I've seen this on other sites, and I think it's an amazing thread to use, but I haven't found on here. I know a girlie that loves this kind of thread, so I'm taking the initiative to post it. All you have to do is write anything for ten minutes. Doesn't have to have a theme, a meaning, etc. Just write to write, but write for ten minutes. After ten minutes, post it up. You can also critique or give thoughts on the other posts, but if you do, WRITE FOR TEN MINUTES PLEASE! This is for helping everyone. So, let's see how it rolls.
Did you just call me a girlie?! this is a wonderful exercise. I'll have to post one later. Thanks for starting this, Oasis
The alarm was ringing louder now, but I couldn't care. After a few more minutes or so, my annoying little sister would be out of her room to shut it up. I had to concentrate on breathing. I could feel the rasp in my lungs. Would my sister notice me? Would she look over at my motionless body? I tried to lift my hand towards the side of my bed to pull me self up or over, or anything away from this part of my bed. It stung, but I was able to lift my hand. What felt like the muscles of Mr. Universe was me lifting my hand two inches above my bed. I couldn't move the lift, but I could lift. I wasn't dead yet. I looked at the door and started my hand towards the side of my bed when she first walked in.
I thought it sounded like fun, so I gave a shot at it. I just started with some random name and went with it. I haven't written in forever! But here it goes. Angel looked like a normal young lady, with her long brown locks with that widows’ peak, her naturally long eyelashes, her pale skin, that small almost child-like nose and that always-grinning smile. At first site, she was normal, but of course this young lady was far from normal. She would one day change the world though, she didn’t know this. She was barely 16 when her life was changed, for the worse, or so she thought. It was the day her best friend would leave her, the day her happy life would become empty. Unlike normal girls her age, her best friend was a black and white booted cat named Sammie. She had found Sammie when she was barely 5 weeks old behind a garbage canister, they had been inseparable. Angel sobbed as she stroked the motionless body of her best friend. She stroked under her chin, her favorite spot. She gently put her into the hole, just under the tree she got caught in when she was 6 months old. She waved goodbye as the compacted the dirt atop the cat. Walking home, she could feel the overwhelming sadness leaving her. She lay down on the front lawn, letting the sun warm her. That last of tears fell, as she took notice of her neighbor coming home. In his hand was a rope. “Hey Mister Johnson!” she said waving, and getting up. “Hello Angel.” He said politely, attempting to get out of the conversation.
I entered the room in a daze. Where? I dont know. Everything was confusing. How did I get here? An empty space on the planet. A void; green, bleak, alone. Why? What did I do? Howd I get here? Answers that Id never find, nor pay attention to at any time. What pulled my attention, was the paintingon the wall. It was abstract and misplaced in this abyss. As I neared the painting, I realized the photos true colors. Red, cherry, chromatic, crimson, ruby, scarlet, violent. Violent? A color? How so? I wasnt sure, but I was sure it was there. Was it bleeding? I dont know exactly. I scarcely was able to make out the picture, let alone the colors that werent red. Was it possible? A full painting, spliced with a plethora of colors, and yet only one color was visible. Another topic at hand, yet, not the one we are discussing. As a slowly reach toward the canvas, colors started so spiral, even though it was only one color. Anxiously slowing my timid pace towards the painting, the colors molded. Within inches of my face, red colorings of my life drew in the sand. The hourglass was half-fullhalf-empty, and yet still forcing another grain down to the lower level. Understandable? Not likely. Was there a message I was suppose to interpret from this reverie? You would only think so. As if things werent confusing enough, a bluish aura appeared in the midst of the blood. A heart? First thoughts: not possible, but I was mistaken. The heart molded within the red, pulsating slowly, spurs of green and black sputtering from the exit wounds. A human body? Never. Just a trance I was in, or so I thought. What was this call? The painting was abstract and worthless now, dripping colors onto the wooden floor below. When did it become wooden? Space the thought. The painting continues to mold, into nothing but a pulsating radiant picture of disgust. Radiant and disgust? Interesting combination, but Ill let it pass. What is this photo? Its not even describable. Well, now it was. A blue heart turned rose? What does the dream mean to you? As I walked out of the room, the painting changed once again, but not to anything as morbid as the above, but to something...abstract, once again. The painting is what controls - Your finished abstract thoughts.
3:03 A glance, sideways, from under the brim of your black fedora. My eyes flash coquettishly and yours return the favor, sparkling as you hum a few bars of "Kiss the Girl". I'm sitting across the way. She broke up with you. I have to take responsibility for that. This isn't about responsibility... this is about laughter. You sit beside me, so close there was a time I would have been disconcerted. Now it is expected, welcomed, a kind of intimacy born of trust. Yet I don't trust you. You smile and joke and say in that semi-suggestive voice that you aren't sure you can control yourself around me. Your lips are kidding; your eyes look at me differently. Appraising. Tasting. Meeting my flirtatious looks glance for glance. I laugh easily and look up at you, my eyes shaded by the black hat you placed gently at an angle in my hair. I am shielded, and yet exposed to you, every sordid little detail of my sad story floating through your mind, the piece of you that I wear walking through this prison's hallways a mark of your accomplishments with me. 3:13 Odd... I usually write a lot more than that... Bick, glad this got you writing again, even if only for a few minutes Oasis, I really like that last one of yours - not the opening so much, but once you got into it. It's very you.
"Excuse me. Excuse me, madam." Oh, wow, this really was an awkward situation, thought Zacharias Mahogany. How were you supposed to break this sort of news to someone? Especially a total stranger? "Madam?" He reached out and tapped the shoulder of the lady in front of him. They were awfully close- the subway was crowded this time of day. The lady turned. Her face was gray, and she seemed unamused. Zacharias scratched his curly black hair and chuckled nervously. "I...I just couldn't help noticing that...well, I'm not sure how to say this, but..." The woman grunted impatiently. "...well, ma'am...you're a zombie." The woman- who was, indeed, a zombie- let out a long, low, groan and lurched, teeth showing, for Zacharias' face. The young man stepped out of the way quickly, being careful to keep his balance on the quickly moving subway. "So, anyway, the thing is...I'm going to have to kill you now," he went on. And he pulled out his sword and, with a quick act of decapitation, did so. Zacharias used the leather cushion of a subway seat to wipe off the viscous, almost crusty dried zombie blood. Then he sat down and looked around at his handiwork. The entire subway was filled with dead bodies, all fallen on the ground and with various body parts cut off- Zacharias' handiwork. Blood oozed around them; the amounts and thickness of the liquid was determined by how long the zombies had been dead. It was a dirty job, Zacharias knew, but someone had to do it. And seeing as he was the last living and sentient man for miles around, that someone was kind of him by default. -- "That's a really, really crappy screenplay," Joe said, grabbing a beer from the fridge. "Isn't that illegal?" Ross asked, pointing at the can. "Don't change the subject," his roommate said, popping the can open and taking a swig. "I can't let you write this, buddy. It's humiliating." "It's the story I've always wanted to tell!" Ross protested. "An allegory for the loneliness of the modern man- with butt-kicking action!" "And mind-kicking plot holes," Joe said, obviously not caring if his segway made sense. "Who's driving the subway car? Why hasn't it crashed? Who's even generating the electricity for that thing? How come Zach isn't a zombie, or just dead? Also, is he insane, or what? And-" "Stop!" Ross yelled, putting his hands around his ears. My ten minutes just ran out. That was fun!
Study was hard. Tina felt like her brain had turned to mush. She had read the same paragraph three times and not one word had sunk in. Her attention was caught by a movement on the chair nearest the fire. Her large marmalade cat had stretched his front legs forward, eyes closed and purr loud in his throat. He got to his feet and turned around, settling again so that he could start the toasting process on his furry back. Tina smiled wryly. There was an animal that had it right. Total dedication to comfort and self. No worries. Hah. No study. The young woman closed her eyes and imagined what it was like to be a cat. Lithe, furry, muscled killer of small birds and balls of wool. Her body relaxed as she felt furred limbs coil into her body, long tail wrapped forward over her nose. Tina sank deeper into her thoughts, feeling the warmth of the fire, twitching whiskers. Reluctantly she opened her eyes only to freeze in astonishment. With wondering eyes she looked at the body of the woman lying on the sofa across the room. Looking down she saw the orange striped fur. ... wanted to write more but had to cut it short when I realised my ten minutes were rapidly disappearing. Hope it read okay.
I got that same tingling feeling in my legs again, every muscle seemed to be tensing and relaxing tens times faster then I could ever consciously make them. I wanted to drop my bag throw off my coat and start running. I wanted to leave behind whatever it was that was with me and just go, bolt off into the darkness and keep going. Toes stretching inside my shoes I loosened my neck as if I was about to do it. I didn't. I never do. I probably never will. I still don't know why I get the feeling. Fear? Boredom? Lack of exercise? Whatever it is it's started happening more often. That sudden burst of energy up and down the backs of my legs and all the way to the tip of my toes. I feel suddenly alive, so full of energy that I could take on the world and nothing could stop. A real life nondescript juggernaut tearing through time and space as fast as my scrawny legs can carry me. Probably faster than they normally could. When I get the feeling it feels like I could work miracles, as if this was only the start of something. One small step, one giant leap. That kind of thing, this miracle power brewing in my own legs. I convinced myself today that one day I would do it. One day soon. The next time it happened. It was just after I had managed to keep my cool and stop from doing it this time that I convinced myself I would do it the next time. No matter where I was or what I was doing. I would just take off and do it. Let my legs take me for however long and in whatever direction. I won't though. I just know I won't, it's exactly the same thing I told myself last time and the time before. I've started to think about it more and more. Why I feel like that, what will happen if I do it. I have dreams, well, not real dreams, not real asleep dreams. More the sort of dream you have when your mind drifts from having to concentrate on cleaning a window or cutting toast. I see myself stood in a group of conversation, somebody is mid-sentence, they're talking to me and I couldn't care but there I am nodding politely, laughing where appropriate. Suddenly just before they get to the big finale, the punchline, the one line that they've been building up to. The dead aunt, the cancer scare, the new lover, just before they get to it I'm gone. My coat and shirt are thrown behind me as I just burst off like some chase. Breaking through doors and racing down corridors outside into the glorious sunshine or the soaking rain. It changes from day to day but it's always the sort of weather you remember. And there I am running at full pace and not even breathing heavy and I keep going. People in the street are all looking at me, anybody running that fast down a busy street and leaving things behind is obviously running from someone they think. --- My first post and my first piece. I was just looking through all the forums when I saw this. This was really what I was looking for, anything to get me started. To be honest I don't know what this was about or what I think about it now. I just sort of wrote until time was up. I certainly enjoyed it though
AWR and Jo Jo, you both did very well I'm impressed. AWR, it did read okay, actually. I thought it was pretty insightful, and it was very nice Jo Jo. Keep writing. Brady was running in a circle again. It was sort of funny this time, because he collided with Emma. Those two are too funny sometimes. It makes me wonder what runs through their minds sometimes. How often Brady argues to play the Playstation and how Emma loves Dora so much. How they love to sneak around and get stuff, and yet how did they learn that? They're so innocent, and yet, both of them have their ploys and both of them have a sinister side. Every now and again, I imagine them as a team of evildoers. Brady, the commanding officer, the leader, Joker to Emma's henchman. It would be funny to see what they could do together like that. It reminds me of the times I was with Cody, terrorizing mom. Being little and whispering to Cody to climb in the pans cabinet and bang on all of the fun pots and pans while I run into the living room to climb on top of the television stand and scream. Mom would get in-between the kitchen and living room and look back and forth between us. Cody would instantly be scared because he couldn't get out and start clinging to the walls, hitting every pan while I was afraid of heights and would be throwing things from the stand, also freaking out. We gave my mom her first gray hairs at the age of 22. It was hard to do that for her too, because now she is so much more calm. Well, sort of, but I digress. Brady just ran into Emma again. I suppose I should stand and help Emma up, before she cries. Or, better yet, I should have Tryna or Chelsie teach her how to be a proper young baby girl because she just punched Brady in the nose. I guess I need to go help him up. Until next time.
He stared into the deep, dark creases in his face through the reflection in the cracked mirror. Ash fell from the sky and flame ate the air behind him. The house was nearly burnt to the ground, but he knew that the authorities wouldn’t find it until morning. He picked up his feet, shuffling his injured leg heavily through the grass. He held the mirror in one hand; its jagged edges reflected the blaze’s fury behind him. He had done it, and the house had deserved it. He had been driven by the cottage’s vengeful acts. He knew that this was the only way, the only solution to end the disgusting curse upon the home and its inhabitants. He slumped to the ground. Nearby, the stream sang quietly as its murky waters rushed to the lake. He dipped his finger in the water, a cool sensation tingled his blood-covered hand. Suddenly, there was a disturbance. He looked down into the water, into its dark depths and thought he saw something. Leaning over, inching from the water’s surface, a woman’s face lay slain in along the river’s bottom. She lay in bliss, eyes closed, with her arms crossed over her pale night gown. He knew who she was. It was his daughter, the same little girl who had been cursed by the witch years ago. The witch gave her life, saved her from her certain death, but in return, misery and loneliness was cast all those around her. Her mother and her siblings were killed from a malicious, fatal disease, sworn to bring months of suffering. To kill the curse, he had burned down his home with his daughter inside, but somehow, she lay unharmed in the river. Suddenly her eyes shot open. They glowed as she glared at the man. He was terrified, but he didn’t move. In some sort of shock, he knelt before the terrifying stare of his dead daughter. She extended her arms toward the water’s surface. Her fingertips broke into the cool night air, reaching out for the man, and grabbing his face. As soon as her fingers connected to his facial flesh, it burned, turning skin to a charred black, and peeling layers away, revealing bone. In agony, the man screamed, his face melting away at the burning wrath of his daughter. In one last glance, the man looked back into the face of his daughter, only to find the hideous features of a deceitful witch glaring back at him. ________ I think i have myself a new short story idea
"This is the best idea I've ever had," Kyle muttered to himself. He had decided that his bedroom door simply had to go, and so had ripped it right from its hinges and brought it outside. At the moment, he was just finishing up strapping a pair of rockets to its underside. "This is the worst idea you've ever had," his friend Michael corrected. His words were serious, but the look on his face showed that he was quite amused with this latest stunt. "I bet no one's ever done this before. Door sailing..." Kyle blinked and looked up at Michael. "...We'll come up with a better name later." "Ten bucks says that thing explodes when you start it." "You're on." He tested the straps, making sure they were secure in the grooves he had cut into the door, and smiled. "We are go for launch." He picked up a conspicuously long metal pole and hopped on. Michael pulled out his cell phone and started recording. "This is so going on Youtube. Let all of the world laugh at your complete disregard for the laws of physics." Kyle thrust the pole into a notch in his homemade engine and twisted. The engine roared to life with a spew of fire that blackened the stone beneath it. A few more twists of the pole; the engine revved each time, screaming its eagerness to fly. Awww... Out of time. I thought I wrote faster than that...
Why should you let a little thing like "time limits" limit you? C'mon man push the boundaries. Be a rebel. You can't let something as potentially funny as this lay down and die without a chance at life!
you definitely can keep going if you want, FMK. It's not a competition or anything. The reason the 'ten minute' appellation is there is to try and get people to write for at least ten minutes. I use it a lot just to make myself write something. If I don't have any particular direction, or if writing for ten minutes straight is pushing it, I'll stop at 10 min and post it. If I feel like I can keep going and have more to write, I'll keep going. I've had whole stories start in this thread. So like CDRW said, don't let the time limit limit you! I'll do one of these eventually... gah... too much to do.
I found out his location by asking around. He was hiding in an abondoned werwolf hysteria shelter, nestled in the middle of the woods. It looked just like a witch's cottage. and it kind of smelled like old lady. But among the scent of moth balls was that of my eldest brother. He was definetely inside of that cottage. It was autumn and the leaves started to break off of the trees, dancing in the air before falling gracefully to the ground. The October atmosphere only made the abandoned house seem more eerie. Without remorse, I knocked on the door. I did not get an answer. As I tried to twist the handle, the door refused to budge. I tried to force the door open by slamming my shoulder into it, but it wouldn't let up. "Open the door!" I shouted, only getting a response from the howling wind. "I know you're in there!" I banged my fists on the rotting door and screamed his name. As I shrieked like a banshee, I began to scream my thoughts. "Wake up!" I screamed. "WAKE UP!" He still did not hear my cries for an answer, my screams for a savior and my longing for his acceptance. My oldest brother, since we were pups, did not think that I was worth his time- at least that was the impression he gave off. I wanted to be good enough in his eyes, and I wanted to make him proud. Finally, the door opened. He was standing there, his eyebrows creased and his eyes burning in a deep hatred for me. "You're here! I thought you wouldn't answer!" I shouted as I wrapped my arms around his middle. He grasped the excess skin on my shoulder and I yowled in pain. He threw me to the ground, off of his doorstep, and walked forward. I knew that I was not welcome here, but I don't know why I didn't run. I guess it was because I knew that this was my only chance of proving that I was going to be good enough in his dark eyes. "You had your chance to run," He said. "Now prepare to meet your demise." As he screamed, his bones began to take a new form. He writhed and twisted on the ground as his fur and snout emerged. When his human scream turned into a howl, that's when I ran.
For the purpose of the exercise,that's not such a great idea. The exercise is intended to open your creative flow, and generate unedited output. It is most effective if you sit down to it cold, without a planned goal in place other than to open all the spigots of your mind for ten minutes. If this results in an idea you are inspired to develop further, so much the better. However, trying to keep the floodgates open for longer periods is likely to result in just the opposite; fatigue will quickly set in, and you'll develop a resistance to the technique.
'Yugoslavia seems a wonderful place to visit!', she declared, flicking merrily through the glossy pages in her travel guide. Sherry had never been abroad, but her new boyfriend worked for the Yugoslavian embassy in London. She thought of herself rebellious to be dating a communist. Her parents at first said she couldn't go. They had been to some extent persuaded by their neighbours who had holidayed there the previous year that it was safe. That it was separated from the USSR, and that it was quite a relaxed communist regime - 'you can even buy coca cola and see an american movie!'. She was going to the Croatian coast line, which looked heavenly, and then onto Bosnia which had a mix of different cultures and religions. Finally she would go to the heart of Yugoslavia, Belgrade.
"Yes, Corporal, I know we will die," Sergeant Tanner replied, "But I'll be damned if we're gonna die on our knees!" "You're insane!" Corporal Kendall shouted, his face contorted with rage. "We don't need to throw our lives away like this. We can hide out here and wait for extraction. It'll only be-" "THERE ISN'T GONNA BE ANY GODDAM EXTRACTION SOLDIER! HELL, IN A FEW DAYS THERE ISN'T EVEN GONNA BE A F*CKIN PLANET LEFT TO EXTRACT US FROM!" Tanner ran the three remaining fingers on his left hand through his blood-soaked hair and let out a sigh, "You saw what those things did to Bravo Company when they tried to surrender. Do you honestly want to take that lying down?" Kendall looked down at his boots without reply. "I didn't think so," Tanner said. Then, turning to what was left of his squad, the old veteran raised his voice and with a maniacal grin on his face said, "ALL RIGHT, MEN! CHARGE PLASMA RIFLES TO FULL POWER! WE'RE GOIN OUT WITH A BANG!"
I really don't understand why he'd tell her that... I'm baffled. It was only yesterday he was complaining because she was going out every weekend and he was having trouble trusting her. Then he had the nerve to accuss of Darna of "putting it about". I mean, damn, the guys supposed to be my best friend but he insults Darna like that? He knows how close me and her have been in the past, knows we both agreed it was a big mistake to take it further than friendship but we're still friends now. Jesus, we're almost brother and sister. He watched me start a fight over her just because she was upset at some comment a jerk in the pub had made about her. A**ehole. Its stupid, really. He thinks he can what he wants about anybody he wants. Does that mean he calls me behind my back. I better not ever find out he talks about me behind my back, else I'll pack my stuff up and leave his damn company. We'll see how well he gets along with "that mate of mine that does all the computer-y stuff". See how long it takes before he rings and asks how you turn the damn thing on. Man, I'm pi**ed off now. I mean, who the hell phones his semi-friend/flailing business partner in the middle of the night because he's had an argument with his girlfriend? Granted, it was me who told him about Tony, but I assured him nothing happened, as did Samantha (not to mention Gina), and that should've been enough. Controlling. That's the word that springs to mind. He doesn't want to go out every weekend and get sloshed, but he doesn't want her to either. He doesn't want her going anywhere he's not going. Pathetic. If Charlotte finds out he rung me I'm dead anyway. If she finds out Tony has been calling and sending text messages to Samantha, I'm dead. "We were friends at school" she told me. Liar. Now look at all the s**t she's caused. All over some guy who wasn't good looking in school but is now Britain's equivalent to Brad Pitt or however the hell is "hot" these days. I could do with a drink. I real one. Can't believe all this had gone on, and I'm the bloody piggy in the middle. If Charlotte leaves because of this, I'm going to shoot all of 'em. Well.... not really, because I don't own a gun. But I wish I did. Stupid really. Another lesson learnt the God damn hard way. Won't ever do it again, that's for sure. Stupid idiot. I bet he's all smiles tomorrow, too. Might just write my notice. Right now. Give it to him tomorrow. Yeah... right. Like that's gonna happen. Three days work he's taken off me. I can barely live on the two that are left, but I guess its better than nothing. The sooner I find another job, the better.
^^ Just read that over. Sorry guys Didn't mean to rant on ya'll. EDIT: But this ten minute exercise is great for venting when someone's annoyed you! Try it out!
Blazed Sattles The blazing emerald sun shone brightly above the city of Fallen Chicago, casting shadows that fell behind the mounted bikers. Sweeping dangerously fast across the desolate streets, the cavalcade of bikers left trails of dust behind them. The leader’s distorted voice crackled through the com system. “Breaker one, you their?” Dom raised his hand to his ear, activating the com link. His voice also sounded distorted over the radio, but that was to blame on their location. They had been riding on a ground city; a propelled disc city from above would get much better reception, sometimes even picking up baseball games. “Yes, Dust doctor, I’m right behind you,” said Dom, answering the inevitable question of ‘where are you.’ Dom accelerated on the bike, the wind whipping at his face coldly. His goggles enabled him to peer upon the deserted streets, while his face mask protected him from the stinging wind. Behind Dom trailed three probes, which he had been trying to shake off. They followed despite every quick turn and every dangerous leap. Dom looked behind them, faring a good look at their bug like bodies. He shivered; bugger’s were a menace to the bikers. Worse, they never stopped. Dom turned back to the road, trying to spot a turn. A head of him were over several overturned cars and barrels which he precisely maneuvered past. His precision was to be remarkable. “Where’s Ash,” asked Dust doctor, who was not that far ahead of him. Dom, passing an old red truck, chanced a quick glance around him. Ash was no where to be seen. “Can’t find her,” he replied while heaving the bike over an overturned barrel. It vaulted over the fallen object, the back wheel nearly kissing the rusted barrel, making for a close call. On foot, buggers would catch Dom in a matter of seconds.
"DERRICK!" Sear screamed at the top of her lungs, after having ran into a wall that was not there five seconds ago. Spinning around, she looked back the way she came. I could go back and get help. Something might find me alone here--if it already hasn't. Bracing for a run through the cryptic tunnels of the stronghold, a trap door gave way and Sear plummeted into the dark maw of the unknown, issuing forth another bellow of terror. A sticky substance became tangled in her hair and limbs, decreasing the speed of her fall. Hyperventilating, trying to get a hold of her fright and bring it under the mask of calmness, her eyes darted around the room. Her feet finally touched the ground in a graceful manner. This place is light. Good. Before her was a spacious room, though entirely empty. The walls were a grunge style, splattered with different tones of colors and shades. Three doors were on the opposite end, and she quickly headed for the second, but her hand paused on the oaken surface. What if this is just another trap? What is something wants me to choose one of these doors, but only one is correct? She gazed around, looking for another hallway to exit through, but found none. Perfect. Starve or move forward. I quit this job. A soft sound made her jump. Listening closely, holding her own breath and trying to relax the pulse that throbbed beneath her skin, it continued. Is someone crying? Her heart beat faster thinking someone might be able to help her get out of this place. They both could escape this nightmare, and it will all be over with! No more artifact, just rest and relaxation in her own home. But which door was it coming from?
That was harder than I thought, Here is my mess, couldn't get a decent end before the timer went off. Jimmy looked at the bridge with worried eyes and unsure of what might lie under that pile of wood and moss. For he was sure his brother was right, there had to be something there just above the stream in the dark where things hide that don’t like sunlight. But what? he thought to himself as he took a tentative step forward to what he thought might be his doom. He crouched down and tried to peer into the gloom, not an easy thing to do in the bright sunlight of a August morning. The sun was hot but the covered bridge looked cold or made him feel cold and he wondered why they covered the old stupid things anyway. He was tempted to go around but it was such a far walk and he didn’t want to waste good fishing time finding the highway overpass. Thought of jumping across the brook on the taller mossy stones but if his new sneakers were even damp his mother would have his hide. Fearing the worst he braved forward quickly, hoping to walk across the old planks at that pace for two reasons. The first was he didn’t want to get caught for the bridge was banned and had tape on it proclaiming caution. Of course second was that if anything was truly under the bridge like he was told he wanted to keep a good pace for him to run as quick as possible out of dangers reach. His first footfall hit the plank in a hollow plunk and by the second footfall he was running all out for behind him some terrible thing roared and his blood fell into his shoes. He dared not look back and had to be careful not to land a foot in a hole of a missing board. The bright sunlight from overhead slipped in from missing planks, playing games with his eyesight and perspective. On hindsight it was funny how this evolved, one thought after another. I started with a boy with a bridge, that was all, then I made him afraid of it. Then I needed to know why, so his brother told him. I needed a reason for him to cross, so I thought that he was going fishing and needed to get to the other side. I needed to show he was reluctant, so I brought up him trying to think of ways around and I made the bridge covered and the sunlight bright to add to the darkness. Then I got this great Idea and started it, having him start running accross and the reader is thinking its his brother behind him but I am so clever with this awesome finishing line... and beep beep beep. Hehe what fun. I was typing faster and faster but it bet me too it.
My first post on these forums! I walked through the woods, through the rambling brambles and the finicky thorns that loved to stick to my sleeves and calves. Once a deer stopped and gazed at me with large, soulful eyes. It was spring and she had no baby with her. Perhaps it died in the frost we had last week; maybe she was old and could not bear anymore. Her eyes looked entreating, but I didn’t know whether I should stay or move away. After awhile, she put down her head and lightly darted into the green, fragrant gloom of the trees. My father had just come home from a trip that day, which is why I went walking. He didn’t really have to tell me it went badly. I heard him sigh as he sank into his chair, the crack of a beer can opening, the buzz of the television as he put it on. My father left little to the imagination. When he did do well, sell several thousand of whatever he was selling that week, he would bound through the door, lift me up and drape me over his shoulder as I screamed in delighted protest. He then managed to kiss my mother and gather her, the cat and Frankie, who is six feet tall, in his embrace. Not today. Frankie didn’t even come out of his room when my father came home. I could smell the marijuana wafting out of his bedroom window as I watered the plants below. I popped my head into the house, called a greeting to my dad as he resigned to his depressed mood, dropped the watering can on the porch and hurried off into the woods. I knew Dad would yell at Frankie as soon as he smelled the pot. Frankie had only been living with us for a year and was already seventeen years old, but Dad felt so violently protective of him, that any mishap became an epic battle. They would stand about three feet apart, shoulders squared. Both were big and broad, except my dad had a gut. And my father, his round Irish face becoming redder and redder, would thunder at Frankie. And Frankie, who was blacker than anyone our pretty little suburb had every seen, would stand take it, his face stormy, but silent. Sometimes large tears would slide cautiously down his cheek. My father’s voice would get hoarse and he would wheeze from the exertion of screaming. As he paused and caught his breath, Frankie would say in his sweet, musical voice. “I’m sorry, George. I’m sorry.” And my father would forgive him and that was that. But Frankie kept doing something wrong, again and again. Mostly because he didn’t know how to stop. Mostly because he was hurting so bad and he was too afraid to ask us for help. And the row would begin again and I certainly wasn’t sticking around.
