WRITING PRACTICE 9.19
Various Timed Writing Practice from one day of Creative Writing Class.
Prompt: you wake and find your own dead body in your room.
“God, when I said to go kill yourself, I didn’t mean it literally.”
Amy paced the room, watching her little brother’s lip quiver. For being a 6’4 man, it was rather unsettling to see the tears welling in his eyes. He wouldn’t let his eyes stray from his own dead, unmoving face. His chocolate brown eyes, always alive with mirth, were almost black, empty and dull. Amy picked up her dead brother’s hand, letting it flop down with a lifeless thud.
“Jesus, mom is gonna be mad.”
“You think?,” he asked.
“Yeah I think! You killed your doppelganger. He’s supposed to keep you safe.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Yeah, well tough shit. He’s dead.”
“He scared me.”
“So you snapped his neck?”
He looked embarrassed at that.
“I guess so.”
Amy rubbed at her face. She sat down at his desk chair. She swirled a strand of hair around her finger, rubbing the blunt end as she thought. Necromancy is new to her, but she understands the basics of it. Maybe Beth can help. She always loves bringing plants and small game back to life. Roadkill ain’t the easiest to resurrect, but she ends up making some kind of creature out of it. It should be enough. Nate needs a face out there, one that’s not his own. A hunter won’t know the difference. Only we will be able to sense his lack of soul. Well then again, he is a doppelganger. He never had a soul, only just a replica of Nate’s, fabricated by the Allfather.
Continuation of Brave New World
Bro idk what to write my brain is fried w this allergic reaction I could barely comprehend what he was saying because I can’t seem to focus on anything but my face. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but it’s just sore, raw, puffy skin.
If I thought that optimum freedom was behind the wheel of a car, zooming down the highway on a hot summer night, then I don’t know what I would call the sky. Yes, I was controlling the whole damn thing, a giant death trap in the sky that could chop me up with its whirling blades, but hey, my chances are about the same here than when I’m going 70mph in a 35mph. Here, I can go as fast as I want, without any police to worry about.
Continuation of To Kill A Mockingbird
We were far too old to settle an argument with a fist fight, so we consulted Atticus. Our father said we were both right.
My brother made a face that I knew was the polite version of him sticking up the middle finger on his short arm. I stuck my tongue out and slouched slightly. He knew what I was doing and watched as one arm became lower than the other. He stormed off, but I knew he wasn’t actually angry. He likes to pick at my crooked nose, and I chose his off-arm to be my bait. It’s so old now that we never truly bite at it. We’re past the days of him chasing me across the house, forcing my father to pry us apart. Now, we’re forever squaring up; the threat is there, but everything cools down before the damage is really done.
My mother likes to remark that we are “such adults now”, but I’ve just learned to hold my tongue when he pinches my arm with his jagged, bit-off nails. I don’t think we have matured, simply just moved on. Now that I am able to fight him off, what’s the fun in the chase? The mind games are more for us. Being able to set him off with a single look and a simple movement makes his blood boil and my soul sing.
Continuation of There There
I liked to watch his face. I liked to look at the head of the man, the Indian man, on the test pattern. I wondered if it was his actual face. Was it his face or was it a fabricated idea of what the Indian man’s head would be? Did he have a name? Did he have a face? Did he have a story, a house, a home, a family? Was he missed when they took his head? Did he let them take his head, or is there an Indian man out there with a face that is no longer his own?
My brother asks me to play ball instead of watching the man’s face, but I can’t help but think about his head, his people’s heads. Or of those pilgrims who played with them in the streets. It’s just a ball to him, but as I watch the Indian man’s head, I know that is is more than a ball.
Perhaps I want him to know that he is not alone. I can’t imagine how lonely it must be to be just ahead. He’s stuck there forever, a spectacle to those who watch. Is he scared of the crosshair that lingers below him? How long has he been there? Does he have a family? Do people miss him? Does his body miss his head, wandering around aimlessly like those horror movies with the zombies that my brother likes to watch?
Will he ever find his body? Or perhaps, this is now his body. This box, with its waves of green and blue. Does he get tired of the noise? Does the pitch that plays annoy him, or does he not notice it anymore like my mother with the screams and shouts that come from her four kids? Is he allowed to enjoy the shows that we watch? Does he stay when we are gone?
I like to sneak out of my room and turn on the television when everyone is asleep. I’d imagine it’s like turning on the lights for the Indian man’s head. I prefer being in the light, but I have a night light when I’m alone. Him, he has nothing. I stay with him until my eyes sag. I wish him goodnight, thanking my friend for his company. He may not have a family anymore, but I hope he considers me his friend.
