“He straightened his spine as he strode down the aisle before taking an abrupt left and skipping two at a time down squeaky, wobbly stairs, whistling a version of Mary Had A Little Lamb that he had picked up from one of his victims in December.”
Dakota Carter is playing with a couple of scenes featuring a rather dark and murdery character. Stay tuned for the rest of the story.😀
Author’s Note: I feel like this excerpt is somehow connected with Body Count- possibly a previous scene? The idea that inspired both this piece and Body Count was meant to become a book, but I’ve struggled to bring all the parts together so far. Let me know what you think of this piece and the book idea in the comments. Enjoy!
He’d been on the run for more than six years with a bounty of $3 million on his head. Accused of thirty six murders and seven counts of credit card fraud, every law enforcement agency in the country knew his name and his face. It’s a wonder he wasn’t behind bars strapped to the electrical chair yet, especially with how many close encounters he’d come across with anyone from the common park ranger to the downright hell-on-wheels U.S. Marshall. But then again, dodging bullets was a talent that…
The things we leave behind — buildings, people, experiences — rarely disappear altogether. When we look back, we find ruins. Remnants. Echoes. A run-down building; a mannerism you’ve inherited from a person no longer in your life.
This week, create a post about something you’ve left behind. What is your existence like without it? What is its existence like without you?
No one ever went back that road. There were houses on either end, but it was the places in between people told stories about. They said there was more to that land than strange noises and walking shadows, more than a mere haunting at twilight. There were things in those woods. Even though I drove home that way every night, I’d never seen anything. Until the night I had a flat.
This is part one of a short story inspired by a recent trip to a creek near my parents’ home. You can find the rest of the story and soon others like it on my Instagram page.
It’s 4 am and a crescent of light falls near your left temple, as a whir of chilled air fills the room. You are snuggled next to me–your slight, warm body curved round my own–and I hear the sweet sounds of your suckling; the rhythm, so delicate, nearly lulls me to sleep.
I know when you’re finished, you’ll sigh, turn your head to the side, and push your lower lip out in tender protest. I will carefully remove the pillows from beneath your head and lift you toward me as our breath becomes one. And then, stepping from bed, I’ll carry you silently to your crib while patting your back in time with the beat of my heart.
In those last moments before sleep, you will hold your arms to your chest and then, like honey from its dipper, peel them away in one languid movement, leaving them prone at…
A few weeks ago, I went back to school. Not really traditional school – that won’t start until August, but my non-credit classes started. I’m taking five, all writing related, and so far it’s actually been an enjoyable challenge to keep up with the amount of work that comes with that many as well as my usual writing. And even though they’re still just getting started, I’ve already been posed with several self-altering questions. Is your burning desire to write just words or can you really take rejection and failure and still survive? Are you going to be able to take criticism and make it constructive? And my favorite so far was this exercise:
Let’s pretend that life is perfect. In fewer than 100 words, write about your perfect writing life. Now write another short paragraph (fewer than 100 words) describing why you can’t or won’t attain this perfection.Continue reading →
There’s a scene in Shakespeare in Love (1998) when Viola (played by Gwyneth Paltrow) is sitting in her room reading through the newly completed, hand written script of Romeo and Juliet. There are tears in her eyes and she’s so engrossed in the story that she doesn’t notice her nurse coming and going or her dinner tray arriving or leaving. Granted, within the context of the movie, that script was more than a story. It was her life, written out in poetry.
That scene is me with almost any book of poems. The physical world around me falls away while beautifully arranged words lull me into a place within myself that I can’t reach any other way. A place that’s a little bit calm, a little bit sad, full of knowing smiles, reawakened memories and a quiet understanding that there, in that moment, everything is okay. I read novels to live lives I would never otherwise be able to. I read short stories and essays for different perspectives and to create a wider understanding of my own world. I read poetry for escape. Continue reading →