Saturday, September 28, 2013

What Am I? (PG for gore)

Dark shadow rising.
Frothy foam splits and reveals...The Mouth.
Rows upon rows of teeth.
He looks at me with his large dead eyes, mouth gaping before he brings down a crushing, shattering, ripping, shredding blow across my arm. Crimson blooms, bursts, bubbles, and feeds the frenzy. I'm sinking, flailing and twisting.
A watery scream from a watery grave as the crimson drives him insane with ecstasy.

Saturday, September 21, 2013

Happy Fall!

Gentle keening of tree frogs. Leaves crisp beneath my heavy feet. Rasping bales of straw as they scrunch and sink beneath my heft. The crisp chomp on an apple and the rhythmic ker-chump, ker-chump as it rolls between my teeth in sharp, wet slurps. A tractor puttering and sputtering as it yawns to life. These are the sounds of my autumn.
This was part of a writing exercise: write about autumn sounds.

Saturday, September 14, 2013

(Unedited) Writing Exercise Results 2.0

I lost my mind somewhere on the road back there. We searched high, we searched low. Back and forth, deep down in the dark tunnels of the world, with all its creepy, crawling pieces of flesh-devouring worms. Perhaps my mind was consumed by one of them. "Have you seen my brain?" I asked one of the largest worms, whom I thought might be their king.

It squirmed and it writhed like a leaf on the wind, but it wouldn't answer, so I moved on again. To the next fattest worm I did go. "Have you seen my brain?"

It wended and writhed like a boat caught on the rapids, but it did not answer me.

So I moved onto the third fattest worm, fast losing hope of ever seeing my mind again.

"Please say you've seen my brain!" I wailed.

This worm considered me for some time...before saying, "Wake up."
^ Freewriting for 5-10 minutes

Saturday, September 7, 2013

(Unedited) Writing Exercise Results

The last days of summer found me at the fair. The great thing about this carnival of sights and sounds is that it is the same every year: You always know what to expect. The worst thing about this sweaty, deep-fat-fried, eye-squinting experience is that it is the same every stinkin' year, and there are no surprises. Or are there...?

One slippery, sun-slathered day, at the end of August, I found myself at the fair gates. I approached the ticket stand and asked for two. The woman, in her world-weary voice, hissed at me. She actually hissed.

I paused to stare, thinking I had perhaps imagined things. Again I said, "Two tickets, please."

She wrinkled up her stubby nose and swiped at me with her over-long fingernails, that were slightly curved and each sharpened to a point.

Now it was personal. "Look," I said, "I just want two tickets."

She stared at me with two beady eyes and then I smelled it. Cat breath. "Um, is that tuna you're eating?"

She stretched her arms out to into the sun, then climbed up onto the counter inside of her stand, and curled up into a ball.

By now, the line behind me was growing quite long, and I was a little more than weirded out. "Kitty?" I whispered before I could stop myself.

Like all felines, the cat-of-a-woman ignored me, yawned, and rested her head on her arm.

Then I realized something: She was wearing a collar, and she was not a woman but an actual snow-white Persian with whiskers and a long, poofy tail.

It must have been a trick of the light.
^Write about the end of your summer.