Literary Diarrhea

I call it that. I don't know what anyone else calls it but this happens a lot. Seems I run, pardon the pun, at the pen, yeah, on some tales up to ten pages whereupon I hit a wall. Sometimes I write myself into a corner but usually the feel of the story dies for the moment. When this happens I find smaller pieces, more solid pieces, yes I am working it, come out. RED LIGHT is on hiatus while two flash pieces are done and ready for submission. Also, a poem about rotting is now in the works. Bring on the prune juice!