Tag Archives: The Bradley Chronicles

Rallying Cry

Okay, I am trying this once again. I have posted my less than 500 word continuation of the story, based on the prompt of JK Bradley on his blog. I desperately need you to go to http://thebradleychronicles.wordpress.com/2012/05/06/indie-500-second-week/#comments  and open the comments. (Click on the cartoon-style balloon with numbers in it. It’s near the headline. ) Then go to my comment, where my entry is posted, and vote for me.
At this moment it is a two horse race. JK Bradley won his own contest last week. Let’s give him some competition this week and force him to have to write his own entry next week from someone else’s prompt!

Whadaya say? Will you help me out here and vote for my entry in the contest?

Thanks! Mucho with besos y abrazos.


Share a Little Love

How timely that I should get this little note from JK Bradley this morning:

Fay, this is a great start for a story. You’ve built a nice amount of intrigue by setting up this mystery. However the voting works out, here’s what I think, you should use this story and work with it. Maybe put out 500 or so words every couple of days for your followers. It’s really good.

Nice job.

What he doesn’t know is that I will be submitting the piece to the writers group next week. I wrote it so it will stand alone as a piece of sudden fiction.

However, to keep the juices flowing, I may follow his advice. My mind loves games, and by playing along on this one, I could end up with another short story to publish. What do you think? Would you like to play along, too? You can trick yourself out of that dry spot and get a short story done to boot. We can team tag for each other.

Here’s the link — http://thebradleychronicles.wordpress.com/2012/04/27/indie-500/

Note: To boot — I say this colloquialism a lot, but never give a thought to its origins or if this is the correct spelling. I’ll have to research that little phrase.

P.S.  After a week of frosty mornings, it’s warm again. Peas, pole beans, lettuce and radishes have popped. I’m waiting on spinach, cabbage, cauliflower, beets, kale and brussel sprouts. Looks like the grapes took a hit and got frostbitten. Time will tell.

The Bradley Chronicles, Take 2 #Indie500

The Bradley Chronicles, Take 2 #Indie500


Here’s Take Two on writing a short short story using the prompt provided on the link above. This is a different take on the same character, Jacob.


Road to Riches

F. Moore Copyright 2012

Incorrigibly curious, Jacob yanked the steering wheel to the right and parked on the shoulder. Through the windshield, he studied the Army green duffel bag straddling the center line.  He punched the hazard lights switch and exited the car. He was parked in a blind spot, so he listened for on-coming traffic. Hearing none, he scooted across the lane and snatched the sack, dragging it back to his car.

“It isn’t safe to sit here,” he thought, so he flung the bag into the passenger seat. He drove to the closest shopping center parking lot. For a moment, he eyed the duffel, wondering what was inside. He decided to open it and spread its contents on the asphalt.

Five minutes later, he stood astride a map of Vermont, highlighted in yellow with hand-written notes, a folding spade-pick combo, six wood stakes, a spool of orange surveyor’s tape, a small sledge hammer, a gold panning kit, a pair of work gloves, a flashlight, spare batteries, a box of Ziplock bags, and a  sleeping bag. In his hand, Jacob held a small glass vial with a note inside. He unfolded the note. It read:

If you find this, follow the map. It’s your road to riches.

Jacob repacked the bag and put it in the trunk. He pondered his next move. His trip home was unannounced. No one knew he was coming. That difficult conversation with his father could wait. He pointed the car west toward Vermont.

To himself, he sang, “Follow the yellow brick road. . . .”

Good Effort, Misdirected

This morning I have egg on my face. It’s not like I can secretly wipe it off, slink away, and act like it never happened. Noooo. I actively solicited some of you to vote for a story segment I wrote.

After I started my writing campaign, I heard from JK Bradley. It seems I misunderstood his intention, though he admits that his description was subject to interpretation. He corrected the part that I misinterpreted. To make me feel better, I think, he gave me some positive feedback about the piece I wrote. (As did some of you — thanks from the bottom of my heart. x0x0)

It’s like I said in my bio: “Sometimes I’ll trip up. Other times I’ll make a big splash..” This time I tripped up, making a big splash — a whopping belly flop.

So, with that said, let me point you, especially if you have hit a dry spot in your writing, to The Bradley Chronicles, where JK Bradley is hosting a writing exercise to help stagnant writers to get back on track with writing. Check yesterday’s post for the link.

Thanks for loving me in spite of myself. The good news: my mistake yielded about 450 written words. Why is it, then,  I am having such trouble buckling down to real work on the novel?

The Bradley Chronicles — I Need Your Help

Just what I need: another distraction. But this one didn’t take too long and I could whip it out in an hour or so. Besides, like the anthology, it’s a chance to get published. Sort of. Not the snobby-nose-in-the-air kind of publishing. Not the I-am-getting-paid kind either. But the vanity, self-publishing-for-free kind.

Here’s where I need you. I need you to vote for my submission in this little venture. I am submitting a segment to a longer story that is being written as we go. It’s like a progressive dinner, where the party-goers have cocktails at house #1, appetizers at house #2, salad at house #3, and so on.

The host blog for this never-ending story is The Bradley Chronicles. You can read about the details of the overall project here:


There has already been one segment selected and added to the original prompt. It is from this point that my submission, which you can read below, starts. I will be adding a comment at the end of the post at this link. If I understand how the contest is being conducted, it is on my comment where you will do the voting.  Please vote for me. This is for fun — not English composition class.

It was fun writing this. I had to go into my man brain. I ran the submission by my husband to see if what I wrote rang true (manspeak, shifting gears, and all things manly and unmanly that happen to the character). He gave it a pass. I hope you will, too, and vote for me. Please, please, please. (And if you submit a segment, let me know and I will vote for you.)


The voices in Jacob’s head chattered.

Jakey Boy, any plans you had to visit that cute redheaded bartender tonight are out the window if you do anything but get back in your car. Now.

You can’t do that! This guy is hurt. You’ve gotta help.

Are you kidding me? His face is all over the news. This smells like trouble. Move your ass now while you still have a chance.

Oh, god. Is that a gun in his hip pocket? No. Whoever beat him up wouldn’t leave him with a gun, would they? Why does he have a gun? If he has a gun, why is he beat up?

Are you fricking stupid? Run, you bastard. Run. Now.

Something in that last thought rang true to Jacob as the man’s eyes flew open, locking Jacob in his sights. Jacob felt ice form around his heart, threatening to shut off his blood flow. His face paled and his body drew into itself. Rather than follow his instinct to bolt, Jacob started backing slowly toward his car as he spoke. He watched for any movement from the man on the pavement.

“Hang in there, Buddy. I got a first aid kit in the back seat. Lemme get it.” He was walking faster now, backwards, as he continued. “You need to call somebody? Let me get my cell phone. You can call whoever you want to.”

The man was straightening out his legs and beginning to roll over to his stomach as Jacob turned and ran the last couple of feet to the car. He jumped behind the wheel, shoved the car in gear, and stomped the gas. He ducked his head, raking the gears, as he heard gunshots ring out behind him. The driver’s door swung loose. There was no time to pull it shut.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Holy Jesus,” he muttered, concentrating on keeping his head low and putting as much distance as he could between the gunman and himself. He ran the Saab close to the red line before shifting. When he hit the first right hand curve, the driver’s door swung out, away from him.  Only then, did he dare to slide upward and check his rear view mirror. He saw nothing because the curve in the road obscured his would-be murderer from sight. As he grabbed the door handle and yanked the door shut, he felt his hand shaking. The shaking traveled up his arm to his shoulder, spreading on to his torso. His teeth started to ricochet off each other so violently, he thought the teeth would chip.

“Son of a bitch,” he shouted, glancing down. The front of his pants were wet, the warm dampness spreading across his lap and down between his legs.