Friday Writing Contest. Win a Free Ebook!
Win a free copy of your ebook of choice (any of my titles). All you have to do is become a writer!
It’s not that hard really. Just use the picture below as a prompt and write a flash-fiction story (think of it as a very long caption) of less than 250 words, and put it in the comments by the end of today, Friday, March 30th, 2012. The winner will be announced next week. (BTW: There is a true story to this photo which I will tell after the contest is over.) And the winner will be picked by an independent judge (it would be too much for me to decide, after all.)
Here comes the photo (writing prompt)
Ready?
GO!
Joshua Graham is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, winner of the International Book Award and Forward National Literature Award. His thrillers include DARKROOM, LATENT IMAGE and BEYOND JUSTICE, and TERMINUS. Graham's works have been characterized as thought-provoking page-turners.
Legal Notice: All information on this website and blog are from Mr. Graham's personal experience and insight and should not be viewed in any way, directly or inferred, as qualified professional advice.
All creative writing on this website or Mr. Graham's books: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. (novels, short stories)
I know the answer, I know the answer!!! Writing, and best writing to boot, is simply slitting a wrist and bleeding your heart into your work.
And this, my dear Mr. Graham, is the only logical reason for the blood spatters on the floor below you, which you photographed and posted for unpublished authors like me..
Right? Be kind, I’m writing, not sleuthing, but it may be a little over the top for you to hemorraghe as inspiration…. now you’re supposed to be howling at this brilliance!…..Am working on the 250 word story now….
“Why would anyone rip out this piece of the sheet covering the stab wounds and nail it to the wall?” Tom added, “I’ve seen some pretty sick murders but this one begs an answer”. The veteran detective turned away from the wall and the looked into space as though an answer was expected. Silence. “OK, Jack, get the photo guys in here, Dirk call the crew with the fine tooth combs and mind them not to move a hair unless I know about it” barked Tom as he started out the door. Turning he barked out, “And Oh Yes, keep the damn press out of here.”
The Tom press relationship was strained at best since a run in with a pesky reporter for TV7 last year. Sine that time Tom would not take a single question from the “wet behind the ears a** hole” that Tom called him.
Tom checkeled to himself that the day was bright and sunny and not cold and rainy as all novelists portrayed sinister events.
“Call for you Tom” shouted Claire as he entered his office and slammed the door behind him that rattled the citation plaque. “Tom Everson” he growled.
“How did you like my art work” came the raspy voice on the other end. “What art work?” The reply caused Tom to freeze. “The piece of sheet I nailed to the wall”.
(I could go on, but I’d gover the 250 words wouldn’t I?)
The doctor knelt by the side of the tub, considering his own diagnosis.
If it was tuberculosis or pneumonia, other symptoms would have appeared months ago, when he first started coughing blood. He had never been a smoker, but that didn’t mean anything. He already knew he was unlucky. He hated those moments when he had to walk into a patient’s room, close the door solemnly behind him and announce the test results, yes it was cancer, yes it was terminal. It had never occurred to him that it might actually be more painful to be on the receiving end of such an announcement.
He wondered how much longer he could keep it a secret. His daughter would be turning 4 in a month- at least that long. He hadn’t talked to the mother in ages, she wouldn’t care if he was gone; wouldn’t even notice until he stopped writing the checks.
That was the worst part, not the dying, but that nobody would miss him. Not the other candidates that he had elbowed past to get the fellowship. Not the patients he overcharged. Not even his beautiful baby girl with her curls and laughing brown eyes. How could she? She didn’t even know him.
As he knelt by the tub, he realized that the splattered blood looked like something. It looked like all the mistakes he could never take back. Drip, dot, splat, cough, regret.
Wow. Love it.
Be sure to share this page with your friends, so they can root for you! 🙂
Michael Bradford could barely stomach looking into the mirror each morning. Every time he shaved or brushed his teeth, he would see not his face, but that of his brother Mark looking back.
The two were twins, yet opposite sides of the same coin. While Michael grew into an honest and hard working man, Mark became a vindictive man who manipulated any situation to get what he wanted. All the years Michael spent in law school, Mark spent building a small criminal empire.
Then their mother died. The accident seemed suspicious, but there was only circumstantial evidence to suggest that Mark might have been behind it. Michael had no doubts, however.
Michael had investigated in ways the police couldn’t, yet still had no hard evidence against Mark. To Michael’s way of thinking, the only way to get the evidence was to infiltrate Mark’s organization.
Michael could easily pass himself off as Mark, except for the scar. When the boys were about seventeen, Mark had been in a fight with another teen and nearly lost his left eye to a very sharp hunting knife.
Michael stood in the shower looking at the face in the shaving mirror. His trebling fingers picked up the knife. He took a deep breath, bit down on his lower lip and began to cut…
Fabulous! And… ew!