Elise VanCise's Blog

The heavy scent of sulfur filled his nose when he walked into the barn. An icy chill slid down his spine as he raised his lantern. A figure stood in the center of the barn. The farrier moved toward it. “You sent for me, sir?”
The figure in black let out a breath from the stump of his neck. Once there was a head there surely. Now only gore and bone, the creature gave off an odor of decay mixed with rose petals. He raised his arm and extended a long finger toward a stall.
The farrier nod...

It was nearly dusk and he was completely turned around on the forest trails. He hoped he was going in the direction of the cabin.
After a few more minutes walk he could hear the  soft swoosh of water rushing over rocks.
His lungs took a calming breath and let it go slowly. There wasn't a creek anywhere near the cabin. He was lost. The canteen was almost empty, he should fill it while he had the chance.
The sky turned pinkish gold as he made his way off the trail toward the soft splashin...

 The wait, it was the worst part of war. Ben and his men had held their current position in the wood since well before dawn.

Younger inexperienced soldiers were apt to get antsy, but it had been long enough in one spot the more experienced men had begun to shuffle feet. Ben dismounted his horse to walk among them.
One of the men moved his musket from left to right as he let out a nervous breath. Ben walked down the line and clasped the man’s shoulder. “Stay strong, the time is near.”
As if on que r...

 

They stood together on the balcony of their hotel room that overlookedthe large city. Dirigibles carrying their passengers floating through the skyin the distance. Sarah grinned. “What a spectacular view. I’m looking forwardto seeing the sights.”  

Jonathon slid his arm around her waist with a mischievousexpression as he kissed his wife. “I have all the sights I need to see righthere.”    

She laughed and wiggled away. “You saw plenty last night andif you want to see more tonight, you...

 Art can be many things to many people, relaxing, stimulating, inspiring. You don't have to be an artist to be inspired by a work. I love to visit my local art museums and spend time with paintings or sculptures and imagine the story that goes with it. 

If you give a group of people a copy of one painting, like the one attached to this blog by artist Andrea Kowch, you will get five different stories. Maybe a bit similar but each writer will see something different that inspired their tale. 

So my ...

 “What do we do now? You told me nothing could go wrong and look what’s happened.” Kurt pushed and  

shook the basement doors again. “We’ll just go in and get the ball, he said, nothing will happen, he said, the old lady isn’t even home, he said.” 

Pete gave his friend a shove. “Shut up! It’s not my fault the wind blew the doors shut.” He gave the other boy another shove to the side. “Stop acting like a baby, they probably just need a good shot of elbow grease.”
Kurt scoffed, “Yeah, my sister can b...

I know, I know. We're stuck in our houses for the next 30 to however many days it takes to #flattenthe
curve. That's why this is the perfect time to create a new good habit. For instance... writing everyday or getting in at least 30 minutes of exorcise a day, eating healthier. Yeah, the last two are kind of ick so let's stick with writing habits.

That way we can eat all the junk we want and create something awesome. You can always have one of those peddle things under the desk. *wink

How do we...

The Inner Critic is that voice in your head that tells you something is worthy of appraisal or not.
Everyone has one; it just seems that writers tend to be the most tortured by this voice.
If we are not careful, that nasty little voice in our heads will become judge, jury, and executioner to our work. If we allow it that critic can shut a story down and keep us from submitting our work. By listening to that voice in our head saying things such as: “That’s not really good enough to send out.” “...

The old shed stood amongst the wild growth. The paint worn, siding rusted with time telling the world it has been
forgotten. What secrets are inside these simple four walls? Old tools, holiday decorations, toys now outgrown or boxes of memories. Or perhaps secrets better left forgotten.

Ben rinsed his tin plate with the last sip of his coffee and stepped back inside. The ragged tent did little to keep out the winter winds. He longed for another hot cup of brew but his ration was low and the troop's supplies had not yet made it through the fighting. What he had left would better serve him in the morning.
His breath fogged the air in front of him as he searched his pack for his last sheet of precious paper. He carefully set out his ink and pen before lighting the nub of a candl...