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This piece was inspired from a writing prompt in reddit: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/3cjjf8/wp_on_the_first_manned_mission_to_mars_a_crew_of/

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Yana looked up at the Martian sky and saw no Earth.

It had been a week since they had landed on ground zero and lost contact with mission control. But the mission continued. Base camp was set up. Their living quarters erected at the fringes of their landing site. The buildings looked like ping pong balls, plastic and white. There were portlets at either side, a view to the red wasteland that abounded.

Pietr told the four astronauts that mission control had ceased its signals. Asked as to why, Pietr didn't know.

"Could be maintenance. Relay must've broke down," said Frank.

"If it were, they should've repaired it days ago." Pietr scratched his beard. "We'll keep the console up. If we get anything, I'll let everyone know."

Three days later, still no signal. The astronauts remained on their duties. Yana maintained the crop and their diet. She prepared a salad, cutting lettuce and tomatoes, throwing in some legumes until she saw something out in the surface of Mars.

Yana squinted at the sight. There, at the distance, were two people standing hand-in-hand, waving at her. Yana closed her eyes and shook her head. When she opened them, the two people remained, still waving at her.

Wishstick

The last cigarette pointed up inside the crumpled pack. Ray made a wish, begged for a million dollars from a benevolent Goddess he often called lady luck. He lit it up, smoked it and snuffed it out when the burn reached the filter.

Ray entered the corner store nearby. The door swung in, jingling the bell. He was greeted by the smell of heavy incense that hung inside the cramped store.

"Good afternoon my friend!" said the store owner. He placed a pack of Marlboros and a scratch-off ticket on the counter. Ray nodded and gave him a twenty.

He took out a penny and began scratching. The top four numbers gave him 32, 19, 44, 5, and the bottom numbers gave him nothing to match. So much for that.

"Maybe next time," said the owner, still retaining a smile.

My Friend Kyle

It had been three years since I saw Kyle. Although pictures of him were sparse in Facebook, in my memory he was that shy 11-year old boy. We were close, almost like brothers. My mother didn’t like him, and she told me never to go to his place. Yet she tolerated him out of pity--Kyle was the youngest of five children, all raised by a single mother.

I remember one day when he came over at my place with a large sweater that was an old hand-me-down. His sweater had two small holes on the back and one near the collar. When he took it off, the holes on the back stretched and then merged into a larger one. I felt bad and offered one of my sweaters. I even picked my favorite sweater--a plain green sweater with a decal of the Philadelphia Eagles at the front. He turned down the offer, but I insisted, told him it was cold outside and I didn’t want him to get sick. Eventually, he caved and took it.

Last night, in my dream, he was wearing that sweater. There was something odd by the way he stood at the far edge of unreality. I remembered approaching him slowly like a predator mindful of his steps. The scene turned into a green pasture, grass curling beneath my feet and the mountains stretched before the edge of the cliff. Kyle had his back towards me, and the sun blazed around his head like a halo.

Devil Went Down to UN

The general assembly whispered and clamored and mumbled to one another. The Devil was scheduled to speak. They thought it ridiculous. What if this "devil" was a poser, a fraud, a filmmaker with a hidden camera to record and expose the naivete and stupidity of the UN Assembly.

The announcer stepped to the podium and spoke to the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, the"--there was a pause--"Devil."

From the back of the room, the doors swung open. The Devil was dressed in a red suit with a white tie. He wore a hat, held a cane, and was eating an apple. He sauntered down the center aisle, and there was a creature mounted on his left shoulder. It wasn't an animal of any sorts. If it were, it was on fire.

Personal Goals; Public Posts

Well let's get this blog rolling!

I'm planning to write stories that I want to sell and write stories based on writing prompts. You can find writing prompts at www.reddit.com/r/writingprompts or at any writing forums. Or you can look for writing exercises which would help the craft.

That's the purpose of this blog--an exercise platform. Anything that I write for practice, refinement and exercise will show up on this blog.

But!

Any stories that show up here are revised twice, three-times, four-times for good luck and good publicity. I won't post any stories here that are fresh--those first drafts that are akin to chicken-scratch in the tune of a typewriter's clacks.

Return of the Writer

If God was real, he has a weird sense of humor. If the platypus was a gag, then randomness is his punchline.

See, I've been in a slump lately, seven months to be exact. I had encountered this twice in the past, and all of them lasted the same seven months (no kidding). I would be in a writing binge, up until a publisher rejects my stories. Then dejection and depression and distraction buries that momentum.

When I'm not writing, I'm gaming. I like gaming. Gaming and writing are always close to my heart. But like jealous siblings, one of them wants my undivided attention. So it's this cycle, a two season cycle in this mental climate. I can't ignore one of them because I'd be miserable, like losing a child to a pool of sharks.

Randomness of the universe. I picked up Sims 4 a month ago and have been playing it non-stop. From a hardcore PvPer in Guild Wars 2 to a casual Simmer in Sims 4 (Simmer is a noun. It means someone who plays the Sims. Which one version, doesn't matter. Don't even get me started with their expansions).

With Sims 4, I crafted an alternate world, a grim universe that was inspired by Lovecraft. I applied all of what I've learned in writing, and the bug has its suckers deep in my vein. The itch is back. Good. I'm planning to write this Sims 4 story until I'm satisfied with its ending. Once I'm done, I'm back at drafting stories, practicing with prompts and sending them off to publishers.

I believe my last test as a writer is taking the rejection, eating it and moving on. Carpe Diem. Yada Yada. 

Halloween

Ali hid under the table and sat on the kitchen floor. She stared at the open doorway that led to the living room, waiting for the sun to creep down and settle the day. The guests began to show up, appearing out of thin air and materializing from head to toe. Their bodies were translucent like vapor and glowed amber against the radiant dusk. Ali looked at the new arrivals and searched for a face she trusted. When a teenage boy made eye contact with her, Ali turned away.

"Ali, come out of there," said her mother Olivia. Ali pushed herself to the base of the table and grabbed the front legs of the chair in front of her, using it as a shield from anyone who dared to disturb her.

"No!" said Ali.

"I hope she's not scared of us," said Grand Aunt Colleen who appeared next to Olivia.

"No, she’s just shy.”

“That is so cute,” said Grand Aunt Colleen. She stooped down to look at Ali. “Hi Ali, don’t you remember me?”

Ali struggled to identify Grand Aunt Colleen; it was hard to identify someone with a see-through face. When Ali recognized the dragonfly hairclip and the plump physique, Ali remembered. Last year, Colleen was the loudest and the rowdiest of the dead relatives. Colleen had consumed a bottle of wine, a bottle of Jack Daniels, three bottles of Guinness and a glass of Long Island Iced Tea. Ali could never forget the smell of Grand Aunt Colleen’s breath. Ali raised an arm and waved at her to say hi.