction – Dread

Dread filled Thomas. They would come for him soon. He glanced around the holding room and saw his fear mirrored in the eyes of the others. Every one of them knew their turn would come. Like him, they had no choice. Still, he knew each of the would-be victims hoped they weren’t next.

Even now he could hear someone being tormented. It must be the old man who’d been so kind to him earlier. Poor guy.

The door opened, and a woman signaled to him. She didn’t look so threatening, he thought, but he knew better. Well, he would go to his fate with his head held high. He stood, and before he followed the torturer, he caught one of the others staring at him in sympathy. The tears in her eyes almost broke him, but he resolutely stepped forward.

The evil woman led him to a tiny cell and bid him sit. Afraid they would force him if he didn’t obey he sat quickly.

They tortured him for an hour. At some point, a man took over. It got worse from there. Needles, sharp tools, and unexplainable pain followed. No matter what they did, he didn’t talk.

Finally, he was released. The woman who brought him to his cell pointed to the way out and left him. He ran to the door and stumbled through. His mother was waiting for him.

“All done?” she asked. At his nod, she continued. “Three cavities Tommy! Now will you brush and floss every day?”

He agreed readily. In all his thirteen years he’d never been through something so traumatic. He would do anything to avoid this torture again.

 

*Rough draft 276 words


Can you tell I’m about to go to the dentist? I don’t need fillings though. I have to get a crown, or more accurately, they will take the mold for the crown, and possibly redo the temporary I have. I’m so sick of dental stuff!

Anyway, I used a one-word writing prompt today – Dread. It seemed fitting because it’s what I’m feeling. Also, I wrote this in fifteen minutes so it is the roughest of rough drafts. I didn’t even try to fix spelling.