Category: Writing Circle

Months ago Jade hosted a Writing Circle and the genre was horror. I was so excited. However, being the horror afficianado that I am it was hard to find an original yet, spooky plot line. I find that the scariest movies or novels are the ones that {in my opinion} can actually happen. So without further adieu here is a tidbit of my horror novel {that I will complete after retirement, but before I die}. 

*Any reference to actually places and people are purely coincidental.

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Why is she on this side of town?

This is the part of town that people like her drive around, take the extra 10 minutes on the Interstate to avoid. One could get car jacked or murdered here.

And yet here she sat.

The heater in her over-priced gas guzzling SUV cranked out the heat, even though sweat was dripping down her brow, she was still shivering. The intense heat magnified the new car smell that permeated her nostrils every time she opened the door. She shivered again, an endless chill that no amount of heat could steal from her bones.

Against her will her mind wandered again to that fateful day. It started just like any other fall day. Bright and sunny, blue sky greeting her and the crisp cool air taking up permanent occupancy in her lungs meant the coming of winter. But that morning‘s hustle and bustle didn’t leave her time to cherish the beauty of that day, and later in a blink it turned ugly oh so ugly.

She ruminated over every detail. How she buckled them into their car seats, how she had to take her husband to work that day because his car was in the shop, and how that annoyed her because it meant she would be late again, always late. She had argued with him “Just let me drive, it will be easier,” she bargained. He reluctantly conceded, so as not to perpetuate another argument when their mornings were such a hotbed of emotions. Too much rushing, too much to do, and never enough time.

She didn’t see the car. There was no time to stop.

Then the impact, crunching of metal on metal, and the screams that escaped from her own mouth. She remembered the glass from the passenger side window shattering and how she closed her eyes, the last image of her husband looking at her. The car tousled like a rag doll. Landing upside down and her hanging precariously the seatbelt her only security, she tried to look in the backseat, to check on the children, but she couldn’t turn her head and all she heard was silence.

Nothing but silence. Until the sirens screamed their arrival.

Sirens again only this time permeating the darkness in the seedy side of town, and she need not be afraid of murders, because after tonight she will be one.

Of course there are many, her mother-in-law, her neighbors, her PTO group that already think that she deserves that title – MURDERER. For it was her that was driving that day, that terrible, terrible day that has cumulated in this night on the wrong side of town with a medieval looking knife glinting in her Coach handbag and the manila envelope staring back at her from the passenger seat.

Who would have thought it would have been this way, but she would do anything to bring them back. Those yesterdays of  the mundane, policing sibling disputes and dumb arguments of who would empty the dishwasher. None that matters anymore she just wants them back.

She wants to feel the strong arms of her husband and hear the laughter of her children again.

According to the book this is how it’s supposed to be done, and once she received the envelope there was no turning back.

There he was, the photo in the envelope, headed into the alley. He will be her first, but not her last. As she steps out of the car and walks slowly behind him, she knows she will kill him, because killing him will mean she’s one step closer to getting back her family.

It was written on the page “Seven souls to return those you love.”

And seven souls it shall be.

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Want to write and share with a wonderful group of women?
There are still Writing Circle dates available. Head over to Bigger Picture Blogs and check it out.
You never know, a novel might just be in your future too.

 

“Could you come into my office,” she said sternly. “I think we have a miscommunication.”

Grrrr! I hated it when she called me into her office. My stomach turned, and knotted. I reluctantly followed her.

The door clicked shut behind us. As I sat down and listened to her berate me, my blood boiled and finally I said it, the words that changed my life… “You know what consider this my two weeks notice,” I said just as sternly back at her.

“Good,” she curtly replied.

Really?

Did she just say good?

Wow!

Thank you for affirming my decision.

I immediately walked into my office and called B2. “I did it,” I said with fear and giddiness in my voice.

B2 was not surprised. My life had been turned upside down by this job. I worked from 7:30 in the morning till 6 in the evening barely seeing him or E who was one at the time.

After the adrenaline wore off, a myriad of emotions raced through me.

Worry. Sadness. Anger.

And RELIEF.

Shear relief at not having to worry EVERYDAY whether she would go off on me again.

The next morning after I quit my job, I laid in bed feeling refreshed.

Life, while uncertain, felt happier, brighter.

This pivotal moment was the beginning of my awakening.

Quitting led me to another job, one that I LOVE and allows me the flexibility to be with my family.

It led me to birth a wonderful little redheaded boy.

It led me to be at my father’s side while he died.

It led me to blogging, and finding my village.

It led me to finding my inner athlete and competing in triathlons.

It led me to rediscovering my confidence and voice as a true writer.

None of this would have happened had I not responded to the subconscious pull to awaken my soul from that nightmare.

Sometimes quitting can be a good thing.

When it awakens a life left dormant.

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This piece is a product of our Bigger Picture Blogs Writing Circles, where writers come together virtually to share a work and then offer encouragement while giving constructive criticism while applying benevolent pressure to others in the circle.

As I enter the house I can already hear the little voices chatting upstairs. The clatter of dishes in the sink, and deep voice of B2 asking the boys about their day. E’s chirping voice enthusiastically detailing the trials and tribulations of preschool life.

They haven’t noticed me yet, and as I continue staring at them from my perch at the top of the stairs I wonder if this is a mirage. Is this family really mine?

Never in a million years did I EVER think I would be here. As the mom of two children, married to a wonderful {and hot} man, and working at a job that allows me to balance family and career.

At an early age, I had always wanted the white picket fence, with little children perfectly coiffed donning matching cardigans, and my husband and I hugging in the background.

That image was just a mirage. I’m a realist. Reality dictated the need for a career before family. I needed work my way up the corporate ladder.

Each rung up the ladder was a struggle for my livelihood, but I remained focused always looking toward the top. There were times when I faltered and my foot would slip. My corporate career path was always just out of my grasp. I kept climbing, fighting, crawling and sacrificing. The higher I climbed the more my heart hurt, but my head won out. “Keep climbing,” it said. “Your heart won’t pay the bills.”

I kept climbing. There were moments when the heartache grew too much to bear I needed to look somewhere else. Through the haze I’d catch a glimpse of the white picket fence and I’d hear the faint sounds of giggling children. Tears formed in my eyes and I mourned the loss of something I never had. But I couldn’t dwell on that I was alone in the desert and what I saw was a mirage.

The ladder was reality.

Over the years I fought my way up the ladder, painstakingly climbing each rung. My body and brain grew weary from the journey. My was heartache unbearable and in a moment of desperation I jumped off the ladder.

Once on solid ground, I saw the mirage in the distance. The blurry outlines of children playing and a handsome man smiling at me.
Blinking back tears, I finally hear his voice. “Hi, honey how was your day?” Wiping my tears I smile and immediately the blurry image comes into focus and I know for certain it is real.

This piece is a product of our Bigger Picture Blogs Writing Circles, where writers come together virtually to share a work and then offer encouragement while giving constructive criticism while applying benevolent pressure to others in the circle.