Halfway through the 20 Day Challenge! This is prompt #3: Six Sentence Story. Since it's a short one I wrote three. None of these is my best work, but I prefer the first one.
She wore her hair in a tight updo, with thick eyeliner and bright red lips. Her skintight black dress clung to her curves and she emphasized the effect by swaying her hips as she walked. Heads turned as she strutted down the street, and her mouth curved into a small smile. She met with her first client - a tall, balding man in his late thirties - in an upscale hotel restaurant. Later that evening, when she arrived home, she paid the sitter then made her way upstairs. She changed and scrubbed every trace of makeup off her face before she went to kiss her daughter goodnight.
When he came over for dinner he wore his hat at the table, a cheap black bowler that gave him the look of a leprechaun. Despite this quirk, he was a favourite dinner guest to many. Laughter came easily, emanating from deep within his belly, and he made everyone - even the hosts - feel at home. He wore his smile like a mask, and kept it on so long that it began to feel as real to him as it appeared to others. But when he went home, he took off his hat and frowned at himself in the mirror, rubbing his bald head sheepishly. The energy he gained from the dinner guests faded quickly, and he dropped his smile as he prepared for another lonely night.
His breathing came hard and his feet pounded on the ground as he tore through the woods. He could hear the sounds of his pursuers, not far behind. Branches whipped his face, opening up a cut along his nose, but he could not focus on the pain. With one last burst of speed, he threw himself through a stream and on to the flat rocks beyond. Soon, his pursuers grew quiet; the hounds paced in circles, sniffing the ground but finding no scent. Ahead,there was a swish of red tail, then he was gone.
Wednesday, 13 November 2013
Tuesday, 12 November 2013
20 Day Challenge #9
This is prompt #5: write about a stranger you see on the street. This is me trying to describe in as much detail as possible a guy that I saw while walking my dog this morning. This is more of a short character sketch; I've had a pretty busy day, so this is a rushed description based on memory.
Though it was minus fifteen with windchill, he wore only a light orange windbreaker and a pair of khaki pants. He wore a pair of old running shoes and left his hands and head bare, as though the cold wind didn't affect him. A leash was wrapped around one wrist, and at the other end there was a large, shaggy dog of some indeterminable mix. He walked in slow, measured steps, his shoulders hunched as though settled there through years spent at a desk. Smiling absentmindedly, he ran a hand through greying hair and nodded to a passing dog owner, but spoke very little, though they paused a few moments to chat. When he continued on his way, his movements were slow, but he walked with a quiet contentment and an air of the relaxation of someone sinking into a familiar routine.
Though it was minus fifteen with windchill, he wore only a light orange windbreaker and a pair of khaki pants. He wore a pair of old running shoes and left his hands and head bare, as though the cold wind didn't affect him. A leash was wrapped around one wrist, and at the other end there was a large, shaggy dog of some indeterminable mix. He walked in slow, measured steps, his shoulders hunched as though settled there through years spent at a desk. Smiling absentmindedly, he ran a hand through greying hair and nodded to a passing dog owner, but spoke very little, though they paused a few moments to chat. When he continued on his way, his movements were slow, but he walked with a quiet contentment and an air of the relaxation of someone sinking into a familiar routine.
Monday, 11 November 2013
20 Day Challenge #8
This is prompt #6: The haunted house is sentient, and you are stuck inside.
It knows I am here. I think it knew before I entered the door, felt me on the steps outside, saw me peering through the dust-covered windows. The door creaked open as I stood in front of it, a perfect cliche. It should have been a warning, but curiosity got the better of me. It always does. As soon as I stepped inside, the door locked behind me, and I tried frantically to unlock it, but the lock wouldn't move. The house has locked every window and every door, turned off every light. I am trapped.
I am rooted to the spot, trying not to make a sound, but my breathing is too loud and I can't slow it down. There are whispers in the room next to me and a banging sound coming from upstairs. I think I can see a pair of eyes staring at me through the crack in the hallway closet. The noises grow louder, building to a crescendo; next to me, the voices begin screaming at each other at inhuman pitches.
This is my opportunity. Using the noise to shield the sound of my actions, I tiptoe to the front window and turn my back to it, then begin kicking at it with the heel of my boot. The voices continue to scream, and upstairs the banging has started to shake the floor. I hope the house can't feel me with everything else that is happening.
The window shatters, and for an instant my heart soars, but then I realize that the house has gone silent and the crack of the glass could be heard throughout the house. There is a pause, and then the house screams, and I am inside its mouth and the sound is reverberating inside my head. The walls shudder and I am pelted with the remaining glass from the window. I scream in pain and cover my head as my arms and back are sliced by a hundred slivers of glass. As I turn to dive out the window, I can see creatures moving in - the glow of eyes, the swish of limbs scuttling across the floor. My hands scrabble for something - anything - to hold on to. As I latch on to the mailbox, I feel something grab hold of my leg, then a burning pain as a set of teeth sink deep into my calf. I try to shake it off and pull myself out, but I can feel more of them take hold, the grip of claws and the catch of teeth.
My arms give out, and I am pulled back inside.
It knows I am here. I think it knew before I entered the door, felt me on the steps outside, saw me peering through the dust-covered windows. The door creaked open as I stood in front of it, a perfect cliche. It should have been a warning, but curiosity got the better of me. It always does. As soon as I stepped inside, the door locked behind me, and I tried frantically to unlock it, but the lock wouldn't move. The house has locked every window and every door, turned off every light. I am trapped.
I am rooted to the spot, trying not to make a sound, but my breathing is too loud and I can't slow it down. There are whispers in the room next to me and a banging sound coming from upstairs. I think I can see a pair of eyes staring at me through the crack in the hallway closet. The noises grow louder, building to a crescendo; next to me, the voices begin screaming at each other at inhuman pitches.
This is my opportunity. Using the noise to shield the sound of my actions, I tiptoe to the front window and turn my back to it, then begin kicking at it with the heel of my boot. The voices continue to scream, and upstairs the banging has started to shake the floor. I hope the house can't feel me with everything else that is happening.
The window shatters, and for an instant my heart soars, but then I realize that the house has gone silent and the crack of the glass could be heard throughout the house. There is a pause, and then the house screams, and I am inside its mouth and the sound is reverberating inside my head. The walls shudder and I am pelted with the remaining glass from the window. I scream in pain and cover my head as my arms and back are sliced by a hundred slivers of glass. As I turn to dive out the window, I can see creatures moving in - the glow of eyes, the swish of limbs scuttling across the floor. My hands scrabble for something - anything - to hold on to. As I latch on to the mailbox, I feel something grab hold of my leg, then a burning pain as a set of teeth sink deep into my calf. I try to shake it off and pull myself out, but I can feel more of them take hold, the grip of claws and the catch of teeth.
My arms give out, and I am pulled back inside.
Sunday, 10 November 2013
20 Day Challenge #7
This is prompt 7: Open a book and pick a
random sentence. Use this sentence to start your story. This
sentence is from A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kenney Toole, which I
just started reading. The sentence is in bold at the start of this
prompt. I cheated a bit because I didn't choose this at random; I was
reading and decided I liked this sentence and could use it to start
better than a random sentence I had chosen earlier. This one is a bit
heavy and kind of depressing, and I have no idea if I got the mindset of
this character right, but this is where my brain went as I wrote.
Neon signs flashed off and on, reflecting in the streets dampened by the light mist that had been falling steadily for some time.The light filtered through the windows of his second-story apartment, bathing his face in green and red light. He sat in his office, hands frozen on the keyboard. Writing had always come easily to him, the words flowing from his fingers so quickly he could hardly get them written down in time. But this was different. This was the summation of years of pain, the justification of his actions, the small apology for grievances too large to overcome. There were too many things to say, and no way to say them properly. He couldn't use a few words - or even pages full of them - to make up for his absence, for the way he had acted. He'd let so many things get in the way, had thought that being a tortured artist was a means to an end, the way to produce the kind of work that would really make people feel something. Writing became an excuse, failure a justification. Every night that he reached for the bottle he always told them it was the last time. The next one would get picked up, he'd make it big - but now he needed that comfort to get him through another day. He'd cut through his family ties, his pen as sharp a weapon as a knife. Now only his sister still spoke with him, in weekly phone calls full of pauses heavy with obligation.
With a sigh, he closed his laptop and reached up to ran a finger along the side of the picture frame that held the photograph of his sons. He remembered when it was taken, three years ago, when they still both had blonde hair and large gaps of missing teeth. The last time he saw them was amongst a tangle of legs on the soccer field. He'd tried to make them out from across the street, but they'd changed so much it was hard for him to make them out amongst the crowd of teammates. A letter would do them no good, he knew, but he felt the need to leave something for them, to let them know he was thinking about them, even now.
It felt right to do it on paper, he thought. If the words wouldn't come from the keyboard, maybe he could make it happen with his pen. It would be more personal that way. But when he had the paper and pen in front of him, nothing came out. After several more agonizing minutes, he realized that for once in his life he truly had no words. Maybe that was for the best. Writing had been the end of his life; he'd begun writing his final words as soon as he first picked up a pen. Now he didn't need any more words to protect him from his life.
He got up and walked over to the closet where he'd tied up the rope. The rest was pain. Then a final twitch, and all was still. Outside, the mists turned to rain, and the neon signs flashed off and on.
Neon signs flashed off and on, reflecting in the streets dampened by the light mist that had been falling steadily for some time.The light filtered through the windows of his second-story apartment, bathing his face in green and red light. He sat in his office, hands frozen on the keyboard. Writing had always come easily to him, the words flowing from his fingers so quickly he could hardly get them written down in time. But this was different. This was the summation of years of pain, the justification of his actions, the small apology for grievances too large to overcome. There were too many things to say, and no way to say them properly. He couldn't use a few words - or even pages full of them - to make up for his absence, for the way he had acted. He'd let so many things get in the way, had thought that being a tortured artist was a means to an end, the way to produce the kind of work that would really make people feel something. Writing became an excuse, failure a justification. Every night that he reached for the bottle he always told them it was the last time. The next one would get picked up, he'd make it big - but now he needed that comfort to get him through another day. He'd cut through his family ties, his pen as sharp a weapon as a knife. Now only his sister still spoke with him, in weekly phone calls full of pauses heavy with obligation.
With a sigh, he closed his laptop and reached up to ran a finger along the side of the picture frame that held the photograph of his sons. He remembered when it was taken, three years ago, when they still both had blonde hair and large gaps of missing teeth. The last time he saw them was amongst a tangle of legs on the soccer field. He'd tried to make them out from across the street, but they'd changed so much it was hard for him to make them out amongst the crowd of teammates. A letter would do them no good, he knew, but he felt the need to leave something for them, to let them know he was thinking about them, even now.
It felt right to do it on paper, he thought. If the words wouldn't come from the keyboard, maybe he could make it happen with his pen. It would be more personal that way. But when he had the paper and pen in front of him, nothing came out. After several more agonizing minutes, he realized that for once in his life he truly had no words. Maybe that was for the best. Writing had been the end of his life; he'd begun writing his final words as soon as he first picked up a pen. Now he didn't need any more words to protect him from his life.
He got up and walked over to the closet where he'd tied up the rope. The rest was pain. Then a final twitch, and all was still. Outside, the mists turned to rain, and the neon signs flashed off and on.
Saturday, 9 November 2013
20 Day Challenge #6
This is prompt #9: Write about hate. Only got a first verse out today but I will try to revisit this.
Like Midas, with his golden touch
you've hid yourself away.
You've transformed everything you love;
turned not to gold, but hate.
Like Midas, with his golden touch
you've hid yourself away.
You've transformed everything you love;
turned not to gold, but hate.
Friday, 8 November 2013
20 Day Challenge #5
This is prompt #10: An alcoholic
middle-aged woman and a teenage girl are driving across the country in a truck
together. Why? Another lackluster day on the creativity front, but I managed to get something out. I think the dialogue needs some tweaking for realism, and the story doesn't feel complete. While writing, it seemed like the right place to end, but I was hoping to get out more information about the characters and couldn't seem to do it without it all being done through dialogue and personal admissions by the two characters, which seemed a bit forced.
She called herself
Clementine and wore her hair down to hide the scars on her face. Annette knew
who she was - she'd seen the pictures on the news - but the girl paid her way
with Vodka and Scotch so Annette let her ride along. Clementine was barely
seventeen, lanky and lean, with a face that was almost pretty. She barely spoke
at first, except to ask if it was alright if she smoked. Annette said yes. Not
another word was spoken for fifty miles, when Dolly Parton came on the radio
and Clementine rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath about the kind of
music only old people would listen to. Annette grinned and began to sing along,
hitting the high notes off tune. She gave Clementine a sideways glance, as
though challenging her to say something. To her surprise, Clementine joined in.
"Not just for old ladies, huh?"
Clementine focused on her hands for a moment, sliding a
cigarette out of the pack and lighting it. "My mom was a fan."
"Was?"
"Yeah." Clementine blew a stream of smoke
through pouted lips and turned away to look out the window.
There was a pause. "Smoking kills, you know."
"Whatever." Clementine rolled her eyes, then
stared pointedly at the empty bottles filling the space in front of her feet.
"You're one to talk."
Annette acted like she hadn't heard and focused back on the road. Catching sight of a sign for a rest stop, she said, "How about we both set aside our vices for one night and kill ourselves with heart disease? I could use a burger right now."
Clementine nodded, and Annette pulled on to the off ramp. The rest stop comprised a gas station and a diner that looked like it belonged in the fifties. A glance through the door showed metallic tables and bright turquoise seats. Before exiting the cab, Clementine slipped on a hat and a pair of sunglasses.
They slid into a booth in the back corner. The waitress - a thirtysomething woman with unruly curly brown hair and a voluptuous figure - introduced herself as Barb. Annette ordered a burger with fries; Clementine went for the all-day breakfast and ordered pancakes. When Annette raised her eyebrows, Clementine mumbled something about her mom making pancakes for dinner when she was a kid.She seemed jittery, glancing around at the other patrons and shifting her hair further over her face.
Annette waited until their food arrived before she spoke. "You never did tell me where you want to go. I can take you as far as New Jersey, but that's as far as I'm going."
"New Jersey is fine. I just need to get out of the state."
Her face softening, Annette reached out a hand, but let it fall to the table. "Are you alright?"
"No." Clementine's answer was immediate, with that hint of guilt that comes out when someone is too quick to jump to a lie.
"I've seen the news, Jenna. I know your father is looking for you."
Clementine jumped on hearing her new name.Her face contorted in anger and she launched herself out of her chair. "What are you gonna do, call the cops on me? Have you just been driving me around so you can get some kind of reward? Fuck you."
Annette stood and rested her hand on Clementine's shoulder. "Relax. I'm sure you've got your good reasons. I just don't feel good about leaving you on your own."
"I can handle myself."
" I don't doubt that. Look, let's just eat. Forget I brought it up."
Clementine sat, but her eyes showed her distrust. She ate her pancakes in stubborn silence. Then, as they waited for the bill -
"He's not a good man."
"Sorry?"
"My father. If you've seen the news, you've seen the bullshit about how much he misses me." Clementine touched the scars on her face, an unconscious reflex. "Don't send me back to him."
Their bills arrived, and Clementine dug through her purse for her wallet. Annette placed a few bills on the counter and stood up, gently pushing Clementine's arm away. "Honey, this one's on me. Now come on, we've still got a long way to go."
Annette acted like she hadn't heard and focused back on the road. Catching sight of a sign for a rest stop, she said, "How about we both set aside our vices for one night and kill ourselves with heart disease? I could use a burger right now."
Clementine nodded, and Annette pulled on to the off ramp. The rest stop comprised a gas station and a diner that looked like it belonged in the fifties. A glance through the door showed metallic tables and bright turquoise seats. Before exiting the cab, Clementine slipped on a hat and a pair of sunglasses.
They slid into a booth in the back corner. The waitress - a thirtysomething woman with unruly curly brown hair and a voluptuous figure - introduced herself as Barb. Annette ordered a burger with fries; Clementine went for the all-day breakfast and ordered pancakes. When Annette raised her eyebrows, Clementine mumbled something about her mom making pancakes for dinner when she was a kid.She seemed jittery, glancing around at the other patrons and shifting her hair further over her face.
Annette waited until their food arrived before she spoke. "You never did tell me where you want to go. I can take you as far as New Jersey, but that's as far as I'm going."
"New Jersey is fine. I just need to get out of the state."
Her face softening, Annette reached out a hand, but let it fall to the table. "Are you alright?"
"No." Clementine's answer was immediate, with that hint of guilt that comes out when someone is too quick to jump to a lie.
"I've seen the news, Jenna. I know your father is looking for you."
Clementine jumped on hearing her new name.Her face contorted in anger and she launched herself out of her chair. "What are you gonna do, call the cops on me? Have you just been driving me around so you can get some kind of reward? Fuck you."
Annette stood and rested her hand on Clementine's shoulder. "Relax. I'm sure you've got your good reasons. I just don't feel good about leaving you on your own."
"I can handle myself."
" I don't doubt that. Look, let's just eat. Forget I brought it up."
Clementine sat, but her eyes showed her distrust. She ate her pancakes in stubborn silence. Then, as they waited for the bill -
"He's not a good man."
"Sorry?"
"My father. If you've seen the news, you've seen the bullshit about how much he misses me." Clementine touched the scars on her face, an unconscious reflex. "Don't send me back to him."
Their bills arrived, and Clementine dug through her purse for her wallet. Annette placed a few bills on the counter and stood up, gently pushing Clementine's arm away. "Honey, this one's on me. Now come on, we've still got a long way to go."
Thursday, 7 November 2013
20 Day Challenge #4
I was feeling a bit stuck creatively today, so I went with prompt #1: one sentence story. I tried my hand at a few, since it's such a short prompt. Today isn't feeling like a great day in terms of creative inspiration, so I'm not as happy with these, but the goal was to write every day, and I know it would be a lot to expect to be producing something I'm really happy with every day.
Her eyes were swollen with tears, but his were dry.
I should have listened to my mother when she told me not to talk to strangers.
It's been five years, and it's still hard to say no without feeling afraid.
She used to laugh at all his jokes and he loved her cooking, but now her smiles are rare and they eat their meals in silence as he picks around the burnt bits.
Her eyes were swollen with tears, but his were dry.
I should have listened to my mother when she told me not to talk to strangers.
It's been five years, and it's still hard to say no without feeling afraid.
She used to laugh at all his jokes and he loved her cooking, but now her smiles are rare and they eat their meals in silence as he picks around the burnt bits.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)