Prompt: Use Meditative Journaling, or “Stream of Consciousness”, perhaps to write about loss or grief

You may recall that during ConGregate in Winston Salem last month, I had the good fortune to spend time with Sharon Stogner of I Smell Sheep, the wonderful paranormal romance review site. Sharon gave me a lot of ideas for branding and building this prompt blog, some of which I have already begun to implement. I plan to do more in August, so I hope you’ll keep coming back to see more content and resources being added.

I am also going to buckle down and focus my writing efforts on finishing my novel. I know, I know, I’ve been saying that…and saying that…and saying that.

New Goal: Complete First Draft by DragonCon.

The thing is, today is August 5^th, and I have neither posted in the blog nor written a word yet this month. Why, you may ask? Well, that’s the hard part. Life. Loss. Death.

A friend – one of my dearest friends’ lifelong besties – was killed in a car wreck on Friday night. I’m still feeling the shock, the grief, the anger. And sometimes –when I am out and about living the life that goes on no matter what has happened – I think I can write about that and maybe even channel it into some of my story, which includes loss and grief and anger. And perhaps I will. But when I am home and quiet, I haven’t yet gathered the strength and energy to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, until tonight.

I still feel the shock, the grief, the anger, wrapped around me, tugging at my limbs, pushing against my chest, my forehead, behind my eyes. I’m going to try to write about it. Is that self serving? If you think so. I think it might be healing. And honoring my friend, to explore my feelings deeply and honestly, and ultimately to share them in some way. And maybe someone will read the scenes I write someday and say “Yes, that’s how *I* feel!” And they won’t feel alone in whatever they’re going through. And I’ll keep on living, and they’ll keep on living, and we will have shared something, even if we never meet. Life is interconnected in all kinds of ways we can never really know, perceive, or understand.

How can I channel my intense, personal feelings into something I might use in my story? I’m going to use meditative journaling, which is a kind of “stream of consciousness” or "free writing". If you’ve never done it, I encourage you to give it a try. The idea is to start writing (and literally using pen and paper, but with experience, a keyboard works fine too), and keep writing, no matter what. If you don’t know what to say, you write that. So it may look something like this:

Meditative journaling prompt: Swimming

Swimming. I love the water. I’m a “Cancer”, a water baby. My daughter, a Pisces, is too. I love showers, baths, pools, the ocean, rivers, rain, waterfalls. I have stories for every one of these things. Memories. The feel of cold water in the kitchen sink, soap bubbles lathering my hands. Hot water, spraying dishes clean, scrubbing them, rinsing them. When I heard about Tammy and waited for a friend who came to comfort me, I washed my crockpot, scrubbing it over and over, running my fingers over the cersmic until it was clean and smooth once more.

The cascade of water in the shower, pulling through my hair, pulling my head back. Floating in the pool, leaning my head back in the water, feeling small waves wash up against my sides, wash over me. Hearing people, planes, noises from above. Holding my breath and diving under. A deep breath, a deeper dive. Into the crystal blue water at Bimini. Dolphins, nurse sharks, spiny lobsters, barracuda, remora…but that’s another story. Water. Water. What to say? Is there a story here? Standing in the pool, moving through physical therapy exercises. Feeling the swish of the water as I lift my leg, the push of muscles and the resistance they don’t feel in air. The flow. Like dancing. I love bobbing up and down, standing in second and tilting my feet en pointe. More graceful than I ever was on a ballet studio floor. Water. Ease. Grace. Flow. Beauty…

Give it a try. It may surprise you. You see in my example, I moved from swimming to water without consciously realizing it. Maybe nothing interesting will come of it. Maybe you’ll be inspired with a scene or story idea. Maybe you’ll discover something you weren’t consciously thinking about. And if you write about loss or grief, maybe you’ll find some peace.

Namaste

I’ve heard many translations. Here’s one I love: The light of the universe that shines within me bows to the light of the universe that shines within you.

Dogs in House	Houdini, Brindle
Music Playing	Delta Rae, “Morning Comes”
Time writing
August word count

Prompt: Hiding in plain sight

Thanks to Alexandra Semushina for permission to use her charming artwork, "Owl"!

Trina fluffed her wings and turned her head around, tilting for parallax, as she searched for signs of any followers. Not much could keep up with her in owl form, and she’d flown far from last night’s roost. Satisfied, she opened her wings and dropped down to the ground, changing as she fell. Dropping into a crouch, she swept her feathered cape behind her back and drew her knife. Losing her owl senses always made her feel even more vulnerable.

Standing tall, she sheathed the blade and pushed her goggles back on her head. She eyed the creek beside her, looking for fish or large pincer-shrimp. Her tight-laced leggings would keep her feet safe from rocks and the freezing water if she moved quickly. There, a fat eel rested in the shadow of a boulder, the water rushing around it. Trina tugged her blade free again and crouched on the bank, pulling her goggles down to protect her eyes. Drawing on her owl speed, she plunged into the water and speared the eel with her blade pinning it against the rock. With her other hand, she grabbed its tail end—far from the needle teeth—and in one strong sweep, pulled it against the blade, slicing the length of its body until its teeth wedged on the blade. Holding the still-wriggling pieces taut against the blade, she backed out of the water and threw it on the ground.

“That will be a fine supper,” said a deep voice behind her.

Trina whirled, then grinned, pulling her goggled off her head and shaking her hair loose. “Indeed. I might even share,” she teased…

To be continued?

Dogs in House	Houdini
Time writing	~20 minutes
July word count	12,754

Prompt: Out of Time

Jeff was six the first time it happened. Dragged up to his grandparents’ boring house in the middle of nowhere for the weekend, he’d been shooting baskets with his dad’s old ball that needed air, until he got tired of that and came inside to throw himself on the floor while the grownups talked and drank cocktails and smoked stinky cigarettes. He lay on faded orange shag carpet with his arm over his eyes, and gradually he became aware of the big clock ticking in the corner. He didn’t have to look to imagine the big pendulum swinging back and forth, and slowly his breath steadied in time with the clock.

He was hot and tired and hungry and impatient for the grownups to stop talking. And all of the sudden, they did. All at once. Completely. Jeff felt a chill across his chest, and goosebumps ran along his arms. He turned his head and opened one eye, peeking at his mom, who was sitting on the sofa closest to him. She was frozen in place, holding her glass tilted in front of her lips, her mouth open in a laugh.

Jeff bolted upright, staring at his grandparents, leaning together as they always did on the opposite couch. His grandmother’s cigarette had a spiral of smoke frozen in place above it. His grandfather had his foot off the ground, where he’d lifted his leg to shift his bum knee.

Before he could move, they did. His mom startled. “What’s with you, Jeff. You sat up so fast there, I nearly jumped out of my skin.” He turned and stared at her with wide eyes, saying nothing. She smiled and crinkled her eyes with a question, but didn’t pursue it. Her father stood and said, “Let’s get the table set for supper, Bud.”

Jeff thought it was the clock, somehow. He never tried it again. After awhile, he told himself it had been some sort of a dream. Cause that couldn’t be real, right?

#

Ten years later, at Josh Stevens’ legendary party, Jeff ate a brownie while the girl handing them out giggled. He was leaning against the living room wall, nursing a Coke bottle and watching everyone laughing as they got drunk…or something. Through the crowd, the chime of the mantel clock caught his ear. He glanced over and noticed it had an elaborate set of gears in the front. He wasn’t thinking anything special as he started watching them click around and around. Until they froze, and the whole room went silent. Jeff pushed off the wall and stared around him. Everyone was frozen in place. Suddenly, the memory of his grandparents’ clock struck him, and he laughed aloud. “No way!”

To be continued…

Dogs in House	Houdini
Music Playing	Eric Clapton, “Change the World”
Time writing	25 minutes
July word count	12,482

Prompt: “When a monster stopped behaving like a monster, did it stop being a monster? Did it become something else?” ― Kristin Cashore, Graceling

Groolig sat on the riverbank with his feet in the water and his head in his hands. His curves claws tapped the tufted tips of his long ears, as he replayed the scene over and over in his head.

“Carve the skin, my pet,” Mistress crooned, fingertip tracing a hidden rune on his back. Groolig was her favorite instrument, and he’d never hesitated to do her bidding. She could as easily pick up a blade and use it on him as he could use his claws on bare skin. She had done so throughout his youth, carving the runes that covered his own flesh, now hidden by mottled, tangled fur. How many others had he sliced and torn open before their blood washed away his own, stained against his skin and fur and claws?

But Groolig didn’t want to hurt this one. He reached past her arms, suspended on the chains rattling above them, touching a claw to her cheek, where a single tear quivered. It splashed over his claw, and he remembered.

“Groolig! Catch me!” The girl cried as she leaped from the tree limb above, barely giving him time to reach up before she fell into his arms, laughing. He curled her slight body up to his chest, burying his face against her belly and blowing raspberries through her threadbare tunic. She giggled and wrapped her arms around him in a fierce hug. “You’re my best friend, Groolig. You’re not a monster! You’re not!”

“Don’t bore me, pet,” Mistress warned in a deep growl.

Groolig didn’t move the claw against the girl’s cheek. He didn’t turn his head in warning. He simply swung out behind him with his other long arm, claws outstretched, with unerring accuracy, and tore out Mistress’ throat. He never looked back as he swiped through the metal links of the chains and curled the falling girl into his arms once more. If Mistress lived, she would kill them both. But the sounds behind him told a different tale.

He carried the girl out of Mistress’ hold and into the deep forest where they once played. When he reached the river, he walked into the middle and upstream, pushing against the current without slowing his pace for hours. The girl remained still in his arms. Before the light faded, he found the hut they once built of fallen tree limbs and fresh rushes, long since dried into thatch. He lay the girl down on the thatch floor and went out to find fresh rushes to cover her while she slept.

Finally admitting he was tired, he sat on the riverbank, next to the hut, and cooled his torn feet in the rushing water. He’d spent most of his life in the stone confines of Mistress’ hold, except for rare adventure with the girl. Now Mistress was dead, and he had to take care of the girl. He didn’t know what to do. Burying his head in his hands, Groolig tried to think what she would need…

To be continued?

Dogs in House	Houdini, Brindle
Music Playing	iTunes walking playlist
Time writing	~30 minutes
July word count	11,334

Prompt: I didn't trust a smile with that many teeth…

I didn’t trust a smile with that many teeth. It didn’t help that Gorvians have no lips or gums. I tried not to hold that against Belvik. But the fact that he was a lying, cheating, thieving son of a vental didn’t help either. I pressed the flat of my blade against his wrist.

“Pull away slowly, and we’ll pretend that didn’t just happen,” I said with a growling rumble in my chest.

Belvik slowly pulled his hand away from my belt purse and held up both hands with a full-toothed grin. “No harm, no foul, friend,” he said, taking a step back before rubbing his wrist.

Sliding my blade back into its sheath, I muttered, “I didn’t cut you, you big baby. Not that you wouldn’t have deserved it.”

Belvik’s smile faded, his teeth retracting into his mouth with audible clicks...

To be continued?

Dogs in House	Houdini
Music Playing	Spanish Guitar Music Vol.1 on YouTube
Time writing	~15 minutes
July word count	10,834

Prompt: Wishing we were different

Slighth rolled through the shallows, avoiding everyone in her path. The cool waves washed them all in frothy yellow, with green sand swirling up from below. The sun reflected on colored limbs all around her, and she sighed, glancing down at her own pale scales. Twisting past a dark-blue female and a dark purple male, she longed for scales that refracted the light with more than her own undistinguished light blues.

If only she had the same glinting teal as that female over there, curling her long tubes in the water as if she wasn’t aware of her effect on every male in sight. Slighth brushed past a pair of young dark brown males, who ignored her, entranced as they were by the myriad of other, darker scales all around.

Reaching the water’s edge, Slighth stretched out her standing tubes and rose above the waves. As she reached her fronds toward the warming sun, she pretended to be invisible…

###

Author’s note:

Here’s an idea that has fizzled. It came to me as I was walking on the beach, admiring the beautiful tanned men and women, of all shapes and sizes. I was struck by those sunbathing with such an air of relaxation…I have never been able to do this. My skin is too fair, and I don’t have the patience or tolerance to sit in the heat, when I know I will never have skin that beautiful color. We don’t even have to get into all the health issues, because this is at heart a perception-of-self issue.

So I started thinking about how to turn that little self dialogue into a different kind of scene, and rather than a fantasy setting, I came up with an otherworldly, alien setting. Which sounded fun. Trouble is, I have a setting and an initial character, but no actual story…

Sometimes these things all come together, and sometimes, they don’t.

So give it a try, and let me know what you come up with!

Time writing	20 minutes
July word count	10,692

Prompt: 1) A van drives through the yogurt shop front window and 2) a panther escapes from the zoo

Carrie walked the empty zoo paths, making her final rounds of the Southwest exhibit. The coyotes were settling into their den, and she paused to watch the kits gambol. She was waiting for Shariya’s grumbles to startle them into the shallow cave, but there was no sound from the next enclosure. Carrie walked along the fence, looking in all the big cat’s usual hiding places. She didn’t really feel uneasy until she rounded the rock face and saw the light from the rear hallway…through the open door. “Oh, no,” she breathed.

Steve finished unloading the produce delivery in the zoo kitchen. John had signed for the delivery when he arrived and then pushed a cartload of food through the interior doors, so there was no reason to hang around. Steve actually liked the zoo deliveries, and he traded with the other drivers whenever he could. He’d loved the zoo when he was a kid, and his grandfather used to walk the trails and tell him Apache stories of the animals.

Thinking about his grandfather, Steve folded his loading cart and lifted it onto the frame inside the rear van door. Sliding the latch bolts in place, he climbed in the driver’s seat and pulled out of the delivery bay, waving to the security camera as he drove down the long drive. Emerging from the zoo grounds, he turned into the remaining evening traffic and headed back to the city.

Two blocks away from the warehouse, Steve heard a low growl from the back of the van. Shivers ran down his back, and his heart raced. Swallowing hard, he reached out slowly and pushed the power knob on the radio. In the sudden silence, he heard another long, rumbling growl. He didn’t have to see it to recognize the sound. Staring ahead, looking for a place to park and get out of the van, Steve spoke quietly, “Ndoihi…Ndoihi, I am honored. But it’s not safe for you here. Please stay where you are, and I will get you someplace—”

The cat roared. Steve felt it in his bones. His foot drove down on the gas pedal, and his hand jerked the steering wheel. His head thumped the back of the seat as the van rolled over the curb. The cat roared again, and Steve cried out, “Ndoihi!” Desparate, he pulled off his seatbelt and pushed the door open, diving out of the still-moving van. He rolled into the parking lot, then jumped up, watching in horror as the van drove straight into the glass window of the FroYo frozen yogurt shop.

The van perched on the low wall of the shattered window, rocking slowly, tires spinning. A building alarm was blaring, red and white lights flashing. Steve ran toward the wreck, then slowed as he saw the driver’s door swinging wide…

Time writing	Too long, too scattered
July word count	10,362

Prompt: Thunder in my hand

Thinking back, I heard the guy running behind me, his shoes smacking against the wet pavement, the echoes bouncing from the buildings. He pushed past me, his arm bent in front of him, his elbow slammed against my arm. I clapped my other hand against my tricep and shouted “Ow! Watch out!”

Then I heard the woman farther behind me. “Help! He stole my purse! Stop him!”

I saw the guy running ahead of me now, clutching a woman’s purse under his left arm, his right arm pushing ahead of him as he ran.

I’m not one to get involved. I’m no hero. He just…pissed me off. Stealing some woman’s purse and pushing people around. I clenched my fists, staring after him, scowling. I felt heat against my palms, my fingers. I wasn’t thinking as I lifted my fists, just feeling them get hotter and hotter. I flung them forward, my fingers pointing toward the still-running thief. A wave of energy rolls across my skin. Thunder rumbles, echoing between the buildings. The runner arches, dropping the purse, throwing his arms out for balance, as if he was hit from behind. Still moving forward, he falls face first against the pavement.

A couple of guys jump on him, holding him down. The woman shoulders past me, wheezing. “My purse!” I stare at my open hands…

Time writing	25 minutes
July word count	9,981