Ok, write for 3 minutes. Preferably in the comment box thing, but it doesn't really matter. Don't think about anything before you write. This isn't a place to start a story you've been thinking about. This isn't a place to post a previously written poem so you'll seem smart. This is a place to just spout out words into sentences. Just write the first thing in your head, then the second, the third, fourth, et cetera. But ONLY WRITE FOR 3 MINUTES. After 3 minutes is up, STOP WRITING and post what you have written.
It might be crap. Scratch that, it's probably going to be crap. But it'll feel good like all craps should.
It can be a poem, a fiction story, a grocery list, a collection of nouns. I don't care. Just do it.
The train running past the crows next to the lighthouse shouts smoke and screams across its tracks. The sky is all blue. Streaks of rust line the railroad ties. No one is at the train stop anymore. “Where are you going, train?” The murder begins to fly. The train comes to a stop, throwing sparks all over the rocks lining its tracks. The crows are now on top of the engine. “All aboard,” shouts no one. We continue our journey. The crows flying in the wake of the smoke blend in quite well. The lighthouse is not on yet. It is not night. Though if you were a raven, you’d think otherwise.
ReplyDeleteyay
(This is the Princess.)
ReplyDeleteHe's lying on the ground, unconscious, because he was running around as carelessly as a bull in a china shop and these are the consequences. These are the consequences of chaos and disorder and this is what happens when you forget the list hanging on the door and that the sun sets and the stars come out eventually and set everything on dark fire. You didn't know dark fire existed, did you. That's why he's lying on the ground unconscious now. That's why the children are laughing obliviously in their tents behind the trees, that's why the stars are crying and the waters no longer tranquil and adults are sweating the grief. You can't ever tell anyone, though. Never can you mention this little encounter. You're unconscious on the ground now, and no one knows.
Wooot.
This is the night when the sky turns purple, when the tears form rivers. Don’t think about that, no, think about the screaming and the water, the way his hand felt. This is the night when the cars will be silent, you will ask them, the highway wanderers, to tell you where it is you’re going and what it is you’re searching for, but they won’t tell you, they won’t croak like the frogs do, the frogs sing, the frogs let you listen for a while and the movie stops playing in front of your eyes. Don’t think about the picture frames, no, think about the doorknobs, think about the slap of the window panes when you let them drop too quickly, and the way the floor is so cold against your heels. Red, red books and pencils, it smells like lead here, you can’t breathe here, the dust is filling up the bookshelves here, the grass won’t let your footprints stay. The sidewalks yell at you when you walk outside, the storefronts whisper, but nothing from which you want answers gives them.
ReplyDeleteHey, I like this a lot. Let's keep doing this. Once a week. Once a month. Something.
ReplyDeleteI agree! I just thought of a prompt that I wanted to post yesterday...at the moment I forget what it was...but I'll try to remember :)
ReplyDelete