#ashleywebb

[fictionaltortoise]

Inspiration In All Places

My problem: I get an idea, and before I’ve even attempted it, I talk myself out of it.            

It’s probably been done before:

True, it likely has. Has it been done by you though?            

It’s stupid, no one will like it:

No one? That’s a lot of ground to cover, isn’t it?            

It won’t be perfect:

You’re right. It won’t, because it can never be perfect.

The idea for this blog hit me when I was supposed to be writing, but instead, found myself in the black hole that is You Tube. (Also see: Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, or even Google Search.) What I’m getting at is this: When it’s time to sit down and write, suddenly anything can become entertaining.  Cat videos ü Makeup Tutorials üWhat I eat in a day üIt gets pretty ridiculous, quickly. (Reasons, besides the obvious that this is a waste of time: My cats are cuter than any on the internet, I barely wear makeup, and I’m assuming it’s some sort of food, like any normal human would eat.)

It’s not that I don’t want to do it. Write. I do. I just don’t think I can do it justice. My grand ideas suddenly become mediocre and I’ve already deemed myself unworthy before the first letter hits the page.

Words are intimidating. Or in my case, the lack of them is intimidating. That bright white, close to blinding, far too empty Word Document (yes, I capitalize it, because it is that important and daunting, much like a final boss in a video game).

I was watching a music video of a song that had come up several times on my Pandora station, and it hit me how far inspiration can reach.

Was this the best song I’d ever heard?

No.

Did it have an effect on me?

Yes, for whatever reason it did. (I’m not getting into the justification of it. Just trust me when I say, that at the time, it affected me.)

I was prepared. I knew what I was going to do. I had my own story to tell. It wasn’t the lyrics in this case, but the visuals, the actual video itself.  I don’t know what the artist’s story was. It didn’t seem clear to me (probably drugs), but there was something there. And I was going to write it.

Wasn’t I?

With my best intentions, the answer is

Yes.

I failed myself five minutes later, when I was staring at the aforementioned Word Document, and my parasitic worry took over.

What if people found the idea stupid? Or worse, what if they found the song stupid? What if they couldn’t understand what I saw in it in the first place? What if, my taste in music turned people off, and they refused to read another thing I wrote ever?

First off, I’m not going to flatter myself. I’m not that powerful: to turn droves of people off with one post? Who do I think I am?

Secondly, who cares? All of these questions didn’t need to be answered, and really didn’t even need to be explored, or brought up in the first place.

I’m not going to pretend it’s the best or most clever idea.

The most important thing is that it hasn’t been done by me.

My weakest point is no follow through. And I’m ending that cycle now.

Another long night and sleep had eluded her. Lyla sat in bed, cross legged. Her body ached, and the four walls of her bedroom no longer felt safe. Disappear, she whispered, wishing for a moment that it was only her in the world. The television at the side of her bed, alive with static, swallowed her words, camouflaging them in the gray, and went black. Silence blanketed the room and an ear popping pulse took over. The door of her bedroom was closed, but the house rumbled with the buzz of her roommates and friends. The television came alive in a quick flicker, the tail end of a used car commercial. “Here, you get exactly what you want,” said the man, with a wink. The volume reached max, and a din of music took over.  Lyla inhaled, and held the breath in the pit of her stomach, willing the silence to return. The room was too small, claustrophobic, and her body vibrated with noise and panic.  Across the room, the curtains fluttered, and streams of light flickered through. The beige walls were bare, and bulged with moisture, slowly becoming marred in cracks as she stared at them. She pushed herself from bed, and crossed the room, her heartbeat a hammer in her chest.

The hallway light was on, although dim and she wrestled with the door for a moment, refusing to remove the sweatshirt she’d tucked beneath it the day before. She looked to the ceiling, and realized the cracks were ripping through the house. The palm of her hand was pressed to the hallway wall, a guide as she walked its length, not taking her eyes off the trailing crack. It stopped at the kitchen’s edge, and she dropped her gaze. A throng of people hovered near the kitchen, the heat of the day obvious with the cluster of bodies. Lyla pushed her way through, to arrive at the its center. The refrigerator was askew, and one side had been painted aqua, the image of a squid drawn on in thick black lines. On the ceiling, the erosion had gathered and begun to eat a hole, revealing blue sky and heavy clouds. The kitchen came alive with movement, every item lifting and tilting towards it like a magnet. Lyla felt the uncomfortable shift as the house began to unearth itself. An image of the television, and the used car salesman flashed in her mind, the toothy grin of the man seared behind her eyes. She pushed herself through the screened door, letting it slam in the frame behind her, her gaze locked on the floating bodies of her friends being gently tugged through the gaping hole. They were complacent, their bodies relaxed as if they’d known their purpose was sacrifice.

Every nerve in her body ached to run, but Lyla stood in place, her feet planted firmly in the gravel. Her pores sucked up the humidity and her skin beaded with sweat. “Here, you get exactly what you want,” came the voice from the unplugged television, before it shattered midair. Lyla spun on her heel, and moved forward several feet. The house, at her back had ripped from the ground, severed cleanly from the foundation, levitating around her. She stared in awe as it scattered, without making a sound, the contents of her world spilling like a bag of sugar. It dissolved in the air, turning into a fine mist that pricked her skin and bounced off in waves. Lyla pushed herself forward, each step steady and traveled through the alley, aware that the long line of fence was still firmly in place. The ground beneath her was motionless, but an old car began to shiver and rise into the air. It rocked in place for a moment, but was quickly slung upwards and disappeared. Everything around her burst and popped into tiny shards, and were quickly absorbed by something above. The buzz of the city had dispersed, and Lyla stood alone, at the end of the neighborhood. She was standing amongst nothing, fog rising from the ground. The entire neighborhood leveled, and the city beyond had begun to fracture. Lyla sat to the ground, her knees beneath her, and she pushed her face to the sky. The slightest hint of moisture hung in the air, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the downpour. “What you want,” said the man from the television, his voice a staccato drop from above.

Below is the video I got the idea from. For this one particular, its not the words that are important, but the visuals, so if you don't like it, just mute and enjoy!

[fictionaltortoise]

A snip of my current work in progress. Want to read more? Check out my blog: fictionaltortoise.blogspot.com. Follow me on both and never miss my newest imaginings!! . . . . . . #writersontumblr #writingcommunity #turtlewrites #writing #story #words #amwriting #creativity #writingdesk #inspiration #amworking #dark #writersofinstagram #ashleywebb

[fictionaltortoise]

Part 22: The Meeting

(Note: I know it has been two or more weeks since I posted, but I’m proud to say it is back on! Normal human things got in the way for a bit, and all I can do is move forward. So, I hope you enjoy! Leave a like and share with your friends!) 

Thanks!

[fictionaltortoise]

Part 19: Georgia makes her entrance!

Make sure to catch up, by reading parts 1-18, and check out all the accompanying art by @mat-kaminski

Leave a like and share with your friends if you enjoyed it!

[fictionaltortoise]

Part 17. Read Parts 1-16 to catch up, and check out all the accompanying art by @mat-kaminski

[fictionaltortoise]

Part 14! Make sure to catch up and read parts 1 - 13, leave a like and share if you enjoyed it, please :) 

Make sure to check out the rest of the art for this project by @mat-kaminski

[fictionaltortoise]

Part 12: A decision has to be made

Make sure to catch up and read parts 1 - 11, leave a like and share with friends if you enjoy it! 

Thank you so much, and apologize that it’s a day late

[fictionaltortoise]

Part 4 of an ongoing series

(Part one, Part two, Part three) 

[fictionaltortoise]

Selkie

[fictionaltortoise]

Rhiannon

[fictionaltortoise]

Monophobia: The Fear of “Letting Go” 

[fictionaltortoise]

If anyone is interested, you are more than welcome to follow my page on Facebook. 

I will post the same (personal) creative content as here, but some may prefer to view it over there. And know I personally enjoy accessing several forms of social media. 

https://www.facebook.com/fictionaltortoise/ 

Also, keep your eyes out for a post tonight. I have been/will be working on projects with @mat-kaminski. 

[fictionaltortoise]

            Sun streamed through Lane’s window – the blinds tattooed stripes on the farthest wall. Lane was cocooned in a twist of blankets and sheets, her feet sticking through the bottom. She wriggled her toes, willing her body to wake, and began to claw her way from the tangle. Her room was too warm, sticking her shirt to her back in a thin layer of sweat. Lane planted her feet to the ground, careful to avoid the scattered papers and steadied herself with a palm to the bedside table. Her knees wobbled as she stood. She reached absently into the air over her head, feeling for the beaded string that belonged to the overhead fan. It found her hand in one swipe and she tugged on it twice. A breeze of cool air washed over the room, and she took a moment to breathe it in before she looked to the journal in the half open drawer. Written inside were a series of lies. It didn’t make her nervous to write them anymore.

              The only pen she ever used to write in it, the one with the chewed end was on the floor, nearly under the bed. Kessi had been in her room. Lane surveyed the area, looking for other signs of her little sister’s intrusion. The window seat looked as it always did; the velvet seat worn and discolored, but the window was fogged in the slightest handprint. It was just big enough to belong to a seven-year-old.

              “Kes, you know you’re not supposed to be in here,” said Lane.

              She pursed her lips and waited for any hint that Kessi was around. The closet doors shook in a tiny tremor, and a clothes hanger fell to the floor. A giggle followed. Lane crossed the room and threw the closet doors open. She wiped her hand through the air until she felt the slightest disturbance. Her hand was tickled by stray hairs, and she grasped them tight in her palm, without moving.

              “Out. Or I pull your hair,” she said.

              “Ow! Let go and I’ll come out,” said a squeak of a voice.

              Lane stepped back several feet, allowing the girl clearance, and crossed her chest with her arms. A heat wave of a girl washed through, and her small frame gradually became visible. Kessi was small, even for a seven year old; she looked shrunken within her brunette Rapunzel hair. She smiled her toothless smile and her cheeks went pink.

              “How’d you know it was me,” she said.

              “Who else would it be,” said Lane, picking the loose hanger from the floor.

              Kessi nodded, her eyes trained on the floor. The smile had faded and she’d tucked her hands behind her back. She swayed on the balls of her feet. “I told you. Whatever you write in that journal happens to me if I read it.”

              “So you did,” said Lane. “Now out.” She squeezed Kessi’s shoulders and ushered her out of the room. Lane grabbed the pen from the floor, uncapped it, and scribbled in her journal. The balls of her feet grazed the ceiling as she floated over her sister’s bed.  

              Kessi was seven, and she always came back. 

[fictionaltortoise]

              The clasp bit into the leather binding between jagged teeth, pressing the gold edged pages tight. Reese gripped the book, pushing the leather into her palms. It was cool to the touch and heavy, she imagined a new world history locked inside. The book had sat out of reach in her childhood home, on a bookshelf, nestled in the shadows. She’d stand on tiptoes, attempting a split second glance, only to be swatted away by her mother and guided to the dollhouse in the corner.

              “Not for you, little one,” she’d said.

              Reese had hated that dollhouse, with the perfect square rooms and the tiny, glued down furniture. The walls were stained a depressing beige, and stamped with tacky, yellow flowers. Four wooden figurines were stiff and marred with the same, single lined smile smeared across their faces. Many times, Reese had hidden the figures in the fireplace, hoping they’d soon be ash, but her mother always found them and tucked them safely away in the recesses of the tiny mansion. Reese would stare at the book from propped elbows and wonder at its curiosities.

              She remembered the book being unimpressive from a distance; too darkly stained, like it had been ruined with water. The clasp looked lopsided, and the pages were more yellow than gold in the fluorescent lighting. Reese had known the imperfections to be much less upon closer examination. She’d seen it a handful of times, when her father had brought it down, merely balancing it on his knee as he rocked in grandmother’s old chair. Like the secrets within would be absorbed into his very skin. Or at least it’s what she’d imagined as she danced her fingers across it. She’d never seen him open it, and supposed he never actually had.

              Now, in the house, both of her parents long gone, she found the book haunting. If it had aged at all, it had done so well, because it was in near perfect condition. The hinge cocked at an awkward angle and the metal had begun to rust, but the leather was sturdy, and the carvings had become smoother and less noticeable to her fingers. She walked the living room, the book pressed to her chest, and took in this new version of her parent’s house.

                An imprint of the dollhouse seemed burned into the floor, and sheets covered every piece of furniture. She’d found the wooden figures on the mantle, and had given them the burial she’d always thought they’d deserved. A chemical stench still hung in the air from the first layer of protectant. The smiles had vaporized first, becoming a temporary smudge. After that they’d quickly become ash, and a smile had grazed her own face.

It wasn’t time to open the book, but soon it would be. Until then, she’d at least know she could touch the book anytime she wanted.

[fictionaltortoise]

The agency had balked at Clare when she’d boasted her talents weren’t limited to Earth. It was true, she didn’t suffer the same effects as the average human. Her mind expanded, allowing her to memorize more data, and she never suffered the sickness and weight loss of space travel. She sat on the edge of the bed, her feet firmly pressed to the ground, a nearly blinding view of earth shone in a picture window behind her. The small room was filled with its white light, but the chill was locked tight in the metal walls of the ship. Clare wasn’t cold, despite the thin tank top she wore; her body temperature was a steady one-hundred and two, a hospitalizing fever to most. Lilac eyes were stark against her tanned complexion, and anomaly, even among her race, but she looked otherwise human. Her body was pocked at the joints in metallic gauges that locked thin silver plates in place, puzzled perfectly into her skin. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked in a mirror, and was satisfied that she hadn’t found the urge to. The woman that stared back from the image was a reflection of her mother, and it was easier to forget her gruesome death if she didn’t have to be reminded that she was a near twin. If only, twenty-five, and half the age her mother would have been.

Clare was a bounty hunter, and despite the usual assumption that her job was very hands on, Clare rarely had physical contact with any of her targets. Violence was avoided at all cost. From the ship that hovered above earth she could scan the globe, and know exactly where the next evader was hiding. Of course, this ability was hidden information, beyond the company she worked for, it was assumed that she was just was skilled in lucky guessing; others thought it was because she had once been a criminal herself. The rumor wasn’t true. Clare hadn’t broken a single law in her short existence, but found no need to divulge that to the general public. Let them be scared. It made her job easier. The planet lit up with tiny red dots, looking much to her surprise, like burning coals. These were the criminals. Or at least the ones that had made it into the database, there were likely triple that. The rest of the plant was covered yellow dots, representing the average citizen, law abiding citizens, or otherwise away from the sniffing nose of the government. A database logged in Clare’s brain gave a name to every dot, and it was often the average yellow dots that interested her most, but she kept that under wraps, as it would be considered a waste of company resources. The story behind the average person was usually not so average, and she’d managed to catalogue hundreds in a private database. She was a people watcher, and from her spot in the middle of space, she was a near demi-god, without the power to strike life from Earth in a single movement.