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writing prompts

Writing Prompt October 2008

This is part of the Writing Prompts series. Here’s how it works: Once a month, I post two words. Anyone who wishes may write what those two words inspire- poetry, prose, short story, song. Then, anyone who wishes may comment on those posts, offering encouragement and suggestions for improvement. After a couple weeks, open discussion on what other images those two words may inspire, in those mediums or even for a picture or skit. Hopefully, those who posted and recieved comments will improve their original work.

This month’s words are: roof and house

Discussion

3 comments for “Writing Prompt October 2008”

  1. Ooooh! I remember this from Gateway. Glad you’ve brought it over to here. Just a question, for clarification: Do we just write our pieces as comments on here?

    Posted by Effectual Immortality | October 1, 2008, 3:34 pm
  2. Yes, as a comment on the topic for the appropriate prompt.

    Posted by Miyumi | October 2, 2008, 9:10 pm
  3. The woods were dark, the rain was heavy, and overall, the night held to it a dismal outcome. The breath of the young man running betwixt trees of varying sizes, trying to take a path wild and unpredictable whilst still heading in one general direction, was lost to the rain and the wind; what visible breath may have been shown in this cold was quickly dispersed by the falling raindrops.

    The ground, squelching under foot, made the lad slip and nearly tumble on many an occasion, the grip of training shoes not meant for such terrain. It was all he could do at times, to grasp onto a low branch, or wrap arms around a tree trunk, just to keep himself upright. At times, however, the boy was forced to roll as he fell, in order to keep himself moving, being unable to gasp anything for assistance. His eyes were full of panic and fear, held open by the shock of such events, as much as to let the maximum amount of light enter his vision.

    Cold coursed his veins, yet he knew that he had to continue on. Wet to the bone, he felt naked in his tracksuit that now clung to his thin body like a leech. Hair also stuck to his neck and face, often blurring his vision as large pools of water that had collected in his hair finally fell; often falling into his eyes with a stinging jolt of pain from the salt in the water mixed with the remnants of hair wax from that morning.

    He dare not look behind him, for fear of what would be seen, fear that the pursuers were closing in. Of course, there was the possibility that they had given up the chase, but he would not take that risk. He ran ever forwards, the trees like a blur in his vision as he ran with all his might, sprinting in desperation. He also failed, in his adrenaline fuelled, fear-stricken high, to feel the branches and brambles that whipped and tore at his flesh as he ran. The white of the tracksuit was now carrying a definite claret hue below the dirt and grime of the woods.

    Then, suddenly, the ground gave way, the step prior had been on ground as solid as the rest of the forest, then next sent the boy’s foot pressing against nothing but air. And so he tumbled down a sheer hill, his body rolling up as he did so, yelps were given as stones, branches and who knows what else dug into his body. The yelps, he knew, would attract any pursuer, and he was aware that he had to do something about them.

    Perhaps in a move that would also prevent any further injury, the lad pushed his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth, to enforce silence, but it would also ensure that his tongue would not be bitten off by his own teeth. Onwards he tumbled, and he wondered just how high this fall really was; he could not remember this part of the woods, and he had explored them since he was a child. Perhaps, just maybe, he had made some error in his reckoning, and had come to some secluded area into which he had never before ventured.

    Finally, with a hard thud, and the feel of a broken rib, the boy lands at the bottom of the large hill. Upon his back, he opens eyes that closed half way down, only to be looking towards the top of the hill. Standing there triumphantly, was the pursuer. The tongue of the boy, who was now locked in a petrified state of complete trepidation, would not move, yet a silent scream passed through his mind.

    Eyes opened, and the boy was sat bolt upright, his breath laboured and far too quick. The softness beneath him, and the warmth surrounding him felt strange somehow, wrong, as though they shouldn’t be. Taking a moment, he realised that he was in the house he had grown up in, sat in the bed he had fallen asleep in.

    Laying back down slowly, it took a moment for his breath to return. When it did, a huge sigh of relief filled the bedroom, and he pulled the quilt back around his body.

    It had only been a dream. Nay, a nightmare. The important thing, however, was that it wasn’t real.

    Posted by Effectual Immortality | October 15, 2008, 11:48 pm

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