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Downwrite - Every writer is a frustrated actor who recites his lines in the hidden auditorium of his skull; Rod Serling

Prompts - Downwrite

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PROMPT - Write a piece of Fiction starting with the sentence "He'd warned her about the book.

He’d warned her about the book. He even told her that. “I warned you about the book,” he said.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.”

They looked at each other. The truth was he hadn’t actually warned her about the book. He lied.

She thought for a moment. “Hey, hang on. You didn’t really warn me about the book. You lied.”

“Um, uh, well…”

It was one of those moments where one second feels like one minute. One of those awkward, silly moments.

She looked at the book title. It was called Sated Heart.

He leant forward to grab the book. “Well, the book is dangerous. It listens too well.”

She stepped back. “No, finders keepers. Plus, you’re a liar.”

He pursed his lips. He farted but didn’t tell her. He always passed gas when he was tense. It was an embarrassing trait. He tried to grab the book off her again with some force, but she slapped him.

He touched his cheek. “I need the book. I’m serious. I really, really need it now.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he looked away from her, pressing his fist against his chest, “because something’s missing.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re just sad.”

He insisted. “But you’re already happy.”

“I’m not. I found it first, anyway.” She ran her fingers over the cover of the book. Her fingers moved gently at first, but then gained some speed, pressing down a little harder. Her fingers were moist and spun in little clockwise circles. The book pulsated. She tried not to moan. The book kept silent.

It was at that moment, that single, divine moment, when her finger gained more sweat and her lips parted open and she lost herself to temptation, that her falsely benign revelation became a living monster and drenched her. It showered her, and the water became a suffocating plastic, and her heart beat faster and faster and no longer did she want to moan – she wanted to escape. But she couldn’t escape. She wanted to flee, but she always wanted to stand ground. She clenched onto the book and it took over her heart. She was naked by then, naked and shiny, and her heart was growing, and eventually, it burst in her chest, and besides a runny warmth, she felt nothing new. She died, pretending to smile.

Finally alone, he cried. He slumped against the wall, the dead girl in front of him, the book alive in front of him. He crawled towards Sated Heart and picked it up. He browsed through the pages. He knew that he was a liar, but he was sorry, and the book forgave him, and he embraced it, and the pages decided to wear his words.

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Posted By: Always Eighteen - Category: Prompts

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BloodRats

July 10th 2007 09:56

He had warned her about the book. At first, six, maybe seven months ago, uploading it to the Internet alone in his room, he’d presumed there’d be no need for him to ever admit to writing it.

He’d used the pseudonym Lentil from a book his cousin lent him. However somehow, the impossible had happened. It had become wildly popular, circulated through MSN, P2P, websites and God knows what else. There was even a page on Wikipedia about it.

He’d warned her, because he knew however bad it would be to admit to writing it, if she actually read the damn thing, she’d entirely disintegrate. He thought this way he could prevent his mother, who still refused Stanley Kubrick and Tarentino films entrance to her house on moral grounds, from actually reading it, even if she did hear rumors. Seemed a good idea, in theory.

The problem was, he realised, wiping the tears off his burning face, as he stuffed his clothing into the battered excuse for a bag he’d used in grade twelve, is it all became too much too fast. The book was a self replicating monster, feeding on the communal loneliness and social hatred of the masses of lost kids who scoured the Internet. It became larger, more intricate, more fragile and delicate until the chance of the whole thing imploding into itself had become an inevitability.

He grabs the notebook that lies on his desk. The last thing his mother had given him before she had found his story through Wikipedia. He hadn’t even noticed the change on the article – not until he’d turned his head slowly from his mother, screaming and crying, curled up in the corner, pounding her fist on the ground, yelling “Get out of my house! Get out!” and faced the glowering computer screen.

Bloodrats.
-From Wikipedia the free encyclopedia anyone can edit.
Bloodrats is a story by Lentil, which gained mass popularity through it’s Internet release. It gained attention from censorship groups due to it’s depictions of sex, drug use, sexual violence, murder and suicide.

And just below, was the new edit, barely days old;

The identity of Lentil is currently believed to be Nathaniel Joyce – an unpublished writer from Australia.

Nathaniel zips up his bag, and leans over to his computer keyboard, and logs into his Livejournal online diary, under Lentil, and begins to write a quick entry.

Dear Reader. Due to my mother reading my story…

He pauses. No. What the hell is he thinking? He is Lentil; he is sex drugs and violence. He is dirtiness, filth and grime, freedom and rebellion. He is the hero of the Internet. He is the fucking revolution. And now he’s asking for help because he’s having troubles with Mumsy? Not bloody likely.

Dear Reader. Due to unfortunate circumstances, I am in dire need of a premise at which to stay. If you may assist me, and are at near Brisbane City (Australia), please contact me.

Under this he adds his mobile number. He’ll have to change it now, he realises, but hopefully he’ll be able to get a place to stay out of it first.

He walks through the house, opening the fridge and grabbing out an apple that he wolfs down quickly, and a tub of yogurt. His stomach feels ill from gulping it down, but he has no way of knowing when he’ll be able to find his next meal.

He walks to his mothers door and knocks gently.

“Go away,” his mother yells, gasping between sobs, “Get out of here you sicko!”

“I love you mum,” he says.

He opens the front door and steps outside, walking away. He doesn’t know where to. It doesn’t really matter.

When he gets to the bottom of the driveway, his mobile rings.

It is hours before Peta can bring herself to look at the computer again, picking herself up off the cold, clammy tiles. She climbs into the chair, and closes the window which holds her son’s story, ignoring the foul depiction of sweaty white flesh and vibrant red blood.

Maybe, she thinks hopefully, the attribution of this particular story to her son was wrong. She clicks the link from Wikipedia to ‘Lentil’s Official Myspace Profile’.

When the page loads she recognises the photo of him immediately, and her last hopes fade back into a black puree at the pit of her stomach. Her son, face hidden by the cheap mask she bought him for his twelfth birthday, and the plastic hat he’d bought from the two dollar shop. She almost laughs bitterly at the simplicity of it all. A cheap hat and mask and fifty thousand words of smut and nobody had any idea who this person was.

Least of all, herself.

PROMPT - Write a piece of Fiction starting with the sentence "He'd warned her about the book."

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GIFT FOR MASTER

July 6th 2007 04:56

Down in the bushes behind the Church, jumping enthusiastically across the dirt, flits a tiny wren. It’s movements create miniature dust storms, flecks sparkling in the breeze.

It continues to play in the dust, dancing like the breeze itself, merrily oblivious to the rustling in the grass behind it. Oblivious to the glowering yellow eyes greedily staring at it, the taught, tenses muscle crouched, prepared to pounce. The very thought of danger itself is far from it’s mind, until the very moment it feels itself knocked down, pummelled into the dirt, followed by the sensation of it’s attackers teeth, plunging through it’s insufficient skin, deep into its body.

***

The cat’s name is listed on its collar as Gribble. He is lean, but with a smooth coat which has obviously been well cared for.

He prances through the long grass, his pace quickened by a joy smattered sense of elation. He is proud of his catch, the wren wedged in his mouth, still twitching very slightly. More proud than one can easily comprehend. Pride replaces his blood and runs through his veins. It courses through his lungs, bristles through his fur. It is a drug, it is a ray of light. It is a fire in his chest, shining out, displaying his brilliance to the world.

He jumps over the fence gracefully, running over to the doorstep, and dropping the dead bird. He then trots over to a warm patch of sun on the path and rolls over, gleefully awaiting in anticipation of the discovery of his precious gift.

***

Mick wakes up, pulls himself out of bed. He half stumbles out to the bathroom where he washes his face. It is 6.00. He has surgery scheduled in around two hours time, some thirteen year old. He can’t work out why kids don’t use condoms. Surely the embarrassment of telling their boyfriend (or the bloke at the party) to use a little piece of rubber is preferable to risking ending up comatose in his chair, with his hands between their legs. Anyway. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t think about it. That way his head doesn’t explode with frustration.

He wanders out to the kitchen, makes a cup of coffee, sips it. It’s already three spoons of coffee but he adds another for luck. He takes a large sip, and walks over to the door, figuring he’ll have time to pick up the paper.

He opens the door. Gribble, sunning himself on the path, rolls into standing position and yowls loudly, looking at the steps by Mick’s feet. Mick looks down. By his foot is the mangled corpse of the Wren.

“Bloody hell,” mutters Mick, scooping up it’s small broken body. “Not another one.”

He strolls over to the bin, dropping the dead bird in. He points at Gribble “Bad cat!” he yells.

Gribble doesn’t notice, rubbing himself along Mick’s leg, pleased that he’d seen his expression of love.

Before Mick gets to the door, a car pulls up beside his fence. The door opens and a man steps out.

“Excuse me,” he yells. “Are you Mick Mailer?”

“Yes I am,” he says, taking a step forward. “Who wants to know?”

***

Oh Father who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name

Thomas Bowler double checks the address he has managed to obtain, and checks it against his map. So far as he can see, everything’s exactly where it should be.

Thy Kingdom come thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven

He takes a red pen and circles the address on the map. He draws a long, sleek arrow pointing towards it, and in large, nearly Gothic letters writes “BABY BUTCHER”.

Give us this day our daily Bread

He picks up the gun he managed to outsource and places it in the pocket of his jacket, buttoning it up. He walks out of the house, keys in hand, and unlocks the car.

And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

As he drives, there is a powerful sensation, a ball of glowering pride in his chest. A ball of pure righteous energy. Today he serves. Today he can prove his worth to his master. Today he can demonstrate that his life is something to be proud of, something to stand up for. He turns the car around the corner. He is on the edge of the street he needs to be at. He slows, indicates, and turns. Slowly he pulls the car to a stop in front of lot 12, where a man, still half asleep, gripping a mug of coffee, drops something into a bin. Fire is searing through Thomas’ vein. He winds down his window.

“Excuse me,” he yells. “Are you Mick Mailer?”

“Yes I am,” the man replies, squinting and stepping forward groggily. “Who wants to know?”

And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil

Thomas pulls out the gun and fires. Mick barely has time to register. The first bullet shoots through his stomach, the second two passing straight through his head. His lifeless body slumps to the ground.

For thine is the kingdom,
and the power,
and the glory,
for ever and ever.
Amen.

***

God wakes up still slightly groggy. He stretches, yawns loudly, and pulls Himself out of bed.
He approaches the door of his house, and opens it, staring out across the luminescent mass of Heaven’s white paradise, His old, wizened eyes flick over the faces of His companions. Through his all powerful vision he plays through the deaths of each, accidents, sickness, disaster…

Then He pauses, as one vision appears before him. The death of Mick Mailer, abortionist, as His faithful child Thomas Bowler kills him, and delivers him to His doorstep.
“Bloody Hell,” mutters God. “Not another one.”

Prompt - Write a piece of fiction utilizing heavy symbolism.

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Posted By: Brenton - Category: Prompts

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GIANT GIRL DOLL

June 25th 2007 00:20

Video from YouTube.

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Posted By: Always Eighteen - Category: Prompts

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Dr Baker

June 11th 2007 07:24

“As the blood of the lamb is splattered over this token, I beseech you, oh Charon, take the unborn back on your ferry, deliver him form, deliver him voice and send him forth to meet with he who did not grant him pass onto life’s green hills.”

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The Tale of Remulus (Who liked Sticks) and Romis (Who Liked Carrots)

May 25th 2007 04:38

There once were two twins, abandoned by their parents to die in the bush. Luckily for them a large echidna came by and allowed them to suckle, protecting them, until they were well and healthy. When they grew up they named themselves Remulus and Romis.

They eventually returned to the land of their father, Bookie.
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What is Your Favourite Book and Why?

May 22nd 2007 06:32

For me I'd have to say a Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess, because of it's INCREDIBLE mastery of the English language, along with a very explicit message, all wrapped up in a well told story.

Close second would be Marabou Stork Nightmare by Irvine Welsh, because of the sheer brutality of the novel, mixed with the creativity of the world created within, and the best illustrated moral I've ever experienced

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Blogger Prompt - What makes a good post?

May 21st 2007 00:54

We all have our favourite posts. We also have the posts we make that we're most proud of.

But what is is that makes this post so special? What are the elements of a good post

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Posted By: Brenton - Category: Prompts

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Inspired Writings

May 17th 2007 14:06

I have a strict no-no policy when it comes to listening to music, I dislike it for a variety of reasons (which I won't get into right now). However I did listen to a particular song by an Australian band (Redgum), the song was called "I was only 19". I listened to it fifty times over as I was writing a particularly long short story about the Vietnam war.

The story turned out great, at least in the opinion of everyone who read it. I'm sure to this day the song played a great part in the way I wrote everything out. It was looping in my head as I wrote everything out as such the emotions of the song ended up in my writing which was great

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Posted By: Ahmed - Category: Prompts

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Space Maggots

April 11th 2007 06:03

Write a piece of prose under the theme 'Trapped'.

not so much a gas as a liquid, he’s breathing in grease and oil as though it were CO2G4G (G = Grease) or something, rather than being plain old CO2. His clothes are dripping grease, his face covered in it, clogging up his pores, turning his head into a slimy bulbous pimple. He just wanted to slam it in the cash register and pop it open.
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Verisimilitude in writing

April 2nd 2007 12:14

There's an Ad I remember. It features a mother searving soft drink to her two flawless kiddies. They yell out, "Hey Mum, what's to drink?" and she's like "Oh it's SunnyJuice (or something)" and the kids yell out "Wow, SunnyJuice that's our favorite!"

This is the point where a computer animated anthropomorphic Sun jumps off the bottle, yelling "That's because SunnyJuice is made with the goodness of real juice

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Posted By: Brenton - Category: Prompts

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Why I Am the Best Tech Blogger Ever

March 2nd 2007 13:54

I’m the best because I don’t bask in my own glory, I don’t attack other people pointlessly, I’m the best because I stand up for the little man and kick the butt of the ugly self righteous fool.

But most importantly, I’m the best because I don’t continually write about myself with posts that revolve around me ‘why I am…’ desperately clambering everywhere for attention to my person, sucking attention from wherever, like the ass leaches that attach themselves to the assholes of llamas and suck out the excrements for sustenance

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Posted By: Ahmed - Category: Prompts

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