Storytime Sunday is a weekly event hosted by A Writer Named Charley. Anyone can join! Simply do the following:
- Read the new writing prompt.
- Write from the prompt.
- Feature the piece on your blog or submit to firstname.lastname@example.org before midnight on Friday!
- Make sure to use the image!
- Share, read, and repeat on Sunday with #StorytimeSundayWriters!
Last week’s prompt:
Write a story that involves a countdown. Start the story at 10 and end the story at 0.
Written by: Charley
My eyes press close until I see the galaxies brighten themselves. Grays and whites and blacks mix themselves together. The wind blows past me bringing along them laughter and joy. Far away indistinct music plays. All my senses heighten themselves with my eyes closed. I smell the freshly mowed grass in the field. It relaxes me as it always does, like a well worn blanket.
My voice cracks as I shout out words into the void. A chanting of syllables and noises known around the world. Words strung together in warning to the Others to run. Run, the words say, run as fast as you can. But you are not the gingerbread man. The Others know, however, that the gingerbread man gets caught at the end of the story. Just as they will.
My feet sink into the moist ground. The rain clouds loomed over the skies all morning until finally they released. Drops morphed into streams. Laughter filled the air and lifted away the heaviness, pushed it away. No longer would the moisture hold us still. We ran outside, slipping and sliding in the mud. We covered ourselves until our skin color no longer mattered, per usual.
My hands move as a spring breeze flows past me into the wide countryside where I stand. The sun beats down on my mud-covered skin, drying the mud and tightening my skin. My fingers wriggle subconsciously trying to stay loose and ready. I reach above my head, acting as if stretching, and feel the rough underside of leaves from the tree to my left hanging over me.
My nose wrinkles itself up like a small caterpillar scrunching along on the ground, like the green ones I see on the tan gravel roads all the time. Caterpillars, unlike my nose, however, grow into a beautiful butterfly. My face will not grow into a beautiful butterfly as I grow older. My face, I am told, will forever hold a crooked nose from the only fight I’ve ever been in.
My brain takes me back to the cold winter day despite the warmth around me. Suddenly, my fingers remember the frostbite. Walking along the driveway from the school building feet prevent me from moving forward to my house just down the road. Powerful words throw themselves at each other until finally one punches the Other. One being me, and the Other being deserving.
My eyes flutter at the flashback, wanting to check to make sure the Other run far away from me. I am the dangerous one in this game of life, however short lived the victory may be. Voices yell at my fluttering eyes to stay closed. The Other voices are too near, too far. Tears begin to spring into my ducts. Stop it! I yell in my head. Stop it! You are the dangerous one, I say.
My stomach grumbles, filling my insides with reverberations of a dying war drum. A forgotten breakfast and a long overdue lunch sit inside the refrigerator plunked inside the box house a hill and a few thousand feet away from me. Memories of yelling and fighting remind me of why I forgot the necessity of food today, yesterday, and the days beforehand.
My mouth opens to shout out more words and warning and numbers and insanities. Instead it meets a flying, or perhaps rather falling, acorn. Tensing and flopping onto the ground my body kicks into reflex mode. Hands, my own hands, fly to my neck and begin to choke myself. A fear, and relief, of death fight over my body. Half right, half left, half correct, half wrong, half and half.
My lungs cough up the tiny being of the beginning of a new life that wanted to end my own short life, the acorn. I keep my eyes shut for fear of the Other screaming obscene words at my dumbfounded mind. They believe I can’t do anything right, but today is to show them I can do everything ten times better than they can. Like run. Like laugh. Like live life. But do I want to?
The number flies out of my mouth, my eyes fly open, my body kicks itself off the ground, simultaneously. Before my brain talks to me about what to do, my feet dig out of the mud and push upward. My hands cling to the strongest lifeforce around me, the tree above me. I swing my legs to grasp the bendy branch. Standing at the top of the branch, I look out and see the Other hiding from me: the dangerous one. Climbing down, quickly, I smile and run.
Next week’s prompt: