free writing practices
Because I was utterly bored and classic rock just happens to be the kind of productive music for me, I bring thee free writing practices with two of them being themes yukireizei gave me. Idk, my journal is an empty shit land.
5/10/2010: three practices~
theme: -none-
finished at: 11:49:51 PM
402 words
You're about seven and your father brought you a toy car. It's blue and green and it has yellow wheels and it's gaudy and cheap and plastic thin but you absolutely love it. The wheels don't spin the way real wheels do, the way the wheels your father's car spin when he takes you to the dentist and the doctor and the train and you pressed your nose to the window once to compare, staring intently at the way the real car's wheels spin and spin and spin so fast so quick and your own squeaky little toy car wobbles, wobbles horribly. But you love it anyway. It's your car. Not your father's or your mother's or your sister's or your brother's. It's your car, in its imperfection and you love it because it's yours.
You're fifteen and you look at cars that are more than your little wobbly plastic one. You've no idea where that went. Thrown off maybe, cast away. It's a little plastic toy from China for God's sake and it's practically useless now. Other cars, real cars are better. They're sleek and silver or black and oh how they impress you. You're an impressionable kid, you know that? You think everything is better with chrome. But I digress, because this is your story and I write it because it's what I do. You're a fifteen year old adolescent and cars interest you. You wax poetical about it. You can write sonnets and spin romances about them. To you, they're the world. I just write your story. And they're nothing but metal to me.
You're twenty one and you know what you want now don't you? You love cars still. It's always been about cars for you. You want to make them now, make cars you love so other people can love them as much as you do too. You design and sketch and spend long hours in a coffee shop with overpriced drinks. You talk about horse powers and engines and you turn and churn numbers to make them into reality. I don't get you, you're some kind of demented genius. I don't get you even when you took my hands and babbled excitedly about them. But it's your story right and I should pretend to be understanding and excited too. I write this. So take your cancer stick and talk about them. It doesn't matter to me.
word: suicide
12:00:02 AM - 12:10:22 AM
378 words
It isn't something you think about.
But pull the trigger, let's see what happens.
A flash of white, a searing pain.
Darling, you picked the hardest way to end a life.
Snuff it even.
It takes guts, I tell you. Real guts. How many people can pull the trigger to their own temples? To other people's temples? That's flesh, by the way, and nerves and blood and meat and everything else that makes you a human and a bag of fleshy mortal bones knitted over fine brittle bones.
And well, now yours have a hole in it.
Hey, don't look at me like that. You're the one who asked for it. Didn't you want to end it so quickly? I told you right? Told you about the things you could have done? The two point five kids, the house and the dog and the happy messy scrabbly family? Don't regret it now.
Aw, geez, you're getting snot on my shirt. I'd give you a tissue but emphereal bodies can't really hold tissues can they?
Shh, don't cry now.
You should've planned earlier though. That gun was noisy, and you never held it right anyway. Your blood's all over the walls and there's bits of brains in the painting's easel. I hear footsteps too; people are coming to check now. Should've used a muffler. Should've made sure no one was there. Not the cleanest suicide I ever seen. But certainly not the messiest either.
Did you know people actually decapitate themselves using trains? They'd place their necks on the tracks and wait for the train to pass. Like lambs to a slaughter.
God, you people are so weird.
Oh hey, you stopped crying now. Well you asked for it.
Am I the grim reaper? Shit, what a question. Don't you know those things are creations? Ways for humans to understand this void they call death? Skeleton men and sharp pointy stick things and cloaks, hah don't make me laugh. I'm better than that you idiot.
Eh? How am I better? Well, for one thing I'm not here to drag you off to the next world. Neither am I here to judge.
I'm really here just for the show.
Now do you mind if I post this up on YouTube?
theme: Psychiatric Ward
12:18:03 AM -12:30:05 AM
429 words
He's a doctor and he knows what he's doing.
He starts the day the way he starts all days. He wakes up and he bathes. He shaves while watching the mirror, he wears his clothes.
Today he skips breakfast. Well, some days are like that.
The walls are so white.
They complain about it sometimes. White walls. Something about it is so unsettling, especially if you stare at it too long. The little Asian girl in room 3 tells him she says it's the colour of death. But it's the colour of peace to the doctor. It's the colour of empty, nice and safeness. You can't go wrong with white.
Let's start the day now.
He begins with rounds, checks the tenants (he calls them tenants, they call him a monster, ironic world we live in, he's a doctor, not a tax collector, they don't pay rent) and the doses. Some of them are so young; the Asian girl, the little boy in the solitary confinement (he bites, he scratches and he thinks he hears your thoughts. If you give him a spoon he tries to gauge his eyes) and the teenager in the fifth floor. And some are the product of old age. Senile old folks claiming to hear voices. Dementia, psychosis. He's read textbook cases; he has them in his ward.
He saves the best room for last though.
The room is empty until you know where to look. And if you knew where to look, then you shouldn't be there anymore. The doctor enters the room every day, like clockwork, like a well machined organiser. He goes in and sits on the frame of the big metal bed and stares, stares at the wall. The wall here is white too, not flexed with blood or grime or anything that's been a staple of horror culture. No one's ever killed themselves here. No one has ever claimed to have ghosts here. The room is clean. The only personal item in here is a small well worn copy of a fairy tale story collection. There's Oscar Wilde in it for some reason.
The doctor smiles and takes off his coat. He drapes it over the bed frame and rolls up his sleeves. This is his favourite part of the day. The one part he looks forward to.
"So how are you feeling today?" he says out loud, and he opens the book and begins on the Prince. "There once was a Prince beloved by all-"
And the door shuts in on him.
Everything is so strikingly white.
5/10/2010: three practices~
theme: -none-
finished at: 11:49:51 PM
402 words
You're about seven and your father brought you a toy car. It's blue and green and it has yellow wheels and it's gaudy and cheap and plastic thin but you absolutely love it. The wheels don't spin the way real wheels do, the way the wheels your father's car spin when he takes you to the dentist and the doctor and the train and you pressed your nose to the window once to compare, staring intently at the way the real car's wheels spin and spin and spin so fast so quick and your own squeaky little toy car wobbles, wobbles horribly. But you love it anyway. It's your car. Not your father's or your mother's or your sister's or your brother's. It's your car, in its imperfection and you love it because it's yours.
You're fifteen and you look at cars that are more than your little wobbly plastic one. You've no idea where that went. Thrown off maybe, cast away. It's a little plastic toy from China for God's sake and it's practically useless now. Other cars, real cars are better. They're sleek and silver or black and oh how they impress you. You're an impressionable kid, you know that? You think everything is better with chrome. But I digress, because this is your story and I write it because it's what I do. You're a fifteen year old adolescent and cars interest you. You wax poetical about it. You can write sonnets and spin romances about them. To you, they're the world. I just write your story. And they're nothing but metal to me.
You're twenty one and you know what you want now don't you? You love cars still. It's always been about cars for you. You want to make them now, make cars you love so other people can love them as much as you do too. You design and sketch and spend long hours in a coffee shop with overpriced drinks. You talk about horse powers and engines and you turn and churn numbers to make them into reality. I don't get you, you're some kind of demented genius. I don't get you even when you took my hands and babbled excitedly about them. But it's your story right and I should pretend to be understanding and excited too. I write this. So take your cancer stick and talk about them. It doesn't matter to me.
word: suicide
12:00:02 AM - 12:10:22 AM
378 words
It isn't something you think about.
But pull the trigger, let's see what happens.
A flash of white, a searing pain.
Darling, you picked the hardest way to end a life.
Snuff it even.
It takes guts, I tell you. Real guts. How many people can pull the trigger to their own temples? To other people's temples? That's flesh, by the way, and nerves and blood and meat and everything else that makes you a human and a bag of fleshy mortal bones knitted over fine brittle bones.
And well, now yours have a hole in it.
Hey, don't look at me like that. You're the one who asked for it. Didn't you want to end it so quickly? I told you right? Told you about the things you could have done? The two point five kids, the house and the dog and the happy messy scrabbly family? Don't regret it now.
Aw, geez, you're getting snot on my shirt. I'd give you a tissue but emphereal bodies can't really hold tissues can they?
Shh, don't cry now.
You should've planned earlier though. That gun was noisy, and you never held it right anyway. Your blood's all over the walls and there's bits of brains in the painting's easel. I hear footsteps too; people are coming to check now. Should've used a muffler. Should've made sure no one was there. Not the cleanest suicide I ever seen. But certainly not the messiest either.
Did you know people actually decapitate themselves using trains? They'd place their necks on the tracks and wait for the train to pass. Like lambs to a slaughter.
God, you people are so weird.
Oh hey, you stopped crying now. Well you asked for it.
Am I the grim reaper? Shit, what a question. Don't you know those things are creations? Ways for humans to understand this void they call death? Skeleton men and sharp pointy stick things and cloaks, hah don't make me laugh. I'm better than that you idiot.
Eh? How am I better? Well, for one thing I'm not here to drag you off to the next world. Neither am I here to judge.
I'm really here just for the show.
Now do you mind if I post this up on YouTube?
theme: Psychiatric Ward
12:18:03 AM -12:30:05 AM
429 words
He's a doctor and he knows what he's doing.
He starts the day the way he starts all days. He wakes up and he bathes. He shaves while watching the mirror, he wears his clothes.
Today he skips breakfast. Well, some days are like that.
The walls are so white.
They complain about it sometimes. White walls. Something about it is so unsettling, especially if you stare at it too long. The little Asian girl in room 3 tells him she says it's the colour of death. But it's the colour of peace to the doctor. It's the colour of empty, nice and safeness. You can't go wrong with white.
Let's start the day now.
He begins with rounds, checks the tenants (he calls them tenants, they call him a monster, ironic world we live in, he's a doctor, not a tax collector, they don't pay rent) and the doses. Some of them are so young; the Asian girl, the little boy in the solitary confinement (he bites, he scratches and he thinks he hears your thoughts. If you give him a spoon he tries to gauge his eyes) and the teenager in the fifth floor. And some are the product of old age. Senile old folks claiming to hear voices. Dementia, psychosis. He's read textbook cases; he has them in his ward.
He saves the best room for last though.
The room is empty until you know where to look. And if you knew where to look, then you shouldn't be there anymore. The doctor enters the room every day, like clockwork, like a well machined organiser. He goes in and sits on the frame of the big metal bed and stares, stares at the wall. The wall here is white too, not flexed with blood or grime or anything that's been a staple of horror culture. No one's ever killed themselves here. No one has ever claimed to have ghosts here. The room is clean. The only personal item in here is a small well worn copy of a fairy tale story collection. There's Oscar Wilde in it for some reason.
The doctor smiles and takes off his coat. He drapes it over the bed frame and rolls up his sleeves. This is his favourite part of the day. The one part he looks forward to.
"So how are you feeling today?" he says out loud, and he opens the book and begins on the Prince. "There once was a Prince beloved by all-"
And the door shuts in on him.
Everything is so strikingly white.