Writing Prompts for Fiction and Inspiration for Journaling!

It’s been a long time since we’ve put out some writing prompts. Here are a few tidbits of inspiration for those who love to write stories, and those who love to journal. Cole did an outstanding job on these, and I’ve been remiss in getting them out there.

Eventually, I’ll get some writing prompts of my own out there, but in the meantime, here are the last ones that NC Saul did for me. For anybody who’s new, some previous writing prompts can be found here and here. Some memes I had fun making, and that could also serve as inspiration for journaling or fiction can be found here.

Enjoy!

Sounds like a nugget for an exciting fantasy adventure!

This is a nice prompt for either journaling or a literary novel.

And another fantasy adventure!

Breathtaking, isn’t it? The beauty and mystery of the world is an eternal supply from the Muses.

Can you weave a tapestry of words about your life?

I love me a good travel adventure, and always come up with some amazing stories when I’m following some happy trails!

Higher Learning

As reluctant as I was to stay on at the Courtesan Casa, it surprised me how readily I fell into a rhythm of life there.

Adrianna said she needed a break from continuing the story of the Patron’s Daughter and the Brute, and she took that break. A couple of weeks passed with none of her vivid storytelling at night.

At first, I was disappointed to have the exciting tale interrupted.

But ultimately, I was thankful to have the time to get to know Adrianna as a woman and as a friend.

It refreshed me to see her as something other than the angry young peasant she had once been, or the glamorous and larger-than-life Courtesan she became.

I met her every morning and most evenings in the theater.

While she danced, I drew rough sketches of Adrianna. Yet I joined her for the stretching and meditation.

She was a patient teacher as she walked me through the strange poses that I could not get into as far as she could. But I loved the buoyancy in my body after the exercises were done.

No wonder Adrianna always began her dance this way. But oftentimes, she would finish off her dance with stretching that segued to meditation.

I savored that peace and stillness that came from closing my eyes to be fully present inside myself. I even craved it. That inner space brought me back to the harmony of roaming outside with the sheep.

Courtesan Casa was an utterly fascinating place. Yet it was also foreign to me.

People were around all the time, every day, and I missed solitude. I missed being outside with my flock.

Those moments of stillness in the theater brought me as close to that serenity as I was going to get in the bustle and liveliness of the Casa.

After the morning routine was over, Adrianna and I would enjoy a leisurely breakfast. Sometimes we chatted, but oftentimes we ate in silence until the Butler came and read the paper to her.

Of course, I could have read to her, and used the various stories for her reading lessons.

But this had been a ritual between Adrianna and the Butler for so long, I didn’t wish to interrupt. Once he finished, the Butler left the paper with me.

Then the instruction in reading and writing began.

At first, the servants were dismissed. Yet after a few days, everybody figured out what was going on, and Adrianna relaxed enough to let her household see her vulnerable as she learned to read and write.

It made things easier because on those days when Adrianna didn’t have evening engagements, the lessons lasted several hours.

It was very pleasant to have refreshments coming as needed. Study required a lot of concentration, and it was incredible how often we both wanted to snack while working.

As I suspected, Adrianna had an excellent mind. She was even quicker to learn than I thought she would be.

It was far easier to teach her, Wanderer, than it had been to teach you. To be fair, I think it helped that I taught her reading and writing simultaneously.

But Adrianna was blessed with a raw, natural intelligence, more than I ever had, and probably more than you.

I began with the alphabet.

I wrote it out, and made her practice drawing the letters while I sounded them out. Like the governess who had taught me, I used phonetics, how letters and consonants sounded when linked together, using words out of the newspaper as examples.

Writing was challenging for her.

But she mastered the sounds of the alphabet within days. Once she made those connections, Adrianna picked up reading so fast it unnerved me to no end.

Instructing her was a pleasure.

Her concentration was formidable.

Her large golden eyes blazed as she watched and listened. I had never seen more absolute focus than I saw in Adrianna.

As usual, her beauty took my breath away.

It didn’t help that Adrianna was as flirtatious as ever during our lessons.

Somehow, she always found something to inspire a knowing grin, an impertinent wink, and that unnerving manner of laughing she had, out loud with her head thrown back.

At least a couple of times per lesson, I lost my composure and my train of thought, which inspired more grins, winks, and laughter.

But her patience with herself gave me pause.

Even though Adrianna was patient with her servants, her protégées, her strongmen, and her prodigies, most gifted people I’ve known were seldom kind to themselves.

I’ve always seen it as a perverse form of vanity. Painful expression of vanity, of course, but as driven as she was, I expected Adrianna to pressure herself to excel.

We all grew up with the fable on pride about the tortoise and the hare. Although the hare was a much faster animal, it was the tortoise that won the race.

I expected Adrianna to have the speed of the hare, along with the pride that went with it. I was agreeably surprised to see she paced herself more like the tortoise. She plodded along, rather than sprinted.

This was especially apparent as she struggled to write the words she understood and read so easily.

Bent over the paper, she painstakingly took her time with her letters and script, flicking her eyes to the alphabet and mouthing the words slowly to figure out which letters she needed for which words. Her spelling was atrocious, but she kept at writing with steady determination.

If Adrianna ever suffered a moment’s frustration, I saw little proof of it. This disciplined humility was a most welcome and pleasurable surprise.

That quality was what made me like Adrianna.

During this time, I realized I liked her quite a lot.

I actually forgot all about the Patron’s Daughter and the Brute during this respite that I enjoyed so much.

Yes, Wanderer, I promise to teach you how to write in due time.

To return to the story, this fresh source of esteem made it impossible for me to deny the desire Adrianna inspired in me.

I figured that would get your attention, Wanderer, and I will get there in due course. 

9 Original Fantasy Writing Prompts!

Here are some writing prompts for May. Most are fantasy. All are original. Hope these work to spark the magic of inspiration!

Enjoy!

If you’d like to see more original writing prompts from Free Flying Press, click here.

Wanna Feel Better? Then Love on Yourself!

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Joy is juice. Pleasure is the nectar that keeps us going.

Yet there are lots of excellent reasons to feel like f***ing s*** these days. And feeling like crud is bad for writers. It blocks us from flowing when we really need to keep going.

Getting dumped; getting fired (another kind of dumped); losing your friend group in a break up (yet another kind of dumped); fights with anybody important to you — family/partner/spouse/offspring/sibling/co-worker; toxic work environment; narcissistic anything and narcissists everywhere; asking somebody out only to get turned down; asking somebody out who only strings you along without a clean and honest rejection; one-sided friendships; moving to a new place where you know nobody and the culture is not friendly; realizing that the good buddy you lent money to will never pay you back; getting into a car accident; lousy customer service; deliberate rudeness…this list could go on for eternity.

Unfortunately, there is an abundance of unkindness in the world. People treat each other with disrespect all the time, and many of us are stressed and unhappy as a result.

That being the case, can we always rely on outside sources — like supportive friends and healthy relationships — for our contentment and happiness?

In my opinion, the answer is no. We need to get really, really good at filling our own wells.

How do we do that?

Again, this is an opinion: we can do that through the pursuit of pleasure, particularly the kinds that bring us to joy.

This may sound frivolous to some. Pleasure is dessert, not dinner.

And can we honestly say that the concept of joy receives the cultural respect it deserves? I came across a Ted Talk that addresses this topic, which I’ll post at the end of this article — because I want you to finish reading this. Of course.

Pleasure is extremely important. I think it’s far more crucial than people want to admit.

Stop and think about those stellar moments, when you feel amazing and your being is in a delicious state of lightness, when all your cares fall away, and you settle fully in the present. What comes not only to your mind, but to your heart?

Joy.

It doesn’t matter how you got there. What matters is that every single one of those pleasurable moments adds joy to your well, to your inner reserves that give you strength and resilience.

Those moments of pleasure remind you that life is worth living. So later, when one of the miseries strikes you, that nourishment will be there to sustain you.

Joy is juice. Pleasure is the nectar that keeps us going.

As we all know, loving, healthy relationships and true friends are the main source of juice and nectar.

But life happens. There are times when we don’t have that loving partner or our healthy friends are caught up in their own lives. Or both. Sometimes there’s nobody available to help you feel better.

These are the times to love on yourself.

Allow me to share a few of my go-to’s when it comes to bringing on the bliss. I’ll start with something simple.

Get thee to a waterfall.

I can’t encourage this enough. The powerful force of falling water does something to us on a cellular level. The negative hydrogen ions released from the splitting water molecules enter our bloodstream and increase our levels of serotonin — which relieves stress and depression.

Trust me. It works.

I’ve sat before a waterfall in a state of raging despair. When I left an hour or so later, no matter how devastated I was when I arrived, I left feeling serene.

My problems hadn’t gone away, but I wasn’t in a pretzel over them either.

Of course, not everybody can get to a waterfall readily without some kind of road trip involved. But if you can, do it.

If a waterfall is not readily available, any source of running water — such as rivers, creeks, or the ocean — will still be helpful. Even an indoor water fountain that makes that gurgling sound that’s agreeable to your ears will do some good.

Here’s another bliss blast that is not dependent on nature. This is not for the faint of heart. But damn, it works.

HOT Sauna followed with COLD plunge. Run HOT and COLD for several rounds.

Work up to this however you want.

Sauna for as long as you can stand it and submerge in a chill tub (I think this is far more powerful than a cold shower) for as many seconds as you can take it. Increase your time with each round. Take the heat until the sweat pours off of you, then immerse your torso, hands, feet, and head in a cold tub. The longer you do each, the more you get out of it.

Physically, this is amazing for lymphatic drainage. But emotionally, it pushes the ICK right out of you. It is impossible to feel depressed, anxious, or angry after going HOT and COLD for several rounds.

Once you get accustomed to this, you’ll find yourself craving the cold. You will find intense pleasure in the COLD the longer you stay in it.

The bliss is indescribable. You’re buzzing and floating and overwhelmed with well-being. You have to experience it for yourself to know how awesome it is.

And you’ll feel like a badass.

But there’s another juicy benefit of the practice of HOT Sauna followed with COLD Plunge.

Better Orgasms.

Which brings me to my last go-to.

Make love to yourself.

I mean that literally. What better way to love on yourself than to…well, really love on yourself?

I recommend this to everybody, even those with awesome sex lives with loving sweeties.

Who can truly be your own best lover more than you?

Use your imagination and get creative. There’s no excuse not to explore variety, because there are all kinds of books, methods, and sex toys to play with.

It’s win, Win, and WIN for anybody who takes the time and makes the effort.

Besides creating your own ecstasy with self-love and orgasms, masturbation will make you a better lover.

Beyond the obvious reasons of knowing your body and telling your inner shame monster to get lost, you’ll be more present in your body — not your head — the next time you have a lover in your bed.

So there you have some go-to’s for getting your bliss on. So get busy and love on yourself. You’ll feel better.

Oh, and wear bright colors. Click here that Ted Talk I mentioned earlier.

Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 4 - Healing Through Winter Swimming

Photo credit: StockSnap on Pixabay

This is my second season of winter swimming.

I’m much tougher than I was last year 2020/2021. I’m able to stay in the cold far longer.

But that’s not even the least of it.

2021 was a motherfucker of a year.

Abandonment, betrayal, heartbreak, and even one death for good measure, 2021 was a year of grief. I lost my core people, my first tier relationships - my former roommate, my late brother’s best friend, a lover, and one of my favorite people.

It doesn’t matter that I made my choice to let go. All of it sucked.

We sure do live in interesting times. I’m hardly alone in this.

I find comfort that most people I know have also left behind close people. Because everybody is doing the friendship shuffle, it’s been fairly easy to restructure my community. Yet every relationship and friendship is unique in and of itself, and those connections can never be replaced. Loss still brings pain.

But through it all, the river is always there. Nothing forces me into the present moment with the immediacy of cold water immersion.

That got me through some of my worst moments of last year.

At the end of September, I found out that a friend who had always inspired deep respect, died suddenly from blood clots in her lungs.

The next day, I went to the river.

The water was not in the winter temps yet, but dropping fast. The cold was just enough to wear down the numbness of shock, leaving my heart free to ache. It hardly felt like relief, but it was necessary.

A couple of days after that, I cut ties with somebody I once considered my closest friend, somebody I had loved as if she had been my family. Our friendship had eroded slowly. Our connection didn’t survive the chaos of shifting values due to the pandemic, or the insidious influence of a needy relationship.

I believe friend breakups need more time to heal. Personally, I never thought this would happen with this friend, and there’s no one swim that will make that kind of heartbreak go away, no matter how excruciating the water is.

But each swim renews me a little more, as the cold river cleanses.

A few months after an acrimonious parting of the ways, I found out that my swim buddy and lover from my first season pretty much left me for somebody else. At the time of the split, she had made me out as the villain, because she hadn’t the backbone or courage to be honest. I couldn’t sleep at all that night after seeing pictures of her with the new girlfriend for whom she had declared her love a month after we had broken up.

The next day, I went to the river.

The season was late November. The water was in the upper 40’s, the temperature when the river really starts to hurt.

It would have been so easy to make excuses, to fall into apathy, depression, with hints of anguish and despair. It didn’t help that the river was a reminder of my ex-lover.

I had to force myself to go in.

As usual, I grimaced and groaned when I walked in to my waist. When I stuck my hands in, I probably cussed somewhere between a little and a lot.

I questioned my sanity when I finally dove under water to get fully submerged from head to toe. Then I gasped in desperation while trading off between breast stroke and side stroke, dunking my head under from time to time until I grew accustomed to the brain freeze.

As always, I thought the frantic panic would last forever. But it was only a few minutes before the torture was over, and I was in the here and now of that sliver of time.

On that late November evening, the sky had been overcast, and I had gone to the river around sundown. The sky was dark, but not yet black. I remember the planes flying low overhead right after take off from the nearby airport.

I remember thinking: I feel fucking amazing. I can do this, and she can’t. (My former swim buddy had been a weak swimmer.) This is MINE.

That shift to acclimation has always been a miracle. The instant the bitter cold of the water transformed into vicious pleasure, I was staggered yet again that I had been able to cross the threshold from agony to ecstasy.

That moment was pure grace.

There’s exquisite freedom to that. Freedom of choice. Knowing that I can bring myself to euphoria whenever I want - even after my heart takes a hard knock.

I can’t even go there about my late brother’s best friend. Suffice to say, it will be a long time before I can get past my enmity of him.

But I have the river. I will always have the river.

Wim Hof is right.

The cold is our friend. Relief for just about any pain can be found there.

Every time I bury myself in the freezing temperatures of a river that could kill me, I come out a little different.

After a betrayal, a death, a shock to my system, a break in my heart, I go swimming in the cold and the world disappears. I am reborn. Even if this release lasts only for those few moments, that counts. Those moments add up.

Today I am grateful.

I am grateful that 2021 is behind me. Really, who isn’t?

I am grateful for the cold water.

I’m sure as hell grateful that I kept swimming.

As I write this, it’s the 1st day of 2022. The water is about 38.75 degrees. It’s not as cold as the coldest day I shared with my ex-lover, but the season’s not over. We might get there yet.

But it’s the coldest water of this season thus far, and it’s definitely cold enough for the baptism of rebirth.

I’m meeting one of my favorite swim buddies for this, a new friendship that is very satisfying.

We crossed paths two weeks after I cut ties with my former roommate.

The season was mid-October. The Columbia had dropped below 60 degrees, and I had just finished a 40+ minute swim in 58 degree water. My body numb and my brain frozen, I had rushed to the truck to get changed as fast as I could.

A blonde woman had just gotten out of her car with her nephew.

“How’s the water?” she asked. “Gorgeous evening for a swim. I’m about to get in.”

I was so out of it, I could barely talk. I remember slurring my words as I answered – as one often does at the edge of hypothermia. The bliss of popping endorphins made me cheery, even though I only had a grace period of 5-10 minutes to get dressed.

The conversation was brief and the exchange of phone numbers immediate. She knew I didn’t have the bandwidth for conversation. She had been winter swimming for 5 years, and had a lot more experience at this than I did.

The old saying: “When one door closes, another opens” has never been more true for me than it had been in 2021. As I let go of old friends, I made new friends very easily.

True blessings I don’t take lightly.

I met a lot of nice folks last autumn while the water temps started their seasonal drop.

I also made new friends through other avenues, I’ve deepened my connections with friends I didn’t have enough of the time and energy needed to get closer. These friends are MUCH HEALTHIER in mind and body and heart, and thus, are far less problematic than the ones I had to leave behind.

This season is a different pleasure than the season last year. There is a lot less drama. Or no drama. The vibe is more relaxed, and these new connections have potential to sink deeper roots, and perhaps last over time.

Yet through all these changes, the river has been there. The water is always ready to cleanse me, freeze off the old skin of who I had been, so I can grow into who I will be. Who I want to be.

The first thought I awaken to on this first morning of 2022 is the awareness that I am a much stronger woman than I was on the first day of 2021.

That’s something to feel good about.

I’m ready to conquer that cold.

I’m ready to conquer myself.

If anybody would like to read Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 3, please click HERE.

Give Yourself Something to Write About - More Prompts!

Well, those writing prompts…they just keep on coming! I’m fairly pleased with these, kind of nice to use photographs as inspiration. I hope you get much inspiration from these. Something for everybody, really.

There’s an erotic novel in here somewhere. What do you think? Should Narcissus and Vanity have a go at it?

“Tell me I’m pretty.”

Tired of Vanity’s never-ending demands, the mirror remained silent.

“Tell me I’m pretty!”

Vanity slapped her reflective surface.

The mirror cracked.

Vanity stopped and leaned in to embrace her reflection.

She was beautiful.

The Bridge of Serenity is always there for us.

Cross the Bridge into the realm, find a comfortable seat, take a few deep breaths, and ask yourself these questions:

“What does peace look like to me?”

“What brings me peace?”

When you’re ready, write down what you found inside yourself.

“I was not one of those personable peasant girls…No possibility of a fairy tale twist of fate for me.”

Claire surrenders to the water. She is filled up with air, but already the pressure squeezes her lungs. From the depths, she hears people screaming from the pier.

They think she jumped in for tragic reasons.

Nothing could further from the truth.

Claire waits for her lover to claim her.

What’s the best way to make friends with your shadow?

Go hang where your shadow is invisible.

In the darkness.

Follow the path into the deepest recesses of the tunnel of your mind.

Invite your shadow to join you and just listen.

Your shadow has a lot to say.

Got Writer's Block? Here, Have Some Writing Prompts!

Writer’s block is such a bitch. Prevention is worth more than cure here, of course, and one of the best ways to prevent the dreaded writer’s block is to write your story ideas down as they come to tinker with them later.

But in case you didn’t do that, here are some prompts and story ideas that might get you rolling. One could be used as a journaling piece or memoir.

What do you think about doing a series of essays on your most embarrassing moments – those times we’d prefer to forget? I think the experience would be both humbling and liberating at the same time. It’s very empowering to embrace our human frailty.

At last, the people came back to worship.

Once enough people returned to the earth, to honor the mountains, the woods, the streams, and the seasons, the Mother returned and brought with her the Maiden and the Crone.

“Hail to the Resurrection of the Goddess, may the Feminine save us all!”

The Goddess yawned and stretched.

“It’s not that simple,” she replied. “Humanity must redeem themselves.”

When Cassandra woke up and saw the rose on the pillow next to her, elation flowed through her.

Then she saw the note underneath.

Instead of words of love and devotion after a beautiful night together, this was an epistle of desertion.

Seduced only to be abandoned.

Cassandra vowed revenge.

Embarrassing moments make great stories.

When was the last time you wanted to crawl under a rock and hide?

Why?

What’s the story?

Go.

“We only have 5 minutes!”

“So what do you want me to do about it?”

“Nothing! There’s nothing anybody can do about it!”

“And you’re telling me this why?”

Anne hesitated, then figured she had nothing to lose.

“Since we’re doomed no matter what, wanna make out?”

Imagine a world where the scaffold of shame made a comeback.

How would this happen?

What broken rules would result in this public display of disgrace?

How long would this punishment endure?

Who would be the hero or shero who would make this stop?

What would be their driving force?

In case these aren’t enough, there are plenty more prompts to be found here and here.

Enter the Benevolent Intruder

Image by ImaArtist on Pixabay

The Patron found him in the garden he planted for his beloved before they wed.

He had created an Eden of her favorite flowers to welcome his bride home, surrounding the house with lilies in every size and color. 

Narrow paths wove through the blooms; some were the color of wine, while others were golden and streaked with black, and still others blushed deep magenta. Pure white callas made regal sentinels that lined the path along the way to the pillars of the portico at the front door. 

The garden of lilies became more splendid with every passing year after his wife died. 

Their stalks grew taller and the bulbs thickened until the blooms were the largest he’d ever seen, perfuming the air with sweet musk as they opened.  

The Vagabond came in early spring, just after the girl’s thirteenth birthday. 

A light rain fell that morning, sun shining through clouds and drizzle, making ribbons of light and water over the house and garden when he saw the young man among the lilies. Dressed in patchwork clothes, with the heavy rucksack of a wanderer at his feet, his mouth was agape as he stared around the garden.

“I beg your pardon,” the Patron said, “but are you lost?”

“Not this time,” the stranger answered, turning in circles and shaking his head at the profusion of blooms growing taller than he. “But everybody’s a bit lost, don’t you think?”

His voice had the smooth texture of aged cognac, but he was a vagabond for certain. His command of language was that of a citizen, but his accent drawled of faraway places. 

“Can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought,” the Patron replied.

The Vagabond faced him then and smiled. 

His teeth were brilliant against his tan skin, golden brown eyes sparkling as he removed his worn hat. Instead of bowing to introduce himself, he leaned his head back to allow droplets of rain on his face. He closed his lids, the flares of his nose puckering from the long swallow of air.

“Smells like heaven here,” he sighed. “I’ve been just about everywhere, but I’ve never come across anything like this.”

“Is that what you’re doing here? Coming across something new?”

“No,” the Vagabond said, pulling his head up and peering at the Patron. “I’ve come to work and they tell me you have a more generous heart than most.”

“Did they? I guess that depends on what you can do.”

“I can do lots of things, but I like to work with horses whenever I can. I have a nice way with them.”

“Oh really?” the Patron said, cocking one brow.

“Yeah. Really.”

The Patron chuckled and shook his head, unable to resist the urge to lead the young man to the barn. He heard the gasp of his visitor and grinned, knowing the sudden change in smell from the garden to the sharp pungency of the stables shocked his senses. 

But the Vagabond followed him to the last stall, whistling when he looked inside.   

“What a beauty!”

“That he is,” said the Patron. “Still a colt and absolutely uncontrollable.”

His coat was deep gray and his mane and tail could have been spun from silver. The long strands cascaded along the curve of his neck and reached to the ground from his hindquarters. His torso had the same girth, his limbs the same length as most adult stallions. 

The Vagabond tapped on the door to bring him closer. 

But the colt stayed at the far side of the stall, looking at the visitor with one eye and snuffling.

“Think you could have a way with him?” the Patron asked.

“Sure.”

“Two of my best stable hands are unable to work for a month after trying to break him in. Both men have worked with horses since they could walk and you believe you can do better?”

“I know I can.”

“I don’t think so.”

The Patron beckoned the Vagabond to accompany him back to the garden, feeling foolish and even a bit cruel for misleading him. 

“It’s too dangerous,” he continued. “I know nothing about you, but I know that colt. I’ve never seen anything like him and he’s not even full grown.”

The Vagabond grinned and shrugged, yet the Patron sensed bitterness as his handsome features tightened for a moment. 

But the Vagabond took in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh, and any signs of wrath disappeared. 

Then he looked the Patron in the eye with a directness bordering the offensive. He had never seen a destitute meet him as an equal.

“Sounds like that colt is one that’ll choose his master,” the Vagabond said. “Maybe you should just let him go.”

He chuckled then, with a richness that can only come from the belly. 

The sound of the young adventurer’s laughter was infectious, yet brought to mind the warnings the Patron had heard all his life about those who follow no law but their own. 

He’d always tried to be generous and fair to those restless souls who showed up at his door, most of them diminished to half-starved wretches. The Patron always gave them decent wages and a good meal. 

But out of prudence, he never allowed them stay. 

“Thief…”

“Never-do-well…causing trouble wherever he goes…”

“Beware the vagabond and send him on his way…”

The litany of cautions echoed in his memory until the Vagabond interrupted.

“I can handle your colt, Patron. And if I’m wrong, then it’s my tragedy. But what do you stand to lose giving me a chance?”

The Power of the Pan

Image by S. B. from Pixabay

Then I hurled through the trees to the creek bed where I intruded on the Pan in the F*ck.

That stopped me in my tracks.

The girl was splayed on her back on top of a boulder. Her legs bent at the knees and dropped aside to form the portal of the Divine Harlot, where the Pan gripped her hips with his meaty hands and f*cked her mercilessly.

I could see the outline of taut muscles through his furry thighs as the Pan rolled his pelvis. Her full breasts bounced in rhythm to the beat of the beast thrusting in and out of her. Her lips were black cherry red and her cheeks flushed roses, her pale straw-colored hair streaming around her head.

I had never seen anything more beautiful.

This girl was absolutely exquisite in the F*ck.

From her writhing, moaning bliss, I could tell she was no virgin when she had crossed paths with the Pan. But she might as well have been. Chances were she had never been pummeled like this, and she clearly loved it. She arched her back and gyrated her pelvis while reaching for her peak.

The girl’s flesh quivered, her body quaked as she dove into an explosive climax that consumed her in waves. Shrieking ecstatically, the girl was already begging for more.

What a magnificent little whore. She had to have descended from a nymph.

I was so enthralled with watching her I didn’t realize the Pan was watching me.

His hair was so thick, I could barely make out the horns and flying ears. His beard was the same ruddy chestnut as the hair on his head. His features were brutish, with deep set murky eyes and a blunt nose.

The Pan was still hard when he pulled out of the girl. The sight of that huge, engorged c*ck made the blood drain from my face.

I recoiled.

This was not the way things usually happened with the Pans.

According to all the stories I’ve ever heard, I should have been overcome with a searing lust.

Of course, he noticed.

“Huh,” he muttered.

I backed away from him.

The Pan peered intently into my eyes, tilted his head, and grinned.

“Well, I’ll be damned. You belong to Sappho.”

“What’s that mean?”

Suddenly, I was neither afraid nor repelled.

The Pan chuckled.

“Unless you don’t know who Sappho is, you know exactly what I mean. You like girls.”

As soon as he said it, I knew it was true.

Suddenly, my longing for Adele and her vicious torment made far more sense. She probably suspected that about me, and fed off my yearning to pump her vanity.

The girl pulled herself upright on the boulder, still quivering.

The Pan picked her up by the rump, and she tried to wrap her legs around him. Instead, he set her on the ground, and directed her towards me.

Once she was closer, I noticed she was a few years older than I. Her eyes still bleary from the F*ck, but her gaze cleared and brightened when she saw me.

The girl looked me up and down slowly, and smiled.

It took every bit of self-control I had to hold still. Every part of me wanted to tremble.

Even with her hair tangled and her skin flushed from the F*ck, she looked more like a Madonna than the wanton slut I’d just seen getting pounded and relishing it.

“Oh my,” she said breathlessly, and turned her face to the Pan. “Is she going to join us?”

“Do you want her to?” he asked.

The girl moaned and threw her head back. She had a lovely, long throat and her deep red lips curved in a smile.

“I do,” she murmured. “I want to play with her while you f*ck me.”

I blazed when she said that.

“And then I want to watch while you fuck her.”

I froze.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” the Pan said.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t think she wants me.”

“How is that possible?”

“Because she wants you,” the Pan replied. “I think she wants you really bad. As bad as you want me so bad you’re dripping for me right now.”

“Really?” the girl murmured, her mossy green eyes intent on me. “If you’re right, maybe I can change her mind.”

I’ve never been at a loss for words at any time in my life before or after that moment. The wetness between my legs made me blush.

The girl giggled at the expression on my face.

“Hello there,” she called out. “I’m Heather. What’s your name?”

I paused, still unable to speak.

“You have a name, don’t you?”

“Dusky.”

“I like that. It’s sexy. Do you like to play with girls, Dusky?”

“I don’t know. I never have.”

“Have you ever messed around with boys?”

“No.”

“So you’re a total virgin?”

I blushed so hard, I thought I’d pass out.

“I guess so. Yeah.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen. Most people think I’m older.”

Heather nodded slowly and smiled, as she perused me up and down again.

I had seen that rakish expression before. On the faces of men and boys, that look made my skin crawl.

But coming from a slutty Madonna like Heather, that look made my knees shake.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered. “You have such a strong, womanly body. Do you want me like Pan says you do?”

I nodded before I could stop myself. It was impossible for me in that moment to deny how I felt.

Such was the power of a Pan.

What Happens After One Breaks Free

Image by Sasin Tipchai from Pixabay

I had just turned sixteen the first time I met a Pan.

I was also a virgin at the start of that adventure, and I wasn’t by its end.

But things didn’t go as they usually did, maybe because the Pan was in the middle of the F*ck when I came across him.

I saw him in the deepest parts of the forest. Of course, that’s where I found him.

Most of the stories about Pans took place in the natural wild – in the woods, near rocks and cliffs, beside rivers and creeks, and even under waterfalls.

Where else could Pans feel most comfortable shedding their human forms, to don their animal selves, and let the horny half goat live, breathe, and f*ck?

Autumn was at its peak. Not just the trees, but the foliage exploded with the madness vivid color, so vivid that our home was famous for it.

Tourists from all over the world crowded the more famous forests, leaving the more secretive and private woods known only to the locals.

I was in one of these havens, hiking with the girl I considered my best friend at the time.

Adele was a pretty girl, who I both loved and hated in equal measure. I always yearned for more of her, more of her time, more of her attention than she was willing to give.

My treacherous best friend liked the shape of triangles, especially of the human variety. I rarely had the pleasure of enjoying Adele to myself. There was always another best friend or her boyfriend joining us.

On this particular day, we had gotten an early start to go hiking.

Her new best friend of the moment – and my least favorite – was with us.

Adele insisted Lise was necessary, for although we were all sixteen, Lise was the one who had both a license and a car.

She could take us to the oldest parts of the secret woods, far from the tramp and stomp of oblivious tourists who made our larger forests rather unpleasant this time of year.

Reluctantly, I agreed.

I found her personality close to unbearable, and I didn’t understand what Adele saw in Lise, with her simpering smirks, and a grating voice with an insipid tone that worked on my last nerve.

But like most people, Adele had a case of hidden ugly-nasty, which expressed itself through malice. Girls like Lise were made for that kind of poisonous indulgence.

Since triangles are always two sides against one, it was hardly surprising I was on the outs that morning.

Adele and Lise walked arm in arm, either in front of me or behind me, whispering secrets in each other’s ears, and giggling.

I fumed, which is exactly what they wanted. I even realized that at the time, which made my impotent wrath even more palpable.

The forest saved me that day.

To keep from losing my temper and my dignity, I forced my attention on the beauty around me.

The woods were particularly exquisite.

There had been a recent rain. Leaves, a myriad of golden passion and exploding fire, covered the trees; the ground was resplendent and heavy with ample moisture, along with the warmth of changing color as well.

The powerful softness of morning light highlighted the forest canopy, and the colors were most vivid right after the rains.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply through my nostrils. The smoky aroma of autumn permeated the air along with a hint of spice.

I also heard the creek running in the distance. The sound of riotous peace of a waterbed streaming fat with fresh, luscious water brought me back to myself.

As the great-great-granddaughter of a water nymph, this was my favorite element. Water was my savior that gave me strength and power during times of stress.

I opened my eyes again.

I could finally notice the flurry of squirrels, the wing-flap and songs of the birds.

Everything pulsed with life, in this season right before the death of winter.

My heart beat strong inside my breast.

I turned around and faced the not-so-hidden ugly-nasty of Adele and Lise, sniggering at my expense.

The malice gleaming from their eyes was undeniable.

Suddenly, I knew I had been played for a fool to accept the role they gave me.

It was incredible how quickly love-hate dissolved in an instant.

Adele caught on to my indifference immediately. The vicious glee in her face disappeared and her brow furrowed.

If I had possessed less inborn composure, I probably would have laughed out loud. Adele and Lise seemed so dull and ordinary in that moment.

Really, what was I doing with these silly girls? I was borne from magic. I was a descendant of a nymph.

“I’m done,” I said.

“What are you talking about, Dusky?”

“I don’t want to hike with you and Lise anymore. I’m going my own way.”

“Are you nuts?” protested Lise. “We’re more than an hour’s drive from town.”

“Then I’ll be home by nightfall.”

I took off at a violent run.

I became giddy with each stride that took me away from them.

The delirious freedom borne from liberating myself from invisible shackles that rendered me powerless only because I had allowed it to be so.

Adele and Lise didn’t bother chasing after me, because what was the point of futility?

My father was tall and lean, with far more physical power in his physique than his appearance implied. I took after my father in that way.

I was several inches taller than Adele, with longer, stronger limbs. There was no way either she or Lise could keep up, much less catch me.

They shrieked after my departing back.

I didn’t hear all of what Adele said, something innocuous like calling her when I got home.

The euphoria of freedom kept me running hard for nearly twenty minutes.

The forest was a blur of green, while leaping over rocks, cracking twigs, and the earthy spice in the air.

Then I hurled through the trees to the creek bed where I intruded on the Pan in the F*ck.

Memes and More Memes!

This one is fun. I used Canva for this one.

Hey y’all,

As I said in an earlier post, I got to making lots of memes to promote my existence here in this world and in cyber space. I think Cole and I came up with some pretty awesome images, and thought it would be cool to share some of our collection in the blog. 

These memes are original in the pairings of images with words. Many of the quotes are from those who are wiser and more experienced than I - not to mention famous. Unless the author is unknown, I always credit brilliance where it is due. And of course, I didn't take the pictures. But many are quotes from my work, and in one meme, my perspective.

These are some favorites of mine as well as those pinned often on Pinterest. I don’t know how all of this will shake out, but for the sake of passing on some good advice, I recommend Canva as a great place to design memes for free. My second choice is Quotes Cover, which is where I got started. I was pretty limited with how I could design the image and where I could put words on Quotes Cover. I think Canva makes a cleaner, more pristine image, so I use it all the time now. But I had to figure it out and have somebody show me a little of how to work that site. Both sites are free to work with, which is always a bonus. That said, I hope y’all enjoy the images and feel free to share them on your own social media – especially those that have Free Flying Press on them. ;)

Canva. Personally, I would contact improv with my shadow, with moments of tango. And you?

This meme is one of my favorites, but it wasn't pinned as much as I would have liked. Made it on Quotes Cover.

This meme is one of Cole's. I think they worked with Adobe on this one, but I'm not sure. I was also surprised it didn't get the Pinterest love because I think it's lovely.

This meme I used to promote my work, Ella Bandita and the Wanderer. Made on Canva. I hope the model doesn't take offense I used her face, because she's beautiful.

Just in case you are intrigued, this quote is also in a free download because Part 1 is a freebie.

Made on Canva. This meme may get some Pinterest love yet.

This bit of awesomeness was made by Cole.

I made this on Quotes Cover.

And I made this meme on Canva. I also altered the color from my computer to make the blue deeper.

This meme is by Cole, and the quote is out of Ella Bandita and the Wanderer. It makes me wonder if people are scared of sex, bondage, or both because I'm surprised this didn't get a lot of attention. And no, this doesn't imply a bondage scene. You'll have to wait for the second novel to get something like that. ;)

This meme was much loved. And I'm proud of this one!

I reused this picture to make a different meme. I'm fairly proud of it too.

It shouldn't surprise anybody that this was a big hit. I couldn't have made this meme so graceful without the tools on Canva.

Meme made on Quotes Cover. This was pretty fun!

Quotes cover meme. This one surprised me. It was pinned a lot.

I'm proud of this meme, and I'm proud of the attention it received because it was personal, and especially because the quote is not out of a novel I wrote. This is advice I've given many friends and family when a relationship falls apart. I came to this conclusion over the years after experiencing my relationship disasters and observing others. The kind of catastrophe that happens after somebody has given everything except their blood to make someone happy - and more loving - only to have that blow up in their face when their beloved leaves.

Cole. This meme got some Pinterest love - which was well deserved, I believe.

I was pretty disappointed this didn't get much attention on Pinterest. Maybe the word "Loneliness" put people off. Made on Quotes Cover.

This meme is one of my first attempts at making a writing prompt. Made on Quotes Cover.

This meme is one of Cole's first and it's one of my favorites. I love the ferocity of it, but those on Pinterest did not. I guess a woman with a bloody sword may be off-putting.

This meme is one of my recent writing prompts, and I'm proud of it too. It's gotten some respectable attention on Pinterest. But again, I was surprised it didn't take off in a spectacular way.

It's also part of collection of writing prompts if you care to check that out here.

Cole. Isn't it fabulous!

One of my early ones, and I still think it's one of the funniest. Making myself laugh is a real joy. Made on Quotes Cover.

So there y'all have it. There are many more. I hope y'all enjoyed viewing these as much as we did making them! It's a lovely creative pursuit to make some memes!

Peace,

Montgomery

The Girl Who Didn't Need Anybody

Image by Susan Cipriano from Pixabay

The Patron always put off business for as long as he could. 

He never confined himself to his study until the leaves changed color, and only then would he engage in the duties he found so tedious. 

This was the time of year when he reacquainted himself with the sounds of his household.

He could recognize the Cook from her heavy shuffle and the maids from their light-footed trots; his daughter’s personal maid and his manservant had similar glides, the tread of the latter heavier than the former. 

Their paces made a mesmerizing rhythm, making the dullness of his work more tolerable.

Late one afternoon, his concentration was interrupted by an unfamiliar tread coming from his daughter’s rooms. 

The Patron looked to the ceiling and frowned. 

This gait was long and steady with a firm step to the floor, its resonance echoing through the ceiling.

His daughter’s footfall was a whisper, so soft to be almost silent. Many times, a servant or merchant would be startled to turn around and find her standing there, for they hadn’t heard her approach. 

The Patron looked at his watch. 

The girl was usually on a ride at this time before dinner. Whoever he heard walking above him couldn’t be his daughter.  

Stunned that an intruder should be in his home, the Patron rushed from his study and up the stairs. 

Her skirts and petticoats swirled around breeches cuffed at her boots. Thus reminded of his daughter’s refusal to ride in a lady’s saddle, the Patron knew it was she who now had the firm tread of a stranger.  

In his haste, the Patron almost collided with his daughter at the top of the stairs. 

But the girl reeled away from her father, her face pale. 

Yet she recovered quickly and stepped back, crossing one foot behind the other and sweeping one side of her skirts to her waist. The girl’s composure restored, color returned to her cheeks as she came out of her curtsy, waiting for her father to allow her to pass.

Embarrassed, the Patron stepped aside. 

His daughter descended to the landing.

To his surprise, she stopped before the portrait of his wife. The girl kissed her fingers and then pressed them on the lips in the portrait. 

His daughter glanced to the top of the staircase, and flushed when she saw the Patron still watching her. 

Yet all the Patron noticed was that she now stood a shade taller than the woman in the painting.

His daughter was now the same exact age as his wife when he had met her. 

He looked at her again. 

The girl was actually glaring at him, the defiance in her eyes unnerving, even as she curtsied to him once more.

The Patron didn’t return to his study.  

He stayed upstairs, listening to the fade of his daughter’s gait as she left for the stables. 

He came down a step and sat down, staring at the portrait, while the same question ran through his mind. 

When had their daughter grown up? 

There he stayed until his manservant startled him out of his reverie with a hint to get ready for dinner.  

The Patron watched his daughter closely after that day.

He found it wasn’t just her walk that had changed. 

All her life, people whispered what a tragic shame it was the girl didn’t take after her mother. The Patron agreed, although he tried to hide it. The girl’s presence would have been easier to bear if she could have reminded him of his wife.

But he never saw anything, no matter how much he wanted to. 

Time had not refined the girl’s features, and she never acquired the languid poise of her mother. 

Yet after that day, the Patron noticed the girl radiated an assurance that was unusual for women, and she possessed her own grace, moving with animal freedom. 

The Patron also noticed his daughter had grown more animated. 

He found she chose satires and comedic novels for her reading, often biting her lower lip to suppress her chuckles.

She also began painting for the first time since her formal education came to an end, singing or humming while working watercolors onto canvas. The Patron often found her on the back portico of the house, where she had a splendid view of the young forest to the east. 

The girl always stopped her brushstroke when he came, confusion clouding her features every time she saw him. But the coolness in her eyes was unsettling. 

His daughter’s transformation intrigued the Patron. 

How had this happened? For nothing had changed. 

The girl was still despised everywhere she went. 

Rooms fell silent on her entrance.  

People stared at her or ignored her, just as they had for years. 

But the girl was no longer stricken by it. 

Instead, her indifference to what others thought of her was clear as crystal, even though she went through her day as alone as ever. Yet she now had an air of contentment about her, happiness even. 

After years of ostracism, his daughter had become the rarest of human mysteries, somebody who didn’t need anybody.

3 Ways to Self-Love That Helps Writer's Block

Image by John Hain from Pixabay

I started writing for Medium a couple of days ago because:

 

1) I can get paid and I like getting paid and,

 

2) I have the freedom to write about anything and everything I want, and… still get paid. Which I like. A lot.

 

I can’t do that on this blog because everything I’ve read about blogging recommends getting specific in my topics.

 

Besides it’s evolved to cover writing prompts, novel excerpts, and resurfacing my On the Road journal sent to my friends when I was on my DIY booktour/roadtrip.

 

In other words, this blog is all things Indie Author oriented, and that can be very limiting.

 

Then it occurred to me that the article I wrote this morning could be useful to writers for writer’s block.

 

The article was originally titled: 3 Ways to Self-Love After a Breakup – Or for any other reason you feel like dog s***.

 

Since love and creativity draw from the same well, it made sense to include it here.

 

Besides writers have relationships and go through breakups, and one of the unfortunate side effects of that is…writer’s block.

 

So here is that list of some of my favorite self-love, self-care, feel-goodies that have been very effective at getting me out of my funk…and out of writer’s block.

 

This also ties in to my recent (as in yesterday) article on transforming loneliness into lovely solitude. If you’d like to dash over to Medium to read that article, you can find it here: https://medium.com/@freeflyingpress/how-loneliness-became-blessed-solitude-2ee28f891896

 

By the way, these tips work for everything – not just breakups and writer’s block.

 

1. DANCE

 

I mean dance your butt off for at least 1 hour. This to me is the most powerful of everything I recommend.

Image by Yerson Retamal from Pixabay

 

Dance, besides being really good for your body, releases those endorphins that make you feel all is right in the world.

 

The more your cut loose, the more you shake it, the more likely you’ll get to bliss. And you want to get to bliss when you feel like dog s***.

 

The easiest is to dance in your living room or any other space where you can let go to your favorite playlist of beloved dance songs. And if you don’t have one, make one. Make several.

                       

**My personal recommendations to include in your dance playlist songs that are dominated by percussion/drumming and/or didgeridoo. There is something cathartic about dancing to those instruments that is truly transformative.

           

If you live in an urban area or artsy town that has an Ecstatic Dance – also called 5 Rhythms or Soul Motion – I strongly recommend you start going on the regular. Ecstatic dance sets, if done right, are created to move energy and generate emotional release.

           

Another option is if there is a lot of live music – go out and dance in a crowd.

           

I’m not quick to recommend dance nightclubs because the darkness and the vibe often make me feel alienated and alone in a crowd. On the other hand, I’ve had some great dance offs in nightclubs. I guess it depends on what your jam is. If that works for you, go for it.

 

2. Hiking or Walking

 

What this really comes down to is get outside and move your body.

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

 

Ideally, you live someplace close to lots of beauty of forests, streams, and waterfalls. If you can, get out in that beautiful nature and allow it to heal your heart and so

 

If you can’t, find the prettiest neighborhood in your town with lots of trees and flowers and bushes and plants and walk around.

 

Hikes naturally take longer; but if you’re neighborhood walking, go for at least 45 minutes.

 

Do not stroll, walk briskly with long strides and swinging arms and breathe deeply through your nose to take in all the scents.

 

3. Shaking

 

Now, it’s time to get a little freaky because this practice makes you look crazy to the casual observer.

Image by Monikas_Wunderwelt from Pixabay

 

That said, it’s worth it.

 

To deliberate shake your body is amazing therapy. Everything we experience is stored in our bodies - everything from the beautiful to the ugly. But the ugly adds up. By literally shaking every part of your body, you’re shaking it OUT OF YOU.

 

It works even better if you speak gibberish afterwards – sounds that make no sense and form no coherent words for a minute or two. This is the part that makes you look insane. But it works.

 

This was a crucial practice after my recent breakup. I went through a period of feeling numb and disconnected.

 

I became acutely aware of this when I went to a Tantra Festival where everybody else was in a warm, touchy-feely, happy space and I wasn’t. Things shifted after one workshop, when the facilitator started the dance practice with a several minutes of shaking followed by gibberish.

 

That practice made me feel alive again.

Below is a video that shows a basic shaking practice that isn’t too mortifying (although the narrator does a little gibberish towards the end). Go ahead and cut more loose and find other Youtube videos for some ideas. Be sure to put “shaking practice” in your search.

So now you have a few of my secrets. Now that you’ve physically processed your “stuff,” put butt to chair and start writing!

7 New Writing Prompts!

Hey y’all,

It never ceases to amaze me the variety of stories that can spur from a few lines.

I’m sharing some lovely graphics complete with excerpts from my novels and blogs that could potentially inspire you to a work of your own. Usually, I come up with original prompts that are not connected to my writing, but I’ve done something similar to this before and I’ve never seen anybody come close to what I wrote. I’m not saying it couldn’t happen, so I’m not worried about plagiarism, at least not really.

Give it a try. You never know what you might come up with.

Enjoy!

8 Nudges to Write Fantasy With These Gorgeous Writing Prompts!

I’m going to come straight out and just say it. I’m proud of these!

What’s not to love about beautiful images with a chunk of story to get your creative juices flowing?

It’s that time of year again.

When the faery folk come to dance upon the earth.

So light the way for them beneath the ancient tree.

If you remain still, you might get a glimpse of them.

Be careful though.

If they suspect a trap, they will grab you and imprison your soul in the tree for 1000 years.

“Dance with the Devil, you handsome darling. If you please me, all your dreams will come true.”

“Are you saying you’re the Devil?”

The sensuous woman smiled and shrugged.

“I never thought of the Devil as a woman. So what dance?”

“Tango. Of course.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“I am. Lie upon the yellow lines and the genie will come to grant you three wishes.”

“I thought genies lived in bottles and oil lamps.”

“Times have changed. Genies are now captive beneath the cement of roads and sidewalks.”

“What if a car runs over me?”

“That’s how the portal opens.”

“You must think I’m an idiot.”

“No. That’s the chance you gotta take. How badly do you want this?“

Isabelle knew she was disappearing into the world of words, but she didn’t care.

Carlos begged her to stay, but she shook her head.

“I’d rather cease to exist physically if I get to enjoy all the pleasures of fantasy, of the erotic and romance.”

“What do you want, Isabelle, from the ethers of imagination? You will cease to be.”

”I know, darling Carlos. But ordinary life is mundane. I can’t bear the mundane.”

Bernado’s heart pounded. This was the portal. it had to be.

But how could he get past that brick wall?

If he didn’t, Celeste was lost forever and their parents would perish from heartbreak.

Fern yearned for the glory of humans. As psychic beings, plants healed, soothed, gave solace, and offered insight.

But there was no power. Plants were at the mercy of humans and animals.

Until the day a sad looking woman came into the forest undergrowth and lay down on top of Fern.

Fern felt her sorrow, and knew its time had come. This woman no longer wanted to be human.

“How about if we trade places?” Fern whispered. “You become me and I become you.”

The woman looked right at Fern.

“Is that possible?”

She was emerging. She could feel herself coming back to flesh, blood, and bone.

After so many centuries held captive in the trees, she would be free at last.

“Why now?” she asked. “Why let me go now when the world is so changed?”

“Because we need you to convince humanity to protect us.”

“Why would I do that?”

Ophelia threw herself into the water, but instead of the death she sought in her despair, she found conviction.

She deserved life. Only revenge would do for her father’s death.

Hamlet would suffer.

SO HERE THEY ARE, THE FANTASY WRITING PROMPTS! I HOPE YOU LOVE THE IMAGES AS MUCH AS I LOVED PUTTING THEM TOGETHER. AND I HOPE THEY GET THE STORIES SPINNING!

PEACE,

MONTGOMERY

Writing Advice on Character, Plotting, Novel Structure.

Plot first, character second, or character first, plot second?

That is the question many of us struggle with.

General rule of thumb: Characters who drive the plot make up literary fiction; a fully developed plot where the characters come across as ‘flat’ or ‘1-dimensional,’ kind of like actors in a play, make up commercial fiction.

Perhaps that is an oversimplification. But generally speaking, it’s pretty easy to discern when a novel has its foundation in ‘character’ or ‘plot.’

To refer again the marvelous Margaret Grossman, one is either a plot writer or a character writer, and each envies the other their talent.

As a plot writer, I’ve had to research and devise tools to give birth to more intriguing characters – or at least, I think they’re intriguing. But I haven’t a clue how to show those writers who struggle with plot how to develop one.

Remember the post, Engaging Characters or Juicy Plot?

In it, I gave a character checklist for those who write plots but don’t write characters naturally. If you’ve never seen that post, here’s the link.

This is a similar tool I use when I’m struggling with fleshing out characters and why they do the things they do. Since I write plot naturally, I have to work on developing characters. Yet it’s very difficult to give pointers on something that comes naturally, at least it is for me.

Anyhow, on Pinterest, I came across a writer, Penelope Redmont, who offered a very simple and elegant method for developing plot, clearly for those who naturally write character. Here’s that wonderful blog here.

Also, while I’m at it, here is my Cage-Escape-Quest-Dragons-Home, the basic structure for forming chapters and the arc of the novel as a whole. This may help with the character arcs Penelope Redmont refers to in her blog, Plotting Fiction: 3 Plotting Tips to Make Fiction Easy.

And guess what else? Penelope Redmont writes Romance! Regency romance and romantic suspense – ha! Oh, what an odd coincidence that is! For anybody who doesn’t understand why that’s strange and would like to know, check it out here.

The Power of the F*ck

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

As wonderful as it was to grow up without shame, the lack of it had its annoying consequences.

Ordinary people thought us a bunch of whores.

It grew tedious to be stared at through narrowed eyes and whispered about from prim lips.

Except for me, of course. I was pointed at for other reasons. But I’ll get to that in due time.

The good-looking rogue didn’t prove he was a Pan by shapeshifting. I think Mamie had always been disappointed by that.

Perhaps he wanted to stay handsome as he f*cked Mamie.

Shapeshifting into a half goat would have distorted his face enough to wipe it clean of beauty.

Or perhaps Great-Aunt Dottie was right that he was second or third generation Pan, and thus less likely or less able to shapeshift.

As Pans always did, whoever seduced my grandmother left her after a full night of the raucous, unrestrained F*ck. 

Mamie tried desperately to stay awake to make the night last as long as possible. But eventually, the F*ck exhausted her and she passed out.

As was the usual way, she woke up to an aching c***, shaking limbs, and very alone beside the riverbank where she had enthusiastically given up her maidenhead.

But Mamie never got over her night with the maybe Pan.

Most women didn’t.

Pans were notorious for the siren call of animal lust they awakened in women, as well as their ability to satiate the hunger hidden between a woman’s legs.

No woman who ever crossed their paths was able to resist the sudden urge to f*ck and be f*cked senseless.

The only problem was that stirred up a lifelong craving. For the women would never know such carnal satisfaction again.

They only got to have that one night.

I was sixteen years old the first time I met a Pan.

I was also a virgin at the start of that adventure, and I wasn’t by its end.

But things didn’t go as they usually did, maybe because the Pan was in the middle of the F*ck when I came across him.

I saw him in the oldest parts of the forest. Of course, that’s where I found him.

Most of the stories about Pans took place in the natural wild – in the woods, near rocks and cliffs, beside rivers and creeks, and even under waterfalls.

Where else could Pans feel most comfortable shedding their human forms, to don their animal selves, and let the horny half goat live, breathe, and f*ck?

I was in the woods hiking with the girl I considered my best friend at the time.

Adele was a pretty girl, who I both loved and hated in equal measure.

I always yearned for more of her, more of her time, more of her attention than she was willing to give.

My treacherous best friend liked the shape of triangles, especially of the human variety. I rarely had the pleasure of enjoying Adele to myself. There was always another best friend or her boyfriend joining us.

On this particular day, we had gotten an early start to go hiking.

Her new best friend of the moment – and my least favorite – was with us. Adele insisted Lise was necessary, for she was the one who had a license and a car, and could take us to the oldest part of the woods.

Reluctantly, I agreed.

I found her personality close to unbearable, and I didn’t understand what Adele saw in Lise, with her simpering smirks, and a grating voice with an insipid tone that worked on my last nerve.

But Adele had a taste for malice, and girls like Lise were made for that kind of poisonous indulgence.

Since triangles are always two sides against one, it was hardly surprising I was on the outs that morning.

Adele and Lise walked arm in arm, either in front of me or behind me, whispering secrets in each other’s ears, and giggling.

I fumed, which is exactly what they wanted. I even realized that at the time, which made my impotent wrath even more palpable.

The forest saved me that day.

To keep from losing my temper and my dignity, I forced my attention on the beauty around me.

The woods were particularly exquisite.

It was the middle of spring, right after the rainy season. The moss covering the trees and ground was resplendent and heavy with ample moisture.

The powerful softness of morning light highlighted the forest canopy of dark green, yellow green, bright green, the colors most vivid right after the rains.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply through my nostrils.

The aroma of the last rainfall permeated the earth below, and fed the leaves and budding blossoms, the hint of spice in the air around me.

I also heard the creek in the distance. The sound of riotous peace of a waterbed streaming fat with fresh, luscious water brought me back to myself.

As the great-great-granddaughter of a water nymph, this was my favorite element.

Water was my savior that gave me strength and power during times of stress.

I opened my eyes again. I could finally notice the flurry of squirrels, the wing-flap and songs of the birds.

Everything pulsed with life and my heart beat strong inside my breast.

I turned around and faced the ugly nasty of Adele and Lise, sniggering at my expense. The malice gleaming from their eyes was undeniable.

Suddenly, I knew I was played for a fool to accept the role they gave me.

It’s incredible how quickly love-hate can dissolve in an instant.

Adele caught on to my indifference immediately. The vicious glee in her face disappeared and her brow furrowed.

If I had possessed less inborn composure, I probably would have laughed out loud.

Adele and Lise seemed so dull and ordinary in that moment.

Really, what was I doing with these silly girls? I’m descended from the magic of nymphs.

“I’m done,” I said.

“What are you talking about, Dusky?”

“I don’t want to hike with you and Lise anymore. I’m going my own way.”

“Are you nuts?” protested Lise. “We’re more than an hour’s drive from town.”

“Then I’ll be home by nightfall.”

I took off at a violent run.

I became giddy with each stride that took me away from them.

The delirious freedom borne from liberating myself from invisible shackles that rendered me powerless only because I had allowed it to be so.

Adele and Lise didn’t bother chasing after me, because what’s the point of futility?

My father was tall and lean, with far more physical power in his physique than his appearance implied.

I took after my father in that way. I was several inches taller than Adele, with longer, stronger limbs. There was no way either she or Lise could keep up, much less catch me.

They shrieked after my departing back.

I didn’t hear all of what Adele said, something innocuous like calling her when I got home.

The euphoria of freedom kept me running hard for nearly twenty minutes.

The forest was a blur of green, while leaping over rocks, cracking twigs, and the earthy spice in the air.

Then I hurled through the trees to the creek bed where I intruded on the Pan in the F*ck.

That stopped me in my tracks.

How to Write When You'd Rather Netflix and Chill and the 15 Steps to Get There.

You’ve made progress on your novel. You’re on your second draft and past the halfway point. You can’t believe it. Once you’re done with this, the novel will need work, edits, polish, maybe even one more rewrite.

The second draft is coherent in a way that the rough draft was not. The rough draft was a mess. Once you have finished the second draft, you have finally finished a book - a novel that needs work, but still a book.

Then your monkey mind starts swinging through the trees and your ADD goes off the chain. You can’t focus.

You remember you forgot to pay the electric bill. Then while you’re on your phone to pay that bill, you see 2 Facebook Messenger notifications, and wonder who is reaching out to you?

You open them only to find out it’s a nudge to say hello to your latest Facebook friend and another is an annoying group chain.

You leave the conversation and scroll through your feed only to find garbage. You wonder why you don’t have the nerve to disable your Facebook account because the bastards are violating your privacy anyway.  

Then you remember that you forgot to pay the frigging garbage bill, and if you don’t pay it today you’ll be charged late fees. So you actually pay the bill, and suddenly, watching your favorite Netflix series sounds like the perfect reward for paying that garbage bill at the 11th hour.

But wait a minute. You haven’t written your pages today. You didn’t write your pages yesterday either, or the day before. You feel the stirrings of panic in your belly and guilt weighing your shoulders down into the I-hate-myself slump.

You lose momentum when you miss writing days. You know every day you miss writing only makes it worse because then the Shame Monster comes to life and laughs in your face.

“Slacker,” the Shame Monster chortles. “You’ll never finish that book. I knew you didn’t have it in you.”

I like happy endings.

So in this version of the story, your will resurrects from the dead and comes to the rescue.

Step 1) Tell the Shame Monster to go *%$# itself;

Step 2) Grab a notebook and pen.

Step 3) Write every bit of nonsense and distraction you can think of, every random thought that comes to your head. Write freely and keep your pen moving. Write until you feel calmer, more focused. If you want to time yourself, go ahead.

Step 4) Have a light snack. This step is optional.

Step 5) Open your laptop (or typewriter, some people still use these) and get to the last chapter you were working on when you got distracted. Read that chapter out loud.

Step 6) Any awkward places or light editing that comes to mind, go ahead and make those changes. That gets you back inside your story.

Step 7) When you get to the last lines of the unfinished scene, WRITE. Even if your writing is clumsy, KEEP WRITING until you finish that scene or that chapter.

Step 8) If the writing sucks, allow it. That’s what rewriting the next day is for.

Step 9) Have a light snack.

Step 10) Keep writing. If finishing that scene or chapter didn’t bring you to your minimum word count goal, continue writing the next scene or chapter until you have.

Step 11) If your writing sucks, allow it. That’s what rewriting the next day is for.

Step 12) Write past your minimum word count goal. You’ve slacked off and you need to push through that resistance until you’re in love with yourself and your writing again.

Step 13) Once you feel complete, close down your laptop.

Step 14) Do a happy dance.

Step 15) Netflix and Chill without shame.

For more advice on how to discipline that ADD monkey mind, click here.

Writing Prompts for Creative Introspection and Journaling!

So I’ve been writing often for Medium, which has been an experience.

Of course, this has taken my focus away from my blog, Give Yourself Something to Write About.

Obviously since it’s taken me until the end of the month to get any writing prompts out here, whereas before I was cranking out prompts at least 4 times per month for a while there.

Anyway, these have more of a journaling flavor because my inner world and process is where my mind and heart is right now.

But a couple of them could transform or even inspire fiction.

Anyway, disillusionment has begun and I’ll likely to give some love back to the blog.

In the meantime, enjoy these prompts!

The Sons of Pan and the Daughters of Nymph

Image by Pablo Elices from Pixabay

Pans were the sons of the God Pan, His Profane Holiness of the F*ck.

So long as Pan followed the rules of the gods, and kept his c*ck for the c*nt of nymphs, balance was maintained. Those demigoddesses had enough magic to copulate endlessly without Pan’s seed fattening their bellies with child.

Most nymphs chose eternal maidenhood, savoring the delicious pleasure found in their lithe, nubile forms and the nectar of their sweet juices.

Every once in a while, there would be an exception.

A nymph would grow bored of the endless revelry of giggles and romps. Then they allowed Pan’s seed to plant as they willingly passed into the phase of the Mother and brought to life more gods into the heavens.

Or so it went most of the time.

Every so often, things happened a little differently.

According to my grandmother, her grandmother - my great-great-grandmother Nonny - had been a water nymph until the day she met a hunter, and unexpectedly and inextricably fell in love with him.

Nonny was even more deviant than the other nymphs.

Instead of the God Pan, she chose a mortal man to wife her down and begat upon her womb the mortal children of humanity. With her husband, Nonny birthed many babies. My grandmother’s father was the tenth of Nonny’s eleven children.

I have memories of her.

Nonny was the one who gave me my name.

I was born in that evening hour after the sun drops below the horizon, when the fire of evening sky gives way to the deep lavender of twilight before night falls and darkness rises.

“Dusky,” Nonny declared, as soon as she saw me. “No other name will do.”

My mother had wanted to name me Rose.

But she didn’t dare argue with her great-grandmother. Nonny was a true matriarch, and her word was law.

Even though Nonny gave up immortality, she had enough left that she long outlived her husband. I never knew my great-great grandfather. Nobody ever knew Nonny’s true age, but she didn’t leave this world until she was well past a century.

She joyfully embodied the phase of the Crone. Her face wrinkled and wizened from decades of joy and suffering, triumphs and defeats, births and deaths.

Until the day she died, her faded eyes gleamed with mischief as if Nonny had enjoyed the grandest joke on us all.

Perhaps she had.

There was not a vestige left of the maiden nymph she had once been; yet there was not a sliver of regret in her.

But to get back to Pan and his nymphs. Even the most lascivious nymph needed a rest from time to time.

And that left enough empty spaces for Pan and his voracious lust to break the rules of the gods, and seduce mere mortal women like me.

Well, not exactly like me. But I’ll get to that soon enough.

As His Profane Holiness of the F*ck, how could he not break the rules, not want to spread his seed in many kinds of soil?

And human women, we’ve always been so easily caught off guard and so limited in our options to protect our wombs from inconvenient progeny.

So His Profane Holiness of the F*ck spread his seed far and wide, and thus, the mortal Pans were born.

They took after their father, lotharios of the f*ck and duck.

Although mostly human, the mortal Pans could still shapeshift to horny half goats with furry haunches, hooved feet, hirsute faces, and horns protruding from their skulls.

Their transformation was happenstance, however. Sometimes their forms shifted before the F*ck or during the F*ck, but never after.

I had heard stories about them all my life. My grandmother, Mamie, was obsessed with the Pans, and collected tales of their intrigues and seductions.

She had quite the collection too.

Mamie swears she gave her maidenhead to a Pan.

Mamie was never one to take unnecessary risks if the lost gamble would cost too much. She took pennyroyal to prevent pregnancy from the virile seed planted in her. In case the pennyroyal didn’t work, Mamie married my grandfather.

It was absurdly easy for Mamie to find a husband. As the descendants of a water nymph, the women in my family are very alluring, and thus have no trouble attracting suitors and ardent devotion.

I spent a lot of time with Mamie when I grew up, to the point that I pretty much lived with her. I felt more at ease with her than with my parents.

My parents had an easy-going, mild-mannered style of love that I would later come to realize was extremely rare. They allowed me to stay where I wished without a fuss. I appreciated that about them. In the long run, they made my life so much easier.

Mamie lived with her older sister, my Great-Aunt Dottie. For some mysterious reason that was never explained, Great-Aunt Dottie never married, and Mamie moved in with her after my grandfather died.

Mamie told me the story of her seduction many times as I grew up. The older I became, the more explicit her descriptions. By the time I was fourteen, I knew every detail of how she had been seduced.

Many people thought that somewhat odd and quite perverse, but we’ve always been very open about the F*ck in my family.

Great-Aunt Dottie always shook her head and rolled her eyes whenever she overheard Mamie’s stories about her night with the Pan.

“He wasn’t a Pan,” she drawled. “You didn’t get pregnant.”

“I took pennyroyal!” Mamie protested. “Pans can’t resist women descended from nymphs, you know that!”

“Pans can’t resist women, period. He was too slick and good-looking to be a Pan. He was just a rogue.”

This was a long-standing argument between them. Good natured bickering like this often occurred in our family. But there was never any judgment. We embraced the Power of the F*ck.