The idea behind this thread is to help develop writing skills. Personally, I had the problem (and still do, to some extent) where I would contemplate and plan my writing so much that I never got around to writing -- hopefully this exercise helps loosen up people like me. You're given a word or phrase by the previous poster and write for 10 minutes about it. You can use this site for an online timer (http: // www . online-stopwatch . com / online-countdown /), or you can set your own. Either way, no matter what happens at the end of 10 minutes, stop writing. Don't worry about editing afterwards; the idea is to churn out your words and ideas as quickly as possible. If, by the end of 10 minutes, you've written next to nothing, you've written an incomprehensible mess, or you're in the middle of typing a word, it's fine, just stop anyway. My goal is to do this once a day as an exercise to improve my writing skills.
I used a random word generator to get the word application. Here goes.
He sat in his computer chair, hand over his forehead and furrowing his eyebrows. Every positive quality about him was packed in this thin sheet of paper. "BREAD AND COFFEE JOB APPLICATION - MATTHEW PARKER," it read at the top in daunting, capital letters. His eyes glazed over the checkmarked boxes and credentials, focusing more where he wrote in the paragraph labeled Other. It was the only place on there that made him unique -- no doubt, it was the only place his interviewee was going to read before determining if he was fit for the job or fit for the trash.
Matt inhaled and twirled his pencil around his fingers. There wasn't much to change to this; honestly, he was hard pressed to find any revisions after spending hours last night looking over it. Part-time jobs weren't all that exciting; he didn't know why he was laboring so much over a simple job application. Although, it was one of the more prestigious (if you could call it that) fast-food eateries on his side of the city. Most of his classmates were working in places like McDonald's, which paid about the same, but Matt knew after a couple of hours there, the aroma of deep-fried lard would be sickening. Bread and Coffee, despite its simplistic name, was probably going to be the most engaging job he had, and as a plus, he could smell coffee and fresh bread all day instead of fattening grease.
Done with stressing over his application, Matt got up from his chair, grabbed his application, and headed out to the front door. His car, a beat up 1992 Chevy, was going to be insufferably hot in the 90 degree weather, and it also didn't help that his parents thought that air conditioning, "wasn't honestly that important." But it got the job done, and Matt didn't go out all that much anyway. He unlocked his car and stepped in, adjusting to the humid must of the car before igniting the engine.
The car whirred to life, and Matt backed out of his driveway, headed to East 12th Street. The one benefit of summer was that nature's colors seemed to pop out more, and while Matt was never the sentimental type, it always reminded him of summers long ago spent playing in the playgrounds at recess. It still didn't make up for the heat, though, and the breeze he was getting from his windows were negligible. Matt was only glad the place was a mere 10 minutes away, and even more glad when he imagined the cool AC inside.
Soon enough, he pulled up to the eatery, which was modern yet still homely looking, and parked at the curb next to it. Stepping inside with his application in hand, he felt a rush of cool air blow against his face. Just what he needed, a refreshing confidence booster. He glanced down at his blue, button up shirt and then looked at the cashier to see how he stacked up. Maybe he was trying too hard -- his hair was a bit too well combed and his button up a bit too formal. He figured it
Word for the next person is present (as in a gift).7/4/2011 #1
Did you clear this game with Rhea? According to the rules thread, all games must be cleared by Rhea before posting them.
"Aw, that's so lovely! What an adorable little collectable clock!"
Another round of oohs and ahhs rippled through the room as Serina lifted the clock above the crowd.
I sat in the back, about ready to kill myself. Only ten minutes in and I could already tell I was about to be the laughing stock of the entire country club. What was I thinking? I couldn't give that to someone in public! I couldn't even give in private! How do I do these things to myself? This is the worst Christmas EVER.
"And who is that one from, darling?"
Grant studied the card his Secret Santa wrote for him. "'I wish you warmth and happiness this Christmas, Clarissa.' Thank you, Clarissa, you have such exquisit tastes in Christmas cards. The cabin was a nice touch as I'm wintering up at my uncle's ski lodge!"
A sea of applause resounded through the hall as Clarissa blushed cutely in the crowd. Now more than ever, I was convinced of my failure to fit in to the new crowd. My fiancé is going to be so disappointed. I'll never hear the end of it.
"Now, who would like to open the next present?"
I cringed and hope whoever it was, it wasn't Faith.
"I will!" Faith volunteered, naively unaware of what she was subjecting herself to.
Hoping to escape the stares and whispers, I tried to quietly sneak off to the restroom.
"Hang on, hang on, Chris. Didn't you have Faith? Well, you don't want to miss her opening your present do you?"
I felt all eyes on me, weighing me down as the accusation hung in the air, dripping acid all over my self esteem. This was the worst possible day of my life.
Faith carefully unwrapped the present, an eager smile adorning her face. I couldn't look.
"Well, that's...very nice. I've...I've never quite seen something like that." The host of the party tried hiding her surprise.
Faith stared blankly at my gift, not seeming to know what it was. "Well, I'm sure it'll look great on my mantle!"
The rest of the crowed nodded their agreement. I nodded, trying to smile...maybe this isn't quite the worst day? Maybe...Oh who am I kidding? It's coming. I know it's coming. One day, Faith will have new money over to her place, born of circles not quite so repressed or naive, and she'll know. She'll know what I'd done, and it'll be an even worse day than this could ever have been.
Okay, there's mine. I went over, but mostly because I was distracted by my TV. And I wanted to finish. I started thinking 20 minutes ago, started typing about 18 minutes ago. The next word is Arbitrary.7/6/2011 #2
Yeah, I got this thread cleared. And lol Arbitrary, here goes:
"Craig, your pick."
I scan the line of students, looking for the best choice for my team. I don't know why I let every situation of power get to my head; anytime I step near competition, something fierce ticks in me. It's just an eight grade dodgeball game in first period gym. It's certainly not life-changing — heck, I don't even know if I'll remember this tomorrow. But damn it, I want to win.
It's the second pick, so a lot of good talent is still left. Daniel with his overconfident smug, Sam with his unnaturally large biceps (if I've ever met a 14-year-old on steroids, it's definitely him), Milson with his unearthly agility. There are of course the not-so-athletic kids, and even worse, the ones who wouldn't even try, the ones who'd lean against the back wall and chat about whatever uninteresting garbage happened to them that day. Certainly not picking any of them.
"Wes." I don't even know why his name comes out of my mouth. Wes isn't out of shape -- in fact I think he plays tennis or something -- and he's not lazy, but something about him made him blend in with the wall. I wasn't even sure his name was Wes, but I don't even regret the decision. Wes musters a surprised face and stumbles forward, looking at me in the eye for a second. Rick picks Sam (obviously), and I pick Milson, a much more reasonable choice this early in the rounds.
Eventually we get to starting. Mr. Adams sets the green foam balls in the middle of the gym (some kid got hit in the face last year and broke his glasses, or something) and our team gets ready to pounce forward and snatch them. The whistle blows, signalling the roars of competitive middle-schoolers. I pounce forward, grabbing a ball and chuck it at someone's feet. It doesn't connect, and I'm forced to run back, watching out for the people obviously aiming for me. I glance over at Wes, my (for some reason) second pick, and he's standing near the midline just waiting to get hit.
"What are you doing?" I yell. "Back up!"
He doesn't listen, and somehow doesn't get hit. A few seconds later, one of those standoffs occurs. The same one that always occurs playing dodgeball -- each team has three balls and no one wants to throw it, because then everyone else will. It's Milson, Wes, and some other kid who's name escapes me (Gary?) in position against three kids from their team. From out of nowhere, our team is pelted with dodgeballs, and it took me a few seconds to realize Wes started it. He gets hit shortly after and takes the walk of shame to the sideline. I run by him, almost fuming.
"Why would you—"
"I wanted to," he said, cutting me off and meeting my stare with a relaxed look. "For God's sake, it's just dodgeball. Why do you care so much?"
I didn't really get to much arbitrariness in this, sorry I didn't stick too well to the theme lol. I went over a few seconds to finish that last sentence. There are probably tense errors somewhere but eh.
The next word is Thunderstorm7/7/2011 . Edited 7/8/2011 #3
I noticed you missed putting the word in there. I kept waiting for you to work in how 'arbitrary' Wes was. And...it seemed like you lost direction during the actual dodgeball competition, then tried to scramble to a point at the end. I think if you go over, just go over and don't worry about it. Your writing suffers when you rush.
And...I really don't mean to sound hurtful or anything, but...I just can't really get into either story. The first one especially, but the second one too. I don't care about the main characters, I don't see anything in there to connect me to them and it just feels boring. Your second attempt was definitely better though. I wish I had more time to mull over your stories, but I have an hour before I leave for the hospital and I'm trying to tie up all the loose ends I have on the internet. And MY writing suffers when I rush too!
"Let's go, let's go, let's go!"
The ground rocked as another IED exploded nearby. Distant cries haunted the young forest.
"The enemy isn't gonna wait for you ladies to offload before blowing your sorry a*** all to hell!"
The wide-eyed youths raced into oblivion, blind to their surroundings, searching only for Charlie or a place to hide. The ground rumbled as faceless statistics were blown off the planet, enemy and ally alike. The stench of nature and man-made ruin rushed the poor souls' nostrils, threatening to overwhelm even the hardiest of minds. Chaotic flashes lit up the prevailing darkness, reminding many of horror flicks where everyone dies at the end.
Adrian Bellows choked back a yell as something flit past his face. He regained his composure and lurched forward. Another object flit past, this time low to the ground, near his leg. A few feet away, Gary Manheim gargled, an arrow protruding from his throat. Adrian screamed, warning the others to search for cover and the arrows zipped through the trees in a sideways hail.
"General, how are things going on the war front?"
"Operation Thuderstorm appears to be successful, Mr. President. Reports indicate one hundred percent enemy casualties."
"Only a small bait force sir. Less than one hundred."
I hear thunderstorm, I think carpet bombing. I went over by a minute or two, but I'd say I'm getting better. Is it alright to offer criticism/advice in this thread, or should I delete what I put?
Let's see what someone can do with Monsenior.7/8/2011 #4
I noticed you missed putting the word in there.
It's not a requirement of the prompt:
You're given a word or phrase by the previous poster and write for 10 minutes about it.
The point is to not go over 10 minutes, for whatever reason. It's to improve spontaneity and efficiency, and to erase the fear of the blank page.
Also, it's nifty in that it shows just how much editing can help. 90% of the stories churned out in this way are going to look like crap (or at least like five minutes of editing can clean it up and make it a ton better); there's no way of getting around that unless you run over.
For criticism, I'd say that you didn't spend enough time introducing the characters. They're dying, they're being sacrificed, but they're faceless, so it doesn't matter. It's much easier to forge connections when you narrate from a character's point of view and not from your own; narrating about "them" is generally much less effective than filtering description about "them" through someone else's viewpoint.
I think you meant monsignor. So, I wrote about what came to mind when I thought about that word. Here it is:
The tavern was one of the places Iago frequented. Once he got past the stench of alcohol, he'd found the place homely, and it certainly helped that each day, a new flock of customers would be in the small building, coinpurses dangling at their waists.
They never saw him coming—he was too good for that. Years of living on the streets with no permanent residence did that to you. He considered himself a moral person, but he'd accepted a long time ago that this was what he'd have to do if he wanted to live. His deeds rarely gave him pause—except for now.
He realized as he was reaching for the man's coinpurse that he knew him. Iago drew his hand away and let out a short gasp, killing his cover. Snatching the hefty sac would be impossible now, but it didn't matter, because he didn't desire to go through with it anymore, with the kind of penalties he might have faced.
The man looked back at him, brown hair trimmed and washed, clothes free of the stains and smears that usually covered those that came to this place.
"Milord," Iago said.
The prince's face whitened. "How?"
How he'd recognized him, in commoners' clothing. Iago just shook his head. "I… dunno." He didn't want to say that, in order to survive in his profession, you had to be alert enough to know which targets weren't worth the struggle. "Why are you here? And how? I know the palace won't let any of you lucky b*** out."
It wasn't the crown prince. The crown prince was taller and more intimidating, with a stately beard and the dignified posture of a ruler. This man, his younger brother by three—or was it four?—could have been mistaken for a commoner.
Prince Haseth gave him a faint smile. "The castle has many secrets. Some of them, like the passage I took to get out here, only I know. And one that I'm guessing you won't understand is that the palace life isn't as always as dandy as it seems, especially to someone as useless as I."
Iago blinked at him. "Useless? You're…" His brow furrowed when he took in what the other man meant. "What will become of you?"
Haseth shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe a priest. It would be fitting, for a prince."
"I take it that the idea doesn't interest you."
The prince laughed, the sound only a humorless bark from a man who must have answered the question a thousand times. "Ah, and when has that ever mattered, since the moment my brother was born?"
...God, I want to edit more. At least I had like a minute at the end to fix a typo and add a detail or two.
The next word is alone.7/8/2011 . Edited 7/8/2011 #5
The point is to not go over 10 minutes, for whatever reason. It's to improve spontaneity and efficiency, and to erase the fear of the blank page.
Jaslazul is exactly right. I made this thread just so people could practice writing anything. Editing is important, yes, but it's not the purpose of the game. The goal is to write as much as possible within 10 minutes to improve your spontaneity and see how fast you can portray your idea. Pretty much everything written will be bad, and even a small amount of editing would fix a lot of things, but the game is to help people get rid of the, "I don't know where to start!" attitude that makes them stare at an empty document for half an hour. The purpose is to just write more.
Criticism is always welcome. Just keep in mind that these are incomplete stories churned out in 10 minutes with minimal editing, so some advice will hold up more than others.
First thing I notice when I wake up is the sweat in my eyes. I yank my hand up to rub them, but my wrist chafes against the rope. It takes a few seconds for me to realize I'm still tied in this chair with no idea where I am or what I did.
My wrist throbs. If I could feel the pain, I'd be a hundred percent convinced I'm bleeding — badly. But it's numb, and I'm not sure if I'm really injured or I'm being delusional. My entire body's numb. I try tapping my foot against the chair, but the only confirmation it's moving is the dull thud of boot against wood. It's really bugging me that I don't know what I did — like this annoying itch on my neck I can't scratch. Sucks.
A light flickers on. They didn't do this yesterday — was it yesterday? I slept, or passed out, or something, but I'm not exactly sure what time it is. I can't recall ever being this disconnected from reality. I blink a few times and then analyze my surroundings. I'm in a small room, with unpainted, pasty-looking walls and a dark window in front of me. Probably one-way. I'm probably being held in custody, somewhere. My neck cracks with dull pain as look down at my knees, bruised and blue, and my shorts, stained with dried blood.
All I know is that I must have done something really messed up this time. Nothing else makes sense. It can't be legal for police to keep people like this. I should be in a hospital. But where else could I be? Kidnapped? Like hell, no one would kidnap me. I wouldn't let anyone kidnap me, anyway.
It startles me at first. The muffled click coming from the ceiling is the only other noise, aside from my own body, that I've heard since I've been here.
"Alex Willshire." The voice is an older woman's, dry and uncaring. I look at the window, not knowing where else to look. "Do you know why you're here?"
I make a few croaks before I speak, and when I do, my voice comes out dry and hoarse. "Who are you?"
"Do you know what you've done?" She ignores me. So I must be in police custody.
Next word is College.7/11/2011 #6
Oh wow. College.
That thought ran through Andrew's mind. College. It was time for his baby girl to go to college. The Annihilators weren't gone yet; he was assured of that. But he had to let her go.
"I'm a big girl now, Daddy," she whispered, kissing him on the cheek. Lucy was always an adorable girl. She was beautiful. She had long blonde hair and sky blue eyes that always smiled at everyone. She was brilliant, his sunshine. She kept him warm throughout the dark cold nights after his lovely wife passed away.
"Be safe, honey!" he called, waving to her as she pulled from the driveway in her yellow Porsche. She blew him a kiss and drove away.
Andrew wandered back inside the house, tears slowly leaking from the corners of his eyes and sliding down his cheeks. His baby girl...gone... He looked at the picture of her own the mantle and all he wanted to do was ball. At that moment, Andrew Evans needed a lot of things. His daughter, for one. And he seriously needed a beer.
Okay, I thought it was a bit rushed and not much for my tastes.
Next word: blue (as in color, music genre, doesn't matter)12/31/2011 #7
Blue. Vodka. Summer.
Three words that were defining and distentergrating Alice's word currently as she stumbled her way over to the fridge to refill her now empty glass. This would be third - or was it ... no she had had more before coming here. Must be her seventh. Seven drinks, one, two, three, four - maybe more. She was always far too generous with her vodka amounts. Far too generous. She blinked her eyes, shut them tight and sucked in a breath, her body feeling like it was falling back through time and space, to the beginning and to an end.
Her eyes opened. Slowly. Her world wasn't so fast and then she took another step.
The room seemed to be in high definition, as every detail stood for attention and demanded for her to notice it. Look at me, look at me, look at that spot, and that blue fibre on the end of your finger, that smear of blue paint from - a jolt of memory as the strange man painted in blue stopped you in the street, gave you a hug and took off. That had been weird, she reflected. That had been something too close for comfort. Alice had heard all about strange men. Who hadn't? She was young, a female and therefore vulnerable.
And now apparently smeared with blue paint.
Her hand clasped unto the fridge door, the cool texture feeling unreal against her palm as she pulled it up. Time sped up and the bottle of Smiroff was in her hand, and going into her glass. The bottle went down onto the bench with a clunk. Glass on emanel. Once again her eyes closed, trying to steady herself. Her face countered, laugh lines growing deeper as she fought to keep in this that the moment.
Someone called her name, she mumbled something back, her stomach twanging, and swallowing back something that threatened to come like a man beating down the back
That was really fun - good game!
Prompt: Close.1/1/2012 #8
They were too close. Way too close. Grymawk blinked and groaned, starting up at the dark shapes that seemed to tower in his blurry sight. "Wh-- what's going--"
"Hold him," some one said, and suddenly he could feel the hands clamping onto his arms and legs, pinning him firmly to the ground. Too startled to do better than gasp, he struggled a bit, feeling stupid with the fog that clouded his brain. Then he felt a hand probing the bandages on his thigh, and suddenly there was burning sensation that caused him to redouble his efforts at freeing himself.
"You've been scratching at your stitches, lad," a voice said - it sounded somehow familiar, but he couldn't have named the speaker at that moment and anyway, trying to figure out the identity of the one talking was far from his priority at that moment. He was much more interested escaping. Twisting and bucking up helplessly, he felt the merciless hand tearing off the bandages.
The open air on the wound there was like salt. He shrieked.
"Gorthaur's ***, will you look at that! It's TWICE the size that it was yesterday!" a third voice said with a kind of delighted fascination.
"It's like I said," agreed the second voice. "And if we don't get it now, it'll only go into the underlying muscle."
"We don't have time for this." First voice, sounding irritable. "What's your plan, then, Rukshash? Burn it out?"
Evil fingers probed his wound in a prickling wave. Grymawk whimpered, all but senseless at this point, though he could still hear the second voice speaking somewhere overhead. "Narrr, but we'll get to get the pus out... Naught but a good lancing won't cure..."
I'm glad this thread has been revived. Thanks, The Love of a Raven and WinchesterPhantom!
Prompt: Enough1/1/2012 #9
He doesn't feel like he should be here.
Not after the woman. Not after all that. Not after his own brother tried to keep it from him, like he was a child. He shouldn't be here, but here is the thing about the word 'should' - it didn't imply he couldn't be here, or that he may not be here, or that he didn't want to be here, or even need. Maybe he did need to be here, sitting on this square rug of a carpet and staring into the darkness of his brother's house. The cold air was still around him, and his body tensed in preparation as he heard the crunch of a car wheel on gravel.
The engine cut off outside but he remained as he was. Still. Perfectly still. More crunching on the gravel outside but quieter this time. The front door opened and the jangle of keys could be heard. Footsteps echoed on lonely floorboards as a briefcase was placed down, the lights flickering on with a click as the footsteps stopped. He could picture it in his minds eye: picture his brother shrugging off his over-coat, storing his umbrella away again, taking off his suit jacket and vest. Rolling up his sleeves.
When his brother did come into the room he was almost right. The overcoat, umbrella and jacket had been removed however the vest remained. Also did that mask of ice. That remained as his brother's eyes slid over him. He ignored him for the most part, moving over to the liquor cabinet. And he, just like always, sat there and observed it all. He wasn't sure how to say it after all, and knew better than to start something that he couldn't finish. But at the same time he needed to let his brother know - sorry s*** f*** up my fault. That.
The two brothers met each others eyes and held on.
Just like that. They just looked and knew. He read the tiny details, the added frown lines, the greying hair, and the concern that flowed out. Caring. Love. Something that he couldn't name but was there. And in turn his brother read everything about him. His insecurities, his ego, his pride, and his apology. Everything. They both read each other and knew. Read each other more carefully than a lover, a mother, a friend. They say the lines of
I never do finish these - and I'm turning this one into a fic. Thank you, Game! :)
Prompt: scary1/3/2012 #10
Scary. No, Terrifying. That's what they call me. That's what they see when they look at me. I want them to. I want them to know the real me. My fun, personable side, that's just a front. A pretend person that victims and superheroes can feel safe around. But that isn't me. I am the darkness I show out on the streets of crime-ridden cities of the world. I am as evil as I look--no, more evil. I hold back, constantly, because for all the anger and hatred I feel, I still remember who I used to be.
I was a hero. I was good. I wanted so desperately to make up for the mistakes of my past when I hurt people just because I was upset. I risked my life for people I didn't even know, dodging bullets and chasing down bombs, hoping that somewhere in there I'd offset the scales and truly be an asset to society.
But now I am the bad guy again. Even worse, I don't even feel bad about it. I'm incapable of it. My heart is as cold as ice, as black as night and as hard as diamond. My only emotions seem to be severe, blood-boiling anger, disgust and a sick, perverse sense of fun. The things I want to do to people...and worse, I'd rather do them to those least deserving of it! I hate my family. I hate the man that saved me from a life of crime. I hate my girlfriend! I want to see all of them burn, long thin needles piercing their skin as they cry in agony. I want to see them writhe in pain as I show them what a b*** I've become. Me, someone they loved and held close to their hearts. I want to see the shock and betrayal I cause them being as I am. The pain of knowing their lives are ending at my hands!
But...I can't indulge these thoughts for long. Resisting them is hard enough and it gets worse the more I think about what I really want. I wish I could give in, but as evil as I am, I'm just as smart. Too smart. I know what will happen if I go evil. I know what my future would hold then. I would become aimless. I would lose my purpose for living, consumed only by my desires and whims. And though it might be fun for a while, I would quickly grow bored with it, and then where am I? I have one choice. If I change my mind, there is no going back to good. I would lose all I have now that even partially sates my desires. As a hero, people listen to me. As a hero, I have incredibly power at my disposal, thanks to the other three members of the Compass Points. As a hero, I am free to as I wish, when I wish, without reprisal from the Agent McGinnis or any of his friends. But as a criminal, I lose all of that. Permanently. Even if I try to go back and do good for another century, I would still be ignored. I would still have only my own power. I would still be hunted and harassed at every turn, and I could easily lose. No, the smart thing--the only thing--is to resist the temptation. To stay strong and stay just on their side of the line.
Immortality is the worst joke of all...
I was in the zone, so I kept writing after my time was up, but I luckily didn't run out of time until the paragraph finished, so that was nice. Fyi, this is a little introspective from the POV of West, Champion of Darkness. If any of you have posted in the Character Development game, you might recognize the name. This was fun!
Cold as ice. That's how people describe Ayana Tsuchi...she is arrogant,proud,full of pride and never gives up on her word. A true warrior and ninja. Those who stand against her,will suffer a terrible fight. She doesn't like to get close to people either,the only people however she does get close to are her parents...and she has developed a friendly little,soft spot for a certain Hyuga girl.
Ayana admires people with bravery and inner strength. To her,that's what a true ninja should possess,the will to never give up even when you have been beaten to a bloody pulp. She will fight to the very end,if it means defending those she loves.
She has been taught even at a young age,that a ninja must always be calm,cool and collected in the heat of battle. If you panic or freeze up for even a minute: It could spell the end for you and your teamates. That's another thing Ayana expects from a lot of ninja,to care for and help protect their comrades in battle. Most people think of Ayana as a cold and heartless girl,but she has soft side.
Ayana gets her cold heartedness from her mother,even her father is scared of both of them at times.
But if your in the ninja world,you have to never show mercy to ANYONE you fight. Even if you and a comrade are training,you can't go easy on them. Always watch your back and stay sharp. That is Ayana's ninja way.
And done! This was for a Naruto RPG character,I came up with for a RP forum here on Fanfiction she's actually one of my favorites personally. I hope that was okay to put in here and...sorry if this sucks ^^; I enjoy writing these actually they help me come up with future ideas.1/3/2012 . Edited 1/3/2012 #12
And the next word is....? Also, what does that have to do with the word b***? I just can't tell if you used the word or just made something up yourself.1/3/2012 #13
IceDragon- please put a new prompt word down otherwise the game can't continue.
DW - doesn't matter as the word is meant to prompt writing ... most of us will rely on the word as a cornerstone of our piece ... others not. Especially as we only have ten minutes.1/3/2012 . Edited 1/3/2012 #14
I know. I was just wondering if IceDragon understood the rules or not. If she didn't use b***, that may be why she didn't put up a new word.1/3/2012 #15
Oh! Sorry about that,I'm kinda new at this ^^;1/3/2012 #16
Okay, I'm just going to use a word already given to someone else.
"Close the door man, you're lettin' the cold out!" My managed called in to me from the kitchen.
The truth was, I'd seen too many CSI episodes where they closed the door and couldn't get it open again. Maybe it stuck, maybe it locked from the outside, either way, I was never going to let the walk-in's door close on me. I'm not freezing to death in a Taco Bell refrigerator.
I grabbed the tomatoes, onions and lettuce, then headed back out to refill the line. I was so bored. When will this day end?
When I was done at the line, I headed back out to the dining area to see if anything needed to be cleaned. It was a slow day and standing around doing nothing was worse than working.
About ten more minutes of agonizing boredom and relief was finally here. A customer!
The young man walked up, looking shifty and nervous. Ordinarily I wouldn't have given him a second look, but he was wearing the clichéd trench coat too. He slowly and self-consciously approached the front door, and I avoided looking at him. If he had a gun under there, I didn't want to find out if he got angry or scared when he got backed into a corner. Besides, if he isn't pay attention to me, he isn't watching what I'm doing either.
As he approached the front register, I closed in behind him. I wasn't sure what I'd do, but I figured all my daydreaming and watching crime dramas should've prepared me at least a little. Maggie, the girl on front register today, broke away from her conversation with the drive-thru hottie and greeted the man with a smile. It didn't take long for her to get uncomfortable though.
The young man stared at the counter, shifting from foot to foot. His lips were moving, but I couldn't hear anything. What is with this guy? I was still edging closer to the front register, but I stayed far enough away that I hoped Maggie wouldn't look my way. If things turned bad, him not knowing he was being flanked was a good thing. I avoided Maggie's eyes just the same.
The man continued getting more and more agitated, his movements sharper and his mouthing more deliberate. Maggie started backing away from the register, looking around for anyone that might have a clue what she should do. Finally, a shotgun appeared from beneath his trench coat and leveled on Maggie before she could even react. I charged forward and grabbed the barrel yanked it toward me, hoping it wouldn't go off until it the only target was a wall. I was half-right. It didn't go off!
I didn't stop--or plan on stopping,--my charge and crashed into the young criminal, falling on top of him as his side rammed into the counter, then falling beneath him as he rebounded off the wall and on top of me. It took me only a split second to realize the danger I was now in and come up with a solution. Just liked I'd practiced, my thinking brain had shut down and now all I had was strategy. I still had a bit of momentum left and lifted up my trunk, trying to force him off of me. At the same time, I brought my elbow up into his chin. My elbow connected and jarred my untrained bones, but it definitely knocked him for a loop and bought me another second or two. There was a post blocking him from falling off of me though, and I was still stuck underneath him.
I rocked back after failing to throw him off and forced my body to slide closer to the other wall. Maybe I could worm my way out from under him. Even if we're side by side lying on the floor, at least I'll have a shot at getting upright again. At the same time I shouted for help. "Call nine-one-one! He's got a gun!"
By this time, the man had recovered from my blow to his chin and grabbed the front of my shirt, but I was continuing to rock back and forth, forcing him into the post time and again, and getting more of me out from under him. He launched a clumsy punch at me, but being right-handed, he his arm had to pull back at an awkward angle and he barely clipped my cheek. It stung a little, but didn't stop me.
With most of me out from under him, I risked a roll on top of him to dislodge the rest of me all at once. Surprisingly, it worked and I used my momentum to get up off the floor. My next trick was getting to the shotgun before he did. I searched around for it, starting with anywhere in his reach. Thank god I did, because lying in the next section of customer line was the shotgun. I decided the short way was smartest and tipped myself over the railing, grabbed it and landed shoulder first into a roll. I was rudely stopped by the next post, but I had it. I lifted my torso up into a sitting position and pointed the gun at the would-be robber. He stopped just short of grabbing the barrel.
He stared at me for a minute...
"You don't have the courage..." he smirked.
"One life for everyone around me? I can justify it later. Right now my only goal is keeping this away from you." I cocked the gun like I'd seen so many times in the movies. There was a lot more resistence than I thought. Actors always made it look so easy...
Again, in the zone. Went a lot longer this time.
He was gone for only one year and he was already a stranger here. Everything seemed so... dirty. False. Tainted with worse curse than darkspawn. All the people around him had the same forced smile plastered at their faces, same polite manners. Same darknewss in their hearts. How many of them were Crows? How many of them hired the Crows to get rid of someone that became a liability? How many of them were relatives or friends of the victims, living their lives in hate? Saving every coin they could so that one day they could also hire the Crows and have their revenge? Everyone in Antiva could be sorted into at least one group.
The waiter brought him another drink with a tiny bit of ice in it. Naturally, it was not fresh; it was kept in an ice house for months. He grinned inwardly. A year ago he wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Or care. What are you doing now, amore mio? Wait for me. I'll be home soon.
He glanced at the paper again. Five more to go. What a pity Xavier was dead already. He would like to kill him personally. Oh well. One couldn't have everything. And the sooner he finished it, the sooner he could go back where he really belonged - at side of his crazy little ice mage. There was no reason to stay in Antiva. It was not a home any more. It never really was.
Time to pay up.
Prompt:Falling.1/8/2012 . Edited 4/12/2012 #19
It feels like falling, every time. That moment when you leap, arms wide, and your brain screams that this is wrong. Humans don't fly. You're ten thousand feet up, and in however long it'll be until you can fall that far, taking into account terminal velocity and wind resistance and all those things which school exams tell you to assume don't exist, you'll be dead.
And then the magic happens. "Spread," that little implant in the back of your neck says, and suddenly that daft-looking, awkward cape which spends most of its time getting in your way isn't so daft and awkward any more. It's doing the job it was designed for. Perfect airfoil, shaping the airflow, supporting your weight. And you're not falling any more. You're flying. Gliding, at least. Soaring. This must be what it's like to be a bird. Pure heaven. Freedom in three dimensions.
It can't last, of course. You're not up here to be free and soar. You're up here because of the enemy ship, below you now. Your job: to get inside and neutralise it. Reluctantly, you reshape the airfoil of your cape and spiral down. Land gently on the hull. There will be a way inside somewhere. You'll set charges, and then leap out just in time. The ship will fall to its doom. You? You'll glide down in a perfect spiral, land whisper-soft. Another job done.
End (nine minutes, but that's what was in my brain.)
Clue1/9/2012 . Edited 1/9/2012 #20
The small speck of blood. Almost beautiful really, in a morbid way.
The way it glistened on the steel surface. The depth of the crimson.
But it's beauty was of no great importance. The fact it was there , now this was important.
It was a clue.
And this grizzled old detective knew how to care for a clue when he found one. Carefully taking a swab of the small speck of dark blood, and placing the weapon carefully in a clear plastic bag, he turned to his younger partner, a enthusiastic recent graduate of the academy.
"Get this back to lab for testing. And be sharpish about it!"
The younger detective gave a curt salute.
"Yes sir! Right away sir!"
He shook his head as his investigative partner half walked, half ran out the room, glad to finally be of use.
It's hard to imagine that one ever getting to my age.
The older man thought, savoring the nostalgia of remembering his first days out of the academy. Back when he had hair.
Returning his attention to the crime scene his brow furrowed as he surveyed the small living room, the outline of the body and the bloodstained couch. It was a moonless night, the type when he just knew the missus would be expecting him home early.
So much for that, huh?
He tapped his foot, impatiently awaiting his younger partners return. His mouth watered when he thought of the warm meal his wife had probably cooked him.
The old crone can certainly cook.
He smiled ruefully, but then with a hint of regret when he realized she would anxiously be awaiting his return home. He gulped, and turned his attention to the flower patterned curtains.
Which was why he failed to notice the gun glinting in the moonlight, shrouded in the shadows of the door frame. Pointing at him.
Shadow.1/9/2012 . Edited 1/9/2012 #21
It was there, alwas. Whispering in his mind. In his ears. Dark against dark. Not to be seen – for how could one see in the darkness so thick that even the eyes of the orcs could not have penetrated it? but it was there. Always.
He shifted. The ground underneath him was cold. Hard stone and chains. Not even earth. No light. And behind the door the shadows waited. No use rising. No use moving. But he moved nonetheless, rolled to his side to ease the ache in his bones.
The stone was cold, and hard. Comforting and solid under him. No fear of falling, not here. He had already fallen and could fall no further. No further than the hard stone at the centre of the world.
And so he closed his eye against the dark, and his mind against the shadowed whispers and the fear. There, safe for a while behind the lids of his eyes, the lids of his mind, he saw light, and sun, and green grass growing, and heard the laughter of clear voices. The whispered words drowned to a distant hiss.
This was fun, if challenging.
Next word: Sleep1/9/2012 #22
|Knightmare Frame Razgriz
Heh... it all just seems like one big, lucid dream... which is rather ironic, considering that none of us have slept in three days.
"Hey Charlie, ya think the brass just left us out here?" the squad machine gunner, Eric Morris, whispered from my right.
"Shut your friggin' mouth, Eric," Charlie, the ill-tempered sniper, hissed back. "Command is gonna send us reinforcements, you just friggin' wait."
"Even I can't tell anymore, Charlie," Sergeant Masterson muttered from the side dejectedly. Charlie knew better than to mouth off to the sergeant, so he simply witheld his reply.
Eric turned to me sadly. "What'd you think about it, Ian?" I sighed deeply in return.
"The brass shoved us out here six days ago, Eric; we lost radio contact yesterday at 0500. What're the odds that the next transmission we'll receive is a bombing announcement for our line?"
"Cut the chatter, Johnson! The Krauts are right in front of us!" the clueless company lieutenant shot from up front. We rolled our eyes in sync as he went back to shouting down the poor radioman. The Sarge lit up a smoke, the last one in his helmet lining. He took a drag and passed it around.
"This is it, gents; it's been a pleasure serving with all of you," he announcement morbidly. The rest of us simply took the offering and finally, Charlie stamped it out. It was at that precise moment that the first shots came from the forest, followed by a poor private falling dead behind the sandbags. Charlie darted up.
"Dammit, have we got any ammo left?" he shouted over the roaring of MG-42s.
"Not anymore! We belted it all up and fed it to the .30s, remember?!" The Sarge called back, drawing his 1911 from his belt. I did the same, as well as retrieving the Luger I had picked up from a K*** a day back. I stood up and watched the charging Flecktarn hordes.
"THIS IS IT, BOYS!" the lieutenant called. For once, he was actually right. I charged ahead and shot from both pistols, killing a rifleman. Soon enough, I felt a burning in my chest, and looked down to see a hole spurting blood. I fell back onto the forest floor, and the shouting started to fade...
Finally, I could just get some sleep...
Kinda hating how fast that ended, but I suppose I was just scrambling to finish. Great challenge; training for finishing AP World essays in under 45 minutes, if only for developing a train of thought. First thing that came to mind (after an episode of Band of Brothers) was all of the endless nights on the line in WWII.
I thought this might be something cool to try. I'm such a darn floater.
"Look. it's Dawn! We have to get out of here!" Marcelle shouted to the other children who were sleeping in their bunk-beds. Charlie lazily opened one eye at Marcelle.
"We've changed our minds,"Charlie yawned as he streched on the matress. "Why do we have to leave? We've been at the orpanage all our lifes, what is going to happen to us if stay?"
Marcelle fumed on the spot and bit her cheeck. She didn't have time to go over what Ms. Maragrot and the new workers said a couple a nights ago. They were all in danger! Why couldn't they understand that. Marcelle ran to her bunk and stuffed as many of her toys and little scraps of food that she saved for the last few days into a worn bag she got from the farm she got to visit on one of the daytrips. The food didn't smell all that good anymore, but the food was never good in the orphanage.Why didn't anyone listen to her? She was right... every fourth time!
She would just have to come back for them. After she got help, of course.
"Charlie, you won't tell on me, right?" Marcelle asked as she pulled on her knapsack.
"No." Charlie rolled over. "But Ms. Maragot will know when you don't show up for first call. You do know that you won't make it that far, right."
Why did Charlie have to be so blunt? "I know that but I have to find somebody. Ms. Maragot isn't what she say she is."
Charlie snorted into his pillow. "What then? Is she not a woman?"
"No Charlie, she isn't human!"
I think I actually freaked out for the first two minutes before coming up with this idea. I kinda want to write a story off this. So, now to come up with a word.
It was only one kiss. It wasn't even the kind they wrote about in all the romance novels she read with a passion. There were no words of love, no clinging, and no tongue. They'd barely even opened their mouths. Yet she couldn't forget it.
The walk home had been filled with whispered confessions, funny stories, and dreams for the future. Chris didn't have to walk her home, but it was nice that they had time to share, away from the noise of their extended group of friends.
Then at her apartment there was the kiss. Chapped lips and cold skin, and that breathless little feeling of everything moving in slow motion. Her stomach rolled and she closed her eyes and gave in. It was the next step that she wondered should it ever be taken. It was Chris, not some new hot lover she'd just met.
She hugged the pillow in the safety of her apartment. And still the feel of those lips haunted her, taunted her, and made her wonder what they were thinking. It had been nice, chapped lips and all. But how in the world can they ever go back to just being friends? Did she even want to? Did she want to take up the challenge and accept the offer?
She flung the pillow into the lamp with a screech. "Damn it Christie, you know I'm not gay!"
Next Prompt:Slot1/12/2012 #25
Her space was Hers, damnit! Why oh why couldn't he just understand that? She huffed in aggravation as she snatched the offending article- a piece of paper- out of her document slot hidden in the recess of the office wall. She glared at it for a moment, as though trying to make it combust before heading off to see the culprit.
As she walked, she got herself into a worked up mess of conflicting emotions. He always did this. At least once a day she would find one of his personal notes in her space. He had his own space, why couldn't he use that? Her heels clicked furiously on the tiled floor as she went, a warning to all those around her that they were going to go at it once again. Half the office looked up,; bemused expressions highlighting just how often the monotony of work was broken by this seemingly daily ritual between the two. The other half looked annoyed at the now regular intrusion on the sanctity of their workplace peace and quiet. Her knuckles rapping sharply on the door caused them all to glance away from the sight of the furious young woman, lest they be caught staring and become a target for her wrath as well.
without waiting, she stormed into the room, throwing the offending piece of communique onto his desk. He glanced up, noting her furiously flashing eyes and heaving chest, before turning his attention to the missive. After reading it, his face turned to a smirk. He looked back at her, raising an eyebrow in an unverbalised question. Knowing the routine by now, she simply growled before flinging her arms in the air in frustration and storming back out of the room. As the door slammed shut behind her, he thought to himself 'I just love putting my things in her slot.'
With one last small smirk, he returned to his work, awaiting her dramatic entrance tomorrow. Her lack of verbal reaction wasn't going to stop him from playing his game. One day she might even realize the point of it all.
Next prompt: Virtuous2/21/2012 #26
They had always told her to be virtuous. Virtuous. Virtuous.
Anna scoffed at such things.
Anna could care less.
But Sebastian cared.
And Sebastian was the only person that Anna cared about.
Sebastian Mallory, The son of Duke and Duchess Mallory, dashing in his simple, expensive attire. And as she knew, the only person who could even make her consider the ludicrous concept of virtue. But she told herself, she didn't care that his crooked smile made her mad for him like the heroines in those two-pence novels, she truly didn't. Anna Hollensworth only existed to defy society, after what they had done to Elise, her Eilse, her sister. Stupid, b*** rules! She would not conform to their standards even if it meant giving up her love. --But what about those handsome eyes of his Anna? Anna shook her head, wiping tears from her eyes. Elise could not, and would never be able to ask these sort of questions ever again. Who was she to forget about her own family for a stupid, pretty boy.
"Anna?" No, she thought, not him.
"Anna?" he said again.
"Please go away." she told him, her heart breaking into grains of sand, "I prefer to be alone."
Prompt: Blueberry2/26/2012 #27
It was such a simple thing, a blueberry, but to Boston it held so many memories. She thought of the times when she was small, walking up those rolling green hills with her mother, pail in hand, to pick the ripest, bluest, juiciest bundles of fruit she could off of the sparse vegetation. She would sneak one or two into her mouth when she though Mum wasn't looking. Her mouth watered even now when she thought of fresh fruit, it had been so long, too long, since she'd had a taste of something from a garden. Blueberries were the reason she had begun to learn to cook. Her father, when she and mum had gotten home, would take the berries and make the most beautiful blueberry muffins with them. Flaky, light, buttery. That sticky-sweet goodness interspersed with the more tart blueberries. He was always careful to use the blueberries that were just a little bit purple, it made for a better contrast to the sweetness of his muffin batter. They would sit around the table, exchanging banter while biting into the pastry, the smell of cooking fruit wafting through the kitchen while her mom made jams and pies. Her dad would pull out his battered guitar, and Boston would pester him for a few tunes. They sat around eating muffins spread with blueberry jam and singing songs that everybody in the room knew by heart - it was the warmest memory locked in the deepest recesses of her mind. Oh, how she missed them! Her fingers nervously played with the fabric of the worn tablecloth as she looked around the bare room. It was so empty now, without them, so lifeless. No longer did the fire crackle in the hearth or the room light up as the sun crossed the windows. The curtains were drawn, the paper was quickly peeling off the walls, and Boston felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Funny how it was always the small things she ended up missing the most. She'd expected it to be something along the lines of the way everybody laughed, or how she'd never hear their voices again telling her it was time to wake up. She missed the hugs, the warmth, the love... she'd expected that. She hadn't expected to miss blueberries.
Prompt: Iceskates4/5/2012 #28
Whew, that was actually intense. Heh, I think the intensity of trying to not just beat the clock, but match it exactly at ten minutes seeped into my writing a bit.
She twirled on her skates like a ballerina, ice flaking off the ground as she danced in the cold breeze. He watched from the distance, longing to join her, knowing he could not. She had two beautiful, strong legs attached to those whirling dervishes of delight that had so enraptured him from as far back as he could remember. He, however, was not blessed with such good fortune. From his wheelchair the veteran watched as the love of his life raced back and forth, faster, faster, faster! He watched as she continued towards the edge of the pond, never ceasing in her headlong blitz towards the snowbanks around her. He wanted to leap out and stop her, to save her from herself. The snow was rising now to meet its foolish combatant armed only with two blades of steel. And he watch in horror as she did not slow, but kept her furious, maddening pace towards her bitter enemy. There was no breath on his lips, but there was a cloud of cold air pouring from her as she steamed towards her ultimate confrontation. His heart stopped in his chest, and he gripped his wheelchair with his powerful hands. The snow hung in the air, still and soft. He was frozen in place as well, an icicle about to drop as soon as the clash finally commenced. With the grace of an angel and the wild, untamed force of a demon, she blinded him with a shower of ice, and then it was all over. The turn had been made at the last second, and she was once more racing faster, faster, faster towards the other end of the pond. He breathed. She breathed. The snow fell. All was well, and he wheeled himself away from the woman who had been his girlfriend back before the war, but was now no more than a dream he watched every night on television. She was an world-class skater, famous for her suicidal hairpin turns, he was a nobody, crippled, divorced, jobless, but still he watched her, and lived through her legs, and her iceskates.
Prompt: Red4/5/2012 #29
Its not much,but here you go
Cherries. Why is it i hate cherries so much,thought BB. The clear Red skin brought back horrific memories he'd rather not think about,but bubble to the surface they must.
Him unlocking the front door shouting "damn wrong key!" pulling that one out and fumbling for the larger one. He must remind his mother to switch the keys once more.
Finally getting that done he walked inside and put his umbrella and coat on the corner coathanger. "Hello?"... "HELLO?" he ehoed around the rooms switching the lights on as he went.
Then BB stood in horror at the sight in front of him. Red. Too much red,why so much red? His mind crunched and refused to aknowledge...if he were a computer his brain just had a error meltdown.
He doesnt remember too much,just that the police found him covered in his parents blood. Sitting with his face in his knees rocking back and forth. Red. BB would never forget it.
Walked around like a zombie for months,the unfocused eyes,slow walk,fuzzy brain. Damaged. Now every time he ate cherries or something red,it brought up that memory.
next prompt: Strawberry Jam4/11/2012 . Edited 4/12/2012 #30
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