Fictional Tortoise

I'm writing this as further proof that inspiration can be taken from anywhere. This particular piece was inspired by a post I saw on Facebook. I was struck with a question: What if someone broke the rules? And this was born: *I've attached the actual image to the bottom of this if you're interested* “They don’t mean it,” said Grandmother, “You father’s a stubborn one.”             Blaine dropped the last name into the jar, and Grandmother added the Roses, Lavender and Sweet Pea. The scientific name of each spilled from her lips like that of an auctioneer, and she sprinkled it in sugar. Her hand shook as she gripped the jar of honey and began to pour. When it was filled to the rim, she sat the jar down, and screwed on the lid. “Three days in the sun,” she said, “And we bury it beneath the Willow.” It stood in the corner at the edge of the garden, sheltering the ground foliage. Blaine stood from his chair, and eyed the garden. He’...

My problem: I get an idea, and before I’ve even attempted it, I talk myself out of it.             It’s probably been done before: True, it likely has. Has it been done by you though?             It’s stupid, no one will like it: No one? That’s a lot of ground to cover, isn’t it?             It won’t be perfect: You’re right. It won’t, because it can never be perfect. The idea for this blog hit me when I was supposed to be writing, but instead, found myself in the black hole that is You Tube. (Also see: Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, or even Google Search.) What I’m getting at is this: When it’s time to sit down and write, suddenly anything can become entertaining.  Cat videos ü Makeup Tutorials ü What I eat in a day ü It gets pretty ridiculous, quickly. (Reasons, besides the obvious that this is a waste o...

“Unfortunately, there is no mistake,” said Marnie, and closed the file. They stood in the narrow hallway outside the door with the number “67” crookedly nailed in place. Marnie’s feet were pointed in an awkward “V,” her toes throbbing in the triangle tip of her stilettos. She gripped the door knob and tugged until the warped wood escaped its frame with a pop. “So, I’m dead. And in hell,” said Max. He was taller than Marnie by a head, taller still if he stood straight. The room was tiled, floor to ceiling and cradled a chill. A drain was in the middle of the floor, and twisted pipes hung overhead, rusted and tugging at the drooping tiles. Marnie scooted past Max, dragging a yellow chair from the hallway and deposited it directly over the drain. Tight stitches at its edges had begun to unravel, revealing the old wood beneath. Flimsy and small, it was dwarfed by the darkness of the room. Its clawed arm rests were worn and discolored. “Fill this out and place it directly beneath your sea...