6 Word Story: 7/31

That’s it, guys! We made it through another month. I hope everyone fared better than they had hoped. I will post next month’s prompts sometime today. I also have two paintings to do because I have the ‘Teen.’ It’s a condition that I’m told lasts only a couple of years or until it decides to move on. Let’s just pray that I can make it that long without losing my stuff.


Prompt: Ruse

Facades are temporary, truth-seeking isn't.

 

 

6 Word Story: 6/28

I’m not quite sure how I feel about this month’s prompts from Page Flutter. I get that they all fall under the theme of courage but it feels as if all the prompts can be used to write a fictional crime story.  I searched today’s prompt and found a lot of articles about confessing sins and Bible quotes. Here’s my attempt at today’s prompt.


Prompt Word: Public Confession

6 Word Story: 6/11

There have been countless times that I was referred to as a bitch just because I told someone the truth. I find in this day and time that’s all falling by the wayside because people can’t handle the truth (this is where we will take a moment and relive the scene from ‘A Few Good Men’). Today people are content with voicing opinions about mundane subjects rather than speaking truths and using their given rights. But this isn’t a political post and I need to get to get ready for the 8-hour hostage situation that forces me to be an adult-work.

Prompt Word: Hard Truth

Defiling Innocence

True crime is a non-fiction literary and film genre in which the author examines an actual crime and details the actions of real people. Crime stories are separated into three areas: Fiction, Non-Fiction, and Half-Fiction. Half-Fictions are crime stories about something that really happened, but the characters (mostly the conversations) and the procedures regarding how the crime was committed are not really based on a definite source but simply just a theory. I’m going to try to write the True Crime Half-Fiction. Everyone involved in the crime and covering up another crime is either dead, dying, feeble-minded, or hiding from what they had done to a beautiful, innocent woman. I have purposely left some parts out because it was to difficult for me to write.


CONTENT WARNING: Content May Be Offensive or Disturbing to Some Audiences.This article or section, or pages it links to, contains information about assault, suicide, abuse, violence or murder. Reader discretion is advised.

Carson was a man who did bad things but it didn’t necessarily mean he was a bad mad. That sounds like a contradiction but there’s a lesson in the crimes and the truth isn’t what you think it will be. Carson was a man with a family that he adored and loved. He had a daughter that was his pride and joy that he would do anything to protect. Even though he was a blue-collar working, Harley Davidson riding, family man he also held a past that both haunted and lived with him.

It was a hot southern summer of 1983 in a small town in Texas. I could hear my uncles’ motorcycles pulling into the driveway. I have come to fall in love with that sound of thunder. Carson kissed me, his little girl on the forehead, hugged his wife goodbye and said, ‘I’ll see y’all at supper. I ran off to play with my grandmother and our Rottweilers listening to my dad and extended family pull away. My grandmother left me to play outside to help host all my extended aunts showing up to the house and as they started showing up so did my playmates. Us kids screamed, played, make-believe, and ran as the women prepared food and the tables. My father’s house was large enough to host over 50 bikers and their significant others so that was never a problem.

Supper time came and the guys still weren’t back. Moms decided to go ahead and feed us little ones and after they would either head home and wait for their husband and boyfriends there or they would camp out with me in the backyard. It got dark enough for us to play with the fireflies and make s’mores and eventually we all started falling asleep. It was almost midnight when bikes were heard. I remember my mother asking where my father was along with other women asking where so and so was then when they were told what happened they all headed to the jail to try to post their guys bail.

One of the riders, Stacey, was always being pulled over for his past and the fact that he rode a motorcycle. Only this time when he was pulled over and his person was searched. Drug paraphernalia was found and on Carson too. Bad things don’t constitute a bad man. Stacey was also a possible suspect for drug and gun dealing as well the law enforcement just needed a reason to bring him in for questioning.  Bail was posted but Carson had to return for the next 12 weekends to serve as at the jail. He would do the custodial jobs and sleep there Friday and Saturday but made it home for Sunday dinners with me, his daughter. The cops had another agenda that they were pursuing after my father, Carson wouldn’t rat on his buddy. They went after Stacey’s wife, Amanda.

Unfortunately, she had many speeding tickets and it was the perfect opportunity to pull her over for felony speeding. She received the same deal as Carson, only to serve weekends because she had two children and the judge felt it was better for her to come during the days and go home at night. Stacey had asked Carson to watch over his wife Amanda in the jail. Carson and Amanda would run into each other every day because my father was allowed to go to the woman’s side of the jail to mop and scrub the floor and walls. A conversation that took place was when Carson told Stacey that the officers and the guards would taunt Amanda and ask her about her husband Stacey. She never ratted or said an unkind word about Stacey or even to the guards and officers. A moment worth noting: When Carson and Amanda arrived at the jail they were given the clothing uniform that all inmates wore. This included slip-on shoes, no belts, no ties of any kind.

One morning Carson arrived and throughout the day didn’t see Amanda. He ended up over at the women’s side to mop out the cells and scrub toilets when he finally saw Amanda. She was hung from the cell’s bars with shoelaces. Carson made note that the laces didn’t match her own. Carson started crying and wailing for help when he rushed to Amanda’s side. His fingers weren’t working as he tried to untie the laces. The guards tried pulling my father off of Amanda and for some reason, the questioning officers that had visited Amanda and Carson frequently, were there to beat him over the head to gain is compliance. Laying on the ground, bleeding, he saw that the laces were so tight that one of the officers had to use a knife to cut Amanda’s body down. No one tried to revive her and as they turned her over Carson saw bruises on her ribs and boot prints on her back before her shirt was pulled back down into place. My father didn’t complete his day. He didn’t go home either. Instead, he went straight to Stacey’s house.

When Carson pulled up on his bike Stacey was out in his driveway working on his bike. Obviously, no one has told Stacey about his wife. Carson was scared because he knew Stacey loved his wife fiercely and knew once the truth was out that the ‘good ‘ol boy system with the virtue of an eye for an eye’ commence. As Carson approached Stacey an unmarked car pulled up. The officers asked to speak to Stacey alone but he insisted that Carson can hear whatever they had to say. Carson’s eyes were red from crying because of what he witnessed. The officers began to tell Stacey that his wife had committed suicide in the jail cell this morning and that no note was left. Carson was disgusted by the mundane nature of the officers that clearly knew the truth but wouldn’t’ reveal the real villains.

Stacey was beside himself when Carson slowly told him what he had witnessed when he found Amanda. It killed him to find his best friends wife hung from the bars. The two men sat and talked about what could have possibly happened. The conclusion was that Amanda was questioned by the officers and it went too far because she chose to protect the love of her life. The officers knew what they had done was too brutal and to cover up their crime they decided to murder her and stage it as a suicide. The thin blue line protected the maliciousness of the officers while her young children mourn a mother. The funeral was beautiful but Stacey decided on a closed casket because he didn’t want his children to remember their mother lifeless.

Weeks later, when my uncles’ bikes pulled into my father Carson’s driveway I wasn’t allowed greet them. In fact, I was ushered away along with my mother and grandmother. We listened to music with a higher volume than usual. The plan that the men ultimately devised was to avenge Amanda’s death, protect all the other wives, and send a message. Stacey wasn’t going to turn himself in and he wasn’t going to allow this to happen again in our town. Corrupt officers and guards were their targets.

One by one the officers either met their fate or escaped it by Stacey’s decision. People died, people lived, but the one thing that was revealed through Stacey’s and Carson’s form of interrogation was the truth. Amanda arrived that morning and reported to the kitchen for her cooking duties. There a guard approached her to have her cell searched. Even though she didn’t sleep at the jail she was assigned a cell. While Amanda watched her cell being tossed she was shown a joint that was found in her mattress. From their 3 officers and 4 guards sat her down and began questioning her about the joint. Obviously, it wasn’t hers but it was the opportunity to question her and hopefully break her silence on her husband’s small criminal enterprise. The officers wanted to make a name for themselves and the guards wanted to move up in the ranks. They broke her silence when one of the officers punched her in the face and she fell to the ground. She screamed for help. From there every time she said that she didn’t know or wouldn’t answer she was kicked or punched and that was followed by her cries of pain and terror. After she was beaten unconscious, the guard took laces out of his boots and all 7 of the men involved tied her to the bars making it look like she killed herself. Sadly, Amanda was still alive when she was choked to death against the cold iron bars as the men stood and watched. All this happened when the prisoners were at breakfast. The slipped out of the cell like snakes and left her body to be found. Unfortunately, it was my father, Carson.

The guard learned before he was hung by Stacey, that Amanda had no knowledge of what Stacey was doing. He protected her and she thought that all the money earned was from his job in the oil field. Stacey took care of the finances so she had no reason to question it.  She was a devoted wife and mother and helped other’s whenever she could. Her friends were all of the women that were with the men that rode the bikes. The memories of these people live on in me. Amanda was a kind and gentle woman. My father, Carson helped Stacey in his need for revenge and justice. From day one to the last day, it took almost 2 years. Because Carson did bad things doesn’t make him a bad man. He did what needed to be done to bring decency to his friends’ wife, make it clear that the corrupt officers and guards need to be held accountable, and to protect his own family. Stacey never married again.


Jo/© thecreativeptsdgal.wordpress.com

Solitary Truth

A mystery is a subgenre of narrative fiction; often thought of as a detective story.There are a number of sub-genres within the broad category of mystery/detective/crime fiction. They overlap and are open to subjective interpretation. I’m not a fan of mysteries with the whole cop-whodunit scene. I don’t even like the good cop bad cop scenes. So I tried something different after doing a bit of research.


We all rarely seen the old woman out in town. We rarely saw her at all. The occasional sightings are when she’s in the local hardware store or at the grocery store to buy M&Ms. We never saw her buy meat, bread, fruits, or vegetables. She kept to herself in the house by the river with woods surrounding the structure at the end of town. She had honeysuckle growing wild which brought beautiful birds and butterflies but we never witnessed her outside enjoying them.  When she was outside it was to tend to her massive garden, fish in the river, or care for her mini orchard of the fruit-bearing trees.

Holidays she wouldn’t decorate and wouldn’t hand out candy. She wouldn’t go to town gatherings or parades. The elementary children thought her to be a witch and would be afraid to look her in the eyes.  Some adults thought she was the reason that people went missing in the town. She was even interviewed a couple of times by law enforcement as a last resort. I thought she was happy in her solitude until I had her go through my checkout line at the hardware store. Beep-fishing line, beep-lightbulbs, beep-nails, beep-vegetable seeds. ‘Is this all for you?’ Her eyes met mine and that’s when I witnessed a teary response. Was she sad? Was she thankful someone said something to her? She didn’t reply but paid for her items with gold coins. I haven’t seen those in a long time. I know that they make newer ones but these were the old coins. I asked for her to wait a minute as I spoke to the manager. ‘She pays with those because they are easier for her to count. Take however much you need and put them under the till. I exchange them at her bank the next town over. It’s the only bank that I find will take them.’ ‘Do you know anything about her? She doesn’t speak, she’s always alone, and today I think I made her cry,’ I said sadly. ‘No one really knows anything about her, she was one of the first people to live in the town.’

I took her coins and handed her bags over, ‘Have a good day,’  I said but she didn’t even turn to acknowledge my farewell. I left work that evening and decided to walk by the river on my way home. It was shorter and quieter since people think the old woman is cursed or does the cursing. The sound of the river was soothing until a sound of a massive current of electricity echoed through the woods. As if a transformer was being turned on for the very first time. As I walked past her house I noticed that she was flipping larget switches and lights were turning on around the house, through the woods, and by the river. It wasn’t just lighting up her house. ‘Hi,’ I waved over at her. She jumped and came over to where I was standing. ‘Hello, young lady.’ Her voice was soft and comforting. ‘You really need to get home before the sun finishes setting. I can’t help when the light is fully gone.’ I looked at her puzzled. ‘The sun has already set. It’s dark and now you’re lighting everything up.’ She begged. ‘Please get home, come see me tomorrow.’ I nodded and hurried home.

I couldn’t sleep that night and was at her house at first light. I thought I would wake her up but she was already on the river bank casting her fishing pole. ‘Good morning,’ I said timidly. ‘There’s a fishing pole against the tree that I have prepared for you. Come cast a line and see what happens.’ I grabbed the pole and noticed that there was already a fish on the hook.  I looked at her and she nodded for me to cast. I picked a spot and let loose the line. We both sat there is silence until my pole jerked. ‘You’re going to need to hold on, it’s going to be a big one,’ she said to me in a warning tone and about that time I was nearly pulled into the water. I look at her with a surprised-regretful look. She smiled and patted me on the shoulder. ‘It’s ok dear, at first I lost many poles after I lost my husband.’ She withdrew her rod and started walking towards her house. What did she mean about losing her husband and rods? She was married?

She opened the door for me to walk ahead of her in the house. She has a beautiful cottage style home. Her kitchen had a beautiful wood stove, wooden cabinets, and homemade bread dough rising on the back counter. ‘Sit down dear, I’ll tell you what you need to know.’ I sat down and she placed a teacup in front of me along with some homemade cookies. ‘My husband, Frank and I were the first to move to this town. He built this house with his own hands always reminding me that this is the perfect piece of land. He was excited to fish, garden, and live off the land. ‘Wow, how old are you?’ I instantly regretted the question. She smiled, ‘I’m old enough to watch this town grow from just a few settlers.’ ‘Settlers? The first settlers of the town arrived…’ I trailed off watching her sip her tea. ‘That means that you are..’ she interrupted. ‘I’m old enough to watch the town grow,’ she said slowly. I would like to show you how to survive this town and help others live there day to day lives. I’ve been protecting this town for decades. I’m getting tired and need to teach a young person. Someone who loves this town like I do and can handle being alone and misunderstood.’

I do like being left alone and I do love this small town. ‘What about my job?’ I couldn’t believe I was considering the proposal of learning whatever she was teaching. ‘This will be your job and you would never want for anything, ‘she said as she gestured at the surroundings. ‘Let me explain. When we settled here we thought we hit gold. The land was fruitful and no one around. We built our house and waited for neighbors but no one came. That’s when we learned of the secret the land held. The river is full of creatures that come on land as soon as the last glimmer of light is gone. Even though the sun is gone the last bit of light is gone 14 minutes after the set time. My husband and I learned this the 1st night we were here. We were able to set a fire which kept them at bay. We would fish for them and use them as fertilizer for our garden and trees. We thought after years of fishing they would be extinct. That night we didn’t light any fires. We sat outside enjoying tea and the stars when out of nowhere my husband was drug into the water. There was nothing I could do for Frank. I come from a long line of white witches and part of my promise was to protect this town and I cast a spell for me to live longer. Not be immortal but live long enough to fight these creatures. What I do know is that they live underwater and they breed faster than rabbits. All the missing person reports that you see are of people the creature took.’ I looked at her in disbelief. Before I could say anything she interrupted, ‘Go home and think about it.’

I was home before dark and I walked into an empty house. There was no life and no messages or voicemails, no plans, just me. I went to the internet and searched missing person reports for this town and discovered some that dated all the way back to the 1800’s. In those articles, I found a woman had been committed to a psychiatric hospital a town over for ranting about creatures from the water. I also found a picture of the town’s founders and our very own solitary woman that everyone judged was there, smiling. She was beautiful. The next morning I was over at her house. ‘I would love to protect this town but I would like to know one thing. What is your name?’ She smiled and gestured for me to enter the house, ‘my name is Elizabeth. Are you ready to make the transition?’ she asked. ‘I would be honored but I’m not a white witch and I don’t know how long I’ll live.’ I said. She sat down and clasped my hand, ‘My dear, when I said that you would inherit everything that includes my powers, the house, the money, my skills, and knowledge.’

Here I am, being judged as I’m buying fishing line 82 years later. The rumor is that the last hermit took me as her slave and now I’m looking for mine. Little do they know, my sacrifice keeps them and this town safe.

The Inked Talisman

ZZZZZZZZZZZ. I was hooked. It all started with me disobeying my husband. I wanted to feel the freedom of doing what I want and not what I was told. He hated tattoos and I knew he wouldn’t want anything to do with me but on the flip side of that same coin, I would be punished for being disobedient. I sat in the chair feeling nervous and anxious but the thrill and that buzzing. That thrill was something I never experienced before. I felt no pain from the needle just mesmerized by the image coming to life. No, no punishment ever came to me, well at least not that day. The tattoo, on the other hand, empowered me to do so much more and even protected me from my NOW ex-husband.

I now own 27 tattoos or they own me-I haven’t quite figured that out. They have the power to keep judgmental and negative people away while letting the light inside others meet me. They tell me the stories of other people without even exchanging a word. I learn about their hate, their passion, and their families. I know can tell if they are rotten to the core, made mistakes, or possess a memory they can take to their death. Truth is, even before you meet me, I’m already protected.


I used Discovers Daily Prompt: Talisman to give a little more information about myself. I do not post many pictures of myself for safety reasons but I am proud of my tattoos.

Words of Patience

I use to stare at the blank page trying to force the creativity out. Putting words on paper that can evoke emotions is more difficult than I realized. When I first starting writing I didn’t have any patience. I put the basic information into a program and Voila! A writer is born, or so I thought. I realized it takes time, practice and a lot of effort to even form a complete sentence.

My first story I wrote was even cringe-worthy to me and I immediately tossed it in the trash and myself on the bed to self-loathe. The table for one pity party was a constant dinner for about a week. I refused to open my laptop or even pick up a pen. Then one day after making dinner I remembered an idea that I had a year ago and slowly but surely I have been adding words to a page, building characters that I would love to meet, and a fictional situation with a touch of truth that I have even taken the time to research.

It was never me not being able to write. It was me not having the patience with myself to write. Now, I let the story grow and nothing is to be satisfied by instant gratification. I am now proud of my words because I took time to stare at the blank page and allow the subject the time to grow.


This really isn’t a short story but more of some truth about me. I can be a very impatient person. Having a busy schedule with kids, work, and my personal interests, sometimes it seems there isn’t an end in sight. The anxiety I have doesn’t help and the thought of being a failure can add to the tension. I’m learning and that’s all I can strive for.

April 28, 2017

 I feel like I have hit a wall. Not with my new blog but with my job and having PTSD. Luckily for me I had a Therapy session already scheduled and we had a plan to talk about my self criticism but I needed much more after experiencing the level of panic attack I have never achieved before. Yes, achieved is a positive spin on what’s going on in my head. I know the specific warning signs now and know how to get through it (and everyone else involved) in one piece.

My therapist noticed that I was rocking and wringing my hands and instead of asking me if I was OK (which is bothersome to me sometimes simply because people wouldn’t be able to understand the word vomit that would spew forth), he simply asked what was bothering me. This is a language I can understand and can’t shut it down with a simple, ‘fine’ or ‘nothing’. I explained in great detail and I came to an epiphany. Just because I feel something doesn’t make it true. Think about it, how many times have you felt like a failure and stayed in a repetitive cycle because your feelings felt were to be true? SO…this is something that I am now working on. FEELINGS ARE NOT GOSPEL – my mantra today.

I felt better after leaving but still felt like I had a monkey on my back. After sulking and replaying the events of the day that I had at work I realized I had another life changing decision to make: Do I keep going to a job I loathe with every part of my being, to quit? If I quit, do I do it 2 week notice style? Or do I deliberately try to get fired. Being in the career field that I am in, it’s competitive and unfortunately the younger you are, the less money you’ll work for and replace us dinosaurs.

P.S. I hate being an adult sometimes.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: