The Write Stuff II
Here are some more of my responses to the prompts from the lj community I'm a part of. I'm actually (dare I say) kind of proud of some of them... Anyway, please please let me know what you guys think, even if you just want/have the time to read only one.
Prompt:
All I could do
Post:
It was all I could do when, after slowly stepping down the stairs in her jade heels, deep emerald cocktail dress; her chestnut hair straight at the top but gradually flaring and growing into cascading curls that draped down her slight shoulders; her diamond earrings dangling and glittering from her delicate lobes; her alabaster cheeks accented with slight blush and her hazel, almond-shaped eyes still standing out behind the violet smokiness she does so well; she asked me why I was smiling.
Prompt:
Torture
Post I:
This is unbearable... There is no possible way I can handle this anymore. He makes me so angry! Every little thing he does gets on my nerves. He's always hovering over me, always making comments on what I'm doing. He's always under my feet! You think I'd be used to his constant presence by now and I've tried - lord knows I've tried, but every little thing he does just gets under my skin. He has such intense body odor that it wafts its way over to me and everyone thinks it's ME that makes their eyes water! I TRY to tell them under my breath that it's him and not me but they just look at me as if I'm crazy! When I just want some peace and quiet he listens to music or won't ever stop talking - talking to ME as if there's no one else in his world he can relate to! His snoring keeps me awake all damn night. He hogs the covers and when he rolls over, I get crushed! He spends all my money! He steals my things! He eats all my food! He steals my girlfriend! HOW?! He drags me along on his dates and I'm nothing but the damned third wheel! We went on a double date once with these twins and by the end of the night he had sex -- with both of them -- AT THE SAME TIME. I - CAN'T - TAKE - THIS.
I swear... I'd kill him --
-- if we weren't conjoined at the hip.
Post II:
I thought losing you was torture. I thought being the one to walk away was torture. I thought not feeling your breath on my neck, not tasting the salt on your skin, not seeing the sweat on our sheets was torture. I thought not feeling your hands run through my hair after a difficult day was torture. I thought your heart away from my soul was torture.
Then I saw you smile with him.
Prompt:
Take an emotion, any emotion (ex: anger, sadness, happiness, lust, jealousy), and turn it into a fictional character. What you do with that character is up to you.
Post:
"Oh? Is it?" the man in the pinstriped suit asked sarcastically, rubbing his knuckles.
"Yes, more than enough..." the smaller man responded from the floor, wiping blood from his mouth. It stained his modest clothing.
"I do think you're wrong," the pinstriped man commented almost casually and kicked the smaller man in the stomach. The smaller man crumpled and lay motionless for a moment before looking up at his attacker.
"I just try to help... that's all. Why can't you see that? I'm needed... Why is it that I'm always so welcome until you enter the picture?"
"Because," said the pinstriped man, "we don't mix, you and I. Oil and water, you see. I'm stronger than you. I get my way. That's all you need to know." He placed a thin cigarette in his mouth, produced from nothing, somehow lighting it with empty hands.
The smaller man coughed and spat out a tooth that had been dangling since a thundering blow to the face. It was always the same. He was welcomed and almost revered. He was necessary. He was vital. Things always ran so smoothly under his steady lead. He had respect...
But it always changed when the pinstriped man came around. He fell into the shadows, thrown by the wayside. He was forgotten and ignored, the pinstriped man taking dominance. There was no telling how long this episode would last, but soon enough...
The smaller man laughed with a slight rasp.
"You know, if we worked together, we could really have power... As a team, our success would be unrivaled. I think you know that..."
The pinstriped man showed no flicker of hesitation in his face as he laced his fingers together in a fist and brought it down with incredible force onto the smaller man's back, winding him and causing deep red pain.
"If... if we just helped... one another..." the smaller man stumbled through his words, "we wouldn't have to keep doing this... You know... you know how this will end. It's a circular story. You may wound me and drive me away, but you know, soon enough, I will be back to overpower you. You'll be the one battered and broken, sent away to lick your wounds,"
The pinstriped man put one hand in his pocket and held the forefinger and thumb of the other close to the back of the cigarette, taking a long, chemical drag.
"Yeah," he said reticently, eyes half-lidded. "Yeah."
"Then why don't we? It would be so much easier! We could get so much more done and we could break this cycle! We could--"
The smaller man's sentence was cut short as the tip of a polished black shoe, spat encased, was touched to his chin and slowly made him raise his head. The pinstriped man took another long drag and in one fluid movement spun around and caught the smaller man's chin with the heel of his shoe, sending him reeling.
The smaller man groaned and clutched at his jaw, now horribly broken.
The pinstriped man strode over to his victim and stood by his side. He took one last drag from his cigarette, one hand back in his pocket, and dropped it on the floor, rubbing it out with his toes.
"Oil and water, old friend. Oil and water."
Love strode away leaving Common Sense once again, knowing full well they'd meet again.
Prompt:
Names on the sidewalk
Post I:
The yellows, blues, pinks, were all unused and in pristine condition. They laid side by side like columns of rainbow in the grass. Reaching for another stick of red, the little girl, eyes half-closed, scrawled onto the sidewalk as she rested her elbows on her knees. A little ball of innocence, she drew and scribbled and immersed herself in her activity.
"Here, Emma," her mother had said through tears, handing her little girl a few boxes of the colored sticks.
"Go play outside, my love... go have some fun. Before your father gets home..."
She wiped the tears from her eyes, smudging the makeup which covered up the darkness and swelling under them. She sniffed and tried to compose herself as her daughter tottered out into the front yard. As she watched through the window as her little girl chose a square of sidewalk, she sighed and slowly turned a part of herself off. Her husband was late. That wouldn't improve his mood any. She knew what was coming. She knew the man who left in the morning was not the man who would return, smelling of alcohol and rage. She hugged herself, carefully avoiding the areas that were still tender from the night before. As long as Emma was outside and not in the house...
Now her eyes glazed slightly as the car stunted and squealed to an angular halt in front of the house. A man poured himself from the driver's seat and didn't even bother to close the door as he moved with delicate balance up the walkway toward the house. Little girl and grown man made no acknowledgment of the other. She colored, he shuffled. Into the house he carried his anger and liquid reserve.
And then the yelling started.
Emma ran the red down to a nub and tossed it aside. Without even glancing at the other neglected colors, she reached for a new box and opened it, tipping the sticks out by her feet. They tumbled down and rolled away down the sidewalk. She grabbed the red and left the rest to inertia.
A man saw her from across the street as he walked by and noted she was alone. He jogged over.
"Hi, what are you drawing there?" he asked.
Emma didn't answer. She drew. The man squatted down to see that Emma had drawn a house, among other things. Alongside it stood a woman holding hands with a little girl. Under the woman, she had written "mommy"; under the little girl, "emma". They frowned. And off to the side, a man stood almost as large as the house. He looked angry. Under him she had written "Alan". All was in red.
A muffled cry came from the house.
"Um... Emma? Where's your mother?" the man asked, slowly rising. Without looking up, Emma pointed towards the house with her empty hand. It was caked in red chalk.
There was a loud crash as glass broke inside. A woman cried out and begged but was drowned out by the shouting of a male voice. The man pulled out his phone as he ran towards the house.
* * *
Hours later, everyone had left. It was quiet. It was evening and the setting sun drew long shadows from the feet of trees and mailboxes and cars. The paramedics and fire department had washed the blood and vomit from the pavement and now the water was slowly drying. Untouched sticks of colorful chalk lay mournfully in the grass, silently waiting. Waiting to be used by little hands.
A thin river of red had run between pavement and grass, tinting the edges and blades: the water had washed away most of the drawings. All that remained of Emma's presence was the drawing of her and her mother and their names on the sidewalk.
Post II:
When I was a young boy I lived close enough to my elementary school that I'd walk there each morning with my mother and brother. There was a certain stretch of pavement that I'd always be happy to see.
When the cement had first been laid, a dog had decided to go walking through for a reason probably only it knew. The cement had dried with a trail of paw prints leading down the block and eventually they ended after the new cement line.
Every day on the way to school I'd look down at that stretch as we walked and I would follow the dog's trail, placing my little feet in each of its footsteps. As I stepped and stared, I always wished I could speak dog so I could look at its prints and know what it's name was.
Thanks if you read these and thanks even more if you comment. Feedback is essential to me so... Yeah. Please tell me what you liked/disliked, your favorite one, etc. Hope whoever of you reads these enjoys them.
Prompt:
All I could do
Post:
It was all I could do when, after slowly stepping down the stairs in her jade heels, deep emerald cocktail dress; her chestnut hair straight at the top but gradually flaring and growing into cascading curls that draped down her slight shoulders; her diamond earrings dangling and glittering from her delicate lobes; her alabaster cheeks accented with slight blush and her hazel, almond-shaped eyes still standing out behind the violet smokiness she does so well; she asked me why I was smiling.
Prompt:
Torture
Post I:
This is unbearable... There is no possible way I can handle this anymore. He makes me so angry! Every little thing he does gets on my nerves. He's always hovering over me, always making comments on what I'm doing. He's always under my feet! You think I'd be used to his constant presence by now and I've tried - lord knows I've tried, but every little thing he does just gets under my skin. He has such intense body odor that it wafts its way over to me and everyone thinks it's ME that makes their eyes water! I TRY to tell them under my breath that it's him and not me but they just look at me as if I'm crazy! When I just want some peace and quiet he listens to music or won't ever stop talking - talking to ME as if there's no one else in his world he can relate to! His snoring keeps me awake all damn night. He hogs the covers and when he rolls over, I get crushed! He spends all my money! He steals my things! He eats all my food! He steals my girlfriend! HOW?! He drags me along on his dates and I'm nothing but the damned third wheel! We went on a double date once with these twins and by the end of the night he had sex -- with both of them -- AT THE SAME TIME. I - CAN'T - TAKE - THIS.
I swear... I'd kill him --
-- if we weren't conjoined at the hip.
Post II:
I thought losing you was torture. I thought being the one to walk away was torture. I thought not feeling your breath on my neck, not tasting the salt on your skin, not seeing the sweat on our sheets was torture. I thought not feeling your hands run through my hair after a difficult day was torture. I thought your heart away from my soul was torture.
Then I saw you smile with him.
Prompt:
Take an emotion, any emotion (ex: anger, sadness, happiness, lust, jealousy), and turn it into a fictional character. What you do with that character is up to you.
Post:
"Oh? Is it?" the man in the pinstriped suit asked sarcastically, rubbing his knuckles.
"Yes, more than enough..." the smaller man responded from the floor, wiping blood from his mouth. It stained his modest clothing.
"I do think you're wrong," the pinstriped man commented almost casually and kicked the smaller man in the stomach. The smaller man crumpled and lay motionless for a moment before looking up at his attacker.
"I just try to help... that's all. Why can't you see that? I'm needed... Why is it that I'm always so welcome until you enter the picture?"
"Because," said the pinstriped man, "we don't mix, you and I. Oil and water, you see. I'm stronger than you. I get my way. That's all you need to know." He placed a thin cigarette in his mouth, produced from nothing, somehow lighting it with empty hands.
The smaller man coughed and spat out a tooth that had been dangling since a thundering blow to the face. It was always the same. He was welcomed and almost revered. He was necessary. He was vital. Things always ran so smoothly under his steady lead. He had respect...
But it always changed when the pinstriped man came around. He fell into the shadows, thrown by the wayside. He was forgotten and ignored, the pinstriped man taking dominance. There was no telling how long this episode would last, but soon enough...
The smaller man laughed with a slight rasp.
"You know, if we worked together, we could really have power... As a team, our success would be unrivaled. I think you know that..."
The pinstriped man showed no flicker of hesitation in his face as he laced his fingers together in a fist and brought it down with incredible force onto the smaller man's back, winding him and causing deep red pain.
"If... if we just helped... one another..." the smaller man stumbled through his words, "we wouldn't have to keep doing this... You know... you know how this will end. It's a circular story. You may wound me and drive me away, but you know, soon enough, I will be back to overpower you. You'll be the one battered and broken, sent away to lick your wounds,"
The pinstriped man put one hand in his pocket and held the forefinger and thumb of the other close to the back of the cigarette, taking a long, chemical drag.
"Yeah," he said reticently, eyes half-lidded. "Yeah."
"Then why don't we? It would be so much easier! We could get so much more done and we could break this cycle! We could--"
The smaller man's sentence was cut short as the tip of a polished black shoe, spat encased, was touched to his chin and slowly made him raise his head. The pinstriped man took another long drag and in one fluid movement spun around and caught the smaller man's chin with the heel of his shoe, sending him reeling.
The smaller man groaned and clutched at his jaw, now horribly broken.
The pinstriped man strode over to his victim and stood by his side. He took one last drag from his cigarette, one hand back in his pocket, and dropped it on the floor, rubbing it out with his toes.
"Oil and water, old friend. Oil and water."
Love strode away leaving Common Sense once again, knowing full well they'd meet again.
Prompt:
Names on the sidewalk
Post I:
The yellows, blues, pinks, were all unused and in pristine condition. They laid side by side like columns of rainbow in the grass. Reaching for another stick of red, the little girl, eyes half-closed, scrawled onto the sidewalk as she rested her elbows on her knees. A little ball of innocence, she drew and scribbled and immersed herself in her activity.
"Here, Emma," her mother had said through tears, handing her little girl a few boxes of the colored sticks.
"Go play outside, my love... go have some fun. Before your father gets home..."
She wiped the tears from her eyes, smudging the makeup which covered up the darkness and swelling under them. She sniffed and tried to compose herself as her daughter tottered out into the front yard. As she watched through the window as her little girl chose a square of sidewalk, she sighed and slowly turned a part of herself off. Her husband was late. That wouldn't improve his mood any. She knew what was coming. She knew the man who left in the morning was not the man who would return, smelling of alcohol and rage. She hugged herself, carefully avoiding the areas that were still tender from the night before. As long as Emma was outside and not in the house...
Now her eyes glazed slightly as the car stunted and squealed to an angular halt in front of the house. A man poured himself from the driver's seat and didn't even bother to close the door as he moved with delicate balance up the walkway toward the house. Little girl and grown man made no acknowledgment of the other. She colored, he shuffled. Into the house he carried his anger and liquid reserve.
And then the yelling started.
Emma ran the red down to a nub and tossed it aside. Without even glancing at the other neglected colors, she reached for a new box and opened it, tipping the sticks out by her feet. They tumbled down and rolled away down the sidewalk. She grabbed the red and left the rest to inertia.
A man saw her from across the street as he walked by and noted she was alone. He jogged over.
"Hi, what are you drawing there?" he asked.
Emma didn't answer. She drew. The man squatted down to see that Emma had drawn a house, among other things. Alongside it stood a woman holding hands with a little girl. Under the woman, she had written "mommy"; under the little girl, "emma". They frowned. And off to the side, a man stood almost as large as the house. He looked angry. Under him she had written "Alan". All was in red.
A muffled cry came from the house.
"Um... Emma? Where's your mother?" the man asked, slowly rising. Without looking up, Emma pointed towards the house with her empty hand. It was caked in red chalk.
There was a loud crash as glass broke inside. A woman cried out and begged but was drowned out by the shouting of a male voice. The man pulled out his phone as he ran towards the house.
* * *
Hours later, everyone had left. It was quiet. It was evening and the setting sun drew long shadows from the feet of trees and mailboxes and cars. The paramedics and fire department had washed the blood and vomit from the pavement and now the water was slowly drying. Untouched sticks of colorful chalk lay mournfully in the grass, silently waiting. Waiting to be used by little hands.
A thin river of red had run between pavement and grass, tinting the edges and blades: the water had washed away most of the drawings. All that remained of Emma's presence was the drawing of her and her mother and their names on the sidewalk.
Post II:
When I was a young boy I lived close enough to my elementary school that I'd walk there each morning with my mother and brother. There was a certain stretch of pavement that I'd always be happy to see.
When the cement had first been laid, a dog had decided to go walking through for a reason probably only it knew. The cement had dried with a trail of paw prints leading down the block and eventually they ended after the new cement line.
Every day on the way to school I'd look down at that stretch as we walked and I would follow the dog's trail, placing my little feet in each of its footsteps. As I stepped and stared, I always wished I could speak dog so I could look at its prints and know what it's name was.
Thanks if you read these and thanks even more if you comment. Feedback is essential to me so... Yeah. Please tell me what you liked/disliked, your favorite one, etc. Hope whoever of you reads these enjoys them.