Social Ladder - the stimulus!

Somehow I feel as if this stimulus places me at some sort of disadvantage ...

Due: 11:59 PM Sunday 30/03/14

Hero - No Money No Hero by Jennifer

2L of whole milk, 1L of skim milk and bread. 2L of whole milk, 1L of skim milk and bread. 

Susan recites her shopping list in an earnest bid to win over her forgetfulness. The doors slide open, and she slips past a middle aged man clutching onto his bicycle, who, unperturbed by the numerous pairs of questioning eyes, chants distant murmurs.

Onto the platform. Up the stairs. Past the ticket barriers.

The glowing green 'Woolworths' sign greets her at the other end of the station complex. Above the bustle of peak hour shopping, the sign emanates an aura of consumerised civilisation.

She shuffles toward the automatic barriers at the supermarket entrance. Susan wonders for a moment how the barriers see the world. A binary perspective - presence or absence. No individuals. Every passer-by is the same, a mere presence. No more than any other inanimate object. A signal to do work. Work. Work. Work.

The milk section is at the very back. Of course. Susan makes her way to the very back, passing by the countless discounts positioned to prey on the indecisive consumer.

2L whole milk. 21 March, 21 March, 24 March, 22 March. She opens the fridge door briefly and takes out the milk expiring on 24 March. Into the green basket. She glances back to ensure the carton behind it didn't expire on the 25th. Also 24.

Time to move on to 1L skim milk. Susan lets out a sigh of exasperation. Some stocking staff thought it amusing to place all the milk cartons with their expiry date backwards. Or maybe it was on purpose.

After trying to view the expiry dates at an angle to no avail, she reaches in and takes out a carton at random. 25. Good find. She places it in the green basket. Susan stands around for 10 seconds, then reaches in to take out another. Also 25. Probably the best right now. Susan tries not to look sheepish as she places the second carton back.

Into the bread aisle. She passes the sign warning of loose grapes on the floor posing a safety hazard. A bombardment of discount tags. Wonder White 2 for $6. Buttercup Country Split 50% off. Tip top 2 for $7.

Dilemma. Actually, multilemma.

A sign catches her eye.

Heroes. Susan is reminded of the literature piece she has not started. She takes a second glance. Maybe her brother would be interested.

Her focus shifts to the upper right shelf. Something here too catches her eye.

Tempting. Should she choose the hero card or the cheaper option? The hero or money? Fantasy or reality?

Susan pats the bread to test its softness. She checks the expiry date. Then she whisks the buttercup country split into her green shopping basket.

She shuffles toward the automatic payment terminals, leaving the hero behind her.

Author's Note: 474 words. A rushed stream of consciousness piece with close to no motive or purpose. Good night.

P.S. this is as close as a true story gets to being true.
P.P.S. i'm going to schedule this post for 10pm Sunday. hope it actually posts successfully.

Hero - the stimulus!

Just use the word again (unless Vanessa provides a stimulus~)

Due: 11:59 PM Sunday 16/03/14

Sunsets - Thank the Lord for the Night Time by Alicia

Thank the Lord for the Night Time

In the final years of the Old Days, humanity was still in denial. Stargazing in its infancy couldn’t explain it. Patricians couldn’t either. Religion stood up to take the podium, only to step down in dismay as the crowds refused to accept the Gods’ wrath in death and darkness. Cities rose and fell like the breaths of a dormant giant as the heavens realigned. The ozone shifted. Slowly, almost excruciatingly, the western hemisphere boiled and burned away.

The cold nights grew longer. Days fell short. Dawn splashed against the horizon for hours, flickering at noon. Receding into dusk.

Oceans that once flowed learnt to swirl.

In the last moments before a thousand years came to rest, the bauble that was Earth became still.

***

For nearly two millennia, the men and women of the known east grew solemn and pale. 'Days' became the stuff of distant hokum and crazy talk. Civilisations evolved to flourish under the thousand year starlight.

The Old Gods faded fast.

And eventually, so did the New.

As the summery breath of August 1967 receded into the atmosphere of the night, the stars too began to disappear from the night sky. Sirens from the neighbourhood over were going off; car and house alarms startling and screeching as tumbling bodies hurtled from the heavens. Children with telescopes would watch as a twinkle of light was snuffed out by a celestial thumb; a soft pregnant silence, before the telling spark sang way up high in the troposphere, and a path of fire would blaze to life.

One by one, they fell. Like angels falling from grace, the stars had shamed the skies with their unspoken disobedience, and were thrown from their pedestals.

But beneath the din of dogs barking, cars whining and middle-aged men growling, the soft snaps of a pop rock groove floated from the radios of a dozen homes.

I thank the Lord for the night time
To forget the day
A day of up, uptight time
Baby, chase it away
I get relaxation, it's a time to groove
I thank the Lord for the night time
I thank the Lord for you.

Resistant to the static.

***

2014.

The sun had begun. Begun its unholy descent into the depths of a shadowy gloom. Gloom from which it would not emerge for another thousand years. Years in which the downturned faces of the hollowed lower city brush against one another blindly, reaching out to rough cold brick for solace. They turn away from one another as they bump unsolicited into grasps unwelcome. Solace will not come in the darkness.

Sam closed the blinds as the last rays hesitated on the horizon, returning to the comfortable familiarity of electric-powered light sources, glad the Day of Étaín was almost over. Only a few hours remained before the residents of Scunthorpe could resume their routines in the winding streets. He could already feel the temperature dropping slightly as he reached for the wardrobe.

'Jess, the sun's almost set. We should probably call Dean.' He emerged with two thick coats, wrapping a scarf around his neck as he spoke, the soft crimson wool alive in the atmospheric lighting. The much larger coat was tugged over his three layers of shirts and jackets as Jess entered the bedroom in her casual summer vest and grey thermal trousers.

'Ready, but I think Dean's already in the lower city,' she grimaced as she let Sam drape her in another layer of clothing, 'He isn't picking up his phone.'

Sam was silent as he moved to the window, peering between the shutters, waiting. But the sun seemed intent on winning the staring contest. He looked away as she spoke up.

'You need to talk to him. He's your brother.'

'Look, I know it isn't normal to want to be out during sunlight hours, but as long as he isn't waving his ass directly in the glare for longer than an hour, I don't see why we should bother him about it.' Sam sighed, adjusting the buttons on his sleeves, 'He'll be fine.'

An hour passes, and the sky is clear. They leave hand in hand, smiling at each other in the puddles of flickering streetlights.

Thank the Lord for the night time.

***

A man takes a heavy step. It is unmeasured, unsteady. It rests for a moment on the frozen cement of the past, before the heel lifts a centimetre towards the unlit heavens. Heavens which were lost. The man heaves several breaths, the air puffing in an ashen silence. His hood is raised; his nape clings to the carelessly thin textile. His outstretched fingers, a ghostly white were there light, crush gently against the lapel of an unknown neighbour. The neighbour either does not feel it, or ignores it.

The man once again steps, towards a dim iridescence. Perhaps it is pure imagination that draws him. All he knows is that this light, calls to him.

‘Dean.’

He turns.

The silence which greets him is shrieking. His eyes recoil from the darkness as if the sun had been switched off in a thoughtless moment. He can feel them trying, trying so hard, to adjust to the night. But his blown wide pupils could only stretch so far before the black became.

They shrink a nanometre as a presence flickers.

Within an inch of his nose, the man, Dean, can feel the ghosting breath of another person - man, woman, child, Sam… he can’t tell. But it isn’t the person that calls to him. It isn’t a physical call, but rather a visceral one. It shrivels as it approaches his navel, his ears and grasps his shoulders. But then it expands as it crawls into the hollow spaces between his ribs, cradling his sluggish organs and whispering of warmth.

He steps into silence.

Only moments ago, the wild gods of the west traversed the sky in their flaming chariots. How he missed it already; the absence of frost upon his lip, of mist on his tongue. In the last seconds of Étaín, he could've sworn he saw a silhouette cross the surface of the setting sun, trailing its wings behind it.

But they all thought he was another Apolloist, the title given to the solatics who claimed the sun wasn't just as bad as deep, deep, deep, deep winter.

Maybe it was true.

Now, he can only struggle forward in the hoarfrost that grows before his eyes. Only force of will lifts his sluggish limbs from frostbite in the unlit lower city. This part of town had as bad a rep as you could get without being from the west. With no electricity, only the desperate and poor roamed here. Most were motionless, having long lost the will to care.

They became the trees of winter.

Simple silence.

Gravel crunching against ice.

'Dean.'

A flash of something blinds him, erupting in fireworks behind his closed lids. A light.

'D-did you see that?' Dean demands of the frozen man he touched earlier. There is no response, of course. Just a burning cold reminder in the fingertips that came into contact with the man's icy lapels.

Ten Old Days was all these people had. The Day of Étaín. The Day of the Sun. Who could say if it was a sadder life than their electricity-dependent counterparts. Dean certainly couldn't. Even now, he was heading back up to his brother's heaters and mittens for a cup of hot cocoa.

'Dean.' It beckoned again. 'Come.'

Down an alley, and across an abandoned path of dead or very near.

And there, lying in a ditch, gasping for thin breaths, was a tax accountant.

But when he turned to Dean, his eyes were luminescent. They burned right through him, the colour of sky. Not normal sky; of Étaín sky. Sky when the sun was at its peak in the eastern world. Sky so rare and unseen that the last written accounts were still being scribbled by fanatics as Dean gazed straight into the empyrean.

Again, the visceral call promises warmth as it takes Dean's insides apart. It comes not from the man's mouth, but as if from deep within.

'Who are you?'

'My name is Castiel.' His voice was a deep seraphic whisper. 'And I'm here to raise the sun.'

Thank the Lord for you.

~OvO~

Author's Note: I don't care anymore. 1385 words. This story was going to be epic. But I ruined it with bad time management and the inability to work at late hours. Also yes, it was originally a Supernatural fanfic idea, and I decided to keep it that way, cause I'm a lazy butt. You can tell which bits I wrote tonight cause it's atrocious. Few notes:

• Thank the Lord for the Night Time is a song by Neil Diamond released sometime in 1967. 
• Étaín is an Irish sun goddess. 
• Apolloists are obviously made up and based on Apollo - chosen as my main choices were Celtic and Roman influences. 
• solatics - a play on 'lunatics' since that came from 'moon-sick'. 
• Scunthorpe is actually a town in England. 
• Patricians - nobles back in Ancient Rome. 
• Empyrean - the highest part of heaven, thought by the ancients to be the realm of pure fire / the visible sky

If you didn't understand the story at all, which don't worry I understand, cause it was total bollocks, here is a quick explanation cause I'm just pissed at myself:

Alternate universe where science screwed up, and the rotation of the Earth changed so that in the eastern world (i.e. continents excluding Americas) would have 1000 years of night, and 10 days of sunlight. Due to this crappy arrangement, the western world basically died out and became a desert. Of course, the point where the 'Earth became still' is actually the birth of Christ. 

In 1967, the angels fell. Why 1967? Cause I said so. So from 1967, there were no stars either. Lol I forgot about the actual moon. Oops #yolo. 

The story as I first wrote it starts from the final segment, where Dean is walking in the ice, and hears a visceral voice calling him. It was originally Castiel, an angel, calling him so they could save the world (because the original plot was very different), but then for this challenge I realised I had to explain it all to you guys somehow without delving too deep into SPN universe, and it screwed up loads. Obviously there are so many holes in this story it ain't funny. Like for one, Neil Diamond is an American. And I killed America. 

Okay, goodnight. I promise to rewrite this one if you liked the idea though. 

Sunsets - Shapeshifting Sunsets by Jennifer

We all recall the end of a typical animated movie - the protagonist returning to his relieved family after heroically defeating the villain. A heart warming reunion, foreground to the sunset in the the distance, symbolising a closure whether it be plot-wise or emotional. The sunset marks the end of the day's turmoils, of a retreat into the tranquil familial sphere from the perils which thrive on the energy of sunlight.

Yet at the same time we hear of the danger in the final rays of the sun as it makes its descent, the inevitable conjure of endless imagination - thieves, murderers hiding around the corner of every sombre alleyway. The smell of covert criminal activity springing to life with the death of sunlight, the taste of the awakening of the city's other facade which laid dormant in the daylight hours.

But what is the mystery behind the sunset? Why does a simple, daily phenomenon hold such ambiguity? Perhaps, as does human tendency, we have glorified the sunset and bestowed it with much greater significance than it constitutes. But who is to say that this bestowed significance has not shaped how we discern night and day?

Author's Note: 196 words. Sorry about the short post. I intended to address the many different meanings we take out of a sunset, and to pose questions about whether there was a 'correct' interpretation and whether such an interpretation would be time/spatially dependent. I'm not very satisfied with the ending, but can't exactly pinpoint what. Sleepy. Going to sleep. Good night.

Sunsets - The Sun Sets by Maggie

The Sun Sets

One day the sun went down and never came back up. 
I know this because I woke up to darkness. 
“Hello darkness, my old friend.” I greeted. 
It responded with a sound of silence.

I felt my way around to the window. 
That tiny window above the bookshelf. 
Oops. I think I just crashed into something. Or someone. 
Who else could be here?

Finally, I had reached the window. 
A small slit into the heavens. 
I exhaled. My breath fogged up the glass. 
That’s no good.

I squinted. Forcing my vision to clear.
My pupils to dilate. Take in the light. 
I could have wiped the fog away with my hand.
But humans are absurd.

Concentrate. You had to concentrate. 
It can be devious. 
The Sun can hide.
Sometimes its presence was muffled by the clouds. 

But it wasn’t. 

I went to the horizon and peeked over the edge.
I said, “Sun, why aren’t you getting up?”
“I’m a dying star.” It whispered back.
Like a voice caught in a vacuum.
It was going towards oblivion. 

Oh. 

Author's Note: Ha. Me? Author? What a joke. Okay. I'm the first one to give up and post my piece. JUST A FAIR WARNING THOUGH. This is not poetry. It's...like crappy sentences separated into groups of four. There's like no flow. I don't know what I was doing. It's approaching 11pm and I better just post it and get it over and done with. (Please don't laugh at me. Or pretend to be nice. :C) In my defence for this bad piece of writing...I was stressing over about uni. WHICH IS TOMORROW. D: 

 

Sunsets - Special Pilot

No stimulus provided.

Due: 11:59 PM AEST 02/03/14 

#WRITERSNEVERDIE

Hey guys! Exciting news!

We're back with a new series of beautifully written pieces for your personal devouring and enjoyment, delivered live and flapping like freshly floundering salmon straight to your computer screen.

Our new program schedule will be broadcasting individual pieces every second Sunday, starting from the Special Pilot episode this weekend, before university starts for your loverly writers.

And on that note... Introducing, the writers of this season!

• Your beloved returning cast: Jennifer, Alicia and Katrina 
• Fresh meat: Maggie and Alison

But this season, there's a twist.

Gone are the 30 minute writing restrictions. Gone are the restrictive genres of belonging. GONE ARE OUR BORDERS.

This season... our hearts, minds, creative limits, and procrastinative abilities can't hold it back anymore and are letting it go! (sorry)

The new rules:

• any written text type is cool. (e.g. short story, poetry, scientific report, documentary, speech, presidential address, resume etc. BE CREATIVE) 
• the minimum effort required needs to feel like you actually really tried ok?
• no writing time limits 
• one prompt a fortnight - must be addressed sufficiently in your piece. do not include it as a random reference. you still have to use it like you would a stimulus in high school, just maybe a bit more creatively this time. 
• each πece is due Sunday 11:59 PM AEST

Happy imaginative writing, and may the motivation be ever in your favour! 

Don't miss out!!!