Emily Howitt

I decided to participate in flash fiction challenge this week from Chuck Wendig's blog Terribleminds , and chose the title "Blondie's Southern Rabbit." Enjoy. Jack drove past the diner slowly, staring longingly. He had been wanting to try Blondie’s Southern Rabbit for a long time now. Almost a year. It was a little hole in the wall trucker stop near a hole in the wall, town, and they didn’t take very kindly to outsiders. They liked to stay within their own community, and anyone who did happen to venture into the diner, while, they were just never seen again. Probably because they went back to wherever they came from, Jack thought, people liked to make things bigger than they were. Even so, it was enough to scare off most people, including Jack, until he just couldn’t take it any longer. Their rabbit stew was supposed to be the best around, and he just had to try some of it himself. It might seem odd that Jack was so fixated on rabbit stew. He even considered m...

Writers are a fickle bunch of creatures. Sometimes it seems like everything has to be just right, or we can’t possibly write. If the sun is at a weird angle, no. If it’s an odd numbered day, no. And heaven forbid, we run out of coffee. The wondrous nectar of life. We can’t possibly write without the nectar of life. I kid, of course, but sometimes writers fall into traps. The trap of superstition. The trap of fear; that you’ll suddenly just forget how to write. The trap of trying to write two thousand words every day when really all you want to do is crawl under that rock and pretend like the world doesn’t exist. Or maybe you’re stuck and you just can’t bring yourself to write another agonizingly painful word that makes you want to set what you wrote on fire, only you can’t because we now write with these high tech newfangled things called laptops. And you can’t burn your laptop, because, like, it cost a lot of money. Especially if it’s Apple. Because Apple thinks they can charge r...