Because I’m bad at consistently motivating myself to put pen to paper, I’ve decided to challenge myself to set aside a half hour or so every day I can to write as much as I can, then set it aside and not touch it again.
I’m learning to live with imperfection because, by definition, creativity is imperfect.
written May 24, 2020
“Falling Stones” (written in 15 mins)
Vess had a crooked finger on his left hand from a poorly-formed punch that’d gotten him thrown out of the pub on 45th and nearly arrested for the third time that night.
The finger didn’t come up too often, as he usually kept the hand hidden in a pocket or under the table.
That day, while the digit was, in theory, out of sight, it certainly wasn’t out of mind.
Vess crouched –quite out of character, but, then again, he’d made quite an out-of-character promise– beneath a pile of downed wooden rafters, arms full of a fabric bundle, holding his breath as the masked figures spread out to patrol the ruins.
From within the bundle came the slightest of shifting from the dozen small objects within. One of the objects found a rip in the fabric.
He didn’t dare blink, struggling to keep the bundle intact. But the object decided it was time for a foray into the outside world and, slipping through the tear in the cloth and the gap created by a single crooked finger, made its way, clanging and crashing, to the floor.
He reached down to retrieve it, causing another gem to slip out, and another.
“There!” The owner of a muffled voice had evidently noticed the clamor, and directed the rest of the figures to throw aside the beams.
Vess redoubled his efforts to clutch the items to his chest, managed to snatch the fallen few from the floor, and made a break for the smashed window through which he’d entered.
A hand caught his boot, scrambling for purchase on the mud-caked canvas. Vess kicked him off, falling to a knee before regaining his balance and darting through the opening into a hazy wood.
Abandoning any attempt at stealth, he ran full pelt for a clump of trees at the far end of a clearing, hoping for cover.
He nearly made it.