Word List Writing Challenge
kilerkki Posted an interesting entry on her favorite words for writing. I answered her with a list of my own, and then I had the brilliant crazy idea to make it a challenge: Write a short piece of fiction using ALL of the words on your list.
Nezuko's favorite words:
*grimace
*crimson
*swirl
*vapor
*marred/marring
*rivulet
*acrid
*harsh
*sleek
*ache/aching
*saunter
*cakewalk
*scarlet
*focused
*shudder/shuddering
*slink/slinking
Here is my story:
Title: Far From Home
Author: Nezuko
Genre: General Drama
Rating: M for blood and gore
Status: Complete, Worksafe
Word count: 565
The mission was supposed to have been a cakewalk. He and his partner would saunter into the enemy encampment, steal the documents, slink away into the night, leaving no trace of their stealthy passing.
Instead it had been a disaster.
There is drying blood, thick and shiny and cracking where his skin has folded to accommodate motion, all over him. It runs down his face and chest and arms in scarlet spatters and rivulets, and soaks into his clothes, marring the dark fabric with off-color shadows. It stains his hair, which hangs sleekly wet and clumpy, as if he'd just taken a shower, but it isn't water he's been bathing in.
His breath comes in harsh pants, clouding around his mouth in a swirl of rapidly dissipating vapor in the chill mountain air. There is a sick, acrid odor all around, of decomposition and death, but he barely notices it, so focused is he on the immediate task at hand: survive, regroup, retreat.
He stands up, searching for some sign of his missing comrade, and casually licks at a split on his lip. Blood does indeed taste metallic, he thinks, like licking the screen door during a rainstorm. He remembers doing that at the first house he lived in -- he couldn't have been more than four, probably younger. It tastes bright and wet and tangy, and sets his teeth on edge, as that tiny taste fills his whole mouth, turning suddenly sharp and nauseating.
He chokes, coughing in shuddering spasms, wrapping long arms around his aching midsection, and the scent and flavor of blood becomes a torrent, spilling from his mouth in crimson waves. When the retching subsides, he spits and grimaces, reaches for his canteen, and rinses his mouth, but the sensation of blood won't leave. The taste of his bleeding lip doesn't even compare to the taste of this larger amount of blood from a deeper source. Even after several rounds of water, he still tastes it -- feels it. It isn't really a smell-linked flavor, more like a sensation -- something stimulating his taste-buds directly. Something screaming to him from the deepest animal reaches of his brain.
After a long, dizzy moment, he pushes himself to his feet again, surprised to find that he'd fallen to his knees in his sickness. There is a fresh slick of blood on his arms, and he stares at it with dull wonder. How much blood is his own, and how much the blood of his enemies?
Another several stumbling steps and he falls again. Shock is setting in, he notes, with a dispassionate detachment. And there is pain. Some of that blood is definitely his own. It's warm against his belly, oozing thickly against his skin. He supposes he will die here, supposes his partner has already died, somewhere nearby. Some low, scrubby bushes offer sanctuary, and he crawls towards them, hides under them, curling up around himself in a fetal ball.
All he can think, as he lies there, is how very, very far from home he is.
ooo ooo ooo
Commentary: I deliberately chose to leave the characters unnamed, although perhaps I should go back and make it Genma or Kazushi or Itaru or Grend. I've always disdained ambiguous writing, but I felt that in some ways this had more impact as an anonymous character. Feedback would be much appreciated, especially on this aspect of the story.
Nezuko's favorite words:
*grimace
*crimson
*swirl
*vapor
*marred/marring
*rivulet
*acrid
*harsh
*sleek
*ache/aching
*saunter
*cakewalk
*scarlet
*focused
*shudder/shuddering
*slink/slinking
Here is my story:
Title: Far From Home
Author: Nezuko
Genre: General Drama
Rating: M for blood and gore
Status: Complete, Worksafe
Word count: 565
The mission was supposed to have been a cakewalk. He and his partner would saunter into the enemy encampment, steal the documents, slink away into the night, leaving no trace of their stealthy passing.
Instead it had been a disaster.
There is drying blood, thick and shiny and cracking where his skin has folded to accommodate motion, all over him. It runs down his face and chest and arms in scarlet spatters and rivulets, and soaks into his clothes, marring the dark fabric with off-color shadows. It stains his hair, which hangs sleekly wet and clumpy, as if he'd just taken a shower, but it isn't water he's been bathing in.
His breath comes in harsh pants, clouding around his mouth in a swirl of rapidly dissipating vapor in the chill mountain air. There is a sick, acrid odor all around, of decomposition and death, but he barely notices it, so focused is he on the immediate task at hand: survive, regroup, retreat.
He stands up, searching for some sign of his missing comrade, and casually licks at a split on his lip. Blood does indeed taste metallic, he thinks, like licking the screen door during a rainstorm. He remembers doing that at the first house he lived in -- he couldn't have been more than four, probably younger. It tastes bright and wet and tangy, and sets his teeth on edge, as that tiny taste fills his whole mouth, turning suddenly sharp and nauseating.
He chokes, coughing in shuddering spasms, wrapping long arms around his aching midsection, and the scent and flavor of blood becomes a torrent, spilling from his mouth in crimson waves. When the retching subsides, he spits and grimaces, reaches for his canteen, and rinses his mouth, but the sensation of blood won't leave. The taste of his bleeding lip doesn't even compare to the taste of this larger amount of blood from a deeper source. Even after several rounds of water, he still tastes it -- feels it. It isn't really a smell-linked flavor, more like a sensation -- something stimulating his taste-buds directly. Something screaming to him from the deepest animal reaches of his brain.
After a long, dizzy moment, he pushes himself to his feet again, surprised to find that he'd fallen to his knees in his sickness. There is a fresh slick of blood on his arms, and he stares at it with dull wonder. How much blood is his own, and how much the blood of his enemies?
Another several stumbling steps and he falls again. Shock is setting in, he notes, with a dispassionate detachment. And there is pain. Some of that blood is definitely his own. It's warm against his belly, oozing thickly against his skin. He supposes he will die here, supposes his partner has already died, somewhere nearby. Some low, scrubby bushes offer sanctuary, and he crawls towards them, hides under them, curling up around himself in a fetal ball.
All he can think, as he lies there, is how very, very far from home he is.
ooo ooo ooo
Commentary: I deliberately chose to leave the characters unnamed, although perhaps I should go back and make it Genma or Kazushi or Itaru or Grend. I've always disdained ambiguous writing, but I felt that in some ways this had more impact as an anonymous character. Feedback would be much appreciated, especially on this aspect of the story.