The life of a writer is never dull, even if you’re too broke to participate in activities that actually have a point.

For our protagonist today, he finds himself blogging, apologizing repeatedly for not having posted for his handful of followers in well over a month. He knows they deserve more, but he really can’t help the fact that life has started demanding more from him than he would like to admit.

“There’s always people to talk to, places to go, games to play, books to read, and oftentimes for me, the lists of these things just keeps growing and never shrinks. It’s like I can’t ever get anything accomplished.”

And thus he tries to escape the fact that he hasn’t posted here in over 5 weeks.

(And yes, the protagonist [who feels more like an antagonist] is me. I know I said it a few weeks ago, but there are new posts coming. I’m planning a series of them as I pen this individual post.)


“Lonely” intro (a prompt)

Another lonely night. It seemed ever since Kathy had dumped him a few months earlier, Kevin couldn’t make himself do anything. As usual he sat in front of his keyboard with the blank document open before him. If only i had something to write about, he told himself.

It had been this way for several weeks now. The weeks prior had been spent trying to bury memories of Kathy by trash can, shredder, or cigarette lighter. The way he figured it, she isn’t coming back, so why bury it where i can dig it up again? But now his trash can was full of ripped up papers with single sentences, sometimes single words, on them; and his recycle bin on his computer had as its contents, “Document 1” through “Document 64.”

If i’m ever going to be a writer, he thought, then i’ve got to write something. But the more he sat there, staring at his computer screen, the more he felt like a failure. But if all i ever do is sit at my computer, stay cooped up in my apartment, then how will i find something to write about?

So an idea was born. Kevin stood up, grabbed his jacket out of the closet, opened his studio apartment door, and stepped into the hallway.

. . . to be continued . . . maybe by you?


What happens next?? Answer for yourself by writing Kevin’s tale, and if you’re feeling so generous, post your response in the comment line below. I may come back to this in a few days, unless someone else decides to run with it 🙂


His steps pounded on the sidewalk. I’ve got to get away. Just as another enemy appeared around the corner to his left, he was out of its grasp.

You’ll never escape. Give up now! the enemy bellowed. You can’t run that far. We’ll never stop.

Every time Jake passed another street, another enemy would pop into his peripheral vision. But every time one did, Jake was just out of its reach.

I can’t stop, he told himself. I’ve got to keep going.

He had been running for five miles. They had been chasing him since he finished his first hundred yards.

He didn’t know where they came from or how they kept appearing. He just knew that if he could make it the last quarter mile to his house he would be safe. They can’t touch me in there.

As a runner he carried the least weight possible, so his only weapon was the repeated steps of his feet on the sidewalk.

He had no phone, no music. The only sounds were his footfalls, his labored breathing, and the voices of the enemies: Give up. You’ll never make it. We’ll never stop chasing you. You’re ours.

He just kept running. One foot in front of the other.

Jake was now within 100 yards of his house. He kicked his pace into high gear as he pushed himself on. But even as he did, everything seemed to shift into slow motion. He felt like he’d never make it. He felt like his enemies were right as they screamed at him. I can’t make it. Everything hurts. I want to stop.

I can’t though. The finish line is right there. If I give up they’ll kill me. Just a few more steps. I know I can make it.

Jake put on a fresh burst of speed and covered the final 10 yards. As he ascended his driveway, slowing his pace, all his enemies disappeared. He glanced over his shoulder and saw no one. They had been there; he was sure of it. But now they were gone, and he was safe. He breathed deeply.

As he stepped foot within his house, he looked back over his shoulder and thought, I can’t have been imagining it all, could I have?

He made his way to the kitchen, where he opened his fridge, took out an ice cold water bottle, and drank deeply.

Another of his daily runs was in the book.