As Thea regained consciousness she wondered what the ending of her story should be. (https://roughwighting.net/2018/11/30/on-the-last-day/)
And then she wondered which story she wanted to end.
In her fantasy novels, her readers insisted on a concrete “good wins over evil” finale. But as a middle-aged woman, Thea believed that . . . Continue reading
On this dreary day, Thea wrote sitting in the tub, her favorite place for creating stories. Writing allowed her to sink into another world while candles lit the steamy room and bath bubbles glistened.
But Thea’s story was side-tracked when a knock at the front door roused her from the fantasy world she’d created of knights and lasses and a well-spoken dragon. By the second, louder knock, she dried herself off with a towel, grumbling that she could have stayed in the tub another half hour.
The third knock was obnoxiously insistent, so Thea pulled on her jeans and sweatshirt and stomped to the door.
“Yes?” she asked, irritation noticeable in her tone. Continue reading
Judith strolled past the stores of the old town with disinterest.
“Mandy, why did you bring us here?” she moaned. “This is a virtual ghost town.” Judith surveyed the grungy bungalow-type buildings; the unkempt road; and the dearth of any human beings. If she wasn’t such a practical, no-nonsense sort of person, she’d be freaked. Continue reading
NO, not that one, I try to scream.
But of course, I can’t scream. I can screech, I can scratch like the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. I can grit my metal teeth, and I can stutter mid-way between too many pages.
But I can’t scream.
I understand her frustration. I’ve chewed up draft after draft of that dang story she’s writing. Continue reading
Debra unties the ribbon around the mysterious box and slowly opens it. Her puzzled look doesn’t leave her face when the side door rams open and two men enter. (https://roughwighting.net/2018/09/28/strangers-in-the-dark/)
“If you want to help your friend,” the stockiest man growls, “empty the box and show us the rest.”
Debra laughs, but not with humor. “Are you kidding me? You must be the agent Eugene told me about last week.”
The man’s face falls as flat as a bad soufflé. “He told you about me?” Continue reading