- Joined
- Dec 20, 2012
- Messages
- 164
I decided to try an writing exercise: write the first thing that comes to mind. With single words given by my uncouncious self I weaved a short story of crazyness, the bizzare, a bit of gore and the deep process of writing.
While reading it I seriously considered putting myself on a mental hospital. Oh! uncouncious mind, you funny guy!
Anyways, tell me what you think. I certainly had fun doing this exercise so I'll probably do it again!
While reading it I seriously considered putting myself on a mental hospital. Oh! uncouncious mind, you funny guy!
The writer tried to concentrate despite the incesant ticking of the small, round clock hanging on the wall. A giant statue of a knight faced him, his executor, waiting for the clock to hit twelve and finish his prisoner.
A WWI picture hanged right next to the clock. German soldiers posing on top of a tank, smilling like if they were on vacation. “Ten minutes before midnight” the clock said, “ten minutes before midnight” the Knight said. “Nine minutes before midnight” said the four german soldiers in unison.
The wooden walls creaked. The writer looked up, frightened. He shook his head chasing the noise around the room. It creaked behind the Knight as he said “Commitments, promises, agreements.”. He was mocking the man at the desk, the man facing a blank sheet of paper and a cold typewriter. The creaking rushed towards the clock. “Eight” said the numbered fellow in a deep and slow voice.
The creaking zigzagged towards the writer causing a chill to slowly creep up his spine. The unsettling noise stopped right below the table. “Type me please?” asked the typewriter in a high-pitched, charming yet eerie voice. His fingers became unsettled, all of a sudden. For some reason they were beating a fast jazzy rythm on his leg. With a loud scream that filled the room “SIX!!” said the clock. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The writer's sweaty face focused from the loud clock back to his left hand. As if it was a rabid dog, he kept his distance. Carefully he pulled it up towards the typewriter. “egetewtedfvergeveerv” the hand sai- the hand typed. The man stared at the page. His hand was trying to tell him something important, something vital. Something about “egetewtedfvergeveerv” seemed familiar.
His train of thought was shot down by a deafening bang. It threw him off his chair. It came from the clock? No, it came from the Germans! A river of red ink flowed down from the picture. The glass was broken, the Germans were gone and the tank was staring deep into the his eyes. It could read his mind. “...” said the tank “the clock...”. The writer looked down and right below the picture, laid the dead clock, broken and silent.
“Tick. Tick.” said the Knight? The Knight was gone. “Two” said I? My time had come. I move my fingers as fast as I can but he won't listen! The blood silences my drumming! Type Type Type Type Type T. Y. P. E. Midnight. The new day cometh, death meets the olde. My ax be thy Justice!
A WWI picture hanged right next to the clock. German soldiers posing on top of a tank, smilling like if they were on vacation. “Ten minutes before midnight” the clock said, “ten minutes before midnight” the Knight said. “Nine minutes before midnight” said the four german soldiers in unison.
The wooden walls creaked. The writer looked up, frightened. He shook his head chasing the noise around the room. It creaked behind the Knight as he said “Commitments, promises, agreements.”. He was mocking the man at the desk, the man facing a blank sheet of paper and a cold typewriter. The creaking rushed towards the clock. “Eight” said the numbered fellow in a deep and slow voice.
The creaking zigzagged towards the writer causing a chill to slowly creep up his spine. The unsettling noise stopped right below the table. “Type me please?” asked the typewriter in a high-pitched, charming yet eerie voice. His fingers became unsettled, all of a sudden. For some reason they were beating a fast jazzy rythm on his leg. With a loud scream that filled the room “SIX!!” said the clock. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The writer's sweaty face focused from the loud clock back to his left hand. As if it was a rabid dog, he kept his distance. Carefully he pulled it up towards the typewriter. “egetewtedfvergeveerv” the hand sai- the hand typed. The man stared at the page. His hand was trying to tell him something important, something vital. Something about “egetewtedfvergeveerv” seemed familiar.
His train of thought was shot down by a deafening bang. It threw him off his chair. It came from the clock? No, it came from the Germans! A river of red ink flowed down from the picture. The glass was broken, the Germans were gone and the tank was staring deep into the his eyes. It could read his mind. “...” said the tank “the clock...”. The writer looked down and right below the picture, laid the dead clock, broken and silent.
“Tick. Tick.” said the Knight? The Knight was gone. “Two” said I? My time had come. I move my fingers as fast as I can but he won't listen! The blood silences my drumming! Type Type Type Type Type T. Y. P. E. Midnight. The new day cometh, death meets the olde. My ax be thy Justice!
Anyways, tell me what you think. I certainly had fun doing this exercise so I'll probably do it again!
No German soldier was killed or harmed in the story. They were INSIDE the tank 
