Sonia looked out over the desolation the forest fire had caused. Black charred ruins were everywhere. Homes were destroyed. Forests wiped out. A sickly smell lifted from the misery filling her nostrils in ways she would not easily forget.
She rolled up her hose in the falling rain, glad that she was able to be of some use to halt the tragedy.
“Won’t you look at that?” she said with mild surprise as a chipmunk stopped his travels on her hose. “I hope you can find some food my good friend,” she said as she watched him dart quickly away.
I just hate it when something on me falls off, an ear, finger, or whatever. Thank God I still have my penis--wait, belay that. Damn! Then, that whole spontaneous combustion thing--I really hate that. And my infections! Exploding purulent vesicles that decide to exude violently when I'm on stage receiving my Lifetime Bereavement Award--I really hate that, too. All of the assassination attempts--with bullets, knives, pushes, and so on--I hate those, too. And being crushed? Don't even ge me started. All these things I hate. They're miserable. Oh? Sorry. Yes, I'd like fries with that.
Disenchantment with your writing path. Catastrophic winter weather event. A terrifying car crash. Front end damage to a prized muscle car. Debilitating injuries. A treasured manuscript destroyed. Forced captivity. Suffering through involuntary drugging. A murder. Being compelled to write with a gun to your head. Outside your preferred genre! An excruciating hobbling. Life or death hand to hand combat. Becoming a killer yourself. Lingering physical and emotional scars.
You call that misery, Mr. King?
Ha. It’s anything but.
The takeaway from all of this carnage for a typical Substack fiction writer?
A Glimmer In The Misery
Sonia looked out over the desolation the forest fire had caused. Black charred ruins were everywhere. Homes were destroyed. Forests wiped out. A sickly smell lifted from the misery filling her nostrils in ways she would not easily forget.
She rolled up her hose in the falling rain, glad that she was able to be of some use to halt the tragedy.
“Won’t you look at that?” she said with mild surprise as a chipmunk stopped his travels on her hose. “I hope you can find some food my good friend,” she said as she watched him dart quickly away.
PROMPT: "Misery," for 100-word wonders.
Title: Second Window, please.
I just hate it when something on me falls off, an ear, finger, or whatever. Thank God I still have my penis--wait, belay that. Damn! Then, that whole spontaneous combustion thing--I really hate that. And my infections! Exploding purulent vesicles that decide to exude violently when I'm on stage receiving my Lifetime Bereavement Award--I really hate that, too. All of the assassination attempts--with bullets, knives, pushes, and so on--I hate those, too. And being crushed? Don't even ge me started. All these things I hate. They're miserable. Oh? Sorry. Yes, I'd like fries with that.
Glass Half Full
Disenchantment with your writing path. Catastrophic winter weather event. A terrifying car crash. Front end damage to a prized muscle car. Debilitating injuries. A treasured manuscript destroyed. Forced captivity. Suffering through involuntary drugging. A murder. Being compelled to write with a gun to your head. Outside your preferred genre! An excruciating hobbling. Life or death hand to hand combat. Becoming a killer yourself. Lingering physical and emotional scars.
You call that misery, Mr. King?
Ha. It’s anything but.
The takeaway from all of this carnage for a typical Substack fiction writer?
“You’re telling me I have a number one fan?!”
Love it, Caro. Noir with a heart.
Excellent. A crook with a heart!