A Hiatus... of Sorts

So... as you may have noticed, I've missed a couple weeks of Flash Fiction Friday. No, I'm not out of story ideas, but I am taking a break from writing Flash Fiction. These days, I'm concentrating on rewriting/writing/editing a couple comic books and a Script Frenzy screenplay script.

I'm working towards finishing them all (in a perfect world in which there are both unicorns and holodecks) before I start school in September.

Of course, if inspiration strikes in the form of a Flash Fiction story, I'll write and post it, but other than that, I'm pretty much on a Flash Fiction hiatus.

I may post some actual blogs though. Possibly about my random thoughts/experiences as I write/rewrite/edit because then it doesn't count as cheating on the projects I'm supposed to be devoting myself to. Right? Right? Facepalm.

Anyway, consider yourselves updated.

Update'd, you are.

And now that I've resorted to Yoda-channelling with a touch of Zaboo (from "The Guild
: http://www.watchtheguild.com/ ), I'm going to sign off.

Till next time! ; )

Flash Fiction -- No Slate at All

"The night, it isn't so young," she said.

She opened the car door, her other hand already fumbling for her keys in her purse.

Gord smiled. "Neither are we."

His seat belt was unbuckled before she could blink, his hand on hers. She felt like she was trying to swim in mud.

"I'm sorry, Gord," Kelly said, "I can't do this. I thought I could, but I can't."

Gord's smile disappeared. His retracted his hand, put both of them on the steering wheel. At ten and two. Overcompensating, she noted, without meaning to.

"I thought you said we were trying again. I thought you said there'd be a clean slate."

His words were a metronome. Kelly tried to remember a time when there was music to them, too. She shut the door, and waited for the flock of memories in her mind to land on a single branch.

"I said I'd try," she said finally.

She couldn't look at his face. She'd break right in two if she did. She stared at his hands. Ten and two, Kelly thought, ten and two.

"And yet you haven't." His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "You haven't tried at all."

Kelly sighed. "That's not fair. I have tried. And if you hadn't--"

"It's not a clean slate if you're allowed to say 'if you hadn't'. If it was a clean slate, there wouldn't be anything on it, don't you see? How can I win? How can I win if the rules are always changing? Tell me, Kelly. You have all the answers, right? Tell me how to win."

His knuckles were bulging out oddly, white islands in the tanned sea of his hands. Kelly could feel her whole body tense. She wanted to tell him to let go of the wheel. He couldn't win, he couldn't steer away from the cliff their marriage had fallen off -- it was too late. But she couldn't say it. She couldn't say anything.

"How many times do I have to say I'm sorry?" Gord shouted, "It's like you don't even hear it. I could be saying 'beer' for all you'd care."

"You might as well be saying beer!" she said, "I'd believe you if you said 'beer'. I'd believe you meant it. I'd believe it's what you loved, what you wanted, what you cared about. What is 'sorry'? When you say it, it's random sounds that happen to sound like a word people know how to say."

His hand became a fist then, and he punched the steering wheel, hard. She flinched, and hated herself for it. The honk pierced the silent night, and echoed in Kelly's ears long after his fist had reverted back to a hand.

"Please," Kelly said, "The neighbours..."

"I don't give a damn about the neighbours."

Kelly laughed. She couldn't help it. "That's because they're not your neighbours anymore."

"Yeah? Yeah? Or it's because I care about our marriage more than you ever did," he said.

"Gord. We don't have a marriage anymore. We had a separation, we had another try, and now we have nothing. We have a dream that became a nightmare that we both should have forgotten by now."

"I'll never forget," he said, "And neither will you."

He locked the door in the same instant she reached to open it.

"Let me out, Gord." She tried the door even though she knew it wouldn't open.

"I don't think so. I let you out, and it's all over, isn't it? That's what you're telling me. Not only do I not have a clean slate, but I don't have any slate at all."

"Unlock this door, Gord. Unlock it or I'll scream."

It was his turn to laugh. "You're the one who cares about the neighbours, not me."

Panic rose in her like a sudden storm. She tried to stay in the eye of it. It was a quality she'd cultivated well, considering all the years she'd had to perfect it, living with the tornado that had been her husband.

"You'll meet someone else. I know you will. We just don't belong together. Please, Gord. If you ever loved me, please let me out."

He leaned back, considering her words. "Do you think I ever loved you?"

Kelly stopped trying to pull up the lock. She twisted her head back to look at him. "Didn't you?" she asked.

He smiled. It reached all the way to his watery blue eyes. "I didn't think you thought I did."

Clarity hit her then, like lightning in her panic storm. The sky lit up and power jolted through her.

"You're wrong. I didn't think you didn't love me," Kelly said softly.

Slowly, she leaned over him.

"I think, deep down..." She ran a finger across his chest. "In your heart of hearts..."

"Yes...?" he breathed.

Her lips nearly brushed against his. Her knee was on the seat between his legs. He didn't move.

Then, finally, her searching fingertips found the button.

"....You never really gave a damn what I thought," she finished.

The lock released; its 'click' punctuating her sentence. Without hesitation, she slid back to her seat, opened the door, and slammed it closed behind her.

"Kelly!" Gord yelled through the window, "You'll regret this. You just made the biggest mistake of your life. You're going to wish you died here tonight. I know how to win now, Kelly. I know how to win!"

Kelly kept walking, keys resolutely in her hand. She didn't look back. She didn't want him to see that she was smiling.

The Day I Printed my Script Frenzy Script

If you know me in real life and/or you follow me on Twitter, you probably know I wrote a script during April for a little something [that took over my life] called Script Frenzy (scriptfrenzy.org).

What you may not know is that last Saturday, I printed it out.

Yes, that's right. Script. Printed.

I had no intention of doing this. But, at some point, between rushing home from work and running to comic book shops for Free Comic Book Day, it occurred to me that I was incapable of picking an excerpt to bring to the Wrap Party. What?! I couldn't miss Free Comic Book Day! And anyway -- I went to get Script Frenzy prizes! Okay, fine, you can add an "under the guise of" before the "get" and "ing" immediately after, but then you'd have to get rid of the "to" and that's just too much effort so you might as well leave it as is, since it pretty much leads to the first point anyway.

Point number one: I was rushed and/or lazy.

I decided I might as well print it all and decide what part would be read out... later. After all, why do now, what you can do in some other indeterminate point in time?

Point number two: I don't have a printer.

This isn't, strictly speaking, true. I have two printers, both in a box in my closet, both destroyed by vastly entertained felines. Their innards have been, well, not so innarded. Why are they in a box in my closet if they don't work? See previous point.

Point number three: I haven't printed anything out other than résumés since I graduated university where I wrote and printed more essays than I care to remember.

Essays are a different animal and are therefore not affected by this odd printing experience. And I'm not talking about résumés. You can't make me.

Point number four: Writing things in bold is fun! Whee!

No, really, this is an actual point. Some of my script more than resembles this point. The characters wonder if the author has reached 100 pages. The author tells the characters to stop talking to her and finish the scene. Print... that? Really?

The Rest of the Story:

So there I was, comic books-in-bag, listening to the printer making strange "I have a million ideas. They all point to certain death" noises, and watching a hundred and one pages spill out of the complaining printer.

Unexpectedly, a variety of emotions washed over me.

First, shock: I wrote all that? But there's so many pages? So... many... pages...

Then, panic: Oh my God. It's still printing. The pages. They're never going to stop. NEVER!

Some guilt. Can't forget the guilt. How many trees died in the making? Oh, no... There's someone else waiting for this printer, and she only has one page... *Apologetic glance*

But, after the guilt, and the shock, and panic, and other miscellaneous feelings passed, pride and glee took over. See that? I wrote it. All 101 pages. I printed, therefore it is!

Now, I've been writing since I knew how to write -- possibly earlier -- and yet, it's still hard to consider myself a Writer. Note the capital "W". Yes, okay, some of the stories of my youth involve a koala bear named Cuddles being smuggled into Canada because he was just too cute to leave in Australia. But, Cuddles not withstanding, if I found out right now that no one would ever read a single word of mine, I would keep writing because I don't know how to not write.

But... printing that which has been written by me? It just seems so... final. Once printed, it can't unexist.

Printing is a strange thing, and watching something I wrote being taken seriously by the printer (even a complaining printer) was a special event. It forced me to realize that I needed to trust and respect myself and my writing more. It proved to me that I had truly accomplished something. And, in a whisper that might have been my own, it said "Now go edit."

So... I'm off to find a Red Pen. I can't wait to plotify plot holes, re-write characters, cross out entire scenes, and underline sentences that trail off into...

My advice (you know, the thing you didn't ask for?) is this: when you doubt your inner Writer, print.

When you question whether your writing means anything, print.

When you think "What?! $10.60 to print something I wrote, that's sitting on my computer screen as I fish for my credit card?! Chihuahua! (I had written "Pshhhh!", but spellcheck insisted on changing it...) I could buy a real book/script by a real writer for that price!"... especially print.

It's worth it. You're worth it.

After all, when it's on your computer screen, it's there, and it's real, but when it's in your hand, printed in all its typo-y glory, it's really, really real.

The End.

P.S. Writing in Italics is fun! Whee!

Flash Fiction - Hells's Work

The glass of water on the table is far more interesting than it should be. It shimmers in the too-yellow, too-bright light of the overhead panel. I wish they'd turn it off. I don't need it to stay awake. Not to mention it makes us look like we're in the middle of a jaundice epidemic.

"...Osmosis?"

I look up to find Karl peering at me from behind the cubicle divider. Typical. With theatrical flare, I open the bottle in my hand, take two pills, and swallow them down with the water. I think he likes watching me take the meds, like it's some kind of sick fetish, and who am I to disappoint?

"Karl," I say.

"Yeah, Hells?" He means it to sound casual, but his words come too quickly. I think he overdosed himself again. I figure his theory is: Why take two pills, when I can take three and be more awake and productive and talk really, really, fast even when I don't mean to?

"Do you remember darkness?" I ask, "Remember dreaming?"

"Not really," he says, "It's been so long. And the lights are so bright. I think it makes me not remember things. Like it's searing my scull, burning a hole right through my brain. But it's not so bad. It goes all the way out the other side. Just take the pills, keep going, get the work done. Some day they'll figure it all out. Some day thing's will be back to normal. Just keep working, doing our little part to save the world."

I stare at the paperwork I still have to do. It's getting harder and harder to care. I don't know why anyone cares about anything anymore, really.

Karl's disembodied voice floats to my ear. "Hells. Hells...?"

I know it's the damn drugs. I never used to zone out like this. They won't let me opt out. If I don't take the pills, they'll stick a needle in me, and I hate needles.

"Yeah. I'm good." The pills are chalky, painful. They write hate messages on the inside of my throat.

"Listen, you know that new kid that's starting?" Karl grins at me, chinless. I hate that I can't see his chin. He always hides it behind the top of the cubicle. I think he's self-conscious about his stupid chin because there's a mole on it with three thick black hairs, each pointing in a different direction.

"Yeah," I say, "what about him?"

"He's... uh... well, he's here. And you got to train him."

Stupid chinless Karl. He should never have been promoted to supervisor. He was all right before, when he was just an overachiever. Now he's an overachiever who gets paid more.

I take another sip of water, more to swallow my animosity than to wash away the bitter aftertaste of the pills. "Fine. Where is he?"

A second, younger, head pops up beside Karl's.

"Hullo, new kid."

"Why'd Karl call you Hells? Is it really your name? That's a strange name, you know, but I kind of like it. You're pretty. I mean, pretty pretty, not really beautiful exactly, but I'm glad you're going to be training me, because it's better to be trained by someone who's pretty pretty than beautiful because it'll be easier to concentrate. Don't you think so? I do because--"

"Karl, just because you can handle three pills, doesn't mean everyone can."

"Yeah," says Karl, "Well. You might have a point there. Anyway, take the kid and see what you can do with him. Find him a place to call home."

"Anything for you, Karl." He knows as well as I do that I don't mean it. Sometimes I'm such a bitch. He shoots me a smile that looks remarkably like a raised middle finger would look if it was a bunch of crooked teeth. I grin back. He shakes his head and disappears behind the cubicle. The kid comes around to my side, dragging a chair.

"Okay, Kid."

"The name's Jones," he says, "Well, that's my last name, but people call me by it. My first name's Jones, too. My parents filled out the form wrong and didn't get around to changing it because they said it was back when sleep was first outlawed and they were too ti--"

"Listen. Kid. Skip the sob story. Have some water and calm the fuck down."

I pass him my glass and he takes a sip. At least he's obedient.

Then he asks, "Is your name really Hells?"

"Fine. I'll answer that, and then we're going to get to work. My name's Ella. Karl calls me Hells--"

Karl pops up again, chin-level. He'd probably been listening in all along. "Because in the early days, she'd always say, 'this must be what Hell's like.' Like it was her motto or something. And now it's her name."

They laugh. I don't.

"Pile of papers to go through. Computer to input the data. Piles of paper you've gone through." I point to each in turn.

"What are the papers for?" he asks.

I smile. "It doesn't matter what the papers are for. Your job is to feed them in here. Confirm input. Move them to the other pile. Repeat until your shift is over."

"Then go home and sleep?"

I raise an unimpressed eyebrow. "You're too young to make jokes about things you don't even remember."

"I remember sleeping! I was --"

"How many times do I have to tell you I don't want to hear your sob story? Don't answer that. Just nod you understand what the job entails as I've described it."

"Hells?" he says, not nodding.

"What, Kid?"

"Do you -- Karl says this'll help with the nightmares. He says the computer'll figure it out, how to make it so people who fall asleep don't die. And then sleep will be legit again..."

"And you believe him?" I laugh. "Of course, you do. You took the third pill."

He smiles the self-confident, over-medicated smile of the next generation, a smile that says he believes things will change, must change.

I want to roll my eyes. Instead I tell him what the papers are for.

Flash Fiction Story-- Sophia's Return

This is a true story. It didn't happen to a friend of a friend. You won't find it on Snopes. It happened to me. I swear.

But you still won't believe it.

It's hard for me to accept that. Like most people, I like to be believed. I have one of those trustable faces. Yet, if I told you this story in person, you still wouldn't believe me. It hurts a little. See, I was honest again. About my feelings. My feelings you're about to hurt.

Anyway.

The printer was a birthday gift to me when I turned fifteen. I don't know why, since I didn't get a computer for another six months, but I was very happy with my printer. It was pink. I named it Sophia. Here's the part you won't believe: Almost exactly a year after I got it, my printer disappeared.

No. I don't mean someone stole it, or borrowed it, or anything else you're about to suggest that everyone else has already suggested over the years.

I mean, it freaking disappeared. I was printing a report about how Hamlet's main problem wasn't that he was indecisive, but that his actions--when he did act--were rash. For instance, how he accidentally killed Polonious. If he had just looked behind the curtain, instead of slashing first and asking questions later, it never would have happened. Rash, Hamlet, rash.

Yes, I know I remember the essay really well, even after ten years. You would too if it had been printing when your printer vanished. I'm pretty sure I'd remember every item on the grocery list if it had been printing at the time instead. Yes. I printed grocery lists when I was fifteen. Don't make it into a thing. It's not a thing. Plenty of kids type up grocery lists.

Moving on.

I wish I could say "it vanished right before my eyes!" but I can't. I had been up all night writing the paper and I closed my eyes as I listened to the sweet melody of a newly-finished essay printing. And then it stopped. I lifted my head, and the printer was nowhere to be seen. It took half my essay with it.

My teacher didn't believe me. My parents didn't believe me. My friends didn't believe me. You don't believe me.

It's all right. Clearly, I'm used to it. Slightly traumatized, but used to it nonetheless.

Here's the thing: yesterday, Sophia returned. I don't know how it found me, seeing as I've moved since then. Twice, actually. But find me it did.

I was having dinner at the time, and it appeared on my coffee table. Grey's Anatomy continued on while I gaped at the pink memory-incarnate.

And then it started printing. But get this. It wasn't my essay! It was a letter, signed by me! Future Me! Mrs. Me! There was a note about my future husband, how we meet, things like that. And birthdays of my future children. There was something about not taking the job I'd soon be getting a call about. And warnings about crossing the street on the night of September seventh. Didn't mention a year, but that's all right. And there's lottery ticket numbers! I bought a ticket today for a million dollar lottery. I'm going to be so rich!

I know, I know. How do I know it's even true? It knew which house to come to, didn't it?

Oh, there's also a note that says not to tell anyone about it, but I figure no one will believe a story about my time-travelling printer anyway, so what's the harm?

Flash Fiction Story-- Date with a Prince

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful Princess who was waiting for her handsome Prince to rescue her from a terrible fire-breathing Dragon. The call had been made some time ago, the terms were clearly specified, and she was starting to get restless. After all, the moat was rented and the dragon had better places to be.

"He's certainly taking his time," the Dragon said, "Doesn't he know there's a schedule?"

The Princess stopped pacing. "I'm sure he does. He'll be along soon. I am sorry for all this trouble. I'm sure you've someone else wai--"

"That's putting it remarkably mildly," said the Dragon, "You aren't the only princess is in need of such a situation, as you well know. Also, I have plans with my wife after work. And a real gentleman does not keep a lady waiting."

The Princess said nothing. She gazed out at the horizon, eyes peeled for a great white stallion with a gallant crowned rider.

"He'll be here," she said, as much for her sake as for the Dragon's.

The Dragon twisted his head towards her sceptically and snorted.

"Look! That must be him now!" The Princess pointed out the window eagerly.

The Dragon looked where she pointed and relaxed. "So it must be..." he said, warming up his fire-breathing, "So it must be. It seems I might just make my engagements after all."

The Prince leaped from the horse and bounded across the bridge over the moat, purpose in his every step. As soon as he had crossed it, the water evaporated--as per the terms of the lease--and the Princess received the bill, payable to A Rainy Day Inc.

"Dragon!" shouted the Prince, drawing his sword, "I am here to save the Princess! Come out and fight me to the death!"

The Dragon needed no further provocation. He spread his great wings and flew down to where the Prince stood waiting. A moment passed. The Prince's green eyes bore into the Dragon's amber ones. Neither blinked. And then--

"Stab. Stab," said the Prince, "I have slain you."

"Oh, oh," said the Dragon, "I am slain."

The Prince grinned back at the Dragon, who rolled his eyes. Not for the first time, the Dragon considered retiring. He was getting too old for this nonsense.

"Fly safe, old friend" said the Prince, "See you next time!"

"Always," said the Dragon, as stretched his wings, "and perhaps."

With that, the Dragon tipped his claw towards the Princess, who stood watching in the window, and took flight towards the next Princess who'd hired his services. Another bill appeared in the Princess' hand. Deadly Dragons-R-Us, like the others, charged by the second.

True love, she thought, is always worth the cost.

"Hullo," said the Prince, who had climbed the stairs and was standing before her. In his hand was a beautiful rose.

"Hello!" she said, and reached her hand out to accept the flower.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, and pulled back his hand, "No, I'm afraid this rose isn't for you to keep. Look only. But it's quite beautiful, isn't it? Like you."

The Princess wasn't sure how to respond. She withdrew her hand, and her fingers closed around themselves.

"Oh..." she said. "Sir Prince?"

"Yes, my Princess?" he said, flashing her a smile. His teeth were the whitest teeth she had ever seen.

"Please don't take offence to this," she said, "but I was wondering how old you were? Since you and the Dragon are old friends...? And because your hair...?"

"I'm forty," he said.

"Four... zero?"

"Yep. Forty. Why? How old are you?" he asked, "Twenty-five?"

"Twenty-six," she answered. Forty? "I'm sorry, I'm a little confused. The call I put out was for a young gallant Prince, my heart's true love."

"Twenty-six is a good age. You're not so young that you're naive nor too old that you need to settle down and have a family. Twenty-six, I'd say, is the pretty much the perfect age."

"I see," she said, unimpressed, "The perfect age for what exactly?"

"For anything," he said, "Look, we should get a move on... My castle or yours? I'll only be around these parts for a fortnight, until I must go visit my fiancee, so we'd best get to it. "

"Fiancee." She'd heard such tales, about Princes who already had a Princess to call their own true loves, lining up in the que for another anyway.

"Ah..." He flashed her his too-white teeth again, "I didn't mention that to you before, but please don't be alarmed. We have an open relationship, and I'm not looking for anything serious with you. I hope you don't think this all was a waste of time."

"First of all, Sir Prince, what you do with your own life is your business, not mine, so long as I am not a part of it. And, to be honest, the age difference alone is enough for this not to continue. But the fiancee... is far, far too much. Frankly, you're not what I'm looking for at all. And I'm rather annoyed about the moat. I had to specify by number of water droplets."

"Well, here, take this," he said, thrusting the rose unceremoniously towards her.

"I don't want your damn rose," the Princess said, "I think you should leave now."

"I really wouldn't have had a chance with you, even without a fiancee?" asked the Prince, "Well, I can at least give you a lift back to your castle. I have that white steed you asked for."

"Definitely not," the Princess said, "Good day and good luck with your Princess."

The Prince gaped at her for a moment longer, and then clumsily mounted his stallion and rode away.

The Princess shook her head wryly and took out the bills she'd received. The customer support lines were in the small print, but she searched until she found them.

"If I can't get an ever after today," she said, "I'll damn well get my refund."

And she did.

The End.

On The Fence

Okay. So, today, I was talking to a friend who was, metaphorically speaking, stuck on a fence. A conversation about being knocked off fences (not to be confused with knock-off fences, which are a menace to society, and fund drug dealers and terrorism)then ensued.

For some reason, it popped into my mind in cartoon form, and this friend didn't try to talk me out of it. In fact, I'm pretty sure her exact words were: "YOU HAVE TO DO IT. RIGHT NOW." I argued, mind you. I told her I couldn't draw. I suggested that, even if I could, I had no idea how to draw somebody actually sitting on the fence. But she wouldn't have it. So... I drew it.



The speech bubbles vaguely remind me of the old version of the Pepsi logo, or possibly a hamburger. And the critical fence? I really have no explanation for that one. The fence sprouted a mouth, and started talking, and I had nothing to do with it, I swear.

Please comment and tell me to stop drawing the crazy random things that come to mind. Because otherwise.... I might not.

Scary thought? Yes. For me also.