There...is no stimulus!
This week, we're dealing with just the word "orchids", as we don't have enough time for an outside provider. :)
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Prison - As far as the Mind Takes us by Jennifer
As far as the mind takes us
I dive underneath the canopy of newspapers spread across the coffee table, temporarily shielded from the stream of bullets which I can hear attacking the house outside. Every low but piercing bang penetrates my eardrums, sending a chilly response which stiffens my spine.
The heavy bullets of rain pause momentarily, giving me a chance to leap upon the window sill and strip the curtain off its pole. I wrap the curtain around me - I cannot let slip any slim chance of survivial. Suddenly the cluttering bangs continue outside ... amplifying slowly as I can almost smell the reek of petrol which smothers its yielder growing stronger and stronger.
There is no way out.
The bedroom door bellows a silent scream through its ajar mouth, beckoning me to enter its depths - a potential asylum. I sprint through the corridor, photos and paintings of the family members who have already fallen victim to the beast outside smashing onto the floor behind me ... chasing my own footsteps ...
By the time my eyes adjust to the darkness of the room my palms are sticky with the blood from various wounds cut open by the apprentices of this villain outside. Yes, it is a villain! The one who has come to seize me yet again. The thundering of my caged heart threatens the silence which blankets me, every truncated breath a deathly betrayal of my whereabouts.
The barrage of the machine gun outside appears to have ceased, and with it I release a sigh of relief. But I do not let my guard down ... I will not let them catch me ...
Yet again, the weary breath which is cut short upon every entry into what was once the serenity of a home. She sighs as she recognises the familiar traces of a victim's flight from the horror of one's nightmares ...
It is not long before she catches sight of a deranged Winston, huddled underneath her bed sheets clad in the navy blue of her living room curtain. Today he wears the Sydney Morning Herald around his neck as well.
She smiles off the wet tear which brushes down her lined cheeks as she parks the lawn mower back into its position in the garage space, the rusting backyard swings echoing from the absence of the lawn mower's sputtering engines. Tentatively she enters the house, carefully picking up the family photos which lie scattered ... shattered ... across the corridor.
It bears her great pain to watch as Winston, once a lively child, darts underneath her bed defensively, hands clasped together in the jagged gesture of a gun.
Winston will never hear of the real world ... he lies trapped within the impenetrable confines of his own mind. And she realises that this is where he will remain. Unheeded by the burden of reality, he passes his days without the knowledge of grief, remorse, sentimentality. He turns and turns in the cell of his own mind like a fly that doesn't know where to die. Forever preoccupied with what we see as the insignificances of our own lives, he is troubled by little beyond the treacherous games weaved together by the imagination with eternally binds him ...
Author's Note: 542 words. okay I've spent almost a minute figuring out what i'm supposed to capitalise in my title ... and I don't really like this story either. It doesn't make sense :(
I dive underneath the canopy of newspapers spread across the coffee table, temporarily shielded from the stream of bullets which I can hear attacking the house outside. Every low but piercing bang penetrates my eardrums, sending a chilly response which stiffens my spine.
The heavy bullets of rain pause momentarily, giving me a chance to leap upon the window sill and strip the curtain off its pole. I wrap the curtain around me - I cannot let slip any slim chance of survivial. Suddenly the cluttering bangs continue outside ... amplifying slowly as I can almost smell the reek of petrol which smothers its yielder growing stronger and stronger.
There is no way out.
The bedroom door bellows a silent scream through its ajar mouth, beckoning me to enter its depths - a potential asylum. I sprint through the corridor, photos and paintings of the family members who have already fallen victim to the beast outside smashing onto the floor behind me ... chasing my own footsteps ...
By the time my eyes adjust to the darkness of the room my palms are sticky with the blood from various wounds cut open by the apprentices of this villain outside. Yes, it is a villain! The one who has come to seize me yet again. The thundering of my caged heart threatens the silence which blankets me, every truncated breath a deathly betrayal of my whereabouts.
The barrage of the machine gun outside appears to have ceased, and with it I release a sigh of relief. But I do not let my guard down ... I will not let them catch me ...
***
Yet again, the weary breath which is cut short upon every entry into what was once the serenity of a home. She sighs as she recognises the familiar traces of a victim's flight from the horror of one's nightmares ...
It is not long before she catches sight of a deranged Winston, huddled underneath her bed sheets clad in the navy blue of her living room curtain. Today he wears the Sydney Morning Herald around his neck as well.
She smiles off the wet tear which brushes down her lined cheeks as she parks the lawn mower back into its position in the garage space, the rusting backyard swings echoing from the absence of the lawn mower's sputtering engines. Tentatively she enters the house, carefully picking up the family photos which lie scattered ... shattered ... across the corridor.
It bears her great pain to watch as Winston, once a lively child, darts underneath her bed defensively, hands clasped together in the jagged gesture of a gun.
Winston will never hear of the real world ... he lies trapped within the impenetrable confines of his own mind. And she realises that this is where he will remain. Unheeded by the burden of reality, he passes his days without the knowledge of grief, remorse, sentimentality. He turns and turns in the cell of his own mind like a fly that doesn't know where to die. Forever preoccupied with what we see as the insignificances of our own lives, he is troubled by little beyond the treacherous games weaved together by the imagination with eternally binds him ...
Author's Note: 542 words. okay I've spent almost a minute figuring out what i'm supposed to capitalise in my title ... and I don't really like this story either. It doesn't make sense :(
Prison - The Waitress by Katrina
The Waitress
"Could you please repeat that?" Caitlin's heart hammered against her ribcage; cold sweat clinging to her skin like toxin invading her body.
"We just do not think you are qualified enough. For a respectable company like ours, we are expecting more experience, and judging from your part time jobs, particularly your current ones, our president simply does not believe-"
Caitlin threw her phone at the ground in a fit of fury, ripping her resume into shreds. How many more? How many more times will rejections come flying at her like the arrows of despair? How many more times must she be told to stay within the dinghy restraints of the old bar?
***
Alexander Wright. That's what his name was; or so she had heard. A fully fledged businessman at the mere age of 25, soon to be the CEO of some company that was rising quickly in importance. He held a dignified air about him, Caitlin noticed as she nodded absent mindedly in approval. Reliable, was what she would call it.
The brown, wooden walls enclosed her as she collected the dirty plates from another table, filled with the leftovers no one had considered worth eating.
She stole a glance at the beautifully designed business card that was passed between the two men, her eyes widened as she saw the company's name.
It was precisely the company that she always dreamt of working for, no matter how hard she had to grovel at their feet for, licking the dirt off their shoes. It was the exact same company that had rejected her .... how many times... she couldn't even remember.
Irritated, she stormed away from that private little booth, infuriated by her own incapability. What made her so different from all the other employed chemists; she really couldn't understand.
By the age of 30, she had dreamt to be working as a biochemist, or perhaps a forensic chemist even. She had imagined finding herself a husband, having her own house, her own car. Anything but this, her inner consciousness screamed, trapped in the bars of the restaurant, serving sleazy old men who reached out at every chance to stroke her buttocks.
"Caitlin! I'm ready to order," a familiar voice called.
Caitlin walked over to her with a small smile, following the sounds of her voice as it led her to Sylvia Stone, or as she was better known as by society, a musical genius.
Sylvia Stone was one of the few women Caitlin admired, as her passion for music had never died away even as age took away the innocence of the music she composed. Yes, she admired her, but at the same time, she couldn't help but loathe her being able to achieve what will forever remain to be a dream.
Sylvia Stone was yet another reminder of her incapabilities.
A smile forced its way upon her face as she bid the final customer farewell, his appetite satisfied with the stench of oil as he sauntered his way down the narrow aisle. Caitlin looked upon him in disgust; the way he had leered at her had not gone unnoticed. Seething, she burned holes into his back as he struggled to fit his heaving stomach through the door.
"It's time to pack up, Caitlin," the manager reminded her, turning the key in the old cash register.
Caitlin fought back a heavy sigh, as she was reminded of the mountains of rejected applications piling up on her desk. She knew that no matter where she ran to, she would be a fly that didn't know how to die.
Author's note: Suspiciously, exactly 600 words. This is the first time I've written something on the spot in 30 or so minutes... but I hope you guys enjoy reading it. I have a feeling that the link to the stimulus isn't very clear... but it was defined in my head. :) Anyway, happy reading. :)
"Could you please repeat that?" Caitlin's heart hammered against her ribcage; cold sweat clinging to her skin like toxin invading her body.
"We just do not think you are qualified enough. For a respectable company like ours, we are expecting more experience, and judging from your part time jobs, particularly your current ones, our president simply does not believe-"
Caitlin threw her phone at the ground in a fit of fury, ripping her resume into shreds. How many more? How many more times will rejections come flying at her like the arrows of despair? How many more times must she be told to stay within the dinghy restraints of the old bar?
***
Alexander Wright. That's what his name was; or so she had heard. A fully fledged businessman at the mere age of 25, soon to be the CEO of some company that was rising quickly in importance. He held a dignified air about him, Caitlin noticed as she nodded absent mindedly in approval. Reliable, was what she would call it.
The brown, wooden walls enclosed her as she collected the dirty plates from another table, filled with the leftovers no one had considered worth eating.
She stole a glance at the beautifully designed business card that was passed between the two men, her eyes widened as she saw the company's name.
It was precisely the company that she always dreamt of working for, no matter how hard she had to grovel at their feet for, licking the dirt off their shoes. It was the exact same company that had rejected her .... how many times... she couldn't even remember.
Irritated, she stormed away from that private little booth, infuriated by her own incapability. What made her so different from all the other employed chemists; she really couldn't understand.
By the age of 30, she had dreamt to be working as a biochemist, or perhaps a forensic chemist even. She had imagined finding herself a husband, having her own house, her own car. Anything but this, her inner consciousness screamed, trapped in the bars of the restaurant, serving sleazy old men who reached out at every chance to stroke her buttocks.
"Caitlin! I'm ready to order," a familiar voice called.
Caitlin walked over to her with a small smile, following the sounds of her voice as it led her to Sylvia Stone, or as she was better known as by society, a musical genius.
Sylvia Stone was one of the few women Caitlin admired, as her passion for music had never died away even as age took away the innocence of the music she composed. Yes, she admired her, but at the same time, she couldn't help but loathe her being able to achieve what will forever remain to be a dream.
Sylvia Stone was yet another reminder of her incapabilities.
A smile forced its way upon her face as she bid the final customer farewell, his appetite satisfied with the stench of oil as he sauntered his way down the narrow aisle. Caitlin looked upon him in disgust; the way he had leered at her had not gone unnoticed. Seething, she burned holes into his back as he struggled to fit his heaving stomach through the door.
"It's time to pack up, Caitlin," the manager reminded her, turning the key in the old cash register.
Caitlin fought back a heavy sigh, as she was reminded of the mountains of rejected applications piling up on her desk. She knew that no matter where she ran to, she would be a fly that didn't know how to die.
Author's note: Suspiciously, exactly 600 words. This is the first time I've written something on the spot in 30 or so minutes... but I hope you guys enjoy reading it. I have a feeling that the link to the stimulus isn't very clear... but it was defined in my head. :) Anyway, happy reading. :)
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Prison - the stimulus!
"I turn and turn in my cell like a fly that doesn't know where to die."
- Antonio Gramsci
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