Because I had fun yesterday posting an older exercise that was laughed out of the room, and also because I was bored at work, I did another exercise at the always interesting Critique Circle.
This one started as something in my head, then became about a guy with diarrhea.
That might be a pull quote for my autobiography, "He Eats Ninjas and Shits Pirates."
Write a short piece demonstrating a character feeling an intense emotion—anger, sorrow, love, regret, etc. The catch is, you can't mention the emotion or any synonym of it anywhere in the writing. Put the emotion you're going for in the title and then show it, without telling. The most convincing emotion wins.
Writer: Kenrandall
Writer: Kenrandall
Guilt
The novel is bent and warped. A cycle of steam, cold, heat, and humidity as taken the pages and started the process of turning it into pulp. It's only taken a week to finish this one. My fingers are becoming black, leaving prints on the porcelain. They should have no problem figuring out the who done it this time. Colombo be damned.
It probably isn't wise to be here still. I can't make myself leave. I've been successful in avoiding the garage, but the smell...
Not that I spent much time out of this room. My stomach is attempting to burst. I've lost the shame of destroying her bathroom with my, well let's just say...liquids.
She was so beautiful.
I remember once seeing a small girl on the street corner selling roses. One by one her sunny smile made her nickel after nickel. All but one she sold, that one she kept in a bag by her feet. I asked her why not sell that rose? She told me that it was a funny color, not like the rest. I offered to buy it from her for a dime, she refused me. Everyone got the same beautiful rose, but the one that was special was going to be for her mother.
She was so special, my wife
I've developed a hemorrhoid from my bowels hovering between chaos and agony. I'm out of toilet paper again. I'll have to get some more but we kept the extra in the garage.
The smell...
My legs are leaden down the hallway, half from atrophy, half from dread. My vision narrows as I search for something to focus on other than the garage door. A photo from Disneyland, her favorite blanket, a coffee cup with lipstick on the rim. My stomach turns.
I collapse to my knees when I touch the handle of the door. It swings open more from mental force than motion of my arm.
She is smiling.
I slip on the liquids that used to be inside her. I fall on my stomach, fill my pants, and come face to face with her.
She is smiling.
I am crying.
Our smells entwine and I fall asleep.
I'll let you know the grade later, but after a re-read it's looking pretty grim.
The novel is bent and warped. A cycle of steam, cold, heat, and humidity as taken the pages and started the process of turning it into pulp. It's only taken a week to finish this one. My fingers are becoming black, leaving prints on the porcelain. They should have no problem figuring out the who done it this time. Colombo be damned.
It probably isn't wise to be here still. I can't make myself leave. I've been successful in avoiding the garage, but the smell...
Not that I spent much time out of this room. My stomach is attempting to burst. I've lost the shame of destroying her bathroom with my, well let's just say...liquids.
She was so beautiful.
I remember once seeing a small girl on the street corner selling roses. One by one her sunny smile made her nickel after nickel. All but one she sold, that one she kept in a bag by her feet. I asked her why not sell that rose? She told me that it was a funny color, not like the rest. I offered to buy it from her for a dime, she refused me. Everyone got the same beautiful rose, but the one that was special was going to be for her mother.
She was so special, my wife
I've developed a hemorrhoid from my bowels hovering between chaos and agony. I'm out of toilet paper again. I'll have to get some more but we kept the extra in the garage.
The smell...
My legs are leaden down the hallway, half from atrophy, half from dread. My vision narrows as I search for something to focus on other than the garage door. A photo from Disneyland, her favorite blanket, a coffee cup with lipstick on the rim. My stomach turns.
I collapse to my knees when I touch the handle of the door. It swings open more from mental force than motion of my arm.
She is smiling.
I slip on the liquids that used to be inside her. I fall on my stomach, fill my pants, and come face to face with her.
She is smiling.
I am crying.
Our smells entwine and I fall asleep.
I'll let you know the grade later, but after a re-read it's looking pretty grim.
2 comments:
Yes. Yes, I very much like that title for an autobiography... *grins*
maybe that should be a forum topic over at cc
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