Monday, May 26, 2014

injaynesworld here's "Just A Hint..."

Follow Hint Fiction on Facebook
The challenge:  Write a story (beginning, middle and end) that hints at a larger story, but is complete within itself, in 25 words or less.  The most famous piece of hint fiction was written by Hemingway:

            For sale:  Baby Shoes.  Never worn. 

Hint Fiction demands reader involvement.  “Why were the baby shoes never worn?” we’re left to contemplate.   It hints at much more, yet is complete in and of itself.  

Here is one from me:

                                  “News at Eleven”

          A shiny, new tricycle on the sidewalk, abandoned.

          A single, blue sneaker at the curb.

          From the house, a mother calls:  “Tommy, supper!”

Write your story on your own blog, then come back here and link up your post.  Be sure and visit everyone else’s offering and support your fellow writers with a comment.  If you don’t have a blog, you may leave your story in my comment section below.  Write and post as many as you want.   Link-up will be active through June 1st.  

Have fun!


Want to know more about hint fiction?   Visit Robert Swartwood's Hint Fiction website by clicking here.

Sunday, May 18, 2014

injaynesworld it's a "Twitter Fail..."

This morning I opened my e-mail to be advised that I had a new Twitter follower.  Yay me!   Imagine my sad little face   :(   to find it was a septic tank emptying and waste disposal firm located in the U.K. that goes by the engaging name of “Euro Loo.” 

Dear Euro Loo…

While I know my writing isn’t for everyone, no one has ever before implied that it was crap, much less offered to dispose of it.   If you knew or cared anything about the written word, you’d know that those of us that produce such are sensitive, insecure souls to begin with and quite capable of trashing our own work without the offer of your services, thank you very much! 

On the other hand, I suppose it would be outright rude to not consider the possibility that your interest in following me is sincere.  

Still, if you don’t mind, let’s just keep this relationship between the two of us.    

I suppose I should be grateful it wasn’t one of those discount cremation services – cash only – no credit cards accepted. 

And how is your day going?


Thursday, May 8, 2014

injaynesworld it's "The Understudy..."

The single, satin ballet slipper tumbled down, down, down the side of the building, landing on the city sidewalk below with barely a sound.  There, among throngs of foot travelers oblivious to all but their digital devices, it was kicked aside several times before coming to rest at the soiled base of a traffic signal alight in red. 

From her precarious perch at the edge of the roof high above, the wind slicing through the thin, still-damp fabric clinging to her small frame, Carmen watched the rehearsal continue in the building across the street, just three stories below.  Slowly, she untied the ribbons of the other slipper and wondered what it would take for them to finally take notice of her. 

From the Studio30-Plus prompt, “precarious perch,”150-word limit.

Monday, May 5, 2014

injaynesworld "Teachers Never Liked Me..."

To be fair, even as a child, I was outspoken.  It was the time when “children should be seen and not heard” was the prevailing philosophy and I missed that memo.   Adults were to be respected, but in my household the adults often acted more like children than the children, so my perception on that accord was a bit skewed, as well.

As for teachers, I can sum up our relationship like this:  They were being paid to be there, and I was there by law.  Except for the nuns, of course.  It was their calling in life to transform us from sinners to, if not saints, at least something a cut above illiterate heathens, and with their stern manner and intimidating black robes, they were well-equipped to do so.   And yet, I’m certain I sent more than one of them to confession for harboring un-Christ-like thoughts.

I was a curious child who questioned everything.  Back then the distinction between faith and fact was lost on me.  

“Why is it as hard for a rich man to get into heaven as it is for a camel to go through the eye of a needle?  That sounds a bit unfair.  What if he’s a nice man?”  I would ask, and off to Mother Superior I would go.  Of course now, with income inequality being what it is in this country, I see that their teaching was positively prophetic.

The final straw in my religious education came when I stood on a tree stump on the playground one fine morning and declared myself to be the Virgin Mary.  It was generally agreed upon that I was better suited for public school.

And so it was that in the third grade I became the problem of ordinary public servants, underpaid men and women who, lacking the authority of God, counted heavily on children being taught certain rules of conduct at home.  Unfortunately for them, my education in that particular area was a bit lacking.  I never learned to take “no” for an answer which, while trying on the adults around me at the time, served the adult I would become very well as I made my way in the rejection-heavy business of writing for television. 

High school proved no better for the teachers in my path.  A smart kid who could have gotten all A’s and B’s had I cared to, the most often phrase seen on my report cards was “underachiever.”  I couldn’t help it.  I was bored. Then came sophomore English and Miss O’Toole.  Suddenly, my mind burst open like fireworks on the Fourth of July.  “Grapes of Wrath,” “To Kill a Mockingbird” – she even made Shakespeare come alive for me!   Freakin’ Shakespeare!   I loved Miss O’Toole and I got an “A” in her class.   So, in choosing my teachers for my junior year, naturally I requested her again.

Imagine my 16-year-old shock when my counselor told me that my beloved Miss O’Toole didn’t want me back in her class.  Apparently, I was disruptive.  WTF?   I was flummoxed.   I was hurt.   I was shamed.   Now you would think that the counselor would have brought us both in to discuss the situation and try to work things out – being that I got a fucking “A” and all.   But that did not happen.  There would be no meeting, no explanation.  I would instead be put into the class of another teacher, whose name I cannot even remember, where I would literally sleep through the entire semester, yet somehow still manage to squeak out a “D.”  It would be nearly a decade before I took an interest in learning again.  

I have often thought of Miss O’Toole over the years.  I’ve wondered if she ever saw my name on her television screen and thought, “I wonder… Nah.  Couldn’t be.”  

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