The first attempt of a cover design for my free digital StoryStarters (writing prompts) book due out in September.

Will add more details soon.

But does Rocky have anything for writers? You bet he does. Get ready to have some motivation knocked in to you. Take it to heart and you’ll have the publishers down for a ten count.

• Never give up, no matter the odds.

Getting published is hard. The odds are stacked against you. If you never give up and keep trying, it can happen.

• Keep training even when it seems you’re going nowhere

Rejections happen. You’ll write a lot and seem to be going nowhere at all. But the writing isn’t in vain. Each piece helps you hone your skills and move closer to your goal.

• You never know when your big break will come

Not only does it take skill to get published, but there is a little bit of luck involved as well. You never know when that one person who reads your story will be the one that likes it enough to take a chance on it.

• Know your competition

Know what others who write in your genre are writing. Discover what will set you apart from them. People take notice and you’ll come out on top.

• Keep your eye on the prize

Life happens. Things come up and get in the way. But to get published, you have to keep your eye on the prize. Dedication and determination is the difference between a published author and a writer.

These are just a handful of what I came up with. If you have any lessons Rocky can teach us about writing, please share them with us in the comments below.

Josh stood dead still, mimicking the statues surrounding him. Shadows bent, blending into the crevices of ancient stonework on the building in the center of the circle as they moved. The slight rustling of the snaking vines that enveloped the crypt was the only indication of their presence. Invisible guardians damned to Earth and charged with protecting the chalice for eternity.

A stagnant stench of decay hung in the air as he listened. His stomach knotted and he fought back the bile rising in his throat. The expedition watch on his wrist beeped as another hour passed and then silence once again.

“Rot” came the voice again, barely a whisper above the roar of nothing.

Josh remained frozen, waiting for the source of the voice before he dared move. He watched. He listened. His watch beeped again. Still there was nothing but him, the statues, the shadows and the crypt.

~

Josh explored the crevices of the ancient stonework for cracks that could be used for entry into the crypt. Snaking vines rustled as he brushed beneath them in his search. The passing of another hour was marked by the beep of the watch.

Movement outside the circle caught Josh’s attention. A man strode toward him, stopped and dropped his pack. He took a few steps forward, the fatigue on his face replaced with excitement in his eyes.

“Find the chalice and be spared the rot of humanity.” Josh whispered.

The man stood dead still, mimicking the skeletal statue with the watch next to him as he waited and listened. Josh began moving among the crevices, protecting the chalice resting within the crypt.

Inspired by a modified version of my own storystarters prompt:

The light fell on the ground in patches, splintered by the forest canopy above. It was like a disco ball for a party in Hell.

“Sure you wanna walk from here in this weather?”

“I’ve been gone for too long,” she said, taking a bill from her purse and passing it to the cab driver, “so I wouldn’t dream of passing up the opportunity.”

He rolled up the window and drove off as she turned back to the dirt lane ribboning its way off into the distance. The sweet fragrance of wild flowers in bloom tickled her nose, just like when she was a little girl. She giggled at the bright sheen of sweat on her skin thanks to the midday sun.

She clutched her purse to her chest, glad she decided against any other luggage. Unencumbered, she could reach the house in just over an hour even taking her time. There had been a storm the last time she walked it, so she was going to enjoy it. Skipping and humming, her first indulgence of such childish behaviour in twenty years, she set out down the long road home.

~~

He looked away from the television, surprised by the knock at the door. The dogs hadn’t barked and he hadn’t heard a car. Sighing, he glanced at the game and pushed up out of the recliner, setting his beer on the end table.

“Want me to get that?” came a woman’s voice from the kitchen.

“I got it,” he yelled as he stepped into the foyer. “Just get on with fixin’ supper.”

His drenched daughter stood dripping on the front porch. He peered around her, noting he’d been right about not hearing a car. He wasn’t sure where the dogs were, though.

“What did you do, walk up here?” He asked as she clutched her purse against her with both hands.

“Just like when I was a little girl.” She smiled, oblivious to being soaked to the skin.

“Come on in and I’ll get your mother.”

“No,” she blurted out, taking a step forward as he turned away. “Not yet. Can’t we have some special time, just the two of us, like we use to?”

He turned back, appreciating the way the fabric clung to her curves, and sneered as he looked her in the eyes. “So, ya decided ya wanted some more after all these years, did ya?”

“I just wanted to say thank you.” She dropped the bag and raised a pistol, levelling it at his face. “In the way you deserve.”

Thunder exploded as the gun fired. She let it drop, opened the shattered storm door, and stepped over the body.

She needed her mother to make everything right.

Thanks to @melissamurphy2 (Melissa Murphy) for the #storystarters prompt in bold at the beginning.

As writers, we want to be heard. We want people to sit up and pay attention to what we have to say, whether it is real or the fictional stories we weave together with our words. In short, we want to be read.

Traditionally, being read meant finding a publisher. Pique their interest enough and they would publish our stories. Then they would insure people read what we wrote. In today’s rapidly changing world of publishing, that is no longer the case. Not only do we have to work harder to get the attention of publishers themselves, we now have to entice readers both before and after we get published.

Welcome to the wacky, often confusing world of author platforms, social networking, and trying to get noticed. It’s a world full of contradictions at every turn. You need fans to help in getting published, but you really need to be published and read to get fans. You should tweet, facebook, and blog to get noticed and build a following, but you shouldn’t blatantly market yourself. You need to be vocal and active, but you shouldn’t do it so much so that you become annoying. Like I said—wacky and confusing!

As I set out to create my platform, following, fan base, or whatever you want to call it, I find myself trying to find balance. How much is enough to be heard and noticed without being too much and becoming social white noise to the world? How much can you talk before people stop listening? If they stop listening because of too much trivial chatter, they won’t be there to hear the important things when you say them.

As a writer, I think the only thing worse than not being heard/read is becoming white noise to those you want to hear you.

What are your thoughts? Can a balance be found? Or is it always a walk on the razor’s edge of too little or too much? I’d love to hear your opinions.

Photo: Wikimedia Commons CC License

____________________________________

The Skreem Jar

The old coffee can sat at the farthest reaches of the closet’s top shelf. It had been first neglected and then forgotten over the years. Eventually, it had been vanquished to the darkened depths like so many other childhood memories.

That’s where Lodan found it as he rummaged through the odd mixture of items making up his past—a past he had spent a long time trying to forget. He had never liked revisiting those years, yet there he was doing just that. His Aunt’s call had finally compelled him to set aside those troubled times and go to his fathers house to get what he wanted before it was too late.

Stretching, Lodan grasped hold of the can and pulled it into the light. The deep purple paint still looked the same as when he brushed it on. Memories began slithering back into his mind as his fingers traced the silver letters so painstakingly written in a child’s printing.

There were two simple words—Skreem Jar.

It had been his mother’s idea. As a child, he had been blessed with an unlimited imagination that had often gotten him into trouble. The days had been bad, but nothing compared to the nights. It was then, when he found himself alone in his room, that it happened. There in the silent darkness, terrifying creatures had been born from his mind.

They had sprung forth from their hidden world night after night to torment him. Most of the times until the first rays of sun shone through the bedroom’s single window. It had been because of them that he woke screaming all hours of the night. And it had been for that reason he had so often found himself on his father’s bad side.

One particularly bad night had seen his father make four trips into his room. Lodan could still remember the vicious words his father had spoken. ‘You’re nothing but a sorry little coward! Scream one more time and you’ll really have something to be scared of.’

Even though terrified of his father’s threat, he had still screamed more. His mother had made three more visits before sunrise. Each time she had responded to his cries of terror, she had stayed with him until he calmed and had drifted off to sleep again. And then the next morning she had told him about the Skreem Jar.

She had explained that monsters thrived on fear, and that every time he screamed, they grew more real. If a person were to take away the screams, they would lose their power. When he had asked her how to do that, she had replied with the single most ingenious thing he had ever heard in his young life. ‘Capture your screams in a jar and lock them away there.’ Lodan had known that along with them, locked away would be the myriad army of creatures that danced within his room each night.

He had begun to gather the necessary items to make the Skreem Jar after he was finished with breakfast. He had run into problems right away—there hadn’t been a jar suitable to use to be found in the entire house. Seeing his disappointment, his mother had emptied the coffee from a three pound can and gave it to him. After she had assured him it would work just as well, Lodan had gathered up some paints and brushes and headed off to his room to set to work.

Everything rested in the project, so he had made sure to take his time with it. The next few hours had seen him putting all the care and detail into it he could. By mid-afternoon he had finally finished and he packed it into the kitchen where his mother was baking cookies. Lodan held it out for her to take and give her approval.

Taking it, she had studied it carefully, paying close attention to the effort he had put into it. Smiling, she had handed it back to him. ‘I’m sure this’ll do a fine job; it has to be the best I’ve ever saw.’ He had felt his small chest fill with a sense of pride, something he had only known from his mother. With a smile and, for once, no fear of the coming night, he had went about the rest of the day’s activities with the can in tow.

With the memories of that day so long ago still playing through his mind, Lodan sat on the bed he had spent so many nights in years earlier. The can resting in his lap, he stared at it.

That night there had been ten times shadowy forms visited him and as many times he had screamed. Each time though, it had been into the magical container. After each he had closed the lid as quickly as he could, trapping the scream inside. Each time, the creatures had slowly begun to dissolve away, disappearing into the inky blackness of the room. The creatures had never bothered him again—that was until the night of his fourteenth birthday.

A noise from the direction of the door drew Lodan back into the present, the past slipping back into the shadows for a few welcome moments. Watching the door open, he waited for his aunt’s plump figure to appear, but it wasn’t her that stood there in the hallway looking at him. The can clattered to the floor as Lodan sprang up from the bed, aware of where he was sitting and his father’s eyes upon him.

Turning and moving to the window, Lodan heard the quiet footfalls of his father as he entered the room. His aunt had said he was in the hospital, battling pneumonia. If he had known it was a trick to get him here, he wouldn’t have come. His mind raced as he refused to acknowledge the presence of the aged man. Lodan studied the perfectly maintained backyard and contemplated whether he could throw open the window and safely jump down to it.

“Just going to stand there with your back to me?”

Refusing to make a situation he didn’t want to be in easier, Lodan remained silent. Why hadn’t he called the hospital to confirm the story before coming? The bed creaked as his father settled onto it—Lodan cringed.

“You’ll have to talk to me sometime you know?”

“You’ll have to talk to me sometime you know?”

“I did when I got here.” His voice was calm, just like he felt. He knew his father all to well. No longer would he play into his traps.

Lodan continued to ignore his father as he studied the apple tree outside the window he had climbed as a child. That was until his father had come home from work and caught him in it one day and put an end to his fun. It wasn’t as big as he remembered it.

“Hello ain’t talking, it’s hardly even speaking.”

The sound of movement finally broke the drawn out silence filling the room. Lodan prayed his father had given up, but knew better. The bed squeaked for a moment and all was silent again.

The sound of movement on the bed finally broke the growing silence.

“You know you can’t blame me forever.”

Oh how wrong he was. Lodan looked over at the dresser lined with trophies and pictures. A layer of dust covered everything, even the book he had been reading that night. It lay there, unfinished, just as he had left it. Beside it stood the one thing he regretted not taking with him when he left. The picture of his mother was something he missed everyday.

Finally, he faced his father who was sitting on the edge of the bed. The purple and silver coffee can rested on his lap. Lodan felt a tingle travel up his spine when he noticed the fingers lying across the lid. It may not work any more, but he found himself frightened at the thought of the Skreem Jar being opened.

Unable to move or speak, fear rising within him like a flame fed fuel, Lodan stared at the tapping fingers. The rhythmic thumping grew quieter each time the pattern repeated and the room grew darker around him. Piece by piece, like dust in a whirlwind, his father began to disintegrate before him. His head, then his arms and torso, until finally all that was left was his feet. Lodan watched, still petrified by the terror gripping him, as the last bits dissolved. The particles rose and twisted like a reverse tornado toward the ceiling until gone and Lodan was alone.

The weight of the silence pressing on him, Lodan began gasping for breath. With effort he regained a resemblance of composure and noticed a movement to his left. He didn’t want to think about it and started to say he imagined it when he heard the noise. It was a sound that couldn’t be ignored. Scared to look, but too terrified not too, Lodan slowly turned and faced where it came from.

It was hard to see in the darkened room, but on the wall, there was a large gash. As dark as a black hole against the fabric of space. It had the same effect too, pulling him toward the event horizon. He stared into it’s depths, and something stared back. Three sets of eyes aglow in ice blue flames locked onto him and he reeled backwards. The bed blocked his escape and he fell hard into it’s swallowing embrace.

Curling himself into a fetal position, Lodan felt tears well up in his eyes and he closed them tight. He heard himself whimpering, feeling like the child he had been thirteen years ago. It was the same way that night. Helpless and pathetic, unable to do anything. The jar had failed him after all, and nothing could help him. He had covered his head with the sheets and prayed. But no one answered.

The creatures were back, back from wherever they had been while locked away in the Skreem Jar. And they were not happy. He felt the vengeful thoughts in their minds. He heard the scraping laughter that escaped from the throats that were like human garbage disposals. And he knew this time there wasn’t going to be an escape. This time they would drag him back to whatever hell they were born from and no one would ever see or hear from him again.

That’s when he heard the screams from down the hall. His mothers screams. Where they after her too? He wanted to run to her and protect her, but he stayed hidden beneath the covers. They didn’t like adults, didn’t want to carry them away, so she was safe. Scared yes, but not in danger. But if they were in his parents room, he could get the Skreem Jar from where it rested in the closet. Maybe he could be ready for them when they returned and recapture them. So slowly and cautiously, he peeked from the covers.

The room was empty, giving him his chance. Slipping from the covers, his bare feet hit the carpet and he began to sneak toward the closet. One step, two steps. So slow he was sure the things would return before he accomplished his goal. Step after step, he got closer. The closet was just a arms-length away.

The scream made him jump, it was so close. Turning toward the bedroom door, he saw his mother fall into view. She hit the floor hard, face twisted in terror as she screamed, and she clawed at the carpet. Lodan could only see the upper part of her, but something began to drag her back toward their room. The laughter could be heard above her cries, and he knew they had her. Help me, Lodan! Please! Good God, don’t let them it take me! He heard her begging as he ran to the closet and began to blindly grab for the jar, wherever it was. And then all was silent.

His heart stopped at the same moment his mothers screams ceased. Standing motionless, the Skreem Jar forgotten for the moment, Lodan looked toward the empty doorway. Images of her trying to keep from being dragged back down the hall filled his mind. And it was his fault, all of it, because of his fear of the monsters. They had escaped from the prison he had created, and now she was having to pay for telling him the secret of their power. He knew they were out for vengeance, and the price for those years would be high, he felt it.

Without so much as a second thought, Lodan left his bedroom and stepped into the deserted hallway. Looking first left, then right, he began to make his way toward his parents room as fast as he dared. His mother had been dragged down this very hall, and, he guessed, into the open door that lay just a few feet further in front of him. Cautiously, he peered around and into the barely lit room. The open closet door was the first thing he noticed, and then his father rising from the side of the bed. Lodan burst into the room at the sight of him.

“Where is she at?” His eyes darted around the room, stopping on the closet, and then turning back toward his father. You let them take her, didn’t you?” His voice rose in anger as he realized she really was gone.

The fear of the monsters was replaced by fear for his mother now, and that was all Lodan could think about. He didn’t realize the rise in his voice until his father slapped him across the mouth.

“You keep your voice down, young man. Don’t even dare take that tone with me.”

The sudden slap shocked Lodan, and he stood staring at his father. No matter what happened, Lodan knew his father hadn’t been able to stop them. He had let them come right through the room, dragging his mother into the darkened depths of hell. He wanted to blame his father, but deep within his mind, he knew if it wasn’t for him, there would be no need for his mother to need saving.

That thought burrowed it’s way deeper and deeper into his brain. He felt tears streaming down his cheeks as ‘It’s your fault’ echoed within his head. It grew louder the longer he stood there. At last, it reached a fevered pitch and seemed to come from both inside and outside of him. The room filled with the words, causing his ears to hurt. Then Lodan’s head snapped around.

“It’s your fault!” His fathers voice bellowed as he held onto Lodan with one hand and struck him a second time with the other. “If it wasn’t for you, this would’ve never happed, you little fuck!”

Lodan fell to register the pain of the repeated blows to his face. It was his fault, he knew it and his father knew it too. She was gone now because of him. The tears ran from his eyes, down his face, mixing with the bright red of blood from his mouth. Lodan at last felt the sting of the hand as it landed on his cheek. In that moment between being numb and full of guilt then the feeling of pain, he realized it. His father was the one who had the opportunity to save her, yet he hid by the side of the bed while it all took place. It was both their faults.

The hand drew back once more, and as it fell toward him yet again, Lodan became fully aware. Without warning, and with more strength than he knew he had, he yelled and lunged forward. He planted his hands on his fathers chest and forced him backwards. The mixture of blood and tears continued to run down his face as Lodan pushed his father toward the bed. At last, he felt them start to tumble down as his fathers legs hit the edge of the bed. The grip he had on Lodan failed, and taking the opportunity, Lodan fled from the bedroom.

Bursting into the hallway, Lodan thought about it being the last place he ever saw his mother. His legs carried him down the length of it to the top of the stairs, and with a few leaps, he was at the bottom of them. He had no true idea what he was doing, but he made his way through the furniture and threw himself against the front door. At first, it wouldn’t budge, but then it gave and he threw it open, rushing through it out into the cool night.

It had been the last time he had stepped a foot into the house. That night seemed both an eternity and a second ago. Shaking the last of the memories from his mind, he found his father staring at him. It was eerily like that night, but now he sat on the edge of Lodan’s bed, holding the Skreem Jar on his lap. Lodan watched the fingers drum across the lid, and screamed. Launching himself across the room, he tackled his father just as he tried to stand in surprise.

Lodan landed hard against his father, knocking him back onto the bed as he tried to stand to defend himself. A flurry of fists and blows ensued, and Lodan realized the old man was stronger than he appeared to be. The few solid ones were powerful, yet Lodan’s built up anger and  fear made them mostly unnoticeable. He concentrated mainly on getting the Jar, delivering a few good hits of his own as he did so.

His father was still formidable, no doubt, and Lodan struggled for the Skreem Jar. The coldness of the metal tingled beneath his fingers with an almost icy heat. It was so close, yet so far away. Bracing himself, he wrapped both hands around it, trying to withstand the leaden fists of his father as he did so. With one last great effort, he pulled back as hard as he could and fell off the bed backwards.

The realization of what had happened struck him as he landed hard against the carpeted floor. The wind  was forced from his lungs in a hard gasp between his clenched teeth. Raising his arm and looking at what he held in his hand, a feeling of horror washed over him. The plastic lid of the old coffee can was the only thing he held. He jerked his eyes up to the bed, where his father was trying to stand, holding the open can in his hands.

Lodan pushed himself up with his hands, scooting backwards toward the wall behind him as his father stood. The old childhood terror was back, back with all it’s hellish power. The Skreem Jar looked innocent enough, with it’s purple paint and silver letters, but he knew it’s true nature. His back found the wall as he tried to escape and he sat trembling against it. His father stood towering over him, the can held out before him.

“This damn can was the start of the whole thing! You and your cowardly ways!” Lodan could feel the cutting of his fathers words, just like he had as a child. That was one more thing that hadn’t changed. “This is what’s responsible for your mother being gone!”

Again, Lodan felt the guilt of her loss. The can was the reason they took her, he had made it, and he was why she had told him about it. His nights of screaming at those imaginary monsters. Only thing was, they had turned out to be more real than anyone thought.

As his father looked down at him with disgust, Lodan noticed a wisp of smoke beginning to rise from the opened Skreem Jar. The shaking seized hold of him even more severely, and he watched the black tendrils as they curled into the air and floated across the room. They began to gain a form somewhere between solid and spectral. It was the fist time he had ever seen them outright, not from the depths of the darkened closet, and he still was unable to really look at them. Then, the fact his father was talking registered in his brain.

“If you wouldn’t have screamed so, this wouldn’t have ever happened. You caused me to lose your mother. Now you have to pay for that.”

Lodan pressed himself harder against the wall, waiting for whatever thing may happen. He had known his fathers feelings for him since he was a child, so he was only mildly shocked at this turn of events. The two things from the closet, released from the can, began to move toward him. He closed his eyes and waited. Then he heard a gasp from his father.

Daring to look, Lodan seen the forms turn on the man he had called his father. A man he had always wondered about. They began to tear at him, shredding him to pieces of flesh that turned into black whispers of smoke in the air. He watched as what had been his father floated toward the closet, returning to the place he had seen him so many times before. The two monsters followed close behind, escorting back one of their own. Jumping to his feet, Lodan grabbed the Skreem Jar, holding the open top toward his mouth, he screamed as loud as he could.

The three monsters from the closet swirled into a great cloud and rushed toward the Skreem Jar. As they entered into it, Lodan closed the lid onto it. His father was now where he’d always known he had belonged.

Photo by dunikowski

Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic License

StoryStarters Title Day Transcript

Due to the overwhelming success and interest in simple access to the #StoryStarters added during Genre Week, I’ve decided to make a .pdf transcript available. If you don’t have it, you will need to download Adobe Reader to view it. The transcript is broken down into sections for each genre, and each genre is instantly accessible through a menu at the top.

Enjoy the Genre Week #StoryStarters and I hope some of them inspire your muse! Click the link below to view the .pdf transcript.

StoryStarters Genre Week Transcript