Monday Motivations

Sometimes all you need is a word to get your creativity going and for threads of a story or poem to start to weave together. Here are some words to start you on your way:

  • Surprise
  • Affair
  • Shatter
  • Angels
  • Terror
  • Cafe
  • Accident
  • Alleyway
  • Poison
  • Rejection

Last week, I gave you two short story openings to stimulate those creative juices:

Idea one:

Night time is the worst time. I hate it. All day I dread it. In the summer months, it is delayed for just a little while, but it still comes creeping closer as the shimmering sun sets and the moon rises, mocking me.

It is here now. It has joined me in my bedroom. I can feel it enveloping me, ever tighter. The grandfather clock ticks in the hall, a tick tock of comfort, of familiarity, but it not comfort I want, nor familiarity. Those are the things I detest.

Idea two:

Donald couldn’t bear it. Sweat soaked the sheets and a sickness surged through him. His life was over. He paused. Any minute now.

The thud was tremendous as the tabloid thumped onto the mat. His wife’s scream informed him she’d seen the photos plastered all over the front pages.

Geoff Le Pard wrote something for the second idea and sent it in. As always, it’s brilliant. Read and enjoy:

Donald couldn’t bear it. Sweat soaked the sheets and a sickness surged through him. His life was over. He paused. Any minute now.

The thud was tremendous as the tabloid thumped onto the mat. His wife’s scream informed him she’d seen the photos plastered all over the front pages.

What was taking her so long? His chest ached and his stomach churned. She should be by the bed telling him what she thought. How she’d leave him, how she’d tell the press about his penchant for her taffeta. He’d be a laughing stock, his ministerial post would be history, his agent would demand ‘with great regret’ his resignation.

Where was she? Had she fainted? No he could hear noises. Oh god, had she gone for a knife? Was she going to kill him? Or do a ‘Bobbit’ and remove the offending appendage?

Donald went to stand up but pain suffused his whole being, emanating from his chest. As he collapsed back on the bed he heard her feet on the stairs. While his chest exploded in agony and his breathing began to stop, he caught the sound of her feet sliding across the deep carpet. He was slipping into a final unconscious state as her hand turned the bedroom door nob. He realised now the sounds were not her anger or tears but a chortling laugh. The last thing of which he was aware before death took him was his wife saying ‘You will never believe what your twin has been up to now.’

***

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9 Responses to Monday Motivations

  1. Belinda Davidson says:

    Brilliant!

  2. somewords4u says:

    A short story on ‘SURPRISE’

    THANK YOU BISCUITS! YOU DID NOT ROT!

    The city was under curfew. The upcoming general election had created much hustle bustle in the region, not to say risks of riots. The temperature of the atmosphere hovering over the city had shooted much. But I cared a damn, as if who would won or lose would have made any difference to me. But the tension prevailing surely did. Being without roof was already enough to manage with. More, playing hide and seek was never something appealing to me. Sleeping on an empty stomach would be more than enough.

    The announcement was made late in the evening. I was still wandering the streets with empty pockets. The people of the city had ear only for the news over the past days. My songs went unheard. Everybody was in a rush. Nearly all shops were closed in an eye blink. I learnt from a fellow hurrying to can’t say where that two hours ultimatum was given to reach home.
    Home! I thought. Where will I go tonight. Maybe my good luck, despite all, the tailor’s shop at the corner of the street was still open. The owner was known to me, a rather jovial fellow. I used to sit there and we would chat for long often. He trusted me. Being a nomad was not being ill-reputed after all. And he agreed to let me a place inside his shop for the night. At least that would spare the bullet carrying my name, I felt laughing on my own thinking.
    The owner handed over to me a bottle of water and said,
    “Nothing more on me for now. Manage. What to say?”
    “Never a problem Sir. Thank you very much.”
    He waved a hand and the shutters were dropped. I waved back but it was a problem. My stomach was churning. Not a single morsel went in since morning that day. What to do now.

    After a little bit of to and fro, I ended up with the idea of trying to get some sleep. No need to move around. I could have bumped into anything, injured myself and worsen my situation. I took off my only old jacket, made a pillow out of it and rested my head upon.

    A burp desperate to come out would not let my eyes to doze off. I kept tossing again and again. Then I heard a sound coming from beneath, a crunching sound. I unfolded the jacket and slipped my hand in the inside pocket. I had a little packet of biscuit. God knows since how long it laid there.
    “What a feast! A bottle of water and a packet of nearly stale biscuits!”

    The burp came out after they both went inside. I kissed my jacket, folded it again, more gently that time and it was not much a struggle to hunt for sleep then. And for that I did not thank the lord but my packet of biscuits, for they did not rot.

    A small poem on ‘SHATTER’
    Certain feelings
    which are spoken
    may not always
    be as token
    but they may certainly
    result in reasoning awoken
    as they may be
    expressions of a heartbroken!

  3. I really need to work on that 97%…

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