I Am Brave – 30 Day Challenge Day 7: 6-15-2017

I Am Heroic!


1. Raise your hands in the air.

2. Breathe into this power stance, own it.
3. Then audibly declare:
“I am the hero of my own story!”


If my life was a movie and it started today, what would the hero do?

What old routines and patterns would the hero break?

What new habits would the hero replace those old habits with?


What would I do if my life was a movie and it started today? I think the better question is ‘what would I do if my life started today.’

It is hard to think of myself as a hero. Many of the characters living with/in me are heroic, but would I be able to do the same things? It is safer to think I wouldn’t be a hero. Hero’s are expected to be heroic, to do the things we ‘normal’ folks are afraid to tackle. I am a ‘What-would-I-do-if hero.’ What would I do if I found an abandoned dog. Would I have the courage to run across lanes of traffic to save him? Someone beating their child? Gossip about somebody? Theft? Murder? Or something as ‘normal’ as rudeness. I think I know, but I don’t know for sure.

To read another post on this subject, you can go here: https://athling2001.wordpress.com/2014/07/07/am-i-ready-to-be-just-another-ordinary-hero/

Routines and habits are hard to break. Starting with the ‘What-would-I-do-if hero’ to the ‘I-can’t-do-it anti-hero,’ I want to change all those habits and fears clinging to my soul. Part of the problem is being bi-polar, or is that a way to excuse myself for not changing? I have survived so far. I can look back and see how I have changed and grown – and something not grown – over my lifetime. It’s hard, however, to look forward and see who I will be. Equally hard to judge who I want to be in the future.

I want to stop being afraid of can’t. I want to regain the knowledge ‘I can.’ I can do anything if I believe I can do it. Right? So why is it so hard to believe? I am free of the ‘You-can’t-trust-people-of-my-past,’so how do I break the chains they still have wound around me? I come back to living day by day, minute by minute. I am getting better at this, constantly challenging myself to move beyond my comfort borders. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t, sometimes I fall prey to fear at the last moment.

I look back at some of the things I’ve done in my life and realized how heroic those things were at the time. I didn’t realize it then, of course, not in the terror of the moment, but now those moments are clearer. And in those moments, I see the person I want to be all the time. A see an honest, understanding, brave person who sometimes loses her way and is afraid.

It’s like having two personalities at the same time. One is the ‘normal’ me and the other is the ‘brave’ me. If I can change one thing in my life, it will be to become the brave me, the unafraid me, the hero in my own life each and every moment of my life.

“If you are not the hero of your own story, then you’re missing the whole point of your humanity.”



JSW (Just Start Writing) Prompts

Other bloggers have expressed an interest in JSW prompts. Like I’ve always said, the more the merrier. If the urge strikes you to write off the prompt, please feel free to do so. You can link back to my original post and I will reblog your story onto A Writer’s Life. Please try to keep your response under 500 words for the sake of the reader’s time. Also, please do not write anything unfit for younger readers as I have no idea whether any of my followers are under 18.

I am trying to get onto a weekly schedule, posting the prompt on Mondays. This would give you at least a week to respond. If you need longer, go for it. Just remember to copy the prompt into your reply.

So, that said, the prompt for this week is:




Daily Press One Word Prompt – Twinkle

Twinkling lights flashed through dying foliage, dimming or brightening depending on how the surrounding leaves and weeds shifted in the wind. He’d never been here – to this particular place –  which was about the only thing going for him at the present moment.

By lockdown, they would miss him and set up the chase. He couldn’t go back. He wouldn’t go back. He’d take his own life before they lay a single hand upon him.

Drastic measures, yes, but better to die outside, free (okay, maybe sort-of-free) than live trapped in the  7 x 5 darkness he’d known so long. Five years alone, seeing only the slash of the guard’s face – hands –  pushing slop through the slit in the door. He’d almost forgotten the meanings and beings of light.

Stars twinkled all around, making him wish he could twinkle forever.  If only he knew how.

In the distance, baying hounds filled the night.

Up in the darkness, where only stars could see, a new star sparkled into life, twinkling happily.



JSW Prompt 7-7-2016

Feel free to add your own story in the comments.  I’ll post it on my site. Enjoy!


I drank my smoothie, but I didn’t stop complaining, at least in my head. I wasn’t some goody-two-shoes by any means, but I considered myself a decent man. And decent men didn’t just kill another person for… what? Why had we killed him?

I glanced over at  Morris, deciding not to ask. Pissy face warned he didn’t want to be questioned further, barely wanted to talk.

Not a problem. The sooner I was shuck of him, the better. The question was how to shuck him without losing the kernels shaping me into a decent man.  A good man….. An okay man.

He’d sucked me, but I’d allowed it to happen. He never held anything over my head; no wife or child to threaten; no bullet carved with my name if I refused.  I guess I was curious. Could I take a life?  What did it feel like to kill a man?

Trust me, I found out.

Forget sin and repentance. How did one repent, anyway? Seven billion, okay, but didn’t our man have just as much right to live as the other six billion, ninety-nine million and change?

He rose, moving out towards the car. I followed, rain flooding the back of my collar, splashing down onto the dark street.

I shot him once in the back. The second to the back of the head.

Live and die by the bullet, baby.

So I was just an average man.  Six billion, ninety-eight million. I could live with that.

Time for the student to become the master.







FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES Prompt Challenge #27-Use 3 of 5

  • Word Count is off! Let’s focus on the theme of the thing. Not many actually stick to the word count anyway. (SUGGESTED-No more than 500 if you want to try that.)
  • Using the prompt of ‘Use 3 of the following in your writing: Cheese, Ladder, Wart, Bottle, Flower’, WRITE. Enjoy. (REQUIRED)


“Cheese?  Ladder?  Wart?” he said in a puzzled tone.  Moreover, in fact, a bewildered tone. How the Hades were those words supposed to, not only tell him where to go, but what to do when he got there? This cryptic message gig was getting old. Fast.

He shifted in his seat, wiping his nose. And why did this gig always have to happen on the hottest or coldest days of the frigging year? He suspected somebody had sold him a load of stinking baloney the day he’d signed on. There was no other explanation.

His radio crackled and he shook his head. Perfectly good cell phones plastered all over the known world and they insisted on using radios. Bet that kept the failure rate pretty darn high.

“Forty on,” he replied. “I saw a duck with your cat.” He rolled his eyes.  Oh please god…..

“Do you have the three sheep?”

“Yeah.  Baa, Baa and Baa are cozy right here beside me.”

“Come again?”

“Yes, I have the three sheep.”  Baa, baa, baa, baaaaaa crap.

“Proceed to next point with all care.”

He was tempted to reply with “Ten-Four good buddy,” but the pimple-faced operator was too danged young to even know what that meant. Instead, he just rose and continued on through the frigid woods. When he’d signed up to serve his country, this was not what he’d expected.

As he trudged, his mind works over the three puzzle pieces; cheese, ladder and wart. Now there was a combination. Eat some cheese to propel you up the ladder and to the wart?

That made no sense.

Maybe the words were code names for different operatives, names for persons so deep under cover he’d never be able to poke them with a stick. Nor, to be perfectly honest, would he want to.

Turn left at the stinky cheese.  Continue straight until you reach the silver ladder. Turn right and drive until you reach a hill that looks like a wart?

Find the warthog, escape down the ladder into Candyland and find the stinky cheese?

Climb down the ladder to the land of Wart and find the Princess of Cheese?

Madame Wart lived under the ladder and made cheese from her nursing mice. Find her and find the Scepter of Stupidsville?

He stopped dead, looking at the dark woods around him. Turning, he trudged back to his car. Forget this. He was going home to watch Jeopardy.  At least then, he’d understand the frigging clues.

JSW Prompt 5-15-2016


Feel free to jump in with your ideas. I post responses to my blog.

“Why not?  He looks like a nice dragon?”

“Nice?  Dragons don’t come in nice.”

“He’s well dressed.”

“Dude, those are scales.”


“Really? Some days you slay me.”

“Come on,  he is a perfectly nice dragon. If you are scared, I’ll ask him myself.”

“I am not scared. I am just…. smart.”


“Smarter than you obviously.”


“Go right ahead. I have pencil and paper.”

“Really!”  He walked away.

I prepared to write.

“Excuse me, Sir Dragon…. if you  might k now the way to…”

“Dear Mrs. Singe,  I regret to inform you your son died this morning fried like a crispy critter. He was brave and honest and true and blah, blah, blah. Once he cools, I shall – with honor and dignity – scrape together his ashes and send them home post-haste.

Sincerely,  Sir Hero.”

It was a dirty job, but job security being what is was these day, important beyond measure.

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Week of 03-08 through 03-14-2016 (100-175)

He climbed the steps with the knowledge he could never come back, staring out at the spread of land before him. It was a beautiful land. It had been his land. Now it belonged to his brother; his time here, he’d been told, was at an end. If he didn’t leave now, he was dead, but he’d come here instead, to his Waiting Place.

Below him, his brother married his wife. His son was his brother’s son. His horses, his wheat, his pigs, his gold, his jewels, his everything… all his brothers’.

Or not…..

A Concerto of Screams rose on the winds. Beautiful, beautiful music. And, the silence after the screams heavenly.

What was a wife, he wondered.  He hadn’t loved her; wives were plentiful. And his son. He’d of had to kill the boy anyway, secure his throne against betrayal. He was never coming back because he was never leaving in the first place. Brothers.

His land. Everything. His.