Random Writing Prompt: A wounded policeman, lightning at 34,000 feet, and clean but shaggy hair

Sergeant MacMillion held his hand to his brow, trying to stymie the flow of blood into his eye which was playing havoc on his depth perception, and therefore, his ability to aim. He finally gave up, and swearing, holstered his weapon. The punk was going to get away.

The young lass whose assault he had interrupted was still trying to settle her clothes back into place, her face still somewhat ashen. “Did he...?” MacMillon asked, hovering near the girl, but not wanting to crowd her in her current state.

She shook her head, her lower lip wobbling. “Thank you!” she bursts out with relief, and moves to throw her arms around the burly Scottish officer. “Oh!” She pulls up short at the sight of the blood still pouring over his now glued closed eye. “You’re hurt!”

She digs into her large handbag and comes up with a kerchief, dabbing it gingerly to the wound. MacMillon submits to her ministrations, noting that nursing him has put some of the steel back in her spine. Her lips are no longer quivering, and even her colour was improving. “I’ll be a’right, Lass,” he assures her. “‘Tis naught but a flesh wound. Scalp wounds always bleed like a stuck pig, if you’ll pardon the pun,” he teases goodnaturedly, and is rewarded with a small smile. He’s sure it is only a shadow of what would normally light her face, but he’ll take his small victories.

“I don’t suppose ye have yer licence?” he asks, hopefully.

“Oh, of course, Officer,” she moves to dig in the bag again to produce it.

“Nay, Lass, I’m not askin’ ta see yer ID. I’d best be gettin’ meself to a doctor, but I can’t rightly drive meself with this here injury. Iffin’ it would na’ be too much of an imposition-”

She interrupts his charming, lilting brogue, “Oh certainly! No problem at all!” She hooks her arm in his, handing him the kerchief to stanch the blood flow himself as she conducts him back to his cruiser, the key’s still conveniently in the ignition.

Thankfully, the girl was too shaken up to consider that he ought to have a partner with him, whose job it would be to see him safely to the hospital in just such an event.

Said partner watched from a nearby fire escape as they exited the alley way and pulled into the flow of traffic.

Taffy was the name of MacMillon’s partner, Angus Taffy. Seeing that both the girl and his partner were seen to, Taffy turned to the task at hand; tracking down the creep who had assaulted them both. His nostrils flared as he scented the night wind, catching the perps scent over the other, turrid scents of a typical Toronto night.

Beyond the smells of urine, defecation, trash, and exhaust fumes, was the smell of blood and leather and cocaine. The perp wasn’t going to be difficult to trace.

It took Taffy all of five blocks to find the guy. He wasn’t even running anymore. He’d stopped to wipe the blood off of the knife and to catch his breath. Taffy could see the glint of the streetlights on a myriad of metallic piercings in the man’s face, though his nose told him that the guy’s shaggy hair was at least clean.

“A tough guy, huh?” Taffy thought to himself, dropping to the street behind his quarry.

“What the-?” he spun to face his assailant, bringing the knife up instinctually. Taffy caught the tweaker’s hand with  ease and torqued his wrist, sending the blade skittering into the expectant stillness of the night.

The pierced faced villain’s cry of pain was cut short as Taffy leapt into the air, dragging the unsuspecting thug with him. And they just kept going, higher and higher and higher.

The guy’s struggles to free himself soon because struggles to get a better hold on Taffy as he became his only lifeline on their steep ascent into the heavens.

Taffy’s nose could smell the ozone as they grew closer to the roiling thunderheads. His captive screamed as a bolt of lightning zapped past them. The extraordinary officer could see the guy’s mind scrambling; which was worse? Plummeting from a height of 34, 000 feet, or getting turned into a crispy critter by lightning at 34, 000 feet? By the way the guys grip tightened on his legs, Taffy was guessing he was going to take his chances with the lightening.

Random Writing Prompt: A toddler drowning in a pool, a tree falling on a van, and a waterbed with air bubbles

I woke in a cold sweat. It was pitch black out, and quiet. Too quiet. The only sound the odd sloshing from my waterbed, the air bubbles from the last time it was filled making their ominous music as I throw my feet over the side of the bed.  The infamous calm before the storm.

I slid out of bed, pulling on the sneakers tucked under the bedside table, and pulling a nearby sweater over my sleep tousled hair, covering my mickey mouse tshirt. I pocketed my cellphone, and made my way downstairs. Buck was already awake, standing patiently by the door, waiting for me. He knew what was coming. He was ready. I took his harness down off the peg on the wall, and he let me put it on him, his training so good, only the full body tremble belied his anticipation to get to work.

I grab my pack, always fully stocked, and ready by the door, and throw it over one shoulder, and my heavy leather jacket over the other. “Alright, Buck, let’s get to work.” He jumps up to open the door, the lever handle no obstacle for the massive husky shepard cross.

Our first task, is the hardest, the waiting. We head to the storm shelter just as the breeze stirs the fallen leaves on the ground. “It’s coming, Buck,” I intone, and open the doors to let him in. I won’t latch them yet, there are neighbours who will likely be joining be before the storm reaches it’s apex.

My shelter is well stocked. They don’t call me the Storm Momma for no reason. At the entrance, the walls are bare, belying the well stocked depths, but nothing at the front will weather the storms initial tantrum. Though some kids have done a lovely mural on the concrete walls. Pandas and unicorns make for a cheerful juxtaposition for the serious purpose of the bunker.

I walk to the back of the bunker, to where the cots are waiting. We prepped them earlier in the week, knowing that the storms were coming. I wipe my shoes with a towel and Buck’s feet, and we both hunker down on a cot, cuddled close, waiting for the action to start.

The rain has started. I’m vaguely aware of it in my doze state, as my body seeks to get as much rest as it can before I tax it to it’s limits.

Hushed voices enter the bunker. “Maria’s got to have her rest, Sweetie, so she can do her job. Let’s lay down and get some sleep, too.”

I feel the cot shift slightly as Buck creeps over to curl up with the newest arrivals. “Traitor,” i think wryly, and pull the blanket to cover the cold gap he’s left in the covers.

The wind has picked up, my hair is tickling across my face. I haul myself to my feet and Buck lifts his head from Susie’s lap, watching me. I signal for him to stay, and nod in silent greeting to Susie’s mom, Claire, and Ted and Maggie who have also arrived. Only ben is missing, but he may have been out for the night, he often was. Ted follows me to the doors to help me close them against the wind, and latch them tight with as little muss as possible.

The solar charged running lights along the floor and ceiling throw harsh shadows over everyone’s faces.

“Is it coming?” asks Susie, who we were all hoping was still asleep.

I sit on the edge of their cot. “Ya, Suze, it is. But we’re safe here, kay?” I reach out to stroke her hair, meeting her mother’s eyes over her head. Her eyes have gone empt and her face has that hollow look it gets whenever she thinks about last year’s storm season. I let my mind follow her down the path of that memory.

Buck had hated me for not letting him dive in that pool, but I knew there was no way he could get to the toddler struggling at the bottom of it. The tree that pinned him to the bottom was too big, with too many snarling branches. If he hadn’t gotten snarled up on his way down, he would have on the way back up, and that was of course assuming he didn’t drown before he realized that he couldn't get the child unpinned. I had to hold Buck while one of the other rescue volunteers held the boy’s hysterical mother.

I had never been one to say I told you so, but this was one of those moment’s when it was hard not to, as I swallowed my own bitter tears, my heart breaking right along with her’s and Buck’s. I had TOLD her it wasn’t safe to be out yet! I had TOLD her there was too much damage to those trees! We had all watched with surreal horror as the damaged oak split down the centre and fell towards to pool....and the toddler...

Thankfully, Suzie and her mother didn’t hate me for not saving her brother. In fact, they sort of idolized me, like some sort of prophet or saint. Sainte Maria. Ya, like I’d never heard that one before....

Suzie yawned and nestled back against her mother. I patted Claire’s hand has I stood to return to my own bed. I pulled my headphones out of my bag, and turned on my MP3 player, ready to drown out the worst of the storm. Buck would wake me when it was time to get up.

And he did, nuzzling me until I pulled the cords from my ears and blinked up at him, blearily. “Alright, basket case, I’m up,” I grumbled, despite the fact that he was the calmest one of us all. Suzie was fussing, and Claire had an edge to her voice as she tried to soothe her. Ted was pacing, eager to get in the Jeep and get to town. Maggie was wringing her hands, knowing that her husband was about to go and risk his life to save others.

“Hey Suze! Why don’t you sing us a song?” I ask, levering off of the cot and making my way to the storage shelves, beckoning for Maggie to come with me. While Suzie sang us a few songs she had learned in school, Maggie and I put together peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for everyone. Claire helped Suzie feed Buck as we handed around cans of Five Alive to wash down the sticky sandwiches. I could smell coffee brewing, and could have kissed Ted for doing his part to keep us all sane and alert.

I wolfed down my food and caffeine, nearly scalding the inside of my mouth with the savoury liquid. “Alright, Boys, lets go.” Both Buck and Ted shot to their feet on my say so.

We got the doors open just fine, and we were all relieved that we didn't have to fight against debris to get out. There was a bad storm last year that had trapped us in here for precious hours while other’s bled or suffocated to death until someone came along to look for me. Who was I kidding, it was Buck they had come for.

Ted pulled a couple of branches off of the door covering the Jeep, and hauled those open. I handed Ted the keys and got in the back with Buck. I would be the eyes, and he would be the ears.

It was only a five minute drive to town the way that Ted drove, but to us three, it seemed like an eternity. We knew how precious every minute was.

The devastation wasn’t quite comparable to last year, they had taken some of my advice to heart about storm proofing. But as we came to a halt at a crossroads, we watched storm worn tree tumble over and crush a nearby cargo van. And then we heard the screams.

Random Writing Prompt: A locked closet, missing teeth, and something unpleasant under the bed

“They’re not here!” I say with the woeful exaggerated sarcasm of a twelve year old girl being forced to once more help her senile grandfather search for a misplaced item. “This whole, babysitting the elderly thing, is getting old, fast,” I think to myself as I grab the carton of orange juice and take a swig before replacing it and letting the fridge door clang shut, the sound of rattling condiment bottles a small balm to my irritated, preteen soul.

“Did you check the oven?” comes the confused suggestion from the basement.

“Yes, Gramps,” i sigh and roll my eyes. Wait... the basement? “Gramps, you shouldn’t be down there!” I rush to the door and down the rickety stairs, amazed he managed to maneuver himself down them without breaking a hip. I follow the sounds of squeaky cupboard doors opening and closing and the distinct rattle of him searching through one of Dad’s ‘junk drawers’. Obscene shadows are thrown on the walls by the still swinging light bulb. Well, at least he turned the light on. Attempting not to be seasick, I pull up next to the old man and rest a hand on his elbow. He’s standing looking confused - not a rare occurrence these days- but what has him scratching his head this time is a closed door in front of him, on of the storage closets that house any one of a myriad failed inventions of his crackpot son, my Dad.

“It’s locked, why is it locked?” He wants to know, irritated. “Davey knows better than to keep anything from me, Margret, what’s he hiding in there? Do you think it’s drugs?” He turns to look me in the face, his bleary eyes a bit unfocused. This isn’t the first time he’s addressed me by my dead grandmother’s name, and so long as it doesn’t progress to something weird, I’m fine with the misappellation.

“I locked it, Camron, I put the cleaning supplies in there, and I didn’t want him using them all in one of his experiments.” It’s a lie, but it sounds believable, and trying to explain the truth to him when he;s like this only leads to increased agitation, not a good thing for an alzheimer's patient to be.

He nods, placated by my explanation. “Let’s go upstairs and have a cup of tea, CAmron, the kettle’s hot.” He pats my hand, smiling and nodding in agreement, allowing me to lead him back up the precarious stairs. Note to self, replace the lock on the basement door!

I get him settled with one of the tough ceramic mugs, and add enough milk to his tea that even if he slops it in his crotch - again - we won’t have to be making a trip to the emergency room. Then I go back to his room, where he insisted that his quarry was not, and take a look around. Not seeing the object of my desire in any of the usual places, I kneel on the floor next to the bed to look under there, because every preteen knows that this is the black hole of every bedroom, snatching up everything from homework to the mate for your favourite pair of shoes. I reach under, feeling around, and grin in triumph as my hand closes around the treasure we’ve been seeking. However, my triumph is short lived as something skitters over the back of my hand, and i let go, screaming and hopping up on the bed. “Grampy! Grampy!” I call it a squeaky, panicked voice. He comes barrelling into the room and finds me standing, cowering in the corner of the bed.

“What is it?” he demands, concerned.

“There’s something under the bed,” I whimper, not at all ashamed of my childish conduct, being still safe in the age range where I am content to waver between needing my grampa to save me from the monster under the bed, and wanting to throttle him for needing me to be the grown up half of the time.

“Ah,” he says, knowingly, and kneels to investigate. I continue to mewl like a lost kitten while he bravely flounders around under the bed with one arm. Hen stands, his hands cupped in front of him, one holding his missing toothy pallet, the other, a small frog. “Here they are, Eavie.” He looks so pleased with himself for finding them, and rescuing me, that I don’t have the heart to roll my eyes. I step down off of the bed and let him wrap me in a hug, no longe rafraid of the tiny frog now that I know what the mysterious creature is.

“Love you, Grampy,” I whisper, and hold him tight.

“You too, Eavie, you too.” He croons, and rocks me in place.

One thought keeps running through my head, “It feels good to be needed.”

Random Writing Prompts

I've been promising myself that I will write more and more often. In an endevour to prep the creative part of my brain for this year's NaNoWriMo project, I took to looking for ideas for short stories or flash fiction to get out a couple of thousand words a day. I even created a profile on Twitter in order to get connected with more Like Minded people. This lead me to finding the profile for RocNaNo.

Let me tell you, Kurt, the man who manages the account is my biggest source for personal inspiration thus far this year! His simple, Random Writing Prompts (three random ideas to be melded into one story idea) have helped kindle the fire within me. I have been using them to not only pump out flash fiction, but to create my own Excel database to spit out ideas as well!

Here's what he provided me for instructions for my own spread sheet. Good luck translating it! I had to ask my resident tech geek for help!

=INDEX(story_items,RAND()*COUNTA(story_items)) pulls random items from the named range. Do this in 3 cells, & concatenate.

So now the goal is that on days when I have the spoons for writing, to do three pieces. One from Kurt's prompts, one from mine, and a visual writing prompt. Thus far, I have managed at least 2,000 words of fiction on these days (Twitter, discussions, emails and blogs don't count).

I have been sharing the posts via Twitter, and the writing groups on Facebook, but I realize that I'd like to share it a little more broadly than that. So here I am! You can look forward to a new series of posts entitled Random Writing Prompt or Visual Writing Prompt. They are in the category of flash fiction, for the moment, but many of them will likely take on a life of their own down the road.

You are encouraged to share them with your friends, to leave feedback, or even to try your hand an writing your own idea that spawns from the prompt! Kurt and I would both love to see what you come up with!

Stay tuned and good luck if you try it yourself!

Giving Thanks

I've been asked a lot this week what my plans are for Thanksgiving. As it happens, I have been having a bad spell with Fibro, and so had sort of forgot that it WAS thanksgiving. However, this year, the plan was to just lay low anyway. My roommate's family (with whom I am very close) isn't really big on Thanksgiving, and besides, his mom's in Turkey right now (That's right! You heard me!) and he and his brother world opposite shifts at the same company. I do have family & friends within driving distance, but it just didn't seem like it was worth the fuss, especially with my health currently in a down swing.

Now, this middling reaction is not to be mistaken for apathy, or sulking. If this had been Christmas or my birthday, you can bet your ass I'd have chugged a case of Red Bull and soldiered on, Fibro be damned!

Having grown up on a hobby farm with what I can now call Pagan influences, I have always taken time to be thankful for that which the land and the livestock provide for my plate and my survival. Having, in recent years, been forced to completely reevaluate my life and even to face my own mortality, finding things to be thankful for has not been a struggle. I take time out of each day to think about the blessings in my life in all of the many shapes they come in.

So while I do not at all begrudge those who are celebrating this Holiday, it is not an ideal which I require a calendar to mark.

Having said that, Thanksgiving this year marks something else for me. It was this time a year ago that saw me hit a major low period mentally and emotionally. I had become so wrapped up in my pain that anger and frustration were the only emotions I seemed to be able to exhibit. It was killing me, and it was torture to the roommates who had been so kind and understanding up until this point. It was at this point that it became clear that I was creating a hostile living environment. We all understood that the illness was the culprit, but there was only so much to be done from where I was.

And so the decision was made for me to move in with a different friend in a different city, and leave my cozy little family unit that I had built around me, before none of us were any longer on speaking terms. As it turns out, it still may have been too late for some of those friendships.

However, I can proudly state that today, one year later, I am a markedly different person. How I deal with anger and frustration have vastly changed. I have a better handle on my day to day pain, as well as my day to day stressors. I have learned that, as much as I am a pack creature, I simply cannot live with 5 people under one roof anymore, at least, not for longer than a week long visit.

I have learned SO much about myself, and my illness in the past year. I have helped so many people by sharing my experiences and my discoveries, either via anecdotes, this blog, or the Fibro group that I began on Facebook.

I have learned to pace myself (finally!), and reward myself, and not beat up on myself! Hey, my body does that enough for both of us ;)

I've taken up writing again with a renewed vigor, throwing myself into (almost) daily writing exercises, as well as making posts to all three of my favourite Facebook groups, and engaging in witty banter with the folks on-line.

I'm discovering that one of my strengths is succinct world-building and in depth character descriptions within the first few pages of a story. My biggest weakness would definitely have to be run on sentences. *blushes impishly* My vocabulary is well rounded, but some stern adherement to proper use of punctuation may be in order.

I'm even going to participate in NaNoWriMo again this year! I'm planning on working on book two of the book series I began work on last year. A pet project that had it's inception over 10 years ago! I have decided to challenge myself with a personal goal of 80,000 words (compared to the planned 50,000 of the campaign). That pans out to 4,000 words per day over 20 writing day out of 30. (I know myself well enough to know that I will likely will be incapable of writing, 1 day in 3.)

So that's where I'm standing this Thanksgiving. These are just a few of the progresses and triumphs I have to be thankful for. Just think! I haven't even touched on the Who's ;)

Thanks for your readership, and ongoing support. <3

Dear Red Bull

Dear Red Bull;

I understand that you have recently chosen to make a settlement against a suit that claims "Red Bull Give You Wings" was false advertising.

Firstly, I'd like to congradulate you on your stance that there was no wrong doing. I regret that your faith in humanity's abilty to detect sarcasm in vastly outrageous skits, which could not have been mistaken for live action by my 71 year old uncle with glocoma.

As a writer, I greatly adored your advertisements, and am saddened to know that they will now only be relegated to YouTube and Satirical Comedy Routines.

I have never been brand loyal when it comes to my energy drinks, however, in the light of this Tom Foolery, I shall now be forced to purchace Red Bull products whenever available. (I hope you have a line of calorie free, non-aspartame beverages!)

I look forward to seeing what new wonderful advertisement Ideas your creative staff comes up with.

With Deep Loathing For All Who Claim This Refund,
Renee Luffman, Toronto, Ontario.

Staying Positive & Productive During Bad Spells

Having a bad Fibro week, so I have been surfing the internet and looking into some stuff that I've been putting off, because I've been too hyper.

I feel accomplished; I just registered to be an organ donor via Service Ontario. It turns out that even sick people can help other sick people ;) Okay, I already knew that, I'm just being silly.

Actually, I've had a very positive outlook on life in general for the last while, which is a big change from this time last year (more on that in another post). In fact, when asked how I am today, my reply has been, "Physically, I feel like shite, but I'm full of happiness and sunshine, so who cares!"

My meds are working well, even when my body isn't. The biggest challenge for me is to simply get good sleep. Whenever that is not accomplished, it causes a chain reaction of poor health, but I can deal.

My good good days are much better, as well as frequent than they used to be. I only throw up from the pain maybe once every two months instead of once every two days. I have an ever growing support system around me. I have unlimited internet, and unlimited Canada Wide Calling. What more do I need to stay in touch with the people who matter?

I've even created a couple of new Facebook Groups; One for people I know with Fibro to swap stories, treatment ideas, pain management techniques, etc., and another for Writers! I've also joined a separate writers group that is run by a guy I stumbled across on Twitter. I don't care what anyone says, social media sites are great tools if you know how to use them!

That's right, November is just around the corner, and that means gearing up for NaNoWriMo! I've got my stock of dark chocolate and caffeinated beverages. I've been stocking the freezer with ready to go foods. This is something I like to do anyway because of the Fibro, but I want to be able to spend all of my spoons on writing in November, not cooking!

If you're interested in following my progress on the NaNo site, or want to join my writers group on Facebook, please feel free to do so via the links provided.

I'm trying to do little things to stay 'active' and avoid the cabin fever feeling. Including reading curled up on the patio in the afternoon when the sun is shining directly on my side of the building, and walking down to the lobby to check the mail. It's little things like that which can make a huge difference when you're cooped up inside, or have been couch/bedridden for long stretches. I even went out to the mall the other day to do some quick gift shopping. Any little thing that I can think of that makes me feel like I've done something useful that day.

Anyway, this wasn't the post I wanted to work on today, so I'm going to end abruptly and go work on my Thanksgiving post :P

Toodles!