All You Need Is Love and Conflict #WEP #WEPFF

https://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com

WEP CHALLENGE FOR FEBRUARY 2022!

All You Need Is Love and Conflict 

By Jamie Dorner

"I'm not a writer. A short story of at least five hundred words? It may as well be a million words!" She shook her head.

"Have you tried? I can help you, but I need you to at least try. Give me one sentence," replied Dianna's friend, the New York Time's best-selling author.

"I don't know. 'He walked through the door.' How's that?"

The author nodded. "Actually, it's good. It's a strong sentence. Can you tell me why he walked through the door? And, most importantly, can you tell me why I should care? Five hundred words is only a few minutes of my life. When I ask readers to stick around for ninety-thousand words, that's hours of their time. They need a reason to care."

She blinked several times at her friend. "Oh. I guess that makes sense."

"We want stories to matter to us. To teach us something, to move us, to relate to our experiences so we feel less alone. We're entertained most when our brains light up with a connection to the characters in some way. That's why I say it's a good sentence. Your audience has probably walked through a door before."

"Yeah. But who wants to think about that?"

"That's your job. To make the reader want to think about walking through the door. For it to be interesting. And while you're thinking about why he walked through a door, and why the reader cares, you may as well break down the rest. Who is he? What does he look like? Young, old, rich, poor, handsome, plain, long hair, bald… Is he someone who helps people in need, or does he fire people on the eve of a holiday?"

"Wow. I don't know. You really got all that from one sentence?"

The author smiled. "Oh, there's more. Walked is a good verb. But what if he crawled, marched, or skipped? Those all change the tone. And then there's the door itself. This could be a science fiction story if the door is described a certain way. Or if he's actually walking through a portal, then you can have a portal fantasy. Maybe it's a gateway to another realm. Or it's the door on the house of his true love. Or the door of his childhood home, but now his parents are dead."

"That's dark. I like the one with the door of his true love."

"Great. Did he knock first? Does he know this is the door of the house where his true love lives? Does he live there? Does he have a key? How does she feel about him?"

"And, let me guess, next you'll ask why the reader should care? Love isn't enough?"

The author winked. "You're getting the idea. The notion that all you need is love doesn't work in stories. There has to also be a conflict, some kind of event, so a character has something to overcome. Love doesn't have to be the conflict, in fact, it can be the solution. But something has to happen, and the reader has to care."

"It's that easy?'

"And it's that hard. For example, if you were a character, the conflict you're experiencing is a need to write a five-hundred-word story. My role is to inspire you with my love of the writing craft. Or my conflict is that, instead of writing my own story, I'm helping you start yours. That would make you my antagonist and this is a person-versus-person narrative. In order to achieve my goal, I have to teach you enough that you'll change from complaining about writing to actually writing. Has my love of transforming a simple sentence into a series of questions inspired you to start your story?"

She laughed. "I think so. Except I'm changing he to she. That way I can be the character and walk through your door." 

FCA 645 words

#writerscommunity it is with great pleasure @ormakal and I announce our launch ✨GIVEAWAY✨ Alt text bellow 😊 #writerslift #writing #amwriting pic.twitter.com/bKaqfcLnP0

— Fantastic Editions (@FE_Editors) January 30, 2022

tagline= Love writing well.

For Jeremy

Jeremy Hawkins of the A to Z Challenge passed away. 

I took part in the 2016 A to Z Challenge. I didn't really think about getting a mug or a shirt or whatever back then. But I figured I would get one now.

https://society6.com/product/a-to-z-challenge-survivor-2016-mug_mug

https://share.society6.com/x/baL2dY $15 off code

There's really nothing else I want on the site, but I'm happy to share a $15 off code with others. 

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https://uniquelymaladjustedbutfun.blogspot.com/2019/05/atozchallenge-reflection-2019.html

Photo of me in 2019 in my shirt taken by co-host Jayden!

https://uniquelymaladjustedbutfun.blogspot.com/2021/05/atozchallenge-reflection-2021.html

I ordered a shirt in 2021. Here it is against one my NaNoWriMo shirts of the same size. The A to Z shirt is cut a little smaller, especially in the arm/ chest area.


I have a print of this poster next to my desk.

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A mug, a poster, and two shirts. The tribute instructions said to showcase items he made that people bought, so that's what I've done.

#writerscommunity it is with great pleasure @ormakal and I announce our launch ✨GIVEAWAY✨ Alt text bellow 😊 #writerslift #writing #amwriting pic.twitter.com/bKaqfcLnP0

— Fantastic Editions (@FE_Editors) January 30, 2022

Commandments

 I am extremely grateful for my beliefs.

I am grateful that I believe in a grand creator who is the most intelligent being in existence. One who not only knows science, but created it. And thus, to be made in the image of such a being would mean that learning and understanding is a way to honor that maker.

There are those who believe they need only look out for themselves. That they are, in fact, commanded to only look out for themselves, and as a reward for turning their backs on others (strangers, co-workers, friends, family, all living creatures), they'll be rewarded with protection from their maker. In fact, even when that fails to prove true, it's just their own fault for not believing hard enough that their maker wants them to not give a crap about the wellbeing of others. Their maker is all, "feel apathetic about your neighbor" and "killing is fine as long as you're okay and trust I'll save you eventually," and of course, "honor your father and mother, but don't do things that'll keep them alive or whatever, because you're only supposed to feel anything about Me and yourself and that's it." 

I'm glad I'm not a believer in that. Sounds like a bubble of isolation. 

I also believe that if the help one asks their maker to send is given, that not taking such help is spitting in the face of the maker. 

I'm dancing around my point.

Saying Psalm 91 is a reason not to get vaccinated is sacrilegious. I'm not super religious, but that's offensive. That's telling Jesus he was wrong to heal or help others because they should have been left alone, and if they were faithful enough they'd be okay. Screw everyone. That's saying there's an asterisk next to "love thy neighbor" and "thou shall not kill" because you believe God wants you to be a carrier and infect others. Including infecting your own parents if they're immunocompromised. Like Jesus would have seen Mary ...and she'd have cancer or something and he'd have been all,  "not my problem, and here's some leprosy to speed it along.

I'm offended. I'm offended to the point that I want a new name for my faith. Or maybe to convert. I just don't want to be lumped in with these people.

Which I imagine a lot of people feel. Not just of this faith. Plenty of Muslims probably want no ties with certain terrorists. I'd like the Klan and Nazism to not share a faith base with my beliefs. 

I know what I believe. I know that intentional mistranslated text offends me too. Plenty of that. 

I'm tired. Real tired. I want to fight, but I don't have enough in me to take it all on. 

But I'm vaccinated. And I'm proud of that. And when I die, if my maker sees fit to condemn me for NOT harming or killing others, for not infecting my neighbors, and opts to send me to eternal torture for it, so be it. 

Hashtag Fashion Pain #WEP #WEPFF

Hashtag

Oooh, how attractive I look in this! No one will be able to resist taking snapshots and groupies. Hashtag fabulous! Hashtag OneOfAKind! Hashtag BestDressed! All eyes will be on me this evening. 

"Your car," the valet dangles my keys. Impossible to believe, but they didn't send a limo for me. I am wearing this one-of-a-kind, photo-snagging, social-media-viral-bait couture, yet I'm expected to drive myself. Just because the event is for charity doesn't mean they shouldn't splurge on people like me. 

The outfit's mirrors, sequins, and jewels glimmer and shine, attracting every light on the road. A flashing pink neon sign looks especially elegant. I pause for a selfie. Hashtag RadiantInPink! The rude driver behind me honks. Uncultured savage. No appreciation for the fine art piece before him, which he is getting to view for free, I might add. He can wait while I post. My followers need a sneak peek to admire while I'm en route. 

An alert flashes on my phone. I click it as I merge onto the highway.

OH

MY

GODDESS

The designer of this magnificent outfit is dead!

I have the only copy of this in existence! I might be wearing the final design. 

And it's going to be wasted debuting at a charity event for burn victims or cleft palates or whatever I'm boosting support for tonight. Should I go to a club first? I have a duty to present myself in this at the finest venue possible, don't I? If I get off at this exit, I can give the world that gift. It's only three lanes of traffic. They'll move out of my way. It's me, after all. 

~~~

What is this awful white light? And that horrendous beeping sound? And, eww, what low-thread-count fabric is touching me?

"Scissors."

"Yes, doctor."

Scissors? "What's happening?"

"You've been in a car accident. We need to remove your clothing to save you."

"What? No! Don't cut the couture! It's the only one, it's the last one. Are you whacked? I need to be photographed wearing this. Not in such harsh light, naturally. But somewhere worthy. My followers need to see what I'm wearing. Do you not know who I am?"

The pockmarked doctor sneers. "You're wearing a steering column. There's a turn signal sticking out of your exposed intestines. Is that really an image you want to share?" 

~~~

Hashtag Recovery isn't trending. My follower count dips below the influencer level. I'm evicted from my luxurious apartment. A newcomer gets it, along with much of my swag, and has the nerve to post pictures along with the tags: #Retro #YoungerAndBetterLooking #LearnToDrive #CoutureKiller.

The last one hurts the most. It is trending. No one can forgive my allowing the final design to be destroyed. Tiny mirrors, sequins, and jewels all covered in blood are posted as a gifset hiding my face. My social media reflection is of a has-been. I should have died wearing that outfit. Better death than to be alive as someone no longer worthy of seeing. 

Hashtag

By: Jamie Dorner

FCA

According to Google Docs, I have 501 words, but according to WordCounter.net, I have 385 words. Either way, it's under 1000. 

Tagline: Fashion becomes pain for a narcissistic social media influencer.  

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The good news right now is that no one else in my "circle" has died or contracted a new deadly disease or issue in the last month. (Followers here know I've had a rough year.)

Also, I managed to buckle down long enough to write this and to write an entry for WriteClub.

#WRiTECLUB2021

The submissions are all in and our Slushpile readers are busy reading each one to decide if it has what it takes to step into the ring. Not an easy task!

The field will be set and daily bouts begin on Dec6th!

Will you be in one of them? 😀

— 𝑫𝑳 (@DL_H) November 29, 2021

Entered #WRiTECLUB2021

 https://www.dlhammons.com/p/write-club-2021-tenth-edition.html

https://www.instagram.com/p/CWpUHuJsyd3fIzcNylPCHtK6Co-v-jv_qZtwW40/

I made an Instagram post about entering.
I can't say what I wrote or what pen name I used.

But I can say that I hope you'll read and vote in every round.

Hopefully one of the entries will be mine.

Wep Award

 https://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2021/11/winners-of-wep-october-challenge.html

I won an award!

The Regret Scream #WEPFF #WEP Flash Fiction and Memorial Obituaries

This part isn't my entry, but it is an excerpt from the project I plan to work on during NaNoWriMo this year, and it includes a scream:


Link to my NaNoWriMo project.

During Covid-19, a teen craniopharyngioma survivor masks and vaccinated, but her family is opposed. She's dead to them for using precautions. But is she ACTUALLY dead?

When I had craniopharyngioma I wondered what might happen if I died. What would it be like for my birthday-twin brother on our birthday? Or for our parents?
Well, now I know.



Onto the entry:

Where this Scream story came from--

💭

I had a f🤬ked up dream nightmare that the antimaskers won. And everyone just gave up on fighting Covid. The death toll was 80 million a year worldwide, but everyone was okay with it. "We're fighting global warming! The bodies of the dead are keeping us warm!" Public places, like malls and museums, were buying dead bodies to burn. People were the new firewood. Except there were scientists on tv pleading, "the zeta variant can be transmitted after death. The burning bodies are spreading the virus. We will go extinct!"

😷

#tagline = The Regret Scream is a dystopian flash fiction where Covid is also spread by burning infected bodies, and an antimasker commits manslaughter.

993 words FCA

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The Regret Scream

Smoke rises from old chimneys, darkening the air and dirtying the laundry that had been hung out to dry. I cough, hack, and wheeze while pulling my bedsheets from the clothesline. My neighbor watches from her porch. I know she wants to yell that I ought to wear a mask. She was always Covid-shaming people in our neighborhood. That's outlawed talk now. I nod to her, giving a smirk the equivalent of a middle finger.

A bell rings as a cart comes to my street. I head to the curb.

"Bring out your dead!" The bell chimes again as the cart nears. It stops at my house. "Anyone for me today, Jimbo?"

I shake my head. "I can't believe you're doing this job."

Nurse Falcone rings his bell again. "Eh, beats the old days. No one vomits on me, I don't empty bedpans, and there are no complaints when I take a bathroom break."

We wave goodbye. In the former times, I delivered flowers. Nurse Falcone was often on duty when I dropped off my daily bouquets. Then the vaccine mandate for healthcare workers was enacted and he quit. When the mandate was expanded to delivery folk, I quit too. Weren't many flowers going anywhere but funeral homes by then anyway.

I take the bus to my sister's place. This transport is too loud, always has been. But since it runs on renewables, it's one of the few things that works anymore. I miss my car. Gasoline prices topped out at $30 a gallon, a price beyond what anyone could afford, so the stations mostly shut down. The bus passes what was once an Exxon station. Valdez seemed like the worst they'd deal with once. Graffiti of colorful curse words shows that worse came to pass. The company went bankrupt, laying off the surviving six thousand employees. They claimed the other eight thousand had died in under a year. Probably a bluff to get a government bailout. We can't afford their gasoline so they take our tax dollars instead. Typical! 

Cans and fishing line try to trip me up as I approach my sister's place. Boobytraps to keep people away from her door. She's unhinged, but she's my sister.

"Trish! It's Wednesday," I holler while knocking on her door. 

An upstairs window slides open. "Yeah? There been a change?"

I roll my eyes. "No. That mean you're still not gonna let me in? I came across town on one of those stupid busses. Have a meal with your only brother."

"And then who would take care of our only mother? Bad enough you have me opening this window."

"It isn't airborne you tool! Stop buying into the propaganda. Come on, it's just dinner."

Why did I come here? I fold my hands over my head as she sobs. "I can't. I want to, but it isn't safe. Please get vaccinated and quarantine in the tent so I can let you in. Mom and I miss you."

Stupid sheep. Before she can protest, I leap up a tree and climb to her window. "Stop living in fear. You and mom need to get out."

I yank down her mask, kiss her nose, and then drop back down to the door. She screams and cries as I walk away. 

She'll see. When she's fine in a week, two weeks, maybe a month. She'll see the world isn't dangerous, and neither am I.

No dinner here, so I trudge down to the mall. Flopping onto a bench, I wait for my coughing fit to end. Probably just thirsty. 

The mostly abandoned former shopping mecca looms before me. Half of it is an assisted living facility, and part is apartments, but the food court is thriving. The major chains all went under, crying that they couldn't get workers. People rather starve than work. Acting like a line cook and a CEO both deserve enough pay for a big house, childcare, food, medical care, and whatever else. Now those former line cooks are bodies in the fire pit. Everything is roasted over them. I get a squab and squash skewer to eat on the bus ride home.

~

Fourteen days pass. There's a knock on my door. 

"Jim Bobalda?" Two medical officers in bio-suits ask. 

"Yeah?" They require a swab and fingerprints verification. The machine beeps and a red light comes on. "What? Am I not me?"

"Sir, you're infected. Probably got it from a burning body. Are you vaccinated? Wear a mask?"

"Hell no I ain't vaccinated." I rip off my shirt, showing my tattoo. "Face Freedom Force! No masks."

The officers exchange glances and take a step back before consulting their device again. "We've come to inform you of the death of your mother and sister. Based on this swab, you carry the strand they were infected by. Did you have contact?"

"What?" My knees give out.

"Contact. Have you had contact in the last five to twenty days?"

"Yeah. Trish and I were supposed to have dinner two weeks ago. She didn't let me in though."

They exchange glances. "No mask?"

I press my forehead to the ground. This can't be real. It can't be true. I hear them repeat the question, but they're a million miles away.

Someone grabs my arm. There's a siren in the distance. Someone says they're the police.

"What?" I say again, hoping I heard wrong. That my family isn't dead, isn't gone.

Metal tightens against my wrist. 

"A security camera caught it. He infected them. Can't make these types vaccinate or wear a mask, but certainly can haul them away for manslaughter."

Miranda rights are recited three times as I'm carted off. 

Trish and mom are probably in a cart. Bodies sold by whoever found them. I can't even say goodbye.

"No!" I hear the scream. It isn't until my throat aches that I realize I'm the one screaming. I grab my face. If only I had worn a mask.

---

I know two people who are battling multiple myeloma right now. 😕
I mentioned last WEP that two of my relatives have serious cancer. Well, one of them, that's the kind of cancer. The other was brain cancer, which was my mother-in-law, and she has now passed away.
Frankly, I've had enough of death. My brother-in-law died of an infection. 19 days later, my mom had a heart attack and died 💔, and 19 days after that is when my mother-in-law died. 
So I'm done. 
None of my writing right now is especially "good." It's anger and pain. This is me, SCREAMING.

My brother called me that morning to say my dad was taking my mom to the hospital because she was feeling a little weird, weak and dizzy. She was diabetic and it was early, so I thought maybe just low blood sugar. 🍪 I thought they'd feed her a cookie and she'd be okay. But then I got this text from my dad. And I screamed "WHAT" for nearly an hour. 

I drafted the first half of this post before the triple-death-blows. I'm going to attempt Nano, but I'm not as amped up about it as usual. If I manage to write at all, that'll be a "win" to me. 

In memory:

(Some of you also know my husband's cousin, J Lenni Dorner. Obviously he was related, distantly, too, and is also devastated by these losses.)