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βεℓℓα のαωη
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Aug 12, 2016 12:53PM
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~Prompt #1~Write the same scene with contradicting tones.
“Ah..!”My mouth stretched in a big yawn, my arms entangled in the sheets reached above me to their limits. My alarm beeped, sunbeams stabbed my face, and down the hall my roommates were banging pans, silverware and cupboards while preparing their breakfasts. “Bleh..” I overturned, the majority of my sheets greeting the floor with one corner wrapped around my shoulders. I buried my face in the pillow, groaning.
“Mm..!” I exhaled sharply and rubbed my face as I sat up, holding the sheets up as I slipped off the bed. My feet landed on the floor and my finger landed on the alarm to silence it. The curtains kept all outside light from disturbing me. Silence everywhere except for my breathing exercises intended to wake myself up properly. I swallowed a small amount of water from a glass on my nightstand. “Ah..”I stand and then I tug the heavy curtains sideways to peek out the window.
~Prompt #2~Write about three things that always make you feel better.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, grasping my knees while I rocked to and fro. My tongue tingled at the memory of caramel ice cream. My lips throbbed at the longing for kisses.
~Prompt #5~Write a conversation with one of your characters. What is their voice like? How well do they know you? What characteristics do they struggle with? Etc. Get to know their unique style of thought, way of talking, experiences.
Me: *throws self onto couch and stretches like a feline* Hey. Xander, entertain me. *mumbles into pillow*
Xander: *disdainfully peers over his giraffe styled coffee mug from the couch opposite mine* Be specific, dovey. Would you prefer witty conversation? A dramatic monologue? Or something physical? Like a pillow fight? Tickles? Or...? *enchantedly wicked smirk*
Me: Gah! *throws pillow at Xander, causes him to spill his coffee on his grey suit coat and bright red sweatpants, even reaching his giraffe slippers* You're horrible!
Xander: *shrieks and lets the mug slip onto the cushion beside him before standing, his mouth agape, taking in the sight of himself* N-no! You're horrible! My....... MY FLUFFY SLIPPERS.
Me: Okay. *blinks absently* You're so dramatic. *clicks fingers and the stains and coffee are gone*
Xander: Excuse you. *glares at me* You're dramatic right now! Coming in here.... gah..... ugh.... *quickly grasps for words in his manly confusion* .... I...
Me: Sorry. I'm too tired to help you write up an argument to throw back at me.
Xander: *glances me over before exhaling and dropping his hands to his sides* Missy. I understand you write for me, but I do want to be heard some time.
Me: Hm-mm.
Xander: *sits back down, muttering as he picks up his giraffe mug, inspecting it - then he looks back at me as he taps his right foot, the ears of the giraffe slipper bouncing* Listen, we've known one another for many years. Eight, I believe? As a friend of such a long time, I can quite honestly believe that I usually know exactly what you need.
Me: *makes eye contact with Xander*
Xander: You need to go to bed.
Me: Don't tell me what to do! *flips off of couch to stand, and grabs a cover off the back of the couch, engulfs upper body in it, and struts out of the room*
Xander: And find a way to let readers know that my name is pronounced ex-ander, not that awful z-ander nonsense!! *gags - smiles - looks at mug and frowns - and smiles again*
~Prompt #7~Make something boring sound interesting.
Where is the remote? Where is it? Ah! There it is, in the glass cabinet.
I am standing behind the couch when I spy the remote lying beyond the glass beside the TV.
There is no time! It is like 5 seconds ago! It has already started!
Releasing a heroic roar I jump onto the couch, climbing and rolling and fighting my way to my feet on the other side. After mighty bounds I clasp my hands on the glass cabinet, groping for the handle desperately.
Where? Where..? Ah!
I fling the door open and grasp the remote in both hands, stumbling quickly backwards to better see the TV screen as I fumble with the buttons.
First on..then..channel..There!
I stare gaping at the screen, the remote slips from my tiny fingers, my eyes wide and all-entranced. The presidential debate had begun.
“Sweety!”
Mommy?
My mom stands in the archway between the living room and kitchen, holding a box of cake mix. I glance to see her there before turning quickly back to the TV as a news man introduced the event.
My mom chuckled to herself and looked across her shoulder to dad at the fridge. “Her first presidential debate.” She said ceremoniously, swinging the box as she stepped up to the island counter.
“Mph,” Dad opens a bottle of juice. “You going to tell her she needs to wait 13 years to vote?” He smiles before gulping down the juice.
Everything inside me feels like giddy fireworks, each spark alive and vibrant within me. All I can do is stare; focused on the event unfolding before my eyes.
~Prompt #4~I can tell so much about you by what you’ve left unsaid.
“Make sure you feed the dogs.”
I look at him and nod. “Okay.” Taking a hot dog from the packaging I watch him. He is only sitting on the couch, staring at space, one hand deforming a magazine in his fist.
“Gimmie..”My little brother whispers cutely, his little hands clutching the air towards the hot dog.
“Sh..” I drop a hand onto his tousled hair as I slip the hot dog onto a plate and into the microwave. My eyes dart over to the couch. He has begun to claw his fingers against the cushion; a passive-aggressive tick. My little brother stares up, his eyes wide, watery and blue, his mouth set in a pout as he waits patiently for the hot dog.
“Keep him busy,” He says, indicating my little brother.
“Yeah, no worries,” I end the microwave timer before it beeps. After setting the plate on the island counter I heft up my little brother to help him onto a stool. Then I turn and lean back against the counter, facing the microwave, examining the reflection of my shirt in it.
“Gotta go,” He stands up hurriedly and flings the crumpled magazine to the rocking chair across the room, heading to the sliding glass door.
I travel around the counter, looking squarely up at him. “Be b-”
He makes a sudden movement that I will not bother processing before I flinch, hating myself when no contact is made. Grumpily, I narrow my eyes at him and his hand that he had raised to grab the keys on the hook beside me.
“Idiot,” He mumbles and yanks the door open. At the speed and force of it I anticipate the slamming, and hardly move an eyelash when the glass door slams shut, bouncing back a bit. I exhale and mutter under the breath, glancing around. First staring at the empty key hook, an iron of fire resolving me. Then ending with the sight of my little brother, ketchup covering his mouth and fingers, not a worry on his face, and my spirit put the iron down for tonight.
~Prompt #9~Write about a cat(s).
Waking with a sharp toothed yawn, the dove grey cat leaned forward into a stretch, its tail curling. Moonlight dipped through the sugar glass windows of the cottage, crowning the shelves of jars and hanging herbs on the far wall of the kitchen. The cat padded softly under the light to the door then pawed the wooden obstacle until there opened a space enough for it to push its muzzle between to open further and slink through, becoming exposed to a night swimming under a hazy moon. The cat slunk through the enchantingly shamrock green grass, thick and humid, and stopped inside the shadow of the dusty red brick wall at the front of the cottage. The cat flicked its tail, its lean muscles bunching beneath the soft pelt, and it leapt onto the wall, scanning the area with an elegantly raised head and intelligent blue eyes.
~Prompt #10 ~Never trust your tongue when your heart is bitter.
The Letter
From: Me
I don’t even know if you care. Not a piece of you shows it. Why? Why am I still here? I’m so trapped and I hate this place and I hate what is inside of me. You put this inside of me. If it wasn’t here, if it didn’t overwhelm every thought I have, if it didn’t affect me so much, then I wouldn’t feel like I don’t belong. Maybe I could belong if what you had done… never happened. Why the heck is it like this? Why did you think it was okay to do this? It’s so hard to move on. Move on? Whatever. You broke me, held me down. I don’t think I ever got back up. You know it’s scary and that it hurts. You know. You know and you keep pinning me. I’m lost. So lost, and I hate so much. I’ll pretend for you, for my sake. No one needs to know what you’ve done. It’s not about retribution or justice. How do you gain retribution against yourself? I’m too broken and useless that no one would willingly deal with me. Even if I try to get up from this. I don’t think I want to. That’s part of what you’ve done to me. I’ll stay down. Nothing is worth it, huh? You’ve done some good in securing me here. I’m so trapped that I don’t need to struggle any longer. I’ll accept it. I will hate myself for it. Bitterness towards the self deals more damage than bitterness directed at anyone else. My heart has only truly been bitter towards me. I’ll indulge it.
To: Me
~Prompt #11~Instead of saying something outright, show the reader through a different way.
~Fern is weird. She talks to herself and doesn't fully grasp the concept of the real world.
“Ooh.” Fern reached out a hand to the window, poking it with a finger. “There’s a girl trapped in the glass. Look! There’s a dog!” Behind her a little black dog sat and waggled its tail gleefully, its reflection in the window. “Come here doggy!” The little dog yipped softly, shifting its weight. Fern’s fingers drifted across the reflection of the dog. “Pretty dog.” A lump formed in her throat and a wave of unsettled heat washed through her stomach. “Poor puppy… You’re trapped in there too.” She started to whine, then pressed her forehead to the window and began to cry. “Poor puppy.”
~Prompt #12~You can tell who someone really is by what they do when they're afraid.
“They’re still down there,” I hiss shakily, grabbing my sister’s arm. Her wide eyes capture mine, she hadn’t even moved, but she was always so jumpy that I felt like anticipating her reactions. “Joey, shh.” My brother huddles in the closet doorway, whimpering. I kneel beside my sister. Her lips are tightly pressed together, teeth trapping them. She has barely moved or spoken, just watching me closely. “Maybe… the roof,” My lungs rapidly deflate before inhaling through my quivering lips. Shouting, they are shouting and throwing objects. “Joey, you need to hide, Layla, you’re hiding too. I’m too big. I’m out of here.” My sister stares at me and I ignore her, standing and taking her with me, gripping her arms. If it hurts she doesn’t show it.
I drag her to the closet, absently pushing Joey inside, and raise the lid of the trunk in there. “In.” I grit my teeth, growling the order. I’m not going to die just because my siblings won’t move fast enough. Layla gathers Joey in her arms and steps into the trunk, picking our brother up, laying down with him curled up on top of her. Joey is crying, he can understand enough, despite his age, enough to cry silently now. “Don’t make a sound.” I shut the lid. The muffled conversation between the couple downstairs serves as a nice reminder that I don’t want to die today.
Adrenaline burns through my blood as I fiddle with the window’s screen and stoop in the window sill. “Thrilling,” I grin at the steep slant of the roof that extended halfway across the house’s front. An RV strewn with bullet holes in the driver’s door sits below me, rather a contended sight with its hood smashed into the garage door of the house. It’s the simple things in life, truly. I grip the sill while slipping my feet down the shingles to the gutter at the edge.
“Layla?” Layla’s heartbeat is really fast. Joey squirms and pushes against her stomach to move, and still only her heartbeat companions him in the dark trunk. “Layla.” Joey accidentally bangs his head on the lid. Layla pulls him close, rubbing his head with one hand and pressing her cheek to his forehead. “D-don’t cry yet.” She whispers, rubbing his little shoulders with her free hand. “I…I-ah...I’ll try to keep us s-safe. I’ll try.” He doesn’t relax, but he does sniffle and grow silent. Layla lifts the lid, squinting at the sliver of dim light, to better hear the couple. She only hears her breath and it is a sudden token of proof she still lived through this nightmare. An unwanted token, unnecessary, a distraction. The heat from Joey’s little body incessantly harked in her mind that she had more than herself to save.
Mod
((Aw, really?? Thank you. :3 If you don't mind me asking... what do you like about it?))
Mod
((Ah, okie dokie. I'm actually turning it into a short story, so I'll edit and clear up that. Thank you so much. :D))
Mod
