Every writer needs to practice their craft. I’m going to schedule some unique methods for us to do just that. This one is inspired by a thread I was entertained by in one of my collaborative writing groups.
Here’s how it works: I’m going to write the death of someone. Likely the first person that comes to mind. You then take a moment in the comments and write the death of another person, perhaps an author or friend …. or even me. The goal is to be descriptive and make the reader visualize what you are describing, in 150 words or less. (roughly one paragraph) In this case it would be the death of another person or a character.
My Entry:
Traan stood in the shadows waiting for Harold to walk around the corner. His heart raced but he kept his breathing steady and silent. When he heard the foot falls coming in his direction, he calmly readied the dagger. His eyes barely caught movement in his peripheral and he pounced, driving the dagger hard into the back of who he thought was Harold. The voice that cried out was not his, but a woman’s. As Traan dropped the body, he looked down upon Tanya, his sister. Her eyes met his and he remained frozen in that moment until she bled out at his feet.
“So, there’s nothing that can be done?”
“No, Paul. An hour. Maybe less. Whenever they decide.”
“And you’re sure that Catherine got over the border?”
“Yes. Safely away.”
“Thank god.”
The guard nodded. “I can’t talk longer. They’ll suspect. I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry.”
“You did all you could.”
The door closed, and Paul heard the snick of a lock turning.
He closed his eyes. Catherine was away, along with the two rebel fighters that had been assigned to her. It only remained to him to face what was left. Only an hour more; maybe less.
It was less. A dirty-faced guard was the one who came for him; he grabbed Paul’s arm, as if he couldn’t have walked unassisted, and dragged him from the cell and into the courtyard.
He knew what he’d see, but it still was a shock. He thought: this is it. Mortality. I knew I’d die someday, but today is it. You never think of it that way, that some day will be your day to die, as certain as the Earth spinning around the sun. And now, here it is, like an old enemy you thought you’d never see again.
In this case, in the form of a wooden block, and a hooded man with an axe.
I will not faint, he thought, willing his knees not to buckle. I will be steadfast. Catherine would want me… Catherine would want… He swallowed, forcing the tears back, listening to a disembodied voice say, “For the crime of high treason, for aiding and abetting the rebels against the realm, Paul de Lyons is hereby sentenced to death. Does the condemned have any last words?”
He shook his head, trying to look defiant. Two guards came to him, pulled his shirt roughly over his head, forced him to the block. He felt hands on his bare shoulders pressing him downward until his cheek touched the rough, splintered surface.
And he thought: I am just one man, facing death, as countless others have before me. This death is neither more, nor less, than what any other has endured. I will not fear.
And to his astonishment, he found that his fear had evaporated. He thought: not an old enemy; an old friend! And he smiled, as the moment stretched out, and like the breaking of a string, fell forward into eternity.
This is simply impressively done. It makes me wonder what happened before this moment.
Hello, I stumbled across this page and was wondering if posting a little description of my own is still acceptable. I’m sort of new to this type of writing community, but I would love to get involved.
Chad, feel free to submit anything to the site that you would like to. There are two exercises posted each week – one during the week and one over the weekend.
Feel free to contribute to any of the blog posts and ask questions whenever you’d like to.
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I hope it’s not too late to write one of these up, but I couldn’t think of anything until late last night and by then I was too tired to get out of bed to write it out. I went fairly over the word limit, so hopefully that’s not too bad. All of this was stuck in my head.
Cara was six years old. She spent all her life in her room. Some days were better than others.
On bad days, there’d be tubes everywhere, covering her nose and mouth, in her stomach, and in her arm, all connected to a tall silver coathanger that plastic bags filled with water usually hung from.
On good days, Cara stayed in her room and played with the toys around her bed. She’d watch television with her mother in the mornings and if she was really lucky, the nurses would give her chocolate pudding.
On other days, her bed would be rolled down the hall to a big machine that made lots of noise. They always told Cara to be still and not to be afraid of it, but she was anyway.
Today, Cara knew, would be different. She was going to leave this place forever. She wanted to run again, to laugh and play outside like normal children. She turned to her mother, who sat by her bedside as she did everyday, and smiled.
“Mama,” she said. “I’m gonna go now,”
Her mother took her hand, holding it tight as she tried not to cry. “Cara, baby, please…”
“It’s okay, Mama,” she whispered, squeezing her mother’s hand. “I’m not scared. I’ll be with Grandpa. I’ll be free.”
Slowly, her mother nodded, blinking away tears. “Say hello to Grandpa for me, sweetheart. I love you.”
“Love you too, Mama.”
And then Cara closed her eyes and her grip on her mother’s hand went slack, the smile still on her face, even in death.
ok i’m crying….
*blub* Every parent’s nightmare.
exactly!
The Collector
He knelt over her drugged body. Slid the knife under each button of her blouse until it fell open revealing her white lace bra.
She stared at him, unable to fight back. He grinned.
The cups of her bra sprang outwards as he cut through the material, exposing her firm young breasts with the asymmetrical areoli.
He bent and licked both her nipples with a green-furred tongue.
Pressing the knife deep into her flesh, he drew it down the length of her torso from neck to navel and watched the panic in her eyes.
He put the knife to one side, wriggled his hand into her open thoracic cavity, and took hold of her heart. The steady beat matched the throbbing of his erection.
As he ripped her heart from her chest, and watched the light die in her eyes, he put his mouth over hers and sucked the essence from her. Then he ate the still warm dripping centre of her being.
Another one, he thought, as he licked the blood from his fingers.
Vivid
Ew! Tim!
Wow!
wow indeed.
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This is more my style when it comes to writting… if you can’t twist the deaths with a little glory and a bit of honor… it just don’t sound right… smile…
The screaming came from down the corridor again as they rushed us in ragged waves. There was only enough room for two at a time because of our power armor so we fought our retreat in pairs. Somehow they had made it through the shields and then into the main bays in the upper decks. It was on the lower decks of the cruiser that we made our stand while they powered up the transports that would take us off the ship and into the void beyond.
In the background I could make out the sounds of the wounded being loaded into the assault craft, the screams and the constant sounds of auto fire from our rifles and flamers playing a tune all its own. My rifle barked again and again as the waves of the Dreag advanced on us. I felt the rifle go silent and I yelled into the comm link that I was out and moved to the rear of the of the hallway to reload. A cadet in battle armor took my place on the line as soon as I stepped back. Half of her helmet had been chopped away so that you could just make out the bandages covering the side of her face. A grim scowl was fixed on her lips as she put burst after burst into the Dreag.
Static came to life in my ear piece and a voice shouted for all units to pull back to the main bay and get on the ships. I slapped the cadet on the shoulder and shouted in her ear to fall back. All I got was a nod as her weapon started another burst. As we made it through the final blast doors that were the gateway to the assault bay we all turned as one and ran. Behind us there was an explosion and the blast doors slammed shut early. The sounds of fists being beaten against the hardened steel echoed in the comm link till all I heard was screams as they were overwhelmed… then silence.
The ship took off out of the bay and the pilot took us out to a safe distance from the crusier… from a distance we could just make out the explosions that were tearing the hull apart from the inside. With one final shudder the ship cracked in half as the main drives went critical….
That was my first memory of the war with the Dreag, and after 10 long years of fighting I still can hear the sounds of those troopers beating on the blast doors…
Vivid and intense as usual my friend.
eh one day i will have to sit down and write a space Marine novel… or just something warhammer 40k…
Yeah i could not resist too.. maybe its that i have the night off and my imagination got turned on today…
nice..I want to know more of the Dreag.
I’ll have to put some of those thoughts into words in my free time over the next week… It is not a bad begining as far as stories go though..
and because I simply can not resist .. another one. LOL
Her eyes opened wide, her head lowered and she looked down upon the gleaming steal. It barely hurt now as the shock covered her face and her eyes rose to meet his. Rosy lips part to speak but can’t as a spurt of blood splashes from them upon his own face, so close to hers with a wicked twinkle in his eyes. She had known all along it was him, but now there was no doubt. No doubt and yet too late was the realization that he was indeed the one they called ‘the ripper’, he was the menace of London, he was the cruel murder who stalked women in the night. And yet, as his arms let her slide to the ground and the life drifted from her, all she could think was “not my love, not my heart and soul, not my husband.” Denial … even unto death.
…wow…
Love it. As I said I’m a visual person, and I can so easily see this.
I liked it, i think it would be good with just the begining starting at.. She had known all along it was him…. But overall very nice… dramatic, dark, and realistic.
thanks!
Matt, that was wonderful. I especially like the Dick Cheney part (oops, did I put that in writing–is that footsteps I hear outside my door).
I waited behind the low wall in the back of the cemetery, I could hear the steps getting closer. I knew they were coming for me, after what I had done to their family… there was no forgetting. I drove my blade at an angle so that it slipped through the ribs. For a moment the person in my arms froze, just hanging there on my blade like a piece of meat.
All of a sudden I felt sick, I knew her…
Her eyes were wide, soft bubbles foamed at her lips as her lungs slowly began to fill up with blood. Her hands clutched my shirt and I could not shake her loose as the weight of her body pulled me to the ground. Laying on the ground beside her was a wicked looking blade… a blade meant for me. She had been like a sister to me for years and now she was choking to death on the ground in front of me. I felt a tear roll down my cheek and I could not control the impulse to brush the hair from her face. She smiled up at me for a second and then her eyes went dead….
its not 150 words… but it will do for now… smile.
I knew what I was to expect w/ you – I’m glad you joined on it.
Nice work. Love the emotion of a kill that had to be made, but which will be forever regretted. And perhaps she smiled for the same reason.
Her eye flickered open as a slow breath rattled in her lungs, the twinkle of the sparkles in the rough ceiling above her, stark white except for those sparkles. They almost reminded her of a night sky, the light dimming near the edges as the ‘stars’ flickered brighter even now. A small smile crept to her face as she heard the sound of his voice in the distance.
“I am here Ema. Your home, everything is going to be fine now.”
It was the sound of her beloved husband calling for her. The grin widened as she reached out her hand upward from her bed to reach for him. Those about her did not understand and tried to put her hands back to her side, but Ema knew who she was reaching for. And with one last breath, her hand took his and they smiled at each other, walking out into the stars hand in hand.
I have happy tears. This is so peaceful.
I wanted something different than the murder stuff … not that those are not wonderful, I just wanted something different. SO what is next? LOL
There will be a word weaver challenge later this week and next week another imagery challenge.
can’t wait till the word weaver.
Sounds interesting, but lets keep the words neutral… no star trek lingo please… I only speak a few words in wookie.. and even less in Klingon… lol
Beautiful.
thanks Linda.
In a hole in a ground there lived a hobbit. Then the hole collapsed on him and he suffocated.
Call me Ishmael. No, call me the late Ishmael, because Queequeg accidentally stabbed me with his harpoon.
You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter.
In the revised edition I died when Injun Joe strangled me in the cave.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife, who, as in the case of Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, will poison his morning tea with arsenic and run off with Willoughby.
Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday. I don’t know. I died shortly after when I yawned so wide that the top of my head fell off and was eaten by Salamano’s dog.
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. On second thought, it was just the worst of times, because they caught Darnay and Lucie at the border and cut their heads off with dull can-openers.
Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. Then he tripped and fell down the stairs and broke his neck.
Atticus Finch, age ninety, stepped out onto his porch, tripped over one of Scout’s grandchildren who was playing in the yard, fell face-first into the mud, and drowned. He fell on top of Miss Maudie, but he was too old by then to do anything about it.
“Captain Picard! I thought you were dead.” “Make it so.”
Former Vice President Dick Cheney lived a full life, but in the end, he died of old age in full knowledge that he was the biggest dickhead to hold office in the United States since Richard Nixon. (Yes, he was a bigger dickhead than Anthony Weiner.)
Robinson Crusoe’s ship sank when he was on his way back to England, and as a result, Friday ate him. Burp!
Matt this is GREAT!
OMG, Stuart, and I thought I was cruel. Geeze! Nice work. I may be sick for a moment as I’m a very visual person, but once I get past that–really nice work.
Thank you. It was kind of an homage to The Bone Collector. But, I have other plans for him. This just made it go from “what do I do with someone” to writing it.
Whatever Kills You, Makes You Dead
Kim screamed, really, really loud. Her matted hair clogged in her mouth as the meat of her feet went fluid. Alkaline hydrolysis. Sixty pounds of PSI, a lye solution blasted into the stainless steel vat, and Kim was like a mountain range under eons of erosion. Except, this was happening at a very fast pace.
Her wailing echoed in the chamber, along with the clank clanking of the chains, manacled around her wrists. Held aloft and stretched, the soles of her feet had already turned to brown syrup. The white bones, exposed, were lost in the decomposing liquid. Liquids, as the lye mixed with her liquesced flesh.
Ankles next, and the crying faded to unconsciousness. The chains continued to clank a dirge for Kim as the lye hydrolyzed her tissues. Up and up it went. Bye Bye, as Kim went as well.
“Dissolve our Marriage?” he thought, laughed, and left.
*****************************
150 words exactly
@stustoryteller
http://www.stuartnager.wordpress.com/
Thank you Stuart – this will properly give me nightmares! Excellently written.
wow..thank you very much Catrina. Hope they aren’t too severe.
You’re right (as usual), Sarah. But then maybe Kelvin is Jake?
Interest twist, Jake. The woman in me was so looking forward to her killing him.
Jake’s the character, isn’t he? Kelvin is the author?
It might be cheating a bit – but here’s the first death from my next book:
She let herself flow outwards, seeking the still torn areas of land and allowing her essence to fill and heal them. With her last remaining breath Sam flung out a farewell to those she felt closest to and all the magic she had taken from others or imposed on anyone was returned or negated. She felt a moment of regret that Kate was almost deaf and blind to the magic and with the Portals sealed she couldn’t reach her. She should have told Kate. Then she simply let go. She willingly let go of the pain, of the turmoil, of all uncertainty. She relinquished her hold on memories both good and bad. As part of the deal she also let go of her heartbeat, of breathing. She let go of living. That which had been Sam spread out across the realm like oil on water until it was so thin it was no longer anything. Her body rested quietly at the foot of the tree and the final breath sighed from her open lips into the grass.
Funny how you said “death” and we’ve all gone for murder, or something less than pleasant rather than a gentle peaceful passing?
This is true. Entertainingly ALL of the entries have done it.
Jake glanced at her, wondering what the hell was wrong with her. His hands tied against both corners of the bed with what seemed to be an invisible rope.
“Let me go,” cried Jake.
The girl laughed, inching closer to the king bed. Her red colored eyes gleamed like the blood she was planning on spilling.
“I told you not to go after,” Raven said, climbing on the bed.
Jake looked sideways at his tied hands and back at the lady on top of him. The tears in his eyes trickled down his red flushed cheeks.
“Please, don’t do this to me,” he begged.
Raven pretended not to hear his words and brought our a sliver dagger from thin air. As she stretched it towards his heart, Jake closed his eyes. He wanted it to end quickly.
Just then, Raven directed the dagger to her chest as she watched him close his eyes. After a long minute, Jake didn’t feel the cold touch of the knife on this opened chest, so he opened his eyes to see what had happened.
The knife was pierced right through Raven’s heart.
Awesome, Sarah and Catrina.
This is going very well!
The chat window pinged orange on the computer screen.
~Hey!~
She smirked as she read it. Would it be today?
~Hey yourself.~ she typed back.
~I got the chocs, thank you. Started scoffing them already~ Hah, he got them, it was today.
~My pleasure! You deserve it.~
Arrogant bastard, shouting about his huge sales figures all over facebook. She wandered into the kitchen and made herself a large tea, came back and settled in to wait. They’d never trace the gift back to her, in a completely different country and ordered online. After all, she’d never laid hands on the box, what a tragic accident that they were laced with peanut oil and the recipient was violently allergic.
~I don’t feel so good.~
A slow grin spread across her face as she typed back. ~Go and grab a nap? I bet you’re tired after chatting all night?~
There, the caring friend.
I went a little over, but this is what came to mind so I stuck with it.
Mary stirred honey into the tea, humming the chorus line of Amazing Grace. She turned and smiled at Rachel, placing a cup in front of her. “A good cup of tea makes even the vilest day just a little better.”
Rachel took the cup, her hands trembling slightly. “And what a vile day it is. Surely Richard would never cheat on you.”
Mary sipped her tea. “Some women just flaunt themselves until in a weak moment a man just takes what’s so freely offered.”
Rachel shook her head in disbelief. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I bought a new dress. One of those little black numbers that’s so perfect for funerals. ”
Rachel’s eyes widened as the drug quickly took effect. Her body jerked in spasms of pain as she gasped for breath. “Please. . .,” Rachel whispered, the spasms twisting her face, contorting her features.
In seconds it was all over and Mary cleared the table, rinsing the cups and refilling them with fresh tea before dialing 911. Strokes ran in Rachel’s family. Her mother had died from one last year. And she’d make sure it was a nice funeral. After all what were best friends for?
Oh now that was cold….
both of these were cold…. I always want to be your best friend.
No problem, I’ll send chocolates and Linda can make the tea…..
feel free to exchange those *grins* as much as you’re adored I’ll NEVER drink a cup of tea made by Linda or eat chocolate sent by our dearest Sarah