For a bit of fun, every morning I practice my creative stories by using a random word generator to generate six words that I could write a story. The words are bolded in the text.
Here’s my first attempts. I have no idea if they are grammatically correct or structured well. My aim is to trigger the creative perspective and get me thinking through another character.
I’m trying not to be too descriptive in my writing preferring to follow Hemingway’s advice. Let the brain fill in the scene for itself. Anyway, I have a long way to go.
The Creation
It was of no concern to him. He was destined to do this. The series of catastrophic events led him to this point.
He had to end it here.
In his head, the chorus to ABBA’s song, “I have a dream” played repeatedly. How he hated them. Yet their lyrics now prophetic.
It wasn’t a dream anymore. It was real.
He removed the dusty cover to reveal the machinery that sat in his garage unused for years. If only his father could see what he was planning.
“I’m not the pathetic son you thought I was dad,” he spat out the words under his breath.
He switched on the power button and pulled the red lever. It whirred into action and spurted out some thick black smoke and rumbled to life.
He glanced to the garage door where he left the three steel plates against its frame.
The triangular valve now reached the pressure he needed. It was time to pierce and stitch them together with barbed wire. His final creation, his masterpiece was to be unleashed into the world.
The Craft
Heather was dedicated to her craft. No one could accuse her otherwise. She had spent her last $20 on a ball of a blend of silk and mohair, the colour of a child’s blush. Yes, she definitely approved.
She had to buy it.
“That’s a lovely yarn you’ve chosen there,” said the woman behind the counter. “It’s just come in and such value for money, what when you take into account the yardage.”
Heather wondered if this woman said this to all her customers who bought expensive yarn. Especially to one who needed this money to buy a train ticket home.
She handed over the $20 note and bit her lip. Such extravagance! Yet when she recalled how knitting with natural fibres in her hands, the rhythm of the knits and purls that put her anxious mind at ease, she decided that going home would have to wait.
The Mistake
What an embarrassment he had been to Maguire.
If that was his name.
The one person who could help him escape the oppression that his country’s government had on its people and to hatch a plan to escape to a neighbouring country where he could hide until the turmoil settled.
“You fucking idiot,” he cursed under his breath to himself. He shook his head in disbelief. How could he, well trained in military operations fail to see that one thing that now put this plan into jeopardy?
He moved aside the cartons near the window and looked outside to see the crowd. They had dispersed now to a few stragglers walking the street looking forlorn dragging their signs and placards behind them. Only ten minutes ago, there had been a riot but the police broke it up as soon as it had begun.
All this trouble over an abduction. That’s what the newspapers published that it was but he knew the truth.
He wondered what was happening at this moment in the Governors office. Would the Governor accept the existing terms that Maguire placed on him or would he face his mortality?
The Portrait
She edged towards the bathroom and put out her hand to push open the door slowly. In front of her, a dilapidated sink, broken and dirty from years of neglect, she drew her eyes upwards and saw the portrait.
The abstract portrait of her child revealed the truth in brush strokes. The child she aborted.
She screamed.
A scream that came from the depths of her being. Painful, piercing, never ending. Her insides rippled, turned to slime and welled up in her throat and in her mouth.
She fell over the sink heavily and vomited the sludge.
Feel Free to Share Your Thoughts