She put the pen down, happy.
The book was published. But she abhorred the cover. And she was very vocal about it too. No one listened because the book was a success, “a huge success” as the publisher always made a point of stressing.
OK, fine! So be it.
Her next book was called “The Fool”. And she loved the cover, a photo of a foot sticking out of the ground. She had taken it herself with her cellphone. It was much cheaper than hiring some top designer.
Buying the gun, however, did mess up her whole budget…
The end of the beginning
I know it’s a weird way to begin a story, but the fact is I struggle to come to a satisfactory conclusion to anything I write.
However, I’ve never had a problem with beginnings, so now I work to my strengths and end my stories in the opening paragraphs. It brings an added bonus that, after working my way through to a logical conclusion, I don’t have to come up with a great ending.
Because I’ve already done it: At the beginning!
I’ve done it with this story too…
You’ll find the end, right at the very top!
You really don’t want to rub me up the wrong way; I’m not one to tolerate being messed about, as many have found to their cost.
I refuse to feel any guilt about it. After all, you can’t say that I haven’t given you fair warning, and if you choose to ignore it, then you’ve only got yourself to blame.
And, I think you should know, you’re already pushing your luck by asking me to explain myself in this way.
So, either piss off, or prepare yourself for the worst.
Because I’m rapidly coming to the end of my tether!
Pick two: Vase & Rub
The end of the aisle on the bottom shelf Dean saw the old vase.
“It could have once held a genie,” he joked to Ann.
“No, silly. Lamps hold genies, not vases.”
At home Dean noticed a smudge he hadn’t seen at the store. He added some goo remover and started rubbing. The vase shook and smoke came from the top. What appeared wasn’t a genie. It was a very angry old lady from New Jersey.
Rather than granting wishes, she just complained and criticized everything. She didn’t stop complaining until Ann sent the old lady home in an Uber.
Since Records Began
Every morning at dawn Ohg would set a stone at the front of the cave entrance to show another peaceful night had passed. He didn’t know how many stones he had gathered since numbers had yet to be invented. There was a stack of stones. That was all he understood.
One day the hill people from across the river attacked as Ohg was placing his morning stone. Picking up and throwing rock after rock he was able fight off the invaders and drive them back across the river. The next morning Ohg placed one stone in front of the cave.
What Could GO Possible Wrong 011
Ford’s first thought was Cervantes had transmogrified into the bar. He grabbed brass handle and swung the door open. He saw how wrong he could be. The place was filled with Roundheads. “1600’s” he cursed. While is traditional Oxford growns, he could easily pass as a time local, he had in the past encounter some the same men in the room. Not good. Worst Molly Fields was crossing the floor toward him, having abandoned the captain of the company. Not good thought Ford. Molly smiles and whispered in his ear,” How’s bout a top rub dearie?” Then it got worst.
“That’s interesting,” Billbert said. “Will you share this family secret with me?”
Sabrina laughed. “Most family secrets in Humbolt county is their hidden marijuana crop. For us, it goes back even before the pot came here. But, in the end, it’s come down to me to carry on our tradition.”
“Okay,” Billbert said. “Are you like, the last witch in your family line?”
She shook her head. “We’re not just regular old witches. We’re weather witches.”
“It’s rained non-stop since we moved here,” Billbert said. “Is that because of you.”
She shrugged. “We like the spring fresh smell it brings.”
She turned on the faucet and let the water run to warm up for her shower. She noticed that she could smell the temperature of the water. At first, it had a mintiness. She held her hand in the spray. It became tepid and the mint began fading and she smelled a grassiness, then fresh herbs, and then floral notes. It was nearly warm enough and she could smell soil. She closed her eyes and the Spring-fresh bouquet transported her to the fields of new crops of her past. She stepped into the shower, and began weeping, smelling her childhood.
The Ghost Dance promises a blanket of fresh soil and grass over the broken, barren lands.
To bury the treacherous white man and his broken treaties, to welcome the buffalo and horses back to the plains.
We will together, all tribes, together, hunt and ride and plant and laugh in freedom.
The birds will sing, and we will sing with them.
I know the Ghost Dance is a lie. We have lost, and will keep losing.
But the Ghost Dance scares the white man, so we dance it.
The Army threatens us. The missionaries threaten us.
But we dance on.