I’m a writer, which, in short, means I treat writing like a job. Perhaps some of you out there don’t understand this concept or look at it in awe.

To me, writing is a job I never applied for.

It’s something that’s always been a part of my everyday life. Although I never succeeded at being a writer until my mid-to-late twenties, it took making a conscious decision to constantly put writing at the center or forefront of my day-to-day for me to start seeing traction in my writing efforts.

Until that moment, I was a floundering, starving artist who penned a page here or there that I thought was absolutely brilliant. …

WRITING

When I first started out writing, I didn’t know where to start or what to do. So like any good up and coming writer, I found someone whose writing I admired. I asked them to mentor me and guide me along the path to better writing.

B, my friend and mentor, laughed at the idea. Writing wasn’t a job. It was a hobby. A party trick. It wasn’t something you practiced or tried to learn. You either had it or you didn’t.

But I twisted his arm and convinced him that, no, writing could be a career. Tons of people are doing it by simply committing to the act of being a writer. …

Like most of you, I spend most of my time in front of the glow of a screen, reading words upon words upon words of stories. Unlike a majority of you, though, I am one of the nameless hoards.

No, not zombies. I am an associate editor or slush reader. I read the stories submitted to a magazine and podcast before the editors get a chance to read them.

My job is to weed through all the crap to find the small traces of hope, talent, and story hidden within the slush pile. I could be talking over a lot of people’s heads when I sling words out there like slush or associate editor. …

In a previous article, I wrote on the use of prompts to help writers understand craft elements and level up their career. A lot of writers got something out of those prompts and have had fun playing with them.

Since my bread and butter is speculative fiction, I wanted to do a series of articles surrounding prompts for different genres within the field. So, this article is for my fantasy fellows; the writers who create spellwork and monsters with the stroke of their keys.

How to Do These Prompts

Like I’ve previously stated, I hate writing prompts. Most of them are simple and basic prompts like write a story about a dragon. …

I died tonight,
outside your house,
in the back of his car.
Driving drunken and high
down dark, damp streets.
I gave up my pulse
under the pity of an August moon,
speaking to the trees.
Watch me flip into the sky,
blasting the music of my youth.

What if I was to live tonight?
In the back of this car
he says,
“Baby.”
Maybe I’m not who I thought I’d be.
Ring the stars
tell them to come out,
I’m sick of waiting
in this fast car.
Make me go slower.
Make me scream.
Running alongside the moon
gives me no faith in my pulse.
Met a boy
who turned into a man
in seconds
outside your house.

In summer, I’ll come back,
grow old the old American way.
Turned left and fell in love.
Forgot to buckle my seatbelt,
wrapped my heart around a lamppost
I thought was you.
You promised me the stars and desire
in the back of a black car.
Sad-faced lover said,
“It’s okay.” …

In my 30 years of life, I’ve had some 20 odd relationships of the romantic kind, either strictly sexual or emotional or a mixture. In all my years, I’ve always been an artist.

My artistic cross to bear is writing.

I can’t not do it. Whether someone reads it or not, I’m going to write. It makes my blood roar and my soul feel at ease. Putting words to page is my lifeline.

Without writing, I would have a life still, but it wouldn’t be one that I would inhabit fully.

Yet, 99.99999999% of my partners have never supported my art. I used to have to hide it away. There were times when I made up excuses for why I couldn’t be with them. I knew that if I said I was writing or editing or world or anything related to my writing they would dismiss it and push past my boundaries. …

I dream of nights
Lost
To sleep.

I dream of nights
Found
And haunting.

I dream of nights
Under
Moons covered in sand.

I dream of nights
Spilled
on my dress white and sticky.

I dream of nights
Alone
With friends.

I dream of nights,
Crying
In chocolate.

I dream of nights
Cold
Sweating on my pillow.

I dream of nights
Across
the sea with salt in my hair.

I dream of nights
Wrapped
in blankets of white noise.

I dream of nights
Close
Breaths to lullaby us.

I dream of nights
Growing
older and rounder in December.

I dream of nights
Like
sin. …

When the skies finally turned black, Danny Brackett stopped leaving his house. He was in his late teens, a boy forced into being a man. Before he was a young man inserted into the body of a lanky eighteen-year-old, Danny Brackett was your normal kid.

Then tragedy began to strike Danny like he was a firefly caught in the string of a lighting bolt. First his mother was eaten away by an inoperable cancer that started in her eye and moved down until her heart and lungs were consumed, leaving her a gasping, heartless, and blind woman.

At least that’s how Danny remembers his mother. Always knocking things over and wheezing his name to come help her. The day she died the skies began to dim. …