Lots to do

Today is going to be a busy day, so I may not get much #writing done. Have to get ready for the day, fuel up the car, do laundry, deal with apartment drama, and if I have time, go to the post office…and hopefully get back to work on a #cosplay. It doesn’t need much, and I’ll probably have more than enough time to finish it before the end of May, but since there is that aforementioned apartment drama I want to get it done.

In the meantime, here’s a silly #poem I wrote several years ago, when I didn’t have much to do.

Manic Boredom

Mind racing, nothing to do

Computer, TV, & MP3, too

Sitting, dancing, typing, grooving

Can’t sit still, always moving

Tried to find an outlet in art

(Don’t have the skill, much less the heart)

Sunday night, nowhere to go

Stimulation, I need some mo’

Play a little game, take a little shot

Goddamn, my room’s so hot!

Both fans blowing, window’s open

Sweat ‘n’ ice are how I’m copin’

Mind is racing, yet it’s stuck

What I really need is a good, hard—

Oops! I guess it’s time to go

The gutter my mind’s headed fo’

Computer, TV, & MP3, too

Mind still racing, still nothing to do

Plan of action

Today I have a half day at work. My plan? Writing, of course!

Provided, that is, I can keep our new kitten from chewing on the laptop cord. Or the laptop itself….

That’s right, little Rory appears to be teething. Ah, the joys of having a kitten. He’s 100% worth it, though.

How do you other #writers and #authors deal with the distractions of pets and children?


Here is the #flashfiction I wrote from the prompt yesterday. Enjoy 🙂

Blessed to Death

by AJ Mullican

It was an otherwise ordinary night: me, home alone, watching a horror movie that I knew would scare the pants off of me. I don’t know why I preferred this method of self-torture, but there was just something about the eerie music and the suspense that made the terror worth it.

Just as the film was reaching its horrific climax—the cheerleader was about to get stabbed by the undead killer—my allergies started acting up. It was normal for me to sneeze frequently around this time of year. Autumn was the bane of my nasal existence, and I sneezed just as the cheerleader screamed.

My cell phone rang, making me jump clear out of my chair. With a shaking hand, I picked it up and looked at the screen. I didn’t recognize the number, but something made me answer anyway.

“H-hello?” I felt silly for stammering, but I was still wound up from the film.

An unfamiliar child’s voice answered me, soft and serious. “Bless you.”

I didn’t have time to ask who the child was before the call ended. I found myself staring at the screen, as though it could answer the questions I had.

Who had my number? Was it possible that one of my friends who had children was playing a prank? If so, were they waiting outside, about to knock on my door and yell “Boo!” when I answered? Or did they just know me so well that they knew I would be home alone on a Saturday night, scaring myself senseless?

Before I had the chance to call any of my friends to find out who was messing with me, my eyes caught movement in my peripheral vision. The window was open, curtains dancing in the slight breeze.

I always, always closed and locked all my doors and windows before watching a scary movie. Always.

I crept to the window, expecting to see one of my friends crouching outside with their child, hands covering their mouths to suppress giggles. Just as I reached the window, a fresh gust of wind blew in, carrying with it the allergens that had sparked the sneeze from before. I sneezed again, covering my nose and mouth with my sleeve to contain the mucous spray, when the phone in my hand rang again.

By this point I was trembling so hard I could barely press the button on the screen to answer. Again, I didn’t recognize the number.

“Bless you.” Click. Silence.

Walking back to my chair, I reached for a tissue to wipe my nose. I noticed blood on my sleeve. Crap. Now on top of my rising paranoia I had a bloody nose. There was an unusually large amount of blood, and I soon realized that mere tissues would not contain it.

I inched into the kitchen, looking around every corner and behind every door along the way. Still no one in the house but me. I took the dish towel from its place hanging on the refrigerator handle when something else caught my eye.

The kitchen window was open as well.

Pressing the towel to my nose, I felt another sneeze coming on. I tried to fight it, but once again I sneezed copious amounts of blood. I was unable to contain it all in the towel, and the fridge, counter, and floor were splattered with the coppery liquid. The phone rang again.

“Who the hell is thi—“ I shouted into the phone. I was cut off by the same child’s voice, this time with a sinister taunting tone.

“Bless you.”

The call ended. By now my nose was gushing blood, and my shirt front was soaked. I heard a high-pitched giggling behind me, and I whirled around.

Standing in the kitchen door was a small child of about five or six years old. His clothing appeared to be from decades long gone. I know I locked the doors.

“Who—“ I began, but another violent sneeze overtook me. There was entirely too much blood for a bloody nose, and I was starting to feel faint.

“Bless you.”

I backed up a few steps, sneezing all the way. The child didn’t move, but his blessing followed each spray of blood.

Falling to my knees, I pinched the tip of my nose in an attempt to stave off the sneezing. The room spun in my vision, but the boy stayed still.

I gave one final, racking sneeze before my vision went black.

The last thing I remember is a sinister child’s voice saying “Bless you.”

Writing inspiration Wednesday

As a compliment to #MemeMonday, I’m going to be starting #WritingInspirationWednesday here on my blog. These are also pulled from the Internet, but instead of being humorous they’re intended to inspire writers. Many will be quotes from established authors and others who know how hard writing truly is.


Serial Killer VII

I just realized that I haven’t posted one of my old serial killer shorts in a long time! I apologize for being so remiss. Here’s Serial Killer VII: Solitary (I apologize for the formatting)

Serial Killer VII: Solitary


They put me in a cell by myself today

Apparently they frown

On killing cellmates

There is no window

Only a small slot

Through which they place meals

And “fan mail”

These “fans” make me sick

Talking about things like

“I wish I had the guts

To do what you had done

To my cheating boyfriend”

When I write back with

“You have the guts, meatling,

You merely have to slice yourself open

To see them”

They stop writing back

I know my mail is being read

Checked to see

If I am plotting something

But there is nothing to plot

In this six-by-eight cell

I am now taken to court

In both arm and leg shackles

With four armed guards

Taking me back and forth

My lawyer is nervous

I can tell

He leans away from me

He turns white

As each photo is shown

I reluctantly agreed

To an insanity defense

Though I clearly am not insane

My thoughts, my actions

Written in this journal

Should alone prove my sanity

I smile

As I pat the spiral notebook before me

Once this is read

They will see the true me

Once this is read

I will surely be a free woman

Done in a flash

Wrote a piece of flash fiction today, working off of a prompt provided by a friend of mine. It’s not the sort of thing I usually do; I prefer to write based on my own inspirations, not a prompt, but this one inspired me.

My novel, however, has re-stalled after a couple hundred words added yesterday. I may have to take time off again, which doesn’t upset me too terribly much. I just want to get the first draft finished so I can move on to revision, editing, and all that fun tedious stuff. I gave myself until the end of the year to finish the draft, but I really hope I can finish much sooner.

I can’t let myself get down though. If I get depressed because the words aren’t flowing, I’ll never get back to it. I don’t want another unfinished work gathering dust. Granted, this idea is better and less derivative than previous “novels” I’ve started (never getting past chapter three, of course), but I know myself. If I get discouraged, I won’t go back. So far I still think I have a solid idea, and as long as the words come back to me, I’ll accomplish my goal of a first draft by the end of the year.

Lies we tell ourselves

I keep telling myself that I’m going to write more–then I stare at the screen as it mocks me.

There are always those little white lies we tell ourselves to make us think we’re going to make progress. I’m going to eat less, work out more. I’m going to finish the next Great American Novel. I’m going to learn a new language. It’s always something.

There are a few people who can actually accomplish these things with little to no effort. They just decide they’re going to do something, and they do it. For myself and many others that I know, it’s not that easy.

Sometimes I have to force myself to write (or draw, or paint, or sculpt, or stay awake all day on a Sunday), and sometimes it comes naturally. I didn’t want to work out this morning, but I did for a few minutes. I even did a little “dancing badly” workout. Now I’m going to force myself to defeat another untruth.

I have the morning off today. I am going to make myself write something. I’m hoping it will be progress on my novel. Maybe it will be poetry, or a short story. I just have to do it. I can’t keep lying to myself like this.

Madness ensues

Time to get to #writing more on my novel. I’ve gotten to a rather disturbing part and had to take a break because I was disturbing myself! I think I’m good to go now. Back to it!

New addition

No relation to writing or art, but I have to share a


of the new kitten that will be coming home to us Wednesday


His name is Rory. Enjoy your dose of cute for the day.

Fingers crossed

I know it’s been a few days since I’ve posted, but it’s been a busy few days.

In addition to adding another thousand plus words to my novel, I also finished and submitted a short story for a magazine 🙂

I don’t know if it will get published, but I had to try. If I don’t, I’ll never get over the fear of being rejected. There’s no way my novel will be traditionally published if I keep up the way I have been.

Will I get paid for my story? Likely not. But do I feel better having sent it in? Absolutely.

On to the next writing adventure!