Inspiration

"Success is not the key to happiness.
Happiness is the key to success.
If you love what you are doing,
you will be successful."
- Albert Schweitzer

Maybe this will give you guys some inspiration. You can apply this to writing, work, and even life in general. For the prompt this week, maybe write something about being successful....

Possibilities

“When she was just a girl, she expected the world. But it flew away from her reach, so she ran away in her sleep… and dreamed of Paradise.” –Coldplay

 Written by Kaitlin Gray

                Sometimes it led me to wonder. Why things weren’t different, why the world was in chaos, why nobody did anything about it.

                In those days, I was always sad. Too busy being sorry for myself to realize anything outside of my own pity party. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted things to be used, and people to be loved… not vice-versa. I wanted my parents to live happily ever after, just like they always dreamed they would. I wanted to dream, and I wanted my dreams to come true. But they weren’t.

                I wanted to be a professional soccer player. They were successful, made a lot of money. But I also wanted to be a fashion designer, and that wasn’t going to happen. And they certainly weren’t both going to come true. Nothing seemed hopeful anymore, and I got stuck in that. Trapped in that awful rut of carelessness. I didn’t care; nothing was going my way anyway. What was the point?

                Sometimes, I would take out a sketch pad and pencil and just draw. I drew my very own line of clothes, and to me they were fabulous. I thought I was a genius… But then I cut myself off. “Who am I?” I said. It’s better to just stop dreaming and focus on reality, isn’t it?

                I wanted everything to be picture-perfect. And reality wasn’t faultless.

                In bed, I laid down in ponderous thought. On few occasions I would look out at the stars, and lose myself in wonder. They were so large, so powerful lighting up the night sky. And yet to me, so many lightyears away, they seemed small… one was as unimportant as the other. If one were to disappear tomorrow, I would’ve never known. For, you see, there were trillions more. I felt quite the same.

                My dreams were the only thing in my life I looked forward to. In them I could escape. My mind could travel in ways I never imagined. Once, I even dreamed I could fly… and through my sleep I could feel myself grin silently.

                In dreams, anything is possible. Sometimes I even dared to think that things were in fact perfect. My parents had their fairytale ending, and I had mine. I was double… both a fashionista and a soccer player. I led a double life, and nothing was wrong with that. In truth, everything was fine and dandy.

                What really made an impact, however, was one specific night, when my dreams were all of the above. They gave me a false hope, which I couldn’t easily let go. Things were being used, people loved, and there wasn’t a care in the world. Everything was peaceful, and everything generating bliss. It was the perfect heaven, where my life was suddenly transformed into everything I ever wanted, and more.

                What I woke up to that same morning was, in all truth, reality. The same reality I woke up to every morning, but this time it was different.

                I used to think, “there are so many problems in the world, why doesn’t someone do something about it?”

                And then I realized… I am someone.

                And that changed everything.  

Kaitand Xander and Hanna time ti write....what about the sounds and smells and feelings of summer? Do you like the heat, the feel of the sun on your skin? I know that I still love the smell of suntan lotion and I like to use coconut smelling shampoo because back in my day or "the" day we used coconut oil for tanning lotion and we would spread it all over our bodies and they would glisten with oil and grains of sand would stick to the oil we'd lathered all over ourselves...I love, love, loved the feel of the sun, the warmth of the sand, the breezes that kicked up just enough to evaporate the sweat on our skins. I loved the sound of the ocean and the rolling, back and forth motion of the waves.and,of course, I'll Ed walking along the shore on the hard wet sand next to the water's edge;picking up the broken shel sand rinsing the sand from them to discover what colors and beauty might be hidden. I loved tossing a frisbie, watching it spin on the air and glide to a friend or flop mercilessly on a sun tanner's head or neck or bottom and I loved the laughing and giggling as someone was sent to rescue the offensive frisbee from the irate sunbather...I loved beach volleyball. I loved diving into the sand to save a ball or leaping high to smash it across the net....I really loved the sound of transistor radios pounding out the sounds of Neal "forever in bluejeans" or Paul and john wanting to "let it be" Sotellmeyou writer club members "what do you love about summer?"

Check it out!

If you haven't ever been to this website, go now. Right now.
It is a website for amature writers, giving them tips and ideas on how to improve their skills and be better at what they do. The website helps you in getting you ready and prepared to effectively write, edit, and eventually lead up to every writers dream... to publish.
Go now to http://www.writersdigest.com/

On this website I found some really cool tips for creative writing: (My favorite kind:))

"1. Watch out for subtle wordiness. We’ve all been taught to eliminate redundancies in our writing, but it takes constant vigilance to catch the most elusive culprits—those that go beyond redundancy into pleonasm.
Pleonasm is the use of words unnecessary for clear expression. Here are some other common offenders to watch for:

• advanced warning
• basic fundamentals
• circulated around
• close proximity
•close scrutiny
• constant nagging
• downward descent
• exact replica
• exact same
• new discovery
• top priority

Isn’t that a great list for more concise writing?

"2. Don’t use a long (read: complicated) word where a short (read: simple) word will do. Here’s an interesting analysis of why less really is more when it comes to your writing:

In 10 novels I studied, I found bestselling novelists consistently use shorter words than non-bestsellers. It’s one of the reasons their writing reads at a faster pace. The samples from the bestsellers I studied averaged 4.21 characters a word. Other samples I analyzed for comparison averaged about a full character more. In the worst corporate writing samples I studied, it’s common for samples to average more than 6 characters per word. In academic journals, writing is so dense as to be unreadable at more than 7 letters per word.

"3. Redefine how you think of writer’s block. I’ve never heard anyone define it in quite this way before:

“Writer’s block is real but intangible. It is a momentary lack of anything to say that gives rise to the fear that you have nothing more to say—ever. … Coming to the end of speech can be a moment of blessed silence, and ought to be welcomed when it comes rather than featured. It isn’t the lack of something to say or write at the moment that is the problem, but the fear generated by the story that this present quiet will extend through the rest of your life.”

Sort of makes it sound easy to eliminate that anxiety, doesn’t it?

"4. Write more by setting a smaller daily goal. If you’re one of those writers who struggles with finding time to write, here are some convincing reasons why this approach might work for you:

• It’s easier to find smaller bites of time than long, uninterrupted periods.
• Repetition strengthens habits.
• Repetition also builds momentum.
• If it’s only for 15 minutes, you can justifiably postpone other tasks. You can reverse procrastination—instead of procrastinating the start of your writing, you procrastinate following the distractions that used to keep you from writing.
• You can envision letting go of all the other things competing for your attention and allow yourself to really focus, because it’s for only 15 minutes. This kind of focus, where we get lost in the writing, is one of the biggest joys of writing.

"5. Don’t abandon your other passions to focus on writing. I love the way Austin Kleon puts this in Steal Like an Artist: 10 Things Nobody Told You About Being Creative (Workman):

“Don’t throw any of yourself away. If you have two or three real passions, don’t feel like you have to pick and choose between them. Don’t discard. Keep all your passions in your life. This is something I learned from playwright Steven Tomlinson. Tomlinson suggests that if you love different things, you just keep spending time with them. ‘Let them talk to each other. Something will begin to happen.’ The thing is, you can."

So there you go... a few writing tips from a great website... just to get you started off on the right foot:)

Next Writing Prompt

You’ve just moved into a new house, and your family is still unpacking. In the process of moving furniture and decorating your own bedroom, you find an odd crack in the wall. As you explore further, you find out it’s a secret passageway—and you have no idea where it leads. You decide to grab a flashlight and go exploring.


Remember... anyone is welcome to post something they've written! Also, don't forget to check back often to see new stories posted and get inspiration for your own writing. I'll post my story on this prompt later this week... hope you guys will too!

The Dead King by Xander Grow

The Dead King
 by Xander Grow



It was just a normal day, nice weather, playing at the beach, except for the giant crab-squid trying to kill me. I was running for my life going 90 miles per hour across the sand. I was TERRIFIED when it came out of the water and almost killed everyone. I hid behind a building as it ran past me. It was headed towards the city museum. It pulled off the roof and picked up a small corpse. “What does it want, a dead guy?” I thought as the people inside the museum started to scream very loudly. Then the corpse did something: it got up jumped off the monsters claw and landed somehow straight in front of me. I ran for it, I needed something to get away with. I found a motorbike and tried to drive it. One fact is that a kid with no practice can’t ride a motorcycle while being chased by a 300-year-old corpse and a giant piece of seafood, but I made it out safely. (Well I did crash a couple of times but...) My name is Caden, I’m twelve years old and in sixth grade. I live in Florida, which would explain the beach to whoever is reading this. As I drove away I hid in the cemetery, not a good idea as I later found out. As the monster got closer its eyes started to glow tan witch was pretty weird, like skin growing at a rapid rate. The zombie must have seen me hiding behind the gravestone because it pointed straight at me. The monster shot tan lasers at the graves and green, rotting hands puled me under. That’s when I got here, the chasm. It is a big trench filled with red and purple streaked with blue that at first I thought was blood. The dead were on the other side of the huge pit, rotting away and staring at me. I was safe at last. I walked to the side for a while and noticed a camp. I ran towards it, maybe there were people there. I couldn’t see any people anywhere just a tiny, white, rhino with a nametag saying: Hi my name is Rine.
2                               I’m a rock master 
 It ran up to me like it knew who I was. He started biting at my pant leg trying to lead me somewhere. I followed him to a tent no larger than the other tents. Inside I found a girl kneeling in front of a statue of a crab-squid like the one I saw before. Who are you? I asked. She turned to see me. Your back! She yelled. “I am?” I said, surprised. “Wait no your not him, do you know someone named spencer hill?” “Sounds like my uncle” I said “stop, I’m serious,” she said louder than before. “No really, that is his name.” “Well that would explain why Rine recognized you and why you look so similar.” “What’s your name?” I asked “its Xena” she said. “Mine is Caden”. I said “Caden” lamely. “How did you know my uncle?” I asked. She looked like she was going to die of laughter. “He was one of the camp leaders here. He left on a quest about five years ago to find a way out of the chasm… he never returned.” “Four years ago he returned from the army, He must have found the way out and never been able to come back.” I said. “He was one of the only people we ever found that was a descendant of the ancients.” “The ancients?” I asked. “Yes, they were humans that had elemental powers. They each represented one thing: either life, earth, air, wood, water, rope, or death.” “Rope?” people had control of ropes? “Yes” she said solemnly “oh…that serious… wow… um, sorry?” “I was just kidding about that, there were no rope-people,” she laughed “oh…” I felt like an idiot. “Wait, if my uncle was one of these ancients then what about me, wouldn’t I be one to?” now that I thought about it I remembered some times it seemed I had bent the will of the earth, one time when I was rock climbing on one of the steep canyons near my home about five years ago I slipped and fell. as I was falling there was a big earthquake and a patch of grass came out of the ground and I landed on it. After that I was scared of rock climbing. Then I thought about when the zombies came I didn’t feel their hands the ground just seemed to pull me inside. “Earth” I said, “I have the power of earth.” Demon reunion 3 When Rine brought him in I was shocked, I wanted to go hug him, I seriously thought he was spencer, and then I started to think, “He’s gotten younger?” man I was dumb. We left the tent and I showed him around. I brought him into the big tent to talk to the masters. We walked inside and I was shocked. The golden Skulimp statue had been consumed by darkness and was now alive and crawling up the tent. Skulimp’s are not good, especially when they are made of black slime and are raving mad. I instantly pulled out the seratir and shot it at him. It missed by a long shot but scarred the altar behind it. To my surprise it never attacked, it just jumped around like a monkey that had too much soda. After a while we just ran past him. Something must be really wrong for it not to fight. I immediately shoved him into the center of the tall wooden column. He was carried away into the whatever-dimension, leaving me to battle the creature one on one. It was fairly easy…until it called on another, and another, and another. Soon about twenty Skulimp’s surrounded me. My Secratir was out of ammo and my sword was in my tent. The one thing that saved me was a big huge vine, encircling the tent and stealing the demons one by one. After, Rine came in looking exhausted. His horn transformed into a short spiky plant, explaining how I had been saved. When we entered the tent this creepy little monster thing with feathers and purple tentacles started jumping up and down, so of course I thought it was one of Xena’s friends and that it was excited to see her, big mistake. Until she pulled out some kind of crossbow and tried to shoot it I still believed it was a creepy companion of hers. And then she shoved me into a giant wooden pillar for like, no reason. I thought AAAAA! And then I was in a whole different world and I was like AAAA!!!!! And my last thought was “man, she’s a mean girl.”
  3 Rabbit of power
 The space I got shoved into only got weirder. A giant yak, a blue bed, and a magic guru bunny were all floating around with me. I started floating towards the bunny as slow as possible thinking NO, NOT THE RABBIT! When I bumped into it nasty red eyelids fluttered open, revealing something I did not want to see. He had a swirly black and white eye like someone who had been hypnotized, and his other was a snake’s eye with two different pupils. The last thing I remembered was a big dragon that seemed like it had been drawn and still had marks where it looked like it had been erased and redrawn before I woke up. Wow, that was disorienting. A giant vine just came out of my horn I don’t know how I did it and I don’t want to know. Just so you know this is Rine. Just so you know these thoughts are not from a rhino, but a man trapped in a rhino’s form. It all started when I was working in the military as Sargent hill. One day I was wandering around the camp. A big tough guy, “Ima idiot” as we called him, was picking on some other young man just trying to walk past him. “You trying to get killed kid! No one gets past me!” he screamed. “well,… um well I just wanted-“ he ran away before he could finish.

Snow Haiku

peaceful, quiet snow
melting like angels' magic
enchanting my soul

I got on a plane Was the wrong gate Must be insane for getting there late Flying aint easy security and lines crazy, hectic dizzy planes not on time. Instead of Italy landed in spain airport unfriendly went home on a train. Just want everyone to know...that we are taking bad stuff.

Writing by Kaitlin Gray

Here is another random story I wrote... enjoy:)

                She didn’t sing. Though, I knew she had every single word memorized by heart. She just sat silently, watching. Waiting. Glancing out the car window, she looked at Yard Sale signs and gas stations.

                Her lips are pursed in a stuck up manor. In her head, no thoughts appear but one: Whatever.

                They pull up the driveway, into the garage. There she turns from her mother without saying a word. Ignoring the patient waiting, the strain to hear an answer. Each one of them sits there, staring. Each one waits, but they only wait for something which is never to be heard. Never to be found.

                Her mother’s voice chimes in her head like a bell. She is speaking of a powerful word. A word the girl will never quite understand. Consequences.

                She opens the door abruptly as soon as the car comes to a stop. Whatever.

                One person understands her. One person out of a trillion. A needle in a haystack. Yet this person is inaccessible. Gone.

                Storming in the house, she throws off her shoes. Purposely, she slams the door. Hard and loud. Purposely she makes a mess of the shoes in the shoe basket. Purposely she does everything in her power to make her mom upset. She will get away with it; she is already in the deep.

                Stomping up the stairs she runs to her bedroom. Locks the door; hears the small click. This is the last place she has freedom. The last place she may find peace without… them. Nonetheless they are inescapable. This is why she comes here, locks the door.

                Her bed is unmade. Oh, what her mother would say if she saw it. She laughs, giving herself pleasure with the thought. Her laptop is open on her desk, a task remaining before her to be done. It is an option, an option where she can have the pleasure to escape. Where she can make anything happen, and everything goes her way. Though she simply stares, letting the task float above her head. What is it? What is the problem? Is she anxious? No, it is not anxiety that she feels. Rather it is regret, anger, frustration. So she cannot write? The girl does not understand the problem; just that it is there.

The girl sighs. Whatever. She turns one particular word around in her head. Plays with it, tries to find ways to make it backfire. There is no way. What can she do? Consequences.

                A knock hits her door. A woman, standing behind a barrier she cannot pass. She is trapped, but so is the girl. The girl ignores it, simply sitting at her desk staring at the open laptop. Not touching, looking. Admiring it’s beauty. It was a gift.

                She hears the woman walk away. She speaks words through the door before turning, but the girl tosses them away without listening. She does not care, what is the woman to her?

                She has a name: Mother. That is what she is to her.

                She disregards the thoughts of her, not to be rude but to prevent. There is a difference.

                The girl finishes her task, but not in the way it was meant to be done. She is meant to write, and she is as that is what she loves to do. But she does not write in the way she was meant to. She does not write a story; she writes a day. A day she only wishes she could take back, could relive. Yet, if given the chance, she only wonders if given a second chance she would do anything different. She only sits there, wondering.

                She reminds herself there is a way. There is one way to take back what she has done. One way, and that is through forgiveness.  But in the end, it never changes what has been done. People forgive, family forgives. That is what they are meant to do. But in the end, the consequences persist. The past is locked in stone, or rather locked in time. Although it can be forgiven, it can never be removed. Time itself may never be changed. She fears this. It is the truth.

                But she does not move. She sits still at her desk, wishing she could just scream off the feelings she feels, like her sister is doing now, just next door. But sadly, it isn’t that easy. Even if she forgives those who have wronged her, will those who she has wronged forgive her? It leaves her to wonder, and so she does not move. Does not turn and go down the stairs, giving her mother another chance. This is something she will later regret. She continues typing, for no apparent reason but to let off steam. There is other ways. Her sister merely screams. Her brother cries. Her father leaves. But she is different, she writes.

                Why? People ask. Why write?

                The girl wants to answer, but cannot. She can’t explain the power she feels when she reads something she has written. Something she realizes has potential. The answer is she has a gift. Everyone does. Hers is to write, and so that is what she does. She sits at her laptop and writes, though she should be doing something else. There is much more to do, but she writes. And this she will only regret, as the word appears again.

                Consequences.

The Sweaty Man

This one kind of goes with the prompt I just posted. It's a story I wrote a while back about going to somewhere new, and meeting a really strange person on the plane ride there. You guys could use this prompt, too. If you need inspiration... read on.

By Kaitlin Gray

                As I took my seat on my first plane to California, I noticed an unusually sweaty man seated to my left.

                We sat by each other in an awkward silence for a matter of minutes. As the wheels of the plane started to turn, and we began to lift off the ground, I felt my stomach do a turn and get the oddest little butterflies.

                After about 15 minutes of relaxing flying time, I pulled out a book from my carry-on bag. It was a long flight from Mobile, Alabama to Turlock, California… might as well enjoy it with a good book.

                The man looked over at me, and I could feel his beady eyes on me. Nervously, I pretended to read, even though the feeling of his eyes on me kept me from being able to concentrate. In fact, it was quite annoying. I set the book down and returned the stare.

                His eyes were cold and black, as if hiding from a dark secret. His face was pale and he was still sweating. I could tell something was on his mind, and I could tell he was afraid by his frightened expression. He looked down at the ground, and I remained examining his weary figure.

                “I know this is supposed to be a secret, but I absolutely must tell someone…” He said.

                I was taken aback by his comment, unable to meet his eyes. Why me? I didn’t even know this man… It was so strange a thing to say to an unfamiliar old lady such as I. He said it with such penance, a sigh escaping his lips more than once. I looked away from his whole figure, looking out the window and into the white fluffy clouds.

Turning back towards him I cleared my throat in a gesture as to say, “Continue.” He took a deep breath.

“It was 1974. The year I graduated with a Doctorate from college. I thought it was going to be the best day of my life. After all, I had just gotten married the week before and me and my wife were getting ready to leave on our honeymoon. We stayed for the ceremony… Oh, how proud she was of me.” His face darkened. “We were on our way home… she was laughing and hugging me… I was in such a great mood.” Tears began to fall from his deep sunken eyes. He lowered his head and buried it into his chest. I just listened.

“These men—these horrible, horrible men—they came for her.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, as if someone might be listening. “They took me. In all black at night, I had no idea they were even there. They held a gun to my back, though my wife couldn’t see. Told her… told her they wanted to congratulate me and interview me for a job. She was so happy for me… she went back to the car and allowed the men to bring me with them. Neither of us had any idea… I was so scared.” 

I couldn’t even begin to comprehend the value of what this man was telling me. A murder mystery… this is what I worked with every day. Still, I couldn’t believe what this man was doing… telling these things to a stranger. I didn’t know what to say, what to do. I just watched him as he cried so many doleful, bemoaning tears. I put my hand on his back, in a strange attempt to comfort the poor fellow.

“They told me…” He paused. It was hard to understand his whisper through his sobs, but I tried to be as attentive as possible in order to help this man. “They threatened me with my life. The one man, the tallest of the three, he told me my wife needed to die, and that I needed to kill her. They said I needed to make it look like a car crash. And if I didn’t kill her, they would kill me too.

“To ensure my survival, I played along. I didn’t want to die… I was too scared… I didn’t know what to do.”

He wept harder than ever now. I didn’t know what to do, or what more he would tell me. I was so shocked upon hearing this story, it was intriguing to me, although the involment of death made me sick to my stomach. It hit me then just who I was looking at; a murderer. A poor, pain stricken, abused murderer—but a killer none the less.

“So, I let her drive. I told her to drive me down the exact road they had told me to, made her stop at the exact light, and then…” he could barely move, let alone talk. I didn’t know when he would speak again, had no idea of the pains he was feeling. It was heart wrenching, and painful to see, and yet the story was one I couldn’t let go. “And then I shot her.” He spat the word out as if it were poison, and that word alone held so much agony it was unbearable. “I wrecked the car into the side of a building, got out and walked to the end of the road, and dropped the gun down a sewer at the end of the street. Upon returning to my car I drank a cup of beer as they had instructed, in order to sound like I was actually in a real car accident. I dialed 911 and told them my wife had fallen asleep at the wheel.”

I knew now that that was the end of his story. I was immobile; I couldn’t believe the surrealness of my situation. I had so many questions, I didn’t even know where to begin. I was starting to feel my company was rude, and I wanted to comfort the fatigued traveler. I started with the biggest question on my mind, unable to change the subject of the murder.

“Why are you telling me this?” It was the first thing I had said to him, and he was stunned by my sudden outburst. He looked up, however he just kept crying. His eyes were now pink as rubies; and they blazed like deep forests.

“You knew my wife, and I know you.”

My heart dropped and my arm felt like an anchor. My eyes got as wide as ever, and my jaw dropped a little. The shock must have shown on my face, as the man almost chuckled a little. Almost. My whole brain stopped entirely, and the questions from earlier dropped like flies.

“My wife was Chief Nish. As I believe, she was your partner for quite some time.”

I gasped, and immediately felt embarrassed as to how loud it was. Eyes started to glance toward me, and I began to slide down in my seat. The man wiped away his tears and sat up, as if nothing had happened. I looked out the window for a few minutes, and when I looked back the eyes had left our presence. I could tell the man had been in these kind of situations a lot, and he knew how to hide his emotions.

I remembered perfectly the last time I saw her. That was in 1974, like the man had said. It was 1995 now, over 21 years later. And yet, I still wondered about her. Now I knew.

She was the best cop I had ever met, and the most fun, bubbly person to work with. She had the most down-to-earth personality, and oh how pretty she was back in those days… I remember picking up the phone one day and hearing her husband talk on the phone. Even then, all that time ago, he held the same nervous qualities.

“Hello, Officer Stover. This is Melanie’s husband.”

“Oh, hey Stephen. How are you?”

“Melanie and I will be moving soon. She flew to Washington last night upon hearing that her father had died of a stroke. I just wanted you to know, she won’t be able to work for you anymore. She sends her regrets and wishes you and the team the best of luck, but she needs to be with family right now.” It was such a good lie, and a believable story. Yet, even then I had my doubts. He sounded too formal and nervous for truth. Back then, I figured it was because of the family tragedy. Now I knew otherwise.

“Well, do you need help packing? We’d love to come over and—“

“No. We’re fine. We didn’t have much stuff, you know. Plus, we were getting ready to move anyway so I have most of the stuff already—“

“Oh, by the way I forgot to ask about the honeymoon. How was it?”

“Oh. It was great. I’m in kind of a stressful situation right now, and I really do need to go.” He paused. “My, that’s Melanie now.”

“Okay well send her my deepest regrets, and let her know we are all thinking of her and sorry to see her go.” I said.

“Will do.” And then, he hung up.

It all made so much sense now… why no one ever heard from her again… the only thing was, how come the police were never informed of the crash?

I began to get worried, sweating myself a bit. How did he know it was me? How did he find me, here, right now? Why would he tell me all of this even though he knew who I was?

Three men in expensive looking black-suits walked down the aisle to talk to us. They must’ve gotten permission, as I didn’t see any flight attendants complaining.

“Read your book.” The man whispered, before picking up a magazine himself.

“How are you two doing this fine afternoon?” The tallest man said, in a very deep, intimidating voice. He gestured to give the man seated next to me a high-five, and as I looked through the corner of my eye, I saw them exchange a gun carefully hidden in the taller man’s sleeve.

“I—or should I say, we—just wanted to stop by and say hi. Haven’t seen you in forever, Stephen. Can’t believe we actually chanced to meet you here. Jeff, here, saw you when he got up to go to the bathroom. We decided to all come over and chat for a bit.”

“How ya been, Stevie?” The shortest of the three asked.

“Great, actually.” Stephen replied.

The tall one spoke again. “Well, we’d better get going before the flight attendants bite our heads off. We’re just…” He held up his pointer finger, pretending to count the rows of the plane. “… five rows down if you want to talk to us again later. After all, this is a pretty big plane.” He winked, nonchalantly. “Nice seeing you again, old chum.” He patted his back, hard I might add, before walking away.

He buried his head, once more, before letting out a deep sigh and another few minutes of tears.

“Did you see the gun?” He asked, fright evident in his voice.

“Yes.” I said, incapable to say anything more.

“They use me as their assassin. I have a parachute hidden in my carry on, as do those men. They are going to go shoot the pilot and the co-pilot right now. As the plane begins to crash toward the earth, I’m supposed to shoot you everywhere but the heart or the brain, so that you suffer worse than anyone else. You, as well as all the others, are supposed to die.”

“Why?” My voice was hardly a whisper, and now the fear was marked in my voice.

“They’re terrorists… who knows why? I ask them all the time, but they won’t tell me. I asked them that same question, that one word, when they told me to kill my wife. I just can’t believe I’m a part of them… I’m so evil.”

I didn’t know how to comfort him, not in the slightest.

“I want you to take the parachute, and I’ll go down will the others.” I didn’t want him to die, but I knew it would be a better fate than whatever those men would do to him. I also didn’t want to survive, and seem selfish by accepting the parachute, but when it was between life and death… I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

He reached underneath his seat, and took out the backpack carry-on with the parachute inside of it. He stretched forth his hand, and although my heart was pounding, I hesitantly took the backpack, unsure if he would change his mind and ask for it back. “You aren’t evil. You’re brave. Thank you, Stephen. Thank you.” After I had spoken, 4 gunshots rang heavy in the plane. Everyone went silent, and terror like never before masked each man, woman, and child’s face.

“Wait, but what about them?” I asked, insecure about Stephen’s future.

“They have already jumped out.” He breathed, as to not disturb the silence. “They said they would as soon as they took care of the captain.”

“How am I supposed to get out?”

“The same way they did. Jump out the door right next to the pilot’s quarters. It’s probably still open.”

I gave him a hug, and a kiss. He deserved it after the life he’d been through. I hopped into the aisle of the plane, with tears in my eyes. “I’ll bring your name justice, I promise. Those men will die if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Thank you.” Stephen said. And that’s the last thing I ever heard him say.

Writers prompt

Here is the writers prompt for this week:


You are on a plane to a new country, and as you think you are boarding the right plane you are so rushed you accidently go through the wrong door, into the wrong plane. What happens when you land in this different country? Who do you meet, and how do you get back?

Live Life

 Written by Kaitlin Gray

What if we died tomorrow, knowing only in our heads the life which we so unadventurously lived? What would happen when that tire so unforgiving, took our very last breath as his own? And when that happened, we lay motionless as our life ended, images of life running through our head; time we so unappreciatively wasted. Time is precious, you see, and without adventure treasurable time is lost.

Which is why we, as human beings, must do the total opposite of what people expect us to. We should live as rule breakers, not goody two shoes. Take chances. Face your fears; they will only make you more scared than you were in the first place. Sing tone-deaf in the shower. Laugh out loud, even when there is nothing to laugh about. Waste money on useless crap. Be scared. Tell the truth. Feel the pain of consequences. Yell at a jerk. Repent when you are done. Seek adventure in the short life you have to be adventurous.

So the answer is yes, my darling. Make mistakes, live life. Without doing so you are merely a ghost; undead, yet lifeless. There is no point to live if your life is filled with nothing out of the ordinary. So ask yourself the question, “what if I died tomorrow?” What would happen then? Would you be proud of the life you lived, or regretful of the dreams you didn’t chase? Never be penitent. You learn and grow with each choice you make. Each wrong choice is worth it. Don’t regret mistakes, for at the end of time you will realize those mistakes are what made you, well, you. Never be someone you’re not.

Life isn’t life without mistakes. Always remember, mistakes are adventure; and adventure is life.  Without adventure you would be dead.

You would die tomorrow.

“A ship in a harbor is safe, but that’s not why ships are built.”

“Take chances. Abandon all the rules. Ditch the recipe. Color outside the lines.”

         “A person who never made a mistake never tried anything new.”

“You cannot always wait for the perfect time. Sometimes you must dare to jump.”

“Take a chance. You never know what might happen.”

“Take a chance. Because you never know how absolutely perfect something might turn out to be.”

“If you get a chance, take it. If it changes your life, let it.”

“Doesn’t being scared let you know you are on to something important?”

“If we admit that human life can be ruled by reason, then all possibility of life is destroyed.”

“The worst mistake anyone can make is being too afraid to make one.”

“The only time you run out of chances is when you stop taking them.”

“If you don’t take the risk, you might as well have never lived at all. Don’t waste your time; TAKE CHANCES AND MAKE CHANGES. It’s what we were all made to do.”

“Her life improved dramatically when she decided to break the rules and find beauty where she had been told there was none.”

“Well behaved women rarely make history.”

“3 simple rules in life:

1.  If you don’t go after what you want, you’ll never have it.

2.  If you don’t ask, then the answer will always be no.

3.  If you don’t step forward, you will always be in the same place.”

“In this world, we have to take chances. Sometimes they’re worth it, sometimes they’re not. But I’m telling you now, you will never know until you try. “

Laughter bubbled up through her chest and into the tiny space that sheltered and protected her and her two furry, soft elephants. Sydney was hiding with her two favorite toys. The biggest one was purple and had two little black eyes, a long skinny tail and two raggedy ears that were barely as long as its' head. She called him Berry. the other was pink with a white chest and white tummy and ears so long and big that they went from its' head to its' toes. When she got it for her birthday her mom said it must be a cousin to dumbo because it had such big ears and so from then on she named it Zoe after her cousin. Mommy laughed when she told her. Mommie's can laugh at silly things. The three of them were hiding under her Mom and Dad's bed. They were playing Bear which was the favorite game she played with her daddy and her brother Lincoln. She could hear dad growling like a bear as he crawled down the hallway. He sounded so silly it made her laugh. It was very dark in her mom and dad's room and it could be scarey but she wasn't ever scared when she was around her daddy. He was big and strong and smiled a lot. She giggled again and daddy stopped growling. "I'm gonna get you." Daddy's growly voice came from just behind the bedroom door. Ah, oh, he must have heard her giggling. She didn't want to get caught first. Lincoln always won. He found really neat places to hide. Once he hid on the top shelf of the hall closet. Daddy didn't like it but he still won.Sydney really, really wanted to find a good hiding spot. She looked out from under the bed and could see the window. The moon shone through it. She could see the big tree. Its' branches nearly reached Mommy and Daddy's bedroom window. Lincoln had climbed it once. Sydney got so excited about winning that she didn't think about danger. She didn't remember what her mommy and daddy told her about climbing the tree. She didn't think about the fact that she had never climbed from the window to the tree. She just wanted to beat Lincoln. She left her purple elephant behind as she scrambled across the room to the window. She carried Zoe with her. She dragged her by her long floppy ear. The window was open. Sydney pushed on the screen and watched it pop out just like Mommy did when she cleaned the windows. Light came in through the bedroom door. "The bear is going to get you..." growled her daddy. Sydney crawled up on to the window just as daddy reached under the bed. He found only purple Berry all by himself. Daddy was surprised. Sydney never went anywhere without her bears. Then he heard a muffled cry. "Sydney" Daddy called in his regular voice. "Where are...." Just then daddy looked over at the window. He saw it was open and he only two tiny hands clinging to the window sill. In one tiny hand was Zoe's pink and white ear. Daddy jumped up and ran to the windown. He pulled Sydney to safety just as her tiny hands were slipping and she was starting to fall a long way down to the ground. Daddy hugged her and hugged her. Sydney wasn't giggling any more she was still really scared. When she had tried to climb out of the window to the tree she had slipped and almost fell. Sydney was crying. "i just wanted to beat Lincoln one time." Daddy hugged her until the tears stopped. "Sydney" daddy said. "Mommy and Daddy have taught you to never climb up on the window sills. We also taught you not to climb too high into the tree. You were going to break both of those rules weren't you?" Sydney buried her face into her daddy's shoulder and said "Yes." "Sydney, Mommy and daddy make rules so you will be safe not to be mean. Rules need to be kept all the time. Winning a silly game of bear is not more important than being obedient. Do you understand what I am saying to you Sydney?" daddy asked her gently. "Yes, Daddy, I do. I'm sorry." "Well, I am glad you are sorry and I am glad you did not fall and get hurt but you could have been hurt. And, it was because you broke our rules. What should daddy do?" Her father looked into her big blue eyes that still had tears in them. "I don't know. I said I was sorry." "yes, you did but I think because you broke two big rules you need to go to your room and think about two things. First winning is not fun if you have to break a rule to win. Two always obey Mommy and Daddy's rule that are made to keep you safe. Can you think about those two things?" Daddy asked. Sydney walked slowly to her room with Zoe and Berry pulled in a tight hug. She had never been so scared before. She didn't like making her daddy sad. She was determined to be a very, very good girl even if she could never beat Lincoln in the game of Bear.

A bleach-boned hand with grimy fingernails reposed upon the nightstand next to the boys institutionally gray metal framed bed. The stand itself was also a dark metal gray and created a stark contrast between the bleached whiteness of the hand. As the dark haired boy with big hopeless brown eyes starred at the skinless appendage; the lights went out and with it came the empty terrifying blackness. Throughout the cold dank and miserable soul-less building began the clanking off doors closing which was almost instantaneously followed by the mind numbing sound of tumblers turning in the locks. Another night alone with his fear and the memories of how he first stumbled upon the buried bones that even through the blackness of the room; the bleached imaged burned brightly in his brain. A sob escaped him; a sob he didn’t know was threatening. It had been such an innocent mistake.

He collapsed onto his bed and let the memories invade his mind once again. Some part of his mind trying to discover from his twisted images of that day and reveal to him the one thing that could save him from the fate he now endured. It had been one of those blissfully innocent days which the fall gifts boys. He had escaped outside to the sun and brisk air. It wasn’t cold but refreshing and cool. The sun countered the coolness of the air with its’ covering warmth. He left his jacket in his room. He wouldn’t need a jacket on a day like today. In the pocket of his faded blue denim jeans he had enough money to buy two donuts at the bakery in town; his scout pocket knife; and a paper clip he’d picked up off the floor on his way out the door. There were two ways to get to the bakery in town. One meant following the roads through the neighborhood; down to the main collector and follow it as it wound its way around the hills that surrounded the city. Taking the roads meant the trip would take him a full hour. Thirty minutes to town and thirty minutes back. If he were gone that long his step mother would miss him and she would make him pay for leaving the house without her permission. They weren’t allowed out except to go to school and to come straight home. There had been a time when he hadn’t even been allowed to attend school but then one of the neighbors had told someone who told someone else who seemed to think that 15 year old boys ought to be at school and not staying at home alone.

The other route into town was through the woods. There was a cut up and over the hill made by the utility company many years earlier when they were installing the power from town out to where his step mother’s dirty yellow house sat alone at the edge of tangled trees and thick underbrush that normally made traveling through the woods in that part of their county impassable. The utility company’s break through the woods cut the time to and from town to less than 20 minutes and he knew she wouldn’t miss him. When she disappeared down into the basement he knew, by timing it, that she would be down there exactly 45 minutes before she regained the main floor of the house. She made the trip into the basement twice a day. The only real chance that he would be discovered missing is if his little sister made some noise or created some problem that would cause her to emerge early. He had told her where he was going and he had promised her that if she were very, very quiet and didn’t alert their step mother that he would bring her home a chocolate fronted donut.

He started out quickly and as always when he was alone and could think past the fear and abuse of living with his step mother; he would think of his father. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come home? Had he really abandoned them to this dreary life? It had been six months and he was beginning to loose hope he would ever see his father again. As he cross through the forested area behind his house and was about to emerge out of its’ cool gloom; his feet, ankle deep in the drying fall leaves; were tripped by some unseen obstacle and he stumbled. What? There was a crunching noise under his foot as he stumbled.

He backed up. He bent over. He brushed back the brown dead leaves…

The boy stopped the memories and brought himself back into the midnight blackness of his cell. Why hadn’t he just kept walking? If hadn’t had stopped he would be free. If hadn’t stopped he could be watching over his sister. If….he felt his heart beating against his chest and he felt the sweat as it began to trickle down the sides of face and he allowed the memories to return.

It had been the hand. The hand that now laid upon the stand next to the bed. Back on that sunlit fall day on the edge of the woods it protruded up from the earth reaching skyward. The sight of it had been startling he had fallen back onto his bottom. He starred for a minute and then some strange energy of curiosity mixed with fear and dread overcame him and he rose to his knees and pushed away more of the leaves until he got to bear dirt. He saw the boney wrist then and on it he saw his father’s leather and chrome wristwatch. He could still make out the words on the leather “father”. It had been a gift he had made his father in his first year in scouts. The complete writing on it was “world’s best father” and his dad never went out with out buckling it on and winking at him and saying “just so I don’t forget who I am.” Then he would tousle his hair as he walked out the door.

The discovery shook the boy to such an extent that he forgot what he knew about his step mother’s rules. He ran frantically back to her house; raced up the stairs on the front porch and then…. why oh why had he forgotten? He burst through the living room and threw open the basement door calling her by name.”Yolanda!!!”

He didn’t make note of it at the time but now as he laid in the dark emptiness; he remembered the clanking sound of metal and then the shuffled scurrying steps of his step mother and also somewhere from the depths; a desolate human cry.

“How dare you interrupt my work?” She yelled as she climbed the stairs.

“Dad. His hand. His watch.” I was crying.

She got quiet. She starred at me. She didn’t even seem surprised just contemplative. Later he would realize she was sizing up his fate: would it be death like his father or would it be the fate he now endured. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she masked her expression with one of surprise and what she must have thought was compassion.

“Shhh, now. Don’t make so much noise you’ll disturb your sister and we mustn’t have her upset as you are. Let’s go take a look at what you found. I’ll just grab a shovel from the garage so we can dig around what you saw.”

Her calmness unnerved him. He hadn’t figured it out. She was an adult. She was supposed to take care of them. She was supposed to be their mother. His mind wasn’t yet capable of understanding the evil that lurked within the woman that required him to call her mother.

She retrieved the shovel and he led her through the woods. As he remembered, he could the sound of their feet wading through the dry crackling leaves. He could hear her breath just behind him. There were no other sounds but one and later he would realize it was the sound of his own sobbing.

He reached the site and once again got down upon bended knee as he trembling brushed back the leaves that had fallen back into the depression he had created when he had first brushed the debris away from his father’s hand. And, that was the last memory of the real world he had. Now, he realized that she had taken the shovel and brought it crashing down upon his head.

He had awoken to this room. He had awoken to her standing outside the bars of the room glaring at him.

“You shouldn’t have called me Yolanda. You must call me mother.” She spoke with a calmness and ordinariness that belied the insanity of him waking in a dank prison like room. She was starring at something as she spoke. “If you hadn’t been so curious; you would have never known. But, you are a smart boy. You would have figured it out eventually.” Her manic smile was almost quizzical as she continued “You know I thought he was dead before I buried him. But, he must have been alive. He must have tried to dig himself out of the hole I buried him into and now look at what his efforts have got him. He has put you in the same place and the same room I had to lock him into.”

Kaitlin sent me this prompt and I wrote this story. It is not complete. Who would like me to finish it? Do you have any suggestions on what might happen next?
granny d


“There I give you that to remind you of what happens to heroes and foolish boys.” She pointed her fat dirty finger to the dark gray metal side table by the bed on which the boy had risen to a sitting position. He turned his head fearing what he would see. It was a macabre as anything he could remember. It was his father’s hand and next to it was the watch..

“The rules are simple. You do what I say; when I say. You don’t try to escape. You don’t try to reach anyone outside of my little dungeon of horrors. You endure the punishments I give you and you always, always, call me mother. Failure to obey means that your sister shares the same fate as that of your father and you wouldn’t want that would you?” With that she left. He heard for the first time her heavy shuffling tread away from him and up the stairs. He felt for the first time the stark terror as the lights went out and the tumblers in the locks turned. And, for the first time, he heard a faded moan emitting from somewhere in the blackness.

Family Writer's Club

Hello Fellow Hooge Family Writers (and you all are)....I have started this blog as a way for us to share what we write with the rest of the family without having to rely on Granny D to get everyone a copy of everyone else's stories. Here is the purpose of the blog:
1. Any family member who wants to can contribute a story; drawing; picture; artwork or creative "anything" to the blog to share with the family.
2. On a weekly basis, Kaitling or I will post a "writer's prompt" and anyone who wants to can write a story or idea or song or whatever based on the prompt.
3. I would also like to have a "group story" where each participant can add a story or a thought to the story but no more than one paragraph at a time.
4. Moms and Dads can "type" for their little ones who can't write yet and let them "tell" a story that can be shared on the blog.

Writing is a wonderful way to learn to express our thoughts, ideas, inspirations, and emotions. I hope all of you take the time to participate and, if not, at least read what is written and enjoy the creative talents of our family.

Love Granny D

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