As I said in a notes section earlier . . . there are no prompts for November. November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and this is my first year participating. Instead of prompts and responses being posted daily, I will be attempting to churn out approximately 1667 words every day. My NaNoWriMo project, Iron Shoes, can be viewed here: http://www.webook.com/project/Iron-Shoes. I would greatly appreciate any visits/comments/ratings, though you should keep in mind that this it will be written without any real editing so there are going to be issues. I hope you'll bear with me . . .
If I don't see you on that project - I'll see you all in December!
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Familiar Fear
Prompt: Fear of the unknown.
Source: fifteenminutesoffiction.com
Response:
I leaned against the doorframe, trying to keep my breathing quiet. My eyes created shapes in the thick darkness that filled the room - monsters and demons that leered at me with long teeth and sharp claws - but at least it was a familiar darkness, one I was well-acquainted with. I dreaded turning the corner and walking out of the room. I leaned against the doorframe and tried to keep my breathing quiet.
Notes: Happy Halloween!
Source: fifteenminutesoffiction.com
Response:
I leaned against the doorframe, trying to keep my breathing quiet. My eyes created shapes in the thick darkness that filled the room - monsters and demons that leered at me with long teeth and sharp claws - but at least it was a familiar darkness, one I was well-acquainted with. I dreaded turning the corner and walking out of the room. I leaned against the doorframe and tried to keep my breathing quiet.
Notes: Happy Halloween!
Penance: October 30, 2010 - Fate
Prompt: I am the wind blowing through your hair.
Source: "This is Halloween" from The Nightmare Before Christmas
Response:
He breathed and I felt it shudder down my entire spine. "You cannot escape me, Genevieve."
He laughed and I cringed. The screeching sound was such a contrast to his smooth, beautiful voice. "I am the children playing in the streets. I am the demons you mow down. I am your dreams of Israfiel."
I stiffened and he laughed again - that sound that revealed him for what he was, that harsh, demonic cackle. He brushed his fingers across my cheek and into my grimy hair - still matted with demon blood and dirt. His touch made my scalp crawl. "I am the wind blowing through your hair and the blood running from your wounds."
He dug his nails into my scalp, pulling my head back by the skin. He breathed in my face, his illuminated eyes searing into me. "You cannot escape Fate, Vieve."
Notes: This is a piece from my half-finished novella Guardians. I had a plot epiphany a few weeks ago, so this story will continue (after NaNo though . . .).
Source: "This is Halloween" from The Nightmare Before Christmas
Response:
He breathed and I felt it shudder down my entire spine. "You cannot escape me, Genevieve."
He laughed and I cringed. The screeching sound was such a contrast to his smooth, beautiful voice. "I am the children playing in the streets. I am the demons you mow down. I am your dreams of Israfiel."
I stiffened and he laughed again - that sound that revealed him for what he was, that harsh, demonic cackle. He brushed his fingers across my cheek and into my grimy hair - still matted with demon blood and dirt. His touch made my scalp crawl. "I am the wind blowing through your hair and the blood running from your wounds."
He dug his nails into my scalp, pulling my head back by the skin. He breathed in my face, his illuminated eyes searing into me. "You cannot escape Fate, Vieve."
Notes: This is a piece from my half-finished novella Guardians. I had a plot epiphany a few weeks ago, so this story will continue (after NaNo though . . .).
October 30, 2010 - Angels
Prompt: A hell full of angels.
Source: A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings by Gabriel Garcia Márquez
Response:
I took a sip of my water. As I swallowed, I could feel the pulsing rhythm of the music in my throat. A wing brushed the bare skin of my upper arm and I shuddered, looking around the room.
There were angels everywhere; twining on the dance floor and leaning against the walls, black lights highlighting their great feathered wings. The music was not loud, but its pulse carried through the entire room, masking other noises and making the angels appear silent, ethereal.
I adjusted the wide elastic band of my wings. They curved high above my head and flowed almost to the floor in a cascade of translucent white feathers. I fit right in among the costumed angels. I felt a little dizzy. I fit right in among the charlatans.
I had been briefed. I knew that each of the angels tangling on the dance floor with such grace had been buying and selling black market goods for years - some even people. I knew that the winged creatures beside me were always looking for both prey and partners. I felt sick to be so well-suited to their world. The Gabriel might have looked like a picture of heaven with its dancing angels lit by glowing light, but I knew it was a charade. The Gabriel might have been full of angels, but it was truly its own circle of hell.
Source: A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings by Gabriel Garcia Márquez
Response:
I took a sip of my water. As I swallowed, I could feel the pulsing rhythm of the music in my throat. A wing brushed the bare skin of my upper arm and I shuddered, looking around the room.
There were angels everywhere; twining on the dance floor and leaning against the walls, black lights highlighting their great feathered wings. The music was not loud, but its pulse carried through the entire room, masking other noises and making the angels appear silent, ethereal.
I adjusted the wide elastic band of my wings. They curved high above my head and flowed almost to the floor in a cascade of translucent white feathers. I fit right in among the costumed angels. I felt a little dizzy. I fit right in among the charlatans.
I had been briefed. I knew that each of the angels tangling on the dance floor with such grace had been buying and selling black market goods for years - some even people. I knew that the winged creatures beside me were always looking for both prey and partners. I felt sick to be so well-suited to their world. The Gabriel might have looked like a picture of heaven with its dancing angels lit by glowing light, but I knew it was a charade. The Gabriel might have been full of angels, but it was truly its own circle of hell.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Sailing
Prompt: Every day the sun comes up and every night it goes down again.
Source: writingforward.com
Response: Sailing
We have been on this boat for so long that it has become a part of us - the creaking wood has become nothing more than a shaky extension of our shaking fingertips. I am past feeling sick - perhaps past feeling anything other than the wet and the cold.
The wind is vicious - biting our salt-blistered skin with icy fangs and screaming in our ears. The sea has turned to acid around us - burning deep into the wounds that the chaffing wind leaves. The sky is all too often dark and hanging like boughs laden with snow.
Every day the sun comes up and every night it goes down again, leaving us in absolute darkness, huddled together while the wind bites. My salt-stung eyes begin to imagine the sun's rays on the horizon long before sunrise, making a glimmer of the distant stars into a yellow gleam, and I begin to rejoice that it is morning and no longer night. Sometimes my eyes also imagine that, in the halo of the sun's glow, that there is land - all green and tropic. But there is no land.
We have not seen land for so long.
But when the sun does come up, it is never in the direction I was looking. I always imagine it coming up like a conquering hero and bathing the world in warmth, but its rays are never as warm as I had pictured.
Our timbers - the boat and ours - tremble under the sun's fingers' much needed touch. It dries out a little of the cold and chases away a little of the wet.
Source: writingforward.com
Response: Sailing
We have been on this boat for so long that it has become a part of us - the creaking wood has become nothing more than a shaky extension of our shaking fingertips. I am past feeling sick - perhaps past feeling anything other than the wet and the cold.
The wind is vicious - biting our salt-blistered skin with icy fangs and screaming in our ears. The sea has turned to acid around us - burning deep into the wounds that the chaffing wind leaves. The sky is all too often dark and hanging like boughs laden with snow.
Every day the sun comes up and every night it goes down again, leaving us in absolute darkness, huddled together while the wind bites. My salt-stung eyes begin to imagine the sun's rays on the horizon long before sunrise, making a glimmer of the distant stars into a yellow gleam, and I begin to rejoice that it is morning and no longer night. Sometimes my eyes also imagine that, in the halo of the sun's glow, that there is land - all green and tropic. But there is no land.
We have not seen land for so long.
But when the sun does come up, it is never in the direction I was looking. I always imagine it coming up like a conquering hero and bathing the world in warmth, but its rays are never as warm as I had pictured.
Our timbers - the boat and ours - tremble under the sun's fingers' much needed touch. It dries out a little of the cold and chases away a little of the wet.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Old Weezie
Prompt: They say Old Weezie’s been reading palms out of her run-down shack for a hundred years or more.
Source: writingforward.com
Response:
Her bright, glazed eyes stared out from beneath the crinkled folds of her coffee-colored skin. Her hands with their pale, soft palms and short-cut nails held mine - so much smaller and weak and translucent-white by comparison.
"You know, they say, child, Old Weezie been reading palms for a hundred years or more."
She did not look up at me, her gaze tracing the lines of my hand with itching intensity.
"Is it true?" I asked, my voice so small.
She did not answer my question. She turned my hand over and patted it gently.
"Well?" I asked, soft and scared.
"You got sad hands, child. Hands so sad." And she turned her fire-glazed eyes back to her cross-stitch, leaving me weak and translucent-white alone.
Source: writingforward.com
Response:
Her bright, glazed eyes stared out from beneath the crinkled folds of her coffee-colored skin. Her hands with their pale, soft palms and short-cut nails held mine - so much smaller and weak and translucent-white by comparison.
"You know, they say, child, Old Weezie been reading palms for a hundred years or more."
She did not look up at me, her gaze tracing the lines of my hand with itching intensity.
"Is it true?" I asked, my voice so small.
She did not answer my question. She turned my hand over and patted it gently.
"Well?" I asked, soft and scared.
"You got sad hands, child. Hands so sad." And she turned her fire-glazed eyes back to her cross-stitch, leaving me weak and translucent-white alone.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Bookstore
Prompt: A woman who works in a used bookstore finds a photograph of herself in one of the books brought in for resale. She looks outside and sees the man who just sold them to her watching her. She is afraid she is being stalked.
Source: Suite101.com
Response:
It was sweltering - you could almost see the humidity in the air. The atmospheric moisture made the air seem to shimmer as the sun shone through it. It was a little cooler in the bookstore, though not much drier. The yellow sunshine coming through the front window turned the books gold and revealed a billion tiny dust particles floating in the air.
Emma hummed a little - a tuneless mixture of old songs - as she worked. Her hair was falling down from its loose bun, turning into ringlets around her face. She picked up a book from the newly purchased pile - a compilation of Aesop's fables - and flipped through it to dislodge any bookmarks or loose papers. Finding it empty, she paused to admire a particularly charming illustration before pricing the book and setting it aside to be shelved.
She picked up the next book - a collection of fairytales - and began aimlessly flipping through it. Emma read a few lines from a story about a girl who collected fallen stars before continuing on. The picture was backwards, wedged in the spine of the book. It marked the beginning of another story.
It had some numbers neatly penciled on the back. Emma extracted it for a closer look. It took a moment to realize what she was looking out. It was early spring in the picture, she could tell by the bookstore display. It looked like it was overcast, but the bookstore window had cheap fake flowers lying among the books. Definitely spring. And she was locking up.
It was a day she didn't remember. She didn't specifically wearing her hair up like that paired with those earrings. She had gotten rid of that coat after spilling nail polish remover on a sleeve. But it was definitely her.
Emma leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling weak. She grabbed the next book in the pile, flipping through it to see if it had any hidden photographs. It was empty. She reached for the next and then the next, scattering the books and tearing pages in her panicked haste.
Then she paused, her breathing echoing in the heavy air of the bookstore. It was a man who had sold her those books. Emma looked out of the bookstore window. He was standing across the street, smoking. Their eyes met when she looked at him. She looked away quickly, mind spinning.
She walked as fast as she dared as she locked the bookstore door, keeping her eye on the man across the street. He didn't move. She didn't look at his face to check if he was still watching.
Emma grabbed the store phone from the counter and slid down against the hard surface. Crouching there she was more protected, she told herself, but that rationalization did not stop her from shaking.
Though he could not see her, Emma still felt his gaze as she dialed 911.
Source: Suite101.com
Response:
It was sweltering - you could almost see the humidity in the air. The atmospheric moisture made the air seem to shimmer as the sun shone through it. It was a little cooler in the bookstore, though not much drier. The yellow sunshine coming through the front window turned the books gold and revealed a billion tiny dust particles floating in the air.
Emma hummed a little - a tuneless mixture of old songs - as she worked. Her hair was falling down from its loose bun, turning into ringlets around her face. She picked up a book from the newly purchased pile - a compilation of Aesop's fables - and flipped through it to dislodge any bookmarks or loose papers. Finding it empty, she paused to admire a particularly charming illustration before pricing the book and setting it aside to be shelved.
She picked up the next book - a collection of fairytales - and began aimlessly flipping through it. Emma read a few lines from a story about a girl who collected fallen stars before continuing on. The picture was backwards, wedged in the spine of the book. It marked the beginning of another story.
It had some numbers neatly penciled on the back. Emma extracted it for a closer look. It took a moment to realize what she was looking out. It was early spring in the picture, she could tell by the bookstore display. It looked like it was overcast, but the bookstore window had cheap fake flowers lying among the books. Definitely spring. And she was locking up.
It was a day she didn't remember. She didn't specifically wearing her hair up like that paired with those earrings. She had gotten rid of that coat after spilling nail polish remover on a sleeve. But it was definitely her.
Emma leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling weak. She grabbed the next book in the pile, flipping through it to see if it had any hidden photographs. It was empty. She reached for the next and then the next, scattering the books and tearing pages in her panicked haste.
Then she paused, her breathing echoing in the heavy air of the bookstore. It was a man who had sold her those books. Emma looked out of the bookstore window. He was standing across the street, smoking. Their eyes met when she looked at him. She looked away quickly, mind spinning.
She walked as fast as she dared as she locked the bookstore door, keeping her eye on the man across the street. He didn't move. She didn't look at his face to check if he was still watching.
Emma grabbed the store phone from the counter and slid down against the hard surface. Crouching there she was more protected, she told herself, but that rationalization did not stop her from shaking.
Though he could not see her, Emma still felt his gaze as she dialed 911.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
See Through
Prompt: I could never forgive _______________ for ______________________.
Source: Bellaonline.com
Response: See Through
"You act like you couldn't care less, but really you'd kill to have boys fawn over you the way they fawn over Jessie."
She swallowed and spat out the first cliché response she found. "You don't know anything about me - you don't care about anyone but yourself."
He leaned in, blocking her in, staring her down. "Deny it, then. Tell me I'm wrong."
She glanced up at him, afraid she might cry. She could never forgive him for seeing right through her like no one had any business to. "You're wrong," she lied.
Source: Bellaonline.com
Response: See Through
"You act like you couldn't care less, but really you'd kill to have boys fawn over you the way they fawn over Jessie."
She swallowed and spat out the first cliché response she found. "You don't know anything about me - you don't care about anyone but yourself."
He leaned in, blocking her in, staring her down. "Deny it, then. Tell me I'm wrong."
She glanced up at him, afraid she might cry. She could never forgive him for seeing right through her like no one had any business to. "You're wrong," she lied.
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Sock Monkey
Prompt: You are a 7-year-old child who has been kidnapped by a family who has been raising you as their child. They took you when you were just 2. What they did has been discovered by the police. One day you are playing quietly in your room when the police break down the door and arrest the couple you know as your parents.
Source: Bellaonline.com
Response:
The edge of the chair hurt my legs. I put my hands on the hard plastic and swung my legs. It hurt, but I tried not to let it show. I wouldn't cry. I was a big kid and I would not cry.
It was real big and empty in the station. My sock monkey was crumpled on the chair next to me. I wanted to pick it up and squeeze it tight, but I didn't want to look like a sissy. Daddy said I shouldn't like dolls at all - I was a big boy not some wussy girl. I wished I hadn't brought the stupid thing at all.
I could hear the police people talking, but I couldn't really hear what they were saying. I wondered where Mommy and Daddy were - I hadn't seen them since they brought us to the station.
I tried not to cry, but I was so scared. I reached over and grabbed my monkey's arm and clenched it in my fist.
"Sean?"
A tall lady with curly hair was standing by the door.
"Yeah?"
She came and crouched next to me. "Hi, I'm Joanne."
I swung my legs. It hurt. "Hi, Joanne."
She didn't look like the police woman who had taken me away from Mommy and Daddy - the police woman had been scary. Joanne looked nice.
"Is that your monkey?" she asked.
I held on to it tighter, even though I wanted to let go and tell her that I was a big kid and I didn't like dolls. I didn't want Joanne to think I was a wussy.
"Can I see him?" she held out her hands. She was all careful with him.
"Does he have a name?" she asked.
I shook my head.
I looked up at her. Her curly hair was kinda shiny. "Do you have any kids, Joanne?"
"One," she said. "A little boy about your age." Then she just looked at me. I couldn't understand why she was crying.
Source: Bellaonline.com
Response:
The edge of the chair hurt my legs. I put my hands on the hard plastic and swung my legs. It hurt, but I tried not to let it show. I wouldn't cry. I was a big kid and I would not cry.
It was real big and empty in the station. My sock monkey was crumpled on the chair next to me. I wanted to pick it up and squeeze it tight, but I didn't want to look like a sissy. Daddy said I shouldn't like dolls at all - I was a big boy not some wussy girl. I wished I hadn't brought the stupid thing at all.
I could hear the police people talking, but I couldn't really hear what they were saying. I wondered where Mommy and Daddy were - I hadn't seen them since they brought us to the station.
I tried not to cry, but I was so scared. I reached over and grabbed my monkey's arm and clenched it in my fist.
"Sean?"
A tall lady with curly hair was standing by the door.
"Yeah?"
She came and crouched next to me. "Hi, I'm Joanne."
I swung my legs. It hurt. "Hi, Joanne."
She didn't look like the police woman who had taken me away from Mommy and Daddy - the police woman had been scary. Joanne looked nice.
"Is that your monkey?" she asked.
I held on to it tighter, even though I wanted to let go and tell her that I was a big kid and I didn't like dolls. I didn't want Joanne to think I was a wussy.
"Can I see him?" she held out her hands. She was all careful with him.
"Does he have a name?" she asked.
I shook my head.
I looked up at her. Her curly hair was kinda shiny. "Do you have any kids, Joanne?"
"One," she said. "A little boy about your age." Then she just looked at me. I couldn't understand why she was crying.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Metaphorically Speaking
Prompt: Fill in each phrase with the first metaphor that comes to mind: Blue paint spilled on the road like _____, Graffiti on the abandoned building like ____, the dice rolled out of the cup toward Veronica like _____, _______ is like muscles stretched taut over bone, music in the hallway like ______.
Source: fictionwriting.about.com
Response:
Blue paint spilled on the road like royal blood.
Graffiti on the abandoned building like an overlaying fabric of scars and tattoos.
The dice rolled out of the cup toward Veronica like summersaulting leprechauns.
The thin canvas is like muscles stretched taut over bone.
Music in the hallway like the sound of children laughing.
Source: fictionwriting.about.com
Response:
Blue paint spilled on the road like royal blood.
Graffiti on the abandoned building like an overlaying fabric of scars and tattoos.
The dice rolled out of the cup toward Veronica like summersaulting leprechauns.
The thin canvas is like muscles stretched taut over bone.
Music in the hallway like the sound of children laughing.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Leaves
Prompt: Describe a lake as seen by a young man who has just murdered someone.
Source: fictionwriting.about.com
Response:
It's cold. It's been cold for weeks now and the leaves are turning and falling, clouding up the water's surface. It'll be weeks more before the leaves are blown all away and the lake freezes over, but I picture it that way anyway.
The water looks pretty. It looks pretty harmless. I imagine what it would feel like to drown in it though, to swallow that water and take it into your nose, into your lungs and feel yourself shutting down.
I look at the swirled reflection of myself. I'm pretty too. I look pretty harmless. I imagine how he felt while he was drowning in me and I smile even though I feel sick. A leaf falls onto the lake and I disappear.
Source: fictionwriting.about.com
Response:
It's cold. It's been cold for weeks now and the leaves are turning and falling, clouding up the water's surface. It'll be weeks more before the leaves are blown all away and the lake freezes over, but I picture it that way anyway.
The water looks pretty. It looks pretty harmless. I imagine what it would feel like to drown in it though, to swallow that water and take it into your nose, into your lungs and feel yourself shutting down.
I look at the swirled reflection of myself. I'm pretty too. I look pretty harmless. I imagine how he felt while he was drowning in me and I smile even though I feel sick. A leaf falls onto the lake and I disappear.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Creation
Prompt: Describe a landscape as seen by an old woman whose horrible old husband has just died.
Source: fictionwriting.about.com
Response:
I breathed out the sky and the churning goose-down clouds. I spoke the cold air that whistled through the trees and drew out the creatures.
I sat down and my chair grew to suit me, bleeding color into the house that had been black and white and barrenly clean for far too long. When I thought I would freeze to death I went back inside and left my outerwear strewn across the floor in a new kind of scenery.
Notes: I am not going to do a penance for the 22nd because I haven't been to bed yet :) but I promise that I won't need a penance for the 23rd
Source: fictionwriting.about.com
Response:
I breathed out the sky and the churning goose-down clouds. I spoke the cold air that whistled through the trees and drew out the creatures.
I sat down and my chair grew to suit me, bleeding color into the house that had been black and white and barrenly clean for far too long. When I thought I would freeze to death I went back inside and left my outerwear strewn across the floor in a new kind of scenery.
Notes: I am not going to do a penance for the 22nd because I haven't been to bed yet :) but I promise that I won't need a penance for the 23rd
Penance: October 21, 2010 - Old and New
Prompt: Microwave
Source: oneword.com
Response:
Something borrowed
something blue something
cooked in the microwave on
high so that the radioactive
heat-seeking
rays
have more chance of finding
you but you’ll already be gone
riding along in something
borrowed and blue
Notes: Yes, this is pretty much a cop-out. Anyone who has experienced the wonder that is oneword.com knows that all you do is click on a button and it gives you 60-seconds and a word. I was just too lazy for prompt searching. This poem is also not meant to have any animosity toward the concept of marriage, I just had "Every Me and Every You" by Placebo stuck in my head.
Source: oneword.com
Response:
Something borrowed
something blue something
cooked in the microwave on
high so that the radioactive
heat-seeking
rays
have more chance of finding
you but you’ll already be gone
riding along in something
borrowed and blue
Notes: Yes, this is pretty much a cop-out. Anyone who has experienced the wonder that is oneword.com knows that all you do is click on a button and it gives you 60-seconds and a word. I was just too lazy for prompt searching. This poem is also not meant to have any animosity toward the concept of marriage, I just had "Every Me and Every You" by Placebo stuck in my head.
October 21, 2010: Shuffle Week - The Dance
Prompt: Use the title of a show tune as your inspiration.
Source: "Dancing through Life" from Wicked
Response:
It should be so easy - a swirl of gown and bounce of curl. It should be that lovely - the shine of smiles and the compliment of clasped hands.
It should be a waltz on the glittering titles of an estate ballroom beneath glittering crystals. It should be a dance, not a death march, but I guess no one told the writer that.
Source: "Dancing through Life" from Wicked
Response:
It should be so easy - a swirl of gown and bounce of curl. It should be that lovely - the shine of smiles and the compliment of clasped hands.
It should be a waltz on the glittering titles of an estate ballroom beneath glittering crystals. It should be a dance, not a death march, but I guess no one told the writer that.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Shuffle Week: Yet
Prompt: Use the line “Don’t pretend you ever forgot about me” from Fall Out Boy’s “The Take Over The Break’s Over” in your story.
Source: None
Response:
He leaned close; she could feel his breath on her skin. He sounded so mournful, yet somehow vindictive and accusatory. "Don't pretend you ever forgot about me."
She pulled back, biting her lip. "I won't. Because I haven't."
He leaned in again, smiling a little.
She put her hand against his chest, pushed him back. Away. "I haven't forgotten about you. Yet."
Source: None
Response:
He leaned close; she could feel his breath on her skin. He sounded so mournful, yet somehow vindictive and accusatory. "Don't pretend you ever forgot about me."
She pulled back, biting her lip. "I won't. Because I haven't."
He leaned in again, smiling a little.
She put her hand against his chest, pushed him back. Away. "I haven't forgotten about you. Yet."
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
October 19, 2010: Shuffle Week: Thrills
Prompt: Use a line from at least one other song in conjunction with the line “And he always will get his thrills, the only way he knows how” from Imogen Heap’s “Angry Angel”
Source: "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk" covered by Pomplamoose
Response:
He always
will get his thrills
the only way he knows
how - - Reading empty lines
of ancient poetry
and babbling on about hidden meanings.
Everything I like is just a little bit stranger
a little
bit harder
a little bit deadly for me.
Source: "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk" covered by Pomplamoose
Response:
He always
will get his thrills
the only way he knows
how - - Reading empty lines
of ancient poetry
and babbling on about hidden meanings.
Everything I like is just a little bit stranger
a little
bit harder
a little bit deadly for me.
October 18, 2010: Shuffle Week: The Dark Waltz
Prompt: Ask someone else for the name of their favorite song – use the title or part of the lyrics as your inspiration.
Source: The Dark Waltz by Haley Westenra
Response:
She looked up as his fingers bit into her lower back through the heavy black fabric of her gown, drawing her closer. Lalith looked up into his eyes, glancing at her through the eye holes in his dark mask and realized with a jolt that they were deep violet.
The man smiled. His teeth were transparent white like ice, sharp on the edges.
Notes: I will not be doing penance prompts for the 17th or 18th because I have two seperate 5-page essays coming up. I am hoping to get back on track though . . . and even though it's technically the 20th now, the submission for the 19th should be up soon.
Source: The Dark Waltz by Haley Westenra
Response:
She looked up as his fingers bit into her lower back through the heavy black fabric of her gown, drawing her closer. Lalith looked up into his eyes, glancing at her through the eye holes in his dark mask and realized with a jolt that they were deep violet.
The man smiled. His teeth were transparent white like ice, sharp on the edges.
Notes: I will not be doing penance prompts for the 17th or 18th because I have two seperate 5-page essays coming up. I am hoping to get back on track though . . . and even though it's technically the 20th now, the submission for the 19th should be up soon.
Monday, October 18, 2010
October 17, 2010: Shuffle Week: The Flashing of the Lights
Prompt: Put a music player on shuffle and use the first love song you come across as your inspiration (you may use any part of the song as your inspiration).
Source: "If I Had You" by Adam Lambert (Guess this counts as a love song)
Response:
My head hurt, but in a good way - a you're alive and this is how alive feels way. The lights were flashing and spinning - in and out in circles. All the colors were dancing together, clashing just like the people beneath them.
Source: "If I Had You" by Adam Lambert (Guess this counts as a love song)
Response:
My head hurt, but in a good way - a you're alive and this is how alive feels way. The lights were flashing and spinning - in and out in circles. All the colors were dancing together, clashing just like the people beneath them.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Shuffle Week: Dude, Honey
Prompt: Put a music player or CD on shuffle – use the first word of the first song, paired with the third word of the third song in your story.
Source: (I kid you not) "Dude Looks like a Lady" by Aerosmith and "Draw the Line" by Aerosmith - "dude" and "honey"
Response:
He looked down at the other boy with a condescending smile. "Dude, honey, that just might be the crookedest line I have ever seen."
"Don't call me honey!" The younger boy clenched his teeth, looking down at his drawing.
The line drawing was definitely skewed, but since the lines were all skewed at the same angle it actually did not make much of a difference.
The older boy patted his seething companion on the head. "Don't worry about it, honey, we've all drawn crooked lines."
"Honey" looked like he would have very much liked to bite his fingers off.
Source: (I kid you not) "Dude Looks like a Lady" by Aerosmith and "Draw the Line" by Aerosmith - "dude" and "honey"
Response:
He looked down at the other boy with a condescending smile. "Dude, honey, that just might be the crookedest line I have ever seen."
"Don't call me honey!" The younger boy clenched his teeth, looking down at his drawing.
The line drawing was definitely skewed, but since the lines were all skewed at the same angle it actually did not make much of a difference.
The older boy patted his seething companion on the head. "Don't worry about it, honey, we've all drawn crooked lines."
"Honey" looked like he would have very much liked to bite his fingers off.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Shuffle Week: There's a Good Reason these Tables are Numbered, Honey, You Just Haven't Thought of it Yet
Prompt: Use the name of a CD track as your inspiration (it does not have to have anything to do with the actual lyrics).
Source: Modified from writing.com; "There's a Good Reason these Tables are Numbered, Honey, You Just Haven't Thought of it Yet", A Fever You Can't Sweat Out, Panic! At the Disco
Response:
"So why do you think these tables are numbered?" The gum-popping blond asked, leaning in toward the man beside her.
I rolled my eyes, setting her plate in front of her. How dumb could a person be?
I walked to the other side of the table and poured the man more wine - not that he needed it. I asked if he needed anything else and he did not hear - too busy muttering in the general direction of the blond.
I held my tray perfectly level as I returned to the kitchen. I could not stop thinking about the blonde’s stupid question. I ducked in and my accomplice whispered, "Table 7."
I checked to make sure that my gun was in place and headed back into the dining room, balancing another set of plates.
Source: Modified from writing.com; "There's a Good Reason these Tables are Numbered, Honey, You Just Haven't Thought of it Yet", A Fever You Can't Sweat Out, Panic! At the Disco
Response:
"So why do you think these tables are numbered?" The gum-popping blond asked, leaning in toward the man beside her.
I rolled my eyes, setting her plate in front of her. How dumb could a person be?
I walked to the other side of the table and poured the man more wine - not that he needed it. I asked if he needed anything else and he did not hear - too busy muttering in the general direction of the blond.
I held my tray perfectly level as I returned to the kitchen. I could not stop thinking about the blonde’s stupid question. I ducked in and my accomplice whispered, "Table 7."
I checked to make sure that my gun was in place and headed back into the dining room, balancing another set of plates.
Exploding Computers and Other Matters
As some may have noticed - I missed a few days and frantically made them up yesterday. Yay for makeup. However, I did get some out of order (the 12th mysteriously appeared after the 14th, for example) and I apologize. If I knew how to fix that on blogger, I would, but I don't so I won't.
On the subject of my computer exploding . . . It did not literally explode, but I have been having some major difficulties, but since those difficulties were not the reason I missed so many days (I've just been busy, tired and lazy) I have also posted penance prompts.
Hopefully I'm back on track now - you may expect today's prompt response as expected.
On the subject of my computer exploding . . . It did not literally explode, but I have been having some major difficulties, but since those difficulties were not the reason I missed so many days (I've just been busy, tired and lazy) I have also posted penance prompts.
Hopefully I'm back on track now - you may expect today's prompt response as expected.
October 12, 2010: Baggy Tights Week: Pure Evil
Prompt: Pure Evil
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
Agni watched Ky as he strode toward her like a dark mist rolling in from the foothills. She swallowed, feeling the cursed brooch sear the skin of her throat. Her fists clenched within the confines of her white cloak, bracing her against the unholy pain.
Ky reached out to her as he neared, touching her upper arm. Agni watched him with fascination. His skin was almost as pale as her own, accented by unfathomable red eyes and ebony hair. His smile revealed teeth like a venomous snake and she could not help but shiver.
He was undiluted evil - evil in its purest form and highest concentration. She was repealed by the scent of it on his skin, the gleam of it in his scarlet irises, but still she was drawn to him.
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
Agni watched Ky as he strode toward her like a dark mist rolling in from the foothills. She swallowed, feeling the cursed brooch sear the skin of her throat. Her fists clenched within the confines of her white cloak, bracing her against the unholy pain.
Ky reached out to her as he neared, touching her upper arm. Agni watched him with fascination. His skin was almost as pale as her own, accented by unfathomable red eyes and ebony hair. His smile revealed teeth like a venomous snake and she could not help but shiver.
He was undiluted evil - evil in its purest form and highest concentration. She was repealed by the scent of it on his skin, the gleam of it in his scarlet irises, but still she was drawn to him.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Penance: October 12, 2010: Baggy Tights Week: Mildly Psychotic
Prompt: Mildly Psychotic
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
I grinned at her in sincere sincerity. “You picked the perfect time to leave me. I was really getting sick of you.”
She smiled like a gratified child as she folded the dirty wash in preparation for spring. “I never left at all. And now I’m back.”
“And yet I feel abandoned,” I agreed while pulling potato eyes from their sockets to feed her.
“Don’t worry about breakfast,” she asked, sticking out her tongue like she was catching raindrops falling up from the title floor. “I wasn’t hungry anyway,” she said and clambered out of the bathroom window to scrub the fire escape.
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
I grinned at her in sincere sincerity. “You picked the perfect time to leave me. I was really getting sick of you.”
She smiled like a gratified child as she folded the dirty wash in preparation for spring. “I never left at all. And now I’m back.”
“And yet I feel abandoned,” I agreed while pulling potato eyes from their sockets to feed her.
“Don’t worry about breakfast,” she asked, sticking out her tongue like she was catching raindrops falling up from the title floor. “I wasn’t hungry anyway,” she said and clambered out of the bathroom window to scrub the fire escape.
October 14, 2010: Baggy Tights Week: Tough Love
Prompt: Tough Love
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
I braced myself. She was in one of her moods, swinging things and singing raucously. She stared me down with wildly focused eyes. I gulped and swallowed what she gave me, clenching my teeth to keep from retching. I smiled and she beamed. Mother was always so simple – if difficult – to please on baking day.
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
I braced myself. She was in one of her moods, swinging things and singing raucously. She stared me down with wildly focused eyes. I gulped and swallowed what she gave me, clenching my teeth to keep from retching. I smiled and she beamed. Mother was always so simple – if difficult – to please on baking day.
Penance: October 13, 2010: Baggy Tights Week: Grotesque Beauty
Prompt: Grotesque beauty
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
He propped himself up on one elbow, wanting to rub his eyes but not quite feeling the motivation. The room was neither hot nor cold and the streetlights shone in just enough that all could be seen, thought it was not yet light.
She was writhing beside him, wracked by who-knew-what nightmares for the third time in as many nights. He watched with low-burning pain at her torment and an ever-increasing frustration. He would not be able to wake her, he knew, nor would she speak to him about it the next morning. He would get no sleep that night her knew as he watched her.
Her brow wrinkled, her fingers tore at the sheets and she whispered agonizing mysteries through her teeth, clenched in pain. The mask of her face was strangely convoluted yet smooth, her eyelashes dark and lovely against her skin.
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
He propped himself up on one elbow, wanting to rub his eyes but not quite feeling the motivation. The room was neither hot nor cold and the streetlights shone in just enough that all could be seen, thought it was not yet light.
She was writhing beside him, wracked by who-knew-what nightmares for the third time in as many nights. He watched with low-burning pain at her torment and an ever-increasing frustration. He would not be able to wake her, he knew, nor would she speak to him about it the next morning. He would get no sleep that night her knew as he watched her.
Her brow wrinkled, her fingers tore at the sheets and she whispered agonizing mysteries through her teeth, clenched in pain. The mask of her face was strangely convoluted yet smooth, her eyelashes dark and lovely against her skin.
October 13, 2010: Baggy Tights Week: Rustic Elegance
Prompt: Rustic Elegance
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
The mist lay heavy on the breeze. The sun had yet to break through the mist's stupor and it still hung, shimmering, from the branches of trees, swooping down to caress the wet blades of grass. A few insects buzzed and clicked in the quiet morning world, as yet untouched by the garishness of the sun. The birds were beginning to wake, calling out across the stillness, eerie in their echos.
The cottage tucked into the mist was waking too, a whisp of smoke curling from the chimmney. The mistress of the cottage opened the door, stepping out in nothing but her simple nightdress. The mist clung to her skirt, soaking it and weighing it down. Her hair hung loose in sleep's curls and mats. Beautiful and still, she watched the world awake, waiting for him to come back.
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
The mist lay heavy on the breeze. The sun had yet to break through the mist's stupor and it still hung, shimmering, from the branches of trees, swooping down to caress the wet blades of grass. A few insects buzzed and clicked in the quiet morning world, as yet untouched by the garishness of the sun. The birds were beginning to wake, calling out across the stillness, eerie in their echos.
The cottage tucked into the mist was waking too, a whisp of smoke curling from the chimmney. The mistress of the cottage opened the door, stepping out in nothing but her simple nightdress. The mist clung to her skirt, soaking it and weighing it down. Her hair hung loose in sleep's curls and mats. Beautiful and still, she watched the world awake, waiting for him to come back.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Baggy Tights Week: Loud Whisper
Prompt: Loud Whisper
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
Her eyes were a pale violet in the moonlight, set deep in her pale face. Her blond hair lashed against her in the wind like a many-tailed whip.
Even from their distance he could see the brooch at her throat. It filled him with pride and dread. The scarlet stones marked her as his, but the jewels looked garish against her skin. The color did not belong on an angel.
She smiled at him with her eyes and he realized he must have been frowning. She beckoned him to her and he returned her smile, breathing out her name, "Agni," Though she could not have heard, her smile reached her lips.
"Come to me," she whispered. And the sound carried on the wind, clear as church bells.
Notes: If my computer doesn't explode (which the way things are going it very well might), tomorrow's response will be a companion to this (though hopefully it will be longer).
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
Her eyes were a pale violet in the moonlight, set deep in her pale face. Her blond hair lashed against her in the wind like a many-tailed whip.
Even from their distance he could see the brooch at her throat. It filled him with pride and dread. The scarlet stones marked her as his, but the jewels looked garish against her skin. The color did not belong on an angel.
She smiled at him with her eyes and he realized he must have been frowning. She beckoned him to her and he returned her smile, breathing out her name, "Agni," Though she could not have heard, her smile reached her lips.
"Come to me," she whispered. And the sound carried on the wind, clear as church bells.
Notes: If my computer doesn't explode (which the way things are going it very well might), tomorrow's response will be a companion to this (though hopefully it will be longer).
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Baggy Tights Week: Incomplete Cure
Prompt: Incomplete Cure
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
I watched the cursed ring sink into the water's inky depths. My fingers traced the permanent mark on my ring finger. I had had it for so long. I had killed so many people under its influence - dooming them with mere acquaintance.
I had cured myself, though. I would not allow myself to think of the water's currents, or of divers, or of fish. I would not allow myself to think of any way that the ring could resurface.
I was cured.
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
I watched the cursed ring sink into the water's inky depths. My fingers traced the permanent mark on my ring finger. I had had it for so long. I had killed so many people under its influence - dooming them with mere acquaintance.
I had cured myself, though. I would not allow myself to think of the water's currents, or of divers, or of fish. I would not allow myself to think of any way that the ring could resurface.
I was cured.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Baggy Tights Week: Civil Strife
Prompt: Civil Strife
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
We smiled at each other across the kitchen table and our parents felt so accomplished. We ate like little angels, cleared the plates and went upstairs to do homework.
He tripped me going up the stairs and whispered "watch it, stupid". And then, because our parents came to see what was happening, helped me up and acted like I had fallen on my own. So I punched him the moment our parents were gone.
He called me "idiot" and kicked me in the back. I called him "jerk" and shoved him. He hit the wall with a thud. He swore at me.
I laughed and teased that he could not come up with cleverer insults. Then I walked away. And he tackled me from behind.
When we had fought ourselves to exhaustion, I sat on my bed nursing my injuries and listened to the low clatter of my oblivious parents doing the dishes on the ground floor.
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
We smiled at each other across the kitchen table and our parents felt so accomplished. We ate like little angels, cleared the plates and went upstairs to do homework.
He tripped me going up the stairs and whispered "watch it, stupid". And then, because our parents came to see what was happening, helped me up and acted like I had fallen on my own. So I punched him the moment our parents were gone.
He called me "idiot" and kicked me in the back. I called him "jerk" and shoved him. He hit the wall with a thud. He swore at me.
I laughed and teased that he could not come up with cleverer insults. Then I walked away. And he tackled me from behind.
When we had fought ourselves to exhaustion, I sat on my bed nursing my injuries and listened to the low clatter of my oblivious parents doing the dishes on the ground floor.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Baggy Tights Week: Benign Neglect
Prompt: Benign neglect
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
I blinded myself
I figure
I can't see them - they can't see me
I can't see them
I figure
I don't have to care - they can fix themselves
I don't have to care
I figure.
So I blinded me.
And let them be.
Notes: I apologize for missing yesterday - I got really busy. As you may have guess from the title - this is the beginning of Baggy Tights Week. This week is dedicated to the oddities and complexities of oxymorons and each day's prompt will consist of an oxymoron.
Another announcement I have been meaning to make: Despite the stupidity of the idea, I am determined to participate in NaNoWriMo this year (for the first time). Be warned - this means no prompts for November. I will simply be posting my work for the day. I have no idea what I am writing about yet . . .which may cause problems later . . . but I am excited.
Source: oxymoronlist.com
Response:
I blinded myself
I figure
I can't see them - they can't see me
I can't see them
I figure
I don't have to care - they can fix themselves
I don't have to care
I figure.
So I blinded me.
And let them be.
Notes: I apologize for missing yesterday - I got really busy. As you may have guess from the title - this is the beginning of Baggy Tights Week. This week is dedicated to the oddities and complexities of oxymorons and each day's prompt will consist of an oxymoron.
Another announcement I have been meaning to make: Despite the stupidity of the idea, I am determined to participate in NaNoWriMo this year (for the first time). Be warned - this means no prompts for November. I will simply be posting my work for the day. I have no idea what I am writing about yet . . .which may cause problems later . . . but I am excited.
Penance: October 7, 2010 - Left
Prompt: Write about the word "left" for sixty seconds.
Source: oneword.com
Response:
I’m never right I’m always left. I never see the best part I always leave. And I never see the snow fall for all the fallen leaves.
Source: oneword.com
Response:
I’m never right I’m always left. I never see the best part I always leave. And I never see the snow fall for all the fallen leaves.
October 7, 2010 - Mathilda and the Sweater
Prompt: Write a story in which a ghost serves as your main character.
Source: writing.com - InkyShadows
Response: Mathilda and the Sweater
Mathilda the spinster did not particularly enjoy knitting. It made her back ache and often her fingers would become numb from holding the needles, forcing her to lay her project aside and stretch her fingers. She found the task dull and tedious and she avoided it whenever possible.
She preferred to stand at her window and watch her young gardener, Elliot, at his work. Sometimes, when she was feeling especially lonely, she would allow herself the privilege of a few daydreams in which she (most usually in the guise of a beautiful young girl) and Elliot ran away together.
The spinster loved to watch the tenderness with which Elliot coaxed the flowers from the earth and tended to the trees. The gardener was a poor boy and one winter Mathilda decided that she ought to make him a sweater.
The task was daunting - Elliot had broad shoulders and a tall, lean frame that would be difficult to fit - but Mathilda gloried in the possibility of surprising the gardener with a handcrafted gift.
She began immediately, knitting as quickly as she could. She became obsessed with the process, the neat, perfect rows and the imagined image of Elliot's surprise.
But Mathilda's knitting went slowly. She was out of practice and she had never been extraordinarily gifted with it.
She knit all through the summer, when the flowers were blooming and she did not see them. She knit all through the fall, counting stitches again and again in the hope of perfection. She knit through the winter, when the snow began to fall and Elliot came only once in a while to check on the orchard.
And when she finally finished the sweater, after many many unravellings, she smiled. But the spinster had not realized how long the task had taken and when she stood to hold her work to the light, she knocked her own bones to the floor with a thunderous clatter. And all she could do was wander over to the window and watch Elliot coax the flowers.
Source: writing.com - InkyShadows
Response: Mathilda and the Sweater
Mathilda the spinster did not particularly enjoy knitting. It made her back ache and often her fingers would become numb from holding the needles, forcing her to lay her project aside and stretch her fingers. She found the task dull and tedious and she avoided it whenever possible.
She preferred to stand at her window and watch her young gardener, Elliot, at his work. Sometimes, when she was feeling especially lonely, she would allow herself the privilege of a few daydreams in which she (most usually in the guise of a beautiful young girl) and Elliot ran away together.
The spinster loved to watch the tenderness with which Elliot coaxed the flowers from the earth and tended to the trees. The gardener was a poor boy and one winter Mathilda decided that she ought to make him a sweater.
The task was daunting - Elliot had broad shoulders and a tall, lean frame that would be difficult to fit - but Mathilda gloried in the possibility of surprising the gardener with a handcrafted gift.
She began immediately, knitting as quickly as she could. She became obsessed with the process, the neat, perfect rows and the imagined image of Elliot's surprise.
But Mathilda's knitting went slowly. She was out of practice and she had never been extraordinarily gifted with it.
She knit all through the summer, when the flowers were blooming and she did not see them. She knit all through the fall, counting stitches again and again in the hope of perfection. She knit through the winter, when the snow began to fall and Elliot came only once in a while to check on the orchard.
And when she finally finished the sweater, after many many unravellings, she smiled. But the spinster had not realized how long the task had taken and when she stood to hold her work to the light, she knocked her own bones to the floor with a thunderous clatter. And all she could do was wander over to the window and watch Elliot coax the flowers.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Little Heather
Prompt: How the young girl finds her way home in the dark.
Source: winess4HIM (Thanks for the suggestion!)
Response:
Little Heather lived out past the end of the sidewalk in a house in a yard full of prickly grass.
She had three sisters, all far older, and a collection of dolls all named "baby".
Little Heather loved to go to the park and play in the long, soft grass. One day her sisters were busy with piano and painting lessons and talking to two boys on the phone at once and she wandered to the park on her own taking Baby and Baby along for companions.
It was almost dark by the time she got there, the orange sun yielding to the dark winds of the evening and Little Heather was afraid for a moment. Then she remembered Babies and she told them not to be afraid, they would be home soon.
The long, silky grass was cold on her bare feet and one Baby seemed to be getting heavier.
When she wandered out of the dark into the glow cast from the porch light onto the prickly grass of her own front yard her mother ran to her and hugged her.
"How did you find your way home?" her mother asked.
Little Heather held a Baby close. "I followed the sidewalk lines."
Notes: This probably is the most random, most abstract little oddity I have ever written. I don't think I ever put a notification up (I've been slacking on notes . . .and everything else, unfortunately), but the Weather Forecast for October is posted (and well under way, as it is the 6th already).
Source: winess4HIM (Thanks for the suggestion!)
Response:
Little Heather lived out past the end of the sidewalk in a house in a yard full of prickly grass.
She had three sisters, all far older, and a collection of dolls all named "baby".
Little Heather loved to go to the park and play in the long, soft grass. One day her sisters were busy with piano and painting lessons and talking to two boys on the phone at once and she wandered to the park on her own taking Baby and Baby along for companions.
It was almost dark by the time she got there, the orange sun yielding to the dark winds of the evening and Little Heather was afraid for a moment. Then she remembered Babies and she told them not to be afraid, they would be home soon.
The long, silky grass was cold on her bare feet and one Baby seemed to be getting heavier.
When she wandered out of the dark into the glow cast from the porch light onto the prickly grass of her own front yard her mother ran to her and hugged her.
"How did you find your way home?" her mother asked.
Little Heather held a Baby close. "I followed the sidewalk lines."
Notes: This probably is the most random, most abstract little oddity I have ever written. I don't think I ever put a notification up (I've been slacking on notes . . .and everything else, unfortunately), but the Weather Forecast for October is posted (and well under way, as it is the 6th already).
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Going Home
Prompt: You're walking down a dark corridor when you turn around. You soon discover turning around may have been the worst decision of your life...
Source: writing.com - Ana Ng
Response:
I picked up my keys, the metal edges making scraping noises against the wood of my desk and then jangling together. I turned off the light, surveying my classroom one last time. Was I forgetting anything? Nope.
"Good night." I muttered, more of an expletive than a farewell.
I pulled bobby pin after bobby pin from my hair, letting it cascade down my back as I walked through the school's empty hall. Giant windows let in a little moonlight and cast dark shadows onto the floor and opposite wall. I put my keys on a finger like some gaudy costume jewelry ring and let them jingle unhindered.
I wondered what time it was, but I did not look at my watch. In reality I knew I did not want to know. It was too late. I should have been home - fed, bathed, and sound asleep - not wandering the empty school for the third time in so many days.
I ran a knuckle over my temple. I could feel my pulse - the roiled blood venturing so close to the surface, pushing to be free. My head was heavy as I tried to review the tasks still to be done - papers to be graded, lessons to be planned, home chores to be completed. I had not washed dishes since the previous Friday and I was running out of cereal bowls.
I swallowed. Why did it all come back to Friday? Had it really been only two - three - days since I had sat in front of my television, eating out of a clean cereal bowl, at a reasonable hour, and seen my own students' faces staring out at me from the local news?
Chad Davis, Christopher Webber, Patrick O'Malley, John Brewer, Gerald Matthews. Five boys - all sixteen, maybe seventeen. Five boys' yearbook pictures organized into a neat formation next to the news anchor. The headline had rushed by several times before I had really processed it. High School Suicide Pact - Five Students Dead.
I bit my lip. Christopher’s girlfriend had not been back to school yet. Gerald and John's papers were sitting on my kitchen counter - graded and purposeless. I had not even graded Chad's paper yet; I wasn't sure if I should.
I shivered. On Friday Patrick had spent the entire class period flicking pieces of paper at Tammy Woods. I had yelled at him. I had sent him to the principal.
I stopped walking for a second, breathing hard for no reason. The hallway seemed so dark, so much darker than normal.
"Normal." I scoffed aloud. "Normal."
It was not normal for a teacher to outlive their students - it was not normal for five successful and intelligent juniors to be there one day and gone the next day. Dead the next day.
I kept walking. I had to keep doing, keep doing what I had always done. I needed to grade papers and do my dishes; needed to bathe and eat. I needed to sleep. I was not like I had really known them personally anyway.
Then I heard it. I took two steps, my unfashionable and only slightly comfortable pumps making a hollow noise, and then I heard a third step.
I turned to look behind me. The hallway was empty, set with shadows and moonlight that gave me the creeps, but it was definitely empty.
"Weird."
I kept walking. There it was - an extra step for each set of mine. Step, step, thump. Step, step, thump.
I sped up. The step was never out of rhythm, speeding up to match my pace.
I could hear my breathing, but nothing else. Nothing but the sound of footsteps. Step, step, thump.
My keys were cutting into my palm; I had clenched my hand into a tight fist. Then it was walking faster than me - I heard it clearly. Step, thump, thump, step, thump, thump.
A scream built in my throat. It was coming closer - I could hear it. I could feel it.
And that's when I turned to look.
He stopped when I whirled around, probably pale as a ghost. He stood stiffly, unnaturally.
I recognized him, though. "Mr. O-o'Malley," I stammered.
He did not say anything - standing still as stone, crooked as a the tower of Piza. And I never saw the knife. But I sure felt it.
Source: writing.com - Ana Ng
Response:
I picked up my keys, the metal edges making scraping noises against the wood of my desk and then jangling together. I turned off the light, surveying my classroom one last time. Was I forgetting anything? Nope.
"Good night." I muttered, more of an expletive than a farewell.
I pulled bobby pin after bobby pin from my hair, letting it cascade down my back as I walked through the school's empty hall. Giant windows let in a little moonlight and cast dark shadows onto the floor and opposite wall. I put my keys on a finger like some gaudy costume jewelry ring and let them jingle unhindered.
I wondered what time it was, but I did not look at my watch. In reality I knew I did not want to know. It was too late. I should have been home - fed, bathed, and sound asleep - not wandering the empty school for the third time in so many days.
I ran a knuckle over my temple. I could feel my pulse - the roiled blood venturing so close to the surface, pushing to be free. My head was heavy as I tried to review the tasks still to be done - papers to be graded, lessons to be planned, home chores to be completed. I had not washed dishes since the previous Friday and I was running out of cereal bowls.
I swallowed. Why did it all come back to Friday? Had it really been only two - three - days since I had sat in front of my television, eating out of a clean cereal bowl, at a reasonable hour, and seen my own students' faces staring out at me from the local news?
Chad Davis, Christopher Webber, Patrick O'Malley, John Brewer, Gerald Matthews. Five boys - all sixteen, maybe seventeen. Five boys' yearbook pictures organized into a neat formation next to the news anchor. The headline had rushed by several times before I had really processed it. High School Suicide Pact - Five Students Dead.
I bit my lip. Christopher’s girlfriend had not been back to school yet. Gerald and John's papers were sitting on my kitchen counter - graded and purposeless. I had not even graded Chad's paper yet; I wasn't sure if I should.
I shivered. On Friday Patrick had spent the entire class period flicking pieces of paper at Tammy Woods. I had yelled at him. I had sent him to the principal.
I stopped walking for a second, breathing hard for no reason. The hallway seemed so dark, so much darker than normal.
"Normal." I scoffed aloud. "Normal."
It was not normal for a teacher to outlive their students - it was not normal for five successful and intelligent juniors to be there one day and gone the next day. Dead the next day.
I kept walking. I had to keep doing, keep doing what I had always done. I needed to grade papers and do my dishes; needed to bathe and eat. I needed to sleep. I was not like I had really known them personally anyway.
Then I heard it. I took two steps, my unfashionable and only slightly comfortable pumps making a hollow noise, and then I heard a third step.
I turned to look behind me. The hallway was empty, set with shadows and moonlight that gave me the creeps, but it was definitely empty.
"Weird."
I kept walking. There it was - an extra step for each set of mine. Step, step, thump. Step, step, thump.
I sped up. The step was never out of rhythm, speeding up to match my pace.
I could hear my breathing, but nothing else. Nothing but the sound of footsteps. Step, step, thump.
My keys were cutting into my palm; I had clenched my hand into a tight fist. Then it was walking faster than me - I heard it clearly. Step, thump, thump, step, thump, thump.
A scream built in my throat. It was coming closer - I could hear it. I could feel it.
And that's when I turned to look.
He stopped when I whirled around, probably pale as a ghost. He stood stiffly, unnaturally.
I recognized him, though. "Mr. O-o'Malley," I stammered.
He did not say anything - standing still as stone, crooked as a the tower of Piza. And I never saw the knife. But I sure felt it.
Monday, October 4, 2010
The Story
Prompt: Write about how you felt when you discovered you were lied to.
Source: creativewritingprompts.com
Response:
"Your story is on page 35," he said as he handed me the compilation book.
"What?" I asked in utter surprise.
"You didn't know? It's been on the list for months - the editor loved it, it was the first one he approved."
"Thanks," I took the book and flipped it open. Sure enough, it was there - page 35.
I distinctly remembered Marjorie telling me my story did not make it. I was going to kill her the next time I saw her.
Source: creativewritingprompts.com
Response:
"Your story is on page 35," he said as he handed me the compilation book.
"What?" I asked in utter surprise.
"You didn't know? It's been on the list for months - the editor loved it, it was the first one he approved."
"Thanks," I took the book and flipped it open. Sure enough, it was there - page 35.
I distinctly remembered Marjorie telling me my story did not make it. I was going to kill her the next time I saw her.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Push
Prompt: Create a story based on this plot: gets trapped in the bathroom on Valentine’s Day
Source: creativewritingprompts.com
Response: Push
Eli sank down against the cold tile wall of the public bathroom, no longer concerned with the plethora of germ colonies that were certain to dwell on the smooth surface. He looked over at the closed door and thought again how very much his life was akin to being locked in a bathroom on Valentine's Day.
His suit, which he had pressed with even more care than he usually employed that morning, was wrinkled and looked like he had been wearing it for several days instead of the few hours he had actually had it on. He had hummed while ironing - a tuneless, somewhat irritating noise - and had looked forward to daydreaming about telling Veronique "Happy Valentine's" and perhaps smiling.
He had known that he would not be giving her the box of chocolates he had ordered from the inter-office candy message service and that he would not look Veronique in the eye, much less offer her a holiday salutation, but he had so looked forward to imagining it. And he had somehow managed to get trapped in a public restroom between his house and work.
It was so typical of his life that he should have expected it, he suspected.
It was the same as when he had almost decided to check out band tryouts in eightieth grade, leaving his clarinet in a teacher's classroom so that none of his classmates would tease him, only to have it knocked from its perch on a shelf and damaged beyond repair.
It was the same as when he had almost decided to ask Ingrid to homecoming in high school. He had practiced what he would say and imagined the scene all day, waiting for the faith period class they had shared together, only to discover that Ingrid was off visiting her step-father in New Jersey and would not even be home during homecoming.
Eli pulled the box of slightly worse for wear chocolates from his suit pocket and looked at them. He thought that he might as well eat them - if he did not, he might starve after all - but it seemed so unsanitary to be eating sat-on chocolate in a men's room.
He toyed with the idea of opening the box, but chocolate was so unhealthy anyway. Perhaps he would rather die of starvation than eat food that was both unhealthy and unsanitary, he thought.
As he came to the conclusion that he should wait a few hours longer before deciding, the bathroom door swung open.
The man who came in looked worried for a moment as though wondering if Eli was a vagabond hiding out in the bathroom to mug unsuspecting visitors and then he suddenly laughed. "Are you stuck in here, buddy?"
Eli felt his neck flush, but he nodded, not speaking. His eyes kept flashing to the door which had once again swung shut.
The man laughed again. He had a beefy neck that thrummed when he threw his head back. "Happened to me a few weeks ago."
He shoved one hand against the door. Miraculously, it opened.
"You just have to push really hard."
Eli nodded again, standing and edging toward the escape.
"Those chocolates for a girl?" The man asked casually.
Eli nodded.
The man laughed again. "Go get'em, tiger."
Eli turned to go and the man spoke again. "Remember, push real hard."
Source: creativewritingprompts.com
Response: Push
Eli sank down against the cold tile wall of the public bathroom, no longer concerned with the plethora of germ colonies that were certain to dwell on the smooth surface. He looked over at the closed door and thought again how very much his life was akin to being locked in a bathroom on Valentine's Day.
His suit, which he had pressed with even more care than he usually employed that morning, was wrinkled and looked like he had been wearing it for several days instead of the few hours he had actually had it on. He had hummed while ironing - a tuneless, somewhat irritating noise - and had looked forward to daydreaming about telling Veronique "Happy Valentine's" and perhaps smiling.
He had known that he would not be giving her the box of chocolates he had ordered from the inter-office candy message service and that he would not look Veronique in the eye, much less offer her a holiday salutation, but he had so looked forward to imagining it. And he had somehow managed to get trapped in a public restroom between his house and work.
It was so typical of his life that he should have expected it, he suspected.
It was the same as when he had almost decided to check out band tryouts in eightieth grade, leaving his clarinet in a teacher's classroom so that none of his classmates would tease him, only to have it knocked from its perch on a shelf and damaged beyond repair.
It was the same as when he had almost decided to ask Ingrid to homecoming in high school. He had practiced what he would say and imagined the scene all day, waiting for the faith period class they had shared together, only to discover that Ingrid was off visiting her step-father in New Jersey and would not even be home during homecoming.
Eli pulled the box of slightly worse for wear chocolates from his suit pocket and looked at them. He thought that he might as well eat them - if he did not, he might starve after all - but it seemed so unsanitary to be eating sat-on chocolate in a men's room.
He toyed with the idea of opening the box, but chocolate was so unhealthy anyway. Perhaps he would rather die of starvation than eat food that was both unhealthy and unsanitary, he thought.
As he came to the conclusion that he should wait a few hours longer before deciding, the bathroom door swung open.
The man who came in looked worried for a moment as though wondering if Eli was a vagabond hiding out in the bathroom to mug unsuspecting visitors and then he suddenly laughed. "Are you stuck in here, buddy?"
Eli felt his neck flush, but he nodded, not speaking. His eyes kept flashing to the door which had once again swung shut.
The man laughed again. He had a beefy neck that thrummed when he threw his head back. "Happened to me a few weeks ago."
He shoved one hand against the door. Miraculously, it opened.
"You just have to push really hard."
Eli nodded again, standing and edging toward the escape.
"Those chocolates for a girl?" The man asked casually.
Eli nodded.
The man laughed again. "Go get'em, tiger."
Eli turned to go and the man spoke again. "Remember, push real hard."
Saturday, October 2, 2010
The Gun
Prompt: Why would a trader own a gun?
Source: creativewritingprompts.com
Response: The Gun
The stars could barely be seen, glimmering behind wisps of clouds that shifted in winds that could not be felt in the valley. Canaan shifted on the hard earth. He was exhausted and he ached, but that was ordinary and expected. The strangest part of the situation was his inability to sleep - he walked all day, almost every day and he usually fell asleep instantly after he let his pack settle to the ground.
Canaan turned on his side and the icy metal of the gun dug into his hip. He thought about moving to alleviate the discomfort, but he could not quite convince himself to make the effort.
The metal felt acidic against his skin, as if it was eating away at him. It felt evil, gouging into him, and he wanted nothing more than to bury it in the earth. But he remembered why he had purchased it, trading some expensive little trinket for the cruel weapon, and he had been glad of it the day before when they had finally caught up to him.
He saw once again the red explosions of human flesh being split by bullets and the solemn emptiness of dead men's eyes.
Canaan shifted against the gun in his belt again and its hard edges cut into his flesh. A tear slipped from under his closed eyelid and trickled down into his scraggly beard.
Source: creativewritingprompts.com
Response: The Gun
The stars could barely be seen, glimmering behind wisps of clouds that shifted in winds that could not be felt in the valley. Canaan shifted on the hard earth. He was exhausted and he ached, but that was ordinary and expected. The strangest part of the situation was his inability to sleep - he walked all day, almost every day and he usually fell asleep instantly after he let his pack settle to the ground.
Canaan turned on his side and the icy metal of the gun dug into his hip. He thought about moving to alleviate the discomfort, but he could not quite convince himself to make the effort.
The metal felt acidic against his skin, as if it was eating away at him. It felt evil, gouging into him, and he wanted nothing more than to bury it in the earth. But he remembered why he had purchased it, trading some expensive little trinket for the cruel weapon, and he had been glad of it the day before when they had finally caught up to him.
He saw once again the red explosions of human flesh being split by bullets and the solemn emptiness of dead men's eyes.
Canaan shifted against the gun in his belt again and its hard edges cut into his flesh. A tear slipped from under his closed eyelid and trickled down into his scraggly beard.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Sprung a Leak
Prompt: Mildred Allard and Lee Rabinovitz meet on a lake. One of them is pretending to be someone else. Write their story.
Source: creativewritingprompts.com
Response: Sprung a Leak
Lee could feel the individual muscles of his arms moving as he rowed. It made him smile, then strain, as he pulled another stroke. His shirt sleeve tightened across his bicep with a gentle cut and he smiled again.
The sun beat down, stirring the cool air with long, blazing fingers; bouncing star-shaped balls of light from the lake's undulating surface.
He took a deep, nourishing breath of the heavy air. That's when he was jolted from his seat.
Turning, Lee came face-to-face with Mildred Allard. She had been rowing herself across the lake in the opposite direction, her sleeves rolled up and her legs braced against the sides of the boat in the most improper way, her parasol tucked under her seat.
She had not been noticing the weather or the sensation of rowing - Mildred was hiding. She had hoped to find a safe, quiet spot on the lake's opposite bank to cower in for a while until her school mistress stopped looking for her.
Lee was instantly stuck by the soft features of the girl before him. He thought she must be the most beautiful girl he had ever seen - it so distracted him that he was not even concerned with any damage done to his boat.
Mildred was instantly struck by Lee's simple look and strong, lean body. He would know a hiding place, she was sure - a place far too earthy for her mistress to ever suspect. She tucked a dark curl behind her ear, highly conscious of the sweat beading her brow.
"Are you all right?" Lee finally asked.
"I am fine, thank you," she replied.
"I am Lee Rabinovitz - I live on the manor grounds." He held out a hand to her.
"Mildred Allard." She decided against telling him she went to St. Joan's - it could only cause complications.
Lee thought that the girl's name sounded somewhat familiar, but he put the thought from his mind. He would do whatever the lovely Mildred Allard asked of him.
Mildred smiled and fluttered her eyelashes a little. "I am so sorry - I ought to be more careful."
Lee, of course, protested that assertion and put himself at blame. They spoke and Mildred moved closer and Lee fell into her warm brown eyes. Neither of them noticed that Lee's sturdy boat had sprung a leak - too intent on their own motivations.
Source: creativewritingprompts.com
Response: Sprung a Leak
Lee could feel the individual muscles of his arms moving as he rowed. It made him smile, then strain, as he pulled another stroke. His shirt sleeve tightened across his bicep with a gentle cut and he smiled again.
The sun beat down, stirring the cool air with long, blazing fingers; bouncing star-shaped balls of light from the lake's undulating surface.
He took a deep, nourishing breath of the heavy air. That's when he was jolted from his seat.
Turning, Lee came face-to-face with Mildred Allard. She had been rowing herself across the lake in the opposite direction, her sleeves rolled up and her legs braced against the sides of the boat in the most improper way, her parasol tucked under her seat.
She had not been noticing the weather or the sensation of rowing - Mildred was hiding. She had hoped to find a safe, quiet spot on the lake's opposite bank to cower in for a while until her school mistress stopped looking for her.
Lee was instantly stuck by the soft features of the girl before him. He thought she must be the most beautiful girl he had ever seen - it so distracted him that he was not even concerned with any damage done to his boat.
Mildred was instantly struck by Lee's simple look and strong, lean body. He would know a hiding place, she was sure - a place far too earthy for her mistress to ever suspect. She tucked a dark curl behind her ear, highly conscious of the sweat beading her brow.
"Are you all right?" Lee finally asked.
"I am fine, thank you," she replied.
"I am Lee Rabinovitz - I live on the manor grounds." He held out a hand to her.
"Mildred Allard." She decided against telling him she went to St. Joan's - it could only cause complications.
Lee thought that the girl's name sounded somewhat familiar, but he put the thought from his mind. He would do whatever the lovely Mildred Allard asked of him.
Mildred smiled and fluttered her eyelashes a little. "I am so sorry - I ought to be more careful."
Lee, of course, protested that assertion and put himself at blame. They spoke and Mildred moved closer and Lee fell into her warm brown eyes. Neither of them noticed that Lee's sturdy boat had sprung a leak - too intent on their own motivations.
Weather Forecast: October 2010
October 1 - Mildred Allard and Lee Rabinovitz meet on a lake. One of them is pretending to be someone else. Write their story.
October 2 - Why would a trader own a gun?
October 3 - Create a story based on this plot: gets trapped in the bathroom on Valentine’s Day
October 4 - Write about how you felt when you discovered you were lied to.
October 5 - You're walking around a dark corridor when you turn around. You soon discover turning around may have been the worst decision of your life...
October 6 - How the young girl finds her way home in the dark.
October 7 - Write a story in which a ghost serves as your main character.
October 8 - Baggy Tights Week: benign neglect
October 9 - Baggy Tights Week: civil strife
October 10 - Baggy Tights Week: incomplete cure
October 11 - Baggy Tights Week: loud whisper
October 12 - Baggy Tights Week: pure evil
October 13 - Baggy Tights Week: rustic elegance
October 14 - Baggy Tights Week: tough love
October 15 - Shuffle Week: Use the name of a CD track as your inspiration (it does not have to have anything to do with the actual lyrics).
October 16 - Shuffle Week: Put a music player or CD on shuffle – use the first word of the first song, paired with the third word of the third song in your story.
October 17 - Shuffle Week: Put a music player on shuffle and use the first love song you come across as your inspiration.
October 18 - Shuffle Week: Ask someone else for the name of their favorite song – use the title or part of the lyrics as your inspiration.
October 19 - Shuffle Week: Use a line from at least one other song in conjunction with the line “And he always will get his thrills, the only way he knows how” from Imogen Heap’s “Angry Angel”
October 20 - Shuffle Week: Use the line “Don’t pretend you ever forgot about me” from Fall Out Boy’s “The Take Over The Break’s Over” in your story.
October 21 - Shuffle Week: Use the title of a show tune as your inspiration.
October 22 - Describe a landscape as seen by an old woman whose horrible old husband has just died.
October 23 - Describe a lake as seen by a young man who has just murdered someone.
October 24 - Fill in each phrase with the first metaphor that comes to mind: Blue paint spilled on the road like:_______, Graffiti on the abandoned building like:________, the dice rolled out of the cup toward Veronica like:_________, blank is like muscles stretched taut over bone:________, music in the hallway like:________
October 25 - You are a 7-year-old child who has been kidnapped by a family who has been raising you as their child. They took you when you were just 2. What they did has been discovered by the police. One day you are playing quietly in your room when the police break down the door and arrest the couple you know as your parents.
October 26 - I could never forgive _______________ for ______________________. Now finish the story.
October 27 - A woman who works in a used bookstore finds a photograph of herself in one of the books brought in for resale. She looks outside and sees the man who just sold them to her watching her. She is afraid she is being stalked. Depending on the slant of the story, the photograph could be compromising, or not.
October 28 - They say Old Weezie’s been reading palms out of her run-down shack for a hundred years or more.
October 29 - Every day the sun comes up and every night it goes down again.
October 30 - A hell full of angels.
October 31 - Fear of the unknown.
October 2 - Why would a trader own a gun?
October 3 - Create a story based on this plot: gets trapped in the bathroom on Valentine’s Day
October 4 - Write about how you felt when you discovered you were lied to.
October 5 - You're walking around a dark corridor when you turn around. You soon discover turning around may have been the worst decision of your life...
October 6 - How the young girl finds her way home in the dark.
October 7 - Write a story in which a ghost serves as your main character.
October 8 - Baggy Tights Week: benign neglect
October 9 - Baggy Tights Week: civil strife
October 10 - Baggy Tights Week: incomplete cure
October 11 - Baggy Tights Week: loud whisper
October 12 - Baggy Tights Week: pure evil
October 13 - Baggy Tights Week: rustic elegance
October 14 - Baggy Tights Week: tough love
October 15 - Shuffle Week: Use the name of a CD track as your inspiration (it does not have to have anything to do with the actual lyrics).
October 16 - Shuffle Week: Put a music player or CD on shuffle – use the first word of the first song, paired with the third word of the third song in your story.
October 17 - Shuffle Week: Put a music player on shuffle and use the first love song you come across as your inspiration.
October 18 - Shuffle Week: Ask someone else for the name of their favorite song – use the title or part of the lyrics as your inspiration.
October 19 - Shuffle Week: Use a line from at least one other song in conjunction with the line “And he always will get his thrills, the only way he knows how” from Imogen Heap’s “Angry Angel”
October 20 - Shuffle Week: Use the line “Don’t pretend you ever forgot about me” from Fall Out Boy’s “The Take Over The Break’s Over” in your story.
October 21 - Shuffle Week: Use the title of a show tune as your inspiration.
October 22 - Describe a landscape as seen by an old woman whose horrible old husband has just died.
October 23 - Describe a lake as seen by a young man who has just murdered someone.
October 24 - Fill in each phrase with the first metaphor that comes to mind: Blue paint spilled on the road like:_______, Graffiti on the abandoned building like:________, the dice rolled out of the cup toward Veronica like:_________, blank is like muscles stretched taut over bone:________, music in the hallway like:________
October 25 - You are a 7-year-old child who has been kidnapped by a family who has been raising you as their child. They took you when you were just 2. What they did has been discovered by the police. One day you are playing quietly in your room when the police break down the door and arrest the couple you know as your parents.
October 26 - I could never forgive _______________ for ______________________. Now finish the story.
October 27 - A woman who works in a used bookstore finds a photograph of herself in one of the books brought in for resale. She looks outside and sees the man who just sold them to her watching her. She is afraid she is being stalked. Depending on the slant of the story, the photograph could be compromising, or not.
October 28 - They say Old Weezie’s been reading palms out of her run-down shack for a hundred years or more.
October 29 - Every day the sun comes up and every night it goes down again.
October 30 - A hell full of angels.
October 31 - Fear of the unknown.
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