|I Need Practice
||[Dec. 31st, 2007|03:08 am]
Kelly J. Cooper
I need to kick myself back into writing a bit.
So! If you are inclined, comment with a prompt - an object, persona, character, line, snippet of dialogue, whatever - and I'll write something based off of it.
This feels like the 48 hour film project.
Character: a 40-something accountant, whose friends are all having mid-life crises while he is not, who is not certain *why* he is not.
Object: A book, with strange writing.
Snippet of dialogue: "Whoaaah, nellie!"
The music in my head wouldn't stop. It's not like when you get a song stuck in your head because other people were able to hear it too.
2007-12-31 11:08 am (UTC)
A teakettle that won't stop boiling; an animal control worker who understands what the animals s/he's catching are complaining about; a chunk of black lava rock taken from Hawai'i.
Let's posit we're the fruit on the tree of consciousness. What might consume said fruit, and how (if at all) would that affect our reality?
Trapped by the pain and spasms, she lay on her back for another hour. She began to feel thirsty, bored and seriously annoyed. The cat eyed her lazily as she attempted to scoot herself along the floor towards ...
It was a dark and stormy night.
Fourteen year old Mary was well aware that there were topics not discussed with "the children" but was equally aware no one would discuss what she needed to know with her, either. How in the Dickens was she ever going to understand what happened in gym class when she climbed the rope?
When the alarm chirped, Samantha reached over to shut it off... then pulled her hand back quickly when the newest snake wrapped itself around her wrist. "Sonofabitch!" Her legs tangled in the shroud as she jumped to her feet and she fell to her knees in the powdery sand.
"Public bathrooms are an important cultural experience," I thought, as I pressed my beat up grey trainers to the pedal, and turned the steering wheel.
"I did it. I beat Shiva at her own game."
"I wonder how that town got that name?"
The prompt we got as the 'audition piece' for literary journalism was the title "Wrong, So Wrong." Something about which we had been so incredibly wrong. (I wrote about working on the Dean campaign and thinking he would win hands down.)