What does it all mean?

What does it all mean?

When I write a story, (especially flash fiction like this one, that I wrote on the spur of the moment for the A to Z Challenge) I often wonder what it means—what I as the writer meant it to mean, and how does the reader take its meaning.

I’ve written stories which I thought were literary, were the subversion of a myth, and been congratulated on writing a fairy tale; I’ve written about a boy suffering abuse and have had folks root for the abuser; I’ve killed a character and then had the readers wonder what he would do next.

The problem, as I see it, can lie in two things:

I suck at writing: My craft could be undeveloped enough not to be able to support my muse—the story hovers inside me, a shiny hummingbird, comes out on the page a slimy, slow-moving slug.

Counter-argument: Some of the folks get exactly what I’m trying to say—how do they see the hummingbird instead of the slug?

Reading fiction on blogs demands too much attention: And some readers just can’t focus well enough to read the whole story. They comment on the few words they have read, move on.

Counter-argument: Doesn’t that show my weakness as a writer, because I wasn’t able to grab the reader, pin him or her down till my story was done?

This leaves a very confused writer. Do I suck at writing? Do I give up writing fiction on my blog?

Over the last weeks of writing a story a day, I have come to the following conclusion:

I will keep writing fiction on my blog, because it challenges me, and I enjoy it.

Yes, the writing process is never complete without the readers and their reactions– but there is something to be said for perseverance.

If my craft is lacking, practice would help. If blogs aren’t the best place for fiction, well, they’re still the best place to play around and experiment. Most of the stories I have written during the challenge are in genres I wouldn’t have written but for the prompts I was sent.

It is all good.

So has this happened to you?

As a reader, have you ever come across a meaning in a story which you discovered was different from anyone else? As a writer, have you had a reader give you back a meaning to your story that you never intended?

To Finish Is Also a Painful Thing: Fiction

Hourglass Sketch: Photo Credits: Rebecca Rentz.

To start something new and not finish is a painful thing, said Mrs. Winter, her pencil poised above thick, sand-creamy paper.

No such compunctions for Mr. Winter, though, who at that very moment had given up on sawing through the log for the artist’s stool for Mrs. Winter. A ready-made stool would do just as well, and not create half as much work or dust, said Mr. Winter, his gecko hands folded in front of him. He walked through the puddles of half-finished projects he had left in his den, and sought out the fireplace to smoke a pipe. He could wait a few more days (or weeks, or months or years) to meet Mrs. Winter with her new stool.

Mrs. Winter sketched out an hourglass, then added a leak— sand trickling, grain by grain, out of the bowl above into the bowl below, and from the bowl below on to the floor. That’s my life, said, Mrs. Winter, folding her gecko hands in turn, lonely blood flowing out on the cold, waiting snow. She kept sketching, and forgot about lunch.

Mr. Winter fell into a nap by the fireside.

When it was time for dinner, Mrs. Winter got up, tried to stretch out the cricks from her back and shoulders, felt them rise into her head, become an ache. Her sketch was done, the very first draft of her painting.

Getting fitted with a gecko’s limbs was a small price to pay to live longer, to climb out of any disaster, to finish everything that had seen a start.

But just then, the ground beneath her feet shook, the pens on her table rattled, the water in her glass sloshed out, the glass rolled over and smashed on the floor.

Downstairs, the large head of a stag Mr. Winter had hunted many decades ago dropped on his head and knocked him out. He never knew what got him.

Mrs. Winter felt every blow, heard each pot and pan in the kitchen crash, absorbed the thud of something heavy, a tree or a pole, as it flattened her garage, felt the table and then the roof plummet on her, beating her to slow but conscious pulp.

To finish is also a painful thing, said Mrs. Winter, blood dripping on her hourglass sketch with its penciled black-and-white blood. She closed her eyes, and presumably joined Mr. Winter for the first time in years.

———

A to Z Stories of Life and Death

If you’re intrigued by this piece, you can find more of my work in A to Z Stories of Life and Death.

———Fiction authors, take a look at the

Rule of Three Blogfest

The Rule of Three at Renaissance

a month-long shared-world fiction extravaganza starting 5th October— with some great prizes, and of course, a lot of exposure and constructive feedback for your writing. This is one Blogfest fiction authors ought not to miss. Go ahead and sign up!

Entry for the “Elemental” Flash Fiction Contest

Elemental Flash Fiction Contest by Jason Evans

I discovered Flash fiction last year, and this year took it another step with my WIP of flash, “A to Z stories of Life and Death” as a result of the A-Z blogging challenge.

My latest attempt at this flash (and I’ve been in a writing funk and on a reading spree lately) is for Elemental at The Clarity of Night, which is an awesome contest. Mine is the 90th entry, and the deadline is 8 hours from now, because the organizer, Jason Evans wants to NOT be flooded. I understand him, because the quality of some of the entries is Superlative, and I won’t change places with him for judging them.

Here’s my entry. Would be grateful for comments, as usual.

If you see this post soon enough, maybe you can enter too. I AM sorry, I should have gotten over my blahs sooner and blogged about it about a week ago!

Inspiration Blogfest by Summer Ross

Inspiration Blogfest at My Inner Fairy

Usually, I write pieces on this blog based on writing prompts. But thanks to Summer Ross and her Inspiration Blogfest, I’m going to set a writing prompt today and just leave it at that. Feel free to use it on your blog or anywhere else.

PROMPT: Write a letter to your favorite character in your own fiction, and another to a character you think is not convincing and needs more work. Compare the two, which should help you in fleshing out the second character better.

Look forward to reading the prompts from the participants of this blogfest, and if I’m feeling up to it, will post a few pieces in the coming days based on those.

Happy Writing!

Do not Resuscitate: Writing Prompt Fiction

Do Not Resuscitate: Writing prompt

9 pm and I got ready for the night shift, to relieve my brother who took care of Auntie Jane at the hospital all day.

I attacked my dinner of left-over casserole and salad, which was all Mum managed to rustle up after her day of chores and hours at the church. I knew it wasn’t the length of the prayers for her sister-in-law, but their nature that tired her.

But we had no choice on Auntie Jane, and we could not stop talking about it.

She won’t make it past tonight, you’ll see, said Uncle Josh, sprawled out on the sofa. He scratched the seat of his pants, took a swig of his beer. She looks terribly frail, John.

You never know, she’s getting enough fluids. You never can tell with cancer, said Dad, and our sister is tougher than a one-eared alley cat. But I hope something happens before we all go broke.

We can’t bring her here that’s for sure, no place for all those things hooked to her, said Uncle Josh, and my digs are a mess.

Do you have any idea how much it would cost to bring her home? And for nothing, rumbled Dad between drags.

He had taken to smoking cheap cigars which smelled like a combination of wet dishrags and stale tobacco. Everything in the house carried that stench, even the dog.

That’s Auntie Jane you’re talking about, I said, and left the table without waiting for a reply.

Before I left, Mum passed me a cross on a chain. It will make the end peaceful, she said.

I drove off, and through my tears I saw Auntie Jane as she was before, not shaven headed, not in a hospital gown, when her cheek had not sunk in, when her body was round and ripe, not a bundle of bones swimming in her skin. I saw her walking in the gate back from work, for the all years my brother and I stayed with her, because Mum and Dad could not afford to keep us. She smiled when she saw us at the doorstep.

I held on to the cross for the rest of the month.

One night when I reached her ward, Aunt Jane lay with her face towards the door. Her dull eyes peered at me from deep within the sockets, seemed to like what they saw. She smiled through her blackened lips. I smiled back, asked her how she was.

My brother hated my forced cheer, and loped off to his job at the railway yard without a word. In the few months at the hospital we exchanged dwindling greetings and smiles during the handovers. Now we simply looked at each other, and that was that.

That night Auntie Jane did not sleep at all. I want to go home, she said, take me home.

In the morning, Auntie, I told her, now try and sleep. She never remembered anything beyond five minutes anyway. I tried to follow my own advice, but that spoilt fruit and metallic smell of the poison they pumped into her to keep her alive would not let me relax.

That morning the doctor came on his rounds, and I made myself ask how long. Cannot say, he said, could be tomorrow, or another month.

We have our jobs, I said.

You could take a break, he said, we’ll make sure she’s comfortable.

I nodded and he passed me a form without a word. DNR, it said, Do Not Resuscitate.

I signed it, and gave it back to him.

I tucked the cross Mum had given me under Auntie Jane’s pillow, kissed her damp, musty forehead goodbye as she lay sleeping.

When my brother came in, I hugged him, and left.

Kartar Singh on Hunger Strike

Kartar Singh has stopped eating.

He swims up to me when I try to feed him, looks at the food, and then looks up at me with his beady eyes, as if to say, What, you think I’m going to eat this crap? You have another think coming!

Betta Fish on Hunger strike

I’ve tried all kinds of food good for his kind, but he turns his tail at them, and flashes in indignation. The water parameters are fine so I can only try and imagine what is wrong with him.

I’m told Betta fish are moody, can go for days without food, and given my experience with thoroughly spoilt Bettas before, I’m holding on to that.

Or, our Kartar Singh has figured out the Gandhian way of protest, because the only change in his life so far has been the trip to my study desk... and now that he is back home in his own aquarium, he has taken to sulking behind the leaves.

He’s also ignored the mirror all of yesterday (beware the Betta who ignores the mirror, this indicates he means business). Maybe his charter of demands includes a room with a view of books, and the Singaporean skyline from the window.

I’m tempted to take a picture of the view from my study desk and paste it behind his aquarium. How would he know the difference? He is a fish, after all.

But something tells me that with a name like Kartar Singh, he might be on to me.

Homeless Kartar Singh and the Memory of a Fish

Kartar Singh is homeless again.

I’m the culprit, of course. Lured him into an old jam bottle and poured him into a flower vase.

I needed his home as a quarantine tank, you see. My Zebra Angelfish was getting picked apart by his black cousins, and needed rescue.

So Kartar Singh and his temporary home are on my study desk as I type. And yes, you guessed it. So is the mirror.

Mr Singh is shimmying, sashaying, flashing away at his alter-ego, no sign of missing his pebbled home decorated with plants. He rises up every once in a while to the surface to breathe, comes over to my side, as if to say, isn’t life Fun? and dives right back into his silent squabble.

Oh for the memory of a fish.

If only I could be as much in the moment as Kartar Singh— forget the things I’ve left behind, not carry a trace of past grudges or worries for the future, be happy wherever I’m put, find my obsessions, and enjoy them.

Wouldn’t mind meeting my alter ego in person either.

I meet her often enough when I write, but never more than a glimpse, a shadow of understanding and then I’m back to myself, leaving her far behind.

The Zebra Angel is going back to the shop where I’m hoping he will recover and find another home. Mr. Singh will back in his fancy home by evening, and would have no memory of his trip to my desk.

Kartar Singh, Homeless and under Alien Attack!

There he is, one very confused Kartar Singh, swimming about amidst the reflection of bookshelves, trying to figure out how on earth could an alien Betta fish be swimming down at him from his roof.

Yes, I’ve covered the vase with the mirror now.

Meet more people from inside my head

Picture Writing Prompt: The Ascension of Roth

The regular posts in April (thanks to A-Z challenge) brought my blog closer to its name: Daily (w)rite.

I’m by no means a disciplined blogger. I have created a schedule on Amlokiblogs, my writing blog, and let it go to the four winds.

And for this month, life will be a little busier than usual, which means I have to be a clever thief, steal a little time here and there, to get down to what I love doing best, writing.

I used to do picture prompts before, so I’ll attempt one now, to see if I can make my escape in ten minutes before I go to bed, visit unknown people and regions inside my own head:

—————————

Roth felt Dagar pressing down on him, the relentless hand pushing into his head, bidding him to kill and get it over with. He would be King, and Dagar would remain the Kingmaker.

Roth knew he could spill a little blood, and win this whole thing. People respect you if you can kill, or fear you. Most people confuse the two, but he knew the difference.

As a child, his grandma had never raised her voice, but he jumped to her requests. He got the crap beaten out of him by his father, often literally, who took Slash to him at the least excuse. Slash left welts all over his back, but strengthened his resolve to punish his father one day, and free grandma from her son’s clutches.

But punishment did not extend to snuffing out a life. Especially if the death led to his ascension, just as it had for all his ancestors. Dagar made sure the son killed the father and enslaved the mother, generation after generation.

But today, in the corner of Roth’s head where no one had even stepped in, not even Roth himself, the first seed of thought had burst open: I will forgive. I will not be King.  No King, no Kingmaker, no Dagar.

Amid his blinding anger and hate, the fumes of incense, the chanting of a thousand voices, and the tolling of a million bells, Roth resisted Dagar’s hand.

The knife meant for his father crept towards his own throat: I will not spill any blood save mine.

——

A-Z challenge: Have I thanked you yet??

April has been the A-Z challenge month for me. I invested quite a bit of myself in it, and like I said in my yesterday’s Reflection post, I have the organizers to thank for giving my muse a huge boost.

But I also need  to thank some of the most consistent and kind commenters on my A-Z posts, without whom I would have fizzled out about halfway down the challenge. They provided extraordinary word-prompts for my flash pieces, and were unfailing in their generous support.

So, here goes, in no particular order:

Marian Allen : She sent me some lovely prompts, and made some super-awesome comments!

Petra Hefner : I loved her positive posts and her equally positive comments.

Nutschell: Another blogger whose posts made an impression on me, and who always left me exciting comments.

Nicole/MadlabPost :  Always patient and kind on twitter and on the blog. I’m so happy to have met a blog-friend like her.

Dafeenah: A genuine, emotional  writer, and a generous commenter.

Bornstoryteller: He wrote an entire story in the A-Z challenge. And I have seldom had a more encouraging and consistent commenter.

PencilGirl : Every blog should have a commenter like her, for the sheer number of smilies and the genuine warmth of feeling

Patricia : Her first A-Z post floored me, and we have been in touch on blog and twitter ever since.

Christina Majaski : She is a straightforward girl with an awesome blogging voice, which is why her admiring comments meant so much more.

Joy : I don’t know if Joy remembers, but we used to visit each other’s blog two years ago when this blog was new, and have now re-connected thru A-Z. She has been very very generous with both her prompts and comments.

Corinne O’Flynn : I found her via the #atozchallenge via twitter, and have loved interacting with her on the blog and twitter.

Claire Goverts : I used a great many of Claire’s prompts and can never thank her enough. She is ever so sweet on twitter too.

Anna Tan: She wrote fiction for the A-Z, and lovely to talk to, both on my blog and twitter.

Talli Roland: One firecracker of a woman, who is all fun and laughter, yet also a fount of support and kindness….a prolific commenter and a joy on twitter.

India Drummond: I don’t know how she coped with A-Z despite going on a blog tour and sundry other things in April, but she did. She even found time to comment on my posts.

Alex and Lee: I met them via A-Z, and remain in awe of how they took the time to stop by my blog. Often. Despite organizing the challenge. Amazing.

I’m sure I’m missing out others who I need to thank, but I’m racing this post close to midnight and hope to make up for my errors by next week….I’ll visit and personally thank as many people as I can.

A few non-A-Z bloggers who used to be my friends before and supported me through A-Z:

Gladys Hobson : When Gladys comments, it makes my day. She cheered me on through much of A-Z, and I love her for that.

Indigo: An amazing writer who edits as a profession, and one of my oldest blog-friends—one I’m proud to have. She read and commented on my A-Z posts when she wasn’t doing so well.

Bronxboy55: If you mean to read one new blog this year and stop, make it this one. Awesome writer, humanitarian, humorist. His comments made the difference between posting and not posting on A-Z a few times, just at the points I was about to give up.

Thanks to each and every one of the bloggers mentioned above, and to all the others who visited, and took the time to comment. I’m grateful.

As I said yesterday, I’m going to work on an e-book, a Kindle short  (if research confirms it is the best fit for such a small book) based on the flash pieces I did on the A-Z. I haven’t decided on a title yet, and need to edit, cull out and sort all the pieces  before I can call it a manuscript.

It would be an interesting experiment, because the manuscript would be very  short, and not very suitable for traditional publication.

We’ll see.

Hope to receive words of advice from any and all A-Zers who have followed my work through the challenge.

Signing off on my last official A-Z post, till next April! Happy blogging, everyone.

The A-Z Reflections Mega Post

When I signed up for the A-Z challenge , I was the 15th participant. I had no idea of how big it was last year, and certainly no forewarning of how mammoth it would become this year.

The one thing I knew, however, was that it would be tough.

Tough for a blogger like me, that is. I’ve never really posted everyday despite the name and intention of the this blog , Daily (w)rite.

Before I started the challenge I didn’t know I would do all fiction, maybe fiction a day or two somewhere, but not All the posts!

But on an impulse I decided to ask for prompts for the challenge, based on which I would write flash pieces, and once I got the first few prompts and had written the first few pieces,  I knew it had to be fiction. Throughout. I was having way too much fun, and I love a good challenge.

Thanks to the comments that flooded/trickled in each day, I managed to hang in there and now have 24 flash pieces (I combined two letters, twice). It did take a bit of courage, to write a new piece and send it out into the world each day, but it also gave me a lot of confidence.

I know most of the comments were kind for the sake of kindness, but even I can’t deny that some of the commenters on some of the posts seem to have really liked the stories, and meant every word of what they said.

I hope to do a collection of these, in an e-book format, and Arlee Bird  and a few others think it might be a good idea. I’ll cull some of the stories, which did not work, to my mind, and replace them with others I’ve written before or will write afresh.

As to visiting other blogs, I have to admit I did not visit all the blogs that participated. I knew I couldn’t do it and go on with my normal life, which is a little crazy at the moment, with a new home and a host of other things.

So I visited all the the posts at #atozchallenge on Twitter, created a Twitter newspaper of links. I visited, or tried my very best to visit, everyone who visited and commented. I visited others from the links on the comments they left on blogs I was already visiting.

After I discovered a few links on the main list at the host blogs and found they led nowhere or were not continuing with the challenge, I largely ignored the list, though I must have visited at least 30 blogs each day.

I’ll do a separate post for tomorrow, to especially thank all those who commented on my A-Z posts and to mention some of the A-Z posts/ blogs I really liked.

For today I want to thank the organisers:

Arlee Bird (Tossing It Out) ,

Jeffrey Beesler’s (World of the Scribe),

Alex J. Cavanaugh (Alex J. Cavanaugh) ,

Jen Daiker ( Unedited),

Candace Ganger (The Misadventures in Candyland) ,

Karen J Gowen  (Coming Down the Mountain) ,

Talli Roland ,

Stephen Tremp (Breakthrough Blogs )

The challenge increased the number of people who subscribe to my blog, the number of visits and commenters.

But the best thing it did was give me a shot in the arm, that I could produce fiction somewhat consistently, some of it  not half bad.

So, Thank You to all the organisers, and hope to take part in the A-Z again next year!