I got a voicemail from a Moe, and she had a thick New York accent and was cut with her message. I associate the name Moe mostly to men, and with that, I imagined this Moe from my voicemail as a plump and short woman, who has a huge, curly hair that looked as if it was eating her head slowly. She's about 50-years-old, married with five kids, all living in her apartment in Brooklyn. Anyway, that's Moe, or a semblance of Moe that I pictured in my head. So here's the game, and it may serve as a prompt as well for the players/writers: - Create a character from the given name from the previous post. - Try to characterize through action. Description need not be static. - Only one scene and one location for the said character. You can have multiple characters, but try to focus on the main character - After finishing one scene, create a line break. (example, ****) - Think of a name and type it in. That name is going to be used by the next poster for their character. So here it goes. First entry. Moe slammed the phone to its cradle, letting everyone in the office know she was done with her call. She scratched her hair with a number two pencil, disappearing in the mass of blonde hair that looked like she was feeding it with office supplies. She yawned and stretched her wiry and droopy arms. It was 5 o'clock, and Moe was ready for coffee. She stood up and dragged her feet towards the coffee machine. Her skirt wobbled and twirled as her plump body crossed the aisle. She filled her mug halfway and tilted the coffee urn for the last drop. Once she put two packs of sugar and a drop of milk, Moe headed back to her cubicle without making a fresh batch of joe. **** Alison
He was reaching into the unlikely bulk of leather that was Alison's purse, when he was caught by her brutal gaze, which tore the matter behind his eyes like needlework. She pulled the thief from his hiding place, her long fingers clasped the now-feeble boy's wrist; the perfectly manicured, matte white nails pushing dents into his skin. Her whole body seemed to multiply in size; the air around them grew close; a shadow seemed to form itself under her long face. She took a step forward, the clack of her high-heel shoe piercing the muted world around them. She hunched over the small, quivering shape beneath her, lowering her face downwards steadily until it was almost pressing against the terrified little face; the boy began to decay in size, his body shook spasmodically as his bones began to crack and squeeze together; the force of Alison's hatred twisting the matter from the boy like a brittle sponge. The boy began to shake harder, his screams wavered and weakened. Alison's face grew larger and sunk lower, until the boy was a broken configuration of painful shapes. The tremors weakened until he merely rattled like a leaf in the wind . The boy's face was distorted with mismatch shapes and sizes - features that didn't fit the small head. She dropped the strand of skin and bone which used to be the boy's wrist; straightening her back and relaxing her shoulders, she rose upwards, standing tall with an elegant, impervious posture. The boy now barely reached the hem of her old-fashioned skirt, his body was wrought into what looked like a melted, malnourished garden gnome. She pinched the boy's malformed head with her slender fingers - a nail chipping off a wayward piece of matter that had defied the shrinking - and lifted the boy like a dirty garment, placing him into the purse he once wished to steal from. "Now you are home," she uttered in a shrill whisper. She clicked the lips of her purse together, and sat back down at the long, wooden bench. The world around her bustled with birds' tweets and friendly conversation, as if nothing had ever happened. **** That was a little more gruesome than I originally intended! Gregg
The small boy of no more than five years pedaled his tricycle across the concrete driveway. Humming a happy tune, he occasionally glanced toward the road, his curiosity almost getting the better of him every time. Gregg's mommy always told him to stay away from the road and he always obeyed. The warning never stopped him from imagining that the black pavement was a wide river, just waiting for him to ride down. Only when a car passed the house did Gregg finally realize that the street was truly a dangerous place, but once the car passed, his mind wandered again. An explorer on a riverboat, a race car driver, or just a little boy on a tricycle, Gregg could imagine that the dangerous pavement could make him the most interesting little boy in the world. But not today, today his daddy and mommy were watching him closely. He'll show them one day. One day... **** Vestavia
Her wide eyes seem to take in everything as the old lady tottered down the street. Vestavia was a nervous woman; she had seen too many things not to be. Her permanent slouch hid her beneath the piles of bodies moving this way and that, and she was pushed around like a kid amongst bullies. She looked more fragile than usual; her wrinkles were more like caves in her cheeks, pulling at her bones. She had once been beautiful, a mysterious signorita, but age had got the better of her. She was an introvert, always had been, and she dreaded her weekly supermarket trip. The more decades that had passed, the more people seemed to be able to ignore. No one helped Vestavia as she fell to the ground, her bags of groceries scattering with a series of clangs and bangs across the pavement. It was a pitying sight to see an old lady, sprawled across the pavement. She looked up to a boy in front of her. Hopeful, she held out a quivering hand so he could help her up, but he gave her a dirty look and moved on. Her rubbery skin did not tear but she could feel her bruises welling up. Shakily, she got to her feet, wisps of grey hair blowing around her face. She collected her groceries from beneath the peoples' feet and quickly headed home, before anyone could see the tears form in her eyes. **** Valery
