The Rebel Writer
My heart skipped a beat when I saw the email arrive in my inbox. Those magical words unfurled before my eyes. Flash Fiction Challenge. Another Friday, another challenge.
I clicked on the email. Drummed my fingers on the desk while I waited for my antiquated work PC to cope with the strenuous task of displaying a bunch of text in a browser. God, I hate my work PC.
And yes, there it was! Chuck Wendig—author, gamer, blogger, father, pen-monkey, bearded guide to the masses of hopeful writers—wanted us to write about… rebellion.
That soaring, swooping feeling inside my chest tanked like a stone. My invisible heart-pilot ejected right before my heart it the ground and exploded into a bazillion tiny fragments.
I grasped inside my mind for something suitably rebellious, and drew blanks. I imagined all the wonderful stories my fellow authors would be coming out with in the next few hours and days. Exciting tales of protest marches and acts of political terrorism. Maybe Greenpeace would kidnap Trump and sacrifice him to our glorious whale overlords. Maybe famous Hollywood movie stars would refuse to be cast in roles until TPTB agreed to diversify. Maybe chickens and cats would unite to overthrow humanity. Those are just the kinds of stories you get, when you follow Terribleminds.
Normally, I pride myself on coming up with decent ideas, contributing on a weekly basis when I’m able… or a yearly basis when I’m not. Now, my brain, powerhouse of my imagination, had let me down.
Well, screw you, Chuck! I thought to myself. I’m not gonna write about your stupid prompt. I’m gonna write about… a torrid love affair between two politicians of enemy states who secretly love each other and want their countries to be one big super-state.
My fingers burned their way across the keyboard as my protagonist, Ronald Hump, made wild, passionate, mad, steamy love to his counterpart, Alamir Rasputin. Never before had such decadence been committed to word. This is gonna be a best-seller, I told myself. I’ll call it… Fifty Shades of Hump. It would eventually be a movie. Two movies. Three! My story would be banned in every country south of the Lapland and north of Antarctica. Having it banned would definitely drive up sales.
As I came to the end of my work of art, I re-read it. Then, I realised it wasn’t so much a story, as a series of interconnected sex scenes of a very explicit nature. I mean, there wasn’t even a plot. Just sex.
I guess I’m not cut out for romance novels.
With a sigh, I hit the ‘delete’ button on my masterpiece. Watched the words and bits disappear into nothingness.
Sorry, Chuck, I thought to myself. Looks like I’ll be sitting this one out.