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Old 01-11-2013, 05:36 PM View Post #21 (Link) Sound
harrypotterfreak (Offline)
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The rumbling sound grew louder and louder. Eventually it grew so loud that Sabrina thought she would give up and move at the last second. The shrill, piercing sound of the whistle tore through the air. There now it came and there was a loud screeching of brakes as the driver saw Sabrina and tried to stop. She began to count down the seconds three two... There was a horrific crash as the train hit Sabrina. One she thought as she lay broken on the tracks.

My word will be needle.
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Old 01-12-2013, 06:32 PM View Post #22 (Link)
Dabs (Offline)
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Medically inaccurate, but I enjoyed writing it.


Little Jack came inside with a torn shirt and mud caked on his face and torso. His eyes watered, but he didn’t frown; he wasn’t that kind of boy. Edna took him into the kitchen and dabbed him with a wet cloth. At least he wasn’t bleeding.

“Take off those clothes,” she said, guiding him to his bedroom.

“Yes, Grandma.”

Edna started a hot shower and retrieved a towel and washcloth from the linen closet. Jack stood buck-naked when she returned. “Now, are there anyone’s parents I have to call?”

“No,” Jack said.

Of course there were, but Jack wouldn’t say. The kids don’t like tattle-tales.

While Jack showered Edna called the school and alerted them to the situation. The principal promised to keep an eye out on Jack’s class, who Jack was spending time with, so on.

She took Jack’s things downstairs and put them through the wash. Later that night she collected her sewing kit and worked on Jack’s shirt. No need to throw it away when she could fix it up good as new. Her daughter-in-law, Jack’s mother, would have bought a new one by now, but Jack was living with Grandma Edna now, and he’d learn to make use of the things around him. He wouldn’t be spoiled. He wouldn’t grow up thinking you could buy your way out of a problem.

She picked a red thread to match the shirt. It took five minutes to thread the needle. Her hands weren’t as steady as they used to be, and her arthritis forced her to hold the needle at an odd angle. Her hand trembled as the thread poked through the eye, and she dropped the needle. It hit the floor and bounced away from her. God damn it. She hated profanity, but… her damn arthritis, and that damn needle. And now she’d no doubt throw out her back trying to pick it up.

She bent over, holding her back. Pain throbbed up her spine, but she clawed at the needle anyway. She finally caught it between her nails, but it pricked her as it transferred it to her palm. Gasping, she dropped it again, stumbled, and fell forward, her back giving out. Hollering she smacked her head on the floor; her knees buckled, and she crashed.

“Jack! Jack come up here! Please!” Her breathing quickened. Why wasn’t Jack here yet? He ought to be halfway up the stairs by now. “Jack! Jack come help Grandma! Please!” She flipped over, cracking her brittle bones. A sharp pain shot up her left arm. Must be broken. Her chest tightened.

Footsteps. Finally. “Jack, are you there?”

“Grandma?” Jack peeked into her bedroom, his eyes wide.

“Come in and help me, Jack. I can’t get up by—” The pain in her chest cut her off. It’s like an anvil on me. “Call the… Call the…”

Jack stood over her, shaking.

“Heart… Heart. Jack, my heart…”

My word is beer-bottle.

I'd also like to stick some advice with this post. After re-reading the first post, I can say that not many people seem to understand the purpose of this exercise.

Any writer can kill someone. It's actually quite easy. What's difficult is killing someone who isn't just anyone. What's difficult is killing someone with a personality and motivations that you can see (and are not told), and that require more than a few sentences describing how a person with a name is dying.

It's unlikely that, when writing a short story, novel, etc., your characters will be as flat as the ones I've seen in this exercise. So really, not many of you are preparing yourself for the point when you have to kill a character that you care about. I'm not saying that you need to create a character as deep as one you'd use in an actual story, but you might gain more from this exercise if you, ya know, try giving them an actual personality. And I don't mean TELLING us their personality, goals, and what's happened to them. I mean showing.

That means doing a little extra work to create someone that you can feel some compassion for, and then killing them.
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Old 01-12-2013, 09:21 PM View Post #23 (Link)
Infinity_Man (Offline)
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Glen's mind tripped back to his Drawer of Bad Things--that's what he said it was called when he had to teaech the grandkids not to open it. Anything he wanted to forget about, he put in the drawer. Of course, it never worked that way. It only reminded him more.

The bar slowly filled around him. He wrapped his knuckles on his table quietly, glancing at the other patrons. If he had wandered in here by accident it would have taken him five seconds to know this wasn't his kind of place. If he hadn't come here early he doubted he'd have made it in without some bearded biker bastard strongarming him.

In the drawer... a pistol, from the war days. The number of men that pistol had ended made it the most obvious choice. But that was the point. Too obvious.

A biker came in and sat down right at the bar. His bicep was the size of Glen's head. He had more hair on his chin than Glen did his whole body. Some of the other guys and dolls recognized him; obviously he was a regular. That was good. That meant people would help him.

Beside the pistol in the drawer, medication. It was old. Didn't have to take it anymore. Cured depression, so they said. Considered taking one pill, might have helped. Considered taking the whole bottle, probably would have helped more. But again, too obvious.

Glen clutched his half-empty bottle of beer. He had to do it now, before the buzz of courage wore off. He rose to his feet.

Beside the pills, the note from the doctor. Cancer. Expensive operation. Nothing they could do otherwise. Only had a few more years left anyway, so what was the point of worrying? Everyone has to go sometime.

He shouted at the man at the bar. The bar grew silent. Then it erupted with laughter. Scrawny old man in his windbreaker was drunk.

How much? Too much. Where could he get that kind of money?

The man at the bar turned back around. Glen smashed his bottle of beer against the bar. The crowd turned silent once more. No more laughter.

Goddamit, Doc, just help her.

The man was on his feet, knife out.

I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do for her.

Glen took a step forward. No one noticed him drop the broken bottle. The man lunged, knife-first.

Everyone has to go sometime.

He fell to the ground. His last thoughts flickered to the drawer again. This time he didn't think about the bad things inside, but the very good thing on top. He thought about the life insurance claim. He hoped she'd find it.


Next word: Airplane.
Infinity_Man's Mega Guide

Pro-tip: because my first instinct is to procrastinate anything I see as an obligation or responsibility, asking me for a critique is a good way to make sure I never give you a critique.
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Old 01-28-2013, 03:50 AM View Post #24 (Link)
raiku (Offline)
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i dont want to be judged but i give it a try

it was about ten minutes after the school dance. emily was walking out in a pink and white prom dress. the light rain pelting her blue roses as her make-up was being washed away.

as she was walking away she heard a series of voices in her head. she sat down against the gym doors holding her head, pullng at small strands of her hair. she picked herself up, and started stomping on the blue roses. she picked up the crushed roses and threw them at the corner of the school.

she picked up her purse and started digging till she had a malefic smile.
she started laughing pulling out a handgun, the purse full of bullets.
she grabs a hand full of bullets filling the cartridge with six shots.

she slowly grabbed the two gym doors quickly pushing the doors away and fires five shots at a group of girls that made fun of her for years.

her eyes full of tears she puts the tip of the gun towards her head. a guy in a black tux slowly walking towards emily. he says to her that she doesnt have to kill herself.
she pulls the gun away slowly till she placed the tip of the gun into her mouth.

her eyes filled wirh tears she waves her right hand towards her graduating class then.

she pulled the trigger.
no one had the courage to close her eyes or to tell her she mattered but in the end
she was utterly alone no matter what anyone said.
she was eighteen years old, attractive, and a bright personality and a kind and loving heart.

in memory of emily

but seiously in the exact same time a few miles away at an airport. there was a guy named edward. he had a plan to steel an airplane and ransom it.

he started seeing things. he saw a little girl in a tight black dress with a tiara. she walked into a red door labled do not enter.

feeling bad he runs through the red door to find himself at a runway.

he ran till he saw a teenaged girl wearing the exact same dress showing her d-sized breasts.

as ahe was standing there he saw a plane coming towards her.
he ran towards her pushing her aside.

but it was pointless he jumped at a ghost. he actually jumped right into the airplanes turbine.
the blood gushing out.
nobody knows who it was or where he came from but the news thought.

he was really dumb

next word is painting
						Last edited by raiku; 01-28-2013 at 04:08 AM.
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Old 02-17-2013, 09:10 AM View Post #25 (Link) Painting
greenbecca (Offline)
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I sat in my living room next's to the interviewer sent by The Dream newspaper.
I stared down at my hands, should I go on with this?. Was this going to be the biggest mistake I would make? Taking a deep breath I decided to go on with it.
I looked up at the interviewer. She had light ginger hair that was roughly styled into a bun, deep blue eyes and soft creamy skin.
"You can start" I said taking another deep breath
"Okay, Please can you tell me the full story of how your Sister died" She asked sounding uncertain.
I stared hard at the flower pot on my coffee table, I could feel my palms sweating.
"She died by a painting" I began, "It was the year 1934 and she and her best friend Charlotte were at Charlotte's grandparents house. Charlotte left the room to collect something or other and that meant it was just my sister left in the room. There was a mysterious painting on the wall. It was of a young girl who looked exactly like my sister. The girl in the picture was smiling, sweet and happy at my sister. Drawing her in. My sister went closer, the girl in the picture was almost dragging her towards her. So my sister went closer, closer and the girl in the picture reached over and GRABBED her pulling her inside. My sisters screams couldn't be herd but if you look closer at the picture you will see the tiny faces dotted around of the faces the girl pulled in. And one of those of faces is My sister."

I know the punctuation is awful, sorry I was in a rush!
The next's one is; A piano
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Old 03-03-2013, 10:55 PM View Post #26 (Link)
Clockworkstag (Offline)
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They hadn’t found her yet. Her uncle was shot barricading the door downstairs.
The pang of the bullet reverberated through the floorboards, followed by the thunder of thick black boots against the wooden stairs.
‘Stop it!’ her mother cried, but she ignored her.
With every boom of their encroaching feet, she hit a soft note against the piano. Their boots were imposing, but not to her. Music had brought her into this world – her mother had been raped aside a violinists repair shop - and now it would take her out of it. In truth, every sound ever produced is music to someone’s ears.
The piano and their footfalls were not so different, not when her blood had sprayed the walls and the Nazi’s had chance to stop and tick off another family.
With its ivory keys soaked red, a young solider stepped forward and danced his fingers across it, playing the German national anthem as her frame lay mangled at his feet.

The next word is... Fish.
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Old 03-06-2013, 08:15 PM View Post #27 (Link)
Valkyrie (Offline)
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So this was how she was going to die: dragged to the bottom of the ocean in the jaws of a conger eel. Ally struggled, horribly aware that she waas down to her last few minutes of oxygen. The beast dug it's teeth harder into her leg and she screwed up her face in pain. She remembered what her uncle had told her. 'If a conger eel gets hold of your leg, it'll never let go.'

Desperately, she kicked, but this just agitated the fish more. Growing aggressive, it tugged on her leg, swinging her through the water.
Ten seconds of oxygen left - her leg had gone dead.

Five seconds left - she tried to breathe sparingly, holding onto every mouthful of oxygen.

two seconds left - she tried to hold back, but when the conger eel gave her leg a jerk, the last of the oxygen bubbled from her lips.

Oxygen run out - she knew she could hold on for another two minutes, but what was the use? No one was coming to rescue her.

The eel whipped her hard around the face with his tail and the world blacked out before her eyes.

The next word is: Sacrafice
You're always playing yellow car
The lemon is in play
Polar bears are BRILLIANT
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Old 05-28-2013, 01:26 AM View Post #28 (Link)
FlyingBananaPie26 (Offline)
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ooh, yay, sacrifices.

Ginger looked at the deep pit before her, her hand sweaty as she clenched to the hand trying to keep her up. She looked back at the person holding her. Alex,she thought. He was holding on to the hand trying to pull him up, the person who was keeping them all up. Jake.
After a few moments, Jake gave up trying to pull Alex up and finally uttered the words that noone wanted to hear. "Somebody has to let go."
Ginger's heart stopped. She was the last one on the rope of people. She would have to let go.
"I'll do it."
They both looked down at her. "Are you crazy, Gingie? You can't!" Alex yelled. Ginger looked up at them with determination and fear mixed into her eyes. "I have to. If you let go, you'll die too. I don't want you to die. You should live. I have nothing left in this world." As a scream echoed into the groups ears from below, Ginger smiled, her face showing the fatigue and hard work she'd been doing in all of her life. "I love you two."
And she let go.
She let go of everything.
Her abusive family, bullies, friends, memories.
She let go.

next word: pills
						Last edited by FlyingBananaPie26; 05-28-2013 at 10:15 PM.
					 Reason: forgot to add a death reason for the next person :(
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Old 10-11-2013, 02:06 PM View Post #29 (Link)
Pony123 (Offline)
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Filo opened the door of his modern apartment. Though he loved the comfy sofa's and the plasma screen TV, they didn't do much help as he entered the living room. Instead of his usual carefree flop on the couch, Filio sat down tensely and pulled up his laptop. He opened his Soft-Mail account and sadly clicked, "Compose Message". There, he wrote, "Dear Carly, Amigo, Donnor and Sasha, I wish to stay with you longer, but the world is not permitting that. With lots of love, Filo." As he clicked send, he thought, "What if this isn't the right thing? What if I don't die?" Then, his mind reprimanded him, "NO Filo, this IS
"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are all unable to say." ~ Anais Nan
Poetry Faliures:

Wind in My Face
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Old 10-11-2013, 02:10 PM View Post #30 (Link)
Pony123 (Offline)
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Computer Problems:
IS the right thing!" And with that he picked up the bottle of PAIN RELEIVER and poured it in his mouth. He gave a halfhearted wave to the world and blanked out, just as the police ran in the door.
The next word is ; Play
"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are all unable to say." ~ Anais Nan
Poetry Faliures:

Wind in My Face
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