Fortnightly update 33: 01.03.2021 to 14.03.2021
In this blog series, I share my fortnight-to-fortnight triumphs (and failures) as a writer. Despite all the ups and downs, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I know I was a few days late with this post, but I was off getting some fresh air.
Flash fiction and short stories
I’m currently submitting flash fiction and short stories to online magazines and such for publication. This fortnight, I chained myself to the desk. I’ve been working on a 5 to 8k-words story for a Frankenstein-vibe Gothic fiction anthology, and it’s been killing me. Just the other day, I ditched my first story at around the 5k-word point and started fresh, just because I didn’t think the first one fit the themes quite well enough. I have less than half a month to write, edit, and submit this thing now.
I write scripts for Frontier Media, a media production company specialising in YouTube. Our two largest channels are The Front and Geetsly’s, and while I’ve written for Geetsly’s in the past, I mostly write for The Front and our new, smaller channel The Braved. Four videos for which I wrote the scripts were published this fortnight.
I write 280-character stories using various writing prompt hashtags on Twitter. This fortnight, I wrote four little pieces.
When she met her bullet, she hit the earth hard as her #horse, heart a busted oil pipe spurting. All that love, all that life, all those tough nights in death-grip winters with naught but two fists to split wood — it’d be a shame for a woman like that to go out easy.
A last meal? Nah, how about a last request? Lower me slow. Let me hang and twitch. Men get broken necks. I’m just rotten nerves. Less than animal. I want to feel the rope. That’s my last request. More choice than I gave them.
Lightning struck the tower and zigzagged through Walter’s patchwork body, which tensed, then deflated. His claws extended; his whiskers twitched. I was getting somewhere, and there was just no way I was gonna let that truck rob me of my puddy’s ninth and final life.
He rotated the cylinder, loading it with .44s, then locked it in place. As the clouds parted, betraying a full, coppery moon, he put the barrel under his chin, which was elongating and filling with sharp teeth. He squeezed.
Then he spat the bullet out.
This fortnight has been a grind both with my writing and with my personal life. But I’m still here, and I’m honestly finding that writing grind therapeutic.
Thanks for reading <3