To kick-start your writing week, I’m going to give you a line for a story, but it’s a line which can be placed at the beginning, middle or end of your story; it’s completely up to you:
Gabriel had hated the boy on sight.
Here’s my story:
The Joy Rider
Gabriel was going to do it and no one was going to stop him. His heart thumped, building to a crescendo before crashing down. He’d never make it at this rate.
His eyes looked left into the vast lounge. She was sitting there, her mouth moving furiously as she chatted to a friend. He grinned. It was going to be so easy. He looked right. Green eyes bored into his. He fought the urge to flee and forget the whole thing. He moved back into the shadows.
The eyes followed, moving closer, searching and seeking him out. He shivered as fur brushed against him before vanishing into the depths of the house beyond. He hated cats.
He crept forward. Fear probed every part of his body. Silence. Then the sound of laughter and mugs clinking. He had to make his move. As he neared the door the Porsche in the driveway caught his eye. Magnificent silver glinted in the sunlight. His eyes lit up, spying the keys only inches away. His hand reached out. Almost there.
Footsteps from upstairs came to the top of the staircase. ‘Mum, can I have a lift to James’ house?’
A head peered over the banister. Gabriel dived behind the bookcase, breathing like a clapped out steam train. He looked up, watching as the boy sucked in gum, his teeth chomping manically as he dangled over the wood.
He couldn’t breathe. The boy’s eyes roamed over the books, inches from his hideout. And what if she came out of the lounge? She was bound to see him.
‘In a minute, Nathan, Mrs. Stanley-Warner is here at the moment,’ she shouted from the comfort of the sofa.
‘I hate you, Mum,’ the boy seethed, punching the banister and retreating to his room.
Nathan slammed the door behind him and seconds later, rock music blared from inside and fists punched the walls. Gabriel had hated the boy on sight. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing.
He knew he was being hard on himself. It was his first time and he still had much to learn. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was in him, in his blood. He had no way of stopping it.
He edged his way towards the keys. People were so silly. He felt a spark as his fingers touched the metal, igniting as his hands clasped the keys.
The door opened upstairs. If they found him like this, he would be locked away. His grip tightened. He wouldn’t give in without a fight.
Nathan appeared on the stairs. Brown eyes were on him now. A sound behind him. She was there too, a scream shooting from her mouth.
‘Gabriel! Take those keys out of your mouth,’ she said, laughing, ‘you little rascal. It’s the playpen for you, my boy.’
Tears pricked the back of his eyes. She always spoiled his fun.
Last week I gave you the theme of fear. A few of you contacted me to say how useful you’d found the prompt and a couple of writers sent their work in to be shared.
Nest Madden wrote the following powerful story:
“Contact, contact, contact!” I knew it was contact; I heard the unmistakable sound of a Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle somewhere in the fog up ahead of us. I also knew l shouldn’t be there, I was only accepting a lift back to the barracks. The Land Rover slewed to a stop. The driver leapt out grabbing his rifle and the sergeant joined him; peering into the fog.
“Nothing, I can’t see a thing,” I joined them on the road. The sound of gunfire exploded again; this time it seemed nearer. The sergeant brought his rifle up to the firing position and began to advance up the road with the trooper following. I followed, I didn’t have a choice. “Guys I haven’t got a weapon with me,” I said nervously.
The sergeant spun round, “Shh, you fool, do you want us to get hi? Get in that ditch and keep your head down.” He shoved me toward a muddy ditch at the edge of the field that we were crossing.
I lay in about four inches of freezing water covered in mud, my combat trousers and boots full of water, my face buried in the grass. I could feel my mouth dry with fear. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so frightened. Suddenly there was a burst of firing; I could hear the rounds as they zipped over the culvert where I was lying. The thing that made it more terrifying for me was that I couldn’t tell if it was fire from our soldiers or the other side. The gunfire stopped, and I lay in my freezing ditch for what seemed an age. The fog hadn’t lifted, if anything it had got thicker. Then I heard shouting, unintelligible words. I couldn’t even clearly make out the accent. The sound appeared to be getting closer. I shifted my stiffening legs and the patina of ice that had formed on my combat trousers cracked and crackled, sounding unnaturally loud to my ears. I froze in fear – had I given my position away?
A large friendly face appeared over the edge of the ditch and looked down at me. “Are you going to lay there all night? Get out of there and let’s get back to barracks,” a proffered hand helped me upright and pulled me out of the ditch.
Geoff Le Pard also write a strong story on the theme. Please visit his site and read it: