For months my brain felt distracted by the list of unfinished stories that are spread across the ‘My Documents’ folder of my laptop. I couldn’t take it anymore. This morning I better organized my writing into two folders:
I have fourteen unfinished stories in my writing portfolio. That count excludes a half-dozen, one-sentence descriptions I maintain of future projects.
I can breathe a bit easier now. I went into this exercise expecting to find about thirty unfinished stories. I’m not entirely pleased with fourteen, but my next step this week will be to pare that back to a more manageable, single-digit number.
I don’t necessarily want to delete drafted narrative text, but it may come down to that in order to satisfy my mental well-being. I suppose I will distill the text back down to a one-sentence description and keep that available in my idea file.
I wrote this piece of Flash Fiction in 2011 from a 12-Aug-2011 prompt, however the original source was forgotten.
Include each of these items in your story. Priest, ring, magnifying glass, cat.
“Lock the door,” said Alvin, “and have a seat over there on the couch.” The boy said nothing but complied with the request. “On second thought, draw the blinds closed, too. One can never be too careful.”
Back in November 2010 a friend e-mailed me the message below. The note struck me as being funny; it seemed random and perhaps intended for another recipient. Here’s the original e-mail and the quick response I cranked out to him. I made a couple edits to protect the innocent and make the posting blog-friendly.
Sent: Monday, November 01, 2010 7:20 PM
Subject: Rose brand curtains?
Have you ever heard of rose brand curtains? I ended up sitting next to one of their salesmen today on the plane to Atlanta. Seemed like a good guy.
Do not believe him. He is not who he says he is. I’m surprised he had the audacity to reveal himself to you.
“Good evening, Mr. Stock. Please step over here so we may have a look in that backpack, please,” bellowed the school’s vice principal, Mr. Stuckley. “Planning to do homework at the homecoming dance, are we?”
I turned my head to see who Mr. Stuckley was speaking to. So did the two volunteer mothers manning the ticket table, and I found amusement as both their facial expressions drew noticeably uncomfortable once seeing the target of Mr. Stuckley’s attention. It was Adam Stock, another sophomore in my class who was dressed-to-impress this evening wearing black jeans, a tuxedo-printed t-shirt, polished cowboy boots, and a top hat that would make Slash envious.