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Is Genre Important?

I think we’ve all wondered, at some point during our creative journey, if genre is important. We question if fantasy sells better, if post-apocalyptic is hot this season, if memoirs win more awards, if our genre – the one we love and consider mastering – is worth pursuing. So, let me just clear this up today. This is a personal statement. I am in no way claiming my thoughts are based on a rule, and I’m speaking from my belief: personally, I don’t think genre is important. What brought me to this conclusion? Why – why I write.

Genre isn’t important, because I’m not trying to be the next bestseller. Now, I’m not saying it’s wrong to want to be the next bestseller. Heck, if that’s your goal, go for it – I’ll cheer you on! But, personally, my goal isn’t to write the next hit novel. I have no plans to craft what the majority of people want to read. My goal is to write what is meaningful to me and what I think is important to share. And if I end up being a bestseller along the way, that’s a bonus! If not, it makes no difference in my authoring career. I’m still going to write what I want to write.

Genre isn’t important, because I’m also not trying to win any awards or competitions. Again, if that’s your goal, please don’t take any offense at my personal statement. I know what type of a writer I am – far from literary and a fan of simplicity. And through my past experiences, writing for awards and competitions, I’ve found myself pretending. Well, it feels like it – it feels like I’m ditching my voice and writing to suit the preference of another. And I know… that’s not me. That’s not how I write. Though there’s nothing wrong with challenging myself and writing outside of the box, I don’t enjoy doing so for the sake of winning. Personally, it doesn’t feel right. And, well, it’s just not fun – it kind of feels like work.

Genre isn’t important, because it doesn’t fit my writing goals. But of course, the same cannot be said for you. Perhaps your goal is different. Or, perhaps, you’ve yet to find your genre.

If you’ve yet to find your genre, I encourage you to try them all. Play around with bildungsroman, attempt a crime (story), and dive into satire. Don’t limit your ability to be creative just because science fiction is gaining traction, or because zombie novels are adapted into movies. Find your genre by exploring them. But more importantly, know why you write.

Steven Furtick once said that if you have a strong ‘why’, the ‘what’ doesn’t matter. What genre you’re writing doesn’t matter if your why is the force behind it. So, if you’re questioning your choice, I encourage you to uncover the reason behind your passion. If your reason is to win awards, then write to win awards. If your reason is to be the next J.K Rowling, then write to become a bestseller. If your reason is to inspire, then don’t let anyone tell you to write otherwise. And if your reason is purely for entertainment – because you love writing – then don’t be ashamed, just write!

In the big picture, genre pales in importance. Yes, it’s a facet of writing. But, it doesn’t make a masterpiece. It’s the pastel in the background – the base on your canvas. The real art are the strokes on top – the story that stands out and makes a statement. Your story holds greater value – it is your artwork and skill that sells by the millions, not your chosen base colour. So don’t focus on the genre. A good story can be written in any setting, but a bad story finds no success even under a popular label. It is what you say that matters most. And you can’t say anything substantial without a solid why.

 
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Posted by on July 20, 2017 in Writing Journey

 

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Cuckoo | Eldritch | Serendipity

“I learned a new word today – eldritch,” I said.

“What’s that – German?” he replied, with eyes glued to the mobile device in his hand.

“No, it means sinister.”

“Oh. In German?”

“No, in English.”

“Well, it sounds German to me.”

“What do you know?” I retorted. He shrugged.

He didn’t spare me a glance, as his fingers tapped on the screen deploying troops around an enemy camp.

“You’re supposed to company me, not play your silly game,” I stated.

“Read your book or something – learn more words,” he simply replied.

“Why are you even here?” I muttered. He shrugged again.

Grunting, I reached for Homer’s opus. It wasn’t my first read – I’d completed the acclaimed author’s oeuvre a week after my arrival. But in the wake of my disease, the book now sat fragile by my bedside table. And soon enough, its spine would give way – just like mine.

“I need a new book,” I stated, as I carefully pried the cover open.

“Same book?” he asked.

“Same.”

“I’ll tell the others.”

“Great – that’s the only thing you’re good for,” I said. As his habitual response, he shrugged once more.

He was immune to my unkind observations – he simply didn’t care. In fact, he didn’t want to be here. He clocked in once a week out of obligation. And I wish, oh how I wish, I could shoo him away – sparing us both the agony. Unfortunately, neither of us had a say. It was the vote of the majority to keep me company. The others thought it was fair to share the burden – the burden of my existence. So, there he was, scheduled to linger by my side all day.

“When’s the doctor coming?” he asked. “I’m supposed to report back.”

“Soon. But the doctor isn’t going to tell you anything,” I replied.

My doctor was a gentle, middle-aged woman, who’d yet to disclose the diagnosis of my illness. I, myself, wasn’t even made privy. And truthfully, I didn’t want to know. Still, it was funny how the others insisted on knowing. Everyday they would attempt to unearth the truth, and everyday they would fail.

“Nevertheless, I have to try. The others will ask if I did,” he said.

“Then put your phone down – she’s here,” I replied.

On schedule, in white robes pressed creaseless, my doctor strolled into my room. She wore a pleasant smile – one I’m certain was genuine. Seeing as she’d arrived, my Thursday companion shoved his phone into his pocket.

“What were you playing?” my doctor asked.

“Some game,” he replied.

“What’s it called? I’d like to give it a go,” she said.

“You won’t like it.”

“How would you know? I like games.”

“So you’ve said, one too many times.”

“Don’t be rude,” I snapped. And he shrugged.

My doctor merely held her smile, as she took a seat to my right – across from him. I was glad she sat across the others. I didn’t want them to hurt her. Among them all, she was the only person who cared beyond her own intentions.

“So, how are you today?” she asked.

“I learned a new word.”

“What word?”

“Eldritch. And apparently, it isn’t German.”

“No, it’s not.” She chuckled. “I learned a new word too – serendipity.”

“You didn’t know the word ‘serendipity’?”

“I did, but not its meaning. Do you know what it means?”

“I guess – I’m not sure.”

“It defines as finding something pleasant by chance. Have you found something pleasant by chance?”

“No.”

“Would you like to find something pleasant by chance?

“The diagnosis.”

“You know I cannot tell you that.” My doctor leaned forward with an apologetic gaze.

“Why not?”

“Because the truth is scary.”

“I’m not a child, doctor.”

“But Jane is a child.”

My doctor had a point – some truths weren’t for children. Who could guess the cause of nondisclosure was Jane? Perhaps she was why we weren’t told all these years.

“Jane wouldn’t need to know.”

“Do you think she won’t find out?”

“We won’t tell her.”

“But what if the others slip up?”

“Do you plan to keep it from us forever?”

“No, I don’t. Let me speak to Jane first, and then we can move forward.”

That day wasn’t the first day my doctor asked for Jane. Unfortunately, Jane wasn’t assigned a day. My doctor never spoke to Jane, because the wide-eyed, bubbly girl, never visited me. The others claimed she was too young – that it would upset her to see me bedridden. Yet, my doctor thought otherwise.

“You can’t speak to Jane.”

“Jane is the key to recovery. You shouldn’t keep her away.”

“Jane is a child. She cannot do anything.”

“You underestimate her.”

“You don’t know Jane.”

“Tick tock, tick tock,” my doctor said.

“Huh?”

“I’m a little cuckoo clock,” she continued.

It sounded like a tease. Strangely, there was a familiarity that came with the seemingly random phrase.

“Tick tock, tick tock,” my doctor added.

“What-”

“Now I’m chiming one o’clock.”

“I don’t…”

“Cuckoo.”

As though it was a spell, my world plummeted into darkness. Someone flipped the switch in my universe – it was the rhyme. The nursery rhyme. Still, not all my senses were lost – I could hear them… for the first time.

“Doctor?”

“Yes, Jane.”

“Tell me the truth,” Jane said.

“Do you think you’re ready?” my doctor asked, in a loving, motherly manner.

“Yes. But you have to hurry.”

“Why?”

“The others don’t know I’m out.”
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Cuckoo, eldritch, and serendipity were words given by The Shameful Narcissist. As someone who’s often curious about split/multiple personality disorder, those three words were an immediate prompt. So forgive me if this one is a little dark.

Now, it’s your turn. I challenge you to use this same three words to write a piece of your own. Please refrain from taking my route – it would be a bigger challenge to craft an uplifting tale. And, if you have 3 words you’d like me to string into a story, be sure to leave them in the comment section below!

*To download the banner, left-click then right-click to save.

3 Words, 1 Story © 2017 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.

(Click HERE for a list of stories in this writing challenge.)

 
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Posted by on July 13, 2017 in Original Works

 

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3 Ways To Crush A Writer’s Block

Currently, I’m working on the second book of my trilogy. And as I’m trying my best to tie up book one and prepare for book three in this middle book, I find myself struggling to keep the story exciting. In fact, closing one adventure while prepping for another has never been this difficult. Of course, I knew writing a trilogy wasn’t going to be easy. A trilogy is a huge commitment and requires more layering than stand-alone novels. However, I didn’t expect to hit a block barely midway into the series. It’s frustrating. I’m tired. But I need to get it done! So to get past this stage, I’ve been practicing 3 things. Hopefully, these 3 things would help you too… should you be in a similar predicament. After all, stuck is the worst place any writer can be in.

#1 Vocalise Ideas

Personally, I find that voicing my ideas help me generate more ideas. The more I say them out loud, the easier it is to fix and improve them. Yes, I know how talking to myself makes me look. No, I’m not crazy. In fact, I voice my daily thoughts more frequently than I should. But off late, I’ve been internalizing my ideas. I’ve been keeping them boxed, that they’ve gone stale. Realising this, I decided to give them some fresh air – bouncing them off my room wall, behind closed doors. And lo and behold, a plot twist recently hit. So, if you’re not already monologuing, I suggest you give it a go. You never know what crazy idea would come your way, simply by acting a little mad.

#2 Dive Into Similar Works

Disclaimer: I’m not promoting plagiarism. You should never copy someone’s work. But, there’s nothing wrong with drawing inspiration from others.

As my trilogy is about a young king, set in a medieval world of magic, I’ve been diving into similar works of its genre. I’ve been watching countless historical dramas, to grasp palace politics while exposing myself to old world architecture. Because I cannot travel back in time and work as a palace maid, it’s impossible for me to write a story based on my experience. Hence, the only way for me to gain perspective is to embrace the works of others’.

I seek to be inspired by parallel worlds – to see it play out before my eyes, and to live vicariously through works of fiction. And not only do these stories oil the gears of my own, I’m left thoroughly entertained too.

#3 Run Head First

I’ve probably mentioned this before. Wait, I believe I’ve mentioned it before. But, I’ll say it again: to get a story moving is to write it. A story cannot write itself and it needs us to finish it. So despite the herculean block, shadowing us from the finish line, we have to charge forward. We have to crush that block by writing the most horrendous chapters. Yes, you’ll need to rewrite them. And yes, you’ll want to weep at the horror of your own words. Trust me, I know. But thankfully, those words have been written – you can go back and fix them, because they’ve been written. So run head first. Charge at the wall. It’ll hurt, but the pain is worth the finish line.

As I strive to complete my book this year, I hope you endeavour to finish your own projects too. We’re all on the same boat, navigating the rough waves. But no matter what comes our way, we’re the authors of our stories and we have the power to bring them to an end. No block is too big for an author to overcome. And knowing this, there’s no stopping us.

 
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Posted by on June 29, 2017 in Writing Journey

 

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What To Do When No One Believes In You

Have you ever felt like the world has abandoned you?

The sudden isolation – a wave of nothingness – in a sea of hopes and dreams. Where you – a fragile yet polished porcelain – are about to tip over the edge of reality. You’re seemingly alone, and not a soul stands beside you. Those pillars of support, you’ve once leaned on, now crumble into non-existence.

What do you do?

Your dreams are in question – you’ve invested your heart and soul, yet no one seems to believe in you… anymore. Those who once cheered you on, now mum in your latest feats. Yes, you know you should believe in yourself. You know your passion will keep you going. But alone is not how you wish to continue. Alone is scary. Alone is where you fight your demons, face the dragons, and slay the beasts, without aid – without a trusted companion. You will not die in your battles, no. But you will have to make more strikes, draw more arrows, and crash in sheer exhaustion.

Where are they – the ones who’d go on this quest with you?

They are there. They have lifted their blades once, and they will lift them again for you. But not today. Because today, it’s your turn – to charge alongside another warrior in their own quest. Today is your turn to be a moral support, to cheer and raise your voices, and to stand by someone who needs your help. Today, you’re part of the infantry. Tomorrow, you lead the battle.

Often times, we’re caught in our own ambitions that our passion becomes our only focus. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that. Your dreams are important, and you should always go after them. But when our sight is centred on just us, our peripheral is blurred. And when we don’t see others standing in the centre with us, we start to feel alone.

In reality, we’re not alone. In reality, there are others lingering in our peripheral – chasing their own dreams. By taking our eyes off ourselves, we’ll begin to see those around us. We’ll begin to see how they’re always there for us. And we’ll begin to realise they need us too.

What do you do when no one seemingly believes in you? You believe in others.

Call it reverse psychology, or whatever you want, but the subject isn’t the other person – the subject is us. We don’t need to convince others to believe in us, because they already do. But by actively believing in others, we’re no longer alone. And don’t worry, we don’t have to give up our own pursuits to be a support. We can still run after the stars while we pace with others.

Personally, I endeavour to support those around me as best as I can. Writing this post is, somewhat, a give back to all those lovely comments I’ve received. Though I may not be able to always support financially, I’ll use my words as reinforcements. Because, as you and I both know, a little goes a long way on this road of dreams. And as much as we don’t want to walk alone, so do others.

So, let’s be a sturdy pillar to those around us. Let’s put our faith in someone’s crazy aspiration. And let’s embark this arduous journey as a team. It isn’t impossible to achieve greatness alone, but together… we make it easier.

 
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Posted by on June 22, 2017 in Writing Journey

 

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Guitar | Bittersweet | Condescending

Bittersweet – the kind I like.

“Have a piece. It’ll calm the nerves,” she said, gently pushing the box of chocolates toward me.

I hesitated. The thin pieces, wrapped in translucent plastic, inclined along the grooves of the package. I doubted it calmed the nerves, but chocolate was a luxury these days. Still, I hesitated.

“No thank you,” I replied.

“Are you worried?” she asked. “Don’t worry. We’ll be there with you.”

She gracefully strode to my side – her long, white robe trailing behind her. Hands clasped together by her waist, she gave a pleasant smile. Unfortunately, it was devoid of my needed assurance. Yes, they would all be there – the elders, as they call themselves. But these people, with their glorified title, would be standing behind me – far from any range of fire.

“I know,” I merely replied.

“Nobody will harm you,” she added. “Remember, you’re the chosen one – the son of man. You speak the truth, and the people will listen.”

Such blasphemy. How did this happen?

All I wanted was to live. And there I was, about to give the last speech of my life. I knew the odds. In this so-called revolution, there were those who’d give their lives to save the world. Some would shed their blood to protect mine, while others would shed theirs to have mine. But I wasn’t one of them – not on the ruling end, and never on the opposition. I merely sought to preserve my life. Being the chosen one was supposed to save me – at least, that was what he said.

“You have the mark. Do you know what this means?” he asked.

“It’s a scar. I fell off my bike when I was a kid.”

“Nobody’s going to ask you how you got it. They just want to believe you exist. And you do.”

“So what, you think I should be the chosen one?”

“Hell yeah. Do you actually think you’ll survive this? When they start cutting the population, you’ll be the first to go – just saying. You have no talent, you’ve not held a job for more than a month, and you’re empty, up there,” he said, poking my head.

He was my friend, yes – a friend who was, more often than not, condescending. And as his friend, I was immune to his candid vocabulary. Sadly, little can be said about others. If only he kept his mouth shut, he would still be alive.

“Imagine what you’ll have as the chosen one. They’ll put you up in a mansion. Feed you food you cannot afford, even before all this. And you know what, I’m sure if you ask them for anything, they’ll give it to you,” he added.

“And what if they find out I’m not the chosen one? What then?”

“You die. But you’re going to die anyway,” he joked.

I thought he joked. I thought he joked about everything, until they came knocking on my door.

The day after our chat, he left in the early morning, claiming he needed to fix his guitar. I didn’t find it odd. He’d been practicing Chopin’s Marche Funebre for days – I thought it natural for the instrument to finally give way. Little did I know, he’d went ahead with a plan we never discussed.

“They’re here!” he announced, hurrying to let the devil in.

I wasn’t a religious person, but I knew to not give the devil a foothold. Instantly, as those black-suited men entered my safe haven, a wave of dread swept over me. And since then, I’ve tried to stay positive. I’ve tried to survive.

When they put me through a physical exam – scrutinizing the scar on my heel – I hoped to be excused as not-the-chosen-one. I hoped they’d see how ridiculous it was to make such vague claims about the saviour. Alas, nothing went as I imagined.

When they provided me a tutor – teaching me their crooked doctrine – I prayed they would see my incompetence. I prayed someone else would declare himself God and take my place. Alas, no one had a friend as brazen as I did.

When they prepared me to be their leader – bribing me with the splendor of my supposed calling – I wished it was all a dream. I wished to wake in my dingy bedroom, free from their unyielding grasp. Alas, reality was a harsh wake-up call.

Now at the fringe of death, made to declare my own sovereignty – of which I, myself, didn’t believe in – I wanted to live. I wanted to run. Alas, I was ushered out the door, into the velvet carpeted hallway, and up a stage set before an audience. They weren’t all friendly – I could see it in their eyes. And as I cleared my throat before the single microphone, I attempted one last time to survive.

“Please,” I said. “Help me.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Guitar, bittersweet, and condescending were words given by lielabigail, allowing me to write another open-ended story. Don’t you just love this kind of fiction? I joke. But I won’t lie, making readers question the end makes writing so much more fun.

Now, it’s your turn. I challenge you to use this same three words to write a piece of your own. Also, if you could give me more sets of words below, we can save the world. I cannot do this writing challenge without you. So please… help me.

*To download the banner, left-click then right-click to save.

3 Words, 1 Story © 2017 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.

(Click HERE for a list of stories in this writing challenge.)

 
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Posted by on June 15, 2017 in Original Works

 

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The Perfect Timing

I believe in the perfect timing. And I encourage you to do the same.

In 2003, I began my writing adventure. I was thirteen, and a horrible writer. In 2011, I wrote my first novel. I launched my book on my 21st birthday, and never did/never will cover the cost of that project. In 2015, my first professionally published novel hit bookshelves. I thought it would change my life. But on a monumental level, it did not. Counting the years, it has been awhile since I started. But am I where I dreamt I’d be in the start? No. Will my time come? I believe so. When? I don’t know.

It’s easy to throw in the towel whenever dreams and goals don’t come to past. Why? Because we live in a world where everything is accessible with a snap of a finger. We’re accustomed to the promptness, that our patience has ebbed. And when we don’t see our dreams realising one year, two years, three years down the road, we call it quits. With the lack of patience, we give up on the most important things in life – we fail to realise, that the things that matter, don’t run with earth’s timeline. And with that ignorance, we move on… never achieving what we initially set out to achieve.

I’m no stranger to the thoughts of giving up. In high school, I loved writing. But because I didn’t win any short story competitions, I thought I wasn’t good enough. And yes, I wasn’t – I wasn’t good enough. So, I stopped writing stories and went into poetry. But if I kept writing – practicing and honing the craft – I could’ve been good enough, and perhaps be better than I am today. Due to the lack of immediate results, in an era of instant gratification, I questioned my passion. But thankfully, I decided to try again. And since then, I’ve learned to be patient – to trust in the perfect timing.

I know it’s scary to put faith in something we cannot see. Time is not physical, and the concept of the perfect timing could actually take decades to materialise. Heck, we might not even live to see its arrival. In this case, ignorance isn’t bliss. However, such ignorance holds the power of believe.

Passion is driven by believe – without believe, there’s no passion. But believe requires the metaphysics of time. It is of this world, but doesn’t abide by worldly laws of seconds, minutes, and hours. Hence believing in our dreams – constantly fanning our passion – can only be achieved by faith in the perfect timing, where dreams come to past and where lives are changed.

If you want to achieve your dreams, you have to believe – even if it takes years, even if you don’t see the results in your youth, even if it only presents itself generations later – there’s a perfect timing for everything. And as ignorant, laughable, and foolish as it may be – to have such a conviction – it is worth the lifetime.

 
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Posted by on June 1, 2017 in Writing Journey

 

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Shampoo | Tiles | Shadows

There I was, hunched over the sink for a quick wash. It had been weeks since I left the office, and the only time I was ever alone involved lemon-scented shampoo. Unfortunately, such bliss was consistently short-lived. Just as I turned the squeaking tap off, the restroom door slammed open.

“He’s ready, chief,” my corporal reported.

Tossing my towel at the small-framed man, I crossed my fingers and stalked straight for the interrogation room. I had hope it was the end. That case had gone on for too long – those gruesome bodies and their weeping families – it was time to put it all to rest, as it should’ve been years ago.

“No more games,” I said.

“I was never playing one,” he replied.

“Good. So let’s get to it.”

A man in his mid thirties, with a healthy physique, and a head full of hair – dyed to conceal his premature aging – he mirrored the ordinary. But beneath the average and harmless facade was a monster. I had proof he’d stabbed and numbered his victims over the last fifteen years. And for the first time, I’d caught him.

“Do you plead guilty to the murder of-”

“I didn’t do it,” he casually interrupted, sliding into a comfortable position on his chair.

“You didn’t do it?”

“Without reason. I didn’t do it… without reason, detective. You’ll thank me if you knew.”

I frowned. I entered with intentions of withholding emotions, but that proved more difficult than expected. For one, I had an urge to knock his teeth loose – the devoid of remorse was provoking. But the first to lose their cool would lose the game. And I wasn’t going to lose again.

While I thought of a response to spur a direct confession, my antagonist straightened himself. Leaning forward, he added, “They were bad people, detective. All of them.”

“And that gives you a reason to kill?”

“A good reason.”

“Madeleine Matthews was a seven-year old math genius, about to change the world with her gift, before you brutally ripped her open. How was this child a bad person?”

“One day, she would be. Trust me, I know.”

“So you’ve decided to play god.”

“It’s all part of a greater plan, detective.”

“I see.” Done with the man’s crooked sense of justice, as it merely challenged my self-control, I went for the answer the nation needed to hear. “So, God, where are the other bodies?”

“What bodies?”

“Number three, five, six, nine, twelve, fifteen-”

“Not here.”

“I said, no more games,” I warned.

“I’m not playing any games, detective. They’re not here. You can search the whole country, and you’ll never find them… here.”

“I’m going to give you another chance. You either tell me now, or after I break every bone in your body.”

“Fine. Number three was sprawled on the bathroom tiles of his home in 1956,” he calmly replied. Apparently my threat made no difference, as he’d yet to lose his placid mien nor regain his sanity. “Number five was hung on a tree in a park in 2017. Number six-”

“Which park?”

“August, 2017.”

“I asked which park, not when.”

“It’s May, detective – it doesn’t matter which park. Shall I continue? Number six was left in a river in 1872. Number nine was buried in her backyard in 2038. Number twelve was-”

I slammed a hand on the metal table. “Enough,” I said. “You’re not making sense.” Rising from my seat, I glanced at the two-way mirror. Was my team hearing what I was hearing? Were they deducing him insane or concluding it as part of his game? I contemplated rounding them for a discussion, but I couldn’t shake off the anomalous feeling in the room.

“You’ll find them, detective – if you go back, or if you live long enough. All they are now… are shadows,” he said.

“Do you work alone?” I asked. Despite his modus operandi, it seemed as though he was implying something more with his grotesque accounts of history.

“Yes.”

“In 1873 and 2030?”

“In 1872 and 2038, yes.”

“Why the sporadic numbers and years?”

“I’m not stupid, detective. If I logged linearly, I would’ve been long caught. And not by you.”

“So you wanted me to catch you?”

“I need to tell you something, detective. But you wouldn’t take me seriously outside of this room.”

“I don’t take you seriously now. Do you expect me to believe you can… time travel?” I scoffed.

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is?”

He waved his hand, signaling me toward him. Chuckling, I strode to his side and leaned in.

“Tell me,” I prompted.

“I’m your son,” he whispered.

Pulling back with a laughter of disbelief, I rested my hands on my hip. “I don’t have a son,” I stated.

“Number twenty-six was bagged in the boot of her car in 1988. Her name was Sarah Weber. Sound familiar?”

At the mention of the name, I froze. Yes, it sounded familiar. And so was the beautiful face that came with it.

“Did you murder Sarah Weber?”

“Don’t worry, father. Once I leave this room, you’ll never see me again. I just wanted to meet you, that’s all.”

“You’re not leaving this room, son.”

“Oh, I will.” He smiled. “You’ll see.”

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Shampoo, tiles, and shadows were words given by monkeyeverythingblog. And this story, well, it was inspired by a Korean crime drama I’ve been binge watching. Since I expected a plot twist that didn’t occur on screen, I decided to write my own crime piece with these three ‘horror-inducing’ words. What do you think – would this make a decent drama?

Now, it’s your turn. I challenge you to use this same three words and write a piece of your own. Since I didn’t go the horror route, perhaps you can do so. It would be pretty cliche though, but who’s to say – my story above is pretty cliche too.

*To download the banner, left-click then right-click to save.

3 Words, 1 Story © 2017 by Jeyna Grace. All rights reserved.

(Click HERE for a list of stories in this writing challenge.)

 
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Posted by on May 11, 2017 in Original Works

 

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