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Google: random word + writing + prompt
Been doing this once a day for the last week or so. Struggling with style, myself, and thoughts on the relevance of fiction writing in the digital era. Latest offering:
The Prompt
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One day, you are out in your yard when the next-door neighbor's garden gnome suddenly walks over and starts telling you about "what is really going on." Write this scene.
My retarded response
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"Let me tell you what is really going on here," said the gnome.
"Fuck off," I said. "You're not real. Your'e a garden gnome. I'm not supposed to talk to you anymore." I turned my attention back to the yard. The grass was tall and overgrown from months of neglect. I could not remember the last time I had cut it. The grass wasn't the problem though, it was the weeds. Always the damned weeds growing back, seemingly overnight.
"You've got to get to the root of these things," said the gnome, shuffling over to the nearest patch of crab grass. He did not have to bend over because he himself was so short. He wrapped two grotesque little hands around the plant and pulled. He pulled and pulled for what seemed liked an eternity, all the while the roots of the weeds unraveled like a spool of yarn. "You see? Just like this. No, it ain't easy, but this isn't work for the feint of heart. You need to quit being such a bitch." With that, the gnome pulled off his tatterted, pointed red hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Go away. Go back to your own garden. You're not real and I hate seeing you here."
"If I'm not real, then why are you talking to me? You crazy?"
I hated that word. Crazy. It's what my brother had called me the last time I spoke with him. Crazy and insecure. An idiot. No ambition.
"Fuck him," I said.
"Fuck who?"
"None of you're damn business."
"Eh, you always actin' like this. Like a fool. No common sense in you I think, and certainley no gardening sense. You'd think a guy would be grateful when a fucking garden gnome shows up to help him clean up his crappy yard. It looks like shit and you never do anything about it."
"I don't need your help dammit!" I felt around through the hard dirt until my fingers felt the cold. I squeezed the rock tight in my hand until it drew blood, then I threw it at him.
"Fuck off!" It struck him in the chest and knocked him over. The little garden gnome sprawled out in a grotesque position, limbs flung at awkward angles as he gasped and sputtered. I froze for a minute, watching his little chest heave up and down, up and down, slower and slower and at last finally stopping. There was no shout of surprise and no final death wail. The rock had struck the garden gnome and the garden gnome had died.
Been doing this once a day for the last week or so. Struggling with style, myself, and thoughts on the relevance of fiction writing in the digital era. Latest offering:
The Prompt
-----------
One day, you are out in your yard when the next-door neighbor's garden gnome suddenly walks over and starts telling you about "what is really going on." Write this scene.
My retarded response
-------------------
"Let me tell you what is really going on here," said the gnome.
"Fuck off," I said. "You're not real. Your'e a garden gnome. I'm not supposed to talk to you anymore." I turned my attention back to the yard. The grass was tall and overgrown from months of neglect. I could not remember the last time I had cut it. The grass wasn't the problem though, it was the weeds. Always the damned weeds growing back, seemingly overnight.
"You've got to get to the root of these things," said the gnome, shuffling over to the nearest patch of crab grass. He did not have to bend over because he himself was so short. He wrapped two grotesque little hands around the plant and pulled. He pulled and pulled for what seemed liked an eternity, all the while the roots of the weeds unraveled like a spool of yarn. "You see? Just like this. No, it ain't easy, but this isn't work for the feint of heart. You need to quit being such a bitch." With that, the gnome pulled off his tatterted, pointed red hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Go away. Go back to your own garden. You're not real and I hate seeing you here."
"If I'm not real, then why are you talking to me? You crazy?"
I hated that word. Crazy. It's what my brother had called me the last time I spoke with him. Crazy and insecure. An idiot. No ambition.
"Fuck him," I said.
"Fuck who?"
"None of you're damn business."
"Eh, you always actin' like this. Like a fool. No common sense in you I think, and certainley no gardening sense. You'd think a guy would be grateful when a fucking garden gnome shows up to help him clean up his crappy yard. It looks like shit and you never do anything about it."
"I don't need your help dammit!" I felt around through the hard dirt until my fingers felt the cold. I squeezed the rock tight in my hand until it drew blood, then I threw it at him.
"Fuck off!" It struck him in the chest and knocked him over. The little garden gnome sprawled out in a grotesque position, limbs flung at awkward angles as he gasped and sputtered. I froze for a minute, watching his little chest heave up and down, up and down, slower and slower and at last finally stopping. There was no shout of surprise and no final death wail. The rock had struck the garden gnome and the garden gnome had died.