Weekly Writing Prompt

Hello Bloggers and THE SAVANNAH SYNDROME (TSS) fans!  Running behind, yet again, and we have a long day ahead of us, so I'm going to jump right in.  Below is this week's writing prompt from writersdigest.com, followed by my very "topical" take on my short story.  I would describe the back story, but if you don't pick it up in the writing, head over to my personal blog to read all about it.  I hope y'all have a great weekend!  See you Monday when we'll either have some good news or just a few days left in the countdown.

The Prompt:

You’re searching through your closet and find an old stuffed animal or doll from your childhood. It starts to bring back a warm memory of a specific night that’s near and dear to your heart. Suddenly, your stuffed companion begins to talk and says, “There’s something you need to know about that night.” Write this scene.

The Story:

Yes, I’m Officer ----, as I am known to you, the general public.  I’m the one that stupid monkey is blaming all his “problems” on.  If that stupid ape would have kept his mouth shut, none of this would have ever happened.  And now, thanks to his big mouth, I’m currently on a forced leave, confined to my home and surrounded by a bunch of rookies who will most likely shoot my neighbors before they successfully defend any assault on my home.  Not that I’m worried.  I’m well prepared for that idiot whenever he grows the balls to come find me.  He knows where I live.  He thinks he’s instilling fear on me.  He thinks I am going to be sitting around consumed with worry now that I “am the prey,” as he termed it in that rambling manifesto he posted on his FACEBOOK page.  His FACEBOOK page!  We’re supposed to be scared of an idiot who uses FACEBOOK to post all his “accusations.”  Grow up.  And stop drawing this out and come get me.

I currently have two pistols strapped to me.  My Bushmaster AR15 is waiting for me in my king size bed, just under the comforter.  But right now I’m searching my closet for an old service revolver handed down from my grandfather.  He would love for me to bury a slug from that gun in that man’s thick black skull.  And I find the case, in the back left corner, next to a dirty old teddy bear.  I grab the case to the pistol but I pause at the teddy bear.  It’s dusty and dingy.  I press my lips tight and pick it up.  It’s a lot heavier than I remember, which is odd.  I remember it as a young girl, a young girl who used to cling to a silly stuffed animal for comfort when all those around her made fun of her size and shape.  But those days didn’t last long.  Soon that little girl realized her “big bones” and towering height really only meant one thing:  she was that much bigger and stronger than all the brats that sought to bully her.  So by the third grade, my teddy was no longer my source of encouragement, but my secret confidant, whom I would whisper my school yard beat down victories to.  I have been kicking chests and heads for a long time now.

One of the most popular, prettiest girls lived down the street from me.  She always had a handful of friends with her.  On one night, when I actually brought my teddy outside, that smart little priss started running her mouth, thinking the support of her friends would be enough to keep her safe.  Me and teddy did a good number on them.

He was really heavy.  I smiled at him.  I brought him in for a tight squeeze.  Only one bully trying to pick on us now.  Upon squeezing him I heard a slight click.

“There’s something you need to know about that night.”

Had my teddy just talked to me?  I pulled it back.  Then I realized I recognized the voice.  A recording of his voice began a quiet rant about that night; that night I kicked some piece of trash who wouldn’t stop running his stupid mouth.  I tossed the teddy away, but not soon enough.

I never heard the explosion, or felt the pain.  All I knew next was darkness.  A lifetime of protecting those I felt needed the right kind of protection.  I would be hailed and praised in the Heavens, ready to see my grandpappy again.  But for some reason, I wasn’t heading toward a tunnel of bright light; I was heading toward a hot flaming lake of fire.

Five Days Left!!

Hello Bloggers and THE SAVANNAH SYNDROME (TSS) fans!  Well, we have reached the end of another week, and when the countdown resumes on Monday, there will be just two days left!  Hopefully, the results from Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award will come out sooner, but February 13 is the last day they'll release the outcome for the first round judging.  And, with the good Lord willing, perhaps we'll be able to start a new countdown next week for round two!  I sold another Kindle edition of the book!  That's two days in a row of mystery sales!  Maybe these nice readers will be kind enough to leave a review on the Amazon page.  I crept back into the top 90,000 in Amazon's Paid Books sales rankings, out of over 1.5 million titles and growing, which means I'm in the top six percent!  Bam!  Pretty good stat looking at it that way.  Would be really nice to be in the top one percent, since that would hopefully mean a few thousand copies sold.  But, that will come soon enough with the progression through the ABNA contest.  Come back tomorrow for the newest installment of the Weekly Writing Prompt from writersdigest.com.  The prompt is somewhat silly, and I'm resisting the urge to not make it like the movie "Ted" and keep it kid friendly.  Follow my personal blog here, there's really only one news story worth discussing today, but I will have some important links regarding a memorial for a fallen hero.  Have a great Friday everyone!

So here is page fourteen of TSS.  This is another LONG paragraph, that leaves readers hanging.  Again (that's what real page-turners do...).  You should just buy the whole book here.  Enjoy:

"compressed on the cooling grass surface below.  Her right hand reached over her shoulder and drew her machete from its sheath upon her back.  The cicadas and crickets sang loudly.  Somewhere deep on the island crows cackled back and forth to each other.  She moved to the east, to the nearest wall of thick underbrush. She ducked under a low lying branch and found her target.  Her machete raised high in the air and she brought it down in a thick thud.  An ax would be a much easier method to chop each new dead limb off the top half of the fallen oak that supplied her almost every fishing trip with ample fuel to cook her meals. But she had a strong machete and she kept it meticulously sharp, so it did the trick, with the right amount of effort involved.  She only removed one large limb and dragged it back out of the heavy wooded area.  Next she proceeded to chop up the limb into ten sections, each measuring close to a foot each.  She grouped these limbs together and brushed her blade off lightly with her left hand before returning it to its proper holding place.  A quick rummage through the ground just beneath the tree limb gave her enough starter fuel.  She returned to the Hambright with the handfuls of dried leaves and twigs first.  A stairwell on the east side of the structure allowed her access to the upper deck with her hands full.  The starter fuel was split equally and she placed the first on the pile of ash that sat at the center of the Hambright.  No grill sat on top of this pile’s center.  After placing the second pile of twigs and leaves under her grill, she grabbed her pants and pulled them back on, now that her body was completely dry.  She pulled the wet shirt off the bucket and placed it on the guard rail to allow it to begin to dry.  If a fish flopped out now, it would not matter; their minutes of remaining life were hastily running out.  Another hop over the railing and she gathered up her larger logs.  That pile was split differently, with just four logs given to the burning area next to her cooking enclosure.  Those four logs were stacked to create a tight platform to hold their necessary requirement.  She built the logs around the starter twigs in similar fashion but began with a bigger base, slowly building up to just a few inches underneath the grill. " 

Headstones that line the inner perimeter wall
at the Colonial Cemetery.  

Six Days Left!

Hello Bloggers and THE SAVANNAH SYNDROME (TSS) fans!  I'm sorry I did not blog yesterday, I had a long shift at work and came home to just relax and spend the day with my family.  I needed a break anyway to recharge and gather my thoughts.  In the meantime, I sold another copy of TSS!  And we broke the seven day milestone on the countdown to the first round results being released in Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award contest!  I wonder if any of the other entrants are this worked up over this contest as I am, or if it is just me?  Follow my personal blog over at jzimmerman324.weebly.com.  By taking yesterday off from that blog as well, I found myself in a debate over a hotly contested issue in the military right now, which I'll be sharing my opinion of there.  So, without further delay, here is page thirteen of TSS!  Enjoy:

"around her.  Just before she emerged from the river’s mouth she submerged her entire body and forced her fingers through her hair, wetting it thoroughly.

She returned to her clothes, bucket, and sneakers with her rod and reel in hand.  Her shirt was now soaked from the splashing of her meal, but she left it off for now.  She put her clothes over her shoulder and picked up her shoes, knife, and then the handle of the bucket with her free hand. She slung her machete around her shoulder, the strap running over her right breast and under the curve of her left.  She allowed the air around her to dry her bare skin.  Her hair would take the longest and she would always try to return to the fort before it fully dried so she could brush it without those shoulder long strands being completely in tangles and knots.  Her bare feet wrapped over fallen timber carefully and stepped up through the high marsh grass, the tender green tips caressing her naked body as she made her way back to the old paths that bordered certain areas of the island.  She followed the pebbled walkway to the south, toward her dining area, a concrete structure called the North Battery Hambright.  She walked up the grassy knoll that allowed her easy access to the top of the Hambright with her meal sloshing around in the bucket.  She was lost in thought, wondering if her friends knew what fate awaited them.  They were surely in a state of shock, of unknown curiosity, but, perhaps also terror.  The camaraderie they shared in the bucket kept them much calmer than the days when she would only find one fish, but on those days she would usually release the fish.  She always needed more than one to properly feast.

     At the top of the hill, her feet came to the two-foot-thick concrete wall that dropped down to a circular cove which was meant to enclose a gun emplacement.  In the center of the circular area sat a pile of ash and a metal grill with four legs holding it above the area of burnt wood.  She left her bucket there and returned her clothes on top of it.  Quickly descending the three concrete stairs to the lower level, she hopped over the rusted metal railing.  She landed, her legs"

Confederate Memorial Statue, at the center of
Forsyth Park. 

 

Eight Days Left!

Hello Bloggers and THE SAVANNAH SYNDROME (TSS) fans!  While TSS has stalled out in terms of sales right now, both this blog and my personal blog are hitting some of the highest viewing numbers ever.  I see a surge every Saturday with the Weekly Writing Prompt here, which is then reflected on my personal blog.  It's good to know somebody's reading these!

Well, it's Tuesday, which has suddenly become my day for personally raving, and ranting, about Fox's new Monday night drama The Following.  They are really making me hate the central antagonist, the serial killer Joe Carroll, more and more each episode.  He and his cult are doing everything they can to torment the FBI Agent, Ryan Hardy, who seems to have just lucked into catching Carroll during his initial murdering spree.  The violence in the show is still a bit appalling and unnecessary   I understand they are going after realism here in its most vivid form, but to show a cult member stab a man to death and watch him bleed out is a bit morbid.  A dangerous show to be airing in a dangerous time in our society.  I hope parents are using extreme caution and keeping impressionable kids away from this show.  But even a young adult, out on their own for the first time and down on their luck, might find that this series unlocks the evils of their soul.  I pray not, but with the increasing frequency of violence occurring in America, who knows what may come from this evil, yet highly entertaining show.  I still recommend it to any adult friends.  The writing for the show is top notch, the sets are thoroughly designed to the smallest detail.  I really wish that Fox would have used the show's website to highlight the talented writers and creators of the show, instead of trying to make the show seem even more real by exploring the back stories for the characters and major settings for the cult members.

Here is page twelve of TSS.  Hopefully, you have all been following along.  It doesn't seem like giving the book page-by-page is spurring any extra sales, but I'll still continue to do so.  If you want to purchase the story in its entirety, click here.  Otherwise, here is another segment, and yes, this is one LONG paragraph...  Enjoy:

"leaves all around her, buffering her ears.  The tranquil slush of the ocean and river waves was hypnotic and seducing.  There was a certain aura of peace in the air that evening.  Each moment of tranquility caused her to put her guard down more and more.  She felt at home, as she had almost every day since she decided to make Cockspur Island her place of residence.  That was a decision she never regretted.  The fort provided a proven protective sleeping quarter through all the seasons, through all the terrible weather elements she had endured.  The island and surrounding waters gave her more than she needed to survive, and that was all she asked for, each morning and night as she prayed to God.  He seemed to hear her well enough as He continued to provide for her, as He did this day just like many before.  She caught the limit she gave herself pretty quick, reeling in three substantial redbreast sunfish using just three crickets.  The other four crickets were released back into the brush and she kept her daily meal swimming in her bucket that was now full of water.  She placed the bucket on the northern wall of the pier next to her sneakers and covered the top with her shirt.  With the cool air wrapping around her naked breasts, she bent down and unhooked her hunting knife and placed it on the wall.  Her pants came off next, removing her shaving razor from the right front pocket.  The pants were folded once and laid on top of her shirt to further enforce the ceiling of her meals entrapment.  She waded out into the ocean naked, using the water to wash away the feelings of uncleanliness.  She wished she could find more soap, but she had diminished her last supply weeks ago.  Without the natural lather it meant for a painful shaving experience up and down her legs and then her arms and armpits.  She hated hair and would have removed all that covered her body, but she refused to shave her entire lower body without having some form of soap, so her hair continued to grow in regions she felt ashamed to name.  Her bathing trip was short and quick, just long enough to accomplish her necessary tasks.  When she had soap, she would spend more time enjoying her surroundings, slowly cleansing her skin and body in the beautiful waters"

From the altar looking toward the entrance at the Cathedral
of Saint John the Baptist.

Nine Days Left!

Happy Monday Bloggers and THE SAVANNAH SYNDROME (TSS) fans!  Only nine short days left to hear the book's fate in Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award Competition!  No news other than that for the book.  Before I share the next page in the novel and another picture, I would like to talk about how surprised I was at the emotional impact some of the commercials of the Super Bowl were this year.  Chrysler definitely stole the show with their two heartwarming, poignant commercials.  Even Budweiser sought to pull on some heart strings with their annual Clydesdale horse commercial.  But I think Chrysler's two commercials for Jeep and Dodge were amazingly well written and exactly what this country needs right now. Comedy is always hard to write and I think Doritos was the only brand to have some half-way funny commercials.  Though the commercials that had me laughing the most were the Leon Sandcastle NFL commercial and the Wonderful Pistachios PSY commercial.  Still, my hat goes off to Chrysler for these two commercials.

The Jeep commercial, which can be viewed here, was a humbling and appropriate message for, not only those still serving, but for the families that have endured and sacrificed along the way for our country.  As I am typing this, I have the commercial playing in the background.  Beautiful words, music, and Oprah.  Kudos Jeep, you have stepped up to the plate and done what no other company dared do, speak out for a minority in this country.  And while everyone likes to say they support our troops, few go that extra effort to show that appreciation, and none have ever done it so elegantly as Jeep did.  Bravo.  Then I read the comments on the YouTube page and I am reminded of how stupid people are in this country.  So what if Jeep is owned by foreign investors.  So what if they are doing subliminal marketing.  So what.  Did this commercial want me to buy a Jeep?  Hell no. Did it give me more respect for the company?  Yes.  Want to know why?  Because they paid a lot of money to make a commercial that saluted our troops.  And too many people can't get that past their thick skulls.  Mostly because they have probably never served, or don't know anyone who has served and have their heads up their own asses (pardon my language).  I wish I hadn't read the comments now.

The second commercial by the foreign owned (by owned that means Italian automaker Fiat holds 61.8% of the shares right now, read about it here) Chrysler was about American farmers.  You can watch that commercial by clicking here.  I didn't read that many comments on that video's YouTube page but it doesn't seem as negative.  I guess the majority of the cynical internet opinion-givers realize how important farmers are more readily than they show that appreciation to our troops.  But again, here, the marketing department decided to spend high dollars to make an add that gives the proper people some of the credit they deserve.  Kudos to the Ram team.  That was a two minute commercial which I believe would have cost them over fifty million dollars to run during the Super Bowl.  And it's awesome that Ram is helping raise funds for the FFA with that promotional run.  So while I won't be rushing out to buy either a Jeep or a Ram, I will say that if I was ever in the market for a truck, I would still buy a Ford, these two companies made the first commercials I was glad I actually watched.  Ever.  They make nicer trucks, I could care less about the commercials when it comes to actual product purchases.

So, that being discussed, here is page eleven of TSS and another picture of the city we love.  Check out my personal blog here.  I'll be ranting about a tragic loss our country was hit by this weekend and went virtually unnoticed thanks to our countries misappropriated sense of worth.  See y'all tomorrow!

Enjoy:

"she released her feet and pulled her legs up directly in front of her.  With her sneakers flat, she compressed her legs and pushed off, spinning, turning her body away from the wall and releasing the rope.  She came splashing down into the moat and hurriedly swam to the far side, just a few short meters away.  Her left hand reached back and felt the reel of her rod, a security measure even though she could still feel both the fishing rod and her machete on her back.  She kicked her legs as hard as she could like an egg beater to elevate her height in the water.  Her hands grasped the sandstone border of the moat and she pushed up with her shoulders.  She was mindful of the oyster shells and barnacles on the wall of the moat with her legs, but she got her sneakers under her and helped kick her body up.  She spilled onto the high grass and lay still.  Counting to 300, she waited for the noises of the island to come back to life.  The cicadas started up again.  A few song birds continued singing back and forth to each other.  Those fingertips of fall swept across the grass and shook the trees.  No other sound caught her attention.  She rose, gathering her bucket, giving a quick look to her hunting knife, and then turning her attention to the ground around her.  A quick hunt for bait and then she would be heading to the beach.

†

The betrayals continued.

            Those little brown crickets, which some days gave her trouble, some days they made her chase them throughout the high marsh grass to catch, filled her bucket far too easy that evening.  She was at her fishing spot on the soft white sand that bordered the north face of Cockspur Island while the sun was still visible over the western horizon.  Her boots sat drying on the broken pieces of concrete that made a rectangular border called the “Historic North Pier.”  She had her pant legs rolled up as she waded out ankle deep in the warm brackish waters where the mouth of the Savannah River met the Atlantic Ocean.  The wind blew stronger here, rustling the"

Cannon overlooking Ft. Pulaski's high walls.

Weekly Writing Prompt

Happy Saturday Y'all!  Tomorrow's Super Bowl Sunday!  "Game Day Bucket Go Boom!"  That KFC commercial is hilarious.  But back to it being Saturday, which around here can only mean one thing.  Yes, that's right!  It's time for another installment of writersdigest.com's (insert loud, echoing voice here before reading next three words) WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT!  Actually a pretty good prompt today, and if you click here, you can read a really good one done by a random writer.  Though I do hate always having to write in first person, but whatever, it keeps those creative gears spinning!  I went way over the word count, but this story took me to a completely unexpected place.  I hope y'all enjoy, I really did writing this.  I wrote this listening to Josh Groban's new album, which you can stream on iTunes right now.  Amazing album.  Check out my closing post on the story of my life today at my personal blog here.  See you Monday!  Go 'Niners!

Prompt:

"You are helping out at a charitable center by organizing donated items. When searching through an old suitcase, you find a suicide note dated six months prior. What’s peculiar is that you know the person. What’s even more peculiar is that the person is still alive. Write the story about what happens when you pay that person a visit and ask him or her about the note."

Story:

I blew my warm breath into my freezing cold hand.  I cleared my throat one more time and pushed the anxiety down in my stomach.  Finally, I garnered the courage to knock on the door.  My stomach turned as I waited for the sound of the deadbolt to disengage.

Please disengage.

This started two days ago.  I was at Goodwill as I always did on Saturday mornings, helping them sort through newly dumped items from the week.  The brief case was pretty simple.  Actually rather nice for a Goodwill drop.  Fancy brown leather; shiny, gold latches and lock.  I did my quick sweep and there, hidden in the top file folder, at the very bottom of the brief case, I found the letter.  I usually do a quick glance over something like that to make sure it wasn’t anything of major importance and send it to the paper shredder.   But with this letter, I was caught with the opening line, which read:

If you are reading this..

And was followed by a thorough description of why this briefcase would be found either floating down the Manatee River or found in the weeds of some embankment.  The letter was a suicide note, a very precise description of the man who had penned the note.  My heart stopped as I recognized the address.  Then the names of next of kin.  And finally, my Pastor’s name was signed at the bottom.  I had quickly jammed the letter in my pocket and told the store manager I had to go.  I drove home in a daze, the now crumpled letter staring at me on my passenger seat.  I was not sure what to do next.  The letter had been dated six months prior.  And I knew my Pastor had not seen it through, he would confirm that the very next day when he gave a sweeping sermon about forgiveness and moving forward in life.  I shook his hand like I always did on Sunday, filling my role as another familiar face and extra name to memorize.  That was my only role in the church, until I decided I needed to say something.  If my Pastor, the person who inspired me to live and trust God, had come to the point where he was willing to take his life, I felt like I had to at least talk to him.

So there I was, desperately waiting to hear the deadbolt to his front door disengage.  I could feel God watching me from high above.

That glorious click and slide finally hit my ears.  It was Mrs. Thompson.  I asked for her husband.  Her eyes filled with tears.  She asked me if I hadn’t heard.  Offered a kind hand on my shoulder.  I stared at her in disbelief.  I rebutted.  I told her I had just been in church yesterday.  I had seen him, heard his words, just as I had the last six months, every Sunday.  Tears fell down her face as she said it wasn’t possible.  The church was gone. 

We are all gone, she said.

I backed off the porch in disbelief, almost stumbling down the brick stairs.  I turned to run toward my car.  It was no longer there.  I looked back at the house and the door was shut again, Mrs. Thompson gone.  In her place, yellow police tape lined the door.  The grass was tall and unkempt, which I had remembered it being neat and trimmed as I had approached.  I ran toward the church.

On my way there I began to notice that there was no one around.  No one driving in the streets, no one walking along the sidewalks or sweeping their front porches.  No one.

The church was about six miles away, a distance I had never covered running before, but I crossed it with ease today.  I approached the last corner, a large concrete building which obstructed the view of the small chapel before I turned and hurried across the street.  The church was still there.  What was Mrs. Thompson talking about?

I opened the door.  The full congregation was sitting in the pews.  They turned and smiled at me.  At the front of the altar was Mrs. Thompson.  She smiled at me as well.  But her husband was not standing by her side.  I did recognize the figure next to her though.  And while He was nothing like all the pictures that filled western culture, He was beautiful.  He held out His hand to beckon me forward.  As I walked down each pew I noticed that the congregation was transforming before me, their images turning to light and vanishing in a bright fade.  And they couldn’t seem happier to be vanishing.  Behind them, the pews I walked past were turned to burnt ruins.  The front door of the church barely stood, but the walls were burnt down around it.

It’s time to let go, Mrs. Thompson’s voice caused me to turn back toward the altar.  It’s time to come home.

It was no longer cold.  He held out His Hand.  And in my mind, I remembered that day, the fire had swept quickly.  The doors had been locked.  We couldn’t get out.  And now I knew who had caused it.  He had locked his congregation in and destroyed us all.  And then taken his own life jumping off a bridge.

His hand was warm and gentle.  He lifted me up to the altar.

It is time to come home, my son, you are forgiven.  You will never have to think of that terrible day again.  You are saved.

12 Days To Go!

Good morning Bloggers and THE SAVANNAH SYNDROME (TSS) fans!  My daughter is still sick, and last night she woke up around midnight and decided it was time to play for two hours before I finally forced her back to sleep.  She's still snoozing now.  Not much news coming out of TSS today, so before I share page ten of the book and another picture of this fabulous city, I did watch another one of my favorite shows last night and really liked the episode.  I wasn't sure how I was going to feel about this new season of Glee, with my favorite characters all going their separate ways after graduation and an ensemble of new people joining the cast, and while at first it seemed like almost too much for the show to handle with so many new story lines, I really like the way the fourth season is progressing.  While some of the songs they have done this season were not the greatest, the last two episodes have pulled me back in.  Last night's closing number with the new cast of New Directions was amazing.  This group seems to gel together much better than the original ND crew, if that is possible (when they weren't all fighting with each other, that is).  The writers finally seem to be writing more feel good drama, but with Glee I have realized that just when I start to really like the character of someone, the writers make them do something stupid or cruel and I just get aggravated   Take Rachel for example.  Her voice is amazing, and while the writers had her making bitchy move after bitchy move in the first three seasons, she, of course, would be the force to propel ND to their national title.  And since she's moved to NY I have really liked her character, minus her diva meltdown last week when her new boy toy was late for dinner.  Last night, the writers allowed her to stay classy and keep her innocence by refusing to do a topless scene for a student film, after she had felt confident she was ready for that point of her stardom.  Glee is an amazing show, but it seems you either love it or hate it.  I definitely get a lot of mixed looks from other guys when I say I'm a Glee fan.  Only a few male friends actually watch the show, but to get them to admit it, you practically have to water-board them.  For me, loving the show was simple. Not only are there always a handful of hot actresses as the main characters, but they are hot actresses who can sing, really well.  I was hooked from that first pilot episode, where they covered one of the most popular anthems of all time with Don't Stop Believing (you have to click this link, so amazing to see where this show began and how young the original cast looks, and the cover of that classic Journey song is life-changing).  But it's more than just hot actresses with amazing voices, it's the music.  That show does amazing covers of some of the most popular songs ever, and, like last night, sometimes introduces me to a whole new song I have never heard, but when Glee does it, I instantly love.  I have many upon many of their songs downloaded from iTunes.  And while sometimes the story lines are stretched thin, I think they have covered a lot of important issues high school kids face that no one else wants to cover or talk about.  Their story line about bullying with Kurt was very emotional and thought provoking.  So, yes, I'm a Gleek, and proud of it!

So here is page ten of TSS.  Come back tomorrow for the Weekly Writer's Prompt from writersdigest.com.  Continue to follow my personal blog over at jzimmerman324.weebly.com, I'll finally stop talking about myself after this weekend, I promise!  Y'all have a great Super Bowl weekend!

"elbows came to rest on the same ledge she had used to scout the island about thirty minutes earlier.  The sun had made a substantial drop in the sky.  The world around her was still giving her the impression her day would be like every other day.  She closed her eyes.

Dear Heavenly Father,

Lord of Hosts,

Holiest of Holies.

I thank You for watching over me throughout my slumber.

I ask for Your protection as I leave the walls of the secure home You have gifted me with.

I also ask for You to bless my fishing trip this evening.

May I continue to find sustenance to continue this great quest You have set before me.

In these things I pray for Your ultimate grace.

Amen.

     She stood, grabbed her fishing bucket, a simple 5 gallon light green plastic pail, and heaved it over the almost 50 foot wide moat.  It landed in the thick grass and bounced high in the air before coming down and rolling to a stop.  She picked up her rod, loosened the bait hook and used it as a harness across her chest, leaving the rod to rest on her back, along with her machete, and hooking the barb on the lowest guide.  She tightened the reel.  The rod was secure on her back.  She stepped up on the ledge, turning her back to the river.  She reached down and pulled the rope up to her stomach, keeping the line between her knees and sneakers. With a deep breath she took the first leap, her feet clenching on the rope as well as her hands.  Once the slack took, the line spun and she came crashing against the outer brick wall of the fort.  Her right shoulder absorbed the shock today.  It was never a painful crash, but it always got her nerves going.  That momentary free fall feeling never got old for her.  As soon as her movement became isolated she slinked her way down the rope until she was directly in front of the lower opening on the wall.  Here" 

Wow!  Cut off again!  I would just go ahead and buy the book here...