House Cups & Prompts

At the behest of Amelia de Mimsy Porpington (yes that was a Harry Potter reference), I was told to put my latest prompt writing on here. So here I go!

Prompt: Write about an injury.


This was it. I was dead.

By the looks on everyone's faces, I knew.

The pain was excruciating -- it was an intense searing the likes of which I had never before experienced, and I knew I never would again.

The wound was deep. My enemy had sliced me clean through.

Cold. Mechanical.

Deliberate.

Agonizing screams erupt from my throat and fell deaf on my ears. I drifted in slow motion towards the ground, seemingly defying gravity.

I was floating, my body now in two pieces.

I landed almost poetically on the ground, my eyes fixed upward. I saw the glint of steel and felt the cold, snipping voice whisper in my ear.

"I'm sorry, my friend," he hissed, grinning. "Scissors cuts paper."



==================


I'll admit, I had way more fun writing that than I should have. ;D

Oh, and speaking of Harry Potter from earlier, Shellie and I went back on Pottermore last week after two years of inactivity to read the newest JK Rowling story (awesomeness), but we decided to create new accounts. So we both re-took the Sorting Hat quiz.

Both of us were in Hufflepuff originally (shocker there), so we were curious to see what would happen.

Two years later, I am a Ravenclaw (ka-KAW!) and Shellie is. . .

. . . A Slytherin.

I knew that chick was evil.

All Roads Lead to Murder. . .

This week's prompt, as stated before:  You're in a motel.

Go.

~~~

He comes here every Thursday like clockwork.  He walks in the room, takes off his trench coat, and throws it on the broken armchair.

He thinks no one can see him.

But I do.

From under the bureau I can see him.  I can smell his cologne.

He pushes the rickety bed across the floor with a screech.

Every time.

The trapdoor is exposed.  He opens it and lowers himself down gingerly.  He stays down there for forty-five minutes exactly, a constant thump thump below the floorboards.  He climbs up and moves the bed back to its original position, as if nothing happened.  He lies on the quilt, wiping the sweat off his brow, a serene grin on his face.  He dozes.

He thinks he's alone.

He thinks he's free.

He thinks no more.

~~~

I know, it's really dramatic for a comedy blog, right? Eh, but what're ya gonna do?  Another thing we like to do is Amy (whom I have now dubbed Crown Grandmaster of Writermonies) will show us a picture and we have to write a line or so based on the picture.  I wish I could show them to you, so instead I will describe.

The first week was a picture of a broken window in an old wooden house.  This is my response:

"Hello, again," he whispered with a smirk, his pliers grasped firmly in his weathered hand.

The second week we saw a picture of a white sandy beach with mountains in the background.  Pretty much a screensaver.

The scenery is beautiful here.  Rumbling waves, the green mountains, the sand. . .  The sand that is currently in every annoying crevice of my body as I'm buried up to my neck, completely alone and helpless.  Oh no, my nose itches!

Kinda lame, but whatevs!  And finally, this week's picture prompt was a pair of red loafers placed neatly leaning against a plaster house near some white ropes and some stairs.

Maybe no one would notice that his dark red boating shoes had once been a pristine white.

Soooo I'm sensing a pattern here.

Apparently everything I write has to involve death or murder in some way (with the exception of the sand one.  Well, maybe he dies if the tide comes in.).  I need to stray away from this madness!  Not every story needs murder!  "Only the ones worth telling," says my creeper murderous alter-ego.  "Who doesn't love a good murder?"

Yesssssssssssssss. . . *Insane creepy grin*

Okay so I'm gonna go attempt to work on my play for NaNoWriMo again.  We got 21 days left and I still have 12,500 words left!  Aaack!

P.S. Next week's prompt is this:

Once, when no one was watching. . .

All roads lead to murder!

Hardly Working

It can get slightly boring when you're working a closing shift at the store and there are no customers for the last hour and a half and you've already folded and cleaned everything within the five-square-foot radius surrounding the register.


One takes it upon oneself to amuse. . .oneself.


And this is how my oneself accomplished amusement:


By drawing random pictures on the back of email slips.








I like giraffes.

I like robots too.

 

This is what I would look like if I were anime.

 

My place of work.

 

They're holding hands.   GET IT?!

Randomuhmuhmuh

Random thought while procrastinating work:

Have you ever noticed how people (namely, teenage girls) on Facebook and other things like the extend the last letter of certain words to show emphasis or elongating the syllables?

Well fine. Be that way.

But I notice this.

And it pissesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss me offfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff.

I just don't understand the reasoning behind it.  Don't they realize that when they write:
"Loveeeeeeeeeeeee u gurllllllllllllllll &hearts &hearts ~*~*~*~*"

That, when read by a non-tweenie bopper, it sounds like:

Love-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee u girlalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala and hearts and hearts squiggle star squiggle star squiggle star squiggle star."


Moral of the story is:

STOPUHPUHPUHPUHPUH
IT-TUHTUHTUHTUHTUHTUHTUH.