Hey, for today’s daily exercise prompt, our word is rain!
I probably won’t have a post for today as I spent my time working on my story, but as always, feel free to participate and post in the comments if you follow the prompt!
As always, you can go Here for the rules.
Alright, today is the first day that I’m kicking off my daily 30 minute writing exercise.
You can read the full rules Here but here’s the basics:
1. You have to write for 30 minutes without stopping.
2. You have to either base your writing on the prompt word, or use it as a starting place for your writing.
Here’s my entry, and feel free to submit yours in the comments, or email them to me at: richardv07@gmail.com if you don’t want them to be public. I’d love to read everyone’s entries!
This one’s probably 5 years old, one of the first times I did a one word writing prompt. It’s pretty short.
It was bitterly cold that day, and the sun was entombed behind a layer of slate gray clouds as I ducked under the yellow tape and forced myself through the filthy snow that covered the drive way.
The feelings were overwhelming; like the earth so carelessly shoveled over her casket, they wracked my body again and again, a physical manifestation of my sorrow, my anger, my guilt. She died here.
I reached the front door, its wooden face etched and worn, brutalized by the harsh stab of winter, and the relentless searing of the summer sun. The door had been agape when I found her, as though it was proud, calling, urging me to look upon the scene it had failed to prevent. Like a sadist it had tortured her, offering some semblance of protection, of hope, but instead it had merely toyed with her.
“Will I hold?” It had mocked, creaking and bending beneath each blow. “Will I shield you from their touch, their blades, their lust?”
And with a sickening crack it had given its answer. It had given her up. It had thrown her to her demise, to be shattered; torn to pieces.
My breathing became labored and my hand shook as I placed it on the now useless doorknob and slowly pushed. I could feel my heart thumping in my throat, and the heat of the blood rushing to my ears as my vision began to water over.
The blood was gone, cleaned from the floor, and the wall, but in my mind it remained. It had been the deepest crimson; a sickening red that glistened.
The aromatic moisture which hovered over the slender stalks of grass fell dead upon me. Instead the thick, sticky scented iron of my veins filled my nostrils, ran from my shattered mouth, and binded the blythe green dancers below me in a crimson curtain. As the blades about me whirled insanely in the wind, in my mad eyes, his blade twirled softly between his fingers.
“Johnny Boy,” he wagged the silver finger at me in mock disappointment. “Johnny boy,” he said again, crouching down before me with a wild smirk across his face.
That scent. That wonderful, painful scent filled my nostrils with a tangy pungent sweetness that I could almost taste dancing across my tongue. My eyes snapped open.
Pink wall, white bed, blue pillow, emptiness. She wasn’t there. She was never there, and she never would be again, yet her thick, sickly sweet perfume still clung to the sheets the walls and the windows, and I could almost feel the warmth of her soft, glowing face on the pillow beside me.