Is this real life?

Story idea:

Guy lives a high adventure life (Super Hero, Secret Agent or such).

He dreams of having a normal life, so much so he imagines having a wife and child, going to a regular, boring nine to five job.

He desires this so much he actually lives out his imaginary life in his mind and his super hero duties interfere with his imaginings causing extreme frustration and depression.

Create the story.

Physiological Needs

How do you handle the physiological needs of your characters?
Eating, Sleeping, Bathroom and such?
Write a scene in which your character satisfies a physiological need.
(Keep it appropriate for all audiences)

Minor Characters

Time for a change in perspective.
Write a scene from your story from the POV of a minor character, 
Post the result in the comments.
see what you learn about your character and your story from this exercise.

The Ark

Writing Prompt: Earth is dying. Humanity has created an Ark to send into space. How do we decide who and what gets to go?

This is a premise used frequently in fiction How would you give it a unique twist?

First Line

First Line: 

We Must leave our scars on the battlefield, where they belong.

Now, write the story!

Story Fodder

Old Idaho State Penitentiary
Story Fodder. What can you develop with this information?
Check out the crimes of these prisoners! 
<Link>

Pick a prisoner and use him/her as a model for a character in your WIP

Author Tip: Comment on other blogs

A blog is a great way to get noticed. Blog once a week. This could be as simple as sharing a snippet of your writing with your readers (no extra work there.)

In addition you need to follow other writing blogs. You should leave at least one substantial quate a week.

Substantial means one paragraph or more of writing.

Every comment you make on a blog increases that blogs digital footprint.

Make sure you have a signature you leave with the blog.

The signature should look like the following:

Lucinda Moebius Author

Follow of Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Lucinda-Moebi…/e/…/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Follow on facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LucindaMoebiusAuthor/

Find the blog: https://lucindamoebius.blogspot.com/

Change is in the air!

Although I am keeping up the Streams of consciousness writing, it will no longer be a daily thing. Instead I am consolidating my blogs.
I will be using my blog as a writing platform. the new blog will offer the following:
Samples of my writing
Writing tips
Reviews
Writing Prompts
Anything related to writing
If you have any suggestions or questions I will welcome your input!

Meeting of the Goddess

We found her in her orchard, there amongst the trees. Her face reflected every song we ever sang for the loves we longed for at home. She is the reason we go to war. Every inch of her body spoke of love and warmth and home and hearth. Even as we cut her down and removed the rope from around her neck, we know we were looking into the face of everything we left behind.

The trees had been plicked free of any fruit, except for her. There were no chickens or eggs to be found in the cages.

Cows and horses had been slaughtered and what meat wasn’t carried away was left to rot in the fields.

We had hoped to find sme fresh food, perhaps a jug of milk or a round of cheese, or even an errant bottle of wine that had rolled under a bed, but the house had been stripped bare. The charred bed and smoke damaged walls gave evidence of an attempt to burn away crimes committed on this tiny farms.

She had been kept for days, if we understood the comparison of the state of decay of the animals in the field to the state of her body. I tried to look past the bruising and blood to find the beauty beneath.

I saw my wife reflecting back when I studied her face. The color of her eyes and tone of her skin lacked my wife’s fair coloring, but she was a woman. A mother. A wife. A child. And she had fought. Her hands were broken and bloody, showing where she had scratched at her aggressors. Her arms and legs were covered with bruises and the blood of the violence done upon her.

Her children were hidden in the barn, buried beneath a pile of hay. We don’t know how long they wre there. I placed the infant in her mother’s arms before we buried them. The boy is too young to be conscripted into the army. And even if we tried to make a solider of him there is an emptiness in his eyes.

He is too young to remember the trauma here. Or, perhaps he’s not. Perhaps he will remember the death of those who were central to hi youth.

He sits now on top of the crates carrying our supplies eating an apple. His jaw barely moves up and down as he chews. There is no color in his hollow cheeks, even though we have given him enough food to fill his hollow belly many times over.

There is much debate in the ranks about what to do about the child. Even before we left the farm there were arguments. Many wanted to leave him behind After all, despite his youth, he was still a child of the enemy. A child has no sense of danger. Someone would have to stay beside him if we found ourselves in battle. Who would be willing to stay and protect a child of the enemy while his brother’s in arm was being strafed by enemy fire?

Perhaps, when we finished our march and set up our encampment we can turn him over to the women who inevitably fall in behind the lines. Their cold arms and silent hearts echo the pains of this war. Some carry disease and we know others are there to try to pry secrets from the lips of men who surrender to their inadequate seductions.

The women are a hollow echo of the life we left behind. They give warmth and hope and the possibility of finding just a moment of forgetfulness. Maybe one of them would be willing to take this child to replace the one they lost to famine, or disease, or cross-fire. Or maybe they will take this child and hewill suffer the same fate as the missing children of the city.

I look into the dark eyes of this child and I imagine the light colored eyes of my young one, still safe at home. Safe until the war comes to my shore.

I must fight this war to save all the children on all the shores.

It is my duty as a father, as a son, as a follower of all that is holy.

And I am left to wonder if it was soldiers on our side or the other who destroyed the women.

The Challenge

The city is left behind. We traverse the windy trail full of unseen dangers and enemies who know this land better than us. Strangers on foreign soil, we are ignorant of the monsters hidden along tree-lined paths. There is no help, no relief, from those who dwell upon this shore. All are the enemy.

The march is long and the clime harsh on our souls. It is all at once too hot, too cold, too windy and too dry. I cannot shed my armor as I march, for to do so would be to risk being struck by enemy fire. My head, my heart, my soul must be protected at all times. Sweat pours from me as if I was a pregnant cloud, heavy with the gathered waters of the sea, cooling my skin so at night I lie in my blankets shivering from the cold brought in by the setting of the sun.

There is no relief from this march. Always, we must put one foot in front of the other until we reach our ultimate destiny. The fear of waiting for us at the end of the march is almost as great as the fear of what we are finding in the tree-lined path as we traverse the windy road.

Today it was a good day. Only the three men in the front of the line were killed by enemy marksmen. They ranged ahead to warn us of any danger. Their deaths were warnings of the monsters on the trail. Our men heard the death cries of the men and were able to take cover before the enemy could attack.

We stayed the course and our scouts found the nest of enemy vipers. There wasn’t much of a fight and when they dragged the bodies of the enemy from their encampment to where we had hid ourselves we could see why.

The enemy were little more than ragged, half-starved creatures of questionable age. If these soldiers were all the enemy could find to fight their war it won’t take much to disarm them.

There is a long road to travel still and there are many enemies to encounter before we arrive at our destination.

The ragged clothes and the hollow cheeks of our enemy could just mean they were far from their base. We are headed into the nest of the contagion and as we get closer to the source of the infection in this land I can only imagine we are going to confront even more obstacles.

Even now, as I shovel the dirt over the body of these monsters, for monster could be the only word I find for these beasts who would allow the atrocities I have seen occur, I can only wonder what compelling force could keep even such as these loyal to their cause.

Hunger and pain is the true test of loyalty. I wonder how the men I march with would stand in the face of such adversity. Our supply lines still run strong. Our uniforms and armor is still intact. Our souls are still being fed daily by the message of our call. Fear and hunger and cold do not drive us to turn to other sources for sustenance.

Fear and hunger and cold has been the constant companion of our enemy. They strike from hidden nests and from deep within caves. Supplies are slow to come and I have seen the source of some of their food. And yet, they stand unwavering in their cause.

I must remember the rallying cry of my people. I must remember the face of my wife and my children. They are who keep me whole this far from home. The arms of these foreign shores are cold and hard. I must armor myself against the hidden attacks they thrust at us from all sides. I must protect my body, mind and soul.

We march again tomorrow.

Enemies

We have been in the city for months and still we have not seen the face of our enemy. They are here. I can sense them in every quarter, following our movements from their secret hiding places. We freed the common people from their oppressors and yet instead of welcoming us with grateful hearts they have poisoned our wells and set fire to our barracks. I was charged with leading our men into the city to round up the instigators, but all we found were old men and weak women huddled in their beds.

We wade through streets ankle deep in filth and excrement only to the disdain of the people who we are trying to protect. Late in the day we captured a young woman trying to slip through a weak spot in the wall. I captured her and put her in chains. Her wailing nearly softened my heart to her pleas and I approached her to release the binds on her hands. As I reached towards her she grabbed my wrist and pulled it towards her face. I managed to twist away from her grip, but not before she bit into my flesh and tore out a chunk of my hand. I thought at first she was just trying to defend herself, but I could make out the movement of her throat as she swallowed down my flesh, licking her lips and grinning at me with blood stained lips.

“Such sweet tasting flesh.” Her voice was raspy and harsh and I noticed her teeth were sharpened to a fine point. Not as tender as we are used to, but you’ve had more years to mature than our usual fare.”

It took me some time to realize the kind of fare she was talking about. The city suffered from a lack of resources. Even the dogs and cats usually found roaming the alleyways seemed to be sorely lacking. There’s an overabundance of rats, but every city always has an overabundance of rats. It’s the lack of children I find particularly disturbing. There are a number of pregnant young females around, some of whom became pregnant not long after our takeover of the city. Some of the men are keeping their favorites close and the relief in their carriage speaks volumes. I want to tell the men if they want to protect their offspring from the cooking pots they need to either bring the girls with them through the rest of the war or find a way to bring food through the blockades and into the city.

Of all the damage I have seen in this war it is the unseen horrors of those caught in the middle that disturbs me the most. There is no such thing as innocence here. We have brought the war to the city and the residents have expressed the desire to have the evil they know rather than the evil of the unknown. As long as they are unfed and unwashed we will be unwelcome. The people will gather at the gates and open them wide when the enemy wagons roll across the bridge and through the mud to entrench themselves around the city.

We must clear out the rats and purge the city of the contagion. Now, I must soak the wound caused by the nails and teeth of the woman before they fester. My friends are gathering at the mess hall to eat their evening meal. The idea of eating the meat swimming in brown gravy churns my stomach. I’ve seen the hunks of dried beef they use to create our meals, but the knowledge of the meat being used throughout this city takes away my appetite. I will not eat tonight. If we are to protect the children from the feast we need to find a way to feed the people.

Companions

There’s something to be said about dodging enemy fire bringing friends together. Before this war the only people I really cared for was my family. My friends and I used to go out together at home. We would drink and play and act like fools. What kind of games would we play? I don’t think it really matters. We were young and we were fools.

We would play at war. “Look at me!” We would call out and beat our chests and tell anyone who came in range of our imaginary weapons to beware or we would kill them. We would play dead on the fields of battle. Our pristine, pale skin absorbing the sunlight as our bodies quivered with suppressed mirth at our attempts to create the most grotesque positions we could imagine. I’ve seen the contortions of death first hand now and know our attempts at horror paled in comparison.

The companions of my youth have melted away and now I am left with the survivors of the battles as my friends and companions. Each of us bear the scars of pain and death. Some of which can also be seen upon the surface of our skin, others can only be found deep within our minds and souls.

I had many friends when I first began this adventure, but the war has taken most of them from me. They have either faded away because of the horrors of this war or have been taken from us on the field of battle. Now, there are only the four of us standing. We are what remains.

When we started this we were promised honor and glory, but there is nothing honorable in the death I have seen and the heavens have not showered glories upon my head. I scramble in the dirt to find cover. I sometimes shoot first, before I have even taken aim at the enemy and sometimes wonder if it was my weapon that pierced the skin of my companions. Death will come to us all in the end. I do not fear death; He has become as much of a companion to me as the friends who stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me upon the field of battle. When He comes I will greet Him with a smile, wrap my arms around Him and give Him a welcome kiss.